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damneddamsy · 3 months ago

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part ii)

MICROFRACTURE—A quiet crack, invisible but irreversible.

summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.

a/n: on today's episode of 'angry idiots and sad assholes', introducing the one and only Joel Miller! I let out a few tears writing this one, too, it's really painful when you think about how Joel probably perceives himself, or how I think he does. onto other happier news, I simply cannot believe the kind of response the first part garnered, and I'm shook! rise up, depression girlies!!! To everyone who responded in the comments and reblogs, I've read them all twice over and giggled and twirled my hair and threw up butterflies. Thank you, and I hope you like this one! :)

Joel settled into his routine like a man settling into an old wound. Patrols, clearing trails, the stables, the repair shop, the bar, dinner in silence, rinse and repeat. It was easier that way—easier than thinking too much about a vain attempt. He ignored his neighbour’s existence completely. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But ignoring something didn’t make it disappear.

Every morning, he still ended up at the dining table—the one he never used—sipping his coffee too slow for his patience, gaze drawn to the big white house across the street like a goddamn magnet. Watching for movement. Watching for them.

And he fucking hated it.

Hated the part of him that waited, that noticed, that took account of the smallest details like they meant anything to him. Like he still had a reason to care.

Sometimes, Maya fussed too much, and Leela would come outside, her hair a little unkempt, gait all botched, but her hands steady as she cradled her baby against her chest. He saw her murmuring softly to the baby girl, pointing to the sky, the trees, the shifting clouds, the falling snow. A little trick from Maria, he figured. It worked well enough. Maya would quiet, those big brown eyes so curious, distracted by the vastness of the world she barely understood.

And Leela—she still looked tired. Still looked like she was moving through a fog, unseeing, carrying more than just the baby in her arms. But she took to Maya differently now, touched her calmly, like she was no longer afraid she might break her.

That was good. That meant she was doing fine. That meant she didn’t need him. And that meant Joel could stop worrying about the things that weren’t his to worry about.

Joel was outside, tightening the hinges on his porch gate, bracing against the cold, when he heard her steps crunching in the snow. Still quiet. Still waiting. He didn’t look up right away, just kept his focus on the task in front of him. If she needed something, she’d say it.

"Good morning, Joel," Leela greeted warmly.

Joel gave a short nod, adjusting the grip on his screwdriver. "Mornin’."

She lingered there. Honestly, he just wished she’d just go back inside. So, he kept working, unbothered, and didn't look up.

"Loose hinges?" she asked.

Courtesies. He wasn't falling for it. "Mhm."

He knew when he wasn't wanted. She was finding her feet now, somewhat starting to take care of herself, carefully taking care of Maya. She didn’t need him checking in, didn’t need him hovering. And maybe—maybe that should’ve felt like a relief. It didn’t.

"You need anything else?" he asked, voice gruffer than he meant it to be.

"No, I just..." Leela wavered, softly, like she already knew he was about to shut her down. "I wanted to say thank you. For helping me out these few weeks. I couldn't have done it without you."

Joel finally glanced up at that. Just a flicker.

Leela shifted in her puffy pants, adjusting Maya against her shoulder. The baby girl was bundled up tight, small fists curled into her mouth, watching him with that blank, childlike wonder in big eyes. It took every bit of strength he had to not fall for that, and just forget everything that happened.

Joel hung his head, nodding again, keeping his focus downward on the screw.

She was being friendly. Trying to meet him halfway. And he hated that this was what it had come to—that she felt like she had to say something, to extend some kind of olive branch, when all he’d done was build a wall between them. For no fucking reason.

He straightened up with a muffled grunt, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Nothin’ to thank me for. It was all you."

She half-laughed, something wry and knowing. "I know that's not true."

Joel glanced up, stiffening, but she wasn’t looking at him, just rubbing slow circles into Maya’s back, pressing a slow kiss to the top of her head, consoling herself.

He knew what she was doing. He wasn’t stupid.

She was trying to make things normal again. Like they hadn’t spent nights under the same roof. Like he hadn’t seen her fall apart. Like she wasn’t still here, right now, offering him something—a small, careful thing—and he was too much of a coward to take it.

So he didn’t.

Joel scratched the back of his neck with the screwdriver, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. "You oughta get inside," he said instead. "It’s too cold for the kid."

Leela’s expression flickered. Not hurt. Just resigned. He felt like he'd ripped the bandaid off a baby.

"Okay. Yes." She slowly nodded but hesitated a step back. Then—too quietly, almost like an afterthought—"It’s nice to see you around, Joel."

And with that, she started back down the road, holding Maya closer by her head, and Joel let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. That was better. Cleaner.

He grabbed his tools and turned back to his door, locking his jaw. He hadn’t meant to come off short, but it was better this way. Best to stay in his own lane. Best not to make something out of nothing. That’s what he told himself.

But later that night, when he was eating that damn delicious soup she’d left for him by his door—still warm, still considerate—he felt like a grade-A asshole.

From then on, it was Tommy who had taken over fixing the nursery, finishing what Joel had started. He figured that was for the best. It kept things clean. Tied up loose ends. He had no business stepping into that house anymore, no reason to.

And yet, his eyes always caught the details—the way the curtains in the nursery window shifted, the way light flickered between the slats, the way the wood he had sanded and painted was still unfinished, the way Tommy started bringing someone else along.

Mal.

Joel had seen him before, a younger guy with an afro that Tommy had taken under his wing. Handy with repairs, and good with his hands. Nothing special.

At first, Mal actually worked. Brought his toolbox, put up a few shelves, and nodded along to whatever Tommy said. Kept to himself. But then—things started changing. Mal started staying longer. Talking... to her. Right on the front stoop until the sun went down.

It was fine at first. Two steps between them. Then one. Then none at all. Soon, he was leaning close on the porch railing, shoulders nearly brushing hers, speaking in low, easy tones that Joel couldn’t quite make out from across the street. And then—laughter. Leela’s laughter. Soft, hesitant, but real.

More than Joel had ever gotten out of her. Not that he’d ever tried.

Tommy and Maria stopped coming around entirely. It was just Mal now. Every goddamn day. He’d stroll up, toolbox in hand, tap on the door, and then—nothing. No sounds of work being done. No hammering, no shifting furniture. Just conversation.

Joel told himself it didn’t matter. Repeated it like a prayer, like a lesson he should’ve learned by now. That whatever Leela did, whoever she let into her home, was none of his business. That was the whole point of leaving, wasn’t it? Cutting ties, walking away.

He didn’t care about the way Mal lingered on that porch, didn’t care about the way Leela had started looking at him—not quite wary, not quite inviting. Like she was still learning how to trust people but was willing to try. Didn’t care about the way Maya reached for Mal, the tiny fingers curling into his beard, the easy way Mal let her.

And yet, he always saw it.

The way Mal leaned just a little closer, the way Leela’s shoulders, once so tight and drawn, started to loosen. The way her fingers twisted in the fabric of her sleeves when she spoke to him, soft and hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to enjoy the conversation.

Joel hated how much he noticed. It was worse when he overheard them.

He'd been out all damn day. Sun up to sundown, rifle slung over his shoulder, dealing with raiders, clickers, and everything in between. The kind of day that made his bones ache, that made his back scream when he so much as breathed wrong. The kind of day where all he wanted was to go home, put his feet up, and maybe—just maybe—close his eyes for longer than ten damn minutes.

But no. Because just as he was rounding the corner to his place, the world ready to lay even more shit on him, he heard them.

"You mean to tell me no one's ever spun you around before?" Mal was saying.

Joel's step faltered. He should’ve kept walking. Should’ve ignored it. But of course, he didn’t. He adjusted his grip on the sack slung over his shoulder, slowing his pace, letting their voices drift through the cold evening air.

Leela snorted, light and dismissive. "Like dancing?"

"Exactly like," Mal confirmed, smooth as you please. "Having a little fun, letting go, feeling the music. Bet you don’t do much of that."

Joel’s fingers curled around the strap of his bag, grip tightening.

"There are more pressing matters than romance," Leela muttered, but she was laughing.

Joel didn’t like that one bit. He didn’t like the way she said it. Playful. Entertained. That was the first thing that rubbed Joel the wrong way. The second was the way the kid kept talking.

"Well, I bet Maya’s never even seen her mama all dolled up before, huh? Imagine that, baby girl," Mal cooed, and Maya's sweet crool followed like a melody.

Fuck this.

Joel didn’t hear Leela’s response, didn’t hear whatever she said next, because he was already moving—boots heavy, hands fisted, the strap of his bag biting into his palm. He was about to lay one on this bitch.

The frozen dirt beneath his boots crunched as he made his way there, shoulders squared, hackles raised, barely restraining the urge to grab that kid by the collar and shake some goddamn sense into him.

Because who the hell did this punk think he was?

Talking like that, acting like Leela was some blushing girl to be sweet-talked. Like she hadn’t spent the last few weeks barely holding herself together. Like she hadn’t bled for that kid in her arms. Like Joel hadn’t been the one who—

He stopped himself there. Tamped it down. Shoved it deep into the pit of his stomach where all the other shit lived.

Instead, he turned away, kept his head down and walked straight home, fists tight around anything. By the time he kicked the door shut behind him, his jaw ached from how hard he’d been clenching it. Fucking Mal.

Joel dumped the sack of supplies on the table and went straight for the bottle. Pulled the cork out with his teeth, and poured himself a glass with a hand that was damn near steady.

He took a sip. Let it burn. Let it settle. Then he muttered, "Goddamn kid."

He wasn’t mad. Not really. Because why should he be?

She liked him. Sure, he wanted her to be happy. If that happened, he'd finally get a good night's sleep. And yet, it wouldn't mean a fucking thing to him if Mal was the reason. One day, when he's going to see her and Mal inside her home, silver rings glinting off their hands, little Maya nestled between them, the picture of a perfect family...

Joel knocked back the rest of the whiskey and swallowed hard. Good. That was good. Good for her. Good for the baby. She didn't need him. Maya wouldn't need him. He'd butt out and live alone, in peace.

He set the glass down a little harder than he meant to. Stared at it. Then, just to be sure, he muttered it out loud.

"Ain't my problem."

But the facts remained.

She still wasn’t eating much or sleeping well. The dark circles under her eyes hadn’t faded. She still rubbed at her temples when she thought no one was looking, still blinked a little too long, like she was fighting off exhaustion every second of the day. Food was out of compulsion, not hunger, for the sake of staying healthy for Maya.

And then, one night, he saw her asleep on the porch swing. Curled in on herself, arms tucked tight, shivering against the cold, exhaustion dragging her under where she sat.

It took everything in him not to walk over and wake her. To shake her by the shoulder, drag her inside, make sure she was warm. It took everything in him not to care.

Because this wasn’t his anymore. He had no claim over them.

Didn’t change the fact that every time he saw Mal leaning against that railing, looking like he belonged there, like he’d always belonged there—that knot in his chest twisted tighter.

And he hated that, too.

Joel had truly been looking forward to dinner. It was the same thing every week. He’d go over to Tommy's, have a decent meal, shoot the shit with his brother, and let Ellie fill in the gaps of conversation. It was comfortable. Familiar. Nice. A welcome change from the silence of his own home, from days spent running the same damn circuit—patrol, repairs, the bar, then back to a house that wasn’t a home, not really.

But tonight, something was off. Joel could feel it from the moment he sat down.

Maybe it was the way Maria and Ellie kept glancing at him like they were waiting for something. Or maybe it was just Tommy—sitting across from him, chewing through a mouthful of steak, his expression too nonchalant like he had something up his sleeve.

Joel didn’t think much of it at first. He focused on his food, carving through the meat, grounding himself in the scrape of his fork against the plate.

Then Tommy opened his big hole of a mouth.

"Mal’s been spending a lot of time over at Leela’s place."

Joel’s hand tensed around his knife. And just like that, his appetite was gone. He kept his face neutral and didn’t look up. Just kept chewing, lagging and deliberate motions, like he hadn’t heard a damn thing.

Tommy, either oblivious or just plain cruel, kept going. "Helpin’ out with the nursery. Putting some time in with the baby girl." He ripped a piece of bread in half, completely unaware of the way Joel’s grip had turned his fork into a weapon. "Good guy. He and Leela get along well. It's nice to see."

Joel exhaled slowly through his nose. Focused on his plate. Flattened a piece of potato with the back of his fork. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his problem. That was the whole goddamn point, wasn’t it?

He’d helped Leela out. Gave her time. Took care of her baby. That was it. She was somebody else’s problem now. And yet, the idea of some guy stepping into his place, rocking Maya to sleep, working on the nursery, fixing things, being there—his mouth flattened into a hard line. It stung.

No. It wasn’t his place to care. He'd told himself so many times, it felt like one of those daily affirmations bullshit. Thou shall not think of thy neighbour's handyman and his fuckeries.

Though, still, before he could stop himself, the words were already out of his mouth. "Nursery ain’t even done yet."

The second it left him, he regretted it. A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, too slowly, Joel looked up—and immediately hated what he saw. Maria and Ellie were smirking. That stupid, all-too-knowing, ready-to-annoy-the-shit-out-of-him-smirk. He had the greatest urge to leave the room.

Maria lifted an eyebrow. "And how exactly would you know that, Joel?"

Joel pursed his lips casually, setting his fork down with a little too much care. "They live right across the damn street. Hard to miss."

Ellie leaned forward, propping her chin on her fist. "Right. And how much time do you spend looking across the damn street?"

He massaged the bridge of his nose. "Don’t start, Ellie."

Tommy tilted his head, giving him a look that made Joel want to knock his damn teeth out. "You’ve been actin’ real funny ever since you left that house, y’know."

"Ain’t nothin’ to act on," Joel muttered, shifting in his seat. "I helped her out. End of story. Moving on."

Tommy wasn't letting go, damn him. "Uh-huh. Then why you sittin’ here lookin’ like you just bit into a bad lemon the second her name came up?"

Joel’s jaw ticked.

"Yeah," Ellie added, grinning. "Why’s your face doing that thing?"

Joel frowned. "What thing?"

She pointed with her fork to the furrows above his eyebrows. "The thing where you pretend you don’t care, but your forehead says otherwise."

Maria hid a knowing smile behind her glass while Joel rubbed at his face consciously, glaring over at Ellie. "You could just go over there, you know."

Joel let out a short, humourless chuckle. "Oh, c'mon. For what?"

"Dinner," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Just a meal with friends. Tommy, me, you, Ellie—Leela and Maya. Nothing big."

Joel stared down at his plate. His food had gone cold.

"We don’t need to be doin’ all that," he muttered, shaking his head. Getting familiar and cosy. It'd only invite more trouble.

Maria ignored him. "She’s got that nice, big dining room. A sweet bar cart. French windows. Good view of the lawn. It’d be like a little party."

Joel didn’t respond.

"C'mon, man," Tommy pressed. "What’s stopping you?"

That was the question, wasn’t it? Joel wasn’t sure he had an answer. Or maybe he did—and just didn’t want to say it.

Because the truth was, he had no business going back. He’d done what he came to do. He’d helped. That was it.

But then there was Maya—her featherlight body in his arms, the way she’d reached for his shirt in her sleep. There was Leela—standing in the doorway that last morning, silent, watching him go. There was the stillness in his own house, the way he’d catch himself in the middle of the night, listening for a cry that never came. What the hell was wrong with him?

Instead, he just stabbed his fork into his potato and muttered, "Pass."

Maria and Ellie exchanged another conspiratorial glance. And Joel had the distinct feeling this wasn’t over.

Once dinner had progressed into a chore, Ellie and Joel, ever the gentleman, helped Tommy dry the dishes. Well—Joel did. Ellie, on the other hand, was just sitting on the counter, swinging her legs and cracking jokes about Tommy’s new manbun. The kitchen was warm, the soft clatter of dishes filling the space and laughter, the steak dinner still settling in Joel’s stomach.

“You’re really doing the whole ponytail thing now, huh?”

Tommy rolled his eyes, flicking on the tap. “Jesus, you sound like Joel.”

“Hey, you take that back! I am way cooler than Joel,” Ellie corrected. “And I'm a thousand times funnier. Pun-nier.”

“Debatable,” Joel muttered.

“Did Maria do this to you?” she asked, flicking a sudsy fork in Joel’s direction. “Blink twice if you need help. I've got emergency scissors.”

Tommy snorted, stacking the last plate in the cabinet. “It’s practical. And I'm starting to like it.”

Ellie tilted her head, unimpressed. “It's lazy. Tragic.”

Joel smirked but said nothing, wiping down a plate before handing it over. Tommy shot him a glare like he was expecting some backup, but Joel just shrugged. Not his fight.

Maria walked in from behind them, and Joel noticed that infuriating look on her face. Oh, nothing good would come out of this. She set a small box on the counter with a dull thud, right beside Joel. He barely glanced at it before she plopped another paper box on top—leftovers from tonight. Steak and potatoes just for a special someone.

“Could you pass this on to Leela on your way back?” she said casually, drying her hands. “It's one dose a day, each. And one scoop in cold water.”

Joel looked down, his hands bracing against the counter. Vitamins. Protein powder. Of course.

Maria tapped the food box. “And dinner.”

Joel eyed them both, then her. The way she said it, like it was no big deal. Like she hadn’t just put him in a position he couldn’t easily wiggle out of.

He sighed, already seeing where this was going. He set down the dish towel, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tommy can pass it to her tomorrow.”

Maria simply raised an eyebrow. “Meat’s gonna go bad.”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “Oh, so this is how you’re gonna play it?” He glanced at Tommy, then Ellie, both of whom were very pointedly looking elsewhere. “Really?”

Ellie grinned. “It’s a neighbourly thing to do, Joel. Don't you call yourself a gentleman?”

“I’m with her on that one,” Tommy added, crossing his arms.

Joel let out a slow, irritated breath. Family? No, just a bunch of annoying, traitorous little shits.

Maria only smiled, sliding the box closer to him. “Wouldn’t want her going without. She's already skin and bones. And you know... you live right across the damn street.”

Ellie burst out laughing, raising her fist to Maria, who bumped with her own knowing smile. “Respect.”

Joel clenched his jaw. She'd got him right where she wanted. Because now, if he didn’t take the stupid thing, he’d look like an asshole. And Maria knew that. She was being fucking shameless about it.

His gaze flickered down to the box. Then, before he could stop himself and leave them standing, an image surfaced—Leela, sitting on that damn porch swing, curled up against the cold. Maya’s tiny fingers tugging at her collar, red-cheeked, catching swirling snow in her dark curls.

Joel closed his eyes briefly. He couldn't shake it off. And he admitted it to himself, despite all his grievances against this, he missed them. He missed Leela's soft footsteps in the nursery past midnight, he missed Maya entirely. He missed the sense of normalcy once the blood and gore of patrol ended, to head to a warm home and lay down, exhausted, knowing he hadn't had a drink to fall asleep.

