#but that was always a stretch to begin with

[remmickgf]

Pleasure Interlude (nsfw 18+)

❤︎ Remmick (Sinners) x female reader ❤︎ Remmick lets you use him--lucky for you, he loves lying back time to time and watching his girl get greedy, but it's a win-win for both of you. Cause you're both freaks ❤︎ I <3 fucknasty short and sweet porn I need this man on his back sweaty and desperate moaning and acting like a whhhooorreee and I need it STAT ASAP

Remmick's head thumped back, and he smiled to himself, exhaling heavily while his eyes closed and one hand fell limp to his chest. Left only in his gold chain and one yellowed sock with a hole at the heel, his hair was damp and shiny with the sheen of sweat visible on his forehead and flushed cheeks. A chuckle erupted shortly after his last breath. He then glanced down at the sore sight of your mouth working itself over the blushed and agitated sight of his teased erection, your hands planted on his hips as his belly rose and fell gently. One knee splayed open, his lifted the opposite arm and slung his hand behind his head, groaning as your tongue circled and rolled around where he liked it best, causing a tightness in his chest that trickled deeper down into his pelvis, curling around his balls like the vice of a snake about to pump its venom. You could feel the thumping pulse along the bottom of his length, the silken skin tightening as blood gorged his girth and made it so when you released him with an obscene pop! that your favorite, shiny, strawberry red lolli bobbed toward his happy trail with a slight curve toward it that made you bite your lip again and stare down at with a wideness to your eyes that always told him you were about to start squirming.

He loved it when you squirmed, became fidgety, started edging him not out of malice or intention but out of fascination, awe, and your own greed. For a man of his nature, the longer you played with him and the more worked up you got him, the sounds that came out of his mouth became increasingly and surprisingly high-pitched. You'd called him pathetic once, earning a growl that faded into more huffing and puffing as his brows quirked upward and he gritted his teeth. You knew just how to work him right.

Remmick smirked down at you as these thoughts of his beautiful torture passed through your mind. He reached down with his free hand, turning an open palm so you pressed your cheek to it before his fingers curled around the nape of your neck and he yanked at a fistful of your hair, causing your spine to arch like a kitten's while you whimpered and crawled forward, up the length of his body.

"Now, now, I know how to work ya nice and good, too," Remmick murmured, dilated pupils darkening his gaze and his smirk widening, revealing the jaggedness of his teeth. They were hardly human, even when he hid behind the mask of a man. You merely whimpered at the warning, angling your hips over his cock and grinding them downward so your swollen lips pressed against the sides. You both gasped as the sensitive contact, each curve of your pelvis making his tip graze your clit gentle enough it sent your head spinning. Remmick squeezed his fist again, so you lowered your face toward his and met him in an eager kiss, leading him to cradle your skull--releasing your hair--and slip his tongue between your teeth.

Your hands planted above his shoulders and your knees pressing into his sides, the next time you curved your back and rubbed down into his erection, shivering at the way the mix of your saliva and the drool of your pussy's natural lubrication made his cock slip easily between your folds, you did so so that his head stretched the musculature of your entrance and your walls became filled with the first inch, then two, then three of him before you stopped, already panting.

Remmick had pulled his arm from behind his head. His thumb tracing your nipple, pinching it before squeezing one of your breasts and cupping the side of your rib cage, he kissed you rougher, muffling the beginnings of his more desperate noises, until your lungs burned and you opened your mouth to catch some air. You could feel the movement of him inside you with each flinch of his hips as he fought the urge to slam up into you, knowing you'd need a few more moments to adjust. But you wanted to feel that sweet ache, the sting of his intrusiveness. So you fell all the way down, sitting into his lap with a wince and the straightening of your spine. Remmick seemingly coughed, then lengthened his throat with a strained moan, his hands falling to your hips at the same time, a string of curses fell from his agape mouth. You kept them coming by rolling forward, planting your fingers splayed across his pecs and bouncing yourself on him with the squeeze of your thighs and pushing of your knees, clawing at his skin and causing red to bloom in the wake of your touch.

As soon as he was able to find a way to form words again, Remmick huffed, "mm-fuh-fuck, w-well, damn," his words choppy from the rythmn you fucked him. His hands only helped pull you back down as they kneaded the supple meat and he allowed you to not just fuck him but to fuck yourself on him, use his body to work out anything you needed to. Your face scrunched, your eyes rolling back, brows pulled together in concentration, he didn't have to read your mind or think too hard on it to know you had thoughts going on that needed distraction from. The only thing he corrected was, "look at me, darlin,' if you're gon' use me, look at me," all in his thick accent that swept over you and drew your eyes back to his. "That's it," he praised, "look at what y'do to me," smiling and moaning and giving you a convincing show--because nobody needed convincing. You felt it so deep inside you each time he knocked up into the cushion of your cervix that he was close, his ribs flaring and abdomen tensing, breath becoming more strained, his whimpers, whining, and moaning all becoming pitched higher and mixed together once he stopped trying to fight it. "You-gh-s'fuckin' pretty when y'using-me, all greedy, usin' me up, ah-fuck-fuck! that's, yeah, oh-yeah, that's good, that's so good--"

When he came, he shut his eyes and held you down on him, gritting his teeth and holding his breath, accidentally bucking you up with jagged kicks of his hips before a growl tore from the quivering tension in his body and his warmth leaked from you thick and sticky. His arms then slumped lax at his sides while he tried to catch his breath, all the while you carefully reached down between your legs where he slowly went soft inside you and scooped up a glob of his cum with your fingers.

Holding it out, a few drops dribbled onto his chest, causing Remmick to furrow his brows and look toward your hand. However, without question, once you muttered, "open," and turned your fingers to slip them to the knuckle onto the tender palette of his pink tongue, he wrapped his lips around them and suckled, locking eyes with you and cleaning you up. Not a single heartbeat later, you felt the twitch of him getting hard again, and knew it was your turn to lie on your back and let him work you.

[ssahotchnerr]

Could you maybe write another little blurb where the bau team calls reader and hotch mom and dad? That is like one of my favorite things in the world!!

parental units

i'm so glad you asked <3 cw; fem bau!reader, established relationship, teasing from the team (lovingly), aaron and reader are down bad for each other, your usual (brief) cm violence

"Why do they always need to run?" Panting, you loosened your vest as Aaron handed the unsub off to one of the officers. "Why can't they just willingly turn themselves in."

"You're awfully quick for someone who despises cardio." Aaron teased as he assisted you, undoing your last velcro strap. Same as you, he was normalizing his breathing, but for his own reasons.

The unsub had attempted to escape; you bolted right after him into the dense trees, fleeing into the darkness.

You can hold your own; strongly, confidently, and Aaron knew that. He didn't worry about you in that regard, whereas he worried for you. However, you were out of his line of sight for a good five minutes, the sound of a stray gunshot nearly causing his heart to give out.

Thankfully, the unsub had missed you and hit a tree instead. He and Morgan caught up as you had the guy shoved into it, cuffing him. A few scraps were present on your face to show for your hustle through the trees, but you were unfazed; it was as if you hadn't been shot at at all. Contrary to Aaron, still regaining his composure.

"Oh please," you shook your head, holding onto your side. Your eyes held a playful glint, "I stay in shape just to keep up with you."

His lips formed into an easy smile. "Is that so?"

You hummed softly in return, stealing a second to check him out. "You're very... enduring."

"I aim to please, sweetheart. Over and over again."

You blushed as Aaron laughed lightly, playfully bumping his shoulder into yours. Behind you, the sound of crunching leaves halted, as did the following footsteps.

"The two of you couldn't have waited what, five? Ten more minutes?" Derek groaned, his nose scrunched in disgust as his hand stretched outward. "The guy isn't even in the cruiser yet, and you're already all over each other?" With a subtle shake of his head, mischief in his tone, "this is why we drive separately."

You snorted a laugh. "What?"

"No one wants to ride with Mom and Dad." He shrugged, failing at keeping a smile at bay. "We prefer the cool car."

"You all cram into the SUV... to avoid us." Aaron's expression quirked, his eyebrows lightly furrowing. "Do we need to have a discussion about road safety?"

"The cool car?" Priorities. Slight offense was intertwined with your amusement, your gaze switching between the two of them. "We're cool."

Another famous Derek Morgan grin. "Eh, that's debatable."

"Emily willingly came with us though." You protested, but it was beginning to make sense. The reluctance, the way they all nearly fought over seats, the newly formed rule when applicable: Hotchners always ride together. "So we can't be that bad, right?"

By now you have reached the others, illuminated by the red and blue flashing lights.

"Drew the short straw this time." Emily shrugged, her lips pulling up mischievously. It was clear they were just loving this. "Loser rides with the parents."

Your mouth dropped open, a surprised laugh escaping you. "Seriously?"

"We love you both. We do," Dave reassured, holding his hands up in surrender. "But I already get carsick. Don’t need to add witnessing your foreplay on top of it."

Aaron's brows drew into a line once more, humorously crossing his arms. "Maybe you just have a weak stomach."

Spencer perked up, inputting, "You know, carsickness is-"

"No need for fancy, genius scientifics here Reid." Emily offered you a smirk, feigning a gag once Aaron's hand habitually found the small of your back. You don't think he even realized he'd done so. "They're gross."

"In that case," Aaron rolled his eyes, his brows relaxing as they lifted playfully - it was your turn to poke fun. "My wife and I will be getting into our SUV now. Go ahead, draw your straws. And if whoever loses has a problem with us showing our affection, they can feel free to walk back."

[differenteagletragedy]

Price who didn't get married for anything as maudlin as love -- no, he got married because that was just the thing to do. Advance in his career, marry a pretty woman, buy a house, fill it with things that don't matter, that will never fill the hole he always pretends isn't missing in him.

And it's fine. It could absolutely be worse. His wife is nice, he enjoys her company. She works a lot, a higher up in some company that does some things, he's not too clear on all the details. He goes to the Christmas parties when he can, a picnic in the summer where he meets people he knows he won't remember.

Then there's the fundraising event.

His wife spent weeks organizing it. He's been home for a stretch, and he's heard all about the catering, the invitations, the ... other details. With all the scotch, some things went in one ear and out the other, but when the big day arrives, she puts him in his tuxedo and drives him to the venue.

There's a dinner, some live music, and once everyone -- including John -- is settled in, good and full and at least a little tipsy, the auction begins.

Mrs. Price, who'd been flitting around all evening, appears on the stage, grasping a microphone and explaining the rules of the auction. John quirks an eyebrow, a little bit confused when he hears his wife explain that she'll be auctioning off dates.

He's pretty old-fashioned himself, but still, it feels like an odd move -- a relic from another era, to be selling dates with people. But the wife seems excited, and the employees who come on the stage with her seem comfortable enough to have the audience bid to spend some time with them, so maybe it's just all in good fun.

John knocks back another drink or two, watching as handsome men in suits and beautiful women in dresses, all lively and relaxed under the spotlight, take their turns receiving bids. The company is raising a considerable amount of money, it seems, with some of the attendees getting a bit rowdy with the bidding. All laughs, all for a good cause.

But when his wife introduces you, he notices that things are just a little bit different.

You're the first person up on the stage that's seemed nervous. He watches you fidget with your fingers, then force your hands to rest at your sides before they start fiddling with the skirt of your gown. Your eyes dart around, glancing at his wife then back to the audience, though he imagines the spotlight blocks them all out.

He faintly hears his wife describing you, as she's described all the people before you -- you're a secretary, it seems, and Mrs. Price assures the bidders that you're "a little shy but ready for a fun evening."

His lip twitches, the closest to a smile he's gotten all evening.

To John, you're the most beautiful woman that's been on stage yet. With wide hips and generous cleavage that peeks its way out of even your modest dress' neckline, you're more suited to his taste. Not that it matters. He's married, after all.

But when the bidding starts and he sees your shoulders tense and your eyes dart around like you're desperately searching for an escape, he just can't help it.

So he bids. High. High enough that his wife declares the date with you "sold!" with an excited smile -- she thinks he did it as a donation.

John, as he watches your shoulders relax, his eyes drifting to the sway of your hips as you walk offstage, knows better.

[uvobreakmylegs]

Waiting

part 2 of the Cute Hunter!reader fic but from the perspective of a different troupe member

Part 1 (Chrollo x reader)

Phinks x Cute Hunter!reader

Warnings: captivity, angst, death, body horror, this is a Phinks x reader fic but there's still Chrollo x reader moments

Word Count: 12.8k

Phinks saw Chrollo standing alone, waiting at the top of a short flight of stairs that lead to the entrance of a lone house which stood amid a nearby forest and long open fields. No doubt he had sensed the enhancer coming. There weren't any other structures in sight, and the last time Phinks remembered seeing any sort of home outside of the one he was currently looking at was several miles back along the route he had taken. Being able to tell that someone was approaching would've been easy.

The long car ride Phinks had embarked on came to an end when he stopped in the driveway, and after he collected the plastic bag that had been sitting in the front seat next to him during the entirety of the drive, the blonde stepped out of the car and slammed the door firmly behind him. He then paused for a moment, observing the area that surrounded him.

The multitude of various types of flowers which decorated the area in front of the house caught his attention first. Starting beneath the front porch and heading down the slight incline, rows of flowers stretched across the area, the colors consisting largely of red, orange and yellow. What any of those kinds of flowers were called, he couldn't even begin to guess – he'd never been the type of guy to care about things like that. Chrollo probably didn't care too much about them either. In fact, the entire picture of the home felt weird since it didn't seem to fit with Chrollo's typical aesthetic.

Though it did fit perfectly with yours.

Taking one last glance at the flowers while approaching Chrollo, Phinks noted the section towards one end of the flower bed that was barren as only dirt took up the space.

That seemed a bit odd.

He quickly turned his attention away as he approached the stairs.

“Hello, Phinks,” Chrollo said as the enhancer came closer.

“Hey boss,” Phinks said in turn.

Phinks stopped upon reaching the porch, the plastic bag in his hand swinging slightly as he came to a halt.

“Sorry if this was a bit too last minute,” the blonde said, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of his head.

“Not at all,” Chrollo said, “it's good to see you again.”

Phinks raised a brow in question.

“It hasn't been that long since we last saw each other.”

“No, but I'm always happy to see you and the others outside of jobs.”

Chrollo leaned against one of the pillars of the porch as he added “and I think this visit from you will be good for them.”

He hadn't needed to specify who he was talking about for Phinks to understand who he meant, and as he was once more reminded of the purpose of this visit, he unconsciously shifted his grip on the plastic bag in his hand.

That action drew Chrollo's gaze downward, noting the object held within with curiosity and slight fascination – it was the entire reason why Phinks had requested this impromptu meeting with you.

“I have to admit, I was surprised when you told me that you managed to get one of those,” he said.

“Same here, honestly. I wasn't expecting to come across one.”

“How did you find it?” Chrollo asked.

“Completely by chance,” Phinks replied, looking down at the bag briefly as he said “some arms dealer had it. Said he'd give me a good price when he caught me staring at it.”

Chrollo looked back up to him as he asked “did you actually pay for it?”

“Of course not. I beat the shit out of him and took it.”

Chrollo chuckled as he said “taking after Uvo again, I see.”

“I'm not that bad,” Phinks huffed, “but the guy pissed me off so I decided not to pay him.”

“But you left him alive?”

“Yeah, but I'm not worried about retaliation. That guy will be too focused on recovering to worry about me.”

“It must have been quite the beat down, then,” Chrollo commented.

“Not really. It was a couple hits at most. Even for a non nen user, that guy was weak,” Phinks answered.

Chrollo chuckled again.

“I'll trust your judgment, then. But if you are hunted down for what you did, I'll expect you to take care of it if there's any interference with troupe business,” Chrollo said, though his tone was more lighthearted than serious.

“If we do have trouble because of that, I'll take care of it,” Phinks answered, “or I'll send Uvo to go do it. It doesn't take much for him to join a fistfight.”

Chrollo hummed in agreement.

Then the boss stepped aside, motioning to the interior of the home with his head as he said “please, come in.”

Phinks nodded.

Chrollo again motioned for Phinks to follow, and then the two men entered the home, cutting through a few different rooms as Chrollo led the way to the back of the structure. The inside matched more with what he knew of Chrollo's tastes, Phinks noted to himself. Lots of art, elegant looking furniture, and several different bookshelves that were filled with what were likely old and very pricey books. There were a few different pieces, both books and art alike, that he recognized had come from previous heists. Pieces that would likely be gone from the home within a matter of months once Chrollo tired of them, though there was a slight chance that some of them might stay permanently if his leader felt strongly enough for them.

But mixed in with all of that were little signs of you.

Often it came in the form of a pop of color that stood out against the deep, rich shades of Chrollo's normal aesthetic, and always in the form of some sort of plant life, sitting among or next to the expanse of a largely stolen collection. The flowers he could see were a mix of the colors you tended to use most often: pink, yellow, purple and white. All different types of flowers, and once again none of which were ones that Phinks knew the name of.

But maybe he should try to learn at some point. For you.

“Where are they?” Phinks asked when he didn't see you.

“Outside, around the back,” Chrollo answered.

Phinks' brows furrowed in question.

“Outside? Alone?”

“It's fine. They know now what's expected of them.”

Chrollo stopped before a pair of sliding glass doors that opened up to the backyard, and beyond a wooden deck attached to the home, Phinks caught sight of a figure that was sitting in the middle of an open field. His grip on the bag tightened a fraction when he looked at you; even with how far away you were, there was a sense of gloom that surrounded you.

“How's it been with them?” Phinks asked.

“I wish I could say that they've been a bit more accepting,” Chrollo answered as he slid open one door, “but even though they don't fight me on everything, there's still too much resistance on their part. They'll listen, but only begrudgingly.”

Phinks' face fell slightly as he asked “should I not go, then?”

“No, you should. You came all this way to see them, after all. And perhaps seeing you will encourage good behavior.”

But before he stepped back, Chrollo glanced over at the enhancer as he said “I'm sure I don't need to tell you not to mention what happened the other week.”

“I figured, boss.”

After hearing that, Chrollo stepped aside, allowing Phinks unhindered access to the outdoors. The blonde obliged, stepping forward and making his way to where you sat.

Having once again returned to the outdoors, Phinks once again found himself looking at the details in the area that surrounded him. Stepping down from the stairway of the backyard deck, he noticed what appeared to be a small vegetable garden to his right. More of your work, he assumed. Being able to grow food from anything was a handy aspect of your ability, he had to admit. With that, you'd never go hungry.

Having something like that would've been nice when you were all growing up in Meteor City, he noted to himself.

It was definitely a better way to use it than your whole thing with the flowers.

Speaking of which, the field that he was walking into was barren of them, as when he glanced about again, all he could see was green grass. That felt odd. In the other places where you'd lived with Chrollo, you made a point to fill up as much of the area as you could with flowers, much like the way you had added greenery to the inside. Much like the way you had decorated the front of the house, actually, though that too had a space that was oddly empty. Clearly you had started on that at one point, so it was strange that you hadn't continued, out front or back here.

Did Chrollo not give your ability back until today?

If that was the case, then it was better not to say anything.

Phinks was able to see more as he came closer to where you were sitting – the way you sat with your legs crossed, the way your fingers grasping at a wild patch of grass that stood next you and the way you stared absentmindedly at the clouds overhead while the breeze ruffled your clothing. It felt slightly picturesque, with you being in the middle of the nature you loved so much, even if it did seem weird that you hadn't yet decorated the field with flowers.

What kind would you choose if you did?

The enhancer found his mind blanking on an answer. The basic flower names that he knew off the top of his head probably weren't ones that you would choose.

Turning his attention back to you, he found that from where he was currently, you looked a bit better than you had the last time he'd seen you.

He frowned to himself.

The last time he'd seen you, you had been blinking back tears and glaring at him when he tried to come close, silently making it clear that you didn't want anything to do with him. While the way in which you pushed him away from you had hurt, he did what you wanted, not wanting to agitate you further.

But maybe now you'd be okay with him coming close.

Phinks continued to walk towards you, his gaze never straying from where you sat in the middle of that field. He saw the moment when you noticed him – though you didn't turn around to look at him, you stiffened slightly as you sensed his presence. While you clearly knew he was there, you didn't acknowledge him, keeping yourself turned away from him while your gaze fell down to your lap.

That wasn't great, but you weren't turning to glare at him like you had last time. So that was something, at least.

When he was nearly upon you, he called out to you.

“Hey,” Phinks greeted.

“….. Hey,” you replied.

“How's it been?” he asked, stopping next to you. You weren't looking up at him and were still keeping your gaze on your lap.

“I don't know,” was your answer.

…. Phinks wasn't sure what to say to that. With Chrollo letting you out and about without any sort of leash to keep you tethered, metaphorical or otherwise, the enhancer had thought maybe you'd be a bit more receptive to him, that you might be in better spirits over the whole situation.

Instead, you seemed rather listless as you sat there, staring down at nothing with a blank expression.

Maybe if he kept talking, he'd break through to you.

“This is a nice place,” Phinks commented as he glanced over the area.

“Is it?” you asked.

“I mean, I thought so? I'm not even that much of a nature lover, but this seems like an ideal spot if you want to get away from everything and go back to your roots. It's the kind of space I usually picture you being in,” Phinks said.

“Hm.”

….. That response of yours wasn't promising.

“You don't agree?” he asked.

“It's hard to enjoy much of anything when you have Chrollo constantly breathing down your neck,” you said.

“Oh.”

Experience told Phinks not to argue with you over your feelings on Chrollo. Doing so was a surefire way for you to become irritated or even outright angry with him. Though he could handle your anger, he didn't like seeing you that way.

But with how listless you were at the moment, he found that he didn't mind the thought of you being upset if just so he could see some sort of emotion on your face.

You didn't give him a chance to say anything, however, as you spoke before he could.

“So,” you began, a sigh in your voice as you asked “did you come here just to have me make you weed again?”

Phinks blinked.

“No,” he answered defensively.

“That's a surprise,” you answered dryly, “did Chrollo tell you not to ask for that anymore?”

“Like he gives a shit about that.”

You hummed. Then finally, you looked over to him, your eyes immediately going to the bag he held.

“It doesn't look like there are beer cans in there. Am I making weed out of something else?” you asked.

“I'm not here for that!” he insisted.

With a huff, Phinks held the bag out as he said “I'm here for you. I brought you something.”

“… Something for me?” you asked, your tone slightly suspicious.

There was a bit more life in your voice when you asked that, and Phinks found himself feeling more hopeful when you turned to look at him. One of your eyebrows was raised in question as you looked between him and the plastic bag. Even though it wasn't necessarily a happy expression, it was a far cry from the listless, dead look in your eyes that had been there moments earlier.

“Take it,” Phinks urged you, holding out the bag further.

Staying seated on the ground, you reached out, gently gripping the handles as you pulled it towards yourself. Your fingers brushed against his for a moment – only for a moment, as he relinquished the bag once it was in your grasp. When you grasped the handles with both hands and pulled it open to peer inside, there was a change in you.

A light sparkled in your eyes that hadn't been there before as you gazed at the contents of the bag.

That sight stirred up memories from your shared childhood.

The pot with bunches of pink flowers amid green leaves instantly caught Phinks' attention when he stepped into the worn-down structure that served as a home for you, Feitan and himself, and he looked at it in question from where it had been placed in the center of the room while you sat close by, your gaze going to the entrance as Phinks stepped in and smiling at him in greeting.

“Hey, Phinks,” you said to him.

“Hey,” he answered before looking back to the flowers, “what's this?”

“Flowers.”

He narrowed his gaze in annoyance at your response.

“I can see that. But why are they here?”

“Why? Um….. I wanted them? And nobody else seemed interested in them, so…..”

Phinks raised an eyebrow as he asked “are you sure that's a good idea? Last time I checked, you didn't know anything about taking care of plants.”

You shifted slightly as you placed a hand on the base of the potted plant, as if you were worried he was going to take them away.

“It can't be that hard, right? I just need to make sure it gets plenty of sunlight and water,” you answered.

“We only have so much clean water to go around. We can't spare any for that,” he countered.

“I'll give it some of my share. You and Feitan won't need to worry about it.”

“I'm not letting you go without water for a plant.”

“I'll be fine.”

“No, you won't.”

“I will. I'm sure I can find a way to make it work.”

“Yeah, by letting yourself go thirsty, which I'm not gonna let happen,” Phinks said.

“I'll be okay.”

You said that as you went as far as to gather the pot into your arms and on your lap, making it even more clear that you feared he would attempt to take it away from you. He was tempted to do just that, but only because the idea of you going without water for the sake of some flowers was astronomically stupid and again, not something that he was going to allow to happen.

But as he stared at you and saw that nervous expression on your face, the one that threatened to turn into full-on sadness if he should take the plant away from you, he found his nerve faltering. He never liked it when you cried.

Phinks sighed as he crossed his arms.

“Why does this matter?” he asked, “they're just flowers. You can see them anywhere.”

You shook your head, saying “not like these ones. I've never seen these in Meteor City before. And they're prettier than the ones that grow here.”

“That's supposed to be a good reason for keeping them?”

“I think so.”

“That's stupid.”

You frowned upon hearing Phinks' statement, but when you looked back at the pink flowers that sat on your lap, he saw a swell of emotion in your eyes as you gazed at them. Of happiness and hope.

“Maybe there's a way I can grow more of them, that way Meteor City can be filled with them. That way everyone can see how pretty they are,” you said.

“I wouldn't get your hopes up. For all you know that thing could be dead by the end of the week,” Phinks told you.

You pouted that time, more annoyed with his lack of confidence in you.

“I can grow more,” you said.

“How?” Phinks asked.

“I just can,” you answered defensively.

At that, he sighed once again.

“You know,” Phinks began, “stuff isn't going to happen just because you really want it to. The world doesn't work like that.”

“But you never know. Maybe it can. Maybe I can figure it out,” you said.

That time, your tone was less defensive and more hopeful.

Despite his reservations, Phinks didn't have the heart to make you throw out the flowers. Neither did Feitan when he returned and saw the mass of pink petals that stood out from the cracked, plastic pot. You again spoke of your wish to grow more of the flower so everyone in Meteor City could see it, again with no explanation with how you were going to achieve that. Both Phinks and Feitan shared a look when you said that, and both were aware that it wasn't good that you honestly believed you could do that, but neither had it in them to say anything further on the subject.

You held onto that potted flower for the rest of the evening, staring at it with no small sense of amazement and wonder. When you went to bed that night, you placed the pot on top of a small step stool and you gazed at it from where you laid in your bed until you eventually fell asleep. Neither Phinks nor Feitan understood what exactly it was about those flowers that had enraptured you like that, but with life in Meteor City being as hard as it was, they mutually decided to let you hold onto that little piece of happiness for as long as it was able to last.

It turned out to only be two weeks, for despite all of your efforts in keeping it watered and placing it in the sun, the flowers slowly wilted and lost their soft pink color. The day that the plant died, Phinks found you staring at it again, and this time your mood was much more somber and that sparkle of happiness within you had vanished completely.

It was expected – no one can have nice things in Meteor City.

But even though this was the exact thing that he had told you would happen, Phinks felt bad for you.

Walking over to where you sat, he caught your attention when he placed his hand on top of your head as he ruffled your hair encouragingly.

“I'll find you more,” he promised.

You stared up at him for a moment.

And then your face broke out into a small but grateful smile, the sight of which sent a surge of warmth lighting up inside of him.

It felt like it was the first time in what felt like a long while that Phinks saw you look at anything with that sort of excitement.

Made sense. Growing up was a surefire way of killing anyone's childlike sense of wonder. But it seemed like you'd caught it again as you held the bag he had brought you.

“Is this real?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“And you're giving this to me so I can change it?”

“Why else would I give you that thing?”

You glanced up at him before returning your gaze down to the bag, once again looking at the rectangular shaped box that held one of the worst things ever created: the Miniature Rose bomb.

A device that was used to wipe out hundreds of thousands in the initial blast, and was designed to devastate even more lives once the initial blast had gone off, as the smoke that came from the ignited bomb produced a deadly poison that spread to every living thing in its vicinity. With one of those bombs now in your possession, your mouth pressed into a small, determined line as you suddenly stood up, the bag that held the bomb inside swinging once more.

“Do you have a pen?” you asked.

Phinks reached into his pocket and pulled out a plain black pen, which he handed to you with no preamble. You were quick to grab it before you began to walk, heading towards the middle of the field. The enhancer walked with you, matching his pace with yours.

“I've never seen someone be this excited over a weapon of mass destruction,” he commented.

“It's not every day that I find one of these,” you answered, “despite how many still exist, they're stupidly hard to come across.”

“Isn't that a good thing? Less people are being blown up that way.”

“Yeah. But it'd be nice for me if I could find them easier.”

Phinks hummed.

“How many times have you changed a Miniature Rose?” he then asked.

“Today will make eight,” you answered, “I tried to keep an eye out for them when I was doing my job as a Hunter, but like I said, they aren't easy to get ahold of. And when you can find them, they're incredibly expensive, even for a Hunter.”

You turned your head to look at him as you asked “how did you find this?”

“This arms dealer who was talking to me had it.”

Your eyebrow raised again upon hearing that.

“Why would you of all people need to do business with arms dealers?” you asked, “what do you need weapons for when you can use your fists?”

Phinks shrugged.

“I dunno. I just wanted to see what he had. And I'd say it was a good thing I bothered since I found that for you,” he answered.

“That's true, I guess,” you conceded. Then you pursed your lips, seeming to have a hard time getting your next words out. Eventually, you were successful as you let out a soft “thank you.”

“No problem,” he answered.

The smallest of smiles graced your lips after he said that, and seeing that had him feeling good about everything.

This was better, he thought to himself. You weren't upset and you weren't emotionally dead. Instead, you walked forward with a spring in your step and clear purpose in mind as you went towards a particular spot in the field. Like maybe you had temporarily forgotten the situation you were in under Chrollo's care.

Though you wouldn't need to be in a situation like this is if you could just accept what the troupe wanted for you.

But voicing an opinion like that at this point in time would definitely make you upset, so he kept his mouth shut.

No need to ruin things so soon.

You stopped when you reached what was about the field's center. Phinks stopped with you, his hands in his pockets as he watched you place the bag down onto the ground.

“Why did we come over here?” he asked as you summoned your watering can.

“Changing a bomb like this causes there to be a lot more flowers to form than you might expect,” you explained as the seed packet fell into your hand, “if we're too close to the house, part of it could get overtaken.”

“What, the house will get turned into flowers?”

“No, but there'd probably be a good portion of the house that would get covered in them.”

“Can't you just cut them away?”

You gave him a stern look as you said “what's the point of changing the bomb if the flowers are going to be killed immediately after?”

“I thought the point was getting rid of the bomb,” he answered.

You let out a small huff of annoyance, but turned your attention back to the packet as you listed both the Miniature Rose Bomb and the plastic bag on one side before flipping over to write on the back. When he leaned in closer, Phinks was surprised that he actually recognized the name of the flower you were scribbling down.

“Turning the Miniature Rose into actual roses?” he asked.

“It feels appropriate, don't you think? Instead of being something terrible that might look beautiful to some, it can turn into something actually beautiful.”

Phinks hummed as he continued to watch the process for your ability. After handing him back his pen, your movements were hurried as you ripped the seed packet open and dumped the contents into the yellow watering can, as though you were impatient with the conditions you had set for yourself. After throwing the packet into the can and watching as the water swirled within, your finger tapped against the heart shaped handle incessantly.

Having seen your ability in action before, he was aware that the part where the energy required to change the desired object built up within the can would likely take some time.

Though it'd be interesting to see if the Miniature Rose would take a longer time than what Chrollo had used your ability for. It had been a little less than thirty minutes, if he recalled correctly.

Clearly you anticipated this taking some time, as you soon settled down onto your knees in front of the watering can, your hands resting on your thighs as you periodically glanced at the bag that held the bomb. Phinks joined you on the ground, watching the soft purple glow that emitted from the can's interior.

After a few moments, he commented “this feels like it's going to take a while.”

“It's a bit different than turning beer cans into marijuana, Phinks.”

“I mean, I figured, but…..”

His voice trailed off as he leaned in closer to get a look of the interior of the watering can, and he found that the water was still lapping about at the very bottom.

“We're gonna be here a while, aren't we?” he asked.

“Yep,” you answered plainly.

You seemed pretty relaxed about the whole thing. Made sense given that you'd changed seven of those bombs. Regardless of how terrible they were, by this point you knew what you were doing. Plus, if there was even a hint that something could go wrong, Chrollo wouldn't have allowed you to touch the thing.

Thinking back to the boss, Phinks wondered – what had Chrollo's reaction been when you told him of how you used your ability for the Miniature Rose? Phinks remembered he was mostly impressed that you had the nerve to mess with them like that while he overheard Feitan mumbling about how you were an idiot.

How did you figure you would be okay transforming the bomb, anyway?

“When you first changed a Miniature Rose, how did you know it'd be safe?” he asked.

You glanced over at him in question as you asked back “how did I know what would be safe?”

“How did you know the bomb wouldn't go off in the middle of it?”

“Oh, that.”

You stretched out your arms as you continued to wait for the can to fill as you answered “I didn't. I just crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.”

The nonchalant way in which you had said that pissed him off a little.

“That's fucking stupid. And reckless,” he said.

“Like you're one to talk.”

“I'm not the one who chose to dabble in experimental bomb disposal,” Phinks countered.

“Figuring out if I could change the bombs was worth the risk. And since it worked, it's not a big deal,” you said.

“Not a big deal? You could've blown up with the bomb.”

“It was worth it. The less of these things that exist in the world, the better.”

Phinks huffed.

“There's still thousands outside of the ones you've changed, though,” he pointed out.

“I know. But the more of them that I can change, the more lives that can be spared the awful fates that these horrible things bring on their victims,” you said passionately.

There was a fire burning in your eyes when you turned to face him as you continued with “even though that agreement exists to not use the bombs anymore, there way too many people in power that keep them 'just in case'. And because of the refusal to get rid of the bombs entirely, it's a fear at the back of the minds of millions of people every day: that the bomb could go off near them and destroy everything.”

“It might only one, but getting rid of this still makes a big difference. It's one step closer to making the world better for everyone,” you declared.

