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mytardisiscoolerthanyours · 2 days ago

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Cold (A Jason Todd Fic)

Batman (DCU) - Jason Todd (Robin) Fic

Summary: Jason wakes up in his room, but everything is different. He can't remember how he got there or what happened, but something is wrong. His body is cold, and everyone is acting differently. On top of that, they're all ignoring him. Everyone but Tim.

His room was cold.

The manor was always cold. It was an old house full of drafts and cold spots. A symptom of age and the loss of too many of its inhabitants, they lingered. This cold felt different, though. It wasn't drafty or chilled. It was a shiver that ran straight down to his bones and stayed there. It felt as if he were made of ice.

Why was it so cold?

He was in his bed, but the covers weren't around him. They lay folded neatly under his body. He didn't remember how he got there. Though that wasn't unusual. Jason developed a bad habit of falling asleep around the manor. Bruce often had to carry him to bed if he fell asleep doing his mission reports in the cave. But Bruce always made sure to cover him.

The routine started early on after Jason came to the manor. Jason would find himself fighting sleep somewhere that wasn't his bed, and inevitably, he would crash. Bruce would bring him back to his room, tuck him in with warm blankets, and stay just a few minutes to make sure he was ok.

It might have been a symptom of the nightmares and fits Jason had when he first arrived at the manor— Bruce's watchful eye. When Jason was still adjusting, Bruce often found him curled up in a blanket on the floor, the bed being too soft after years of sleeping on the ground. Jason hated the bed at first, a representation of all he lacked, the life his mother couldn't provide him. He sometimes hated Bruce, too, for having so much while he had to survive with so little.

Time helped to heal those wounds. Jason started to sleep in the bed. He felt safe enough around the manor to nap and find sleep in less familiar places, too. Most of the time, he would fall asleep in Bruce's big leather chair in the cave. The echoing ceilings and soft sounds of distant water often lulled him to sleep.

And each time, Bruce would dutifully carry him from his spot and back to his room, remembering to wrap the blanket tightly around him. Reminding him that he was safe, he would stay warm, and that he was loved. Bruce was never the best with his words, but his actions spoke for him.

So why was he lying on top of the covers, and more importantly, why was he still in his Robin uniform?

Jason sat up and looked around the room. It was his bedroom, unchanged since the last time he saw it — probably yesterday. However, he couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness. Something was different… something had changed.

He stood and walked toward his bookshelf, the familiar sight calmed his racing mind. The shelf was full of memories — and books, but mostly memories. Every birthday, holiday, or special event in Jason's life at the manor is paired with a book. Bruce had quickly discovered Jason's love for literature when his eyes nearly fell out of his head at the sight of the home library on their first tour.

Since day one, Bruce had gone out of his way to find books for Jason. He wanted him to feel safe, cared for, and most importantly, wanted. He had gotten the first one during his first Christmas at the manor — a signed copy of Robin Hood — and another on his birthday, a first edition copy of Pride and Prejudice, written by "A Lady." He had those sealed in protective cases. They were priceless.

His others he had collected later on. One for his first day of school, academic achievements, and even his first night as Robin. Bruce made sure Jason had a book for each.

He smiled at the books, running his finger lightly along the front of the shelf, reading the titles as he went. He organized them in chronological order, from his first day up until now. He paused when he got to the third book down. The shelf felt weird, almost tingly against his finger.

He couldn't feel the smooth finish of the mahogany wood, instead, it felt like his hand had fallen asleep, and pins and needles were sticking into the tips of his fingers. He shook his hand out and let it rest next to him. He must have slept on it weird.

He moved on from the shelf and towards his desk. He remembered leaving a few case files out to check on when he was last here. He had been planning to bring Bruce a case on some robberies happening in Crime Alley. He was tired of Bruce ignoring that part of town, and he felt like he was old enough to contribute now. But the files were gone. Alfred must have cleaned up while he was out on patrol.

He took a look around the room again, that weird feeling pricking at the back of his neck. There was something off. The room felt cold. Not the cold that was still seeping deep into his bones, but a different kind. A sad kind. He felt like he was missing something.

Bruce would tell him to take a step back, remember the facts. It was one of the first things he learned as Robin. Their first case wasn't as smooth as Bruce had hoped for Jason's introduction. It was meant to be a simple stakeout — watch the perp and grab him when he left his apartment. But Jason was new, sloppy, and the goon saw them. He managed to escape and clear out before they could catch him. Bruce taught him how to be a detective that night. Take stock, learn the facts, remember your training.

They managed to catch the goon the next night. Jason got an early release of Sherlock Holmes as a reward. His first case.

His brain seemed foggy now, though. He couldn't remember everything that happened. He knew he had woken up in his bed, he was still in his costume, it was unusually cold, and… dark. Very dark. He looked around and noticed new curtains in his room. When had he gotten those?

The windows were framed with thick black curtains. Ones that helped to keep the cold out in the winter. He knew it was night, from the quiet in the house, but these seemed to block even the smallest sliver of light from coming through. It was summer. Why had Alfred hung these?

He reached forward and touched the fabric. The tingling in his fingers erupted as his finger grazed the fabric, sending a shock running up his arm. What the hell?

He tried again, the shock again running up his arm, raising goose bumps along his skin from his gloved hand up to the sleeve of his shirt. He pushed through the feeling and nudged the curtain to the side, exposing only a small shred of light that poured in from the moon.

There was snow on the ground. Flurries fell from the sky and landed softly onto the grass, blanketing the manor yard in a bright white. It was as beautiful as it was terrifying, because it was summer.

Jason went to sleep in the summer. He remembered because he finally convinced Bruce to play catch with him in the yard. He had been so busy with Wayne Industries and Batman, they hadn't had time yet to do their annual game of catch. Neither was a big fan of baseball, but this was one tradition they created to bring in the warm summer days. They had done it every year since Jason moved in, and as far as he can remember, they had their game yesterday.

So why is there snow on the ground?

Panic seeped into Jasons body, cold sweat broke out on his already cold skin, while a deep unexpected heat swarmed in his belly and began to spread out to his limbs. His eyes widened, looking back around his room, more frantic, more calculating. His mind was racing.

The room was clean, but that wasn't unusual. Alfred always snuck in to clean when Jason was away. He hated the mess, even though he promised that it was Jason's room and he could keep it how he liked. But no, the mess was gone. It was different, almost pristine. Everything was arranged exactly how he liked it. Perfect, almost like a shrine.

He rushed to the door, he had to find Bruce. He would know what was going on. He was probably down in the cave filling in the reports that Jason fell asleep doing. He felt tingling erupt through his entire body as he passed the doorway, running full tilt down the familiar hallway.

He raced down the manor steps, rounding the banister as he skidded through the foyer and made his way to the office at the end of the hall. The arms on the large grandfather clock were already in position. The clock body was already swung open and away from the wall, leaving the passageway to the cave ajar.

He slipped through and raced down the steps. Bruce, he just needed to find Bruce. He would explain everything. He would fix this. He had to. He always knew what to do. Jason's mind continued to race, thoughts flying past as he tried to rationalize what he didn't understand. What he knew was wrong.

He froze as his foot touched the last step. Bruce was at the computer, like he expected, but he wasn't alone. There was a young boy, no older than he was, sitting next to him on the console. He was dressed in a bright red and green costume with yellow boots. A Robin costume. He had black hair and sad blue eyes. He sat rigid and waiting as Bruce hunched over a file on the desk. There was no warmth here, it was colder than his room.

He watched from his step as Bruce mumbled something low, and the boy nodded. Everything about the Robin was stiff. He sat with a tall, straight back, muscles tense and ready for… something. He looked about ready to crawl out of his skin. He must be new.

And Bruce sat hunched forward, not allowing Jason to see his face. It didn't matter, though, because Jason could see the change as if he were looking at him up close. His body language was defensive. More guarded, rougher, wilder. This Bruce, his Bruce(?), was wrong. Mournful and sad, not gentle and patient. The boy's body and his reaction to Bruce as he spoke said it all; this Bruce was different.

He chanced a step further, needing to figure out what was happening. Why was everything different? He walked silently, more silently than he ever had in the cave, towards the men. He needed to get a better look.

The cave looked different. Why was everything different? The lights were lower. It looked more eerie and less inviting. The gymnastics mats that him and Dick had laid out were gone. Towering glass cases holding their costumes stood there instead. Bruce's Batman costume stood proudly in the middle, menacing even while on a mannequin. Next to it was a younger Robin's suit, his suit. A small plaque lay at its base, though he didn't stop to read the description as a third costume caught his eye. It was the Nightwing costume, but it changed. It no longer housed the frills and deep V shape that reminded Jason of 70s music; instead, it was a sleek black leotard. It looked as tight as his Robin costume was, but it had long sleeves and pant legs. The only color on the costume was a bright blue bird across the chest.

What was happening? Was Jason in a coma? How can everything be so different?

A deep voice rose behind him, causing him to turn quickly back toward Bruce and the unknown Robin. A new figure was there, dressed in an identical Nightwing costume to the one he saw in the case. The man was taller, much taller than he remembered Dick being last time he saw him. He must have been in his late teens. That couldn't be right.

His voice even sounded different. Colder, older. Not the brother he remembers.

They had finally started to get along. It was a hard adjustment for them both. Dick had gone through so much but had been willing to try and get to know his new brother. Jason, however, was rough around the edges and untrusting. It led to a brief attempt to get along, and then an unspoken agreement to stay out of each other's way.

Jason had started to warm up, though. They managed to patrol together sometimes and Dick seemed to be willing to try again. They had just patrolled together the night before —Dick promised to teach Jason how to do a double backflip.

But there's Dick, at least two or three years older. And there was another Robin. Not Jason.

He tried to call out to the group, but his throat was tight. It felt like he hadn't taken a breath in a while. It hurt.

He walked toward them instead, reaching out to touch Bruce. Let him know he was there. Demand an explanation. As he neared, he could hear their voices, arguing. Bruce's voice was rough and cold. Closer to a growl than his actual voice.

He pushed forward, still, and reached high to touch Bruce's shoulder. The tingling erupted down his arm, more powerful than before. More painful. He pulled his arm back, clutching it to his chest as though he had been shocked. Bruce still hadn't noticed he was there.

He tried again, more frantic this time. He felt invisible, and he needed Bruce to know he was there. He reached again, pushing through the pain. It grew stronger the closer he got to his father, mounting and prickling, poking his skin like needles as he reached. He was so close, and finally, his hand went numb, falling through Bruce's back. Right into his shoulder as though he were made of smoke.

Jason blanched, ripping his arm back, clutching it, and cradling it near his body. He still couldn't feel anything. It was completely numb. Bruce had been teaching him not to swear as much, but what the fuck was happening?

His father stiffened and turned, looking over in Jason's direction. Had Jason gotten his attention? He straightened, hoping Bruce would see him and smile, explain it was all a joke. But his father turned, looked toward Jason, and then right through him. Like he wasn't there at all.

He didn't understand, or at least he didn't want to. But then he did, because in that moment, clarity struck. The haze that had filled his mind since he woke cleared, and he remembered. He remembered it all.

He had died.

He had gone to Ethiopia, looking for his mother. He didn't know why now. He had Bruce, and Dick, but he had felt empty. The knowledge that the woman who raised him had not been his mother ate away at him until he had to do something about it. He had gone to Ethiopia, but instead of meeting his mother, he found the Joker.

He had tried to escape. He used every trick Batman had taught him, but in the end, he was still young, and the Joker was strong. He had hoped Bruce would come for him, prayed to Gods he wasn't sure he believed in, but inevitably, he ran out of time. He remembered the cold realization when he saw that the timer would end before he made it to the door. Thankfully, he didn't remember the bomb going off.

He looked at Bruce's haggard face as he scanned the room, looking for the source of the cold breeze on his shoulder. He could see the grief and pain written plain as day. Haunting. He saw the hardened walls that Bruce had built around himself that had never been there before. This wasn't his father, it was a shell. And he understood. This was his fault… he had caused Bruce to be like this.

He would have stayed looking at Bruce forever if it weren't for the gasp that came from his right. He turned abruptly to see two large eyes staring directly at him, looking at him. Seeing him. The same eyes that remained hidden behind a black mask. Eyes that belonged to the child wearing his suit. Robin. His replacement.

"Can you see me?" Jason asked, holding back his hope. His voice sounded gruff and angry. The epitome of a dark and vengeful spirit. He knew he was dead; he was sure of it. But he was still here, still aware. Time had passed and changes had been made, but he was here. Robin could see him. He could still have hope.

The new boy wonders eyes widened at Jason's voice. Jason could see the recognition in the boy's eyes. Recognition of what, he wasn't sure, but he knew one thing for sure: he had heard him. A quick nod was the only response he received as the boy shifted his attention back to Bruce, who had begun barking instructions towards the boys.

Jason jumped in front of the boy again, demanding attention now. Everything was changing and nothing made sense, but he knew if he lost this opportunity to get help from "the other side," he would be screwed.

"You don't get to ignore me, replacement, you hear me?" Jason's voice echoed in his ears, quiet in the cave but loud in his head. "I don't know what is happening, but you're the only one that can see me and I need your help figuring this shit out."

He waved his hand in front of Robin's face, trying to pull his attention from Bruce, but the boy was rigid. His eyes remained on the older man as he barked orders and criticised their patrol from the night. He was harsh in pointing out areas that Robin had failed in and remarked on how sloppy Nightwing was during the robbery they had stopped. Dicks face remained cold, unreadable, so different from the smiling boy he remembered.

He huffed crossed his arms, this Bruce was being a real dick, and on top of that he was being ignored.

Jason slumped back against the computer console next to the boy. He wouldn't be leaving anytime soon, not now that he knew someone could help him. Not now that he wasn't alone.

He would figure his way out of this, and that imposter Robin would help. This would not be the end of Jason Todd.

Hope you enjoyed! I might add on to this story, but I'm still planning.

If you'd like to follow along, check it out on ao3 here!

#batman #batfamily #Jason Todd #dc universe #alternate universe #ao3 #fanfiction #fanfic #angst #ghosts #tim drake #dc robin #dick grayson #bruce wayne

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puhpandas · 5 months ago

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thinking about how bad the elevator would be for Gregory if he didnt cut it. like all of the sudden your friend is randomly in the place that tried to kill you that's very dangerous searching for you when you never called her and arent even there and you spend all night working tirelessly to contact her while the thing tricking her is blocking out your signals. then finally you get ahold of her after watching her almost get hurt a thousand times and tell her the truth and promise to guide her out and you keep that promise, but then that thing uses your voice to trick her again and make her think that YOU (presumably) killed her. and this is after you already lost your entire life before this point and built a new one but your parents are dead and any siblings you might have had along with them and at least one of your friends died at your own hands already. imagine what he was going through in that moment after the elevator crashed

#and this is in the scenario that he even rememebrs any of that. maybe he remembers none of ggy #but still. his old life is gone and he might not even remember it. but he knows no matter what that he lost everything #and even though things are better his friend is just. suddenly 'dead' now.#because she wanted to save you bc she cared about you so much. and you tried so hard to get to her but you failed in the end #and worst of all before she died she died thinking it was YOU who betrayed her #and its also your worst fear that you already had to face once that you know caused all of this bad shit to happen to you and your family #that did it #like jesus #its also a terrible scenario if he DID but thats not rlly what this post is about #just like jeez man...#gregory #ruin

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xyywrites · 6 days ago

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Writing Grief Without Romanticizing It

Grief is raw, messy, and deeply personal. It doesn’t follow a neat arc or fit into tidy narrative beats. While stories often use grief as a dramatic device, romanticizing it can cheapen the emotional reality. Writing grief authentically means embracing its discomfort and unpredictability, not sanitizing or idealizing it.

What Romanticizing Grief Looks Like

Characters who seem emotionally wrecked but always manage to look graceful in their suffering.

Overly articulate monologues that sound more like a eulogy than a real moment of loss.

Depictions of grief as a singular, cathartic event instead of a long, jagged process.

Romanticized Grief:

“Every day without you is like a piece of me fading away into a tragic, beautiful void. I’ll carry this pain forever, for it’s all I have left of you.”

This might be poetic, but it lacks the authenticity of how most people actually process grief.

Realistic Grief:

“I forgot your birthday. I didn’t mean to, but when I remembered, it was already too late. And then I hated myself because forgetting felt like erasing you.”

Writing Grief Authentically

1. Show the Physical Toll

Grief isn’t just emotional—it’s physical. Insomnia, headaches, exhaustion, or even the inability to move can be part of the experience.

“She woke up in the middle of the night again, choking on the air. Her chest felt like a cinderblock had been wedged inside, heavy and unmoving. It was three days since the funeral, and she still hadn’t slept longer than an hour.”

2. Let Grief Be Messy

Grief isn’t a perfectly linear journey. There’s no logical progression from denial to acceptance—there are setbacks, breakdowns, and even moments of denial long after healing has started.

“He yelled at his mother for throwing out the cereal box. ‘It was his favorite,’ he said. She didn’t remind him that it had been expired for months. She just handed him the trash bag and walked away.”

3. Avoid Glossy Sentimentality

Sometimes grief isn’t poetic; it’s ugly, blunt, and devoid of grandeur. Characters might lash out, shut down, or isolate themselves.

Romanticized: “I’ll cry every day, but I’ll keep going because you’d want me to.”

Realistic: “They said time would heal it. But it didn’t. Time just put more space between me and the life I knew before.”

4. Let Grief Manifest in Small, Unexpected Ways

Grief isn’t always about sobbing—it can show up in mundane moments: hesitating to delete a voicemail, holding onto an old sweater, or instinctively setting the table for someone who’s gone.

“She turned to tell him the joke, the one about the broken lamp, and stopped halfway through. The silence hit harder than the punchline ever would.”

5. Highlight the Absurdity of It

Grief can be absurd and disorienting. Characters might laugh inappropriately, obsess over trivial details, or feel disconnected from reality.

“At the funeral, all she could focus on was how crooked the flowers were arranged. She kept wanting to fix them. If she didn’t, she thought, none of this would feel real.”

6. Explore How Grief Changes Relationships

Grief doesn’t happen in isolation—it affects relationships, often in unexpected ways. Some people pull closer, others drift apart.

“Her friends stopped asking how she was doing after the first few weeks. She didn’t blame them; she didn’t have an answer. ‘Fine’ wasn’t a lie—it was just easier than saying, ‘I still can’t breathe when I see his empty chair.’”

7. Show the Longevity of Grief

Grief doesn’t end when the funeral does. Let it linger in your story, showing how it ebbs and flows over time.

“It had been five years, but she still called his number when something exciting happened. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was just habit. Or maybe it was hope.”

8. Allow for Moments of Respite

Grief isn’t constant agony. People still laugh, find joy, and go about their lives—sometimes feeling guilty for it.

“She smiled for the first time in weeks, and then immediately hated herself for it. It felt like betrayal, like forgetting.”

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bravo666 · 3 months ago

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mdni • price x f!reader

captain price has a ritual and his men know better than to disturb. every time 141 gets back from an op and rumbles back to hereford, they unload, debrief, file the necessary reports and then some, all that dreary bureaucracy that needs to be done within the first couple hours of touching back onto english soil. and then, at the first opportunity, he fucks off. captain’s privilege, he says.

the others do too—on the town or to the bunks or to their own flats or wherever—but price never joins them. he has his own destination in mind and it’s a solo journey, so quit nosing about trying to find out, sergeant. he’s only ever gone for a few hours, six at the most, before he rolls on back to base, squares his shoulders, and throws himself back into work. at least he always seems a bit lighter when he comes back.

said destination is a pub not one, not two, but three villages over. the further from base, the less likely it is for him to run into one of his men, and he’d just hate it if that happened, would feel like a dog dragging mud in through the garden door, crossing his wires. he might not like it about himself, but john price is a greedy and selfish man, and the pretty little thing that’s been tending bar for the past few years is a morsel that he wants to keep all to himself, cradled in his jaw and savored.

the dingy pub is nondescript and uncreative, a local establishment that’s been around since anyone can remember and hadn’t changed a whit. price found the place back when he was first made captain and started looking for further out watering holes, looking for some peace and quiet away from the places where the recruits drank. he almost wrote the place off his lists of spots before he saw the flustered young bartender duck in for her shift.

since then, he’s been a regular—for a given value of ‘regular’, as much as a military man can be—ever since. started swapping conversation after the third or fourth visit. polite conversation turned friendly, then raucous with laughter, then warm and teasing.

that’s as far as he let’s it go, naturally. with a job like his, he’s married to his work; there’s no room, no time in his life for a sweet little wife, no matter what he dreams at night with his cock fisted in his grip or whose face he happens to see play the role. he tried the whole wife thing once, chased after it, even, and all price has to show for it is an alimony payment set to automatically go out every month.

(his ex-wife couldn’t handle him in the end. she was the type of woman who needed him at every hour to keep her love alive and couldn’t stomach the weeks alone while he was deployed, and even when price was home, she didn’t have an appetite to match his when he slipped himself off his leash. they both jumped into it without looking ahead. such is life.)

so he ignored the hungry need for a woman beside him, and even if he ever did go down that route again, it couldn’t be her. she’s young and bright and untouched by blood. playful flirting and occasional brushes of fingers hovered somewhere plausibly deniable as a service worker buttering up a favorite patron, or—and price only lets this thought loose for a moment before snatching it and shoving it down with a growl—a friend. he’s gone half the year anyway, or something like it. every time he comes, he carries the irrational, ugly fear that in she’s moved on, moved out, got a new job, left the country, got married—

when he shoulders through the door now, sawdust sticking to his boots, his girl’s—because that’s what she is, even if it’s only the sight of her that he lets himself claim and hoard—wiping down glasses behind the sill, the pub just about empty as all the old timers went home. his first thought is that she’s still there, thank god. his second’s that she’s changed up her hair. it looks good. price pointedly ignores the way the sight of her with her new hair and those pretty lips makes him chub up a little.

his girl’s eyes crinkle a little when she looks up toward the door. “john,” she says warmly, and before he’s even seated at his usual spot on the bar, she’s filling him up his favorite pint. “how are you doing, handsome? just got back from saving the world?”

a snarling, hungry, traitorous part of his brain tells him that his wife is being so good, keeping him fed and watered, and the only thing next on her wifely duties is to keep his balls drained. he tells it to go stuff itself.

“still working on it, sweetheart,” price says with a sip. maybe it was worth it, when she asked a while ago why he showed up so irregularly, to tell her that he was SAS, if only for the way she called it after. saving the world. that’d be nice.

this time, though, he notices something else that’s new besides the hairstyle, and it makes his beer taste like dust in his mouth. a glint in the light, on his girl’s left hand.

not really his girl anymore, is she?

price swallows down his mouthful and tries to quell the sudden heat that rises in his veins, a raging anger that feels, inexplicably, like he’s been stolen from. his molars clench together for dear life as he rearranges, tames, quiets himself. it was fine. it was fine! she’s just his bartender, is all. his friend. modern country and whatever, she could go meet whoever, get engaged to whoever, fuck whoever, and if she was happy, then—then price would have to be happy for her.

(she better be happy, he thinks. if whatever little boy she’s found isn’t making her feel like a bloody princess every god damn day then he doesn’t deserve the fingers he touches her with or the cock between his legs—)

this was good, even. with a ring on her finger, price’d always have a reminder that pretty girls didn’t owe him anything, don’t belong to him like a dog with a bone. kill the fantasy, keep his head on the missions. a better soldier. it’s that tightening thought that lets him calm himself enough to say “congratulations are in order, i assume?”

his gi—the—she furrows her brow in confusion, but she follows price’s gaze—how could she not, with him practically burning a hole in her finger with his stare—and laughs. “oh, that,” she says, easy as ever. “no, nothing’s happened.” she wiggles the ring off her finger and sliding it across the counter to price for his inspection.

under his touch, the tell is obvious: it’s plastic, cheap, almost gummy plastic. the faux diamond is cheap acrylic, only close to sparkling because she’s gone through and polished it up. it takes him a moment before he puts it together, but before he does, he briefly becomes so angry that he thinks he might actually kill a civilian for treating her this way.

“bought that online for five quid,” she keeps going. “just to stop some of the patrons from asking questions, or flirting, or, you know, trying to introduce me to their nephews and that kind of thing.”

a decoy ring. a dummy, a shield, something with no actual suitor attached to the other end. price is so relieved that he can feel every muscle in his aching body untense, and it pisses him off because he knows he shouldn’t care this much about his friend’s love life. “smart,” he says, his voice a bit thick before he clears it. “smart. though, you know, sweetheart, you could always try telling them you’re not interested.”

“please, john, you think i haven’t tried?” she shrugs. “no, most of them don’t listen without seeing a little proof that that seat is taken. always thought they could convince me otherwise. the ring shuts up most of them, and the few that still don’t get the hint, i end up having to tell them stories about ‘my husband’ before they piss off.”

the word husband coming from her mouth makes something rumble in price’s chest that’s becoming dangerously difficult to ignore. he tries a chuckle, tries to focus on the feeling of his beard bristling his own cheeks and not the way they would feel against hers, and tries to lighten the mood. “so, what, you just make up stories about this husband of yours? grand tales of romance?”

but she looks away, and—is his girl flustered? she picks up a rag in her hands and starts wiping idly at the counter, like she’s trying to avoid his eyes. “oh, you know,” she says. “i keep it simple. just enough to, er, get them to stop, and consistent, so they can’t pick holes. he’s—he’s in the military. leads a team.”

then, quietly, “he’s out there saving the world.”

the dog slips his leash.

when price finally leaves to make the long drive back to base, his shirt rumpled and his chin wet with slick, he keeps the plastic ring in his back pocket, not bothering to give it back. why would he? she doesn’t need it anymore, because he’s going to buy his girl the real diamonds that she deserves.

#captain john price #price x reader #price x f!reader #call of duty #hiiii codblr this idea had me in a chokehold and wouldn’t set me free until i made a fucking sideblog for it #obsessed with wife guy price obviously but also a price that is 1. not a good man #2. knows hes not a good man #3. angrily and desperately tries to be a good man through clenched teeth #this was meant to be like three paragraphs but well. she grew #john price x reader #cod mw2 #og post

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itneverendshere · 4 months ago

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LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - TWELVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of severe anemia; pregnancy; abortion

💌MASTERLIST

Rafe rolled over, squinting against the sunlight breaking through the shitty broken blinds he'd meant to replace weeks ago. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and before his eyes were even fully open, he swiped it up.

"Yeah?" His voice was a low growl, all gravel, and irritation.

The voice on the other end was professional. "Mr. Cameron? We’re calling to follow up on your father’s properties. There are a few—"

Fuck off.

Rafe cut them off with a sharp exhale, rubbing his temples.

He didn’t let them finish. "Yeah, I know what you’re calling about. I’m not dealing with that right now, okay? Call someone else."

"Sir, you are listed as—"

"I said call someone else," He snapped, hanging up before they could launch into another scripted response. He tossed the phone onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling, breathing hard.

It had been months since Ward died, and somehow, his name was heavier now than it ever was when he was alive. Everyone wanted something—answers, signatures, money. All things Rafe didn’t have or didn’t care to deal with.

The phone buzzed again. He grabbed it, ready to tell whoever it was where to stick their questions, but it was just a reminder about his plans with Topper. For half a second, he considered texting back: Can’t make it. Something came up.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he shoved himself upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and dropping his head into his hands.

The dream the call robbed him of was still vivid. For a moment, he forgot where he was—his room felt colder, and emptier, and the bed might as well have been a mile wide.

In the dream, you were eighteen again, and so was he. Back when things were simpler—or maybe just felt that way. Back before he’d ruined everything.

He could see it so clearly: the two of you sneaking out of some party you didn’t want to be at, your hand locked in his as you ducked through the dark streets. You’d been laughing, trying to shush him because he couldn’t stop cracking dumb jokes.

You ended up at the dock by your uncle’s boat. The stars were out, scattered across the sky like a million little promises. He remembered how you’d sat cross-legged on the wooden planks, your hair falling into your face as you smiled at him like he was the only person in the world.

The dock, your laugh, the stars—those were the good parts. But he remembers what you were going through back then, and it hit him all over again.

You’d just lost everything—your parents, your sister, gone in an instant. The private plane went down, and so did the life you’d always known. He remembers the way you’d talk about them—your family—late at night when it was just the two of you. Your voice would crack, and your eyes would shine with unshed tears, but you’d talk anyway. About your dad teaching you how to sail, your mom’s tenderness, the way your sister used to be your role model.

He hadn’t thought about those nights in years, but now they come rushing back, all tangled up with the dream. He still wasn’t strong enough for you back then. He let his own shit get in the way, let his insecurities and his anger twist everything good between you over the years. And when he walked away, he left you to deal with the wreckage of your life and his own cowardice.

He threw on a shirt, and some old shorts, didn’t even bother fixing his hair. No one was going to care—not like anyone was looking to him for anything these days anyway. He stomped down the stairs, rubbing at the back of his neck, pretending like he didn’t spend the night dreaming of your face.

Wheezie was at the kitchen counter, cereal in front of her, scrolling her phone.

She didn’t glance up when she heard him, "You look like shit."

Aw, nothing like a teenager.

"Good mornin’ to you too," Rafe grumbled, heading for the fridge. He grabbed a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap like it had personally offended him, “You’re really settling in, huh?"

