#delicate point of view

[leclecr16]

delicate point of view ´˗

x

[matildashoney]

Delicate Point of View: Chapter Six

MASTERLIST // ASKS // TAGS // PLAYLIST Word Count: 18K CW: sex (it's a wedding and they're drunk and in love, i'm not sure what you want me to say) taglist: @lauloupi less than a month since the last update, who cheered! i am so happy to share this chapter because this is changing everything. things are about to get a little bit messy from here on out, but in a good way for hera and harry. lots of feelings and emotions and of course more drama to come, because let's face it, that's what i do. but, until then, enjoy hera and harry being drunk and in love. it's what they deserve. and as always, please for the love of god share what you think! i thrive on feedback and commentary. i love you lots. enjoy!

Harry’s shock must be evident on his face because Hera swallows audibly and attempts to find her voice. Matty looks at her, and Harry looks at her, the guilt that’s written across her features is heartbreaking. Harry smooths his hand across her back, gently nudging her into his side and rubbing his hand along her waist, trying to bring any comfort in the midst of the tension cutting between the three of them. Harry and Matty are looking at each other, trying to make sense of the situation. How could Matty have known how Hera was doing all that time if they weren’t speaking? Harry looks at Hera, trying to read her body language and see if maybe he needs to find a way to excuse the two of them from the situation and get a handle on whatever is going on. Matty never said a word to him this morning, Hera hasn’t said anything, leaving Harry fully in the dark about whatever the hell is going on between them.

Harry swallows and purses his lips together tightly, squeezing Hera’s side comfortingly to try and ground her. Hera looks at him, eyes soft and silently begging for forgiveness, her hand gently coming up to his jaw and cupping it delicately, kissing his cheek sweetly before retreating away from his hold. Hera nods towards the corner of the designated area – where all the flowers and altar and tent are set for the ceremony and reception – where there is a bit of privacy, and they could have a private conversation without anyone interrupting. Matty follows her line of sight, and then looks to Harry, who is still staring at Hera with confusion. Harry looks to Hera questioningly, mouthing, what’s going on, to which she smiles sadly and wraps her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

“Are you okay, baby?” Harry whispers, cupping the back of her head sweetly, trying not to disrupt the curls falling perfectly along her shoulders. His mouth touches her forehead, kissing her repeatedly, trying to bring comfort in a situation he is completely lost in. “Do you want to take a breather? I can take us somewhere that’s a bit more private if you want.”

Harry looks at her with eyes that she could only describe as those that are full of love and care when she pulls away, wanting to know what he can do to make her feel better. Hera shakes her head. “I love you more than anything, you know that?” she says softly, cupping his cheeks and kissing him sweetly before turning on her heel and looking towards where Matty is already beginning to pace in the corner. Hera turns over her shoulder and grabs Harry’s hand. “You and I made things right a month ago, and I’ve been putting off doing that with other people. I have to make those things right, now. I’ll be back, okay?”

Harry isn’t given a second to properly process what’s happening in that moment, because before he could ask any further questions and understand what she’s doing, she’s walking away, and he’s left standing by the ocean in complete confusion. Harry turns around and looks to find Beau and Isla, who would most likely have the answers he’s looking for. Harry walks straight over to where they’re standing, taking one last glance over at Hera and Matty in the corner, before waiting rather impatiently as they took their time greeting the last few remaining guests, and ushering everyone to where the cocktail hour would be while they take a moment to themselves. Harry feels guilty for pulling them into his own issue, for potentially making them worry, but he knows if anyone is going to be able to tell him what’s going on, it’ll be the one that introduced those two all those years ago, the one that was likely the instigator of whatever happened, Harry knows.

Isla smiles brightly when Harry walks over to her, clearly unaware of the anxiety written across his face, her arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders and hugging him tightly, swaying back and forth excitedly. “I’m married! Harry, I’m a married woman, can you believe it?” Harry smiles at her excitement and joy, the thought of one day seeing his love reacting this way to getting married to him making his heart tight in his chest. Isla pulls away, quirking her head to the side and reading his expression, a purse of her lips telling him that she’s reading everything he's not saying to her. “Jesus Christ, Harry, don’t tell me you and Hera are arguing. God, please, it’s barely been a month. And it’s my wedding day. You literally had to get through one day. I, everything has been so good with the two of you! What could have possibly happened already?”

“No, no, Isla, it’s not that. Don’t worry about anything like that. Hera and I aren’t fighting,” Harry says hurriedly, shaking his head and laying his hands on her shoulders to try and recenter her attention on the matter at hand. “Hera and I are fine, Isla. That’s not why I’m over here. I, Matty said something to me, something that doesn’t really make any sense considering I’ve talked to him about Hera for years, now, and I’m lost. I’m very confused. I’m hoping you can explain this all to me because I know you have something to do with whatever it is.”

Isla swallows back the information she wants to share because it’s not hers to share, really at all. Matty told Isla everything that happened between them in confidence, and if she were to go and tell Harry without Hera’s consent, she’s sure her best friend will be angry with her beyond compare. “Harry, Hera should be the one to tell you all this. I know I always tell you things about Hera, and yes, I had something to do with all this, but this I really think you should hear from her, what she wants to tell you. I just, it’s her business to tell you. Not mine. Not this time.”

Harry nips at the inside of his cheek anxiously, turning on his heel and staring at where Matty and Hera are having a very intense conversation – Harry can feel energy between them as Hera stands across from him, arms folded in front of her chest and her fingertips fidgeting against her skin. Harry wants to walk over and ask questions, to finally understand what the hell everyone is talking about that he is so lost from. He wants to know what happened in the last two years, how it went from the two of them not speaking, to Harry calling Matty for word on Hera when she wouldn’t answer his calls, to Harry finding out that Hera was dating Grant at the London show. Harry has so many questions, so many questions that it seems that no one but Hera can answer, and the nerves of anticipation leading to when he can finally bring her aside and ask what is going on is getting to him more than he would like to admit.

Harry can feel the jealousy bubbling in his stomach, the anxiety, and the nerves that he used to feel quite often in the beginning of their relationship making their way to the surface. He quickly shakes them off, walking towards the bar and getting himself a whiskey neat, something to mull and hopefully dull the nerves as he waits for her to come back to him, to tell him everything. He swallows thickly, hating the feeling in his stomach, the uneasiness. He’s worked very hard over the last two years to overcome these feelings, the instant jealousy he would feel when he wasn’t aware of something that others were when it came to her. Hera would always tell him, always in her own time, and he thought that he was past these instantaneous feelings of jealousy and upset when it comes to her. He thought his maturity has surpassed these feelings.

Harry was obviously wrong about that.

Harry spent the first year of their relationship always jealous of others – jealous of the way others knew her, the way their friendship was, the inside jokes. Harry was jealous that there were a handful of others that knew Hera in a way he didn’t, but now that he knows Hera that way, intimately and intentionally, he understands that that is just how Hera is with people she loves, that she’s close to. If you are lucky enough to be loved by Hera “June” Collins, you will know her – inside and out, the good parts and the bad parts; you will know her fears, her secrets, her innermost thoughts; you will know what she hates about herself, and what she loves about everyone around her. Hera is a thick, layered, brick wall of protection, but once you make your way inside, you’re there forever. Harry earned his way in, day by day, moment by moment, until he was fully inside, encapsulated by her and the knowledge of her, until he thought that he knew everything about her – only to be fooled by something new in the very next moment. Harry knows Hera, arguably better than anyone he has ever known, and every day he yearns to find out more, to understand more about her. Harry wants to be consumed by her, by the knowledge of her. Harry knows that Hera will tell him, in her own time, at her own very pace. He can’t rush her, or Hera will shut down, and that is the very last thing Harry wants with her.

And this is just another thing Harry is about to find out.

“Out of all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never been nervous to talk to you,” Matty says while they walk to the corner of the lawn, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets and his eyes travelling between Hera and the ocean only a few feet away from them. “This doesn’t feel like us very much, does it?” Hera shakes her head silently, brushing her hair away from her face and behind her ear. “You’ve never gone this long without talking to me, Hera. Not even when I was in rehab, and you broke my wee little heart. That time hurt, too, let me tell you.”

“Matty,” Hera says warningly, walking towards the railing and leaning her hands against the metal, breathing in the wafting scent of the ocean waves, and allowing her mind to clear. Hera needs to make things right with everyone. Matty deserves an apology. Grant deserves an apology, even though his behavior has also been out of line recently. Harry deserves an apology for Hera’s stubbornness and unwillingness to see everything that they had in their future, the future that she ripped away all too soon by her thickheadedness. Hera, since the very first time she saw Harry a month ago, has come to realize how much change is needed in her life. Hera needs to be honest, not only with herself, but with the people around her, and the best way to do that is to start apologizing for the things she’s done wrong. “I’m really sorry, Matty, for everything that I said to you when I left, and for the fact that I haven’t reached out on my own in two years. I, I used you while I was hurting, and I took my hurt out on you, when you were just trying to be a good friend. That wasn’t right, and it shouldn’t have taken me this long to see that, or to apologize to you. I’m embarrassed that I acted that way.”

Matty stares off into the ocean, carefully watching the way her body moves and adjusts anxiously in his peripheral vision as she sucks in the deepest breaths into her lungs, turning her body to face him. Matty remembers the way Hera would fidget and her voice would grow quiet, and it took well over a year for her to really feel comfortable with telling him what was wrong when it happened, it took a very long time for her to get comfortable enough to tell him what was going wrong in her life. Matty can only imagine what it’s taking now to apologize now that things are going right.

“Can you say something? Anything really. I don’t expect you to forgive me, right now. Hell, I probably wouldn’t forgive me, right away. I just, I need to know that I didn’t ruin an eight-year friendship over me being a heartbroken idiot. I miss you.”

Matty turns and leans onto the metal railing, folding his arms in front of his chest, a slight smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, “I’m glad you recognize that you were being an idiot.”

“Not nice, Matty,” Hera says, nudging her elbow into his side, a sigh of relief coming through her parted lips as she sucks in a deep breath and feels the oxygen reach the depths of her stomach, filling her lungs all the way and giving her the air to breathe. Matty slings his arm around her shoulder and pulls her into his side, her arms circling around his wait to hug him. His arm around her feels protective, brotherly, a vastly different feeling than when they became friends (and something more) all those years ago. “You look good, you know. I’m happy to see you look this healthy.”

“I wasn’t going to let myself go just because you decided you couldn’t be my friend, anymore, either, Hera,” Matty says, leaning his cheek on her head and squeezing her against him. Matty smiles looking down at her, admiring the way her eyes are bright and shining against the sun. Hera looks happy, genuinely happy, which isn’t something he’s seen from her in a very long time. “You look happy, Hera.”

“I am.”

“I’m proud of you, June Bug,” Matty smiles, laughing at the way her cheeks grow a darker shade under the intensity of his stare. “I’m happy that you chose your own happiness, for once. It’s what you deserve, you know, even when you don’t believe that yourself.” His hand squeezes around her shoulder, a whispered, “I love you,” into her hair sharing exactly what he knows she needs to hear. Hera smiles against him, and Matty knows she’s heard him.

“I love you,” Hera hums, wrapping her arms tighter around his waist and squeezing him against her, pulling away only slightly to meet his stare. Hera leans onto her toes and kisses his cheek sweetly, patting his shoulder playfully before turning around and scanning the cocktail hour for her lover. He’s easy to spot, his finger tracing around the rim of his whiskey and his eyes travelling between them and his ringed fingers. Hera knows that she has to explain to him what’s happening, all the things she was trying to hide. Harry deserves to know what happened in the midst of their break, the way she went slightly out of control of her emotions and rational thoughts. Harry loves her, and he would be there to support her in picking up the pieces, Hera knows this, but that doesn’t make it any easier to tell him. Hera looks at Matty and then to Harry, and says, “I think I’m going to go explain to Harry what’s going on.”

“Good idea,” Matty hums, pursing his lips together and nodding his head slowly, nodding over to where Harry is leaning against a wall and swirling his whiskey, his eyes occasionally travelling between the newly married couple taking their photographs and where his lover is standing as she slowly pulls away from her friend. “I bet Harry’s head is spinning with questions, right now. Questions that only you can answer, my dear friend.”

Hera silently nods her head, swallowing the nerves that have been building in her chest and staring longingly as Harry meets her stare, giving her the softest, most comforting smile as though to tell her, it’s all going to be okay, which is something she desperately would like to hear. Hera narrows her eyes at Matty teasingly, patting his cheek playfully before turning on her heel and walking towards her lover, the swell of the party and the hum of every guest speaking filling her body with joy and excitement. Hera smiles brightly, staring at Harry as he waits for her to walk to him, his body shifting to accommodate where she would inevitably come to stand against him. Hera will walk to him, slide her arms around his waist, and lean her chin against his chest, staring up at him adoringly. Harry has come to know that as Hera’s favorite way to be close to him, as close as she can be without physically feeling him on her skin. Harry knows her like the back of his hand, better than anyone, and she knows that he’s waiting patiently for her to tell him everything. Hera always tells him, sometimes it just takes a bit of time to get there.

Hera certainly fulfils Harry’s expectations, walking to him and smiling softly, circling her arms around his waist, and leaning against his chest, puckering her lips as though to ask for a kiss, which he happily indulges. Harry kisses her twice, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and tapping his fingertips against his glass, kissing her forehead sweetly before saying, “Look like you’re feeling better. Is everything okay, now? Do you want to talk about anything?”

“Everything is okay, yeah,” Hera says, breathing out a breath that she didn’t realize she was holding in her lungs, the heaviness weighing on her chest lightened but lingering only slightly. Hera will have to tell Harry everything, everything about her. Hera will have to tell Harry about the bad things with her family, about the bad things that she’s done, which has included breaking the hearts of people she loves – his included – and she will have to face the repercussions of those decisions, of those choices. Hera doesn’t have ruin their day with that, now, though. “I want to talk, but not now. I don’t want to ruin a good day.”

Harry sets his whiskey on the table next to him, taking his hands and grabbing Hera’s face delicately, cupping her cheeks and bringing their mouths together in a sweetened kiss, his mouth moving softly against hers. Hera smiles, breaking their kiss ever so slightly, the butterflies swirling in her stomach reminding her of the very first time Harry kissed her, the way she felt all those years ago continuing to be the way she feels every time his mouth meets hers.

July 14, 2018. Live On Tour, Los Angeles, Night Two.

Hera and Harry have been doing this for a while. Harry looks forward to it every day, seeing Hera alone for an hour or two while they talk and get ready for the night, even if other people are in the room with them. Harry has been itching for tonight, the night when the tour is over, and Hera is no longer working for him – Harry knows how that could sound to anyone else, to think that maybe he doesn’t like her work or what she’s done for the tour, but that is quite literally the opposite. Harry has enjoyed Hera working with him so much and has enjoyed spending time with her so much – especially the time they have spent alone in his dressing room every night of tour and the moments where he’s dancing with her to Kacey Musgraves’ set before the show and the laughing at the bar when they’re all sharing a drink (non-alcoholic for Harry) after the shows – that he is excited for the day that they are no longer mixing business with pleasure, which Hera has made abundantly clear she will not do. Harry has been patient, abundantly patient, and has respected her boundaries of what she will and won’t accept. Harry has accepted that with grace, a) because he respects her deeply and b) because he wants this to mean something more than just a spur of the moment, Harry wants Hera to realize that he really likes her, as more than just a coworker or a friend.

Hera is walking towards Harry’s dressing room, head low and her hands fidgeting against her trousers. Hera knows what the tour ending means for her, and especially what it means for her and Harry. Once the stage is down and the tour is over, there are no more boundaries of what Hera can and won’t do with him. Hera could kiss him. Hera wants to kiss him. Hera could go on a date with him. Hera could do other things with him. Hera is nervous, probably more aware of her surroundings simply because of the implications of what tonight means for her and him, and she is suddenly very aware of the way everyone is smiling at her and nodding her on as she nears Harry’s dressing room. Harry Lambert is leaving as Hera walks in, a courteous smile from her thrown his way although he winks at her as she leaves. Harry is nearly dressed, trousers fitting snugly on his hips and a tank top accentuating his toned abdomen. Hera forces herself to look away from his chest and meet his eyes, the smile on his face enough to make her stomach hurt from butterflies and excitement.

‘Did you tell the entire tour something?’ Hera questioned as soon as Harry Lambert was out of the room and the door was shut behind him. Harry walked closer to her, brushing a stray hair away from her forehead and tucking it behind her ear. Hera’s breath hitched in her throat. Harry always gets so close, close enough to feel his breath on her plush lips, but never too far. Harry never goes too far. ‘Have you told them? Is that why they’re all smiling at me funny?’

Harry smirks, ‘Tell them what, H? That every time we’re alone, I always come this close,’ Hera’s eyes flutter shut because, in this moment, Harry’s only centimeters away from her mouth, so close that all Hera has to do is lean the slightest bit forward, and they would kiss for the very first time, ‘this close to kissing you? Or tell them that I like you? Cause, I hate to tell you this, but I think everyone on the tour knows that by now.’

Hera swallows thickly, ‘Tour is almost over. Only are a few hours left of Live on Tour, Harry. That’s it. That’s all we have to make it through.’ Hera hates that this is her rule. Hera hates that she’s not kissing him. Harry smells so good – like mint and cedarwood. Hera swears that the closer she gets, the more she can smell him, and she’s nearly ready to jump into his skin.

Harry smirks, his thumb pinching her chin and encouraging her to open her eyes and meet his stare, which is piercingly intently into her honey brown eyes, ‘I waited this long for a kiss, Hera, it better be worth my while.’

‘Careful, Harry, you might not even get one.’

Harry smirks, releasing her chin and stepping away from her only slightly, just enough for her chest to sink with a breath that she was holding in her lungs and for her to really get an eyeful of his appearance. Hera, on a night when they were all collected in his dressing room, casually sipping on drinks after a show was over and everyone was looking through his wardrobe, commented that her favorite suit in the collection was this one, that she thought it would fit him well, and since then Harry has been holding off on wearing it until now, until the final night. Hera smiles at him, her eyes dragging across his body in the most respectful way she could muster, although the thoughts behind her eyes were anything but that. Harry respected the self-control because everyone knows that he was fighting every day with his own.

‘Final thoughts?’

‘You look,’ Hera swallows all the words that she wants to say, all the words that would get her in trouble, words that would end with his suit on the floor and her trousers somewhere behind her. ‘You look absolutely great, Harry. I was right. This is the best suit you brought with you. Gucci treats you well.’

Harry blushes under the intense stare Hera is giving him, and she takes note of that for future reference. Hera likes when Harry blushes, especially because it typically is accompanied by a dimple in the cheek and a flush of color to his perfectly tanned skin. ‘Thank you.’ Harry fidgets with the trousers on his waist, avoiding Hera’s intense eye contact. ‘Can I hug you before I go on stage? Is that allowed in the many rules of Hera Collins?’

‘Hugs are allowed. On a fifteen second timer.’

Harry smiles brightly, and Hera knows by the way his eyes widened a bit and the dimples are indenting his cheeks that he’s going to, ever so respectfully, most certainly break the fifteen second rule, multiple times, she’s sure. Harry opens his arms widely, calling her into them. Hera walks forward, immediately feeling a rush of warmth and security around her. Hera sinks into his blanket of comfortability, his arms tightly wound around her shoulders and his chin on her head, her ear tucked against where his heart is beating rhythmically against his ribs. Hera swears that their hearts are beating in the same rhythm, but she also thinks that may be because she’s so anxious that she can hear her heart beating in her ears. Harry doesn’t move, and she’s definitively sure that they hug for nearly five minutes, because suddenly there’s a knocking on the door, a call for five minutes, and the bustle of people moving outside interrupting the moment. Hera is reluctant to pull away, as she is nearly every night, but this feels different.

This is the last night Hera will see Harry routinely, every night, for an hour or so, just the two of them. Harry has her number, yes, but will he use it? Hera isn’t sure. Hera will be back in London soon with Isla, likely getting started on the engineering of the Music For Cars Tour that is set to start at the end of November, and she will have little time to entertain. Making time for Harry would be easy, she thinks to herself, but she shakes her head of her thoughts and reluctantly pulls away from his chest, ‘Unfortunately, that was more than fifteen seconds, and you have to go.’

Harry laughed and nodded respectfully, grabbing his suit jacket, and nodding towards her, allowing her to leave the dressing room first. Harry knows that she gets pulled away by her best friend every night when she leaves the room, likely to be interrogated, but Harry trusts that whatever they talk about stays between them. Hera’s never given him a reason not to trust her.

Hera can feel Harry’s eyes on her the entire night. Hera isn’t even in the audience in a particularly visible spot, but as soon as he sees her, it’s like the entire audience has washed away and it’s only her there. Hera enjoys herself, she always does, dancing and singing along with Isla in the Front of House box and making herself useful here and there. Hera can feel his eyes on her when it comes time for the second stage, and when he mouths, ‘wait for me’, Hera can tell that something is going to happen, tonight, whether it’s what she thinks it is, or what she wants, all that she knows is that something is going to change when the show is over, something big.

Hera has always liked to do this, to watch the local crew and stagehands take the stage that she created in her mind and break it down in a matter of hours, the stage that took hours and hours to think in her imagination and the stage that took hours and hours, even days sometimes, to physically create, torn down in a matter of hours. Hera always felt like it was the biggest full circle moment that there was to witness – to see it built on the first day and taken apart on the last. Hera wouldn’t take this for granted, this very last night of tour, the biggest tour she has ever been lucky to work on, and she stayed. Hera stayed to watch the stage taken down in only three or four hours, waving off the team and the production staff and everyone that would filter into the after party that Harry’s management was hosting. Hera would join eventually – Harry still hasn’t seen her since the show ended, and she wanted to know what she was waiting for, if there was something worth waiting for.

Hera felt the vibration against her backside, pulling her phone out of her pocket and instantly scolding herself for the smile that spread across her lips the moment she saw his name flash across her screen. Come to 117, the text read. Hera looked around the arena, scanning the sections for the number in the message, a wide grin spreading across her face when she saw Harry standing at the edge of the stairwell, waving towards her. Hera walked across the empty arena, climbing the stairs to get to him, their features mimicking the same smile – a smile that read, I’m happy I’m with you. Hera and Harry sat together in silence for a while, watching as the heavy walls of metal were carried away from the floor and the arena was left to be cleaned. Harry knew that this was sort of a ritual for Hera, and he wanted to respect the silence, the thoughts she was going through. Harry couldn’t stop staring at her though, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the way he wanted to kiss her.

‘I’m sure it doesn’t mean nearly as much coming from someone like me,’ Hera starts, her hands fidgeting nervously on her thighs as she breaks the comfortable silence between them, ‘you know, because we haven’t known each other that long, but I, I really want to tell you that you should be really proud of yourself, for everything. Seeing you on stage, Harry, it is just magnetic. I feel really lucky that you’re my friend. I wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you.’

Harry felt like his heart had inched its way into his throat, the tears welling in his eyes enough to make him tuck his chin to his chest and take a moment to breathe before saying anything in return. ‘Hera, I, you know what, that actually means more coming from you than you realize.’

‘Thank you for taking a chance on me, Harry. I, I can’t believe how much this has changed my life, in the very best way,’ she admitted softly, not daring to lift her head from her chest.

‘Thank you for taking a chance on me, too, Hera.’ Hera loved the way Harry says her name, so sweet and gentle, like it is something so delicate and needing to be nurtured with every syllable.