You then turned your attention back to the watering can, that fire still in your gaze as you stared at it while impatience was thrumming through you again as you once more waited for this part of your hatsu to finish.

Throughout your speech and then after it, Phinks remained silent.

There it was. Your childish idealism – that notion of yours that you could make the world a better place. While Phinks could admit that getting rid of nuclear bombs in the way you did was effective, you failed to understand that getting rid of the weapons that were used to blow away the masses wouldn't change much of anything. People would always hate, fight and kill each other, regardless of if they could get rid of thousands of lives all at once or if they needed to take their time doing it one by one.

Nothing was going to change no matter how many bombs you turned into roses.

But you had changed a lot.

Another thing that was normal. He and the founding members of the troupe had changed significantly since they were all kids in Meteor City. That was part of growing up. Yet you still held onto those things you had clung to as a child, such as your aforementioned idealism and your focus on the things that made you happy, that you firmly believed could lead to the happiness of others. Namely, your love of flowers and your belief that just the sight of them could lead to some sort of positive change.

In that regard, you were still the same as when you were younger.

But still, you had changed.

“No way,” Machi said.

“How come? People love a good princess,” Uvogin countered.

“Then you play her,” she told him, “I don't wanna do this unless I get to be a baddie!”

A discussion among the entire group started after that on who could play the Princess in their performances of the Power Cleaner episodes. Suggestions on who else in the group could play the princess were being shot down just as fast as they were being put forward, and for a moment, it seemed as though everyone was stumped on what to do.

Through it all you were staying quiet, sitting next to Sarasa while you watched Phinks and Feitan practicing for the next show. But Phinks had caught sight of that hopeful look in your eye as you heard the discussion continue, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt in nervous anticipation.

He knew what you wanted – he had seen the way your eyes lit up the instant the word “Princess” had been spoken.

Just ask them, Phinks thought to himself. Just ask if you can play the part, and they'll give it to you.

But no. A full minute passed, the discussion was still ongoing, and you weren't saying anything. Unlike when you were with him and Feitan, you were a bit more closed off with the rest of the group, and now your shy nature was getting the better of you and keeping you from making that request.

They won't know you want it if you don't ask. Were you really going to say nothing and let them give the role to someone else? Already, Phinks could imagine the dejected look you would make when they chose another kid to play the role, and you would have no one but yourself to blame for that.

While it pissed him off a little, Phinks decided to give you the push you needed, to ask you outright if you wanted to do it. Maybe then you'd speak up.

Only someone else beat him to it.

Calling out your name, Chrollo asked “why don't you play the part?”

You blinked in surprise, staring at Chrollo with an awestruck expression as you asked “you mean…. Me, as the Princess?”

Chrollo smiled.

“Yeah. I think you'd be perfect for the role,” he told you. Some of the others in the group seemed surprised, apparently assuming you would be too shy to want to perform in front of the other kids, while the rest echoed his sentiments as they encouraged you to accept. That was enough to get you on board. You smiled shyly, averting your gaze out of bashfulness as you quietly agreed to do it.

Everyone was in good spirits after that; Pakunoda assured you that you wouldn't regret it, Sarasa offered to give you tips on what to do if you felt scared on stage, Feitan smiled to himself on seeing how happy you were to get the role, and Uvogin was now teasing Machi on losing out on the chance to play the Princess while Machi reiterated that she didn't want to participate unless she was a bad guy.

Gathering up a couple of scripts, Chrollo went to where you were sitting and settled down next to you as he handed you one of them.

“The Red Power Cleaner and the Princess share a lot of scenes in this episode, so we should practice together,” he told you.

“Okay,” you answered softly while your body brimmed with barely contained excitement.

Though the others had their attention elsewhere, Phinks was still watching the two of you. And while he watched as you rehearsed your lines with Chrollo and the smiles and laughter shared between the two of you, Phinks suddenly felt a strange feeling of tightness in his chest.

It was only much, much later, when he happened to reminisce on that day, that he realized what he had been feeling was jealousy.

All of a sudden, it felt like there were eyes on the two of you.

A glance back at the house revealed it to be Chrollo, as Phinks could see the dark haired man looking out through one of the windows, keeping an eye on you while your hatsu went to work. It felt a little like having a chaperone. Slightly annoying, Phinks felt, but it was expected. Even though you fought hard against him and even though Chrollo had been harsh with you in the past, he only did it all because he was worried about you. They all were.

You seemed to notice his presence as well, as when Phinks looked back to you, that light of determination had gone out and the air around you was more somber, the corners of your mouth turning downwards in a frown.

As much as Phinks wanted to be annoyed by your change in mood, it was bound to happen eventually. The enhancer just wished that the relatively good moment between the two of you hadn't ended so quickly.

He still didn't like to see you upset.

Phinks stayed where he was, staring up at the sky while he the wait for the watering can to fill seemed to go on indefinitely.

Maybe he should've brought something to help pass the time.

“Do you still see Feitan a lot?” you asked.

Your question was unexpected – not just because a quiet had settled over the two of you, but also because you didn't tend to ask about the others these days. Looking over to you, he found that you still had your gaze on the watering can, and you didn't seem any happier than you had moments ago.

Still, he chose to answer your question as he said “yeah, we're in pretty frequent contact.”

“Just in contact? You don't live with him anymore?”

“Nah. I think we both like having our own spaces. More breathing room that way.”

As soon as he said that, he noted the way your frown deepened while your gaze narrowed to a glare.

Fuck. He'd said that to you when you were basically under house arrest with Chrollo. Hadn't you said something earlier about the boss breathing down your neck constantly? Of course that'd piss you off. He needed something else to talk about, something that would get you in a good mood again.

He thought he had it when he said “I saw Fei the other week, actually. Though we were both pretty miserable; Chrollo made both of us dress in tuxedos. I don't think either of us will get used to those things. Don't know why boss keeps using us for that kind of shit.”

“…. That was last week?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“With Chrollo?”

“Yeah.”

“And that was during the time he had my hatsu?”

“….. Yeah.”

Fuck

Chrollo's words rang in his skull, reminding him not to mention anything with that last job, and there he was, managing to mention the one thing he'd been told not to. How the fuck had he managed that?

Why was he like this when he was around you?

Now the air around the two of you was uncomfortable, and he didn't know where to go from here.

You apparently did, however, as you were the one who chose to take the reigns of the conversation. Turning your head back to look at him, you asked “Phinks, what happened last week?”

Phinks remained silent as he stared at you.

“Why did he need Revival Gardener? Why didn't he use me?” you asked.

“……”

You remained undeterred as you said “Phinks, you need to tell me.”

The enhancer held your gaze for a moment longer –

And then looked away.

“….. Really, Phinks?”

You almost sounded disappointed in him.

But there wasn't anything he could do. He wasn't going to betray Chrollo's order. Not for you.

Not when it would hurt you.

The boss wouldn't have said much about it, but you weren't stupid; you caught on that it was strange, that he hadn't forced you to go on that particular job and had instead borrowed your ability to use for himself. After all, the entire reason Chrollo brought you along on jobs was to help you get used to the death that the troupe dealt with on a regular basis.

Why then, you must have wondered, would he use your ability and leave you behind?

The only answer that you would have come to would be to assume he had done something that, in your mind, would have been horrific.

And now you knew that Phinks had been present for that.

It felt impossible to say anything now. If he tried to change the subject, you would notice and call him out on it. If he mentioned any small detail on the other week, even if he did it as nonchalantly as possible, you would press him for more. And when he flatly refused to tell you, you would become upset, and it would devolve into a mess.

Phinks couldn't think of anything else to say.

So he chose to stay silent.

You did the same as you returned your attention to the watering can, the water that had continued to swirl within not even coming close to the halfway point. With the two of you now at an impasse and still a long way to go before you could do what you wanted with the bomb, Phinks dreaded just how long the awkward silence would last.

Chrollo's presence vanished not long after, giving the two of you privacy. That seemed to relax you slightly.

When the can was a quarter of the way full, Phinks felt an urge to speak, but as he still didn't know what to say to you, he ultimately chose to remain silent.

He couldn't tell if you had noticed that or not.

When the can was halfway full, you spoke again.

“You don't need to stay here with me,” you told him.“I want to stay,” he answered.

You didn't respond to that.

When the water was beginning to make the last legs towards the top of the can, Phinks glanced up towards the sky, taking note of how the sun had clearly dipped slightly since he had first arrived. It had been noon when he got here originally, hadn't it?

Chrollo could've given him a heads up on how long this was going to take, he thought to himself.

When the water finally, finally reached the top of the can and stilled, it felt like a small eternity had passed. His legs almost didn't want to cooperate with him when he followed your lead and stood up from where he had been sitting, having remained in that position for a bit too long. If you were bothered in the same way, you weren't showing it as you immediately went to pick up the watering can, gripping those heart-shaped handles as you hoisted it off of the ground and moved so you were standing above the bomb.

Without a word, you tilted the can and began to pour the conjured water over it, and the bomb as well as the plastic bag were quickly soaked as the contents of the can rained down on them.

Phinks then sensed Chrollo's presence once again, the boss no doubt noting that there was a development out in the field. As much as he had criticized you for your ability and how he found it to be largely useless, Chrollo was no less fascinated by the process of change that came whenever you used it.

At least this second time around, you didn't react to Chrollo's presence in any way that Phinks could see.

The enhancer found himself wondering how much longer this would take as he watched the purple-tinted water cover every part of the bomb, and part of him dreaded it taking as long as the conjuration process had. Luckily for him, emptying the can was much less time consuming, as not too long after, the water ran out and the last few drops dripping from the sprinkler head before the can disappeared completely, its purpose served.

Your hands dropped to your sides as you took a step back, keeping your eyes on the bomb.

Finally, you were at the last step.

Wanting to gauge your current state, Phinks dared to speak as he asked “there isn't any chance of the roses changing back, right?”

“Changing back into the bomb?” you asked.

The fact that you were quick to answer was a good sign, he felt.

“Yeah.”

“There's no chance,” you murmured, your gaze still on the bomb as you added “once something has been changed with Revival Gardener, it can't change back. That's one of the conditions.”

“Huh. No wonder it can do so much, then.”

You hummed noncommittally at his reply.

Then after a few minutes had passed, you began walking backwards while you kept your eyes on the bomb. That time, you spoke up on your own.

“You won't want to be too close for too long; once it gets to a certain point, the area is going to fill up with rosebushes and you'll need to fight your way out of all the thorns and branches,” you told him.

“Is that something you learned the hard way?” Phinks asked, turning around as he began to walk with you.

“Mm.”

That answer seemed to indicate that he was correct. Though he doubted that you would have been injured much by something like that, whichever one of those frilly outfits that you liked to wear probably didn't survive a trek through thousands of scratching thorns.

Though considering that Chrollo was the one who supplied you with your wardrobe, it surprised him a little that you wouldn't have it destroyed on purpose if just for the sake of being spiteful.

His thoughts were interrupted when he saw you stumble slightly when you walked over a tiny hill of dirt that had acted as an obstruction in the otherwise empty field. Without a second thought, Phinks placed his hand on your shoulder as he continued walking, intending to guide you while you kept your attention on the bag.

You glanced at him briefly, and while your expression was indiscernible, you didn't protest against the physical contact. Your gaze returned to what was in front of you as you continued walking backwards, this time with his assistance, allowing him to guide you while you kept your focus on your ability.

When you came to a halt, he stopped with you and looked back to where the bag had been left.

It wasn't too far away. Only about twenty steps or so, he noted.

“Is this far enough?” he asked.

“No, we'll need to move again. I just can't get too far for now.”

Turning his gaze away from the bag, Phinks brought his attention back to you, hoping to find that you were at least in slightly better spirits. Outside of the work you were doing for the troupe, you always seemed a little bit happy when you were allowed to use your ability. Even though you were angry with all of them for what you had been forced into, using your hatsu for the changes you wanted to see never failed to make you forget what your life had become, even if it was only momentarily. Phinks hoped that would be the case right now. It should've been the case, as you were erasing something that you desperately didn't want to let exist in the world.

But when he looked to you and saw that you were frowning as you stared across the field, it was not only disappointing, but also confusing.

Why weren't you happy?

Just then, you stiffened and began to walk backwards again. Phinks once more moved with you, guiding you again while he glanced over his shoulder.

There was a burst of movement across the field.

Originating from the spot where the bomb had been placed, thin brown branches spread across from that area within the blink of an eye, bursting through the plastic bag before they crawled forward, slowly growing larger as they overtook the grass that sat beneath them. The once empty field was filling up with long brown limbs that dipped and swerved with random patterns as they spread out wide, continually breaking off and forming separate branches, some of which began growing upward and turned green in color. As the stems came closer to the two of you, Phinks caught sight of the multitude of thorns that decorated the newly formed greenery alongside what appeared to be unopened flower buds.

When he looked again to the site where the bag had once laid, he couldn't see any sign of it or the Miniature Rose within. All that could be seen in that area was the writhing thorns that continued to come out like a geyser.

A few seconds later, the area where the both of you had been standing was obscured by the stems and thorns, and still there was no sign of it stopping. The long stems continued to reach out, growing as if they intended to cover the entire field.

“I see what you were saying about it covering the house,” he said.

“Mm.”

It didn't seem like you were really paying attention to him as you kept your eyes on the growing flowers, watching as the rosebuds began to bloom and set a striking red color against the sea of green that occupied the field. Just as the stems seemed to be coming to an end, the red began to overtake everything as more red petals opened up one by one, revealing the result that you wanted: the most deadly weapon in the world, now a mass of harmless flowers – or mostly harmless, as long as you ignored the thorns. He continued to watch with you as the flowers continued to grow, hiding the thorns and dark branches as they continued to bloom, the roses moving about like waves as the sheer amount of energy that had been placed into the Miniature Rose was converted by your hatsu. Phinks was once again impressed as he watched the red fill up the field, spreading far within the blink of an eye.

You were right when you said that it was different from turning beer cans into weed.

Finally, the movement of the plants began to still, slowing down as the branches ceased their bending and writhing, now finding stationary positions within the mass. The roses came to a halt as well, their petals open and soaking up the sunlight that came from above, and after that, the only movement they offered was a result from the breeze that blew by them, rustling the petals softly.

It felt like it was over.

“You weren't kidding about how many of them there were going to be,” Phinks commented as he looked about the once plain field that was now covered in roses as far as he could see.

When you didn't respond, he chose to take it as you still concentrating on your hatsu. Even though it looked like it was finished, maybe you weren't done quite yet.

“They look nice,” he then said after another few moments.

When you didn't respond that time, he felt a sense of unease rise inside of him.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“….. This doesn't feel right,” you answered.

Phinks blinked in surprise as he asked “what do you mean?”

“My hatsu. It feels wrong,” you said. Staring at the field in dismay, you added “ever since I got it back from Chrollo, it doesn't feel the same. Like it's been altered somehow.”

He grimaced, dismayed that the topic was again going back to Chrollo's use of your hatsu.

“I don't think boss changed anything about your ability,” Phinks told you, “maybe it just feels weird because it was taken away temporarily.”

You shook your head.

“It's not that. There's something different about Revival Gardener. Something he did when he used it,” you insisted.

Then you turned to him with a pleading look in your eyes.

“Phinks, you need to tell me what happened when he took it. I need to know what he did with my hatsu,” you said.

The enhancer stared at you for a moment before he shook his head.

“If boss says you don't need to know, then you don't need to know,” he said.

“I do need to know. It's my ability, and he used it for something awful, I just know it,” you insisted.

“Why do you want to know the details of something that you'll think is awful? Aren't you happy that he gave you a break from that?”

“Because it's my ability and I deserve to know.”

“If boss says no, then you don't.”

Phinks turned to leave, sensing that the conversation was going to go around in circles and ultimately end with you being upset. While it frustrated him, he knew by now that no matter how hard he tried, he wasn't going to be able to do much of anything to reassure you or calm you down. The best option he had was to remove himself from the situation.

He didn't even get to take a single step before he was stopped.

You grabbed at him, both of your hands wrapping around his wrist and wrenching it back as you kept him in place with a strength he hadn't been expecting. Unable to free his wrist, he looked back to see a desperate expression on your face. Your lip was wobbling and tears threatened to fall down your cheeks. You looked a lot like you did whenever Chrollo was about to make you change a body.

“Phinks, please,” you begged, “I need to know.”

“Please,” you said again as your grip on him tightened ever so slightly.

Phinks stared at you before looking down where you were touching, and as had been the theme for today, another old memory came rising to the surface.

“Let go of me, brat.”

The words came growling out of him as Phinks stared down at you, his grip tightening on the bat he had borrowed from Feitan in his hand. You were standing in front of him, shuddering, frail, looking like you were ready to cry, and the whole time you stood with both of your hands wrapped around his wrist. No matter what he did, he couldn't shake you off.

“I mean it – let go of me,” he snarled, “I have better things to do than look after some snot-nosed crybaby.”

Phinks pulled on his wrist again, only to be frustrated when he was once again unable to free himself of you.

“I'm not playing around!” he snapped.

He lifted up the bat after, holding it over his head as a threat. You bit your lip as you inhaled in fear, but you still wouldn't let go.

“Last warning,” he said, “let go before I beat the shit out of you.”

Your lip wobbled as tears finally came streaming down your cheeks.

But you still wouldn't let go.

Phinks tsked.

“Fine. You asked for it.”

And then he gritted his teeth as he prepared to bring the bat down on your head. As you sensed the impending violence, you clenched your eyes shut as you braced yourself.

But even then, you refused to let go.

Not far from where the two of you stood, the backdoor of the house slid open, then slid back shut.

Chrollo was out here now.

You froze when you realized that.

When you heard his steps descending the wooden stairs, you averted your gaze down at your feet as you released Phinks' wrist, pulling your hands back to your chest while you hunched up your shoulders with an obvious tension.

You looked like you were waiting for your executioner to reach you.

That wasn't the way you usually acted. Every other time the boss felt a need to interject himself in the middle of your visits, you reacted with defiance, not even bothering to hide the contempt you felt whenever you looked at Chrollo.

Now you couldn't even bring yourself to look at him, seemingly too scared to do that.

The sudden change in your attitude bothered Phinks, and he couldn't help but wonder what had happened to make you react like that.

The enhancer turned his head as Chrollo came closer, the two men's eyes meeting as the raven haired man walked at an even pace.

“It just finished, I take it?” Chrollo called out in question.

“Yeah, I think so,” Phinks answered as he looked back to you. You weren't answering, and you had shifted your body slightly to the side in order to turn away from Chrollo.

All of that spirit from earlier was gone now, replaced by that of pure dread.

Phinks hated seeing you like that.

Chrollo came to a stop when he reached the two of you, humming as he surveyed the newly grown mass of rosebushes that bathed the field in red.

“They look lovely,” he said to you.

“Mm.”

Chrollo smiled at your minimal response, pulling up one of his hands in order to place it on your shoulder and give you a reassuring squeeze. Both men caught the sharp intake of breath you made as a result of that action.

“After all of that, you must be tired,” Chrollo told you, “I think it'd be best for you to come back inside, don't you?”

“Mm.”

The noise you made wasn't really an agreement, but it wasn't necessarily a disagreement, either. You didn't fight with him, either, when Chrollo began to guide you back towards the home.

That didn't stop you from giving Phinks a desperate pleading look as Chrollo wrapped his arm around your shoulder, something that, by now, the enhancer had seen more times than he could count.

Don't look at me like that, Phinks thought to himself.

When you saw that he was doing nothing, the look that served as a cry for help turned into a harsh glare.

Don't look at me like that either, the enhancer again pleaded internally.

You know it's for your own good, so please don't look at me like that.

Despite his wishes, you wouldn't stop, so Phinks was forced to avert his gaze as he once more stared out at your field of roses.

Even though he couldn't see you now, he could feel your disappointment in him when he did that. When, for the second time that day, he turned away in order to make it easier to ignore you. Yet again, it felt childish and stupid for him to do, but he didn't know what else he could do. Not when you made things to needlessly difficult. As he looked over the roses, the sign of the 'good' you had been allowed to do for the day, he sighed to himself.

You were being kept safe with Chrollo, you got frequent visits both from him and other members of the troupe, and you were still allowed use of your ability.

Why couldn't that be enough for you?

After a moment, Phinks followed behind the two of you while Chrollo continued to lead you back into the home. He took note of the way Chrollo handled you, his touch soft as he guided you gently, and much like how he had felt all of those years ago when he saw you and Chrollo practicing your lines together, Phinks couldn't help the pang of jealousy that hit him once again.

He wished he didn't need to leave you behind with Chrollo – he wished he could be the one to look after you, to help fix you so your values were in line with that of the troupe.

But Phinks knew that he wasn't suitable for that sort of thing. It was better to leave it to Chrollo, who knew what he was doing.

So despite the jealousy within him that made itself known, Phinks shoved it down and told himself to get over it. His personal feelings didn't matter right now. All that mattered was fixing you, and Chrollo was the only one who could do that.

No matter what, Phinks needed to believe in the boss.

No matter what he did, it was for the greater good for both you and the troupe.

Even if he found himself doubting that belief from time to time.

What had happened the other week wasn't a job. Not really.

It was an experiment.

The event Phinks found himself at seemed to be nothing more than an overly fancy dinner party at a rented out venue. What exactly the occasion was, Phinks hadn't caught, but it didn't feel as though that fact was important to know; those kinds of parties were always the same. The ones where guests were dressed from head to toe in ridiculously priced suits and dresses that the average person couldn't hope to ever afford while the meagerly paid waitstaff balanced large trays of drinks and food while they catered to the guests on hand and foot.

It looked to be the sort of thing Phinks loathed – trying to fit in with pretentious people always left him feeling pissed off, and despite expressing how much he hated pretending to be a guest at one of these things, he nearly always managed to get put in that kind of a role.

Chrollo had noticed Phinks' look of apprehension and was quick to reassure him that his role in the event would be a brief one and he wouldn't need to deal with the guests long. When Phinks asked what exactly Chrollo wanted him to do, his boss only said one thing:

“Lock the doors.”

So that was what he did.

Despite his misgivings on being made to wear a suit while he was knee deep in snooty assholes, Phinks entered the event and quietly kept to himself as he waited for the signal to leave the room. Feitan had also been present, and had the same role as Phinks, waiting for when the time came to exit the room where everyone had gathered and lock the doors behind him. The only one who wasn't in that room was Shalnark, as his role required him to remain away from the throng of guests.

And then there was Chrollo, sitting in the corner of the room that allowed him on unobstructed view of everyone within the room while he sipped at a glass of wine.

When the signal to move came, both of them had been ready. After what felt like hours of endless drivel coming out of the people who surrounded him that had Phinks feel as though he was slowly loosing his mind, he was quick to notice when the staff that wasn't meant to be in the main room – those of whom were supposed to be in the kitchen – suddenly entered, led by the manager of the establishment who had a pink bat needle stuck in his arm beneath his sleeve. The appearance of the kitchen staff was just as confusing to them as it was to the guests and waitstaff, but Phinks and Feitan both moved upon seeing that, getting up from their seats and heading towards the only other exits in the room. They were almost in sync with one another as they closed and locked the double doors, ensuring that everyone within the room was firmly sealed in with Chrollo as both men secured the handles with heavy chains.

Phinks heard the confusion of those within the room as some noticed the locked doors, and then he heard that confusion turn into surprise and slight panic as the sprinklers within the room went off, dousing everyone in water.

He and Feitan arrived at the security room together, finding Shalnark sitting in front of the screens that showed the scene within the ballroom they had just left. Some people were bordering on frantic, fearful that there was a fire and that they had been locked into the room, as none of the exits would open no matter how hard they banged their fists or kicked at the solid surface of the doors.

Other were annoyed as they seemed to believe that the water had been set off as some sort of prank, and the organizers of the event could be seen yelling at the manager on behalf of their ruined event while that manager, now free of Shalnark's control and thoroughly confused as to how he had ended up in the middle of the chaos, stuttered as he tried to calm down the situation.

All the while the purple-tinted water continued to rain down on all of them, and Chrollo continued to sit calmly beneath it, becoming just as soaked as everyone else within the room as he waited for the water to cease and the next part to begin – and to see if it would work in the way he believed it would.

Eventually the water stopped, the tampered tank at the top having run out. When that happened and there was no sign of any sort of emergency, the atmosphere in the room changed again as many within became angry, now certain that the dinner had been ruined on purpose. Arguments began breaking out amidst the efforts of those who were still trying to get the doors open while others were lamenting the water damage done to their clothing and phones.

In the middle of all of that, one elderly woman suddenly cried out and fell to the floor.

That got the attention of nearly everyone in the room, and most rushed over to where she lay, clutching her stomach as she let out another painful wail. Those around her made efforts to help alleviate her distress while others returned to the doors, determined to get outside.

Then another person, one of the waiters, cried out as he fell to the floor in the same manner as the woman. He wasn't able to get the same attention as the woman before him, however, as almost immediately after another scream of utter pain echoed within the confines of the room.

Then there was chaos.

More and more people began to double over, screaming in pain as they felt that something was wrong within them, something that was spreading through their bodies while they were left to writhe in agony. Those who had been at the doors were still pounding against them, still trying to get them open, but their attempts were much weaker now as they also began to succumb to the effects of the water.

The woman who fell first was also the first to stop moving, one last painful gasp leaving her mouth before she ceased her movements.

But she didn't remain still, as beneath the barrier of her skin, something was moving. And those who were closest and were capable of noticing her while dealing with their own pain cried out in horror as they saw the first signs of the vines and leaves that began to exit through her open mouth.

Phinks and the others watched on in silence as they looked at the scene through the monitors, seeing firsthand the result of Chrollo's experiment:

Revival Gardener could, in fact, transform living material.

The sun was starting to set by the time Phinks left. The drive back from the home would be a long one, after all.

And he knew he'd be thinking about you the entire time.

You had remained quiet for the rest of his visit, refusing to respond to either him or Chrollo with anything more than a soft grunt. You wouldn't look at either of them from that point onward, instead choosing to keep your head down and your gaze on your lap.

The dead look in your eyes Phinks had witnessed when he had first arrived was back, and the second time around, there was nothing he could do to change that

.It was only when he left that you looked at him again.

As Chrollo walked him to the door, Phinks turned his head one last time and met your gaze from where you sat on the couch.

That pleading look was there again as you silently begged him to save you.

Once more, he didn't do anything like that, and this time Phinks didn't hang around long enough to see that look inevitably turned into anger.

At least you weren't angry with him all the time, he thought to himself after saying his goodbyes to Chrollo. He walked down the stairs towards his car with his hands in his pockets as he insisted to himself that it was something to be happy about. You still spoke to him whenever he came around, and sometimes you were able to laugh with him, just like you had when you were both kids.

And while it was depressing that the times where that happened were few, Phinks told himself that it was really your fault, all because of the way you had managed to be so different when compared to the rest of them and your stubborn refusal to listen to what Chrollo told you.

Based on the way you had acted today, it was still going to be a long way off until you were ready to be part of the Phantom Troupe. And Phinks couldn't help but let out a long sigh as he started up the engine and began to drive away.

As he pulled away from the house, it felt as though someone was watching him through one of the windows as he left, and Phinks chose to believe that it was you.

You wouldn't need to be away from him if you would just accept that you needed to change. Accept that your way of thinking was wrong, and then the two of you could be together like you were in the old days.

And then, maybe, things could go beyond that relationship you had once had, to something deeper than that.

But for now that was only a pipe dream. You weren't anywhere close to accepting their way of life, and so, you didn't need to know about that.

Just like you didn't need to know about Chrollo's experiment with your hatsu.

You didn't need to know that the night began with a room full of people and then ended with those people being turned into plants. You didn't need to know that writing down someone's name on the conjured seed packet was all your hatsu needed to change them, and you didn't need to know that the only survivor was a traumatized waitress who had only avoided painful death because she was filling in for someone else that night and therefore her name hadn't been included on the list Chrollo had snatched beforehand. You didn't need to know how much pain and destruction your hatsu had caused.

Because if you found all of that out too early before you were prepared for it, it would break you.

That wasn't what the troupe wanted – they just wanted you to be like them. To be their ally once again. Nothing would ever bring them back to the way things were before Sarasa's murder, but if you could be by their side – by his side – again, that would be good enough.

The thought of Sarasa's death coincided with a glance towards the side of the road, and Phinks caught sight of the dense line of trees that made up the edges of a forest.

An unpleasant memory came to surface. One of a bag that was hanging from a tall tree branch.

Phinks squeezed his eyes shut, willing the memory away before turning his attention to the road. He didn't need to think about that.

So his thoughts returned to you.

The way your hands had felt against his skin.

And that memory of your first meeting that played in his mind once more.

“Fine. You asked for it.”

And then he gritted his teeth as he prepared to bring the bat down on your head. As you sensed the impending violence, you clenched your eyes shut as you braced yourself.

But even then, you refused to let go.

Seconds passed.

Nothing happened.

Then the seconds turned into longer moments of nothing happening, with Phinks' bat still raised overhead and you still awaiting the impact of the wood upon your skull.

Why couldn't he do it?

Phinks' brows furrowed as he stared down at you, the resolve to punish you for grabbing him like you were wavering. Why? If anyone else had been doing this to him, he'd have already beaten them up. Why was he having such a hard time with the thought of hurting you?

It probably wouldn't take that much to make you back down – one well-placed hit to your skull would knock you out cold, and you'd go tumbling down to the ground. Hell, with how frail and starved you looked, he could easily see you dying from the blow.

The thought didn't bother him, Phinks told himself. The weaker ones in Meteor City die all the time; you just weren't meant to survive long in this world.

That was your problem, not his.

But instead of bringing the bat down and putting you out of your misery, he stood there while his arm began to grow tired from the awkward position.

The entire time, your grip didn't relent even once.

You weren't going to let go unless he made you.

The light of the setting sun spurred him to make a decision – it would be dark soon, and it was never a good idea to be out at night in Meteor City.

“….. Fine.”

You opened your eyes when you heard him say that, looking up at him curiously as he continued “but I'll bet that you'll regret it, especially when you get a taste of Feitan's terrible cooking.”

Phinks refused to offer any explanation after that as he turned and began to walk back home. You followed behind with some difficulty, your shorter legs unable to keep up with him without jogging after. Still, you managed, and your grip on him remained strong.

After a few minutes of walking, you spoke to him for the first time.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“Shut up.”

The memory of that first meeting was bittersweet – Phinks hated himself for the way he had treated you, that there had ever been a moment where he seriously considered hurting you. It was something that made him want to yell at his younger self for threatening you like that when you were desperate, alone and scared.

But he thought of the way you had looked at him, silently pleading for help as you held onto him tightly, and how the feeling of being needed somehow felt right. Even though he had agreed with Feitan not to take in anyone who was weak, and yet Phinks had caved for you. Someone who was so fragile and had needed protecting.

Don't you still need protecting?

The thought of the way you had looked at him gave him pause. You looked even more miserable than you had that very first time he met you. Every time he saw you, you only looked more and more depressed, as your will was slowly but surely being chipped away by Chrollo.

How could that be a good thing?

……. Because Chrollo says it is.

The turbulent feelings within Phinks were pushed down yet again as he continued his drive back, the setting sun causing the sky to grow darker and making it harder to see the outline of the tree branches he sped by. Things would be made right by Chrollo's hand, and then they could go back to the way it had been, with you by the side of the troupe where you were supposed to be.

Phinks allowed his mind to drift again as he continued on his journey, but this time his thoughts went to the happier memories in Meteor City. Like the way you would greet him when he came back to that little home, or the late nights spent talking with Feitan, or the way the two of you practiced cooking together as you tried your best to make something that was edible. Things were rough in the early days, but even when things ended in disaster, you still found some reason to smile at him.

He would have that again. He was sure of it.

All Phinks needed to do was wait.

