#but back when it first came out i was obsessed

[rinsnumber1fan]

Playing a prank on the blue lock men by leaning down when they're manspreading as if you're about to give them head but you're really just picking something off the ground.

Featuring: isagi yoichi, rin itoshi, kaiser michael, sae itoshi.

Itoshi Rin:

After seeing this trend, you puckered up your lips and squinted your eyes, glancing at your boyfriend who sat on the bed of his apartment watching a soccer game on television. You had acquired your target and locked up.

Rin was very focused on the TV screen, his eyes didn't move from there and he tapped the remote every once in a while to pause and write something down in his notebook, whilst munching on some snacks on the table infront of him. He's so focused it's almost cute. Then there was you, you had noticed one of his pens down right next to his foot.

Your plan went into action, you stretched very nonchalantly and got off your place on the couch. He didn't pay you any attention, continued writing, you took it as a sign to keep going.

You went down on your knees, he turned his eyes down and he froze for a moment when he saw you right in between his legs, your hair tickled the cloth on his thigh. His breath hitched but he prepared himself, leaning back slightly. "Y/n.." he breathed out. He even closed his eyes.. but he didn't feel your hands anywhere or.. your mouth so he flickers his eyes and peeks but when he doesn't see you down there anymore he blinks in confusion and slight irritation.

"Sorry about that, you dropped your pen." And you placed it down to his desk. He blinked slowly, "right.." murmured but he'd never admit he thought you were going to do something else.

Isagi Yoichi

He's sitting on his bed while he's doing something random. He said he wanted to cure his boredom and get interested in anything small that doesn't involve soccer. It was an experiment of his to see if he's really obsessed with soccer that he won't play or involve soccer in everything.

You were sat beside him, helping him out with the art he was doing, applying paint on his brushes as he tried to paint on a canvas for the first time and yes it looked like shit. You were.. increasingly bored. You didn't want to watch paint dry, literally. Do you came up with a plan. A master plan.

You accidently drop the paintbrush right next to isagis manspread. You lean down, and isagi flinches but he looks down at you "whats wron-" the words die in his throat when you pull your hair back and glance up at him.

"O-oh okay.. um.." He immidently turns red, leans back and places a hand on top of your head but he almost whimpers when you lean your head south. And you grab the paintbrush. He freezes. In embarrassment.

"Uh- you- what--" He stammered unable to form coherent words. And you just smiled innocently "I dropped this." You hung up the paintbrush.

Sae Itoshi

Sae was really tired, he had countless meetings with different managers to arrange different matches with him. So when he returned home to his cute girlfriend he just sat down on the couch like a dead body. An exasperated sigh leaves his mouth but he doesn't calk you, he's too tired to.

You return to the living room, offer him some water as you glance at his dead body. You knew he was tired and exhausted but.. you really wanted to have some quality time!!! So you tried everything.

From "how was work?" And he replies with a deadpanned expression "don't ask." And you smiled because you had no fucking idea if you were supposed to ask him again after that. "Want some water?" You asked him with a slightly concerned expression and he blinked "no.. thanks." WHAT NOW?!

SO you pulled the ultimate move.

The ultimate attention giver.

You had a piece of food under the bed from the takeout you ordered when sae was out. So you decided to do it. You got on your knees right infront of him and he gave the subtlest of a reaction but he spread his legs a little bit more.

His eyes were half lidded as he undid the first button of his shirt. "You couldve given me a warning or something, love." He murmured in a deep voice but you just looked up after collecting that piece, "Huh? What?" You acted all confused and sae seemed just as confused.

"Drop the act." He would urge you as you got on your feet again. But he pulled you closer by the collar, "really? A prank like that after I'm so exhausted?" He sighs. "Get on your knees" He shakes his head in slight annoyance but a little bit cocky. Your cheeks turned pink but you complied anyway.

We all know what happens after that.

Michael Kaiser.

He had his glasses on as he read some book with full attention.

When the attention should really be on you!!

He didn't even compliment you after you dressed up so prettily to come and visit his apartment. So naturally you had to resort to other means.

While he's distracted by the essence of his book, his hand circles around your head like he's patting your head, just enough to let you know my book is important so I'm gonna only pat your head.

You decided its time to use the onlt way you could to get his attention. You bent down, kneeling before him, pulling your hair back and he raises a brow, "mm? Such a good girl I didn't even have to ask--" and not even in a moment you got up and sat back down with a normal expression except with an eraser in your hand. "Huh?" You tilted your head "what are you on?" You asked again.

Kaiser blinked once twice "I thought you..." He licked his lower lip. "Nevermind.." He didn't wanna bruise his ego by mentioning he expected you to suck. But after this prank he got a lot more touchy with you. In the end, he got that blow job anyways.

Plan? Worked.

A/N: LEAVE A COMMENT PLSPLSPSLS

[envyi5envious]

A COFFEE CRUSH.

࿐ — 𝙋𝘼𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙉𝙂 : YANDERE (Red Hood) Jason Todd x GN Reader. 𝙎𝙔𝙉𝙊𝙋𝙎𝙄𝙎 : He hates the coffee but he likes you. 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝘾𝙊𝙐𝙉𝙏 : 0.7k. 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎 : Dark. Obsessive tendencies and stalking. 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀𝙎 : English isn’t my first language. Enjoy ♡

The strong scent of coffee filled the air as you wiped down one of the tables, glancing at the last customer. It was almost closing time, and he was still there, reading a book with a cup of coffee by his side—probably cold by now.

You’d started noticing him a lot more lately; he was there during every shift. He never spoke to you besides placing his order, but he lingered, often stealing quick glances your way as if assessing you. At first, you thought about talking to him, telling him to back off, but something held you back. There was something interesting about him, or maybe you were just being superficial. You wouldn't deny that you found him attractive—pretty privilege at its finest. But tonight was different. You could practically feel his eyes on you, even when he pretended not to acknowledge you.

You were going to completely ignore it before you heard him speak. "Excuse me. Check, please." Just short of closing time. You made your way over to the man, holding a tray and the bill. You put it on the table, placing the half-full cup of coffee on your tray. That was until he spoke again.

"Do you always work this late?" He knew the answer. You both knew he knew the answer, but he still asked. You could feel your gut clench a bit at his phrasing; he made it sound like he actually cared. Like he knew you. "Yeah. I kind of have to." He gave you a soft hum in response. You lingered for a second too long, but seeing as he wasn't going to say anything else, you just walked back to the counter. The man took some money out of his wallet and placed it in the billbook before standing up and making his way out of the café.

—

Jason made his way to one of the back alleys, resting his back against the hard brick wall as he pulled out a cigarette pack. Pulling one out and lighting it, he inhaled the smoke into his lungs and waited. He waited for you to be done with your shift.

"Fucking hell..." he muttered to himself, watching your moving figure through the building's glass wall. He took another drag from his cigarette, then pulled out his phone. Nine minutes before 12 AM. He opened his messages app and tapped Bruce's contact, starting to type.

JASON : I need a favour.

His thumb hovered over the send button before hesitating. But then he glanced up at you, closing the building lights and opening the door. His pride didn’t matter when it came to you. He pressed send and crushed his cigarette against the wall.

—

Your perception skills could use some work; you didn't notice the man behind you until he lightly tapped your shoulder. You jumped slightly and turned to face him. "Jason," he said. "What?" "My name is Jason," he repeated. His face softened at your confusion, a small smile on his lips. "Sorry if I scared you. I'm a bit... shy." Shy? Right, just shy. "Oh. That's... fine. Um, I was just about to close up. Did you need something or forget anything?" You reached for the building keys, ready to unlock the door if he did.

"Actually, I was going to ask for your number. And if I could take you out sometime." That’s why he’d been at the shop so much—he liked you. How he knew your exact working days? Best not to question it.

You hesitated, caught off guard by his directness. "Oh, well, I didn't expect that." He seemed to sense your hesitation. "Hey, no pressure. Just thought I’d ask." He crossed his arms in front of his chest, attempting to relax the situation, but you could feel the tension behind it.

You glanced at the door, then back at him. You wanted to say no. Wanted to tell him that you thought he was weird. But you couldn't. Not because he wasn't, but because you didn't care. "Okay, I guess... what do you have in mind?"

"Maybe dinner? There’s a place nearby."

"Alright," you said, giving in despite the voice in your mind begging you not to. As you exchanged numbers, you couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. Saving his number, you waved him goodbye before walking away. But Jason didn't move... He lingered.

☆ 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩. ©◞✶ envyi5envious

[biteyoubiteme]

his lips gently pressed against your forehead. a reassurance to show you were safe. safe with him. EEEEEEKKKKKKKKK><<><><><

“no. i’m not hurt. there’s a smell that’s. it’s so sweet.” his voice came off ragged as his breathing increased. his desperate breathing reminded you that of a fever. raising your hand to his forehead, it felt hot to the touch. that’s when you noticed it. your palms faintly covered in red. the sweet smell jay was talking about was from you. it was your blood. STOPIT i love it sm like i just love vampires wtf- 

yet that same control was slipping through his fingers. “yn..” jay spoke in a husked whisper. almost as if. no. he was yearning for you. how could he force himself to pull away. especially when you were right there. so close to him. his forehead pressed against yours, half lidded eyes studying your features. he needed you. OMFG- im sitting here just giggling and kicking my feet in love with him and obsessed with him and wishing i had a vampire bf who was trying to resist the urge to bite me ;-;

but instead of doing so deeply. he began to lay kisses along your cheeks. to your jawline. then to your neck. Stop kisses on the neck when they are vampires just hit so different it makes me unwell- 

“i’m gonna bite you now okay?” his eyes still held doubt. understanding if you wanted to back out now before it was too late. Consent king- 

you squeezed your eyes shut as you braced for the pain. soon there it was. a burning sensation pulsing through out your neck. a whimper left you lips as his fangs sank deeper into your skin. you could feel jay hesitate, ready to stop. your fingers tangled into his hair, easing his worries. signaling it was okay. finally jay’s fangs settled into your neck. the taste of your blood made his body tremble. the taste was unlike anything he had before. it was sweet yet bitter. something that would forever be distinct to you. Chewing on the bars of my cage rn I LOVE A FIRST BITE SCENE UUUGHGH

☾ BITE ME ── p. jongseong

IN WHICH: the vampire that always crashes at your place saves you from danger. going back to your place, you both finally have a well deserved heart to heart moment.

PAIRING: vampire!jay x human!fem reader GENRE/WARNINGS: lowercase intended !!, one shot, fluff, skinship, kissing, they make out frfr, biting (fangs), slight sexual harassment, mentions of blood once again WORD COUNT: 2.4k ₊⊹♡ EVIE'S NOTE: another morning another early ass post. per everyone's wish i have made part 2. won't say much on it cause i don't wanna spoil things. but i hope i delivered part 2 well. but yes hope you guys like it. btw vampire jay ily PART I

your arms wrapped around your body. hands underneath your arms hoping to keep them warm. the air in the night was cold yet crisp, as you made your way home from work.

you made a turn into the shortcut you first met jay at all those nights ago. once again it was weeks since you last saw him. you instinctively frowned at the thought of him. jay made it seem like he’d be back within the week.

yet here you were again waiting around for him. promising yourself the next time you saw him you’d give him a piece of your mind. that is if he isn’t covered in wounds like every other time he stops by your place…

a deep sigh left your chest, your warm breath turning into a ghostly mist. continuing your trek home the sudden sound of approaching footsteps stopped you for a moment.

usually the shortcut to your apartment was rarely used. only known to those who lived in your building. despite that it was one am at night, no one would be walking home at this hour. your pace quickened wanting to get out of the alley way as soon as possible.

as your pace quickened so did the footsteps behind you, even if they sounded uneven with your own. each beat felt like it echoed louder than the last. a frantic rhythm matching the pounding in your chest.

almost making it to the end of the alley, your body was forcefully pulled back. body turned around to be met with the pungent smell of alcohol.

“what’s a pretty lady like you doing here so late at night?”

the minute the man’s breath hit your nose, bile formed in your throat. you yanked at your wrist in hopes of getting out of his grasp. to your demise even in his drunken state the man’s grip was strong.

swallowing back the urge to vomit you spoke through clenched teeth. “let go of me…”

the man laughed giving you a drunken smile. a chill running down your spine. your life flashing before your eyes in that second. panic soon set in. your mind hurriedly figuring out how to escape from him.

“come on. don’t be stubborn. let’s have a good time together.” his words came out in a slur as his body began to sway.

“go to hell.”

the man’s joyful expression soon twisted to anger. his brows knitted into annoyance. taking note in the change of attitude your body went into flight or fight mode. adrenaline pumped through your veins as you strongly kicked the man in his shin.

you had hoped to kick him with the intent of aiming in the area where it would hurt must. but ultimately fell short.

the man let out a ragged breath, soon cursing out in pain. his grip on you loosened. perfect timing to run away. you turned on your heels and bolted. but only after a few strides, did your legs buckle. sending you to the ground. as you fell to the ground, your palms steadied your fall. turning your head to check on the man you eyed his movements.

noticing him let go of his aching shin. fear dawned on you as he got ready to chase you down. ignoring the stinging of your palms you forced yourself back up. you began to run again. despite the sharpness of the cold air slicing at your skin. you ran, pushing past the stinging in your legs and hands.

tears began to burn into your eyes. the echoing of the drunken man’s yelling frightened you. your vision began to blur from the tears. as you aimlessly blinked and wiped them away, your body collided into someone. your already frantic thoughts worsened. fearing that the man wasn’t alone this whole time.

the new stranger wrapped an arm around your body. his firm grasp was tight as you began to punch at his chest. unable to see who was the drunken man’s accomplice. you began to fight your way out of his grasp.

“yn it’s okay it’s me.”

your ears perked at the all too familiar voice. soon your hands that were hitting at his chest stopped. the firm hold that felt threatening was replaced with familiarity. it was jay.

“jay…” your voice came out weak as you looked up at him. cheeks drenched with your tears as more still fell from your eyes.

you looked into his eyes a habit you formed over the year. the usual burgundy color shifted into a deep crimson. a hue so intense it glowed under the moonlit alley.

“you know i don’t like it when you cry..” his tone was gentle. a soothing hush to calm the constant pounding in your chest.

his lips gently pressed against your forehead. a reassurance to show you were safe. safe with him. “get behind me okay?” obliging to his words you hurried behind him.

your shaky hands tightly held onto the bottom hem of his leather jacket.

“leave..” instead of the gentle tone jay had with you, it was now demandingly cold. jay’s red eyes shined as his voice deepened with the intention of hurting the man if he refused to listen.

you faintly heard frantic breathing. then the drunken man’s voice loudly breaking through the deafening silence. “what are you?!”

instead of the sound of confrontation, the sound of hurried steps instead echoed out into the distance.

“he’s gone.” jay’s once cold voice altered the second he spoke to you.

you eerily peeked from behind jay’s arm, eyeing out if the man was really gone or not. seeing the now empty alley way your panic faded. you gripped the jacket tighter as you softly spoke.

“thank you. if you weren’t here i. i don’t know what would’ve happened.” tears began to brim your eyes once again. jay turned around to look at you. mostly needing to make sure that thing didn’t harm you. he couldn’t help but lift his hand to wipe away the faint tears.

a satisfied sigh left his chest seeing you unscathed. your head raised to look up at him, head tilting at his sigh. when looking at him you noticed his eyes were back to the burgundy color you loved.

remembering the promise of scolding him your brows furrowed ready to scold the vampire. yet before even doing so jay’s breathing staggered. his focus wavered as his senses picked up on something in particular.

“are you okay?! were you hurt before you got here?” your tone immediately shifted to worry. jay’s body soon swayed. causing you to help steady him.

“no. i’m not hurt. there’s a smell that’s. it’s so sweet.” his voice came off ragged as his breathing increased. his desperate breathing reminded you that of a fever. raising your hand to his forehead, it felt hot to the touch. that’s when you noticed it. your palms faintly covered in red. the sweet smell jay was talking about was from you. it was your blood.

“shit.” you couldn’t help but curse under your breath. the only thing you could do now was drag jay home.

finally stumbling through the entrance of your apartment, you rested against the door. a sense of deja vu washing over as you caught your breath. you steadied jay against the wall, preparing to take both your shoes off. before even trying to do so, you were caged against the door. the sudden action catching you off guard.

you looked up at jay. his eyes casted a dark tone to them. his desire once again piling up. every inch of him felt like it was burning with that desire. but he needed to control himself. yet that same control was slipping through his fingers.

“yn..” jay spoke in a husked whisper. almost as if. no. he was yearning for you. how could he force himself to pull away. especially when you were right there. so close to him. his forehead pressed against yours, half lidded eyes studying your features. he needed you.

eyeing the mole he noticed weeks ago. his eyes scanned for face. he had to know if you’d be okay with this. okay with him, his desires, the carnal need to sink his fangs into you. yet there you were standing before him. not a single doubt written on your face.

jay’s hands left the side of your body to hold your face. you melted into his touch. everything with him always felt just right. his thumbs caressed your cheeks gently.

“i… i’ve wanted this for so long…” he murmured. soon his lips gently met with yours. the soft press of his lips sent a shiver down your spine. the sensation was cold yet held a touch of warmth to it.

jay’s hands that cupped your face now found its way at your waist. one arm holding you tightly to his body while the other was planted on the door. as the seconds went by jay’s kissing became more earnest, more heated. his tongue swiped at the bottom of your lip. a silent invitation to deepen the soon intimate kiss.

your breath hitched as your lips parted for him. the kiss deepening as your tongues met together. heat soon rose between your bodies. jay’s hold only pulled you closer to him. the space of distance feeling unbearable. his kissing soon turned sloppy leaving a quiet moan to slip between your lips. to then be swallowed by another kiss.

the kiss between you two was truly more than heat. it was a years worth of silent yearning. mixed with the ache of jay’s fear spilling into this moment. you could feel the entirety of his need. the way his body clung desperately to yours. fearing as though you’d slip away from his grasp now that he had you.

jay finally parted from the kiss. he watched as you gasped softly for air, all while he steadied his own breathing. your fingers burned as you held onto his shirt for support. small jolts of a tingling sensation shooting through your body. jay couldn’t help but eye at how swollen your lips looked in this moment.

he would be lying if he didn’t enjoy this more than he anticipated he would’ve. once more jay leaned back down to kiss you again. but instead of doing so deeply. he began to lay kisses along your cheeks. to your jawline. then to your neck.

once meeting your neck his movements stopped. his head rested on your shoulder as he eyed the side of your face. noticing the absence of his affection you looked over at him. your gentle eyes meeting his regretful ones.

“are you sure…” he sounded hesitant. worried that you weren’t one hundred percent about your decision. “you’re like a moon to me yn. always there for me even when everything else feels dark. you alone bring light to me when i need it most. i don’t wanna lose you to this. this desire of a vampire…”

“you won’t lose me jay. i don’t care about the danger, or the hunger, or the difference in our worlds. i care about you. i love you.” your hand reached up to his cheek. a gentle finger caressing his face in reassurance.

“god. i’ve loved you since that first night.” his voice breathless as he continued to speak. “i’ve always found myself coming back you, all those nights since then.” jay’s hand took yours bringing your palm to his lips. soon kissing and licking away the blood that stained your hand. the sensation was ticklish causing a gentle laugh to come out.

now as both your hands were intertwined jay resumed his original actions. not only did he leave pecks of kisses along the nape of your neck, but faint nibbles. occasionally sucking at your skin leaving a visible mark.

the more he spent his time in the crook of your neck. the more his fangs started to protrude out. once happy with the litter of love bites all over your neck he raised his head.

“i’m gonna bite you now okay?” his eyes still held doubt. understanding if you wanted to back out now before it was too late.

once he has a taste of your blood he would never wanna live without it. that was the curse of his desire he had to live. even if it meant for the rest of his life. a desire he prayed will never hurt you.

“it’s okay, jay. bite me…” your voice was a hushed whisper as you tilted your head more to the side. opening up the crook of your neck more for him.

you squeezed your eyes shut as you braced for the pain. soon there it was. a burning sensation pulsing through out your neck. a whimper left you lips as his fangs sank deeper into your skin. you could feel jay hesitate, ready to stop. your fingers tangled into his hair, easing his worries. signaling it was okay.

finally jay’s fangs settled into your neck. the taste of your blood made his body tremble. the taste was unlike anything he had before. it was sweet yet bitter. something that would forever be distinct to you.

your body began to weaken as he sucked up your blood. noticing the way your legs gave in jay knew it was enough. un sinking from your neck he raised his head. jay couldn’t help but admire the new symmetrical dots that stood out on your neck. a mark that showed you were his.

jay took notice of your groggily demeanor. taking it upon himself, he scooped you into his arms.

now settled into the bed you couldn’t help but sleepily play with his fingers as he patched up your lightly torn palms. once satisfied with his work he got into the bed getting comfy next to you.

“you’re not gonna disappear for weeks on end anymore right?” you stared up at him with heavy eyelids. sleep slowly yet steadily lulling you in.

“of course not. i’ll be here right by your side always.” jay leaned down to place a chaste kiss to your forehead. as he stroked your hair gently.

“good. that means you need a phone so i can get in contact with you whenever—” before you could pester on, you dozed off. your breathing gentle and rhythmic. jay couldn’t help but tuck a hair behind your ear. eyeing your sleeping face as he smiled down at you.

“yes yes. anything for you my lune. sleep well.” his words were hushed as he pulled you closer to him. exhaustion soon weighing down on him as well.

perm taglist ( open! refer to this post ) . . . @ikeulove @leehsngs @nickiminajleftasscheek @ijustwannareadstuff20

©myjjongie 2025

[t-a-a-1]

tbh this my first time to ask writer about it but I will do it It's stuck in my head and Idk which writer I should ask so u r lucky...js imagine the reader sitting in her place peacefully and the others with their things and BOOM! op the last knight enter from the ground bridge but nobody knows that the reader his wife in his universe. This is a clear reason why he protects her and looks at her from time to time and he asks about her .sitting next to her ask her about her fav things and tell them the reason in the end!!!! I'm sure he looks like a real gentleman and I'm not sorry for mega if op saw the reader in megs hand HAHA! and fear in his opticss you shouldnt do that in the beginning mega optimus' relationship is strong and full of details about her btw((english not my first language))

Waiting For Rain 

Summary: Optimus from TLK comes to the TFP universe by accident and tries to get Prime Optimus to confess his feelings for you. 

Chapters: 1 out of 2

TW: Idk Optimus down bad, obsessed with you, jealousy, all that good stuff. Angst, Fluff, will have a happy ending. 

……

Ch.1

Becoming friends with the Autobots came with many surprises. You were used to unexpected events. 

But having an Optimus from another dimension suddenly come out of the ground-bridge was not in your to-do-list today.

 He was different. 

He still had that presence of elegance and strength. But unlike your Optimus that radiated kindness, this Optimus appeared to be … more hostile. 

The first thing you noticed was his body frame. The metal parts of his body shaped in a way you hadn't seen before. He looked almost medieval and the sword he carried only enhanced his knightly look. 

Everyone looked at him. Intakes wide open and the silence filled the room. But that silence was broken when Ratchen dropped  his data-pad.

“It seems the ground bridge explosion sent me … here.”

His voice sounded older, wiser, more … tired. 

“Optimus, what– who are you?”

Bulkhead was the only one brave enough to get closer to him, expecting him. 

“Did you call me, Bulkhead?”

Your Optimus finally comes into the hangar. Everyone looks at him then back to the other Optimus. Their optics meet and you are unsure of what to do.  

Although you were on the elevated floor of the hangar, the sofa covered most of your body. Wanting to see how things would unfold, you stand up.

The elevated-floor was closer to the Knight Prime than to yours. He noticed your presence and only then did the Optimus’ break their stares. 

The new Optimus looks at you and his optics softened. He walked towards you as if he didn’t care about the other bots around him. You didn’t move as he raised a servo, wanting to touch you. 

But that never happened as your Optimus pushed him away. Abruptly and aggressively.  He looked fierceless and ready to attack the impostor even when he was meters taller than him. 

“Who are you? State your designation and intentions,” your Optimus stands in front of you as he looks down at the other version of himself. The others just watched everything unfold in front of them. 

“My name is Optimus Prime and I … come from another dimension.”

.

.

.

Things were cleared out. The new Optimus explained that he was caught in the middle of a ground-bridge explosion and probably sent here by accident. Ratchet agreed to help him get back to his dimension. Meanwhile, he will stay here with the rest of the Autobots. 

Having to call two Optimus, Optimus, would be confusing. So you decided to call your Optimus, Prime (as you always have) and the new Optimus, Knight Optimus. 

“I am content to know that your existence is still a vital part of my life, of course, I wouldn’t expect to be otherwise.”

Knight Optimus, was as expected, also eloquent with words. But his words left different. More … intense.

“Really? Then I can imagine the other me must be a very interesting person,” you say as you walk with him through the corridors. Out of everyone, it seems he enjoys your company the most. Especially when he was so open to letting you sit on his shoulder. As if it was an everyday thing. You assumed that these kinds of activities were common between him and you from his dimension. 

“She is but I am afraid she might be worried right now.”

“Well, whenever Prime is out for a mission and I get worried, he always comes back,” you say. “So I am sure that me from another dimension knows that you’ll go back  to her soon.” 

“Yes … I think that’s something you would think.”

“I hope I am not interrupting,” “It is late, Bumblebee will escort (Y/N) to her home. Meanwhile, I’ll show you your hab suit.”

“I see,”

Optimus puts you on the floor. 

Prime could only think about how he was stuck with himself. He already disliked him, he had to watch over him when the only thing he wanted was to be the one to take you home instead of Bumblebee. It was his job, his duty and this version of himself was unabling to do. The few quality times he had with you, he had to spend it with him. 

“Good night, Knight Optimus.”

Knight Optimus bends on one knee and gently touches your hair. 

“Good Knight, (y/n) I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

You can’t help but feel your cheeks heat up. He is a handsome mech, that much you can tell. His frame, the way he stands, his presence. You didn’t want to say much so as to not make yourself look like a high school girl. Dumb and stupid. 

Prime looks at your acts and immediately feels something stuck in his spark. As if he wanted to throw up all the energon in his body. 

“Good night, Prime” 

You speak to him and suddenly, he has no words. His processor begged him to say something. To tell you how much he will miss you during the night, about how he will look at the moon and think of you. Just you. 

Prime simply nods. 

That's the only thing he could muster to do. Pathetic. 

They see you walk away. Their optics glued to you but Prime had more yearning in his eyes compared to his equal. 

And he noticed this.

“May I inquire, why is it that (Reader)  sleeps in a different area than you?”

“She has a home to go to.”

Prime starts to walk, hoping that Knight Optimus would follow him. He does but his steps are cautious just as curious. 

“... Away from you?” Knight Optimus asks.  “I did not detect any sparkling-waves inside of her, do you not bed her enough?”

Prime suddenly stops walking, he turns to look at Knight Optimus. 

“... I beg your pardon?”

“Well, it is strange to not spark your Conjux. My (Reader) and I have four sparklings and expect another soon.”

He could hear his venting fans accelerate, his processor not being able to understand the information. Whether because he was too excited to know that there is a version of him that you loved or because he couldn’t believe that the two of you were compatible enough to create life. 

“...Excuse me?” Prime asks, the only thing he could muster to say.

“Do not tell me … You haven’t spark-bonded yet?”

Suddenly, he goes quiet. Knight Optimus studies his face and the confused look on his face lets him know everything he needs. After all, he used to have the same look once before. 

“... She doesn’t know of your undying feelings for her, does she?”

“My relationship with (Reader) is strictly platonic,” Prime lies, hoping that he is not too bad at doing so. “Nothing of the likes of yours.”

“Deception? I thought we were unfamiliar to the concept but it seems I was wrong,” 

“It’s not a lie.”

“It is,” Knight Optimus looks at his servo, missing the feeling of his (Reader) on it. “Because I know there’s no version of me that does not love her.”

He closes his servo, wishing he could be back with her now. Ever since gifting him with sparklings, this is probably the longest the two of you have been apart. 

“I am sure you can’t even look at the Moon without thinking of her.”

“You must be mad.”

“Are you not?”

There is no way of denying it. Honestly, it doesn’t surprise him that another version of him loves you. He was right, he knew it. That there couldn’t exist a version of him that didn’t love you. His soul was bound to you in this universe and each one of them. For now, he was content to know that another version of you loved him. 

But also, kinda jealous. 

Because Knight Optimus was allowed to love you. To show you his affection.

He wasn’t as lucky. 

“If you are a fraction of what I am, you must be, to an extent, mad,” Knight Optimus was trying to come up with comforting words but failing to do so.  “But I was able to express my feelings and it made all the difference.”

But if comfort doesn’t work, maybe something else would.

“In my case, it drove me insane the thought of not being with her,” he says. “Can you imagine her taking refuge in another man's arms? Carrying someone else’s sparkling?”

He didn’t want to think about it. Because he knew he would go mad the moment he does. 

“If that’s what she wishes, so be it,” Prime, once again feels that pain in his spark. On his entire frame.  “It doesn’t concern me.”

The only thing that Knight Prime could think of, was that this version of himself had yet too much to understand. 

“...Very well then, if that’s what you say. I won’t mention another word.”

.

.

.

Ratchet and Raphael were busy trying to decipher the mathematics for dimensional travel.

Which Prime couldn’t be more anxious for them to finish. 

To say that Knight Optimus had completely taken your attention is an understatement. He was completely all over you and you didn’t seem to mind one bit. 

He asked too many questions. Out of curiosity mostly. Where did you work, your favorite food, color, place, hobby. And you were happy to answer all of his questions. 

“Would you Conjux a Cybertronian?”

This is something he was interested in. Prime immediately concentrated his audial towards the conversation. 

“I don’t even think Cybertronians find humans to be attractive?” you say. “Besides, I don’t think I am good enough to be any Cybertronian’s partner. You guys are just so cool!”

Although you had meant this in a flattering way, Knight Optimus took this personally. He kneeled down and wished he could mass-shift but that act was too intimate and he would only do that if were to be alone with you. 

“It is I, who’s not deserving–”

“Oi! What’s up with that hot Prime?”

Alex shows up at the hangar as he usually does. His eyes solely focused on Knight Prime. He whistles at him, at his mechanical beauty. He looks at him the same way when he looks at a pretty car. 

Knight Optimus wasn’t a big fan of this first interaction and decided to walk away to talk to Prime. 

You took this as your cue to talk to Alex and explain to him the situation. 

Prime continues to work on his computer but using his peripheral vision, he noticed Knight Optimus. He didn’t want to interact with him but he thought that it was better than to watch him talk to you. 

Meanwhile, Knight Optimus saw in Prime, a younger, less experienced version of himself. Still with hope and dreams. Craving, wanting. Wishing that things can finish the way he wanted them to if only he is good enough. 

He had once been like that too. But after many losses, he understood that if you want something, you have to take it. Claim it. 

But then he heard you laugh and all of his attention was driven towards you. This Alex seems to be fond of you and you are so. He gets close to you, more than he would like. 

“I am aware that I mentioned that I won’t speak of the matter again,” Knight Optimus says to Prime.  “But I cannot believe you won’t do anything about this.”

Knight Optimus looks back at you and Alex and Prime follows his vision. He watches the interaction for a few seconds, only for Prime to go back to work on his computer. 

“That male human will take her from you the moment you look away,” he tries for his voice to not be too loud but Prime’s lack of interest was bothering him greatly.  “Does your spark not burn with envy?”

“I do not have such a feeling,” he simply says. He can’t tell the truth. That his sparks begs to come out of his chamber whenever he approaches you and shows some romantic interest. 

Knight Optimus sees Alex get closer to you, he could sense that he wanted to invade your personal space. Tempted to touch you. 

“I would have broken his arm off if he dared to touch my (Reader) without her permission,”  Knight Prime would have already taken you away from the male if only he wasn’t too busy trying to make Prime act on his true feelings.  “Even now, I am tempted to do so.”

“I do not harm humans.” 

“I am sure you have thought about it,” although Prime was pretending to be busy by typing on his massive computer, he was hearing everything Knight Prime had to say.  “Just look at him. Making her laugh … Who does he think he is?”

He doesn’t want to look. Because he will start to analyze every single aspect of your interaction with Agent Alex. The way you put a string of hair behind your ear, smiling and avoiding eye contact. Your blinking patterns, your breathing, your pulse–

“Have you always been this possesive?” Prime asks, feeling like a hypocrite. 

“Only when I feel a threat,” Knight Optimus says. “And he is one.”

Knight Optimus didn’t hesitate to look. And although he paid attention to you, he also paid attention to male next to you. And how he reaches out to you and caresses your hair. 

“Definitely one.” 

He was about to walk towards the two of you but he felt another servo on his shoulder, stopping him. 

“Do not do something foolish.”

“Pardon, but I cannot and will not stand another version of my wife be … flattered by anyone,” Knight Prime pushes Prime’s servo away, looking at him with disgust.  “If you won’t give her the rightful place she deserves in your spark then I’ll do it myself.”

But before Knight Optimus could do something about the situation, Optimus’ computer starts to beep. Loudly. 

It was no other than Megatron. 

.

.

.

.

.

A/N:  Hello anon! Thank you for the beautiful ask, it was so fun to write! I will complete your full request in another chapter. I hope this is somewhat, what you wanted. Can’t wait for knight optimus to go full berserk when you captured by Megatron hehe 

The writing on this wasn’t my favorite but it’s fun to write regardless. Also yes, this Knight Optimus is the same from my other fic “Rain Drops” so he got this happy ending :))

For the rest of my readers … sorry I was so absent, I had to write a movie script for a film festival so that took all of my attention. Now, I’ll concentrate on writing the next chapter of counting stars and/ or The Darkest Hour. 

Thank you for reading! See you soon <3

[nightblackowlbat]

Soulmate AU Dead on MAYn 25 day 1

Trope: Ghost culture is weird

Word: Bones

Scenario: Jason meets Dany as a ghost

Dialogue: “Wait, you can see me?”

Ever since Danny’s soulmate words came in, his parents’ attitude towards ghosts had done a 180. After all, what else but a ghost would say something like “wait, you can see me?” as an introduction? And if their perfect boy’s soulmate was a ghost, then ghosts couldn’t be all that bad. Jack and Maddie were soulmates after all, and they would never dream of trying to keep their son from his fated other half. (Maddie had the question “did you just build a spirit box out of a crockpot?” along her inner arm and Jack had “Obviously!” Stamped on his forehead.)

All that’s to say that the Fentons were no longer obsessed with catching any old ghost to study. No, instead they were obsessed with catching Danny’s soulmate to add them to the family. It made things pretty awkward when the portal opened up and the Fentons chased down every ghost to introduce their son, only to find Danny gone at the last minute and Phantom appearing to chase the other ghost back into the zone.

Danny was just about ready to die again of shame when Jack brought up the possibility that Phantom was his shy yet jealous soulmate, not ready to meet him yet but hating the idea of Danny meeting any other ghost first. Luckily Jazz pointed out that since Danny’s words were “wait you can see me?” It implied that his ghostly soulmate was a much weaker, invisible ghost that would only appear outside of Amity. Danny had never appreciated his big sister so much. He carefully didn’t mention that Phantom could go invisible at will.

Alas, one cannot stop a determined Fenton couple, only redirect them. Which is why they were on this grand family road trip to visit every cemetery and graveyard in America. Or at least, have Danny visit them. Jazz once again came in clutch insisting that nobody needed their whole family hovering around as they met their soulmate and demanded the parents visit colleges with her while Danny explored graves on his own.

Danny didn’t mind really, wandering around graveyards was far from the worst way his parents could have made him spend his summer. Besides, cemeteries were peaceful, beautiful even. And meeting (and teasing) the few ghosts who actually stuck by their graves was nice. Hey, as an obsession based ghost it was his right to poke a little fun at those boring graveyard ghosts who just stuck around their bones.

“Are you seriously haunting your own grave? I’m not sure I can think of anything more cliche and that’s coming from a ghost who goes by Phantom.” Danny tossed out as his usual cheeky introduction.

The ghost whirled around with a look of shock on his face. “Wait, you can see me?”

Danny felt his soul mark burn and his jaw dropped in mirrored shock. “Well I’ll be darned!” He laughed out loud. “I guess this trip wasn’t useless after all. Nice t’meetcha soulmate! I’m Danny.”

The ghost huffed. “Oh a’course I only meet my soulmate once I’m dead. Shouldn’a ‘spected any different given my weird ass words.”

“Uhm, I’m guessing you’re Jason? Or do you have a dead name you’d rather go by?” Danny nervously asked.

“Isn’t that an oxymoron? No one wants to go by their dead name. That’s the whole point.”

“Oh! Ghost culture is weird. Dead name means something different. It’s- a ghost’s dead name is who they want to be in death rather than who they were in life? Hmm. No, that’s not quite it. It’s who they always were, just crystallized and purified from everything that tainted it in life. Like, it’s who you are without life getting in the way.”

“Then. I guess I’m Robin. He can’t take that away from me now that I’m dead, now can he?”

[ashthesalamipiece]

Can you pls do reader accidentally going back in time (because of an artifact she found on a mission) to where bakugo and the rest of the class are still in the ua and bakugo completly falls in love with reader because she is like super hot and a badass (since she is still in her gear) and she stays a while till she finds out how to go back and before heading back to the future she says something that reveals she and kats are married. Then if you can make a little skip thru time to where kats first meets reader and is super nervous and blurts out I love you.

Enjoy!♡

---

"Backdraft"

The ruins were quiet, too quiet.

You adjusted your gear, brushing a smudge of ash off your cheek. The mission had seemed straightforward: investigate a temporal anomaly outside Musutafu. But the second you touched that glowing relic in the center of the chamber, everything flipped.

A blinding pulse.

And then—

Sunlight. Voices. Heat.

You stumbled forward, blinking at the massive U.A. campus... fully intact.

"Hey! Who the hell—"

You turned instinctively, eyes locking with a very familiar pair of crimson ones. Katsuki Bakugo stood in full uniform, arms tense, his eyes narrowing—until he really saw you.

Your tactical gear clung to your form, smoke trailing from your last battle. Confident. Poised. Dangerous.

"Holy shit," he muttered under his breath, momentarily stunned.

"Language," you smirked, before realizing—oh, you were definitely in the past.

---

Days passed.

No one could figure out who you were or how you got through U.A.'s security. Nezu let you stay, partially intrigued, partially suspicious. You trained with the class, claiming amnesia. It was safer than the truth.

Bakugo, though? He was obsessed.

At first, he masked it with his usual temper—snarky remarks, glares, challenges. But you saw the way his eyes lingered. How he'd subtly step between you and danger during drills. How he listened, really listened, when you spoke.

You let it happen. Against your better judgment, you liked seeing this side of him again—unguarded, unaware.

---

Then came the day you found a way back.

The artifact reacted to your touch again, humming with familiarity. Your window home was seconds away.

Bakugo stormed into the training hall, catching you just as the light returned.

"Wait—you're leaving? Just like that?!" His voice cracked, raw with frustration.

You gave a soft smile, brushing a hand along his cheek—his younger, stunned expression making your heart ache.

"Don't worry, Kats. We still end up married."

And you vanished.

---

Years Later…

Bakugo stood backstage at a Pro Hero gala, heart pounding.

He’d never forgotten you. The mystery woman who vanished into time. But the day had finally come.

Someone was walking toward him in that same gear. Same confident walk. Same smirk.

You.

He opened his mouth—totally intending to say something cool. Collected.

Instead, what came out was:

"I love you."

You blinked. Then laughed softly.

"Took you long enough."

[livelaughlovebigzoro]

---

Title: "Behind His Back – Part 2: His to Ruin"

*Geum Seongje x Reader*

Warnings: Jealousy, manipulation, emotional blackmail, public exposure, toxic dynamics, kidnapping, dubious consent, rough unprotected sex, creampie, obsession, possessive behavior, power imbalance, profanity, degradation. 18+ only.

---

You should’ve known he wouldn’t let it go quietly.

After what happened on that couch, you tried to end it. Pretended nothing happened. Kissed your boyfriend like your mouth hadn’t been full of his brother the night before.

But Seongje *knew*.

And worse—he *waited.*

---

The family dinner was supposed to be normal.

A rare moment of peace. You dressed up, wore something simple, sat beside your boyfriend, tried to hold his hand like everything was fine. But when Seongje walked in—late, as always—you felt the room tilt.

He didn’t look at you at first. Just lit a cigarette in the backyard, drank whiskey from a coffee mug like no one could tell.

You told yourself you could survive the evening if you avoided him.

But he had other plans.

---

It happened during dessert.

Your boyfriend was laughing, your mom was complimenting the wine, and Seongje—lounging in the corner like a wolf in a dinner jacket—just snapped.

“You gonna tell them,” he said suddenly, loud enough to hush the room, “or should I?”

You froze. Everyone looked at him. Then at you.

“What are you talking about?” your boyfriend asked.

Seongje smiled lazily. “She didn’t tell you? She’s been fucking me behind your back.”

Your breath died in your throat.

“Geum Seongje,” you hissed, standing, voice shaking. “Shut the fuck up.”

But he stood too. Took a slow drag from his cigarette. “Go ahead. Lie. Look your parents in the eye and lie about whose cock you were choking on last week.”

The room exploded. Yelling. Glass shattering. Your boyfriend stormed off. Your family stared like you were a stranger. And through it all, Seongje just smiled like a man watching his favorite movie.

You slapped him.

And he didn’t flinch.

---

You blocked his number.

Moved out.

Cut him off cold.

And for a few weeks, it worked.

Until it didn’t.

---

You woke up in a bed you didn’t recognize.

Your wrists weren’t tied, but your head was heavy, and your mouth tasted like sedatives. Dim light filtered through blackout curtains. Everything smelled like cigarettes and cologne—his.

Panic surged as you sat up.

“You’re awake,” came the low voice from the armchair across the room.

Seongje. Relaxed. Legs spread. Smoking like this was a fucking honeymoon suite.

“You drugged me,” you said, voice raw.

“No,” he said coolly. “I *rescued* you. From your sad little life of pretending.”

You stood too fast and stumbled. He caught you before you hit the floor.

“I told you,” he said, mouth at your ear, arms too tight, “you’re mine now. I warned you what would happen if you walked away.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he said, guiding you back to bed, pushing you down, “but you liked it.”

You tried to slap him again. He caught your wrist mid-air.

“Hit me all you want,” he growled, “but I’m still the only one who ever made you come hard enough to cry.”

He kissed you then—brutal, bruising. And despite everything, your body betrayed you. You kissed back. Harder.

Clothes were gone in seconds. You weren’t even sure who tore what.

He shoved your legs apart and *spit* on your cunt before slamming into you raw.

You screamed.

But not from pain.

“Still so fucking tight,” he snarled, snapping his hips. “You miss this? Or did you fuck someone else while pretending I didn’t ruin you?”

You shook your head, gasping.

