#and it's happened again twice this morning

[l1v-jzn]

hide me with your lips — geum seong je

chased through the morning streets, she’s pulled into an alley by seong je, who silences her and hides her with a kiss that blurs the line between protection and passion.

You were running.

Only this time, it wasn’t under the cover of darkness, it was morning. Harsh, blinding, golden morning. The kind that made everything too real. Too exposed.

Your boots echoed against the pavement of narrow backstreets, dodging early risers, the scent of bakeries opening up, buses grumbling awake. But they were still behind you those men. Following. Watching. Smirking.

Your pulse spiked.

You turned the corner too fast, nearly tripping and that’s when it happened.

A hand pulled you in the other side of the alley. Your back slammed against a warm chest.

A whisper of smoke and cologne curled into your senses just before your eyes locked with his. Geum Seong-je.

Hair messy. Shirt untucked. That glasses. Cigarette between his lips like a casual threat.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just amused. Lethal. Like the morning sun had nothing on the fire in his gaze.

You were still trying to breathe when he flicked the cigarette into a puddle with one gloved hand and grabbed you with the other.

Then without warning he kissed you.

Not gently. Not even remotely.

His hand slipped behind your neck, holding you still like you were something fragile and feral all at once. His lips found yours with a hunger that didn’t belong to 7 a.m. His mouth tasted like mint and smoke and every argument you’d ever had.

You didn’t kiss back because you were supposed to.

You kissed back because your body betrayed you.

Because something in you had been aching for this, whether you admitted it or not.

You didn’t even think about it. You just felt.

Felt the heat of him, the safety, the danger, the—you’re mine and I’m mad about it—flavor of the moment.

Your fingers tangled in his hoodie. He pressed you against the brick wall of some sleepy café, morning sun dripping like honey through the narrow gap between buildings.

Somewhere, a delivery truck honked. A pigeon fluttered off a windowsill.

Still he kissed you like the world was ending. Or beginning.

He finally pulled back, breathing hard, eyes blazing.

You were both breathless, hearts thudding in sync like a war drum under your skin. Seong-je had leaned back just enough to look at you, eyes narrowed like he was figuring you out all over again.

“You looked like you needed saving,” he muttered. “So I figured I’d kill two birds with one kiss.”

You blinked, dazed. “That… that was not how I thought my morning would go.”

He smirked, brushing a thumb across your lips. “Stick with me, princess. Mornings only get weirder.”

Then you heard it. Loud footsteps. Male voices. Too close.

You stiffened. “Shit,” you breathed, eyes darting toward the mouth of the alley. “It’s them–”

Before you could move, his hand was already back on your neck.

“Don’t look,” he muttered, and then he kissed you again.

But this time it wasn’t fire and fury. It was a strategy.

He pressed you deeper into the wall, body shielding yours completely. One hand braced against the brick behind your head, the other cradling your jaw so gently it made your breath hitch.

His lips found yours again, slower now. More intimate. Like a secret being whispered across skin.

From the street, all anyone would see was a couple tangled up in each other, locked in a stolen moment too intense to interrupt. No one would look twice. Not at your face. Not at your fear. Not at you.

and god help you, you kissed him back.

Your hands curled into the front of his hoodie, not just for effect but for stability. His kiss deepened, the pressure of his body anchoring you as voices passed by just feet away.

“She went this way, I swear..”

“C’mon, let’s check the main road.”

The footsteps faded. The threat evaporated. But still, he didn’t move. Not until the silence returned.

Then slowly, painfully, he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, breath ghosting over your lips like the memory of thunder.

“Looks like I saved you again,” he murmured. His voice was teasing, but the tremble in it betrayed him.

You looked up at him, dazed. “Was that… necessary?”

He smirked—lazy, crooked thing that made your stomach twist. “You tell me. You didn’t exactly fight me off.”

You wanted to say something sharp. Something clever. Instead, you just whispered, “You’re good at that.”

His gaze flickered. “At kissing?”

“At hiding me.”

His smirk faded just a little. “That’s not what I want to be good at.”

————————————————————————

got a little freaky with my freaky ahh playlist playing while writing this down and thinking abt geum seongje🤌🏻🤓

© l1v-jzn

[postgamevibes]

Summary: You convinced Will to film one silly TikTok trend. Now he’s viral. Sharks Twitter has made memes. His teammates won’t let him live. And honestly? You’re loving it.

*********************************************************

You didn’t mean for it to go viral.

Truthfully.

It was just supposed to be a dumb little TikTok, a 15-second clip with your boyfriend and a trending audio that made you laugh. Something for your private account, your close friends, maybe a few likes from people who didn’t even know who Will was.

You definitely didn’t expect the Sharks official Twitter to repost it.

Or for the clip to hit 2.3 million views overnight.

Or for Will to become a meme.

But we’ll get to that.

It started on a slow Tuesday, the kind of day where Will was in sweats, lying upside down on the couch with his legs over the back cushions and a protein bar balanced precariously on his chest.

He’d had a morning skate, then an afternoon nap that bled into a mid-afternoon zone-out session. You were stretched out on the rug, scrolling TikTok with a mischievous grin tugging at your lips.

“Babe?” you said.

Will hummed without looking away from the ceiling.

“Do you love me?”

That got his attention. His head popped up like a gopher. “What kind of question is that?”

“A serious one.”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “…yes?”

You grinned. “Perfect. I need you to help me film something.”

“Nope.” He immediately flopped back down. “Not happening. I know that voice.”

“Will.”

“Last time you said that, I ended up dancing to Beyoncé in my boxers.”

“And it was iconic.”

“It was character assassination.”

“Come on. It’s just a trend. You barely have to do anything.”

He groaned but tilted his head to look at you again. “What’s the trend?”

You held up your phone. The video played: one partner is recording while the other one walks into the room, unsuspecting, and the person behind the camera hits them with a cheesy pick-up line or embarrassing confession. The hook? Their reaction.

Will watched three of them. Laughed at one. Gave a slow side-eye during another.

“Okay,” he finally said. “But if I end up a GIF, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“You already are a GIF,” you teased. “The Sharks fanbase is unhinged.”

Will raised a brow. “And you’re making it worse.”

“Damn right.”

You waited until he was in the kitchen, humming quietly to himself while making his post-nap smoothie. He was in his go-to gray joggers and a Sharks hoodie, hair a mess, but you didn’t think he’d ever looked more dateable in his life.

You propped your phone against the salt shaker.

Started recording.

Walked up behind him, trying to keep a straight face.

“Hey Will,” you said sweetly.

He didn’t even turn around. “Yeah?”

“If you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple.”

There was a beat of silence. Then another.

Will slowly turned his head toward the camera, blinked twice, and deadpanned, “I regret everything.”

You couldn’t stop laughing.

He reached for your phone, but you snatched it away before he could stop the recording. “Nope! It’s perfect. That face? Oscar-worthy.”

“I will end you.”

“You love me.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to be TikTok famous.”

Famous, no.

But viral?

Absolutely.

You posted it an hour later with the caption: he’s gonna kill me for this later 🍍 #finapple #nhlboyfriend #hockeysoftie

You didn’t even tag his name.

But the internet has ways.

By the time you woke up the next morning, the video had exploded.

Sharks Twitter had reposted it.

Will’s deadpan expression was a meme.

Someone had edited him in a Hawaiian shirt holding a pineapple smoothie with the text: “San Jose’s finest fruit.”

And your phone?

Blowing up.

You rolled over in bed and opened your notifications.

“Oh no.”

Will was still asleep, one arm thrown over your waist, mouth slightly open. Completely unaware that the internet had crowned him the NHL’s newest reluctant heartthrob.

You snorted and scrolled through the top comments:

“why is this the most boyfriend behavior i’ve ever seen”

“the way he didn’t even blink. iconic.”

“petition to start calling him fineapple smith”

“sharks players dating people with tiktok accounts should be ILLEGAL. my heart.”

You nudged Will gently. “Babe. Wake up.”

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled.

“Nope. You’re famous.”

His eyes cracked open. “What?”

You flipped the phone around.

He blinked at the video. Then the comments. Then the tweet from the Sharks’ official account.

Then he groaned and buried his face in the pillow. “This is my villain origin story.”

By the time Will got to practice, it was already too late.

The boys knew.

They all knew.

“Yo Fineapple,” Bordy chirped the second Will walked into the locker room. “Where’s your tropical smoothie?”

Will glared. “I will drop you in warmups.”

“Oh my god,” Eklund laughed. “Are you blushing?”

“You’re dead to me.”

Zetterlund poked his head around the corner, holding up his phone. “You really said ‘I regret everything.’ Bro, that delivery was Emmy level.”

Will walked straight to his stall, sat down, and sighed so dramatically you could hear it over the music.

Someone changed the locker room playlist to “Escape (The Piña Colada Song).”

He didn’t talk to you for twenty minutes after practice.

You were waiting outside, leaned against your car, sipping your coffee with a smug little smile.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, squinting into the sunlight.

“I think you’re trending on Twitter. Sharks fans are obsessed. They’re calling me ‘pineapple girl’ in the replies.”

He opened the passenger door and slid in. “I hate everything.”

“You love me.”

“I like you less today.”

“You’re grinning.”

He tried to stop, but a little smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Shut up.”

That night, you sat on the couch with Will’s head in your lap as the Sharks game recap played in the background.

You ran your fingers through his hair, scrolling through the comment section of the video for the hundredth time.

“Someone just posted fanart,” you said, showing him.

Will squinted. “Why do I have sunglasses and a lei?”

“Because you’re Fineapple Smith now. It’s canon.”

He groaned but didn’t move. “You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Never.”

He tilted his head, looking up at you. “Fine. Then I get to post the next one.”

Your hand paused in his hair. “Wait. Really?”

“You started this. I’m finishing it.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Two days later, Will posted a video with the caption: revenge is sweet 🍍

The audio was from some dramatic soap opera moment, and the video was him walking into frame shirtless with a pineapple in one hand and your bathrobe over his shoulders.

He winked at the camera.

It got 5 million views.

You were toast.

But at least you were his toast.

And if being TikTok’s favorite hockey couple meant living in a world where people made fruit puns about your boyfriend on the daily?

Well, you figured there were worse kinds of trouble to be in.

[dawngyu]

‎₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗑 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾-𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗌�� 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

He stares at you, the glisten in his eyes that you've come to know whispers his truth. His shaking hands hold your wrists. Droplets slide from his hair, tracing the sharp angles of his face, mixing with the storm clinging to his skin as he stares at your face. You feel it before you hear it. You see it before he speaks. "Marry me." It's his last attempt to keep you from walking away.

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: chaebol au, strangers to lovers, angst, family issues, toxic societal norms, yearning, longing.

𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍-𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: MDNI, multiple-smut scene, heavy make-out, body-worship, nipple-play, fingering, oral!fem receiving.

𝗐𝖼: 17.5k — playlist.

𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: hi hello!! to clear things up, this is a spin-off of the main story but each txt male lead gets their own reader! (aka you, heh). other female leads might show up for the plot, but they’ll stay nameless.

(definitely read the first part if you haven’t — but you can read this as a standalone!) see the event 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

If there is one truth that time cannot taint in your life, it is your love for flowers. They bloom unburdened, much like the love you cradle for things that ask for nothing in return.

Perhaps you were a flower in your previous life — maybe that’s why people have always likened you to one. A flower is something delicate, something beautiful, something that marks in memory with its scent and colour. Yet if you were to tell the real reason why they call you that, it wouldn’t be for any of those things. It wouldn’t be because you were particularly graceful or charming.

It would be because you see the world through the eyes of a dreamer, a romantic, someone who clings to the smallest joys as if they were... lifelines.

You cherish the minuscule things, not out of whimsy but out of habit, because you grew up knowing that gratitude was not just a virtue but a necessity. You learned to say thank you for everything placed into your hands, whether it was something you longed for or simply something to fill the space on your plate. Even at nine years old, a meal was never just a meal... it was a gift.

You don’t blame your parents for leaving. People say you should be grateful — they gave you life, after all. And they did. But not even a year into your existence, they chose their own paths, carving out futures that no longer had room for you. And you never resented them for it, not really.

It doesn’t mean it wasn’t lonely.

No matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, it’s hard so, so hard to grow up in a house that never truly felt like home. Hard to wake up each morning knowing there’s no mother to greet you, no father’s voice to remind you you’re safe. Hard to fall asleep at night, knowing that if a nightmare came, there would be no one there to hold you.

No one at all.

They're happy, somewhere out there. Twin sisters from your father’s side, three brothers from your mother’s. And you were happy for them, truly. They had their lives, their homes, their own worlds to tend to. They checked in when they could — once, maybe twice a month, just enough to remind you they were still out there. Just enough to keep you from forgetting... while you stayed with your grandmother.

And that was enough. Or at least, it had to be.

“Nana,” you sigh, “You just watched that yesterday. Are you sure you want to go again?”

“Yes. Mom.”

You continued to scrub the plate she ate from, forcing a smile. She’s called you Mom again. It happens often now. Some days, you’re her daughter. Other days, her niece, a friend. But most days, you’re her mother.

And that’s fine. It has to be fine. As long as there are still days when she calls you anything at all. Because the worst days, the ones that keep you up at night, are the ones when she just looks at you with empty eyes, searching your face like you’re a stranger.

You swallow hard and turn back to her. “Did you take your meds, Nana?”

"Yes."

You wipe your hands on the kitchen towel, glancing toward the small pillbox on the counter. Walking over, you flip open the lid, scanning the compartments. She took them. A quiet breath of relief escapes you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, closing the box. “After this, we’ll head to bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

You sink onto the couch beside her, adjusting the hem of your floral home dress—the one you tailored yourself, stitching distractions into the fabric on nights when the weight of it all felt unbearable.

Mama Mia plays on the screen, the familiar melodies filling the small space between you. It’s always been her favourite movie. Even after the diagnosis, even as the world around her blurred at the edges, she kept coming back to it.

As if, somehow, it was something she could still hold onto.

You glance at her, watching the way her lips move with the lyrics, her hands tapping against the armrest in time with the music. She remembers this.

“Can I hold your hand while we watch?” you ask softly.

Your grandmother turns to you with a soft smile, her eyes whispering at the corners. She’s seventy-five now, her hair thinner, her hands frail, but to you, she’s still the same. Still beautiful. Still her.

People told you to put her in a nursing home. Said it would be easier, that it was the practical choice. But how could you? How could you leave the one person who never left you? The person who held your hand through every scraped knee, every heartbreak. The only real family you have.

Her frail fingers squeeze yours gently. Then, just as you turn back to the movie, you hear it.

“I love you, Y/N.”

Your breath halts. You tear your gaze from the screen, eyes wide, heart pounding. It’s been months — months of her calling you by the wrong names, or worse, not calling you anything at all. But now, she’s looking right at you, remembering you. A lump sits in your throat as tears sting your eyes. You grip her hand tighter.

“I love you too, Nana,” you whisper, voice shaking.

And you do. More than anything. Even if one day, she forgets. Even if, someday, she doesn’t remember you at all.

You slide the key into the lock, your right shoulder weighed down by the new pots you picked up earlier. As the door swings open, the soft chime of the bell echoes through the quiet shop. Stepping inside, you nudge the door shut behind you and flip the sign to OPEN with a satisfied smile.

It’s 10 a.m., and the morning light spills in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the flowers on display. Running your fingers gently over delicate petals, you inhale their fresh scent, the fragrance mixing with the faint traces of paint lingering on the walls — your own handiwork, soft strokes of color bringing the shop to life.

You set your bag down behind the counter and power on the computer, scrolling through the day’s orders. Five minutes pass in a comfortable rhythm before the familiar chime rings again. The door swings open.

Someone’s here.

"Good morning!" You greet with a warm smile, but your voice falters just slightly as you take him in. He’s not the usual type to wander into a flower shop. Dressed in a sharp, black tailored suit, he carries himself with an air of quiet confidence. The glasses perched on the bridge of his nose add to his composed demeanor, but it’s his presence — towering in the doorway, making the shop feel smaller somehow, catches you off guard.

Still, you keep your smile, smoothing the surprise on your chest. "Are you looking for any particular flowers?"

He glances at you and gives a small nod — a quick acknowledgment that he’s heard you. It’s familiar. You’ve dealt with customers like this before, the ones who prefer to browse in silence before saying what they need.

You nod back slightly, a polite gesture, then shift your gaze back to your computer, trying to shake off the strange unease prickling at you. He hasn’t even spoken yet, and still, something about him makes your pulse tick faster.

Why?

“I'm looking to have a funeral arrangement made.” he says suddenly, making you blink and look up.

His eyes meet yours.

You cleared your throat, "I'm sorry for your loss." You try to follow the routine speech that you have. "Let me get my book and I'll assist you. Please, take a seat."

You point towards the table, a round wooden structure with three matching chairs, a small white vase holding a fresh boquet decorated the center. He quickly followed your instructions, pulling the chair as it scraped on along the wooden floorboards before they sit with a sigh.

You took a quick glance at him again, watching as he fishes out his phone, one of the brands that is you think the latest release, and you see a unique looking rolex in his wrists. You avert your eyes as soon as you did, and your eyes catch the black car parked in front of your store.

Your store.

Your small humble store that is stark comparison compared to everything this man have.

You cleared your thoughts as to why he chose this place to buy flowers. You turned around to gather your book filled with arrangements.

"Do you run this place by yourself?" As you reach for the leather spine of the book, you glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes already on yours.

He didn’t respond, even as you took a seat across from him. Still, you could feel his gaze following you. You pushed the roses aside, their petals bruised from restless handling, and replaced them with the open book. Its pages, worn thin, exhaled the faint, bitter-sweet scent of aged paper — a comfort you almost resented tonight.

He stayed silent, his arms draped over the table, eyes steady. His presence bled into the air, heavy and warm, as though the room itself bent around him. You swore you could see it — something low and smoldering radiating off of him, a slow burn that clawed past the polished edges he wore so well.

You tore your gaze away before it could swallow you whole.

You tighten your grip on the pen. “May I have the full name of the deceased?” Your hand drifts across the top of the page, hovering over the empty space waiting to be filled, just as you wait for his answer.

When it comes, it lands harder than you expect.

“It… doesn’t have a full name,” he says quietly. Your eyes lift to meet his. “But we call him Moon.”

Your breath catches. There’s only one meaning behind words like that. A child. Your mind pulls back into dim memories; the parents who’d come to your shop before, searching for flowers with little else to offer but love for someone whose life never had the chance to unfold. Your lips part, but no sound comes. You drop your gaze, forcing it back down to the blank page. You’ve done this before — too many times — but it still finds a way to shake you.

Pushing through the heaviness in your chest, you press the pen to paper and write the name.

Moon.

“And what are you looking for in this arrangement?” The words burn as they leave you, bitter and dry, clinging to the back of your throat. You wait, feeling the seconds stretch thin between you.

“What do you think?”

You should know. This is what you do — what you’ve poured years into. Flowers have been your language longer than words ever have. But it’s always this question that unravels you. It pulls at the seams of whatever certainty you pretend to hold. Of course you have ideas. They come in flashes,but what are they worth?

What if it’s wrong? What if it’s not enough?

The thoughts spiral fast, like they always do. Familiar and merciless, burrowing deep where you can’t shake them loose. They weigh heavy in your chest, anchoring themselves into the cracks of a confidence too fragile to stand against them. You sit there, hollowed out and grasping for something to offer this man, something that won’t disappoint him, or worse, dishonor what he’s lost.

A baby. A mother greiving. And now this man, carrying his own mourning, offering no guidance to make the task easier. Your fingers twitch, restless and unsure. You have to give him something. Anything.

“Well, for funerals, people usually gravitate toward chrysanthemums,” you say, lifting your free hand toward the cluster of blooms sitting in their vases to the right. His gaze follows where you gesture. “Lilies are another favorite,” you add, motioning to the soft petals hanging to the left. “And people often ask for—”

“But what do you think?” His voice cuts through yours, making your words falter. Slowly, your eyes meet his, and he holds your gaze across the table. “What do you gravitate toward?”

“White roses,” you murmur, your gaze flicking away from him and toward the blooms resting quietly in the front window of the shop. “They symbolize… eternal love, and remembrance.” Your voice softens. “If it were me… someday… I think it would make me happiest to be remembered that way. To be loved like that, even after.”

When you finish, your eyes drift back to his, uncertain, before you quickly lower them to the blank page in front of you. “Sorry,” you whisper, flinching at your own rambling.

“No.” His voice is firmer this time, “Don’t be sorry. Tell me more.”

You swallow hard. Your heartbeat stirs faster in your chest, a throb blooming from the tender cut on your fingertip. You breathe through it.

“Forget-me-nots,” you say. “I suppose… I’d start with a base of hyacinths, then layer in forget-me-nots and foliage as filler. And maybe top it off with white roses.”

“Think you can have it ready in two days?” he asks, his gaze shifting toward the rosebuds waiting to be trimmed on the table. “That’s when the memorial service will be.”

You nod before the words even catch up to you. “Yes, yes. That’s no problem.” You lower your head and start to write, sketching out the arrangement you’d described, even as your hand strains to keep steady against the shake running deep in your chest.

“Here.” He sets a small black bag on the table. You don’t have to open it to know — from the weight, the way it sits — it’s easily a week’s worth of your shop’s earnings.

“That’s too much. It’ll only be —”

“It’s the least I can do,”His voice is gentle but leaves no room to argue.“I doubt many would have come up with something as thoughtful as yours.”

“Please… I can’t let you overpay.” Your hand rests on the bag, fingers curling around the edge as you begin to slide it back toward him but his hand meets yours, halting you. His fingertips graze against your skin.

His eyes catch yours, and the words die between your parted lips, caught somewhere too deep to reach. Slowly, he stands from his chair, his hand slipping away from the pouch. You watch him smooth out the front of his coat, before stepping toward the center of the table. His fingers reach for the rose in front of you. The stem just one thorn away from being trimmed. The same thorn that had cut you earlier. “I’ll take this too, then,” he says. “Is that alright with you?”

The nervousness clawing at your chest tightens, cinching your breath and locking the words in your throat. It burns — sharp and hot, like a brand searing them shut. You can only nod, managing the smallest smile before your eyes drop, trailing back down to the thorn that had drawn your blood.

You reach for your shears and rise from your chair, stepping toward him.

“I’d just started working on this one when you came in,” you murmur, lifting the sharp edge to the base of the stem. His fingers shift aside, careful and slow, as you steady the blades around the thorn. His eyes stay on you, not on the flower, not on your hands, but on the furrow of your brow as you focus.

You sense the moment he holds his breath.

With one clean motion, you clip the thorn away. “Thank you,” you say, your voice soft and thinner than you meant it to be.

“Thank you,” he echoes. His tone mirrors yours, but heavier somehow. “I look forward to seeing what you create.” He turns toward the door, tall frame gliding in that unhurried way of his, but he doesn’t touch the handle yet. His body shifts just enough to glance back. “By the way… I should get your name.”

“Y/N,” you answer. The name comes easy, but your breath feels uneven behind it. “And yours?”

You’ve never been like this before. Never so openly invested in someone you’d barely exchanged a few scattered words with. Never so quick to give away your curiosity. But here you stand; unmoving, staring, studying him more openly than you’d dare with anyone else.