Hera could feel Harry’s eyes on her, the way there was a magnetic something pulling her to look at him, even just for a second, to meet his eyes and see that he’s smiling just as wide as he had when she walked in the room earlier, like he was happiest to see her there with him. Hera lifted her face from her hands, turning her face ever so slightly, and in a nanosecond, Hera’s entire life changed. Harry’s hands cupped her cheeks, his mouth so soft and delicate on hers. Hera could memorize the way he tasted – exactly as she thought, peppermint and sweetness, just like honey – the way his mouth fit so perfectly against hers, his mouth so soft against hers. Hera wanted it to last forever, the feeling that she felt in her stomach, the way the butterflies were swirling everywhere and anywhere, looking for somewhere to go. Hera wanted to feel it more, and more.

Harry’s thumbs rubbed her cheek when he gently pulled away, the smile indented into his features mirrored on Hera. Hera giggled quietly, turning around, and leaning back into her seat, Harry following suit, the two of them sitting quietly in their seats, watching as the stage slowly worked its way into simply metal sheets. Hera and Harry continued sharing stolen glances, not daring to utter the first word. Hera didn’t know what to say! Nothing could possibly follow that.

Harry laughed breathily, ‘I would like to do that again. Very soon.’

Hera could feel her cheeks brightening with a very intense blush, ‘I think that would be a really smart idea. Definitely.’ Hera sits for another moment or two without saying anything, and then breaks the silent, ‘How long are you going to wait around here? Jeff has an after party going for you, you know.’

‘I’m going to stay a while; I just want to soak it all in.’

‘Okay,’ Hera sighs, reluctantly standing on her feet and shifting her weight from side to side nervously, unsure of what she wants to do next. ‘I think I’m going to meet Isla at the party before she comes looking for me.’

‘Better do that,’ Harry laughs, standing on his feet and rocking on his heels. Harry can feel Hera staring at him, and he wants to know what she’s thinking. Harry always wants to know what she’s thinking. He swallows his nerves and turns to face her, Hera’s eyes already on him, staring very intently.

‘I should go.’

‘You should.’

Hera smiles, mentally counting to three like her best friend taught her and then says the very thing on her mind, exactly what she’s thinking. ‘I probably shouldn’t kiss you.’

Harry grins, ‘Oh, you really shouldn’t do that. Like at all.’ Harry can’t hide the way his smile is getting wider just looking at her.

Hera sucks in an encouraging breath and lays her hands on his chest, leaning onto her toes ever so slightly to lay her lips on his. Harry immediately circles his arms around her waist, pulling her into his chest, tightening his grip on her. Hera smiles against him, breaking their kiss, her mouth continuing to stay on his as she breathes, ‘I should go.’

‘Stay.’

Hera kisses Harry, again. And again. And again, once more. ‘No, no, I really have to go; you don’t know Isla like I do, and she will come and find me and embarrass me in front of you. Not on purpose, she just has that tendency, as much as I adore her.’

‘Maybe you’re right.’

“Will I see you at the party?’

‘I should probably be there.’

Hera smiled widely, nodding her head and she slowly backed away towards the stairs, her eyes not breaking from his. ‘I’ll see you.’ Harry nodded, smiling at her, feeling the way his heart kept beating rapidly in his chest. Hera turned around and started walking away, the butterflies swirling around so far into her chest and her throat that she thought she might be sick with excitement. Hera never felt that way before, the way she felt when she touched him, when she kissed him. Hera swore that it felt like it would never go away.

And it hasn’t.

Harry’s finger drags along the side of her face lightly, “What are you thinking about? You look lost in a memory.” Harry wants to know what she’s thinking about, everything going on inside her mind. He believes he could live there, inside Hera’s mind, if she only would let him inside.

Hera smiles, laying her head on his chest, breathing in his scent, and listening to the sound of his heartbeat against her ear, his hand gently rubbing circles onto her bare back, “I was.”

“Good memory? Looks like you were remembering a good one,” he whispers against her hair, kissing her head sweetly. Harry looks out into the cocktail hour, everyone mingling and talking, Isla and Beau taking their photographs for their wedding album and their families happily sharing drinks and stories with each other. Harry felt content like this, standing in the corner with Hera in his arms, simply talking and holding her with him. “I hope it was a good one, baby.”

“Very good one, in my humble opinion,” she smiles, tilting her head slightly to meet his intense stare, the emerald hue of his eyes seeming brighter under the fading sunlight. “Our first kiss, the final night of your tour. I just, I feel the same way when I kiss you, now – butterflies and all. I know that this sounds silly and a bit naïve but, that’s how I know you’re it for me. I never want the butterflies to go away, Harry, and truthfully, I don’t think they ever will.” Harry smiles widely, his hand cupping her cheek tilting her head ever so slightly to make their mouths meet in the middle, kissing her over and over again in sweet kisses. Hera giggles and Harry pulls away only slightly. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that, though. I will deny it until I’m blue in the face.”

Harry nudges his nose against hers with a breathy laugh, whispering, “My lips are sealed tight, honey. Obviously, I wouldn’t want you turning blue. Need you living and breathing and happy at all times.” Harry stays like that for a moment, simply hovering above her lips. He hasn’t told her outright that he understands the feeling, that his stomach tightens, and his heart squeezes every time she looks at him, even if she’s only giving him a faint smile from far away. He knows, though, that the way they’re looking at each other right now, the way she’s holding onto him, they don’t need to say the words to know exactly how they’re feeling. “You’re happy, aren’t you, Hera?”

Hera stays silent, trying to remember this moment in time, where nearly everything feels right and perfect. Harry is such a gentle person, so good to her, in so many ways, and there is so much she wants to say to him, to thank him for, to tell him to make sure he knows just how much she loves him. Hera is sure that the way she’s looking at him could relay such thoughts, but she wants to say it to him in words, to really be vulnerable – something she is working on. Hera smiles at him, kissing his cheek sweetly before saying, “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Harry wants to say something, something to share how much he adores her. He always has all these emotions and thoughts swirling around in his imagination when it comes to Hera, so many things he wants to tell her about what he’s thinking, but something always seems to get in the way. Hera seems comfortable with the silence that they’re soaking in, her arms tucked beneath his jacket and around his waist, his fingers delicately drawing along the magnolia tree tattooed along the center of her spine. Harry is comfortable staying here with her, waiting for her to be ready to tell him whatever she’s thinking, and maybe that will open the door for him to say what he's thinking, as well – to finally tell her how much it means to him to be here with her, to have her in his arms. Harry’s memories of their most heartbreaking moments have made him hyperaware of how lucky he is today, to be standing here with her in his arms, that she found her way back to him. Harry wants her to know that he feels just as lucky to be holding her.

Hera lifts her head slightly to look around the corner, loosely attempting to see where all of their friends have gathered for the remainder of the photographs during the cocktail hour. “Harry?” Harry hums in response, lost in his thoughts, kissing her forehead to encourage her to continue. “I think we’re missing the photographs we’re meant to be in. I’m pretty sure all of our friends are over there already. I’m a dead woman if I’m not in those pictures.”

“Isla is going to kill us,” Harry murmurs with a breathy laugh, pushing himself off the wall and taking Hera’s hand, lacing their fingertips together and walking hurriedly to the opposite section of the property where all of their friends were collecting together to begin taking their group photographs. Hera clutches the side of her dress, hurrying to keep along with Harry’s pace as they speed over to where the pictures are being taken. Harry attempts to charm their friend, although as soon as they are in eyesight, they are receiving plenty of stern stares, “Hi, Isla.”

“Nice of you to join us, Harry.” Harry laughs at Isla’s remark, apologizing to the photographer and nudging Hera inside the grouping. Hera takes her bouquet and holds it proudly in front of her chest, leaning into Isla and smiling brightly with the flashes of the camera. “Have you talked to Harry?” Isla mumbles to Hera under her breath, nearly inaudible to Hera herself, Isla’s mouth pinned in a wide smile as the photographer takes the pictures of the large gathering of friends.

“Not yet,” Hera hums, swallowing thickly when someone calls her name, a sigh of relief passing through her lips when an assistant signals for her to brush her hair away from her shoulder for the remaining photographs. “I will when the time is right. I don’t want to ruin the way things are going, right now. Harry knows I’ll tell him everything.” Isla looks at Hera solemnly, as though to say, I hope you’re right. Hera tucks away her nerves in the back of her brain, saving it for another day.

“Lovely, everyone!” the photographer interrupts, drawing the girls’ attention away from their private conversation and centered back on the photographer. “Isla and Hera, I’d like to grab your portraits, now. Once we’re done with you two separately, we’ll add in Beau and Harry.”

Isla and Hera maneuver every which way for their photographs, Beau and Harry coming in every so often to adjust the trains of the dresses in the way that they know their significant other would appreciate. Isla stands closely to Hera, hugging her tightly, the genuine smile on her lips as they stare at each other silently saying just how happy she is to be experiencing this day with her best friend by her side, something that always knew would be special, but feeling it now – there’s nothing quite like this. Isla’s eyes well with her own sentiment, a breathy laugh passing through as she says, “I’m so happy you’re my best friend.”

Hera wipes the tears that instantly slip down her cheeks, gently setting the bouquet on the ground near her feet and wrapping her arms tightly around Isla, squeezing her into her chest. Isla hands her bouquet off to Beau, wrapping her arms around her waist, the two holding each other as close as physically possible as silent tears fall down their skin. “You’re my very best friend, La La.”

“And it’ll always be that way, whether I’m married or not, okay? Hera, you can count on me, always, every single time. I’ll always be there for you.” Isla sucks in a breath that travels all the way to her edge of the lungs. All of these words feel so heavy, so meaningful. “You’re my best friend for life, you know.”

Hera pulls away to look at Isla. “And you’re mine.”

Hera’s eyes haze over as she stares adoringly at her very best friend; Isla is the only person, the very first person, Hera had ever considered to be a genuine friend, someone that she could confide in and share the darkest parts of her life with, and Isla, since the very first day, has made Hera feel like she was worth something greater, that she is never a burden, that she is always enough. Having a friend like that, it’s simply once in a lifetime.

Harry and Isla talked about what this would be like before the wedding day officially arrived. Harry knew that Hera would chalk her emotions to the jet lag, flying from Harry’s last stadium show to the wedding destination, going straight into the rehearsal dinner and the wedding without any recovery time, instead of what is actually bothering her, like Harry and Isla really know. Isla knew that the only one besides her that Hera would want to be with her would be Harry, and they coordinated enough time in between the introductions and the first dance to give Hera a minute to enjoy the party before she would begin feeling overwhelmed and need to leave. Isla didn’t mind. Isla knew why Hera felt the way she did, and why she would have to leave for a minute, but Harry knew that he would likely have to tell her that it’s okay, whatever she’s feeling, and it would take a minute before she’s ready to go back inside. Harry was preparing himself to feel all of these emotions with her, to be there for her, in any way he could be.

Hera must’ve known it was coming. Hera must’ve known that the announcement was coming because she immediately grabbed Harry’s hand on her thigh and intertwined their fingers, her gaze falling to where their hands are connected and tracing over his knuckles, trying to calm herself down without making anyone aware of the way she was beginning to worry and panic on the inside. Harry noticed immediately, though, as he always does. Harry slid his chair closer to hers, sliding his hand out from hers and wrapping it around her shoulder, his thumb brushing beneath her hair and slowly rubbing the back of her neck soothingly. His other hand laid gently on her thigh, allowing her to return to her centralized focus on brushing over the nerves of his hand. Harry could tell that it was getting worse by the second, and he needed to get her out of there quickly.

“Come outside with me for a minute, baby? Need to get some fresh air,” Harry whispers in Hera’s ear, his thumb gently rubbing over the back of her hand as she stares at the satin fabric of her dress, the anxiety written into her mannerisms only visible to him. Hera swallows, and Harry is sure that she is swallowing back tears, looking at him with gratitude and indescribable heartache. Harry stands from the table, ignoring the looking eyes of their friends, and holds out his hand, intertwining his fingers with Hera’s as they swiftly walk out of the reception and into the cocktail area where the only sounds that they can hear are the hum of the music vibrating through the tent. Hera waits a moment before looking at him, sucking in a deep breath, a breath that Harry’s sure burned all the way down, his heart immediately breaking when he sees the well of tears waiting for permission to fall down her cheeks. Harry immediately pulls Hera into his chest, his arms wrapping around her shoulders, kissing her head sweetly. “Hey, hey, I’ve got you, now. You’re okay, H. I promise. You’re safe, Hera.”

Hera squeezes her arms around his waist, her chest falling with the heavy breath released through her lips. Hera’s been holding her breath for minutes, sucking in every emotion and trying to calm herself, but hearing those words come from him, feeling the safety of being wrapped in his arms, Hera knows that it’s true, that what he’s saying means something, especially to her. Hera’s cheeks are wet when she finally tilts her head to look at him. Harry is staring at her, with eyes full of love and compassion, and he isn’t angry, nor is he upset in the slightest. Hera smiles softly, and all that she can think about is the very first time she realized she was in love with him.

Hera and Harry had only been together a short while, maybe two or three weeks shy of six months, when Harry met Dalia and John. Harry knew it was nerve-wracking for Hera, especially since meeting her mother and father had been the cause of such a significant fight – their very first fight. Harry hadn’t really realized what meeting Dalia and John would entail, the emotional toll it would take on Hera to just be in the same room as the two. Harry assumed, like anyone, there were things that they disagreed upon, maybe even argued over, but Harry did not anticipate what he would witness within seconds of walking into the household.

Hera, although she did her very best to warn him, immediately shut down, her voice becoming nearly inaudible and her hands clasping together inside her sweater to avoid her mother from seeing her shake with anxiety. Harry, who noticed the instant shift in demeanor, did his very best to impress her mother and father despite this, who seemingly only had terrible things to say about their only daughter. Harry desperately tried to be a comfort to Hera as they stayed in the house and the minutes passed, holding her hand and rubbing his thumb along her knuckles, the shock and anger rising in his body as he listened to her mother speak such cruel words about her daughter to him, her father ignoring every comment, completely disregarding that she was their only child. Harry thought it must’ve been a test, a test he wasn’t quite sure of what regard, but it must have been, because who would ever speak so lowly of their child? Harry and Hera suffered through harsh remarks and commentary through dinner, questions of why Harry would be with someone like Hera, comments that he would be better off with someone else. Harry argued against them, but it was clear in their eyes that their minds wouldn’t ever change, and Harry suddenly understood why Hera was so against him meeting them, why she wouldn’t speak about her family. How could she? How could she ever share stories about her family when this is how she grew up? Harry understood, now, but it was too late.

Hera, as soon as they finished washing up after dinner, immediately showed him to the bedroom where he would sleep for the night – he would sleep in the guest room across from her bedroom – and when he shut the door quietly behind them, Hera said, ‘Do you see? Do you see why I didn’t want to bring you here?’ Harry wanted to comfort her, to dry the tears on her cheeks. Hera held up her hand and kept him at a distance. ‘I never wanted you to see this part of me, to hear these things. I’m not ashamed of you, Harry. I could never be ashamed of you. I’m ashamed of me.’ Harry swore he’s never felt so ignorant, so ashamed of the way he behaved, Hera could see it all over his face. Hera swallowed down the remaining tears, wiping her face and adjusting the cuffs of her sweater around her hands, ‘I’ll meet you downstairs at eight; we’re leaving first thing in the morning.’ Harry asked if he could come into her room when her parents had gone to sleep, just to lay with her for a while. Hera nodded solemnly, sadly, wiping her eyes one last time and turning on her heel, walking out of the bedroom and into her childhood bedroom, the tears beginning to fall before she could even shut her door.

Hera’s door creaked open quietly, just barely audible to her ears, and she knows who it is. Harry climbs in the bed behind her, wrapping his arms around her body and encasing her in his warmth, kissing the back of her neck and saying, ‘I don’t want you coming back here. I won’t ever ask you to come back here, Hera.’ Hera can feel the embarrassment heating her cheeks, and she’s suddenly happy that they’re in the dark, that she’s hidden away from where he could see her reaction to his words. Harry’s kind, thoughtful, but a bit naïve if he really thinks that she’ll never have to come back to her mother and father’s home again. It’s never that easy. Life is never that easy. Harry must’ve felt the way she tensed at his words, because quickly he followed with, ‘You have a family, now, Hera. Isla, Beau, Grant, Matty. You have me, H. You have me. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t need this in your life, anymore.’ Hera wipes her eyes, the tears falling fast and uncontrollably. Hera says that she doesn’t want to speak anymore, that she just wants to fall asleep. Harry nods sadly, kissing the back of her neck and gently rubbing his thumb over the curve of her shoulder, caressing her skin as soothingly as possible. Harry never wanted to see her this way, so visibly distraught and unhappy, and he’s finally seen what does it, the root behind all of these nerves and insecurities and trauma. Harry never wants her to experience this again. Not if there’s something he can do or say to get in the way of it.

Hera is waiting for him promptly at eight, overnight bag clutched between her hands, keys dangling around her neck. Harry closes the door to the guest room quietly, checking one final time to make sure that everything looked exactly as he found it – the last thing he wanted was for her parents, specifically her mother, to blame her for the room being messy – before walking down the stairs and setting his bag on the floor. ‘Are you ready?’ Harry asked, Hera’s quick nod and a flick of her eyes towards the kitchen telling him that they’ll need to say goodbye. Harry nods, clutching her hand in his tightly and walking into the kitchen side by side, the weight of his hand in hers seemingly calming the nerves the were causing her other hand to shake.

‘Mum, we have to head out early,’ Hera said quietly, bravely releasing Harry’s hand and stepping forward, daring to reach out to her father who is sitting at the head of the table on his computer, likely working. He doesn’t even look twice in Hera’s direction, although she does her best to embrace him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in an awkward hug. He nods without looking at her or squeezing her arm in return, or even offering to stand and hug her properly. Hera swallows thickly, tears forming in her eyes, the walk to her mother a walk of shame, without any comfort or sincerity. Dalia doesn’t hug her. ‘I will talk to you soon.’

‘You’ll call me later, June.’

‘I’ll call you later, Mum.’

Harry steps forward and offers his hand to her father, who eyes him first before extending out his hand and shaking his roughly, saying, ‘Nice to meet you,’ in the gruffest tone possible. Harry moves to her mother next, thanking her for allowing him to stay and for the dinner that she made. Dalia looks at Harry with an almost sincerity, a near kindness, and says, ‘I hope to see you, again. Understandable if not.’ Harry knows that this is not a reflection on her own behavior, but rather she feels a reflection of her daughter, and possibly her daughter’s inability to maintain a relationship with someone like Harry, which is absolutely absurd to him.

Harry turns on his heel, holding his hand out for Hera to take, sighing in relief – it’s over now – and sticking his spare hand in his pocket as he takes their overnight bags and opens the front door, staying close behind Hera as she makes her way towards the car, head tucked to her chest and voice quiet. Harry sticks their bags in the backseat before climbing into the driver’s side, turning the engine on, and pulling out the driveway swiftly before turning to look at Hera. Hera’s eyes are wet with tears, bright red and slightly puffy, the tears streaming down her cheeks so quickly that he doesn’t think she would be able to wipe them away if she tried. Harry reaches over to grab her hand, his heart sinking into the depths of his stomach when Hera shakes her head and pushes his hand away, turning her body slightly to face out the window and away from him. Hera doesn’t say anything for a while, not until they’re nearing the exit for their respective homes. ‘Can you take me home?’ she muttered shamefully, turning her head ever so slightly to see where their bags were in the backseat. Hera reaches through the console and grabs her backpack to bring it on her lap. ‘I just want to go home.’

Harry doesn’t know what to say. He knows that all of this is his fault, these emotions and this heavy feeling weighing on his chest and the visible shift in her demeanor is because of something he fought for, something he fought for but didn’t understand. Harry doesn’t know if Hera is going to speak to him after this; if she will cut him out of her life and never utter another word to him. He couldn’t blame her, if that’s what she wanted, truth be told. After seeing what Hera goes through with her mother and father, it’s not surprising whatsoever that she didn’t want to introduce him to her family. Hera doesn’t have grandparents and siblings to support her when times are tough with her mother and father. It’s Dalia and John. That’s all Hera has, and they don’t even like her. Harry was so very wrong for pushing her into seeing them, and he wishes he could take it back, that he could erase the last twenty-four hours from their story, from Hera’s memory. That’s not something Harry can do though.

And now, Harry has to face the consequences.

Harry pulls into Hera’s driveway silently, parking the car and turning off the engine slowly, turning his body to face Hera in the passenger seat as she unlocks the car and gestures to get out. Harry grabs her wrist lightly, encouraging her to look at him. Harry’s voice is gentle when he says, ‘I am so sorry, Hera.’

‘Not your fault. You didn’t know.’

‘It is my fault. You tried to tell me, and I didn’t listen. I pushed you, and I regret doing that. I am sorry, for all of this.’

Hera looks at Harry, and then looks to her home. Inside that townhome, it’s safe. No one can hurt her there. Hera has control over who comes and who goes, and she knows that she’s far enough away that her mother and father will likely never come to see her. Hera knows that she is safe when she steps inside, and she will be able to calm herself down and feel every emotion that she needs to. Inside that townhome, Hera is home, or whatever that is supposed to feel like. Inside that townhome, the house isn’t burning, there isn’t even smoke. Hera can breathe.

‘I think I need a bit of space, Harry.’ Harry swallows thickly, and through her peripheral vision, Hera can tell that his heart has sunk to the depths of his stomach, all by demeanor. ‘I just, I need to be alone for a few days, okay? I’ll call you.’ Hera leans over and kisses his cheek before climbing out of the car, walking to her front door, and getting herself inside, not stopping for a second to look at Harry or the way his fists have tightened against the steering wheel. Hera can breathe when she gets inside, she can feel every emotion and let the tears fall.

And that’s exactly what she does.

Hera didn’t speak to Harry for three days. Although, that doesn’t mean Harry hasn’t reached out to her. Hera can’t respond, not now. Hera assumes that he’s still speaking to her out of pity, which is the last thing she wants from a partner or relationship. Hera doesn’t need anyone to pity her or sympathize with her situation. Hera needs people in her life that remind her that she’s not any of the things her mother claims her to be, and Hera especially needs people in her life that will love her despite those things.

Isla didn’t wait for the invitation. Isla came over the very next morning with coffee and chocolate chip muffins and a hug that only your best friend could give you. Isla and Hera talked about everything, about the things that were said, about the way Harry responded, about the way Hera misses him, even though it’s only been a few days without speaking to him. Hera knows that she needs to figure out how she’s feeling, what she wants to say and how she wants to go about her relationship with him from here on out, if there is even a relationship to talk about. Isla assures her that Harry is going to be there, that he loves her, even though they haven’t said the words out loud, and Hera wants to believe her, quite desperately, if she’s honest. Harry is the first person in her life that has made her feel like there’s a way out of the burning house of her life. Harry and Isla. And Hera is beginning to feel like if she doesn’t have them in her life, that she’s going to be stuck forever.

Isla left on the morning of the fourth day. Isla left with the encouragement of telling Hera to reach out to him, to speak to him, and to tell him how she’s feeling about everything. Hera thought about it, really thought about it, but the idea of telling him all the bad parts of her life is just too intimidating, too much, and she knows that no one really wants to hear that. Hera would rather bundle it inside, tuck it away in the deepest parts of her brain, and think about it as little as possible. Her feelings are safe that way.

