#but i have been challenging myself with them

[platypaws]

pnf revival challenge days 29 & 30: Water & Buford!

Hosted by @howtonerdoutovereverything! ✨

10 minutes later biff disappears in the pool and Buford cries

[revival challenge masterpost]

[headspace-hotel]

while we were in the basement hiding from tornadoes i finally watched captain america the winter soldier and it was pretty good for a marvel movie

sometimes i think to myself "come on, MCU isn't THAT bad" when i see people complain, and then realize I haven't watched any MCU since endgame which was awful. But now i think that marvel had actually been in a process of going downhill even before that.

obviously the biggest problem is the way later marvel movies just shat all over character development and gave up on meaningful emotional arcs for cheap jokes and stuff that "looks cool" without any meaning to it.

but also the winter soldier had a lot of physicality to the fight scenes and stunts that later MCU films don't have at all.

One of the key challenges with MCU is that the characters don't have clear limits or parameters on what they can and can't do, but i think thats kind of inevitable seeing how theyre based on superhero comics. EVERY marvel film, characters, including un-enhanced human characters, tank levels of blunt force trauma and acceleration that would be unsurvivable irl, or miraculously dodge sprays of bullets or exploding debris that would certainly rip them asunder.

So why is the winter soldier exciting when later marvel films aren't? Well for one thing the action sequences are physical fights rather than vague CGI light shows of characters using poorly defined powers. Even though we know the heroes are all practically indestructible for in-universe and out-of-universe reasons, it feels more exciting when the characters' bodies seem like they are actually interacting with physics and their environment and each other. Bucky as the Winter Soldier has such a physicality and weight to him as he moves, jumps, fights and uses weapons that when he does do something that seems impossible for a person it makes him appear scary and uncanny instead of just looking like more of the same computer generated nothing.

Honestly i feel like mcu started to be more focused on comedy and "jokes" because once the scenes started to be almost completely CGI, it was so much harder to create a sense of excitement and stakes. But thats just my idea

[albi-mander]

AI will sometimes include SVG icons, which are common on web pages but may indeed be suspicious in places where you expect the person to have typed things by hand. This isn't a giveaway by itself, but it's suspicious.

I have been training myself to detect AI writing, and it's genuinely very challenging. I have to weigh a few different factors before determining what I'm looking at is likely AI.

Surrounding context is almost more important than the writing itself. Most people who use AI for writing will often use AI-generated images as well, which are much easier to detect.

Sites that host AI articles will also often have a high volume of articles on the same topics, all published extremely close together. Most legitimate journals need to vet their articles and would not be able to publish at that volume.

AI cannot cite by itself, and since most sites that post those articles are aiming for volume, expect a bibliography with a small number of basic info citations.

As for the content of the writing itself, I'm usually looking at the overall information organization before the actual writing. AI tends to be...not redundant, exactly, but it will move onto the next "thought" and that thought won't be far enough removed from the previous one to feel natural or meaningful. This one is maybe a quarter instinct.

Sometimes, I can't necessarily determine if it's AI or not, but I can determine how knowledgeable it probably is...which is honestly the more important part. AI writing is frequently extremely lazy, so I look for higher-effort articles with interesting citations and cohesive structures to them.

"this is DEFINITELY written by AI, I can tell because it uses the writing quirks that AI uses (because it was trained on real people who write with those quirks)"

c'mon dudes we have got to do better than this

[cryoculus]

— cleanup on aisle three ⟢

phainon’s late-night grocery runs are a masterclass in chaos: strange ingredients, fish-shaped lighters, and recipes that could either save the world or end it. and you, a cynical store clerk who just wants to end your shifts quietly, find yourself caught in the storm of his culinary madness.

★ featuring; phainon x gender-neutral!reader

★ word count; 8.3k words

★ tags; friends to lovers, the grand chrysos au (from the april fool's chef pv lol), fluff, idiots in love, several food mentions

★ notes; kaientai tumblr reinstation starts NYEOW! if you follow me on ao3, you've probably already seen this, but i thought it would be a nice idea to crosspost on tumblr since i have a fairly decent following here as well :")

It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service. 

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?” 

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right. 

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with. 

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you. 

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room. 

And you did. For about twenty minutes. 

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that. 

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus. 

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break. 

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift. 

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?” 

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.

⟢ end notes: wahoo, you made it to the end! thank you so much for reading qwq it's been a hot minute since i posted on this acc and tumblr in general (i was mostly active on the kpop side of things in 2023), so i'm kinda just posting this to feel out the vibes. if i should crosspost my other stuff here etc etc. i also just started writing for hsr about,, a month ago?? so i've no idea how the fandom is on here JSDHFJSDGFH either way!! i'm just happy to share my stuff anywhere i can :^)

[ceyanabbiolo]

CONTRACT // C.S [18]

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

Warnings: drunk driving. mourning. pure angst

wc: 6281

Chapter 18: Right Where You Left Me

It had been almost a month. 

Four weeks of waking up in a place that didn’t feel like home anymore. A place that used to be filled with warmth, with life, with her, but now felt like a hollow museum of everything I’d lost.

The penthouse was spotless. Too spotless. The kitchen was back to how it had been before she moved in—cold, minimal, functional.

No more pastel mugs in the sink. 

No trail of flour on the counter from when she’d try to bake muffins and forget the damn timer. The fridge was organized again. 

No more mint coffee creamer sitting on the middle shelf—the one she always reached for first thing in the morning, even before speaking. She used to hum softly while she poured it into her mug, like she was still half-dreaming. 

The bagels she used to toast? Always untouched now. Back to sitting in the breadbox until they went stale.

Even her clutter was gone. 

No more random sweaters thrown over the back of the dining chairs. No bobby pins on the coffee table. No sketchbooks left open with messy notes in the margins and fabric swatches tucked between the pages.

It was all… sterile again. Back to having no life, the way I kept before she moved in. 

Everywhere I looked, she was there. 

The spot on the kitchen counter where she used to sit cross-legged, sipping her coffee while talking about colors and lighting, and which scarf pattern worked better in the fall. 

The window she used to stand by in the morning, the light catching the auburn strands in her hair like fire. 

The damn hallway where I caught her once twirling in one of her dresses, laughing when she realized I was watching her.

It wasn’t just a memory. It was haunting.

I couldn’t walk three feet without feeling like I was walking through a ghost. Her ghost.

I had been sleeping in her bed every night.

It started with one bad night, then became a habit I couldn’t break. I told myself it was because her mattress was softer. That was a lie. I just wanted to be where she was last. To bury my face in her pillow. To pretend I could still smell that soft, rosy scent she always wore, even though it had long faded. 

Now there was nothing left but air. Cold, clean, unforgiving air.

I had been drinking more. Not enough to forget her—nothing could do that—but just enough to make the nights pass quicker. To make the silence bearable.

I hadn’t smoked, though; I hadn’t touched a cigarette since the day she left. Not once, because she hated it.

Even if she wasn’t here to wrinkle her nose or steal the pack from my jacket and toss it in the trash, the idea of doing something she loathed felt like a betrayal. Like I was failing her again.

Even when the urge clawed at me, I couldn’t do it, because she hated it. Said it would ruin me before anything else ever could. She used to steal my packs, toss them in the trash, scold me like I was a damn teenager.  I’d just smirk at her, kiss her cheek, and promise I’d try harder.

Now?

Lighting a cigarette felt like betrayal. Like if I did it, it would mean she really wasn’t coming back. Like I’d given up on her completely.

Either way, she was gone.

Everywhere I turned, I saw the absence of her. In the couch that no longer had her curled up in it. In the mirror, that didn’t reflect her arms sliding around my waist from behind. In the bed that was too big. Too quiet.

And all I could think, all I could feel, was that I’d let her go. I let her walk away.

Now all I had left was silence and the sound of my own damn heart breaking over and over again.

The office had kept me later than usual.

Lately, I stayed until the city went quiet, until the halls emptied, and even the cleaning staff turned in for the night. It was easier that way—drowning in work than facing this place alone.

The penthouse was dim when I walked in. Just the soft hum of the fridge, the echo of my keys hitting the kitchen counter. I didn’t bother turning the lights on. I didn’t need to. Every step, I could navigate blindfolded—because she used to fill this place with so much light, I still remembered how it looked when she was in it.

I peeled off my jacket, tossed it carelessly over a chair. The silence wrapped around me like a noose.

A quick shower and walked over to the living room. 

I drank a few. I felt like I had to consume something bitter every night. I let it burn. I wanted it to burn.

Then I stumbled down the hallway toward her room. My body moved on autopilot. Like it did every night now. I wasn’t even thinking—just trying to catch some trace of her. A perfume, a blanket, a memory.

But when I opened the door… I stopped cold.

The room was empty.

Fully empty.

The soft pink sheets were gone. Her pillows, her bedside books, the scarf she used to hang from the lamp—everything… gone. The closet doors were slightly ajar, and even in the low light, I could see the hangers swinging quietly.

Everything that was left, gone.

It looked like a guest suite again. Sterile. Vacant. Like she’d never lived here at all.

My stomach twisted.

Panic clawed at my chest as I turned and made my way to her studio, my steps uneven, breath tightening with every second.

But when I pushed the door open—

It was worse.

The mannequins were gone. What was left of her fabrics…gone.

The room had been stripped of her.

All that was left was the large table she used to cut fabric on, her sewing machine pushed into a corner, and a mirror leaning against the wall, crooked, like someone moved it in a rush.

I stood in the middle of the room, not moving, not breathing. I couldn’t even blink.

The alcohol buzz had long faded. What was left was this hollow, dizzy ache spiraling through me, sinking in deep like a second skin.

She was really gone.

Not just emotionally. Not just from our bed. Gone.

I stumbled out into the hallway, desperate for answers. For a reason. That’s when I saw Ana, the housekeeper, standing near the laundry room, folding towels like it was just another night in this broken universe.

“Ana,” I said, my voice hoarse.

She looked up, startled. “Yes?”

I didn’t care how wrecked I looked. “What happened to her room?”

Her face softened instantly, the corners of her mouth twitching in sympathy. She placed the towels down slowly.

“She came by earlier this evening,” Ana said gently. “Around six. She had a car waiting. Took the rest of her things. Said she wouldn’t be long.”

I couldn’t speak.

“She didn’t leave a note,” Ana added, almost hesitating. “But she… she looked sad.” 

My throat felt like it was closing.

“I didn’t know she hadn’t told you.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t, because whatever was holding me up inside snapped right then, quietly, violently. 

I couldn’t stand being in that place any longer. The silence was pressing in again, thick and suffocating. Every room felt like a memory I didn’t want to face.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to Matt’s name.

Chris: Where are you at? It took a moment before the typing dots appeared.

Matt: Noah’s. Why? Chris: I’m coming over. Matt: alright

I just grabbed my keys, shrugged on the first jacket I could find, and headed to the elevator. My head was spinning a little—I had poured myself more than a few drinks tonight.

Still, I got behind the wheel.

I knew Noah’s place like the back of my hand. He was closer to Matt than he was to me and Nick, but we’d always still been tight. My family had stepped in a lot after he lost his parents, and ever since high school, his place had been our usual crash spot. Back when life was simpler, and girls weren’t something that could tear me apart. 

I didn’t know what I was going there for, maybe just to forget for a while. Or maybe I just didn’t want to be alone.

The ride over was a blur—red lights, green lights, honking cars. I don’t remember parking or locking the car behind me. All I remember is the cold night air against my skin and the dull buzz in my head as I stumbled up the steps to Noah’s place.

I knocked once. Loud.

The door swung open a few seconds later.

Noah stood there, eyebrows furrowed, the second he saw me. “Chris?”

His voice was low, cautious.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, rocking slightly on my heels. “What, you're not gonna invite me in?”

Noah blinked, eyes scanning me from head to toe—rumpled jacket, messy hair, tired eyes, and the scent of whatever I’d poured into my glass a few hours ago still clinging to me. “Are you… drunk?” 

I didn’t answer.

Before he could say anything else, Matt appeared behind him. His expression shifted from curiosity to immediate concern.

“Dude,” Matt said, stepping around Noah. “What the hell—Chris, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking great,” I muttered sarcastically, brushing past them both as I walked inside.

