#but then it rapidly became too cold to paint in the stupid garage and by the time it had warmed up i was house hunting :////

[gender-trash]

this week i am going back to the mountain (<333) for oil painting & reading books & chilling! not officially opening comms this time because i still have two from last year i need to finish up (sorry 😬😬😬 in my defense my stated SLA was "when you least expect it" and i take payment only when i finish the thing) but if you have an idea for something you think i should paint, now is a good time to tell me about it!

in general though my #1 priority is chilling the FUCK out because from as soon as i get back next week through at least the end of november, my team at work is going to be slammed. i'm bringing my comfiest folding chair and a box full of books and i look forward to being the least productive i've ever been in my life

[sergiovinazzi]

Stolen - Lando Norris x Reader (Chapter Three)

3.9k words - Rated M (language)

Here it is, my most favourite chapter to date, I hope you enjoy!

You smooth the skirt of your soft, black-linen sundress with shaky hands and pinch the bridge of your nose. You’re regretting not packing anything warmer than the denim jacket currently wrapped around your shoulders when you’re interrupted by the disgruntled sounds of your father calling your name through the phone speaker.

“What?” you ask, exasperated. “Sorry, I got distracted for a second.”

He repeats himself in annoyance, “I said, are you okay with staying at the hotel and ordering dinner for yourself?”

Staring at the restaurant in front of you, you debate whether or not to explain your situation to him. You realise, however, that he probably has enough to worry about after today’s events at Silverstone, and his daughter being out to dinner with another team’s driver probably won’t go over well.

“Yeah,” you lie. “I could use a quiet night in. Will you grab something to eat for yourself on your way back?”

Your dad hums, and you can tell that once he heard the confirmation that he didn’t need to get dinner for you, he lost interest in anything you had to say after the fact. It’s not difficult for you to understand why. Still, the lack of a verbal response worries you and you find it hard to evade the thoughts about Max and the accident. To most, the fact that he got out of the car and could walk was a good sign, but you’re still plagued by the various possibilities of what the hospital tests will conclude and just how bad the damage really is.

“Will you let me know if he’s okay?” you ask quietly, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing the phone closer to your ear, as if you could hone in on the doctor’s discussions in the background to find out whether Max was going to be alright.

Your dad simply hums again. “I’ll text you when we know more, but I’ve gotta go. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye, dad,” you murmur.

His quick Bye, love you is rapidly replaced with the end-of-call dial tone.

You slip the phone into your jacket pocket and take a deep breath, preparing to head inside the restaurant. You couldn’t help but clock the bright orange McLaren already stationed in the parking lot when your Uber arrived. You recognised it from a picture in the article you read when you first learned of Lando’s incident at Wembley. You’re thankful for the sign that he’s already here and you dredge up the remaining ounces of fake confidence left in your body, making an effort to quickly smooth down your hair before you open the door and enter the restaurant.

You’re immediately overwhelmed by the sheer atmosphere of elegance. Hand-painted horizons adorn the walls, encapsulated by swirling silver frames and accentuated by the small lights stationed above each piece of artwork, their job for the night to highlight the colours and shading the artist undoubtedly spent hours perfecting.

The savoury scents of garlic and soy originate in the kitchen and permeate across the premises with ease, challenged only by the rousing aroma of the stunning frangipanis adorning the entrance.

A woman you guess to be around your age approaches you with a notepad and pen in hand. She’s dressed in a black bodycon skirt with a hem that scrapes the top of her knees; her matching coloured button up shirt is tucked in smoothly. “Hi,” she greets with a small smile, “Would you like me to show you to the bar?”

“Oh, I’m actually supposed to be meeting someone here,” you tell her, eyes scanning the room for Lando.

You see him before he sees you.

He’s tucked away at a table in the corner, his brown curls peaking over the top of the large menu he's studying.

“Found him, thanks,” you tell the waitress and she returns to her station as you make your way across the restaurant towards Lando.