“That’s right. No one else,” he panted. “You belong to *me.*”

His hand closed around your throat. Not enough to choke—just to hold you still while he *fucked* you, unrelenting, like he needed to brand his name inside you.

“You mad?” he whispered. “You should be. I ruined your family. Your relationship. Your reputation.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Good,” he said, and kissed you again, softer this time—too soft. “Then you’ll remember who you belong to when I fuck a baby into you next.”

You gasped, legs shaking.

“That’s right,” he said, fucking you deeper, harder, hand on your stomach like he could feel it take. “I’m gonna come inside you until you’re dripping, until you *can’t* pretend it’s not mine.”

And he did.

Deep. Hot. Possessive.

When you collapsed against him, too tired to cry anymore, he pulled you close and whispered:

“No more running.”

---

[heartepub]

studio seventeen presents . . .

welcome to the studio seventeen special collection: kingdoms of dreams and madness! dive into thirteen different stories and celebrate ten years of magic. 🎞 aka, a series featuring the SEVENTEEN members, each inspired by a different studio ghibli film.

▷ PLAY ALL | ☞ SELECT ONE | ♫ SAMPLER OST

the courage to live 🌱 choi seungcheol.

“my mother used to tell me about the little people who lived under the floors.” — the secret world of arrietty during a forced retreat pre-surgery, seungcheol learns what it means to persist.

the boy who swallowed a star 💫 yoon jeonghan.

“there you are, sweetheart. i’ve been looking everywhere for you.” — howl’s moving castle three things are true: there is a war. there is a curse. there is love. and jeonghan can’t keep running away.

signal flags 🚢 hong joshua.

“i pray for safe voyages.” — from up on poppy hill amid efforts to halt the demolition of the latin quarter, joshua finds himself drawn to the girl hoisting flags every morning.

the path of the wind 🌳 wen junhui.

“everybody, try laughing. then whatever scares you will go away!” — my neighbour totoro junhui observes the highs and lows of the new girl, who sits in front of him in class.

fly once, fly again 🧹 kwon soonyoung.

“flying used to be fun until I did it for a living.” — kiki’s delivery service soonyoung’s attempts to befriend the town’s new witch have varying degrees of success. and then she stops flying.

beautiful, cursed dreams ☁️ jeon wonwoo.

“the wind rises. we must try to live!” — the wind rises all wonwoo wanted was to create beautiful things.

more thicker than forget 🐉 lee jihoon.

“will we meet again some time?” — spirited away when jihoon gets himself in another bind, the gods seem to find it fitting to send the girl who had already saved him once. too bad she doesn’t remember.

take a leap 🐠 lee seokmin.

“life is mysterious and amazing.” — ponyo seokmin is thrown back into his extraordinary childhood when his best friend’s distant cousin pulls the same trick and tries to turn herself human.

heart notes 💌 kim mingyu.

“can’t you be in love without determining your future first?” — whisper of the heart mingyu knows who he dreams of being. scribbling his name in library books to make his crush notice him is not part of that plan, but it could be.

with eyes unclouded 🦌 xu minghao.

“it’s time for both of us to live.” — princess mononoke cursed after an encounter with a rampaging demon, minghao leaves his town in search of a cure.

safflowers and memories 🌼 boo seungkwan.

“how come i let him get so close?” — only yesterday going to the countryside to help harvest safflowers was part of the plan. meeting seungkwan was not.

unfolds and unfolds forever 🎍 chwe hansol.

“that tomorrow never came.” — the tale of the princess kaguya a lost love comes and goes. it only ever lingers in hansol’s dreams.

the girl who fell from the sky 🎺 lee chan.

“the world cannot live without love.” — laputa: castle in the sky chan has been searching for the lost island of laputa, wondering if it even exists. one day, the answer falls right into his arms.

note. all fics will be tagged #svt x ghibli by heartepub. i chose to theme my svt 10-year celebration around my very first post on caratblr (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) i’m awfully late bc life is hectic (as i say every month, unfortunately), but i’m excited to bring these to life!!

count on many of these to be on the longer side since i am too obsessed with ghibli for them to be otherwise. the film plots may not be followed exactly, if it’s necessary to honor the members’ characterization being a bit different from the film’s characters. also, some may be speculative sequels to movies (jihoon’s and seokmin’s). but at least one fic will be out by may 26 — see you then!!

[elliespassagerprincess]

Idk if you watched yellowjackets but i really think you would like it!

It got me thinking about ellie who lost her bestfriend (secret crush/love of her life) reader and cant part with her body and breaksdown when people find out she has it and take it away from her

Dont take her from me - ellie williams x reader

hi anon! i haven't watched it yet but its been on my watchlist... I've heard good things about it. Once again i got carried away... i hope you enjoy:)

pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader

requests are open, send me songs or your silly ideas:)

HUGE WARNING: grief, delusion, breakdown, body transport, psychological decay, corpses/dead bodies, disturbing comfort, jealousy, paranoia, anxiety, mental health strain, grave raiding, corpse handling, delusion, isolation, obsession, gore implied, graphic descriptions, blood, unsettling behaviour

Summary: Ellie’s always had control—until someone threatens to take the one person she can’t live without

masterlist

This story contains dark and emotionally intense themes—please read with care. You are responsible for what you consume online. Please read the warnings before reading.

The blood had dried on Ellie’s hands hours ago.

But she still sat there, legs numb from being folded too long, your lifeless form cradled in her arms like you might wake up if she held you tight enough.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

She didn’t even get the chance to tell you how she felt—how the thing in her chest wasn’t just a crush. Wasn’t just longing. It was hunger. Ached for you so deeply that she sometimes had to grip the edge of her desk just to stop from running to your house and spilling every ugly truth in her head.

Now she was sitting on the cold floor of an abandoned cabin, in the middle of nowhere, covered in blood and sweat and dirt—and none of it mattered. None of it compared to the way your body had gone still. Your breath, your light… extinguished like it was never there.

She pressed her cheek to your forehead. Still faintly warm.

“Don’t go cold,” she whispered, voice shredded from hours of screaming your name into nothingness. “Just stay a little longer. Just stay with me.”

She rocked slightly. Back and forth. Like she could lull you into staying. Like you were just sleeping off a long night.

And when the others came—Jesse, Dina, a couple others from Jackson—Ellie didn’t even flinch.

They saw her first. Then you. No one spoke. For a moment, all they did was stare.

Then Jesse stepped forward. “Ellie,” he said softly, eyes wide with horror, “we have to take her.”

She didn’t look up. “No.”

“Ellie—”

“No.”

Her voice cracked, sharp and shrill, and her grip around your torso tightened.

“She’s not—she’s not ready. She’s not cold yet. She’s not—” Her breath hitched. “You can’t just take her.”

Dina’s face twisted in pain. “El… we need to bury her. It’s not safe out here, there’s—”

“You don’t get to touch her!” Ellie roared, head snapping up. Her eyes were wild—bloodshot, soaked with grief and rage. “You didn’t know her like I did. You don’t even get it.”

She scrambled back as Jesse reached again, shielding your body like a wounded animal. Her fingers trembled where they clung to your clothes.

“She was mine,” she whispered. “I never got to say it—but she was. She was. And you’re not gonna put her in the fucking ground like she’s just gone. She’s not.”

She pressed a kiss to your temple. Desperate. Cracked. “I can keep her warm. I swear. I’ll—I’ll keep her safe. Don’t take her from me. Please.”

But your skin was cooling.

No amount of warmth from her hands, no matter how feverishly she held you, could stop the inevitable.

She had memorized every scar, every laugh, every stupid joke you told just to see her crack a smile. And now you were quiet. Hollow. Just an echo.

They had to sedate her.

It took three of them. She fought like a hellhound, screaming your name, kicking, crying, biting, even when the needle sank into her neck. Even when her body slumped in Jesse’s arms, unconscious… her fingers were still twisted in your shirt.

When she woke up in Jackson days later, you were gone. She lost it.

They wouldn’t tell her where they buried you. Said she wasn’t stable. Said she needed rest, time, healing.

She screamed until her voice gave out. Tore her room apart looking for anything you touched. Burned a hole through your favorite hoodie just trying to breathe it in.

She sneaks out that night. Finds the grave. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The dirt’s still fresh.

Ellie drops to her knees, hands shaking, and begins to dig. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She doesn’t care. She needs to see your face again.

Needs to kiss you, one more time, even if your lips are cold. Needs to apologize for all the time she wasted. Needs to ask if you’d have said yes—if she had asked you out. If you’d have smiled, taken her hand, told her you felt it too.

When they find her in the morning, she’s curled up beside the half-opened grave, fingers bloodied, dirt under her nails, your name on her lips. She doesn’t even look up.

“She was the only good thing,” she whispers, to no one. “And I didn’t get to keep her.”

It had been six days since you died. No one had found the cabin. Not yet. She made sure of it.

The windows were boarded. The door—barred with a chair wedged under the knob. Every possible crack sealed tight. She'd left bloodied handprints on the wood floor from moving you again, and again, and again—trying to find the right spot, the one you’d be most comfortable in.

You were laid out on a mattress in the center of the room, tucked under a worn blanket she stole from your house weeks ago. Your hair combed back gently. Lips touched with rose balm. She even painted your nails.

“See?” Ellie murmured, sitting beside you, her knees folded tightly under her. Her fingers brushed the edge of your arm—skin pale, but not blue. Not yet. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

She hadn’t eaten in two days. Barely drank water. Her eyes were sunken, red-rimmed, skin tight across her cheekbones. But her gaze never left you.

Sometimes, she imagined you blinking. Sometimes, she swore you did.

Sometimes, she dreamed you whispered her name, and when she woke up, her ear would be inches from your mouth, waiting. Just waiting for it again.

It wasn’t decomposition. It was transition. That’s what she told herself. That the smell wasn’t decay—it was your soul trying to root itself in her.

That the darkening under your eyes wasn’t rot—it was exhaustion from everything you’d been through.

That the way your body stiffened wasn’t rigor mortis—it was just you being shy. You’d always been shy.

They came looking for her on the ninth day. A knock at the cabin.

“Ellie? Are you in there?”

Jesse.

Ellie blinked, gaze pulling from your face. She didn’t answer.

“Ellie, please. We just want to help.”

Help?

They didn’t understand.

They wanted to take you.

She stood slowly, reaching for the axe near the doorway. The one she'd been using to chop firewood—and threaten the shadows when they got too loud.

She looked down at you one last time. Her expression soft, loving, doting.

“They don’t get to have you,” she whispered, eyes glassy. “You’re mine.” Then she went to the door.

The floorboards are stained now. Not from you. From the others.

They tried to come in. They didn’t leave.

She had to do it. She had to. They would’ve taken you. Put you in the ground like you were nothing more than meat and memory.

You weren’t. You were everything. Still are.

Now it’s just the two of you again. The way it should be.

Ellie sleeps curled up at the foot of your mattress, arm across your ankle like a child holding a stuffed toy. She tells you stories. She sings to you—soft lullabies she remembers her mom humming, or songs she once heard you hum absentmindedly in the kitchen.

Sometimes she kisses your hand. Sometimes she cries and begs you not to leave her.

“I love you,” she whispers again and again. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I won’t let them bury you. You’re mine.”

The backseat of the truck smelled like copper and perfume. The perfume was yours. A bottle she stole from your bathroom before the blood dried. She sprayed it on you each morning like ritual. Like prayer.

The copper was blood. Not yours, mostly.

She had to kill the man who owned the truck.

He tried to take it—you. Said it wasn’t “right.” Said you were a body, not a person anymore. Said she needed help.

He didn’t understand. None of them did.

Ellie adjusted the blanket over your face again, tucking it neatly beneath your chin. The fabric clung wetly to your skin, the heat of the day making it damp. Your body… was changing. But she didn’t look at the changes. She looked at your eyes, still closed, eyelashes dark and perfect.

She turned the engine and drove.

You were going west. She didn’t have a destination. Not a real one. Just the vague echo of hope in the back of her skull that somewhere, someone out there could bring you back. Fix it.

There had to be a way. Science. Magic. Something. People resurrect dogs all the time in books, right?

So why not you? You were better than a dog. You were her.

Day 4

The desert was hot.

Your skin started to blister.

Ellie cried while wiping you down with a cool rag, her hands trembling. “I’m sorry, baby. I should’ve covered you better. You don’t like the sun, remember? You always said it makes you dizzy. I should’ve known.”

She stuffed ice in a towel and placed it under your neck. It melted within an hour.

Day 7

She changed your clothes.

It took two hours. Your limbs were stiff now, resistant, like you were mad at her. She apologized over and over again, kissing your hands, your face, your knees.

“You’re so cold,” she whispered, wrapping you in a hoodie that once belonged to her. “But I’ll warm you up. We just need to keep moving.”

Day 9

She saw the lights in the sky. Or maybe imagined them.

A roadside church with the word “HEALING” painted in blood-red letters drew her attention. She pulled over. Inside, there were no people. Just old books, dry flowers, and a candlelit altar.

She laid you there, right in the center, brushing your hair from your forehead. Then she got on her knees.

Prayed.

For the first time in her life.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please. I love her. I didn’t get to say it. Please just… give her back. I’ll do anything.”

The candles flickered. Her heart stopped. You didn’t move.

Day 12

You smelled worse now.

She lined the truck bed with herbs. Lavender. Mint. Anything she could find.

She kept the windows cracked so you could breathe. She never admitted—never—that you couldn’t. That maybe your lungs had stopped working long ago. Because you still looked peaceful. Still looked like you were sleeping. Still looked like you might say her name if she leaned close enough.

Sometimes she imagined you turning to her. Smiling. She started answering for you. Making conversations in the dark.

“Do you think we’ll find someone?”

Yeah, El. I think so.

“Should I stop driving tonight?”

I like the sound of the road. Keep going.

“Okay. I’ll keep going.”

Day 15

The truck ran out of gas in Arizona.

Ellie dragged your body through the sand, arms bruised and bleeding, sunburnt to hell. She tied you to a door she ripped off an abandoned house and pulled it like a sled. Her boots left deep tracks behind her. Buzzards circled above. But she didn’t look up. Didn’t cry.

Didn’t slow down.

“I’m taking you to the ocean,” she told you. “You always wanted to see it. We’ll go together. We’ll walk into the waves. Maybe that’s what you need.”

Your lips were cracked. Hollow.

But she smiled at you like you’d just said “thank you.”

Day 20

She made it to the coast. Somehow.

Body bruised, fingers blackened, lips crusted and bleeding, Ellie stood barefoot in the surf, your body laid out beside her on the wet sand. The tide rolled in. Foam kissed your toes.

She knelt beside you, her voice shaking. “This is it. If you’re gonna come back… it’ll be here.”

The moon hung above like an unblinking eye.

She took your hand, held it to her chest, pressed her lips to your temple one last time.

“Please.”

Silence.

“Please, wake up.”

Nothing.

The water rose. The stars flickered. Ellie’s tears slid down your dead face.

And then—

In the wind, she heard it.

Faint. Echoing. Gentle.

“I missed you too, El.”

Her mouth broke into a smile.

And when the waves swallowed you both whole, she didn’t fight it.

When Ellie opened her eyes, there was no pain. No sand. No salt. No hunger. No rotting flesh between her fingers. Just warmth. A low golden hum.

And you.

Sitting on the edge of a bed, hair glowing in the soft light. Wearing that shirt she loved on you, the one you always slept in. Your legs curled beneath you, a book open in your lap. You looked up, smiled.

“Hey.” Her breath hitched.

She looked down. Her hands were clean. No blood, no dirt. Her boots were gone. She was barefoot, the floor beneath her soft and cloud-warm.

“…Where…?” she croaked.

You tilted your head. “You’re home.”

Ellie staggered forward like a child learning to walk again, eyes wide, unblinking. “Is this—am I dreaming?”

You didn’t answer. Just opened your arms. She collapsed into them.

The scent of you—pure, unchanged—drenched her brain like a drug. Your skin was warm. Your breath against her ear as you whispered her name made her sob.

“I missed you,” she choked. “I missed you so fucking much.”

You stroked her hair. “I know. I waited.”

The house had no doors. No clocks. No sky. Just soft white light that never dimmed. It existed outside of time. And so did you.

You cooked together. Slept curled in one another’s arms. Sang songs in the silence. She traced your face every night, whispering prayers of thanks to whatever cruel or merciful god had made this possible.

But some things weren’t quite right.

You never left the house.

Never asked her questions.

Never said “I love you” first.

Sometimes, Ellie caught glimpses—your reflection in the window lagging behind, your voice echoing before you spoke, your heartbeat silent when her ear pressed to your chest.

But she ignored it.

Because she had you.

One Day…

She woke up and you weren’t there. The bed was cold. Empty.

She searched the house—every corner, every drawer. Screaming your name until her voice gave out. In the mirror above the sink, her reflection stared at her. But it wasn’t her.

Its eyes were black. Hollow. Its skin cracked. Decaying.

“You took her,” she whispered to it.

“You lost her,” the mirror answered.

She shattered it with her fists.

Later, she found you again. Sitting in the bedroom, combing your hair.

Like nothing had happened.

Ellie fell to her knees. “Please don’t leave again.”

You turned, eyes soft. “I didn’t leave. You just forgot where I was.”

Her hands shook as she touched your cheek. You were still cold.

Colder than before.

As the days passed—if you could call them days—you began to fade.

Literally.

Your edges blurred. Your voice softened into whispers. Your body, once warm, became translucent in the light. Ellie wrapped herself around you each night like armor, like a chain.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she hissed into your hair. “I won’t let you go again.” You didn’t respond. But you wept in your sleep.

One night, she woke up alone again. This time, you didn’t come back.

Ellie searched every room, howling like an animal. Her skin began to flake. Her nails fell off. She bled from the gums. The house, once warm, was now cold stone. Shadows whispered your name, mockingly, again and again and again. She clawed at the walls until they bled with her.

Then she saw the door. The first and only door. At the end of the hallway, pulsing like a wound. She stepped through.

On the other side: Both your bodies washed up by the ocean.

Her body, lying beside it. Rotting. Clutching your arm. And a figure, dressed in black, speaking gently.

“You can’t stay with her forever,” Death murmured. “This was your mind's lie. Your denial. It’s time to go.”

Ellie laughed. “Fuck off.”

She turned around, walked back into the house. Back into the version of you that smiled when she arrived. That never asked her to change. That didn’t cry when she kissed your cold mouth.

She never left again.

Ellie stayed in the house—forever rotting, forever hallucinating. Holding your fading, flickering ghost and convincing herself you were real. And in her head, in her twisted, love-drunk eternity, you always whispered the same thing before sleep:

“I’ll never leave you again.”

And even if it was a lie—

Ellie believed it.

When they eventually found your bodies, the costal shore reeked of sweet sick rot.

Ellie was thin. Hollow. Nails broken. Eyes vacant. But Ellie’s smile is peaceful.

She’s lying beside you, one hand holding your arm, the other clutched around a knife driven straight into her own heart. A blood trail leading from her chest to the outline of your body, as if she were trying to bleed into you. Return to you. Merge with you.

There’s a note, scrawled on the sand:

“She waited for me. I’ll stay with her now.”

[crdteezv]

His #1 Fan - Haechan

Pairing:  !idol! Haechan x perv loser fangirl! gf! reader

Genre: idol! au, smut

Synopsis: You told him you were just a fan. But behind closed doors? You were obsessed—saving every fancam, moaning his name into your pillow, and running a secret fan account filled with god knows what. Haechan never suspected a thing… until he came home early and found it all. And now that he knows what you really are?

A pervert.

 Warnings: smut. !mean/hard dom! haechan, loser/perv sub!reader, reader has an unhealthy obsession with him and is lowkey creepy at times… mutual masturbation, phone sex?, size kink,  oral (giving), fingering (receiving), sex toy use, pillow humping, HEAVY humiliation and degradation, unprotected sex.

Word Count: 5.4k words

A/N: Fair warning—this fic is pretty disturbing, and if you’re not comfortable with any of the tags above, please refrain from reading. This one’s way more intense than most of what I’ve written before.

Also, sorry for disappearing for months… I had zero motivation to write until now!!

AND I did not forget about the NCT prompt requests!! A bunch of them are still in the works, so keep an eye out

You were a fan first. Always.

You’d been following Haechan for years. Not casually. Not like one of those girls who watches a few stages and thinks she’s obsessed because she knows his birthday and blood type. No. You were deep into it. Sick with it. You're the kind of fan people make callout threads about.

You studied him.

Every stage outfit—categorized by tour, color scheme, and accessory. Every fancam—even the shaky, blurry 360p ones where the mic check overshadowed his voice—downloaded, backed up, renamed, and stored in folders sorted by era, hair color, etc. You had tags for expressions like his smirks or lip bites. Livestreams were recorded the second they went up, even the ones that got deleted halfway through. You had them saved forever.

You had clips titled things like "his moan???" and “rude ass stare.mp4.” You watched them on loop. 

You came to them.

At first, you told yourself it wasn’t that bad. You weren’t trying to date him. You didn’t want to be his girlfriend. You wanted to be fucked. Used.

You wanted to be some stupid little fan he could bend over the edge of a hotel bed and ruin—nothing but a warm hole to fuck until your throat was raw from moaning and your legs were too weak to stand. 

Your private account—@haebrainrot606—was the place where you said all the shit you’d never admit aloud.

he laughs like he knows i’d let him use my throat if he asked

i just know he gives the craziest head i want his face shoved in between my legs

i want to make a mess on his thigh and ride it till i cry

The tweet that went viral wasn’t even your worst one.

i want him to ignore me while he jerks off. just use my mouth. don’t even look at me

15k likes.. People were going crazy in the replies. No one knew who you were. You never posted your face. But your followers? They knew. They understood. They were sick just like you. 

You weren’t a fan.

You were a pervert.

And you were fine with that.

Until it stopped being a fantasy.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. You were working some nothing backstage job at a music show—wrangling cables, keeping your head down, trying not to get caught staring. You tried not to stare too hard when he walked by. 

But he saw you.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

He asked for your name, then asked if you were free that weekend—and you said yes, way too quickly. You went out that weekend, nervous as hell, trying not to shake through the whole thing. You lied—told him you liked his group, but that you weren’t really into K-pop like that. You tried to act cool, like you weren’t always imagining him bending you over in one of the backstage closets and fucking you raw.

He honestly thought you were cute.

You started dating not long after.

Nobody knew. Not the fans. Not your friends. Not your mutuals on Twitter who’d die if they found out the girl thirst-tweeting about getting face-fucked by Haechan was actually dating him.

He didn’t know either.

Not about the account. Not about the folder on your phone marked simply “H.” Not about the screenshots of his hands or the dozens of clips of his hips during choreography. Not about the draft in your Notes app describing him bending you over his kitchen table and muttering, “Don’t fucking speak unless it’s to beg.”

He didn’t know you got off to them. Regularly.

He had no idea you watched his fancams with a vibrator pressed to your cunt. That sometimes you got so high on him, you ignored his texts just to ride your own hand through another orgasm.

He thought you were shy.

He thought you were sweet. Innocent.

He thought you missed him when he went on tour because you loved him.

You did. That part was true.

But you also missed the weight of his cock on your tongue. The way he grunted when you gagged around him. The way he groaned—low and casual, like he didn’t even realize it.  You missed how sometimes—just sometimes—he’d look at you while you were on your knees like you’d pissed him off, like he was two seconds away from saying ‘shut the fuck up and take it.’

You missed that look.

You loved him so much it made you sick. Loved the way he touched you like you were breakable. Like he was holding back. Loved the weight of his body over yours, slow and deep, fucking the air from your lungs one thrust at a time.

You wanted him to know.

You wanted to show him the account. Scroll through every tweet. Every draft. Every voice note of his moaning that you looped until your thighs were slick and your sheets were ruined.

You wanted him to snap.

You were soaking, just thinking about it.

His hoodie clung to your skin, black and oversized, still heavy with his cologne. You had your vibrator in one hand, your phone in the other. Fancam loaded. Volume low.

You rolled onto your stomach, shoved a pillow under your hips, and tucked the vibe against your clit.

You were already wet. The second it pulsed, your breath stuttered. The buzz vibrated through your spine, soft and relentless. Your hips rolled down into it, desperate for pressure, for anything.

The screen showed him on stage—sweat-soaked, hair messy, jean jacket clinging to his shoulders. He was practically fucking the air, like the audience wasn’t even there—like the lights, the screams, none of it mattered. His eyes stayed locked straight ahead, jaw clenched, hips grinding with that same brutal rhythm, like he was already inside someone. Like he knew you were out there, watching him lose control—and wishing it was you he was doing it to.

And God, his face. That smirk. Those eyes.

You pressed the vibe harder.

Your moan slipped out soft and broken. Your thighs clenched. You moved against it, slow and messy, your slick coating the pillow underneath you. You didn’t care. Your body was already curling, every nerve drawn tight.

“Fuck…”

The moan echoed through your room, quiet but desperate.

Your mind filled with his voice—imaginary, yet it felt so real

“You’re really humping a pillow, baby?”

You gasped. Your hips bucked. Your hands twisted in the sheets.

“You get off to me like this every night, huh?”

You did.

And you were so close.

“Fucking pathetic.”

You came fast and hard—legs twitching, hips jerking, body trembling.

But the shame didn’t stick.

Because you weren’t done.

You didn’t want to be done.

You turned the vibe higher. Pressed it back against your clit.

You were sobbing. Moaning through it. Guttural, aching sounds you couldn’t even bite back.

You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe.

And then—

Your phone rang.

Your whole body jerked. The vibrator still buzzed mercilessly against your clit.

Caller ID lit up the screen.

Haechan ♥️

Your heart dropped. Your brain fried.

You stared. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And then you answered.

“Hi,” you gasped, voice hoarse and fucked-out.

Silence.

A pause.

Then his voice came through the line, low and smug, and knowing.

“You sound fucked out already.”

You choked on air.

“That for me?”

You whimpered. A sound so broken it wasn’t even a word.

He laughed.

And that was when you realized—he knew.

“Jesus, baby,” Haechan said, voice soaked in disbelief. “You miss me that bad?”

You nodded before you remembered he couldn’t see you. Tried to speak, but your throat clenched around the sound. The vibrator was still humming against your swollen clit—slow, cruel pulses dragging you up and down the edge like it had all the time in the world to make you suffer.

“What are you doing right now?” His voice dropped, smoother and a little darker now. “Tell me.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t even breathe, let alone form words. Shame burned through your face, your chest, all the way down to your trembling thighs.

He clicked his tongue—sharp, almost condescending.

“Oh my god. Are you actually touching yourself right now?”

The orgasm that had been teasing at your spine flared hotter.

“I didn’t think you were serious. You really can’t help yourself, huh?” he murmured, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Bet you’ve been humping that sad little pillow of yours like it’s my thigh.”

You choked on a moan.

He heard it.

“Aw, baby. You’re so fucking gross.”

He wasn’t mad. That was the worst part. He sounded fond and weirdly amused. Like the whole thing was endearing—your soaked sheets, your ruined underwear, your whimpers breaking apart in the back of your throat.

“You got the vibe still on?”

You nodded. “Yes,” you gasped. “Still—still on—”

“How long have you been like this?”

You had to think. Or maybe just lie.

“An h-hour?” It came out small. Shaky. Fragile.

He exhaled through a soft laugh—dark, amused, and just a little breathless.

“Jesus Christ.” A pause. “Did you cum already?”

You hesitated.

“…Twice.”

His groan bled into the speaker. It was quiet, low, and raw. It sounded like it had slipped past his teeth before he could hold it back.

“Fuck. You’re obsessed.”

You whimpered again, full-body tremble, everything clenched and aching and tight.

“Say it,” he said, voice cutting like a blade between your ribs. “Say what you want.”

You wanted to tell him you’d been jerking off to his fancams, but instead, you just said, “I want you to use me,” the words spilling out all at once, your voice cracking. “I want you to know how desperate I am. Please, Haechan, I want to be yours, I want—”

Your breath caught in your throat. The vibrator ground against your clit like it wanted to break you, and your whole body tensed with a cry.

“Keep going,” he breathed. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You didn’t know what you were saying anymore. It poured out of you—shameless and breathless.

“I think about your dick every night. I dream about your voice, your fingers, the way you fuck—rough, mean, fast—I want you to choke me—”

You screamed as it hit you.

Your orgasm exploded through your spine, brutal and unstoppable. You bit your own arm to keep from sobbing out loud. Your legs locked up, your hips twitched, and your cunt throbbed around nothing, dripping slick down your thighs and into the ruined pillow beneath you.

The vibrator kept buzzing.

Too much.

You clawed at it, yanked it away with shaky fingers, body twitching uncontrollably. You were soaked. The pillow beneath you was drenched. You couldn’t see straight and your vision blurred,

He was still on the line.

You heard him breathing slowly and steadily.

“…Are you okay?” he asked finally, voice wrecked. Like he’d been jerking off the whole time and was pretending not to.

You nodded, then laughed, the sound breaking apart halfway through.

“No,” you exclaimed. “I’m fucking exhausted now.”

He let out a breathy laugh at your response; he found it cute—how easily you fell apart, how quickly you turned into a desperate, needy mess just for him.

“I’m coming home in two days, by the way,” he said, tone soft but heavy, like a warning, like a promise.

You swallowed hard.

“You better be ready.”

You weren’t.

Not even close.

Two days later, he didn’t knock.

No warning. No text. No call.

He just walked in.

You were curled up in his bed, legs folded beneath you, phone glowing in your hand, face buried in his pillow like you were trying to smother yourself with the scent of him.

The same video played on your screen. The one you’d watched too many times. Him in the clear box. Sweating, smirking, thrusting so deep into the air it felt personal. The volume was too high. His voice filled the room—hot and arrogant and cocky—and you were too far gone to notice the door.

But you heard his voice in real time. 

“What the fuck is this?”

Your blood ran cold.

You turned slowly. Almost robotically. Like maybe if you didn’t move too fast, you could lie your way out of it.

He stood in the doorway. Still. Calm.

Too calm.

His eyes tracked everything— your flustered expression, your soaked panties half-pulled down your thighs, the spent vibrator glowing faintly at your side. And your phone. Playing him.

You moved too late.

He was already crossing the room, grabbing the phone out of your hand. You didn’t even have time to blink.

He saw everything.

The tweets. The clips. The saved voice notes. The smut drafts in your Notes app.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

His thumb flicked across your screen.

Then he read one out loud.

“‘I want to be manhandled by Haechan so bad.’” His gaze snapped up. “Wow.”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

He scrolled again.

“‘I want him to use me so bad I don’t give a fuck anymore.’” His head tilted slightly. He looked almost impressed. 

“Damn, baby.”

You scrambled. “It’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” he cut in, voice sharp now. “Didn’t think I’d find out?”

You fell silent.

He laughed. A single, low sound, cold and amused.

“All this time,” he said, stepping closer, eyes scanning your face like you were something he didn’t quite recognize. “You’ve been getting off to me in secret. Watching me over and over, like my fancams were made to feed your obsession. Lying to my face. Playing innocent.”

He stepped closer, phone still in his hand, and you instinctively backed up against the headboard.

“You’ve been jerking off to me like a fucking pervert. Fucking your pillow like a bitch in heat. Did you even want me, or did you just want to get off?”

You whimpered. Shook your head. But it was useless.

He was already reaching for you, already grabbing your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks until your lips parted with a soft gasp.

“You’re fucking lucky I like you.”

Then he climbed onto the bed, knees pinning your thighs down, eyes flashing with something darker than desire.

You couldn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed down, body trembling like it knew what was coming.

“I—I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely a thread.

“Oh, baby,” he muttered, dark amusement curling through every syllable. “You’re gonna be.”

He dropped your phone onto the bed with a loud, deliberate thud—screen still lit, still open to your account—and you flinched like it’d struck you.

Then his hand was on you.

Fingers curled under your chin, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until you couldn’t look anywhere but him. His grip was firm, his eyes burning with something far beyond anger.

“You ever think about telling me?”

All you could do was swallow hard; your throat tightened, and you couldn’t bring yourself to answer him.

“You were gonna take that little account to the grave, huh?”

Still nothing.

He scoffed, like he already knew. Like he’d already read every tweet, every caption, every sick little reply.

And then—without warning—he yanked his hoodie off your body. The fabric dragged across your skin as you gasped, arms instinctively crossing over your chest like you could shield yourself from his gaze.

Pointless.

You were bare underneath. Exposed.

He looked at you slowly as if he was analyzing you.

And everything in his face changed.

His anger didn’t even go away. It just shifted into something colder, hungrier. His eyes darkened, dragging slowly and deliberately down the length of your body, lingering at the subtle twitch of your thighs. His gaze caught where your slick had already started to spill, glistening at your swollen cunt—leaking like you were begging without words.

 He looked at you like it was the first time—like he was finally seeing you the way you’ve always seen yourself.

“You were jerking off to me just now, weren’t you?” he asked, voice low, deadly calm.

Your face burned. “Y-Yes.”

He didn’t even blink. “You’re sick.”

You nodded. “I know.”

He stepped closer, closing the space between you in one stride. One hand reached for the back of your neck, gripping tight, fingers splayed wide, ownership in his touch.

“You’ve been jerking off to me every night like some pathetic loser,” he growled, pulling you close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. “You moan into your pillows while touching yourself to the thought of me. You even write your dirty little fanfics and tweet things you’d never dare say to my face—still acting like you’re not already mine.”

“But I-”

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. “I’m not done.”

You shut it.

His eyes dropped again, scanning your trembling thighs, the way your fingers twitched at your sides. The way your body was begging without saying a word.

“You couldn’t wait two days?” he muttered. “Two fucking days without touching yourself like a slut?”

You shook your head, barely breathing.

A slow, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“No self-control,” he whispered.

His hand drifted from your throat, down over your chest, between the curve of your tits, across your stomach, slow enough to make you tremble.

“You like this,” he said. “Being caught? Being humiliated?”

You opened your mouth to answer.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“…Yes,” you whispered, throat tight. “I do.”

His fingers skimmed your thighs, teasing the inside, not touching where you needed him—just grazing, just letting you squirm.

“Now you’re gonna sit here,” he said, voice rough. “And you’re gonna watch me go through that little fan account of yours. Every tweet. Every thread. Every disgusting thought you’ve had about my dick.”

You nodded quickly, breath hitching.

The second he told you to drop—you did. Your knees hit the floor like it was second nature to you.

He didn’t waste time.

Didn’t even look at you for long. Just unzipped his pants, pulled his cock out—hard, angry-looking, flushed to the tip like it took every tweet personally.

“Open,” he ordered.

You opened your mouth, and he shoved his cock past your lips without hesitation. No warm-up, no mercy. Just thick, heavy weight pushing into your throat like you were nothing but a hole to fuck. You choked immediately, lips stretching wide, spit spilling down your chin.

Both hands tangled in your hair as he held your head in place. Then he started to move.

“Let’s see if you suck dick as good as you tweet about it.”

You gagged, eyes watering. You tried to keep up—to breathe through your nose, relax your throat—but he didn’t give you the chance. He used you. Fucked into your mouth like he owned it.

When your eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, he chuckled darkly.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” he muttered, pulling you back just far enough to watch the spit stretch from your lips to his cock. “You like this. You like being used.”

You nodded, tears sliding down your cheeks, spit dripping down to your chest. You were shaking.

“It’s pathetic.”

He shoved your head down again, and you took it. Gagged, swallowed around it. And he still didn’t stop.

He grabbed your phone with one hand and started scrolling again—Like your sobbing throat and strangled gags were nothing more than background noise to him, just his new favorite sound.

Your head already bobbing, spit-slick and twitching from every shove, every taunting roll of his hips like he was trying to bruise your esophagus on purpose. He had one hand tangled in your hair, the other casually lifting your phone, thumb swiping upward as if your tears pooling down his thighs weren’t even worth acknowledgment.

"Oh, what’s this one say?" he mused, even as you spluttered, spit bubbling around his shaft. He tilted the phone slightly, screen lighting his cheek with that faint glow. 

"'If he looked at me like that we’re fucking in that box in front of everyone I don't give af.'"

He barked a laugh and shoved his hips forward—not hard, just deep, intentional, burying himself until your throat was full of him and nothing else. Until your nose was pressed up against his happy trail and your eyes blurred with tears.

"Did you actually tweet this? " he taunted, holding the phone up, showing you the exact fancam—the fancam that you came to so many times.—paused right on that moment. His own eyes staring into the camera, pupils dark, jaw tight, every muscle in his body glistening in that glass box during that impossible performance. He hadn’t broken eye contact once with the lens, and you knew it. You’d watched it a hundred times. You tweeted about it.

He thrust again and your whole body jolted, a garbled whimper dragging out of your chest as he tapped the screen, watching himself lock eyes with the camera. With you. Over and over. That same unrelenting stare.

"Fucking in that box in front of everyone, huh?" he repeated, half-laughing now, breathless from how tight your throat clamped down when he quoted you. “God, you’re such a slut… wanting me to fuck you in front of all those people.”

You tried to breathe, tried to speak, but he just rocked into your mouth again, harder this time, making your shoulders hitch and your lungs beg. The phone was still in his hand, still glowing, still showing the loop of him staring into your soul.

“Bet you only said that so everyone would know I belong to you.”

God, he was so right.

You liked the idea of every single one of his fans, your mutuals, your followers, the whole damn world—watching that fancam and reading your tweets and knowing none of them could ever have him. Because he belonged to you. And more than that, you belonged to him.

You were his favorite fangirl.

Your whole body jerked, trembling. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as your throat fought to accommodate all of him and failed, again and again.

You were choking. He was scrolling. Perfect harmony.

His expression twisted, something between disgusted and turned on.

Then he pulled out with a wet pop, shoving your head aside like you were nothing more than a toy for him to use.

“On the bed.”

You scrambled up, legs barely working, knees weak as you crawled onto the mattress—still damp from earlier, still smelling like your last orgasm. You lay back, legs spread wide, open like muscle memory.

He stared.

Then smacked your clit.

Hard.

You screamed, body arching, hands fisting the sheets.

“You’re soaking just from me being mean to you?” he scoffed. “God, you’re such a fucking loser.”

Then he sank two fingers inside you—deep, rough, fast.

No warning.

They curled immediately, stroking the spot that made you jerk with a cry, your whole body thrumming with need.

You tried to breathe. Tried to stay still. But he was relentless—crooked fingers, wet sounds, his thumb grazing your clit just enough to drive you mad.

He leaned in close, voice pouring into your ear.

“All those dirty little posts?” he whispered. “All those disgusting tweets? You really thought I wouldn’t find out?”

You whimpered.

“You’re a fucking perv.”

He grabbed your phone again, still open on the mattress, still glowing.

“Let’s see what else my number-one fan’s been up to…”

He read aloud, slow and mocking.

“‘God, his hands are so pretty I just wish he could shove them deep inside and not stop no matter how many times I tell him to.’”

He looked at you, smirking. “My hands, baby? Out of everything? That’s what gets you off?”

You couldn’t speak. You were too far gone. Too humiliated. 

“You’re such a pervert for me.”

His fingers moved faster. Wet. Unforgiving. Fucking into you with no rhythm, no care—just force and pleasure. Until your legs started shaking and your walls clenched tight and you felt yourself teetering again.

And then—

He stopped.

Pulled out.

You sobbed. A broken, desperate sound.

He clicked his tongue. “Oh, princess. You really thought I’d let you cum after all that gross things you wrote about me?”

You shook your head, begged silently, grinding against nothing.

“You don’t deserve shit from me.”

He unzipped his pants again, pulled his cock out, slapped it against your clit once—twice—just to watch your hips jerk. Your back arched. You needed him. Needed it.

“Mmm, baby,” he said, voice honey-thick and mocking. “Look at it. The cock you’ve been tweeting about. The one you came to.”

Then he flipped you onto your stomach, shoved your face into the mattress, and fucked into you in one vicious, brutal thrust.

You screamed.

“You don’t even deserve to be fucked like this,” he snarled, hips already slamming into yours. “But I’m gonna do it anyway.”

You cried out again. Again. Every thrust shoved you further into the bed, stretched you wider, fucked you raw. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“God, listen to you,” he groaned. “You’re dripping down my cock, baby. Fucking soaked. All for me.”

The sheets smelled like him. Like cologne, sweat, and sex. It was overwhelming. It was perfect.

You couldn’t stop shaking.

Your orgasm was building again.

“Aww, don’t tell me you’re gonna cum already,” he said, voice low. “We barely fucking started.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even form a sound. You didn’t even hear him anymore—his constant taunts and teasing were a blur. All you could feel was his cock pounding into you and your orgasm building like a scream in your throat. All that registered now was the relentless rhythm of his cock slamming into you, slick and punishing, hitting that spot again and again with no mercy, no slowing, no breath between thrusts. Your body wasn't keeping up, and your brain had left hours ago.

And then it hit.

The orgasm came without warning—sudden, blinding, violent. Muscles clamped tight around his cock, walls spasming uncontrollably, thighs shaking as the wave surged through your core and stole every breath. Stars bloom into your vision, and you feel yourself getting dizzy. A scream tore from your throat, raw and broken, muffled into the sheets as your entire body trembled and shook. The convulsions came hard, hips jolting, knees knocking into his without rhythm, and still—he didn’t stop.

He grunted. Slowed just enough to mock you.

“God,” he hissed, breathless, looking down at the mess you’d become. “You’re so fucking gross. You really came that fast?”

Just grabbed your aching body and flipped you over like a ragdoll, letting you bounce onto your back, eyes glassy, lips trembling.

“Now it’s my turn.”

And you didn’t get to breathe. Not even once.

He shoved into you in a single, brutal thrust, hips slamming against yours with obscene wet heat. You squealed—sharp and involuntary, a high-pitched gasp that twisted into a choked sob. Your legs instinctively locked around him, thighs clenching at his waist, your arms snapping up around his neck as your whole body reacted with desperate need. He filled you, absolutely filled you, cock stretching your sore pussy wide open again with zero warning, and it was too much.

“Fuck—” he groaned, pressing his chest flush to yours, his entire weight pinning you down into the bed. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t even lift your head. His cock ground inside you, thick and brutal and unrelenting, while he buried his face in your neck, inhaling the scent of your sweat.

“You’re so fucking small under me,” he muttered, voice hoarse with lust, dragging his hips slow now, long, deliberate thrusts that made your back arch off the mattress. His cock slid in deep, too deep, forcing your body to take every inch like it had no choice.

You could barely breathe. He was suffocating you, swallowing your air, pinning your wrists back down with his hands wrapped tight around them like shackles. His broad shoulders caged you in like he wanted to drown you in him. His cock bullied your pussy with every thrust, splitting you open, dragging slick out of you with wet, squelching sounds that made your ears burn.

And you loved it.

You loved being held down. Loved the crushing weight of him on your body, the way his arms flexed over yours, how every part of you was forced to mold to him.