Nick’s voice followed a second later. “Man, you look like shit.”

I turned around slowly to face them, unbothered by their stares. 

“Thanks, Nick.” I glared at him.

Noah shut the door behind us, his jaw tight. “You shouldn’t be driving like this.”

I shrugged off my jacket and let it fall to the floor. “Didn’t realize I had anyone left to disappoint.”

The room went quiet. Thick with tension.

Matt stepped forward. “Chris… what’s going on?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just stared at the floor, like maybe if I focused hard enough, it would swallow me whole.

“She’s gone,” I finally said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Man, we know that…It's been a while,” Matt said, dragging me over to the couch. 

For the first time in a long time, I felt it crack through me—grief, guilt, and something worse.

“She came back and took the last of her stuff tonight,” I added, throat tightening. “Even her scent is gone.”

Matt looked at Nick, who looked at Noah, all of them exchanging silent glances. Like they didn’t know what to say. Like they’d never seen me like this before. 

That was because they hadn’t.

I rubbed my eyes, feeling the sting of exhaustion and something heavier clawing at me. “You got any drinks here?” I asked, voice rough, barely steady. 

Noah glanced toward the kitchen. “We don’t have any booze, Chris.”

I caught a glimpse of cans stacked by the fridge and smirked bitterly. “Come on, I see those. Just one, please.”

Matt stepped forward, eyes hard. “Fuck no. You need to stop before you become a damn addict.”

Nick crossed his arms, voice low but sharp. “You need to stop Chris.. Drinking won’t fix a damn thing.”

I shook my head, frustration bubbling up like poison. “You don’t get it. It’s not about fixing anything.”

Matt’s jaw clenched. “That’s exactly the problem. You’re letting this shit ruin you.”

My vision started to blur, the edges of the room melting as the weight of everything pressed down harder. Through the haze, I saw a brunette slip past us into the kitchen.

I blinked, trying to focus. “Who was that?” I slurred, nodding toward the kitchen.

Noah glanced over, then shook his head. “My sister. She moved in a few months ago.”

I let out a quiet chuckle, the faintest smile tugging at my lips. “Right…I forgot.”

I looked over at Matt, I saw his gaze follow her over to the kitchen. When he looked back, we made eye contact—I knew about him and Noah’s sister, or whatever was going on between them. Noah, however, was clueless and would probably kill Matt if he found out. Meh…that was Matt's problem.  

Nick’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unfiltered. “Chris, seven months ago you’d laugh in your face if you saw the mess you are now,” he said, shaking his head. “Ruined over a girl and drowning in booze like some sad drunk. That’s not the guy we know.”

I swallowed hard, the words hitting deeper than I wanted to admit. Nick was right. The man I was now barely felt like me anymore. 

If we never speak again… the silence might bury me. It won’t be anger or guilt that lingers—it’ll be the ache of everything unsaid. Everything I should’ve done differently. She wasn’t just a passing chapter. She was the calm in all my noise, the rare moment when I felt understood without needing to explain a thing. Losing that...it feels like losing the only part of myself that ever felt real.

One day, someone else might get to sit across from her at breakfast. He’ll get to hear her laugh, see her half-asleep in the morning light, hold her hand like it’s nothing, and brush strands of her beautiful ginger hair, and I’ll be forever envious of that man. I’ll want to spend the rest of my life hating him, wanting to kill him, for getting the version of her I destroyed. He won’t know the weight she carried or how much it took for her to let someone in. 

He’ll just get the result of everything I ruined. Then I’ll be stuck here, haunted by the memory of what I couldn’t hold on to. 

I’ll be stuck thinking about that hallway at the police station. 

Right where she left me.

AURORA

It had been a month.

A month since everything fell apart.

I only stayed with Jen for a few days after it happened—long enough to remember how to breathe again, long enough to cry myself dry. She wanted me to stay longer, but I couldn’t. I needed to be somewhere that felt like home. So I packed up what little I had brought and went back to my mother’s house.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was safe. She had welcomed me without question—just pulled me into a hug and let me fall apart in her arms. She made space for me in the guest room. My old room had been turned into a file room by my father. I couldn’t bring myself to fully settle in, though. 

I remember being so upset to move out of this house, but now I felt so foreign inside it. 

We’d been working on the divorce paperwork together. Quiet afternoons filled with legal forms and old bank statements. She tried to hide how nervous she was, but I could see it in the way her hands trembled when she signed her name. My father had left more than just hurt behind—he left a mess. A fortune tainted by control and manipulation.

Once it was finalized, everything that was left of him would be hers.

We didn't talk much about him—only when necessary. I think she knew I was grieving, in my own way. Not just the end of an engagement… but the collapse of so many illusions. Of the father I thought I had. The man I hoped Chris could be.

I submitted my fashion catalog last week. The runway show was just two weeks away now. My name was printed in bold on the announcement flyer along with some other graduates. “Aurora Devereaux – Closing Designer.”

It should’ve felt like a dream come true. Instead, it just felt like a reminder of how much had changed.

The past two weeks had felt like hell. I kept moving so I wouldn’t think. I filled every hour with sketches, with fittings, with long walks that made my feet ache and my chest a little quieter. I told myself I was okay. I told myself I was surviving.

Last night…I went back.

To the penthouse.

Just to take the last of my things.

It was late when I arrived. The place was dark, quiet. Chris wasn’t there. I didn’t know if I hoped he would be.

My studio… It was already halfway dismantled. Like a ghost town version of everything I had built. I packed up the last few things quietly: a bundle of sketches, a few unused fabrics, a silver pin cushion shaped like a cat that Chris once teased me for buying. 

I had never seen it so empty, only the full colorful version I saw when Chris first gifted it to me. 

Ana found me as I was zipping the final suitcase.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me the way someone looks at a fading photograph.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“You’ll be alright, hunny,” she said softly. Her voice was warm, steady. “You are stronger than you think. He knows it, too.”

I blinked, holding her gaze. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“It never does. Not until you’re on the other side of it.”

I hugged her before I left. I didn’t know if I’d ever come back. But that night, as I stood outside waiting for my Uber, I realized something.

The ache was still there. The grief, the guilt, the loss of something that could’ve been beautiful.

I was still breathing, though. Still moving. I was going to be okay. Eventually. I hope so, at least.  

I hadn’t planned on going out tonight.

The catalog was done. The show was two weeks away. My mother was slowly piecing together the remnants of a broken marriage while I kept myself busy in silence, pretending I didn’t still wake up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

It had been over a month since everything fell apart. Since the night I walked out of that penthouse and left behind the version of myself who still believed love was enough.

I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to talk. But when Jen called and said, “You need to get out of the house before you start collecting dust, Rory. I’m picking you up in twenty minutes. No arguments,” I didn’t fight her.

She always had a way of knowing when I was sinking.

I chose a short denim skirt, and paired it with a fitted black Skims short-sleeved top. I slipped on my black heeled boots, the ones that clicked with every step. My hair was down, straightened smooth, and tucked behind one ear, and I slung a simple black shoulder bag over my arm. A jacket because the outside still had a slight chill to it. 

The sound of a car horn outside broke the quiet hum of my thoughts. I took one last glance in the mirror — the short denim skirt hugging my hips, the black Skims tee fitting snug against my frame, my straightened hair falling sleek past my shoulders. The heeled boots added just enough height to feel like armor.

I took a breath and grabbed my little shoulder bag, locking the door behind me. 

Jen’s car was already parked by the curb, headlights slicing through the dusk. I opened the passenger door and slid in quickly, the leather cool against the backs of my legs.

She blinked at me. And then again, slowly, like she was trying to recalibrate what she was seeing.

“Oh my...Rory?” she said, nearly dropping her phone in her lap. “Okay, what did you do with my shy little best friend?”

I glanced at her, half amused and half self-conscious. “Too much?”

Jen’s jaw was still somewhere near the floor. “No! You look—like, damn, girl. I’m just not used to seeing you like this. I was expecting...still something you’d wear to a gala.”

I laughed, soft and unsure. “I wasn’t gonna wear a Celine dress, Jen.”

Jen put the car in drive, eyes still flicking to me with admiration. “Whatever it is? Let it stay. Tonight, we’re having fun. If any guy tries to talk to you—”

“I’m not interested,” I cut in quickly.

She grinned. “I know. But still. You deserve to feel good again. No wrong in talking to someone. Or you can take my route and kiss them and take them home for the night.”

“Jen,” I shot her a playful look. I loved her freakiness. 

As we pulled into the city, lights beginning to shimmer against the windshield, I let myself rest back in the seat.

The lounge was already buzzing — warm lights, low music, clusters of bodies weaving in and out of each other like they were all part of some shared, unspoken rhythm. Jen disappeared into a hug with a group of friends near the entrance, leaving me to navigate toward the bar on my own.

I didn’t belong here. Not really. Not with the heavy ache still living under my ribs like a second heartbeat.

I slid onto a stool at the bar, trying to look comfortable as I tucked my hair behind one ear.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, flashing a polite smile over the counter.

“Just a Sprite,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question it. The glass was cold in my hands a moment later, condensation slipping across my fingers as I brought it to my lips.

I sipped slowly.

The music faded into the background as my mind wandered. Back to the party, months ago. When Chris was in Milan. 

The night I saw Mason after a while, the night I met Chris’s ex-fling or whatever. 

Then Chris…

I hadn’t even known he was watching me back then. That just one photo of me at that party made him get on a flight from Milan. The possessiveness in that act used to make me feel chosen. Wanted. Protected.

Now? Now it just felt ironic.

That the same man who once flew halfway across the world at the thought of me with someone else… was the one who treated me like I was disposable. Like I was a burden. Like caring for me had been too much for him to carry.

I stared into my drink, my throat tightening.

People said you only understood someone’s true character after the high wore off. Maybe that’s what this was. Maybe Chris had just worn a mask better than most.

Or maybe…Maybe I had just been too easy to fool.

“Are you here alone?”

The voice came again, closer now, more persistent than the music thudding through the bar. I turned just slightly, catching sight of a guy standing beside me. Tall. Buzzed hair. Clean jawline. He wasn’t bad looking, and he knew it by the way he smiled.

“No,” I said calmly, taking another sip of Sprite.

He nodded, undeterred. “Can I get you a drink?”

I lifted my glass just slightly. “I’ve already got one.”

He peered at it, confused. “Sprite?”

“I don’t drink,” I said, not offering anything more.

That caught him off guard, but only for a second. He shrugged and leaned his elbow against the bar. “Fair enough. You don’t look like the typical crowd here anyway.”

I didn’t know what that meant, and I didn’t care to ask.

“What do you do?” he asked casually, clearly fishing for something interesting.

I stared ahead at the shelf of dusty liquor bottles behind the bar, debating if I even wanted to answer. But politeness was second nature.

“I’m a fashion design student,” I said simply.

He perked up, like I had said, I worked for NASA. “Oh really? That’s pretty cool. Like, you design clothes and stuff?”

“Yes,” I said, giving him a glance. “I have a show in two weeks.”

“No way. You must be really good, then.”

I didn’t respond to that.

He tried again. “So what’s a designer like you doing here alone, sipping Sprite?”

I turned slightly on the stool, facing him now, but keeping my distance. “Just getting out of the house.”

He chuckled. “Rough week?”

“Rough month,” I said before I could stop myself.

He nodded slowly, like he understood something deep. “Heartbreak?”

I didn’t answer. But my silence was loud enough.

“Yeah,” he said, offering a small, knowing smile. “That’ll do it.”

I didn’t know this man, and I didn’t care to know him—but I found myself slightly grateful he wasn’t pushing too far. Not yet, anyway.

“Look,” he said, suddenly reaching for his wallet, “I know you said no, but—just let me get you a drink. Doesn’t have to be alcohol. You’ve had a long month, right? Least I can do.”

“I’m fine,” I replied, still calm but firmer this time. “Thanks, though.”

There was a moment of quiet tension—just a second too long.

Then he raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Just trying to be nice.”

Just as I turned back to my drink, I felt his presence settle beside me again. Persistent.

“I’m Darren, by the way.” His voice was smoother now, like he was trying harder. Trying to be charming. I glanced at him briefly, offering a faint nod. “Aurora.”

“Aurora,” he repeated with a slow smile, like he was tasting the name. “Pretty name. Matches you.”