Then, wordlessly, he grabbed the boxes off the counter.

Ellie elbowed Tommy in the ribs, giggling. “See? Look at him. Good ol’ Joel, real man of the people.”

Joel shot her a warning look while heading over to grab his jacket, the delivery under his arm. “Don’t push it, kid.” Then pointed a threatening finger at Tommy as he yanked the front door open. “Can't believe we're related.”

Tommy only puckered his lips at him, miming a kiss. “Mensch Miller.”

The house across the street was unlocked again.

Joel stood at the threshold, jaw clenched, boots planted firm against the porch floorboards. The door was cracked open, swaying slightly from the evening breeze, the light from inside spilling out onto the steps. Did she even care about safety? It should’ve been locked. It should’ve been bolted shut, curtains drawn, an armoury stacked by the doorway. But Leela still acted like the world wasn’t what it was. Like Jackson was different.

It had been a whole two months since Leela brought Maya into this world, a month of struggling, of barely eating, barely sleeping, barely breathing. And now she had the nerve to leave her door wide open like she was inviting trouble? Like Jackson was some safe little haven where nothing bad could ever happen? A dangerous thing, that kind of trust. He’d seen what happened to people who had it.

His jaw ticked. He took the porch steps two at a time and pushed the door open without knocking.

Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and something faintly sweet—baby powder, maybe, or that lavender soap Maria kept handing out. The fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing restless shadows across the room, licking at the edges of the high-backed armchair and the mathematics-riddled books and papers neatly stacked up in scatters.

And there she was, standing in front of it. Leela was running a brush through her hair, violently. Dragging it down, tangling it further, hissing under her breath when it snagged. Frustrated, impatient. Needed a haircut.

The same damn nightgown again. White, sleeveless, falling in soft folds just past her knees. But this time, his eyes caught the details—the way a single pearl button at her collar had been left open carelessly, the way the thin cotton made the dark silhouette of her body visible beneath, and the odd little cherries sewn sparsely into the fabric. Small, stitched by hand.

He had no idea why all that stood out to him. It just did. And boy, did it leave nothing to the imagination.

Leela stilled, catching sight of him in the doorway. The brush hung mid-stroke in her hand.

“Oh,” she said, like he hadn’t just barged into her house uninvited. “Hello.”

Her eyes and voice were warm. Soft, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary, as if she wasn’t standing there in nothing but a slip of a dress while the light from the hearth turned her edges golden.

Joel forced his gaze away. His eyes flicked over the living room instead, to the couch against the far wall—his couch, as much as he hated to admit it. The blankets were still there, folded neatly, stacked with the pillows like she’d been expecting him to come back. His grip tightened around the boxes in his hands.

“I—” He cleared his throat, stepping forward, extending the boxes toward her. “Maria sent you some stuff.”

Leela blinked again before setting the hairbrush down, padding toward him on bare feet. She took the boxes gently, fingers barely brushing his. “Thank you, Joel,” she murmured, flashing a little smile.

“Just vitamins, powder,” he played off.

She pried the lid off the larger box and inhaled deeply. He caught the way her nose twitched, her fingers tightening just a fraction around the edges.

“Her famous steak dinner,” he offered her.

And then, like clockwork, her stomach betrayed her, the low grumble cutting through the quiet between them. She stiffened, laughing, breathless and sheepish.

“Sorry.”

“You should eat—”

A sharp cry cut through the air, calling for her. Both their heads swung toward the staircase.

Leela sighed first, setting the boxes away. “Napkin,” she murmured, as if reciting from a schedule. “Please help yourself to anything. I’ll be right back.”

But Joel stepped forward, one arm extended, the box acting as a barrier between her and the stairs. He despised the unfamiliarity.

“Eat,” he said, firm.

She hesitated. Her gaze flickered between him and the staircase, like she was weighing her options, debating whether to argue or just go along with it.

Another cry echoed from upstairs—short, needy. Joel could tell. It wasn’t hunger, it wasn’t pain. Little Maya was lonely already.

“I got this,” he assured.

Leela chewed her lip. “But—”

“I know the drill.” He jerked his chin toward the kitchen. “Just eat.”

A long moment passed, heavy with hesitation. Then, finally, she relented, her shoulders sagging as she breathed in surrender. She took the box from him.

“I’ll grab a fork, I guess,” she muttered, turning toward the kitchen.

Joel smothered a grin while watching her go, and took the stairs two at a time, powerless to his anticipation. It had been two weeks since he held the baby girl. He'd missed the shit out of her, not that he would admit that to anybody. Of course, he wasn't about to pass up this chance for anything.

From the landing, the nursery's door cracked open, light from the hallway bleeding into the dim room. Joel frowned as he leaned in to inspect.

The first thing he noticed was that the crib had moved. His boots made no sound over the wooden floor as he stepped inside, scanning the space. The wooden shelves were up, already home to Maya's folded clothes, towels and napkins. The light installation dangled halfway, unfixed. No one had even begun work on painting the walls. No armchair. No rug.

This Mal guy was a complete jackass. Maya's nursery was a mess.

“Good with his hands, my ass,” Joel muttered. “What a fuckin' tool.”

Joel angrily followed the hallway light, stepping through the open doorway into the furthest bedroom, a room bigger than any he’d ever seen in Jackson. In Texas. In this country.

Massive was an understatement. This was the kind of bedroom you’d see in a damn commercial—the kind of thing he would’ve scoffed at, once upon a time. The bed alone was ridiculous. Olympic-sized, sunken into a floor for itself, welling with plush, overstuffed pillows and thick sheets, barely disturbed. A sliding-door closet stood at the far end, pristine, untouched. A plasma-screen TV mounted on the opposite wall, thick with dust.

Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line. There was something unnatural about it. The way it felt more like an untouched display than her bedroom.

Maya’s cries pulled him from his thoughts. Joel crossed the room, approaching the crib—the one he’d worked on. All pink and polished for the spoiled little girl.

The moment she saw him, her cries hitched. Big, teary brown eyes blinked up at him, wide and glistening, like she was struggling to focus. She sniffled, tiny fists flexing against the mattress, mouth wobbling around her jutting tongue, as if trying to place him.

Joel couldn't resist a grin, brushing a coarse knuckle against her soft cheek.

“Hi, baby girl.” Then leaned closer to whisper, “Traitor.”

Maya sniffled, blinking again, then reached for him—small fingers curling, grasping blindly before finding his much larger one, tugging it toward her mouth. She gummed at his gnarled knuckles with a fussy little noise, her brows furrowing in concentration.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “That ain't fair. That's your apology?”

Maya made another small whimper of a sound. And a real smile. A big, toothless, gummy grin, full of warmth and recognition. Something nearly uncoiled at his ribs.

He pulled a so-so face. “Hm, I'll bite.”

It was muscle memory, really. The way his hands moved—effortless, practised. He'd done it more than fifty times in two weeks. He made quick work of the napkin, wiping her clean, then slid his hands beneath her arms, lifting her up in one smooth motion.

He grunted as he did, “C'mere, sweetheart. You beautiful, beautiful girl. Did you miss me, huh?”

She squealed, legs kicking excitedly as he cradled her against his chest, supporting her head the way he always did. And just like that, he eased into the old rhythm without thinking. That familiar weight against him, that warmth—gentle, swaying, murmuring under his breath. It was easy. Too easy. Like breathing. Like falling asleep.

She nestled into his shoulder, tiny fist pressing against his neck, seeking his warmth. She’d gotten bigger. Not by much, but enough. Still delicate, still small—but stronger now. More aware. Smart, like her mother.

"Yeah, you missed me," he murmured when she nuzzled against his neck.

And then—pure, infallible instinct—he dipped his nose into her hair and breathed her in deep. Soft linen and old cotton, warm and faint.

Sarah used to smell like this once. For just a little while. That same invisible claw tore at his memories. Joel closed his eyes, just for a second. He remembered how, when she outgrew it, he'd missed it terribly. How he’d sometimes let her sleep curled up in his arms all night long, his back against the headboard, just to hold onto that smell. Just to keep that small, fleeting moment of innocence before the world could take it away.

That nostalgia settled deep in his ribs, quiet and whole. This seemed like the only place in the world where suffering didn’t exist. Like his hands weren’t stained with all the things he’d done, all the lives he’d taken.

Because here, right now, with Maya, he wasn’t the man who had lost and lost and lost again. He wasn’t the man who’d left behind nothing but bodies and broken promises. No, she didn’t know any of that. She didn’t care.

She only knew his warmth. She knew the steady beat of his heart, the scratch of his beard against her soft skin, and the way he said her name. She only knew him as someone safe. And fuck, he wasn’t, he wasn’t, but—

God help him, he wanted to be.

Maya sighed, a tiny, content sound, pressing closer. And Joel—he let himself believe, just for a moment, that he was clean.

A soft gasp behind him made him turn to reality and toward the door. “Oh, Maya.”

Joel turned to find Leela standing in the doorway, hand to her mouth, eyes wide in amusement. She had changed—finally—into one of those oversized sweaters he’d seen her wear on colder nights, sleeves swallowing her hands. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at his chest.

Joel frowned. “What?”

Leela bit her lip, trying—failing—to smother a smile. She motioned vaguely toward him. Joel tracked her finger and glanced to the side. And felt it. Hot, damp.

Damned baby spit-up.

Maya’s little betrayal soaked through the fabric of his shirt, spreading down from his collar and shoulder to his chest in an uneven, milky stain. She smacked her lips contentedly against his collarbone, completely unaware of the mess she’d just made.

He sighed, shifting her to the other arm. He levelled her with a playful glare. “You gonna warn me next time you ruin my shirt, darlin'?”

Maya only gurgled in response, a soft, pleased little sound.

And then, following her daughter—Leela laughed.

Not the quiet, polite kind that he'd managed out of her once. Not the forced kind, either. A real laugh. Breathless, unexpected, warm. Like it had slipped out before she could stop it.

Joel felt it like a slow-moving punch to the gut. He didn’t hear that sound often. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard it before on his account. He'd finally done it.

It changed something about her, softening her face in a way that caught him off guard. Her eyes creased at the corners, the tightness in her shoulders eased, the exhaustion in her expression smoothed over—just for a moment.

It did something strange to him. He didn’t have the time to name it. So he just exhaled sharply, muttering a curse under his breath as he adjusted Maya over to the other arm, rubbing a hand over his damp shirt.

“Yeah, real funny. Your girl just aired her paunch all over me,” he grumbled.

Leela tried to sober up, apologising, but another chuckle slipped out in between, and Joel caught the way she bit her lip, fighting to suppress it.

She was enjoying this. And he was in big fucking trouble.

"Don't move. I'll get you a spare shirt," she said, laughing, before walking to the adjacent closet doors.

Joel didn’t even get the chance to protest before Leela slid one side of the closet doors open, revealing—sweet Jesus.

His eyes landed on the neat rows of men’s clothing hanging inside. Not just a few misplaced items, not something left behind by chance. An entire collection.

Button-downs, slacks, henleys—clothes meant for daily wear. Added into the mix, were pressed suits, the kind that cost more than a month’s worth of supplies, the kind men used to wear to skyscrapers and boardrooms, back when the world was still upright. And golf shirts. For fuck’s sake, golf shirts.

Joel’s jaw hinged back up. Golf was a rich man’s game. He’d worked jobs near country clubs in his past life, and seen the kind of people who played. Men with money. Her father, perhaps.

Leela had definitely grown up rich. And looking at this—this untouched wealth, just sitting here, long past its time—it became clear. She probably still was.

Joel’s grip on Maya shifted slightly, the warmth of the baby pressing into his chest the only real thing anchoring him as his eyes dragged over the closet once more.

For all that Leela lived like a ghost, for all that she barely let anyone near her, this place still held echoes of what she came from. A past life that didn’t match the woman he’d seen standing at her front door, exhausted and hollow-eyed, desperate for her baby to stop crying.

Leela flipped through the hangers without hesitation, fingers brushing past labels he recognized—Armani, Burberry, Hollister. Eventually, she pulled out a green pullover. Soft, fine material. A little small for him, but it’d do.

She turned, offering it wordlessly.

Joel didn’t move to take it right away.

He was still staring at the closet. Not because he gave a damn about how much a fucking sweater cost, or whether she had a trust fund hidden away somewhere, but because it told him something. Something he hadn’t really thought about before.

Leela had come from comfort. Stability. A world where things were taken care of. And yet she’d buried herself in this big, empty house, alone, fighting tooth and nail to survive—like everyone else. And she never asked for help.

Leela cleared her throat. "It should fit. My father was a tall man."

Joel managed a sigh, shifting Maya in his arms. He took the pullover with one hand, already halfway through plucking open the buttons of his flannel.

While he worked, Leela stepped closer, ready to take Maya. She was quick about it, but Joel caught the way her fingers lingered, just for a second, as she scooped the baby up from his arms. Not on Maya.

On him.

Joel really tried to push it out of his head, write it off as an illusion, already plucking open the buttons of his shirt. His fingers brushed the fabric, and he paused when he caught the tag inside. Ralph Lauren, for fuck's sake.

Leela noticed with a small smile. "I didn’t take you for a man with fancy taste," she mused.

Joel let out a dry snort. "Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it."

He pulled off his flannel, the sleeves catching briefly on his wrists before he tossed it aside. The room wasn’t cold, but the air bit at his skin anyway. The scars felt it first—every healed cut, every old wound stretched over knotted muscle, each one a reminder of what his body had been through.

"Oh, man," he couldn't help but grunt, stretching his arms.

He worked the pullover over his head in one smooth motion, the fabric soft, snug across his shoulders. Felt like something he would’ve bought for Sarah back in the day, something she’d pull from a Macy’s rack, nodding in approval before insisting, "Dad, just try it on."

It fit better than he expected, but Joel barely registered that. His body had begun to ache. Not in one place—everywhere. It was late at night, it was cold, he missed his daily dose of whiskey, and he needed sleep for tomorrow.

The exhaustion sat in his bones now, permanent and familiar. His bad knee throbbed, aggravated from the cold, from the weight he put on it patrolling for hours at a time. His back had never been the same after that one fall, a long time ago. Some mornings, he woke up and could barely stand straight, feeling every single one of his years sink into him.

And yet, his body still held. Still worked. It wasn’t much to look at anymore. Not that it ever had been.

He had no delusions about himself—he wasn’t built for admiration. Never had been. Picking up girls and fooling around; that was Tommy's thing. He wasn’t the kind of man people looked at twice, not in the way that mattered. His body told a story, but not the sort anyone wanted to read or had a happy ending,

His hands were ruined things, thick with callouses from years of exertion, from gripping rifle stocks, from skinning game, from chopping wood in the dead of winter. His knuckles were perpetually split, healing just enough before the next fight, the next job, the next reason to curl his fists. Scars mapped his skin, uneven and jagged, old bullet wounds and knife cuts, hard edges, marks of a life spent fighting for something—for anything.

He wasn’t young anymore. He wasn’t some smooth-talking son of a bitch with a face that turned heads. He was always angry at something, thinking about something, readying his next step, even if it was a complete waste of his time.

But he was still formidable. He could protect. He could endure the rough-hewn demands of survival, even now. He could fight like hell. That had to count for something.

But Leela—she wasn’t staring, exactly. Wasn’t not staring, either. It was subtle. Barely there. A flicker of something implicit, something fleeting, the way her gaze traced along his arms, his shoulders, abdomen, the sharp cut of his collarbone before snapping away. As if she hadn’t meant to look, and she’d caught herself a second too late.

Joel had been around long enough to recognize when a woman was checking him out. And hell—he wasn’t gonna lie to himself. It made him feel good. Fucking fantastic, really. Like he could wake up tomorrow feeling twenty years younger. Like he could leap right out of bed and his back wouldn’t stiffen before noon. Like he still had something left in him worth looking at.

He wasn’t an idiot, though. He wasn't going to let it go to his head.

Leela adjusted Maya in her arms, moving her weight as if giving herself something to do, something to focus on that wasn’t him.

And Joel—he pretended not to notice. Didn’t say a damn word about it. Didn’t shift under her gaze, didn’t smirk at her, didn’t let her see that she’d gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t expected.

Just muttered a quiet, "Thanks," and left it at that.

Leela hummed in response, turning away to lay Maya down, who was already dozing her little head off, into the crib with practised care. Then, just as easily, she pivoted back to her bedside dresser, fingers moving over a stack of neatly folded quadrille paper.

"Can you pass something to Tommy for me?" she asked, voice soft, controlled. "It’s really important he gets this as soon as possible."

Joel might not have paid it much mind, might’ve brushed it off as just another errand he wasn’t keen on running—but then he saw it. The way her posture stiffened, the way her hands smoothed over the edges of the papers like they were something fragile, something vital. But whatever this was—it mattered.

She flipped through the pages, and for the first time since he’d met her, he saw something rare. Excitement. A flicker of life.

"It’s a wonderful breakthrough, Joel," she said, and there was a rare enough lightness in her voice, bordering on unguarded enthusiasm.

Joel just blinked. Leela wasn’t the type to get excited. Or maybe he's just never seen it in her before.

"So, I’ve been working on…" then she went into something technical for his dense mind, talking fast in words that blurred together. It all went miles over his head. Circuits, electrical theory, conduction points—half of it might as well have been a foreign language.

Joel just stared when she finished with a deep breath.

Leela instantly caught the look and pursed her lips. "Okay, um. Let me put it this way."

She shifted toward him, gesturing as she spoke, putting it into Layman's terms. "You know how the dam stops producing enough energy in winter? When the river freezes over?"

Joel gave a slow nod.

"So we rely on fuel, but fuel’s very limited. We've got the town expanding, and people coming in. So our batteries drain. If we had an alternative energy source, something reliable—" She held up the paper, tapping a rough sketch. "And that’s where this comes in."

Her hands moved as she spoke, cutting through the air with sharp, purposeful gestures. Not just passion, not just expertise. Conviction.

"Lightning is erratic, but it’s raw power. Joules of energy. Think about it. If we can direct a strike into a controlled medium—like a graphene capacitor—we can store it."

Joel narrowed his eyes, the concept clicking into his lagging brain. "So what, you think you can catch a goddamn thunderstorm and turn it into a battery?"

Leela wheezed a quiet laugh. "More or less."

He thought about it. "Seems like a hell of a thing to gamble on."

"It’s not a gamble. It’s math. Physics. It will work, Joel, I know it."