He looks up from the menu as your figure appears in his peripherals and he shoots you a wave when you’re a few metres away. You return his gesture with a small laugh and he stands, walking to the front of the table to greet you.

“Hey,” he says, enveloping you in a one-armed hug. “Glad you could make it.”

“Me too. I hope you weren’t waiting long,” you tell him, noticing the almost empty glass of beer in front of him as he returns to his seat.

“It wasn’t too long, don’t worry,” he reassures you.

The reality of the situation fails to present itself to you until you and Lando are seated silently across from one another. Your stomach is tightly wound with nerves but Lando appears just as anxious, noticeably fidgeting in his seat and frequently straightening his knife and fork. He’s dressed rather sharp compared to what you’d been treated to in the past, the blue and orange race suit discarded for a crisp white button down and black dress shorts. You wonder whether the outfit you picked out is suitable for tonight, although you cut yourself some slack. When you’d packed your suitcase on Wednesday, you’d hardly expected to spend any time outside of the Red Bull garage or your hotel room, let alone situated in a restaurant that was, now very obviously, out of your price range. The thought causes you to send a silent prayer to whoever would listen that you had enough in your spending account to pay your half of the final bill tonight.

The woman who greeted you earlier approaches the table to ask what drinks the two of you would like to order.

Lando asks for a cola and you look at him in confusion.

“You’re not going to have another one?” you ask him as he hands over his empty beer glass.

“No, I’m not a big drinker,” he replies, “Especially not during the season.”

“So why did you invite me to have drinks then?” you ask, clearly amused. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Lando Norris?”

He laughs, and raises his hands in mock surrender, “Hey! No, nothing like that. I just don’t really drink, I never have.”

“Yeah I kinda noticed that actually,” you tell him. “Even on your podiums you don’t drink the champagne.”

“I thought you didn’t watch Formula 1?”

You wish you could wipe the stupid smirk off of his face as you practically watch the realisation form in his head. “Have you been watching my old races?”

“No,” you retort somewhat unconvincingly. “I found some highlights on YouTube though, and your podiums from Spielberg and Imola were on there.”

“My podium finish in Monaco is pretty good too. I’d be happy to show it to you sometime, though, it’s a shame that you find racing so boring.”

You roll your eyes and laugh. “Shut up.”

The warm glow emitting from the industrial-style bulbs resting overhead doesn’t help the blush settling on your cheeks, and neither does the grin Lando shoots you. You shrug off your jacket and place it carefully on the back of your seat just as the waitress arrives with your freshly poured Caiproska. You thank her and trace your fingers along the cool side of the glass, collecting the droplets of condensation that form in hopes that they’ll provide some sort of relief from your keen fever.

Lando’s gaze is strong enough that you feel him watching you without having to look across at him, it transcends the need for observed confirmation and instead sets your body alight merely at the thought of it. The thrum of your heart threatens to escape the confines of your chest and you stupidly pray that he doesn’t hear it as the exposed skin of your chest flushes scarlet against the dark neckline of your dress. You clasp the charm that sits at your throat, pinching it between your fingers and allowing yourself to bask in the minimal relief the cold metal provides against your warm skin.

Lando wipes his sweaty palms on his shorts and takes a deep breath. “So, that was a pretty crazy race today, huh? I didn’t think I’d be able to hold onto fourth place, not with another Ferrari behind me and Daniel.”

“Yeah, it was crazy,” is all you can reply before delving back into your pocket at what you think is the sound of your phone receiving a message.

God, he thinks, he’s boring you half to death. He finally has you all to himself and the only topic he can string more than a few words together for is his job, treating you like a reporter he’s obligated to unpack his strategy for in the paddock. He doesn’t understand why he’s so fucking nervous tonight, he wasn’t nearly this wound up when he’d asked you out. Sure, it was an effort to keep his hands from shaking as he locked his car and crossed the parking lot, but he convinced himself it was just the gentle breeze passing through the city that set his flesh alight with goosebumps. He was simply excited, more than anything, to spend some one-on-one time with someone his own age, and if that someone happened to be a pretty girl, who could blame him for looking forward to it?