Wheezie snorted, not looking up from her phone. "Rose stuck me here with you. What else am I supposed to do? I’m just trying to survive."

“It’s two days."

He hadn’t exactly planned on babysitting Wheezie while Rose was out of the country, he hadn’t planned on much lately

"Two days too many," she shot back, smirking. "You going somewhere?"

Rafe slammed the fridge shut, twisting the cap off his water.

"Why are you stomping around like that?"

"Not fuckin’ stomping," Rafe muttered, leaning against the counter.

"You are," she scowled, shoving a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "You sound like a baby elephant."

Rafe glared at her, but she just shrugged, unfazed. "You’re up early. What’s the occasion?"

"Just woke up, okay?" he snapped.

"Jeez, someone’s in a mood," Wheezie rolled her eyes. "What’s your deal?"

"No deal." He took a long sip of water, staring out the window.

"Can you drop me off later?" she changed the topic, her tone too casual to be innocent.

Rafe side-eyed her. "Drop you off where?"

"Poguelandia.”

His hand froze halfway to the trash can. "You’re kiddin’."

"Nope," Wheezie said, popping the “p.” She didn’t even look at him, scrolling on her phone like this was just a normal request.

"You know Sarah’s there, right?"

"Yeah, that’s kinda the point," Wheezie finally met his glare. "She texted me. Wants to hang out."

Rafe scoffed, tossing the empty water bottle into the trash. "Since when are you and Sarah talkin’?"

"Since forever," Wheezie pursed her lips, "Just because you two can’t stand each other doesn’t mean I can’t hang out with her. Also," She adds, "there’s a party happening later. Like, nothing crazy, but… y’know."

He hadn’t been around much for his little sister lately—shit, not for a long time, if he was honest with himself. After their dad died, he kind of just… checked out. Too much of his own crap to deal with. But Wheezie didn’t ask for any of that.

"Nothing crazy," Rafe repeated flatly, his arms crossed.

"Relaxxxx,” She shoved another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "Just drop me off. I’ll figure out a ride back."

He rubbed a hand over his face, groaning. "Wheeze, do you even know what you’re walking into? Pogues don’t fuck with us."

"I wonder why….” She hummed, waving him off. “I’ll be fine, they don’t hate me."

"Yeah, well, they hate me."

"Good thing I’m not you.” Wheezie fired back, hopping off the stool.

Yeah, good thing.

"And it’s not just a party. I’m visiting Sarah, too."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Rafe rolled his eyes, "Here’s the deal: I’ll drop you off—"

She perked up, her face lighting with hope.

"—but on one condition," he cut in, smirking just enough to make her suspicious.

He hadn’t really spent time with her in ages—not since Ward died. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, it was just…easier not to. Easier to stay away, to let the silence pile up.

The real issue was that, for the longest time, he’s been gone for a reason. He didn’t want to be here. It was easier to be numb by being drunk or high. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his sister—it was just that it was too painful, and complicated.

Yesterday, his therapist had told him to invest time in his sisters. To be there for them, to reconnect, because they were his only real family left. Whezzie he could do, Sarah?

Only time would tell.

You have to show up for the people you love. Even if it scares you.

It scared the shit out of him, honestly.

"What?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"You come with me and Topper on the boat first," he said, folding his arms tighter like he’s already won.

Wheezie groaned, slumping back in her chair. "Seriously? What part of not showing up on a yatch is this?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Why? So I can sit there and listen to you two talk about girls you’ll never get and beer brands you can’t pronounce?"

Rafe glared at her. "It’s not up for debate. You wanna go to fuckass poguelandia? You’re comin’ with us. End of story."

At least he was trying—trying to do something for her, to make up for the time he’d lost, the ways he’d been absent or worse. Even if he still sounded like an asshole most of the time.

"Fine. Whatever. I’ll go with you and Topper. But you owe me big time.”

The whole idea of being present was terrifying, it ruined him when he was a teenager, but he couldn’t keep hiding from it. There was nothing left to hide behind.

“I’ll buy that stupid cereal you like.”

"Lucky me."

"Alright, smartass," He grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee, trying to ignore her smug look. "What do you even eat besides cereal? You’re gonna starve or some shit.”

"I’ll survive. You, on the other hand…" she trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his unkempt pantry. "You look like you could use a babysitter."

Rafe let the corners of his mouth twitch. "You’re an asshole, y'know that?"

“You’re my brother, what did you expect?”

It was just the two of them in his big, empty condo. He might not have been much of a role model—or even a decent older brother—but for the next two days, he could try.

“You’re the worst,” she grumbled, grabbing her phone off the counter.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Rafe said dismissively, turning toward the door. “Be ready in ten.”

Wheezie, rolling her eyes so hard he thought they might fall out of her head, stomped back upstairs, probably to change into something less “little sister on a boat” and more “teen rebel” or whatever the fuck kid’s liked these days. She could dress however she wanted as long as she didn’t make him regret dragging her into this.

Rafe leaned against the truck while he waited for his sister. His arms were crossed, his fingers drumming against his bicep in a nervous rhythm. It wasn’t about the boat—he didn’t even know why he’d suggested it. Maybe it was just an excuse to keep her close for a little longer before dropping her into pogue territory. He missed her.

An hour later, he was pulling the truck into the dock’s gravel lot, the tires crunching as he rolled to a stop. Topper was already there, lounging on the boat, a beer in one hand and sunglasses perched low on his nose.

Wheezie hopped out of the truck before Rafe even had a chance to cut the engine. “God, does he ever not look like a wannabe country club poster boy?”

Rafe smirked as he climbed out.

“Rafe! Wheezie!” Topper called out, spreading his arms wide like he was greeting royalty. “What’s up, losers?”

Wheezie snorted, marching toward the boat. “Nice shorts. Did Vineyard Vines have a clearance sale, or did you just raid your dad’s closet?”

“Stop being ruthless,” Topper glanced down at his pastel pink swim trunks, feigning offense. “These are a classic.”

“A classic embarrassment,” she fake gagged, stepping onto the boat.

Rafe followed her, shaking his head. “Play nice.”

“Fantastic,” Topper drawled, “There’s two of you today.”

“You make it too easy.” Whezzie dropped onto one of the cushioned seats and leaned back, pulling her sunglasses down over her eyes. “What’s the plan, Captain Douchebag?”

Topper raised his beer in a mock toast. “The plan is sailing.”

“Wow. Revolutionary.”

Rafe chuckled, untying the boat and giving it a shove off the dock. “Just sit back and relax, Wheez. We’ll drop you off later.”

Topper’s head snaps up, “Drop her off where?”

"Where do you think?" Rafe leaned over to check the boat's engine. He didn't bother looking at Topper, already waiting for the inevitable reaction, “Sarah's.”

"Wait, wait, wait," Topper held up a hand like he was stopping traffic. "You're taking her to Poguelandia? Are you out of your mind?"

"It's not your problem," Rafe grumbled, starting the engine. The low hum drowned out part of Topper's rant, but not enough to miss the gist.

"Not my problem? Dude, the second you step foot over there, it's everyone's problem. She’s there too, y’know? Stopped by earlier to make peace…She changed her gate’s code. And the lock.”

The gate code. The lock.

He couldn’t get it out of his head.

For years, it had been the same—just like the keys he used to have to your place. Just days ago, the gate had swung open just like it always did, the same code he’d memorized like it was second nature.

You hadn’t changed the code, hadn’t swapped the locks. He’d half convinced himself it meant something, maybe you weren’t ready to fully let him go, either.

Rafe’s hands stilled on the throttle. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but his jaw tightened all the same. Topper, of course, noticed immediately.

"See? This is what I’m talking about," Topper leaned back in his seat, spreading his arms like he was laying out some grand revelation. "Where do you think she’s staying at? It’s fuckin’ obvious. We show up, and it’s gonna stir shit up.”

It was almost like you’d left the door cracked open for him. Just enough to make him believe there was still a chance. Now he wasn’t so sure. Had his visit been the final straw? Had the sight of him standing on the other side of your door—looking desperate and pathetic—been the thing that made you decide to shut him out completely?

You didn’t let him in, but you’d opened up the door. After everything he’d put you through, it was your way of protecting yourself. Shutting the door so he couldn’t come crashing back in.

Topper’s voice snapped him back to reality, “You even listening to me, man?”

Rafe blinked, forcing himself to re-focus on the boat’s controls.

“Yeah. I heard you. ’m not staying. Just dropping her off."

“We’re dead meat.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Topper knew better than to keep talking, the conversation ended there.

For the next twenty minutes, the boat cruised over the water, Rafe kept on steering, letting Topper and Wheezie chatter away behind him. He wasn't really listening—hadn't been for most of the trip—but every now and then, Wheezie's laughter or Topper's exaggerated storytelling pulled him back just enough to remind him they were still there.

When they finally dropped anchor near the sandbar, Topper leaned back, cracking open another beer as he stretched out under the sun.

"Alrigh’, who wants to make a toast? First outing of the month, gotta celebrate properly!"

Rafe shook his head, pulling a bottle of water from the cooler instead. He twisted off the cap and took a long sip, ignoring the way Topper raised a brow at him.

"Wait a second," Topper said, sitting up slightly. "You're not drinking?"

The fact his best friend sounded surprised was reason enough to stay sober. He didn’t like being scrutinized.

"Nah," He waived off, leaning back against the seat and letting the sun warm his face.

He’d made the choice not to drink before they even left the dock, but it didn’t stop the instinct—the small urge to crack open a beer and let the eventual numbness take over like it usually did.

Topper looked between the beer in his hand and Rafe, "You serious? Could've told me, wouldn’t have brought all this shit."

“Yeah, sure you wouldn’t have.”

"Fair," Topper admitted, "Still, man. That's… good. Like, really good."

Wheezie, who had been scrolling on her phone, perked up at the exchange. "Yeah, Rafe. I think it's awesome."

Proud. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said that to him. Maybe you, but it had been a long time since anyone had looked at him and seen something worth being proud of.

He shrugged, “It’s not a big deal.”

But it kind of was. Because sitting there, sober and fully present for the first time in months, he realized it didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would. He’d been drinking non-stop—first to deal with his dad’s death, then to quiet the guilt, and then to forget you.

The therapist had called it “self-medicating.” Rafe had scoffed when she first said it, she didn’t know what she was talking about, but the longer the sessions went on, the harder it was to deny. Drinking had become a way to drown out the memories and feelings he didn’t know how to face.

The therapist had suggested he take a break from drinking, just for a while. “You don’t have to stop forever,” she’d said. “Just give yourself a chance to feel what’s really going on.”

Yeah, because that sounded like fucking fun. Sitting with his feelings.

But something about today felt different. He couldn’t explain it—maybe it was Wheezie’s not hating spending time with him after all the stunts he pulled, or the way Topper had thrown himself into planning this trip like he was trying to cheer him up—but for once, he didn’t feel like drowning himself in alcohol.

It wasn’t like drinking had helped anyway, if anything, it made it worse. The mornings after, when the hangover hit and he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror, let alone call you to apologize for everything he’d done wrong.

So, yeah. Maybe the therapist had a point.

He glanced at the cooler full of beers and liquor that Topper had dragged aboard. “Don’t feel like it today.”

Topper was still eyeing him like he was an alien, while Wheezie had gone back to scrolling her phone, but every now and then, she'd glance up at him, like she was checking to see if he was still there—if he was still him.

"Alright, enough of the sentimental shit," Topper declared, "Let’s make this a proper day. Who’s up for some wakeboarding?"

Wheezie groaned, flopping back dramatically. "You two are so predictable. Wakeboarding, really? What’s next, golf? A steak dinner? Gonna break out the cigars and talk about how much you love cripto?"

Rafe snorted, tossing a towel at her. "Wheez, you screamed your head off last time you tried it."

“Yeah, because I nearly died!" she threw the towel right back at him.

"You were fine.”

“You said I was fine while I was choking on lake water.”

Rafe smirked, standing up to adjust the rope for the wakeboard. “Builds character.”

“Builds trauma,” she retorted, kicking her flip-flops off and stretching her legs out over the seat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when I’m suing your ass.”

“Good luck with that.”

She tilted her chin up with a satisfied grin, “I can now, thank you very much. I’m an adult.”

“You turned eighteen two weeks ago. Chill with the big-girl talk.”

Topper cracked up from the other side of the boat, pointing his beer at her like it was a microphone. “She’s got you there, big bro. Maybe let her drive the boat next.”

Wheezie perked up instantly. “Wait, can I?”

“No,” Rafe deadpanned.

“Why not?” she whined, her entire body deflating.

“Because last time you tried, you almost ran over a dock,” Rafe tugged the line to make sure it was secure.

“Okay, that was one time, and I was learning,” Wheezie argued. “You’ve done way dumber stuff.”

Topper leaned over, watching the exchange like it was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week. “This is amazing. You guys should fight more often.”

“Shut up,” Rafe and Wheezie said in unison, which only made Topper laugh harder.

The afternoon passed quickly, filled with sun, water, and Wheezie’s relentless commentary. She refused to try wakeboarding again, opting instead to sunbathe and heckle them from the safety of the boat. Rafe couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her laugh so much—or the last time he’d felt this calm.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the water in shades of gold, Rafe slowed the boat to a gentle drift. Wheezie was sprawled out with her headphones in, her phone propped up on her stomach. Topper had passed out in the corner, his sunglasses slipping down his nose. Rafe sat at the helm, one hand resting on the wheel, the other dangling over the side. The cool water lapped at his fingertips, calming him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

For once, he wasn’t thinking about the mistakes he’d made or the people he’d lost. He wasn’t drowning in guilt or regret. He was just… there, present. It didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would

Rafe cut the engine as the boat drifted closer to the dock. The sight of Sarah’s house on the Cut came into view. It wasn’t a kook mansion or some pristine estate—just a house that Sarah and her friends had claimed for herself.

The second the boat bumped against the dock, Wheezie sprang up, tugging her bag over her shoulder. Rafe was quick to follow, throwing the rope around a cleat to tie them off.

“You’re not getting off, are you?” Wheezie asked, looking over her shoulder with her brows furrowed.

Rafe stepped off the boat, sneakers hitting the creaky dock with a purpose. She rolled her eyes when she realized he wasn’t staying behind like she hoped.

“You don’t need to come,” she grumbled, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Yeah, I do,” Rafe said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not letting you walk in there alone.”

“She’s our sister, not some random stranger,” Wheezie stomped down the dock.

She might as well have been.

Rafe grabbed the bag she was struggling with and followed her toward the weathered building at the end of the pier. Sarah’s place wasn’t just a house; it was a business. A small café-slash-bait shop that catered to the locals. The painted sign hanging over the front door read Cut Cafe in faded lettering, with a little drawing of a fish under it.

He hated it.

Not because it wasn’t nice, but because it wasn’t theirs. It was Sarah’s—a piece of her new life that had nothing to do with him or Wheezie or anything resembling their family. Another reminder of how far he hadn’t gone.

If he was being honest—something he rarely let himself do—he missed her. Not the Sarah she was now, but the sister she used to be, before the huge fights, before she looked at him like he was some kind of monster. Before Ward.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Ward had made sure Rafe would never get to have what Sarah did. She was the golden child, Dad’s favorite. And Rafe—he was just there, a constant disappointment.

It wasn’t that he hated her; it was that he hated what she represented.

Approval he’d never get, a life he wasn’t good enough for.

It was ironic, really. He used to resent Sarah for being Ward’s favorite.

Now he resented her for being yours.

Rafe scowled as the sound of the party reached his ears, even from the dock. Music thumped loud enough to vibrate the air, shouted conversations, and the occasional crash of something—probably a bottle—shattering.

Someone let out a loud whoop, followed by the unmistakable sound of people chanting for a keg stand. Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience thinning with every passing second. He wasn’t in the mood for this juvenile shit.

“You're way too comfortable here,” he scoffed under his breath as Wheezie marched ahead, her steps confident. It pissed him off more than it should have.

“Maybe because Sarah doesn’t treat me like I’m still twelve,” Wheezie shot back, smirking at him over her shoulder.

Rafe ignored the jab, his eyes scanning the small crowd outside.

A couple of Pogues lingered near the porch, laughing over beers and baskets of fries. Their relaxed, judgmental stares followed him like they could smell the kook entitlement on him from a mile away. He bristled, tightening his grip on Wheezie’s bag.

She bounded up the steps and pushed open the door, the bell above it jingling. He hesitated for half a second before following her inside, knowing he was going to regret ever stepping foot in this place.

The air smelled like beer, fried food, and sunscreen. Behind the counter, Sarah stood with her back to them, her hair tied up in a loose bun.

Wheezie cleared her throat loudly. “Hey, Sar!”

Sarah turned, her smile faltering the second she saw Rafe lurking behind Wheezie. Her expression hardened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too,” Rafe said dryly, crossing his arms.

“I told Wheezie to come by. Not you.” Sarah’s eyes flicked to Wheezie, softening just slightly. “You didn’t need to bring a bodyguard.”

“I wasn’t gonna let her wander around here by herself,” Rafe shot back, his voice low and defensive. He hated the way Sarah’s words hurt, hated that her disapproval still got under his skin after all this time.

Sarah rolled her eyes, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped out from behind the counter. “Wander? She’s not a toddler. She knows how to get here. It’s safe.”

Wheezie stood between them, looking like she was torn between laughing and rolling her eyes so hard she might fall over. “Okay, can you two stop? It’s embarrassing.”

Sarah sighed, brushing past Rafe as if he wasn’t even there.

“Whatever. You can go now. Wheezie’s fine here.”

He stood awkwardly near the door, arms crossed, glaring at the locals who cast curious glances his way. It wasn’t worth staying.

Wheezie was safe.

Sarah would make sure of that, whether she hated him or not.

With a sigh, hr pushed open the door and stepped back out onto the porch, letting the door slam behind him. He took a deep breath of salty air, rubbing the back of his neck.

He’d barely made it to the dock when he spotted someone climbing off the boat—

“Dude,” Rafe’s brow furrowed as his friend stepped onto the creaking wood. “Thought you were scared shitless of this place.”

“I’m not scared,” Topper lied through his teeth.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, “Right.”

“We ran out of snacks on the boat, and I’m starving, figured I’d raid the stash at the party.”

“Snacks?”

“I’m starving!” Topper argued, throwing his hands up. “And unless you brought a secret bag of chips somewhere, this is my best shot!”

He sighed, knowing there was nothing he could do to change Topper's mind. “Hurry up.”

“Relax, I’ll be two minutes!"

He watched Topper jog away, sighing and leaning against one of the wooden posts.

You were probably in there, somewhere. Laughing, maybe, or smiling that smile he used to wake up to, a smile that used to be for him.

Now, it was for everyone but him.

He tried not to think about you, but that was like telling the ocean not to rise and fall with the stupid tides. Therapy had taught him to sit with his feelings, to not let them rot into something worse, but he was just starting and you weren’t just the girl he loved.

You were the only person who had ever seen him for more than his name, his mistakes, or the wreckage Ward Cameron had left in his wake. You didn’t just tolerate him; you chose him, since day one.

He didn’t deserve you, not then, not even now.

The sound of footsteps broke his focus.

“About time,” Rafe muttered, turning. But it wasn’t Topper.

Sofia stumbled into view, her dark hair wild and face flushed. Her hand gripped the railing for support as she swayed slightly.

He frowned, mildly concerned, “What the f—are you okay?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and frantic. “Y-You need to go get Topper. Right n-now.”

His first thought was that she might’ve come here to throw some drunken, slurred insults his way.

The last time they'd spoken, things had ended...He didn’t even know how to classify that mess. But it didn't look like she was there to slam him with any guilt-trips or hurtful words.

She just looked scared.

“What?” His brows knit together as he stepped toward her, “What are you talking about? Are you drunk?”

Sofia waved him off, her breathing panicked. “The T-thorntons.”

That stopped him cold.

“What about them?”

She tried to grab his arm, her eyes wide, “They’re fighting. It’s bad.”

“Fighting?”

It couldn't be just some random fight; this had everything to do with the bullshit Topper had pulled.

Shit.

Rafe wasn’t even sure if he could fix it. Could he? You hated him too, and no matter how hard he tried, it seemed like you’d never forgive him for everything he’d fucked up. But Topper—Rafe didn’t even have to think twice.

He knew you, how you were when you’d had enough. You weren’t the type to lose your shit unless it was really bad.

He gritted his teeth, knowing full well that when you finally let it out, it was never just a “throw a drink and move on” kind of thing. Nah, when you lost it, it was like you’d been holding all this shit in for way too long and finally decided you weren’t gonna take it anymore.

He knew exactly what you were pissed about.

Topper. Of course. And him. Fuck.

He hated it.

The way your voice would rise when you finally let everything out.

You weren’t someone who yelled, but when you did? Jesus fucking Christ, it hit different. Rafe could never prepare himself fully for that kind of fury, especially when it was aimed at him.

He hated seeing you like this, especially when he knew it was because of him. But it was his fault, wasn’t it?

Rafe’s thoughts were a mess as he followed Sofia, who was clearly way over tipsy, stumbling a little, but she was still trying to explain, voice slurring a bit from the alcohol.

“You gotta understand—she was helping me. I wasn’t feeling so great, right? M-my head was spinning, I don’t know… I just needed a little space. But then Topper walked in and he...S-she just lost it.”

He wasn’t even surprised when she mentioned that you’d been helping her out. Of course you would.

You always had that side to you. Even when you were pissed, even when you hated people, you couldn’t help but step in when someone was in need. You hated Sofia, and everyone knew it. You hated the fact that she’d come around right after he’d fucked everything up with you. You hated how fast she seemed to take your place, even though Rafe didn’t want to admit it to himself either.

Still, there you were, trying to make sure Sofia was okay, again. It made him feel like shit. Not just because you were still holding it together when he couldn’t, but because he knew the whole fucking reason you probably didn’t want anything to do with Sofia—because of how it’d felt when he’d jumped into something else so quickly, so recklessly, after breaking your heart.

The sound of raised voices reached him before he even saw you. He could hear the anger in your voice. There was no mistaking it: you were pissed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen you this way, and it fucked with his gut. You didn’t lose control easily. You never let anyone see the mess, the shit you were going through.

Now you were ripping into Topper in a way that made his blood run cold. He rounded the corner and saw you, hands flailing, and he couldn’t help but wonder: When was the last time anyone stepped up for you? It certainly hadn’t been him. Not the way he should’ve.

And then, of course, there was Topper. He could see the look on his face—guilt, embarrassment. But it wasn’t going to be enough. You had to work through it yourself.

Your shoulders were tense, the way you stood, like you could snap anyone who walked through that door in half if they so much as blinked the wrong way, was all too familiar.

Your cousin was standing in front of you, trying to apologize like it was gonna fix anything, but you weren’t hearing it. No, you were done with that shit.

Topper wipped his hands down his ruined shirt, green smears of guacamole spreading across the fabric. “I fucked up.”

“No shit,” you hissed, “You don’t get to come back from this. You have no idea how fucking sick I am of you—” Hands shaking as you shoved him back, your words coming out in short bursts, "You're the fucking worst. How could you—"

You were about to throw something—probably another drink—when your eyes snapped over to Rafe.

For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw your breath hitch. You froze, eyes wide for a second, and then your expression soured.

Your lip quivered before you sucked in a breath and squared your shoulders.

"Not you too,” you sneered, throwing your hands in the air as the world had just dropped another pile of shit on your already full plate. “Oh my fucking god, seriously?"

Your face was flushed with anger, lips twisted in a snarl. You were so fucking beautiful, even when you were fuming. He could see the fire in your eyes, that same spark he’d fallen for all those years ago. You were just... you. And it was killing him.

He was so fucked.

“All of you—” You spit out, “I should’ve known better. I did know better, but I was stupid. So fucking stupid.”

He couldn’t think straight when you looked at him like that, when you had that look in your eyes. Even in the middle of a fight, it was so goddamn hard to look away.

You weren’t just a memory to him anymore. You were right in front of him, and he couldn’t even breathe straight.

Rafe’s throat tightened, feeling something that wasn’t just anger or regret or confusion. He felt longing. He longed to hear your voice, all the time, longed for those mornings when you’d be pressed against him, all warm, the world outside his shitty room irrelevant.

He missed the simple stuff.

He missed your face, the way you’d look at him with that irritation and affection.

It hit him harder than anything had in months—how much time had passed since he last saw that pretty face smile at him like you used to. Since he last kissed your forehead while you fell asleep next to him, since you last fit so perfectly into his arms that he didn’t want to let go.

He didn’t even know how to start getting that back.

He left. Over and over again.

Rafe registered another drink splashing across Topper’s face a little too late, the sound of the liquid hitting his skin pulling him out of his trance. He blinked a few times, the moment dragging back to the mess in front of him.

You weren’t done, though, as if throwing the drink wasn’t enough, you whipped a bowl of guacamole from the table and hurled it at Topper’s face. It splattered across his shirt, leaving a sticky, green mess in its wake.

He didn’t even flinch, still apologizing, still taking it.

“Sis—”

“I don’t want some bullshit excuse! You were supposed to be my family. You were supposed to—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head because you couldn’t fathom finishing the thought.

And then—slap, slap, slap—you were hitting his arms, frustration flashing across your face as you let him have it.

Your cousin stood there like a fucking idiot, wiping guac off his face, trying to stammer out some kind of half-assed apology.

“You had no right,” you spat, voice breaking on the words. “None. You don’t just walk in here and act like everything’s fine after what you—” your words choked in your throat. You threw another plate, “You had no right!”

Rafe saw it all, saw the tears ready to spill as you wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. You weren’t crying yet, but he knew that was about to change. And when it did, it was going to hurt worse than the yelling, worse than the throwing.

Before you could even get another word out, Rafe was there, stepping in between you and Topper, his body tense, preparing himself for something, maybe a few slaps across the face, a drink if you felt generous. You didn’t have to say a word, he could sense it in the way your lips quivered, the way your shoulders shook.

“You need to calm down,” He told you tenderly, though it wasn’t a demand—it was more of a desperate plea.

You didn’t listen.

Instead, you shoved him out of the way, the tears starting to slip down your cheeks, but you didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

“Get out,” you snapped, "Move.”

Rafe didn’t budge, he was here for you, he never stopped fucking choosing you even when he had no right to. He remained still, staring down at you with those blue eyes that had always known you better than anyone.

“Fuck, not like this,” Rafe muttered under his breath, stepping forward once more, this time blocking your path before you could reach Topper again. His hands were gentle on your shoulders as he held you back, “Please, stop.”

You froze, eyes wide, like you couldn’t believe it—you hadn’t been expecting him to step in, hadn’t been expecting him of all people to be the one to try and talk you out of it.

Rafe’s heart dropped when he saw the way your body was starting to shake. You were spiraling, he could see it coming—he'd been here before. The way your breath hitched, how your eyes turned glassy.

He still knew the signs all too well.

His hands shot out instinctively, grabbing your arms, trying to hold you still, "Hey, hey, calm down," he muttered, his voice soothing, "You're gonna make yourself worse if you don’t stop."

He could feel the rapid pulse under your skin, the way your body tensed like a coiled spring, and he didn’t give a fuck that you still hated him.

"Look at me," he coaxed, "Please, just breathe with me. You know this ain't gonna help. You gotta breathe."

Rafe’s heart broke all over again as you crumbled in front of him, damn it, he should’ve been there. He should’ve been there when this all fell apart, when you needed someone to hold you together instead of pushing you away.

He hated seeing you like this.

"I’m right here," he said again, softer this time, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

Topper stood there, eyes wide, not sure what to do, his face pale as he watched you fall apart in front of Rafe.

Sofia, still drunk and disoriented, caught the look in his eyes and quietly grabbed his arm, “We need to go," she whispered, nudging him, "T-this isn’t helping her."

Topper’s eyes moved to you, and then to Rafe, you could see it in his expression—the guilt, the regret. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

Rafe shot him a look, one that said everything—get out.

Your cousin, wiped his face before he took a few steps back. "I’m sorry," he muttered, eyes darting between you and Rafe. "I’m so sorry.”

He turned away like a dog with his tail between his legs, Sofia following him without saying much, leaving you.

Rafe barely paid them any mind, his entire focus on you, his hands still holding yours, as he watched you try to calm your breathing.

He pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered again, "Not going anywhere. I’m here, swear to God, I’m here."

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into him fully, not caring if he was blocking the view of anyone else, not caring if things were a fucking mess—he only cared about getting you back to yourself.

He could feel it in his chest, every shitty thing that had piled up, every moment no one had your back when you needed it most.

You didn’t pull away. Maybe it was the anger finally burning out or the exhaustion catching up to you, but for a moment, you let him hold you. Your chest heaved as you fought for control, but your weight sagged against his hands.

His hands loosened their grip, his thumb brushing against your arm without him even realizing it. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to risk letting go because God knew if he’d ever get this close to you again.

You’re safe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.

He didn’t deserve it—not even a little, but he couldn’t let go, you needed someone, even if it wasn’t really him you wanted anymore.

Rafe could sense the way your breathing came out as almost pants against his chest. Every little tremor sent a pang through his chest, like someone had grabbed his ribs and squeezed until it hurt to breathe.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why hadn’t he fought harder?

Rafe rested his cheek against your hair, closing his eyes as he let himself feel it—the weight of you leaning on him. The smell of your perfume, faint but still the same as always. He felt like a fucking thief, stealing this moment from you when he had no right. You didn’t want this from him, didn’t need this from him.