Joel didn’t argue. He didn’t understand it, not really, but he’d seen Leela work before. He trusted her genius. The nights she couldn't sleep—he’d sometimes blink awake to the sound of chalk scraping against a blackboard, catching sight of her standing there in the dim glow of the bulb, mapping something out with surgical precision. Or hunched over a notebook, scribbling feverishly, lost in calculations that only made sense to her.

It wasn’t just her passion—it was her outlet. A relief. A tether to something greater than herself, something she could control before she lost herself completely in the demands of motherhood. And if this was what she was holding onto, then perhaps it was more than just an idea.

She tucked the paper back into the stack, levelling him with a quiet look. "I also have a prototype," she said simply.

Joel raised a brow.

Leela nodded toward the hallway. "It’s in the basement if you want to see."

Joel wasn’t big on machines. Or gear. The finer technical details weren’t for him. But—he glanced at her, at the way she stood, weight shifting from foot to foot, something unreadable behind her eyes.

She wasn’t pushing him. She was waiting.

After a beat, he sighed, tilting his head toward the door. "Lead the way, ma'am."

The stairs were steep, the kind that creaked under their weight, but Joel kept a firm hold on Leela’s elbow, steadying her as they made their way down. She was still weak. Too breakable. As far as his knowledge went, she should've gotten better by now. And how the hell was she supposed to do that when she barely ate without cringing?

Joel had half a mind to tell her that, to point out how unsteady she was, how she winced when she put too much pressure on her feet—but she’d just brush him off with a shaky smile. So instead, he let out a quiet breath through his nose and adjusted his grip, keeping her close until they reached the bottom.

"There you go. Watch that last step," he guided as gently as he could.

She glanced up at him from the fringes of a smile, letting his hands go. "Thank you."

He expected damp walls, waterlogged corners, mould creeping up the corners, and a basement that smelled like rot and rust. As what he had been always used to when he went scouring towns nearby for supplies. What he got instead stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Well, I’ll be damned," he blew out.

It was a workshop. A big-ass one. Tools lined up on the magnetic walls, neatly arranged, half-finished projects sitting on a worktable, schematics pinned up in careful rows. More of Leela's notes and markers, taped-up designs. Funny how there was life only around all this machinery. Off to the side, an old wine cellar, the glass cases still intact, though the bottles inside were coated in dust.

And then—the cars.

Joel let out a low whistle. Two of them. Just sitting there like some abandoned luxury showroom. One was a Dodge Aspen, a classic in its own right. All violet and under repair. But the other...—his eyes caught the silver emblem glinting under the dim basement light. A prancing horse on the red steel.

"Come on," he muttered in disbelief, stepping forward, barely resisting the urge to run his hand over the hood. "Is that a… Maranello?"

Leela took a deep breath, still recovering from the stairs. "Yes. Custom-made and still brand-new. Not sure if there's any left out there anymore."

"Holy shit." His fingers flexed at his sides. He didn’t want to seem desperate, but fuck, when was the last time he’d seen something like this? Much less, been this close?

"Can I, uh…" He gestured indistinctly at the car.

Leela flashed him a small grin. "Knock yourself out. The door's unlocked."

He didn’t need to be told twice. Joel reached out, fingers brushing over cool, crimson steel before yanking the door open. The new car smell hit him right in the face—leather, polish, something untouched by time. His chest tensed at the familiarity of it.

He slid into the driver’s seat, running his hands over the wheel, the stitching around the stick shift, and the soft beige leather of the custom interior. And just for a second—he let himself imagine it. Top down. Gliding down the I-10, no speed limits, no patrols, just him and the open road, wind in his hair, sun on his face, Raybans on. That dream all felt like a lifetime ago.

A soft knock on the passenger side window startled him back to reality.

Leela’s face appeared through the glass, her lips quirked in amusement. "Should I leave you two alone?"

Joel huffed, turning slightly to mask the grin tugging at his mouth. She opened the door and drudged her way inside, moving slowly. The descent had taken more out of her than she was willing to admit.

When she shut the door, he immediately rolled down his window, straining his ears toward the stairs. The one time he wished his hearing wouldn't betray him. Had he locked the door upstairs? Could he hear Maya if she cried? What if he couldn’t? How come Leela didn't seem to think about this? God, this girl really had no clue.

Her voice broke into his thoughts. "I wish I knew how to drive it." She ran her hand absentmindedly over the dashboard, voice softer now, almost wistful. "I believe the last great invention of man was the automobile."

"You said it," he mumbled. "A damn beaut."

Joel glanced at her and did a little mental math. She must’ve been nine, maybe ten, when the outbreak hit. No middle school. No high school. No road trips, no late-night drives with her friends, music blasting. No first kiss. Just one world ending, and another one starting—a crueller one.

Leela exhaled, long and slow, sinking deeper into the leather seat like she could melt into it. Her fingers drummed idly on the handlebars, tracing invisible patterns, slipping into an old rhythm—one she didn’t even seem aware of.

Then, soft as a whisper, she started humming.

It was unhurried, quiet, like something she’d sung to herself a thousand times before. But it was enough to make Joel pause, something about the tune pulling at him. A half-buried memory, something from before. He knew that song. Hadn’t heard it in years, but it was still there, lodged somewhere deep in the creases of his mind.

"That’s—" He frowned, tilting his head, listening closer. "That Patsy Cline?"

Leela glanced up, surprise flickering across her face before something warmer took its place. "Walkin’ After Midnight. Yeah."

Joel hid a grin. "That is way before your time."

"So?" She smirked, tipping her head back against the seat, fingers still tapping, moving. "I had old parents. Rubbed off on me."

A layer beneath her words made Joel tread carefully. He, of all people, knew how age could sit heavy on a person, how some things weren’t worth prying open.

"Can’t have been that old," he muttered, though he wasn’t sure why he said it.

"My mom was seventy-eight when she passed. Dad, eighty-four."

Joel blinked. "W-o-w." The syllables came out slowly, one after the other, before he could stop himself.

Leela let out a quiet laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. She glanced down, her fingers still moving, trailing over the leather, the stitching, following some old path only she could see.

"I miss them every day," she said, voice softer now, more distant. "I’m grateful they singled me out of those photographs. Brought me here." She gestured vaguely to the house above her, her home, before exhaling, like she was letting something go. "I just hope I’m doing them proud."

Joel sensed that change, and he realized: too much sharing. It had to go both ways. And he was never going to be ready for that. So he did what he did best, avoided and threw her off the scent.

"Man," he said abruptly, with a cluck of his tongue, "if I had the keys and some fuel, I’d ride the hell outta this baby." The words came out before he could stop them. "And die a happy old man."

Leela laughed. A loud laugh, sounding much like her daughter just then, deep in her chest, like she hadn't done it in a long time.

"It’s got fuel," she said, still grinning. "You can still ride it."

"Just sitting here like it's nothing." He shook his head, a small laugh rolling out. "Christ. This is fantastic."

He glanced down at the stick shift, thumb absently tracing the edge of the gear knob, but something else caught his eye.

Her nightgown. Hitched up, ruffled around the tops of her thighs, loose fabric pooling where she sat. Bare skin. Soft, smooth, taut over lean bone—too much of it. The way she shifted, unthinking, rubbing one knee over the other, restless. He felt a rock dislodge in his throat.

Fuck. For all that he could be—a guardian, a protector—he had to be a man.

His fingers curled against his palm, an old instinct, something long-trained. Look away, don’t think about it. He turned back to the wheel, forcing his eyes forward. Dashboard. Windshield. Glove compartment. The thin layer of dust coating the steering column. Anything but the way one more inch of movement would have left too much for his mind to comprehend.

But the problem was—she hadn’t bothered to fix it. She didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t care. So why should he?

He swallowed, jaw flexing tight. Because that was the kind of man he was. Greying, frustrated, scarce on love.

His fingers twitched, itching for something to do, something to grab. Instead, he moved without thinking, across the partition—one finger. Just a light tug, barely a breath of a touch, dragging the hem of her gown down, covering her knees. A simple thing. A quiet thing. A mistake.

Her whole body jerked, a sharp intake of breath—like she’d been touched by fire. Really, Joel felt it more than he saw it. The way her muscles tensed, a shudder raced, the quick clutch of her fingers as she held the fabric in place now, suddenly conscious of it.

Shit.

He withdrew instantly, fingers curling into a fist on the steering wheel. Should’ve just minded his goddamn business. Stupid, stupid man.

For a second, the air between them felt too tight. Even with the windows rolled down and winter winds howling outside, he broke into a sweat.

"Didn't see it," she mumbled.

He just shook his head, a small, dismissive grunt, keeping his eyes straight ahead. And that was that.

But the silence that settled over them after wasn’t comfortable. Not one either of them knew how to break.

Joel exhaled through his nose, fixing his stare on the windshield., fingers tapping slowly against the wheel, like he could smooth out the moment just by waiting it out. Jesus, he should’ve never touched her. Should’ve let it be.

“So, that prototype of yours,” he attempted to distract, voice rough. “You got it nearby?”

No response.

He frowned, risked a glance at her—and stopped cold.

Leela sat stiff in the passenger seat, her posture folded in on itself. One slender hand curled at her side, gripping the hem of her nightgown tight until her knuckles went white, the other was pressed to her face, knuckles braced against her nose. Her eyes filled with tears in seconds.

A long, slow breath in, too shaky.

Joel’s stomach sank. He knew that sound. He had seen a lot of it in his time. Had seen grief in all its forms—loud, violent, shattering. But this—this was different. This was quiet, heavy, desperate.

Her shoulders hitched, her breath sucking in too sharp like she was holding something back—something about to give.

And then, just like that, as if a thread had been cut, she sucked in another sharp breath, her whole body curling forward, hands coming up to cover her face—and it hit.

That same soft, keening sound he’d heard from her room almost every night. The one that came through thin walls, muffled by pillows, engulfed by fatigue.

But this time, she wasn’t hiding.

And Joel—he didn’t know what to do. His hands flexed against the wheel, confused and useless.

She wasn’t supposed to be crying. Not because of his pathetic self. Whichever way he saw it, this was his fault. He’d crossed a line, broken through a wall he’d meant to keep standing, and now she was here—crying. Because he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

His mouth opened, and his throat worked, but nothing happened. Fuck. What the hell was he even supposed to say? Everything seemed inappropriate. There was no justification for what he'd done.

His fingers curled tighter, nails digging into his palm. He had to fix it. Before it got worse.

His voice came out too rough, uncertain. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Just go.”

It hit like a crack of thunder. A faint, clear command, strangled between a cry. His stomach twisted.

He hesitated for half a second, long enough to hear the way her breath hitched, how her fingers curled deeper into her hair, how she looked like she wanted to fold in on herself, disappear into the goddamn leather seat.

He swallowed, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He'd had seen women cry before. Ellie, Tess, hell even Maria. He’d occasionally held them while they did. But not this. Not her. And he hated—hated—that it was because of him.

His fingers flexed against his sides, fighting the instinct to reach out, to fix something he wasn’t sure could be fixed. But she’d made herself perfectly clear. To leave her alone.

So he did.

He wrenched the door open, barely registering the way it swung shut behind him. Didn’t look back, didn’t breathe until he was back up the stairs and out the door.

As he jogged down the porch stairs, the cold biting sharper now, cutting straight through the thick weave of his sweater, Joel tried to breathe. Snowflakes clung to the expensive fabric, melting fast, sinking in. He barely noticed. His inhales came long, exhales too short, not quite ragged, but uneven—like he couldn’t get enough air, like something in his chest was pressing down too hard, and no matter how deep he pulled, it wasn’t letting up.

It wasn’t panic. He knew what that felt like all too well.

This was different. A slow, creeping wrongness. A feeling that something had already slipped through his fingers, something he hadn’t even realized he was holding onto. And now it was gone, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to fix it.

He pressed a hand to his mouth, and wiped it down the scruff on his jaw, trying to steady himself, trying to shove it all back where it belonged. It wasn’t working.

His fingers curled into an aching fist. His breath fogged in the air in clouds.

He needed that fucking drink now.

The cold still lingered in the morning air, settling deep in Joel’s bones, but that wasn’t the only thing weighing him down. He hadn’t slept worth a damn. Tossed and turned all night, drifting in and out of restless half-dreams—images he didn’t want, memories he didn’t need. He woke up cold, despite the blankets, with a dull ache in his joints, and a scratch in his throat. Maybe from the weather. Maybe from something else.

Didn’t matter.

What mattered was getting out of that house. Getting up, getting moving. Keeping his hands busy, keeping his mind from straying where it wanted to go—back to last night, back to the way she had curled in on herself, hands to her face, shaking with something he couldn’t fix. He despised being around something unfixable. Made him feel incompetent.

He gripped the stack of papers tighter, the edges digging into his fingers as he stepped into the stables. Tommy was there, adjusting the saddle on one of the mares, humming some old tune under his breath. The familiar smell of hay, leather, and horse filled the space, grounding Joel in the moment. He clung to that.

“Tommy!” Joel called, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

Tommy glanced up, brow lifting in mild curiosity. “Mornin’, brother. No hard feelings from last night,” he said, giving the straps one last tug before stepping back. His gaze flickered to the papers in Joel’s hand. “What’s all this?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just extended them out. Tommy brushed his palms off before taking them, flipping through the pages absentmindedly—until he wasn’t. His fingers slowed, putting together the pieces, his brows knitting together, his mouth parting just slightly.

"What in the... I mean—I talked to her about this,” Tommy muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Told her we'd be having trouble. That was last week.” He let out a low breath, rubbing at his mouth as he stared at the pages like they had just appeared out of thin air. "She really did all this?"

Joel exhaled with a slight grin, feeling like someone had just handed him a gold star. An odd feeling—one he didn’t quite know what to do with. It wasn’t his place to feel this way, no right to. But still, pride curled as concrete in his ribs.

“She stayed up workin’ on ‘em,” Joel muttered, not quite looking at him.

Tommy let out a short whistle, shaking his head. “Christ. This little genius just saved our asses out of the red.” He waved the papers at him. “Takin' this straight to Maria.”

Joel rolled his shoulders, clearing his throat. “Not just yet. There's a page is missing.”

Tommy paused and frowned, flipping through again. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

Joel crossed his arms, tilting his head. “I’ll give it to you if you let me fix that nursery instead of that goddamn kid.”

Tommy looked up at that, blinking. Then, realization dawned, slow and amused. His mouth curved into a smirk.

“For real, Joel?”

Joel scoffed, shaking his head. “Can’t even fix shelves right.”

Tommy cocked a brow. “He's just doing his job.”

“Little shit damn near had it fallin’ apart the last time I was there,” he argued. “Look, do you want the page or not? I'll just feed it to the horse.”

Tommy let out a sharp laugh, tipping his head back slightly. “You really got a bone to pick with this poor guy, huh?”

Joel’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer. Just kept his arms crossed, eyes unwavering. He wasn't backing down just yet.

Tommy shook his head, flipping the last page with a chuckle. “Fine, fine. You can fix whatever you want.” Then, without missing a beat, he held out his hand. “Now gimme the damn page.”

Joel handed it over without another word. But the way Tommy was still looking at him—grinning like he had something to say but was letting Joel walk away with his dignity intact—had him turning on his heel before his brother could get the last word in.

[ wow you read this far! now, if you're still reading, I'd just like to know - what song crept into your mind, about Joel or Leela, as you read this chapter? For Joel, definitely: Pain and Misery by The Teskey Brothers and as for Leela, ooooh: Wasteland by Royal & the Serpent! what about you? ]

{ taglist 🫶: @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

And to those in the reblogs, I have no idea how to respond to your sweet, sweet, wondrous words, but after reading them all, I have the most fulfilling, full eight-hour sleep I've ever had in three whole months! I love all the effort you put into commenting, and sharing your thoughts, I know it doesn't seem big, but really, you've made such a difference in my life :) Thank you all so much, and I'd love to keep hearing more!!

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nmakii · 3 months ago

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i blinked and suddenly, i had a valentine!

— valentines with nagi and sae

folow @itoshiluvbot …. number one sae lover she on the floor rn while i type this…

nagi never liked valentines days. florists would be more pushy than usual, insisting that he should buy a rose for that someone special, and wouldn’t let him cross to school. so troublesome, honestly. not to mention how a bunch of girls would be slipping treats and love letters into reo’s locker. they’d always try to vy for his attention, specially on valentines, so now he doesn’t have anyone to hang out with!

well, no one else but you. on days such as valentines, you’d complain all day about how you had no one who loved you, it was a bit bothersome hearing the same thing every year. so this year, he decided to fix that.

he went out of his way to buy you a tiny box of chocolate— one of those expensive brands with different flavors that all really just taste the same. nagi knew that it was more or less a scam for boyfriends who want to buy their girlfriend something special, but nagi had a feeling you’d pout if it was one of those cheap brands chocolates from the convenience store.

right. you’d be the one who would be sad. it definitely just wasn’t nagi unable to show you that he does care for you, and him doing it by buying you the more luxurious options.

…anyway, he also bought you those bottled milk teas you love so much. the ones that he also likes to take sips out since it’s so tasty. one taste of it, and he’s always back to your favorite convenience store where the two of you would hang out. he’d play his video games while resting his head on your shoulder, and you’d write your essay while eating your cup noodles. it was all so simple, yet so perfect.

“nagi, pleaseeeee… be my valenhuzz…” you whined, sitting beside him on the staircase as he played his video games. “what does that even mean? the slang lately is so weird.” he sighed. “hmmm… you’re right, i miss skibidi toilet.” you shrugged, all before groaning to yourself. god, valentines was seriously hell on earth for single people.

nagi nodded, knowing the cause of your grief, and— …put his game down?! he lightly dropped his console to the side, letting his character get pummeled with bullets. he dug his hands into the holes of his absurdly large hoodie pocket, and pulled out a box of luxury chocolate and a bottle of milk tea.

“…for you” he mumbled, handing the gifts over to you. your heart swelled like the strings of a quartet at a genuine act of kindness from nagi seishiro, and you couldn’t help but wrap your arms around him.

“oof!” he grunted, caught more than off-guard by your side hug. “nagi! you’re so freakin’ sweet!” you squealed, your cuteness aggression kicking in. all you want to do is just take a bite out of nagi! “…it wasn’t too bothersome. i didn’t want you to be sad this valentines.” he muttered.

“ahah! so, you are my valenhuzz!” you snickered proudly, pumping your fist. “i— umm, sure... as long as we just spend today in my dorm.” he shrugged, exasperatedly shaking his head. you were awfully pushy when it came to the things you wanted, and it seems that today, that thing was him. it was too bothersome to fight you when you were like this, so it was easier to just agree with you.

“really—?!” you asked, you didn’t really expect him to agree! “…yeah, i’m not busy today, so i’ll be your valentine.” he hummed tiredly.

ah… you never thought this would’ve happened, but at least you aren’t forever alone anymore.

