#actually began this when the second chapter came out

[moonlight-prose]

SIN TI

a/n: years ago when the falcon and the winter soldier came out, i wrote a one shot that has solidified itself as one of my favorite fic i've written. it's a friends to lovers arc and while i wanted to end it there. i couldn't stop myself from giving them another chapter to their love story. so i hope y'all enjoy. there's plenty more torres fics to come. also a massive thank you to my favorite person @soulores who bounced ideas off me and helped me with some of the spanish (i'm learning to fix up my fluency i promise).

note: this fic in my head is a latine reader, but there's no specifications/descriptions so imagine who you wish!

summary: five years have passed. five years since he boarded a plane and left you behind to wait diligently for the man who would never return. when letters and patchy phone calls failed to keep the spark of your relationship alive, you find each other again. only this time as two entirely different people.

word count: 11.2k+

pairing: joaquín torres x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, epistolary beginning, angst, broken hearts, long distance relationships, epistolary style at first, romance, friends to lovers, arguments, passionate declarations of love, fingering, p in v sex, alcohol consumption, biting, cumplay, rough sex, desperation, yearning + pining, he's got a filthy fucking mouth, more angst, the grief of failed love, second chance romance, forever.

SIEMPRE

December 5, 2023

Mi amor,

It’s hard to believe you left only a few weeks ago and somehow I miss you more than I could say in words. If it were possible I’d have sent a longer letter than this. I’d tell you how I miss our mornings spent hunting for coffee, our nights wandering the streets. I’d tell you I miss your lips. But that seems cliché given the circumstances.

I wanted you to stay. And yet…I know how important it was that you go. You need this. You need to figure out where you exist in this world after living in it alone for five years. So I hope you discover what’s always been meant to find you. And when you do, please know that I’ll be here waiting for you.

Back where it all began.

Siempre te amaré.

-Tu corazón

January 8, 2024

Mi corazón,

God I miss your voice, your handwriting, your fucking smile. I miss every part of you. If I told you what I’ve actually been thinking of you’d probably never forgive me for putting it down somewhere in permanent ink. No te culpo. I wish I had better news, or at least some stories to give you, but they’re kicking my ass even before my eyes open. Bright and early at dawn until my whole body is screaming.

I don’t want you to worry mi vida. Please don’t worry. I’m doing okay. I’m alive at least. Gracias a dios. Well I wouldn’t exactly say no to a candle being lit in my name (maybe to help with the constant wake up calls of how you felt that night). Tell Clara and Michael I miss them. Give mi mamá a kiss and drop some flowers off for pops. But most importantly do me a favor.

Wear them for me yeah corazón? They’re my “lost” pair (got reamed out for “losing” my first fucking pair of dog tags but it was worth it to give you a piece of me.) Keep ‘em on. And know that I’ll be fighting like hell to get my way back to you. Back to our spot, back to morning coffee runs and night walks in the city.

They’re yours. Just like I am.

Siempre te amaré.

-Yours forever Joaquín

January 16, 2024

Mi amor,

Thank you baby for the tags. I cried when I felt your name engraved in the metal. Just the feel of the letters reminded me of the way you’d draw on my papers in high school. They were so bad, but I think I still have a few of them in the back of my closet. Somehow that feels like a lifetime ago. I can tell you that I miss you—that’s true—but it’s not entirely the full truth. I never got a first date, rarely got a chance to see your eyes open when we woke up together, or drink shitty beer on the roof of my apartment.

I wish I could say that it doesn’t hurt to wait for you, but that would be a lie. And I can hear you in the back of my head saying: eres mentirosa bebita. And it makes me laugh.

This letter will probably find its way to you near Valentine’s Day. And I can’t have my brave pilot missing the fun. Don’t show anyone. Keep it in your wallet, and enjoy the late nights mi vida (pretend I’m there with my mouth to keep you company, or my hands, or my pussy).

We’ll find ourselves back in that queen sized bed soon enough—that I’m sure of. I will have to take a week off work just to get my fill of you; although even I have to admit that’ll take a long fucking time.

You and I both know I’ll never have enough.

I’ll be thinking of you, as I always do. Especially in our bed. Come home soon mi amor and I’ll be here when you finally do.

Siempre te amaré.

-Tu corazón

February 16, 2024

Happy Valentine’s Day mi corazón.

You’ve got no idea what those Polaroids did to me. I think I touched myself fucking raw (or at least that’s what it feels like). I’ve got half a mind to frame them, proudly display my girl. But I know you might actually murder me, so I’ve got them where you asked—safe in my wallet. I’ve been thinking about you. Okay let me be honest. I always think about you. Seriously you fucked up my brain bebita before I left. Had me wrapped around your finger long before that night, but after…I’m going crazy without you.

Dios mío, yo también te extraño (probably more given how winded I get just thinking about you). And I wish I could say that I’ll be home eventually, but I don’t know. I wish I did. You’ve got no idea how much I wish I could find my way back to you. The air force is…it’s harder than I thought. Nothing I can’t handle.

Until then imagine me finally taking you out on that date. In fact plan it. Figure out where you wanna go, pick out an outfit that’ll drive me batshit, and I’ll be there. On that dance floor to finally finish what we started. Te amo mi corazón. More than you know.

Siempre te amaré.

-Yours forever Joaquín

February 20, 2024

Mi amor,

The thought of you has driven me insane. I actually sprayed your cologne on the pillow you slept on the last few days we were together, just to remind myself of what you smelled like. I also may have rode it. But that didn’t matter. It did nothing but make me ache. Te extraño mucho Joaquin.

I don’t know what to do with myself but go to work and wait for you to come home. But I’ve done what you said—I planned our date. Dinner at our favorite place, a night of drinks at Siempre, and dessert at the small ice cream parlor on the corner.

I want to believe you when you said you could handle the airforce, and I do, but something isn’t right. Por qué mientes mi amor? You forget, I know every piece of you. I know when you’re upset. I know when you are struggling and don’t want to say it, because you think you can bear the heaviness of the world. Even when you were younger you thought you could carry the weight of everyone’s troubles on your shoulders, but you don’t have to. I’m here. I’ll carry it with you.

You can tell me what’s wrong and I’ll promise to listen, to make it better however I can. What’s our love meant to be if not carrying one another through the harsh times of life?

Tell me everything amor. I’ll listen. I’ll save you this time around.

Have they told you when you’ll be able to visit? I know it’s only been a few months, but I just always wonder. If they haven’t I understand—I just miss you. But you know this. I won’t fill up this letter with misery, because you deserve more than that. Your mamá and I have dinner on Sunday’s now (she’s teaching me how to cook so I’ll promise to make a good meal for you).

Clara and Michael are together at last! And they’re worse than us in terms of PDA. I seriously wish you were here just to help me one up them. Give them a show. But that can wait. All of it can wait. As long as I know you’re coming home to me.

Please take care of yourself mi amor. Stay safe and I’ll be here making my apartment a home for the both of us.

Siempre te amaré.

-Tu corazón

March 30, 2024

Mi amor,

I hope my last letter didn’t get lost on the way to you. I’ve heard it could happen. But I’m getting worried with this constant silence. Estas bien? Are they treating you okay? Is the base nice? I just need something to know you’re okay baby. Send a letter, find a way to call me, but don’t leave me with nothing.

I’m not the only one worried and you know it.

I hope you’re safe.

Siempre te amaré.

-Tu corazón

May 18, 2024

Mi corazón,

I don’t know how to start this. I should have answered you earlier. Or sent something in return to your Valentine’s gift. Or shit I should have at least fought tooth and nail for a visitation day to come see you, but that’s no longer possible mi corazón. I’m being transferred to a base further away and I’m not sure when I’ll make it back. I don’t even know if they plan on giving me an idea on what’s going to happen with me, but that’s why I had to tell you.

Lo siento bebita. I’m…I’m just sorry. I love you, I always have and always will. But I can’t force you to wait for me forever. That’s not fair to you. And you deserve better than a man who could never gather the fucking nerve to tell you the truth. Waiting on a soldier like me shouldn’t be your future. So I’m doing what’s necessary.

I’m sorry.

I will always love you.

Forever.

- Joaquín

June 1, 2024

Fuck you Joaquín Torres. You don’t get to rip my heart out that way. You don’t get to end this without looking me in the eyes. Why? Why would you make me fall in love with you if you knew this would end? Why would you promise me forever when you never meant it to begin with? Tell me. Write a fucking letter and answer me!

I deserve the truth. All of it.

I know you are struggling and won’t tell me. I know you’re fighting for your life to keep up with the demands of the airforce and like to pretend you’re fine. But you’re not fine baby. You can’t lie to me and pretend nothing’s wrong. You just…you can’t do that to me. Please. Let me in amor, let me help.

I love you Joaquín.

I need you.

-Tu corazón

FIVE YEARS LATER

The coffee tasted much more bitter than what you remembered. A biting darkness that burned the back of your throat as you gulped down what you could in the fifteen minutes you had for lunch. Whatever food you packed sat forgotten about in your fridge. Another day rushing to the office, another day wandering the streets of a city you could paint with your eyes closed.

A piece of you echoed with the voices of all who came before you. Friends you made, found family that adopted you as their own. Streets overflowing with scents of arroz con pollo and Jamaica flowers boiling away in kitchens—open windows begging for some fresh air.

July scorched the streets with heat you learned to endure. Yet this year felt worse. A curse bestowed upon the people of New York without rhyme or reason.

You pressed a piece of ice to your neck, dabbing at the sweat sliding down your chest. In the hopes you might find some relief from this torture you were forced to endure. Working in an office that barely payed you enough for the rent of your apartment and was far too cheap to put money towards a working air conditioner. You calculated the numbers for them. They could afford it.

“Fuck the heat,” you moaned, wincing with the heat of your coffee.

“That skirt’s sexy mami.”

The sound of her voice was unmistakable. A soft drawled accent of someone who spent her days speaking Spanish more than she did English. You rolled your eyes, digging out another ice cube from what remained in your plastic cup—dropping it in between your breasts with a hiss.

“Tell me why we’re out here?” you asked, shifting as the ice slid lower, finding a spot beneath your breast.

She dropped onto the bench, yanking off a black blazer that looked like hell to be wearing. “Because if I have to spend another day in a court house I’m going to blow my brains out.”

“You work in a court house Clara.”

“Callate. Don’t fucking remind me.”

Her ebony curls were gathered at the top of her head, pinned in place with a familiar teal butterfly clip you lent her a year prior. At this point asking for it back felt irrelevant. She looked better with it than you ever did—never quite learning how to pin it effortlessly like her.

“We’re going out tonight,” she announced between swipes of lipstick, fixing makeup that was primed to perfection.

With a sigh you dug for another ice cube. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Her compact clicked shut. “I rarely see you anymore. Plus Michael got the night off so he’s joining us.”

“And where exactly are you dragging me?”

“Dancing.”

You groaned, sinking into the bench far enough to be drowned by the floor. Swallowed whole into the center of Earth—an escape from being whatever you forced yourself to pretend. An adult with a clear path, someone moved on from a heartbreak that ripped you to pieces, someone whole. Yet asking for that felt as if you were signing a life altering contract with gods who weren’t listening to your cries of anguish.

Clara knew you were suffering—she could see the exhaustion on your face—but her specialty was never empathetic talks. She spoke with actions. Loud, boisterous, displays of affection. Like dragging you around town when all you were concerned about was getting home to feed your cat.

“I don’t-”

“Think so,” she mimicked, clicking her tongue. “Ay Dios how many times are you gonna use that fucking excuse?”

“What excuse?” you exclaimed, fixing her with a glare she brushed off with a sigh.

“You need to resurrect yourself. I know you don’t want to talk about him—and I won’t—but you deserve to move on. He became a superhero-”

“Don’t even get me started.”

“Then why aren’t you letting yourself finally meet a future where you get to thrive?”

She was right. You knew every word out of her mouth echoed with enough truth to stab you in the chest. Five years passed before your very eyes and you barely gave yourself a chance to breathe. He’d been your best friend, your partner in crime all these years, and to live a life without him in it felt like a betrayal. Only you weren’t the one to issue the blade, you weren’t the one to open a wound so large it took everything in you not to bleed before her now.

The trail of red followed you on the bleak path ahead. A future without love, a life half lived.

He existed in the world as a hero—a monolithic piece of history the world clamored for. You were merely a mark on a past he might never mention, a brief lapse of youthful hope diminished by powers you held no control over.

What good was it to forget yourself? He certainly didn’t miss you; he barely even thought of you. Yet somewhere along the way you gave him every ounce of strength you should have reserved for yourself.

With a sigh you tossed the empty cup into the trash beside you. “Fine.”

She laughed with a glee that helped break through your melancholy stupor. “Let’s go mami!”

“Where are we going?” And with one word she sealed your fate.

“Siempre.”

The heels were a bad idea, the short silk mini dress was a bad idea, the whole night reeked with poor decisions you should have caught a mile away. Clara shoved you into a green dress yanked from the back of her closet—a forgotten gift she claimed. Only to leave you alone at the bar, her golden yellow nails burrowed into Michael’s arm to drag him deep into a mass of people you tried to avoid.

Your mezcal was tepid, a rim of lipstick decorating the edge of the glass covered in your fingerprints. The music blared loud enough to leave a high pitched ringing in your left ear—a thumping bass causing the floor to tremble with each new song.

You had half a mind to leave, already a sweaty mess just standing listlessly by the bar in a meager attempt at the fun you once had. The same joy that happened right in this very club. But tonight felt different—an energy you couldn’t name that stuck to your tight chest.

“One more,” you called over the music, tapping your glass with a nail coated in chipped polish.

“I’ll get hers.”

You stiffened, his voice washing over you like a bucket of ice dumped atop your head. For a brief moment you wondered if it finally happened, if you reached the point of hearing him when he was nowhere to be found. A dreadful hope that lingered in your chest—a dream you couldn’t speak aloud for fear of driving yourself mad. Until he filled your peripheral, a familiar leather coat you would recognize a mile away and dark hair now cropped and cut short enough to alarm you.

“Mi corazon,” he murmured, leaning close enough to invade your senses with his cologne.

The bottle he left with you still sat on your dresser. Coated in five years of dust, untouched and frozen in a time you would give anything to go back to. Your teeth clamped onto the inside of your cheek hard enough to spill copper across your tongue—a disgusting mixture with the tequila you downed moments prior.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you croaked, barely able to look at him.

“I got home last week.”

“Good for you.” The words were biting, harsh enough to make him wince. Satisfaction flooded your veins.

“Clara invited me,” he admitted, stuffing his hands into his pockets—another song blasting off speakers you wished to break. “I thought…she didn’t tell you did she?”

“What do you think?”

He sighed, ducking his head to stare at his warm mezcal, a withered lime precariously placed on the rim. “I wanted to see you corazón.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.

Music rang in your ears, a deafening echo that suffocated you beneath the weight of all you couldn’t carry. He fell silent, waiting for an indication that you wanted him there. But none ever came. The irony tasted bitter at the back of your mouth—five years later and still you walked a tightrope he promised to keep upright.

He offered you forever. You just never realized how quickly he could take it all back.

The alcohol stirred in your stomach, bile clawing up the back of your throat and suddenly Joaquín showing up out of the blue wasn’t your only problem. You couldn’t be there. You didn’t know how to stand beside him, feel the heat of his body packed in with everyone else—shame digging its talons into your skin with a malice you probably deserved. Neither of you fought for the love to last.

He didn’t fight for you.

“I came to talk to you-”

“I can’t do this,” you rasped, pushing off the bar before he could finish his half formed pathetic excuse.

“Wait.”

A hand curled into the satin fabric along your back—your quick movements pulling him into the fray. You itched to twist away, remove any trace of his touch that begged to seep into sticky skin and taint the sporadic beating of your heart.

The wall of people stopped you in your tracks, their bodies moving with fluid grace. They called to you, whispered notes of a siren song you could hear beneath the rush of blood in your ears. A thumping promise that banged against a door you sealed shut. You knew it wouldn’t fix anything—only a guarantee to make matters worse—but there was no ignoring what beckoned you forth.

Joaquín called after you, shoving his way through a drunk crowd that barely noticed he was there. You could feel him at your heels, breath fighting its way into your lungs with each punctured gasp—a ragged need for something other than this heat.

His hand curled around your hip, nose buried at the base of your neck.

“Dance with me?” he mumbled.

You allowed your eyes to slip shut, breath spilling past parted lips as the taste of tequila permeated the tip of your tongue. “I hate you,” you sighed, fingers tangling with his.

“Lo se.”

“Then why did you come back?”

The sway of his body behind yours echoed with comfort—that night burned into the back of your mind. “You.”

He spoke with sincerity. A coveted admission he buried the day he wrote those words—his fate sealed with such a tiny stamp. The years may have dragged by, his head barely above water, but the truth still remained. The mere knowledge that you existed somewhere on this Earth—a piece of him left to drag yourself out of the hell he created—broke him little by little. Until he woke up one day, struggling to breathe.

Dancing with Joaquín felt natural. Years spent bar hopping and sneaking into club back entrances weren’t something you could forget with ease.

“It’s not that easy,” you retorted, voice thick and throat constricted. “You don’t just get to…”

“Mírame corazón.”

“No.” The gasp at his touch twirling you slowly in arms you once longed to feel around your waist said otherwise.

There was no fighting something your heart ached for, a pitiful longing you felt claw at the pit of your stomach. The closeness of it, the heat pouring off his body—his hands guiding your hips into a motion the both of you understood better than words spoken in anger. You wanted to hate him. Some parts of you did.

The razor thin line of hate and love blurred as he fit you against his body. A missing puzzle piece you’d been searching for.

He possessed your soul with each step, fingers tangling into his shirt to keep yourself upright. The awkward playfulness that arose like before was nowhere to be found. This time you knew the stakes. He understood the consequences that came with making his choice and he had to live with it every day of his life. Fixing what might forever remain broken would take more than a dance, but it was somewhere to start.

“I fucking missed you,” he whispered—throat tight, constricting his words. He wanted to say more than this, more than words that rang with a hollow truth you might never believe again.

What was stopping you from walking away and leaving him in your past?

What kept you in his arms, following the swivel of hips he craved to grip through the years?

“Joaquín,” you breathed, eyes half lidded and sweat glistening in the orange glow.

“Etérea.”

You pulled away, the hint of lips curled into a grin flashing in darkness he had to squint through. The memories were falling into place. Forgotten joy, carefree moments scattered across a life spent together. He trailed after you for years, determined to love you up to his final breath; if only you understood how quick he might have fulfilled that promise. The reason he crawled his way back—pain splintering along his spine, purple hued bruises now a soft yellow along paled skin.

Tugging you back with a chuckle, he felt the anger wash off your body as you collided with him. His chest snug against your arched back. This was his home. The one place he never dared tell another soul about—too afraid it might disappear.

The gasp you let out was ragged, marred by all the grief he put you through. “I…”

“Yeah?”

“I missed you too,” you relented, head falling back to his shoulder—the mouth you dreamed about finding purchase on your neck.

This felt like a betrayal of yourself. The past five years spent battling demons you never thought could exist in your life. He tore you to pieces with just a few words. Paragraphs of messy ink forever stained in the back of your mind. You could still feel the fucking paper under your fingers—splotches of tears discoloring the pen he used.

How could you allow him to drag you back? But you were tired of pretending to be okay. Exhausted by piteous smiles and pathetic excuses to bring you back to life.

You were stumbling down a dangerous path; his teeth digging softly into salt coated skin that haunted him in dreams. The prick of his incisors scraping along your vein jolted what little sense remained into place—your heart thundering an erratic beat in your chest. He still moved with you, hands securely placed on your hips, body molded to your back until you felt his jeans dig into you.

Waiting on a soldier like me shouldn’t be your future. So I’m doing what’s necessary.

“Stop-” Abruptly he stopped, his touch falling limp at his sides. “No I can’t… We can’t.”

“Joaquín!” Clara’s voice punctured through the thick atmosphere of lust—the wanton need for him washing away with each wave of pain. “You made it.”

“Excuse me,” you muttered, dragging in breath after breath until you lungs burned with the effort. The sting was good, it kept your head above water.

Ramming through the throngs of people you staggered towards the bathrooms. Everyone was far too preoccupied with dancing to crowd the bathrooms and your luck finally came to fruition when you saw an empty hallway. Half worded apologies spilled out of your mouth, tears burning your already hot cheeks as you moved fast enough to send a searing ache down one ankle.

Joaquín’s stomach lurched, his feet already moving before his body could catch up. Michael’s arm looping around his shoulder kept him where he stood, his eyes tracking your stumbling form until the crowd swallowed you whole. Leaving him to agonizingly swallow the stone now stuck at the top of his esophagus.

You were hurt—fighting five years of pain—and he was the one to cause it.

“How was the flight man?”

He snapped to attention, slapping a fake grin on his face he hoped would be enough to sell the lie. “Flight was good. Cramped with all the people.”

“What you didn’t get first class?” Clara teased. “I thought being an Avenger came with perks.”

“Not an Avenger. Well…not yet.”

“Gettin’ too busy for us New York folk huh,” Michael pressed.

Joaquín didn’t hear a word they said, too focused on where you went, what you were doing, how he could rectify his stupid fucking mistake. “Ya cállate hombre. I’m never too busy for you guys.”

“Could have fooled us.” Clara sipped at her drink, a brown lined mauve smile glinting with a voracious sneer he’d seen before. A look reserved for those who warranted such revenge. “I saw you two dancing.”

“Yeah…we were-”

“Too bad she’s already taken isn’t it?” she sighed, the saccharine pitch of her voice slowing the music as a low pitched buzz blaring in his ears.

“W-What?”

“She’s dating someone. A guy from her office. They met a year ago I think? Bueno, we’re thinking wedding bells soon. Since it’s been so long.”

Joaquín’s heart stuttered, mind blaring with a barrage of anger he shut away—self hatred he’d grown familiar with. Time came to a stop, the thumping music falling away, and suddenly he was back in the air. Falling to his death. Your face, your laugh, your voice, whispering in the back of his head—calling him to stay alive. Beckoning him home with wide eyes and forgiveness coated on your tongue.

You couldn’t be lost to him so soon. You were supposed to wait for him.

Only those were fictitious dreams procured in a fractured mind. You didn’t have to do anything. He let you go. And there was no fixing what he destroyed—a grave he dug for himself now lingering with the scent of your perfume, the ghost of your touch haunting him.

“But…” Struggling for air, he straightened his spine—heart twisting beneath the weight of his fuck up. “Wedding bells?”

Clara nodded. “She didn’t tell you?”

The anger was seething in his chest, scorching each vein, clamping around his lungs. “No. That wasn’t mentioned.”

“Pity,” she muttered. “Michael? Another drink mi amor?”

His feet were moving before she could finish her question, hands pushing past drunk people and sweaty bodies lost to the beat of the music. Somewhere in the club you were running to escape a future he now knew could never be. He knew being calm, level headed enough to push through this haze of red, was the only option at this point. But there was no reasoning in love, no sense to be had when you were so close.

Someone cussed at him in Spanish as he managed to make it to the hallway, pushing open the bathroom door without hesitation. You stood alone by the sink. Wiping at tears that refused to stop—your eyes tinged red with how rough you were on yourself. Only when the click of the lock echoed in the small space did you finally look up, finding his reflection in the mirror—your lips twisted into a frown.

“Occupied,” you spit out, yanking another towel from the dispenser.

“Corazón-”

“I don’t want to hear it Joaquín.”

“Five minutes.”

“No. What do you think I don’t want to hear it means? I’ve had enough of the fucking mind games for one night-”

“Escuchame.” The word bit out from the back of his throat, freezing you in place. “What do you want me to say huh? I’m sorry for being an asshole? I’m sorry for fucking up the best part of my life?”

“You were an asshole,” you retorted.

“I know that.” He took three steps, pinning you to the sink, a look you wanted to recognize but couldn’t painting his features. “I know I’m gonna spend every day of my existence apologizing for the shit that I pulled. But what I didn’t know was the truth.”

“What truth are you-”

“Marriage?” he growled like the word dripped with enough sin to kill him on the spot. “You’re practically engaged and chose to dance with me like that? Like I still had a chance?”

Your jaw hung open, mind reeling as the word hit you. “Marriage?” you exclaimed. “Who the fuck…”

“Clara practically jumped for joy with the news.” The laugh dripped with contempt, fingers curling into the edge of the sink as he moved close enough to smell the tequila on your tongue. “I can’t believe I was so fucking stupid.”

“I’m not getting married.”

“Mentirosa,” he huffed.

“Joaquín you’re being insane-”

“Am I?” he snapped. “You’ve driven me insane. Since I lost you I’ve felt pieces of myself disappear.” He dropped his forehead to yours, the warm wash of his breath brushing along your lips—begging for the oxygen you stole when he let you go. “You gotta tell me corazón. Tell me who he is.”

Believing that Clara wouldn’t get involved somehow was ignorance on your part, but some selfish part of you wanted to watch him suffer. To see him break as you did years ago.

Perhaps it was bad of you, a sinister part of your mind speaking, and yet you couldn’t let go of what Clara started. Marriage to a fictitious man—enough of a reality to prove that you were better. That you could live without Joaquín taking up space in your life.

“So you can confront him? I don’t think so.”

Words that only seemed to rile an unforgiving beast buried in the depths of a gentle man. “Someone has to tell him you’re mine.”

Your breath hitched, an all too familiar siren call dragging you to the bottom of an ocean you traversed long ago. “I’m not…”

“Sí lo eres.”

Yes. You were his.

There was no use denying what you could feel in a heart that would forever be carved with his initials. Sacred with its thorns and roots, it drew you to him, captured you with the vow of all he promised before shit fell apart. You were his. You couldn’t even fathom belonging to anyone else. And he knew it the moment your eyes flicked up to meet his—those brown irises you ached for.

“Yeah…” His hand cupped your chin, thumb pulling at a pliable bottom lip willing to fall open. “You know it don’t you bebita?”

“Joaquín-”

Music thumped with a bass loud enough to rattle the walls of this small bathroom, but you could barely hear it over the sound of his heavy exhale. His lips caught yours, hand tightening at the soft breath you pushed into his open mouth—tongue sliding along teeth and taste buds still coated in mezcal. Sucking in air you dug a hand into curls you tugged years ago; still the same man you loved, yet someone entirely different.

A person you longed to know.

You lost all sense when a hand tugged at the skirt of your dress, pushing it up past your hip with a muffled groan. The kisses burned you inside, curling a fist around an already bleeding heart. He devoured you, swallowed each sound and quick pant as you looped your arms around his neck to extinguish the space between your bodies. Fingers dipped beneath the elastic waistband of panties he’d admire later, too intent on the feel of your damp patch and pooling slick.

“Fuck I missed you,” he sighed, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your throat, palm tipping your head back with a pleased hum. “So wet corazon.”

“I n-need-”

“I know.” Licking a line down your jugular you felt whatever anger still simmered beneath the surface vanish—wanton lust blinding you to the mess this would create. “I’ve been thinking about this. How you feel.”

You moaned, hips pushing into his touch. “Please. Touch me.”

“I am touching you,” he smiled, fingers sliding along your twitching clit with ease—able to rip sounds from you that had gone dormant the day he left. “That what you want? Need that pretty clit played with?”

Nodding frantically wasn’t good enough for a man who dreamed of this moment since departure. He gripped your cheeks, thumb running along a cheek decorated in soft gold glitter courtesy of Clara. A small showing of reverence for the man who toyed with your folds, dipping a finger into your slick and dragging it up slow enough to send shivers up your spine.

“I want words.”

“I-I want you to…”

“To what?” he asked far too smug in the way heat flooded your face, burning the tips of your ears and back of your neck.

Yanking at his curls, you watched in fascination when his head fell back, a groan bubbling past swollen lips. “I want you to make me cum on your fingers,” you breathed, lips pressed to a red flushed ear.

He smiled, dazed by the tight grip in which you held him. “As you wish.”

You should have seen it coming the second you released him, how his lips mashed to yours with a grunt, two fingers plunging into your dripping cunt down to his knuckles. Exactly what you asked for on his terms. You wanted to finish and Joaquín was nothing if not competent in that job. The order falling smooth from your mouth—his mind latching onto it with a desperation you’d never seen in him before.

The heel of his hand ground against your clit, trapping you on the edge of that all too familiar rush of bliss. You were right there. Chasing the edge of something mind numbing. By the hands of a man who ripped you apart, leaving you behind with nothing but blunt words and faded ink.

“That it?” Your body pitched forward, face burying into his shoulder when his fingers struck perfectly. “Yeah that’s it huh.”

“I’m gonna—fuck—g-gonna cum.”

He doubled down, practically ripping the high from you with a voracious need to see you break for him. To burn his name in the walls of your fluttering cunt that coated his palm in your slick. Even through the loud echo of music you could hear the wet squelch of his fingers pounding into you, possessing you in a way that was bound to leave you a shell of yourself.

“Soak my hand,” he breathed against the shell of your ear.

Your thighs trembled, clamping down around his wrist as it tore through you. A muffled shout pressed between teeth you sunk against his neck—marking him with the harsh lines of your canines. The music faded, everything else deafened by the ringing in your ears, the wash of bliss far too much for you to take. It wasn’t until your hand gripped his did he finally cease his movements, pulling away to give you a chance for fresh air not plagued by the scent of his cologne.

“W-Wait.”

“Take your time querida.”

“We shouldn’t…” Reality crashed onto your shores with a harsh sweep that nearly dragged you beneath darkened waves you couldn’t navigate alone.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not in the heat of passion with minds muddled by alcohol and adrenaline, not when he still refused to acknowledge that whatever occurred beforehand wasn’t for the best. You were lost, begging for him to lead you somewhere safe. To protect you against the darkness that ravaged your mind for five years. Instead he allowed jealousy to get the best of him.

You were his without question. But at what cost?

“I need some air,” you gasped, pushing him back until you could stand on shaky legs.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Everything. “I just need air.”

You needed far more than that. Something that would cure the agonizing pain coursing through your veins, the buzz of pleasure and alcohol barely making a dent. You cringed at the slick smearing along the crease of your thighs as you walked—the consistent throbbing where his fingers hooked into you drove your mind to the brink of something worse than madness. He owned you in a matter of minutes; reminded you exactly where you belonged.

“Stop fuckin’ running,” he called after you, pushing past the crowd.

Clara caught your gaze for a brief moment, concern flashing to the surface before you shook her off. Making a beeline for the only exit people practically poured out of. The air felt cold along your skin, drying the sweat along your arms and legs. And he rushed out after you, close on your heels—snapping at a chance to corner you.

To finally hash out what should have been said five years ago.

“Will you look at me?”

Sucking in a breath, you struggled to calm the overbearing rush in your ears. “Just…let me breathe please.”

“Mi vida-”

“No!” you snapped, whirling around to catch his stunned face. Everything unraveled faster than you could gather it in your shaky palms, slipping between spread fingers and raw nails that clung to peace. “You return after five years of silence and what? You expect me to forgive you? Just like that?”

The echo of your voice traveled down the street, attracting attention from whoever was closest, but you’d breached the point of complacent false smiles and sweet words void of feeling. He’d ripped you to shreds in mere sentences. Sliced through a lonely heart with something he knew would destroy what parts of your relationship held on despite the distance.

“I was willing to wait for years Joaquín,” you sobbed. “But you couldn’t even handle a few fucking months. You were too much a goddamn coward to break up with me the night you left.”

“Do you think I wanted to break up with you?” he snarled.

“Yes-”

“Me vuelves loco.” He’d been reduced to muttering under his breath, hands tugging at his hair as you wiped at the tears with sweaty palms. Love wasn’t supposed to be this. A knife neither of your held onto, plunging into wounds that never stopped bleeding. But he couldn’t stay away.

Who was he without you in his life?

“Maybe you just have to let me go-”

“Don’t you finish that fucking sentence,” he spit between clenched teeth. “You think I wanted to be without you for five years? That life was easy without hearing your voice or seeing your face? That you were alone because of the choice I made? I hate myself for destroying us! I can’t let you go because I’m desperately hopelessly in love with you. You can’t fix that corazón.”

Your breath hitched, familiar words spoken a lifetime ago here in this very spot. “It hurts Joaquín. Being near you is strangling me.”

“Then tell me what I can do. You have to tell me so I can fix it.”

“I don’t know if you can,” you whispered.

Taking the final few steps, he finally stood toe to toe with you—a calloused hand reaching for the curve of your cheek glistening with makeup and tears beneath the dim streetlight. “I’m nothing without you. I just existed for five years until I saw you again.”

His touch was warm, enticing in all the familiar ways that transformed the reasons you fell for him. Even as you shattered before him, there was still comfort to be found in his presence. He was the sunlight on a warm summer day. The reason you bloomed in the seasons of friendship and almosts and forgotten saccharine love. You couldn’t remain tied to the ground without him acting as gravity—twining himself around your broken form to keep you safe.

Even if he was the reason you bled along the cracked pavement below.

Perhaps it was a mistake, a memory you’d look back on in another five years. But he’d been your path since you found his eyes in a crowded classroom. His smile painted across cheeks that flushed red when you asked if he’d like to sit with you—if he’d take the first step in a thousand, start the story and watch it unfold before you.

“Okay,” you breathed, lost in the brown hue that still gleamed after all this time.

The apartment was stuffy after hours of relentless summer heat. A broken fan you never bothered to fix sat precariously on a stack of worn books picked up at the local thrift store. Joaquín thumbed through a familiar title he remembered snagging off your bookshelf in your old bedroom. The pages were yellowed, corners folded and re-straightened, but he could recall the story as if he was back in that old house listening to your family through the walls.

“How’d I know you pick that one,” you mused, discarding your purse onto a slightly messy kitchen table.

“Can’t help that I love it.”

You smiled. “Even though I never let you borrow it.”

“Never said I had to give it back,” he retorted, leaving it on the small wooden table by your counter, making a note to stick it in his back pocket when you weren’t looking. “The place looks…the same.”

“And that’s bad?” He snapped to attention, stomach jumping. Only to melt at the shining grin you gifted him in the yellow glow of your lamps. “Eres tan fácil.”

Laughter came easier the closer it got to midnight, the familiar warmth of your apartment echoing with memories he wouldn’t soon forget. “Mala.”

If he closed his eyes that night existed with a clarity that punched the air out of his chest. The quick pace you fell into one another—uncaring of what might come to pass. You were reckless in love, desperate to finally feel the touch held back for so long, the longing that was bound to snap. He could smell the perfume you wore, taste the drink you were nursing before Michael pushed him to dance with you. How you sounded beneath him, looked and tasted and touched after years of pure imagination.

Tonight sparked with a charged past ready to play out before your very eyes. A moment in time neither of you could ignore for much longer.

“Water?” you asked breaking the weighty silence.

He shook his head, eyes dark with a familiar need you’d seen once before. “I wanna talk. Like we used to.”

“Talk…” Sucking in a breath, you wiped at the sweat gathering along your chest. Joaquín followed the slow movement with rapt attention—his mouth dry and chest thundering with a restless heart. “What’s there to say? I already know what you’ve been up. Congrats by the way.”

The words were dry off your tongue. A silver tipped blade pressed to the base of his neck.

How could he blame you? When the reason he left you forged a direct path to who he became. The title he carried across his back as he struggled for air.

He wouldn’t be Falcon if he stayed. But he also might have been happy.

“You’re the first person I wanted to tell,” he said softly, admitting what he harbored in a cracked heart for years.

Your heart twisted, stomach fluttering in that old way it used to when you’d catch sight of him. Frustrating. Even as you relished in emotions you longed for after he left. Hope that this would turn into more—a future you could count on. Rather than a consequence you never asked for. Sleeping with him wasn’t the problem; neither was loving him. Even if he never returned you would regret making those choices, pieces of your life that set your heart on fire.

“You could have. If you stayed.”

Joaquín sighed, fingers curling into fists as he gnashed at his cheek. “I know. You never asked about me.”

“What,” you blurted out.

“Micheal knew where I was. He kept in touch. You could have asked him.”

You scoffed. “And who broke up with who again?”

“I wasn’t going to make you wait on me corazón. Being a ball and chain isn’t who I am and you know that. You had a whole life ahead of you. Things you planned to do before that night-”

“What life?” you exclaimed, voice pitched high enough to scratch an already raw throat. “I was broken for five years! Time I’ll never get back. All for what? So you could feel better about a decision you made on a whim? Without asking if that’s what I wanted.”

Ripping open yet another wound he felt his heart give out at the shine of tears on your face. Makeup smudged along the rim of your wet eyes, lips smeared with the remnants of a lipstick he knew was stained along his shirt. You were everything he wanted in life, the moonlight he basked in at the end of the day. The sirens song he crawled home to hear one last time, even as he drowned beneath a shattered love you might never reciprocate again.

He exhaled long and heavy, wiping at his eyes as he glanced around your darkened apartment. A couch he’d slept on was shoved near the window, a new T.V. mounted on the wall was turned off, and an old record player he helped you find now set on a rickety stand. Records piled on a coffee table he could remember eating off of before you found a kitchen table.

A home you built in the time he was gone. One that was always meant to be entwined with his possessions and memories.

Orange flowers sat in a familiar crystal vase his mother used to keep by the kitchen window. Always a new bouquet brought in from his father at the end of a long work week. Music flowing between the walls of a house he now stayed in as he fought to prove himself to you all over again. A past that you lingered in without knowing.

“Cempasúchil.”

You caught what he was fixed on—a small gathering of flowers from the corner you grabbed without thinking. A routine you’d grown to love even after years of his absence.

“For your pops. You said they were his favorite.”

His heart dropped. “You still bring him flowers?”

“I go every Friday with your mamá.”

Every Friday…

Five years of days spent with his family. Even after things fell apart.

He loved you.

He would love you til his last breath, the final beat of a heart that always belonged to him from the very first page. There was no denying a truth that couldn’t be buried in the depths of guilt and grief. Pain laced with memories that clung to apartment walls and city streets. You were his forever. His soul twisted around a body carved with your name.

“Siempre te amaré,” he whispered.

The gasp sounded sweet off lips he could still taste. “Joaquín-”

“I do,” he confessed. “There hasn’t been a day I haven’t loved you mi corazón.”

“You can’t just say that.”

“Why?” he demanded.

Slowly you lowered yourself into a chair that was once stuffed into the corner of his living room. “Because we still have to talk about what this is. What we’re gonna do to figure it out while you’re home.”

“What this is? I know what it is. I’ve known since you asked me to sit next to you. I’m yours. I’ve been yours all along.” He dropped to his knees quicker than either of you expected, his hands grasping the warmth of your thighs through sweat stained satin. “I got hurt mi vida.”

Your body stilled, hands cupping his cheeks as fear threaded between each rib and nerve. “What?”

“I…I was stupid and made a mistake and they had to stitch me back together. But I couldn’t care about any of it. Not the fucking pain, or surgery, or having to recover for months, because when I was falling out of the sky…all I could think about was you.”

How quickly you could have lost him and you never knew. You weren’t there when he was struggling to live. You weren’t there when he woke up. You…weren’t there.

“I-I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I didn’t know. I would have come to you-”

“No, no está bien. Yo estoy bien.”

“You almost died and you’re saying it’s okay?”

He smiled, forehead pressing to your stomach—fingers digging into what flesh he could hold as you clung to him. Some part of you sunk your teeth into the fear of losing him, dragging it close to swallow down that feeling. Every emotion, all the pain it kept you alive. It let you know he was there with you and for the first time in five years you held the choice of forever in your hands once more.

There he was offering you everything he was. All he could be, all you knew he was.

The man you were always destined to fall into.

“It is okay,” he murmured. “Because I’m here with you. And I didn’t think I’d get that again. I’m home.”

This is where belonged. The space that called him forward and you watched his eyes raise to find yours. Love shining in irises that haunted his waking life. Everywhere he went Joaquín saw you. In the midnight sky, in the summer days spent on a stuffy base somewhere, in the people he met and allies he formed. You existed in all that encompassed him—a soul he’d struggle to find and vow to keep.

“Rip me apart mi vida. Destroy me as many times as you want. I’ll do anything you want if it means stayin’ with you.”

“Mi amor,” you said beneath a soft breath and his heart mended itself with a shaky ragged gasp.

He rose to meet your lips as your fingers scrambled to find purchase in his jacket, tugging him close enough to nearly tip the chair back. If it fell he’d be there to catch you. Perhaps that’s what had your legs sliding up around his hips, a soft moan pressed to a tongue that slid along yours. The taste of you drove him off the brink of what kept him sane—all the attempted to stow inside an aching heart.

Licking into your mouth with a broken whimper, he dragged you to the edge of the chair, hands kneading at the top of your ass. You yelped into it with a smile, diving into the kiss with a fervor that had him leaking into his jeans. The heat from earlier pooled along his spine again and Joaquín knew he’d barely survive sinking into you; he could feel his cock twitch with every stroke of your tongue.

“Bedroom,” he gruffly got out, yanking you up onto wobbly legs. “‘M not fucking you in the kitchen. Not tonight.”

You grinned, tugging him down an all too familiar path. “There’s going to be more than one night?”

“If I have any say about it.”

“Eres bien creído.”

Hands ripped at your dress, pulling it up and off your body before he could even reach the bed slightly messy with rumpled covers. A staple he could always remember. It made him smile against your lips as you tugged at his clothes—those same warm hands sliding along bare skin. The jacket was left by the door, shirt tossed to the depths of your room and Joaquín placed you on the mattress before reaching for his belt.

Chills rippled along your back at the sound, heart hammering in your chest. He looked the same. Yet something older was housed in his stance, someone who was sure of himself in the way he pushed away the last of his clothes. A grin bloomed across swollen lips.

You admired him as much as you could. Dragging your eyes down to the red tip of his leaking cock and breathlessly finding his eyes in the dark of your bedroom. Last time neither of you got this chance. A moment of stillness before you collided. Silence thick with an electrifying tension you felt down to your toes.

Lifting a bare leg, you placed your foot on his stomach, dragging it down until his hand wrapped around an ankle—tugging you close with a harsh breath.

“Being a tease huh?” he mumbled, lips finding a home at the top of your thigh.

“Not my fault you’re easy to mess with.”

“Since when?”

You smiled, fingers curling around his mussed hair. “Since always.”

Words slipped to the back of a clouded mind when his hands tugged at the lace of your panties, sliding them off and marveling at the wet spot left behind. He could practically taste you on his tongue. The addicting tang of what he’d been craving since he left you at that airport. With a shuddered breath he slid a thumb along your folds, circling your clit hard as you writhed under his needy touch.

“W-Want you inside me,” you forced out, hips rolling into his hand.

Somehow through the haze of lust he made himself follow through with your plea. Hand positioning himself along the dripping hole he’d drink from later—his tongue swiping along his bottom lip. You were mewling for him, fingers twisting into the sheets and legs dropping open wide enough to accommodate his hips.

He slid along your cunt, grinning with unhinged glee at the loud moan ripped from your throat. You were unable to beg. Mouth barely forming coherent words as he toyed with your pulsing clit. Precum stained the pretty clean skin of your inner thigh, smearing a mess into the hair he was desperate to bury his nose in.

“Say it for me yeah?” he muttered, voice deep with gravel.

A gasping moan hit his ears, your chest heaving. “Please. Fuck me. Come in me. Just p-please do something-”

“Sh, sh. I know mi corazón. You’re empty without my cock huh?”

You nodded, yanking him close enough to feel his chest against yours. “Need it baby. Need you to stuff me full.”

“Mierda-” The near painful twitch of his cock had him burying his face into your neck, teeth scraping against the delicate chain of your necklace. Until he caught sight of silver tucked between your breasts, hidden by the black lace of your bra—a piece of himself he thought he’d never see again.

Only when he was ripping at your final item of clothing did you drag yourself through the thick fog. “W-What’s wrong-”

“You kept them,” he breathed, lips mashing to yours and hand roughly kneading your breast with a grunt. “Wore them the whole fuckin’ time tonight and I didn’t know.”

You wanted to explain that they were all you had left of him, a comfort after all this time. But his mouth closing around your nipple shut down everything but the sparks rushing along veins you didn’t know could exist. He sucked at your skin, teeth indenting into the softness of your breast. That desperate hunger shoving to the forefront—something you could feel wrap around the length of your spine.

He rutted into you, cock brushing where you needed him most, but you couldn’t let go of those words. There was no world where you wouldn’t love him.

No plane of existence you’d be where he wasn’t.

“They’re yours,” you gasped, grinding against him—head tipped back as his teeth scraped your throat. “I’ve always worn them. Since you—fuck baby—sent them to me.”

Whatever he could have said vanished, his mind going white at the thought of you wearing his dog tags from the very beginning. Five years of holding him over your heart. Time he believed to be filled with a cold resentment suddenly colored itself with a flushed pink haze—a dreamlike state he drowned in with a smile painted across his face. You loved him. Even through all this…it would always be him.

He sunk into you in one thrust and you cried out, clinging onto his shoulders at the sudden stretch, his hips meeting yours and head falling to your chest. A muffled fuck pressed between the curve of your breasts—tongue licking the bead of sweat along skin that glistened in the yellow haze of your bedroom. Breath twisted in your lungs, trapping what oxygen remained as he snapped his hips down into you again. Dragging out with slow cruel thrusts.

“So fuckin’ good,” he gasped, hand tangling with yours and pressing it into the plush comforter. “Gonna make me lose my damn mind.”

“Baby.” The word was a desperate whine on your lips, thighs wrapped tight around his hips—chest heaving for resuscitation from the plane of bliss he threw you into.

Without a map you feared you’d be lost to its depths. But his teeth digging into your lip kept you close, satiated the tremble going down your limbs.

There was no mercy in how he fucked you. No time for soft reverence and tender quiet moments. That would find its way to you later—when the moon began its descent along the horizon, time reaching far enough to still what small pleasures you could steal. He’d bring you back to life with a tongue buried in slick folds and fingers pumping deep.

Tonight he ravaged, took his fill of what you both craved as the night went on. Two souls verging together at last. Finally found after years of distance—entire galaxies spanning the years he spent away from your touch.