He wished he could take it all back, erase every mistake, the fight, every stupid decision that had pushed you to this point. If he could trade places with you, take all the pain and carry it himself, he would. In a heartbeat.

You took one shuddering breath, then another. It was enough for him to feel like maybe he’d done something right for once. Maybe he could—

“Get your hands off me.”

Rafe barely moved. His grip slackened, but he didn’t let go, didn’t step away like you wanted.

You pushed at his chest, but he didn’t budge. “I said get your fucking hands off me.”

“Not happenin’,” He swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming against his throat, but he didn’t loosen his grip. “You’re not okay.”

“Go fuck yourself. You don’t get to decide that—”

Your voice cracked, and the sound of it nearly knocked the will to live from his body. He’d always known your tells, had always been able to read you better than you liked.

Rafe’s hands twitched, and then he moved them, moving like he was about to let you go—but then you did it.

You curled your arms around yourself, your fingers gripping the fabric of your dress, right over your stomach. Protective.

Fuck.

Could it be? It was an unconscious gesture, you probably didn’t realize you’d made, but to him, it might as well have been a fucking confession.

Rafe felt his body lock up, every muscle going rigid as the pieces fell into place.

Fuck fuck fuck. Topper was right, wasn't he?

His throat went dry, he managed to croak out, “You’re—”

“No,” you snapped immediately, your fingers tightening on your dress, but you wouldn’t look at him.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t need you.”

He knew he was losing you.

Rafe exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“Fuck you. You don’t get to— say shit like that. You don’t get to—” Your breathing hitched, and you bit down on the inside of your cheek.

“To what? To give a shit?”

He waited, watching, hoping, praying—please look at me, baby, please—but you didn’t move.

You scoffed, a bitter sound.

“You don’t care. You just don’t like the idea of—” Your breath caught, but you swallowed it down, pushing past the lump in your throat. “You don’t like the idea of me making a choice that doesn’t involve you.”

He hadn’t breathed properly since he saw your hands gripping your stomach, hiding yourself from him like you thought he was something to be afraid of. Like you thought he wouldn’t love you.

You thought he wouldn’t fucking stay.

“I love you.”

He barely recognized his own voice when he said it, but it was the only thing he could spill out. He swore to God he saw your left eye twitch at the confession, he knew what came next, but he’d never been good at shutting up when he should when it came to you.

“I do,” he insisted, “And I know I don’t—I don’t deserve to say that. I don’t deserve to expect anything from you.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “But I need you to know it.”

You clenched your jaw.

“I fucked up, I know. I fucked up so bad.”

You turned your head to the side, blinking up at the ceiling, refusing to spare him a glance. “I don’t want you to fix it.”

“I know,” he said immediately. “I know, but I can’t—I can’t just let you go through this alone.”

Your chest rose and fell too quickly, your breath uneven, but still—you stood your ground. “I don’t need you.”

“Please don’t say that,” he nearly dropped to his knees. “Please.”

You looked at him, since he’d realized what this meant, you lifted your head, met his gaze—really met it.

And shit—It nearly destroyed him, because he knew that look.

“Where the fuck were you, Rafe? Kissing her two months after we ended? Huh—” Your breath shuddered, and you shook your head, stepping back, “You didn’t even wait. You just—just moved the fuck on like I never even mattered—”

“It wasn’t like that—”

"Did you fuck her?" Your lips curled into a faux smile. "That’s what I thought."

"No,” He added quickly, shaking his head like the thought alone disgusted him, "No, I didn’t."

You chuckled disbelieving. "Don’t lie to me."

"I’m not," he said, stepping closer despite the way your body went rigid. "I didn’t touch her like that. I swear to God."

"But you wanted to, right?"

His head moved so fast it gave him whiplash, "No. The only person I’ve ever wanted is you.”

You scoffed, “That’s real sweet, real fucking poetic.”

“I let my own shit get in the way, and I hurt you. But I swear to God, I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“That supposed to make me feel better? You fucked off to play house with some other girl,” You swallowed hard, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Why were you there with her? Why did you let me think—"

"Because I’m a fucking assshole," he admitted, "I was trying to forget you, okay? But I couldn’t. No matter what I did, it was always you."

“Fuck you.” You snickered. “Where were you when I finally got my internship? The one I worked for, the one I wanted so bad?” You shook your head, “You didn’t even text me. Not once.”

His throat was tight, his pulse hammering, because he had thought about it—so many times, so many nights staring at his phone, fingers hovering, but he hadn’t.

Rafe’s heart plummeted.

“I—”

“You what? You forgot?”

His nails bit into his palms, “I—”

“You don’t get to speak,” you seethed, you eyes burning through him. “You don’t get to fucking say you care when you weren’t there, when you didn’t even fucking check if I was okay.

"I'm sorry."

"Where the fuck were you,” you whispered, voice shaking with grief, “when I found out I was pregnant with your fucking kid?”

Rafe froze, his stomach jumped around, violently, his ears started ringing. His brain short-circuited, his lungs forgot how to take in air, his heart fucking stopped.

Pregnant.

Pregnant. With his—

“Oh, right.” Your laugh was venomous, “You showed up at my charity gala.” You licked your lips, shaking your head, “Defending her.”

He never felt so completely useless, completely fucking helpless while you stood in front of him, looking up at him like you hated him.

“I—” He started, but nothing came out. “You—”

There was nothing to fucking say, you were right, he had failed you.

You weren’t telling him this so he could weigh in or because you wanted him to be a part of it. You were telling him so he’d know, so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings, so he wouldn’t ever think, even for a second, that there was still a version of this where he got to be a part of it.

“How long?” The words were hoarse, hardly audible.

Your lips curled in disgust, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Like you fucking care.”

He did, he did care.

So fucking much that he thought he might fucking die under the weight of it. Except the realization hit him just as quickly—he didn’t get to stand here, wide-eyed and breathless and shocked like this wasn’t the natural conclusion to the shitshow of mistakes he’d made.

“Don’t fucking stand there and act like this is some big revelation. You didn’t spend the last months with your tongue down someone else’s throat while I was home—sick, alone—wondering how the fuck I was supposed to do this without you.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, pressing your knuckles to your lips to stop them from shaking.

His gut twisted.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Jesus Christ, he’d been so fucking stupid.

“I don’t need you. I never did.”

It was a lie, maybe you even believed it.

But Rafe knew you, understood how hard it was for you to ask for help. Knew how much it had hurt to stand in front of him, admitting the truth. And Rafe—he needed to fix this. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

“I should’ve been there.”

“Yeah? No shit.”

Rafe felt his ribs caving in. “I’m here now.”

“That’s not good enough.”

It was a death sentence, it was fair but fuck, he couldn’t accept it.

Rafe stepped closer.

You took a step back.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he swore, desperate. “I don’t care if you fucking hate me, don’t care if you never forgive me.” His throat worked around the lump in it. “I’m here.”

You were so fucking angry. So fucking hurt. He didn’t blame you for it. But if he didn’t try, if he didn’t fucking show you—prove to you that he was here now—then he’d never forgive himself.

“You think I’m gonna just forgive you for this?” you sneered, arms folded tightly over your chest. “Just because you’re here now, just because you say the words that mean nothing—that’s enough? After everything? After all of it?”

All he could do was look at you—look at the person he had ruined, the person he had loved, and still loved, more than anything.

“I just—” He sucked in a breath, running a hand through his growing hair. “Tell me about the baby.”

Your expression faltered before you hardened again, lips pressing into a thin line.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit.” His voice broke. “Don’t do that—don’t shut me out. Is it... a boy? A girl?”

You hesitated, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “Why does it matter?”

“Don’t—don’t keep me in the dark, please. You’ve felt them move?”

You looked down at your feet. “No.”

"Did you—uh—" He rubbed the back of his neck, nerves raw. "Do you have morning sickness? I read that happens early on, right?"

You blinked, "What?"

"Like... throwing up and all that? You okay?" He sounded genuinely concerned, but it only made your head spin.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “Can we drop it?”

It’s then he remembers the beach cleanup, the memories of that afternoon colliding all at once—the way you’d collapsed into him, pale and unresponsive. The panic that gripped his chest as he carried you to the truck. The fight during the drive, when you told him to leave, your refusal to let him come inside.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You were…” He pratically gasped, “You were pregnant. At the beach cleanup.”

You stiffened, already dreading where he was going with this.

“Don’t.”

His pulse raced, “That’s why you didn’t want me to come inside the hospital, wasn’t it?” His words spilled out, “You were scared they’d tell me. Holy shit.”

“Stop,” you snapped, but he couldn’t.

“You passed out because of—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Jesus Christ.”

“I said stop.”

He couldn’t unsee it now—couldn’t unfeel your dead weight on his arms. He’d been right there, clueless, driving you to the hospital while you were carrying his baby. And instead of being there for you, he’d made everything worse.

“I didn’t know,” he pleaded, voice breaking. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“Exactly.” Your voice was cold, “You didn’t know because you weren’t there.”

He was going to have to spend that entire fucking inheritance fortune on therapy

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

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cheriecoke · 1 year ago

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.𖥔 ݁ ˖ LEAVING LIPSTICK STAINS ON LEVI

fem!reader, sfw, fluff, you leave lipstick all over levi before a mission and the scouts find out, just something super cutesy & short while i work on some longer pieces hehe, pls ignore errors lol, 1.3k words

“promise you’ll come back in one piece?” you say, smoothing the wrinkle between levi’s brow with a kiss.

he glances up at you from under his lashes, crinkling his nose as a short, breathy laugh escapes him, one he tries to subdue. still, he can’t deny the happiness that slips onto his features, not when joy is so fleeting because of the life that the two of you live.

cold hands run across your back, down to your hips as you straighten his collar, kissing his sharp cheekbones, the bridge of his nose. “i’ve made it this far, haven’t i?” levi mutters, squeezing your sides gently before shifting you off of his lap.

he lifts you, sets you on the edge of his desk, causing some of the papers that erwin had dropped off earlier to crinkle. a smile graces your lips as levi stands, stretching his limbs behind him, the chair pushing away from the desk with a creak.

“i’m going to be late because of you,” levi remarks, eyes narrowed playfully, but he gives you another kiss on the lips, lingering there like it’s painful to pull away.

“then stop kissing me.” your hands splay across his chest, but you don’t push him away, feeling his heart beat under his ribcage, the melody that you will always come back to. still, levi tugs your hips forward, slots in between your legs, and kisses you even deeper. “it’s time for you to go, captain levi.”

a heavy sigh weighs against your mouth, his exhale warm as he pulls back. “sounds like you want me gone.”

“of course i don’t.” your voice softens as you play with his fingers for a moment, before he's tugging them away gently, withdrawing from your figure. “i'm going to have to find someone else to sleep next to while you’re away."

normally, you would’ve been going with levi and the rest of the scouts, but an injury from your last mission prevented you from going on any more for a few weeks.

levi snorts, putting on his jacket, fixing the leather straps across his chest. “is that all i’m good for? killing titans and keeping your bed warm?”

you make a face at him, then shrug, half-hearted as he stares back at you with amusement. then, you laugh, cheerful and free; you know levi will come back to you. he has no other choice.

levi makes his way towards the door.

“levi?”

he turns, the lipstick stains still visible on his cheek, dark against his pale skin. for a moment, you wonder if you should tell him—if he’d be mad if you didn’t.

but then you remember he’s going to meet with a squad of fifteen year olds that have all almost died alongside him. if they really have a problem with their captain being loved by you, then they don’t care about him as much as you thought.

you smile and shake your head, voice holding just enough mischief for levi to notice. “just be safe. i love you.”

he softens. there are times where levi is hesitant to say the words, still worried you will be taken from him. but this is not one of those times. not when you will be separated for days, his life once again in danger. “i love you too, sweetheart.”

within ten minutes, levi is down to the first floor, pushing into the room where the members of his squad are already waiting.

he’s only a minute late, but he feels like they must have been waiting for hours, the way that they are all gawking at him with wide eyes, connie’s jaw faltering slightly. “everyone here?” levi asks, doing a quick scan of the room, counting heads like he’s their babysitter.

no one says anything. eren’s eyes look like they might bulge out of his head, and jean covers his mouth, looking away as him and sasha let out a stifled giggle.

levi’s mouth draws into an even thinner line. “what the hell are you snickering about?" he grumbles, looking at each of them individually, wondering who will be the first to confess.

their eyes dart away dramatically, faces red. even eren, who is normally more obnoxious than the rest, seems to have run out of words to say.

his eye twitches; levi wonders if connie’s head might burst, or if sasha’s laugh will rip out of her first.

“well?” levi asks again, snapping, already tired of this mission. a hot cup of tea sounds nice, in bed next to you.

armin, as usual, is the one to speak up when no one else has anything intelligent to say. “well, sir,” the blonde says, gesturing towards his own face. “i think…”

levi touches his cheek, remembering all the places you’d kissed him earlier, wearing that pretty black dress and your dark lipstick. a sigh leaves him when he pulls his fingers away, the tips coming back, smeared with a deep red.

he should've known.

“i see," levi says, staring for a moment, before meeting eren's eyes, his lips finally widening into a grin.

“ooooh," eren sings, his expression smug as mikasa elbows him, her own features pinched tight. "the captain’s in looooove."

levi knows they are expecting a reaction, a spectacle of the fact that he adores you. but he’s never kept it a secret, and he’s certainly not ashamed of all the things he feels for you.

“and what if i am?” levi asks instead, pointedly staring eren down as the rest of the scouts watch the exchange. “honestly, i am surprised no one noticed sooner.”

eren’s jaw falters a bit; a small wave of silence falls over the scouts. you and levi don't make a point of hiding your relationship, but really, levi shouldn’t have been surprised that no one in his squad was observant enough to notice.

or so he thought, anyway.

historia’s smaller, high-pitched voice breaks up the quiet, repeating your name back to him, as if affirmation that you’re the one he kisses goodnight. a silly question really, considering levi has never looked at anyone else with the same kind of tenderness.

“it is her, isn’t it?” historia asks, smiling softly. “i only know because you’re always holding hands under the table when you think no one can see.”

levi raises his eyebrow. “clearly we were wrong about that.” though, of all the things to notice, he thought it’d be the way you kiss him after every mission, the way he’s harder on you than anyone else because he doesn’t want to lose you.

eren shrieks your name like he’s never heard it before, and levi is starting to wonder if the boy actually is an idiot. his old squad had known immediately; petra caught you sneaking up to levi’s quarters when you thought everyone else was asleep, kissing him on the cheek when you thought everyone's back was turned.

it’s been a long time since then, he supposes. maybe the years have taught you subtlety.

“how long have you been together?”

“does she actually like you?”

“do you—” connie makes a lewd gesture with his fingers. “you know.”

“connie!” jean shouts, whacking him on the back of the head. “what do you think! dumbass.”

“hey!" connie says, rubbing his head. “geez. i just can’t picture it.”

"i’d rather you didn’t." levi’s face turns sour, disturbed by a room full of teenagers discussing his private and romantic life. “bring it up again and i’ll leave you outside of the wall on the next mission.” he pauses, crosses his arms with an exasperated exhale. “and she likes me just fine. at least, she has for the past five years.”

“five—”

a new wave of questioning starts and levi pinches his temples, shakes his head, the red smear of lipstick still on his face.

levi almost wishes you could’ve been there to field the questions instead. you’ve always been better with the kids, connected with them a lot easier than levi had.

even if it was would’ve exposed his lovesick eyes, the tiny lift of the corner of his mouth when you were around.

he’s never been very good about hiding it anyway.

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kateschi · 7 months ago

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by god, don't leave me

synopsis: in a heart-wrenching moment of despair, katsuki races through a hospital to find you, only to confront the devastating reality.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: have you noticed how much I love "where is my wife?" angst + major character death btw!!

katsuki’s heart pounds in his chest like it’s ready to explode. his legs push him forward, carrying him through the sterile, cold hallways of the hospital, each step echoing off the walls in a frantic, relentless rhythm.

“where is she?” his voice breaks through the silence, barely held together by a thread. “where is my wife?!”

the nurse at the counter starts to respond, her eyes filled with the kind of pity he can’t bear to see. his face contorts in desperation, and he doesn’t wait for her to explain.

he’s moving, his boots slamming against the floor, refusing to believe—refusing to even consider—that he might be too late.

another doctor, another nurse tries to intercept him, but he’s beyond hearing them. he pushes past, breaking into a sprint, his breath coming in gasps, wild and desperate.

when he reaches your room, it’s as if time stops.

there’s a stillness in the air that hits him like a punch to the gut. he stands there, gripping the doorframe, refusing to believe what he sees.

you’re lying in the bed, so quiet, so still. too still.

he stumbles to a halt, the sight of you stealing the last shred of breath he had left. you're lying there so still, too still.

the life that always seemed to burst out of you—the laughter, the warmth, the damn light—it’s all gone. all that’s left is your body, and that makes him furious, desperate, helpless.

“hey.” his voice trembles as he reaches for you, his hand hovering over your cheek before he finally touches it, cupping your face with fingers that shake uncontrollably.

the warmth he’s looking for isn’t there, the color gone from your skin. “come on,” he whispers, his voice barely a breath as his thumb traces your cheek. “come on, y/n, wake up.”

but you don’t respond.

he bites his lip hard, tasting blood, willing the agony to stop because he can’t let you go.

he’s gripping your shoulders now, his fingers sinking into you like he could hold you here, force you back to life by sheer will alone.

“you… you promised,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “you said we’d grow old together, remember? that we’d be those old, grumpy people who couldn’t stand anyone but each other.”

but there’s no answer, no gentle squeeze of his hand, no reassuring smile. just silence. he presses his lips to your forehead, his hands still cupping your face as if he can anchor you, hold you here with him just a little longer.

“you lied to me,” he murmurs, his voice trembling, harsh, as though he can will you back by sheer desperation. “you said you’d stay with me—no matter what. no matter what.”

katsuki's hands go slack, slipping from your face to the edge of the bed, where his knuckles press white into the mattress.

he stares, his mind refusing to process, searching for any sign that this is all some horrible, twisted joke.

for one unbearable, suspended moment, he almost expects you to stir, to open your eyes with that look that says he’s an idiot for worrying so much.

but there��s nothing. just the faint beep of machines, the sterile scent of antiseptic, the steady ache that presses harder and harder against his ribs, hollowing him out with each passing second.

his fingers curl against the sheets as a tremor runs through him, his breath hitching violently. memories flood in unbidden—moments he thought he’d have time to revisit someday.

how you’d laugh and shake your head when he’d scowl over some trivial thing. how you’d tuck yourself into his side on quiet mornings, your hand pressed against his chest, the sound of your breathing steady against his heartbeat.

katsuki feels his throat tighten as he leans down, forehead pressing against the coolness of your hand.

"we had a whole life planned out," he whispers, voice breaking.

“remember? we’d find that crappy house by the beach, fix it up, make it ours. you were gonna paint the walls bright colors, and I was gonna complain and pretend I hated it."

he lets out a jagged breath, eyes clenching shut as his shoulders shake, the reality tearing through him in waves.

this wasn’t supposed to be how it ended. there was supposed to be more—more days, more late nights, more everything.

“I don’t…” he struggles, voice barely more than a broken rasp, “I don’t want to do this without you.” the words slip out, hollow, stripped of all the fire he’s ever had, leaving nothing but the raw ache underneath.

he presses his face into the crook of your neck, searching for any hint of the warmth that was once there, anything to hold onto, but it’s gone.

and it hits him, like the ground crumbling from under his feet, that you’re really not coming back.

the weight of all he’s lost crashes into him. he thinks of the arguments that meant nothing now, all the times he’d leave you with a brusque goodbye, figuring he’d make it up to you later.

how you’d roll your eyes at his stubborn pride, laughing at how he’d scowl at affection in public yet draw you close the moment he thought no one was watching.

he’d do anything to take it all back, just to hold you again, to let you know he’d trade every bit of strength, every scrap of pride if it meant you’d be here, laughing at him, calling him out on his nonsense.

he doesn’t notice the tears streaking down his face as he stares at you, the silence so absolute it feels like it’s burying him.

the room feels colder now, like the world has shifted on its axis, taking you with it.

for a moment, he wonders if he can even go back to the life you both shared; if he can return to the apartment filled with pieces of you in every room, every corner.

katsuki’s shoulders sag under the crushing weight of it all, fingers curling around the edge of the bed as he takes a shuddering breath. he wants to scream, rage, curse the universe for being so damn unfair.

but all he can manage is a broken whisper. “I should have told you more… should have said it every day. you’d have laughed at me, said I was going—soft.”

he gathers you closer, pressing your body against his own as he begins to sway, rocking gently back and forth as though he can somehow soothe the emptiness inside him.

his chest shakes, the first tears slipping down silently, but then they come harder, a ragged sob tearing from his throat as he buries his face in your neck.

“I love you…” the words escape in a cracked whisper, his breath hitching as he clings to you, his grip tightening, desperate.

“I love you… I love you…” he murmurs, his voice breaking more with each word.

his tears fall faster, his breath coming in shuddering gasps, as if the weight of those words—the words he can never say to you again—is too much to bear.

“I love you,” he chokes out, each syllable fractured, his body trembling as he holds you closer, his tears soaking your shoulder.

his heart shatters all over again with every whispered confession, until he’s clutching you so tightly it hurts, his sobs growing louder, rawer, until he’s left gasping, brokenly repeating, “I love you—I love you, y/n—so much.”

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

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augustwinesworld · 22 days ago

Text

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description: It’s been ten years of holding it together — just you and your son, building a life from nothing. But when you walk into his ER in one of the worst moments of your life, everything you’ve carefully kept in place starts to unravel, taking you right back to rock bottom — remembering how it really began.

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? age gap (michael late 40s, reader mid 30s), female reader.

warning: graphic portrayals of a depressive episode, injured minor.

notes: i lied, it’s actually longer than the first one. Also, i wanted to thank everyone for their kind messages, they made me actually melt 💗💫

word count: 4 k

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ (ko-fi)

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

Just for an instant, a second really, everything appeared to stay still. You were both staring at each other with some kind of distant recognition that didn’t really feel right anymore.

Time stopped—or maybe it just cracked. For a second, all Robby could do was stare, breath frozen, stomach caving in on itself like the room had suddenly lost oxygen.

Everyone had seemingly gone silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop—for the story to wove itself in front of their very eyes.

Then everything moved at once.

The trauma bay around him hummed—orders being barked, the sharp beeping of a monitor, a pair of gloved hands reaching for suction—but it all blurred at the edges, sound thinning to a high-pitched whine, like air being pulled from the room.

But he looked at you, really looked at you. Breathing you all in.

And you looked exactly the same.

No, not the same. Older. Stronger. Tired in that way only a mother could be, like you’d carried the weight of a thousand nights with no sleep. But still you. Still you.

His heart stuttered in his chest.

You, on the other hand, were just frozen.

Like something inside of you had stopped working.

Like your brain couldn’t process what you were seeing, and your body was bracing for impact. Your lips parted, soundless, and your expression turned glassy. Like you’d just stepped on a landmine and heard the click.

Michael felt something inside his chest fracture.

Your eyes—god, your eyes—looked through him, then past him, then back again. Like you thought you were hallucinating. Like you wanted him to disappear.

His mouth opened. He didn’t know what he was about to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe just your name again, missing how it felt falling from his lips.

Maybe just please.

Finally, you stepped back.

No—stumbled.

Your hand shot out toward the edge of the table, missing it, and your shoulder hit the wall instead. "I—" you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. "I can't. I can’t do this right now."

And your voice broke on the last word.

He opened his mouth again, throat dry. "Wait—"

"I just—" your hands came up like you could block him out with your palms. "I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now. I can’t—"

"Hey, it’s okay, just—"

But you were already shaking your head, already turning, already backing toward the door with panic in your eyes like he’d set the place on fire just by existing in it.

You didn’t look at him again. Not really. Your eyes fluttered shut like it hurt to see him. Like his presence was too loud, too heavy, too full of old ghosts and wounds that never healed right.

"I’m sorry to interrupt," Whitaker said gently, stepping in at the exact wrong—and—right time. "They’re ready for us upstairs."

Robby didn’t blame him. Whitaker was just doing his job—by the book, probably didn’t even realize the air had gone thin with something heavier than oxygen. Still, Robby felt the moment rupture like tissue paper.

Of course, it had to be him. Of course, it had to happen like this.

You didn’t even look at him again.

"I have to go," you said. Firm. Final.

He reached for you, instinct more than thought. "Wait."

Gone.

The door swung shut behind you, and then it was just him and the echo of your voice in a room that suddenly felt too quiet.

Michael stood frozen. Stupid. Helpless.

He watched you vanish around the corner—following behind the gurney. Watched the back of your salmon-pink scrubs disappear into the chaos of the ER. Watched you leave him. Again.

But all he could see was you.

The way your hands trembled, like you didn’t know what to do with them.

The way you kept pressing them to your chest like you were holding yourself together from the inside out.

The way you walked—fast, clipped, stiff—like if you didn’t keep moving, you’d collapse.

He barely noticed the rest of the trauma team shifting back into motion around him, unaware that something tectonic had just cracked open right there between the trauma room and the nurses’ station.

Because the second you left, everything else fizzled out.

All he could hear was his own heartbeat. Slamming.

All he could feel was the ringing silence you left in your wake.

And all he could think was—She’s here. She’s real. She saw me. And she left.

And behind that, behind the shock, behind the confusion, something darker twisted in his gut.

That boy.

The boy on the gurney.

Michael staggered back a half step.

The timeline rushed in and hit him straight in the face like a brick. Ten years. Ten years since he left. Since he disappeared with nothing but a coward’s note and a bleeding heart.

You hadn’t told him. Not a word. Not a single whisper. And why would you?

He was the one who vanished.

He was the one who chose the silence.

And now here you were, thrown together by whatever cruel god governed the ER, with you looking like you were about to shatter and him finally realizing—maybe he was the one who broke you to begin with.

He blinked hard, his pulse racing, and looked again at the door where you and the kid had left through.

The math wouldn’t stop spinning. The way you looked at the boy. The panic in your voice. The grief.

God.

Is he mine?

The question hit him like a blow to the chest. He couldn’t breathe.

He thought of you walking away, your eyes filled with unshed tears, hands shaking as you whispered those few words.

He thought of that kid, gaunt and still, hooked up to machines, and the way he flinched when someone called out Mom.

It didn’t feel like fate. It felt like punishment.

Like every choice he made led straight to this moment—where everything he’d buried rose back up and God himself asked if he was man enough to face it now.

Michael didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He just stood there—chest tight, stomach twisted, breath caught somewhere between guilt and disbelief—as the trauma team carried on around him, not seeing that he’d just been gutted from the inside out.

He stood there for a long moment, stunned. Then he laughed, under his breath, humorless and tired.

Funny.

The last time he saw you, he’d walked away without a word.

You didn’t stop walking. Couldn’t.

Not until the elevator doors shut behind you with a soft ding and the metal started climbing, floors ticking past too fast. Your hands were still shaking. You tucked them under your arms, tried to breathe through it, but it felt like all the air had been sucked out of her lungs and replaced with something heavier. Thicker. Like you were drowning.

Beside you, Dr. Whitaker said something—not yet, hopefully soon enough—but it barely registered. You nodded because it felt like the right thing to do. The only thing you could do.

Then you were upstairs, in imaging. There were hands guiding your son into the MRI room. Gentle voices. Paperwork. Another nod. Another smile that didn't reach your eyes.

And then you were alone. Finally.

They told you it would be about thirty minutes, maybe more. Long enough to spiral. Long enough to remember.

So you sat.

The plastic chair outside the radiology wing creaked beneath you as you leaned forward, elbows on your knees, face buried in your hands.

You’d seen a ghost.

No—that wasn’t right. He wasn’t a ghost. He was real. He was there. The same hands. The same voice. The same stupid little furrow between his brows when he didn’t know what to say.

And he’d looked at you like—like he’d only just realized everything he left behind had a heartbeat.

Your throat burned.

Ten years.

Ten years of silence, of wondering if he was alive or dead or just fucking cruel. Ten years of birthdays and fevers and nightmares and firsts you had to witness alone. And then he just—appeared. In a trauma bay. In a pair of scrubs. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

Your eyes stung, but you didn’t cry.

Not now.

You’d already done that once.

ten years ago...

The apartment was too quiet.

So quiet it rang in your ears, high-pitched and shrill, like the aftermath of an explosion. The silence didn’t sit still—it crawled. Under your skin. Behind your eyes. In the space between your ribs, where your lungs refused to expand right.

It was never this quiet when he was here.

Even when you were asleep, there was always something—is breathing, the hum of the AC, his dumb phone alarms going off too early, his voice grumbling into her shoulder. Now, it felt…emptied. Like something had been ripped out, and the air still hadn’t settled.

The apartment felt hollow without him.

The walls pressed in—close, too close—like they were waiting for you to crack. You kept thinking that if you were to turn your head fast enough, you might catch them shifting. Watching.

The shadows moved wrong. The light hit strange. The floorboards groaned like they were in pain.

Your phone lit up. Then went dark. Lit up again. Dark again. Nothing.

You didn’t remember sitting down.

But you were curled up on the floor of your—your—bedroom, phone clutched in one hand, knees drawn to your chest, trying to make sense of the nothing he left behind.

Waiting.

Begging.

Please. Please. Please.

Not even a call. Not even a fight.