[iamthatonefangirl]

riding beefy bucky while he praises the living shit out of you bug also degrading you just a little (freaking love your work!!!!!!!!)

forever - nsfw beefy bucky

oh you know it anon. I love beefy bucky and his LIPS and his HAIR and his ARMS

(lmk if you'd like to pick an emoji ily)

~~~

he's laying back on the bed, sheets mussed and soaked in sweat. he's craning his neck up to look at you, all while he's whining like a baby and watching you move up and down so perfectly on his dick.

"god, you're such a good little whore for me. taking it so well for me, just like always, you know that, babydoll?"

he grabs at the flesh of your ass before running his hand up to the small of your back where he pushes gently down on you to keep you from moving again. the sudden change surprises you when he doesn't let you up, holding you in place, just admiring the view from behind.

you've never ridden him like this before, facing away from him. while the feeling is heavenly, he misses seeing you.

"wanna see your pretty face, baby," he admits, completely out of breath. you smile to yourself, even as tired as you are, sweat dripping down your forehead and narrowly missing falling into your eyes.

you un-straddle him and turn around to lay on him for a moment, resting a hand on his chest as you lean down to kiss his soft, perky lips.

he grips you by the waist, dipping his tongue into your mouth lazily as you kiss for a few slow minutes. everything else seems so infinitesimal as you feel him kissing you so perfectly. somehow he just makes you feel whole, especially when he kisses you like this, like he's truly trying to show you how much he loves you.

eventually, you both get yourself worked up again. he manhandles you without any effort at all, easily picking you up and moving your entire weight on top of him. he wraps a hand around the base of his length and begins to rut up against you, coating himself in your arousal once again.

"love the way you react to me," he says, still sounding like he's stunned into breathlessness. you always take his breath away with your inherent beauty. "such a good girl. so pretty. letting me fuck her the way she deserves," he heaves while he notches his tip against your opening.

he slowly pulls you back down onto him, stretching you out once again. he's far more pleased with this position, watching your every facial expression as he opens you up for him.

he's so big, you wonder every time how it fits inside you. "made for me," he whispers when your hips meet his, taking his entire length in stride.

"you're gonna be gaping for me, all open and loose, aren't you baby?" he teases, and you throw your head back a little bit while you begin to move on top of him.

he helps you, taking the strain off your knees. he's fucking you so beautifully, adjusting your hips under his grip to try and find your sweet spot.

"look at me, sweetheart," he pleads. he needs to see your face, the way your eyes are hooded with lust for him, the way your jaw clenches and relaxes...

"tell me you're my good girl.”

"oh..." is all you manage as he finally thrusts just right to make you whine out into the room.

he watches as your jaw drops slightly to form the syllable, the soft glow of the lamp illuminating your skin and the droplets of sweat on your brow.

you're fucking stunning like this. tits on display, face tilted perfectly to let him watch you, letting yourself go as you ride him.

"sweetheart?" he goads, patting your ass gently. "what did I say?"

"your good girl," you affirm for him, knowing it's true. "only for you."

"who stretches you open so good, hmm? who's allowed to fuck you til you're a wet, gaping mess?"

"you, Bucky. only you," you whisper, bringing your fingertips to your clit to send you over the edge.

"uh-uh. when I'm fucking you, I'm the one who pleaures you, baby," he corrects, batting your hand away and replacing it with his own.

once upon a time, you were too scared to ride him like this. but with a lot of encouragement and kisses and orgasms, you gained the courage. he fucking adores the way you're so shameless, granting him the privilege of seeing every inch of you this way.

"yes, please, Bucky," you reply, so in love with the feeling of his fingers on you.

he sees the way you're getting tired, and even with his help, it's a lot of work. good thing he's so damn strong.

he digs his metal fingers in deeper to the plush of your waist and sits up, bringing your chests together. he practically lifts you over and over, doing all the work for you, all with one hand. you love how strong he is, how his muscles and his tits and his tummy are all so delectable.

his flesh fingers continue to work you between your legs where you're joined, and he begins to whisper in your ear. "my pretty baby. too weak to even ride me til she comes, isn't that right?"

"need your help, Bucky, always," you say, spurring him on. you love when he gets like this; you know how it helps his self-esteem, feeling like you actually need him for something. which of course, you do. how he could ever doubt that is beyond you.

"tell me you love me," he says out of nowhere. "please, baby. say my name when you come. and tell me you love me."

he's the one sounding so desperate now. you hear the vulnerability in his words, the way he's getting in his head.

you grip his hair gently but firmly, bringing him to make eye contact with you.

"I love you, James. I love you forever," you affirm.

he nods, taking in your words. it's hard for him to accept, but he knows you mean it. he trusts you, he loves you. he knows you're going to tell him the truth, always.

"I love you, too, baby. love you forever, too," he whines. even for a man of such strength and resolve, you see it begin to crack as his face contorts in need and the movements of his hips begin to falter.

"come on, pretty girl. let me see you come," he encourages. "let me see how good I make you feel written all over your gorgeous face."

at that, you grit your teeth and let it happen. he loves your expressions, the natural responses you have to everything, and he loves to see your face when you come.

you tried to hide your face from him one time when you came, and he was not pleased.

"James," you whine, and your voice breaks as you come. you squeeze him like a vice, sending him into his own orgasm.

he lets out a beautiful cry, saying your name and a soft "love you, baby."

he leans into you, holding you close to his chest, letting your heat soak into his skin. you pepper kisses over his soft cheeks and his lips.

"I love you, baby. so much. always and forever," you whisper as you worship him the way he deserves.

"I love you, baby. gonna make sure you're mine forever. never gonna let anything happen to you..."

~~~

uhh someone tell me where this softness came from. but I guess even with the shameless smut I write I'm still a lovergirl at heart smh

anyways its after 11:30pm and I just wrote this but I had to get a post out before the day is over bc i love you all

masterlist

join my tag list

bucky tag list:

@clavedelune @starfly-nicole @avengersfan25 @thewiselionessss @hextech-bros @a-book-lover-things @ruexj283 @mrsnikstan @sleepysongbirdsings @sapphirebarnes @bananababygirl10 @multiversefanfics @winchestert101 @andziabarnes @chrisevansleftnipple @daisydark @luckyhornet @maryevm @avengemepercy @mandoloriancookie @starstruck-cowgirl @doubledizzy22 @yvespecially

[stylesispunk]

"Blind faith" | part viii

priest!Joel Miller x dancer!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: Joel's name in your mind hurts. Everything inside you hurts. But seeing him again leaves both of you with hearts broken. w.c: 8.5k

warnings: age gap (Joel's is in his late 40s and reader late 20s early 30s), heavy angst, violence against reader, choking, mentions of panic attacks, grief, mentions of mental health, forbidden love. Mentions of politics, mentions of exile. Remmeber english is not my first language and blablabla. Reader is Latina. (She worrying about joel shows how good she is).

a/n: Oh man, I cried a bit while writing this one. There is a lot of pain on reader's heart and mind. I wish I can have next chapter ready for next week but I will busy busy during the next four weeks, so i hope you can enjoy this one a bit. Yes, it's angsty but still. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. If you read and don't leave a comment I will cry.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Since the beginning of time, bad men had existed. You knew that — not in theory, not from bedtime stories or whispered warnings at the dinner table, but in the marrow of your bones. You’d grown up with those same phrases every mother in your country had murmured to their children like prayers: Don’t take candy from strangers. Don’t follow a stranger. Don’t believe their kind words, their empty promises.

But the truth was, you didn’t need the warnings. You came from a place where monsters didn’t bother hiding under beds or behind masks. They wore uniforms. They smiled in broad daylight. And in those years of blood-soaked streets and curfews that fell like iron gates over the city, you learned to be cautious. You learned early what it meant to keep your head down, to lower your gaze when soldiers passed, to hold your tongue and your breath when your father argued with the radio in the kitchen.

Under a dictatorship, there wasn’t a place for soft hearts. You’d watched neighbors disappear. Friends. Family. One by one. Gone in the night or dragged from their homes in daylight with no apology, no explanation. The smell of fear hung thick in the air back then. And you — you had a fire in you that should’ve gotten you killed.

You were young. Brave in the way only the reckless and desperate could be. An activist. A rebel. Smuggling leaflets in your backpack, standing in protests that got washed away in tear gas and batons. And you’d survived. God, you’d survived so much.

You didn’t trust easy. Couldn’t afford to. People smiled and shook your hand with one while holding a knife behind their back with the other. It was just how it was. And yet — Gabriel happened.

Gabriel with his easy grin and the way he lied about freedom like it wasn’t some unreachable star. Gabriel who made you laugh in places laughter wasn’t supposed to exist. He slipped past your walls. You fell in love with him the way you fall asleep after too many sleepless nights, fast, desperate, and without meaning to.

You trusted him. God, you trusted him.

And it cost you everything.

In the days leading up to what happened, you’d felt the old warning bells clanging somewhere deep in your chest, but you silenced them. You told yourself you were being paranoid. You believed him when he said you were safe. That he loved you.

But men like him… they don’t love. They own. They devour.

And now, here you were. In a hospital room, bruised and broken. The pain wasn’t just in your body, it was in your soul. In the realization that even after everything you’d survived, it was him — the one you let in — who almost killed you.

The room was too clean. Too quiet. You could almost hear your own voices screaming your name, pleading for a tiny bit of strong, a one more minute of fighting.

You could feel the way your eyes stung by tears that you didn’t allow to stream down your face. You tried to look everywhere but the man who was too close to you.

The pale blue walls, a thin paper sheet stretched over a narrow exam bed. The tray of instruments on the counter, catching the overhead light in tiny sharp flashes. You sat on the edge of the bed, your legs dangling, But the weight of Gabriel’s stare pressed against your skin like his own hand around your throat.

You couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.

The nurse, a woman in her mid-thirties with kind, tired features, was trying to get you comfortable, fussing with the pillows behind you, adjusting the flimsy hospital gown over your shoulder.

“Sweetheart, you okay?” she asked gently, crouching a little to meet your gaze.

You opened your mouth, a flicker of something like your voice catching in your throat—

“She’s fine,” Gabriel cut in smoothly, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a predator lounging in the open. “Just a busted finger. She’s not much of a talker.”

The nurse’s eyes darted between the two of you, catching the tension thick in the air. The bruises. The way your body flinched when he spoke.

“I wasn’t asking you,” the nurse said softly, her voice careful but edged.

Your throat tightened, eyes burning. You wanted to say it. Help me. Don’t leave me alone with him. Get him out. But it was like your tongue had been cut out somewhere along these last five days.

And you hated yourself for it.

Gabriel smiled then, slow and cold. “Ain’t no need for drama. We just wanna get this over with. Don’t we, cariño?”

Your eyes met the nurse’s for a split second — a flicker, a desperate pulse of please. And whether she saw it or not, she gave a small nod and stood.

“I’ll get the doctor,” she said quickly, shooting one last glance at Gabriel before leaving the room.

The door clicked shut.

You could feel him behind you without looking. Could feel his eyes on your face. Could feel the ghost of his hand tightening on your broken finger days ago.

“You always were good at getting people to care,” he murmured, taking a slow step closer. “But it doesn’t matter. You won’t leave me again to drown on my own. Not this time.”

And something in you, even as your body trembled, screamed against it.

“Estoy harta de ti,” (I’m sick of you) you gritted, voice low but shaking with the weight of every second you’d swallowed your rage.

Gabriel froze mid-step.

But you didn’t stop.

“Estoy harta que estés en cada lugar que veo.” (I’m sick of you being everywhere I look at) Your chest rose and fell with the effort it took to speak, to push the words past your fear. “No soporto tu cara. Quiero que te vayas y me dejes.” (I’m sick of your face. I want you gone. I want you to leave me.)

For a moment, it was silent.

No smirk. Not a clever remark from him.

Just the raw, stunned stillness of a man who thought he still had control, watching it slip between his fingers like smoke.

His eyes narrowed, lips parting like he might say something cruel, something to reestablish the grip he’d had on you for five long, hellish days — but you didn’t give him the chance.

You stood, even if your knees trembled, even if your heart was a hammer in your chest. You stood because you could. Because defiance, even in whispers, was still power. “Look at me.” you added, this time in English. “You could have killed my friends, my family and you could kill me at this very same moment, but that won’t erase your pathetic little life because that’s what you are. A fucking nobody, you will die and be forgotten.”

The words tasted like blood and salt on your tongue, but you didn’t stop.

“Look at me.” Your voice was raw, a scrape of glass against the quiet room. “You could’ve killed my friends. You could’ve killed my family. You could kill me right here, right now — but it won’t mean a thing. It won’t fix you. It won’t make you matter.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched, a darkening flicker in his eyes — but no clever words came. No sharp reply. Because you’d carved through whatever twisted power, he thought he still held.

“That’s what you are,” you whispered, your voice trembling but sure enough, “A fucking nobody. A bitter, useless coward clinging to the scraps of a life no one’s ever going to remember and if somebody does, you will remember as fucking murderer just as the rest of them.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, fists curling at his sides, his breathing uneven.

And for the first time, you saw him breaking.

You were tearing down, “Your uniform wasn’t worth it. Hell, even your family must despise you. I do despise you, and I will do it until the day I die.”

Gabriel’s face twisted, something feral and cracked in his eyes as you spoke, as you stripped him down to the nothing he’d always feared he was.

“You shut your fucking mouth—”

“Or what?!” you challenged him, after all there was nothing else for you to lose.

And then his hand was on your throat. Fast. Brutal. Crushing.

The air vanished from your lungs in an instant. Your hands clawed at his wrist, nails digging, your broken finger screamed in pain but it didn’t matter. You could feel yourself slipping, the edges of the world blurring, your heartbeat pounding louder and louder in your ears until it wasn’t a sound anymore but a dull, distant thrum.

And you saw it — not rage. Not hate in his eyes but fear.

He was scared. Frightened of you. Of the truth you could see. Of the fact you weren’t even afraid of him anymore.

But your vision dimmed, your body going slack—Memories of your life, of the happy short moments…

Until a pair of hands wrenched him off you.

“Get your hands off her!” Your recognized Carmen’s voice tearing through the suffocating haze, hoarse and furious.

The world spun as you collapsed to the floor, gulping air like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to your own body. You heard shouting. The doctor’s voice. The nurse. And then boots, heavy.

Two police officers pinned Gabriel against the wall, one of them snarling warnings you could barely register over the hammering in your skull.

“Cuff him! Now!”

Carmen was on her knees in front of you, hands trembling as she cupped your face, brushing the hair from your sweat-soaked skin. Her eyes were glassy, filled with so much rage and grief it nearly undid you.

“I’m here, mi estrellita,” she choked. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Your chest heaved, throat raw, tears breaking free as the air finally reached your lungs.

“I—” you tried to speak, to tell her you thought you were going to die, that you were so fucking tired, but no words came. Only a wrecked, broken sob.

Carmen pulled you into her arms, holding you like she could put your pieces back together just by sheer force of will.

“Shh, you’re safe. He’s done. He’s done.”

And somewhere in the storm of it, you realized Gabriel’s voice was gone.

And you breathe because he would never touch you again.

You buried your face in Carmen’s shoulder, the scent of her hair, a mix cigarettes and lavender lotion — hitting you like a memory you didn’t know you still had room for. The moment her arms wrapped tighter around you, the damn broke.

The sobs came hard. Ugly. Shaking your whole body. The kind of crying that came from somewhere so deep inside, you weren’t sure you’d ever really stop. You clung to her like she was the only thing anchoring you to this world, your hands fisting in the fabric of her jacket.

“I thought—” you gasped between ragged breaths, voice cracking, “I thought I was gonna die… Carmen, I—I couldn’t—”

“I know, Estrellita.” she whispered, rocking you gently like you were a child again. “I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Her hand smoothed over your hair, her own tears falling into the crook of your neck. The world around you — the bright lights, the shouting officers— faded to the background. It was just her and the sound of your crying.

Your throat was raw, every breath a jagged thing, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop clinging to Carmen like if you let go, you’d disappear, like the weight of the last five days would swallow you whole. Her fingers trembled as they ran through your hair, as she whispered soft, broken words in your ear.

 I’ve got you, you’re safe now, you’re safe, you’re safe.

But somewhere beneath the wreckage of your heart, past the terror and grief and bone-deep ache, another name clawed its way to the surface.

You pulled back just enough to speak, your voice barely a whisper, a raw rasp of air and desperation.

“Joel,” you choked out, eyes bleary, still pouring tears. “Carmen—where’s Joel? Is he… is he okay?”

The words hurt to say, like speaking them might shatter what little was left of you if the answer wasn’t the one you needed.

Carmen’s face crumpled, her lips pressing together, fresh tears shining in her lashes. She cupped your cheek, brushing the damp hair from your face. She couldn’t believe that after he had done, you still had the heart to worry about him.

“He’s okay,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “He is well and alive.”

A new, ragged sob burst out of you, part grief, part relief, part everything you hadn’t been allowed to feel. You collapsed into her arms again, your fingers tightening in her jacket, the world spinning and tilting.

“I need—” you stammered, barely able to breathe. “I need…. please, Carmen, I need to—”

“I know, sweetheart,” she whispered, kissing your temple, holding you like she’d never let go out of her sight again.

Your body wouldn’t stop shaking. Even as Carmen whispered to you, even as her hands cradled your face and her lips pressed against your hairline like she could will the terror out of you — your sobs kept coming, violent, sharp, breaking your chest open with every ragged breath.

Your vision blurred, your head spinning, the world tilting as the sobs took you under. The panic clawed higher, your heart racing so fast it felt like it might burst, and you clung to her like you were drowning in a deep ocean.

“I know, Estrellita, I know—” Carmen’s voice cracked, tears running down her own face as she tried to hold you together, but even she could feel it — that your body was giving out, your mind fraying at the edges. “Somebody help her! Please!”

The medics were there in seconds. The nurse from before, her face drawn tight with worry, a syringe trembling in her gloved hand.

“We need to calm her down—” one of them said urgently.

“No—” you gasped, shaking your head, your voice nearly gone. “Please, don’t—I need—”

“I promise, estrellita,” Carmen cupped your face again, forehead against yours. “I won’t leave you. I’ll stay right here. And when you wake up, we’ll go to him, I swear.”

Your body gave one last shudder as the needle pricked your arm, a cool wash of sedation flooding your veins. The sobs dulled into uneven hiccups, your muscles going limp in her arms. The chaos of the hospital room blurred, colors bleeding together.

But even as your vision dimmed, your lips still formed his name.

“Joel…”

The quiet of the hospital at night was a different kind of heavy. The hum of fluorescent lights, the steady beep of heart monitors in distant rooms — it all felt like it existed in some other world, one you weren’t fully tethered to anymore.

Carmen sat alone in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside your room, her hands wrung raw, her eyes rimmed red. She hadn’t left. Not once. She hadn’t gone down the hall to see Joel, hadn’t let herself face what state he might be in. Not when you were like this. Not when the memory of Gabriel’s hands around your throat still ghosted against your skin.

When the elevator doors opened, she didn’t look up at first. But she knew those boots. That voice.

“Carmen,” Billy’s voice was low, urgent, his face lined and pale beneath the harsh hospital lights.

She stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the tile. “Thank God,” she breathed, and before she could stop herself, she was in his arms.

Billy held her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head, his chest solid and familiar. “I came as soon as you called,” he murmured into her hair.

“I didn’t know who else—” her voice cracked. “I didn’t know what to do, Billy.”

“It’s okay, you did good,” he said, pulling back to look at her face. “Where is she?”

“In there. They sedated her… she wouldn’t stop crying. She was… she was barely breathing, Billy. I thought—” Carmen swallowed hard, shaking her head. “I thought we were gonna lose her.” She stopped for a moment, “That asshole was chocking her.”

Billy gasped at the thought of you, “How did you know she was here?”

“I didn’t. I promised Joel I was going to go back later and I saw her talking to a nurse…”

“Joel?”

“Come on, calling him father seems really unholy.”

Billy let out a sharp, disbelieving breath, half a huff of a laugh despite the weight in his chest. “Jesus, Carm…” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “Of all the goddamn hospitals.”

She gave a broken, crooked smile. “I know.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hallway stretched out quiet around them, only the distant beeping of monitors and the occasional murmur of nurses passing by. The kind of stillness where too much had already happened, and more was still waiting.

“She was asking for him, you know,” Carmen said softly, eyes shining again, staring down the hall like she could see through the walls, to Joel’s room. “Even when she couldn’t breathe… even when her face was turning blue… she was still worried about him.”

Billy’s throat tightened at that, his gut twisting. He looked through the window into your room — your small, still form against too-white sheets. “We should’ve protected her better,” he muttered. “We should’ve—”

“Stop,” Carmen cut him off gently but firmly, reaching out to grab his wrist. “We didn’t know he was going to do that.”

He swallowed hard, and after a beat, nodded. “I’ll sit with her,” he said quietly. “I’ll be here if she wakes up soon”

Carmen gave him a grateful, weary look and squeezed his arm. “Okay, the doctor said she would sleep for hours though, but I don’t want her alone.” she whispered, turning to go.

She made it two steps before stopping again, Billy’s voice low but fierce. “Tell Joel she is here. But tell him she didn’t need him to save herself.”

She nodded, and with that, Carmen turned and finally made herself walk down that long hallway toward Joel’s room, her pulse a storm in her throat, a hundred what-ifs chasing her with every step.

The door to Joel’s room creaked as Carmen pushed it open, the soft glow of a bedside lamp washing over his face. He was half-sitting against the pillows, an IV line in his arm, his skin pale and drawn but his eyes, those tired, familiar, stubborn eyes, were open.

He looked up when the door opened, and the moment his gaze landed on her, something in his face shifted. A flicker of relief, of dread, of some unspoken, as if he deep-down knew you were okay.

“Carmen,” he rasped, his voice raw like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a second like she needed the support. Her throat tightened, and it took everything she had to stay steady.

“She’s here, Joel,” Carmen whispered, her voice breaking on the words.

His eyes went wide. The breath left his lungs like a punch.

“Where?” His voice cracked.

Carmen’s lips trembled, and she crossed the room in three steps, siting in a chair beside his bed, “She’s down the hall. Room fourteen. The bastard got her during these past five days… she was with him. And she—” Carmen had to stop, swallowing back the sob. “She fought him. She was asking for you. Couldn’t even breathe but she still asked for you, can you believe it?”

Joel’s head dropped back against the pillow, a tear slipping down his cheek. His hand gripped the sheets so tight it hurt. “Is she… is she okay?”

“They sedated her,” Carmen whispered. “She wouldn’t stop crying. She… was a mess.”

Joel’s face crumpled then, his whole body shuddering with a silent sob. “Goddamn it,” he choked out.

Joel’s breath came in short, uneven bursts, chest rising and falling as though the weight of those five days had just crushed down on him in full. His knuckles went white where they gripped the sheets, his throat working around the thick lump there.

“I gotta see her,” he managed, voice rough and breaking. “Carmen — I need to see her.”

But Carmen’s hand shot out, pressing firmly to his chest, keeping him where he was. Her eyes were sharp now, her jaw clenched. The grief was still there, but fury — clean and bright — licked at the edges of her words.

“Not yet,” she snapped. “I’ve been really goddamn nice to you because of her. But don’t get it twisted, Joel. All this… this hell she’s been through, it happened because of you.”

His face twisted, stricken. “Carmen, I didn’t—”

“Maybe you didn’t mean to,” she cut him off, voice tight, trembling. “But you left the fucking door open. You let that piece of take her, and you didn’t see it coming. And now she’s passed out in a hospital bed because of it. You don’t get to just go in there like some goddamn savior and make it right.”

Joel closed his eyes, a tear tracking down the side of his face.

“You will stay here,” Carmen said, steel in every word. “And you will wait. Until I say it’s time. Because we still don’t know what the hell happened during those five days, and I won’t let you hurt her again — even if you don’t mean to.”

She watched him for a moment, waiting for him to fight back, to argue like he always did. But he didn’t. He just nodded, broken, his voice barely a whisper when he asked,

“Is she alone?”

Carmen’s jaw flexed, softening a little.

“No,” she said quietly. “Billy’s with her.”

Joel gave a faint, shuddering breath, like some part of him unclenched at the thought.

“Good,” he murmured. “Good… she shouldn’t be alone.”

Carmen’s throat bobbed as she stood from the chair. “I’ll let you know when you can see her,” she said, softer now, though the edge of warning hadn’t left her voice. “And Joel… you better pray she makes it out of this whole.”

He didn’t look up as she left, but the tears wouldn’t stop falling.

All of this was because he had let his jealousy break the best thing he had ever come to see in his life.

The room was dim, the harsh glare of hospital lights softened by the hour. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound for a while, save for the quiet, tired murmur of Carmen and Billy talking in low voices by the window.

You stirred — just barely — a soft, broken sound leaving your lips as your lashes fluttered. The weight of your own body felt foreign. Heavy. Like gravity had tripled its hold on you. Every breath scraped your throat raw. Your chest ached, your hands ached, your goddamn soul ached.

Carmen was on you in a second.

“Hey, hey—” she whispered, her voice already breaking. “Baby, you’re okay. You’re safe. I swear to God, you’re safe.”

Billy was there too, his face pale and drawn, but his hand reached for yours like he’d been waiting for the smallest sign of life.

The moment your eyes cracked open, blurry and stinging; a tear slid down your temple. Then another. And another. It was like your body remembered before your mind did — remembered the hands at your throat, the words, the terror that felt like it would never end.

Your breath came in short, shallow bursts, your whole-body trembling. “I—” you tried, but your throat felt like sandpaper, every word scraping on the way out. “Hurts…”

“I know,” Carmen whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing sweaty hair back from your forehead. Her hand trembled against your skin. “I know, baby. God, I’m so sorry.”

Billy squeezed your hand, his jaw clenched tight, eyes glassy. “You’re safe now, sweetheart. We got you.”

But nothing about you felt safe. Not your skin, not your bones, not your memories. It felt like you’d left pieces of yourself behind in that room and nothing would ever quite fit right again.

Your body shook harder, a sob hitching in your chest, and Carmen gathered you up against her carefully, mindful of the IV line. She cradled you like you were a small little girl waking up from a nightmare.

"My family is dead" you confessed in a whisper, trying to get used to the idea you would never be with them again.

Carmen’s breath hitched in her throat at your words — a soft, broken confession spoken like a child admitting a secret no one else could fix. You felt her arms tighten around you, her palm smoothing down your hair, a tremor running through her hand.

“Oh, mi Estrellita” she whispered, voice cracking like glass underweight.

Billy turned away, one hand covering his mouth, his shoulders stiff with the effort to keep it together. The room felt smaller, heavier. The air thick with grief too big to name, the kind that clung to your skin and made your chest feel like it was caving in.

You swallowed, your throat raw and aching, your face pressed against Carmen’s shoulder. “They’re gone….and I wasn’t there. I didn’t… I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

A sob ripped from your chest before you could stop it, and Carmen held you tighter like she could keep you from shattering. “They knew you loved them,” she murmured fiercely into your hair. “They knew. And if there’s a goddamn heaven, they’re watching’ over you right now, baby. I swear it.”

But the hole inside you stayed. A dark, gnawing thing that no words could fill.

Your voice came again, small and wrecked. “They were killed because they carried my last name and I don’t know how to live with that weight on me.”

Carmen’s whole body tensed around you, like your words cut through her, sharp and merciless. She pulled back just enough to cup your face in both trembling hands, forcing you — gently— to meet her eyes, even as your tears blurred everything between you.

“No,” she said, voice thick, breaking on the word. “No, baby, listen to me. This isn’t your weight to carry. Do you hear me? This wasn’t your fault. Those pieces of shit made a choice — their choice. Not yours. Not theirs.”

Your lips quivered, your breath shuddering as you struggled to hold onto her gaze, the raw grief in your chest threatening to drown you. “If I wasn’t— if I hadn’t been born into this family, they’d still be—”

“Stop.” Carmen’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and soft at once. “You are not a curse. You are not a burden. You didn’t pull the trigger. You didn’t give the order. You are not to blame for a monster’s sins.”

Billy swallowed hard; his voice rough when he finally spoke. “If anythin’, you’re the reason many people are alive. If you weren’t there, if you hadn’t fought as you did, there would be more people dead—Don’t you dare think for a second this blood is on you.”

You felt your whole-body collapse inward then, a broken sob leaving you as Carmen pressed your forehead to hers, her thumbs brushing your wet cheeks.

“Gabriel?” you asked Carmen.

“He is in custody” Carmen went on, her voice shaking but controlled, “left bruising on your throat… and God knows what else those five days did to you. But he’s done. He’s not getting near you again. I swear it.”

You saw it then, the fire behind her eyes. The barely leashed fury. Carmen had always been a force of nature when it came to protecting the people she loved, and right now you were all that mattered to her.

“He’s going away for the rest of his miserable fucking life,” she added, her thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “He will be in prison soon and he will face charges.”

Billy gave a rough nod beside her. “I already made a few calls,” he said hoarsely.

“Good.” You said, simply as if you still couldn’t believe it. “But prison but time will be enough for him to pay for everything he had done.”

You tried to swallow, the pain in your throat a sharp reminder of the hands that had been there, of the helplessness. Of what it meant to survive it. Your chest ached, not just from the bruises and the brokenness of your body, but from the weight of the grief still coiled inside you.

“You need to rest. You don’t owe him a goddamn thing until you’re ready, you hear me?”

Billy squeezed your hand. “We’ll stay right here. As long as it takes.”

The pain meds from the hospital, the exhaustion of five days spent in terror, and the sheer grief weighing down your bones — it had all pulled you under like a tide. The last thing you remembered was the nurse gently resetting your finger, the cold of the hospital room, and Gabriel’s sharp voice on the phone outside.

You hadn’t known Joel was there. Carmen neither Billy had told you that.

And Joel’s leg screamed with every step — the stitches pulling, the bone-deep ache of healing wounds making his vision swim. But none of it mattered. Not the pain, not Carmen’s warnings, not the fury in her eyes when she’d told him to stay away.

Because you were here. And he needed to see you like he needed air in his lungs.

He leaned heavily on the wall as he made his way down the hall, sweat slick on his brow, heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to break free. The world blurred at the edges, the sterile hospital lights too bright, the antiseptic stench thick in the back of his throat.

When he reached your door — Room Fourteen — his hand trembled on the handle. He didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate. He opened the door.

The sight of you hit him like a goddamn freight train.

You were asleep, small and broken in the hospital bed. The bruising on your throat stark against your skin, your face pale, a faint frown still etched in your sleep. His chest constricted, a sob catching in his throat before he could stop it.

Carmen was sitting in the chair beside you, her head leaning back against the wall, exhaustion etched deep in her face. The second she saw him, her expression crumpled — like something she’d been holding together for too long finally cracked wide open.

“Joel,” she breathed, her voice barely a sound.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer an apology she wouldn’t accept or a promise he knew would fall short. He just stood there for a moment, swallowing against the tight, burning ache in his throat, watching your chest rise and fall.

Carmen shot to her feet then, her body tense, a thousand words written in her tear-filled eyes.

“You weren’t supposed to come in here,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I told you to wait. You don’t get to just —”

“I need to see her,” Joel rasped, his voice thick, ruined. “I need… I need to know she is fine.”

Carmen’s jaw clenched, tears welling. She looked at you, so small in that bed, and her shoulders dropped, her face breaking again. She hated him for what had happened. For what his mistakes had set in motion. But even now, she knew you. She knew how deep he ran in your blood and bones.

“She doesn’t need more pain, Joel,” Carmen whispered, her voice hoarse. “If you’re gonna do anything — anything at all —

His hand hovered above yours for a second before pulling back.

“Can I have a moment alone with her?”

Carmen hesitated for a moment, but the heart in her gave up and she ended up nodding, “Okay. I will be outside. If you make her cry I will punch in the face, do you hear me father?”

Joel simply nodded, waiting for her to get out of the room. And when she did his heart was in his throat as he saw you there, so small in that hospital bed, your face turned toward the window. The bruises on your skin, the way your fingers trembled in sleep, it gutted him. He hated himself in a way he hadn’t known was possible. Hated every moment he’d wasted, every jealous word, every time he didn’t tell you the truth.

He didn’t ask for permission.

Didn’t speak.

He just leaned down, breath unsteady, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered longer than they should’ve, pouring every apology, every ounce of love he hadn’t known how to say into that one small, desperate act.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your skin. “I’m so goddamn sorry, baby.”

And then, your eyes opened.

Soft, dazed, but clear. You looked up and there he was — so close your noses almost brushed, your breaths tangled between you. Those brown eyes weren’t filled with fire anymore. No anger. No resentment. Just aching tenderness and the raw, broken kind of love you could barely survive.

For a second neither of you spoke. The world shrunk to just your faces, your breaths, your eyes searching one another like you both needed to be sure this wasn’t a dream.

“Joel,” you breathed. A word, a plea, a prayer.

His throat worked around a sound, one he choked down because if he spoke now, he’d fall apart.

But his hand cupped your cheek, trembling and rough, and for the first time in five days, you weren’t afraid.

Not of him. Not of anything.

And outside, down the hall, the storm still waited. But for now — for just this moment — you were both here.

Your breath hitched, a sharp, fragile sound in the space between you. Joel’s thumb brushed your cheekbone, careful like you might break under his touch — though you’d been breaking for days, hadn’t you? And still, somehow, you were here.

“You came,” you whispered, voice cracking, disbelief and something dangerously close to hope flickering in your words.

Joel’s eyes shut for a moment, as if the sound of your voice hurt. “Course I did,” he rasped, voice thick and low. “I should’ve sooner. I—I fucked up.”

The tremble in his words split something open in you, a sob caught halfway in your throat. You swallowed hard, trying to speak around the ache. “I thought you hated me.”

His head shook before you even finished the words. “Never. God, no.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, his hand cradling your face like you were something sacred and fragile at once. “I was stupid. I let… I let that jealousy and anger get between us. I let my head lie to me. But I never stopped… I never stopped loving you, not for a second.”

Your lips parted, a tear sliding down your temple. Joel caught it with his thumb.

“I thought you were going to die,” you admitted, voice barely a whisper, breaking in the middle. “And you weren’t… you weren’t there and I thought I was alone, Joel. I thought I was dying out there.”

His jaw clenched so hard you felt it against your cheek. “I know, baby. I know. And I’m gonna fix it. I swear to God; I’ll make it right. Whatever it takes. I’ll tear the whole town apart if I have to, you hear me?”

You closed your eyes against the wave of emotion, feeling his breath against your lips. “I’m so scared.”

“Not anymore,” Joel promised. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads pressed together. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you again. Not him. Not anybody. You’re mine, sweetheart. Always have been.”

And God help you, despite everything, despite the fear still clawing at your ribs, you believed him because you wanted to let yourself believe you weren’t alone.

The sob that tore from your chest was helpless, raw, like something dug up from a place too deep to ever fully heal. It shook your whole body, and Joel pulled you into him before you could fall apart completely.

His arms wrapped around you like armor, one hand at the back of your head, the other around your waist, holding you so tightly it felt like maybe he could piece you back together just by being close enough.

"I've got you," he murmured into your hair, over and over like a prayer. "You’re safe now. You hear me? You’re safe."

You buried your face against his chest, soaking in the feel of him, the way his shirt smelled like him — sweat, earth, something warm and steady. It was like coming in from the cold after being lost in a storm for days.

"It hurts," you choked out. "Everything hurts, Joel."

His voice cracked. "I know, darlin’. I know it does." He rocked you gently, like you were something breakable in his arms, something worth protecting. His fingers slid softly through your hair, his lips pressing into your temple.

"You don’t have to be strong anymore," he whispered. "Not with me. You can fall apart. I’ll catch every piece."

You clung to him like a lifeline, fists curled into his shirt.

And Joel didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. He held you through all of it, silent tears slipping down his own face, his breath shaking.

"I should’ve been there," he whispered once, broken and furious with himself. "I’ll never let anything touch you again."

And in his arms, no matter how much pain still lingered inside you, you were allowing yourself to believe what you knew it was a lie.

Because the kind of love you both shared was the type of love that couldn’t survived the wreckage.

You must’ve fallen asleep in his arms, exhaustion dragging you under like a tide you couldn’t fight. Joel never left, not for a second, holding you until your breathing evened out, his hand resting protectively against the curve of your back as if he let go, you’d disappear.

But morning came anyway.

The weak gray light slipped through the hospital blinds, spilling across the small room, and with it came the ache.

Your eyes opened slow, crusted with salt from the night before. You felt it before you even fully woke — the dampness on your cheeks, the warm trail of tears slipping down to your ears. Your chest clenched, that ugly, hollow ache rising up all over again.

And then you saw him.