Hera is barely getting out of the shower when there’s knocking on her front door. Her hair is in a towel, her most comfortable clothes clinging loosely to her body. Her mind wanders to who it could be, who could possibly be showing up at her doorstep. Isla just left. Matty is out of town. Harry hasn’t texted her today, likely giving up since she hasn’t responded in nearly a week. That leaves very few people who know where she lives and would want to see her. Hera swallows back her nerves and opens the door, her whole heart swelling into the size of a balloon in her chest when she sees Harry standing there, head tucked against his chin. Harry looks nervous, maybe even shy, and he doesn’t even have to say a word before Hera is rushing to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and hugging him tightly. Hera clutches his sweatshirt in her fists, his arms circling around her shoulders and holding her to him, his head tucking into the side of her face.

‘I’ve got you, baby,’ Harry whispers into her ear, and Hera can feel the tears welling in her eyes. ‘I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.’ Hera nods against him, tears staining his sweater. Harry carefully moves them inside, closing the door behind him and holding her even tighter, not daring to have her move. He gently pulls the towel from her hair, her curls falling limply around her face. Harry pushes the stray hairs away from her forehead and kisses her skin. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I wanted to give you space like you asked for.’ Hera nods, her voice caught her in throat. Hera doesn’t know what to say; no one has ever been this way with her, cared for her this much. It’s unlike anything she’s ever felt before. ‘I just, I want you to know, Hera, that I don’t think any differently of you. I don’t think any of those things that were said are true. I care about you, and there are so many people in your life that care and love you. I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone. You have a family, Hera. I would like to be a part of it.’

‘Harry, we haven’t even been together for that much time. I, there are so many things about me that you don’t know yet and I just, I don’t know if you want to do that,’ Hera says, the doubt swimming in her brain. How could Harry say that so soon? How could Harry say that he wants to be in her family, in her chosen family, barely six months after they’ve been together? How could anyone know this early? ‘I don’t want you to say this and then regret it in a month.’

‘I could never regret knowing you, Hera.’

Hera looks at Harry, then, pulling away from his chest and leaning her chin against his sternum, their eyes meeting in a glossy stare. His thumb runs along the side of her face, something she’s noticed he does every so often, many times when he thinks she’s asleep. He smiles at her, ever so slightly, the smallest pull at the corner of his lips. Had Hera not been staring, she doesn’t think she would have noticed, but she’s happy she did. His smile feels like a weight lifted from her chest, a light in the darkest tunnel. Hera swallows, admiring the way his arm is secure around her, holding her to him, his thumb continuing its journey around the perimeter of her face. Hera knows something is different about this. Hera has loved so many people before Harry. Hera has loved Isla, and Matty, and Beau. Hera even loves her mother and father, despite everything. Hera loves her career; the way music makes her feel. Hera’s feelings about Harry, though, are something entirely different. It’s the butterflies when Harry says her name. It’s the way she wants to swallow back tears every time Harry delicately drags his finger over her face. It’s the excitement every time Harry’s name is mentioned. It’s the way time seemingly stops when Harry walks in the room. It’s all of those things and more, every single time Harry is involved.

And in that moment, Hera realizes, Harry isn’t just the man she’s in a relationship with, or a friend. Harry isn’t just someone that she loves like she loves everyone else. Harry is the man Hera is in love with.

“Hi, my love.” Harry doesn’t have to say much for Hera to feel the way his love is pouring through him. It’s always like this, and Hera has a feeling it will always be like this.

“Hi,” Hera whispers, smiling softly when Harry’s thumbs rub beneath her eyes, drying the tears that fell absentmindedly down her cheeks. “I’m in love with you. You know that?”

“I was surely hoping so,” Harry smirks, leaning down ever so slightly to brush his nose against hers, his hands cupping her cheeks sweetly, encouraging her to tilt her head just enough for his mouth to meet hers. “Dance with me, H.”

“Can barely hear the music out here,” she says, turning her face just enough to kiss his palm against her cheek. “I’ll always dance with you, though.”

Harry steps back, holding out his hand, bowing slightly for dramatics. Hera giggles, giving Harry her hand and immediately wrapping her arm around his shoulders, his hand clutching hers and his opposite hand holding her lower back, her body tight against his, chest to chest. Harry lays his forehead on hers, swaying quietly to the hum of the music that’s vibrating from the reception. Hera can imagine what it will be like when they get married, when their favorite songs are playing and they’re dancing in the middle of the floor, Harry’s arms around her, a new ring that she slid on his finger adorning his hand, a ring that says they’ll be together forever. Hera can imagine watching Harry dance with his mother to a special song, admiring her newly named husband with the woman who raised him to be the man she loves.

“I can’t wait to see you dance with your mother at our wedding,” Hera says suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper as they stay close together, the sun setting over the horizon.

“Hera, I don’t have to dance with Mum. Our wedding doesn’t have to have all these traditional things, you know. I want you to be comfortable and happy on our wedding day.”

“I want to see you dance with your mother, Harry. I want to see you dance with the woman who raised the man I love. Hell, maybe I’ll dance with your mother, too, since she will be my mother, too, after all.”

Harry looks at Hera with admiration, “I’m absolutely enamored by you, Hera. You continue to amaze me, every single day. You are absolutely beautiful, inside and out.”

“Mean that?” Harry nods, leaning down and pressing his lips to hers, kissing her sweetly under the setting sun. He doesn’t need to say anything else; Hera knows. “Harry?”

“Yes, H?”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Harry grins – this is one of his favorite things that they do, the secrets that they share, because he knows that what he’s about to be told is something no one else on the planet knows about his love, it’s a secret that is given to him to cherish and guard with his life – and nods excitedly, “Always, my heart. Tell me a secret.”

“I saw something the other day, a video, and the woman was talking about trauma and how everyone is born into a different house. There are people that are lucky. Their house is safe, warm, loving. Their house is where they go to escape the world, to find comfort. Their house is made of their family and the people they love most. I think you were born into that kind of house, Harry.” Hera pauses, gathering all of her thoughts and taking a deep breath in, taking all of her courage, and willing herself to continue. Harry sways, his hand continuing to hold hers tightly against his chest as they dance to the music, his eyes locked on her in concentration. “There are people that are quite unlucky with their house, though. I would say I am one of those people.” Harry kisses Hera’s forehead. “Houses like mine, they’re in flames my whole life. Always on fire. Always something wrong or going wrong and I never had anyone to lean on, to teach me, to comfort me. I was always alone.” Harry’s thumb escapes their intertwined hands to brush a tear away from her cheek. “Isla, Isla brought me to a window. Isla brought me to a window in that house, and I felt like I could catch my breath. Matty, for a long time, also brought me to a window. Even Grant, for a while. My friends, they became the only people in my life that could help me breathe.” Hera feels like the words are spilling without any thought, now, flowing freely and telling Harry everything she’s wanted to tell him for so long. “And then I met you.” Harry stops swaying for a moment, just to look at her. “Harry, you brought me out of the burning house. I, I have never felt like I could breathe so safely, like I could see what my life was like from the outside. And when I’m with you, I can see it clearly. I can see everything. And I can see the people that bring good into my life.” Hera swallows back tears and looks at Harry softly, “And you, Harry, you bring so much good.” Harry smiles, his eyes wet with tears. “I know I was lost for a while, and I wandered back inside without you, and that was pure hell, Harry. I never want to go back into that house. I want to be with you, where it’s safe. I want to be with you, and with Isla, and with the people that care about me and love me.” Harry is crying now, too. “I just, I know that my heart led me to you, and life, or the universe or whatever you want to believe, led me to you, and I am so grateful you saved me from that house.”

Harry’s hand around Hera’s waist squeezes her impossibly tighter to his body, their intertwined hands moving from above his heart to under her chin, tilting her head just enough to have their mouths meet in a kiss. Harry kisses Hera deeply, a love professed between their lips and their tongues, words spoken without ever uttering a sound. Harry knows that in this moment, in the world that surrounds them, it is only Hera and Harry. It’s them. It’s Hera and Harry and their love and their adoration for one another, for everything that they have been through. Harry doesn’t need to know everything, right now, all the things that he’s been waiting to hear about his honey, about the love of his life. Hera’s secret, this little look into her life, into how she sees him, is enough. Knowing this about her is enough, for now.

“Always tell me secrets like that, Hera. Can you tell me another?”

“Maybe later,” Hera hums, her fingertips brushing his hair away from his forehead sweetly. “I think we should probably get back in there. It’s almost time for your speech.”

“Nearly forgot I had to do one of those,” Harry smirks, kissing Hera’s cheek before twirling her under his arm and intertwining their hands at his side, walking into the reception without drawing any attention. Hera moves to sit in her chair, a frown from Harry making her laugh. “You’re much too far from me.” Harry grabs the edge of her seat and pulls her closer to him, a stream of laughter falling into the air.

“I’m sitting right next to you! I’m barely a meter away!” Hera is giggling when Harry tucks his face in her neck, kissing her lightly. “You have a speech to give. Don’t get distracted.”

“Much too far, H. I need you around me, always.”

Hera looks at Harry lovingly, grabbing his cheeks and kissing him, barely more than a second or two, but something, a bit of encouragement for his speech that they are now calling him to say. Harry stands on his feet, leaning down and kissing Hera’s head before walking towards where Isla and Beau are seated and taking the microphone from the lead singer of the band, a smirk playing on his lips as he looks between their friends and his lover staring at him expectantly. Harry brings the microphone to his lips, coughing dramatically to draw everyone’s attention.

“Hi. My name is Harry, and I am the reason we’re all here to celebrate the happy couple, tonight, not that anyone should take credit. It is because of me, though.” Harry laughs and turns to Isla and Beau for a moment before looking back at the entire reception. “Isla and Beau met on Halloween nearly four years ago at a party that I invited Isla and Hera to. Long story short, I spilled beer all over Isla and led her right into the arms, and mouth, of Mr. Beau Del Moore. It was something of a whirlwind, watching the two of them fall in love, because it happened as I was also falling in love.” Hera blushes as Harry looks over at her, their eyes meeting for only a second before he’s scanning over the array of people in the hall. Harry is good at sharing his attention, but Hera knows that if he could, he would only be staring at her and their friends. “Over the last few years, there have been double dates and holidays together and parties and all the things that couples do with their friends, and I have had the privilege of watching them fall in love more and more as the days have passed. I have grown to call each of them a friend, a best friend at that, and they have taught me something invaluable: the gift of time. Isla, from the moment we met, never wasted a minute of time not sharing how she feels or what she thinks, even if I don’t want to hear it, many times when I don’t want to hear it, actually. Beau, ever the proper fellow, has never wasted a moment not doing something he loves, or doing exactly what he thinks is right. And together, the two have never wasted a single second not sharing their love for each other. Time goes by fast, faster than we think. In the blink of an eye things can change, people break up, people move away, people get married and have babies and you name it, it will happen. Before you know it, years have passed, and you can’t remember why you did certain things. But what you do know, is that you’ve wasted that time. I came here today with a different speech, more jokes, and a little less sentiment, but it didn’t seem right, it didn’t feel like something I should say to the people that have taught me so much about time and not wasting it. And so, I don’t want to waste your time, and I certainly don’t want to waste theirs.” Harry turns towards Isla and Beau. “I will leave you with this, Isla and Beau, I am forever grateful for the way you have let me in to see your love story, the way you continue to cherish every minute you have together, and I look forward to seeing all the things you two do with your time together. You are starting a life together, a life of love and happiness and kindness, and I look forward to seeing how you to continue to make the most of the time you have in this lifetime and the next.”

Isla stands from her seat at the table, rushing over to hug Harry, their bodies swaying back and forth as she squeezes him, tears welling in her eyes. “That was a really nice speech, Harry. You nailed it. I mean it. I love you. You’re one of my best friends.”

“You’re one of mine, too, Isla. I wouldn’t be with Hera if it wasn’t for you. I owe you my life, pretty much. You can add that to my tab, too.”

Isla grins, stepping aside for Beau to have his turn. Isla pats Harry’s cheek before moving aside, smirking as she says, “And don’t you forget it.”

“That was better than I expected, H. Good speech, my friend. Thank you. Thank you for everything,” Beau smiles, pulling his friend into a hug and patting his cheeks playfully.

Harry smirks, handing the microphone back and walking back towards the table with Isla and Beau’s parents, and most importantly, his lover. Hera is talking to Genny and Lou, Genny’s hands cupping Hera’s cheeks as she gushes to her about something Harry can’t quite hear from where he is. He steps up behind her, laying his hand on her shoulder to tell her of his return. Genny smiles at him before turning around and walking back to her seat. Hera is grinning when she turns around, standing from her seat and wrapping her arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly to her. Harry tucks his face into her neck, “Did you like my speech?”

“I did, very much,” Hera smiles against his shoulder, pulling back to kiss his cheek. “Did you change your speech to add me into it?”

Harry smirks, his eyebrow quirking suggestively, “Why, oh why, would I ever do that, Hera? I would never do such a thing. I would never talk about falling in love with you in front of all of our friends. Nor would I ever talk about the fact that I never want to waste another minute with or without you. That’s simply absurd.” He kisses the shell of her ear sweetly, “How noticeable were the references to you? Just enough? Way too much?”

“Always just enough.” Hera slowly releases Harry from her hold, her hands holding the lapels of his suit jacket between her fingertips. “All that talk about wasted time makes me think about why we’re wasting our time standing here when we could be dancing.”

Harry chuckles, taking her hand from his chest and clutching it tightly, kissing her knuckles before stepping away from her, holding their hands out between them, “No more wasting time. I’ll always dance with you.”

Harry and Hera turn towards the stage when Isla calls for everyone’s attention. “I wanted to say a special thank you to the two people that have made this day so much easier on Beau and I, without these two, I definitely would’ve lost my mind, and I would’ve driven Beau crazy, so I certainly think a special thank you is in order. Hera and Harry, would you two come out on the dance floor with us, please?”

Hera looks at Harry questioningly, as if to ask if he knows what’s happening in that moment. Harry shakes his head, taking her hand and walking out to the center of the paneled flooring, Beau and Isla looking at the two with wide smiles on their faces. Harry looks to Beau, then to Isla, and suddenly, a song they all know far too well is starting to play.

You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you.

Hera’s eyes immediately well with tears, “Isla!”

“You know I couldn’t celebrate my wedding day with you both if I didn’t play this song, Hera. It’s part of your story, of our story. You and I are going to tell our children all about how Harry and Beau embarrassed the hell out of themselves singing this to us in our living room, one day.”

“You are not telling our future children that Harry and I did that,” Beau says sternly, narrowing his eyes at his newly named wife, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as she looks at him expectantly.

“Oh, yes, we will be. What’s that thing that people say? Happy wife, happy life?”

“Are we going to talk the entire song?” Harry laughs, wrapping his arm around Hera’s waist and hugging her tightly, kissing her neck teasingly as he begins swaying side to side with her in his arms. “I would like to dance with my honey. This is our song, after all.”

Hera turns around in his arms, a smile spread so wide on her face that Harry swears it must hurt her cheeks. He wants to see her smile like this for the rest of his life. Hera grabs Harry’s hands and begins twirling, dancing happily and excitedly, the laughter echoing around the room from her and her best friends making Harry’s heart swell a million times in his chest, aching against his ribs.

I love you, baby! And if it’s quite alright, I need you, baby.

Hera and Isla dance around each other, taking each other’s hands and swaying around, their laughter playing loudly over the music. Harry and Beau smile at each other, taking Isla and Hera between them to swing and twirl beneath, the smiles on their faces enough to make the entire night worth these mere four minutes. Harry looks at Beau, unable to hide his thoughts any longer. Beau looks at Harry, then at Hera, and he knows exactly what his best friend is going to say, it’s written all over his face.

Harry leans on Beau’s shoulder, looking at Isla and Hera dancing together, giggling and swaying around the floor, his voice barely loud enough for Beau to properly hear him say, “I’m going to marry Hera, and I can’t wait for the day I do.”

Harry is trying to hold back his smile as Hera swallows down the circulating hiccups every thirty seconds or so the entire elevator ride to their hotel room. His hand is on her lower back, the key to the room clutched in his hand, her fingers quite small in comparison to his suit jacket that is falling over her arms and hands. Hera is wrapped around him entirely – if she could be closer, she would be – and Harry is happy to see her so happy, so relaxed; it’s not something he’s seen many times in the years he’s known her. Here, Hera doesn’t have to worry about Dalia and John, or the emails waiting for her in her inbox. Here, Hera is exactly who she wants to be, with exactly who she wants to be with. Harry, included in that.

Hera’s heels are hitting Harry’s thigh, the straps hanging loosely on Hera’s index finger as she walks slightly sideways in order to stay attached to his side. Harry laughs, kissing the top of her head and saying, “How are the hiccups, my love?”

Hera hiccups again before she can properly reply, earning a chuckle from Harry and a light smack his nearly bare chest, the buttons of his shirt mainly undone, a light sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. “I’m okay, baby. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’ll always worry about you, Hera.” Harry doesn’t say it in terms of the moment, or merely in the time that they’re dating, Hera knows, even in the haze of insobriety. Hera knows that Harry means always, no matter what happens to the two of them. Harry unlocks the hotel suite, the door swinging open rather quickly as Hera takes a step inside, Harry urging her forward with his hand on her lower back. “Come on, honey. Let’s get you inside.”

“Harry?” Hera drawls sweetly, his name singing like honey from her lips. Harry knows what she’s going to ask for, it’s what she always asks for after they’ve been out for a while and they’re finally by themselves. Harry expects it. Truthfully, it’s Harry’s favorite part of going out.

“Get into the bathroom, Hera,” Harry smirks, toeing off his shoes by the door and turning the privacy bolt, shrugging off his halfway discarded shirt and trousers and laying them nicely over the chair. He knows Hera would scold him for wrinkling it tomorrow when she wakes up to pack their bags and Harry runs to grab their morning coffee. Hera smirks, sauntering into the bathroom after dropping her heels by their luggage, Harry’s suit jacket now discarded near the rest of their things. Hera stands in front of him, back to the mirror, her eyes slightly hazy and a tired smile permanently on her lips. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Is that even a question?”

“My secret isn’t so much a secret, I think. I just haven’t ever told you this,” Harry smiles, slowly beginning to take the pins out of Hera’s hair and lay each one on the side of the sink, his fingers gentle against her scalp, running his fingers through her curls gently. “I love that you only call me by my name. I love when you call me pet names, I would be silly not to, but I especially love when you call me by my name. It always sounds so different coming from you. I love the way it sounds when you say it.” Hera’s softened smile is enough, the slow blinks and sweet hums coming from her every so often making his heart swell as they speak quietly in the private of the en-suite, the whole world away from them. Only Hera and Harry in this room. “Can you turn around for me, baby? I’ll get you out of your dress.”

Hera turns around slowly, pulling her hair away from her neck and swallowing thickly as Harry gently pulls the zipper from her spine to the curve of her backside, his fingertips splaying out over her bare skin, his thumb moving to draw a line from the height of the magnolia tree to the very bottom, goosebumps rising against her skin. Harry kisses the back of her neck gently, and Hera can feel every ounce of alcohol leave her system, her senses hyper aware of his touch, the gentleness of the way he takes care of her. Hera wants to feel Harry’s skin on hers, desperately.

“I might need you to wear this dress, again, H.” His thumbs push the thin straps from her shoulders, the satin pooling around her ankles. Harry leans down and lifts the dress to hang it neatly on the hanger she had set earlier in the morning. Hera’s eyes can’t leave him. “Hop on the counter, I’ll take your makeup off.” Hera does as she’s told, watching as Harry walks towards her and slots himself between her thighs, his hands reaching around her to grab the makeup remover and pads that he’s watched her use every night for as long as he could remember. “Close your eyes.”

Hera desperately tries to steady her breathing, the swallow the nerves in her stomach. Harry’s seen her naked a million and one times. Harry’s touched her in every place that is visible to him – and the places that aren’t quite so easily seen – and there has never been a moment in time where she did not feel absolutely beautiful in his eyes. Nothing is different, so why is Harry standing this close to her, touching her so gently, naked chest to naked chest, breathing against her skin making her so nervous? Hera swallows audibly before saying, “I am realizing that I am very naked against you, right now. Only thing I have on is nude underwear on this counter.” Hera squints open one eye to scan over his body. “And the only thing you have on is your briefs. My favorite kind.”

“I’m aware,” Harry chuckles, his motions against her skin barely noticeable. His fingertips brush over her forehead, then her cheek, brushing over her eyes when they shut against her skin. “Nothing I haven’t seen, and very much enjoyed, before, Hera.” Harry pauses, then adds, “Nothing you haven’t seen, and very much enjoyed before, either.”

“You enjoy seeing me naked?”

“Every single time,” he says surely, pressing a momentary kiss to her mouth before cupping her cheek and gently rubbing the lipstick from her plush lips. “I would like to see you naked every day for the rest of my life. I would be a very happy man, if that were to be how I spend my days.” Harry runs his thumb over Hera’s naked mouth, her eyelashes laying flat against her cheeks as she sucks in a breath all the way to the deepest point in her lungs, trying to catch her breath. Hera’s eyes stay closed, basking in every sensation of Harry’s touch against her skin. “Hera?” Harry waits a moment for her to say something, only for her to nod silently. He smirks. “Can you look at me, H?” Her eyes open slowly, the glossy haze gone and the attention solely on his voice. “Can I love on you, baby?”

Hera nods hurriedly, her hands leaving the counter and grabbing onto Harry’s shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer, a whimper leaving her throat as soon as Harry’s mouth meets hers, capturing her lips in a searing kiss. His hands grip her thighs, pulling her to the edge of the counter, her calves wrapping around his waist and holding him to her. His tongue slides along her bottom lip, the taste of champagne, whiskey, and peppermint lighting her sense on fire. He’s familiar and safe, something Hera’s always known. Harry is also igniting, exhilarating, a rushing feeling of love and a promise of a future that is bright. Hera accepts him easily, her hands finding comfort in the damp curls at the base of his neck. Her mind is lost in his touch, in the way his fingers are pushing into her waist and his mouth is heavy on hers. Hera loves the way this feels, the way his hands know exactly where to be.

“Need more of you, Hera. Need all of you, my sweet girl,” Harry mutters against her lips, the calling name making Hera moan into his mouth. Harry swallows the moan greedily, taking her whimpered, ‘uh huh’, as permission to carry her into the bedroom, the moonlight and the faint bathroom light leading him to the unmade bed in the center of the room. Harry lays her on the edge, getting onto his knees and tucking his fingers in the waistband of her underwear, the dampened spot in the center of her thighs making his mouth tick into the cockiest smile. He tugs the underwear down her legs, the material landing haphazardly behind him. Harry leans upwards onto his knees, grabbing her ankles and laying her legs over his thighs, his mouth leaving open kisses along the inside of her legs. Harry knows exactly what makes her squirm and twist under him, and as much as he wants to see her do each of those things, he needs her to stay still. “Don’t move, Hera. Be good for me.” Hera grips onto the comforter and nods her head. “Tell me, Hera. Tell me that you’ll be a good girl and you won’t squirm away from me.”