He smiles. Barely. So faint you might have missed it entirely… if you weren’t so completely, foolishly locked on him. Enough of a curve to tug at the corner of his mouth. And there, a small hollow moves in his cheek. Does it get deeper when he really smiles? Does his smile reach his eyes?

Your throat tightens at the thought, inexplicable.

“Soobin,”

He came back two days later. Right when he said he would. When you handed him the arrangement, his eyes lingered on it longer than you expected. His face didn’t shift much, but you caught it, a flicker of surprise, as though he hadn’t entirely expected it to look the way it did. As though he hadn’t expected you to remember it so well.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low, steady. And before you could step back or fold the moment away, he spoke again. Another request. The same one. For next week.

And that’s how it started.

It became a pattern before you realized you’d memorized it. Every week, almost the same day, he returned. Always asking for the same thing. And it took so little, for you to start waiting for him. You didn’t need to admit you were. It was clear enough in the way your hands moved faster on the mornings you thought he might show up. The way you found yourself glancing at the clock more often. The way your breath shifted, when the bell over the door chimed and you hoped it would be him.

The weeks folded into months before you realized how quickly the time had passed.

“Your wife must be having a hard time,” you say quietly, watching him from behind the counter as his fingers brush along the edges of the newest arrangement vases you’d set out last week. Your voice tries to sound casual, light enough not to pry. “But she’s lucky to have you.”

It’s the only explanation that ever made sense. The one you’d quietly settled on back when he first asked for those mourning flowers. That was how you’d made sense of it. How you’d made peace with why the arrangements always felt so heavy.

He stops. “Wife?” His brow lifts, faint confusion softening the lines around his eyes.

Your throat pulls tight. “Uh… yeah,” you fumble, heat creeping up the back of your neck. “… How is she recovering?”

There’s a pause. His stare doesn’t waver. His jaw sets, just enough that you can tell he’s measuring something inside before letting the words go.

“It’s for my sister.”

Sister. All this time, you thought you understood. The flowers, the endless varieties he carefully chose week after week — they were for his sister. That’s what you told yourself. It made sense. She must be the one who lost a child. A grief so cavernous that even the brightest blooms could barely soften its edges. You could understand it. the tenderness of a brother trying to tether her to something gentle. The quiet, steady ritual of bringing beauty to someone drowning.

But one year have passed. One year, and still, he comes.

You watch Soobin now, and something inside you twists sharp and deep. Your throat pulls tight, a burn clawing up the back of your eyes, your heart thrashing in your chest like it’s frantic to be let loose. His fingers move across the petals with reverence, the kind of touch meant for something breakable, sacred. As though each flower is an apology too heavy to speak aloud. A brother so devoted, so relentless in his quiet offerings — and surely he has a life beyond this. A job. Responsibilities. People waiting for him. And yet here he is. Always here. Always returning, as though caught in some private penance only he can feel, rooted in your little shop like he doesn’t know where else to go. Every week, standing in the hush of your little shop like a man trying to repent for a sin he never committed.

The flowers… you’ve always loved them. They’re stitched with meanings you’ve memorized like scripture; hope, solace, rebirth. They ask for nothing in return, and still, they give so much. The burn behind your eyes sharpens as you watch him, your mind comparing him to one, your chest aching in places you thought you’d long since sealed shut.

You wrap the arrangement slowly, careful with each fold and knot. Your heart thuds against your ribs like it’s trying to outrun the thoughts crowding your chest. The ones you don’t say out loud. The thought unsettles you more than it should. It coils tight in your gut, sharp and sickening. Because part of you already knows — one day, the door won’t open. One day, he won’t come anymore. You hear his footsteps before you see him. He’s seen that you’re nearly done ,the bouquet he asked for, the one you’ve handled like it’s something sacred. You feel his presence before you meet his eyes.

You don’t know why. You can’t name it, not exactly. Maybe it’s the dread that coils in your stomach that there will be a day you wake on a day he’s supposed to come, only to find the hours slipping by, the bell above the door never ringing. And before you can stop yourself, before your good sense can catch up to your mouth, the words tumble out. “Would you want to go out sometime?”

You instantly regret it, the way your voice cracked, the way you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” you say quickly, fumbling. “That was, I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position. If it’s invasive or —”

“Yes.” You blink. His expression is steady, unshaken. “Yes,” he says again, softer this time. “I was going to ask you, too.”

Your breath stumbles in your chest. You nod, unsure of what to say, heart hammering loud enough to drown out everything else, but he goes on, “Next week. Same day, same time. Let’s do that.”

You nod again, this time slower. Something settles in your chest, light but anchoring. “And,” he adds, as he picks up the bouquet, “make another arrangement.” You glance at him, brows lifting in question. “Anything you want,” he says. “Doesn’t matter what it costs. Just… make something for me.”

You swallow the rush in your throat, the spark behind your ribs. You can already feel the stems in your hands, the petals under your fingers. You don’t know what you’ll make yet but you know it will say everything you can’t.

“Okay.”

You stare at the bouquet as it slumps at the edge of the table. The one you arranged so carefully, over and over again for days.

Dawn had already cracked the sky.

Now, the gloss on your lips is gone, long since faded like the sun. The coat you pressed at sunrise feels stiff, resentful, like it's been waiting just as long. Your spine aches from sitting too straight for too many hours, and your breath trembles in your throat, thin and cold.

He said he’d be here before lunch. He said he’d take you out.

He never came.

Maybe he got held up. Maybe it slipped his mind. Maybe something urgent came up. You tell yourself these things because it’s easier than the alternative. Still, the silence wraps around you too tightly. It hums in your ears, thick and heavy, until the only thing left is the dull thud of your heartbeat, knocking against your ribs like it’s looking for a way out.

Your eyes sting. Are you even allowed to cry over this?

“Well,” you murmur, voice thinner than you’d like, “let’s get you to a vase.” Carefully, you gather the arrangement, fingertips grazing the petals. You breathe in — soft, floral, faintly sweet — and hold it there.

Your movements felt slow. Deliberate, almost. Strange, when these steps had always come easy to you, and yet, you lingered. As if dragging out every motion might somehow buy him time to show. Your gaze settles on the bouquet now resting in the vase. You exhale, slow and shallow, but no words rise to meet the breath. There’s nothing left to say. Nothing worth breaking the quiet for. Turning to the door, your steps this time are steady, unhesitant. No more stalling. You did what you could. You waited. You hoped.

And now, it’s clear; he’s not coming.

You were just about to lower the blinds when a familiar car slid to a stop out front. Your breath caught, frozen tight in your chest. You didn’t move, didn’t blink, as the driver’s door flung open before the engine had even settled into idle. There he was, the tall figure who’d haunted your thoughts for months, carved into every restless night. Disheveled, frantic, a deep frown cutting across his face.

When his eyes found yours, he ran.

The air slammed back into your lungs so fast it almost hurt. The fog, the static that had smothered you for hours, gone. Blown clean away in one look on his face.

He's here.

“Why did you wait for me?” The words tumbled out the moment he pushed the door open, his gaze locking onto yours. His face, guilt etched into every line. “You waited for me,” he said again, quieter this time. The guilt cracked, crumbled at the edges, and in its place came something softer. His eyes didn’t waver. It was awe, unmistakable and unguarded.

It was as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

The car ride was quiet. His coat rested over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as the streetlights blurred past. Since it was already late, Soobin had offered his place. You didn’t argue.

“We’re here,” he murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt. You’d somehow already undone yours without realizing it, stepping out into the cool air just as he rounded the front of the car to meet you. His hand hovered near the door, but you’d beaten him to it. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, offering a small smile. Your eyes drifted past him, brows pinching slightly as you took in the skyline ahead —towering buildings stretching into the night. Your confusion flickered across your face before you could hide it. “You said your apartment, right?”

He hummed, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. He nodded toward the buildings ahead. “Come on.”

You walked, still puzzled, trailing a step behind him. Your eyes wandered, curious and cautious, as you neared the towering building. Inside, staff seemed to scatter and straighten the moment they caught sight of Soobin. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Postures snapped upright. The door swung open before either of you reached it.

“Late evening, Mr. Choi,” the security guard greeted, bowing deeply. The others followed suit, dipping their heads in swift, practiced motions. It felt surreal. Like you’d stumbled into the middle of a K-drama you used to watch. Like you were seeing something you weren’t meant to. Soobin didn’t slow. He didn’t pause at the front desk like everyone else did. He just kept walking, glancing back once to make sure you were still with him. When he reached the elevator, he pressed the button without hesitation. The panel lit up, and you caught the word just above it; Penthouse.

Your breath caught, but you masked it quickly, dropping your gaze. That’s when you noticed his hands, resting at his sides, relaxed. The silence wrapped around you again. You shifted your hand, hesitant, pinky inching toward his. You just wanted to hold it — just once. Who knew if you’d get another chance like this? Maybe tomorrow he’d decide you weren’t someone he wanted to see anymore. Maybe you’d bore him. Maybe he’d drift away like people sometimes do.

So just once. Just to know what it felt like.

Your fingers moved closer, careful, unhurried. Barely an inch away — Ding. The elevator chimed, breaking your focus. Your hand froze mid-reach. Soobin turned, catching you dead-on. His gaze flicked down, just fast enough to see the way you yanked your hand back, swatting it away like you’d touched something too hot. “Uh—” you blurted.

His brows lifted slightly, softening — not in mockery, but in surprise. “Stop acting so cute, will you?” he murmured, and his words only deepened the flush on your cheeks. “You’re making it harder for me.”

Before you could even piece together what he meant, his hand reached out. His fingers found yours, threading between them with an ease that made your breath catch. The touch was warm, grounding, and when he gently tugged, you startled just a little. He didn’t say anything about it. He only pulled you softly toward him and guided you into the elevator. The elevator closes, but everything feels distant.

And all the while, his fingers stay laced with yours, anchoring you gently as the world rose around.

“Do you drink?” he asks, his voice low as he approaches the couch where you sit. The bottle in his hands glints under the warm lights, dark glass wrapped in crinkled gold foil, the wine inside a deep, velvet red that swirls languidly as he moves. One glance, and you already know: it’s expensive.

His penthouse is sprawling, though you suppose all penthouses are. “On special occasions,” you admit, watching as he reaches for two crystal glasses.

“Would you call this a special occasion?” He sinks into the couch beside you, his back meeting the cushions.

“I’d say so.” Your answer draws a small smile from him as he leans closer. Carefully, he cradles a glass in each hand and offers one to you. You accept it, fingertips brushing the cool surface as you balance the bowl of the glass in your palm, the slender stem threading between your knuckles. You lift it gently, only needing the faintest tilt toward your nose to catch the aroma. Your intuition was right, this would be the finest drink you’ve ever touched.

You take a sip. The wine blooms sharp on your tongue, threading warmth down your throat.

“Tell me,” he says, lifting the glass to his lips. His bangs fall loose over his eyes, soft and unbothered, and you fight the quiet urge to reach over and sweep them aside. “How did you start your business?”

“Like most things in this world,” you reply, taking another small sip, the pungent taste stinging your palate. “A bit of luck and a bit of misfortune.”

Soobin shifts, turning more fully toward you. One arm drapes along the back of the couch, as though he’s subconsciously reaching closer. His glass rests loosely against his thigh, “What was your luck?”

“I received money. Enough to build the business.”

“And the misfortune?”

Your throat tightens slightly. You swallow. “It was because my grandmother… wouldn’t be able to take care of it anymore.” Your voice softens. “Or herself anymore.”

The quiet smile at the corner of his lips falters, folding into something more solemn. A flat line. His eyes don’t leave you, they track every flicker of your expression: the slight furrow of your brow, the quick blinks you can’t quite suppress, the faint, compulsive bite to the inside of your cheek. But he doesn’t press.

“Why flowers?”

You know the answer. It unfurls easily in your mind, sprawling and layered. But a flicker of doubt tugs at you. If I ramble, will he grow tired of me?

“I liked their meanings,” you say instead, choosing your words slowly. “How each plant holds its own importance, just by existing. It’s fulfilling. And it’s a beautiful thing… seeing the way even simple arrangements can affect people.” You glance down, your thumb brushing the base of your glass. The words settle in the air between you.

He doesn’t fill the silence or shift in his seat. His eyes stay fixed on you. The glass in his hand remains perfectly still. His gaze lingers like he’s reading something delicate between your lines, like you’re a puzzle he’s in no rush to solve. He watches without pressing, without judgment. You feel the heat creep into your cheeks despite yourself, and you lower your gaze, hoping it hides the way your pulse trips over itself.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a pause, his voice lower, gentler. “I feel like I’m bombarding you with all these questions. Would you like to ask me something instead?”

A dozen questions flicker through your mind, each vying for space. Yet one floats to the surface, steady and clear, eclipsing the rest. “Why did you ask me to make you that bouquet?” The words leave you smoother than you expected.

For a breath longer, he says nothing. And then — a soft, breathy laugh escapes him. His eyes crinkle at the corners, something warm spilling over his features, and you swear you feel your heart tighten in your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him laugh. It’s the first time you’ve seen the hollows of his cheeks deepen, the dimples ghost into view.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat gently, He leans forward slightly, setting his glass on the table with a clink. “I do have an answer. But it’s a long one… if you’ll bear with me.” You nod, something soft and weightless settling in your chest.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice steady, unflinching. “Every time I come to see you… you’re even more beautiful. And you take my breath away.” That ache—the one you’d fought to swallow down minutes ago—surges back with a quiet ferocity. Your bottom lip parts, breath hitching in surprise.

Soobin’s voice dips, even softer now, like he’s confessing something he’s carried for far too long. “I asked you to make me that bouquet because I knew you’d pour yourself into it. You’d try your best to make it perfect for me. And when I saw it… I knew you’d done exactly that.” He pauses, gaze never wavering from you. “I never planned to take it with me. That bouquet—it was always meant for you.”

He shifts closer, just a few inches, slow and unintrusive. You don’t look at him; your eyes drop away, blurred with the tears threatening to spill over. You hold them back with every ounce of restraint, blinking fast against the shimmer at your waterline.

“I could’ve gone to any florist,” he continues, his voice barely above a murmur, “bought flowers and handed them to you. But I didn’t want that. I wanted you to make them… for yourself.”

Your chest pulls tight, your breath shallow and quick.

“I wanted you to create something as beautiful as you are. That’s why I asked for the bouquet.” His words land soft, final. “Because you’re beautiful.”

You try to fight it. Your head lifts slightly, your gaze tipping upward as if looking higher might will the tears back in. But the moment you blink, they slip free, tracing a slow, unbidden path down the curve of your cheek. There’s no hiding it. Not from him. Soobin’s eyes track the tear’s descent, his expression open and unreadable.

“I…” You falter, biting down gently on your tongue as your throat burns, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says immediately, “Tell me.”

Your breath shudders out, thin and shaky. “It’s just… earlier, I thought you wouldn’t come back.” The fracture in your voice is clear, woven into every syllable. Soobin hears it as easily as if you’d shouted it. His focus sharpens, tender and intent, even as another tear slips down your cheek.

Without a word, he lifts his hand. His touch is featherlight, the side of his index finger brushes just beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall farther. The contact startles you; your breath catches, your eyes widening at the gentle weight of his skin on yours. Though he’d caught your tear, his hand lingers on your cheek. His skin is cooler than yours, a contrast that sends a ripple down your spine. Then his finger glides down the curve of your face, tracing a path to your chin. His touch is careful, as if he’s afraid you might shatter under anything less. His fingers cradle your chin gently, coaxing, as he tilts your face toward him. Your breath catches as your gaze is guided back to his.

He’s looking at you.

Your nerves spark like a live wire under your skin, a delicate ache blooming in your chest. You swear you’ll come apart if you move too quickly, if you breathe too hard. Your heartbeat drums mercilessly in your ears loud enough, to fill the silence between you.

He leans closer. Slowly, gingerly, he edges forward like he’s stepping through every invisible barrier you’d built, slipping past every wall you thought you’d carefully kept intact. You watch as his eyes trace the line of your lips. Is he feeling the same tremor, the same breathless ache threatening to consume you whole?

Your eyes mirror his, drifting down until they rest on his lips. You feel his breath first, warm and shallow against your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut, anticipation blooming low in your belly — an ache, a flutter, a trembling promise. The thought alone sends shivers down your spine.

His lips meet yours. It's soft.

You don’t dare move. His fingers remain at your chinr. And for the first time, you let yourself surrender completely, allowing someone else full, irrevocable control. You let him lead. You let yourself fall. Then, subtly, Soobin shifts. His lips part just slightly against yours, enough to press a second kiss, lighter than air, softer than thought. The faintest sound of it rings in your ears, delicate and clear, as if it’s the only sound left in the world. There is no one else. Nothing else. Only you and him.

When he pulls away, it’s slow. He creates space between you, his gaze dropping—gentle, searching. “I apologize,” he says softly, his voice drawing your eyes open again. His pupils are dark, downcast, uncertainty clouding their depths as his fingers slip away from your skin. “If I made you uncomfortable… if I overstepped — I’m sorry.”

Without a word, with your tears now stilled, you reach for him. Your fingers wrap gently around his wrist, the same hand that had so carefully traced your skin. You hold him. With a pull, you guide his hand back to your face. When his fingertips meet your skin again, a wordless relief unfurls in your chest.

He’s watching you. His eyes are locked to yours, dark and unwavering, tracking every small shift in your expression as if deciphering the meaning behind your touch. Your hand stays clasped at his wrist as you draw your lips inward, wetting them with a soft sweep of your tongue, a silent permission offered without a single breath of speech.

You see it instantly, the way his brow knits downward, a soft furrow of longing. His lips part slightly, a breath escaping that he doesn’t bother to rein in. The expression across his face is raw, unguarded, needy in a way that makes your stomach swoop, a sweet ache pulling low in your core. His gaze flickers downward, fixated on the subtle shift of your mouth.

Before you even can take your next breath, his lips are on yours again. His mouth meets yours with more urgency, yet still achingly soft. His free hand ghosts up your jaw, fingers threading into the hinge of your neck, You’re taken aback, quite literally as his mouth parts against yours, deepening the kiss in a way that makes your breath falter. Your head tips backward instinctively, but before you can drift too far, his hand is there to catch. His fingers tangle into the soft strands at the nape of your neck, cradling you.

You clutch tighter to his wrist, as if that alone could tether you. The moment dissolves into something weightless, and the sensation of Soobin’s kiss begins to eclipse everything else — until the world narrows to nothing but his lips, his breath, his touch.

Your lungs tighten. Your head spins just as you feel the graze of his tongue against your lower lip. With a soft gasp, you break away.

Cool air rushes between your lips as you pull back, your breath coming quick and shallow. Your fingers, once gripping tight at his wrist loosen, falling limp against his skin. His hand slides gently from the back of your head, fingertips gliding down the column of your neck before settling against the delicate curve of your throat. His thumb traces there idly, barely a whisper of contact.

His voice, when it comes, is hushed. “Are you alright?”

All your life, you had been pursued. Suitors with bright eyes and polished words circled like moths, eager to capture your hand, to fasten their futures to yours. They came with promises that echoed hollow against your ribs. They smiled too easily, spoke too sweetly and though you tried, how you tried to meet them halfway, something inside you always stayed untouched.

You had forced smiles you didn’t mean. Laughed at jokes that never reached your eyes. You wrapped yourself in false emotions like gossamer, hoping the weight of them would feel like belonging. But after every encounter, you only felt emptier. You never understood why.

Until now.

With Soobin’s kiss still lingering on your lips, with his hand resting against the tender line of your throat as though you were something precious, and easily breakable. The truth settles in you, your heart had never been wandering.

It had been waiting. Waiting for him.

It wasn’t that no one wanted you. It was that your soul had already made its choice long before your body could catch up. And after all the quiet, lonely years of not knowing what you were longing for, he had finally found you.

You are home.

"I…" Your voice is thin, threadbare with wonder. You search for words, but none seem big enough to hold what you’re feeling. "I’ve never… been kissed like that before."

He smile slowly, a laugh tumbles from him and the thumb resting against your neck drifts upward, grazing the curve of your cheek with such careful reverence it makes your breath catch. You don’t have time to react. He leans in before you can even think, brushing a kiss against your lips, so brief it’s almost weightless. Too fleeting, too quick, and when he pulls away, you instinctively lean forward, chasing the fading warmth.

"Is that better?" he murmurs, mischief softening the edges of his gaze.

You swallow thickly, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his touch. "I didn’t…" Your voice falters, a smile tugging unbidden at the corner of your lips. "…say that I didn’t like it."

It was as if your words had unspooled something inside him, like you'd spoken a secret incantation only he could hear. The moment your words left your lips, he was on you — his mouth capturing yours with a hunger. His hands slid down at your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, warm palms pressing against your skin as if he needed to feel every inch of you. His lips broke from yours only to travel lower, grazing the delicate line of your jaw before finding the curve of your neck. The first brush of his mouth there drew a sound from you, a soft moan. You felt him smile against your skin, a low, pleased hum from his throat as if your every sigh was a gift.

Without thinking, your arms wrapped tighter around him. You shifted, lifting your legs to curl around his waist, pulling him flush against you. The soft, unrestrained groan that escaped him at the motion sent a spark racing straight through you.

You had never felt so wanted as hands slid down, tracing the shape of your thigh before they dipped to the bend of your knee. You had never felt so treasured as he slowly, began to gather the fabric of your skirt, dragging it higher along your leg with unhurried care, revealing skin he touched as though memorizing you with each pass.

"You taste divine," he breathed against your neck, the words threaded with awe and desire. His lips trailed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your throat, grazing you with teeth soft enough to make you shiver, as if he wanted to consume you completely yet worship every part of you. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently as you guided him back to your lips. He met you eagerly, melting into the kiss as though he’d waited lifetimes for it.

“If you want me to stop… tell me,” he whispered against your mouth, voice rough and tender all at once.

You nodded unafraid, and in that quiet, unspoken agreement, you watched something flicker in his eyes. As if he was vowing to worship you fully but never without your permission. His hands moved, deft and gentle, helping you ease out of the thin barrier of fabric that separated you, his gaze never leaving yours as if even in this unraveling, your comfort was his compass.

His smile curves against the delicate line of your neck, breath fanning across your skin as his words slip through, velvet-soft and low, “You’re already so wet for me.” His tone is laced with adoration. “I didn’t know you’d be such a good girl for me.”

The world dissolves.

It shrinks and softens until all that’s left is him — Soobin and the press of his body against yours, Soobin and the way his voice drips honey and reverence into your ear, Soobin and the hands that worship every part of you like he’s learning a language spoken only through touch.

Every piece of clothing that falls away is marked by his mouth, kisses dragged slow across your lips, your jaw, the hollow of your throat, the slope of your collarbones. His lips move like he’s tracing constellations on your skin, as though, somehow, you hold the entire night sky within you.

His hands, large and steady, move over you with a duality that makes you ache. Greedy and gentle. Certain but tender. He touches you as though he’s starved for you, but terrified you might slip away if he’s too careless. His fingers map your curves, glide down your sides, ghost along the backs of your thighs, curling possessively.