Joel was there, sitting in the chair beside your bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees even when one of them was healing from the shot, his eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at. The guilt on his face was bone-deep, and it should’ve meant something. It should’ve comforted you.

But it didn’t.

The memory hit like a blow to the gut.

 him giving you back to Gabriel.

Not with a word, but with silence. With jealousy. With cowardice. You remembered the way you’d begged him with your eyes, how you’d prayed for him to fight for you, and how he hadn’t.

You flinched without meaning to, your body tensing, curling inward like a wounded animal.

"Hey, hey," Joel murmured, reaching out — but you shook your head violently, the tears coming harder now, your breath hitching in short, painful sobs.

"Don’t," you croaked, voice barely there.

His face crumpled, a broken, desperate thing. "I know," he said softly, hand retreating, but not leaving. "I know what I did." His voice was so low it was almost a whisper. "I was a fool. I was weak. And you paid for it."

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The grief and betrayal tangled so thick inside you it felt like you were drowning in it.

"I don’t deserve to be here," he admitted, his throat thick. "But I’ll stay. I’ll stay until you tell me to go."

And God, some broken, stubborn part of you still wanted to reach for him. Still wanted to believe in him. But the hurt was too fresh, too deep.

You turned your face away, more tears sliding down, and Joel just sat there in silence, letting you grieve. Because he knew this wasn’t something an apology could fix.

The minutes stretched long and quiet, broken only by the soft, uneven sound of your breathing. You didn’t have the strength to fight anymore — not him, not yourself, not the memories clawing their way up from the dark. The tears kept coming, hot and relentless, soaking the pillow beneath your head.

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t try to pull you close. Didn’t reach for your hand.

He just stayed there, sitting in that hard hospital chair like it was his penance, eyes red-rimmed and hollow, watching over you like a man guarding a grave.

"You are right to hate me," he rasped, his voice rough from a night without sleep. "I should’ve never let him take you. Should’ve never turned away. I—" his voice cracked, and he dragged a hand over his face like it hurt to keep talking. "I thought I was doing the right thing by allowing him to get close to you. I didn’t know he was a bad person.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t want his words, didn’t want his regret. You wanted your family back. You wanted your old life. You wanted what Gabriel had stolen from you.

And maybe… a tiny, broken part of you still wanted Joel.

You clenched your eyes shut, hating yourself for it.

"You don’t have to forgive me," Joel said quietly, leaning forward so his forearms rested on his knees. "Hell, you shouldn’t. I don’t deserve it. But I swear to you — nobody’s gonna lay a hand on you again. Not while I’m still breathing."

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

But the trembling in your shoulders slowed a little. The weight of those words sinking in, despite everything.

And after a long while, when the exhaustion dragged you under again, you didn’t flinch when Joel pulled the scratchy hospital blanket up over your shoulders. You didn’t turn away when the rough calloused tips of his fingers brushed your hair back from your face.

He stayed.

The next time you woke, the room was quieter than you remembered. No distant footsteps, no beeping monitors, just the steady, familiar sound of Joel’s breathing beside you. He hadn’t left. He was still there, one hand loosely holding yours, his thumb tracing absent, broken circles over your skin.

You swallowed hard, your throat raw, your body aching everywhere in ways you didn’t have names for. The weight on your chest felt unbearable, and for the first time in days, maybe longer, the words rose up before you could stop them.

"He told me…" you rasped, voice barely audible. Joel’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto yours like he wasn’t sure if you were really speaking.

"Gabriel… he told me he was gonna kill me," you continued, staring at the ceiling because you couldn’t quite look at Joel yet. "That I’d outlived my usefulness… that no one was coming for me. Said I was already dead, just didn’t know it yet."

Your voice broke on the last word, and Joel flinched like it physically hit him.

"And my family…" the word felt like glass in your mouth. "They're gone, Joel. He told me what happened. I’ve got no one left. No one in this whole goddamn world."

Your voice gave out then, the tears rising so fast they blurred your vision. You felt them fall sideways down to your ears as you lay there, and this time you couldn’t stop the sound that came from you — a quiet, heartbroken sob that cracked something open in the room.

Joel leaned forward, his face wrecked, eyes glistening. "You got me," he choked out, voice hoarse and uneven. "I know it ain’t worth a damn right now… but you got me. And you always will. I swear to God."

You finally looked at him then, and it wasn’t the Joel you remembered — the one who used to smirk and tease and steal glances like he didn’t mean to. This was a man broken open, raw and aching, carrying every ounce of guilt like a stone in his chest.

You didn’t know if it made you weak or foolish, but some desperate part of you believed him. Because you had nothing else left to believe in.

But reality broke harder.

Your throat burned as another sob clawed its way out of you, your whole-body trembling under the weight of everything you’d carried — everything you were still carrying. You met his eyes, those shattered, pleading eyes, and for a moment, you saw the man you loved in them.

And then you remembered the silence. The betrayal. The way five days had gone by. How jealousy, pride, and his own demons had left you alone in a room with a monster.

“I don’t believe you,” you choked, your voice raw and breaking. The words tasted like blood.

His face crumpled like you’d hit him, his jaw quivering, but you didn’t stop.

“You say I got you? Where the hell were you when I needed you the most? When I was… when he—” your voice cracked, and you covered your face with shaking hands as sobs wrecked you. “I begged for you. I called for you until I couldn’t speak but all this was because of you.”

“I know,” Joel rasped, a tear slipping down his cheek. “God, baby, I know. And I ain’t ever gonna forgive myself for it.”

You dropped your hands just enough to meet his gaze again, your eyes burning.

“I want you out of my life, Joel.” The words felt like a knife in your own chest, but you forced them out.

Joel’s face crumbled, he leaned to touch you, carefully. His touch was soft, trembling, when he brushed the hair from your face. His lips grazed your temple, and you felt it like a brand, like it might scorch what little was left of you.

And you shattered.

“No,” you choked, a sob bursting from your throat. “No—don’t you fucking touch me, Joel.”

Your voice cracked and broke, your chest heaving as you shoved weakly at him. He didn’t pull back, not yet, his forehead pressing to yours like he could will you back to him if he stayed close enough.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice thick and broken.

“Don’t say that,” you hissed, your hands trembling where they gripped the blanket. Your throat ached, your whole body trembling so hard it hurt. “Don’t you fucking say that to me.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes wet and wrecked. “I love you.”

That was it. That was the last thread, the last brittle, frayed string holding your heart together.

“I don’t want you,” you sobbed, shaking your head, the words tearing through you like glass. “I don’t want you in my life, Joel.”

His face crumpled. A tear slipped down his cheek.

“You say you love me?” your voice rose, thick with grief and rage, your hands fisting in the sheets. “You showed me what warm felt like. You made me believe in daylight. And then you left me in the darkest place I’ve ever been. You… you broke me.”

He staggered like you’d struck him. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“Loving you hurts, Joel,” you whispered, a sob hitching in your chest. “It hurts so bad I can’t fucking stand it. I can’t breathe with it. And I won’t carry it anymore.”

Joel leaned in one last time, his lips barely brushing your temple. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so goddamn sorry.”

“Get out,” you begged, voice small and wrecked and shaking. “Please, Joel… just go.”

But he still lingered there. His hand lingered a second longer over your face because he knew the moment he pulled away from you he would break.

“I don’t want you!” you sobbed, shaking so hard it rattled the bed. “I don’t fucking want you in my life, Joel. I don’t want to see your face, I don’t want your name in my head—I want you gone. Do you hear me?”

And still, still, he leaned down and pressed another kiss to your temple, one trembling hand holding your face like you were something fragile. “I’ll love you ‘til my last breath,” he murmured against your skin.

“Leave!” you screamed, sobbing so violently the heart monitor started to beep faster. “Get the fuck out of here! Get out!”

Joel's breath hitched, his hand still cradling your face as you sobbed beneath him. He was breaking — shattering right there in front of you, in the dim flicker of the hospital room light.

“I’ll go,” he rasped, voice torn and low. “I’ll go, baby. But listen to me, just this once… one more thing.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, the tears burning so hot they felt like they might scar. “Don’t—” you begged, but he pressed his forehead to yours, and you were too weak to fight it.

“I’ll love you until the stars burn out in the sky, until this world forgets our names, until the sun quits the sky,” Joel whispered, his voice breaking around every word, his thumb trembling against your cheek. “And if it’s the last goddamn thing I do in this life… I’ll find a way to fix what I broke in you.”

Your sob caught, a sharp, painful sound in your throat, because no matter how much you told yourself you didn’t want him, some part of you still did — some part of you always would. And that made it worse. So much worse.

“Please, Joel,” you whispered, your voice splintered glass. “I can’t… I can’t survive loving you.”

He swallowed hard, eyes shining. “I know,” he whispered. “But you’re gonna survive without me. You’re stronger than this hurt. And I swear to you… you’ll find your way back to the light.”

Then, so gently it felt cruel, he pressed one last kiss to your hairline, breathing you in like a dying man.

And he left.

The click of the door behind him felt like a gunshot. And just like that, your heart cracked open all over again.

And then he was out the door.

Carmen stepped back inside the room and gathered you up in seconds, holding you against her as your body heaved with sobs so violent it felt like your heart might stop.

“I’m here,” she whispered, over and over. “I’ve got you. I swear to God, I’ve got you.”

But you couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop hearing his voice. Couldn’t stop feeling those ghost touches on your skin.

And somewhere deep down, where the blood and the marrow lived, you knew it would never be the same again.

“I will leave this town, Carmen.”

Tags < 3 @jasminedragoon @mandaloriankait @jellybeanxc @spencercmlover @lilac-boo @disco-fairy75 @correapunk @existentialdreadofhumanity @secretcheesecakenacho @laliceee @exzidss @missladym1981

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[cinnamanz]

# MAMMA MIA — chapter thirty-one!

there’s always been one rule in the group: don’t bring up y/n. no one really knows why, but it’s clear sophia would rather leave her ex-best friend in the past. once inseparable, their friendship dissolved after a summer camp that no one talks about, and y/n vanished, moving god-knows-where without so much as a goodbye. some say it was a fight. others say it was something more. only sophia knows the truth—or maybe not even she does. now, as the third year at dream academy begins, sophia is blindsided by y/n's unexpected return. gone is the familiar, easygoing childhood bestfriend she remembers. in her place is someone sharper, colder, and—unfortunately for sophia—hotter than ever. (who gave her the permission to look so fine?)

wc: 813 (pls read it)

PARTY ON YOU

3am.

your phone buzzes against the nightstand like it’s mad at you. it’s 3 am., and you’re two minutes away from ignoring it until you catch the name—yunjin. great, a drunk call. again.

you answer with a groggy, “what?”

“y/n,” she practically yells over the music in the background. “please. come get sophia.”

you sit up. “what happened?”

“she’s wasted,” yunjin says, dragging out the word like it physically hurts her. “two drinks. two! and now she’s dancing on the coffee table and i don’t—”

you’re already pulling a hoodie over your head. “text me the address.”

you hated parties. too many bodies crammed into too little space, everyone sticky with sweat and trying too hard to forget whatever they're running from. the smell of spilled beer, the throb of music that isn't even that good, people you don’t know getting too close, too loud. it's never been your thing.

but it’s sophia.

so you're in your car, driving too fast, jaw clenched and music low because any louder and your thoughts would swallow you whole. you're annoyed. you're tired. you're dreading this. you don’t want to go.

and still—you go.

you shoulder through the front door of a house that reeks of cheap alcohol and regret. the bass inside is shaking the floor. bodies are packed wall to wall, swaying under lights that flicker like they’ve given up. a group is singing off-key in the kitchen, someone’s crying on the stairs, and there’s a random guy passed out in a bathtub full of ice.

you hate it here.

but your eyes keep scanning, searching—until they land on her.

sophia.

dead center of the living room, where the crowd parts just enough to let her move. hair wild, cheeks flushed, the mess of strobe lights dancing across her skin like a kaleidoscope. she's laughing so freely, like nothing in the world could touch her. no distance. no history. no heartbreak you’ve unknowingly caused her.

and in a way—it does.

for a moment, the whole house fades. the sound dulls. the lights slow.

you're not here anymore.

you're back in your childhood bedroom. the abba playlist is skipping from years of overuse. sophia’s jumping on your bed, a glittery pink hairbrush in one hand, screaming mamma mia! at the top of her lungs. you’re laughing, trying to sing along between breaths, the two of you spinning until you fall into a tangled heap of limbs and joy.

but that was another life.

now, you’re just someone who’s been watching her from afar. someone who doesn’t get invited to those kinds of moments anymore. rightfully so.

and yet, you’re here. you still came.

your body moves before your brain can catch up. you push through the dancers, the sweat, the noise, until you’re standing just in front of her. you reach out and curl your fingers around her wrist.

she stumbles slightly, eyes blinking open, and when she looks at you—really looks at you—the air stills.

the memories flood back—first in a trickle, then like a storm. scraped knees and sidewalk chalk. sleepovers that stretched until sunrise. secrets whispered under shared blankets. the soft hum of safety, of knowing and being known. even through the haze of alcohol and pulsing lights, something cuts through it—you.

not the version of you that came back all sharp edges and unreadable stares, but you. not the stranger she’s had to relearn in glimpses.

but you.

the you who held her hand when thunder made her flinch. the you who made sure she ate when she was too distracted to remember. who knew her favorite snacks without asking. who memorized all her tells—nervous habits, guilty smiles, the exact moment she was about to cry.

the you who said she sang better than abba themselves, even when she was off-key to make you laugh—not that she'd ever tell you. you who smiled like the sun. who laughed like it was a secret only meant for her.

and for a breathless, blinking second, she sees that girl again. and wonders if maybe—just maybe—you never left.

you see her soften.

your voice, low and steady, breaks the moment. “let’s go home.”

and as she nods, still swaying slightly, her hand tightening around yours—the music floods back in like a wave. but in your head, it’s still just that same chant, looping over and over, a soft, aching echo:

“party on you, party on you party on-party on you, party on you party on-party on you, party on you party on-party on you, party on you party on-party on you, party on you party on-party on you, party on you party on-party on you, party on you party on-party on you, party on you party on-party on you, party on you party on-party on you, party on you party on-party on you, party on you party on-party on you, party on you.”

masterlist ✮⋆｡˚📽️ next

gnarly revived me back to lyfe🔥🔥🔥🔥❤️❤️❤️❤️‼️‼️‼️‼️💯💯💯💯💯 I HAVE EXAM NEXT WEEK ND THE WEEK AFTER END ME bare w me guys😭😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏🙏

@zindoriyo @goofymickeyr @saysirhc @kathleenmikaelson @soobnotfound @jjjaliyah @iisayfa @magixpracticality @phamapple @sed7ction @1luvkarina @linnnsworld @hotluvlet @bauzer @saranglasses @kkoga @chaesitonmyface @arihiu @peanutbutterlover05 @kristalag @bulgik @meiyaes @solentient @yuzeemin @reey0w @vrtualstar @justtluvrr @fruityg0rl @cyberbonesworld @haerinkisser @lafortezalover @cassiespoiler @skz-xii @ninguitar @kimminjswife @yeetaberry127 @p1hbrook @hazel-tanthamore22 @caitlynglazer @minjvers @tormaa1 @nwjnsloona @itzkatflixs @namojoon @falling-intoo-deep @waitsobs @blushmimi @cindergorge TAGLIST CLOSED

[1982grapejuiceblues]

Just For You

Official Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Stranger Lanes Part 6

Summary: As the group sets out on one of their annual summer hikes, Y/N and Harry fall into step with each other in a way no one can ignore. What begins with playfulness and banter slowly deepens into something quieter and more private, drawing them closer over the course of the day. They tease, they laugh, they push boundaries—both physical and emotional—and by the time they slip away for a moment alone, their connection has fully shifted. In the stillness of the woods, they don’t rush. They don’t define anything. But something between them clicks into place, and when they return to the group, it’s clear to everyone: something has changed. As night falls, they find comfort in the quiet spaces between the chaos, carving out something entirely their own.

Warnings: Lingering tension between characters due to shared romantic history | Emotional vulnerability and personal reflection | Playful but physical interactions | Flirtation, banter, and light innuendo | Light jealousy and subtle group dynamics shifting | References to betrayal and complicated past relationships | Physical closeness and quiet intimacy | Conversations around family dynamics

A/N: I have no words, I just love them. As always, comment or reblog to be added to the taglist! Love ya <3

Word Count: 13.7k

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The morning didn’t start all at once. It crept in slowly, stretching itself over every room of the lake house like a film of soft light, glancing off mugs of half-finished coffee and sleep-mussed curls and the creak of bare feet on old wooden floors. Someone upstairs had opened a window too early, letting in the sound of birdsong and lake wind and the far-off splash of oars hitting water. Somewhere else, music was playing low through a speaker left forgotten the night before, a playlist shuffling with the kind of lazy shyness that seemed to understand no one was ready for volume just yet. The whole house felt like it was breathing deeply for the first time—exhaling the tension of travel, of accidental arrivals, of shared spaces, of lingering stares and internal recalibrations. And for the first time since they arrived, Y/N could feel something close to rhythm settle into her bones.

She stood on the edge of the hallway near the stairs, one hand curled loosely around a chipped mug, still warm from the kettle. The smell of lemon tea drifted upward with the steam, though she hadn’t taken a sip. Her eyes followed the faint lines of sunlight streaming in from the living room’s east-facing windows, already starting to cast long slants across the floor. Below, voices murmured—quiet enough that she couldn’t make out words, but familiar enough to tug something calm loose in her chest. It was the sound of her friends becoming themselves again. No longer negotiating rooms or posturing around exes. Just easing into the weightless hours of a day with no plans.

She exhaled slowly and took a sip.

The first taste was sharp, citrusy, sweet.

Downstairs, Harry laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even directed at her. But it struck something square behind her ribs—the memory of his voice against her shoulder the night before, the smell of coffee and soap and worn cotton, the hush of breath as he’d curled unconsciously closer in his sleep. The shift between them had been subtle, yes, but now, after everything, it no longer felt small. It felt like a step had been taken, silently but without question. As if the ground between them had closed itself overnight, the friction replaced by something warmer, something threaded with a quiet want neither of them had dared speak yet. She wasn’t rushing to name it. She didn’t need to. Not when it was living so clearly in her body, humming beneath her skin, making her want to lean closer even when they were already side-by-side.

By the time she came down the stairs, the kitchen had bloomed with motion. Ali was holding a carton of eggs like it was her life’s work, instructing Eli and Claire on pancake ratios with the steady command of someone who’d taken charge of group meals since college. Jules sat cross-legged on the counter, peeling a banana with deliberate slowness as she flipped lazily through the playlist queue. And Harry—Harry was leaning against the far end of the sink, half-dressed in sleepwear and sunshine, curls damp at the edges, sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He looked good. Effortlessly good. But more than that, he looked at home. Like the tension that used to keep him standing just outside the room had lifted sometime in the early morning light, and now he was all in—quietly, calmly, without demand.

His eyes met hers the second she stepped into view. The corner of his mouth tipped up, slow and private, like something he’d kept waiting just for her. She didn’t smile back—not immediately—but something inside her chest did. Something unspooling and warm and a little bit unsteady. She moved past the table without a word and brushed her hand against his as she reached for the jam.

It wasn’t a test. It wasn’t performative. It was just a touch. Just a soft, I know you’re here.

And he let his fingers curl just slightly toward hers before she pulled away.

No one said anything. But she didn’t miss the way Ali’s head tilted.

After a while, Eli called for a vote on which hike they should do first, and everyone made exaggerated groaning noises about elevation and sweat and sunburns. The group’s usual chaos resumed. Plans were tossed around, misheard, repeated louder. There was talk of swimsuits and sunscreen, of who needed to borrow a daypack and whether the cooler had enough sparkling water. It was the kind of kinetic buzz Y/N usually loved, the dizzy rush of the day lifting off. But this time, she didn’t feel the need to lead it. She let herself hang back, just a little, and watched Harry instead—how he listened without interrupting, how he offered to carry the cooler before anyone asked, how he kept glancing over at her like they were still sharing something unspoken.

Because they were.

They hadn’t named it. They hadn’t touched anything beyond shoulders and shared breath. But everything had changed. She could feel it in her hands, in the shift of her balance when he stood near her, in the way her smile tugged a little more easily into place when he looked her way. It wasn’t just playful anymore. It was slow. Careful. Steady in its unfolding.

And she didn’t want it to stop.

-

The trail cut wide and slow through the woods behind the lake, dappled in morning light that filtered in and out with every step. It wasn’t difficult—not in elevation or distance—but it was long enough to demand intention. No one could be half-present on this trail. You had to commit to it. To the breath, the movement, the hum of insects buzzing around your ankles. You had to let your legs find their own rhythm and your lungs learn the shape of effort again.

And for once, Y/N didn’t mind being breathless.

The group stretched into their usual patterns—Ali leading with a clipboard and trail app and Eli following close behind, narrating imaginary documentaries about local squirrels. Jules drifted between conversations, sunglasses oversized and commitment to cardio minimal. Claire and Ben hung back, too close and too quiet, like their closeness had to be seen to be believed. And somewhere near the center—steadily orbiting beside her—was Harry.

She didn’t look at him much. Not directly. But she felt him. Felt the way his stride matched hers with an ease that was either practice or instinct. Felt the way he kept slightly behind her on the inclines, like he was waiting to offer help without saying it. Felt the way his presence didn’t fill the space, but settled into it—quiet, grounding, constant.

They didn’t speak at first. Not really. There wasn’t much to say. The hike filled the air with enough sound—the crunch of boots on dirt, the wind through the trees, the rise and fall of someone’s laughter echoing off the canopy. But the silence wasn’t empty. It was… charged. Not tense, not uncomfortable. Just full of something waiting.

It wasn’t until they hit the first bend in the trail, the sun splashing gold across the rocks, that he spoke.

“You good back there?”

She glanced sideways, breathing steady. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I’m just checking in on your cardio. All those blueberries haven’t exactly screamed stamina.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, biting back a grin. “Says the man who almost passed out in the cereal aisle because he couldn’t decide between granola or frosted flakes.”

“That was a life-altering decision.”

“It was a breakfast decision.”

“Same thing.”

She laughed—light, easy, without hesitation—and it shocked her how good it felt. How safe. The woods echoed it back at her, soft and slow, and Harry smiled like he’d waited all morning to hear it again.

They kept walking.

-

Later, when the group stopped at a lookout point—halfway up the ridge, perched high over the lake—Y/N found herself settling near a wide stretch of rock beneath the trees, shaded and cool. She dropped her backpack beside her, pulled her water bottle free, and stretched out her legs with a low sigh. Her calves ached in a good way. Her chest was flushed with sunlight and something warm that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Harry sat down beside her a minute later. Not close. Not touching. But close enough.

She didn’t lean in. Not yet. But she let the silence between them stretch again. Let the energy swirl quietly until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“You hike often?”

Harry shook his head, twisting the cap off his water. “Not really. But I do enjoy pretending I’m the kind of person who owns a CamelBak.”

She smiled into her bottle. “You’re doing great.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it with my whole chest.”

He tilted his head toward her, one brow lifted. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’m growing.”

They sat in the hush after that, trees rustling overhead, Ali’s voice carrying softly through the trees as she explained how glacial movement had carved the edge of the lake. Y/N could hear Ben and Claire bickering again near the overlook, just loud enough to annoy, just quiet enough to pretend it wasn’t happening. And for once, she didn’t care. She didn’t feel dragged into it. She didn’t feel folded under by the weight of what they’d done.

Because she wasn’t sitting next to them.

She was here. Next to him.

And that changed everything.

-

The hike back down was supposed to be easier.

Gravity handled most of it. The group’s energy had shifted—less organized, more loose-limbed and sun-warmed. Someone had started a playlist on a tiny speaker. Ali let her clipboard droop under one arm and stopped pretending the map mattered. Eli threw a stick into the woods and dared everyone to guess if it was poisonous. The air had gone syrupy with heat and laughter and the kind of softness that always followed a view that took your breath away.

But Harry wasn’t thinking about the incline anymore.

He was thinking about her.

Y/N walked just ahead of him, loose ponytail bouncing with every step, shoulders swaying with the same kind of ease she’d had that night in the kitchen when she’d leaned into him without saying a word. She wasn’t flirting. Not exactly. But she wasn’t not flirting either.

She turned back once—just briefly—to check the path, and her eyes caught his, bright and amused like she already knew the punchline to a joke he hadn’t told yet. He couldn’t help it—his mouth curved in that slow, too-easy way that always got him in trouble. She didn’t blink. She just raised one brow like oh, you think you’re charming? and then turned back around.

He followed. Of course he did.

-

They fell behind the group just slightly, not enough to make a scene, but enough to feel like the air belonged to them. The space between their steps narrowed. Their voices dropped. There was a kind of hush to it—not silence, just something softer. Something unspoken but crackling just beneath the skin.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said eventually, adjusting her backpack strap with one hand, not looking at him.

“Just enjoying the view.”

Her head tilted, skeptical.

He let it hang there for a beat.

“Not the trees,” he added, voice low.

She rolled her eyes, but the color in her cheeks deepened just slightly, and he counted that as a win.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to come up with a proper insult.”

“You say that like you didn’t spend the last mile dragging your feet on purpose so I’d walk behind you.”

She glanced at him, smirking. “You think I did that on purpose?”

“I think you know what you’re doing.”

She snorted softly. “If I wanted your attention, I’d be way more creative than that.”

He grinned. “Don’t sell yourself short. It’s working.”

She made a strangled noise and shook her head, but her laugh floated back to him, light and unguarded. He wanted to pocket the sound. Bury it somewhere deep for when this trip ended and the world crept back in.

-

A low branch dipped across the trail, and she ducked beneath it with the grace of someone who’d hiked this path before. Harry followed, but not quite as smoothly—his backpack caught on the edge and yanked him backward slightly.

“Need help?” she asked, not even bothering to hide her smile now.

He tugged the strap free and fixed his curls, letting his ego recover with a dramatic sigh. “No, I’ve got it. But thank you for your overwhelming concern.”

“I’m just saying, it’s good to know who the liability is if someone rolls an ankle.”

“I’m not the one hiking in Converse.”

She looked down at her shoes like she’d forgotten what she was wearing, then shrugged. “Style over safety.”

“An icon.”

They rounded another curve, sunlight bursting through the trees, the lake visible again in flashes through the leaves. The air smelled like moss and woodsmoke and sun on damp earth. The kind of scent that made everything feel a little slower, a little fuller.

He didn’t reach for her hand. Not yet. Not with the others just ahead. But he walked close enough that his arm brushed hers every few steps. And when she didn’t pull away—when she stepped closer instead—he felt something settle in his chest.

Not a decision.

A knowing.

-

The trail opened up again near the bottom of the ridge, flattening into a wide clearing that buzzed with the kind of midday heat that turned every breeze into a blessing. The lake glinted just beyond the trees, its stillness a promise of shade and coolness and temporary escape. The others had pulled ahead, clustered near the trailhead’s wooden signpost and debating whether to swim first or eat, their voices tangled in heat-heavy laughter.

Y/N lingered in the last patch of shade before the clearing, her hands on her hips and her breath just slightly unsteady—not from exertion, not really. Just from him.

Harry had stayed close the whole way down, orbiting without asking, matching her pace without needing to be asked. Every step, every bump of shoulders, every sarcastic comment and quiet laugh—it had all added up. Layer by layer. Breath by breath. Until now, as the trail eased into open space, her body felt wound tight with the effort of not leaning closer.

He caught up to her where she stood, one hand pushing his curls back from his forehead, the other holding his water bottle like a prop.

“We made it,” he said, voice low, breath just a little ragged.

“Barely,” she teased, her eyes still trained on the shimmering sliver of lake beyond the brush. “I was about two minutes from leaving you behind.”

“Oh, please. You’ve been drafting off my effort the whole way down.”

She turned to face him, her grin blooming slow. “You don’t even know what that means.”

“I do. It’s a cycling term.”

“Then you definitely don’t know what it means.”

He laughed, sharp and delighted, and before she could react, he bumped her shoulder with his. Not lightly. Not gently. Not the casual nudge they’d passed back and forth all morning.

This one had weight to it.

Playful. Yes.

But intentional.

She stumbled half a step to the side, then turned on him.

“Oh, really? That’s how we’re doing this?”

He widened his eyes innocently, already stepping back. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You just—”

“Gently encouraged your stride?”

“That was a full-body check.”

He shrugged. “You looked like you needed motivation.”

She narrowed her eyes. Took one small step toward him. “You wanna go?”

His grin turned feral. “Always.”

And before she could respond—before she could even calculate what the hell was happening—he bolted.

Right past her.

Laughing.

And it hit her: he was running. Full sprint. Toward the lake. Like he’d been waiting for an excuse to go all morning.

Her heart flipped.

And then she took off after him.

-

The clearing blurred under her feet. Grass kicked up behind her. The sun beat down on the back of her neck as she followed the sound of his laughter, his footfalls heavy but quick, his silhouette cutting ahead through a line of tall trees. They reached the lakeshore in a burst of movement—sand and sun and the screech of seagulls overhead—and by the time she caught up, she was breathless with laughter.

He stopped just at the edge of the dock, spinning to face her, hands on his hips.

She slowed to a halt a few feet away, panting, eyes bright.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

She bent over, catching her breath. “You cheated.”

“Fair and square.”

“You shoved me.”

“Gently guided.”

She lunged forward—not to hit him, not to shove him, but to tag him, like they were eight years old and high on too much sun. He darted back with a laugh, and she chased again, and then they were circling, wide and laughing and glowing.

And then—

He caught her wrist.

Soft. But sure.

Her body stopped on instinct. Not because she was startled. But because the touch froze her.

He was holding her wrist.

Not tightly. Not possessively.

Just… holding it.

And looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that existed.

Her breath hitched. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. Her skin felt like it had been lit from the inside.

Neither of them said a word.

The laughter between them hadn’t died—but it had changed. Slowed. Deepened.

Turned into something else.

She didn’t pull away.

He didn’t let go.

-

His hand didn’t move. Not right away.

It was still on her wrist, fingers light, just enough pressure to let her know he was there. And she hadn’t stepped back. Not an inch. Not even as the others’ voices started drifting closer—Ali shouting something about sandwiches, Eli laughing from across the trees. The group was coming. The moment was going to break.

But she didn’t care.

Not yet.

Because Harry’s eyes hadn’t left hers.

Not for a second.

And in that split second of stillness, in the low press of his hand and the way her own pulse thrummed under his fingers, everything between them dropped into place. Not explained. Not declared. But known.

She should’ve said something. Teased him. Brushed it off. But her body refused to move in that direction. Her muscles locked in the hum of whatever this was, whatever it was becoming. And she didn’t want to break it with a joke.

So she took a breath—just one—and then moved.

Fast.

She twisted slightly and shoved his shoulder. Not hard. But enough to jolt him backward two steps on the dock, enough to say I see you. I’m not just going to let you win.

His mouth opened in mock offense. “You’re dangerous.”

“You were asking for it.”

“Was I?”

She arched a brow. “Every second.”

He stepped closer. Close enough to invade her space. But not close enough to touch.

“And what exactly do you think you’re gonna do about it?”

She didn’t answer.

She darted past him.

And that was the end of the standoff.

-

He didn’t think.

He chased.

His feet pounded the wood of the dock, his breath catching in his chest—not from the run, but from the sound of her laughter breaking just ahead of him. She’d flung her arms out like wings, sprinting for the end of the dock, hair trailing like a ribbon behind her. She looked free. Sunlit. Barefoot and completely unguarded.

And he had never wanted anything more than to be the reason she kept laughing like that.

He caught up just before the edge—one long stride closing the distance—and grabbed her waist, spinning her in a blur of limbs and laughter and sun.

She gasped—one bright, breathless noise—and he lifted her off the dock.

Just for a second.

Just enough.

Her hands clutched his shoulders, and her head tipped back, laughter spilling straight into the open sky.

“You wouldn’t dare—” she half-screamed.

He spun again. “You don’t think I will?”

“I will take you down with me, Styles.”

“You’d drown before you won.”

“I have no pride. I will cannonball us both.”

He laughed so hard he nearly dropped her.

She shrieked, flailed, elbowed him in the side—then wriggled free and landed with a thud on the dock.

And the second her feet hit the wood, she launched herself at him.

-

They wrestled.

It was absurd.

Two fully grown adults on the sun-warmed edge of a dock, tangled in limbs and laughter and breathlessness, half-heartedly trying to pin each other without falling into the lake. It was all hands and arms and no strategy. Her fingers curled in the hem of his shirt. His arms locked loosely around her waist. Her knee knocked into his thigh. He twisted to avoid the jab and accidentally pulled her into him.

And then—somehow—they stopped.

Still tangled.

Still laughing.

But stopped.

Because she was in his arms.

Her chest against his.

His hand on the small of her back.

And her face tilted up to his, mouth parted, breath short, eyes impossibly wide and full of something that hit him like a freight train.

The laughter was gone.

What was left was silence.

And want.

-

They didn’t kiss.

Not here.

Not yet.

But they could have.

They were close enough.

Her body wasn’t shaking from the run anymore. It was shaking from him. From the way he’d held her, from the way her hands had found his shoulders like they belonged there, from the way his breath was hitting her cheek like something meant.

She didn’t move.

He didn’t move.

And then—someone shouted their names from the trees.

They stepped apart.

Slowly.

Gently.

But not regretfully.

Harry didn’t look away as she stepped back. He didn’t laugh again. He didn’t break the tension with a joke.

He just nodded.

One small, devastating nod.

And she nodded back.

-

They walked back in step, neither of them talking, neither of them touching, but somehow still together in a way that had become undeniable.

It was in the way their arms swung just a little closer than necessary. In the way their shoulders brushed and neither pulled away. In the way Y/N looked straight ahead, calm and unflinching, like she was too busy feeling the weight of something new to entertain any pretense of small talk.

Harry felt it too. Felt it in the sweat at the back of his neck, in the buzz still humming beneath his skin. His hands twitched with the memory of her laugh curling against his chest. Her hands on his shoulders. The scramble of limbs and warmth and closeness that had felt like something between a wrestling match and a dance.

And now they were walking back through the trees like none of it had happened. Like it was just another hike. Just another run to the dock. Just another moment.

But it wasn’t.

And the group saw it before either of them could pretend otherwise.