“come over.” was the only thing sae said in his text. as you went up to his apartment door, you felt nervous. this could’ve been a number of things. a booty call? a date? all of this on valentines no less. this was the first year he hadn’t asked you to be his valentine. even after 5– almost 6— years together, you could never read his mind, he just texts too ominously.

you knock on the door. and without a beat skipped, sae opens the door. he’s in an apron, looking like a househusband. hahah, how cute of him!

sae quickly moves to the side, making way for you to enter. “come in.” he hums, leading you in. inside, a display is before you. an actual candlelight dinner. a fried chicken cutlet served on the side of a cheesy pesto pasta. god, just looking at it made your mouth water.

“happy valentines, amorcita.” he whispers, his breath tickling your ear as he rests his jaw on your shoulder. he observes the shocked look on your face and scrunches his eyebrows. “why do you look so surprised? i do something like this every year, don’t i?” his head tilts.

you couldn’t really refute him— maybe your reason for thinking otherwise was a bit silly now. “i mean… yeah..! but, you didn’t ask me to be your valentines this year…” you pout, frowning like a child. sae scoffed, “you’re my valentines every year. why would it change this year?”

he raised an eyebrow, small creases forming at the edge of his lips as he tries to hide the smile on his lips. he uses his thumb to slide along the sharp edge of your jaw, admiring how the flames shone in the reflection of your eyes. “you’re being silly, amorcita. but if it makes you feel better…” he sighs, “will you be my valentine?” he asked.

you laughed at the seriousness of his tone. no matter the situation, he had a voice that made you want to listen attentively as if it’d be the last thing he says to you. you nodded softly,

“yes, i’ll be your valentine, sae.” you breathlessly sighed, humming your words as it reverberates back onto his lips in a soft, meaningful kiss.

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mimipolo · 4 months ago

Note

Hey I have a request

Some Nam-gyu x reader where he developed a crush and sneaks of to talk to you at random times even tho you vote opposite of him he can overlook that however when he’s with thanos he’s mean and insults you which shocks and upsets you will you forgive him?

Nam-gyu x reader

I had so much fun writing this ngl, I hope I did the idea justice <33

Sorry Se-mi it's for plot

You had met Nam-gyu and Thanos after the first vote. At the time you felt a small sense of determination that you could make it through the games, get a higher prize and pay off all your debts in one go.

They had praised you excitedly, Thanos slinging an arm around you and going on about how they'd both protect you. You had trusted them for the most part, yes they were both a bit sketchy but they had a prescence among the players so it'd be easier to follow them. You had mixed feelings about the duo, one was always hyper and loved to mess with you and the other had a serious staring problem and a stupid smirk.

At the moment it didn't matter how you felt about them, you needed to get out of here. And now. You had barely survived the last game, knees grazed from when you fell and quickly scrambled to your feet. You wince at the pain as you curl in on yourself and rub your thumb over your bloodied hands. You were desperate for a sense of comfort or solidarity which at the moment only you could provide for yourself.

You were startled to see a head of black hair come out of nowhere from the ladder to your bed, angled eyes meeting yours hazily. Nam-gyu, a rare visitor. You're still startled by his sudden appearance, clutching your chest slightly as your eyes widen in surprise.

"Nam-gyu? What are you-"

"I'm coming up."

You don't get the choice to protest against it, he's already hauling himself up to get on your bunk, sitting cross legged in front of you. For a moment you're genuinely confused to why he's here, your bunk was fairly high off the ground and from how he was earlier you didn't expect him to be capable of climbing. Guess he sobered up. He's sighing softly as he links his fingers together, gazing at you as if in deep thought.

"You're gonna vote "X" next right?" He lifts his head up to see your reaction, clenching his linked fingers when he sees your lips purse as you look away from him. That was enough of an answer.

You personally are terrified, you had never been particularly close with the man and you were tense as to why he decided to make the trek up to your bed to ask you such a question. What's he going to do? Is he angry? Noticing the small shift in your body language he stops spacing out and runs a hand over his face. This sucks, honestly. The small infatuation based of pure curiousity he had for you had developed into a genuine crush he couldn't shake off. You intrigued him to no end and he was just working up to talking to you more.

So why'd this have to happen?

He's not that upset you want to leave, as much as he preached about how everyone should "Play one more game!", He understood the main basis of wanting to leave was the simple passion to live. A passion that'd he'd lost touch with after he lost everything he had. But you were in a similar situation, yet despite that you always seemed slightly hopeful things would work in your favour, and when they didn't you kept a level head. A rationality he wished he also had. You were smart, attractive and worst of all reasonable. Which is why you wanted to leave.

He's still staring at you but you feel less creeped out, you feel more worried. The usual carefree demeanor he had seemed to be crumbling right before you, he almost looked more tense than you.

There was a reason why he had come here, he didn't want to ask in front of Thanos. With him he'd be obligated to maintain this facade of now hating your entire being, but that wasn't the case, in fact it was very far from it. He wanted you like nothing else, selfishly. He could only hope you read him openly from the small amount of vulnerability he'd give you, something you were good at.

"Choose "x", I don't really care."

"Oh."

You are honestly pleasantly surprised by his words, your anxiety lowering massively. With the tensity gone you could see he looked...worried for you? You weren't totally sure but he laughs bitterly, pulling his signature move of pushing his hair behind his ears.

"Just know that, I'll vote to stay. So I'll still be sticking with Thanos."

You looked at him confused, and honestly he was too. There was no need to share all this information with you but he couldn't help it, he wanted to be open with you, show you how he is when you could be alone together.

You jolt slightly when he lightly takes one of the hands you're holding onto and taking them in his own. Streaks of blood crumbling away when he rubbed it away with careful thumbs, you could only watch him silently, admiring his oddly considerate actions. Even if the tint of blood still stained your palms. What's with all this special treatment, did he like you or something?

Before you could question him about what had just happened between you two he's sighing deeply and rubbing his hands together, ready to climb off your bunk.

"I'll try look out for you when I can."

And with that he's gone, you're left to sit with your thoughts and overthink how sweet he was to you just now. He was never like that before. Before you realised it a small smile was on your lips as you savoured the cold, brief moment of his touch still on your hand.

Though the next moment left you quite confused, it was time to vote. Everyone was still conflicted but you had made your choice and had a silent comradery with Nam-gyu. It gave you the bit off confidence to press the "x" button, some cheered while others groaned as you quickly switched your blue patch for its opposing side.

You could hear the familiar deep voice of Thanos going "What the hell man, we agreed one more game??" the direct confrontation made you physically tense as you made your way to side of potential exit. Nam-gyu didn't say a word, didn't even look at you either. Strange, you thought but you mostly brushed it off.

What the hell [Name], we agreed to keep playing, ya just switching on us all of a sudden?"

Thanos' voice echoed in your ears as he had you cornered near your bunk, you glance to Nam-gyu for some sort of support, even if it was just telling his friend to relax but you were quickly disappointed.

"Tch, did you really expect them to stay, I saw 'em practically trembling after the last round."

You felt your heart aches at his words, your expression immediately dimming as you stared at him confused. But unluckily for you he had mastered his poker face to the last detail. If he felt any guilt for what he said you wouldn't know, it was all behind that senile smirk now.

"Kehaha, nah you're right. All those loud sounds scare ya already?"

"Poor thing."

Thanos pushes you back accusingly, forcing your back to meet the unforgiving metal bars of the bunks, just as suddenly he's in your personal space, grabbing the red velcro badge on your chest roughly as he shook you. His eyes dilated widely as he threatened you with crazed, wild eyes.

"You're lucky this is there's a revote, switch this "x" to an "o" or I'll never let you live it down, got it?"

He laughs when you stagger back when he lets you go, Nam-gyu joining in with own mocking chuckle, it hurt you in a way it wouldn't have before. What was all that about earlier then, was it just a lie? But why, he didn't get anything out of it.

And again you're left alone to deal with your own self destructive thoughts, you just wanted to leave this place, it felt like you were suffocating within its walls.

Things ended up more violent than he had expected, he's panting as he rips the fork from the man's neck for the last time. How he felt? Great. It was like some great awakening as he stumbled up to his feet. It's only then he takes the time to digest the fact Thanos is dead, what a sad way to go hm?But also equally as pathetic. He wanted to laugh but he wanted to shout in frustration too. He does neither, looking down at his unpredictable partner in crime now laying on the floor covered in grime and blood. It's when he starts to feel the growing ache in his chest that the guards finally barge in to stop the fighting, forcing them all out the crime scene.

You're on your bunk, cuddled up to yourself as usual when you spot him, bloodied and worn along with other men. Your heart sinks as you take in the situation, watching as they shouted and cursed impurities from both sides. You had switched sides of sleeping arrangements due to the votes, so now you were able to get a slightly lower bunk bed. He shouldn't know where you were and yet his eyes snapped to you, for a moment they crumble slightly, a sliver of the worry he had coming out just for a moment. And then he's walking off, not looking back once.

It's lights out and you were terrified, you had finally found out what had happened in the men's bathroom and you knew it could lead to nothing good. Everywhere you thought to hide felt dangerous and you had no one to rely on, no one to truly trust.

He's shaking, his hands trembling as he sits perched on Thanos' bed, in memory of the annoying guy. He's feeling conflicted, he couldn't tell if he had cared for him or not, all he knew the indifference he felt for others wasn't the same with colourful haired man. He pops two pills in his mouth, brushing his knuckles against his lips as if the action were sacred. Soon thoughts drifted back to you. How were you holding up? Did you have anyone there to protect you? A sick part of him hoped not, he wanted to be the only one to look out for you, the only one you'd think to turn to.

He feels amazing, never felt so resolute in the entirety of the games than when he killed. Hissing in satisfaction as he struck the deadly cutlery into Se-mi's neck for what felt the 100th time. Wiping the blood of his face with the back of his hand when he feels a prescence behind him. He doesn't bother taking back his weapon as he gets up from his crouched position to turn towards the figure.

It's you.

You look absolutely terrified, your upper body was uptight and you could've gotten away with looking less afraid if it wasn't for how your legs trembled ever so slightly. You're fighting with yourself and you finally will your body to run but he's quick, yanking you back by your arm and holding you against him possessively. His breathing is hard and his bloody hands are firm against your back.

Heavy breaths fill your ears as he looks at you with wide shaken eyes, he'd been looking for you, even on this killing spree.

"You asshole, what are you doing are you crazy??"

"Heh- huh, yeah I feel like it a little..." the small chuckle he lets out feels distant from his true feelings and he wished you'd tell him why he's like this.

"You lied, you said you'd look out for me, prick." You want your words to be firm but the fear of everything around you was still so intense, it shook your words and made your throat tight.

"I know, I know alright. I said when I 'can' Thanos would've made things worse for both of us if I said something..."

"But he's not here anymore... I'll watch out for you, for real this time, promise."

Even in his drugged state you could tell these were his thoughts the whole time, and his visit to your bed made slightly more sense, he just wanted you to know he didn't actually hate you. What a weird guy, why not just come out and say what the game plan was? You wanted to ask him all these things, shout and push at him until you got all your frustration out.

But you're drained, there's still the far away screams of new victims being made and you couldn't tell what was side was losing.

But he's shushing you quietly, when you weren't even crying, but now it triggered you to. Hot silent tears running down your face as he huddled you into a corner and made you sit against the wall behind a fallen mattress. Grabbing your face and pressing his forehead to yours as he whispered softly.

"Nothings happening to us, we're getting that stupid cash prize and leaving this shitty place."

And then he's off again, you don't know where, but you'll stay here quietly and hope for his quick return.

#squid game #squid game x reader #nam gyu #nam-gyu x reader #player 124 #nam gyu x reader #player 124 x reader #se mi squid game #thanos #thanos squid game

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briefinquiries · 2 months ago

Text

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 4

Tommy Shelby x Reader : Chapter 4

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you've seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby's) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: You finished the job with Tommy Shelby, stitched him up, walked away, just like you were supposed to. But nothing with the Shelbys ever truly ends, and as the silence settles in and a knowing smirk shows up on your doorstep, you realize you were never meant to leave unscathed.

Word count: 3.7k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, brief PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language.

A/N: Ahh, thank you all so much for reading this far! The comments and replies have been so sweet, and I honestly look forward to seeing them every time. You guys make this so much fun

Leaving was the right decision. Taking care of Tommy had never been anything other than a job– a temporary arrangement. A means to an end.

Still, it felt strange.

The next few days passed slower than you expected.

You kept yourself busy, finding small tasks to occupy your hands– tidying the house, sweeping the floor, reorganizing the shelves. But despite your efforts, the silence pressed in around you.

For the first time in almost two weeks, you had no reason to walk to the Shelby home. No reason to listen to Arthur’s teasing, or Polly’s sharp remarks, or Finn’s endless curiosity. No reason to step into that dimly lit room and check in on Tommy Shelby.

And yet, despite knowing all of that, you still caught yourself hesitating in the mornings, your routine thrown off by the absence of purpose. Your feet carried you toward the door before your mind could remind you that you had nowhere to go.

At night, when exhaustion settled into your bones, you expected sleep to come easier. But instead, you found yourself staring at the ceiling, your mind restless, and unwilling to settle.

Distancing yourself from the Shelby’s should have been a relief.

But it wasn’t.

The stillness of your house, the restless nights, the absence of purpose, it all wore on you in ways you hadn’t expected. You weren’t someone who longed for chaos, but the silence felt unnatural. It left too much room for your thoughts, too much space for memories you had spent years trying to bury.

You needed a distraction. By the fourth day, the walls of your home felt too close, the air too thick. You found yourself pacing, fingers twitching for something to do, something to focus on. The quiet wasn’t comforting, it was suffocating.

So, you grabbed your coat, stepped out onto the streets, and let the cold Birmingham air bite at your skin as you made your way into town.

You weaved through the streets, some of which were slowly becoming increasingly familiar, nodding politely at passing vendors as you went about gathering your groceries. You stopped at the butcher for some meat, the bakery for fresh bread, and a small market stall for vegetables.

The market was alive with movement, the scent of fresh bread and coal smoke mingling in the crisp morning air. You adjusted your basket in your arms, keeping your head down as you weaved between stalls, listening to the steady murmur of voices around you.

It was a normal morning. An ordinary errand.

"Miss." A voice called out just as you passed by the corner of the square.

You slowed slightly, glancing toward the source. A man stood just a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, his posture upright, refined. He was well-dressed but not flashy, his coat perfectly pressed, his hat tilted just so. His features were sharp, intelligent blue eyes, a clean-shaven face, an air of quiet authority that made it feel like he belonged anywhere he stood.

"Do you know the way to Victoria Street?" he asked, his voice smooth but clipped, like he was a man who expected clear, immediate answers.

You blinked, shifting your grip on your basket. "I– uh, no, I’m sorry. I don’t. I just moved here, don’t quite know where much of anything is."

His expression didn’t change. "Ah. Gotta be London then?"

You gave him a questioning look, causing a smile to spread across his face. “It’s the accent.”

His smirk was brief, but there was something calculating beneath it, something measured.

You shifted your weight slightly. “So you're new to the area too, then?”

“Just visiting,” he said smoothly. “I’m here on business.”

“Oh.” You nodded, glancing toward the crowd. “What kind of business are you in?” you asked, just politely making conversation.

At that, the man tilted his head slightly, studying you. Then, after a beat, he offered you a cordial smile, the kind that was meant to disarm, not reveal.

“Enjoy your day, miss,” he said, his tone light.

Before you could say anything else, he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, took a small step back, and walked away.

You watched him go, replaying the way he so blatantly ignored your question. You exhaled, shifting your basket in your grip as you turned away, blending back into the crowd.

What the hell was going on in Birmingham?

There was always an undercurrent of something beneath the surface here– conversations that stopped the moment you entered a room, lingering glances exchanged between men in dark coats, a tension that hung in the air thick as coal dust. You had known this city had its secrets when you arrived, but you were starting to realize just how deep they ran.

First, the Shelbys. Now this stranger in the market, perfectly polite, but deliberately vague. The whole thing left you feeling unsettled as you made the trek back home.

By the time you reached your house, the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting deep shadows along the narrow streets. You shrugged off your coat, setting your basket on the counter before beginning the familiar routine of putting everything away.

The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old floorboards as you moved.

You reached for a pot, setting it on the stove, preparing to make something simple for dinner when a loud knock echoed through the house.

You froze.

The sound was sharp, deliberate. Not the hesitant knock of a lost traveler or a neighbor in need.

Your heart thumped against your ribs.

Slowly, you turned toward the door.

You hesitated, your hand tightening slightly around the wooden spoon you had just picked up. The knock came again, firm and insistent. Whoever it was, they weren’t planning on leaving.

You exhaled slowly, steeling yourself as you stepped toward the door.

With careful fingers, you undid the latch and pulled it open just enough to see who stood on the other side.

Thomas Shelby.

The dim glow of the streetlamps cast shadows over his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw, the hollows beneath his eyes. He stood casually, cigarette balanced between his fingers, but there was something deliberate about the way he held himself, the way his eyes locked onto yours.

"Were you planning to hit me with that?" Tommy asked, nodding toward the wooden spoon still clutched in your hand.

You blinked, glancing down as if you’d forgotten you were holding it.

"Depends," you muttered, letting it fall to your side.

Tommy smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Are you going to invite me inside?"

You exhaled, glancing past him to the darkened street before stepping aside.

Tommy smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching as he ducked his head and stepped over the threshold.

You closed the door behind him, tightening your grip around the spoon for just a moment before setting it down on the counter.

"You’re moving well,” you observed, watching his gate.

He smirked. “Yeah, well. I had a good nurse.”

You arched a brow, crossing your arms. "A nurse who told you to keep the sling on for another few days."

Tommy exhaled smoke, his smirk not faltering. "Did you, now?"

You rolled your eyes, stepping past him and gathering the items you had pulled for dinner. Tommy watched you as you busied yourself, but he made no move to sit, no comment on your irritation. Instead, he placed his hands on his hips and took a couple steps around the kitchen.

“Nice place,” Tommy said in a tone that made it hard to tell if he was mocking you or not. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, eyes flickering briefly over the modest space before settling back on you.

You sighed, not in the mood for his banter. “What’re you doing here, Mr. Shelby?"

Tommy exhaled, tapping ash into the tray near the door. "You haven’t come by the house.”

You arched a brow, pausing in your movements. “You mean to check on you?”

Tommy tilted his head slightly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

You huffed, shaking your head as you returned to your task. “Well, you don’t need checking on anymore. You’re on the mend, officially off bed rest.”

Tommy didn’t respond right away. He just watched you, unreadable as ever.

“You didn’t say goodbye,” he finally said.

