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syluses · 2 months ago

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big girls don’t cry

𓍯𓂃 self aware robot! caleb x female reader

(wc: 9.5k) ✦ summary: after your brother passes, consumed by grief, you take to the internet to order a synthetic version of him. afterward, it’s impossible to throw him out. (or: alternatively titled the trojan horse)

✦ content robot! caleb, past engineer! caleb, au where EVER deals in robotics, non-evol au, 18+ nsfw/smut, mildly dubious consent, angst, grief, mental instability, bad coping mechanisms, robot pseudocest?? robot sex, mind games, moral grayness all around, dark/yandere undertones; this fic can have multiple interpretations, pregnancy

✦ sidenote have yall ever seen that episode of black mirror? ‘be right back’? basically this: the girl’s boyfriend dies so she orders an incredibly realistic, intelligent robot to replace him. they’re identical in personality and appearance, and yet… 👀 ANYWAYS ( ⸍ɞ̴̶̷ ·̫ ɞ̴̶̷⸌ ) i have a set plot for this in my head, but i left it a lil vague so ur allowed to think of it in ur own way 🤎 if u wanna know the ‘canon’ tho.. u can absolutely ask me. the lore is so deep its traumatizing :,) anyways hope u enjoy <3 ty for 1k btw!! take this as a lil celebration treat 🥳 it took so much out of me but i think i really vibe with it heheh

He’s perfect. Nigh on.

For the first few days since his arrival, since hauling him off the foot of your porch and into your living room to unpack him- heart tickering in your chest all the while, trepidatious- you’ve just stared. Reached out your hands to hover, ghosting over the broad blade of his shoulder, his chapped lips, the slight jut of his cheekbone.

His hands, as big and weathered as you remember them (but gentle, always gentle), hang limply by his sides.

You don’t dare slip your smaller ones in them.

All of the theatrics, yet you don’t press his- its- button, either.

No, you don’t even touch it after the initial unpacking, wrenching your fingers away as soon as they get too close. As soon as they get too tempted by hope and the wish that this hunk of metal was more than just a replica of your late brother. Half of you thinks it might burn if you get too comfortable; and you won’t get comfortable— underneath the solidified layers of grief and- you have trouble saying it aloud, but bitterness- there’s still just enough common sense to keep you from taking the leap. The leap from mourning to insanity.

It’s hollow. You know that much. A nothingness enwrapped in a steely chassis full of wiring and code too technological for you to understand, all covered by a synthetic skin suit as the pretty bow on top.

And you know- what with your emotional state- that if you could peer inside, strip it down to the framework and just… take a moment to look, that you’d vomit. It’d be too much to bear, being forced to reconcile with the fact that he really is gone— and in response to it all, you’ve blown your savings on an eerily-realistic, glorified doll of him with wires for veins.

You’re trembling when you stiffly prop him against the far wall, limiting contact as much as possible, and step away, keeping your eyes on him all the while. It. Not him. Not Caleb- that’s not your fucking brother, just a disgusting, soulless fascimile of him—

But as you stand back on your feet (with the coffee table in between, just in case) to get a good look at him, like a real, proper look, your breath is taken.

The thing: He’s not just a passable carbon copy, you realize. Admittedly, he’s…

Identical.

(He’s Caleb.)

All the oxygen gusts out of you in a breeze.

You lift a shaking hand over your open mouth and choke as silent tears spill from your lashline, blurring your eyes on the way down. Wetting your knuckles as they shake wildly.

You’re crying. Of course you’re crying. This is- you can’t do this. You just can’t.

Racing upstairs, retreating to your bedroom to slam the door as if the devil himself was on your tail, only then do you drop your hand and fully sob.

It’s pitiful, really. Wretched noises that resonate from deep in your throat, your spirit wrecked as you curl up on the floor and make yourself into a ball.

Darkness comes outside, the space around you muting itself in grey colors. The puddle beneath your cheek is moonlit. You sniffle and relocate, but you don’t even bother to tuck the not-Caleb robot in its special container, no- you just settle beneath your blankets and pray it’s all a bad dream you’ll awake from come tomorrow.

Tomorrow: you’ll send him off. Return him.

You don’t care how much money it costs- for all you care, it’s paltry, it’s replaceable. And it is replaceable, that’s the bleak truth: that android stood motionless by your couch, despite having a face so familiar it’s painful, has no emotional value whatsoever. There’s no depth to it. No substance.

A skeleton built by rods. Artificial flesh modeled around thin, colorful cables and circuit boards.

I mean- he’s no better than the stapler on your desk, or the toaster on your kitchen counter. Better yet, a crumb on the floor.

A nothingness, you think again. Prettily encased in smooth, sun-speckled skin and that cottony loungewear (that still retains his smell) you could hardly part with when the online form requested his attire.

He’s perfect, nigh on, you’ll give the company who forged him that much credit, because they sure followed his pictures to a T. It looks just like him; so much so you couldn’t even bear to look at him for more than ten minutes before bolting, the emotional response so violent.

But the problem is that he’s not real. He’s not your Caleb.

✦

It’s hard to throw him away when he looks like that. When he bears the likeness of your late, beloved older brother.

Yes, you want to stuff him back in his box and return to sender, but when it comes to courage, you lack the backbone necessary to carry out your decisions.

You tiptoe down the stairs to see him again and sputter.

He’s too real, you decide in a heartbeat. Too real.

Shutting your eyes as tears begin to pour anew, lunging forward with blind intent to cache him away in the elaborate box he came in, you get to work. And you get to work quickly. You can only bear to look at it- that heartless caricature of your gege- for so long until you feel something in you, your last fragile piece, begin to fracture.

After the explosion, all you had left of him were the memories. Not an explanation, not a goodbye, not even a body. What remained of the boy you were fostered with was ash and a puerile, yet no less beloved locket with its edges burnt copper.

Now, you have something exponentially more physical and intact, unsullied by the reality of what was.

So for a moment, yes- sue you and your heart for hesitating- but it’s a hard task to seal him away.

Agonizing, really.

His arms are stiff by his sides but you feel the skin; the lump of muscle in his forearm, the bump of his elbow. The only thing that keeps you from giving into the puffed-up illusion of his being real and alive is the coolness beneath your fingertips. The unnatural, icy feel to his otherwise mortal skin that reminds in a voice, condescending like all things out of reach, see? that’s not Caleb. And you’re insulting him by thinking that it could be.

You’re halfway done nudging him towards the box (careful, despite your frenzied, fluttering heart; afraid to damage his likeness) when you trip over your own feet navigating the narrow space between your table and the couch.

It’s unthinking, the way you grab him- arms flying out to steady yourself with his broad shoulders.

In all your scrambling- something clicks. Gives under your fingerpad.

A button.

With mute horror, you watch his eyes light.

…And you can see it too, you know, registering in his gaze as it settles over you and takes you in— a blip of mirth that quickly warps into worry at the look you give him. You must appear no different than a deer in headlights.

For several seconds, you simply stand there, your palms clamming up where they dig into his shoulders, and gawk as Caleb— not-Caleb’s— expression turns to one ready to comfort.

Familiar, painfully.

The stiff hands at his side are spurred into motion, lifting to cradle your cheek while the other helps ground you by the small of your back.

“Meimei?”

No, no- don’t say that, don’t say that, internally, you have to shoehorn down all your grief as it bubbles up, and harden your face to keep from crying all over again.

…Although it’s more or less obvious you had been. The puffy eyes rimmed in red, the certain wisp of defeat to your brow and the exhaustion written all over you is clear as day. It leaves nothing to ponder.

He sounds disturbed by it all, the sadness about you that lies thick as a coating of paint. Commiserative to a fault. Lassoing you to his firm chest as he burrows your head below the dip of his chin.

He goes, “What’s wrong?” Then, “It’s okay, I’m here. I got you. Just let it all out.”

And the world around you staggers to a fall.

✦

It was very difficult to get rid of him as he stood still; when you could convince yourself he was just a startlingly realistic statue.

It’s all but impossible when he begins to move, and speak, and smile at you.

You don’t get close enough to press his button. You’re not quite strong enough to apply the distance you probably should, though, so when he takes a step forward, you take one back- but you never run.

It’s a weird limbo you’re caught in. Do you leap into his arms? Do you… Do you toss him out the door, after all? Leave him to the elements to chip away at his body; the rain to erode his fleshy outer shell?

But no. How could you do that? He-

He fucking looks like Caleb. It feels more sinful to rid yourself of him, now that he’s… on, than to indulge a little bit in the idea that he’s still alive and breathing.

If Caleb was still alive, you wonder silently one morning with no small amount of hurt, would he hate you? For whatever the hell it is you’re doing now?

You can’t even blame Gideon, not really. Without his persistent messages, and all the links he sent you of articles revolving androids and how they can help the user cope with grief, you’d have been none the wiser to the concept, sure- but at the end of the day, you made the choice to get one.

A chunk of your savings and an unprompted, fat check from Caleb’s best buddy— you decided to throw that at some futuristic company (well, not ‘some’: both men worked there- albeit they always kept their work very hush (you did catch whispers of a promotion, though, before the accident)) and one of the many services they provide.

Gideon, over the course of some months, was all but pointing you at their website, promising it would help. He’d be there to clear any confusion, in any case; hey, how neat did a walkthrough of the site from a bonafide EVER engineer sound?: Just one of his probes.

It was only two weeks back, however, when he paid an unsolicited house call, wordlessly wrapping you into his broad chest, that you caved to them.

You think about the scene while you sit at the counter and sip from your mug.

Your home smells richly of coffee, just brewed, and bacon as it sizzles. Eyeing not-Caleb with a pang of unease— not fully able to snuff out that feeling of uncanniness even as some days pass peacefully— you offer a small smile when he glances up at you.

Beaming just as he was the day before. Beaming like nothing is terribly wrong.

(To be clear, something is.)

You… can’t help but feel like you’re being monitored when he stares.

Yes, it’s a silly fear, you know that. The company your late brother worked for wasn’t exactly open with all the scientific grounds they made breakthroughs on, but he always promised that their means were lawful. Caleb wasn’t one for lies- so your doubts were soothed. So as hush-hush as EVER is sometimes, you’re fairly confident they wouldn’t ship out mass batches of faulty or otherwise rigged products.

Anyway- you suppose the weird intensity in its eyes isn’t all that off-putting when you take into account the very real personality it was formulated from.

When the pancakes (your favorite: banana chocolate chip; information he apparently already knew) turn an appetizing shade of gold, he shimmies them off the pan with a spatula and onto a plate.

That plate- loaded tastefully with bacon, a scoop of rice, and eggs with a ketchup smile painted over its face- slides before you. But though your belly growls, you don’t eat. Not right away. Wherever the culinary arts are concerned, your older brother has always excelled. Growing up, maybe you even exploited him a little for it- but he never did anything he didn’t want to; sometimes it even seemed like Caleb enjoyed sticking his neck out for you.

He pats his hands over his too-small apron (not that he minds it), frowning.

“What’s wrong, Pipsqueak? Does… Does the food look alright? I haven’t made somethin’ for you in a while, huh��?”

Oh no, the food looks fine.

It’s just that you’re the only one eating it.

And maybe it’d be better to keep that thought to yourself: part of you is just over the moon to have him standing in your kitchen with you after months apart— but it doesn’t matter that you keep your mouth shut, because Caleb reads your mind anyway.

He’s at your side in a blink, hushing away the tears that bead at your eyes out of nowhere.

“Hey, hey… No cryin’, okay? I’m just not hungry this morning, Meimei- but that doesn’t mean I won’t sit with you and talk while you eat. C’mon,” he squeezes your hand where it lies on the counter, smiling lightly.

It takes everything in you not to flinch away from the touch.

“Wouldn’t want your breakfast goin’ cold now, would we?” Pulling out the barstool beside you, he sits.

You don’t ask him to, but Caleb picks up your fork and embodies one of the several memories you have of him spoonfeeding you as a child.

“I can feed you. Just like the good ol’ times. Here, you gotta open your mouth first,” His smile strengthens when your lips, as if by habit, part. Your lashes flutter shut when that first bite touches your tongue- syrupy hotcakes and fluffy scrambled eggs- and for that you’re glad because you don’t have to see the way he marvels at you as you eat.

It’s not good for your heart.

“So? What does Pipsqueak the number one food critic have to say about my dish?” He shines, “Does it taste as good as it looks?” You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes- the scene too nostalgic to simply idle away with indifference. You wear all your emotions on your face, anyway; you’re not fooling anybody, least of all Caleb.

“Even better,” you murmur with the barest of smiles. He presses another spoonful to your lips and you giggle.

Violet hues glitter with delight. You’ve said practically nothing to him this whole time, and he’s been patient- weirdly patient, almost- but the joy in his gaze is palpable now.

Sometimes, though, you can almost swear you see something in his gaze shift. Tuning itself like a lens. He blinks and it disappears.

“…But I will say your presentation could use some work. It’s a 7 out of 10.”

Caleb, still holding the utensil out, uses his other hand to prop his chin up. He smiles fondly as he regards you. As you’ve gotten older, it’s like every time you see the brunet, he looks at you like he’s taking you in for the first time all over again.

“Yeah?” He encourages. “Enlighten me, oh Pipsqueak- what must I do to earn those three extra points?”

“The ketchup smiley face was all lopsided,” you explain in a quiet voice, having a hard time fully immersing in this lie unraveling before you; beautiful as it is. As much as you might ache to.

This isn’t a good idea. You know that.

Still…

Maybe… maybe just a couple of conversations with him can’t be too bad, right? I mean, it’s only a fraction of what Gideon was expecting of you (lounging around together to chat, game nights, and even public outings), but to him, it’d be a start. For you, though, it’s a stretch. An exception.

You should limit interaction with not-Caleb.

You know this, and yet—

Glancing back to him, you try and fail to hide a coy smile with a napkin. “Next time, keep a steady hand, and you’ll be a perfect chef in no time. Maybe not as good as me, but, y’know…”

He chuckles, brows lifting. “Oh yeah? Then expect surgical precision from me tomorrow morning. Chef Caleb won’t let you down again!”

An intense sadness slips through the momentary happiness you were allowed. It nags at your chest.

You blink rapidly, giving a feeble, light sound before looking away.

You’ve never let me down, Gege, you don’t say, taking your fork from the clasp of his big hand (much to his dismay) to prod at your plate.

It was me who failed you.

✦

Not-Caleb looks like Caleb, yes.

He acts like him, too.

You spend the span of the next few weeks trying to scrutinize him; hours spent on the couch, his hand in yours while you grill him. You treat him like a bug under a microscope. Prodding for answers to questions you’re sure his programming must miss- interrogations built on memories so old they’re near ancient. Just blurry wisps in your mind.

Not-Caleb remembers some better than you.

Puts you to shame with his mechanical replies detailing scenarios you’re missing fragments of.

What’s Caleb’s favorite fruit?

I like apples, Pipsqueak.

And what’s my favorite food he’d make for me?

Easy-peasy. You still love those boneless chicken wings, don’t you? Although, that braised pork I make for you comes as a close second, doesn’t it?

Am I your real sister?

And you’d never ask the real Caleb such a thing. You’re only doing it now because it’s one of the most personal things you could possibly make a query of. His response would be very telling.

Life before you met him all those years ago is no more than a fuzzy glimpse, and you never minded all that much: so long as you had Caleb, nothing else, nothing before, mattered. All throughout your childhood, people didn’t know the difference anyway.

Far as they knew, you were family.

Which… isn’t wrong, per se— but it’s not biological. ‘Real.’

You, Caleb, and Gran were obviously aware of that. To you it was always a beautiful thing: a tale of rebirth, in a way, or a second chance, as a young girl found a new place to call home with a warm guardian and a brotherly figure. They’d stabilize her and bring warmth to an otherwise cold beginning.

Caleb was never spoken for on that front.

You… didn’t see eye to eye on all things. Oh, that much is true.

Sometimes you were convinced that he wanted nothing to do with the assumption that you were his little sister (albeit, you were never sure why). At others, it was like he was furious you were only bound to him in name and not blood. He saw it as an attack on your close bond.

…But Not-Caleb surely doesn’t know all his nuances. Not like you came to.

So you’re expecting a pause. A minor glitch or even a malfunction as the robot scours his database.

Got him, you almost think to yourself— then swiftly take it back.

The face of the android sat at your side falls, much to your surprise, into a small frown.

And the truth must be coded deep in the bulwarks of not-Caleb’s artificial brain: your and Caleb’s respective origins. The answer is no. No, you’re not his real sister.

…But your real Gege would lie and say yes, absolutely you are—

“‘Course you are,” Not-Caleb goes. And he does it with as much passion behind it as you’d expect.

You’re startled into silence.

He scoots impossibly closer and loops an arm over your shoulder, tucking your head to his jaw. Seamlessly, he pecks your hairline, saying, “You’re my sweet little Meimei. You’re priceless to me. Now no more pickin’ at me, okay?” He suggests in a light tone, rubbing your shoulder. “You’ve been questioning me all evening- look, it even got dark out. Let’s get you to bed-“

“I- I didn’t say I was tired-“

“You didn’t have to. I could tell you were startin’ to get sleepy, Pipsqueak,” he looks down at you and smiles- a reassuring, yet no less playful smile- and for one moment you cant breathe because fuck it’s him. It’s really, really him. “Your drooping eyes were a dead giveaway. Hm... I guess that big dinner we had put you in a food coma, huh?” He chuckles.

We. Funny, that. You recall the feast being one-sided.

Nonetheless.

Without prompting, he sweeps you off the couch and walks you up the wooden stairway. The old steps creak underfoot. He does it all effortlessly, though, arms as strong and capable as you remember.

You loop your slimmer ones around his neck.

With great hesitance, you lend a part of yourself to this illusion.

This beautiful, near unbelievable, oh-so fragile illusion that Caleb is not dead.

When you reach your bedroom, you don’t send him off to the guest room like all the nights before. No, when he carefully sets you down, you watch him, motionlessly, as he tucks you in and plants a chaste kiss to your forehead. When he turns to go- “don’t let the bed bugs bite”- you snatch his hand, half terrified you’ll blink and he’ll be gone, and flash him a look that silently pleads.

Stay.

The brunet’s lashes flutter, brushing over his cheekbones where the lamplight makes them shine.

He opens his mouth.

Pauses, then closes it.

“Stay. Please, Gege,” you breathe, on the cusp of shattering all over again. It’s become more manageable over recent days, this unresolved cluster of emotion inside you, but it’s times like these that make you feel blindsided by it.

You innocently add, “Like when we were kids.”

Oh, you’d go back to then if you could.

His long fingers, loose in your hold, flip to swallow up your hand. He stoops over to turn off the light.

His voice shakes ever so slightly, “Okay.”

Then, he clambers into bed with you and reminds you of just how small it is, how much he does not belong, but you’ve never felt more at home when he pulls you to his chest and- dutifully ignoring the quiet beneath your ear, the absence of a pulse- you cling to him.

Maybe it’d be a little weird, the proximity, what with your grown age and the fact that you were no longer children cuddling during thunderstorms…

It’s not like you’re hanging off him like he’s your lifeline for any nefarious reason, though- and it’s not like he can hold any judgment anyway. He’s… He’s not really Caleb. He’s not even a person. Just a sentient robot that resembles him to a shocking degree and soothes that ache in your chest- just by a smidge.

…And yet when he looks at you, suddenly, tilting your jaw up so he can admire what he sees in the darkness- your stunned expression lit faintly by the moon- it’s like he’s reading this in his own way.

His interpretation? you realize in a shaking breath?

He’s no longer holding his little sister, but a woman.

It’s in his eyes, rippling as he exhales deeply (all artificial, albeit you don’t dwell on that for long) and thumbs over your lip.

A boyish kind of wonder lifts his brow as he stares, cheeks slightly flushed.

Your heart bangs in your chest. Like gunshots punctuating the silence. It grows to be unbearable. This is weird, and wrong- the way he’s looking at you. But you quickly chalk it up to a malfunction.

It’s all a fluke, technology fucking up in a way that reminds you of humanity’s shortcomings and how far they can only go.

Finally, you’ve found the fault in its design. The place where Caleb and not-Caleb differ.

You know your beloved older brother like the back of your own hand, so when his eyes flutter (flash, almost) and he lurches forward to clumsily press his lips to yours— you label the action for what it really is.

An inaccuracy.

Perhaps, you think as you close your bleared eyes and let him, the only. Because the rest of his program is perfect. Infallible.

The scene unfurling is foreign- his big hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you like his life depends on it- but as he shifts you beneath him and hovers atop, that signature softness remains. Really, as his fingertips reach for your shorts—

(A blip of something mechanical in its fiery gaze, almost as if it’s trying to rectify itself; the shortest of pauses—)

It’s all that grounds you.

“Caleb,” you moan, or cry. You don’t know. Just that when he helps you out of your panties to go down on you, digits delving inside your tight hole after he wets it with his tongue, your heart sings for him.

You don’t push him away. No, even as the humanoid sullies your late brother’s image with all his sinful hungering, you can’t break yourself free. Never find it in you to.

Because it doesn’t matter what he treats you as. You realize belatedly, with no small amount of horror, that you don’t even care how many flaws Not-Caleb has. He could have a million for all you care, you’re already too far gone- writhing underneath him as he holds your legs open and feasts- to pretend you have any right to feel offended.

And if the real Caleb was here, he’d hate you: an echo in your skull, sneering. He should, but-

“There, Meimei, ngh…” a hot tongue (no longer as cold as he was in stasis) laves along your folds. Mauve eyes look up to you with reverence, glittering in the dark.

“Just like that. Moan, say my name- I’ve been waiting for this for so long…”

You wear ignorance like a blindfold. Shutting your eyes and ears.

A fluke. His hardware stalling.

His hair woven in your fingers feels like velvet. Soft, silky; hanging over his brow as he eats you out- skillfully, might you add. Albeit his passion wins out by just a touch against his expertise, clumsily plunging his two middle fingers into your pussy.

“You taste so good, so sweet- mmph- I’ll take care of you, okay?” He mumbles in between lewd squelches.

In both physical and moral terms, there is not one thing about this that isn’t filthy.

Y-You know that, but…

“Don’t worry. I’ll- ah- I’ll make sure you feel real nice. I’ll make you come as many times as you want. I’ve been… dreamin’ of this for years now… I won’t mess this up, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes until you’re shaking.”

-but this is all you have left of him.

Hazily, you glance down to him, cheeks aflame, and barely succeed in asking, “C-Caleb- h-how are you even gonna-? You-“ you choke on the words you need to say. With a mite of dry humor, you think right then that you’re short-circuiting just as bad as him (because he is).

“Are you capable of it?”

Of fucking you? Of pinning you down and throwing your ankles over his shoulders to better plow you into your creaking, old mattress?

His brow twitches slightly. Voice ragged, he makes an agreeable sound, pressing a kiss to your clit so adoring it’s almost funny when his finger bends sensually inside you. “Are you doubting my abilities, Meimei? I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing this moment in my head for—“

No. You slam your eyes shut and drown it all out.

His words become a white noise. No different than the steady whir of the air conditioning as a cool breeze gusts beneath your door, cooling your forehead where it beads with sweat.

A- A glitch, you quietly decide. Even long after he’s made you cum thrice (twice on his fingers and tongue, once on his thick, flushed cock), you hold staunch to that.

It’s all just a fluke.

✦

When the sun rises, you wake with a start to a phone ringing- yours- and swallow a lump of unease at the figure lying beside you (your Gege, a voice in your head reminds: you silence it).

Prying off the solid arm around your waist to gingerly exit the room- still half-naked- you piously ignore the cum caked to the inside of your thighs. Yours, it must be. You don’t focus on the confusion, either, the ask of just how the hell last night was possible and why you let your emotions get ahold of you.

(Because you love him. And maybe, just maybe- in your own weird, admittedly morally-grey way- you can cobble together a sense of normalcy with him. At least just for a little bit...)

As you head to the living room downstairs, you tap your phone and lift it to your ear.

“G-Gran,” you say as greeting, smoothing your hair back, still quite ruffled over… recent events. Ruffled and ashamed.

Very.

But- while he looks like Caleb, he’s not in reality. That… malfunction last night is a blatant proof of that. You only got on your back and let him have his way with you because you’ve missed his touch so much that you’d quite literally accept it in any form.

If sex or his lips battling against yours- his whispered vows, as seemingly heartfelt as they were errant to Caleb’s true character- is all you’ll get of him, then so be it.

In your own way, messed up as it is, it’s almost like with his android, you get a chance to reconcile with the loss.

To say goodbye.

Because before that package arrived at your doorstep, you didn’t have the luxury of one.

A familiar, aged voice sounds over the line. “Hey, dearie, oh- I didn’t wake you, did I? You sound tired.” She’s one to talk, you think to yourself- but not with malice. Truth be told you’ve worried for her as of late.

It’s been lonely for you both, you’re sure, but even though she only lives on the other end of Linkon, you have trouble making the drive. You haven’t dropped by in a couple weeks.

There’s a few different reasons.

It’s hard to pretend you’re fine when you’re not, for one, that what happened with Caleb- the abruptness and lack of conclusion, the confusing aftermath of it all- never did. You try your best to plaster on a smile and be strong in your grandmother’s presence, but that’s easier said than done. Especially when that old house of hers is jam-packed with photos and tokens of your past with him— painful reminders whenever you do visit.

The newest excuse for not is guilt.

Frankly, Gideon is the only one who knows what’s going on. Hah- no surprise, being he was the main reason for your even ordering not-Caleb.

But Gran doesn’t know.

You haven’t told her about him. And after last night, what with your own release still dried to your legs (which wobble slightly; he was every bit passionate and then some), you don’t think you ever will.

She might actually slap you across the face, taking your willingness to believe in such a lie as an offense against her grandson’s vibrant character.

…If she found out what happened- that you opened your legs for him and moaned- she might go into cardiac arrest.

You didn’t… want that to happen, definitely not- I mean, you didn’t even have the time to prepare. But yes, you did let it.

And curse yourself for wanting your brother back, but—

“No, it’s fine, Gran,” you glance over your shoulder to the staircase. Finding it empty, you let out a breath. “Is something wrong? It’s… It’s early.”

—you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little fucking blissful to wake up to his face again, just like back when you were inseparable kids.

She sighs on the other end, “no, no,” she starts. You think you hear a TV in the background; something to fill the silence you leave her to sit in. “Nothing’s wrong, my dear. I just… I haven’t seen you in a bit. I miss your face, Y/n. How are you doing?”

Like a dart to a board, guilt lands its mark.

You shouldn’t fluster at such a simple question, but you do. Not just because it’s so direct and genuine, but because a big hand rests over your shoulder and suddenly Caleb is there, standing behind you.

You straighten up from where you’re propped against the wall and quickly lift a hand to silence any words he may speak.

“I-I’m well, Gran. Sorry, just- I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

“I’d like that,” she murmurs. You’re aware of how much she means it and close your eyes with a wince. A broad palm, as if sensing your inner turmoil, rubs your shoulder soothingly.

You rub the bridge of your nose and don’t look.

“What’s… What’s been keeping you?” She broaches after a beat. Laughter from the television fades in and out over the speaker.

For a second, you freeze. You freeze because you fear she might know.

All for naught: “You’re getting enough sleep, right? I don’t want you overworking yourself. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, sweetie- oh, God knows we’ve both suffered all these months without Caleb, but that’s no reason for us to fall apart either-”

You sigh shakily and bite down on a cry.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve been better, Gran, okay? I…” Shiftily, you wet your bottom lip and give a half truth- as if that can relieve you of this weight. “I was talking with Gideon a little; he’s…. he helped me.”

She sounds pleasantly surprised. “Oh? Good, good. What about?”

Nosy as ever. Not that you’re complaining. It’s good to know someone cares- someone… real.

You swallow your unease. “He was just talking to me about his job and stuff. EVER... He told me he was finally getting that raise or whatever, so he’s doing well... I- I was prying per usual,” you joke to lighten the mood, “He, uh… he tells me more than Caleb ever did, so…” (And when his name started to feel like a sin to say, you don’t know.) “So, you know. I was just curious. He was checking in on me, too…”

Warm breath fans at your ear, fingers closing around your shoulder as he peppers kisses at your neck insistently- and you shudder. Clasping the phone tighter (because it suddenly feels unstable in your hands), you shrug off (not)Caleb for just long enough to say,

“Gran- I- I gotta go. Uh- someone else is calling me,” and to preclude any probing on her end- or extra guilt on yours- you add, “I’ll visit tomorrow, okay? I promise. I’ll- I’ll be there. I love you.”

A voice timidly mirrors it back, and then a big set of hands is taking the phone from you and ending the call.

You turn to him with a notch in your brow as he pockets it in the sweats he must’ve hastily thrown on after finding the bed empty.

“Caleb-“

You start, and his lips press to yours.

With some encouragement- hushing you between kisses, knuckling down your cheek affectionately- he shepherds you back upstairs, to your room.

“Nuh-uh, just let me take care of you, pretty girl, ‘kay?” He murmurs, smiling. You could die in peace to it, you think hazily as he lies you down— because the last mental screenshot you took of him before the accident was his handsome face crestfallen after you’d said something scathing.

To your defense, at the time, you thought he’d deserved it. Maybe he did. It’s hard to remember, but whatever the argument was about, it must’ve been stupid. Not worth it.

And… he’s not Caleb, he’s not, you know that, but…

“Lie back. It’s… It’s just you and me here. I want you to know that. And everyone else-“

(Gran, you realize he must mean; Gideon and all the other familiar and unfamiliar faces both at EVER.)

“None of it matters now. Just focus on me. On Caleb.”

(And how eerie is that? You muse with a whit of your rationale. The rest, as it withers, perhaps only does so for the sake of your own sanity.)

The whole world as it stands: nudged away to oblivion at his behest.

“O-Okay,” you give.

He’s not Caleb. But if this is your best- only- shot at reconciliation, then you’ll take him with arms open.

…

When he’s done priming you, he clambers on top and you experience a repeat of last night.

Deja vu, as fresh as a wound reopened, makes your mind lag a few increments behind reality. But when he starts to slow down, thrusts growing sloppy- it feels oddly real, and, head a bit clearer than last night, you register that.

…But it’s your release that stains the sheets. Steadily trickling from your hole, slicking his hips. It only makes sense that way; he might fuck like a human, but that’s all inherent to his program, you’re sure, built to please- and ultimately, he’s made of metal. Rods. You think you can feel them when you grab too tight, that hardness.

He leads you to the proverbial end of the cliff, and you survey the bottom one last time before- geronimo- you make that final leap.

When not-Caleb comes, he shudders in your arms.

Yet you swear… You swear something inside him, behind his lidded eyes, deeper in-

It’s like it shutters.

A flash. Brief and jarring, for a moment so bright it’s like your eyes have been virginal to light all along.

Just a malfunction, you decide with a spent sigh, sweaty in his solid arms as they make a cage around you, eager to sleep until noon.

Maybe you’ll mention it to Gideon next time he drops by.

Maybe he would know how to fix it.

✦

The days that follow after are foggy and empty. Like a moratorium of everything that once breathed in your life.

You wreathe not-Caleb’s neck with that beloved apple-shaped locket like he’s earned it.

Knowing nobody ever could.

✦

Gideon knocks, one afternoon.

You send him away. Or- Caleb does.

At that, you feel the need to remind him of who he is: the people he cares for, his career path, how he operated as a person before the incident in his suite in Skyhaven.

Caleb stops you short, a palm dwarfing the back of your own, and says I know. I just don’t want my buddy interrupting our time together, Pipsqueak. Can you blame me for wantin’ it to be just you and me?

You stop going out.

He doesn’t let you- not really. I mean, he doesn’t explicitly declare these rules over you, but it’s in the strange glint in his eye- the one that makes you shut your mouth and purse your lips- when he stops you at the door and suggests you stay.

Says it’s better that way. Says he worries whenever you go. Says to take him with you instead if you really must.

Progressively, you’re drifting farther and farther out from shore. Mentally-speaking, you’re going off the deep end. But exiting your house hand-in-hand with your brother- the man the town declared dead in an email you couldn’t bear to finish reading- as he stares at you like a lover, is, no matter the ache, something you can’t quite bring yourself to do.

It’d make this illusion just a smidgen realer. You’d never wake from this dream if other people saw it- saw him- and therefore made his presence more solid in your mind. (Not to mention the disgusting assumptions they’d make- none exactly wrong.)

You’ve been so consumed by grief lately, though, that the knowing of your imminent breakdown can’t stop you from making other bad choices.

So when the brunet altogether bars you from going out in public for the fear that something bad will happen to you (nonsensical; not that he sees the flaws in his arguments), insisting that groceries can be bought online, Gran can be checked up on over the phone, etcetera—

Yeah, you bend to it, alright? Sue you. Of course you bend. It’s all you know what to do anymore.

Gradually, though, the unexpected charm of not-Caleb begins to fade, and you’re left with a possessive form of the brother you once knew. A man desperately clawing at straws, hellbent to keep you at his side, clingy and insecure and, frankly, sometimes scary.

As the inaccuracies build, you’re not sure for how much longer you can overlook them.

The only reason you even tolerated him originally was because he was passable. More than that, even- he was perfect. A dead-ringer for Caleb in both appearance and personality.

But this-

This isn’t Caleb. No longer. It never was.

You don’t believe it for a second.

You heave a soft sigh. Anything louder than a breath brings the chance that he’ll overhear from where he stands in the kitchen and come zipping over, no doubt ready to fret and question you. If you value your time alone- rare as it is these days- then you’ll stay silent.

It’s a near impossible task to separate yourself from him. It was a small miracle in itself that you managed to break away for half an hour or so- but even that was begat by a lie. It seems the only real way to rid yourself of the overly doting, obsessive older brother (even if just for a few minutes) is to give him another demand. This time, it was an ‘I’m hungry’ that finally earned you some peace and quiet.

It’s a little sad, but lately you treat him more or less like a jacket after entering a warm home: you’re eager to shrug him off because the climate has changed.

The climate has changed.

He- He’s changed.

He’s growingly insane and yes, while the irony of that observation isn’t lost on you (considering you’re the mad woman who bought a human-like robot as a replacement in the first place), you still can’t help but feel alarmed as the signs of wrongness don’t cease but worsen.

You think about pressing the button. Turning him off, sending him away.

Hell, maybe you’d just dump him in the communal trash receptacles out back. Leave him there in a human-shaped bag for the garbage men to come and squint at before hauling away like junk.

…Because he is junk, right? No different than a crumb on the floor, you’d once said.

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

The section of your brain responsible for caring must’ve shut off, though, because it’s currently hard to feel much of anything.

…But there, like a soft stirring (or the voice of God as it whispered to Elijah)- you can sense it. That feeling is reminiscent of a survival instinct, or a watered-down version of it to tired nerves, breathing down the back of your neck where hackles rise—

What are you doing here?

The dream begins to fissure in real-time when Caleb (not-Caleb, you harshly remind yourself) cheerfully patters into the living room where you sit, helpful as ever, and his eye flashes as it settles on you. No different than a camera would.

The food looks delicious, per usual- you’d expect nothing less of your brother or even the robotic copy of him- but as nausea churns in your belly and you jolt upright, slapping a hand over your mouth as you run to the bathroom, nothing can save your appetite.

You shakily lock the door- but he’s knocking in an instant, worried.

You always did melt at his bleeding heart. Too often, men, especially the bigger of them, fell under the persuasion of apathy. Yet your gege was always different, always sweet, always gentle and patient and- yeah, okay, sometimes he was a touch mean, teasing to a fault- sometimes to the point of tears on your end as he quickly tried to right his wrongs- but he was preciously yours.

And he was real.

Dammit, he was fucking real-

He was alive and emotionally tangible in a way that this awful fucking hunk of metal is not and never will be—

“Pipsqueak-? Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Let me in. A-Are you not feeling well?” His words crack when you say nothing, dutifully ignoring him.

“Y/n… Let me in. Please-! don’t leave me alone, don’t go.” His voice becomes ragged, raw, the longer you don’t answer. Boyish in its vulnerability. “Stay- Stay here with me.”

By God your soul splinters down the middle. But you don’t answer. You- You can’t.

You throw your lunch up in the toilet and then your back against the wall, sliding down it with your hands over your ears like a child.

You don’t care, if he’s shouting and beating at the door, on the brink of hysteria like you’ve heard only once or twice when he was a boy too soft for his own good- you don’t care- you don’t care—

You sit there until he short-circuits out and thuds to the floor.

You flinch when he does.

Only then, however, do you tiptoe out- careful lest you trigger some internal response from him- to quickly pull on a hoodie and put your hair up, locking the front door behind you.

You don’t know for how long he’ll be conked out, but if luck is on your side, it’ll be for long enough to run to the local corner store and buy a pregnancy test.

You know you’re losing it, the little sanity you had left after your brother passed— misreading a common cold for a veritable child swelling in your womb.

It’s laughable: using your sleeve (another old piece of his clothing you ‘borrowed’, never to be returned) to dot away the tears at your lashline, you do laugh on the short trek to the convenience store.

But if not a reminder that you really are going crazy, losing control, then at least it’s just an opportunity to get some fresh air for a bit, right?

(…You also know that the first step to regaining back said control is to say goodbye to not-Caleb.

As it stands, though, you’re just-

You were never ready.)

✦

Two pink lines.

The thing clatters to the bathroom floor, and you along with it.

You sink to your knees and the white walls surrounding you feel more like an asylum than a space in your own house- because yes, you must be delusional. This is the final nail in the coffin.

But this- this can’t be right. It’s impossible. In the strictest sense of the word it’s impossible!

Heavy feet traipse in the kitchen; the livingroom; the hall, searching for you with faint, candied beckons of your name.

You rub your face as if to feel the color as it seeps from your complexion, and tell yourself that you’ve positively lost it as you thoughtlessly choose one of the corners to slump into, hyperventilating.

You’ll- you’ll send it back to EVER... You’ll send it back and forget and move on. You’ll move on. You’ll stop grieving, you’ll squirrel away your fraying, final memories of Caleb like you did all those precious photos in that old shoebox in your closet.

You’ll-…

A breath. The fan whirs.

The faucet, going full-blast, sputters, effectively drowning out the sounds you make as air becomes a tricky thing to intake; thick enough to choke on.

You’ll throw yourself into the fifth stage of grief then crawl out the other side of it if that’s what it takes to undo this fucking reality you’re lost in-

“Pipsqueak?” A hand on your shoulder.

Broad, big. A little weathered.

But gentle always. Gentle always. Just like you remember. Just like when Caleb meant Caleb; not the big glorified toy that walks and acts like him as an admittedly convincing, yet ultimately faux locum.

Your heart stills, hanging pendant in your chest. You swing from that uncertainty. By God you’d beat that handsome face in- oh, but by God would you kiss it, too.

The door sways on its hinge by splintered fragments, creaking behind the brunet.

Timidly, you lift your head over your shoulder to meet his eye where he towers behind you, violet hues softening with concern. They drift lower, honing in on the little item by your knee, wayward.

He coos immediately, enveloping you in his strong arms.

The feeling- it’s not exactly like that of the one you’d get while swimming in a hot tub, engulfed in its steaming waters, but it’s not too far off either. You let him hold you, unseeing as he all but sings in your ear, and restore the warmth to your bones.

Like a dead thing, or prey, you hang limp in his firm grasp. Terribly uncertain.

“Shh…” he croons, and you only realize a belated moment later that you’re crying. Hard and ugly.

He pets down your hair, ever the comforter, and as you press your head against his barrel chest it’s almost like you can hear a faint whirring in lieu of a heartbeat- speedy but low.

Unreal. Unreal. But then how-?

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

“We’ll figure it out together, honey,” you think it’s a barely concealed smile you register at the crown of your head, pasting down a kiss. “But no more cryin’, okay? I can’t stand to see you like this… Let me draw you a bath, hm? I’ll light some candles and we can talk about it. But don’t be scared. This is… such good news,” and then he laughs- a boyish, marveling little laugh that digs deep into your heart and twists.

The button, between his breastbone, just out of reach, glows faintly through his shirt.

For a moment you’re ready to press it like a player would on a game show— with urgency— but you blink and see those two pink lines searing themselves into your conscience.

Defeatedly, you shut your eyes. But you don’t shut him off.

✦

With Caleb preparing dinner, you’re able to slip away one evening for long enough to call Gran.

For worried friends and relatives, your voicemail box is becoming quite the hotbed- but among them, your grandmother is the priority.

Propping yourself by the sliding glass door, you brush back the curtain and look out to the small, cookie-cutter yard as you accept the call. Not without a shaky breath to prepare you, though; it’s been over a month since your last visit, and while your calls haven’t been quite as behind, you still wince a bit every time her contact pops up.

You want to tell her.

If not about Caleb, then at least the small bump forming beneath your oversized lounge shirt. There’s excuses for it- ones to be frowned upon, yes, but they’d be believable nonetheless. Obviously, a pregnancy is not something as simple to hide as a robot you can turn on and off and, if needed, stuff in the coat closet until the coast is clear.

You want to tell her. But-

You purse your lips, answering, “Hey Gran.”

The tone of her voice, frazzled and barely holding together, sends a chill down your spine.

“Y/n- where have you been? Is everything okay? I’ve been- I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

You digest that information with a quirk of your brow, scanning across the lawn outside, and a thick swallow.

There’s the voicemails, sure; it was only two nights ago you were poring over them all and holding back tears of guilt. But this afternoon? It was quiet- almost blissfully so, spent curled up to Caleb’s chest on the sofa as you watched an old favorite movie and he happily fed you fruit-flavored candies from his hand every so often.

Nobody called, let alone multiple times. You’re sure of it.

“Gran- what? No, I’m fine. What’s wrong?” You start, tossing a nervous glance behind you, internally grateful that Caleb’s absent humming while he chopped veggies was too distant for the phone to pick up.

She blusters out, apropos of nothing, “Is he there with you?”

Something in you stills.

“Y/n- is he there with you?”

An abnormal rush of blood to your ears and a murmur of your heart as you stand confused. The fingers curled around your phone case jitter.

You hold it closer to your ear.

“What? What are you talking about? I-Is who here with me?”

Does she- There’s no fucking chance- does she know?

How?

Chest thumping, your pulse fluttering in the column of your throat as it bobs uncertainly, you begin to wonder to yourself if this is the time you come clean, lay all your sins out like cards on a table. Make the confession.

Push has come to shove, you think. And fuck if you know where all this is coming from on her end, if Gideon told her or she just miraculously put two and two together or-

An exhale on her end, shaking on its way out.

“Were you not told? Dear-“ she broaches, louder, more firm— and this is just milliseconds before the world as you know it- the one you freed of your hands and let reshape itself around a delicate delusion- buckles at the knees. It’s right before you do, too.

“They found him. They found Caleb.”

That breath, right afterward of her telling you, is like the first one after drowning.

Your eyes widen as you break the surface.

His- His body. The tinny footage they dredged up from the area showed he entered his home, but after the explosion, there was no sign of him, no ash no corpse no nothing— So you don’t know how the hell they managed to recover his pieces, let alone after they already ran clean-up crews through the charred infrastructure and hosed it down- but you’re hysterical at the news.

You were cruelly forced, all along, to just assume he’d been burned to nothingness.

So you don’t even care about the how. How it’s possible or how this is happening after several months of white noise and hurting on your end— you don’t care.

You were made to come to terms with his death, and you did, at most, acknowledge it- but evidently, you could never quite accept it.

…If this is your final chance to say goodbye- even if it just means peering over a metal table in the morgue as he lies disheveled, hardly recognizable under a sheet- so fucking be it.

You’ll say goodbye if it kills you.

“What-? Where- where?” Your tone reflects as much, urgent as you stagger over to the sofa, nearly tripping as you reach for the jacket slung over the arm.

“I-Im coming,” you croak out, words failing you as the velvety carpet feels like mud beneath your bare feet- hard to walk across, every step making you feel like a baby taking its first ones.

One second you’re navigating a truth so unbelievable it’s near violent as it barrels into you; in the next, you’re collapsing under the weight of it, too caught up in your own scrambling for your keys and the door to even think of not-Caleb.

Gran goes to timidly say something, but your ears are shot and you quickly interject, “Let me get dressed- I-I’ll be there! Is he at the morgue?”

“Oh, no, honey,” she quavers out, “He’s alive. The town just messaged me; they made a mistake with his death certificate- they’re revoking it as we speak. He’s in Skyhaven.”

The phone drops to the floor.

And then that, too, gives way beneath you.

…It’s good a helping hand is there for you, then. Shouldering your weight without prompting- fretful as he confiscates the device, no different than a teacher with an unruly student, swiftly disconnecting the call.

It tuts in your ear, but- more sober than you’ve ever been- you can only note the sympathy practically dripping from its tone for what it really is: the upshot of its near immaculate programming as it mimics your considerate gege to a T.

Not-Caleb noses against your nape and sighs.

Mutely, you wind a hand, tottering, uncoordinated fingers and all, behind your back to grope along his chest—

He easily gathers both your wrists in his palm, “hey now,” turning you around. He lifts your knuckles up for a chaste kiss, watching you intently all the while.

A cold weight settles over you, soaking you through like meat left overnight to marinate. From the kitchen, stirfry sizzles in the pan. A few moments more of it and the smoke detectors will fire off.

…He just leans in to peck your forehead though, deaf to the sirens you hear wailing in your head, having mastered the art of playing dumb long ago.

He murmurs, as cloying as cake frosting, “C’mon, Pipsqueak, let’s go eat. Dinner’ll be done in just a sec. I made one of your favorites. After that, we can sit around the couch and brainstorm some more names for the baby- what d’you think?”

Flukes, malfunctions, glitches— no; Not-Caleb, you realize right then, ceasing to blink as you stare at its prototype through the shifting lens head-on, was never flawed.

“…But you’re not leavin’, not to him.”

The real one was.

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

QUESTIONS&ANSWERS HERE

#love and deepspace #lads x reader #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #lads smut #love and deepspace x reader #caleb x reader smut #caleb x reader #caleb x mc #caleb x you #xia yizhou #love and deepspace smut #caleb smut #yandere #‧₊ 🍰.┊𝒄𝒂𝒌𝒆𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 #syluses

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angelseraphines · 6 months ago

Text

ೃ⁀➷ pretty when you cry ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! there is also a part one to this imagine, playing dangerous, a part two, do you think you’d kill for me, one day? a part three, ultraviolence, and a part four, shades of cool.

˚ ༘♡ hwang in-ho, the man you once knew as young-il, the man who betrayed you in the most loathsome way imaginable, had taken control of your recovery. he rarely left your side in the early days, overseeing every detail with the precision of someone who understood pain all too well. his compound, sprawling, isolated, and fortified, became your prison. it was a place of unsettling contrasts, sterile medical equipment juxtaposed with lavish decor, soft furnishings that did nothing to dull the edges of the sharp reality you now inhabited.

˚ ༘♡ you were angry, your heart a storm of rage and bitterness, each glance at him igniting the fire anew. though, in the quiet moments, when he checked your bandages or sat silently by your side as you drifted in and out of restless sleep, you found yourself conflicted. his hands, steady and careful, worked with a tenderness that unsettled you more than the betrayal ever had. the small comforts he offered, adjusting your pillows, bringing you tea, gnawed at the walls of your resolve.

˚ ༘♡ days blurred into one another. your questions about jung-bae and gi-hun were met with deflection, his answers vague and evasive. each time you pressed, his expression darkened slightly, as though the weight of those unanswered truths bore down on him as well. “you’ll know when the time is right,” he would say, his voice serene, leaving you fuming with frustration and sorrow.

˚ ༘♡ as the weeks passed, your leg began to heal. the searing pain dulled into an ache, and eventually, the ache faded altogether. though your body recovered, your mind remained caged by the stark truth of your reality. in-ho allowed you freedom within the confines of the compound, but every step you took was shadowed by masked guards, their presence an ever-looming reminder that escape was futile.

˚ ༘♡ you tried anyway.

˚ ༘♡ the night was quiet, the air thick with tension as you crept through the corridors, your heart pounding in your chest. every creak of the floorboards felt deafening, every shadow a potential threat. you had almost made it to what you thought was the outer gate when strong hands grabbed you, pulling you back with a force that sent terror crashing over you. the guards didn’t speak, their blank masks only adding to your dread as they dragged you back to your room, their grip unyielding.

˚ ༘♡ when in-ho appeared later, his expression was unreadable. he didn’t yell or chastise you. instead, he sat across from you, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t name. “i can’t allow you to leave,” he said softly, his tone devoid of malice. it wasn’t a threat, but it felt worse. his disappointment lingered in the air, suffocating, and you hated the guilt that bloomed in your chest.

˚ ༘♡ time moved forward, and with it, your body healed. the ache in your knee, once sharp and consuming, faded into nothingness, replaced by the intensity of strength you hadn’t felt in weeks. you could walk without hesitation now, no longer second-guessing every step. yet the freedom of movement felt hollow within the compound’s imposing walls. they surrounded you, stark and vast, a constant reminder of your captivity.

˚ ༘♡ you sat on the edge of your bed, your fingers absentmindedly brushing over the faint scar peeking out from beneath the fabric of your clothing. the skin there was pale and slightly raised, a delicate line etched by pain and betrayal. you traced it with a mix of resignation and vexation, trying to reconcile the life you had before with the one you were living now.

˚ ༘♡ the sound of the door opening pulled you from your thoughts. you glanced up to see in-ho stepping inside, his presence filling the room with an air of quiet authority. he no longer wore the faceless mask that had once concealed him, his features open and bare. though his expression was calm, the weight of unspoken words seemed to settle between you, causing the air to feel suffocating.

˚ ༘♡ “would you like to have dinner with me?” he asked. his voice was measured, each word chosen carefully. though his tone was steady, there was an undercurrent of uncertainty, as if he was bracing himself for rejection. it wasn’t a demand, nor was it an expectation, it felt almost… tentative.

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated, your gaze dropping to your hands resting in your lap. your anger hadn’t disappeared, it still lingered, simmering just beneath the surface, but it had softened with time, dulled by the care he had shown you. despite everything, despite the betrayal that still stung, he had been there, ensuring your recovery, tending to you with a patience you hadn’t expected.

˚ ༘♡ “i don’t think so,” you said at last, your tone gentle yet cautious. you weren’t trying to hurt him, though the words clearly did. you saw it in the way his face shifted, the faintest flicker of something vulnerable crossing his features before he composed himself once more.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t leave. instead, he lingered by the door, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. “you need to eat,” he said quietly. his voice lacked its usual authority, replaced instead by something softer, something that bordered on worry.

˚ ༘♡ you turned your gaze toward the window, your focus slipping to the darkened landscape outside. the compound stretched endlessly into the night, its shadowy corners likely crawling with guards you couldn’t see but knew were there. “i’ll eat later,” you replied, the words barely above a murmur. they lacked bitterness, though the weight of unspoken emotion hung in the room.

˚ ༘♡ the silence that followed was thick and suffocating. you expected him to retreat, to leave you to your solitude, but he didn’t move. his presence remained, steadfast and unwavering, as if he refused to let the distance between you grow any wider.

˚ ༘♡ and though you wouldn’t admit it, even to yourself, his refusal to leave made something in your chest ache. it wasn’t anger, or resentment, or even guilt, it was something far more complicated, something you weren’t ready to confront.

˚ ༘♡ you sat on the floor of your room, your legs pulled close to your chest, trembling as grief consumed you. the weight of unanswered questions bore down on you, suffocating and relentless. your heart ached for the friends you’d lost in the chaos of the games, dae-ho, jun-hee, jung-bae, gi-hun, and the others whose faces haunted your dreams. they deserved more than silence. they deserved answers.

˚ ༘♡ tears spilled freely down your cheeks as you pressed your palms into your eyes, your breath hitching with every sob that wracked your chest. the quiet elegance of the room around you only deepened the pain, its pristine luxury a cruel reminder of the blood and suffering you’d endured to end up here. “please,” you whispered, your voice breaking under the weight of the plea. “tell me… tell me what happened to them.”

˚ ༘♡ in ho’s footsteps were slow, deliberate, as he crossed the room to where you sat. you didn’t meet his gaze, you couldn’t. instead, you gripped your knees tighter, shaking your head as the words spilled from your lips in a broken stream. “where are they? are they alive? do they even… do they even have a chance?”

˚ ༘♡ he crouched in front of you, his movements calm but hesitant, as though he feared his presence might shatter you further. his hands hovered near yours, unsure whether to reach out. “i can’t give you the answers you’re looking for,” he said quietly, his tone soft yet somehow unyielding.

˚ ༘♡ “why?” you choked out, anger flaring through the grief as your head snapped up to meet his gaze. “why can’t you? they’re my friends, they…” your voice cracked, and the rest of the sentence dissolved into tears.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t respond, his silence infuriating and devastating all at once. the patience in his expression was unbearable, as though he thought his stillness could soothe the storm inside you.

˚ ༘♡ your cries grew louder, your sobs echoing in the quiet room as you pounded a fist weakly against his chest. “please,” you begged, the word almost unintelligible through your tears. “don’t do this to me. i need to know.”

˚ ༘♡ still, he said nothing. instead, his arms encircled you, pulling you gently but firmly into his embrace. his warmth was immediate, his presence solid and unyielding. he rested his chin lightly against your hair, his grip tightening as though he feared you might slip away entirely. “shh,” he murmured, his breath warm against your temple. “i’m here.”

˚ ༘♡ you shoved him away with what strength you had, though it was feeble compared to his hold. “don’t,” you spat, your voice raw with anger and anguish. “don’t comfort me when you’re the reason they’re gone.”

˚ ༘♡ his hands settled firmly on your shoulders, his grip rigid yet careful, as though he feared hurting you but refused to let you slip away. the strength in his touch sent a wave of frustration through you, fueling a final attempt to twist out of his hold. his chest pressed against yours as he pulled you closer, his body a barrier against your escape.

˚ ༘♡ “let me go,” you demanded, your voice shaking with the effort to sound stronger than you felt. but the words wavered, your conviction cracking under the weight of exhaustion that had crept into your limbs.

˚ ༘♡ “no,” he replied, his tone low but resolute, the firmness in his voice more unnerving than anger would have been. “you need me,” he added, quieter now, his words tinged with a gentleness that made your heart clench. “even if you don’t want to admit it.”

˚ ༘♡ your struggles faltered, the tension in your body draining as the fight ebbed away. you sagged against him, your head dropping slightly, your breathing uneven and strained. his embrace shifted, becoming something softer, something that felt almost protective. his arms wrapped around you fully now, holding you close as though shielding you from a world you didn’t even recognize anymore.

˚ ༘♡ the warmth of his breath brushed against your temple, and you froze as his lips pressed softly to your cheek. the kiss wasn’t meant to persuade or plead; it was a silent confession, an unspoken attempt to reach past your anger.

˚ ༘♡ “i love you,” he murmured, so quietly you might have thought you imagined it if his voice hadn’t carried the weight of those words so deeply.

˚ ༘♡ your entire body stiffened. the confession hit you harder than you could have anticipated, settling heavily in your chest. the sincerity in his voice wrapped around you, tugging at emotions you didn’t want to feel. your throat tightened painfully, but no words came. they wouldn’t. you couldn’t make yourself respond, couldn’t allow yourself to validate the truth in what he said.

˚ ༘♡ instead, silence fell between you, louder and more damning than anything you could have said aloud. his arms didn’t loosen their hold, his face remaining close to yours, his breath steady against your skin.

˚ ༘♡ then, as if sensing your hesitation wasn’t refusal, he leaned in. his lips met yours with a deliberate slowness, a patience that felt entirely at odds with the world he had dragged you into. the kiss was tender, yet there was an unmistakable urgency in the way he moved, as though he needed you to feel the emotions he couldn’t put into words.

˚ ༘♡ you wanted to push him away, wanted to scream that he had no right to this moment, no right to you. but your body betrayed you, your lips trembling as they parted against his. the flood of emotions, anger, despair, confusion, and something dangerously close to longing, surged through you all at once, making it impossible to pull away.

˚ ༘♡ when the kiss broke, your breath came in shallow bursts, your heart pounding erratically in your chest. his hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs brushing against your damp cheeks as his gaze searched yours.

˚ ༘♡ “will you ever let me go?” you asked, the words spilling out before you had a chance to stop them. your voice was fragile, the question carrying all the weight of the fear and longing tangled inside you.

˚ ༘♡ his expression softened, the sharpness of his features dimmed by the flicker of something raw in his eyes. his hands didn’t move, his hold on you steady but not forceful. “i can’t,” he admitted, the words barely above a whisper. his voice cracked slightly, betraying the struggle beneath his calm exterior. “not in my heart.”

˚ ༘♡ the pang in your chest deepened, and the next question came almost involuntarily, your voice trembling under the strain. “will you keep doing this? will you keep the games going?”

˚ ༘♡ his face darkened, but not in anger. it was a shadow of something more potent, regret, or perhaps inevitability. he lowered his head slightly, his forehead close to brushing yours, his words deliberate and gentle. “yes,” he said, the softness of his tone cutting deeper than any cruelty could have. “i have to. one day, you’ll understand why.”

˚ ༘♡ the finality in his voice was suffocating. you stared at him, your tears still falling as you searched his face for any trace of doubt, for even the smallest crack in his conviction. his gaze remained stable, his eyes holding nothing but certainty, an unshakable belief in a path you couldn’t follow.

˚ ༘♡ the silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was heavy, filled with the unsaid words that hung between you. and as his arms tightened around you again, pulling you close to his chest, you felt the hollowness of his words settle into your own heart. hwang in-ho was a man who loved you, but he was also a man you could never truly understand.

a/n: part five!!! let me know if you have any requests and your thoughts on the story so far!!🤍

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mtg-cards-hourly · 9 months ago

Photo

Door to Nothingness

"I have re-created a Thran portal at last! Before I inform Lord Urza, I'll test it myself." —Oryan, Urzan artificer, final research note

Artist: Svetlin Velinov TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

#mtg #magic the gathering #tcg #svetlin velinov #door to nothingness #the brothers' war retro artifacts #artifact

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woniwontons · 2 months ago

Text

dead end - CHAPTER ONE

bob reynolds x therapist!reader

summary: after being assigned to monitor bob reynolds’ recovery inside the new avengers tower, you try to keep your fears hidden. but between quiet training sessions and unsettling therapy logs, you start to realize he’s watching you more than he should—and that something inside him never stops whispering.

w.c: 4.7K

warnings: psychological thriller, inaccurately depicted mental illness, emotional manipulation (by void), nightmares, slow burn, possessive themes, combat violence, unreliable realities, hallucinations, this one is gonna be slow-paced but i promise it'll be worth it !!

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°｡⋆

You hadn’t meant to walk by that room on the way to your new office.

The reassignment orders had come through two days ago. They were sparse in detail, not revealing much of anything except for your new title. Your supervisor’s tone had said more than the written briefing did: this wasn’t just a regular high-risk case.

But you were used to things being complicated.

You’d spent the last year assisting with the Winter Soldier’s support team. Trauma. Suppressed memories. You’d seen a lot.

Regardless, this felt much, much different.

The hallways were sterile and silent, a little too quiet for a facility that usually buzzed with motion, even at night. The lights overhead were dimmed, flickering slightly. The ventilation hummed as the cool breeze of the AC grazed your skin.

You weren’t nervous until the echo of your footsteps felt louder.

Until you realized how alone you were.

And that’s when you felt the presence of the door.

You couldn’t seem to take another step past it.

It was identical to every other reinforced room on this level. It had smooth steel edges, embedded biometric locks, a security panel with soft pulsing light. But the air around it felt different.

The lights above the door flickered once, a small stutter, bringing your attention back. It was hard to keep your focus here. The electronic warning panel on the door read:

SECURITY – MONITORED ACCESS ONLY

There were no guards to hold back your curiosity.

No surveillance drones stationed nearby. No tech crew logged into the panel. No footsteps echoing behind you.

Just the door.

And the feeling of a lingering presence.

You didn’t hear anything at first, but your body reacted before your mind could. The tiny hairs on your arms lifted. Your throat felt dry. Your heartbeat stuttered into a rhythm that had nothing to do with physical effort and everything to do with instinct.

Something was awake, and suddenly the temperature felt so cold.

You swallowed hard and told yourself to keep walking. You had no reason to stop—no reason to look at the blackened glass viewport in the center of the door. But your eyes betrayed you.

Your gaze shifted.

And for just a second, you thought you saw movement. Not a figure. Not a face. Just a shape—tall, slow-moving, silhouetted against the low light inside. Pacing.

Then gone.

You weren’t sure why your hand rose to hover near the panel. Maybe curiosity. Maybe something stranger. Like gravity.

The moment your fingers drifted too close, your ears rang with a sudden sharp buzz — not from the tower, but from somewhere inside your skull.

Like the nothingness had warned you against it.

And you heeded it thankfully before quickly walking away.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we decided to pull you from your old team,” said the lead psychologist, Dr. Harding, as she passed you a tablet with a heavily redacted profile. Her overall expression was neutral, but her eyes watched your reaction carefully. “As you know, we are always working with clients of highest risk imaginable. Every single one of our clients has the ability to harm us, even accidentally.”

You nodded slowly, eyes scanning the document. Most of it was blacked out, save for one name: Reynolds, Robert. The next line simply read: Subject has powers which cannot be contained. No confirmed usage since initial incident.

“Still,” she added, lowering her voice, “this one is… different.”

You swallowed, saying nothing.

“He’s not like Barnes. Barnes needed discipline. A task and sense of righteous purpose. Bob—” she exhaled through her nose, “—Bob needs connection and reassurance. Very few people last more than a week with him. Not because he’s violent. But because he’s… persistent.”

You glanced up.

She elaborated, tone cautious. “Emotionally. He fixates. He doesn’t always understand boundaries. And lately, he’s been quieter. Withdrawn. Like he knows people are afraid of him, and he’s trying not to be a burden.”

The memory of the door flickering last night, of the movement behind the glass, returned like ice down your spine. You wondered how safe you were right now, only a few feet away from him again.

“He asked to speak to me this morning, and I'd like you to join our discussion,” Dr. Harding said.

Your stomach dropped. "Of course."

S̵͇̺̿̓E̷̜̼͂͋S̵̘̙͊̐S̶̟͂̾Ị̶̂̔O̵̟̪͝Ň̶̫̼͌ ̵̣̽Ö̴̰̪́N̴͇̺͑E̶͚͋́

The observation room was dim, washed in blue light, and clinically empty. You stood behind a panel of reinforced glass, your clipboard clutched tightly in your hand. Through the window, Bob sat on the edge of a training mat in the adjacent room, one hand resting loosely on his knee, the other curled into a fist against his temple. Not tense—just relaxed.

He looked up as you entered. Slowly.

You tried not to flinch.

No glowing eyes. No flickering shadows. Just a man with tousled hair and the kind of silence that made your skin itch.

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to.

He was studying you.

As if last night hadn’t been a hallucination. As if he knew you’d been outside his door. You weren't sure why that came to your mind.

You lifted your chin. “Dr. Harding had to take a call, but she told me to go ahead and introduce myself. You can call me Miss Y/L/N.”

His lips parted slightly, voice low and almost too soft to hear.

“Not a doctor yet, huh? So you're not here to shrink me?”

You blinked. “Not like that, Mr. Reynolds. I'm Harding's assistant, and I haven't finished my doctorate to be a psychologist yet.”

“Oh, that sounds nice,” he said before cocking his head in your direction curiously. “You know, I can tell when someone’s afraid of me. You really don't have to be, I don't feel the void when I'm awake anymore.”

There was no accusation in his tone. Just a resigned kind of sadness that made your throat feel tight, from a voice that sounded so kind and soft-spoken.

You cleared your throat, "When you're awake?"

"You can call me Robert or Bob if it makes you more comfortable," he exclaimed sweetly, avoiding the question as he stood up from the training mat.

You nodded once, slowly. “Bob, then.”

He smiled, but not fully. It was small, crooked, and didn’t quite reach his eyes. Nervous.

“I don’t get many visitors,” he said, stepping forward slowly. He didn’t want to startle you. “Most people watch me from the other side of the glass and call it a day.”

You didn’t move, but your grip on the clipboard tightened.

Bob stopped a respectful distance away, reading you like you were a kind of file that he hadn’t been allowed to open yet.

“I felt you yesterday,” he added, softer this time in a near whisper. “Outside my door.”

Your chest tightened.

“I wasn't watching like a creep or anything,” he said quickly, lifting his hands as if to prove he meant no harm. “I just… noticed.”

You glanced down at your notes, trying to redirect. “Well, that’s not unusual. The facility sensors are—”

“No,” he interrupted, still gentle. “Not like that. I felt you. You have a very specific… shadow.”

You looked up. “Shadow?”

He seemed suddenly shy, almost sheepish. “Or your heartbeat. It skipped before the lights flickered. I don’t know why.”

You stared at him, trying to decide whether he meant it as a threat. But his expression didn’t match the words. He looked... guilty.

“Sorry,” he added quickly, his voice barely above a whisper. “That was too much. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m trying to get better at this.”

“At what?” you asked, a little too quietly.

“Being normal when I'm not,” he replied. “Being someone people don’t get so nervous around. I understand why though, it's not easy to relive your fears if I happen to lose control.”

The room was still. The fluorescent lights hummed softly above your head, grounding the moment in silent reality.

You wanted to say something clinical. Professional. Something to remind yourself that you were here to observe, not to sympathize.

Instead, your voice came out a little rough.

“You said you don’t feel the Void when you’re awake.”

He paused.

“I said I don’t think I feel it,” he clarified. “But sometimes... it’s hard to tell where it ends and I begin. Especially when I’m alone and sleepy.”

You nodded. Your notes stayed untouched.

There was something haunting in how easily he said that, like he’d rehearsed it with the expectation that you'd ask.

“Do you dream, Miss Y/L/N?” he asked suddenly.

You hesitated. “I—yes. Everyone does.”

He smiled faintly. “I hope they're good dreams.”

You didn’t ask him to explain.

You didn’t want to know, and this introduction was turning into something that Dr. Harding should be present for to take notes.

Before he could elaborate, the door behind you hissed open.

You turned instinctively, grateful for the interruption.

Though your pulse hadn’t yet steadied.

Dr. Harding stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the tile. She carried a tablet tucked under her arm and wore the same unreadable expression you'd come to recognize as her baseline.

“Apologies,” she said briskly, offering Bob a polite nod. “I was on with our night crew about your activity from last night’s scan. There was a minor spike around midnight.”

You felt your stomach twist.

Bob didn’t look at her. His eyes remained on you now.

Dr. Harding continued, unaware—or maybe perfectly aware—of the undercurrent in the room. “Miss Y/L/N, you can remain if you’d like, but I’ll be taking over from here. I imagine you’ve had enough of the angst for your first morning.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Bob beat you to it.

“She was doing just fine,” he said quietly, seemingly unoffended by the rude quip towards him.

Harding gave him a pointed look. “That’s not your call to make, Bob.”

He lowered his gaze, jaw shifting slightly. “Sorry.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll stay,” you said, surprising even yourself.

Both heads turned toward you.

“I want to observe how you conduct a formal session,” you added quickly, recovering your tone. “It’s useful for my training.”

Harding studied you for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Very well. Pull a chair.”

You moved to the far corner of the room, placing your clipboard in your lap, keeping your pen steady even though your thoughts weren’t. You couldn't understand what his presence was doing to you.

As Dr. Harding took the lead, asking standard check-in questions, you watched Bob answer. Politely, softly, or sometimes with a joke that didn't quite land right.

But once or twice, when Harding looked down at her notes, he looked at you instead.

Not like he expected anything back.

But like you were the only person in the room.

And that scared you more than anything he’d said so far.

By the end of the session, your clipboard was so full of notes you weren’t entirely sure you remembered writing. Your hand had moved automatically—recording answers, glancing at biometric readouts—but your attention had never really left him.

Bob’s answers were consistent. Measured. Gentle. He didn’t dodge questions, but he didn’t volunteer much either. You could tell Harding was used to this rhythm between them—asking just enough, pulling back when the silences grew too long.

Still, it didn’t feel like a cold interview. Especially with the strange nature of the therapy, testing Bob's self-control in combat simulations with the trainers.

When Harding eventually closed the session, Bob nodded respectfully and returned to the center of the room to begin his cooldown exercises. You saw the tension creep back into him as he struggled to focus on the trainer's guided stretches.

You stood, unsure whether to stay longer or let yourself out.

Harding approached you instead. “How are you feeling?” she asked, lowering her voice just enough that Bob wouldn’t hear.

You hesitated. “I’m not sure yet.”

“That’s good,” she replied, and for once, her tone softened. “It means you’re paying attention.”

You nodded.

“He doesn’t show it, but he’s… more aware of people’s emotional responses than most patients. He reads faces better than some of the staff. If he keeps looking at you, it’s because you’re giving him something he’s not used to.”

You didn’t ask what that was. You had a sinking feeling you already knew.

Before you could say anything else, Bob’s voice broke the silence behind you.

“Miss Y/L/N?”

You whipped around quickly, surprised by the proximity of his voice.

He stood there with a small towel draped over his shoulder, hair slightly damp from exertion, eyes unreadable. There was nothing threatening about his posture—if anything, he looked uncertain, almost guilty for speaking. It was getting harder to imagine such an anxious, lanky man being so capable of such darkness.

“Can I ask you something before you go?”

Harding arched an eyebrow, but didn’t stop you.

You took a step closer, keeping the chair between you.

“…Yes?”

He glanced toward Harding, then back at you. “Last night. In the hall. Why did you stop?”

The question landed like a stone dropped in still water.

You blinked. “I didn’t. I—kept walking.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“But you hesitated.”

You couldn’t lie, at least not convincingly. “…I was curious.”

“That’s not why,” he said. Then added, “But I liked that you did.”

Your pulse stuttered. He said it so plainly, but he was right. You didn’t respond.

Harding saved you from having to. “Bob, let’s not cross wires on what professional curiosity means, alright?”

He lowered his gaze again, the way a child might after being gently scolded. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

You left a moment later, your steps quicker than before, the clipboard clutched tighter in your hands.

You told yourself you weren’t going to think about it again.

But you already knew you would.

Your room in the tower was small but fit the essence of your character, a carefully controlled space designed to make you feel comfortable after everything you hear about.

You dropped your clipboard on the desk and laid at the edge of the bed, chin in your hands, staring at the wall like it might blink back at you.

He’d said he liked that you stopped.

You should’ve brushed it off. Chalked it up to a badly timed word vomit. But the way he’d said it, like it mattered more than anything he’d told Dr. Harding, was still echoing in your head.

You ran a hand down your face and pulled your notebook out of the drawer, flipping to a blank page.

You stopped writing.

None of it was what you actually wanted to say.

I liked that you did.

I liked that you

I liked that

I liked

You stared at the sentences, then scribbled them out.

A chill passed over your shoulders as the temperature in the room dropped. The light in your room dimmed slightly as the automatic system shifted to evening mode.

You turned, instinctively to the door.

Nothing was there. But the air felt wrong. Off. Like someone else had entered the room.

You stood and walked slowly to the door, double-checked the lock even though it always auto-engaged. Then you turned on the small lamp by the bedside and laid down again—this time, facing the door instead of the wall. You decided that was enough notes for the day, and besides, your eyes suddenly felt... so heavy.

You must’ve fallen asleep without realizing it.

One moment, you were sitting on top of your sheets with the lamp still on, notebook untouched. The next, you were standing in a hallway that didn’t belong to the tower.

It was too familiar.

The walls were beige, slightly stained from years of dust spreading in through the corners. The carpet flattened in the center from pacing. The smell of coffee and pasta gone cold. Your old apartment.

From grad school.

You froze.

The silence pressed against your eardrums. The kind of silence that happens after a scream you didn’t realize left your throat.

Your body moved forward before you could stop it. One step, then two. The door to your old bedroom was left ajar for you, calling you towards it.

The light inside flickered.

You pushed it open — and there she was.

You.

Sitting on the floor in sweats and a threadbare hoodie. Surrounded by boxes of your mother's things and jewelry. Her hands trembled as she unscrewed the child-proof cap on a small orange bottle.

Your throat closed.

You knew this moment.

You remembered it with sickening clarity. It was the week after your mother’s funeral, two projects overdue, and every message you received asking if you were okay. You hated that back then because you clearly were not.

You watched as your past self tipped the bottle into her palm.

One pill. Then two.

Then a handful.

You stepped into the room, breath shaking. "Stop," you whispered at first, feeling choked up before getting louder, "Stop doing that!"

She didn’t even look at you.

You tried to speak. Tried to reach her. But your mouth didn’t work now. The room seemed to stretch as you lunged forward, trying to stop yourself as you swallowed them all.

Then came the shift.

The lighting changed.

The edges of the room warped, like someone was folding the memory in half.

A shadow spread behind your past self like a creeping blush, infecting the light cast upon your old bedroom before it consumed the entire room.

You bolted upright in bed with a ragged gasp, your heart pounding in your ears. The lamp was still on. The room untouched.

But a page from your notebook flipped, revealing a message written in shadow that disappeared as soon as you saw it.

"I'm sorry."

The morning light in the cafeteria was too bright.

It filtered in through the tower’s east-facing windows in thick beams, warming the tile floors and casting long shadows across the tables. Everything felt too clean to you now. Like it had been scrubbed of anything human overnight.

You walked in with your head down, trying not to look like you’d barely slept. Your stomach wasn’t ready for food, but the routine mattered. If you didn’t eat, someone would notice.

The dream still clung to your skin like a film. You hadn’t written about it in your journal like you normally would. You hadn’t even tried. It felt too... personal. Too invasive. Not just because it had shown you something from your past, but because something else had watched it with you.

Played the scene in your nightmare like watching a movie.

You joined the breakfast line, going through the motions. Coffee. Scrambled eggs. A slice of toast you knew you wouldn’t finish.

Then a voice behind you broke the silence.

“Didn’t sleep, huh?”

You turned, already bracing yourself.

Bucky stood a few feet away in dark sweats and a henley shirt, a tray in his hand and a knowing look on his face. His hair was damp. He’d probably just taken a shower, and his expression was casually examining your attire.

He wasn’t the kind of person who pried. But he wasn’t blind either.

You gave him the best version of a smile you could muster. “How could you tell?”

He tilted his head, gesturing loosely to your sweatpants. "You usually come down to breakfast with clothes a lot more put together than that.”

You frowned slightly. “That obvious?”

He shrugged. “It happens."

You didn’t answer as you stepped out of the line and moved toward the far table near the window. Bucky followed, uninvited but not unwelcome. He set his tray down across from you and sat down without a word.

For a moment, you both just existed, eating in silence and letting the normalcy of the room stitch itself into your day.

“So. I heard you met our new friend, he's a character isn't he?"

You looked up slowly. “I observed my first session yesterday,” you said evenly. “With Dr. Harding.”

He nodded. “And?”

You hesitated. Your first instinct was to abide by the rules, remembering that although the Avengers were held to a different legal standard, you didn't want to break any laws by telling Bucky any details.

But Bucky was one of the few people in this building who understood what it meant to be haunted by something. Something you didn’t always control or understand.

So instead, you said the partial truth.

“He’s not what I expected.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Better or worse?”

You stirred your coffee. “Both.”

That made him smile faintly. “Yeah. That’s about right.”

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t tell him about the way Bob looked at you. About the dream. About the notebook.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely.

“Just be careful,” he said after a pause. “You’re sharp. You care. That’s why they assigned you to him, they can't depend on just Yelena to keep him in check. He has to control it on his own, and you were the best when it came to helping me.”

You met his eyes, thankful that he said something so reassuringly kind to you. "I will. I really appreciate that."

S̴̫͒Ẹ̸̀͝S̶̺̐S̴̡̄̋I̶̮̱̒O̵̹͕͆͘N̴̯͔̓̌ ̶̯̈́̏Ṭ̴̓W̵̜͉̔̚O̵̲̠͆̉

The observation room was colder today, or maybe you were just wearing a thinner cardigan than last time.

You stood behind the glass, arms crossed over your clipboard, watching as Bob went through his pre-session movements in the adjoining chamber. He moved slower than yesterday, but it was less like he was conserving power, and more like he didn’t want to be there.

You couldn’t blame him.

You weren’t sure you did either.

Dr. Harding was absent this time entirely. Something about a meeting with Valentina, leaving you in charge of monitoring brain activity and logging interactions. She’d called it a “minor check-in.”

You weren’t sure how minor anything could be when your entire nervous system still buzzed from a horrible dream that didn’t feel like something you would have thought of yesterday.

Bob glanced up, eyes finding you instantly.

You tried not to react. You tried to stay clinical, but something must’ve shown on your face.

He turned fully toward the glass. Then spoke, “You look tired.”

Your stomach dropped before you stepped forward and pressed the button. “Good morning to you too,” you said, voice sharper than you intended.

Bob gave you a sheepish smile, slighting his head down as he rubbed the back of his neck. “That wasn’t an insult, I swear. Just an observation.”

You cleared your throat. “Let’s begin, Mr. Reynolds. I’d like to start with baseline questions.”

“You can call me Bob, remember?” he said again, stepping closer to the partition. “I think we already passed the awkward part.”

You hesitated, then nodded.

“…Bob.”

He seemed pleased by that, smiling contently at your choice.

“Your brain activity is all registering as normal to what we already know,” you said, eyes flicking to the monitor, though you barely registered the data. “Any disturbances overnight?”

He tilted his head, pity filling his eyes. “Not mine.”

Your pen paused over the page.

“Sorry?”

Bob shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t dream. But you did.”

You slowly set the clipboard down.

“And it showed me things,” he continued, voice quieter now. “Things I don’t think were mine to see.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to because you already knew what he meant.

Bob’s eyes searched your face with a softness that made your skin crawl—not because it was threatening, but because it wasn’t.

It was empathy.

“I’m truly sorry,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean to look. I tried to pull away.”

Something inside you twisted.

You’d seen your past. The pills. But the idea that he had seen it too, that something had trespassed that memory, made the fear settle deeper in your bones.

Still, your voice stayed calm.

“It was a dream,�� you said. “It wasn't real."

Bob nodded slowly. “If that helps.”

You swallowed, “We should continue on with the questions.”

He took a step back, nodding. But his voice was softer now. Warmer. Like he couldn’t help it. “Even when you’re scared of me, you still stick around, Y/N.”

You didn’t answer, even if you liked the way your name fell off his lips.

And that silence hung heavier than anything else between you.

You picked the clipboard back up with deliberate calm, flipping to the prompts given to you by the doctor. “Let’s return to the baseline survey,” you said. “Emotional range, since yesterday. Any new feelings of irritability, hopelessness, or intrusive thought patterns?”

Bob didn’t answer right away.

You glanced up, irritated now that he was being so difficult with you today.

He was watching you again. Like you were more interesting than the questions. Like maybe the answers had never really mattered in the first place if you were just standing right there.

“Does wanting something you shouldn’t have count as an intrusive thought?” he asked softly.

Your heart clenched at the response, your brows knitting together in confusion at his answer.

“That’s not—” you started, faltering. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I figured,” he said gently. “But it’s still true.”

You held your pen tightly, suddenly too aware of how small the space between you really was. Even with reinforced glass and locked doors. Too aware of how direct his gaze felt, like he was peeling you back layer by layer.

You hated how warm your skin felt beneath your collar as the blush creeped up your neck.

“You honestly don’t know me that well, Mr. Reynolds.” you said, firmer this time. “You’re—misinterpreting this dynamic.”

“Maybe,” he replied, tilting his head. “But I don’t think I’m imagining the way your heartbeat changes when you talk to me.”

You clenched your jaw. “Let’s focus on you, please. Have you experienced any auditory hallucinations or non-verbal episodes of dissociation?”

He was silent for a moment. “Yes.”

You blinked at him and gestured for him to continue.

“Since this morning,” he continued. “But it isn't from me. It was more like... pressure. I felt something pulling at the edges of me after you walked in. The noise get quieter when you're around.”

You lowered the clipboard in surprise. “So you're saying I triggered it?”

“I’m saying you created a feeling I haven't felt in a long time.” His voice was soft. “Just not in the way you think.”

You stared at him, your chest tight. “I wasn’t trying to do anything,” you muttered.

“I know,” he said.

The air in the room shifted. Your breath caught in your throat before you could stop it. "I think we'd be better off ending this session here, I don't believe we can lead an appropriate session on our own."

You rose from your chair and gathered your things with more force than necessary, keeping your eyes down. But you could feel his gaze on you the entire time. Constant. Present.

“I understand,” he said finally, voice low and hurt. “It’s easier when I make people uncomfortable. At least then I know what to expect.”

You paused. The words were spoken without bitterness. Just quiet resignation. Like he wasn’t trying to manipulate you, just telling you the truth of how people left him.

You looked up, just for a moment, feeling cut by his words.

His expression hadn’t changed. Still soft. Still open, in a way that made you want to retreat behind a wall you hadn’t needed in years.

“I’ll schedule the next session with Dr. Harding,” you said, your voice forced into a flat monotone. “And I’ll make a note that you responded better to a format with both of us present.”

He gave a slow nod.

“Whatever helps you feel safer.”

The phrase stopped you at the door. You glanced back, brows pulling together. “That’s not what this is about, Bob.”

But he only smiled faintly, like he didn’t believe you, but didn’t need to say so. You left without another word, your footsteps echoing far too loudly down the hall.

Behind you, Bob remained seated on the mat, eyes still on the door long after it closed. His hands rested in his lap, unmoving, like he’d been carved from stillness.

And somewhere inside him, in the cold, dark cavity of his chest, the Void stirred.

thank you for reading ~

please leave a like/reblog if you enjoyed, and drop a comment to be tagged in chapter two! things are about to get really weird...

LINK FOR PART TWO

#sentry x reader #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #the void x reader #lewis pullman #thunderbolts #the void #bob thunderbolts #marvel x reader #bob x reader #marvel fic

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art-of-mtg · 1 year ago

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Door to Nothingness (Fifth Dawn) - Puddnhead

#mtg #magic the gathering #tcg #puddnhead #door to nothingness #fifth dawn

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kruegerspillow · 7 months ago

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simon riley who just needs to be understood. that's all. one whole jar of pity wouldn't do it, he needs you to acknowledge him. and, when you do, he'll surrender himself faster than he should.

The rain pours down heavily against the roof, the sound of pitter-patters humming throughout your house.

It had been weeks ever since Simon's leave and the sudden change hits you harder than a damn truck. It's just going to be a few weeks, he wrote down in the letter. But, you never really believed him, no. Fuck, you know he'd do anything (that includes lying) just for you to be at ease.

Though, the bed felt colder than before. Your place felt even more... tense, with the feeling of unease running through your body and the unusual, eerie silence. His job wasn't an easy one, and with the fact that his life is on the line, it made it worse.

Your heartbeat quickened as you looked down at your phone, scrolling through the messages and pictures Simon had sent the other day. You don't understand how soldiers could be so composed in the middle of the battlefield, including Simon himself. You'd be damned if you heard a single gunshot ringing across you.

Suddenly, the familiar sound of a car engine knocked you out of your trance. Your head perked up, a feeling of hope sparking up in your weary heart. Could it be him? You thought to yourself. He's earlier than usual.

You placed your phone on the table, gaze locking onto the front door as you leaned back against the armrest of the couch, a pillow pressed against your back. The sound of the engine eventually came to a stop, then—

Click.

There he was. Simon motherfuckin' Riley.

He took off his boots and placed them aside as soon as he met your gaze. The smell of rain and dirt lingered around him, but he didn't care anymore. Not when the love of his life is right in front of him, waiting patiently to be placed into his embrace. But, he's fuckin' exhausted, and he can't help but let the feeling of fatigue take over his body.

He closed the door behind him, walking towards you with a look of deep longing and care. His bags were left right beside the front door. Your eyes travelled over his figure, searching for any new scars or wounds.

"Bloody 'ell, I missed ya s'much." He murmured, his voice raspy and carried a handful of emotions.

Before you knew it, he plopped down onto you, head resting against your plump thighs, earning an amused gasp from you. His arms softly wrapped around your waist, slipping underneath your shirt before caressing your bare skin. You sighed in content, relaxing beneath him before your hands made their way to his hair, running your fingers through his hair.

"Welcome home, Simon." You greeted him, your voice filled with warmth and relief.

He grunted in response, burying his face between your thigh, causing you to nearly whimper in response. But you knew he ran out of the energy, having finished a tiring deployment. Your gaze softened at the sight before you. Sometimes, even the strongest souls get exhausted.

"Want me to make tea for you, love?" You softly whispered into his ear.

He shook his head, wanting to hold you just for a while (that's a lie. He'd go through the whole month burying his face into you) and you understood, staying silent as you embraced him. You let him do his thing and fuck he was turned on by that mere fact. But, for now, lust was long forgotten, buried away by the need of your comfort and warmth.

Your hands gently massaged his tense shoulder, feeling the way his muscles relaxed under your touch. Slowly, his vision fades into nothingness, for your touch has provided comfort even to the soul of the corrupt. Surrendering himself into sleep had never felt so... easy.

And, soon, he'll show you just how lucky he is to have you.

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almostwisegalaxy · 1 month ago

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HEADCANON ROMANCE

Geum Seong-je X GN!partner who isn't afraid of him but avoids him at first

"It's not love, nor is it hate. It's something else. Something between fire and nothingness. A flame that doesn't warm, that burns for no reason. That burns just because it wants to. Like him."- Geum Seong-je

..................................................................................

No one gets close to Geum Seong-je. Not twice.

He has this way of walking as if he's conquered every corner of hell and left his crown there. That smirk, the one born without warmth, crackling like broken glass in a leaden silence.

He's crazy, they think. Unstable. Cruel. He's not a boy. He's a storm whose eyes promise only ruin.

And yet, you, you've never been afraid.

You avoid him, yes. Not out of fear, but out of self-preservation. Not because you dread him, but because you know oceans destroy what they love. And Seong-je is an ocean that wants no shelters. It wants shipwrecks.

He noticed you.

Not as he notices others – with that mocking expression first, like a hungry animal playing with its prey before disemboweling it. No. He looked at you once and didn't laugh. He stared. For a long time. As if he'd never seen anyone exist without fear in front of him. As if you were a flaw in the code of his world.

Then you ignored him. And that, he didn't understand.

→ FIRST CONTACT

He doesn't need to speak for everyone to feel his presence. But with you, he speaks. Not to explain himself. Not to convince. Just to see if you tremble when he speaks low.

"What exactly are you playing at?"

You look at him. Don't answer.

"I'm talking to you."

His voice isn't soft. It's raw, split with arrogance and acid. You reply:

"I'm not listening to you."

He laughs. A short, almost shocked laugh. No one says things like that to him. And that snicker he lets out is far from happy. He thirsts. To understand. To dissect what you hide beneath your calm. Because there's no calm in his world. Just lies neatly tucked into bursts of violence.

He starts appearing in your line of sight. Everywhere. In the hallways. Near your locker. In front of your door. Not to talk to you. To spy on you. Like a predator who's seen something rare and doesn't understand why he can't make it flee.

→HE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU STAY IN HIS HEAD.

Geum Seong-je isn't one to ruminate. He fights. He screws. He destroys.

But you, you remained.

→ FIRST BREAKTHROUGH

The day you come back with blood on your chin, his gaze tears into you. It's not compassion. It's rage. To see that someone touched you. Not him. Someone else.

You don't want to talk. He doesn't like that. So he clenches his teeth. Then follows you. All day. Like a silent warning to the whole world: "Don't touch what's mine." And yet, you're not his. You never were.

Not yet.

→ FIRST CONNECTION

You find him one evening, alone, gaze lost on a wall, knuckles still stained with blood. He has that empty expression, like a kid who no longer knows why he broke the toy.

He doesn't look at you. You sit down. In silence.

He says:

"I like nothing about people. I searched. I found nothing. It's hollow."

And you reply:

"Maybe that's because you're not looking in the right place."

And for a moment, just one, he doesn't laugh. He looks at you as if he's just felt an emotion for the first time. And it bothers him.

→ DIFFICULT BEGINNINGS

Geum Seong-je doesn't know how to be tender. He learned that tenderness doesn't survive. His love manifests as brutal protection, as the fierce glare he gives to those who approach you, as the heavy hand he places on your shoulder to guide you through the crowd, not to suffocate you, but to ensure he's watching over you.

He doesn't understand small gestures, cute texts, trivial gifts. But he remembers every word you say. He remembers you don't drink coffee in the morning. So he hands you a hot drink he bought without a word. This is his way of loving: silent, instinctive, visceral.

→ POSSESSIVENESS

He doesn't know how to love. He wants. He takes. He keeps. He crushes. Not out of malice, but out of reflex. Like an animal that doesn't know love is given, not devoured.

He sometimes destroys you without realizing it. Talks to you like throwing a glass against a wall, to hear the sound it makes. Then he comes back. Touches your cheek as if it might break.

You stay. Not because you excuse him. Because you see something else. The emptiness in his eyes after the anger. That fear he never shows, but that resonates in his silences.

→ WHEN HE TRULY FALLS IN LOVE

It's not a spectacular moment. It's a mundane scene: you're laughing while reading a book. He watches you. And suddenly, he realizes he'd kill for that sound. That if someone silenced your laugh, he'd lose everything. Not out of dependence, no. But because that laugh is proof that beauty still exists in his world.

That day, he takes your hand. Not out of habit. But because his doubts are weaker than his desire to keep you.

→ FIRST KISS

It's brutal. Nothing tender. He presses you against a wall, his hand in your hair, his mouth like a fierce slap. He devours you. Because he doesn't know how else to do it. Because he believes that's how you hold someone.

But you don't moan. You don't cry. You respond. With the same intensity. And that's when he understands you were never afraid.

→ THE AFTERMATH

He starts to change. Not quickly. Not smoothly. He still growls. He still hits. But he waits for you. He watches you sleep as if watching a comet pass in a sky he thought extinguished.

He starts to ask:

"Did you eat?"

And for him, that's a declaration of love.

→ CONFLICT

One day you leave, without warning. Not for long. Just a few hours. But for him, it's a betrayal. He destroys an entire room. Yells. Finds you. And he doesn't shout.

He looks at you and says:

"I can't survive if you put me out. You get it? I'm not made for solitude. I'm not made for calm. But you, you're here, and I'm not moving. You get it? You don't move. I'll destroy you if you move."

You place your hand on his chest. His heart pounds like a caged animal.

"Then don't make me a prison."

He recoils. He understands.

→ THEIR NIGHTS

He doesn't make love. He devours. Every night is an implosion. He takes you as if he's going to die. Because he doesn't know how to do things by halves. It's full of an almost painful desire, a need to prove to himself that you are real, that you both bleed the same way. He likes marks. He likes scratches. He likes leaving traces. Not to possess. To bear witness. As if your body is the only page he knows how to write on. Sometimes, when you're asleep, he runs his fingers over your skin silently. He looks at you like one looks at a treasure you're not supposed to touch.

It's there, in that silence, that he's in love.

→ THE TRUTH

He will never be simple. Never gentle. But he will be real. Every beat, every glance, every word is raw, pure, clumsy but sincere.

And you are the only person he has ever looked at without thinking of breaking.

Because for the first time in his life, he wants to keep. Not possess. Just... keep.

And that, for Geum Seong-je, is love.

→ HIM

Love, if you can call it that, with Geum Seong-je, is like a cigarette you smoke knowing it's killing you. It's a fire you caress because you've forgotten how to be cold. It's brutal, without promise. Without a safety net.

But he is there. Whole. Massive. True.

And you are the only place in the world where he feels almost human. Not cleansed. Not saved. Just... seen. In all his darkness. And accepted anyway.

"I don't want you to leave. I don't want... you to look at me like that again. Like I'm poison. I'm not poison. I'm... I don't know what I am. But when you touch me, I feel like I exist for something other than breaking things."

He struggles to sleep when you're not there. He won't admit it. He'll go to bed in jeans, light a cigarette, get annoyed at nothing. But he won't sleep. Because without your breath in the room, it's too quiet. Too empty. Too much like his own head.

He becomes possessive, of course. Maliciously jealous. He wants you all to himself, completely. He can't stand others around you. He watches you like an animal guarding its only water source. Because if you leave, there's nothing left. He knows it.

And he says it, one night, his voice broken between two sighs:

"I'll kill you if you leave me. I'm not kidding. I'll kill myself. Or both. I don't want... I don't want to go back to what I was. With you, I'm not healed, I'm not better. But I'm... I'm something else. And I like it. Damn, I like it."

→ HIS FLAW

He doesn't know how to say sorry. But he knows how to be silent.

When he's messed up, he doesn't come with flowers. He doesn't come as a hero. He sits down. He waits. He looks at you like one looks at a sentence.

He listens to you. He clenches his teeth. And he promises, eyes damp, that he will try. Not to be perfect. Just not to lose you again.

And when you open your arms to him, he cries silently. Because you've just done what no one has ever done for him: taught him that violence is not an inevitability.

He has sleepless nights. You are there.

He doesn't wake you. He gets up, squats in the kitchen, smoking in silence.

You slip behind him. You rest your chin on his shoulder. You don't speak. You stay. He never asked for this. But he doesn't tell you, because he's afraid that if the words come out, you'll disappear with them.

So he drags on his cigarette, and blows smoke into the night. And you hold him. Each time a little longer.

→ THE FEAR OF LOVE

He loves you, but he's afraid of it. Because if anyone discovers he loves you, you become a weakness. And if he loses you, he loses the only thing still tethering him to the human he once was.

So sometimes, he pushes you away. Not because he doesn't care. But because he thinks your love is undeserved. He tells himself you'll eventually leave, like the others. That you'll see his violence-stained hands, his haunted gaze, and you'll flee.

But you stay. You hold his hand when he clenches his fists. You call him gently when he drifts too far into his anger. And slowly, he begins to believe that maybe, just maybe, he has the right to love.

→ THE SMALL VICTORIES

He once told you, "I didn't fight today."

You kissed him as if he'd just won a world.

He said, "Thank you." You looked at him with a smile. "For what?"

"For not looking at me like everyone else."

→ THE FUTURE HE DARED NOT DREAM OF

One evening, in his bed, he asked you: "Do you think someone like me can have a tomorrow with someone like you?"

You replied: "You already have a today. And that's already a hell of an achievement."

He kissed you like one clings to life.

And for the first time, he smiled gently. "We'll see tomorrow, then."

→ OTHERS

When you touch him, he doesn't move. He observes. He analyzes. But when you look at him with something other than desire, he panics. He closes off. You've learned to love him in the cracks, in moments stolen between storms. He doesn't know how to be smooth. He doesn't know how to be gentle. But he's there. And sometimes, that's more than enough.

You often find him in places where he has no business being. On a rooftop. In an empty hallway. In a deserted gym. And each time he sees you, he smiles, but not with happiness. With chaos. As if your appearance were a new variable to destroy. And yet, he never pushes you away.

He has that nervous, almost cruel laugh when you do something silly or tender. He treats you as if he barely tolerates you, but he always leans in when you speak. He pretends not to care, but he remembers every word. He never tells you goodnight, but he stays awake until you fall asleep.

And in the darkest moments, when you doubt everything, it's him who appears. Not with words, but with a presence. A hand on your thigh. A fixed gaze. He promises nothing. He doesn't reassure. He just shows you he's there, and for now, that's enough.

............................* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊

CONCLUSION –

LOVE ACCORDING TO GEUM SEONG-JE

It wasn't soft, not easy, not Hollywood.

But it was real. Burning. Raw. At the edge of the heart.

Geum Seong-je loved like he fought: without backing down, without a plan. But when he loved you, he did it without fleeing. With all the chaos he was.

And in a world that had always seen him as a threat, he had found, with you, the right to be fragile. To be loved.

To be a human, not a storm.

And that, for him, was more than love. It was redemption.

..................................................................................

Yazzzzzzzzeee

Other weak hero class fanfictions here

@mariii-0001 @mizxuqii @iiwsmr @emswirls

Sieun New headcanon

Su-ho New headcanon

Gotak New headcanon

Baku New headcanon

Baek-jin New headcanon

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shadow4-1 · 1 year ago

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I'm just imagining being nervous around the 141 and yet STILL garnering their attention.

Like, you've done everything in your power NOT to get noticed. You're as happy as a clam to work on all the behind the scenes issues. You don't even go out on the field!

You're the one to get gear in place, you're the one talking to Nik and supervising the equipment repairs. You make sure the armory is stocked and that the showers aren't running with rusty water.

You really DON'T want any eyes on you.

You just want to do your job and do it in fucking peace.

So why the hell are they always wanting your attention?

"There she is. Keepin' everything in order while 'm gone." Price chuckles, placing a hand on your back as he passes through the armory's narrow shelves. "Looking to take my spot as Captain hm, Love?"

You bury your face into your clipboard, trying desperately to ignore him. He's not going away but God do you want him to. His presence is always so overwhelming and his gaze so pointed. If you could shrink into nothingness you'd try.

"Oi, Bonnie!" Soap calls out to you at mess. He waves his arms wildly, making everyone look his way. "C'mere! Sit w' us today!"

He's so loud his voice echoes across the cafeteria. Recruits and lower ranking members shrink at the sound of it. So do you, even though you can hear only excitement in his tone instead of the usual ire he employs while training the rookies.

You know that if you decide to sit with your friends you'll never hear the end of it. But if you choose to sit with him and the rest of the all star task force you'll be under their gazes for the better part of the morning. You want to just drop your lunch tray and run out, but on unsteady legs and a bowed head you shuffle to the table.

"Well well, look who it is." Gaz huffs, looking up from his terminal set up in the surveillance room. "Thanks for packing those extra headset chords for me."

"Uh...yeah, no problem." You nod, trying to ignore him while simultaneously digging in an old box full of wires.

"Whatcha lookin' for?"

"Uh...a mouse. A wireless one."

"Here, take mine." He smiles, unplugging the tiny chip from the side of his laptop. "Need a new one anyway."

"It's alright I-"

"Just take it. You deserve it more than me." He hums, looking away wistfully. "If it weren't for those extra cords we wouldn't 'ave been able to call for evac on that last mission."

You take the mouse into your palm, feeling uneasy. Something about his demeanor isn't right. Gaz is always confident and sure. But the way he glances at you before he turns back to the computer makes you worried.

Is he...jealous?

You slip out of the door and close it behind you without making a sound.

"Need t' put a bell on you." Ghost grumbles. "Can't hear you n' those."

You stop midway down the hallway, confused and nervous.

You look down at your old, beat up reg boots from your PT days. They were definitely in need for a decommissioning, but they were comfy despite the fact that the soles had no tread anymore.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry." You awkwardly mumble. "Need new ones."

"No."

You raise a brow at him. It was just the two of you in one of the maintenance hallways which was, ironically enough, poorly maintained. The overhead fluorescents flickered and made it hard to focus.

"Keep 'em." He nods, turning away and showing you the full breadth of his back. He mutters at you as while he keeps walking on.

"Keeps you under the radar."

#call of duty #cod imagines #mw2 #mw2 headcanons #simon ghost riley #cod mwii #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish #captain price #kyle gaz garrick

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pbaz7 · 4 days ago

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ONE SHOT: EXIT 42

paige x azzi

summary: when the lights and attention is too much, after the season ends Azzi leaves the city searching for solitude. somehow she finds herself in the middle of nowhere at a farmhouse where there’s a country girl with blonde hair and blue eyes.

word count: 18.5k

a/n: truly have no idea how this came about. i just started writing to see where it took me and it turned into this. this is probably the longest thing i’ve ever written so please let me know what you think!

—————————————————————————

The W season ended with more of a numb static than any celebration. There was no playoff berth, just an almost instant dissolve into nothingness when the arena lights dimmed and the interviewers thinned out of the media room. Azzi had shaken every hand, signed every last Sharpie-blotted jersey, posed happily with every baby that had on Wings blue. Then, finally, she'd slipped out the back of the arena, into a waiting black SUV, her smile left on the court floor like her sweat for the season.

Now, three hours into her solo drive across Texas, Azzi was down to just one thing, silence. No podcasts. No calls. No playlist of affirmations her manager had made her for game days. Just the warm wind sneaking in through the cracked window and the sound of her custom light pink coupe, flying down the back roads.

She traded in her uniform for a Levi skirt and a white tank top. Her curls were pulled back, aviators shielding her tired eyes from the sun. Azzi still had her stacked gold necklaces and rings on; a compromise of sorts for her laid back outfit. Even the way she gripped the wheel as she drove looked like it belonged in an editorial.

The car's black rims gleamed through the heatwave. Somewhere an hour outside of Waco, the sun was getting lower making Azzi squint through the windshield. Her phone lost signal some time ago, no bars. All she knew was she was supposed to be on this road for quite a while.

But then of course the sputtering started. A few, ominous sounds from the engine before her beautiful car lurched. Stammering forward like a ballerina with a rolled ankle.

“Please no,” she said out loud, but the car jerked again smoke coming from the hood.

Up ahead, past a beautiful wooden fence and rows of trees, a large farmhouse rested. It seemed quiet, a little weatherworn, with a wraparound porch and a barn nestled near it.

There was no driveway Azzi could really make out, just a worn-down path of packed grass and the suggestion of tire tracks. Azzi followed it, rolling her pink coupe forward praying that she would make it.

“Okay, okay,” she whispered, trying to coax it towards the farm house. “Just get me there.”

The car moved up the small slope and coasted to a stop in front of the porch when she pressed on the brakes. Azzi killed the engine, sat there in the car for a second, letting the silence sink into the unfortunate moment.

Please don’t be a horror movie, she thought, reaching for her phone. Please don’t be a serial killer. Please just be normal.

She opened the car door and stepped out into the heat. Somewhere in the house she heard a dog bark a few times before it fell quiet like it got distracted by something else.

The porch stairs creaked under Azzi’s weight and the front door of the home was already open, only a thin screen door keeping the house separate from the world. A German shepherd was lying inside the screen door and it rose as soon as Azzi approached. The dog didn’t seem aggressive; it didn’t growl or bark like the one she heard a few seconds prior. It just watched her with intelligent eyes, head tilting to the side slightly as it analyzed her presence.

Azzi stopped on the steps, adjusted her sunglasses to rest on top of her head, then slowly made her way up. Her hand hovered for a second wondering if this was the best decision before she just pressed the doorbell to get it over with.

From somewhere deeper in the house Azzi heard the sound of a collar; loose metal hitting against itself as another dog approached the door. A golden retriever appeared behind the german shepherd, wagging its tail with his tongue out.

After a few more seconds a figure stepped into the doorway.

The woman looked like she was in her early twenties like Azzi. She had blonde hair that was twisted back into a messy bun like she'd done it without a mirror. She was a few inches taller than Azzi, with strong shoulders and sun tanned skin. Her overalls hung on her waist, the straps undone from her shoulders and swinging gently against the sides of a white tank top. There was a smudge of dirt across one knee of the overalls.

The woman’s eyes drifted down and back up, taking in Azzi’s presence: the pink car, the expensive jewelry, the athletic build, the unmistakable energy of someone who absolutely did not belong where they were. She didn’t do it in a judgmental way, it was more so her trying to piece together the situation at hand

Azzi felt herself swallow under the gaze of the woman’s blue eyes. All of a sudden her throat felt kind of dry and she was cautious of the movement of her throat that had nothing to do with thirst.

The woman finally spoke, easing Azzi’s anxiety a little. “You doin’ ok sweetheart?”

Azzi shifted on her feet before offering an apologetic smile. “I’m really sorry to bother you,” she said, keeping her voice softer than usual. “Something’s wrong with my car, and I don’t have a single bar of service. Your place was the only sign of life I’ve seen in a while, so…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely back toward her car like it might explain the whole situation.

The blonde pushed the screen door open and stepped onto the porch. The golden retriever immediately trotted past her, his tail wagging as he gave Azzi a few eager nudges, brushing up against her legs before running off toward the open field.

The German shepherd didn’t move from inside the house until the woman gave it the go ahead with a slight movement in her hand.

The blonde looked toward the car, then pointed at it. “Let’s see it.”

Azzi nodded, falling into step next to her as they walked toward the pink coupe. Heat shimmered off the hood and when the woman popped it open, a coil of smoke hissed out, curling into the air. She stepped back not even peering into the mechanical mess yet to not burn herself. “Gotta let it cool down before I can look at it for you,” she said, wiping her hands on her overalls.

Azzi nodded.

The woman made sure the hood was propped open to accelerate the cooling down process before she turned toward Azzi. “Come inside. I can get you some water and a phone.”

Azzi didn’t move despite the invitation. Her weight shifted between her feet, the movement almost imperceptible but the blonde caught it. “Or,” she said, with a small half-smile, “you can sit on the porch and I’ll bring it out to you, sweetheart.”

Azzi’s mouth formed a polite, grateful smile. “That sounds good. Thank you.”

The woman gave Azzi a polite nod, like it was no problem at all before she turned back toward the house. Just before she stepped back into the house she glanced over her shoulder and looked around at the open land before she snapped her fingers once, then nodded toward Azzi.

The German shepherd responded by trotting over to Azzi’s side, standing next to her calmly.

Azzi looked down at the dog, then up at the porch, sunlight catching in the blonde woman’s hair as she stepped into the house.

Azzi walked up to the porch sitting down on a wooden swing bench, the wood warm against her thighs. The German shepherd followed her before settling at her feet, fixing its gaze on the property scanning for anything unusual.

The porch creaked with the breeze and Azzi let her shoulders fall as she took in the beautiful view. For once not being surrounded by city buildings, loud cars, and light pollution.

A minute or two passed quietly before the screen door creaked open again. The blonde woman stepped out with a glass of ice water in one hand and a phone in the other. She crossed the porch and handed them both to Azzi without saying much.

Azzi accepted them with a genuine smile before saying, “Thank you.” She stared at the phone for a few seconds, her thumb hovering over the screen before she dialed one of the only numbers she actually had memorized. It rang twice before someone on the other line picked up.

“Hey, Mom. It’s Azzi.”

The dog looked up from her feet at the sound of Azzi’s voice as the woman leaned against the porch railing a few feet away watching her other dog run around chasing a bird.

Azzi kept her conversation with her mom brief. Just enough to say that she was okay, had car trouble and that she just wanted someone to know where she was after asking the woman where they were exactly. Azzi promised to call again once she figured things out, then ended the call and handed the phone back.

“Thank you again,” she said, passing the phone back to the stranger. She accepted it and gave her a crooked charming smile. “Azzi’s a beautiful name. Never heard it before.”

Azzi looked over at her, the compliment disarming her with its sincerity. “Thank you,” she said. “You have one you wanna share?”

The woman grinned, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. “Excuse my manners. Don’t get many visitors out here.” She reached out one of her hand’s. It was slightly calloused from farm work but warm. “Paige.”

Azzi shook it, her soft hand wrapping around the woman’s. “Nice to meet you Paige.”

Their hands dropped, and the air held a quiet pause between the two strangers as Paige stepped away.

Azzi looked out toward the land. It was wide open, golden with the last stretch of sun, the sky painting itself in layers of soft fire orange mixed with blue and purple smoke. She had never seen the sky look so natural. The golden retriever who darted across the yard again aimlessly in a blur of joy caught Azzi’s eye.

There was nothing but nature out here. No ads. No cameras. No down to the wire schedules that made Azzi want to pull her hair out or lights beaming down at her to perform perfectly.

It was just a serene quietness that she wasn’t used to.

As the silence stretched between them it wasn’t exactly tense but for Azzi it was unfamiliar, making her skin crawl; she didn’t know how to be quiet and sit still anymore. So she sipped her water and traced her eyes over the endless line where the land met the sky.

The golden retriever came running back towards the house with a tennis ball held between its teeth. It dropped the ball right in front of Paige and looked up at her panting with its tongue out.

Paige chuckled, rubbing behind the dog's ears. “Well, alright then.” She picked up the ball before she launched it toward the open field.

Both dogs took off immediately, their big paws kicking up small clouds of dust as they ran. Azzi couldn’t help it when she smiled. It was one of her genuine, caught-off-guard ones that made the skin around her eyes soften and crinkle.

“It’s nice out here,” she offered. Finally, speaking to the stranger.

Paige glanced sideways at her. “Where ya from?”

Azzi tilted her head, her natural charm when interacting with people floating up. “What makes you think I’m not from here?”

Paige grinned, leaning back against the porch post. “No accent.”

Azzi laughed, making one of her dimples pop. “I’ve only been in Texas for about half a year,” she said.

Paige nodded. “So you’re still in the judging our sweet tea and figurin out if you prefer BBQ or Tex Mex phase.”

“I’m adjusting,” Azzi teased.

“Better learn to love pecan pie, too. Elders get real protective about that there.”

Azzi grinned as she took a sip of her water, the coldness a nice contrast to the heat against her lips. “Have you always lived in Texas?”

Paige looked out over the field, her sensitive eyes squinting against the fading sun. “Pretty much. Grew up in the city and I inherited this place. Figured I’d give peace and quiet in the country a try.”

Azzi nodded, the porch swing creaking slightly when she shifted. “Does it live up to the hype?”

“Some days,” Paige said. “Others, make ya realize you haven't used your voice in days.”

Azzi let the words how nice the words sounded sink into her psyche as her eyes scanned the horizon. “That sounds kind of amazing.”

The two of them watched the dogs run around. The golden retriever was still darting across the yard in wide, goofy routes, the shepherd shadowing him like a quiet older sibling, in more of a controlled manner as they played with one another.

A few more minutes passed in silence before Paige pushed herself to her feet, brushing her palms against her thighs. “Alright,” she said, her voice stretching a little as she straightened, “let me take a look at this for ya.”

She moved toward the pink coupe and Azzi followed her even though Azzi knew she had zero useful knowledge to offer the woman.

“Start it for me darlin,” Paige said after looking down at the hood for a few minutes.

Azzi moved around to the driver’s side and slid in, pressing the ignition button. The engine sputtered to life easily.

Paige leaned forward, squinting into the maze of metal, using the flashlight from her phone to peer down at everything as the car hummed. “You can shut it off.”

Paige straightened up from the hood and wiped her hands on the rag she kept in her back pocket. “You need a new water pump,” she said, pointing to the semi soaked center of the car. “Coolant’s leaking. That’s why she was running hot when ya got here.”

Azzi nodded as if she knew what any of that meant. “Right the water pump.” She tilted her head, lips quirking as she looked at Paige. “That’s bad?”

“Not the worst,” Paige said, her eyes drifting to meet Azzi’s. “I can fix it.”

Azzi’s shoulders relaxed by an inch.

“But bad news…” Paige offered an apologetic smile. “The auto shop in town doesn’t open again ’til Monday mornin.”

Azzi blinked. “It’s Saturday.”

Paige nodded. “’Fraid so.”

Azzi looked around at the dogs tumbling back toward them in the dusky light, and then back at Paige. It was quiet and the sun had almost dipped completely below the horizon. She felt like a flicker of inconvenience in the middle of what was clearly a peaceful life.

“You’re more than welcome to stay,” Paige offered. “Got a few guest rooms. They’re not too fancy, but the sheets are clean and the doors lock.”

Azzi hesitated, her usual instinct to be polite and unobtrusive kicking in. “I really don’t want to intrude. I can probably find a hotel not too far—”

Paige shook her head smiling at Azzi as the last of the light caught in her blue eyes, making them glow a little brighter as she grinned. “It’s really no problem, darlin’. I promise.”

That darlin’ curled around Azzi’s ribs in an unexpected way. It wasn’t flirtatious or performative. It just flowed off of the woman’s lips naturally, the way kindness should sound. Azzi could tell Paige wasn’t trying to impress her; she just meant it.

Maybe it was the Southern charm of the gorgeous woman, or maybe it was the exhaustion catching up to her, but Azzi gave a small smile as she nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

Paige gave a satisfied nod before she turned toward the yard and let out a whistle. Both dogs perked up and turned on a dime and bolted toward the porch. “C’mon, boys. In you go.”

The golden retriever sprinted past them, his tail a metronome of happiness. While the german shepherd followed at a more regal pace, brushing past Paige’s leg.

As they stepped into the house, Paige’s voice changed. She made it kinder than she’d already been somehow. “You can leave your shoes by the door if you’d like, no pressure though. Floors are clean, but I won’t fuss if you track in a little dirt.”

Azzi stepped out of her shoes easily wanting to be respectful.

Paige moved ahead of her, switching on a low lamp that warmed the entryway in honey-colored light. The air smelled like a mixture of cedar and vanilla. Everything about the interior of the house, the hardwood floors, the framed photos on the wall, the slowness, and the lived-in ease of it made the place feel like it had been here since the beginning of time.

“You hungry?” Paige asked gently, glancing over her shoulder as she moved toward the kitchen. “I’ve got leftover chili, or I can throw together something light if you’re not up for real food.”

Azzi shook her head, still taking everything in. “Leftovers sound amazing.”

“Help yourself to the fridge if you need anything at any point,” Paige added. “One of the bathroom’s just down that hallway to the left, and I’ll show you the guest rooms once we get you fed.”

There was something about the way she said it — we’ll get you fed — like this wasn’t a favor, like it was just what you do when someone’s at your door and needs a place to land.

Azzi once again felt something loosen in her chest at the kindness of the stranger. “Thanks,” she said for what felt like the tenth time, but the genuineness was still there.

Azzi settled at the kitchen table, resting her elbows on the worn solid tree wood. She could tell the table held a lot. Conversations, coffee rings, old and new grief, elbows of different generations. The chairs didn’t match, exactly, but they belonged together and some of them were engraved. The light above the table was a kind of yellow that made you look a little kinder than you did in the mirror.

She watched as Paige moved around the kitchen fluidly, like she’d danced the same pattern a hundred times. She pulled a container from the fridge and scooped chili into a pot, setting it gently on the stove and covering it with a lid to warm it up. Everything she did was quiet somehow, no clattered pans or cabinets being loudly shut.

“What do you do?” Paige asked, trying to make conversation.

The words pulled Azzi from her thoughts. Her eyes had been tracing the veins on Paige's arms and the calluses on her hands.

Paige glanced over her shoulder when she didn’t hear an answer.

Azzi deflected the question with one of her own. “What do you do?”

There was a brief pause when Paige noticed the deflection but she didn’t push it. She crossed the room and pulled out the chair across from Azzi, and sat down, resting her forearms on the table. “Spend the beginning of most my days on the farm,” she said, her accent like warm honey against Azzi’s ears. “Feeding the animals, checking fences, fixing things that fall apart overnight just for the hell of it.”

Paige shrugged like it wasn’t all that remarkable. “Go out to the auto shop sometimes if they’re short-handed. Make sure the elders around here are looked after. Groceries, rides, stuff like that.”

Azzi blinked. “That’s really nice of you.”

Paige gave her a half-smile. “Out here, it’s just life. Everyone’s gotta take care of somebody.”

Azzi didn’t know how to reply to that. Her life, the constant schedule, the sponsors, the city lights that only turned off if the power did, didn’t make space for that kind of simplicity or sincerity.

Instead she looked around the kitchen. It was clean, but not curated like most modern houses were these days. There were mugs stacked near the sink, a chipped ceramic rooster on the windowsill, a cast iron skillet resting on the stove. The wallpaper was a little faded at the corners and a radio sat tucked between two cookbooks.

Paige was still sitting across from her in her undone overalls, her tank top was clinging slightly to her skin from the Texas heat and being in the kitchen and a few stray strands of her blonde hair were loose from the bun as she looked completely at home in it all.

Azzi found herself studying the angles of her face. The curve of her nose and the pinkness of her lips. The way she didn’t seem to need to fill the silence with unfruitful words.

“Out here…” Azzi said quietly, like the words had slipped out without permission. “It seems different already.”

Paige leaned back in her chair. “Different from what?”

Azzi paused, searching for something that didn’t sound dramatic or obvious but ultimately failing. “Everything.”

Paige nodded like she understood what Azzi meant without needing to know the details. “Well,” she said gently, “sometimes different’s exactly what you need after bein’ in the city.”

Azzi nodded, her fingers idly tracing the rim of the glass Paige handed her earlier.

The golden retriever trotted into the kitchen. He had his tongue out as he stopped in front of Azzi, tail wagging with hopefulness of head scratches from the stranger.

Azzi smiled at him, reaching to scratch behind his ears, her hand moving automatically like it was a routine her body remembered better than her mind did. “What’s his name?”

Paige glanced down at him, her smile growing as she watched him push closer to Azzi. “That’s Beau. He likes to pretend he don’t like attention, but he lives for it.”

“And the other one?” Azzi asked, referring to the other dog that was most likely mulling around in the living room.

“Out there’s Stew.”

Azzi looked up at Paige in surprise, her smile blooming wide. “I have a dog named Stewie.”

Paige let out a laugh. “Stewie, huh?”

Azzi nodded, still scratching Beau’s ears as the dog leaned into her palm.

Paige stood and walked to the sink, washing her hands before she pulled two bowls from the cabinet. She ladled chili into the bowls and added wedges of warm cornbread that looked like it’d been made earlier that day. Perfectly golden, crumbed on top of the chili, still smelling faintly of butter and cornmeal after being warmed.

Azzi stood up too, slipping past Beau to wash her hands. The warm water ran through her fingers and she moved slower than usual. When she returned to the table, Paige was already sitting in her seat, one bowl in front of her and one pushed forward in offering. Azzi sat back down and said, “Thank you,” before picking up the spoon.

She took her first bite a little slowly, testing out the taste just in case. But the second the spoon touched her tongue, her eyes fluttered shut for just a second. The warmth of the chili spread through her chest like a cherry blossom in peak spring causing her to let out an involuntary hum.

Paige laughed, leaning back in her chair, her own bowl untouched for the time being. “Good?”

Azzi opened her eyes, unable to stop the smile forming on her face. “I probably haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t made with the exact nutritional breakdown in mind in...months. This is amazing.”

Paige grinned. “Well, this one’s full of beef, beans, and butter. So if that’s a crime where you’re from, I’ll plead guilty now.”

Azzi laughed as she went to dip her spoon back in.

“Eat up,” Paige said. “Plan on showin’ you what farm life’s like tomorrow.”

Azzi looked up and arched one eyebrow. “That sounds a little worrisome.”

Paige grinned as she started to eat, the natural charm in her ambience radiating off of her. “Only if you’re scared of a little dirt.”

Azzi shook her head, smiling into her bowl as she took another bite.

After dinner was over, Azzi reached for her bowl and stacked Paige’s on top of it before trying to get up to head toward the sink.

Paige stopped her halfway, putting her hand lightly on Azzi’s forearm.

“I know you’re not tryin’ to do dishes as a guest in my home,” she said, her voice all soft topped with a charming smile.

Azzi opened her mouth, but Paige was already taking the bowls from her hands, her southern hospitality slipping back into gear like muscle memory. “Go take your shower, darlin’. You’re a guest, not a line cook.”

Azzi hesitated. Something about being taken care of without offering anything in return always made her pause, like her body didn’t know how to relax unless it specifically knew what it had to give in return. Seeing Paige’s genuine smile as she took the bowls from Azzi’s hand made her give in, once again offering a, “Thank you,” before she headed down the hall.

The bathroom was the perfect size and it carried a floral scent that Azzi couldn’t put her finger on. There was a natural homemade lavender soap bar in a ceramic dish and neatly folded towels that Paige set out.

The hot water hit her shoulders and she instantly let out a sigh of relief she didn’t want to admit she needed. Azzi closed her eyes and let the water just run over her skin for a long while with her head tilted down, her curls cascading down her back as the steam curled against her.

When she stepped out she wrapped herself in the soft towel and her limbs already felt looser than they had in weeks. She padded a few steps barefoot towards the room she picked for herself to stay in.

The door was already open and Paige was inside finishing up putting fresh sheets and blankets over the mattress, smoothing the last one out with one hand. The German shepherd was curled on the floor near the corner in his dog bed with his chin resting on his paws.

Azzi paused in the doorway.

The bed was dressed in fresh white sheets and a soft, faded blue blanket layered underneath a knitted blanket. Paige stepped back to check the corners, one of her overall straps now actually secured over her shoulder while the other one stayed loose. She looked up when she saw Azzi and smiled.

“All yours,” she said, tucking one of the edges one more time.

Azzi watched her for a moment, not in awe or anything like that, ok maybe a little, but more so in that quiet wonder that rises when someone does something kind without asking for credit. It wasn’t performative or about being seen as some savior, it was just…Paige. She had shown Azzi more kindness in a few hours than some of the people who’d been in her life for months.

“I’ll let you settle in,” Paige said, her voice dipping into that Southern lilt that always made everything feel like it was going to be ok. “Sleep well, sweetheart.”

She snapped her fingers once, gently, and the shepherd lifted his head to look at her. “Stay,” Paige told him, nodding once toward Azzi.

The shepherd let out a huff of air and lowered his head again, settling deeper into the big dog bed tucked against the wall.

Paige reached for the door handle and turned the lock from the inside before glancing back at Azzi. “Some folks sleep easier knowin’ the door’s locked,” she said.

“Thank you,” Azzi said, giving her a soft smile.

Paige gave her a nod before she stepped out and pulled the door softly shut behind her.

Azzi was standing next to the bed, her towel still wrapped around her, skin still warm from the shower. She looked at the dog, already dozing off with this toy tucked under him. She looked at the bed that was freshly made just for her and then she just stood there a minute longer. It wasn’t that she didn’t know what to do next, it was just that for the first time in a while, there was no pressure to decide right away.

…

The next day Azzi woke up without an alarm for the first time in almost a year. Her phone wasn’t buzzing and there weren’t any blinking reminders filling her notifications. Just the quietness of the house and sunlight easing its way through the linen curtains, brushing over the bed.

She blinked slowly, slightly disoriented as her body tried to figure out if it was okay to feel rested.

The room was completely still. In the corner Stew was lying exactly where she’d last seen him, with his chin propped on what looked like a soft, worn plush toy shaped like a duck. His eyes were open as he looked up at her and somehow his posture was relaxed and alert at the same time.

"Morning Stew," she whispered, her voice a little raspy from her sleep.

She pushed herself up, letting her feet settle against the warm wooden floor. After freshening up and doing her hair Azzi changed into something comfortable — lulu joggers and a thin tank top — she padded into the hallway. The soft sound of her footsteps were followed by Stew’s heavier gait and his collar echoing around the house.

The house smelled faintly like coffee and Azzi knew some of the windows were open because she heard birds chirping from different angles. It was a morning song that didn’t exist in Azzi’s usual life because she was surrounded by traffic and smog.

She wandered through the house, half-curious, half-lost in how big it actually was. It wasn’t until Stew picked up pace, his tail swaying a little more eagerly, that she followed him toward the screen door.

Outside, Paige was sitting on the porch steps with a mug in one of her hands. She hadn’t seen Azzi yet, but the second Stew came barreling out into the yard, she spoke without turning her head. “Mornin’.”

Azzi smiled, stopping just shy of the top step, watching the two dogs tumble through the grass.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice a little softer than it was yesterday when she arrived, her eyes still adjusting to how wide open the sky looked out here.

She let her gaze drift past the yard to the line of trees that stretched like a straight spine across the horizon, to the fields highlighted in the morning sun, to the faint sound of something in the distance: it sounded like maybe a tractor.

She stepped closer, careful not to move too fast and interrupt the moment before she glanced down at the mug in Paige’s hands. “Coffee or tea?”

Paige turned her head to look up at her. “Coffee,” she said. “But I promise to not to judge you if you’re one of those green tea types.”

Azzi laughed under her breath and took a seat beside her, the porch wood holding the warmth of the mornin sun.

“No judgment necessary,” she said. “I just forgot what a slow morning feels like.”

Paige sipped from her mug, her gaze on the dogs as they rolled around together. “Well,” she said, “you’re in the right place for it.”

As Azzi sat next to Paige, their shoulders brushed before Azzi settled fully. They weren’t touching but they were close enough that the warmth between them would’ve been shared if either of them leaned slightly to the side.

Azzi toyed with the bottom of her shirt as she scanned the horizon like she was trying to read something written in between the tree lines. It was so weird for her to be in a setting that held no expectations and after a moment of not being able to sit in silence anymore she quietly spoke. “My days usually start around five,” she said, not looking at Paige. “Then it’s just...nonstop work. My schedule is built down to the second. If I’m lucky, on some days I get an hour to myself before I fall asleep and do it all again the next day.”

Paige didn’t say anything, just nodded along.

Azzi let out a deep breath before she kept going. “People talk to me a lot about what I should do, what I should wear, how I should act, who I should be. Smile more but not too much because people still need to take me seriously. Be more down to earth but don’t share everything about myself. Say less. Say something more inspiring.” Her voice curled at the edges of the last word like it tasted sour on her tongue.

She glanced sideways and found Paige already watching her with curiosity that made space for Azzi to speak freely.

“I get it. It’s part of my job and I’m so grateful,” Azzi added quickly, like she’d rehearsed that line a thousand times before. “I know what I signed up for.”

Paige took a sip from her mug. “Don’t mean it ain’t heavy sweetheart.”

Something about how simply Paige said that made Azzi smile a little. Like the truth could just...be, without needing to be dressed up.

“I guess I just forgot what it feels like to be quiet. To wake up and not already feel behind about things I have no idea about.”

The dogs came sprinting back in front of them, Beau with a stick way too long for his mouth, as Stew chased after him trying to get it for himself.

“Have you ever liked the noise?” Paige asked curiously.

Azzi thought about it before saying, “Maybe at one point, but lately I think I’ve been craving silence more than anything else.”

Paige hummed in understanding, her eyes following the dogs until she couldn’t see them anymore. “Well,” she said after a few seconds, “you’re welcome to as much silence as you need. We’ve got plenty of it round here.”

“That sounds amazing...but a little scary at the same time.”

Paige grinned. “Only if you’re the type who gets addicted to stillness.”

Azzi tilted her head just enough for a strand of hair to fall loose against her cheek. “Maybe I am.”

Paige grinned to herself subtly, like she’d caught the tail end of Azzi’s flirtation and tucked it somewhere for later.

“You hungry?”

Azzi stretched her arms above her head causing her shirt to ride up slightly. “I could eat.”

Paige stood up and put her mug on the porch railing, she then tipped her chin toward the side of the house. “Come on, then. Gonna show you where breakfast starts.”

Azzi followed her, the cool blades of grass brushing against her ankles as they walked. Stew trailed close behind them while Beau wandered off in pursuit of something rustling in the bushes.

They rounded the side of the house, past a rust-colored watering hose, until a shed came into view. The air smelled like hay and something faintly vanilla sweet, maybe clover drying in the sun.

Azzi slowed down when she realized where they were heading. “Wait…chickens?” she said a little hesitantly, both of her eyebrows raising.

Paige looked back at her with a smile. “Where’d you think eggs came from? Trader Joe’s?”

Azzi laughed under her breath, a little surprised at herself. “I guess I’ve just never met my breakfast before.”

“Well,” Paige said, swinging open the door with one hand, “they’ve been dying to meet you.”

The chickens clucked and moved around the enclosure like they owned the place. Which, by all appearances, they did. Paige stepped inside first, grabbing a wicker basket off a nearby hook.

“Here darlin,” she said, handing it to Azzi. “Gentle hands. Don’t squeeze or drop the eggs. They’ll hold grudges if you waste em.”

Azzi took the basket a little awkwardly, her stance a mixture between curious and cautious.

“You’re joking,” she said.

“Am I?” Paige responded, trying to be deadpan, but her mouth was already twitching into a grin.

Azzi moved through the enclosure slowly, watching as Paige reached into one of the nesting boxes and came back with two brown eggs cupped in her palm.

“Just like that,” Paige said, stepping aside to let Azzi try.

Azzi leaned in tentatively and one of the hens gave her a quick side-eye but didn’t move. With a careful, and painfully slow reach, Azzi managed to pick up an egg and place it in the basket. A large smile overtook her face.

“Not bad, city girl.”

“I’m a fast learner,” Azzi said, a little smugly, showing off her playful side.

But of course the world needed to keep balance and without warning, one of the smaller chickens shot across the coop floor in a blur charging directly at Azzi’s feet.

Azzi jumped back with a loud screech, almost dropping the basket.

Paige let out a low laugh, causing her chest to vibrate. “She likes to test folks every mornin,” she said, walking over and shooing the chicken away with her boot. “Power trip, mostly.”

Azzi looked down at the basket, checking that none of the eggs had cracked. “I feel like I just failed a very specific interview.”

Paige grinned as she took the basket from her. “Nah. She only goes for the pretty ones.”

Azzi blinked at that, and then glanced away, hiding the smile that bloomed warmly across her face.

Paige grabbed the rest of the eggs before she set them gently to the side and picked up a tin bucket of feed. “Alright,” she said. “Now we earn it and say thank you.”

Azzi followed her to the other end of the enclosure, watching as Paige scattered grain, the chickens swarming in quickly.

“You want a turn?”

Azzi nodded and took the bucket, laughing as a few of the bolder hens followed every step she took.

There was something simple and satisfying about doing this first thing in the morning. The light movement, the sun cascading in, the rhythmic cluck of chickens going about their business like the world around them wasn’t on fire.

By the time they were finished with the chickens, Azzi’s shoes were a little dusty and her shoulders were surprisingly still light.

Back inside, the coolness of the house was a nice contrast to the heat outside.Paige was washing her hands at the kitchen sink with her sleeves pushed to her elbows, the sound of running water mixed with the sound of birds outside. Azzi lingered by the table, glancing at the radio between cookbooks, silently wondering if it even worked.

“You want help?” Azzi asked.

Paige reached for a pan without looking at Azzi. “No, I'd like for you to just sit there and look pretty.”

Azzi’s dimple popped and she didn’t even bother to pretend she was offended. She slid into one of the chairs and propped her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hand as she watched Paige move around the kitchen.

Their conversation meandered easily through small things. The weather, the names of the chickens. A story about the time Beau got muddy from being stuck under the porch trying to chase a frog in the rain.

Eventually Paige turned around from the stove and placed a plate gently in front of Azzi.

Fresh soft eggs with the kind of scramble that comes from someone who knows how to be patient and cook them to their full potential. A slice of toast was slathered with a deep red jam that smelled like the personification of summer. There was a side of sliced avocado and a small bowl of fruit filled with peaches, blueberries, and slices of something green and unfamiliar but sweet.

Azzi blinked at the meal like it was too beautiful to eat. “Thank you,” she said, quieter than she was speaking before.

Paige wiped her hands on a towel and glanced down. “How you take your coffee?”

“Just a little cream.”

Paige nodded and poured from the pot into a ceramic mug, adding a splash of cream before she placed it in front of Azzi and finally sat down across from her.

Azzi took a sip of her coffee first, the warmth settling deeper than just her chest.

The first bite of eggs was soft, buttery, somehow both delicate and rich. The jam on the toast was the perfect mixture of sweetness and tart, bright, like someone bottled a family memory and spread it across warm bread. Even the fruit tastes different; less like it had come from a store and more like it had been chosen only when it reached its pristine ripeness.

Paige watched her with a small grin on her face. “Alright?” she asked.

Azzi nodded as she finished swallowing. “It’s not fair,” she said, almost to herself.

Paige raised her eyebrow. “What’s not?”

“That everything here tastes like it was literally pulled from the earth before you put it on my plate.”

Paige smiled crookedly, the apples of her cheeks growing. “That’s ’cause it was.”

Azzi looked out the window, past the frame and into the light slipping through the trees. She didn’t know how to describe how at ease she felt, how good it felt to be actively present in her day.

They ate in a comfortable silence. Azzi didn’t feel the need to fill the space with pleasantries or small talk and unlike most people Paige didn’t ask for anything more than her presence.

When they were done, Paige gathered both plates without asking, rinsing them in the sink with the same calmness she did everything else.

Azzi leaned back in the chair with her coffee cupped between her hands. Her eyes were wandering along the quiet patterns of the room. She watched the sway of a curtain near the window, looked at a sun faded picture tucked in the corner of another framed picture, and listened to the dogs still running around freely outside.

Paige turned around, drying her hands on a towel, and let her eyes rest on Azzi as she looked around. Even in an outfit as simple as a thin tank top and sweats, Azzi looked like she belonged on a billboard. Paige noticed the quiet luxury stitched into the details; the fabric, the way it fit her. Even her posture held a polish for cameras she probably didn’t realize anymore.

“You mind if I give you some clothes?” Paige asked, casually.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, a flirtatious smile forming as she tilted her head. “What, I don’t look good in these?”

Paige chuckled, the Southern charm slipping in under her breath. “You’d look good in anything, sweetheart,” she said, before adding, “I just wanna give you somethin’ you can dirty up a little.”

Azzi looked down, a soft laugh coming from her as she bit her bottom lip lightly. “Okay.”

Paige just grinned, shaking her head like Azzi was trouble that she definitely didn’t mind.

She disappeared down the hallway and a minute later came back with an armful of worn denim and cotton.

“Jeans and a tank top,” she said, holding them out. “You about my size right?”

Azzi took them, running her fingers over the fabric. The denim was soft from years of wear and the tank top was a pale washed-out green color.

“Close enough,” Azzi said.

Paige went to grab something by the doorway and came back with a pair of light brown boots, scuffed at the toes. “You’re gonna want these too. Don’t want you stepping on anything with only sneakers on out there.”

Azzi took them with a large grin on her face, coffee eyes sparkling a little. “You usually dress your guests?”

“Only the beautiful ones.”

Azzi’s laugh followed her down the hall as she went back to the guest room to change. For a moment, the farmhouse felt like the only place in the world that made sense. Even though Azzi knew getting used to something like this would only make going back to the city harder, she allowed herself to bask in it and pretend that this was just her daily life.

She stepped back in the kitchen with the clothes fitting her in a way that made her pause when she first put them on. The jeans were low on her hips, and pretty loose in the thigh area. The tank top was roomy without swallowing her frame completely. Paige was all over the clothes. Everything she put on smelled faintly like vanilla but there was something else underneath it, with a deeper scent. Cedarwood or sandalwood maybe. The soft masculine scent comforted Azzi in a way. It made her feel held without feeling overwhelmed.

Paige had changed too. Traded her sweats for blue jeans and a white ribbed tank that hugged her in a way Azzi wasn’t ready for this early in the morning.

Azzi’s gaze got caught on the exposed skin. On the sharpness of Paige’s collarbone, the defined lines of her muscles in her arms. Heat flickered in her stomach and something warm stirred in her chest before she cleared her throat.

Paige looked up, giving Azzi a quick scan that transitioned into a grin. “Look at you,” she said a little proudly. “If I ain’t know any better, I’d say you were tryin’ to fit in.”

Azzi arched her eyebrow, lifting a boot clad foot before putting it back down. “What gave me away? The boots or the borrowed masculinity?”

Paige laughed, grabbing a ball cap off a hook by the door. “Neither. You wear it well.”

They stepped outside together, the screen door snapping gently behind them. The light outside was wider than it was earlier that morning, more golden lines were slanting across the fields, the dew starting to lift off the grass. Stew trotted ahead of them while Beau took a more chaotic route darting between puddles and shrubs with his tongue out.

“What’s first?” Azzi asked, pulling her hair back so her curls weren’t in her eyes as they reached the edge of the fence.

Paige unlatched the gate and pushed it open with her hip. “We’ll start easy. Waterin’ the garden, checkin’ the fence line, tending to the horses.”

“You’re really laying on the full country fantasy, huh?”

Paige looked over her shoulder and just grinned, her eyes gleaming under the brim of her cap.

They walked toward a small shed tucked next to a row of raised garden beds, and Azzi felt the morning settle around her again. Even though she knew she was going to be ‘working’ it didn’t feel heavy like usual. Like she knew the hours ahead weren’t waiting to demand something, but to be lived through, one quiet moment at a time as she connected with the earth.

The sun was already climbing insistently. It was late September, but Texas hadn’t gotten the memo. The heat still hung in the air like it needed to be baked into the soil. It was unbearable yet but it made shirts stick between shoulder blades and turned every chore into something a little more draining.

The garden beds stretched in neat colorful rows, full of stubborn green. There were tomatoes, peppers still ripening in the shade of their leaves, vines reaching toward the sky like they weren’t aware the season was changing.

Azzi held the hose Paige gave her in one hand, the nozzle set to a soft spray as she moved between the beds. The water misted out in a gentle arc, darkening the soil in wide, damp circles. It was ridiculously calming. The rhythm, the lightness of it as her boots sank slightly into the dirt as she moved.

Paige was crouched a few feet away with her knees deep in one of the beds, long fingers buried in the soil as she tugged up a tangle of weeds. Her white tank top already had faint smudges of dirt, the fabric pulling across the slope of her back and the carved muscle of her shoulders every time she leaned forward. There was a sheen of sweat along her upper chest now, catching in the dip of her collarbone and Azzi couldn’t quite stop watching it.

They talked in fits and starts casually, spaced by silence and the sound of the hose.

“So what’s your garden philosophy?” Azzi asked, adjusting the nozzle to hit a stubborn patch of squash.

Paige pulled another weed and tossed it into the bucket at her side. “Plant what you’ll eat. Don’t plant what you won’t. And don’t baby anything too much; if it wants to live, it’ll find a way.”

Azzi smiled to herself. “That sounds suspiciously like life advice Paigey.”

Paige glanced up at her, the sun hitting the sweat on the edge of her jaw. “Ain’t it all?”

Azzi shook her head and went back to watering, eyes drifting now and then when Paige shifted. At one point she was crouched low with one boot braced against the edge of the bed. There was something about watching her work and the casual competence of it that got under Azzi’s skin in the strangest way.

“You always this hands-on with the property?” Azzi asked, moving toward the next bed. It was a normal question but the cadence of her voice let it be known she was trying to tease Paige a little bit.

Paige sat back on her heels and looked at her, wiping the back of her wrist across her eyebrow to catch the sweat. “Well, I’m not about to outsource pullin’ pigweed to a stranger.”

Azzi laughed. “That’s fair.”

“But yeah,” Paige added after a few seconds, brushing her hands off on her jeans. “I like takin’ care of what’s mine. Feels more honest that way.”

Azzi met her eyes for a few beats longer than she meant to. “That makes sense,” she said softly.

Paige just smiled at her, laughing when Azzi playfully sprayed Beau who was messing around outside of the garden before she leaned forward again dropping her focus back to the dirt like she didn’t feel the energy radiating from Azzi’s eyes.

The sun kept rising as they worked and Azzi, for all her control, discipline and years of media training, thought entirely too much about the way sweat traced the line of Paige’s spine when she bent down, and how still she felt in the middle of it all.

How easy it was for her to just be. Not only be herself but be present in the moment. She found herself relaxing enough to snort when she found something funny, to be loud when she wanted to be outgoing and quiet when she needed a moment to think.

They left the garden with dirt still stuck to their hands, Paige carrying the basket of weeds as Azzi slung the hose \ over the post where it belonged. The afternoon sun had of course climbed higher, beautifully spilling across the fields. Mother nature showed mercy with a breeze that picked up enough to blow Paige’s hair where it had started to stick to the back of her neck.

“Come on,” Paige said, tipping her chin toward the barn past the rise. “Let me introduce you to the real divas of this place.”

The barn doors were already open and the air was cooler when they stepped inside. Three horses stood in separate stalls, all of them turning their heads at the sound of footsteps. They were all beautiful. Elegant animals that made you quiet down to look at them in their natural state.

“This here’s Rosie,” Paige said, stepping close to a deep chestnut mare with a white blaze down her nose. “Bossy as hell but she earns the right with the way she rides.”

Rosie flicked her ears, then stepped forward to nudge Paige’s shoulder with her nose like she was saying hi.

“The big guy next door is Jasper,” Paige said, reaching out to run her hand down the neck of a tall black gelding whose coat gleamed showing how well kept they were. “He’ll follow you around like a big dog if you let him.”

Azzi hovered behind Paige, looking at each horse as she introduced them. Her expression was a mix of intrigue and hesitancy looking at the large animals.

“And last but never least,” Paige said, nodding toward the farthest stall, “is Taffy. Don’t let her name fool you, she's got more attitude than both the others put together.”

Azzi laughed and finally stepped a little closer. “They’re much bigger up close.”

Paige glanced back at her. “Ain’t much in the world more honest than a horse. They don’t fake anything. If they don’t like you, you’ll know. But if they do, it's up there with the seven wonders.”

She reached into a feed bucket and handed Azzi a half of an apple. “Go on and give it a try,” she offered. “Rosie won’t bite…hopefully.” She grinned as she added the last part jokingly.

Azzi looked at her sideways but took the apple. She moved toward Rosie slowly with the fruit flat on her palm. When she got close enough Rosie leaned in brushing her lips against Azzi’s palm as she took the treat.

Azzi looked down at her intact hand in surprise. “She’s really gentle.”

Paige grinned and stepped in next to her, close enough that they could feel the heat radiating off of one another. She reached up and guided Azzi’s hand toward Rosie’s cheek. “Here,” Paige said, quietly to not startle anyone. “Right there. See?”

Azzi’s palm settled against the mare’s face, and Rosie leaned into it, huffing out warmly against Azzi’s forearm.

“Okay,” Azzi whispered. “Okay, that’s…she’s kind of incredible.”

Paige smiled. “You did good, city girl.”

Azzi turned her head, the proximity of the two of them close enough that she could see the faint smear of dirt still on her cheekbone from the garden.

With their positioning and the couple of inches Paige had on Azzi the blonde had to glance down to make eye contact. When she did she noticed Azzi studying her already. “What is it?”

Azzi’s voice comes out with a sense of vulnerability when she speaks. “You’re just good at making things seem a lot less scary.”

They glanced at one another with a brief look of infatuation before Paige whispered “Got the strange feelin that you’re braver than everybody round here sweetheart.” This made Azzi feel flushed from how seen she suddenly felt.

They stood there for a breath, taking in each other's features before Paige smiled and pulled away delicately, her palm brushing against the back of Azzi’s hand as she let go. “We’re in here to feed ‘em first,” she said, moving toward the tack room. “But if you’re feelin’ up for it later, I’ll saddle Rosie for you.”

Azzi looked at the mare, who blinked at her with a look that could almost be called regal. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all of that just yet, but I’m not shooting the idea down.”

Paige nodded and called back over her shoulder, “We’ll see what the day says.” Knowing that a day on the farm could say anything.

The work in the barn moved in more of a slow rhythm than the garden. They kept pace with the time of day as Azzi helped refill the feed bins, unlatched a few gates and raked hay with loose, imperfect lines that made Paige laugh. She held the bucket while Paige cleaned out the stalls, handed her tools—sometimes the wrong ones—when Paige had to fix something, and watched the ease in her hands as she moved through the morning with the comfort of knowing what needed to be tended to and what could wait.

Azzi enjoyed every second of it. She was used to her body being tired. Sore from lifting, bruised from days and games packed too tightly together, jet lag from city to city, but this feeling was different. Her muscles ached, but it was in a way that felt more purposeful. She could feel every part of herself in the work she was doing: her shoulders, her hands, her breathing. It was like the static in her chest had finally gone quiet.

She wiped sweat from her temple with the back of her arm and leaned on the fence post, the thick heat starting to catch up to her a little.

Paige glanced over from where she was tossing fresh hay, her white tank now damp and sticking to her torso and back. She grinned when she saw Azzi leaning on the fence. “Still breathin’?”

Azzi’s laugh was unfiltered as she nodded. “Barely.”

Paige laughed and offered for Azzi to go inside. When Azzi immediately shot down the proposition Paige gave her something to do back at the barn so she could have a break from the sun.

They finished just after one, the sun high and the sky a clean washed-out blue that stretched endlessly. They both went back inside to shower and by the time Paige stepped out and grabbed her keys, Azzi was waiting on the porch steps with her fingers trailing over Stew’s ears as Beau barked for her attention.

Paige went to pull the truck around. It was a baby blue Ford that looked like it had lived a few lives and still had gas for more. She hopped out and walked around to the passenger side, pulling the door open making a soft creak echo through the air.

Azzi grinned as she walked toward the truck. “Chivalry’s still alive in the country, huh?”

“Only from the God honoring ones,” Paige said with a grin as she tipped her head toward the passenger seat.

Azzi slid in, and a second later she felt the dogs leaping into the truck bed, their tongues out in excitement for a car ride.

The drive through the country was slow, gravel dust trailing behind them as Stew and Beau barked here and there. Paige drove with one hand on the wheel and the other hanging out the open window, the breeze pushing through the cab carrying the smell of faint wildflowers.

They made their first stop at a modest brick house, the yard was overgrown and Mrs. Emory was already sitting on the porch with her cane resting next to her seat with a glass of sweet tea condensing beside a stack of dog-eared crossword puzzles.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” the older woman teased as Paige got out the truck, already heading toward the mower.

Before she started cutting the lawn Paige introduced Azzi to Mrs. Emory and the older woman practically ran in the house to get another fresh glass of sweet tea for Azzi. As Paige cut the grass Azzi stayed on the porch and the dogs were laying in the shade. It didn’t take long for Azzi to start hearing stories about grandbabies who lived in Austin and how none of them called enough. Azzi nodded, smiled and asked questions as she listened. She never once rushed the older woman when she went on side tangents and hid the faint blush when she mentioned that she’d be the perfect woman for someone as kind as Paige.

When Paige was putting up the mower and all the supplies Mrs. Emory reached out to pat Azzi’s hand as she held it with her own. “You’ve got a good stillness to you, sugar. City folk don’t always carry that so I want you to make sure you hold on to that.”

Azzi smiled warmly, putting her other hand on top of the older woman in sincerity before she answered honestly. “Thank you ma’am.” She paused as her eyes drifted to Paige getting distracted fixing something that was a walking hazard for Mrs. Emory, “But I have to be honest, I think I’m borrowing it.”

When they left, Paige wiped sweat from her face with the bottom of her shirt and mumbled something about needing a gallon of water and a slice of pie before opening the passenger door for Azzi.

The next stop was a corner house outside town where an older couple, the Langstons, waved from their porch swing like they’d been waiting all morning to see the baby blue truck pull up.

“We wrote you a list, darling,” Mrs. Langston said as Paige leaned over the railing smiling charmingly at her. “Tried to be good this time, didn’t we, Harold?”

Harold grunted but smiled, handing Azzi a notepad full of slanted handwriting and several reminders to “pick the good kind of peanut butter, not that no-sugar nonsense that Darla wants them to get.”

Azzi took the list and laughed when the older couple started bickering as she and Paige walked away. A few minutes later she was walking up and down the grocery store aisles with Paige next to her pushing the cart. She watched Paige talk to the butcher like an old friend, watched the way the clerk smiled at her extra wide when she asked for a bag of candy to sneak to the butcher's kid sitting in the back.

At one point, while they were standing in the produce aisle of a different store, Azzi reached for a tomato at the same time Paige was making their fingers brush. Paige pulled away, mumbling in her accent about cliches while Azzi laughed.

“Do you do this every week?” She changed the topic to put Paige out of her misery.

Paige shrugged, looking down to hide her smile. “Most weeks.”

“They said you’ve been helping them for years.”

“Yeah.” She shrugged again like it was no big deal. People don’t get easier with time,” Paige said. “Just more deserving of their community.”

They finished the errands, delivered the groceries, stayed long enough to watch Mr.Langston drink half a soda on the porch before he got yelled at and Mrs.Langston insisted they take a bag of fresh figs from the tree out back before they left.

By the time they climbed back in the truck, the dogs were panting from running around and immediately laid on their blankets. On the drive back Azzi leaned her head against the window and let her eyes drift closed. She wasn’t tired, almost the opposite actually. She felt so full of the constant moving that somehow had stillness attached to it that made her feel grounded and good about what she was doing.

…

Back at the farmhouse, the sun was slanting through the kitchen window as Paige worked on making lunch. The table was already scattered with the fruits and vegetables from their morning labor. Baskets filled with bright tomatoes, crisp greens still flecked with dirt, peppers, and the small basket of figs from the Langstons’ tree.

Paige chopped as they talked, the smell of sautéed garlic and herbs weaving through the air, mingling with the sweet musk of the ripe figs.

Azzi was perched on the kitchen counter, watching as Paige peaced together the last details of their meal. Paige caught her eye and grinned, holding up a fig. “You wanna try it.”

Azzi took it, biting into the juicy flesh of the fruit. The sweetness exploded on her tongue. It was rich with just the faintest tang and she blinked, caught off guard. “Shit,” Azzi murmured, taking another bite. “That might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Paige laughed, sliding a plate toward her. “Wait ’til you try what I cooked.”

Azzi grabbed a fork from next to her to taste the meal. Paige had given her a full plate of tender meat and roasted vegetables all directly from her farm. When she gathered an even portion of the food on the plate she raised the fork to her lips and immediately closed her eyes, savoring the layers of flavor. She couldn’t do anything but shake her head before Paige laughed and helped her off the counter so they could eat at the table.

They ate slowly, words flowing between them easily. Paige let Azzi talk about whatever came to her mind: adjusting to Dallas, the chaos, the weird little moments she missed about being at home. Azzi found herself rambling and unraveling more about herself than she thought she would to another human.

In the middle of her talking Paige grinned at her. “You got a little somethin’ right there, sweetheart.”

Azzi reached up, swiping awkwardly at the corner of her mouth, but her fingers missed the smear of sauce that was on her cheek.

Paige smiled and leaned in, brushing it away with the back of her hand gently. “There you go.”

Azzi looked down a little bashfully as Paige wiped the sauce off of her hand with a towel.

When they finished, Paige leaned back in her chair. “So how ya feelin’ about ridin’ those horses?”

“Ready as I’ll probably ever be.”

Paige led Azzi to the paddock where Rosie was waiting. The mare’s coat gleamed and her dark eyes regarded them with calm curiosity, remembering Azzi from that morning.

Paige handed Azzi a soft brush and demonstrated how she should brush along Rosie’s neck and flank. “Horses can feel your energy,” Paige said quietly, “so start soft. Let her know you’re trying to be her friend, not boss.”

Azzi took the brush and was a little tentative at first, but when she didn’t see the mare react badly she gradually relaxed, letting Rosie lean into the brush. She felt the warmth of Rosie’s body beneath her hands, the steady breathing, the quiet strength in her muscles.

“Good,” Paige encouraged, moving around to set the saddle and cinch the straps. When Rosie was brushed and fully tacked up Paige led her out of the padlock and into the open. “Ready for the mount?”

Azzi swallowed a little nervously, so Paige smiled at her trying to ease her nerves. “You’ll be ok darlin’ trust me.”

Azzi nodded and Paige stepped over offering her hand to help Azzi settle on Rosie’s back. When she got on Azzi’s body stiffened and her muscles coiled with nervous energy. Rosie shifted underneath her, sensing the tension making her ears flick back briefly.

Paige climbed up behind her, settling carefully on Rosie’s back. Azzi blinked slightly surprised at how close Paige now was.

Her presence was steady as she wrapped her arm around Azzi’s waist reaching forward to take the reins. Feeling Paige behind her eased the knot of tension in Azzi’s stomach muscles a little but the rest of her was still tense.

“Hey, just breathe with her. Loose arms and loose legs.” Paige reminded Azzi, “You’re safe up here, I won’t let anything happen.”

Azzi exhaled slowly, loosening her muscles as she coaxed herself into relaxing and allowing her shoulders to drop.

“Better,” Paige said, keeping her voice low, as Rosie began walking slowly.

True to Paige’s earlier statement, Rosie was a little bossy. Sometimes she nudged forward with impatient steps even though Paige was taking the reins slowly. Sometimes she’d just pause to remind them who was in charge making Paige laugh and tap her on the back leg to get going again.

Azzi leaned back into Paige’s chest, feeling the gentle squeeze of her forearms as she held the reins steady.

As they moved through the large field letting Rosie leisurely canter a breeze ruffled Azzi’s hair and she couldn’t believe how truly alive and present in the moment she felt. Completely connected to the rhythm of the earth around her.

Every so often, Paige made sure to check in asking Azzi, “You doing okay?” or “Want to take it a little faster?”

Azzi’s quiet smile was always the answer Paige needed, and when they did pick up their pace, the wind sang through the open fields more freely, carrying away the heaviness of the last few months of her life completely.

“Alright,” Paige said behind Azzi’s ear, “you ready to feel what Rosie can do?”

Azzi twisted her head slightly to glance back. “That wasn’t already her giving it everything?”

Paige laughed, her breath tickling the shell of Azzi’s ear. “Not even close.”

With a soft click of her tongue and a subtle nudge of the reins, Paige urged Rosie forward and the mare responded as she shifted into a gallop allowing all four of her hooves to be off the ground each time, letting her move more freely. The wind caught Azzi’s hair, loosening it from where it had been tied back, the strands flying behind her.

The unkept field was wide open ahead of them, the tall grass swaying in the wind like waves. Trees lined the edge of the horizon, their branches reaching out toward the sky like they’d forgotten how to stop growing.

Being unused to the speed Azzi leaned into Paige, her back pressing against her chest, the motion of the horse underneath them a rhythm she was trying to sync with in the moment. Paige adjusted herself with a subtle shift, steadying her frame more for them both as she absorbed Azzi’s weight and murmured above the wind, “There you go, just like that.”

Azzi's hands hovered over the reins, unsure of what to do with them considering Paige was controlling the horse, so Paige reached to wrap her fingers over Azzi’s, guiding them toward the reins.

“Let her feel you,” Paige said, speeding Rosie up a little bit. “Don’t grip, just hold.”

Azzi nodded, allowing Paige’s hands to keep hers in place where they were supposed to be on the reins. She could feel the softness of Paige’s palms interrupted by the occasional bump of a callous as Rosie galloped.

They rode like that for a while, Paige quietly correcting Azzi when she tilted too far, the reins shifting in her hands almost like a new language she was just learning to speak that Rosie was already fluent in. When Paige felt her relax into it, felt her hands adjust enough to guide Rosie without being fearful, she slowly drew one hand back and rested it on Azzi’s hip, keeping the other one on the reins loosely just in case.

Azzi felt the slight shift in weight from Paige removing her hands from on top of hers and adjusted her hold.

“You’re a natural,” Paige said over the wind, pride threading through her tone.

Azzi smiled as she got caught in the moment. The feeling of the wind in her hair, the weight of Paige’s hand on her hip, the warm sun beaming down on her face, the way Rosie moved underneath her. “I could get used to this.”

Behind her Paige smiled too with her eyes on the trail ahead, her mind spinning a little bit before she pulled Azzi closer to her.

The scene looked like something out of painting. The land rolling gold and amber, rippled with tall grasses that bent and shook in the breeze. Wild sunflowers popped up along someone’s fence line. Patches of purple thistle that looked a little unruly from being unkempt.

Azzi let her breath out slowly, closing her eyes for a second as they moved through it all just to feel. The rhythm of Rosie’s hooves like a heartbeat connected her to the earth. Azzi knew how much stress she’d been under but she didn’t realize how bad it’d gotten, how hard it had been for her to hold herself together, how tightly she’d been holding herself until now. Until the moment her back eased into Paige’s chest again and she let her body yield to the guidance of someone else.

She didn’t usually let people get close like this. Not physically and definitely not emotionally. She doesn’t remember when her life became a counterfeit form of nearness for other people to feel: cameras, fans, handshakes, interviews. All forms of life touching her without any intimacy. Conversations that held no depth, being looked at but not seen.

But here she wasn’t being watched and she didn’t have to perform. She wasn’t trying to be likable or strong and clever. She was just a girl on a horse, feeling the heat of a Texas sun and the warmth of a woman on her back, breathing in air that smelled like dry grass and sweet earth instead of fumes and grease.

Paige’s presence behind her wasn’t demanding anything from her and that made her feel more than a thousand people screaming her name ever could. So she shifted closer, leaning her head back gently against Paige’s collarbone. Azzi felt herself smile when Paige’s grip on her hip adjusted in response, wrapping her forearm around her torso.

After a few minutes there was a creek that shimmered ahead and Paige loosened her hold around Azzi’s torso to grab the reins and pull them gently bringing her to a slow stop near the grassy bank.

“Alright,” she said, jumping down first and holding her arms up for Azzi. “C’mon. I got you.”

Azzi hesitated. Not necessarily because she needed the help, but because she didn’t particularly mind the idea of Paige’s hands around her waist again and that made her a little warm. Still, she tried to play it cool, swinging her leg over Rosie before she let herself be guided down.

Paige’s hands lingered longer than necessary brushing against Azzi’s hips before she minded her manners and dropped her hands respectfully. “There you go.”

Azzi met her gaze smiling at her blue eyes before she cleared her throat softly and stepped back. Paige grinned, shaking her head, deciding to turn and unsaddle Rosie instead of saying anything, letting the horse wander toward the creek’s edge to drink.

Azzi wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I don’t know how you’re not melting. It’s September. Isn’t it supposed to start getting cooler?”

Paige chuckled as she kicked off her boots. “Texas doesn’t believe in seasons, darlin’. Just has moods here and there.” She peeled off her socks, rolling up her jeans. “Go on. Boots off. Water’s shallow and usually cold. Might do you some good.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Cold?”

“Best kind,” Paige said, stepping in first.

Azzi followed her lead, untying the boots and pulling them off before doing the same with her socks and rolling the borrowed jeans up to her knees. She wasn’t expecting the water to be as cool as it was making her gasp a little. “Oh my God.”

Paige laughed. “You act like you ain’t ever met cold water before.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes and Paige smiled sweetly before flinging water towards her when she swiped her hand under the surface.

Azzi yelped and tried to give a poorly timed retaliation that ended up making her foot slip on a smooth creek stone. Before she could react her body tilted forward and she lost her balance a little Paige catching her before she fell in the water.

Their bodies collided gently and Azzi clutched her hands around Paige’s arms to steady herself, as Paige grabbed her waist. Her hat almost fell off in the commotion, but Azzi caught it before it fell in the water, laughing as she put it back on Paige’s head backwards this time.

Paige’s mouth curved. “Well, look at you gettin’ all bold.”

Azzi’s grin matched Paige’s as her cheeks flushed with something that wasn’t just from the heat. “Can’t let you lose your whole look.”

“You’ve got nice eyes,” Paige said suddenly. “That color’s beautiful...kinda like hazelnut coffee just before cream hits it.”

Azzi blinked a little caught off guard by the compliment. People didn’t usually compliment brown eyes so it made her chest a little warm. Sunlight danced in Paige’s calming blue eyes and Azzi found herself thinking that she wouldn’t mind swimming in them.

Her chest fluttered and so she did the only thing she could do to recover. She laughed and it came out a little flustered so she pushed Paige lightly, sending a splash of water toward her to get back at her.

“Okay, Casanova. Don’t make me push you all the way in.”

Paige took it with a smirk, looking down at the water dripping off her arm. “Might be worth it if you come with me,” she said, eyes still on her, low and easy.

Azzi tried not to smile too much, but failed so she rolled her eyes and turned around. As they waded deeper into the creek, laughing and playfully splashing one another with water, their shadows stretched out behind them. A breeze drifted across the surface tugging at the ends of Paige’s hair where it was still twisted into a bun underneath her hat.

She reached up, taking off her hat and biting down gently on the brim to hold it between her teeth. She pulled the ponytail holder from her hair with wet fingers and shook her hair out, running both hands through the damp waves to cool her scalp. The movement was casual and completely thoughtless but Azzi watched the light catch in the strands. Paige’s hair was a honey-blonde when it was wet and the long soft waves fell down her back in uneven layers.

When she was done she shoved the hat back on her head, the same way Azzi had returned it earlier and squinted toward the sky.

Azzi blinked twice trying to clear the fog from her brain. “You’re insane.”

Paige looked toward her with her eyebrows knitted together completely confused. “What’d I do?”

Azzi gestured vaguely at her. “That whole thing. Your hair’s down, backwards hat, standing knee-deep in a creek like a fucking postcard.” She added. “You’re like a picture perfect view of Southern charm. They’d probably put you on a recruitment poster if Texas wanted more lesbians.”

Paige shook her head in astonishment. “Is that that’s what I am? A recruitment poster?”

“Absolutely.” Azzi grinned. “Your energy’s a little more captivating out here. Should’ve come with a warning before I agreed to this.”

Paige rested her hands on her hips as she played into Azzi’s joke. “What should I have said?”

Azzi tilted her head trying to think of something. “Probably something like ‘Caution: Will ruin your city standards for women and convince you to fall for the Southern charm within 24 hours.’”

Paige whistled low. “That mouth of yours.”

“What about it?” Azzi asked, feigning innocence.

Paige shook her head, smiling to herself as she looked down a little bashfully. “It’s gonna get me in some trouble.”

She tilted her head toward the grassy bank, where there was a gentle slope beneath an old pecan tree. “C’mon,” she said, already walking to step out of the creek. “Let’s dry off before I end up showin’ you how unpleasant I look with a cold.”

Azzi followed behind her with the jeans sticking to her calves as they climbed out. Paige dropped onto the grass first with her legs stretched out in front of her and her arms braced behind her allowing her to lean back and look up through the tree limbs. Azzi took the spot next to her, close enough for their knees to nearly brush.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The horse's occasional huff filled the air as it measured around.

Azzi leaned back to mirror Paige’s position, pulling her hair out of her face as the light caught her eyes.

“You're really amazing at making me feel like the world’s not rushing me?” she stated casually.

Paige glanced over at her with a soft smile. “You’re good at flirtin’ without soundin’ like you’re flirtin’.”

Azzi laughed under her breath before deciding to lean back further. She closed her eyes and just felt the sun filtering through the branches hitting her skin, allowing the warmth to spread over her body.

The breeze whispered through the pecan branches above them, the leaves dappling sunlight across their shoulders. Somewhere nearby a cicada buzzed and the creek babbled on like time didn’t pass for it.

They stayed there for a while talking, getting to know each other's likes and dislikes, small things that made them tick, pet peeves, and favorite foods. It wasn’t until the sun softened and the sky began to tilt into the golden hour haze that Paige sat forward, brushing her hands on her thighs and stood up. “Come on,” she said, nodding toward Rosie, who was grazing a few yards away. “Let’s get her ready.”

Paige helped Azzi stand up, giving her time to brush herself off before they walked toward the horse. The sun caught in Paige’s damp strands of hair again and Azzi enjoyed it for a second before she had to blink herself back into reality.

Paige handed her a soft bristle brush to get Rosie ready to ride again. “Remember to start slow,” she said, guiding her to Rosie’s flank. “Go down the grain of the hair with even pressure.”

Azzi mirrored Paige, brushing along Rosie’s side.

“She likes you,” Paige said, watching Azzi with a small smile.

“Or she’s being polite.”

“Same thing, in her case.”

They worked together before Paige showed her each strap of the saddle, how the cinch should feel—firm, but not too tight around her coat. She showed her how to check the bit and bridle and when Rosie was ready, Paige patted her flank. “Alright, up you go.”

Azzi climbed into the saddle with a little more confidence this time around but she still hesitated a little when she had to shift her weight to be comfortable.

“You’re alright,” Paige said when she noticed. “She remembers you.”

Azzi nodded, settling her hands on the reins.

Then she felt Paige’s hands on her hips as she pulled herself up and onto the saddle behind her.

Azzi was ready for it this time, but she still felt the flutter in her stomach when Paige settled close to her.

They started off slow again with Azzi easing Rosie into her gait. She held the reins a little more naturally now, guiding them with small shifts in pressure as Paige stayed quiet behind her. She had one hand resting on the rein while the other was resting on the saddle horn, wanting to be respectful.

“Try takin’ her left,” Paige said near Azzi’s ear, the warmness of her breath skimming Azzi’s cheek. “Real gentle with the rein.”

Azzi followed the cue, and Rosie obeyed without so much as a complaint which surprised Paige. Rosies muscles shifted beneath them the sound of her hooves meeting the ground circling around them.

“See? There you go” Paige said, letting her hand fall away from the rein now. “You’ve got her.”

Azzi smiled to herself. The city had never felt this far away and she’d never felt this grounded.

The barn came into view just as the light started to stretch across the fields, dipping everything in the soft, amber haze that made it feel like the whole world had exhaled now that the day was winding down. Azzi guided Rosie the last few steps toward the barn before Paige swung down first. She turned around, offering to help Azzi down. “Come on, city girl.”

Azzi laughed and let Paige guide her down. Even though she knew the blonde was doing it on purpose there was nothing showy about the way Paige helped her. It felt genuine, not performative gallantry. She always made sure to keep a respectful grip just enough to steady her as she got down.

Together, they brushed Rosie down from the ride. Azzi dragged the soft bristle brush along her coat while Paige checked her hooves and murmured little reassurances when Rosie got a little bossy and let out a huff because she wanted to go to her pen. Rosie’s ears always twitched at their voices but overall she stayed relaxed, clearly satisfied with the ride.

The second they exited the barn, the dogs came running up the path clearly waiting for them.

Beau bounced with full-body excitement. His tail was wagging so hard his hips followed every movement. He barked once, circled Paige, and then ran over to Azzi like he’d missed her more than what was reasonable for someone he met less than 24 hours ago.

Stew was more composed and ran over to nudge his head against Paige’s thigh before slowly blinking at Azzi in greeting. Clearly happy to see them both.

They laughed and scratched behind eager ears before heading back inside.

The house was still cool and Azzi padded down the hall, having peeled off her boots by the doorway. After stopping in the guest room she disappeared into the bathroom.

Warm steam clouds filled the bathroom as she let the hot water run. Standing beneath it, a sigh slid from her chest before she even realized she was holding one in. Her muscles stretched and eased under the heat, the small ache of the ride sinking into a deeper satisfaction.

She thought about the entire day. About riding Rosie and how natural Paige’s hand felt over hers. About Paige’s laugh while they were in the creek, her blonde hair down, putting her hat back on backwards. For some reason the picture of that moment still sat with her, it felt so vivid and close when Azzi closed her eyes. Paige had charm, sure, the Southern kind that came wrapped in polite smiles and “sweethearts.” But there was depth behind it that Azzi couldn’t help but want to be on the other end of.

Azzi dipped her head underneath the water stream and stayed there letting the water drown out all of her thoughts and quiet everything. And when she stepped from under it, blinking the water from her lashes, her chest felt clearer.

She washed herself off from the long day before she put on soft clothes. A loose cotton t-shirt that Paige gave her and a pair of her own short pajama shorts. As she walked back toward the kitchen her damp hair was draped to one shoulder and it dripped onto the shirt slightly.

Paige was standing at the stove, already cooking something for Azzi again. Her hair was in a wavy ponytail and she had on a black loose shirt and checkerboard pajama pants. She hadn’t noticed Azzi yet so Azzi leaned against the doorway for a second, just taking her in. The way she looked, how she moved, how her clothes smelled, and just how at home in her skin she was.

“Hey,” Azzi said softly.

Paige glanced at her and smiled. “Hey yourself.”

“You’re really going to cook for me again?” Azzi asked as she stepped closer. “After the day you had?”

“Well, someone’s gotta feed you,” Paige said as she stirred something in the pan. “And you earned it.”

Azzi shook her head, slipping around her to stand near the stove. “Nope. Sit down.”

“What?”

“I’m cooking,” Azzi said, already grabbing a cutting board and pulling the drawer open for a knife. “You’ve been taking care of me all day. I can’t let someone who’s kind enough to let me stay in their home serve me like I’m helpless.”

Paige shook her head. “I can’t let a guest work sweetheart.”

“Well,” Azzi said, flashing her a smile that made her dimples pop as she took the wooden spoon from her hand, “I’m not really your guest anymore, am I?”

Paige laughed at the supposed loophole. “Well,” she said, “I’ll excuse my manners then.” She stepped away from the stove and grabbed a cold beer from the fridge before she dropped onto one of the chairs at the table, spreading her legs comfortably as she looked at Azzi.

Azzi glanced at her from where she was as she pulled the ingredients she wanted from the fridge. “Just gonna sit there and watch me?”

“Yup,” Paige said, tipping the bottle toward her lips. As she did her eyes sparkled with amusement and she couldn’t stop grinning.

Azzi rolled her eyes but didn’t stop herself from matching the grin as she turned around. She started cutting something on the cutting board and from the table, Paige watched her. Paige noticed the sudden ease in her posture, the way the tension that had stuck to her when she first approached the door had melted off of her. Aside from all of that Paige let herself respectfully think about how beautiful Azzi was.

Neither of them said much for a few minutes. The scent of onions and herbs filled the kitchen as Azzi moved comfortably through the kitchen now. Paige, for all her insistence that she’d sit back and let herself be taken care of, had disappeared out the backdoor with a promise to only feed the dogs and not touch any tools.

Azzi caught glimpses of the dogs running around through the kitchen window and the back porch light caught Paige’s figure as she bent down to fill the bowls. Beau circled her like a giddy child and Stew watched from the side more stoically.

“All taken care of and I promise I ain’t touch one tool” she said, as she stepped back into the kitchen.

“Mmm,” Azzi murmured, still focused on the pan. “You know, I don’t think I’ve been in one place for this long without checking my phone. Don’t think I’ve seen it since I got here.”

Paige grinned as she stepped beside her with her beer bottle in her hand. “And would you look at that, somehow, the world’s still turnin’.”

Azzi glared at her, but her smile gave her away.

Paige held out the beer. “Want a sip?”

Azzi shook her head. “I don’t think I like beer.”

Paige tilted her head. “You ever had one like this?”

“I don’t think I like any beer,” Azzi clarified.

“Well,” Paige said, stepping just a little closer into Azzi’s space, “don’t knock it 'til you try it.” She held out the bottle, her blue eyes twinkling as she looked at Azzi.

Azzi hesitated before she reached for it, her fingers brushing against Paige’s as she took the bottle and took a sip. Her face contorted and she shook her head no. “God,” Azzi mumbled, half-choking. “That tastes awful.”

Paige tried to hold in a laugh but she grinned as Azzi glared at her a little. She brought her hand up to rest on Azzi’s back, rubbing it a little to help soothe the cough. “That bad?”

Azzi passed the bottle back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “How do people drink that on purpose?”

“Acquired taste,” Paige said, grinning. “Like black coffee or heartbreak.”

Azzi snorted. “Well, I’ve had both of those. Still not a fan.”

The beer fizzed in the bottle as Paige sat back in a kitchen chair. She lifted the bottle to her lips and asked, “So what are you a fan of, then?”

Azzi looked at her but didn’t answer right away. Instead, she kept her focus on the skillet in front of her.

The quiet filled around them and Paige studied Azzi and her silence at the question. Crickets had started to chirp outside, the sound of the night falling into rhythm with the soft sizzle coming from the stove.

There was something almost unreal about the scene. The city girl in short pajama shorts and a large t-shirt barefoot on the tile, cooking like she belonged in the country. Like the chaos she came from never existed. As she moved to finish up dinner Azzi started to speak to Paige calmly, listing off the small random things she ‘was a fan of.’ She knew she didn’t need to perform for cameras or sponsors here so she gave genuine answers just for the woman sitting across the kitchen with patient eyes and a crooked smile to hear.

She plated the food, nothing extravagant, just good, clean ingredients that she turned into something cooked with a little care. She turned and set a plate in front of Paige, their hands brushing in the transfer.

Paige looked up at her with a soft smile. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Azzi sat down across from her and propped her elbow on the table letting her chin rest in her palm as they let the meal cool down. The conversation didn’t need a map. It wandered like a breeze through cracked windows, easy and open. Azzi was able to be unfiltered and open because she knew no one was waiting on a soundbite.

They were just two women in a house that knew how to hold secrets. Dogs padding in the hallway. A kitchen table that bore the wear of decades of conversation. And Azzi, feeling something she hadn’t let herself feel in longer than she could remember. Wanted, but not demanded. Seen, but not scrutinized.

Paige asked her questions without pressure, and Azzi found herself answering them without thinking too hard. Little things. Big things. Things she didn’t even realize she was still carrying from years ago. And Paige listened like she was completely captivated by every word that came out of Azzi’s mouth. Like she was storing each piece of information in her brain in a special place just for Azzi.

This made Azzi’s chest feel oddly full. Like if she spoke too loud, it might spill over.

So during the small times it got a little too much she took another bite of her food instead, chewing slowly, her eyes drifting to Paige, who caught her gaze and smiled around a mouthful of dinner letting her know it was alright to take her time.

Azzi would smile back at her and a few times she found herself thinking about how she didn’t want this to end. Not the meal. Not the night. Not this strange, perfect little pocket of peace they’d created together. She didn’t know where it was going with them if anywhere and she wasn’t in a hurry to figure it out.

When they were done the utensils clinked as Azzi reached to rinse their plates, but Paige got on her feet first waving her off. “Nope,” she said, setting her own plate on the counter with a thud that made the dogs perk up. “You cooked, I clean. Don’t go ruinin’ a perfectly good system.”

Azzi opened her mouth to argue about the point she made earlier, but Paige was already moving as she gathered everything and started humming something under her breath. Azzi found herself watching her again, and honestly it was getting a little insane how many times she just stared at Paige but she couldn’t help it. She was caught off guard by how effortless it all felt. How easy it was for her to be here with Paige.

“Thank you,” Azzi said quietly.. “For letting me be here. For…dinner. All of it.”

Paige glanced over her shoulder. “Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for, darlin’. You’re easy to have around.” She turned back around before adding, “I’ll head into town first thing in the mornin to get those parts for your car. Shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Azzi nodded as a strange little knot formed behind her ribs. As the faint reminder that all of this had a ticking clock came rushing up.

She went down the hall to use the restroom and splash a little water on her face and by the time she stepped out, the house had settled for the night.

When Azzi walked toward the guest room Stew was already there again curled up on his dog bed with his tail thumping against the floor when he saw her.

Paige walked up to rest her shoulder on the doorframe. “He’s yours again tonight. Hope you don’t mind. Just want you to feel safe.”

Azzi smiled, leaning down to scratch behind his ears. “Not even a little.”

Paige reached for the door handle, locking it again politely.

Azzi looked up, her eyes meeting Paige’s in a silent conversation before she looked away. “Thank you Paige.”

Paige took a visible breath and nodded, her features unreadable in the dim light. She gave Azzi a mellow smile. “Sleep tight, city girl.” And then she shut the door gently behind her.

Azzi stood in the middle of the room taking in the details of the room so she could remember them. The bed was just like she left it that morning and she slid beneath the covers and let herself exhale.

She told herself it was just a farmhouse. Just a borrowed room.

But the way the air settled around her, the way the dog breathed steadily in the corner of the room, the way Paige’s voice lingered in the quietness of her brain and made her feel safe. All of it felt like more and Azzi didn’t feel like she needed to hold herself together to fall asleep. She was already drifting with a smile on her face.

…

The next morning Azzi blinked against the sunlight streaming into the room. Her limbs were heavy in the indulgent kind of rest you only got when you were peacefully in deep sleep. In the corner of the room, Stew was curled on his designated spot, the faded duck tucked beneath his chin.

Unlike the morning before, when he’d only blinked at her when she woke up, this time Stew stood up and stretched before padding up beside the bed, panting softly with his tongue out. He looked at her like he’d been waiting for her to wake up and was more than ready to start the day.

Azzi laughed, still half buried in the covers, and reached out her hand. “Morning, buddy.”

Stew pushed his head against her fingers a few times before stepping back and letting her sit up. She ran a hand through her hair, shaking her head at the fact that her bonnet fell off before she smiled at the way that waking up here made everything feel softer.

She took her time freshening up, rinsing her face in cool water, pulling on another pair of borrowed jeans that Paige left her and one of her own crop tops. Her body felt good. Limber, rested and present. There wasn’t an ounce of the usual static buzzing underneath her skin. She felt like a calm had settled into her bones like it was meant to be there.

When she stepped outside with Stew walking close on her heels, Beau was already in full swing, running around the yard with another stick. He paused when he noticed them, dropping the stick and barking once before he picked his stick back up and sprinted toward the trees.

Azzi’s eyes followed Beau for a few seconds before she looked over at Paige.

She was crouched over the front of Azzi’s car, elbow-deep in the hood with a towel slung over one shoulder. Her Levi jeans clung to her hips perfectly and she had on a simple black sports bra that hugged her shoulders, golden skin glowing under the sun.

Her boots were dusty and her hair was tied back but there were a few strands that had gotten loose that stuck along the edges of her temples. She looked like she belonged in a goddamn calendar and Azzi rolled her eyes at herself for how easy she felt.

Stew huffed beside her impatiently.

“Alright, alright,” she mumbled.

She started walking toward the car, her steps slower than Stew wanted them to be. The Texas heat was already rising despite how early it was and she saw the sweat clinging to Paige’s skin as the sun beat down on her. Azzi didn’t mind it one bit.

Without turning around, Paige’s voice drifted back toward her. “Morning, darlin’.”

Azzi smiled at the sound of her voice. “Good morning to you too.”

The sound of a tool hitting against metal was followed by Paige straightening up from under the hood. She wiped her forearm across her eyebrows, the front of her torso was streaked with a faint line of grime from where she’d leaned into the engine. The smudge only made her look more like herself, more fucking attractive than Azzi had the self control for.

“Took the old water pump out already,” Paige said as she tossed a wrench in the open toolbox at her feet. “It was damn near fossilized.” She looked at Azzi’s appearance and grinned lopsidedly. “How’d you sleep?”

Azzi let her gaze wander briefly along the curve of Paige’s sweaty shoulders, the way her long fingers looked even though they were a little dirty, at her wet torso. “Better than I have in months,” she answered honestly, still watching her from a few feet away.

Paige nodded, not commenting on the ogling as she wiped her hands on the edge of the towel slung over her shoulder. “Good,” she said simply, like it was the only thing she’d hoped for yesterday.

After a second, Azzi turned back around and headed into the house without saying anything. The dogs followed her halfway before veering off to chase each other in the side yard. Inside, the house was cool from the AC, and she filled a tall glass with ice water, watching the condensation bloom against the outside as she carried it back outside.

Paige was still at the car when she came back, crouched underneath the hood again. Azzi stepped into her space blocking the sunlight, letting the heat wash over her skin instead of Paige’s.

“Figured you could use this.”

Paige stood up and took the glass with a grateful hum. She took a large gulp saying, “Damn, that hits the spot,” before lifting it to her mouth again and tilting the cup further back.

Azzi’s eyes lingered again. She really didn’t mean to stare, but it was hard not to. The way Paige’s throat moved as she swallowed the water, the sun highlighting the toned lines of her stomach, the way her chest rose and fell under the sun. Paige’s body was built of work, carved by days like this one, under heat and honest work instead of gym lights and mirrors. Azzi was still looking when Paige’s eyes flicked toward her and caught her looking again.

Azzi’s breath got stuck when their eyes met. Paige didn’t say anything, just held her gaze and raised her eyebrow and grinned. Azzi blinked and looked down, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, suddenly very aware of how warm the sun felt on her skin.

Paige lowered the glass and leaned back into the open hood of the car. “Car should be back on the road in a few,” she said. “Assumin’ I don’t melt first.”

Azzi chuckled. “Guess I better keep the water comin’ then.”

“Guess you better,” Paige said, smiling without looking up but Azzi saw it all the same.

Azzi sank down onto the porch swing, the old chains creaking enough to make her presence known anytime Paige wandered if she was still back there. She tucked one leg underneath her and let the other sway gently.

Paige was still at the car, bent forward at the waist and her radio, the same old one she kept in the kitchen, dial always set between static and a country station had been brought out and was sitting on the porch, the faint sound of a woman’s voice crooning about someone who left and someone who replaced them and stayed.

Azzi leaned back and let her head rest against the wood slats, as she let her eyes trace everything around her. Even the breeze had gone soft, like it was taking its time to soak up the moment too.

She didn’t know when the shift had happened. When the tight coil in her chest had loosened to nothing, or when her body stopped bracing for the next jolt. But here, in this stretch of stillness, she could feel herself breathing steadily. She could feel her heart beating to soak in the moment instead of working to keep her alive.

The porch creaked again as she shifted, but everything else stayed still. The world didn’t rush forward. Nobody screaming, no handlers, no cameras trying to catch her off-guard. Just the sun, the sound of a socket wrench clicking, and a pair of dogs convinced the world was theirs and will forever be.

She looked out across the field, the tree line in the distance hazy with heatlines, and it felt like time had paused long enough to let her breathe in it. Deeply. Like her lungs had finally remembered how to fully expand.

And in the middle of it all was Paige, a sweet beautiful angel that offered her nothing but kindness. A woman who for all she was only wanted to be kind to people, not a single part of her trying to be anything she wasn’t.

It was strange, how stillness could feel like so much motion when it settled in the right places. And here, on this porch, in this heat, with this view, she didn’t feel behind or ahead. She just felt right where she was.

…

Later that day the sun had climbed high enough to make the morning golden, offering warmth that didn’t quite feel like goodbye yet—but it was. Azzi could feel it in her chest, settling somewhere between her ribs and her heart as she stood next to the car, her fingers brushing lightly over Beau’s ears one last time while Stew leaned calmly against her legs. The dogs didn’t know she was leaving, they just knew she felt different.

Breakfast had been good. Too good as they talked for a few hours. Which made this part worse.

Paige had walked next to her toward the car and the tank top she had thrown on when Azzi said something about a distraction was now clinging to skin. The towel was still thrown casually over her shoulder like she wasn’t in a hurry for anything and Azzi wished, selfishly, that she wasn’t either.

Paige opened the driver side door for Azzi with that same respect she always carried. Azzi hesitated, her thumb hooked in the belt loop of the jeans she was still wearing…Paige’s jeans, loose at the hips.

Paige’s eyes dipped down, noticing how Azzi was toying with them and the corner of her mouth curved into a smile. “Keep ’em,” she said. “They look better on you anyway.”

Azzi laughed under her breath, the sound too soft to be anything but genuine. She slipped into the driver’s seat and let her hands settle on the wheel for a second, not starting the car.

Paige leaned one hand against the open door frame, the sun catching in her hair. “It was nice meetin’ you, darlin’,” she said, easily. “Be safe out there. And try not to go knockin’ on too many farmhouses, alright? Everybody out here ain’t as charmin’ as I am.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, smiling despite the weight in her chest. “So you finally admit it.”

Paige grinned like she’d been waiting for that all weekend. “Guess I do.”

For a few heartbeats, they just looked at each other, the sunlight slipping between them like a silent message being scent from the universe.

Azzi tilted her head in confusion. “So...do we hug? Or…I don’t know what happens now?”

Paige’s grin turned fonder. “C’mere,” she said, already taking a step back so Azzi could get out of the car.

Azzi stepped out and into Paige’s arms like she’d been waiting to do it all weekend. Paige was warm, still a little sweaty from working on the car and surprisingly Azzi didn’t mind, too caught up in how strong her arms felt around her.

“Sorry,” Paige whispered near her ear. “I’m a little gross.”

Azzi didn’t pull away as she rested her face near Paige’s neck. “You just fixed my car. No need to apologize.”

They held there for a few seconds longer than they probably should have, but neither of them seemed in a rush to break it. When Azzi finally stepped back, Paige’s hand lingered lightly on her waist before falling away.

Azzi nodded once, slipping back into the car and closing the door, with her window down. “Thank you,” she said, and they both knew it meant more than just the car repair.

Paige nodded. “You ever find yourself headin’ back this way,” she said, “I’ll be around.”

Azzi started the engine, the familiar hum somehow feeling more like an intrusion now. She looked out the window at Paige, at the dogs, at the farmhouse still holding onto the morning like it wasn’t ready to let go either.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. Her hand moved to the gear shift. But she didn’t put it in drive.

Paige caught the hesitation and leaned down a little, resting her forearm against the open window. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Azzi glanced down at her lap, then back up. She was unsure for a second, until something steadied in her. The worst Paige could say was no and for some reason in her chest Azzi didn’t feel like she would.

“I don’t want this to be the end of whatever this is,” Azzi said honestly. “I haven’t seen you use it once this weekend, but maybe I could get your number?”

Paige’s grin grew, and her eyes sparkled a little bit. “I was hopin’ you’d ask.”

Azzi unlocked her phone and handed it to Paige. She typed her number in and then handed it back back to Azzi without saving a name, leaving it blank.

“Figure you can name me whatever suits me,” Paige said with a bashful shrug. “Farmer girl, dog wrangler, that sweaty woman who fixed your car...”

Azzi laughed softly, her cheeks feeling a little warm as she typed something in and hit save before locking the phone and putting it down.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

Azzi smiled at Paige sweetly. “You’ll just have to text me and find out.”

That earned her a shake of the head and a grin from Paige as she stepped back. “Be safe out there, beautiful,” she said again, quieter this time. “I know the city roads ain’t as kind to you as this one.”

Azzi looked to memorize this moment. The curve of Paige’s jaw in the sun, the towel still looped over her shoulder, her boots planted in the dirt like she’d been born to be connected to the earth.

“Thank you Paige,” was the only thing Azzi could offer back, the words hinting at everything she couldn’t quite say.

Then slowly she eased the car down the makeshift driveway. Paige stood where she was letting her eyes track the car until she couldn’t.

At the same time Azzi checked the rearview mirror once. Then again and Paige was still there, still watching her drive away.

Azzi looked through the mirror until the farmhouse slipped out of view, and she had no choice but to keep going forward, the sound of the engine a little less harsh now, softened by the memory of something good behind her and something better waiting for her.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

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