Just a note.

A fucking note.

Not even a period at the end.

Just gone.

Your hands had been shaking then, too.

You couldn’t cry. Not properly. It’s like your body wouldn’t let you—couldn’t. It held everything tight, like it was scared you’d unravel completely if it loosened its grip for even a second. So you shook instead. Buzzed like a broken wire.

Your brain kept folding in on itself fighting to understand what happened—why?

You’d tried everyone. His old roommate. Coworkers. That one friend from med school whose name you always forgot. But no one had heard from him, said maybe he needed space. Or maybe they had and were lying for him. You didn’t know which hurt more.

Time blurred together after that.

You’d called in sick. Voice hoarse. Hands shaking. Could barely get the words out to your chief resident.

She didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t even hesitate.

Just said, “Take the time,” like she already knew. Like everyone already knew.

And of course they did.

He was a junior attending in the same hospital—had been? They'd all worked side by side, shared vending machine coffee and overnight shifts and quiet glances in scrub rooms.

The day he left, he didn't just disappear from your apartment—he disappeared from the job, too. Vanished from badge logs and email chains. Left behind the kind of silence that carried weight. The kind that people tiptoed around.

They all knew before you did.

You could feel it in the way the chief spoke to you now—soft, deliberate, like you were a glass too cracked to carry water.

And maybe you were.

Because all you could think was: God, they must all think I’m pathetic.

Still showing up with his coffee orders memorized. Still wearing the same necklace. Still smiling like you weren’t about to be gutted out for everyone to see.

A resident falling for her attending—how fucking cliché. Tragic, really.

How many of them had smiled back, already knowing? How many had covered for him, lied for him?

You curled tighter into the blankets, the shame curdling in your stomach like bad milk.

Once a respectable doctor—a future star in her field—with her perfect pink scrubs, perfectly color-coded charts, and “good morning, everyone!” predisposition at six a.m., now reduced to a silence that soaked the walls of their apartment—your apartment—like mold.

The knock on the door came hours later. Or maybe a day. Time had stopped meaning anything long ago.

Had you eaten? Showered?

Had the sun come up? Had it ever been up?

You could taste metal in your mouth and bile at the back of your throat.

The world felt wrong in your bones.

You kept thinking maybe none of it had been real.

Maybe you’d made it all up. Maybe there’d never been a him at all—Michael, Robby, or whatever.

Just a ghost wearing his face, leaving behind traces of himself to fuck with you: the crooked toothbrush, the mug by the sink, the hoodie he’d probably forgotten in the dryer.

The knock on the door was distant. Like hearing it through a dream.

Then another knock. Louder. And finally, the scrape of the spare key jamming into the lock.

It was your sister. Probably.

Still, you didn’t move.

The door opened. Footsteps.

Then just a low mutter—"oh my god."

She didn’t say a word at first. Just dropped to the floor next to you and pulled you into a hug so tight it finally broke something loose.

She was warm and real. Smelled like home—and that cloying cinnamon Bath & Body Works scent she swore by. Too sweet, too strong. It hit your nose like a punch, and for a second, it almost made you gag.

"I don’t know what happened," you whispered. Voice hoarse from little use. Barely there.

"You don’t have to—"

"I don’t know what I did."

That cracked something.

The sobs came sudden and raw, like your body had been waiting for permission. Like your cells had finally given up.

"I—I woke up and he was just gone."

She held you like she used to after you had a bad nightmare. One hand buried in your hair. A slow rock. Whispered words that didn’t matter, because it wasn’t about the words—it was about being held together by someone else, because you couldn’t do it by yourself anymore.

"He didn’t even say goodbye."

"Then he’s a fucking coward," she murmured. "You didn’t do anything wrong."

But your body disagreed.

Everything hurt. Your stomach curled tight into itself. Your skin buzzed. Your bones ached. And your head pounded in a slow, steady throb that never let up.

You muttered, "I feel sick."

"You look sick," She said, pulling back just enough to study her. "You’re pale as hell. Have you eaten anything?"

"I can’t. I keep throwing up."

The words made her sister still. Brow furrowing. Concern slowly creeping in as she watched you.

But she wasn’t really there anymore.

You were staring. Blinking. Staring again.

Because when you looked at her—really looked—someone else took her place.

The eyes. Those same eyes.

Dark brown. Deep and unreadable, but soft in that specific, sickeningly familiar way. Like melted chocolate in sunlight. Like every time you’d caught him looking at you during early rounds, like he could see right through you and liked what he saw.

His eyes.

Right there, on your sister’s face. And it didn’t make sense. It didn’t have to. Logic had left the room days ago.

Your breath hitched. The nausea came back all at once, brutal and specific.

Not just grief. Not just panic. Something else.

Your hand went to your mouth as the room spun. You shoved yourself up and stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time.

The cold tile was unforgiving as you dropped to your knees, your stomach lurching so violently it knocked the breath from your lungs. Bitter, sour heaves wracked your body—nothing left but acid and air.

You clutched the edge of the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping you upright, the only thing keeping you here, in this reality. When your forehead met the cold porcelain, an involuntary sigh slipped out—half relief, half despair—followed by shallow, stuttering breaths that scraped against your ribs.

Your sister followed—quietly, gently—and was behind you in seconds, no questions and no hesitation. She moved like someone who had done this before. Who had been here before.

Without a word, she gathered your hair, pulling it back with practiced ease. One hand rested steady on your back, the other stroking slow circles between your shoulder blades.

"I’ve got you," she murmured. "Just breathe."

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your whole body trembled—not from effort, but from something deeper. Something bone-deep.

Eventually the wave passed. You coughed, spat, and flushed. Tried to rinse the bitterness from your mouth with shaking hands, but your limbs wouldn’t cooperate.

So you just sank back onto your heels, arms limp, forehead pressing against the cool wall beside the toilet.

Your sister knelt beside you. "Are you late?" she said quietly, voice low but edged with something cautious.

Silence.

"And now this."

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

She shifted closer beside you, hand still holding a light grip on your arm. "Hey. Look at me."

You turned.

And there it was again—that look. Worry, yes, but something stronger.

A mirror of a fucking mirror.

Because your sister’s eyes were dark. Chocolate brown. Just like his.

The realization hit like a bruise from the inside out. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes locked on the color you hadn’t been able to stop seeing.

The exact shade.

Your sister’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering, then concern. "What?"

But you didn’t answer. Couldn’t explain. Could only look.

Because it wasn’t your sister’s face you were seeing—it was his. Not fully, not clearly. But there. In the eyes. In the color.

Same warm brown. Kind. Deep. Unmistakable in the sunlight.

And for one terrifying second, it was like time bent sideways, and you could already see it.

Those eyes on someone smaller. Someone impossibly familiar.

You dry-heaved again.

But there was nothing left.

Your sister reached out instinctively, steadying you, voice still soft. "Babe…I think you might be pregnant."

The words didn’t echo. They detonated.

The world tilted. The shadows closed in. The silence wasn’t empty anymore.

It was loud.

A voice broke through the quiet. "Miss?"

You blinked up. Whitaker—scrub pants too short, scuffed badge, steady blue eyes—stood in the doorway, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Uh—hey. Sorry, I—um. The scans came back. No internal bleeding. The head MRI’s clear, no swelling. They’re planning to keep him overnight just to be sure, monitor for delayed stuff, but… he’s stable. He’s okay."

The world tilted again. This time in relief.

"Thank you," you breathed, voice cracking, hands pressed to your chest. "Thank you so much."

He nodded—then hesitated, chewing his lower lip. "There’s just… one thing. There’s no open bed upstairs yet, so they’re going to keep him down here for now. In one of the trauma bays. They’ll curtain it off, make it private. Just temporary."

You nodded without thinking—until it hit you.

Trauma room. Downstairs.

Your stomach clenched on reflex.

Fuck.

Robby was still down there. Which meant you’d all be in close proximity. Same hallway. Same noise. Same oxygen. Which also meant having to talk to him at some point during your stay.

You weren’t a monster. After today, after everything, you couldn’t just slip away without a word. That wasn’t who you were. You refused to be.

But holy shit—why now?

You rubbed your face with both hands. Tried to push the day back, like maybe if you pressed hard enough, it would stop sinking its teeth into you.

It felt like too much. Too soon.

You could picture him already—playing in the nurse’s stations, standing near the room with his arms crossed.

Probably rehearsing what he’s going to say. Probably thinking too much. Or not enough.

Just watching and waiting for the right moment to step in and wreck your life all over again.

He’d come in with that voice—low but tight—and try to stay calm, but you’d hear the cracks in it. You’d feel the weight of everything unsaid pushing through the seams.

He wouldn’t yell. He wouldn’t have to.

He’d just talk, and somehow it would still feel like an accusation.

Like he was grieving something you took from him. Like you’d been the one holding the clock all this time.

Every sentence would be punctuated by a move of his hands—cutting through the air, trying to explain nine years of silence like it could all be mapped out in a few breaths.

You’d sit there, swallowing the heat in your throat, thinking—you left.

But it wouldn’t feel like a win.

It wouldn’t feel like justice.

It would just feel heavy. Sad. Like two people holding the same loss from opposite ends and breaking under the weight.

In the end, when there was nothing left to say, he’d take off his glasses and sigh—like that would make it all go away. Like blowing the air out of his lungs might somehow undo the last ten years—the same way he always did after a bad call earlier in the shift, when guilt started to creep in.

You hated that you remembered that.

You hated that part of you was waiting for it.

You breathed in, shallow. Let it out slow.

Okay. You’d do it.

So you nodded again, carefully this time, like the motion might somehow make the pieces of your life come apart.

Whitaker seemed to notice, but didn’t push. "You’ll be able to see him soon. They're just finishing the last few checks."

You sank into the nearest chair before your knees could give out entirely.

Whitaker hovered awkwardly for a second like he wasn’t sure if he should leave—then sat beside you with a quiet breath, clasping his hands between his knees. "You look like you’ve been through it today."

You let out a shaky, humorless laugh. "That obvious, huh?"

He offered the faintest smile. "I mean… I’ve only been here six weeks, so I don’t really have a baseline. But yeah. Kind of."

A small silence stretched out. Not awkward. Just there.

Then he glanced at the ID still hanging around her neck. "You a doctor?"

You blinked, like you’d only just remembered you were wearing your scrubs. "Yeah. Attending. OB/GYN."

"Ah." His voice softened. "You work here?"

You shook your head. "No, St. Luke’s. But I know some of the attendings here, sometimes I get called in for high-risk emergencies."

"Cross-trained?"

You nodded. "Emergency med. Just enough to be useful when everything goes sideways."

"That’s kind of badass." He let out a quiet whistle. "Bet you’re good in a crisis."

You huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh. "Usually better than my own."

He nodded like he understood. "And your little guy—how old is he?"

"Nine." A smile tugged at your lips despite everything. "Well. Nine and a half, if you ask him."

"Good age."

"Yeah," you said quietly, "he’s a good kid."

"Was it just the two of you today?"

"Yeah. We were headed to—"

You froze mid-sentence, eyes wide.

"Oh my God," you whispered, scrambling for your phone. "Show and Tell."

"What?"

"Career day. It was today. I was supposed to talk to his class about my job—he was so excited—I have to call the school—"

You fumbled to unlock the phone with trembling fingers, heart suddenly thudding all over again, but in a totally different rhythm. Whitaker didn’t stop you. He simply reached out and rested a hand on your arm, grounding.

He just hesitated—and then, gently, offered, "Do you want me to get someone? Or… I can just sit here."

You shook your head, already scrolling. "I just—I have to let them know. His teacher. So they don’t think we just didn’t show."

"I’m sure they’ll understand."

"I know. I just…" Her voice cracked. "He was so proud. He kept practicing how to introduce me."

She swallowed hard, staring at the screen like it might swallow her back.

"I promised I’d be there."

Because that’s what you do, right? You promise. Even when there's nothing left to give.

next chapter ↠

taglist: @snowflames-world, @nosebeers

#𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (august)#𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.｡.:*¤☆#𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch #dr robby x reader #the pitt #the pitt x reader

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beloveds-embrace · 16 days ago

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(p5/final part of fae poly 141 x cursed human reader || masterlist || cw: ANGST) peep the chapter title in the masterlist :D

It came as a quiet- one so deep and vast that even the winds forgot to blow.

The castle knew before anyone. It held its breath, the great hearths snuffing down to embers, the stones cooling beneath its bones. The will-o-wisps blinked out, one by one, not in fear, but reverence- so that today, no one will be led astray. The trees along the garden paths stopped their whispering, leaves still mid-quiver, branches creaking as they turned inward toward the heart of the estate.

Thrain raised his head beneath your chamber window.

The stag, so old and rooted in legend no bard had sung his name rightly in an age, stared skyward as snow began to fall. Slow, soundless. Not cold. Each flake shimmered faintly with magic, with memory. With you.

Inside, the chamber was dim and quiet, lit only by the pale glow of starlight seeping through frost-laced glass. The scent of lavender and winter clover hung in the air, soft and faded like a lullaby remembered from childhood. Curtains, woven with moon-silver threads and embroidered with wards to keep the darker dreams at bay, shifted gently in the breeze that wasn’t there. The room itself seemed to breathe slower now, as if matching your rhythm- one long inhale, one longer silence.

You lay nestled deep beneath layers of velvet and fur, of wildflower-threaded quilts and fae-woven linens that shimmered faintly with old enchantments. Johnny had insisted on them each morning, draping warmth around your ever-fragile frame even when spring had melted the snow and kissed new green into the garden paths. It was his way of trying to keep you rooted here- on this side of the veil.

Your breathing was soft and faint. The curse had slowed in its cruel unraveling, tugged back again and again by the desperate, tireless magic John poured into you. Every drop of power he possessed, every ounce of his life force, siphoned away over the years in hopes of buying you another day, another breath, another smile. It worked for a time.

But nothing lasted forever, and John knew that.

He had known before the sun set.

He sat beside you, unmoving, save for the way his hand combed endlessly through your hair- gentle, reverent, trembling. His other hand held yours, your fingers loose and still, warmed only by his touch. Your head rested against his chest, your face tilted toward the hollow of his throat like a child tucked beneath a parent’s chin. You hadn’t spoken in days, not truly. Only murmured fragments- echoes of half-remembered songs, unfinished questions, and once, the name of a star he hadn’t heard in years. You’d sounded so happy… John’s heart had wanted to tear itself apart.

You were quiet now in the way ancient things are quiet. Like a garden gone to sleep beneath snow, like a book with no more pages left to turn.

John whispered stories to you anyway.

He spoke of the first time you met- how he thought you were too stubborn to survive the fae court and too soft to ever bend it. How wrong he’d been. How the court, the world, and even he had been reshaped around your steady, patient will.

He told you how Simon had found you one morning feeding the ghosts of the orchard, and how Kyle still carried your pressed flower charms in his armor. He recounted Johnny’s latest disaster in the kitchens and how you’d once laughed so hard at him you cried- and gods, how he wished he could hear that sound again. He told you all of it, weaving memory into magic and memory again, as if with enough words, he might stitch your soul into staying.

And as he held you, his voice frayed around the edges.

"I love you," he said. Not for the first time. Not for the last. The words cracked like porcelain dropped from too high a shelf. “Still. Always.”

Your breathing, already shallow, paused, and he stilled in turn.

Then, you sighed- just once. A sound as soft and weightless as the falling of a single petal from a long-dead flower, peace in each strand. A sound of release, a breath unburdened.

And then- you were gone.

No thunder nor flash of light, and no violent wrenching. Just absence- the soul's candle guttered in silence.

Your fingers slipped from his. Your warmth, so long faint, faded fully. Your face went still in the most peaceful way, a small smile carved on your cheeks like something ancient had simply returned to the earth it loved. The faintest glow that had always clung to your skina your humanity tempered with magic, your life steeped in love- shimmered once, and then dimmed like a star blinking out.

John did not move.

He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

The grief did not crash into him; it hollowed him, slowly, like the sea does to cliffside stone. He stared down at your face, memorizing what he already knew. The curve of your lips. The flutter of lashes against your cheek. The small scar on your jaw from where you’d once fallen in the Queen’s Gardens.

John did not weep even if several tears tracked down into his beard. His hands, too strong to tremble in battle, now trembled with the soft weight of your body in his arms. He could not weep, for he knew this- this was your peace. He had done his best to find a cure, but- life was not kind.

A low, resonant groan echoed through the castle, neither man-made nor fae.

The very walls- alive with magic older than time itself- mourned you. A wail of stone and a s sigh of timbers. Crystals embedded in the ceiling chimed once and shattered and the lights in the sconces flickered to ash. The wind outside did not howl- but it bent, as if bowing low to the one it had once braided through wildflower hair.

And still, John did not let you go.

He held you through the coming dark, his chest silent but for the uneven quake of breath between shaky breaths, his magic still curled around you like a desperate tether. And for hours, he simply rocked you. As if in this moment, you were still alive. As if holding you long enough might unmake the inevitable.

But death, like magic, answers to no king.

And your body stayed still and at peace.

You had left with no anger in your heart, no hatred nor guilt. You left only love, quiet and worn and fierce- threaded through every inch of the man who now mourned you.

A soul as lovely as yours could never die cruelly.

It simply… drifted home, and John understood that even if he felt something shatter so deeply it echoed across every realm.

You were gone.

No cry and no shudder, just the soft parting of a thread from a tapestry.

Later, it was Simon who walked in first. He did not speak, only looked at John- stone-eyed and trembling, and knelt beside the bed to touch your cooling hand. Kyle arrived moments later, lips parted as if he might beg you to wake. But his voice failed him and so he sat on the floor, pressing a kiss to your palm and weeping quietly into your skirts.

Johnny didn’t believe it.

He shook his head, muttering, “No, no, not yet, not today, she promised she’d stay-” over and over, until Simon caught him and held him still while he sobbed like a child.

The castle keened.

The bellflowers shriveled in their hanging baskets. The ivy browned and curled. The air itself bent with sorrow, and the spirits of the hallways- kindly, playful little creatures- huddled in corners, their small eyes wide with grief.

Outside, Thrain bowed his antlers low and walked slowly through the gates of the high keep. His hooves did not echo and no one stopped him.

He climbed the stairs, impossible though they were for a creature of his size, until he stood in the doorway of your chamber. And all the men- wounded and raw and grieving- stepped aside for they knew.

He had come for you.

With reverence, Thrain knelt beside your bed. He took in your face- still so gentle, still so full of grace, even in death. He pressed his massive muzzle to your chest and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then, with a breath of magic so quiet even the fae barely felt it- your soul slipped free like morning sunlight spilling through an open window.

It rose, soft and warm, radiant with the echo of every kindness you’d ever given. Every time you’d kissed a servant’s brow or sung to the garden or asked a crying will-o-wisp what was wrong. Every time you’d called Thrain your dearest friend, every time you’d held hands with the men, and every time you’d forgiven John with that smile- always that smile.

And Thrain caught your tender soul.

Delicate, light as wind through reeds, and glowing like the first star of twilight. He cradled it in a curl of his antlers, the shadows of your memory flickering through the air around him- your laugh, your hum, your gentle little sighs of thought. He stepped carefully back from the bed.

John sank to his knees, and he still did not cry. There was no breath left in him to do so.

Thrain walked. Out of the castle and through the mourning halls, the bowing dryads, the crumbling roses, the silent sprites. Through the gate, down the weeping forest paths, across the river that had frozen at the moment of your death.

He walked and walked, until no living soul would reach his pace and spot.

And when he reached it, the veils parted for him alone, and he stepped into starlight.

The trees there had no bark, only silver and the roots sang hymns and chants. The sky was soft and black and full of ancient light. Thrain stood at the edge of the great pool of souls, and he bent his head low.

He did not let you fall.

He lowered you with gentleness carved from centuries of patience and pain, until your soul touched the surface of the pool like the caress of a mother’s hand.

And the water welcomed you, for you were a memory that would never die. A memory that caressed the space between his antlers just before he returned alone.

And the men- your men- stood at the gates, waiting, and they bowed their heads as he passed.

And John, still dressed in the clothes he wore when you left him, touched the place in the air where your soul had once lingered and whispered, for the last time:

"I love you."

The castle echoed the words for centuries.

And the world, though emptier, remembered you in everything that still dared to be kind.

“Will you still love me when I forget what love is?”

“Always.”

715 notes · View notes

shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

Text

romeo and cinderella | sylus

synopsis : He was romeo, and you were cinderella, not juliet. content : highschool!au, angst/fluff, light/implied smut

“You better be home right after school, or else.”

Your mother’s voice echoes behind you as the screen door slams shut, a sharp final note to the morning’s lecture.

You swing your leg over your bike, muttering under your breath, “Yes, Mother,” though you know she’s probably already turned away, satisfied enough by the command, not the response.

You begin pedaling down the cracked sidewalk, the same route as every other morning.

Past the corner store with its faded awning, past Mrs. Tanaka watering her sunflowers.

Nothing ever changes here.

Not the way to school, not the way home, not the rhythm of your days.

You live a simple life—though calling it ‘yours’ might be generous. It’s a life curated by someone else, shaped by rules you never agreed to and expectations you never asked for.

You’re eighteen. Old enough to vote, drive, be trusted with futures and responsibilities.

But not old enough to stay out past seven. Not allowed to date, to fall in love, to bring friends over, or even choose your own clothes half the time.

It’s a cage dressed up as safety.

And you’ve lived in it long enough to memorize every shadow on the bars.

At school, you barely register your arrival. Your feet move on autopilot, locking your bike in place and weaving through the murmuring clusters of students.

You offer polite nods, a faint smile here and there. No one notices your mind isn’t really with you. No one ever does.

Classes pass in a blur of chalk dust and droning voices. You scribble down notes you won’t remember taking, your handwriting slanting with disinterest.

By the time the lunch bell rings, your body moves instinctively, your thoughts still elsewhere.

You make your way to your usual spot—the one place that still feels like yours.

Tucked behind the gym, nestled beneath a towering tree that blooms early and sheds late, it’s quiet, hidden. You’ve claimed this little slice of peace for as long as you can remember.

But today, someone’s already there.

You stop short.

Sprawled lazily beneath the tree’s shade is a boy you’ve never seen before.

Tall. Long legs stretched out like he owns the place. A mop of white, unkempt hair flops over his eyes.

He’s got his hands folded behind his head, earphones in, entirely at ease.

You hesitate, unsure. He’s in your space.

Clearing your throat, you step forward, hoping your presence might be enough to make him move.

He doesn’t notice you at first—not until you stand close enough to block the sun.

One eye cracks open, then the other, sharp and startled. He pulls out an earbud, brows knitting together.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is laced with irritation, edged like he’s the one being intruded upon.

You blink at him, unimpressed. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He sits up a little, smirking. “Go away. I’m trying to relax.”

You roll your eyes, not in the mood for games. “This is my spot.”

Before he can respond, you lower yourself onto the grass beside him and open your lunchbox, ignoring the way his gaze lingers.

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the weight of his curiosity. Most students avoid him, you can tell. He’s probably used to being left alone.

Which makes your defiance all the more intriguing.

You take a quiet bite of your food, refusing to look at him. But in your peripheral vision, you can see him watching you—like he’s trying to figure out why you’re not scared, not flustered, not gone.

You take your third bite in silence, pretending not to notice the eyes still fixed on you.

But they don’t move. Not even once.

Annoyed, you finally turn to him, and it startles him enough to make him flinch—just slightly, like he didn’t expect to be caught.

“Why are you staring?” you ask, your tone sharper than you intended. Irritation prickles under your skin, but so does something else. A flicker of curiosity.

He blinks, processing the question for a beat too long before that crooked smile returns.

“You’re not running away,” he says, like it’s the most curious thing in the world.

You raise a brow. “Should people run from you?”

He shrugs, dropping his gaze to the grass as he reclines back onto his elbows. “People think I’m trouble.”

There’s no real emotion in his voice—just a statement, tossed out like it doesn’t matter. Like he’s used to it.

You chuckle under your breath. “I can see why.”

That gets his attention.

He sits up again, turning to face you more fully this time. “Really? You can see why?”

The sudden shift in his voice catches you off guard. It isn’t defensive. It isn’t smug.

For the briefest moment, something cracks in his expression—just a flicker—but enough for you to see it. The vulnerability beneath the bravado.

The way his sharp features don’t quite mask the tiredness in his eyes.

You blink. “I—I meant that as a joke,” you say quickly, your voice quieter now. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He looks down for a moment, something unreadable crossing his face. Then, slowly, he meets your gaze again.

“I’m Sylus,” he says, extending a hand between you, palm open.

You stare at it for a moment, unsure why your heart gives a strange little stutter.

Then you slip your hand into his. His grip is warm, firm, and not quite what you expected.

“Y/N,” you say, softer than before.

And for the first time in a long time, it feels like something unfamiliar is growing in the quiet between you—not fear, not obedience. Just something… new.

The shrill cry of the school bell cuts through the quiet, startling a few birds from the branches above.

You sigh, glancing down at your half-eaten lunch with reluctant eyes.

Time always moves too quickly when you actually want it to slow down.

You push yourself to your feet and glance at Sylus, who’s still sprawled in the grass like the concept of responsibility doesn’t apply to him.

“Aren’t you going to class?” you ask, brushing crumbs from your skirt.

He stretches lazily, not even pretending to feel guilty. “Not really my kind of thing.”

You chuckle despite yourself, the sound escaping before you can stop it. He’s strange. Infuriatingly nonchalant. And yet… there’s something about him that tugs at your curiosity, something that makes you pause just a little longer.

“Then you can have my lunch,” you say casually, setting the box down on his lap.

He blinks, surprised, but before he can respond, you’re already standing, turning to leave.

“See ya,” you toss over your shoulder with a small wave, your voice light.

You don’t wait to see his reaction. You don’t need to.

But if you had lingered a moment longer, you might’ve seen the way he sat up straighter, mouth parted in astonishment as he called after you—softly, almost like he didn’t mean to.

“Wait—”

But you’re already gone, swallowed by the hallway crowd, the echo of your presence lingering like sunlight after clouds.

Sylus stares at the empty space you left behind, then down at the lunch box still warm in his lap.

His fingers curl around it, and for some reason he can’t name, his chest tightens just a little.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips as he leans back again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Interesting,” he murmurs to no one in particular, and this time, the word tastes like a promise.

—•

You return home after school, the weight of the day pressing heavier on your shoulders than usual.

The front door creaks as you open it, and the moment you step inside, voices drift from the kitchen—sharp, angry, overlapping. Your parents. Again.

You pause in the hallway, listening for a beat. Same tone. Same fight. Different day.

With a sigh, you toe off your shoes and head straight for the stairs, not bothering to greet them. You know they wouldn’t notice if you did. You’re just a shadow in this house anyway—seen only when convenient.

Your room welcomes you like an old habit, quiet and familiar. You drop your bag by the door with a dull thud and collapse face-first into your bed.

The sheets are cool, and for a moment, you just breathe, hoping that if you lie still enough, the world might forget you exist.

But the yelling doesn’t stop.

Even through the walls and the floorboards, their voices seep in—accusations, bitterness, blame hurled like knives across countertops. You bury your head into your pillow, groaning softly.

It’s always like this. The noise. The pressure. The invisible weight of being stuck somewhere you don’t belong.

You close your eyes.

And for a fleeting second, you wish you could disappear.

Not forever.

Just long enough to breathe.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, trying to block out the sounds of your parents’ voices—each word another crack in a foundation already long crumbled.

But then, without meaning to, your thoughts begin to drift.

To him.

To Sylus.

You picture him beneath that tree, white hair catching the dappled light like strands of silk, that half-lidded gaze studying you with something between amusement and disbelief.

You didn’t even know him. Not really. And yet, his presence stuck to you like the scent of rain after a storm—faint, lingering, impossible to forget.

You remember the surprise in his eyes when you didn’t flinch. The flicker of something vulnerable he tried to mask behind smirks and sarcasm. And the way his voice had softened—just barely—when he said his name.

Sylus.

It rolls around in your mind, foreign but familiar, like a secret you weren’t supposed to hear.

You shift on your bed, hugging your pillow to your chest.

You weren’t supposed to care.

He was just a stranger. A boy who didn’t go to class and didn’t follow rules and didn’t care about things like fitting in.

And yet… when you handed him your lunch, when you turned your back and walked away, something in you felt lighter. Just a little.

Like someone had finally seen you.

And didn’t look away.

—•

Dinner passed in silence.

Not the peaceful kind—but the brittle, suffocating quiet that stretches too long and says too much without a word.

Your parents didn’t speak. Not to each other. Not to you.

They just sat at opposite ends of the table, chewing mechanically, eyes locked on their plates like looking anywhere else might reignite the fire.

The remnants of their earlier argument still hung in the air like smoke—unseen but heavy, clinging to the walls, to your skin, to every breath you took.

You ate quietly, each movement practiced, calculated.

You’d long since learned how to cut food without scraping the plate, how to set your chopsticks down without a sound.

Any noise could become an excuse. A trigger.

And tonight, the last thing you wanted was to become your mother’s outlet again.

So you focused on your food, on the silence, on being invisible.

And then, without warning, your thoughts slipped elsewhere.

To the shade of that tree. To a pair of unreadable, red eyes beneath a mess of white hair.

Sylus.

The name echoed softly in your mind, drawing the smallest smile to your lips—so faint it barely formed.