I gave a polite smile, said nothing. I was used to that kind of flattery. It didn’t reach me anymore.

There was a pause before he leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice like we were suddenly sharing something private. “So, Aurora…” he started, “you seem cool. Quiet. But I gotta ask…” His eyes flicked down to my legs and then back up, something about his grin turning cocky. “You in the mood to have a little fun tonight?”

I froze for a second—not shocked, but disappointed. Of course, that’s where this was going.

I turned to face him fully, my voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the music. “I don’t do hookups.”

His eyebrows shot up, like he didn’t expect that to be said so directly. 

“No judgment,” he said quickly, hands raised in innocence.

A few minutes passed. I thought Darren was gone for good, but then he circled back.

“Hey,” he said, a little softer this time. “Listen—sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to come off like a creep.”

I turned slightly, meeting his eyes. He looked a bit embarrassed now, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, leaning against the counter like he was trying to dial it back.

“It’s fine,” I said simply. “Just…not my thing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded quickly. “I get it. I just—I don’t usually see girls like you alone at parties.”

I lifted a brow. “Girls like me?”

He grinned, but it was less cocky now. “The quiet ones. The ones who don’t drink. The ones who look like they’ve got a hundred better places to be.”

I couldn’t help it—I smiled a little. “That’s… oddly accurate.”

Darren took that as encouragement and leaned in slightly again, but without the earlier edge. “So, if you’re not here to hook up or drink, what are you into?”

“Fashion,” I said, pausing for a beat. “Work, mostly.” 

“You mentioned you had a show soon>?” His tone perked up. “That seems dope.”

I shook my head. “I’m showcasing my collection in two weeks.”

His eyebrows raised. “Like, a legit show?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Catalog’s done. Final show’s being prepped.”

He gave a low whistle. “Alright, then. You’re impressive.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

There was a little silence before he asked, almost shyly this time, “So… would you wanna maybe go out sometime?”

I blinked, surprised he was still trying.

“I’m…kinda busy,” I said, a little apologetic.

He nodded, clearly trying not to look too disappointed. “Ah. Right. That makes sense.”

I thought that was the end of it—until he added, “I mean, I could come to your show. You know, support you. Cheer you on or whatever.”

That caught me off guard.

“You want to come to a fashion show?” I asked, unsure if he was being serious or just trying to impress me.

He shrugged, grinning again. “Why not? Might be cool. And who knows? Maybe seeing your world helps me get to know you.”

I looked at him for a long moment, unsure of what to say. Part of me wanted to shut it down, keep the wall up.

But another part… the tired, curious part of me… wanted to see what would happen if I let someone new in—even just a little.

“Fine,” I said, sipping my Sprite. “If you actually show up, I’ll be impressed.”

Darren laughed. “Challenge accepted.”

I turned back to the bar, still not sure if I meant it. But for now, it didn’t matter. 

Darren glanced toward the back door, where a few people were going in and out. Beyond it, I saw the faint glow of string lights draped over a small patio and a few benches lined up near the fence. People were out there too—talking, laughing, smoking—but it was calmer. Less chaotic than the music and bass vibrating through the walls inside.

“You wanna maybe step outside for a bit?” Darren asked, voice raised slightly over the music. “It’s loud as hell in here.”

I hesitated. Not because I was nervous, but because I kind of did want to get out of the noise. The party was starting to wear on me. The crowd. The energy. The smell of alcohol on people’s breath.

“Just to talk,” he added quickly, sensing my pause. “There are people around. I’m not shady.”

That made me smirk a little. “Okay. Sure.”

I grabbed my bag and followed him out the back door. The air hit my skin like a breath of relief. Cooler. Cleaner. The buzz of voices was still there, but it didn’t feel suffocating like it did inside.

We sat on the bench closest to the string lights. The wood was worn, the metal frame creaking slightly when we settled in. I folded my arms, my gaze flicking between the people nearby and the gravel under my boots.

“You good?” Darren asked, watching me.

I nodded slowly. “Just… not a party girl. Never have been.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I kinda picked up on that. But you came anyway.”

“My friend made me,” I said, half-smiling. “Said I needed to get out of the house.”

“Guess I should thank her, then,” he said. “I wouldn’t have met you otherwise.”

I didn’t respond right away. My fingers brushed the edge of my denim skirt, the fabric unfamiliar, bolder than what I’d usually wear.

“So…is your fashion show in Boston?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. Local showcase.”

“That’s sick,” he said genuinely. “Can I be honest? You look like you have your life together.”

That made me let out a soft, dry laugh. “That’s funny. Because it feels like it’s falling apart.”

He glanced at me, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

I didn’t elaborate. I just stared out at the fence, letting the breeze lift the ends of my straightened hair. I wasn’t about to unload everything onto some guy I barely knew. But for now, sitting here, out of the noise, sipping Sprite, talking to a stranger who didn’t know who I was or what I was going through—it didn’t feel so heavy.

It didn’t feel like Chris.

Maybe that was why I stayed.

I let the silence hang for a moment, watching a couple across the patio share a cigarette and talk like the world had slowed just for them. My cup of Sprite sat between my palms, the condensation trailing down my fingers.

Out of courtesy more than curiosity, I glanced at Darren and asked, “What about you? What do you do?”

He shifted, stretching his arms out along the back of the bench casually. “Tech stuff. Kinda boring, honestly. I work for a startup downtown—software solutions, all that jazz.”

“Sounds smarter than it is?” I teased gently.

He laughed. “Exactly. It’s mostly emails and pretending I know what I’m doing during meetings.”

That made me smile faintly. It was easy to talk to him. Easy in the kind of way that didn’t mean anything but didn’t demand anything either. He didn’t know my name was Aurora Devereaux or what that meant. He didn’t look at me like he already knew me.

It was… strangely nice.

“I’m guessing fashion’s always been your thing?” he asked, his tone lighter now.

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Since I was a kid. I used to sketch dresses on napkins and ruin my mom’s tablecloths trying to sew.”

Darren grinned. “That’s kind of adorable.”

I rolled my eyes playfully, then looked down at my drink. 

The night lingered like a slow-burning candle—dim, comfortable, almost too calm for a party. Darren and I sat on the bench outside for what felt like hours, talking about the most random things.

Music tastes, favourite movies, and embarrassing childhood stories. I didn’t expect to laugh as much as I did, and even though I wasn’t fully present, I appreciated the way he kept the conversation light.

“…and then I tripped over my skateboard and knocked out my two front teeth in front of half the school,” Darren said, chuckling, rubbing the back of his neck.

I laughed softly. “You might’ve peaked in high school with that one.”

“Hey, I survived the humiliation. That’s character development,” he said with a grin.

A breeze swept through, cool against my bare legs, and I crossed them, hugging my drink in my hands. The music from inside was still booming, but out here, it was just muffled enough to feel distant.

Darren leaned his head back against the bench, eyes half-lidded. “You know, you smell like roses.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”

He turned to look at me again, smiling. “Yeah… I don’t know. It’s subtle, but it’s there. You kind of remind me of a rose. A little mysterious. Pretty, obviously, but also sharp. Like if someone got too close too fast, they might get hurt.”

I laughed, but it came out a bit breathless.

Rose.

That word did something to me.

I remembered the way Chris used to pull me close after long days, his nose nuzzling against my neck, telling me how I smelled like roses, cherries, and clean warmth. As he once said, I reminded him of a rose garden in bloom—elegant, but guarded.

It also reminded me of the rose necklace I no longer own. 

My smile faded just a bit, but I forced it to stay.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice soft.

He didn’t know the weight of what he’d said. Obviously, but I felt it was heavy. 

My phone buzzed in my shoulder bag, the faint vibration pulling me out of the moment. I reached in and saw Jen’s name flash across the screen.

Jen: Hey, I’m ready to dip soon—u good?

I glanced at the time. It was later than I thought. The party had blurred into something muted and slow, and suddenly, I felt the weight of exhaustion pressing on my shoulders.

I looked up at Darren, offering a small, polite smile. “I should head out. My friend’s wrapping up.”

He nodded, sitting up straighter. “Yeah, of course. It was cool talking to you.”

“Yeah, it was,” I said honestly. For a random conversation at a party I hadn’t even wanted to be at, it hadn’t been terrible. He’d been…decent. Not pushy. Kind of funny. He’s just not someone else, though. 

He hesitated, then pulled his phone from his pocket. “Would it be okay if we exchanged numbers? I mean, if you ever wanted to talk again—or if you want someone to hype you up at that fashion show.”

I let out a small laugh, already unlocking my phone. “Sure. Just…no creepy texts at 2 a.m.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

We exchanged numbers quickly, his name showing up on my screen: Darren from the party.

I put my bag over my shoulder and stood, brushing my skirt down. “Have a good night, Darren.”

“You too, Aurora.”

As I walked back into the noise to find Jen, I could still feel his words trailing behind me.

You smell like roses.

But all I could think about was the last person who said that, and how much it still hurt.

It started as a contract—just ink on paper, expectations, and roles we were meant to play. I told myself it didn’t matter, that none of it was real. But somewhere in the middle of pretending, I started meaning it. I chose him. I wanted to stay. I let it become something real, something I was willing to fight for.

For him, though, it always felt temporary. Like he was already halfway out the door, even when he said all the right things. I wonder if it ever meant anything to him at all, or if I was just a convenient pause in a life too full for someone like me.

Maybe he’ll even meet someone. No contract, no force, just his own choice. Maybe he’ll fall for her. He’ll say the things he once said to me, only this time, he’ll mean them. She’ll get the version of him I only ever dreamed of—the one who stays.

Now I’m stuck mourning something he probably never saw the same way. Haunted by the memory of his cold stare in that police station. 

Right where he left me.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS HERE!

[a/n: I know you guys don't like cliffhangers, but I'm writing chapter 19 and it's looking like were getting a cliffhanger. like and reblog!] – Ceyana

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[so-i-did-this-thing]

Ive got 6 months left of my 20s. That's right. 6 months until I'm 30 years of age. And not a day goes by that I don't think about transitioning. I am fully aware that it's my own fear holding me back. But the fear is here with us in the room

I was scared, too. Mainly scared of being a disappointment, being made fun of, being ostracized, or worse. Being closeted made me feel very small and self-conscious, but because I knew that prison, it felt safe in a horrible way.

All I can suggest is to do it scared. Because the rewards are so great. Use your fears to hone your awareness and plan your life-- listen closely to your body & emotions, do some financial planning, learn how to become resilient.

But man, is the payoff so good. Yes, I've been humiliated, but in hindsight, seeing people with their masks off empowered me to cut folks like them out of my life. Yes, I've lost work and been in danger, but in the process of lifting myself up, I've met so many amazing trans people that I feel like I have family in every corner of the world, friends I can turn to if I'm in trouble.

Find other trans people, ideally, in person near you. It's so, so empowering to be among people who face your same challenges. Who can laugh at the often absurd parts of being trans. Who can share joy in simple things, like a haircut or new outfit.

Most regrets begin as "if I only..." Do it scared. It gets easier as you grow into yourself. I'm - and a whole hell of a lot of other people I'm sure now - are rooting for you. You deserve happiness. ❤️

[kedreeva]

Quail conformation anon: thank you! That was an incredibly helpful run down. I'm basically just looking to breed for health and temperament, as well as consistency. Good birds that predictably throw more good birds, with a steady laying schedule, uniform eggs, and decent climate hardiness (within reason).

I'm looking to start with regular old coturnix, but there are a ton available around me and I had very little idea where to start looking for ones that do possess the qualities that makes for a healthy bird. A lot of the people around here kind of just chuck them together and don't put much thought into pairings, and then produce wonky or inconsistent birds, which is what I'd like to avoid, but it also means that the majority of the birds I've seen in person have been bred by people who just raise them for meat and don't really put consideration into things like structural soundness beyond the basics of "it can move around? Yes? Perfect" or longer-term health. And I can *tell* that a lot of them don't look quite right but I can't always put my finger on what it is that looks "off" to me because like I said, I have very little knowledge of what they SHOULD look like.