He started fucking harder. Hips snapping forward, slamming into you without rhythm, without restraint—just force. You cried out with each impact, your arms tightening around his neck, trying to anchor yourself to anything as he railed you into the mattress.

Then his mouth found your ear.

“I still can’t believe it,” he whispered, his voice soft and dangerous, like a knife against skin. “You were running a fan account the whole time.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat dripping from his temple onto your flushed cheeks, hips slamming forward as he spoke. Each word landed with a violent thrust.

“All those pathetic little things you posted about me—every night—while I was already fucking you like this in my bed.”

You gasped, trying to stammer something, anything, but the air was gone, and so were your thoughts. His fingers gripped your jaw tightly, forcing your gaze back to his. His eyes were wild. 

Possessive.

He than whispered in your ear “Don’t you think that’s a little fucking selfish?”

“I—I'm sorry—I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did," he cut you off, cock drilling into you harder, his voice thick with betrayal—and something darker. “You wanted both. You wanted to be my girlfriend and my #1 fan all at the same time. You wanted to write all that crazy shit about me and still look me in the eyes like nothing was wrong.”

Your body jolted as his cock slammed deeper, harder, shoving you up the bed until your head smacked into the headboard, breath ripped from your lungs.

“You’re mine,” he exclaimed. “You’ve always been mine. And no one gets to know that my biggest fan is a gross, pervy little slut I call my girlfriend.”

And that did it. Again.

Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and unstoppable. Your legs shook around him, your voice cracked in a hoarse, broken scream that you buried in his shoulder, teeth scraping skin. You clung to him like a lifeline as he fucked you through it—faster now, chasing his own release with those brutal, punishing thrusts that sent the bedframe banging against the wall.

Then you felt it.

The heat. The flood. His cock twitched hard inside you, buried to the hilt, as thick, his warm cum spilling deep into your cunt. He groaned into your mouth, kissing you like he wanted to drown in you, hips still twitching, grinding in lazy aftershocks as your body milked him for every drop.

You were full. Overstuffed. Sore, soaked, still trembling. His cum leaked out of you in hot, messy spurts, mixing with your slick on the sheets. You could feel the mess under you, the wet sound your bodies made every time he shifted slightly, still inside you, cock still hard.

He didn’t move. Just collapsed on top of you, chest heaving against yours, his arms wrapping around your waist like he didn’t care if you suffocated under him.

He stayed there.

You stayed under.

His cock twitched inside your pulsing cunt. Your heartbeat pounded against his ribs. You were nothing but a mess under him, and he loved it.

After a long silence, he reached over, his arm dragging lazily across the mattress, and grabbed your phone from where it had fallen off the bed earlier. He unlocked it without asking.

Scrolled.

Paused.

“I thought about it,” he said suddenly, voice low, husky. “But I don’t want you to delete your account.”

You blinked. Tried to process through the fog.

“…W-wait. What?”

“I said,” he repeated, eyes flicking to yours with that same glint of cruel amusement, “you should keep it.”

Your stomach dropped through the bed. You stared, eyes wide and raw. “No. No, wait—”

He leaned in close, mouth brushing yours with a smirk.

“Don’t get all shy now, baby,” he said with a low chuckle, eyes glinting. “Not after you posted that 43 tweet thread about how you’d let me facefuck you while I played League.”

You wanted to vanish, to die, to claw your way under the bed and disappear forever.

But he just kissed you again. Slow this time. Warm. Sickeningly sweet. Sinister.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips. “Don’t worry.”

He pulled back and winked.

“Post whatever you want. Just know I’ll be watching…”

[c4shm0neyxxx]

Every Time

Geum Seong-je x Fem!Reader

Dark Romance · Obsession · Intimate NSFW · Angst & Craving

____________

You hadn’t seen him for three weeks.

You changed your number. Blocked him everywhere. Moved out of your apartment without telling anyone where. But Geum Seong-je had a way of finding things — people — when he wanted them. And he always wanted you.

So when you opened the door to your new place and saw him standing there in the hallway, hood up, eyes bloodshot, fists clenched at his sides, you knew it was over.

“You really thought you could disappear on me?” he said quietly.

You should have slammed the door. Screamed. Called for help. But your heart was already racing — not from fear. From that sick, aching part of you that missed him every night, even when you hated him.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I never stopped looking.”

His voice was low, almost broken. When he stepped into your apartment without asking, you didn’t stop him. When he grabbed your face and kissed you like he was drowning, you didn’t push him away. And when he whispered, “You ruined me, and you think I’d let you leave?” — you pulled him closer.

His jacket hit the floor. Your shirt followed. His hands were rough, desperate — dragging down your back, gripping your waist like he could hold you in place forever.

“Say it,” he growled against your neck. “Say you missed me.”

You didn’t want to. You tried to lie.

But his hand slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding over your underwear, and your body betrayed you with a soft gasp that only made him smirk.

“Liar,” he whispered. “You’re soaked.”

He pushed your panties aside, fingers teasing you, slow at first, then harder when you arched into him. Your hands tangled in his shirt, dragging it over his head. His body was tense, inked with bruises and rage, but he let you touch him like you were the only thing that calmed the fire.

“You think I don’t know you?” he rasped. “You leave, you run — and you still want me like this.”

You hated how true it was.

He pushed you back onto the bed, crawled over you like a storm — wild eyes, clenched jaw, every muscle in his body coiled like he was barely holding himself together. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you. And when he finally slid inside you, deep and punishing, you moaned his name like it was salvation.

“I’ll never let you go,” he groaned into your ear. “I’d burn the whole world to keep you.”

His thrusts were rough at first, fueled by weeks of madness — but when your nails dug into his back and your legs wrapped around his waist, he slowed. Not because he wanted to — but because he needed to feel you break for him.

Every time you gasped his name, every time your body trembled around him, it made something darker settle behind his eyes.

“You’re mine,” he said, forehead against yours, breath heavy. “You always fucking were.”

When you came undone under him, crying out, he followed with a hoarse moan and buried his face in your neck, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

He didn’t leave that night.

He held you after — arms wrapped tightly around you, his voice barely a whisper: “Run again, and I’ll come find you. Over and over.”

And you knew you would let him.

Every time.

[porcelainbirdss]

my december love

summary: Mydei was the sun that peeks out from the clouds after a particularly heavy thunderstorm. she was the air you breathed in. she was everything. when someone asked you: "how did you two met?", all you could reply with was: "funny story. actually, i think i know her from the past life."

in other words: you and Mydei become roommates — this leads to a chain of events neither of you saw coming.

cw: fem!reader, fem!Mydei, fluff, angst, modern au, and they were roommates!, mentions of alcohol consumption, both of them are emotionally suppressed, yearning, like a lot of it, mutual pining, jealousy, reader is somewhat obsessive, dependency, slight hurt/comfort, good ending. || wc: 12k

it has been one year since you decided to share an apartment with Mydei. due to how expensive the costs were, you posted a simple question, asking whether someone would like to live with you. after all, you were a college student, and the state of your bank account was… well, rather questionable.

some people reached out to you, and you conversed with them for a while, getting to know them, and explaining the potential boundaries you’d have to set. unfortunately, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself they were good candidates, the doubts still continued to linger in the back of your head. no one seemed good enough (and you were not picky — you actually could think of yourself as an extrovert).

you almost gave up on your search, until she came into picture.

you remember reaching for your phone upon hearing the notification sound, a short: "i’m interested.” appearing on the screen. you clicked on the message, cocking one eyebrow up at the rather sparse greeting. then, you decided to check that person out — and, as it turns out, she was hot.

unbearably so, if you may be so bold. your heart hammered when you pressed on her profile, seeing her icon photo on full display. that girl — you even forgot to see what she was called — was absolutely beautiful. blonde locks with faded red encompassed her sharp features, golden eyes so piercing, you felt as if they would bore through your phone’s screen, and split you in half. to only add to your tragic crush at the first sight, she looked rather muscular. and had tattoos.

does it get any better than that?

still, no matter how stunning she was, you had to get to know her. obviously, you could blindly agree — hell, you could provide for her if she asked you to! — but you had a part of your wits with you, and so, you should do better than that.

in response, you quickly typed out a simple: "great! :)) the apartment cost is 1,200 monthly. tell me if that’s alright with you?"

you remember waiting anxiously, hoping for a fast answer. oh, you didn’t even know her, and she already had you tied around her finger.

when five minutes passed, and you didn’t get any messages back, you slumped into your bed with a groan of defeat, cursing your own mind. then, a loud 'ping!' reverberated through the space, and you practically launched yourself at your phone with a dumb grin sprawled across your face.

it read: "that is fine with me.", huh, she’s formal, isn’t she?, "we can also split the cost of groceries, if you’d like."

you gasped in triumph at the conversation, giggling to yourself like a teenage girl. only then you thought to actually see what that mysterious person’s name was — Mydeimos. you repeated it out loud, and thought you liked the way it sounded on your tongue.

"that would be awesome! should we meet up and talk over the details?” you wrote, internally hoping Mydeimos would agree. you have never offered any of the potential candidates for your roommate to met before — alas, you wished to see that breathtaking face in person.

all you received in response was a thumb-up emoji.

well. could have been worse.

after that, you pretty much hit it off… at least that’s what you like to think. you couldn’t get much out of the girl during your first meeting — she acted the same way as she typed her messages. a little stern. somewhat frigid. but at the same time, it was obvious to you she was immensely patient, and kind, and you failed to spot any evident red flags.

not to mention, her profile picture hardly represented just how prepossessing she truly was. there were a few times where you had to ask Mydeimos to repeat herself, because as you ogled her, all you could hear was an incoherent: "blah, blah, blah."

ultimately, you talked some more through your phone, and decided to move in together. you can recall that day so vividly, as you practically trembled from excitement.

you stood in the middle of your still somewhat empty apartment, observing as Mydei carried in the last of boxes, filled with her stuff. she allowed you to help her with dragging in the majority of her things, sending you a polite smile as you earnestly offered to give her a hand. this one, however, she insisted to carry herself.

"c’mon, you must be tired from walking up and down," you chuckled, even though the girl didn’t seem affected at all, "give me that, i’ll put it in your room."

Mydei cocked one eyebrow up at you, settling the box down with a huff. "and you’re not? you’ve been running around like a headless chicken."

you laughed abashedly, waving your hand at her comment. it is true you were acting a little absurd, but you had no bad intentions! all you wanted to do was to appease your new roommate. you didn’t perceive it as any trouble, since you managed to move all of your stuff the day prior, and were still bustling with energy.

you shuffled your feet towards the box, inspecting it, and finally deciding to pick it up. it didn’t budge. you groaned in surprise, sending Mydei a perplexed look. "what the hell?"

"told you.” she shrugged nonchalantly, wiping her sweaty forehead. even though it was already september, the weather remained hot. "don’t try moving it, else you’ll hurt your back.”

you nodded stiffly, watching her walk towards the open kitchen space, and pour water into two glasses. couldn’t she just refill one? "okay…” you murmured, swiftly prying the box open to look at its contents. at least six dumbbells, two of them having a combined weight of 130 pounds — and she carried it up the stairs?!

with a gasp, you straightened out, your back almost bumping into Mydei. you swiveled on your foot, the sight of her perplexed face being the first thing to greet you. "uh, i—"

"here you go." she said, extending the glass towards your way. you blinked twice, because you were absolutely sure she’d scold you for rummaging through her things. so she poured that water for you, it would seem. huh…

you sent her a weak smirk, taking a generous sip. "thanks. to be honest, i’m spent.”

Mydei sighed at your words, stepping towards her empty room. "well, i’ve still got some things to take care of, but you go ahead and take a break.”

instead of plopping down on the couch, you followed in tow, stopping in front of your own personal space (which you were extremely proud of). "wanna see my room?”

the girl paused her walk. “what for?”

"oh, come on, we’re living together now! you have to know how your house looks like!” you beckoned in an upbeat tone of voice, opening the door.

upon seeing it, Mydei’s eyebrows narrowed in a frown, a certain mixture of disdain and perplexity growing on her face. you gulped.

"do you… do you seriously need this many plushies and fairy lights?”

“what, you don’t like it?” you huffed, knowing the clash of your personalities would come sooner or later — but honestly, you wished for it to never arrive.

she shook her head, schooling her look into something less judgmental upon your dejected eyes. "that’s not what i meant, [name]. it’s cute. suits you well.” she responded, though there wasn’t much conviction in her voice.

"…thanks.”

you decided to leave it at that, moping around in your bedroom instead of helping Mydei. the nightfall came, and you were starting to miss your family, filling up with doubts and various anxieties. perhaps you were a little sad — okay, more than sad! you felt like wallowing in your despair, pressing one of your childhood toys close to your chest — that is, until you heard a knock.

"can i come in?" called the familiar voice, causing your head to snap up.

you instantly sat, throwing the stuffie away, afraid of what Mydei could possibly think of you if she were to see you in such miserable state. "sure."

the door cracked open, a crown of blond hair peeking through. she walked in, checking you out as you sent her a tight smile. "are you okay? you haven’t left your room for the whole day.”

"totally!” you lied, of course.

she didn’t point out how stiff you were, her line of vision instead landing on the discarded plushie, now hopelessly sprawled out on the floor. she picked it up, a bit tentatively, and gently placed it on your bed. you wanted to burn from embarrassment. "i just finished setting up my room. do you want to see?" the girl offered, her tone flat but kind all the same.

you practically sprung from your sitting position, like a wind-up toy. "yeah, i’d love to!”

both of you strolled into Mydei’s space — and, to be fair, you don’t know what you were expecting, but surely not this.

well, the dumbbells along with a skipping rope and a rolled mat in the corner seemed in-character, though the rest completely contrasted with the girl you knew. first off all, her bed — a pale-pink duvet draped over its surface. then, the posters hanging above, one depicting a cutesy boysband you were unfamiliar with, and the second showing some rather hardcore metal band.

your eyes flied around, locking on the desk — a stack of cooking books on its side, topped with a dictionary of sorts. an orange cat figurine. a couple of music records on display. a mousepad — again, in pink color.

"and you made fun of my room!” you exclaimed, swiveling your head to face Mydei.

she frowned at you. “i said it was cute!”

"but you looked like you were seconds away from puking!”

the girl paused, blinking twice. "…can’t deny that.”

you sighed, shaking your head — alas, you could never take any real offense from Mydei. she may as well spit on your shoes right there, and you’d thank her, because who are you to tell what this goddess of a woman can and cannot do?

——

september fourteenth.

the second year of your college life rolled around, and you couldn’t yet discern whether you were absolutely despaired, or happy.

happy, because you got to finally see Mydei. the girl wasn’t from this city, so she left during summer vacations, leaving you alone with the few feeble friendships you managed to establish during the first year. you often called her, talking for hours on end, catching up and whatnot — but it simply couldn’t replace the sound of her quiet laughter by your ear, or how sweetly she smiled at you when you offered to help her out with maths.

i am doomed, you thought one day while you were lazing around on your bed, fanning your face as waves of hotness hit your body. sure, you were crushing on her since the start, but honestly, it was pretty shallow back then. the only thing you were infatuated with were her good looks. you failed to take Mydei’s lovely personality into consideration, or see how interesting of a person she truly was.

right now, you were absolutely certain your dumb crush was treading into a dangerous direction — and, well, you only hoped Mydei didn’t catch on your hopeless behavior towards her. still, it may have been pretty obvious when she stood in the doorframe with a singular suitcase, and you practically broke down in front of her, wailing at how badly you wanted her to stay.

well. that was embarrassing.

anyway, no matter how joyous you were at your final reunion with the girl, there were some problems too. the main cause of your troubles, right now, was the overload of stress and work piling up on your shoulders.

even though college started barely two weeks ago, you were already drowning in unfinished projects and deadlines, crushed under its weight. sometimes you felt as if you didn’t have the time to even catch a breath.

Mydei managed just fine. she stuck to her routine, waking up everyday at exactly 5 AM to go on a run, shower, prepare you both breakfast (because she was kind enough to make you food — it started once you praised her cooking so highly, her whole face burned up in a vermillion), head out to the campus, and come back. then, she’d go to the gym while you were still groaning over your textbooks, and come home at a rather late hour, but still having enough time to study.

you didn’t know how Mydei was doing that. sometimes you genuinely thought she was some kind of a super-woman, because there was no way someone possessed this much energy and self discipline. it only made you feel worse about yourself.

right now, you were hunched by the dining table, a multitude of books displayed on its surface as you tried gathering your thoughts.

no matter how hard you attempted to focus, everything seemed to bother you. birds singing outside the window, people from above your floor stomping loudly, Mydei accidentally dropping her fork—

"could you be quiet?” you snapped, your eyes flickering over to the girl who was currently sitting by the other end of the table, eating the late dinner you refused (which you did begrudgingly, alas, you didn’t have the time to even think about food).

her eyebrows narrowed at the harsh tone of your voice, and only then you actually regretted raising it. "you don’t have to scream at me, i can hear you clearly.” she retorted, digging the fork into a piece of beef. it scraped over the plate, evoking another uncomfortable sound.

"i’m trying to focus.”

“then go focus somewhere else.”

you huffed. “it’s my home, and i can focus wherever i want!”

Mydei already opened her mouth to take a bite, but paused, her sharp irises sending you a glare. “it is my home too, and we are in the kitchen, so i didn’t think you’d mind me eating here.”

you kept silent, trying to reciprocate the unpleasant look she was giving you, even if you couldn’t harden your eyes around the corners. you felt tired. utterly tired, and you just managed to anger Mydei by your stupid outburst. does it get any worse than that?

"i’m sorry…” you finally muttered, your gaze falling back onto your notebooks. what else were you supposed to say? you’ve never fought with her before — could it even be considered a fight? more like a bitter bicker, but still. your breath trembled, and you felt awful.

the girl continued to eat more quietly now, and once she was done, she slowly got up from the chair, as if afraid of startling you further. once Mydei put the dish away in the sink, she leaned over you, her hand suddenly squeezing your shoulder.

you looked at her with question in your eyes, gripping your pen a bit too hard. "i’m sorry too.”

now you were almost baffled. why was she apologizing over your own spillage of ugly emotions? "no, Mydei, it’s alright. it is me who yelled at you.” you quickly forced out, straightening in your seat.

she shook her head, and you swear you could melt on the spot from the mere look on her face. "it’s alright. shit happens.” she spoke, letting go of your shoulder — you wholeheartedly believed the conversation to end here, but then the girl reached for your tousled hair, swiping it to the side. "i can order some takeout for you. i could cook, but… i don’t want to make any more noise.”

you had to stop your jaw from slacking into the floor, completely stunned by her display of understanding. Mydei wasn’t like you — she was patient, and had this calming effect on people, no matter how intimidating she may have appeared. you were jealous.

not jealous of her, specifically — but of the people she considered her best friends. the ones who could taste her kindness on a deeper level, those who knew her for longer than you.

you didn’t know what connected you. sometimes your relation resembled a tug of war, with her pulling at the rope, and making you stumble with the sheer impact of her benevolent actions. you liked her. you liked her so badly it hurt in every single fiber of your body, and yet, you couldn’t do anything about it.

there were moments that got you questioning her sexual orientation, but she never mentioned having a girlfriend, or anything of the sort. how could you know if she was like that? what would you do if one day your resolve broke in half, and you confessed your feelings, only to be turned down with a few of dismayed words? she’d hate you, surely.

maybe you’re mistaking her acts of kindness for something deeper — maybe your friendship was nothing more but a shallow bond, created between two people who strived to survive in this unforgiving life of a college student.

perhaps, all the times you shared your woes, and all the secrets you spilled to each other weren’t as meaningful as you thought. you must be delusional, no?

"[name]?”

you jumped up in your seat, brutally snapped out of your morose reveries. "uh— what?”

Mydei sighed, taking a singular step back. "i asked if you want a takeout.”

you chuckled awkwardly at your own disorientation, scratching the nape of your neck. "sure, i don’t see why not.”

the girl nodded, reaching for the phone in her back pocket, and quickly dialing the number of your favorite restaurant. you observed her walk around the kitchen in circles, finally leaning her hip against the counter as someone decided to mercifully pick up.

she recited your usuals by heart, and then hung up, turning to look at your slightly dazed expression. "why’re you looking at me like that?” she questioned, her eyebrows knitting together.

oh. you were staring.

"like what?”

Mydei huffed, tossing her blonde locks over her shoulder. "never mind. try to focus for now, and i’ll let you know when the food comes." she declared, touching your chair’s backrest before walking towards her room.

when the girl left, you groaned to yourself, embarrassed at how many times she caught you practically consuming her with your eyes. you denied every time she pointed it out, though deep down, you knew you were lying. if you closed your eyelids for long enough, the visage of Mydei’s face always appeared in your mind, seemingly engraved there for good.

——

october thirty-first.

life got easier now, and you managed to fall back into the rhythm of studying, and juggling between the chores of everyday life. you and Mydei helped each other out as much as possible, taking on some tasks when one of you was too tired, or just generally remaining supportive.

and it was going great. perfect, even, if not for your brilliant idea of going to a costume party. well, it was the hallows’ eve, and since you were a big fan of all spooky things, you just had to go. halloween lasted for only one day, and so, you practically begged Mydei to accompany you.

at first, she didn’t agree. then, as you pressed some more, she started to question what she could even dress herself as — you proceeded to list all the ideas off the top of your head, but neither satisfied the girl. a werewolf? too weird. a zombie? what are we, in the middle of the walking dead casting? a mummy — no way, she won’t deal with all the toilet paper. a witch? absolutely no. an angel? too generic. a devil? also too generic. a cat-woman? that earner an exasperated snicker.

well, Mydei ended up going with you, but she wasn’t dressed as anything. you, on the other hand, decided to wear a vampire’s costume. okay, maybe costume was an exaggeration — you simply searched your wardrobe for some black and red garments, and smothered the corners of your lips with an intense lipstick, which was supposed to imitate blood.

when your roommate saw you, all she did was raise an eyebrow at you, sending you an unimpressed look. you, however, had to contain a gasp of astonishment at just how pretty she looked — usually, Mydei wore sport clothes, nothing overly flashy or anything. this time, the girl adorned herself in something more official-looking, and you couldn’t help but fawn internally at how beautiful she was.

after that, you got to the organizer’s house, immediately greeted by some notorious melody, booming loudly throughout the space.

and you were having fun — really, you were — but at some point you and your friend got separated, busying yourself with different circles of people. you seethed internally on the other side of the room, watching as Mydei talked with some guy. you didn’t know him, but he carried that easygoing smirk on his face, which, truth be told, reminded you of a snake. a vicious viper, waiting patiently for its victim to let their guard down, and sink its teeth deep inside their throat.

he was leaning in way too much, and Mydei didn’t seem exactly bothered by the little proximity between them. she casually sipped on some wine, legs crossed, nodding along to whatever that man was saying.

perhaps what you did was spiteful, but you spoke to some unfamiliar man too. you weren’t flirting with him, or anything, just laughing at his poor jokes, pretending like you actually enjoyed the company.

and then, you got drunk. your heart felt a little too heavy, so you reached for one cup of beer after another, gulping them down irresponsibly. before you knew it, you were practically stumbling over that guy’s side, gesticulating wildly as you told him yet another story of your life — which he didn’t seem to be overly interested in, but still listened with intent.

suddenly, you felt a firm grip on your wrist, squeezing your limb hard enough to pull you out of your drunken stupor. you turned, only to see Mydei, scowling at you as if you at least murdered her whole family.

it was barely after 11 PM, but the girl tugged you out of the party, demanding to go home. you, of course, agreed without much hesitation, telling her to call for a cab.

the whole ride to your place was gravely silent, and you wished to ask what caused her such a deep dismay, but whenever you glanced in her direction, all she did was scoff at you. you decided to keep your mouth shut.

as you finally sat down on your trusty couch, Mydei continued to simmer internally — frown embedded on her sharp features, making her appear even more fierce than usual. you wanted to be scared of her — because that’s what she was aiming for, most likely. unfortunately, your drunkenness only caused you to become even more bold.

"Mydei,” you whined, circling around your roommate as she stood by the kitchen counter, preparing something quick to settle your stomach, "are you mad at me?”

"take a wild guess.” she answered lowly, her movements stiff.

you sighed at her words, looking around the space, as if it was supposed to offer you some miraculous solution. a slightly beat-up radio you thrifted stood on the windowsill, almost beckoning out to you, like a siren’s cry — so you turned it on.

"turn it off, [name].” Mydei muttered, drying her hands after she washed the knife, "i’m not in the mood.”

you swiveled on your foot, your eyebrows narrowing at the girl with determination. "tell me what’s wrong, or i won’t.”

she grumbled under her breath in response, the dismayed sound reminding you of a faraway thunder’s road. "you’re too drunk to even understand.”

a pleasant, slow melody filled the space. you grinned to yourself, grasping Mydei’s hands in yours, and tugging her forwards before giving a gentle twirl. her frown only deepened. "such a nice song, don’t you think?” you hummed happily, pressing your body closer to hers.

what you were doing obviously lacked in any sense or tune. once you sober up, you’ll regret everything you did and said, but…

"just what are you doing?” your friend murmured, still yet to pull away. she looked so stunning from up close. the warm light seeped into her golden irises, making them appear amber-like.

in response, you shrugged, swaying without much elegance, nor finesse. "trying to cheer you up, is all.” you slurred, taking a big breath in. she smelled of cherries.

"then stop it, because it’s obviously not working.”

"why aren’t you pulling away, then?”

that seemed to shut her up temporarily. after a short beat of silence, Mydei spoke again — reluctantly, but that was progress.

"wanna know why i’m angry at you?”

you nodded slowly, trying to showcase you were still able of properly communicating. "yes."

she exhaled, her fingers clutching a bit harder around your joints. "i didn’t like you talking to that guy."

upon hearing it, at first you wanted to burst out into salves of laughter — but then you realized that she wasn’t joking. the girl rarely pulled stunts of such nature on you, always remaining rather serious in her demeanor, so she was obviously telling the truth. she was… she was mad because you latched yourself to some man. well, you did that with this exact purpose, yet at the same time, guilt squeezed at your heart.

you didn’t mean to hurt her feelings — never, ever — but why was she actually irritated by this? it’s not like you had some unspoken rule, saying: do not talk to others.

your slightly hazy eyes scanned her face, and you led her into another twirl, trying to gather your disarrayed thoughts. "why didn’t you like it?”

Mydei scoffed, pointedly looking away from your searching gaze. she bit on her lower lip, obviously consternated. "that’s the worst part of it all. i don’t know.”

you chuckled quietly, thinking you’d be a lunatic if you got your hopes up over something as trivial as this. maybe she just felt lonely, with you pretty much ignoring her existence during the party. "you don’t?”

"no,” she sighed, her softened irises returning to you with defiance, "sometimes you drive me crazy. did you know that, [name]?”

your drunken mind couldn’t fully grasp the weight of those words, and you laughed again, pressing your head towards her neck. "you drive me crazy too.”

Mydei didn’t respond, and her silence urged you to continue. "but don’t worry. i think he was an asshole anyway.”

"that’s good.”

"his costume was shitty.”

"i’ve noticed.”

"do you think mine is shitty too?”

she huffed out an airy snicker, shoulders relaxing. suddenly, your track of the slow dancing got interrupted by your friend’s back meeting with the counter. you didn’t even notice when you led her there. "no. yours is beautiful.”

you giggled at the compliment, nose prodding at the column of her throat. "and do you know what vampires do?” you asked, out of the blue. Mydei shook her head, and that was all it took for you to latch your lips around her neck, giving a bite, careful enough not to break through the skin.

she hissed, but didn’t move. didn’t do anything to actually glue you away from her — you barely sensed her letting go of your palms, moving her hands to your waist. just what the hell were the both of you doing?

"they bite me—" she paused, taking a shaky breath, "i suppose.”

you hummed, pulling away to observe your creation, sprawled across her delicate skin like a purple moth, painted with the vibrant red of your lipstick. it melted into one with the tattoo adorning the girl’s neck. an artistic mayhem, you thought. the mark of your deeply-insatiable covet.

Mydei’s hand reached for the apple of your cheek, cupping it gently. "you’ve smeared makeup all over your chin.” she remarked, an easy smile growing on her lips.

then, as she looked at you through her thick eyelashes, you genuinely believed she was some kind of a vixen, sent down on this earth with the sole purpose of torturing you. an otherworldly being, with eyes of gold, and equally golden heart.

how could you not love those irises, who saw you in every state, and still decided to stick around?

before you thought of taking a step back, the pleasant music long gone, now replaced by the broadcaster’s monotone voice — Mydei’s grip on your face tightened, and you were pulled into a kiss.

your mind short circuited, and you gasped into her mouth with surprise, forgetting how to breathe — how to move your limbs.

the whole world seemed to stop spinning altogether, and the air got unbelievably heavy in your lungs. you’d adore her forever. there was no changing to that.

tears prickled at your eyes uncomfortably, but none fell, and you heaved, allowing Mydei’s consoling touch to support your suddenly lax body. forever, forever. even if you got changed into a bug — you’d find relief under the sole of her shoe.

when you pulled away, your mind instantly sobered up, shaken by how both of your lipsticks smudged, appearing as if you just feasted on some raw flesh. Mydei’s dazed look changed into a perplexed one when she noticed the conflict on your face. you reached to touch your lips, hand trembling.

she must have been playing with you, because there was no way this was real.

"[name], i’m—"

you turned on your heel, quickly walking towards your room without letting the girl finish her sentence. you shut the door, sliding down on the cold floor, and you let out a strangled sob, thinking: gods, why did i do that?

(perhaps it is true that all suffering originated from attachment).

the next day, you both agreed it was a mistake, and promised to never talk about it again.

——

november tenth.

honestly, you expected the atmosphere between you to remain tense, because after that halloween incident, neither of you were able of looking each other’s in the eye. fortunately, the situation managed to ease down a little, and you fell back into the usual tempo.

even if you were a bit afraid of touching Mydei, thinking she’d misunderstand you, and decide to move out.

even if Mydei sent longing looks your way every so often, clearing her throat awkwardly when you caught her staring.

well. never mind that.

three days ago, you got caught up in rain, and now you were absolutely sick, sprawled out on your bed with a febrile condition. it was tiring you out beyond all senses, and as you coughed and whined in pain, Mydei was constantly by your side.

at first, you insisted she doesn’t need to worry about you, but the girl dismissed you sternly. it is only logical she’d have her way — after all, she was quite stubborn.

you wouldn’t describe her as exactly rebellious — because she never outwardly displayed such traits — but she surely was. always treading her own path, making her own decisions, concluding what was the best for her.

you remember when some time ago, a topic of your families came up. you briefly joked about your siblings and parents, laughing how terribly they must miss you. Mydei smiled along to your words, saying she wished to have such a loving family too. you felt a bit consternated then, so obviously, you asked her what was up.

she then proceeded to casually explain how her father almost forced her to become the next CEO of his big-ass company — with the most deadpan expression on her face, mind you!

you were stunned into silence, because, most importantly — she must have been dirty rich, but still acted like a humble civilian, dressing in normal clothes instead of those lavish ones you could only dream of whenever you went shopping. certainly, you noticed Mydei’s jewelry looked rather expensive, but when you inquired where she got it from, she always responded with an unsure shrug. one time, you checked her necklace out, remembering the brand’s name (which sounded pretty luxurious). you closed your browser as quickly as you opened it, baffled by the first 20.000 dollars on the display.

yeah. there was no way you could afford it.

another thing — Mydei spoke of her father as if he was a mere pest. the disdain filling her eyes didn’t fail to slip past your notice, and you felt almost guilty for even touching upon the topic.

so, summing up, the girl was certainly rebellious. and now, she denied your protests, coming in and out of your room with new portions of soup or medication.

the frown on Mydei’s face only deepened as she took a brief glance at the thermometer, her sharp eyes narrowing with such perturbation, almost as if the inanimate object managed to offend her personally. you giggled weakly at the girl’s expression, trying not to showcase just how awful you felt.

"don’t laugh, it’s not funny.” she murmured, standing up, and starting to shake the thermometer, allowing the mercury to seep down.

you sighed, closing your eyes. your whole face seemed to be set on fire. "do i have a fever…?”

your friend clicked her tongue, setting the thing aside. "yeah, and a very serious one at that. are you sure you don’t want me to call for the doctor?”

oh gods, anything but a doctor!

"no, no. i’ll be fine.” you quickly responded, trembling at the mere thought of having some stranger loom over your exhausted frame instead of Mydei.

you cracked one of your eyelids open, gazing at the girl. she could serve as a good physician, you thought — and she really looked like one too. hair tied back into a ponytail, stern expression, and those reading glasses she had to wear, because the letters on some meds were too small.

she glanced at the clock before turning on her heel, and walking out. "soup time.” she announced, and you groaned under your breath.

yeah, this so called 'soup time' occurred every three hours, and you had to sit up on your bed, sipping on chicken broth Mydei seemed to be cooking up in a bottomless cauldron.

in addition, you felt guilty. you were troubling her to no end, no matter if it was her own decision to take care of you. she even skipped her gym time! how awful is that?

still. no one was forcing her to look after you. she did that out of her own volition. your heart clenched, and you couldn’t help but daydream about how nice it would be if her tender acts towards you were motivated by something more than friendship. again, you were acting delusional, but at least you had your febrile condition as an excuse.

the familiar footsteps resonated through the space, and your vision locked on Mydei, now seated by your bed with another bowl of that soup you were already sick of. "sit, [name].” she spoke calmly, waiting for you to scramble up.

you attempted to heave yourself up, but the strain in your muscles caused another cramp. those painkillers didn’t work at all, did they? "i can’t…!” you whined, perhaps a bit overdramatic.

Mydei rolled her eyes, setting the dish aside, and pulling you upwards as if you were featherlight. you blinked, flustered. "now, go and eat. you’ll feel better.”

since she was so generous, you decided to see how far her benevolence could stretch. "i don’t have the strength to eat by myself.” you concluded, spreading your arms helplessly.

your roommate looked at you like you had at least a few screw loose — and then she breathed in defeat, reaching for the bowl. "alright, if you wanna act like a baby,” the spoon prodded at your lips, "open up.”

"but it’s too hot—" your complain got interrupted by the soup practically pushed into your mouth once you spoke. you gasped, feeling at the uncomfortable temperature running down your throat, and settling somewhere in your chest. it felt like molten lava. Mydei probably didn’t estimate it as any sort of problem, because the girl often ate hot food. how crazy do you have to be to drink freshly-brewed tea while it’s still scalding?

before more protests fell from your lips, another spoon found its way towards them. you almost wanted to say: alright, never mind, i’ll eat on my own, but obviously, you didn’t. how could you refuse when all of your yearnings came true? Mydei is feeding you, eyes soft, even though her lips remain pressed into a thin line. if it turns out you died, and somehow found yourself in heaven, you wouldn’t be surprised.

once you were done eating, you took some more painkillers, and went to shower. of course, when you were taking far too long, Mydei felt inclined to knock at the door, asking if you were alive. she was really worried about you, huh?

then, both of you got busy with yourselves, and after a longer while of tossing and turning, you fell asleep.

your dreams were usually nice, however the fever seemed to mess with your brain even in the state of rest — your childhood dog, prancing around your legs happily. you were in your garden, tossing the stick for it to catch. instead of coming back to you, the dog burst through the line of poplars, disappearing from your view. you panicked, chasing after the pet, and calling out to it.

you’d probably continue sprinting (in slow-motion, to your dismay) through the labyrinths of trees, if not for the familiar voice coming from behind your back. you turned, dazed, the visage of Mydei in her hallows’ eve outfit reaching you, your dog obediently sat by her feet. she held him on a leash. you exhaled in relief, coming up to them.

and then, she gave you a shove to your shoulder. you gasped, jolting awake — only to see the same face, now looming over you, shaking your arm in the same manner. "gosh, finally awake.” she murmured, and you felt a pang of hotness spread over you.

ugh, you could barely open your eyes — your head pounded, sweat sticking to your forehead and back. "what…?” you forced out, trying to regain focus.

"i just came to check up on you.” the girl stated in a quiet tone, and only then you sensed the thermometer sticking out from under your armpit. your hazed gaze flied over the room, taking notice of a refilled jug of water, and another portion of ibuprofenum.

you didn’t respond, keeping your vision locked on her. Mydei sighed morosely, and you meant to ask what time is it, but her hand pressed by your temple, cutting you off. her touch was gentler than usually. "you’re burning up again… oh well, i suppose that’s normal during the night.” she commented meekly, taking the thermometer. "as i thought.”

you gave a silent hum, rolling on your back. "is it late?”

"half past one. i didn’t mean to wake you, but you seemed distressed so…”

"that’s alright. thanks.”

she smiled at you. "were you having a nightmare?”

"no, not really…” you chuckled weakly, running a palm over your weary eyes, "you were there. so it wasn’t a nightmare.”

your friend nodded once, the corners of her lips itching even further upwards. "good.” she tapped the bedside table, redirecting your attention, "take the meds. and if that doesn’t help, we’ll drive to after-hours medical service."

obviously, you didn’t want to go there, so you obediently took the pills, wincing at the unpleasant taste. "and why’re you awake, huh?” you thought to ask, seeing she was still dressed in her casual clothes.

"i couldn’t sleep.” was all the girl said, though you felt as if there was more to it.

looking at the concern on her face, and how generally stressed she seemed, you came to a simple conclusion — you are the reason for her sleeplessness. if that wasn’t the case, she surely wouldn’t be hovering in your room in the middle of the night.

how can anybody be this pure?

"Mydei,” you started, your eyelids too heavy to keep open now, "you’re my favorite person, did you know that?”

you failed to spot her reaction — all you heard was a quiet huff of neither laughter or dismay, and then she left. maybe it’s for the better.

——

november twenty-ninth.

things between you got weird.

well, not exactly weird, but it definitely wasn’t normal either. you fell into a routine especially tailored for each of you; studying together, doing your makeup, watching movies every friday and saturday evening (while inconspicuously leaning into your sides).

earlier on, whenever you broke down over your studies, Mydei would briefly ask you if everything was alright, quickly escaping the room with an awkward expression. now, she wiped your own tears, allowing you to wail into her shoulder, and offering to help you (even if she had a big workload on her shoulders as well).

you, on the other hand, possessed this habit of pointedly ignoring her outbursts when the girl’s father called, insisting she comes back home. her eyebrows always narrowed in such a glare, you were afraid you’d accidentally get intertwined into her flury of nerves. however now, you ensured consolation, listening to her vent the frustrations out.

Mydei show you her favorite music, and laughed when you sang along to that overplayed song you’d both listen to in the morning. she taught you history, and you allowed her to rant about all the events and wars. you learnt from her how to make those incredible dishes — and she never lost her patience, even if you weren’t the perfect cook.

you got closer, and closer. your terrible crush grew so much until it wasn’t a crush anymore, and now you couldn’t function properly with it.

there was this one time when you decided to snoop through Mydei’s phone while she was showering. a shameful act indeed, and you’re disgusted with yourself even now — but at least you got some closure.

first of all — you went into her messages. half of them were some weather alerts, or delivery men saying her package was home. one contact was tilted as "dumbass"…? what kind of name is that? you clicked on it, and saw a candid photo of a grinning girl with ivory locks. before your gut could clench with any jealousy, you read through their texts. the last one was from a month ago, and every single of them went pretty much like this: "what’s up?" — "nothing" — "how are you?" — "good. hbu" — "i’m good too!" — "ok".

well. that’s acceptable enough.

then you headed straight for her gallery. two hundred photos overall — not much in comparison to your ten thousand. one folder filled with screenshots of recipes, another one of some animals, one for friends, and… your heart practically stopped when you saw the inconspicuous name: "with [name]". you pressed on it, only ten photos showing. selfies you took of when you were doing some silly things together, and sent to her. one picture depicting two plates of food you got at some fancy restaurant as a treat with half of your torso in sight. another of when you went to the main square, and a pigeon sat on your head. third one — a selfie the girl took herself, her face close to the camera with you in the background, coddling a stray cat.

the fact Mydei didn’t delete any of the photos you sent her was already a big achievement, but making a separate folder specifically to store them? now that was bewildering. yeah, of course, she had one with her friends too, but it was a general package of their faces. none of them had an unrelated folder — unlike you.

then, you heard the shower turn off, so you quickly locked the phone, and put it back in its previous place.

your emotions were in a state of conflict, because all of this time you believed you were pretty much insane for thinking Mydei perceived you as anything more. your relationship with her was stable, and you could say you were happy with how things were — but at the same time, it wasn’t. after all, you’ve kissed before (and didn’t discuss the act any further), relied on each other more than you probably should, opened up about the most embarrassing secrets you’d never tell anyone. you continuously stared at Mydei — and she stared back at you, not even bothered to hide the fond smile stretching her lips, almost as if beckoning, signifying: "stop being so oblivious, and come to me.”

but neither of you spoke honestly of your feelings, and it was killing you. perhaps you were stubborn, after all, and wouldn’t ever tell how you truly felt. that is, until you got that brilliant idea of trying your luck, and pushing to see where your lack of restraint would get you.

your first attempt was… well, of questionable results. Mydei was making herself some protein shake, back turned towards you as you neared her in steps loud enough to not startle the girl. you carefully hugged her from behind, leaning your chin on her shoulder, and asked what she was doing. your roommate froze, one of her big palms accidentally crushing a handful of wild strawberries. she cursed you out for scaring her — which was weird, because you obviously didn’t sneak up.

you wholeheartedly believed this whole charade was a failure, and you should stop, except your efforts borne some fruition. one day later, you were in the same spot, washing your skillets with incomparable fervor. then, Mydei stood beside you, her hand touching the small of your back — she said something about how you should use less soap, but all you heard was white noise, and the rush of blood running through your ears.

you deemed it as a success (considering that your friend has never initiated such closeness), and now there was a silent agreement between you — where you could finally touch without any fear caused by some prejudice.

but it still doesn’t change the fact it’s not enough.

right now, you were sprawled out on the couch, hanging upside down with your legs hooked over the backrest. you were bored, and tired. yesterday (or rather — today) your upstairs neighbor decided to throw a party. it lasted until 3 AM, and normally you wouldn’t mind, except it was in the middle of a week! at around 1 AM, you sent Mydei to confront them, because she was braver than you. it didn’t take long before their conversation changed into a screaming match and police threats. your roommate already started dialing the number, so you had to forcibly drag her away.

with that, you didn’t get any real sleep. Mydei was running on fumes, considering she managed to fall into rest at around 4 AM, and woke up an hour later. you were no better, with barely three hours of sleep, and eyelids so heavy you thought you might pass out right there.

"i’m bored. entertain me." you murmured, irises focused on the reversed image of the girl. with your current position, she seemed to be hanging from the ceiling, like some kind of a bat.

her hands paused, but she didn’t move her eyes to look up at you from her laptop’s screen. "perhaps you should try reading one of your overdue books."

you snickered. "no way. besides, i like annoying you better.”

it was not entirely true, but you felt like teasing her. sometimes your witty comments or actions led you to places where mere words would never take you.