But it was there. A crack in the numbness.

Would he be there again tomorrow?

You didn’t know. He seemed like the kind of person who drifted through places like wind, never staying long enough to be caught.

But the thought of seeing him again—of hearing his voice, that low drawl half-laced with amusement—was enough to make your chest tighten, just a little.

You stared down at your half-finished plate, the tension in the room pressing in around you.

But for once, your thoughts were somewhere else entirely. Somewhere quieter.

Somewhere he was.

After dinner, you escape back to your room without a word. No one notices. No one stops you.

You close the door behind you with a gentle click, shutting out the rest of the house—the cold air, the silence that somehow feels louder than shouting, the ghosts of conversations that never lead anywhere.

And then, without bothering to change, you sink into your bed.

The mattress greets you like a friend—soft, familiar, forgiving. You exhale slowly, the weight of the day bleeding out of your limbs as you melt into the covers.

Your face sinks into the pillow, and for the first time that day, your body feels like it belongs to you again.

Your thoughts drift—naturally, inevitably—to him.

To the boy with white hair and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much.

To that smirk of his—sharp, teasing, but not quite enough to hide the quiet behind it.

Sylus.

You didn’t know anything about him, not really. And yet he lingered in your mind like a whisper.

Something about him felt… different.

Like he existed just slightly outside the world you knew. Untouchable. Unapologetic. And for some reason, he hadn’t looked away.

You turn onto your side, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

Maybe he wouldn’t be there tomorrow. Maybe it had been a one-time thing.

But the last thought that flickers through your mind before sleep pulls you under is not a maybe.

It’s a hope.

That he will.

—•

The next morning came like it always did—same time, same routine.

But something was different.

Your steps felt lighter, like the air was just a little less heavy. Like your heart remembered how to float, if only for a little while. And you knew why.

Sylus.

Just thinking of him—his careless sprawl under the tree, the way he’d blinked at you in surprise, the unexpected softness behind his smirk—made something stir in your chest.

Something warm.

You smiled. Not the kind you wear when someone expects it. A real one.

And as you pedaled your way to school, wind brushing against your cheeks, you even waved to Mrs. Tanaka watering her sunflowers.

She blinked in surprise, then returned your greeting with a smile of her own.

Same sidewalk. Same cracked roads. Same school gate.

But everything felt just a little less gray.

You parked your bike, walked to class, slid into your seat. But this time, your mind wasn’t lost in thought—it was focused, waiting. Listening for that bell.

The hours dragged like molasses. You stared at the clock more times than you could count.

Your notebook remained mostly blank, your pencil tapping restlessly against the desk.

Every tick of the second hand felt like a lifetime.

And then—finally—the lunch bell rang.

Before your teacher could finish their sentence, you were up, books shoved into your bag in a clumsy blur.

You heard someone call your name, confused by your sudden burst of energy, but you didn’t slow down.

You’d never bolted out of class so fast in your life.

Because for the first time in a long time, you were going toward something.

Someone.

And you couldn’t help the way your heart raced just a little faster with every step.

You stepped onto the familiar patch of grass, the sun filtering through the leaves of the old tree, casting dancing shadows across the ground.

It was just as you remembered—quiet, tucked away, untouched.

Except… he wasn’t there.

Your heart sank a little harder than you wanted to admit.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space beneath the tree.

Maybe he really was just passing through. A flicker in your routine, never meant to stay. You scolded yourself for getting your hopes up, but the sting of disappointment still pressed against your chest.

With a small sigh, you lowered yourself onto the grass, the silence pressing in around you again—but this time, it felt heavier.

Lonelier.

You pulled out your lunch box and set it in your lap, staring at it for a beat before opening it.

Your fingers hesitated at the lid. The food looked the same, but somehow the moment felt… emptier. Duller.

You were just about to take a bite when—

“You’re here again.”

The voice came from behind you—cool, casual, and unmistakably familiar.

Your breath caught.

You turned your head quickly, eyes wide. There he was, hands in his pockets, the ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Sylus.

His white hair was a little messier than yesterday, like he’d slept through the first few periods—which, knowing him, he probably had.

But his eyes held a glint of amusement. And something else.

Relief.

“You’re late,” you said, voice softer than you expected, betraying the way your heart had leapt.

He shrugged, stepping forward, dropping lazily onto the grass beside you like he belonged there. “Had to make sure you’d actually show up.”

You tried not to smile—but it was hopeless.

You watch as he settles beside you, pulling a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers like it holds some grand meaning.

“What do you usually do in class?” you ask, curiosity slipping into your tone before you can catch it.

He glances at you sideways, as if debating whether to give you a real answer.

Then he shrugs. “Sleep. If not, sleep.”

You blink, then let out a laugh—quiet, but genuine. “Impressive. A man of great ambition.”

Sylus smirks, turning his head to face you more fully. “I get by.”

You shake your head with mock disapproval, though your lips are still tugging upward. “You know, most people come to school to learn.”

“Most people aren’t me.”

You raise a brow. “And what makes you so special?”

He leans back on his elbows, eyes flicking up toward the branches overhead. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You don’t reply right away, letting the silence stretch between you—not awkward, but comfortable, like the space under the tree was made to hold secrets too heavy for classrooms and dinner tables.

And even though you’re not sure what he’s hiding behind that smirk, for now, you’re just glad he’s here.

“Tell me more about yourself,” he says suddenly, arms slung over his knees, posture relaxed but eyes focused—really focused—on you.

You blink, caught off guard. “Like what?”

He shrugs, but there’s a weight behind the gesture, like he’s genuinely interested. “I don’t know. Something real. Something that isn’t ‘my favorite color is blue’ or ‘I like cats.’”

You pause, unsure where to begin. No one really asked you things like that. No one ever really cared to know.

“Okay,” you say slowly, picking at the edge of your lunch box.

“I… hate the sound of yelling. I memorize the floorboards that creak so I don’t step on them. I like quiet places. And I like the smell of rain.”

He hums softly, and you glance at him. His expression is unreadable—no teasing smirk, no snide remark. Just quiet attention.

“Rain smells like everything’s starting over,” you add, voice softer now. “Even if it never really does.”

There’s a moment of stillness. Then he leans back again, lying on the grass with one arm folded behind his head.

“That’s the kind of answer I wanted,” he murmurs, eyes half-closed.

You turn to him, watching the way sunlight filters through the leaves, painting dappled patterns across his face.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel seen.

Really seen.

You watch him for a moment longer, then tilt your head, curiosity tugging at your voice.

“What about you?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

His gaze stays fixed on the canopy above, lashes casting shadows against his cheeks.

For a second, you think he didn’t hear you. But then he exhales through his nose—quiet, almost like a sigh.

“What about me?” he echoes.

You smile faintly. “Something real. Nothing about favorite colors or animals.”

Sylus is quiet again. Not in that dismissive, detached way you’ve seen before—but in a way that feels like he’s weighing something. Testing the edges of trust.

Then, finally. “I don’t like making promises.”

You blink. That’s not what you expected.

“I’ve seen what they do to people when they break,” he adds, voice low, almost like he’s not talking to you at all.

He glances at you then, just briefly. “So I don’t make them. I don’t like pretending I can protect something I might lose.”

You’re quiet, letting his words settle. There’s pain there—buried beneath the surface, guarded by sarcasm and smirks. But it’s real.

You don’t push. You just nod.

“Okay,” you say softly.

And somehow, that’s enough.

He shifts his gaze back to the sky, but there’s something different in the air now—like a thread pulled taut between you, fragile but undeniable.

The bell rings, its shrill cry slicing through the peaceful hush under the tree.

You sigh, already missing the silence, the strange comfort of his presence.

“Time to go,” you murmur, standing and brushing grass from your skirt. You’re about to turn away when you feel it—a gentle tug at your wrist.

You look down.

Sylus’s fingers are curled loosely around you, not tight, not demanding. Just enough to stop you.

You meet his eyes.

“See you again tomorrow,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. There’s no smirk this time. No sarcasm. Just something quiet and sure.

You feel your heart stutter, warmth spreading through your chest before you even know what to say.

You nod, unable to help the smile pulling at your lips.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Tomorrow.”

And as you walk away, his touch still lingering on your skin, you don’t even realize you’re smiling the whole way back to class.

—•

It became a routine before you even realized it.

Each day, you’d wake to the same gray house, the same dull mornings, the same heavy silence at breakfast. But the air felt a little lighter now.

The walls didn’t press in as much. The arguments still happened, but they didn’t follow you as far. Because you had something else. Someone else.

Classes dragged, slower than ever—your eyes drifting to the clock, counting down until the bell would ring and you could escape.

Not from school, not from your life.

But to something.

To him.

Every day, he’d be there beneath the tree.

Sometimes already sprawled out with his earphones in, sometimes tossing pebbles or tearing at blades of grass, always waiting. Always staying.

And every day, you’d sit beside him like you belonged there. Because you did.

You learned little things about him—not all at once, but in fragments he let slip when he thought you weren’t paying too close attention.

His favorite season was autumn, because it felt like the world was quietly falling apart, and no one noticed.

He hated the cold, though. Said it reminded him of places he never wanted to go back to.

And once, when the light had turned especially soft through the trees, he’d said it out loud, “I wanna run away from here.”

You remembered the way he said it—not in a dramatic way, but like it was just a fact. A quiet truth he’d been holding for too long.

You had smiled at that. “Bring me along.”

And he’d glanced at you, surprised—but then his lips curled into the faintest smirk, and for a second, it looked like he was actually thinking about it.

Sometimes he’d hand you one of his earbuds without a word. You never asked what he was listening to—you didn’t need to. You just leaned in, shoulder brushing his, and let the music fill the space between you.

There was something inexplicably sweet about it.

The intimacy of sharing sound. Of hearing what he hears, just for a moment. It felt like being invited into a part of his world he didn’t show anyone else.

And slowly, gently, it stopped feeling like escape.

It started to feel like home.

Perhaps this was love, you thought to yourself.

Not the kind you saw in movies or read about in borrowed books.

Not loud declarations or roses at your doorstep. Not dramatic confessions in the rain.

This was quieter.

This was sitting beneath a tree, knees nearly touching, his music in your ear and the warmth of his presence beside you.

This was the way your heart stilled around him—not in fear, but in peace. The way his voice could cut through the noise in your head and leave behind something calm.

This was the way he listened. Really listened. Even when you talked about things that didn’t matter.

Even when your words trailed off. He stayed.

It was the way you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he was memorizing you.

And maybe you were memorizing him too.

His sharp features softened in sunlight. The quiet rhythm of his breathing when he closed his eyes. The sound of his laugh when it came—rare, unguarded, and entirely real.

You never said it out loud.

Maybe you didn’t have to.

Because love, you were learning, didn’t always have to be declared.

Sometimes, it was felt.

In the way your heart fluttered at the thought of seeing him again.

In the way the world stopped feeling like something to run from…

and started feeling like something you could share.

—•

You woke to the sound of something soft—barely there.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the moonlit darkness of your room.

For a moment, you thought you were dreaming. But then it came again. Gentle. Persistent.

Tap. Tap.

Groggy and confused, you slipped out of bed, the cool floor meeting your bare feet as you shuffled toward the window.

You pulled the curtain back—and nearly screamed.

Sylus.

His face was right there, peering in through the glass, silver hair glowing faintly under the pale moonlight. He wore that same smug smirk he always did when he knew he was getting a rise out of you.

You stared at him in disbelief, heart racing in your chest. His breath fogged the glass slightly, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

You slid the window open with a hurried, startled whisper. “What are you doing here?”

He leaned casually against the frame, one hand gripping the edge, the other tucked in the pocket of his hoodie. “Thought I’d drop by,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You blinked. “So you climbed up to my window?”

“Would’ve knocked on your door,” he shrugged, “but your mom doesn’t seem like she’d take that well.”

You almost laughed—but the sound caught in your throat as you took in the sight of him.

Standing outside your window in the middle of the night like something out of a dream you weren’t supposed to have.

And yet, he was real.

Real, and here.

You glanced over your shoulder, half-expecting to hear footsteps down the hall. But the house was still. Silent.

With a sigh, you reached out and offered him your hand.

“Come on. Carefully,” you whispered, heart pounding in your chest as though it might give you away.

Sylus raised a brow, clearly enjoying himself. “Afraid of waking the beasts?”

You shot him a look. “Afraid of you falling and taking me down with you.”

He chuckled under his breath, then took your hand. His fingers were warm—rougher than you expected, but steady.

You stepped back, guiding him through the window as quietly as possible. His feet landed on the floor with barely a sound, though the thrill of it made your pulse race.

When he straightened, you were suddenly very aware of how close he stood.

Only a breath away.

His eyes flicked around your room—walls painted in soft tones, books stacked in uneven piles, a few pictures tacked on the corkboard above your desk. It wasn’t much, but it was yours.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just… looked.

“What?” you asked, trying to keep your voice low and steady.

“Nothing,” he said, though his voice had lost its usual edge. “Just… didn’t think this would suit you.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “You’re too big for this room.”

You blinked at him.

“It’s like putting a star in a shoebox,” he added with a smirk, stepping past you and collapsing onto your bed like he belonged there.

You stared at him for a second, heart still racing—not from fear, not even from the absurdity of it all—but from the way he looked so natural there.

Like he’d always been meant to be in this space.

In your space.

You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “You’re unbelievable.”

He grinned up at you, arms behind his head. “And yet, here I am.”

You sigh, shaking your head as you draw the curtains shut and switch on the small lamp on your desk. Its glow is dim, casting your room in a gentle amber light. Soft shadows stretch across the walls, and for a moment, it feels like time has slowed.

You turn back to him.

He’s not smirking anymore.

His eyes are on the ceiling, the faint creases in his brow more noticeable now that he’s not hiding behind sarcasm. He looks… tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix, but something deeper. Something old.

You sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to get too close.

“You okay?” you ask, the question barely a whisper.

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Then:

“Sometimes,” he says quietly, “I get this feeling like I’m not really… here. Like I’m just walking through everything. Going through the motions.”

You glance at him. He’s still looking at the ceiling, but there’s something fragile in his voice. A crack beneath the surface.

“It’s not even about being bored. It’s more like…” He trails off, brow tightening.

“Like you don’t belong?” you finish for him, gently.

His eyes flick to yours. And this time, he doesn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he says. Just that. But it’s enough.

The silence stretches between you again, softer now. It doesn’t feel empty—it feels like understanding.

Like a shared ache neither of you fully know how to name.

You shift, your voice tender. “I feel that way all the time.”

He studies you for a beat longer, then exhales through his nose, something in his shoulders loosening.

“I don’t talk about this,” he admits, almost reluctantly. “Not with anyone.”

You nod. “Me neither.”

He turns his head toward you, his expression unreadable, but no longer guarded.

And in the hush of your dim-lit room, with only the moon beyond the window as witness, you feel the space between your bodies shrink—not in distance, but in silence.

You don’t reach for him. He doesn’t move toward you.

But something important shifts.

He came here to run from the world.

And instead, he found someone who stayed.

He’s still looking at you. The kind of look that feels like it’s peeling back layers.

You swallow. “My house… it’s not really a home.”

Sylus blinks, his expression shifting—still quiet, but more alert now. He doesn’t interrupt.

“My parents argue all the time,” you continue, voice low. “Sometimes it’s shouting. Sometimes it’s just silence. But it’s always heavy. Always there.”

He shifts, turning more toward you on the bed. “Is that why you eat so quietly?”

You let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I learned early on not to make noise. Not to draw attention. Especially when they’re angry.”

“Do they ever…” he hesitates, the words sticking. “Do they take it out on you?”

You pause. Then nod. “My mom does. Not always physically. But words can bruise just as much.”

His jaw tightens. He looks away for a second. “I know what that’s like.”

You glance at him, surprised.

He lets out a breath. “My dad used to yell. At my mom. At me. At nothing. I stopped listening at some point, but the noise… it sticks.”

There’s a silence that follows. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s a shared space now. A small pocket of honesty.

“Is that why you don’t like making promises?” you ask.

He meets your gaze again, this time without deflecting. “Yeah. I watched too many get broken.”

You nod slowly. “Me too.”

Another pause. Then, quietly,

“Sometimes I think about leaving,” you admit. “Just… packing up and going. Even if I don’t know where.”

He gives a soft smile. “Still want me to bring you along?”

You manage a small laugh. “If you’re offering.”

He nudges your knee with his. “Always.”

The quiet stretches again, but this time it’s warm. Safe.

He looks at you like he wants to say something more, but instead he just says, “Thanks… for telling me.”

You smile faintly. “Thanks for listening.”

And just like that, something delicate is built between you. Not loud. Not spoken with grand gestures. Just two people sharing the weight they’ve carried alone for too long.

And for once, it doesn’t feel quite as heavy

—•

A week passed.

And somehow, everything changed—without the world even noticing.

Every day, he was there beneath the tree, waiting. Like he always had been. Like he always would be.

You’d sit beside him, knees brushing, sharing lunch, music, thoughts neither of you dared to voice out loud anywhere else.

Your laughs came easier now. Your silences, more comfortable. The smirks he wore softened when he looked at you.

And your smiles—real ones—came without effort.

But it was the nights that changed everything.

Every night, just past midnight, there would be a soft tap at your window.

And every night, you’d let him in.

It became something sacred.

The hush of your room, the warmth of whispered words, the stolen hours under moonlight. You talked until you couldn’t keep your eyes open.

Some nights, you sat close enough to feel the press of his shoulder against yours.

Other nights, he’d lie beside you on the bed, quiet, eyes on the ceiling, your hands just barely touching between the sheets.

You didn’t know what it meant.

But it felt like something.

Something real.

That night, he was lying next to you again—one arm under his head, the other draped loosely across his stomach.

You were turned toward him, propped on your side, watching his profile in the soft lamplight.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He turned to you, eyes meeting yours. “Hmm?”

You hesitated for a second, heart beginning to thrum. “Can I tell you something kind of… embarrassing?”

His mouth curved slightly. “You? Embarrassed? Now I have to hear it.”

You smiled faintly, then lowered your gaze. “I’ve never dated anyone before.”

He blinked, surprised, but he didn’t speak.

You continued, quieter now. “Never kissed anyone either.”

There was a long pause.

And when you looked up, he wasn’t teasing you. There was no smirk. No snarky comment waiting to pounce.

Just him.

Present. Listening.

“Why?” he asked gently.

You shrugged. “My parents… they never let me. I was always too afraid to try. And I guess no one ever really looked at me that way either.”

He tilted his head. “They were blind.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard.

He held your gaze, voice soft but steady. “You’re… something else, you know that?”

Your throat tightened, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and the unfamiliar warmth curling in your chest.

You smiled, a little shakily. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m really not.”

And for a moment, in the stillness of your room, with the lamp casting its soft halo around the two of you, the world outside disappeared.

Just you.

And him.

And the space in between… getting smaller every night.

Your smile faded slowly, but the warmth he left behind remained—settled deep beneath your skin, in your chest, in the air between you.

He was still looking at you. Not just glancing. Looking. Like he could see right through to the quiet parts of you no one else had ever tried to find.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Have you?”

He blinked, eyes softening. “Have I what?”

“Kissed someone before.”

There was a pause. Then he nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

You swallowed, looking down for a second. “Was it… nice?”

“It wasn’t this,” he said quietly.

Your eyes lifted to his, and your breath caught.

He was close now. You hadn’t realized how close until your knees were touching again, until you could feel the faint warmth of his breath brushing your cheek.

“Can I—” he stopped himself, brows pulling together slightly.

You tilted your head, heart fluttering. “What?”

“I was going to ask if I could kiss you,” he murmured, voice low, raw with sincerity. “But I don’t want to ruin anything.”

“You won’t,” you whispered.

The distance between you was a thread now—thin, fragile, and pulling tighter with every heartbeat.

You could feel his hesitation—like he was waiting for you to change your mind, to pull away.

But you didn’t.

You leaned in first.

And when his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t perfect. It was careful. Almost hesitant. Like he was afraid he might break something if he moved too quickly. But it was soft, and warm, and yours.

He pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against yours. His voice was breathless, barely there.

“Definitely not ruining anything.”

You smiled, eyes still closed, heart pounding.

And when he kissed you again—slower this time, more sure—you melted into it like you’d been waiting your whole life for this moment to happen.

Because maybe you had.

His lips lingered on yours for a breath longer before he pulled back, just enough to see you clearly. The soft glow from your bedside lamp caught the edges of his hair, and in the stillness of your room, you could hear everything—your heart, the silence, the hush between words.

Neither of you spoke at first.

It wasn’t awkward.

It was reverent. Like something fragile had bloomed between you, and neither of you dared to move too quickly and break it.

Your voice came out quiet, barely more than a breath. “It doesn’t feel real.”

Sylus looked at you, the smallest furrow forming between his brows.

You swallowed. “This. You. Being here.” Your gaze dropped to where your fingers were now tangled in the hem of his sleeve. “It’s like… a dream I don’t want to wake up from.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just watched you—listening, really listening.

You continued, voice thick with the ache you’d held back for too long. “This house, this life—I feel trapped in it. Like I’ve been holding my breath for years. And then you showed up and suddenly I could breathe again.”

A pause.

You met his eyes, the words trembling on your lips. “Save me from this.”

Something flickered across his face—like he felt those words in his bones.

He reached up, gently brushing his thumb along your cheek. “I can’t fix the world,” he said, voice rough. “But I’ll stay. As long as you want me to.”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes, not from sadness—but from the sheer relief of being seen, of being chosen.

“I want you to,” you whispered.

“Then I’m not going anywhere.”

And in the stillness of your room, wrapped in that soft, fragile promise, you leaned into him again—your forehead against his, your fingers curling into his hoodie like you were anchoring yourself.

The world outside could wait.

Because in this moment, in this little pocket of warmth and moonlight—you were safe.

You didn’t move at first—still caught in the feeling of his breath against yours, the weight of his promise lingering in the air.

But something had shifted.

The line had been crossed.

And you didn’t want to go back.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring yourself in the warmth of him.

You pulled back just enough to see his face—how close it was, how soft his eyes had become.

“Can I ask you something?” you whispered.

“Anything.”

You searched his gaze, heart thudding. “What happens now?”

He blinked slowly, as if the question reached someplace deeper in him. “You tell me.”

“I want to know what this feels like,” you said, voice quieter now. “Really know. I’ve never… I don’t know what comes next. But I want to learn—with you.”

His breath caught.

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t look away. “I want to feel what it’s like to be close to someone. To be touched like I matter.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something breaking open in his expression.

Then he moved, slowly—reaching out to brush his fingers along your jaw, down to your collarbone, so gently it made you shiver.

“Come here,” he murmured.

You leaned in as he guided you, one hand on your waist, the other at the back of your neck.

When his lips met yours again, it was different this time—deeper, more certain. You kissed him back, matching his pace, the ache in your chest melting into warmth.

His hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, resting against the bare skin of your waist.

He didn’t rush. His touch was exploratory, reverent. As though you were something delicate and sacred.

Your fingers found the edge of his hoodie, tugging gently, and he let you.

He pulled it off in one smooth motion, revealing the soft ridges of muscle beneath his shirt. You hesitated—your breath shaky as your hand pressed lightly against his chest.

He looked at you then, truly looked at you. “Are you okay?”

You nodded. “I want this.”

He leaned his forehead to yours. “Then I’m yours. However you want me.”

The way he said it—so honest, so completely unguarded—made your chest ache.

You kissed him again, letting your hands explore, touch, memorize. His kisses moved to your neck, your shoulder, each one slower than the last.

His fingers slid under your shirt, lifting it with a question in his eyes.

You answered with a quiet nod, helping him pull it off.

And in the hush of your dimly lit room, the two of you moved carefully. Not rushed. Not frantic. But slow and deliberate, like every touch meant something—because it did.

You traced his skin like it was the first time you’d ever been allowed to feel, and he kissed you like he was trying to give you back every piece of yourself you’d ever been made to hide.

When you finally lay pressed against him, chest to chest, limbs tangled beneath the covers, your body was buzzing—but your heart was still.

He held you like he was afraid to let go. And you clung to him like you finally had something worth holding on to.

In his arms, nothing else existed. Not the silence downstairs. Not the bruises your mother’s words left. Not the life you felt trapped inside.

Only this.

Only him.

And for the first time in your life, you didn’t feel like a ghost in your own skin.

You felt real.

Wanted.

Loved.

But fate, cruel and untimely, had other plans.

—•

The next morning, you woke to sunlight cutting through the curtains, warm on your skin, tangled in sheets that still smelled like him.

You were still glowing from the night before—heart full, limbs heavy with a kind of peace you’d never known.

You got ready for school humming softly, the memory of his hands, his breath, his voice still lingering on your skin like a secret no one could take from you.

You slipped on your shoes, lunchbox in hand, already imagining the way he’d be waiting under the tree again. How you’d sit close.

How your smile would mean something different now.

But just as you reached for the doorknob—

“Stop.”

Your mother’s voice cut through the morning like ice.

You turned slowly.

Both your parents stood in the hallway. Stiff. Still. Like they’d been waiting.

Your heart stuttered. “I—I’m going to school—”

“Sit down,” your father said, voice quiet. Too quiet.

You stood frozen. The warmth from earlier drained slowly from your chest, replaced by the cold ache of instinctual dread.

Your mother folded her arms. Her gaze sharp. Knowing. “Who was in your room last night?”

Your blood went cold.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“Don’t lie,” she snapped. “We heard voices. We know someone was there.”

You took a shaky breath, gripping the strap of your bag like it might anchor you to something real. “No one. It was just me. I—I was on the phone—”

“Don’t insult our intelligence,” your father said flatly.

“Do you know how dangerous that is? Letting someone into this house? Into your room?” your mother hissed, fury barely held behind her teeth. “What kind of girl sneaks boys in through windows?”

The words hit like slaps. Each one sharper than the last.

You flinched. “He’s not—he’s not just—”

“You’re not going anywhere today,” your father cut in. “Not until we figure out how to keep this from happening again.”

Your chest tightened. “You can’t—”

“We can. And we will.”

It felt like the walls closed in. Like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Just hours ago, you had been pressed against Sylus, whispering that this—he—felt like a dream.

Now, reality had come crashing through the window, ruthless and loud.

And you were trapped again.

Not behind locks.

But behind the bars of control, guilt, shame.

Your hand fell from the doorknob.

And as you stared down at the floor, all you could think about was his face.

Waiting under the tree.

Wondering why you never came.

—•

You sat in your room, the door shut tight behind you. Not locked—but it didn’t have to be. The threat hung in the air like smoke.

One wrong move, and everything you’d found could be taken from you.

Your lunchbox sat untouched on the desk.

The hours dragged like weights tied to your ankles, and all you could do was stare at the wall, counting the seconds between your parents’ footsteps outside.

He was out there.

Waiting.

Under the tree.

And you weren’t coming.

Your heart ached at the thought—at the image of him sitting alone, music in one ear, head tilted like he was listening for something. Listening for you.

You wished he’d come.

Not like in stories with white horses and grand speeches. You didn’t need saving in a way that looked perfect. You just wanted him.

Wanted to open your window and see his face again, hear his voice telling you it was okay, feel his hand reach out and pull you back into something that felt like yours.

“Come save me,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Like Romeo.”

But even as the words left your mouth, you shook your head.

No.

You weren’t Juliet.

You weren’t going to die for love, or weep behind a locked door, or let anyone write your ending for you.

If anything—you were Cinderella.

And when the clock struck twelve, you hadn’t turned into something smaller.

You’d woken up.

You hadn’t left behind a slipper.

You’d left behind fear.

You stood from your bed slowly, crossing the room to your window.

You drew the curtain back, heart pounding with hope that was almost painful.

But the street was empty.

No tapping at the glass. No smirk. No silver hair in the wind.

You stayed by the window, heart pressed against the silence. The street below was empty, washed pale in morning light—but in your mind, he was still there.

Waiting.

Still and steady beneath the tree, earphones in, pretending not to care, but glancing up every few minutes to search for you. Just in case.

The thought made your chest ache.

You moved before fear could stop you—crossed the room, pulled open your desk drawer, and grabbed a sheet of paper.

Your hands trembled as you picked up your pen. You didn’t know what to say at first, not exactly. But the words came anyway.

Slow. Honest.

Sylus,

I’m sorry I wasn’t there today.

They found out. About you. About us.

I’m not allowed to leave the house for now. I don’t know how long they’ll keep me in here.

But I need you to know something—

Your pen paused. Your breath caught.

Then you wrote, carefully, deliberately:

I know you aren’t fond of promises,

but would you promise to be my Romeo?

You stared at the words.

Not because you needed a savior. Not because you were waiting for someone to rescue you.

But because if there was anyone in the world who could understand what it meant to run, to fight, to choose someone even when everything was stacked against you—it was him.

Wait for me, you added, smaller now. I’ll find a way back.

You folded the note carefully, pressing your thumb into each crease like sealing a vow. Then you tucked it into your schoolbag, heart pounding.

Later, when the house fell into its afternoon hush—your mother in the kitchen, your father on the phone—you slipped down the hall, eased open the front door, and slipped out barefoot, just long enough to run.

The school wasn’t far.

You knew every step of the path like a song.

No one saw you.

You reached his locker, breathless, heart in your throat, and tucked the note inside—right at the edge, where he’d see it the moment he opened it.

Then you turned and ran back home, lungs burning, adrenaline singing through your veins.