Yeah I see it a lot here too, people not caring at all. And I'm not saying I don't ALSO produce those birds; this year especially, I've set a lot of eggs that I would consider to be "garbage" type eggs (ones that I would not set for myself, because I don't want how that egg texture is, or the color on the CE eggs isn't ideal) because I do frozen day old feeders but I've also gotten a LOT of requests from people who literally say up front that they don't care what kind or don't care about anything but numbers (I assume for meat raising, which fair enough, if I was just going to eat it, pretty much any half-decent bird will do I suppose). I'm always up front about the quality, but some people really do just not care.

You also reminded me: on the point of climate tolerance. Coturnix are not great at being in extreme heat, but they're generally great at being in colder climates. But you DO have to keep a little bit of an eye on it. I take all of my babies off heat by 2.5 weeks (sometimes as early as 2 weeks), and any that handle that transition poorly get culled out (either by selling them off or hard culling for the freezer). It's pretty rare these days, maybe 1 in every 200 birds or so, but it was a lot more common a couple years back. They should easily be able to tolerate freezing temps at 4 weeks old, so if they can't, then you'll have work to do (unless you live someplace it doesn't really get freezing).

And to temper expectations; even a GOOD line will produce some duds. Even a jumbo line will produce some non-jumbo birds. ANY line that you take birds from and combine with any other line (and I recommend getting lines from a few different areas if you can hatch eggs, just to open up genetic diversity at the start) is going to present selection challenges. It takes time to develop a line that's yours, to whatever your desires for them are, but bar little exception, if you're starting with several sources, you can select nice birds out of even crappy starter birds, it's just a matter of how long you want to be doing the initial selection work (as opposed to the maintenance selection work.... which is basically the same thing except you have more nicer birds)

[baldursghaik]

the deep thyneron lore (and some general musings on tieflings)

tieflings were my least favorite dnd species by a LANDSLIDE, and I made him one solely because I wanted to challenge myself to not play a dwarf, and move out of my comfort zone (... which is a little funny given how his character wound up playing out)

I will say though, he did make them grow on me

I love the original FR lore that tieflings are just errantly born into the world (or hells touched in some other way), with no specific lineage, but I also really like that bg3 made them an actual full species. I like the idea that tieflings can still be born to random human (or elf, etc etc) parents, but that if two tieflings mate, they'll produce a tiefling child. As I'm sure is obvious, I also really like the idea that they can be more, or less, animalistic, with some having cloven hooves for feet, others being damn near satyr-like, and still more yet being fully human looking, barring horns and tail.

I know it's a popular speculation/theory, but Wyll's dialogue about his dietary changes also really made me like the idea that a tiefling has a significantly broader diet than a human would. This might be some of my own preference for the delicious taste of carbon (if a marshmallow hasn't been fully engulfed in fire and burned to char, I don't want it!) but I think most would have a preference for things other people would find to be hideously off putting, such as completely charred foods, acrid, bitter, and acidic flavors, etc etc

[uniquexusposts]

Her || Charles Leclerc

Main characters: Charles Leclerc x OC Genre: fanfiction, fluff  Story type: novel  Part: 46/45 Word count: 2969 Co writer: @mistrose23

Story summary: Matilde Jørgensen, the new Scuderia Ferrari team principal, faced the nerve-wracking challenge of reviving the team's fortunes and aiming for a championship. Leading a historic team as a 'newbie' and separating her work and personal opinions posed a significant challenge. The big question: is she capable to do so?

Previous chapter

Bonus chapter

Matilde clicked send and watched the email disappear from her screen. It was nearly noon, and she had granted herself a break once the financial update was out of her hands. Luckily, she had an entire team who could handle the details, but they still needed her final word (even though she still had no idea what was going on. No, only joking). She leaned back in her chair, stretched her arms overhead until her spine popped, then stood and walked away.

The Ferrari HQ was quiet, the usual hum of keyboards and half-muted meetings fading as she passed the open-plan desks. Outside, the sun was warm, something she was finally getting used to. She squinted against the light as she crossed the parking lot toward the bike rack. Her bicycle was one of seven parked there. The light green city bike she had bought nearly fifteen years ago as a student in Copenhagen, was still delivering excellent service. Except today, the chain had slipped off, again, and was hanging awkwardly from the gear.

She unlocked the bike, placed her right foot on the pedal, and pushed off with her left, gliding forward like she was stepping through water. At the side entrance of the garage, she manoeuvred inside and found a free workspace to claim. What a luxury, having something like this available at work, and being allowed to use it. She grabbed her phone, opened YouTube, and searched for a tutorial on fixing a slipped chain. It wasn't her first time doing it, but it had been a while. Sure, there were plenty of people around who could fix it in seconds, but that wasn't the point.

She was avoiding work. And fixing her bike felt like a perfectly justifiable excuse.

She tied her hair up into a messy bun, flipped the bike upside down with a small grunt, and began collecting a few scattered tools while watching the video.

"Matilde," said a familiar voice.

She glanced over her shoulder. Galileo was lowering himself into one of the metal chairs nearby. His expression shifted as he took in the scene before him. "Galileo," she replied, casually.

"You do know we have actual mechanics who also could do that?"

"I'm aware."

"You also know they're literally right down the hall."

"Yup."

He crossed his arms, like he was about to launch into a lecture, but instead paused, eyeing the way she was crouched beside the bike, carefully inspecting the chain. "I will never understand the love people have for bicycles."

"Trust me, it's a love-hate relationship," she muttered. "I grew up with this thing. Cycling's just... part of life. And when I bike to work, I don't have to force myself to work out later. Win-win."

He rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Even after five years, you still manage to surprise me."

"Glad I'm keeping things interesting."

Silence settled between them, interrupted only by the clink of metal tools and the occasional Danish voice from the YouTube tutorial. Galileo watched her, the usual quick confidence in his chest giving way to a creeping wave of guilt. He had thought this through. Rehearsed it. But now, sitting here, he wasn't sure anymore. What if he was wrong? What if this was a mistake?

He didn't want to disappoint her. Not her. He respected Matilde too much for that, more than she probably knew.

"Ow," she hissed suddenly, pulling her hand back. "Fucking hell. Just when my nails were perfect, this fucking bullcrap happens." She sighed, examining the smudge of grease and broken nail. "Whatever."

The way she still biked to work, the fact she was down here trying to fix the damn thing herself... Galileo swallowed the tightness in his throat. He would never meet another boss like her. Not even close. Matilde was... special. One of one. If someone asked him to explain why, he wouldn't even know where to start.

"I, uh..." he finally said, his voice uneven. Matilde looked up, focused on him now. He took a breath. "I really need to tell you something. And it's getting very hard not to just blurt it out." He tried to smile, but failed. "Can we move our dinner to lunch instead?"

She smiled at him. "Yeah, sure."

"Perfect," he said, nodding a little too eagerly.

But she didn't look away. Her eyes narrowed, studying him. Something was off. He was avoiding eye contact, his fingers fidgeting against the chair. She looked around her to see if anyone was there and tilted her head.

"What?" he asked, trying to sound neutral.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" Her voice was quiet, gentle, even, but carried that unmistakable edge of clarity she always had when she had already figured it out.

His heart dropped. He looked around instinctively, like someone might have overheard them. "I..." He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."

He braced for her reaction... but it didn't come. Not how he expected.

She didn't look angry, or disappointed. She just... froze. Her expression went neutral, cold even. And yet, her eyes shimmered, tears starting to gather. That contradiction startled him. For five years, he had seen her face crises, failures, brutal headlines, and back-to-back race weekends. Never like this.

"No," he said slowly, blinking, when the realisation hit him. "Wait. Are you leaving too?"

She didn't answer. Not right away.

Tears welled in his eyes now, uninvited. "Matilde..."

But then she smiled. Not a big one, not a triumphant one, just something soft, and oddly peaceful. She gave him a little nod. "Surprise," she whispered.

He stared at her, dumbfounded.

"God," she breathed out, rubbing her hands over her face, "shit," she mumbled when she realised she was probably smearing the grease all over her face. She looked at him again. "I didn't want to say it, thank you for saying it first. I've been having the worst anxiety about how to bring it up."

Galileo let out a laugh, wet with relief and disbelief all at once. "I thought I was going to ruin everything."

Matilde shook her head. "You're not ruining anything. We're just... both done."

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Wow."

"Yeah."

They sat in the quiet hum of the garage, surrounded by half-finished projects, motors, and oil-stained tools, two people on the edge of big change, still grounded by a broken bike and an overdue conversation.

"Why and when?" Galileo then curiously asked. "I swear, I don't know how you did this, but you hid everything really well."

She shook her head. "Trust me, it was not. But I handed in my letter this morning." Matilde nodded when she saw his questionable face. She licked her lips. "Because I bought a house. In Denmark. My dream house since I was a kid and... I just had to buy it when it was for sale. It was literally now or never. And I just want to start a family."

"With whom?"

Her face straightened. "I don't care. I just want to be available for that. I want to have children, with or without a donor. I mean, I always need a donor to get pregnant, but you get the point. And if I'm lucky to birth one myself, obviously."

He smirked at her babble. "I get it, I get it."

"And because I'm done here, I've done what I wanted to do and I'm ready for someone else to take it over."

He nodded. She explained it so simply, but he noticed the imperfections Matilde had for this job since this year. She was still the very best and on top of her game, but the sparkle wasn't always there anymore. Not like it used to be. "Congratulations," he smiled.

"Thanks. And you?"

He shrugged. "Felt it was the right time to leave. I'm done with F1 and I'm moving to Australia because why not?"

"Yeah, why not?" A laugh rolled over her face, which made him smile as well. "No, honestly, Galileo, go for it. You deserve it."

"Thank you, I really appreciate it," he gratefully smiled. "Anyway, should I book a meeting for tomorrow, or do you want to wait?"

"Mate, that is something for later. First, I need to hear everything from you. Once I'm done fixing this bike, we will go out for lunch. I need to tell the boys first about our departure, then I will book a general meeting myself. No worries." Matilde took a deep breath. "Holy shit," she mumbled.

His heart fluttered. This is why she was the best boss. "Sure." He looked around, still no one in sight. "But what will you do for this year's title?"

"I don't care. Charles has two titles, Max has two titles with Ferrari, I have four titles with Ferrari, and we are running for two titles this year. We are not even halfway through yet. I don't care who wins, as long as no one dies and gets injured. We just need to enjoy the last half, and that's it. Unless, when are you leaving?"

"Finishing this season."

They locked each other's gaze, taking a moment to embrace the calm before the storm.

–

Max gave Charles a brief wave to let him know he had seen him, then cruised slowly down the street in search of a parking spot. He found one quickly, slid into it, and headed toward the building. Charles was just about to go in, but paused when he noticed Max approaching. He was holding a bouquet of flowers.

"Nice bouquet," Max said, eyeing it as he joined him. It had been Charles's turn to buy one.

"It screamed her name," Charles smirked, glancing down at the wild arrangement. As the main characters, two red roses nestled among the chaos, because why not? "After five years, I never would have thought that we would have our monthly work dinner at her house after all." It made him think of the offer she made this afternoon:

"Are you in for dinner tonight?"

Charles raised an eyebrow at his boss, who entered the sim office, a slow grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He straightened up, arms folding across his chest like a man preparing for a challenge he had been waiting for years.

"Are you asking me out on a date, Matilde?" he asked, his voice laced with mischief. "Should I let you pick the place, or do I have to come up with something classy?"

She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "In your dreams, Charles."

The thing was... he had. For five years. Five years of dreaming about someone who felt just out of reach, even when she was standing right in front of him. Strong. Untouchable. Unavailable. And yet, there she was.

"Seven o'clock. My place," she added casually, turning to leave.

Dangerous place. Too familiar. Too personal. Too close to everything he had spent five years pretending not to want.

"Do you know where Max is?" she asked, glancing back over her shoulder.

Oh. Right. That was more on brand. Dinner wasn't a date. It was logistics. And why would anything change now, after all this time? Charles cleared his throat, forcing his thoughts back into order. "He's over at aero, last I saw."

She gave a short nod, that easy, unreadable smile on her face. "Perfect. I'll cover dinner." And just like that, she was gone. Still close. Still untouchable. And Charles was left exactly where he had always been; with a grin, a stupid flicker of hope, and absolutely no idea what seven o'clock was going to mean.