-

Ali was the first to spot them. She paused mid-sentence, her mouth still open from whatever she’d been saying to Eli, her brow lifting slowly like she couldn’t believe she was witnessing this in real time. She didn’t say anything. Just exchanged a look with Jules, who followed her gaze and bit the inside of her cheek trying not to smirk.

Claire didn’t look up. But Ben did. His expression went flat. Cold, almost. Y/N didn’t return it.

Harry could feel every flick of attention as he followed her into the clearing. The way the air quieted. The way the others’ eyes trailed over his shirt—wrinkled, damp, one sleeve stretched where she’d grabbed him. The way Y/N’s hair was half-falling out of its tie, cheeks still flushed, eyes bright.

They were trying to play it cool.

They weren’t succeeding.

-

She dropped down onto the edge of the picnic bench with slow control, like her legs were still half-tuned to motion and the rest of her hadn’t caught up. Her pulse hadn’t returned to normal. Her skin was still warm in places that had nothing to do with the sun. And the others—her friends—were all watching her like something had been confirmed.

She met Ali’s eyes across the table.

Ali blinked once. Tilted her head. Smiled.

Nothing was said, but everything was said.

Harry sat down beside her, not close enough to be obvious, but close enough to make it clear that he was choosing this seat. That he wasn’t backing off or shying away or pretending like the tension wasn’t laced through every second of the last half hour.

Eli tried to break the silence. “You two look like you just ran from the cops.”

“We ran to the dock,” Harry said, casually grabbing a water bottle and twisting the cap with one hand. “And maybe chased each other a bit.”

Y/N leaned forward, voice calm. “Friendly sprint.”

“Did you trip? Why’s your hair doing that thing?”

She blinked. Shrugged. “Wind.”

Ali raised a brow. “Violent wind?”

Jules raised an eyebrow. “That explains the grass in your hair.”

Y/N reached up automatically and pulled out a small leaf.

Harry took a long sip of water.

Jules chimed in again, lazy and sly: “It’s funny how neither of you wants to explain why your shirts look like they’ve been in a tug-of-war.”

Claire finally spoke.

“We heard you,” she said.

Her tone was clipped. Tight.

Y/N looked at her slowly. “Heard what?”

“The shouting.”

Harry didn’t even flinch. “It’s called laughter.”

Ben snorted under his breath. “Right.” Then cleared his throat. “So… are you guys a thing now, or what?”

The silence after that was heavy.

Claire shifted in her seat.

Y/N didn’t look at either of them. She just tilted her head toward Harry and let the smallest smile pull at her lips.

“You okay with letting the answer speak for itself?” she asked him quietly.

Harry looked at her for a second—soft, steady—and nodded.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I am.”

No one pushed further.

They didn’t need to.

Because the way Y/N and Harry looked at each other said more than any admission could have.

-

Lunch happened in pieces.

The group fell into the kind of gentle midday lull that always came after exertion and sun—sandwiches pulled from coolers, fruit passed around in mismatched Tupperware, the crunch of chips mixing with soft background music and someone’s half-committed attempt to make a playlist. Ali and Jules sat cross-legged under the trees with their water bottles tucked against their thighs, debating the difference between “tired” and “burnt out.” Eli was still insisting someone try the off-brand peach soda he’d packed from the gas station four days ago. Claire lingered on the edge of things, sunglasses too large and unreadable. Ben had disappeared entirely.

And through it all, Y/N sat at the far end of the picnic bench with her legs curled beneath her and a plum in her hand, her thumb running absent little circles along the smooth skin.

Harry was just behind her, sitting on the edge of the dock with his feet swinging over the water. He hadn’t said much since they returned. Hadn’t done anything dramatic or obvious. But she could feel him there, close enough that her pulse didn’t know how to rest.

The food was good. The shade was cool. The group was mellow in that rare, fleeting way—when everyone was too full and too sun-warmed to try too hard. There was a softness to everything. A golden hum in the air. And even though her shoulders had relaxed, her chest hadn’t stopped aching.

Because she wanted to be next to him again.

Not because it was expected. Not because the group was watching. Just because being near him felt easier than being anywhere else. Like something in her body moved better in his orbit.

And she knew—without needing to look—that he felt the same.

-

She rose quietly and crossed the distance.

No one said anything. No one even blinked.

She sat beside him, her shoulder brushing his, and let her feet dangle over the edge of the dock just like his. Their knees bumped. Neither of them shifted.

Harry glanced at her but didn’t speak.

She held out the plum wordlessly.

He took it. Bit into it. Passed it back.

The silence between them wasn’t charged this time. It wasn’t pulsing with tension or jokes or anything they needed to prove. It was just still. Easy. A slow kind of gravity that pulled them into each other without having to try.

They watched the ripples on the water.

They breathed in the same rhythm.

And in that moment, Y/N realized something that made her throat tighten.

She hadn’t thought about Ben in hours.

Not once.

Not even when Claire’s voice sharpened or when a song played that reminded her of late drives and too-long summers.

Not even when Harry smiled at her the way he had—like she was something new.

She hadn’t compared.

She hadn’t second-guessed.

She’d just been in it.

With him.

And she wanted to stay.

-

The group moved like a slow wave, lifting in motion but never quite breaking. Sandwich wrappers were folded up and tucked back into canvas bags. Water bottles were recapped, backpacks zipped, sunglasses slid into place like shields against the inevitable heat of the walk back. Someone yawned. Someone else started humming. The energy was still soft, but it was no longer sleepy—it had shifted into that familiar stretch of late afternoon, where the air starts to carry the echo of what’s been shared.

Harry stood from the dock first and turned to offer Y/N his hand.

She looked up at him with a brow raised, amused. But she took it.

Her fingers slid into his easily. Her weight shifted forward, her sandals gripped the dock edge, and when she was on her feet again, she didn’t let go right away.

Neither did he.

It wasn’t a moment that asked for an announcement. No one around them gasped or stared. But Ali saw it. Jules too. Even Eli—bless him—let out a little whistle under his breath that made Claire glance up from her sunglasses and then immediately look away again.

It didn’t matter.

Because Harry had no intention of stepping back now.

He let go when she was steady, sure. But he stayed close. Close enough that his shoulder brushed hers as they followed the others toward the tree line. Close enough that her arm swayed into his on every third step. Close enough that when Jules cracked a joke about “group dynamics shifting in the humidity,” Harry didn’t even blink.

He just smiled.

Because yeah. Things had shifted.

-

It was almost funny how differently everyone moved now.

There was no official declaration. She and Harry hadn’t made any kind of show of it. And yet, the jokes came faster now—softer, but sharp-edged with curiosity. The glances were longer, less guarded. The teasing had evolved into something else. Not mean. Not even probing. But full of recognition.

Everyone could see it.

She could hear it in the way Ali said “How’s the couple at the back doing?” without even turning around. In the way Eli offered to trade hiking partners like it was a school dance. In the way Jules asked what snacks Harry had “picked for her” and didn’t bother clarifying who her was.

She could feel it too.

In the way Harry kept adjusting his pace to match hers. In the way his fingers brushed hers now and then—always casually, never gripping, but lingering. In the way her body leaned toward his like it had stopped asking for permission.

And it was all so easy.

That was the strange part.

It didn’t feel like a new beginning.

It felt like a return.

Like they’d been circling this version of each other for longer than either of them had realized. Like all the noise between them—everything that used to keep their eyes narrowed and their walls high—had finally gone quiet. And what was left was this.

Warm. Open. Quietly certain.

Y/N didn’t need to look back to know Ben and Claire were walking somewhere behind them.

She didn’t need to glance over her shoulder. Didn’t need to listen for them.

Because they weren’t what mattered anymore.

What mattered was the trail ahead. The sunlight pooling between trees. The way Harry’s voice dropped when he leaned closer to say something only she could hear.

And the way it made her smile without even trying.

-

The house came into view like a mirage—low-roofed and sunbaked, its windows glinting against the haze of the afternoon heat. The trail thinned behind them as the group shuffled up the drive in loose clusters, every step slower than the last. Shoes scraped against the gravel. Water bottles swung at half-hearts. Someone let out a long, theatrical groan as they reached the porch steps, and someone else laughed just loudly enough to disguise the sound of another foot catching a loose plank on the deck.

Y/N reached the front door first, her hand resting on the knob while she fumbled for the key Ali had handed her before the hike. Her other hand still buzzed faintly from the quiet moment just five minutes earlier—Harry’s fingers brushing hers one last time as they’d turned onto the path. It hadn’t been an accident. It hadn’t lasted long. But it had sent a warm thrum all the way up her arm that hadn’t quite faded.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside first.

The cool rush of indoor air made her eyes sting. The temperature difference was sharp and immediate, and the stillness inside felt oddly sacred after the noise of the trail. For a moment, all she could do was stand in the entryway and let her lungs adjust. It smelled like old wood and lemony cleaner and the faint, familiar whisper of yesterday’s coffee.

Behind her, the door creaked open again.

Harry stepped in second.

Of course he did.

And with a quiet clatter of bottles and bags, the others followed.

-

It didn’t take long for the house to fill again—with chatter, with footfalls, with that familiar summer energy that only settled into a place once everyone had made it theirs. Shoes were kicked off. Backpacks dropped. Someone turned on a fan in the corner of the living room that whirred like it had something to prove. Claire opened the fridge with a dramatic sigh and announced that they were “critically low” on something she didn’t bother to finish naming. Eli immediately volunteered to eat “whatever’s expired.” Jules collapsed onto the couch and demanded someone feed her grapes.

And Y/N?

Y/N drifted into the kitchen, not because she had a plan, but because her legs carried her there.

She opened the fridge and stared into the cool light like it held some kind of answer. Her fingers found a jug of water, her other hand fumbling for glasses without looking.

A moment later, Harry appeared beside her.

Again.

No fanfare. No commentary. Just a quiet arrival. A shared breath.

His hand brushed hers when he reached for the second glass.

She looked at him then—not long, not pointedly, but long enough.

Long enough that she didn’t have to say anything when she poured the water and nudged the glass toward him.

He took it.

Their fingers grazed again.

And neither of them moved away.

-

The others were scattered now—drifting toward bedrooms, couches, bathrooms, anywhere with airflow and a horizontal surface. A few half-hearted attempts at planning the rest of the day floated across the room, but no one really grabbed onto them. They were all in the slow exhale after movement. The kind of quiet that settled in the ribs, content to just be.

But even in that stillness, he felt it.

The way the others’ eyes flicked toward him and Y/N more often now. Not staring. Not interrogating. But curious.

There was a new rhythm to the house, and they were the tempo now.

He didn’t mind.

He took a sip of water and leaned against the counter. Y/N stood beside him, half-lit by the sunlight pushing through the open window above the sink, her skin glowing, her cheeks pink, her eyes soft.

She looked at peace.

And he wanted to keep her that way.

She glanced at him then, lips curving gently. “Thanks for not dropping me in the lake earlier.”

He chuckled. “Thought about it.”

“Not sure you could’ve handled the splashback.”

“You’re underestimating my core strength.”

She smiled, and it reached all the way into him.

He didn’t say anything else.

He just stood there.

Next to her.

Right where he wanted to be.

-

They moved through the house like a secret.

Not trying to hide. Not putting on a show. Just existing in a kind of new, quiet rhythm that made the rest of the group feel like background noise—not unimportant, not invisible, just… less in focus.

The kitchen had emptied by now. Jules had migrated to the porch with a book. Eli and Ali were arguing softly over who got control of the Bluetooth speaker. Ben was still absent. Claire had retreated to the upstairs bathroom under the pretense of a sun-induced migraine. And in the quiet between those moving parts, Y/N leaned against the countertop next to Harry and let the silence hold.

Her skin still felt warm from earlier. Not the sun—though the sun had done its part—but from him. From his voice, his laugh, his arms around her on the dock, the way they hadn’t let go fast enough. The memory of it sat heavy in her chest now. Not heavy like burdened. Heavy like full. Like something new had settled just under the surface and didn’t want to leave.

Harry opened the freezer, pulled out two popsicles—one red, one purple—and wordlessly held them up like a bartender offering a drink list.

She pointed to the red.

He handed it over.

They unwrapped them in sync, the plastic snapping in that sharp, familiar way, and leaned against opposite ends of the counter like they hadn’t just spent the last half hour tangled in each other’s space.

But they had.

And it was still all over her skin.

-

The popsicle dripped down his thumb, and he didn’t care.

Y/N licked hers like she wasn’t thinking about it, but he could tell she was. Her mouth curved every time her tongue caught the melting juice at the corner, and she smiled when she noticed him watching.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t even pretend to.

Something had shifted since this morning—not snapped, not sparked, but warmed. Like someone had left a window open in the middle of the house and now the air inside was changing whether they wanted it to or not.

He liked it.

Liked her.

Liked the ease. The tilt of her voice when she said his name. The curve of her back when she laughed and didn’t bother to look over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

She knew he was.

She knew.

-

“What now?” she asked eventually, around a mouthful of cherry ice.

“Swim?”

“Too hot.”

“Movie?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Feels wrong to sit in the dark on a day like this.”

“Board game?”

“You just want revenge after I beat you at trivia.”

“I want balance restored to the universe.”

She laughed, and it came out light and easy, like it belonged in the air.

Then she glanced sideways at him and said, “Want to go for a walk?”

He blinked. “Didn’t we just do eight miles?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Different kind of walk.”

“What kind is that?”

She met his eyes.

“The kind where no one else comes.”

And just like that, his breath caught.

She didn’t mean it suggestively. She didn’t say it with weight or flirtation or anything even close to a smirk. But it hit him anyway—deep and warm and true.

A walk.

Just them.

No one else.

He nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

-

The house didn’t shrink as she left it, but it felt like it did.

The second she stepped past the porch and into the space between the trees—where sunlight slanted through the branches and the sound of the group dissolved into distant thuds and murmurs—something opened in her chest. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. Just a slow unfurling, like a breath she hadn’t known she was holding had finally been allowed to leave.

There was no trail for where they were headed. No destination. No need to fill the space with conversation or perform the closeness they’d been toeing around all day. But the shift in energy was immediate. She felt it in the way the soles of her shoes pressed more deliberately into the dirt. In the way the air around her warmed despite the shade. In the way Harry fell into step beside her without saying a word, as though he’d been waiting for the cue all day and now that it was here, it needed nothing more than a look.

She didn’t glance at him yet.

She didn’t have to.

His presence was a tether.

Solid. Quiet. Close.

Her hands were still sticky with the sugar from the popsicle he’d handed her. The cherry flavor had long since faded, but the aftertaste lingered—bright and artificial and a little too sweet. Her lips stuck slightly when she pressed them together, and she swiped her tongue along her bottom lip out of habit. The humidity clung to her in patches, where the sweat from the hike had never fully left, and the breeze barely moved through the pines now that they were deeper in the woods.

She wasn’t sure why she’d suggested the walk.

Not really.

It had come out of her mouth before she’d fully thought it through, and when Harry had looked at her like yes, that, her brain had gone quiet.

Maybe it had something to do with the way he hadn’t let go of her hand right away when they’d returned from the dock. Or the way he’d stood behind her in the kitchen, quiet and close, like he didn’t want to get in her way but also didn’t want to stand anywhere else. Or maybe it was the way the others were looking at them now—not just curiously, but like they knew, like they were cataloging each touch, each glance, each moment and wondering what had changed.

Y/N had spent her entire adult life learning how to manage other people’s attention. She was good at it. A professional, even. She could navigate a faculty meeting with one raised eyebrow and a well-timed exhale. She could redirect conversation away from herself with the ease of someone who’d been practicing since she was a teenager. And yet here, with Harry, she didn’t feel like hiding.

She just felt like being.

The trees around them thickened slightly, enough to swallow the sunlight in long beams and cast the forest floor into strips of gold and green. Harry walked slowly. Purposefully. His arms hung loose at his sides, his gait lazy in the way that only came when his guard was down. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the house, and yet somehow she felt more connected to him now than she had through any of their earlier back-and-forths.

It was strange, she thought, how easily the silence sat between them. Not strained. Not heavy. Just there. Soft and shared.

She picked up a twig with her toe and kicked it ahead of her on the trail. “You always this quiet?”

Harry looked over, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth. “Only when I don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

Her brows lifted, surprised at his honesty. “You think there’s a wrong thing to say right now?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his shorts and let his gaze track a squirrel darting across the brush before he spoke.

“I think,” he said, slowly, “that there’s a lot of things I could say. And some of them… I’m not sure you’re ready to hear yet.”

The warmth that had been coiled in her chest twisted, then pulled tighter. It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t even heavy. It was gentle. A soft touch at the edge of something neither of them had named.

“And what if I am?” she asked, quieter than she meant to.

Harry looked at her.

Really looked.

And then—just as slowly, just as softly—he smiled.

-

He hadn’t meant to say it like that.

He hadn’t meant to say anything at all. The quiet had been good—weightless in a way that felt rare between two people who hadn’t known each other well just days ago. And now here they were, walking a dirt path that didn’t lead anywhere, held together by whatever had settled between them since the night of the grocery trip.

Still, when she asked if he was always this quiet, the words had come out without calculation.

It wasn’t just the sun-warmed calm of the woods that loosened his tongue.

It was her.

The way she looked at him when she wasn’t trying to be understood. The way she tilted her head like she already knew what he meant but wanted to hear it anyway. The way her voice dropped into something barely-there when she asked, “What if I am?”

Ready.

Like maybe she was.

He could’ve said a dozen things. Something teasing. Something noncommittal. But instead he looked at her and smiled. Just that. Just the truth of that smile. And then kept walking.

She caught up to him a few paces later, their shoulders close again, feet moving without purpose.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence lightly, “what exactly would be so dangerous for me to hear?”

He exhaled, amused. “Thought we were letting it go.”

“We were. But then you went all cryptic woodsman on me.”

“Cryptic woodsman?”

“You know, with the quiet and the vague truths and the meaningful glances.”

“I’m just trying not to ruin the walk.”

“You’re failing.”

He looked at her, and her grin widened.

It hit him all at once, then—how easy it had become, how he didn’t feel like he was performing anymore. Not even behind sarcasm. Not even behind old habits of emotional sleight-of-hand. He was just… here. Himself. With her.

And it didn’t scare him.

It settled in.

Like it had been waiting.

-

She didn’t know what she’d expected from the walk, but it wasn’t this.

It wasn’t this feeling of clarity—quiet and low and persistent. It wasn’t the comfort of falling into step with someone who didn’t need her to explain herself. It wasn’t the slow-burning hum of her pulse every time Harry said something in that voice, his voice, with its patient rhythm and careful humor and unspoken undertow.

She glanced down at her feet, at the way her shoes scuffed dust up from the trail. She didn’t feel nervous. But she did feel aware. Of her limbs. Her breath. The faint ache in her knees from the earlier hike. The slight stick of sweat at her temples. The shift in gravity every time he came close enough to cast a shadow across her shoulder.

“You’re still avoiding the question,” she said, voice light.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I don’t remember there being a question.”

She rolled her eyes, stopping short in the path. “What would you say if you thought I was ready?”

He stopped too.

There was no one around now. Not within earshot. Not within view. The woods stretched in every direction—quiet, dappled, just barely moving with the wind.

Harry looked at her like she was the only real thing in it.

He took a step closer.

“You want the truth?” he asked.

“Always.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“I think,” he said, low and warm and steady, “that you’re not half as hard to understand as you want people to believe. I think you notice everything. I think you hold it all in, and you don’t let people know how much it means to you. But I think you care. A lot.”

She blinked. Swallowed. Tried not to shift her weight too obviously.

Harry continued, his voice softening further. “I think you watch the people around you more than you watch yourself. And I think it’s exhausting. But you do it anyway. Because you don’t trust that anyone else will.”

Y/N didn’t speak.

Her throat was tight.

Her heart had pressed up into it like it couldn’t stay still in her chest anymore.

She should’ve made a joke. Changed the subject. But instead, she asked, “And you? What do you think I haven’t noticed?”

He smiled at that.

But it wasn’t cocky.

It was bare.

“I think,” he said, “you noticed that I hate running on concrete. That I always drink the last half of my coffee cold because I forget about it. That I only sing along when I’m alone in the car, and I only do it if the windows are up.”

He paused.

She waited.

“I think,” he said again, slower now, “you noticed that I’m still figuring myself out. Even now. And I think that scares me less when you’re around.”

She felt that one behind her ribs.

Felt it all the way down.

-

They kept walking.

They didn’t need to talk after that.

The silence came back, but it wasn’t emptiness. It was full of something golden and growing.

At some point, they passed a narrow wooden fence that curved along the far edge of the forest. It was old, half-fallen, mostly overtaken by moss and ivy. Y/N paused to touch one of the posts—gently, like it might dissolve under her hand.

Harry watched her.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just figured you’d be the type to notice things like that.”

She turned. “Like what?”

He shrugged one shoulder, casual. “Quiet corners. Places that no one else looks at.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where the best stories start.”

She raised a brow. “You really believe that?”

He smiled.

And then, just as he stepped forward and reached out to tug a pine needle from her hair, he said it:

“Yeah. I’m starting to.”

-

She didn’t suggest stopping.

She didn’t need to.

The moment they reached the edge of the clearing—a slight rise in the trail flanked by low grass and a patch of mossy boulders that looked like they’d been dropped there centuries ago—they both paused without speaking. The silence between them hummed. Not with awkwardness. Not with indecision. Just… something that said here. That said this is where we rest now.

Y/N moved first, slipping between two stones and sinking onto a flat, sun-dappled patch of moss. She tucked her legs beneath her, hands loose in her lap. The heat of the ground seeped through the fabric of her shorts, grounding her in a way the conversation hadn’t. She needed to stop moving. Not because she was tired, but because whatever was buzzing under her skin was getting louder, and motion only made it worse.

Harry followed her without a word, stepping into the space and sitting cross-legged just across from her. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance around. Just folded his hands loosely in his lap and met her gaze like it was the only thing worth seeing.

For the first time since they’d left the house, the quiet didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt charged.

Like whatever had been building between them had reached a point where it couldn’t hide inside the hike or the banter or the soft, careful looks anymore. The air between them was thin with it—heat, breath, silence. It wasn’t about the group. Or the trip. Or anything that had happened before.

It was about now.

And neither of them moved.

-

She looked like she was trying to decide whether to speak or stay still forever.

He knew that feeling.

It was one he carried in his chest every time he stood at the edge of something good and had no idea if it would still be there once he reached for it. But there was something about the way she sat across from him now—open without trying, knees curled in, hands loose, jaw tight with everything she wasn’t saying—that made him want to ask.

Made him want to know the things she didn’t give away for free.

“You’re quiet,” he said softly.

Her eyes didn’t flinch. “So are you.”

“I’m trying not to say the wrong thing, remember?”

She smiled. But it was slower now. Different. Not teasing. Not light.

Just quiet.

Measured.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” she said.

The request didn’t sting. It wasn’t sharp. But it landed.

He blinked once, stunned—not by the boldness of it, but by how gentle it felt coming from her. It wasn’t a dare. It wasn’t a challenge. It was an invitation. A door, cracked open.

He looked down at his hands.

Then, after a long moment, he answered.

“When I was fourteen,” he said, voice low, “I wrote a song for someone. Didn’t show it to them. Didn’t even keep the paper. But I remember the lyrics.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Do you still write?”

He hesitated.

“Not really. Not like that.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Felt stupid. Too much. Like I was doing it for the wrong reasons.”

“What were the right ones?”

Harry looked up at her again, eyes steady now.

“I guess I didn’t know then,” he said. “But I’m starting to figure it out.”

Y/N didn’t push.

Didn’t fill the space with anything unnecessary.

She just nodded, like she understood, and let the moment stretch.

And God, this was worse than any kiss.

Worse in the best way.

Because it meant something. And he wasn’t ready for what it meant, but he wasn’t running either.

He was here.

-

The silence didn’t rush to be filled, and that might’ve been the most jarring part. It didn’t lean toward awkwardness or stumble into rambling just to have something to occupy it. It was full, dense, thick with quiet understanding, and yet completely natural in its weight. Y/N had never been one for long silences. Not really. She liked noise, liked rhythm, liked the assurance that conversation gave her—a way to know that the other person was still with her, still engaged, still moving forward. But with Harry, it felt different. Like she didn’t have to prove she was present or interesting or worth the pause. He just stayed across from her, unmoved, unreadable in a way that wasn’t cold or distant, just intensely focused, like he was observing her in real time and trying to memorize every flicker of change in her expression.

She could feel the heat of him even from where they sat. The space between them wasn’t wide, but it wasn’t narrow enough to be obvious either, and still, it felt like it pressed in on her from all sides. Her skin was too warm, but not in a way that made her uncomfortable. It was the kind of warmth that bloomed slowly in her chest, radiating out through her arms and legs like it was being drawn toward something. Every breath she took made the air feel thinner, not because she was nervous—though God, maybe she was—but because she was too aware of the space her body occupied and how close he was to filling it.

She looked at his hands first. They were resting on his knees, loose but alert, fingers slightly curled like he was prepared to react at a moment’s notice. Like if she reached for him now, he wouldn’t pull away. He might not meet her halfway, but he wouldn’t flinch. And that small difference—the not knowing if he’d come forward, but knowing he wouldn’t leave—was enough to send her stomach into a slow, twisting knot that felt suspiciously like anticipation.

When her gaze finally rose to his face, he was already watching her. There was no flicker of embarrassment, no sudden shift of attention like he’d been caught. He meant to be looking at her, and he made no move to hide it. She held his gaze, blinking once but otherwise still, and let the tension build. Let it stack higher and higher between them like stone on stone. It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense. There were no fireworks. No sweeping music. Just the earthy scent of pine and sun-warmed bark and the hush of a forest that didn’t care what happened between two people on the edge of something.

Her voice was quieter than she intended when it finally broke the silence. “You do that a lot.”

Harry didn’t ask what she meant. He just raised his eyebrows, a small tilt of his mouth giving the ghost of a smile.

“Watch me like you’re trying to read something I haven’t written yet,” she clarified.

That brought the full smile out. Small, sure, steady.

“Maybe I am,” he said, but his voice didn’t carry the smugness she might’ve expected. It didn’t flirt or poke or tease. It just… was. Honest. Warm. Settled like a truth that had been waiting to land.

Y/N shifted, arms wrapping loosely around her knees. Her body leaned slightly forward, instinctive and unintentional, but she didn’t pull back. She wanted to say something else, something with teeth, something that would level the field again and keep her from feeling like her heart had crawled too close to the surface. But nothing sharp came. Nothing clever. Just a quiet hum beneath her ribs and the recognition that for once, she didn’t want to play defense.

So she gave him something back.

“Sometimes I don’t know what to do when you look at me like that,” she admitted. “Like I’m supposed to know what comes next.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, thoughtful, eyes narrowing like he was filing that away.

“You don’t have to know,” he said, voice soft but not delicate. “I’m not expecting you to.”

She let that settle. Let it bloom in the silence.

Let herself feel the impact of being met exactly where she was.

Let herself feel the way he wasn’t rushing her, wasn’t pressing her, wasn’t turning this into a declaration or a demand or a game.

He was just here.

And so was she.

-

The quiet had thickened to the point that it wasn’t really silence anymore. It had become something else entirely—something suspended and weighty, like humidity right before a storm, or the space between two breaths when you’re waiting for someone to say your name. They weren’t speaking, but they were both very much in this moment, like they could hear the hum of what was unspoken between them if they stayed still long enough. There was no movement, not even a nervous shift. Just stillness, dense and stretched thin with proximity and patience and tension that neither of them wanted to break but both of them were leaning into more and more with every breath.

Y/N’s fingers were splayed against the moss between them, her skin still warm from the hike, still a little tacky with sugar from the popsicle back at the house. She hadn’t planned to move them, hadn’t made a decision in her head, but her body acted on something quieter and more instinctual—curiosity maybe, or want. Her hand drifted forward across the soft, sun-dappled stone. Not a dramatic gesture. Not a bold one. Just enough that her pinky brushed the side of his.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything. But her stomach twisted as if she’d shouted.

Harry didn’t move right away. But she could feel the awareness in him shift. His fingers flexed slightly, resting still for a moment before curling—just a little—around the outside of hers. Not a grab. Not a reach. A response.

She turned her palm over, and he met it. No hesitation, no pause, just warmth. His hand slid into hers like it already knew the shape of it, like his fingers had been molded to fit hers, even if neither of them would’ve admitted that out loud. She breathed in, shallow and quick, then let the air fall out of her like it had been caught in her lungs for days.

He didn’t let go.

She didn’t ask him to.

“I didn’t think I’d ever do this with you,” she said after a long beat, voice soft but steady, her eyes fixed on their joined hands.

Harry’s thumb grazed her wrist. “Hold hands?”

“Sit still.”

His laugh was low and warm and a little closer than before. “Yeah, you’re usually more of a pacing type.”

“Shut up,” she murmured, but she was smiling now, a real one, the kind that tugged at the corners of her mouth without asking first.

“I’m serious. You don’t do this. You don’t… stop.”

She looked up at him then. “Do you?”

His gaze didn’t flinch. “Only when I want something to last.”

The air went tight again. Her chest filled with it, caught under her collarbones and held there like she wasn’t allowed to let it go yet. She knew what he meant. He hadn’t said it plainly, but he didn’t need to. It was in the way he was looking at her now—like this quiet between them was more than just a moment to enjoy. It was a decision. An intention.

Y/N didn’t move, didn’t pull back, didn’t tease. She didn’t try to laugh it off like she usually would. She just held his hand tighter, her thumb brushing slowly over the back of his, her body warm all over and anchored in something deeper than she could explain.

“I notice things about you too, you know,” she said finally.

His brow lifted, curious and soft. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You always pick the least direct path on a trail. You lean forward when you’re thinking, like you’re already walking into the next sentence. You—”

“Alright,” he said gently, squeezing her hand, his voice low and amused, “say one more and I’ll start getting a complex.”

“I wasn’t going to stop.”

“Figured.”

He smiled, and she felt it—not just saw it. She felt it like it pressed right into the center of her chest and stayed there.

The sun shifted slightly, and their shadows leaned closer across the moss.

Y/N tipped her head to the side, still watching him. “Do you think this is stupid?”

Harry’s face sobered, but not harshly. “What?”

“This,” she said, gesturing to the space between them with a slight nod. “All of it. The group. This trip. You and me.”

He didn’t answer right away, and for a second she thought he might shrug or laugh it off or say something clever. But when he spoke, his voice was low and firm and made her heart ache a little.

“I think this might be the first thing that doesn’t feel stupid in a really long time.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then looked back down at their hands, their fingers still laced, skin warm and steady, and she didn’t say anything more.

Because there was nothing else that needed saying.

-

The quiet between them had thickened into something dense and familiar, something that didn’t demand to be broken but made room for truth if it wanted to be spoken. Y/N didn’t shift where she sat. Her hand stayed loosely curled in Harry’s, thumb moving slowly along the side of his, not because she was nervous but because she needed something to tether her to the moment. It felt like it could float away if she didn’t stay grounded in it, if she didn’t pay attention. The sunlight had shifted since they’d first sat down, casting longer shadows across the moss, cooler now, more golden than white. She could feel the weight of the day settling around them, not heavy, but sure.

“How many days are left?” she asked after a long stretch of stillness, her voice low and calm, like the answer might settle something inside her if he got it right.

Harry turned his head slightly, brows pulled together as he counted. “Two,” he said. “Just tomorrow, and then we pack up the morning after that.”

“Two,” she repeated, quieter now. The word sat differently than she expected, heavier maybe, or sharper around the edges. “That’s not enough.”

His fingers shifted against hers, not a squeeze, not quite, just a subtle reaction, like he’d felt it too. “I know,” he said, his voice soft and threaded with something she didn’t want to name.

She let the silence settle again, only this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that curled around her ribs and whispered that the end was coming whether she wanted it to or not. She tried to focus on the warmth of his hand, the steadiness of it, the way he didn’t let go even as the minutes stretched on and the world around them started to cool.

“It’s strange,” she said, her thumb drawing an unconscious line across the back of his hand. “It feels like it’s just starting. Like I’m just now catching up to myself.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Same.”

Neither of them looked away.

After a moment, her voice dropped even quieter. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like I could settle into something this easily.”

He tilted his head. “Settle into what?”

She gave a small shrug, like she didn’t want to define it. “This. The quiet. You. All of it.”

Harry let that sit between them before replying. “Maybe it’s not about ease. Maybe it’s just… right place, right time.”

“Or wrong time,” she muttered, half to herself, then looked up. “You talk to your sister much since you got here?”

He smiled at that, something warm flickering behind his eyes. “Yeah. She texted me the other night after we sent that picture from the dock. Wanted to know who the ‘girl with the sarcastic grin’ was.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t say me.”

“Course I did.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s slander.”

“Truthful slander,” he said, and his thumb traced an arc against her knuckles.

“Older or younger?”

“Older. Not by much. She thinks that makes her morally superior.”

“It might,” Y/N teased, then added more quietly, “Jess would agree. She’s older than me too.”

“She the one we met back at the house?”

“Yeah. She’s my… everything person, I guess. If I’m falling apart, she knows before I do.”

He nodded like he understood. “Mine’s the same. Bit bossier, maybe.”

“She ever give you hell about relationships?”

Harry snorted under his breath. “Constantly. She told me before this trip that if I didn’t come back with at least one good story, she was revoking her right to defend me.”

“Sounds like something Jess would say,” Y/N said, and for a second the two of them just sat there in the shared understanding that sisters had a way of seeing you before you saw yourself.

He looked at her then—not quickly, not sharply, but with that same gentle, anchored attention he’d given her since they’d stepped into the woods. “Does she know what this is?” he asked, the question quiet but pointed.

Y/N hesitated, then smiled. “She’s already bought stock in it.”

Harry grinned. “Smart woman.”

“I know.”

The air felt softer around them then, but heavier too, like they were stepping closer to a ledge they didn’t know how to name. Two days. That was it. Not enough to undo anything, but maybe enough to see it for what it was. Maybe enough to let it take root before everything outside this place tried to pull it away.