The room is thick with something heavier than air. It’s breath; yours and his, tangled in rhythm. It’s the soft rustle of fabric sliding over skin, the quiet catch of a moan swallowed between kisses, the faint sighs that spill when his hands find somewhere new to caress. Everything slows because he slows it. He takes his time, like he refuses to let any detail slip by unnoticed.

It doesn’t feel like he’s simply undressing you.

It feels like he’s unveiling something sacred. Like every inch of you laid bare is a gift he’s longed for, and now that he has it, he won’t squander a second. His gaze drinks you in between every kiss, full of a softness that cradles the sharp edge of desire. His pupils blown wide, his lips pink and kiss-bitten, his breath shaky though he tries to steady it.

You’re cherished.

“Soobin,” you gasp, breath hitching as he pulls you effortlessly into his lap. His lips find the swell of your breast, as his hands caress you with tender precision — teasing. The soft drag of his tongue against your nipples pulls a shiver from deep within you.

“I’ll take you to bed, sweetheart,” — “Yes, please,”

His mouth meets yours again, slow and consuming, while his arms curl around you. Without breaking the kiss, he rises, lifting you as though you weigh nothing, as though carrying you is the most natural thing in the world. You don’t open your eyes. You don’t need to. Your hands stay laced behind his neck, your fingers threading through the soft hair at his nape. You surrender wholly, letting yourself be cradled in his care. His footsteps echo and then you feel it, the plush give of the mattress beneath you as he lowers you gently into the center of the bed. The sheets are cool against your back, but his gaze is molten, grounding you in a warmth no fabric could match.

“Soobin…” Your voice trembles, “I haven’t done this before.”

For a moment, his expression stills. Something softens even further in his eyes. His lips tilt into the faintest, sweetest smile before he leans down, planting a slow kiss on your lips.

“I’ll be gentle with you then,” he promises, voice so gentle it nearly breaks you apart. His forehead rests against yours as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his touch light as silk. “You don’t have to fear anything with me. We’ll go slow. You just tell me everything you want… everything you don’t.”

You gave him a smile, you reached up and kissed him. A simple peck. His eyes is open mid-kiss, like he couldn’t bear to miss a second of it. As though the feeling of your lips wasn’t enough, he wanted to see it too. “I trust you,” you whispered against his lips, “I do.”

You had never been blinded because of a smile before.

His lips press against your sternum, inching his way with slow pecks towards the plump skin of your breasts. And the second he finds your nipple, a sharp gasp leaves your throat as you feel his warm tongue caress the sensitive flesh. His hand moves to your navel, his palm lying flush to your abdomen as he holds you down to the mattress; continuing to glide his tongue over you. As Soobin lifts his lips from you momentarily, the chill of his saliva lingers on your breast, makes you softly squirm in his grasp.

He move to the other side of your body, slowly slowly repeating the process as he suckle at your hardened bud ever so gently. But this time, he use his teeth to bite the softest mark onto your nipple; the careful sting pulls your back into an arch. You whimper at the roughness, though it only lasts for a second, and as you process their actions, Soobin begins to trail down from your breasts, moving to the other one. His hands work, reaching down to caress your core which pulse between your thighs.

You try to control yourself as he went lower, to control your body, control the moans begging for release but the moment he place a kiss to your clit, the little control you have begins to slip. He starts gently, a kiss, a soft lick up your entrance, and gets back to give the most careful suckle at your clit. His gentle licks turn into passionate laps as he palce his tongue flat to your clit and allow the pressure of his muscle alone to spark up your spine.

You gasp at the feeling, your hands grip desperately onto the sheets by your sides.

With his hand still placed on your lower belly, Soobin outstretches his fingers towards his mouth latched onto your cunt. His thumb finds its place just above the hood of your clit, as he begin to add to the simulation causing your teeth to sink into your bottom lip. He swirl the wet skin, sucking, intervals of tender kisses in between as he feel you between his lips; as the squelching of his tongue against your soaked entracne takes over the silence of the night.

"You're being such a good girl for me," Soobin kisses the words onto you, "So fucking good." He use his freehand to pull your leg up and over his shoulder, your body willingly at his control. He lift his mouth from you only to place his lips inside of your thight, his fingers still simulating you even with the pause.

You can feel it brewing. The band threathening to snap at any moment. Your pleasure pleading for release as he return to lap at your cunt.

"S-Soobin," you gasp, "Wait, I-" your please turn into tight cries of desperation as they retrieve a smile from Soobin, who listens intently to you moaning his name.

"I know baby," he kisses your clit, his thumb giving you an experimental amount of pressure, "I know baby, you can cum on my tongue. I don't mind."

If it weren't for your orgasm now unleashing inside of you, you possibly would have laughed, but the only thing that comes out of you, among the essence leaking into Soobin's mouth, is the lewd noises breaching the shores of your pleasure. Your hips instinctively push into his mouth as it explodes.

Your legs twitch, faint tremors echoing long after the euphoria crests and slowly ebbs away. Your breath is uneven, your chest rising and falling in shallow pulls as your mind tries to fix itself again. The world feels distant, softened at the edges, but you feel him. You feel Soobin everywhere. You hardly register the trail of his lips scaling their way back up your body, delicate kisses pressed along your stomach, the hollow between your ribs, the curve of your collarbone; until his face hovers just above yours. His breath fans against your lips, warm and even, as though he’s been composed the entire time, despite the flush that paints the high of his cheekbones. And when you meet his eyes —

Adoration. That’s all there is. As though you hung the stars in his sky.

Your fingers, still faintly trembling, reach down to the waistband of his pants, a silent plea building in your chest to return the worship he’s lavished on you. But before you can so much as graze the fabric, his hand wraps gently around your wrist, and moves it away.

“Tonight is about you,” Soobin murmurs, voice low, coaxing you back into ease. A smile, soft and disarming, tugs at the corners of his lips as he dips forward to nuzzle the tip of his nose against yours. “Just think of it as my way to say sorry… for making the prettiest girl wait so long.” His fingers, those long, graceful ones you’ve become so attuned to, sweep gently through your hair, combing it back from your damp forehead as though you were something priceless. His thumb brushes the line of your temple before trailing down the curve of your jaw, feather-light.

You stare back at him, your gaze tender and unwavering, the reflection of your own adoration open across your features. Whatever he sees in your eyes makes something in his expression soften even further.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his voice dropping as he nestles closer to your side. Instinctively, you open your arms for him, and he slides into the space as though it were carved just for him, his head resting gently against your chest.

“Nothing,” you whisper truthfully, your fingers threading into his soft hair as you tilt your head to study him. Wonder flickers within you like the soft flicker of candlelight, igniting gently as you take in the way the dim glow plays in his irises — deep brown kissed with honey, shadows and softness blending as if the universe itself tried to paint the richest portrait inside his gaze. “You’re beautiful,”

The smile that spreads across his face is breathtaking. His lips curve in that boyish, gentle way that squeezes your heart painfully tight, and then he laughs. Your own smile spills out in response, and soon both your laughs mingle, weaving together in the space between you like spun gold, before your lips find each other’s once more.

You woke with the sunlight brushing gently across your skin, the warmth pooling on the sheets.

His breath is steady against the back of your neck, his chest rising and falling. His arm is still draped over your waist, fingers laced together just under your ribs as if even in sleep, he’s afraid to let go. Every time you shift, even slightly, his hold tightens; subconscious, instinctive. As though his body has decided on its own that you belong nowhere but here. You feel the ghost of his lips at the back of your head again, a soft, unthinking kiss pressed into your hair. And then that murmur that drifted from him throughout the night, something wordless and sweet, as though he was dreaming of you and couldn’t help but let it slip into the waking world.

You are exactly where you’re meant to be.

You blink slowly, everything is softened by the white sheets. Warmth surrounds you, not just from the sun filtering through the windows, but from the comforting weight draped over your back. You shift slowly, turning in his embrace until you’re met with the sight that makes your heart swell.

Choi Soobin.

Your fingertips ghost along the curve of his cheek, feather-light, afraid you might wake him if you touched him too boldly. His skin is soft beneath your hand, still asleep. His lashes rest delicately against his cheekbones, his lips parted slightly, breath deep and even.

“Sleepy Soobin,” you whisper, your thumb brushes along the slope of his cheekbone and, instinctively, he leans into your palm, nuzzling against your touch. The simple action sends a tender ache spiraling through your chest. Your mind drifts back, to the way his hands gripped you with both hunger and patience. To the way his lips worshiped every inch of you. To the way he had cradled you afterward, not letting a single shiver escape him unnoticed, whispering soft words against your skin.

Your eyes drink him in, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the tousled strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses on the corner of his mouth. You linger there, breathing him in, letting your lips stay against him like a silent thank-you whispered straight from your heart.

“I don’t think,” you murmur softly against his skin, your lips curving in a smile, “I’ve ever been this happy before.” And as if he heard you even in sleep, his arm around your waist tightens, pulling you closer.

Your phone buzzes. You move quickly, fingers curling around the device as you move yourself out of Soobin’s arms. You sit on the edge of the bed, the cool air brushing against your skin. His shirt hangs loosely off your frame, the fabric soft and saturated with the faint scent of him. You tuck a hand into the hem absentmindedly as you answer. “Hello?” Your voice is hushed.

“Oh, hi. I just wanted to check in about your grandmother. She took her meds.” Hana’s voice comes softly from the other end, the caregiver you’d called last minute yesterday when you weren’t sure you’d make it home in time.

Relief unfurls gently in your chest. “Thank you, Hana,” you murmur, a small smile touching your lips. “I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

There’s a few more exchanged words, small reassurances and thank-yous, before you end the call. The screen dims in your hand, but you don’t move just yet. You glance over your shoulder. He hasn’t stirred, not really, but his brows are slightly furrowed now, as if he noticed the loss of you in his sleep. The sheets dip where you’d been moments ago, and one hand rests, palm open, where your body had once been.

A soft smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You want to crawl back to him already. But you know you can't.

Setting the phone down, your gaze drifted toward the bedside table. You remembered Soobin opening the drawer last night, tucking away both of your things. You needed your ponytail. You pulled the drawer open.

Your fingers falter for the the first thing you see. You hadn’t meant to intrude. Two large bottles, their labels slightly worn, tucked neatly in the corner of the drawer as if he’d kept them close, yet out of sight.

Sleeping pills.

Your lips press into a thin line as thoughts flicker behind your eyes — how gentle he’d been with you, how steady and warm his gaze had felt, how easily sleep had taken him last night in your arms. And yet… these. Did he take them every day? Your hand brushes over the edge, and finally, you spot your ponytail nestled beside his wristwatch.

You swallow gently, pushing the drawer close.

You hummed softly as you slid the fried eggs onto a white plate, the gentle sizzle fading as you set them down. This place is a wide, unfamiliar kitchen, but somehow your hands had found their routine effortlessly. Turning, you arranged the plate beside the crisp bacon and the golden slices of toasted, buttered bread.

Out of the corner of your eye, the bedroom door creaked open. "Good morning," you called, your voice laced with a smile that turned fully when you saw Soobin, no confusion in his sleepy gaze, no hesitation in his steps. He made a beeline straight to you.

Before you could even set down the last plate, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest with a soft exhale of relief. His lips found your hairline in a series of slow, affectionate kisses, "You didn’t have to make breakfast, baby. I could’ve called someone."

"I didn’t mind it," you replied, breathless with laughter as you tried halfheartedly to nudge him away. But he only shook his head, clutching you tighter, "Come on," you coaxed gently, tilting your head to meet his soft gaze. "Let’s eat."

At just those simple words, he loosened his hold, his hand sliding down to lace his fingers with yours.

“What is it?” Soobin asks softly, voice in curiosity as he chews his food. His eyes catching the question behind your gaze. “I did tell you… you can ask me anything, remember?”

You nod, your fork slowly tracing circles on the edge of your plate. “Yes…” You swallow, “I don’t mean to pry, I really don’t. I just… I just wanted to ask if you take those pills every day?”

He nods slowly. “I do,” he admits. “I’ve always had trouble sleeping.” Your lips part to speak, but before you can, he sets his fork down and leans in, elbows resting on the table as his hand slides gently over yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “But last night…” A faint smile curls the corner of his lips,“Last night, I didn’t even think about them. I didn’t need them.” His voice drops, “You were here.”

Sitting at that table, sharing breakfast, you felt like you were learning him in layers, like pages of a book gently unfolding for you. You already had your suspicions the moment you first met Soobin. The cut of his clothes, the sleek car he drove; they all whispered of a life far from ordinary. But hearing it from his lips, hearing him confess that he was set to inherit and run an entire empire, sent a quiet shiver up your spine. A chaebol. How had someone like you managed to cross paths, let alone hearts, with someone like him?

He spoke openly, though gently, about the burden he had carried since he was just a teenager. How sleep had long been a stranger to him. How those pills had been his quiet crutch in the endless swirl of expectations, decisions, and responsibilities that clouded his nights. You tried your best to absorb every word. Soobin told you how he had found you captivating from the very first moment he saw you — how, despite that, he never had the courage to approach you.

“All my life,” he murmured, gaze dropping to the untouched food on his plate, “I watched my sister become trapped in a marriage. Watching her lose herself made me believe I shouldn’t chase anyone… or anything. But then, I saw you.”

It was unclear why he trusted you so deeply, why he felt safe enough to share such memories about his sister’s pain and the misplaced guilt he carried on his shoulders. But he did. He let you in. The shadows in his expression melted the moment you leaned in, your lips pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to his and your arms curling gently around him. Maybe that was why. Maybe you were his perfect match. You were the one brave enough to ask him out first; unknowing then, but somehow sensing what held him back.

You learned more little things about him that morning too. How he often misplaced his watch because he’d take it off absentmindedly and forget where he’d set it. How he liked his coffee with an extra spoon of sugar and a generous pour of creamer, because despite everything, Soobin had a sweet tooth.

And somehow, every one of these small pieces only made you fall for him more.

“I can’t wait to get back and see you,” his voice comes gently through the phone, smooth and warm like a whisper against your ear. “Just three more days, and I’ll be back. Okay?”.

“Okay,” you breathe, your voice softer than you intend. “Just make sure you’re eating well, alright?” You swallow gently, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I’ll see you soon.”

His laugh drifts back to you, honey-sweet and effortless. You miss him already. “Okay, baby.”

And just like that, the line clicks silent.

You move quietly around your shop, fingers trailing along the shelves, straightening small displays here and there. You smile to yourself, a small, private thing, as memories of the past few days float to the surface. His touch. His laugh. Everything lately had felt… right. Almost effortlessly so.

The soft chime of the doorbell rings out, pulling you back to the present.

“Welcome,” you call, your gaze lifts and locks instantly with a pair of sharp, assessing eyes. A woman stands there, immaculately dressed, her age maybe in her fifties, though the confidence she wears makes her seem ageless somehow.

Her eyes sweep over you unblinking, as though weighing you against some invisible scale. “Are you the woman seeing my son?” A chill skips down your spine.

“Pack your things up,” she says crisply, her gaze drifting coolly over the small, carefully curated space of your shop. Her lips twitch, close enough to make your stomach twist. “Come have lunch with me.”

You blink, thrown off balance, your heartbeat picking up beneath your ribs. This… wasn’t what you’d expected today. “Uh—yes, ma’am,” you say, trying to gather yourself.

Her head tilts, something sharp glinting behind her expression. “Why did you stutter?” The question is too sharp for someone who doesn't know you. Before you can even try to answer, she lifts her hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “Go on. Change your clothes. Make it fast. I don’t like waiting.”

Your fingers twitch on your lap as you lower your gaze, lashes casting shadows over your cheeks. The seat beneath you feels too plush, too stiff all at once, as if you don’t quite belong in it. You’re somewhere deep inside this towering glass building — a restaurant so vast and pristine it feels like even your breath is too loud for the space. You try to inhale quietly, chest tight, as Soobin’s mother sits across from you, commanding the room with a presence that doesn’t falter.

You watched, silent, as she spoke crisply to the waiter. Her tone left no room for correction, no cracks for uncertainty to slip through. She didn’t ask what you’d like. She didn’t ask if salad was to your taste. She simply ordered it for you without sparing you a glance — as though she already knew what you should eat, or perhaps decided it didn’t matter.

The clink of glassware is sharp, and you jump slightly when she clears her throat. Slowly, reluctantly, you lift your eyes to meet hers. Her gaze is steady, dark and searching, the sort that makes you feel like you’re being turned inside out with just a look.

“What do you want—”

"Mother," a new voice drifts into the space; light, melodic. You turn instinctively, and there she stands: a woman so strikingly beautiful it’s impossible to mistake the relation. The soft curve of her jaw, the familiar gentle slope of her nose, she carries pieces of Soobin effortlessly in her features.

She moves toward the table with a grace that makes the heavy atmosphere ease, as though her very presence carries warmth where there was only frost before. Soobin’s mother’s stern face softens, her posture loosening subtly for the first time since you sat down and it’s clear this new woman holds sway over her in ways no one else has managed thus far.

The young woman settles beside her mother, her gaze drifting to you with a kindness that wraps around you like a soft blanket. No scrutiny, no sharp edges, it's curiosity. “I’m Soobin’s sister,” she says her name gently, her lips pulling into a smile that reaches her eyes. “You look even more beautiful than what he says.”

The sincerity in her voice disarms you. It feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long, like finding a familiar light in a room full of shadows. Warm. Genuine.

“Th-thank you,” you murmur, voice small as your gaze drops shyly to your lap. The elegance she carries so effortlessly makes you acutely aware of every inch of yourself; of your softness, your simplicity. You steal a glance upward as she turns away, leaning toward her mother, her voice soft and fluid as she starts to recount her day.

Their hair, not a strand out of place, styled with a polish that speaks of salons you’ve never stepped foot in. The fine lines of their blouses, their tailored cuts, fabrics that drape as if stitched to their skin. Even their nails is perfectly shaped, coated in shades that gleam soft and subtle, unchipped. Their handbags resting beside them glint of understated luxury, the kind of leather that never creases, the kind of detail you notice only when you’ve never had it.

Your gaze falls to your skirt — the one you had sewn with patient hands from fabric you bargained for at the market’s edge. You’d chosen the material carefully, pieced it together with love, made it yours. But here… it feels smaller somehow. Less. You smooth your palms over your knees.

How long will you have to sit in moments like this? How long will you have to feel the weight of difference settle like a stone in your chest? The gap between their world and yours feels so wide it burns.

You don’t belong here.

You hadn’t even managed to lift your fork, “How old are you?” Soobin’s mother asked.

“Twenty-three,” you murmured, your tongue thick in your mouth. The number sounded too small as soon as it left you.

Her lips tugged downward. “Five years younger than him. Too young.” A pause, heavy. “Education status? What of your family?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m living with my grandmother.”

Her brow arched, unimpressed. “Since when?” — “Since I was a child.”

The air felt thinner now. You could feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in the trembling tips of your fingers that curled tighter under the table. “Then how would you run a family if you don’t even have one?”

The sting behind your eyes burned fast. You blinked hard, but it did nothing to wash it away. You felt small, smaller than you ever thought you could shrink.

“Mother,” Soobin’s sister snapped, her voice tight with disbelief. You lifted your gaze to her, grateful and ashamed all at once. Her expression was shocked that her mother had gone that far.

But then the next blow landed. “Do you even know there’s a girl who’s supposed to marry him?” Her tone dropped, dripping with disdain as if she wanted to watch you crumble beneath it.

“Mom, stop it. Now.” Soobin’s sister, again. Firmer this time.

Your lips parted to answer — to say something, anything — but all that came out was fragile and thin. “We… we haven’t talked about it.” It was all you could manage. Your voice cracked just enough to make the shame crawl higher up your throat. Your chair scraped against the floor softly as you rose, every inch of your body stiff and burning. You forced a tight smile that felt more like a grimace. “Excuse me… I’ll just take the bathroom.”

Your legs carried you away before the first tear slipped free.

You gripped the sink’s edge so hard your knuckles ached, head bowed as silent sobs racked through your chest. You couldn’t catch your breath. Couldn’t hold it together long enough to even pretend you belonged here. Your reflection in the mirror blurred behind the sheen of tears; eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, lips trembling. Small. Out of place. A girl trying to fit in.

Of course she was right. You’d always known it, hadn’t you? You were someone born from absence. A child left behind by two people who couldn’t even stay for you, much less for each other. You’d spent so long tucking that truth away, convincing yourself. His mother didn’t have to scream to shatter you.

You wiped at your face uselessly, but the tears kept slipping, warm and bitter down your jaw. You didn’t want to ruin what Soobin had left with his mother, thin and cracked as it might be. You’d seen the strain in his eyes before when he spoke of her. You’d heard the weight when he talked about duty, legacy, responsibility; but you wouldn’t be the reason he chose sides. Maybe everything really had just been a dream. And maybe now…maybe it was time to wake up.

The door creaks open, and you flinch too late to hide the tears streaking your cheeks.

Soobin’s sister.

Her expression crumbles the second she sees you. “Oh, honey.” Her voice is soft, almost breaking, and before you can turn away or gather yourself, she’s already crossing the room. You shake your head, a weak protest caught in your throat, but it falls apart the second her arms wrap around you. You don’t mean to collapse, but you do. Your body folds into hers, trembling, your fingers clutching at the fabric of her coat.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes against your temple, her voice rawer now, as if she can feel even a fraction of what’s tearing through you.

Your chest hurts. You can’t speak. You don’t trust your own voice not to shatter the second you try. So you just stand there, breathing uneven, tears soaking the front of her blouse.

“Don’t cry,” she whispers finally, pulling back, her palms warm against your damp cheeks. Her eyes search yours. Slowly, she slides a handkerchief from her pocket and presses it into your hand, her thumb brushing over your knuckles as she lets go. “My mother… she’s always been like this. I won’t tell you not to feel hurt, you should feel hurt. She doesn’t know how to soften her words, even when she should.”

“I came here because I heard she’d come after you the moment Soobin flew out for his trip,” she continues, “And about that woman… or whatever arrangement that was, Soobin never met her. Not even once. That was all our mother’s doing. If you want the truth, it’s best you hear it straight from him, hm?” Your fingers curl tighter around the handkerchief.

“I… I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice frayed at the edges, the apology slipping out even though you aren’t sure what you’re apologizing for— being here, being too small for this world, for falling for someone you were never supposed to have?

“Don’t be,” she says softly, her lips tugging into a smile. "You’ve done nothing wrong."

She reaches to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “You can go home. I’ll handle her,” she promises. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t come near you again, not until Soobin gets back and sorts all of this out himself.”

Your throat tightens again, “Why?” The word falls out of you in a whisper. “Why are you doing all of this?”

“Soobin deserves to be happy,” she says, there's a glisten in her eyes. “And you… you make him happy.”

You sit still, hands folded tightly in your lap, nails pressing crescents into your skin as the hum of the engine vibrates beneath you. Through the window’s glass, blurred by your uneven breaths, you see them, Soobin’s sister and her husband.

Choi Beomgyu.

Even from here, even without sound, it’s clear. The way his eyes search hers, soft and intent. The way his hand brushes her cheek, tender and unhurried. And then, his palm drifts lower, resting on the curve of her stomach.

Your breath catches, an involuntary gasp escaping from your lips. You hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because you’d been too wrapped in your own thoughts, but there it is now; the small, rounded swell of her belly beneath her dress.