"We got promoted, apparently," Max said dryly. Still, he thought, if anyone had gotten close to Matilde, it was Charles. Literally inside her. Not that it mattered. "You ever been here?" he asked.

"Nope. Just dropped her off once," Charles replied, though the answer was already obvious.

"I have. Not often."

As they made their way to the entrance, they passed a pizza delivery guy scanning the nameplates. He held up the boxes in question. "Matilde?" he asked.

Max stepped forward. "Yeah, we'll take those."

The guy blinked, shrugged, and handed them over. Max handed him two euros; everything he and Charles had in cash.

They carried the pizzas upstairs. When they reached her floor, the door was slightly ajar.

Max tapped his knuckles against it, then nudged it open with his elbow. "Special delivery!" he called.

Soft music played somewhere inside. A moment later, Matilde appeared in the hallway, curls thrown up in a messy twist and a few euros in hand. Her eyes flicked between them and the pizzas, then she smiled. "Oh. Hello. You stole those off the delivery guy?"

"Technically, we intercepted," Max said, placing the boxes on the counter. "Proactive hospitality."

"Very nice. Please tell me you tipped him?"

"Two euros," Max grinned. "All we had."

She leaned in to greet him with a quick kiss on the cheek. Charles held up the bouquet.

"These are for you."

Matilde's expression softened. Wildflowers. And two red roses. Charles and Max. Was that symbolic, or just Charles being dramatic? "They're beautiful," she said, voice quiet, almost cautious. She kissed his cheek too, and the scent of his cologne lingered a little too long. Dangerous.

He followed her into the living room, where Max had already claimed a spot on the couch. Charles glanced around and couldn't help but feel... charmed. The table was modest, white, wooden, with few colourful details. Not showy. No Ferrari-branded nonsense. Just Matilde. She had set this herself. "Nice setup," he said, genuinely.

"Thanks," she replied, gesturing for them to sit.

They ate quietly at first, hunger making conversation unnecessary. Charles took in the apartment. Clean lines, warm tones; a quiet blend of Italian soul and Scandinavian restraint. Nothing screamed racing or management, or status. Just like how she was.

He exhaled slowly. He didn't know why she had chosen to host the dinner at her place, but he was glad she had. It felt like the right place to say it; quiet, private. No eyes or ears but theirs.

"I need to get something off my chest," he said suddenly, then before he could second-guess it, he blurted, "I'm taking a sabbatical year next season."

Max and Matilde both froze.

"There," Charles added with a nervous laugh. "Finally said it. Been holding it in for weeks."

Max's eyes flicked from him to Matilde, waiting for her reaction. Her expression tightened; not angry, just stunned. And then it sank in. She was losing both her drivers. Max had announced his retirement at the start of the season: one last year, and then done. And now Charles. Sabbatical. No guarantees.

"I want to travel," Charles continued, filling the silence. "Backpack, maybe. I don't know yet. But I need a break. Just life, without racing. Then I'll see what happens." He looked at her, heart pounding. Still, she didn't say anything. She just nodded slightly and kept eating. Was that... passive-aggressive?

A long silence followed.

"What are you thinking?" Max finally asked, voice low. "Mattie... don't leave him hanging."

Matilde blinked, swallowed her bite, and straightened up. "Sorry," she said quickly, then turned to Charles. "I think it's a great decision. Go see the world while you can." Her smile was warm, but a little too careful. "I-"

Charles cut in. "What's your real reaction?"

He didn't want diplomacy. He wanted honesty.

She bit her lip. Then sighed. There were so many thoughts going through her mind. Her lips parted, and she looked at Charles. "I am out of words, I am so, so, so, sorry," she whispered. She really meant it. As team principal, this was her worst-case scenario. Two fantastic drivers were not racing for Ferrari next season, voluntarily. GP had resigned last week. This morning, Galileo had too. And now Charles. The pillars of her team were crumbling.

And then... her.

She covered her mouth with her hand and dropped her gaze.

But on the other hand, the team principal was resigning at the same time as her drivers and assistant. So technically, this wouldn't be the problem of the team principal anymore.

She had also resigned.

The irony wasn't lost on her.

And personally? She meant it, she thought Charles was doing something brave and admirable. She was even jealous. Backpacking the world? Freeing himself from everything? It sounded like something she had never allowed herself to do.

But what could she say now?

She cleared her throat and straightened up again. "Okay," she began. "Sorry for the awkward pause. Don't take it personally." Her voice steadied. "As team principal, I would like to thank you for the amazing years you have brought to Ferrari. There were ups and downs, moments we all learned from, we laughed, we had fun, we raced, we won, we lost, we grew. And you should be proud of it. I am proud of you. And it sounds so heavy, sabbatical year, I mean, you could be back the next season. Or not. You will see how it goes, right? Go with the flow." She took a sip of wine. "And personally, I am very happy for you, you should absolutely do it." And then she took another sip. "And personally, I'm really happy for you. You should absolutely do it."

Charles tilted his head. "But?"

Her eyes met his. He looked confused, disappointed. "I- fuck. I fucked that up," she muttered. "This wasn't how I wanted to react. Honestly, I don't even know how I should've reacted." She removed the hairclip from her hair and ran both her hands through it, frustrated. "I've been thinking about how to explain this to the board. Max is leaving, that's public. This morning I got Galileo's resignation. GP quit last week. Now you. And..." she paused for a breath, "...I handed in my resignation this morning too."

And just like that, the room shifted.

Max raised his brows, looking between the two of them. Charles turned to him, wide-eyed. Matilde exhaled, cheeks puffed, then took another sip of her wine.

"Well," Max said, grinning slowly. "How are you going to explain that to the board? Or the press? People are gonna think we staged some kind of protest." Then his grin widened. "But hey, that also means no more contracts after this season." He leaned in, playful. "And no contracts means..." He wiggled his eyebrows.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris @i-survived-a-shark-attack

[dogmandotcom]

I’ve rewritten this post like 3 times and at this point I think I just need to post it to get it out of my drafts lol. Anyway! I’ve seen quite a few posts over the last few months that I feel are misrepresenting and making assumptions about the type of physical therianthropy I experience so I wanted to share my own thoughts about it. I’m talking specifically about the philosophy and experience that gets simplified as ‘I am a nonhuman animal therefore my body is nonhuman’. 

I’ve seen a few posts now talking about this as if it’s a copycat version or less serious form of physical nonhumanity when compared to, for example, clinical zoanthropy or holothere identities and like. First of all I don’t think it’s useful to compare these things to each other in the first place since they’re all pretty different experiences of physical nonhumanity. Secondly ‘I am a nonhuman animal therefore my body is nonhuman’ is actually something I take very seriously and when I say ‘I am physically a dog’ I mean it. 

I don’t look like a theriform dog and my body also functions differently to that of a theriform dog, but I do still view my body as fully canine. My own experience of physical nonhumanity started with the desire to examine and challenge the social constructs of both humanity and of species classification and where I fit into all of that as a non-theriform canine. My gender transition also involved a similar process of changing the ways I viewed gender and sex as classification systems, and changing the way I view my own body and the relationship I have with it as a dog was a massive step in my transspecies transition too. Back in 2020 when I first started exploring the idea of being a physically nonhuman therian it really wasn’t a standard or established way to talk about therianthropy in any of the community spaces I was active in (and it still isn’t in many of them!). My goal when I first started exploring these ideas was to challenge the ways therians were (and still are!) expected to have to constantly acknowledge that our bodies are physically human when I didn’t feel that way about myself. I’m definitely not the first or only nonhuman to have thought about this but for me personally it was a conclusion I reached about my own relationship with my body by myself that was based on my experiences exploring sex and gender as a trans guy. ‘I’m nonhuman therefore my body is nonhuman’ isn’t just words that mean nothing in the same way that ‘I’m physically a man because I identify as a man’ isn’t just words that mean nothing - I’m a man because I reject the ways gender and sex have historically been socially constructed to exclude me from manhood and I’m a dog because I reject the idea that I have to view my body as physically human. My first public posts about being a physically identifying therian and having a canine body are dated to 3 months before the coining of the term endel and I think the community discussions that led to the term endel being coined were actually part of what made me feel comfortable enough to be open about my own physical nonhumanity. 

I’m sure not every physical therian with the same philosophy as me will feel as strongly about this as I do but they also shouldn’t have to for their identity to be respected as it’s own thing and not a less serious version of something else. I do wonder if some of the conflict and misunderstanding I’ve seen is coming from the fact that ‘physically nonhuman’ is a phrase in the English language with a number of different meanings and interpretations while a lot of other nonhuman and alterhuman terms are created and defined specifically for the communities they represent. I understand why folks who’s physical nonhumanity involves them having the appearance, physical organs and dna of theriform animals want their own separate community spaces but if I’m not ‘physically nonhuman’ because my body and organs don’t look or function the same as a theriform dog then the only alternative is to insist that I’m physically human which, as I have stated above, I am not. On tumblr I normally use the transspecies and therian tags instead of ‘physical nonhuman’ because it’s more in line with the intended audience for my posts, but I still have the right to describe myself as physically canine because that’s what I am.

[smugpugchimera]

May I request a moment of your attention please 🙏 I'm heading home from a meetup of a civil rights org I'm participating in. Our curator attended OSCE meetup that concluded the monitoring period on the state of the rights to peaceful assembly in 4 participating countries. She got to hear a lot of first-hand accounts from volunteers and reporters working on the ground gathering the information and represent their local civil right movements. Here's the report itself, I humbly urge you to take a look because the state of freedom of speech all around the all around world is in a very dire right now!

Our curator also had some insights for a few countries outside of the list in this report, so I'll try to make a brief general summary. I'm currently in the process of reading through the report myself, so apologies if some of my recollection is faulty!

I'll start with something you may have already heard, and its the situation in Georgia. The last election has been allegedly swayed by russian interference, much to the dismay of the population. This anti-democratic injustice met heavy pushback and massive protests followed. The reports on the situation, however, have been dwindling. The thing is they're still very much ongoing, and to this day crowds gather Daily to express their unsatisfaction, and their rights to do so are constantly breached, with law enforcers using many disproportionate measures against the civilian population. Some of the things that were mentioned are throwing teargas at the crowd from the rooftops, extended use of surveillance to track and unjustly prosecute the attendees, falsifying charges, and arresting people for them. New laws have been passing (or are in the process of being passed) such as to ban face covering for the protesters. For people who want to escape the sight of the gathering because of injury or teargas there's practically only one escape route: through a "shame tunnel" formed by the law enforcement, where the escapees are beaten as they try to leave the situation. It's fucking bad! Turkey face similar challenges, as the protests of the unlawful imprisonment of the major of Istanbul are ongoing (for the opposition to the Erdogan's regieme). Their history with russia is also quite convoluted. There, the prosecution does not even bother to falsify any charges, arresting people without any excuse or justification at all. Interesting to note the legal framework in Estonia (I think?), as well as in France practically forbids children from peaceful gatherings, which goes in direct violation of the Committee on the Right of Children. France is also notorious for using many disproportionate protest breaking methods against their civilian population. Moldova is in a peculiar situation, currently battling very active russian intervention. Pro-russian segment of the parliament is also keen on passing laws that would result in further restrictions on the rights to peaceful assembly. For example a law that would require the event organizers to practically fund the facilitation of the gathering, that is supposed to be the responsibility of the local government, which would heavily discourage the practice and disenfranchise marginalized demographics from their right to protest. The most striking and downright dystopian was our curator's retelling of the accounts from a volunteer working in Kazakhstan. It should probably not have been that surprising considering the history of their relationship with russia, and the fact that their respective law enforcement organs have extensive intelligence and method exchange, but still. From my understanding, the government monitors any public mentions of possible gatherings (like in general!) tracks the organizations, and imprisons them just long enough to miss the date of gathering. It is freakishly effective. It is also worrying just how omnipresent undercover law enforcement is, the volunteer expressed intense paranoia about being spied on in day-to day interactions. I'm not super experienced in these matters so do with that what you will. I would appreciate additions by people from these countries to share their experience! Our curator said something very profound about how tyrannical tendencies tent to be eagerly shared among governments who seek to suppress their people. That is why it is crucial for us to be alert and informed on the politics of the region, not just the country we reside in! Please, seek out local initiatives, elections, make good use of your democratic apparatus, while you still have it! (if you have it!) While freedom of expression should be a human right, the truth of the matter, that in most of the world, even in "progressive" jurisdictions it is still a big privilege to have it, and are a result of battles that have been ongoing long before our time. Cherish it. Use it. Fight for it.