-

She didn’t want to go back. Not yet. Not back to the house, not back to the group, not back to the way the real world pressed in around the edges of everything that had finally gone quiet inside her. This was the first time in weeks—maybe longer—that she hadn’t felt like she needed to be on guard. Not for anyone else. Not even for herself. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t proving. She was just sitting in the woods with a boy who made her forget how many versions of herself she usually carried around to stay protected. And maybe that should’ve scared her. Maybe it still did. But it also felt like a relief she hadn’t realized she needed until it had already wrapped itself around her.

Harry’s hand was still warm in hers. Still steady. Still sure in that quiet, unobtrusive way that said he didn’t need to be holding her to make his presence known—but he liked that he was. And she liked that he did. She liked the way he moved through silence like it didn’t intimidate him. Like he didn’t feel the need to fill every second with something clever or easy. She liked the way he let the weight of her quiet hang in the air and didn’t ask her to lighten it.

Two days.

That was it.

And somehow that number had started to ache in her chest like it meant more than just a countdown. It meant borrowed time. Measured space. A trip that wasn’t built to carry what was beginning to form between them. And maybe that was fine. Maybe it was the right kind of temporary. But it didn’t feel like something she could fold back up when it was over and tuck away in a drawer. This—whatever this was—had shape now. Weight. Breath. A rhythm she was already learning by heart.

She looked down at their hands again, where his thumb traced an easy line over the edge of her palm. She could memorize that, she thought. The pace of it. The warmth. The quiet confidence in his touch that didn’t ask for anything but didn’t shy away from the truth of what it was either.

“I don’t think I expected to feel like this,” she said, voice low and careful, but not tentative.

He didn’t look surprised. “Like what?”

She let the silence stretch before answering, like the right words might rise out of the air if she gave them time. “Like I’ll miss you.”

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak right away either. But the way his fingers stilled slightly against hers—just for a second, just long enough to register—told her he’d felt the weight of that too.

“I will,” she said. “Miss you.”

He turned his head then, slow and deliberate, until his eyes met hers again. And there was nothing easy in them now. No teasing. No half-grin. Just that open, unguarded gaze that felt like it saw past whatever she hadn’t said yet.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t swept up in heat or urgency or anything designed to carry weight. It just was. And maybe that was why it landed the way it did—deep, quiet, true.

She didn’t speak again after that. Neither did he.

They didn’t need to.

-

Harry wasn’t ready to stand. Not yet. He could feel the clock ticking behind his ribs, some slow, invisible count closing in on the moment they’d have to rise from the mossy patch of shade and walk back into a world that hadn’t seen them like this—quiet and settled and entirely changed. The others wouldn’t know what happened out here. Not really. They’d joke, maybe, tease them, fill in the blanks with their own narratives. But they wouldn’t know. Because the story wasn’t something loud. It didn’t arrive in a kiss or a confession or anything so dramatic. It had built itself in the stillness, in a silence that most people would’ve missed. But Harry hadn’t missed it. And neither had she.

Her hand still sat in his like it belonged there. Not clutched. Not held too tightly. Just there, warm and aligned and honest. Her breathing had gone steady a long time ago. He could feel the rhythm of it, low and unhurried, like it had finally caught up with the truth of the moment and decided not to race past it. She hadn’t looked away from him since she said she’d miss him. And he hadn’t dared speak until now, not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because the weight of it was too dense to move around until he found the right way to place it.

“You know what’s funny?” he said, voice low, rough from disuse and something else he didn’t want to name.

She looked at him, quiet, ready.

“I keep thinking about that first morning,” he continued, “in the car. You were sitting there, arms crossed, that coffee cup clenched like it’d personally betrayed you.”

Her mouth twitched. “It was early.”

“It was war,” he said, the corner of his own mouth tipping. “And I remember thinking, I could survive this trip if she never talks to me again.”

She laughed then, soft and incredulous. “Jesus.”

“But then you did,” he went on, slower now, not smiling anymore. “You talked to me. Not all at once. Not easily. But… enough. You started asking questions, biting back at mine. You rolled your eyes. You gave me hell. And I started to look forward to it.”

She tilted her head, her expression settling into something quieter.

Harry let the silence sit for a beat before adding, “I didn’t expect this.”

“Me either.”

“I didn’t think I’d want to give this version of myself to anyone here. Not after how it started.”

She didn’t say anything, but her thumb pressed into the center of his palm.

He exhaled slowly, like the words needed space to fall into.

“But I do,” he said. “I want to give it to you.”

Her chest rose slightly.

“I don’t know how much of it you even want,” he went on, voice soft and slow and careful, “but every version of me that’s come out since we left the driveway-”

She didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. Just let the quiet answer for her.

And then, before he could overthink it, before the weight of it shifted into something heavy instead of full, he added, softer now, but no less certain—

“It’s just for you.”

-

By the time they emerged from the woods, the sky had turned a bruised gold, soft at the edges, slipping toward dusk. They walked slower now, like the path back was longer than it had been on the way out, like each step toward the house carried more weight than the last. Y/N didn’t drop his hand until the clearing opened and the backyard came into view, not out of fear or uncertainty, but because some small, private part of her wanted to keep the moment theirs just a little longer. As if the trees had been holding something sacred, and stepping back into the open would let it dissolve.

The house buzzed with sound—music playing low from the porch speaker, laughter from somewhere deeper inside, the muffled thud of footsteps crossing the upstairs floor. The day had stretched on without them, as it always would, and the group didn’t pause just because two people had wandered off to fall into something quieter. But the second they stepped out of the tree line, the air shifted.

Claire noticed first. She was seated at the far end of the outdoor table, drink in hand, sunglasses pushed back into her hair. Her posture didn’t change, but her gaze followed them with the kind of sharpness that came with interest disguised as boredom. Beside her, Ben turned too, his mouth tightening—not with surprise, not with warmth, but with some unnamed edge that made Y/N’s skin prickle, though she refused to look directly at him.

Harry didn’t falter. He walked just behind her, close enough that their shoulders brushed, close enough that the silence between them didn’t feel broken so much as carried. There was no announcement. No explanation. Just the quiet presence of two people who’d gone somewhere together and returned different.

Ali caught sight of them from the open kitchen doorway and grinned wide enough to slice the tension straight through. “There you are,” she called, cradling a beer against her hip like it was a microphone. “Thought you’d disappeared into the woods to build a new life.”

“Tempting,” Harry said under his breath, just loud enough for Y/N to hear. She bit back a smile, elbow nudging against his as they reached the porch steps.

“We figured you got lost,” Ali said, stepping aside as they climbed onto the deck. “Or maybe just sick of our faces.”

Y/N leaned against the railing, her eyes narrowing playfully. “Maybe we just needed a break from the chaos.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Ali shot her a look that was almost too knowing, then glanced at Harry. “You look very refreshed. Enlightened. Like a man who’s been changed by nature.”

Harry gave a small bow. “The trees spoke. I listened.”

Ben’s voice broke in then, low and sharp from where he stood refilling a drink near the patio table. “You two get caught in the rain, or are you just glowing on purpose?”

The joke landed flat. Claire laughed anyway. Ali didn’t.

Y/N turned toward them, posture calm, face unreadable. “Just a walk.”

Harry didn’t add anything, but the weight of him beside her, the way his arm hovered just near hers, the subtle line of his smile that hadn’t left since the clearing—all of it told a different story.

The others drifted around them—voices, music, the rustle of chairs and clink of bottles—but the shift had settled like fog, low and noticeable. No one said it outright. No one had to. Whatever lived between them now had a pulse. And it was loud enough to feel, even without a sound.

Ali lingered at Y/N’s side as the others turned away, her eyes following Claire and Ben without subtlety. “They’re not thrilled,” she said under her breath.

“That’s alright.” Y/N replied, her voice even.

Ali grinned. “You two look… good together.”

Y/N glanced at Harry. He was talking to Eli now, nothing serious, but his body still angled toward her like he hadn’t forgotten she was there. She felt the echo of his touch in her palm. Heard his voice again—just for you—like it had been said a lifetime ago instead of less than an hour.

She nodded. “Feels good.”

-

It was nearly dark by the time she slipped inside. The kitchen had thinned out, the sink full of dishes no one had the energy to finish, the counters littered with half-empty bags of chips, a trail of condensation rings marking where the night had landed and left again. Music still played low from the living room—someone had queued up something nostalgic, soft and summery—but most of the group had moved outside or upstairs. The house felt different now, quieter. Not empty, but settled. Like it had been holding its breath and was finally letting it go.

Y/N wandered toward the fridge, not because she was hungry but because it gave her something to do with her hands. She wasn’t used to this feeling—this soft hum under her skin that wasn’t nerves or adrenaline, but something else entirely. Something like awareness. Of the moment. Of herself. Of him.

She heard Harry before she saw him—his footsteps, light and familiar now, and the sound of the screen door creaking closed behind him. When he stepped into the kitchen, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just leaned against the opposite counter, arms folded loosely, eyes finding hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She didn’t look away.

They stood like that for a while, the silence between them stretched thin but not tense, just full. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be broken because it wasn’t trying to prove anything.

Then, softly, she said, “I keep thinking someone’s going to say something.”

Harry tilted his head. “About us?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “They already are. Just not out loud.”

She laughed under her breath and shook her head. “I guess I thought it would feel different. More complicated.”

“Maybe it still will. Later.”

“But not now.”

“No,” he said. “Not now.”

She moved toward him without meaning to, drawn by something she didn’t need to name. She stopped just short of him, barely a breath between them, and looked up. His eyes were darker in the dim light, but steady. Warm. Anchored.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

She nodded, and this time, it felt real.

He reached up then, fingers brushing her arm lightly, just enough to remind her he was there, like she could’ve forgotten. The touch wasn’t possessive. Wasn’t a question. It just was, and it felt better than any conversation she might’ve had with the group that night. She let herself lean into it, just slightly, just enough to rest her hand on his chest where the fabric of his shirt had warmed with the day.

It was a simple moment. Unremarkable, probably, to anyone else. But it made her throat go tight.

“Do we need to figure out what this is?” she asked, quietly, not because she wanted an answer now but because she wanted to know if he was thinking about it too.

He shook his head slowly. “Not yet.”

And somehow, that felt like exactly the right thing.

The kitchen light flickered once, then steadied. Outside, someone whooped loudly on the porch, followed by laughter. But in here, with his hand brushing slow circles along her forearm and her fingers curled against the seam of his shirt, the world felt narrowed down to one point. One connection. One breath.

He smiled again, softer now.

And she didn’t look away.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Taglist: @this-is-tiny-mia @goldensunflowerssss-blog @notsosweetcreature @ohmygoldboots @pradastardust @hsbbyhunny @meganrose139 @reeadyreeady @harrys-flower-vol-6 @sunshinextemptress94 @somebunnybaby @justsimplybands @witch-rry @millsadoresyou@watermelon-medicine@pink-watermelon-cherry @babegoalsreads @namoreno @fairyjuicestyles @pologoonies @mp-269 @musicforastylesrestaurant @finelinereading @sigh-mon-reads @tonystaank @slut4phoebe @messyemmy @sasasstyle @officerslay @taliarosej00 @stylesftcher @stardustvalentyne @harry-winkes @cassofheartsss @xairaa @honeymoonluvv @loverrryxo @eggnoggs-world @drewrry @harryscherries28 @hannah9921 @harryscowgirl @maudie-duan @1dcurlycarrotlover @ofthedaisypersuasion @sunflovverharry @eggnoggs-world @theastrologie @loverofhsandallthings1d @pink-watermelon-cherry @youbringmeback @justhereee @ottawaoutlander @liascardigan11 @st-ev-ie @choppedgalaxynerd-blog-blog @honeymoonluvv @angeldavis777 @behindmygreyeyes @spinninc @lomlhstyles @ofthedaisypersuasion

Next Part (Coming Soon)

[eatmangoesnekkid]

Begin to identify as a woman who adores taking care of herself so that taking care of your whole body feels more joyful, natural, and second nature than tedious and a stain or something you rush through with resistance. This way you will always be divinely given enough time and more freedom to give yourself great care. Detangling your hair with your fingers. Massaging your breast slowly. Exercising your feet. Stretching your fascia. Bathing in honey while humming. Cooking most of your food at home. Adorning your hair with flowers. While self-care doesn’t have to feel good all the time, see if self-care can become a naturally pleasant aspect of your personal identity, something you simply love to do for no reason at all, and witness the transformations.—India Ame’ye

[jackabbotkisser]

jack abbot — dreams of you

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | 18+ ONLY

tags - unprotected sex, lots of good girl, breeding, just pure fucking smut

nights in bed with jack abbot are something you both cherished. it was a rare occurrence that you both got to sleep beside one another as he was always working the night shift. but tonight was not one of those nights.

jack was dreaming about you, you were always on his mind even when he was sleeping the image of your face would be in the front of his mind almost always. jack felt his cock begin to grow hard, lulling him out of a peaceful sleep with you pressed up against him. even the smell of you was enough to turn him on sometimes.

he lets out a sleepy groan, burying his face into your hair as his strong arms wrap tighter around your waist. his cock still hard in his boxers. he begins to leave a trail of wet kisses on your shoulder, then gently along your collar bone, his lips moving up further until hes needily sucking and kissing on your neck. it was as if he’d been starved of you and now was the chance he could finally get his hands on you.

it wasn’t long until you began to stir, the feeling of his lips on your skin igniting something inside of you. you let out a sleepy little groan as you push back against the feel of his hard cock against your back.

“w-what are you doing?” you mumble sleepily. you can feel the wetness between your legs, your pussy aching with every kiss against your skin.

“shhh baby” he coos, wrapping a hand around your neck, his thumb against your bottom lip. “just relax, gonna take good care of you” he whispers.

his words and the feeling of his thumb against your bottom lip is enough to make you come right there. you nod your head slowly, leaning back into his touch. you can feel his hand move down from your waist to your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin. you let out a little whimper as his fingers move your panties to the side, his index finger gently stroking at your swollen clit.

his breathing is hot and heavy against the back of your neck, he slides a finger inside your cunt.

“fuck” he groans, you were so wet and tight, you were gripping his finger as he pumped it in and out. “so fucking tight… all for me” he coos, his teeth grazing your neck as he continues to fuck you with his finger.

you were completely at his mercy, needily grinding back onto his fingers, desperate for more of him. the sound of your little whimpers fill the room.

“i need to fuck you” he mumbles, you can feel him pulling his boxers down with his free hand. his cock now free and practically throbbing. he spits into his hand and strokes his cock a few times before teasing it at your entrace, pressing the tip against your folds.

you let out a gasp as you feel his tip and he pushes his thumb into your mouth. “be a good girl, just let me fuck this pretty little pussy” he whispers as he pushes into you causing you to bite down on his thumb.

“thats it” he coos, slowly thrusting up into your wetness, his free hand guiding his cock deeper as he stretches you out. “so fucking tight… all mine” he says.

you lean your head into the crook of his neck, whining and spluttering around his thumb as he fucks you deeper and deeper. “take it baby, take my cock” he breathes, his free hand now rubbing circles on your clit, desperately trying to get you to the edge.

“j-jack” you whine around his thumb. “f-feels so fucking good”

“i know baby” he coos “gonna fill you up, you’re such a good girl. taking me so well” he whispers, pressing kisses into your hair.

“g-gonna-“ you begin to whine, your legs shaking as your orgasm builds up.

“cum for me” he says like its an order. “cum on my cock” he groans, his touch on your clit getting faster and firmer.

thats all it takes to get you to come all over his cock, your pussy throbbing around his length and then you feel him pulse inside of you as he begins to spill his load in your tight wet heat, filling you up.

“oh fuck” he groans, burying his face into your hair, both of your bodies shaking with pleasure as you come down from your highs. he presses a wet kiss onto your shoulder.

“you did so good baby” he whispers. “go back to sleep” he strokes your hair, his cock still buried deep inside of you. he doesnt plan on pulling out anytime soon.

safe to say jack abbot is definitely planning on dropping a few night shits from now on.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

dad rock

content warnings & word count: swearing, mild angst, mentioned/implied pining, underage drinking, drug consumption (weed smoking), nostalgia. 4.3k

✧ SCENE THREE — "FLIP CUP FUCKERY" ✧ Now Playing: "dad rock" – TRSH

You’re whooping Dean’s ass.

It starts as a game. Then a bit. Then a show. Each time you sink a flip, he groans, and someone cheers. You’re sitting across from him at the coffee table, surrounded now by half the party—backs against the garage walls, red solo cups in hand, watching like it’s a title match.

Dean’s brow furrows, jaw clenched around a smirk he’s trying very hard to keep cool.

“What the hell?” He mutters after you flip your fourth in a row. “There’s no way.”

You shrug, innocent as a crime scene. “What do you think I’ve been doing at college in my free time?”

Charlie howls. “THAT’S MY GIRL!”

Frenchie claps like he’s witnessing the downfall of an empire. Kimiko raises her cup with solemn approval.

Dean narrows his eyes. “You’re cheating.”

“You’re losing.”

Another cup. Another perfect flip.

You dance.

It’s instinctive, hips swaying, hands in the air, hair swinging over your shoulder as you twist on the spot to celebrate—your laughter bright, your dress still clinging to you in all the right ways. Your Converse squeak on the garage floor. The light hits you like a spotlight made of heat and bass.

When you stop, you catch him watching you. Not like before. Not cocky. Not casual. Like he’s really seeing you. Like he’s just realised that the girl who left last summer came back in a dress and a smile and a body full of confidence she never used to carry.

Your grin softens. Just a little.

Then—

Movement by the door.

You turn, and there they are.

Ben Hargrove, back again, stepping into the garage like he owns it, Earving at his shoulder, Victoria Neuman trailing a few steps behind, sipping something carbonated and pink from a clear cup. They look relaxed. Dangerous. Too clean for the mess of your circle.

Ben’s watching you.

Not subtle. Not shy. His eyes slide over you like he’s cataloging the angles. Like he likes what he sees.

You arch a brow. Then turn back toward Dean, still seated across from you.

You cock your head. “Rematch?”

Dean’s eyes are flicking—first to you, then to Ben, then back again. He leans back a little, stretches out his legs, sighs like he’s letting go of something he doesn’t want to admit was in his chest to begin with.

“Not now,” he says, voice rougher than before. “You already embarrassed me once, trouble.”

He drains the rest of his drink. “You did good.”

You smile.

Dean doesn’t. He just watches you.

Then you remember. Your jacket’s still folded over the workbench, and tucked in the inner pocket?

The tin.

You cross the room, fingers slipping into the familiar worn fabric, digging out the metal box covered in stickers and ink stains and time.

The second Jo sees it, she throws her hands up like she’s seen a holy relic.

“YES!” She shouts. “I knew you still had that thing! I almost forgot you carry that beat-up tin everywhere like it’s a damn talisman.”

You smirk, pop the lid with a practiced flick. Three perfectly rolled joints stare back at you like old friends.

“I always come bearing gifts.”

The joint’s between your lips before anyone else can speak.

You spark your lighter. Inhale. Let the smoke curl from your mouth, slow and sweet, like punctuation. You pass the lit one to Frenchie, who gasps theatrically and bows like you’ve knighted him.

“Mon ange,” he says, dramatically. “You spoil us.”

You light another.

Charlie has already appeared at your side, grinning. Cas accepts a drag with the solemn reverence of a man taking communion. Jack, behind him, is bouncing on his heels asking if someone brought snacks. Butcher grunts that he’ll take a hit only if someone brings him a real drink, not this beer-water. MM laughs into his cup. Even Neuman cracks a smile.

Ben’s still watching. Dean’s gone quiet. And you? You’re golden. You’re glowing. You’re everything this party needed and didn’t deserve.

You keep the last joint for yourself.

It sits snug between your fingers, your own little offering to the night. You spark it with a click and a curl of smoke, the cherry burning hot as you draw in slow, letting it fill your lungs, then exhale through your nose like you’ve been doing this forever.

You hop back up onto the workbench—your rightful place—and let the room wash over you.

It’s warm now, filled with movement and story. Butcher is bickering with Benny about some old football game in high school that may or may not have ended in a brawl. Charlie’s still shamelessly flirting with Ruby, every now and then calling something sarcastic over her shoulder. Sam is half-smiling at something Kimiko signed. Hughie’s giggling at a joke Annie whispered in his ear. Frenchie’s leaned back on a beanbag, eyes half-lidded, clearly in his blissful little contact high.

You just sit. Cross-legged on the bench, watching. Until someone calls out—

“Oi, genius,” Butcher says, raising his cup. “How’s college really goin'?”

You blink. Grin. “Define really.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, let’s hear it. You’ve been dodging the academic questions since you got here.”

Charlie spins around from where she was half-sitting on Ruby’s lap. “Ooooh—spill. What’s our little burnout studying?”

You exhale a thin line of smoke, squint through it like you’re considering lying just to see what would happen.

“Double major,” you say at last, in your best deadpan voice. “Language and art.”

Frenchie blinks. “Which language?”

“French.”

He clutches his chest, mock-offended. “You learn my mother tongue in a lecture hall?”

“Thought you’d be flattered.”

“Merde. I am betrayed.”

Charlie snorts. “I didn’t even know you could double major.”

Sam side-eyes her. “It’s literally on every application.”

You shrug. “It’s kinda bullshit. I just take too many classes and stress about all of them equally.”

Butcher grunts. “At least you’re not failin'?”

You blow smoke toward the ceiling. “Aced my last lit exam. My professor said my essay on ‘Mythic Self-Destruction in Sylvia Plath’s Confessional Structure’ was disturbingly thorough.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Charlie: “That’s the most you sentence I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Sam laughs into his drink. Frenchie looks mildly alarmed. Kimiko signs something, and Frenchie translates, “She says that explains a lot.”

You laugh, flick ash into an empty cup. “I also go to parties. Get high on rooftops. Kiss bad ideas. Don’t worry, I’m well-rounded.”

Sam squints. “Wait—so what’s your art focus?”

“Mixed media. Installations. I made a piece last semester where I suspended vintage barbie dolls from fishing wire and played distorted clips of old TV commercials in the background. Called it Domestic God Complex.”

Frenchie makes a reverent noise. “I would die for you.”

Charlie claps. “You’re the coolest person I know and I hate you for it.”

You gesture with your joint like a queen. “As you should.”

The group dissolves into laughter, warmth blooming in the space like steam off asphalt. Someone tosses you a fresh drink. You catch it without looking.

You’re still talking, still laughing, but something shifts.

Because you feel it before you see it.

Ben.

You glance through the smoke-haze and catch him standing near the garage door, now shoulder-to-shoulder with Earving, chatting like he’s only half-there. His eyes, though? Fully on you. He’s watching you like he hasn’t quite figured you out yet. Like you’re something he thought he remembered but clearly didn’t.

And then, just a fraction of a second later—you catch Dean.

Leaning against the workbench fridge again. Red cup in hand, brow low. He’s not even pretending to look somewhere else. He’s watching you too. Not just watching. Reading.

And then, beside him—Jo. Arms crossed. Mouth curled into that smug little Harvelle smirk like she knows something you don’t. She glances at Dean. Then at you. Back to Dean. And smirks even wider. It’s not unkind. It’s knowing.

You inhale slow, the joint glowing gold between your fingers, and stretch your legs out in front of you, suddenly too aware of every pair of eyes you’re under. You tap your ash into a can. Sip your drink. Cross your ankles. Let your grin return, lazy and low.

Because you might not know exactly what game they’re playing. But you’re here now. And you're winning.

You crack your knuckles.

The sound breaks through the soft lull in the garage. Laughter still bubbles around the flip cup table. The air is thick with smoke and memory, everything golden and hazy and close. You lean back on your palms, joint long burned out, tongue sticky with sweetness.

Then—

“I’m heading out for some air,” you say, quiet but clear.

Sam perks up immediately from where he’s still perched between Kimiko and Frenchie.

“You want company?”

You shake your head, soft. “I’m good, Sammy. Just need a minute.”

He nods, but his eyes linger.

You slide off the workbench and slip out the side door, your feet crunching softly over the gravel as you move into the backyard.

It’s quieter out here.

The air smells like high tide and salt grass—like the ocean’s just beyond the fence, waiting. The sky’s deep and endless, stars sharp and bright like pinholes punched through velvet. The ground is still warm under your soles, heat clinging to the soles of your shoes.

You wander until the voices from inside fade to a murmur, then drop into the grass at the edge of the yard, arms draped around your knees, eyes tilted toward the sky.

You’re buzzed. You’re glowing. The weight you were carrying when you got home feels lighter now, like the night took some of it for you.

Being home doesn’t feel like a prison anymore. It feels like a poem you left unfinished. You’re halfway through tracing constellations with your finger when a throat clears. You turn.

Jo.

She’s silhouetted in the porch light, hands stuffed into her back pockets, her curls catching gold around the edges.

“Can I sit?”

You smile. Pat the grass beside you.

She saunters over, drops down without ceremony. Stretches her legs out in front of her, leans back on her hands. For a minute, it’s just the night. The sound of the wind. The deep hum of far-off bass still leaking from the garage.

Then:

“So,” she says. “How’s it feel, being back?”

You exhale through your nose. “Better than I thought.”

She hums. Doesn’t press.

You glance over. “It’s weird. I thought it’d feel smaller. Or… I don’t know. Sadder.”

“And does it?”

You shake your head. “Not really. It feels… warm. Familiar. Like I never really left.”

“You didn’t,” she says. “Not really.”

You look down at the grass. Pluck a weed, twist the stem. Then she says it. Quiet. Almost casual.

“I know what happened. At Benny’s party.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

She chuckles, eyes still on the stars. “Relax. I’m not telling anyone.”

You stare at her. “How do you know?”

She finally looks at you. “Dean told me.”

Your mouth goes dry. “He—he told you?”

She nods once.

You swallow. “Why would he—”

Jo cuts you off with a soft smile. “I'm his best friend, button. I see how he looks at you.”

You laugh. Sharp and instinctive. “Yeah, right. He barely even noticed me until tonight.”

Jo snorts. “You really think that?”

You raise a brow.

She shrugs. “I’ve known Dean a long time. I know how he looks when he wants something. I know how he looks when he’s trying not to want something, too.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. “He used to tease me. All the time.”

Jo looks at you sideways, head tilted. “And why do you think he did that?”

You frown. “Because I was Sam’s best friend? The annoying kid who was always around?”

Jo laughs, low and fond. “Button,” she says, “you’re cute, but you’re not that naïve.”

You groan, hide your face in your hands. “God, you’re infuriating.”

She leans over and pats your shoulder. “I know.” Then she stands, brushing grass from her jeans. “C’mon. We should head back in before Butcher starts talking about Reagan again.”

You take her hand when she offers it. Just as you’re steadying yourself, the porch light shifts—and Sam steps down the path toward you.

“You coming back in?” He asks, eyes soft.

You nod. Slip your arm around his waist.

“Yeah.”

But something’s shifted. The night’s not done with you yet. Not even close.

You follow Jo and Sam around the side of the house, gravel crunching under your Converse, warm air clinging like static. The garage glows ahead—yellow light spilling out into the driveway, music warbling from blown-out speakers. You can already hear Frenchie yelling about something, Jack’s laugh slicing through it.

Inside, it’s a riot of warmth. Bare arms and bare knees, beer cans stacked like temples, the concrete floor sticky with someone’s spilled drink. Kimiko’s sitting cross-legged on a folding chair, braiding neon string through Jack’s hair while Butcher pretends not to watch from the corner. Jo peels off to grab her drink, and Sam disappears into a conversation with Hughie and Annie near the dartboard.

You hover near the door, fingers brushing the warm metal of the garage frame.

And then—

“Didn’t expect you to come back.”

Dean.

He’s leaning against the back wall, flannel still tied loose around his waist, arms crossed, jaw tight. The air shifts. Not heavy—just sharp. Like walking through smoke that smells like something burning you can’t name.

You blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, doesn’t look at you. “Didn’t think this crowd was really your thing anymore, trouble. Thought college’d fix that.”

You flinch, subtle. Just enough.

He catches it. Still doesn’t soften.

“I mean,” he adds, tossing a bottle cap into a red cup with lazy precision, “you were barely here ten minutes before lighting up and holding court.”

You glance over your shoulder—at the garage, the string lights, the friends you missed all year. At Jo, laughing with Annie now. You look back at him.

“Sorry,” you say, careful. “Didn’t realise that was a problem.”

He doesn’t answer. Just tips his head back like the ceiling might have something smarter to say.

You swallow, the confusion sticking somewhere behind your ribs. “Jo said—”

He cuts you off with a laugh. Bitter. Short.

“Jo’s got a lot of theories.”

Your heart sinks a little. Like a balloon with a pinprick.

“I just thought—” you try, but he’s already pushing off the wall.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, brushing past you without looking. “I’ve got a game to win.”

You stand there for a second too long, the music washing over you in waves. The garage is bright. Loud. Your friends are all around. But you feel like a glitch in the reel of the night now. Like someone left you in the frame on accident.

The garage rolls on without you.

You don’t say anything, but when your eyes catch Sam’s across the room—his hair a mess, cheeks flushed, pupils wide and soft—he nods. Just once. Like yes. now.

Frenchie clocks it too. Of course he does. He’s already halfway to the door before anyone notices you’ve slipped out.

The three of you move like ghosts, like the secret keepers you’ve always been. Up the porch steps, through the back door. Into the belly of the house.

It’s quiet inside. Dim. Abandoned.

The kind of post-party hush where the air smells like beer, cheap perfume, and something faintly burnt. A balloon withering in the corner. Someone’s jean jacket draped over a lamp. A forgotten speaker murmuring static from the living room floor.

You head to the kitchen like muscle memory.

Frenchie opens the fridge and winces. “Mon dieu. Who put pasta in the blender?”

Sam rifles through the cabinet, victorious in seconds. “Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Lucky Charms?”

“Both,” you say, already hopping up onto the centre island like it’s your throne.

He pours a mix of each into two chipped bowls. Frenchie adds the milk with surgeon-level precision.

You take the third bowl from the cabinet, the one with the little crack down the side you always hope won’t leak. It doesn’t. Not tonight.

And then it’s just the three of you. You, swinging your legs, spoon in hand. Sam hunched over the counter like he’s decoding a sacred text. Frenchie sitting sideways on the stool, already giggling to himself.

It’s absurd how perfect it feels.

“I once dated a girl who only ate cereal with a fork,” Frenchie announces between bites.

Sam looks up, confused. “Why?”

“To drain the milk. She had texture issues.” He shudders dramatically. “Tragic. So beautiful. So cruel.”

You choke on your spoonful, laughing. “You’re such a liar.”

“I swear on Butcher’s bald spot,” Frenchie says, hand on his heart.

Sam smirks. “He’s not bald.”

“Not yet.”

You grin, nudging Sam’s foot with yours. “What about you, Winchester? Any cereal sins to confess?”

Sam squints at his bowl. “Sometimes I eat dry Cheerios in bed.”

There’s a pause.

“That’s not even sinful,” you say.

Frenchie leans in, solemn. “It is when you forget they are there and roll onto them naked.”

You howl, half-falling off the island.

Sam groans. “God, Frenchie—”

“I have lived many lives,” Frenchie says, tossing cereal into his mouth one ring at a time. “I regret nothing.”

The fridge hums behind you. A June bug taps against the window. And the three of you—high, warm, tangled in laughter—just exist.

This moment is nothing and everything. You don’t need the party. You never did. It always ends like this anyway—you three and a kitchen full of ghosts.

Halfway through your second bowl, milk gone warm, the three of you are practically crying from laughter.

Sam just finished a passionate defence of the proper milk-to-cereal ratio. “It’s a science,” he'd insisted. Frenchie is threatening to write a manifesto about spoon angles and optimal sog time. You’re giggling so hard your stomach hurts, toes curled against the cool tile of the island.

Then the back door creaks open.

Charlie’s voice slices through the peace like a rusty butter knife. “Aha. Knew it.”

You all freeze, mouths half-full, busted.

One by one, the rest of the group trickles in—arms loaded with trash bags, red Solo cups clinking together like wind chimes of shame. Butcher’s got two bags slung over one shoulder, looking like a pissed-off suburban dad. Jack’s dragging one behind him like a dead body. Jo’s already rolling her eyes.

Dean’s the last one in. He doesn’t say a word—just glances between Sam, then you, and starts gathering bottles off the counter with military precision.

Charlie sets her bags down with flair. “You three always sneak off for cereal instead of helping clean.”

“False accusation,” you declare, holding up your spoon like a gavel.

Sam points at his bowl. “This is pre-cleaning fuel.”

Frenchie lifts his own in solemn support. “We are the foundation of the cleanup crew.”

“Yeah, after you’ve eaten half the pantry,” Charlie grumbles.

Jo slides in, leaning against the doorframe. “They’re not lying. Last party they were up till five washing out the coolers and picking bottle caps out of the bushes.”

“Thank you,” you say, smug, taking a victory bite.

Dean still doesn’t look at you. Still doesn’t say anything.

Butcher dumps his bags by the kitchen door and groans. “I need a fuckin' cig.”

“Take me with you,” you say, mouth still full.

You slurp down the rest of your milk in dramatic fashion, then without breaking eye contact with Frenchie, tip the last inch into his bowl.

He gasps like you’ve shot him. “Sacrilège! That is cross contamination, you beast.”

“Blow me,” you say sweetly, hopping down off the island.

“Only if you rinse first,” he shoots back, earning a snort from Sam.

You grab your lighter from the windowsill and follow Butcher out the back door. The porch light hums above you, golden and hazy. You lean against the railing, cigarette balanced between your fingers, and Butcher lights up with a practiced flick of his thumb.

Then another presence steps out behind you—tall, broad, all golden swagger.

Ben. He lights his own without a word. Flicks the ash with two fingers. Leans back like he owns the stars.

It’s the first time you’ve actually looked at him. Really looked. Not just across the street, or from the edge of some bonfire, or in passing at the record store. He’s unfairly pretty in that arrogant, sun-drenched way. Clean lines, stupid jaw, lips that know they’re good.

You brace yourself for smug bullshit. But instead, Butcher mutters something about Jack still being too pure to help with cleanup, and Ben snorts.

“That kid tried to use tongs to pick up a beer can,” he says. “Like he was diffusin' a bomb.”

You choke on your drag, caught off guard. Ben glances over—half a smile playing on his mouth.

Butcher cackles. “I told him he should’ve brought the salad servers.”