She’s pregnant.

Your eyes dart away. It sinks in heavier than you expect—the contrast of it. The weight of what you felt in that restaurant still gnawing at your ribs. You swallow hard, blinking fast. You shouldn’t be jealous. Not of them, not of their certainty, not of the way they fit together. You curl your fingers tighter.

Beomgyu slides into the driver’s seat, his eyes flicker to you in the rearview mirror, not invasive. “You okay?” His voice is gentle, low.

You swallow past the knot tightening in your throat. “Yes.”

He doesn’t press. He just nods once, slow, and leans back in his seat. His hands rest on the wheel but he doesn’t start the car. Instead, his eyes shift toward the building. You follow his line of sight and see her— his wife, walking toward the entrance.

Beomgyu stays still, waiting. His jaw flexes slightly, not out of impatience, but out of habit, you can tell. He doesn’t move, not until she disappears inside the building safely, not until the glass doors close behind her and she’s no longer in sight.

Only then does he release a small breath and turn the key in the ignition. The car starts.

You've never seen a love so whole.

You’d finally made peace with it all, to speak to Soobin when he returned. His sister’s promise had held true; his mother hadn’t darkened your doorstep again. For once, the silence felt like safety.

Only one more day. Just one, and he’d be back.

The sharp chime of the door snapped through the quiet. You turned instinctively, forcing a smile onto your lips out of habit.

Standing there was a woman. “Good morning,” you greeted softly, stepping behind the counter, trying to keep your hands steady.

“You’re Y/N, right?” Your stomach flipped, hands instantly cold. What is it this time?

“Yes,” you answered carefully, guarded. “How can I help you?”

She took a step closer, “I’m Aera,” she said smoothly, not a trace of hesitation. “Soon to be Soobin’s fiancée.”

Your breath stuttered. The smile fell clean from your lips. “I’m sorry… what—”

“His mother told me about you.” The words barely registered before the woman dropped to her knees in front of you. The motion was so sudden, so desperate, your breath caught in your throat and your eyes went wide.

“Please…” her voice cracked as she folded her hands together, her head bowed low in a way that looked almost unnatural for someone like her; pristine, polished, composed. But here she was. Crumbling. “Please tell him to accept the proposal.”

Your chest constricted painfully. “No, no, stand up, you don’t have to,”

But she shook her head sharply, her shoulders trembling. Tears clung to her lashes, heavy and raw. “I’ll let you have everything you want. You can still be with him .I don’t care. I’ll just marry him in name. I’ll stay in a different room. A different house, even. I won’t touch him. Our family… we need his. Please, I’m begging you.” Her voice broke entirely on that last word.

Even she knew. Even she understood what his mother refused to admit; his heart was already in your hands.

You walk to the building, each step echoing in your chest. The elevator hums softly as you press the button, your reflection in the mirrored doors a stranger to you. When it finally dings open, you step out into the hallway.

Your hand hovers over the doorbell of his home. You take a breath and press the button. And then you wait.

You run over the speeches you carved into your heart all day, I’m sorry, but we need to break up. I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore. But the moment the door opens, it all disintegrates.

He stands there, and for a split second, it’s as if everything stills. His eyes meet yours, rimmed with exhaustion so deep it settles into the lines of his face. “I’ve been waiting for you, sweetheart.” His voice is soft. Almost fragile.

And before you can think, before you can remember the careful goodbye you rehearsed a thousand times, he reaches for you.His fingers curl around your arms, and he pulls you into him. Into the chest that has always felt like home.

The door clicks shut behind you.

“Soobin, I—” Your voice barely breaks through the air before it’s swallowed by the heat of him; his lips finding the curve of your neck, hot and hurried, like a man starved. His body crowds yours effortlessly, the breadth of him making you feel small. His hands, large, trembling with restraint digs firmly on your waist.

“I fucking missed your voice,” he breathes against your skin, “I fucking missed you… I couldn’t even sleep.”

Your throat tightens, a lump clawing higher and higher as your heart caves in on itself. Coward. That’s what it feels like. Your heart, shrinking, curling away from what you came here to say. Because how could you speak of endings when he’s here, clinging to you like this? When he holds you like you were his last hope?

“I need you, baby,” he murmurs, his fingers slide to your blouse, undoing the buttons one by one, slower than his breath, slower than the pounding of your pulse against your ribs. His knuckles brush against your skin, “Did you miss me?”

You open your mouth. The truth swells painfully, desperate to tear out. I did. I missed you more than you’ll ever know. But all you manage is a breathless, broken, “I—”

His hot mouth sucks your nipple. “…Yes.”

It’s all a blur — his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered your name. You don’t remember how the clothes came off, how the sheets tangled beneath your bodies. You only remember the weight of him, the heat of his skin, and the soft drag of his lips along your body that made your breath catch.

The sharp stretch, the slow push of him sinking into you. Tears spill before you even realize they’re falling. It isn’t the pain that makes you cry. It’s the ache in your chest, the way your heart splits in two at the sight of him — Soobin, tired and unraveling, still so gentle. You were too scared to say no. Not because you didn’t want him, but because you did. Too much. You craved to erase the exhaustion from his eyes, even if it was only for one night.

Maybe you were fooling yourself into thinking you were giving something to him, when really, you were trying to steal one last piece of him for yourself.

His brow furrows as he stills inside you, the concern written all over his face. His thumbs swipe at your damp cheeks, his lips brushing against your skin in soft, frantic kisses. “Did that hurt? What’s wrong?”

You force a breath through the tightness in your throat, eyes locking on his, “No,” you manage to choke out, your voice cracking. Your hand comes up to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing the soft curve of his under-eye, tracing the shadows you wish you could take away. You swallow the sob clawing at your chest, and say it. You have to say it. Even if it’s the last time.

“I— I just love you.” His lips part slightly at your confession. His breath stutters, and something raw flickers behind his gaze; wonder, disbelief. His whole body goes still as if those words rooted him to the earth. “I love you, Soobin.”

"I love you. I fucking love you."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then warm, featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, “You’ve been asleep so long, I’m starting to miss you.”

You exhale a soft huff, but there’s no real protest in it. Just the lazy stretch of your arm as you roll toward him, pressing your face into the curve of his neck where he smells like him. Your voice comes out muffled. “Let’s stay like this for five more minutes.”

A smile ghosts against your temple. His hand slides to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer. “Okay,”

You finally peeled yourself from the bed, soft sheets still warm with sleep and the weight of him. He trailed after you, tall and shadowing your every move around the kitchen as the morning light spilled in. You couldn’t help it, your fingers found his constantly. On his wrist as he buttered toast, laced with his as you poured coffee, curled around his as you sat across from him at the table. And for the first time, you saw it clearly: the way Soobin’s cheeks flushed pink under the weight of your affection, his gaze flickering down, shy and boyish, every time you touched him like you couldn’t stop.

Now, he stands by the mirror, freshly showered, crisp shirt hugging broad shoulders, hair damp and curling just a little at the edges. You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him. He wanted you to stay here, in his penthouse. Wanted you here waiting when he came home.

You rise when you see him fumble with his tie, long fingers struggling with the knot. “Let me,” you say softly. Your fingertips brush against his as you take over, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath his skin. He watches you, head tilted down, eyes steady and soft, drinking in every precise movement as you fold and tug the silk into place.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, “Thank you, baby,” he murmurs. He leans in, scattering kisses across your face — your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your lips — each one light and full of that unshakable, boyish smile of his.

You walk him to the elevator, bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. He steps inside, glances back at you, and lifts his hand in a wave; a grin stretching wide, something childlike and unguarded lighting up his whole face.

All while everything was breaking your heart.

You moved quietly through his home. The morning hush wrapped around you like something delicate and suffocating all at once. You folded his clothes with shaking hands, smoothing out every crease, tucking each piece into its rightful place as if order could somehow soften what you were about to break.

His watch. You found it lying carelessly on the counter where he always forgot it. You fixed it gently onto the shelf beside his cufflinks and rings, aligning everything just so, because you knew he liked it neat, even if he never said it out loud. It was small, but you wanted to leave it perfect for him.

The kitchen was next. Your movements felt numb now, mechanical. You prepared everything the way he loved it: coffee beans ground just right, the sugar jar filled, the creamer where it belonged. You wrote it all down on a small scrap of paper; the exact way you made it for him, step by step and pressed the note beside the kettle. Your handwriting blurred through your tears, but you forced yourself to keep writing.

By the time you found a clean sheet of paper and sat at the dining table, your whole body trembled with the weight of it. The pen felt too heavy in your hand. Your tears hit the page before your words did.

You slowly, wrote your goodbye.

"Nana, this is your new room, okay?" Your voice is soft, careful not to crack as you push the door open, guiding her slowly inside. "It’s a little different, but we’ll figure it out. I’ll make sure we’re alright."

You smile, or something close to it, when she nods faintly, her eyes drifting over the unfamiliar space. The pale walls, the narrow window, the worn bed frame. None of it felt like home yet, but it had to be. You’d make it be.

Her fingers brushed against the edge of the dresser as she turned to you. "Why did we move so suddenly?"

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. "Oh," you answered lightly, "because we had to."

Your chest tightened when her gaze lingered on you a beat longer, as if peeling back layers you didn’t want exposed. And then, almost absently, she asked, "How about your man?"

You froze. The air seemed thinner, sharper. You weren’t even sure she remembered him clearly — just a distant echo of the day Soobin had shown up with that gentle smile, introducing himself with careful politeness.

"I… I broke up with him," you whispered. She didn’t react at first. Just nodded quietly, turning to sit on the edge of her bed. Her small frame curved gently as she smoothed the blanket beneath her hands, her movements slow and methodical.

You took a step back toward the doorway, trying to breathe steady. Trying not to crumble in front of her. But then, just as she rose again to cross the room, her voice drifted back to you. "Love will not fail," she murmured. "If it fails… it’s not love."

It was as if you’d just torn your own heart out with your bare hands.

Love will not fail. If it fails, it’s not love.

It had been days since you moved.

And still, no matter how many boxes you unpacked, no matter how carefully you folded your grandmother’s cardigans into drawers or wiped down every surface, this place didn’t breathe like the home you left behind.

The sky hadn't lightened once since you arrived. It hung heavy and bruised from dawn to dusk, a slate-colored weight pressing down on everything. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw sunlight crack through.

And then, the rain came.

You noticed it first in the shift of the wind. A few drops scattered across the concrete, and then it broke open all at once. Panic seized you as your mind jumped to the laundry. The sheets you’d washed them early this morning and hung them in the front of your lawn, hoping they'd dry before nightfall.

You bolted outside, breath shallow, feet slipping slightly against the wet pavement. Cold droplets clung to your hair, running down the line of your neck, soaking through your shoulders. Your fingers fumbled over the clothesline as you yanked the white sheets down frantically, heart racing as you tried to save what little you had.

And then — Your body stilled. Your hands slackened on the fabric as your gaze caught on a figure standing just past the fence.

For a moment, the rain softened around you, every sound falling away except the ragged beat of your own heart breaking all over again.

Choi Soobin’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the dim wash of the dashboard lights. His eyes flicked from one worn street sign to the next, cataloguing every turn, every corner, like a man tracing the edges of an old wound. Every so often, he let the car slow to a crawl. Stared a little too long at places that meant nothing to him, but might have meant everything to you.

It’s the town, the one his investigator pointed him to. The small, quiet town where the woman who tore through his world had disappeared into without a trace but with every piece of him still in her hands.

He’d already gone over everything twice. No. Three times. He couldn’t remember anymore. His chest felt tight, like something was sitting on it and daring him to breathe around the weight. He wondered if he should start all over tomorrow. Sweep the streets again. Retrace the steps he didn’t even know you'd taken.

Without meaning to, Soobin’s hands turned the wheel, guiding him down a road he’d circled too many times to count. Muscle memory, maybe. He didn’t know why he kept coming back.

The first drops of rain tapped against the windshield, soft and uncertain, like the sky hadn’t made up its mind yet. He let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face. He glanced right, thinking to turn back, to call it for the night. But then he saw it.

A figure cutting through the field, darting between rows of white laundry sheets billowing in the wind like ghosts.

He didn’t think. His door was open before he could catch the impulse, the car engine still on behind him as he bolted forward. He didn’t even shut the door. His feet hit the wet grass hard, slipping a little, but he kept running. Fast. Desperate. Like if he blinked, even for a heartbeat, you might vanish.

The way you vanished from his life when he turned his back.

If he’d stayed that day. If he’d ignored the meeting, called in sick, shut the world out, would you still be here now?

He saw you stumble back. Your shoulders tensed, then you turned to escape. And just like that, the breath punched out of his lungs. His heart cracked against his ribs, like thunder rolling too close to the ground. Panic clawed at his throat. His feet wouldn’t move fast enough. So he did the only thing left.

He called your name. Louder than he meant to. He shouted it. Frantic. You didn’t move at first. Just stared at him across the field, rain threading through your hair, clinging to your skin. When you spoke, your voice was sharp.

“Why are you here?” You asked, each word flung like stones across the space between you. Your jaw clenched. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you I don’t want you anymore?”

Your voice cut clean but your hands betrayed you. They shook at your sides, fingers twitching like they weren’t sure whether to reach for him or push him away. The ache in your throat frayed the edge of every word. And Soobin saw it. He saw all of it.

Choi Soobin stares at you, the glisten in his eyes that you've come to know whispers his truth. He's now infront of you, eyes sweeping your face.

The storm isn’t just around him; it’s inside him, bleeding into the tremble of his hands as he reach and clutch your wrists, desperate. Rain seeps through his clothes, slides down his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you.

Because you're the only thing keeping him standing.

"Marry me." It’s his last attempt to keep you from walking away. “Marry me, and I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just don’t—” His throat closed up, and for a second, it sounded like he forgot how to breathe. “Don’t walk away again.”

“I said—”

“Don’t lie to me!” The words snapped harder than he wanted, frustration cracking wide open in his chest. His hands curled into fists at his sides, not in anger but in helplessness. “Don’t make me feel crazy. Don’t make me feel stupid. My sister told me everything, Y/N. I know. I know everything.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Your shoulders caved, the last of your defenses buckling under the weight of it all.

“I’m not fit for your world,” you choked, voice splintering as tears blurred your vision. Your hands fell limp at your sides, fingers tangled in the thin fabric of the laundry you’d long forgotten.

“I don’t have anything. I hardly even have myself,” you whispered, your face crumpling like it hurt to say the truth out loud. “And you — you deserve the world. You deserve more than someone who can’t even keep her life straight.”

Soobin’s chest hollowed at the sight of you crumbling in front of him. He didn’t care about the rain, or the mud soaking through his shoes, or the ache in his lungs. There was only one thing left he wanted to do. Fall to his knees if he had to. Beg, if that’s what it took. Beg for you. Beg for everything.

“I don’t want the world.” His eyes locked on yours, fierce and aching. “I never wanted any of that. Not once. I just… I just want you.”

His breath shuddered out, shaky, as if saying it hurt and healed him all at once. “I want to live with you. To grow old with you. To have your children. To wake up next to you for the rest of my life.” His words stumbled, his throat thick with the burn of unshed tears, but he didn’t stop.

Before you could slip farther away, Soobin reached for you, his arms wrapped tight around you, pulling you into his chest. His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading into your damp hair with a gentleness that almost broke you on the spot. His heartbeat thundered against your cheek.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered, voice cracking on the plea. “Please, baby. Not when I finally found you. Not when all I want… is to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He felt you shift in his hold, felt your hands press against his chest like you were about to push him away. His stomach dropped but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

“I love you.” The words came out hoarse, frayed at the edges. Honest in a way that stripped him bare. He felt you still. The tension in your shoulders faltered. Slowly, slowly, you softened against him, all the walls you’d been gripping so tightly started to crumble in his arms.

You stopped pulling away this time.

“I love you,” he breathed again. His lips brushed against your temple, “I’ll fix everything for us. I swear it. You just have to trust me, baby. Please. Just trust me.”

He felt your arms loosen, the fight in them dissolving. Softening, giving your surrender — just as the rain itself began to ease, falling gentler, as though the sky had finally tired too. A breath punched out of his chest, relief so fierce it almost dropped him to his knees. His arms closed tighter around you, cradling you against him like he could tuck you safely inside his ribs, where nothing could ever reach you again.

When would he ever get a moment like this again?

A chance like this? To meet his soulmate. To meet the one person who could read the shadows behind his smile before he even noticed they were there. Who knew him better than he had ever dared to know himself.

What were the odds? If he hadn’t driven down that street that day. If he hadn’t wandered into your little flower shop with its peeling paint and sunlight pooling across wooden counters. If he hadn’t looked up and seen you and not known, right then, that he’d nearly lived his life without finding his missing half. And what were the chances you would’ve seen him?

He shuddered, blinking hard against the burn behind his eyes. His throat tightened as he breathed you in, the faint trace of wildflowers still clinging to your skin like memory. His heart clenched.

The odds of this… of you… out of all the people, all the cities, all the winding chances and missed timings, was one in a million.

taglist: ily @heesmiles , @lovingbeomgyudayone , @virtaideen , @hyukascampfire , @fancypeacepersona , @bamgeutori , @lilbrorufr , @beomieeeeeeeeeeees , @xylatox , @yunverie , @imlonelydontsendhelp , @moagyuu , @immelissaaa , @readinmidnight , @pagelets , @wonderstrucktae , @boba-beom , @seodami , @izzyy-stuff , @gyudollies , @i-am-not-dal , @page-isa , @tyunarisu , @s0urcherry , @prettypeachprincesz @zaynspidey @sxmmerberries @immelissaaa @definitelynotherr @fics-lovebot @missychief1404 @irishspringing @lovesickchoi @beomgyusluver @sumzysworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @soo-blue @younbeanz @storminacloud @bamgeutori @soobinieswife @prized-jules @soobmeongie @lostgirlysstuff @hoseocakes @fancypeacepersona @ke4s @lvlyhiyyih @aerangi @suneonu @ryuhannaworld @soheeunderthesun @luvleyylina @georgeweasleys-gf @marissariveraaaa

[letstalkaboutfandomsbaby]

CW: pregnancy, wedding, childbirth (idk what that's like, don't come at me), fluff

He goes to see you in the morning, to retrieve a kiss before his long day, but you are not in the kitchen. Mary is there, starting a fire.

“Lady Mary,” he says softly, “where is my sweet?”

“Oh, sir Adam,” she says, turning to him, wiping her hands on her apron. “She is in her room. She was not feeling well today so I sent her to rest.”

He blinks, his mouth turning in a flat line, fists clenching.

“It is alright, sir. You may go to her.”

He bolts out of the kitchen, throwing back a quick ‘thank you’ to Mary.

When he arrives at your door and knocks, you do not answer. He hesitantly opens the door, peeking inside to see you laying in bed in your chemise. He enters, closing the door behind him gently.

“My lady?” he asks quietly. When you do not answer, he kneels beside the bed, resting his hand on your arm. “Y/N?”

You groan and he sighs with relief. He rubs your arm, leaning onto your cot.

“My lady, what is wrong? I heard you were feeling unwell.”

You groan again, rolling slowly onto your back and looking to him.

“I think I am dying,” you whisper, your voice raspy.

“My lady, please do not speak so. If you died, I could not continue living.” He brushes his knuckles over your cheek. “Tell me what ails you.”

“My stomach,” you say, cringing, your face twisting. “I feel I will purge everything I take in.”

“Have you vomited?”

“Yes… More than once…”

“Oh, my sweet.” He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You feel warm. Are you ill?”

“Adam…” He looks at you, seeing you stare at him. “I… I have not bled in two months…”

He furrows his brow.

“My lady?”

“Adam… I fear that I am with child…”

He blinks once, twice.

“With… my child?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Of course your child. Whose else would it be?”

“I…” He grabs your hand, bowing his head into your side.

“Adam…” You can feel your heart in your throat. “I-I know that we are not wed, but please, do not leave me like this—”

“My sweet,” he says, lifting his head to look at you earnestly. “I would never do such a thing.”

A tear strolls down your cheek, and his face turns solemn.

“If you leave me, I shall be ruined,” you choke out.

“My lady…” He leans forward, kissing your forehead. “I shall always stay by your side, no matter what.” He pulls back, staring at you. “But for now, I must go.”

“W-What?” you ask as he stands, reaching for him. He squeezes your hand before releasing you.

“I must make preparations for our wedding,”

“What?”

“I must speak with the captain, with Mary—oh, I must go to the baker in town for a cake—and your ring should be ready soon—”

“Adam—”

“Fear not, my princess.” He leans down to kiss you quickly. “I will take care of everything.”

Your wedding is lovely, yet simple. You prepare with the castle staff, all working together to make your union happen. You pick the flavors for your cake, the flowers you shall be adorned with. Mary and the seamstress help you with your dress, a cream gown with delicate needlework that you spend many nights by candlelight completing.

Your union occurs after dinner, later in the evening, outside of the castle grounds. Your friends and several strangers are gathered around you, Adam, and the local priest. He officiates your union and, once Adam has placed the pearl ring on your finger, you kiss. Cheers explode throughout the crowd, flowers are thrown, and the festivities begin.

You share a piece of cake before you dance with Adam. He is clumsy, clunky, but his smile and joy makes the moment perfect. When others join in, the two of you find a table to rest.

“You are radiant,” he tells you, kissing your hand, holding it tenderly.

“You are very handsome this evening,” you reply. You smile shyly when he grins wide, his eyes crinkling.

“I have a gift for you,” he tells you. You arch your brow.

“A gift? Tis not necessary, sir.”

“You shall no longer call me that. I am your husband now.” You laugh, tossing your head back.

“I cannot help myself. It is ingrained in me.”

“I shall break that habit of yours if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Enough, you fool. Tell me what the gift is.”

“I shall show you,” he says, standing, holding out his hand. “Come with me, my love.”

You roll your eyes, but take his hand, standing. He leads you from the crowd, grabbing a lantern before going through the town, taking you out into the fields. It is dark out here, the only light coming from the town and the lamp hanging from his hand. You stick closer to him, somewhat frightened.

“Where are we going?” you ask, holding his arm tightly.

“Almost there, my sweet.”

You continue to follow him until he stops, turning to smile at you.

“It’s here.”

You look past him, then around the area, furrowing your brow.

“What’s here?” He chuckles, motioning around him.

“This shall be yours.”

You blink, tilting your head.

“Pardon?” He takes your hand, squeezing it tight.

“I used the last of my funds to purchase this land for you. I am going to build a home for you before the winter, before the baby comes. Then, we can live together.”

Your heart swells, tears build in your eyes.

“You… You bought this land for me?”

“Yes, my dearest.”

“How much was it?”

“It matters not. What matters is that we shall have a home together, away from the castle. I shall till the fields and grow crops for you, fruits and vegetables and grains if you wish. I will sell them to the castle and townsfolk for money to buy you nice things. I will travel to the river to fish and bring home the fruits of my labor. I will—”

You grab his face and pull him down to you, kissing him hard. You kiss him for so long you feel faint.

The farm house is completed within two months. Adam works every day with some of the townsfolk he asked for help. He chops wood and stacks bricks until his hands ache. He builds a fireplace, the furniture, and furnace in the kitchen for you to cook. The bed frame is made from a large oak he found in the forest and spent an entire day pulling back to the incomplete house.

When it is finished, he begins working on the fields, plowing them, pulling out the vegetation to start anew. Your stomach has noticeably grown now, so he will not let you help him. He will only let you sit on a chair on the porch and watch him work.

He has cleared the fields by winter, and he then turns to preparing the home for winter, chopping firewood, hunting for furs to drape over you when you sleep. He makes a chicken coop for the birds he buys in town, making sure there is plenty of hay to keep them warm. You cook eggs for him in the morning with vegetables, feeding the shells back to your chickens. Adam has already planned on getting sheep for next year, and perhaps a few cows.

Your belly grows with each week, your dresses as well. You can no longer wear your corsets comfortably. Adam does not seem to mind, as long as other men do not see you in your underclothes.

Mary visits you often, as well as the captain. She brings you flour and spare spices for your cooking, as well as seeds for the spring. The captain comes by to check on Adam, offer advice, give a few gold to help him on his journey. You write to your brother more now that you do not have to work. He asks if he can visit you once the baby is born.

You become tired over the next few months, but otherwise, you are in heaven. You are free from the castle, from the royals’ eyes, from criticism and ridicule. You spend your days reading books and writing recipes down, a book for your future child to use for their family.

When spring comes, it is hard to stand. You waddle around the farm, chickens following you, seeds deposited in small holes in the ground. It is when you are doing this that a great pain strikes you. It starts in your back, moving to your front and down your middle. You yelp when it starts, clutching your stomach, heaving, feeling warm liquid running down your thighs. A neighboring farmer sees you in the distance, dropping his tools and running to you. When he reaches you, you claw at his arm, begging for the doctor, or your husband. You cannot remember who you ask for.

The farmer’s wife is summoned to attend to you as he runs to the town. She guides you inside, the pain unbearable as you reach the bed. She helps you remove your over-clothes, your skirt and tunic, leaving you in an underdress.

“Breathe, my dear, just breathe.”

You try, by God, you try, but it is so painful with each gasp. It feels as if you are being torn in two. The pain is insurmountable, unbelievable. If you did not know what was happening, you would have assumed the worst about your baby.

You don’t know how much time passes, but the doctor arrives with Adam, your husband rushing to you and kneeling beside you.

“My lady, are you alright?”

“It… hurts…”

“Doctor?” he asks, turning to him.

“Excuse me, my lady,” he says, a hand resting on your back. His hand reaches between your legs, fingers prodding inside you.

“The baby is near,” he says, removing his fingers. “You must push, my lady.”

“I… can’t…”

“You must. Hold your husband and bring your child into the world.”

You grit your teeth, groaning when you push. It hurts immensely, making you scream in agony. You push, and push, and push, gasping for air in between. The farmer’s wife reminds you to breathe, directing you. Your husband whispers encouragement to you, holding your hand tightly, letting you squeeze him with all your might.

The pain reaches a crescendo, climbing higher and higher and suddenly, there is a release, and a loud cry.

“It’s a boy!”

There is a wave of relief, and then another sharp pain. You wail into the bed, clawing at the sheets.

“Doctor, what’s wrong?”

There is a voice, and then a prodding inside you.

“I… I do not believe it, I… I think there is another.”

You sob into the bed. You are so tired and you just want it all to be over. You are instructed to push again, and the pain returns, absolutely unbearable. You curse your husband for doing this to you, for making you feel such pain, but he continues to speak encouragements as he holds your hand, keeping his grip tight.

After what feels like an eternity, there is another release and cry, and you lose consciousness.

When you wake, you are in bed, covered in sheets. The sun is low, a fire roaring. There is a cup of water by your bed, and you down it quickly, gasping when you are done. A figure in front of the fire moves, standing and walking to you.

“My lady,��� Adam says quietly, reaching out to stroke your cheek.

“What happened?” you ask, tired and dazed. He huffs out a laugh.

“You have blessed me, my lady.” He sits beside you on the bed, taking your hand. “You have given me a beautiful boy and girl. They are perfect, my love, so so perfect. God envies me for what I have received.”

“A… a girl?” He nods in the low light, standing, helping you up. He guides you to the foot of the bed, where there are two cribs instead of one, a sleeping baby in each.

“Oh…” You stare down at your children, at the life you have created. “They are beautiful.”

“They are,” Adam says, kissing your temple. “You have given me the greatest gift, my love. I will never be able to repay you.”

You reach down to the girl, grazing her cheek, before turning to the boy and doing the same. They are so soft, so sweet in their cribs. You dare not disturb them.

“Would you like to hold your children?” he asks. You hesitate, then nod slowly. He reaches into the crib for the girl, picking her up so tenderly, holding her even more gently than he’s ever held you. He brings her close to you, letting you receive her before letting go, reaching for the boy. You stare down at your daughter, tears filling your eyes. You sniffle, smiling at your baby who is now stirring awake.

“Hello, my sweetling,” you say quietly, your smile growing by the second. Adam brings your boy closer, letting you look at him as he yawns, groaning softly. “My beautiful babies,” you coo, giving them both a small kiss.

“I know you are tired, my love, but they must eat.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, God, oh dear, I am so sorry, my sweetlings. Come, come.”

You go back to the bed, pulling down your dress to reveal your swollen breasts. You guide your girl to one side, letting her latch before bringing the boy to you, Adam helping you hold him until your grip is secure and he has found your nipple. The two babies suckle as if they are starved. It is an odd sensation, though not painful. If anything, you feel relief that your breasts are no longer leaking with no one to feed.

“I wish I could have a painting of this,” Adam says as he sits beside you, smiling at you three. “I wish to see this moment for eternity.”

“You will see it many more times, my dear.”

“Soon, they will be big, strong and beautiful, fighting wars and making men swoon.” You giggle.

“Perhaps our daughter shall be fighting the wars and our son shall be making the men swoon.” Adam rolls his eyes, chuckling.

“We shall see.” He touches your leg, making you look at him. “I love you, oh so dearly.”

“I love you too, Adam.”

“Willie! Annie! Come in for breakfast!”

The two toddlers come running from the field, giggling as they reach the porch, bounding past you inside. You herd them toward the table, taking a wet cloth and wiping their hands and faces before placing plates in front of them, eggs and bread and jam and potatoes. They start to dig in when you see two figures in the distance, carrying things while a dog bounces around them.

You make three plates when the figures arrive to your door.

“Good morning!”

“Uncle!” the children yell, jumping from their chairs and running to Bernard. He puts down his bag and lowers himself to the ground, opening his arms to the children. He hugs them tight, making them giggle as Adam moves to your side, sliding an arm around your waist and kissing your cheek.

“Good morning, my sweet.”

“Good morning.”

He moves in front of you to kiss your lips, quick but sweet, making you smile. You hand him a plate and he thanks you, placing it on the table before going back outside, dropping his sack on the porch, washing his hands in the bucket outside.

“Did you play this morning?” Bernard asks, releasing the twins.

“Yeah!”

“W-We played, uh… um… knights and princesses!”

“Ah! Very good, my string beans. Shall you play later as well?”

“Yeah!” they say in unison, Bernard chuckling.

“Very good. Now, let us eat.”

Bernard goes outside as Adam enters. When he returns, you all join at the table to eat.

“I was thinking,” Bernard starts, “that I should take the younglings to the river today, if you will allow it.” Adam looks to you and you nod.

“That is alright. Take some food for if you do not return by lunch.”

“Thank you, sister,” he says, smiling at you. You see a movement from the corner of your eye and clap your hands together.

“Annabelle! Do not feed the dog!”

“Sorry, mama,” she says, putting her hands back on the table, returning to her breakfast. You turn to Adam.

“Did you catch a lot today?” you ask.

“Yes. The early mornings are better for fish. We shall have plenty to keep and sell.”

“Good.”

“I…” He pauses, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a stone. “I found this for you.”

You take it, holding it in your hand. It is a simple stone, but when held a certain way, it looks like a heart. You smile, looking up at him.

“Thank you, dear. Tis lovely.”

He nods, hanging his head to hide his embarrassment. Your smile grows. You set the rock on the table beside you, going back to your breakfast. You see another movement and tap the table.

“William! You must not feed the dog! He has already eaten.”

“Sooooorry mama,” he draws out, a sneaky smile on his face.

“If the two of you shall not eat your breakfast, I shall take it from you.”

“No!” they squeal, shoveling food into their mouths. You shake your head, looking to your brother.

“How long will you stay?” you ask him.

“For a few days, if you shall allow. Enough to let me help around the farm.” He finishes his plate, standing. “Adam was speaking of adding a room to the house.”

“A room? What for?”

“For the children,” he speaks up. “They are growing big and cannot sleep in our bed forever.”

“Ah, I see. When shall it be done?”

“Before fall, if all is well. I shall hire some villagers to help me and it will be done faster.”

You hum, eating your last egg before standing, turning towards the kitchen. The children finish, and Adam grabs another piece of bread to chomp on. The dog circles the children, making them giggle. Bernard claps his hands, getting their attention.

“Alright, my string beans. Shall we go to the river?”

“Yeah!” they yell together, jumping. He laughs, saying goodbye to you before guiding the children out the door with the dog, making their way down to the forest. You busy yourself with cleaning, wiping the table and beginning to clean the dishes with water you retrieved for cooking. Hands find your waist and pull you back to a large frame. You look over your shoulder and smile.

“What is it, my husband?”

He grunts, nuzzling into you, his lips finding your neck and kissing tenderly. You sigh, letting his hands roam, his lips wander. When his hands squeeze your breasts, you huff.

“What is your plan, my dear?”

“I plan to bed you, while I can, if you are agreeable to it.” You hum, pretending you don’t notice the hard poking in your back side. “May I ask for something?”

“What do you wish for, my love?” He inhales deep, rubbing your arms.

“May I have another child?”

You turn around swiftly.

“Are you mad?” you ask, shocked.

“I know that it was painful, my love, and I thank the lord every day for the gift you have given me, but don’t you miss when the children were little? Don’t you miss having a sweet baby to care for?”

“Adam, they cried every night and made a mess of everything. They were worse than wild pigs!”

“But look at how good they are now! We have raised them well, and we will raise another just as well, perhaps even better now that we know what to do!”

You roll your eyes, turning away.

“You are being silly,” you say, crossing your arms.

“Will you at least think of it, my love? Perhaps when the children are a bit older and can help more around the farm?”

You sigh, giving him a look which makes him shrink. You sigh again and your shoulders slump.

“I shall think about it.” Adam begins to glow, but you raise your hand. “But until I decide, you must continue to pull out your manhood before you release. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now you may take me to bed.”

He smiles, scooping you up and lifting you, carrying you to the bed.

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Orbit

college!finnick odair x fem!reader content warnings: fluff summary: you meet your estranged best friend in college after 4 years. wc: 4.4k

previous part | masterlist. | part five

Finnick had been grinning like an idiot all day. He knew it. He didn’t care.

It was barely noon, and he’d already been called out by his roommate twice—once while brushing his teeth, the second time while humming something embarrassingly upbeat in the elevator.

“I’m not even gonna ask,” his roommate had muttered, pulling his hoodie over his head with a yawn.

Finnick just shrugged. What was he supposed to say? Yeah, man, my childhood best friend found me after I thought she ghosted me, and now we’re walking around campus like the last four years didn’t crack something in both of us wide open?

Yeah, no. He kept that to himself.

The smile, though—that stayed.

You had texted him earlier that morning. Something casual. Just a, “Library later? Could use a break from unpacking.”

And Finnick, without even thinking, had typed back “Name the time. I’ll be there.”

Now, he was pacing near the west entrance of the library, trying not to look like he was waiting. He leaned against the wall. Then stood up. Then leaned again. Then checked his phone.

No new messages. Just the last one you sent: “On my way :)”

He didn’t realize how long he’d been staring at it until the sun shifted through the trees above, scattering golden patterns across the concrete. The light was warm on his face, like it had been the night you found him.

He liked that feeling. The warmth of it. Like something old returning.

And then...

“There you are.”

Your voice. God, he felt that. Like his name in sunlight.

Finnick turned, and there you were, hair a little wind-tossed, a canvas tote slung over your shoulder, holding your iced coffee like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

You looked a little tired. But softer somehow, too. Softer with him.

“Hey,” he said, his grin widening before he could help it.

You raised a brow, amused. “Why do you look like you just won the lottery?”

Finnick chuckled. “I didn’t. I just…had a good weekend.”

You smiled. And he felt the gravity shift again, not hard or fast, just that subtle pull. That slow drift back into each other’s orbit.

You nodded toward the entrance. “Come on, sunshine. Let’s find a table before the good ones are gone.”

Sunshine.

He followed you inside, that one word replaying over and over in his head like a song he didn’t want to end.

The two of you ended up at a corner table upstairs, tucked between a window and a row of dusty paperbacks no one had touched in years. You didn’t talk much at first—just pulled out your laptop and settled into a rhythm of soft clicks and hushed sipping.

Every so often, he’d glance up and find you already looking at him. And you’d both pretend it didn’t happen.

The light through the window caught your profile just right—cool and quiet, like moonlight on still water.

And maybe it was cheesy, maybe it was ridiculous, but Finnick couldn’t help thinking how it made sense. How you were always that. The moon. A little distant, a little unreadable—but constant. Steady. Bright in your own way.

And here he was. The sun. Loud, warm, always a little too much.

Maybe this was how it always worked.

Maybe this was how it started again.

You were taking notes. Diligently. Lips pressed together, eyes bouncing between your laptop screen and the textbook open in front of you. Every so often, you’d stop to twist your pen between your fingers or tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Finnick wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring.

His own laptop sat open in front of him, some syllabus pulled up—he couldn’t even remember the class. Something about global perspectives? Or was this the one about media and society?

He didn’t know. Couldn’t care less. Because you were right there.

In the quiet of the library, your presence filled the space louder than any conversation.

The table between you might as well have been a footbridge over a canyon. He could reach out and graze your knuckles if he wanted to. He wouldn’t, of course—not yet. But the thought lingered.

You shifted in your seat, and the sunlight caught your necklace—not the moon one. A different one.

God, he hadn’t even meant to stop wearing the sun.

It just…felt wrong, back then. When the messages stopped and the silence stretched too long to explain. When the memories started to feel like fiction. He’d tucked it away in a drawer with some old birthday cards and the bracelet from a swim meet sophomore year.

It was still there. He knew exactly where.

But he hadn’t worn it since.

Now, though?

Now, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could try again. If the timing was different now. If the sun and moon could finally share the same sky without burning out.

You leaned back in your chair, sighing softly. “Why do these textbook chapters feel like they’re 600 pages long?”

He smiled. “Because they want us to suffer.”

You gave him a look. “You’re not even reading.”

“Sure I am,” he said, turning his laptop toward you. “See? I’m absorbing information through osmosis.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched, just the faintest, familiar smile.

Finnick felt something warm stretch inside his chest. Like sun through cloud cover.

You shook your head and looked back at your book, muttering something about “typical,” but your voice had softened. Less guarded.

He watched you for another second, then forced himself to turn his attention back to his screen. Pretended to scroll. Pretended to read.

But his mind was already drifting again.

You used to sit beside him on the floor of your childhood living room, knees bumping, the glow of the TV flickering as you read out loud to him. He would close his eyes and listen, sunlit and sleepy, like your words kept the whole galaxy turning.

That was what it felt like now. Even in silence. Like you were anchoring him without trying.

Maybe it was too early to call it gravity. Maybe this was just the echo of everything you’d lost—trying to make itself known.

But Finnick couldn’t help it.

He was already turning in your direction again, pulled like he always had been.

It was quiet again.

Not the tense, awkward quiet from before, not the silence full of things unsaid. This was different. Easy. Lighter. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand to be filled.

Finnick liked this one better.

He risked another glance at you. You were chewing your lip now, eyes narrowing at your laptop like it had personally offended you. There was a tiny crease between your brows, one he remembered from a thousand afternoons spent trying to do math homework together on your bedroom floor.

You always furrowed your brows when you were focused. Even back then. Even now.

His fingers itched to smooth it away. Not in a romantic, grand-gesture way. Just… gently. Fondly. Like you were still that same girl in the Camp Half-Blood shirt and mismatched socks, reading myths out loud like they were scripture and calling him a "seaweed brain" with a smile in your voice.

You still did that sometimes—muttered things under your breath. Scribbled notes faster than your hand could keep up. Tapped your foot to a rhythm only you seemed to hear.

There were still pieces of you he recognized.

But there were new ones, too. And he was learning to be okay with not knowing every part of you anymore. He was learning to wait.

You sighed again, this time closing your laptop with a gentle snap. “Okay,” you said, stretching your arms overhead, “that’s as much academia as I can take today.”

He smiled over the rim of his water bottle. “Tapping out already?”

“I prefer the term strategic retreat.”

You both laughed, soft, shared, like muscle memory.

Then you let your arms fall and looked at him. Really looked. And it did something to him.

The sunlight filtering through the window cast your face in a pale gold glow, but your eyes were silver in the shadows. Like moonlight laced with warmth. He didn't even know how that was possible. But then again, you'd always been a little magic like that.

“So…” you said, voice lighter, “was this your idea of studying?”

“I was studying,” he said, trying not to smile.

“You were staring.”

“I was… observationally engaged.”

You blinked. Then laughed softly and shook your head. But you didn’t look away.

“I missed this,” you said finally, voice quiet, almost shy. “Us.”

Finnick felt it all at once, a rush of warmth, of grief, of hope that scared him a little.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

A beat passed. Then another.

You reached for your iced coffee again, swirling the straw between your fingers. “It’s weird, isn’t it? Being here again. Like…not again. But, you know. With each other.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Feels like a rerun of a dream I didn’t know I missed.”

You smiled at that. Not big. But real.

Finnick didn’t push further. He didn’t ask about the necklace. He didn’t ask why your number changed, or why you found him after disappearing.

He just sat there in the soft light, in the hush of a quiet Sunday afternoon, memorizing the way your smile curved differently now.

He could wait for the rest.

The sun, after all, always rises slowly.

You stood and stretched again, arms up, spine arching until a soft crack echoed from your shoulders. Finnick winced on instinct.

“That sounded painful.”

“It was,” you said with a grin, grabbing your empty coffee cup. “But it felt good.”

“You’re such an old woman.”

“Bold words for someone who just spent an hour pretending to read.”

He grinned and followed as you drifted away from your shared table. You didn’t say anything about leaving the library yet, so he didn’t either. He just stayed close, half a step behind, letting your orbit tug him along like it always had.

You passed rows of books. Wooden shelves that stretched taller than you. Dust motes danced in shafts of fading light as the late afternoon sun tilted westward. It felt like the kind of silence that asked to be filled with memories.

Then you turned a corner and stopped abruptly.

Finnick nearly bumped into you before realizing what you were staring at.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, half-laughing.

He followed your gaze.

There they were.

An entire half-shelf of Percy Jackson books. All of them. Glossy new reprints, special editions, spin-offs, companion guides—even the illustrated editions. Bright blue spines and silver foil lightning bolts gleaming under the soft library lights.

He blinked. And then he laughed.

“Oh no.”

You covered your face. “Don’t say anything.”

“Too late,” he said, already walking toward the shelf. “This is fate.”

“It is not fate.”

“Sure it is,” he said, pulling out The Sea of Monsters and wiggling it dramatically. “Your roots are calling.”

You groaned into your hands. “I knew this would come back to haunt me.”

“This is where your soul lives.”

You elbowed him gently, but your smile gave you away. “Shut up.”

“I’m not judging. I’m just remembering the girl who wore the same Camp Half-Blood shirt for the entire summer of fourth grade.”

“I had three copies of that shirt,” you said defensively, crossing your arms. “I rotated.”

“Wow,” he said. “You always said you were a daughter of Athena,” Finnick said, smiling.

You looked over at him. “I was. Strategic, wise, battle-smart…”

“Bossy.”

“Shut up.”

He grinned, nudging your shoulder with his. “I’m just saying, you gave entire speeches about it. Drew out family trees. Had battle plans for our Capture the Flag games.”

“That’s because you always tried to sneak up on me from the lake.”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “I was obviously a son of Poseidon.”

You gave him a look. “Obviously.”

He laughed and turned back to the shelf, fingertips grazing the spines like they might hum beneath his touch. “You even used to say Luke Castellan wasn’t that bad.”

“Hey,” you said, immediately defensive. “He was complicated!”

“Oh my god,” Finnick groaned, mock-horrified. “Here we go again.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

He wheeled around, wide-eyed. “Do you remember what you used to say? ‘He was misunderstood.'”

You buried your face in your hands again, laughing. “I was twelve.”

“And in deep,” he teased. “I remember you actually cried when he—”

“Don’t.”

“...sacrificed himself at the end—”

“Finnick.”

He was laughing so hard now he had to lean against the shelf. “You cried like you lost a real person!”

“He was real,” you muttered dramatically, “in my heart.”

He wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I’ll give you this, your loyalty was terrifying.”

You smirked. “I was also a Percy girl, thank you very much.”

“Oh, I remember. But Luke had the…what did you call it? ‘Tragic edge?’”

You sighed, giving him a shove toward the next aisle. “We are leaving this section.”

Finnick followed you, still grinning. Still glowing a little inside.

Because it felt good to remember. To laugh like this. To tease you about something innocent and sweet and utterly, completely you.

You were the moon, shifting phases, disappearing and reappearing, always a little different each time, but still always the same. But this was familiar. This was warm.

And maybe you still thought of yourself as a daughter of Athena. But back then, when he used to watch you talk with your hands and scribble poetry in the margins of your school notebooks, he’d always secretly thought you were a daughter of Aphrodite instead.

Not just because you were pretty. Not just because you made boys trip over themselves or blush when you laughed.

But because you loved hard. All-in. With a kind of quiet, unshakable devotion.

He never said that out loud. Not then. Not now.

Some things you kept to yourself.

Still, as you tugged him toward another aisle, still laughing under your breath, Finnick felt the tug in his chest. That familiar pull. The soft gravity of your orbit.

He followed, heart light.

The sun and moon, side by side again...for now.

You wandered into one of the far corners, tucked away where the ceiling dipped low and the windows were smeared faintly with fingerprints and late afternoon light. A beanbag chair sat in the corner, a little squashed and sun-bleached, like it had been there since before either of you were born.

You flopped onto it without hesitation.

Finnick hesitated for half a second, then dropped down beside you, shoulder to shoulder. Too close. Not close enough.

You flipped open The Sea of Monsters and rested the spine between your knees. “Okay,” you said, clearing your throat. “Chapter One: My Best Friend Shops for a Wedding Dress.”

Finnick chuckled. “I forgot how ridiculous these were.”

“No one respects the early chapters,” you murmured, settling in.

And so you read.

You read out loud, at first — voices quiet and half-laughing, tripping over old lines that made your younger selves giddy. You passed the book back and forth, barely noticing the way you kept leaning closer, until your heads nearly touched.

Eventually, you just let Finnick read.

You didn’t interrupt. You curled closer instead, cheek resting lightly against his arm, and closed your eyes as he kept going.

And Finnick, sun-warm and golden as eve, let the sound of his voice soften into something gentler. He turned the page and didn’t even realize he was slipping back into something else. Somewhere old. Somewhere safe.

***

The flashlight flickered once. Twice.

Then it died completely.

“Finnick,” you whined from your sleeping bag, rolling your eyes as you shifted to get comfortable. “I told you we should’ve brought the other one.”

He smacked the side of it dramatically. “It’s not dead, it’s just… thinking.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how batteries work.”

Ignoring you, Finnick kept fiddling with the flashlight. Finally, with a little flicker of light, the small beam returned. It wasn’t bright, but it was enough to settle on the pages of your favorite book — The Sea of Monsters. Finnick grinned, proud of his efforts.

“See?” He waggled the flashlight in the air. “Like a true son of Poseidon.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “I don't think that Poseidon was known for his flashlight-fixing skills.”

Finnick looked at you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Sure he was. He fixed everything. But you wouldn’t know, because you’re too busy pretending you’re Athena.”

“I’m not pretending,” you huffed. “Athena is—”

“Bossy,” he cut in, and you swatted him playfully.

“Shut up. She’s smart. She’s brave.”

“I’m brave,” he said, grinning.

“You’re brave and bossy,” you muttered, pushing his arm playfully.

“Just like you,” he teased, turning the page. He held the book up, and you leaned over to get a better look, your head resting against his shoulder. The soft glow of the flashlight illuminated the pages of the book, casting a warm light on the both of them.

For a moment, it was just the two of them, together in the quiet of the tent, the world beyond their little space nothing but a vague memory. The smell of pine needles and cool summer air was so familiar, so safe.

Finnick began reading aloud, his voice low and steady, bringing Percy Jackson’s world to life. He felt the rhythm of the words, the comfort of having you close beside him. It felt like home, like it always had.

Eventually, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper, drifting out between his sentences. “I think you’re like him, you know. Percy.”

Finnick didn’t stop reading, but his voice slowed a little. “Like Percy?”

You nodded, smiling against his shoulder. “Yeah. Because he’d do anything for the people he loves. Even when it’s hard.”

“Do you think we’ll always be friends?” you asked suddenly, your voice small, thoughtful.

“Yeah,” he said. No hesitation. “Of course.”

You nodded like you believed him. Like you didn’t even have to wonder.

“Hey.”

He tilted his head down to you.

"Hm?"

“Thanks for hanging out with me.”

He smiled, sleepy and sun-warm and a little crooked. “ Of course....You’re my favorite person.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “You’re mine too.”

Finnick didn’t say anything right away. He just kept reading, though his words seemed quieter now, like they held something more than the page in front of him. He felt the weight of your words, heavier than he’d expected.

You shifted, your body curling in a little closer, and he could feel the warmth of your breath against his skin.

He tried to ignore how his heart beat a little faster, how every movement you made seemed to pull him in more.

His voice faltered slightly as he finished the page, but he didn’t mind. It was nice. The kind of nice that felt soft and lasting, like time had slowed just for them.

You were the kind of quiet that made the world feel slower. Calmer. Like he didn’t have to be everywhere at once.

Even back then, before he had the words for it, he knew it.

You were the moon.

You were his moon.

***

Finnick wasn’t sure when you fell asleep. Maybe it was the warmth of the library, or maybe it was just the quiet of the moment that made everything seem still. But before long, the words on the page stopped making sense, and your breathing evened out, soft and steady.

He glanced down, surprised to find your head had shifted, resting lightly against his arm. He let out a soft breath and shifted just a little, careful not to disturb you.

There was something about the weight of you next to him, something that made him feel like maybe the world wasn’t such a mess after all. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to risk disturbing the peaceful bubble the two of them had found in the middle of all this.

His fingers hovered over your hair for a second, but he didn’t touch it. Instead, he just watched, his heart still and warm as you slept beside him. He didn’t mind the quiet. He didn’t mind the space between them. There was something about it that felt… right.

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, then drifted back to the book in front of him, though the words were starting to blur.

The warmth of the library, the rhythm of your breath, the soft weight of you against him—it felt like he was carrying the sun inside his chest. Like the universe had placed them back in orbit, two halves finally finding their way again. He wasn’t sure what it all meant, not yet. But for now, that was enough.

The universe had a funny way of aligning things. Of pulling him closer to you when he didn’t even realize he was drifting.

And for once, he didn’t mind the wait.

You stirred before he noticed.

Finnick felt the smallest shift beside him—your weight adjusting, the faintest breath catching as you blinked back into awareness. He looked down just as you opened your eyes, dazed and squinting a little, like you weren’t sure where you were.

And god, you looked like the moon—soft, quiet, still cloaked in dreamlight. The kind of peaceful that made him ache.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice low enough not to startle you. “Welcome back to Earth.”

You blinked at him again, slow and owlish. “Did I…?”

“Fall asleep?” he grinned, tilting his head. “Yeah. On me.”

You sat up a little too quickly, clearly mortified. “Oh my god- sorry, I didn’t mean to- I was just-”

Finnick gently tugged at the sleeve of your sweater before you could spiral further. “You’re okay,” he said. “Really. I didn’t mind.”

You stared at him for a second, quiet again, then offered a sheepish smile. “Still. I didn’t mean to crash.”

He wanted to say it was fine. That you could fall asleep next to him every day for the rest of your lives and he still wouldn’t mind. But he didn’t. He just gave you a small, lopsided grin.

“It was kind of nice, actually.”

Your eyes softened, still a little hazy. “How long was I out?”

He glanced toward the tall library windows. The sun had shifted, golden hour now dripping across the floor. The library looked like it had been lit from within, every edge gilded in honeyed light.

“Maybe…forty minutes?” he guessed. “You missed some riveting narration on Cyclopes and sea monsters.”

You rolled your eyes. “Tragic.”

Finnick chuckled. “I’ll catch you up.”

You stretched again, arms overhead, the same way you had earlier. He watched you, warmth buzzing low in his chest. You weren’t just the moon, he realized. You were gravity. Quiet, steady gravity. And he'd been caught in your orbit all over again without even noticing.

“Thanks for not waking me,” you murmured, voice smaller now.

“Wasn’t gonna,” he said, shrugging. “You looked peaceful.”

You glanced at him, searching his face like you were seeing him clearly for the first time in a long while. And maybe, he thought, you were. Maybe this was the first time since you’d found each other again that something unspoken had shifted.

“I missed this,” you said suddenly.

His heart jumped.

“This?” he echoed, quiet.

You nodded. “Us. Just…being together like this. It feels familiar. Safe.”

Finnick’s throat felt tight for a second. The kind of tight that came with memory and hope and the weight of everything unsaid.

He looked down at the book in his hands, then back at you. And he smiled.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. Neither of you needed to.

The sun was still setting. The library still glowing. And for a while, the two of you just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, wrapped in the hush of golden hour and the kind of quiet that didn’t ask for more.

Not yet.

But maybe soon.

You both left the library just as the last sliver of sun dipped behind the horizon.

Finnick held the door open for you, and the two of you stepped into the evening chill together. The air had shifted, still warm from the day, but with the faintest promise of fall, of longer nights and shorter shadows.

The sky above was bruised blue and lavender, the moon already rising like it had been waiting for you.

Finnick shoved his hands in his pockets, letting his shoulder bump lightly into yours as you walked. He was still grinning, still full of that quiet, glowing thing he only ever seemed to feel when you were around.

You didn’t talk much. But it didn’t feel like silence. It felt like something…settled. Comfortable. Like the kind of peace that came from pages turned and laughter shared and time remembered.

As you neared the dorms, Finnick glanced over at you. You looked different in the twilight, softer somehow, shadows tucked under your eyes from sleep and studying and all the things you never said out loud. You looked beautiful.

He almost didn’t say anything.

Almost.

But then he did.

“Hey,” he said, nudging your arm gently. “There’s this…thing. On Saturday.”

You looked at him. “A thing?”

“A party,” he clarified, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just something casual. It’s off-campus, couple of guys I know are throwing it. You don’t have to stay long or anything, but… I thought it might be fun. If you came.”

You blinked, caught off guard, but you didn’t look uncomfortable. Just surprised.

“Like…with you?”

Finnick shrugged, trying to playing it cool. “I mean, yeah. If you want. No pressure. We could just go, hang out, leave early, make fun of people doing keg stands. You know. Classic bonding experience.”

You laughed under your breath, then tilted your head. “You’re inviting me to a frat-adjacent party before you’re even in a frat.”

He grinned. “What can I say? I’m ahead of the curve.”

You didn’t answer right away.

But then you smiled.

“Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I'll go.”

And just like that, something fluttered in Finnick’s chest.

It wasn’t a big moment. Not really. Just a maybe. A next step. A tiny spark flickering to life beneath the layers of almost and used to and maybe again.

He walked you the rest of the way to your dorm, said goodnight at the door like it was the easiest thing in the world, and watched you disappear inside.

And then he stood there for a second, grinning like an idiot again.

Because yeah, he knew it.

And he still didn’t care.

[marksbear2]

Stalker Mark Hoffman x Ex male reader

I just rewatched a few Saw movies and it kinda just hit me abt like why this is my fav franchise in the first place.

Warnings ⚠️: Possessiveness, obsession, mild stalking, dark psychological themes, emotional manipulation, references to past trauma, tension, angst.⚠️

“Every Piece of You”

The city never slept, but you tried to. In your one-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor, behind locked doors and drawn blinds, you told yourself it was over. The late-night knocks, the subtle notes tucked under your door, the uncanny feeling of being watched—it had been a few weeks since the last sign.

You almost believed he’d moved on.

Almost.

Mark Hoffman wasn’t someone you could easily forget. When you first met him, he was magnetic—sharp eyes, slow smile, and a presence that filled any room. A hero on paper, a detective, a man who said all the right things but always carried something darker under his skin.

You never expected the weight of his love to crush you.

You left him. Not cleanly, not easily, but you left. Packed a bag when he was gone on a case, changed your number, got transferred to a different precinct. You didn’t leave a note—just silence. You figured that was the only thing he might understand.

But Mark always finds things he wants. And he never, ever lets go.

⸻

It started again with the coffee mug.

You walked into your kitchen at 7 a.m., sleep still clinging to your limbs, and there it was. Sitting on the counter. Black ceramic. “#1 Detective” in red lettering—the mug he always used at your place. The one you threw out after the breakup.

Your hands trembled when you touched it. Warm. Someone had used it that morning.

You searched the apartment top to bottom. Nothing. No signs of forced entry. No notes.

You called the landlord. He said no one had been in. You told yourself maybe you forgot it, maybe you imagined throwing it out.

But deep down, you knew better.

⸻

Three nights later, you came home and the apartment smelled like his cologne. Faint. Faint enough to make you question reality. But you froze in the doorway, bags still in hand, because your bedroom door was open.

You never left it open.

And on the bed, folded neatly, was your old hoodie. The one Mark used to steal and wear around your apartment, acting like it was his. He’d been in your space again. Unseen, unheard—but there.

A note this time, slipped under the pillow:

“You left too fast. Forgot who you belong to.”

You burned it. You didn’t call the cops.

You knew what Mark was capable of. And worse, you knew no one would believe you. Not against him.

⸻

A week passed.

You started checking behind your shower curtain every night, locking the window twice, triple-checking the door. You took different routes home. You left your lights on. But you still woke up in the middle of the night, feeling his breath on your skin, hearing his voice in your dreams.

It wasn’t until you found him in your apartment—actually there, sitting on the couch like he owned the place—that you realized how far he was willing to go.

“Hey,” he said like nothing had happened. “Did you miss me?”

You stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys fell from your hand.

He didn’t move, just watched you with that unreadable calm he always wore. But his eyes—those were full of hunger. Not lust. Need.

“Mark,” you finally breathed. “Get out.”

“Why would I do that?” He leaned back, spreading his arms across the back of the couch. “You didn’t really want me gone. You were scared. That’s okay. I forgive you.”

You stepped backward, hand reaching for your phone.

“Don’t,” he warned. His voice dropped, sharp and cold.

And you stopped.

Because you remembered the last time you saw that look in his eyes. It was when he came home from a case, blood on his hands, rage humming under his skin. He never raised a hand to you—but you knew what he was capable of.

“I gave you space,” he said, standing now. Slow steps toward you. “I let you run. I let you think you could leave me.”

You backed into the wall. “We’re over, Mark. You don’t get to—”

“We are never over,” he snapped, and the mask slipped. His calm shattered into obsession, raw and wild. “You are mine. I know every scar on your body. Every little sound you make when you sleep. Every weakness. You think you can just erase me?”

He was inches away now. You didn’t dare move.

“I’ve watched you,” he whispered. “For months. You look so lonely. So tired. You don’t eat right. You don’t sleep. You need someone to take care of you.”

You turned your head, refusing to meet his eyes.

He cupped your jaw, gentle now. Too gentle. Like you were glass, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. “I just want you to remember what we had. What we still have.”

You finally looked at him—and you saw it. The madness. But beneath it, you saw grief. Longing. He’d turned his love into a cage, but somewhere inside him, he still thought this was what love was supposed to be.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t fight. You just said, “You need help.”

And that, somehow, seemed to crack something in him.

His face twisted—rage, pain, fear. “I need you. That’s all I’ve ever needed.”

He pulled you into a crushing hug, burying his face in your shoulder. You didn’t hug him back. But you didn’t move.

You didn’t know what else to do.

⸻

He didn’t leave that night.

He made dinner. Talked to you like it was normal. Slept in your bed, arms wrapped around you like chains. Whispered promises in the dark.

“I’ll never let anyone take you from me.”

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

“You’re safe with me.”

You didn’t sleep.

⸻

You don’t know what the future holds now. Whether you’ll find a way out. Whether you even want to anymore.

Because part of you still remembers the man he used to be. The way he kissed you in the rain. The way he protected you. The way he made you feel seen.

But that man is gone.

And in his place stands someone who will burn the world to keep you close.

Because Mark Hoffman doesn’t love.

He claims.

The end

[lightsoutmatthews]

Something...? - Leon Draisaitl

summary: it was supposed to be casual, something that would only happen once or twice a year whenever he was in town. Unfortunately, like most times, feelings got involved you are faced with a choice.

pairing: Leon Draisaitl x female!reader

word count: 3.3k

warnings: hints to sex (no on page intercourse)

authors note:

it was only a matter of time until I published something for my German king so here we are

----------------------------------

The soft rumpling of the crisp white sheets slowly woke you up. You blinked slowly. The bright lights coming through the window on your left stinging in your eyes. When you fully opened you were faced with the sight of his bare back.

Regret took over your emotions. You once again fell for the flowers and the sweet words written on the card that were sent over to your apartment last night. “I´ll go shower, back in a few.” His German accent more prominent in the morning. Like English hadn’t quite settled in yet. “Stay if you want. Order breakfast?”

They had an off-day today and since it was a Saturday you didn’t have to go to work so you opted for staying.

A shiver went down your spine. This is how it always was. He sent flowers. A hotel key card tucked inside an envelope with a note between them. You followed suit. Showed up at the hotel an hour later. He had already ordered something to eat. You chatted, ate, maybe watched a movie before one of you would eventually take the first step to you hooking up.

It was an arrangement you had for years now. You met at a hockey event a few years ago. He was there with Connor McDavid who obviously took the entire spotlight. Leon snuck off to a quiet corner, a bottle of beer in one hand, scrolling through his phone with the other.

You were taking a break from the organizer duties. Your boss told you, you could take a few minutes, get something to eat and drink before making sure everything was running smoothly. You ended up in the same corner as him and got to chatting.

He was his usual grumpy self which normally would have put you off, but he delivered it with so much charm that you couldn’t help but find it funny.

When you met him again after the event, he invited you for another drink which eventually led to your first hook up.

A one-time only thing, or so you thought, but he asked for your number with the promise that he would reach out when he was in Vancouver the next time.

And so, he did. An invitation for dinner followed the next time the Edmonton Oilers stepped into Vancouver to take on the Canucks and it spiraled from there.

First, it was dinner and a hook-up. You left shortly after it was “done” but over the course of the years the two of you developed a friendship. You talked about life, he about hockey, you about your work as an event coordinator for a hockey gear brand.

He invited you to a game every now and then, you watched movies, fell asleep cuddling after sex. It was like the two of you were a couple. But only for the two times a year he was in town.

You never visited him in Edmonton but outside of those days communication between the two of you was more or less frequent. At least when he was in North America.

He sent you pictures of things he saw on the road or random updates throughout the day when he was in Edmonton. It almost was like you were in a long-distance relationship.

At least until the summer arrived and he was off to spend it in Europe. As soon as he touched ground in Germany or on Mallorca where his vacation home was, it was like he forgot you existed.

You only saw him through Instagram stories over the summer. Connor had gotten married, and he posed as one of the groomsmen. A beautiful brunette on his arm. His girlfriend. You thought at the time.

But when a bouquet of beautiful flowers showed up on your door, an envelope with a key card and a note tucked inside the next time the Oilers were in town you knew she couldn’t have been.

And so, the arrangement continued.

This was the first time he came to town this season; you had spent the night having dinner at your favorite restaurant and then going back to his hotel where he all but ripped your clothes off as soon as the door closed behind you.

It wasn´t the first time you woke up with this heavy feeling in your stomach. During the course of the off-season, when he went back to Europe, you did a lot of thinking.

A co-worker had invited you on a date over the summer. It did not end up working out but that was the first time when you really thought about what you and Leon had. You weren’t a couple. You were fuck buddies? Friends probably.

You didn’t even know if it was an exclusive hook-up of if he had another girl in each city he visited over the course of the NHLs season. Yet you still showed up. With a heavy pit in your stomach but not ready to call it quits on your arrangement just yet.

-------------------------

Leon returned from the shower a few minutes later. Hair still dripping, just a towel adorning his muscular body. You were still only wearing the shirt you stole from him last night after a shower.

Over time you brought a bag to your meetings. Just some toiletries and a change of clothes because you knew you would always stay the night at this point.

“You´re a sight for sore eyes,” the German mumbled when he spotted you in the same spot he left you in.

“You´re not so bad yourself,” you replied laughing. “Oh, you heard that?” he laughed. You flashed him a bright smile and when he returned it with one of his own your heart fluttered.

You tried to deny your growing feelings towards him for a while now. Ignore the way your heart jumped when you saw him somewhere. In person or just on the TV screen or a post on social media.

Also, the way it wrenched when you saw another woman in his arms. Like at the wedding.

“Did you order some food?” he asked, rubbing another towel over his wet hair in an attempt to dry it before he pulled a hoodie over his head. “No, you were gone for like ten minutes only.” He laughed again.

“I´ll call, what do you want?” You told him your breakfast order before flicking the sheets away and grabbing a brush from your bag that laid abandoned on the chair to the right of the bed.

His eyes wandered over your bare legs. His shirt ended in the middle of your thigh which gave him plenty of ways to imagine. Not that he hadn’t seen and worshipped what was underneath it just hours ago.

“Any plans for today?” You shook your head, and his eyes slightly lit up. “Why, do you have any for me?” you teased. “I might come up with something,” he mumbled before walking over to you, placing a heated kiss to your lips. “What about breakfast?” you whispered against his lips.

“I think breakfast can wait a bit longer.”

----------------

A while later the two of you came up for air and actually ordered breakfast while the pit in your stomach grew twice the size it was before. Your feelings for him were unavoidable at this point.

The way he worshipped your body whenever you were in his bed alongside the way he treated you like you were the greatest thing in his world whenever you were around didn’t help.

You knew you could not go on like this, but you didn’t know how to bring it up either.

Suddenly, the urge to run punched you straight in your gut. The sheets felt too heavy. The grey clouds looming over Vancouver felt too dark. The air too thick. You wanted to scramble out and leave. The reality of it all attacking you like an arrow.

You were in love with him.

“I need to go,” you breathed out, hands starting to tremble. Leon turned towards you, looking at you with concern. “What´s going on?” but before you replied you were already scrambling out of the sheets. Throwing them to the foot end of the bed rushing to gather your things that were scattered all over the room.

“What is going on?” Leon asked again, confusion and worry written all over his face. But you couldn’t look into his eyes. Just being in his presence right now made your skin crawl.

As you were grabbing your shoes that you discarded in a hurry in the middle of the room, he grabbed your arm and yanked you around just forceful enough that you were facing him.

“What. is. going. on,” he repeated again, punctuating every word to get his point across this time. “Nothing, I just need to go,” you muttered. “What about breakfast?” you laughed but not because what he said was funny. It was a sarcastic laugh, more a huff than anything else.

“Goodbye, Leon.” You shook his hand from your arm, grabbing your bag and phone before rushing out of the room, leaving the confused German behind.

--------------

When you returned to your apartment 30 minutes later you felt like you brought enough distance between you and the hockey player to breathe freely again. Several deep breaths later your trembling hands relaxed, and your brain finally caught up with what you just did.

Slumping down on your couch you buried your hands in your head. It was all too much in this moment. The feelings of disappointment thinking that he didn’t feel the same thing for you. The uncertainty that came with how you left things.

But at the same time, it felt like you are finally setting boundaries for yourself. Staying with him after your hook-up was deemed to become messy. So was hanging out with him. This was supposed to be simple. Keep the both of you from having to commit to a full term relationship. But you took a wrong turn along the way.

You were craving companionship. Someone to share a life with and in a lot of ways you realized today that this person would probably not be Leon.

------------------

A few hours after your initial breakdown you were nestled on your couch, a cup of tea stewing in front of you, an empty bowl of your favorite ice cream sitting next to it.

You were wallowing in self-pity. Ignoring how your phone was chiming on the table every now and then. It didn’t matter what Leon had to say. Or what anyone else had to say either.

Thinking about the many ways you could end it with him but none of them seem right.

Ending it with a text would be the easiest option but he didn’t deserve that after the years of "commitment" you shared.

Calling him didn’t seem right either but gathering the courage to invite him over or go back to the hotel was beyond what you could do today.

They were in Vancouver until tomorrow when they´d leave right after the game so you technically only had today to come up with it. But you were tired.

It was the knock on your door that startled you. It was the middle of the afternoon, and you did not exactly expect anyone to show up at your house today.

Opening the door the decision you were struggling with for the past hours was taken from you when the exact problem stood in front of your door.

Leon looked great, effortlessly put together like always. Hair tussled like he had run his hand through it many times. A fitted dark shirt paired with a light jacket. Simple yet your heart started to beat a little faster at his sight.

“Leon,” you mumbled. He lifted his head. Eyes locking with yours. “Can I come in?” he asked the awkward energy that surrounded this exchange growing stronger by the second.

“Uh… sure.” You stepped away from the door, opening it to its full extent to let the hockey player inside. He looked around the room curiously. Through all the years he never stepped foot into the apartment, always waiting downstairs in the car on the rare occasions he was picking you up personally.

“Do you want something to drink?” you offered to break the silence. “No, thanks.”

“What is going on?” Leon asked again, giving you no time to breathe or gather your thoughts.

You took a deep breath. Trying to sort the thoughts that were spiraling inside your head before you brought up what was going on.

The air felt thick. Tension so high you would be able to cut it with a knife if it was something physically cuttable.

“Ever considered sending me flowers without a keycard for a hotel room tucked inside?”

You didn’t know where the accusation came from. This was not an approach you worked through before he showed up here.

His reaction happened slightly delayed but when the words settled into his mind his face turned from slightly concerned and confused to even more confuse with hints of anger, concern vanished in the blink of an eye.

“What do you mean have I ever considered sending you flowers without a card? What are you implying?” His voice was fully of accusation just like yours was seconds before. It was obvious that you took him off guard with what you said an he was matching your energy.

“I don’t know, Leon. What am I implying? Maybe that I am tired of this arrangement? That I caught feelings for you along the way and am now debating how to tell you that before breaking up whatever we had.” Taking a second to breathe what you just spilled out caught up with your brain. “Well, I guess I just did.”

“You´re in love with me?” he repeated. “But this was supposed to be a simple hook up only.” A pang shot right through you at his words. You feared getting exactly this reaction from him.

“So this is all it was to you?” You questioned, defeat heavy in your voice. “A simple hook up?” tears started to pick at the corner of your eyes. At the very least you hoped that he considered what you had a friendship.

I guess you were wrong.

“No, damn.” He brushed his hand over his face, letting out a defeated breath. “It wasn’t just a simple hook up to me, but I thought it was just a hook up to you.”

His words made you look up again. His eyes were wide, as if his own reaction had shocked him. “At the beginning you said you wanted something casual, and I thought seeing each other a few times a year was just that.”

“I did, at the beginning. But like I said I lost track along the way.” Taking in a deep breath you considered you next words carefully.

“I went on a few dates over the summer. When you were in Europe, after I saw you with a woman at Connors wedding. I thought she was your girlfriend, and it hurt me. I thought you didn’t even have the guts to tell me our arrangement was over and instead just expect me to realize that it was.”

His face dropped, expression hardening immediately. It was like you saw his heart break and his defense coming out right in front of your eyes.

“You just claimed you were in love with me but now you´re telling me you went on dates?” the accusation stung.

“Because I thought you were dating someone. You can’t really fault me for believing that after you cozied up to her in the wedding pictures," you uttered defeated.

“She was Laurens maid of honor for fucks sake. I never did anything with her besides walk down the aisle and take pictures like Connor and Lauren wanted and do you want to know what I thought the whole time?” His voice was loud, he was almost shouting which made you scared that the neighbors would hear what was happening inside your walls.

You didn’t even get the chance to reply before he continued. “The whole time I wished I could have been there with you. Of course, I still would have had to take these pictures, but I would have known that after I got to have the most beautiful woman on my arm, introducing her to everyone as my girl.”

Your mouth flew open at his words. Hearing him call you “my girl” did something to you that you never experienced before. Your entire body began to tingle, and a warm feeling spread from your toes all the way into the strands of your hair.

“What are you saying?” you dared to ask, unsure if you even wanted to hear the answer because you knew exactly what he was about to say.

“I´m saying, I got lost on the way too. And that I would love to end this arrangement but only if that meant that I get to call you my girlfriend.” His usual grumbly voice was full of emotion which made it higher than usual. The heated exchange making his usual slim German accent even more prominent that waking up did.

You stopped dead in your tracks. Your heart beating faster than you had ever felt it beat before. I would love to end this arrangement, but only if that meant that I get to call you my girlfriend.

The sentence played on loop in your head as you just kept starring at him, wondering if you didn’t just imagine this whole exchange. Your heartbeat thumbing in your ear, the sound of the TV you left on in the living room suddenly feeling more prominent than before.

Leon took two large strides to get to where you were standing almost at the other side of the room. He took your hands in his and looked you with a pleading glaze.

You blinked rapidly, hoping to force your brain to catch up with the situation quicker.

“We really just acted like complete idiots?” were the first words that left your mouth after your confession. “I hate the miscommunication trope so much in books but now I´m here living it myself.”

Based on his facial expression he had no clue what you just said but that wasn’t important in this moment. All that mattered was that what you wanted had been right in front of you the whole time, but you were too afraid to pick up on it.

“I didn’t think the great Leon Draisaitl was too afraid to tell a girl that he likes her, even if she told him that she didn’t want more than a casual hook-up when he´s in town.” You teased, suddenly feeling a million pounds lighter.

He scrunched his eyes, and a slight pout formed on his lips. “It´s not like you told me how you felt either.” And he wasn’t wrong with that.

“Can you put me out of my misery and just say yes to being my girlfriend already?” He rushed, playing fake annoyed.

“I don’t know…” you mumbled, letting him hang by a thread just a little bit longer. “… you live in Edmonton, I live here. You´re also always busy with hockey and not even in the country half of the year. How would we make this work?”

You knew you had him on the hook when the color drained from his face.

“I´m just kidding, I know it will take work, but I believe that we can do it.” The expression that adorned his face had you starting to giggle. “That was not cool.”

You just shrugged your shoulders before taking another step towards him, interlinking your hands behind his neck. “So, now that you are apparently my boyfriend. Can I make demands? Even though I know how much you hate being told what to do?”

A teasing smile spread on your lips. “You can try; I won´t make any promises.” He grumbled. His usual self making a return after everything that happened.

“Kiss me, boyfriend.” You demanded and of course, he obliged.

[jibitzlesscrocs]

matt sturniolo x reader

warning : none

kid for a day pt. 1 , pt. 2 , pt. 3

the whole series and more

kid for a day pt. 4

in which, riley is a daddy’s girl

From the moment Riley was born, Matt dove into fatherhood with endless love. Whether sharing ice cream, handling tantrums, or playdates, his bond with Riley grows stronger every day.

———

1: Stubble Matt

Riley is nestled in the crook of Matt’s arm, her little legs dangling over his forearm like she belongs there—and she does. The two of them are camped out on the couch, surrounded by a pile of plush animals and an episode of Bluey playing softly on the TV. But Riley’s not watching anymore.

No—she’s too busy brushing her tiny fingers back and forth across Matt’s jaw, completely entranced.

You stand in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene like it’s your favorite show. Your heart pulls tight and warm at the sight of your husband—tattoos peeking from his hoodie sleeve, thick lashes low over his eyes as he grins down at your daughter. His scruff is a few days old now, darker and a little rougher than usual.

“Again?” you call, amused. “She can’t get enough of that beard, huh?”

Matt looks up, his mouth twitching into a smile as he whispers, “She thinks it’s soft. Like her teddy bear. Been calling it ‘teddy face’ all night.”

You walk over, bend down behind the couch and kiss the top of Riley’s head, then shift over to Matt. His eyes trail over you, slow and easy, like he’s already forgotten what the show’s about.

“She’s not the only one who likes it,” you say under your breath, letting your hand drift over his jaw too, scratching gently. “It’s hot.”

He raises an eyebrow, voice low and amused. “Yeah?”

You kiss him. It’s short, just enough to leave him wanting more—but it says everything.

“Yeah.”

Matt leans into it, one hand steadying Riley on his chest while the other slides behind your neck, thumb brushing your skin in that way that always makes you shiver. His stubble scrapes your mouth just a little. You don’t mind at all.

“Later,” he murmurs, teasing. “When someone’s in bed.”

Riley squeals at a sudden cartoon sound and both of you turn to look, but Matt’s still got that quiet heat in his eyes, the kind that says he’s already counting down the minutes.

And for now, you just sink down beside him, tucking yourself into the curve of his side. One arm around you, one arm holding Riley, and that sexy stubble you both can’t get enough of.

You lean your head on his shoulder and whisper, “I love your face.”

He grins. “I love my girls.”

*******

2: Slow and Sleepy Riley Mornings

You hear them before you open your eyes.

Tiny, babbling giggles. And a low, gentle voice—half-awake but already full of love.

“Shhh, Mama’s still sleeping, baby,” Matt whispers. “You gotta whisper. Can you do that?”

Riley doesn’t whisper. She squeaks. Loudly.

You smile into your pillow, still facing the wall. You know exactly what’s happening.

Matt must’ve scooped her out of her crib the moment she called for him. He always beats you to it—half because he’s obsessed with her and half because he wants you to rest a little longer.

“Do you want to read your book?” he asks softly. There’s the sound of a board book opening, a page turning. “What’s this one? The bear? That’s right, bear!”

You finally roll over.

Matt is sitting at the end of the bed, legs crossed, Riley in his lap in a cozy sleeper with stars all over it. She’s tucked against his chest like she’s never known another home. Her hair is a messy fluff and she keeps trying to turn the page before he’s done reading.

“Hi,” you murmur.

Matt looks up with that crooked grin—the one that makes you feel like the sun just came up twice.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says quietly. “We were trying to be quiet, but…” He glances at Riley. “Somebody’s got no volume control.”

Riley sees you and immediately kicks her legs. “Mamaaa!”

“Come here, sweetheart,” you say, arms open.

Matt carefully lifts her and hands her over. “She already had a diaper change and her bottle,” he tells you proudly, like he’s ticking things off a checklist. “And we brushed her hair. Kinda.”

“She let you brush it?”

He shrugs, amused. “Barely. I think she thought it was a game.”

Riley climbs up your chest and settles in like she belongs there. Matt leans in and kisses her cheek, then yours, before sitting back beside you and brushing her hair out of her eyes again.

“She’s been all giggles this morning,” he says, watching her like she’s made of stardust. “Like… everything’s funny. I love it.”

You glance at him, heart full to the brim. “You’re such a good dad, Matt.”

He nudges your leg with his. “She makes it easy.”

The three of you lie back together, Riley between you, tiny fingers wrapped around both your hands. And for the next little while, the world slows down. There’s no rush. Just your family—warm, safe, together.

*********

3: The Ice Cream Incident

You had only been gone for a little while—barely two hours tops—but somehow, when you open the door, it smells like vanilla sugar and… mischief.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Then you hear it. A soft giggle. The kind Riley makes when she’s feeling extra pleased with herself. You step into the kitchen and immediately stop.

Riley is sitting cross-legged on the counter. The actual counter.

Matt is standing in front of her, holding a spoon like he’s feeding royalty, and the two of them are sharing a pint of cookies and cream like it’s a sacred ritual.

You clear your throat.

Matt flinches so hard he almost drops the spoon. Riley just lights up. “Mama!!”

Matt freezes mid-bite. “Okay, listen—before you say anything—”

You raise an eyebrow. “She’s on the counter, Matt.”

“She wanted to see what was in the freezer,” he says, as if this explains everything.

You walk closer, arms folded. “So naturally, you gave her ice cream.”

“She picked it herself!” he defends. “I asked, ‘Do you want apples or yogurt?’ And she reached past both and grabbed the pint like she’s done it a hundred times. She’s got taste!”

Riley holds out a spoonful to you like she’s in on the deal, eyes sparkling. You melt just a little—but you hold strong.

“She’s supposed to be having fruit.”

“Babe,” Matt says, gently picking Riley up and settling her on his hip like she weighs nothing, “She said ‘ice keem please, Dada.’ With the hands. The little voice. I swear I blacked out. I didn’t even know I’d opened it ‘til we were three bites in.”

You look at Riley, who’s now laying her head on Matt’s shoulder like she’s already gearing up for a nap. Her fingers twist into his hoodie, and her thumb pops into her mouth. She’s full, happy, and clearly convinced that Matt is the greatest human to ever walk the earth.

“She’s a total daddy’s girl,” you mutter.

Matt beams. “I know. It’s kind of the best.”

Riley yawns, soft and slow, and snuggles deeper into his chest.

“She even kissed me on the cheek after the second bite,” he adds, looking smug. “Like, thanked me. We shared a moment.”

“You two are unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he says, leaning in to kiss your temple with Riley still tucked in one arm. “Admit it. You love how obsessed she is with me.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s not wrong.

The smugness doesn’t last long, though.

———

Later that evening, Riley sneezes three times in a row and Matt’s nose starts running like a faucet. You find the two of them wrapped up on the couch under your favorite throw blanket—matching socks, matching sniffles, and a cup of warm apple juice between them.

“She’s sick,” you scold, checking her forehead.

“We’re sick,” Matt croaks dramatically. “It was worth it.”

Riley nods solemnly and hummed. “mhmm”

You sigh, already grabbing tissues. “You’re both banned from the freezer.”

Matt snorts. “Fine. But only if you’re the one putting her to bed tonight.”

You pause. Riley is curled into his chest, half-asleep, her fingers still tangled in his hoodie.

“…No deal.”

He grins, kisses your wrist, and holds his little girl tighter.

Daddy’s girl. Through and through.

********

4: Play dates with daddy, uncle Chris, and uncle Nick

It starts with Matt shouting over the vacuum:

“Hey, babe! The guys are coming over!”

You pause in the hallway, holding Riley on your hip. “For what?”

Matt peeks around the corner with a grin that says something’s up.

“Playdate.”

You blink. “A playdate? With Chris and Nick?”

Matt shrugs. “They begged.”

“They’re grown men.”

“They’re obsessed with Riley.”

He’s not wrong. An hour later, the door bursts open and in come her uncles, loud and full of snacks, toy dinosaurs, and energy drinks.

Chris is the first to drop to his knees dramatically. “WHERE’S MY NIECE?”

Riley, safe in Matt’s arms, lets out a squeal so high-pitched it could shatter glass. She wiggles violently until Matt lowers her to the floor—and she runs straight into Chris’s arms.

“I missed you so much, princess,” Chris croons, like he hasn’t FaceTimed her every other day.

Nick follows, holding a tiny soccer ball like it’s the golden ticket. “She ready for her first scrimmage?”

“She’s two,” you remind him.

“Perfect age to go pro.”

Matt claps his hands and takes over like he’s running summer camp. “Okay, we got the ball, we got crayons, we got blocks, and we got snacks. Chris, take coloring duty. Nick, backyard game. I’ll handle cleanup and crisis management.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

Matt grins, lifting Riley high in the air, making her giggle. “She’s got me trained.”

And honestly? You’re not even needed.

Chris draws wild animals with Riley and pretends each one is a different family member. “This one’s Uncle Nick ‘cause he yells too much,” he tells her, while she smacks the page with pink marker.

Nick teaches her how to gently (read: chaotically) kick the soccer ball back and forth. Every time she even touches the ball, he throws his hands in the air like she’s won the World Cup.

And Matt? He hovers, not too close, not too far. Always watching. Always ready. When she trips on her shoelace, he’s there in half a second, scooping her up and kissing her scraped knee.

“You’re okay, baby. Gotcha.”

Riley clings to him for a moment, just long enough to catch her breath, and then wriggles down to run straight back to the chaos.

You catch Matt looking at her like he’s never going to recover from how much he loves that kid.

“She’s fast,” Nick pants, dropping onto the grass. “Why is she faster than me?”

“Because she’s part me, part lightning,” Matt replies, plopping down next to you and stealing a sip from your drink. “You good?”

You nod, watching Riley chase after Chris with a wild giggle. “She’s living her best life.”

Matt leans back on his hands, squinting up at the sun. “I want a thousand of her.”

You laugh. “Let’s try sleeping through the night again before we talk about a thousand.”

He grins, bumping your shoulder with his. “Fair.”

You sit like that a while—your lap full of snacks, your yard full of love, and your daughter, right in the center of it all, wild and giggling and home.

******

5: Riley’s First Tantrum

It starts with something small. Riley’s favorite toy—one of her many stuffed animals—has somehow been “misplaced.” It’s not really missing. It’s just tucked under the couch cushions, but to a two-year-old with an overactive imagination, it might as well have vanished into thin air.

You’re in the kitchen, sorting laundry, when you hear it—a loud, high-pitched cry. You freeze for a second, then hear it again. This time, it’s a full-on wail.

“Matt,” you call, already feeling the storm brewing. You grab Riley’s favorite snacks from the pantry. “Please tell me this is not happening yet.”

Matt’s voice comes from the living room, calm but strained. “She’s looking for it. She’s… really upset.”

You turn the corner to find Riley standing in the middle of the room, little fists clenched at her sides, tears running down her face as she sobs in frustration. Matt is kneeling on the floor, speaking softly to her, trying to soothe her, but it’s not working.

“Riley, sweetheart, we’ll find it, okay? It’s gonna be okay,” Matt says, rubbing her back gently. But Riley’s not hearing it. The tantrum is full force now.

You can see Matt’s patience already wearing thin, but he doesn’t show it. He picks her up, holding her securely in his arms. She’s stiff, her body rigid with frustration, but Matt’s voice is steady.

“Hey, look at me,” he says, his tone the kind that always makes you stop and listen. “We’re gonna find it together. I promise.”

But Riley’s not having it. She’s kicking her little legs, crying louder now, wriggling out of his arms, and the sound of her anger fills the room.

“Matt…” You step closer, worried but not panicked. You’ve seen him handle tough situations before, but this is different. “What do we do?”

Matt stands up, cradling her against him, one hand gently cupping the back of her head. “Let her ride it out,” he says quietly. “She’s frustrated, but she’ll calm down. We just have to be patient.”

You nod, watching as he shifts Riley onto his hip, his fingers rubbing circles on her back in a comforting motion. She keeps crying, but her sobs slow down, and eventually, she buries her face in his shoulder. Matt doesn’t rush to stop the tears—he just holds her, his breath steady, like he’s waiting for her to let it out completely.

And then—just like that—it stops. Riley goes from loud sobs to sniffles, then to hiccups. Slowly, she lifts her head and looks at him with wide, teary eyes.

“Where’s my… my bunny?” she asks in a tiny voice, still catching her breath.

Matt kisses the top of her head, not missing a beat. “It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you. Let’s find your bunny.” He gently sets her down on the couch, where the toy had fallen earlier. Riley’s eyes light up the second she spots it.

She grabs it, holding it tightly to her chest like it’s the most precious thing in the world, and the tantrum seems to evaporate completely.

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, watching the way Matt’s expression softens, the worry lines from a moment ago disappearing. He sits next to her, his hand resting on her tiny shoulder.

“There we go,” he says with a smile. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Riley snuggles into his side, clutching the bunny like it’s the safest place she’s ever been.

You watch them for a moment, feeling the tenderness between them. “You handled that so well,” you whisper to Matt.

He shrugs with a half-smile. “She’s my girl. I’ve got her.”

And you know he does—through every tantrum, every moment of frustration, and every soft whisper that brings her back to calm.

———

Through every cuddle, tantrum, and moment of laughter, Matt’s love for Riley deepens, building a life full of unforgettable memories.

taglist : @courta13 , @sunkissedsturniolos

MAI’S STORE

requested by @leahfaith !! thinking of turning this into a series HAHA lemme know what yall think !! and feedback on the fics would be greattt

[joaosnovia]

heyyy, hope ur doing great! Soo I had this crazy and random idea about a cubarsi x reader, the reader is hector’s twin sister and lamine’s best friend. For the plot I was thinking that Hector and Pau have been playing a lot of matches but are also stressed cause their school exams are coming up and everything is a bit tense. And at some point the team and some of the wags organise a bqq and after they eat and have fun they sit around the outside fire pit and Cuba and hector who are sleep deprived fall asleep using the reader as a pillow, Pau’s head on her lap and hector’s on her shoulder, and lamine is staring at the two for a while and the rest of the teams asks him about it and he admits that he is worried about his best friends being so stressed but he is also proud because they both have been playing extremely well as defenders despite their age. Really pure fluff and Lamine being worried. Really appreciate ur work and talent keep up the great work ❤️❤️❤️

❦ - mis chicos.

warnings:: cussing I THINK..? angst if you squint and also comfort

pairings:: twin!hector x reader , situationship!pau x reader , friend!lamine x reader

writers notes:: sigh i’m posting this after my first gcse… english lit. i wanna SOB bro it was the worst but shoutout to macbeth ❤️. anywho! enjoy, this is rushed asf 💔.

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @universefcb @mariejuli

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you’d been watching it happen for days.

hector walking through the house like a ghost, textbooks in one hand, his boots in the other. pau answering texts at 2am, the read receipts timestamped way too late for someone with morning training. both of them running on energy drinks and adrenaline, trying to balance being fc barcelona starters and passing their exams like their lives depended on it.

you’d tried to check in, multiple times.

‘bro,’ you said to hector one night, watching him eat cereal for dinner while reviewing anatomy flashcards. ‘maybe sleep? like just a lil nap?’

he’d barely looked up. ‘no time.’

pau was the same. texting you and lamine in the group chat like:

‘chemistry exam tmrw. if i fail i’m changing identities. wish me luck.’
‘also who has the notes from ethics. i think i was unconscious during that class.’

and lamine, bless him, was so worried. not in a loud way. but in a quiet, watching everything kind of way. you’d catch him frowning when pau forgot to tie his laces, or when hector stared blankly at his locker for two minutes straight.

so when one of the older players suggested a bbq to ‘clear the air’ after a rough week of training, everyone jumped on it. wags included. someone offered a garden, someone else offered food, and suddenly the group chat was on fire with emoji spam and location pins.

you were mostly excited for a moment to breathe. for all of them to relax.

especially your boys.

the bbq had been chaos, in the best way.

someone (you were 99% sure it was ferran) set off the smoke alarm twice, the playlist was full of early 2010s throwbacks, and someone brought water guns, which turned into a full war between the midfielders and the defenders.

and through it all, you’d been watching your boys.

hector had finally relaxed a little, laughing when someone made fun of his haircut and letting go of his notes for the first time in days. pau was smiling again, actually smiling, not the tight tired one he’d been faking all week.

and lamine? he was hovering. not in a weird way, just always near. watching, checking, protecting. it was kinda cute, honestly.

now the sun had dipped low, and everyone had migrated to the fire pit in the garden. blankets were thrown over laps, half-eaten marshmallows forgotten, the music soft now. just vibes. glowy and golden.

you were sitting in the middle of the bench seat, hoodie zipped up, legs pulled close.

pau had dropped beside you with a dramatic sigh, mumbling something about being so full he might explode, then somehow… just stayed there. head eventually resting in your lap, eyes fluttering shut mid convo.

hector followed not long after, yawning like a baby lion and flopping down with his head on your shoulder, mumbling ‘you smell like smoke and perfume’ before fully passing out.

you blinked down at them.

two fully grown, exhausted footballers using you as a human pillow. you were literally a cubarsí sandwich.

lamine plopped down on the ground across from you, a marshmallow stick still in his hand. he was staring at them, brows a little furrowed, lips pressed in that way he did when he was thinking hard.

you caught his eye. raised a brow.

‘what?’ you mouthed.

he hesitated… then the others noticed too.

iñigo leaned forward, voice low. ‘lamine. you good? you look like you’re watching a movie or something.’

lamine looked at the two boys, your brother and your maybe something (he wasn’t your boyfriend, but also… he was). then back at you.

‘they’ve just… been through a lot,’ he said finally, his voice softer than usual. ‘and no one really talks about it. how hard it is. being that young, playing at that level. then having to study for a physics exam like it’s nothing.’

you smiled gently, brushing your fingers through pau’s hair without thinking. ‘they’re trying so hard.’

‘yeah,’ lamine nodded. ‘and i’m so proud of them. i just don’t say it enough.’

the others went quiet for a moment. even the fire popped at the right time, like it knew this was something that needed to be said.

pure softness. pure love.

and as hector snored lightly against your shoulder and pau mumbled something in his sleep about ‘don’t forget the flashcards’, you leaned your head back, warm inside and out.

your boys were safe. lamine was watching over them. and for once, just for tonight, the world could slow down a little.

the fire had burned low, the air crisp with the last breaths of warmth from the embers. your legs were falling asleep under the weight of pau sprawled in your lap, and you couldn’t help but smile at how peaceful everything felt now.

hector, on the other hand, had been using your shoulder as his personal pillow for the last little while. his head was still resting there, and his breathing was steady until, of course, he shifted slightly and mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.

‘mm… what time is it?’

you chuckled softly, adjusting yourself to make sure you weren’t crushing pau. ‘it’s late, i think. everyone else is inside by now.’

hector blinked up at you, looking a little groggy. his hand rubbed at his eyes, and his head flopped back onto your shoulder with a quiet sigh. ‘guess i really fell asleep on you, huh?’ he mumbled, voice muffled by your hoodie.

‘you’ve been running on empty for days,’ you teased, nudging his shoulder. ‘you needed it.’

hector grinned sleepily, his lips pulling into a lazy smile. ‘yeah, maybe... i’m just glad i have a sister like you to nap on.’

you laughed quietly, your hand brushing through his hair, trying not to wake pau. ‘well, someone has to be the pillow, right?’

hector’s smile softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you really looked at you, like he was seeing you for the first time in a while. the tiredness in his eyes was still there, but there was something else too. something softer. ‘you’ve been here for me through everything, huh?’ he said quietly. ‘even when i don’t deserve it.’

your heart swelled at the sound of his voice the vulnerability in it. ‘always, hector. you’re my brother. no matter how stressed you get or how many exams you have, i’m here. always.’

he smiled again, leaning his head into your shoulder once more. ‘i don’t say it enough, but i’m really glad you’re my twin.’

you rested your cheek on his head, laughing softly. ‘i’m glad you’re my twin too, idiot.’

just then, pau stirred in your lap. he groaned and rubbed his eyes, half awake. ‘are you two seriously having a moment while i’m stuck here?’ he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

you shot him a playful look. ‘you literally fell asleep in my lap, pau. don’t act like i’m the one being dramatic.’

pau just blinked at you, his head still a little groggy as he sat up. ‘fine, fine. i’m not complaining. you’re comfy,’ he grinned, looking at hector, then back at you.

hector chuckled, but before he could say anything, lamine approached the bench, standing a little behind you and observing the scene quietly.

you caught his gaze, and for a second, his eyes softened. he leaned against the back of the bench, his arms crossed, as he took in the sight of you, your twin, and pau.

‘you alright?’ you asked him gently, feeling his concern without him having to say a word.

lamine hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering to hector, then back to you. ‘yeah. i’m just… thinking.’

‘about what?’ you asked, offering him a gentle smile.

he ran a hand through his hair, then shrugged. ‘about them. about hector and pau. they’re really putting so much into their games right now, but no one really talks about how stressed they are off the field. no one sees that part.’

you nodded slowly, understanding where he was coming from. ‘yeah, they’re both carrying a lot. i think they just don’t know how to stop pushing themselves.’

‘i see it,’ lamine said softly, his gaze now focused on hector, who was leaning into you with his eyes half closed. ‘and it makes me proud. they’re both playing so well despite everything. but it’s like... they’re too hard on themselves sometimes.’

you smiled, your heart warming at the thought of how much lamine cared about your brother and pau. ‘they don’t show it, but they appreciate you looking out for them.’

lamine’s eyes softened at that, and for a moment, you felt a deeper understanding pass between you two. it wasn’t just about being there for hector or pau; it was about the three of you watching out for each other.

just as the moment settled in, hector let out a small yawn, his head lifting slightly as he looked at lamine. ‘you good?’ he asked, still groggy but clearly aware of his best friend’s quiet mood.

lamine blinked and gave a small nod. ‘yeah, just making sure you’re both alright.’

you smiled at that. lamine’s loyalty to your brother was something you’d always admired, even if he was a little shy about showing it.

pau, now fully awake, stretched and groaned. ‘i need to get up before my back dies,’ he muttered, standing up and shaking his legs out.

hector gave him a lazy wave. ‘go ahead, old man. stretch it out.’

pau threw a playful glare his way, then nudged you as he started to walk inside. ‘you gonna leave them to be all cutetogether, or are you coming?’

you laughed softly, feeling the warmth of the fire on your skin. ‘in a minute.’

pau rolled his eyes but gave you a small smile before heading inside.

and as the fire died down even further, you sat there with lamine and hector, a quiet calm falling over the three of you. you didn’t need to say anything more, not right now.

you were all just together. and for the first time in a while, it felt like everything would be okay.

[ziyechs]

joe'marr bengals reunion — a (somewhat) comprehensive timeline

1 — “have you spoken to the cincinnati bengals and what would it mean to reunite with joe burrow there?” — “i have talked to the bengals. i don’t know how many times i’ve talked to them though. but, me and joe, you know, i wouldn’t mind going back with joe. if we go back together we’re trying to do nothing but get back our chemistry and have some more fun.”

2 — “i'm really excited for this draft. i don't really know what's coming but, you know, if me and joe could get back to it... i’d love to have some fun with him again.”

3 — “i assume you'd be okay with a potential reunion in cincinnati if that were to happen?" — "yeah, i wouldn’t mind.”

4 — “me and joe talked about [a reunion] maybe like three, four times actually. we talked about it a good bit of times. he texted me this morning, just letting me know: ‘get your bags packed’, so i guess that meant that was gonna be the pick. i don’t know if that was a hint or what. so, he sent me that little text this morning, i was like ‘okay… i'm ready, bro’.”

5 — “what was your reaction like when he was lowkey recruiting you?” — “i actually was believing him sometimes, sometimes i was like ‘stop playing with me’ and sometimes i was just like ‘okay bro, i gotcha, i'm ready now’ so. i believed him this morning when he told me, you know, pack my bags. so that's when i finally was like: ‘yeah he might really be calling this’ so that's when i took his word.”

6 – “jimmy burrow, did joe tell you—he’s always been kind of coy about what he said to the bengals—did joe tell you that he wanted the bengals to select ja’marr?” — “yes, i think we figured that… and eventually… yes, he pretty much told us that he wanted ja’marr.”

7 — “it was like a week before the draft, ja'marr said: ‘dad, joe texted me.’ […] he didn't say what he said, you know. but he said: ‘joe just texted me’, [...] so he had talked to joe like... or texted with joe once or twice that week. and then he told me, he said: ‘dad, if i get with joe, we're gonna kill’ [...] so he was all excited about getting with joe.”

8 — “what was the first thing joe texted you when you got drafted by the bengals?” — “make sure your bag's packed and ready. yeah, that was what he told me.”

9 — “the cincinnati bengals are on the clock now. earlier that morning, i had got a text from joe. he said: hope your bags are packed. i know it's me, at the moment, that's what i'm saying to myself. i can't wait to be a part of it.”

10 — articles: 1, 2, 3, 4

[waughymommy]

Chapter 9: New Sensation

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store buzzed overhead as Emily steered our cart toward the produce section. The scent of citrus and ripe bananas momentarily distracted me from the sterile smell of the doctor's office still lingering in my mind. I trailed behind Emily, lost in thought, grappling with the morning’s revelations. Within a week things had gone from a semi-drunken impulsive act to being a passive bystander as my wife discussed diapering options with my doctor.

I followed her through the aisles as she grabbed the basics. Bread. Some steaks. Salad materials. She talked to herself under her breath, calling out brands and prices, but it flowed in one ear and out the other as I followed her with the cart. Why had I done this? Why had I wet the bed not once, not twice, but three times? I mean, who does that? Who does that on purpose? And then talk to the doctor, as if I had no idea why my bed suddenly had a yellow spot? And now it was on my permanent record, the doctor having notes that my wife was talking to him about diapers. Why would I allow myself to be in that position? I didn't want Emily to think less of me. I really didn't want Emily to leave me, even if she did seem surprisingly supportive about all this. What could I do to fix this and make her realize it was all just a mistake? A one time- no, three time- accident that surely wouldn't happen again? Why had I thought 'accidents' were a good idea at the time? And did it really only take three bedwetting episodes before she was openly talking to the doctor about diapers for me?

"Greg?" Emily's voice cut through my thoughts like a lifeline. Her eyes held a mix of concern and determination as she gestured toward a towering shelf of adult diapers. "I think we should get some for you."

I was standing in front of a display. A display of diapers. A display of adult diapers. A display of adult diapers with pictures of smiling people on them. The harsh lighting on the bright packages contrasted with the faint smell of baby powder as I looked around, trying to figure out how I had teleported here without realizing where I was.

Emily paused, seeing that I needed a moment to re-enter reality from the far away place I had been, her gaze fixed on a towering display of diapers. Her hand gently brushed my back, a silent reassurance. "I think we should get some diapers for you."

Her words were gentle yet firm, leaving no room for argument. I glanced around, half-expecting her suggestion to echo through the store like an announcement over the PA system. But it was just us, standing in front of the wall of brightly colored packages.

I felt my throat tighten, the words catching in my throat. "But..." I stammered. It wasn't so much that I didn't want to be doing this, it was that I didn't want to be doing it here, now. "But..." I sputtered again.

"Look, honey. " Emily's hand rested gently on my back, her voice calm and steady. "When Abby had problems we encouraged her to handle it responsibly, like an adult, right?"

I nodded slowly... this wasn't an argument that I was going to win. Really, it wasn't an argument to begin with.

"So which diapers do you want to try first? I know Sarah said that the store-bought options weren't very good, but until I can order something better let's see how these work for you, OK?"

I looked at the options, a dizzying kaleidoscope of brightly colored packages.. The seemingly happy men, wearing gray underwear, adorned the front of the packages on the top shelves. The bottom shelves had store brands, some looking like baby diapers. Actual diapers. Like I wore when I was smaller. My eyes lingered there, but from what Emily had said about how she had handled Abby’s wetting, I was sure she’d expect me to try the pullups first. I took a package off the top of the rack and hurriedly put it in the cart. The green package said small/medium and night-something. The middle-aged guy looked confident and happy to be standing there in absorbent underwear. I wondered if he knew something that I didn’t.

"So you want to try the pull-ups?" Emily turned over a package of pull-ups, scrutinizing the size guide with a critical eye. Her finger traced a line. “These might be too big,” she mused, her tone practical yet caring. She looked at the shelves, turning a few other packages over.

I nervously tried to move the cart onwards, eager to get out of here, but without stopping her examination of the options she reached back and stopped the cart. She shrugged. "They didn't really work very well for Emily, and these might be too big for you, but sure, let's try them. I don't see anything smaller for adults, unless you like pink..." She looked at me, her eyebrow raised and a half-smile on her face as she held out the small-sized women's version of the package I had chosen, a smiling woman modeling the pink underwear on the pink package.

"No," I said, my voice a little too sharp, my gaze avoiding hers. I felt my chest tighten, the heat creeping up my neck. Emily didn't say anything, her hand gently sliding across my back as she reached for the package I had chosen. As I turned away and pushed the cart onward Emily replaced the pink package on the shelf and caught up, taking my arm. She leaned down to give me a little peck on the cheek and put her hand on mine, letting me know everything was going to be OK.

As we approached the checkout, Emily paused, her hand gently resting on my shoulder. "Do you need to use the restroom, honey? I'll handle the cart while I pay," she offered, her voice a soothing balm against my frayed nerves. Her touch was reassuring, grounding me in the moment. My heart raced—not just from the embarrassment of buying diapers but from the vulnerability of being so exposed. Yet, Emily’s understanding gaze and the warmth of her hand on my back made me realize that maybe this wasn't as bad as it seemed.

I nodded, my voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah, I think I will." Relief washed over me as I slipped away from the cart, leaving Emily to navigate the checkout line alone. The thought of reliving childhood memories - standing in line with my mother as she placed a box of "Extra Large Size Baby Pants" on the conveyor belt - was too much to bear. I loved Emily for her strength and support, even if she seemed to be embracing this new dynamic between us with a bit too much enthusiasm.

A few minutes later, I met Emily back at the cart. She had already paid, the cart full of brown paper bags, except for a bright green package that sat prominently on top. My heart skipped a beat. "Couldn't he have put those in a paper bag too?" I muttered to her as the sliding door opened, letting us out into the bright sunshine, which only served to light up the green bag like a beacon.

"Bags are ten cents apiece, Greg, and," she emphasized, "And MY FATHER doesn't care." She gave me a sly wink, "Now, you try and argue with a man who's been selling diapers for thirty years." I rolled my eyes. I appreciated the attempt, but my emotional ability to deal with this was pretty much exhausted. As we walked to the car, Emily, sensing my discomfort, gently took my hand. "It's okay, honey. You'll get used to it. And besides, you’ll look so handsome in your new diapers." She kissed me softly on the cheek. Her smile was reassuring, but there was a glint in her eye that hinted at something more.

As we entered the house, the weight of the green package in my hands felt heavier than it should. Emily busied herself with putting away the groceries, her movements efficient and practiced, a stark contrast to my own awkward fumbling with the pull-ups. "Why don't you take those upstairs and... get familiar with them? You know, just in case." Emily suggested, her voice gentle but firm. "Maybe put them in the nightstand in Abby's room for now." I nodded, grateful for the direction but dreading the task.

As I climbed the stairs, each step felt like an admission of defeat. I entered Abby's room, the familiar surroundings now tinged with a new purpose. I opened the nightstand drawer, hesitating before placing the package inside. I didn't need to "familiarize" myself with them. That time would come soon enough.

Later, as I stood at the sink, brushing my teeth, I felt Emily’s presence behind me. Her hand rested gently on my back, her fingertips brushing the waistband of my pajama pants. "Are you going to put one on?" she asked, her voice soft and playful. "The pull-up, I mean. I think it's time."

"Ah, yes, after I finish brushing my teeth," I replied.

"Okay." She hugged me again and then left me to finish my ablutions, heading to the toilet. I spit, washed my mouth out, and washed my face. I trudged back to Abby's room. The bag was sitting on the bed where it had been since this evening when Emily had pulled it from it's hiding place, studiously being ignored every time I walked past the door. Its presence told me not only that Emily expected me to wear one of these, but she expected me to do it on that bed. It wasn't a ticket back into her bed. Yet. I sighed.

I opened the bag and pulled one out. It was much thinner than I expected. Though Abby had used them, I'd never really paid attention to hers; Emily had always handled that part. I had stayed out of it. Now, it was my turn. Stepping out of my pants, I slipped it on. It felt like it was barely there and rustled quietly when I moved. Sliding my pajama bottoms on, I could barely tell there was anything there at all.

As I climbed into bed, the crinkling of the sheets masked the faint rustle of the pull-up beneath my pajama pants. It wasn't uncomfortable. I wondered if I should use it tonight? Would it be too soon? I was thinking about what I could, or should, do when Emily entered. She glanced at the open bag and then at me. "Yes, honey, I put one on." I rolled my eyes as hard as the previous occupant of the room had.

"How does it fit?" She came over and sat down next to me on the bed, pulling the sheet back to expose my midsection.

"It's OK. I guess."

"Can I see?"

I hesitated, my cheeks flushing. It was one thing to wear a diaper, but quite another to have Emily inspect it. But she already knew what I was wearing. With a sigh I lifted myself slightly and pulled down my pajamas to reveal pullup beneath. Her fingers were gentle as she examined the fit, her touch a mix of concern and fascination.

"It's pretty loose. You're at the minimum of the waist range, so we'll see if it works..." She was thoughtful as she poked, prodded, pulled, and cupped.

"Well, with any luck we won't need to find out, right?" I asked. I mean I knew it was up to me, after all, even if she didn't.

"Sure, honey," she replied softly. "But if it does happen, no big deal—we'll find something that works for you." She leaned over and kissed me lovingly on the lips before pulling the sheet over me and turning out the light.

I felt relaxed. I wasn't back in our marital bed yet, but at least Emily was talking to me. More than talking to me. I realized it had been a long time since we had had such personal and meaningful conversations. I also realized I hadn't even had a beer today. That was probably for the best. Soon I was in dreamland.

[yaoi-hate-machine]

ohhhh god i need some moral support re: animal welfare and having difficult conversations with difficult people

ok basically i feel the need to tell my mom that this foster dog cannot continue to stay here. and things are already Very tense between us and i fear she's going to blow up at me like she usually does when anyone pushes back against her.

i've seen one of our dogs ("my" dog echo) snap at this foster dog twice now. it seems like she's being protective of me. she has also just not been doing well since i was out of town for a few weeks; she stopped eating breakfast which is extremely unlike her and she's been throwing up and having other digestive issues. i attribute this to my mom physically not being able to walk her and not taking the time to go outside with her to play because she's very high energy and gets anxious when her exercise and enrichment needs aren't met.

so like. echo was already not being cared for and ill because of that. and my mom decided to foster this young adult dog who she has sleeping literally right next to echo, who has not been around another dog besides the other dog in the house in at least a year, and there has literally Never been a third dog inside the house before. echo keeps barking at this foster dog and he seems to be afraid of her.

i just 1. personally feel Extremely stressed about being downstairs and worrying that echo is going to snap at him or start a fight, 2. feel that this is so unfair to echo who is already stressed out to the point of being sick because she's not being cared for properly, and now is extra stressed out about a random dog in her space, and 3. feel that this is so unfair to the foster dog who will likely develop some kind of reactivity or fear of other dogs if he continues being around echo.

my mom is likely going to assume that i'm making this up because she hasn't seen echo snap at him and because i've been very upset at her due to the way she failed to communicate properly with me about any of this. i'm also just already having a cptsd emotional flashback bc of the tension between us so i feel intensely afraid of having this conversation and her reaction. she does Not respond well to being wrong or being called out on her mistakes/behavior. but i'm just not willing to stay silent and compliant while literally everyone else in the situation suffers. i can't keep betraying myself by fawning.

i'm torn between being passive or assertive in the convo. my heart is saying that i should be assertive because she has a tendency to steamroll, but my brain knows that esp with the tension that's already between us re: this specific situation, she will most likely register my assertiveness as combativeness and blow up or shut down. so i guess i should probably try to be gentler about it even tho i don't feel like being gentle. idk if i should come right out and say that he can't be here anymore to be clear in my communication or if i should just tell her about echo snapping at him and then saying that i don't think he should be here anymore?

i am also 100% prepared to contact the shelter directly and tell them about this, but i know my mom would be furious about this. i feel like "either you can tell them or i will" is my fail-safe if she's not receptive, but like. she would likely murder me. ok i need to stop saying things like that. she is not going to murder me. there are ways that she can hurt me but none of them are life-threatening. she can make me Feel like i'm in danger, but i am an adult who can protect and advocate for myself.

ok just to help myself i'm gonna do a little scripting below. feel free to lmk how it sounds/if you have any suggestions (basically i'm fucking autistic and having high-stress and urgent conversations like this is literally the bane of my existence)

"so i've seen echo snap at him twice now. the first time was the first full day he was here when i came downstairs in the morning, and it happened again a couple hours ago. it seems like echo is stressed out about him being here, which i can understand because she hasn't socialized with other dogs in a long time and there's never been another dog in her space. And she's clearly not feeling well, it's unheard of for her to refuse to eat and she's been throwing up. and he is definitely nervous around her in the house, he'll tuck his tail and shrink himself down when she's sniffing him. i personally feel really nervous about being downstairs now because it seems like echo's being protective of me. it's very likely that he'll become afraid of other dogs if it keeps happening, and it's also very likely that echo will become aggressive with other dogs if she continues feeling like he's a threat. i really don't think this is a good situation for either of them and i think that if you really want to help this dog, it would be best to call anderson and have them find another foster. i know you really wanted this to work out, but it just seems like bad timing and i'm really worried about their interactions having lasting effects on either or both of them. like i said, i'm also just really stressed about it and we had just talked about how stressed out and overwhelmed i am at home."

[neolynne]

Its been two episode and Babe is breaking my heart.

He probably have gone through the worst year of his life, loosing his best friend not once but twice (1 when Way assaulted him and 2 when he died), both things he still have nightmare about. He almost lost the love of his life. Yes Charlie came back but that doesn't meanthe pain and trauma Babe experienced at that time disappeared.

And something i saw very few people talk about, Babe lost his powers. And he never really expressed how he felt about it. In season one he brushed away his feeling about loosing them when Charlie told him that to get them back Charlie has to die.....and the other time he talk about it is after Charlie dies. But you have to remember that a no point Babe choose to get ride of his power...that choice was taken away from him. (And even if he wanted he couldn't blame Charlie)

So at the beginning of season 2, Babe already lost 2 important (and I dare say defining) things. And now he lost the third think, the most important, the thing he said himself is the only thing that matters....being at the top, the King of the hallows. Not to Charlie or Kim, but to a newcomer. And that as to be scary.

Yes Babe joke about how Willy is a better racer than Charlie (which from what we saw....is the truth) and that it. For me there is no implications of Babe taking an interest at Willy other than his racing skill. And at this point Charlie gets it.

And then that same man, who clearly said he want to take your place, replace you...cannot leave you the fuck alone.

Babe wasn't out partying in that scene, he was by himself, in a little bar, clearly wanting to be alone, CHOOSING to be alone. And once again someone take that choice away from him. And in the worst way possible. First, by insulting both his relationships and Babe himself (Willy is clearly slutshaming Babe). And at no point is Babe responding positively. He literally tells Willy to mind his own business. You can see the disgust on Babe face when Willy offer him to spend a night together.

And when Babe choose to leave, then Willy get physical, invade his space, doesnt take NO for an answer.

As for Babe betting himself....Willy cornered him...asking for the bet aftrr abe agreed to a race and making Babe place the bet first....what was *PIT BABE supposed to do...leave ? Say something like "nah sorry bro, not feeling the bet", tho implying that Willy could"ve/would've win against him (that Babe was scared to loose against him....)

* i'm using PIT BABE bc this is who we have on our screen during those scene, PIT BABE the king of the hallows, not Babe.

And then Babe fight and he win...and once again Willy assault him.

And when Babe goes home (after a shitty evening), his boyfriend question him. And yes Babe doesn't tell Charlie what happened....because for Babe everything is said and done with Willy.

And if Charlie wanted straight-forward answer maybe he could've asked straight-forward question. But i will talk about Charlie in another post.

And then Babe get what he always wants/need...Charlie entire attention.

And the next morning he's so happy and in love and its beautiful...and then everything comes crashing down because once again Willy cannot leave him alone. Like a shadow, straight out of Babe nightmares

[screamingay]

ive always gotten sore tits on my period but never sharp pain in there.. google says it's normal so i wont freak out but im not happy about it either -_-

[thedrotter]

i could go on and on on the importance of shunkun and yuu being narrative foils of each other and how devastating it makes things

but nah, don't be silly, why would I express this sentiment on a serious drawing when i can draw fluff!!!😊😊 (copium)

progress dump... from vision to the end!!!

Vision->Spirit drawing->Sketch->Details on top of Sketch->Lineart->Color!!!!

"what is a spirit drawing michael" spirit. i inject spirit of my vision into the canvas and hope it makes sense later somehow💜 my process is mysterious in its ways.... not even i know what is going on(゜∀。)

anyway heres an image of the many. many glitches and difficulties i have to face now that my computer finally sniped clip studio😭 but i never give up I dont let the computer stop me

[visceravalentines]

one thing about me is I will get drunk and demand to watch the judas music video