"well, you’re succeeding.”

you let out a mocking gasp, the corners of your lips stretching even further. "damn, that was almost a compliment."

Mydei smirked faintly, typing a few letters, still yet to look at you. "it really wasn’t."

with a sigh, you rolled over. your head hurt a little from the weird position you took earlier, blood probably coloring your whole face red. it was already pretty late, and if not for the tapping rain along with your friend’s meek shuffling, the whole space would be completely silent.

and then, a thought passed your brain. it was equally crazed as the rest of your ideas, but non-committing enough. you could easily snake your way out, in case Mydei got angry at you. you’d simply chalk it up to a joke, pretending as if you weren’t genuinely truthful.

"tell me… why don’t you ever let go?"

you saw her jaw clench, but she didn’t look up. "what’s that supposed to mean?"

try and guess, is what you itched to say — alas, knowing Mydei, she’d probably offer the most roundabout answer in the world. you couldn’t be thrown off-track now.

"you’re always doing something. working out. cleaning." you paused, taking an unsure breath. "pretending like what we have is normal."

her joints stopped moving again, eyebrows narrowing together. an obvious sign you stepped into a dangerous territory — it often felt like that with her. you’re having fun, and then you can almost sense the lion’s breath on your nape, because you were foolish enough to parade into its liar. "i’m not pretending."

your gut clenched. "uh-huh. sure.”

Mydei finally glanced at you. you were staring at her — really staring. a beat of something silent passed between you, and it pushed you to speak again.

"you know what i mean."

"i don’t think i do." she responded quietly, so unlike her.

"Mydei."

it was painfully easy to spot how her whole body seemed to tense up. "don’t."

you should stop — but you had this weird conviction that if you ceased the conversation now, neither of you would talk about it again. just like it was with that unfortunate kiss.

now it was your eyebrow’s turn to furrow. "why not?"

she exhaled heavily, running her fingers through the blonde locks. they grew so much, the red paint on them barely visible now. maybe you’ll offer to redo her hair once you have the time. "because if i say something—" a pause, "if i say something— then this changes. and i don’t know what happens after that."

you straightened out in your seat, because for whatever reason, you imagined a sharp guillotine hanging above your neck. it surely felt like so. your heart hammered at your ribs, and all the boldness you previously harbored began to crack. "you don’t think it already changed?" you asked in a low tone.

Mydei’s expression was now shaped into this weird mixture of a snarling dog and a dejected fawn. "i just don’t want to mess up whatever we have, alright?" she retorted, suddenly closing her laptop. it clattered so hard you thought she might have accidentally broke it.

"i don’t understand you."

the tug of war. the chains bidding your wrists. the mixed signals. the kennel you were both stuffed into, forced to deal with your own emotions while simultaneously rejecting them.

when your friend didn’t respond, you heaved yourself up, slowly closing the distance between you. you leaned your hip on the table’s edge, an arm’s length separating you now. her golden eyes fixed on you, but they lacked in their usual fierceness — perhaps it was the dim light that caused them to soften around the corners.

she opened her mouth to speak, but you were faster. "what if i told you i think about you all the time?"

Mydei huffed out a dry laugh. "i’d say you’re being dramatic.”

"and you’re deflecting. again."

it wasn’t your place to decide whatever the girl was feeling — but maybe you’ve managed to hit the bullseye, because she seemed to flinch. a sigh escaped her lips, and she looked down, biting on her inner cheek. it took her a while to look back at you. "i just really don’t know how to do this."

"do what?”

her voice was barely audible when she began. what a contrast to how she was yelling at the neighbors during the night. "i don’t know how to not ruin it."

no matter what you felt now — it seemed to instantly dilute with something gentler. and no matter how gentle you were — you felt hungry. "you think i know how? Mydei, i wake up in the morning and i swear you’re the first thought in my head. it’s infuriating. you—"

oh no.

your roommate blinked at you, as if you managed to stunt her with your mere words. "[name]—"

"i didn’t mean to say that." you quickly interrupted, cowardice squeezing at your chest.

(it would be safer to back out now, wouldn’t it?)

"but you did."

"yeah. i guess i did."

what happened then was the last thing you expected, but Mydei reached for your hand. it was a tentative move — you deemed to be already past holding back, but your assessment of the situation might have been wrong. after all, how could she suddenly act natural when you’re both tugging at each other’s heart strings? you swallowed thickly, eyes widening when her fingers interlocked through yours. it wasn’t casual. none of it was. whatever you shared, it long stopped resembling a friendship.

her thumb ran across your knuckles. "i think about you too."

it hurt. how terrible it is that she was so close, but felt so faraway. "then say it."

a pause. "how?"

"say anything, Mydei, say anything and i’ll be—" you practically forced out, leaning into her, eyes desperately searching for any sing of mutual longing. you saw it, and when you were sure you’d fall into her embrace, a notorious sound of knocking interrupted your trail of words.

the girl’s previously softened expression rapidly morphed into a scowl — she got up from the chair, going to open the door. you, in exchange, breathed like you were taking in the oxygen for the first time in your life. you were so close. so damn close.

you kept your eyes fixated on the table’s surface, listening to the lock’s click. "what the hell do you want?” resonated Mydei’s frigid voice, and you thought it’s very unusual for her to greet anyone like that.

with a dim curiosity, you looked back, only to see that neighbor who interrupted your sleep. he seemed so small in comparison to your friend, clenching his hand around a box of chocolates. "i wanted to apologize for—"

she shut the door, not letting him finish. you gaped at her, slightly surprised — but maybe it was one of the better options, considering how tightly her fingers formed into a fist. you observed her stand there idly for three more seconds before turning on her heel, and quickly walking out of the room.

what a pain.

——

december eleventh.

time passed faster than you wanted it to. holidays were nearing, and so you busied yourself with various things. the studying sessions got more intense now, and your search for an appropriate gift for Mydei seemed endless.

one day, you walked into her room, seeing a small bag, colorful paper sticking out from it, and a ribbon glued to the side. you asked her if you could see (because your curiosity peaked at that moment), but she sternly refused. it’s a surprise — is what she said, and you had to hold back.

well, anyway. that’s not important.

what is important, is the fact you were going crazy.

as you predicted, none of you touched upon the topic of your near-confession. you could say you were already used to missing out, and pretending you were alright — except this time, things between you did not fall back into place. every single previous situation dissolved after a while, leaving you unsatisfied, but content that nothing really changed. right now, it was awkward, and all the progress you made was gone. okay, maybe not exactly gone — it was buried. hidden away, waiting. for what, you didn’t know, but it drove you insane. you were jumping around like startled hares, pretending not to see the problem blooming between you.

you both reached for the salt — your fingers brushed, and then you were stumbling over your words, apologizing.

her arm accidentally touched against yours when you stood by the kitchen counter — you jolted back, and she mouthed something under her breath.

you wanted to use the bathroom at the same time — you insisted Mydei goes first, and in return, she argued you should go instead of her.

in attempts of keeping your resolve and kindness as persisting, you began to crack once more.

you should consider yourself a lunatic for falling so deeply for a girl who was your roommate, but you couldn’t bear it any longer. the way her lips curled into a smile, and how she brushed stands of hair away from your eyes.

previously, you thought she didn’t like you that way. now you were halfway sure. no, maybe seventy percent sure. after all, she didn’t seem defiant those two weeks ago when you were inches apart from finally confessing. still, complete certainty was still quite far away from you.

in the mornings, Mydei was the first thing you thought of. you always went to search her out, hopping happily to her side as she cut some bread.

during the night, when light was gone, and the world was quiet, you drowned in reveries about the girl — constantly.

how could you tear your eyes away from her, now that you’ve seen her? if you were sunflowers, you’d face Mydei instead of the sun. that’s how far your affections towards her stretched.

and it was dumb. utterly dumb.

"wow, this color is so bright.” you commented, smiling to yourself as your gloved fingers stretched the box dye across your friend’s hair ends.

she complained about how faded the paint was, so you quickly jumped into action, running to the nearest store, and buying the most expensive dye. after that, you offered to do all the work yourself, convincing the girl it would be easier this way. she agreed without much hesitation.

she hummed under her breath. "that’s good. maybe it won’t wash away so soon."

her eyes were glued to the TV, watching some poor christmas comedy. you turned in on just to occupy your minds with some noise, in case you both accidentally slipped into that cave of awkwardness and reluctance. you paused your work, taking a second to watch the film as well. as you thought — it was absolutely cheesy.

you huffed out a small laugh, taking another strand to smother it in intense red. "why are these movies always about a big-city girl falling for a guy who owns a pine lumberyard?"

"capitalist propaganda." Mydei deadpanned.

"you’re so festive." you teased sarcastically, giving a gentle tug to her locks.

she shrugged, her neck bending backwards as if following after your touch. "i’m full of cheer."

"you’re surely full of… something."

your roommate briefly turned her head to look at you from the corner of her golden eye. she was smiling. "you’ve been weird recently, [name]."

here we go again, you thought morosely. "thanks."

"i don’t mean it in a bad way," she corrected, turning her vision back towards the TV, "just… kinda quiet. that’s unlike you."

Mydei was awfully perceptive and smart — but failing to notice how heavy the air between you was as of late would be impossible, even for someone dense. "you’ve been avoiding me."

it’s a good way you were dying her hair, else she’d probably spring out from the chair, and give you a bitter look. "no, i haven’t—"

"yes, you have." you forced out against all your wits, tired of the countless conversations you had about this specific topic. it was like an endless circle, with both of you chasing after each other, and finding yourself in the same spot.

a sigh. "maybe. i guess… i didn’t know where we stood. after that.”

you scooped another portion of red on your fingers, running them over the blonde. "neither did i."

she chuckled dryly, crossing her arms over her chest. perhaps it’s a good thing you couldn’t see her face now. "so we both just stopped talking. like cowards."

“like cowards." you repeated, nodding to yourself.

you knew Mydei despised people who ran away from the consequences — those who cowered in fear, afraid of meeting with the truth. you did too, but then silence fell over you, and neither of you spoke again. so you shall remain as cowards.

after waiting for about twenty minutes, Mydei went to wash her hair. you followed in tow, like a stray dog begging for a bone. she sent you a curious glance, cocking one eyebrow at you.

"what?"

“want me to rinse the dye off?”

(could you get any stupider than that? surely).

you wholeheartedly expected her to chase you away, but the girl tilted her head to the side, lips stretching upwards in inconspicuous assessment.

"…okay. since you wanna be so helpful today."

your whole body seemed to breathe out with relief at her agreement. you happily waited until she bent over the bathtub’s edge, reaching for the handheld shower. you let the water run through her hair, streaks of red painting the white ceramic. the hum of it caused your thoughts to cease for a brief moment. if you could, you’d stay like that forever — except soon your back will start to hurt from being hunched over, and Mydei will certainly complain along.

you put the hose away, lathering your hands in shampoo. your fingers interwoven in her locks, patiently washing away the remnants of dye. it was quiet. it was good.

your eyes briefly flickered upwards, catching on the darkened sky through the small window above. it was snowing. you didn’t say anything — and then you thought how much you detest december.

you turned the water back on, rinsing the foamy soap. once you were done, Mydei straightened out, thanking you quietly. you handed her a towel.

both of you dragged your feet towards her room, and you didn’t know why you followed after her still, but you did. she didn’t comment on your actions, which was a relief.

she seated herself on the edge of the bed, hairdryer working loudly as she blew her locks dry. you almost leaned into her side, relishing in the warm air, and how close you were. your legs were hooked around each other, tangled, like snakes in their den.

and when your friend turned it off, you grinned at her, proud of how skillfully you managed to paint her hair (even though it was your first time).

"wow, you look nice!" you complimented, but then again, was there ever a time when she didn’t?

Mydei reached for her phone, opening the camera to look at the final result. "indeed. you chose a nice shade." she smiled back at you.

"uh, so…" you began, afraid of slipping back into that uncomfortable silence between you. you didn’t know what to say, but you were desperate to uphold the conversation.

"anyway, [name]," Mydei interrupted, and you were thankful for it, "wanna see the gift i brought for you?"

you blinked at her with surprise. "but didn’t you say it was supposed to be a…?"

she waved her hand dismissively, stretching her arm to its full extent, and reached for the bag sitting on the floor. "yeah, but i can give it to you now. i’m sure you’re more than curious."

"can’t deny that." you chuckled, observing as she set the thing by your thigh. you sent her the last questioning look, seeing if she will change her mind.

"don’t be shy." the girl coerced, and so, you reached into the bag.

your fingers met with something hard, its shape resembling a rather small box. you carefully took it out, and when you saw the letters engraved atop, your jaw slacked to the ground.

it was the same luxurious brand of Mydei’s jewelry — the exact same one you searched up some weeks ago, baffled by the absurdly high prices. your eyebrows narrowed together, thinking it was a joke, and once you open it you’ll meet with nothing.

upon seeing your bewildered expression, she giggled. how can she be giggling at a time like this?! "c’mon, go ahead."

slowly, you pried the box open, your eyes widening at the sight of a ring — it remained dainty while having that classy air around it, and you gawked at Mydei like a fool. it must have been expensive. hell, expensive’s definition probably doesn’t cover half of the money spent on it!

"no way…" you muttered, your vision flickering back to the ring. "it’s— it’s so beautiful, but i… how could i accept it?"

she shrugged, taking the thing away from you, and pulling the ring out of cushioned box. "it would be impolite to refuse a gift.”

you nodded stiffly, eyebrows still knitted together, as if you were in some kind of a real emotional distress. why would she buy you something like this?

your breath hitched when Mydei tugged your palm closer, carefully slipping the jewelry on. "see? it looks nice." she smiled at you kindly, and you thought your heart might shatter from the sheer force it drummed with.

"yeah, it does." you admitted meekly, looking at the way light reflected off of it. “but i still don’t understand…"

"what do you not understand?"

"i— i’m not deserving of such gifts—“ you stammered, running your tongue over your teeth nervously, "i can’t, i just—"

her joints suddenly curled around yours, and she pulled you towards her. at this point, the whole ground might just open up, and devour you. “[name], do you seriously think i go around buying my friends pricey stuff?"

your irises flied away from Mydei’s face, but her free hand caught your jaw, forcing you to look at her. you swallowed harshly. "maybe…?"

she huffed out an exasperated sigh, probably barely stopping herself from rolling her eyes. "no, i do not. but… you’re different. and that’s why i gave it to you."

the rope tying you both seemed to tighten impossibly hard, and you were sure you heard the creaks of it.

when no meaningful words found their way out of you, she continued. "do you remember when you called me your favorite person?" she asked, and then you thought there’s no running from it now. you were doomed — or perhaps salvaged.

"yes." you answered, unable to keep your gaze away from her comely features.

"well," she began, leaning a bit closer, “you’re my favorite person too."

before you even knew it, Mydei’s lips connected with yours. it knocked the oxygen out of your lungs — but it felt different from what you’ve shared during halloween. it was not fueled by the fleeting fancy or impulse.

it was giving. tender. almost evocative in its nature — ripe and soft, just like the sweet flesh of an apple in full-bloom. the fingers of your unoccupied hand found their way onto the girl’s shoulder, and you couldn’t hold your body back from practically pushing into hers.

you couldn’t believe it was happening. your covets were so nigh for all this time — and now, they finally came true.

she must have liked you. if she didn’t, she certainly wouldn’t be kissing you like that — like you were made out of the finest porcelain. her hand wouldn’t be caressing the back of your head, and you would not be able to feel how hard her heart hammered, threatening to rip through her breast.

when you pulled away, chest burning from the lack of air, Mydei let go of you. her gaze was unsure, but it quickly eased into something less restrained upon your mesmerized look.

"let’s not run away from it anymore, alright?” she almost pleaded, brushing the unruly strands of hair away from your temple.

you immediately nodded, lips stretching into a grin so wide, your whole cheeks began to hurt. "let’s not."

her muscular arms wrapped around you, and you chuckled to yourself, embracing her back. with the touch — your forehead resting in the crook of Mydei’s neck, and her fingertips brushing across your waist — the ache from your body seeped away. it was strained from constantly sprinting, acting as if you were chased by a pack of bloodhounds. but now the pain was gone.

——

december twentieth.

you held onto the girl’s hand tightly, burying your nose in the warm scarf when another sting of coldness caught your face. snow was falling from the sky relentlessly, covering the whole ground with a blanket of whiteness.

another train passed by, its loud horn startling you slightly. she glanced at you, snickering at your sudden jolt. you sent her a lighthearted glare.

currently, you were standing on the platform, waiting for her train. when Mydei told you she was going away for the holidays, you felt as if someone stabbed you — after all, you just managed to finally stabilize your relationship.

you asked why, because obviously, she wasn’t going to visit her father. she then proceeded to vaguely explain something about her mother, that she needed to see her, and talk to her. you inquired if she’s willing to introduce you to her — she merely nodded, sending you a small smile. only later you found out that her mother passed away when the girl was only two years old.

it was a crushing revelation, but Mydei didn’t seem particularly moved by how you began to weep. she simply wiped your tears, saying not to grieve in her stead — but how could you not? upon your vivid sadness, Mydei promised to bring back albums from home, and show you what her mother looked like. then, she offered to visit her during summer, and that was enough to placate your shaken emotions.

there was still so much you did not know about her. just how much sorrow and woe must she carry on daily basis? what kind of shape her thoughts take when she has to deal with the hardships fate placed on her shoulders? how does she prevail?

you wanted to be the first person she reached out to when life got tough. from what little you deduced, Mydei’s existence was never easy. you wanted to be there for her, no matter what — so you squeezed her hand now, knowing she’ll have to face her megalomaniac father soon, and share a meal with him. if you could, you’d hop on that train with her — alas, she probably wouldn’t agree.

another horn tore you away from your grim reveries, and you glanced at the train, Mydei’s hometown on its display.

"here it is." she announced, walking closer to the yellow line. you followed in her step.

"are you—” you began in a hasty manner, watching as a multitude of passengers spilled from the car, "are you sure you’ll be fine?”

she chuckled, letting go of your palm to adjust your scarf. "yeah, everything’s gonna be okay."

you nodded, smiling weakly when she leaned in to kiss you. her lips felt warm against yours. "call me when you get there."

"sure." she nodded, planting her foot on the train’s step. "i’ll see you in a week."

you waved at her, feeling at how uncomfortably your guts clenched. the girl tugged her suitcase up in one swift move, now hugged closely by all the other people walking in and out, steadily disappearing between their silhouettes.

"Mydei," you called over the clamor, catching her attention, "i love you!"

you observed her turn her head towards you, golden eyes widening before the door closed. it was the first time you ever mustered up those words. your heart clenched, dejected by how she didn’t even say it back. when the train moved, you were ready to walk away — but then, one of the windows snapped open, the familiar flury of blonde hair peeking out.

"i love you too, [name]!" she yelled, a grin plastered across her face. the train’s wheels pushed forwards faster now, causing her locks to billow around, tousled by the wind.

a surprised gasp left your mouth. you ran after the large machine, laughing along with Mydei as she pushed the strands obscuring her vision. your legs burned, and now you were sprinting after the girl — not away from her. once you could no longer keep up, you finally stopped, completely out of breath, and smiling like a love-struck fool.

no matter if she’s not by your side — there’s always going to be a home for her in your heart. you’ll leave the lights on.

[vampiriito]

Pillow talk and pleading the fifth amendment (r.c flashback)

(JJ Maybank x pogue! reader x Rafe Cameron) ..in which you found yourself torn between two worlds when your best friend, JJ Maybank, who you've been in love with since forever starts dating Kiara. In a jealousy haze you start hooking up with Rafe Cameron, the infamous kook prince. Do you manage to keep everything casual and under control? No, is it fun? Also kind of no, given you hate yourself each time you managed to orgasm. And especially since Rafe's favorite activity is to pick on you and your friends outside the bedroom..

warnings; mentions of drug use, over-dosing? (not quite), me losing the plot lowkey, Ward Cameron, sex in a public space (please don't do it. we are so back baby). likes, reblogs and comments help a lot! hope you enjoy reading! <3

"Silence" noun /ˈsaɪ.ləns/

1. The absence of sound. 2. A deliberate pause or withholding of speech, often loaded with unspoken meaning or tension. 3. In emotional contexts, the space between words where truth often lingers too loud to name. 4. A fragile truce between two people who’ve said too much and not enough all at once. 5. What settles after confession, when honesty becomes too heavy to fill with noise. Example: "I just figured we’d have this conversation sober," she said, and silence followed—not empty, but full of everything neither of them was ready to admit.

The LED lights above you hummed with a soft, indifferent buzz, a sterile kind of white that made the whole waiting room feel colder than it already was. You could barely feel the sharp edges of Rafe’s car keys biting into your palm, but you wouldn’t let them go. They were the only solid thing anchoring you to the moment—those keys, still warm from his hand when you pried them from it, now cold with panic.

The hospital was your least favorite place on the entire island. Not because it was loud or ugly or smelled like bleach, but because nothing good ever came out of it. Hospitals were made of death and pain and long silences between life-altering news. And your life already had too much of all three. Every second you spent here felt like a second stolen from whatever version of reality you were trying to hold onto.

You tried to block out the overlapping voices, the faint, mechanical beep of monitors, and the shrill distant wail of a new ambulance pulling in. None of it mattered. Not the way the receptionist eyed you with thinly-veiled judgment, or the way your friends hovered a few feet away, whispering among themselves, waiting for you to crack first so they wouldn’t have to ask the question. So they wouldn’t have to look you in the eye and say what the fuck happened.

But you couldn’t crack. You didn’t even know how anymore. The tears had dried up somewhere between them dragging Rafe out of your arms and wheeling him down a corridor you weren’t allowed to follow. The sobs stopped sometime after you dropped into this plastic chair, too shell-shocked to scream, too sunburnt and exhausted to care about how ridiculous you looked—wrapped in a towel, an American flag bikini still clinging to your damp skin, legs sticky with the remnants of sunscreen and sweat.

You were a walking contradiction: someone who looked like they’d just come back from a beach bonfire but felt like they’d aged ten years in a single afternoon.

You weren’t shaking anymore. Your legs had gone still ages ago, and the sting of your sunburn barely registered over the weight that pressed into your chest like a truck parked on top of it. All you could focus on was the thought—obsessive, looping—is he gonna die?

Was Rafe Cameron, insufferable, impulsive, fucked-up Rafe, really going to die? Would your voice be the last thing he ever heard? Would he remember your fingers against his clammy neck, checking for a pulse? Your trembling hands slapping his cheek, begging him to wake up, to breathe? Would he remember you screaming his name, flooring it through red lights, cursing at your tears because they made the road blur?

And worse—what if he didn’t die? What then?

Would you go back to pretending it was just fun? Just sex? That you didn’t stay up thinking about him when you left his bed, or that your heart didn’t stutter with guilt and something more when his name lit up your phone?

How would you even look him in the eye? Hey! You survived an overdose, let’s go back to sneaking around and pretending we don’t actually care about each other.

No. It wouldn’t be that easy. It was never supposed to be that easy with him. And now, you weren’t sure if anything about this would ever be easy again.

You blinked slowly, numb all over, your grip tightening on the keys until one jabbed painfully into the fleshy part of your palm. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was the sinking feeling that no matter what happened in that ICU room—whether he made it out or not—something between you died today. Something that wouldn't be revived, even if he was.

And still, you sat. Frozen. Waiting.

Because deep down, no matter how many times you tried to convince yourself you didn’t love him, you knew that if someone came out and told you he didn’t make it—you wouldn’t know how to keep living in a world where Rafe Cameron no longer existed.

The sound of footsteps padded softly on the vinyl floor, growing fainter as the person walked further down the hall, leaving you in the midst of the quiet, steady beeping of the machines around you, the hum of overhead lights. You didn’t look up, didn't look up even as the sound of footsteps grew closer again, and you didn’t look up at first when someone sat down silently in the seat next to you.

“Hey.”

Your eyes flicked to the side, surprised to see Pope settling into the seat like he was just waiting for a bus. He said nothing else for a long moment, his eyes staring straight ahead at the white wall across from him.

You didn’t respond right away. Your mouth opened slightly, as if some instinct urged you to speak, but nothing came. The silence dragged out, thick and awkward, pressing into your ears like cotton. Eventually, you turned your head, eyes flickering up with effort as your surroundings slowly registered again. That’s when you really saw them—your best friends—standing a few feet away like ghosts waiting for permission to haunt you.

JJ looked like he was trying not to pace, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension in the muscle along his cheek. His arm was slung loosely around Kie’s shoulders, but the hold didn’t look casual. It looked protective. Tethered. Like he needed her there to keep from unraveling completely. Kie’s face was unreadable, her lips pressed into a thin line as she studied you with that same careful gaze you’d seen her use when bandaging wounds or picking her way through a fight she didn’t want to escalate. Wary. Measured. You couldn’t blame her.

John B stood nearby with his arms around Sarah, who had her face buried in his chest like she could physically block out the entire hospital if she just held on tight enough. She was whispering something to him, her fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt, and you didn’t have to hear the words to know what she was saying. You knew that tone. That low, scared murmur people used when they were bargaining with reality. When they were saying please, not like this.

It hit you then—Sarah was scared, too. And of course she was. No matter how much animosity existed between her and Rafe, no matter how venomous their sibling dynamic had grown over the years, they were still bound by something that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with blood. You thought of your own brother, your chest tightening at the idea of losing him. The idea of watching someone you’ve known your whole life fade into something cold and still. If the roles were reversed, if it were him, you’d be inconsolable.

So maybe you did understand Sarah after all.

Pope sat beside you now. You hadn’t even noticed him take the seat until you felt his presence next to yours—calm, quiet, unnervingly gentle. His hands were folded in his lap, fingers twining and untwining like he was trying to work up the nerve to speak but hadn’t yet figured out where to start. You felt the weight of his concern without him saying a word. It radiated from him, warm and grounding in the worst possible moment. And that was almost worse than if he’d snapped or shouted or asked a hundred questions you couldn’t answer.

You stared down at your hands again. The keys had left little imprints in your skin, angry red lines that throbbed faintly. You blinked at them like they didn’t belong to you, like you were watching someone else clutch them with white-knuckled desperation.

It took everything in you to pull your voice from wherever it had retreated to.

“Hi,” you said, barely above a whisper. The word tasted unfamiliar in your mouth, thin and fragile like it might fall apart if you tried to say anything else.

Pope turned his head to look at you, but didn’t speak. JJ shifted like he was about to, but Kie stopped him with a gentle hand on his chest. Sarah finally lifted her head, her tear-streaked eyes landing on you, and for the first time in what felt like hours, you met someone’s gaze. Her expression broke your heart. It wasn’t anger or blame or pity—it was something more painful. Something like recognition. Like she saw a version of her brother reflected in you, and maybe, for a second, she hated that she understood.

But none of them said anything. None of them moved closer. They just stood there, orbiting you like satellites around a dying star, unsure of what to offer.

And maybe that was the worst part—knowing there wasn’t anything they could say to fix it. No words to erase the image of Rafe’s body slumped against the car seat, breath shallow and lips tinged blue as you drove. No sentence strong enough to soften the way your heart kept replaying his name over and over again like a prayer you weren’t sure anyone was listening to.

So you sat there, still and sunburnt and trembling somewhere deep inside, not knowing what you needed—only that it wasn’t this. And maybe that was the scariest thing of all.

Pope fidgeted on the chair, his foot tapping impatiently against the scuffed vinyl floor as the silence stretched between you both. He didn’t mean to stare, knew it must have been the last thing you wanted right now, but he couldn’t help it. It was the first time in a long time that you really looked vulnerable, and it scared the hell out of him.

He ran a over his face, the gesture half-nervous tic, half-nervous habit, and felt his leg bounce more urgently against the floor. It was an uncomfortable kind of quiet. The kind of uncomfortable that sat wrong between friends. Friends who usually knew how to fill the silence with laughter and bad jokes and too many drinks. But none of that worked here.

He cleared his throat.

“You did a good thing today, you know.” The words landed flatly, but the look in his eyes softened the blow. He meant it. You knew he meant it.

“It was the correct thing to do…” you mumbled, the words catching in your throat like gravel, swallowing hard in a useless attempt to ease the ache that had rooted itself there. It didn’t budge. The lump sat stubborn and swollen, pulsing with every unspoken thought you were too tired to shape into words. Your gaze dropped again, first to the floor, then to the keys still gripped in your palm—his keys. They’d left indentations in your skin, shallow reminders that your fingers hadn’t relaxed since you’d parked his car outside. You couldn’t remember pulling the parking brake or locking the doors. It had all blurred together—sirens, shouting, hospital lights, his name. His name, always.

You didn’t look up, but you could feel their eyes on you, all four of them. The weight of their attention pressed down like a humid storm before the first thunder cracks. Pope had meant well—you knew that—but his words still rang with something deeper than what he said out loud.

“It was the correct thing to do,” sounded like comfort on the surface, like reassurance passed between two lifelong friends. But you knew him too well. You could hear the subtext in his voice. You did a good thing today. Even if it was for someone we all hate. Even if it wasn’t what we would’ve done. The rest went unsaid, but you could feel it all the same. Hanging there in the air between you and everyone else. Suspicion masked in concern. Unspoken questions tucked into silence so loud it bordered on cruel.

Because of course they were wondering. Why you? Why had you driven him here? Why had you been with him in the first place, let alone close enough to get him into a car and rush him to the ER before he stopped breathing altogether? And more importantly—what the hell had been going on between you and Rafe Cameron behind everyone’s backs?

You could see the confusion in their posture, even without meeting their eyes. The discomfort. The uncertainty. They didn’t want to say it here—not while sterile walls and beeping monitors were separated from the waiting room by a single swinging door—but you knew it was coming. Later. At the chateau. Probably the moment they thought your nerves had settled and the adrenaline had drained from your system. That was when it would begin.

JJ would be the one to break the silence. He always was. He never let tension linger long enough to rot. He’d corner you with that same mix of protectiveness and fire, demanding answers the others were too polite or too shocked to voice. His voice would be sharp, edged in disbelief. What the fuck were you doing with Rafe? How long has this been going on? Is this some kind of joke? And you'd sit there, either lying or giving him fragments of a truth that none of them were ready to hear.

But that confrontation wasn’t happening yet. Right now, you were here, in this awful waiting room that smelled like bleach and despair, clutching keys that didn’t belong to you and wondering why the hell it felt like you were the one bleeding out.

Another beat of silence.

“Pope’s right. You did the right thing.”

It was JJ this time. You could tell because the words were more blunt on his tongue, the tone a little too matter-of-fact in an effort to mask the concern. If it had been Pope, the words would’ve come out softer, maybe even gentle. You thought for a second that it should’ve bothered you how different they were at the same time they were just alike, but nothing felt normal right now. Nothing felt right.

The chair creaked as JJ shifted on to the edge, leaning his elbows on his knees in a way your mother always told you gentlemen shouldn’t. His fingers fidgeted with his cuticles, picking at the skin surrounding his thumb with anxious agitation. His expression was almost unreadable, if it weren't for the concern you'd come to know so well.

“The right thing,” he said again, like he was trying to convince you as much as he was himself.

Kie spoke next, her voice uncharacteristically fragile. She was holding onto a crumpled piece of paper, ripping and smoothing the edges like it was the only thing she had. It was the first time you’d heard more than a syllable from her in hours—hours it felt like, anyway.

”This wasn’t your fault,” she said, the words firm and deliberate.

"I'm not blaming myself." The words came out quiet but steady, a practiced kind of control that didn't match the chaos clawing through your chest. Your fingers kept turning the keys over and over again in your lap, fidgeting with them like they might morph into something useful—like they might grow a mouth and explain all of this to you. That it was a prank. A twisted cosmic joke, carefully engineered by whatever cruel forces were watching from above. Because that would almost make more sense than the truth: that you were sitting in a hospital waiting room still in your swimsuit, clutching Rafe Cameron’s car keys, waiting to find out if he was going to live or die.

JJ's words hung in the air behind yours, his comfort soft but cautious, careful not to press too hard. But your own echoed louder. “The right thing.”

Of course it had been the right thing. There was no debate about that. But the thing no one told you about doing the right thing was how awful it could feel—how it could splinter something inside you even as it saved someone else. And it especially didn’t feel good now, when even saying “was” felt like a gamble. Because was implied a past tense, and past tense meant he didn’t make it. The only thing keeping you in this seat instead of curled up beside his hospital bed was the slippery, uncertain promise of if.

If he made it. If he woke up. If you’d get the chance to look at him one more time before walking away for good.

But if was dangerous. It was hope dressed up as mercy, and mercy was something you didn’t feel like you deserved.

Even now, as the hum of fluorescent lights pressed down like static and the hospital sounds all blurred together, you felt the guilt weaving itself through your veins. Not guilt for saving him. No, that part you’d do over again without hesitation. But guilt in advance—for the lies you were going to tell your friends when they finally asked what happened. For the half-truths you'd feed JJ, whose eyes you'd avoided since the second you stepped inside. For the way your heart still ached when you looked at JJ, even though it had been somewhere else lately. Somewhere messier. Somewhere with Rafe.

Maybe that was the worst part. That every version of guilt you carried tonight was layered—dense and heavy, folding in on itself until it was hard to breathe under the weight of it. You didn’t even know who you were trying to protect anymore—Rafe, yourself, JJ. All of them, maybe. Or none at all.

Everything around you felt too sharp now. Too clear. Like the moment you finally put on your glasses after weeks of pretending you didn’t need them, and the world snapped into place a little too harshly. The edges of your decisions became impossible to ignore. You saw the lines you’d crossed. The wreckage you might’ve left behind. And yet here you were, sitting in that uncomfortable chair like a penitent sinner, praying for a second chance you knew you couldn’t afford to take.

Because if Rafe lived—you’d lose him anyway. And if he didn’t—God, if he didn’t— You weren’t sure who you’d be on the other side of that.

Pope shifted in his seat, fidgeting with the edge of his backpack. The look on his face said he had more to say—a lecture about guilt, maybe, or an attempt at comfort that would’ve fallen flat. But he didn’t have to make the mistake of speaking. It was JJ’s turn again, and he wasn’t one to hold back for long.

”You didn’t mean to get him so high he nearly overdosed, did you?” It was the first direct question aimed at you, and the accusation stung.

JJ’s voice sliced through the fog in your head like a sudden crack of thunder, pulling you from the repetitive fidgeting of Rafe’s keys in your hands. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you were still gripping them, your nails half-mooned into your palm, metal pressing cold and unforgiving into your sweat-slick skin. You should’ve returned them to Sarah by now. You knew that. But some part of you—some pathetic, panicked part—wasn’t ready to let go.

His accusation wasn’t loud, but it still hit with the weight of something unforgivable. Like a dull knife hurled into wet sand—too clumsy to pierce clean, too heavy not to land with impact. And still, it lodged itself in your chest, lodged itself deep. You blinked at him slowly, your stomach flipping not from guilt but from the raw shock of the moment.

Was that what they thought? That you got high with him? That you were the reason he ended up in the ICU?

JJ didn’t dress his concern up in soft words the way Pope had. He never did. He didn’t believe in cushioning the truth. Not with you. Not now. Especially not in the sterile, too-quiet hallway of a hospital, where everything already felt too raw and exposed.

You looked up at him finally, your head moving slowly, your gaze skimming across each of your friends’ faces like you were taking roll in a classroom you no longer recognized. Your eyes asked a silent question—Is that what you all think?—but none of them answered. No one said a damn thing. Not Pope. Not Kie. Not Sarah. Not even John B, who looked almost guilty just for standing there. All of them just… watched. Silent. Waiting. Like they were giving you a chance to explain, like their belief in you was on pause, suspended between JJ’s words and your response.

“Excuse me?” you asked, voice low and disbelieving. Your eyes narrowed just slightly—not a full glare, but enough to slice through the stunned concern on JJ’s face. Enough to let the irritation break through the shellshock that still gripped your shoulders. You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. But the edge in your tone was unmistakable, sharp with disbelief, scraped raw from everything you'd already been through tonight.

JJ’s expression didn’t soften—but the look in his eyes did. There was a flash of recognition as you finally focused on him, a brief moment that said he’d hit a nerve he wasn’t sure he should’ve touched. A beat later, it was gone.

He’d pushed too hard. He’d done the one thing they’d all agreed on—don’t ask questions, not yet. But his mouth worked like a well-worn habit, his temper pushing him to keep going, the worry inside him demanding answers from someone, anyone.

JJ held your gaze as your words landed between you, every line of your face shifting from shock to irritation to something that looked like a cross between vulnerability and defiance—your eyes glittering bright and sharp in the fluorescent light, like you were willing him to keep pushing. He hadn’t gotten any real answers yet.

He had no choice but to keep going. It would be easier for everyone if he’d just let it go. He knew that. He usually tried to let it go. But JJ was a lot of things, and rational didn’t rank very high on the list.

"You heard what I said." It came out less accusing this time, more like a tired statement of fact. He was still holding your gaze, but the way he was still fidgeting with the hem of his shorts betrayed the indifference in his voice. He was getting antsy. He needed better answers if he was going to step back and let this go. He just didn’t know if he really wanted to hear them. “Did you… get high with him?”

The look on their faces wasn’t unfamiliar—but it was devastating. Quiet guilt. Subtle judgment. They didn’t need to say it. You could see it in the shift of their weight, in the way they avoided your gaze even as you searched each of them for a scrap of defense. They’d talked. They’d all talked. About you. About Rafe. About this. You weren’t imagining that—they had already decided something before JJ even opened his mouth.

The realization made your chest tighten until it ached, until breathing felt like trying to swallow glass. They’d formed their theories in hushed tones while you sat with his blood drying under your nails. You weren’t angry yet. That would come later. What you felt now was something worse—abandonment. A brutal kind of loneliness that tasted metallic in your throat. You didn’t just lose Rafe tonight—not entirely, not yet—but you were beginning to think you might’ve lost them too.

You exhaled slowly, not trusting your voice at first. “No,” you finally said, the word sharp but cracking at the edges. “I didn’t get high with him.”

It was a simple sentence. It should’ve been enough.

But none of their faces shifted. No one softened. No one moved to apologize.

Your gaze flicked to JJ again, hardening despite the sting behind your eyes. “It’s not like me and Rafe are—” You stopped yourself, the sentence dying somewhere in your throat, unraveling before it could even form. Your lip curled, more in confusion than anger, as the absurdity of it all sank in. “Why the hell would I be doing coke with Rafe Cameron?”

You hadn’t meant to raise your voice, but it echoed anyway—cutting through the buzz of hospital lights and the occasional intercom call like glass underfoot. The question wasn’t just for JJ anymore. It was for all of them. A direct accusation. A demand for answers you weren’t sure you wanted to hear.

All four of them jumped when your voice cracked, all of them looking away except for JJ. His eyes were fixed on you in a way that bordered on uncomfortable. This wasn’t what he was expecting. Sure, he didn’t like the idea of you getting high with Rafe, but that had almost seemed like the logical explanation until you pushed back, the harsh tone of your question making his chest squeeze unpleasantly.

“Well, I don’t know. I sure as hell didn’t think you’d be driving him to the damn hospital either,” he shot back.

Your voice came out thinner than you expected—strained and bitter, the exhaustion eating at your edges finally forcing its way out. A small, humorless scoff clawed up your throat, barely past your chapped lips before your jaw locked tight around it. Disbelief buzzed in your ears, thrumming louder than the hospital lights, louder than the beeping monitors and the clipped footsteps echoing off sterile floors. This—this—wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the place. But apparently, your friends disagreed.

You hadn’t said anything when JJ started dating Kiara. Not really. You hadn’t brought up how it hollowed you out. How it carved up all your softness and left you aching in a place none of them could see. You didn’t tell them that Rafe was a coping mechanism with a pretty face and dangerous habits. That he was the wrong person to reach for, but the only one who felt just as wrong inside as you did.

And now—now they wanted to play detective? Sit in a hospital hallway and dissect the choices you made while you still didn’t know if Rafe was going to survive?

“I should’ve let Barry drag him into his filthy trailer, right?” you said, voice trembling with restrained fury. “Gone about my day while he OD'd on Barry’s floor somewhere on the filthiest edges of the Cut?”

Your words came in a rush, raw and cracking at the seams as your expression twisted under the weight of too much emotion and too little rest. You could feel yourself shrinking under it—into the ugly discomfort of the molded plastic chair, into the fabric of your damp clothes, into the guilt that clung to your skin like sweat. You weren’t trying to be dramatic. You were trying to survive the night.

“I saved him,” you muttered, quieter this time, gaze falling to the keys again—those fucking keys still warm in your hand like they meant something. “And all any of you care about is why.”

None of them answered. And that silence—that hollow, heavy silence—told you everything you needed to know.

Each of your words landed like a blow, and you watched as they flinched from the impact—Sarah, Kie, and Pope. They all looked away, the guilt weighing on them like a physical thing. But not JJ. His arms folded across his chest, his jaw clenched tight.

“Nobody’s saying you didn’t,” he finally muttered. “I’m just trying to figure out how the hell this even happened.”

He watched as you pressed your lips together, almost wincing when your jaw clenched—almost. JJ had lost his temper before. Hell, he’d lost it with you more times than he could count. But you’d never looked at him like this. He’d never seen you this cold, this furious, this… wounded. He wanted to fix it. God knows he wanted to fix it. But he didn’t have the right words, and he was never good at apologies.

JJ ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, frustration and guilt twisting in equal measure, his chest tightening until it ached.

“I didn’t even think you two talked,” he said, words tight in his throat. They should’ve come out lighter, more casual. Like he didn’t understand. Like he didn’t even care. Instead, they came out almost desperate, the effort of hiding them like sandpaper against his skin.

"We don’t!" you whisper-shouted again, and your voice cracked just enough to betray the pressure building behind it. You pressed your lips into a thin, pale line, blinking hard, willing yourself not to cry—not from sadness, but from frustration. The kind that felt like you were being backed into a corner, surrounded by people you loved who couldn’t seem to recognize how hard you were trying.

You looked at JJ, really looked at him, and saw that flicker of something dark and unrelenting behind his eyes—the kind of thing he got when he felt betrayed. But what did he expect from you? To let Rafe die on the floor? To pretend like it hadn't happened?

“The only time me and Rafe ever talk is when he decides he needs to put me and my social status down at work,” you spat out, your voice trembling now with the effort to sound collected. “Or when I defend you guys from his stupid remarks.”

That much was true. It was also not the whole truth—and the guilt made your chest burn hotter because of it.

You and Rafe had done a hell of a lot more than talk. Recently. Often. Sober. With a kind of desperation that neither of you dared put a name to. And the memories came flooding back now, like cruel ghosts rising up to mock you.