[goooofy-goooober1121]

Viktor and His Inability to Rest

Based on this ask: "what about a lil request of reader taking care of viktor when he's too injured to work?"

Ask Box is open! Please feel free to request!

Reblogs always appreciated <3

Tags: gn!Reader, roommate!reader, roommate!Viktor, Viktor is Tired, descriptions of pain, Viktor has mixed feelings about being cared for, can be read as platonic or romantic! I'm going with the femoral anteversion + scoliosis combo for him :P

W/C: 1534

Please correct me if anything represented here about disabilities is inaccurate because I myself am able bodied and am going off of what I have read and researched!

Sick Days

Sick days were not in Viktor’s vocabulary.

Day after day, night after night, he was a busy man. When he wasn’t working on Hextech, he was assisting Heimerdinger with the everyday processes of the Academy. When he wasn’t doing that, he was hunched over his desk in the laboratory, poring over calculations and calibrations as though he were a poet and they his poetry. And when he wasn’t doing that-- well, he supposed he could fit four or five hours of sleep. 

To Viktor, it was just the way things were. Like the intricate parts of the machines he so painstakingly built, he worked best when every part was in place and at full capacity. It had been like that his whole life, and only intensified once he made it to the Academy. In Zaun, there hadn’t been much support for children like him; not that he blamed anyone for it. Zaun barely had the capacity to open schools, much less hospitals. It was because of this that Viktor learned to always give himself wholly and determinedly to his endeavors-- whether it be walking, learning, or simply getting out of bed.

All because for his whole life, he consistently had to work twice as hard as everybody else. 

First due to his disability, and then compounded by his admission to the Academy. He could not afford to fall behind or perform below par compared to his privileged peers. He knew what they thought of him, what they whispered; the poor Zaunite boy with a limp is what he once heard someone refer to him as in passing. It was a succinct summary of his perception amongst the student body. He was a charity case, a show of pity, notable only for his origins and the cane that supported his weight. 

He did not toil away his teenage years just to stop then. It would do no good to Zaun, and it would most certainly do worse to him. 

So he labored endlessly. Top marks in every class. Glowing reviews from his teachers. Independent research. All-nighters. A caffeine addiction he was sure would catch up to him someday. Even recognition from the headmaster himself. Sick days were not in Viktor’s vocabulary-- he could not afford them. Not when he was so self-assured of what he was capable of, and not when he knew everyone was watching and waiting for him to slip up like a starved wolf waits for a rabbit to turn its back. 

Which is why, when he woke up mere minutes before his alarm clock went off, he was so deeply insistent on getting up out of bed-- even when his shoulders felt more unevenly weighted than usual and his hip clicked with every movement, and even when his leg-- inverted as if to point itself at its front-facing twin-- debated very painfully that no, I don’t want to get up today when he tried to stand. 

He cursed his body for deciding that it would decide to get its revenge for the copious amounts of caffeine he had pumped into it and his abysmal, near-nonexistent sleep schedule on a school day. Similarly, he cursed aloud when his cane slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the floor at the fresh hour of five in the morning like it was trying to challenge his still-ticking alarm clock to a ‘who can be more disruptive’ contest. 

He was convinced the universe was playing a cruel joke on him when his clock seemingly accepted, its hammer smashing into the double bells and letting out a shrill 'Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!' in the form of incessant pealing. He had been so focused on glaring at his traitorous cane that the noise nearly had his skeleton leaping from his flesh; his scramble to shut off the alarm was ineffective, however, at avoiding rousing his roommate.

Truthfully, you had first been perturbed from your sleep when Viktor’s cane fell and he quietly cursed at it like it murdered his family. You were nearly asleep again when the alarm clock yanked you from the cradling arms of slumber, and deciding that you might as well wake up and get ready for the day, you yawned and sat up in bed. Drowsily rubbing your sleep-crusted eyes, you spared a glance over at Viktor’s side of the room, only to find him struggling to stand even after he picked up his cane. 

“Viktor?” You mumbled.

Viktor froze in place. “Go back to bed. I am fine,” he answered, words clipped and terse. He tried to stand once more, winced, and fell right back into bed.

Throwing the covers off of yourself, you swung your legs over the side of your mattress. “You are not fine,” you answered, frowning, “you look like you’re regretting being born. I told you those energy shots were a bad idea--”

“I am fine,” he snapped.

You paused halfway to your feet. Viktor immediately regretted his tone, watching you deflate in real time. He cleared his throat, his voice a bit softer. “That is-- I am only experiencing a little trouble. Some more pain than usual, that is all.”

You were quiet for a moment, then tilted your head skeptically. “Don’t tell me you’re planning on walking around all day in this condition.”

“I can do it well enough.” He huffed, cane wobbling beneath his grip.

“Viktor, you have to climb three flights of stairs just to get to your office.” You motioned vaguely in his direction. “You can’t even get out of bed.”

“This is a momentary lapse. Work takes precedence.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

Viktor stared at you. You stared at him. 

“I’ll get you an ice pack,” you said, rising to your feet and putting on your slippers. They were a gag gift from a friend for your birthday; fuzzy and white with beady black eyes and big pink noses. A tiny air pump embedded in the heels of the slippers caused their rabbit ears to pop up with each step you took towards the door. They were glorious, you reasoned. Viktor pretended to hate them. “You stay there.” 

Viktor only grunted in response, watching you grab the ice bucket beside the door. 

Off you went on your valiant quest for ice from the machine down the hall-- hair sticking up in all sorts of directions, pajamas crumpled from sleep, and bunny slippers playing peekaboo all the way there.

Viktor hadn’t moved from his sitting position once in the two minutes that you left. Poorly masked weariness stared up at you when you insisted he lay back while you filled an ice bag with the ice you’d retrieved. He obeyed without all that much protest, only partially insisting that he could have done everything himself. 

You didn’t take it to heart. If you were in constant pain, you figured you’d be pretty agitated, too. Carefully, you placed the ice bag beneath his lower back, where he once described to you that most of the pain flared, and a pillow beneath his hips to relieve the pressure of his own body on them.

“...Those are ridiculous,” he mumbles, staring down at your slippers. His words, however, are without venom, and his lips betray a smile.

“But they’re cheering you up,” you answer, grinning. “Want your blankets?”

He scoffs, averting his gaze, but his smile does not fade. “Yes, please.”

That was the thing about you. Usually, Viktor would have been utterly mortified at the thought of being cared for by someone. It more often than not felt more like a violation of autonomy and forceful infantilization than anything else.

It’s my leg that gives me trouble, he would always say, not my brain.

But not with you. You always asked. You always had the patience to listen. He supposed it wasn’t so bad to be cared for by you.

You pulled his blankets up to his shoulders and set his cane to lean on the side of his bed. Perfectly in reach, in case he wanted to try again later. You brought him his pain medication and a glass of water. 

“You do not have to do this,” he told you, swallowing down a pill the size of a quarter.

“Nobody has to do anything,” you answer, “but it’s still important to make the choice to act.”

Viktor blinked, amber eyes peering up at you as if you’d spoken to him in another tongue. “...You sound like a righteous novel protagonist.”

“Thanks. I’ve been reading.”

“You reminded me.” He smiled weakly at you. “Could you fetch a book for me? If I’m to be laid up all day, I would appreciate some entertainment.”

You nodded, taking one more look at him to ensure everything was in its place before turning off to the bookshelf in the far corner of your shared room. “Which do you want? We’ve got Theory of Quantum Mechanics; The Roots of Medicine: a Guide to Medicinal Herbs; The Glory of Life and Evolution…”

You paused, waiting for his insight. It didn’t come. Turning to glance at him to ask if he’s alright, you quickly silence yourself when you see his eyes shut and his lips parted, soft snores permeating the otherwise quiet space.

Sick days were not in Viktor’s vocabulary, but maybe, just this once, he could allow it if it was spent with you.

----

A/N: does anyone else remember those slippers from the 2010s that had the ears that flipped up every time you walked or was that a fever dream

[naib-mir]

Ohhh, careful with those MiR, there's a tradition of getting kissed when there's a mistletoe nearby! Let's hope you don't get ambushed ♡

“These traditions confuse me… but i doubt anything to bad will happen…”

[princema-k]

THE LIVING MUSEUM: CHAPTER 1

(interactive puzzle at the bottom!)

As luck would have it, the detective had a case that had just been given to her by the Chief Constable Barton (talk about a high order!) I watched as she leafed through the folders on her desk before slipping out a small stack of papers and bringing them over to me. Clearing her throat, Detective Layton ran over the details…

“At approximately 2:00pm, a fire alarm in the Natural History Museum sounded. Around 5 minutes later, visitors in the museum reported that they witnessed several exhibits, and I quote, ‘come to life before their eyes.’ There were visitors who told officials that the suits of armour on display had started to move and raise their weapons, visitors who reported that paintings on the walls started to melt and blink, and visitors who said that the dinosaur skeleton exhibits had opened their mouths and moved their heads. But the most damning of all seemed to be the Tyrannosaurus rex exhibit, who not just moved but assumed a lunging stance with its full body, as well as somehow roared.”

“Right, that’s odd. And?”

“Well, since the officials were only able to question the visitors outside of the museum due to everyone having been evacuated because of the fire alarm, naturally they went inside to check the exhibits themselves.”

“And they found…?”

“Nothing. They did a whole sweep of the area, but they found nothing out of place. All exhibits were in their normal places, the paintings were just fine, and everything was untouched.”

“Wow…”

“I assume the reason that Barton held onto what information they had on it and handed it to me was due to the witnesses. Despite the fact that the Yard found no obvious signs of tampering, everyone swears up and down the walls that the museum had seemingly come to life at that moment.”

“...That is a proper mystery. And these files are all we have on the matter?”

“Well, in a sense, yes. These are all the files we have,” Detective Layton muses as she taps the bottom of the stack on the coffee table. Then, getting up, she drops the stack back in their folder. “...Which is why I was thinking of heading over to the museum myself to do a bit of personal investigation.”

“As expected of the great Professor Layton,” I say cheekily as I stand and follow her to the front door, grabbing my jacket off the hanger in the process. The detective sighs lightly as she places her hat on her head, pulling the brim over her eyes in mock disappointment. “Please, Ms. Altava. It's just Detective.”

Now lifting the brim, she smiles brightly as she grabs her umbrella.

“So, Ms. Altava… let’s go investigate this living museum with our own two eyes, shall we?”

And with that, our adventure into the peculiar museum begi-

“Ah, but before that, I have here the directions to the museum written for me by Barton, and it seems to be a puzzle of some sort. As you’re now my assistant, why don’t you give it a shot? Think of it as a warm-up of things to come.”

…Right. She’s Layton’s daughter, after all. How could I have forgotten? …And are we sure they're not really related by blood…?

PUZZLE 1: Where's The Museum?

Take your time and think about the answer, or Flora (and the puzzle master) will be very disappointed in you...!

A | B | C | D | E | F | G | H | I | J (Need a hint?: 1 | 2 | 3)

(thanks to @justkillingthyme for beta reading, and several mutuals for puzzle testing!)

[horsemeatluvr23]

the juppet !! i just realised he is jerma posing i swear that was unintentional...... i spent so long digging thru muppet concept art and looking at old puppet designs just to end up doing a rly simple drawing but. i love joehills!! i have only been watching them for like 4 years but their videos r so special to me :3

[ceyanabbiolo]

CONTRACT // C.S [17]

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

Warnings: major angst.

wc: 5028

Chapter 17: Know It's For The Better

I stood frozen, my eyes locked on Chris. Everything else around me blurred into nothing—just static noise. It felt like someone had dropped a boulder onto my chest, so heavy I could barely breathe.

His words still echoed in my head, cruel and cold, like they’d been carved into the walls of my mind with a knife. I couldn’t unhear them. I couldn’t unfeel them. 

“I didn’t want the marriage. I didn’t want the fake smiles, the dinners, the ring. I didn’t want to be tied down .”

Each one sliced clean through me, all the way to the bone.