You weren’t Juliet. You weren’t waiting to die for love.

But maybe, just maybe, he’d still be your Romeo.

They found out.

You weren’t sure how—maybe a creak in the floor, maybe they noticed the front door slightly ajar, or maybe they just knew the way only people bent on control can.

But this time, they didn’t just yell.

They locked the door.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.

Physically.

The sound of the key turning in the lock still echoed in your ears, colder than anything your mother had ever said.

“You don’t leave this room,” she snapped through the door. “Not until you learn to behave.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t give them the satisfaction. You just sat on your bed, knees pulled to your chest, and waited for the sound of her footsteps to fade.

The air was thick, suffocating. The walls pressed in, closer with every hour.

But what hurt most wasn’t the lock. It was the distance.

You didn’t know if he’d gotten the note. If he understood. If he thought you’d just disappeared.

So you waited.

Every night, when the house finally fell into that deep, still quiet, you crept to the balcony.

The wind was colder now, but you didn’t care. You wrapped a blanket around your shoulders, sat with your knees drawn up beneath you, and looked out into the night.

You didn’t cry.

You prayed.

Please come.

Not as a prince. Not on a horse. Just as him.

With that silver hair and that crooked smirk and those eyes that somehow made you feel whole.

Every gust of wind had your heart leaping. Every shifting shadow on the street below pulled your breath tight. You waited. Night after night.

And each night you whispered it softly into the dark,

“Be my Romeo.”

Not because you needed rescue.

But because you needed him to find you.

Because you weren’t running this time.

You were trapped.

And you had never wanted freedom more.

—•

A week passed.

Seven days.

Seven endless days of silence.

Of being locked in. Of unanswered prayers whispered from your balcony into a wind that never carried them far enough.

You hadn’t seen him. You hadn’t heard from him.

Not even a glimpse through the shadows, no pebble at your window, no tapping on glass like before.

And yet, you waited.

Each night, you curled up by the door or sat out on the balcony in the cold, eyes scanning the street until they blurred, hoping—aching—for him.

Sylus… where are you?

The silence gave your thoughts too much space to wander. And they always came back to that moment—one so soft, so silly at the time, but now carved into you like a memory worth bleeding for.

You were both lying in the grass, sunlight scattered through the leaves overhead.

He’d just scoffed at something in his playlist—an old track from a childhood movie you’d convinced him to listen to.

“Fairytales are stupid,” he’d muttered.

You’d sat up instantly, jabbing a finger into his chest with faux offense. “Take that back.”

He laughed. “Seriously? Happy endings, magic love, royalty running off with peasants… it’s all fake.”

You jabbed him again, harder this time. “Then I guess I’m stupid too. Because I believe in all of it.”

He’d raised a brow, amused. “You think you’re some kind of princess?”

You’d grinned wide, proud and unwavering.

“I’m Cinderella. And you—” you pointed at him dramatically, “—are my Romeo.”

He’d stared at you then, just for a second, something unreadable softening the edges of his usual smirk.

“That so?” he murmured.

You’d nodded with all the certainty in the world. “Even if you hate fairytales, you’re in mine.”

He hadn’t said anything after that.

He didn’t have to.

And now, a week later, locked away in a house that had never felt more like a prison, you curled into yourself and whispered the words again like a prayer.

“Even if you hate fairytales… you’re in mine.”

And you could only hope—wherever he was, whatever had kept him from you—that he remembered.

Because you were still here.

Waiting.

You sat curled on the cold floor, your cheek resting against the edge of your bed.

The blanket around your shoulders had long since slipped off, and your fingers had stopped shaking hours ago.

Everything felt quiet.

Too quiet.

You weren’t sure when the nights had begun to blur, or how many times you’d stared at that empty street, whispering his name like it might summon him.

You didn’t know how much longer you could keep holding on to nothing but memory and hope.

And then—

Tap.

You froze.

Your breath caught.

You thought you imagined it.

Tap. Tap.

This time louder.

Your heart lurched violently.

You stumbled to your feet, legs half-asleep beneath you, and rushed to the balcony, hands fumbling against the door.

You flung it open and stepped out into the night air, lungs burning with disbelief.

And there he was.

Sylus.

Leaning against the tree across the street, hood up, hands in his pockets, head tilted up toward your window. Like he’d been waiting for you to come out and see him.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

You gripped the railing, eyes wide, breath trembling.

He stepped forward.

“I got your note,” he said, voice quiet—but it carried.

Your eyes blurred with sudden tears, your knees weak from relief, from joy, from all the emotions you had buried in silence.

“You came,” you whispered.

He gave a faint smirk, but it didn’t hold the usual teasing edge. It was soft. Tired. But real.

“You asked me to be your Romeo,” he said. “Took me a little while… but I’m here.”

You laughed—a breathless, broken sound—and covered your mouth with both hands.

He looked up at you, eyes glowing faintly under the streetlamp. “Are you ready to run, Cinderella?”

And suddenly, the lock on your door, the house behind you, the world that had caged you in for years—it all meant nothing.

Because your fairytale had come back for you.

And this time, you were going.

You stood there, frozen on the balcony, heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it from the street. The cold bit at your bare feet, the railing digging into your palms as you gripped it tightly—but none of it mattered.

Because he was there.

Looking up at you like you were the only thing in the world that existed.

Sylus took another step forward, into the pool of light cast by the streetlamp.

He pulled down his hood, silver hair catching the glow, eyes locked with yours—steady, sure, unshaken.

Then he lifted his arms.

“Jump.”

Your breath caught.

“What?” you whispered.

His mouth tugged into a faint, familiar smirk, but his voice was nothing but steady. “You said you were Cinderella, didn’t you?”

His eyes softened, shining with something quiet and unspoken. “Then run from the clock. Run from the cage. Just run to me.”

Your fingers gripped the railing tighter. The drop wasn’t far—but it felt like more than height.

It was leaving everything.

It was choosing something wild, uncertain, terrifyingly real.

“I don’t know if I can—”

“Yes, you can.”

His arms stretched wider, voice quieter now. “I’ll catch you.”

Tears burned in your eyes as the wind whispered around you. Your world—your prison—stood behind you, cold and familiar.

But everything you’d ever longed for was standing just below, arms open, waiting.

You climbed onto the railing, heart in your throat.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just watched you with a look you’d never forget.

You met his gaze, your voice breaking.

“Promise?”

And this time, the boy who never made promises gave you one.

“I swear.”

So you let go.

You fell—

And he caught you.

Arms wrapped tight around you, your body pressed against his chest, the world spinning as he held you like you were something precious.

Neither of you spoke.

There was no need.

You’d leapt—and he had been there.

Just like he said he would be.

masterlist

#lads #lads x reader #love and deepspace #lnds x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lnds #l&ds x reader #lads sylus #sylus x non mc #sylus oneshot #vocaloid #l&ds sylus #sylus qin #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus

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majestyeverlasting · 4 days ago

Text

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 | 𝐛𝐨𝐛 𝐫𝐞𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬

Pairing Robert “Bob” Reynolds x Female Reader Summary On a slow morning, away from the pressures of the city, Bob helps quell your fears about the future [contains fluff, mild angst, the nickname ‘Robby’, cute superpower usage, wc 2.6k] A/N I fell in love with Bob during Thunderbolts, and the events of this fic take place two years after the movie. A bit of maturing and healing have taken place—mentally and in terms of his powers. It’s my first time writing for him, so let me know what you think!

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Sunlight, bedsheets, and skin. Reality itself dawned with the visage of a dream. With a lone fingertip, you trace the line of his spine from the space between his shoulder blades to where the soft linen pools at his hips. Tiny hairs rise on his bare skin as he shivers. Bob envisions your soft smile and slow-blinking eyes before he tips fully into wakefulness. When he does, your touch stills midway along his back as you venture upwards.

Instead of car engines, birds sing outside. Rather than the sweeping windows of the Avengers tower, floral wallpaper and simple curtained panes allow the sun’s rays to paint the room. There’s no agenda, no meetings, no need to rush. This is the Catskills, and Manhattan is miles away.

You were grateful the team granted you two the weekend away at one of Bucky’s old safe houses. It’s a secluded rural farmhouse surrounded by oak trees—a scene fit for the silver screen.

“There you are,” you lilt.

Bob huffs a shy chuckle. “Hi.” He swallows when you comb your fingers through his hair. “Have you been up long?”

“Ages.” He frowns at that. “I’m kidding.”

A small smile breaks across his face. If you had been waiting long, he’d consider telling you that he’d had one of the best sleeps of his life. Then it’d make sense why he wanted to cling to it just a little longer.

He’d almost lost track of all his luck since he met you. A part of him feared it was bound to fade away, but even then, he’d be alright with life having given him time with you at all. It’d been a year since you met, and he couldn’t remember goodness ever prevailing this long. As far as he knew, there was a crash after every high.

But not all people were like vices he was once used to seeking: there one minute and gone the next. You’d stumbled into Bob’s life one chilly night on West 43rd and bonded over cheap slices. Sometime between then and him walking you home, you realized you liked having him around. Without so much as trying, he made you lean in closer, laugh too loud, lose track of time.

When your fingers pass through his hair yet another gentle time, a small sound rises in his throat as your nails scratch against his scalp.

“That feels good,” he sighs.

For someone who’d never quite be able to break, you treated him as though the opposite were true. Every touch was so thoughtful and careful that even he began to believe it might be possible after all. Maybe you saw that he was a bunch of tiny pieces held together by a renewed will to live. Maybe you were the glue.

“It’s getting so long.” You playfully rake some soft strands of hair into his face, and the feathery sensation makes him scrunch his nose. “You’re gonna disappear on me pretty soon.”

Bob combs his hair back to see you again, chest filled with a warmth that refuses to stay in one place.

“I promise I won’t.” The dual meaning of his words translates through his deep, blue eyes. “Gonna come find me if I do?”

You pretend to think, as if you hadn’t already done your share of saving each other.

“Maybe,” you say.

When his lips twitch with the threat of a smile, you poke his ribcage a couple of times to coax it out. It works like a charm. Before you know it, he rolls onto his back and pulls you to lie on top of him. Your legs fall on either side of his body.

“Robby, careful,” you chuckle in surprise.

He likes the pressure, the proximity. After a few seconds, you finally relax on top of him, scooting down his body enough to rest your head against his chest. His skin is warm beneath your cheek, and you can feel the rise and fall of each steady breath. One of his hands slips beneath your shirt to draw shapes across the small of your back.

Your eyes slip closed, and like a light switch, you’re transported back to the night you first met. Fluorescent lights shine above as the two of you sit across from each other near the front window of a pizza place. The steady buzz of chatter fills the air along with the rich scent of tomato sauce and oregano. Outside, pedestrians flutter by.

It’s a memory.

You can see your present selves too, standing over the shoulders of the yous forever bound to the past. You meet Bob’s gaze, taking in his boxers and muscled torso as his own eyes rove over you.

That night, the team had let him leave without Bucky or John tagging along. The independence wouldn’t have been a big deal in another life, but it felt like a rite of passage. They were finally beginning to trust in his ability to control the multitudes he contained. He could’ve gone anywhere in Manhattan, somewhere more bustling and lively, but he’d decided to take a walk and grab a greasy bite.

As Bob looks between your past selves, he can see the nerves in his gaze and the intrigue in yours. It was possible you had seen him on TV back when the city turned void. If you did happen to know who he was, you were sensitive enough not to mention that fateful day.

The real reason you’d struck up a conversation with him was because he’d held the door for you when you first walked into the pizza place, two strangers crossing paths in the city that never sleeps. There was a certain allure you couldn’t quite pin down, a palpable energy. Something behind his eyes.

It was no secret that those who wandered at night were often looking to feel a little more alive. Perhaps you’d met for a reason written somewhere amid the invisible stars.

Upon opening your eyes, you’re back in bed with him. You prop yourself up on his chest to study him.

“You took us back,” you say.

“Sorry,” Bob murmurs. “Wasn’t trying to.”

Sometimes, when he feels safe and thinks about you, his mind will pull you two into a lifelike memory. It wasn’t a matter of control; he simply allowed it to happen without fighting against it.

You run a light fingertip down his nose. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

Bob takes your wrist and kisses the heel of your palm. “But you liked it.”

“Says who?”

“The smile on your face.” As soon as he says that, you purposely flatten your expression. A chuckle rumbles through him. “Guess I’ll stop if it’s so unbearable.”

You could easily call his bluff, but the thought still stirs a small flicker of worry within you. Bob sees it in your eyes and squeezes you to quell it. There wasn’t a single part of him you hated. Not even the scarier, messier parts that often scared people away. It was their loss. It’d be hard to come across someone quite like him again.

•••

As the record player plays a jazzy instrumental, the sound of the spatula scraping against the bottom of the pan is a gentle accompaniment. Bob’s back muscles shift as he continues scrambling the eggs. It feels like you’re a koala bear with the way you’ve secured your arms around him, but he doesn’t mind. Not when it feels like this moment was handcrafted by tranquility itself.

You didn’t get many moments like this in Manhattan. Now that you’re seeing what it’s like to have him all to yourself with no check-ins, you realize you wouldn’t mind having this forever. Except, forever seemed to stretch like an empty void waiting to be filled. And it was up to you to do the shaping.

“Do you ever think about…” you trail off.

Bob waits for you to continue, but you don’t. “About what?” he encourages. It almost hurts how patient he is with you.

You tuck your nose into the space between his shoulder blades to inhale the scent of his shirt. “Thought you were a mind reader,” you accuse in a gentle attempt to deflect. “I want a refund.”

Laughing, Bob turns off the stove and faces you. “It’s your mind we’re talking about.” There’s a sparkle in his eyes as he speaks. “Not even I can get a read on that thing.” What he means is that he’d never invade your thoughts. He never had.

He tilts his head in that disarming, attentive way of his. “What were you gonna say?” His eyes remind you of the dark stare of a fawn, ever curious and searching.

You redirect your attention to the floor. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Bob lifts your chin back up with his index finger. “Like what?” It’s a painfully genuine question. “Like I value what you have to say?”

When you remain quiet, his eyes darken, and bright ribbons of molten gold swirl through his irises. It’s beautiful in an intimidating way that makes your stomach flutter; an attempt at levity. A small smile plays on his lips as his gaze returns to normal. You bite back a reaction because you know he’d done it on purpose, knows you like it.

“Tough crowd,” he playfully mumbles. “Talk to me, sweetheart, c’mon.”

“After breakfast,” you say. “The food’s gonna get cold.”

•••

Bob hums under his breath as he flips through a box of Bucky’s old vinyl. The house itself is even older, and the way the wooden floors creak tells the tale. He studies the cover art of the albums as you sit and watch from your place on the couch. You break your silence when you’ve had enough of the distance.

“Hey, Robby?” He redirects his attention to you. “Maybe we can pause the music browsing for a sec.”

With how quickly he steps away from the box, you’re convinced he’d been waiting for you to say that. The cushions dip as he joins you on the plush sage couch.

The entire living room is cozy. It reminds Bob of visits to his grandparents’ house as a boy. He remembers weekends and summers being dropped off when his parents claimed to need a break. It became a safe space that he never wanted to leave.

With his grandparents, there was no constant clamoring, shouting matches, or phone calls from the electric company threatening to cut the lights off. He played outside in the sun with the older kids and came back inside to homemade lemonade and playful comments about him having worked up a good sweat.

When he got older, and his grandparents passed away, his escape became the dingy basements of questionable acquaintances and back alleyways that never turned a lost soul away.

Bob reaches over to squeeze your thigh. “I’m all ears whenever you're ready.”

“It feels kinda stupid now,” you admit.

“Stupid and I go way back.” He’s sincere even as he jests. “Try me.”

You play with your fingers and bite the inside of your cheek. It feels like you’re a scared kid standing on a diving board at the deep end of the pool. All attention is on you. It’s time to jump.

“Do you ever think about the future? What it looks like?” you ask, pausing for a few seconds. “If people like us get a happily ever after?”

You meet each other’s gaze.

“People like us,” he repeats slowly. You can see the gears moving in his mind.

“I’m me, and you’re… you,” you say. “There’s no such thing as normal.”

Bob hums, not agreeing or disagreeing.

You exhale. “Everything’s starting to feel so perfect.” Bob waits for you to continue. “But it feels like I’m waiting for the rug to get ripped out from under me.”

“I hear you,” he says, reaching out to interlock his fingers with yours. He's quiet for a few thoughtful beats. “I don’t know what’s down the road, but I know what’s in front of me right now,” he says.

A silence stretches between you until he breaks it again. “Back when I tried the whole therapy thing, there was this idea called dress rehearsing tragedy,” he says. “It’s when you think of the worst so much that it gets hard for the good to shine through.”

You nod as you soak in every measured word.

“That was me every time things started to look up,” Bob admits reflectively. “I’m not saying that’s you right now—hell, you practically are the sun to me.” Your lips twitch upwards when he squeezes your hand.

“What I’m saying is we get this whole weekend together.” Bob leans in closer. “So let’s just be here.”

“And when the weekend ends?” you murmur, just to see what he says.

“I promise I’m in this for the long haul,” he assures. “Whatever it takes.”

Those last words linger in the air. Bob gives you his full attention when you shift as if you’re about to speak up. Instead, you brush your thumb over the back of his hand. His eyes never leave you. It’s a glimpse into what it must’ve felt like for him to be under your watchful gaze the night you met.

“Whatever it takes,” you echo.

So much in life seemed far away for you. Falling in love was for other people, marriage was for other people, buying a house and building a life was for other people. Not for you.

Bob offers a solemn smile. “I used to be scared all the time.” He thinks for a moment. “Now I refuse to be. Out of spite mainly.”

You huff a laugh, partly amused, partly in admiration. “I swear you’re not real sometimes. Like this is all just a dream.”

Bob chuckles. “I swear I am.” He kisses your cheek to prove he’s real. “Need me to pinch you? ‘Cause I can do that too.”

A small squeal escapes you as he reaches for your side, but he lets you push his hand away. You blink up at him in surprise when he stands and extends that hand to you.

“Let’s go,” he says.

You let him pull you to your feet, a spark of excitement stirring. “Go where?”

“The lake.”

•••

There’s a breeze that complements the warmth in the air. Grass crunches beneath your shoes as you follow Bob down to the shoreline. The still water shimmers in the light of the sun. Across the way, you can see somebody paddling in a canoe. There’s a bench beneath a cluster of birch trees, but Bob walks up to the water, and you stop by his side. Leaves rustle, birds chirp.

He snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. You rest your head on your shoulder. It’s so still and quiet that your thoughts begin to settle. Bob was right. Neither of you knew the future. But in this moment, you at least know the feeling of standing beside someone you love. You know you’d be willing to fight for it. And maybe that was enough.

Bob looks at you after a while, cataloguing your features like it’s the first time. He closes the distance between you just as you’re about to jokingly ask if he’s looking for something. A pleasant warmth spreads through your body as his lips find yours. He kisses you tenderly, hands settling on your waist as you reposition yourself in front of him. Your fingers find their way to the nape of his neck, where you gently tug his hair.

Bob smiles into the kiss. Not for any particular reason, more like a culmination of things.

You pull away. “What?” you whisper against his lips, beginning to smile.

Bob’s cheeks warm as he shakes his head. “I’m just happy.”

“Me too.”

“We’re gonna be okay,” he promises.

Your lips find each other’s again.

Thanks for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!

BOB MASTERLIST

ALL MASTERLISTS

#bob reynolds #robert reynolds #bob reynolds fic #robert reynolds fic #robert reynolds fluff #bob reynolds x reader #bob x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob x you #bob x female reader #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x you #robert reynolds x y/n #sentry x reader #sentry x you #sentry #void #thunderbolts

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4linos · 18 days ago

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the letter pt. 3

han jisung x fem!reader

synopsis: after a devastating breakup over the future you couldn't agree on, you and jisung are left unraveling in the aftermath. you wanted a family. he wanted freedom.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, (unplanned) pregnancy, jealousy & misunderstanding, second chances, exes to ??.

wc: 12,385

[part 1, part 2]

It was early. Too early.

The shrill buzzing of the doorbell drilled into Jisung’s skull like a hammer, and he groaned in discomfort, rolling over to bury his face in his pillow. His head pounded from a night spent drowning memories in whiskey, a futile attempt to forget you, so carefree with another man.

It had only been hours since he saw you walking away with him, the way you smiled, your hand cradling your belly. The sharp sting in his chest wasn’t from the whiskey, but from the way you had left him in the dust. You had moved on, and now, a new life had started without him.

Another round of doorbell buzzing shook him from his thoughts. “Who the hell...” he muttered as he squinted at the time on his phone. It was barely 6:30 AM. He had barely slept.

The buzzing came again, followed by a loud, insistent bang on the door that echoed throughout the apartment. His headache flared, and he cursed under his breath. Who was it this early? His eyes were still half-shut, barely managing to process anything as he stumbled out of bed, legs heavy, his body aching from too much alcohol.

The shirt he grabbed was wrinkled and tossed, probably something he’d left on the floor the night before. He barely remembered the events of the previous evening. All he could recall were images of you, images of him, the man you were with. The one holding you close, smiling, while you smiled back, glowing with happiness.

When he reached the door, he paused for a second, running his fingers through his messy hair. There was a moment of silence on the other side. Then it came again,

buzz. Buzz. Bang. Bang.

Jisung opened the door cautiously. He didn’t even know what to expect. But he certainly didn’t expect Lana.

Lana stood there, her usual stern expression plastered on her face, her arms crossed. She gave him a stiff smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Without waiting for him to say anything, she pushed past him into the apartment. Jisung frowned, still groggy from his hangover.

She didn’t even greet him or ask if he was okay. No small talk. Just that look, the one she always wore when she was frustrated or worried.

“You reek,” she said bluntly, glancing at him as she walked further into the apartment, her nose scrunching up in mild disgust. “And you look like shit.”

Jisung rolled his eyes, too tired and hungover to care much about her bluntness. “Nice to see you too, Lana,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “What are you doing here so early? It’s barely morning.”

Lana didn’t answer at first. She was already busy scanning the room, shuffling through a few papers on the coffee table and glancing through the empty space where your old things had once been.

“Looking for something,” she finally answered, but it didn’t take long for Jisung to realize what she was doing. He hadn’t seen any of your things in months, not since you’d left.

“Everything of hers is gone,” he said quietly, crossing his arms. The words felt heavier than he thought they would. The truth was, it still felt like a knife every time he spoke about you. “It’s been gone for a while now. The only things left are stuff I gave her.”

Lana shot him a look, almost like pity, but didn’t say anything. She moved around, scanning the apartment like it might hold some magical clue that was going to fix everything. Jisung watched her, arms still folded tightly, not sure if he should care, not sure if he even could.

Finally, after a long stretch of silence, Lana turned to face him, her eyes serious.

“Did you ever read the letter she gave you?” she asked, her voice softer now but full of an underlying concern. There was something there, an edge of frustration, maybe even sadness, as if she knew this was the breaking point.

Jisung froze.

The letter.

His breath caught in his chest as memories flooded back. The image of the torn-up letter, his drunken hands, the whiskey-soaked paper, the way he’d thrown it aside as if it meant nothing. He could still feel the bitterness on his tongue, the sharp sting of rejection, the moment he decided to rip it all away because he couldn’t handle the pain. He didn’t even know what was in it, he never gave himself the chance to read it.

Lana was watching him closely now. Her eyes tracked his every movement. And then, when he didn’t answer right away, her gaze followed the direction of his eyes.

He’d left the letter on his desk, half-shredded, forgotten.

She scoffed, her voice rising with irritation. “You didn’t read it, did you? That’s really great, Jisung. You didn’t even give her the courtesy of reading the one thing she gave you, her words. Her truth.”

The words hit him hard. His stomach churned. A wave of shame washed over him. But he stayed silent, not knowing how to respond, not knowing how to apologize for his stupidity. How could he? How could he make up for all the time he wasted being angry, being selfish, and not facing what needed to be faced?

“Can you blame me?” he finally said, his voice rough with frustration. His anger bubbled up again, and he couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t. “She moved on. She’s pregnant with someone else’s kid. I saw them, Lana. I saw it with my own eyes. She’s with him. She’s living the life I couldn’t give her.”

Lana’s eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath, but she didn’t let him off the hook. “I get that you’re angry. But you’re being a damn fool.” She took a step forward, her eyes locking onto his with fierce intensity. “She’s not with him. Not in the way you think she is.”

Jisung’s heart dropped. What the hell was she talking about?

“She’s carrying your kid, Jisung,” Lana said, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. “You think she moved on? No. She’s pregnant. With your baby.”

Jisung blinked, his thoughts spinning in a thousand directions. It felt like the ground was falling out from under him, his breath catching in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He couldn’t process what she had just said. His mind refused to understand.

“What? What are you talking about? How—?”

Lana threw her hands up in the air. “She didn’t move on. She’s carrying your child, Jisung. She found out six months ago. Six months ago! She didn’t want to burden you with it, didn’t want to force you into anything you didn’t want. She let you go. But you didn’t give her a chance. You didn’t even read the damn letter she wrote you. And now look at what’s happening.”

Jisung stood frozen, the words echoing in his mind, each syllable a hammer to his heart. He could feel his chest tightening, his head swimming with confusion, guilt, and panic. Six months.

Six months ago, everything could have been different.

He never gave her a chance. He hadn’t been there for her. He hadn’t even been willing to try to understand what was going on with her.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” Jisung’s voice cracked, his hands gripping the back of the couch like it was the only thing keeping him from crumbling.

“She didn’t want to trap you. She didn’t want to force you into a life you weren’t ready for,” Lana said, her voice softening just slightly. “But you left. You left without giving her any hope. You chose to shut down, to drink away your feelings instead of listening to her, instead of hearing her out. She wanted you, Jisung. She wanted you to be there, but you didn’t give her that chance.”

Jisung’s knees felt weak. The weight of everything was crushing him, the silence between him and Lana stretching longer and longer, suffocating him with the realization that he had destroyed something he would never get back.

“I didn’t... I didn’t know,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “She never told me. She never gave me the chance.”

Lana stared at him, her face hardening again. “She did, Jisung. She gave you the chance. But you ripped it apart.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “And now she’s doing it on her own. She’s carrying your baby, and you’re sitting here wallowing in your guilt and anger instead of fighting for her. You didn’t fight. You just let her go.”

His throat was tight. His chest ached as if he couldn’t breathe. Every part of him screamed to go to her, to fix it, but he didn’t even know how.

“I—” He couldn’t finish. The words stuck in his throat, caught by the overwhelming weight of what he had done.

“Figure it out, Jisung,” Lana said with a final, cutting look. “Before it’s too late.”

She turned and left the apartment, her footsteps heavy on the floor, leaving Jisung to face the wreckage he’d made.

The moment the door slammed shut behind Lana, Jisung stood there for half a second, his mind in chaos, his heart thundering painfully against his ribs. The seconds stretched painfully long, his body frozen in place, until suddenly it hit him all at once, he couldn’t just stand there.

Without thinking, without weighing his options, he threw on the first shoes he could find, mismatched even, one a worn sneaker and the other a battered slip-on and sprinted out of the apartment. The door clattered against the frame behind him, left swinging half-open.

His head was pounding from the hangover, but he barely felt it anymore. He didn’t care about the dull ache behind his eyes, didn’t care that his shirt was wrinkled and his breath probably still reeked of whiskey. The only thing that mattered was catching Lana before she disappeared.

He found her a few steps away, still waiting for the elevator, her arms crossed, looking tired and resigned.

“Lana!” he called out breathlessly, skidding slightly as he slowed down near her. She turned, brows raised in a mixture of impatience and exhaustion.

“What do you want, Jisung?” she asked, voice clipped.

He inhaled sharply, tried to catch his breath. “Your address,” he said, almost desperate. “I mean—her address. Please. I need to see her.”

For a moment, Lana simply looked at him, studied him. She must have seen the way his chest heaved, the panic, the devastation, the regret clinging to him like a second skin.

Without a word, she nodded once, curtly. “Come on. I’ll drop you off,” she said.

He blinked, stunned at how quickly she agreed, and mumbled a grateful, “Thank you.”

The ride down in the elevator was silent. Uncomfortable. The buzz of fluorescent lights above them filled the stillness as Jisung stared at the closed doors, every second crawling by slower than the last. His mind raced ahead of him, playing out every possible scenario of seeing you again.

Would you even want to see him? Would you slam the door in his face? Would you cry? Would you tell him to leave and never come back?

His chest hurt at the possibilities.

When they finally reached the parking lot, Lana headed straight to her car, Jisung a few steps behind, heart hammering as he climbed into the passenger seat.

The drive was just as silent.

Jisung fidgeted anxiously with the hem of his shirt, tapping his foot against the floor of the car. He hated how quiet it was. He hated the way Lana seemed so still, almost robotic, her face an emotionless mask.

He needed to say something. Anything.

After a few moments of agonizing silence, he turned slightly toward her and asked, almost in a whisper, “Why are you doing this?”

He hadn’t expected to speak at all, but the words fell out before he could stop them. “Why are you helping me?”

Lana’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. For a moment, he thought she was going to ignore him, let the silence suffocate him like it had been since they left his apartment.

But just as he was about to backpedal, tell her it didn’t matter, she spoke.

“You know...” she began slowly, her voice low, almost hesitant. “She told me and Jia about yesterday. About running into you.”