That made you stop.

Your fingers tightened briefly around the knife in your hand before you forced yourself to keep chopping, to keep your expression even. "Didn’t think it was necessary," you said carefully.

His lips twitched, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. "That so?"

You watched him for a moment, studying the way he carried himself. His bruises had faded, his movements more fluid. But there was still a sharpness to him, a weight behind his eyes that had nothing to do with his injuries.

"You didn’t come all this way because you’re upset I didn’t say goodbye," you said finally, tilting your head. “So why are you really here?”

Tommy exhaled, letting silence stretch between you before flicking his cigarette into the tray. "I came to offer you a job."

You paused, glancing back at him. "A job?"

He nodded once. "Yes. Working for me."

Your brows lifted slightly. "You’ll have to be more specific than that, Mr. Shelby."

His smirk deepened.

His smirk lingered as he took out a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers. "I want you at the Garrison. Behind the bar."

Your brows lifted slightly. "You want me to be a barmaid?"

"Something like that," he said easily.

You exhaled, shaking your head. "You’ve got plenty of people who can pour whiskey. Why me?"

Tommy held your gaze, unreadable as ever. "Because you listen. You hear things. And you don’t scare easy."

And just like that, you understood.

"You want me to spy for you."

"I want you to keep your ears open. That’s all." Tommy took a slow drag from his cigarette before adding, “Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone around who can stitch up my men every once in a while.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, studying him. "What is it you actually do, Mr. Shelby?"

Tommy exhaled, tapping ash into the tray beside him. His gaze was steady, unwavering as he answered. “I thought you already knew. I’m a businessman.”

You let out a soft scoff, tilting your head. “A businessman who needs a barmaid to double as a medic and spy?”

Tommy smirked faintly, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. “It’s a complicated business.”

You studied him, arms still crossed, weighing the offer. Weighing him.

But then Tommy added, “Course, I’d pay you well.” His voice was casual, but his eyes stayed sharp, watching for your reaction. “More than any clinic or hospital around here would offer.”

That made you pause. Money had never been your driving force, but it was a necessity. It meant stability. It meant options.

Tommy saw the hesitation flicker across your face, and he seized on it. “Let me know what you decide.” His voice was smooth, even, but there was a weight behind it, an expectation.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. He was giving you a way in. A place in whatever world the Shelbys operated in.

“I’ll think about it,” you said finally, keeping your voice even.

Tommy smirked like he already knew what your answer would be. “See that you do.”

He pushed off the counter, rolling his shoulders slightly before heading toward the door. His steps were slow, unhurried. He wasn’t in a rush, he never was. Everything Thomas Shelby did was at his own pace.

With his hand on the doorknob, he glanced back at you, cigarette dangling between his fingers. “Be seeing you.”

And then he was gone.

You stood there for a long moment, listening to the distant sound of his boots fading into the night.

…

You spent the rest of the night pacing around the small space of your kitchen, arms crossed, mind tangled with the choice Tommy had presented you.

You didn’t want to be tangled up in whatever business the Shelbys ran. You didn’t want to know about their deals, their enemies, their violence. And yet, you had already stepped too close, hadn’t you? Stitched Tommy Shelby back together, watched his brothers joke and argue, shared glances with Polly that spoke of understanding more than words ever could.

They were dangerous, yes. But they were more than that.

And the money. More than any clinic or hospital would offer.

You weren’t naive enough to think that wouldn’t come with risks, but money meant security. It meant not having to scrape by, not having to take odd jobs where no one asked questions just to get by. It meant having a place to stand in a city that still felt like it wasn’t yours.

Your fingers brushed the worn strap of your medical bag as you stood frozen in indecision.

If you weren’t going to take the job, why were you still thinking about it?

The thought gnawed at you, stubborn, unrelenting. You weren’t the type to get caught up in curiosity, but something about Tommy Shelby’s offer wouldn’t let you shake it. You told yourself it was just practicality– good pay, familiar work, nothing more.

But as the night stretched on, as the candle burned lower, you knew the truth.

It wasn’t just practicality. And it wasn’t just curiosity.

Something about the offer felt inevitable.

…

The next evening, the streets of Birmingham were slick with rain, the air thick with smoke and coal dust. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, the chill settling deep in your bones as you wound through the maze of alleyways and brick buildings, replaying Tommy’s directions in your mind.

Just off Watery Lane.

You’d never been to the Garrison before, only heard the brothers mention it in passing. But now, as you stood before it, you understood why it was such a staple in Birmingham. The place had a presence.

A warm glow bled out onto the street from inside, the muffled sounds of laughter, conversation, and the occasional scrape of a chair against wood drifting through the thick walls. The sign above the door was worn but unmistakable: The Garrison Tavern.

You inhaled, steadying yourself, before stepping inside.

The scent of whiskey and smoke wrapped around you instantly, mingling with the low hum of conversation. The air was heavy, thick with the warmth of bodies and the remnants of a long night’s drinking. A few men near the bar cast glances your way.

A sharp whistle cut through the haze of noise, drawing unwanted attention your way.

You tensed instinctively, gripping the edges of your coat a little tighter. The last thing you wanted was to be noticed. Still, as you stepped deeper into the pub, the weight of a few lingering stares burned at your back.

Shaking it off, you made your way toward the bar, weaving between groups of men hunched over their drinks. The bartender, a burly man with sleeves rolled to his elbows, was drying a glass when you approached. He barely glanced up before giving a short, knowing chuckle.

"I'm looking for Mr. Shelby," you said, keeping your voice steady.

The bartender snorted, setting the glass down with a dull thud. "You and everyone else, love."

Before you could respond, a presence loomed too close at your side.

"Now, what’s a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?"

The voice was thick with drink, slurred but smug. You turned slightly, just enough to see the man beside you– broad-shouldered, red-faced, his grin lazy and lopsided. He reeked of whiskey.

You forced a polite, unimpressed expression, but didn’t entertain him with a response.

The man chuckled, swaying slightly as he leaned in. "Come on now, no need to be shy." He gestured vaguely toward a table in the back. "Why don’t you let me buy you a drink instead? We can have a little chat."

You took a step back, your grip tightening around your coat. "I’m not interested."

But he didn’t take the hint. Instead, he smirked, glancing over his shoulder at his mates, as if this were some kind of joke. "Ah, don’t be like that. You looking for work? I’ve got a few ideas–"

“Oy,” the bartender said, waving his dishrag towards the man. “Piss off mate, give the lady some space.”

The man scowled, rolling his shoulders as he turned toward the bartender. "Oh, come off it. Just having a bit of fun. Ain’t we, darlin’," His words slurred slightly, his breath thick with whiskey.

The bartender leaned on the counter, unimpressed. "She said she ain’t interested. That means you move along."

The man scoffed, shaking his head. "Bloody hell, since when does a barman tell me what to do?" His voice was louder now, enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables. "You runnin’ this place, or playing bodyguard for every stray that walks in?"

The bartender straightened, his jaw tightening. "Since I don’t fancy cleaning up another mess when someone puts you on your arse for running your mouth."

A few chuckles echoed from the other patrons, but the man wasn’t laughing anymore. His grip tightened around his pint, his face twisting into something uglier. For a second, you thought he might throw the glass, his weight shifted, his elbow lifted just slightly.

But then– everything stopped.

The air in the room changed, sharp and immediate, like a wire pulled taut.

The man beside you froze, his back going rigid as his gaze drifted towards something behind you. Slowly, you turned to find Tommy Shelby standing just a few feet away.

He wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t moving.

He didn’t have to.

He stood in the middle of the pub, cigarette balanced between his fingers, the faint curl of smoke rising past his unreadable expression. His coat draped over his shoulders, his stance loose but deliberate. His blue eyes flicked once over the scene before him.

That was all it took.

The man beside you swallowed thickly, his fingers flexing like he was considering whether or not he could simply disappear into the floorboards. His bravado drained from his face like someone had poured a bucket of cold water over him.

A tense silence stretched.

Then, with stiff, jerking movements, the man stepped back, muttering something under his breath as he turned sharply, shoving past a few patrons in his haste to get out of the pub.

The bartender let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he reached for another glass.

You, however, turned your gaze back toward Tommy.

He was watching you. Still silent, still unreadable.

His presence alone had ended the whole thing in an instant.

Something in your chest tightened, but you exhaled slowly, shaking off the moment. Then, his gaze shifted past you, toward the back room.

Without a word, he tilted his head slightly, an unspoken invitation.

And then he turned, walking away.

Not asking if you’d follow. Just expecting you to.

You hesitated for only a second before stepping after him, leaving the warmth and noise of the main pub behind as the door swung shut behind you, muting the sounds of the pub.

The air in the back room was different– quieter, heavier, thick with the scent of whiskey and smoke. A single lamp flickered on the wooden table, casting shadows along the walls.

Tommy stepped further inside, shrugging off his coat and draping it over the back of a chair. He moved with that same deliberate ease, like everything he did was planned three steps ahead. You wondered if he had known you’d follow him before you had.

He poured himself a drink, not looking at you as he did.

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself. “I thought about your offer.”

Tommy glanced at you over his glass, his expression unreadable.

“And?” he prompted.

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of your own words settle in your chest. Once you spoke, there was no going back.

You squared your shoulders, holding his gaze. “I’ll do it.”

The words settled between you like a stone dropping into still water. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, your pulse steady but deliberate. You had made your choice. Now, you just had to live with it.

Tommy set his drink down, tilting his head slightly, studying you in that way that made your skin prickle. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket before lighting a match to one. Then, after inhaling sharply, he asked, “Why?”

You blinked, thrown off by the question. You had expected him to smirk, to make some offhand comment about you coming to your senses. But not this.

“You’re the one who offered.”

“I did,” he agreed, smoke curling through the air. “But I want to know why you’re saying yes.”

You hesitated, suddenly aware of how heavy his gaze was on you, how it felt like he was peeling back the layers of your answer, looking for the truth underneath.

You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly at your sides. “Does it matter?”

Tommy exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching you through the haze. “It does to me.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “I need the money.”

Tommy hummed, his expression unreadable. “You could find money elsewhere.”

You swallowed, shifting your weight. “Not like this.”

He took another slow drag from his cigarette, considering your words. “And what makes this different?”

You hesitated, feeling like you were standing on the edge of something. “Because it’s steady,” you said finally. “Because you said it’s more than I’d make in any hospital or clinic. And because–” You stopped yourself before you could say too much.

Tommy arched a brow. “Because?”

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. “Because I want something different.”

That part was true. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was enough.

Tommy studied you for a long moment, then nodded, tapping his cigarette against the edge of the glass tray. “Alright.”

That was it. No more questions, no prodding. Somehow, that unsettled you more.

Tommy took another slow drag from his cigarette before exhaling, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

“You start tomorrow,” he said simply.

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#peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine

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undressrehearsal · 5 months ago

Text

a bite of luxury

part 1

summary: you decide to look for a sugar mommy and stumble across this strange girl that seems to have more to hide

tags: sugarmommy!ellie, rich!ellie, vampire!ellie (yep, we got it all) alcohol, reader is poor lmao, reader uses she/her and is referred to as a girl once or twice, no smut in this one sorry gotta establish the world first

word count: ~8k

a/n: it's been so long since i posted a fic lol working full time and trying to finish my book is killing my schedule BUT i hope y'all like this this was my fiancee's idea and i'm running with it i got a LOT of plans for this one - plans i think y'all are gonna love

also the drawing in the cover is made by @nramv seriously go check out their work they're so talented!!

if you wanna be added to my tag list just lmk!

part 2

You hadn’t been searching for a sugar mommy.

Truthfully, when your best friend had sent you the link, you had dismissed it immediately. She had been joking about it for months, talking about how much easier it would be if you just found a nice older woman to take care of you. You hadn’t even opened the link - you only rolled your eyes, replied with a middle finger emoji, and left it at that.

And yet things kept piling up. The stack of bills on your kitchen counter was growing to a concerning height, a mountain of unanswered responsibilities that was getting harder to ignore. Your landlord kept calling you - you no longer answered, just watched the phone ring until it finally stopped and ignored the increasingly angrier voicemails. Your apartment was an absolute disaster; you could never be bothered to clean it, because by the time you got home from working both of your jobs, you only had enough energy to eat a bowl of leftovers and promptly pass out in bed.

The link kept popping up in your mind, each bill in your mailbox a gentle reminder. You found yourself scrolling all the way up the text chain to find it again during sleepless nights. So many times you would only stare at it, your thumb hovering over the blue letters, before you closed the chat and threw your phone down.

It was stupid, of course. But as time went on, the idea of letting yourself get buried alive under a mountain of debt - of getting evicted from your apartment and having to crash on your friend’s couch - seemed all the more stupid.

So, late on a Thursday night, after you had had another anxiety attack staring down at your bank account, you went back up the text chain, and you clicked the link.

www.seeking.com

It didn't take long for the messages to start coming in. You should have been flattered, honestly - you had at least a handful of people in your messages practically begging you for the honor of paying your fucking rent - but you really just felt like you were playing a part that you hadn't even read the script for. You had curated your profile with all the things that made you appear more cultured than you actually were: going to museums and pondering over Baroque art and reading poetry over a pretentious cup of coffee. Sure, these were all things you had done - you had photo proof, after all - but somehow you didn't recognize yourself. It felt like you were looking at pictures of a stranger living a life you wanted but couldn't reach.

Most people were fine - charming, even. You got maybe one or two that felt like they would lure you into their sex dungeon to murder you, but that was expected with any dating site. You even went on a few dates, scrounging up the nicest dress you owned and getting pampered at a five-star restaurant or going for a ride on an older woman’s personal yacht. One person even took you for a helicopter ride, which was fun but she was a little too handsy on the first date to warrant a second.

One name kept popping up though, a name that was becoming far too familiar in your notifications.

ellie: meet me at 8 <3

When she first messaged you, you had thought she was like you: somebody searching for a partner to pay their bills. Her pictures didn't exactly scream sugar mommy material. Her first picture was just a normal selfie taken outside; she wore a worn out leather jacket, her short hair tangled from the wind and green eyes squinting in the sunlight. She had stupid pictures of mushrooms and candid shots of her browsing a science museum, looking far too excited in front of a t-rex skeleton. Hell, in most of her pictures she looked like she was wearing clothes she had found at a thrift store.

You had thought she was like you, until she sent you a picture inside her fucking Rolls-Royce.

“Fuck,” you audibly cursed into the quiet of your room. You had been talking for a few days, and she had begun to do that - sending you small selfies throughout the day. In the last one, she had taken a picture in front of the mirror at the gym, flicking off the camera, her lean muscles glistening with sweat. Before that, it had been a blurry picture of her dog, Riley - a huge German Shephard - splayed on her back at a park, leaves stuck in her fur.

So, yeah, when you found out Ellie was not only rich, but rich enough to casually have a Royce, you were more than a little surprised.

The selfie was cute, you couldn’t deny that. Her hair was wind-swept, catching in those long ass eyelashes. Ellie’s nose was scrunched up, freckles popping against her cheeks, holding up a peace sign.

She was fucking adorable and you already knew it. But seeing her worn out leather jacket and messy hair against black and white leather seats that looked like they, alone, cost more than your entire apartment complex combined - it was a little jarring.

And when she asked you out on a date soon after - after finding out she wasn’t Iike you but rather searching for someone like you - how could you say no?

Ellie offered to pick you up - like a gentleman, she had said - but frankly, you weren’t quite convinced yet that she wasn’t some blood-thirsty pervert trying to lure you into her dungeon, so you politely declined. Instead, in your nicest dress and heels you hardly wore because they pinched your toes, you called an Uber.

You had never been to this side of town. You had plugged in the address Ellie gave you - had double and triple checked it while your awkwardly chatty Uber driver tried asking you about what you do for a living - but the streets here were so unfamiliar you may as well have been in another city. You looked at the foreign buildings rising up around you, large windows giving you a glimpse of the life inside them. People were sitting outside in the chilly air, laughing over wine and dinner. Looking at them - with perfectly sculpted hair and clothes you would have to spend several entire paychecks on - you felt like a cheap impersonator dressed up in a costume.

The Uber pulled up in front of a hotel, and your heart stopped. Surely, this wasn’t where Ellie had sent you - leading you to some fucking hotel room when you hadn’t even met yet?

You turned to the driver, your home address at the edge of your tongue, when the car door opened.

You had practically been leaning against the door to peer out the window, and nearly lost your balance when it was suddenly gone without warning. You looked up, ready to yell at whatever pretentious prick in Prada was trying to fuck with you - but your voice died in your throat.

Ellie was shorter than you thought she'd be, honestly. In all her pictures, she had this commanding energy, like she would tower over you in person.

Which, to be fair, she was. She had her arm propped on the doorframe above your head, leaning over so she could meet your eyes. Her hair was pushed back from her face, a few stray strands falling over her forehead, and she was looking at you with an intensity that hadn't quite translated through her pictures.

Ellie smiled - that adorably crooked smile you had seen in all her selfies - and said, “Hi.”

And the only word you were able to get your mouth to form was, “Fuck.”

Ellie blinked at you for a moment - long enough that you could feel the flush creeping up your neck and were ready to walk home if you had to - before she finally laughed. That wasn’t like what you had expected either; she had this deep, rough laugh, almost like she was trying to hold it in.

She looked up at you through her lashes - you tried to ignore the way your heart inexplicably skipped - and said, “I’ll take that as a compliment?” Her voice tilted up at the end like it was a question. Ellie ducked her head down further, looking past you to meet the driver’s eyes, and pulled cash from her back pocket. With her most charming smile, she handed it to the driver and said, “Thanks for getting her here safe.”

You didn’t see how much money she gave him, but after she took your hand and guided you out of the car, you turned back just in time to see his grin before he sped off.

“Thanks for coming out.” You looked back at Ellie and found yourself speechless once again. (You, thankfully, were able to hold in the expletive this time.) The worn out jacket that had featured in just about all of her pictures was missing, replaced instead by a pristine, white satin shirt, the top few buttons undone to expose a sliver of collarbone and a gold chain beneath. Despite the chill in the air, she had a classy black jacket hanging from her arm as though it were an accessory. Ellie smiled and looked down, licking her lips before saying, “You’re quite the sight for sore eyes.”

You tried to smile at her but found that your eyes kept flitting behind her, looking at the looming monstrosity of the hotel. It was a nice hotel - the kind that had a huge fountain right in front of it and a chandelier in the lobby that sparkled through the window - but it was a hotel nonetheless. Despite the set in your jaw, traitorous tears stung the corners of your eyes; you wanted to kick yourself for actually thinking that Ellie might be different.