“I’ll be a good girl,” Hera breathes out breathlessly, her head leaning back against the plush duvet as Harry kisses over her heat, barely touching her core as his mouth hovers over her. Hera wants to move, wants to push herself closer to his mouth, but she knows that Harry will stop whatever he’s doing if she doesn’t listen, and she really doesn’t want that. “Harry.” Hera can feel him smile against her, his tongue poking between his lips to steal the tiniest taste of her. Hera squeaks at the feeling, earning a teasing laugh from between her legs. Harry, without any warning, drags his finger along the outside of her heat, gently prying her open for his gaze. He loves this, seeing her dripping for him, for his touch. His tongue lays flat against her, collecting all of her arousal on his tongue and suckling on her nerves centered at the tip of his nose, the moans and whimpers leaving her spurring him on, encouraging him with every taste. “Harry, Harry.” Harry hums against her, earning a jump to her hips and a warning squeeze from his hands. Harry barely pulls away from devouring her, savoring in her taste and the way she smells, the feeling of her legs tightening around his shoulders. Harry’s fingers gently begin working their way inside of her, curling just enough to reach exactly where she wants, to earn the reaction he was waiting for – her hands in his hair, pulling at his curls. Hera is the same every time, the same reaction every time she’s near an orgasm, and Harry wants it.

Harry wants all of it.

“Give it to me, baby. I want to taste you.” Hera moans, pulling tightly on Harry’s curls and squeezing her thighs around him, her orgasm spilling over her body and onto his fingers. Harry pulls his fingers into his mouth, suckling at his fingertips until they’re clean, his mouth dipping back between her thighs and savor every sip of her orgasm. Harry kisses her inner thigh, standing on his feet and shucking his briefs across the floor, his body leaning over hers as she slowly blinks and refocuses her attention, a lazy smile on her lips. Harry smiles at her, kissing her sweetly. “Can you go for another, baby? Can you give me another?”

“Can you hold me?” Hera whispers almost inaudibly, a shy blush covering her cheeks. Harry knows exactly what she wants, and he is more than willing to give it to her whenever she asks. Hera knows this.

“I can never say no to you, Hera.”

Hera sits upright, waiting patiently for Harry to settle himself in the center of the mattress, pillows propped comfortably behind him, his hand wrapping around his cock, slick with spit, twisting and squeezing in right way to work himself perfectly, his thumb brushing over the brightened tip with a grunt. Hera moves towards him, swinging her thigh over his waist, sitting just behind where his hand his holding his shaft. Hera looks at him through hooded eyes, the dazed innocence making his entire body ignite with a fire that he’s only ever felt with her. Hera’s thumb brushes against his bottom lip, his mouth parting slightly to let the digit inside, his tongue swirling around her before popping it out, her hand immediately replacing his and her wet thumb rubbing over his ruddy tip. Harry’s head knocks back against his neck with a grunt, a strangled sigh leaving his lips when Hera lifts herself up on her knees and rubs his cock against her core, the wetness swallowing him.

“Hera, baby, please.”

Hera smiles contently, bringing his cock to her entrance and slowly (painfully slowly, Harry would argue) easing him into her core, inch by inch, the way she always does. Hera wants to feel him, every inch, the ridges and curves and the way her body swallows him perfectly, as though he was always made to fit inside of her. Hera sinks onto his cock so slowly, Harry swears that minutes have passed when she finally settles her hips against his, her arms wrapping around his shoulders and his feet laying flat against the mattress, his arms circling around her body to hold him against his chest. Hera loves being held this way, Harry’s come to find out, and if this is the way that she wants him to love on her, then he is happy to oblige.

Harry slowly begins working with Hera’s rhythm, thrusting, and meeting the swirl of her hips every grind to create the friction against her nerves and brush against the spot inside of her that makes her body still and her thighs shake around him. Harry lets Hera set the pace, the motion, the speed. Harry, as much as this is about him, needs Hera to know that it’s about her, about the way he loves her, and tonight, it is all about love.

Harry thrusts into her and the way Hera’s head falls back against her neck is inspiring, encouraging him to continue. Harry can feel Hera’s thighs beginning to twitch, the rhythm becoming unsteady as she nears her climax, the feeling of her nails beginning to etch into his shoulders bringing a smile to his face. Harry memorizes Hera’s face like this, clean from makeup and slightly sweaty, her skin tacky and sticking to his, her mouth parted and heavy breaths leaving her perfectly rounded lips. Her moans are echoing through the bedroom, whispered in his ear like a melody, a song he wants to write. Hera tightens around him, squeezing him in, her velvet dream earning an orgasm as she pants in his ear. Harry rides her through it, an unexpected pulse around him milking his orgasm into her warmth. Harry loves that they’re always this close, that he can feel her, that he’s the only one that gets to know her like this. He wouldn’t ever take this for granted, not when he went so long missing it.

His hand gently brushes over the back of her neck, pushing all of her hair onto her shoulder, giving him a taste of her skin. He kisses her there, ever so gently, not wanting to disturb the peace between their breathing. Hera swallows, whispering, “Can we stay like this for a while?” into his ear, her cheek on his shoulder.

“Anything you want,” Harry whispers back, his legs relaxing under her body. Hera has cocooned herself around him, making it impossible to be any physically closer than they are in this moment. Harry pulls the duvet closer to him, giving a bit of modesty to their naked skin.  “I wouldn’t mind going to the balcony and watching the stars with you.”

“In a minute.” Harry can tell her eyes are closed with the wait behind her words, the exhaustion of the day settling in. He kisses her cheek sweetly. “Do you still want to hear another secret?”

“More than I wanted to earlier.”

“I never thought about what my future might look like, until I met you, and then suddenly, it was the only thing I could think about. I wanted to know what we would be doing in one, two, five, ten years. I wanted to know what we would look like. I wanted to know if we’d be married if we’d decide to have children. I wanted to know everything about what my future with you looked like, just because it was the very first time in my life that the future looked like something I could be happy with.” Hera doesn’t pause between words, doesn’t hesitate to tell Harry this. Maybe it’s because she wants him to know where she stands with her past, with the relationships that he knows very little about. Maybe it’s because she wants him to understand that this is it, the two of them, and that whatever happens, as long as they’re together, she’ll be happy with it. Hera doesn’t care why she feels the need to tell him, whatever the reason might be, she just wants him to know, that this, this is the thing that matters most.

Harry must have a look of confusion on his face because Hera lifts her face from his shoulder and quirks her head questioningly, her eyes encouraging him to ask questions. “I thought that Grant wanted the same future as you, that’s why you were with him for all that time.”

“Grant wanted the same things as me, yes,” she explains, her hands holding his neck, thumbs rubbing the sides of his throat softly. “Grant wanted the things I wanted – marriage, a house, kids, a stable life – but I couldn’t always see that life with him. I would try, very hard, because Grant was safe and he loved me, and I loved him, too. I loved him differently, though. Not in the way I love you. I would try so hard to see the future that I saw with you, but that was reserved for you, and you only, and I thought that if I never got that with you, I wouldn’t want to make it with somebody else.”

“And Matty?”

“Matty and I,” Hera pauses, trying to think of the right words to convey her thoughts on such an intimate and vulnerable experience. Harry is listening intently, his hands rubbing circles on her waist to hold her close. Hera nods and continues, “Matty and I would have never worked long term. Matty and I went back and forth for years, because when things were bad with our personal lives, they were bad. His alcoholism. My parents. His lack of commitment. My need for it. Our relationship, if you could even call it that, would never be more than a two- or three-month thing, and then we were back to being friends. I love Matty. He’s such a close friend and I want him to be happy and healthy, but that happiness was never going to rely on me and what I could do for him. I never saw a future with him. Not once.” Hera stops for a moment, giving the words a minute to sink in. “You may not have been my first for certain things, Harry, but I promise, you have been my first where it counts.”

Harry smiles, his eyes traveling between Hera’s honey eyes and sweet lips. He nudges forward, capturing her in a kiss, slow and easy, savoring the way she tastes and feels and memorizing this moment, where everything in their world is right and perfect. “Can you continue telling me secrets like this? You’ll tell me secrets like this when I’m old and you have to yell into my ear for me to hear you. Promise?”

“I’ll always tell you secrets like this.” Hera smiles and sighs, kissing Harry once more before leaning onto her knees and slowly disconnecting their bodies, her hands reaching for a dirty shirt on the floor and wiping between her thighs before tossing the shirt in his direction. “You made a mess.”

“And I’ll do it, again. Happily.”

“Clean yourself up and put on some pants. I’ll meet you on the balcony,” Hera laughs, shaking her head as she takes his white shirt that Harry wore to the wedding and slips it over her arms, buttoning the shirt halfway before finding a clean pair of underwear and walking into the bathroom. Harry does as he’s told, taking clean briefs, and slipping the cotton up his thighs, taking their dirty clothes and laying them neatly by the suitcase. He walks around the corner, leaning agains the doorway of the bathroom. “I’m perfectly capable of going to the bathroom by myself, you know.”

“I know, I just like looking at you.”

Hera blushes under Harry’s stare, washing her hands before turning the light off and nodding towards the balcony, the moon shining bright through the glass door. Hera walks forward, opening the door and stepping outside, the fresh air and cool breeze fanning against her skin. Hera leans against the balcony, soaking in the moonlight. “It’s beautiful, here. I never want to leave.” Hera waits, her voice lowering to a whisper. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I’ll make sure we come back.” Harry mimics the wait, his voice softening and audible only to her. “You’re not leaving me, Hera. You’re just going to work. I’m going to work, too.”

“Going to work for months at a time.”

Harry wraps his arms around Hera’s waist, kissing her neck and leaning his chin on her shoulder, “I won’t let us be apart for that long, Hera. Maybe a few weeks, at most. It won’t be longer than that. I’ll make sure of it.”

“How can you always be so sure of everything when it comes to us?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answers honestly, turning Hera around in his arms and letting his thumbs memorize her face, tracing over every part of her skin. “I just, I went so long with things being uncertain with us, and the fact that we made it through that, and we’re together now, it tells me that nothing with us is uncertain. It’s always you and me. That’s how I’m sure.” Harry traces over Hera’s mouth slowly. “Not to mention, I think I’ll die if I don’t get to kiss you for the rest of my life, so you’ve left me with the only option: I have to be sure that I can kiss you forever.”

“I have no idea what you’re waiting for then,” Hera teases, brushing her nose against his, her eyes squeezing shut as his mouth moves millimeters away from hers, his breath hot against her skin. “Kiss me, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t know what tomorrow brings, and he certainly doesn’t know what it’ll be like when they’re on the road, miles and miles apart, but for now, Hera is here, in his arms, and he can kiss her. He can kiss her until his mouth goes numb and his jaw is tired, and then he can do it all over again. And right now, that’s all that matters to him.

[loveofmylifeh]

Flower <3

Harry Styles | Love On Tour London | Wembley 2 | 14-06-23

Photo : denizashouse

[lord-squiggletits]

"Rodimus is a better Prime because it didn't hurt for him to bond with the Matrix while for Optimus it did" headcanon/theory my beloathed.

One day I'm literally gonna snap and make a whole post addressing why what's wrong bc I'm tired of the inaccuracy and tired of ppl not understanding the Point TM of IDW and its version of the Matrix/Primacy and even more tired of people putting down Optimus in favor of Rodimus by essentially arguing that being unworthy means you deserve to be punished/put in pain bc you just weren't good enough to hold the Symbol of Ultimate Authority

[septembersghost]

I was listening to hunger(harry's unreleased song) and do you think its about Taylor?? I thought so too but it mentions "on my birthday I made you cry". If its about them which bday is he talking about??

hunger has a lot of compelling parallels to two ghosts both thematically and sonically, so it definitely could be about/inspired by her! the birthday could really be a couple of different years since of course we're not privy to their whole on/off dynamic in the relationship, and what might have been going on between them and in their communication at all those times we didn't see. there are a few things that really get me in that song (which i think is beautiful) - it's a little more cynical/heartbroken in tone than other songs he officially released, and has that edge of wanting and trying and failing to make it work - "i guess i'm prone to overthinking, one thing goes wrong and i can't adjust" - along with the span of time happening - "as one year turns into two, i'm still not over you." it reminds me of the story in things she's written as well, which does seem to speak to the conversation existing there.

[caramello-styles]

my sense of fulfillment.

[lhrry]

looking at louis today the only thing in my head is i was thinking about who you are your delicate point of view i was thinking about you

[elequinoa-world]

I expected nothing watching queen charlotte but goddamnit here I am crying my heart out it was SO beautiful and well done well executed and god I hope they put the same care into the next seasons of the actual bridgerton show cause that was fucking perfect

[dogheartbf]

i'm always on some "let's mitigate the consequences" "time to do some damage control" "how do i manage the situation" "how do i come back from this" shit like goddamn calm down. would love to know what's it like to live outside of crisis mode

[railingsofsorrow]

where are the spencer reid edits with the little freak sound

[corpsecoded]

.

[matildashoney]

Midnight Treat, a Delicate Point of View Extra

MASTERLIST // ASKS // TAGS // PLAYLIST Word Count: 2.6K CW: NA taglist: @lauloupi author's note: i saw a tiktok of this mom making her daughter a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at one in the morning because she was hungry and it reminded me of something hera would do and how much she changes the cycle of abuse for the twins and i wanted to write something about it. mind you, hera does talk about her past with her mother and food in child-friendly terms, so i want you to be aware of that when reading. maybe read that part lightly or skim it or skip this altogether if you're sensitive to it. otherwise, i just hope you read this and feel love. i love you.

Harry didn’t understand it, not at first.

Harry didn’t understand why Hera would sneak into the kitchen early in the morning to sneak a cookie or a handful of salty treats. Hera would do this often, at least three or four times a week, where Harry would wake up in the middle of the night alone and confused, searching around the house for her without making a sound. Harry would find her in the kitchen, perusing the cabinets in silence, and he would leave her, waiting for her to come back upstairs whenever she was ready. Hera would sneak back into bed when she believed Harry was asleep, and not say a word about it. Not until Harry had asked, at least.

And it wasn’t until the much-needed conversation about Hera’s past all those years ago that Harry fully realized and understood the darkness, the weight of all the things in her life, all the reasons why she continued to sneak around, even though it had been long after she had moved out of her mother’s house and made a home herself. Hera struggled with Harry’s improvised, in-the-moment compromise – every time she was getting out of bed, she should wake him to go with her – and it took much convincing and promising that he would never be angry with her for waking him for her to agree to it, especially after they moved in together. Hera felt guilty waking him the few nights a week that she would find herself awake in the middle of the night needing a treat, but Harry always met her cravings with a smile and kiss on her forehead, asking her questions about her thoughts and the things that she’s working on that he doesn’t quite know the details of. Harry felt like those moments gave Hera something to hold onto, a silent promise that things are different now, that those days of pain and uneasiness are over.

And Harry knew that Hera’s midnight cravings would only become more frequent the moment they realized Hera was expecting the twins. Harry didn’t expect, though, for their daughter to be just like their mother with the midnight snacks and late-night conversations. He probably should have, considering Hazel would always wake in the middle of the night as a baby for a feeding and as a toddler to nurse and be close to Hera, but Harry blissfully brushed it off as phases in her growing up. Harry didn’t realize that it was something that would bond Hera and Hazel for life, that would give Hera everything she always wanted with her own mother growing up.

Harry can hear the door open ever so slightly, and Hera immediately turns over, rolling out of his arms and towards her bedside table to grab her glasses to read the time on her phone. Hera’s been awake for a little bit, the anticipation and nerves of work coming to the surface with her thoughts. Nights are like this sometimes, with her simply laying in the silence and listening to Harry sleep, waiting and waiting for something to happen, and when she looks at the time, it’s nearly one, and that means that Hazel is right on time for walking into their bedroom.

“Mummy?”

“Yeah?”

“Mummy, my tummy is hungry.”

Harry doesn’t hear another sound come from Hera or Hazel as they quietly walk out of the room and shut the door, their feet quietly shuffling into the kitchen as Hera turns on the softened lights and Hazel begins climbing on the counter to pull out the peanut butter and jelly as Hera grabs the bread from the opposite side, watching carefully as Hazel climbs down.

“Do you want one of your own, Haze? Or would you want to share with me?”

Hazel rubs her eyes tiredly, “I’ll share with you, Mummy.” Hera nods and kisses Hazel’s head, the curls falling down her back reminding her of her own when she was a young girl. Hazel looks like her, Hera thinks, the hair and the honey-colored eyes and the gentle smile, and Hera never thought she would cherish something so much in her life. Hazel is just like Hera, but Hazel will never know what Hera felt like when she was her age, and that is what she cherishes most, that she’s loved and happy. Hazel and Hera exist in quiet for a while, Hazel watching intently as Hera carefully cuts her sandwich into fourths just how she likes and then takes a seat next to her at the table, the plate set between them. Hazel takes the first bite, “Mmm, that’s a good one, Mummy.”

Hera smiles, licking her lips as she chews the sandwich that she’s made thousands of times and sets the quarter on the plate. Hera and Hazel always talk during these late-night treats, and Hera knows just the thing to share with their sandwich. “Do you want milk, baby?”

“Yes, please!” Hera pours a cup for Hazel, then a cup for herself, and walks back to the table, sitting beside Hazel and encouraging her to eat the third fourth that was left, the second one already devoured in the time that she was away from the table. “Mummy, that’s yours.”

“I can make more, Hazel. Eat it if you’re hungry, baby. I don’t mind.”

Hazels nods, taking a bite of the sandwich and humming happily, Hera’s smile growing wider as they sit together. Hera doesn’t know if Hazel will always be like this, wanting to sit up with her in the middle of the night and talk and share a midnight snack, but she hopes that she will. Hera hopes that Hazel will grow up and remember that Hera was always there when she needed her, no matter the time of day. Having this relationship with her daughter is all she ever wanted with her mother, and she prays that Hazel will know how much this means to her, to know that they were this close in Hazel’s most formative years. “Mummy? Can I ask you a question?”

Hera brushes a stray curl away from Hazel’s forehead and kisses her temple, “Yeah, baby. Ask me anything.”

“At school yesterday, Samantha and Natalia were talking about how they made treats with their families, right?” Hera nods silently, encouraging her to continue, much like Harry does with her. “And I said that you and me have treats all the time, sometimes in the middle of the night if I get hungry! They didn’t believe me! I told them that we make cookies and sandwiches and sometimes we sneak Daddy’s favorite ice cream, and you buy him a new one before he notices.” Hera giggles with Hazel, completely unaware of Harry sitting on the top of the stairs listening. “They told me that their mummies don’t have midnight treats with them like we do. Natalia said that her mummy says the kitchen is closed until breakfast sometimes, even though she gets hungry,” Hazel pauses while she thinks, chews another bite, and her eyes are so wide as she stares at Hera, that she swears her daughter might be able to see the gloss forming across her eyes. “Mummy, did your mummy have midnight treats with you? I’m sorry that I’m asking, I know that Daddy said that talking about your mummy makes you upset, and I don’t want to make you sad. I just wanted to know why some mummies don’t let their kids have treats and why you always have treats with me, and you always tell me that I can ask you for anything, especially when something is way up high, because you never want me to get hurt. I’m just confused, I think. I don’t understand, Mummy.”

“Hazel, I know what Daddy said, but I want you to know that you never make me upset, okay?” Hera says sternly, holding her chin and kissing her nose to soften her words. Hera wants to make sure that Hazel understands what she’s telling her. “It’s okay to be confused when your friends do different things with their mummies, because we all think that the way our mummy does something is the way all mummies do things, right?” Hazel nods, taking the last quarter of the sandwich and eating it quietly. Hera stands up to make another one for her, seeing her eye the bread. “My mummy wasn’t very nice to me, or to anyone, really. My mummy didn’t ever let me have a midnight snack like we do, actually, she put these keys on the cupboards to make sure I couldn’t get into them when I was your age.” Hazel doesn’t say a word as Hera brings over the sandwich, sitting with her and sliding the plate over. Hazel takes another bite. “My mummy didn’t teach me what food should do for your body –”

“Food makes your body strong, Mummy! Gives us energy for us to do fun things. Gives us all the energy we need to grow into adults.”

“That’s right,” Hera nods, her hand running over her hair sweetly. “I didn’t know about all those things. I only learned about those things when I moved away, and Aunt Isla and I lived together.”

“Before you met Daddy?”

“Before Daddy, yeah,” Hera sighs and takes a bite from the sandwich, chewing slowly to give her time to think. “Before Daddy, I used to sneak into the kitchen when Aunt Isla was sleeping and eat my snacks all alone. I would just sit and think about one day getting to eat my midnight snacks with someone.”

“Did you share your snacks with Daddy when you met him?”

“Not for a very long time. I was scared to tell Daddy why I was sneaking around at night when he was asleep, which was very silly because Daddy just wanted to make sure I was okay.” Hera smiles when Hazel turns to her, her tiny hands cupping her milk and sipping it carefully. “Daddy started sharing my snacks with me when I told him, and he would get up with me every night I made one.” Hera thinks about the day she found out she was pregnant, the way her whole world changed in an instant. Hera stayed awake late, rummaging about the kitchen, just thinking of what her life would be like with someone that would love her unconditionally. “And then when I found out I was pregnant, I couldn’t have been happier, because I knew I was going to have someone to share my treats with forever.” Hazel grins. “And then, the doctor told me there were two of you! And I thought, I have two people to share my treats with. My two best friends.”

“Three, Mummy. Daddy, too.”

Hera grins, “Three. You’re right, Hazel.” Hazel giggles and takes another bite. “Daddy and I would stay up late talking about you and Harley, wondering what you would be like and talking about how much we loved you both already. I couldn’t wait to hold you in my arms and kiss you all over your face. And then, when you came and we brought you home, you were always my midnight buddy. I would wake up for a treat and you’d be in my arms. I would check the time and you would be waking up for a feed, right in the middle of the night. Hazel, you have always been just like me.” Hera remembers the days fondly. Getting up with Hazel was never anything less than exciting. Hera loved every minute of it, of getting to know the sweet little girl that she loved more than anything, that loved her more than anything. “I knew you were going to be with me for midnight treats, and I used to tell Daddy that I couldn’t wait for times like these, when we would get to do everything that I dreamed of doing with you.”

“Am I everything you wanted, Mummy?”

“You’re so much more than anything I could have dreamed of, Hazel.”

Hazel leans into Hera’s chest. “Mummy, I’m going to share midnight treats with you even when I’m all grown up,” she says confidently, slipping out of her chair and climbing onto Hera’s thighs, hugging her tightly. Hazel smiles against Hera’s shoulder as she says, “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, Hazel. Hi, Mummy.”

“Have you come to join us?” Hera wonders, tilting her head back slightly to see him, smiling as he walks towards the two and lays a kiss on Hazel’s cheek before leaning over to kiss her lips sweetly. “Want a bite? It’s peanut butter and jelly.”

“Daddy, you can have a bite of mine, I’m all finished.”

“That’s very sweet. Thank you, baby.” Harry walks into the kitchen and takes a bottle of water from the refrigerator, the water feeling cool against his scratchy throat. “Give me the best piece, Haze.”

Hazel hands him a corner, watching as he takes a bite and chews very carefully, as though he’s inspecting it. “How does it rank in the Midnight Treat Club?” Hera wonders, turning her head to face him. Hazel is watching him carefully. “Daddy always ranks my treats. Daddy made it a game, now. He used to rank the treats we would eat when I was pregnant with you and Harley because I would have so many.”

“Mm, I give it an eight. Quite good. I’m missing milk.” Harry raises his eyebrows and eyes the glass on the table, picking it up and taking a sip. “Ah. Change of heart. It’s definitely a ten, H.”

Hera laughs quietly, careful not to wake Harley still sleeping peacefully in his bedroom upstairs. “Daddy always takes a bite of my sandwich, too. He says I make everything better.”

“Like when you share your coffee in the morning before Daddy takes me and Harley to school?”

“Exactly like that.”

“Hope someone wants a bite of my sandwich someday like Daddy does with you, Mummy.”