But then you showed up in that dress and suddenly the possibility that he’d see you out of it by the end of the night if he played his cards right became more and more realistic. His head spins at the thought of taking you home tonight. And the next night. And suddenly the thought is replaced by the images of himself coming home to you every night. After months overseas with nothing but timezone-dependent calls he returns to the comfort of your embrace, it’s your fingers that gently scrape the back of his neck as a confirmation that he’s home. It’s the warmth of your body and the lilt of no one else’s voice that cures the cavity in his chest that enveloped him the moment he shut the apartment door behind him all those weeks ago. He sees you seated on his kitchen counter, legs swinging as the coffee brews each morning, and asleep on his couch every night even after you’d promised if he let you pick the movie you’d stay awake this time.

He knows he’s in way over his head. He only just met you, what, three days ago? Yet here he sits, wishing there was some magic rule book that could explain how he could make sure his time with you never ends. He wishes he’d met you long before this week –honestly, it feels like he’s known you for much longer–so that the heat that rises underneath his shirt and the lump in his throat doesn't lend itself to the idea that he’s just some lust-fuelled boy. Your text messages make him laugh like no one else’s have before and the thought that you were watching him this afternoon, after you weren’t initially planning to stay for the race, had him feeling more confident than he has all season.

He knows he can’t tell you all that, it’s way too soon and you’ll think he’s crazy. He has to think of something interesting to talk to you about to fill the minutes before he feels it appropriate to ask you out for a second time, but instead he sits in silence as you refuse to meet his gaze. Your eyes won’t stop lingering on your phone screen, or darting around the restaurant, undoubtedly searching for distractions. Signs on the wall you could read to pass the time until the check comes, or maybe you’re searching for a saviour, a bartender to lock eyes with who’ll answer your silent plea: get me the hell out of here. He’s caught off guard when your eyes make their way back to him, his heart skips a singular beat like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He’s preparing himself to appear nonchalant in response to the immaculately crafted excuse you’re undoubtedly about to deliver in order to explain your sudden escape from his company, when a small smile forms on your lips instead.

He smiles back.

“Sorry,” he explains. “I know I talk a lot about racing. It’s kind of my whole life at the moment so it’s easy for me to get carried away.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m kind of used to it anyway. It’s basically all we talk about at the dinner table when my dad’s home.”

“Well, what do you like to talk about? I saw on your Instagram that you’re studying advertising, tell me something about that.”

You smile at his consideration and tell him all about your degree. How you’ve always had an interest in design and noticed how it could be used to turn a profit, right from when you would try your hand at creating the posters for your school’s bake sales and car washes. You tell him the story of your first paid commission for a digital advertisement, an intricately crafted Instagram post for an up-and-coming clothing boutique based in London. He asks questions in all the right places and offers his congratulations when you show him screenshots of some of your most successful work.

Conversation ebbs and flows easily throughout the night, the nerves that had you second guessing your decision to come earlier tonight eradicated. The food is tremendous, and your company even better. Your waitress returns with the final bill for the night and Lando hands his card over without hesitation.

“Hey, no,” you say. “Let me pay for my half.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells you. “This was my way of repaying you for bringing my watch back, remember?”

Oh. That’s all tonight was for. He felt obligated to spend money on you in return for the trouble you’d gone through to return his stolen timepiece to him.

“When I talked to the police they said they could get me the money back once the guy was caught,” you stress. “So, you don’t need to do that.”

He brushes your statement off with a wave of his hand and smiles when the waitress returns with his card and a receipt.

Your mind mistakes the reverberation of champagne flutes clinking together for the chime of your text tone and you instinctively reach into your purse, hoping to see the screen alight with good news. You’d settle for any news really, so long as it meant you would finally get a clear picture of what was going on, and you could stop embellishing the details of the worst case scenario you had designed in your head.