“Could’ve at least used salad tongs,” Ben says. “These were plastic. From a picnic set.”

You laugh, and he looks at you properly now—sharp eyes, a little amused. Not flirty. Not yet. Just aware of you.

It throws you off.

You lean on your elbows, watching the smoke curl into the air. Butcher makes some crack about Frenchie probably sorting the recycling alphabetically, and Ben answers with a lazy grin, “I once watched that dude wash an empty Pringles can. I’ve never known fear like that.”

You blink. He’s funny?

Cocky, sure. He still carries himself like a varsity ghost, like he expects the world to revolve just enough for him to step through it without bumping into anything. But there’s something else under it tonight. Something almost… easy.

You don’t talk much. Just let them go back and forth, matching each other quip for quip, tossing jabs like pennies into a fountain.

You listen. You smile. And for the first time ever, you wonder if maybe you got Ben Hargrove all wrong.

You flick the last of your cigarette into the tin and stretch your arms over your head, spine cracking like kindling. The night’s softened around the edges now—no more biting laughter or sharp stares. Just the slow unravel of everything. Butcher exhales smoke in a tired spiral beside you.

“I’m heading in,” you say, already stepping backward toward the door.

He waves you off without looking. “Try not to mop the fuckin’ ceiling again, burnout.”

You grin over your shoulder. “It’s called ambition, William.”

Inside, the house hums low, like a machine powering down. All the noise has collapsed into the corners—replaced now by the soft clatter of dishes and the hush of running water. The kitchen is glowing faintly, yellow and gold like something remembered.

Frenchie is elbow-deep in suds at the sink, half-singing under his breath in a melody that loops back on itself like a nursery rhyme. There’s flour on his cheek for no reason. Sam is at the counter, wiping down surfaces with surgical precision, brows furrowed like he's solving something cosmic with every swipe of the cloth.

You don’t speak. Just send a soft smile between them and drift onward, ghosting through the kitchen like steam.

The living room greets you like a memory: low light, the lingering warmth of bodies, the hush of sleep settling in. Hughie is sprawled across the couch like he lost a battle with gravity—mouth open, one sock halfway off. Annie’s tucked into him like a question mark, lips pressed to the curve of his collarbone, eyes fluttering in some half-dream.

In the corner, Benny’s slumped in the old armchair, arms folded, expression blank with sleep. He could be a statue if not for the occasional twitch of his foot.

You get to work without thinking—feet padding silently across the rug, hands sure and gentle. You move like this house belongs to you. Like it always has. You gather bottles and cans, flatten out the throw pillows, tuck blankets over knees and shoulders. You hum to yourself, low and tuneless, letting your voice fill the empty corners that the party left behind.

There’s a joy in it. In the ritual. In making things right again.

You wipe down the mantle and straighten the crooked photo frame—Sam and Dean at twelve and fourteen, grinning with ice cream on their faces, sunburnt and wild. You line the ceramic lighthouse back up with the edge of the shelf, just the way you know Mary likes it.

It’s like touching the bones of your childhood, soft and sacred.

Upstairs, the hallway is quieter still. The walls seem to hum with sleep.

You pass by the usual crash spots, peeking in like a guardian angel. The spare room—the one you usually claim—is cracked open. Moonlight spills across the floor in pale ribbons.

Inside, Kimiko’s curled in the centre of the bed, knees drawn to her chest, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Peaceful. Her hair fans around her like ink in water.

Your heart softens in your chest. You smile. Pull the door closed with a quiet click and promise yourself you’ll tell Frenchie where to find her.

And then there’s nothing left. No noise. No mess. No chaos.

Just you.

The kitchen light hums gently as you step barefoot into the grass, the screen door clicking shut behind you. The ground is damp with dew, soft and warm from the heat the earth still holds. You cross the lawn slowly, like the quiet is a fragile thing you don’t want to shatter.

The sun is rising.

A watercolour bleed across the sky—lavender melting into gold, pink mist clinging to the rooftops. The ocean, just beyond the fence, shimmers like something half-awake. The wind smells like tidewater and honeysuckle, like something eternal.

You stand there and breathe it in. This moment belongs to no one else. Not Dean. Not Ben. Not the past. Not the future. Just you.

You press your arms around your chest and smile at nothing. The night is behind you. The party, the music, the tension, the ache—they’ve all been folded into something quieter. Something whole.

The town exhales. So do you.

And as the sun lifts over the horizon, slow and golden and holy, you let it touch your face. Still glowing. Still standing. Still home.

← PREVIOUS PART NEXT PART →

author note/s: i know this one might feel like a bit of a filler, but i promise it isn't. i'm really fucking enjoying writing out all these dynamics. i worried that maybe i had tried to write too many characters into it, but i fear i might be a genius. because i do have a lot of these characters down. it's fun trying to age them down and write them as 19/20/21/22. let me know what you're all thinking, please. next parts one of my favourites. until the next one, smin signing off. all the love.

soldier boy/ben & dean taglists: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @bruisedfig @angelicjackles @soldiersgirl @tinas111 @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @drakulana @mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @liiiilsss @0ccvltism @itshellfire @sl33pylilbunny @nevercameraready @paristheonewhoreads @podiumackles @suckitands33 @lyarr24 @spxideyver @winchestersbgirl @mj-102009 @kaz-2y5-spn @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @ohgodimgoungtodie @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @ambiguous-avery <3

[arkaiveofurown]

More Than a Page in a Comic Book

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x Reader

Law has always admired the comic book Sora vs. Germa 66. When he sees Reiju Vinsmoke, the poison pink warrior of the North Blue, he blushes. Now, you’re left wondering if his heart still belongs to the real world… or if you were ever the one who had it to begin with.

Word Count: ~1,500 words

tags: fluff, jealousy, comfort

my masterlist here ♡

——

The town was busy, the streets filled with traders and pirates alike. The Heart Pirates had docked for supplies, but you noticed Law was acting differently today. He was unusually quiet, his usual composure lost somewhere in the air.

As you walked beside him, your gaze caught a familiar figure in the distance. Standing by a market stall, talking to some of the locals, was none other than Reiju Vinsmoke. You recognized her instantly from her unique beauty and the cold yet commanding presence she carried. But what caught your attention wasn’t just her—it was the way Law’s expression shifted when he saw her.

Law, the man who rarely showed his emotions, was blushing. Not a casual flush, but a full-on, genuine blush that spread across his face. You blinked, not believing what you were seeing. His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he simply stood there, frozen.

“Law?” you asked, taking a step toward him.

He snapped out of his trance and immediately turned away, his face still tinged pink. “What is it?” His voice was cool, but the flush on his cheeks betrayed his attempt at nonchalance.

You couldn’t hide the growing confusion in your chest. “You seemed… a little distracted,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended. “Are you okay?”

Law rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m fine.” His gaze flickered to Reiju once more, who was still chatting animatedly with a few nearby pirates. “It’s just… Germa 66, you know?”

Your eyebrows furrowed in surprise. “Germa 66?”

Law’s eyes twinkled for just a moment as he spoke. “I’ve always admired them. Especially Reiju. She’s… impressive, to say the least.”

You didn’t expect him to say that. Law, the usually composed and distant captain of the Heart Pirates, was fanboying over Reiju Vinsmoke?

For a brief moment, a strange feeling washed over you—something you couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t just surprise; there was a sting of jealousy underneath. Was he really that interested in her?

⸻

The sun had dipped low by the time you found Law again, this time leaning quietly against the rail of the Polar Tang’s upper deck. The gentle rocking of the ship and the ocean breeze were soothing, but your thoughts weren’t calm—not yet.

You stood beside him, both of you staring out at the sea. The silence stretched, familiar and not uncomfortable… but it carried weight tonight.

“Law,” you said, voice light but careful, trying to sound casual. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued but guarded. “About what?”

“You seemed a little too interested in Reiju yesterday,” you said with a smirk. “Fanboying over Germa 66 like you did… I didn’t expect that from you.”

Law’s expression remained unreadable, but there was a subtle shift in his eyes. He walked toward you, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “What? You jealous?”

You looked up at him, trying to keep your composure. “Me? Jealous? No. I’m just… curious.”

“Curious, huh?” Law leaned in slightly, his voice low. “Curious about what, exactly?”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze with a challenging look. “About why you’re acting like a giddy schoolboy when you see Reiju.”

Law’s brow twitched slightly. “Tch. I was surprised, not… infatuated.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “You blushed.”

A pause. He didn’t deny it.

“I’ve been reading about Germa 66 since I was a kid,” he said plainly, finally turning his gaze to you. “I respected the technology. Their power. I never expected to see her in person.”

“Right,” you murmured. “Just surprised.”

Another silence.

Then, out of nowhere, he spoke again. “But I didn’t blush when I met you.”

Your brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve gotten used to you,” he said simply. “From the start, you’ve been here. And you’re not some childhood fantasy or some distant name in a book. You’re… real.”

That caught you off guard.

“I notice everything you do,” he continued, voice steady but quieter now. “The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking. How you always finish your tea even if it’s cold. You talk too much when you’re nervous. And you have this ridiculous habit of walking in sync with me even when you pretend you’re not.”

You swallowed, throat tightening. “That’s oddly specific.”

“It’s not odd. I like it,” he said. Then after a beat: “I like you.”

Your chest swelled, both from the words and the sincerity in his tone. This wasn’t a line. It wasn’t some half-hearted reassurance.

You blinked at him. “Really?”

“Would I say it if I didn’t mean it?” he asked dryly, then shook his head. “Look. I might’ve admired Reiju for what she represents. But I admire you for who you are.”

Warmth spread through your body at those words—more powerful than anything else he could’ve said.

You smirked a little, nudging his arm. “You’re not just saying that because I didn’t punch you for blushing earlier?”

Law gave a soft scoff. “Please. If I were scared of you, I wouldn’t have kissed you already.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? So you’re confident now?”

He looked at you sideways, the faintest twitch of a smirk on his lips. “I’m always confident. Just not always verbal.”

You turned toward him fully. “Then tell me one more thing.”

“What?”

“If you had to pick between Reiju’s poison lips or mine…?”

He rolled his eyes. “You. Without hesitation.”

You grinned. “Even if mine come with sass?”

“Especially because they come with sass,” he muttered, leaning in. “Now shut up and let me prove it.”

And he did—with a kiss far more honest and intense than before. Not rushed, not uncertain—just right. When he pulled back, the red flush on his cheeks was unmistakable this time.

“You’re blushing again,” you teased.

“Shut up,” he muttered, turning away.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered, nudging his side. “I won’t tell Reiju.”

“I swear,” he growled under his breath, “I will Room you into the sea.”

You only laughed—and this time, he didn’t stop you.

[hopeyoufindalovelikethis]

Exactly as It Should Be

Hello! I’ll never get tired of saying thank you to all of you who’ve shared your love for my writing. Today’s post traces the slow bloom of a relationship — not in a rush, but through the personal moments that truly matter. I hope it resonates with you.

Synopsis | They started as strangers—two people whose lives barely brushed at first. But step by step, moment by moment, something quiet and meaningful began to grow between them. What began with uneasiness and distance slowly turned into shared glances, heartfelt conversations, and an unspoken comfort in each other’s presence. Now, after everything, they’re no longer just two people crossing paths—they’re finally together, as it should be.

The first time you saw Sylus, it wasn't under soft skies or easy circumstances, but in the middle of chaos — a failed mission. It was the slow click of his boots against the pavement, the way the shadows seemed to bend away from him, the glint of crimson eyes like dying stars cutting through the dark. The man who had kidnapped you didn't even get the chance to beg. He was gone before you could blink, swallowed by his Evol with a kind of brutal, silent efficiency that made your skin crawl.

And then he turned those red eyes on you — expression cold, jaw set, power radiating from every inch of his body like a warning no sane creature would ignore. You flinched when he reached for you. He didn’t smile. Didn’t offer reassurances.

He only cut the binds from your wrists with a small, brutal flick of his blade and said, voice low and edged like a knife, "You owe me."

That was the beginning. Not with flowers. Not with softness. But with a debt. A promise you didn’t understand yet.

•••

You thought you would never see him again, just a nightmare to forget. But instead, Sylus appeared in your life again — and again — always in the edges of your world, silent, sharp, inevitable. You didn’t know whether it was a fate or a curse.

At first, you hated every second. He was cruel and demanding — his words cut deeper than his blades ever could. But somewhere along the way, the cruelty softened — not into kindness, exactly — but into something drier, lighter. His sharp criticisms slowly turned into sarcastic comments. His hard commands morphed into teasing observations. The tension between you stretched thinner, not with anger, but with something neither of you had the language to name yet.

Slowly, you realized something. His teasing wasn't mockery — it was care. It was his way of unwinding the tight knots in your chest. His way of lifting the weight from your shoulders without ever admitting he was doing it.

•••

Once, he called when the day had just begun a few hours ago — yet, it was after a long night of missed calls and unread messages for him, his voice gruff through the receiver.

"I’m just calling..." he muttered, almost like he hated the sound of the words. "... before I crash."

You blinked, sitting upright on your working chair, still blinking because you didn’t believe what you just heard.

"I thought you sleep during the day?"

He grunted, "Usually. Not yet at the moment."

You heard the subtle exhaustion in his tone — but also the strange comfort, the way he seemed to settle once he heard your voice. And somehow, without needing to ask, Sylus picked up on the heaviness lingering between your silences.

"What’s wrong?" he asked, low and sharp, like he'd caught the scent of blood.

You hesitated — but it was Sylus. He never asked unless he wanted the truth.

"I’m chasing a deadline," you said finally, voice tight. "But I don’t think I’m going to make it."

There was a rustle on the other end of the line — the sound of leather, the faint clink of metal.

"Where are you now?" he asked. "I'm coming over."

You blinked.

"What?"

Before you could protest, he was already moving — already halfway to you — and within the hour, Sylus was at your apartment door, carrying bags filled with your favorite snacks he’d learned about during all the times you visited and hung out at his base.

He didn’t lecture you — nor did he hover. He simply sat across from you as you worked, silent and steady, his presence a shield against the creeping weight of failure.

When you finished — hours later, your head pounding, eyes burning — he patiently tugged you to your feet and guided you to bed.

"Sleep," he said, tucking the blanket up around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And when you woke up, he was gone — but a handwritten note rested on your pillow:

Proud of you, Kitten.

•••

The other time, he called you in the middle of the night. You weren’t working, but you were breaking. Thinking too much, feeling too heavy, drowning under the weight of a life you weren’t sure you wanted anymore. And somehow — impossibly — he sensed it again.

"What’s wrong?" he said, voice rough.

You hesitated — then broke, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

"I’m tired," you whispered. "I want to let everything go, but I can’t. I can’t even figure out what I’m holding onto anymore."

There was no judgment from Sylus. No empty comfort. Just quiet breath on the other end of the line.

"Then let them go," he said finally. "Or keep them close. Whichever feels right to you."

Your heart twisted. "It’s not that simple—"

"It is," Sylus said, voice steady as a hand at your back. "The rest, I’ll handle. You just decide what you want, Kitten. That’s all you have to do."

You closed your eyes. If anyone else had said it, you would have laughed or screamed. But Sylus never said anything he didn’t mean. And something inside you shifted.

•••

You didn’t know when the friendship changed. Maybe it was in the way your heart clenched every time he leaned too close. Maybe it was in the way you started to save all your stories just to tell him later. Maybe it was in the way you started to crave the sound of your name in his voice more than any other music in the world.

You loved him. And it ached.

Because you thought he only found you amusing — a kitten baring her claws at a wolf who could destroy entire worlds. He called you that, after all. Kitten. Always with a lazy smile when you tried to argue with him. Always when you threatened him with tiny fists, he caught effortlessly in his larger hands.

You were his kitten. And he was your impossible.

•••

Until one night, after a successful hunt with him, Sylus pulled you aside.

“Safehouse,” he said, nodding toward one of his hideouts tucked away in the deserted farmland. “You need to rest.”

You didn’t argue.

From the outside, the cottage looked like it had long been forgotten — its roof weathered, vines creeping along the cracked stone, and the surrounding farmland left to wild silence. But inside, it told a different story. The space was simple but surprisingly warm — dark walls softened by the glow of dim lights, and a heavy couch that practically swallowed you whole. Sylus pulled a worn deck of cards from a drawer and tossed it onto the coffee table, a rare spark of mischief in his eyes.

"Truth or Dare," he said, his voice lighter than usual. "Old-fashioned rules."

You rolled your eyes but played along, and it was fun — until it wasn’t. The question landed in front of you: Who do you love at the moment?

Your heart stopped. You fumbled, reaching for another card.

"Dare," you blurted. "I pick Dare."

But Sylus was faster. He plucked the card from your fingers and leaned back lazily, holding it up.

"No switching, Kitten," he said, voice low. "Answer."

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning, the words catching in your throat.

"I—" you started, trying to joke, trying to twist it.

"If you want my answer first," Sylus said quietly, cutting through your panic, "I'll give it."

You froze. He set the card down carefully between you. Then looked you straight in the eyes.

"You," he said simply. "It’s you."

The world tilted. You stared at him — stunned, frozen, your heart hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it. The ache in your chest cracked wide open. Sylus only tilted his head slightly, watching you, those crimson eyes unreadable in the low light.

And then, after a beat, he murmured — his voice quieter now, softer at the edges, “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer.”

He started to push himself up from the couch, moving slowly, giving you space. And the motion jolted something inside you — panic, longing, something too big to hold.

“Wait,” you blurted, sharper than you meant.

Sylus stilled immediately, his attention sliding back to you without a flicker of impatience. You gripped the edge of the couch, your voice barely above a whisper as you forced the words out.

“How can you say something like that so easily?” you asked. “Are you… are you joking?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then he sank back down into his seat, his posture relaxed, his gaze steady.

“If I were joking,” he said, his voice low and certain, “I would’ve laughed.”

You swallowed, your heart beating against your ribs painfully. Sylus leaned his forearms onto his knees, the shadows slipping across his face, making his expression unreadable but somehow even more real.

"I’m a beast, Kitten," he murmured, eyes unwavering. "I don’t pretend. When I want something, I take it. When I don’t, I walk away. I don’t waste time dressing up instincts as something delicate."

He said it like it was the simplest truth in the world — like breathing. You didn’t know what to say, so you just stared at him. Sylus shifted, glancing over his shoulder, as if sensing the weight in the air and wanting to ease the tension, to give you a private moment. He was already moving, as if about to stand — when the lump in your chest cracked open, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them.

“You.”

He stopped mid-motion, his body stilling like a statue carved in shadow and light. Slowly, Sylus turned his head to look at you — face unreadable, impassive. And for a terrifying moment, you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But you couldn’t stop yourself now.

“For me…” you said, voice trembling, “it’s you too.”

You dropped your gaze immediately to the floor, your cheeks burning, shame and fear knotting inside you. The silence stretched — each second sharpened the fear in your ribs. Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of your jeans.

Maybe he was joking? Maybe he’d meant nothing? Maybe you had just thrown your heart into empty hands?

And then, his voice, low and rough and impossibly gentle, “Kitten.”

You lifted your head, eyes still blinking — and there he was, smiling at you. It wasn’t the usual smirk, not the sharp curve he used when teasing you. No — this smile was different. It was warm, real, and beautiful. The kind of smile that cracked through every mask he wore. The kind that spoke volumes without a single word: I’m yours.

You stared at him, breath catching in your throat, the world narrowing down to nothing but him and you and the soft glow between you. And in that moment — without question, without fear — you knew that you truly loved this man.

For a long moment, Sylus didn’t move. He just stayed there, watching you. His smile softening even more, the kind of softness that could break a thousand walls at once.

And then, finally, he stood. Not with the sharp, efficient motion he used when preparing for a fight, but slower and deliberate, like every step toward you mattered. He crossed the small space between you without a word. His hand reached out, palm up — not grabbing, not demanding, just offering.

You looked at it, your heart aching so hard it felt like it might tear itself apart. Slowly, almost trembling, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours — steady, strong, careful — then he was pulling you up from the couch, up into him.

You stumbled forward, your hands pressing instinctively against his chest. The scent of him — clean, sharp, faintly metallic like the night — wrapped around you immediately. Sylus shifted his arms — one sliding around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head. Gathering you against him with a tenderness you hadn’t known he was capable of.

He didn’t speak. He just held you. Tight enough that you felt the steady thrum of his heart through his chest. Tight enough that you knew — with absolute certainty — that he would never let you go.

“Kitten,” he murmured. “You aren't alone anymore.”

You clutched him tighter, your chest full of something too big to name. Because somewhere — between being saved and being loved, between fighting and falling — you had found something you thought didn’t exist. You had found a place where you could finally belong. And it was in his arms.

Sylus didn’t move to let go. If anything, he held you closer — his fingers brushing slow, almost absent patterns along your spine. Like he was memorizing you, anchoring himself to this moment. It was only after a while when the silence had stretched so long it felt sacred, that you heard his voice again. Low and rough around the edges — almost tender.

“I was waiting,” he murmured against your hair.

You shifted slightly, looking up at him, confusion flickering in your eyes. He smiled — that rare devastating smile that he reserved only for you — and his hand cupped the side of your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone lightly.

“I was waiting for you to see me,” Sylus said quietly. “The way I’ve always seen you.”

Your breath caught. You meant to ask when it started, how long it had been — but the words faded into the warmth blooming in your chest. Because you already knew. It wasn’t one moment. It was always there — in his quiet glances, in the way he protected your heart, in how he made you feel seen in a world that tried to make you small.

You buried your face in his chest again, your arms tightening around him. And Sylus, silent as always, just pressed his lips into your hair, holding you against him like he had found something he had spent his whole life looking for.

•••

You sit back on the sofa, resting your head on his shoulder.

You didn’t remember when your breathing slowed or when your body, exhausted from all the walls you had finally let fall, grew heavier against him. All you knew was that Sylus stayed — solid and steady. His hands moved in slow, soothing motions against your back, his breath steady against your hair.

Somewhere in the deep quiet, your eyelids fluttered closed. Sleep pulled at you softly, and for once, you didn’t fight it. You drifted. Wrapped in his warmth, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt, your heart steady against his.

Sylus didn’t move for a long time. He stayed perfectly still — like he was afraid that even a breath too loud might break whatever delicate, beautiful thing had finally blossomed between you. It was only when he felt your breathing even out, the last shivers of tension leaving your body, that he stirred.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted just enough to grab a soft throw blanket from the side of the couch, pulling it up and over your smaller form with a care that felt almost reverent. He tucked it around you — sealing you against him, as if even the cold night air was something he wouldn’t allow to touch you now.

For a moment he just looked down at you. At your face, peaceful now, your hand still clutching lightly at his shirt as if even in sleep, you refused to let him go. His free hand found your hair, brushing a loose strand from your cheek.

And in a voice so low it was almost a breath, he whispered against your forehead, “Finally.”

Then he leaned back, his arms still wrapped around you, and closed his eyes. Letting sleep pull him under too. With the rare and certain peace that came from knowing that for the first time in all the bloody, brutal years of his life, he wasn’t alone anymore.

You were here. You were his. And he — finally — was yours.

[i-dared-myself]

Renewing and Beginning

Stray Kids x reader

Requested by anonymous: can I request a skz ninth member fic where when they renewed their contracts this year, JYP doesn’t allow her to renew it and instead switches her to ITZY? and like her the the boys are like super upset about it and are like we have to get her back

“I’m done,” Felix announces as he walks through the front door, kicking his shoes off. “It took a while, though.”

“Your contract renewal?” Chan looks up from his laptop, fingers pausing their typing. 

“Yeah,” Felix says, stretching out his legs. “It took forever, but we finally hashed something out.”

“I still have to do mine,” you absently say from the kitchen, taking a water bottle from the fridge. You sink next to Felix on the couch. “Actually, I think I’m the only one left.”

“Aren’t you renegotiating tomorrow?” Chan asks distractedly as he fiddles with his laptop. 

“Yeah, I am. I just have to resign, though,” you say. You grab the remote and turn on a movie, scowling at the screen. “I hate this movie.”

“Then turn something else on.” Felix tries to reach for the remote, but you smack his hand away.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you grumble at him. You cross your arms over your chest, resigning yourself to your fate of self-inflicted torture.

Felix seems relaxed and at-ease, which comforts you. Contracts always unnerve you, but his nonchalance is soothing.

But your context renewal doesn’t go as well as you had hoped. There was no issue for the other members, but you… You weren’t allowed to sign back on with Stray Kids. Instead, you would be assigned to a girl group.

“Ah…” You stare at the contract, pen in hand. “And why won’t I be allowed with my previous group?”

Your manager winces. “It’s odd to have a woman in a boy group. They’re hoping to fix the issue.”

“What issue?” You raise an eyebrow. “We’re successful and well-known.”

“Yes but… the scandals, you see,” your manager awkwardly says. “We’ve been told that-“

“The only scandals come from low-budget news outlets that no one even listens to,” you sharply say, capping the pen. “I will not sign this.”

“It’s either this, or the end of your career,” your manager grimly says, making your heart sink. 

“But the boys are shipped all the time,” you hesitantly say. “Why is it different with me?”

Your manager sighs. “Do you really have to ask? It’s different, and that’s the way it is.”

You fiddle with the pen for a minute before weakly asking, “Which group am I joining?”

ITZY is your new group, as it turns out. They had been informed of your transfer, but banned from mentioning it (or warning you, as you considered it). You have two days before you’re due in their dorms.

You’ll have to learn new songs, new choreography… Not to mention settling in with a new group.

You trudge back into the dorms that you’re familiar with, head hung low. The boys are a rowdy mess in the kitchen as they try to prepare dinner.

“The water is hot!” Jeongin snaps at Seungmin, placing his hands on his hips. “That’s when you put the pasta in!”

Seungmin rolls his eyes, gripping the uncooked noddles in one hand. “Obviously! But you’ve evaporated all the water!”

You snort under your breath, momentarily distracted from your thoughts. Their nonsense never fails to amuse you.

“Oh, you’re back.” Hyunjin notices your presence and rushes to you. “How did it go?”

“Um, I-“ You cough to clear your throat. “I signed the contract.”

“That’s great.” Chan smiles softly before it fades to concern. “But you don’t look happy… What happened?”

“I’ve been switched to ITZY,” you rasp out. You watch Changbin sit as he processes the news. “I am no longer- no longer part of this group.”

A silence falls over the room. Even Jeongin and Seungmin stop their bickering. 

You blink back tears, forcing a grin. “But it’ll be good. More time with the girls, right?”

“You signed?” Felix asks, forehead creased. “You just left us?”

“I didn’t want to!” you exclaim, clenching your hands. The last thing you want is them thinking you happily left. “I would never betray you like that!”

Minho stabs a kitchen knife into a cutting board, expression murderous. “It was JYP, wasn’t it?”

“Minho-“ you start, only to cut yourself off at how scary he looks.

“I’ll end him,” Minho threatens, grasping the knife fiercely.

“No, that’ll just make it worse,” Jisung gently says, horrifying you. You know it’s bad when Jisung is the voice of reason.

“We’ll figure it out,” Felix assures you. “We’re not losing you. We’ll quit out of solidarity.”

“Except we all just renewed our contracts,” Hyunjin points out, sighing heavily.

Chan rubs at his face, forehead crinkled. “I can’t- We can’t lose you. We’re keeping you, no matter what it takes.”

Which is how you find yourself back in that meeting room, with JYP himself. You’re intimidated and nervous. So much is on the line.

Jisung and Minho have both been instructed to remain completely silent. No one wants the situation to get even worse.

“So we want her to stay with us,” Chan evenly says, making direct eye contact with JYP. “We work well together, and there have been no major scandals.”

“People gossip,” Minho adds. “There’s no avoiding it in this industry.”

JYP raises an eyebrow, lacing his fingers together as he leans across the desk. “Be that as it may-“

“Think of the backlash from the public,” you interject. “How would they react to this?”

JYP pinches the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. “I guess you’re right…”

So you sign a new contract, being able to stay with your group. To celebrate, you have a sleepover in the living room with Seungmin doing JYP impersonations all night long.

“Hey,” Jeongin whispers sometime in the middle of the night. Darkness is everywhere, even in his words. “Do you think JYP watches through the security cameras?”

There’s silence for a moment before Felix quietly replies, “Probably not… he’s really busy.”

“He has assistants and stuff,” Jeongin points out. “So he has spare time…”

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Hyunjin scolds.

That night, you can’t sleep. You stare at the blinking light of the security camera, shivering. And you tell yourself it’s a coincidence when a book on how to cook pasta arrives with no name or note.

Sorry if it’s short, I’m in a bit of writer’s block at the moment.

Taglist:

@velvetmoonlght @jinnie-ret @hansmic @imeverycliche @iwuberic @strawberryscentedd @lezleeferguson-120 @mbioooo0000

[mynameismckenziemae]

I Love You Two

Part 14

(previous part here, next part here)

Bradley Bradshaw x OFC x Jake Seresin.

Summary: Everyone’s suffering while the boys are away. Someone loses the bet.

Warnings: Adults (18+) only! MDNI! Likely military inaccuracies, unprotected p in v, pussy slapping, teasing, sexting, mentions of oral (m receiving).

.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.

“C’mon,” Bradley rasps quietly, exasperated, obviously trying not to wake you when Jake pulls off his cock with a pop. Again. He’s already edged Bradley several times; seemingly taking over your usual role of playing with fire, testing to see if he’ll get burnt. “Let’s see if you can make me cum before Livi wakes up.”

You’ve already been awake for a while, roused by their less-than-subtle movements on your too-small queen bed and kept up by their failed attempts to stay quiet. Bradley was uncharacteristically pliable this morning and Jake was taking full advantage of it. So you continue to feign sleep, curious how this would play out.

“Promise me,” Jake whispers, the sound of his hand stripping Bradley’s saliva-soaked cock louder than his words, “promise you’ll finally fuck me when we win and I’ll let you cum.”

“Fu-fuck,” Bradley stutters, trying and failing to keep his hips from thrusting up into the loosening grasp when he fails to agree with Jake’s terms. “C’mon princess, that’s not fair. What about Liv?”

Good boy.

“Liv can watch,” Jake smirks, pausing to lick the precum leaking from Bradley’s tip, “while she’s tied to that chair.”

A scowl starts to pull on your face but you manage to school your expression, staying relaxed and neutral…until Bradley agrees.

“Yeah,” he breathes, jolting when Jake slides his hand down beneath his sack that’s drawing up to his body, signaling his release, “Okay.”

“Always so cocky,” you murmur, opening your eyes and sitting up to card your hand into Jake’s hair before pulling him off Bradley. “Don’t you want to know what’s going to happen when I win?”

You can taste Bradley’s bitter-salty precum when you bring Jake in by his hair for a kiss.

“You’re not going to,” Jake whispers hotly when you break it, his eyes dipping to your lips as if he wants to go back in. Bradley’s chest heaves in the corner of your eye.

“I wanna know,” Bradley asks, sounding a bit desperate as his hand slides up your thigh, gripping the meat of your ass, breaking the tension between you and Jake.

Pushing Jake back, you swing your leg over Bradley’s hips and bring the head of his cock to your entrance before sinking down slowly.

“Fuck,” you can’t help but gasp, letting your head fall back from the delicious stretch.

“Yeah Liv,” Jake’s suddenly at your back, nipping at your exposed throat, slotting his cock between your ass cheeks while you adjust to Bradley’s size, “I’m curious now too. What are you planning on the very slim chance you win?”

“Well,” you sigh, beginning to slowly ride Bradley, who’s still on the brink judging by the bruising hold he has on your hips, “if you cave first, Bradley’s going to take my ass.”

“Fuckkkkkk,” Bradley groans from your words and the way you clench when Jake finds your nipples, rolling and pinching while he rocks against your back.

“You get to watch,” you continue, turning your head to nip Jake’s lip, smiling at the way his cock jerks in interest against your lower back before nodding to the corner, “while tied to that chair.”

Jake’s expression heats further as one of his hands slides lower to your clit, making tight circles, “And Roo? If he loses?”

“I-I’m not going to lose,” Bradley says weakly before squeezing his eyes shut, about to lose it right now.

“Roo-“ you cut off with a gasp as Jake pinches your clit lightly, pushing you to the edge right along with Bradley, “Roo will watch from the chair, tied up while I…”

“While you…what?” Jake prompts with a smirk when you trail off, your riding becoming sloppy with his assault on your clit.

“While I fuck your ass with my dildo,” you manage to get out before the pleasure overtakes you.

Bradley’s there too, unable to fight it any longer. He cums inside you with a tortured groan as your pussy milks around him.

Jake guides you off Bradley and pushes inside your still-clenching cunt before you have a chance to fully recover, the sound of your and Bradley’s release is loud, wet and lewd as Jake’s hips piston into yours.

“Fuck Liv,” Jake groans, burying his face in your neck, trying to hide how much the thought of you taking his ass turns him on.

Your eyes begin to flutter but a sharp slap to your already sensitive clit makes you yelp.

“His ass is mine,” Bradley warns lowly, arching a brow in a playful challenge.

The way Bradley seamlessly slips back into his usual dominant role sends a thrill run down your spine and another sharp spike of arousal between your thighs.

It affects Jake too; he chokes, his rhythm faltering as Bradley’s possessiveness pushes him to the edge.

“Better make sure you don’t lose then,” you taunt, gasping and tightening when Bradley slaps your clit again.

“Again,” Jake pleads as he slows with a final deep thrust, cock twitching as he cums inside you, “get her there.”

Bradley smirks before he does, setting you off with a final slap.

.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.

Jake’s alarm goes off not long after, popping your post-coitus bubble.

After chaste kisses and “I love you”s to each, tears fill your eyes as you wave them off.

You can’t seem to stop crying though on the drive to work and have to refrain from setting the copier on fire when it beeps, signaling it’s out of paper.

Then you start cramping and it all makes sense.

.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.

Getting your period is a blessing in disguise; though a little miserable, sex isn’t at the forefront of your mind.

You have a feeling it’s the same for the boys; the few times they get a chance to call the first week, it’s always late, and their voices are heavy from exhaustion.

Then there’s a lull, and you don’t hear from either for several days.

It’s not their fault, but it’s frustrating. You miss them.