Ellie followed your gaze over her shoulder, her smile dropping, before she quickly turned back to you with panic in her eyes. She stumbled over her words as though her tongue weren’t cooperating: “Shit, I’m sorry, this looks really bad doesn't it?” She grimaced and squeezed your hand she was still holding, scratching awkwardly at the back of her head with the other. “Fuck, this isn’t the first impression I wanted. I could promise it's not what it looks like, but maybe it'd be better if I just showed you?”

You honestly did think about telling her to fuck off. She was a complete fucking stranger that you only really knew from a dating app, and she was trying to lure you into a hotel in a part of town you were unfamiliar with - really, only an idiot would follow her.

But she was looking at you with wide green eyes, the lights around you shining back like stars. While searching for the constellations, you found yourself saying, “Okay.” You blinked, pulled from a trance, and added, “But you should know, I do have a taser in my bag.”

That pulled a shocked laugh from Ellie’s lips. She gently tugged on your hand, pulling you towards the door, and said, “Smart girl.”

You knew that the hotel was outside of your price range because a perfectly groomed doorman opened the door for you, waving you inside with a gloved hand. You didn’t take much time to process the interior - the chandelier was just as grand as it had seemed from outside and elaborate columns rose to the ceiling - because Elllie was pulling you towards the elevators. It was like she wanted to ignore the fact that she had brought you to a hotel at all. You couldn’t decide if that was reassuring.

In the empty elevator, you gently drew your hand back and leaned against the wall opposite her. You tried to ignore looking at the way her pinstripe slacks hugged the curves of her thighs, the fabric straining when she propped one booted foot on the wall behind her.

“So,” you started in a desperate attempt to fill the awkward silence, “if you’re not leading me into a seedy hotel room on the first date, then what are we doing?”

“Okay, one,” Ellie said, chuckling, “this is anything but a seedy hotel. And two, what kind of a date would it be if I ruined the surprise?”

“And what if I don’t like surprises?” you countered.

Ellie grinned. “I think you’ll like this one.”

When the elevator doors opened, Ellie held her hand out to you as though it were a question. You hesitated for only a moment before placing your hand back in hers and letting her lead you out into open air.

You nearly choked on a gasp.

The bar itself was beautiful - fairy lights stretched above your head, twinkling like stars and casting the rooftop in a warm glow. Wooden tables and plush couches were spread artfully around the space, far enough apart to provide the patrons scattered about with some privacy.

The bar was beautiful - but the view was fucking breathtaking.

The city stretched out beyond the railings, open in a way you had never seen before. The skyline rose around you, each building shining like its own little galaxy amidst a sea of stars. The city lights blocked out the actual stars - a fact that never failed to piss you off - but you could see the crescent of the moon rising over the city, casting a quiet glow like a veil.

You looked back at Ellie, and whatever your face held made her grin. She leaned in just enough so that her murmur was for your ears only: “So, was I right?”

You blinked, momentarily distracted by her proximity - she smelled intoxicating, spicy and warm with a hint of tobacco beneath - before you finally said, “What?”

Ellie snorted, breaking whatever spell she had put you under. “The surprise,” she said, leaning away enough for your head to clear. “Was I right?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, pursing your lips as though you had to think about it. You couldn’t take your eyes away from the skyline stretched before you.

You finally said, “That depends on how good the drinks are.”

When Ellie laughed, her eyes crinkled in the corners, her nose scrunching. It was a full, rich sound, hanging in the air above your head like helium. It made something in your chest tighten, and you wanted nothing more than to hear it again.

She squeezed your hand, a twinkle in her eye, and said, “The old-fashioned's to die for.”

You pursed your lips again to hide your smile.

Ellie didn’t bother checking in with the host, simply shot her a smile and a wave as you walked by - you tried to bite back a giggle when you saw the host’s face turn red, her eyes tracking Ellie as she led you to a table right along the edge of the railing. She pulled the chair out for you - “Such a gentleman,” you laughed - before taking the seat opposite you.

As she waved over a waiter, you took a moment to lean your head over the railing. It was made entirely of glass, giving you a clear view of the city below. You could hear the distant sound of traffic, cars racing below you like shiny beetles, but it was like it was coming from a different world altogether. Everything seemed impossibly, wonderfully small from up here.

You looked up at the sound of your name to find a groomed waiter wearing a fucking waistcoat standing before you. Ellie was looking at you with laughter in her eyes, her lips twitching.

“Shit, sorry,” you said, immediately flinching at your own curse. You suddenly couldn’t remember the proper etiquette in a fancy bar, feeling out of place and underdressed even in your nicest outfit. You looked between Ellie and the waiter, wracking your brain for any kind of drink that wasn’t a trashy cocktail you’d find at a dive bar.

Seeing you floundering, Ellie gave you a reassuring smile and said, “Do you like wine?”

Relief washed over you as you nodded. Turning back to the waiter, Ellie ordered something that you couldn’t even hope to pronounce, charm lifting the corner of her mouth. She spoke to the waiter with the steady ease of familiarity, laughing at some inside joke; you briefly wondered just how often Ellie came to this bar. Surely, a nice place like this - at the very precipice of the world, looking down at the stars - wouldn’t be a regular stop on anyone’s schedule, but Ellie and the staff spoke like old friends.

When the waiter left, tussling Ellie’s hair playfully, she turned back to you and the awkwardness of a first date finally set in. Sure, you had been texting Ellie every day for a week now, but you still hardly knew the girl. You knew she liked mushrooms and hiking. You knew that most of her clothes were from the thrift store even though she could afford any designer brand she wanted. You knew her favorite video game was Dishonored. But nothing you knew was enough for a relationship.

But you weren't exactly looking for love, were you?

After a moment of silence, Ellie cleared her throat, looking out over the city. “It's nice out here.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself, covering your mouth; it didn't cover the laughter in your eyes. You said, “You're really talking to me about the weather?”

Ellie opened her mouth, an indignant sparkle to her eye, before shutting it again. It was like she was malfunctioning, opening and closing her mouth yet no sound came out. She furrowed her brows, looking at you as though you were something new and interesting, before finally chuckling, looking away. “Yeah, I-I guess I am.” When she looked back up at you, her eyes were surprisingly sheepish. “Not making a great first impression, am I?”

You couldn't stop the smile that crept up to your eyes. You leaned closer, propping your chin in your hand, and said, “I think you're doing okay so far.”

Ellie laughed that wondrous laugh again, her nose scrunching up, and the cord in your shoulders loosened.

“Okay,” she sighed, her eyes still alight with residual laughter. “Okay, damn. Tell me about yourself.”

“Well now this just sounds like a job interview.”

Ellie threw her hands up in mock frustration, trying to stifle her own grin. “Okay, fuck, knock me down again! You're obviously an expert, so show me how it's done.”

She leaned back and crossed her arms, looking at you expectantly, and it was the perfect moment for your drinks to arrive. Ellie did, in fact, order an old-fashioned. The waiter set two wine glasses on the table, producing a bottle seemingly from thin air. He held it out, explaining to you in rehearsed prose the year, acidity, and complexity in words that passed straight through you. You nodded along even as you didn't process a single word he said.

When he left, you turned back to Ellie and said, “How did you find this place?”

Ellie took a sip of her drink. The lights of the city danced in the amber glass. “Just an old haunt of mine, I guess.”

You took a sip of the wine, taking the distraction. It was warm on your tongue, tasting of wood and fruit and something spicy just underneath. The wine you usually drank was the stuff you could find in your nearest grocery store, often tasting concerningly like bug spray and bought with whatever tips you had managed to scrape together from work. It was usually shared with a friend on your kitchen floor, the walls and thoughts spinning over your head.

You much preferred wine like this: The taste of warmth and fire on your tongue, the cool air brushing your shoulders at the edge of the sky, and a beautiful person sitting across from you.

When Ellie lowered her glass, you could see amber droplets of whiskey clinging to her lips before her tongue darted out to catch them. You tore your eyes away, but her smile said that she had caught you staring. A chill ran up your spine that you were sure was just from the cold.

Seeing you shiver, Ellie wordless reached behind her where she had tossed her jacket over the back of her chair. Standing, she rounded the table only for a moment, only long enough to place the coat over your shoulders. Her hands lingered there for a second too long before she retreated, sliding back into her seat as though she had never moved.

“So, why are you here?” she finally said.

You pulled the jacket around your shoulders, distracted by the smell of it. The same smell that must be her perfume clung to it, spiced and warm like an open fire, but something else clung to the fabric too. It was strangely metallic, sharp and intoxicating, and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. It was shockingly warm against your skin.

“I’m here,” you said, raising a brow and ignoring her real question, “because you sent me this address and told me to meet you here at eight wearing my nicest dress.”

The corner of Ellie’s lips quirked, a grin she was trying to hide. She clasped her hands, leaning across the table so you could smell the whiskey on her breath. “And you agreed to meet a stranger at a seedy hotel,” she murmured, mocking your remark from earlier. Her grin revealed itself when your cheeks flushed. “But why are you here - what are you seeking?”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “That’s kind of a dumb question, don’t you think? It’s pretty obvious why I’m on the app.” You cocked your head, leaning across the table, feeling a strange thrill when her eyes flashed. Your heart fluttered at the proximity, and you couldn’t remember when you had become so easily starstruck. “The real question, Ellie, is why are you?“

Ellie’s eyes darkened, and you weren’t sure if you just imagined her eyes flicking down to your lips. She looked back up at you through her lashes, her voice rough when she said, “That’s a third date kind of question.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “What makes you so sure you’ll get a third date?”

Ellie tilted her head, a slow smile pulling at her lips, and said, “Call it a hunch.”

The waiter came to check on you, appearing at your shoulder like a ghost. You hastily retreated, leaning back in your chair as though the electricity in the air had shocked you, and took a sip of wine that was more than a little overzealous. You tried to choke it down as Ellie waved the waiter away with that heartstopping crooked smile. What happened to you? Since when were you so easily charmed by freckles, green eyes, and smart-ass comments? You couldn't remember the last time you had been so infatuated during a normal date, let alone one with these kinds of strings attached.

“So you don't want to be in an interview,” Ellie said once the waiter was out of earshot. “I guess all my typical getting to know you conversations are out of the question.”

“I didn't say that,” you countered, your throat still burning from your accidental wine waterboarding. “But come on - what girl are you going to impress by asking her questions like ‘Tell me about yourself,’ or ‘Why are you here?’ or ‘Why are you more qualified for this position?’”

“Okay, okay, goddamn,” she said, laughing. Grabbing the wine bottle, she looked at you for permission before pouring you another glass.

You brought the glass up to your lips, taking a sip to hide your smile. The flush in your cheeks was surely from the wine and nothing else. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I hardly know you.” On one hand, that felt entirely untrue - but especially after this recent discovery, you really knew nothing about this girl. “Tell me about you.”

Ellie laughed that same rough laugh and your heart jumped. “Oh, so you're allowed to be the interviewer.”

You nodded, twirling the glass between your fingers and looking at her expectantly.

After a moment, Ellie rolled her eyes and ran a hand through her hair, but you could see the humor in her eyes. She downed the last of her old-fashioned and, like a good sport, said, “What do you want to know?”

Turns out, there was a lot to know - more than a simple dating app would tell you. Ellie had an older sister, Sarah, who lived in Dallas. Her dog was named after her childhood best friend. Her jacket wasn't thrifted after all, but had been her dad's. Speaking of which, she used to go hunting with him every season (“I haven't been in years, though,” she said, her eyes distant). On the weekends, she'd go to antique stores to look for art and trinkets to fill her house - her favorite antiques were from the 17th century. She hated horror movies and was a sucker for a good romance.

In return, you caved and answered her pressing questions. You told her about your best friend - Ellie laughed when you told her that your friend had sent you the link to the app in the first place. You told her about your favorite show that you binge-watched whenever you felt like you were spiraling. You did not tell her about your apartment that was probably the size of her closet or the fact that you'd have to watch your budget after taking the Uber tonight, not to mention the extra $30 Uber to get home later. You did tell her about your family, and a strange, unexplained sadness crept into the creases around her mouth. You did tell her about your job, but didn't mention the second one you worked to afford groceries. You told her you were hoping for a real, human connection, yet didn't mention that you couldn’t imagine finding it in a fucking sugar mommy.

All too soon, the wine bottle was empty and your chest was comfortingly warm. The lights strung across the bar danced above your head like fuzzy stars, and Ellie's smile was the brightest amongst them. Her glass was still empty, her wine glass dry, and yet her eyes told you she was intoxicated by something far stronger.

“Sorry,” you said, giggling despite yourself. “I didn't mean to drink it all.”

“Don't worry about it, darling,” she said, her voice silky smooth, reminding you of melted chocolate sliding down your throat. She tilted her glass, letting the remnants of melting ice clink against the side. “I wanted to make sure I could drive home okay.”

The waiter arrived then, pulling the bill from his pocket and handing it to Ellie. You couldn't read the number upside down, not through the haze of the wine, but the number of digits made your stomach clench. Ellie dropped a black card into the folder and handed it back to the waiter.

“How much do you want me to Venmo you?” you asked when she turned back to you. You clenched your hands in the hem of your dress, already calculating the extra shift you'd have to pick up to afford it.

Ellie tilted her head, her brows furrowed. “Nothing,” she said, as though it were obvious.

“That wasn't exactly a cheap bottle, Ellie,” you laughed. “Let me give you something.”

Ellie hummed, propping her chin in her hand and looking at you with those same intense eyes; it sent a dangerous shiver down your spine. “I like when you say my name.”

You blinked at her. “Excuse me.”

“I want to hear it again. That's how you can repay me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Ellie, I-”

“Okay, now we're even,” she interrupted, smiling that crooked grin that you had started to crave. The waiter returned with her card and Ellie produced cash from her pocket, handing it to the waiter directly. He thanked her profusely before making his exit, grinning. When Ellie looked at you again, you were still watching her expectantly, dumbfounded. She finally rolled her eyes. “Seriously, what kind of date would I be if I made you pay?”

“You're not making me, I'm offering.”

“And I'm saying no.” Ellie stood, straightening her shirt; when she tugged at it, the collar fell a bit, exposing sharp collarbones beneath.

Rounding the table, she offered a hand to you, pulling you gently to your feet. You pulled her jacket tighter around yourself, knowing you needed to give it back yet unwilling to part with it just yet.

Taking your arm, Ellie leaned in close enough that your breath caught in your throat and said, “I know why I found you on Seeking, okay? So, if it's alright with you, let me spoil you. Even if that just means one bottle of wine.”

You laughed, but it sounded breathy even to your own ringing ears. “One very expensive bottle of wine.”

Ellie shrugged, a sparkle in her eye. “It's a small price to pay for your company.”

You were silent in the elevator, but you held on to her arm as though afraid to let go. You couldn't figure out why, but something in you urgently wanted nothing more than to be close to her. You couldn't remember the last time you had felt such a pull from somebody.

Back on the street, the lights of the city seemed so much brighter than they had before. Ellie released your arm, turning to face you, and there was a strange pinch between her brows that you couldn't translate.

“Do you want me to call you an Uber, or do you want me to take you home?” she asked, and your brain short-circuited. When you could do nothing but stammer, tripping over your own tongue, Ellie laughed. There was no mockery behind it, only quiet, bright amusement. “I meant I can drive you to your apartment so you don't have to drunkenly sit in an awkward Uber that smells sickeningly sweet and the driver tries to make mind-numbing small talk.”

Your sigh of relief came out more like a laugh.

Ellie tilted her head and stepped closer to you, her hand reaching out to graze your fingers, and that sigh was sucked right back into your lungs. Being so close to her made your head spin. Her breath fanned against your cheeks, smelling of warm whiskey, when she said, “Unless you want to come to my place?”

It had the uncertain tilt of a question, and Ellie wouldn't quite meet your eyes.

“We don't have to do anything,” she continued in a rush. She scratched anxiously at the back of her head, a nervous laugh slipping between her lips. “We can just sit and talk more. Or watch a movie - my dad had this huge collection. I'm not gonna - You know, I'm not going to do anything you don't want.” She finally interrupted herself with a groan, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “Fuck, sorry, I wanted it to sound more suave than this.”

And you would be a fucking idiot to go home with this impossible stranger. You had been taught better - never get into a stranger's car, and for the love of God, never let them take you to a second location. You could let her take you back to your apartment at least - you were admittedly incredibly tipsy and didn't particularly want to endure another ride with an annoyingly talkative Uber driver. You could go home, back to your claustrophobic, quiet apartment, and maybe - maybe - text Ellie about setting up a second date.

You were not stupid enough to go home with somebody on the first date.

Except clearly you were, because you took the hand that was still grazing your fingers and looked up at Ellie - the contours of her face were shockingly etched with insecurity. And your dumb mouth said, of its own volition, “Okay.”

You had expected something flashy, like what a wealthy person would own in a movie - like a penthouse overlooking the city with too-white walls and electric guitars hanging, unused, on the walls. Maybe she had walls completely made of windows so it felt like you were on a pedestal overlooking the world.

You hadn't expected a house that was older than your great-grandparents.

When Ellie pulled into the driveway, you were sure she was just pulling in someplace to turn around, that she had missed her turn somewhere. But she put her stupidly-expensive car into park and killed the engine, shooting you an awkward glance.

“Sorry,” she said, chuckling. “I know it’s not much.”

You could only look at her incredulously, speechless, before looking back up at the house before you. You couldn’t even call it a house really - estate would be more fitting. Maybe mansion. Fuck, her house was the size of your apartment complex. It towered over you, three stories of intricate woodwork, warm brown beams wrapping around the structure like an elaborate skeleton. With beautiful eaves winding around the roof and an entire turret reaching for the moon, it looked like something that had stepped right out of some 1800s southern gothic novel.

Ellie cleared her throat, startling you from a trance. You looked back at her and, for some reason, couldn’t stop yourself from laughing.

”Shit, sorry,” you said, covering your mouth with your hand. “I just - I’ve just never seen anything like it.” When Ellie’s eyes clouded over with uncertainty, you added softly, “It’s beautiful. Besides, Ellie,” you added, laughing again, “‘not much’ doesn’t really suit you.”

Ellie opened and closed her mouth and yet no words came out. She was looking at you again as though you were something interesting - something new and exciting. Nobody had ever looked at you that way before, and the way your heart clenched at the sight was more than a little dangerous.

Ellie finally smiled, huffing out a laugh - your heart was pretty satisfied with how often you were able to make her laugh - and said, “Do you still want to come inside?”

And, surprisingly, you said, “Yeah, I do.”

As Ellie got out, rounding the car to open your door for you, you discreetly checked that the taser was still in your bag. Sure, you had agreed to go home with a practical stranger, but you couldn't be too careful.