I barely left the investigation room when I heard the door open behind me.

“Aurora.”

His voice. Calm. Controlled.

I stopped, but I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. My throat was tight, my hands were shaking.

“What?” I managed, the word barely a breath.

He walked toward me, his steps slow. Confidence. Cold.

When I finally turned, he was already standing there, arms crossed like none of this mattered. Like, I didn’t matter.

“You shouldn’t have been listening,” he said simply.

My heart stopped. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged, face unreadable. “It was a private conversation. One you weren’t supposed to be part of.”

I stared at him, stunned. “That’s all you have to say?”

“You weren’t meant to hear it.”

“But you meant every word,” I whispered, voice cracking.

I looked up at him. “Tell me you didn’t mean that”. 

He said nothing.

“Chris...” I searched his face for something—regret, guilt, anything, but there was nothing. Just that guarded, emotionless mask that he wore when I met him. 

“I can’t do this”, was all he said. 

“Why—” I choked out, the word breaking through the knot in my throat. “Why, Chris?”

He didn’t flinch. He stood there with that same unbearable calm, but his face… his face was red. Like he was boiling underneath it all, like he wanted to say something, but wouldn’t let himself.

That made it worse.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and unstoppable. I couldn’t hold them back anymore. My chest ached, my breathing uneven, my voice barely recognizable.

“You let me fall for you,” I cried, my voice cracking on every syllable. “You let me believe this was real. You—you told me you were trying. That we could make this work. Was all of it a lie?”

I wrapped my arms around myself like that could somehow keep me from falling apart, but the sob that broke from my lips told me it was too late.

“I told you things I’ve never told anyone,” I whispered through clenched teeth, “I let you in. I let you see me. I trusted you.”

He didn’t break, his face stayed stern but the red was evidence. 

My throat tightened. My hands were trembling again, but I didn’t care.

“In Greece you told me I was the one holding back,” I whispered, voice cracking. “But the whole time… you were the one who planned on leaving.”

I took a shaky breath and stepped closer, heart pounding in my ears.

“Did you do it on purpose?” My voice rose. “What were you going to tell my dad? huh? Especially someone so what? Someone so gullible?” 

My voice broke as I blinked through the sting in my eyes.

Chris’s jaw twitched, but he stayed silent.

“I let you touch me,” I gasped, stepping back, “when you knew all I ever wanted was something real, you made it feel real, Chris. You made us feel real when it wasn’t”

I covered my mouth with my hand as another sob escaped, but the pain didn’t stop. It kept rising, like a wave I couldn’t escape.

I almost felt dumb crying like this.

“I would’ve given you everything,” I said, shaking my head. “And you—what, you were just playing along? Just waiting for it to be over?”

He finally opened his mouth, voice low and strained. “Aurora, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” I snapped, my voice sharp through the tears. “That’s all you have to say?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, quieter this time. “But I can’t fix this. I can’t undo what’s already done.”

My breathing started to change—quicker, uneven. I tried to suck in a breath, but it caught in my throat. My chest tightened, the kind of tight that wasn’t just from crying.

No, not now. Not here.

I stumbled back a step, one hand gripping my side, the other trembling as I reached for my pocket—empty. I’d left my inhaler at home.

Panic flooded in faster than air could. My breaths came out in shallow gasps, the tears still falling.

Chris took a step forward. “Aurora—”

I flinched away, holding up a hand, my voice barely there. “Don’t…don’t touch me.”

It came out raw, broken. He froze.

I saw it—the flicker of something in his eyes. Pain. Guilt. Maybe even fear. His hands hovered in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them. For the first time, his face cracked, like the calm was slipping.

But I couldn’t focus on that.

I leaned against the wall, trying to center myself, force air into my lungs. In, out. In, out. I’d done this before. I could do it again. I just had to calm down. Had to pull myself together.

He stood there, watching, helpless.

Four in… hold… four out…

I repeated it in my head. Over and over. Just like Chris taught me one night months ago, when I was gasping through another panic, and he held me, murmuring soft instructions into my hair like it was second nature to care for me.

My throat tightened harder at the memory.

Four in… hold… four out…

Slowly, the air came back. Not perfectly—but enough.

My heart still pounded. My eyes still burned, but I wasn’t dizzy anymore. I could stand outside the wall. I could feel my hands again.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and straightened up, still trembling, but just steady enough to speak. My voice came out raw, thick with emotion. 

“you said you’d protect me from my father…not hurt me more than he did”

I saw a flicker or guilt flash on his face at that comment.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself, Chris… I really do. You got exactly what you wanted.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said quietly, almost too calm.

I shook my head, anger bubbling back up despite everything. “I know exactly what I’m saying. You never wanted me.”

I stopped talking for a second before looking back up at his still-cold face. 

“You know what, Chris… maybe there’s no one to blame but me,” I said, bitterness thick in my voice. “You said it yourself—you’re not the relationship type.”

“your just a cold hearted man” I continued. “just a cold hearted man with nothing to offer”

I saw a slight flash of pain in his eyes, so brief, so fragile, caught me off guard for a second.

“I...I really thought it was going to be you, Chris.” 

Then I let the words fall heavy between us. He still stayed quiet. 

I drew a bitter breath, my voice low and cutting.

“Have a good fucking life.”

With that, I shoved past him, shoving my shoulder into his arm, then stepped into the room where my father waited.

My father jumped at my sudden entrance, his eyes locking onto the redness and tears staining my face.

My father jumped at my sudden entrance, his eyes immediately locking onto the redness and tears staining my face. “You’ve got some nerve,” I spat, voice trembling but filled with fury. “How long were you doing this?”

He opened his mouth, but I cut him off sharply, my voice rising. “Did you ever stop to think about how this would ruin me? How it destroyed everything?”

The weight of my words hung heavy between us, sharp and unforgiving. Tears spilled down my cheeks as the anger inside me twisted into heartbreak. “I hate you,” I choked out, voice cracking but fierce. “You ruined everything. You forced Chris into this marriage—why? For money? For power? You stole from him, from all of us. Did you ever care about me?”

He didn’t care about me, I already knew that.

My chest tightened, and my voice faltered for a moment. “And what about Mom? Did she know? Was she part of your scheme, or was she as blind as I was?”

He didn’t flinch. His face hardened, eyes cold and unreadable. “She was never involved, Aurora. Don’t drag her into this. This was between me and Chris.”

His voice was steady but carried an edge, like he was trying to protect something fragile beneath all the lies.

I stepped closer, fury blazing in my eyes, my hands trembling. “Stealing millions every week from Chris? You’re just pathetic.”

He snapped back, low and dangerous, “Don’t forget who I am. I’m still your father, Aurora.”

I shook my head, voice cold and cutting. “You're not my father anymore.”

His face twitched—just slightly—but I didn’t stop. My chest was heaving, heart pounding, words pouring out before I could second-guess them.

“You don’t get to stand there and act like a father now, not after everything. Not after the years you spent tearing me down. After all the times you made me feel small, worthless, like I was just something to parade around when it benefited you.”

My voice wavered, but I kept going.

“I still respected you. Even when you didn’t respect me. Even when you made me feel like nothing I ever did was enough. I gave you the benefit of the doubt every single time. I told myself you were just under pressure, that it was stress, that deep down you still loved me.”

A tear slid down my cheek. I didn’t wipe it. “But this?” I motioned around us, my whole body shaking. “This—this betrayal, the lies, dragging me into a fake marriage just to save your name? You used me like a doll and didn’t even think. You didn't even care what it would do to me. What is it going to do to Mom?”

I let out a broken breath.  “I don’t think I can ever see you the same again.”

His mouth opened, maybe to defend himself, maybe to apologize. I spun around and rushed out of the room, my vision blurred with tears and rage.

The first thing I saw was Chris.

He was standing there, expression unreadable—but I knew. I knew he’d heard everything. Every word, every scream, every confession.

I froze, just for a second, meeting his eyes. My throat tightened. Then I shook my head, a bitter breath escaping me, and kept walking—right past him, out of the station. He didn’t follow.

Of course, he didn’t.

I turned my head to the side, and that’s when I saw him.

The other guy. Michael.

He was sitting in one of the holding rooms, wrists cuffed to the table, looking scared. I recognized him instantly.

I’d seen him walking out of my father’s office all those months ago… the day Chris was leaving for Milan. The day my father summoned me, just to ask why I hadn’t gone with him. The day he hit me.

It made sense—the strange look Michael gave me as he walked past. Back then, I thought it was nothing… just some awkward glance from a stranger, but now I know. He looked at me like that because he knew everything. He knew what my father was doing. What were they doing together. 

I continued walking, I pushed through the doors into the cold night air, my chest hollow.

That’s when it hit me.

I was wearing his clothes. One of his oversized t-shirts and a pair of his sweatpants. I still smelled like him—like the cologne I used to love, the warmth I used to cling to.

Now it felt suffocating. Now it felt like poison soaked into my skin.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop crying. At one point, I didn’t know if I trusted myself behind the wheel. 

The moment I stepped into the penthouse, I stripped Chris’s shirt off like it was burning me.

The fabric hit the floor. I yanked open the nearest drawer and threw on an old sweater—soft, oversized, mine. Something that didn’t smell like him.

I didn’t look at the bed. I didn’t sit down. I went straight for the closet and pulled out a suitcase. Then another. No hesitation.

I moved quickly, efficiently, grabbing only what I needed. Clothes. Toiletries. My passport. The important stuff. My hands were still shaky, but I wasn’t crying anymore. I was past the breaking point now, running on a kind of numb determination.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I zipped the first suitcase closed.

My hair was tangled, face streaked with dried tears, eyes swollen and empty.

that’s not what mainly caught me eye.

It was the necklace—the delicate rose-shaped one Chris had given me Christmas night. The night that he stood up for me, the night he protected me, a night that was intimate. I had worn it everyday since he put it around my neck. It all felt bitter now. 

It still hung around my neck, quietly gleaming under the light.

A memory fills my mind.

“This is so beautiful, Chris. Thank you,” I said, smiling. Then I held out the necklace, a little shy. “Will you put it on me?”

“Turn around,” he said quietly, and I did, sweeping my hair to one side.

I felt the cool metal of the chain against my skin as he gently fastened it around my neck. His fingers lingered for a moment at the clasp, then trailed down lightly to the pendant resting just above my collarbone.

“It suits you,” he murmured, his voice low behind me.

I turned back to face him, his eyes already on mine.

“It’s perfect,” I said softly. “Really.” 

I pushed the memory down.

I reached up slowly and unclasped it from my neck.  

My fingers hovered for a second before I gently set it down on the nightstand, like it was something fragile that didn’t belong to me anymore.

Then I turned and walked straight to my studio.

I packed my sketchbooks first, then all my designs. Every page I had poured myself into. I couldn’t leave those behind.

By the time I rolled the suitcases to the door, the city was just beginning to stir.

6:02 AM.

I got in the car, drove without music, without thought, just a quiet buzz of pain sitting beneath my ribs. Going to the house of the only person I have right now. Jen’s apartment wasn’t too far.

I got there at 6:28 AM. 

I knocked, no answer. I knocked harder this time. It was still early. Just as I was about to call her, I heard a noise. 

When she opened the door, she was still in pajamas, rubbing her eyes, her hair a tangled mess.

“Aurora?” Her voice came out tired, confused—until she saw my face.

Her expression shifted instantly, all sleep wiped away. “What happened? Are you okay?”

I stood there for a second, gripping the suitcase handle with white knuckles.

Then I broke, immediately falling into her arms and sobbing again. 

She just held me at the doorway, letting me sob, rubbing my back. 

“You were wrong, Jen,” I whispered, voice cracking. My chest caved as the tears came again. “He doesn’t love me.”

CHRISTOPHER

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

I didn’t move.

My eyes stayed fixed on the spot where she had stood, her voice still lingering like smoke in the air—sharp, bitter, and full of everything I couldn’t say back.

She had looked at me like I was a stranger. Hell, maybe I was.

A strange, suffocating pressure swelled in my chest—foreign and unbearable.

I wanted to say something—anything—to take it back. To tell her I didn’t mean to ruin her. That I wasn’t walking away because I stopped caring. I was walking away because I did. 

If I stayed, I’d destroy her. I already had.