Just last night—Jesus, just last night—he’d cornered you upstairs during the costume party. Your friends had been dancing downstairs, shouting lyrics, laughing. And upstairs, he was fucking you like he needed to carve the shape of you into his bones. Like it was the last time. Maybe it was.

The image made your stomach twist violently. Now here you were, the heat of his hands still seared into your skin, and he was somewhere at the end of the hall with a tube down his throat and charcoal in his stomach. Maybe dying. Maybe not.

Suddenly, the guilt bubbled up like bile, thick and acidic, choking out anything that sounded like reason. You could feel your pulse in your temples, the nausea curling at the base of your throat. Because the truth was ugly. And you couldn’t tell it. Not here. Not now.

So instead, you swallowed hard and clung to your anger like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“I drove him here because no one else was going to,” you added, softer now, but just as sharp. “And maybe that makes me stupid. Maybe it makes me a traitor in your eyes. But it doesn’t make me a liar.”

You didn’t mean to look away from them so suddenly, but you did—your gaze dropping to your lap, to the keys you’d nearly dented into your palm. Anything to not see the judgment or confusion or betrayal on their faces. Anything to keep from breaking open right there in front of them. Because if you started crying now, you wouldn’t stop.

And none of them—not even JJ—would understand what the tears were really for.

JJ hated himself for pushing you. For making this—this—happen in a hospital hallway, in the place that stank of too-clean surfaces and too much death. He could see it, in the way you were breaking apart—in the way you looked like you were going to say everything you were keeping locked away and let it burst open right here, right now. It made him want to scream. Or throw up. Maybe both.

Pope cleared his throat, and JJ sent him a warning look that all but begged him to stay quiet. But Pope, for once, ignored him. He looked almost pained, watching you fold back into yourself, shoulders hunched and head bowed like you were trying to hide from them. Even with your face partly hidden, JJ could still see the hurt on your

“No one’s saying you’re a liar,” he said gently, shifting to face you in his chair beside you. Hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out and touch you before he spoke up again, to soften the blow of his next words. “We just don’t understand how you ended up in a car with Rafe Cameron.”

He waited for you to speak, but the only sound you made was an ironic, bitter scoff—not even lifting your head to acknowledge him. Pope was patient, though—he always was. He waited another beat, another moment. And when you still didn’t answer, he let some of the tension in his back loosen, voice quieter now, almost imploring.

“Come on. It’s just a question.”

Kie was the one who spoke up this time, and her voice broke right through the heavy silence in a way that made the hair on JJ’s arms prickle upright. “We’re not calling you a liar,” she said, the edge to her words a little too sharp to sound like anything but annoyance.

“We’re just trying to figure out why the hell you drove him here.”

Your eyes moved from Pope to JJ and then to Kie when she finally spoke, her voice careful like she was trying not to spook you. But it still felt like some poorly written intervention scene in a low-budget indie drama. You could almost hear the imaginary director yelling cut and reset. Except this was real. Your reality. Your consequence. Your secret, bleeding out under the sterile lights of the ICU waiting room.

You pulled the hospital-issued blanket tighter around yourself, the synthetic material scratching your already sunburnt skin, but you didn't flinch. You didn’t even register the keys still biting into your palm, half-moon indents surely forming from the grip you hadn’t loosened once. Your body was a collection of sensations you couldn’t bother to decipher right now. The only thing you were sure of was that this—them—was the last thing you needed. Their prying. Their assumptions. Their questions dressed up as concern.

You could feel their eyes on you. Studying. Waiting. Pressuring. And you knew you had to lie. You had no choice but to lie.

Because what were you going to say? That Rafe had his hand between your legs twelve hours ago while calling you a thousand pet names with a smile on his face? That he kissed you like he hated you but needed you, that you had buried yourself in him like he could drown out everything else that hurt? That this thing between you wasn’t about coke or love or loyalty—it was about escaping, about breaking something before it broke you?

No. You couldn’t say any of that. Not when their eyes held quiet judgment and their hearts still thought of you as their moral compass. The “good” one. The level-headed one. The one who wouldn’t touch Rafe Cameron, let alone let him touch her.

So you inhaled slowly and said instead, “Because he needed help?” Your voice cracked only slightly, but it was raw enough to force the silence back down their throats. You met Kie’s gaze dead on—like you were daring her to call you out.

“It’s not like he came to visit me on the cut so we could get high together,” you continued, the bitterness in your throat almost stronger than the desperation. “He was at Barry’s, clearly messed up, and then suddenly… he was just there, standing at the edge of my yard like some statue. Just watching me argue with my mom.”

You swallowed, the memory flickering behind your eyelids. Rafe’s pale, slack face. The stillness in his movements. The silence in his stare.

“I got pissed. Thought he was being a creep, like usual. I dragged him back toward his car—back to Barry’s—and that’s when I noticed he was too quiet. Like… not there. His eyes weren’t focusing on me. His skin felt wrong.”

You blinked hard. “I panicked,” you said, and that was the truest part of all. “I shoved him in the SUV and drove him here because I know what an OD looks like. I've seen it before. My cousin—” You stopped yourself, realizing your voice was rising not in volume, but in edge. That familiar rasp of unraveling.

A beat passed. The silence grew teeth.

“He needed help,” you repeated, this time quieter. Like the words were losing their weight, or maybe just their ability to hold the wall between you and everything you weren’t saying.

And still, none of them spoke. Not even JJ. You could tell they were trying to process, trying to parse truth from performance.

You wondered if any of them would notice the story didn’t quite explain why Rafe came to you.

Or why he trusted you.

You sat there in the thick silence, waiting for someone to break it. But no one spoke. Each one of them watching you, like you were something complicated. To be figured out. It was all too familiar. JJ was clenching and unclenching his fists in the seat beside you, like he was physically holding himself back from opening his mouth. He’d never been good at staying quiet.

Another excruciating minute of silence passed before JJ spoke again, his gaze drifting back to you.

“Are we supposed to believe you just happened to drive him to the hospital because it was the right thing to do?” Each word was tight with pent-up frustration, his eyes hard as he fixed you with a look that was just as desperate as it was accusatory. He didn’t give you a chance to answer.

“Because that’s some serious bullshit.”

The moment you stood up, the room seemed to pull tighter around you, like the hospital walls were leaning in to listen. The blanket hit the chair with a quiet thwap, and for the first time since you sat down, your body felt separate from the heaviness you'd been carrying. But it didn’t lift the pressure—it just gave it space to move.

You could hear the shift. Their silence wasn’t empty anymore—it buzzed, like a live wire was running under the floor. The faint rustle of Kie adjusting in her seat. The subtle exhale Pope tried to stifle. The way JJ’s jaw twitched, like he was biting back something he wasn’t sure he had the right to say. And you could feel the weight of Sarah’s stare most of all, her quiet, tense heartbreak radiating from across the room.

“What is wrong with all of you?” you snapped before you could reel it in, the heat in your voice cutting through the stale air. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it sliced. You could see JJ stiffen. Pope blinked. Even Kie recoiled slightly.

You turned your attention to Sarah, and it made your throat constrict. Because this wasn’t just some girl from your friend group. This was the girl who’d first made you feel like you belonged somewhere. Who never once looked at you like you were less. The one who painted your nails on her bedroom floor and helped you lie to your mom about where you were spending the night. The only other person who really knew what it felt like to straddle the blurred line between two sides of the island.

“This is your brother we're talking about here,” you hissed, your voice low but heavy, so weighted with disbelief it hurt. “Did you guys expect me to let him die?” You laughed, sharp and humorless, your hands cutting through the air like punctuation marks. “Sure, I hate Rafe Cameron—who doesn’t? But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna sit there and watch him choke on his own tongue without lifting a finger.”

You were unraveling now, but it wasn’t messy. It was sharp. Controlled. A blade pressed flat instead of plunged deep. “I wouldn’t do that with anyone,” you added, your voice quieter now, trembling with something close to defeat. “I don’t care who he is. Who I am. If it were any of you… you think I wouldn’t do the same?”

Sarah didn’t respond right away. None of them did. Just the low hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant squeak of nurses' shoes on the linoleum.

You were breathing harder than you realized. You wiped at your face, not even sure if there were tears or sweat or something in between. And still, the only sound was the too-steady rhythm of the hospital around you—heartbeats and machines and a silence that felt colder than anything else.

You’d never seen JJ look so still. No fidgeting, no tapping his foot, no hands drumming across his chair. He was frozen, face so carefully blank it made your heart clench. His eyes never left your face. In any other scenario, he probably would’ve stood up and started pacing with a violent energy, running a hand through his hair and yelling until he ran out of steam. But not now. He looked like he was holding his breath. Like if he moved even an inch, the moment would fall apart.

Pope was the one who shifted this time. He’d always been the peacemaker, the one who tried to get the right words out before anyone could say something they’d instantly regret.

“We’re not trying to say you shouldn’t have helped him,” he started, his voice measured and neutral.

Your head turned so fast it startled even you, the momentum matching the fire finally catching in your chest. “No,” you cut Pope off before he could finish his statement, your voice low but loaded, vibrating with the kind of fury that came from being both heartbroken and insulted. “You're all just a bunch of fucking children.”

It wasn’t a shout, but it landed like one. You saw it hit them—the recoil in Kie’s posture, JJ’s eyebrows pulling together tighter, Sarah’s mouth parting like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Pope flinched, barely, but enough for you to feel like you’d just struck something solid and vital. And maybe that was fair. Maybe they deserved to hurt a little.

“You’re too wrapped up in your stupid little social feud to realize that a living, breathing person was close to dying today.” Your voice cracked on the word, like the weight of it had finally started to catch up with your throat. “And if I hadn’t been fast enough—if I hadn’t gotten in that car and shoved him in the passenger seat—he would’ve died with me. In that fucking SUV. With me.”

You jabbed your chest with your finger like a physical reminder that you’d been the one there. You. Not them. Not his friends—because he didn’t have any. Not his family—because they’d all given up. You.

“A person he doesn’t even like. Or know. Imagine that,” you scoffed bitterly, voice trembling again despite how hard you tried to hold it steady. “Imagine if the roles were reversed.”

And that was when the memory slammed into your chest like a brick wall.

The kook party. The spiked drink. The way the music had warped and melted around you as your limbs turned foreign and numb. The way no one had noticed you slipping out the front door, or cared when you stumbled into the yard, head spinning, skin clammy. The way you were slumped on the curb, eyes glazed over, mouth full of dry cookies and iced tea you didn't even remember purchasing from that stupid corner store.

Rafe.

Rafe Cameron, with his stupid expensive shoes and permanent scowl, crouched in front of you with an unreadable look on his face after he realised you'd been spiked. Not judgment, not amusement. Just a cold, sharp focus—like he was calculating. And then a ragged breath, a low curse, and he was the one who sat next to you until you could walk again. The one who didn’t leave and instead carried you to his car and took you his house to throw up. Who didn’t even mention it again.

You hadn’t told anyone. You never would. And today felt like repayment. Like some unspoken karmic loop closed in on itself.

But they didn’t know that. None of them did. And that was the worst part.

So you let the silence settle in again, harsher this time. You watched them—JJ, Pope, Kie, Sarah John B—and for the first time ever, you didn’t feel like you belonged among them. You felt like an outsider, like the girl from the wrong part of the island who had accidentally seen too much and been through even more.

The silence fell hard. None of them knew how to respond. Because you were right—no matter how badly they hated Rafe, they couldn’t deny the fact that his life had basically depended on you being there. And maybe they didn’t want to admit that.

Sarah was the one who finally cracked. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes closed like it physically ached to look at you. Her voice was low. Just barely above a whisper, like she was holding back tears.

“I get that,” she said, and she sounded tired. Weary. “And I’m sorry. Thank you. For helping him.”

Kie was the next to speak. Her words were measured, but there was a tinge of guilt behind his her tone.

“We’re not saying you didn’t do the right thing, okay? We’re just—we’re just worried.”

Your eyes lingered on Sarah for a beat longer than necessary, trying to decipher whether her quiet “thank you” held any real weight or if it was simply a lifeline tossed into the storm to steady things before they unraveled further. You wanted to believe it was sincere. You needed it to be. But the walls were too high now, the hurt too fresh, and trust felt like something fragile you’d dropped miles back.

Your gaze shifted then, cutting to Kiara—seated like she always was, perfectly poised next to JJ, her hand draped gently over his like a calm hand on a loaded weapon. JJ still looked at you like he wanted to dissect you open, like he was trying to untangle the muscle and sinew of your soul just to uncover the why of everything. You met his stare for half a second, just long enough to remind him you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of breaking down. Not here.

You nodded once, short and stiff, something final in the gesture before you spun on your heel. The ache in your feet was a dull throb against the sterile floor, but you welcomed it—anything that grounded you, anything that made you feel something other than the guilt and rage still boiling beneath your skin.

You walked with your shoulders tense and jaw locked, brushing past nurses and patients and the too-familiar, soul-draining scent of antiseptic. You ignored the stares that trailed behind you—people squinting in curiosity or judgment at the bikini top you’d never had time to change out of, the faded denim shorts that barely covered your thighs, the sneakers scuffed beyond recognition. Your hair was a mess and your makeup had long since smudged away, but none of it mattered. Not tonight. Not after what you’d seen. What you’d done.

Your legs carried you toward the end of the corridor, away from the ICU and the harsh fluorescent lights, until you found yourself standing numbly in front of a vending machine tucked into a quieter corner of the hospital. It buzzed softly in the silence, promising the kind of mindless comfort only processed snacks could give.

You pulled out the only bill you had—creased, torn at the corners, damp from your palm. A pathetic, crumpled dollar. You smoothed it with your thumbnail and fed it into the machine, watching as it inhaled it slowly and blinked its readiness. You keyed in the number for a small pack of crackers, your stomach reminding you it hadn’t been fed in hours.

Nothing happened.

The machine blinked. Thought about it. Then blinked again.

Nothing.

You scowled, hitting the return button, already knowing what was coming. The machine spit out silence. Your snack remained in its place, unmoved, sealed behind a wall of plexiglass and rejection.

Of course. Of course.

Your head thudded lightly against the cool glass of the vending machine as you closed your eyes, willing yourself not to scream, not to cry, not to let the exhaustion win. You barely heard the footsteps behind you until a crisp, clean ten-dollar bill slipped past your shoulder and into the machine’s slot.

A voice followed. Calm. Rich. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Try something with a little more substance.”

You froze.

Slowly, like a horror movie character sensing the monster behind her, you turned your head to the side.

Ward Cameron stood behind you.

Casually dressed in a navy pullover and khakis like he’d just come from a dinner meeting instead of a hospital waiting room. His hair was neatly combed, face calm in that practiced, politician-perfect way of his. The faintest smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Your throat went dry. You didn’t speak. Not yet. You were too tired, too stunned.

He punched a few buttons on the machine, and you watched as a small bag of chips dropped into the bottom of the dispenser. He bent down and grabbed them, holding them gently in his hands.

Then he offered them to you, like you were a terrified animal who might run if he moved too quickly.

You’d never admit it to Sarah, but her father scared you. Not in the way most adults scared teenagers—with strict rules or power trips—but in a way that felt older, colder, and far more calculated. Like his smile had been carved from something artificial and his charm practiced in a mirror. There was a distance in his eyes, something eerily hollow, like he was always looking through people rather than at them. He resembled Rafe, and not just in the obvious genetic ways. It was the kind of resemblance that made your stomach twist—the kind that reminded you of sharp smiles, quick tempers, and threats laced with courtesy.

His presence beside you now felt oddly surreal, especially here, under the washed-out hospital lights. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there with the ease of a man used to getting what he wanted, used to owning every room he entered. And without a word, he slid a clean ten-dollar bill into the vending machine slot from behind your shoulder, punching the selection number for the bag of chips you'd tried and failed to buy. When the machine clunked and whirred, the packet dropping into the tray with a finality that sounded louder than it should have, he plucked it out and offered it to you like it was some ceremonial gesture.

Your stomach gave a soft, traitorous grumble. You were too hungry to pretend you didn’t need it. So you took it, slowly, hesitantly, your fingers brushing against his for the briefest second before pulling the bag close to your chest.

“Thank you,” you muttered, clipped and stiff. The words didn’t feel like enough, but nothing would’ve.

Ward’s mouth curled into a smile—tight-lipped, unreadable. “Of course.”

He said it like it meant something. Like the thanks wasn’t really about the chips.

You focused on the bag, trying not to let your shaking fingers crinkle it too loudly. Trying not to recoil from the weight of his attention.

“You know,” Ward said, his tone light but laced with something else, something that made your spine stiffen, “when I got the call, I assumed it was a mistake. My son, overdosing in a car… and not alone. And then they tell me you drove him here.”

Your jaw locked. Of course he’d heard that much. Probably heard more than he should have already. “Not exactly what I expected,” he added, voice softening just enough to sound polite again. “You must’ve cared a great deal to get him here in time.”

“I didn’t do it for Rafe,” you replied, tone flat, eyes still fixed on the floor, on the vending machine, anywhere but him. “He showed up and needed help. That’s all.”

Ward’s gaze didn’t waver. “Still. Most people would’ve called someone else. Or left him there. Especially people who’ve been taught not to trust my family.”

You finally looked at him then, your stare tired but direct. “Most people aren’t me.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment. Then nodded, slow and thoughtful, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. “True.”

There was a pause—long enough to make your chest tighten. “Were you with him?” he asked finally, voice calm but edged with something darker. “When it happened?”

Your blood ran cold.

The question didn’t need clarification. It wasn’t just about geography. He was asking if you had been with Rafe in the way people whispered about. If you were the kind of girl who would be with someone like his son. His words weren’t crude. They didn’t need to be.

“He showed up in front of my yard,” you said, your voice low and even. “Didn’t say a word. Just stood there watching me fight with my mom. He looked… off. Quiet in a way Rafe Cameron is never quiet. So I dragged him to his car and realized something was wrong. That’s it.”

Ward nodded again. Like he was filing the information away for later, tucking it into some private ledger where people’s actions were weighed and tallied. He didn’t ask anything else. He didn’t have to. He'd already seen enough.

“I’m sure Rafe will remember it,” he said, stepping back, fixing the collar of his blazer with a slow, careful hand. “If he wakes up.”

The statement struck with more finality than intended. You tensed, shoulders rising toward your ears, but you didn’t flinch.

“I don’t really care if he does.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, flat, cold, unfeeling. You wanted it to sound defiant, bold. It just sounded tired.

Ward gave another slight nod, a flicker of something—pity, maybe?—crossing his face before the mask settled back into place, as smooth and blank as before.

His eyes lingered, studying you, weighing you in a way that made goosebumps prickle up your arms. He had a habit of looking through people like they were just objects, toys to be used. When he spoke, his tone was too quiet, too gentle.

“Rafe’s not someone anyone wants to help. Hell, he doesn’t want it. From anyone.”

He was looking at you with something new in his eyes, and you couldn’t tell if it was sympathy or warning.

You paused mid-bite, the taste of salt and starch going flat on your tongue as Ward’s statement settled into the space between you. Rafe didn’t want help. You turned the words over slowly in your mind, trying to decide if that was truth or just the version his father preferred to believe. You’d only been sleeping with Rafe for two weeks— barely fourteen reckless, stolen, chaotic days—and even in that short time, it had become painfully clear that he did need help. Maybe more than anyone else you’d ever met. He needed it in the way someone drowning needs air but forgets how to reach the surface.

And still, his father said it like a final verdict. Like needing help was weakness, and weakness wasn’t something a Cameron could afford to admit.

“No one wants help,” you said after a long silence, your voice quieter now, stripped of the edge it had when you’d spoken to the pogues. “People think they’re supposed to do everything alone. Like it makes them stronger.”

Ward’s expression didn’t change, but you saw something shift behind his eyes. A flicker. Recognition, maybe.

“But that’s not how it works,” you continued, gaze slipping back to the vending machine, your body starting to sag under the exhaustion curling in your bones. “Especially not when someone’s life’s on the line.”

You hesitated again, then resumed chewing slowly, forcing yourself to swallow around the knot in your throat before you added, “I didn’t ask him if he wanted my help.”

You looked up now, met Ward’s gaze dead-on. “Didn’t think he’d argue with me on whether or not he deserved to live.”

The silence stretched between you, taut as wire.

Ward blinked, once, slowly. His posture didn’t shift, his hands still folded loosely in front of him like he had all the time in the world. Like your words meant nothing—or everything—and he hadn’t decided yet which it was.

Finally, he gave a small nod. “Good,” he said simply, almost absently. Then, as if remembering who he was supposed to be, he added, “He’s lucky you were there. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

He reached out then, lightly patted your shoulder—like he thought that was what a grateful father should do. But the gesture felt off, misplaced. Like a wolf trying to comfort the rabbit it might eat later.

Then he turned again, his shoes clicking faintly down the sterile hallway.

You watched him disappear around the corner, your appetite gone and your mind buzzing. Because what scared you more than Ward’s calmness… was how much of Rafe you’d seen in it.

And maybe—how much of yourself you'd started to see in Rafe.

You stood alone in the corridor, watching the vending machine whir and clink and blink like everything was normal. You’d been expecting an argument, an explosion, threats that were easy to brush off. Instead, you felt like you’d been dissected. Like your reasons were laid out on a table for someone else to read, leaving you torn open and wrong.

The first thing Rafe noticed was the beeping. Slow. Rhythmic. Loud enough to irritate the back of his skull but not loud enough to drown out the weight in his chest.

The second thing was the taste in his mouth—cotton and metal and something sour. His tongue felt thick, throat raw like he’d been yelling or crying or choking. Maybe all three. His hands twitched against the stiff, tucked-in hospital sheets, and the tape on the IV in his arm tugged like a leash.

Then the third thing hit.

You were the last thing he remembered. Your voice, sharp with panic. Your hands—clumsy, but determined. The distant sound of a car door slamming and you yelling at someone—maybe him, maybe the universe. Then everything had gone sideways and black and gone.

Now his eyelids fluttered open, slow and sluggish. The light was too bright—so bright it made his stomach turn—and he squinted against it, trying to make sense of the washed-out ceiling tiles above him. Everything in his body felt wrong. Heavy. Weak. Cold under his skin. His heart was beating in uneven, anxious thuds, like it wasn’t sure it wanted to keep doing its job.

And then the real awareness set in, slow and thick like syrup. He was in a hospital. There was a needle in his arm. His shirt was gone. There were machines.

Fuck.

His fingers curled into the blanket like they could disappear inside it, embarrassment settling somewhere beneath his ribs and shame chasing quickly behind. He didn’t have to look down to know what had happened. He could feel it in the hollowness behind his eyes, the pressure in his skull, the vague, acidic memory of being empty and scared and spilling over.

OD.

He’d fucking OD'd.

And you were the one who helped him.

His jaw clenched automatically. That alone was worse than the vomiting, worse than the tremors in his limbs or the blood in his mouth. Because it wasn’t supposed to be you. It wasn’t supposed to be anyone. He’d been careful. Or he thought he had. Stay away from the hard shit unless you want to tap out early, Barry used to say. But he hadn’t. He’d gotten sloppy. Sloppy enough that you—your bikini probably still half on, attitude still sharp—had to scrape him off the floor of his own mess and drive him here.

The thought made him want to tear the IV from his arm and bolt out the door. Instead, he sank further into the bed, chest rising unevenly as the door to his room creaked open.

He didn’t look.

He didn’t want it to be you. But part of him—the loud, ugly part—ached for it.

Because for all the shit he gave you, all the twisted, toxic back-and-forth between you two, when you touched his wrist in that car, when you yelled his name and refused to let him fade out, it was the only time in the past year that someone had held on like they meant it.

The shame came like a slap.

His head throbbed, dull and mean, like the aftermath of a riot. His stomach churned. The last thing he remembered was Barry’s trailer, the heat, the stench of unwashed clothes and stale beer—and then your voice. Sharp, irritated, panicked. Your hands on him, shoving, dragging. His car. The movement. You yelling something—his name?Your mom?

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His body didn’t want to move. Like it was punishing him for trying to leave it behind.

Rafe closed his eyes.

He had almost died. Again.

And the only person in the world who had done something about it was you—the girl he wasn’t even supposed to look at. Not in public. Not in front of anyone. He exhaled, bitter and slow. You didn’t even like him. And yet, when it mattered, you were the only one who showed up.

How fucked up was that? A slow, creeping dread curled in his stomach. Not about dying—but about waking up. About whatever came next. About seeing you again and pretending nothing happened. About pretending you were still just fucking and fighting and keeping secrets in the dark.

Because now you’d seen him. Really seen him. Broken and quiet and half-dead.

He didn’t know how to come back from that.

He lay there, the pain in his head and the ache in his chest warring with the shame that was starting to seep through his bones. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin. His fingers clenched the edges of the thin hospital sheet, twisting the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

He heard the door to his room creak open, letting in streaks of sterile fluorescent light that pierced his retinas. His eyes stayed resolutely shut, his entire body tensing like steel cables.

He heard the soft, tired voice of his sister bleeding into the sterile hum of the hospital corridor outside his door. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell she was talking to someone—her tone was lighter than it had been before, but still frayed at the edges, like string unraveling under too much pressure.

Sarah lingered in the doorway for a beat. He could feel her silhouette blocking the light, casting a soft orange glow across his eyelids before it disappeared again. The door creaked, then clicked shut, sealing off the hallway noise and wrapping the room in the kind of dim silence that made it hard to breathe.

Rafe stayed still, chest rising and falling in the even rhythm of someone trying a little too hard to look unconscious. Then he heard the footsteps. Soft. Hesitant. They padded across the linoleum floor like whoever they belonged to didn’t want to be heard. Then the scrape of a plastic chair being dragged forward, legs dragging against the tile. A pause. Then it settled—closer to his bed than he liked.

His breath hitched for half a second, barely noticeable unless someone was looking for it. His fingers curled tighter into the thin sheets, the IV tugging slightly at the motion. He didn’t dare open his eyes.

He didn’t know who had sat down.

He wanted it to be Ward—that made sense. That was easy. Safe. Ward would sit silently, probably judging him with narrowed eyes, mentally filing this moment away under “disappointments,” but Rafe could take that. Could handle the sharp-edged disappointment of a father who’d seen too much already.

But the air was wrong.

The person sitting beside him didn’t bring that cold, authoritative weight with them. They brought a buzz. Nervous, jittery, anxious. The kind of presence that made his skin prickle under the hospital gown. Not Ward. And not a nurse either. Nurses didn't sit that close.

This was someone else.

And even though he kept his eyes shut, Rafe already knew. It was you. Because no one else would sit in silence like that. No one else would come into the room like they didn’t know whether they were allowed to. No one else would carry that specific kind of guilt and urgency in the way they breathed—soft, deliberate, like you were trying not to make it worse.

You were here.

You’d seen him like this and you still came back. That realization twisted something inside him, something raw and unfamiliar and dangerous. His jaw clenched. His heartbeat kicked up just slightly, loud in his ears. He wondered if you could hear it. He wondered if you were looking at him now, sitting there with your arms crossed or your fingers laced together like you didn’t know what to do with them.

He wanted to open his eyes and meet your stare, say something cruel or flippant just to tip the power back into his own hands. Just to remind you that this—this version of him—wasn’t supposed to exist. Not in front of you.

But he didn’t. He stayed still, breathing slow and shallow, chest burning with shame and something more dangerous creeping underneath it. Because the longer you sat there, the more it started to hurt.

That you came.

That you cared.

That you were quiet.

And that now, you’d really seen him.

The room smelled like disinfectant and antiseptic. The fluorescent lights hummed softly as he lay there, still and silent. He’d been here before—or similar places, at least. Hospitals came with a kind of static air. He hated it. The smell. The sounds. The way the machines beeped in regular intervals, a reminder that time was passing, even if Rafe felt permanently stuck.

But he didn’t want to move. His limbs felt heavy, like weights were strapped to his arms and legs. His head throbbed with every heartbeat, a steady, dull pain that made him dizzy.

He shifted, his hospital gown rustling with the movement, making soft, grating noises against the paper-thin sheets. The IV in his arm burned, but he didn't have the energy to do anything about it. He just lay there, breath shallow and unsteady, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. The air conditioner clicked on with a shuddering groan, and the sound of the ventilator's steady hum filled the room. He wondered how many people had shared this bed before him. He wondered how many of them had made it out alive.

He was alone. Completely alone. The machines beeped their steady refrain around him, and the sterile walls seemed to press inward. He knew nobody was coming for him. Nobody ever had.

He was used to the isolation. He was used to being ignored. It had been that way ever since his mom left. Maybe even before. His family didn’t know how to love. How to care.

So he lay there, feeling the walls close in, the beep of the monitors mocking him. The emptiness of the room a mirror for the emptiness inside his chest.

In the haze of his mind reeling and his thoughts swirling around his head like bees, he almost forgot that technically he wasn't alone. The presence on the chair next to his bed mocked him, taunted him to open his eyes and look. To confirm it was indeed you. He could hear your breathing, the way you fidgeted with something. The jingle of keys. Your shoes as you moved and tapped your foot on the floor softly.

The sounds made Rafe’s entire body tense. Every muscle coiled like a spring, ready to snap. He wanted to scream, to make you leave. To make you go away forever. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t trust himself to speak. He couldn’t trust his voice to work. He just lay there, listening to the quiet sounds of you in the room, and silently seethed. And if he closed his eyes tight enough, he could pretend you weren’t there at all.

His fingers curled into the hospital sheets again, knuckles whitening. His jaw ached from clenching it so hard.

He hated this. He hated you. He hated himself. He hated the whole damn situation.

He wanted to scream. To rage. To shout for someone—anyone—to come in and chase you away. He wanted you gone. He didn’t want you to see him like this.

But he couldn’t make a sound.

So he stayed quiet. Listening. Breathing. Hating.

And then he heard you. You weren't speaking to him. You were whispering to yourself, still fidgeting with whatever object you held in your hands. He couldn't really make out what you were saying, your voice too low, drowned out by a deep sigh as you shifted in the chair. You thought he was asleep. And he wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

His chest stung with the realization. You thought he was asleep. You weren’t talking to him. And yet, you still stayed.

A flicker of something twisted in his chest, sharp and hot. It felt like anger. Like irritation. Or maybe something more like hurt. He didn’t like it.

He didn’t want your pity. He didn’t want your concern. He didn’t want anything from you.

But you were still here.

Why were you still here?

He swallowed hard, his throat tight and dry from exhaustion. The monitors beside his bed beeped irregularly, betraying his rising heart rate. The IV in his arm itched. The hospital gown scratched his skin.

He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to sit up. He wanted to yell. To scream at you to get the hell out. To tell you to leave him alone. That your presence made him nauseous.

But he just lay there. Breathing. Silent. Helpless.

He swallowed again. The hospital smells were starting to make him nauseous. The antiseptic. The bleach. The smell of death and illness. It seeped into his nostrils and made his head spin.

He closed his eyes harder, as if he could block out reality by shutting out his vision. His breaths came faster now. Ragged. Unsteady.

He didn’t want you here. But he also found himself clinging to the sound of you breathing. The soft, rhythmic in and out of air. It was a lifeline in the suffocating silence.

His fingers curled and uncurled in the sheets like dying spiders. The monitors beeped louder now, the irregular rhythms giving away his rapid heart rate. His temples throbbed with each passing second. He felt vulnerable. Weak. Exposed.

And you were still there. Sitting. Watching. Judging him. Silently waiting, like some twisted guardian angel sent by his own personal hell.

He wanted to scream. To lash out. To tell you to leave him. But the words stuck in his throat. Choked by shame. By humiliation.

His chest heaved now, the air labored, like the room was filled with smoke instead of oxygen. Every breath burned. Every movement sent spikes of pain through his ribs. But he couldn’t stop himself. He was coming undone, piece by piece, and you were watching, silent and unmoving.

His eyes burned even as they stayed squeezed shut, hot tears pooling behind his lids. He hated himself. He hated you for seeing him like this. He hated how weak he felt. How pathetic.

And yet, he found himself almost, almost hoping you’d say something.

Instead, you shifted again, the chair legs scraping back with that low, dragging sound that felt too loud in the small room. Rafe’s chest went still for a second—panic and relief crashing into each other so hard it almost made him nauseous.

Maybe you were leaving.

Good. That would be easier. If you walked out now, he wouldn’t have to deal with the weight of your presence, the echo of what you’d seen, what you knew. He could open his eyes and pretend none of it happened. No witnesses. No shame. Just a bad night and a blank space.

But the footsteps didn’t go toward the door. They moved closer. And then he felt it—subtle, but unmistakable. The slight shift of weight on the mattress, the dip beside his hip as you sat down on the edge of the bed. He swallowed hard, but didn’t move. His hands curled tighter under the blanket. His heart stuttered once, then kept going.

You were so close he could feel the warmth of your skin bleeding into his. Then came the touch. Just a finger. Light. Tentative. Brushing against his hand, against the knuckle where one of his rings rested loosely. It wasn’t a full touch, not really—more like a test. A question. Are you awake? Are you here?

You lingered there, not pulling away right away, like maybe you were working up the nerve to say something or maybe you already had. Your voice came a second later, so quiet he wasn’t sure he even heard it out loud.

“Still wearing this one,” you murmured, fingertip tracing the worn silver band on his ring finger. It had a small dent near the edge—something you’d noticed once when he was drunk and letting you touch him without flinching, after one of the nights he slept with you. You’d pointed it out and he’d laughed, said it was from when he punched a door in high school. You’d said something sarcastic. He didn’t remember what, only that it made him smile for too long after. Maybe something about therapy.

He stayed still now, muscles locked up under the sheets, afraid to breathe wrong. You didn’t move away. Didn’t say anything else. Just sat there, beside him, like that didn’t terrify you. Like he hadn’t just barely made it out alive. Like he wasn’t the one who had shattered the rules and the boundaries and dragged you into something you never asked for.

Rafe wanted to open his eyes and look at you. He wanted to push you away. He wanted to pull you closer. He did nothing.

His hands were trembling again. The air caught in his throat as you touched the ring, his mind flashing back to that night. The feel of your fingers tracing the indentation. The curve of your hips under his own.

His heart was jackrabbiting in his chest now, every beat sending his ribs screaming in pain. He wondered how long you’d stay here. How long you’d sit and watch him like some kind of wounded animal. He wondered if you’d ever leave.

He wanted you to stay. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

"I brought you your keys…" you whispered again, barely loud enough to register over the faint whir of machines. He heard the soft clink of metal, the way your fingers shifted against each other as you fidgeted with the keyring—his keyring. The one with the faded OBX lanyard and the crooked house key he always meant to replace.

“I think I fucked up your car,” you added, and he could hear the attempt at humor in your voice, brittle and strained, a laugh that barely made it past your throat. “But I’m not sure since I don’t know anything 'bout cars.” Rafe’s jaw tightened, throat constricting around a knot of something too complicated to name. You were trying to talk like none of it mattered. Like this was just some awkward errand you’d done out of obligation.

But your voice said otherwise.

“I should probably get my license, right?” you said, tone a little lighter. Like you were waiting for him to say something. Anything. He didn’t. Couldn’t. And then you sighed—quiet and slow, like you were grateful for the silence. Or maybe just resigned to it.

The keys clicked softly as you set them down on the rolling tray near his bed, and that little sound felt louder than it should’ve. Like it meant something. Like a line being drawn in the sand.

Rafe stayed still, breathing careful and measured, heart aching behind his ribs. You’d brought him here. You’d stayed. You were still here. Sitting on the edge of his hospital bed in that damn bikini top and a hurricane of a night behind you, still finding a way to be soft when he hadn’t earned it.

He wanted to open his eyes and tell you not to feel bad about the car. He wanted to tell you that he'd let you crash it ten times over if it meant you'd still be the one driving him out of the worst night of his life. But he didn’t.

He let the moment sit there between you, thick and trembling and unspoken. And then, like you could feel the weight of his silence pressing down on you, you shifted again, your hands brushing against your thighs, restless and uncertain.

“I just… didn’t want to leave them in the nurse’s station,” you mumbled. “Figured you’d want to know you weren’t alone. Even if you are.”

That cracked something in his chest. But he still didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t deserve to. Not yet.

His heart thundered in his ears, the silence between you both deafening. His fingers twitched violently against the hospital sheets, the urge to reach out nearly overwhelming him.

He wanted to grab you. To pull you closer. To bury his face in your hair and inhale that familiar coconut scent, like the beach and salt and trouble and safety all wrapped up in one.

But he didn’t. He stayed still. Breathing. Silent. Staring at the inside of his eyelids like the sight of you so close was a punishment he hadn’t earned.

Your silence was killing him. It was suffocating. Every second that passed, every breath you took, every soft sound of your fingertips grazing the hospital sheets—it was like a stab to his chest.

Yet he didn’t move. He didn’t open his eyes. He stayed still, frozen, terrified to break the spell.

He thought of the beach. Warm sun. Cool water. The taste of your lips. The way you felt pressed against him, drunken laughter bubbling out of you like summer itself when he magically made you laugh.

His throat ached.

"I wonder if you're gonna speak to me. When you wake up, I mean…" Your voice was softer this time, nearly swallowed by the hum of the machines and the distant sounds of the hospital beyond the door. It wavered, unsteady under the weight of the moment, and Rafe had to clench his jaw to stop himself from reacting. From flinching. From looking at you.

"Don't know how that will work…" you continued, quieter now, like you were talking more to yourself than to him. "We don't even like each other. We barely tolerate each other in bed…"

Your fingers brushed against his ring again—slow, unsure, but still careful in a way that made his heart stutter. That small touch shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did. Because you lingered. Because you stayed. "You're probably gonna yell at me about your car," you whispered, your voice curling at the edges with a sad kind of humor, "and I'll roll my eyes at you and tell you to go fuck yourself. That’ll be less awkward, I guess…"

Rafe’s throat tightened. Every muscle in his body screamed to move—to do something. To open his eyes. To say your name. To tell you that the last thing on his mind was the goddamn car. But he stayed still. He couldn’t move without shattering the illusion. Without cracking open whatever this fragile moment was between you.

He hated this.

Hated how raw it felt.

Hated that you thought he’d pretend again. That he’d yell and you’d roll your eyes and you’d both go back to the toxic little orbit you’d created around each other. Because the truth was, he didn’t want to go back to that. Not now. Not after you'd seen him like this—broken, scared, almost gone. And still here.

Still here, talking to him like you were waiting for the ghost of him to answer.

His hand twitched slightly beneath yours, involuntary. Not enough to give himself away, but enough that the touch of your fingers sent a new kind of ache through him. One that wasn’t about the overdose. One that was about you. About everything you’d just said. And everything you didn’t.

He wanted to tell you he heard you. That he wanted to hear you. That maybe—just maybe—he didn't want to pretend anymore either.

But instead, he let you keep talking, your words weaving into the stillness of the room like confessions meant for a boy already gone. And for now, that was all he could take.

The sound of your voice was the only thing anchoring him to reality. The softness, the vulnerability in it—he wanted to wrap it around himself like a blanket and never let it go.

His fingers curled slightly, a weak, involuntary movement, but it was enough to brush against your hand. He wondered if you noticed, if you felt the way his entire body shivered at the touch. He wondered if you knew the power you had over him. If you could sense how much he wanted to open his eyes and see you. How his jaw ached from the effort of staying still…

He could smell you—coconut and ocean and something faintly sweet. The scent was familiar, intoxicating, and it filled his lungs with a mix of nostalgia and longing. He wanted to breathe you in until nothing else mattered. Until the pain faded and the fear subsided. But instead, he stayed quiet. The monitors beeped, a constant reminder of his mistakes, of the fragility of the moment. Of how easily this could all crumble—like the walls he’d built around himself long before he realized how desperately he wanted you on the other side.

The silence hung heavy, the quiet beep of the monitors the only sound cutting through the air. He could feel you sitting there beside him—close enough to touch, close enough to hear your every breath. But he didn’t dare reach out. He didn’t dare move. He just lay there, suspended in the tension, his heart hammering in his chest like a trapped bird.

And then, suddenly—softly, so softly he almost thought he imagined it—he felt your fingertip trace a slow circle on the back of his hand. Barely touching skin, yet it sent sparks up his spine.

His pulse roared in his ears. Every nerve, every muscle in his body screamed at him to move. To reach out. To pull you into him. To feel the warmth of your skin against his. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He stayed still, frozen, his fingers trembling as your touch burned a path across his skin.

His throat tightened, breath shallow and uneven, the faintest gasp escaping his lips before he could stop it. He was unraveling. One soft circle at a time.

One tiny, simple touch—yet his world was crumbling beneath it, every brick of his defenses crumbling, every wall he’d built to keep you out collapsing into dust. Your fingertip kept tracing that slow, gentle circle, and he was drowning in the feel of it. He was drowning in you.

His hands twitched. Once. Then again. He wanted to grab your wrist and press your palm against his chest. He wanted you to feel his racing heart, to know exactly what you were doing to him.

His eyes burned behind closed eyelids. The urge to look at you, to see your face, was almost unbearable. He wanted to memorize every inch of you. The way your brows furrowed when you were worried. The way your lips parted like you were searching for something to say. The way your hair fell across your face when you leaned over him…

But he stayed still. He didn't move, his body trembling with the sheer force of staying frozen. He let you keep tracing those circles on his skin—slow, deliberate, achingly intimate.

"I wonder if you can hear me. Even subconsciously…" you murmured into the dim hospital air, barely loud enough for your words to drift beyond your lips. It didn’t matter. You weren’t sure you wanted him to hear you. You just needed to say something. To fill the silence that was starting to feel like a punishment.

"Or if you're having a nightmare… Seems like it, by the way you're twitching." Your voice cracked a little, soft but frayed at the edges. You shifted on the bed, trying not to jostle the mattress too much as you glanced at his face—still slack, still pale, but that barely-there crease between his brows hadn’t been there before. His fingers twitched once, a sharp jerk beneath your hand like his body was rejecting the peace around him.

Your finger resumed its invisible path on the back of his hand, tracing the same slow, anxious circle as before. Relentless. Nervous. A part of you was afraid to stop, like if you did, the beeping of the machines might slow down with it. It didn’t feel right, sitting here next to him. But it also didn’t feel right to leave.

"You don't look peaceful, right now" you whispered again, eyes flicking up to his face. His jaw was tight even in unconsciousness, a muscle flexing once in his cheek before going still again. "You never do. Even when you're asleep, you're fighting something." Your thumb brushed the side of his hand without thinking. He was colder than you expected. Not freezing. Just… wrong. Like his body hadn’t fully decided whether it was staying or going. And that scared you more than anything.

You didn’t want to admit how long you’d been sitting here. How many times you almost walked out. Or how the second Sarah had asked you to go in and sit with him while she went back to her house for some clothes for him, your chest had cracked open in protest—but your feet had moved anyway.

And now here you were. Sitting on his hospital bed. Talking to someone who might not even hear you. Tracing circles on a hand that had gripped your hip with bruising force just nights ago. And you didn’t know what that meant. Or why it hurt the way it did.

You exhaled shakily. "I think I’d prefer you angry, honestly. That would make this easier," you murmured, half to yourself. "You yelling, me rolling my eyes, walking away like we always do… that’s easier than this."

Than watching him lie there, skin pale, breathing thin, so still. "Are you angry?"

He felt like his whole body was on fire. Every word you spoke, every touch of your fingers on his skin, every breath you took—it hit him like a tidal wave. His mind was a storm of emotions, a maelstrom of fear, hurt, longing, anger... but also something dangerously tender. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.

But he didn’t—couldn’t— move. His chest remained still, his eyes squeezed shut like a child too terrified to look under the bed.

Your words cut like a blade, sharp and honest.

His breath caught in his throat, a choked sound escaping his throat before he clenched his jaw again. Your words were like salt in the wound—true, but stinging all the same. You always did know how to push his buttons. How to make him feel raw, exposed, seen in a way he didn’t want to be.

But worse than that—he knew you were right. Being angry was easy. It was his default. He’d perfected the art of being a dick a long time ago.

The silence stretched out between you, thick and heavy as the oxygen in the hospital room. You kept tracing those circles on his hand, every movement like a tiny stab at his heart. His mind was still a tornado of tangled thoughts and emotions, but one thing crystallized in the chaos: He longed to move. To open his eyes. To reach out and touch you, to pull you into his arms and cling to you like a man drowning.

But he stayed still. Terrified of what he’d see if he looked at you—and even more terrified of what he’d feel.

And then Rafe felt it. It was annoying, being bound by his closed eyes to only feel and not see. Brace for impact. Your finger stilled and you shifted, leaning over him as your hand swiped at his forehead, as if checking for his temperature but not quite. Maybe pushing his hair back gently, too hesitant and afraid not to wake him.

When your fingers brushed his forehead, a soft gasp escaped his lips before he could stop it. Your touch was gentle, tentative, but it set his skin on fire all the same. The feel of your hand gliding over his hair, shifting strands aside... it took everything in him not to pull you closer, to bury his face in your lap and cling like a child.

His body tensed, the muscles in his arms straining against the urge to move, to open his eyes, to drink you in like a man dying of thirst seeing an oasis.

Your touch was a drug, a dangerous, addictive drug, and he was drowning in it. Every sweep of your fingers across his forehead, every brush of the strands of hair—it sent shudders through his body. His heart hammered against his ribs, the beep, beep beep of the heart monitor giving away his racing pulse.

He wanted to reach for you. He wanted—needed—to touch you back. To feel your skin beneath his fingertips. To know you were really there, solid and real and not just a hallucination.

You pressed your lips to his cheek. Awkwardly, like you wanted to kiss his forehead but settled on his cheek. Maybe Rafe was dreaming. He actually was fast asleep and not wide awake pretending to be unconscious, and you weren't real. Because in no parallel universe, did Rafe think you out of all people, would kiss his cheek so gently, barely there. Even if these past weeks sent you spiralling into his bed, kissing him drunkenly every chance you got.

For a moment, time froze. The feel of your lips on his cheek—warm, soft, real—sent a shiver through his body. His breath caught, his eyelids fluttering with the urge to open, to look at you, to make sure this wasn’t some cruel trick of the universe. But he stayed frozen, every muscle taut with restraint.

His heart was racing, his thoughts a jumbled mess of how is this happening and I don’t want this to stop and please don’t leave me like this.

The moment stretched on, and Rafe was beginning to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing. Had you really just kissed his cheek? A dream. It had to be a dream. Or a hallucination. This kind of tenderness, this kind of tenderness from you… it couldn’t be real. Right?

But then you spoke, your voice softer than before, tinged with something vulnerable.

"Rafe…?"

His breath caught in his throat as your voice cut through the silent. His name on your tongue—so soft, so quiet—it sent a shiver down his spine. His heart thudded loudly in his chest, his mind racing. Was this real? Was he dreaming? Or was he just crazy… like he’d always been?

He struggled to keep himself still, his fists clenching and unclenching beneath the sheets, his body shaking with the effort. He wanted to move. To speak. To hold you. But he stayed frozen, paralyzed by fear and want.

"Still asleep.." you mumbled, your soft sigh fanning across his cheek as you lingered leaning over him. "What the hell am i doing..?" you asked yourself, pulling back just a little, poking the back of his hand faintly.

The touch of your finger against his hand—like a spark of electricity—nearly sent him over the edge. His body wanted to respond, wanted to reach out and grab your hand, to pull you back, to keep you close. But he stayed still, his eyes still shut, his jaw clenched tight. He was hanging on by a thread—a fragile, dangerously thin thread—and one more touch, one more word from you, could send him crumbling into pieces.

And then your words—muttered, almost to yourself, but he heard them. "What the hell am I doing…" it echoed in his head like a refrain. He wanted to answer you, to tell you that he didn't know, that he didn't understand any of this, but that it was the best damn thing that had ever happened to him. But he stayed silent, his body still trembling with the effort of keeping his eyes closed, of pretending that he was asleep when he was anything but.

The room was so quiet that he could hear his own heartbeat—loud and erratic in his ears. He could feel you hovering over him, your presence like a weight on his chest. He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to look at you. To see your face, to see if this was real. But the fear kept him paralyzed. The fear that this was a dream, and that he’d wake up any second, and you’d be gone.

He stayed still, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his mind a swirling storm of emotions and confusion.

Your finger traced mindless patterns on the back of his hand, a tender touch that sent sparks flying across his skin. He wanted to pull you closer, to gather you in his arms and hold you tightly against him, to bury his face in your hair and lose himself in your scent. But he stayed still, every muscle tense with restraint, his mind screaming at him to move, to act, to do something.

He could hear the soft, barely audible sound of your breathing, and it was driving him insane. He wanted to hear you say his name again. Just once more.

The silence between you stretched on, and with every second that ticked by, Rafe was increasingly certain this was a dream. There was no way in hell you could be here, sitting next to his bedside, holding his hand like you actually, inexplicably, cared. But he clung to every second, relishing the feel of your fingers brushing his skin, savoring every quiet breath you took.

And then, with a sudden jolt, his eyes fluttered open—just a fraction, just enough to catch a glimpse of you through half-lidded lashes.

Not clearly—not the way he wanted to—but enough. Enough to make his stomach twist. You were hunched slightly, posture tense, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to be comfortable next to him. Your finger kept tracing the back of his hand, slow and repetitive, and he realized you weren’t even really thinking about it anymore. It was just something you were doing. Something to keep your hands busy. Or your mind quiet.

Your lips moved with a soft, low hum, breathy and almost inaudible, but it was enough to worm its way under his skin. The melody was familiar, some song he knew from somewhere—maybe a party, maybe his car, maybe just something you sang under your breath when you thought no one was listening. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that you were here. Still here.

And he was awake.

But he didn’t move.

He didn’t say a word.

He just watched you from under his lashes, forcing his chest to keep the same rhythm it had when you walked in. Because if he broke it—if he let himself react—then you’d stop. You’d jerk your hand away. You’d fold in on yourself and walk out. Maybe for good this time. He didn’t want that.

Not now. Not when he could see the faint tremble in your fingers and the raw edge of exhaustion tugging down your features. You looked like you hadn’t slept. Like maybe you couldn’t sleep after dragging him out of whatever hell he'd created for himself. Like some part of you had been stuck in that moment ever since.

His throat tightened.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to care. You were supposed to hate him—do hate him. Weren’t those your words? We don’t even like each other? But you were here anyway. Sitting beside a half-dead asshole who never gave you the decency of a real conversation, and humming like you were trying to coax something alive in him again.

He lay there, frozen, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the sight of you, hunched over his bedside, humming some nameless tune. Your fingers lingered on his skin, your touch soft and lingering, and he felt his breath hitch in his throat. He should look away. He should close his eyes and pretend to still be asleep. But he couldn't. He wanted to commit this moment to memory. The way the moonlight caught in your hair, the soft curve of your lower lip as you hummed, the tension in your body that screamed "i don’t belong here."

His chest ached with the effort of stillness. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to speak, to move, to say something—anything—before you realized he was awake and pulled away. But he stayed silent, his mind racing, weighing the pros and cons, considering the consequences. And then you started humming. The sound was soft, almost soothing, like a salve on his frayed nerves.

He let himself savor it, let the sound infiltrate his veins, let it sink into his bones. For a brief moment, the pain and emptiness of the hospital faded away.

Your humming washed over him, a soothing current in his stormy mind. He wanted to let himself get carried away, to lose himself in the sound and the feel of your touch, but something held him back.

Fear. Fear that if he moved, if he spoke, if he in any way reacted, you'd stop. And god, he didn't want that. Not when this, this quiet moment with you, was the closest he'd ever felt to peace.

You. The girl from the wrong side of the island. Part of the group of people he looked down on, His little sister's best friend. The girl in love with her best friend who had a girlfriend. You had nothing but lust and some sort of irritation burrowed in your heart for Rafe and yet you were sitting beside him like an angel, humming a song casually like he hadn't survived an overdose.

The irony of it all wasn't lost on him. You were not supposed to be here. You were not supposed to be by his bedside, holding his hand, humming a tune like you actually cared. But he didn't want to think about that now. He didn't want to think about what it meant or what this meant for the future. He just wanted to stay here, in this moment, and savor the feel of your presence beside him.

He didn't know what would happen tomorrow. He didn't know if he would wake up to find you gone. But for now, he decided, for once he would just let himself have this. Just for a moment, he would let himself pretend that you were here because you cared, not just because you pitied him. He’d enjoy the way your humming vibrated in his bones, the way your fingers sent tingles across his skin. He'd commit every second of this to memory, storing it away like a precious relic to be taken out and admired later.

And if tomorrow came and took you away, well… he’d deal with that when it happened.

His eyes closed again as the weight of exhaustion pulled on his eyelids. Every part of his body was screaming for rest, but he didn't want to miss the sound of your humming. The way it lulled him into a false sense of security. He was half tempted to risk it all—to reach out and pull you closer, to bury his face in your hair, to wrap his arms around you like some sort of lifeline.

But he didn't. He stayed still. He stayed frozen. He stayed silent. Pretending to sleep. Pretending to be dead when he was more alive than he'd ever been.

You didn’t know he was awake.

He could tell by the way you sat—shoulders still tense but less guarded than before, like you’d let yourself forget, for just a moment, that you were in a hospital room with a boy who nearly died. Like you were slipping into the space between what was and what almost was.

And then there was the humming again. Soft. Slow. Soothing in a way that made something ache behind his ribs. It was familiar now—recognizable. Nothing’s gonna hurt you baby…

Cigarettes After Sex. He knew the song. Not from a playlist of his own, but from the first night he took you home, when you’d passed him your phone in a haze of tequila and dare-me eyes, telling him to pick something. Anything. And when he’d scrolled past that one, you said, “Skip it and I’ll punch you.” He hadn’t. You’d hummed along back then too. Just like this. Breathless and detached, like you were somewhere else. Like the song was safer than silence.

Now, it felt like you were trying to lull him back from the edge. Like you thought the humming might keep the nightmares away.

Nothing’s gonna hurt you baby, as long as you're with me, you'll be just fine…

It didn’t make sense. Not coming from you. Not when the last real words you’d said to him were probably something sarcastic or cruel or both. But here you were, fingers ghosting his, voice so low it barely existed, and humming a song that sounded like a promise.

He swallowed hard. Or tried to. His throat still felt like sandpaper. You were too close. Too kind. Too real. And Rafe didn’t know how to exist around that. Not without tearing it apart or pretending it didn’t mean anything.

But here, now, under the white fluorescent halo of a hospital room where everything was too quiet and too honest—he didn’t have the strength to pretend.

So he watched you. Watched the way your lips moved with the melody. Watched the way your thumb occasionally brushed against his knuckle like you didn’t even realize you were doing it. Watched the way your eyes stayed on his hand like if you looked at his face, you’d break apart.

And it made something unravel in him. Quietly. Without drama.

Just this slow, deep kind of ache he couldn’t name. Because you were humming a love song to a boy you weren’t supposed to love. To a boy you didn’t even like. And yet you were here. Humming like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And he’d never hated himself more for letting you be the one who had to carry this weight.

The song carried on, your honeyed voice weaving the lyrics of cigarettes after sex like a lifeline through the stillness of the hospital room. The sound was soothing, but the meaning hit him like a punch to the chest.

No one was supposed to care. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he deserved such gentleness. But here you were—sitting beside him like some angelic apparition, humming a goddamn love song like you were trying to stitch back together the pieces his own recklessness had shattered.

His heart was hammering again, but not out of fear. Out of something dangerous and unfamiliar.

Every note that left your lips seemed to resonate in his bones, a steady, melodic rhythm that drowned out the beeping of the machines beside him. He was entranced, captivated by the sound of your singing, the way your voice dipped and rose with the tune. It sent a shiver down his spine, a small part of him wanting to reach out and touch you, just to prove to himself that this was real.

And then the song ended, and you still sat there—thumb brushing his knuckles like you'd forgotten you were even doing it. Like it was just second nature to be so tender with him.

He let out a slow, shaky exhale, his eyes flickering from your hand to your face and back again. This was dangerous. Whatever this was. It felt too real, too intimate. The way your touch felt like both a comfort and a dagger in his chest. He wanted more. He wanted to reach out and pull you closer, to bury his face in your shoulder and inhale the scent of your hair. But he didn't.

Instead, he let the silence stretch on, the aftertaste of the song lingering in his throat like a vow neither of you had spoken aloud.

Which was stupid on Rafe’s part, really. Because the only reason you ever let yourself get close to him was another boy. Not him. Never him. You’d been in love with JJ. Everyone knew it. Especially Rafe, who saw it in the way your eyes always flicked toward him when he wasn’t looking. In the way your voice dropped around his name, like it was some kind of wound.

And now JJ was with Kiara.

So you ran. Straight into Rafe’s arms—or more accurately, into his bed, into his car, into his house at 2 AM with mascara smudged and a half-hearted excuse about needing a ride. You chose Rafe to be the one to catch all the shards when you shattered. Chose him to witness the parts of you you didn’t want anyone else to see—ugly, bitter, broken.

Maybe Rafe should’ve said no. Should’ve told you to go cry on someone else’s shoulder. But he didn’t. And he knew why.

Because even if you never really looked at him—not the way you looked at JJ—he liked being the one you came to. Even if it was just to bleed all over him and leave when you were done.

Maybe he would’ve been okay with that. Would’ve kept letting you swing by his house when the pain got too loud, would’ve taken your calls and your chaos and let you scream in his passenger seat until you felt like breathing again. Maybe he could’ve handled being the rebound, the fuck-up, the angry boy you used to forget another one.

But now you’d seen him.

Not in some backseat or drunken hallway. Not in the dim safety of a party hookup. You saw him sick. Fading. Dying. You saw the tremor in his jaw, the vomit on his shirt, the way his body crumpled under the weight of what he put in it. You saw him raw.

He didn’t know what that made you. Not after this. Not after tonight. His eyes stayed shut, but his mind raced with questions he couldn’t voice. How long had you been at the hospital? Did your friends know where you were? Did they ask what happened, or did they pretend not to care? Were you ashamed? Guilty?

Would you feel dirty for sitting here next to him? For caring, even a little?

Just like you did after the first time you slept with him. When you pulled your clothes on like you were trying to erase what had just happened. Like he was a mistake you kept letting happen.

And maybe he was. It didn’t stop him from wanting you to stay. Even if it was just to say goodbye.

The silence hung heavy in the air between you, his chest rising and falling with shallow, strained breaths. His breathing was still shallow, his voice rough and barely audible as he finally spoke—a quiet rasp that sounded like sand scraping bone.

He swallowed, his throat tightening with the words that threatened to surface. "How long have you been here?" he rasped out, eyes still closed. A beat of hesitation, his jaw clenching—then, quietly, like he was afraid of the answer.

The way your finger stilled on the back of his hand was the first giveaway. Not abrupt—just tense, like someone who'd just realized they'd been caught staring too long. Rafe didn’t open his eyes fully, not yet. But he could feel the shift. The way your breath hitched just slightly. The way your hand hovered instead of resting, suddenly unsure.

Then your voice broke the silence, and he felt it more than heard it. "How long have you been awake?" It wasn’t cocky. Wasn’t smug or sarcastic or sharp-edged like it usually was. It was weak—softer than he’d ever heard it. Meant to sound casual, maybe even a little accusatory, but it fell out clumsy and low. Awkward.

You sounded awkward.

You.

The mouthy, annoyingly perceptive girl from the Cut. The girl who’d once told him he had the emotional depth of a shot glass and the self-awareness of a toddler. The girl who rolled her eyes every time he opened his mouth, who pushed him away with insults but never actually left.

You sounded flustered. Like you weren’t sure if you should even be here anymore. Like the moment had stretched too far past what you could pretend to handle.

And Rafe almost hated how much he liked it.

He let out a weak, humorless laugh, his voice low and gravelly with exhaustion. "Long enough to hear you butchering Cigarette After Sex," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lip despite the pain. His eyes flickered open, taking in the way you were still perched beside him like some kind of guardian angel with a barbed tongue.

He let out a quiet exhale, his gaze locking onto yours. "Didn’t think I’d ever get you singing Cigarette After Sex of all things."

Rafe would’ve laughed—should’ve laughed—if the weight in his chest didn’t feel like it had multiplied the second you pulled your hand away. Something about the way you retracted so quickly, like his skin had burned you. Like now that he was conscious, aware, the rules had shifted again and you were scrambling to keep up with the new version of reality. One where he could see you being soft.

You fidgeted like you hated yourself for being caught. Fingers twitching in your lap, restless. Your eyes flickered toward the windows like you were looking for an escape route, and Rafe tracked every micro-movement with a kind of quiet desperation, memorizing it like he wouldn’t get to see it again.

He caught the low mutter under your breath—half a curse, half a prayer. “Jesus Christ.”

Your hands dragged over your face, muffling the rest of it. “Great… That’s just… really awesome,” you said a little louder, sarcasm clinging to the edges like armor. And then, because you always had to find a way to downplay the tension before it suffocated you, you added: “Didn’t know you even listened to Cigarettes After Sex.”

He could feel the shift in the air, the way your body had tensed when he spoke—when he acknowledged the tenderness you’d been carefully hiding. It was like you’d been caught mid-act, exposed in a way you hadn’t planned. A vulnerability you hadn’t allowed.

But Rafe couldn’t help himself. He was a bit of a masochist, after all—and something about bringing out your softness, your humanity, when you were so desperately trying to bury it, just... did something to him.

His smirk widened, a flash of something darker behind his eyes. "What? You think I’m some kind of moron who doesn’t know good music when I hear it? Come on, Cigarettes After Sex? That’s like, basic indie-rock 101."

He let the words linger for a beat, watching you squirm—noticing the way your jaw clenched, the way your hands gripped your thighs a bit too tight. It was almost fun, teasing you like this. Almost. But there was something softer beneath it all, something he refused to acknowledge.

Your gaze flitted to him, half glare, half disbelief—eyes dragging slowly over his face like you couldn’t quite believe he was choosing to talk about music after waking up from an overdose. But you indulged him anyway. Maybe out of shock. Maybe because it was easier than bringing up the elephant in the room. Your voice, when it came, was soft. Brittle in a way he didn’t recognize on you.

"It’s a great song," you said simply. There was no venom behind it. No sarcasm. Just the quiet kind of honesty that didn’t need to be louder to be true. You didn’t look at him after you said it. Just stared at the window again like the night outside had anything to offer you. Your fingers still twisted in your lap, knuckles pale from how tight you were holding yourself together. And Rafe didn’t say anything right away. He just watched you—the way your jaw clenched, how your brows creased slightly like you were mad at yourself for still sitting there.

He should’ve felt powerful, he thought. Having you there like that. Rattled and trying not to show it. But he didn’t. He felt something heavier. Something that settled low in his chest and made it hard to breathe. Because this wasn’t you coming over drunk to mouth off and climb into his lap. This was you—staying. Still humming even when you thought he was unconscious. Still clutching his keys like they meant something.

And now here you were, trying to act like the song was all you cared about.

Silence settled over the room again. It was a heavy, palpable thing. Thick and suffocating, like the room itself was holding its breath, waiting. Rafe’s eyes stayed fixed on you, tracing your features like they might shift suddenly, like this version of you—soft, honest, real—might evaporate if he looked away. And he didn’t want to take his eyes off you. But he couldn’t find the words to break the silence.

Because what do you say to a girl who hummed a love song to your unconscious body and then pretended she didn’t mean it?

The silence stretched on, and Rafe could feel the tension tightening like a wire. The air was brittle, the hum of machines in the background only serving to highlight the weight of everything unsaid between you. The words were on the tip of his tongue, burning to be spoken, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them. The admission felt like carving out a part of himself, leaving him raw and vulnerable. And Rafe didn’t do vulnerable. Not ever.

But you... you were the exception. You always were.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. His voice came out rougher, more vulnerable than he meant it to, but he didn’t let himself flinch.

"You stayed."

There it was. The truth—the admission. He’d known it the moment he woke up and his first thought had been you. But saying it out loud... that was different. It made it real. And it hung in the air, like a confession and a question, all rolled into one.

You wasted no time humming again, the soft sound barely audible over the machines beeping steadily beside him. Your fingers twisted around one of your cheap plastic rings, turning it again and again like it held all the answers you didn’t want to say out loud. You pressed your lips together, brows furrowed, pretending that piece of jewelry was the only thing that mattered in the room—like it was more interesting than the boy you’d just seen half-dead hours ago.

"Your sister asked me to sit here while she went back to get you clothes," you mumbled finally, voice low, casual in the way people get when they don’t want to admit they’ve been crying. "I think she suspects us sleeping together, but doesn’t wanna address it."

You scoffed softly, a bitter little laugh that didn’t match the flicker in your eyes when they met his again. Like the idea should’ve been ridiculous—like it was—but some part of you knew it wasn’t, and the weight of that truth lingered behind your stare. You tried to stay dismissive, light. But your gaze was too charged, too heavy. The kind of look people give when they’ve seen too much and don’t know how to carry it.

Rafe watched you in silence, throat tightening as his heart gave a tired, stuttering thud. He wanted to say something smug. Something easy. Something that would make it all feel smaller than it was.

But all he could do was look back at you. And wonder why the hell it suddenly felt harder to breathe now that you weren’t pretending to hate him.

His fingers flexed against the hospital sheets, his jaw clenching as his mind raced. Everything felt raw, exposed. His thoughts flickered between the words he wanted to say, the ones trapped in his throat— "I don’t want your pity." —and the ones that might actually slip out— "Why are you still here…" He swallowed hard, the hospital lights making everything too bright, too harsh. He wanted to reach out. To grab your hand, to yank you closer, to push you away, to… what?

Instead, he turned his gaze to the sterile white walls. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, illuminating the sterile room and the cold machinery around him like a spotlight. Every breath felt heavy, every muscle in his body tight, like a coiled spring about to snap. He closed his eyes again, letting the familiar hum of the machines fill the silence between you. When he spoke, his voice came out rougher than he intended.

"I don’t like pity, you know." His knuckles whitened against the sheets, jaw clenched. "You think I want you here because you feel sorry for me?"

You sighed, the sound quiet but weighty, and your fingers finally stilled in your lap. For a second, you didn’t look at him—only down at his hand, the one you’d been tracing soft circles on like it was second nature just minutes ago. Now you stared at it like it burned. Like touching him had been some kind of betrayal, and you weren’t sure to who.

Your jaw clenched. He could see the muscle tick. Then you shifted beside him on the bed, the movement stiff and restless, like your skin didn’t fit right. “I don’t pity people,” you muttered, almost defensive, your voice quiet but carrying that familiar edge. You glanced away again like it hurt to look at him for too long. “I’m here because…”

The pause stretched. You hummed again, low and distracted, your mind clearly elsewhere as you tried to fish out the right words.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, a bitter little breath escaping you. “It didn’t feel right leaving without making sure you were, y’know…alive.”

The word hung between you, thick and uncomfortable. Not dramatic. Just true.

He let the silence linger for a beat too long. The hum of the machines filled the air, sharp and mocking, like they were laughing at him. But Rafe couldn't bring himself to move. Couldn't bring himself to speak, because that would mean acknowledging the way his heart thudded in his chest like a wild thing. That would mean admitting that your presence was doing something to him. And Rafe didn't do softness. Not ever. But...

He swallowed hard, his voice a gravelly, ragged thing. "Still alive," he whispered, the words rough with something like pain.

His gaze flicked to the window, rain pattering against the glass like a hollow applause for his survival. The sound was monotonous. So quiet, but somehow louder than everything that came before. Another pause.

He licked his lips, his voice cracking slightly with vulnerability, and he hated himself for it.

"You can go now. If you want."

It was a lie and they both knew it. He didn't want you to go, but pride choked the words. He wanted you to stay. To stay and keep humming that damn song.

Your gaze snapped back to him, sharp and unsettled, like something he said had cut too close. Your brows drew together, the tension in your jaw so familiar it almost mirrored the pounding in his own skull. Rafe didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Not with the way his head felt like it was splintering open and every emotion he’d swallowed over the last twenty-four hours was clawing its way back up his throat. But you looked at him like you already knew. Like you could see inside the mess of him and still hadn’t flinched yet.

"I don't," you said, voice plain. Flat in that way you got when honesty made your skin crawl. "I don't have anywhere to go at the moment."

You grimaced right after—sharp and involuntary—like even admitting it out loud made you sick. Like the words left a bad taste in your mouth. And Rafe didn’t need to ask why. He knew that look. He’d only ever seen it when you talked about your mom—brief, bitter mentions that always came wrapped in sarcasm and avoidance. That expression had followed your voice more than once: slurred and distant when he’d driven you home from a party, or breathless and quiet when you sat up in his bed and reached for your clothes. Anytime he asked “where are you going?” you’d answer with that same grimace, muttering something vague about your mom like it was the last name you ever wanted to say out loud.

And now you were sitting here. Not running. Not making a joke to deflect the heaviness in the air. Just... sitting. Grimacing. Still beside him. And for some reason, that made it all feel heavier. Realer. Like the space between you was full of things you didn’t know how to say and both too exhausted to lie about. "Do you want me to?"

His throat tightened, the machines and the rain and the silence of the room all pressing down on him like a physical weight. He couldn’t look at you—not without feeling like his chest was cracking open. So he stayed focused on the hospital wall, staring at the cracked-white paint like it held the secrets to life. But his hand twitched toward you. A fleeting, involuntary movement that betrayed the need he refused to name.

"You don’t have to stay," he murmured, voice rough.

But his hand stayed there, just beside yours, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach for you. The tension in the room was suffocating. The unspoken questions, the tangled emotions, the ache of something neither of you could name.

Rafe’s gaze flickered toward you, just for a moment, before he forced himself to look away again. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a rough whisper, the words like sandpaper in his throat.

"But don’t go. Please. Unless you want to."

You nodded—slow, absent-minded—then blinked like you were coming back into your body. Your fingers twitched again in your lap, and you shifted slightly where you sat on the edge of the bed. Like being there was either the most natural thing in the world, or like you were tethered by something invisible—some mix of guilt, habit, or maybe that awful, unspoken thread neither of you could name. A part of Rafe wanted the silence. Wanted the solitude that always came after these things, the numb emptiness that used to wrap around him like a blanket. Loneliness had been the only thing that never left him, the one constant. But another part of him—ugly and vulnerable and twelve steps past pathetic—knew he’d take it personally if you got up and left. Especially after he said please. Probably the first time in his life he ever meant it.

He didn’t know what would happen once he got out. Didn’t know what the rules were anymore, or if there even were rules. Would you keep sneaking into his room? Would you stop pretending it was meaningless? Would you stop showing up at all? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t predict much when it came to you—not anymore. All he knew was that the second JJ looked at the girl he liked to pretend he was loyal to, said the wrong thing, or kissed Kiara in front of you again, you’d come crawling back, eyes glassy and voice mean, and Rafe would be right there waiting. He hated it. Hated how willing he was to be your crutch. But the thought of not being the one you came to was worse.

"I wouldn’t like to be alone after something like that," you said quietly, barely above a whisper.

The words pulled him out of his spiral. His gaze snapped back to you, and something in his chest cracked a little. Because it didn’t sound like pity. It didn’t feel like judgment or guilt or some half-hearted attempt to be kind. It felt... honest. Like you meant it. Like it came from some place deeper than you probably meant to show. He glanced at you then, studied the softness in your face that you didn’t try to hide, the way your features relaxed into something real and open instead of guarded. And suddenly he wasn’t thinking about the overdose, or your mom, or JJ, or anything at all—just the strange comfort of you still being here, still tethered to the bed like you hadn’t found a reason to walk away yet.

His throat tightened at your words, his pulse thundering in his ears. You’d always been fiercely independent, never needing anybody—and here you were, admitting you didn’t want to be alone. It sent a spike of something sharp and unfamiliar through his chest.

He nodded slightly, jaw clenching, but he didn’t say anything. Because what you’d said... it felt raw. Real. And Rafe didn’t have words to combat it. So he just sat there, looking at you. Silently begging you not to leave.

The soft hum of the machines filled the silence, the steady rhythm matching the unsteady beat of his heart. His fingers twitched again, the urge to reach out nearly overwhelming. To touch you, to anchor you in some way.

Instead, he swallowed hard, jaw ticking. The quiet stretched on, and Rafe felt like something in his chest was being slowly, painfully unraveling.

"Tell me what to do," he rasped, voice gravelly and low, like the words had clawed their way out of him against his will.

"What do you mean?" you asked, brows furrowing in confusion now.

There was something vulnerable in his gaze when he looked at you, his voice coming out more hoarse than he meant it to. Like admitting what he needed was a kind of violence.

"In this moment. Right now. What do you need me to do?" he said, voice cracking just slightly, his hand finally reaching tentatively out toward you, just a feather-light touch grazing the edge of your thigh, the gesture almost involuntary.

You snorted—a sharp, graceless sound that once upon a time would've made Rafe roll his eyes and say something cruel just for the hell of it. He even remembered doing it once. Made some sarcastic jab about you laughing like a pig or something equally shitty, just to get under your skin. But now he just stared, oddly still, watching the way you hunched over and brought your hand to your mouth, laughing into your fingers like you didn’t mean to. Like the sound embarrassed you. It almost sounded forced—except it wasn’t. He’d heard it before. Seen it before. That same laugh breaking free when you thought no one was listening, or when your walls slipped just long enough for something real to get through.

"I want you to stay alive, preferably," you muttered, the words half-sincere, half-laced with that same snorty kind of humor. Then, leaning closer like you weren’t perched on a hospital bed beside a guy who nearly died, you added, "And not be a dick towards my friends anymore..." Your tone turned teasing, and you tilted your head slightly, close enough that he could feel your breath and see the glint of playfulness behind your eyes. Like you were back at some party, standing too close and saying something sharp, trying to provoke him just because you liked the way he bit back.

And for a second, it really did feel like that. Like the hospital bed and the IVs and the faint bruises didn’t exist. Just the two of you, toeing the line between flirtation and a fight, because it was the only language you both knew how to speak.

His gaze sharpened as your tone turned teasing, heat flickering behind his eyes at the proximity. His thumb brushed your thigh instinctively, the touch light—almost accidental. He snorted at your jab, the sound harsh but tinged with amusement, because old habits die hard and this… this was comfortable, in its own messed-up way.

"Don’t give my dick a complex, angel," he retorted, the edges of his lips twitching upward in a smirk. "Besides, you’d miss my particular brand of dickheadery."

The smirk faded for a moment, your proximity suddenly overwhelming in a way it hadn’t been before. Your hair brushed his shoulder when you leaned closer, and the scent of your shampoo flooded his nostrils—something sweet and faintly ocean-like that reminded him of late-night drives down to the marsh. He wanted to lean into it, to press his face against the curve of your throat and breathe it in like it was oxygen, but he restrained himself. Barely.

"I’ll play nice," he rasped, fingers tightening on your thigh despite himself. "…when I want to."

"You'll play nice?" you echoed breathlessly, a small smile tugging at your lips in spite of everything that didn't allow you to act like this. The hospital, the insistent smell of anti-septic, the whole situation itself. Flirting in a hospital room after he almost died.

He nodded, eyes flicking to your lips for just a moment before meeting your gaze again, his voice rough and low. The scent of the hospital stung his nostrils—sterile and harsh—only adding to the surrealism of the situation. His fingers flexed against your leg, his touch still lingering, as if he couldn’t bring himself to pull his hand away.

"For you," he murmured. "I’ll play good. Most of the time."

His thumb rubbed a slow, absent-minded circle against your skin, the contact both grounding and stirring something low in his gut. The hospital lights buzzed faintly in the background, the sterile smell mixing with the sudden, electric awareness of how close you were. How, under different circumstances, he’d pull you into his lap and kiss the smirk off your face. Instead he just looked at you, jaw clenched, like you might dissolve if he didn’t focus.

"What else do you want, then?" he rasped. "A pinky promise? My firstborn?"

You shrugged, casual but too aware, your eyes dragging slowly over his face like you were mapping it—memorizing the exhaustion, the dullness in his eyes, the bruising under them that hadn’t quite faded. You didn’t flinch or look away like he expected you to. Like most people would have by now. Instead, you just nodded, lips twitching with some barely-contained smirk. “First born works, yeah,” you said, voice dry but light. Then you shifted, leaning slightly into your palm, the space between you and him warm and quiet and impossibly charged.

Your gaze flicked sideways to the monitor—subtle, but not subtle enough. He followed it with the corner of his eye just in time to catch the slight uptick in his heart rate, that little spike on the screen giving him away before he could even pretend to keep his cool. And then you were looking back at him, lips pressed together like you were trying not to laugh. Like maybe it gave you some kind of satisfaction knowing he was still so easy to read when it came to you.

“But I’ll take anything you’re willing to part with,” you added, voice lower, slower, softer—but not soft. Not gentle. Not with him. Just real. Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth and then lifted again, dragging slow and deliberate. Close enough to feel the shift in the air. Close enough that if he turned his head even slightly, your noses might brush.

His eyes darkened, his breath hitching slightly as you leaned in closer. The hospital bed creaked faintly under your weight when you shifted, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He swallowed hard, the monitor’s sudden uptick in rhythm giving away how fast his heart was pounding. He should be annoyed, irritated that you knew him well enough to know exactly what buttons to push.

But he wasn’t. Instead, his fingers flexed against your thigh, grip tightening almost possessively. A low, rough chuckle escaped his lips.

"Careful, angel. That’s how accidents happen."

The words lingered, thick with tension, and he knew you could feel the heat of his gaze on your mouth. His throat bobbed again as your breath mingled with his, and his heart rate spiked again on the monitor. He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t—you were perched on his hospital bed like some kind of damned miracle, and he was a goddamn mess. But the distance between you was narrowing, and his restraint was slipping, and—

"Christ." His fingers dug into your thigh. "Just… c’mere."

"Where?" you feigned innocence and confusion, throat bobbing as you swallowed "Are you delirious from the morphine perhaps?" eyes flicking down at his hand on your thigh like it belonged there.

A sharp, rough laugh escaped before he could stop it. He tugged you abruptly toward him, a smirk playing at his lips. The monitor’s beeping rate increased, betraying the quickening of his pulse as you leaned into him.

"Delirious?" he echoed, breathless, hand still gripping your thigh like a lifeline. "Try desperate."

His gaze burned into you, thumb brushing the inside of your knee as if it were accidental, like that simple touch hadn't set his skin alight. The monitor's sharp beeping was all but forgotten now, his other hand reaching up to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear with unexpected gentleness. His voice came out low and hoarse, like your proximity was testing his control.

"You’re a goddamn menace, angel." He murmured, calloused fingers lingering on your jawline. "How the hell do you make a hospital bed feel dangerous?"

You huffed, a breath caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief, eyes narrowing just slightly as you took him in. Of course he’d say something like that. Here he was, still pale and drawn, hooked up to machines that were literally keeping track of whether he was still breathing right—and he had the audacity to talk about hospital beds feeling dangerous. Like this was just another place to play the game you two always tiptoed around, even when everything else had fallen apart. Like his father or sister couldn't walk in any minute to check up on him.

Your voice dipped, slow and teasing, “What exactly feels dangerous about the smell of antiseptic and the constant beeping of a heart monitor?” You cocked your head, eyes dragging across his face, lingering on the faint color climbing up his neck, blooming just enough at his cheekbones to make your smirk stretch wider.

He was flushed now. Flushed and watching you like he wasn’t in a hospital gown and you weren’t the girl who had drove him to the hospital half-dead. "You're in a hospital bed, not a goddamn motel, Rafe.."

And still, somehow, the tension between you hummed louder than the monitor.

He didn’t flinch when you said his name, didn’t look away. He just kept staring at you, gaze sharp, his calloused thumb tracing slow circles on your skin like the gesture somehow calmed him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, mouth quirking at your teasing tone, though the monitors’ frantic beating gave him away.

"Motel’s got better sheets," he retorted, fingers tightening on your thigh. "This bed? Might as well be a goddamn medieval torture device. Still doesn’t stop me from wanting you in it, though."

He leaned closer, his breath hitting your mouth, the beeping of the monitor growing louder as his heart rate spiked. The scent of hospital disinfectant was faint against the sudden heat of his proximity, the warmth of his palm searing through the thin fabric of your pants. His thumb pressed harder into your thigh, as if anchoring himself there, and his voice came out in a low rumble.

"Maybe it’s the threat of somebody walking in," he murmured, his lips tilting in that infuriating smirk. "Adrenaline’s a better rush than morphine, angel."

“I’m not fucking you in a hospital, Rafe.” Your voice was flat, deadpan, not budging an inch even as he leaned in slightly like he thought he could charm his way through heart monitors and IV lines. Your brow arched in mock boredom, feigning nonchalance like you weren’t acutely aware of how close he was, or how his gaze lingered too long on your mouth every time you spoke.

You didn’t move back. Didn’t need to. He was the one tethered to wires and machines, and you were the one making his heart rate stutter with every calm, teasing word. You tilted your head, letting your eyes flick slowly over his face, deliberately lazy in the way you studied him.

“How would that even work?” you murmured, softer this time, your tone shifting—mischief laced into every syllable. You leaned in, just a little, the corners of your mouth tugging upward as you caught the way his monitor spiked again, a telltale rhythm you didn’t need a medical degree to interpret.

“I mean,” you added, almost too thoughtfully, like you were really considering it, “unless you’re into dangerously public, half-conscious near-death experiences. In which case—we should probably unpack that when you’re not attached to an EKG.”

The monitor's rhythm spiked again, betraying the way his breath caught in his throat as you leaned in, your words hitting their mark. His mouth twitched, struggling to hide a smirk even as his heart skipped. His grip on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in almost as a reflex.

"Dangerous? Baby, I’m always down to unpack my daddy issues in the most wildly inappropriate way possible. But…" he paused, his voice dropping, rougher now. "You gonna be the one stuck explaining to the nurses why my pulse is going into cardiac arrest while they’re on break?"

"Okay but, how would that work?" you asked again grimacing in amusement and curiosity.

He snorted, a low, almost wicked chuckle escaping him. His thumb pressed a slow, deliberate circle into your thigh, palm still pressed firmly against your skin. The thought of it, of doing something so reckless in a place where he was tethered to machines and beeping monitoring instruments, was both stupid and undeniably thrilling, and he had never been good at resisting the urge to test boundaries.

"Where there’s a will," he murmured, voice low, gaze flicking to the door, "and a hospital bed with built-in handrails… there’s a way."

"You’re actually serious," you said slowly, blinking at him like you were still trying to make sense of whether he was joking or just deeply unhinged. There was a pause, one filled with disbelief and faint amusement, your eyes narrowing slightly as you studied his face—like the answer might be etched into the lazy curve of his mouth or the glint behind his heavy-lidded stare.

His expression didn’t change much, if at all. That was the part that got to you. He wasn’t smirking the way he usually did when he was baiting you into snapping at him or storming off. He looked almost unbothered. Like he really thought the two of you could get away with something like that here—surrounded by antiseptic, cold fluorescent lights, a heart monitor still chiming at steady intervals, and nurses roaming just beyond the thin hospital walls.

“You’re not kidding,” you added, tone somewhere between amused and incredulous, your voice low as you leaned slightly forward, like proximity might help you figure out if he’d truly lost his mind or if this was just Rafe being Rafe—disaster disguised as charm, heat tucked inside recklessness. “You actually think this is the time and place to pull the ‘we’ve got tension to burn’ card?” you asked, a breath of laughter escaping you as you sat back again, shaking your head. “Jesus Christ, Cameron.”

He let out a soft, hoarse breath, his smirk widening at your reaction—the disbelief, the amusement. The way you looked at him like he’d lost his damn mind, and you still hadn’t moved a single inch. The fact that the thought of doing something so reckless in this sterile hellhole, with his heartbeat still racing like a junkie’s, made his blood run hotter than a normal person’s should.

"Think you’re doubting my creativity, angel," he murmured, thumb still tracing circles on your thigh, eyes dark and burning as they flicked to the door.

You bit the inside of your cheek, suppressing the flicker of heat that crawled up your neck at the nickname, at the way his thumb kept moving like he had all the time in the world—and not a damn IV still attached to his arm. You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve rolled your eyes and told him he was out of his mind. But instead, your thighs pressed a little tighter together where you sat, a reflex you hoped he didn’t catch, though you knew damn well he did.

“Creativity’s not the issue,” you murmured, voice just above a whisper, your gaze following his to the door for a second, just long enough to feel the weight of what he was implying. You looked back at him, heat dancing behind your eyes as you leaned in slightly, hovering just close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek. “I just don’t think you’d survive a round with me in your condition,” you added, smirking faintly, letting the challenge hang in the air between you. “Might flatline for real this time.”

You tapped the monitor lightly with your finger, the beeping still erratic but steady—mocking the way your own pulse started to climb.

His pulse spiked as you leaned in, the monitor’s steady rhythm skipping with a sharp uptick at the sound of your voice, low and challenging, a hint of that smirk tugging at his own lips. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on your thigh—a reflex he couldn’t control—and he exhaled slowly, his tone lowering to match yours, the heat in his gaze intensifying.

"Sweetheart, I’ve survived worse than you. I’m not scared of a little cardio."

You didn’t mean to breathe in so slow, didn’t mean to let your lashes lower the way they did as his words hit—sharp, cocky, completely inappropriate considering the location and the context. But god, he was infuriating. And warm. And stupidly charming in that reckless, firestarter kind of way that always got under your skin when it shouldn’t. Your eyes flicked down to where his hand gripped your thigh a little tighter, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. You knew better than to entertain it. Knew better than to let that look in his eyes unravel something in you. But he made it impossible not to—especially when he looked at you like that. Like you were a dare. Like you were the sweetest sin in reach.

You let the silence stretch, just for a second longer than necessary—because you could feel the anticipation thick between you, like molasses in the summer heat—and you liked watching him squirm beneath all that cocky bravado. His breath faltered just barely, just once, and it gave you the smallest high.

Then you leaned in close enough for your nose to almost brush his, your voice low and sweet and laced with trouble.

"If you die with my name in your mouth, Cameron, I’m haunting you."

Your fingers slid up over his wrist, featherlight, deliberate. Not quite giving in, but not pulling away either. His skin was still warm despite the chill of the hospital room, and you swore you could feel his pulse beneath your fingertips—racing, eager, like it was daring you to keep going.

"And if I so much as hear a nurse coming," you murmured, your gaze dragging slowly from his mouth to his eyes, "I’m letting you explain exactly why your heart rate’s off the charts." You tilted your head slightly, lips ghosting by his ear now, barely brushing. He smelled like antiseptic, faint sweat, and something distinctly him that you couldn't quite name—but you hated how much you liked it.

“Try not to be too loud, hm?” you added, voice like silk over broken glass. Your hand rested just above his, your thigh still pressed under his touch, and you let your smirk bloom—slow and mean and dangerously amused. “Or do. I’m sure Sarah would love to come back early and hear what kind of recovery exercises you’re into.”

You didn’t move away. Didn’t back off. You just let him sit in the tension of it, let it wrap tight around his lungs like a vice, daring him to close the distance first.

His breath hitched as you leaned into him, the heat of your body searing into his own, your proximity dizzying and dizzying. The monitor's rhythm spiked sharply with each beat, giving away how badly his heart was pounding, no doubt setting records in the process. His lips twitched into a smirk that was all teeth and zero grace, his eyes dark and daring.

"Angel, you’ve got no idea the kind of exercise I’m capable of even flat on my back. And as for Sarah? She’d probably start taking notes."

You bit back a laugh, biting your bottom lip instead, though it didn’t help much with the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. His voice was low and cocky, all smooth filth wrapped in rasp and adrenaline, and the image he painted only made it worse—made your chest tighten with a mix of disbelief and that unmistakable, dangerous heat that only he seemed to spark.

“You’re disgusting,” you whispered, your voice breathy with amusement, like you didn’t actually mind one bit. Your nails grazed the inside of his wrist, slow and featherlight, a small retaliation for how smug he sounded. “Delusional too. You think I’m gonna fuck you while your father’s down the hall and your IV’s still in?”

You shook your head but didn’t move, didn’t inch away. In fact, your knee slid just a bit closer to his hip, your lips dangerously close to brushing his again. You saw the way his eyes tracked your mouth like it was a lifeline, saw the way he swallowed thickly like that smirk of his wasn’t fooling anyone.

“I mean…” you added, a wicked edge sneaking into your tone as your thumb traced a slow, taunting circle over the faint line of his waistband beneath the scratchy hospital blanket, “I could see how a girl might be tempted. You do look kinda hot with the whole tragic overdose thing going on.” You grinned, sharp and playful, and leaned in to murmur, “But I like my men conscious enough to beg.”

Then you let the silence stretch again, your mouth barely hovering over his, letting him feel the threat of a kiss you didn’t quite give, letting your breath ghost across his lips like a dare.

“Think you’ll be up for it by tonight, or do I have to schedule your next overdose for the weekend?”

He let the silence stretch, his own heartbeat filling the void, the monitor's beeping still erratic and sharp. The hospital lights flickered faintly overhead, casting strange shadows across his face as he held your eyes with an intensity that bordered on desperation. His thumb brushed your jaw, rough and trembling, like he was holding back some fierce, wild thing—and losing the fight.

"Christ, woman… you gonna actually kiss me or is this just another goddamn mind game with that pretty mouth of yours?"

You didn’t hesitate—your fingers curled beneath his jaw, thumb brushing over the bruise blooming on his cheekbone as you leaned in and caught his mouth with yours. It was soft for half a second—tentative, almost uncertain—but that vanished the moment you felt him respond, his lips parting under yours like he’d been starving for it, for you. A breath escaped from your chest like it had been trapped there all day, caught somewhere between panic and want.

This was insane.

Less than ten hours ago you’d been pacing a sterile waiting room, wondering if his overdose would be the last thing you ever heard about him. And now you were here—kissing him like it was second nature, like nothing else existed beyond the way his hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer with a low, strangled sound lodged deep in his throat.

Rafe Cameron had always had a way of undoing you, unpeeling the carefully built walls of hate and snide remarks until all that was left was the heat. The tension. The reckless pull neither of you could name out loud. You thought burying your heartbreak in him would be a one-time mistake, something to drown out the aching echo of JJ and Kiara. But the mistake had festered—had grown legs and teeth and need. And now it was kissing you back like he’d die if you pulled away.

Your hands were in his hair, pulling just enough to make him hiss through his teeth, his tongue tracing your bottom lip with that same cocky desperation that always made you weak. You barely noticed the wires and IV lines anymore, not with the way his hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers burning hot against your skin.

The heart monitor was losing its mind beside you, the high-pitched beep a giveaway that should’ve made you stop—but it didn’t. If anything, it made you kiss him harder, made you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips with a kind of quiet urgency you weren’t ready to name. His mouth broke from yours only to trail down your jaw, teeth grazing your pulse as you gasped, hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself.

“Careful,” he rasped against your skin, voice wrecked and breathless, his smirk practically audible. “You’re gonna flatline me for real.”

You laughed—soft, disbelieving, drunk on adrenaline and heat—and kissed him again, deeper this time, like you didn’t care who was outside that door or how messed up everything was. Because right now, none of it mattered. Not your heartbreak, not his overdose, not the arrangement you both pretended wasn’t turning into something far more complicated.

Right now, it was just you and Rafe, tangled up in the chaos you created together.

The monitor was screaming now—sharp, rapid notes that vibrated with each frenzied beat. Your hands slid beneath his flimsy gown, exploring the muscles of his chest, the heat of his skin nearly scorching beneath your palms. The hospital lights seemed to flicker and dim, the room around you both a blur of antiseptic and adrenaline as the kiss turned filthy and desperate.

He groaned into your mouth, his hands moving to your hips, grip bruising as he rocked against you, his voice a shattered whimper muffled by your lips.

"Don't stop. Don't— god, don't stop."

His breathing was ragged, almost labored now, the sound of his shallow gasps matching the erratic rhythm of the monitor as he clutched your hips—fingers digging in so hard he was almost shaking. His mouth dragged wet kisses along your jaw, your neck, his voice a mix of urgency and fever. His voice trembled, ragged and unguarded.

"You’re— f-fuck—" he panted, his words breaking as he dragged you impossibly closer, heart hammering wildly under your palm. The monitor whined sharply, like a panicked alarm in the background.

“You’re stupid.” You finished his sentence with a scoff, but the edge of it was breathless, all heat and tension as your hips hovered just inches above his lap. You weren’t sure if you were trying to protect him or protect yourself, but the hesitation didn’t match the way your fingers curled tighter in his hair, tugging hard enough to drag a sharp breath from his throat. There was something dangerous about how gently you were treating him and how rough you were holding on—as if your body was at war with itself, unsure whether to cradle or devour him.

Rafe’s eyes fluttered for a second, not in pain, but because you looked at him like you were trying not to fall apart. His smirk faltered just slightly, like he wanted to say something smug but didn’t have the air left to manage it. His hands gripped your waist, firm but not pushing—guiding, like he needed to feel that you were real. That this was happening. That you were here, in his hospital bed, straddling him like he wasn’t one second away from falling apart again. You weren’t letting him fall apart. Or maybe you were both unraveling, and pretending it was still casual was easier than admitting what this really was.

“If you’re gonna talk shit,” he rasped, voice low and husky against your mouth, “at least commit to it while you're riding me.”

And maybe you should’ve been more careful, more thoughtful, more anything. But instead, you shifted your weight, finally letting yourself sink onto him, just slightly, just enough to make his breath stutter—and yours catch right along with it. Even if technically you were still clothed.

His eyes blew wide, a ragged groan tearing from his throat as your weight settled against him. The bed creaked, his hips jerking upward reflexively, the hospital sheets twisting around them both as his head fell back against the pillow. His chest heaved, the monitor's rhythm now a frantic, erratic crescendo.

"F-Christ," he gasped, his voice cracking, "This… this can’t be real, I’m actually halluc—hnghhh—" His head lolled back, his words dissolving into a low, guttural groan.

His fingers dug into your thighs, hips rolling upward—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the friction and the contact even as the heart monitor screamed in protest. His teeth grazed your collarbone, your pulse fluttering violently under the scrape, his own pulse racing to match.

"Careful," he muttered against your skin, one hand slipping up your spine to curl around the back of your neck, dragging you closer, breath hot. "Still need… t'breathe…"

“Not a hallucination,” you muttered, lips brushing his, your breath fanning against his mouth as you dove back in, desperate and rushed, like kissing him could drown out the chaos spiraling in your head. It was reckless. It was impulsive. It was so Rafe. The kiss wasn’t tender—there was nothing soft about it. It was messy, laced with frustration and need, your hands sliding into his hair, anchoring yourself there like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go.

There was a voice in the back of your mind, the only sane part of it still functioning, screaming for you to stop—reminding you that he was in a hospital bed, that he nearly died, that his sister could walk in any second with his clothes and find you straddling her brother like some deranged porno cliche. That his father, of all people, could appear with one knock and a disapproving stare that might actually end you. But none of it stuck long enough to matter. Not with the way he kissed you back like he needed it to survive. Like this was more than just lust or bitterness or some fucked-up coping mechanism.

Rafe let out a low, strained groan into your mouth, and his grip on your waist tightened, his fingers pressing hard into your hips like he was daring you to move, even a little. Even as your knees dug into the mattress on either side of him, careful not to press too hard into his sides, you felt the tension simmering under his skin. His chest was still faintly trembling, and you hated that you noticed it. Hated that it made you slow down just enough to pull back an inch and stare at him.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered, breath catching in your throat as your thumb ghosted across his cheek. “Say the word and I’ll get off.”

His breath hitched, pupils blown wide as he stared up at you, his thumbs rubbing frantic circles into your hips like he couldn't decide whether to push you away or pull you closer. The monitor beeped wildly in the background, a frantic counterpoint to his own fractured breathing.

"Stop," he murmured hoarsely, voice trembling—then his lips crashed against yours again, his hands sliding to your lower back to yank you flush against him, hips bucking upward. A low, shuddering groan escaped his throat. "Don’t. Don’t you dare stop."

“You just said—” The words barely left your lips before you gave up on them entirely, leaning back in, lips crashing against his with more heat than logic. It was messy and fast and selfish, all tongue and teeth, a frantic kind of kiss that came from something deeper than lust—something raw, like fear and relief twisted together. Your hands slid down his shoulders, pushing him back into the pillows with more care than you meant to show, silently pleading for him to stop moving so much, to stop trying to meet you halfway when he was still strapped to machines and barely a few hours out of hell.

There was no rhythm to any of it. No slow burn. Just urgency. A need to feel something else, to get lost in something you knew—Rafe’s mouth, his hands, the heat rolling off his skin. You kissed him like you were trying to forget the look of him pale and unconscious, and he kissed you like he was trying to forget the weight of his own failure. His fingers gripped your hips like he didn’t care if he got caught, like he didn’t care that this was reckless and loud and borderline insane.

Your breath hitched as he moved against you again, and you pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You just said stop.”

His breath was ragged and uneven when your lips left his, his hips still instinctively rocking upward like he was desperate to have you back. The monitor beside the bed was shrieking at a full-out, shrill alarm now, but you could barely hear it over the drumming of your heartbeat against his chest.

"I lied," he rasped, "Now get back here before I die for real."

"This is a shitty hospital, with even shittier staff," you muttered, breathless against his mouth, your words brushing his lips as you pulled back just enough to catch your breath. Your fingers fumbled with the zipper of your hoodie, dragging it down just slightly, exposing the swell of your chest and the thin strings of the bikini top you were still wearing—the same one you had on when you drove him here in a panic, heart in your throat, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

You scoffed softly, the sound laced with disbelief as your eyes flicked toward the heart monitor. The numbers were climbing, spiking, flat-out screaming that something was happening. Something intimate. Something reckless. “Your heart monitor is going crazy and no one's busting through the door to check up on you.” You looked back at him then, expression wry and amused despite the tension in your limbs. “We could be murdering each other and no one would even blink.”

The joke was there, hanging loosely between your panting breaths and the heat simmering in the tiny hospital room. But your tone dipped—low, dark, laced with something that wasn’t just lust. It was challenge. Temptation. The urge to pull him under all over again. And from the way his fingers were digging into your hips, you knew he felt it too.

His eyes tracked the way your hoodie slipped down your shoulders, a sharp, ragged breath catching in his chest. His pulse spiked, sweat beading at his temples as the machines beside you screamed in alarm. But he was focused on the way your skin felt under his palms—hot, alive, still clinging to the faint coconut scent of the sunscreen he’d smelled earlier. The hospital gown he was wearing did nothing to mask the heat and hardness of him against your thigh, the flimsy fabric doing nothing to shield him from the hunger in your eyes.

"Christ, you are going to get us murdered."

Your hand dipped down between your bodies, eyes still locked on his flushed, blown-out expression as your fingers patted blindly over the thin fabric of the hospital gown. When you finally found him—hot, hard, and straining beneath the useless cotton of his gown—your lips curled into something between a smirk and a scoff, equal parts amused and aroused. You pressed your palm against him fully, teasing, slow, feeling the twitch that followed your touch.

"You're this hard over the thought of having felonious sex?" you murmured, voice low and thick with disbelief, like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to laugh or moan. Your thumb dragged lazily along his length, still through the boxers, and you leaned in closer, letting your breath ghost along his jaw. “You realize this is probably illegal. Immoral. Borderline psychotic, right?”

Your tone was laced with amusement, but your hand didn’t stop—just squeezed a little tighter, a little slower, as if daring him to say it out loud. Daring him to admit he wanted it anyway. And from the wild pace of the heart monitor and the tension buzzing beneath his skin, you already knew the answer.

His hips pressed upward reflexively against your hand, his head falling back against the pillows with a soft, breathless laugh that turned into a shaky gasp. His hands found your hips again, grip bruising, as if the contact was the only thing anchoring him to earth while the monitor screamed in protest beside them.

"I’m—hnghh—pretty sure they don’t list reckless hospital hookups in the Ten Commandments," he managed to spit out through gritted teeth, a half-hysterical grin cracking across his face. "But I’ll pay your bail. Promise."

His eyes fluttered shut, his breathing growing ragged as the heart monitor's frantic rhythm matched the pace of your hand against him. Every touch, every press of your palm had him unraveling further, the heat between your bodies like a live wire. His hands roamed your skin, sliding up your back, dragging your body closer as if he could fuse you together and end this agony of wanting you. The heart monitor's screech spiked, a shrill reminder of the danger of this—of wanting you this desperately when his own body was still a mess of tubes and bandages.

"Don't cum yet." you murmured, your voice just barely above a whisper, low and commanding as your hand slipped beneath the gown and into his boxers. You wrapped your fingers around him fully, the heat of him pulsing in your palm as you moved with slow, deliberate strokes—purposeful, unhurried, like you wanted to drag it out just to punish him.

Your forehead pressed against his, breath mingling with his shallow ones, the closeness almost too much to bear. You squinted into the dim hospital room, eyes flicking down instinctively as if trying to catch a glimpse of your hand around him, half hidden by flimsy fabric and shadows. The rhythm of the monitor behind you ticked higher with every passing second, a sharp, steady reminder of how dangerously close this all was—how alive he was under your hands, how much control you held in this exact moment.

"I swear to God, Rafe, if you come before I say so—" you started, voice strained and breathless, more threat than plea, but the growing slickness of your strokes betrayed your own restraint cracking too.

His mouth fell open in a silent gasp, the sound of his name from your lips like a plea and a curse all at once as he arched his hips upward in a futile search for more touch—more friction, more you. His grip on your hips tightened, nails digging into your skin like he was holding on for dear life, as if letting go would shatter the fragile high he was chasing, one far more intoxicating than anything he'd ever snorted or swallowed. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one stuttering out of him like a confession, catching in his throat with every slow, deliberate drag of your hand along his length.

The heart monitor spiked again, the rhythmic beeping climbing to a shrill pitch that matched the pulse he felt hammering in every vein. He knew he should tell you to stop, that this was insane, that if someone walked in they’d probably sedate him and drag you out—but his body was louder than his brain, and your touch drowned out the rest of the world anyway.

"Fuck—" he choked, voice raw and hoarse as his hips jerked again, but you held him steady, pushing down harder on his pelvis with your free hand to keep him in place like he was some wild thing you were taming. Your forehead pressed firmer against his as your eyes locked, breathing the same stale hospital air and somehow still managing to make it feel heavy with heat. You looked like you were studying him—his flushed cheeks, the twitch in his jaw, the way his eyes flickered from yours down to your lips and back again.

And still, your hand didn’t falter. If anything, you tightened your grip, twisting your wrist just slightly as you dragged your palm up the underside of him, deliberately slow, like you wanted him to feel every second of it. You watched the way his brows pinched and his mouth parted again, the way his body tensed under yours like he was seconds from falling apart.

"You’re gonna make a mess," you whispered, voice low and warm and sinful as your thumb circled his tip, teasing. "And you’re gonna thank me for it."

His chest heaved with every ragged gasp, the heart monitor’s rhythmic warning screaming behind him, the sound of your voice in his ear making his pulse spike all over again. The way you commanded his body with touches that were both sinful and divine left him dizzy, the heat pooling beneath his ribs threatening to erupt like a wildfire.

His fingers found the messy curls at the nape of your neck and tugged, dragging your face closer until your mouths nearly crashed together in a clash of desperation and hunger. His voice came out in a groan more than words, rough and desperate. "Do it, then. Make me lose my fucking mind."

That was all the permission you needed. You shifted back just enough to unbutton your denim shorts, the stiff fabric tugging awkwardly as you shimmied them down your thighs in the cramped space between his body and the rails of the bed. It was clumsy, ungraceful, your movements rushed and frantic. You didn’t bother kicking them all the way off—just enough to pull your underwear to the side and climb back over him, the air between your legs already hot and damp with everything you were feeling and refusing to name.

Rafe watched you like he was hallucinating all over again, his hands itching at your thighs like he wanted to help but couldn't move fast enough. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, chest rising and falling beneath your palm as you steadied yourself. You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him again to guide him to your entrance. The second his tip brushed against you, slick and aching, you both exhaled like it was the first breath in hours.

You sank down onto him slowly, every inch drawing a guttural sound from his throat, his hands flying up to grip your hips like a lifeline. The stretch burned in the best way possible, the position awkward but grounding, the high-pitched beeping of the monitor spiking in time with your movement. Neither of you acknowledged it.

He threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut, a string of curses falling from his lips as you settled fully onto him. It wasn’t graceful—it wasn’t meant to be. You both moved like people starved, like the day had unraveled something deep and frayed inside you that only this could stitch back together, even if it didn’t last.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, hands sliding up to your waist like he didn’t know whether to hold you tighter or worship you. His gaze flicked up to your face, flushed and focused, and the corner of his mouth tugged up even as his breath faltered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smirked, breathless, fingers curling around the edge of the headboard behind him for leverage as you rolled your hips. The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a prayer. “You’ll die happy,” you murmured, half-joking, half-maddened with want.

And as you found your rhythm, the creaking of the hospital bed mixing with the frenzied monitor and the sound of skin on skin, nothing else mattered. Not the beeping, not the hallway, not the fact that this was the most reckless, fucked-up thing either of you could’ve done. It was just him. Just you. And the fire you couldn’t stop stoking.

Your movements were frantic, reckless, as you rode him with a desperation that left no room for breath, let alone words. But even his own breathless gasps couldn’t drown out the sound of the monitor—the steady, insistent shrieking that pulsed in time with the building pressure in his core.

His eyes locked with yours, wild and unblinking, and he tried to form words between thrusts—to tell you to slow down, to take it easy, to be gentle. But the words died on his tongue, replaced by a keening sound that teetered between pain and relief.

His calloused hands slid up your thighs, fingertips digging into your skin like he was anchoring himself to the only steady thing in this world. Your name burst from his throat in a broken, ragged moan—equal parts plea and worship—as he surged upward, meeting your frantic rhythm with equal passion, no thought for finesse or finesse.

The hospital bed shook beneath you both, the shrill, erratic rhythm of the monitor finally matching the pulse racing beneath his ribs. A broken laugh escaped him, breathless and wild, tinged with a manic edge. "You’re insane. We’re both insane."

"It was…" you started, but the words stumbled and caught in your throat, lost in the effort to stay quiet and the full-bodied concentration it took to keep him buried deep inside you without faltering. "It was your fucking idea, not mine. I’m just—getting corrupted here," you finally breathed out, the sentence tangled and rushed, barely making it past your lips as your pace picked up again. The obscene sounds filling the sterile room—slick, needy, desperate—only spurred you on, drawing a deep, guttural groan from his throat as your hips rocked into him.

Your grip on the bedframe tightened, knuckles white as the other hand slid up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone. His hands alternated between gripping your hips with bruising intensity and sliding up to your chest, fingers dragging over the exposed curve of your breast where your hoodie had fallen open, nails grazing your skin like he wanted to memorize the feel of it. Your eyes dropped down between your bodies, your breath catching as you watched the way he disappeared inside you over and over again, the slick mess you were both making only adding fuel to the fire crawling up your spine.

"I’ve never been more wet in my entire life," you confessed in a low, wrecked voice, a shiver of disbelief laced through the admission. It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t something to make him lose it—it was the truth. Raw and unfiltered, just like every breath you shared between the frantic kisses and trembling exhales.

Rafe let out a strangled sound that was half laugh, half moan, the cords of his neck straining as his head fell back against the pillow. "That’s 'cause you love being bad," he rasped, eyes meeting yours with a feverish gleam. "Just needed the right fucking reason."

You clenched around him involuntarily at his words, the pressure curling low and fast in your stomach, that reckless, overwhelming tension building to the point of no return. His fingers dug deeper into your thighs, pulling you down harder, deeper, chasing that brutal, perfect rhythm as if this was the last time either of you would ever get to feel it.

And maybe it was. But in that moment, nothing else existed. Not the smell of antiseptic, not the heart monitor blaring at your pace, not the ghosts of everything unspoken. Just this: your bodies tangled in a hospital bed, both wrecked in entirely different ways, clinging to the only thing that still felt alive.

His own breath came in shaky, frantic whimpers, eyes wild and unfocused as he watched you ride him with an intensity that bordered on violent. The slap of skin echoed in the air, sharp and obscene, drowning out the screams of the monitor—or maybe he just didn’t care to hear it anymore. He thrust upward to meet your movements, the hospital bed groaning beneath you both, and the words tore themselves from his throat through gritted teeth. "You’re ruining me." His voice was raw and ragged, torn apart with want.

His thumbs dug into your hips—a silent plea to slow the punishing pace as his breath hitched, the rhythm becoming erratic. The monitor’s tempo quickened, a shrill, erratic hum. His head swam with the heat, the oxygen-deprived frenzy, the dizzying high he chased toward.

A broken laugh spilled from between his lips despite the way his chest trembled with shallow breaths. "Christ, we’re gonna get—ahh— caught. ”

Your gaze snapped to his, the sharp rise of your brows echoing the storm of pleasure and irritation flashing across your face. The rhythm of your hips faltered for just a second, breath catching in your throat as you steadied yourself enough to speak. "So be quiet then," you hissed, voice low but scolding, like it wasn’t your fault he couldn't keep it together. Your fingers wrapped around his jaw, firm and demanding, thumb grazing just beneath his lip as your eyes locked on his, wide and unrelenting—expectant. Daring him to defy you.

He looked up at you like he might, like he’d throw something cocky right back in your face—but then he saw the fire burning in your expression, the intensity barely held together by the thin thread of control you were clinging to. His mouth parted slightly under your grip, a heavy breath slipping past his lips, but he didn’t speak. Not with words, at least.

You didn’t wait for a promise or a nod—you just resumed the motion of your hips, slower this time, deliberate, grinding down against him in a way that made his eyelids flutter and his back arch off the mattress. You kept your hand on his face, holding him there, making him feel it. Making him watch you fall apart around him all over again.

"Good," you muttered, barely audible over the harsh breaths filling the space between you. "You’re prettier like this anyway."

The praise hit him like a punch, his body tensing beneath you as he bit back a moan. His hips rolled upward instinctively, chasing the friction even as his hands slid down to grip your waist—a fleeting struggle between need and control. But the monitor’s shrill scream was a constant reminder of where they were, and his breathing stuttered erratically as he met your slower pace. His jaw tensed under your grip, eyes never leaving yours as you rode him, his fingers flexing against your hips like he needed to anchor himself to something real.

"Better shut me up then, or someone’s gonna come in.."

He fought to keep the sounds trapped in his throat, chest heaving as his trembling hands gripped your hips harder. The heart monitor screamed louder, as if mocking his struggle to stay under your control. His eyes flinched toward the door before snapping back to your face, a ragged groan escaping as his hips jerked upward wildly against yours—a reckless, desperate plea without words. He could feel himself unraveling, the heat pooling low in his gut, but the threat of someone walking in only heightened the thrill.

"You're the one whimpering like a bitch in heat at the thought of someone walking in…" you bit out between ragged breaths, your voice strained with the effort it took to keep your moans low. Your words came out slurred, not from lack of intent, but from the pleasure starting to get the best of you. Still, the taunt landed exactly how you wanted it to—cutting and breathless.

Your gaze didn’t leave the mess of your bodies, focused intently on the way his trembling hand alternated between scrabbling for your thigh, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and fumbling lower, desperate to find your clit. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to anchor you to him or pull you further apart. Every time his fingers brushed the right spot, your body jolted, rhythm faltering for just a second before you picked up the pace again with a curse under your breath.

The slick sound of you moving against him was absolutely filthy, echoing off the sterile hospital walls like you were taunting fate itself. You could feel how close he was in the way his muscles locked under your hands, the way he couldn’t even look at you without his breath hitching. Your fingers dug into his chest as you rocked faster, trying to chase your own release even if it meant dragging him with you at full force.

"Fucking pathetic," you gasped, the insult laced with something far more sinful than cruelty, your smirk barely held together as your moans grew shakier. "You’re lucky I’m not the one who scares easy."

His laughter was a choked, fractured thing, almost lost beneath the sound of your bodies moving together. His fingers gripped your hips almost violently, the line between pain and pleasure blurred beyond recognition as he clung to you like a lifeline. The edges of his vision blurred, his mind consumed by the heat between you, the sharp, desperate rhythm building to a crescendo. The words you spoke dug into him like a blade, sharp and biting, and he let out a raw, guttural sound that bordered on a shout—part moan, part prayer.

"You wanna— try—me?"

His gaze found yours in a sudden, sharp jerk of his chin, eyes wild and hungry and bordering on feral. He shifted under you, body trembling with the effort it took to sit up, his arms wrapping around your waist like manacles. He hauled you back until you were flush against his chest, your head falling back against his shoulder in a strangled gasp. His mouth closed in a hot, messy kiss against your neck, teeth grazing your skin in a way that sent a sharp bolt of heat straight to your core.

Your pace faltered when he yanked you down against his chest, your gasp swallowed by the heat of his skin as your mouth pressed against the curve of his shoulder. The sudden change in position made your breath catch, especially when his hands gripped your ass and started thrusting up into you—deep, purposeful, almost punishing. There was nothing gentle about it. Each snap of his hips had your moans breaking into fractured, muffled whimpers against his collarbone, your nails digging into his shoulder like you needed something to anchor you.

"Try you?" you breathed, half-laughing, half-moaning, the sound wrecked and breathless as you pulled back just enough to sneer into his neck. "What the hell are you gonna do, all strapped up to an IV and bed-ridden?" Your voice was defiant, teasing—but it cracked slightly at the end, betrayed by the pressure building low in your stomach and the wet slap of your bodies meeting. He could feel it—how your resistance was slipping, how much you wanted this, even while your words played the opposite role.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he shifted beneath you, adjusting his angle with a hiss through his teeth, forcing a strangled moan from your throat as he found the spot that made your thighs tremble around his hips. The rhythm got rougher, more frantic, the rustle of fabric and the creaking of the bed only half-drowned by the wailing of the heart monitor.

You buried your face in his neck again, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin there, one hand fisting in the sheets beside his head, the other planted over his heart like it might steady either of you. His heartbeat was racing—wild, reckless, unhinged beneath your palm. Like it didn’t care about stopping. Like it wanted to burn out on you.

"Still think I can't do anything?" he panted into your ear, voice thick with that dangerous edge you both knew too well. His hand slid between your bodies again, this time finding your clit with unsteady but determined fingers, and your body jerked above him, a shudder wracking your frame as the friction sent a jolt through your spine.

You barely managed a sound, hips stuttering again as your mouth hung open, eyes fluttering shut. Every part of you was hypersensitive—his voice, his heat, the way his body kept trying to outpace the limits it was under. It should’ve been pathetic, considering the circumstances. It should’ve been reckless, wrong. But it felt like everything you needed right then. Something to drown in. Something to want.

And fuck, you wanted.

He felt dizzy, his chest heaving beneath your palm like he didn’t have enough air in his lungs to keep his heart beating. The monitor was louder, almost screaming, but neither of you paid it any mind now. The sound was distant, forgotten, a steady rhythm that was no match for the erratic thunder he felt racing through his ribcage. His fingers stilled against your clit, his body tensing as his head fell back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut like he couldn’t handle looking at you any longer.

He looked wrecked.

His eyes opened, unfocused and wild, fixing you with a ragged look that was all heat, no clarity. He looked dizzy, undone, like he was teetering on the edge of losing control, of giving in. "Say it again," he rasped. "Say I look prettier like this."

The words hung sharp and needy in the air, your ragged breaths echoing between them. This was a different plea. A warning. You could feel how close he was, how hard he was holding on to the last threads of restraint. So you gave in. You didn’t have a choice.

Your mouth parted on a breathless sound, not quite a moan, not quite a laugh—something wrecked and fond and barely stitched together by lust. You leaned in closer, your lips brushing his jaw as your fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging just enough to keep him looking at you, eyes locked even though his were half-lidded and glossy with pleasure.

"You look so fucking pretty like this," you whispered, slow and deliberate, voice like sin wrapped in silk. You dragged the words out just to watch what they’d do to him. And they worked—his entire body tensed beneath yours, a low, guttural sound catching in his throat like it hurt to hold it in. His jaw clenched, his hands gripping your hips like he needed something to anchor himself to the earth.

"Prettier than you deserve to look," you added, mouth ghosting over his cheekbone, "especially with me like this on top of you." Your nails scratched lightly down his chest, following the flush that bloomed hot and fast across his skin. His eyes fluttered shut for a second—just a second—but that second was enough for you to feel his restraint snap, his hips jerking up hard into you, the groan that tore from his throat unfiltered, raw.

"Fuck—" he hissed, as if the praise alone shattered something inside him. The way he held onto you shifted, no longer just grounded in desperation, but something close to reverence. Like your words had marked him in a way that left bruises invisible to the eye but not to the soul.

You kissed him then—open-mouthed, messy, uncoordinated—as his body started to stutter beneath yours, as if your voice had been the final push off that edge he’d been dangling over. And you didn’t stop. You chased every tremble in him with the drag of your hips, every fractured breath with something filthier whispered against his skin.

You meant every word. He really did look fucking pretty like this. And he was too far gone now to argue.

He didn’t hold back this time—he didn’t hold back anything. The sounds he let out were obscene. He didn’t care if they heard him, he didn’t care who heard him. All he could focus on was you. The way you felt beneath his fingers, the way you moved above him, the sound of your breath, your voice in his ear, telling him how good he was, making him feel like he was the only thing in this world worth existing for.

His fingers dug into your thighs so hard you felt like he was going to draw blood, but the flash of pain only sent more heat coursing through you. The way his breath hitched in his chest, the sound of your name tumbling from his lips in broken whimpers, was just enough to finish you off. You felt yourself falling apart with a strangled moan, your head dropped to his shoulder, body trembling with the force of it. And he was still moving against you, even as the wave started to slowly recede, as if he just couldn’t bring himself to stop just yet.

You could barely breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he kept thrusting up into you—chasing that high like he needed it to live. His rhythm had lost any sense of control now, sloppy and urgent, all instinct and need. Your moan was still echoing in the sterile air of the hospital room, and his name was still caught somewhere in your throat, raw and sweet and soaked in aftershock. He was the one unraveling now, and you could feel it. In the way his hands trembled where they gripped you, in the way he buried his face in your neck and let out a groan that sounded more like a sob.

"Fucking—shit, angel—" he gasped, the words muffled against your skin. And then you felt him stiffen underneath you, a broken sound tearing from his throat as he came, hips jerking up into yours in shallow, frantic thrusts, chasing every last ounce of pleasure like he was scared it might disappear. You held him through it, body still twitching from the remnants of your own orgasm, nails dragging lightly down his back, whispering something you didn’t even know the meaning of against his ear—something like 'good', something like 'I’ve got you'.

He slumped back against the pillow, chest heaving, face flushed and lips parted in total ruin. The heart monitor was still beeping far too fast, still betraying every flutter of his pulse like it was trying to tattle on both of you. But neither of you moved. Not right away. You just sat there, still connected, your fingers brushing through his damp hair as your breathing slowly came back under control.

"Told you," he murmured eventually, voice hoarse and wrecked. "Still got it. Even flat on my back."

You let out a shaky laugh, forehead resting against his, but didn’t argue. Not yet. Not when your legs were still trembling and your heart was beating just as loud as his. Not when the taste of him was still on your tongue and the stupidest decision of your life still felt like the most intoxicating."We just had sex in a hospital room." you stated the obvious, trying to regulate your breathing enough to climb off.

He chuckled, the sound rough but somehow just as soothing, wrapping his arms around you like he couldn't bear to let go just yet. There was a vulnerability in his voice as he caught his breath, something raw and honest. "Didn't exactly have a lot of options here, did we?"

"There was only one option and it was not having sex in a public space where people come to get treated." you mumbled, forehead resting against his shoulder as you finally tapped his forearm, a silent request to release you so you could shimmy back into your shorts and get decent before Sarah showed up. Rafe let out a low, breathless laugh against your hair, chest still rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. His grip loosened on your hips slowly, almost reluctantly, like his body hadn’t caught up to the reality of what you were asking. “Yeah, well, he rasped, eyes fluttering shut as if even the thought of letting go was too much. “We didn’t exactly weigh all our options, did we?”

You sat up carefully, legs aching in that sore, satisfied way that made your heart thud with leftover adrenaline—and maybe just a touch of shame. You grimaced as you reached blindly for your shorts, fingers fumbling with the denim as you tried to make yourself presentable again. The sticky evidence of what you’d just done still clung to your thighs, making the act of pulling your clothes back on feel like a cruel joke.

Rafe watched you from under heavy lids, his gaze shameless as always. “You know,” he drawled slowly, voice wrecked but teasing, “for someone who was very against hospital sex, you were extremely committed once we started.”

You turned to glare at him over your shoulder, zipping your shorts up with more force than necessary. “Because someone,” you muttered, shooting him a pointed look, “can’t go five minutes without being a walking, talking bad idea.”

He just smirked, not even bothering to cover himself fully yet, looking all too pleased with himself even while tangled in hospital sheets and sweat. You pulled your hoodie back on and zipped it halfway, giving him one last look—the kind that warned him not to push his luck—before settling back down into the chair beside his bed, still flushed, still breathing a little too fast, but now trying to look like you weren’t falling apart from the inside out.

And right on cue, there were footsteps down the hall. You both froze. You glared at him again.

“Not a word,” you warned, and Rafe just grinned, letting his head fall back against the pillow like the bastard he was.

He watched as you shot him another glare, the smirk that had been on his face only growing wider and more infuriating. God, he loved it when you looked at him like that—like you wanted to punch him and kiss him and strangle him all at the same time. He let out a low, shaky chuckle, the sound still ragged and rough from all the sound he’d made just moments ago. "Don’t worry,” he rasped, “my lips are sealed.”

The door creaked open just as Rafe finished speaking, and your entire body went stiff in the chair, trying to school your face into something resembling casual boredom rather than post-orgasmic wreckage. Rafe’s smugness didn’t falter an inch—if anything, it deepened—while you reached up to smooth your hair, forcing yourself to sit back like you hadn’t just been fucking his brains out minutes ago.

"Knock knock," Sarah’s voice rang out in that half-sarcastic, half-sweet way she always used, and she stepped inside, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. "Wow, you look like shit," she told Rafe without missing a beat, dropping the bag at the foot of the bed. Her eyes swept over him, taking in the messy hair, the flush still high on his cheeks, and then flicked to you, brows lifting just slightly. "You look… less like shit. Which is shocking, honestly."

You gave her a tight smile, trying not to let your voice come out winded or shaky. "Thanks, Sarah. Always a pleasure."

She snorted. "Got your stuff. Hoodie, sweats, your gross sneakers. Figured you'd rather wear something that didn’t scream overdose victim." Her eyes didn’t linger long—thank god—and she didn’t seem to pick up on the weird tension still clinging to the air like smoke.

Rafe, for once in his life, said nothing.

Sarah turned back to him, finally noticing his silence. "What? You die again or something? You’re being weird."

"I’m on a spiritual journey," he rasped, eyes fluttering closed like he was genuinely reflecting on his near-death experience, hands folding over his chest. You choked on a laugh, and Sarah rolled her eyes.

"You’re a dumbass," she muttered, walking over to plop the bag onto the bedside table. "Anyway, dad’s in a meeting with hospital admin. He’ll be here soon. Thought I’d beat him to the punch and make sure you didn’t look like an unsupervised crime scene when he walked in."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak without giving something away, while Rafe gave a half-assed thumbs-up. Sarah turned to leave, tossing one last glance over her shoulder.

"You two… good?" she asked, casual but just curious enough to make your stomach clench.

"Peachy," you said quickly, maybe too quickly.

"Never better," Rafe added, his voice smug again beneath the hoarseness.

Sarah gave a short laugh. "Okay, freaks." she looked between the two of you, lingering at the foot of the bed while Rafe shot you a look behind her back. Your eyes tracked her silhouette as she made her way across the room to the table further in the room, reaching for one the water bottles left there courtesy of the nurses.

You let out a breath, forcing yourself to relax as she took a few sips, the silence heavy in the room. You could feel the heat in the room, still thick with the aftermath of what you and Rafe had just done, could feel the dampness in your shorts and the flush still lingering across your skin beneath the hoodie.

Rafe’s eyes flicked from Sarah to you, something dark and hungry flashing in his gaze when he took in the way your chest still rose and fell a little too fast, the way you were avoiding his gaze. Then his gaze shifted back to Sarah, his expression casual and almost relaxed, like he already hadn’t been taking pictures of the memory of you in his head only minutes ago. He cleared his throat.

Sarah stopped mid-sip, turning back to give him a curious look, like she couldn’t quite reconcile the fact that he'd just gone for over a full minute without saying something offensive or obnoxious.

Rafe shifted against the pillows, fingers toying with the sheet in his lap. "So, uh, you heard anything about when I’m getting out of this shithole?" he asked, tone deliberately casual.

Sarah set the water bottle down, leaning against the table with her arms crossed. "Don’t be so dramatic. You’re basically on bed rest for, like, ten days or whatever. Then you’re home free, as long as you don’t immediately get yourself killed.”

He grunted. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll try not to overdose within the next ten days. No promises, though.”

Sarah rolled her eyes.

"I know you’re joking, but you’re not funny." she deadpanned, and he actually cracked a smile.

You watched their exchange in awkward silence, hands curled tight in your lap. It was surreal, hearing them talk like this. You’d gotten so used to them hating each other.

And then, just when you thought the tension might start to dissipate, Sarah redirected the spotlight back onto you with a disarming sort of casualness that made your spine straighten instantly. She leaned against the table, legs crossed at the ankle like she was lounging at brunch and not in the aftermath of a near-death experience.

"So," she started, her voice light—too light—“did you thank Y/N for… y’know?”

She trailed off, and her smile faltered just enough to show she realized the sentence carried more weight than she intended. Her eyes darted between you and Rafe, like she was picking up on something—something subtle, or maybe not so subtle—and trying to decide if she should push further or back off.

You didn’t dare look at Rafe. You could feel his body still radiating heat beside you, could still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin, the echo of everything that just happened thudding beneath your skin. The flush that was rising in your cheeks had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with being thrown under the bus.

Rafe, of course, didn’t make it easier. He let out a breath, almost a laugh, as he tilted his head slightly like he was trying to play it off.

"Yeah," he rasped, voice still ruined from earlier. “Thanks for the… ride.”

The way he said it made your skin crawl, because you could tell he was being smug without even looking at him. And Sarah, bless her, didn’t seem to pick up on the double entendre—or if she did, she didn’t let it show.

You forced a tight smile, swallowing hard as you avoided both of their eyes. “It was nothing. Just glad I got here in time.”

Sarah gave you a genuine, if slightly confused, nod. “Still. We all owe you. I don’t even want to think about what would've happened if you weren’t there.”

Rafe shifted beside you, and the mattress creaked under his movement. You finally dared a glance at him, catching the glint in his eye. It wasn’t teasing—not entirely. There was something else there. Quiet. Heavy. Unspoken.

He held your gaze for a moment, something almost gentle flashing in his gaze, like he was trying to say something without saying a word. The moment was broken by Sarah’s foot tapping the floor impatiently, and he tore his eyes away.

Sarah cleared her throat, eyeing the two of you with curious suspicion. She looked back at Rafe, shaking her head lightly.

"You’re lucky, you know.” she said to him, and then shot you a look.

Rafe chuckled. "Oh, I know," he murmured, that smirk back on his face. "Got a guardian angel.”

The comment made your spine tingle. It was almost sweet. Almost intimate. And it was far too much to unpack in front of Sarah, who was glancing between you like she had no idea what to make of it.

Sarah looked wryly between the two of you, her brows lifting just slightly as if, for the briefest moment, she'd caught the double entendre stitched neatly into the charged silence between your bodies. Her gaze narrowed with faint suspicion, scanning the room like it might offer up a confession neither of you were willing to voice. Then she laughed, light and pointed, brushing off the tension with a flip of her hand as she leaned back against the windowsill.

"Funny story," she said, cocking her head, "I passed by the nurses' station on the way back and one of them was joking about some weird sounds coming from one of the rooms. They think someone was having sex in the hospital…"

She trailed off with a chuckle, shaking her head as if the idea was so ludicrous it could only be laughed off.

Your laugh came out on cue—slightly too high-pitched, a little too sharp—as you fidgeted with the zipper of your hoodie, pulling it up just enough to cover the deep breath you took to keep your face neutral. You didn’t dare glance at Rafe, not with the way his stare was burning holes into the side of your face, not with the way you could still feel his touch like a phantom pressed into your skin.

"People are insane," you said finally, voice strained with false disbelief as you tucked your hair behind your ear and offered Sarah the most casual smile you could muster.

Sarah hummed in agreement, eyes still flicking between you and Rafe with a trace of skepticism lingering just beneath her grin.

"Yeah. Totally wild," she said, almost too slowly. Then she let it drop, pushing off the windowsill and heading for the chair beside the bed. "Anyway, I told them maybe it was just someone watching porn with the volume up. Poor guy might’ve just had a heart condition or something."

She dropped into the chair, crossing one leg over the other as she propped her elbows on the arms.

"But I mean, what kind of sicko would be in the mood to have sex in a hospital of all places?”

She let out another little disbelieving laugh, shaking her head like the whole idea was so insane that it didn’t even deserve being talked about.

You laughed again, trying to control your shaky breaths. The sound came out hoarse and forced, even to your own ears—and from the corner of your eye, you saw Rafe’s teeth sink into his bottom lip.

Sarah continued, oblivious. "I don’t know how the hell anyone could get turned on in a hospital. It's like the least sexy place on the planet.”

Rafe let out a low chuckle from his spot on the bed, shifting slightly against the pillows. "I dunno. I’m finding it pretty sexy in here right now.”

Usually, you would’ve rolled your eyes at Rafe’s crude comments—he had a long-standing habit of tossing out suggestive bullshit whenever you were around his sister, half to irritate her and half to rile you up. It was a game you’d learned to ignore, brushing off every innuendo with an unimpressed look or a sharp retort. But this time was different. This time, it felt like there was a neon sign blinking above your head in bold, blaring letters: I fucked Rafe Cameron in a hospital room.

You could feel it—flashing in red, angry and accusatory, illuminating every corner of your shame as Sarah’s eyes narrowed with something a little too perceptive.

You forced a scoff, leaned stiffly back in your chair, arms crossed tight across your chest like they could somehow shield you from the scrutiny. “Of course you do,” you muttered, deliberately dry, eyes flicking toward Rafe with a sharpness that clearly meant watch it.

And then, without missing a beat, you turned to Sarah, masking the heat prickling at the back of your neck with a casual shrug. “I was gone for a little while to get food, remember? Might’ve been your brother with one of his hookups. I actually saw some girl leave his room when I was coming back.”

You let the lie settle, sweet and venomous, your tone laced with the kind of practiced indifference that only made it more believable. “Looked like she couldn’t get out of here fast enough,” you added with a slight smirk, eyes locked on Sarah’s face instead of the storm brewing silently in Rafe’s expression.

Sarah let out a short laugh, raising her eyebrows.

"Right, of course. Probably just someone from around here trying to snag a sick millionaire." She rolled her eyes, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Although, I don’t think that’s the kind of action a sick millionaire should be getting anyway.”

You let out a short laugh, forcing the tension from your shoulders as you let your gaze drift lazily back to Rafe. He was glaring at you like he wanted to throw you into the next room and strangle you.

The glare was so sharp and hot it burned, and you knew your words were only going to get you in more trouble once Sarah left, but it was worth it for the way Sarah nodded in agreement.

"Not really a time to think with your dick,” she said with a snort, like she’d heard those words a million times before. “But then again, we are talking about my brother here, so.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, still staring daggers at you.

Sarah looked over at him, raising her eyebrows. “What? You can’t argue that I’m wrong.” She let out a short laugh, looking between him and you for a moment before shaking her head.

"But, you know what, you should probably focus on getting out of here first. And then finding some girl to hook up with."

He finally looked away from you, his glare settling back on Sarah. You exhaled quietly, feeling some of the tension leave your body.

"What makes you think I haven’t already?" Rafe drawled.

Sarah raised an eyebrow “Seriously? I’m sure a hospital full of sick and depressed people is just teeming with desperate girls.”

Rafe rolled his eyes for a second time. "Haven’t you heard? Chicks love a guy in pain.”

Sarah snorted derisively, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, maybe a guy in pain that they like. But I don’t think you’ve exactly been winning any popularity contests lately. I’m pretty sure you’ve pissed off every girl in this town."

Rafe leaned back against the pillow, scoffing. "Not every girl..."

"Yeah, the one who left your hospital room didn’t exactly look pissed off…” you chimed in, tone breezy as you examined your chipped nail polish like your stomach wasn’t currently folding in on itself. You didn’t dare look at him, not when the memory was still seared into your skin—him beneath you, hands clutching your thighs like a lifeline, mouth slack and gasping your name like it meant something.

It was meant to be teasing, a jab to throw him off, to claw back a shred of the upper hand. But all it did was trigger a visceral replay behind your eyelids—his voice, guttural and wrecked, the press of his mouth against your collarbone, the way he tasted when you kissed him like you were starving.

Your breath hitched before you could stop it, covered by the scratch of your thumbnail against a flake of polish. Less than twenty goddamn minutes. That was all the time that had passed since you were sinking down onto him in this very room, your hoodie shoved halfway off your shoulders, the heart monitor going berserk while you moaned into his neck and pretended like the world didn’t exist beyond the four sterile walls.

And now you were here—fully clothed, acting like nothing happened, with his sister three feet away and completely unaware of the wreckage still radiating off both your bodies.

You could feel him watching you. That low, smug heat that always simmered behind his eyes when he knew he got under your skin. And he had. He always did.

You crossed your legs tightly, blinking hard as you forced a smirk and added, “She looked… satisfied, if anything.”

There was a beat of loaded silence, the air shifting with a sudden tension as his eyes burned into your downcast face, tracking each tiny movement like a predator, picking up on the twitch in your fingers, the hitch in your breath, the flutter of your eyelashes. It wasn't lost on him. Nothing ever was.

Sarah looked between you, brows furrowed in slight confusion. She let out an airy laugh. "S-satisfied...?”

She let out another laugh, eyes flitting up to the heart monitor which was beeping rhythmically.

"No way. That’s a little much for the hospital, don’t you think?” She shook her head in mock disbelief, eyeing Rafe’s smug face and then turning back to you for confirmation. Except you couldn’t look away from the heart rate monitor.

The beeping of the monitor filled the room, almost loud enough to cover the thumping of your own racing heart. You could feel his eyes on you, like the memory of it all was playing in his head, like he was watching all of it unfold across the room.

The silence was heavy, like the whole room was somehow picking up on the charged energy between the two of you, when in reality, it was only you and Rafe aware of the heat and tension crackling through the air.

Then Sarah broke the silence—thank god—with an eye roll and a scoff, standing up from her chair like she was suddenly tired of the strange mood that had settled over the room.

"You never change," she said, shooting one last look at him before shifting her attention to you. "I'll be back tomorrow. Try and stay out of trouble." Her eyes flicked over to Rafe, one eyebrow raised. "And do not, repeat, do not get yourself arrested—or worse, into another hospital bed."

The door clicked shut behind Sarah and with it, the last buffer of normalcy vanished. The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable—not like relief or calm—but something tighter, heavier. You could feel it snake back in immediately, wrapping itself around your spine and tugging.

Rafe still hadn’t looked at you, but his chest was moving just a little too fast for someone trying to act unaffected. You could tell he was doing the same thing you were—replaying it. All of it. The taste of each kiss, the rhythm of your hips, the reckless desperation that got tangled in his sheets and now in your thoughts.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know what to say.

The air felt thick with everything you weren’t acknowledging. Your hoodie was still rumpled, half-zipped over your bikini, and your thighs were pressed tightly together like that might erase the way you still felt him. Rafe finally shifted, dragging a hand over his face like it might clear the look from his eyes—the one that said he was still there, in that moment with you.

He tilted his head slightly, finally glancing at you, and the eye contact was a hit to the chest. Not mocking or smug like it usually was, not even playful—just raw, wrecked, and unreadable.

His voice came low, rough-edged. “You’re not gonna say anything?”

You blinked, pulse spiking. “About what? The thing we just did or the fact that it was probably a new personal low?”

He smirked slightly at that, lifting his head off the pillow. “It was probably a new personal high for me, if you want to be specific.”

You forced your jaw to stay slack, keeping the shock from your face. “Why am I not surprised,” you deadpanned, trying to ignore the rush of heat that flared all too quickly in your body at the memory. “Add it to the list of things to regret then, I guess.”

He let out a low laugh, the sound almost lazy. “The only thing I’m regretting is not doing it sooner.”

You sighed, long and exhausted after the day you had, eyes fluttering closed and lolling your head back against the hospital chair.

"Great, I'm happy we had this educational talk.." you muttered, voice quieter than you'd meant it to be, bringing your knees up to your chest on the chair, arms wrapping around them like you were trying to physically fold in on yourself.

When Sarah had been in the room, you’d been too focused on acting normal—on pretending you weren’t still flushed and wrecked and vibrating from what had happened minutes before. Now that she was gone, the silence didn’t bring relief. It made the tension heavier, thicker. And it wasn’t the kind of tension that made you want to snap at him or throw a sarcastic jab. It was the kind that made your skin feel too tight, the kind that made guilt curl up beneath your ribs and settle in deep.

Rafe was still watching you. You could feel it like a brand on the side of your face, his gaze dragging over you, not just your body, but everything—the memory of your breathy moans, your hand on his jaw, your hoodie shoved halfway off, his name on your lips like a secret. You could still feel him. Inside you. Under you. Around you.

And worse, you still wanted him. That was the part that made your stomach twist.

You shifted, trying to shake it off, your fingers tugging absently at the frayed hem of your shorts, eyes still closed. The sting of guilt hadn’t fully sunk in when it happened—it had been buried under adrenaline, lust, the high of knowing he was alive and whole and his. But now it was creeping in, mixing with the ache between your legs and the phantom of his hands still on your hips.

Rafe’s eyes tracked every movement, his lips curving in a mocking smirk but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were dark, gaze still locked on you like he could see right through to your thoughts. “I know that look. What are you thinking about?”

"How horrible i keep feeling with each shameless orgasm you give me, in spite of being the one who also initiates things sober.." came your answer, blunt. Too blunt it sounded sarcastic, head still lolled back and eyes closed. "Can't blame the alcohol or weed for this one.."

He didn’t respond right away, eyes still roaming over you, taking in the way your thighs flexed as you wrapped your arms around your knees, trying to press your legs together like it might lessen the throb between them.

He let out a short “hm”, and you could almost hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke, even if you didn’t look at him.

"That guilt must weigh heavy if you’re making jokes like that."

"At least my guilty conscience works properly, country-club."

He chuckled softly, raising one hand out from the sheets and running his fingertips down your calf, gently digging into the sensitive flesh behind your knee. It was a surprisingly tender gesture, absent of the biting comments he usually shot at you.

"And mine doesn’t?” he asked. There was no malice in his voice, instead, the words came out low, almost soft.

You inhaled slightly, startled as he touched you. Your skin tingled where his fingers roamed, his palm sliding over the curve of your knee, squeezing gently. It was too light, too different from the way his hands had gripped your thighs earlier. You still refused to look at him even as you spoke, feigning nonchalance "I dunno about the guilty conscience but your usual classism complex is definitely shattered." you mumbled, voice betraying how the softness in his voice made you feel "Y'know the thing when you put my friends down for being from the wrong side of the island and then hook up with a girl exactly from the worst side of it."

He chuckled softly again, his hand moving to your knee, thumbing the soft flesh there like he was trying to soothe you, even though you were pretending to be unaffected by his touch.

"No need to sound so condescending, baby."

The words rolled off his tongue low, almost affectionate, but there was a hint of mockery in the way he referred to you.

"I hate you so much as a person, and truly to your core." you bit back, words low and dry.

He scoffed, almost like that was the exact response he'd expected from you, thumb brushing back and forth across your knee, his touch firm and gentle, making you shiver slightly. "I hate you too, baby."

He said the words easily, but there was a hint of mocking affection in his tone, like using the term of endearment was supposed to throw you off.

It did.

You closed your eyes, breathing out heavily. Every touch, every pet name, made something flutter low in your stomach. It was infuriating. It was intoxicating. It made your head feel light and your heart thump in your chest.

You tried to find something to say— a snarky comeback like you usually had on the tip of your tongue, but your brain felt scrambled, all thoughts replaced by the sound of his quickening breaths, the way his fingers traced up your thigh, his face when you were on his lap…

The air felt thick. Tense. His fingers kept roaming, like he was mapping every inch of exposed skin, and he was. Every swipe of his fingers left a trail of fire that had you clenching your thighs, trying to relieve the ache he’d put there. And still, you refused to look at him.

Your hand reached out, subtly flicking his hand away without opening your eyes, sighing in annoyance at the way he was touching you. With the confidence of an entitled prick. "Quit it, Rafe."

He made a low noise in the back of his throat—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

But he pulled back his hand, the one that had made its way to the top of your thigh, his touch leaving a burning trail even after he'd moved it back to the sheets. He shifted in the bed, tilting his head as he looked at your stubborn face, stubbornly refusing to look at him.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm in your ears, and you hated how much that sound made your blood hum.

"Why are you being so difficult?" He sounded amused.

"Plagued by the overwhelming guilt that comes after hooking up with you." you answered dryly, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip lazily.

"Oh yeah, you definitely looked guilty, babe." He snorted sarcastically.

The nickname was meant to sound mocking and condescending, but the word came out of his mouth like a sigh. You could tell he was grinning by the sound of his voice, the smile evident in his words.

"What is your deal?" your eyes shot open. Your expression was part curious part annoyed like you were actually wondering what the hell was wrong with him. Humming before speaking like you considering your words. Something you never did usually.

He raised an eyebrow, his expression amused as he watched the different emotions flicker across your face. Your eyes were fixed on him now, finally locked in on his smug face, and you felt your stomach twist with a familiar sense of annoyance.

"You need to be more specific." He smirked, feigning cluelessness, pretending like he doesn’t know exactly what you mean.

"I'm talking about your tendency to hook up with pogue girls." You closed your eyes again, head tilting back as if your sentence was the most obvious and casual thing ever. "Last summer it was Sofia, this summer it's me." you added, arms wrapped around your knees loosely now. "Feels like you love the power play."

He chuckled, the sound low and taunting. "You’re not the first one to try and psychoanalyze me, you know that, right?"

You grunted. Like you were lost in your own thoughts before speaking again "How did it end?" you asked simply, voice distant and lacking the bite in it. Like you were more focused on the inside of your eyelids than the conversation.

The change in your tone took him off guard, his smirk faltering for a moment. He raised an eyebrow, confused.

"With Sofia?" He clarified.

You nodded your head slightly against the chair, still refusing to look at him even though you could feel his gaze like a brand on your face.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She was obsessed with me. It was cool at first, but then it became annoying."

"Define obsessed. "

He huffed, rolling his eyes, clearly not enjoying the topic. "She wanted to hangout with me all the time. She was all over me. It was fun at first, but she started getting clingy and whiny. And she constantly wanted to talk."

You chuckled lightly. Despite the fact that technically Sofia was your friend. Kinda. You weren't sure. She was your co-worker. "Isn't that what every other guy wants?"

He groaned, throwing his head back against the pillow before peering up at you through lowered lashes.

"I prefer my girls a little more unattainable." His voice trailed off in a husk, and it made your heart trip.

Your eyes shot open now, grimacing ever so slightly at his attempt to be smooth. "So you decided to hook up with a girl who's pining after another dude this summer?" you asked, tone bitter and mocking.

He smirked. "Yeah, actually." He had the audacity to look amused. "Guess I have a thing for unavailable women."

"So you're a glutton for punishment with commitment issues?" you asked, grimace deepening.

His smirk widened. "If we’re really being thorough, you should add in a hint of daddy issues and a dash of narcissism.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes so hard it made your brain jiggle "Me using you to get over the fact that i'm in love with JJ and it's not reciprocated is your karma for what you did to Sofia." you stated bluntly, deadpanning at him.

He snickered, his gaze on you sharpening. "Damn, baby. You really aren't a fan of holding back punches."

Your eyes roamed over his form, still slumped in the hospital bed, clad in that thin, wrinkled gown like it was some kind of throne instead of a reminder of how close he’d come to dying. He looked way too comfortable for someone who’d scared the shit out of everyone who cared about him—and way too smug for someone who probably committed a felony by having sex in a hospital.

"I'm a fan of blunt transparency," you muttered, voice syrupy with sarcasm as you fixed him with a look that fell somewhere between unimpressed and exhausted. Your arms wrapped loosely around your tucked-in knees, chin resting lazily on top of them as you leaned back in the plastic chair that had molded itself to your spine.

You raised your brows slightly, watching the way his smirk deepened like he knew exactly what he was doing—like your irritation was a language he spoke fluently and loved translating into something dirtier.

His dark eyes lingered on your legs as you shifted in the chair, still refusing to look at him, your thighs spread slightly and legs parted as you sat with one knee bent and one leg hanging off the side. Rafe’s lips twitched with arrogance at your attempt to keep him at bay, like you knew what he was doing. He let his eyes rake over your body, taking in your folded legs and exposed skin like you were his for the taking.

His voice came out low, almost taunting.

"You don’t want complete transparency, baby."

You huffed again, head tilting back against the chair as your eyes fluttered shut, like the weight of everything—the hospital room, the conversation, him—was finally settling too heavy on your shoulders. Your tone was dry, laced with exhaustion and the kind of sarcasm that didn't bother disguising how tired you were of talking around things.

"Complete transparency is all I want, country-club," you muttered, lips twitching with a humorless chuckle that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

There was a beat of silence before you added, voice lower this time, almost like an afterthought: "I’d prefer if you offered it."

It wasn’t a demand. Not exactly. But it wasn’t a suggestion either. It was an invitation he didn’t deserve but still got anyway—a rare glimpse into the part of you that hadn’t entirely learned how to detach from people, no matter how much you tried.

Something changed in the air at your words.

Rafe shifted in the bed, his eyes sharpening, fixating on your face, on the slight furrow between your brows, on the way your jaw clenched just the slightest bit, on the tired slump of your shoulders.

When he spoke next, his voice had lost its taunting edge, replaced by a sudden serious note. "What do you want to know?"

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, hesitation flickering across your face like a crack in the bravado you usually wore so easily. The words burned at the back of your throat before you even let them go, heavy with all the implications you weren’t sure you wanted to deal with once they were out in the open.

"Why do you allow me to use you?" you asked finally, voice quieter than before, stripped of the usual bite—just raw and curious in a way that almost made you uncomfortable. You tilted your head slightly, gaze fixed on his in the dim hospital light like you were trying to read his mind.

"I get the whole appeal of it… I match your freak in bed or whatever," you added, lips tugging into the ghost of a smirk that didn’t hide the vulnerability underneath. "But is it just ‘cause you have no one at the moment? Is that the reason you let me?"

The question settled in the space between you like a challenge and a confession all at once—tinged with bitterness, maybe jealousy, definitely fear. Because if the answer was yes, if it was just convenience, just vacancy he needed filled until someone better came along—then what the hell had any of this even been for?

Rafe's eyes stayed locked on yours, the smirk gone from his face, replaced by a sort of contemplative brooding that gave away nothing. You could see his mind whirring behind the intensity of his gaze, and there was a moment of silence before he opened his mouth to answer that felt like an eternity.

But when he spoke, his voice was steady. Almost soft. And his words changed the game entirely.

"I don’t let you use me."

The answer caused you to avert your gaze to the side, a small, genuine chuckle slipping out before you could stop it. It sounded condescending, maybe, but it wasn’t. You were just…amused. By him. By yourself. By the mess you’d both willingly walked into.

"You and I both know why we started hooking up in the first place," you said, your voice low but edged with something that almost sounded like regret—regret not for what you’d done, but for how easy it had been to fall into it. "The guy I’m in love with has a girl." You paused just long enough for the weight of it to settle between you, then looked back at him, your gaze steady now. "Technically, I am using you."

There was no malice in the words, no cruelty. Just honesty, uncomfortable and sharp in the dim hospital room. You shrugged like the admission didn’t crack something inside you just a little.

"I just figured we'd have this conversation sober," you added, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Since I saved you from death, basically."

It was a joke. A shield. Something to hide behind when everything else felt too naked, too raw. But beneath it was the truth you both hadn’t been brave enough to name: something had shifted. And once things shifted, they didn’t just go back.

This time, Rafe actually laughed—a harsh, short sound that sent shivers down your spine because you realized you'd somehow caught him off guard.

For the first time in your life, he didn't have a ready answer, a snide comment. He was just staring at you, his eyes boring into yours like he was fighting with a decision right in front of you.

Before you could get your hopes up, he finally found his voice. "You are such a damn hypocrite."

You followed suit, another small chuckle escaping you "And why is that?"

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. "You're using me for the same reason you don't like me using everyone else.” He paused, watching you closely, watching the way you stiffened at his words.

And then he added the one word that had your stomach dropping to your toes.

“Unavailability."

author's note: long time no see, i promised fluff and i added some smut because someone said these two can't be alone without fucking and i agree. rafe is so submissive i'm actually kicking my feet and giggling. also weird update if anyone cares but the owner of this blog actually had her first real kiss despite writing the most outrageous smut. crazy right? i'm a loser irl and i get no play ya'll but i have a picnic date planned so maybe in the next update we might be getting more action. I NEED in depth feedback about this chapter, what did you guys think of the song, do you miss me? talk to me i love you all and the more comments and asks the better. is there anyone who's team jj anymore?? (p.s cherry bomb is the next on my updates so be ready cherry bomb lovers.) i'll try and be more consistent but i'm looking for a summer job so i'm only writing at night, on my phone... don't be shy to join my taglist! <3

↳ ❝ [masterlist] ¡! ❞

Tag-list*:･ﾟ✧ @cali-888, @bee-43, @jjscoquette, @melsbels-zip @stanseventeen @wh0reforbucknasty,@wtfisastiles,@annaconscience,@pqndxra,@carrerascameron,@nini2mem,@iynsane,@gublerstylesobrien1238,@wrldfilms ,@shayofandoms @wren5650 @alimarie1105 @chuuuchuuutrain , @literallylexie, @polli05927

[orellazalonia]

Tiny Wings, Gentle Things

Summary: Steve gently teaches you human things like books, buttons, and manners, while Bucky encourages mischief, showing you how to pull harmless pranks around the tower. The others react with a mix of confusion, amusement, and affection. (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 700+

A/N: Little day in the life as I work on something else for them. Thank you to @lexi-anastasia-astra-luna for some of the ideas here. Enjoy! Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

No one really knew what to do with you.

You were small, winged, usually perched somewhere high, and spoke only when you really had something to say. And even then, it was usually short answers or a half-muttered grumble. But Steve and Bucky understood your silences, the way you blinked slowly to show you were listening, or how you folded your wings just slightly when you were shy.

Tony tried, for about five minutes. He offered you a nanobot containment suit that looked like a miniature Iron Man armor. You stared at it, picked it up, and immediately used it as a bowl to hold berries.

Clint once tried to feed you a gummy worm. You were offended he gellied a worm, threw it back at his face, and disappeared in a sparkle.

Natasha never tried. She just nodded at you once, quietly, like she saw you in the way only someone used to silence really could. You nodded back. A silent truce.

But it was Steve and Bucky who brought you into their strange human world piece by piece.

Steve started with books.

Children’s stories at first, Grimm’s fairy tales (which you found rude), then picture books, then little poems he read aloud to you in the warm morning sun. You’d perch on the windowsill, legs swinging, wings drowsy and half-spread out, as he explained what a “library” was. You didn’t say much, just blinked slowly, then nodded once.

Then came buttons.

You were obsessed with them, often hoarding them after being given some as rewards for your lessons with Steve. The man would sit you on the table and give you different things one at a time. Sometimes it was light switches, other times old radio dials or clicky pens, and he would explain each time what they did.

“Elevator,” Steve said once, pointing to the big silver doors. “You press that button, and it takes you to another floor.”

You looked at him then at the button before pressing it. When the doors opened, you flew inside and hovered in the corner like a suspicious bee.

He didn’t laugh. Just waited.

You ended up going up four floors by yourself and refused to speak for two hours afterward.

Bucky, on the other hand, was… different.

He saw your silences as permission. Permission to teach you everything you weren’t supposed to know.

“Okay,” He whispered one evening, crouched beside the kitchen island like he was about to spill government secrets. “This is a prank. It’s not bad. It’s mischief. And Sam deserves it.”

You blinked slowly, sitting on his shoulder.

He held up a spoon and nodded toward the sugar bowl.

“Swapped with salt. Classic.”

You didn’t say anything, but when he looked away, you fluttered over and swapped every single label in the spice rack.

Bucky stared, then smirked. “Okay. Overachiever.”

From then on, it became a game.

You’d turn invisible and move Sam’s phone two inches to the left every day until he questioned reality.

You filled Peter’s web-shooter with glitter. You unzipped Tony’s backpack halfway so it spilled post-its everywhere. No one ever suspected you except maybe Nat, who watched you a little too knowingly.

You never laughed out loud. But sometimes, when no one was looking, your wings would pulse in little ripples like soft, silent giggles.

And sometimes Bucky caught you smirking behind your hand.

You didn’t talk much. But you listened.

You remembered that Steve said “please” and “thank you” even to vending machines. That Bucky never let anyone touch his dog tags but didn’t mind when you rested on them. That Sam talked too loudly but always smelled like clean laundry and summer air. That Wanda could feel emotions like a river and once gifted you a leaf shaped like a heart.

You never spoke of it, but sometimes you left little gifts.

A petal in Natasha’s drawer.

A marble in Peter’s hoodie.

A single, silver button beside Steve’s bed.

You were quiet, mysterious, and easily mistaken for decoration sometimes. But the tower shifted around you, softened. They grew used to the way coffee mugs were suddenly left out around the place or how the microwave would beep and no one was there.

And every morning, without fail, Steve would say, “Good morning, sweetheart,” to the windowsill just in case you were there, curled in a sock, pretending not to care.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

that college!ford fic is just ✨chef's kiss✨, now i wanna know what would happen if like there's a college dance party or something, like that prom night, and reader's in a dress, easily accessible and 👀👀

THANK YOU FOR LIKING MY WRITING AND SENDING THIS

nsfw (i didn’t mean to ramble this much i’m so sorry)

i’ve been thinking about this exact thing. fidgety, touch-starved, first-relationship Ford makes me insane. where he’s never had a girlfriend before and he doesn’t even realize half the time how obsessed he is... this boy is so smart but he is the dumbest little horndog when it comes to you. he’s not even doing anything at first, letting his fingers stay on your waist while you’re both getting drinks at the refreshment table. standing behind you with his hands over your hips, thumbs dangerously close to slipping under your dress. and when you look at him all teasing he blushes, “sorry! i wasn’t, just wanted to make sure you weren’t cold!!”

but wait wait wait. so before the party.. this is exactly the kind of situation where he is being soooo shy and uptight and trying his best to be composed but failing miserably because his girlfriend, aka you, has been walking around his dorm in only her underwear all evening, trying on dress after dress “Ford, what do you think about this one?” and he’s sitting on the bed with his face in his hands like please don’t make me answer that because he’s hard as a rock and he’s not sure if he should be ashamed or if this is just what love feels like.

you know what you’re doing. you’re asking him to zip you up and turn you around, and every time you do he gasps as if he's seeing you for the first time, clutching the zipper. he's standing here with those cute flushed cheeks and wide brown eyes, clearly trying not to stare at you too weird but failing, and you catch him and he’s stuttering “i-i wasn’t, i didn’t“ and then buries his face into your shoulder in defeat, Ford's trying so hard to be good. but he’s not good. he’s a groper and a perv and he’s sooo embarrassed about it.

so when you got only fifteen minutes till party starts, Ford is sitting on the edge of the dorm bed with a boner while you’re adjusting your stockings in the mirror, asking if your eyeliner’s even, and he's pretending to read some book about space and planets but hasn't turned a page in twenty minutes. and yes, he made you wear the stockings. “it’s cold out,” he said, looking you dead in the eye. they’ve got the silky sheer slide and you already know he’s gonna lose his mind over them later.

but also, guess why he's so fucking embarrassed? you already had sex once today. hours ago in early morning. you were in his t-shirt with some nerdy print, not wearing your bra and he was spooning you and suddenly oops his hands were on your tits and you were both sleepy and needy and it just happened. he came inside and got all shy about it after, started talking about washing the sheets and you had to literally climb on top of him again so he’d shut up.

and ugh, it's not like you didn't fuck last night too? you were in his dorm because you stayed the night (of course you did) and he’d gotten hard just watching you brush your teeth in your tiny pajama shorts, and the next thing you knew he was fucking you half-asleep against the sink. it was so damn messy and sleepy but also filthy because his brain is just. fried. he came so fast too, because he’s just. always so needy. but he kisses your shoulder and buries his face in your neck and makes this soft little sound like “i’m sorry, i just- i can’t help it with you my love“ and of course you forgave him because you’re so in love with him it hurts.

anyways back to the party. so hours later you both show up at this college dance party and you’re wearing that little fucking dress and lipgloss and Ford wants to be normal, he swears he does. but you’re SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL and you’re touching him and he just keeps. groping. your. ass. without realizing it. and bonus point if you're gently taking his hand and putting it right back where it was, and Ford laughs and chokes on it at the same time. because that means you’re rewarding his perviness and he doesn’t know how to process that. he’s so shy. he’s absolutely gonna cum in his pants if you kiss him again and he’s aware of that and it makes it so much worse.

and trust me Ford gets so embarrassed about how grabby he is??? he’ll touch you and then flinch like “i’m sorry, was that okay? was that too much? i just. it’s this dress. you look. incredible. spectacular. im not a pervert“

at end Ford agrees to one slow dance and regrets it instantly. you're pressed up against him and he is very hard and very aware of it. he stares at the ceiling, swallowing. refuses to look down, but your perfume is driving him crazy and your hips keep brushing his. then you raise an eyebrow asking “you okay, baby?” and he's ready to howl from how ETHEREAL you look, his first love, his first relationship, first everything. he tries to come up with some dumb excuse until Fiddleford walks by and snorts out a “boy, at least wait till the music’s over first!!!! booo! booo!!”

AND SORRY BUT when dancing, he’s doing the thing where he keeps his hand half on your waist but doesn’t know where else to put it so it keeps drifting, lower and lower, and you’re like “FORD.” and he just squeaks out “sorrysorrysorry” and turns bright red and does it again two minutes later. he’s just so hot and sweaty and stunned, but you know better. you know that hand is on your ass when he thinks no one’s looking. he thinks he’s being subtle but he’s literally cupping you through the fabric. and like. breathing a little heavy. . . you’ve got a feral man on your hands.

and and and then he has to go sit down because he’s dizzy from how hard he is. Ford sits down in a corner with his legs crossed trying to hide his boner while you’re out there dancing and twirling and blowing kisses at him from across the room. he looks like he’s gonna cry

you just have this poor boy by the throat. he’s trying to be sweet and proper and gentlemanly “dontbeafreakdontbeafreak” but he can’t stop groping you like his life depends on it. and he’s gonna ruin that little dress tonight. it's obvious. he’s gonna rip it off you with shaking hands and whisper “sorry, sorry, i’ll get you another one, i’ll buy you five more, i just- need you right now, need to feel you, please-“ while making love to you in the college bathroom, hoping loud music will cover your desperate sounds because every sex for Ford is like his first

[faeriemi]

SOMETHIN’ UNHOLY.

Trigger/Content Warnings (TWS)

Blood / Biting / Vampire Feeding Rough sex / Light choking / Forceful dynamics Possessive / Obsessive language

They said vampires never cross a threshold uninvited.

And there was one.

And he’d been comin’ to your doorstep every night.

Didn’t speak at first. Just stood there on the porch like he was waitin’ for a storm that never came — one hand resting on the post, the other hangin’ loose at his side.

You didn’t know what to do the first night you saw him.

Just opened the door and stared.

He looked up. Eyes too dark to be human, too hungry to be kind.

“Evenin’,” he drawled, voice low and dry like old wood. “Didn’t mean to startle.”

You should’ve shut the door right then.

But you didn’t.

You swallowed, heart beatin’ like a trapped bird. “You’re not from around here.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, with the faintest curve to his lips. “Just passin’ through.”

He never passed through. Not really.

After that, he came again.

And again.

Always at the edge of night. Always just standin’ there. Always asking how your day was, sometimes tell you the weather before it happened like he could feel it comin’ in his bones. But he never stepped past that line. Never asked to come in.

It drove you near mad.

Because you didn’t understand why you waited every night.

Why your hands itched to pull open the door. Why your heart fluttered every time you heard those boot steps on your porch, slow and deliberate like he wasn’t in no rush to see you but couldn’t stay away either.

Your mama would’ve called him a curse.

Your preacher would’ve called him a demon.

But the way he looked at you… like you were somethin’ fragile he didn’t wanna break — or maybe wanted to break real slow, made you wonder what it felt like to be damned by his hands.

One night, when the moon was bloated and heavy, you asked him what he was doin’ out here.

He looked at you for a long time, real quiet.

“Watchin’,” he said.

“Watchin’ what?” you asked.

He took a breath that didn’t sound like he needed it. “Somethin’ soft in a place full of rot.”

Your stomach twisted.

“That sounds like poetry.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, real serious. “That sounds like hunger.”

You could feel it every time his eyes landed on you — like you’d been peeled open and left bare in front of a man who’d forgotten what mercy looked like. But he never reached for you. Never crossed the step.

You started dreamin’ of him.

Standing in your doorway. Hands bloody, eyes, dark. Smilin’ like a man who’d do unspeakable things if only you’d say please.

You woke up wet between the thighs more than once. Heart hammerin’. Cheeks hot.

You’d slide your hand beneath the covers, whisperin’ his name like a prayer and a curse.

Remmick.

But still, he waited.

Night after night.

Never touched you.

Never moved.

Only watched.

Only wanted.

And you, poor thing. You started to wonder how long a woman could stand at the edge of her own ruin before she invited it in.

The night he crossed the threshold, the air changed.

Like the land itself held its breath.

You didn’t know why you opened the door. Maybe it was the way the sky hung low and red like it’d bled dry. Or maybe it was how your body ached — not just between your thighs, but deeper — the kind of ache that no prayer could soothe.

You heard him before you saw him. That slow, familiar drag of boots on wood. And your hand was already at the doorknob.

You opened it.

And there he was.

Hair slicked back, shirt unbuttoned just low enough to see the top of his chest — like he knew what he was doing.

But his eyes… his eyes looked hungry.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he said, voice rough like a match being struck.

You leaned against the frame, trying to ignore the way your knees damn near buckled just from the sound of him.

“You always knock like the devil’s waitin’ on permission?” you asked, voice breathy.

He tilted his head, slow and dangerous.

“I don’t come where I ain’t welcome. That’d be rude.”

You swallowed hard. Your pulse hammered.

“I never said you were welcome.”

He smiled then — slow and wicked. “Then why you keep openin’ the door?”

You stepped back.

Just enough.

Just wide enough.

The invitation didn’t come from your lips. It came from the silence. From the way your eyes lingered on him. From the space you gave.

And Remmick stepped over the step.

Like a wolf crossin’ into the chicken coop.

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

You could smell the dark on him. Bourbon. Smoke. Blood. That strange clean scent of river water and death. He walked toward you slow — like he had all the time in the world.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He stopped inches from you, towering, his hands still at his sides.

“You afraid of me?” he asked.

You lied.

“No.”

He leaned down, his mouth brushing your ear.

“You should be.”

His hand came up, gentle as anything, brushing your jaw.

Then his thumb dragged along your lower lip.

You gasped, just barely — and that did it. That broke the leash.

He grabbed your face with both hands, slammed his mouth down on yours with a low growl like he’d been holdin’ back for years. It wasn’t tender. It was ravenous — all tongue and teeth and need. His lips were cold, but the heat between your legs went white hot.

He kissed like a man starvin’.

Like you were water in a desert he’d been wanderin’ a hundred years.

His hands roamed your body, rough and urgent — pushin’ you back into the wall. One hand gripped your throat, just enough to make your breath catch.

“You gonna let me ruin you, pretty girl?” he whispered against your mouth.

You whimpered, breathless. “Please.”

He groaned — low and filthy.

“I’m gonna take my time,” he rasped. “You hear me? Gonna learn every sound you make. Gonna have you cryin’ on my cock before the night’s through.”

Your knees damn near gave out.

He dragged your dress up — slow, reverent — his mouth trailing down your neck, tongue licking over your pulse like he was deciding where he’d bite. You gasped when he pressed his hand between your legs.

Already soaked.

“Mmm,” he grinned against your skin. “You this wet just from kissin’ me?”

You whimpered. “I been wet every damn night you showed up on that porch.”

He growled — actually growled — and dropped to his knees in front of you.

“Hold onto somethin’, baby.”

He spread your thighs and licked you like he’d been born for it. Long, slow strokes that had your head slammin’ back against the wall. His mouth was obscene — the way he moaned into you, tongue fuckin’ deep, then flickin’ your clit until you were cryin’ out his name, hands tangled in his hair.

You came hard, thighs trembling around his face.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t even pause.

“Another one,” he muttered. “Give me another. Gonna have you soaked before I even put it in.”

When he finally stood, your legs were limp.

He grabbed you by the hips, spun you toward the table. Bent you over, dress hiked, chest flat to the wood. His cock — thick, hard, already leaking — rubbed between your cheeks.

“You ready for it, baby?” he asked, breath hot against your ear. “Ready for me to split you open?”

You nodded, desperate.

“Use your words,” he snarled. “I want permission.”

You gasped, trembling. “Fuck me, I want it. I want you.”

That was it.

He shoved in slow, inch by slow, stretching you deep, both of you groaning from the pressure. You’d never felt so full in your life. Never been fucked like you were the only thing in the world worth destroying.

He didn’t move at first. Just leaned over your back, kissing your neck, whisperin’ filth in your ear.

“You’re mine now, you understand me?” he said, voice ragged. “You opened that door. Invited the devil in.”

Then he started movin’.

Hard.

Relentless.

Hands gripping your hips, slammin’ into you over and over, the sound of skin slapping, your moans, his name fallin’ from your lips like a hymn.

He wrapped a hand in your hair, yanked your head back. His fangs grazed your neck.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you belong to me.”

You were too far gone. “I’m yours, I’m fuckin’ yours—”

Then he bit.

And you screamed — pleasure, pain, all of it tangled until your whole body shook.

He kept fuckin’ you through it, and when he came, it was with a broken moan of your name, buried so deep inside you it felt like forever.

When he pulled out, blood still warm on your throat, your legs buckled.

He caught you. Lifted you like you weighed nothin’.

Carried you to your bed.

And curled up beside you like the world outside had ended.

You woke up with his scent all over you.

Whiskey, blood, and something older. Like old wood and grave dirt. Like sin baked into the bones of the land.

The room was still dark — moonlight crawling through the cracked shutters, cutting silver across the floorboards. Remmick lay beside you, one arm slung across your bare waist. His fingers twitchin’ like he was dreamin’. Or maybe fightin’ the urge to touch you again.

Your thighs ached. Your neck throbbed.

You reached up, fingertips ghostin’ over the bite mark. Two neat punctures, swollen, tender. The skin around it was hot, like it was burnin’ beneath the surface.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

You only remembered the way he moaned your name when he came inside you, the bite, the heat, the darkness that swallowed you whole.

And now…

Now you felt different.

Like something had curled up inside you and opened its eyes.

“You’re burnin’,” Remmick muttered behind you. His voice was thick, like honey left out in the sun.

You turned, and he was already lookin’ at you.

Eyes heavy-lidded, glowin’ faint in the moonlight.

“You bit me,” you whispered, throat dry.

He didn’t flinch. Just stared. Silent. Watchin’.

“I had to,” he said finally. “You were comin’ so hard, I lost it.”

Your stomach flipped.

“vampires need permission.”

His eyes darkened.

“And you screamed my name, begged me, said you were mine. Sounded like permission to me, darlin’.”

Your face burned. Your thighs clenched. The room felt hot.

You sat up, dizzy. Your skin prickled like a fever.

And Remmick’s nostrils flared.

His hand darted out, catching your wrist before you could stand. Not hard — not rough — but firm.

“Wait.”

You looked down at him, heart thundering.

“What’s wrong with me?” you whispered.

He licked his lips slow, eyes dragging down your naked body like he was trying to control himself.

“The bite’s settlin’ in.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, low and rough, “your body’s reactin’. You’re sensitive. Hot. Needy.”

You tried to pull back, but he growled — growled — and yanked you into his lap.

“You need it again, don’t you?” he whispered against your mouth. “Feel like you’re burnin’ from the inside out, like nothin’ll put out that fire but me.”

You shivered.

“Remmick—”

“You want it rough this time?” he murmured, thumb brushing your nipple. “You want me to fuck the ache outta you? You want to ride it out on my cock ‘til your voice is gone?”

Your breath caught.

“Say it.”

“I—I want it,” you gasped. “I want you. Rough. Now.”

That’s all he needed.

He flipped you onto your back so fast your head spun.

“Keep your fuckin’ legs open,” he growled, crawling over you like a beast. “You’re mine now, girl. You understand that?”

You nodded frantically, eyes wide, heat slick between your thighs.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours, Remmick. I’m fuckin’ yours.”

He hissed, actually hissed — like it lit somethin’ inside him. He shoved your thighs apart, didn’t even line himself up , just thrust deep, and you cried out, nails diggin’ into his back.

He didn’t give you time to adjust.

Didn’t whisper pretty things.

He fucked you — all rough grunts and filthy praise, slamming into you so hard the headboard cracked against the wall.

“Listen to that,” he growled, breath hot against your ear. “That’s your pussy talkin’ to me, so damn wet, clenchin’ like she knows who owns her.”

You were babbling, words half-lost, cryin’ out every time he hit that spot inside you that made your vision go white.

His mouth moved down to your neck again — teeth brushin’ over the healing bite.

“You want me to bite again?”

You moaned. “Yes—yes—fuck—please—”

“Greedy little thing,” he whispered. “Didn’t take long, did it? You already want more.”

His fangs sank in — not deep, just enough — and you came violently, screaming his name as your whole body convulsed beneath him.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t let you come down.

He flipped you over, pressed your chest to the mattress, and dragged you back onto his cock.

“You belong to me now,” he hissed into your ear. “Body, blood, soul. You feel that, don’t you?”

You nodded, tears streaming, drool on the pillow, mouth open in a soundless scream as he fucked you through another orgasm.

“You’re changin’,” he whispered. “And I like it.”

By the time he was done, you couldn’t move.

Could barely think.

He gathered you up in his arms, pressed kisses along your shoulder, and tucked you close against his chest.

“Gonna take care of you now,” he said softly. “You earned it.”

But in the quiet…

You felt it.

The burn still lingered.

Not just between your thighs, but in your blood. In your chest.

Like a spark had caught fire and started spreadin’.

And Remmick?

He was watching.

Smirking.

Knowing exactly what he’d done to you.