Nighttime is the worst. It’s too quiet without Bradley’s snores and the bed is cold when you turn over seeking warmth. The blended hints of their cologne on your sheets are maddening and images of the filthy things you’ve done between them fill your mind as you toss and turn; aching and wet.

With a little over a week to go, you’re starting to get antsy.

And you want them to feel antsy too.

.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.

The smooth satin wars with the hint of friction from the lace as you kneel on the chair that soon Bradley or Jake will be tied to. You take a slow, deep breath, composing yourself before arching your back and look innocently over your shoulder at your phone, waiting for the click of the camera.

The new panties you picked up at the mall are perfect; delicate red lace in the front and an open in the back, the silk bow framing your butt like a gift.

Jake loves lingerie and Bradley…well, he loves your ass.

You send the pictures with a smile and sleep finds you a little easier for the first time since they left, knowing they’ll soon be as miserable as you.

.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.

The photos are nearly forgotten until your phone buzzes the following evening.

Jake: That’s not fair

Jake: Goddamnit Liv

Roo: Olivia

Roo: Holy fuck

Roo: Holy fuck

Jake: I’m hard as a fucking rock.

Jake: Fuck

Roo: Me too

Roo: Wanna see?

The photo Bradley sends has a hot pulse of arousal racing through you before settling between your thighs. It’s dark, the curtains around his bunk drawn shut. His big hand toys with the elastic of his boxer briefs, his cock hard and straining against the thin cotton, precum staining the fabric.

Jake: Fuck. It’s somehow so much worse knowing you’re in the bunk below me and I can’t do anything about it.

Liv: Throwing in the towel, Roo?

Roo: Never.

Liv: Jake?

Jake: Nope.

Jake: I’m good.

Liv: If you say so.

.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.

Turnabout is fair play.

That’s what you tell yourself at least as you watch the video Bradley sent a few nights later.

You hold your breath and white-knuckle the sheets as you watch them devour each other in what looks to be a supply closet. The tension is palpable, even through the screen, hands sliding over flexing muscles, tangling in hair, rubbing, gripping, and pulling the other. Their heavy breathing and soft groans are dizzying and you nearly whimper when they break apart, chests heaving and erections thick and prominent in their boxer briefs.

Bradley smirks and Jake fucking winks before he ends the video.

Liv: 🖕

You toss your phone with a defeated groan, knowing sleep is going to evade you once again.

.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.

The delicious, maddening game continues; a picture here, a video there, and dirty texts sprinkled throughout.

No one has caved and with only two days left before they’re due back, you’re starting to think it’s going to be a draw.

More than once you’re tempted to give in, consequences be damned; it’s getting harder and harder to fight the need to slide your hand between your thighs, especially when you pull up the message threads.

But the Kazansky stubbornness comes through and you manage to resist.

.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.

It hasn’t been easy for Bradley and Jake either. It’s a different kind of torture to be so close to each other at all times and not be able to touch, barring the few times they’ve snuck off to tease Liv with a show. Neither sleep well on the carrier to begin with, and working each other up just to be denied sweet release makes it worse.

But more than the sex, they miss you. While they have each other, but it’s not the same without your comforting, easy presence.

Bradley rouses in his bunk, feeling like had fallen asleep just minutes before.

Soft music is playing from someone’s phone a few beds down, Bob’s grinding the shit out of his teeth across the way again, and the constant, low din of the carrier is heard under it all.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Bradley squints at his watch. It’s only 0417.

But as he rolls over to try and get back to sleep, he hears the reason for his early awakening.

A soft, breathy sigh from the bed above his, combined with the rhythmic rustling of the shitty vinyl mattress.

His body’s response to the sweet, familiar sound is dizzying, his cock filling instantly. He releases a shuddery breath as he shoves into his boxer briefs to fist himself.

But he freezes on the second pull, thankfully remembering the bet.

Jake must’ve forgotten too.

“Hey,” Bradley whisper-yells, nudging the bottom of Jake’s bed with his knee to get his attention, “Jake!”

But Jake doesn’t respond. The rustling and heavy breathing just intensify before stopping. Bradley relaxes momentarily until he hears the low, gasped groan.

So sleep-deprieved, Bradley’s a little slow on the uptake. But his cock, still in his hand, jerks. Hopeful.

“Oh fuck,” Jake rasps sleepily and almost pained.

Bradley nearly takes his own head off in his rush to get out of bed before pulling back Jake’s curtain, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jake’s response is muffled, his face buried in the pillow, “‘m fine.”

“What’s wrong?” Bradley whispers. It’s dark enough in the berth that he reaches out to run his fingers through Jake’s hair, smiling when the tension visibly eases in Jake’s body at his touch.

Even in the low light, Bradley can see the flush staining Jake’s cheeks when he peeks at him.

“I just lost the fucking bet,” he mumbles, attempting to hide his face again, but Bradley’s grip tightens in his hair, not allowing it.

“Oh Jake,” Bradley chuckles, suddenly realizing the rhythmic rustling above him was Jake dryhumping his mattress in his sleep. He leans in after a quick glance around to make sure no one else is awake, “You bad, bad boy.”

Jake’s eyes flutter as a shiver wracks his body. “Didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Bradley coos softly, “but it doesn’t matter. You still lost.”

Jake meets his eyes and nods, almost pouting.

“Meet me in the bathroom in 2 minutes,” Bradley releases his hair to pat his cheek, “leave your boxers on.”

.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.

Your face burns at work as you open the picture that just came through. Jake’s in front of the mirror, pink-cheeked, wearing nothing but his cum-stained gray Calvin Kleins, and looking to the side, almost looking embarrassed. Bradley’s grinning from behind, chin hooked on Jake’s shoulder.

Roo: Someone had a wet dream

Another one arrives and you choke on your coffee. It’s Jake on his knees, mouth full of Bradley’s cock.

Roo: and I thought you’d like to see what happened after I busted him

Jake: 🖕

Jake: I would’ve been fine if you two hadn’t been teasing me nonstop

Liv: Poor thing

Jake: 🖕

Roo: Send me a video of you using the plug tonight?

Liv: Yes sir 😘

Jake: 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.•*•.•.

A/N: This chapter took longer than I wanted unfortunately, I just couldn’t get it to flow right. Anywho…Liv won 😏 yay! Bradley taking her 🍑 cherry is coming up! What did you all think?

Also 👇🏻

As always, any interaction is appreciated but I LOVE hearing what you think in the comments/reblogs! Seriously, feedback helps me more than anything.

Tagging (let me know if you want to be added/removed):

@writtingrose

@blindedbythelightt

@phoenix-rising-starbird-one

@dizzybee03

@shanimallina87

@lexixstewart

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@jessicab1991

@racerchix21

@that-one-fangirl69

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@teamjacob147

[sirensslament]

REQUITED (unrequited pt2) yeon sieun x reader

summary!: After a brutal fight, a shared secret, and a long walk in the rain, you’re left holding feelings Yeon Sieun won’t name. But silence can’t last forever. When the weight of waiting finally breaks you, you corner him with the truth — and this time, he doesn’t walk away. Subtle confessions, long glances, and everything unsaid begin to unravel.

"You kissed him. And then you ran. And now you are doing everything in your power to pretend like you did not, in fact, do either of those things."

read pt 1 , based on this ask!

Pairing: oblivious!sieun x pining!femalereader

Trope: slow burn, mutual pining, reverse confession, one-sided (but not really), emotionally constipated genius x emotionally spiraling fighter

Genre: fluff, slice of life, school life, romance

Note: idk something abt writing fluff does something to me- coming from a 24/7 ovulating female.

Word count: 5k

warnings !: none!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You don’t take the usual hallway anymore, the one with the flickering ceiling light and the peeling corner of bulletin board paper, where Yeon Sieun always stands in front of his locker like he’s been rooted there since the dawn of time. You used to pass him every morning. Sometimes he’d glance at you. Most of the time he wouldn’t. Either way, it used to be... tolerable.

Now, it’s radioactive.

Like brushing against a live wire. Like touching a bruise you forgot you had.

Instead, you snake through the longer way, cutting behind the old faculty office and down the back stairwell that smells vaguely like mothballs and rusted pipe. There’s always a faint clack of a loose ceiling tile above the second landing, and the handrail leaves a faint chalky smear on your palm if you grip it too tight.

It adds three minutes to your morning commute. You do it anyway.

Every single day since that night.

The night you kissed him.

You haven’t stopped replaying it. Not once. You’ve tried. God, you’ve tried. You’ve buried yourself in homework you don’t understand, watched brainless dramas on double speed until the subtitles blur, even cleaned your entire room, dusting baseboards, wiping your mirror twice, until your mom stood in the doorway and asked if you were possessed.

But nothing works. Because you remember everything.

The bite of wind against your cheeks. The empty street humming with quiet. The soft shuffle of his shoes against the pavement when he turned to face you. That infinitesimal pause, the breath between thought and motion, when your fingers brushed his sleeve.

The way he stood so still. So heartbreakingly still.

The silence between you stretching taut like thread about to snap.

The way his breath ghosted against your cheek, his eyes locked on yours and not looking away. Not moving. Not blinking.

Like he was waiting.

And then...

You leaned in.

Just slightly. Just enough. Just far enough for your mouth to brush his and realize that this wasn’t a mistake. That maybe he’d wanted it, too.

Because he didn’t flinch. Didn’t freeze. Didn’t say anything.

He just... let you.

And you...

You ran.

What kind of person kisses someone in the dark and then runs away like they’ve just committed a felony?

A coward. A reckless, impulsive coward who acts on months, maybe years, of pent-up feelings and ruins it in five seconds flat.

Three days. It’s been three days.

And in those three days, you’ve:

Spoken only to Suho, because if anyone would let you avoid your feelings like it’s a competitive sport, it’s him.

Started sitting closer to the back of the classroom, where the sunlight doesn’t hit your face and no one asks questions.

Typed, and deleted, and retyped a dozen messages to Si-eun. You never pressed send.

Thought about the kiss more times than you can count. Wondered if he even noticed it at all. If it even registered.

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was just one of those things you do in the heat of a strange, cold night. He probably filed it away somewhere in that calculator brain of his under “Does Not Compute.”

The thought should make you feel better.

It doesn’t.

It makes your chest clench.

You step into the classroom and immediately lower your head. It’s automatic now. Don’t look. Don’t check. Pretend like he doesn’t sit exactly two rows ahead, in his same chair with that hunched-over, surgical precision he brings to everything. Even breathing.

You pretend you don’t know the exact shape of his shoulders when he leans over his desk. The slope of his spine. The way his pen scratches across the page, rhythmic and sharp.

You slip into your desk and crack open your notebook, though the words blur the moment you try to focus on them. You blink twice. No use.

Your head’s somewhere else. Again. Always.

“Hey."

A straw jabs your cheek.

You blink. Look up.

Suho is slouched beside you, legs sprawled under the desk like he’s allergic to good posture. He’s got a juice box in one hand, his pearly whites glinting faintly as he grins with half-lidded mischief.

“Earth to loser,” he says, voice way too loud for how quiet the classroom is. “You’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes. You good, or should I call an exorcist?”

You swat the straw away. “Do you want to die today?”

He grins, unfazed. “You’ve been weird lately. Not fun-weird. Sad-girl weird.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” Suho says, turning more fully toward you, elbow on the desk now. “Something’s off. You look like you’ve been thinking really hard, which is already suspicious.”

You glare. “I swear to god—”

“You know what I think?” he interrupts, voice too smug for your liking. “You’re either in the middle of an identity crisis, or…” He raises an eyebrow, biting off the end of his straw. “You did something.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

He hums, not buying it. “You definitely did something.”

You scoff, snapping your notebook closed like the sound might shut him up too. “Why don’t you go bother Beomseok or something?”

“Because he's boring. You’re not.”

You don’t reply.

There’s a pause. A real one this time.

When you glance over again, his smile’s gone. His brows are slightly drawn together.

“…What happened?” he asks, quieter now. “Really.”

Your stomach twists.

You force out a laugh, brittle at the edges. “Nothing happened. Seriously. You’re being dramatic.”

He doesn’t look away.

“Right,” he says finally. “And I totally believe that.”

You look down. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your desk, knuckles whitening.

He knows.

Or at least he suspects. Of course he does, Suho’s many things, but oblivious isn’t one of them. He’s seen the way you orbit around Sieun, like some helpless moon caught in his gravitational pull. Seen how your expression softens when you talk about him. How your voice falters when he walks into a room.

He’s the only one who’s watched you fall, slow, silent, hopeless.

But he doesn’t push. Not right now.

You’re grateful. And also, not.

Because if he pushed, maybe it would all spill out.

The kiss.

The silence that followed.

The aching absence of a reaction.

The way Sieun didn’t even flinch. Like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t touch him.

You suck in a breath. Look up.

Just for a second.

And there he is. Right where he always is.

Yeon Sieun. Perfect posture. Perfect concentration. Perfect stillness.

The same AirPods. The same black pen. The same quiet intensity in the way his fingers move, precise like he’s drafting blueprints instead of taking notes.

You catch a glimpse of his profile, the delicate curve of his nose, the slight crease between his brows. He doesn’t look your way. Not even once.

And maybe he never will again.

Something in your chest cracks.

Because you are not the same.

You still feel the warmth of his skin under your fingertips. The shape of his mouth beneath yours. The unbearable quiet in the air before you fled.

You still feel like a wire stretched too tight. Like one wrong word will snap it.

You blink hard and look away.

Suho’s still watching you.

You shove your notebook into your bag with more force than necessary.

He blinks. “Whoa, where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” you say quickly. “I just...don’t feel like studying right now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”

You don’t answer. Just stand. Sling your bag over your shoulder and move.

You feel Sieun’s presence like a pressure in the room. A shadow at your back.

You don’t look.

The second your feet hit the hallway, you finally breathe again.

But it’s shallow. Tight.

Because even out here, even away from the weight of his silence, the memory follows you.

That moment. That kiss.

The quiet question in your chest that still hasn’t gone away:

Why didn’t he stop me?

And worse...

Why hasn’t he said anything since?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The clock ticks loud in the kind of silence only apathy can bring.

Most of the class is talking, not loudly, but with that kind of half-hearted energy that creeps in when a teacher is ten minutes late and the threat of supervision has fully dissolved. It’s background noise. Faint laughter, lazy murmurs, someone crunching chips way too loudly two desks over.

You, for once, are minding your business.

Actually doing your work.

Maybe because Suho left an hour ago- something about an emergency, and without his constant commentary, it’s easier to pretend you care about the problem set in front of you. Maybe because it’s the only thing stopping you from glancing two rows forward.

Or maybe because you still haven’t stopped spiraling from That Night, and you’d rather calculate quadratic equations with a gun to your head than think about how Sieun hasn’t looked at you once in the last hour.

He’s there, of course. Sitting perfectly upright, left hand bracing his notebook while his right scribbles down neat, efficient notes. The corner of his lip twitches sometimes, but it’s not emotion. Just concentration. His brow is pinched. He’s thinking. Like he always is.

Untouched by the chaos around him.

Untouched by you.

You snap your eyes back to your paper.

Focus.

You’ve just solved for x when Yeongbin’s voice slices through the noise.

“What’d I say? If you’re not gonna pay, don’t touch it.”

You look up, just slightly. Enough to see the source.

Yeongbin’s standing over one of the smaller first-years. A kid with too-big sleeves and a haunted look on his face, holding a juice bottle he clearly didn’t buy. His hands are shaking.

“Hyung, I didn’t know it was yours-”

“Bullshit,” Yeongbin snaps, snatching the bottle out of his hands. “You think things in this class just magically appear for you? What, you’re too poor to afford 800 won?”

The kid’s shoulders flinch.

You glance around. A few people are watching now, but no one says anything. Not unusual. Yeongbin’s never needed a reason to pick fights, he just needs someone smaller. Weaker. Quieter.

You should ignore it.

You really should.

But you’ve had a week. A week of silence, of spiraling, of pretending your chest doesn’t clench every time Sieun’s pen scratches the page and not once in your direction. You’re frayed. Brittle. You’ve been doing your best to stay invisible and it’s not working, and something about Yeongbin’s voice just tips the balance.

He starts laughing. It’s ugly. “Actually, you know what? Keep it. Drink it. I didn’t even want it. You probably need the sugar more than I do—looks like your family’s malnourished.”

Crack.

You don’t even realize you’ve dropped your pencil until it rolls off the desk.

Your chair scrapes as you stand.

Not loud. But loud enough.

The room stills.

Your desk jostles forward with the motion, legs scraping harsh against the floor, and a few people flinch. It’s quiet now. Even Yeongbin turns to look at you, eyebrows raised like he hadn’t even noticed you were there until now.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “What now?”

You walk past your desk slowly, each step deliberate.

“Could you shut up for five seconds?” you say, voice calm. Measured.

Yeongbin scoffs. “What, you care about charity cases now?”

“No,” you say. “I care about not listening to your voice any longer than I have to.”

The kid he was yelling at has already slinked back to his desk, red-faced, clutching the juice bottle like it might shield him. Smart. He knows what’s coming.

“You’ve been itching to start shit all morning,” you say. “Like your ego couldn’t handle not being the loudest person in the room for once.”

Yeongbin snorts. “Bold talk for someone who hasn’t done anything all semester except mope and make eyes at Calculator Boy.”

And there it is. The line.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t. But it slices deeper than it should.

You smile. Too wide.

“Right,” you say. “Coming from the guy who’s repeated this class twice and still can’t spell his own name without sounding it out.”

There’s a beat.

Then...

“What the fuck did you just say?”

The air shifts.

Desks creak as people lean away. Someone whispers “oh shit.” One of the girls starts quietly gathering her things, like she knows she won’t want to be near the blast radius.

Yeongbin steps forward.

You don’t move.

“You wanna say that again?” he says, voice lower now. Dangerous.

“I said,” you repeat, still smiling, “it’s impressive that you even know what letters are, considering your entire personality is built like a used punching bag.”

He doesn’t respond.

He swings.

You duck.

His fist whistles past your ear, cracking into the empty chair behind you. Plastic splinters. He barely blinks before swinging again, but this time, you’re ready. You pivot on your heel, grabbing the edge of the nearest desk and slamming it into his hip.

He curses, stumbling. That’s when you move.

Two steps forward, fast.

You throw your shoulder into him and shove.

Hard.

He staggers back into the teacher’s podium. A textbook clatters to the ground.

The room goes silent.

“Holy shit,” someone breathes.

Yeongbin looks stunned.

Only for a second.

Then his face twists into something feral.

“You bitch,” he growls, and lunges.

This time, you don’t dodge. You meet him.

You grab his wrist mid-swing, twist, and jab your elbow into his ribs, once, twice, before pushing him off and landing a quick, clean kick to his shin. You’ve fought before. You know how to fight. Fast strikes. Soft points. Disable, disarm, destroy.

But Yeongbin’s heavier. And he’s angry.

He recovers faster than expected, grabs the front of your uniform and yanks you forward. You grunt as your balance shifts, knee catching on the edge of a desk. You raise your arm just in time to block his punch. It lands hard against your forearm, pain flares white-hot, but you don’t falter. You grit your teeth and slam your palm into his chest, pushing him back again.

Someone gasps.

“Should we, like, do something?”

“No way, she’s actually holding her own—”

Another swing. This one catches your shoulder. You hiss, stumbling sideways, desk scraping behind you.

He doesn’t let up.

You dodge a wild punch, pivot under his arm, and jab your fist into his kidney. He lets out a sharp breath, staggering, but recovers too fast. You’re off-balance now. He grabs your wrist and yanks.

You hit the floor hard.

Back slams against tile. Wind knocked clean out of your lungs.

“Finally,” he spits, looming over you, knuckles bruised, chest heaving. “Think you’re funny now? Huh?”

You try to move, but pain shoots through your ribs.

Then...

A sound.

Schhhk.

The unmistakable scrape of a chair leg dragging against tile.

The air chills.

You look past Yeongbin’s shoulder.

And there he is.

Sieun. Standing.

His desk is pushed neatly back. His bag remains untouched, pen still in hand, pressed between his fingers like a blade. His eyes are calm.

Too calm.

“Move,” he says, voice quiet.

Yeongbin turns.

“What?”

“I said,” Sieun repeats, stepping forward with slow, clinical precision, “move.”

Yeongbin scoffs. “Stay out of it, freak. This doesn’t concern you.”

“It does now.”

There’s no hesitation.

Sieun moves like a switchblade, fast, sharp, untelegraphed.

He grips Yeongbin’s outstretched arm, twists it at an unnatural angle, and slams his pen straight into the pressure point between the elbow and bicep. Yeongbin yells, stumbling back, clutching his arm.

Sieun doesn’t stop.

Another step. Another strike, this one to the solar plexus. Yeongbin doubles over with a choke.

Sieun leans in close, voice still eerily calm.

“You’re slow,” he says. “Too predictable. Relying on weight and anger instead of technique. And your right foot? Always leads.”

Then, crack, he sweeps his leg and Yeongbin crashes to the floor, coughing.

Sieun straightens.

Not even breathing hard.

You’re still on the floor, staring.

Someone whispers, “Holy shit.”

Yeongbin groans, curling in on himself.

And Sieun?

Si-eun turns to you.

Expression unreadable.

“You okay?” he asks, like the room isn’t holding its collective breath. Like he didn’t just disable someone with a pen and zero emotion.

You blink.

And for the first time all day, maybe all week, you speak without thinking.

“Why now?”

His brows furrow slightly.

You press your palm to your ribs, wincing. “Why now? After this long. After, everything.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just steps forward.

Offers his hand.

You stare at it.

Your heartbeat stutters.

And then, slowly, you take it.

His grip is steady. Warm.

He pulls you to your feet like it costs him nothing.

And for a second, in the middle of a stunned, silent classroom, standing next to the boy who didn’t stop you that night, but did stop this, you finally breathe again.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Today’s been… a day.

No, that doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Today’s been the kind of day that presses down on your shoulders and drags your feet through concrete. The kind that starts with a punch to the face and ends with a fistful of paperwork and a lecture that lasts longer than your will to live.

The kind of day where you get called into the teacher’s office for “fighting,” and somehow, somehow, Yeongbin’s the one yelling, but you’re the one holding an ice pack.

“Sit,” your teacher had said, flatly, already exhausted before any of you opened your mouths.

You sat. Sieun, too. Perfect posture. Not a hair out of place. Like he didn’t just go full Jason Bourne with a pen less than an hour ago.

Yeongbin slouched in the seat beside you, cradling his bicep like he’d been shot.

Technically, he was stabbed.

Just… with ballpoint.

“Explain what happened,” the teacher sighed, pinching his nose like this headache was personal.

Yeongbin went off immediately.

“She started it!” he snapped, already gesturing with his good arm. “She shoved me, attacked me! For no reason! I was just talking to some brat, and she lost her mind, went full psycho and started throwing punches like she was born in a fucking jail cell!”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “You were bullying someone.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Your teacher glanced at you, wary.

Yeongbin leaned forward, still clutching his arm. “You think just because she does well on some tests, she’s some model student? She’s a time bomb, sir. Walks around like she owns the place. Thinks she can get away with anything just ‘cause she’s pretty and knows how to land a punch.”

Your eyebrows arched slowly. “Aw. Did I bruise your ego?”

“You stabbed me!”

“I didn’t stab you, genius. He did.”

You tilted your head toward Sieun, who remained stone still in the next chair, expression blank, posture perfect, pen balanced between two fingers like he hadn’t just used it to wreck someone’s nervous system.

Yeongbin’s eye twitched.

But then,

He caught it.

The look.

It was barely perceptible.

But you weren’t the one who noticed it.

Sieun was staring at him. No, through him. Eyes narrow. Focused. A quiet, methodical kind of fury, cold and clinical.

That same pen, the pen, was now clutched loosely between his fingers. Not threateningly. Just... visible.

Visible enough that Yeongbin’s voice faltered mid-sentence.

You didn’t catch it. You were too busy glaring at the teacher’s desk.

But Yeongbin saw it.

Saw the way Si-eun’s gaze didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Didn’t have to.

And whatever Yeongbin was about to say died right there in his throat.

He shut up.

The meeting ended with a mild warning, a long-winded lecture, and a stack of paperwork you only half listened to. The teacher let you off easy, “Since this isn’t like you,” he’d said. “You’re usually a good student.”

Yeongbin stormed out grumbling about “favoritism” and “pretty privilege.”

You didn’t even dignify it with a response.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The last bell rings like a gunshot through your skull.

You’re halfway through packing your bag when your phone buzzes, and without thinking, you hit Answer.

“Yo.”

“Hey,” Suho’s voice floods through the speaker, warm and familiar. “You sound dead.”

“That’s because I am,” you mutter, jamming your books into your backpack. “Guess what happened.”

“Did you punch someone again?”

“Again?”

“Just guessing based on your tone.”

You sigh and drop into your seat. “Yeongbin picked a fight. I responded. Sieun intervened. With a pen.”

There’s a pause.

“Wait...what?”

“He stabbed him, Suho.”

“Like, actually? Is there blood?”

You glance down at the faint bruise on your forearm. “There’s trauma.”

“Shit,” he says, voice rising. “What’d that prick do to you?”

“It’s fine. I held my own.”

“As you should.” He huffs. “Still. Should’ve been me. I would’ve kicked his ass in two punches. Three, if I wanted to be polite.”

You grin despite yourself. “Thanks for teaching me how to fight, by the way.”

“You’re welcome. I take payment in ramen or affection.”

“I’ll pencil you in for both.”

There’s a beat. Then: “You okay?”

You pause.

You glance across the room, where Sieun’s still seated at his desk, like the day hasn’t even touched him. He’s packing his bag with slow, deliberate movements, same as always.

You swallow. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

You nod, then realize he can’t see that. “Yeah.”

“All right. Call me if he breathes near you again. Or if you need ramen. Or if you need someone to throw hands on your behalf.”

“You just want a reason to hit Yeongbin.”

“Yeah, and?”

You laugh softly. “Talk later.”

“Later.”

You hang up.

And before you can chicken out, you grab your bag, straighten your shoulders, and walk up to Sieun.

“…Hey.”

He looks up.

His expression doesn’t shift.

But he nods once. “Mmh.”

“You heading home?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool,” you say, shifting awkwardly. “Mind if I walk with you?”

He pauses. Then, to your quiet relief...

“Okay.”

You both step outside.

And that’s when it starts to rain.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It starts slow, just a few drops. Enough to speckle the pavement and darken the edges of your sleeves. You glance up.

“Great,” you mutter. “Of course.”

Sieun doesn’t say anything, just adjusts the strap of his backpack and starts walking.

You follow.

The rain thickens by the second, turning from a drizzle to a steady curtain of water, soaking the back of your neck and making your socks squelch inside your shoes. You didn’t bring an umbrella. Neither did he.

“I should’ve expected this,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “Bad weather follows bad days, right?”

Sieun hums, noncommittal.

You glance at him.

His uniform’s already sticking to his frame, plastered to his arms and back. His hair’s wet. Water drips off his jawline in slow, deliberate trails.

And yet, he walks like he doesn’t notice. Like the weather’s a minor inconvenience compared to the storm he already lives in.

You kick a loose pebble. It splashes pathetically.

“…So,” you say, “have you killed anyone with a pen before, or was I your first?”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then: “Second.”

You blink.

He looks at you.

You squint. “You’re joking, right?”

He blinks once. “You decide.”

You bark out a laugh, too sharp, too sudden, but it feels good.

“God,” you mutter, wiping water off your cheek. “I can’t believe that actually happened.”

Sieun stays quiet.

The silence stretches again.

You glance at him.

“…You didn’t have to step in.”

“I know.”

You frown. “Then why did you?”

He hesitates. A breath too long.

“Because you were losing,” he says simply.

You flinch.

Ouch.

“Wow. Okay. Brutal honesty, got it.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

You scoff. “No, it’s fine. I was losing. Just didn’t realize you were keeping score.”

He exhales, barely audible. “That’s not what I meant.”

You stop walking.

He does too.

The rain doesn’t.

“…Did the kiss change anything?”

Your voice is quiet.

Barely above the sound of the rain.

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

His hair is dripping. His eyes are unreadable. His mouth parts slightly, like he wants to speak, but doesn’t.

Finally...

“Yes,” he says.

You freeze.

Then, just as quietly: “How?”

His gaze drops.

He takes a breath.

And says, “I don’t know yet.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding it for hours.

“Great,” you mutter. “That’s so reassuring. Really.”

“I’m not trying to confuse you.”

“You’re not trying anything at all.”

You regret it the second it comes out.

He doesn’t respond.

Not right away.

Instead, he turns back toward the road and starts walking again.

You don’t follow at first.

But then, quietly, you jog to catch up.

You fall into step beside him again, wiping your face with the sleeve of your soaked blazer.

“I make everything worse,” you mumble.

“No,” he says, without looking at you. “You don’t.”

The rain falls harder.

But it’s quieter between you now.

Softer.

You glance sideways. “Do you regret it?”

“The kiss?”

You nod.

“No,” he says.

Then, almost too quiet to hear: “But I don’t know what to do with it yet.”

You swallow.

Your hands curl in your sleeves.

“Okay,” you say.

And the rest of the walk is silent.

But it’s the kind of silence you don’t have to run from.

Not yet.

Not tonight.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It’s been a week since the rain.

Seven days since you walked home with him in silence, water trailing down your spine, his voice echoing in your head like the softest kind of hurt.

“I don’t know what to do with it yet.”

Since then, nothing’s changed.

Not really.

He still looks at you the same way across the classroom. Still keeps to himself. Still answers when you speak, still watches when you fight, still keeps that invisible line drawn tight between you like crossing it might ruin something that never even got the chance to start.

But you’ve changed.

Or maybe, you’ve just run out of places to hide it.

There’s only so many times you can catch yourself staring. Only so many times you can hope someone says something back. Only so many moments you can keep wishing, quietly, pathetically, for something that might never come.

It’s exhausting, loving someone like that.

Someone so precise. So unreadable.

So cold on the surface, but soft in the moments he doesn’t realize you’re watching.

And you’re tired.

You’re so tired.

You find him after school.

You wait for him to pack up, let him put his pens in the zippered pouch he always keeps lined up like weapons, wait for him to tug his backpack on and slide his chair in like nothing matters.

Then you move.

Your hand catches the edge of his desk before he can step past it.

He stops.

Looks up at you.

Expression unreadable.

“Come with me,” you say.

He blinks.

But follows.

You don’t take him far.

Just the rooftop, the one place at school no one bothers to check, because the lock’s rusted open and the staircase is grimy and students are lazy.

You push the door open and walk out first.

Let the cold spring air hit your lungs. Let the wind pull at your sleeves and blow your hair into your face.

He steps out behind you. Shuts the door with a soft click.

And then it’s just you and him.

No one else.

Not the other students. Not Suho. Not Yeongbin. Not the teachers. Not your friends or his ghosts or anyone who could interrupt the quiet weight between you.

Just the concrete rooftop and the sky and the truth you’re ready to spit out whether it shatters or not.

You turn to him.

He’s standing there like he always does, shoulders squared, eyes flat, jaw tight. Braced for a fight that hasn’t started yet.

He doesn’t ask why you brought him up here.

He doesn’t have to.

You take a breath.

You’ve been rehearsing this for days.

But now that it’s here, it feels heavier than it ever did in your head.

“I like you.”

The words cut clean.

Sharp.

He blinks.

But doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t know how, or why,” you go on, louder this time, hands trembling at your sides, “and I sure as hell didn’t plan to. But I do. I like you.”

The silence crackles between you like something alive.

You laugh.

It’s bitter.

“I’ve been waiting,” you say. “This whole time. For something. Anything. For you to say something that told me I wasn’t insane. That I wasn’t just seeing things that weren’t there.”

His mouth parts, barely.

But no sound comes out.

You swallow.

Hard.

“I’m not trying to pressure you. This isn’t about that. I’m just, done.”

His eyes lift to meet yours.

You feel it like a bruise.

“I’m tired of guessing how you feel. Tired of making excuses for your silence. Tired of pretending I don’t care when you act like nothing happened. Like I didn’t kiss you. Like we didn’t...feel something.”

You pause, breathing shaky.

“I just wanted you to know. Before I let go.”

Silence.

You close your eyes.

And whisper, softer this time:

“I’m letting go.”

You move to turn around.

But,

“Don’t.”

Your feet freeze.

You turn slowly.

His voice is quieter than anything you’ve ever heard him say.

Almost like it hurts.

“…Don’t let go yet.”

Your heart stops.

He’s still staring at you.

But there’s something different in his gaze now.

Something raw.

Unmasked.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he says, the words awkward on his tongue like he’s still testing how they sound. “I didn’t plan to feel anything either. I didn’t mean to.”

You don’t speak.

You don’t even breathe.

“But I did.”

Your breath catches.

He shifts his weight, like this is physically difficult. Like the confession is stuck in his chest, fighting to get out.

“You matter to me,” he says finally.

And somehow, those four words hit harder than any poetic declaration ever could.

You blink, hard.

He looks away for a second. Then back.

“I didn’t want to say something and not mean it right. I didn’t want to promise anything I couldn’t give.”

“You don’t have to promise anything,” you say quietly. “I just wanted to know if it was real.”

“It is.”

It’s so quiet, you almost miss it.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

“Then why didn’t you say anything before?”

He looks at you, really looks.

“…Because if I lost you, I didn’t want it to be because I said the wrong thing.”

Your throat burns.

“I was already halfway gone.”

“I know.”

And still, he takes a step forward.

Then another.

And another.

Until he’s standing in front of you, too close, too warm, too him.

He reaches out.

Not to hold your hand.

But just to brush your sleeve with the back of his knuckles. So light it almost doesn’t touch.

“But I want you to stay.”

You inhale sharply.

His eyes don’t move from yours.

“You said you’re letting go,” he murmurs.

“…Yeah.”

“Don’t.”

You almost laugh.

Instead, your lip trembles.

“You’re really bad at this.”

“I know.”

And then...

He leans forward.

Just slightly.

His forehead brushes yours.

Not a kiss.

Not yet.

Just that quiet, electric closeness.

That unbearable tension.

“I can’t say everything you want me to say,” he whispers. “Not yet. But I feel it. All of it.”

Your hands curl into the fabric of his uniform.

You nod.

That’s enough.

For now.

a/n: this was less fluffier than i anticipated.