A 51G impact like the one you had witnessed today can do a lot of damage to the body, whether visible from the outside or not, and you hoped, more than anything, that the helmet and halo were enough to protect Max from anything more than a few minor scrapes and bruises.

You’re lost in a world of nightmarish outcomes until you remember where you are. Lando’s face is contorted in a concerned frown across from you.

“Everything alright?” he asks gently.

“Yeah, sorry, I thought I heard my phone go off but it must’ve been something else.”

“It’s getting pretty noisy in here, do you want to head outside?” he offers.

“Okay.”

———

In the slight summer breeze you observe the moonlight washing across Lando’s figure, illuminating his features softly and elucidating the closeness of his face to yours. The proximity allows you to easily breathe in the pleasant cedarwood undertones of the cologne that adorns his skin, and allows him to imagine the sweet ropy flavour undoubtedly lingering on your tongue from the maraschino cherries you’d so delicately placed between your teeth throughout night.

The crinkles that form at the edges of his eyes as he meets your gaze with a smile are priceless. You wish you could bottle the feeling they give you and save it for a day you need it most.

“I had a nice time,” he tells you, practically beaming. “I can’t remember the last time I went out after a race and talked about stuff other than racing.”

“Yeah it was nice, dinner was really good too.”

“Yeah.”

The two of you stand in silence while you wait for your Uber to arrive. Lando had insisted on driving you back to your hotel but you knew his car would cause a fuss so you declined and told him you had an Uber discount code that was due to expire. You make an effort to seem fascinated by the cracks in the sidewalk and Lando acts intrigued by the streetlights, both of you dancing around the question that lingers unspoken in the air.

Are we going to meet up again?

The alert on your phone informs you that your driver is only a minute away.

“He’s almost here,” you tell Lando. “Thank you so much for paying for dinner, you really didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s okay!” he insists. He shifts his weight on his feet before offering his arms to you.

You accept his invitation and hug him goodbye. You can’t help but notice the heat radiating through his thin shirt and feel his heart hammering between your two chests. His fingertips burn brands into your skin as they rest softly on your back and when he pulls back from you his hands don’t move an inch.

You catch his gaze and feel his thumb sweep softly over the fabric of your dress, underneath your jacket, before his lips meet yours in a searing kiss.

You’re caught off guard to say the least. His hands are hot on your back but his lips are soft and you’d be lying if you said they weren’t sending your head into a frenzy.

The rest of the day’s events are temporarily overruled by Lando kissing you; lying to your dad about where you are, wishing you could celebrate Lando’s fourth place finish with him in his garage, the repetitive questions aimed at you by the police that had you exhausted by mid morning, let alone Max’s accident.

Max.

And suddenly it’s not Lando’s but another pair of lips that are on yours, larger and hungrier and they come with a devastating reminder of what it’s like to sneak around with a Formula 1 driver. The lying and heartache that you remember all too clearly to feel like the kind of falling that jolts you awake from dreams.

You pull back and place your hands on Lando’s shoulders, staring down.

He’s instantly apologetic, bringing a hand through the front of his hair. “Sorry, I thought…fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say, removing your hands and wrapping them around yourself. “It’s okay, um my car’s here anyway so I gotta go.”

He just nods and shoves his hands into his pockets.

The slamming of the car door feels like a hammer pounding in Lando’s head. For a moment he had you. In his hand was the opportunity to make something great out of your meeting, but he wrapped his fingers inward and crushed it in an instant.

———

When you wake the next morning, your head remains sore from the screeching of car engines throughout your eventful weekend. Though not particularly unbearable at the time, the accumulation of noise over the three days you were at the track had definitely built up.