Jisung stiffened, shame curling deep in his stomach.

Lana let out a slow breath, her eyes still trained on the road ahead. “She was upset. Scared, even. She didn’t say it like that, not directly. But I could tell.”

Jisung pressed his hand against his knee, his nails digging into the denim of his jeans to ground himself. He hated thinking that he had scared you. Hated it more than anything else.

“And when she told me what happened... how you looked at her, how you walked toward her like—like you hated her, I guess...” Lana paused, her voice tightening. “I felt bad. For her. But... also for you.”

He blinked, stunned, confused. “For me?”

Lana gave a humorless, bitter little laugh. “Yeah. For you. You were so angry. So broken. And you didn’t even know the truth.” She shook her head. “You didn’t even give yourself a chance to know it. You just assumed the worst because it was easier than facing your own guilt.”

Jisung swallowed thickly, throat dry, the lump forming there impossible to speak around.

“I realized... you’re not a villain, Jisung. You’re just a dumbass,” she said, and despite the ache gnawing at his insides, he almost smiled at that. “You’re scared. You always have been.”

The weight of her words pressed down on him heavily. He couldn’t deny it. He had been scared. He had run from the idea of a future that terrified him, the idea of a family, responsibility, a life bigger than himself. And because of that fear, he had lost you.

He looked out the window, blinking rapidly against the sting behind his eyes.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, voice cracking slightly. “For what?” Lana asked, glancing at him briefly.

“For... not giving up on me. For helping me even when I don’t deserve it.”

Lana scoffed lightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “You still have to face her.”

Jisung nodded, setting his jaw, determination slowly taking the place of fear. He didn’t know how you would react. He didn’t know if you would even listen to him.

But he had to try.

For you. For the baby. For the future he realized, way too late that he wanted more than anything.

He had to try.

He owed you that much.

It was early, really for anything other than sleep. But as Jisung stood in the dim light of the morning, standing outside the apartment complex, he couldn’t ignore the churning inside him. His breath fogged in the cool air, his mind racing, his body still fighting the remnants of the whiskey hangover from the night before. His thoughts felt scattered, jumbled in the haze of last night’s decisions. He hadn’t expected to find himself standing here, on your doorstep, hoping for something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Lana’s car had pulled up earlier, and she had given him your apartment number without much ceremony. She told him she wouldn’t come with him. That it would be better if he faced you alone. Her eyes had been unreadable when she said it, but when she spoke, it wasn’t with the usual sass or sharpness. It was more... resigned, like she understood just how badly he had messed things up. She even reminded him sternly, almost motherly, not to say anything about the confrontation with you, or the way he had torn up your letter.

“You go in there, you don’t mention anything about the letter,” she had said, the warning clear in her voice. “This is between you and her. And I’m not involved.”

Jisung had nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His head was still spinning, his chest aching as he stood here. How was he supposed to fix this? How could he even begin to make things right after everything he had done?

The sound of the car’s engine fading as Lana pulled away was the final push for him. There was no turning back now. He was standing outside your door, and it felt like the whole world was waiting.

His feet carried him, almost mechanically, toward the door. Each step felt like it was taking him further into a storm he wasn’t sure he could weather. The thought of waking you up of disturbing the fragile peace you’d probably built without him made his chest tighten. Would you even want to see him?

He reached your door, his hand trembling as he lifted it to knock. The sound of his fist against the wood felt unnaturally loud in the silence of the hallway. He waited, every second stretching on and on, until finally, he heard your voice.

“I’m coming,” you said, your tone cool, though he couldn’t help but feel the underlying tension in it.

The door creaked open.

And there you were.

For a moment, Jisung couldn’t speak. His breath hitched in his throat. You were standing in front of him, looking so… so beautiful, like nothing had changed. Your hair was messy, your eyes still half-lidded with sleep, but the moment you looked at him, he felt like everything stopped. He missed you more than he could have possibly imagined. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to feel you close again, but he knew that wasn’t what you wanted. Not now.

You blinked a few times, taking him in. His disheveled appearance, the tiredness in his eyes, the slight frown that had etched itself into his features, it was clear that he had come here not just out of guilt, but desperation. He had so many things to say, but when he opened his mouth, the words stuck in his throat.

Finally, your voice broke through the silence.

“Why are you here?” Your voice was colder than he had ever heard it, and Jisung felt the weight of it hit him like a freight train. There was no warmth in your tone. There was no softness, no kindness. Just distance.

He took a step back, swallowing hard.

“I… I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking, raw with emotion. “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I had to come. I needed to tell you how sorry I am.”

You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing as you took him in. “Why? After everything you said… after everything you did, why are you here now, Jisung?” Your voice was quieter, but the pain behind it cut deeper than anything else he had heard.

He could feel the weight of his past mistakes hanging between you both. How could he have been so blind? How could he have assumed the worst when you were just trying to do what was best for both of you? He didn’t deserve this chance, he didn’t deserve to stand in front of you, asking for forgiveness. But he couldn’t stand the thought of you doing this alone, especially not after everything.

“I know what I said before,” Jisung started, his voice barely above a whisper. “I said I couldn’t be a part of a family, that I wasn’t ready. I… I was selfish. I was angry, and I wasn’t thinking about what you needed.” His hand reached for his pocket, pulling out the crumpled remains of the letter you had left for him, but he stopped himself before he could do anything. The sight of it made his stomach churn.

“I didn’t read the letter,” he confessed, his eyes dropping to the floor, unable to meet yours. “I was just... so angry and upset. I didn’t even give you the chance to explain.”

There was a long silence. The seconds felt like hours as Jisung stood there, waiting for you to say something, anything. He could feel the tension building in the space between you, the unresolved feelings thickening the air around him. He opened his mouth again, desperate to make things right.

“I know I’ve hurt you. I know I don’t deserve a second chance, but… I want to be here. I want to be here for you, for the baby. I don’t want to miss this. I don’t want to miss us anymore. Please, let me help. Let me be a part of this. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your arms still crossed, eyes unreadable. He couldn’t read you, not like he used to. The walls were up, and he had no idea how to break them down.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to let you in, Jisung,” you said quietly, your voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know if I can trust you again. After everything…”

Jisung’s heart sank at your words. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. He knew that asking for your forgiveness would be the hardest thing he had ever done. But he couldn’t give up. He couldn’t let you walk away without trying, without showing you that he was willing to change.

“I understand,” he said softly, his voice shaking with the weight of the words. “But if you’ll let me, I want to try. I’m not asking for everything right now, but just… just a chance. Please.”

For a moment, the silence between you was heavy, suffocating. Then, slowly, you nodded, but it was tentative, hesitant.

“I’m not 100% ready to let you in,” you said, your voice small, “but… I’m willing to try. I’m willing to take things slow. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Jisung felt like the air had been knocked out of him. It wasn’t everything he had hoped for, but it was enough. It was the beginning of something, the beginning of the possibility of redemption.

“Thank you,” he whispered, stepping forward, though he didn’t want to push you. He just wanted to be near you, even if that meant just standing in your doorway.

You looked at him for a moment, your eyes softening just a little.

“I can’t promise it’ll be easy,” you said, voice still trembling, but there was a hint of something maybe hope? in your tone. “But I’m willing to try. For the baby, for us... maybe it’ll work.”

Jisung smiled softly, the first genuine smile he had worn in months. It wasn’t a perfect answer, but it was a start.

And in that moment, that was all he needed.

Jisung stood there, completely caught off guard by the way you looked at him, a mixture of disbelief and amusement flashing across your face. His eyes widened for a brief moment before he quickly realized the disheveled state he was in mismatched shoes, a wrinkled shirt, his hair wild from the night he had spent tossing and turning in regret. The haze of the alcohol still clung to him like a bad memory, the scent of whiskey faint but noticeable. His heart sank when he realized just how much he must have looked like a mess standing there in front of you.

Before he could say anything, you gave a short laugh, your eyes twinkling, almost in disbelief. "You really reek of alcohol," you pointed out, your voice sharp but not unkind. You took in his appearance, your gaze lingering on the mismatched shoes, the wrinkled shirt, and then, finally, the way he was standing there, eyes wide with a mixture of regret and guilt.

Jisung's face flushed, and he immediately looked down at himself, noticing the mismatched shoes and the way his shirt had crumpled in all the wrong places. He had rushed out of the house, not thinking about how he appeared, only about getting to you, about fixing everything he had ruined. The realization made him feel even worse. He had come to you like this, looking like he had just crawled out of bed after a long night of self-pity and alcohol. How could he expect you to take him seriously when he looked like this?

But before he could spiral into another fit of self-loathing, he heard you laugh. It was soft, almost nervous, but it was there. The sound of your laughter was like a balm to his nerves, even though he knew it wasn’t coming from a place of warmth or affection. You were laughing, but there was a certain softness in your eyes when they met his.

His lips curled into a reluctant smile, the tension between you starting to melt just a little bit. "Yeah, I guess I do," he said, his voice hoarse, his throat dry from the alcohol he had consumed the night before. His attempt at humor didn’t exactly work, but it was the only thing he could offer. He couldn't believe he had shown up at your door looking like this, of all things.

You continued to look him up and down, your gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary. There was no judgment in your expression, but Jisung could see the traces of concern in your eyes, the way you were trying to figure him out, trying to make sense of this strange encounter. His chest tightened as you glanced down at his shoes, then back at his face. For a second, he thought you might close the door on him and tell him to get his life together before even attempting a conversation.

But then you did something that surprised him even more: you laughed again, the sound a little louder this time. The way you shook your head as you did so made his heart clench. It wasn’t mocking. It was more like you were acknowledging the absurdity of the whole situation, the way everything had spiraled into chaos.

"You're a mess," you said, the words lighter now, almost fond in a strange way. The sharpness in your tone from before was gone, replaced by something a little more... tender, maybe even forgiving.

Jisung stood there, unsure of what to do with that. He wanted to apologize again, but the laughter, your laughter made it feel like there was still a chance for him to explain himself. He could tell you had softened, if only just a little bit. Maybe you weren’t as angry as before, maybe you were starting to see him not as the person who had hurt you, but as someone who was truly remorseful.

His gaze shifted, following your movements as you instinctively placed a hand over your belly. You hadn’t even realized you were doing it, but the way your fingers hovered protectively over your growing stomach told him everything he needed to know. You were already thinking about the baby, about protecting what mattered most now. The thought made something warm and soft stir in his chest, a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to experience in so long. His mind was clouded with regrets about the past, but in that moment, seeing you like this, seeing how much you had grown, both in body and it hit him hard.

"You're pregnant," he said softly, the realization hitting him like a wave. It wasn’t just the fact that you were carrying his child; it was the way you seemed so much more settled now, so much stronger. The woman standing in front of him wasn’t the same person he had left behind. She was someone who had grown in ways he couldn’t even begin to imagine. The confidence in your posture, the way you held your belly like it was the most precious thing in the world, he couldn’t deny that.

You nodded, but there was a slight hesitation in your eyes, as if you were trying to gauge whether he had truly understood what that meant.

"Yeah," you replied softly, your voice steady but tinged with something Jisung couldn’t quite place. "I’m pregnant." Your eyes softened for a moment, the edges of your lips twitching into a small, almost imperceptible smile. But the smile didn’t reach your eyes completely, and Jisung could see the weight of the situation in your gaze. It wasn’t just about him anymore. It was about the future.

He took a step closer, suddenly aware of how much he wanted to bridge the distance between you two. But he didn’t want to overstep; he didn’t want to make the same mistakes again. The last thing he wanted was to make you feel uncomfortable, to push you away when all he wanted was to make things right.

"How have you been?" His question was simple, but it was the first thing that came to his mind. He needed to know how you were, how you were holding up, especially now that he had messed everything up. His heart ached just thinking about it.

You gave him a small shrug, but there was a flicker of something in your eyes, something softer. "I’m doing alright," you said, your voice more honest now. "I’ve been getting by. It’s not easy, but I’m managing."

Jisung could feel the weight of your words. He had no idea what you’d been through, what you were still going through. He had left you behind when things got tough, when you needed him the most. And now, he couldn’t help but feel like he had lost any chance of making things right.

But as he stood there, watching you, feeling the fragile atmosphere between you two, he knew he couldn’t give up. Not when it was so clear that he had so much to make up for. He needed to make things right for you, for the baby, for everything he had taken for granted.

And so, without thinking about it too much, he spoke from his heart.

"I'm sorry," he said again, his voice breaking. "I know I've messed up. But I’ll do whatever it takes. Whatever you need, I’ll be there. I can’t undo the past, but I’m here now. Please, let me try to make this right. I want to be a part of this. I want to help."

For a brief moment, there was only silence. Jisung watched you, desperate for any sign of what you were thinking. Your gaze flickered down to your belly again, as if you were thinking about how much had changed since you last saw him. The pregnancy, the baby, the future everything had shifted, and he couldn’t help but wonder if there was any room for him in it anymore.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you sighed softly and looked back at him. "I’m not sure, Jisung," you said, the words hesitant. "I’m not sure I’m ready to let you back in after everything. But…"

Jisung’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear what was coming next, but he knew he had to.

"But I’m willing to try," you continued, your voice soft but steady. "For the baby. For us. I can’t promise everything will be easy, but I’m willing to give it a chance."

Jisung exhaled deeply, relief flooding through him. It wasn’t the answer he had hoped for, but it was enough. It was a chance. A fragile, delicate chance to rebuild everything he had lost.

"Thank you," he whispered, his eyes shining with gratitude. "I won’t mess this up. I swear."

You nodded slowly, a quiet understanding passing between you two. Neither of you knew exactly what the future held, but for the first time in a long while, Jisung felt like there was hope.

The air between you and Jisung was heavy with unspoken words, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped altogether. Neither of you moved, each of you waiting for the other to say something, but it seemed like the silence was doing its job for now. It wasn’t awkward, not really, just... filled with the weight of everything that had happened.

Then, as if a quiet realization settled in, you spoke, breaking the tension with a soft offer. “Would you like to come in?”

Jisung blinked, caught off guard by your calm tone. For a moment, he simply stood there, his feet planted on the floor, almost as if he wasn’t sure what you were implying. The request wasn’t what he’d expected. He had come here thinking this would be another painful confrontation, something that might make the gap between you two even wider. Instead, you were inviting him in offering a space where you could both breathe.

After a beat of hesitation, Jisung nodded. It wasn’t the grand gesture he’d imagined, but it was enough. It was the first step.

"Yeah," he said softly, almost to himself, as if the invitation was something he had been hoping for without realizing it. "I’d like that."

You stepped aside, holding the door open just enough for him to pass. His eyes lingered on you for a second longer than necessary before he moved past you into the apartment. It felt surreal, the sudden shift from anger and hurt to a fragile kind of calm that seemed to hang in the air like fog, both of you treading carefully through it.

The inside of your apartment was cozy, nothing too extravagant, but it had a quiet, homey warmth to it. The light streaming in from the window made everything feel softer, gentler. As you moved into the kitchen to start preparing your tea, Jisung took a seat in the small dining area. His eyes wandered over the room, his gaze catching on something unexpected: two ultrasound pictures stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

It was like a punch to the gut.

The realization hit him before he could process it fully: the baby, his baby, was real. The ultrasound images, two of them, one from earlier in your pregnancy and the other more recent were right there in front of him, displayed so casually, as though it wasn’t the kind of thing that would completely change everything in his life.

He stared at them for a few moments, his breath catching in his throat. His mind spiraled again, and for a second, he almost forgot where he was. The weight of it all settled on his chest: the baby that was growing inside of you, the future that was unfolding whether he was ready for it or not.

You noticed where his attention had gone, and without turning around, you spoke. “Yeah, I guess I’ve been keeping them there to remind me that it’s real,” you said, your voice low. “It still feels surreal sometimes, even with everything going on.”

Jisung didn’t know what to say to that. His mind was still working through the images on the fridge, but there was something about the way you said it, something so matter-of-fact that made him want to be there. To be a part of that reality. But as quickly as that thought came, the flood of guilt followed it. He wasn’t sure he even deserved a place in that future, but the idea of walking away from it again seemed impossible.

“I never wanted to leave,” Jisung said suddenly, his voice cracking just a little. You could hear the sincerity in his words, the rawness of it. His eyes were on the ultrasound pictures, but you knew he wasn’t just talking about the baby now. He was talking about everything. About you.

He was sorry. You could hear it in his voice.

You took a slow breath and, without thinking, began to gather the tea bags and cups. You could feel the weight of his words, but the tension in the air was still too thick to address it fully. You needed to give it some space before you let everything out.

Jisung followed your lead, though, moving to the kitchen to help you. He was tentative at first, like he was worried that being too close would make things worse. But his eyes didn’t leave you as you began preparing the tea, the soft clink of the ceramic cups filling the space between your words. You looked up at him as you set the kettle down and asked, “Do you want sugar or anything?”

Jisung paused for a second, considering the question, before shaking his head. “No, just straight. Thanks,” he said quietly. He watched you as you made the tea, your movements fluid and familiar, and in that moment, something about it made his chest tighten. Everything about you felt so... settled now, so different than the chaos of the past.

When you handed him the steaming cup, he took it gratefully, his fingers brushing yours in the process. The contact was small, but it felt significant, like a small thread of connection that hadn’t been completely severed.

You both moved to the small living area after that, sitting across from each other at the table. For a while, you sipped your tea in silence, the sound of the quiet ticking clock in the background the only thing breaking the stillness.

Finally, you set your cup down and looked at him, really looked at him. The expression on your face was softer than before, but there was still a guardedness there. It wasn’t anger anymore, not like it had been the last time you saw each other, but there was an undeniable caution. The sting of everything you had been through still hung between you two.

“Jisung,” you began slowly, your voice almost too calm for what was about to come next. “I didn’t... I didn’t want any of this to happen.” You paused, collecting your thoughts before continuing. “I didn’t want to push you away, but I also couldn’t keep holding on to something that wasn’t... real anymore. I wanted to make this work with you, more than anything, but I needed to know that I was enough, that I wasn’t just waiting around for something to fall apart.”

He nodded, his throat tight. He could feel the sincerity in your words, but it was difficult to take it all in without feeling the weight of his own mistakes. He had let his fear, his pride, get in the way of something that could have worked. Could have meant something more.

“I get it,” Jisung said, his voice barely a whisper. “I wasn’t there when you needed me to be. I let my own bullshit cloud everything, and I—” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. He needed to get this out. “I didn’t want to be a father, but I never stopped wanting you. I just... I didn’t know how to fix everything I broke.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him. His eyes were full of regret, but there was something else there too: determination. Like he was willing to do whatever it took to make it right, even if it meant starting from scratch.

“I’m not perfect either,” you said softly. “I made mistakes too. I wasn’t honest with you about how scared I was. I didn’t let you in. I didn’t... I didn’t let you be part of this because I thought I could do it all on my own.” You let out a small, bitter laugh. “Turns out I can’t.”

Jisung’s eyes softened at that. “You don’t have to do it alone,” he said, his voice steady now. “I’m not asking for everything to be fixed in one day. But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

You looked down at your cup, swirling it absentmindedly before meeting his gaze again. “I don’t know if I’m ready to let you back in,” you said, your voice quiet, almost apologetic. “But... I’m willing to try.“

Jisung didn’t speak right away, but the quiet relief in his eyes was unmistakable. You weren’t saying you were ready to forgive him completely, but you were willing to take the first step, the most important one. He could work with that. He’d take whatever you were willing to give.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I swear, I won’t mess this up.”

You nodded slowly, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You weren’t sure what the future would look like, but at least, for now, you were both willing to find out.

As the door clicked shut behind Jisung, you stood there for a moment, your hand still resting on the doorframe. The quietness of your apartment felt almost too loud after everything that had happened. You took a slow, deep breath, feeling the tension leave your body in waves. It was as if the moment he stepped out, a weight you hadn’t even realized you were carrying was finally lifted off your shoulders.

For the first time in months, you felt something that resembled peace, something you hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. The tightness in your chest that had been there ever since everything fell apart had started to ease, just a little. The storm inside of you, the one that had raged every time you thought about him, about what could have been seemed quieter now. You hadn’t expected it, but the feeling of calm that washed over you was almost surprising.

You walked slowly back to the couch, each step lighter than the last, and gingerly sat down. The soft hum of the city outside your window mixed with the calmness inside, a strange but comforting contrast. You rubbed your belly absently, still feeling the warmth from the conversation you’d had with Jisung. It hadn’t been perfect, it never could be, but it was the first real conversation the two of you had in months. It felt like a small start, an opening to something that could, maybe, be better.

As you leaned back into the cushions, your mind replayed moments from the conversation. Jisung’s sincerity, the way his eyes softened when he spoke about wanting to be there for you and the baby, even when he had no idea how to fix the mess he’d made. It had been raw, real, and full of regret, but also hope. He wasn’t expecting things to be fine overnight, and neither were you. But that first step? The one where he admitted that he had been wrong, and that he wanted to try? That was everything. It meant more than the words themselves, more than the mistakes he had made. It was a promise. A promise that he would try to make it right, no matter how long it took.

You pressed your palm to your belly and let out a soft exhale. That feeling of warmth and comfort began to spread through you, almost like the little kicks that had become more frequent lately. You closed your eyes, focusing on the movement inside you, each little nudge a reminder of the life you were creating. It was as though the baby inside of you could sense that something had shifted, that you were making the decision to move forward in a way that felt right, not just for you, but for them, too.

The tiny movements against your hand felt almost like reassurance, like a little voice whispering in your heart: It’s okay. You’re doing the right thing. You’re not alone. The idea that Jisung might really try this time, that he might actually want to be there for both you and the baby, settled in your chest like a comforting embrace. You weren’t sure if you were ready to let him all the way in yet, there was still so much hurt, so many walls to tear down, but the thought that you might finally have the chance to build something together, something stable, was enough for now.

A second chance. That’s what you had just given him. A second chance to prove that he could do what he had promised. And a second chance for you, too. A chance to heal. To open yourself up to the possibility of something different. Something real.

It wasn’t going to be easy. There would still be hurdles, and there was still so much to sort through. But in that quiet moment, with the subtle rhythm of your baby’s movements underneath your hand, you allowed yourself to believe that things could get better. You could try to make them better.

You let your hand rest on your belly, smiling softly. It wasn’t perfect, and it was far from where you wanted things to be, but it was a start. And sometimes, that’s all you needed: the belief that you could make it work, one step at a time.

The tiny kicks continued, like a reassurance, a little reminder that you were doing the right thing. You weren’t alone. You had made your decision, and now, no matter what happened, you could move forward. You could allow yourself to heal. And, maybe, just maybe you could allow yourself to hope again.

It was the beginning of something new. A second chance. For you. For Jisung. And for the baby who was growing stronger inside of you every day.

After sitting there for a little while longer, soaking in the quiet and letting yourself feel everything relief, nervousness, hope you finally got up from the couch. You made yourself another cup of tea, needing something warm to hold, something grounding.

The day outside had started to brighten, golden sunlight peeking through your curtains, casting a soft glow across your apartment. It made everything feel even more surreal, like the heavy fog that had been hanging over you for months was finally starting to lift.

You weren't naïve. You knew things wouldn’t magically fall into place because of one conversation. You knew trust didn’t rebuild itself overnight. But still, you had to start somewhere. And you had chosen to start here.

Meanwhile, across the city, Jisung sat alone in his apartment, the overwhelming aftermath of the morning sinking in. He was finally sober now, feeling the full weight of his mistakes. He replayed everything, your guarded but soft voice, the look in your eyes when you told him you were willing to try. It was a second chance he hadn’t deserved but one he swore he would never take for granted again.

For the first time in months, he didn’t feel like drowning himself in work, distractions, or alcohol. Instead, he felt determined. He needed to get his act together, for real this time. He needed to show you, not just tell you, that he could be the man you and the baby needed him to be.

The first thing he did was clean his apartment really clean it, not just a lazy sweep. He threw out the alcohol bottles, aired out the rooms, and opened the windows to let fresh air in. It was a small, physical act of change, but to him, it felt important. A symbol of letting go of the past he’d been clinging to.

The next few days were careful, tentative. Jisung texted you, not overbearing, just small check-ins: “Good morning, hope you’re feeling okay today.” or “Let me know if you need anything, I’ll be around.” Simple, unobtrusive. He was careful not to pressure you, to give you the space you needed to adjust, but he wanted you to know he was there.

And surprisingly, you found yourself responding. Short answers at first, but they warmed up quickly, especially when he’d send you cheesy jokes or tell you random little things about his day, just trying to make you laugh. There were still walls between you, but you could feel them starting to thin out, piece by piece.

You were moving slowly, and that was exactly what you needed.

Then, one afternoon, a week later, Jisung asked if he could come by no pressure, no expectations just to drop off something. You hesitated but said yes.

When you opened the door, he was standing there with a small, awkwardly wrapped package in his hands. It was a simple thing, a tiny onesie, soft and pastel, with a silly little duck on the front. He handed it to you with a sheepish look, scratching the back of his neck.

“I saw it and thought...you know, maybe you could use it later.”

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t a perfect apology. But it was effort. It was real.

And in that moment, you realized...maybe things could really change. Maybe it was okay to hope for something better after all.

So you smiled, small but genuine, and you invited him inside again.

It was a beginning. Your beginning. Slow, fragile, but real.

It happened more naturally than you would have ever expected.

You hadn’t spoken to Jisung much in the past week, not because either of you was upset or because something had gone wrong, but simply because life got busy. He had warned you ahead of time that he would be caught up with work, that there were long studio nights coming, meetings, deadlines. You’d appreciated the honesty; it had been a small, early test of communication between the two of you, and he’d passed. Still, the silence had been a little strange not painful like before, but noticeable. You found yourself missing his casual updates, his small jokes, even just the way he asked how you were feeling every day.

That morning, you had been going through the list of things you still needed for the baby the hospital bag essentials, a stroller, bottles, a few more newborn clothes, blankets and the weight of it felt heavier when you realized how close your due date actually was. Your first instinct had been to call Jia or Lana, but somewhere deep inside you, an impulse stirred. You pulled out your phone, hesitated, but finally typed out a message to Jisung:

"Would you want to go baby shopping with me today? If you’re free."

You didn’t expect a fast reply. Maybe you even prepared yourself for him to say no, he was busy, after all, and you didn’t want to be disappointed. But barely a minute later, your phone lit up.

"Of course. I’ll come pick you up. What time?"

No hesitation. No excuses. Your heart thudded heavily, emotions a little tangled nervous, happy, scared. But above all, hopeful.

An hour later, you stood by the window of your apartment, watching the street below. Jisung’s familiar car pulled up, and you grabbed your bag quickly, giving yourself one last glance in the mirror. You smoothed your hands over your dress, instinctively resting a palm against your belly as you took a deep breath and headed out the door.

When you slid into the passenger seat, you found him smiling nervously at you. “You look great,” he said, and there was something so genuine about it, not just an empty compliment. You thanked him quietly, your cheeks warming, and the two of you set off.

At first, the drive was a little quiet. Not uncomfortable, but tentative. Jisung asked about how you were feeling lately, about the baby’s kicks, about if you were sleeping okay. You answered honestly, and then you found yourself asking about his work, about how he’d been managing everything. The conversation picked up from there, flowing more easily the longer you talked.

By the time you reached the baby store, some of the tension had melted away completely.

Inside, everything felt overwhelming at first. So many options, so many tiny clothes, gadgets, things you didn’t even know existed. You stared at a wall of strollers, feeling a little helpless, until Jisung bumped your shoulder playfully. “Looks like we’re going to need a map for this place,” he joked. You laughed, the sound breaking the last bit of awkwardness lingering between you.

The two of you wandered the aisles together, picking out onesies, swaddles, a diaper bag. He was attentive, reading labels, asking questions, genuinely interested. Not rushing through it, not treating it like a chore.

At one point, you found a tiny beanie, soft and knitted, and you held it up to show him. Without thinking, he leaned down, brushing his fingers over the fabric and then so carefully over the curve of your belly. “They’re gonna look so cute in that,” he murmured, almost to himself. You swallowed hard, trying to fight the sudden sting in your eyes.

That moment, so small and simple was when you truly let him in. Not because of anything grand or dramatic, but because he was just there, with you, in a way that he hadn’t been before.

You smiled at him, and he smiled back, something soft and vulnerable in his expression.

Later, when you loaded the bags into the trunk of his car, Jisung surprised you again by suggesting you both grab dinner, no pressure, he said, just something casual. And for the first time in a long time, you said yes easily.

It was still early evening by the time you and Jisung finally pulled into the parking garage of your apartment complex, the car packed full of bags, far more than you had originally intended to buy. It had been... easy with him today, far easier than you would have thought a few weeks ago. You were tired now, but it was the kind of exhaustion that came from a full, good day, not the emotional kind that usually dragged you down.

You unlocked your front door, letting Jisung in first as he carried several bags over his arms, insisting you shouldn’t be lifting too much. You laughed under your breath but didn’t fight him on it, your back was aching slightly anyway, and truthfully it was nice having someone there to help. Once inside, you both got to work unpacking everything, laying it out over your couch and coffee table. Tiny onesies, a mountain of soft baby blankets, bottles, pacifiers, diapers, little pairs of socks so small they barely fit in the palm of your hand.

You sat back against the couch for a moment, letting out a small sigh of contentment. Jisung settled next to you, holding up a pale yellow onesie you had picked out, his lips curving into the softest smile you had seen on him in a long, long time. "Look at this," he said, voice full of wonder. "It’s so tiny... I still can’t believe we’re going to have a tiny human wearing this."