Harry smiles, “One day, in the very far, far, very distant future, someone will. I promise.” Hera shakes her head and leans backwards, Harry already knowing what she wants. He kisses her again, pecking her mouth a time or two before pulling away and taking the plate and cups to the sink to be cleaned in the morning. “Are you coming up soon, my heart?”

Hera nods, “Yeah, in a few.”

“Are you coming into our bed with Mummy, Haze?”

“I’m going to go in my bed, Daddy,” Hazel says quietly, leaning on Hera’s shoulder and yawning tiredly. “I love you.”

“Love you more, Hazel,” Harry says softly, kissing her forehead and turning around to walk back upstairs. “I’ll wait up for you, H.”

Hera nods even though Harry can’t see her, standing up carefully and turning off the lights, holding Hazel up as safely as she can as they walk up the stairs and into her bedroom near silently, Hera tucking her in cozy and warm before leaning down to kiss her goodnight, once more when Hazel says her name. “Yes, baby?”

“Thank you for always sharing your midnight treats with me. I promise I’ll always share with you, too. Until I’m old and someone wants to share with me, then I’ll share with them, but you’re the one that did it first. That makes it extra special.”

Hera is grateful that it’s dark in her bedroom, that Hazel can’t see the tears on her cheeks. “It’s so special, my love. Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I love you.”

Hera whispers the three words back, kissing her sweetly. Hazel doesn’t know it, but hearing those words reminds Hera that she’s home. That this is home.

[ao3feed-larry]

your delicate point of view

by moonstone_tea

Louis hasn’t told anyone about his touch deprivation, but that doesn’t mean people haven’t noticed. After receiving the worst news of his life, his friends decide to invite a stripper to Louis’ get-together. That stripper changes Louis’ life, even if he doesn’t want it too.

Words: 1195, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: One Direction (Band)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M, M/M

Characters: Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson, Niall Horan, Zayn Malik, Liam Payne, Minor Characters

Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne

Additional Tags: Alpha Harry Styles, Omega Louis Tomlinson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Stripper Harry Styles, Graphic Designer Louis Tomlinson, Touch-Starved, Fluff and Angst, Accidental Bonding, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Protective Harry Styles, Possessive Harry Styles, Soft Louis Tomlinson, Meet-Cute, Jealousy, Nesting, Sharing Clothes

via AO3 works tagged 'Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson' https://ift.tt/aTFoxbR

[subskz]

…i lost the tag limit war

the reader changing the subject the instant she feels seen by minho is such a subtle but valuable hint that i think says a lot abt the type of person she is, that moment really stood out to me! i know i literally just said this but right down to every minute detail, you've characterized both lino and the reader so masterfully it has to be the most enjoyable aspect of this story for me...and on top of that i just love how you write their conversations so much, they’re both such lil nerds…my intellectually stimulating smarties debating w each other even now 🥰 it all feels so comfortable and natural and draws me into their relationship w such ease!

their discussion abt colors is hands down one of my favorite scenes in all of invisible thread!! it's such an oddly heartwarming conversation and that perfect, out-of-the-box way of thinking that’s just so undeniably minho...it almost reminds me of synesthesia how he describes feelings through color! "the very essence of our humanity" "the orange that paints the sky when the sun is about to dip into the ocean" the way you embodied each colors through emotions/experiences was so wonderfully done, i understood each one instantly like it was a picture being visualized before my eyes. it makes it even more touching that minho and the reader come to understand each other on a whole new level through that way of communicating their moods <3 and for some reason when he gives the example "i feel like that moss green that no one seems to pay attention to" that really tugged at my heartstrings ㅠ it almost feels like he isnt just giving a hypothetical there, like he's giving a small glimpse into his true feelings without saying it outright. maybe he feels invisible deep down, too

them falling asleep together on facetime was so soft and tender ㅠㅠ leave it to lino to ramble abt sous-vide as a bedtime story and complain abt getting SCAMMED lmao the way that is actually smth he would say 😭 "he closes his eyes, thinking that maybe he just found the silence you talked about earlier on" this line got me so good ): it seems at first that he's bringing the reader peace but she's bringing him peace in her own way as well...her feelings abt his eyes changing from fear to longing is such a lovely detail and HER COMPLIMENTING THEM!!! HIS STUNNED REACTION </3 "this is the first genuine compliment he's ever received" oh my god does my moss green theory actually have any merit.....does he really feel invisible to the world too...do not do this to me sahar ㅠㅠ but the way he thinks such lovely, adoring things abt the reader in that moment but instead of voicing them he whines abt being hungry....so endearing and so HIM i cant get enough of how youve written minho here ur singlehandedly reminding me why he is allegedly the love of my life

the kintsugi mention made my heart leap in my chest!!! "when you look at that vase, you know it was once broken, but it doesn't take away from its beauty" please...that sentence in itself is so moving when you apply it to the context of what the reader has been through her whole life, not just a single crack but repeated breakages. and for it to come from someone like minho; it feels like exactly what the reader needs to hear to truly begin to heal herself...he doesn't coddle her but is still so gentle, putting things into perspective like nobody else can w his unique worldview and mental strength ㅠㅠ and i think i just lost my mind realizing that this scene loops right back to the clay comparison you drew at the beginning of the story oh my GOD....the reader is like a clay pot molded by her mother, broken in places and repaired over and over to create smth still damaged but just as valuable...and lino is the gold filling in the cracks....sahar you are INSANE for this one im kissing ur brain and tucking it gently into bed

the scene w minho in the rain 😞 i was not prepared to see my meow meow upset...but i love the way you wrote it so much. how oddly quiet he is, even to the point where he's not commenting in class or teasing her, and that's the key detail that lets the reader know smth's off w him...i also love that nothing in particular caused his low mood. it's such a human quality, and he allows himself to be human and feel his feelings until they pass. "he knew his emotions would regulate themselves" i cant explain why this line stood out to me so much i really love it, i think it's just such a shining example of minho's mindset...not necessarily optimistic, but practical enough to not be completely swamped by the darkness either. it creates such an interesting contrast to the reader's personality to see how they both handle their emotions, w her pushing hers away and him letting them run their course. but the fact that he typically tries to retreat into himself until he feels better, yet strangely enough, he doesn't mind it as much as he'd expect when the reader catches him in a vulnerable state...my babies ㅠ i also really loved the part where he uses her shower and thinks abt the scent of her soap as he washes up, it's so so sweet n intimate i'm such a sucker for things like that ): there are so many small things minho notices abt her like it's the most natural thing in the world, they're both so attentive of one another

"you were both just trying to make it through the day" and "he knew he wasn't invisible. at least not to you" were critical hits to my heart...it feels like a breakthrough in their relationship—the first time the reader truly truly sees minho, all sides of him, and she accepts them all without question <3

the gradual progression of their friendship is so gratifying to read bc of how organically you made it all flow together!! i adore the entire sequence that shows us how they start to care for each other more and more…the casual intimacy of the reader applying her lip tint to his lips (and him not studying for his quiz on purpose 😭💗 come ON) lino worrying abt her eating enough, the reader tying his bangs out of his eyes, complimenting him so matter-of-factly, and him BLUSHING ALL OVER THE PLACE it’s so over for me x2 they are so tender in their actions even when they tease each other nonstop. it all leads up so perfectly to the point in the story where minho finds himself being drawn to her apartment without even realizing it when he doesn't feel well. the subtle shift from him initially trying to shut her out bc he's so used to managing his bad days on his own, to him eventually leaning in to her kindness and seeking her company instead...and the way she just understands what he needs immediately, allows him to sit in silence and simply exist in peace next to her. describing his mood as "too much of every color" really struck a chord w me as well...i'm just so so in love w the running theme of colors you included throughout this story, it's such a brilliant way to put emotions into words <3

the lil parallels here n there from the beginning of their relationship until now are so cute as well; how lino makes breakfast for her the first time and leaves before she wakes up, but this time, he promises to stay and eat with her...to not be invisible ㅠㅠ i think what's making me craziest of all is how they're both so hyperaware of each other's touch. like when their shoulders brushed while sharing the reader's umbrella, how the reader suddenly finds it difficult to concentrate on her book when lino holds her wrist as she shields him from the sunlight...and little does she know it's the exact same for him too, like when she rested her head on his thigh and all he could focus on was the sensation of her hair tickling him 😭 they are so enamored w each other and have become so tangled up in each other little by little...they don't even fully realize it yet but they've made a permanent place in each other's lives now

"you were already on the other side, you realize. his eyes pulled you in and you were stuck in there, swimming in a pool of honey" oh my GOD!!! ㅠㅠㅠㅠ her feelings abt minho's eyes changing from fear, to longing, to at last the comfort of getting to see the other side of those black holes...this line hit me like a truck it might be my favorite from the entire fic ㅠ i have a feeling i'll be saying that abt many more lines to come when you verbalize things in the most poetic ways imaginable heheh but this one truly got me so good, the delicacy in which you describe minho makes the reader's growing affection for him all the more heart-fluttering~

minho hesitating to wipe her tears )): the way he's so careful abt touching her in any unwarranted way bc he can sense that she shies away from skinship is so devastatingly sweet...and then him pinching her right after to make her stop crying NEVERMIND I CANT STAND HIM ACTUALLY. but the way he consoles her is so endearing and so so minho...very simple and sincere, he knows her well enough to immediately figure out the best way to take her mind off of the issue instead of dwelling on it. "you didn't care what shape he was in, you just needed him to be in it" i've already pointed out so many lines oh my god i'm so sorry but each one is like another arrow through my heart ㅠㅠ i feel like this sentence is such a perfect testament to the reader and lino's relationship; they've both seen each other at their best and worst and it doesn't change anything abt their feelings, they care for each other unconditionally 😞 also the reader being afraid of physical touch bc she craves it is SO heartbreaking but so raw...i think it aligns so well w her past bc she's so used to either being invisible, or only being perceived negatively when she is perceived. it makes perfect sense how terrifying she'd find it to bare herself to minho when her whole life she's been deprived of genuine affection...you've really done such a phenomenal job of characterizing both her and lino i cant say it enough!

now...the entire final scene...where do i even begin...i had a feeling the climax of the story was going to hurt but not like this ㅠㅠ the reader's inner turmoil as she debates reaching out to her mother again, that conflicting mix of hating her yet somehow still missing her...it's such an inexplicable and confusing feeling for ppl who have experienced that kind of neglect but so so real and you captured it so candidly. it really added a whole new layer to the reader's humanity, for her to be unable to completely let go of their relationship no matter how painful it is to hold on to...for her to cling to the hope that maybe she could be worth smth to her mother if she did everything right ): i genuinely had the exact same reaction as her when you revealed that her mother had deleted her phone number...it felt precisely like a bucket of ice cold water to the head. the reader trying to pinpoint the exact moment in time where her mother stopped loving her was what really crushed me most...what a heart-wrenching sentence ㅠㅠ the fact that she's tried to hard to find solace in other places and people and tried to grow into her own person after entering university, but even so, those marks left from her childhood are still there...a vase full of cracks 💔 as much as it hurts to read, i love that you included this bump in the road of her healing journey and made a point to highlight that healing isn't linear

and minho 😭😭😭😭😭 the way he handled the reader's outburst is so touching...the way he's immediately able to recognize that her feelings are misplaced and smth much deeper is going on beyond what he sees on the surface...using that astuteness to put his own feelings to the side in the moment is so minho. this entire scene is just blossoming with powerful lines i can't forget, but i was especially affected by the reader saying "i'd need you and i can't afford to need someone else." it's such a tragic summarization of her in my opinion...how she went her whole life being unable to rely on anyone but herself, so the moment she's faced w minho, all her instincts say to reject it no matter how badly she craves that intimacy ㅠㅠ and lino saying "i'll be by your side for as long as you'll have me" is such a beautiful declaration of love...it's so selfless and unconditional, and it fits so seamlessly w how their relationship progressed throughout the story, how they were by each other's sides at their best and worst moments.

"the world doesn't stop because we need it to" "we'll make it stop" and then describing their kiss as like "seeing color for the first time"...i'm going to melt into an inconsolable puddle over all these callbacks to their first date together don't think i didn't catch the ways you weaved those in throughout this final scene..you made it feel so complete, like things have come full circle. i already mentioned how much i loved their conversation abt describing colors to the blind, so for their first kiss to be written that way, like the reader was blind to the true color of the world until she met minho....i am going to be ill that is so intensely romantic sahar ㅠㅠㅠㅠ

"he was the invisible thread stitching your wounds back together." another heartaching line ): what a way to personify the quiet love minho provides...it may be invisible to everyone else, but not to her

i'm so sorry for my horrifically long comment haha but i'm just thrilled i was finally able to read this beautiful fic 😞 just as i'd predicted, you're a phenomenal writer!! the amount of love and effort you poured into it went above and beyond, i hope you're so proud of yourself for creating such a stunning work!! it's very clear to me how every interaction you wrote between minho and the reader was so carefully thought out and so meaningful to the overarching theme of the story, it's all done with care and purpose and there's smth special to be found in each line of dialogue! it's like you carefully stacked more and more on to the foundation of their bond until before we know it, there's an entire home there that they built steadily together. that kind of subtle progression is my absolute favorite thing. i'm also so blown away by how the reader's mother, though never actually making an appearance until the final scene, has such an heavy impact over the narrative. it's like she's a ghost haunting the reader's every action, every decision, every inner thought...i find it so impressive how you were able to incorporate that effect into the story without us even needing to meet the mother! and i must've mentioned countless lines that stuck w me throughout the fic, but just know that there are countless more i could've pointed out as well...you truly write so so beautifully. so poetic and emotive, but also not so flowery that it becomes hard to follow, i'm truly floored by your ability to achieve that perfect balance! on top of the story being so immersive in itself, your writing style made invisible thread such a genuine delight to read <3

this feels like the kind of story i'll be thinking abt for a long time after finishing it, the kind to revisit over n over bc i'm sure there are so many lil easter eggs you included that i may have missed! i'm positive i'll come back to it many times in the future hehe...but i can't wait to read more of your writing as well! ^_^

Invisible thread- one

pairing : minho x reader

genre : university au, academic rivals to lovers (rivals not enemies because they respect each other), slow burn, fluff, angst.

warnings : reader has a very bad relationship with her mother, insecurities, talk about murder but as a joke, mention of alcohol, reader has she/her pronouns.

summary : Your studies were your lifeline for as long as you can remember. What happens when Minho comes into your life and rips it away from you?

word count : 20k

Author's note : I've been working on this fic on and off for the past two months, so if you do enjoy reading, please let me know. asks, comments, reblogs i read them all and they truly make me the happiest <3 (also i based this off my own college experience, where we study two terms and there is one person on top of the class every semester)

part two

You have always been first in your class.

Not because you particularly enjoyed studying. You simply felt that your worth was solely tied to the marks on your papers.

You never wanted to crumble under the pressure of studies, to hole yourself up in your room for an assignment you won’t remember in a month. But achieving good grades was the only way for you to feel seen; to make someone stop in their tracks and acknowledge you. 

A simple “good job” that you preserved inside your mind, as a reminder that you did exist to other people. Considering that the majority of your life was spent in silence. 

Your mom put a roof above your head and food on your table, but she never asked about your day, nor did she seem to care. You felt as though you were no more important to her than the tapestry hanging on your wall.

At times, you imagined that if you stood close enough to that tapestry, you could merge with it as one. The intricate embroidery would wrap around you and draw you in. And your mother wouldn’t notice. She would regard you with the same indifference she showed towards that textile- a mere decoration, at times a nuisance when she had to dust it.

You always ate your dinner alone. When you scraped your knee, you tended to the wound by yourself. No one attended your childhood musicals, and you patted your back when you cracked an egg without dropping a shell into the bowl. 

You’ve come to learn since your young age that all your milestones, both small and significant, would be celebrated alone. 

On the rare times your mother would acknowledge your presence, she’d unleash a flurry of criticism your way as if she was eagerly awaiting the opportunity to strike you down. She'd toss crude comments over her shoulder as easily as a casual hello, leaving you feeling battered and bruised in her wake. 

You felt as if you were shoreline rocks, and your mother was the ocean. You never knew if she would be like a gentle tide, barely brushing against you, or an enraged storm, mercilessly crashing down on your being. And you weren't sure which one was worse: to be invisible or to be seen and despised.  

That’s why you grew up plagued with self-doubt. You made friends throughout your school years but you never allowed them to get close enough to really see you -you feared that they might glimpse the very thing your mother seemed to despise in you. 

Throughout your childhood, you were like soft clay in your mother's hands- pliable, and easy to mold. And she indented you, everywhere, carved in edges and dips where they should not have been ones. Handled you roughly when you should have been treated with care. And as the years went by, you hardened- much like clay, but her touch remained imprinted upon you. It was difficult at times to discern who you were and who she made you to be.

You tried to start anew when you went away to university; to rewire your brain into believing that you were enough- you exist and you shouldn't prove to anyone that you deserved to be alive. But her words haunted you, they were like skeletons in your closet- but the closet was you. You could never part from them.

So, you fell back into the same pattern of seeking good grades and congratulatory words from your professors. Every A+ you got infused you with a momentary sense of worthiness.

But unlike in high school, you weren't always the best. Your competition came in the form of a single man named Minho, who seemed to excel in every class you shared.

Minho was mostly quiet, but whenever he spoke, you found that his words carried weight. Your professors consistently agreed with his points, and you envied the confidence he exuded. You wondered what it must feel like to be so sure of oneself.

It wasn't until a month into the year that you had your first interaction with Minho. You were in your Constitutional Law class when your professor Kim brought up the notion of ‘Separation of Powers’. You were arguing that judges shouldn’t be included in the writings of law when you heard a scoff from the row behind you. You turned around, raising a brow at the culprit, "Is there something you’d like to say?" you asked.

And in response, Minho smiled lazily, an air of smugness surrounding him, "I just don’t agree." The professor urged him to explain himself, so he leaned back into his chair, eyeing you. "Judges are the ones who practice the law every day, and sometimes they find that none of the written texts fit their case. If they get involved in lawmaking, they can help address those gaps or uncertainties." 

"Who's to say that those judges aren’t biased or politically motivated? They’ll end up writing laws to fit their own preferences," you pointed out, raising an eyebrow at him. "We elect judges to interpret and apply laws, not make them. If they start writing laws too, we'll be violating the separation of powers between the legislative and judicial branches. That's what keeps our entire system from crumbling."

Minho rested his chin on his hand, tapping his cheek thoughtfully with his index finger. "Aren’t legislators prone to biases too? Your point doesn’t stand then," he challenged, tilting his head to the side, "and judges can participate without going overboard. They can provide input on proposed laws without actually drafting them. That way, we ensure that the laws are crafted with a clear understanding of how they'll be put into practice." 

"If your main concern is to ensure that the laws are impartial, we have people who work as consulting experts whose job is exactly that," you flashed him an innocent smile, firing back. "Also, wouldn’t these overstepping branches put the judges in a position to be perceived in a bad light? Is that what you want?"

Before Minho could respond, Mr. Kim intervened, putting an end to your debate, "Let's save this energy for your essays and see who can convince me more."

You gave a quick nod, swiveling in your seat without a backward glance. However, you could sense Minho’s gaze penetrating through your back- as if he was trying to read your most intimate thoughts. 

That was the first thing you noticed about Minho when he walked over to you. His eyes were brown, not a special color by any means. But they held a certain depth to them that seemed to draw you in like a black hole. You weren't sure what you would find on the other side, nor did you have any desire to find out.

He outstretched his hands towards you, stopping you in your tracks. "Minho," he introduced and your hand met his in a firm grip. The second thing you noticed about him was the coldness of his hand, as it wrapped tightly around your palm. 

Suddenly you were taken back to when you built a snowman for the first and last time. You were just seven and the ice was freezing, numbing your fingers as you worked. Your mother never told you that you should’ve worn mittens, or a thick jacket to fight off the cold when she saw you walking out of the house. The memory of your cold hands and the horrible illness that followed still left a bitter taste in your mouth, like an unripe fruit. With a jolt you dropped his hand, forcefully pulling yourself away from that memory. 

"Yn," you said back, and he smiled to himself, repeating your name slowly, each syllable dripping from his tongue.  

"We'll see who'll write the best essay, right?" he asked, clearly challenging you. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes that reminded you of a child gazing up at cotton candy. 

That was the third thing you noticed about Minho; how expressive his eyes were. They moved with his every word, punctuating them. 

He was infuriating but also amusing. You've never had a clear competitor in your life. Or maybe you had, but you didn't notice them. You were always so reclined on yourself, trying to survive the day, you didn't pay enough attention to your surroundings.

"You want to compete with me?" You asked, and he smirked, leaning against the door, arms crossed in front of his chest. "What? Scared you’d lose?"

"Please." You rolled your eyes at his taunting, "Don’t come crying when I win."

"We’ll see about that!" He shouted after you as you walked ahead, leaving him behind.

This essay was insignificant. A simple way for your professor to assess your knowledge and work approach. And yet, you found yourself staying up all night to complete it. There was no way you were going to let Minho take this one thing from you.

Who were you if not the best in your studies? You were deathly afraid to find out. 

Later on that week, the professor handed you your grade back, 98%. You turned around to show Minho your mark, and so did he. You surpassed him, only by mere percents. "I told you so," you smiled cheekily and he pouted, holding a hand to his heart as if your grade wounded him.

"I'll beat you next time", he mouthed and you chuckled, "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

✹✹✹

The first time you studied with Minho was in a cat café near campus, called Limbo, about two weeks after your initial interaction. You stumbled upon it serendipitously while strolling through your university town. You couldn’t study at home, since you were easily distracted in there, and the eerie silence of libraries often left you unsettled.

Limbo, however, offered the perfect middle-ground: it was calm, not overly crowded, and the buzzing of the coffee machine blended harmoniously with the occasional mewls of cats, which helped you concentrate better. 

You were sitting in a secluded corner table at the café's back, a sleeping black cat comfortably nestled in your lap when you sensed a shadow loom over you. You glanced up quickly to find Minho. He was clad in a grey hoodie sporting a bunny holding up its middle finger. You had to bite your cheek to suppress a grin at his clothing attire.

"What are you doing here?" He asked. 

"You know for someone smart you sure ask stupid questions," you remarked, already looking down at the papers scattered in front of you.

He huffed, taking a seat at the table right next to yours, "I can’t believe that of all places you’ve found this café to study in."

"My apologies, am I disturbing you, your highness?" You asked sarcastically, and in retort, Minho mimicked your words in a high-pitched tone. You threw the pillow right next to you at his head, and Minho swiftly ducked, easily avoiding it. He chuckled loudly while you glared at his laughing figure. That was the end of your conversation that day. 

From that moment forward, it became a routine for the two of you to study at Limbo, every Saturday, without fault. You didn’t explicitly plan on it, but it seemed that both of you found it comforting to work there. And you could also tell that, unlike you, it wasn’t Minho’s first time coming to Limbo. He was friends with the owner, a sweet middle-aged man who offered you pastries whenever you stayed there until closing. The cats seemed to know him too, they mewled at his feet whenever he entered and he always greeted them with a soft smile on his face. 

You didn’t talk much in those unofficial study sessions, the both of you were consumed by your own work. But you’d steal quick glances at him every now and then, the sight of him so concentrated only fueled you to work harder.

Admittedly, your competition left you feeling anxious for days on end at first. Each time Minho came out on top, you’d found yourself losing your grip. Your studies have been the one anchor keeping you afloat your entire life, and now, Minho was ripping it carelessly away from you. So, you resented him- you were human after all.

But then, you realized that Minho’s taunting wasn’t malicious. He wasn’t competing with you to hurt you, he was doing it for amusement only.