“Listen,” he breathed hotly into your mouth, lips quirking as the sound graced ears unable to discern his voice from the thundering of your own heart.

But he slowed his movements, plunging into you with a biting grunt you felt burn into your lungs. The loud wet squelch of your cunt bouncing off the walls of an apartment privy to this once before. Sinful in its agonizing beauty. He smiled, grinding his hips hard enough to drag a throaty moan from your chest—his lips there to swallow what you offered with glee. Heat burned beneath your cheeks, the tinge of shame digging between ribs and arteries.

Until he dropped to his elbow, your name encased in a high breath—his brows pulled together and teeth indenting the plush bottom lip you longed to suck on.

“S-Shit baby I’m not—fuck-” The word dragged between a clenched jaw as he rapidly pounded into you, the bed creaking from the force you felt with each stroke.

His cock struck against your walls, a creamy slick pouring out to drip down your ass, coating his balls as they slapped against skin he’d dig his teeth into later. A mess. He’d reduced the both of you to a fucking mess, unable to pick through a hazy mind. Each moan you let out grew higher, thighs shaking from the effort, and he ripped away from your touch before you could drag him close. Looping each limb over arms prominent with veins and familiar tattoos.

Mistakes made back in the youth of being nineteen. Time he spent wrapped in any part of you he could get. Even as something more simmered beneath a friendship always destined to change.

“Joaquín-” you sobbed, clutching at any part of him you could reach, his chest and shoulders red with marks from your nails. “I-I’m not engaged.”

He stilled, eyes wide and mouth parted as he panted for air. “You said-”

“I-I could never marry someone t-that wasn’t you.”

A strand finally snapped, edge reached long before you could ask him what created it in the first place. Brown suddenly bled into black and he now fucked you with everything in him. Lips sealed over yours, hand clenching tight around your hips—his coarse hair dragging along a throbbing clit that begged for more. Your walls fluttered around him, a shattered cry lost to his kiss, but nothing had felt so perfect.

“‘M gonna fuckin’ marry you,” he grunted, forehead resting against yours, bending you up and into his body—cock ramming right up into a spot that left you going blind with pleasure. “Make you mine.”

Everything you longed for—five years of love and grief—crashed at the shore of your body. Ripping the final pieces of your heart from the decay it lived with. You came with his name on your lips, back arching up into him hard enough to draw a flicker of pain down your spine—your eyes rolled back and fingers twisted into the fabric beneath you.

He collapsed over you with a choked shout, face buried into your neck as he coated your walls with that soft pool of warmth. A feeling you had forgotten about—bliss wrapped in the taut muscles of his arms, his body a heavy weight on yours. You were lost to it, drowning in his scent and taste, but his lips finding yours tied you back down to Earth. His hands sliding along your skin, tongue licking the pain off the back of your teeth.

Joaquín pieced you back together with a love that altered you entirely, shifted all that you were beneath the tidal waves of his heart. Peace settled in the base of a hammering heart—hope finding a home in the bottom of a fluttering stomach.

You loved him.

Eternally.

And that would forever be enough.

Sunlight danced along the bare skin of your back, face pressed into his chest—ear above a steady beating heart. It lulled you to sleep after hours of rekindling a flame that never went out. His hands a burn along your body, lips reacquainting with the dips and curves of your thighs. He sought you out in the early hours of dawn with a stiff cock and groggy pleas for your sweet essence.

Who were you to deny him?

He smiled pressing a kiss to your temple, fingers toying with your ring finger. If he narrowed his eyes in the afternoon light he could see a flash of yellow gold along skin he savored—a hand he clutched with promise. It wouldn’t be too big; nor small enough to hide from inquiring eyes. A perfect set of jewels adorned on a finger he kissed, the piece of you yet to hold his permanent promise.

Till death.

Till he found you in the next life.

Slipping from the tangle of your limbs, he relished the leap of his heart at the sight of you spread along the bed. Naked and at bliss, exhausted from his hunger. He stole another kiss along your spine, finding his way through the familiar path of the kitchen that still lingered with the laughter of memories that painted the walls. Times spent with friends—now turned family—moments he might one day have again.

A faded picture of two young kids at high school graduation was pinned to the fridge door, another of a night spent dancing at some shitty frat party—high off the freedom of adulthood. Two versions of a love he’d could pick out with his eyes shut tight.

Another would set nicely beside them. Of a wedding in a small backyard, an aisle scattered with orange petals and white daisies adorned to his tux—a veil dragging along the floor where you walked towards him. An image that would be placed on altars in memory, an offering set between the frame and candle as he clutched you tight even in the afterlife.

The coffee machine beeped, two mugs set on the counter as he poured, and that’s where you found him. Fussing with the bottle of cream and sugar packets damp from hot liquid. He wore his jeans low on hips you bit at some point in the night—the indent of your teeth marked into skin that would forever wear your mark. Even if you had to place it night after night.

Your arms looped around his waist, lips finding the warm skin of his back. “I wanted to wake up with you.”

He laughed, turning gently in your hold. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You can still surprise me.”

“Yeah?” he grinned, eyes gleaming with a light that caught your breath in the base of your throat. “Got something in mind?”

Life suddenly held a different glow. Contentment filling veins with a something new. A piece that didn’t exist without him near—his love pressing deep and bright into a chest that burned hot. He left you breathless, begging for reprieve. Yet losing yourself to it all the same.

“So…about everything-” He cut you off with a kiss, hand dragging your left palm to his mouth. “Did you mean what you said last night?”

He smiled, at ease with the nerves he could feel beneath your wrist. “If I did?”

“I’d like that,” you breathed.

“Siempre estaras conmigo mi corazón?”

You nodded, heart singing beneath his love. “Si mi amor. I’ll be with you forever.”

©moonlight-prose do not feed my work into ai, do not steal my work, if you are a minor, spam like my fics, or are a blank blog you will be blocked.

[hornyfor-redacted-onmain]

Chapter 9 - Felix's POV

-0-0-

When Felix had received a call at nearly 4 in the morning, his first instinct had been to ignore it. His hand had reflexively hit the volume down button, silencing the call, and he closed his eyes in hopes of falling back asleep. But then his brain processed exactly who had been calling him, and he got up so quickly his body got tangled in the sheets.

He answered the call as he tried desperately to untangle his leg.

“Chris?” He whispered, trying not to wake Hyunjin.

“I need your help.”

Those were never good words to hear from his leader and pack alpha. It wasn’t that Chan never needed help, but it wasn’t often he would willingly ask for it, nevertheless this early.

Felix’s nerves were instantly at an all-time high.

“What is it? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” His alpha reassured, although he sounded tired. “It’s not actually me who needs your help.”

With a sharp tug, Felix let out a loud huff as he finally managed to free his leg. He shuffled to the bathroom as he answered.

“What is it?”

He closed the door as quietly as he could.

“Minho’s going into rut.”

Felix paused at that. Minho’s rut wasn’t as regular as Chan’s, but it normally happened at least every 3 months. His last rut had been in August, meaning this current one was about 2 weeks early. It was unexpected, but considering his own heat had also shown up as a surprise nearly a week ahead of schedule, maybe their pack bond was compensating.

It did make him worry slightly. Seungmin had his heat scheduled for the beginning of next year, but if it came early, the singer might miss their end of year performances.

It was something to think about later.

“Do you want me to get Hannie?” Felix asked, flattening out his hair.

“No, I need you to come down to the lobby. Take the stairs, the elevator is out of commission right now.”

Felix frowned, cracking the bathroom door open to check on Hyunjin. “Okay? Why don’t you want me to get Han first thought? If Minho’s going into rut, he’s going to want him there.”

“Minho’s stuck in the elevator,” Chan sighed.

“Oh.” Felix blinked in surprise.

“Hmm, and he’s not alone.”

-0-0-

Felix hadn’t run down the stairs once he had gotten the full scope of the situation, but he did move faster than he probably should have after just waking up. He was starting to sweat, and he had forgotten scent blockers, so the lobby was already starting to fill up with his cinnamon even before he spotted the firefighters, but then normally sweet spice began to burn as his anxiety rose.

Chan approached him with a grimace. “Felix, it’s okay. Calm down.”

“Are they okay? What did the hotel staff say? Can we get them out?”

“Lixie, breathe,” Chan said, and his own scent began to spread out.

Felix took a deep breath as he was told, closing his eyes at the familiar lavender and pineapple that he was met with. He shook his hands out.

“Sorry, sorry.” His own scent was pulled in.

“They’re both fine, I just talked to Minho,” Chan confirmed, rubbing a hand up and down his arms. It was chilly in the lobby. “The firefighters are working on getting the doors open.”

“What even happened?”

“They think a cable snapped. The safety mechanism kicked in to stop it from hitting the ground, but it jammed the wiring somehow. They’ll have to open the doors manually.”

Felix was glad Chan waited until the firefighters had arrived to call him, because he couldn’t have imagined having to wait over an hour just to be reassured that his friends were alright. Even the 4 minutes it took for them to pry the elevator doors open felt like hell.

He took his unofficial assigned job seriously, being the second person to greet the two figures exiting the elevator, with the head firefighter being the first.

He didn’t even pause at the odd sight that greeted him. You were staring up at him with bleary eyes, the corners tinged purple, and he wrapped his jacket around you as a pretense of keeping you warm, but in reality, he was doing his best to hide your scent under his own. To be fair, Minho’s scent was strong enough to cover both of you at the moment, but he didn’t want to take any risks.

You had trusted him with this secret. He would do his best to make sure you were okay.

Although at the moment, you were most definitely not okay. He almost felt tempted to glare at his hyung, who despite being in the beginning stages of his rut, was far more clear minded than you were.

The firefighters were checking on Minho, but one moved to stop you and Felix as he tried to guide you out of the elevator.

“Are they okay?” he asked in broken English.

Felix was grateful one of them spoke English, because his Japanese was not the best.

“Yeah, just a little tired. I think my other friend might need a little more help.”

He would feel guilty about throwing Minho under the bus another time, but you were starting to lean all of your body weight on him, face seeking out his neck.

Chan met his gaze as he passed, giving him a small nod.

Every hotel they went to had to have a designated heat/rut area for guests who needed a place to ride one out. The managers were more than happy to book a room for Minho for when he was released from the elevator (free of charge they claimed – an apology for the elevator breaking down), but both him and Chan had agreed it would be a good idea to get you into a shower, a change of clothes, and some scent blockers.

It was mostly a precaution to keep your presentation a secret before the managers would be informed on the situation (the fact that none of them had been alerted was both relieving and worrying), but now there was a more pressing need to get you into an isolated room, one where he could check on you properly.

He wasn’t sure what happened in the elevator, but you were in a drop.

Felix had his fair share of experiences with drops, both personally and from his members. Your omega was calling the shots right now, and he needed to make sure you didn’t do anything reckless while you were out of it. Already, he could feel you nosing at the scent gland on his neck.

“Lix,” You whispered, tongue darting out to lick a stripe against his skin.

His breath hitched, heart starting to beat faster. He was thankful that the stairwell was empty, because he didn’t think he had it in you to stop you if you decided to continue. Thankfully though, you simply dropped your head against his shoulder with a soft sigh.

You also started dragging your feet.

“Come one,” He hissed, moving to adjust his grip on you. “Work with me here. It’s just one more floor.”

The two of you were nearing the last few steps when you paused a second to look up at him, blinking slowly.

“Felix?”

He let out a soft hum to show he was listening, reaching out to steady you as you began to tilt forward.

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “Where’s Minho?”

“He’s okay,” Felix assured you. “Come one, last step.”

“Where are we going?”

“To get you cleaned up,” He said, although he was re-considering the original plan.

The idea had been to get you cleaned up and send you back to your room before your roommate noticed you were gone, but you were likely to be out of it for a little while longer. In all likelihood, you would probably need the rest of the night (or morning, his brain supplied him) to gain some control, at least enough that he could send you back up without worrying about you slipping up in front of someone who didn’t know your secret.

He bit his lip.

“I can get cleaned up in my room,” you slurred, leaning into him again.

Thankfully, they were close to the room Chan had booked.

“I don’t doubt that. But we want to make sure you don’t accidentally reveal your omega status to anybody else,” Felix explained, opening the door.

You didn’t answer, instead letting out a soft hum as he led you into the room.

The room was spacious. It had a large king-sized bed with a soft comforter and extra blankets at the end, a desk in the wall furthest from the door, and in the middle of the room was a couch and a small table over a large fluffy carpet. Two doors were to the immediate right of the entrance, most likely a closet and the bathroom.

It smelt sterile, like most heat/rut rooms did.

You didn’t seem to like that, your nose scrunching up adorably as you entered the room. Felix closed the door behind him, slipping his phone and yours onto the table near the entrance, watching as you stood in one place, eyes blankly staring at the room without seeming to take anything in.

He was close behind you as you began to move towards the couch, suddenly flopping down like a puppet who’s strings got cut. The only sign you were okay was the soft sigh you let out.

Felix settled carefully on the edge of the couch next to you. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired.”

That made sense. As you moved around to get comfortable, his jacket was thrown off and Felix was hit with your scent for the first time. He closed his eyes as vanilla began to invade his senses, a hint of cinnamon and maple mixing together into the sweetest combination he could imagine. Your feet pushed up against his thigh as you stretched, and Felix grabbed your ankle out of habit, thumb rubbing against your skin.

Your scent grew stronger in pleasure, and he had to swallow down the desire that began to grow in his lower body.

“Lixie,” You whispered, eyes only half open.

“I’m here,” He assured you, pushing out his own scent in hopes of calming your omega. “Get some sleep.”

You mumbled something, eyes finally fluttering closed.

Felix spent way too long watching you as you dozed, something in his chest feeling both heavy and lighter than normal, It wasn’t until the door opened with a click that he finally looked away, carefully quiet as Chan practically dragged Minho into the room, the dancer letting out a growl.

He had spent the better part of 8 years getting to know his packmates in their best and worst moments, and learning to understand their pushing points, so he wasn’t worried when it looked like Minho was seconds away from biting Chan. He simply watched as the eldest flicked Minho in the nose.

“Don’t give me that. I’m not giving you a hand job in the hotel hallways.”

Minho, with his sweaty hair pushed back and flushed cheeks, looked far too appealing for Felix, who was already struggling to maintain calm. The last thing he needed was the rutty alpha stinking up the room and pulling you from your sleep to satisfy his desires, which judging by the red strip of skin on your neck, it wouldn’t be the first time.

He cleared his throat. “You’re not going to be able to do that here either.”

It was only then that Chan noticed you on the couch, and his brows lifted. “What are they still doing here?”

“They’re in drop,” Felix explained, shooting Minho a look.

At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.

“That’s my fault. I might have gone a little overboard when scenting them.”

“You think?”

Chan clapped a hand on Minho’s shoulder to silence whatever reply he had been preparing, steering the alpha towards the bathroom.

“C’mon, you need a shower.”

Felix didn’t mention the obvious lie, knowing it was his leader’s best attempt to keep some decency in the room for your sake, even though you were asleep. He pretended not to notice the lewd noises that could be heard from under the sound of the shower, and he pulled his jacket back over your body to cover up as much of your scent as he could when they exited nearly an hour later.

Both alphas were too exhausted to do more than wish him a goodnight before they fell asleep. Even though he hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep, Felix stayed awake, his omega needing to watch over his pack at their most vulnerable.

He didn’t bother correcting his omega’s thoughts of you being a part of the pack. The mix of scents on your skin and the mark against your neck confirmed that it wasn't only Chan who felt the same. It was almost disappointing you weren’t interested in being courted.

But he wasn’t convinced you were entirely against it.

He respected your choices, but he was also hoping that someday you would change your mind, and he would finally get the chance to bring you in. It could take years, but Felix was willing to be patient. Even if he needed to wait until his career was over and was no longer an excuse. Even if he had to hold secrets from his members until then.

Felix had gotten attached, and he wasn’t willing to give you up without a fight.

[a-home-to-what-consumes-me]

Nona was so grateful to have had a whole six months of this. It was greedy to expect much longer.

On Nona, Varun and the joy of being alive

[notiddygothgf]

i.

★ pairings: dante (netflix dmc) x fem reader

★ summary: After a messy breakup with Dante and a year of silence, you've rebuilt your life from the ground up. Now, Dante's back, and one thing is clear — he's determined to make you his.

★ ❝ It's been exactly 365 since I've seen your face ❞

★ c.w.:dante being a little shit, suggestive content. not beta'd, reuploading bc it got taken down?

★ a/n:HIIIIIIIII!!!! okay so i put out a poll asking about how y'all would feel if i posted a dante fic, and omg. so many of you replied. so now here go ahead and take this shit!! damn!!! jk i want him so bad so yk i had to rush to get this done LMFAOOAOA. enjoy besties! if you're from around here, you know the drill. if not, please leave lots of comments, i love the spam and your praise gives me motivation to update quicker!!

★ w.c: 10k

pretty ; chapter index

YOU AND DANTE had a messy breakup. Contrary to how it may have seemed at the time of “The Argument” (as you had begun calling it), there was nothing sudden about it. It didn’t detonate like some sort of time bomb, but disintegrated rather slowly – like water trickling through the cracks in the cement, soft and patient, until one day everything just caved in.

It didn’t always feel that way.

When you had first met Dante, it was… effortless. (Some of which was the rose colored glasses’ doing, you were sure). He was cute as hell, first of all. He was funny, too. He had no problems laughing you right out of your panties on the first date, and… well, practically every night after that. He looked at you like you were everything to him – like a dream come true, like he couldn’t believe someone like you would actually have chosen him. You got along famously.

For a while, things stayed that way. Six months, in fact. Things were good. Simple. You’d wake up to his arms around you, his voice in your ear, calling you names that only sounded pretty falling from his lips – princess, babydoll, sweetheart. His stupid jokes – the ones that always used to make you crack a tired grin. He used to make time.

But, somewhere along the way, his job started taking more and more of him. Late nights began to bleed into early mornings. You’d wait up for him with leftovers gone cold and shows paused halfway through. At first, he apologized. Said he hated missing out on time with you. But then the apologies stopped, and so did the explanations. You’d go days without hearing from him. Sometimes weeks. You’d text—hey, you okay?, can you call when you're free?—and the replies would trickle in too late or not at all.

You tried to be understanding. People get busy, right? Life gets in the way. You told yourself that a strong relationship should be able to weather a few quiet days. But it was more than just quiet. It was absence. It was like he was slipping through your fingers and pretending he wasn’t.

And when you did talk, it was always surface-level. You’d try to tell him how it made you feel—how the silence scared you, how you felt like you were in this alone—and he’d get defensive. He’d say, “I’m doing my best,” or “You know how much pressure I’m under right now.” And you’d bite your tongue. You didn’t want to add to the weight on his shoulders. But the resentment kept building. You weren’t asking for the world. Just a check-in. A sign that he still remembered how to love you when things got hard.

The miscommunications started small. A forgotten anniversary dinner. A vague answer when you asked if he’d be home. But they stacked up like dominoes, one after the other, until the smallest push sent everything toppling. You both stopped speaking the same language. You’d say, “I miss you,” and he’d hear, “You’re not good enough.” He’d say, “I’m tired,” and you’d hear, “You don’t matter.”

Then came the argument. The big one. The one that split the foundation.

You were setting the table when he buzzed the apartment door.

It was 10:18 PM.

You stared at the intercom for a second before pressing the button to let him in. No words. No "I'm here" or "Sorry I'm late." Just the click of the door unlocking and silence.

You opened the door before he could knock. Dante stepped in looking like hell—literal hell. Blood on his sleeve, eyes sunken from lack of sleep, hair damp like he’d tried to rinse off whatever mess he’d walked through before coming to you. He smelled like copper and smoke and exhaustion.

Still, your heart lifted for a beat just seeing him. Stupid, soft reflex.

“Hey,” you said.

He nodded. “Hey.”

You stepped aside and let him in. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch you. Just dropped his duffel by the door like he was clocking out of something. The sight of him like this—tired, distant, barely standing—it tugged at something in your chest.

“I made dinner,” you said, a little too hopeful. “It’s probably cold by now, but—”

“I’m not hungry,” he cut in, already moving toward the couch.

You stood in the kitchen for a second, hands still resting on the back of one of the chairs. Watching him. He sat with a grunt, elbows on knees, head in his hands like gravity was pressing harder than usual. You knew that posture. It meant don’t ask questions. Don’t start anything. Just let him sit in the silence.

But tonight… you couldn’t.

It had been a week. A week without him. A week of one-word texts, unanswered calls, and too many nights alone, replaying old conversations in your head trying to figure out when exactly he started slipping through your fingers.

“I waited,” you said softly. “I thought you were coming at eight.”

He didn’t look at you. “Got held up.”

You waited. Hoped for more. An apology. An explanation. Something that showed he realized this mattered.

Nothing.

You took a slow breath. “Dante… you can’t keep doing this.”

That made him lift his head, eyes hazy with irritation. “Doing what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Ghosting me for a week. Showing up in the middle of the night like it’s nothing. Acting like I’m just supposed to—what? Pretend we’re fine?”

His jaw tensed. “I’ve been working.”

“I know,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I know you’ve been working. Risking your life. I get it. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care when you disappear. I can’t keep sitting alone in this apartment wondering if you’re alive.”

He blinked, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t want them to.

“You think I enjoy this?” he muttered. “You think I like being stuck in some sewer for three days bleeding out while some freak tries to tear me apart?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You have no idea what it’s like out there.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping forward. “But I know what it’s like in here. Waiting. Checking my phone every five minutes. Making excuses for you. Pretending this doesn’t hurt because I’m scared if I say the wrong thing, you’ll just disappear again.”

He stood then, sudden and sharp. “You think I want to be like this?”

“I think you don’t know how to let people in,” you said, quieter now. “And I think I’ve been trying so damn hard to hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held.”

He stared at you, breathing hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said finally.

“I didn’t cook for someone who wasn’t going to show up,” you said.

The room went still.

He looked away first. Scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

Your voice cracked on that last word, and he looked at you again—really looked this time. And for a second, something in him softened. Like he saw the version of you that wasn’t angry or nagging or dramatic. Just hurting.

But he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t say I’m sorry.

Didn’t say I missed you.

Just ran a hand through his hair and said, “Maybe this isn’t working.”

Not working?

Not working?

“You can’t be serious,” You huffed out a bitter laugh. Dante reached for you. You swatted him away. “You… We’ve been together for six months. What the fuck do you mean “Maybe this isn’t working”?”

He stood before you with his arms crossed, white hair still disheveled from his day, eyes narrowed, jaw ticked. “I mean that this…” He answered, gesturing to the space between you and him. “Isn’t working out. I don’t think– I can’t…” He swallowed, “I can’t be the man you need me to be. Not right now.”

“You’re gonna give up on us? Just like that?” You continued, still, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Then, you stepped forward, raising a hand to reach out for him, “I love you, Dante. You’re not gonna fight for us?”

“This isn’t love,” He spoke, tone final, but the slightest trembling breath beneath his words betrayed his true feelings. His fingers slipped into his hair, trembling as they carded through his white locks and tugged at his roots. “Look at you– you don’t even see the problem. You shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not your boyfriend is gonna come back alive. You shouldn’t have to put your whole life on hold for me. You still have the whole world to see. I don’t want to have to live a double life anymore.”

“Then let me in!” You hissed back. Your arms were crossed, too. “Do you think I like feeling as if I don’t know the man I love? I could take some of the burden off your shoulders, Dante, if you just–”

“Enough,” Dante sucked his teeth. “I don’t want you wasting your life away worrying over me,” After a lengthy pause, he continued, “All we ever do is fight and fight and fight– I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore, not with you. You’d be much happier without me.”

He was probably right.

“Oh, fuck you,” you shouted, your voice cracking with fury, but even then, it wasn’t enough to hide the way your heart was shattering inside your chest. When your eyes finally met his, you knew he felt the heat of it—anger and hurt and betrayal, all coiled together like fire licking at his skin.

“You’re not going to decide what’s best for me.”

“Yes, I am,” he snapped, cold and absolute.

You took a step forward, trembling, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. “You don’t know what’s good for my well-being,” you bit back, chest heaving. “You don’t even know what’s good for your well-being.”

That hit him. You saw it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, how his teeth caught the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on the guilt. Then he said the words that broke you:

“You could be so much happier without me.”

And just like that, everything inside you stopped.

Something in your gaze must’ve shifted then—something that startled even him. Because the anger didn’t burn quite as bright anymore. The fire was still there, but it flickered lower, smothered by something glassy, something wet clinging to your lashes. It was hurt. Real hurt. Deep, bone-deep heartbreak that swelled until your chest couldn’t contain it.

“Baby…” he sighed, and for the first time, his voice wasn’t sharp. His shoulders dropped like the weight of his decision had finally started to crush him. “I’m sorry. You know I love you. I just… I can’t live with myself knowing that one day I might not come back to you.”

You didn’t say it back.

Not this time.

Even if you wanted to. Even if your love for him still pulsed through every inch of your body, even if it begged for a reason to stay—how could you keep loving someone who was walking away from you like this?

Your lips parted, dry and trembling. You licked them slowly, like maybe the right words would come if you just gave them time. But all you could manage, hoarse and raw, was: “Take your shit…” You swallowed hard. God, it hurt. It hurt worse than anything he could’ve done. “And go.”

He froze.

“What?” he asked, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to mean it. Like he thought you’d plead. Cry. Kiss him one more time just to remember what it felt like. Like you’d make it easier for him to leave you.

But you didn’t.

“I said…” You looked up at him, every inch of you on fire, your arms folded so tight across your chest they ached. You could feel yourself shaking—fists clenched, breath shallow. “Take your shit… and get the fuck out of my apartment.”

And you meant it.

Even if it destroyed you.

You saw the pain in his eyes then. The flicker of disbelief. The way his entire world seemed to crumble at your feet. Two years. Two whole years. Twenty-four months of laughter, late nights, shared secrets, and silent apologies. A thousand soft I love yous whispered between sheets. A thousand more unspoken.

Was he second-guessing it now? Did he finally realize what he was throwing away?

YOU

|  Guys we’re going out tn.

When you reached the bar, it was still early. There were a few people here, but not too many. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses provided the background noise that you desperately craved.

You grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey, the burn in your throat just sharp enough to make you feel something—anything, really. It felt like you were drinking to forget, and the first sip seemed to help, dulling the edges of the ache, if only for a moment.

Your friends noticed you as soon as they walked in. They must have heard the difference in your voice when you answered their text. They could tell something was off, but they didn’t press. Not immediately.

The first drink turned into another. And another. You weren’t trying to get drunk; you were just trying to escape. To lose yourself in the clinking of ice cubes, in the low hum of the bar, in something that wasn’t him. But as the minutes passed, the alcohol didn’t do much to stop your thoughts from spiraling back to him.

You thought about the night before. The argument. His face, so conflicted, yet resolute. The way he walked away without even a second glance, as if he knew the decision he was making was the right one. How could he be so sure? How could he leave you like that?

“Another?” one of your friends asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. She was smiling, but there was a glimmer of concern in her eyes.

You didn’t even think about it before nodding. “Yeah,” you said, a forced smile on your lips. "Just one more."

You didn’t want to talk about Dante. Not yet. You didn’t want to explain to anyone why you felt like the world had been yanked out from under you. But it didn’t matter. Your friends could see it in your eyes. They didn’t need you to say a word.

No, a year ago, your life changed.

So, you can imagine how it felt to walk home from a day spent at the grocery store, bags tucked beneath your arms, and see him standing there.

Dante.

It had been a year since you’d last seen him, and you were doing just fine. Really. A little grocery shopping to get your mind off the usual stuff, a bag of chips here, some pasta there. You didn’t need Dante in your life anymore, and if you were being honest, you were doing better without him. You had a boyfriend now, someone who didn’t make you question your sanity. Things were... uncomplicated.

That was until you turned the corner and saw him.

Dante. Standing there across the street, looking like he’d just stepped out of a scene from some movie you hadn’t signed up for. There he was, all messy hair and that familiar red coat, like he didn’t have a care in the world. You froze for a second, staring at him as if your eyes were playing tricks. Was he actually here? In your world, in your life, right now?

Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? The universe had a sick sense of humor.

You immediately felt that familiar wave of annoyance—was it even annoyance? Maybe it was exhaustion, or some mix of both. You adjusted the grocery bags under your arms and took a deep breath. You were doing just fine. He was not about to mess with your day.

But Dante, being Dante, didn’t just stand there. No, he was coming toward you now, his long stride eating up the space between you with an unsettling familiarity.

Great, you thought, shifting the weight of your bags to one side as if they were the only thing that mattered right now. But in truth, you were already calculating the best possible escape route. The crosswalk? Too far. The alley to your left? Maybe, but the sidewalk was too narrow. Okay, girl. Focus.

You picked up the pace, shifting into a power walk as though your life depended on it. Sure, you looked a little ridiculous, but it was a small price to pay for a little peace and quiet. You weren’t looking back. Not now.

Behind you, you could hear Dante’s footsteps closing in, his voice trailing after you, “Hey, wait up!”

But you didn’t wait up. No way.

You’d moved on. You had a boyfriend now, someone who would never make you feel like a damn emotional rollercoaster. Someone who didn’t show up after a year of radio silence with that same unreadable stare, acting like nothing happened. No, Dante. No thank you.

Still, you could hear his footsteps, gaining on you. It was like an unspoken challenge. You had to admit, he wasn’t slow. But neither were you. You adjusted the bags once again—damn, this was turning into a workout—and picked up the pace.

You weren’t going to make it easy for him. You weren’t even going to acknowledge the way your heart still remembered his presence, the way it beat a little faster the closer he got. You weren't going to let yourself get sucked back into that mess.

His voice was closer now. “Come on, just—”

A sigh. You were really doing this, weren’t you?

A glance over your shoulder, just a quick flick of the eyes to see how much ground he’d covered, and what do you know? He was right behind you now, practically breathing down your neck. “I’m just trying to catch up, alright?”

Catch up? You weren’t sure whether to laugh or groan at that. This wasn’t a race, Dante, and you didn’t need a personal trainer chasing you down the sidewalk. You could already feel the annoying tightness in your chest. The one that had always been there whenever he was around, the one that reminded you of how difficult it had been to move on in the first place.

He was getting too close for comfort now, and you could already tell this wasn’t going to end well if you kept this pace. So, against every instinct telling you to keep walking, you slowed down just enough for him to catch up. You didn’t want to, but here he was, breathing like he’d run a marathon just to get you to stop. And for what? So he could talk?

He stopped beside you, his eyes searching your face with that all-too-familiar intensity. His chest heaved slightly, probably from the exertion, but you’d be damned if you showed any signs of weakness.

For a second, he just stood there, catching his breath. You, on the other hand, kept your eyes straight ahead, acting like you hadn’t just sprinted for your life.

“Alright, listen,” he said, voice softer now, “I know I messed up. But can we at least—”

You didn’t even look at him as you interrupted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I can’t. I have to go.”

And that was that. You didn’t need to say anything else. You couldn’t afford to.

You were done.

That night, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hair tied up into a neat little bonnet. The faucet was running – lukewarm water trickling out – but you weren’t washing up. No, you were standing there, letting the water drip down your eyes, your cheeks, your neck. You were staring at your tired reflection.

You should’ve been washing away the exhaustion of the day, but instead, you just let it fall over you, droplets slipping down your face, down your chest, almost as if you were trying to wash away the past.

But you couldn’t. No matter how much water hit your skin, how much you scrubbed away at your tired reflection, you couldn’t erase him. Dante. He was there, in the back of your mind, in the way your pulse quickened when you saw him again, after all this time. It had been a year, and yet, when you looked at him across the street, the world seemed to stop for a moment. It was like stepping back into a dream.

You hadn’t realized how much of your heart you’d given to him, how much of yourself you’d let him take. And then, nothing. No texts, no calls, no explanation. Just silence, stretching on for months, the gap between you two growing wider, until you started to convince yourself that maybe that was for the best. Maybe you were better off without him, your life finally starting to take shape without the constant ache of waiting for him to come back, to acknowledge the mess he left behind.

Cupping your hands beneath the faucet, you splashed some more water onto your face. God, I need therapy.

But, being that your current rent situation didn’t exactly permit a visit to the psychologist at the moment, you threw your favorite fuzzy robe over your satin cami and shorts, popping your feet into your beat up pink slippers. You shuffled right over to your bedroom and plopped down onto the bed, limbs falling uselessly to the mattress.

Kill me, you thought.

That wasn’t viable, though. So, instead, you reached into your nightstand (past the vibrator you had bought eight months ago during the worst part of your dry streak) and pulled out a sheet mask. Biting into the package, you opened it and pulled the slimy thing out. The serum melted into your skin as you laid it over your face, leaning your head back against the pillows and relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages.

Your head was blissfully empty. There were no thoughts of men with precarious jobs and swords and… devilishly handsome faces. No, it was just you. You and your favorite pajamas and your favorite skincare routine.

You flicked the TV on. You didn’t have to change it back to your favorite channel. No, that was the glory of having a shitty little apartment in the city to yourself. It was on the same channel you left off on – your favorite drama.

The characters buzzed to life. You set the remote down and watched.

The characters on screen started a new conflict, one that you knew would keep you hooked for the next hour. You sank deeper into the couch, letting the familiar warmth of your apartment wash over you. Everything was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only comes when you're truly alone.

Then, the sound came. A soft knock at the window outside your room, followed by a long, drawn-out silence. Your heart skipped, the peace broken. You froze, eyes still locked on the TV, the characters' voices fading into the background as your mind reeled. It was too late for anyone to be outside. Too late for anything normal to be happening. Another knock, louder this time. A rhythmic tap that sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly turned your head toward the window, your pulse quickening.

Oh, God, you thought. I’m going to die.

Still, because you couldn’t exactly ignore the sound, you slid out of your warm, comfortable bed and into your slippers once more. Then, hesitating every single step of the way, you snuck into the living room, glancing around in search of the source of the sound.

Another knock. This one louder. You held your breath, hand hovering just above the blinds. It was coming from outside. No one else came to your apartment at this hour. You knew who it had to be.

You glanced down.

There, crouched on the balcony just below your window, was Dante. His face was half-lit by the streetlights, a little smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he waved at you. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn’t disappeared for an entire year. Like you hadn’t spent every sleepless night wondering if he was dead or alive, missing his presence as if your heart had been torn in half.

The audacity of it. There he was, grinning like nothing had changed. His hair was messy, his eyes gleaming with that same mischievous spark that used to drive you crazy. The same spark that made your chest ache, even now.

“He cannot be serious,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but he caught it, his grin widening.

You could almost feel his eyes on you, waiting, daring you to say something. But you couldn’t. What could you even say?

All you could do was crack the window open.

“Sorry,” He huffed out a laugh. A familiar one. One you… kinda missed, actually. “I tried calling, but I think you blocked my number.”

“I got a new phone,” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut as if that would make this situation any better – as if you would open your eyes and he wouldn’t be here.

But he was. 

“What the fuck are you even doing here– I mean– the balcony, Dante, really?” You threw your hands out, eyes full of exasperation. “You could have knocked at the door like a normal person.”

“Would you have answered?” He asked. “If you knew it was me?”

“Probably not,” You replied honestly. “I should leave you out here to freeze to death.”

“Oh, right, about that,” He laughed, rubbing the back of his head abashedly. The entire encounter was so absurd that a part of you firmly believed you were dreaming. “I found out I’m, like… half demon. Crazy, right? So I don’t think I would freeze to death. Demon stamina, or whatever.”

Demon stamina. You thought. Right. Definitely awake right now.

Still, that would certainly explain his… endurance.

“Okay…” You had many, many questions, but that was the only thing you could muster, “Should I be… scared?”

What the fuck is going on?

In all honesty, if he told you that the world was ending tomorrow, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“Nah,” He waved your concerns away with the back of his hand. “I’d never hurt you. Except for… well, when I broke up with you. That’s why I came here, actually. Sorry about that. I’ve done some reflection and I…” Suddenly appearing rather nervous, he trailed off, “I fucked up. I was a real asshole to you back then. God, this is hard.”

Your arms dropped to your sides as you stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “You’re… ridiculous.”

“I know,” Dante said, hands up like he was surrendering. “But hear me out—”

“No, no. You don’t get to just Spider-Man your way onto my balcony, confess your demon heritage, and then act like this is normal,” you said, pointing to him like you were trying to make sense of a hallucination. “You broke up with me out of nowhere. Then you vanished. For a year, Dante. Not a word. Not even a shitty text.”

“I didn’t have a phone,” he replied, offended. “I was on a mission. I was in Hell.”

You snorted. “Oh, please.”

He blinked at you. Then, very seriously, he hissed out, “No, I was literally in Hell. For a year. You can’t imagine what that was like for me.”

“Oh my god.” You pressed your fingers to your temples. “You’re insane. Hell? Really?”

“I’m not making it up! You think I wanted to ghost you for twelve months?”

“Well, you kind of did. You broke up with me, remember?” You crossed your arms. “Said I should forget you. That I should move on.”

A pregnant pause.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he muttered.

“Well, congrats. I moved on. I did the whole crying on the bathroom floor thing, I got a therapist, I drank my sorrows away, I bought this plant—” You gestured wildly at the lonely fern in the corner. “His name is Rico. And he’s thriving. Without you.”

Rico was not, in fact, thriving. He was an exotic plant. One you had purchased on impulse at a farmer’s market that you definitely should have researched prior. He wasn’t doing too well cooped up inside of your apartment in New York City. Who would?

Dante crouched down, tilting his head, squinting at Rico. “Looks a little dehydrated.”

You glared. “So do you. What do you even want, Dante?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked down for a second, suddenly quiet. “I want a do-over.”

You stared at him.

“I didn’t have much control over the whole… trapped-in-hell thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, “but I wasn’t happy with how we ended things. I could’ve been better to you. I kept rehearsing what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, but I wasn’t expecting it to actually happen.”

He’s not being serious

… Is he?

One look at him, and you knew he was.

You let out a long, flat breath. “We can’t.”

“Why?”

You raised your brows. “Because we can’t,” you said again, quieter this time. And this time, it hurt.

“Why?” He asked, as if you hadn’t made yourself perfectly clear. “I’ve changed, honest. The past year I spent without you, I realized how good you were to me. How I took you for granted – I don’t wanna let you go. I don’t wanna make the same mistake twice.”

Aw, you thought, That’s… kinda sweet, actually.

No. Stop that.

Instead, you propped your hand up on your hip, “Does that mean you won’t be here on my balcony ever again?”

He paused, pursed his lips. “Okay, maybe I would,” He finally admitted. “But if you would let me in–”

You cut him off right then and there, rolling your eyes. “I can’t, Dante. I have a fucking boyfriend.”

That hit its mark.

His mouth opened, then closed again. The silence that followed made you uncomfortable in a way only Dante could manage—equal parts awkward and guilty. He looked down at the floor of the balcony like maybe it had some hidden message for him.

“Oh…” he murmured. “Oh. You… You really moved on.”

“Something like that.” You shrugged, trying not to sound as tired as you felt. “That’s what happens when you disappear for a year. Life goes on.”

“Not for me,” he muttered, lips curling downward into a pout that would’ve been funny if it didn’t come attached to so much damn history. “Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest.” Then he added, almost too fast, like it slipped out before he could filter it, “I could probably fuck you better, too—”

He probably could. Honestly, your current sex life with your current boyfriend wasn’t the greatest. Still, he was consistent. He didn’t leave you hanging for nights in a row, wondering if he would come home. Not to mention the fact that, when you were with Dante, well…

You had some of the loveliest orgasms you had ever had. On the bed, on the floor, on the kitchen counter. The kind of orgasm you hadn’t achieved once since he had left. Not with your vibrator, and certainly not with your new boyfriend.

Your stare could’ve burned through glass. “I have to be up early tomorrow.”

He had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, but not enough to shut up. “Did you come here just to ask for a do-over?” you asked, already backing toward the window.

“No,” he said, and then paused. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”

You almost respected his commitment. Almost.

You didn’t respond right away, just stared at him— hair as white as starlight, red leather coat, sword still strapped to his back, ridiculous expression like he genuinely thought charm could undo the year-long hole he’d left in your life. The silence made him fidget, scuffing the toe of his boot against the concrete.

“What do I have to do to convince you?”

You sighed. You really sighed this time, long and from the chest, because there was no point in even pretending this wasn’t exhausting.

“Goodnight, Dante,” you said.

Then… you shut the window.

The next day came with no promises of peace.

You were behind the counter at the diner, hair tied back, apron smudged with flour, oil, and maybe a little bit of your sanity. The coffee machine hissed in protest as you filled another mug for a trucker in the corner booth. Your feet hurt. Your head hurt. But at least it was a different kind of ache than the one Dante stirred up last night.

And then, like the universe had a personal vendetta against your emotional wellbeing, the bell above the door jingled.

You didn’t have to look up.

You felt him walk in—like some twisted sixth sense. The air shifted, and you could practically smell the cologne he always wore, something smoky and leather-soft. A second later, a voice followed.

“Damn. This place got a lot prettier since I was last here.”

You looked up anyway. Because of course you did.

There he was. Dante. Leaning casually against the host stand, all devil-may-care charm and a ridiculous leather jacket that made him look like he belonged anywhere but this greasy spoon diner. His eyes found you immediately.

You blinked slowly, then turned back to the coffee pot. “I swear to God,” you muttered under your breath, “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He strolled right up to the counter, pulling up a stool like he hadn’t trespassed on your balcony twelve hours ago. Like he hadn’t cracked open an old wound and kissed the air with apologies.

“You look good in that apron,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t bother looking at him this time. “You look like someone who doesn’t tip well.”

“I tip amazing,” he argued. “Just like I–”

“Do me a favor and don’t finish that sentence,” you warned, grabbing a towel and wiping down a clean patch of counter for the hundredth time. “Have you always been this petulant or is it something in the air?”

“I’m a lot of things,” he said, shrugging innocently. “I’m a man of many talents. Want me to prove it? I’ve got time.”

Oh my god.

You finally turned to face him. “Do you not have demons to fight or… hell dimensions to get trapped in again?”

He laughed. “You remembered.”

You deadpanned, “How could I forget? It’s not every day your ex disappears into Hell without a cell phone.”

Dante lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair. But look—I just thought we could talk. Maybe over some waffles? Syrup fixes a lot.”

You were already shaking your head. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this with you. Not here.”

“I’ll be good,” he said, drawing an imaginary halo over his head with his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you replied flatly.

“And you were never this mean to me,” he said with mock hurt.

“You were never this annoying. Go piss off somewhere. You had no problems leaving me alone for a year,” you shot back. Then you waved down one of your coworkers—a sweet girl named Lila with a bright smile and no idea what kind of emotional tornado she was about to serve.

“Hey, Lila?” you called. “Can you take counter stool three for me?”

She blinked. “Uh, sure. You okay?”

“Peachy,” you said, handing her a menu. “He’s all yours.”

Dante blinked as Lila approached with her notepad, looking confused and a little betrayed. “Wait, seriously?”

You leaned over the counter slightly, voice low. “You want waffles? Order them. You want closure? Write a poem.”

And then you walked away. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. The ache in your chest was enough to tell you exactly what kind of expression he wore.

The living room was dark, lit only by the bluish haze of the TV screen flashing between killstreaks and loading screens. Your boyfriend was sunk deep into the couch, legs wide, controller gripped like a lifeline. He hadn’t looked at you in over twenty minutes, completely absorbed in his game, spewing half-hearted trash talk at some twelve-year-old with better aim and a louder mic.

You shifted beside him, stretching a little, brushing your leg against his. Nothing. So you leaned over, nuzzling your nose lightly against his neck, just beneath his jaw.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft and sweet. You let your fingers slide down his chest, slow and teasing. “Want to take a little break?”

He flinched—not from desire, but because someone on screen shot him. Again.

“Babe, not now,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the game. “I’m in ranked.”

You pulled back a bit, blinking, mouth falling open in disbelief. “Seriously?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept clicking buttons, dead focused on the screen. “Yeah, just like… fifteen more minutes. Can you make dinner or something?”

You stared at him, chest hollowing out in quiet, stunned offense. You’d offered him your body. He asked for food.

There was a moment of silence. Your hand dropped from his chest.

You sat back against the cushion, a little colder now, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. And that was when Dante’s voice—his voice—echoed in your head from the night before.

“Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest. I could probably fuck you better, too—”

You closed your eyes briefly, scoffing under your breath. God, he was ridiculous. And yet…

You pushed yourself off the couch wordlessly, heading to the kitchen without a sound.

Behind you, your boyfriend called out, “You’re the best, babe!”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just slammed the fridge door a little harder than necessary.

And in the back of your mind, Dante's voice lingered like a splinter.

You turned the stove on, lips pressed into a thin, tired line. Maybe later you’d lie down and try to remember what it felt like to be romanced by someone who didn’t treat Call of Duty like a second girlfriend.

One incredibly sexless night later, you took the evening to decompress. That is, you lit up some candles, had a few slices of the pie you’d kept in your fridge for days just like this one, and blocked off an hour for the sole purpose of masturbation. 

What? You needed it.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit, perfectly still. You’d even put your phone on Do Not Disturb, because tonight was about you. Your fingers itched with anticipation as you laid out your night like a ritual: the robe slipping lower on your shoulder, the cool sheets turned down, your favorite toy already waiting on the nightstand like a promise.

God. You needed this. You were wound tight. Between work, the complete lack of passion from the man you were dating, and that absolutely deranged balcony visit from Dante… you were more than pent up. You were practically vibrating with unmet desire.

You let out a long, dramatic exhale, sinking down into your mattress with the kind of grace usually reserved for tragic heroines. Just you, a flickering candle, and the fantasy of literally anyone but your boyfriend.

You reached for the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Knock, knock.

Your hand froze.

You stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe someone had the wrong door.

Knock, knock. Louder this time. Three slow raps, followed by silence.

You sat up slowly, groaning into the air. Then, begrudgingly, you stuffed your vibrator back into the drawer, kicking your feet over the edge of the bed and walking into the living room. It was dark, of course, so you flicked on a light. When you stared into the peephole of your front door, it took all of the strength you had to not bang your head against the door.

It was Dante. Again. No leather jacket this time, just a black hoodie, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweatpants.

You blinked, then groaned into the back of your hand.

Another knock, like he heard you. And then, muffled through the wood, his voice.

“I can hear you in there. Demon hearing, remember?” He brought his head up to the peephole, staring right back at you. “I know it’s late, Just… let me talk to you? For just a second? Please?”

You pulled the door open.

Dante stood there in the dim hallway light, hair windswept, hands in his pockets like he’d been pacing outside for a while, working up the nerve. His gaze moved over your face with a kind of stunned reverence, like he hadn’t really believed he’d see you again.

“Hey, princess,” he said.

There it was. That nickname. The one you hadn’t heard in a year.

You stepped aside without a word. He walked in like the place still remembered him. Or maybe you did.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You didn’t speak. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching him watch the room like it had changed without him. It had. You had. But he still looked at you like he saw the girl you were a year ago. That girl who let him ruin her, and smiled while doing it.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice low. “I tried.”

“Did you?” You answered.

“Okay, not really,” He looked at you again, more serious now. “I keep thinking about you. All the time. You’re in my head constantly, like—fuck—I’ll be walking down the street and I’ll see something and just need to tell you about it.”

You laughed. Just once. It came out bitter and exhausted. “Keep it to yourself.”

“I missed talking to you about anything,” he said. “Everything.”

You shook your head, pushing off the wall, pacing just a little—like if you kept moving, you wouldn’t fall for this again. “You don’t get to come back after vanishing for a year and say shit like that.”

“I know. I know I don’t,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve been trying to act like– like I’m not completely in love with you still, and it’s killing me.”

Your breath caught.

After all of this time?

His hands reached for yours before you could stop him. You let him take them.

Okay… what the fuck is going on?

“You deserve someone who sees you. Someone who treats you like you matter every second of the day,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t take you for granted. I could be that. I want to be that.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Because you’d heard those words before, from people who never meant them. From the person you’d curled up beside just last night, feeling more alone than ever. And yet here Dante was, saying all the right things—but he hadn’t even asked. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know how long it had been since someone had touched you like they meant it.

Your voice came out hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” he whispered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I think about you when I’m trying to sleep. I think about your laugh. Your stupid, shitty taste in TV. Your coffee order. The movies you like. I want that back. I want you back.”

You yanked your hands away, jaw tight.

He’s got a lot of fucking nerve.

“Don’t do this,” you said. “Don’t show up and say these things and make me feel like this again. You don’t even know what you left behind.”

He looked at you, eyes open and raw. “Then tell me. Let me make it right.”

“Go away, Dante.” you snapped.

Silence fell between you like a slammed door. You turned your back to him, trying to catch your breath.

Then he stepped in behind you.

Not touching, not quite—but close enough that you felt the heat of him. Close enough that your body remembered every inch of him like a phantom limb. 

“Hey,” he murmured. “I know I fucked up. Can you be… like, not so mad? Just for two seconds?”

His hand slid to your hip, turning you gently toward him. You let him, still trembling, still so full of everything you never got to say.

“I’ve been in love with you this whole time,” he whispered. “And I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words were genuine. Genuine enough that you felt the tears begin to prickle at your eyes all over again – emotional at the mere thought of him, because truthfully?

You missed him, too. You just didn’t want to admit it. You missed the late nights and later mornings. You missed waking up next to him, hearing him talk about his crazy adventures as a demon hunter. You missed his kisses, the smell of him, his everything.

And, God, the sex… The sex was great.

He was taller than you. Always had been. But in that moment, it felt impossible not to notice how much he towered over you—how his shadow swallowed yours, how the air itself seemed to dip around him. You didn’t want to look up at him, but you did.

You stood frozen, breath shallow, pulse racing in your throat. You didn’t want this. You shouldn’t want this. But here you were, locked in place, every part of you screaming to walk away, and every part of you still craving the comfort of his touch.

“Please…” You whispered, trying to fight the overwhelming tide of emotion. “Please, Dante. Just go.”

His expression softened, like he hadn’t expected that—like he was expecting something more. You felt his fingers on your waist now, and they were warm, pressing gently into your skin. There was no escape now. You weren’t sure you wanted to run anymore, not when it felt like your body was already betraying you.

“I shouldn’t be here, I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. The distance between you seemed to vanish with each word. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried to forget about you, I tried so damn hard, but I couldn’t. I don’t want to.”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Don’t, Dante. I can’t… I can’t do this.”

His eyes searched yours, the guilt and longing mixing together in a way that made your heart ache. He was close now, so close that you could feel his breath against your skin. You knew what was coming, but you didn’t stop him. Not yet.

“I know I fucked up,” he whispered again, more softly this time. “But I love you. I never stopped. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t. I just—I can’t be without you.”

And then, without waiting for another word, he leaned in.

His lips touched yours, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. You didn’t stop him. For that moment, for that brief, heart-stopping moment, you let yourself fall back into the pull of him. Your hands found their way to his chest, clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

God, I missed this.

You melted against him, a wave of relief crashing over you as his kiss deepened, more urgent, more desperate. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you responded without thinking, your body moving instinctively against his. He groaned low in his throat, his hand sliding to your neck, the other pressing you closer.

You kissed him back like you were starving, like you had been dying for this. And for a moment, it was like nothing else mattered—like the last year of silence, the hurt, the betrayal, all of it faded away in the heat of his mouth on yours.

But then, just as quickly as the warmth had started, it turned cold.

You pulled away, gasping for air. Your chest heaved with the sudden rush of emotion. You couldn’t do this. Not again. Not after everything. Your hands shook as you pushed against his chest, creating just enough space to break the connection.

“No,” you said, your voice breaking as you stepped back, wiping at your eyes. “No. I can’t do this. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, stunned, his face pale, but he didn’t move. His eyes were full of confusion, pain, and something darker that you didn’t want to see.

“I can’t,” you repeated, voice steadying with every word. You took another step back, hand reaching for the door. “We can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

There it was.

“I’m sorry, Dante,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I really am.”

He stared at you for a long moment, and for the briefest second, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes – something devastating.

But then, he nodded. The motion was slow, almost resigned, and he took a step back. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. As he passed you, he stopped for a moment, his gaze lingering on you one last time.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

And then, he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

You were sitting on the couch, the faint sounds of your boyfriend’s video game drifting from the other room, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator. You hated that noise—hated the sound of him so effortlessly immersed in a world that wasn’t yours, that didn’t care about the growing tension between the two of you. You tried to focus on the TV, tried to let the sitcom's canned laughter drown out the gnawing discomfort in your stomach. But it wasn’t working. You couldn’t stop thinking about what Dante had said.

I could treat you so much better.

Those words. God, they kept coming back to you. You didn’t want them to. You didn’t want to feel them pushing into every corner of your mind, making you question everything you thought you knew. But they did. And you were alone with those thoughts now. Alone with your insecurities that you usually kept locked away.

You huffed, pulling the blanket tighter around you as if it could protect you from the storm of doubt forming in your chest. You shouldn’t be thinking about him—about Dante. You should be thinking about how your boyfriend had been in and out of your life, barely there, barely present, always distracted. But the longer you sat there, the more it seemed like it was all just a reflection of the way you felt inside: disconnected, hollowed out, drifting.

And then, as if fate was timing it just perfectly, he left his phone on the counter.

Your breath caught, the phone staring at you like a challenge, like an invitation. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You promised you wouldn’t invade his privacy like this. But your fingers itched to touch it, to confirm the sinking feeling in your stomach that something—someone—wasn't right.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the decision feeling both slow and inevitable as you walked toward the kitchen. The phone sat innocently on the counter, waiting. You took a breath, a shaky, hesitant inhale. You could walk away. You could pretend you didn’t see it.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, unlocking it with a simple swipe. Your heart hammered in your chest, adrenaline kicking in as if you were about to do something reckless. The phone screen lit up with messages from some unnamed number. And when you saw the first message, your throat tightened.

"I miss you so much. When can I see you again?"

It hit you hard. Like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t even had time to react before your eyes were scanning the next message, then the next, your stomach sinking deeper and deeper with every word.

“Last night was incredible. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

A sharp, painful gasp escaped you before you could stop it. You clutched the phone tighter, staring at the words, and then—bam—it all crashed into you. You hadn’t been wrong. You hadn’t been imagining the distance, the emotional coldness that had settled between you and your boyfriend. There it was, in black and white—proof of his betrayal.

You felt like you were drowning, suffocating under the weight of it all. This wasn’t just about the messages. It was about everything. About the endless late nights when he came home late from “work,” about the weekends when he’d disappear into his own world, leaving you to figure out where you fit into it. And now this—this confirmation that the man you had been with for so long wasn’t who you thought he was.

You could almost hear Dante’s voice again in your head. I could treat you so much better. The words felt like salt in a wound you hadn’t even realized you had, their presence almost suffocating in the quiet of your kitchen. Were you settling? Were you really going to let this happen? Let yourself get swallowed by someone who couldn’t even give you the decency of respect?

You exhaled sharply, your pulse quickening as the next message flashed on the screen.

“I can’t wait to see you again, babe.”

Babe.

The word made you sick, twisting your stomach into knots. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much—maybe because it wasn’t meant for you. Maybe because it was meant for someone else. Someone who got his attention, who got his time, his affection. It wasn’t you. You were just the woman he settled for, the one who wasn’t good enough for the effort.

The room felt too small, the air too thick, and you suddenly hated everything about this moment. The phone in your hand, the pit in your stomach, the way you had let things go on for this long. You could feel the tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. You weren’t going to cry over this. You weren’t going to let him have that power over you.

But just as quickly, the rush of hurt was replaced by something else—a sharp anger that burned through you like fire. You weren’t going to keep doing this. You weren’t going to keep letting him make you feel small. You weren’t going to keep standing by, pretending that nothing was wrong when everything was falling apart around you.

You weren’t going to be the backup. The woman who stayed even though she knew she deserved more.

The sound of footsteps from the other room snapped you out of your thoughts, and you shoved the phone down onto the counter, just as your boyfriend entered the kitchen. His voice was casual, too casual, as if nothing had changed.

“Hey, babe. You alright?” He asked, glancing over at you.

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, your chest tight with all the words you didn’t want to say, the emotions you didn’t know how to handle.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The raw anger, the aching disappointment—it was all building up inside you, suffocating you. You stood there in the kitchen, phone still in your hand, his lies echoing in your mind. Every text, every word, had become a blade, slicing through your trust, through your relationship. And now, standing face-to-face with him, it all came to a boiling point.

You couldn’t help it.

You walked up to him, eyes burning with fury, and before he could even open his mouth to explain himself, your hand shot out. The slap echoed through the small apartment, sharp and loud, breaking the tense silence between you.

His head jerked to the side from the impact. He didn’t even seem surprised. But you could see the flicker of guilt in his eyes. Too late for that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your voice trembled with rage as the words spilled out. “You think I wouldn’t find out? You think I’m some kind of idiot, just sitting here while you lie to my face?”

He reached up, touching his cheek, and for a moment, he looked almost confused. “What the hell are you talking abou–”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back, trying to breathe, to stop the angry tears from spilling over. “Don’t even try. I’ve been here, okay? I’ve been here, giving you everything, and this is how you repay me?”

You could feel the walls around you closing in. The kitchen—the place where you had made so many meals together, laughed together, fought together—it suddenly felt suffocating. This wasn’t your home anymore. It wasn’t the place you thought it was.

“I trusted you,” you spat, your voice cracking. “I trusted you, and you went behind my back. All this time, you were texting her—her—while I was sitting here, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.”

His eyes widened, but then he scoffed, trying to brush it off. “Come on, it’s not like that. She’s just—”

“Don’t!” You interrupted again, shaking your head, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what excuses you’ve got. I don’t want to hear how you’re ‘sorry’ and how ‘it wasn’t like that’ because it was. I saw the texts. I saw everything.”

There was a cold silence, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. He was quiet now, eyes downcast, as if he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he had no idea how to fix it—because there was no fixing it. Not this time.

“Do you even care?” You whispered, feeling the heartbreak seep into your bones. “Do you even care that you’ve been hurting me this whole time?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He was trying to form the right words, trying to make it sound like he cared, like he had some kind of reason, but it was too late for that.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I’m done.”

He froze. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was an almost desperate look in his eyes. “Wait—what? You can’t—”

“Don’t try to stop me.” You took a deep breath, the anger dissipating just enough to feel the weight of the pain. “I’m not staying here. I’m not going to keep putting myself through this. I’m done.”

His face fell. You could see the regret in his eyes, but you didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t. Not after everything. Not after what you’d just found out.

You turned your back on him, heading for the bedroom to grab your things. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. You could feel the tension in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. Not anymore. You were done.

You grabbed your bag—your jacket, your wallet, your keys—and made your way toward the door. Every step felt heavy, like you were walking away from something you had invested so much of yourself into, and yet, there was a strange sense of relief settling in your chest. You were leaving behind a lie, a hollow version of something you had once wanted to be real. 

You were leaving him.

“Wait,” he called out, his voice strained. “Please, don’t go. We can fix this. We can talk—”

But you didn’t listen. You opened the door, stepping out into the hallway, and closed it behind you. The sound of it was final. You didn’t want to hear his excuses anymore. You didn’t want to be with someone who could betray you like this.

Still, weak thing that you were, you began to cry.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

As you walked down the hallway, your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You didn’t want to look at it. 

But then, your fingers moved of their own accord, slipping the phone out of your pocket.

And there it was: Dante’s old number.

The one you’d saved with the naive hope that he might have called. You hadn’t thought about it in a while. You hadn’t dared to reach out to him—hadn’t dared to even look at his name on your phone. But now, standing there in the hallway, your heart pounding, your chest tight from everything you’d just left behind, you thought about what he’d said to you.

I could treat you better. 

I’ve always been in love with you.

A cold shiver ran down your spine at the thought. You could still hear his voice in your head, still feel the weight of his words.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, uncertainty swirling inside you. You didn’t know why you were doing this. You didn’t know what you hoped to get from it, but you couldn’t shake the pull. You wanted—needed—someone who saw you. Someone who cared.

So, in a moment of weakness, you typed the words.

YOU: I need you.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. The words felt foreign, too raw, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t take them back now.

a/n: ok so whenn i say this is gonna be short... i MEAN IT THIS TIME LOL..... maybe. anyway! part two is almost done, so comment what you thought, let me know what you'd like to see, what you loved, etc! until next time, my loves x not sure why this got deleted? but ok

I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

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wanna join the taglist? | pretty ; chapter index

[rieamena]

totally (not) beating the allegations

best friend!takuma ino headcanons

contains... best friends to lovers, mutual pining, casual confession of love, kisses (platonic), kisses (romantic), modern au, high school to university au, living together-ish, fem intended reader, pet names (baby, babe, love, sexy, handsome, beautiful, sweetie, the list goes on and on), lots of physical touch, nicknames (you call takuma, kuma.), reader has a mother and a father, y'all are basically dating just without the label...

word count: 2.3k (this wasn't supposed to be long. i told myself 0.8k maximum...)

riea's comments: all sixteen people living in takuma city RISE UP! i miss my husband of 35 years so much, come back to me loml :(( something to munch on while y'all wait for the next full throttle chapter. also not too much on me if this is a drabble and not hcs idk the difference :))

first off... i just wanna say that i KNOW I KNOW that ino is one of the funniest people in the jjk cast idc idc!!! if he had more screentime (and if the situation wasnt dire) my boy would be crackin some jokes!!!!

you've been friends with takuma for around 7 years, your first meeting happening in tenth grade, when your teacher paired you two up for an interview project. when time came to actually record the interviews, it was hard to edit out you two laughing uncontrollably every fifteen seconds or so

i mean, you two just had so much in common!!! same favorite color, same favorite franchise, same favorite tv show, same favorite video game; it was like yall were the same person. there was just one thing you both disagreed on: whether hex code #286061 was blue or green

your argument ended up being the last ten minutes of the final video you submitted...

without a doubt, after that, you two became inseparable. in school, people would take notice of your closeness. when one of you were absent, teachers would jokingly ask "where's the other one?"

there was not a single thing you didn't do together, homework, go to the gym, gossip, eavesdrop, etc etc. so of course, you ended up applying to the same universities and when it came time for college acceptance season...

takuma invited you over, forcing you to bring your mailed letters from the eight universities. sprawling out over his lap, you took in the all too familiar sight of his room. you've been in his room more times than you've been in your own (and vice versa!)

i mean ino's been over to your place so many times that he calls your parents mom and dad. and you've been over to his house so much that takuma's mom practically jumped for joy every time you burst through the front doors with a "guess who's home!!!" so it was completely normal that you guys knew the ins and outs of each other's rooms, right?

"kuma, baby," you started with a sigh, reveling in your best friend's repetitive motions. running his hand through your hair, ino looked down at you, eyes showing that he was listening. "i'm scared, what if we don't��"

"ah-ah-ah! no negativity here!" he cut you off, pushing you off his lap and grabbing the letters you left on his desk. "listen here beautiful," takuma says, bringing a hand to your cheek, his heart swelling when you subconsciously leaned into it, "we're gonna take each other's letters, and open them," he handed you a white envelope, the logo of both of yours dream university on it, "starting with, kyōmei."

taking a well needed deep breath, you nodded. "okay," you and ino began to open the envelopes at the same time, only looking at each other when you saw the status. "accepted or rejected in 3...2...1..."

"ACCEPTED"

"ACCEPTED"

cue the mandatory silence before the screaming. "holy shit. you got in." "you got in." "WE GOT IN!!! WE'RE GOING TO KYŌMEI!!!!" you two practically flew off the bed, jumping up and down in celebration. peppering his face in kisses, you nuzzled your face into takuma's neck. "i'm so proud of us! i mean, kyōmei," you pulled away from his neck, shaking his shoulders harshly, "the kyōmei?!!!"

anyways, soon enough, you both realized that you'd have to move away, resulting in a seven hour search for apartments near the university's campus. and just as takuma was about to give up, you found a listing for units 19A and 19B, right in the heart of the city and just a five minute walk from kyōmei

and with that, it was moving day, well, days is more like it considering that the whole process took like ten days... finding cute furniture is really hard! and moving all of it is even harder!! and don't even get me started on the appliances! although, you and takuma found a way around it

like what do both of you need a microwave for? and there isn't a reason to have two dishwashers, there wasn't even a reason to have one! y'all kept your fridges though... who was gonna be banging on the other's door in the middle of the night for some cold water??

with time, it came for the highly anticipated freshman formal, an welcome event hosted by kyōmei itself, and of course, you had to go. so here you were, staring at your figure in the mirror as your best friend's large hand rubbed your shoulder, the other zipping up your black dress. "all done!" he breathed, taking a step away so that you could see for yourself. "i look so cute~" you giggled, hearing the clack of your heels as you twirled. "you do!" he paused, looking you up and down, "when did you get that dress?"

"your mom gave it to me a couple days ago! where'd you get that tux? i don't think i've seen it before," you walked over and straightened takuma's suit, as he laughed in response, "your mom gave it to me..."

"this was planned."

"this was definitely planned."

"we should send a picture in the family group chat!"

"we should!!! but, hair first!"

notice how i said family group chat, singular, not plural. and that's because there's a gc for both of your families! it's name was a mix between "ino" and your last name, since, in all seriousness, your families were close

so here you were, sitting pretty on takuma's lap as you focused on straightening the front pieces of his hair, because that's what best friends do!

"okayyyy sexyyyy," you squealed, moving out of the way so that takuma could see himself in your vanity mirror, "damnn, i look hot!" he smiled as he checked himself out, his hand firmly on your waist (to make sure that you wouldn't fall, of course!). "i knew i was fine but, did i always look this fine?" he asked, looking up at you with his big dark brown eyes, a playful smirk evident on his face. "yes, takuma. you're the sexiest man ever. just a bit of eyeliner on you and we'll be on our way, okay?"

turning back to your station, you grabbed some brown and black pencils before starting to lightly draw over ino's outer eye corner, "do men as sexy as me really need eyeliner?" a look from you was all he needed to know to shut up and close his eyes

and oh, how he loved being so close to you. not just emotionally but physically as well. like, not every duo can say that they barge into the other's apartment to steal snacks! and speaking of snacks... let me just say, there's a whole cabinet in his kitchen reserved for your favorite foods and! he keeps your favorite ice cream flavor stocked in his freezer

you, on the other hand, have a little space where you hide takuma's favorite anything. chips, gummies, takeout menus, you name it, you have it. because your best friend is oh-so-optimistic, it can be harder for him when he's just not having the best of days. which is why when you go your (not so) separate ways at the end of the day, you pack up a basket for him. ribbons in his favorite color, his top 15 favorite snacks from that one time y'all bought one of everything in a nearby convenience store and ranked them, takeout on the way, horror flicks he's been wanting on dvd because he said "its cooler that way", and a handwritten letter from you, for my kuma, scribbled on the envelope

dropping off the basket at his door and retreating back to your place, you'd press your ear against the wall separating your units, physically feeling your heart break when you heard sniffles. that was all you needed to practically fly over to his, a few boxes of tissues in hand. because that's what best friends do!

and don't even get me started on how many belongings y'all have at the other's place... like that one time takuma walked into your apartment announcing his presence, only to be met with silence. let me set up the scene for you. you are taking a relaxing shower when you hear a knock on the door followed by four more and then three more. "come in!" you called out, unbeknownst to you, ino's voice was closer than you thought

"already in here..., anyways. is my shampoo in there?"

"the one with the purple cap?"

"yeah, thanks babe!"

"wait, can you get me my towel?"

or that time when you causally opened the door to his unit (because it was basically yours too) and greeted him with a simple pat on his head before skipping off to find those jeans you thrifted

slight cohabitation aside, the university life was definitely... something. it was clear and obvious that you two were close, a blind man could see it. but close is a really really really vague word, and it's surely not the word that describes the way the two of you act. in this friendship, terms of endearment drop like rain from clouds. every. other. sentence. contains a "babe" or "baby" or "sweetheart" or "darling" WE GET IT OKAY...

and it seems like if y'all go a single day without touching each other, a bomb will fall from the sky and earth would blow up. his hands are constantly on you, his favorite places (when in public) being your shoulders and arms, and when at home it was without a doubt your waist and thighs. just imagine how difficult it must be for people speak to you both on campus when his arm is slung around you and your hand is holding onto his side. the rumors practically created themselves....

and when i say people were shocked, i mean they were SHOCKED when y'all were like "haha, no, we're not dating!!! we're best friends!" everyone was thinking: yeah best friends who FUCK. best friends who are IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER. y'all became the campus' it couple without being a couple. how does that happen??!??

however... there were a couple of people who were particularly excited to hear that you both were single. a few girls approached you one day while in the general area, asking if it was true that you and ino weren't dating. "we aren't... why?" one of the girls shifted on her feet, clearly nervous. "well... could you um... give this to him for me?!" she bowed, presenting a pretty pink envelope. you froze, staring at the item before giggling. "i see what this is about! don't worry! i'll make sure this gets to him safely!" long story short, that letter was never delivered

and on ino's side, he had some classmates pestering him about you. asking for your favorite show, candy, date style, everything under the sun. "guys, guys! she doesn't even want a boyfriend right now!" takuma shouted, even though two days prior you were complaining about how spending too much time with him was scaring all the hotties away

but let's get into the real stuff... the realization of love

for takuma, there wasn't a "wow, i'm in love with her" moment. what he does know though is that he started feeling something different for you a few months before college admission season. to him, the world was always bright with you by his side but now... it was so much brighter. it was like looking directly into the sun; it hurt but he couldn't look away, he doesn't want to look away. you're the best thing to ever happen to him, and the mere thought of ruining what you have just for some feeling—no matter how intense—isn't... right to him

and you figured it out after a dream you had one night back in high school. you dreamt of being in takuma's arms, the ones you snuck glances at when he wasn't paying attention to you. in not dream world, all you had to do was ask and he'd gladly envelop you but the vibes in this dream were different. there was tension. and it was thick. his beanie was off and thrown somewhere on the bed, your bed. looking back at him, your breath caught in your throat, "hey pretty," he slurred, drunk off tiredness. ino's called you beautiful more times than you can count; he made sure to do it at least once a week, so why... just why did this time make your stomach heat up and your heart race? you woke up with a flushed face, queasy feeling in your gut, and a deep understanding. it wasn't just platonic love anymore

"hey," you started, eyes trained on the movie in front of you, but your mind was focused on something else, "y'know how everyone thinks we're dating?" ino nodded as you reached over to grab the bowl of popcorn. "i've been thinking... maybe they're onto something..."

takuma's gulp could be heard from miles away, "wh-what are you trying to say?"

"what are we? seriously. because i can't sit here and pretend like i don't wish we were something more."

"something more like...?"

"now's not the time to be oblivious! don't you get it?! i'm—"

"i'm in love with you,"

it was like time stood still as you looked at your best friend. his face was lit by the tv screen a couple feet away, his hair was a mess, and slightly prominent dark circles were under his eyes, but... he's never looked more beautiful to you. "have been. for a long time. we've basically been dating for like four years already. four more and then we'll get married?" he flashed his signature smile

"oh, shut up," he brought your face millimeters away from his, whispering "make me." before kissing you deeply, not on your cheek, or your forehead, or your shoulders, but on your lips this time. and all the times after that too

because that's what best friends lovers do, right?

jjk taglist

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@atigerandabear @russianremy @ohnoitsamistakee18 @ivy-vivii @ourfinalisation

@1ndee @yourhornysister @ancientimes

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-Two

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language.

Notes — Sorry it's a little late, this one took a lot out of me!

2024 (Canada — Austria)

The windows were open. Late spring sun poured through them, catching in the curls of steam rising from mugs and saucepans and the folds of linen napkins no one quite knew how to fold properly. There were shoes by the door in mismatched sizes and accents bouncing down the hallway — American, British, Dutch, Australian. It shouldn’t have worked. But it did.

Amelia stood barefoot in the kitchen, pressing her hand lightly to her lower back, more out of habit than pain. She had a glass of sparkling water in one hand, the other resting protectively over the curve of her hip. People moved around her. She didn’t mind. She wasn’t the centre of attention — not exactly — but there was an orbit to it all, and she knew she was at its core.

The first to arrive were Zak and Tracey. Her dad had tears in his eyes before he’d even crossed the threshold. “He actually did it,” he said, in disbelief, running a hand along the bannister of the stairs like it might disappear. “You imagined it and he made it real.”

“I had idea,” Amelia said, quietly. “It was a complete surprise.”

“Sweetheart, you let someone love you like this.” He stressed, and then he hugged her like he couldn’t stop himself anymore. 

Tracey had brought a lemon cake and a box of herbal tea labeled third trimester blend. She gave Amelia a soft hug, the kind she didn’t have to brace herself for. Never from her mom. 

Then came Cisca and Adam, each carrying a desert and homemade jam in glass jars. 

Max and Pietra came in like a whirlwind of perfume and sunglasses and unfiltered affection. Pietra immediately disappeared into the kitchen to investigate the spice cabinet. Max made himself useful by lighting candles and being genuinely startled when Amelia offered him a hug. 

Oscar and Max (Verstappen) arrived together. Oscar nearly cried when he saw the nursery, but would deny it for the rest of his life. 

Max said nothing when he hugged her, just held her for a long moment and murmured, “This all suits you,” into her hair. “It is you, zusje.”

They ate dinner outside, under fairy lights Lando had strung up earlier that day with his sisters’ help. The table was full — food, laughter, crumbs, second helpings, stories from the paddock, from childhood, from nowhere in particular. Amelia sat with one foot up on a chair, tracing idle circles on her belly, watching it all. Filtering the noise. Finding the patterns in the chaos. Letting it settle.

At some point, Zak handed her a folded piece of paper — a printout of an old email she’d sent him when she was 16. The subject line read: Please don’t laugh, but I have some ideas for next season’s floor design. 

He’d printed it out years ago, tucked it into his desk. She hadn’t known.

“You were brilliant then,” he said. “You’re going to be brilliant now.” 

Lando caught her eye across the table. There was nothing showy in his smile, nothing loud in the way he reached across and brushed a crumb from her plate. But the steadiness of him — the fact of him — anchored her.

Later, when the sky turned navy and the stars began their slow scatter, Amelia stood in the doorway of her new home and just... looked.

Everyone was here. And if something in her brain still itched at the edges — still tried to catalogue, analyse, brace — she let it.

She was allowed to hold joy and anxiety in the same palm.

She was allowed to be the centre without needing to perform for it.

This was hers.

And she was home.

—

The kitchen smelled like toasted pine nuts, the air just slightly too warm from the oven being on all afternoon. A playlist hummed from the speaker tucked behind the kettle — mostly soft indie, one or two Fleetwood Mac tracks, something Lando had thrown together for their first full day alone in the new house.

Amelia stood at the counter, barefoot again, chopping basil with surgical precision. She was wearing a Quadrant t-shirt— oversized, worn thin at the elbows — and a pair of bike shorts stretched snug over her bump. Her hair was scraped up, clipped haphazardly. She looked like peace in motion.

Lando wandered in from the hallway, his socks mismatched, holding a laundry basket under one arm.

“There are so many tiny socks in there,” he said, like it was a crime against nature. “Like, how many pairs of socks will one baby need?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “Enough to account for holes, spit-up, and mysterious disappearance. Standard equation.”

He dropped the basket on the dining bench and leaned over her shoulder, pressing a kiss just below her ear. “Dinner smells like it might change my life.”

“That’s because you haven’t had proper pesto since last summer.”

“No offence to store-bought,” he murmured against her skin, “but I trust your pesto with my entire soul.”

She elbowed him gently in the ribs. “Back off, Norris. I’m wielding a blade.”

He laughed and stepped back, wandering over to fiddle with the cutlery drawer. A few moments passed in quiet sync — her plating the pasta, him setting out plates and hunting down the fancy olive oil she liked. They didn’t need to talk. The space between them was soft, settled.

When they finally sat down — legs tucked, chairs pulled close — Lando kept glancing across the table like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“This place doesn’t feel like real life yet,” he admitted after a beat, twirling his fork through pasta and not lifting his eyes. “Feels like we’re on holiday. Like I’m gonna wake up in a hotel bed.”

Amelia paused mid-bite. “Do you want it to feel more real?”

“No, I mean—” He exhaled. “I just can’t believe we get this. A quiet night. Good food. No planes or media or engine data or... pit lane nerves.”

She reached out, slow and sure, and tapped his wrist. “We made this real.”

Lando looked at her. Just looked. Like he’d never stop being awed by the fact of her.

“I’m gonna build you a fire pit next,” he said eventually, nudging her ankle under the table. “So you can roast marshmallows and give terrifying lectures about drag coefficients under the stars.”

After dinner, they curled up on the couch, plates abandoned in the sink. Her feet in his lap, his hand tracing lazy circles along the arch of one. The house whistled softly in the evening wind, the kind of noise Amelia didn’t mind — predictable, harmless.

She tilted her head against the cushion. “Do you think she’ll like it here?”

Lando didn’t ask who. Just nodded, quiet and certain. “I think she’ll love it. She’ll take her first steps in that hallway. Learn what thunderstorms sound like from that window. Grow up knowing that this house — this family — was built for her.”

Amelia blinked once, slowly.

“You’re a bit of a poet when you want to be.”

“Think I’m a cliche.” He whispered. “I’m a bit in love with my wife, so it’s easy.”

She didn’t reply — just curled her toes a little tighter into his thigh, and let the rhythm of the house settle around them like it had always been meant to.

—

The fire had burned down to a soft flicker, casting low amber light across the living room. The windows were open just enough to let the night air in — warm and still scented faintly with rosemary from the garden Lando insisted on planting for her. The world was quiet. It had been a long time since they’d had quiet like this.

Amelia stood near the fireplace, one hand resting on the curve of her belly, the other tugging at the hem of Lando’s hoodie — hers now, really, judging by how often she stole it. She wasn’t trying to be coy, but there was something in her eyes tonight, something thoughtful and electric. Lando could read her like telemetry; he knew that look.

He approached slowly, cautious in the way he always was around her these days — respectful of her space, of her body, of the changes she was still learning to live in.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low.

“I’m fine.” Her mouth twitched. “Just... trying to decide if I want you to touch me or if I want a bowl of cereal.”

Lando laughed, relieved by her bluntness — always blunt, always honest — and closed the distance. He gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Is there a world in which you could have both?”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “Possibly.”

His hands found her waist, careful, familiar. He leaned down, mouth brushing her jaw. “Tell me what you need.”

She didn’t answer right away — just turned into him, pressed her face to his neck, and breathed him in. There were always moments like this: Amelia finding stillness through closeness, tuning her sensory overwhelm down through warmth, weight, pressure.

“I want to feel good in my skin again,” she murmured. “I want to feel like I still belong in it.”

“You do.” He kissed her cheek, then her collarbone. “You’re beautiful, Amelia. You always are.”

Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. “Okay,” she whispered. “Then can you show me. Please?”

They moved together carefully — deliberately — like a familiar dance they'd had to relearn around her growing body, her new thresholds, the shifting ways her mind and skin processed the world. Every kiss was a question. Every breath an answer.

He worshipped her slowly, reverently. Made her feel anchored, wanted, known. And she let herself sink into it — not because she needed to, but because she could. With him.

And later, tangled together beneath the quilt, sweat-damp and flushed and full of quiet, she let her fingers drift over the slope of his spine.

“You always know what I need before I do,” she said.

He turned his head toward her, lips ghosting a smile against her shoulder. “I’m just reading the data.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

She didn’t say anything else — just pulled his hand over her belly and held it there, steady and warm, letting that be answer enough.

—

The nursery smelled faintly of new wood and lavender — not from anything artificial, but from the actual drawers and the little sachets Tracey had tucked into corners like some secret maternal ritual.

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-packed duffel bag beside her, and a checklist on her iPad open in front of her. Her fingers hovered in the air before she tapped something with purpose. “Two nursing bras,” she muttered. “Non-wired. Black. Seamless.”

Tracey stood by the open wardrobe, holding up one in each hand. “You want the ones with the clip or the ones with the crossover front?”

Amelia squinted. “Clip. They look less fiddly.”

Lando leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching the two of them like he’d stumbled into a language he didn’t fully speak but didn’t dare interrupt. He smiled, but quietly — this felt like their rhythm, like something beyond him. Still, he was trying. Learning. Being present.

Amelia glanced up. “Stop hovering.”

“I wasn’t hovering,” he said.

“You are.”

Tracey grinned. “She’s not wrong, sweetheart.”

Lando made a mock-wounded face, but crossed the room anyway and knelt beside Amelia. “Fine. What can I help with?”

She passed him her iPad without even looking. “Snacks. My stuff’s colour-coded in blue. Yours is orange. You’re allowed two unlisted items.”

He blinked. “Unlisted?”

“Anything not on the list that won’t get you killed when I’m in labour.”

Tracey snorted. “That’s generous, honey.”

Lando started reading, muttering under his breath, and went to raid the kitchen. Amelia returned to methodically rolling baby vests into neat, space-efficient bundles, the movements almost soothing.

“I keep thinking I’m forgetting something,” she said quietly, eyes focused but voice trailing slightly.

“You’re not,” Tracey said gently, coming to kneel beside her, folding a muslin square into a perfect triangle. “And if you are, well, we’ll survive. You’ll survive.”

“I know. But—”

Tracey reached out and rested a hand over Amelia’s. “It’s okay to not feel completely prepared for this. I don’t think anyone ever is.”

Amelia blinked a few times and nodded, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. “I just… prefer when I can say that I’ve prepared for every scenario.”

“You’ve always been like that,” Tracey said with a fond smile. “You were five when you made a backup birthday plan in case it rained.”

“It did rain,” Amelia mumbled.

“And your plan worked.” Her mum kissed the side of her head. “This will too.”

A moment passed. Amelia exhaled through her nose.

“Are you scared?” She asked, very softly.

Tracey didn’t lie. “A little. But only because you’re my little girl, and very soon you’ll understand that.” She leaned down and kissed her temple. “But you’re strong. You’ve got your Lando. You’ve got us.”

Amelia closed her eyes. “Thanks, Mum.”

From the hallway, Lando called, “What flavour crisps are birth-appropriate?”

Amelia looked up and frowned, “Anything that doesn’t stink!”

Tracey chuckled and stood. “I’ll supervise.”

When she was alone for a minute, Amelia looked down at the baby socks in her lap. One pair had tiny embroidered stars on the soles. She pressed them to her cheek for a moment. Then folded them and placed them in the bag.

—

The bedroom was mostly dark, except for the low amber glow of the reading light on Amelia’s side and the faint spill of Lando’s phone screen casting long shadows across his chest.

They were curled into the kind of easy, practiced quiet that only came from years of orbiting each other. Her head rested on a stack of pillows, book angled just so above the curve of her belly. He was on his back, phone in hand, occasionally scrolling, occasionally glancing sideways to watch her face shift with whatever she was reading.

“Is this one good?” He asked eventually, thumb pausing mid-scroll.

Amelia didn’t look up. “It’s fine. The female lead has no spine and the pacing is off. But the visuals are nice. Well-written”

“High praise,” he said dryly.

She turned a page with a slight rustle. “I like the writing. Even when the plot is stupid, the sentences are nice. That counts.” A pause stretched. He let it breathe. Then she spoke again, softer this time, eyes still on the page. “How are we going to split it?”

Lando turned his head. “Split what?”

“The houses.”

“Oh.” He put his phone down on his chest, screen dimming. “I thought you meant something deeper, like splitting parenting responsibilities or—”

“We’ve already talked about all that,” she said. “But I was lying here thinking — Monaco still feels like home to me. But I love this new house too. I just… don’t want to feel like I have to pick one. Or like I’m abandoning one part of our life for another.”

He blinked at her, and then propped himself up slightly on one elbow. “You don’t have to pick. That’s why we have both.”

“But where do we raise her?” Amelia asked. “Where does she go to school? Where’s her bedroom actually going to be? Is it weird if I feel like Monaco is still mine?”

Lando’s voice was quiet, warm. “Not weird.”

She glanced at him with a raised brow.

“We’ve spent years living in Monaco, baby. It’s your home, your friends, your pavement routes.”

She was silent. In a thoughtful kind of way.

He reached for her hand under the covers, lacing their fingers together.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “Maybe having two bedrooms will be her normal. Maybe she’ll be able to plant roots all over the world while she travels with her brainiac mummy and super-fast daddy.”

Amelia’s mouth twitched.

“We’ll just do what feels right,” he added. “Even if it changes.”

After a beat, she tilted her book closed and set it on the nightstand. She turned to face him, her expression unreadable but open. “I love that you always say ‘we’,” she said.

He kissed the back of her hand. “We’re a team. Always.”

She nudged closer, resting her forehead against his. “I want her to always know that she can come back home. Any time, any age, no matter what.”

“She won’t go running to any specific house. It won’t be here or Monaco.” He murmured. “She’ll go running to wherever her mummy is. And that’ll be the place she calls home.” 

She kissed him. 

— 

The shower had fogged up most of the mirrors by now. Steam curled around the tiles like low-hanging cloud, the water beating a steady, rhythmic tap against Amelia’s skin. She stood still for a long time beneath it, arms curled around her bump. Her hands rested low, fingertips tracing invisible shapes without realising it.

Her belly had changed shape again — harder up top now, more lifted. Lando had said it was a growth spurt. She wasn’t sure. It just felt… denser. Like her body was becoming its own kind of mechanical structure, adjusting its load-bearing capacity by the day.

“You’re getting heavy,” she murmured, not critically. Just a fact.

The baby shifted — not a kick, just a slow roll, like turning to listen.

Amelia gave a quiet snort of amusement and shifted too, stepping under the water again. She tilted her head up, then sideways, letting it cascade over her ears, dulling the world into a warm hush.

“You know,” she said, conversational, “there’s a theory that racing cars create downforce the way bird wings create lift. Just inverted. Bernoulli’s principle. I bet you’ll like Bernoulli when you’re older.”

She gently ran her fingers over her bump again, then raised a hand and lazily wiped a small circle of condensation from the glass shower door.

Beyond it, a shape caught her eye — the edge of the towel rail, with a soft, pastel towel draped over it. One of the ones her mother had folded into the hospital bag earlier that week. It had a little pattern of cartoon hearts embroidered near the corner.

Amelia blinked. Her mouth twitched.

“Right,” she said. “Lesson two.”

She placed one hand flat over her belly and shifted to sit on the little bench built into the far wall of the shower — a compromise between comfort and function she’d had added to their Monaco apartment a few months into pregnancy, when standing for too long had started to give her dizzy spells. Lando had taken the design and had it installed into every bedroom in the England house. 

Her voice was steady, like she was reading from a manual.

“So. Your lungs are under your ribs, but my ribs are kind of squished right now, because of you. My bladder is, too. That’s the thing making me pee a thousand times a day. I’m not mad about it,” she added quickly. “I understand that you need the growing room. It’s just… a bit inconvenient for your mother, is all.”

Another movement beneath her palm — not a kick, but a firm stretch. She paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “That’s your legs, isn’t it? Yeah. Strong femurs, like your dad.”

A pause. She traced a gentle line down the centre of her bump with two fingers, as if sketching an invisible diagram.

“And you’re sitting head-down, which is good. It means your occiput — that’s the back of your skull — is facing the right way for birth. But if you want to wriggle around a bit more, that’s fine too. Just don’t do anything drastic, okay?”

She reached for the bottle of body wash, then hesitated, watching the water spiral around the drain.

“Sometimes,” she said softly, “I think about what it’ll be like when you can hear me properly. Not just vibrations, not just tone. But words. Sentences. I wonder if you’ll like the way I explain things. If it’ll make sense to you, or just sound like static.”

Her voice cracked slightly there, though she wouldn’t have admitted it.

She rubbed her thumb gently across the highest curve of her belly.

“I hope I don’t overwhelm you. But I probably will. People overwhelm me all the time. I just… try not to run away from it anymore.”

The baby kicked again, sharp and deliberate.

“I know, I know,” she said under her breath. “I sound like I’m spiralling.”

She exhaled slowly, then pressed her forehead against the tile behind her.

“I get a bit scared, sometimes. That you’ll think I’m strange. That I won’t be soft enough. Or silly enough. Or motherly in the way people expect. But I’ll know everything about you. I promise. Every bone, every birthmark, every favourite food. I’ll learn you like I learned cars. And I’ll never stop wanting to know more.”

She didn’t cry, not quite. But she stayed there for a while longer, curled slightly forward, listening to her heartbeat echo faintly beneath the rush of water. She pressed a slow kiss to her fingers, then to the stomach, eyes closed.

Outside the shower, the world stayed quiet. But she knew Lando was out there. Probably pretending to be asleep. Probably listening.

She smiled faintly. And let herself just be for a moment — wet hair clinging to her cheeks, knees drawn up, hands resting where her daughter lived.

—

The house felt too big, at first.

It was beautiful, of course — everything Lando had hoped it would be, and everything Amelia had dreamed aloud about in bits and pieces over the last two years. Clean lines. Warm wood. Natural light in every room. The scent of fresh paint still hung faintly in the air, mixing with lavender from the natural diffuser Lando had plugged in before she walked through the door.

But it wasn’t home yet. Not immediately.

The first morning, they made toast in silence. Not unhappily — just quietly. The coffee machine clicked and hummed while sunlight crept across the kitchen floor, and Amelia stood barefoot in one of Lando’s old t-shirts, rubbing her belly like it helped her think. Lando, shirtless, squinted at the touch screen oven like it had offended him.

The nursery was the only room that felt fully finished.

They unpacked slowly. 

His helmets were lined up carefully along the hallway wall, one of them already smudged with her fingerprints. 

The midwife came by mid-week for a check-in, and Amelia sat on the edge of their bed, answering questions about sleep, diet, swelling. Lando hovered, nervously watching the blood pressure monitor like it was a qualifying leaderboard.

“You don’t have to stand over me like I’m going to flatline,” Amelia told him.

“Don’t bloody say that.” He said. And kept standing there. 

She didn’t tell him that it made her feel safe.

Evenings blurred together — sometimes on the sofa, sometimes on the porch. They sat side by side with plates of toasties or takeaway pizza, watching the sun sink behind the fields near the back fence. 

Their families came and went day by day. 

Oscar didn’t say much when visited. He just showed up with strawberry milk and watched her doze off on the sofa with the straw in her mouth.

Lando had started packing for Canada by the following Wednesday. Amelia helped fold his socks, even though he was terrible at finding matching pairs.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said that night, curled around her in the dark.

“I’ll be okay,” she said.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He kissed the back of her neck and didn’t argue.

By the seventh day, the house had started to shift — not just in layout, but in feel. The air carried the scent of their shampoo. Her cup lived by the sink. His shoes were by the door. There were fingerprints on the fridge and a faint dent in the couch cushion where she curled up after lunch every day.

—

The morning was blue-grey and overcast, the kind of moody English weather that settled into your skin and made you crave hot tea and your dressing gown. The car was waiting out front, idling gently. Lando’s suitcase sat by the door, zipped, tagged, half-heartedly stuffed with hoodies and McLaren polos. His travel backpack leaned against it like it didn’t want to go either.

Amelia stood in the doorway in socks and one of his old sweaters that had stretched across her belly — not because it fit, but because it smelled like him.

He double-checked his phone, then his passport, then his phone again.

“You’ve checked five times,” she said, voice dry but warm.

“Doesn’t mean I’ve remembered anything,” he mumbled, slipping the phone into his back pocket.

They stood there for a moment — just standing. Not talking. Not moving. Letting the moment sit.

He stepped closer and rested his forehead against hers. Their daughter kicked once, firmly, and he smiled.

“She’s telling me not to leave,” he said quietly.

“She’s dramatic,” Amelia replied. But her voice wobbled slightly. “She gets it from you.”

Lando kissed her — slow, deep, a little desperate. His hands cupped her cheeks, slid down her arms, settled on her belly like a prayer. He didn’t say ‘don’t go into labour without me’ — he didn’t need to. The plea was written all over his face.

“You’ll call me if anything happens?” He asked, not pulling away.

“I’ll call you if I so much as sneeze weird,” she promised.

“Good.” He looked at her again, memorising the curve of her sleepy eyes and the flyaways in her hair and the flush in her cheeks that pregnancy had made permanent. “You’re… god, I love you. I love you.”

She nodded. Swallowed thickly. “I know. I love you too. Don’t forget.”

He laughed. “As if I could ever”

“I’ll be watching. Look after Oscar for me.”

He kissed her again. Just once more.

Then he was out of the door. Into the car. A wave through the window.

Amelia stood in the entryway long after the car turned out of their driveway, hand pressed gently to her stomach.

“Alright,” she whispered. “It’s just us for a little while, baby-girl.”

And the house was quiet.

But it didn’t feel empty.

—

It had taken Amelia a full twelve hours after he’d left to stop expecting his footsteps in the hallway. She’d paused once at the sound of the boiler kicking in, heartbeat ticking faster before she remembered: no, that wasn’t the front door. That wasn’t him coming back with a Tesco bag of the weird array of sweets she wanted and a sheepish smile because he missed her already.

Now, barefoot in the kitchen with the late afternoon sun glowing against the pale countertops, Amelia placed her palms on her belly and exhaled.

The kettle clicked off behind her. 

“I think we’re doing alright.” She murmured. 

She’d made a small list of things to do. Routine helped. The first day, she'd organised the linen cupboard, stocked the baby’s changing station, wiped down the fridge shelves because she’d read a study about bacteria colonies and couldn’t stop thinking about it. The second day she unpacked the last of their books. Found all the annotated ones Lando had scribbled in when he was still trying to read what she read — underlining things like emotional subtext?? in red pen.

Today, she’d taken a long bath, trimmed back the rose bushes, and wandered from room to room with her fingers brushing the walls like they were pages in a story she hadn’t finished reading yet.

In the baby’s room, she opened the blackout curtains and let in the warm afternoon light. The chair by the window, a plush glider in soft earth tones, had already become her favourite place to sit.

She eased into it with a quiet grunt and settled one hand low on her belly.

“I wish you could’ve met him sooner,” she told the baby, voice just above a whisper. “I mean, obviously you’ve met him. He talks to you more than anyone. But I mean the before him. When I didn’t know people could be like that. That kind. That sure. He says he fell in love with how I think. With how I see the world.”

She paused. A small laugh.

“I told him he’s biased.”

Outside, birds wheeled across the sky like brushstrokes. She let her head fall back, gaze on the ceiling. Lando had insisted on putting glow-in-the-dark stars up there, claiming the baby would love them. She’d laughed at first — told him their daughter wouldn’t even be able to see them.

Now, looking at up them, she was suddenly nine again. Her dad was hovering, her mom quietly worried. They’d just moved to England from Florida. She’d broken a three-day period of noa-verbalness in order to ask: “Can we put the stars up, daddy?”

Lando had remembered.

He’d wanted their daughter to have the same comforts she’d relied on for so many years. 

“I hope you get his laugh,” she said after a while. “And his sense of direction. And how he always makes space for people.” She reached down and adjusted the blanket over her legs. “I don’t know what kind of mummy I’ll be yet. I know what I want to be. I want to be your safe place. I want you to always feel comfortable to be yourself around me; no matter what that looks like.”

The baby kicked gently under her ribs.

“Yeah, I know. I’m being sentimental.” She smiled faintly. “Don’t get used to that. It doesn’t happen often. That’s more your daddy’s territory.”

Later, she made dinner — toast and spaghetti and Lando’s ridiculously sugary cereal for dessert. She ate curled sideways on the sofa, wrapped in one of his jumpers, reruns of old races playing softly on the TV. His voice came through now and then in the commentary. Every time it did, her chest ached — not painfully. Just… ached. 

And when she climbed into their bed that night, she shifted a pillow behind her back, whispered goodnight to her baby girl, and traced the shape of the window frame with her eyes.

—

The baby felt heavier every morning. Not dramatically, not enough to worry, but enough to make Amelia roll slower out of bed, one palm at her back, the other at her bump, muttering soft, affectionate curses under her breath.

Her mom arrived midweek.

Tracey didn’t knock, just let herself in with the key Lando had given to her weeks ago. Amelia had been halfway through folding onesies in the laundry room when she heard the click of the front door and the familiar rustle of an overfilled handbag.

“Mom?”

“Who else would be coming into your house with tea biscuits and fresh flowers?”

They hugged in the hallway. Amelia, unsure at first, then tighter, grateful. Her mom smelled like the same delicately scented perfume she always wore, and that scent unlocked a part of Amelia that had been quietly braced all week.

“You okay, my darling?” Tracey asked softly, after a long hug.

“I think so.”

“You’re safe. He made sure of that.”

“I know.”

Tracey settled into the guest room without fanfare — just a neatly packed suitcase, a crossword book, and a container of pre-cut fruit. She moved through the house like someone careful not to leave fingerprints, never imposing, always within arm’s reach.

That night, they watched FP1 together on the living room couch.

Amelia had one leg tucked up, a bowl of cereal on her bump. Tracey kept asking polite but confused questions about DRS zones and tire graining. Amelia answered them all, engineer-sharp, still watching like she was sitting at the pit wall, but quiet.

At one point, she whispered, “That left-rear temperature is creeping up too quickly.”

Tracey blinked. “...For the orange one?”

Amelia smiled faintly. “Yes. Oscar’s car.”

—

FaceTime with Oscar came later, after FP2.

He was stretched across his hotel bed, hair messy, still in team gear. “You seeing these sector times?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes. You're getting too aggressive with the throttle mid-chicane.”

Oscar groaned. “You’re not even here and you’re still doing this.”

“You asked.”

He paused. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged. “Tired. Heavy. But good.”

Oscar’s eyes softened. “You look alright.”

“I’m in my pyjamas and haven’t brushed my hair since this morning.”

“I said alright. Not good.” 

They grinned at each other through the screen. It felt weird, and warm, to miss him. Her best friend. Her driver. 

—

Lando called a lot. 

Between sessions. Before them. After them

Amelia was in the bath, water warm and eucalyptus-scented. When she answered, her hair was pinned up and her bump floated like a tiny island beneath the bubbles.

“You looked good in the car today,” she murmured.

“Didn’t feel good. Too much understeer in sector two.”

“Maybe try lifting off earlier before the left apex?”

“I miss you.”

Her throat closed a little. “I miss you too.”

Silence stretched.

Then Lando laughed, soft and boyish. “Your mum texted me a picture of you and her in matching slippers. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“She got them at Boots,” Amelia said.

“They’re cute.”

“Itchy.” Amelia said. She scrunched up her nose. 

Another pause.

“What are you doing after the race?” She asked.

“Coming home.”

“That soon?” She frowned. 

“I’ve been waiting to come home since I got off the plane,” he said simply.

—

Tracey made lunch. Amelia couldn’t stop pacing. The house’s open plan meant she could still see the TV while she marched from room to room, one hand on her belly, breath catching at every near-miss and overtake.

She watched Lando’s start with bated breath. Listened to Oscar’s radio. Judged strategy calls and muttered pit stop criticisms like a general in her castle.

Tracey passed her a cup of peppermint tea. “Sit down, love.”

“I can’t,” Amelia whispered. “I don’t know how to watch without being part of it.”

When it ended, Lando on the second step of the podium after a nail-biting fight at the front with Max, Oscar in seventh, she finally exhaled. 

Her phone buzzed ten minutes later. 

Lando: How did I do?

She typed back, Amazing. Come home to me.

—

That night, before bed, she walked the halls alone.

She touched the hallway wall where Lando had measured the doorframe — swearing that someday their daughter’s height would be marked beside it. She lingered in the nursery, rearranging the stuffed animals for no good reason. She lay down in bed and turned off the lamp, then whispered, “You’re going to love it here, sweet little pea.” She gave a quiet little giggle. “I already do.”

And in the hush of night, the baby gave the softest kick beneath her palm. Not a flutter — a push. Solid. Present.

“Yes,” Amelia said. “I know. I miss him too.”

—

It was just past midnight when the front door clicked open.

Amelia, curled up sideways on the sofa in one of Lando’s old hoodies, blinked herself awake. The living room was dark, save for the soft golden glow from the kitchen under-lights and the flicker of the paused race replay on the TV screen. Her tea had gone cold on the side table. The baby had hiccupped for almost twenty minutes straight and then fallen quiet — just as Amelia had dozed off, waiting.

Keys dropped into the ceramic bowl by the door.

Then soft footsteps. Two pairs.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes, just as Lando appeared in the doorway, duffle in hand, eyes tired but warm. Behind him, Oscar trailed in with a hoodie pulled low over his head and the kind of look you wore after a race weekend that hadn’t loved you back.

“You’re awake,” Lando said, voice low. He looked like he wanted to melt into the floor with relief.

“Hi,” she murmured, standing slowly, her hand on the small of her back. “Hi.”

He came over, wrapped his arms around her, and didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just breathed her in, one hand on her belly, the other cradling the back of her neck. She nuzzled into his chest.

Then he pulled back slightly and turned to Oscar. “You crashing here, mate?”

Oscar nodded silently. His shoulders were tight, jaw set, a bruise visible just beneath the collar of his hoodie — nothing serious, but there. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Amelia stepped toward him and opened one arm in invitation. “Come here, ducky.”

Oscar hesitated only a beat before folding himself into her hug. He didn’t say anything either, but his fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve. She let him rest his chin briefly on her shoulder.

“You were excellent,” she whispered. “There was a lot of change to get used to this weekend. Don’t let it ruin your drive.”

He gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment. “Didn’t feel excellent.”

“You still brought the car home. And points, too. Some weekends, that’s the win.”

Lando nodded from behind her. “She’s not wrong.”

Oscar looked between them, weary but grateful. “I’ll just take the guest room.”

“You know where everything is,” Amelia said. “My mom’s in the one with the closed door, yeah? So use the one near the back of the house, the one closer to our bedroom. And my mom filled the fridge with snacks in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

Oscar cracked a small smile at that and shuffled off with a mumbled goodnight.

When he was gone, Lando turned back to her, dropping his bag by the couch. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Didn’t think he should be alone.”

Amelia shook her head, already tugging him by the fingers toward the bedroom. “I’m glad you brought him.”

They undressed slowly, quietly, moving like people who’d done this dance a hundred times. Amelia sat on the edge of the bed to rub lotion into her stretched belly while Lando ducked into the bathroom. When he came back, he crawled into bed beside her and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“I missed you too.”

The baby shifted gently between them, a little wave under Amelia’s skin. Lando reached down and rested his palm over her belly.

“She knows you’re home,” Amelia said sleepily.

“Hi, baby.” He whispered. “Missed you too.” 

—

The kitchen was bathed in slow, buttery light, the morning sun catching on the pale wood and glass, casting long shadows through the big oak tree. 

Amelia stood barefoot at the counter, toast in one hand, the other absent-mindedly resting against her belly as the kettle rumbled behind her. The baby had started the morning with enthusiastic kicks — mostly under her ribs — and Amelia had taken it as a sign to get out of bed, let Lando sleep, and start the day.

Oscar shuffled in a few minutes later, hair a mess, eyes puffy, socks mismatched. 

“You look terrible,” Amelia said, sliding a mug toward him.

“I know,” Oscar muttered, taking the tea gratefully. “You’re up early.”

“Little sweet-pea was playing trampoline with my bladder at 6am,” she said, nodding down. “And I figured you’d be up soon too. Couldn’t sleep?”

Oscar took a sip, leaned against the counter. “Keep thinking about the restart. Should’ve backed out.”

Amelia sighed. “If you had, you’d be regretting that instead. You made a judgement call. It was bold. Just didn’t pay off this time.”

“I missed you in my ear,” he said. “Can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if you were.” 

“Osc.” She said. “That’s not fair. Don’t say that. You know how badly I want to be there.” 

He winced. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just— hard.” 

She gave him a wry look. “I know. It’s hard for me, too.” 

Oscar smiled faintly. “I’ll get used to Tom. And I’ll start to trust him. But it’s hard when it’s not you, you know? It’s always been you.”

“I’ll be on comms next week. In Spain.” She told him gently. “I’ll have more of a say, okay? But you need to get to know them, talk to them, help them learn how you like to drive.” 

“I’ll try.” He grumbled. Then he looked around the bright, soft kitchen. The fruit bowl full of bright colours, the flowers by the window, the stack of tiny baby clothes folded near the sink — like Amelia had gotten halfway through organising them before getting distracted. Everything smelled like lavender. “I get why you both love it here,” he said.

Amelia’s expression softened. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

Then Oscar asked, carefully, “You scared?”

She looked at him for a long time before answering. “I wasn’t. Not really. But now it’s getting closer, and I’m alone more often. I think about things I didn’t let myself think about before.” She glanced down at her belly. “But I’m not scared of having her. I think I just don’t want to mess it up.”

Oscar leaned against the counter beside her. “Pretty sure you won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t,” he said again, with surprising certainty. “Do you love her?” 

“Yeah.” She whispered.

He nudged her. “That’s it, then.” 

A soft shuffle behind them, then Lando’s voice, still raspy with sleep. “Are you two bonding without me?”

Amelia and Oscar turned to see him, barefoot in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair a disaster, one eye still half-closed. 

“I made him tea,” Amelia said.

Lando pointed at her belly. “Did she let you sleep?”

“She let me have a few hours, which was generous,” Amelia said, standing up straighter with a small groan. “Here—sit. I’ll make you toast.”

Lando came over and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then leaned down to whisper something to the baby.

Oscar rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

—

On the weekend of the Spanish Grand Prix, Amelia had the live feeds up on three monitors — driver data, timing sheets, and the race engineer channel — and her headset was synced to Oscar’s garage. Technically, she wasn’t on the box, but Tom had agreed it would be useful to have her in his ear for insights and soft corrections when needed. The engineers had joked that she was now their “AI Overlord in the Sky.” She hadn’t laughed.

On Friday, she was calm. Focused. Her notes were still sharp. She sent two voice memos to Tom after FP1 — one about Oscar’s brake migration being slightly off, the other about his low-speed understeer looking a little like a differential mapping issue. Both were addressed by FP2.

She’d tried to stay calm through quali. She sat cross-legged on the rug, notebook open in front of her out of habit, TV volume low, tea cooling untouched beside her. Every sector time hit her like a mild electrical pulse. Every camera pan to Lando’s face made her chest tighten.

And then — P1.

Pole position.

Her hands flew to her mouth. A sharp inhale. Her eyes didn’t tear up, not quite, but she blinked hard enough to clear the static of disbelief.

Her phone buzzed in her lap before she could even reach for it.

Lando calling.

She answered on the first ring. “You—” she started, then stopped, because her voice broke halfway through the word.

“Hey, baby,” he said, out of breath, voice shaky with adrenaline and awe. The sound of cheers and static hummed faintly in the background.

“You’re on pole,” she said. Flatly, because anything more emotional would tip her over.

“I—yeah.” His voice cracked on a laugh. “Can you believe it?”

She couldn’t. Not really. But she said, “Of course I can. I told you that you’d be able to do it.”

“You also told me to take Turn 7 a gear lower, and that’s when I started purple-ing the sector.”

“I’m always right,” she said softly.

Lando went quiet for a second. “I just wanted to hear your voice. I know it’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” she interrupted, already shifting to lie on her side, one hand sliding over her bump. “I wanted to hear yours too.”

“I wish you were here.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But you’re doing everything exactly right. And she kicked,” Amelia added suddenly. “Right when you crossed the line. Like she knew.”

Lando made a quiet, choked noise. “Tell her I love her.”

“She already knows.”

He breathed out. “Tomorrow—”

“You can win.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I love you, Amelia.”

“I love you, Lando. Now go do your cool-down and get weighed before they fine you.”

He laughed breathlessly. “Yes, boss.”

—

Sunday morning was more emotionally complex. The race brought a new kind of restlessness. She stood more than she sat. Paced the hallway during the formation lap. Her hands twitched over her bump every time someone locked up into Turn 1.

The lights went out and Amelia tracked every throttle input and radio check-in with a kind of quiet intensity. She wasn’t barking orders. She wasn’t pacing a pit wall. But her brain still ticked in race rhythm.

She flinched when Lando lost a place on the opening lap, then cheered softly when he clawed it back with one of his signature perfectly-timed exits out of Turn 5. Oscar’s pace stabilised by Lap 15, and she could tell from the data that he’d found his flow. She sent Tom a discreet note about giving him a bit more encouragement.

“Tell him the tire warm-up on the second stint looks good. His brake temps are in a sweet spot — he can push.”

Her mom wandered into the room at one point, holding a mug of tea. “It’s like watching a hacker during a cyber-attack,” Tracey said, amused, watching Amelia’s fingers fly over the trackpad. “But with more swearing.”

“Only mild swearing,” Amelia muttered.

By the end of the race, Lando had secured another podium; P2 just behind Max, and Oscar brought it home in P5 after a clean, clever second stint. 

Amelia’s adrenaline was still fizzing as she took off the headset and leaned back in her chair.

“Mom!” She shouted down the corridor. “Can you make me a cheese sandwich?” 

—

Amelia sat curled up on the couch, one hand resting gently on her bump, the other clutching a mug. The quiet hum of the house felt louder than usual — a hollow space where Lando’s laughter and footsteps usually filled the air.

She’d just hung up the phone after saying goodbye for what felt like the hundredth time this week.

“No break between Spain and Austria,” Lando had lamented, voice apologetic but determined. “It’s back-to-back weekends. Hotel rooms, planes, track walks — barely time to breathe.”

Amelia nodded into the receiver, but inside she was already bracing herself for the stretch ahead.

The reality settled like a quiet ache: he wouldn’t be here. Not in the space they’d carved out together, not to brush her hair back when she was restless, not to trace little circles over her skin to calm the baby when kicks turned into restless jabs.

Her fingers twitched lightly over the swell of her belly.

She imagined the baby, warm and sheltered, moving in rhythm with the house — a heartbeat alone but steady.

Her breath hitched a little.

She hadn’t expected it to feel so hard. The days apart. The silence that wasn’t really silence because her mind was a thousand miles away, tracking every call, every message, every moment he wasn’t home.

She squeezed her eyes shut and let herself lean into the quiet.

Maybe tomorrow she’d video call Oscar and talk about strategy, or take her mom out somewhere nice for dinner. 

Maybe tonight, the baby and she would dance in the dim light, two hearts keeping each other company until Lando came back.

She smiled softly. Long nights ahead, yes. 

But also a promise — of a family waiting, waiting, waiting.

—

The Austrian Grand Prix weekend had spiralled into chaos. 

Perez pushed Oscar into the gravel on the second corner after Oscar and Charles made contact in the first.  

Amelia’s headset was on, Oscar’s comms open on one channel, the race feed on the TV. She watched the flickering screen with cool, blunt irritation, the quiet hum of the house in the background a soft contrast to the noise of engines and tyre squeals.

Lando was out there, her husband, racing wheel-to-wheel against Max Verstappen; her brother in all ways but blood. 

And now, they were both throwing everything they had at each other, in a fight that was reckless and reckless felt like a gross understatement.

She pressed a button on her headset, voice low but firm. “Tom. Get Will on Lando’s radio. Tell him to stop trying to take the outside line. He’s fighting Max on Max’s terms and losing control.”

Static. Nothing but broken hiss.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing as she stared at the dead air in her headset. “Tom, come on.”

Minutes dragged on with nothing but interference.

The race was unraveling fast—a high-stakes, high-speed chess match turned chaotic brawl on asphalt. Amelia’s gaze flicked between the TV screen and her headset, sharp and unblinking. She could see it all clearly—the tight, unforgiving corners, the relentless wheel-to-wheel clashes, Max pushing hard to force Lando wide, and Lando refusing to yield. The cars were inching closer with every lap, dangerously close to disaster.

Her voice stayed steady, cutting through the static like a blade. “Will, Tom, come on. Somebody—just pull him back! This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

She wasn’t shouting, not really. There was no hysteria. Just a cold, hard edge to her frustration—the kind that comes from knowing both men far too well, knowing exactly what was on the line, knowing the risks they were gambling with their careers and their lives.

And then it happened.

A tiny nudge. Barely visible on the screen.

But enough.

Enough to tear punctures in both cars’ tyres and send them spiralling down the timesheets.

Her heart hammered.

Lando was limping into the pits. She saw him climb out of the car, face tight with frustration and pain. Max got a tire change and he was back out there, angry and fast. 

Then Oscar stormed across the finish line—second place.

Amelia sat frozen for a moment, breath catching, body tense. The adrenaline surged through her veins, a strange mixture of panic and helplessness.

She reached for her phone with shaky hands and touched Lando’s contact. Once. No answer.

Twice. Still no answer.

A third time. Nothing.

She swallowed hard, chest rising and falling fast.

He was probably pacing somewhere. His phone was probably in a hoodie pocket somewhere he couldn’t hear it. 

Oscar’s podium flashed on the screen, but Amelia couldn’t focus.

Then, a sudden warmth crept down her legs.

She blinked slowly, voice flat and dry. “God. I’ve peed myself.”

Her hand moved down instinctively, pressing against her belly.

Confusion flickered across her face as she realised.

“Oh… oh. That’s not—That’s not pee.” She mumbled. 

A sharp tightening gripped her abdomen.

Her eyes went wide. 

Then she grabbed her phone again; called the only person she knew would never not answer her call. Podium celebration ongoing or not. 

“Amelia!” Her dad cheered as he answered, and she could hear the Australian national anthem playing in the background. 

“I’m in labour.” She told him flatly. “And Lando’s not answering his phone. So, if you could find my husband and let him know, I’d really appreciate it.” 

Then she hung up. Stood. Walked into the guest room and smiled at her mom, hands twisting and pulling and stimming. “Hi.” 

Her mom stared at her, wet pants and all, with wide eyes. “Honey—“ 

“I didn't pee." She told her, a bit indigent. "I think my waters broke.” 

NEXT CHAPTER

[yuansie]

(1) even when there was rain, sunshine came

pairing. caleb x fem! childhood friend! non mc! reader (x childhood bsf! zayne)

synopsis. caleb planted a seed in your heart when you were both young, nurturing it without meaning to until it sprouted and blossomed. it shouldn't have grown this much, not when you knew you could never have him.

genres/aus. angst, fluff, f2l, unrequited love, childhood f2l

warnings. slight ooc caleb (i have not read homecoming or wtv that chapter is called BC BLUESTACKS DOES NOT WANT ME TO FINISH LONG AWAITED REVELRY OR WTV THAT CHAPTER IS CALLED IM STUCK ON CH12...), NOT canon compliant oops (no higher being placing a curse on zayne, no experimentation done on mc and caleb bc josephine is a good person this time BYEEEE), reader has neglectful parent(s) in the beginning kind of, mentions/descriptions of crying, mc is female (she doesn't have a name in here either). if there's anything i'm missing, please let me know!

rating. sfw but make it lowk very angsty but fluffy ish at the same time.

wc. 8.2 k

a/n. live love laugh angst (but with a happy ending) and live love laugh not proof reading and SORRY FOR NOT UPLOADING THIS EARLIERRR uni sucks booty fr !! also, i've come to the decision that i will just make this into a mini series, having about 5-10 chapters maximum !! the ideas keep coming, and i'd like to take a different approach to this prompt/world i've build for this nonmc! reader in an actual caleb series much like my rafayel one! also decided to make it into a mini series bc i cant keep writing and expanding on this and leave yall hanging for longer IOEOIFJAWEOI

YOU’RE EIGHT YEARS OLD WHEN YOU MEET CALEB. it was in the last days of summer, right before the leaves began turning red and yellow and orange. you remember your dad telling you that an older lady moved into the house across from yours, that there two kids living with her: a girl younger than you and a boy your age though a couple months older. he said something about the girl having a special condition but the words went through your ear and out the other because you didn’t care about them; you knew you wouldn’t talk to them anyways.

then, your dad left to go to work and you were all alone.

you were always alone, and you felt that loneliness every second, acutely aware at how it bleeds into your soul and makes you so, so sad. it’s what makes you head to the park two houses down the street and sit at the big, oak tree there. your favorite thing to do is climb it and sit on one of the bigger branches around its middle, feeling as if you could reach the sky and escape these heavy feelings. you blame your dad for making you like this: for making you think that the heavens can help you escape your heavy feelings. he told you once, on a night where he was in charge of tucking you in while your mom worked late at the hospital, that he loves the sky and how it makes him feel like all of his worries are nothing but a speck of dust. he made you think that one day, you could reach the sky and feel what he felt. if you reached out enough, you would be free.

but today you had no energy to do that.

as soon as you reached the oak tree, you sat down and rested your back against the trunk. your eyes watered instantaneously, cold tears dripping down your cheek and to the tip of your chin as you tucked your knees into your chest, your arms holding them in place so they could keep your weeping heart warm. you were so lost in your overflowing sorrow that you didn’t notice a boy running to the tree, not even when he stood three steps away from you.

“why are you crying?”

you snapped your head upwards.

the boy looked surprised, his purple eyes as large as the moon as he stared at you. his back was to the sun, covering him in a golden glow. he didn't say anything as he knelt down, his brows furrowed.

you hiccuped and looked away, angrily staring at your house from where you sat. “go away, stranger.” you see the older boy that lives next door when you avert your gaze from your home. it’s zayne—you recall your mom telling you that you used to have playdates together when you were younger. obviously, you don’t anymore. you don't even speak to one another—perhaps, he thinks being friends with a girl two years younger than him is not worth his time.

you don’t blame him for thinking that; after all, your own parents probably think the same.

before your mind spirals into the inky void that tells you bad things, the boy speaks up. “my name is caleb! now i’m not a stranger, right?” you glance at him from the corner of your eye. caleb grins at you, his smile as bright as the sun. it’s too blinding, you decide, and drop your gaze to the ground. “i guess not…” you mumble.

“so that means we’re friends!” caleb laughs when you quickly look at him again, surprise evident in your features. “now you can tell me why you’re sad!”

you wrack through your brain to come up with an excuse and end up stuttering out, “b-but you don’t know my name!”

“you’re y/n, right?” he laughs again when your jaw drops in comical way, gasping for air in between his next words. “ha! g-gran… talked t-to your… parents!” caleb wheezes, tears in his eyes. “y-your parents told us about you!” once he calms down, caleb lets out a sigh as he sits next to you, nudging your shoulder. “c’mon, you can tell me why you’re so sad now.”

you look back at your house, frowning at how lonely it looked. “i… i don’t think my parents love me.”

“what?”

“i mean,” you rest your head on your knees, your voice now muffled. “they’re never home and they never spend time with me.”

your dad is often away, being the colonel and all, which means he’s gone for months at a time. it wasn’t always like that, but things changed when that forsaken tunnel appeared above the city. your dad was one of the first to answer the call, to fly in the sky to protect the world from wanderers. so it isn’t his fault and neither is it your mom’s that they’re never there. she’s a doctor, a colleague of your next door neighbor's parents.

it is not your fault they are both needed by more people and by more important matters.

caleb’s about to say something when a girl calls out his name, running until she stands in front of you two. you don’t pay attention to her, and instead keep your eyes focused on your house. you wish your parents were home more, that they’d spend more time with you. the girl ends up leaving after she speaks to caleb, who watches her go with a careful eye.

“sorry about that,” he says, scratching his cheek. “gran sent her to tell me it’s time for lunch, but don’t worry! i’ll stay here with you until your parents are back!”

you blink at him, feeling your eyes start to burn. “you’ll stay?”

“mhm!” he smiles, and this time you actually don’t turn away. caleb laughs softly, leaning forwards to wipe away at the tears that fall from your wide eyes. “why are you crying again?”

you didn’t even notice that you had stopped in the first place. “i-i don’t know.” you do know.

it's the first time someone ever stayed with you in a long time.

caleb, surprisingly, calmed you down in a matter of seconds. he stayed with you until the sun began to set, when the blue sky became tinted by orange and pink. he made time go by fast, making you smile and laugh until your cheeks and stomach hurt. and he was surprisingly attentive, noticing immediately the way you perked up when you saw your mom’s car drive down the road and stop in front of your home.

“you ready to go now?” caleb stood up and stuck his hand out, waiting for you to grab it.

“your hand is warm,” you mumble, gripping tightly onto his hand as you lead the way back to your house.

he giggles and nudges your shoulder. “my hand is warm?”

“mhm.” it’s very warm, akin to the blankets you wrap yourself with during the cold days of winter.

and just like that you were at your front door, shyly waving goodbye before going inside. the doorbell rang shortly afterwards, yet before you could open the door, your mom had already done so. you left and headed up the stairs and into your room, telling yourself you’ll eat something after your mom retires for the night.

but that never happens.

because the strangest thing happened afterwards: your mom came up to your room and talked to you, apologizing for making you feel lonely and abandoned.

you know it was caleb’s doing: why else would your mom be like this?

without meaning to, caleb planted a seed in your heart that day.

when you’re ten, you realize that you’ve changed the slightest bit. you’re a little more outspoken, a little more confident in yourself; and your world that was once monochrome is now full of color, full of warmth and life.

you have memories where you’re laughing until your stomach hurts, where you’re learning to love apple and bake apple pies to perfection, where you’re learning to do cartwheels with the little girl while his laughter echoes in the air. it’s all thanks to caleb—he reached out to you, deciding to integrate you into his world. you’re forever thankful that he decided to talk to you two years ago, thankful that he spoke to your parents about your feelings because otherwise you would be stuck in the dark.

caleb has brought light and warmth into your life, and now you are never cold and lonely. he even sticks to you like glue at school, never leaving you alone for a second in the classroom because somehow you always manage to be in the same class as him. sometimes you grow tired of having to keep up with the energetic boy, sometimes the fatigue wearing your bones down and rendering you useless. caleb seems to know when that happens, or maybe he doesn’t. what matters is that he seems to time his golden smile; it is a smile so radiant that it melts away what weighs you down.

and always being with him has made you adopt some of his habits, his attentiveness being the one that shines through the most. it’s what makes you notice your next door neighbor. days of careful glances makes you learn that he’s always reading on the porch of his house or he’ll do the same inside by the window, that he’s never with any other kids his age and that he’s never at the park.

maybe you should talk to him and—

“y/n~” caleb nudges your shoulder. you jerk in surprise and wobble on the tree branch you both sit on, gripping tightly onto the wood while you lean forwards from your lack of balance. the boy yelps and takes a firm hold of your arm, stabilizing you. “you scared me!”

you huff, glaring at him. “you scared me! i could've fallen just now, dimwit.”

he pouts, “but that's your fault! you weren't listening to me.”

“yes i was!”

“oh yeah?” caleb raises an eyebrow. “then what was i saying?” he snickers when you don't reply, gently nudging your shoulders this time because he learns from his mistakes, you know! “see? i was right. you keep staring over there.” he gestures in the general direction of where you keep staring. his finger touches the green leaves of the tree, the tips fading into a yellow color.

autumn is coming. not yet, but it will be there in due time.

you decide to tease him a little. “pft, you’re pointing at the leaves.”

his lips curl into a frown. “you know what i—”

“caleb!”

the eight year old girl comes running up to the tree, huffing as she points up at your best friend. “i-it’s time for dinner!” she tilts her head over at you, beaming. “gran said you can come, sis!”

caleb looks at you, “you coming?”

you smile at the girl before shaking your head, moving towards the tree trunk. “i need to do something,” you grunt, shimmying down whereas he just jumps off the branch and lands with a thud. the girls gasps and you gape at him with wide eyes once your feet hit the ground, “are you okay?”

“a-okay!” he grins, standing up proudly as if he didn’t just scare the living daylight out of you. caleb flexes a boney arm, “i’m strong, after all!”

“yeah, okay hercules.” you chortle, rolling your eyes. “i’ll see you around.”

you watch as he and she wave goodbye at you, caleb hooking their arms together as they disappear into their house afterwards. you notice that there's a tightness in your chest when you see them hold hands or hook their arms together—it happens sometimes, not always. like right now: your chest tightens a little, feeling heavy. you chalk it up to wanting to do that with caleb one day and go your merry way.

your mom is startled when she opens the front door just as you reach out for the doorknob. she holds a container with cake inside. “goodness,” she chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek. “you scared me.”

“are you going next door again?” you move to the side so your mom can walk out.

she hums, “i am! i left some—”

“can i come this time?” you usually don't go to the dinners your mom has with zayne’s family every friday, always heading to hers and caleb’s house instead despite your mom’s best efforts in convincing you to join her. you always had an inkling that she wanted you to spend time with the older boy next door.

your mom beams at you so wide that you’re taken aback as she drags you to the li’s front door. did it really mean that much to her that you want to join this time? well, you’re on a mission to get close to zayne so that he can have friends too.

speaking of the devil, the door opens immediately after your mom presses the doorbell, revealing the older boy. his eyes widen the slightest bit when he sees you, though he quickly regains composure, his features relaxing. with a small smile, he greets your mom. “hello, mrs l/n.” he directs his gaze at you next, “hi y/n.”

you blink in surprise. “…hi zayne.” you didn’t expect him to remember you because you don't particularly remember much about him.

he steps aside just as his mom appears from behind, momentary shock melting into a warm smile. “y/n! i’m so happy to see you! will she be joining us?” her eyes flit up to your mom, who nods excitedly.

you’re ushered inside and into a seat not even a second after being welcomed in. “we always have a plate and cutlery out in case you stop by,” mrs li says. a lump forms in your throat and it’s hard to swallow. you feel awful, knowing that every time you chose to stay with caleb, the li family had hope that you’d stop by and eat with them.

still, you somehow manage to smile at the older lady. “i’ll make sure to come with my mom from now on.”

“really?”

you nod. “of course,” holding out your pinkie, mrs li laughs and hooks her own with yours. “i promise.”

mrs li heads into the kitchen with your mom, leaving you and zayne alone at the dining table. he sits in the chair next to you and you fidget in your seat, not sure how to break the stifling silence. what would caleb do in this moment? he’d probably say something stupid or just go ahead and ask to be friends… that’s something only he could do easily, but for you? that’s a challenge.

“you look worried.” zayne says, looking at you from the corner of his eye.

you frown and play with your fingers, “was it that noticeable?”

zayne hums as the two moms come back with pots of food while chatting about your dad. “you aren't doing a good job at being subtle.”

his comment makes you huff through your nose, the corners of your lips curling upwards. caleb says that to you all the time, claiming that you make it is easy for him to read you.

“smiling suits you.”

you stop breathing and stare at the boy with raven hair, slowly blinking while the moms plate the food and continue talking. zayne glances at you again and then looks at his plate, eyebrows furrowed as he picks up a fork and pokes at the carrots, nudging them into a corner. “did i say something wrong?” he mumbles.

he didn't say anything wrong… it’s just that no one has said that to you. not even after your change, even if it was a small one.

not even caleb.

you shake your head, “no.” coughing, your eyes shift to his hands, seeing how he stabs the last carrot on his plate and places it in the corner along with the rest. “you… you still don’t like carrots?” you vaguely recall a memory from when you were about five: you and zayne were eating a plate of oranges when he suddenly spat it out and a chewed piece of carrot was then laying on the table. his mom had cut small pieces of carrot inside his bowl alone with the oranges, trying to trick him into eating them.

zayne’s hazel eyes widen. “you remember?”

with a snort, you answer, “you spit out the carrots every time your mom tried tricking you into eating them. that’s pretty hard to forget, if you’re asking me.”

his ears flush the lightest shade of pink, making you giggle as your fingers wrap around his plate, rotating it. with your other hand, you grab your fork and take his carrots.

“…thank you.”

“i should be thanking you,” you hum, “i love carrots.”

whereas you and caleb are polar opposites and only have a thing in common, you and zayne are not. you’re so alike: reserved and quiet, both sticking to what you deem is the vicinity of your personal bubble. it was easy to befriend him again; by the end of what remained of summer, you had introduced him to caleb and her. it did take a month and a half of convincing, of relentless pleading that convinced zayne to follow you to the park where she and caleb were playing as usual.

caleb and zayne didn't get along well right off the bat, and they always argued. it took you aback in the beginning, not used to seeing caleb argue so… pettishly with someone. much less with zayne. zayne baffles you every time he mutters under his breath about how caleb is ‘so annoying’ because all he does is talk about dinosaurs or is ‘a child’ during friday dinners at his house. well, he is a child, so he’s not wrong there. but with that logic, he should also be calling you a child and yet he doesn’t.

zayne does, however, get along well with her.

you see it in zayne’s attentiveness to the young girl, you see it in the way his voice softens when he speaks to her, and you see it in the way he hangs onto her every word as if it were something sacred.

you also see it in the way his ears sometimes turn the lightest shade of pink when he speaks to her.

when you think about it, they’re both alike in that way.

the sun is in the sky, bright and warm like the boy next to you.

“he’s trying to steal her from me,” grumbles caleb. he swings his legs back and forth while the two of you sit on a tree branch, zayne and the girl sitting underneath on the other side of the tree. she’s teaching him how to braid a crown of flowers, and you can see the small curl of his lips. he’s smiling a shy sort of smile only reserved for her.

“he can’t steal her from you because she isn’t an object.” you tear your eyes away from them and focus on the brooding boy beside you, taking note of how he pinches his brows together and pouts, mumbling something under his breath. while the branches and its leaves provide good shade from the sweltering heat, there is still sunlight that peeks through gaps, and golden specks manage to coat caleb’s figure. “that means you can’t have her either, cal.”

your words have him turning to you quickly, his eyes wide. “i can’t have her?”

“of course not!” your silent admiration of seconds ago dissipates as you scoff, flicking his forehead. he yelps as you continue, “she’s a person! you can’t have people; that’s weird.”

“but that monster is stealing my best friend!”

you frown, blinking once. “zayne isn’t a monster.” but caleb sure seems like one at the moment, you think. a monster of green envy.

“yes he is!”

“zayne is not a monster.” you repeat, irritation beginning to bubble in your chest because caleb wouldn't be saying such things if he didn't have this weird rivalry going on with zayne. “don’t say that about him.”

“why are you defending him anyways?” caleb narrows his eyes at you. “you’re supposed to be my friend—”

friend. best friend. you realize he hasn't ever really called you his best friend because she’s his best friend while you think he's yours. if he doesn't think that of you, then you can’t think that of him… right?

you both whip your heads to the ground, clambering down the tree as zayne calls out both yours and caleb’s name. if his voice hadn’t betrayed the frantic feeling swirling in it, maybe you wouldn’t have this overwhelming sense of dread. when you both round the tree trunk, you see that his face is pale, and he’s holding onto her. she’s trembling, her face paler than zayne’s as if all the color had been drained from her features, and she’s heaving and trembling uncontrollably. the sight makes your stomach drop to the ground as caleb dashes forwards, dropping to his knees while yelling about getting granny josephine to them. you honestly don't remember running to their house, asking josephine to help the little girl—it’s all a blur. all you can remember is how the two boys finally had something in common other than their care for the younger girl: their expression.

they were both horrified.

and you wonder if you looked like them.

your eleventh autumn was just like any other, but this time it was different because of him.

you decided to stay the night after having dinner at zayne’s so he could help you study for your science test on monday. caleb would have been the one helping you, being in the same classes and all, but he was helping her study. while you do love and care about her, you care more about your grades because surely the tests in middle school are harder than the ones in elementary, right?

you’ve been inside zayne’s room before. more often than not, after dinner, you’d end up in there with him while talking about everything and nothing. sometimes you’d both be quiet, content with just being next to each other while reading a book on his bed, and sometimes you both would talk about current hobbies and interests.

“where will you sleep?” zayne’s voice comes from near his bed while you head towards his desk.

“in your bed, duh.” your eyes skim over the surface, chuckling at how tidy it is… until your eyes fall on a haphazardly hidden pieces of paper underneath zayne’s stack of notebooks. weird, you think. zayne likes keeping notebooks, books, and papers separate from each other.

“why would you sleep in bed with me?” he asks.

“we used to sleep in the same bed when we were children.” which is true: your moms have a photo book with evidence in it from your younger days together. “i don’t see why we can’t if we’re still children.”

you hear him huff through his nose. he’s probably pinching it right now. “you’re eleven and i’m thirteen. you’re a child and i’m a teenager.”

“didn’t you say that teenagers are fourteen-year-olds and up the other day?” your fingers wrap around one of the notebook’s spine, carefully lifting it and whatver notebooks are on top and pull the pieces of papers out.

your eyes scan the contents of one of the pages, highlighted words aiding in your understanding of what it is that you’re reading. medical school… majors… he’s looking at colleges.

“well, yes.”

you turn around and hide the papers behind you. “so that means we can share the same bed, right?”

zayne sighs, shaking his head while his lips curl upwards just the slightest bit. “you win this round, miss know-it-all.”

you grin at him and bring the papers out. “you sure i’m a know-it-all?”

the older boy stares at the papers you wave in the air, staying silent as if trying to find the words to explain something to you. you raise your eyebrows. “staying silent makes you look like you were hiding something from me.”

“well… i am. was, i was.” zayne corrects himself and sits down at the edge of his bed, patting the space next to him. you take a seat and eye him. “i’ve been trying to tell you this past summer that… well…” he sighs. “i skipped grades.”

“oh—” you gasp, eyes widening to the size of saucers. “so this means…”

majors.

medical school.

he’s grad—

he exhales slowly. “i’m graduating from high school this year.”

you feel the world go still. you hear your breathing. you feel cold. suddenly, you feel deep and heavy dread wash over you.

after this year, zayne will leave.

your best friend is leaving you.

“why are you crying?” zayne panics, clumsily wiping the tears you didn’t know were falling down your cheeks. the pad of his thumb is a little rough against your skin, but his touch is soft. he’s trying to be gentle, and it makes you feel more gloomy.

“i don’t know,” you mumble, hiccupping as you look down at your hands, watching the tears he doesn’t manage to wipe away fall onto them. “it’s just…” do you tell him? that you don’t want him to leave you alone? sure, caleb is a great friend but you’ve come to realize, since the incident last summer, that she will always be his top priority and—

majors. medical school… her.

“you’re doing this for her, aren’t you?” your voice is quiet.

you love her, you do. she’s like a little sister, and you obviously care for her like they do. but they care more, they love her more. you don’t quite understand the intensity of their love for her. and despite their burning ardor in wanting to be there for her and how it always ends up making you invisible, you can’t bring yourself to ever hate her. she’s innocent, just living her life while the two boys flock to her. she didn’t ask for their attention or love, it’s just that she’s so easy to love.

“…don’t tell her.” zayne’s hands fall from your cheeks and grab onto your hands. his touch is cold, unlike caleb, but it doesn’t make you flinch away from him. you let him take your hands into his, holding them carefully. “please.”

you huff through your nose. “if that’s what you want,” you answer. “it isn’t my place to tell them, anyways.”

it’s quiet, peaceful almost if you weren’t so caught up in the sinking feeling your chest. your heart just sinks and continues to sink in black ink, growing heavy. zayne’s voice timidly calls out your name. “you’re still crying. there’s more to it, isn’t there?”

“i don’t want you to leave.” because if he leaves, you’re afraid that you’ll have to admit the ugly truth you know, deep down, about caleb. it’s a truth that is so clear to everyone, a truth that you see every single time they’re in their own world. a world that pushes you and zayne out like the waves when they leave shore and retreat back into the ocean.

the older buy chuckles, and you look at him through your wet lashes, noting how his hazel eyes flicker with quiet care in them. “i’m not leaving yet.”

“keyword being yet,” you mumble, gripping onto his hands now. “…i’m being dramatic, aren’t i?”

zayne opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. “i should be happy that you’re doing something so cool. i mean, skipping basically all of high school and graduating super early? that’s so cool… and i’m here crying like a baby over it.”

“but your reaction is reasonable,” zayne says. “i’d be upset, too, if my best friend told me all of sudden they’d be leaving at the end of the school year.”

best friend. not just friend.

“i’m your best friend?”

“naturally.” zayne responds quickly. “you know me better than anyone, just as i know you better than anyone.”

just like that, your tears stop falling and the sun peeks out from the cloudy sky inside you.

the rest of the night goes smoothly: zayne helped you study for your science test, which you both found boring after an hour because all of the questions were easy, and you spent the rest of your time talking with him. you wanted to know of his plans, what he’s thinking, about what he wants to do after graduating. you both fell asleep in the midst of your conversation, though you wake up at three in the morning because you felt weird. your own body was telling you that you forgot to do your night routine. so when you wake up, all blurry-eyed and dazed, the first thing you can see is your sleeping best friend. after a couple of blinks, your vision clears up and you’re aware that you’re close to him. in fact, you’re close enough to see and count his dark eyelashes. you pout, no way he has prettier eyelashes than i do. the thought goes away as quickly as it had formed in your mind, replaced by the icky realization that you fell asleep without brushing your teeth. so you sit up, gently waking zayne so he could do the same. when he stirs awake and stares at you with squinting eyes, he knows what you mean when all you do is wordlessly point at your mouth despite the sleepy haze of his mind. and just like that, you both silently head to the bathroom and brush your teeth next to each other, quickly going back to his bed and falling asleep once more.

when morning came, you both find yourselves staring at his mom with confusion as she giggles and repeatedly asks how you both slept during breakfast. you think she must have seen something while you both slept, though you decide to let your suspicions go when you bid the li family goodbye and head next door to your house.

mom will probably tell me about it later tonight, you think just as you shove your house keys into the lock. you push the door open and kick your shoes off your feet, sliding them to the side and slipping into your slippers when you step inside. you hear someone running down the street, and right when you’re about to close the door, you hear your name being called out.

“i didn’t see you at all yesterday!” caleb runs up to you, a bright grin plastered on his lips. with his back to the sun, he looks as if he's bathed in gold. “pips missed you, you know? what were you up to that—what’s that?”

you blink once and suddenly he’s in your bubble, burning fingers gingerly touching your eye. you close it on instinct, and he runs his thumb over your eyelid. you can see yourself reflected in his eyes from this close. his warmth seeps into your skin, and you have the urge to lean into his touch. your heart lurches and skips a beat, feeling excited and calm at the same time.

“what’s what?” you cough, taking a step back.

he frowns, his thumb now under your bottom lashes. “your eyes are red and puffy. are you sick or something? you feel oddly hot.”

oh, that’s right. you cried yesterday, and you feel as if your heart is ready to jump out of your chest and into his arms where it wishes it could be.

“i’m fine. it’s just that i watched a sad movie after dinner with zayne,” you sigh, gently pushing his fingers away from your eyes. zayne’s words echo in your head, a quiet reminder that you can't tell caleb because he’d tell her right afterwards.

caleb huffs through his nose, his lips curling into an amused smile. he shakes his head once, his purple irises reflecting the warmth he radiates. “you do cry a lot while watching movies, don’t you?” he leans back and tilts his head at you. “alright.”

you furrow your eyebrows. “alright… what?”

“even though you’re clearly hiding something from me, i believe you.” caleb pinches your cheek, the amusement in his lips softening. “i’ll see you later?”

“yeah…” you say, dazed, but shake your head quickly. “wait, what are we doing?”

caleb laughs, the hand pinching your cheek now covering his mouth, ���don’t tell me you forgot that we’re supposed to study for the science test on monday?”

“about that…” you look away from him. “zayne helped me study for it last night.”

his silence has you taking a quick glance at him. caleb seems shocked and his eyebrow twitches, though it disappears and is replaced by something you can’t quite describe. a forced smile of sorts? “he helped you study?” he asks. “then what’s your verdict? will the test be easy or hard?”

you scratch your cheek, thinking. “well… even though he helped me study for a bit, i say the test is going to be very easy.”

“guess that means i won’t study.” caleb shrugs and ruffles your hair, a real smile on his lips now. “talk to you later, short stuff.”

“i am not that short, cal!” ever since he’s grown an exact inch taller than you, he acts like you're a midget now.

you watch as he waves goodbye, walking backwards for a couple steps with a laugh before twisting around and heading down the street. he’s probably heading to the small dessert shop nearby to pick up some of her favorite doughnuts—it’s what he does every saturday morning.

your twelfth autumn marks your first one without zayne.

he left at the end of summer, right as the tips of the green-yellow leaves on your favorite tree began turning a slight orange, barely noticeable. his disappearance had gone unnoticed until yesterday, half way into the fall quarter and midway into october. you’re in the middle of reading a book, one of your dad’s that he let you borrow, on his bed laying on your stomach while caleb helps her do her homework at his desk. he has a singular picture on it that he puts down whenever you're over, but you never ask why he does that.

“where is zayne?” she wondered aloud, tapping her pencil against her chin. “i haven’t seen him around lately.”

“huh,” caleb clicks his tongue in thought. “now that you mention it, neither have i.”

both their eyes land on you, though you don’t bother looking up. with practiced ease, you reply. “i haven’t seen him around.”

“but you go to his house every friday? and he’s your best friend? surely you know something.” she leans forwards in her chair, trying to get a better look at you.

“i go every friday because i made a promise to his mom,” you retort, finally looking up. with a shrug, you continue, “his mom hasn’t said anything about his whereabouts, so i’m just as clueless as you bunch.”

the girl drops it, a smile now on her lips. “your dad is coming home soon, right?”

you blink in surprise. “you remember?” you mentioned it in passing, it was when she and you were watching caleb during basketball tryouts. you told her that your dad would be coming back soon from the fleet, how you were excited to finally see him after so long.

caleb huffs a laugh through his nose, “of course she remembers, short stuff.”

you grimace, rolling onto your side and reach out to grab something in your vicinity, which happens to be a pen on his bedside, and fling it towards him. “you are literally just a couple inches taller than me, cal.” he’s actually a whole head taller than you now, and caleb's growing into his features. his cheeks have started losing their softness, his eyes a little sharper now. he has a natural, boyish charm, something that makes everyone notice him at school.

he loudly laughs, the pen stopping right in front of him before he swats it away. it lands with a clatter against the floor, somewhere in his room. with a huff, you lay on your back. “better work on that aim, short stuff~” he sings, getting up from his desk and heading over to his bed. you look up at him, your lips pursed as he pinches your cheek, purple eyes warm with mirth. his hair falls over his eyes, making its color look deeper. “how else are you going to get into the aerospace academy with me?”

you raise your brows, “you're acting as if you're already in.”

“well—”

the girl hums. “so you both want to leave me.”

just like that, caleb is back at her side and you’re all alone. “i would never leave you, pips.”

“pinkie promise?”

you watch from the corner of your eye how he wears a soft smile as they wrap their pinkies, his touch lingering.

you aren't stupid; in fact, you pride yourself in being so smart and attentive. so, you know that the tightness in your chest is because of caleb, because of the feelings you harbor for him. you aren't stupid, so you already know that caleb can never be yours, that he can never feel that way for you.

because he is hers.

with a sigh, you close your eyes and will yourself to calm your aching heart. you should be used to the ache that settles in your chest when this happens, but here you are.

later that day, right as the sun begins to set, you bid her and granny josephine goodbye. the taste of her apple pie from dinner lingers in your mouth.

“you don’t have to walk me home, cal.” you say, chuckling as you bump shoulders with him. instead of walking across the street, you walk down the sidewalk.

he hums, following you, “just let me be a good friend, short stuff.”

“you just love rubbing it in, don’t you?” you grumble, stepping into the park. your feet take you to the tree until you’re in front of it. you look behind you, raising an eyebrow at caleb. “i’ll stay here for a few minutes, so you can leave if you want.”

“i’ll stay.” at his confirmation, he moves past you, a faint scent of apples lingering in the air along with the sweet, woody smell from the oak tree as he scales up the trunk with ease. “your turn!”

“yeah, yeah.” you huff, rolling your eyes as you climb the tree and make it to the branch caleb chose to sit at. you breathe in and out slowly.

“the tunnel makes the sky look ugly.”

you snort, slightly baffled at the sudden proclamation from the boy. “where did that come from?”

“what?” caleb shrugs with a laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. “it does make it look ugly. like, really ugly.”

your quiet giggles get louder, and you throw your head back. “that is the first time i have ever heard anyone say that.” you wheeze, your laughter so strong you wobble on the branch. caleb wraps an arm around you to keep you from falling, his touch making you still instantly.

“you need to be careful,” he says. “one of these days you’re going to end up falling and i’ll fall with you.”

“if i ever fall, it’ll be because of you.” you cough and attempt to shimmy away from him, though his grip slightly tightens, preventing you from getting away.

the brunette absentmindedly taps on your arm with a finger. “i’d never let you fall… you know that.”

he’s saying that because you're his friend, and he is fiercely protective of those he cares about: the people in his inner circle. you are a part of it, you know that, and yet your heart cannot help but to stupidly flutter at the illusion of a hidden meaning behind his words.

“…it’s getting late.” which is true—the oranges and pinks of the sunset are now bleeding into a purple hue. “i should get going now.” you don't wait for him to say anything; you just climb down the trees as quickly and possible and book it to your home.

caleb is not far behind you.

stepping on the first step of your house’s porch, you stop and turn around. you’re eye to eye with caleb.

caleb wears a boyish grin on his lips, something that makes your stomach flip. “i have something for you.”

“oh? and what would that be?” the corners of your lips turn upwards.

“how about you close your eyes?” you shut your eyes, hearing intently to the boy shuffling. you feel a warmth brush against your cheek, trailing over to the back your neck. “give me a second.”

you hold your breath. caleb’s fingers work nimbly, and something cold hangs around your neck. there’s silence for a beat; he’s still close enough for you to hear his breathing until he leans away. “open your eyes.”

they flutter open at his command, and flitter down to see a necklace. there is a cloud with a wispy appearance right at the bottom, and small translucent beads hang from it in white and blue. the chain around your neck is decorated with solid white and blue beads.

“do you like it?” caleb scratches his neck, eyes carefully watching your reaction.

your voice comes out quiet, shy. “i do.”

you hear the smile in his voice. “i’ve been trying to give it to you since your birthday.”

“what?” looking up from the necklace, you blink at him repeatedly. “but my birthday—”

“i know.” he laughs softly, shaking his head. “i’ve had it since last year, and… i just didn’t know how to give it to you. i thought now would be a good time.”

i thought now would be a good time.

his words echo in your mind, and you take a deep breath. you also have something you want to give him: it’s sitting in the drawer of your desk, in a small box. “do you… do you want to come inside?”

you’ve never invited anyone inside your house, inside the walls that is your safe space. zayne is the only one who has stepped foot inside, who has made it up the stairs and into your room on more than one occasion. caleb used to bug you about that when you two first met, into the early months of your friendship. he thought it was weird that you were always over at his home while he had never gone inside yours. his complaints stopped when you introduced zayne to them—probably because he didn’t want to be around him despite the desire he had to discover what lays hidden in your home. you like to think that he finally decided to wait until you were ready to show him what’s inside.

caleb’s eyes are wide with surprise. “you want me to go inside?”

“i also have something for you.”

despite the poor lighting of the porch lamp, caleb is still akin to gold. he smiles and you turn around to unlock the front door, your heart thumping loudly in your chest. when you open the door and hold it open for him, caleb is all too quick to walk inside, following you up the stairs into your room after you shut the door. his eyes scan the inside of your room as soon as you turn on the lights, shuffling over to your desk as he stands by the doorframe. the color of your walls are a light blue, strings attached to the ceiling with paper clouds hanging at the end. he realizes there’s glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling after squinting. there’s a book shelf in the corner of your room, right besides your desk. the top shelf has a few trinkets: a small airplane, a blimp, a cap.

he assumes it's your dad’s cap, the one that goes with his uniform.

the second shelf has a couple of books, a stuffed animal in the form of a snowman, and a picture: the last one you took with your parents. last summer, you and your family took a trip to verona. in the picture, your dad has you hoisted onto his shoulders, an arm on your legs to keep you steady while the other is wrapped around your mom. everyone wears a smile, yet yours is the brightest one out of the three. caleb’s chest swells with pride, knowing he did the right thing all those years ago when he found you crying at the big oak tree.

the third shelf has a picture, one where it’s you and him. he remembers when, where and who took the picture. it was on your last day of school, your fifth grade promotion ceremony, and your mom took it. again, your smile is the brightest one. though, upon further inspection, he realizes your picture is different from the one he has on his desk. you’ve decorated it with small stickers, ones of golden and purple swirls that sit on the frame.

then there’s more books. another picture frame—is that zayne? you and zayne as children… oh, well you look at that? another picture frame of you and zayne. a recent picture, it seems, decorated in the same manner as his. he’s not sure when or where or who took this picture—

“think fast!”

caleb blinks and the flying box stills in front of him, floating in the air before it can hit his chest. “uh… why?”

“gotta be on your toes if you want to be in the aerospace academy with me.”

he laughs. “look at you, already acting as if you’re in.”

you shrug. “you do the same.”

“touché.” his eyes look down at the box. with a hum, he grabs and opens it, blinking once. inside sits a necklace, one with a small, silver sun on it with a purple gem in the middle. “…a sun?”

“you remind me of the sun.” you mumble. “you’re warm like it, too.”

caleb beams so wide his cheeks start to hurt, and there's faint blush on his cheeks that spreads to the tips of his ears. “i’m like the sun?”

“mhm.”

“funny… because i got you a cloud because sometimes you’re calm and happy, sometimes you’re gray and gloomy, and there are times when you’re like a storm.”

you stare at him, wide-eyed, and he continues. “tell me when you feel like there’s a storm in you.” he gets closer to you so that he can tap on the necklace that hangs around your neck. “so i can shine the sun on you... i will never hurt you with my warmth.”

it’s a silent promise that he’ll be there for you.

“and if you do?”

“then you can hit me!”

his fingers twitch, his foot taking a step forwards. but there’s a knock on your door before it’s pushed open. both you and caleb watch, confused.

your mom has a night shift and wouldn’t be back until morning.

caleb doesn't see a thing before you’re already leaping forwards into the arms of a man in a black uniform, his cap falling onto the ground. he recognizes the man as the one that holds you on his shoulders in the picture on your bookshelf.

your dad, the colonel of the farspace fleet.

caleb smiles to himself, his hold on the tiny box in his hands slightly tightening. he will be there for you, whenever you're sad or happy or mad.

he will be there.

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[my-castles-crumbling]

break - Jegulus Microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 693

The first time Regulus Black thought James Potter was going to break his heart, he ended up with a boyfriend. Because really, they hadn’t been actually been going out in the first place, Regulus had just grown so mortifyingly attached that he knew he would never be the same, even when James came to his senses and told Regulus that this strange, addicting thing between them was done.

So one night in February, when James turned to him with a terrifyingly serious expression and said the words, “We need to talk about something,” Regulus wasn’t even surprised, though his heart sank to the floor. 

He just maintained a completely blank face, squeezed his fingers into his palms so tightly his fingernails left marks, and uttered the words, “Go on. Say it, then.” 

And was completely, blissfully shocked when James said softly, “I…I care about you, Reg. I want this to be something. Have for ages.”

And after he snogged the living daylights out of him, he gave him a very stern talk about never, ever using the words ‘we need to talk’ again.

-

The second time Regulus Black thought James Potter was going to break his heart, they ended up moving in together.

Well, not like that. But it was the end of Regulus’s sixth year and James’s seventh. James was leaving, and Regulus had feared for a while that the end of this chapter of James’s life meant the end of them, as well. Every time James murmured adoring sentiments in his ear, every one of them felt like it had an expiration date, and he found himself scrambling to make plans for the summer, for the future, for being alone.

So when James sat him down, face full of anxiety and nervous determination, Regulus figured this was it. He’d finally gotten the nerve to end things. He was focusing so much on keeping himself together, on keeping his face emotionless and his breathing even, that he barely heard it when James said in a firm voice, “You’re coming home with me this summer.”

“I-what?” he asked after a minute, still processing.

“I know you’re independent and you don’t need help and all that shit, but I honestly don’t think I could make it through three whole months without you, and I’d spend every waking minute worrying about you,” James said in a rush, as if he’d practiced this speech many times. “So it’s not for you, not really. It’s that you’re doing a favor for me. So please, just- please at least think about-”

He interrupted James with a kiss.

-

The third time Regulus Black thought James Potter was going to break up his heart, they ended up engaged.

James had been acting so differently lately, coming home late from work and talking in hushed tones to his friends. Regulus had worried himself into an all-out panic, convinced that he was cheating, that everyone was in on it. That his luck had run out, and James had finally realized Regulus was not the person he thought he was, after all.

So when James sat him down after a lovely dinner at home and began his speech with, “I wanted to do this differently…” his heart again sank, because he was sure this was the end.

Until James continued. 

“I wanted to do this in front of a crowd, or, I dunno, have a flash mob or something stupid like that,” James said, smiling softly as Regulus frowned in confusion. “But I decided that you’d probably kill me if I did, and then you wouldn’t be able to say yes, so…”

And that was when Regulus saw the ring in his hand.

He didn’t take in much after that.

And when they finished celebrating their new engagement, Regulus turned to his new fiance and mumbled, “You know this really means you can’t leave me, right?” the vulnerability of the statement hanging in the warm air around them. Perhaps he was finally believing it. 

But James just looked at him like he’d hung the stars in the sky. “Baby, I was never planning on it,” he grinned, brushing their lips together.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 7

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn, Hospital Mentions, Childbirth De@th, Alcoholism]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Chapter Word Count: 10.9k+]

[HEAVY REMINDER: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, or actual events is purely coincidental. It is not intended to harm, defame, or offend any individual or group.]

[Chapter Summary: What began as an escape became a slow unraveling—a quiet erosion of the man he thought he was. Between missed glances, lost words, and too many unspoken things, he drifted further from the life he once built, until even his reflection stopped looking back. And now, with everything laid bare, he begins to understand: some distances aren’t measured in steps, but in the weight of everything left unsaid.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

Maybe it wasn’t love—not at first. That’s what Jeongguk told himself, back then. A quiet lie tucked inside a quieter life.

But it felt like peace. And peace was easy to mistake for love. Peace didn’t ask questions. Peace didn’t cry when he came home late. Peace didn’t carry the weight of Ha-yun’s name in every corner of the house.

Peace came in soft silences, in someone else’s apartment, in someone else’s office, in a version of himself he didn’t have to explain.

But peace was never supposed to be permanent. Especially for someone who had caused so much pain and disappointments.

And maybe that’s why the sound of your voice that night still stayed with him.

The kind of voice you remember long after the argument ends. Not because it was loud, but because it was careful. The kind of careful that came after too many cracks had already formed.

“Tomorrow’s the contract signing for the Tuan partnership. Hope you can be there. Eomma’s expecting you too.”

Your voice was soft, almost routine, from across the room—but Jeongguk noticed the tremble in your hands as you wiped off your makeup. Like mentioning the partnership had become something risky. Like you’d practiced the words, bracing for the answer you didn’t want.

When once upon a time, you never had to ask.

Jeongguk used to say yes before you even finished the sentence. No second-guessing. Just pride in the fire you carried, in the way you dreamed bigger than both of you. Now, you spoke like you were afraid to be a burden.

And that—more than anything—dug under his skin.

Jeongguk turned to the bathroom light, as if it could chase away the darkness inside him.

He meant to say, “I haven’t forgotten.” Because he hadn’t. He remembered everything—the late nights you spent drafting proposals, consulting your mother to make sure nothing was missed, the way your eyes lit up the first time Tuan Elegante called you back.

But what came out instead was clipped, distant, “It’s just a contract signing.”

He heard your breath hitch. Your home had been quiet for so long now that you could hear everything—even the things that went unsaid.

Jeongguk wanted to take it back. Tell you he planned to come. That you didn’t even have to ask. He’d even bought a tie. Deep purple to match your dress.

But the words had already landed, and the guilt settled too heavily to shake. Jeongguk knew he didn’t deserve to stand beside you tomorrow—not after where he’d been just two hours earlier, not after what he’d done.

Not after the kiss that started it all.

Jiwoo’s apartment—the quiet place where work blurred into something else after hours. It was supposed to be just a late-night wrap-up for a project due tomorrow. But then came the drinks, and after that, the confessions.

Jeongguk told her how broken he felt. How tired. How he couldn’t breathe in his own house anymore.

And then – he kissed her. In that moment, he convinced himself maybe – just maybe – this was okay.

She kissed him back.

And for a fleeting second, it felt like warmth. Like the kind of intimacy that didn’t ask anything of him. It felt like a version of love he could survive. Jiwoo didn’t expect. She didn’t look at him like he was falling apart. She just let him exist – quietly.

And it felt good to exist like that. To not be needed. To not be loved in a way that held weight.

But then she moaned his name. Another woman – who wasn’t you – had moaned his name.

And that’s when it hit him.

This wasn’t love. This wasn’t peace. This was an escape. An excuse that can never be justified.

Jeongguk had pulled away. Too slow. Too late. Muttered something about needing air. About you.

He hadn’t told you. Not about the kiss. Not about the matching tie he hid in his office drawer. Not about how he hated himself for both.

“It’s not just another event, Gguk.” Your voice cracked in that small, breaking way he hated. And when you begged, “I want you there.” It felt like a knife twisting in his chest repeatedly.

Still, he didn’t turn to you.

“And do what exactly?” he said, pulling the towel from the hook, holding it like a lifeline. “Play the perfect husband? Show off a perfect a marriage? Smile for the cameras so they have more to gossip about?”

The words came out harsher than he meant. Meaner. Jeongguk couldn’t claw them back anymore.

He’d read the online comments. He always did. Headlines with your name. Accusations that you were exploiting tragedy to climb the ladder faster. Voices calling you cold, ambitious beyond reason – someone who put career before family. Harsh whispers claiming you were indifferent to grief, that your drive was hollow, a façade to hide pain.

No one ever mentioned the baby by name. Not Ha-yun. If they did, Jeongguk knew he’d lose control—too angry to hold back, furious that anyone would use her name like that.

Jeongguk had tried to fight for you – calls made behind closed doors to people who owed him favors, people who could nudge stories off the headlines or tone down the harshness before they went live. More calls late into the night, asking for deletions, retractions – anything to keep those cruel words away from you.

But the media was relentless. No matter how hard he pushed, the stories kept multiplying, each one sharper and heavier than the last.

He wanted to protect you from it all. To be the shield you deserved.

But every headline he failed to erase echoed a deeper failure – how much he had already let you down long before the stories started.

Jeongguk’s throat burned, the words lodged somewhere between apology and anger, guilt and frustration. He wasn’t proud of how sharp he’d become, but the pressure had been building too long — the helplessness, the failures, the mounting distance between you both.

"Could've just said no," you whispered, but it was enough to break through the room. "I would've understood. No need to be such a dick about it."

“I did say no. More than once,” he threw the towel onto the floor harder than necessary, feeling the weight of everything he wished he could say but never dared. “You just never fucking listen.”

He saw the flicker of hurt in your eyes. But the damage’s already been done.

“Maybe I was hoping.” Your voice trembled with a mix of anger and pain. “Hoping that you’d still care enough to show up. That you’d still want to stand by me.”

Jeongguk let out a bitter laugh. He hadn’t meant for it to sound so cruel—but his tone always seemed to betray him first. “You really think standing next to you in a room full of strangers will fix this?”

He knew he didn’t deserve to stand beside you. Not after he’d spent the past months abandoning you when you needed him, especially not after he had looked at another woman just to feel like less of a failure.

“This isn’t about fixing anything!” Your voice cracked, raw and desperate. “This is about you showing up! Being there for once, instead of finding another excuse to stay away!”

He clenched his jaw, the anger barely masking the deeper pain twisting inside him.

“You’re not even supposed to be working yet,” his voice sharp and uneven. “Dr. Min told you to rest. Told you not to push yourself. But no, you’re back at it again, throwing yourself into work like it’ll patch up everything you lost.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them—echoes of the cruel headlines he’d fought to erase. Guilt knotted in his chest. He’d failed to protect you, and now he was adding to the pain.

Your chest rose and fell with a harsh breath. “Don’t,” you whispered, voice fragile but fierce. “Don’t you dare put that on me.”

“You never knew when to stop. Even when it meant risking everything.”

Your next words hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Losing Ha-yun wasn’t on me,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “You had a choice that night. Be a father, or stay my husband. You chose.”

Jeongguk went still, the silence rushing in like a tide. It felt like blame, like truth, like a wound pressed open—and he reached for the only thing sharp enough to throw back.

“If you had just—” he started, voice rising despite himself, then broke off, choking on the air. “If you had just looked after yourself better—”

“Say it,” you snapped, fists trembling at your sides. “Say it. Say you blame me.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing—because some cruel, broken part of him did, and that was the part he hated.

Your trembling words barely cut through the thick quiet. “If you regret it that much, then maybe you should have let me go that night.”

Jeongguk’s eyes darkened, and for a long, terrible moment, he stared at you, searching for something—redemption, forgiveness, a way back.

“Never said I regretted it,” he finally muttered. He wished those words could erase everything he’d shattered – all the mistakes he’d made. Jeongguk wanted to reach out, to say the words you needed to hear, the ones he truly meant – but he knew they wouldn’t change a thing.

“Yet you can’t even look at me like you love me anymore.”

Jeongguk couldn’t bear to hold your gaze after that. Because if he looked at you any longer, he was afraid you’d see it – that he did still love you.

He just didn’t know how to be the man you needed anymore.

So instead, he turned. His voice came low and flat, like gravel scraping pavement. “I’m going out.”

No warmth. No glance back. Just movement—a grab for his wallet and keys, a quiet exit.

Jeongguk drove aimlessly, the city blurring into a stream of tail lights and neon signs. The windows were up, yet he still felt cold. When he finally stopped by the river, the engine ticking softly in the quiet, he leaned forward and rested his forehead on the steering wheel.

What was he even doing anymore?

The fight replayed in his head in ugly, fractured pieces. Your voice — tired, trembling, angry — still rang in his ears.

He messaged Jiwoo. She replied right away. Told her to meet him at some late-night spot near Itaewon. When they met, she didn’t ask how he was. Didn’t even bring up the kiss. She simply let it dissolve into silence as if it had never happened.

She poured him a drink. Let him talk. About anything. Everything. She kept quiet, looked at him with soft, understanding eyes and brushed his hand when he paused too long.

It felt good. No expectations, no reminders of the hospital or the way you used to hold your stomach like you were already in love with someone you never got to meet.

Jiwoo didn’t ask him to explain. She let him forget.

When Jeongguk came home, you pretended nothing had happened. Didn’t even ask where he’d been the whole night, though he’d seen the hurt in your eyes, the questions you wanted to ask because for the first time, he didn’t return to you.

Still, you let him be.

And maybe that was the real fracture. Not the fight, not the words exchanged.

But the fact that he hadn’t waited for you to make it better.

The distance between him and you only grew—until even the silence felt like punishment. In that space, Jiwoo stayed steady. Always close. Always easy. Never demanding. Never asking.

Maybe that’s why Jeongguk started to linger a little longer in her office. Started texting her things that had nothing to do with work.

Small things like a link to a song he heard on the radio that reminded him of simpler days. A photo of the sunrise from the parking lot, captioned ‘didn’t expect the sky to look like this’. An offhand complaint about the vending machine. Sometimes, dumb memes she’d probably seen already.

Nothing serious. Nothing wrong. But it was more than Jeongguk had offered you.

One morning, he sat by the counter, laptop open, emails flooding in faster than he could delete them. Deadlines stacked, client revisions overdue, a campaign pitch moved up last-minute. His team needing direction. Jeongguk sat there, motionless – cursor blinking on a half-finished reply, mind nowhere near the screen.

Then, without a word, you’d placed a cup of coffee beside him – black, just the way he liked it. In that same mug he’d always use, the one chipped near the handle. It reminded him when you’d steal sips from his cup even though you preferred yours with almond milk. Mornings when you’d always make sure he had his cup of coffee first even though you were already running late.

You didn’t say anything else. Just turned away and moved to the sink, rinsing something quietly.

The coffee was good. Jeongguk hated that it was good. That it still tasted the same. That you still made it the same as if nothing had changed between you.

By night, Jeongguk decided to go to Jiwoo’s office. Told himself it was about work even though she had nothing to do with the projects he was currently buried with.

She looked up when he knocked. “Didn’t expect you.”

“Just needed a breather,” he said, stepping inside like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jiwoo leaned back in her chair, studying him. “Rough day?”

He gave a tight nod, eyes flicking to her window. “Deadlines. Meetings. Nothing new.”

She didn’t offer comfort. Just silence. It made him want to stay.

“Do you prefer the day or the night?”

Jiwoo wasn’t sure where that question had come from but she answered him anyway. “Night.”

“It’s full of darkness.” Jeongguk squinted at her, trying to understand.

“That’s why I like it,” She smiled faintly, eyes drifting toward the window as if she could already see the stars blooming behind the glass. “It’s honest. The day hides everything in light – noise, movement, expectations. But the night… the night strips things down. You see what’s really there.”

Jeongguk tilted his head, listening.

She went on, softer now. “And the moon doesn’t ask to shine. It just reflects whatever light it can find. Even when it's a sliver, even when it's fading… it still tries.”

There was a quiet moment. Then, “The stars too. They’re so far away, but they still show up. Quiet and constant. I think there's something comforting in that.”

Jiwoo glanced at him, noticing the serious look settling on his face. She smirked slightly. “Let’s cut this philosophy shit. You come here to hear preachings or –?”

Jeongguk raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I literally just asked about the day and night. You’re the one who went sappy.”

“Fuck off, dude.” Jiwoo laughed, stood up, then went to the coffee machine. “Want one?”

“I’m fine,” he said, even though he was far from it.

Still, she brewed him a cup. Set it down anyway. This time, Jeongguk took it without hesitation. And for the first time that day, he didn’t feel like the air was getting sucked out of him.

It became a pattern after that.

Jeongguk would find his way to Jiwoo’s office pretending it was for a break or a file that needed a second look—anything but the truth.

She never asked. Never begged for an explanation. She just gave him her notes, brought him food when he skipped meals, and made space for him beside her desk.

All with the quiet he needed, the quiet that was enough to be an escape and the quiet that didn’t remind him of anything.

Days bled into weeks. Then more months. And before he knew it, the date crept up on him – the one circled in silence, not calendars.

Ha-yun’s first death anniversary.

The memorial hadn’t changed.

It was still the same quiet resting place, tucked away in a corner of the columbarium – a small glass-front niche lit softly by candlelight.

Inside were a few precious things you had chosen together; a tiny stuffed bunny, a folded blanket with your family name stitched in one corner, and a slender silver bracelet Jeongguk had made, engraved with your daughter’s name. Silent reminders of a life that never got to grow.

The granite plaque below bore only her name—Jeon Ha-yun—and a single date, her birth and death sharing the same line, separated by nothing but a hyphen.

You had knelt first, gently brushing away the dust and some stray flowers that had fallen from nearby. Placed the purple tulips in the empty slot on the plaque.

Jeongguk stood beside you, hands clenched deep in his coat pockets, the weight of the day pressing down heavier than he could carry. His eyes flicked to his watch again.

“I’ve got a meeting soon,” he said, not quite looking at you. “How much longer are we going to stay?”

You didn’t answer him right away. Just adjusted the flowers you had bought, your voice soft when it came. “It’s okay. You can go if you want. I can take a cab.”

He hesitated. Wanted to say I can stay—but didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Let me know when you’re done,” he said instead, already backing away.

The meeting didn’t exist. Jeongguk didn’t go to the office. Didn’t go anywhere in particular. Just kept driving past familiar streets that didn’t feel like home anymore. Past cafés where laughter spilled out, past parks full of strangers who didn’t look like they’d ever lost anything.

That night, long after the sun had set and the city was quiet, he went back to the memorial. The cold air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. Standing before the niche, he whispered into the silence—a confession made to no one but the shadows.

“I miss you. I’m sorry.”

Time passed, the way it always did. Seasons changed and, in the space, where grief once screamed, silence took root. The kind that stayed in walls, in half-finished conversations, in the empty side of the bed left untouched.

Your birthday had arrived in the heart of summer, all sun-drenched mornings and slow, golden afternoons. The wedding anniversary, too – tied to the same day, once so full of meaning. Once a date marked by surprise breakfasts and handwritten notes, by plans you both made just to spend time, even if it was just watching old movies on the living room floor.

Jeongguk had spotted the calendar earlier in that week, on the night stand while you were asleep, turned away from him, the bedside lamp casting a pale light on you. The date wasn’t labeled with words, just enclosed in a purple heart and that was more than enough to deepen the pain he’d been carrying.

He had stared at that heart for a long time. Knew you were looking forward to that day. And he did too.

The suit you made for him – one of the many – stayed where it always did, on the left side of the closet, next to the shirts you used to button for him in the mornings. Jeongguk took it out more than once that week. Hung it out. Smoothed out the lapels. Put it back in. Repeat. Like if he had practiced enough, he’d be able to face you.

But he didn’t face you.

Instead, somewhere in his car in the middle of nowhere, he deleted the address to the place you had texted him – where he was supposed to meet you, then followed it with a text of his own, cold, empty. ‘Happy Anniversary. Happy Birthday’.

Jeongguk felt like he couldn’t celebrate the way you both used to – not when so much of him was unrecognizable. He was far too gone, weighed down by everything he’d done and everything he hadn’t said.

Showing up would only mean more lies. And with lies came pretending. Pretending he was still the man you were in love with. He just couldn’t do it.

By early evening of the day that used to mean everything, Jeongguk found himself at the bottom of a bottle he didn’t remember opening, bitter on the tongue and heavier in the chest. He welcomed the burn – let it blur the parts of himself he didn’t know what to do with.

At some point, between his second bottle of whiskey and some expired chips he’d found in his glove compartment, Jeongguk picked up his phone. Almost messaged you with a pathetic crying and pleading emoji, hundreds of them along with an apology drafted in his Notes app.

But he couldn’t send it. Couldn’t turn grief into a sentence, or guilt into a message that might sound like it was only about tonight when it was really about everything.

So he backed out of the message thread. Closed the app. Hovered over Jiwoo’s name on his contact list instead.

She answered barely five seconds in when he called her. Jeongguk sat there with the phone pressed to his temple, breathing too loud and spitting out anything that came to his mind.

“She booked a restaurant,” he slurred, barely holding the phone steady. “Sent me the address and everything. Texted me twice.”

A sharp breath came out. Then a laugh that’s more of a sob. “She must’ve picked it a month ago. Bet she made sure they had the wine we loved. Probably asked them to put a candle on the table too. Not for her birthday. Just…for the mood, you know?”

He presses the bottle to his forehead, eyes shut tight. “She always thought of everything.”

There’s a pause, thick with whatever pain’s stuck in his chest.

“I deleted the address.” The confession slips out quieter than the rest, like it hurt him to say it out loud. “Fucking erased it, like that made it easier. Thought I could pretend tonight didn’t exist.”

Jeongguk’s voice started to crack. “She probably has this pretty dress on right now,” he mumbled, voice thick with alcohol and emotion. “Knowing her, she tried on like twenty. Maybe thirty. Even asked her mom. Or Hobi Hyung. Or—hell, maybe even that saleslady at that boutique she loves. She must’ve picked a really pretty one.”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face, knocking over something in the car. The clatter echoes. “Oh fuck, her hair. She must’ve done her hair all soft and down just how I like it. Wore that necklace I gave her on our first anniversary when we were just dating. Fuck, I spent my whole first paycheck on that necklace.”

A dry chuckle escapes. Jeongguk was spiraling. “She’s probably still waiting, Jiwoo-yah. At that stupid table. Maybe already ordered for the both of us. Must be looking at the door every time it opened, thinking it’d be me. That’s so like her.”

He leans back in the seat, the headrest catching the full weight of his shame. “I used to be someone she was proud to sit across from. Now I’m the guy who texts greetings like I’m her fucking dentist.”

A sound rustled; the unmistakable creek of a bottle being lifted again. “I’m such a piece of shit,” he mumbles, barely audible now. “She deserves champagne and kisses and a man who shows up, not a failure like me.”

Another shaky breath, and then, quieter than ever, “She always gets cheesecake. On her birthday. It’s her favorite. Says it tastes like being loved.”

Jeongguk’s voice faded into a quiet whimper, then stillness. When he speaks again, it’s softer. Younger. “I hope she still got it. I hope she still let herself feel loved… she deserves that.”

Time kept moving. Jeongguk kept missing things.

Chuseok came and went. He’d sent another text – Sorry, can’t make it. A sick ritual by now. Then turned his phone off. Spent the evening in his car, parked two blocks from home, engine running but going nowhere. Watched the house where both your families had been helping you with dinner trays and folding chairs, the laughter spilling through the windows like it used to.

Jeongguk never got out of the car. Not once. Didn’t want to face your families with how horrible of a person he’d become.

Then Christmas. He left a note in the kitchen. Will be back late. Don’t wait up.

That day, he bought a gift. Picked out something small, a scarf you once mentioned in passing months ago. But he never wrapped it. Never gave it. Just left it in the backseat of Taehyung’s car. Still there. Still untouched. As if a pathetic gift could reverse everything.

New Year’s Eve came quietly.

That morning, over burnt toast and barely sipped coffee – the first breakfast you two shared in months, silence pressed like a third person in the room – when you asked.

“Just us this year,” you said softly. “Namsan Tower… if you’re up for it.”

Jeongguk didn’t plan to say yes. But the words left him anyway. Maybe it was the coffee or your awful attempt at cooking again, cutting the toasts in funny shapes like you’ve always done or how your smile was soft, hopeful.

It made him hope too. Made him wanted to try.

He got a haircut. Dyed his hair black again – washed out the silver like it would rinse the past with it.

He even had a simple bracelet made for you. Nothing flashy. Just something that matched his. A quiet gesture that maybe he could still find his way back. That maybe he could still find his way to you. Meet you.

And he went. All the way to Namsan.

Cab dropped him near the entrance. He stepped out, hands tucked in his pockets, breath curling in the cold. Watched couples link arms, hands laced, eyes lit up with warmth and beginnings.

He stood there for ten minutes.

Then twenty.

Then told himself just a little longer.

But the longer he stood, the more people he saw wrapped in happiness, the more it sank in – that whatever version of him you had been waiting for was gone.

Jeongguk never made it past the gate. Never sent a message. The weight of everything he’d lost, every unspoken apology, all his mistakes, the missed chances – kept him frozen. So, he turned around and left, the bracelet still tucked away in his coat pocket.

He should’ve gone home. Should’ve pretended that sleep would dull the pain, even if only for a few hours.

But instead, he ended up in Jiwoo’s office. He didn’t know what he was looking for – only that he needed to escape the silence, the weight, the hurt. He wanted to bury the sorry excuse of a man he’d become – the disappointment as a husband, a father he couldn’t be.

In that quiet room, something finally broke.

The door had barely clicked shut before he leaned into her, breath ragged like he’d run there. He hadn’t. But it felt that way – like he’d been racing all night, all month, all year, just to feel something that wasn’t guilt.

Jiwoo didn’t question him. She never did. Maybe she knew better. Maybe she didn’t want to know.

Fingers tangled in fabric, lips grazed skin. His suit jacket hit the floor. Hers followed. It wasn’t rushed, not entirely. Just desperate. Heavy.

When she whispered his name, he didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when every part of him was pretending this wasn’t what it was.

When it ended, Jeongguk sat on the edge of the couch, shirt half-buttoned, staring at the floor like it might open up and take him.

Jiwoo offered a glass of water. He didn’t take it. Just sat there, breathing through the fog.

This wasn’t love. It wasn’t even connection.

But it was escape. And escape, these days, felt easier than facing the mess he'd made.

The next morning, Jeongguk didn’t return home.

Instead, he sat in the company parking lot, not caring about the dirt on his slacks. The sky was a dull gray, and the building behind him was quiet now. He hadn’t gone far after everything. Hadn’t slept. Just sat there, trying to make sense of what he’d done.

But there was no excuse waiting in the silence—only the sickening weight of it. The guilt didn’t hit all at once. It came slowly. Empty. Hollow.

By the time he did go home, you were asleep on the couch. The T.V. had gone quiet. One of the baby books you'd never packed away was still lying open beside you, your fingers curled softly around the edge of the page.

You looked peaceful. As if you'd been waiting for something gentle to return to you, even after being left alone on a night meant to start a new year.

Jeongguk almost broke, right there. Almost dropped to his knees and confessed everything.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he knelt beside you and quietly adjusted the blanket over your shoulders. Then disappeared into the bathroom and showered twice, as if that could erase anything.

Jiwoo didn’t text him. Not the next day. Not the day after. She wasn’t like that.

She’d drawn no lines, made no promises. She was quiet, steady, professional when he passed her in the hallway. Not cruel. Not warm. Just there.

And maybe that was what made it worse—how easy she made it to pretend it never happened. How nothing about her life had shifted while his had gone completely off-axis.

But he couldn’t stay away.

He told himself it was a mistake. One night. A moment.

But the following week, he showed up at her office again. No words. No apologies. No resistance.

And she let him in.

Jeongguk doesn’t remember how it became routine. It wasn’t every night—not even often. It only happened a few times, enough to count on one hand. Still, he knew that wasn’t an excuse. It still fucking happened.

Sometimes when the weight of home pressed against his chest, Jeongguk found himself moving without thinking – texting Jiwoo nothing more than a time, a place. No hearts. No names.

And she never asked for either.

One time it was the stairwell behind their office building. The lights were dim, flickering like they knew they shouldn’t be watching.

He kissed her like he needed to forget something.

She let him. No questions, no noise. Just the rustle of coats and the sound of his breath stuttering into her neck like it was the only place left he didn’t feel like a failure.

Another time it was the back seat of his car. Rain on the windows. Jiwoo’s makeup smudged from his grip on her jaw.

He didn’t ask her if she was okay. Didn’t ask himself, either.

Because here, in this hollow space of skin and distraction, he could pretend for a moment he wasn’t a man unraveling by the hour.

At home, Jeongguk had lost count of how many times he showered. Not to wash off sins he could no longer keep track of. No.

But because the scent left on his skin wasn’t familiar. It didn’t remind him of anything. Not her shampoo. Not the house. Not you.

And somehow, that made everything easier.

Jeongguk told himself it was never about love. It was survival. Escape. A quiet place where the noise inside could dim for a while.

But sometimes, late at night, when Jiwoo’s hand found his, or her breath brushed his skin, the line between need and something more fragile began to blur.

They rarely spoke about what this was. Words felt heavy, too honest, too dangerous.

Instead, their connection lived in small gestures – the way Jiwoo’s fingers lingered just a moment longer on his hand, or how her gaze held steady when his cracked.

He found himself craving those moments – not because he loved her, but because with her, the weight seemed just a little lighter.

Between, few kisses and whispered promises that meant nothing, Jeongguk caught himself wanting more – a fleeting thought of normalcy, or maybe just a break from the storm.

There were quieter moments too.

They’d go to Jiwoo’s favorite café near the office — small, sunlit, always playing old indie songs she claimed made her feel seventeen again. She liked the lemon cake there, tangy and too sweet.

Jeongguk hated lemon anything.

She pushed the plate toward him, fork already loaded. “Come on, one bite. It tastes like chaos and cavities.”

Jeongguk raised a brow. “Sounds deadly.”

She laughed. “You’re so dramatic. Open.”

He did, reluctantly. The lemon hit fast—sharp, sweet, wrong. He winced.

Jiwoo grinned, smug. “You hate it.”

“Told you I hate lemon,” he muttered, reaching for his coffee like it might save him.

“And yet, you let me feed it to you,” she teased, chin in hand.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk stared down at the plate, voice dropped. “I did.”

The next time they went, he ordered a slice without thinking. Maybe it was the routine. Maybe it was easier to pretend he was someone else in places she had always loved. Or maybe he was just tired of being someone he doesn’t recognize anymore.

Two mornings later, while Jeongguk slipped on his coat by the door, you held something out to him.

“Found this in your pocket,” you said, voice light. Just a folded receipt. “Didn’t know you liked lemon cake.”

He hesitated for half a breath, then took it from your hand. “Thought I’d try something new,” he said, stuffing the paper into his pocket. “Didn’t finish it though.”

You smiled faintly. “Okay.” Nothing more was said. Jeongguk walked to his car, you walked to yours and the day went on just like any other.

Jeongguk started wearing a new cologne Jiwoo had mentioned offhand in passing.

They’d been sitting in his car, her legs pulled up, a coffee cup balanced on her knee, when she reached into the glove compartment to grab tissues and found the travel-sized bottle tucked in with a pile of old receipts.

“Oh,” she’d said, amused. “This one’s nice. Remember it from a client’s shoot a while back.” She sprayed it lightly on her wrist, then offered it to him without looking too hard. “Try it. Might suit you.”

He didn’t think much of it then. Just leaned forward so she could mist it across his neck. Her fingers had brushed the edge of his jaw—cold and brief. She’d gone quiet after that. Rolled the window down. Changed the subject.

But later, when he made a dumb joke and leaned in to repeat it, she’d smiled like it meant something. Like he meant something. Something other than mistakes and disappointments.

It wasn’t the kind of scent he normally liked—too warm, too heavy. Amber and cedarwood.  It clung to him like someone else's second skin.

But it made him forget the lavender that carried too much expectations and pain. And it was enough.  

Jeongguk started wearing it after that.

The first time he wore it home, you paused in the hallway, one hand bracing the wall like you’d lost your balance for a second.

“That’s strong,” you said, half-laughing. “What is that? Smells like someone lit a forest on fire.”

Jeongguk smiled faintly, tugged at his collar. “Trainees thought it smelt good. Was messing around with some samples in the shoot. Kind of stuck.”

You nodded slowly. “Looks like it did.”

“I’ll probably switch back next week,” he said, voice soft. “It’s not really me.”

You didn’t answer. Just passed by him, close enough to breathe it in again, leaving him in the silence of your home like always.

It was raining when they slipped into the planetarium.

Jiwoo said she’d always wanted to come but never had the time. Jeongguk didn’t ask why she chose a place like this or why she wanted him there. He just asked Taehyung to book the tickets under his name and followed her plans when the day came.

Inside, the seats reclined. The dome above them flickered dark before filling with stars.

She glanced sideways at him when the simulated constellations came alive — her shoulder barely grazing his. “Penny for your thoughts?”

It was the first time she ever asked him for anything. Jeongguk didn’t know why. Only that she did – after he’d been staring too long at the Sun in the simulation.

“I don’t know what this is anymore…what I am anymore,” he admitted quietly. “But I don’t know how to stop it. Don’t know how to come back.” His eyes were still fixed on the Sun — pixelated and sterile, orbiting nothing real.

Jiwoo didn’t speak right away. A comet traced across the dome in silence.

“You don’t have to name it,” she said finally. “No one’s asking you to.”

The stars faded, but the ache stayed — quieter now, like a shadow settling deeper into the edges of his days.

And somewhere beneath it all, the clock kept ticking, pulling him forward whether Jeongguk was ready or not.

The morning began quietly.

You moved softly through the kitchen, hands working without rush as you wrapped small sandwiches, cut fruit into soft wedges, and arranged snacks into a neatly packed basket. Nothing elaborate. Just enough for two. You checked the time on the oven clock once, then again, a little slower.

The house was still quiet upstairs.

Jeongguk stood halfway down the stairs, already dressed for work – pressed slacks, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his watch catching the low light. He stayed still, one hand resting gently on the banister.

Your voice drifted up from the kitchen, gentle but clear. The phone lay on speaker on the counter.

“I’ll be okay, Eomma. Just a quick visit.” You murmured.

“Jeongguk’s not going with you?” your mother had asked.

He waited for you to tell her the truth. Rat him out – call him selfish, careless, tell her how he let you down again.

Instead, you said, “Think he’s got an early shoot in Gangnam.” You reached for a napkin, folding it once, then again, before tucking it into the picnic basket.

Jeongguk didn’t move. His eyes lingered on the basket, then the slow curve of your shoulders as you stood over it.

Then, without saying a word, he turned and walked away. His shoes made no sound on the floor as he quietly slipped out the door.

Jeongguk didn’t go to the memorial.

Instead, he ended up parked outside the baby clothes store on the far side of the city. The same one you both had visited long ago, when you were full of dreams and plans. The sign’s color had changed, the windows were new – but inside, it still smelled faintly of baby powder and fresh cotton.

He drifted in slowly, like muscle memory.

Near the back, he spotted a small rack lined with tiny onesies. One in particular caught his eye — cream-colored with purple tulips and sun prints stitched into the fabric. Something about it felt soft and whole.

Jeongguk bought it without thinking.

For a brief moment, the idea flickered in his chest. Maybe he could still make it to the memorial. Maybe if he left now, brought this little onesie, maybe...

Then he saw them – a couple around his age. The woman laughed softly, holding a squirming baby girl in her arms. The man kissed her cheek, one arm slung around her shoulder. Their child was maybe two. Maybe close to what Ha-yun would’ve been. Alive. Growing.

“Say ‘Appa,’ sweetie,” the woman coaxed gently.

The baby’s tiny lips parted, forming a soft, uncertain sound— “Appa...”

The man’s eyes softened, his smile widening. “That’s right, little one. Appa.”

Jeongguk froze. Something cold gripped him from the inside. And in that moment, the weight of it all came crashing back.

He left without a word.

The day blurred after that. He threw himself into work, showed up at an offsite shoot, reviewed shots he wasn’t even scheduled to cover. His phone buzzed a few times — he didn’t check. Not even once.

Evening fell without mercy.

Down the office building, they waited for a cab. A crazy drunk stumbled past, spilling a drink right onto Jiwoo’s sleeve. “Shit, sorry!” the drunk slurred, swaying away.

She stared down at the wet fabric, annoyed. Jeongguk stepped closer, pulling off his jacket. “Here, take this.”

She hesitated but accepted it, slipping it on.

Jeongguk muttered under his breath, “Fucking assholes.”

“Don’t get worked up. Bet they smell like cheap whiskey and regret.”

He rolled his eyes, chuckled, said nothing after.  Just watched the city lights coming on, slow and soft.

“I thought you’d run away for good today,” Jiwoo breaks the quiet.

He scoffed. “I tried.”

She bumped his arm lightly. “You suck at it.”

A breath of a laugh escaped him, short and tight. He looked at her — really looked — and that was all it took.

Jiwoo leaned in first, her lips brushing his in a kiss that was quiet and careful.

Jeongguk didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He kissed her back, like a reflex, like he didn’t want to think about what it meant.

Then it ended, just as quickly. No promises. No questions. Not asking for more, not promising anything either.

Jiwoo blinked. Looked for a second longer than usual, then smiled softly. “Come on,” she said, gently tugging at his sleeve. “I want to show you something.”

The cab ride was short. They pulled into a quiet alley where an older shop stood, its weather sign still intact, “Daehan Camera & Film.”

Jeongguk recognized it the moment they stepped out. The air around it hadn’t changed. The soft chime of the door still rang the same way it did years ago, when you dragged him here one snowy evening after you both had successfully passed your final requirements for graduation.

You were both delirious – running on caffeine, instant ramen and the kind of snacks that should’ve fucked with your brains. But you both made it.

You had bought him a camera that night, just a little something to mark the end of the chaos and the beginning of whatever came next. A secondhand Canon AE-1, barely functional flash, light meter permanently stuck on the wrong setting. Knowing how much he was a sucker for anything old and worn, always choosing charm over convenience, history over precision.

“You’re going places, Gguk. I just know it.”

Jeongguk didn’t even know what to say back then. Just stood there while you grinned, cheeks red from the cold, and told the old man behind the counter, “He’s going to be brilliant.”

You had believed in him long before he knew how to.

Jeongguk stood there again now, the memory coiling around his chest, slow and thick.

Jiwoo stepped inside first, glancing around, then nodded to the older man behind the counter who’d given her a look like she didn’t belong in his store.

She ignored it. Focused on Jeongguk. Didn’t say much. Let him take his time.

“How did you even know this place?” he asked, voice low.

She shrugged. “I asked Taehyung. He said something about how much you loved coming here.” That was all. No added explanation. No weight in her tone.

Jeongguk turned toward the glass display, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. The cameras hadn’t changed. Dust along the edges. Faint scratches in the wood counter from years of elbows and fingerprints.

The weight in his chest didn’t lift.

It sank.

When it all ended, Jiwoo gave him a small wave from across the street before slipping into a cab. Jeongguk watched her go, then crossed to the station, not to board a train, but to sit. The bench was cold. The air sharper now. He stared into the nothing ahead, not moving, not thinking.

But his hands itched. Restless. As if the silence pressed too hard against his skin.

He didn’t know how long he sat before standing again, feeling pulled tight like a stretched thread.

The tattoo shop was just around the corner – small, almost hidden, with a faded sign and a door cracked open like an invitation.

Inside, the needle buzzed before words could form.

The artist glanced at his arm. “Covering up the old one?”

Jeongguk nodded. “Something like that.”

He barely looked at the design in the mirror, a crescent moon cradling a handful of stars.

Simple. Quiet. No noise. No movement. No expectations.

He winced as the needle bit into his skin, the pain sharp but steady, grounding him.

A punishment. A mark for running away. For choosing silence over love, again and again. A mark for guilt that made a home in him and never left. For turning his back when your hands were still reaching for him. A mark for all the mistakes he’s ever done. For everything he couldn’t face – then and now.

When the buzzing stopped, he touched the fresh ink with trembling fingers.

The moon and stars were there to stay.

The sun—yours—was gone, and he’d covered it himself.

The artist stepped away to clean up, leaving Jeongguk alone under the harsh glow of the overhead light.

He sat there a moment longer, sleeve rolled up, skin raw. His phone felt heavier than it should’ve in his palm.

No thinking. No pacing. Just a quiet inhale—then he pressed the number he’d taken from Taehyung earlier.

The line rang once. Then again. “Namjoon-ssi, can you please meet me?”

Namjoon didn’t ask why. He didn’t have to. When Taehyung had passed along the quiet request for help, and the moment Jeongguk stepped into the office – slumped shoulders, bloodshot eyes, a hollowness where pride used to sit – Namjoon already knew.

He began explaining — carefully, briefly — how things worked. What needed to be filed. What Jeongguk should expect.

But Jeongguk barely listened.

“Just want it fair,” he muttered after a long silence. “Everything we built… she deserves her half. Or more. I don’t care. Just get it done.”

Namjoon set his pen down. “You don’t have to do this angry. You should know at least what you’re walking away from.”

“I know exactly what I’m walking away from,” Jeongguk snapped. His voice cracked, then dropped. “A house that used to be a home. A bed that used to be filled with love. And a woman who still looks at me like I haven’t fucked up everything. I don’t fucking deserve that. She doesn’t deserve this version of me.”

Namjoon didn’t flinch. “And you think divorce is going to solve that?”

Jeongguk’s hands curled into fists, then loosened. The anger gave way to exhaustion. “She deserves better. I’ve already broken her. I don’t want to stay just to keep breaking her in smaller pieces.”

Namjoon tried again, voice quieter this time. “Walking away will just her hurt her more.”

“It’s a clean slate,” Jeongguk said. “Maybe for both of us. It won’t be waking up beside her and still feeling like I’m drowning. It won’t be watching her look at me like I’m someone else. And I won’t have to keep dragging her down this shithole I’ve dug for myself.”

Namjoon nodded slightly. He didn’t push more after that. Just took down the details Jeongguk gave him. The terms. The assets. The accounts. He worked in quiet rhythm, the pen moving steadily across paper.

“She’ll need to sign it too,” he said eventually.

“I know,” Jeongguk stared at the ceiling. “Just… not yet.” Silence passed. “I need to… break it to her gently. Figure out how.”

Days passed like slow echoes. Some nights, Jeongguk stayed late in the office, finishing edits no one asked for. Other evenings, he met Jiwoo for coffee or dinner, sometimes letting her distract him with things that made him laugh for a moment too long. But the weight stayed.

Then one morning, the envelope came. Sealed and clean, the final draft tucked inside.

It was waiting on his desk when he arrived—no fanfare, no message, just his name typed on the front in sterile black ink.

Jiwoo was already in the room, seated across from his desk, reviewing campaign drafts. She looked up when she heard him stop short. “That it?”

He nodded, already pulling a pen from the drawer. No pause. No ceremony.

She watched him sign. “You’re really doing it.”

Jeongguk didn’t look up. “Already did.” He capped the pen, slipped the papers into the bottom drawer of his desk and closed it quietly.

And he didn’t look at them again.

The papers stayed buried in his desk drawer, untouched and unsigned by anyone but him. Days turned over like pages—quiet, deliberate, unread. And in the hush between what was and what they couldn’t name anymore, time moved forward anyway.

The house remained the same – clean, lived-in, routine. The silence wasn’t new anymore. It had settled in long ago, worn down by time, no longer sharp or painful – just there, like faded wallpaper touched by the sun.

Conversations, when they happened, were brief and practical.

One morning, you placed the empty detergent bottle on the counter. “We’re out of detergent,” you’d said without looking at him.

“I’ll grab some tomorrow,” Jeongguk replied, barely glancing up from his phone.

Another time, while folding towels that still smelled faintly of rain, you spoke up again. “Water bill’s due Friday.”

“Okay.” He didn’t ask how much. You didn’t offer. The moment passed without ripples.

Sometimes, you left the house first. Sometimes, he did.

That morning, Jeongguk paused by the trash bin as you headed out. “Trash day’s tomorrow. Did you sort the bags?”

You stopped, rubbing your forehead. “It’s your turn to sort the trash.”

He gave a quiet, almost automatic nod.

You didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t ask for one.

You were slipping on your coat when he noticed – no keys in your hand. Just your phone, already pulled up to book a ride.

“You’re not driving?” Jeongguk asked, glancing up from the sink.

You shrugged lightly. “Car won’t start. Battery’s dead, I think.”

He wiped his hands on a dish towel. “I’ll take it to the shop after work. You can take mine.”

You mumbled a ‘thanks’. Left before he could say anything else.

There were no fights. No pointed silences. Just a kind of practiced cohabitation that neither strained nor healed. Like two people who had memorized the layout of the same house but stopped meeting in the same rooms.

It was the kind of evening that used to mean something.

The kind where candles would’ve flickered on the table, laughter echoing off the kitchen tiles, your arms looping around his neck as if the world outside your home didn’t exist. Where the scent of dinner wasn’t just food – it was love folded into small efforts.

But those days had long gone quiet. Faded slowly. Softly. Without a fight.

Jeongguk didn’t knock. Didn’t slide his key into the lock. Just stayed by the front steps, close enough to see through window, far enough that you wouldn’t notice him there.

The dining table was set for two. Silverware neatly placed; bowls of warm food left untouched on both sides. He knew the dishes right away – meals you used to make to remind him of home. Or maybe, to hold on to the hope that it still was home.

You were still dressed in something soft but presentable, like you hadn’t quite given up the idea of company. Your hair was pinned back the way you used to wear it for dinners, neat and plain, but still cared for.

Between rearranging the plates, he watched you pick up your phone, glance at it now and then, quietly waiting – not quite hopeful, but not yet giving up either.

You poured water into both glasses. Straightened the tablecloth’s edge. Sat down for a moment, then stood up again.

It was the waiting, Jeongguk realized, that undid him. Not the food or the setting or even the way you’d tried to make everything familiar – but the way you kept looking toward the door. Like maybe this would be the year he remembered. Like maybe you hadn’t stopped leaving room for him yet.

Jeongguk didn’t move. Didn’t give himself away.

And after some time, something in your posture shifted—too subtle for anyone else to notice, but not him.

You blew out the candle. Pushed in your chair. Started packing things up with the quiet, careful way you did now—like a shield around you.

No dramatic pause. No lingering. You just...let it go.

Jeongguk stayed in that moment a little longer. Let the silence draw a line between the man he was then and the one sitting here now.

He remembers the morning after the anniversary and your birthday, leaning against the headboard, the food tray with Makguksu and Samgyeopsal. He felt he didn’t deserve the small kindness and tried to ignore it, while the feeling of regret kept growing inside him.

Then there was Taehyung, the office, and the papers he’d kept hidden. Jeongguk remembers signing them without hesitation. How instead of being honest and ending things, he kept the agreement a secret. In that moment, fear and denial held him back – he had signed away his marriage, but didn’t have the courage to deal with what came next.

Jeongguk remembers the look on your face when you found them. No words, just a quiet, heavy stare—as if you finally saw everything you’d been avoiding. That look hurt him more than any fight, revealing the vulnerable man beneath his tough mask.

And when you asked him if he loved her, he was too scared to tell you the truth. That he didn’t. That it was just means of his escape. The mess he made was only a way to hide from the man he’d become.

Then Namjoon showed up with a new agreement and a list that felt more like a punishment back then. It felt like a burden. But over time, those things stopped feeling like chains and became a strange kind of guide.

Those times and the person he had turned to, used to haunt him. Sometimes it still pressed against his chest, sharp and shame-shaped. But the pain no longer ruled him. Instead, it had become a quiet reminder of how far he’d come—how much he’d survived and was now trying to find a way back to a place that once felt like home.

Jeongguk took a slow breath, trying to hold on to that fragile hope—of something better, something steadier.

Outside the car, Jiwoo waited quietly. Not rushing. Not pressing. Just waiting.

And in that moment, Jeongguk held onto the calm as best he could.

He stepped out, followed her down the street to a small café nearby. It was new, clean, quiet. Nothing fancy. Orders were placed – black coffee for him, green tea for her and some food he barely registered while she chatted with the server.

When it came, that’s when his attention dropped to the food she had ordered, a slice of lemon cake.

“Still?” Jeongguk asked with his brow raised.

Jiwoo gave a small, almost playful smile. “Moving to a new city doesn’t change my food choices.”

He doesn’t go along with the playful remark. Just jumps right in. “Do you remember when we started drifting apart?”

Jiwoo nodded. “After you got that tattoo.”

He chuckled dryly. “Funny how I got it because you said the moon and stars didn’t have expectations.”

She gave a small smile, not proud, not sad. Just knowing. “That was supposed to comfort you. Didn’t think you’d go ink it on your skin.”

“Thought it’d fix something,” Jeongguk admits. “Make it easier to carry. You know…the guilt. Everything else.”

Jiwoo fiddled with the cake. “It didn’t.”

“It didn’t,” he agreed. Silence stretched between them, then softly he asked, “Do you remember when we completely stopped?”

She nodded, looking down. “That café in Hapjeong. You told me she found the divorce papers. And the list she’s making you do.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything at first. His gaze drops to the rim of his coffee cup, and for a moment, the café around them fades.

To another café. To another day. Hapjeong.

“I don’t know if I’m a good person,” Jiwoo said quietly, her voice barely rising above the hum of the street outside. “Sometimes I think maybe I deserve to lose everything.”

Jeongguk looked at her then—really looked. “You didn’t make me love her less,” he said. “That’s on me. And you’re not losing anything. I’m here. I’m still here.”

Jiwoo swallowed, gaze darting to the window. “For how long?”

His gaze stayed stead, but something behind it softened. “As long as necessary,” he said. “To make sure you’re okay. To help you figure out whatever you need to do next.”

A brief silence followed, broken only by the gentle clink of a spoon from another table.

She didn’t look at him, but he caught the way her fingers curled around the hem of her sleeve.

Then, more quietly, he added, “After that, I’m going on with that list.”

The silence that followed wasn’t surprised — it was quiet. Knowing.

Jiwoo’s voice was thin when it came. “You never loved her any less, did you?”

Jeongguk’s gaze held hers, steady but distant, as if weighing a truth he’d long avoided. “Guess I didn’t.” he said quietly. “Think I just lost my way. Lost who I’d become. Changed into someone I barely recognized.”

He swallowed, voice thick. “I didn’t know how to come back.”

Jiwoo’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What made you want to find your way back?”

Jeongguk’s eyes dropped to the table. “The way she still looked at me,” he said. “Like I wasn’t lost at all. It’s been that way all these years. Was just too blinded by all the pain, all the failures, all the disappointments. Let them take hold.”

He drew in a breath, slow and quiet. “I’m done with that. No more running. No more escaping. I’m going on with this list the right way. I’m going to mean it. No more lies. No more hurting her. No more going behind her back.”

Jiwoo’s eyes stay fixed on. “You think that’s going to make her forgive you?”

Jeongguk’s thumb traced the rim of his cup. “Not doing this for forgiveness. Accepted a long time ago that nothing I do will reverse everything I’ve done.”

She sighed softly. “You said the list is a set of conditions she made before finalizing the divorce. You do know that completing it means ending everything between you, right?”

“I know.” He swallowed down the nerves. “But until then, I’m going to try to love her the right way. I’ll just love her – no ‘what ifs,’ no ‘buts.’ And if she lets me go – then that’s just the consequence of every fucked-up choice I made.”

“You’re fucked up, Jeon.” Jiwoo let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Should’ve never started that divorce agreement. Should’ve owned up to your mistakes years ago.”

“Too late for that now.” Jeongguk gave a faint chuckle, low and a little worn. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this. I know one apology won’t fix anything, but… I’ll be around. If you need help with anything moving forward, I’m here.”

“Thanks,” Jiwoo said softly. Then, after a pause, “Guess I should start looking for another company.”

“You want to leave?”

“Doesn’t feel right staying,” she said, meeting his eyes briefly. “Not if you’re going to try again with her.”

The days slipped by as Jeongguk helped Jiwoo navigate her transition. He made calls, pulled strings, even visited a couple of agencies on her behalf.

One evening, after finalizing some transfer logistics, they sat in silence at a convenience store bench.

“You look tired,” Jiwoo muttered without looking at him.

Jeongguk cracked a weak smile. “Have felt worst.”

“You don’t have to do all this.”

“Just let me help.”

She didn’t argue. Just nudged his knee with hers once—quiet thanks unspoken.

Jeongguk followed through with the Chuncheon firm. Quiet team, flexible direction—room for Jiwoo to breathe. He drove her up for the meeting, vouched for her, stepped out when needed. They made her an offer the same day.

On the ride back, Jiwoo turned to him, “You did more than I expected.”

“Good luck out there.” Jeongguk kept his eyes ahead as the city lights faded behind them.

Steam hissed softly nearby, mingling with murmurs and the occasional metallic clink. The rich aroma of fresh coffee wrapped around him, pulling Jeongguk back to the moment.

Jiwoo’s calm gaze met his across the café’s warm light. “You didn’t ask me to meet you to reminisce our era.”

“Don’t make it sound like some concert tour we’ve headlined.”

“Not me. Just you. Would’ve been a great idol.”

Jeongguk smirked. “What would my stage name be? ‘DJ Regret’?”

Jiwoo chuckled, shaking her head. “More like ‘The King of Sorrys.’ Your fan club would be huge.”

His smile faded, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Why’d you do it?”

“Not gonna ask when I did it?” Jiwoo shot back, a teasing edge in her voice.

“If you were gonna go through my phone, at least mess with the archive too,” he said calmly.

What happened next wasn’t a question of if, but when.

In the days that followed, Jeongguk had settled into a new rhythm—balancing work, the list, and the slow rebuilding of what was once lost. Meanwhile, Jiwoo adjusted to life in Chuncheon, facing fresh challenges with a quieter pace.

It was during a late afternoon in the office, sifting through the cabinet, making space for a new team’s mock-up, that Jeongguk stumbled across it – clean layout, pinned swatches, slipped sketches, a familiar signature on the corner. It was Jiwoo’s.

He tore out a notepad page, scribbled her name and phone number, taped it on the corner. Then sent out a text before returning to the rest of his day filled with back-to-back meetings.

Jeon: Found your old board. Front desk if you need it. Swamped.

Later that evening, Jiwoo stepped into the lobby. The receptionist, mid-call and juggling a delivery form, waved her through. “It’s in the corner, go ahead. Got to deal with a mix-up.”

She spotted the board exactly where she was told. Her name and number marked clearly on a note stuck at the top. As she peeled it off, another paper came loose beneath it – same notepad, different message.

Messy handwriting. A scribbled list. Restaurant names stacked one after the other, some crossed out, others with times rewritten, erased, replaced again. One had a smudged heart half-erased. Another with a small sun doodle at the end. A few notes scattered like Go early. Less crowded. Cheesecake out of stock. Pass.

Jiwoo paused, reading it twice. Didn’t take much to guess what it was. Or who was it for.

He still hadn’t said it.

Nearby, Jeongguk’s phone buzzed once on the front desk – forgotten, maybe dropped in the middle of another rushed hour.

She picked it up, tapped the camera roll, scrolled briefly. Found the clip—one from a late-night drive some time ago. Her voice in the background, laughing. Posted it to his story.

Then walked out with the board in hand. And just like that, it was done.

Jeongguk exhaled slowly, the weight of the past settling quietly as he looked at Jiwoo.

“Did you know she almost finalized the divorce that night?”

Jiwoo didn’t flinch. “Good. It shook her.”

“Was that what you meant to do? Some kind of revenge? Karma I deserved?”

“No, Jeon,” she said, calm but unyielding. “It was meant to shake both of you. I knew she’d see it. Knew you’d find it. You made this big declaration about wanting to love her again – and you still haven’t said it.”

“I was trying to make myself worthy enough before telling her.”

“And when will that be?” Her voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. “You’ve spent the last three years trying. Said it yourself – you got lost chasing the version of you she once loved. The one she still loves. And you’re still going in circles. When will you realize that no matter who you try to be, she’s going to love you anyway?”

Jeongguk’s face stayed still, but the silence between them grew heavy with unspoken words. “You weren’t part of this anymore. You had no right to get involved.”

“If I didn’t, would you have pushed yourself to try harder for her? To be there for her?”

Jeongguk leaned back slightly, jaw tense. “That wasn’t your choice to make.”

“But it was a choice that started to make things better for you, didn’t it?”

He remained quiet, the weight of her words pressed down on him.

Jiwoo started to gather her things. “Just be fucking honest for once. Love her like you used to. Or maybe even better,” she pauses briefly, then adds. “Stop wasting time. You won’t realize when time will run out and you’re left with regrets instead of love that should’ve been yours to hold.”

She left before he could say a word, the silence between them closing like the last page of a book.

Jeongguk swallowed hard, the truth in Jiwoo’s words hitting him like a sudden, cold wave. His phone buzzed, breaking the silence. The screen glowed with a photo of you, lips pressed softly to his cheek, eyes closed in a moment of pure tenderness.

He stared at it, breath steadying. A soft light began to grow inside him, like the first rays of a sunrise finally breaking through after a long wait.

[venusbyline]

Fair Agreement (2/2)

previous chapter

— summary: One drunken night is all it takes for Jacaerys to honor his promise about let his best friend fuck his twin sister. However, after years of a forbidden and incestuous situationship, Jacaerys can't help but feel jealous watching Cregan taking you right in front of him.

— pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x twin sister!reader x Cregan Stark

— type: smut, modern AU

— word count: 2.4k

— tags/warnings: female!reader, Targcest (twin brother/twin sister), threesome FMM (female/male/male), quite Jacegan too, drunk sex, anal sex (female receiving), rough vaginal sex, double penetration, leaned-back reverse cowgirl position, rough oral sex (female receiving/male giving, male receiving/male giving), handjob (male giving), vaginal fingering, anal fingering (female receiving/male giving), no lube, spit as lube, spit kink, unprotected sex/no condoms, overstimulation, squirting, creampie, cum swallowing, rough kissing, praise kink, degradation kink, hair-pulling, cock warming, cock worship, pussy worship, body worship, voyeurism, dacryphilia, light subspace, no aftercare, Jacaerys' first time with a man, Cregan's first time with a man, sexuality crisis, unestablished relationship, ambiguous/open ending, bisexual(?)!Jacaerys, bisexual(?)!Cregan, switch!Jacaerys, switch!reader, dom!Cregan. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: FINALLY THE UPDATE 🔥🔥🔥 I'm soooo excited to post this last part. My apologies to the readers who don't like open endings 😭😭💕💕 But I hope you guys like that twoshot!!! 🥰🥰 Comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated.

— author's notes²: Random confession... Sometimes I even wanted to be the kind of smut writer who writes these things listening to singers like The Weeknd, Beyoncé, Lana Del Rey... but I write smut fics listening to Brazilian funk songs kinda often lmaooo it's quite funny actually (btw... yeah I'm from Brazil 🤭🤭)

❥ Fair Agreement masterlist

— crossposting: AO3

❥ Jacaerys masterlist • Cregan masterlist • HOTD masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

After Jace nodded to Cregan, agreeing that he should go ahead with what you asked them, the blond rubbed his thumb on your clit once again to relax you, the tip of his middle finger still inside your back hole. He did not try to insert the rest yet, knowing that your body would recoil if he went too fast and all at once.

Instead, Cregan focused on keeping one hand on your bundle of nerves and the other on Jacaerys' cock, which was starting to throb in his hand, the sight of his friend's heavy balls being an indication that he would not last much longer without at least a pause between those touches.

Even though Cregan was not into orgasm denial, it would be impossible not to do it at that moment. Jacaerys would take a while to get aroused again if he came so soon, and the idea about fucking you at the same time would end up taking longer than the three of you would like.

Jacaerys let out a groan that sounded like a pathetic whimper when Cregan released him, the rosy cock slamming into his own stomach, hard and heavy with the denial of the high. "Son of a bitch..."

"Mind your tongue, Jace." Cregan scoffed at Jacaerys' reaction, squeezing the boy's thick thigh and eliciting a second groan from him. "Focus on your little sister."

Swallowing the urge to curse his best friend, Jace turned to you, who were sprawled on the bed, legs open and eyes focused on Cregan's fingers between them. Your brother followed your gaze, sighing and smiling almost too sweetly when you moaned in pleasure, arching your head back. "Are you enjoying it, little sister?" Jacaerys gripped your neck with tenderness, nibbling on your jaw as your parted and swollen lips let out more sweet sounds when Cregan began to fuck his digit a little deeper. "You look so gorgeous right now, my little slut..."

You nodded, not really knowing what you were doing. Your mind was going crazy with the combination of Cregan's thumb circling your clit and his middle finger now inside your ass. "Oh, fuck! Cregan..." You practically screamed when your brother's best friend straightened up, kneeling on the mattress between your thighs and sticking his face there to start to lick your folds, fingering you. It was a fucking overstimulation, he had already eaten you out before all that, and now you still needed to endure a lot more.

Jacaerys' cock throbbed with the sounds you made, emitting a mix of desperation for more and the pain of feeling Cregan's index finger forcing itself into that same hole to open you up more. This time, after so many confirmations from you in the past minutes, Jacaerys did not stop Stark. He just grabbed your chin so he could kiss you, the free fist jerking off his own arousal and controlling himself not to spill it out on himself.

Cregan watched everything attentively, his soft mouth alternating about sucking on your bud and also licking the juices that ran from your pussy. The feeling of having two long thick fingers into your ass was indescribable, even Cregan was enjoying the way you squeezed him like a bitch in heat. He felt the moment your body trembled and your clit throbbed a little on his tongue, moans being strangled by your twin's kiss.

"How do you feel?" Jace asked while he pulled away enough to see your facial expression, all fucked up with a haze of pleasure.

"I'm all wet and horny..." You purred panting, receiving low chuckles from both Jacaerys who was stroking your hair, and Cregan who slowly withdrew his digits, licking your taste before lifting his upper body, keeping the knees on the bed.

Cregan considered some possible positions for what was about to happen, then asked. "Who are you gonna take in your pussy?"

The answer to that question would also indicate who would fuck you from behind. It was no surprise to the guys when your cheeks turned red. "You..."

Jacaerys looked at you with a slight jealousy that he knew was unfounded, because the mutual agreement about being with other people had been decided in the last year of high school, and he had never felt much annoyance with the knowledge that you were fucking other men. However, watching it in person left him with a discomfort in the chest, which he did his best not to show, not wanting to ruin the mood or his friendship with Cregan.

Stark's gray eyes looked over the twins and he murmured then. "Fine. So you can get on top of your brother and—"

You interrupted him, confused and thinking Cregan wanted you to get in the doggy style position to him, but on top of Jace. "But I said I want you to fuck my pussy, not him."

The words angered Jace, wishing that stupid jealousy would go away. "You're supposed to get on top of me but face away from me. Almost the reverse cowgirl position." He tried to explain, realizing that your reasoning was slow due to your recent climax. "With your body a bit arched, the knees bent and your feet positioned on the mattress."

Cregan noticed the beginning of Jacaerys's lack of patience and intervened to prevent the Velaryon boy from being rude to his sister. "Just do what we tell you to do, princess." Jacaerys snorted when you agreed, obeying Cregan almost as if you were a puppy.

You felt Stark lift you by the arm and make you sit down, the juices of your pussy leaving a sticky trail on the white sheets. When you were already sitting next to him, Cregan grabbed your chin and kissed you, rough enough to cause you a tearful sigh, and fast enough that Jacaerys did not even have time to assimilate the discomfort that envy brought him.

"Spit." Cregan ordered, raising the palm towards you. You did not hesitate, gathering some saliva and spitting the way he told you. "Good girl." He praised.

Jacaerys bit the lower lip as his best friend rubbed his cock with your spit, helping the movements being more pleasurable and faster. The brunette boy clutched the bedsheets to stop moan in such a shameful way. He did not register the exact moment Cregan gave you the command to climb on top of him, only enjoying how the blond held his shaft upright, waiting for you being ready for the right position.

With a brief glance at your brother, you placed your legs on either side of his waist, practically sitting back on the warm skin of his lap. However, you slightly arched your body upwards and bent your knees. That way, Cregan received a perfect view of your dripping pussy just inches above Jacaerys' needy cock, his face quite wary. "Open her ass cheeks."

Jace did as instructed, his hands going down your body, leaving your tight puckered hole on a better display for the other guy. Cregan took a deep breath, his neglect arousal bothering him beyond measure. He then held Jacaerys' cock tighter and finally fitted its tip inside you.

The absence of any real lube turned everything complicated. Even that single bit hurt your insides and your body flinched so bad. "R-Relax, little sister..." Jacaerys said to reassure you, shaky and weak voice, his balls heavy with the animalistic need that consumed him. Little by little, Jacaerys managed to get it all in, closing the eyelids and letting out a low growl, his palms squeezing your buttocks. "Holy shit..."

Tears rolled down your cheeks, your legs trembling to the point that you thought they would give out at any second, even when Jace continued to hold on.

Your brother's cock felt like it would rip you in half, and Cregan noticed the initial pain, rubbing your clit to relax you.

"Oh, fuck..." Jace whined, feeling your hole crushing him. "Can you move, sister? Please... Fucking please. I need you riding me. I need it so bad."

Listening to your twin brother begging was like music to your ears. The persistent pain became irrelevant when compared to that desire to continue witness Jace go crazy over all of that. Cregan nodded to you and it was all you needed to start moving up and down, Jacaerys' shaft impaling you with each bounce. His moans mixed with your whimpers, both of you very desperate for more.

As you bounced on Jace, Cregan approached the boy's face who was with his mind messed up with all the horny, not complaining when his best friend simply pulled his sweaty curls and ordered him to open his mouth. Jace obeyed him like a dirty whore and Cregan growled seeing his reddish tongue sticking out, then he put his cock inside at once.

Neither Cregan nor Jacaerys had fucked men until that night, Jacaerys' inexperience caused him to gag several times around the thick shaft, a large amount of spit running down himself.

You looked over the shoulder when you heard Jace's gagging sounds, gasping in shock at their sudden naughtiness, your movements increasing the pace and your wet pussy clenching around nothing yet.

A few minutes passed and Cregan pulled himself out of the brunette's mouth, smirking when Jace pouted after the emptiness in his throat. "Who would've thought the biggest womanizer of the campus is also a whiny little slut." Stark mocked his best friend's reaction, patting his pretty face and coming back to you.

Stopping procrastinating, Cregan positioned himself in front of the two of you and entered your tight little pussy. As soon as you cried out in pain, Jacaerys tightened his grip on your ass to keep you still until you got used to the double penetration. Cregan's cock was much thicker than Jace's, despite Jace's being longer. Anyway, being filled by both of them at the same time was an overstimulation beyond what you were used to.

The two guys waited for you to get used to the intrusion. Cregan brought one arm to your neck, grabbing you with unexpected delicacy so he could brush the mouth against yours, his other hand stimulating your bundle of nerves, an attempt to help you feel less sore.

Cregan groaned feeling your warm soaked core spasming around him. He broke the kisses, admiring Jacaerys beneath you... and their exchange of glances was enough for both of them started to thrust together. It took a while for them to establish a pace that was really good for you. Jacaerys' hips moved upwards into your ass, but not too fast or rough. Unlike Cregan, who fucked your pussy like a hound, his thumb keeping to circle your clit and his free palm pressing your soft breasts, giving special attention to both of them, each one at a time.

"O-Oh, oh shit... Sister, I'm... I'm gonna cum!" Jacaerys cried out, failing to control his release and moaning his own twin sister's name out loud, spilling inside that ass right away.

Jace's seed warmed your insides and your pussy convulsed on Cregan's cock soon, two short and quick jets of squirt wetting your brother's thighs and his best friend's groin. "Fuck... Do it again, princess." Cregan groaned, rubbing your clit with intense roughness, forcing you to squirt again and cum with a tearful scream. Your eyes became blurry, tears ran down the cheeks and your hearing became almost muffled. Even awake, your ability to move or say anything disappeared during a few seconds. Cregan took the opportunity to pull out of your sore pussy when your legs went limp and Jacaerys withdrew himself too.

Your high was what Cregan desired to seek his own release next. He used his fist to masturbate himself, moving on the mattress again until he was facing the twins, a silent command for both of you to open the lips. Despite your mutual tiredness, you and Jacaerys obeyed, sticking your tongues out and waiting for that white seed. Cregan managed to share the great amount of his cum between the two of you, some drops also shooting on Jace's cheeks and on your collarbone.

Your current weakness was worse than your twin's, you felt his mouth on yours to share and taste Stark's salty cum during the sloppy kiss, but you were too weak and hurt to want to sit up or stand up.

"Sweetheart... Are you okay?" Jace finally asked as he laid you down against his chest, the fingertips caressing your soft sweaty skin with love and affection.

Your nonverbal answer was not exactly appropriate after the sex. Cregan lay down on the other side, without touching you. "Use your words, princess." He said with a gentle but firm voice, to make sure that you were not dealing with some kind of subspace.

Swallowing hard with the throat aching, you nodded a second time and mumbled then. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... exhausted, I guess."

Jacaerys frowned at that shaky and unconvincing tone, sighing and kissing your forehead like he used to do during childhood every time you got hurt by accident. "I'mma draw you a bath."

It was Cregan's turn to frown at Jace's behavior. He understood a little how his best friend was feeling, because they had never done anything sexual or physical with boys, and never considered having sex with each other. This had gone beyond what the agreed upon promise about the expected threesome meant before. It was a complicated event for their friendship, and he could not blame Jacaerys for pushing him away so suddenly. Cregan was also embarrassed and knew it would take a while for things to get back to normal.

"Well, I think I should go home."

Cregan's warning caught you off guard. You stared at him with a sad look, your fingers instinctively gripping his wrist. Jacaerys grimaced at your random display of affection for his best friend.

"Aren't you gonna stay with us until the morning? Please?"

The blond gave you a soft smile, taking your hand from him and bringing it to his lips, giving a small peck there. He did not want you to feel just used by him, even though he was aware that everything had just been a casual night of intense sex between the three of you. Either way, Cregan's presence at Jacaerys' house was confusing the feelings of the feelings of all of you, and Cregan did not want to upset his friend.

It was just a fair agreement, was not it? Nothing more. Now it was time to leave to avoid those messy issues.

"Maybe another day, princess. I'm sorry."

[billloveshushu]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟏, 𝐏𝐫𝐭 𝟏,𝟐━ 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲.

✦━━ ℙ𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕠𝕟𝕚𝕔 𝔹𝕒𝕥𝕗𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕪 𝕩 𝔹𝕒𝕓𝕪𝕆ℂ.

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˚✧˙ 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ━━ A baby was rescued by Batman on one of his missions, feeling responsible, Bruce decided to adopt her. But the question is that the baby knew she was in the comic book world, not knowing how to react or why, will she survive in this traumatized family?

✦ ( "" ) Thoughts ( ━ ) Dialogue ✦

English is not my original language, the translation was done by Google Translate, só sorry for any spelling mistakes.

Only two days have passed since that night, the baby is still amazed at how much has changed in such a short time, especially Bruce, she knows he is quite busy with his duties as Batman and playboy Bruce Wayne so it wouldn't be surprising if he doesn't show up at the mansion every day, but somehow now he always finds time to spend with her even though in that time he learns how to take care of a baby, she still laughs when she remembers that day.

Bruce's hands were shaking as he held her, he was so focused that it seemed like he was dealing with a time bomb, and Alfred was by his side teaching him how to hold a baby without hurting him, the baby looked at the man who is the biggest nightmare of all Gotham criminals and started to laugh.

She was laughing and mocking Bruce, but in his vision it was different, he only saw a baby smiling and letting out sweet laughs with her pink cheeks. It seemed like a sun that warmed his insides, illuminating him with each laugh that came out and Bruce without realizing the corner of his lip rose.

From then on, Bruce didn't need much help from Alfred since he learned quickly, so his sense of overprotection began to grow. Every time he held her in his arms, he realized how much more fragile and defenseless she was. She wasn't like his other children. She wasn't trained from the beginning for combat and she wasn't super intelligent. She was just a regular baby. That's why Bruce stayed around the baby, even if it was through the mansion's cameras, and he regularly found himself worried about her, often calling Alfred to ask how she was.

Besides the fact that she is weaker compared to other babies, because in the orphanage where she lived, which was actually a front and a place for human trafficking, the children did not receive the necessary care and most of the time they went hungry, Bruce felt his veins pulsate just thinking about it, there is also the lack of records, he tried in many ways to find information about her birth or parental records but found nothing, so it was obvious, they planned to traffic her.

He regrets not beating up those drug dealers more, which is why Bruce had to resort to DNA testing to at least find out her ethnicity. Barbara applied to help and said it would take at least two days for the results. Meanwhile, Bruce prepared the other arrangements for the baby; this week would be quite long.

Then on the second day something strange happened, that day the baby tried to imagine what her past life was like, was she happy? What was her childhood like? Did she have parents? What was she like as an adult? And most importantly, how did she die...?

These questions had been going around her head all day, so that night, the baby tried so hard to remember more memories that she ended up falling asleep in the process, then she had a disturbing dream. She couldn't feel anything and all she saw was an immense darkness, it wasn't scary but rather sad and melancholic, it was nothing but darkness until in the sky she saw a little red dot, which gradually turned into a drop that fell to the center.

Then everything changed, she realized that it wasn't just a red drop... It was blood. It spread like a virus, the intense color shone in the place, she no longer felt sadness, she felt anger, a deep hatred but she had other feelings, fear... anguish that suffocated her, that trapped her in this red hell.

Like blood...

The baby woke up desperate, she was sobbing and short of breath, but she could still feel... those overwhelming emotions eating away at her flesh, her tears ran down her cheeks, she wanted to scream, get someone's attention, but she couldn't, as if it was registered in her body to suffer alone.

"Someone.. Ah... Please... Help!" he thought as his shortness of breath worsened.

At that moment Bruce was returning from patrol and heading towards his room, until he heard a sob and looked back realizing that the noise was coming from the baby's room, he immediately ran towards the noise, frustrated by the distance from his room, when he arrived and opened the door he was able to hear more clearly, they were small sniffles and a contained sob.

If he wasn't a person trained to hear the slightest noises he wouldn't have even noticed, getting closer he saw a distressed little baby with tears running down his face that was red trying to breathe heavily, Bruce quickly shouted calling Alfred and tried somehow to find what was wrong.

He gently picked up the baby feeling even more distressed, she wasn't crying like a normal baby, who screams and makes a fuss if something is bothering her, she was curled up like a shell letting out only small sobs and her mouth was tightly closed with only her tears coming out.

Bruce checked to see if any part of her body was hurt until he realized that she was holding her breath━ No no, please breathe! ━ he held her little head as he desperately tried to make her breathe.

Amidst so many tears, the baby managed to see Bruce's face blurry, who was desperate, seeing that someone was at his side to help, her breathing began to return slowly, her mouth opened and closed trying to make some sound, she stretched out her arms towards Bruce, touching his face and becoming calmer.

Bruce caressed her little hand and said ━ It's okay, I'm here ━ He wiped her tears and hugged her to his chest, lightly patting her back. Alfred soon appeared, out of breath from having run. With him were the boxes of medicine.

After taking her temperature, Alfred said that she had a fever but that it wasn't serious and that she just needed to take some medicine. Bruce was confused. How could it not be serious?! He saw her losing her breath as if she was in extreme pain. Bruce told this to Alfred, who was extremely worried and recommended that the doctor's appointment be rescheduled for tomorrow. Bruce agreed and looked at the room. It was a decent room but it showed his neglect of her at the beginning. It was far from his main room and he was completely unprepared in case something like what happened today happened.

Bruce turned to Alfred━ She will sleep with me tonight this place is not safe━ Alfred was surprised but did not disagree━ What are you planning sir?

━ I'm going to renovate the room closest to mine, and I'm going to install the security system in it━ the baby they thought was sleeping on Bruce's shoulder looked at him with wide eyes " what!? "

"Wait a minute! I know today was tense, but it's not that bad!!"

She looked at Alfred desperately "You don't agree with this nonsense, do you!?" and breaking her expectations Alfred said━ I completely agree, Sir.

The baby with her puffy cheeks looking like a pufferfish while drinking her liquid medicine thought "It's not fair..." Bruce couldn't help but pinch her cheeks as the baby slapped his hand away in irritation.

The next day it happened exactly as Bruce said, the baby spent the night in his room, she slept peacefully on his chest as if nothing had happened, he on the other hand, couldn't sleep and spent the whole night worried about her, and sometimes he just watches her sleeping perhaps envying her for her peace.

It was only in the morning that Bruce managed to sleep, but he was soon woken up by Alfred opening the curtains. He saw the baby already awake playing with his hand. He kissed her on the forehead and got up. The people Bruce had hired to do the renovations soon appeared. He comforted Alfred by saying that they were trustworthy people.

Suddenly the doorbell rang, Alfred answered it and came back accompanied by a woman in a wheelchair, she was beautiful and wore glasses, her hair was red and she was carrying a purse, she greeted Bruce and looked around as if she were looking for something, then her eyes shone when she found the baby.

" Bárbara Gordon?! " the baby was surprised by the woman who approached, it wasn't every day that she met the esteemed Barbara Gordon, daughter of Commissioner Gordon, the iconic Batgirl herself and one of the most intelligent people in DC, while thinking the baby suddenly felt in the air and realized that she was now in Barbara's lap.

Barbara was smiling beautifully ━ Good morning princess ━ ​​she said and kissed the baby's cute little cheeks who blushed, Barbara already knew her? But she doesn't remember meeting her.

The baby doesn't know, but when Bruce wanted to do the DNA test Barbara decided to come personally to collect the samples, but she was curious about the new child that Bruce adopted, when she found out that it was a baby she thought the decision was irresponsible, taking care of a baby is difficult and more dangerous with the lives of Punishers that they lead, the proof of this is her legs, the memory of the attack was still engraved in her mind.

Thinking that this could happen to a baby irritated her.

And when she arrived at the mansion she planned to leave quickly, that's when she saw her, Alfred showed the sleeping baby in the nursery so it was easier to get the sample, Barbara found her appearance quite rare, especially her red hair, she acted carefully so as not to wake her up and collected a bit of her beard, when she was going to take her hand away the baby grabbed one of her fingers probably thinking it was one of her stuffed animals.

Barbara stopped and watched the baby hugging her hand, her little cheeks around her transferring their warmth to her cold palm, Barbara couldn't help but find this very cute, it somehow eased her fleeting anger, realizing that this adoption can't be that bad.

That day Barbara felt comforted.

Now Barbara noticed that she had smeared the baby's face with her lipstick, she laughed nervously and wiped the baby's face with a tissue until she heard a dry cough behind her, she slowly turned to receive Bruce with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow ━It seems like someone woke up in a bad mood today━ she commented as she looked at Bruce's messy appearance.

He sighed━ Did you come to play with my daughter or hand over the documents I lost ━ he held out his hand waiting for the file, Barbara snorted━ It's here, you bore!━ she said taking the folder out of her bag and handing it over.

━ Isn't he annoying, baby?━ She asked the baby who raised his arms trying to grab the locks of her hair. Barbara laughed when she saw the baby enchanted with her hair. ━ Yes, dear, you're not the only redhead in this house ━ The baby managed to grab one of the locks and smiled, showing her dimples. Barbara felt her heart melt at the sight and couldn't hold back and kissed her little face even more.

Bruce sat in an armchair as he read the files. Through the sample, he discovered that the baby's ethnicity is Latin, her parents were probably immigrants and had the bad luck of falling into the wrong hands. He flipped through the pages and found nothing else of interest ━ Didn't you find anything else? ━ Barbara shook her head. ━ Unfortunately not, it's as if she never existed.

━ Hunn ━ he put his hand on his chin, that was impossible, the batcomputer had access to thousands of pieces of information, both confidential and public, not having even his parents' information was suspicious. While Bruce was thinking, Alfred appeared with a tray containing coffee and a bottle, he left the tray on a table and politely asked for Barbara's baby, who complained a little but let him, and he took her to another room, she looked back at Bruce ━ I heard what happened, Alfred told me, I'm glad she's okay ━ Bruce nodded ━ I'm taking her to the hospital today, I hope it's nothing serious.

━ You haven't given her a name yet, have you?

━...

━Bruce!!

He sighed━ I don't want to give her just any name, I want it to be special, with a meaning, that reminds her of her origins━ he shook the papers in his hand━ This might help, thank you very much Barbara.

She gave a small smile ━ No problem, but what about the others? You know it won't be long before they find out about her, I think even Tim already knows.

Bruce drank the coffee that Alfred left ━ Don't worry, I'll introduce her at the family dinner, until then I ask you not to tell anyone, and about Tim, he won't tell or simply doesn't care ━the family dinner, an occasion that Alfred plans every month, with the purpose of bringing the family together, even if it's a disaster with the frequent fights or an absurd silence that could even hear the flies buzzing.

For the first time Bruce found this meeting useful.

━ Oh yeah, I almost forgot ━ she turned on the TV at the exact moment the newspaper was on, Bruce was about to ask until the girl on television spoke━ Breaking news, apparently historians have discovered more about the greatest mystery in history, the Red Empress.

The newspaper continued talking about this, the red empress, a historical phenomenon that is a mystery to this day, whose existence was only discovered through reports from other countries, is considered a symbol of freedom and hope since it was through her that slavery in her country ended.

To reinforce the title historical mystery, not even her name was discovered and there was even a time when they thought she was a man, and her 'nickname' came through a report from a king who described her as having vibrant red hair, not even this was confirmed with certainty.

━ It's impressive, isn't it? Even after so many years we still know little about her ━ Barbara commented, Bruce never really paid attention to this subject, but he had to admit that it was fascinating.

Then Barbara had to leave, she had to take care of some unfinished business, the baby had a sad look as the woman left, she just wanted to spend more time with Barbara ━ Ó╭╮Ò ━ seeing the baby's eyes shining Bruce kissed her on the head━ No need to cry, you'll see her soon.

Soon the appointment time arrived, Bruce dressed in his usual casual suit and as the baby was wearing a pink jumpsuit and was wrapped like a taco, Bruce didn't want her to get sick again on the way. He took her to see Dr. Leslie Thompkins, even with their misunderstandings and fights in the past Bruce couldn't deny that Leslie is one of the best doctors he has ever known and at least she is a trustworthy person to take care of a baby.

Waiting in a private room at the hospital, the baby looked and recognized the old lady who opened the door, being one of Batman's old allies but for some reason she couldn't remember her name.

━ Good afternoon Dr. Leslie, and good to see you again ━ Bruce greeted her with a handshake, "Oh yes! That's her name! Leslie didn't appear that much in the comics, maybe that's why I forgot her name"

━ I'm glad to see you too Bruce━ she looked at the baby ━ Was that the child you rescued?━ Bruce nodded and she sighed.

━ I saw the news and read about her case, it really was a miracle, but today is not the day of her treatment, what happened? ━ Bruce told about what happened and also reported about the slight fever she had last night, she said she was going to do some tests and see if there was anything wrong.

Leslie took the stethoscope off the baby's back━ There's nothing wrong with her, but maybe I have a theory about it━ she pulled out some papers showing an x-ray of a head━ From what I saw the most concentrated injuries were on the head and maybe because of that some trauma arose.

She pointed to some spots in the photo explaining that some were not yet healed and others needed extensive treatment, the baby saw Bruce's hands close into a fist after Leslie spoke of the injuries, so she placed her little hand on top which Bruce responded by squeezing them making the baby laugh, Bruce gave a small smile to the side forgetting his anger.

Leslie stopped for a moment when she saw this scene. It was rare to see Bruce so emotional. She hadn't seen this side of him since her parents died. She shook her head, pushing her thoughts away, and continued her explanation. In the end, she decided to do some tests with Bruce's permission, and most of them were about locomotion and intellect, like playing with a brick cube and fitting it in the right place, or moving her arms and feathers when the doctor asked her to.

The baby put the last cube in place and Leslie wrote it down in her notebook and she turned to Bruce who was in the background watching━ The test went normally, there were no peculiarities━ Bruce sighed in relief.

"But of course, I had to pretend to be wrong on purpose so they wouldn't suspect me." The baby knows that faking the test is wrong, but if they knew about her having an adult conscience or that she knows that this world is made of comics, there's no knowing what will happen to her if they find out, so it's better not to risk it.

━ Since we didn't find anything wrong, the injuries probably don't affect her now but they could affect her in the future, so stay tuned ━ Leslie said as Bruce picked up the baby from the floor, if there's nothing wrong then what was that? Was it really just a nightmare? But would a nightmare cause such a reaction? Then he asked Leslie ━ Can this leave psychological trauma? Cause some kind of anxiety?

Leslie replied ━ She's very young so she can forget what happened, and that's good, she won't carry that trauma with her for the rest of her life ━ Bruce agreed and caressed the baby's face, looking into her eyes, it really is good news, the last thing he wants to see is this little angel suffer and lose the sparkle in her eyes.

In the end, the doctor prescribed some medicine if this happens again, but asked Bruce to wait a little while to talk━ I'm glad you entrusted her to me, but dare I ask, do you plan on making her-

━ No ━ Bruce interrupted her knowing what she was going to ask ━ I don't plan any of that for her, you don't need to worry about it.

She smiled and caressed the baby's face━ She is special Bruce, she was a warrior for surviving in those circumstances.

Bruce looked at the baby━ I know ━ and kissed her cheek━ She's a little ray of sunshine.

Three days have passed and the renovation of the baby's room is still not finished. Alfred even put a temporary nursery in Bruce's room, worried that the baby would start to depend on him to sleep, and she was shocked. "Alfred! It's not me you should be worried about, it's him!!!" she thought, pointing to Bruce. Not that she was complaining, Bruce's chest was a wonderful pillow but it was very tiring. Every time she slept in the nursery, Bruce woke her up in the middle of the night to sleep with him.

Apparently this is part of one of his overprotective paranoias, with her in his arms he can hear her heartbeat and protect her, this is comforting to him, even Alfred noticed that Bruce was sleeping well lately and he was quite happy about it, he doesn't even remember how much of a lecture he gave Bruce about his terrible sleeping habits talking about how a good night's sleep could be good for your health, but if he knew it was because of the baby he wouldn't be so happy.

The day started with the baby being woken up by Bruce kissing her forehead, she grunted trying to push him away because she was ticklish, he let out a little laugh and hugged her ━ Good morning sweetie ━ and got up to get ready while the baby tried to stay awake.

Alfred came and got the baby ready for breakfast and Bruce had to go to work to resolve some negotiations. In the kitchen, Alfred fed the baby a mixture of milk and medicine, as recommended by the doctor, since the medicine was too bitter for a baby.

Then Alfred took the baby for a walk in the garden, over time this became a pastime between Alfred and the baby, he showed her the flowers in the garden and enjoyed the calm and cozy time together, the baby in Alfred's arms looked at the beauty of the garden until she realized that in the background there was a vegetable garden.

The baby tugged on Alfred's sleeve and pointed to the vegetable garden, wondering what it was. ━ Oh, little miss, this is the vegetable garden your brother and I made together. ━ he said, coming closer and showing some freshly cleaned vegetables.

The baby tilted her head in confusion, "Brother? Which brother?" She approached a plant and realized something, "That's just like Damian. Even though he's an angry guy, he has very calm hobbies." She loved the fact that Damian likes to draw and is an animal lover to the point of becoming a vegan. It's no wonder he's her favorite Robin, even though he's annoying.

━Master Damian liked to water them early in the morning━ Alfred, even smiling, looked sad ━But now he's too busy for that...━ Alfred turned towards the mansion and the baby looked at the vegetable garden behind his shoulder.

Alfred had to do his job so he had to place the baby around several pillows in the living room, soon the baby got bored and moved uncomfortably, she hated being a baby and always being stuck in one place just waiting for someone to come by and ask for help so she could just get up.

She watched her little feet dangling and thought, "What if I try to stand up?" So she tried her best to get into a sitting position, but then she fell flat on her stomach on the couch, panting and sweating. "Wow! Just moving around made me so tired!"

So she gave up and took the opportunity to lie down on the couch, not knowing that someone was watching her through the cameras. Bruce, who was in a minimally boring meeting, took the opportunity to check the baby on the cameras on his cell phone and saw her get up, fall on her stomach on the couch and fall asleep. He had to hold himself back from laughing in the middle of the meeting.

At night, Alfred, after feeding her, gave her a bath and changed her clothes, putting on bunny-shaped pajamas. He had white fur with pink gloves and shoes and a hood with bunny ears and a bow.

This time it wasn't Alfred who bought it, it was Bruce who saw it in a shopping mall window and bought it almost automatically thinking it would look cute on the baby. After taking a photo, Alfred wrapped the baby in a blanket and sat in an armchair with her on his lap to read a story.

Just a second later the baby was already yawning with her eyes watering, Alfred noticed and quickly put her in the nursery, saying goodnight and giving her a kiss on the forehead, then he turned off the light and left Bruce's room.

The baby, as her eyes were about to close, lamented, thinking that she would soon be woken up by a certain person.

The next morning she woke up shocked realizing that she was still in the nursery, no one woke her up in the middle of the night and that meant that Bruce wasn't here, she should have been happy that he didn't disturb her but the opposite happened, in fact she was extremely worried.

Was he so hurt that he couldn't come? Or was he kidnapped by one of his enemies and is being terribly tortured? There were so many possibilities and situations that Batman could be in, that the baby was crying and let out a small cry calling Alfred's attention who came quickly.

In the butler's arms she let out grunts, pointing to the bed clearly asking where Bruce was, Alfred seeing this let out a small laugh and wiped her small tears with his thumb ━ Don't worry little one, I'll take you to Mr. Bruce ━ Alfred took her out of the room and walked through the corridor to the last door where Bruce's office was.

" Hun? He spent the night there, but why?"

Alfred knocked on the door but no one answered, he knocked again but again no answer, then he opened the door finding Bruce with glasses totally focused on a book and with other books around, you could see that he didn't sleep last night with his dark circles and tired look on his face.

Alfred coughed, attracting Bruce's attention, who finally looked up to see the two at the door. He sighed tiredly, taking off his glasses and pinching his eyebrows with a headache. He asked for the baby and Alfred handed it over ━ I never thought choosing a name would be so difficult ━ He caressed the baby's face, who was clearly angry with her eyebrows raised. Bruce looked at Alfred in confusion, asking for answers.

━ The little lady is upset because she couldn't find you this morning ━ Bruce gave a small smile and kissed the baby's cheeks apologizing "That's a lie! I was just worried" but she quickly forgave him now knowing that he did it thinking about her name.

Bruce showed the names to Alfred, most of them were from Latin America so that she would remember her origins but so far nothing pleased him, while they talked about looking for other names, the baby looked at the page of the book that Bruce was holding.

She looked through some names until one caught her attention, "Suyana..." somehow that name seemed familiar to her, as if a voice sounded in her mind, it was a soft voice calling her, she without realizing it placed her hand on the page attracting the attention of Bruce and Alfred.

Bruce held her and looked at the sheet finding the name she was pointing to━ Suyana, meaning hope in the Quechua language of South America ━ he thought the name suited her, hope... something he didn't imagine he would have in his life but now...

Alfred added, ━The meaning fits little miss, don’t you think, Mister Bruce?━ Bruce nodded, ━You’re right, and it’s quite unique like her.

━Did you like your name? Suyana━ the baby smiled happily, she finally had a name, she buried herself in Bruce's arms who hugged her too, she put her ear to his chest listening to his heartbeat, understanding now why Bruce likes that, it was relaxing to know that someone was by her side.

Bruce kissed her on the forehead but the baby pushed him away uncomfortable, he suddenly rubbed his chin realizing the problem ━ I should start cutting my beard.

Continued...

About the tag list, I don't know how to do it, so put in the comments who wants to be tagged in the next chapter. That way it'll be easier for me.🙂

Taglist : @fantasyhopperhea @daddysfangirls-dc @cruzerforce4256 @mallowryblog @ jsprien213 @kore-of-the-underworld @bookwarm0-0 @nxdxsworld​

[basicallyreigenarataka]

lost and found - toji x reader x sukuna

chapter 7: sukunas roommate

summary: sukuna brings you to his apartment so things don’t escalate with gojo and geto, there you meet his roommate.

* ooc, toji is shameless, crack, MDNI (a bit suggestive), NOT proof read 💔, lowkey i just am making the plot as i go sorry if it doesn’t make sense anymore i like adding random plot twists 💔

masterlist. prev. next

“um. if you don’t mind me asking… why is your roommates contact image frankie from shark tales?” you said between breathless giggles. you were too giggly to worry if the text you sent from sukunas phone sounded like sukuna or not. from the way he texted you, you assumed dry and cold. you hoped you pulled it off.

you were a giggling mess. this was so stupid. this huge, scary guy gave you his phone- willingly- to text his roommate you’d be coming over, and his profile picture is frankie from shark tales??? is sukuna secretly really funny?

your giggles seemed to be contagious, as sukuna couldn’t help but chuckle too. only chuckle, never actually laugh. you didn’t know why.

“he kinda looks like him. it’s a joke my friend uraume and i have.”

uraume? you’ve heard that name before. was it from the argument between shoko and geto? you think so.

that would make sense, actually.. you began to realize, your five brain cells working together to piece that shoko wasn’t the one to get sukuna to beat up gojo- but uraume.

you just giggled in response, looking down at the phone with curiosity by how much this man- toji, was blowing up his phone.

“should i-“ you were about to ask if you should respond to him, but sukuna was quick to shake his dead. “don’t.”

you nodded, biting your lip once more. you didn’t know how to respond to him, unsure if he was mad at you.

you took once glance at his stoic face, a flash of something mean in his eyes. for the millionth time this night, you curled into yourself, self conscious it was your doing to make him so mad.

sukuna is always sensing your discomfort. it made you feel bad for being so sensitive, and when he turned to give you a small, reassuring smile, your worry drowned away.

you were curious to what toji was saying, the phone was still buzzing with notifications from his number… was toji mad that sukuna was bringing you home on such short notice? or- oh no- what if he thought you two were hooking up?!

you must’ve been blushing furiously, because sukuna asked you if you were hot. you lied, telling him you were as an excuse, and without second thought he turned the ac on full blast.

you sat in silence for the rest of the ride, comfortable silence. you were fiddling with your phone, anxiously waiting for a text from gojo or geto, but it never came, much to your satisfaction.

when you arrived, sukuna stepped out of the car. “stay in here for a moment, i just have to call my roommate.” you nodded, noticing the way he locked his car after departing to call toji. did he seriously trust you to not steal his car right now? not that you were going to, but wow, he held a lot of faith in you!

sukuna groaned as he texted toji, a stressed hand running down his face. no way this douche just asked if she was single. he grumbled to himself as he hit toji’s contact and called him.

“yo,” toji spoke, his speech muffled around whatever food he was chewing.

“don’t be weird,” sukuna immediately said, voice cold. “i’m bringing her up now.”

before toji could retort, sukuna hung up. he didn’t want you to think he was taking too long.

moving to the passenger side door, sukuna unlocked his car and took your hand gently, “you okay?” he asked, voice gruff, as if he wasn’t sure how to sound friendly.

“mhm.” you nodded, “thank you for letting me stay tonight,” you smiled sheepishly, taking his hand with an appreciative smile and stepping out.

sukuna had to look away to hide his creeping blush.

“my roommates name is toji.” he began a conversation as he lead you up the complex’s multitude of stairs. “he’s fucking stupid, just ignore him.”

you just giggled in response, nervous yet oddly excited to meet this toji.

when you reached his door, sukuna opened the door for you. you didn’t expect him to be such a gentleman, considering his appearance. maybe it was wrong to judge a book by its cover.

“hey,” a surprisingly deeper voice called out, though it held more emotion than sukunas did.

“hi,” you waved shyly when you caught a glimpse of his roommate. you remember him from your psychology class. sukuna was right, he does kinda look like frankie from shark tales. you stifled a giggle.

toji immediately cracked a smirk at your shy behavior. it felt somewhat predatory… you didn’t know if you should be scared or turned on.

sukunas arm snaked around your waist, pulling you in the moment toji’s eyes wandered over your figure. he shot toji a warning glare, as if to silently say, she’s off limits.

but toji didn’t play fair, sukuna knew that.

“you brought home a pretty lil thing,” toji spoke mischievously, clearly trying to egg sukuna on. you blushed furiously at the comment, unsure if you should say thank you or stay silent.

“i told you toji, it’s not like that.” sukuna sighed, his grip around your waist tightening.

“looks like it,” toji whistled, glancing between your waist and his hand.

you shook your head, stammering slightly as you spoke, “no, no. he’s just… helping me out, tonight. i won’t be here again, i’m sorry.”

sukuna was about to scold you for apologizing, telling you there’s no need to and he invited you, but toji beat him to it.

“don’t apologize. i’d like to see you here again, under different circumstances.” he shot you a wink that had your knees weak.

you didn’t want to question what those ‘different circumstances’ were, but you were sure he was flirting.

sukuna growled, again. that same noise that had you both terrified and aroused.

“don’t say that shit,” he groaned, hitting toji’s shoulder. sukuna took your hand, practically yanking you along with him.

“like i said, ignore him.” he spoke, you could practically hear the way he gritted his teeth. he looked… jealous.

you just nodded, still bright red as you hummed along. “mhm.”

“do you need to take a shower?” sukuna asked, leading you to the bathroom. you smiled appreciatively, “that would be nice.”

though, walking into the men’s shared bathroom, you realized it would in fact not be nice. six in one? was this even legal? this couldn’t be fda approved.

you desperately wished you had your strawberry tree hut body scrub, your precious shampoo and conditioner, and at least a bar of soap! you’d also like some exfoliator and moisturizer, but they weren’t needs.

you have sukuna a ‘really?’ look, and, for the first time that night, he actually laughed.

“okay, order whatever you need.” he said, tossing you his phone as if it belonged to you.

“huh?” you blinked, eyes wide as you stared at him incredulously.

“my cards linked, just get what you need.” he spoke casually, as if this was normal.

you were about to reject his offer, tell him you could pay, but toji (of course) came in to ruin the moment.

“oh doll? you still showering? can i join?” he spoke, his voice low and flirtatious as he didn’t wait for a response, simply waltzing in. you didn’t know what made you blush more, the nickname or his obvious intentions of wanting to fuck.

sukuna looked like he was going to kill a man. that man being toji.

“ohhh i see, you’re already showering with sukuna. i’m sure you can make room for three.”

you choked on a laugh. even if you were interested (which, maybe you were. a little). the thought of both of these men in the same dinky shower together was hilarious. no way would there be room with even just the two of them, nevermind you.

“what’s so funny, dollface?”

“toji.”

sukunas voice had an edge to it you only heard once. when you told him about gojo and getos plans to intercept them in the car.

toji looked a bit taken aback, a scowl on his face now, mirroring sukunas.

“you’re no fun.” toji said after sizing his roommate up, leaving the bathroom, not without slamming the door. how petty.

you bit your lower lip, glancing between sukuna and the door that was just slammed in their faces.

“sorry about him.” sukuna spoke up, sighing. “buy whatever you want. don’t worry about how much it is.”

you frowned, “i’m going to send you the money back either way. besides, i use a lot of products, so it’ll hurt your wallet if i didn’t pay you back.” you laughed, trying to lighten the mood after whatever the fuck just happened.

“i’d rather it hurt my wallet than yours. just get whatever you usually use, i don’t care.”

and with that, sukuna left the bathroom. now you were all alone in two strangers apartment, stuck in the bathroom with one of their phones.

you didn’t know how someone could be so nice yet so cold at the same time. it was like he was a walking contradiction. was he upset with toji?

you could tell him you didn’t care, because truthfully you didn’t. yea, it definitely flustered you a bit (a lot), but it’s not like it made you feel unsafe.

you looked for your typical items, soap, body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. sure, you’d love to have a body scrub, exfoliator, and moisturizer too, but you didn’t want to kill this poor guys wallet.

you opted for cheaper options, though still finding things with your signature strawberry scent.

you felt a bit guilty as you checked out for delivery. you should probably pay back sukuna some how- for giving you a ride, a place to stay for the night, and free shower products.

when you exited the bathroom to return sukunas phone, he was nowhere to be seen. neither was roommate, toji.

this was even more awkward than hiding in their bathroom, you thought.

was it rude to sit on their couch uninvited? you wondered, plopping yourself down regardless. you noticed netflix was still open, whoever was watching was halfway through the first season of squid games.

you fiddled with sukunas phone, impatiently waiting for either of the two boys to come back so you didn’t feel so awkward. though a notification from your phone made you jump, quickly settling down sukunas phone to check yours.

guys this photo is genuinely the funniest thing i’ve ever seen i love it so much

tag list

@starmapz @corvid007 @estella-novella @zezedoesshit @beautifulwitchcandy @jinxiewritings @b0nez9 @pixiedustaddictsblog @nightlysunn @nanamineedstherapy @lvingd3adg0rl @etsuniiru @paradisestarfishh @yanelis-world @str4wb3rryc4k333 @indiewritesxoxo @havkjhdecs @tenthmilo @yunho-leeknow @polarbvnny @gradmacoco @anonnieghost @tyunswifey @ex1acy @t4naiis @shizukaay0 @ivydoesit23 @animereaderinsertwriter @des-todoroki

[tayraedoll]

Silver Stag

The bonus chapter of Old Man as promised! Reader has reached the end of mating season and decides to poke the bear (stag). Maybe it wasn't the best idea.

18+ MDNI

TW: P in V intercourse, scent marking, biting, blood, bondage, tentacle s3x, edging, swearing

*squelch squelch squelch*

The sound of your bare feet slapping the marshy ground of the swamp seemed to echo in the silence of the bayou. Your mind screamed at you to quiet your steps, but in order to do that you'd have to slow down- and that was just not an option. Every breath felt like fire in your lungs, your legs pleading for a break; but you couldn't stop, if you stopped - you'd lose.

Not that losing would be a bad thing, you were actually looking forward to it. You just wanted him to work for it a little harder this time.

The bastard was correct, this was your third heat in the month you'd been locked away in your lover's room. The second heat passed much like the first one had- you came into heat, he chased you, he caught you, he fucked you mercilessly for 72 hours, and then he bathed you when you came out of it. Now, you were familiar with the signs of your upcoming cycle, so when you felt your skin flush and temperature spike you formed a plan. This final heat caught you at the very end of the mating season, so the biological effects were not quite as potent as your previous two heats. Your mind was still hazy, but you had a much greater capacity for strategic thought processes; you were not going to let the moment go to waste, you were not going to just lay there and wait for Alastor to stuff you with his cock. You were going to make the buck put effort into claiming you this time.

When you woke up with all the telltale signs of a doe in heat you took off into the bayou. Alastor was not in bed when you awoke, he never was, but you knew your scent would tip him off and he would inevitably come after you. The electric current running up for spine and the way your fluffy tail puffed out instinctively told you The Radio Demon was much closer on your heels than you thought.

You leapt over fallen logs without breaking your stride. There was no destination in mind, just running as far as you could and not looking back. A clearing appeared up ahead and you forced your tired legs to pump faster, this set a new record for how far you made it into the pocket dimension. A smile graced your lips- victory was yours.

Just as you broke through the trees you were abruptly ripped back into the forest's maw before your eyes could even adjust to the change in lighting. Your back hit a tree, the breath momentarily knocked out of you causing you to gasp. Yellow fangs and red irises filled your field of vision, a dark chuckle causing your ears to twitch.

"And just where were you going My Doe? Out for another stroll in the woods?", Alastor goaded you as his arms caged you against the tree.

You smile with mock innocence back up at him while batting your lashes,"Just trying to clear my head. Woke up a bit feverish, figured the fresh air would do me some good."

His hand came up to cup your jaw, holding your face still as he began rubbing his cheeks against yours. "Hmm, I wouldn't stray too far if I were you. I don't want you to catch a cold", as if on cue, a cool breeze blew by which caused his still-potent buck pheromones to swirl around you. You felt your body relax, wanting to let your mate take control; but you shook your head in an attempt to clear it, you may have been caught but you could still avoid making this easy for the stag. Alastor narrowed his eyes as he watched you struggle to fight off your biological instincts. He pressed his body to yours, you could feel every muscle quiver with the force he was restraining himself with. You smiled, perhaps you could get him to lose control first.

Leaning up on the very tips of your toes, you wrapped your arms around his neck and ran your nose up the column of his throat and jawline. He shivered at the soft caress, his claws digging into the bark of the tree behind you. You kept running your nose slowly across his sensitive skin while you unbuttoned his shirt, listening to his breath hitch with every swipe across his pulse point. "I won't venture too far into the forest. It would be a shame if I ran into some other buck all alone out here", with that you bit down hard on the juncture of his neck and shoulder, tasting his blood on your tongue.

His viscous snarl reverberated off your very bones, before you could even comprehend the movement you were flying through the air before bouncing onto your shared bed. Alastor stepped out of the shadow portal he had thrown you through and loomed over your smaller frame. His knees forced your legs apart as one hand curled around your throat, applying just enough pressure to reduce your breathing to small pants.

"Is that what you think of while I'm fucking you? Imagining it is some other buck's cock bruising your cervix? You are MINE in EVERY way possible! But if you truly require a demonstration of ownership, I will happily oblige, Ma Biche."

Shadow tendrils slithered forward and shredded your clothes off your body before fastening you to the bed. You were already dripping wet and he hadn't even touched you yet, just the sheer display of raw power from your lover had heat pooling in your core. You moaned sensually as slick poured from your needy hole- now that you had riled Alastor up you were ready to finally submit.

You watched as your buck languidly took off his coat, neatly folding it before placing it on the side table. His bowtie was next to be removed at the same glacial pace; Alastor was not moving with any sense of urgency, as if he wasn't wasting precious minutes of what was left of the rut. A low groan escaped you, your body felt like it was on fire and you needed him to hurry up and touch you. Your brows furrowed in confusion when- instead of climbing on top of you as expected- The Radio Demon sat in his chair and proceeded to simply stare at you as you writhed naked on the bed.

Your mouth opened to ask him what the hell he was doing across the room from you, but the snarky comment turned to ash in your mouth when a cool, slippery sensation spread up your sensitive inner thigh. Glancing down, a shadow tentacle had wrapped around your leg and was slowly inching up to the where you were burning for touch the most. When the appendage flicked your clit you let out a breath of relief; biting your lip and arching your back off the bed as it moved in slow, measured circles around your pearl.

You were so lost in euphoria that you nearly forgot that Alastor was there. "Do you think any other buck would be able to make you feel this good?", he asked over your moans, you completely missed the tense edge his voice held. The tentacle gives a harsh slap to your clit, nearly sending you over the cliff of ecstasy, "No one else can take care of you the way I can My Doe."

"Ah- Alastor! Hmph, right there!", you cry out. Just a little longer, just a little more and that coil would finally snap. Alastor knew you were close, he knew what you needed- just one more press to your clitoral glans and you'd make a mess on his sheets. With that thought, he halted all movement. A pathetic whine left your throat and you turned to him exasperated.

"My, my- what a needy little thing you are. What happened to all that sass hmm?", the demon said in a saccharine tone, his gaze fixed on your face and the disappointed pout of your lips.

"Please Alastor, I'm sorry! Please just- just touch me. I beg you, please!", tears began forming in your eyes. The heat was taking over your brain; you needed him- you needed his hands on you, his voice whispering words of praise- you needed his dominating presence. You felt that you'd go mad if he did not take you right at that moment.

"Oh ho ho! Begging now are we? We really are desperate! Well, since you asked so nicely...",

The tentacle returned to circling your bud, this time accompanied by another that prodded at your desperately needy entrance. Your body jolted, back arching off the bed as the second appendage spread your lower lips and sank into you. A loud squeal escaped you as you threw your head back, every nerve in your being ignited.

Your fingers dug into the bedsheets below you as the limb curled in just the right spot, pushing against that sensitive area over and over again. You reached your peak even faster than before, stars filling your vision as your body tensed- ready to explode with the orgasm you were denied.

Just as your world was about to shatter both tentacles fled from your core. You choked out a loud sob, tears flowing freely down down your face and pooling on the sheets and in your hair. But they were not just tears of anguish- now you were PISSED. "What the fuck are you doing Al?! Why won't you touch me? Why won't you fucking let me finish?!"

"Because you frustrate me Darling. I am simply returning the favor", the demon answered with a wave of his hand. "Now, you may think twice before even thinking of another buck coming anywhere near you." His smile was sardonic, clearly enjoying how he was tormenting you. If your wrists were not pinned by his shadows you'd throw him the double bird.

"You can't just keep edging me for the next 72 hours!", you seethed.

Alastor didn't reply verbally, but his smile dimmed ever so slightly. He knew you were right, even now his instincts were screaming at him to take you...to breed you. But Alastor was a master of self-control, he had never even taken a mate to satisfy his rut before you. No, he wouldn't keep up this game for the entire mating period...but he would fight to make it last as long as possible.

With that resolve in mind, the tentacles dipped through your folds once again.

Your core was aching, and not in the way you wished it would. You lost count of how many times you clenched around nothing, how many times that delightful appendage pulled from your body at the very last second. Sweat drenched every inch of your skin as you trembled; every sensation was magnified ten-fold- your skin burned at every touch like it was a branding iron, every squelch of your pussy loud as an atom bomb, and you had completely forgotten what everything besides Alastor smelled like.

It was going on 24 hours now. 24 hours of being driven right to the edge and then crashing just short of the finish line. You thought you'd get a break at hour 18- Alastor always took a break at that time- but when your eyes met red irises he tutted at you. "Breaks are for good girls."

You couldn't continue this any longer, you wanted to give up; but what would giving up mean? Sleeping? Surely not, your body was prepared to fight this out for another 48 hours; so you submitted instead. Tired of fighting, you let every limb go completely limp and melted into the mattress below you. Your buck could do what he wanted with you, you'd take this torture if that was what he wished. In a small voice you whispered, "I'll be your good girl Babe, I promise."

The second you caved your mate was on top of you, hands running up your torso and fondling your breasts while he rubbed his cheeks against yours again. This time you blissfully allowed your mind to be overtaken by the fog rather than fighting it off. The velvety softness of fluff and skin against yours alerted you that Alastor had already disposed of his clothing. Your wrists were freed and you were quick to wrap them around your lover, crushing him to you yet feeling like he still was not close enough.

Alastor ran the claws of one hand through your sweat-saturated hair, "Look at you Sha, absolutely beautiful. Now, isn't this easier? Now we'll both get what we want." You moaned erotically when his cock brushed through your folds, giving a harsh slap to your bruised clit before lining up with your entrance. You just had 24 straight hours of foreplay, you were absolutely soaked and ready for him to finally fuck you.

You screamed in sheer ecstasy when his member finally split your pussy open. With how pent up you were your first orgasm ripped through you just as he bottomed out, your core tightening and legs spasming as the coil released at long last.

Alastor immediately set a brutal pace- you weren't the only one worked up from the last 24 hours. He slammed his hips into yours, reaching your cervix with every thrust. Where you couldn't cum before, now you couldn't stop. Each drag of his cock through your walls had them clenching around him. You fisted your hands in his hair, nails digging into his skull and neck as your legs wrapped around his waist. He let out a guttural growl, hooking his arms behind your knees and pushing them to your chest in a mating press.

The coil wound impossibly tight again, your entire body going stiff as every muscle locked up. Your head pulled back, the tendons in your neck popping against the strain as your jaw practically unhinged in another scream that choked out as your body knocked the wind out of itself.

You don't remember closing your eyes, you barely have the strength to open them again as you ride out your high. Your arms are now laying limply at your sides, feeling like they were filled with sand and nearly impossible to move. With another low growl, Alastor bites down your shoulder as he finds his first release. Even after his climax however, he still keeps pounding into you never slowing his pace. You whimper as your core starts to wind and tighten again.

Hearing you, Alastor releases your shoulder and presses his forehead to yours, staring deeply into your eyes. "Ma Biche, we are only getting started. We have a lot of time to make up for."

48 hours later you are sprawled across Alastor's chest, his hand running down the length of your spine-including your tail- as he hums softly. You nuzzle your face into his neck, you are exhausted but don't want to fall asleep- once you fall asleep he leaves, and you are not ready to be parted from him just yet. "Will you stay with me? Please? I want you to stay." You speak so softly that your words are barely audible even to your own ears; you tense up, ready for his rejection.

Alastor stops humming but continues to rake his claws down your back, "I suppose I can afford one lazy day in bed with you Sha." He presses his lips to your temple. "I may not be ready to part from you either. The other residents will surely be used to our absence by now, I am quite positive this hotel will not burn down without us for a bit longer."

He turned on his side, wrapping his arms around you and cocooning you into him. You return his embrace with a smile before it falters, your teeth worry your lower lip as you wonder what your relationship will be like now that the rut is over. Did he get what he wanted from you and now you were disposable to him? Were you nothing more than a soul he owned now?

"I can practically hear the gears turning in that pretty little head of yours Darling. What's on your mind?", Alastor pulled away slightly to look at your face, using his thumb to rescue your lip from your teeth.

"What happens now?", you whisper, looking at his chest to avoid his eyes. "I'm afraid you won't want me like this now that your hormones aren't going haywire. I understand if you don't...it will just take some time to go back to the way things used to be."

One clawed finger gently pushed your chin up to force you to look at his face; his eyes burned with an intensity that stole your breath from your lungs. "Sha, what in Lucifer's kingdom makes you think I do not wish to continue this with you? Do you really think I am in the habit of bedding little does and then discarding them? No, I am afraid that you are stuck with me for the rest of our respective afterlives. YOU signed the deal remember? I will not be letting you go EVER."

Tears formed in eyes at his rant, you surged forward and crushed your lips to his, feeding all the passion you felt for this damned old man into the kiss. When you eventually pull away for air, you snuggled back into his chest, resting your nose against the bite you left on his neck and breathing in the scent of him.

After a few minutes, just before sleep could take you, a new thought struck you, "Am I really your first? You seem awfully competent in the bedroom."

A low chuckle meets your words, "Instincts Darling, and I am not a blushing virgin like so many seem to think. I simply have standards and was waiting for the right mate."

You smile into his skin, "Ya know... you're pretty spry for an old geezer. I wouldn't mind teaching an old dog new tricks next season; although, I wouldn't want to break a fossil such as yourself."

A record scratch echoed through the room; before you could lift your head up to look at him, you found yourself pinned on your back with The Radio Demon smiling down at you dangerously.

"Oh Darling, you just earned yourself another 12 hours."

Tags:

@stattikdemon

@vxllys

@sirens-and-moonflowers

@lady-intellectual

@shealizxx

@cryssyd

[madschiavelique]

﹒ ✦ 𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐍𝐊 : 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟕 — 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

✦﹒ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 : you've been avoiding viktor, but as your next homework session comes around, he cannot help but be curious. oh and more tyler

✦﹒ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : crude language (not much okay), reader is having thoughtsss

✦﹒ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 : 5,6k

✦﹒ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 : FIRST OF ALL i was sick and on my periods writing this okay so this is much more of a transitionary chapter than anything for the shitstorm to come, SECOND OF ALL i KNOW it's another 5 of wands chapter i'm sorry i forgot that i had already used this card before THUS i will probably change the card in chapter 4 because i couldn't see any other card working for this one. but i still hope you all will like it <3 (i don't know how many times i wrote "sighed" in this chapter so BEAR WITH ME)

✦﹒ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐘 : the lovely @yaffles-world

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓．．𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎��𝐃 ．．𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓．．𝐌𝐘 𝐊𝐎-𝐅𝐈

✦﹒ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 : @doctorho @6selkie @yunloyal @kryscent @hypocritic-trash-baby @kapitankarate @a-lovers-card @ababanerb @lolixsstuff @forget-me-not-my-dear @smolanchovy @shugar0cone0alt @harrys--ferret-blog @suuummerrr @stillinracooncity @noxturnalmoth @dlbitch

Friday arrived for another study session between you and Viktor. The week had flown by, with one particularity: your stubborn avoidance of Viktor, and his stubborn search for you.

During classes, you always managed to find a seat as far away from his as possible. You avoided him in the corridors, ignored him when you crossed his path, and when you were in the library and you noticed him, you packed up your things as quickly as possible to leave.

Since the power cut, you'd been even more keen to avoid Viktor. Although you'd done it before, you'd simply decided you didn't want to interact with him. The last few weeks had been far too full of his presence, and you needed to get away from him both physically and mentally.

The trip to the museum, the lunch with him and Jayce, the hour of detention... Your days were far more filled with him than you would have preferred.

It had been a sudden, almost instinctive choice to get as far away from him as possible. 

There was something in the air the evening of the blackout, and even today. A kind of disturbing truth was taking up more and more space in your mind: Viktor wanted to be your friend.

In your eyes, there was always a huge worry about making friends. Your circle was small, and most of your friendships were involuntary, and you were fine with it. You didn't need many friends, you simply kept the ones you trusted. But were you ready to place your trust in Viktor?

Alas, Friday was here, and Viktor was inevitable.

You had arrived a little early at the library, dropping off your things and anticipated for your study by picking up the tomes you would need during this session. The library was already busier than it had been the previous week, with your class mimicking you and Viktor as they set to work on their history topic to avoid working on it at the last minute.

You despised the very idea of doing this assignment, as it brought you too close to your years living in Zaun, to more nightmares every night, to more Viktor. You wanted to get rid of this homework, and you knew full well that to do that you'd have to actually deal with it. 

But while he was away, you took the opportunity to take out a sheet of paper and dipped the tip of your quill in one of the pretty inks Eris had given you. You wanted to write to her. You hadn't received any correspondence from her for some time now, and you suspected that she too had other things to worry that were more important than taking the time to sit down and write a letter.

Dear Eris, you began.

The weeks are endless here, and I almost miss the times when the only thing we had to do all day was figure out what to do to avoid dying of boredom till night came. I've welcomed my new flatmate, Sky Young. She's nice - I could have had worse, I doubt I could have had better. Speaking of better…

You raised your feather above the paper for a moment, hesitating over the next part of your sentence. Viktor would be inevitable in this very letter, and the idea frustrated you. No matter what happened, his name was on your mind, always at the corner of your lips, ready to rub against your teeth and sound out like a finger pressing on a trigger before shooting.

Were you going to tell her about your concerns? Were you going to feign disinterest, pretend it was just some guy Jayce had introduced you to?

I'm getting a bit more used to tarot. You write as your sign of progress. This morning I drew the five of wands. From what I gather though, it doesn't look very positive. I should expect it, five guys hitting each other with sticks seems an unlikely interpretation of a general hug.

According to the little booklet, the five of sticks represented: Incendiary events. Protests. Angry people. Drama. Exciting conflicts.

You'd raised your eyebrows as your eyes roamed the rest of the descriptions: New ideas are born of passionate debate. Energy is scattered but if forces work together, powerful results occur. There's a need for unity. You're bothered by people who don't act as you'd hoped. Free yourself by surrendering to the present moment.

Well, that looks promising, you thought. The card was obviously pushing you towards Viktor, and that was bothering you.

You were clinging to what you had, to the past, to the only thing you knew: survival. Viktor was turning your finely constructed ecosystem upside down, as if he were treading on a sandcastle you'd spent hours building on a windy beach.

But something inside you was beginning to creep in; an idea that seemed dangerous, and which a few weeks ago would have seemed quite simply impossible to think of. 

What if you tried?

What if you tried not to be so uptight about working with him? What if, for once, you accepted the possibility that this wasn't a competition for your life?

The idea was bitter, weighing you down with anxiety. You went back to writing your letter.

I think I know what the card is leading me to, you confessed, but it is deeply unpleasant. What more can I say... I don't think this letter is going to be very long. I don't have much to tell you, and if I do, I'd rather say it to your face than on a sheet of the Glorious Academy of Piltover. You added useless curls in your writing for the title of the Academy to emphasize the ridicule of its prestigious status. You knew Eris would laugh. Did you get any new exotic payments? Here I'm drowning in copies and bolts, but your inks and herbs keep me company.

You smile for a moment, but the thought of mentioning Viktor keeps running through your mind. You looked around for a moment, as if he would miraculously appear and snatch the letter out of your hand to read it. But nothing, just the serene calm of the library - only the sound of flipped pages as students tried finding some information were keeping you compagny.

You were right about the Emperor. Of course you were. You confessed. A new pupil has arrived and, to top it all, he's beaten me in the league table. I suppose you can imagine how I felt about the situation. Every day is a tooth-and-nail battle with him. To crown it all, we've both been assigned to a collaborative project. Isn't that great? Anyway. I miss you a lot. I can't wait to hear from you. Say hi to Ekko for me.

Ekko was a childhood friend who you spent a lot of time with. It was undoubtedly through his demonstrations of repairs and your afternoons spent working on tinkering projects that your interest in science and engineering was born. 

You dipped your quill in your inkwell one last time.

P.S: The name of the Emperor is-

"How long have you been here?"

You almost spilled the inkwell on the table as your eyes rose to Viktor, standing in front of you with his satchel slung over one shoulder.

You sighed. He could at least have made his presence known by clearing his throat, not by standing still and watching you like a cat under his amber eyes. You took your letter, writing his cursed name, followed by yours before blowing on the paper to hasten the drying of the ink.

"Long enough for either of us to fall asleep in Devid's classes," you huffed as you finally folded the sheet in half and tucked it into your notebook to send it later.

He wore a small smirk, gracefully relieving himself of his satchel by pulling it off his shoulder and letting it fall gently to the floor. He sat down opposite you, taking out his things.

"Was Demacian never one of your fortes for you to sleep during his classes?" he asked about Devid, your language teacher. "I thought you'd understand with your wide panel of knowledge."

"I do understand," you corrected him as you picked up a tome to begin your work session. "I'm fluent - I don't need more of what's being said in these classes."

"Why?" he asked, placing his inkwell and notebook on the table. "Ever travelled there?"

"I never travelled outside of here and Zaun," you informed him.

He sighed, looking down at his notes. "Then you don't speak Demacian."

You frowned, raising your head. He met your gaze, waiting for your next remark.

"Why?" you questioned. "Has his royal highness, all full of Runeterrian knowledge, been on a sweet trip to the Great City?"

He arched an eyebrow, his eyes drifting over the small pile of tome to grab one.

"Any idiot knows that learning a language in classes and putting it to practice in the actual region where said language is spoken is a completely different thing."

You remained silent, trying to contain and prevent yourself from giving him the pleasure of answering. You went back to your notes, pressing the binding of your notebook to the table as you jotted down a few more bits of information you managed to find in the new tome you'd selected.

A full minute passed, after which Viktor couldn't help breaking the silence.

"Why are you ignoring me?"

You sighed. Was he a puppy in need of constant attention?

"I'm not ignoring you." You confirmed, not looking up from your notes.

"Fine," he said, searching for a way to continue the conversation, to find the keyword to unlock you. "Why are you avoiding me?"

This time he'd hit the nail on the head. Obviously he hadn't been blind to your dodges, but how could he? He was observant, always making the perfect deductions, and was smart enough to get on your nerves.

"Can we focus and work?" You tried to extricate yourself from the situation.

He sank back in his chair, staring at you for a moment. "Not until you answer my questions."

This time you won his gaze. "Too bad there's no candle for you to bargain information with."

"I can find other ways," he remarked, "Miss."

You tensed at the nickname, your lips pressing together as you leaned on the desk, resting your elbows on it.

"Oh yeah?" you replied, almost amused, "I hope these ways will be as promising as you and Jayce's attempt at cooking on a heater."

He smiled, approaching you in turn. "You seem to have forgotten that I seem to know more about you than you know about me."

"And then I thought I was supposed to be the obsessed one," your brows knit as a curious little smile tried to stretch your lips. "You're not stalking me, are you?"

Your eyes crinkled, scanning his continuously. The days were receding further and further into the night, and the sky outside was gradually turning from cyan to indigo. Under the subdued lights of the library, Viktor's eyes stood out, ever more piercingly under his long brown lashes.

"From what I have heard," he continued, as you both leant on your elbows against the table as if playing chess, "Madam Selene is truly open when it comes to questions asked by her students."

He had just put your king in danger, your lips parting in surprise for a moment before closing again, jaw clenched.

"Surely she won't mind exchanging on the pride that her legal daughter is to her?"

You inhaled heavily, chewing your cheek as his insufferable sneer spread to the corners of his lips again, raising his mole slightly.

You picked up your quill again, avoiding his gaze and letting yours return to your notebook. You dipped it in with a half-open, hesitant mouth as you considered what you were going to say, both to him and on paper.

"I'm avoiding you because I can't get to be friends with my only rival."

He seemed amused by your sentence, as if you were just a child trying to impress an adult by saying something serious and threatening with the latest big word you had learned. He rested his chin on his palm, watching you write, and for an instant you thought of the paper he'd never passed you back during detention. What was he about to say?

"Isn't there an old saying about being close to your opponents?"

"Isn't there this old thing called ‘free will’ that allows me to do whatever I want?"

He shrugged. "Your free will hasn't decided to make you leave this room so far."

You regained his eyes this time, the latter looking through you, trying to peek through the cracks in your facade for a chance to see the lights that resided there.

"Are you challenging my free will? Because I can give it some physical attributes in the scientifically accurate name of 'clenched fists'."

"I'll pass." He sneered. "I'm sure Tyler has had enough lessons on this concept."

Silence fell again. You scanned the lines of another novel where too little information about Zaun was catalogued, while Viktor had not touched his pen. You could feel him in your peripheral vision, watching you, following you relentlessly.

"Am I truly your rival?" He finally asked.

"What else would you be?"

Viktor pouted, straightening slightly. "Being your rival implies having the same goal and fighting for it. I am uncertain if that definition applies to us in this case."

Admittedly, he didn't seem to have the same devotion to his academic results as you did, which frustrated you deeply. But what about the second option he cited?

"In the Academy, we all have the same goal," you replied, watching him for a moment before returning to your notes.

There was another pause on the table, and you thought that perhaps this time he would start working. But he didn't.

"I want a truce."

You looked up, raising an eyebrow.

"...Okay," you finally say, picking up another book, "good for you."

"I mean it, Miss," he insisted. "I think you've had it wrong on me-" But you cut him off.

“What are you implying?” you asked, annoyed at beating around the bush when you seemed to be the only one working right now.

"I'm not implying," Viktor nuanced, "I am saying."

"Saying?" You shook your head, waiting for the next part.

"Yes. You know, that thing that one can do with the possession of a mouth and vocal cords? You've become an expert at it just through this conversation,” he remarked as he straightened up and grabbed his pencil, twirling it between his fingers, "as it is the most we have spoken together in a week."

"Well then, conversation doesn't seem to be such a dying art anymore now does it?" you remarked.

Viktor smiled. "You seem to like quoting me." 

You stared at him, raising your eyebrows and sighing. "I'm going to use unparalleled verbal condescension: shush." Your eyes returned to the tome you were working on. "This is a library, not a café."

"You've never spat in mine, by the way, reassure me?"

"After wasting my spit talking to you, I doubt I'd waste any more in your coffee."

He didn't say a word, but you knew he was smiling. Facing you, painfully fiddling with his pen as if this whole thing was some meagre task he could afford to procrastinate on.

You hated this attitude, the simple fact that he didn't seem to work to achieve his goals, that it was innate when you had struggled to rise so high for so long.

"I mean it," he said, straightening up, putting aside his teasing tone for a moment, "for the truce."

You looked up at him, his expression unfamiliar to you. There was something gentle in his piercing gaze, as if he saw something in you that was worth seeing. You sighed, thinking for a moment.

Would this childish quarrel last until the end of the year? Would you still consider him an enemy when you could have made a new friend? Friendships didn't come your way every day - you were well aware of that. But were you ready to put aside your stubbornness after the various humiliations he had put you through?

“What would a truce even mean?” you finally asked, somehow intent on hearing more.

His lips stretched slightly as his eyes widened. He shrugged.

“I don't know,” he admitted, ”I never thought I'd go this far with you, on this topic.”

Your shoulders slumped.

“Then think of something to say next time after we finish working on this.” You returned to your page, rereading your notes. “I'll take the subjects of Boundary Markets, Cultivairs, and Hope House Orphanage. One location for each level. You should pick three too.”

“Hope House Orphanage?” He repeated, mind finally concentrating on the exposé. “That's the only good thing that can be talked about in such a level.”

You turned a few pages of your notes, running through the lines of your research. 

“There's always Old Hungry,” you remarked, voice lower.

The Old Hungry was a gigantic mechanized clock tower that grew from the very depth of Zaun and built itself up till levels that could reach some of Piltover's buildings. It was too imposing to avoid, and too full of history to be left aside in the presentation.

“Old Hungry? This old scrap doesn't even give time anymo-”

“It's the Heart of Zaun,” you cut in. “It's unavoidable to talk about it anyway.”

“Why don't you take it if you're so adamant about it being on our work?”

You remembered its size, the dark wingspan and the wind blowing through the dusty gears of the Old Hungry. 

“I'd rather you be the one to take it.” you confirmed.

“Why?”

“Because. Don't you want to take it?”

“Do you want to get rid of it?”

You exchanged a look with him, urging him not to be picky.

“Why are you being so mysterious about all of this?” he questioned, eyebrows furrowed.

“You seem to have forgotten that you seem to know more about me than I know about you,” you repeated, annoyed.

“Shall I ask Selene?” he said ironically.

“I fear asking her this would be a limit placed both in her knowledge about this as well as your questions for her.” 

He gazed at you for a moment, clearly frustrated by the secrets, the things left unsaid. You stood up, returning the tomes you'd already read to their shelves. Viktor stood up, following you.

“Acting tough will not make it hurt any less,” he said as you climbed the steps of the ladder and he reached its base. “You know this, yes?”

You suppressed a sigh as you placed one of the tomes on the shelf, arranging it perfectly in line.

“I don't need any of your life lessons,” you remarked, placing the extra tomes. “Can you move the ladder to the left?”

“You know the magic word,” he almost crooned.

You scoffed, not intending to give it to him so easily. You leaned to the side, watching, tiptoeing to reach one of the too few tomes on Zaun in the entire library.

Viktor seemed amazed at how stubborn you could prove to be, especially about him.

“Don't tell me your leitmotif resides in what doesn't kill you makes you stronger?” he questioned as you leaned dangerously toward the books.

“My leitmotif,” you pointed out as you almost reached the binding of the tome you were after, “resides in what doesn't kill you disappoints me-”

You'd reached the book, but your sentence was cut off at the end by your sharp gasp of breath. You'd just lost your balance, your feet slipping off the ladder step as you felt the air rush beneath you and expected to slam heavily into the ground.

The sound of something falling to the floor echoed, the sensation of hands on your back and waist catching you off the ground. Your heart pounding with the shock of sudden fear, you realized what had just happened in the blink of an eye: Viktor had caught you in your fall.

You could feel his thin fingers, warm and tentative, resting on the vest of your uniform around your waist. He held you there, firmly, and you felt your back brush against his chest, his breath landing on the nape of your neck and raising the hairs on it.

You released yourself from his grip and turned to face him, suddenly backing away, heart still pounding, but unable to differentiate whether this was due to the suddenness of the fall, or something else.

He seemed just as surprised as you were, lips parted. He didn't seem to be about to make a condescending remark, a joke about your lack of balance that could be matched by his, nothing.

You leaned back against the shelf, trying to calm yourself as your muscles relaxed from the apprehension of your fall.

There was a moment of quiet, a moment when, for once, neither of you knew what to say to the other. Your eyes fell to the ground, where Viktor's cane had fallen. You swallowed on a dry throat, inhaling to try and grain back your thoughts.

You knelt down to pick it up, straightening up to hand it back to him. He studied you for a moment, his eyes fixed on yours. He brought his hand tentatively up to the handle of his cane, stretched out towards him.

“Did you mean it?” you asked in a low voice as his hand reached the pommel, his thin, long fingers a minute ago resting on your waist wrapping elegantly and slowly around his cane.

“The truce?” he questioned, his voice almost reaching the whisper, as if he feared any higher volume would burst the delicacy of this bubble you were both in.

You let go of the cane, leaning back against the bookcase again, like a prop, like your crutch.

“The other night,” you began, eyes lowered to your feet on the floor, ”you said that it seemed impossible to me that you wanted to learn more about me, out of genuine curiosity. And now, you said you wanted a truce.” You raised your head, straightening to look at him. “Did you mean it, all of this?”

You felt very small, as if you were walking and, in the middle of the nettles, had found a patch of grass where you could put your feet without stinging yourself.

He seemed touched, but this emotion seemed to give way to confusion.

“Why wouldn't I mean it?”

Why would you mean it? you wondered. You'd had enough examples of how trust was doomed to fail you. You pulled yourself upright, drawing your armour back over you, closing your heart before it went beyond the confines of your chest.

“Oh sorry,” you resumed, sarcastically. “I forgot how through your many gallantries in our discussions you have evidently shown to be the most agreeable young man in the world.”

He smiled, his cheerful attitude back in place in the blink of an eye. “I cannot deny that exchanging with someone like you brings out the more playful part of me.”

“Someone like me?” you stressed, almost offended.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Your morals are like a legend - rumoured to exist, but no proof to back it up.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes as you started walking back to your table. “My expectations for you were low when asking this, but somehow you still failed to meet them...”

But your sentence had died on its end, as not far from your table, an unfortunately familiar, tall figure with blond curls stood.

Fuck. Tyler.

Seeing you reappear from between the shelves, he noticed you both, a cheeky grin spreading across his face as he strode towards you.

“Ah,” he smiled as he approached you, ”my tormentors.”

You sighed, standing by your table as he reached the height of your chair. “You again.”

“What?” He chuckled, feigning offense as he rested his hand on his chest. “Aren't you pleased to see me?” He arched an eyebrow. “I'm sure you've got another one of these filthy Zaunite, barbaric lessons to give me.”

“You wish you were worth the effort.” You huffed, moving closer to your chair, but he came between you and it. 

You glared at him, who seemed satisfied with your reaction. He turned to Viktor.

“Your dog's got quite the bite, Moravec.” His eyes settled on you again, watching you up and down until they returned to yours. “Where did you get one of those?”

You breathed heavily, the annoyance of his remarks demeaning you to a supposedly docile and pliable being making your blood boil.

“Turns out she has a mouth and proper aligned thoughts that you could not fathom reaching, Tyler.” Viktor pointed out, coming to sit in his respective place.

The blond watched you, not letting go of your eyes for a moment as he took a step back and took his place in your chair. “How noisy insects are this time of year.”

And he was proud, of his insolence, of his overflowing egotism, which he displayed like the most expensive and chic jacket he owned in his priceless wardrobe.

“Tyler,” you began, inhaling as you tried to calm yourself, “‘piss off.’”

“Such a soft language.” He sneered, lounging in your chair as if he'd ordered its manufacture himself. Who knows, maybe all the academy's furniture rested on his family's finances. “Do they all speak like that in Zaun?”

“Why? Wanna go visit?” You inquired, crossing your arms over your chest. “I wonder what'll get taken first, your pretty blonde locks, or your tongue.”

You played on his unfamiliarity with the city, his prejudices ingrained in his mind, unfolding a terrain of fictitious threats that could be very useful to you.

It had its effect. For a slight moment, you noticed the concern in his eyes, a very silent ‘... is that true?’ that didn't cross the boundary between his mind and lips.

“My patron came to me.” He confessed, looking away as if ignoring you. “Seems like your detention ran a bit short, didn't it?”

You heard Viktor chuckle, but didn't even turn around. “It's just like you said, Miss,” he remarked, leaning forward on the table. “Looks like he is obsessed with us."

“You're not worth a thought.” Tyler spat, obviously insulted by Viktor's remark. He turned to you, grabbing one of your pencils to play with like it was his. “Didn't know you had your own patron, though.”

“Let me guess.” You sighed, placing your weight on one of your hips as you stood. “Your little clever mind aligned two dots and thought that Zaun and Patron together was an impossible combination of words here in the Academy.”

He was amused, but obviously annoyed. You must have touched a reality in his reasoning that he didn't like you to know.

“This one was a second thought.” He admitted all the same. “The first was,” he leaned in slightly, “how the hell does a girl as irascible as you managed to pull any social strings to get yourself a patron?”

You giggled. He was trying to push your buttons. Perhaps he was simply a masochist, you considered, perhaps he had a pronounced desire for humiliation. Or perhaps he was just profoundly stupid.

“Funny, I thought the same thing about you when I met you.” You offered him a smile that possessed no warmth. “But I guess walking around with a golden spoon in your mouth and shitting in silk sheets during your childhood up until now must have its advantages. Right, Hoskel?"

Tyler frowned, hemming his lower lip in anger. His eyes shifted from yours to Viktor's. “She truly is-”

But you cut him off, placing both hands on the table and leaning towards him. “She is in front of you. And she,” your voice darkened, ”can add some new marks on your face to match the blue of your eyes.”

Tyler tensed, the seriousness in your stare convincing him for a moment that your threats weren't empty words, but promises that would come true if necessary.

He let out a nervous laugh, nodding as if you'd just given him a most satisfying demonstration. He was probably thinking, right then and there, that he was safe. That on the floor of the Academy, you wouldn't repeat the violent acts that had earned you an hour's detention.

“You, are a tough one, my friend.” He laughed. “You still have the essence of your hometown so far, you as well as he.” He turned to Viktor. “Paint stripes on a toad, it'll never make it a tiger.

Your blood ran hot, the sentence like an iron that had just burned your skin raw. You gripped his tie, pulling so hard that Tyler nearly stumbled and strangled on it as you pulled him towards your face, your face twisted with hatred. 

His eyes were filled with a new fear as you rumbled, your voice low. “Say that again, and I'll fucking kill you.”

His chest bulged and sagged rapidly as his shoulders were up to his ears in fear, stressing as your knuckles turned white under the tight grip you had on his tie.

He swallowed, staying that way until, in the blink of an eye, his gaze landed on your lips. 

The simple act brought you back to the reality of your proximity, of your two faces so close together that anyone could have considered this something intimate. You let go of his tie as if it carried an infection, as if it had suddenly become so hot that you had to let go of it at all costs. You frowned, stepping back, watching Tyler as he breathed just as heavily.

The great doors of the library opened, and the tiny silhouette of Heimerdinger poked his pink nose into the room. This was enough for you to put aside the previous event, same for Viktor and Tyler who both turned to the professor in surprise.

You eyes widened, straightening up as he strode contentedly towards the center of the room. What was Heimerdinger doing here?

It was unusual to find teachers in the library, and obviously all the students around you seemed just as confused about the situation. He trotted on, making his way to the very center of the room under the curious gazes of students.

“Young folks,” he called, “I have an announcement to make. Please gather around me, so that I don't have to see you all one by one in the immensity of this room."

The students exchanged surprised glances, approaching him. You looked at Viktor, who was frowning. He stood up. You approached Heimerdinger. When a small arc had formed around the professor, he cleared his throat.

“I would have liked to have waited until our next class to tell you,” he admitted, “but with the news just in and the weekend coming up, I thought it wiser to tell you as soon as possible.”

Everyone was hanging on his every word.

“You see, we've been communicating for some time, the Academy members and myself, with The Great Demacia University.”

Murmurs began to rise in the tiny group of students, whispers about the white region running through the air.

“And we have concluded, after many very promising exchanges, that a few classes from the Piltover Academy will have the privilege of traveling to Demacia as part of a school trip.”

Surprise filled the room. A school trip? 

"The Academy and I,” continued Heimerdinger as he walked hands behind his back, the two elements of his sentence simply inseparable, ”consider it a real cultural benefit to be able to organize such a program to link our two schools. The trip will therefore take place in a month and a half's time.”

Some of the students laughed, the joy of the news filling them. The idea of a school trip puzzled you. You'd never left Piltover or Zaun. You'd always clung on to those two towns, and upsetting that perspective was something you hadn't quite figured out yet. But it would undoubtedly be a good way of discovering new horizons, of not having to confine yourself to the same landscape of two cities you didn't like for different reasons. 

However, your thoughts paused for a moment, as you sensed that Heimerdinger hadn't finished with his announcement. 

“Yes, I know.” He chirped. “The excitement of a new journey is not a small thing in young souls. However, an event such as this deserves an organizational rearrangement.”

And that's where things got complicated.

“First of all, your duet presentations that were due in two weeks' time have now been determined by myself into an overall assignment for your year.”

The majority of students rejoiced, but your heart fell into your stomach. An assignment, spread out over the whole year, that you were to do with none other than Viktor as your sole partner in this work?

You exchanged a glance with him, the latter seeming unaffected, neither hot nor cold.

“And...” The professor resumed. “The planning of this event alone will eat up a good two weeks of this year. Consequently-” Silence fell, everyone waiting for the end of his sentence, "the exams in each subject for this semester have been brought closer together, and will therefore take place in two weeks’ time.”

Your lips parted, as if the apocalypse had just been added to your diary. 

Two weeks. You had two weeks to study everything. Two weeks to get to know everything. 

Two weeks to overtake Viktor and regain your place at the top of the ranking.

✦﹒ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

[mydearestbeloved]

Chapter 1 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW: All hail traumatized Reader.

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

The first thing you felt, opening your eyes, was confusion. You weren’t in your room anymore. Sunlight streamed through enormous stone pillars, bathing lush, towering vines and strange, vibrant flowers in a golden hue. The air was warm and fragrant, thick with the scent of damp earth.

But then came the second realization. You looked down, and your heart nearly stopped. Your hands were tiny, smaller than they’d been since childhood. You touched your face and arms, half in disbelief. You were in your body… or some version of it. And young.

That’s when the screen appeared before your eyes, hovering like a digital ghost.

[Welcome, Trial Player.]

The words glowed, taking a moment to sink in as reality wove itself together in a tangled mess of memories and feelings. Trial player?

You tried to call out, tried to make sense of it, but before you could, another line appeared.

[You have been selected to test this system.]

You exhaled slowly, swallowing back the panic that was building in your chest. “This has to be some kind of mistake,” you whispered, though you doubted anyone was listening. You knew what the system was, in theory. This was the same one that would one day be given to Sung Jinwoo, but there was something… off. This was not exactly how you remembered it from the manhwa.

[Your task: Survive, learn, and master the system.]

The words disappeared, leaving you standing alone, feeling like a newborn in a strange, hostile world.

---

The first few days were terrifying, every new experience both a revelation and a potential death sentence. You had no weapons, no training, and no idea what you were up against. For the first time in your life, you understood the gravity of true danger. Every rustling leaf or distant growl put your heart in your throat.

On the third day, a mission screen appeared.

[Daily Mission: Survive in the Gardens. Reward: 1000 EXP.]

“Survive,” you muttered dryly. “Thanks for the reminder.” You swiped the screen away, hoping that would somehow give you more clarity, but it only left you alone with the dense, humid silence of the garden.

Later that day, you stumbled upon what you’d initially thought was an oddly shaped log—until it moved. A giant serpent, its scales glistening, slithered forward, venom dripping from its fangs as it studied you with hungry eyes.

Pure instinct took over. You scrambled for anything you could use as a weapon, but there was nothing. Just your hands. As the snake lunged, something surged within you—warm, pulsing energy—your first brush with the power of healing. You didn’t know how you did it, only that it seemed to pour out of you.

The serpent’s movements grew sluggish, then frantic, as if something was going horribly wrong inside of it. Its scales began to bubble, and it convulsed before collapsing. You gasped for air, heart pounding, as the system screen appeared.

[You have discovered a unique ability: Healing Resonance.]

A “unique ability” indeed. You were horrified, stunned. Healing, but one that twisted life into death. Your first kill was as much a shock as a victory, and as you watched the system flash “EXP Gained,” you felt no thrill. Just numbness.

---

After days of testing the system, you quickly discovered that it was far different than the one described in the manhwa. Instead of the narrow focus on fighting, the system offered skills that were surprisingly... domestic. It felt more like a casual RPG than the cutthroat power-chasing game you’d expected.

“Learning, cooking, crafting?” you muttered, swiping through a menu that displayed an endless list of skills—farming, forging, language... the works.

[Your feedback is appreciated.]

The screen popped up just as you were gnawing on a piece of hard bread you’d somehow managed not to burn to ash. A feedback column appeared below, and you felt a strange thrill—if you could actually shape how this system worked, maybe you could make a difference. You started typing, ideas flowing faster than you could think them through.

Feedback 1: Focus on combat-related skills. Simplify stats for non-combat abilities.

When you pressed submit, the system chimed.

[Under review for final version.]

“Guess that’s all I can do for now,” you sighed, leaning back and staring at the list. You wouldn’t have minded the extra skills so much, except that every single one required you to “grind” by using it repeatedly. Which, in theory, was fine. In practice? Not so much.

Your first few attempts at cooking, for instance, had been… catastrophic. Who knew it was even possible to burn a boiled egg to a crisp? At least it still gave you experience points, but the system wasn’t exactly forgiving. Each skill was tied to a particular stat and vice versa, so for example, to raise Intelligence, you had to keep grinding away at reading, alchemy, crafting, and other mentally demanding tasks.

Then there was Learning, the one skill that seemed to tie everything together. It leveled up whenever you worked on other skills, making them just a fraction easier each time you made an attempt. Slowly, you felt the difference—your fingers became nimbler at crafting, your reading comprehension shot up, and even basic fighting maneuvers didn’t leave you bruised as often.

You sent in feedback about this too, suggesting that leveling up should provide points you could apply to any stat you wished.

[Under review. Changes considered for the final version.]

With each suggestion, the system stayed silent for a moment, as if it was actually thinking it over.

“Are you alive in there?” you asked, half-joking. But there was no response. Just silence.

---

The day you found the abandoned library was the first stroke of true luck you’d had since arriving. Of course, it had come with its own challenges—a plant-beast had nearly mauled you at the entrance. Your solution? A shard of broken glass, some sunlight, and sheer desperation. After you’d torched the creature, you barely had the strength to drag yourself inside, clutching your bleeding arm.

Inside, towering bookshelves covered in dust stretched into the shadows. You felt your pulse quicken—knowledge. In a world where you felt powerless, here was a place where you could gain some edge.

The first book you picked up was written in a strange language. As you stared at the unfamiliar symbols, another screen popped up.

[New Skill accessed: Reading. Level 1.]

You let out a laugh, maybe half from exhaustion, half from sheer disbelief. The reading skill allowed you to comprehend the text faster, though it started painfully slow. Still, as you worked through the book, something strange happened.

[New Skill accessed: Language. Level 1.]

The words were no longer entirely foreign. It took hours, but by the end, you had a basic grasp. After spending weeks working on other skills, you returned to study another language and found it easier than before.

“Thank you,” you muttered aloud, genuinely grateful to the system. You weren’t one to talk to thin air, but sometimes it felt like someone, or something, was there.

For the first time, the system responded, offering you an EXP boost for several skills at once.

“You’re feeling generous today,” you said. The system flashed without a word, but something about its silent response felt… thoughtful, almost. You knew it was impossible, but a sense of familiarity nagged at you.

---

As days bled into weeks, and weeks into months, survival became both an instinct and a grueling grind. Food was scarce, rations stretched thin. Every meal was a gamble—could you avoid poisoning yourself this time? Or would you suffer another failed attempt at cooking?

The creatures that roamed the Gardens were relentless. You’d nearly died several times, if not for a combination of sheer luck, your healing power, and a dormant instinct to survive that you hadn’t known was there. Fighting without real experience was an endless, punishing lesson, and the system had yet to assign you a class. But your healing powers were something you clung to, despite their double-edged nature.

Without them, you would have been left scarred and broken, bleeding from too many wounds to count. The system kept pushing you, relentlessly.

The deeper you went into the mysteries of this world, the more questions you had. Why were you here? Why you? The system itself, sometimes silent, sometimes so alive, only deepened the enigma. You couldn’t shake the feeling that being a beta tester wasn’t the full reason you’d been pulled into this reality.

But for now, you pushed the questions aside, bottling them up in a corner of your mind. Survival was the priority. If you made it out of these Gardens, if you gained enough strength, maybe one day you’d find the answers.

But until then, your only choice was to endure.

-----

Another day, another tight squeeze of survival. You were hidden under a rocky overhang, just out of sight, nibbling on unfamiliar roots and mushrooms you’d scavenged. Every bite was a gamble, a game of Russian roulette that determined whether you’d gain a bit of strength or be wracked with cramps, nausea, or worse.

"Come on, poison resistance,” you muttered to yourself, half-prayer, half-exasperation. Every new toxic bite, every close call, edged you closer to a skill level that might one day make these random edibles manageable.

The system pinged softly with an update.

[System Patch: Skill Cap Increase Applied. Unlocked Sub-Skills for Advanced Development.]

You let out a long sigh. So *that* was why skills maxed out so fast before. Every time you thought you’d mastered something, the ceiling just got higher. Now, skills you thought were perfected were open again for leveling, and any new experience points would feed back into their growth. Until you could level up again, the system would keep exchanging your experience for supplies—something that had kept you from starving more than once already.

But the sub-skills, the “updates,” had you intrigued. You’d noticed subtle effects of higher skill levels before, like how cooking had become more than just a way to sustain yourself. Now, you could create dishes that eased your fatigue or provided a bit of health. Forging was the same—your makeshift weapons had become a little sharper, a little stronger, and now, you could upgrade the stats of items that had already been made. Each skill was branching out into new possibilities.

But your progress slowed as the demands of survival grew harsher. Rations were limited, and you felt each calorie burned in your daily mission drills. The exhaustion crept into your bones, each strike of your makeshift spear against the thick-skinned creatures that roamed these grounds adding to the deepening ache. Just survive, you told yourself. The system seemed to listen, pushing you further than you ever thought you could go.

---

After months of grueling routine, the day came when the system presented a new challenge: the job-change quest. You knew what this meant. You’d read the manhwa a hundred times, could remember every detail of Jinwoo’s struggle. You expected a hard fight, but even then, you weren’t prepared for the reality—a Hydra.

When you first saw it, slithering out from the darkness, its scales glistening with a sickly, iridescent sheen, your breath caught. A single head was bad enough, but the Hydra had seven, each one dripping venom. Its eyes gleamed with a deadly intelligence as it circled, blocking any path of escape. You gripped your spear, willing yourself to be brave.

Stay calm. Think.

“Alright,” you whispered to yourself. “I just have to get it to bleed out… if I can even scratch it.”

The Hydra lunged. You sidestepped just as one head lashed out, venom spraying onto the rocks where you’d stood, sizzling with acidic fury. Your muscles burned as you darted away, barely managing to keep up with its movements. Every time you managed to wound it, its flesh began to knit together again, each laceration closing with terrifying speed.

Think. What did the library say?

The words from a musty old anatomy text swam back to you. The main poison sac, near the heart. You didn’t even know if you could reach it, but it was your only chance. As the Hydra coiled again, you let instinct take over, dodging its strikes until an opportunity appeared.

You gripped your spear tight, channeling every bit of magic into it, then aimed for the base of one of its necks. You struck hard, hoping to wound it enough to reach that poison sac.

Your powers flared unexpectedly, the reptile’s scales near the wound blackened as though they were aging, decomposing under your hands. It shrieked, flesh blistering as your magic intensified. The effect rippled through its body, slowing the regenerative process that had given it the upper hand. You sliced again, faster, your heart pounding, forcing your powers to speed up this, this decay. As you worked, you became aware of something strange—the Hydra’s flesh was rotting beneath your touch, its venom sac swelling under its own poison as it struggled to keep up with your relentless onslaught.

It took everything you had. With a final push, you drove your spear into the Hydra’s chest, deep enough to rupture the venom sac. The poison surged through its body, overwhelming its regenerative abilities. Its massive body convulsed, seven heads thrashing in agony, then slumped to the ground with a heavy finality.

You sank to the ground, gasping, drenched in sweat, your muscles shaking with exhaustion. Blood seeped from a gash on your arm, a painful reminder of the battle. Dark patches spread across your skin where venom had touched, a lingering ache warning you that your body was still working to purify it.

“System,” you rasped, half-delirious. “You’d better give me something worth it.”

A screen popped up in response, and you felt a weak grin pull at your lips.

[Job Quest Complete. New Class Obtained: Mage-Healer.]

Your heart pounded in your chest. Mage-Healer? You’d expected a standard healer class, something that suited your healing ability, but a hybrid class? That hadn’t been part of the original story. As the notification faded, a new title appeared beneath your class:

[New Title Earned: “Dreamer and Chronomancer, She”]

“Chronomancer…?” you whispered, the words tasting strange on your tongue.

Exhaustion weighed on you, but curiosity tugged at the edges of your mind. You remembered the way the Hydra’s wounds had slowed, how its regeneration seemed to freeze under your touch. It all clicked into place. Cellular death. Your healing wasn’t merely about restoring life—it was time itself, bending to your will. And the magic you wielded, the strange power that left the serpent dying on the first day you arrived, wasn’t just about healing either. You had boosted its venom production until it ruptured on itself, just as you had done now.

But what about ‘Dreamer’?

Your thoughts were interrupted by a faint chime from the system.

[Learning Skill: New Sub-Skill Unlocked.]

The notification sparked your curiosity, but the words on the screen blurred before your eyes. The poison was still in your system, and you could feel the fever building. As you closed your eyes to focus on healing, the faint ache from the venom made your body shiver.

When you opened your eyes again, a vision—a faint shimmer—hovered over your eye as your gaze fell on the Hydra’s lifeless body. It was a tiny magic circle, seemingly clicked in place when it found its target. Knowledge flooded into your mind, unfamiliar and clear, as if the system itself was feeding you answers. You could use the Hydra’s remains. Its venom, its scales… everything was a resource, a tool. With careful handling, they could be transformed into potions, armor, even enchanted weapons. You smiled, exhausted but exhilarated. If you’d gotten this far, there was no limit to what you could achieve.

“You know what, system?” you murmured, feeling a strange connection to the silent guide in your head. “I think you and I are going to get along just fine.”

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [08/10/2024] - Chronicles of The Hanging Gardens, Part I

[gayerthanevertbh]

teacher's pet.

chapter ii: satisfaction

n.r masterlist | teacher's pet series

summary: after days of silence, professor romanoff returns only to harshly critique your essay, calling it cowardly and empty. though hurt, you accept her challenge to write with more emotion. She offers to help—on her terms. you leave her office shaken, breathless, and unexpectedly alive, clutching a book she says might undo you. something between you has changed. you don’t know what—but you’re already craving more.

pairings: professor!natasha romanoff x student!reader

warnings: tension (especially from natasha), but nothing much.

note: sorry i do seem passionate to write this that's because it's also from my inner conflict. hope you enjoy this one :)

You didn’t mean to read Anna Karenina again. It wasn’t part of the plan—if there had ever truly been a plan to begin with. But something about the way she held the book yesterday, fingers resting gently on its spine like it was sacred, haunted you. You couldn’t get the image out of your mind. So, after dinner, you cracked open your old copy, promising yourself you’d only skim. Three chapters later, the weight of sleep pulled you under with the book still in your hand, pages bent slightly where your fingers had slackened. When morning came, you packed it into your bag like it was a necessity. Somehow, it had become one.

Later, after class had ended and your peers had already trickled out of the room, you approached her desk slowly—carefully, like it was an altar and you weren’t sure if you were worthy. You placed your first assignment on the polished wood, trying not to look at her. If she caught you looking, you feared what she might see. Or worse, what she wouldn’t.

She glanced at the paper with a quiet, unreadable hum, her head tilted ever so slightly. Was she judging it already? Judging you?

“I—I hope this is okay—” you began, awkward and too soft.

She cut you off. “No, no. This is fine. I do have a question for you, though.”

Your heart jumped. You looked up, blinking fast. “What is it?”

She leaned back in her chair with the kind of elegance that didn’t demand attention but always got it anyway. Her gaze locked on you like she was trying to make sense of something only she could see. It made your insides twist.

“Why Russian Literature?” she asked, her voice low and deliberate. “You had options. American Lit, for one. You look like you’d fit right in there. You’re... American, aren’t you?”

There was something about the way she said it. Something dark and curious, but not unkind.

“I’m actually an immigrant,” she continued. “That’s why I teach this course. I’m from Russia.”

You knew—or at least suspected—but you still feigned surprise. Her American accent was flawless, like she’d worn it for decades until it felt like skin. You found yourself nodding, strangely honored that she offered you this glimpse into her past without you asking for it.

“Russian interests me,” you said, unsure if that was entirely true. It wasn’t just the literature that interested you.

“But do you want to learn it?” she asked, more sharply this time. A challenge, not an invitation.

You stumbled for a second. “Of course. I’ve wanted to dive deeper into it since senior year. I’m… enthralled.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving you. Your skin burned under her attention. You felt like a child trying to hide a secret in plain sight. She had this way of looking at you that made you feel both exposed and important.

“When did you move to the States?” you asked, needing the attention to shift.

“I was fifteen,” she said, her eyes softening with memory. “My father had a company here. So we left. I don’t regret it. My sister and I still speak Russian at home.”

You smiled, awkwardly, grounding yourself with the scrape of your shoe against the floor. There was something surreal about her—this woman who everyone claimed was cold and distant, now offering pieces of herself to you like they didn’t cost anything at all.

“That sounds nice.”

Then she smiled—genuinely, for the first time. Not the polite, practiced curve of her lips she wore in class, but something warmer. Something real. You wondered if she did this with everyone. Talked like this. Shared pieces of herself. Or were you—somehow—an exception?

“You’re an interesting one,” she said, her tone impossible to place.

Your breath caught.

She stood, tall and composed, walking to the door and opening it for you. “You may go. Perhaps I’m wasting your time.”

You almost laughed at the absurdity of that. She could never waste your time. Not when every second near her left you aching for more.

Instead, you nodded and walked out, the air in the hallway feeling colder now. You exhaled, letting the warmth of her office dissolve behind you, but you couldn’t stop thinking about the interaction. Her story. Her eyes. The way she made you feel like you mattered, even if just for a moment.

And the worst part? You already knew the paper you submitted wouldn’t be enough. Not for someone like her. As you’ve read once on the internet, she is one of the toughest professors in NYU. So for her liking your paper, it’s very unlikely. But the hope was there, that somehow she’ll be interested in you, maybe even become a favorite. But why are you so focused on that? You had a redemption, you are an academic weapon. This shouldn’t be in your head. 

Just as soon as you were heading back to the library, you see a girl by the wall biting her nail. She looked up at you, and smiled curtly. 

“You are from the Russian Literature class.”

You remember her, that was the same girl who looked at you yesterday from behind. You tipped your head, as a sign of politeness, and smiled brightly like nothing could ever torn you apart.

“You were staring at me yesterday.”

“That’s because I’ve never seen you before.”

“Well,” you said, letting out a nervous laugh. “Aren’t we all unfamiliar with each other?”

She nodded, agreeing with you. “I’m Wanda,” she sticks out her hand, and you shook it. “Sorry if I sounded like that. You know, I just moved here from Sokovia.”

There are a lot of people from Europe, you thought. Am I the only American in an American University?

God you hate how you’re curious sometimes, that your mind alone speaks for itself. 

“Y/n,” you stated. “And you do look like you’re from Sokovia.”

“I think it’s the accent I have,” she mentions, and you could definitely hear the thick accent in her throat. A man appears into the scene and it seemed like they were siblings, except this one was a blonde. “This is Pietro, my brother.”

He smiled at me, removing his glasses. “My sister has told me about you.”

You tilted your head, eyebrows furrowing. Was she stalking you now? 

“I didn’t know that.”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I don’t know, you seemed quiet yesterday. I mean, all of us were. I don’t know, I guess I wanted to be friends with you.”

“You could’ve just asked,” you chuckled quietly. “How long have you guys been here in America?”

“Four months before the semester started,” Pietro added, including himself into the conversation. “You seem like an America expert. Care to show us around sometime?”

You wanted to laugh when he called you an America expert. America expert? Was that supposed to be a compliment? A joke? A quiet insult wrapped in polite curiosity? You weren’t sure, and honestly, you didn’t care. The words slid off you like water—because the truth was, you didn’t even believe in the idea of America anymore. Not like you used to.

You’d grown up hearing that this country was a dream—some glistening ideal of freedom and justice and endless opportunity. But you knew better now. You knew that half the time, America didn’t even know what it was doing with itself. Couldn’t take care of its people, couldn’t remember its promises, couldn’t admit its history without shoving it into a museum or a hashtag. You’d seen too many cracks in the illusion to still be patriotic, and maybe that was cynical for someone your age, but you called it realism.

You were fluent in the language of disappointment. You could name all fifty states and all the ways they’ve failed someone like you.

So no, you didn’t mind being called an “America expert.” Because experts knew things. Experts saw through the glitter. And you’d long stopped pretending that this country—your country—was great. You just knew how to survive in it.

“I would love that,” you said with a warm smile, even though your brain was already trying to mentally rearrange your packed schedule to figure out when exactly that could happen. Classes, readings, assignments, your part-time job—it all blurred together like an unfinished puzzle. Still, making new friends didn’t hurt. Especially not the kind who made New York feel a little less cold.

You started to picture it—taking Wanda and Pietro to your favorite spots in the city. Maybe walking across the Brooklyn Bridge just as the sun began to set, painting the skyline gold. Grabbing coffee from that little place in the West Village that always smelled like cinnamon. Visiting used bookstores in East Village, or grabbing falafel from the food truck by Washington Square Park. Small things that made the city feel like yours.

“Are you going to the library?” you asked, slinging your bag over your shoulder and adjusting your coat.

“Not right now,” Wanda replied, shaking her head as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I have to go to the bank and deposit some money. Rent’s due soon,” she added with a wry smile. She reached out and gently placed her hand on your shoulder, giving it a light, familiar squeeze. It felt like something unspoken—a quiet seal of friendship forming between the two of you.

“I’ll see you around?” she asked, her tone soft but hopeful.

“Definitely,” you said, and this time you meant it without needing to check your calendar. For the first time in a long while, someone outside of your usual circle felt… easy. Like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

As she turned and walked off down the block, you lingered for a moment, the buzz of the city swirling around you, the memory of her touch still resting on your shoulder like warmth.

“How was your second day of school?” your mother asked, her voice echoing lightly through the kitchen as she searched the fridge for something cold. From the corner of your eye, you could see MJ lounging on the couch in the living room, her legs tossed over the armrest, laughing at something on the TV. A sitcom, probably—the kind where the characters never grow up, but the laughter track insists it's funny anyway.

You took a slow breath, then shrugged. “It was okay,” you replied, keeping your tone casual, your eyes trained on the glass you were filling with water. You didn’t feel like unpacking the details of today—the sharp, quick conversation with Professor Romanoff still sat heavily in your chest, like it had carved a small hollow there. No one needed to know about that.

“My professor seemed nice today,” you added, as if that was all that mattered.

Your mom looked over her shoulder and smiled, her hands full with a container of strawberries. “Wasn’t it Professor Romanoff?” she asked, eyebrows lifting in subtle curiosity. “Maybe she likes you. You’re smart, Y/n.”

From the couch, MJ chimed in without even looking up, “She’s right. Maybe she likes you because you’re smart and driven.”

You nearly choked on the first sip of water, then gave a dry laugh. “I don’t think I’m that smart,” you muttered, your voice low, almost dismissive. “Or that driven.”

But still, something warm flickered in your chest at the suggestion. The idea that Professor Romanoff—this impossibly composed, unreadable woman—might see something in you. Something worth remembering.

“What did you guys learn today?” your mother asked, finally closing the fridge and turning around, leaning on the counter like she had nowhere else to be but here with you.

You placed the glass down on the counter and said, “Professor Rogers taught Literary Theory. Nothing too wild. It’s only the second day, so we’re just scratching the surface.” Then you added, a bit more animatedly, “I’m glad I picked Russian Literature as my elective, though. Even though American Lit was an option.”

Your mom nodded, interested. “Why Russian?”

You rubbed at your temple with your fingertips, the answer already formed from the first day of class. “We covered American Lit in so much detail back in senior year. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Morrison… I needed something different. Something that would push me a little. Russian literature’s heavier, darker—I don’t know. It just feels like it’s got more teeth.”

She smiled at that, a small, knowing curve to her mouth. “Sounds like you.”

You didn’t reply, only gave a small smirk. You weren’t sure if that was a compliment or not.

“Why don’t you and MJ go out and play tennis?” she suggested, wiping her hands on a towel. “It’s only 6 p.m., still plenty of daylight.”

“Can’t do that, mama,” MJ said, already seated beside you, sipping from your water like it was hers. “Y/n needs to study, and I definitely need to study. Midterm prep already exists in my mind.”

You gave your mother an apologetic look. “Rain check?”

She threw her hands up in mock defeat. “Okay, okay. I was just suggesting. Don’t let college kill your fun completely.”

The night crawled slowly, time stretching out like wet ink bleeding into paper. You sat hunched over your desk, the overhead light a pale halo casting long shadows across your notes. Professor Rogers had assigned a reading and response for Literary Theory—dense, philosophical, the kind of thing that made your brain throb if you read it too fast. You’d been at it for hours, trying to weave something thoughtful out of the chaos of semiotics and Saussure.

Meanwhile, MJ lounged comfortably on your bed, legs crossed, laptop balanced on her knees as she typed something mindless. A soft playlist buzzed gently from her speakers—Lana, maybe Phoebe Bridgers—comforting in the way only background noise could be. The two of you were wrapped in your own silences, broken only by the occasional click of a keyboard or the rustle of paper.

You turned around and held up your draft with both hands, paper slightly wrinkled at the edges. “Do you think this is good?” you asked, like it didn’t matter, though it clearly did.

MJ looked up from her screen and took the essay, scanning it with a quick, practiced eye. “Seems pretty good to me,” she said with a shrug. “But you know I’m not much of an essay person. I can barely finish reading one, let alone write one.”

“I know,” you replied with a small smile. “But your opinion still matters to me.”

MJ gave you a look—fond, maybe a little exasperated. “Everything matters to you.”

You laughed under your breath and sunk into the mattress beside her, your body folding into the comfort of the sheets. “Of course it does,” you murmured, staring at your paper again, even though you weren’t really reading anymore. “I just… I don’t know. I keep thinking about how Professor Romanoff looked at me earlier.”

MJ raised an eyebrow. “Looked at you how?”

You didn’t even have the words. Like she saw through you. Like she knew you were trying too hard and still failing. Like she was unimpressed.

“She’s intimidating,” you finally said. “I’m scared of what she’s going to think of this assignment. It doesn’t feel good enough.”

MJ stared at you for a second, like you had said something deeply out of character. “You never say that,” she replied, tone cautious. “You’re always so sure of yourself. Confident. You walk around like you have a plan for everything. Now you’re anxious about a two-page response paper?”

You looked down at your hands. “I don’t know what changed. Maybe it’s the way she talks—so direct, like she already knows you’re going to disappoint her. Like she expects better even before you fail.” You paused. “She’s very… particular. I don’t think she’ll like anything on the first try. Maybe not even on the second.”

MJ shifted her laptop to the side and gave you a more serious look. “Well, don’t expect the worst. Seriously. You’re good at this, Y/n. And it’s only the second day of school.”

You wanted to believe her. But all you could feel was that gnawing ache of wanting to be seen—really seen—and fearing that when Professor Romanoff did, she wouldn’t like what she found.

You smiled anyway, mostly for MJ’s sake, and rolled back toward your desk. “I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, trying to sound casual.

“It’s terrible.”

That was the first thing she said, and it felt like your spine snapped straight under the weight of it.

You wanted to go home and cry yourself to sleep, bury your face under the pillow and forget the feeling of being so thoroughly seen—and dismissed—in a single breath.

“I gave you a C minus,” Professor Romanoff continued, her voice sharp, precise, and perfectly unbothered. She spoke the way she walked—calculated, cold, confident—as though emotions were a currency she couldn’t afford. “Because I know that you could write better.”

You blinked twice, heart pounding as you looked down at your paper. There it was, in red ink, like a wound: C–. The margin was littered with notes, tiny fragments of her voice immortalized on the page. Brutal, but never careless. You didn’t want to cry, but you felt the pressure rising behind your eyes, slow and warm.

“But this?” she gestured with her hand like the paper had personally offended her. “This is empty. It’s like I can’t feel you in it. There’s no urgency, no rawness. It reads like you’re hiding. And this—” she tapped a paragraph, the pen tip punctuating her judgment “—this isn’t a copy and paste from the internet. I know that. But it might as well be.”

You swallowed thickly. “But it’s not from the internet,” you said, defensive and small. “I wrote it—”

She cut you off, her voice sharper now. “The point of studying Russian Literature isn’t to regurgitate analysis. It’s to suffer with it. To ache through it. You think Dostoevsky wrote Notes from Underground for you to summarize it like a bored teenager doing SparkNotes at midnight?” Her tone was razor-edged, but not mocking—never mocking. She didn’t waste time on cruelty. Only precision. “You have to let yourself fall apart a little. That’s what this literature demands.”

You stood there, wordless, holding the bleeding paper like a fragile thing, as if your grip would change the grade. She looked at you once, briefly, and for a flicker of a second, you could’ve sworn there was something like softness in her eyes. Not sympathy—God, no. But recognition. Like maybe she knew what it was like to want to be good at something, and still come up short.

Still, she said nothing else.

You wanted to sit down on the cold tiled floor and tell her how hard this week had been, how you hadn’t slept, how you were trying—trying so hard—but everything felt like it was slipping through your fingers. You wanted to beg her to see that this wasn’t laziness or carelessness, it was fear. Fear that no matter how hard you worked, you still wouldn’t be enough.

But what was that struggle worth, really?

“I’m sorry about this, Professor Romanoff,” you said finally, voice quieter than you meant. “I’ll do better.”

She leaned back in her chair, clasped her hands, and sighed. The sound made your stomach twist. You whispered, “It’s just that... I don’t know what you like.”

“Why is it important for you to know what I like?”

You hesitated. “So I could get better grades.”

She tapped her pen against the desk—ancient, dark wood, intimidating in its own right—and nodded like she wasn’t quite surprised. Around you, her office seemed to shrink and expand all at once. Bookshelves crammed with leather spines. A small, worn couch in the corner that looked like it had heard a thousand secrets. You wondered if she ever sat there, grading your work, judging your voice from that comfortable distance.

“I’ve seen your work for Professor Rogers,” she said, casually, as if the confession didn’t just throw you off balance. Your face burned. They talk about me?

“But please,” she added, voice warming just a fraction, “more emotion. If you want, I’ll help you. We can... structure your own feelings. Channel them. If you're willing.”

You blinked. “Structure my own feelings?” You almost laughed. “Why would you want to help me?”

That smirk. Slow, dangerous, knowing. It hit harder after a few days without seeing her—like a match struck in a dark room. It made your stomach ache in a way you still didn’t have the language for. Not quite fear. Not quite want. But something sharp and consuming in between.

“Come to my office three times a week,” she said, almost like a dare. “Preferably around four. I can only stay until six. You and I could... help each other.”

You stiffened. Help each other? What did that mean?

“And what do I do in return?”

Her eyes gleamed with something close to delight. “I like the way you think.” She reached for the shelf behind her and pulled down a thin, well-worn paperback. The cover was creased, the pages slightly yellowed. “This is one of my favorites.”

You glanced at the title—The School for Fools by Sasha Sokolov—a book you’d never even heard of. It didn’t scream erotica, but something about it felt intimate, unraveling, almost like a dare. You wondered why she would choose this for you, out of all the Russian authors she could’ve assigned. But of course, you didn’t ask. Natasha Romanoff wasn’t the kind of person you questioned—especially not after three days of silence so loud it nearly swallowed you whole.

“Read this,” she said simply, finally. Her voice was calm, but it landed like a command. “Let it undo you. Then we’ll talk.”

You took the book slowly, fingers brushing hers by accident—or maybe not. The edge was frayed, and the cover had softened with age. It was warm from her touch. You didn’t look up right away. Just held it. Let yourself feel the gravity of her gaze on you, let it press into your skin the way the silence had.

You looked at the pages, then finally back at her. And something inside you tilted. Not with fear. Not quite. But with a kind of quiet undoing.

A little breathless. A little terrified.

But mostly?

Alive.

“I’ll read it,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended, but sincere. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

A beat. Then a smirk—sharp, devastating. The kind that had been missing for days.

“Likewise, Y/N.”

You slipped out before you could say anything else, the door clicking softly behind you.

Your heart was rattling. Your hands still tingled from the book.

You should’ve been nervous.

But instead?

You couldn’t wait to see her again.

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