You chuckled lightly, resting your hand on your belly instinctively as you leaned over to look at it with him. "I know," you murmured, a little awe in your own voice. Without thinking, you both leaned your heads together, admiring the onesie like it was the most precious thing in the world. It was such a warm, natural moment that your heart squeezed painfully in your chest, not in a bad way, but in the way that happens when you feel something real settling inside of you.

But then

BEEP BEEP, the code to your door punched in. The door swung open with a loud bang as three very familiar faces burst through: Jia, Chan, and Lana.

You and Jisung both jerked upright, startled, the onesie slipping out of Jisung's hands and landing softly on the couch. For a long second, none of you moved.

Jia’s eyes widened almost comically, her mouth opening slightly but no words coming out. She glanced between you and Jisung like she couldn't quite piece it together fast enough. Chan’s brows lifted, but unlike Jia, he didn't look angry or shocked, more curious, even a little relieved. Lana... Lana just stood there, her arms crossed loosely, looking more amused than anything else, like she had expected this and was just waiting to see how it would unfold.

The air was thick with tension and awkward silence. You were the first to move, standing up slowly, brushing your hands down your sides in a nervous gesture. "Uh… hi," you said, your voice a little too high-pitched.

Jisung stood too, glancing at you uncertainly, waiting for your lead.

Jia finally managed to say something, although it came out more like a strangled squeak. "We, uh… we just came to check on you! Not, uh, not to—interrupt?" she said, her eyes darting to Jisung again.

You could feel your cheeks burn, but you forced yourself to speak calmly. "I was going to tell you guys..." you began, feeling a little defensive but mostly just embarrassed. "I just… wasn't ready yet."

Chan gave you a small, understanding smile. "You don’t owe us an explanation," he said gently. "As long as you're okay." His words and the genuine way he said them, made some of the tension in your shoulders ease.

Lana, meanwhile, just lifted a brow and muttered, "Well, I’m glad someone finally stepped up," earning her a sharp nudge from Jia.

You glanced at Jisung, who gave you a tentative but encouraging nod, silently telling you he was here for whatever you needed to say. You inhaled deeply and looked back at your friends.

"Jisung and I... we’re trying," you said, the words tasting strange but right in your mouth. "We’re not rushing into anything. We’re just… trying to figure it out together."

Jia still looked a little wary, like she wanted to protect you but was biting her tongue. Chan gave Jisung a small, respectful nod, and you could see the slight relief on Jisung’s face like maybe he had been expecting Chan to punch him or something.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.

Slowly, your friends trickled further inside. Lana picked up a few of the baby things, making little comments about how adorable everything was. Jia offered to help organize, and Chan drifted over to the kitchen to grab drinks for everyone.

Jisung stayed close to you, not too close, but enough that you could feel his presence solid and steady by your side. When you caught him looking at you that soft, unguarded look again, you realized something.

You weren’t alone anymore.

Not in the way you had been, not even when you had your friends around. This was different. This was the beginning of something healing, something real, something that could one day, if you both worked hard enough, be a family.

And maybe, just maybe, you were finally ready to let that happen.

The evening settled into a kind of chaotic comfort, the kind that only happens when you're surrounded by people who feel like home.

Jia and Chan were bickering loudly over the TV remote, their voices rising in playful (but intense) competitiveness. "You picked the last movie!" Jia accused, trying to yank the remote from Chan's hand. "You didn't even watch it! You fell asleep twenty minutes in!" Chan shot back, holding the remote high above her head.

Lana, sitting cross-legged on the rug, sighed dramatically and tried to mediate, though she clearly wasn’t really trying that hard. "Just give it to Jia," Lana said, her tone half-annoyed, half-amused. "You're just making it worse, Chan."

You sat on the couch, a little farther away from the chaos, with Jisung beside you. There was a little pile of tiny onesies and newborn clothes between you both, freshly laundered and soft to the touch. You were showing him how you liked to fold them, smoothing the tiny sleeves inward, then folding up the bottom half carefully.

"Like this," you said, demonstrating slowly, smiling a little to yourself at the concentration on Jisung's face as he tried to mimic you. His brows furrowed, his tongue poking out slightly in focus as he carefully mirrored your actions.

You couldn't help but giggle quietly, nudging his elbow when he finally got it right. "There you go," you praised, and he looked so absurdly proud that it made your heart twist in your chest.

The noise from Jia and Chan faded into the background as you and Jisung worked together, folding onesie after onesie, your hands brushing once in a while. It was easy, surprisingly easy. And even though you were still cautious, still hesitant deep down, you couldn’t deny the way you felt lighter around him.

At one point, after folding a particularly small pair of socks, Jisung shifted closer to you slightly, setting the socks down neatly before speaking. His voice was low, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should break the comfortable quiet between you.

"I'm really... thankful," he said, glancing over at you, his eyes earnest and soft. "That you have them. Jia, Lana... even Chan. It’s clear they care about you so much."

You smiled, following his gaze to where your friends were still tangled in a ridiculous argument about movie choices. "Yeah," you said softly, your heart swelling a little. "They’ve been here for me... when I didn’t even know how much I needed someone."

Jisung nodded slowly, his fingers playing with the hem of a tiny shirt. "And... I’m thankful," he continued, voice a little rough now, "that they didn’t treat me like... like I didn’t belong here. They didn’t make me feel like I wasn’t welcome. Even after everything I did wrong."

Your breath caught a little in your chest. You looked at him then, really looked at him. His eyes were open, vulnerable, no walls left. He wasn’t perfect, you both weren’t. You had hurt each other. But he was trying. He was here.

You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing lightly over his knuckles where his hand rested on his knee. "They know I wouldn’t have let you in if I didn’t want to try," you said gently. "And they trust me."

Jisung’s lips curved into the smallest, most grateful smile you’d ever seen.

For a long moment, you both just sat there, your friends’ laughter and squabbling a warm, distant hum around you. You realized you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time not fully, not truly.

Hope.

It wasn’t going to be easy. You still had to rebuild trust. You still had so much healing to do, separately and together.

But maybe, just maybe, it was possible.

You and Jisung finished folding the last of the baby clothes, placing them carefully in a basket you’d set aside. And when Jia finally wrestled the remote away from Chan and put on some random cheesy movie, and everyone settled down to watch, Jisung stayed close. Not too close, not pushing any boundaries, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, steady and solid beside you.

It was a start. And for the first time in a long time, a small, genuine smile tugged at your lips, not out of obligation, not out of politeness. Out of real, tentative happiness.

Because maybe you weren’t alone anymore. Maybe you hadn’t been for a while. Maybe... you were finally ready to believe that you could build something new, something better not just for you, but for the tiny life growing inside of you too.

The next few months passed like a series of soft, tentative steps forward. Nothing was rushed, nothing was forced, it all unfolded in the kind of natural way that only happens when two people are really trying, when the effort itself means something.

As your due date crept closer and closer, the atmosphere around you changed too, like a gentle hum in the background of your everyday life. Things weren’t perfect, there were still tough days, moments of uncertainty where you questioned whether you were doing the right thing by letting him back into your life, but they were outweighed, slowly but surely, by the good days. And Jisung, he made sure you had more of those good days.

He became part of your group almost seamlessly, something you never would’ve expected when you first opened your door that early morning and saw him standing there, a mess of mismatched shoes and regret. It was awkward at first, of course it was. Especially with Chan.

At first, there was a lingering tension between them whenever they were in the same room. Jisung was polite, if a little stiff. Chan was friendly, but you could tell he was holding back a little too, unsure of where the boundaries were supposed to lie. There was a certain unspoken protectiveness that Chan carried when it came to you, and even though you had never given him any reason to think you wanted anything more than friendship, you could understand why Jisung might have felt a little... threatened.

But one afternoon, after you had gone into the kitchen to grab some snacks during a movie night at your apartment, you overheard them talking. You paused, just out of sight, feeling a little guilty for eavesdropping but too curious to stop yourself.

“She’s lucky to have you,” Jisung had said, voice low but sincere. Chan chuckled, a little awkwardly. “Nah, man. She’s strong all on her own. Always has been. I’m just glad she has more people looking out for her now.”

There was a brief pause, the kind that spoke volumes. Then Chan added, “I’m not gonna pretend it wasn’t weird at first. But if you’re serious about being there for her and the baby... that’s what matters.”

And from then on, things got easier between them.

They bonded, slowly, mostly over music at first, it was neutral ground. Chan had experience producing a few tracks for friends back in Australia, and Jisung, passionate and hardworking as always, immediately lit up whenever they talked shop. You’d catch them having full conversations about studio software, instrumentals, and beat progressions, both completely oblivious to the fact that the initial awkwardness had faded.

Jia and Lana were relieved. They had been watching everything unfold with eagle eyes, ready to swoop in if needed. You knew they were still protective of you, but their relief showed in their softer smiles and in the way they treated Jisung more like he was one of them now, no longer an outsider trying to claw his way back in, but someone they were cautiously welcoming back for your sake... and maybe for his own too.

It meant the world to you. Because it wasn’t just about your relationship with Jisung anymore, it was about your world, your community, your support system. You needed them all to mesh, to get along, to coexist in a way that didn’t leave you feeling like you had to pick sides.

And Jisung, he tried. He was there for every little thing he could be.

If you had a doctor’s appointment, he’d move mountains to be there, even if it meant showing up straight from work in slightly wrinkled clothes, with tired eyes but a bright, excited smile. He read every book you mentioned offhandedly, studied every article about pregnancy and baby care until he could quote things you didn’t even know. He was there when you were too tired to get up from the couch, cooking you simple meals (even if sometimes he had to call Lana for help halfway through). He was there when you needed a hand up from a chair, when you dropped something you couldn’t bend down to pick up anymore, when the loneliness crept in during the nights and you didn’t know how to tell anyone somehow, he just knew.

There were late-night calls that turned into sleepy conversations where he told you about his day and asked you about yours, moments where you’d accidentally fall asleep on the phone and wake up to a simple "goodnight" text he’d left after hanging up.

There were moments when you’d catch him staring at your belly with this look of wonder like he couldn’t believe this was real, that he had almost thrown it all away. He’d ask to feel the baby kick, and every time he felt the tiny flutter of life beneath your skin, his entire face would light up like the sun had decided to live inside of him. It was healing, in its own slow, imperfect way.

You still weren’t naive about it. You still had your guard up sometimes, and he never pushed you past what you were comfortable with. You both knew there were still conversations that needed to happen, still trust that needed to be rebuilt fully.

But you were getting there. Step by step. Moment by moment.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the future didn’t feel like a scary, lonely thing anymore. It felt like something you could walk into together bruised but stronger, fractured but healing, cautious but hopeful.

It felt like maybe, just maybe you could have the tiny family you always dreamed of. Even if it looked a little different than you had originally imagined. Even if it took a long, winding road to get there.

You weren't alone anymore. And neither was he.

Your baby boy arrived exactly on your due date, and somehow, despite the chaos and the endless scheduling, Jisung had managed to be there. He had told you countless times that he would make it work, that no matter how busy his schedule was, no matter what meetings or recording sessions he had, he would be there for you. And true to his word, when you felt the first rush of contractions that morning, he dropped everything and rushed to your side.

It was a long and exhausting labor, but with each breath, each push, you felt a sense of clarity. There was no going back from this moment. You weren’t doing this alone. The presence of Jisung, his hand in yours, his voice murmuring words of encouragement through gritted teeth, made all the pain and uncertainty fade into the background.

And when the cries of your baby boy filled the room, it felt like the world had shifted, like everything you had fought for, everything you had hoped for was standing in front of you, in his tiny, wriggling form.

Jisung had been there the entire time, right by your side, holding your hand through the hardest moments and softly kissing your forehead when you could barely hold your head up. But it was in the quiet moments after, when the rush of the birth had settled and you both were left with your son in your arms, that you truly saw the difference in him.

You’d been watching him quietly for a while now. Jisung was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, your baby boy cradled in his arms. His face was a soft picture of awe, his gaze fixed on the little bundle of joy in his arms like he was the most precious thing in the world.

He was so careful, so gentle with the baby, like he was afraid to breathe too loudly in case he’d break him. He rocked him slowly, softly, his eyes never leaving your son’s little face as he tried to wrap his head around everything that was happening. It was such a beautiful, surreal moment that you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh when you watched him. The sight was almost too perfect to be true. You had expected him to be nervous, to fumble a little. But no, he was doing this so naturally.

And then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you broke the silence with a teasing comment. “So, this is the baby you didn’t want, huh?”

Jisung’s head snapped up, his eyebrows furrowing as he gave you a playful glare. He shifted the baby gently in his arms, like he was preparing for an argument, but you could see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Really?” he said, his voice still thick with the emotion of the moment, but his teasing tone clear. “That’s the first thing you’re going to say after I just helped bring this little guy into the world?”

You let out a light laugh, the sound a little breathless from the exhaustion of labor, but your heart was lighter than it had been in months. “I mean,” you said with a smirk, “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget about what you said, you know? You weren’t exactly enthusiastic about having a baby back then.”

His eyes softened at the reminder, and you could see the shift in him, the genuine remorse that still lingered from the moment he realized he’d almost lost you, almost lost the chance to be a father to his child.

He leaned closer, his voice quieter now, as though speaking only for you and your son to hear. “I know I wasn’t ready back then, but... I’m here now. I’m here for both of you.”

You studied him for a moment, your heart swelling. Jisung wasn’t just holding your baby, he was holding your family in his arms. And there was no question in your mind now: He was ready, more ready than you had ever imagined.

You softened, smiling up at him. “It’s too early for jokes like that, huh?”

He nodded, a knowing, teasing smile finally reaching his lips. “A little too soon. He’s only a few hours old, give him a break.”

The moment settled between you, warm and quiet, as you both let your eyes linger on your son. You couldn’t stop the tear that escaped down your cheek. It wasn’t from sadness, though. It was joy, pure, overwhelming joy.

You reached out and gently touched the little hand that Jisung had been holding so carefully. “I’m really happy you’re here, Jisung. And that you want to be here for him.”

He squeezed your hand back, looking at you with sincerity. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work, for him, for you... for us.”

The gravity of his words sank in, and for a moment, there was nothing else in the world but the three of you, together. Everything that had been so uncertain between you two, all the hurt, the doubts, the tension seemed so distant now, so irrelevant. This was where you were supposed to be. This was your family.

masterlist.

❌proofread

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empyrealix · 4 days ago

Text

⊹ ࣪˖ GUILTY AS SIN? | #CL16

pairing. charles leclerc x wolff!reader

genre. angst; some fluff

synopsis. days after you showed up in the paddock wearing charles' shirt, toto wolff is still not talking to you. it tears at you, him, and your relationship with charles. tired of living life scared you'll disappoint toto, you show up to the paddock holding charles' hand.

warnings. none; guest appearances from carlos and george

word count. 3.1k

note. this is the second part to ‘but daddy i love him’. this makes sense if you haven't read that, but reading the first part provides context for a lot of the things happening in this part. i want to write drabbles set in this universe, so if you have requests/ideas, please send them <3

MASTERLIST ; part one ; requests open

LOVE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE EASY; loving Charles had—since the beginning of your relationship—been as easy as breathing. Until reality eventually caught up. The love you held for Charles had not become more difficult since that fateful moment when you walked onto the paddock draped in Charles’ jacket; everything around it had become more complicated—more difficult—ever since then.

Toto’s voice still rang in your ears; his voice lingered in your mind like an echo you couldn’t get rid of—“Can someone explain why my daughter is wearing Leclerc’s Ferrari jacket?”. You remembered freezing in your tracks, glancing over at Charles—who looked just as much a deer in headlights as you; then Toto’s narrowed eyes. The events which followed passed by in a blur; silence; you opening your mouth to explain; disappointment radiating off Toto; his silent—sharp—”I don’t want to hear it.”. That had been the end of it; Toto had stridden past you and disappeared into the Mercedes garage; Charles had gently placed a hand on your lower back and led you to the Ferrari motorhome, where he left you with a kiss to your forehead and a promise that everything would be okay.

George passed by—he stopped to chat for a few minutes before realising he was late to a strategy meeting and had to sprint across the paddock. Then Carlos walked by, he pulled out a chair opposite you—his navy Williams t-shirt contrasting against the bright red of the Ferrari motorhome—and sat down; he handed you snacks stolen from the Williams motorhome wrapped in a napkin—they were slid over the table as if they were contraband.

“You know there’s snacks here, right?” You laughed, even though the laugh didn’t reach your eyes; Carlos noticed, he tilted his head, smiling at you.

“Yes, but they’re not as good, no?”

The former Ferrari, now Williams, driver nodded towards the snacks wrapped in a napkin sitting on the table in front of you, encouraging you to unwrap the snacks and eat one—you did. Inside the napkin was an assortment of grapes, chocolate, and cookies; you muttered a thank you to Carlos which he waved off, telling you that it was nothing. He sat there for a while, telling jokes; you tried to laugh at them, but the laughter never reached your eyes; it was all an act and Carlos could clearly tell.

“It’s going to be okay, you know. Toto might be pissed now, but we all know how much he adores you; he’ll accept it eventually.” Carlos’ voice was soft—comforting—as it reached your ears. You pressed your lips together, nodding solemnly.

“What if he doesn’t?” You didn’t want to admit it outloud, but the thought had pierced through every corner of your brain ever since that morning—ever since Toto had stormed off to the Mercedes garage with a “I don’t want to hear it”. Carlos stood up from his chair—he had to go to a meeting which was far less important than you—still, he didn’t have much of a choice.

“Then maybe he is not who you thought he was.”

That had been days ago. You hadn’t spoken to Toto since; it was strange not speaking to him. You had gone back to Vienna after the race; you’d walked by the café you’d gone to with Toto for years ever since you were old enough to ask the barista for a hot chocolate—”Ich hätte gern eine heiße Schokolade, bitte”. A peculiar feeling—longing, perhaps—coursed through your veins, settled deep in the very marrow of your bones, at the sight of the table you and Toto used to occupy being empty. Usually when you walked through this part of Vienna, it was to meet Toto at this café; he would always sit and wait when you walked in—books clutched in your arms—he’d meet you with a smile and a comment about how the books made you forget about life again—that was true sometimes, other times it was because Charles distracted you, made you forget that there was a world outside the bubble which only contained you and him. You never told Toto this; you’d smile at him and tell him that ja, papa, it was the books again. The memory felt faint; the more you tried to reach for it, the fainter it became until it was like a sun faded cassette tape someone had left out in the sun for too long.

You hadn’t seen Charles since the end of the race weekend. You went with Charles to celebrate Oscar’s Grand Prix win with the rest of the grid; your heart hammering in your chest—joy encapsulating you—as Charles wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you to him, kissing you in front of everyone in the middle of the dance floor; he had stuck close to you the entire evening, just as you had stuck close to him––now you were in two different countries, miles separating you. You missed Charles’ presence—his laugh, his small touches. He suggested you come with him to Monaco after the race; you declined, worried that you would inevitably run into Toto there—”Chérie, you can come stay with me in Monaco.” he’d pleaded, almost begged, looking at you; you shook your head, watching as his eyes filled with tears, as his bottom lip wobbled. Walking through the Viennese streets, you regretted every action you had taken, every word spoken, during that exchange. You had spoken to Charles occasionally and briefly ever since; it was as though a chasm had opened between you—one that neither of you knew how to close. The last exchange you had was Charles asking if you were going to the next race—Monza—you’d told him no, claiming that you were buried under schoolwork—that had been a lie; you weren’t buried under schoolwork, you just didn’t want to go to the paddock; didn’t want to face the disappointment Toto’s entire being would exude the moment he laid eyes on you. If you went, you would—for the first time—go as a guest of Ferrari and not Mercedes; there was something bittersweet over it.

Charles waited outside your flat when you arrived back home; he gently pried the bags you were carrying from your hands—warmth bloomed where his fingertips made contact with your skin. He smiled softly at you, muttering a quick “hi”, which you returned; he shuffled into the flat after you, closing and locking the door behind him. His presence in your flat felt familiar—welcome. During the months of your (secret) relationship, Charles spent many days in this flat; playing the pianoforte you never knew why you had—you couldn’t play piano—putting away groceries; laughing; smiling; kissing you whenever he could. Before you could say anything, Charles had slipped out of his shoes; his humming fluttered through the air as he put the groceries away.

“Charles? What are you doing here?” At the sound of your voice, Charles looked up from the grocery bag he was digging through—one hand cradling a bag of flour. He paused, his eyes searching yours. He turned, opening the cabinet you kept your flour in before turning back to you and sighing; his hands flattening against the countertop.

“I wanted to see you. We’ve barely talked since the race and when we have talked, it has been brief. Mon ange, tell me what’s going on; we’re in this together.” Charles’ voice had grown steadily quieter as he spoke; you could only stare at him, blood coursing through your veins, your heart hammering in your chest. Charles took a step towards you, then another, then his arms wrapped around you—his scent surrounding you—one hand placed on your back, the other on the back of your head; pulling you into him. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in the junction between his neck and shoulder. The tears flowed slowly at first; Charles didn’t speak, he just held you, waiting for you to speak, even though the feeling of your tears wetting his skin broke his heart—tugged painfully at strings attached to it. He wanted nothing more than for you to be happy.

“It’s papa. I love you, I do. I just feel like I’ve disappointed him.” You stumbled through the sentence, unsure of how to express your feelings, how to word them in a coherent—understandable—way. Charles understood; he knew you better than anyone—he would always understand what you were trying to tell him, even though it was veiled, slurred, or incomprehensible.

“You can’t live your entire life scared that you’ll disappoint him. He talks about you all the time when you’re not present; he’s so proud of you, of everything you’ve achieved. This—our relationship—shocked him, but he’ll come around eventually. He’s not unreasonable. I think the way he found out was jarring for him, unexpected. He’ll come around, chérie, I promise.” Echoes of Carlos’ words rang through your mind as you listened to Charles speak. You didn’t want him to be right, but he was—you couldn’t live life scared of disappointing Toto. Charles cupped your cheeks, his thumbs wiping away the remaining tears—his touch was soft, gentle, as it always was. You wanted desperately to believe him; your mind screamed at you to forget every worry you had bottled up since you started dating Charles. You nodded, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth—gnawing at it. The more you thought about it, the clearer it became that Charles was right; Toto would accept it eventually. He had no other choice.

“Where are you going?” Your voice was still shaky—raw—from crying. You vaguely gestured to the bags Charles had left in your entry. Charles, for a moment, glanced from you at his bags; his hands still cupped your cheeks, your bodies still pressed impossibly close together.

“The race. I just had to see you first, since you’re not coming.” Charles’ voice was tinged with hope—hope that you may change your mind and attend the race with him; there was no one he wanted there more than you. He often joked—as you laid beside him, his fingers drawing patterns on your skin—that you were his lucky charm; he insisted that he performed better whenever you were in the paddock. You weren’t sure you believed that claim.

“Is it too late to go with you?” Charles’ eyes lit up, his lips widening into a smile as he shook his head, rambling in French—various combinations of “non, mon ange”, “il n'est pas trop tard”, and “j'adorerais t'avoir là”.

If anyone had asked you later what thoughts coursed through your mind as you agreed to go to the race with Charles, you wouldn’t have been able to give them an answer—the spur of the moment decision was inexplicable even to you; perhaps it had been the hope in Charles’ eyes, in his voice; or maybe it had been something else entirely—you were not sure. Charles pressed his lips against yours, pulling you closer. You led Charles down the same hallway he had walked through time and time again, pulling him into your bedroom. He stood by your bed—which he had been in more times than you could remember—putting items of clothing into your open suitcase as you handed it to him.

Standing outside the paddock gates, Charles entwined your fingers. This time—unlike the last—you wore your own clothes. Your heart hammered in your chest; Charles squeezed your hand, smiling softly at you. Whatever happened beyond the paddock gates, you would face together. The entire paddock stilled as you walked through the gates; Carlos smiled at you as he walked by; Charles pulled you closer to him as you made your way across the paddock.

Toto paused as he saw you and Charles walking hand-in-hand through the paddock, smiles plastered on both your faces; he sighed, his hand coming up to rub his temples. He pulled his lips into a thin line, greeting both you and Charles when he walked by you. You stopped, opening your mouth to say something; when no words formed, you closed it; your lips pulled up into a tight smile—Toto would recognise that smile anywhere, it was the same tight smile he wore when he had to be polite. He watched—from the Mercedes motorhome—as Charles kissed you— your forehead, your cheeks, your lips—before running off to a meeting. The day was littered with small, affectionate touches between you and Charles and conversations which left you beaming—smiling so brightly and so much that your muscles hurt.

“This went well?” You looked up at Charles, who had sat down beside you on the couch; he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

“It did.” Doubt still gnawed at you; crawling up your throat, clenching around your heart. Toto’s greeting had been brief, but it had been more than you’d talked to him in a week. He looked tired; bags had appeared under his eyes; he looked older than he did the last time you saw him—this was clearly taking a toll on Toto too. Charles pulled you closer to him, slinging his arm around your shoulder; brushing a lock of hair away from your face—you smiled at him, kissing his cheek. You couldn’t help but look over at the Mercedes motorhome—Toto was nowhere to be seen. Charles noticed the glances you would—periodically—throw in that direction; he nudged you gently, his eyes filled with a softness he only held for you.

“What’s on your mind, mon amour?”

“I think I want to go talk to papa.” You gnawed at your bottom lip, your gaze fixed on the motorhome across the paddock.

“Go.” Charles gently urged you. He could see—he had seen, this past week—how much this argument—which wasn’t really an argument—tore at you, threatening to rip you apart. You and Toto had always been close—Charles had discovered this on numerous occasions, from how you talked about your childhood with Toto to how you told him you couldn’t go on a date with him once because you had your monthly coffee date with Toto.

You left the Ferrari motorhome headed for the Mercedes motorhome. Stepping through the sliding doors, you saw George sitting in the cafeteria alone; he looked up as the doors slid open. A smile spread across his lips at the sight of you.

“Welcome back, you here to see Toto?” You swallowed thickly, nodding. George smiled, pointing in the general direction of Toto’s office, “Last I saw him, he was in his office. Good luck!” You shook your head, scoffing at him, muttering something about how you didn’t need luck to speak to Toto; that was a lie—you needed all the luck you could get.

Toto’s head shot up when the door to his office opened; the last person he expected to see stood on the other side of it—one hand clutched the door handle, only letting go when Toto gestured for you to come inside. He closed his computer, folding his hands on top of it.

“Schatz.”

“Hi, papa.” You sank down in a chair opposite Toto’s desk, his eyes followed your every move. On your way over, you had planned exactly what you wanted to say, but as you sat in Toto’s office—Toto sitting opposite you—your mouth dried, every word you had prepared disappearing into thin air; you had never felt like this with Toto—you had always been able to tell him whatever was on your mind. It was a strange feeling; one you didn’t revel in. Toto patiently waited for you to speak—he had a meeting, but you were far more important than the meeting; the meeting could be rescheduled.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Charles; I just didn’t know how to. I should’ve told you. I’ve thought a bit since then, and it wasn’t fair to you to find out the way you did.” Toto listened intently to every word pouring from your lips, “I love Charles, I’m not going to apologise for that. Charles is one of the nicest, kindest, people I’ve met and he treats me so well. You don’t have to like it, I’m not asking you to, you just have to accept it and stop being upset with me for, what, falling in love?” Your heart hammered in your chest, sweat beading on your forehead, your hands grew clammy; you tried to wipe them on your jeans, but it did nothing. Toto sighed softly.

“I’m not mad at you for falling in love; I’m upset you didn’t trust me enough to tell me, schatz. I’m upset I had to find out from you walking into the paddock in Leclerc’s shirt.” He looked at you for a moment, before glancing out the window; the Ferrari motorhome was clearly visible from where he was sitting, “I see how happy he makes you; how happy you are when you are with him. He’s one of the better drivers you could have chosen.” He laughed softly, his mouth quirking up into a smile, his crows feet appearing around his eyes. At the sound of Toto’s laughter, you couldn’t help the giggle that burst from your lips. You stood from your chair at the same moment Toto did; he pulled you into a hug.

“I’m sorry, papa.” You mumbled into the white button-up he always wore to race weekends.

“It’s okay. Tell that Leclerc kid that if he hurts you, he’ll have to deal with me.”

It was with much lighter steps that you walked back to the Ferrari motorhome. You found Charles exactly where you had left him—sitting on the couch—only this time, he was playing some game on his phone. He looked up when he heard steps; a smile etched itself across his face, his eyes filling with joy, at the sight of you; he—immediately—noticed a lightness in your steps, one that he had dearly missed. He stood up to meet you halfway—in full view of the Mercedes motorhome—you wrapped your arms around him; Charles had to take a step back to stop from stumbling from the force with which you hugged him.

“How did it go?” He could feel your smile—the smile which he loved so much; which he would do anything to see—break out across your face.

“It went well. I apologised and he said he was never upset at the idea of us dating; he was just upset because of how he found out.” You had to stop, a giggle forced its way up your throat, “he said that if you ever hurt me, you’d have to deal with him.”

Charles groaned, dropping his face in the crook of your neck. You threw your head back, laughter bursting from you at Charles’ ticklish kisses pressed to your neck.

“Good thing I’m not planning on hurting you, then.”

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