You've slowly started to learn that despite his relentless teasing, Minho had a gentle aura surrounding him. Glimpses of which occasionally emerged like rays of sunshine piercing through a thick cloud cover.

True, he chuckled when you accidentally bumped your head on the table while retrieving a fallen pen. Yet, you also noticed how he began to cover the table's corners with his hand whenever you bent down. He swiftly retracted his hand, seemingly believing you didn't notice, but you did.

During class presentations, he deliberately prepared challenging questions for you, urging you to study twice as hard to ensure no stone was left unturned. Yet, whenever the professor praised your performance, Minho offered a subtle thumbs-up as a gesture of support. He winked at you each time he got the right answer and you didn’t. However, when he noticed you struggling with a particular subject, he scooted closer and patiently explained it to you. He got up before you could thank him, swatting his arm in the air as if he didn’t do anything of significance. 

To show your appreciation, you bought him a drink that day he helped you—a simple gesture that sparked an ongoing game of "win a bet, get free food". You bet on who would receive the first mark on an assignment or who would finish an essay first- anything to further deepen the competition between you.

That's how you came to know that he loved puddings, among other things.

Curiously, as the months went by, your mind began to retain these little details about him. How his eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings when he blinked repeatedly during your conversations. How he glanced at the ceiling when lost in deep thought as if he was waiting for the answers to descend from the sky. Or how his lips take on the shape of an "o" while thinking of his response during one of your many debates. But you supposed that it was natural to take notice of such things when you spend countless Saturday afternoons with the same person.

You were still studying for someone else, in the sense that each time you stayed up working, it was solely to prove your worth to Minho. But at least unlike your mother, Minho's words never haunted you at night.

✹✹✹

Just like that, four months have gone by since you joined your university as a law major. It was nearing finals week and you were preparing it at Limbo. Minho was naturally present too, at his usual table right next to yours.

On the last weekend before the beginning of your finals, you were head-deep into your Criminal Law documents when Minho abruptly got up from his seat and settled in the chair in front of you.

"Yn," he whispers and you glance at him, "What?" 

"I have an idea."

"Keep it to yourself," you grin sarcastically, only for him to pick up your spoon and move it around in a threatening manner.

"Are you trying to scare me with a spoon?" you chuckle in disbelief.

 "Anything can be a weapon if you use enough force."

"Okay… that was creepy. What do you want?"

"The end of the first term is coming up. So, to celebrate our little rivalry-"

"It's not a rivalry if I’m always winning," you cut him off.

"Yeah, that’s why I have a fridge full of pudding."

"But-"

"Anyways, how about the top of the class takes the other out for dinner? A fancy one." He suggests, his gaze fixed on you.

"No, thank you. I already see you enough in classes."

"Didn’t think you wouldn’t up for a bet. Guess I was wrong," he remarks, a cheeky smile drawn on his lips. He knows you couldn’t possibly say no now.  

"Fine," you roll your eyes at his proud expression. "Prepare your wallet." 

"Mm, sure," he responds, before rising from his seat once more.

That day, you both lost track of time as you studied in Limbo until it closed down. When you finally stepped outside, stretching your tired limbs, you were met with the sight of falling snowflakes.

"Nooo, go away. I don't want to watch the first snow with you," Minho whines, referring to the superstition that watching the first snowfall with someone could spark love between the two of you. 

"As if I could ever love you," you laugh at the ridiculous idea, "that’d just be signing a death warrant."

You resume walking towards your apartment when suddenly something freezing and hard hits your back with enough force to make you stagger. Turning around slowly, you find Minho erupting in laughter, his body filled with uncontainable joy. He’s jumping and clapping excitedly, and for a fleeting moment, you can’t decide if your shock was from the impact or from how beautiful happiness looks on him. 

Snapping out of your daze, you swiftly retaliate by scooping up a handful of snow and hurling it at him. "Now you are cold too!" you shout, while he’s still laughing uncontrollably. 

Thus begins an impromptu snowball fight between the two of you. Unsurprisingly, you’re being competitive in this too, trying your best to strike each other before the other could recover. But Minho draws nearer to you, and in your desperation to win, you fall to the ground when he throws a snowball at your chest, gasping as if you’re in pain.

"Shit, did I hurt you?" Minho quickly kneels in front of you, concern evident in his voice. It surprises you for a moment- how worried he seems at the prospect of causing you pain.

But you shake that thought off and push him down to the ground, a proud smile on your face. In his fall, Minho instinctively reaches for you to steady himself, which ends up with you landing on top of him. Your faces are mere inches apart, and a soft gasp escapes your mouth at your sudden proximity.

Minho has a mole on his nose. You’ve never noticed that before. 

You quickly push yourself off of him, not enjoying being this close to somebody. "Why did you drag me down with you?" you grumble, shaking off the snow from your hair.

"Play stupid games, win stupid prizes," he cheekily stuck out his tongue, and you respond with the same childlike gesture before the both of you burst into loud laughter. The sound reverberates through your entire being, and it echoes in your mind long after the two of you go your separate ways.  

As you lay in bed that night, ready to drift off to sleep, a quiet realization dawns on you. This was the first time you've touched snow in since your childhood incident.

That unpleasant memory didn't cross your mind once. Instead, all you thought about was Minho’s infectious laughter, and the surprising warmth it stirred within you.

✹✹✹

You came first in your grade this semester.

True to his words, Minho texted you the name of the restaurant where you’d both meet to celebrate your win. As you got ready for your outing, you couldn’t help the nerves creeping up on you. Studying in silence next to Minho was something, going to a friendly dinner with him was another. You feared it would be too awkward and Minho would regret ever proposing such a thing.

So, as you sit in the refined BBQ restaurant waiting for him, you fidget with your hands, counting down to three in your head in an attempt to steady your breathing.

You were clearly not accustomed to existing with Minho outside of the confines of your studies.

"Did you wait long?" Minho asks as he finally pulls the chair in front of you and you shake your head no.

"Are you nervous?" he chuckles at your lack of words, and you frown, suddenly feeling defensive. "Why would I be nervous? This isn't a date."

"Who said anything about a date?" he smirks and you grab your fork threateningly, pointing it at him, "Don't say anything stupid or I will walk out."

"And stand me up on our first date? That's too mean.” He pouts, a hand on his heart and you can’t help but giggle at his antics. You were ridiculous for being nervous. This was Minho, the one person you’ve talked to the most since the start of this year. 

"What will you have?" he asks and you smile mischievously.

 "Most expensive thing on the menu."

"So you are only here for the food." 

"Well, it's certainly not for your company," you wink and he chuckles, his bunny teeth on full display. 

"And here I thought we were going to be civil with each other."

"When are we ever not?" you gasp dramatically and Minho swats your hand with the menu. "Just order whatever," you finally answer," I trust your food judgment."

"I could poison you, you know?" He smiles proudly and you roll your eyes at him, "Can’t you be normal, for once?"

Minho calls over the waiter and places your orders. The food is quick to arrive and Minho starts to grill up the meat, while you cut the Kimchi into smaller pieces. 

"Here," he puts the perfectly cooked rib onto your plate first and you smile at him, "Thank you."

"Eat up, don’t wait for me," he tells you and you nod, tasting the flavorful meat.

"Wow this is really good," you compliment and he smirks proudly at your words, "I know."

Minho places four other ribs for you, without eating one himself. You start to feel bad, so you grab his chopsticks, pick up the meat, and move it toward his mouth, "Open up."

"What?" He asks confused and you wave the food in front of his face, "Come on, you haven’t eaten anything."

Minho parts his lips slowly, and you feed the tender meat to him, before eating one yourself. You notice how his cheeks are slightly tinted pink now, and you account it to the intense heat of the grill.

"Oh, let's not talk about studies, my brain can't take another debate with you," you tell Minho in between bites and he grins at you, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "If you were to dispose of a body, how would you do it?"

"I think our next celebration will be in an asylum." you smile too sweetly at him and he stares at you pointedly, "Please, I know you've already thought about it."

"Fine. Probably in a deserted land. What about you?"

"I'd cut their bodies and then bury each part in a different forest. In a different city."

His answer came too quickly, and you pause in your tracks, "Should I be worried?"

"You are too cute to kill." His tone is sarcastic and you make a show of gushing at his compliment, clasping both of your hands in front of your heart, "Growing soft on me, Minho?" 

"Yeah, I’m basically sooo in love with you," he replies with a smirk and you roll your eyes at him, an amused smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"What's your favorite color?" you finally ask, changing the subject.

"Purple."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You'll buy me purple flowers?" He coos at you and you shake your head as you grab the utensil from his hand, to grill the meat your turn. 

"No. I'll paint your tombstone purple," you grin and he laughs loudly, eyes squinted close, and you can't find it in you to care that the people next to you are staring. 

"What's yours?" he asks when he calms down and you shrug, "Navy blue, I think."

"You do remind me of navy blue."

"And why is that?"

"When you look at it, at first glance, it looks like black. But the more you stare at it, the more layers you uncover. Just like you. There’s more to you than what meets the eye."

You grab your glass of water, gulping it down to hide the way your eyes just glossed over. You suddenly felt bare in front of Minho. How did he know?

You clear your throat, racking your brain for a way to move on from that question. "If you were to describe colors to a blind person, how would you do it?"

"Mm," he looks up at the ceiling as he mulls over your question, "I’d say that yellow is the feeling of eating ice cream on a sunny day, in an amusement park. Your fingers are sticky but your cheeks ache from how much you smiled that day."

"Yellow is carefree and happy."

"Exact. Now your turn, red."

"I’d say that... Red is the thrill that rushes through your veins when you do something you are passionate about, you know? It’s what makes our blood boil and our heart race. The very essence of our humanity."

Minho smiles softly at your words, seemingly agreeing with your description. "Don’t you think it would be easier if we simply asked, what color are you feeling today, instead of a 'How are you'?" He questions and you tilt your head to the side, "What do you mean?"

"Well, you could say, I feel like that moss green that no one seems to pay attention to. Or, I feel bright yellow as if the world's energy is stored inside me."

"And right now, how do you feel?"

"I feel orange, not the ugly orange." He precises and you chuckle, "the orange that paints the sky when the sun is about to dip into the ocean."

"A bittersweet orange, an ending that instantly strings along a new beginning. And you don't have time to rest."

Minho places his chin on his palm, eyeing you curiously, "Is that what you want? To rest?"

"Yeah." You admit quietly, "Don't you sometimes wish that the world would just stop, for a few seconds? Just like in a song, right before the beat drops. That silence, I wish I could live inside of it."

"I do too."

You both hold each other’s gaze for a while after that. You felt as if he was keeping you captive with his brown eyes, and he was slowly peeling each of your layers, in silence, as you were peeling his. For the first time, you think that you and he are similar, more than on a studies level. There was a part of his soul that understood yours perfectly. And it felt good, to be understood, for once.

"If you lived in this silence, what would you be doing?" he asks, breaking the serene quiet that surrounded you.

"I’d open a café that had books. And there'd be a little space, where people could paint. Or do pottery. And I’d have cats in there too." You reply excitedly, hands moving around in the air, you end up missing the way Minho gazes fondly at you before his smile morphs into a smirk.

"Please tell me you won't be cooking."

"Shut up. What about you?"

"I’d be a dancer."

"You dance?!" you whisper-shout and he frowns at the surprised look on your face. 

"Yeah. Why are you looking at me like this?"

"I just never expected it. Can I-"

"No." he cuts you off immediately and you pout. 

"I didn't even finish."

"I knew what you were going to say."

"Please, I won't make a sound I’d just watch. Pinky promise.” He grabs your now outstretched pinky with the tip of his index and thumb, lowering it down. 

"I’d only grant you this wish when you’re on your deathbed."

"Bold of you to assume you'd still be around."

"Death might be around the corner."

"Stop it."

"Close your door tonight."

"You are deranged."

Minho chuckles at the crestfallen look on your face, "I’ll think about it."

Just like that, three hours of talking have gone by, the conversation flowing easily between the two of you. And when you finally leave the restaurant, Minho grabs you a cab and you wave him off with a smile. You couldn't lie to yourself, you had a really good time with him. You liked to think that Minho was no longer just a rival, but a possible friend.

But now that you were laying in your bed, you couldn’t help but curse Minho in your brain. His repetitive talk about murder made you paranoid, and now every creak in your apartment made you feel as if death was really right around the corner. 

You decide to text him, figuring that if you couldn’t sleep because of him, you could at least disturb him for a bit. 

Yn : I hate you I'm paranoid from your murder talk

Minho : Poor baby

Yn : Is that you at my door?

Suddenly your phone rings, the shrill sound echoing around your apartment. It was a Facetime call from Minho. You panic for a few seconds, before remembering that you just spent your entire night with him. A call can’t be more daunting than a real-life meeting. 

"See, I’m in my home," he tells you as soon as you pick up and you laugh.

"It's pitch black, I can't see."

"Just say you miss my face." You can’t see him but you can clearly hear the proud grin in his voice. 

"What's there to miss?"

"Are you actually scared?" Minho asks gently and you clear your throat, feeling ridiculous all of the sudden. 

"There is a tree right outside my window and it keeps rustling from the wind," you grumble and Minho laughs at you. 

"Trees can't hurt you."

"No shit Sherlock."

"Close your eyes.” He instructs and you frown at his words. 

"Why?"

"I’ll tell you a story."

"Fine.” You close your eyes tentatively. It’s quiet for a few seconds and you feel yourself relax slightly. 

"So, I bought a sous-vide machine and-"

"Is your bedtime story going to be about meat?"

"Yes?” He replies as if it’s an evidence, “Now be quiet." You pretend to zip your mouth and Minho faintly giggles, before resuming his story. "So, I was saying. I bought one and I wanted to experience different kinds of meats. So, I bought a 30-day aged one and a 58-day aged one and I cooked them both."

"What did you use?" you ask quietly. 

"Just garlic, and thyme, I didn't want to overpower the taste of meat. Anyways I cooked them, but I didn't have plastic bags so I had to go out and buy them."

"Mm," you hum in acknowledgment. You could feel your nerves slowly dissipate with Minho's every word. His story might be ridiculous but his honey-coated voice compensated for it, wrapping around you like a protective cocoon. 

"And I found pudding there so I had to buy it."

"Obviously," you whisper. Sleep was knocking on your door, but paradoxically you tried to fight it off. You wanted to hear the rest of Minho’s story. 

"And I went back home and I cooked it, then I plated it nicely with vegetables that I sauteed with butter and garlic. Just mushrooms and potatoes, nothing too fancy. Again, my main focus was the meat. But there wasn't a difference between the two. They tasted the same for me, for some reason. And I didn't like this because the aged one was very expensive. Maybe I was scammed. Honestly, that butcher looked kind of suspicio..."

Your quiet snores make Minho pause in his tracks, and he laughs quietly. You did end up falling asleep. He can't see your face clearly, but he can see its outline and he stares at you for a while. You look peaceful.

He goes to hang up but his finger hovers over the 'end call' button. You aren't talking, but your hums are quiet enough that they fill up the space around him. It calms him down, and he lets his head fall on the pillow, his phone lying beside him.

He closes his eyes, thinking that maybe he just found the silence you talked about earlier on. 

You just made his world stop.

✹✹✹

The second semester had just started and with it the return of frat parties. You were excited at the prospect of going to one with your new friend Mina. You met her in the library when you both went to grab the same book. You quickly apologized but she waved you off, handing you the book with a huge smile on her face. She was bubbly, like a human serotonin boost, and she started gushing about how much she loved the author. You saw her again in the campus cafeteria, and she skipped towards you as if you've both known each other your entire life. That was the start of your friendship.

You walk into the frat house, both your arms encircling each other. The flashing lights of the party blind you for a moment, and it takes you a while to adjust to the loud music bouncing off of the walls. But you like it, it was like a shield from the outside world and its problems. 

You feel yourself letting loose in the crowd, swaying your hips to the music. Mina spins you around and you laugh, dancing with no care in the world. It was just the both of you in that instant. 

Mina spots Jeongin in the crowd, a friend of hers that she had an immense crush on. You couldn’t blame her- he was very attractive; his easy smirk and his blonde tousled hair earned him lots of appreciative looks from the people around him. But when his eyes locked with Mina’s, you found that his face morphed into a beautiful smile, that made his dimples look on full display, as if it was only reserved for her.

“Go get your man!” You shout in her ears, so she’d be able to hear you. 

“What are you talking about?” She yells back, but you could see the nervous smile on her face.

“He likes you! Go talk to him!”

“I don’t want to leave you alone. We came together!” She clasps your hand in hers and you smile touched by her kind spirit.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll go to the kitchen to get some drinks. Go have fun!”

“You are sure?” She asks, her eyes darting between you and Jeongin, who was still looking at her, and her only. 

“Yes! Go!” You say, gently pushing her away. Mina jogs up to Jeongin who greets her with a side hug. He quickly glances at you and you shoot him a thumbs-up, to which he grins. You loved playing Cupid.

With that, you decide to head to the kitchen to grab a drink. You pick a beer from the fridge, double-checking if the can is closed before opening it. 

You lean on the countertop, sipping on your drink while you watch the crowd, humming along each time a song you knew played. You enjoyed watching people dance freely from afar, with no apparent care in the world.

You feel someone stand next to you and you brace yourself, getting ready to tell the person off if they decide to bother you. You didn’t have the energy for mindless flirting. But then, you smell the cologne that has lingered around you for the past term- Minho. You haven't seen him since your dinner. That was a month ago.

"Fancy seeing you here," he greets as he leans on the counter right next to you, his eyes fixated on the mingling bodies.

You turn around to face him, faking an outraged gasp, "Are you following me?"

"Mmm. You look nice", he compliments and you smile cheekily, "I know."

"Won't tell me I look nice too?" he smirks, leaning closer to your face. "Someone didn’t get enough compliments tonight?" You pout, placing a hand on your heart in mock concern.

"I did, but I want to hear it from you. You’re the only sensible person in this room."

"You look nice. Now leave me alone."

"Come on, I know you can do better than that", he jokes and you roll your eyes, muttering “You’re annoying”, under your breath.

Still, you comply, placing your arms on top of the counter and leaning your head on them to get a better look at him. He does the same, smiling, and you both stare at each other for a while after that.

The strobing lights dance on Minho’s face, casting enticing shadows on him. You've always known he was a beautiful man; you've looked into his eyes far too many times in your heated conversations. But this time was different, there was no cheeky smirk on his face nor a furrow in his eyebrows. He was simply looking at you, and it made a pool of warmth huddle in your belly. You feel yourself relax under his gaze, everything around you seemingly melts away.

You weren’t wrong when you thought that his eyes were like a black hole, pulling you in. But this time, you realize that you didn’t mind knowing what was on the other side. On the contrary, you longed for it. 

"I like your eyes right now. They remind me of the night sky. Black, with tiny little stars littered in them," you finally say.

Minho is taken aback by your words, he wasn't expecting you to compliment him, let alone to tell him something so special. He can feel his cheeks burn red at your words, feel his heart hammering in his chest. He's afraid you can hear it too.

He doesn't know what to say, so instead he clears his throat, plastering a smirk on his face, "I heard better." He hasn't. This is the first genuine compliment he's ever gotten.

"Oh, fuck off," you laugh and he joins you. The music was loud and yet the only sound his ear seemed to pick up was your laugh.

"Are you here alone?" He asks, and you shake your head no, "Came with my friend Mina."

"Did she leave you by yourself?" He frowns and you feel yourself warm up at his worried tone. "I told her to go talk to Jeongin."

"Next time, don’t stay alone."

“Fine, Dad.” You chastise and he stares pointedly at you, "I’m serious, yn."

You take another swing of the beer before turning your body fully towards Minho. After a few beats of silence, you finally ask a question that has been on your mind for a while. "Why do you say my name this way?"

"What way?" He questions and you shrug, "Slowly. People used to always rush it but you don’t."

"Well, it’s a pretty name. It deserves to be pronounced as a whole."

You beam at his words; you smile so brightly it makes his heart skip a beat. This is the first time you’ve grinned this widely at him, no hand in front of your mouth as if to hide it. He did notice how you were a reserved person outside of class, as if you were afraid of taking up too much place. But he could tell you were slowly unraveling, growing bolder with each passing month. He wanted to tell you that if people like you spoke more, the world would be a far better place. 

But he couldn't bring himself to say all of this, so he forced those bubbling words down his throat. "I’m hungry," he whines instead and you laugh at his pout. "I'm kind of craving a greasy pizza."

"Should we go buy it? You can tell Mina to come so we can walk her back."

"I’ll ask her."

You shoot Mina a text, asking her where she was and telling her about your plan. She replies that she’s with Jeongin who just offered to take her home, so you could leave without her.

"We can go." You tell him and he nods. Minho shrugs his leather jacket off, gently placing it on your shoulders. His warmth engulfs you and you sink further into it. His arm hovers around your shoulder not touching you as he leads you out of the party. He has never touched your body, you note, it's like he was everywhere and nowhere at once.

You both walk to an open parlor near the frat house, and you order a Margarita pizza to share. You sit down on a nearby bench to eat it- the night breeze too liberating to pass up on.

As you both finish eating, a cat with white and orange stripes all over her body approaches the both of you cautiously, and you pat her head softly. "Aren't you the cutest thing ever?" you coo and Minho chuckles as he scratches the cat’s chin. She purrs at his touch appreciatively, and you smile at the soft look on his face. 

"Never knew you to be this gentle", you giggle and Minho shushes you, "Let's not do this in front of the cat."

"Why are you acting as if we are a divorced couple and she’s our child."

"Easy, yn. You make it sound as if you want me to marry you."

"Now you're just projecting," you chastise and he laughs, eliciting giggles from you. He had a melodic laugh, you noticed, and you always felt a surge of pride whenever you made him close his eyes and tip his head from laughter. You felt as if it's a sight only you can see.

"I have three cats", he says softly and you gasp, "Really? We spent all of our Sundays in a cat café and this is when you tell me?"

"I only tell my friends."

"So we're friends now?" You gush and he rolls his eyes at you, "I take it back."

"What’s their names?" You ask curiously and his eyes soften at your question- you could easily tell he loved them dearly.

"Soongie, Doongie, and Dori. They are rescues."

"That’s very sweet of you Minho."

"Most of my scars come from them though," he chuckles but you sober up at his words, quietly scratching the cat's ears.

"What’s on your mind?" He asks and you glance at him. It was scary how well he’s starting to know you. But it was also nice; to be known is to exist, after all.

"I just... Sometimes I wish that memories would leave physical scars on you. Because at least then, you could treat them, put a band-aid on, and watch them fade away day by day. Because when the scars are emotional, you can’t treat them, you know? And someday someone brings up a name or a place, or you smell a certain scent, and suddenly they reopen as if no time has gone by at all.”

Minho stays silent for a while, mulling over your words. You don't mind, you weren't expecting him to comfort you. You just needed to free those words from the mental prison you've held them in for so long.

"Do you know Kintsugi?" he finally asks and you shake your head no.

"It's a Japanese art. They put back together broken vases with molten gold. It represents strength despite our flaws."

"That sounds nice," you sigh wistfully and he nods. 

"It is. When you look at that vase, you know that it was once broken, but it doesn't take away from its beauty, on the contrary, it adds to it. Scars, whether they are emotional or physical are there for a reason. They remind us of how we pushed through whatever life threw at us."

"Am I supposed to be grateful I survived this?" You chuckle lowly, as your hand scratches the cat’s ear. Your fingers brush against Minho’s and you hesitate for a few seconds before moving them away.