The porch steps creaked as she led you to the door - double doors (of course), with stained glass and twisting vines carved into the wood. When Ellie opened them, it felt like you were transported to a different time on an entirely different world.

The grand staircase caught your eye first - how could it not? Warm wooden steps covered in a blood red runner, a white banister winding up, those same vines that seemed to be the house’s signature carved into it. You could see a large, stained-glass window at the landing before it curved to disappear to the second floor. Moonlight splintered through the window in broken relief.

As though in a trance, you wandered further into the house, walking to the fireplace situated right beneath the stairs. The wood stacked neatly inside was cold, untouched by a flame. There was a large mirror set atop the mantle, its gold frame a work of art alone. In the reflection, you could see the flush to your cheeks, and tried to convince yourself it was only from the cold. You still wore Ellie’s jacket, and you pulled it tight around your shoulders, as though it were a shield.

You watched Ellie’s reflection as she walked slowly towards you, a small smile gracing her lips. She came close enough to touch - close enough that you could feel her cool breath against the back of your neck - and yet she didn’t put a hand on you.

“There’s a lot more to see than the foyer,” she murmured, the words brushing your skin. “If you still want.”

And you couldn’t stop your own smile as you turned back to her, your heart skipping at her proximity. “Show me.”

She took your hand, her fingers shockingly cold, and led you into what must have been her living room - sitting room? Despite the fact that the house felt more like a museum - like you would get scolded for touching anything - the room was surprisingly cozy. A large, plush sectional was situated in front of another fireplace- this one also unblemished. Blankets and quilts were thrown over the couch and the accompanying chairs, leaving this time capsule looking strangely welcoming.

“Okay, I have to ask,” you said, turning back to Ellie. She was watching you carefully, gauging your reaction with soft eyes, and you lost your train of thought. You opened your mouth but no sound came out; you weren’t sure if that was more or less embarrassing than the several curses you had said earlier in the night.

Ellie hummed, raising her hand as though she wanted to touch you. She stopped only inches away from your cheek and dropped her hand, saying, “I’m an open book.”

You had to turn away to collect your thoughts, wandering across the room if just to catch your breath. The opposite wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. You ran your fingers along the spines of vintage classics, an array of science books, and comics, enjoying the irony of seeing Savage Starlight in the middle of all this history. You picked up a copy to keep your hands busy.

“How, um,” you started, stumbling over your words, “how did you end up here?”

Ellie hummed again, and you heard her footsteps following you. “Here as in this town, this country, this world? You gotta be a little more specific.”

You sighed, giving in and turning to look at her. She kept a careful distance, standing a few feet away from you with her hands in her pockets. “You know what I mean, smartass.”

Ellie chuckled, but her eyes had grown distant, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. She took a few more steps closer to you, looking at the comic book in your hands. On the app, she hadn’t struck you as the type to get easily bashful, and yet she had proven you wrong a few times already.

“My family lived here,” she finally said, quiet as a secret. You watched her carefully, jumping at the opportunity to stare at her without those intense eyes looking back at you. Her brow furrowed and she pressed her lips together as though she was in pain, her green eyes shining. “It was just… passed down, I guess? It’s kind of always been here ever since I can remember. I’m not entirely sure when it became mine.”

You tucked the comic book back into its spot between The Iliad and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. You said absently, “How old is this place anyway?”

”It was built in 1816,” she said automatically, as though it were memorized.

“It’s an awfully big house for just one person.” You looked up at her through your lashes as she stepped closer - close enough that you could smell that same metallic warmth that seemed to cling to her.

“It is,” Ellie murmured, smiling. She reached out again, and this time she allowed herself to touch you. Her cold fingers brushed against your cheek before she gently cupped your jaw, tilting your head so you’d look at her properly. Her green eyes were downright intimidating. “But I keep good company.”

You rolled your eyes, yet you couldn’t convince yourself to look away. “Is that what you say to all the girls?”

Ellie hummed, bracing her other hand on the bookshelf behind your head, and murmured, “No, I don’t.” She pressed in closer, her gaze dropping to your mouth, and you felt like your heart was going to leap from your throat. Ellie huffed out a laugh as though she could hear it pounding against your chest. When her thumb brushed your bottom lip, your lips parted on instinct. She didn’t look away, transfixed on the point where her skin touched your mouth, and you almost didn’t hear her when she said, “Can I?”

And you had never been the kind of person to kiss on the first date, but she was looking at you with eyes hooded with want, her breath fanning against your cheeks. When she licked her lips, you couldn’t stop your eyes from following the motion. Her lips glistened, parted and plump, looking so impossibly soft. Somehow, past your haze, you heard yourself say, “Yes.”

Ellie took her time in kissing you. She pressed you back gently, your shoulders pressing into the bookshelf behind you, and touched her nose to yours. She took a deep breath, breathing you in. Her hand was soft against your cheek, tilting your jaw up, and you hardly had to move to finally kiss her.

Ellie tasted just like she smelled - spicy and metallic, the old-fashioned still hanging on her tongue. Despite the cold of her hand on your cheek, her mouth was impossibly warm, her breath slipping between your lips; it was intoxicating in a way that the wine couldn’t compare to. Her mouth moved against yours, soft and slow as a dance.

Your hands reached out as though of their own accord, circling her waist and gripping at the slippery silk of her shirt. She pressed in close, crowding you against the bookshelf; you could feel her chest pressing against you, her hips on yours, the line of her body against yours making your head spin. And when Ellie’s tongue pressed against your lips, a gentle request for access, you felt like you’d faint altogether.

Her tongue slipped between your teeth and you couldn’t stop the breathy sound it pulled from your throat. You could feel that infuriating smile against your lips and suddenly wanted nothing more than to wipe it away. You balled her ridiculously expensive shirt in your hands and pulled her impossibly closer, nipping at her bottom lip, and you wanted to swallow her gasp.

Ellie pulled away, chuckling, but she didn’t go far. She pressed a kiss to your cheek, her lips trailing down to your jaw, and she could probably feel your pulse jump beneath her tongue. You could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “Do you do this often?”

Her teeth grazed the sensitive spot below your ear, and it took you a few moments before you could respond. “Do what?” Despite yourself - despite the way your fingers gripped her shirt, your head swimming and an unexplainable want burning in your veins - you couldn’t help but laugh. “Go on a date with somebody I met on an app for sugar babies and go back to their ridiculously old mansion on the first date and-“

You cut yourself off. You weren’t sure exactly what was happening, and you were afraid that voicing it would break whatever spell you were under - whatever spell made this impossible woman’s touch feel like lightning.

But Ellie only laughed, biting at the spot where your neck met your shoulder. “Yeah, that.”

You shivered against her touch. “No, I’ve never really done this.”

“Guess I’m just lucky.”

Ellie kissed you again, only briefly, before she finally pulled away. She was grinning, her eyes sparkling with those same constellations; her face wasn’t even flushed, making you feel embarrassed about your burning cheeks. You were panting, intoxicated from the night and wine and Ellie. Her absence felt like an ache, your body craving the feeling of her lips, her teeth, her hands. You were close to tugging her back in, your hands still gripping her shirt, but she gently untangled herself from you with a laugh.

“I want to keep going.” She paused, and then emphasized, “I really want to keep going. But you drank an entire bottle of wine, and I’d be kind of a shitty host if I didn’t offer you something to drink at least. Or are you hungry?”

You were hungry, but it was the kind of hunger that food wouldn’t satiate. Still, you let your hands drop back to your sides, feeling your senses return to you now that they weren’t so tuned into Ellie - how she smelled, tasted, felt. When you laughed, it sounded breathy even to your own ears. “Some water would be nice.”

“I can do that,” she said with a smile. “Stay here.” She kissed you again, lingering for a few moments longer than needed, before she turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving you alone in this ridiculously old mansion.

With nothing else to keep yourself entertained, you did a slow lap around the room, eyeing the ironic blend of elegant antiques and silly trinkets that were so obviously Ellie. A cracked ivory trinket box sat on a shelf, intricate flowers engraved into the lid, set right next to a small figurine of an astronaut. Beautiful paintings lined the walls, signatures dating back to 1830 in elaborate script at the bottom, but there were also a few posters littered here and there - bands and video games.

You walked over to the mantle, your fingers grazing over the marble top. The logs inside were untouched, and you briefly wondered if she’d light a fire soon to chase out the chill of autumn. A small jar filled with guitar picks sat at the corner, and you wondered if she really did have an electric guitar collection hidden around here somewhere. Your foot kicked an empty dog bowl, and yet Riley was nowhere to be found. Maybe Ellie took her to daycare when she knew she’d bring a girl home. You nearly laughed at the idea.

Atop the mantle, hidden behind pictures of what must have been friends or family - hiking or traveling or laughing in somebody’s backyard - there was another picture frame. It must have fallen, face down so that the picture inside was covered. You reached out, careful to not disturb any of the other frames, and picked it up. You were just going to fix it, set it up next to the others, but something in the image caught your eye. You plucked it from its home, bringing it closer, holding it up to the light to get a better look. For a long time, you couldn’t figure out what you were looking at. Your heart hammered against your chest, your ears ringing, as though your body had figured it out before your brain did.

It was an old photograph, grainy and sepia, faded and frayed around the edges with age. It was the house, looking just like it did today - the huge windows shining in the sunlight, the intricate eaves and wrap-around porch perfectly polished and new. A family stood on the lawn in front of the house, looking awkward and stiff. Back then, cameras took several minutes to actually capture a photo, so people tended to look a little awkward from trying to hold the same expression for so long. But that’s not what had caught your eye.

It was a small family - a weary looking dad and his two daughters, looking just a few years younger than you.

She looked a little different. Her hair was longer, falling in waves around her shoulders. She was definitely a few years younger, and she wore a sweet, full-length gown instead of a worn leather jacket.

You checked the date in the bottom corner at least five times, but there was no mistaking it. The person in the photo was undeniably Ellie, standing in front of this house in 1816.

tag list: @macaroni676 @ellstronaut @elliewilliamsmiller0 @elliescoolerwife @letsreadsomesins-shallwe @peejayurple @liliflowers-blog @filtered-sunlight @hobbybound

#ellie tlou #ellie williams #ellie williams smut #ellie willams x reader #ellie the last of us #ellie x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie x you #ellie williams tlou #ellie williams x you #tlou smut #tlou 2 x reader #i hope y'all like this one cause i got a lot of plans for it

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flwrkid14 · 15 days ago

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Hiii, so I read your “Tim and Jason: Caught Between Healing and Fear” and was wondering if you could potentially make a part 2 where perhaps lady shiva or ra’s or literally anyone decide to step up and parent this boy. Maybe even wonder woman so it’s like Jason’s favourite hero stepping up to parent his replacement. Anyways take your time, and I love your writing!

hi anon!! thank you so much for the ask! your idea was so beautiful and honestly sent me into a full spiral while writing! I should probably mention though—it ended up going in a slightly different direction than what you originally had in mind. I still included Diana! but it’s not exactly centered around her parenting Tim.

if you'd still like me to write that specific take, I totally can!! but for now, here’s what came out of this particular burst of inspiration. I hope you enjoy it anyway <3

There are things that shatter you quickly—like glass against pavement. And then there are the things that wear you down slowly. Quietly. Like water eroding stone.

Tim Drake was never shattered. He was worn down.

Chipped away piece by piece, until all that was left was someone efficient. Polished. Sharp-edged and palatable. A boy shaped by silence and long patrols, by missions without backup and rooms that went still the moment he entered.

A ghost in a house of the living.

He doesn’t complain. (That would make him the problem.) He doesn’t ask for more. (That would make him ungrateful.) He just… endures.

He’s good at enduring. Has been since he was thirteen and taught himself not to cry when the manor door locked behind him. He became something useful. Something necessary. Something that could be left in the dark and would still come back intact.

But even tools wear down.

—

The others don’t notice. Or they pretend not to.

Bruce talks to him like a mission report. Dick squeezes his shoulder and calls him “kiddo,” like that’s supposed to mean love. Damian sneers and snaps, but that’s always been his way.

Jason is the one who watches. Not when Tim’s looking—but when he thinks he’s alone.

Jason, the prodigal son. The miracle. The boy who returned from the dead and was finally, finally embraced.

Tim had held the family together after Jason died. But he wasn’t the one they were willing to fall apart for.

—

Diana finds him at the Watchtower. He’s staying late. He always stays late. It’s easier to sleep here, where the walls don’t whisper with memories.

She sits beside him quietly. Says nothing for a long time.

And then:

“I have seen many kinds of loneliness, Tim. Yours feels like a punishment.”

And maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s all it’s ever been. A slow, self-inflicted sentence. A punishment for not being enough—for not being Jason. For not being the dead boy they mourned and celebrated and welcomed home with open arms, while Tim was asked to quietly step aside.

“I’m not the one who died,” he says, and it sounds more like an apology than anything else.

Diana flinches. She hadn’t realized how much pain was buried in his silence.

“I know,” she murmurs. “That’s the cruelest part, isn’t it?”

She stays. Offers tea. A moment. A kindness not wrapped in expectation. She doesn’t tell him to rest. She doesn’t ask him to open up. She simply sees him, and chooses to remain.

The next time Diana comes, she doesn’t come alone.

Jason follows a few steps behind her. Shoulders tense. Hands stuffed in the pockets of a worn jacket. He looks like he doesn’t want to be here—and like he wouldn’t be anywhere else.

Tim’s already halfway out of his chair.

“Diana—”

“She thought maybe we should talk,” Jason says before she can. His voice is rough. Not angry. Just… uncertain. “Or… sit in the same room. I don’t know. She’s good at talking. I’m just here.”

Diana doesn’t say anything. She gives them both a look, then leaves the room with the kind of grace only someone raised among goddesses could manage.

The door clicks shut.

And for a long time, Jason says nothing. Does nothing. Just leans against the wall like he’s been there forever, like part of him has been—watching from the corners, always at a distance.

Tim hates how exposed he feels. How vulnerable. Like Jason can see it—that hollow place inside him, the one that used to burn and now just… echoes.

Jason finally speaks. Quietly. Gritty.

“I used to think no one could be lonelier than a dead kid in his own house.”

He doesn’t look at Tim. Doesn’t need to.

“But then I saw you.”

Tim doesn’t respond. His throat feels thick. Heavy.

Jason goes on, voice low. Honest in a way that hurts.

“You were always there. Every time. Back straight. Hands steady. Doing everything right. Holding shit together when no one even thought to ask.”

He pushes a breath through his teeth.

“And I kept waiting for someone to see it. For someone to see you. But they didn’t. Not really. They still don’t.”

His voice breaks a little around the next words.

“They love me now. Even after everything. They found a way to hold space for me. They reached back and pulled me in.”

He finally looks at Tim. And his expression is something close to haunted.

“But you were already standing there, weren’t you? You never left. You just... got good at being invisible.”

Tim turns his face away. But it’s too late. Jason’s already seen the way his jaw clenches, the way his shoulders fold inward like a closing book.

“You’re not the one who died,” Jason says softly. “But you were the one they let fade.”

Tim doesn’t mean to speak. Doesn’t even know the words are coming until they’re out:

“I tried so hard to be what they needed. And it was never enough.”

Jason swallows. His voice drops even lower.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the part that broke me too.”

Silence stretches between them. But it isn’t cold. It’s not empty either.

Jason pushes off the wall, and before he goes, he adds—gentle, like something sacred:

“They made room for me. But you… you’re still making yourself smaller.”

Then he leaves. Quietly. Like he was never really supposed to be there at all.

And Tim stays in the silence. Not alone. Just seen.

For once.

#thanks for the ask <3 #tim drake #jason todd #diana of themyscira #emotional damage?#he’s not the one who died but he never stopped disappearing #i cried while writing this ngl #I hope you like it!! and if not then ur totally allowed to yell at me lmao #the formatting for this feels weird so just ignore that pls

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 10 months ago

Text

Great Expectations 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Professor Holmes' class is your most difficult, but he's about to make it even more challenging.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (modern AU)

Note: It was a drabble then it weren't.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You're not certain. Not at first. But when are you ever confident in anything?

Yet you're assured by the dark curls and vibrant eyes, the slanted brows never devoid of judgment. More than anything, it's his posture that confirms his identity. Professor Holmes is staunch and indomitable even as he browses shelves of antique style pens; crystal, wood, and brass. He considers each as he would every word of a term paper.

You're doubt turns to what to do next. Do you say hello? Or pretend you don't see him? Would he know either way? You're fairly convinced he can't pick you out of the lecture hall.

So you do what you do best and fade into the scenery. You trail along the shelves and dip around the other side, putting your attention to the spools of thread, organized in a perfect spectrum of hues. As you mindlessly touch the thread, your mind wanders back around the row.

You would never expect to see the professor there, though honestly, you've never thought of him outside the classroom. You avoid that as much as you can, you stress enough over his unattainable standards. His is the only class which has you below an A.

You contemplate the silver twine. You've been looking for the very thing and yet the price is much above your budget. All that for some shine?

You move on, turning around to the balls of wool and needles arranged from thinnest to thickest. Your ears are pricked by the familiar timbre. The professor's voice carries as easily as in the lecture hall. You try not to listen but you can't help the instinctive decipher of each syllable.

"Are these genuine silver?" He asks, presumably of a passing associate.

"Um, I'm not sure, sir," the squeaky adolescent reply is met with an impatient sigh. "I work in the back."

"Work in the back doing what? Sorting stock? Do you not know what you put on the shelves?" Professor Holmes' disapproval is unmistakable.

His tone make you want to run. It is the same detest wrought into the feedback scribbled in the margins of your assignments. If it isn't perfect, it's not acceptable.

You should go. You don't have the money to waste on hobbies you don't have time for. Nor do you relish an encounter with the very man responsible for your lack of free time.

You make sure to walk toward the far end of the aisle and avoid any possible sighting. The very thing you meant to distract yourself chases you from your procrastination. Two days before your paper is due, and you've not even touched the readings due for that week's class discussion.

📕

You’re barely awake as you claim a seat in the melancholic lecture hall. The coeds are silent, only yawning between slurping from paper cups, or slumping dangerously over the narrow armrests. There’s a dour commiseration in the air; a sort of resignation.

Papers are handed in and yet the outcome is almost assured; Professor Holmes will surely find at least a dozen reasons to dock marks. Sometimes it seems even the font can draw his ire. Yet, there is more to be done. He will expect a lively discussion before that three-hour block is done and if he doesn’t get it, you will all sweat for it.

You flutter through your notebook. Unlike your other courses, the paper is crinkled and the writing is erratic. Each week sees you with at least another twenty pages added to the reading list. You don’t understand how anyone can keep up with it all; the work alone is as much as all your other classes combined.