She deserved better than the mess I was—than a man who let his own blood steal from her, use her, betray her. If she stayed, it would only get worse. So I kept my mouth shut. I kept my face still. I let her hate me.

Back in Aurora’s eyes, I saw something collapse—maybe for good.

“I...I really thought it was going to be you, Chris.”

I had thought it was going to be her too. Her voice kept replaying in my mind, broken and raw, like it had been torn straight from the centre of her. I could still see the tear tracks staining her cheeks, the way her eyes looked at me like I’d taken something sacred and shattered it in my hands, which I had.

The voice that said my name like a it was something sacred, said it like it was something she couldn't stand.

“your just a cold man who has nothing to offer”

I’ve never seen her rage like this. She wasn’t wrong though.

I leaned back against the cold wall of the station, my hands gripping the edge of the table behind me. My palms stung—whether from the tension or the guilt, I wasn’t sure anymore.

She looked at me like I was the last person in the world she thought would hurt her. Like I was supposed to be the one who stayed.

“I would’ve given you everything,”

I didn’t defend myself. Didn’t explain. Didn’t ask her to wait or fight. Didn’t tell her I would have given her everything, because deep down, I knew—whatever we were…whatever we could’ve been—I didn’t deserve her. 

She let me in. Told me things she’d never told anyone. Trusted me when she had every reason not to. I turned away from the interrogation rooms, from the mess her father had left behind. Michael was being processed, and Thomas was arrested—finally. It should’ve felt like justice. Instead, it felt hollow.

I couldn’t move though. If I followed her—if I said one word—I knew I’d break. 

A voice cut through the thick fog in my head. “Mr. Sturniolo,” an officer said gently. I turned my head slowly toward him. He held a clipboard, probably ready to clear me to leave. “You’re good to go now, sir. You can head—” He stopped mid-sentence, really seeing my face for the first time. “You alright?” he asked cautiously.

I blinked at him, something sharp and bitter rising in my chest. “No, I’m not alright,” I snapped. “Do I look alright to you?” My voice came out harsher than I intended.

He flinched slightly, but didn’t say anything back.

I exhaled through my nose, trying to steady myself. I didn’t apologize. Couldn’t. But I nodded once, tightly, and walked past him out the doors.

The cold morning air slapped me in the face as I stepped outside. It was quiet. Still. The city hadn’t fully woken up yet. I almost wished it never would.

“Chris,” a voice called out.

I looked up to see Matt and Nick walking toward me from the parking lot. Their eyes searched mine, concern all over their faces.

Nick was the first to speak, “Aurora didn’t… take the arrest well, did she?”

I stared at them for a second. Then I shook my head. “No,” I said quietly. My voice cracked,  “It wasn’t the arrest. It was me.”

Matt furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

I didn’t answer.

“Chris.” Matt’s voice had more force now, a demand for something—anything—from me. “Talk to us.”

I finally lifted my head, slow and mechanical. My face didn’t give anything away, but my voice came out flat. “She’s gone.”

“What?” Nick stepped closer. “What do you mean she’s gone?”

“I let her go.” Three words. Clean. Precise. Like they didn’t gut me from the inside out.

Matt stared at me confusion evident in his face. “You let her go?”

I didn’t say anything. Just gave a small nod, barely noticeable. Like if I made it too real, I’d fall apart.

Nick blinked, his expression twisting in disbelief. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

Matt stepped in, his voice harsher now. “Seriously, Chris. I thought you liked her.”

I ran a hand down my face, jaw clenching. “I said some things… about her.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “What kind of things?”

“The kind you don’t take back,” I muttered. 

Matt’s eyes darkened. “Chris...”

I shrugged. “She was already hurting. Already drowning in all of it. Her dad, the money, the lies. I didn’t want to put one more weight around her neck.”

“So instead, you crushed her,” Nick snapped, shaking his head. “Smart.” 

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t, because they were right. “She’s better off without me.”

Matt let out a bitter laugh. “Bullshit. You’re doing it because you’re scared.”

I’d have a snarky comment to say to them by now, but nothing came out. 

Nick crossed his arms, quieter now. “You think pushing her away is protecting her, but all you did was prove every worst thought she’s ever had about herself.” 

Their words hit hard—but I didn’t flinch. I just stood there, silent. 

I didn’t say anything else. Just, “I’m going home.”

Matt opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but Nick stopped him with a glance. They knew me too well. I wasn’t going to explain. I wasn’t going to sit there and bleed in front of them.

The drive back blurred. My hands were on the wheel, my eyes on the road—but my mind was somewhere else. Still stuck on her face. On the way she looked at me, like I was someone she didn’t recognize. Someone she hated.

How the hell was I supposed to face her after everything I said?

After everything I didn’t say?

I stepped inside the penthouse around 7 AM, and the silence was immediate. No faint sound of her slippers against the tile. No kettle hissing in the kitchen. No quiet hum of her playlist echoing from the studio.

It was too quiet.

I moved slowly down the hallway and stopped outside her door. My hand hovered over the handle.

“Aurora?” My voice came out low. Stiff.

Nothing.

I knocked again. “Aurora”

Still nothing.

I opened the door, expecting—hoping—maybe she was curled up under the blanket, headphones in. Maybe she just didn’t hear me.

But the room was… different.

Lighter. Not cleaner, not neater—just emptier.

I stepped inside. Her perfume bottle was gone from the nightstand. Her favorite sweater she always had on the side of the closet wasn’t there. The drawer that used to overflow with makeup and skincare was almost empty.

I scanned the room again, slower this time.

The necklace I gave her—the rose one—was sitting quietly on the nightstand. Like it had been placed there intentionally. Like it meant something. I picked it up. 

My chest tightened. 

She left. She actually left. 

I turned on my heel, tension twisting in my chest as I crossed the hall toward her studio.

Maybe—maybe she just moved her stuff. Maybe she just needed space. Maybe—

The second I stepped inside, the denial cracked.

Gone. 

All her work—every sketch, every board, every half-finished piece she spent hours on—was gone.

The racks where her latest collection used to hang were bare. The wall that used to be taped up with fabric swatches and inspiration photos now stood empty, just faint tape marks left behind like ghosts.

Only the furniture remained—the big table we carried in together, the mannequin in the corner, a few rolls of leftover fabric on the shelf.

I ran a hand through my hair, heart pounding.

She didn’t just leave for air.

She packed up everything.

Aurora never let anyone touch her designs unless she trusted them. Unless it meant something.

She was gone and she hadn’t even said goodbye.

A sick feeling settled in my gut. I backed out of the studio slowly, like stepping out of a room I wasn’t supposed to enter.

She walked away from me. 

I pulled out my phone without thinking, my fingers moving on muscle memory alone as I opened her location. We’d shared it months ago—some half-joking thing after she got lost trying to find a fabric warehouse on the outskirts of the city. I never turned it off.

Her dot blinked on the screen.

Still on. Still there.

My eyes narrowed as I stared at the address. It was across town, tucked in a quiet residential area. I recognized it almost immediately.

Jen’s apartment. Of course.

That’s where she ran. Somewhere safe. Somewhere I couldn’t reach her, not right now.

My grip tightened around the phone.

At least she with someone and somewhere safe.

AURORA

I sat curled up on Jen’s couch, her Blanket draped over me. The sun had fully risen now, at 1 PM but the light felt cruel.

I was on the phone with my mother—she was frantic, her words tumbling over one another like she couldn’t speak fast enough to keep up with the panic in her chest.

“Aurora—what is going on? I just got off the phone with one of your father’s lawyers. They said he was arrested? Arrested? What is happening? What did he do?” Her voice cracked, high and terrified. “Tell me this isn’t true. Tell me this is some kind of mistake. Your father—he wouldn't—he couldn't—”

I held the phone tighter against my ear, swallowing hard. I felt like I was going to collapse under the weight of it all over again. “It’s true, Mom,” I said, my voice low, barely audible. “He did everything they’re saying. And more.”

She gasped softly, and I could hear her breath hitch like she’d been punched. The heartbreak was evident in her voice. “Gosh,” she whispered. “Gosh, Aurora… are you okay? Where are you? Are you safe?”

“I’m at Jen’s,” I murmured. “She’s taking care of me. I’m… trying to hold it together.”

She exhaled, shaky and desperate. “Thank goodness. I was so scared. I didn’t know what to think—I didn’t know if you were with your father, if you knew, if he…” She trailed off, then asked gently, “What about Chris? Is he with you?”

There was a long silence on my end.

My heart squeezed. My lips trembled.

“No,” I said quietly. “I’ll explain everything when I come over soon”

Her voice came through again—this time softer, careful. Like she was bracing herself. “Aurora…are you and Chris okay?”

My throat tightened. The question made something twist deep inside me. I looked down at the floor, blinking back the tears that were threatening to rise again. I could barely find the strength to speak.

“It’s… a lot to explain,” I said quietly, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “But the engagement… it’s over. For sure.”

Silence stretched between us. I could hear her breathing on the other end, like she was processing every word. Then, finally, a shaky breath.

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Okay, i’m going to the station right now. Call me soon hun.” 

We said our I love yous and hung up. 

I had stopped crying now, but my chest felt hollow. I felt empty. 

Before I met Chris—before I ever fell for him—my heart had cracks, sure, but it still felt mostly full. However, now that he’s been in it...and it's empty? It feels emptier than it ever did before.

Jen came in quietly from the kitchen, holding two mismatched mugs in her hands. She looked exhausted—her hair in a messy bun, her sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder—but her face was full of something I couldn’t quite name. She placed one mug on the table in front of me and then didn’t even hesitate before sitting down and pulling me into her arms. 

I didn’t even resist. I just collapsed into her like my bones couldn’t hold me up anymore.

She wrapped both arms around me tightly, resting her chin against the top of my head. Her voice came soft, but steady, barely above a whisper.

We sat in silence for a moment, the steam from the tea curling between us.

Then she spoke, quietly. “You know… it’s hard watching you like this. Watching you blame yourself.”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how to.

Jen exhaled slowly. “You’re one of the beautiful people I know, I'm not trying to be corny babe, but you always try to do the right thing—even when it hurts. It kills me to see you question your worth because someone couldn’t see it.”

She looked at me then, really looked at me. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Aurora. You fell for him. That’s not something to feel ashamed about.”

Her hand tightened slightly on my arm.

“I just wish you saw yourself the way the people who care about you do.”

That broke me again. Quiet tears slipped down my face as I stared into the tea I couldn’t bring myself to drink. 

I looked up at Jen, my voice barely above a whisper. “Chris… he knew about Mason. He knew how Mason played me—made me feel like I mattered, then threw me away.”

I swallowed hard, the sting of old wounds fresh again. “And after all that, he did the same thing. Lied, used me... like I was nothing more than a game to him.”

I wiped at my cheeks, trying to steady my voice but failing. 

“How could someone I trusted so much be the one to hurt me the most?” 

Jen didn’t say anything right away. She just held me tighter. 

Jen squeezed my hands gently, her eyes steady and warm as she held my gaze. “You can stay here as long as you need to, Aurora,” she said softly. “This is your home now—my home. The door is always open for you.”

Her words wrapped around me like a soft blanket, something real and steady amid the chaos. I felt the weight in my chest loosen just a fraction.

Jen shifted closer and pulled me into a quiet hug, her arms steadying me as tears slid down my cheeks again. “I know it hurts now,” she whispered, “but you don’t have to face it alone. Not ever.”

Jen pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, her expression full of quiet understanding. “He hurt you, and that’s not on you. You deserve better, Aurora. So much better.”

I finally looked up, my eyes raw and glassy, locking onto Jen’s face—the only thing steady in the chaos inside me.

“Jen” I muttered, before my voice got heavy again. “I think—I think love him”. 

The words tasting bitter and heavy, like a confession I’d been too scared to admit even to myself, and the tears I’d been holding back came rushing out all at once.

Jen’s hands trembled as they found my face, her thumbs trembling as they tried to wipe away my pain.

“Oh, baby, don’t cry,” she said, her voice was lace with tenderness. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. Just know its for the better he's isn't here”.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS NOW!

[a/n: well...damn. that was sad. oh my gosh chapter 17 on the 17th. Anyway, like and reblog!] – Ceyana

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