"I wouldn't say grateful for what you went through," he speaks once again, "but grateful to yourself. At the end of the day, the reason why you're still here is you. You put yourself back together," he then bumps his elbow into your side softly, "and hey, even if your scars reopen there will come a time when they wouldn’t anymore. Sometimes, it takes a while to be okay again."

This was Minho’s way of telling you that someday it wouldn’t hurt anymore. That someday you’d be okay. And you needed to hear that. You needed to hear someone else other than yourself tell you that.

"Thank you, Minho, I needed that", you smile at him and he grins back at you before his smile turns to a smirk. "I charge 15 dollars for the hour by the way."

"Oh, come on! You didn't even say something revolutionary." You are lying. Minho's words will echo in your mind long after this night- a beacon of light to hold onto.

"Oh, so now it’s no longer ‘I needed that’. Tsk," he jokes a smirk still plastered on his face.

"Okay, Mr. Therapist. I’ll pay for your coffee tomorrow, sounds good?"

"I should have you as my client more often," he winks and you laugh, head tipped back. You were grateful more than ever for his teasing, loving how it wasn’t awkward between you after your discussion.

"You are a good listener." You tell him as you stand up, dusting your pants.

"I’m good at everything," he grins cheekily at you and you roll your eyes playfully, "And here I thought we were having a moment."

You both start walking side by side toward your home when Minho speaks again. His tone is quiet as if he wasn’t sure he wanted you to hear him. "About earlier, your compliment, I mean. I suppose I didn't thank you. So, thank you," he scratches the tip of his ears and you shrug nonchalantly. "It's the truth. You might get on my ass but that doesn't change the fact you are a pretty man."

He doesn’t respond and you tug at the sleeve of his shirt playfully, "You won't tell me I’m pretty too?"

"But then I’d be lying."

"Asshole."

"Pretty," he replies without missing a beat.

You laugh loudly, hand tightly clutching your stomach and he joins you. There is a newfound lightness in your steps now. Unbeknownst to him, Minho just managed to lift a small weight off your shoulders, allowing you a brief moment of respite.

"This is me," you say when you arrive in front of your apartment block, "Thank you for walking me home."

"Of course. Don't dream of me."

"Idiot," you laugh waving him off and he does the same. "Oh, and text me when you get home safely!" you shout before heading inside.

For the second time this night, Minho is blushing profusely at your words. He sighs to himself, waiting patiently until a light turns on in your place to leave.

✹✹✹

It’s been two months since the start of the new term. You still went to Limbo, every Saturday with Minho- even when you didn’t need to study. 

Sometimes you’d just grab a book and you’d both read, a cat lazily lounging at your feet. You started sitting at the same table too; you figured it was easier since one of you always pays for the other. When you have a bet, but also randomly, when you notice that the other person is feeling down and you want to cheer them up without saying anything.

That's why you bought three bubble teas for Minho in a row. He was quieter these days, you noticed. He didn’t talk to you nor did he retort back in class. It was the first time you’ve seen him this way. As if he was a simple shell of the person he usually is. 

You were walking out of your Communications Strategies class, which Minho weirdly didn’t come to when you realized that it was pouring rain. You smile lightly to yourself, grateful since you thought about picking up an umbrella this morning. 

As you walk through campus, everyone around you running to take shelter, you spot someone sitting on a bench, completely drenched from the rain. Their head is hung low and you frown to yourself. They would surely get a cold if they stay there.

But then the person raises their head and you quickly realize it's Minho. You jog up to him instinctively, standing in front of him and shielding him from the rain with your umbrella.

He looks up at you and you feel your heart clench. His eyes are void of emotion and he stares blankly at you. "Are you okay?" you ask and he blinks at your words, as if his brain hadn't yet registered that you were there.

"Yeah."

"You don't look like it", you tilt your head to the side and he looks down again. You have to strain to hear his next words, muffled by the rain and his mumbling, "I don't want to talk, yn."

You decide to put away your umbrella and sit down next to him on the bench. The rain falls rapidly on both of you, and you feel yourself grow cold from it. 

"What are you doing?" He questions, turning to the side to look at you.

"Enjoying the rain. It is kind of stupid that we have umbrellas, right?"

"You'll catch a cold."

"I mean we always complain about the drought and then when it rains, we hide from it. But it's really beautiful."          

"Stop, I don't want you to get sick."

"Well, neither do I. Let's go eat some soup. My treat."

"Yn, I don’t-"

"I thought you were smart enough to know I won't take no for an answer."

"But I-" you cut him off again. "Also, I’m doing this for me because when you order for two, they give you a lot of side dishes. Now come on."

You stand up and he looks doubtfully at you, before following suit. You open up the umbrella again and hold it over both of your heads. He has to huddle close to you, and your shoulders brush against each other. Once, twice. Not that you're keeping count. But your body is always hyper-aware of Minho’s proximity. You also notice how he silently moves from your right to your left, this way he's the one walking right next to the speeding cars. Your hold on the umbrella tightens. You were still not used to those small attentions of his. 

You arrive in front of your apartment block and he hesitates. "Come up, I won't murder you I promise." You joke and he smiles lightly back at your words. Progress.

He enters your dorm and you can see him eying his surroundings. You know that if it was another time, he would have teased you about something- anything. But he stays quiet, and you find yourself missing the sound of his voice.

"Would you like to shower?" You offer and he nods, "Please."

You lead him to your bathroom and show him where the washing machine is. "Put your clothes in there for a quick wash and dry. You can shower meanwhile."

He nods again as you hand him a towel. "I'll be outside."

You quickly leave the bathroom to place the soup orders, and Minho discards his wet clothes, walking into your shower. The water is piping hot, and he leans his forehead on the cold tiles. He doesn’t move for the first ten minutes, too tired at the prospect of lifting his limbs.

Nothing particular happened. But he’d go through days when he’d quiet down because everything around him was too much. The feel of his clothes against his skin, and the sun streaming through his curtains. But it always passes. Minho was a realistic man and he knew that his emotions would regulate themselves. That’s why he didn’t like appearing vulnerable in front of other people.

But for some reason, he didn’t mind lowering his guard with you. He knew you wouldn’t judge.

He sighs, grabbing your cherry-scented shampoo and pouring it into his hands. He can clearly smell you now. The scent of your hair that always tickles his nose, whenever you are sitting close to him. Your body wash is next and he wonders if this is how your skin smells, like vanilla and jasmine, and something entirely you. 

Forty minutes later, Minho finally steps out of the shower. His clothes are clean and he quickly puts them on. He dries his hair with the towel as he walks out of your bathroom towards the living room. 

He finds you sitting on the ground, in front of a heater that looks close to giving up. He makes a mental note of giving you the one he has since he doesn't really use it. You changed out of your clothes too, and you are now wearing a pair of pajamas with little bunnies sewn into it. The sight almost manages to make him smile. 

"Still cold?" you question when you notice him standing behind you, unmoving, and he shakes his head no.

"Good, the soup is here." You say cheerfully, pointing at the steaming bowls sitting on your table. Minho hums in reply and you stand up, grabbing the towel from his hands to place it on the drying rack.

You come back, a soft green blanket in your hands. You sit on the couch and pat the spot beside you. Minho sits next to you, and you lay the blanket on both of your laps, before handing him his soup.

You start the show you’ve been last watching, as you both eat in silence, your legs crisscrossed. You make some comments throughout the episodes. You figured that it was a safe territory, to talk about something as mundane as this. He didn't reply but you didn't mind. You weren't here to have a conversation with him. You just wanted to distract him.

You realize at that moment that Minho always looked so put together to you. But he had problems of his own too. That much was obvious. It made you feel closer to him, in a sense. You were both just trying to make it through the day.

Two hours later, you get up to grab a book, handing Minho the remote to put on a show of his own. You curl in a ball in the corner, reading where you left off last night.

"Can you... Can you read out loud?" Minho speaks for the first time in a while and you look at him. His eyes are closed, his head resting against your couch.

"Sure."

You start to read, and Minho further sinks into the couch. He feels at home here. Because the blanket is soft and the light is dim enough to not hurt his eyes. Or it could be that he smells like you, a scent so comforting he wants to bury himself in it. Or maybe it's your voice that floats through the air, slowly clouding Minho’s every sense. He feels as if he could see the words you were pronouncing dancing in front of his eyes. You enunciated each syllable clearly, making sure that no sound was forgotten.

As Minho gently drifted to sleep, he felt as if he was part of the words you read out loud. He felt as if you were treating him with the same care, making sure that he knew he wasn't invisible. At least not to you.

When you wake up the next morning, Minho is gone. And his place beside you on the couch is empty. He made you breakfast, scrambled eggs, and freshly pressed orange juice. And right next to it you find a note, "Thank you for reading to me."

✹✹✹

Minho didn't believe in having a lot of friends. He was content with the two people he had, Chan and Changbin. The latter was his high school friend, he skipped a year and ended up being in the same class as Minho. They didn't talk at first until the day Changbin dropped a book on Minho's foot. The brooding man started apologizing profusely, and that was the start of their friendship. They've kept in touch since.

Chan was his roommate at university. It's not that he particularly wanted to befriend him, but Chan was a social butterfly and he quickly managed to pull Minho into his friendly trap. He annoys Minho the most, but in an endearing way. And although Chan is older, Minho still strangely developed a soft spot for him. 

And he supposes he has you too now. At first, you weren’t friends, rivals at most. He enjoyed reeling you up and having you frown at his words in your heated debates. He also liked talking to you, because your ideas were interesting and you always gave him a new fresh perceptive to see things.

That’s how he strictly saw you as, an intelligent human who he liked to debate with.

But then he started to look forward to meeting up with you at Limbo. He no longer minded the fact that you took his self-assigned table, from his high school days. And he laughed more freely with you, enjoying how you always had a witty retort sitting at the tip of your tongue. 

That’s how he started to notice things that friends most definitely notice. How you have a charm bracelet you always fidget with whenever you are nervous. How you stray away from physical touch. How you scratch your eyebrow when you are deep in thought.

But also, how you seem to have an obsession with cherries. Your cherry pendant, your cherry-scented shampoo, and your cherry-tainted lips. A friend would most certainly think that your lips are like red wine-stained glass.

He remembers one of the many times when you were at Limbo, and he saw you reapply your lip tint, or so you called it. You caught him looking and he swiftly averted his gaze, but it wasn't quick enough. Suddenly you were in front of him, a tiny red bottle in hand.

"Let me apply it to you," you smiled and he pushed your head away with his pointer finger. "No."

"Please," you pouted and he couldn't help but find you adorable. You sometimes reminded him of a small kitten. But he didn’t dare to call you by that nickname. 

"Never."

"If I score more than you in our environmental assignment then I will do it."

"Fine." he huffed so that you'd leave him alone.

Minho didn't study for that assignment. He blamed it on a headache, not that it's ever stopped him before. And two weeks later you were in front of him, eyebrows scrunched in concentration. You applied the lip tint gently on his plump lips, carefully tracing over his cupid bow. 

Your face was mere inches away from his and he noticed how you were wearing a gloss today, for change. It was shimmering under the lights and he usually didn't like glittery things, but he couldn't take his eyes off your lips. 

"All done!" you clapped excitedly, snapping him out of his haze. You then shove your phone camera into his face so he'd look at the results.

"You should be a model. Your face is perfectly sculpted," you comment nonchalantly, before sitting back in your seat. 

“I know.” He replies confidently, but his hand kept fiddling with the tip of his now pink ears. He couldn't concentrate for the rest of the night.

You were his friend because he always worried if you were eating enough. That’s why he urged you to grab a bite in the convenience store near Limbo, whenever you finished up your studying late.

This was one of the many times you sat on the minuscule table outside, hot ramen bowls in front of the both of you. Minho huffed in annoyance between each bite, his bangs were getting longer, disturbing him when he leaned down to slurp his noodles. 

“Here,” you stand up from your place, a hair tie in your hands. 

“What are you doing?” He questions as you stand behind him. You don’t reply, silently grabbing his hair and putting it up in a tiny ponytail, this way it wouldn’t get in his eyes anymore.

“Voila,” you sit back down, resuming your eating. Minho was grateful for the dimly lit street because his entire face was burning up. Your fingers in his hair were gentle and he wondered how it would feel if you ran your fingers through it. 

This was something friends think about, right? 

"I’ll cut my hair tomorrow," he clears his throat. He didn't know why he told you. You certainly weren't interested in his hair endeavors.

"What?!" you yell, "Don't. Your hair is beautiful why would you cut it?"

"Because it's getting longer."

"But it suits you."

Minho also noticed how you always threw compliments his way. Not in a flirtatious way, but in a genuine one. He couldn't help but wonder what made you this way. Did you so freely give love to others because you knew how it felt to not receive it?

"I’ll still cut it."

Minho returned home; his hair still clipped back in a ponytail. Chan eyed him weirdly but he shut him off with a glare. The elastic remained at his bedside since.

He didn't cut his hair.

The moment Minho started to consider you a close friend, was when you invited him over to watch your show. You didn’t force him to open up that night, and he appreciated it, more than he let on.

That's how a week later, he finds himself walking towards your dorm again. The thoughts in his head got too much, and Chan was immersed in his makeshift studio, which meant he won't be free for the next four hours, minimum.

He didn't plan on going to you. It was late at night and you were probably asleep, but his feet naturally led him to the direction of your place.

He knocks softly on your door. He wasn't even sure if he wanted you to open. What would you think of him showing up at eleven pm? He should have thought this thro-

"Minho?" you call out, and he startles a bit, his feet already inching away from the door.

"This was a bad idea, I'm sorry," he starts to retract back but you grab the hem of his jacket to stop him. "Do you... Do you want to watch my show with me?" you ask, a soft smile on your face and he nods tentatively.

"Okay, come in," you open the door wider and Minho follows you inside. The look in his eyes reminds you of the day you found him sitting under the rain. You didn't like it, you wanted him to find his spark back, his usual demeanor. He wasn't deserving of anything but happiness.

"I’ve started a new show, this one's a bit more romantic, so don't go around imagining me as the main character," you tease and he scoffs at your words, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He doesn't reply, but you don't mind. There was this secret agreement between the two of you, you would talk and he would listen. He needed the distraction, and you needed the company. Sometimes the line between alone and lonely blurs, and on days like these, Minho’s presence fills the void inside.

You comment on the scenes and Minho hums in reply, you watch three episodes in a row, and your eyes are getting drowsy, so you close them.

"Minho," you call out gently and he turns his head towards you.

"Yeah?"

"What color are you feeling tonight?" You ask, referencing to what he told you on your dinner celebration. That felt like an eternity ago.

"Black." You stay silent and Minho fidgets with his hands before speaking once again. "I feel a lot at the same time, too much of every color. That's why- that's why I said black."

"How can I help you feel yellow?"

"You already do." His admission came softly and it made your breath hitch in your throat. You wanted to open your eyes and look at him, but you figured it will only make him close off even more.

“Okay. Will you stay for breakfast?”, you whisper. You were very sleepy, the soft chatter of the TV and your hushed conversation were like a lullaby to you. 

"You want me to?" he asks, and he sounds so vulnerable you can't find it in you to say anything but the truth.

"I do," you admit, and that's the last thing you remember before sleeping.

Your head falls near Minho’s lap on the couch, your hair tickling his exposed thigh. Minho shouldn’t feel this way, he thinks. He’s sitting on the leather couch and his feet are touching the cold floor and yet all he can feel is three strands of your hair tickling him.

He glances at you, at your now parted lips and your relaxed eyebrows. His hand hovers over your hair, but then he curls it into a tight fist. What is he doing? He thinks to himself as he drags an angry hand through his face. He sighs, before standing up and grabbing the blanket you had on the opposing chair. He gently lays it on your body before sitting next to you once again. 

You told him to stay for breakfast. He’ll stay.

✹✹✹

2 months later

"Yn!" Minho shouts in your ear as he plops down next to you. You startle, dropping the book you were reading. 

"I hate you," you grumble, picking up your book and he smiles cheekily at you, "No you don't."

You were laying on the grass of your campus garden, in between two classes, trying to kill the time. It was April so the weather was perfect for lying under the warm sunrays. You loved spring, it always held within it the promise of a better time. 

"What are you doing?"

"I was reading before you got here and started to annoy me." 

"Don't mind me. Do your thing." 

"And what are you doing?"

"Enjoying the sun."

"You couldn't find any other place to do so?"

"Nope."

"You're annoying" You try to sound mad but the smile on your face betrays you. You started looking forward to any moment Minho randomly shows up throughout your day. Sometimes it's late at night when he's suddenly craving sushi and he drags you with him because if he's not studying then you shouldn't be too. 

Sometimes it's during the day, when he takes you to a new garden where he found the quote "cutest cats in existence". Not as cute as his cats, of course. 

Sometimes it's late afternoon when he just knocks on your door, and he's there with Chan-his roommate who sometimes joins your study sessions- snacks in their hands. You've learned that what Minho doesn't say in words, he compensates by spending time with you. And you didn't tell him but waiting for these moments has been the joy of your life for the past few weeks.

It made you feel excited- like a child waiting up for Christmas morning to discover what gifts they are receiving. 

So, you resume reading, as Minho is lying next to you. You could smell his pinewood cologne and you wished you could pour his essence into a bottle and carry it with you everywhere. 

You notice how the sun is hitting Minho’s eyes directly, and how his eyebrows are scrunched up at the aggression. So, you grab your book with your left hand, and hover your right one over his eyes, shielding him from the sun. Minho's breath tickles your hand and you can feel goosebumps rising through your skin. 

It's as if every physical proximity with Minho made you feel hyperaware of every part of your body, and how he can lighten it with a simple breath from his part. It made you wonder what it would feel to have his hands on your skin.

As if Minho heard your thoughts, he gently wraps his thumb and index finger around your wrist, steadying your hand in place so it wouldn't strain your arm. You suddenly don't know what page you are in, too overwhelmed by the feeling of his hands on you. 

His touch is very featherlight and you are afraid to move, to break the bubble you are suddenly pulled into. 

"Read to me," he tells you and you gulp. You never understood why Minho enjoyed it when you read to him. 

"Like my voice that much?" you tease, in an attempt to hide how affected you are. You were so close to him; it would be easy to slide down and lay your head on his chest. You wondered how his heartbeat would sound. Was it steady, or racing just like your own? 

"Yeah, it's calming," he replies sincerely, catching you off guard. You didn't expect him to compliment you, and now you are racking your brain for a retort, anything to make you breathe again. 

"Growing soft on me Minho?" you say, the same question you asked on your first dinner out. The first time you truly saw him, the first time you felt as if you were two pieces of the same puzzle, just waiting for someone to connect the both of you. 

He doesn't reply. And you sit there, patiently waiting. His first answer came so easily, so naturally, because he was being sarcastic, "I’m basically in love with you", he told you back then. So why can't he say it again?

"Yes, I am." He finally replies and you feel your breath catch in your throat. You try to account it for your brain misguiding you. It wasn't Minho speaking, it was the rustling of the leaves and the singing of the birds that you just heard. But it was him, and now his eyes are open and he's looking at you. Your hand is still shielding his eyes and his fingers are still wrapped around your wrist. And you are suddenly feeling. You are feeling too much. You don't know what to do with those feelings cursing through your veins and you can't face them. Because they are scaring you.

"I'll just... Yeah, I’ll just read," you say quietly, too flustered by his intense gaze. You were already on the other side, you realize. His eyes pulled you in and you were stuck in there, swimming in a pool of honey. 

"Out loud," he says and you chuckle, "Fine, Min." The nickname slips out of your tongue naturally and you quickly snap your head towards Minho to see if he noticed. 

His eyes are closed, and there is a slight smile on his face, and you can swear that he just repeated the nickname to himself softly. 

✹✹✹

You've been so sick these past days, you barely managed to go to class. Your head throbbed with pain and your entire body felt as if someone thoroughly boxed it. 

You were grateful that Minho reeled down his teasing because you had no energy to retort back. He may have noticed how sick you felt and truthfully it would be hard not to. You stayed silent throughout the day, and you looked so pale, you avoided looking at the mirror altogether.

Though Minho didn't talk to you, he still silently placed water bottles and some of your favorite snacks on your desk. You'd down the water, grateful for the relief it brought your sore throat. And when you didn't touch the food, he'd immediately text you 'Eat up', followed by a simple 'Please'. Having someone else care for your well-being felt weird, but it warmed your heart beyond what words could describe. 

You only came today to pass your Criminal Law mid-term, but your head hurt so badly that you weren't even sure what you wrote on your paper. The words blurred in front of your eyes and you almost slept in the middle of your exam, exhaustion threatening to take over your body. 

You fucked up, badly. You haven't screwed up this much in years.

You thought that you were slowly getting better since Minho surpassing you no longer sparked an unworthy feeling within you. But apparently, you were wrong to believe so. Self-doubt crept up within you once again, and the ugly feelings it stirred slowly clawed at your throat, making it hard for you to breathe.

It was one test, and yet it reeled you back ages ago. 

Tears threaten to spill out of your eyes as you hurriedly walk out of your class. You make a beeline for the library, figuring that it will be mostly empty by now. 

You pull out a chair and sit on it, lowering your head down so no one will see you. Your tears are falling rapidly and you hit your thigh repeatedly.  You hated how weak you felt in that instant. 

"Yn?", someone calls out and you curse internally. You don't have to look up to see who it is, Minho's voice has become a part of you- you could easily recognize it between a thousand mingling sounds. 

You don't want him to see you, especially not like this, weak and vulnerable and on the verge of breaking down. So you quickly slip a pair of sunglasses on your eyes, before raising your head to look at him. "Hm?"

"Are you okay?" he asks, his tone so soft it makes you want to cry ten times fold. You hated it, hated how attentive he was to you. You didn't deserve it. 

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just here to pick a book," you lie, abruptly standing up and heading toward the rows behind you. You desperately needed to get away from him. 

You pause in front of a random shelf and then you feel Minho standing behind you. You grab a random book and he peeks above your shoulder to see it, "Economics? You hate this subject."

"Why are you following me?" you turn around attempting your best to sound mad. When in reality, your heart was brimming with hurt. You wished you could get away from your body and seep into someone's soul to feel what it's like to love yourself.

"You aren't okay," he asserts and you hate it. You hate that he sounds so sure of himself. Was it that noticeable? Were you not fooling anyone?

"I am," your voice is shaking but you are adamant about contradicting him. You couldn't let him see you. What if he runs?

"Then..." he steps forward and you take a step back until your back is against the shelf. His left arm cages your body, but his right one stays by his side. He is leaving you an opening, you realize, an outing in case you feel uncomfortable. Against all odds, you don't.

 "Why are you hiding from me?" he asks, gently taking your sunglasses off your face, and placing them on the top of your head.

You don't look up at him, and he hooks his finger underneath your chin, gently raising your head. When your tear-stained eyes meet his, he frowns deeply, "Why are you crying?"

"it's nothing."

"Yn..."

"I fucked up, okay?! That was the worst test I’ve ever given in years." The tears start to flow at your words and you wipe them away aggressively. You despised crying in front of people. 

Minho raises his hand to wipe the tears away for you but he quickly retracts it- you probably wouldn't want him to touch your face. It was enough that he had grabbed your wrist a couple of weeks before this. He quickly racks his brain for something to do, because the sight of your tears is making his heart ache in a way he hasn't felt before. It's as if he's feeling your emotions deep within him.

In desperation, Minho pinches your arm and you yelp, startled. "What was that for?" you whisper-shout and he raises his hands in defense, "I didn't know what else to do."