You jump in your seat as his even-keeled voice rolls through the air. He hardly has to project as his baritone fills the large room. You look up and fumble for your pen. Professor Holmes doesn’t permit devices. The last person caught merely looking at their phone was dropped from the course.

You chew the end of the pen as he begins his introduction, but not without a sharp remark about your midterm papers. It’s as if he’s already made up his mind that you’ve all failed. There’s no bell curve in this class, just an impossible mountain.

“To make it simple,” his accent lilts off his tongue, “I’ve decided we will do things a bit differently this week. I will have you sort yourself into groups and each will discuss an assigned article. At the end, we will reconvene and you will nominate a member to present your conclusions. You may use our usual guiding questions for these purposes.”

You nod and furrow your brow thoughtfully. The idea of splitting into groups is daunting on its own. It’s one thing to put your hand up amid the wide sea of your peers but it’s another to parse yourself down into a smaller group amid strangers. Despite weeks of sitting side-by-side, you don’t really know anyone. They all seemed to have made friends before that and made no effort to find any more.

“Well, off you go,” Holmes flicks his fingers, “you’ve two minutes to arrange yourselves. I’m no kindergarten teacher, certainly you can figure it out.”

There’s a low murmur then a lull before anyone moves. You hear the chatter that connects the smaller pairings to each other; aren’t you in my econ class? Oh, you were at the Delta party? You gather your notebook and stand, searching for an in.

“Um,” you approach the nearest cluster of bodies, “room for one more?”

It’s as if you’re invisible. You wince and clear your throat. Before you can try again, a deeper ahem comes from behind you. You crane to see over your shoulder. Professor Holmes stands at the end of the row, one brow arched as he crosses his arms. His old-fashioned vest strains as his chest bulges against the buttons.

“Eh, she’s in need of a group. Have some manners.”

You’re surprised by his intervention, but grateful. You try to smile but it’s probably more of a pathetic simper, “thank you, professor.” You nod and turn back to the other students.

“Uh, sorry, yeah, can I tag along?” You ask.

They shrug, none of them daring to ignore Professor Holmes. You sit at the edge of the group, heat speckling up your back in embarrassment. The others as good as ignore you as they go back to complaining about their papers.

“I didn’t sleep,” a blond you think is named Ethan mutters, “fucker had me tearing out my hair.”

“Yeah, I was supposed to go to a Barbie party but I need this class,” a pretty redhead rolls her eyes.

There’s at least ten other students circled between three rows. You glance around at the others as they bow and chatter in kind. You shuffle your notebook in your lap and lean in, trying to seem involved.

“Right then, you,” Holmes points to your group, “take Jones et al,” he moves his finger towards the next group, “Halloway,” he continues down the list of readings as silence pervades the space.

It isn’t until he bids you to start that anyone dares speak again. The professor paces at the front of the room, hands in his pockets, as his longs stride take him from one end to the other. As you watch him, he seems to sense it, and his blue eyes meet your own. He hardly reacts before he puts his attention back to his repetitive route.

“Alright, so Jones et al,” you redirect your attention as your peers continue their griping over lost sleep and shitty coffee. “So uh, we should go over main arguments first--”

“Didn’t read it,” Ethan scoffs and two girls giggle.

“I don’t know how that tight ass thinks we have all day for the stuffy bullshit,” another guy snorts. “Some of us get laid.”

You blanch and chew your lip. You look around and receive only agitation and indifference.

“Since you’re such a smarty pants, why don’t you do the presentation, huh?” The redhead chirps, “you always have so much to say.”

You frown. You only put in what you need to get a decent mark. You’re hoping the discussion grade can save you from your disastrous first assignment. Besides, aren’t you all facing the same foe? Shouldn’t you be allies?

“Well, we should talk about the article a bit. Did anyone else read it?” You insist.

You don’t get an answer, only scoffs and sneers. Shoot. You look down at your notebook and shrink into yourself. It’s just like high school. You’re the one building the diorama by yourself until midnight. You’re the one doing all the talking in the class debate.

You scribble notes in the margins as the other garble on about some party and the new cafe opening up at the Student Centre. You keep a hand on your neck as the heat builds under your skin. You should’ve just stayed on your own, not that you have much of a choice. None of them even want to acknowledge you.

Professor Holmes calls time and you pop your head up, catching your glasses before they can bounce off your nose. You fix them as the lecture hall hushes and you all twist and turn to see the professor. He walks up the centre aisle and points to the group in the very back.

“You, come on,” he demands.

There’s crinkling of paper and scratchy coughs. A guy in a polo sweater stands with a cluster of lined paper in hand. He reads out with fractured syllables as if he can’t make out the writing. Professor Holmes sighs and you glance over at his scowl. He’s not impressed.

“Right, and beyond the obvious, what were your final reflections? Did you have a single thought about the author’s narrative on the consequences of the railway on colonized communities?” He pauses and waits, tapping his clefted chin. Silence. “Mm, absolutely compelling,” he remarks dryly.

You gulp as your group fidgets. Holmes jabs a finger at another group, calling out a student by name, “thank you for volunteering.”

The woman with the buzzcut stands, looking nervous as she peers around her group members. She sways and wets her lips, playing with the ring around her lower lip. She laughs nervously before she begins, pausing and umming and ahhing.

“Enough rambling,” Holmes shakes his head and turns toward your group. Your eyes go wide as the rest peek over at you. You rise as the professor stands just at the end of the rows. “Ethan, you seemed to be doing most of the talking, let’s hear it.”

Ethan grimaces and sends you a look. He shakes his head. You shrug. You don’t know what to do. You offer your notebook and Holmes clucks.

“I’m sure he can do it himself, he’s a big boy,” Holmes insists, “let’s hear your take on Jones et al. They have some rather interesting arguments about the cultural significance of the Silk Road, did they not?”

Ethan exhales and stands, a tick in his jaw as he faces the professor. You chew your cheek as he stutters, “well, what we were talking about was that... er, the Silk Road... um...”

“Yes, yes, you made some rather intriguing arguments about the Gammas, didn’t you? And how you have so many important things to do, eh? Well, Ethan, if you can’t keep up, you don’t have to bluster,” Holmes reproaches, “your boasting does suggest incompetence over importance.”

Ethan chokes. There’s a low titter of laughter from further back as the rest of your group stares at their hands. You hug your note book and lower your head as well.

“Come on, then,” Holmes wags his fingers and calls your name, “stand up. Let’s hear something coherent.”

“Oh, uh,” you lift your chin as Ethan falls into his chair with a snarl. You get up and focus on your notebook. You swallow tightly before you get your vision to clear, “typically when we think of the, er, Silk Road, er, we fixate on, uh, on uh, on the movement of goods such as dyes and, and, and rice...” you can’t help your stuttering. You just know the professor will have your throat next, “but Jones et all argue that, ummmm, um, the movement of peoples and contact between various cultures is just as... as important--”

“Ah, yes, someone has done their work,” Holmes proclaims with a clap.

“All of you. One thousand words on your groups assigned article by the end of the week. You may drop them off at my office.”

“What?” Several students burst out in shock.

“It is an individual effort, yes? Not a group project. You have until Friday at 6pm.”

“Professor,” a woman whines from the back.

“Would you like a thousand more words?” He turns to face the lecture hall completely, “no, alright then. I can be generous. You may go early so that you can catch up on your readings.”

He smirks and tilts his head smugly. He spins on his heel and strides down the low steps to the front podium. You glance down at your notebook and slowly flip the cover.

“Fucking browner,” Ethan growls.

#sherlock holmes #dark sherlock holmes #dark!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #series #great expectations #au #professor au #modern au #enola holmes #fic #dark fic #dark!fic

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nickistuffs · 3 months ago

Text

A Reminder to Breathe

Pairing: Harry x Designer reader (curvy or plus size whatever you feel they should look like. This is my preference 😌)

Summary: After pushing themselves to the brink of exhaustion with work, Y/N finds an unwavering source of comfort in Harry

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: None. Fluff slight angst.

✨masterlist✨ read the rest of Harry x Designer Reader there

...

Everything felt overwhelming, chaotic, and messed up. The weight of it all pressed down on you, and all you craved was his presence—his soft voice to soothe you. But no, here you were, at work, running yet another onsite project.

Today had been a whirlwind. You’d spent hours running around town with one of your contractors, picking up materials for a clothing store your client was planning to open. It was a job you loved, but exhaustion always crept in. From overseeing your team’s work to managing quality control, it seemed like there was never an end.

Then the client arrived to check on the progress.

“Hey, Y/N! How’s everything going?” he greeted with a smile, eager for an update.

“All is going well,” you replied, trying to keep the exhaustion out of your voice. “We’re on schedule and already planning the next steps to avoid any confusion.”

As you wrapped up your conversation with the builders, he wandered over to a wall where your plans were laid out, studying every detail of the room’s design. When he spoke, his tone was casual but firm.

“Y/N, is this what you initially planned for this section of the room?”

You walked over, confirming his observation. “Yup. I’m actually really excited about this part. That’s why I wanted to be here in person to give specific directions.”

He studied the layout for a moment before his eyes flicked back to you. “Well, I don’t think it’s popping like I imagined. Can you change it?”

Your heart sank. The audacity of this guy to change everything with the snap of his fingers. Your blood boiled as you held your ground.

“Well,” you began, keeping your voice steady, “it’s easier said than done. We’re already behind schedule from the last round of revisions. And honestly, the deadline you set won’t align with the store opening unless we stick to the original plan.”

You met his gaze, frustration creeping into your expression as you tried to make him see reason.

“I’m your client, Y/N,” he snapped, his tone growing colder. “I’m paying you, and people keep saying you’re the best. So, I expect new plans for this section in four days. Got it?”

With that, he turned and walked off, leaving you standing there, fuming.

Henry, your contractor, noticed your irritation and patted your back in a supportive gesture. “You do what you need to do, Y/N. I’ll start on whatever can be done now. We’ll finish this and have another meeting afterwards.”

You nodded but couldn’t shake the frustration. As much as you loved your work, dealing with clients like this always felt like a battle. Gathering your things, you left the site, knowing you had a long night ahead. At least you could take some time to breathe before diving back into the chaos.

Two days had passed, and you had barely stopped working. It was nonstop, relentless. Sketching, adjusting, planning, and coordinating—your life had become a blur of blueprints and emails. You weren’t even sure when you last ate a proper meal. The only thing you knew for certain was that your body ached, your head pounded, and sleep had become a distant luxury.

You barely had time to check your phone, and it wasn’t until you glanced at it, seeing the unread messages, that guilt settled in. You hadn’t replied to Harry.

Harry, who always checked in. Harry, who had probably noticed your silence by now.

At that very moment, Harry was at Felice’s, ordering lunch for both of you, worry evident on his face.

“Hey, Harry, how’s Y/N?” Felice asked, handing over the order.

“I actually don’t know,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “We haven’t been in touch for two days, so I’m worried.”

Felice frowned, glancing toward the kitchen. “That’s not like them.”

Harry sighed, picking up the bags. “Yeah. I know they’re busy, but… I don’t know. I just hope they’re okay.”

With that, he left, heading straight to your place, determined to check-in. Because if you weren’t going to take care of yourself, then he would.

Harry knocked on the door of your workshop, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of your overworked computer. You blinked, your bloodshot eyes straining from hours of staring at the screen. Your glasses had slid down your nose, and your hair was shoved into a messy bun, strands falling loosely around your face. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily on your shoulders, but the knock startled you enough to jolt upright.

When you opened the door, you were met with Harry’s concerned gaze. His eyes swept over you, taking in your disheveled state, and his brows furrowed.

“Y/N…” he said softly, stepping inside before you could protest.

“You—what are you doing here?” you stammered, genuinely surprised by his presence.

Harry sighed, lifting the bag of food. “You haven’t answered me in two days. Felice is worried. I’m worried. And looking at you now, I was right to be.”

You swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed. You hadn’t realized how bad you looked until you saw the concern written all over his face. He set the food down on your cluttered desk and reached out, gently squeezing your shoulder.

“Come on,” he said. “Eat first. Then we’ll talk.”

And for the first time in days, you let yourself breathe.

After finishing your food, you felt energy returning to your body, the warmth of a real meal helping to shake off some of the exhaustion. Instinctively, you pushed your chair back, ready to dive back into work.

But Harry’s hand was on your wrist before you could stand, stopping you.

“Y/N,” he said firmly, his voice laced with concern. “You’re working yourself to the bone. Did you sleep here?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but his sharp gaze told you he already knew the answer. The messy pile of blankets in the corner, the half-empty coffee cups littering your desk—it was obvious.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “That’s what I thought.”

His disappointment stung more than any lecture. You wanted to argue, to tell him you were fine, that you had deadlines to meet. But the exhaustion settled deep in your bones, and for once, you didn’t have the energy to fight him.

“Come on,” he said, tugging you gently to your feet. “You need sleep, not another round of revisions.”

You hesitated, looking at your screen, but Harry squeezed your hand. “Please, Y/N.”

And somehow, that was enough to make you nod, letting him lead you away from your desk and toward the rest you desperately needed.

...

Harry drove you back home, the soft hum of the car’s engine lulling you into much-needed rest. The moment your head rested against the window, exhaustion took over, and you drifted off into a deep sleep. Harry glanced at you briefly, his expression softening. You had pushed yourself too hard, and he wasn’t going to let you do it alone anymore.

As he pulled up to your place, he gently shook your shoulder. “Y/N, we’re here.”

You stirred, eyes heavy with sleep. He smiled slightly. “Come on, let’s get you inside.” As you stepped into your apartment, the weight of exhaustion hit you like a wave. Without a word, you shuffled straight to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the stress of the past few days. The warm water felt like a small mercy, soothing the tension in your muscles as you changed into your softest pyjamas.

Meanwhile, Harry moved around your kitchen with quiet efficiency. He set a kettle on the stove, pulling out your favorite tea blend and preparing a mug. As the water heated, he glanced toward the bathroom door, listening for any signs of movement. His worry hadn’t faded—not entirely—but at least you were home, taking care of yourself, even if it was just for a moment.

When you emerged, looking slightly more refreshed but still utterly drained, Harry held out the steaming cup. "Drink this," he said gently. "Then we’ll talk about getting you some real rest."

You took a slow sip of your tea, the warmth spreading through your chest as you settled onto your bed. The familiar comfort of your mattress made you realize just how much you had missed it. Your body ached in relief, sinking into the softness, but before you could relax completely, Harry sat beside you, his expression unreadable.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Y/N… I'm disappointed in you. You didn’t reach back to me in two days. Two days. Do you know how worried I was?"

His voice wasn’t harsh, but the weight of his concern settled heavily between you. You stared down at your tea, guilt creeping up your spine. You hadn’t meant to shut him out—it just happened, lost in the whirlwind of work. But looking at him now, at the way his brows furrowed and his jaw tensed, you knew you had to say something.

"I'm sorry, I know... I just had to finish it," you mumbled, the words spilling out in a tired rush. "My client really laid it on thick, saying that I was ‘the best’ and that I should do whatever I needed to do. I didn’t want to let them down."

You rambled, voice cracking slightly from exhaustion. You weren’t even sure if you were making sense anymore, but the need to justify yourself clawed at your chest. Harry sighed, his gaze unwavering as he studied you. He knew you loved your work, knew how much passion you poured into every project—but he didn’t think you would go this far. That you would sacrifice your own well-being for it.

He shook his head, his voice softer now. "Y/N… being the best doesn't mean running yourself into the ground." That's when the waterworks started. Tears welled up in your eyes, spilling over as the weight of exhaustion, pressure, and the looming deadline finally broke through. A choked sob escaped your lips, and you buried your face in your hands, overwhelmed.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I know I need to work on this—on asking for help instead of trying to do everything alone."

Harry didn’t hesitate. He immediately pulled you into a firm, reassuring hug, his warmth grounding you as he gently rubbed your back. "You're not alone, Y/N. You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself. I’m here, always."

His words broke something in you, and you clung to him, letting yourself feel everything you had been holding in for too long.

You sniffled against his shirt, his steady presence grounding you as exhaustion seeped deeper into your bones. "Thank you for looking out for me, Harry," you murmured, voice thick with emotion.

He pressed a reassuring hand against your back, his touch warm and familiar. "Lie down, Y/N. You need to rest."

You nodded, too drained to argue, and let yourself sink into the comfort of your bed. Just as you were about to close your eyes, Harry hesitated before speaking, his voice softer this time. "Can I stay? Just for tonight?"

You blinked up at him, surprised but comforted by the thought. "You don’t have to—"

"I want to," he interrupted gently. "I just want to make sure you’re okay."

A small, grateful smile formed on your lips as you shifted, making space for him. "Okay. Stay."

Harry settled in beside you, the quiet of the room wrapping around you both like a cocoon.

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow over the room. It painted golden streaks across the sheets, illuminating the quiet intimacy of the space. Harry stirred first, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he registered the familiar weight pressed against him—the quiet rise and fall of your breath against his chest. It took a moment for reality to settle in—he was still in your apartment, still in your bed, and still holding you close.

His arms were wrapped around you protectively, your body curled into his warmth, and he found himself reluctant to move. He had been in relationships before, had woken up next to others, but this—this was different. There was no rush to slip away, no lingering regret or fleeting connection. With you, it felt natural. Easy. Like he belonged here.

His gaze flickered to your sleeping face, the exhaustion still evident in the delicate creases around your eyes. He thought back to the past few days, to the way you had pushed yourself beyond reason. He saw you pour every ounce of yourself into your work, into the people you cared about, until there was hardly anything left for yourself. It was a pattern he knew all too well too, and one that made his heart ache in ways he never expected. And yet, despite everything, here you were—peaceful, safe, finally resting.

Harry exhaled softly, running a hand through his unruly hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. He never imagined he’d feel this way—that he’d want to take care of someone as much as he wanted to take care of you. The thought sent warmth flooding through his chest, an unfamiliar yet welcome sensation. He had always been the one to keep his heart guarded, to tread carefully in matters of love, but with you… there was no fear, no hesitation. Just certainty.

His fingers traced lazy circles over your back, reveling in the way you instinctively nuzzled closer, seeking him even in sleep. He smiled, something soft and tender curling at the edges of his lips. He wanted to memorize everything about this moment—the way the sunlight framed your features, the way your fingers clung lightly to his shirt, the way your presence alone filled every empty space inside him.

Carefully, he shifted just enough to press a lingering kiss to your temple, his lips lingering against your skin as if sealing an unspoken promise. He knew the world would call you both back soon, that the quiet sanctuary of the morning wouldn’t last forever. But for now, he let himself sink into the comfort of you, of this shared warmth, of the undeniable truth settling in his chest.

He wanted to be here for all of it—the bad, the good, in every way—just be with you.

...

Take your time lovelies. <3

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