Instinctively, you check your phone, assuming that you would be confronted with your typical notifications: a recommended Instagram account, a liked Tweet, maybe even a text. You know you’re being optimistic to expect anything from Lando, your mind refusing to stop reminding you of how awkward you had made your time together the night before. Still, you yearn for any sort of reassurement that it wasn’t as bad as your overthinking had made it out to be.

You read the time and see that it’s almost noon. You know that your dad will be out until around two o’clock, already fussing about with work related ordeals in order to have things perfect for the race in Hungary. When you eventually awaken enough to read the notifications on your phone, you find it difficult to hide your surprise as you find a text and missed call from Lando, the nervous feeling that you endured last night returns, sinking into your stomach like a stone.

Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I had a really nice time last night :) Sorry if I was too forward at the end, I hope it didn’t ruin your night or anything.

Biting back a smile as you read the text, your mind is put at ease as you realise that he enjoyed himself as much as you did. You’re tempted to text him back immediately and tell him that he’s being silly, that of course he didn’t ruin your night. You wish you could explain your situation with Max and how, if it were any other night than the one your ex-boyfriend spent in hospital, you would have kissed Lando back. However, your plan to reply is thwarted as you notice the notification that informs you Lando also left you a voicemail. He must have called some time after sending his initial text message. Finger hovering over the play button, you are hopeful that it’s further kind words about your time together, or perhaps an invitation for a second ‘date’. If you could call it that. Nevertheless, you push the button.

The disappointed sigh he lets out causes your heart to stutter, before his voice crackles through the phone speaker.

“Hey, it’s me. Sorry for calling, I know I already texted you and um… I hate that I have to do this but I think it would be better for you to hear it from me instead of finding out online or something. I’ve just seen that someone got pictures of us together last night. I didn’t think anyone who knew me would be there but I guess it was still close enough to Silverstone that someone recognised who I was. I’m really sorry, but if it is any help I don’t think anyone recognised you because your face isn’t really in the photos. I’m trying to get them taken down and it’s not really on Instagram or in the news or anything, but lots of people on Twitter are talking about it. If there’s anything that I can do, please let me know. I’m sorry.”

Your eyes widen at his words, breath hitching in your throat as you process it. You replay the message over and over, as if hearing it multiple times will change the bad news Lando delivers each time. Instinctually, you close the app and scrub your hands over your face. You wonder about what exact kind of picture the photos he’s referring to imply. Does it paint a picture that could get you in trouble?

What about Lando?

Fuck.

What about your dad?

Your stomach drops at the thought of him seeing them. Getting caught lying about your whereabouts was one thing, but being caught with Lando Norris while you promised you were tucked up in the confines of your hotel room opens up a whole new world of possible consequences.

As if the universe can read your mind, it delivers your worst nightmare to you on a silver platter, piping hot and laced with venom.

A notification appears from your dad.

Call me when you’re awake.

-------

tag list @lovebynorth @its-astrotea-love​ 

[junghelioseok]

novae.

↳ what is grief, if not love persevering?

◇ hoseok x reader   ◇ angst | fluff(?) | time traveler!au     ◇ 1.8k [1/1]

notes: a polaris drabble, so please read that beforehand. summary is from wandavision, which i haven’t seen, but that line is everything and i got inspired! also, i am so not kidding about the angst!!! be warned!!! (and i’m not saying that you should listen to blue side while reading this but i’m also not not saying that, so....... do what you want 🤷🏻‍♀️)

warnings: not super edited bc i couldn’t handle it tbh, dealing with death and loss, i’m pretty sure this is the angst you were all afraid would be in polaris so sorry but there’s some cute stuff too i swear

You said goodbye to your husband yesterday. One final goodbye as you scattered his ashes to the wind, watching as they disappeared into the flurry of dry brown leaves spiraling into the river.

There’d been a wake, of course. Last week, at a modest little place on the outskirts of the city where you and your husband had made your home. You'd watched people come and go—friends and family and those acquaintances you never really knew but who all seemed to know your husband one way or another. They flowed on through, a seemingly never ending stream of dark-clothed mourners with good intentions and well-meaning words on their lips.

Thank you for coming, became your mantra after the first dozen or so. Yes, I'm fine. Sure, you can bring a casserole by the house tomorrow.

You really ought to put the casseroles in the fridge. They sit on the kitchen counter in a colorful array of dishes, wrapped in saran wrap and flecked with condensation from being packed up when they were still warm. You can see them from your seat at the dining table, as you tear your gaze away from the window it’s tucked against and prop your chin in your open palm.

The last of your family left yesterday, boarding flights and climbing into cars to return to their own lives. Your friends and neighbors offered their final condolences, before falling back into their own habits and routines. With their departure, you’re alone for the first time in what feels like forever, doing your best to pick up the pieces of your life. And though you have no more tears left to cry, there’s a rift in your heart that refuses to mend, the jagged edges of it digging into your lungs and ribs.

The house is cold without him by your side. That's what it is, now—a house, because you can no longer bear to call it home even if it doesn’t look any different than it did two weeks ago. The things that surround you—the worn couch and the novelty mugs and the patch of imperfect paint on the living room wall—they belong to you. The memories that well up when you look at them, they belong to you.

But they belong to him, too.

Your late husband’s presence lingers in everything around you. There's the faint dip in the couch cushion from decades of use—years of Netflix binges and late night cuddles and the occasional romp when the two of you couldn’t quite make it all the way to the bedroom. There’s the goofy cartoon sun that decorates your favorite mug—the very first one he'd gifted you all those years ago when you first started dating. There’s the memory of the laughter that creased his face when he accidentally leaned against the wet paint in the living room, his white t-shirt muddied with streaks of green. You'd fixed it, of course—done your best with the leftover paint scraped out of the bottom of the can. Doesn't have to be perfect though, he'd said with paint on his cheek. I think it's nice. Gives the place a little more character, you know?

Heaving a sigh, you push back from the table and wearily rise to your feet to put the casseroles away. But your fingertips have only just brushed one of the several ceramic platters lining the counter when there’s a sudden, loud thump from the living room.

“Damn it,” a voice says, and you freeze in your tracks, your heart skipping several beats. Your hearing isn’t what it used to be, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Hoseo—” you begin, but the second syllable gets caught in your throat. Your husband walks through the doorway with a curious little smile, and your eyes well up with tears that you didn’t even know you had left.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says, coming to a stop before you and brushing a thumb across your cheek fondly. Then his expression sobers, as he takes in your misty gaze and the countless casseroles on the counter. “What’s wrong?”

This Hoseok is in his mid-forties, at most—several decades younger than you are in the present. There’s the barest glint of silver around his temples, a smattering of salt beginning to overtake the pepper of his hair, and you blink rapidly as your throat begins to well with emotion again.

“Hoseok,” you breathe. “Nothing’s wrong. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” he confirms. His palm caresses your cheek, and you lean into the touch as he pulls you close and into the warmth of his chest.

It’s been years since you last saw a Hoseok that wasn’t your own—a Hoseok that came from a time that wasn’t your present. Once the two of you moved in together in your twenties, Hoseok’s travels through time tapered off. The last time you’d seen him was about six years ago, when an eighteen year old Hoseok stumbled into the backyard while you were planting peonies and your Hoseok was at the grocery store. You’d offered him milk and cookies, and he’d been all too happy to accept. You remember that he’d been stressed about final exams, at the time.

And now, here he is again, older and wiser and thankfully not scratched up from appearing in the middle of your rose bushes. Pulling back from the embrace, you take in his face once more, your gaze roving across the wrinkles of laughter around his eyes and the familiar freckle above his lip. His hair, upon closer inspection, is damp, and gingerly, you reach up to trail your fingers through it.

“Rain?” you ask. “Or shower?”

“Shower,” Hoseok replies with a smile, intercepting your hand and pressing a warm kiss to your frail knuckles. “Seriously, I just barely managed to get dressed before I found myself here.”

A laugh bubbles up in your chest, escaping into the open air and easing the tightness in your throat. “It’s good to see you,” you murmur, smiling when he laces your fingers together and gives your hand a squeeze. “It’s so, so good to see you, Hobi.”

Hoseok chuckles and bumps his forehead gently against yours. “It’s good to see you too, babe.”

You laugh again at the term of endearment, smacking his chest weakly with your free hand. “Babe? I’m old enough to be your grandmother.”

“And yet, you’re as pretty as you’ve ever been,” he replies with a grin. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Slowly, your smile fades. You think of the casseroles, and the jar of ashes you’d scattered to the wind. You think of the little spoonful of ashes you’d saved, that now hangs heavy in a locket in the hollow of your throat. “Hobi, I—”

You trail off, and Hoseok’s expression softens. “It’s me, right? I’m… gone?”

“You—” Sniffing, you bury your face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his citrusy shampoo melding with the vaguely floral laundry detergent you both favor. Underneath it all is something that is distinctly Hoseok, something warm and comfortable and inviting, and you sniffle again when he reaches up to stroke along your back.

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispers into your hair, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “You can let it out. You’ve been so strong, but you can let it all out now. It’s okay.”

“I don’t know what to do, Hobi,” you mumble into the sky blue cotton of his t-shirt, whisper-soft. “I don’t… I don’t think I know how to live without you.”

And it’s true. You’ve known Hoseok since you were eight years old—ever since he appeared in the middle of your garage and knocked over a can full of paintbrushes. You moved in together at twenty-four, got engaged two years later, and haven’t looked back since. You’ve given decades of your life and all of your love to Hoseok, and he’s done the same. And now all that you have left of him is a locket full of his ashes and a house filled to the brim with memories both good and bad.

“Were we happy?”

You blink, twice in rapid succession, before looking up into his achingly familiar face. His eyes are soft and his smile is tender, and you blink again slowly before answering. “Of course we were.”

Hoseok’s smile widens. He touches your cheek again gently, the pad of his thumb brushing the delicate skin just beneath your right eye. “And we had decades of happiness, didn’t we?”

“A lifetime’s worth,” you agree in a whisper. “But I’m selfish, Hobi. I want more. I want you.”

“You have me,” Hoseok replies, and your eyes flutter shut when he reaches up to cup your face in his hands, his touch delicate and light as if you’re something to be treasured. “I’ve been yours since we were kids, and I’ll be yours until the universe ends and the stars die out. You couldn’t get rid of me, even if you tried.”

The sound that escapes you is part laugh, part choked sob, and when you speak again, your voice is small. “I know. You’re right, and I know that. But—” and here your throat closes up, and you have to clear it twice just to continue on. “I just miss you, Hobi. I miss you so much. Between the wake and everyone coming into town, it just feels like… it feels like I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye.”

“Say it now, then,” he says easily, and you suck in a shaky breath.

“Really?”

“Really.”

So, you do. You tell him everything you never got a chance to say—from the stupid jokes you never got to crack, to how happy you are to have met him all those decades ago. Hoseok listens to you ramble on with a tender smile and his fingers twined with yours, and when you fall silent again, he utters four simple little words that somehow still manage to make your breach catch and your heart sing.

“I love you too.”

You nod, and blink back a fresh wave of tears. “Will I see you again?”

“I don’t know,” he answers, and you know he’s telling the truth because he’s incapable of lying. “I hope so. But even if you don’t, I know you’ll be okay. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, and you’re going to be fine. I know it.”

Hoseok stiffens, then, and you know it’s time for him to go. “I love you,” you repeat, whispering the words into his chest as if you can force them past the material of his shirt and imprint them into his very skin. “Goodbye, Hobi.”

Your husband squeezes your hand, planting twin kisses onto your eyelids one onto your lips. “Goodbye, {Name}.

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone once more.