"So, you thought about pinching me?" you chuckle in bewilderment and he scratches the top of his hair sheepishly. 

"I mean, it worked. Look, you stopped crying," he points out raising his brows at you proudly and you shake your head at him.

"Remind me to never cry in front of you again." 

Minho grins at you before his face turns serious once again. "Look, you are the smartest person I know," he pauses, adding with a cheeky smirk, "After me of course." Which makes you giggle against your will. 

"Shut up", you lightly punch his chest and he smiles. "One test doesn't define you. You always work very hard. I wouldn't lie to you."

"Mm," you hum and he frowns at your lack of enthusiasm, but still, he doesn't comment. 

"No more crying," he wiggles his finger in front of your face and you roll your eyes, wiping the rest of your tears away. "Fine. Pretend as if this never happened."

"What are you talking about?" he asks as if confused, and you can't help the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It's as if Minho knows exactly what to say to cheer you up. 

"Come with me," he tells you, gently pulling you by the sleeve of your hoodie. 

"Where to?"

"I’m craving ice cream."

"And why do you need me?"

"You're craving ice cream too," he says in a matter-of-a-fact tone. 

"Only if you're paying," you add with a giggle and he whines loudly, "I feel so so used around you." 

True to his words, Minho takes you to the nearest ice cream parlor. It's a 20 minutes walk away and you are grateful for the distance because it helps you clear your head a bit.

Minho lets you pick whatever flavors you want, and when you hesitate between two of them, he tells the cashier to put them both into your cup. This is how you end up with a container of 5 scoops of ice cream. You insisted you'd share, and Minho begrudgingly agreed when you threatened to walk out and leave him.

You then walk to a deserted alley and sit on the sidewalk. You didn't want to be around people right now, and thankfully, Minho understood without you having to say a word.  

You munch silently on your ice cream and Minho does the same, the both of you lost in your thoughts. You naturally take turns holding the freezing container, so it wouldn't numb the fingers of one of you.

When you're done, Minho stands up to throw it away in a nearby trashcan before sitting back again next to you. 

Suddenly you feel him gently tapping your hand. You look down to find that you've curled your fingers into a tight fist, so much that there are crescent indents visible on your palm now. 

"Let's play thumb war," he tells you and you giggle at his words. You never knew what to expect from him. 

Still, as your fingers hold each other, and your thumb circles one another, you feel yourself calm down slightly. You play a couple of rounds, and you know he's going easy on you, allowing you to quickly trap his thumb down. 

No one has gone to such lengths to cheer you up, and you suddenly feel so grateful for Minho’s presence in your life. You didn't care in what shape he was in, you just needed him to be in it. Which in turn makes you think how bad it'd hurt if he ever leaves. 

You don't want Minho to leave. You've gotten so attached to him that the thought of not talking to him again makes your heart race in panic. 

Minho notices the change in your expression, suddenly melancholic once again. Your hand has gone limp in his, the thumb war long forgotten by you. 

He curses under his breath, before looking at you. "If I dance for you, will you quit being so sad?"

"Dance for me?" you repeat incredulously and he nods, "Yes. I’ll show you an upcoming choreography just... Please smile?" 

"Okay," you giggle, plastering a wide grin on your face. 

"Not like that you look scary."

"Get to dancing!" you clap excitedly and he rolls his eyes, standing up and looking through his phone for a particular music. 

"Oh and no comment!" he looks pointedly at you, and you nod, pretending to zip your mouth and throwing away the key. 

'Finesse' by Bruno Mars starts playing and you are left mesmerized by the way Minho dances. It's short but it leaves you yearning to see more. His body moves smoothly, hitting each beat effortlessly. He made it look as if dancing was second nature to him, that it came as easily to him as breathing. 

You were speechless, rightfully so. You wished you could build a world where all Minho did was dance. 

"That was-" you start when he stops the music but he cuts you off instantly, "I said no comment."

"But--" Minho places his finger on your mouth to silence you, seemingly not thinking too much of it. But the feel of his finger on your lips makes you dizzy. Minho quickly takes off his hand, a blush evidently creeping up his neck. 

"Let's just go home," he sighs in defeat and you laugh despite the intense feelings cursing through you.

You don't know if you are imagining it but you swear that your pinkies brush against each other on your walk back. As if there was this magnetic force pulling them together. You wondered what would happen if you just linked your pinky with his. Would he grab you by the hand or will he let go of you entirely?

You were too much of a coward to find out. You were scared of messing up anything with him. So, you'd settle for this. Stolen glances and random outings. You just need him in your life. 

"Thank you for today," you tell Minho once you arrive and he shrugs, as what he did wasn't a big deal.

"No, I mean it. Thank you," you repeat, trying your best to convey how sincere you were being. You take in a deep breath, before grabbing his hand and squeezing it, for a fleeting second, before dropping it again. 

Minho is sure that your hand will now be imprinted into his, that the lines tracing over your palm will merge with his as one. Your touch was barely there but it had electrocuted him. He wondered to himself if his body would be able to handle more from you. But he'd gladly burn in your fires for the sake of holding you. And he'd wait, unwaveringly, as time stretches alongside the two of you. He'd wait as long as it takes for you. 

"Yn, I..." he stammers, taking a step closer to you. His scent engulfs you and you shamefully close your eyes, inhaling it. When you open them again, you find Minho glancing down at your lips. You gulp, dazzled by his proximity. 

"You have a mole on your nose," you suddenly speak up and his eyes snap back to yours, an adorable confusion drawn on his features. 

"I like that mole," you continue and you wish you could dig yourself a hole and bury yourself in it. 

"Thank you," he chuckles and you nod vigorously, "You're welcome." 

"Can I ask you something?" he says and your breath hitches in your throat. "Sure."

"You don't like it when people touch you, right?" 

"Yeah."

"Can I ask why?" 

You want to confide in him, to tell him that it’s because you long for it, you crave it so badly. That this need has woven itself into the very fabric of your being. An ache so raw that it scares you at times. You’ve never known what it feels like to be held- it was uncharted territory to you. 

"Isn't everyone scared of the unknown?" you settle on saying, and he nods in understanding. Of course, he understood. No one knows you as well as him. 

"It's okay. I just wanted to know if I ever overstepped my boundaries."

"You didn't," you reply instantly. 

"Good. You'll tell me if I ever do, right?"

"I will." 

"Okay." 

"Um. I'll get going," you point behind you and Minho smiles at you, waving you off.

You walk for a few steps before coming back again quickly. You then grab Minho’s hand, gently squeezing it like before, "You are an amazing dancer." 

And then you drop it, running back towards your apartment block without waiting for a reply. 

Minho stays frozen in his place. You think he's an amazing dancer. And you held his hand for five seconds. 

That's four seconds more than the first time. 

Progress.        

✹✹✹

You haven't gotten out of your house for the past three days. 

Everything crashed around you rapidly, it made you realize that the ground you once stood on was only an illusion, elusive and fleeting. 

You were doing well; you were getting better. But then Monday came and you went out for a walk in the park near you. As you sat there, you saw a little girl playing on the swings, delightful joy dancing across her features. But then she fell to the ground and you instinctively stood up to help her, only to notice her mother running to her. 

The world stilled around you as you clearly saw it- how the little girl clung to her mother's embrace, her embodiment of hope and love. You never had that. You don’t even know what perfume your mother used because she never allowed you to get that close to her. 

You stood up abruptly, quickly heading back to your apartment block. As you ran up the stairs, you ended up bumping into one of your neighbors. You were quick to apologize but they ignored you, and the feeling of being invisible came back to haunt you ten times fold. 

You knew you shouldn’t have done it, you knew you should have deleted your mother’s number when she sent you away to university without a backward glance, relieved at the thought of you getting a full-ride scholarship and not needing her anymore. But you didn’t, you kept her number in the hopes that she’d call. On your birthday, on holidays, on a random Thursday to tell you that she did remember who you are. 

With trembling hands, tears welling in your eyes, you dialed your mother’s number for the first time in a year. You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe she regrets it. Maybe she misses you. Maybe she didn’t find the courage to mend her wrongdoings and that's why she never called. 

"Hello?" her voice rang through your apartment. Goosebumps erupted on your arms and your hold on the phone tightened. Her voice took you back to memories you thought you had buried. How you spent countless nights yearning to hear the sound of her voice, how you regretted it once she spoke to attack you.

You hate her. You miss her. You want to hang up. You need to ask if she's doing okay. 

“Who is this?” Her voice was devoid of recognition, freezing you in your tracks. You felt as if a bucket of ice was thrown over your head, dousing the flame of hope that flickered in your heart. 

She deleted your number.

You quickly hung up, placing your phone down on the table. The tears refused to fall. It was as if your body had long anticipated this outcome, leaving only your wounded soul to bear the pain. 

Healing isn't linear, you've read about it in books and heard it in shows and movies. One step back doesn't mean that your entire progress is gone. You know this, you've memorized those sentences. So why do you not believe them? Why does it feel as if you can never be free from the past? Why does it feel as if you’ll always seek something out of her? 

Those questions roamed your mind for the past three days, making you too tired at the prospect of lifting your limbs, let alone leaving your apartment. You sent your two friends a text, telling them that you're sick so they wouldn't worry. Not that you believed they would. Nothing made sense to you anymore.

You laid on your bed in utter silence- a tense quiet that was disrupted on the third day by someone knocking on your door. You didn't know who was there; you just hoped that they'd leave you alone.

To your surprise, you open the door to find Minho, some notes in his right hand and a coffee in his left. He sends an easy smile your way. You don't smile back.

"What do you want?" your voice is cold, but Minho doesn't bristle. A cheeky smile settles on his lips as he leans on your doorway.

"You didn't come to class for the past three days, so I brought you the notes. So, you wouldn't think our competition is unfair."

"Competition," you chuckle coldly, heading inside your apartment, and he follows suit. You start to pace around furiously, and Minho looks at you worriedly. "Competition?" you repeat, the word dripping off your tongue like venom. You turn around, marching towards Minho and standing a few inches from him. "You know what? Fuck you and your competition!"

"Yn-"

"Did it ever occur to you that I never wanted a part in this competition? That all I wanted was to be left alone?" you say, growing louder as you jab your finger into his chest repeatedly. "I never wanted any of this! Do you understand? I never wanted to be this way," you shout angrily in his face.

The worried look in Minho’s eyes snaps you out of your haze. You realize that you are being utterly ridiculous lashing out at Minho, when the one person you are mad at is yourself. 

Your anger quickly deflates, leaving in its trail an agonizing sadness. It's so sudden that it knocks the breath out of you, and you clutch your chest as if it could soothe the burn in your heart. Suddenly you are twelve years old again, crying in your room because you feel like no one has ever loved you.

But this time you aren't alone. Minho is in front of you, and his eyebrows are so furrowed you want to lean forward to ease the tension between them. His eyebrows, you liked his eyebrows, they were arched, and they framed his eyes nicely, and his eyes are brown and so big, and they always look at you softly and why is it getting so hard to breathe-

"Did I do something to you? Whatever it is I’m sorry," Minho panics, cutting off your frantic train of thought. But now, the weight of guilt adds to your overwhelming emotions. You shouldn't have lashed out at him, he brought you coffee and you yelled at him. Maybe your mom was right after all.

You shake your head left and right furiously, your words coming out in hiccups. Since when did you start crying? "It isn't- it isn't you."

"Then let me help you-", he steps forward, hand outstretched, but you take three hurried steps back and wrap your hands around yourself protectively. "Don’t. Please, don't."

"Why are you pushing me away?" his tone isn't accusatory. You've learned time and time again that Minho wouldn't do anything that made you feel uncomfortable.

"You won't understand."

"Then make me."

"Because I’m afraid!" the words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them. "I’m afraid if you ever hug me, I wouldn't be able to go back to hugging myself. I'd need you and I can't afford to need someone else."

You regret the words as soon as they fleet away from your mouth. He would look at you differently, he would find you pathetic and then he’d leave. And you wanted him to leave. But you also wanted him to stay. It was all so confusing. 

You felt as if your being was torn between two great forces, each one of them trying to win the war raging inside you. You wished someone else would make the decisions in your place, for once.

Minho places the coffee and notes on the ground before approaching you, his palms facing up in a gesture of surrender. "I won't leave you," he says softly. "I’ll be by your side for as long as you'll have me."

"Minho..." your voice catches in your throat as you utter his name- like a broken prayer. He stands before you, his eyes shimmering like the reflection of a river on a sunny day.

"Please, let me make it better." 

You nod tentatively and Minho comes even closer to you. He was treating you like one would with a wounded animal, giving you a chance to ultimately back out. But for once, you listen to what your heart has been yearning for. Your bones are aching to be held, to feel the warmth of a body against your own, to feel safe and secure. 

Minho embraces you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and bringing you to him. You slowly bring your arms up and lace them around his waist. You are afraid, deathly afraid. His grip is loose, and you almost can't feel him around you, but when you lay your head on his chest, he tightens his hold on you and you instinctively let out a sob. 

He's hugging adult you, the woman whose heart was once again broken by her mom. But he's also hugging little you, the girl who was craving affection from everyone around her. In that instant, Minho is hugging every single version of you that ever needed a hug. 

You were right to be scared because you don't want to let go, you want to stay in his arms because they feel safe, like a shield protecting you. You can't go back to not hugging Minho. 

The sensation is overwhelming and your knees buckle underneath you. But instead of holding you up, Minho falls to the ground with you, as if you are two inseparable pieces of one puzzle. He isn’t here to fix you, he’s here to break down with you and help you pick up the scattered pieces.

You think back to that night in the park when Minho told you about Japanese vases. At this moment, it dawns on you that Minho has found a way to become a part of you. He was the molten gold binding your broken parts together. He was the invisible thread stitching your wounds back together.

Who were you fooling? It was him; it was him all along. 

Minho rocks you gently as you cry and cry and cry. His hand finds your hair and he plays with it as you sob. He tells you you'll be okay, you'll feel better and you try to believe him, his words wrap around your bruises like a healing balm. 

"There, there, love. You are okay", he murmurs, tenderly patting your head. A fresh set of tears wells up in your eyes. Love.

"I’m sorry. I'm so sorry," you apologize as you pull away from his embrace. 

"Why are you apologizing? Is it because you wet my shirt? I don't mind," he reassures you with a smile and you shake your head. 

 "I was mean to you and you didn’t deserve it," you explain through hiccups.

"It's okay, you weren't mad at me, were you?" he asks, wiping your tears away so gently with his thumbs, careful not to irritate the sensitive skin.

"No. Still, it isn't okay and I’m sorry. I'm so sorry." 

"Shh, don't apologize. It's okay." you look at him doubtfully and he rolls his eyes playfully, "Here I’ll even do your silly pinky promise, okay?" he laces his pinky with yours, but then he suddenly leans forward and places a chaste kiss on your thumb pad. "There, sealed forever."

You giggle faintly as a blush dusts your cheeks, "That's not how it works."

"I know."

Your giggle was far different from the ones Minho was accustomed to. It was small, and it didn't brighten up your face like usual. But he was grateful for it nonetheless. He realized how much he missed your laugh, and how all the other sounds in the world pale in comparison to it.

In that moment Minho thinks to himself that he'd do anything to make you smile again. He'd make a fool out of himself if it meant making you happy. He'd settle for a simple tug at the corners of your mouth, anything but the sadness that seemed etched in your face, as if it was blended into the colors that drew you.

You tentatively move around, before laying your head on his lap. Minho's hand instinctively finds your hair and he starts to gently play with it. It feels as if you've done this a million times before, when in fact it was the first. 

There was something wildly intimate about laying on the floor with the man who just comforted you. It made you want to spill all your secrets to him, one by one, and have him hug you through them.

"Did you mean it? When you said you'll stay?" you felt so vulnerable in his hold, as if he could twist you whoever he liked. But you trusted him. You trusted yourself with Minho.

"I did. Your walls are always up. It's hard to peek behind them. But I don't want to tear them down. I want you to slowly unbuild them. I want you to do it for yourself."

To do it for yourself, it's hard to even know who you are anymore. 

"I want to tell you."

"You don't need to."

"I know, but I want to."

"Okay. Take your time, kitten." he pats your head gently, and you try to sync your breathing to the rhythm of his touch. You were grateful that you were lying on his lap since you couldn't see his face. It made talking feel a little less daunting.

"On my 9th birthday... I was very excited. I'd been on my best behavior that month, trying to please my mom in the hope that, for once, we'd celebrate my birthday. Like a normal little family," you smile sadly, you were so hopeful back then.

"My birthday came, I woke up, excited. My mom was still asleep, nothing out of the ordinary. So, I made my breakfast and walked to my school. I wore my prettiest dress and put on pigtails with hair clips. It was my birthday after all," Minho smiles softly at your words, his hand now resting on your own.

"I got back home and waited for my mom to come back. She remembered my birthday, I thought. And then, she came but she didn't talk to me. So, I thought, oh a surprise party!" you chuckle, but this time the smile on Minho’s face is gone.

"It was then 11 pm, and the hope had slowly died in me. So, in my stupid innocent self, I went to my mom, and asked her "Did you forget my birthday?". And I remember... I remember the way she laughed. Cruelly. Like I had told her the funniest joke in the world. And then. Then she looked me dead in the eye and said 'I hate the fact that you are born. Why would I celebrate that?'"

Minho sucks in a deep breath at your words, and you exhale one right out. It felt comforting, to have someone else stomach the hurt for you. To take the weight off your shoulders, allowing you a few moments to breathe.

"I confronted her about it one day, but she said she doesn't remember saying that. It's funny how it was a random Thursday for her, but for me, it shaped my life." you smile bitterly, "I remember how jealous I was of the way the other kids talked about their mothers. They said the word so lightly. It must have reminded them of sunshine and ice cream and rainbows. But for me, it held an uncharacteristic heaviness to it. I grew to hate the word."

"I drove myself crazy, Min", you whisper and he brings you closer to his body, "was it me or was it her? When did it start? Was it because I was too loud as a child or maybe too quiet? Did I not cater to her fantasies of a kid? I wanted to remember every single thing that happened throughout my childhood, thread through every single memory. I tried to pinpoint the exact moment my mom stopped loving me."

Minho squeezes your hand tightly in his, and you feel as if he was pulling you away from the memory that had long trapped you. You were now watching it unfold from outside of the window, your hand in his, safe from the hurt it had inflicted on you.

"It's not you. It could never be you. Some people are simply not fit to be parents. It's never their kid's fault."

Minho tries his best to keep his touch soothing, to make his voice sound as soft as possible. But he was angry, he was so angry at the world for not taking care of you when you were younger. His heart broke, thinking of 9-year-old you being told such cruel words.

He wanted to turn back time and tell you that you were enough. He wanted to make the pain that seemed so anchored in you float back to the surface, and dissipate like sea foam meeting the shore.

But he couldn't do that. All he could do is comfort present you.

Minho gently pulls you up from his lap, making you sit upright. He crisscrosses his legs and you do the same. Your knees brush against each other and you feel a shiver run down your spine. You didn't know that even knees could emanate such warmth.

"Yn, look at me. The world wouldn't be the same without you in it," he cradles your face between his hands, "You hear me yn? I’m so thankful you exist."

His doe brown eyes are sincere, and it made you want to believe him badly. That's a good start, right?

"I’ll be back," he tells you, letting go of your face and standing up.

You hear Minho rummaging through the kitchen and you take the time to calm yourself down. Sharing those parts of you with Minho felt therapeutic. As if you were healing parts of your inner child. You have never talked about this with anyone before, maybe this is why it still hurt as badly.

Minho comes back five minutes later, his hands behind his back. You raise a brow at him inquisitively and he just smiles secretly at you. "Close your eyes," he tells you and you giggle, doing as he says. He crouches in front of you, and you hear him shuffle in his place for a bit.

Then, "Open your eyes yn," and you find him, in front of you, a cupcake you had stored in your fridge in his hands, and a makeshift candle lit up. "Happy 9th birthday, love. You did well."

You stare at him in utter bewilderment. You couldn't believe your eyes. How could this man be so thoughtful? He was wishing you a belated birthday, to compensate for the 9th birthday you didn't celebrate.

You panic, at the look in his eyes. You've never seen it, never dared to dream of it, of someone caring for you unconditionally. So, you try to scare him, to push him away. You didn't want him to regret knowing you.

"There are things I need you to know um", you chuckle nervously, "When I... When I throw up, I hold my hair, and when I’m sick I nurse myself back to health, and when I have a nightmare I- I hold my hand in the dark. It will be hard for me to hold yours instead."

"We'll start a finger at a time, yeah?"

"It will take time."

"I have time," he speaks easily, as if loving you was effortless and not a strenuous task. You couldn't fathom it.

"You are too busy-", he cuts you off instantly, "Not for you." 

"The world doesn't stop because we need it to." Your voice is quiet; this is your very last try. You are tired of fighting. You are putting down your armor and waving a white flag.

"We'll make it stop. Here, the two of us. On this floor. We'll take as long as we need to."

"I never deemed you as an optimist", you smile a little, a hint of teasing in your tone.

"I’m not," he pauses, gazing down at the cupcake between his hands and then at you. "But I feel that we deserve a bit of happiness together, don't we?"

"We do."

"Then make a wish."

You close your eyes for a few seconds, before blowing on the candle.

"What did you wish for?" he asks a fond smile on his face.

The answer came naturally to you, you didn't even need to think about it. "I wished for you."

Minho's lips come crashing down on yours, and you imagine that this is what it feels like to see colors for the first time. To discover a new world beyond the one you've always known.

The kiss isn't urgent nor feverish, it is one of comfort. Your lips spilling the words you have not yet said to each other. "I love you," he kisses you, "I love you too," you kiss him back. "I need you to stay," you swipe your tongue across his bottom lip, "I’m never leaving you," he opens his mouth allowing you entrance.

As you kiss him, you remember a fact you once learned in high school. The human body possesses seven trillion nerves. And for the first time in your life, you feel as if each of these nerves is alive. You feel that even the smallest atom is electrocuted with Minho’s love and it’s all you know within you.  

You feel as if the pain, the hurt, and the ache you've been through are slowly unraveled, and in their place, a timid happiness is starting to bloom. You imagine that when Minho’s lips met your own, the seven trillion nerves inside you exhaled in relief 'We've made it', they said, 'we'll finally be okay.'

Epilogue

You've always thought that epilogues were useless. How can you resume the rest of your life in one sentence, boil down the rest of your existence in mere pages? Because life doesn't stop at the epilogue, and a new book can start once again, right where you left it off.  

But with Minho, you didn't mind an epilogue. On the contrary, you longed for a soft one. You wanted to rest on this last page, you wanted to lay your worries on the words and tuck them into the syllables. And you wanted to wake up anew.

And this wasn't the end of your story with Minho. A lot happened after it. But it didn't worry you, because epilogues are about the one thing that doesn't change throughout the long march of time. And luckily for you, that constant was Minho’s love for you. From that day he held you, he has never let go.

It took time, for his warmth to seep through your bones. It took time, for your heart to forget the cold. But you wanted to do it. With him. You wanted to love and be loved.

The sound of cats mewling fills your apartment, pudding can always be found in your fridge and you haven't felt invisible in years.

[rainingincale]

Oar naur

[septembersghost]

Every song harry wants is about him from now on. Wildest dreams??Gold rush?? IKYWT?? You go baby!!! Its yours. I don't make the rules(I am actually making that rule)

okay real, i am passing this into law, he can have whatever songs he wants to claim, and we can declare it for him now if we want to. it's at that point luv!

me when people try to make songs about [garbage disposal noises]:

me when we decide any songs can be about harry: