#how to fix dripping faucet

[blissfulbathroom]

Mastering the Art of Fixing a Dripping Faucet: Your Ultimate Guide

When it comes to dealing with the pesky nuisance of a dripping faucet, we understand your frustration. That incessant, rhythmic drip not only wastes precious water but can also disrupt your peace of mind. In this comprehensive guide, we, the experts in plumbing and household maintenance, will empower you with the knowledge and skills to fix that dripping faucet like a pro.

The Irritating Symphony of a Dripping Faucet

A dripping faucet is not just a minor annoyance; it's a hidden source of water wastage that can significantly impact your utility bills and the environment. According to the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), a single faucet dripping at a rate of one drop per second can waste over 3,000 gallons of water in a year! Moreover, the incessant sound can lead to sleepless nights and frayed nerves.

Tools of the Trade

Before we delve into the step-by-step process of fixing your dripping faucet, let's gather the essential tools and materials you'll need for this DIY plumbing endeavor. Having the right equipment on hand will make the task smoother and more efficient.

1. Adjustable Wrench

An adjustable wrench is your trusty companion for loosening and tightening various faucet components.

2. Replacement Parts

Depending on your faucet type, you may need replacement parts such as O-rings, washers, or cartridges. Make sure to identify your faucet model and purchase the necessary components.

3. Screwdrivers

Both flathead and Phillips screwdrivers are essential for removing screws and accessing hidden parts within the faucet.

4. Plumber's Tape

Also known as Teflon tape, plumber's tape is crucial for preventing leaks in threaded connections.

5. Bucket and Towels

Be prepared for some water spillage by having a bucket and towels nearby to catch and clean up any mess.

Identifying the Culprit

Understanding the anatomy of your faucet is the first step in resolving the issue. While there are various faucet types, most dripping faucets can be attributed to one of the following common culprits:

1. Worn-Out O-Rings

O-rings are small rubber gaskets that create a watertight seal within the faucet. Over time, they can deteriorate, leading to leaks.

2. Damaged Washers

Washers, located in the faucet handles, can wear down or become damaged, resulting in a constant drip.

3. Faulty Cartridge

Cartridges control the flow of water in modern faucets. If the cartridge is defective, it can cause leakage.

4. Corroded Valve Seat

A valve seat is the connection between the faucet and the spout. Corrosion in this area can lead to leaks.

The Fixing Process

Now that we've identified potential issues, it's time to roll up our sleeves and get to work. Follow these steps diligently to fix your dripping faucet:

Step 1: Turn Off the Water Supply

Before you begin, ensure that the water supply to the faucet is completely shut off. Look for shut-off valves under the sink or at the main water supply.

Step 2: Dismantle the Faucet

Using your adjustable wrench and screwdrivers, carefully dismantle the faucet. Be sure to keep track of the removed parts and their order to facilitate reassembly.

Step 3: Inspect and Replace Components

Examine the O-rings, washers, cartridge, and valve seat for signs of wear, damage, or corrosion. Replace any faulty components with the new ones you've gathered.

Step 4: Reassemble the Faucet

Reassemble the faucet in the reverse order of disassembly. Ensure that all parts fit snugly and securely.

Step 5: Turn On the Water Supply

Once the faucet is reassembled, slowly turn on the water supply to check for leaks. If there are no leaks, congratulations! You've successfully fixed your dripping faucet.

Preventative Maintenance

To avoid future faucet troubles, consider implementing regular preventative maintenance:

Periodically clean and lubricate the faucet to prevent mineral buildup.

Check for and address leaks promptly to prevent further damage.

Install water-saving aerators to reduce water wastage and save on utility bills.

By mastering these simple techniques, you can keep your faucets in optimal condition and enjoy a drip-free, peaceful home.

Conclusion

In this comprehensive guide, we've equipped you with the knowledge and skills to conquer the annoyance of a dripping faucet. By identifying the root causes and following our step-by-step fixing process, you can save water, money, and your sanity.

Looking for more tips on bathroom maintenance and fixtures? Check out these informative articles on BlissfulBathroom:

Easy Ways to Fix a Dripping Faucet: Dive deeper into faucet troubleshooting and repair techniques.

Is Your Bathroom Vanity High Quality?: Learn how to assess the quality of your bathroom vanity and make informed choices during renovations.

How to Clean Bathroom Taps: A Step-by-Step Guide: Discover a thorough guide to keeping your bathroom taps sparkling and functional.

Are Faucet Cartridges Universal?: Gain insights into faucet cartridges and whether they are interchangeable across different brands.

So, don't let that pesky drip continue to torment you. Take control and become a DIY plumbing pro. Fixing a dripping faucet is not just a household chore; it's a step towards a more sustainable and tranquil living environment.

A well-maintained faucet is a happy faucet.

[grumblytumbleweed]

Moen Faucet Cartridge Replacement - Single Handle Bathtub Plumbing Repai... Step by step replacement of a Moen bathtub faucet cartridge with a specialty puller too.  I saved a lot of money by doing this repair myself instead of calling a plumber.  

[bcksbarnes]

flowers in hand

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: unfortunately for bucky barnes, he is head over heels in love with you, and when you want something, it doesn't take much convincing.

word count: 3.6K cw: 🔞 some suggestive content (mdni)

a/n: based off of this request! lots and lots of fluff.

Bucky Barnes was an ex-brain washed assassin who had been broken down and beaten time and time again. He had seen horrors that would leave most people catatonic, he had done things that most people wouldn’t even dream of. This was not a man that wore his heart on his sleeve.

Stoic. Brooding. An absolute brute, to put it mildly.

But there was something that Bucky never wanted anyone to know. A secret he’d take to his grave and would deny if ever asked about it. 

What was this secret? Simple. 

Bucky was head over heels in love with you.

He knew it the second the two of you met. When you stretched out your hand and told him your name, he felt his knees buckle. When you asked him for his? A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. He was nervous . A reaction Bucky had never had before.

It sent him into a spiral for several days after the two of you met. Weeks, actually, if he was being honest. 

Everything after that had fallen into place pretty quickly. You had liked Bucky as soon as you met him and before you knew it months had passed, the two of you quickly found yourself in a budding romance that needed nothing but water and sunlight to grow. 

The hardest part of learning to fall in love again was that he was so taken aback by how his body and brain responded to you, it was a bit jarring. It was like his entire brain had awoken a part of himself that had been dormant for years. One yearning for love.

It showed in the way you would get home from work and your favorite flowers would be waiting on the kitchen table, powder blue hydrangeas, with a handwritten note alongside it. Bucky’s handwriting was a little scratchy and hard to make out, but you didn’t need to read it to know what it said:

Thinking of you always. - BB

Or when he took you on a joy ride on the back of his motorcycle, never wearing a helmet himself but making sure the straps were just right when he helped you get yours on. His hands would carefully click the buckle together, biting down on his bottom lip in concentration as he made sure it fit you perfectly.

He didn’t want you getting hurt, not on his watch.

That was it - his big secret. You had him wrapped around your finger. Something so mundane and, frankly, obvious.

Though you never went out of your way to use this knowledge to your advantage. Bucky always came running at the sound of your voice.

“Buck?” you called out one afternoon.

The sun was high in the sky, it was a beautiful day - maybe a little warmer than you liked, but the cool breeze offered some relief. 

You were sitting on the balcony reading a book in your favorite spot, overlooking the city that Bucky had loved so much, and that you’ve learned to love with him. It was different from the one he lived in all those decades ago, the apartment he had lived in as a child was small, cramped - to look out the window was to face a family he never knew, living their own lives.

Now, in this decade, the apartment was spacious, overwhelming, the view encompassing the bridge and the East River separating the two boroughs. 

A different life, a different time.

“Yeah?” he called back, the door to the balcony slightly ajar so you could both hear each other.

“Can you bring me my sunglasses?”

Bucky chuckled to himself at such a simple request. He was working on fixing some issues in the kitchen, a leaky faucet to be exact - the one that kept dripping. Bucky had a hard time falling asleep as it was, hearing the pitter patter in the middle of the night made him feel like he was going insane.

“Hold on, honey.” 

He was currently laying on his back under the sink, his shirt was discarded somewhere next to him and his black mesh shorts rode a bit lower on his hips than he had purposely intended. 

It only took him a few turns of his wrench to tighten the compression ring around the pipe in hopes that it would stop the leaking. 

“That should be it.”

A few moments passed as he placed the wrench down next to him. He held his breath, but Bucky, unfortunately, a second later felt another water droplet land on his forehead: unsuccessful.

“Shit,” he mumbles to himself before gripping the side of the counter and pulling himself out from under the cabinet. 

Bucky hated that this wasn’t working - honestly, he wanted to run to the store and grab some new PVC pipes and just fix the entire thing from scratch. But, your request ran through his head and he quickly pivoted his priorities as he stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Where’d you put them?” he calls, trying to look in the usual spots before finally stumbling on them. “Nevermind.”

You hear the door swing open, his footsteps alerting his presence but your attention stayed on the book in your lap, wanting to finish the page you were on.

“I couldn’t find them,” he says. 

When you finally finished the passage, you placed the bookmark in the between the pages, saving it for another time.

Your head turned to look up at Bucky, his metal arm glistening in the sun and your sunglasses sitting right on his face - that goofy smile of his plastered on his features as he waits for you to notice.

A loud chuckle passes your lips as you reach your hand out for them, shaking your head as he slides them off the bridge of his nose and into the palm of your hands. Once you grab them from him, you put the glasses on, the world dimming a bit, but Bucky still shines bright in front of you.

“Thank you,” you say softly, tilting your head back to admire his half dressed physique. You whistle lowly, causing Bucky to roll his eyes at you. “Were you working on the sink? Sorry, I didn’t even realize.”

“Yeah,” he responds, taking a step closer. 

Bucky gestures for you to move over and make room for him, groaning as he finally sits down. His arm rests on the back of the sectional while his fingers run through the hair on the back of your neck.

“I thought I’d be able to fix it by tightening it, but I think the pipe itself has a crack somewhere,” he huffs out, shaking his head. “I’ll have to go to the store later.”

You watch him carefully, your hand holding the book on your lap moving to rest on his thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You could see the concentration in his face, the way his brows furrowed until there was a crease between them. He hated unfinished projects.

“You’re not going to rest until it’s fixed, are you?” you ask, though it’s a question you already know the answer to.

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head. “Why? Have something in mind for us today?”

“I thought maybe we could go to the park later” you hummed, your fingers tracing shapes into his skin. You tilt your head back to look at him, both of your eyes meeting. “They’re doing a movie night. Raiders of the Lost Ark, if I remember correctly.”

Bucky’s other leg bounced anxiously at the thought, it’s not that he didn’t want to go with you - it’s that he really wanted to fix this stupid sink. 

He peaked over at his watch, it was nearly 5:30pm. The store would be closing soon, he’d have to find the right parts then fix the sink, and shower at some point before he’d be ready to go. He didn’t know if he had time to do both the movie and finish this project.

His eyes trail back over towards you and he was greeted with the most beautiful pair he’d ever seen. Were you batting your eyelashes too?

“You play dirty,” Bucky mumbles.

He brings his metal hand up to your face, squeezing your cheeks softly as he leans in to press a few soft, chaste kisses to your lips. He mumbles something about how unfair it is, but you’re so wrapped up in the feeling of his lips you don’t even care what he says.

Bucky begins to stand from his seat, though he doesn’t remove himself from your lips, hunched over to make sure he stays closely connected to you. Your hands now resting on his abdomen as if to keep him in place.

“I have to shower,” he hums against your lips. “And if the movie sucks I’m coming home and ripping the sink apart.”

“You did not just say that Raiders of the Lost Ark is going to suck.” 

Bucky chuckles as he trails his lips down your jaw to your neck, giving it a few kisses and a quick bite before he pulls back completely, that same love stricken look on his face.

“I did. I mean it too,” he teases, backing up until he gets to the door of the balcony. 

“You’re going to be very upset when you’re wrong, Barnes,” you call out after him.

He gives you a quick wink before dipping back inside the apartment. 

You take one last look over the balcony, the cars that were passing over the bridge and the people walking on the streets below. All of them had their own little story. It makes you smile to yourself, thinking of this little life you had built with Bucky.

It kept you both going.

Finally standing, you stretched your arms over your head and grabbed your book before heading back inside the apartment. The cover made a soft thud as you set it down on the coffee table on your way over to the kitchen.

The sound of the shower trickling had your thoughts distracted, even as you began packing the tote bag. You tried to keep your focus on all the goods you wanted to bring and not your very naked boyfriend some 50 feet away from you behind one, probably not locked, door.

How easy it would be to slip in.

You shake your head and focus on the task at hand, packing the bag with: a blanket to sit on, two lime sparkling waters that Bucky had picked up a few days ago, and a mix of snacks to enjoy. The perfect picnic.

Right as you finished, you hear the door open and Bucky step out of the bathroom, the warm steam filling your apartment almost immediately. He looks striking with the towel draped around his hips, his almost freshly cut short hair now wet and combed back.

“You didn’t join me,” he teases, making his way past you and into the bedroom.

“I want to make the movie,” you say back, a smirk on your features. You knew well enough that if you took a step in that shower, Bucky would never let you leave.

The sound of shuffling comes from the other room as you can hear him looking through drawers and the closet for his clothes. Your feet walk you into the bedroom right as he slips his boxers on, a smile on his features as he catches your gaze.

He didn’t want to go out to the park and watch a movie. He didn’t even care about that stupid leak under the sink that he could still hear and was driving him up a wall. 

No, he wanted to stay here with you and show you all the ways he loved and adored you. He wanted to worship you with everything he’s got. 

His hand reaches out for you and he intertwines your fingers together before he pulls you towards him. You happily oblige.

“You’re still thinking about that damn leak aren’t you?” you whisper, your voice filled with jest.

“Every fucking second.”

The smile on his face is wide as he brings his hands up to your face and kisses your cheeks once, twice, three times, causing a soft laugh to leave your lips. In one fluid motion his hands are under your thighs and lifts you up, placing you on the dresser behind you.

He slots himself between your legs and watches you closely, your hands moving to grip his wrists.

“Let’s stay here,” Bucky pleads softly. “Let’s never leave this apartment ever again.”

“I’d love to never have to do that, but you know that’s impossible.”

“Hmm,” he hums. “Not with that attitude, sweetheart.”

He manages to get his hands free from your wrists, sliding them down to your hips and pulling you forward until your legs wrap around his waist, your heels resting on the back of his thighs. 

“Bucky,” you groan.

Your head falls back softly against the wall, in the same motion Bucky rests his head on your shoulder.

“Wishful thinking, huh?” he asks, a sigh leaving his lips afterwards. 

It’s not that he hated the power that you had over him, it was that he didn’t know how you managed to affect him so much. You didn’t even put up a fight with him and he folded, all because you said his name.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder before he untangled himself from you and moved to get dressed - a pair of black jeans, a t-shirt that was a little too tight around his muscles and a sweatshirt he knows you’re going to steal at some point. 

Finally ready to go.

It only took a few minutes to get to the park. You’re greeted by a sea of people, most of whom have already laid out their lounge chairs or blankets. The sun hadn’t set yet, casting a warm glow as you two found a spot a little bit away from the rest of the crowd. More secluded, but you two would still be able to see and hear the movie just fine.

Bucky helped set up the blanket, a long red gingham pattern one that he may have muttered a sarcastic comment about how cliche it was. You may have, lovingly, given him the finger in response. 

The movie started only a few minutes after you and Bucky set up the snacks and drinks. Both of you were laying on your sides, elbows planted on the blanket while hands kept your head off the ground. 

Bucky was very into the movie, barely sneaking glances over at you like he normally did whenever. It captured his attention almost immediately. You watched as he popped a grape into his mouth, his tired eyes trained on the screen in front of him as he absentmindedly chewed. 

It was calming to see him in this environment. You knew that deep down he would never 100% be present, that he always kept one part of his brain active to scan for any potential threats. But seeing Bucky in a state of, mostly, ease felt like finding a diamond in the rough. Rare, but valuable.

Halfway through the movie Bucky moves to sit up, stretching his arms over his head before holding his hand out to you. He always seemed to be reaching for you. Once your hand is in his, one swift motion is all it takes for him to pull you into his lap, nestling you between his legs, your back now resting against his chest. 

His hands move to run down your arm and he can feel the goosebumps rising against your skin.

“You’re cold,” he mumbles in your ear.

You want to protest that it’s just from his touch, but the words die in the back of your throat as soon as you feel him sit back from you. He pulls off his sweatshirt and hands it over, watching as you carefully slip on the oversized material. Bucky wraps his arms around your torso once you’re settled, pulling you back as close as he can before resting his chin on the top of your head.

“Much better.”

Your heart flutters, as it seems it always does when he acts this way. 

Cuddly. Soft. In love.

Bucky feels like his heart is bleeding out right through his shirt at this moment, you could tell him to do anything in front of this crowd of people and he would comply without hesitation. He didn’t even care.

Maybe that was the thing that kept him going in this life. The little pieces of calm he can get when you are around. When the tides don’t feel as strong.

He didn’t want to think about it, he wanted to enjoy himself: your presence, and the movie.

It’s a little while later when the movie finally finished, you craned your head back to look up at him, a smirk on your lips. He was staring ahead at the now blank screen, jaw slightly dropped. 

“I thought you said the movie was going to suck,” you teased.”

“I didn’t know I was coming to see a cinematic masterpiece.” 

You let out a laugh, and then another one as Bucky squeezes your sides as his response, falling back over his thigh as you wriggle to try and get away from his wandering, playful hans. 

God, he wished you weren’t in public right now.

“And here you wanted to stay at home to fix that stupid sink.”

“No, I wanted to stay home so I could –”

“ Bucky ,” you cut him off before he can finish that thought, watching as a family walks past.

He lets out a scoff that sounds more like a laugh and pinches your side again as you start to stand up from his lap. Bucky admires you from this angle, the way that you towered over him was so jarring compared to how small you normally were when he stood next to you.

“I was going to say so I could take care of you , but if you were worried I was going to say something more vulgar than you need to get your mind out of the gutter, sweetheart.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

Bucky’s smile reaches his eyes this time as he throws his head back and lets out a laugh. You were so right and he loved being called out on it, because he loved how well you knew him.

He stands to help you pack the tote bag again, throwing it over his shoulder when it’s done. You grab his metal hand and intertwine your fingers together as you make your way back to the apartment. 

The city was dark now, only illuminated by street lamps and a few fluorescent signs. Surprisingly the neighborhood was mostly empty, you and Bucky seeming to take up most of the sidewalk and filling the silence with your chit chat about the movie.

Bucky was blown away by the story, the action … well the whole thing. 

You were biting back your tongue to not say I told you so .

“You always get your way, you know that?” he says once you're in the lobby waiting for the elevator. “I don’t think I’m capable of saying no to you if I really tried.”

“That’s not true,” you respond.

Though if you take a second to think about it, he’s probably right.

The elevator dings its arrival and dips slightly from the weight of the two of you as you step on. You press the button for your floor a few times before turning your attention back to Bucky. He’s standing right next to you, his hand slipping out of yours to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. Your head leans to rest against him, it always fits perfectly.

“It’s a little true,” he says with a shrug. “I’m not complaining.”

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“I’ve never had anyone to care about. Not in this way at least.”

“You cared about Steve.”

“That’s different,” he sighs. “I made sure Steve stayed alive. I didn’t dote over him. I look at you and I’d drop everything just to see that damn smile on your face.”

The blush developed on your cheeks at record speed, a smile accompanying it that was hard to hold back. Sometimes Bucky had a way with words that took your breath away. He could be deeply poetic. It made you wonder what he thought of in that brain of his. 

“There it is,” he whispers, his gaze flickering down to your lips.

The ding of the elevator snaps the moment back into reality, but that doesn’t deter Bucky in the slightest. 

No, instead he follows you down the hall and into the apartment, waiting for the door to shut before he picks you up from behind and walks you to the bedroom to toss you on the bed - the sound of your giggles filling the air.

The second you hit the mattress, and he crawls on top of you, your hands grab his face bringing him down to kiss him feverishly. It’s rushed and messy, tongues sweeping across lips, teeth biting and pulling. 

You don’t need to tell him you need him for Bucky to know it, he can read you like an open book. 

As he kisses down your jaw – his stubble scratching your soft skin, hands moving to slide your shirt up, ready to spend the night devouring you – all he can think about is how his love for you is the worst kept secret in the world. And not about the stupid leaky faucet.

[miks-delusional-blog]

Imagine BF! Jason Todd…

Imagine BF! Jason Todd, but he’s not very good with his words so he shows his love in other ways.

He remembers everything you say. Almost to annoying degree where he’ll quote you verbatim in an argument.

But, he will always remember everything you ramble about. So if you off handedly talk about a snack you had as a kid next time he’s at the store he’ll find it for you.

Maybe one day the two of you come back to you apartment, the door squeaks as you open and close it. You mutter to yourself “Need to oil that…” before continuing with conversation. After a few weeks you notice there’s no more squeaking from your door and perhaps it hasn’t been squeaking for a while when you reflect on it. You comment on it and Jason just replies “oiled it ages ago”.

Maybe Jason keeps doing these nice things without telling you. You never seem to run out of toilet paper. Your kitchen faucet isn’t dripping anymore. The locks on your windows work. Your fan spins without noise. You always have ice in the ice tray.

It sort of makes you feel insane. Not knowing what nice thing Jason has done without telling you. You’ve never seen him fix things around you apartment- or fill the ice tray!

So when you confront him about it, not with aggression but with slight bewilderment he’s a little bit stuck on how to respond.

“Are you… angry?” He asks with a tinge of embarrassment.

“No…I’m not…but… why don’t you tell me you do all of this?”

He averts his eyes for moment “I don’t know… guess I just… sort of do them without thinking too much about it. And I don’t want to make you think you have to thank me for all this stuff- I just… wanna make sure you’re comfortable.”

“Oh… well, that’s very sweet of you but I want to thank you. I want to appreciate everything you do for me-“

“You do.”

“No- I don’t… you- I want you to know how much I appreciate you. You do so much for me- even things that aren’t like urgent. I’ve never seen you fill that ice tray- but there’s always ice!”

Jason can’t help but let a small chuckle slip.

You feign a hard stare but your lip curls a little. “It’s not funny. Makes me feel insane. Like I got a-a magic house fairy that fixes things and buys toilet paper. You don’t have to do all that stuff for me you know.”

“I want to.”

“Why?”

“Cause I love you-…” it slips out before he can stop it.

Shit. Is it too soon to say that?

“…well. I love you too.” You return with a smile.

[a-casxandra]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊

Sylus x non-mc | Sylus's version of third place in a two-person home [Zayne's fic]

Part 1

They discharged you the next morning.

You left the hospital in a haze, Sylus’s hand hovering awkwardly at your back as though he didn’t know how to touch you anymore. The drive home was silent. The roads blurred past the window, your forehead pressed against the cold glass. You could still feel it – the emptiness in your womb. The phantom pain of something you lost, something that would never come back.

When you entered the house, it felt different. Colder.

The world continued to move outside – cars passing, neighbours laughing, children playing – but inside you, everything had stopped. It was all just… silence.

You lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, your hand resting over your belly where life once grew. The tears came quietly, without sobs, like a leaking faucet that refused to be fixed.

Not even half a day had passed when Sylus’s phone rang.

You didn’t need to ask who it was. You could hear her muffled voice through the speaker – MC.

“Something happened with Lilith,” Sylus said, running a hand through his hair. His crimson eyes flicked to you. He looked exhausted. Guilty. But determined nonetheless. “I need to go to the hospital.”

You remained silent. Your chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped out everything that made you human and left only an empty shell.

“[Y/n], please understand—”

“She’s using her,” you whispered, your voice calm but trembling. “She’s using Lilith to get you back.”

“Don’t say that,” Sylus snapped instinctively, but his tone softened immediately. “Please… she’s sick… she needs me. I promise, I’ll be back tonight.”

Promise.

That word echoed in your mind like poison dripping into a well.

The same promise he made when you begged him to stay just a day ago.

The same promise he made… the day you lost your child.

Your lips parted, the words falling out so softly it almost didn’t sound like your own voice. “If you leave now… don’t expect to have a wife you can come back to.”

His eyes widened, flickering with something unreadable – guilt, panic, disbelief. But then his phone rang again, louder, insistent.

“I’ll come back,” Sylus said, voice tight with urgency. He leaned down to kiss your forehead but you turned away, staring blankly at the wall as he grabbed his keys.

And just like that, he left.

Without looking back.

You sat there.

For hours.

The clock ticked. The sun moved across the sky. Shadows shifted across the floor.

You sat there.

Staring at the front door long after it closed. The silence pressed against your eardrums so hard it felt like they would burst.

Sylus had made his choice.

He always did.

And now… it was your turn to make yours.

By sunset, you were done packing.

Two suitcases by the door. Only yours.

You left behind everything Sylus ever gave you – the expensive dresses he bought to impress his mother, the jewellery you wore to his company parties, the bags, the shoes, even your wedding ring. You placed it gently on the vanity table beside the framed wedding photo.

You stared at the photo for a long time. At your smiling face. At his quiet, reserved smile. At the way his arms were wrapped around you like you were something precious.

Your vision blurred with tears. You swallowed the sob threatening to escape your throat. Then you turned away.

You walked out the door without looking back.

This time, it was your choice to leave.

And you weren’t coming back.

Author's note : sylus' pov next, maybe i'll post it tomorrow since it's already written in my drafts. you guys can go crazy in comment section lol i mean, the most entertaining part about writing a story, is the reactions and comments from readers. (◍•ᴗ•◍)❤

[kiwriteswords]

Yours, Mine, but Never Ours [Aaron Hotchner x Reader]

Masterlist|| Ao3||Word Count: 6.6k|| AN: This is inspired by the gifset of Hotch + his wedding ring last week. I really mulled over the idea of Hotch, his trauma, and likely idea of marriage. I had originally--and really went back and forth on this--planned out a sad ending for this, but I couldn't do that to you all. Tags/Warnings: female reader, established relationship, jack hotchner, mentions of Haley hotchner, fear of commitment, marriage issues, spoilers to seasons 3-5, Derek and Rossi giving Hotch shit for his personal issues, talks of marriage, talks of death, angst, hurt/comfort, anxiety, reader couldn't give two damns about marriage, but hotch is old fashioned and conflicted, happy ending Summary: For someone as traditional as Aaron Hotchner, the topic of marriage shouldn't be one he shied away from. But given his past? Nothing scares him more.

Aaron Hotchner stood at the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the warmth of soapy water lapping at his wrists.

Golden evening sunlight spilled softly through the half-open blinds, casting gentle stripes of light across the countertop and illuminating the porcelain dishes he methodically rinsed.

Behind him, at the kitchen island, Jack sat with homework spread around him, colored pencils scattered like confetti across the marble surface.

Aaron listened quietly to the gentle rhythm of pencil scratches and Jack's occasional murmurs as he read aloud softly.

"Dad?" Jack’s voice broke through the quiet hum of the dishwasher.

"Yeah, buddy?" Hotch replied, glancing over his shoulder.

Jack looked thoughtful, head tilted slightly, his brow furrowed in a familiar expression—

One he'd inherited from Aaron himself.

"Are you going to marry her?"

The casual innocence of the question hit Aaron like a splash of cold water. 

He paused mid-motion, water dripping from the plate suspended above the sink, eyes fixed on the steady drip-drip-drip into the basin below.

"Marry who, Jack?" He managed a neutral tone, heart suddenly heavier in his chest.

Hotch expected your name to come from Jack, but it still continued to catch him off guard. Jack’s eyes sparkled, entirely oblivious to his father's sudden tension.

Aaron slowly set the plate down, turning off the faucet, and dried his hands carefully with a navy towel. He took a deliberate breath, calming the racing pulse beneath his carefully composed expression.

“Jack…” he hesitated slightly, keeping his tone even.

"Yeah!" Jack interrupted eagerly, nodding vigorously. "I really like her. I think she’d be a good wife for you. And she makes pancakes better than anyone."

Aaron felt the corners of his lips twitch, betraying the smile fighting to emerge at Jack’s earnestness. 

You had become such an integral part of their lives that he hadn’t fully realized how deeply Jack had attached himself to you. Or perhaps, he admitted quietly to himself, how deeply he himself had become attached.

"Well," he began, stepping slowly toward the island, where Jack sat expectantly. Aaron leaned forward slightly, meeting his son's bright eyes. "Sometimes, marriage is… it’s complicated."

Jack tilted his head curiously, brows knitting deeper. "Why?"

Aaron swallowed hard, suddenly conscious of the persistent ache that seemed permanently woven into the fabric of his heart—

A remnant of old wounds never fully healed.

"Because…when you marry someone, you promise to always keep them safe, to always be there. And sometimes…" He paused, gently ruffling Jack’s soft brown hair, searching for the right words. "Sometimes life makes it hard to keep that promise."

Jack’s expression softened, becoming thoughtful and mature beyond his years. "Like with mom?"

Aaron's heart clenched painfully at the simple acknowledgment, but he forced a gentle nod. "Yeah, buddy. Like with mom."

Jack considered this silently, carefully rolling a blue pencil between his small fingers. Finally, he looked back up at his father with steady, serious eyes. "But we still love mom. And I think you can still love someone else too. Like you love mom, but different."

Aaron’s breath caught sharply in his chest. He stared down at his son, astounded by the profound wisdom carried in such innocent words. Jack gave him a shy smile, small but deeply reassuring.

Aaron reached out gently, placing a steadying hand on Jack’s shoulder. He knew he owed his son honesty—

At least as much as he could comfortably offer.

"You know," he finally said, voice soft, vulnerable, and undeniably sincere, "I really care about her."

"Good." Jack nodded firmly, returning to his homework with newfound decisiveness. "Because we both like having her around."

Aaron straightened, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Through the window, twilight began to deepen, colors bleeding into shades of lavender and deep blue, shadows stretching quietly across their small, familiar kitchen.

As the quiet settled once more, Aaron found himself thinking about you, about Jack’s words, and about the soft warmth he'd started associating with your presence. It terrified him, the depth of this feeling—

How easily and completely you’d settled into every corner of his life and heart.

Jack resumed his homework as if nothing monumental had just transpired, the gentle scratching of his pencil filling the contemplative silence. Aaron watched him briefly, a soft, affectionate ache filling his chest, before turning slowly back toward the sink.

In the quiet simplicity of the moment, he knew one thing clearly:

His son was right. You had quietly, undeniably woven yourself into their lives.

And now, Aaron had to figure out what to do about it.

The thought took root quietly, like an errant seed drifting into fertile soil, taking hold in the darkness and growing tangled and stubborn as it bloomed.

Marriage.

Aaron hadn’t intended for it to become something he thought about, but Jack’s innocent question echoed relentlessly in his mind—

At work, in meetings, late at night when he tried to find rest. It threaded through his thoughts when he watched you reading quietly on the couch, when he saw you laughing with Jack in the backyard, and even now, as he stood in the bullpen at the BAU, staring blankly through the window of his office, watching you across the bullpen.

You were speaking animatedly to Garcia, laughing at something she’d whispered. Your hand fluttered briefly to your hair, brushing a loose strand behind your ear—

A gesture so natural. 

So ordinary, yet lately, every little detail seemed steeped in meaning.

He wondered how he’d gotten here—

How you'd become someone he couldn’t imagine living without. 

The idea itself was quietly terrifying. After Haley’s death, after the brutal way that chapter of his life ended, Aaron had silently vowed to himself that he'd never step back into that vulnerability again. He’d convinced himself that emotional isolation was simpler, safer—

Far less painful.

But you were a soft disruption to his hardened rules, somehow slipping quietly through every defensive barrier he’d erected around his heart. 

Now, as he watched you laugh, your eyes sparkling and filled with warmth, he realized with stark clarity that he wanted to spend his life with you. But at the very same moment, something deep and raw within him recoiled, filled with dread at the risk that kind of love presented.

He thought of Haley—

The first time they'd met, their wedding day, the promises whispered softly in candlelight, promises of forever that had ended abruptly. 

Violently. 

Marriage meant vulnerability. It meant offering his heart, wholly and without reserve, knowing how easily it could be ripped away.

“You good, Hotch?”

Dave’s voice broke him sharply from his thoughts. Aaron startled slightly, turning to find Rossi leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, observing him with careful eyes.

“Fine,” Aaron answered quickly—

Too quickly, he realized.

Rossi raised a brow, stepping slowly inside the office, nudging the door closed behind him. “You’ve never been good at lying to me, Aaron.”

Hotch sighed softly, rubbing his forehead. “Just...thinking.”

“Must be some pretty heavy thoughts,” Rossi observed, following Aaron’s gaze out toward you. Understanding crossed his face. “Ah.”

“It’s nothing,” Aaron deflected quietly, knowing it was useless even as he spoke the words.

Rossi moved further into the room, settling against the edge of the desk. 

Aaron shot him a quiet look, momentarily surprised. Rossi simply offered a sympathetic smile.

“You’re not exactly subtle, Aaron,” Rossi said gently. “I’ve seen that look before—the one where the past and the future start to blur together.”

Aaron hesitated, the tension in his jaw visible, emotions pressing beneath a carefully maintained surface. “Jack…Jack asked me if I would marry her,” He sighed, “It was just an innocent question. But—” He broke off, feeling foolish.

“But you’re terrified,” Rossi finished quietly.

Aaron’s eyes flickered back out the window. You had moved, crossing back toward your own desk, unaware of the turmoil raging inside him.

He felt selfish, torn between longing and fear, aching for the simplicity of your touch, your warmth, yet paralyzed by the haunting memories of what could happen—what had happened once before.

“Marriage almost destroyed me once,” Aaron admitted quietly, the words barely audible even in the quiet of the office. “Not just divorce—but the guilt, the danger, losing Haley the way I did. Losing everything. Jack almost losing both of us…almost losing Jack. I swore I’d never put anyone else through that. Especially someone I—”

“Someone you love,” Rossi interjected gently.

Aaron drew a sharp breath, giving a stiff nod. “Someone I love.”

Rossi pushed gently, cautiously. “Have you talked to her about it?”

Aaron shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving you as you settled at your desk, pen dancing lightly across paper. He took in every detail—the way your hair fell against your cheek, the graceful slope of your shoulders, the familiar tilt of your head—and suddenly felt the unbearable heaviness of what he stood to lose.

“It isn’t fair to her,” Aaron murmured, voice thickening. “She deserves certainty. Not my fears.”

Rossi placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Aaron, don’t underestimate her. You’re afraid because you’ve lived the worst-case scenario—but you’ve also survived it. You’re allowed to be happy again.”

Aaron was quiet for a long moment, absorbing Rossi’s words, feeling them settle somewhere deep and aching within him.

“I don’t know if I can put her at risk like that. I don’t know if I could survive losing someone else,” he admitted softly. “But God help me—I can’t imagine letting her go either.”

Rossi’s expression softened knowingly, compassionately. “Then don’t.”

Aaron let the simple truth of it sink in, a quiet ache lodged in his chest. His eyes returned to you again, watching as you tucked your hair behind your ear once more, your smile gentle, unburdened.

I can’t lose you, he thought desperately, even as fear tightened around him, relentless and choking.

And he knew—painfully, inevitably—that sooner or later, he’d have to face the possibility of opening that conversation, sharing those fears, or risk losing you anyway.

But for now, he stood quietly in the shadow of his past, trapped between memories of what had been lost and the quiet, terrifying beauty of what could still be found.

hat night, the darkness in the bedroom felt heavier, thicker somehow—each silence pulsing with uncertainty. Aaron lay on his back, eyes tracing the shadowy patterns along the ceiling as he felt your soft breathing beside him. His chest tightened with anxiety, as though every quiet breath was slowly stealing oxygen from his lungs.

He’d always been skilled with words—careful, purposeful—but tonight, they tangled uselessly on his tongue, caught by an invisible weight that felt impossibly heavy.

“Aaron?” Your voice broke through the quiet, gentle and sleepy, as your fingers brushed softly along his chest. “You’re tense.”

His breath stuttered briefly in his throat. Of course, you’d noticed. 

You always did.

“Can’t sleep,” he murmured, voice rough with the edge of nerves.

You shifted beside him, the bed softly creaking beneath your movements. Aaron felt his heart quicken as you propped yourself up slightly, your eyes studying him thoughtfully in the dim glow of moonlight.

“Something’s been bothering you,” you whispered knowingly. Your fingertips drew small, comforting circles against his chest. “You want to talk about it?”

For a long, hesitant moment, he almost didn’t. Aaron feared the weight of what he was about to say—

The risk of shattering everything he’d grown to love.

Yet the tenderness in your touch, the gentle patience radiating from your expression, urged him onward. You deserved honesty, even if he was afraid of what came next.

Slowly, cautiously, he met your gaze. “Marriage,” he said quietly, voice tight and guarded.

Your fingers paused, hovering briefly. Aaron’s heart pounded painfully as silence settled heavily between you. He braced himself for you to pull away, for hurt or disappointment to cloud your eyes. 

He wouldn’t blame you if you got up and left—

He knew what it sounded like, the fear in his voice. 

How could he expect you to stay if he couldn’t offer more?

But instead, your lips curved softly upward, surprising him. A quiet chuckle escaped you, gentle and warm. “Is that what’s been haunting you all week?”

Aaron frowned in confusion, blinking slowly. “You...knew?”

“I had a feeling something’s been bothering you,” you whispered, your eyes gentle, affectionate, reassuring. You shifted closer, your cheek resting against his shoulder, hand gently moving once more over his chest. “Aaron, listen. I understand why marriage scares you. You don’t have to apologize for it.”

He exhaled softly, relief mingling uneasily with confusion. “Y-You don’t mind?” he murmured uncertainly.

You shook your head gently against him, voice quiet yet firm. “Aaron, marriage—it’s just paperwork to me. A certificate. A legality.” You looked up at him, eyes sparkling with gentle humor. “As a former prosecutor, you should understand paperwork doesn’t always mean much.”

A small laugh escaped him—

Surprising.

Genuine. 

Breaking some of the tension that had been suffocating him for days. 

His chest loosened, though the shadow in his mind lingered. “Still,” he continued softly, “most people expect it at some point. A wedding, a ring—something.”

You squeezed him gently, your voice clear and steady in the quiet night. “If I ever married anyone, Aaron, I’d want it to be you. But I’d never ask that of you. I know what you’ve been through. What we have—this—means more to me than vows and rings and certificates ever could.”

Aaron felt something powerful surge through him—gratitude, relief, warmth—and yet something else lingered, stubbornly unresolved. 

He wrapped his arms carefully around you, pulling you close as you settled gently against him. He pressed his lips softly to your forehead, inhaling the comforting scent of your hair.

“Thank you,” he whispered softly, meaning it more deeply than words could express.

You hummed contentedly, drifting gently toward sleep again, wrapped safely in his arms. But as your breathing evened out, Aaron lay wide awake, staring once again at the ceiling, haunted by the visions your words conjured in his mind.

He imagined a life for you—

A real one.

Complete with celebrations and milestones, the kind that were marked by gold bands, carefully spoken promises, laughter, joy, perhaps even children of your own. The thought pierced him deeply—

A life you might never have because of his past, because of his pain, because of him.

He wondered if he was stopping you from the quiet life you deserved. 

The one with a husband who wouldn’t bring danger home constantly. He cringed, thinking of another man’s hands getting to hold him at the end of the night, but this ordinary man could give you so much more than Aaron was comfortable even thinking about. 

Guilt wrapped tightly around his heart, squeezing with a terrible, relentless force. He imagined resentment clouding your eyes someday, silent regrets staining quiet evenings, things left unspoken but deeply felt. The selfishness of it stung sharply.

As you slept softly beside him, trusting him, loving him unconditionally, Aaron silently grappled with the invisible weight pressing heavily against his chest.

He knew you'd meant what you'd said tonight—

He had no doubts about your sincerity. Yet it still haunted him, the fear that one day you’d look at him and realize you deserved more than he could ever offer.

And as he lay awake, your body curled softly, trustingly, in his arms, Aaron realized with an aching certainty:

He'd give anything to make sure you never regretted choosing him—even if it meant confronting every fear he'd ever had.

The weeks turned quietly into months, each day deepening the gentle rhythm between you, Aaron, and Jack. The comfort of routine wrapped around you both, steady and reassuring, but beneath that comfortable surface, Aaron felt himself growing restless—

An anxiety simmering just under the warmth, quiet but ever-present.

It was the milestones that haunted him most.

Like the afternoon Penelope burst into the bullpen, glittering ring catching every light, tears of joy streaming down her face as the team quickly crowded around her.

“I said yes!” she had cried joyfully, throwing her arms around Morgan, who laughed heartily and lifted her off the ground. The bullpen buzzed with congratulations, laughter, and plans for celebrations.

Aaron had watched quietly from the side, heart tightening painfully at your gentle smile and the sincere warmth in your eyes. You squeezed Penelope’s hand, genuinely thrilled for your friend, your voice filled with affection. But as Aaron stood slightly apart, his fingers clenched in quiet frustration, imagining you missing out on that kind of joy—

Of celebrations that revolved around promises he’d silently denied you.

The guilt lingered long after the excitement faded.

Or when the two of you attended a gala for the FBI, and he watched, heart heavy, as you introduced him to a former colleague of yours.

“This is Aaron Hotchner,” you’d said proudly, gently squeezing his arm. “My boyfriend.”

Boyfriend. 

Aaron had almost flinched at the word—

Not because he didn’t cherish it but because it felt so inadequate. 

He noticed the subtle reaction in your colleague’s eyes, the quick glance down at your hand, perhaps checking for a ring. He hated the way you quietly shifted your stance, almost defensively, as though expecting judgment.

Later that evening, in the darkness of the car ride home, Aaron felt you quietly watching him, reading the subtle tension in his jaw.

“Aaron,” you whispered gently, fingertips brushing his thigh, “you know none of that matters to me.”

But he hadn’t entirely believed you, even though he desperately wanted to.

Then there was the playdate at Jack’s friend’s house—

A moment, Aaron hadn’t anticipated hurting him so deeply.

“So, your wife mentioned Jack doesn’t like strawberries?” The other parent had asked casually, unloading snacks from grocery bags.

Aaron’s hesitation had been brief but painfully obvious. “Ah, actually…she’s not my wife,” he’d explained awkwardly. “My girlfriend. She’s—we live together.”

“Oh,” the parent said softly, embarrassment flashing over their face. “Sorry, I just assumed.”

Aaron had waved it away, pretending not to see the confusion, pretending not to notice the way the word ‘girlfriend’ seemed suddenly juvenile or inadequate.

He spent the rest of the afternoon tense, discomfort spreading through his chest, lingering even hours later as he walked into the kitchen and found you preparing dinner. 

Your gentle, easy smile pierced his heart.

“Hey,” you greeted softly. “Did Jack have fun?”

“Yes,” Aaron murmured, stepping behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist. 

He buried his face in your neck, inhaling the familiar warmth of your scent, his chest aching quietly.

You’d tilted your head gently back against him, feeling the tension in his embrace. “Everything okay?”

He’d wanted desperately to say yes—

To protect you from his burdens. 

But the words came out strained. “They thought you were my wife.”

Your shoulders stiffened slightly, then relaxed just as quickly. You’d turned in his arms, your expression patient and understanding. “Aaron, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know,” he sighed softly. “I just—I hate the idea of people misunderstanding your role in my life.”

You’d cupped his cheek gently, your thumb brushing soothingly over his skin. “I’m not worried about what they think, Aaron. I know exactly what I mean to you.”

He wanted so deeply to believe you, but even as you smiled reassuringly, he couldn’t shake the fear—

The persistent ache that whispered to him late at night, taunting him with visions of what you might eventually grow to resent.

And in the quiet darkness of his own mind, Aaron found himself caught between two impossible fears: losing you, or selfishly keeping you and robbing you of something you might one day desperately want.

He felt trapped—

Holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable day, you’d finally realize he couldn’t give you enough.

Penelope’s surprise bridal shower had transformed Rossi’s elegant backyard patio into something that looked like an enchanted garden, glowing softly beneath strands of golden fairy lights. Laughter and warm conversation carried gently through the cool evening air, mixing seamlessly with the low hum of soft music.

Aaron leaned back quietly in his chair, his eyes trailing across the table to you. Warm light flickered from small candles, catching softly in your hair and reflecting in your eyes, bright with laughter. You were seated beside Penelope, your hands resting gracefully atop the white linen tablecloth as you listened, fully engrossed in the conversation.

He knew he should have felt completely at ease surrounded by his team—his friends—but the unease he’d been carrying for weeks now seemed even heavier tonight.

“So, Garcia,” Emily called out teasingly, swirling her wine gently in her glass, a playful smile on her lips. “Did you choose the ring, or did you let your man surprise you?”

Penelope grinned brightly, eyes glittering with excitement. She extended her hand dramatically across the table, showcasing the ring proudly. “He surprised me, and he nailed it.”

JJ reached across the table, taking Penelope’s hand gently to admire the sparkling diamond more closely. “It’s gorgeous, Pen. He did amazing.”

Aaron watched quietly, his chest tightening uncomfortably as Emily’s gaze suddenly shifted toward you. “Alright, your turn,” Emily teased gently, nudging your elbow playfully. “What about you—what’s your dream ring?”

He saw your expression soften, eyes brightening as you leaned in closer, not a hint of discomfort or awkwardness visible. Aaron’s heart stalled briefly, his grip tightening subconsciously around the cool glass in his hand.

“Well,” you began softly, entirely casual, oblivious to the fact that your words were slowly twisting something inside of Aaron, “I’ve never really thought about it much, but probably something vintage-inspired. I’d want something delicate. Not too flashy.”

Aaron swallowed hard, feeling suddenly and irrationally nervous, as though everyone at the table might turn toward him at any second, reading plainly the conflict on his face. He forced himself to maintain a neutral expression, carefully raising his glass to his lips to hide his discomfort.

You continued, laughing softly, warmth in your voice, “Maybe something with a sapphire, even. I’ve never really been a diamond girl anyway.”

He caught Morgan’s eyes across the table in that moment—

Dark, knowing, and filled with playful seriousness. Morgan raised an eyebrow subtly, tilting his chin slightly toward Aaron as if to say, Are you taking notes? You better be.

Aaron looked away quickly, the weight of expectation and guilt pressing harder against his chest. He found himself staring into his wine glass, the deep red liquid gently swirling against the sides, feeling profoundly exposed. 

He felt selfish for holding back something that felt so normal, so easy to discuss for you and the others.

You glanced over at him just then, eyes warm, oblivious to the storm brewing quietly in his chest. Your smile was gentle, reassuring—

Always comforting. 

And yet, it only deepened the tightness in his chest, reinforcing his quiet dread.

Morgan cleared his throat quietly, leaning casually closer to Aaron, his voice pitched low enough that only the two of them could hear. “You good, Hotch?”

Aaron forced a careful nod, but Morgan wasn’t easily fooled. His friend’s expression softened knowingly, quietly supportive.

“Look,” Morgan said gently, glancing discreetly toward you, where you continued chatting warmly with JJ, “you know you’ve got something special. Don’t overthink it, man. She seems pretty clear about what matters most.”

Aaron nodded again, eyes still locked on you, heart aching deeply. He knew Morgan was right, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps you deserved more than he could offer—more than he’d ever be brave enough to give.

And as laughter and excited conversation continued to fill the air around him, Aaron quietly watched you, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t someday come to regret holding you back from the life you truly deserved.

The ride home was unbearably quiet.

Aaron’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles whitened beneath the pale illumination of passing streetlights. The silence in the car hung heavy, like an oppressive storm cloud, stifling any attempts at casual conversation. He felt trapped in his own head, frustration gnawing relentlessly at him.

Beside him, your posture was rigid, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you stared unseeingly out the passenger window. Every second of silence made Aaron’s chest feel tighter, every shallow breath adding fuel to the simmering frustration that refused to be contained.

Finally, you broke first.

“Are you seriously going to do this again?” Your voice was sharp, hurt simmering just beneath the surface. Your eyes flashed toward him in the dim light of the dashboard, wounded yet defiant.

Aaron’s jaw tightened, eyes locked forward, voice controlled and low. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Oh, please,” you snapped bitterly. “You’re tense, Aaron. You’ve been tense all night. Is it because of the damn ring conversation? Again?”

His eyes narrowed, fingers clenching tighter around the wheel. “I didn’t say a word about that.”

“You didn’t have to,” you retorted sharply. “You’ve been stuck in your own head for months now. Every time someone mentions marriage, or engagements, or God forbid a ring, you completely shut down. Do you honestly think I don’t notice?”

He exhaled sharply, frustration flaring dangerously in his chest. “You said yourself you’d want a ring. Vintage. Something delicate. Sapphires, wasn’t it?”

Your laugh was harsh, humorless. “Yeah, I did say that—because they asked. You’re making a huge deal out of nothing.”

“It’s not nothing!” Aaron’s voice rose sharply, surprising even himself. His eyes darkened, flickering with something raw and painful. “You don’t get it. You deserve all of that. You deserve someone who can give you exactly that, and I’m the one keeping it from you.”

“I told you,” you shot back, voice thickening with frustration and hurt, “I don’t care about a ring or a piece of paper or—”

“You say that now!” Aaron snapped, his words harsh and unyielding. “But what about later? What about ten years down the line when you resent me for not giving you the things you deserve, the life you pictured for yourself?”

Your eyes widened slightly in disbelief, anger sparking dangerously. “Are you kidding me right now? Aaron, I could die tomorrow. We could get into a crash right here, right now, and you really think I’d be worried about not being your wife? That some paperwork or a damn ring would make a difference in how I feel about you?”

Aaron’s jaw tightened further, breath ragged with emotion. “It’s not about the paperwork! It’s about making promises that I’ve already broken once. It’s about knowing the second I give you that, I could lose everything again. I don’t want that—I don’t want to lose you.”

“You think marriage changes that?” you challenged fiercely, voice shaking slightly. “I see myself old with you, Aaron. You. And that vision isn’t any stronger or weaker because we signed something or because I wear your ring.”

His voice cracked painfully. “You say that, but you don’t know—”

“No,” you interrupted harshly, hurt blazing in your eyes. “You’re pushing me away because you’re scared. Because you think wanting marriage again means risking it all again. Maybe you’re afraid because deep down, you actually want that with me.”

Aaron’s grip on the wheel was nearly painful, his voice dangerously quiet, trembling with barely-contained fury. “Enough.”

But you didn’t listen. You leaned closer, your voice fierce, challenging. “Is that it, Aaron? Is that what scares you? Because at the end of the day, you do want it—”

“Yes!” Aaron suddenly roared, slamming a hand against the wheel in frustration, the words erupting from somewhere deep and raw within him. The car filled with stunned silence, broken only by his heavy, ragged breathing.

His heart was pounding painfully, eyes filled with conflict, pain, and longing as he finally looked over at you, emotion raw and unguarded. “Yes,” he repeated, softer now, voice broken. “I want it. I want you. I want to call you my wife. I want it all, every damn thing that terrifies me, because I want to know that you’re mine—really mine.”

You stared back at him, eyes wide and glistening with tears, your anger replaced instantly by shock, empathy, and a deep, aching tenderness.

“I know it’s old fashioned--I’m old fashioned. But you don’t think that every day I think about wanting to buy you a ridiculously expensive ring? Or sign my entire life over to you? Because you already have it. Paper or not--my life is yours. I want you to have it. Take it.” Aaron exhaled heavily, voice unsteady with vulnerability. “But God, it scares me. It scares me more than losing you, because the moment we make it real—I could lose everything. Again.”

You reached out, your hand shaking slightly, gently resting on his tense arm. Your touch felt like an anchor amidst his storm, steadying him.

“Aaron,” you whispered softly, voice thick with emotion, “you're not going to lose me. Not because we marry or because we don't. I chose you, and I choose you every single day. Nothing changes that.”

He let out a ragged breath, feeling a quiet release in your words, but the fear still remained, tangled stubbornly within his heart.

And even as he pulled the car slowly into your driveway, the silence between you softening, Aaron knew he’d laid his fears bare, his heart open—

Completely vulnerable. 

The words had been said, and now, nothing could ever quite be the same again.

Not much was said--or done--after that conversation. A few goodnights to Jack, the quiet domesticity of getting ready for bed unfolded, but little words were said between the two of you that night. 

Exhaustion weighed far heavier on Aaron’s shoulders and he felt as if he had revealed so much--partly worried too much to you. He didn’t want to push it…push you. 

Aaron woke suddenly, sharply, his breath catching painfully in his throat as his eyes snapped open to the cold emptiness beside him. The sheets on your side of the bed were wrinkled but cool, evidence of your absence already lingering heavily in the room.

A wave of raw panic surged through him, immediate and overwhelming, twisting his stomach into painful knots. Aaron’s heart began to pound fiercely, hammering in his chest as he quickly sat up, scanning the bedroom for any trace of you. But the silence around him was oppressive, mocking, thick with dread.

He called your name hoarsely. 

No response. 

His mind flooded suddenly with memories—

Painful, vivid recollections of another empty bed, another empty room years before, and the heartbreaking absence Haley had left.

He was too late then, too stubborn, too closed-off. He’d pushed Haley away, and now—he’d pushed you away too.

Aaron felt completely unraveled, breath shallow, panic rising painfully in his chest. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, desperately trying to steady himself, fighting the pressure building behind them.

He’d finally done it. He’d pushed too hard, said too much, and now you were gone.

Gone because he couldn’t bend. Couldn’t compromise. Couldn’t allow himself to trust you fully, even after you’d given him everything. He’d selfishly forced you to carry his fears, his grief, his trauma—

And now he was alone.

He had no idea how long he sat there, paralyzed, heart painfully clenched, completely lost in the dark spiral of his thoughts until—

The quiet sound of the front door opening downstairs pulled him sharply from his despair.

Aaron froze, heart hammering with sudden hope. 

Or maybe fear. 

He couldn’t be sure.

A moment later, your footsteps echoed gently up the stairs, followed by the soft rustle of bags and a familiar, comforting scent of coffee drifting into the room. Aaron rose unsteadily, his pulse erratic, relief blooming tentatively beneath layers of anxiety and pain.

You stepped through the doorway, arms full—one hand gripping a bag from your favorite bagel shop, the other balancing a cardboard tray of coffees. When your eyes met his, you paused, startled by his clearly shaken appearance.

“Hey,” you said gently, surprise softening your expression, your voice filled with cautious warmth. “I wanted to surprise you with makeup bagels and coffee. Figured we both needed it.”

Aaron didn’t respond immediately. He couldn’t. He simply crossed the room in a heartbeat, bridging the painful gap between you, and pulled you fiercely into his arms.

You gasped softly, taken aback by the intensity behind his embrace, but your body quickly relaxed against him, sensing something deeper, more vulnerable in the way his arms clung desperately around you.

“Aaron?” you whispered, uncertainly at first, then tenderly as you felt him tremble slightly against you. “Hey, I’m right here.”

He tightened his hold, burying his face against your shoulder, his voice rough and barely audible. “I thought you left.”

You set the bags carefully aside on the nearby dresser and gently cupped his face in your palms, forcing him to look at you. The emotion in his eyes nearly undid you—

Painful vulnerability, haunted by old ghosts, old fears.

“Aaron, listen to me,” you said softly, firmly. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise you, I’m here. I didn’t leave you.”

He shook his head slightly, eyes closing for a brief moment, unable to fully trust his voice. When he opened them again, his expression was raw and achingly sincere.

“You could have,” he whispered brokenly. “You could have left, and I wouldn’t have blamed you. I was—I’ve been so unfair to you.”

You shook your head gently, your eyes filled with quiet strength and compassion. “Aaron, I need you to understand something—I chose you, knowing exactly who you are. Knowing your past, your fears, your stubbornness—all of it. And I’d choose you a thousand times over.”

He exhaled shakily, eyes glistening with unshed tears, his chest rising and falling rapidly as your words sank deeply into him. Still holding his face tenderly in your hands, you pressed your forehead gently against his.

“I’m begging you,” you murmured softly, voice steady and filled with gentle pleading, “Please start believing me.”

Aaron nodded slowly, trying desperately to internalize every word. His heart was still trembling, still afraid, but your unwavering warmth anchored him back into reality.

“I’ll try,” he whispered, the words thick with emotion. “I’ll keep trying.”

“Good,” you breathed softly, thumb brushing tenderly across his cheek. “Because I love you far too much to let you keep fighting these ghosts alone.”

His lips curved faintly; finally, the relief washed over him in waves. He tilted his head slightly, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to your forehead. He silently vowed to himself, again and again, that he would learn to trust—to accept the gift of your promise without fear.

And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to fully believe that the quiet future you’d promised him was real. That maybe, this time, the ghosts could finally rest.

Weeks turned quietly into months, the heaviness that had once shadowed every quiet moment slowly lifting, replaced instead by a gentle warmth—

A sense of ease Aaron hadn't felt in years. The ghosts still lingered, but they were softer now, quieter, fading slowly into the background noise of a life filled instead with laughter, steady reassurance, and you.

The team’s latest case had brought you all to Las Vegas. After the successful resolution, Hotch had surprised everyone by suggesting you all take an extra day before returning to Quantico. It was unusual—perhaps even out of character—but the team had been thrilled, quickly dispersing into the bright lights and bustling energy of the city.

After briefly checking in with Reid—who eagerly took off to visit his mother—the rest of the team scattered into various plans. It left Aaron alone with you, wandering the city, a soft and easy silence settling between you as you navigated colorful streets bathed in neon and laughter.

As the afternoon sun warmed your skin, you glanced up at Aaron, catching the thoughtful expression lingering on his face. “You’re quiet,” you murmured gently, sliding your hand into his, fingers interlocking effortlessly. “Everything okay?”

Aaron smiled softly, squeezing your hand reassuringly. “Yeah, everything’s good. Just... thinking.”

You raised a playful eyebrow, gently nudging his side. “You’re always thinking.”

Aaron’s gaze flickered down to your intertwined fingers, thumb brushing gently over yours. His voice softened thoughtfully. “I suppose I am. But today, I’m thinking about something specific.”

Your eyes met his curiously, noticing the quiet intensity and subtle apprehension in his gaze. “And what’s that?”

He paused, taking a steadying breath, his voice quiet and measured. “I’ve been wondering if you’d be open to something.”

Your heart fluttered slightly, curiosity and anticipation sparking warmly through your chest. You nodded gently, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “I’m listening.”

Aaron slowed his steps, gently pulling you aside, away from the bustling crowd, into the quiet shade of a small alcove near an ornate fountain. He reached carefully into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small velvet box, his movements steady but cautious.

Your breath hitched softly in your throat as you watched him slowly open the box, revealing a delicate, vintage-inspired sapphire ring—

Exactly the kind you’d described that night at Penelope’s bridal shower. Your heart swelled warmly, emotion rising suddenly and powerfully within you.

Aaron’s eyes held yours steadily, soft yet vulnerable. “I know I’ve made things complicated. That I’ve let my fears dictate how I approached all of this.” He swallowed quietly, his thumb running gently over the small box. “But despite all that fear, all that worry—I’m old-fashioned. I want to marry you. Not because you expect it, but because I do. I want to do right by you. I want to promise myself to you openly.”

He hesitated slightly, voice quieter, gentler. “So, I was thinking… maybe we should just elope? Here. Today. Just us. No fuss, no expectations—just you and me.”

Emotion tightened your throat, eyes shimmering with unshed tears of joy as you gazed back at him, your voice warm and steady. “Aaron, of course. Of course I’ll marry you—today, tomorrow, whenever you want. I don’t need the ceremony or fuss. All I’ve ever wanted was you.”

He exhaled softly, tension visibly leaving his shoulders, relief flooding his expression as he gently slipped the delicate sapphire ring onto your finger. “Are you sure?”

You laughed gently, pulling him into a warm, reassuring embrace, your voice filled with love, confidence, and sincerity. “Aaron, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. You are it for me—always have been, always will be. Nothing else matters.”

Aaron’s arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you close, and you felt the steady thud of his heartbeat against your chest. 

In that moment, beneath the shimmering Vegas sunlight, surrounded by the gentle sounds of laughter and splashing fountains, Aaron felt a deep, profound sense of peace.

All the lingering fear, the hesitation, the self-sabotage—

They vanished instantly as your reassuring words echoed gently in his ears, resonating deep within his heart.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, smiling warmly against your skin as he whispered, “Then, let’s go get married?”

And just like that—

Quietly, easily, and perfectly.

You both stepped forward together, leaving behind fears and ghosts alike, moving instead toward the joyful certainty of forever.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @superlegend216

[spearofheaven]

GETTING STICKY.ᐟ — spider-man! toji fushiguro

SUM. breaking the bed with your superhero boyfriend

CONTENTS. 18+ content, MDNI. x fem reader. 800 words. unprotected p in v. bed breaking. improper use of webs (mentioned once). dom toji. use of baby and doll.

A/N. no i haven’t worked on the long fic 💔😣

SPIDER-MAN! TOJI whose strength had always been a trending topic in the morning’s edition of the daily bugle after he lifted a subway train with just his web-covered hands without so much as breaking a sweat.

forums on reddit were dedicated to calculating just how much that weighed, each user trying to figure out just how much the masked hero could lift before unanimously coming to one conclusion: spider-man was really fucking strong.

..all dedicated to the same toji who lost track of just how strong he was whenever he was inside of you.

“atta baby, there we-” toji pushed his cock into your slick cunt, pushing through that initial ring of resistance until he managed to bottom out, “-go.”

but then again, how was he supposed to remember when you squeezed around his cock like you wanted to milk him dry? your walls seemed to take the shape of his shaft with ease, gripping around him like a tight vice.

toji gave you some grace—starting off with slow, shallow thrusts. but then you started to whine and wiggle against him. impatient as ever. “go faster, baby, please.” he couldn’t bring himself to deny your needy request, not with the way your hips started moving back, trying to meet him halfway.

even with the webs securely binding your hands together, you were eager. eager to move, eager to grasp whatever you had next to you.

“yeah?” plap! “you can take what i give you? no runnin’ away?” plap! you nodded almost eagerly along to his words, “i can take it, i can take it, toji!”

“yeah, you can,” he almost affirmed, tip kissing your cervix every time he bottomed out. “take everything i give you so well, doll,” toji leaned down, pressing a kiss onto your shoulder while he kept rutting into you.

“f-fuck, just like that! just like that!” your moans bounced off the paper-thin walls, almost molding into the perfect symphony with each loud squelch! and fwap fwap fwap! your slick coated his shaft completely, dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets.

“just like that?” toji punctuated his mocking words with a slam of his hips, “just like that? yeah, baby?” you nodded like a bobblehead, burying your head into your pillow to attempt to muffle your moans.

the bed started shaking underneath the two of you, screws clobbering onto the floor. toji didn’t seem fazed that you were sinking inch by inch, fingers rubbing at your clit with quick precision.

“toji, toji, toji!” each moan of his name was like pure music to his ears, his hands instinctively gripping your waist all that much tighter.

“toji, the bed!” your warning came out a loud mewl, finally registering in his mind. your fingers dug into the silk sheets underneath, eyes rolling back while your cunt gushed around his shaft like a broken faucet.

the bed in question creaked on its hinges, headboard slamming against the wall with each sinful thrust of his hips. “mhm, what about the bed?” he drawled out, “use your words, doll.”

before you had the chance to respond, the bed gave out. one minute you were several feet above ground and the next, you were on the floor with what remained of your bed frame. “…the bed’s gonna break. again.”

“whoops,” the bark of laughter that left his lips let you know just how sorry he was. you smacked the side of his arm, only making the man laugh harder. much to your displeasure. you looked around at all the scattered pieces of chipped wood on the floor, the wooden frame completely annihilated.

“where are we supposed to sleep tonight?” the million dollar question. toji simply shrugged, leaning over and pressing a kiss on your shoulder. he seemed more worried about undoing the strings of webs on your hands.

“i’ll fix it tomorrow. don’t worry so much, baby,” toji uttered, completely distracted and blissfully unaware. his lips moved up to gently suck on your collarbone.

“toji, there isn’t anything to fix.” you gestured to the mess surrounding the two of you, making him look up.

“huh,” he noted, standing up from his spot before extending his hand out to you. toji cleared a little path onto the corner of the room where the two of you wouldn’t get a splinter, “we can just buy another one tomorrow.”

“the guy at the furniture store’s gonna give us a weird look. it’s our third time buying a bed frame in less than a year.” the man had already questioned the two of you when you went two months ago with this same problem.

his hands went down to rest on your hips, holding you close to him, “so?” even with a broken bed, the man was completely unbothered. “we’re giving back to the community ‘n stuff.”

and almost like that wasn’t nearly bad enough, a bright yellow noise complaint notice was plastered smack middle onto your creaky, unfixed door the next morning.

the sales clerk at the furniture didn’t seem to take it the same way when the two of you walked in the next day, immediately giving you both a dirty look. “another one? the last was supposed to be heavy duty.”

you wanted the ground to swallow you full.

and toji simply seemed amused. his scar stretched as his lips curled into a subtle smirk, like he was proud of himself, “we need a titanium one. last one wasn’t that heavy duty.”

[dawngyu]

WHAT REMAINS THE SAME

pairing: choi beomgyu x single-parent reader

On the hardest, most terrifying day of your life, when your body is tearing open and everything feels like it’s coming undone, his name is the only one your heart remembers to call for.

warnings: childhood friends, longing, romance, angst, second chance, pregnancy, set somewhere in 90s, mistakes, parenting, flashbacks, timeskips, guilt, alcohol-induced!manipulation, descriptions of giving birth, subtle signs of postpartum!d, plot heavy, pov switching, drunk in-love beomgyu (lol), abandonment, used different idols as ocs. if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything. this is a work of fiction.

smut!warnings: multiple-smut scenes, missionary, nipple-play, fingering, oral!fem receiving, virginity-loss.

wc: 31k — playlist

notes: hiii! took long but she's here. i've dreamt about this once, and i couldn't stop writing. while I’ve done some research to better understand what it’s like to be a mother, there may still be inaccuracies, i did my best to approach the subject with care and respect. xxx

How does it feel to grow up with someone, know their laughter, their fears, the way their voice sounds in the dark and then never see them again?

A part of you is missing and you’re the only one who knows.

Would things be easier if there was closure?

Closure when your parents shattered whatever was left of a home, walking away like love was something that could be unlearned. Closure when you realized your dreams of college were slipping, no matter how tightly you held on. Closure when your anger turned inward—when your foot slammed into a doorframe and the only person you could blame was the one looking back in the mirror.

Would it hurt less if you had said goodbye to him? Or would it have made losing him even worse?

"Mom, I'm gonna be late!"

You hurriedly dab lipstick onto your lips, your other hand frantically smoothing down your hair, hoping it doesn’t look like a complete disaster.

"Mommy?"

"Just a second, sweetheart," you mumble, shoving the lipstick back onto the cluttered vanity before standing up to steal one last glance in the mirror. It’s not perfect. But then again, when have you ever been?

You step out of the room, each movement slower than it should be, the kind of tired that sleep can’t fix clinging to your bones. The stairs creak beneath your feet, groaning like they know how heavy it all is.

At the bottom, she’s already waiting. Your daughter, backpack snug and shoes on the wrong feet again, bouncing like the world is brand new. Her smile hits you like sunlight through a window you forgot was there... so full of life it steals the breath from your lungs.

You force a smile back. You’re getting good at that.

It’s almost cruel, how radiant she looks. Hair brushed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with a kind of hope you haven’t felt in years. And then there’s you, barely held together, eyes raw from the night you didn’t sleep, wearing yesterday’s grief under today’s clothes.

People say kids reflect their parents. But she glows, and you… you’re flickering. And still, you kneel to tie her shoelaces. Still, you kiss her forehead and tell her she’s going to have the best day. Because even when you’re unraveling, you stitch yourself back together for her.

"You ready?"

"Aye, aye, captain!" she giggles.

You should be laughing with her, but your steps slow as your eyes catch the steady drip of the kitchen faucet. The soft plink, plink, plink echoes, a reminder of another thing left unfixed, another problem waiting for your attention.

You exhale, rubbing your temple. “Guess I’ll have to call someone to fix that… again.”

When you turn back, she’s already watching you—wide-eyed, her face painted with innocent curiosity. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t understand the weight of things like broken faucets, overdue bills, and work that keeps you up at night.

And you don’t want her to. Not while she can still giggle over silly things and believe the world is simple.

You double-check the locks before leaving. It’s muscle memory by now. Stove off, windows closed, doors latched tight. You scan the room one last time. You carry her to the car, buckle her in, and start the engine. The morning air is cold, the silence even colder but she fills it like she always does. Why are there more clouds today? Why are wheels round? Why is it called a car?

And you answer every question, every single one, because as long as she’s asking, you get to speak. You get to be known. You get to be real to someone. She knows your voice. She trusts it. And in her tiny, curious world, you are enough.

You remember the beginning. Those nights when she was barely one and you were… barely human. When her cries echoed through the walls and your body was too heavy with fatigue to even cry back. When no position, no lullaby, no amount of rocking made her stop and you were left wondering what you were doing wrong.

There were nights you stood in the hallway, holding her like a lifeline, tears sliding silently down your face while hers screamed out loud, both of you breaking in different languages.

But you’re here now, driving her to school, answering questions about clouds and wheels and words. You think… maybe you made it through the worst of it. You're still here, hands on the wheel, heart somewhere in the rearview mirror.

"Nari!" The booming voice cut through the air the moment you stepped out of the car, your daughter still nestled in your arms. You barely had time to turn before a familiar figure came sprinting toward you, like a man starved for something he’d only been missing a week. It made you chuckle, he always acted like it had been years since he last saw her.

"Uncle Binnie!"

Nari wriggled free, launching herself into his waiting arms. He caught her effortlessly, lifting her high before spinning her around, her laughter ringing out. Heads turned. Strangers watched. And you saw it too, the way he held her so easily, the way she clung to him, like father and daughter rather than what they really were.

You walked closer, and Soobin stretched out an arm, wordlessly inviting you in. You let him hold you, because you owed him your life.

"So," he said, his voice lighter now, as if this—this reunion, this familiarity—was as much his comfort as it was yours. His arm stayed draped around your shoulders, Nari tucked against his side. "How have my two favorite girls been?"

Nari giggled at the word favourite, her tiny hands clinging to him. "Mommy's been busy all days, uncle!"

The two of you laughed at the words your daughter. "Really? She's not playing with you?"

"Well, she plays with me still." She pouts and Soobin pinches her nose lightly. "But she's always busy."

You rest a hand on your daughter's head, gently smoothing her hair as her words settle deep inside you. After everything, you raised a child this kind, this thoughtful. A proof that you did something right. It burns in your chest.

She is the best thing that has ever happened to you.

The three of you walked toward the restaurant where Soobin had booked a reservation, his voice light as he chatted with Nari about her new teacher and the friends she’d made. You let them talk, let their voices blur into background noise as you glanced inside through the frosted windows.

Families.

Because it was Christmas.

A lump swells in your throat the moment you step inside. Parents leaning close to their children, wiping crumbs from tiny mouths, passing plates with gentle hands. Grandparents pulling little ones into their arms like gravity itself is made of love. Siblings bickering over who got more dessert, only to split the last bite anyway.

Every table holds something whole. Something complete. You hold your daughter's hand a little tighter.

You see it everywhere now, in the drop-off lines where both parents wave from the car window. In the grocery store, where dads lift kids onto their shoulders and moms scold them lovingly for grabbing too many snacks. In the tiny moments that most people take for granted, you see the shape of something you couldn’t give her.

Fate had a cruel way of making sure you never forget.

Nari was a big eater, one of the few traits she hadn’t inherited from you. She sat beside Soobin, happily digging into her food, her small hands clutching her utensils with eagerness. Meanwhile, you barely touched your plate, absently pushing the food around, taking a few bites here and there but never really eating.

Soobin noticed. "What's wrong?"

"Huh?"

His gaze softened, "Are you okay?" For some reason, his words made you smile. After all these years, he was still the most observant person you knew. Well… almost.

Because there had been someone else.

Someone who had noticed things about you without you ever having to say a word. Someone who had memorized the way your hands trembled when you were nervous. Someone that could read you in a glance, catch the shift in your breath before the words ever left your lips, but you haven’t seen him in years. Haven’t said his name out loud in even longer. And you weren’t sure if you ever would.

You weren't sure if you could.

"I am," you say, forcing the words out before glancing at Nari, watching as she happily munched on her pasta. "I guess I just don’t really like the holidays that much."

Soobin blinked, studying you for a moment before offering, "We can go watch a movie after dinner? Nari’s been wanting to see that one."

You nod, giving him another small, grateful smile. You reach for your water, ready to wash down the tightness in your throat, when he speaks again. "I also… heard."

You turn to him, brows furrowing. "Heard what?"

Soobin hesitates, his fingers gripping the edge of his fork. "He’s back in town."

Your heart stalls.

"Who?"

You shouldn’t have asked.

"Choi Beomgyu."

"Choi Beomgyu!" you squealed as the boy snatched the paper from your hands. "Yah! Give it back!"

"Don't cry over this," he said firmly, already folding the paper before you could grab it. Effortlessly, he slung your backpack over one arm while reaching for his own, slipping the paper inside.

A paper you were sure you’d never see again.

"What would my parents think, idiot?"

"I’d just tell them you got passing marks. No way they’d believe a high score anyway—ouch, ouch! I’m sorry! Fuck!" Beomgyu yelped as you tugged at his ear, swatting weakly at your hands in protest. His ears turned red, whether from the pull or the fact that you touched him, you weren’t sure.

"You think I haven’t already tried that?" you huffed.

"Well, no," he admitted. "But your parents love me more than you—ow! I mean, I mean, they see me as their own kid!" He laughed at your pout, eyes crinkling with amusement.

"You wanna be siblings then?"

"Hell no."

You turned away at his answer, crossing your arms as you walked. The buttons of your high school uniform pressed uncomfortably into your skin, but you ignored it. Beomgyu, your best friend, immediately followed. Like he always did.

The Beomgyu magnet to Y/N.

That’s what everyone called it.

Students stared as the two of you walked, their gazes lingering a little too long. A few even called out to Beomgyu, tossing him belated "Happy 19th birthday!" greetings, nevermind that his birthday had been last week.

Maybe that was just the price of being him. The kind of popular where people scrambled for any excuse to talk to you, even if it meant getting the date wrong. He’s smart, been in the school band since forever, and unfortunately, he’s not exactly hard to look at.

Not that you’d ever say that out loud.

"You mad?" he asked beside you. You shook your head, not even looking at him. From the corner of your eye, you caught the smirk tugging at his lips. "Hungry?"

You swatted his hand away when he poked at your sides, barely listening to his words. Beomgyu didn’t get the hint or maybe he did and just didn’t care. Either way, you kept walking, your chest tight, your hands curled into fists at your sides.

That damn test paper, crumpled inside his bag like it wasn’t another reminder of your failure. Like it wasn’t proof that no matter how hard you tried, it still wasn’t enough. You stayed up late. You gave up sleep, let the words blur and the numbers dance until they made sense. And for what? A score so low it made your stomach churn. The people that said they barely studied flashed scores that were twice as high as yours. Effortless. Like success was something they were born with, something they carried in their blood while you were left clawing for scraps.

It’s pathetic, isn’t it? That the only thing you have is passion and even that can’t save you.

"Hey."

You hadn’t even noticed your best friend catching up, too lost in your own head to hear his footsteps, but now he was in front of you, walking backward to see your face, deliberately blocking your path. "Don't think about it," he said,"I told you not to."

"I wasn’t thinking about anything.",The lie barely made it past your lips. You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to stay steady, but it was useless. Especially when he was looking at with the soft eyes of his.

There are moments you catch yourself wanting to pull away from him. Not because he did anything wrong—the opposite, really. He’s everything you’re not. He barely studies but still gets by with decent grades, he’s effortlessly good at almost everything, like life just hands him a script and he nails it every time. And you hate that it gets to you. You wanted to pull away from him.

How do you resent someone who’s never done anything but shine?

"Y/N," His eyes searched yours. "You look like you're about to cry."

You blinked at his words, but they don’t surprise you anymore. Beomgyu has always been seeing you. You clear your throat, a flimsy attempt to steady yourself, but he’s still looking at you. Still seeing too much. And then it happens—the slightest sniff, barely there, but he catches it.

"Can we go now?" Your voice trembles, and the second it does, his eyes widen just a little, something unreadable flashing across them. When he sees the gloss in yours, he reaches for you, fingers wrapping safely around your wrist.

"Come on," he murmurs, tugging you forward. You let him, swallowing back the lump in your throat, willing yourself not to fall apart here.

Not in front of everyone.

Being the daughter of a family of eleven, no one expected much from you. You were just another name in a crowded house, another body squeezed into too little space. School was a luxury, not a necessity. No one thought you’d make it past middle school.

Except your mother.

She saw the way your fingers traced the edges of worn-out textbooks, the way your eyes lingered on words you barely understood but desperately wanted to. And she let you chase that dream, even when it meant stretching what little you had even thinner.

"Hard work never betrays you," they say. But they never tell you how much it can hurt, because what do you do when you give everything; your nights, your energy, your hope, only to fall short? How are you supposed to believe in effort when all it leaves you with is failure?

"Stop sniffing, Y/N!" Choi Soobin snaps, his half-eaten lunch sitting in front of him on the makeshift mat spread across the school rooftop. "Seriously, it's driving me crazy."

You press your handkerchief to your nose again, trying to stay quiet. It’s lunchtime, but your food stays untouched. Just the thought of eating turns your stomach.

"Maybe stop talking with your mouth full," Beomgyu cuts in, not even bothering to look up. Then he glances at Soobin and adds, flatly, "And don’t yell at her."

"I'm just so pissed about that teacher giving her such a low score. Did you see her essay? It was her best one yet, she did so good!" the taller boy grumbles, pouting as he reaches over to pinch your cheek gently.

Your eyes—still a little red—meet his. “I know, right? I did my best.” you say, voice cracking just before the tears start all over again.

Beomgyu clicked his tongue, giving Soobin’s leg a light kick. “You made her cry again,” he muttered, shaking his head as he reached for your unopened lunchbox and popped it open like it was routine. He was already unscrewing your water bottle when Soobin, without a word, placed a tempura on top of your rice, his quiet way of saying sorry.

You wiped at your eyes, the ache in your chest softening just a little at the sight. When Beomgyu handed you your utensils, you took them without hesitation.

The universe didn’t give you everything you wanted but it tried to make up for it by giving you two people.

Everyone had gone back to eating. You reached for your food, slowly scooping the rice balls your mother had packed. Then, you glanced to your right. Your tear-streaked eyes—now lighter—and your mouth still full of rice met Choi Beomgyu’s gaze.

His eyes now filled with relief.

You forget little things all the time; where you left your pen, what day it is, one thing your mom asked you to grab from the market, but somehow, no matter how much time passes, you'll never forget the day you met your best friend.

You met Choi Beomgyu in kindergarten, when you were barely six years old. It wasn’t one of those storybook friendships that happened overnight. You just knew that the other kids were always too loud, too messy, too much and Beomgyu, was the only one who wasn’t. He was quiet. He didn’t try too hard. And then one day, your teacher asked the boys to choose a girl for the class dance. Without a word, Beomgyu walked straight to you. When you asked him why, he shrugged and said, “You don’t annoy me as much.”

It wasn’t exactly poetic but, it felt like the start of something that would last.

The only reason the friendship ever started was because neither of you found the other annoying. That was it. A comfort in each other’s presence. And somehow, that small reason stretched into something that lasted over a decade.

You grew up like that, orbiting each other through school days, lazy summer nights and wordless understandings. Eventually, people stopped calling you just friends. You were best friends. Branded, known. His name was a permanent fixture in your mouth; yours was stitched into every part of his life. His house felt like a second home. His mother always smiled a little softer when you came over, brushing your hair back like you were hers. Beomgyu’s older brother loved teasing him but was always strangely gentle with you.

It was rare to see one of you without the other.

Middle school was when you really noticed it—how Beomgyu started to change. He got louder. Braver. Started laughing with people you'd never seen him talk to before. His circle widened almost overnight. More guy friends, more inside jokes you didn’t quite understand, more people calling his name in the hallway. He picked up a guitar one day and never really put it down after that. It made you scared that he'll change with you too.

But he didn’t. Not once.

He still waited for you after class. Still leaned in to place his head on your shoulders when he was bored, still flicked your forehead lightly just to see you scowl. Still remembered the exact way you liked your ramen, and still offered the last bite even though he pretended not to care. And when someone tried to mess with you once—a cruel joke whispered too loud—Beomgyu didn’t even hesitate. He was there before you could even speak, standing in front of you like a wall you didn’t ask for.

Protective in a way that made your chest ache.

By the time middle school ended, the whispers had started. Are they dating? They’re always together. They have to be something.

You heard it all—in the hallways, behind half-closed locker doors, in the sharp glances thrown your way from girls when you and Beomgyu laughed like the world only existed for the two of you. It made something twist in your chest you got scared, unsure. You didn’t know what you were supposed to feel, or what he felt, or if either of you were even allowed to change the shape of what you’d always been.

So, just for a day, you pulled away.

You ignored him, let your eyes pass over him like he wasn’t there, didn’t wait at the gate like you always did, didn’t answer his questions. It wasn’t meant to hurt him. It was supposed to be space.

And that day, was the first time you ever saw Choi Beomgyu cry.

You never dared again.

In a house full of noise, with siblings, all louder and needier than you, it was easy to feel invisible. Your voice always got lost, your victories overlooked, and your sadness mistaken for silence.

Beomgyu saw you.

Where your family’s attention scattered, he gave you his wholly. He noticed when you were quiet, asked when no one else did. Remembered things no one bothered to learn. The way you preferred your socks mismatched. The way your hands trembled when you were overwhelmed. The way you lit up, just a little, when someone said your name.

With that kind of attention, it made you feel like you and him, alone, were enough.

High school brought a lot of changes. New uniforms, new hallways, new people. And Choi Soobin. The quietest boy you’d ever met. Kind in a way that didn’t demand attention. Always alone, always lingering just outside the crowd, like he hadn’t figured out how to step inside yet. It wasn’t you who invited him. It was Beomgyu.

“He looks lonely,” he’d said one afternoon, watching Soobin trail behind the rest of the class. “Let’s have lunch with him.”

And slowly, Soobin bloomed. Around the two of you, he laughed louder, smiled wider, filled space with stories and inside jokes and that rich, echoing laugh with his dimples that made everything feel a little warmer.

It was beautiful, watching him come alive, because you knew that feeling. You knew what it was to bloom like that.

You, too, bloomed because of Choi Beomgyu.

"You don’t like it?" Beomgyu asks, noticing the frown tugging at your face. His brows pull together in concern. "Why’d you go for that weird flavour?"

The two of you are walking side by side, the street quiet except for the sound of your footsteps. You’d said goodbye to Soobin five minutes ago, he lived on the other side of town, and his path had already veered off.

"It looked interesting," you mumble, pouting as you glance at Beomgyu taking a bite of his strawberry ice cream, one you’ve never seen him pick before. "It tastes awful, Gyu."

He laughs at the frustration in your voice, reaching out with his right hand for the lavender ice cream you picked on a whim. You hand it over without protest, eyes hopeful.

"You give in way too easily, with sales talk." When he offers his strawberry cone in exchange, you grin, already tasting victory. "That one's way too sweet anyway."

"Then why’d you get it?"

Beomgyu shrugs, eyes on the sidewalk. "Because it’s your favourite," he says simply. "And just in case you hated yours."

His words warmed your cheeks even as you keep your eyes forward. You keep walking, heart thudding a little too loudly in your chest, footsteps in sync with his like they’ve always been. You stay close to the edge of the sidewalk, careful not to drift too near. Beomgyu walks beside you, his hand swinging lazily at his side, fingers occasionally brushing against the fabric of his uniform pants. So casual. So unaware of how close he is.

And all you can think about is that space between you.

What would he do if you reached out and held his hand?

"No, Mom!"

Your attention shifts to a wailing child as you near the familiar playground you both pass every time you walk home. The kid is mid-meltdown, clearly not ready to leave, while his mother looks like she’s holding on by a thread. You scoff, shaking your head. "I don’t think I’ll ever be a mom. I can’t stand kids." A laugh bubbles out from beside you. You roll your eyes, already knowing who it’s from.

"Stop laughing," you mutter. He does but the grin stays, soft and a little amused. You catch him looking at you.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says, still smiling. "Just pictured a tiny version of you throwing a tantrum like that."

"As if."

“Do you want to swing for a bit?” he sways the conversation, nodding toward the playground.

You blink. “Huh?”

“The swings,” he says again, a bit more softly this time. “I can push you.” You glance over, surprised, but his expression is sincere, almost serious in that way Beomgyu gets when something small matters more than it should. And you remember…how you both used to love this.

“Okay,” you murmur, “Sure.”

The playground is mostly empty now. The crying child from earlier is gone, carried away by a tired mother. A few scattered voices float in the breeze, but it’s peaceful, quiet enough to hear the rustling of trees, the soft creak of the swing chains. From here, you can see the lower half of the town, rooftops glowing under the setting sun, like something out of a memory.

You finish the last bite of your ice cream, sit down on the swing, and feel his hands gently press against your back. "You ready?"

For a while, he says nothing after that. Just pushes you with that soft kind of attention he’s always had—like you’re something delicate he’s afraid to damage. Every time you glance back at him, he’s already looking at you, smiling.

You think it's because your smile is too wide to hide.

The breeze dances through your hair, and the sun dips lower, casting everything in gold, and when you look back at him again, his hair tousled by the wind, his eyes soft, his face glowing in that dying light; your breath catches.

He’s beautiful. He's always been beautiful. In the way he’s always looked at you.

“Y/N.” The sun has dipped. It’s been about thirty minutes since you first sat down. Beomgyu now sits on the swing next to yours, feet dragging lightly against the gravel, head bowed like he’s studying the way his fingers twist together.

You glance at him. “Hm?”

“I… I have to tell you something.” His eyes stay fixed on his hands.

You try to lighten the mood, like you always do when he gets like this, “You need anything?” you tease, nudging his foot with yours. “Is that why you pushed me off the swings earlier?” He lets out a short, breathless laugh, but his eyes never meet yours.

“I— I’m going out of the country.”

“Oh, wow,” you say, perking up. “That sounds amazing! It’s your first time, right? Who would’ve thought you’d be getting on a plane before me? Where are you going? How long’s the vacation? Are you gonna—"

You stop mid-sentence. He’s finally looking at you, and there’s something in his expression that makes your heart sink. “What’s wrong?” you ask, quieter now.

“I’m not going on vacation,” he says. “I’m moving. For college. My parents got this opportunity… it was all kind of sudden. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

You stare at him.

Leaving. He’s leaving.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is small. It barely carries over the creak of the swings, but it’s enough, enough to make Beomgyu go still.

You don’t know why that’s the first thing you said. Maybe because it’s easier than saying please don’t go. Your hands are freezing, even though it’s not that cold out. It’s the way your whole body feels hollow now, like something vital’s been yanked out of you. You remember the stories—the ones your classmates whisper like warnings.

People who leave this town don’t come back.

The thought of him leaving terrified you.

Beomgyu shifts in the swing beside you, the chains rattling. “Y/N, I… I didn’t know how. Everything happened so fast and I—” When he finally looks at you, you wish he hadn’t. There’s guilt written all over his face. It makes you feel worse.

“You still should’ve told me.” You grab your bag, his hands flinch as you pull it from them, and you’re already on your feet. You take it without meeting his eyes. “I’m going home.”

He says your name, again and again, but you’re already walking. Fast. Like if you stop, it’ll all hit you at once and you’ll break apart right there in front of him.

You don’t look back.

Because you know if you do, you’ll beg him to stay.

You slipped through the front door of your home without a sound. It was too easy, when no one really looked at you long enough to see the redness in your eyes.

Your family wasn’t rich but they managed to rent a house with just enough space to pretend everyone had their own corner. Yours was the storage room. Barely wide enough for a mattress, with walls that breathed dust and silence. But it was yours. Four claustrophobic walls and a door you could close on everything else. You dropped your bag and sat on the floor. The mattress creaked behind you, but you didn’t move. You just sat there, blinking hard against the tears that threatened again.

This was the one place where it was safe to fall apart other than in front of him.

It’s been hours since you got home. Hours since you last your best friend. Since he told you he was leaving.

At first, you were angry. Furious, even. You buried your face in your pillow and cried like it would undo the words he’d said. It felt like betrayal. You kept thinking: Why didn’t he tell you sooner? He’d told you everything before. Every stupid little secret. Every bad decision. Every dream. And this—this—he kept quiet.

But anger doesn’t last. Not when it’s him.

Why did you react like that? Why couldn’t you have just smiled and said, I’m happy for you? What kind of best friend gets upset when someone they love is finally getting out?

Because of all people—he deserves to leave this town.

He’s always dreamed bigger than these cracked sidewalks and dead-end streets. Always reached for something more while you stayed tethered to what’s familiar. He’s leaving you. You wipe your eyes again, though it’s useless. The tears keep coming, your body hasn’t figured out how to stop grieving yet. You’ll apologize tomorrow. The moment the sun rises. You’ll tell him you were wrong. That you’re proud of him. That you’ll miss him more than he’ll ever know.

Because he deserves that.

You’ll apologize tomorrow... tomorrow?

The thought tastes wrong in your mouth. What if tomorrow is too late?

You sit up suddenly, heart pounding. The clock reads 9:04 PM. You listened outside, the house is still. Silent. You know the rhythm of your family’s sleep—light snorers, tired bones, people who won’t notice you’re gone as long as you're quiet. You grab your jacket, moving carefully across the creaking floorboards. Your door opens with a whisper. One cautious step, then another, and you're at the front door, fingers trembling slightly as they find the lock.

The outside air is cool against your skin as you crack the door open. But just as you take a step out, you freeze.

Across the street, lit faintly by the orange glow of the nearest streetlamp, someone sits on the pavement. Legs stretched out, hands buried deep in the pockets of a hoodie you know too well.

Choi Beomgyu.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Hi, pretty.”

“You—” A curse almost slips out, but you bite it back, glancing toward the hallway behind you. You lower your voice. “What the hell are you doing here? What if I didn’t come out, idiot?”

The furrow in his brow from earlier is gone now, replaced by that familiar boyish grin, the one that always makes it harder to stay mad.

“But you did come out,” he says simply. He rises from the pavement with that lazy ease he always carries, brushing his hands on his jeans before holding them out—open, waiting—but he doesn’t move toward you. Just stands there. Looking at you like he knew you’d come. Like he hoped you would. You hear it in the quiet expectant look on his face. Come here.

And you do.

Your feet move before your mind catches up, closing the distance between you and him. Without a word, you wrap your arms around his waist, his arms are already around you before your face finds the safety of his chest. He pulls you in tighter, like he's afraid that if he doesn't hold you close enough, you’ll disappear too.

Beomgyu leans down, buries his face in your hair, and breathes in—one deep, shaking inhale that sounds like worry, like guilt, like relief all tangled into one. Because he was.

“I knew you’d come out,” he whispers. His voice is soft, cracking at the edges, and it breaks something in you. Your eyes sting immediately. “I’m sorry,” he adds.

You pull back reluctantly, almost having to pry yourself from his arms because he doesn’t loosen his grip right away. When you finally look up at him, your voice is barely above a whisper. “No… I’m the one who’s sorry.”

He’s staring at you now, like you’re something fragile in his hands. His gaze scans your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize every flicker of emotion before it fades. His left arm stays wrapped around you, grounding you, while his right hand comes up, gently cupping your face. His palm is warm. Familiar. It fits too perfectly against your skin. You’ve always been close to him. But this—this feels like a different kind of closeness, and you can’t look away.

Not when he’s looking at you like this.

Not when the soft, slow stroke of his thumb across your cheek sends shivers through your chest, makes your breath hitch and your heart stutter.

Is it because he's leaving?

“Have you been crying?” he whispers, voice is barely there, like he’s afraid to ask, afraid to know the answer. His hand stays warm on your face, thumb trailing just beneath your eye. He’s not wiping tears—there are none left—but it’s like he can feel where they were, tracing. “Have you?” he asks again, softer this time.

You try to look away, but his hand gently guides you back, eyes locked onto yours. Your voice comes out in a breath, cracked and small. “It was my fault.”

“No,” he interrupts, voice thick, eyes glassy. “I don’t want to leave you.” He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, and you close your eyes, the burn behind them almost unbearable now. He pulls back just enough to kiss your forehead. Another lands gently on the bridge of your nose. You’re still, barely breathing, as his lips hover close to yours. “I’ve been in love with you for years,”

Your eyes flew open. “What?”

“Did you really not see it?” His voice cracked. “That I’m completely, stupidly in love with you?”

You shook your head, stunned, your cheeks burning despite the ache swelling in your chest.

“God,” he breathed, pulling you into him, “it’s taking everything in me not to kiss you right now.”

His arms tightened around you, desperate. “Since you didn't hear me out earlier, I'll say it now. I swear I’ll come back. As soon as I can. I’ll come for you. I'll make it up to you. You better be ready—I want your bags packed the second I show up. I made Soobin promise to walk you home every day, because I know how easily your mind wanders and it drives me insane.”

You clutched his shirt, the tears finally breaking free. “I’ll wait for you,” you whispered, voice wrecked as you cried. “I promise.”

He pressed his lips to your hair. “Good.”

“And Gyu?” you murmured, voice muffled against his chest. He hummed in response, arms still wrapped tightly around you, your face pressed against the fabric of his shirt, breathing him. “I’ve been in love with you too,”

You didn’t have to see his face—you’ve known him for thirteen years. You felt the way his whole body stilled for a second, then melted, like the words filled something he hadn’t dared to hope for. You knew he was grinning, that crooked, boyish grin that always made your heart trip. He pulled you impossibly closer, like he wanted to fuse you into him.

And under the soft, flickering lamplight, it’s the kind of scene that belongs in a movie. Two teenagers, holding on like the world might tear them apart the second they let go. Two hearts beating too loud, too fast.

Hopelessly, breathlessly in love.

When Beomgyu pulled away from the hug, his eyes flicked to the door of your house. You were meant to go inside but his expression asked you to stay. You slipped your fingers into his.

“Can I come with you?”

He didn’t even hesitate. He never could, not with you. Maybe it was the quiet defiance of it, or maybe it was the way things had shifted—how it suddenly felt like you were his, and he was yours. The truth that the two of you belonged to each other now. He reaches out, his hands waiting for yours.

It only took a second when you did.

That night, you didn’t walk into the comfort of him home, or the usual warmth of his family’s greetings. You followed him up to his room, quietly.

He made sure you were comfortable, tucking you in gently before leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll just turn off the lights,” he murmured, his voice low.

You shifted onto the left side of the bed, heart thudding as you waited. Every creak of the mattress as he moved made your breath catch. The bed dipped with his weight, and you held your breath, listening to the quiet rustle of sheets and the sound of your own pulse pounding in your ears. "Beomgyu?" you whispered.

His response was immediate. “You need something?”

You hesitated, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. “Can you… hold me?”

Two strong arms snaked around your waist as soon as you said those words, and Beomgyu's lips were against your nape. He left trails of kisses on your neck up to the back of your ears, his body pressed on yours. "I thought you'd never ask."

You giggle, breathless, and he laughs too, warm against your skin. He presses a few more soft kisses to the back of your head, then his voice drops to a whisper against your ear. “Can I touch you?”

Your breath hitches, but you nod. His hand slips beneath your shirt, fingers brushing lightly across your stomach. “This okay?” he asks, voice gentle.

You nod again, barely able to get the word out. “Yeah.”

His hand travels higher, fingertips gliding up until they meet the bare curve of your chest. He pauses, just long enough to make your heart race. His lips are at your neck now, breath hot. “This okay too?”

When he feels you nod, his hand moves with more purpose, fingertips gliding over the curve of your breast. He cups you fully, palm warm, thumb brushing the softness, squeezing just enough to make you arch subtly into his touch. He teases, exploring everywhere except where you need him most, drawing out the ache with every careful touch. When his fingers finally graze your nipple, a quiet moan slips from your lips before you can stop it. He pauses, his breath brushing against your neck. “You can tell me to stop anytime, okay?”

Then he pulls his hand away from under your shirt, and the sudden absence makes you whine, your body instinctively chasing after his warmth. Before you can speak, he cups your face gently, tilting your head until your eyes meet. It’s dark—but he's close, so close—you can make out the shape of his face, the softness in his gaze.

He leans in, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. Then another. You giggle softly, breath mingling, and when your lips part in a smile, he takes it as invitation. This time the kiss is deep—hungry. His mouth moves against yours with desperation, like he’s been craving your taste for far too long. His hand finds your waist, tugging you closer, bodies aligning in all the right ways as the heat between you builds.

“I need you, Gyu,” you whisper, voice barely there, lost in the way his lips trail along your neck, warm and wet. “Please.”

He pauses just enough to meet your gaze, then his hand slips between your thighs, cupping you through the fabric. The pressure makes your hips jerk, breath hitching.

“Here?” he murmurs, rubbing slow, teasing circles. “You need me here?”

It’s too much, and not enough. Heat pools low in your belly, a need that feels raw and overwhelming. You nod, biting your lip, your voice trembling. “Yes. There. Please.”

He groans, low and deep, and that’s when clothes start disappearing—slowly, messily. Every layer peeled off is interrupted by his mouth; on your lips, your jaw, your collarbones. His hands, greedy and gentle all at once, explore you like he’s memorizing every inch. The room is filled with nothing but breath, the soft rustle of fabric, the occasional hitch of a moan. It takes time—because he makes it take time. Like he wants to savour the reveal, like he’s waited too long to see you like this and now he refuses to rush. He holds and touches you, like your mother made you just for him.

When he finally sinks lower, eyes locked on yours as his lips trace a burning path down your body, you don’t stop him.

“Beomgyu…” You moaned as you clenched your fist on his dark locks. His tongue was doing to your buds as his fingers part your wet folds. You don't know what it is, but it makes your legs quivered as his tongue lapped at your entrance.

Beomgyu grunts as he hears your soft moans, sucking on your clit to hear more. Your taste in his mouth got him drunk as he shook his head from side to side, making your moans go higher as you moved your hips to grind your wetness on his tongue. "Hmm?"

He pulled back, replacing his tongue with his thumb, rubbing her wet clit as he kissed and sucked your inner thighs. Your eyes rolled back as your chest rose up and down, glistening with sweat.

You're fucking beautiful. Beomgyu thought as he looked up at you with hooded eyes. Your lachrymose eyes met his. The sight of your blushing cheeks, eyes asking for more with your lips between your teeth made Beomgyu slightly rut his hips on the bed.

"You'll come back for me, right?" He pumped a finger inside your pussy, curling it to hit your spot as he put his mouth back to work again, flattening his tongue over your swollen pearl before flicking it with the tip. You cried out in pleasure, throwing your head back.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I just couldn't help myself.” He begged as he doubled the finger inside your soaking cunt, making you cry out in pleasure as your hands grabbed the pillow under your head. "I will. I can't live without you."

“I can't resist having all of you.” He kissed your clit, making you whimper at the brief contact. He took off his shirt and pants before pulling you by your arm, sitting you on his lap as he took off your blouse and bra. He kissed around your nipple before taking it into his mouth, moaning at the taste of you.

It’s crazy how you went from crying to rubbing against each other, but both have been craving for this. And now, the situation of him leaving only made his hunger for you increase. Beomgyu thought of everything he could do to show you how sincere he was and how much he loves you. He wanted you to know that you were the only woman he’ll ever touch like this. That he'll come back, that this decision wasn't something he ever wanted. And the growing tent in his boxers is also aching to prove that.

He moved your position to grind on his bulge, letting out quiet moans as he desperately kissed you. He stopped your hips as he moved to your other nipple, lightly biting it while staring at your glossy eyes, making your breath hitch. He hummed as he sucked the pebbled flesh into his mouth, nibbling on it. Once satisfied, he laid your back down, admiring your body as you panted. Your eyes are glistening, and so is your cunt. He groaned at the sight, pushing his hair back and taking his erected member out of its confinement. He pumped it a few times before you sat up and took it into your hand.

“Let me make you feel good.” Beomgyu stopped your hand, giving a kiss on your forehead. “Fuck.” He murmured as he moved to your lips, sucking on them, making you whimper as you laid back down again.

“Beomgyu, please…” You cried when Beomgyu started to rub his shaft on your slit. Every time his head hits her bud, you let out a whimper, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide as you look up at him.

Beomgyu took his time, grunting before pushing the tip inside. You gasped, grabbing the sheets under, feeling the pain as his length invade you. Your walls fluttered around his cock, making him let out low growls. You felt tears in your eyes as you watched half of his length disappear inside you. Beomgyu took your hand, intertwining your fingers. He kissed your tears.

“Just a little more, love.” Beomgyu shushed when you hissed, feeling a hint of pain as he filled you. His other hand began rubbing circles on your clit to ease the burn from the stretch.

Beomgyu kissed your hand when he was entirely in, giving you time to adjust. You look gorgeous underneath him. Legs wide open,mouth slightly parted, and body glistening under the dim lights of his room. You're all his, and he would never let himself fuck up. He would never let himself do something stupid. He'll come back to you as soon as he can, the thought of you waiting burns him.

Beomgyu started moving slowly when you nod your head, until your whimpers turned into moans. His name echoed in whispers, as you clawed on the skin of his back, leaving red marks. He was cradling your head, and his lips pressed on your ear. He was whispering the sweetest things to you.

“You’re the only one I’d fuck like this, baby. You’re the only one I’d touch like this.” Beomgyu growled, kissing your ear lobes.

“Yes, yes, Beomgyu, please…” You begged as his hips started to thrust harder into you.

“Fuck. You’re the only one I’d make love to, Y/N.” He groaned, feeling your walls clench around him. He could tell that you were both close. Your walls spasmed around him, and his thrust started to stutter.

“I love you and only you. So fucking much.” He stared deeply into your eyes, feeling your orgasm take over your body. His mouth reaches for your sweet lips, your toes curling as your legs wrap around his waist. Beomgyu thrustied into you a few more times before pulling out to spill his thick load on your thighs. He wouldn’t trade you for the world.

After, Beomgyu became the shyiest guy in the world. He silently blushed, cleaned you up before getting under the covers with you.

“I love you,” He started, as he ran his fingers down your back before resting on the lower part of it, pulling you to his chest.

“I love you, Beomgyu.”

“Do you have any plans?” your mother asks softly, her voice barely cutting through the clatter of her hands preparing a lunchbox. You’re in front of the mirror, running your fingers through your hair.

“Plans for what?” you finally say, eyes fixed on your own reflection—not really seeing it.

“It’s your… twentieth birthday.” Your hand pauses mid-motion.

You clear your throat and force a shrug, “Oh. Right.”

She watches as you fumble with the buttons on your blouse, your fingers too stiff, too fast. She sees the shadows beneath your eyes and sighs. “You should take it easy, sweetheart.”

“I am,” you lie, “I just have work. And… I don’t know.” You reach for the lunchbox she’s packed. Transparent. Eggs again. You swallow hard, the sight alone making your stomach twist.

“I’ll get going,” you murmur, already turning away. You don’t meet her eyes. You can’t. Not when you know she’s still watching you—worried, helpless. And not when you’ve gotten so good at pretending it doesn’t matter.

After high school, it wasn’t a shock, you knew college was never in the cards for you. No dramatic moment of realization. Just reality. So here you are, a year later, on your way to work… and you didn’t even remember today was your birthday.

He would’ve remembered. He never missed it.

You shake the thought off like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t stick to the inside of your ribs. You offer stiff smiles to your coworkers as you clock in, grabbing the stack of flyers assigned to you for the day. Real estate. That’s what they call it. What you do is stand outside in the sun, in the cold, in the wind—shoving these papers into passing hands, hoping someone actually cares enough to look.

Most don’t.

But then again… who would take someone like you seriously? Who would even want someone like you?

“Here. It’s on promo today,” you say, holding out the flyer with rehearsed cheer. “You can get ten percent off the down payment if you sign today, and there's a—”

“I’ll do it,” the man cuts in, eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. On you, not the paper.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, great,” you say, managing a small smile. Finally. Something good. Maybe you can actually afford to eat something real tonight. Maybe even bring some back for your mom.

“If you sleep with me. One night.” You freeze. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the flyer. You don’t look at him right away—you’re afraid if you do, you’ll either throw up or scream.

“I’ll pay extra,” he adds, as if this is just another business transaction. As if your dignity has a price tag. Your jaw clenches. Slowly, you snatch the flyer back from his hand, crumpling it in your grip.

“Go to hell,” you mutter. You don’t even look back as you turn around, heart pounding—not from fear, not entirely. From exhaustion. From disgust. From the unbearable weight of this being your life. You exhale shakily, trying to bury the sting in your throat.

You thought today couldn’t get worse. But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Every day’s been worse since.

After that encounter, you had to pull yourself together, force a smile like nothing happened, like the words didn’t stick to your skin and crawl under it. You kept handing out flyers with trembling hands and a voice that cracked more than once. But no one noticed. No one ever does.

You whispered it like a prayer. Please—just one sale. Just one. If there’s anything left out there for you—anyone listening—let today be enough. It’s your birthday, for god’s sake. Let that mean something.

Not a single sale.

Now you’re on the subway, back hunched against the hard plastic seat, eyes locked on the floor like if you move, you’ll shatter. The carriage rocks, people come and go, and still, you sit there, numb.

Your eyes sting, but the tears won’t fall. They never do. Not anymore. Because nothing hurts more than the ache that’s lived inside you for the past year. It's a wound that learned how to stop bleeding and just started swallowing you whole instead.

You pulled out your wallet and started counting what little was left. Bills folded too many times, coins barely enough to matter. You stared at the total for a second, then let out a quiet sigh. Fuck it. A drink won’t fix anything but it’ll help you tonight. You took a different bus route tonight.

The pub is dim, you step inside quietly, hoping not to draw attention. You don’t belong here, but you don’t belong anywhere these days. You could be anyone: a woman with a broken heart, a woman who just lost her job, a woman trying not to fall apart in public. All of them could be true. None of them are far off. You’re still in your work clothes. The blouse is wrinkled, two buttons undone. Your hair’s half-up, half-forgotten, and the look on your face probably says enough to keep people away. You don’t care. You head straight to the bar and order something strong, sitting alone at a stool like it’s the only place left in the world that doesn’t expect anything from you.

"I will. I can’t live without you."

Your breath stutters. The glass trembles slightly in your hand. You almost choke on the drink as the tears sting again—too cruel. You press your lips together and wipe your face quickly, like that’ll stop the pain. You need to leave. Now. Before you break down in front of strangers.

You slide off the stool, heart pounding, eyes glassy ut then the stool beside yours shifts.

“Hi, pretty.”

You freeze. You turn your head slowly, hope rising in your chest before you can stop it—hope that maybe, somehow—

It’s not him.

“Jaehyun,” you say, forcing your features to settle. He noticed the flicker of disappointment in your eyes, the way it sparked and died all in the same breath. You remember him. A batchmate. Schoolmate. Someone who never really talked to you back then.

“What are you doing here all alone?” he asks, already gesturing to the bartender for two drinks.

You shake your head quickly. “No, I’m good.”

He grins, “Come on, just one. I’ve missed you.”

You almost laugh. Bitterness curling behind your teeth like smoke. Missed you? He didn’t even know you. You were never close. You never even talked outside of borrowed notes and hallway nods. And now, here he is, like proximity to your sadness gives him permission to touch it.

Does he miss you too?

You look down at your drink, the ice already melting. “That’s funny,” you mutter, just loud enough.

“What is?”

“You missed me?” you echo, eyebrows raised, voice flat. “We barely spoke in school. Is that a new pick-up line or something?” Your eyes meet his, tired and unamused. You expect him to get defensive, maybe roll his eyes and leave. Part of you even hopes he does. But instead, he laughs.

“Well, sorry,” he says, shrugging, “but you should know, I had this terrible, massive crush on you back then.”

You blink in surprise. He goes on. “Except… Choi Beomgyu basically told me to back off in second year. Guy was obsessed with you.”

Your stomach twists. Choi Beomgyu. You look away, suddenly too aware of your own breathing. The room feels louder, smaller.

Choi Beomgyu that you haven't heard back anything since the day he left.

“He told you that?” you manage to say, voice thinner now, almost brittle.

Jaehyun hums like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just drop a grenade into your chest. “Yeah. Said you weren’t really available. Emotionally or otherwise.” He chuckles. “Dude looked ready to murder me, so I backed off.”

You stare into your glass, watching the light catch on the melted ice. The burn in your throat isn’t just from the alcohol anymore, it’s from everything you’ve buried just to stay standing.

Beomgyu wrote you, at first. The first month after he left, letters came; messy handwriting, little jokes scribbled in the margins, lines that made you cry in secret because he still sounded like yours. His I love yous. And you clung to that. But then… nothing.

You kept writing anyway. Hundreds of letters. You told him everything—about your new job, about how hard things had gotten, about the nights you couldn’t sleep, about how it felt like something inside you was cracking open just from missing him. You even wrote when you were sick, when you thought, maybe this will scare him enough to write back. Still nothing.

You gave him the benefit of the doubt. Told yourself maybe he lost your address. Maybe life got too loud. Maybe something happened. Maybe. But denial only holds you together for so long. One month passed. Then one year. And the silence became an answer you never asked for. You remember checking the mailbox every day like clockwork. Standing there in your pajamas with bare feet on cold tile, praying for something—anything—with his name on it. There was even a day you went to the post office, hands trembling, convinced the letters must’ve gotten stuck somewhere, misplaced, waiting.

But there was nothing.

And now you're outside the pub, crying. You're a mess, knees drawn to your chest on the dim pavement, makeup smudged, throat raw from holding back too long. Drunk, heartbroken. And Jaehyun, this man you barely know, is looking at you like you're shattering.

“Fuck him,” he mutters, his fists clenching at his sides like that might help. “Forget about him, Y/N.” He crouches beside you, his hand awkwardly pressing to your shoulder, trying to comfort you. You barely feel it. Everything inside you is too loud.

Choi Beomgyu.

His name beats in your chest.

“I hate seeing you like this,” Jaehyun says, his voice tightening. “I backed off because of that asshole. And now look. He left. He hurt you. He’s probably living some perfect fucking life while you’re here… like this.”

Choi Beomgyu.

You miss him. You need him.

You can’t say anything. You just keep crying—ugly, silent sobs that make your shoulders shake. There’s nothing left to hold together. Nothing left to explain. No one to explain it to. Your other half isn't here.

Jaehyun’s voice softens, “Stop crying,” he whispers, too close. “You don't deserve this. He forgot you, Y/N. He lied, he's an asshole."

"Come with me. I’ll make you forget him.”

Choi Beomgyu. He'll never come back to you.

Jaehyun reaches out his hand. And just like that, you’re back to that night, back to the night your best friend confessed. You lifted your eyes, only to see his face instead. The man in front of you waves his hand again.

It took long for you to give your hands.

It only takes one decision.

One misstep. One reckless breath you don’t take back in time. People don’t believe that—not really. They think life builds slow, that it gives you warnings, but sometimes, it just tips. One turn down the wrong street. One answer you shouldn’t have given. One goodbye you didn’t mean and suddenly, the shape of your life is different. You think you’re being careful. You think you’re being brave. You think you’re doing the right thing, but the future isn’t some distant, untouchable thing. It's sitting in your hands, waiting for you to move. To decide. Pressed into your palms, like wet clay. You could mold it into anything. Or crush it without meaning to.

You don’t always know which one you’ve done until it’s here.

"You'll take care of yourself, right?" Beomgyu's voice cracks, his lips tremble like they’re holding back everything he doesn’t want to say. His hands cup your face so gently it hurts.

You nod. It’s all you can manage. Your throat is tight, your eyes sting, "I will. I promise."

Behind him, his family waits, luggage in hand, eyes heavy with knowing. The gate is just a few feet away, and it draws a line. A line you can’t follow. A future you’re not invited to.

Beomgyu leans in, kissing you like he's trying to leave pieces of himself behind. A kiss to your forehead. Your nose. Your cheeks. Your lips. "I love you," he says. And somehow, despite the chaos of the airport, the overhead announcements, the rushing footsteps—you hear it. You hear it.

He grips his passport tighter, knuckles white, like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He looks at you one last time—eyes burning, jaw clenched—and then he lets go. His hands leave your skin, and something inside you goes with them.

He turns to Soobin, standing behind you, silent and teary-eyed. His voice is low, almost pleading. "Take care of her."

Then he walks away.

You bite your lip hard, tasting salt and copper, as the tears spill freely now. Soobin’s hand rests on your shoulder, but it does nothing to soothe the storm inside you.

Because he's walking away. His figure grows smaller and smaller, swallowed by distance and the sharp fluorescent lights of the terminal.

Then—he stops. He turns around.

And you see it, fresh tears carving down his cheeks. He looks at you. He looks like he wants to run back to you. You shouldn’t be surprised. Not with Beomgyu. Not with the way he loves; loud, reckless, and all at once. He throws his head back, chest heaving, and yells so loud the entire terminal stills:

"I’LL COME BACK FOR YOU!"

You wake with a jolt, gasping like you’ve just surfaced from drowning. Sweat clings to your skin, your forehead slick, and his voice—those last shouted words—still echo like sirens in your ears. You press your palms into your face, trying to ground yourself, but your stomach twists violently. Before you can even think, you’re out of bed, legs shaky, breath uneven. You half-stumble down the hall, grateful that the bathroom’s empty. You barely make it to the sink before the nausea hits.

You vomit. Again. Again. Each heave sends a fresh wave of pain crashing through your skull, like your body’s punishing you for remembering. All you can hear is the frantic thud of your heartbeat, pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.

It’s been over a month since you slept with Jaehyun. A month since you last saw his face. You tried with him—god, you tried, but you can't.

Every moment with him feels rehearsed.

You wipe your face with trembling hands, heart thudding against your ribs like it wants out. The bathroom light flickers faintly above you, and when you finally dare to look up at your reflection, you barely recognize the girl staring back. You’re usually regular. Always have been. But this time… nothing.

The realization hits you like ice down your spine. Your throat tightens as you swallow hard.

You need to buy a pregnancy test.

"I'm pregnant." The words fall from your lips, your eyes fixed on anything but him. The floor. The wall. "I don’t know what to do."

The silence that follows is deafening. You don’t have to look to know he’s staring at the test in your hand—at the two pink lines that changed everything. Then, quietly but without hesitation: “Let’s keep it.”

“I know you don’t love me,” he adds, voice soft even as it cracks at the edges. “I know you’re still…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. The silence stretches, his throat bobbing as he swallows down. “But we can keep it. Together. For the baby.”

And finally, you look at him. Really look. His eyes aren’t pleading. They’re not trying to convince. They’re just… open. Raw. Honest.

“We’ll build something,” he says, stepping a little closer, as if that might make it real. “A home. A family. Just give it time. Move in with me. We’ll make it work.”

Days passed. Somehow, you said yes. You told him you'd try — and he held on to that like it was a promise.

Jaehyun talked more now. About his family in the U.S., how they already knew, how they were surprisingly… supportive. He started picking up little things for the baby, socks, bottles, a stuffed bear with a stitched-on smile. He showed you receipts, color palettes for the nursery. He told you that before the baby comes, he’d have a small apartment ready. For both of you. For your new life together.

You believed him.

Your mother's reaction, on the other hand, was quieter than you expected. No yelling. No disappointment. Just a soft, dull acceptance. Maybe it was because she never expected much from you in the first place. Or maybe she saw how pale you looked, how your hands trembled when you thought no one was watching, and figured silence was the kindest thing she could give. Your father... just ignored it.

You're sitting on a bench in the park, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the grass. You pop a strawberry into your mouth, sweet and cool against the heat. Six months. You're six months pregnant now. Just a little over three left.

Jaehyun sits beside you, a paper bag in hand, his eyes bright with effort. "Here," he says, pulling out a small container of salad. “I made it. Looked up what’s good for the baby. Thought you might like it.”

You smile, soft and small, and take the container from him. You open it — and pause. The smile fades. “Oh.”

He stiffens beside you. “Why?”

You glance up at him, careful with your voice. “I’m allergic to peanuts.” You’ve told him before. Twice. Maybe three times.

His face falls. He takes the container back immediately, as if it’s burned him. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur. You see it in his face, that flicker of guilt, of failure. He’s trying so hard to be someone good for you, for the baby. But the truth is, you barely know each other. You’re still learning each other’s favorite colours, let alone what makes each other hurt.

He reaches for your hand.

You let him hold it.

That day had been going well. Too well. The sun was warm but not suffocating, the breeze gentle against your skin. Jaehyun was laughing, not just smiling, but actually laughing, the kind that made you glance at him sideways because it still felt strange to hear joy from him, to feel it near you.

And you let yourself imagine it. A future. A home.

A baby wrapped in soft cotton blankets.

“Jake?” It was sharp, high-pitched, almost disbelieving. You turn instinctively. A woman stands a few feet away, dressed in crisp neutrals, her expression caught between shock and something you can’t quite name. She looks to be in her forties, and she's staring straight at you. “Are you joking?”

The sun is gone now, replaced by the fading lavender of twilight. A breeze lifts the hem of your shirt slightly, brushing cool against your skin.

“Mom,” Jaehyun says quickly, already letting go of your hand like he has been caught. He stands, tense, defensive. The word Mom hits you like a shove. You try to stand too, slow and awkward, one hand supporting your back, the other braced against the bench. You can feel the weight of her stare, heavy on your belly.

"Hi, I'm Y/N. Jaehyun's told me about you." You smiled or tried to, under her pining stare. Jaehyun just stands there, caught between you and her, mouth slightly open.

Why does he looks so shock?

And in that awful silence, you feel a rush of embarassment crawl up your neck, because you’re standing here, and she’s looking at you like a mistake he should’ve never made.

“Well,” she says, her tone clipped, “He’s never told me about… you.” Her eyes rake over you. From your shoes to the curve of your belly. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it stings.

He lied.

“Mom, not here. Please. Let’s talk—”

“Is this why you’ve been asking for more money?” Her voice rises, looks around at the food, the soft blanket, the picnic he prepared so proudly. Then her eyes land on your clothes—the ones Jaehyun bought you—and her lip curls. “You thought we knew? That we’d let this happen? That I’d let my son throw his life away for a girl like you?”

“Mom! Stop!” Jaehyun shouts.

Your chest tightens. Your throat burns. You cover your stomach without thinking, hands trembling as they settle over the place your baby lives like you can protect them from her words. The tears sting, but you blink them back.

You look at the father of your child. He should be saying something, anything. He should be standing in front of you, shielding you from the way his mother's eyes tore into you.

He steps toward her. He places his hands gently on her shoulders, leans in, and whispers something you can’t hear. And just like that, she exhales. Composed again. Her mouth presses into a smug, satisfied line as she straightens her purse strap and turns away. “I’ll wait in the car, son.”

Your chest is burning now, your heart lodged somewhere in your throat. You stare at the ground. You can’t meet his eyes.

“I’ll talk to my mom first, ugh, you can go home by yourself, right? I’ll see you soon after. Be safe." He doesn’t even wait for your answer. He jogs off, his figure growing smaller with every step. And all you can do is watch his back.

It’s not unfamiliar to you now, that view.

You stand there a moment longer than you should, frozen in place, lips pressed tight as tears finally spilled down your cheeks. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, rough and fast, like you’re angry at yourself for letting them fall in the first place. Then, gently, you rest your hand on your stomach, “I’m sorry about that,” you whispered.

You walked home alone.

You weren’t surprised when Jaehyun didn’t show up the next morning. Hope had already begun dying in you the moment he left you in the middle of that park without looking back.

It wasn’t him who came. It was a man in a tailored suit with dead eyes and a briefcase that looked more expensive than anything you owned. The family lawyer. He didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t even sit down. We’ll need a paternity test. He’s willing to pay child support. Don’t get any ideas about taking advantage of him.

You stood there, your mother nodding beside you. Your father crossing his arms with dissapointment in his face. Your fingers numb, barely hearing anything over the sound of your own heartbeat screaming in your ears.

Maybe this was some twisted drama, and you were the girl everyone pities at the end, the one who gets left behind while the world keeps spinning. Not the lead. Not even a real character. Just… a consequence.

The future you had barely started cracked before it even had the chance to grow roots.

“Hold on, okay? She’s almost here,” your mother says, voice shaking as she grips your hand.

But it’s slipping, everything is slipping. The pain is unbearable, a tearing, twisting storm from your waist down, and it doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even give you a moment to breathe. Your body feels like it's being ripped apart from the inside out, like it's punishing you for something you don’t remember doing wrong. You can smell the blood. It clings to the air, to your skin, to the sheets already damp beneath you. The weight of what's about to happen, of bringing life into the world while feeling like you’re dying.

“It hurts,” you gasp, voice cracking, tears slipping past clenched eyes. “Mom, it fucking hurts. Help me, please. Get her out of me.”

Your mother squeezes your hand again, then suddenly lets go. “She’s outside. I think she’s here. Just—just wait for me. Hold on.”

The silence that fills the room is unbearable. You stare up at the ceiling, as if by looking high enough, far enough, you can escape this. The pain. The fear.

They say in books, in birth books, in all those neat little guides—you’re supposed to think of something calming during labor. Focus your mind. Ground yourself in something that brings you peace.

You try. Your baby.

You’re going to meet your baby.

That thought should’ve been enough. It should’ve filled your chest with warmth, should’ve steadied the pain tearing through your mind and body. But the next contraction crashes in like a wave with no mercy, stealing the air from your lungs, and all that escapes is a broken scream. “F-Fuck— Somebody, please—”

Think. You have to think of something.

Anything.

Your head thuds back against the pillow. Eyes squeezed shut. Nails digging into the sheets. You're drowning. You're breaking. You're alone—but through the haze, something small slips through.

“Beomgyu…” you whimpered, voice trembling, pleading. “Choi Beomgyu…”

Where are you? Are you okay? Do you know? You imagine his face; the one you’ve tried so hard to forget. The one you buried behind months of silence and sleepless nights. His voice, the sound of home. His laugh that you know like the back of your hand. You still love him. You always have. It never stopped.

On the hardest, most terrifying day of your life, when your body is tearing open and everything feels like it’s coming undone, his name is the only one your heart remembers how to say.

“It’s uncommon, but still normal,” the town doctor says gently, “Some women don’t lactate. Hormones play a big role. But… please, don’t blame yourself.”

You nod without really hearing her, eyes fixed on the floor, your nails digging into the soft, raw skin of your nailbeds. You shift slightly, rocking your sleeping baby in your arms, trying to ignore the weight in your chest that won’t lift.

“Remind me—what’s the baby’s name again?” You blink. Your lips part, but the words don’t come.

“Uh…” you murmur. “I haven’t… thought of one yet.”

The doctor exhales, not unkindly, but tired. “Alright. But it’s been three weeks. She really should have a name by now. Please try to decide soon so we can get her registered.”

You nod again. But the truth is, you’ve thought about it. A thousand names, whispered into the quiet in the middle of the night. But none of them felt right. None of them felt like hers. Or maybe… none of them felt like yours to give.

And so you just sit there, holding this tiny, perfect girl, feeling the weight of everything you should be and everything you’re not.

You gather your things in silence, careful not to wake the baby cradled in your arms. As you step out of the small clinic room, your eyes instinctively scan the hallway, pausing on the sight of couples dotting the waiting area, soft coos and shared smiles hovering between them. Each one holding their newborn close. Each one together.

You start walking, slow and unsteady, the dull throb of healing stitches pulling at your every step. Your body still remembers the pain, even if the world already expects you to move on from it. You wince, adjusting your hold on her, and try not to think about how you haven’t even given your daughter a name.

You should’ve given her at least that.

You glance down. She’s fast asleep, her tiny features softened in slumber, the faintest blush dusting the bridge of her nose. A little replica of you. It almost makes you want to cry. “Look at you,” you whisper, “sleeping like you didn’t have me up all night.”

The wind hits softly as you step outside, cool and crisp. And that’s when you see them; a small cluster of flowers, blooming stubbornly from the cracked soil lining the pavement. Soft petals reaching toward the gray sky.

Rain lilies. Your eyes linger.

Lily… Nari. Nari that means lily.

You look down again, heart twisting. “Nari?” you murmur, brushing a finger against her soft cheek. “Nari.”

You finally have a name now.

“Nari…” you whisper, voice cracked and shaking as you rock her back and forth, again and again. “Please… what’s wrong?”

She won’t stop crying. She’s been crying for hours. Her tiny fists clench in the air, her face red and scrunched as the wails echo through the small, suffocating space. You’ve fed her. Changed her. Held her. Walked in circles until your legs gave out beneath you. Nothing works.

You feel your eyes burn, the tears pooling too fast to blink away. “Mama fed you, changed your diaper… I don’t know what else to do.”

You bounce her gently, almost frantically now, trying to stay calm, trying not to let your own tears fall onto her cheeks. Your arms ache. Your head pounds. You’re too tired to think. Too tired to feel anything but the raw failure in your chest. Your gaze flickers across the room , the mess of bottles, clothes, diapers. The couch you now sleep on, because your room is too small for the crib. Her rocker sits unused in the corner, surrounded by unfolded laundry. Everything feels too much.

You hear the door creak open behind you. “I have class tomorrow,” your sister says, peeking out with a tired frown. “Can you make her sleep?”

“I’m trying,” you choke out, barely able to speak through the sob in your throat. She sighs.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper quickly. “…give me a few more minutes.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just closes the door. You swallow the scream lodged in your chest and hold Nari tighter. Waking your mother isn’t an option. She’s been sick. She’s done enough. And this… this was supposed to be yours. Your responsibility. Your choice.

"Just pictured a tiny version of you throwing a tantrum like that."

You remembered Beomgyu's words, and you laughed. “Yeah, idiot,” you murmured through your tears, voice shaking but light for the first time in hours. “It’s a mini me throwing a tantrum.”

Nari blinked up at you, her cries halting mid-breath, her wide, wet eyes now focused on your face like she’d just seen something new.

“Nari?” you whispered, tilting your head toward her. “Are you curious about what Mama just said? You want a story, is that it?”

A hiccup. A blink. Silence. And just like that… she stopped crying. You breathed out, stunned. The smallest, most fragile peace settling in the quiet of the room.

“Okay,” you said, cradling her close, your voice soft as cotton, barely louder than a breath. “I’ll tell you about Mama’s best friend.”

Your voice filled the space. Low, warm, laced with something tender and bruised all at once. You told her about him. About how the world used to feel safer with him around. You giggled at the memories, surprised at how easily they came flooding back. The way he used to clicked his tounge but always carry your bag anyway. The way he’d say your name when he was trying not to laugh. The way he looked at you like you were something soft in a world that never was.

You didn’t say his name out loud. You weren’t ready.

But for twenty whole minutes, the past lived again in that tiny room, and by the end of it, Nari was asleep in your arms.

It worked like a miracle.

From that night on, whenever Nari cried, you spoke of him, and she listened. Is it because of how soft your voice is? You found yourself remembering him more often, not just in the obvious ways, but in the smallest corners of your day. The way he used to hum while doing homework when the silence got too loud. The way he tapped his fingers when he was nervous.

It was survival.

Because somehow, in your mind, he was here. In the warmth of a blanket tucked around Nari. In the gentle sway of your arms as you rocked her. In the soft words you murmured when she couldn’t sleep. And sometimes, when the night got too heavy and you couldn’t stop crying, it almost felt like he was holding both of you.

As if he’s... here.

His face, and memories that would carry you through the hardest nights.

“Nari, here, baby. Come on, girl.”

You crouch down, clapping your hands softly, eyes wide with wonder, a grin tugging at your lips even as your heart races. She’s moving—wobbling just a little, her tiny feet unsteady but determined.

She takes one hesitant step. Then another. And then a few more, slow and careful, her chubby arms outstretched for balance as she toddles from your mother’s arms toward you.

“That’s it,” you breathe, laughing through the lump in your throat. “Come on, love. You’re doing so well.”

When she finally makes it into your waiting arms, you scoop her up, spinning her gently with a joyful squeal. Her giggles fill the space like music, bright and unstoppable.

“You did it, sweetheart,” you whisper, pressing kisses to her cheeks. “You walked. You really walked.” From across, your mother watches, eyes soft with pride.

"Y/N." The voice is deep, familiar, and it stops you cold. You turn around slowly, your breath catching in your throat. He looks older but his eyes are still soft. Still searching. He glances at the little girl in your mother’s arms, then back at you. And it’s like something clicks.

"You’ve been here all along?" he asks, disbelief painting every inch of his face.

You force a small smile, bending down to kiss Nari’s forehead. “Wait for Mama, okay?” you whisper. Your mother gently takes her inside, casting you a look before the door closes behind them.

You stand, tugging awkwardly at the oversized T-shirt clinging to your frame, your shorts wrinkled, your hair tied up in a messy attempt to feel somewhat put together. You know you don’t look anything like the version of yourself he used to know.

"Hi, Soobin," you say quietly, and he just stares. “Yeah. I’ve been… here.”

His jaw tightens. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He runs a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to make sense of something that refuses to be clean. “Every time I came by, they told me you weren’t around. That you’d moved. And now—” he exhales hard, eyes flickering back toward the house. He doesn’t finish the sentence. You know what he wants to ask. You can feel the question burning in his chest.

You look down at your hands. “I was ashamed,” you admit. “I didn’t go to college. I didn’t do everything the way I said I would. Life happened. Fast.”

You swallow. “I have a daughter now, Soobin. And… you don’t have to keep looking for me. I’m not who I used to be.”

You try to fix your hair, but his eyes drop to your shoulder—and you know he’s seen it. The faint stain from Nari’s spit-up you missed. You cover it too late, embarrassed. You offer another shaky smile, but it barely holds.

Then he moves. He steps forward, without hesitation this time, and pulls you into him. You don’t even have time to brace for it. His arms wrap around you like they remember. Like they never forgot.

“I want to meet her,” he says into your hair.

It was beautiful, the way Nari took to Soobin, like she’d known him all along. Like something in her little heart just recognized him. The moment you placed her in his arms, she blinked up at him, curious and calm. And Soobin, he melted. Immediately. A soft grin tugged at his lips, and the cooing started, gentle and awkward and perfect.

“She’s so tiny,” he whispered, holding her like she was the most fragile thing in the world. Like he was afraid to breathe too hard. But within minutes, he was bouncing her softly, nose brushing against her cheeks, whispering silly things just to make her giggle. He didn’t want to let go. You could see it in the way his arms curled tighter, like maybe holding her could undo all the time lost between you.

When he saw the place you’d been staying in, he didn’t judge. He didn’t say a word about the peeling paint or the single fan in the corner. He just looked at you, eyes determined. “Come with me,” he said. “I have a spare apartment. It’s clean. It’s yours if you want it.”

And before you could even shake your head, he added, “I’ll help with Nari. I’ll help you get back on your feet.”

You said no at first. Of course you did. You couldn’t be that girl; the one who takes advantage of someone’s kindness. Soobin didn’t push. He just came back the next day. And the day after that. And again. Somehow, after long talks with your mother, after long nights staring at the ceiling wondering if you were doing the right thing—you said yes.

Trusting became hard for you. But you found with Soobin, maybe because, he trusted him too.

Moving in felt less terrifying than you thought it would. Soobin didn’t make it feel like charity. He made it feel like home. You found a job a month later. And Soobin… Soobin became the softest constant in Nari’s world. The man she ran to with tiny feet and open arms. The one who could make her laugh when you were too tired to try.

He didn’t replace anything. He just… showed up.

"I also… heard."

You turn to him, brows furrowing. "Heard what?"

Soobin hesitates, his fingers gripping the edge of his fork. "He’s back in town."

Your heart stalls. There’s only one person neither of you have dared to mention in years.

"Who?" You shouldn’t have asked. You shouldn’t want to know.

"Choi Beomgyu."

The moment his name hit the air, you dropped your gaze. Like it burned. You couldn’t meet Soobin’s eyes. You knew what was there; the same quiet questions he used to ask in softer moments, the ones you always left unanswered.

He had tried to make sense of how someone could disappear so completely. How someone like Beomgyu could vanish without so much as a goodbye. You remember those early months—Soobin asking carefully, kindly, trying not to press too hard. What happened between you two? Did something go wrong?

You never said a word. Not really. You built walls around your silence and stayed inside them. Pretending was easier than admitting you’d been left behind without a reason. A year without word turned into six. And in all that time, Beomgyu never did. Never came back. No letters. No apologies. Not even a rumor to hold onto.

It’s almost laughable, if it didn’t sting so much.

When you told Soobin about Jaehyun—the shame, the mess, the lawyer at your doorstep—he understood. No futher questions. No judgment. Just that steady kind of empathy only Soobin ever managed to offer. But when it came to Beomgyu? He never understood. He couldn’t. Or maybe he just wouldn’t. "Beomgyu's so in love with you that I can’t believe it."

Maybe it was because you were both too young. Or maybe he met someone oversea, a girl who laughed like you but didn’t cry like you, someone who studied at the same college, shared the same dreams. Maybe she didn’t come with too much baggage, or sleepless nights.

Maybe by now, he has a new life. A wife. A child.

And if someone had told your nineteen-year-old self that this would be the ending, you would’ve laughed. Laughed like it was the cruelest punchline to a joke you didn’t know you were part of. You didn’t know what love really was back then. Not until it stayed behind when he didn’t.

Not until six years passed and he still lived in your head.

“Groceries?” you ask as you open Soobin’s car, your voice low. He moves slowly, cradling the sleeping Nari in his arms like she’s made of glass, then settling her gently into the passenger seat, tucking the blanket around her like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“I can go pick them up, if you want,” you offer, watching the way he lingers with her.

“You sure?” he asks, eyes flicking to yours as he reaches over, gently fixing the collar of your coat, you hadn’t even noticed it had slipped. “It’s cold today. You okay to drive?”

“I’m sure,” you nod, tugging your sleeves over your knuckles. “Besides, Nari said she wanted to sleep over at your place tonight. Something about your sister’s pancakes and playing with Han.”

He smiles,“She’s been talking about that all week.”

You nod again, more to yourself than to him. “And I can’t leave my car parked out here overnight. So… it makes sense.”

“Alright.” He exhales softly, “Call me if anything happens, okay?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Still trying to figure that out… this phone.”

He laughs, “I’ll go, then. I’ve got her.”

You step back as he closes the door. “Bye,” you murmur, watching the car pull away. And when the taillights disappear into the evening, you let out a long, tired breath. The cold bites at your fingers as you turn to your own car.

The drive was short.

You rub your hands together as soon as you step out into the cold, breath fogging in front of you. The night has settled deep. The parking lot is nearly empty. A few cars. A flickering streetlamp. Just like Soobin said, it’s just groceries. A quick stop. Preparations for tomorrow’s feast. His sister always makes a big deal out of celebrations, dragging him into the chaos. You’ve learned to let them. It gives Nari something bright to look forward to.

Inside, the box is heavier than you expected. You thank the employee handing it over and hug it to your chest, shifting your weight so you don’t drop it. You can carry it. You’ve carried heavier things.

You start walking, slow and careful, the edges of the cardboard digging into your arms. You were just about to ask someone for help with the door when—

It opens. From the outside.

The bell rings overhead; a soft chime, but for some reason it sounds like music tonight. It catches you off guard, how comforting it feels. Maybe it’s the simple fact that someone held the door for you. Maybe it’s the smallness of kindness that makes your chest loosen. You don’t even care if he only opened it because he was heading inside himself. He stepped aside, held the door open, and waited.

And lately, that’s more than enough. You smile for the first time in what feels like forever.

“Thank you—” The word barely made it past your lips before it died because standing in front of you, just as stunned, just as still—

Choi Beomgyu?

You blinked. Once. Twice.

It was like the world forgot how to move. Or maybe just you. The cold didn’t bite anymore. The weight of the box in your arms vanished. Even your own breathing, gone, like your lungs decided they couldn’t function with him so close.

He looked older. Not completely different, but grown. His hair was longer now, brushed just past his shoulders, half tied back in a way that made him look effortlessly composed. He looks at you. Behind him, someone cleared their throat—an older man, another customer —the sound snapping the thread of stillness that had wrapped around the two of you like a noose.

You flinched first.

You took a step back, sudden and clumsy, the box in your arms tilting dangerously as your feet fumbled over themselves. He didn’t move — not a word, not a sound, just his eyes following the box, then trailing downward. To your hands. And when his gaze stopped on your ring finger—bare, unadorned, still slightly red from cold—something flickered across his face.

As soon as the old man walks past, you run.

You don’t think anymore, your body moves before your brain can catch up. The cold slaps your face as you push through the door, feet pounding against the pavement. Behind you, you hear it; that soft slam of the door closing too fast, like someone let go in a rush.

“Y/N—” His voice. God, his voice. It hits you like a bullet. Real. Near. Here. You gasp, eyes locking on your car. Just a few steps. Just get there. Just get in, you can’t let him catch up.

You can’t see his face again. Can’t hear what he might say. Because after all this time... You still don’t know who left who.

You still don’t know if he betrayed you or if it was you who betrayed him.

“Y/N, please—”

Three more steps to your car.

Just three.

“Y/N.” You reach for your keys, but something so painful happens to your right foot. “O—ouch.” The box slips, crashes to the pavement.

“Fuck,” you curse, loud and sharp, the sound echoing through the empty parking lot. You see Beomgyu flinch. You lean against the side of the car, pain blooming like heat across your ankle, shame rushing in right after. All you want to do is disappear. Fold into the metal. Crawl into the seat and drive away like none of this ever happened.

It's one of your leg fucking cramps.

One of the cruelest things no one tells you about giving birth… is how your body doesn’t come back the same. You keep your head down, chest heaving, trying not to cry and behind you, you hear him step closer.

“What’s wrong?” Beomgyu asks. You’re trying to reach for your leg, but the muscle spasms again—tight and brutal, like it’s being wrung out from the inside—and your breath catches, a broken sob lodged in your throat. “Y/N, what’s wrong?” He’s closer now, panicked.

You don’t answer. You can’t, the pain twists deeper, radiating up your thigh, stealing the air from your lungs. You collapse back against the car, gasping, then you whimpered; tears burn hot, streaking down your cheeks before you even realize you’re crying.

“It hurts—” you sob, choked and ugly. “It hurts, it hurts, I—”

Beomgyu’s down in front of you before the words finish. He’s on his knees, hands trembling as he reaches for your ankle, for your shoes, for anything he can fix.

“Okay, okay, I got you, I got you,” he mutters like a prayer, but his hands hover, unsure. Like he’s scared to touch you. Like he doesn’t know where it hurts more. You keep crying; loud, unfiltered sobs that rip through you like the pain itself. Beomgyu’s hands are at your ankle now, carefully slipping off your shoe.

“Don’t move,” he says, and you shake your head, clutching at the car door, your body trembling. “Don’t—don’t move, baby—”

“Don’t— ah—” You managed to say, but the pain flares again, and your voice collapses with it.

Beomgyu’s left hand moves up to your thigh, firm but gentle, pressing your leg down to straighten it. His right finds your foot, still covered in your sock, and starts to stretch it carefully—and you felt your body relax as the pain blurs.

“Breathe,” he says. You squeeze your eyes shut. “Breathe, Y/N.”

You do. And slowly, the pain starts to ease. Your breathing staggers, catches, steadies even if your tears are still falling. And for the first time since after accidentally meeting him at the store, you look back at him. Your eyes meet his, and you can see how glassy they are. His eyes—locked on you like you're something fragile and holy and breaking all at once.

Do you know what it’s like to be angry at someone?

Like really, deeply angry; the kind that simmers low for years, slow and bitter. The kind you carry in your chest like armor. You build it up, rehearse it alone in the shower, in the car, while folding laundry like you’re folding the bones of your rage. You prepare your words like weapons. Every line sharp, factual, unforgiving. You’re not going to yell. No. You’re going to ruin them. Intelligently. With every truth they chose to ignore.

And he looks at you like this. With the softest look that he can give, like he never meant to hurt you. Like he miss you.

You don’t feel powerful. You feel exposed. How do you stay mad at someone who still looks at you like you’re everything they lost?

You let him hold your ankle. You don’t even fight it. His other hand moves up your leg again, massaging. You can feel the warmth of him even through the fabric. Fresh tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.

Beomgyu freezes at the sight of it. “Does it still hurt?”

Yes. How can you miss him for years, and seeing him now makes you miss him more?

“Where?” he asks again, softer this time. “Tell me where it hurts.”

Everywhere, you think. You.

You pull away. No words, just the slow removal of his hands from your skin. You crouch to gather the fallen box, desperate for anything to do with your hands but before you can even reach it—he’s already there. Already picking it up. Already moving toward your car like it’s still his place to help. He opens the back door, gently places the groceries inside then turns to look at you.

"I should go," It was your voice this time, cracking the silence between you for the first time all night. Beomgyu flinches, almost imperceptibly, as if your voice surprised him. "My family's waiting."

You don’t wait to see if he reaches for you. You open the car door, slide inside, and shut it before the moment can stretch any further. The engine rumbles to life beneath your hands, a poor distraction from the weight in your chest. As you pull away, you glance in the rearview mirror; see him get smaller and smaller, watching you.

The car felt like a cage. You could barely breathe, not with the way your chest was caving in, not with the way your fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. You kept seeing him; standing there, just standing there, like he didn’t know whether to run after you or let you go. That image clung to you like a bruise. What were you supposed to say? Hey. I guess you’re back. Did it hurt as much for you as it did for me?

When you finally pulled up, your face was dry, but only because you'd cried yourself empty. You didn’t say anything to Soobin—couldn’t. Nari was already asleep, curled up beside his nephew like nothing in the world had gone wrong. His sister welcomed you with a soft smile and showed you to the guest room, no questions asked. You were grateful for that. You didn’t have the strength to lie. Soobin looked at you like he wanted to ask, but you refused to meet his eyes. You knew if you did, something inside you might shatter beyond repair. He must’ve sensed it because he didn’t say a word either.

Sleep didn’t come easy that night, not when the only thing behind your eyelids was the face you’d missed more than the life you once had.

It's cruel how memory chooses the softest parts of someone to haunt.

A soft knock at the door startled you awake.

The room was too bright, it's morning. You flinched, disoriented. Had you even slept? It felt like you’d just blinked. “Yeah… I’m up,” you mumbled, voice rough with a night that gave you no rest. Whoever it was didn’t respond; the sound of footsteps fading down the hall.

You needed to check on Nari. That much you could focus on. You pulled your hair into a loose ponytail with tired fingers, the strands falling uneven around your face. Your pajamas were wrinkled, your face was swollen from all the crying, but you made yourself somewhat presentable.

The living room greeted you with soft light spilling through the curtains, shadows curling against the floor. “Where’s Na—” You froze.

Sitting casually on the couch, a fresh bouquet of roses rested on the table in front, he turned at the sound of your voice.

Choi Beomgyu.

Right. You kept forgetting he was Soobin’s friend too. Of course.

He stood slowly, looking at you. His hand reached for the flowers. “Good morning,” he said softly.

It pulled you out of your stupor, your instincts kicking in like a switch. You turned on your heel, not giving him the satisfaction of a second glance. You needed to find the criminal.

"Good morning, my Y/N!" Soobin greeted with that stupid smile of his, the one that usually made things feel a little lighter. But not today. Not when you walked straight up to him and grabbed him by the collar, your fists trembling with something dangerously close to panic. His grin vanished.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" you snapped, your voice low, "Where is my daughter?" He winced, not from your grip, but from your stare.

“He kept calling me about you—ouch—okay,” he muttered, raising a hand as if to calm you down. “He was desperate. He somehow managed to reach people I haven’t even spoken to in years. Just calling and calling, he was trying to find me. All because of you." Your grip faltered for a second.

“I think…” he hesitated, then met your eyes. “I think it’s best if you hear him out. He got here fifteen minutes after Nari went out with my sister and Han. They’ll be back in the afternoon.”

You slowly let go of his collar, hand falling back to your side like it suddenly weighed too much. Your chest was tight, heart heavier than it had been in weeks. Did he talk? Did he tell him? About you? About how deeply, thoroughly, and irreversibly you’ve screwed everything up?

Your eyes searched his face, ask but then, almost gently, as if he could read your thoughts, Soobin spoke. “I didn’t tell him anything, It wasn’t my place.” he said quietly. “It’s best if you hear him out..”

Beomgyu’s walking away.

Each step feels like it’s slicing him open from the inside, like the ground’s dragging knives across his chest. The doors ahead glint under the airport lights; the ones that’ll swallow him whole and spit him out somewhere far from here. Far from you. He tells himself not to look back. If he does, he’ll break. If he sees your face, he’ll run back and beg to stay. Worse—if you so much as whispered his name, told him not to go—he would drop everything. The flight. The future. All of it.

So he keeps going. Until something in him caves. He always caves when it comes to you. He stops. Turns.

And there you are; clinging to Soobin, crying like the world’s ending. Maybe it is. He wants to run to you, hold you until you stop shaking. But instead, he just stands there, chest heavy with every breath. He makes a promise right then, like a prayer carved into bone: He'll give you the life you deserve. He'll give you everything.

He tries to smile, but his lips are trembling too much. He can’t fall apart here, not when you’re already crying. You’re always the crybaby, not him. He has to be the strong one.

And when he finally finds the words—words that feel like ripping out his own heart and handing it to you—he shouts them so loud they shake through the air between you.

What do you even say to someone you're leaving behind?

“I’LL COME BACK FOR YOU!”

Even if the world changes. Even if you forget.

He will.

It’s hard, being in a new country. Harder than he ever admitted out loud. His family’s here, but it doesn’t feel like it. They’re always working, always somewhere else. And when he comes home to an empty apartment and four white walls, it hits him all over again.

You’re miles and oceans away.

He walks through streets that don’t sound like home. Every sign is a puzzle, every conversation feels like it’s moving too fast, slipping through his fingers. He nods and smiles, pretends he understands. But most of the time, he doesn’t. Most of the time, he’s just tired.

The only thing that feels real is when your letter arrives.

On those days, everything stops. His heart settles. His hands too excited as he tears the envelope open, like it’s something that gives him ar reason to live for. Your handwriting, your words; they’re a piece of home he can hold. It becomes his favorite part of the week. His only part of the week, really. Writing to you, reading your letters, rereading them until the ink practically imprints itself into his skin.

It was going well. For a while, anyway. Two months of surviving. Of pretending he was getting the hang of it.

Until it all went up in smoke.

He came home one evening and the sky was choked in black. Smoke pouring like a stormcloud, thick and angry, swallowing everything whole. Their apartment—the only place that ever felt remotely stable—was on fire. Gone. His parents’ last coin flip, their last gamble at a better life, reduced to ash. The furniture. The photographs. The little trinkets that made it feel like home.

Your letters. God, your letters.

He’d kept every single one. Folded neatly, worn soft from rereading. He used to clutch them on the bad days, the lonely nights. And now they were gone, burned before he could even say goodbye to them.

Suddenly, they were homeless in a country that still didn’t feel like theirs. The language still felt foreign, the people distant. They stayed where they could; shelters, temporary housing, places that didn’t ask too many questions. He didn’t write for a week. Then another. A month slipped by before he realized just how long it had been. But how could he write, when he couldn’t even buy himself a meal? When a sheet of paper, an envelope, a stamp—things he used to take for granted—now felt like luxuries too far out of reach?

He thought of you every single day. He trusted you’d still be there, still waiting, still believing in him. He had to, because he didn’t have anything else left.

They moved. Again. And again. From shelter to shelter, wherever there was space, wherever someone would take them in. No place ever felt permanent with borrowed beds. While his father scraped together bits and pieces for a future that still felt out of reach—secondhand furniture, donated appliances, hope held together with tape, Beomgyu worked for their family too. Late shifts, early mornings, anything that paid. He kept his head down, hands tired, eyes always scanning for something he couldn’t name.

It took six months. Six months of skipped meals and pocketed coins, of walking past stationery aisles with a lump in his throat, before he could finally afford to write to you again. And when he did, he poured everything into that first letter. Every apology he never got to say. Every cracked piece of his heart. Every I’m sorry it took so long, wrapped in trembling handwriting and the ghost of smoke that never really left his clothes.

He waited for your reply. Days passed. Then weeks. Nothing. So he wrote again. Maybe the first got lost. Maybe you didn’t see it, but then the second went unanswered. And the third

Still, he didn’t stop.

Every week, without fail, he wrote. Even when his fingers ached. Even when the silence on the other end felt like a punishment he deserved. He wrote like it was the only way to stay alive. Like if he just kept going, somehow, you'd hear him. Apologies bled through ink. Cries tucked between the lines. Please. Please say something. Please don’t leave me behind.

It had been over a year.

One year and seven months since he last saw your face, he missed your birthday. He missed everything. Coming back was a miracle in itself. His boss had finally said yes to time off, just a few days, barely enough, but he didn’t care. He had scraped together every cent. Skipped meals. He stopped buying things that tasted like comfort just to save a little more. He told himself he’d apologize the moment he saw you. Fall to his knees if he had to. He didn’t care what it took—he just wanted to explain, to make you understand, but then, on the bus to your neighborhood, holding the small bag of gifts he could afford, it hit him like a punch to the chest.

He’d been writing your address wrong.

All those letters—pages of love and pain, of apologies and hope—had never reached you because he wrote them from memory after everything got burned. He didn’t even realize he was crying until a stranger asked if he was alright.

And then he saw you. From across the street, standing beside Jake Sim. You're pregnant? Jake is laughing at something, one hand resting on your belly. You look beautiful.

Right there, across the street, the boy who swore he’d come back for you was breaking.

The ones left behind mourn with open hands, reaching for echoes, clinging to the warmth of a room that’s already gone cold. They cry in the spaces where laughter used to live, and the grief comes loud, sharp, like a scream in an empty house. But the ones who leave? They bleed quietly. They turn their backs knowing they’re carving wounds into people they love, knowing their absence will echo longer than their presence ever did. And they leave not because they want to—but because the world asks them to; because duty, or fate, or something crueler demands it.

Between the two, who suffers more? The ones who wait for a door that won’t open, or the ones who shut it with shaking hands and walk away?

Beomgyu had kept himself hidden for years—not out of pride, but shame. A quiet, gnawing embarrassment that maybe he had broken too much to ever come back whole. He never wanted to burden you, never wanted his face to remind you of the past. He knew you had your own life now. A family. A world that kept turning even after he stepped out of it.

He couldn’t explain what shifted in him this year. Maybe it was the ache of too many birthdays passed, or the way the past never seemed to loosen its grip. But he found himself wanting. Just a glimpse. Just to know you were okay. He went to your house—stood in front of the door he once called home—and was met with a stranger’s cold dismissal. Your father, grayer now, eyes harder. There was no trace of your mother; divorce, he guessed.

Then he felt oddly drawn to buy himself water and saw you at a grocery store. A mundane miracle.

And now here he is, sitting across from you, heart in his throat, watching your brows knit in confusion as he says the words he’s kept caged for years. The girl he once wanted to give everything to. The girl he still does. He worked through the ache, graduated, got a job, built something steady from the mess he once was. It’s not enough to retire on, but it’s enough to build a life. He tried dating, tried pretending but every time someone got too close, he found himself pulling away, haunted by a laugh that wasn’t yours. He looks at you, you’re here. And your adorable, bewildered expression guts him more than anything else ever could, because it confirms the one thing he’s tried hardest to bury: he’s still so fucking in love with you.

Beomgyu clenches his fist, thumb digging into his palm as he forces himself to meet your eyes. He stopped talking minutes ago—about the fire, the years, except the time he went back and saw you with Jake—and still, you haven’t said a word. Not to him. Not yet. “I know it’s—”

“What do you want me to do?” you ask, your voice flat, unfamiliar. And it terrifies him more than if you had shouted. “I’m sorry. About the fire, and everything, but what do you want me to do with that, Beomgyu?”

The way you say his name, it burns. Beomgyu stares. You still look the same, achingly so, but something in your voice tells him the years have changed you into someone else. Someone harder. He nods slowly, eyes flickering down, again to your hands. Bare. Still bare. The absence of a ring doesn’t make sense. You should be married by now. Any man would’ve been a fool not to. So why is your finger still empty? Soobin never told him anything. Wouldn’t.

“I don’t really want anything,” he says quietly, even though his heart is screaming otherwise. He wants everything. He wants you. “I just… hoped we could talk again.”

Beomgyu sees your face soften with his words, and you're about to speak when the door of Soobin's apartment beeps open.

“Mommy!”

A small voice cuts, bright and sweet, and he turns just in time to see a little girl bounding toward you—hair in low pigtails, uneven but endearing, the kind he used to tie for you in middle school with small fingers and too much care. The lollipop in her hand is sticky, half-melted, clinging to her palm as she throws herself into your arms. And you catch her like you were made for it. Beomgyu’s heart stutters.

“Did you miss me, Mommy?” she beams, eyes wide and waiting. And then he sees it—the softest, most real thing he’s seen on your lips since he sat down.

It tears him apart.

“I did, hun,” you murmur, brushing hair gently from her cheek. “Did you eat yet?”

“Yes! Sorry I didn’t wake you up to eat. Uncle Binnie said to let you sleep.” Beomgyu can’t breathe. His chest feels too tight, too full.

He can’t look away. He knows he should; knows it’s not his place to linger in the picture-perfect moment unfolding in front of him but he’s frozen. The little girl settles in your lap, arms still curled around your neck, and then, her curious eyes flick to him.

“Hi,” she says brightly, the lollipop now forgotten, her smile wide and fearless. Beomgyu blinks, then somehow finds the strength to match her energy.

“Hi,” he says softly. “I’m Beomgyu.” He sees it immediately—the shift in your gaze.

“She’s my daughter,” you say. “Her name is Nari.”

His breath catches.

Of course she is.

She looks like you. Same curious eyes. Same soft, heart-shaped face. A perfect mirror of the girl he fell in love with all those years ago. It stings—how beautiful she is. How familiar. She looks like you. He lets out a small, stunned laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Yeah, figured she is.”

“Bye, Beomgyu,” Nari chirps from the living room, her tiny hands waving enthusiastically at the man standing by the door. Beomgyu grins, lifting his hand in a playful wave back. Then his eyes find yours.

You shift where you’re standing, arms crossed tight over your chest. Soobin’s already stepped outside, giving the two of you space as he walks ahead from Beomgyu toward the lot. You hadn’t expected Nari to warm up to him so quickly. Nari, usually shy around anyone new, had taken to Beomgyu almost instantly. She’d asked him question after question, tugged on his sleeve, even laughed in that unfiltered way she rarely does; maybe because he kept talking to her like he’d known her forever. Gentle. Patient. Funny in that effortless way.

“I’ll head out,” he says softly, clearing his throat. “See you tomorrow?” He looks like he's about to take you in his arms.

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice barely holding steady. “Drive safe.” You don’t look at him. You can’t. Not when your chest already feels too tight. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then he shifts, and when his hand lifts, you flinch—so subtly he might not even notice; all he does is rest his palm gently on your head. The touch is soft. Careful. With that small, simple gesture, he’s holding the whole mess of your heart right there in his hand.

You look up, just in time to see him step back. He gives you a quiet smile, a small nod, then he turns and walks out the door. You stand there, staring at the space he left behind, at the door that feels like it’s separating more than just a room. And suddenly, it hits you—this aching, desperate urge to run after him. To pull him back. To say all the things you swallowed down.

You felt it the moment he started talking, explaining—something inside you beginning to quietly break. His story unfolded slowly, like a wound being reopened in real time. It was too vivid, too cinematic, the kind of tragedy that scripts are written around. The kind that ruins the heroine, just before the credits roll but this wasn’t fiction, and Beomgyu doesn’t lie.

That’s what made it unbearable.

You sat there, silent, trying not to fall apart, trying to keep your expression flat even as the weight of his words dragged you under. Because somewhere between his grief and yours, a realization slipped through the cracks.

You were the one who gave up first.

Now, you couldn’t pull him into this; this version of your life where everything is held together with fraying thread because of you decisions. Where your daughter’s laugh is the only light in a world that feels dim more often than not. Where you don't even know who you are without the exhaustion.

You love Nari. Of course you do. You love her with a kind of fierce, bone-deep love that no one else will ever understand. But loving her doesn’t mean you don’t ache. You can’t let him back in. You can’t let him try to fit into this life, not when you know it would never be enough.He belongs to a different world, a world of bright lights and movement and choices. He could leave tomorrow.

You told yourself you were protecting him. That someone like Beomgyu—so full of life and possibility—shouldn’t be dragged into the mess of your world. A single mother, anchored to a small town and a quiet kind of loneliness. He deserved someone lighter. Someone with no baggage. You love Nari. God, you love her more than anything. Being her mother is the one thing you’ve never regretted. But that love also demands a kind of sacrifice.

If you let Beomgyu in—really in—you’d hope. You’d start to believe he might stay. And that hope is dangerous.

Worse still, a darker thought lingers: what if Nari starts to see him as more than just your friend? What if she lets herself believe he could be something permanent, someone who doesn't leave? Beomgyu comes from a world that moves faster than this place ever will. A city boy, full of dreams and fire. This town would shrink around him.

There’s an urge—violent, desperate—to throw the door open and run after him, but you don’t move. Your hands… they’re not the same hands that once held him with all the certainty in the world. The naive teenager you once were would’ve said yes without thinking, would’ve smiled and nodded like words was enough to fix anything. Whatever fragile, fleeting thing bloomed between you, it was your hands that crushed it first. Wanting him now would be selfish. Cruel.

You're not heartless enough to ruin him twice. You will be damned if you ever stood in front of his path.

It's still bright out.

The sun hasn't set yet, but when Soobin glances to his right, it feels like someone told the man beside him that it never would rise again. All that light seems to have drained from him, a ghost of the boy Soobin first saw; eyes full of hope, clutching a bouquet of roses like he believed in happy endings.

"Choi Beomgyu," Soobin sighs as the elevator doors slide shut. "What did she say?"

There’s no answer. Just a low, half-hearted grumble from Beomgyu, somewhere between a whine and a sigh, like even admitting it out loud would hurt too much. Soobin turns, already knowing what he’ll see. Beomgyu’s head bowed, eyes glued to the floor, hands stuffed deep in his pockets like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Some things really don’t change. Soobin shakes his head, the corners of his mouth tightening. It's the same Beomgyu from high school—the one who used to trail behind you, heart always half a step ahead of his courage. The one who scribbled love in silence and let it rot there. Back then, Soobin had to push him every damn day just to get him to tell his heart out. Watching him want you but never move was its own kind of torture. And now, years later, here they are again. Did he seriously need to play the matchmaker again?

"Are you…" Soobin clears his throat, the question catching awkwardly on his tongue. "…giving up?"

"No. God, no." Beomgyu finally lifts his head, eyes flashing like Soobin just accused him of something unforgivable. "It's just—she caught me off guard that—"

"That she changed?" Soobin cuts in, sharp. "What, were you expecting her to do aegyo? Say some of that cute shit she used to pull in high school? Oh, I’m sorry, ‘Oh, Choi Beomgyu, I love you too—Ouch!” Soobin curses under his breath, reaching for his shin where Beomgyu’s foot just connected, hard. It wasn't playful. It was frustration. Beomgyu doesn’t say a word, but Soobin doesn’t need him to. He can feel it radiating off him—the heat, his rage.

Good. He’s still so stupidly, violently affected by you. There’s still something left to fight for.

"Are you still in love with her?" — "Yes."

The answer slips out of Beomgyu’s mouth so fast, so effortlessly, it startles the breath out of Soobin for a second. He smirks, "How can you tell?"

Beomgyu exhales, eyes distant. "Because it took everything in me not to kiss her."

"Heol. You pervert," Soobin snorts, shaking his head, but his tone softens, "About your question earlier. About… Nari’s father." He sees it instantly—the way Beomgyu’s smile falters, the way his jaw clenches like he’s bracing for something. Soobin swallows hard, the lump in his throat thick with everything he isn’t saying. There’s so much he wants to spit out. He feels like he’s being ripped in half. One part of him wants to grab Beomgyu by the collar, shake him, scream at him to grow the hell up and the other part just wants to pull him into a hug and not let go—because Beomgyu looks like he’s seconds away from breaking.

"It’s not my story to tell," Soobin finally says, "but for what it’s worth, he’s not in the picture. If that wasn’t obvious already." He pauses, glancing at the still silent Beomgyu, "She changed. I won’t lie about that. She’s sharper now, doesn’t smile unless Nari’s in the room. Harder to reach, but she’s still… our Y/N."

The elevator dings.

A week has passed, and you see Choi Beomgyu every single day.

He hasn’t brought up your last conversation. He doesn’t push, doesn’t crowd the space you’ve drawn around yourself. He just… shows up. Whenever Soobin takes Nari out, even when you’re not there, you’ll find Beomgyu waiting by the car for your daughter, always looking back to give you a small smile.

There was a time when you told Soobin you were thinking about going home. He only shrugged and said, “You’ve already planned your holiday breaks. Leaving now would break Nari’s heart.” So you stayed. And every day, Beomgyu keeps coming back.

He brings flowers—always the same kind as the first time. He never hands them to you directly; places them somewhere nearby, close enough to notice, far enough to ignore if you wanted to. He doesn’t say a word about them. Your fingers always find the stems. You gather them quietly, arrange them in the same vase.

“Do you want some of this too?” you ask, motioning toward the chicken. Nari nods immediately, her mouth open, ready for the next bite. It’s lunchtime. The dining table is full—Nari beside you, Soobin across, his sister and nephew chatting quietly at the end. And then there’s Beomgyu, sitting diagonally from you, close enough to hear every small thing you say. You spoon the food onto Nari’s plate, smoothing it out beside the rice. Beomgyu doesn’t say much, but you can feel his eyes flicker toward you every now and then.

Beomgyu glances at you, then at Nari’s plate—already full, her little fork digging in eagerly. The rest of the table begins to eat, soft clinks of utensils and the hum of conversation filling the space. Then he looks down at your plate.

It’s still empty.

Without a word, Beomgyu reaches across the table and starts serving food onto it. You turn, startled by the movement. “I’ll do it—” you begin, reaching for the serving spoon.

“Eat,” he says gently, scooping the biggest piece of fish fillet onto your plate. “You don’t like it when your food turns cold.”

You go still. The words hit you in a way you weren’t expecting; pulling you back to high school lunches, sitting on worn benches, complaining about lukewarm meals. Back to the way Beomgyu used to sprint across campus just to find a microwave, breathless but grinning as he handed your food back, warm again.

You blink, watch as he quietly adds a little more to your plate. He reaches for your utensils, places them gently in your hand and you take them.

Just like you always used to.

“You sure you don’t need help?” Soobin asks, placing the last plate into the sink.

Your hands are already in the soapy water, working through the pile of forks and spoons. “Yeah,” you reply easily, “this is nothing.”

Soobin gives your head a gentle pat, and you hear his footsteps fade as he leaves the kitchen.

You keep going, the familiar rhythm of washing grounding you—soap, rinse, repeat. It’s peaceful in the way small, ordinary things can be. Then, without looking, you feel someone beside you. A hand reaches for the dishes you’ve already washed, careful and quiet, followed by the soft drag of a towel across porcelain.

“Hey,” you start, half-turning, “I said I’m fine, I’ll do that—” Your words trail off when you glance over and see him. Beomgyu. He’s focused on the dishes, drying each one.

He's helping you.

Beomgyu glances at you, his thoughts loud. You hadn’t pushed him away. You let him stay beside you, in this small, shared space; rinsing, drying, moving in sync. Something so simple, yet to him, it feels intimate. He’d dreamed of this. Not grand reunions. Not tearful apologies or big moments. Just… this quiet kitchen, and you beside him.

“You’re a guest,” you murmur, eyes on the sink. “You shouldn’t be here, doing this.”

He hears it—the softness in your voice, the way it falters just slightly at the end. You talked to him. Directly. A loopsided smile pulls at his lips, unable to hide it, because you talked to him. He doesn’t look at you right away, just focuses on the dish in his hands like it means more than it does.

“I want to,” he says simply, glances your way. "I want to help you." He watches how quickly your hands move through the motions but all he can think about is how much he wants to stop you. How badly he wants to take your hands out of the water, dry them gently, press them to his chest so you’ll feel how fast he’s still beating for you.

He keeps drying the plates you pass to him.

Beomgyu has been watching you and Nari all week. It hadn’t even taken a full day for him to see it: how good of a mother you are. How instinctively, beautifully you move around your daughter, knowing her moods, her hunger before she even says a word. But it’s the other things he can’t stop noticing.

The way you serve everyone first before thinking of your own plate. The way you rush through bites, always half-standing to get something for someone else. The way your eyes stay on others, never on yourself. He remembers lunch—everyone halfway through their meal, and your plate still empty. You were too busy making sure Nari had enough, that Soobin’s nephew got seconds, that nothing spilled. And something about it made his chest twist in a way he wasn’t ready for.

Who’s been taking care of you?

You, years ago, pouting over your favorite ice cream being sold out. You, holding out your foot for him to tie your shoelace, smiling like you knew he’d do it without asking. You, crying over the smallest things, because back then, you were allowed to. Now you're here, taking care of a child like you’ve done it a thousand times before. He sees you—this version of you, all grown up—and it knocks the breath from his lungs.

Beomgyu reaches out before he can stop himself, the sight of a single strand of hair falling across your face pulling him in. His fingers move gently as he tucks it behind your ear. He looks at you, afraid he must have done something wrong, something personal, but in this moment, with you looking up at him, lashes soft and eyes wide, he’s too dazed.

“Thank you, Beomgyu.”

He knows you haven’t said a word since the first day he showed up, but if anything, somehow, impossibly; he’s fallen even deeper.

You were chopping vegetables at the table, Soobin’s sister beside you, lending a hand—at least until the two of you realized a few ingredients were missing, so she went out for a run. Soobin and Beomgyu had volunteered to keep an eye on the kids, leaving the kitchen unusually quiet.

“Y/N?” You looked up to see Beomgyu standing at the doorway, something wrapped in red cradled in his hands. His smile was small, unsure. You returned it without thinking.

“I wanted to give you something,” he said. You set the knife down and nodded. Ever since he’d spoken to you again that day, little conversations had started to creep back in. It felt easy. Light.

“What’s this?” — “Merry Christmas.”

“You do know it’s only 12 p.m. today, right?”

“I know,” Beomgyu says, scratching the back of his head. “But… do you remember that little tradition we had? Back then?”

You pause, looking at him. “Our families always went out of town on Christmas Day,” he continues, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “So we used to pretend Christmas was the day before. At noon. Just the two of us.”

You do remember. How could you not? Your hands move to unwrap the gift slowly, careful not to tear the paper. Inside, your eyes land on a pack of relief patches. Your breath catches. A note, scribbled in familiar messy handwriting.

Can we be friends, again?

"Uh, I didn’t really know what to get you," Beomgyu says, rubbing the back of his neck, voice a little rushed. "I mean… there’s a lot of things I wanted to give you, but," he lets out a nervous laugh, "I heard you talking about these patches. And I know you get those cramps whenever it’s too cold, so I just," He cuts himself off when he sees you smiling, arms open wide.

"If you don’t hug me right now, I’m taking it back and—"

You don’t even get to finish the teasing before he’s already moving, fast enough to startle you. His hands find the back of your head, cradling you gently as he exhales like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. His other arm wraps around your back, pulling you closer. You instinctively hugged him around the waist—just like you used to. You hold him, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t let them fall.

Beomgyu feels your arms tighten, and he presses himself closer. Being in your arms feels like forgiveness. It’s warm.

In the middle of the kitchen, two souls stood still. Remembering, what it felt like to be whole.

You wash your hands, eyes drifting to the nearly rebuilt faucet.

It’s been a month since Christmas. Three weeks since you came back home with Nari. And Beomgyu—just as everyone expected—has been everywhere. He visits for Nari, plays with her like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Sometimes he comes with Soobin, sometimes alone. He stays. He helps. He shows up with flowers one day, groceries the next because he noticed you were running low. And the faucet, the one you swore would never stop leaking, is finally fixed.

You became... somewhat friends.

“Nari?” you called, a small laugh slipping out when she came running in with her backpack already on—hair tie and comb in her hands. You took them from her, settling onto the living room couch as she plopped down on the floor between your knees. Gently, you began brushing her hair, pulling it up the way she liked for practice days. It was her big day. And you—fresh off nearly ten hours at work—had barely caught your breath. Beomgyu had insisted on taking her this time. Said you needed to rest. Said he’d be proud to cheer her on.

Your hands moved on autopilot through her hair, “Do you remember…” you swallowed, fingers pausing for a second, “Do you remember the person I used to talk about a lot?”

You never said his name aloud but something in you needed to know.

“Hm?” Nari hums, eyes fluttering shut a little, comforted by the way you gently brush through her hair. “Oh. Yes, Mommy.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” she says, “Mama’s best friend, right? And I think it’s Beomgyu.”

Your hands still. “What? Why?”

“I saw his dimples, Mama,” she replies, her voice sure. “It's ike the ones you always told me about and he’s big like a bear, like you said. And…” she turns her head slightly, looking up at you with soft certainty, “Beomgyu says you’re his favorite person in the world.”

You blink. Words caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. You never realized how much she was listening. How much she noticed. You were still trying to find something to say when the doorbell rang.

It was the fastest you’d ever seen your daughter run.

You caught the look on her face; pure joy, her smile so wide you thought her cheeks might burst. It was a look she gives to someone she trusts. She knew exactly who was at the door. You followed, slower now, your steps unconsciously softening when you heard him laughing. Then you saw them; Beomgyu practically crouched on the floor, Nari already clinging to him. He looked up, his eyes met yours, and he smiled.

It made you want to dream again.

Beomgyu buckles Nari into the back seat, double-checks the latch, then closes the door with a soft click. When he turns around, you're still watching; leaning against the front door, arms crossed, casual in a plain shirt and shorts, face bare in the morning light.

So fucking beautiful.

He lifts a hand in a small wave. You smile, and wave back. It’s such a small thing, but enough to make his heart race. He gets back in the car, forcing himself to look away. He doesn’t start the engine until he sees you step inside and gently close the door behind you. He’s driving, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror once, then again. “You okay back there?”

“Yeah!” Nari chirps. “Thank you for letting Mama rest. I wanted her to rest too, ‘cause she’s been working a lot. I wanna take care of Mama today.”

Beomgyu’s chest tightens. She’s so small, her voice so light, and she probably doesn't know her words nearly undoes him. That kind of love, intentional, coming from someone who hasn’t even lived a fraction of life yet, it knocks the breath from his lungs.

How did she learn to love like that?

He glances at her in the rearview mirror, and she’s just there. Swinging her legs, looking out the window like she didn’t just crack his heart wide open. He swallows hard. He’s proud. God, he’s so proud. Of her, and of you; especially you. Because this kind of softness doesn’t come from nowhere. You built that in her and now it’s spilling out of her in the backseat of his car, and he doesn’t know what to do with the way it’s making him feel. It hasn’t even been that long. A few weeks. A handful of moments.

But he already wants forever.

He wants school plays and scraped knees. Wants to be the one who teaches her how to ride a bike, how to parallel park, how to survive the kind of heartbreaks he won’t be able to protect her from, chase off the boys who don’t deserve her. He wants to watch her grow into the world. And he wants you there for every second of it. Your laugh in the kitchen, your hand on his arm, your face before he sleeps. He wants you both. And it scares him, how much.

He’s never wanted anything this badly. His eyes sting. He blinks it away. Another glance in the mirror. Another heartbeat held tight in his chest.

“That’s cool, kid,”

The sun was high, painting the day in golden warmth that makes everything feel a little softer.

Up ahead, Nari bounced with excitement, her small hands clasped tightly in Soobin’s and Beomgyu’s. She was all smiles, practically skipping between them, laughter in her face. You watched her, heart full. Watched them. Soobin was talking to her, probably asking which games she was going to beat him at today. Beomgyu, though, kept glancing back, eyes always searching for you. Making sure you were, still close.

Soobin had wanted to take Nari out to the mall today—spoil her a little, burn some energy. And of course, that meant one inevitable stop: the arcade. Beomgyu had tagged along without hesitation. The way Beomgyu’s eyes lit up when you said yes to Nari, was evident.

“You have to press this one,” you say through a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you point to the button. “You used to be good at this, Beomgyu.”

“Hey,” he says, mock offense in his voice. “It’s been a while, okay?”

He steps closer, closer than he needs to. His shoulder brushes against yours, and the warmth of him slips under your skin before you can stop it. He doesn’t move away. Instead, his fingers wrap around yours, guiding the controller, and his other hand settles at your waist.

Steadying himself. Or maybe just finding a reason to touch you. You don’t pull away.

He presses the button like you showed him. The claw sinks down and lifts the small teddy bear. When the prize drops, he turns to you, pride written all over his face. “Told you I could do it,” he says, flashing that grin, dimple and all.

You try to play it cool, rolling your eyes, even as your heart stumbles a little. “Fine. It’s acceptable.” You take the toy from him, trying not to let your fingers brush again.

“I’ll give this to Nari," You start walking, feel Beomgyu fall into step beside you. You halt at the sight.

It’s instinctual, the way your body freezes, breath caught halfway through your chest. The space is loud, chaotic in the way weekends always are, but suddenly it all sounds muffled. Distant. Like the world just dipped underwater. It’s easy to spot Soobin; he stands tall even in a crowd, his frame always familiar but your eyes don’t land on him for long. They find the man standing across from him. The man in front of Soobin. In front of Nari.

The father of your child.

Jaehyun.

Soobin’s standing protective, squared just slightly forward, one arm half out like he’s ready to shield. He’s trying to keep things calm, you can tell. You’ve known him long enough to read the tension in his shoulders. You see him lightly push Jaehyun back. A warning. And then you see her. Nari stands beside Soobin, pressed in his legs, small and stiff, eyes wide but lips pressed in a firm, silent no. She shakes her head—once, twice, over and over. You know that look. You know that body language. The way her fingers twist in the hem of her shirt, the way she leans subtly toward Soobin, away from the man she doesn’t know.

Nari doesn’t like strangers.

You’re frozen. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until your chest starts to ache. You don’t know what part of it hit you first; seeing him again, or the way he’s looking at your child like he has some kind of right.

Jaehyun.

The man who left knowing you were carrying his child. You feel your stomach twist, something sour crawling up your throat. Is it fear? Or is it the anger, the shame? He left you. And it wasn’t just about leaving, it was how easily he did it. How quickly he made it clear that not even a child could make him stay. That you weren’t enough. That he meant none of what he promised. You were humiliated. Why does he know Nari? Why now? Did he know? Did he follow you? Did he have someone watching? Has he been here all along, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face without ever earning the right? Your hands are shaking. Being a father? What does that even mean?Because he’s the one who gave her half her blood? Is that all it takes? A name on a birth certificate, a twisted smile, a return after years of silence?

“Y/N. Hey.” Beomgyu’s voice is careful but you don’t look at him. Your eyes are locked on Nari. On the way her small frame stiffens, how her lips tremble like she’s holding in a sob too big for her chest. You don’t even know what to say; what do you say to a child meeting the man who walked out before she could even open her eyes? Beomgyu’s hand comes to your shoulder, but it drops the second he hears Nari.

“No—!” It's tiny, a plea, crying out through her tears. And everything goes still.

“Dude, back the fuck off.” Soobin immediately says, aware that Beomgyu who is now nearing them. “You're scaring her.”

Jaehyun steps forward anyway, insisting, and Nari stumbles back. She doesn’t say anything this time, just clutches Soobin’s hand tighter, tears slipping down her cheeks as she tries to disappear into the space behind him.

Beomgyu doesn’t even blink. The second Soobin lifts Nari, turning her away from the scene, hiding her trembling frame against his shoulder; Beomgyu snaps. He grabs Jaehyun by the collar and slams him against the nearest wall, hard enough to rattle the arcade glass. The lights flash mockingly behind them, all blinking reds and greens and blues like it’s some sick joke.

Jaehyun stares him down, cocky despite the blood already blooming at the edge of his lip.

“What?” Jaehyun stares him down, “You gonna scare me off too? Like you did with Y/N before?” Beomgyu’s jaw clenches. He’s shaking with how hard he’s holding back. Jaehyun laughs—laughs, like it’s all a game. “You’re not her father,” he spits.

That does it.

Beomgyu’s fist flies, collides straight into Jaehyun’s face. The impact is loud, brutal. Jaehyun stumbles sideways, nearly collapsing, but Beomgyu’s there again, dragging him back up by the collar like he refuses to let this end with one hit. “Don't even say her name. You left her. You left them.”

Jaehyun punches him back, hard, and Beomgyu hits the edge of a skee-ball ramp, stumbling. “You think you can come back and pretend you care?” Beomgyu growls, eyes wild, blood rushing hot in his ears. “You think one fucking look at her erases years?”

“You don’t know what I went through,” Jaehyun snaps, lunging forward. “You don’t know what it was like—”

“Don’t you talk to me about pain!” Beomgyu yells, slamming into him again. This time they both fall—Jaehyun’s back hitting the carpeted floor with a thud as Beomgyu’s fists come down, one—two—three times.

Soobin rushes forward, grabbing Beomgyu’s arm. “Stop!”

But Beomgyu shakes him off, panting hard. His knuckles are red, maybe bleeding, maybe not. Doesn’t matter. Everything is fire. Jaehyun coughs, blood at the corner of his mouth now, face turned away. “You don’t get to waltz back into her life,” Beomgyu says, voice rough. “You don’t get to show up and make her cry and act like you’re owed something. You were gone. Stay gone-” He raises his fist again. Blinded—by fury, by the ache of every story you ever told him in a whisper. He wants to destroy him for you. He wants to make Jaehyun feel what you felt.

“Choi Beomgyu!” He freezes. Your voice, cracked, frantic, and trembling—catches him in the ribs harder than any hit could. “Let’s go,” you beg, voice softer now, breaking. “Please?”

He turns. He sees you; your arms wrapped tight around yourself, like you’re barely holding it together. Tear-streaked cheeks, eyes wide and desperate. Soobin still has Nari tucked into his chest, shielding her from it all, from him. And Nari’s shaking, tiny hands fisted in Soobin’s shirt, too afraid to even look. Beomgyu’s heart drops.

He meets your eyes and it’s over. The rage leaks out of him in slow, gutting waves. Guilt rushes in to take its place, heavy and drowning. He looks down at his fists, knuckles split, blood seeping between his fingers. Jaehyun groans on the floor, but Beomgyu doesn’t care anymore.

He only sees you.

“…Let’s go.”

Beomgyu doesn’t really know what happened after. Everything moved in a blur. Security guards rushing over. Soobin’s voice, gathering Nari in his arms and carrying her out quickly. The sting of cold air as they pulled him aside. Your hand slipping into his, trembling.

And now this. A small, sterile room in the back of the arcade. Fluorescent lights buzzing above like they’re judging him. His knuckles throb with every pulse of his heart. That little box of first aid in your hands.

Beomgyu watches you. You’re so close he can feel the soft brush of your breath on his skin. Your hand cradles his jaw with the gentlest pressure, a cotton pad in your other, dabbing at the cut on his cheek with delicate focus.

He’s sitting, back against the cold wall, while you stand over him—eyes still glassy from the tears you swore you were done shedding. He doesn’t believe you. Not with how you keep blinking too fast, how your lips press together like you’re holding more in. "Does that hurt?" you ask softly, barely above a whisper.

“No, baby.”

You nod, thumb brushes his cheek as you tilt his face just slightly toward the light, inspecting the damage with far more care than he deserves. He can’t look away from you. Not with the way your brows are drawn in concern, not with the way your skin keeps brushing his, unintentionally intimate. Not with how close your mouth is. Not when he’s this full of anger, of adrenaline, of fear and guilt and the overwhelming ache of you being this soft with him after everything.

He should say something. Apologize again. Ask if you’re okay. But all the words are caught in his throat, dried out from the fire still simmering in his chest. You dab more alcohol gently and he winces, less from pain and more from the way your eyes flick to his for a split second. And linger.

He swallows.

You’re standing between his legs, hands on his face, touching him like he’s fragile. And it’s killing him—how much he wants to grab you and say something stupid like don’t leave me, don’t hate me, don’t talk to him—

“Why did you have to do that?” you whisper, voice cracking, your hands trembling where they grip the fabric of his shirt.

Beomgyu's heart swell, he reaches for you, palm steady on your waist, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he waits even a second longer. You straddle his lap without resistance, your thighs pressing against his hips, breath shallow as you shift closer. Your face is barely inches from his when he leans in, and the moment your lips touch, it’s messy. Breathless. Too much and not enough all at once.

The kiss deepens quickly—months of longing, fear, and pent-up desire pouring into it. You tilt your head, hands sliding up to cradle his jaw, and he groans softly against your mouth, his grip tightening on your hips. His fingers dip beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming the skin of your lower back, tracing slow circles. Your hips move without thought, just enough to feel the way his breath stutters against your lips. His hand slides down to your thigh, squeezing firmly before gliding up, under the fabric of your shorts, rough fingertips against soft skin.

“You were bleeding,” you murmur between kisses, breath hitching as his mouth trails along your jaw, down your throat. “I was terrified.”

His lips pause against your skin, and he exhales shakily. “I didn’t care,” he says, voice low. “I'll do anything for you.” Your fingers tangle in his hair as his hands explore. Needing. His mouth finds yours again, deeper now, hungrier. You rock your hips against him, just once, testing, and the sound he lets out makes your spine arch.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “Don’t do that unless you mean it.”

Beomgyu gets on his knees before you, hands gripping your thighs, “I hate that he ever got to touch you,” he mutters, lips brushing against your inner thigh, hands pressing on where you need him the most. “That he got to taste you.”

"Beomgyu," Your breath catches, your fingers tangled in his hair as he kisses higher. "Please,"

His mouth is ravenous. As soon as he lets down your underwears, his tongue moved in slow, devastating small licks that make your knees weak and your head fall back. You’re gasping, so sensitive, his grip on your thighs keeping you wide open as he buries himself in you like he’s starving.

Every lick, every kiss feels like a promise. Like he’s trying to erase every memory that isn’t him.

You cry out his name, hips stuttering under his hold, and he only groans in response, like the sound of your pleasure is the only thing he wants to hear. His hands are everywhere—thighs, hips, stomach—like he needs to hold every piece of you down while he builds you up to the edge. He rubs your clit, tounge sucking your entrance and making sure he gets, taste everything.

You’re trembling when it hits you, but he doesn’t stop and it’s too much, too good, your body curling more towards his mouth, hands gripping his hair. He looks up at you like you’re holy. Wrecked. Worshipped.

“You feel that?” he says, breathless. “No one else gets to have this. Just me.”

Soobin sighs from the driver’s seat, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. The car is still parked outside the arcade, engine off, the signs of early night settling around them. They’ve been waiting nearly twenty minutes now. He glances toward the entrance again. You and Beomgyu are still inside. No sign of either of you. Must be a serious conversation, he figures. After everything that just happened, how could it not be?

Beside him, Nari is unusually quiet. She sits in the passenger seat, small hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the window as if she’s trying to stare through time. It’s not like her. Not at all.

Soobin clears his throat gently. “Nari?” he says, keeping his voice soft. “Are you okay? Do you want anything? We can grab a snack or,” She shakes her head right away, not even turning to look at him.

He watches her for a moment, the tight press of her lips, the little furrow between her brows, her shoulders stiff with something she’s trying not to feel. A minute passes.

Then, finally, her voice; small and uncertain, breaks the silence. “Uncle... is Beomgyu going to be...”

Soobin glances over. “Hm?”

Nari bites her lip, eyes finally meeting his. “Is he upset?” The words are soft. Too soft for a kid who just cried her heart out.

Soobin’s heart twists in his chest. “No, sweetheart. He’s just... worried. About you. About your mom.” She nods once, but her pout only deepens.

“Then can you tell Beomgyu to stay with us? He really makes mommy happy.”

That day had been a moment of weakness.

Seeing Nari like that and hearing Beomgyu, breaking in your defense. You hadn’t been the same since. “Why are you ignoring him, seriously?” Soobin sighs through the phone, “Did something happen?”

You press the phone tighter to your ear, lips parting, but nothing comes out. Ever since that day, crammed in the backroom of the arcade, Beomgyu bruised and breathless—you’d barely spoken. Not to him. Not even to yourself. You couldn’t look him in the eye when you walked out. You’ve been silent ever since. “I’m just thinking,” you murmur, voice low.

“It’s been a week,” Soobin snaps, concerned. “For once, can you at least tell me what’s going on?”

You barely managed a rushed goodbye before the doorbell pulled you out of your daze. Nari was at school. You weren’t expecting anyone. Your legs felt heavy as you made your way to the door, heart climbing into your throat like it already knew.

Beomgyu. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Hair tousled, dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight like he’d rehearsed a thousand things to say and forgotten every single one the second he saw you. He quickly goes inside as soon as you step back and closes the door behind.

“What’s wrong with you?” he breathed, “What did I do?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He laughed but it was hollow. “Did I cross a line? Say something I shouldn’t have? Did I hold you too long? Look at you too much?”

“Beomgyu—”

“No,” he said quickly, his voice shaking. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t say my name like that. I’ve been trying, I’ve been trying so hard not to push. Not to ask for more than you’re ready to give. I’ve been—fuck—I’ve been so patient with you, Y/N. Waiting. Holding back. Being whatever you needed me to be. And now you’re just… gone?” He choked, looking down. “You just left me there.” Tears welled up in your eyes. You swallowed hard.

He looked at you again, and it almost broke you. “Did that mean nothing to you?” he whispered. “Did I mean nothing to you?” You stepped back, instinctively, like your own guilt was too heavy to hold this close. He saw it.

Your eyes sting. You see him, the exhaustion in his face, the bags under his eyes. You look at him and God, it’s the worst thing, because he looks like he’s already bracing for the worst.

“I fucking miss you,” he says quietly, desperately. “I miss Nari. And if you really don’t want me in your life, say it to my face. If I don’t have a chance, if there’s no space for me in your world… I’ll back off.” He swallows, eyes glassy. “If you don’t want me anymore—”

“It’s not that.” Your voice comes out cracked, a whisper barely stitched together. His eyes snap to yours, and it nearly undoes you. “I’m in doubt, okay?” you whisper. “Because I’ve been there. I’ve heard promises. I’ve believed in forever before and ended up alone with a baby in my arms.” He flinches. “I can’t do it again. Not for me and especially not for Nari. She’s not like other kids. She feels everything. If she loves you and you leave…” You take a shaky breath. “It will destroy her. I know what that kind of pain looks like. I lived through it and I won’t risk her having to.”

“And on top of that,” you breathe out bitterly, “let’s be real. There are a thousand girls who’d love to be yours. Girls with no baggage. Girls who are whole. Girls who don’t carry years of hurt and a child that isn’t yours. Girls who haven’t already given everything they had away.” You shake your head, jaw tightening. “I’m a single mom, Beomgyu. I have nothing left to offer. I’ve been holding myself together with spit and string for years. And one day… one day you’ll see that, I’m not shiny or easy or new. That I’m just work. And when that happens, I won’t be surprised.” You’re shaking now, because the words are pouring out like you’ve been choking on them for years.

Your voice trembles as you say it, eyes flickering to the floor. “I just want to protect her from that moment. What if one day you wake up and realize we’re too much?”

Beomgyu stares at you, chest heaving, and for a moment, all you can hear is the silence between you. His hands are trembling. You see it even as he clenches them into fists at his sides. Then his voice breaks, barely holding back the quake in his chest. “Do you even know how hard it’s been for me?”

“Do you know what it’s like to wake up every damn day thinking about you and wondering if I ever even cross your mind?” His eyes are glassy now, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to fall apart. “Do you know what it does to a person?”

You know, you know that feeling.

He laughs, bitter and quiet. “I came back because I couldn’t stay away and yeah, maybe I was terrified because every time I see you, I wonder if just being here is ruining something you’ve already tried to heal from.” He looks at you, “But I couldn’t stay away. I couldn’t pretend that moving on was possible. Not when my heart—” his voice cracks, “—not when my heart’s been beating for you all this time.”

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes red, pacing slightly as if staying still is too much. “I’m fucking in love with you, Y/N. I have been. And that feeling,” he pauses, chest rising and falling, “that feeling, it hasn’t faded. It won’t. Not in a week, not in a year, not in a lifetime or my next. I can’t look at anyone else and even try to imagine what it could be. It’s you. Always been you.”

He swallows thickly, “And Nari? She’s a gift. She’s part of you. She’s this bright, beautiful piece of you and I love her.” He chokes on the words. “If I walk away now, it’s only me. Just me. I’ll take that. But if you walk away… if you shut that door between us for good, it won’t just be you. I’ll lose both of you. You and Nari.”

Beomgyu breathes, then he sees it. Your tears. They fall quietly, like you didn’t even realize you were crying, and something in him fractures. His expression caves, soft and broken, and before he can stop himself, he steps closer, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. His hands are gentle when they reach for you, thumbs brushing the wetness from your cheeks like he’s memorizing the shape of your grief. His touch is trembling, unsure.

“You’re crying,” he whispers, “God, you’re crying…” His voice breaks on the last word. You can feel his hands shaking as he holds your face. “You think I’d ever leave you?” he breathes, eyes locked to yours, full of disbelief and pain and love. “You think I’d walk away from this? From you? After all we've been through? I’ve known you since we were kids. I loved you then, and I love you now.”

You hiccup, the sound small and sharp, like something inside you just split. A soft, strangled whimper slips out at the warmth of his hands; so gentle, so undeserved and your face crumples as fresh tears fall. “It’s all my fault,” you whisper, and makes his breath hitch. “If I had trusted you…” Your voice shakes, breaks, and you force the words out. “If I had waited. Maybe then…” Your chest caves inward, like you’re caving around the memory. “Maybe then she wouldn’t look up at me with those huge, tear-soaked eyes and ask if he ever loved her. If she wasn’t enough.” The words fall like stones. “If that’s why he left.” Beomgyu’s face twists but he doesn’t interrupt. He just listens. He takes it.

“And I, I have to look at her, and I have to lie. I have to lie, Beomgyu.” You’re gasping now, fists clenched. “I have to smile while swallowing every goddamn piece of my grief, and tell her, ‘You are enough. You are so loved,’ while the space beside her is a fucking ghost.” You squeeze your eyes shut. “And she believes me. That’s the worst part. She believes me.”

Your voice goes hoarse, barely audible. “Maybe if I’d made better choices,” you whisper, voice barely there, “I wouldn’t be doing this alone. I wouldn’t be the only one standing on the sidelines during family days, clapping for one when the world cheers in twos.”

You press your lips together to keep from sobbing. “I wouldn’t be the only arms she runs into.”

“I’m here,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “I’m here. Just… just tell me what you need—”

“I love you.” It’s barely a whisper, but it stops the world. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, twisting desperately, “I love you,” you say again, voice cracking. “I never stopped.”

His breath catches in his throat.

“Even when I was pregnant and terrified and waking up alone. Even when the world felt too big and I was too small and everything hurt, I still loved you.” You’re trembling now, eyes locked to his like the truth has finally clawed its way out of you. “When I gave birth, when I held her for the first time and felt everything and nothing all at once—I wished you were there. I needed you there.” Your voice breaks entirely, your forehead pressed harder against his like you’re trying to crawl into him, into that space where it doesn’t hurt so much.

“There were nights I didn’t think I’d make it. Days where I’d stare at the ceiling and wonder if she’d grow up resenting me. Days where I’d hold her and whisper your name… it was you. Always you.” Beomgyu’s eyes are wide, glassy, like he’s forgotten how to breathe. His lips part, but nothing comes out. Nothing can.

Because you just shattered him.

“We survived because of you,” you whisper. “Because I remembered what it felt like to be loved by you, because even when you weren’t there, you were still the reason I kept going.”

His hands slide to your jaw, his chest is rising and falling fast now, like your words punched through every wall he built.

He’s completely undone.

You barely get to speak again before he’s on you. He can't stop himself anymore. It’s how you looked, whispered the words that you loved him after all this time. His hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, his body heat searing through your clothes. His lips crash into yours—hungry, desperate, like he’s been starved for you. His mouth moves against yours, claiming, taking.

His fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head back as his tongue slides against yours. His hands roam down, gripping, pulling, making sure you feel every bit of him. He grabs your wrists, lifting them, wrapping your arms around his neck as his lips move to your jaw, then to your neck, his breath ragged as he nips your sensitive skin. "I missed you," he murmurs. Another kiss—hotter, deeper, his body pressing your back against the wall. "I got fucking scared you'd never let me in."

His movements were hurried, frantic, as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. In one swift motion, he lifted you, his steps unsteady as he carried you to the bedroom. Your bedroom. The air felt heavy as he laid you down on the mattress.

"You loved me." His voice softens, almost breaking. He presses his crotch to yours, eyes seeking yours. "You loved me after all this time?"

“Yes,” you said weakly, your hands clutching at his shirt, your voice trembling as much as your resolve.

"You're stuck with me now." His hands moved to your shoulders, then slid down to your waist, pulling you to him. He grinds desperately to you. You never knew that lips could talk without uttering a word as he captures your lips again and again. "I can't stay away anymore. I can't live without you."

You surrendered to his touch, your body softening beneath him. Your hands gripped his shoulders for balance as he pressed you deeper into the mattress, which groaned under your shifting weight. You reached for Beomgyu’s lips, catching him off guard as you kissed him with everything you had, tongues colliding in a heated frenzy. His hand slid between your thighs, cupping your middle and sending a shiver through you. But even in the haze of his taste, a heavy guilt settled in your chest. "Gyu,"

"I need you, baby." His breaths were ragged, syncing with your every moan as his tongue tangled with yours. Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer, urging him on. His body pressed against yours, grinding to yours, while his hands roamed over your skin, igniting every nerve he touched. His lips trailed downward, leaving soft kisses that melted into your flesh, a path leading straight to your core.

He stripped you of every barrier, leaving you bare under his gaze. His eyes shimmered with adoration and awe as they traced your body. You hadn’t realized how powerless you were against him until your legs parted, welcoming him. He's on top of you, looked at you like you were sacred, like you were his entire world. Beomgyu's eyes never left yours as his fingers found your hand, he intertwines your fingers.

“It's going to be okay… I'll be here now.” he whispered between kisses, his voice breaking in a way that made your heart ache. Tears pricked your eyes because you wanted to believe him. You needed to believe him. His hands explored further, his fingers shakily reaching for your clit, pinching softly then roughly rubbing, coaxing sounds from your lips that you didn’t know you were capable of.

"I'll fix everything for us, for you." He looks at you—wanting to see every expression you make. His face hovers and with his fingers he spreads you apart. He swallows, salivating. He sticks his tongue out, lightly licking your clit. You taste so—he buries his face in, tongue inside, hands on your hips. "Shit, you've always tasted this good," He groans, lapping up, sucking the arousal out of you. He moves up, nose bumping on your clit then he suckles more. His cock throbs with every taste of you, the way you melt against his mouth driving him insane. He feels you slick against his chin, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t leave a single inch of you untouched by his warm, greedy mouth. It was as if your body had been crafted for his lips alone, flesh and heat meant to be devoured at his leisure.

When you tug hard on his hair, he groans against you, finally pulling back. His lips glisten as he moves up your body. He crashes his mouth onto yours, the kiss deep and hungry, and you taste yourself on his tongue—messy, desperate, a mix of him and you, blurring the lines between who’s devouring who.

“I love you,” he murmured as he positioned himself, slowly sliding into you. A low, guttural sound escaped him as he felt you, tight and warm, pulling him deeper. He's sure he'll come right there and then. His face buried itself in the curve of your neck, and his words spilled out—

"You feel so so good, don't ask me to stop, please." His touch was gentle even as his thrusts inside you grew more desperate. He cradled your head, kissed away your tears, and pressed his lips to your cheek. “I’m in love with you, Y/N,"

“I love you,” you replied, capturing his lips in a desperate kiss as you both unravelled together, bodies trembling in unison. Your thighs clenched tightly around his waist.

"Beomgyu, I— I'm sorry—" You whispered his name and it made tears well up in his eyes. His hand gently pushed the damp strands of hair from your face, and he pressed tender kisses along your cheeks, your temple, and your jaw.

“Shh, I know baby,” he whispered, pulling you against his chest, holding you like he was afraid you’d slip away. His lips brushed the crown of your head.

All the horrors inside you; every thoughts of abandonment, every sleepless night, every silent scream, begin to dissolve beneath his touch. With every kiss he lays against your skin, something softens. He’s chasing the ghosts from your bones, like he’s replacing every bruise life left behind with something holy. He kisses your cheeks, wet with tears. He kisses you like a man who has memorized the ruins. Who has studied the wreckage of you and decided that this is still his favorite place to be. That you, broken or whole, scarred or shining, were always meant to be his.

You’re starting to breathe.

"I'm not missing anything anymore," Beomgyu murmurs, lips tugging into a soft pout. You laugh quietly against his bare chest, your cheek rising and falling with each of his breaths. His arms tighten around you, fingertips tracing slow, lazy circles along your spine. The two of you lie tangled in the warmth of the sheets, skin to skin. He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. "Nari. Her first words. Her first steps. All those nights you probably sat up alone…” His voice trails off, and when he speaks again, it’s rougher. “I wasn’t there. And I hate that. I hate that you had to do it all without me.” He looks at you and for a second the world seems to still. "I'm not missing any more of it."

How can someone like him be real?

“Okay.” You smile, and so does he—quiet and shy, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to show the faintest hint of dimples. You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing the soft curve of his cheek, then trailing across the tiny freckles scattered like whispers on his skin. “And how are you supposed to do that, hmm?” you murmur, voice barely above a breath. “Live with me? Or—”

“Marry me,” he says, and your hand stills, but he catches it gently, holding it between his own. He brings it to his lips and presses a kiss to your palm, “Will you marry me?”

You can’t breathe. Your heart stumbles in your chest as you search his face for any trace of a smile, any flicker that he might be joking—that he doesn’t really mean it. Beomgyu takes your silence for doubt, so he keeps going. “Of course, I’d have to ask Nari first, and probably beg. I need her approval before anything,” he says with a nervous laugh, eyes flicking to yours.

“You get to choose where we live,” he adds quickly. “Do you want a house near the coast? Somewhere quiet? We could move. We could adopt a dog. Or do you want a flower shop?” He’s painting visions in the air now, “We could also—”

Beomgyu keeps talking. His words are soft, a little rushed. He talks about futures like they’re right there in the middle of his hands, painted in soft colors and quiet mornings. You, him, and Nari. A little house somewhere warm. A dog with floppy ears. A flower shop if you want it. A life that feels full.

You hear him, but your heart is louder.

They say you’re lucky if you find the man of your dreams. But that never felt like something made for you. Not for the boy rambling in front of you, not for your best friend. You look at him; at his eyes, honest and open, at his lips, red and kiss-bitten from how often they’ve met yours. At the way he watches you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

And suddenly, it makes sense. It all dawns to you, why you've always find it hard to imagine, to hope, and to wish.

It's all because Beomgyu, is the maker of your dreams.

"Where's my ring?"

You sit at the coffee shop, the cup of coffee in front of you untouched, growing cold. Your fingers keep circling your new ring, turning it absentmindedly, like maybe if you spin it enough, it’ll stop the nerves.

Then the door chimes. Jaehyun walks in, scanning the room, searching, until they land on you; they soften. “Hi,” he says as he slides into the seat across from you. There’s a small pink paper bag in his hands, creased slightly from how tightly he’s holding it. “Thank you for meeting me, Y/N.”

“It’s nothing,” you reply quietly. “I guess it was inevitable… that we’d have to sit down like this.” He nods, gaze drifting to your hand; your ring. A flicker of something passes over his face, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“I want to be there for Nari,” he says finally. “Time with her. Some kind of custody arrangement. I know it’s late. I know how much time I’ve missed. But I… I regret everything.” His voice trembles, “I’ve spoken to my mom. I’ve thought about this a lot. I don’t expect forgiveness, but let me support her—financially, emotionally. Whatever you’ll allow me to do.”

"Yes." You interrupt gently, before his words spiral too far. "Thank you, Jaehyun. But…" You pause, trying to steady the shake in your voice. “This is going to take time.”

You glance down at on your right, on the windows to the parked car where you know your best friend is waiting, then back at him. “I’ll explain it to her. Slowly. When it feels right. And when she’s ready, we’ll set a day where you can be with her—freely, as her father. Just… not yet. We can’t rush something like this. Not when it’s her heart on the line.”

His shoulders sink just a little as he nods. “I lost my chance,” he says softly, looking at the window, at the same parked car you've been looking at,“With you. With Nari.” It isn’t a question.

He offers a faint smile, and for a second, it looks like he might say more but the words catch somewhere in his throat and never make it out. Instead, he slides the pink bag across the table. “I baked you cookies,” he says. "It doesn't have peanuts on it."

“Nari, be careful!” you call out as your daughter bolts through the front door, laughter echoing off the bare walls of your new home.

Beside you, Beomgyu chuckles, juggling two boxes in his arms. “Careful, sweetheart,” he calls after her, his voice filled with nothing but adoration as he follows you inside.

Your eyes sweep over the space—unfamiliar, but full of promise. It had taken months of gentle convincing, of late-night talks and quiet reassurances from Beomgyu. And now… here you are. Standing in a place that doesn’t feel like home just yet, but might—because he’s here. Because she’s here.

You set your box down on the counter and breathe in slowly, letting the moment settle around you.

A warm hand slides over your back, fingers curling gently at your waist. “You okay, baby?” Beomgyu murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the side of your face. “Soobin said he stopped to get food.”

You nod, turning slightly to face him. “I want to paint our house,” you say quietly.

Our house.

Beomgyu smiles, eyes crinkling like he’s just heard something sacred. “Then let’s paint it,” he whispers, eyes still on you like you’re the most important thing in the room.

He takes your hand gently, absentmindedly lifting it to his lips. His thumb brushes over your fingers, then lingers on your ring. He kisses it, soft and slow, like it’s second nature now, like loving you in small, wordless ways has become part of who he is.

“We can also have…” he starts, voice trailing off as he imagines out loud, eyes flicking to the blank walls around you. “A wall for Nari’s drawings. Right here, maybe in the hallway. And a shelf for your books. One of those that curves, remember? You showed me a picture of it.” He smiles, that soft boyish grin he only gives when he’s picturing a life with you. “And maybe a corner just for us. A record player. Or a couch we can fall asleep on, when we're tired of chasing Nari around.” He laughs a little, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. “We can fill this place up with us.”

“Daddy!” The word rings out like a bell, and you both freeze. Beomgyu goes completely still beside you, breath caught in his throat. You turn just in time to see Nari bounding down the hallway, a soft, excited smile lighting up her face.

“Do I get my own room now?” she asks, as if she didn’t just change the world with one word. You and Beomgyu look at each other, stunned; eyes wide, not in disbelief, but in something far softer.

It’s the first time. The very first time she’s called him that.

Beomgyu blinks quickly, like he’s trying to make sure he’s not dreaming, like if he moves too fast it might vanish. Then, he drops to his knees and opens his arms. Nari runs into them without hesitation.

He wraps her up tightly, heart thundering, eyes glassy with everything he’s feeling all at once; shock, love, awe. He buries his face into her tiny shoulder and laughs through it, voice thick.

“Of course you get your own room, sweetheart,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You can have anything. Daddy will give it to you. Anything you want.”

Shit happens. Life happens.

It breaks you in places you didn’t know could crack. It tests you, takes from you, forces you to let go of things before you're ready. Time passes. Plans fall apart, but no matter how far you go, no matter how the story twists, no matter what you've been through, you always end up where you belong to. Always end up with them.

The ties between may fray. Fate may take unexpected turns. You might walk through fire, lose your way, forget who you were before the world touched you, come back with more scars than dreams. But nothing, nothing, not even all the wreckage life leaves behind… can stop two souls that are meant for each other.

The things that the world can’t touch.

It remains the same.

taglist: @heesmiles @lovingbeomgyudayone @virtaideen @hyukascampfire @fancypeacepersona @bamgeutori @lilbrorufr @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @xylatox @yunverie @imlonelydontsendhelp @moagyuu @immelissaaa @readinmidnight @pagelets @wonderstrucktae @boba-beom @nightblythe @hyuckxtagram @hoefororeo @beomgyusluver @feet4liferss @soobinbunnie5 @soohashits @lostgirlysstuff @demidelulu @love-be0m @razsberrie @strawberryshoujosundae @y2kgyu @usuallyunlikelyfox @xi0riae @giegiemon @okkotsuevie @beomkyum @i-am-not-dal @cherr4es @brrytears @yystarz @moonlightgrleric @lumpynoofles @raspberrii @baekberrie

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

ᴋᴇʏꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴍʙᴏ

Synopsis: A man arrives at your door in the dead of night asking for a simple favor, but once he's let inside, he begins making offerings too good to be true.

Now you're alone with a stranger that's odd in a way you can't quite place, trapped and isolated within a house that offers no safety . . . and normal men don't drool like that, do they?

Warnings: Fem! reader (in pronouns and body descriptions). 18+ content, MDI. Oral (Fem! receiving). Hints of sub! Remmick, but he's still a manipulative brat. Drool, religious themes, abusive relationships (nothing too graphic), infidelity (but her husband's abusive, so who really cares).

Notes: 28.9k words (This is way too long, I'm sorry). Not yet proofread, so please ignore any errors. I'll fix them later.

You've been staring at it for too long. Possibly only minutes, but truthfully it must be closer to an hour. You've long since fallen into a sort of daze, glazed over and trapped while your mind wanders, but you're still able to notice how the muted sunlight has dulled from the soft way it had streamed in through the window. Faded from the powdered shade of dusk and dimmed into a thick dark that eclipses shadows over everything. 

The only light now comes from the old fixture on the ceiling above, spreading out over the room in a warm, yellowed glow. Somehow, it only seems to make you feel more suffocated. The almost rhythmic drip, drip, drip, of the leaking faucet does little to quell the dread prickling and coiling in your stomach. 

It's haunting somehow, if not a little pathetic. Your hands have gone clammy. Palms turned damp from the thick air, all humid and dark from the night. Not even the setting of the sun has helped to cool the temperamental heat. It makes the atmosphere feel like a physical thing. Weighted; a damp blanket that's been draped over your body and tucked tight around the shapes of you. 

It makes you uncomfortable in your own skin, held in too tight it. The unease skirting across your nerves does little to help your predicament, and the wink of the light reflecting from the glass of the bottle, catching across the clear liquid contained inside seems like a taunt. It makes it tempting to drink from it. To feel the scorch of it run down your throat, fueling the fury in your veins. 

You had intended to simply pour it empty down the sink. To crack the top open and watch the booze spill down the drain. And you were planning to do the exact same to the three other bottles of gin that your husband has hidden beneath the floorboards, but you've found that he's already drank them empty. And somewhere along the way, the liquor has wound up out of your hand and down on the kitchen table. It's been sitting there for roughly around the last forty-five minutes.

Never in your years could you have imagined that a simple bottle would be so intimidating. You've been eyeing it as though it's a snake, all coiled in, ready to strike. But it isn't just a bottle. Not anymore with the dry laws, and if Colin knew what you were planning to do with it then you're certain it would send him into a frenzy. You can already hear the echo of his booming voice in your ears, ringing so loudly that you nearly flinch. 

You draw in a deep breath instead, curling your fingers tight to keep yourself still in your seat. He'd paid a fortune for the liquor; you know that well enough. Paid too much. Dug through the tin box that had once been hidden in the floor - the same space that the liquor now occupies - to remove the bills that had been kept there for safe keeping. Wasted through the little you had for some bathtub liquor. 

He needed to take the edge off, he deserves it after all the work he's been putting in, laboring for hours out of the day, callouses built on his skin and sweat staining his brows. His voice had edged close to that tight drawl, anger biting at his words while he seethed through his teeth while he had kneeled on the floor over the open gap in the planks. All you could look at was the money clutched in his tight first, the fierce, irritated glare of his eyes. 

You knew not to pry then. To agitate him any further. Not when his mind had already been made up. It might as well as been set in stone then. Once he's made a decision, he latches on with all the fury and ardor of a dog. You had swallowed down the angry words that welled up in your mouth, trapping the fire behind your lips to keep all the frustration he's been harboring for the past week from releasing out onto you. 

You can't stand the sight of booze anymore. It only reminds you of loses and arguments over money and his dependency. You've found that the fights are more trouble than it's worth. But the impact of them remains vivid. Stained behind your eyes, and the bottles always seem to be the incarnation of all that strife. 

You should pour all of it down the sink and be done with it. It's not a solution, but you know that it would feel good. A temporary relief but one that you would hold onto for years to come. A small retribution for his wandering eyes . . . and hands. 

It makes you nauseous to know that's where he reasonably is now. Out indulging in another woman. Finding pleasure between her thighs and comfort in her arms. He's turned his back on you long ago. You've known it for longer than you'd like to admit. He should have been home at dusk. You would have heard the thump of his footsteps on the porch, the low metallic whine of the door hinges as he let himself inside, his dirty boots would have thumped a little when he slipped them from his feet. 

And yet, he's still nowhere to be seen, but you can hazard a simple guess. Always bending to his impulses, he's probably already dragged himself up to whatever shady gambling den or dingy back alley that might still be willing to take him. If you're lucky, he might be holed up in the house of one of his friends from work, drinking up their booze and taking up a spot at their dinner table. 

He's built a name up for himself for being a man with a shaky poker face, poor luck, and stupid persistence. In some respects, that's what is more embarrassing, what stings and gnaws at you the most. How people look at you now, passing you fleeting, sympathetic glances as you walk past them. Now you're only the wife to the unfaithful gambler, the man who drinks himself into a stupor. Who finds solace in other women while he lays all of your funds out on a table. 

When they all look at you, all you see reflecting back is pity, oversaturated sympathy. It fills you with loathing, mostly because you can't blame them. If you were in their shoes, what more could you do but watch hopelessly from the side lines? 

They hardly see you as an individual anymore, only a woman who can't keep her man from straying. But that's the thing about some dogs, no matter how much love you give them, you can't always keep them from wandering from home. Sometimes you wish that he would wander so far off that he couldn't find his way back. That would save you from the agony of it all. 

But mostly you just wish that you could leave this place yourself. Countless nights you've sent a prayer out that you'd find the courage to finally save yourself and pick up the pieces you have to search for something better. That nerve hasn't found you yet. 

Now you just sit alone, plopped on a rickety chair in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the bottle as though it's full of kerosene that might light up at any moment. Take you up in a roar of fire. That might be a mercy. 

Your mind wars. It tells you to snatch up the liquor and dump it all, while another, more vindictive, fantastical side demands that you finally face your reality for what it is and leave. Fold and pack your belongings into that special suitcase and take off into the night. 

A wife's job is to endure, the words that your mother had said to have all but been branded across your psyche, burning. Permanent. What would God think? You made a promise, sweetheart - a vow, as the Lord your witness! 

The pain you've almost come to grow used to in a twisted way. Though the debasement is another beast in its own right. It digs deep, burrows down into your marrow and carves you out of your skin until you're nothing but bare. Stripped for the judgment and prying eyes to hail down upon. 

Common sense warns you to take the bottle and put it back in its place. He wouldn't even know that it's been moved. You could still nestle it down under the floor, tuck the wood back over into their places and he'd be none the wiser. And yet, you don't move. Don't so much as twitch in your seat. 

Defiance rages inside of you. Thick, heavy, pinning you down in place and thrumming through your limbs, making your fingers tremble. The hatred smoldering in your chest frightens you sometimes, as hot as it burns. Scalding and boiling just beneath your breasts. Sometimes it makes you feel as though you can't breathe, lungs choked on your own ire. 

You've gotten little victories in this marriage, and it's made you desperate. Foolhardy. Downright stupid from your anger and hopelessness. Often times you find yourself thinking, so what if he gets mad? What could he possibly do that he hasn't already? 

Let him hit, let him swear. Like a vagrant you'd take what you could get, no matter how lowly you'd have to scrounge, or how pathetically you'd strike back, you'd get yours. The urge dawns on you suddenly, a weak, scrambling idea, but you cling to it all the same. Colin can go out all that he likes. He can waste himself away, stick his hands up other women's skirts, and in turn you'll take what you can get. Scavenge and prod for the little triumphs you're afforded. 

You almost feel detached from yourself as your hand slips across the tabletop and reaches for the bottle. The chilled glass somehow seems hot on your skin, but you keep your fingers fixed around the shape of it. You hardly think, hardly resist the urge when you lift it up, listening to the liquid sloshing within the vessel as you press the mouth up to your lips to toss back a swig. 

You wince as soon as it touches your tongue, lukewarm and stinging as it slips down your throat, traced with smoke and earth. You haven't bothered with a sip of liquor in years. It wasn't worth the cash or the trouble, from the law or Colin. The last you drank had to have been back when you were a young girl, and your curiosity had you searching through the cabinets for your father's bourbon. He'd caught you red handed. You had expected a punishment then. For him to order you to scavenge the yard and search for your own switch among the fallen branches and twigs from the black gum and oak trees. You had stood awkwardly while you waited, bottle held in a shaky grip while your heart fluttered wildly. 

But there had been no discipline dealt that day, only a small drink shared on the porch while he made you promise him that you wouldn't do it again. When you had first tasted the unpleasant burn of the booze, it had been easy to agree to that vow. But the odd tenderness that he had regarded you with had alleviated the sting of it. If you concentrate enough, you can feel the balmy glide of the breeze on your skin from that evening, you can hear the soft thrill of the birds that had been chattering nearby, the rustle of the trees. 

That memory seems a lifetime ago, and the next gulp you take of the gin seems to bring you closer and pull you farther away from it all at once. You bring the bottle down on the table with a noisy thump. Your muscles tense while you suck a breath in through your teeth through a revolted grimace. The alcohol tastes as awful as you remember. Harsh, biting, and the hint of juniper, distinct and a touch too bitter, it makes your mouth twist. 

For a moment you consider actually just evicting it down the drain, but your hatred keeps your hold fixed around the bottle, though you don't make any moves to lift it back up to your lips. It sears its way into your stomach, settling there heavy and warm. It doesn't help. It doesn't soothe to ache that's been splitting you apart. It doesn't quell the anger and hurt. Not even while you imagine the indignation Colin will feel when he finally stumbles home and finds the last of his booze gone. The brief show of betrayal that will be in his eyes, the irritation that will show there, will be enough to turn your rage into a smug satisfaction. 

But it's difficult to allow yourself to try and bask in what that might could feel like while you're sitting alone in the kitchen with nothing but the sound of your own quiet breaths and the dull chirp of the crickets outside to occupy the silence. It's times like these where you start to fantasize. It becomes a simple thing, for your mind to drift somewhere safe and better. 

There's a suitcase in the closet inside your bedroom. It's made of dark, chestnut leather and brass buckles. You can't recall where exactly you got it from. It might have been an old purchase that's slipped your memory, or it's possible that you had taken it from parent's home when you had finally left it, when the wedding band around your finger was shiny and new. Despite the kind of enigma around it, you think of it often for an entirely different reason. 

Sometimes, when the house is quiet and vacant like this, you take it out of the closet and open it up on the foot of the bed. You remove your clothes out from the dresser - only after thoroughly evaluating each garment - and choose carefully. The room available in the luggage is sparse, and you'd have to make do for the journey ahead. You pick through all of your clothes, picking meticulously - sometimes for different destinations. You went through all of your thicker clothes for a trip to Missouri; you know the winters there can be brutal. You had selected all of your best dresses for a journey to California, the ones made of lighter materials to keep you cool during the heat, though you're sure that the dry temperatures would be nothing in comparison to the humidity down here. 

You organize all of your things, packing only what you'll need. You fold up your clothes, tuck in a book or two for something to entertain yourself during the monotony of travel, some of your makeup and the little pieces of jewelry you own, and then you shut the suitcase tight. You flick the buckles closed and it's a noise that's final. You still don't think you've ever heard a sound sweeter than the heavy, metallic click that always echoes out against the four walls of the small room. A private, gentle noise. 

It's the sound of being able to go anywhere, and you like to tell yourself that that's true. One day you'll get on a train. You'll head to the depot in town and buy a ticket. You don't care where to - Las Vegas, New York, Boise, Charleston. Anywhere else is better than here. But you think of the Californian coast often, sand under your bare feet and a sweet sunrise blooming over the stretch of glittering water in gold and blush. 

You have a postcard of the ocean. An artist's rendition of the waves, done up in pastels, watercolors, blues and beiges and pinks. A pier stretching out over a large body of water. You imagine often stepping out onto it and walking into the sunset, to be touched by a new light. You've held the postcard so often that the corners have become all bent up, weakened from too much touch, turned soft from your palms. You keep it safe inside the suitcase, but sometimes you can't keep yourself from admiring it, tracing the elegant font that's scrawled across the face of it, dreaming you were there instead of here. 

Deep down in the pit of your soul, you know that you'll never leave. That's what's killing you inside. Twisting you up, chewing you down and grinding you into a pulp. Brutalizing you in a way that not even Colin can. The hatred is like an affliction that's tainted you down the marrow. It's festered. Turned your blood black and eaten you down from the inside out, and now you hardly recognize yourself. When you look in the mirror you hardly see the person you had once been. You aren't the naïve girl who had fallen in love with Colin all those years ago, when he had been alluring one-liners and the protective nature he had shielded you with seemed well intentioned and not stifling and controlling. 

How dumb you had been. All ignorant and blinded by sugared feelings and young love. You'd dug yourself into a hole. Allowed yourself to be pulled in by the charm he'd once had, now curdled and rotten by time, and it's become too late to dig yourself up from the soil. This is where you'll take your final breath, curled up in a quiet house, blood on your busted lips while the cicadas send you off with a warbling cry. 

It makes your heart burn like a coal. It spreads through the sinew inside of you white-hot and coiling. Worse than that is the emptiness. The defeat that hollows you out in a shell. You're a ghost now. Dead and dull. You have no choice but to hate who you used to be, to be jealous of that youthful spark you once had, but it's all but been snuffed out and relit into something hateful. 

You want to scream. No one would here you all the way out here, tucked around the thicket of heavy trees and the swaddle of the night. It would be your secret if you let it all out, pitched your voice up into a wail that you know would pierce your own ears, release the tension that's been trapped in your lungs. And yet, no matter how much you long for it, the cry never rattles past your teeth. It's stays lodged there, like a rock behind your sternum. 

You hardly recognize the desperate reach your hand takes for the bottle again, slipping over the scuffed tabletop to grasp the smooth glass. The feel of it in your palm feels wrong, like it doesn't fit, but you hold onto it all the same. You don't want it, the bite of the liquor on your tongue. Not even the soft warmth that's scattered over your limbs, as balmy and satin as heated water, is tempting enough to want you to keep drinking, but the ire you have for Colin is. 

Your fingers slip up, smoothing up to clasp tight around the neck so that you can lift the bottle up from the table. The glass is cool on your skin, just whispering against your bottom lip when you tilt your head back to take another swig. 

Your grip slackens just a bit, a clumsy error, but that's all it takes for the bottle to slip from your clutch. The bottom of it hits the table with a heavy thud, and you hardly have time to track it as it tilts on its side and careens over the edge. It's a blur of silver as it hurtles towards the floor, and your breath snags harshly when it meets the wood in an eruption of shards. 

Everything in you locks in place. You go completely still as you stare down at the mess, taking in the liquor staining the floor, darkening the worn oak. The sting of the spilt gin pierces the air in a pungent bite that makes you sick to the stomach, blending with the sheer horror wracking your body and for a moment you fear that you might actually be sick. That you might double over and evict your guts all over the wooden planks; the pungent scent of alcohol already permeating across the air, staining the walls. 

You don't give it an ounce of thought when you crumble out of the chair, falling so abruptly the seat's legs scrape in a shrill cry and your knees smart when they strike the floor. You can't pay it any mind though. Not while you're cursing in a frantic stream, reaching down with shaky fingers to pluck up the shards of glass, desperate to pick it all up. 

Suddenly you don't feel invigorated or empowered, but just foolish. A dumb girl who tried to get the upper hand, who tried to feel big and crumpled under her own weight. 

You pick up the shards as quickly as you can, cradling them within a shaky palm one delicate piece at a time. It seems not even the universe is willing to allow you a victory, as miniscule as it may be. 

A cursory glance out through the kitchen window confirms that it is indeed deep into the night. It's so dark out that there's no definition to what lies outside the pane; there's simply just a strip of black velvet. An infinite void that stretches too wide, means to swallow you entirely.  

You aren't certain for how long you've been sitting here, stewing in your own chaos, but if you had to try and guess it must be close to 10 p.m., if not nearing midnight. When Colin vanishes like this, he often isn't back for hours, sometimes not making his way back until the dawn, all but barraging through the door in a noisy shuffle as though he'd been ushered in by the rising sun.  It makes you thankful at least, that you'll have time to clean up properly without him stumbling upon you, a mess in the kitchen with his drink now a collection of glass on the floor. The very thought of it makes your hands shake, fingers trembling. 

A hiss rips from you when a sharp throb pulses through your hand. When you look down again, there's a bit of red beading from a sliver in your skin, long and thin from the serrated edge of jagged glass. It's a clean cut, narrow and not too deep from what you can make of it in the low light and the smear of blood, but it still palpitates white-hot across your flesh. Sliced from the heel of your thumb and easing off just shy of the direct center of your palm. 

"God dammit all," you swear but your frustration is snuffed out by the tone of ragged panic and defeat in the inflections of your voice. You lift yourself up to your feet on wobbling legs, knees turned feeble from the dread weighing you down, but you still manage to cross over to the sink. You toss the glass shards that you picked up and toss them into the basin as though they're hot coals; the clatter of them striking across the cast iron sounds akin to a round of gunfire. 

You snatch the rag draped over the lip of the sink up in a mean jerk to press it against the wound. It burns to hold it to the laceration, but you clench your teeth together to distract yourself from the pain. You're almost entranced in your watch, seeing how the scarlet blossoms across the thick cloth, turning some of the fabric a rich red, distant from yourself as your mind chants to hide the evidence - to hide the remnants of the bottle before it's too late. You got too big, too bold, and now God or fate set out to knock you down a peg. To remind you of who's in control. Humiliation burns at you, unforgiving, fire raging, violent and fueled by hatred.  The smell of the gin is noticeable in the air. Thick, burning in your nostrils. He'll smell it once he gets home. It'll hit him as soon as he steps through the door, distinct, undeniable. Truthfully, if you had drunk it or broken the bottle, the result would still be the same. It would earn nothing but one reaction: anger, the strike of an open fist.  But somehow this seems so much worse. Perhaps it's the lack of control. The fact that it hadn't been a conscious decision, not part of the plan. But it's horrific, leaving you panicked and frantic, mind spinning out in a blind terror.  You'll have to open some of the windows, let the house ventilate and breathe and hope that that'll be enough to get rid of the smell - A repetitive noise sounds out from the front of the house. Steady, polite. Knocking. Someone is knocking on your door. 

If Colin had come home, he wouldn't bother with announcing himself. He'd simply ram in through the front door without a care, probably dragging his feet and slurring his words as he mumbled in a drunken drivel. 

Not many drift this far out, apart from the occasional neighbor you might spy while out pulling weeds in the yard, many driving out in their vehicles or hitching it on foot for a trip into town. You're all fairly quiet. And despite the cordial wave in greeting or a nod of acknowledgement while in passing, you mostly keep to yourself unless something calls for it. The last time you had someone at your doorstep was when Helen Young needed to borrow some flour, and that had been nearly a year ago; you'd kept her for as long as you could, sharing recipes and nuggets of gossip. 

You can't think of a single reason why anyone else would be at your house at such a late hour. You struggle to come up with a logical explanation and it only seems to sweep you up in a bigger whirlwind, one too great for your scattered psyche to handle.  There's another knock tapping on the door, still mild, considerate. Decidedly unlike Colin, but you're still unable to deny that there's a slim possibility that it might be him regardless. That all it takes for your body to go up in an uproar of confusion and dread, but it can't help but to obey the call coming from outside. Not if it's Colin who's out there, waiting and impatient, temper turned hot by alcohol. 

Every facet of you winds tight from the possibility of him actually being home. But the nature of his arrival is abnormal. Though maybe, the prospect of someone having dragged him back here, having become too drunk and incoherent, isn't an absurdity. Just the thought douses you with the sensation of cold water, and you long to move to crawl back over to the splinters of glass on the floor and clean them up, to toss them away in the bin and pretend that your ignorance never got the better of you. 

But that's only a temporary fix from the inevitable. Colin will find out regardless. He'll know what you've done. Look in the hollow under the floorboards and find that it's empty. Smell the fumes in the air. It's pathetic how all of the defiance and rage in you has been snuffed out into a wild disquiet, traded in for fear.  

Despite your panic, your feet don't stop in carrying you towards the door. It goes in a blur how quickly you cross the space from the kitchen to the adjoining living room until you're standing in front of the entrance with your heart thumping wildly inside your chest . The floor creaks under the shuffle of your feet, seeming too loud. The door seems to stand imposing, nothing more than a tall structure of wood, and yet it might as well as be the Grim Reaper standing before you. Ice sinks low in your stomach, becoming weighted as you eye the knob in your cautious approach. 

You wind the cloth around your hand, binding it tight and tucking the loose edge into the wrap of the fabric so that you can hide your hand behind your back, just out of sight without fear of the makeshift bandage falling free and giving evidence to your crime. You have to steel yourself as best as you can, sighing deeply to calm your nerves, but it does little to help as you twist the knob until you hear the telltale click of the latch bolt slipping from its divot. 

It's cold when you finally grip it, a shock to your skin despite the sticky warmth that's swaddled the air. You have to brace yourself, swallowing a shaky breath as you prepare for who's on the other side. But as much as you'd like to cling to the shaky bit of peace that you have, you can't hold onto this moment for long. 

You loathe the low whine of the hinges as you draw the door open, like the hissing of feral cats. It nearly sets your teeth on edge when you press yourself to lean out and peek around through the gap between the threshold and the door, just enough to be able look out onto the porch. 

The dark outside dares to swallow you whole. It's only from the dull light of the oil lamp on the accent table on the far side of the room that offers a wisp of illumination to slip out past the threshold. A muted, buttery hue that struggles against the oppressive shade of the night, but it's enough to highlight the figure that stands at the edge of the porch, just above the first descending step. 

It strikes you immediately that you've never seen this stranger before, and that manages to alleviate you from the fear of facing Colin and distress you all together. Uncertainty seems to press down on your shoulders, nudging at the nape of your neck as you eye the man warily. You can feel your brows pinch close from your confusion as you sweep a glance down at him from down to his shoes and all the way up to the relaxed smile on his lips. 

The expression on his face is polite, friendly, but that doesn't make this situation any less odd. He - whoever he is - doesn't seem to have the same reservations or thoughts as you, not with how relaxed his posture is. Fully comfortable in a space that doesn't belong to him in the late hours. His boots are a little worn, the leather scuffed slightly around the toes from all of the walking he's probably done, and there's a banjo hanging from his back. Not by a proper shoulder strap but by a pale, old rope. 

It isn't entirely unusual to have travelers come walking through here. All in search of different things, individual goals and destinations. Many follow after the train tracks that depart from town, using the rails as a guide to help themselves along to the next town over. What is unusual is to have one standing outside of your house. It sets you on edge, and you're taken away with the worst-case scenarios, the possible horrors that might arise from being alone out here. Horror stories of people attacked and murdered in their own homes. 

It makes your heart thud. 

"May I help you?" you ask, and you hope that he doesn't take notice of the way you scan a vigilant glance around the surrounding land, looking out for possible figures lurking off on the dirt road in the near distance or hiding in the trees. Luckily, you see nothing out of sorts. 

When your attention flickers back onto him, something about him seems amused. There's a glimmer in his eyes and the shadows that are being spilt across his face seem to pronounce the lilt at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry for disturbing you at such a late time, but I'm on my way through here and I was wondering if you'd be kind enough to spare a sip of water." 

It's a simple request, and good manners encourage that you comply, but common sense presses you to slam the door shut and lock the bolt. The urge to deny his ask rests in your mouth, right there on your tongue, but the refusal never makes it past your lips. It dies out when he dares to creep a little closer, stepping further into the murky fire light, and the weight of his shifting feet, despite their soft shuffle make the boards beneath creak. It could be a trick of the shadows, but you're sure that when he lifts his chin just the slightest, that his nostrils flare likes a dog that's caught onto a scent, and his eyes seem to flicker down to trace down your shoulder, following where you've tucked your wounded hand behind your back. 

Then his eyes are on yours, a movement so quick that you think you might have imagined the entire thing. The dark fashioning illusions, exacerbated on by your frazzled state. 

"I can't let you in," you blurt. It's all rolled out as though it's been struck from your chest, like you were worried he might try to shove past you and allow himself through the threshold. "My husband's asleep - he doesn't like to be disturbed." The lie rolls from your tongue easily enough, but it feels clunky too, unnatural. You find yourself hoping once again that he can't notice your discomfort, that the night will cloak your expression enough to keep your uncertainty hidden, the ceaseless cries of the crickets will hide your tone. 

"I don't need to be brought in," he replies. A reassurance, but you swear that something about its delivery seems . . . entertained. Like you've said something vaguely amusing. "I can stay right here on your doorstep. Take what you're willin' to give me and then I'll be on my way. It'll be like I was never here." 

There's something unsettling about the suave nature of his voice, like velvet wrapped around teeth, honey soft to lure you in and placate you. As tempting as it is, something animal skirts down your spine. Still you stand in the part in between the open door. You don't move. It's as though you've been stuck in place, caught by the societal etiquette that's been engrained in you since birth and something more damning, the weight of his stare. 

It isn't right, you know, to turn down a person in need, but your paranoia demands that there's a menace in the air. That danger might lurk right around the corner. Or that it's already standing directly in front of you, watching with a smile. 

You should step back, bid him to leave before your husband does actually make his way home, slam the door shut and sweep up the glass, tend to your wound. But you don't do any of those things. Instead you move back a hair, sparing the stranger a brief look as you begin to nudge the door closed. "Wait here," you relent. "I'll be back. But once you're done drinking, I expect you to leave." 

You don't wait to hear his response, but you think that you might catch a distant 'Yes, ma'am' passed you way as you head off towards the kitchen. You make quick work, opening the cupboard above the sink and grab the first glass you see to begin filling it from the faucet until it's full, almost trickling over the rim. You try not to glance at the broken shards still dusted over the floor beside the table, glittering and winking under the light, taunting you from the distance. You ignore the heated pulse that thumps and flares across your hand in time with your heartbeat. 

You twist the water off, catching it before it can overflow from the cup, turning the knob with a pronounced, rusted squeak. 

With another deep, steadying inhale, you find yourself opening the front door for a second time tonight. It's all too soon, as though you've blinked and lost time even though you can remember the steps you had taken to get back to this point. Your nerves feel shot, all fired up and confused, and it makes the minutes pool around you in a blur. The faint warmth that you had just begun to feel from the gin has all but left your system; chased out by the anxiety. 

When the door rasps open again, a part of you is disappointed to see that the stranger is still standing on your porch even though you fully expected for him to be there. When your eyes meet it's as though you've entered some sort of stalemate. He creeps closer, but there's a calculated edge to movements, as though he's approaching as one would a startled animal. 

You don't meet him halfway. You can't manage to get yourself to twitch past the threshold. Your hand that holds the cup hovers close to your chest. There's a disconnect somewhere. You tell yourself to extend your arm out to let him take the glass, but it doesn't happen. You remain tucked against the door. There's a safety here. An ability to close the man out if need be and hide yourself within the safety of familiar walls, but your hesitation has pulled a hush over the space. 

There's a clear uncertainty extended from the both of you now, but he doesn't eye you with awkward puzzlement but almost an intrigue. His head tilts a little, a minute movement that makes you feel studied all the same; an insect pinned to a board. That's how both of you remain for the next passing minute, for probably just a blink but a void seems to wrap out around you, turned hauntingly private from the dull hiss of the breeze shifting over the grass and the chirp of noisy nocturnal insects. 

It's another catch of the contained flame flickering within your home, but his eyes seem to reflect the night, the glimmer of distant stars catching in his pupils. You don't know if you've ever been consumed by a stare before; it's definitive that you have now. 

Your hand twitches forward, fingers flexing around the glass as though you might actually stretch your arm out past the doorway for him to take, but it hardly makes it more than a few scant inches. 

You notice the corner of his mouth nudge upward. "Plannin' on letting me keel over from thirst?"

A part of you can't help but hate how playful he sounds, as though you're well acquainted - cordial, familiar - and not outsiders to each other. The other, more buried half, the side that used to know how to smile easily and share harmless gibes in a second nature, rouses under his light ridicule. Maybe you would have insulted him for being the one crawling up as a beggar on a stranger's doorstep, and the desire to do so slips over you like a ghost. But you can't allow yourself the possession of that temptation. 

You force your hand out then, stretching it just enough to offer him the glass. 

The paranoid concern that he might grab you instead rises in your gut, but when his hand reaches, it only takes the cup with a polite, "Thank ya kindly," muttered out to you. There's a purposeful gentleness when he removes it from your own grip, keeping eye contact with you the entire time while he raises it to his lips, lifting his chin to drink it down in heavy gulps. He empties it in drawn out sips, pouring down his throat as though it's the only water he's had for miles. It has something like guilt whispering over you. 

 "What are you doing out here . . . so late?" The enquiry leaves you much more tentatively than you intended, and you reflectively clear your throat as though that might banish the nervousness in your chest. 

He seems delighted by the question. His posture straightens just the slightest, shoulders drawing up, boyish and pleased, as though he thought you'd never ask. "Oh, I'm a musician you see." He reaches behind to pull at the neck of his banjo, rotating it around to brandish it against his hip. "We've got ourselves a gig not too far up the road there." 

He lifts a finger up from the grip he has around the now empty glass and points out to his left in the direction of the path paved by car tires and wagons, cutting up through the earth and trees. The crickets chirping seems to ring out, raising up higher and higher as though they're loudly declaring him a liar. You hardly pay that any mind. 

"We?" Once again, you're scanning the surrounding dark with a worried glance, expecting finally see shadows lurking. Still and quiet, waiting for the perfect moment the lurch forward and take what they want. 

"A couple of my friends," he clarifies. He pulls on the rope around his chest, tugging the instrument back around in its proper place behind his back. He shifts on his feet, slipping about half a step closer, making the floor groan in a faint protest. "They're just up ahead, not too far from here. I thought I'd be able to make it just fine, but I have to admit that this heat is gettin' to me." 

"Yeah . . . It's plenty warm out here." You agree, half-hearted, struggling in your effort to keep him appeased with a geniality that you know must seem forced. 

This is odd. Something about this - him isn't right. It nudges at the back of your head like the weight of a reprimanding hand, pokes and prods at you to cut this interaction short and shoo him away from your doorstep like a stray that's overstayed its welcome. Regardless, you're stuck. All spun up in a glimmer of intrigue that sinks into you with a stubborn influence. All the isolation out here has made you deprived in a way, starved for interaction that doesn't come with the threat of scathing insults or the swat of a hand. 

You'd be fooling yourself if you couldn't admit that your fascination has been piqued. There's a magnetism around him that you can't quite explain. He looks like he could be any other man, not exactly plain faced, but his handsomeness shows in a way that isn't particularly arresting. It's pleasant, strong despite his rounded features and eyes that seem dark, impish. It's how he carries himself you conclude, the puckish lift of his lips and the lively way he expresses himself. 

There's a sort of energy around him that is almost palpable, thrumming and brushing through the light fabric of your dress to run over your skin; charged air in an oncoming storm. Suddenly, you feel a lot like a moth daring too close to an open pyre. You fear you might have already drifted too close to turn back now. Something instinctual and buried begs that you do, but like a bass captivated by the glimmer of a bobbing lure, you don't know if you're able to. 

It's like you can see the traces of his journeys on his body, remnants of the treks he's taken immortalized in the scuffs on the toes of his boots. You had seen that the calfskin face on his banjo has been turned darker in certain areas, made that way from frequent use; the brushes of his hand while he played. It aids you in picturing all the places that he's probably strummed the instrument in, plucking the strings with deft fingers while people dance and laughed, jovial in their celebrations.   

"Oh, it sure is," he answers with an excited grin. He tilts back just enough to place the glass on the railing, freeing his hands before he turns to you. It reminds you of a salesman preparing to make a pitch. "You could join us tonight, you know. It's fixin' to be quite the party, and the more the merrier." 

The invitation takes you aback, knocks you off quilter so that you're staring at him dumbly from within your doorway. "Excuse me? I can't - that's very kind, but I don't know you." You shake your head while it all leaves you in a sort of jumble, turned messy from your bewilderment. 

"C'mon now," he encourages as though he's a longtime friend and not an unknown, a stranger shrouded in mystery. When you lean back a little, tucking one of your shoulders tighter against the threshold, he tracks the movement with a stare that seems too eager, like an animal watching its prey twitch. "Everybody's a stranger to somebody; take a chance and we might just wind up as thick as thieves."  The smile on your face is tight, muscles twitching as you wield your mouth to shape an expression that's hardly convincing, too strained.  "I'm sorry, I have to decline. It's late. My husband is sleeping-"

"Your husband is occupied, all tucked into bed, sound asleep, just as you've said." His brows perk up a little, embellishing the question and he leans in close as though you're both sharing a secret. "So he wouldn't notice then, if you disappeared for an hour or two. He didn't even hear me knocking on your door - dead to the world, huh?" 

The last comment borders on mockery. A sardonic jab that's thinly veiled with an easy smile. It's knowing, as though he's in on something that he shouldn't be and can't help but to be a little smug about it. A distant, but clamorous voice cries from the corners of your mind in a paranoid stream of he knows, he knows you're all alone out here. 

He has an arrogance and condescension that leaves you a little speechless. You've only been in his presence for less than fifteen minutes, but the blurred genial character he has and the thinly veiled snark makes your head spin. You can't tell if he's attempting some strange, boorish flirting tactic, or if he's simply ignorant enough to believe that you would truly feel comfortable enough to allow yourself to be swept away by a complete stranger.  Even worse than all of that though, is that a side of you, dull but persevering, a remnant of your former self turned alone and quiet, is tempted. It's easy to fantasize about being spirited away, about being pulled into a whirlwind of titillation and celebration, flowing drinks and bubbling laughter. 

But those thoughts bring nothing but danger. A sinking in your gut that seems to tug you down to the bottom of a river, dragging you like a rock. 

"I can't." That's all you can manage to say. 

"Well, that is a shame." He concedes a lot easier than you had expected. He doesn't strike you as the type to roll over and except defeat, but he lets out a dispirited sigh. He nods like he understands, a minute gesture while he shifts his focus to his left, looking back off towards the road - a kicked puppy. That's what he looks like. Eyebrows furrowed over the wide shape of his eyes. He's actually pouting.  For a moment, you think that he's relenting. That he's finally picked up all the signs that he's been ignoring (willfully or otherwise) and that he'll turn and leave with a thank you, vanishing in the dark like a phantom that never existed. 

It would be easy then, to believe that you had made him up. A figment of your imagination come to haunt you. 

When his attention shifts back onto you, that glimmer of the faith you had fizzles out like water doused coals. It's involuntary when the hand behind your back flexes, clenching your thumb around the bandage. It licks a painful heat up the wound and you can feel your face wince. His nostrils flare in that peculiar manner, again. An animal scenting a trail. 

"I hate to take advantage of your kindness, but before I go, would you mind if I got another glass?" He lifts the cup up between you both and tilts his head as though he's eager to hear your response, rotating the glass back and forth to hold your attention. "I'm real parched." 

No. It's right there again. At the ready. But once again you can't find it in yourself to speak your mind. The stare he holds you in is testing. Evaluating. As though he's weighing you for your worth, challenging you to see how you might respond. It's become instinctual in you to waver, to shrink yourself down beneath a heavy stare. 

That's all it takes for you to grab it from his hand. You aren't sure if you appreciate the smile he gives you. He's stopping you before you can turn around and fill the glass - or get rid of him. 

"You wouldn't mind if I stepped inside, would you? Only to take some pressure of my feet. And these damn bugs, they're hungry tonight. I must taste good with how they're nippin' at me." 

He grins like he's said the funniest thing. As though you're close friends and he's made an inside joke. You can't manage a laugh though. You feel heavy, turned into stone as you stand in the doorway, tense, wound throbbing, and concern gnawing in your gut. It's kneejerk to want to refuse his request. Common sense nags at you to do just that, but fear keeps the words trapped inside. 

He's acting calm now, friendly, all things considered, but would his mood take a turn if you refused him? Would he lash out? Barge through the door if you slammed it shut or crash his way through one of the windows? 

Another voice entirely chides you for making assumptions. For being so judgmental in the first place. He might be a bit odd, but that doesn't make him a threat. He's a weary traveler looking for a place to rest his feet before he moves on, and you can hear your mother berating you from the grave, scolding you for turning a man in need away from your home. You can hear Pastor Hemley's voice raising high in that unwavering timbre, booming off the old, polished walls that existed long before you; echoes of one of his old sermons as he gripped the edges of the pulpit in an impassioned grip. "Who are we to turn away another man in need? What if it was the Lord himself asking, seeking you out for your aid, testing you of your humanity and goodwill, and you shunned him? Or what about your fellow man? Is it not our sympathy, our empathy - that makes us in His image? It is the meek who shall inherit the earth." 

Now you aren't ignorant enough to believe that Jesus himself has wandered up to your doorstep, but it still feels a sin to deny the stranger now. The prospect of it turns sour, bitter on your tongue, iron turning to rust. 

"You'd have to be quiet. My husband - "

"I'll be quiet as a mouse," he assures quickly. 

"I just don't want any trouble." You draw the door a little tighter, just enough that your shoulders and head can peek through the gap. Your hand tightens over the empty glass making the smooth shape of it dig at your palm. Your right hand squeezes tight too, and involuntary action that makes pain flare. A wince pulls a little at your face, makes your brows twitch. "My husband has early mornings; he needs his rest." 

"I ain't no trouble." It's a promise that brings you little comfort despite the sincerity. "If I so's much as look at you wrong then you can go ahead and throw me right out the door. Knock me out on my ass right on your front porch, if it pleases you." 

A kind of inner voice whispers from somewhere in the hidden fringes of your mind, distant but no less profound. It's like a brush along the nape of your neck, raising the small hairs there and it threatens to make you shiver. It settles in your bones, takes root deeply but as light as a phantom, distorted and chilled. It almost begs you to step out from the threshold and back into the familiarity of your house, and you nearly do. You can feel yourself coiling, the muscles in your leg bunching and it the heel of your foot slipping back just the slightest. Not even an inch but he notices, you can tell by the way that the corner of his mouth perks up. He's not even bothering to try and hide his amusement. 

You have to flex the grip you have clasped around the glass. Gripping it hard enough the rounded shape of the cup bites into your palm and keeps you centered. You really shouldn't let him in. The instincts creeping up your spine urge you don't, and yet you somehow find yourself split. Ensnared in a stubborn limbo that seems to hold you tight. 

The way that he's watching you doesn't help. His head is a little tilted, the smile on his face is still there, and the relaxed nature of his posture is intimidating despite that casual air of it. As though he's made a pocket for himself in your space. As though he's entitled to it. That it's belonged to him this entire time and you simply weren't aware. It irritates you. It intrigues you too. Everything about him seems to have been fashioned to lure you in. The easy confidence he emanates, the roguish glimmer in his eyes. 

He's laidback and odd all at once. The way that he stuns you is a product of pure roguish charm. He moves as though he's someone important, even while there's a soft smear of dirt on the cuff of his shirt, his boots are worn, and the leather has long lost its sheen, and yet you don't think you've ever felt so captivated in your entire life. It's as though you're held hostage. There's a grip that you can't shake, and it has your attention pinned onto him as though there's some sort of magnetic pull stretched between the both of you. You stare all while your mind chants in a repetitive, startled loop: Make him leave, close the door, lock the bolt. 

The crickets sing into the night. There's a caution somewhere in their cries. High pitched. Warbling. Animal. 

You best listen, they seem to say. 

You draw in a deep breath. 

"Alright, you can come in. But only for a moment." You relent so quickly that you hardly register it at all. It's not until you're shifting out of the way, nudging the door open and turning your body to give him a berth that you notice what you've said. Something in the pit of you urges that you slam the door shut before he can act out on your compliance, but like a spirit trapped inside a doll, you sit idle as he steps forward.  

Something seems to break now that he's crossed the threshold. A membrane has broken, been torn through and invaded as he moves across the floor, boots thumping softly in a hushed murmur over the worn wood. Each creak sounds like a scream to you. Ragged, strained, ringing out on a thin breath. The air is tense, strained with an awkwardness that you don't know how to navigate. 

The cup in your hand seems heavy. As weighted as a big stone. You track him from your place at the door as he comes to stand in the middle of the living room, not caring to hide how he sweeps a curious, evaluating look over the space. Eyeing the furniture, the outdated floral wallpaper - turned stained from age - and the family photographs hung on the wall above the sofa with an eager eye. A vulture scavenging. 

He just evaluates them for a moment. Staring as one might a set of paintings in a public museum. It strips you bare. Makes you horrendously vulnerable as he observes the images of your life; the glide of the satin air pouring in from the open doorway seems to perpetuate that vulnerability. Skirting over your flesh in dark, damp brushes. 

He scrutinizes photograph of you and Colin, the one of you tucked into each other's bodies, caught staring in each other's eyes while standing out on the stoop of the church. It was a time when you were still able to smile, when Colin built a warmth and love in you that burned inside, that could keep you safe. 

You had felt so beautiful that day, wearing your mother's own wedding dress, adorned in optimism and fine beading. Now you just feel stupid. 

It makes you sick to look at the picture. To see yourself draped in lace, all dolled up for a wedding that you'd come to regret. It's worse to have someone else staring at it with a kind of strange fascination. As though it's the most interesting thing in the world. 

It's worse still when his eyes drag downward to the frame directly underneath, taken a year apart, but the difference was telling. When you had first slipped the picture into its frame, you had wondered if others would be able to notice the strained nature of your smile or if it was an element that only you could see. If they would be able to notice how the light had dimmed from your eyes, turned dull in a muted reflection of the argument that had taken place only a few hours before. 

You know now that he, at least, is able to tell. 

"Happy couple," he comments, and it seems suspiciously sardonic. The remark could be private, an inside thought that slipped out, but he seems guiltless to have spoken it. 

He looks so normal and yet he's entirely out of place in the middle of your home in a way that you can't quite place. It's unnerving. It makes your skin itch. You can only watch as he steps around the coffee table to admire all of your belongings. The knickknacks and useless tchotchkes in the display cabinet, the bits and pieces of you collected over the stages of your life all held on the end table tucked close to the edge of the sofa. Unabashed that he's in a stranger's house. Stalking along the room with steps that are leisurely, but there's a calculated edge that can't be ignored. The saunter of a predator, careful but confident. 

When his eyes flicker back onto you, they seem to glimmer. Fire reflecting in their centers, gold pooling where the black should be. Abnormal. An animal's eyes peering through the dark. They burn through you, reaching at the edges of your soul. The suddenness of it snaps you from your daze like the pop of a hand. 

A trick, you tell yourself again. An illusion thrown by the light. 

"I'll just . . . go and fill this," you manage stiffly, brandishing the glass. You don't wait for a response, carefully shutting the front door with a heavy click before making off for the kitchen as though fire is licking at your heels. It's déjà vu to be standing back at the sink, tap running, watching the water bubble and churn from the flow from the spicket. 

For the first time in in years, a part of you longs to have your husband home, and that pitiful need disgusts you. You loathe that you crave the volatile comfort that he would provide. There is a familiarity in it. A predictability. But this man - the stranger - is a complete unknown and it's terrible. 

You have to curse yourself for crumbling. For weakly relenting and allowing a potential danger into your house with hardly any fight. It has self-hared, hot and boiling, twisting in your stomach. The disappointment is debilitating, sinking down into your shoulders as piercing as a set of talons. The chaotic panic swirling in your mind does little to help your state, injecting ice into your veins as you ponder the worst. That same worry has your eyes straying from the filling glass, drifting over to a set of drawers. The same one that's full of silverware. You think of the knives tucked into the left side of the top drawer, nestled right by the forks and spoons. 

It'd be easy to turn off the sink, sit down the glass and long enough to grab a knife. You could hide it under your skirt, slip the blade along your thigh and keep it held there by the material of your bloomers. The knife would have some weight to it, but you think that it wouldn't be enough to keep it from staying in place. 

Water pours over you hand in vigorous rivulets, welling out from over the lip of the glass in a heavy current that patters down onto the sink below. You curse under your breath, startling from the chill of it, and jerk from your fantasy. You reach clumsily for the knob, hissing through your teeth as your injured thumb clamps around the steel with too much force, licking lightning up the wound. 

It twists shut with a strained, metallic squeak. Even once its off it drips. A steady tap of water falling near the edge of the drain after a temporary pause. Just that has managed to set your heart fluttering, a simple overflow of water has it thrumming wildly in your chest. Like it's fit to burst out and leave your body behind. 

You draw in a shaky inhale, tainted with the bitter sting of the spilt alcohol that's long since seeped into the floorboards, perfuming the air in an acrid cloud. It has you feeling nauseous. Unwell from the thick of it burying in your nose - a reminder of your previous accident. Your thumb throbs at the reminder, smarting and warm. But you don't want to leave the kitchen either. You'd rather choke on the scent of the gin than have to face the man skulking about your living room.

God, you've just realized that you still don't even know his name. 

It's such a trivial thing, an absurdity, but a laugh almost bubbles up from your lungs. A loose, hysterical noise that lodges in your chest and stays there in an almost painful sigh. 

You don't want to leave, but you have to. You know you do. You can only hold off, resist the inevitable for so long before he becomes curious and comes looking for you, lurking around the corners of your house like a creature scenting prey. 

You hold the glass tighter, ignoring the damp feel of the water on your skin, blocking out the unease prickling over your skin as you turn from the sink. 

Your spirit leaves your body and soars far away from earth. It happens in a blink. You flinch, drawing up tight with a sharp gasp. You think your heart might have burst too, thumping in a craze as electricity scatters through your limbs. It's a scattered blur, your body recognizes that you aren't alone before you do, notices the silhouette standing directly in front of you before you can properly process it. 

You nearly bump into a chest, run right into it. You can't help the yelp you let out, can't even be embarrassed about it because you're so swept up and startled, your body draws up in a primal reflex, tensing like you might have to make a run for it. Muscles and tendons all clenching like they were going to eject your spirit up and out of them, send you flying high over the earth and into the heavens. You're sure your soul would have done just that if not for the pair of hands settling over your arms, gently clasping to keep you in place. 

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." His voice is apologetic, but the glimpse of teeth, the mirthful spark in his eyes, reveals just the opposite. 

You feel all shaken up, heart racing too fast in your chest, thumping up against your sternum in a frenzied patter. You can't speak, can't berate him like you truly want to or reassure him like your manners chide you to do. It's all a jumbled-up mess, and the sight of him standing so close, the weight of his fingers on your bare arms, callused from plucking strings and tepid despite the stifling heat, anchors you in a way that you don't quite enjoy. It forces you back into the moment, packs you into your skin with a sharp jerk that commands you to meet his eyes. 

Your tongue feels useless, your voice stalled and broken. For a pause too long, you can only stare. "It's quite alright," you just hardly manage, it's more of a whisper.  It feels as though you're lying through your teeth. You are, in a way. He shouldn't be here. You know that much. It won't stop howling at you, screaming under your flesh in a wild chant that tells you to send him off, to get him gone before the worst can happen. What the 'worst' might be, you aren't sure, but your paranoia and gut assure you that it's just looming over the horizon. 

"Appreciate ya," he thanks as he plucks the glass from your weak grip. You're grateful for that. You would have likely dropped it too, sent it shattering along the floor just like the gin if you held it for any longer. 

You can only nod. He doesn't step back. Doesn't give you room to breathe. He keeps you pinned between his body and the sink, only a sliver of space given between you both, just little more than a foot. It's as though all of the oxygen has been siphoned out of the room, turned viscous and too thick, pooling in your lungs like stove-hot molasses, burned and scorching. 

His eyes seem too dark, a pair of yawning pits held open to see, to taste. It's stripping, tearing you down in some terrible manner. It's as though you've been stripped of all your clothes. As exposed and naïve as the day you were born. You can feel yourself waver, shrinking under his attention as he raises the glass to his lips. But it is worse, so much worse when he rotates his shoulders just enough to comfortably look behind him, and you know instantly that he's taking notice of the broken glass scattered and winking on the floor. 

You're flooded with ice. Frigid, seizing. Even while it's fragmented into shards, it's still clear to see what kind of bottle it had been. The cap is still intact to the neck, severed and jagged from what had been the rest of it. It'd take a complete and utter fool not to realize just what it was, what it had contained. He doesn't seem like the law-abiding type, the sort to go running for the cops as soon as he spots something illicit, but the apprehension springs up on you regardless. 

You struggle for an excuse, anything that sounds remotely convincing, but you know you can't deny it. Not while all the air in here smells of liquor, doused so strongly with it that you could choke on it. 

He must catch your expression - not that you're doing a particularly good job at keeping yourself schooled - because he seems downright amused. All pleased to see you so stressed. 

"Oh, I ain't one to judge someone for lettin' a little loose. I've been at the bottom of a bottle more times than I can count," he consoles while grinning too much. "Nothing wrong with enjoyin' life's simple pleasures. Shame you went and dropped it." It's another comment that you're unable to tell if it's a mean dig or not, but it makes you bristle regardless, and unsaid retort sits heavy on the tip of your tongue. 

You don't like how he seems to effortlessly see right through you, how he toes a line between impish charm and disconcerting arrogance and unpretentious amiability. It makes you unsteady. Lost while standing inside your own home. You've been backed into a corner, herded there willingly, shoved there by a subdued snapping of teeth and eyes that don't seem quite right. 

It's too much, being held under his stare, standing as close to him as you are. You can smell the night on him; subtle and pleasantly honeyed from the pollen of blossoms, earthy with dew and humidity; there's the light tang of salt too, sweat and something you can't quite place, but it's severe like the traces of coins that have been left behind in a tight fist. Like copper or iron. Dust and ancient soil. 

It makes your skin crawl. 

You need a distraction, something to keep your mind from losing sight of itself and giving under the weight of your own discomfort and panic. You need to distract him too, it feels, wave something in his face like distracting a dog from lashing at your jugular in exchange for a fresh bone. 

But in a pattern that is swiftly becoming uncomfortably common, he knocks you off kiter before you get the chance to help yourself. 

"I don't think that old rag is doin' you much of a favor." 

Your brows pinch, your confusion evident as you try to make sense of what he's said. But just as fast you're able to connect the dots, much quicker with the dull, pained throb in your hand that seems to highlight his words in a burning scarlet. 

You can't keep yourself from looking down at your hand, tracing the tight bundle of fabric that coils around your palm and thumb like a worn, fabric serpent with your eyes. It's stained dark. The red dulled into a shade that nearly seems black in the murky, yellowed light. It's already coming loose. The edge that you had used to tuck into the rest of the clothe is beginning to slip, but using the one hand you had to fix it place had made it difficult. A few more minutes and a couple more twitches from your fingers and the poor bandaging you had done would unravel. 

"It's fine," you say instead. But when your hand protectively nudges close to your hip, that's involuntary. 

"Let me tighten it, at least," he offers. "The least I can do, as payment for the water." 

There's a gentleness somewhere in his tone that you don't trust. It doesn't sit right, it lurks and saturates his words, all sickeningly sweet. As tempting as the honeysuckle that used to grow outside your family home, the ones you'd pluck from the vine as a child, taking them as treats while you headed down to play in the creek that flowed in the nearby thicket. 

You've been tricked by pretty things before. Sweet sounding and tempting. Look where it's gotten you. 

"Really, it's alright." 

Surprisingly, he doesn't pry. Still, he doesn't quit staring. His stare seems fastened onto your hand, unwavering and fascinated, bordering on fervency. The glitter of the kitchen light reflects a fire in his eyes, shimmering in the dark pits of them. It's just another thing tonight that has you out of your depths, tugged down and far away from reason. This entire encounter has spread across so many different levels: he seems normal in certain lights. A laid-back traveler, just looking for a place to rest his feet. Relaxed until he's almost blithe. And that's what's so confusing. How heedless he is despite all the charm. 

Your skin crawls, nervousness shuddering in your bones. It's as though your wrist is tugged by a string when you nudge your wounded hand around your hip, hiding it behind your back. All out of the outlandish fear that he might reach for you. He seems akin to a dog tracking a strip of bloodied meat, following your hand until it disappears from his vision. And like a dog salivating, you need to distract it lest it lunge. 

"Have you ever seen the ocean?" you blurt. 

His brows perk at the question, the corner of his mouth curls, but the intensity that had been alight in his eyes seems to shift - redirect. It lets you draw in a breath that you didn't know you needed, just seconds away from becoming lightheaded. 

"There isn't an ocean in this country I ain't seen," he claims. He steps away from you then, backing towards the little dining table across the floor. His focus doesn't waver when his boots crush over the shatter glass, shattering the fragments into shimmering dust with his weight, the brittle pops and crunching peppers softly over the air. To you they sound violent, but he doesn't so much as acknowledge them as he slips the shoulder strap for his banjo over his head, lifting the instrument to lean it against the edge of the table.  He invites himself to sit, just opposite of the chair you had once occupied, like he belongs there.

"The Pacific, the great Atlantic. From sea to shining sea," he finishes in a familiar singsong rhythm, amused with himself and smiling. "I spent weeks harbored up on a ship once. Sometimes, late at night when I'm alone, I can hear the wood shudderin' around me. Groaning and moaning from the waves." 

It's almost conspiratorial, how he talks, though there's an unspoken invitation in his posture, relaxed, welcoming, thighs wide and spine slumped against the backrest of the chair as though he's sat there a thousand times before. It's as though you're the stranger now. Uncertain and delicate in a kitchen that suddenly doesn't belong to you. You're a phantom in a new space, lurking and banished to the outskirts while he observes you with a stare that's too disarming. Too calm, too wild simultaneously. 

"What's it like? Being able to travel like that?" You feel compelled to move closer, but your movements are still tentative as you approach the unoccupied chair. You don't remove your attention from him as you sit, watching him as though he might jerk forward at any moment. 

"There's hardly anything that compares to it. Free to wander wherever the wind takes you, just followin' after your own spirit." He finally sits his cup down on the table, now empty, and it hits the wood with a hollow thump. "And then I remember, that there truly ain't nothing else better than comin' home. That after being gone for so long, just lost and ramblin' through days and years, chasing after little more than a feelin,' the relief of coming back to the ones that love you the most is - well, it's religious. Better than breathin'." 

He speaks with something euphoric and distant. The tenderness and fervor of someone recalling a thing that's become lost but no less cherished. The passion he contains frightens a part of you, that flighty, uncertain part that jumps at shadows. But it's difficult to accuse yourself of being paranoid while he looks at you with the sort of restrained ferocity of a feral creature.  If you were truly a person that you could admire, you would have chased him out with a broom or a blade by now. And maybe you should do just that. The caution to do so has been weighing down heavy on you all night, and still, you can't manage to get yourself to act on that instinct. You can't keep yourself from being the least bit captivated when his eyes glitter with a passion and excitement that you haven't witnessed in ages. 

And you truly are entranced with how he's watching you. Staring as though you're some sort of cipher that must be understood. An artist staring down a slab of marble, mapping out the figure that resides somewhere beneath the stone. You aren't sure if you entirely enjoy it or not. 

"Have you ever felt that way before? Longed for something that's been taken from you? That you used to, but now it's entirely beyond you, jus' out of reach?" he asks. 

The questions suspend between you both. It's punctuated by the quiet. If you listen closely enough, you can catch the chitter of the crickets outside, but they're voices are muffled. Miles away. 

The inquiry is so outlandish that you can't help your laugh, as stilted and unsure as it is. He's still smiling, but he doesn't seem amused, entertained, certainly, just not as smug as he was before. There's a solemnness to it that could almost frighten you, as though the answer to the question is paramount, of the upmost importance.  You're pinned down in your seat. Terrified that you might answer incorrectly, as though this is some sort of test. All the while your mind chants to lie to him. Lie, lie, lie. 

"Of course not." You wrangle it out, muttered through a dry mouth, and now you're the one longing for a glass of water, though you can't seem to gather yourself up to fetch one.  What proceeds is an excruciating stretch of silence. A pause that spans over the kitchen like a chilled blanket, making you shiver despite the heat of the summer.  Once again you get the thought that he knows you aren't telling the truth. He knows, somehow, that you aren't allowing yourself to be honest, that there's a mountain you've erected between the both of you. 

You can't deny that it sounds tempting. You've dreamed of traveling, of packing up all of your clothes into a suitcase and vanishing into the night countless times, letting your mind drift up to the heavens to look down on every place you've ever dreamed of. Sinking your spirit down to cities that you'd never be able to see or touch or experience outside of books and paintings. You can only attempt to imagine what he may have discovered in his lifetime. The people who he's spoken with, the stories they've exchanged, the music they've shared. A hundred lifetimes in a single one.  Your vision drifts down to his left hand, idle on top of the worn tabletop, gold band encircled around his ring finger. It's lost its polish, gone a little dull from what must be years of being worn. He hasn't mentioned a wife once during this interaction, and you can only wonder if his she might be among the pair of friends that he has waiting for him up the road.  It seems typical that a man would neglect to mention that he has a wife at all while asking to enter a woman's home. You can't even manage the desire to scoff. 

"Don't you have family?" You pry, clasping your fingers together in your lap, smoothing your thumb over your nails and running it over the old cloth around your palm. You ignore the subtle sting when the fabric shifts the cut, but you don't think you kept the wince from your face. 

"Yeah, I've got family. If all goes well, I'll be seeing them tonight. It's long overdue" His voice is jovial, a sincere mirth shaping around his teeth in a visible expression of fondness. An excitement bleeding in alongside something that seems vaguely melancholic. Hopeful. Strangers with no clear description dance about in your mind, but if they're family of his, then they must be just as rugged and peculiar. You imagine dust smudged cheeks and fingertips worn from calluses, leathered from plucking and strumming musical strings. "It's been a long while since we've seen each other. Hardly feels real at all."  His expression goes a little soft and earnest, but you aren't able to share in his delight. Your too busy tussling with an envy that you don't recognize. It scatters across your sinew and nerves in a flash, as hot and bright and otherworldly as a lightning strike. You don't appreciate the guilt that comes with it, the confusion or the lick of self-hate. It doesn't belong with you. That jealousy doesn't have a place - it shouldn't. It seems impossible though, not to get all caught up in the brunt of your emotions. It would be easy to believe that this stranger isn't real at all. That you've manifested a vessel for the life you never got to live, the sort of ties and friendships you weren't fortunate enough to make. 

Colin lost his loyalty to you a long time ago. Or maybe he never had it at all. There was something about him that had seemed too good to be true, even way back when. Dahlia, his own cousin had seen it. Saw him for what he was. Warned you against him. Perhaps that's why Colin had shunned her out, nudged her back from the parameters of your marriage until she finally gave up and made a new life for herself up in Pittsburg.

A 'playboy' is what she had called him. All brawn and looks but nothing of substance, like a bit of candy. All sugar. But too much sugar does havoc on the body. It's unfortunate that you had to find that out for yourself. You still had time to set out for yourself back then and have all things your ever wanted. That's all too late now. 

It makes it horrible to have all of your wants echoed back at you. Reflected in a man you might never see again. It's as though the universe has dangled a trinket in front of your face, taunted a key before you to test if you'd reach for it. You clench your fingers tighter, threading them stiff in a lock as though it might keep you contained in your seat. The floor creak and groan beneath your feet. 

"That sounds lovely. Will your wife be there?" you probe. More of a slip of the tongue. You feel as though you've made an admittance that you shouldn't have. Your lips purse, sealing closed. 

His eyes glimmer in that odd way again. Catching light in an animal fashion. That ain't normal. That's not normal, is it? It makes you hate yourself as soon as you realize what you've asked him. You're certain that your mother is scolding you from her grave, cursing you for your poor manners. Humiliation stings at your cheeks, hot and damning, but the damage is already done.  "No, she ain't gonna be there." Is all he says, and the cold implications behind it is enough to make guilt turn to stone in your stomach. You can guess as to why she would be absent. Death or divorce, as rare as the latter is, but quite frankly, the state of his marriage and family affairs truly aren't any of your business.  "I'm apologize, I really shouldn't have ask-"  He leans over the table then, his chair creaking with the minute shift of his body weight as he crosses his arms over the counter. His teeth show in that good-natured smile that seems to be permanently displayed on his face, a flash of pale enamel - too sharp. "Are you lonely?" 

A chill seems to settle in with his words. Unwelcome and latching, gripping for whatever bit of skin isn't shielded by clothing. It stalls you in your seat, keeps you still and silent for a beat too long. You aren't certain how to properly answer. If you should at all. Quite frankly, it isn't any of his business at all. He's only been tentatively welcomed into your home, and he still conducts himself as though he is invited fully in your space, entitled to your honesty and situation. 

The anger in you - your exasperation with him - demands that you ignore him all together. To change the subject, maybe put him on the spot for a change - if that is at all possible. You know deep down though, that getting the upper hand on a man like him is a slim one. Men like him don't allow themselves to be bested. They throw their weight around, makes themselves the biggest thing in the whole room, sucking up all the oxygen until everything and everyone else dims out, starved flames. 

"Sometimes," you admit instead, gasping it out around a choked sound. Forbidden, lodged from somewhere in your throat.  He doesn't speak, but there is an unsaid question on his face, a gentle nudge for you to expand on it. He's leaving you to continue. To decide if this is something that you truly want to say. Somehow the choice of it all seems to make it so much worse. "Colin - my husband - works a lot. Long hours. He's rarely home. And when he is, he's . . . " He's mean, you want to say. As angry as a beaten dog. Lashing out at everything that moves, that looks at him the wrong way. And that thing is so often you. You can't make him happy, not anymore. There was a time that he used to admire you as though you were the prettiest creature he ever witnessed. That's all ash now. "He's usually sleeping. Or he spends his time somewhere else. Out with friends from work mostly." 

You don't know what to think of the stranger's expression. It sympathetic, understanding. There's a calmness in his eyes, though the friendly merriment from before hasn't dimmed, it's simply changed, become honed and tense as he falls silent.  He's steady as he observes you from the other side of the table. Unnervingly still, motionless. You can hear yourself breathing and the sheer realization of it makes you want to flee out of your own skin. You don't think you've ever felt so watched. Studied. Inspected. 

"I don't really mind when he leaves though. " You blurt it out in the beginnings of a nervous ramble. The need to fill the sudden quiet ripples up your spine. Makes you spit out your words in an anxious stream. "It's more . . . quiet. Peaceful. He works a lot. I'm sure you know how working men can be. All particular and all after a day of being on his feet. Can hardly blame him really." You pluck at your fingernails, curling your fingers together while your lips instinctively press up in an expression that you hope is convincingly relaxed.  You aren't sure why you're baring it all to this man. This knock at the door, a figure in the dark, a stranger at your table. Perhaps that's what it is. The comfort in knowing that he'll be gone long before the sun rises. That in a few short moments you'll finally urge him up from his seat and walk him to the front door, guiding him out into the night with a polite smile and a farewell. In due time, he won't be anything but a curious memory. A bizarre recollection that you might recall years down the road, distorted and strange. An odd man in the night, drifting along as bird perched on your windowsill might, spying into your house before fluttering away into the sky. 

There's a safety in that thought. You aren't ignorant to the insinuation hidden in your words. The implications they hold. If you were wiser, you'd might keep your mouth shut, but you can't stop yourself now. All pent up, restrained, left alone apart from the monthly trips you take to the grocery store, reduced to short, good-mannered interactions with the clerks. Brief, temporary, alone.  "What if I could help you?" 

You stare at him. You aren't sure for how long. A few seconds, maybe a minute at most, but the silence is disturbing. It gnaws at the reluctant comfortability that has settled between the both of you, fragile and cold and foreign like a sheet of snow. You aren't sure if you should laugh or scoff or ignore the comment all together. It's absurd that a man who had wandered up to your door, asking for help is now claiming that he would be able to do the same for you. His pants are worn from what's likely years of use, his knuckles are rough and there's uncountable number of miles on his shoes. He probably doesn't have much more than a couple dollars in his both of his pockets, and here he is, offering you salvation. 

He's earnest in his delivery. Unsmiling. Sincere. It's frightening because you don't know what to make of it. This doesn't seem to be some kind of play, and if it is then he's mastered himself fully. There isn't a hint of a smile or deceit. He's firm and committed, resolute in his proposition. It would have been more tolerable if this were a joke. There would be a punchline, a reason to laugh. That safety net isn't here. 

"How could you help me?" You can't cover the judgement in your tone, an inflection that would have gotten you nothing but pain had it been your husband sitting on the other end of that table and not the stranger; another row of bruises on your skin, mottled plum and scarlet and yellow with hurt.

The corner of his mouth quirks. Like he thinks he's caught you, shown you the light to something so much bigger than yourself. 

"How far will you let yourself go?"  

There's a challenge expanding out in front of you. A hurdle raising high that you've never jumped. It's intimidating, it's foreign. Once again, he's extending something out for you to take. For you to reach for. But this is much more pivotal somehow. It has you stuck, ensnared once again. Held captive within your own reservations and trepidation. Suddenly, this seems like some sort of pitch. A snake oil salesman waving a vial full of water and nonsense in front of you with the assurance that it's a cure-all. One sip of it and you'll be a brand-new person with a brand-new life.

Maybe it's the remaining remnants of a buzz that just haven't quite left your system, feeble but clinging, or maybe it's just the intrigue of having someone else to talk to. The relief of having another soul in your kitchen that doesn't belong to your husband, that isn't sneering or pacing about the house as tense and testy and as a pissed off as a junkyard dog. 

But this stranger is interesting in the same way that you can't help but entertain one of those traveling salesmen, but instead of a suitcase in one hand, he's got a banjo instead.

You've only had one drummer in all the years you've lived in this house wander up to your doorstep in the hopes of making a customer and fool out of you, knocking on your door and prattling on about combs and nifty pairs of scissors that would 'cut through fabrics like a dream'. How he had managed to take a look at your ramshackle home with its rickety porch and chipping paint and figured that he'd be able to make a client out of you is beyond your reasoning or imagination. 

You had wondered who he was. What paths in life had led him out in the middle of the sticks during the heat of the day, trying to sell useless wares; pins and lighters and needles. You could picture his life, a young kid that flunked his education or perhaps never had any at all and clung to the best means to make money. And now he's out catching trains and going from door to door in the hopes of squeezing a penny out of poor bastards that hardly have any at all.

That young man had been all nerves, sweating through his button up and stumbling over his pitch - no doubt a practiced one - while he struggled to keep your interest. But this stranger carries himself as though he has all the time in universe, as though you're the one who needs to impress him. You aren't sure how to adjust to it, the weight of his focus on you, heavy and evaluating. 

There's no consolation or support offered by the walls of your house. Not anymore. Perhaps not ever. A familiar feeling but never extended from the presence of a stranger. He's unsettling in a way that you've yet to grasp. A nervous ball has been lodged in the pit of your stomach since he greeted you out of the front porch, and it hasn't waned yet. It's been thrumming and prickling over your nerves, pooling deep, all wild and surging like the feral crack and blaze of lightning across heavy summer clouds.

You should tell him to go. To pick his banjo from where he's leaned it alongside the table and tell him to get lost.

But you know you won't. You would have done that a long time ago if that were the case.

There's an allure to him that can't quite be explained. A magnetism that's haunting. It isn't right, it doesn't feel normal. It's sinking under your skin, pulling on your bones and at your blood. You could blame it on the loneliness, but that doesn't seem right.

All you think of when you look at him is something's not right. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be in your house.

You tell yourself that he's trying to play you somehow. That he's some dumb hustler that's picked the wrong house. You're just as broke as him, if not more so, with only pennies and scraps left to your name.

Maybe that's what keeps you from dismissing this man all together. The twisted kick you might get out of pulling the rug out from beneath him - the promise of the satisfaction you might get when he realizes that he's spent his time trying to work money or means out of a woman who has neither to spare.

You could smile about it if you had the strength to. Maybe you're just bored, maybe the isolation of being trapped in these four, dying walls has finally caught up with you. Closed around you as tight as a pair of jaws because you get the wicked temptation to play whatever game he's set, to string him along and see where he thinks he might be able to take you.

Maybe that's why you find yourself speaking out, hushed as though it's some kind of reluctant confession, or a joke that you shouldn't be sharing.

"How far will you take me?"

You don't like the quiet that follows. The look of consideration on his face, the satisfaction that glimmers in his eyes. A wolf that's got its prey held between its teeth. You're choked, suffocating while you wait for those fangs to close in and puncture. Stuck on your seat while he watches you carefully from his side of the table, seeming miles away and too close all at once.

You seem to be toeing the line of something dangerous. There's a quality reflected in his eyes, one that you haven't had directed at you in a long while, and you nearly think that you might be imagining it.

It's heated, hungry, and you don't know if a man has ever looked at you in such a way. Not even Colin has, not even in the beginning.

It could be mistaken for raw lust, but there's an aspect about it that almost seems . . . God it almost seems violent. Glossed over but ardent, like a starved animal staring down a bit of meat.

You aren't sure if you should run or stay. More concerning that all of that is that you don't think you can run. Not now. Not with how your feet have seemed to stick to the floor again, gone all heavy limbed and immobile as though his gaze has turned you into stone.

"All you gotta do is trust me." That's his reply, cool and smooth toned. It's terrifying. All too soon you know that you're over your head.

He keeps you pinned down with that stare of his, held in your chair while he raises himself up from his; limbs shifting smoothly, water gliding over rock. And just like that you're watching a snake coil up in its hiding spot, body winding tight and tongue tasting the air while it braces for the strike.

The boards creak with his steps, the weight of his boot's thump lightly and hiss lowly with each drag of his footsteps as he moves around the edge of the table. The glass crunches under his boot and you nearly flinch. His eyes don't leave yours in his approach, tying you together while he consumes the distance between your bodies at a careful pace.

You've gone all breathless once he finally stops in front of you, his legs nearly brushing your knees as he looks down his nose at you. It's nerve-racking, waiting in silence for him to make a move, to say something, and it makes it terrible how you can hear your own heart racing, how you can feel it pitter-pattering in your throat.

For an awful stretch of time he simply stares. Quiet and still. It seems like another strange test; waiting for you to twitch so that he can lunge for you.

You don't. You're as motionless as a statue as you wait for him to do something, anything.

What you aren't expecting for him to do is to lower himself to the floor. The unexpected nature of it has you gasp, thin and surprised as he crouches down at your feet, slipping low until his knees make contact with wood, making it shift and groan from his weight. 

It's gone so quiet that you could hear a mouse rustling through the walls if there was one. Instead, you're doomed to listen to your own breathing, to hear the distant glide of the breeze shifting outside, the steady drip from the sink. But all of that fades out, dies into a useless background chaos when he takes one of your hands in his, the one bound in bloodstained cloth.

Now you truly do jerk, trying to pull yourself free from his grasp, just as an animal might try to rip itself from drooling, violent enamel, but the gentle clasp he has on your wrist turns firm. Long fingers curling tight around your flesh and bone, a vice grip. You're locked in place. "What the hell are you-"

"Easy now, I ain't gonna hurt ya, darlin'."

He smiles at you good-naturedly, as though he's placating you. He watches you as though this is normal - as if anything about this night has been normal.

It's unusual somehow, when his head tilts when he speaks. Something about it isn't right. Isn't human. Lacking fluidity and possesing too much of it. It's uncanny in a way that you can't place; a creature donning human skin with eyes that are too compelling, flat marbles glimmering in fire. Dark, bottomless, drawing you in with all the infinity of the night sky. Just two pools of black that glitter faintly; a pair of lights winking over ink.

Fire, your mind chants. Fire of damnation.

When his eyes flicker over your form, tightly wound in your seat, they leave scalding trails in their wake, burning underneath the shield of your dress.   You notice distantly that no warmth projects from his flesh. Even with the sparse space separating you both, a faint sliver, you can detect the chill that seeps through the fabric of his shirt, as though his vitality had been stolen from his body. Instinct itches at your hindbrain for you to do something. To resist (resist what?), to fight, flash teeth, claw and kick if you must. You do nothing of the sort.  You think somewhat dementedly that it's almost as though a corpse has wandered into your home and gripped you. But his stare is too lively, too impassioned to belong to a dead man.  Your tongue is dry, parched, rendering you voiceless as he smooths his fingers over the flimsy compress dressed around your hand. You can't manage to inspire yourself to speak when he plucks the bandage free and begins to unwind it from around you palm, the rejection dies somewhere in your throat. He does it slowly, tenderly cradling your wrist as though it were a wounded bird while he unwinds the old fabric free with a deft hand.  He doesn't look away from you once, holding your attention with the soft coos that have begun to spill from his mouth. A gentle stream of "Easy, we're almost done," and "Atta girl" that drifts over your mind in placid, hazy brushes. The tone of his voice has dipped all low, a smoky timbre that pours over you in a whiskey hue, buttery and tepid, dipping past your flesh to simmer somewhere past your ribcage.  And it soothes and placates your muscles just as alcohol would. The tension that had drawn you up tight and rigid ebbs away, relaxes as easily as hard wax held over an open fire.  It's intimate.  Undeniably so. The last bit of the makeshift bandage slips away, tugged free from your skin and you wince as loose threads in the fabric cling to the blood that's begun to congeal, tugged free only with a delicate pull from the stranger's hand. He hushes you when you hiss through your teeth, gritting through the sting that spreads across your palm in a smarting web. 

The wound is angry already. Inflamed around the edges of the gash, a deep, ugly red that throbs with a pulse of its own. You can't stop yourself from swearing, huffing it low within the strained base of your breath. You expect him to chide you for it; there's nothing more unbecoming than a lady lacking manners. Colin would have been keen to reprimand you for the slip of your tongue. Your body shudders from the memories of old bruises and welts, the lashings you'd taken on your rump. 

You almost flinch from the echoes of it, bracing to receive an admonishment. It never comes. 

You gaze up from the wound slowly, hesitantly glancing over the shape of the man knelt before you with a reluctance that you loathe to notice within yourself, but you can't manage to shake it. 

You don't meet the harsh stare of a person offended. There's no vehemence in his eyes for your transgression, no annoyance for a woman speaking improperly. His eyes are glazed. Glassy and distant, the sort of expression you see on drunks that are one too many bottles deep; rapturous, numbed to the world. 

He's barely paying you any mind, attention fixated onto your hand with a rapt fascination. Observing the wound, admiring the way that the blood catches that light as though it's the most interesting discovery. But there's a zealousness too. A detail to his stare that goes beyond intrigue and borders on a kind of mania. But that's not exactly right either. 

It takes a moment for it to click into place but once you recognize it, ice douses through your bones and sinew, seizing your body tight. Hunger. That's what it is. He's staring at it as though he's starved and longing to lick it up. 

Something damp drizzles across the heel of your palm, thick and cold. The press of it on your skin startles you out of your panicked daze. A gasp rips out of your lungs, thin and sharp when it snags inside of your chest. 

God - oh, God, he's drooling. 

You hardly believe what you're seeing at first but it quickly becomes undeniable. It's there, as clear as day, drool pouring from the corner of his mouth in heavy rivulets. The sort of slobber a sick dog might make, something rabid. Wet and smearing down the shape of his chin where it dangles precariously before dripping down to patter onto the floor below, and drop, drop, dropping on the palm of your hand. It starts to collect in a pool, blending with the blood that stains along the irate edges of the gash. 

There's no hiding your grimace. No swallowing down the appalled gasp of terror and disgust. It's a raw, animal panic that snatches you, tugging you back like a marionette on strings. You would have toppled yourself right over in your seat but the hold he has on your wrist turns ungiving, anchoring you in place. A rabbit pinned down by a serrated maw. 

The legs of the chair scream as they slip along the floor, stopping in place with a grating hiss when he snags you back down before you could flee. Wings clipped and earthed bound before you could even take off. It rattles you back into place, head snapping on your shoulders when he forces you still in your seat. 

He begins to hush you but it's no longer a comfort. It's patronizing, revolting to the ears and you fight against the grip he has on you, but now a manacle on your arm, it doesn't budge. 

"Shh, shh, shh, darlin,' I ain't gonna hurt you none." 

"Let go of me," you snarl, showing teeth that hardly pose a threat. "You best go and get out of here. Before my husband wakes - " 

"Oh, come now, you and I both know he ain't really here." 

He says it so casually and it's terrifying. Deep down you knew he figured you were bluffing, some unexplainable instinct in you urging that he was a lot more aware than he had let on, and like a fool you'd still ignored common sense when it had screamed at you. When it had knocked and wailed at you to turn him away. 

But to hear him confirm it is a humiliation all on its own. An insult to injury. 

He lifts his head then, an animal that's caught onto a scent and his nostrils flex as he draws in a heavy breath and huffs like one, tasting the fragrances on the air. It's a slap to the face and conformation simultaneously, all of those peculiarities that you've been ignoring, that your mind has been seeming to overlook all crash into you as his eyes burn in a demonic reflection. 

This isn't a man at all. This is a creature, a monster masquerading in human hide. You've heard stories before, whispered around the Delta, centuries old information exchanged from mouth the mouth and passed to willing ears, depicting creatures that wail and hunt in the night. It's why some paint the ceilings of their porches blue - a barrier between them and troubling spirits, meant to ward off and protect - folktales and ghost stories, you had called them. 

Well, unfortunately, a ghost story has wandered up to your door, and always the fool, you've let it right in. 

You don't bother battling with reason, there's no place for all of that here. Not now, while this man - this thing looks up at you with eyes that scintillate red, as bright as any fire, as crimson as the blood on your split flesh. 

His smile is one of brogue satisfaction, the pleasure a hunter would feel from having caught an animal in one of their traps. 

"It's just you and me now," he says. It's a punctuation, final. As though he's bent reality to his will, taken your fate in his hands and shaped it to a mold of his approval. And you let him, dumb and tricked, easily led astray by false fronts and pleasing smiles. It's an affront just as much as it is alarming. How you've been tugged adrift so simply, allowed yourself to be played by a simple disguise. 

And now this beast is inside of your house. 

"What are you?" You apply strength to your voice, but it's hollow, fragile around its fringes, ice thawed into mist. 

"You're savior." A response uttered without hesitation. Said as though it's an undeniable truth. 

If it's possible, you think your soul shudders and recoils in your body, shrinking away from his talk - downright blasphemous speech. A conman, a snake oil salesman, that's what he is. Some kind of test sent by God or the Devil himself, you aren't sure. Perhaps he is the Devil, or at the very least some kind of trickster spirit, voice tempting with that strange charm, the kind that sticks to your skin like a sap and drones in your ear in a smooth hum. 

You've heard how they often hide themself behind pretty faces, masquerading behind attractive guises to catch the ignorant unawares, and you've slipped into the razor teeth of his trap with hardly any resistance. 

"You can't save me," you shake your head, trying to slip your arm from his grip one last time but his hold remains persistent. 

"Of course I can. You asked me to show you remember?" His brows perk up, expression open and hopeful - vulnerable despite drooling, jaw damp with it. He's still on his knees before you, an imagine of submission, of seeking consent. You don't like how it makes the wedding band around your finger feel heavy and chilled, an uncomfortable pressure that seems too tight. 

"Just let me show you, like I promised," he offers softly. There's a plea on the fringes of his voice, delicate. His thumb strokes down the column of your wrist, smoothing over the impression of the bone that faintly lurks beneath your flesh, pausing along the thump of your pulse. Your skin prickles, heat sparking where his fingers touch, a sensation that's warm and sweet - sickeningly so. Nauseating in the pit of your stomach, and yet your mouth waters all the same. 

Something akin to anticipation coils inside of your chest, fluttering, alive. It's foreign, strange, and you find it difficult to try and shun it. It's instinctual to try and ignore its simmer, stuffing it beneath the anger and repulsion that turns in your stomach like an illness, but he doesn't allow you to ignore the ache. He holds your hand, locks his stare onto yours and forces you to confront the uncertainty settling across you, as fit as a tailored coat, smooth and fuzzy. Uncomfortably welcoming, molding across your person, inside and out. 

"Let me see where it hurts?" You don't believe you've ever heard a man beg before. Not while at your feet, but he certainly is. You get the terrible impression that you . . . might enjoy it, a perverse kind of satisfaction purring behind your ribs and it makes you shift in your seat as though it will help to shake the feeling off. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. 

It doesn't make him quit staring up at you as though he's seeking absolution in your being. This isn't right. It must be a corruption against nature for some man - some thing to gaze up at you with the starved patience of a saint desiring solace. 

It's wicked. This is the temptation that you've been taught to resist, the resilience that you mother had done her damnedest to try and build within your marrow. Good women don't feel things like this, not for strangers in the night, not for demons that might possibly be posing as men. Especially not a married woman. 

You wait for a surge of guilt to crash over you, but when it does it's dull. Feeble. A pale sting in the back of your mind that's soothed away by the cool caress of hand along yours. He's hardly done a thing, and yet you can feel your determination wearing thin, the barrier protecting your will getting chiseled away at one breath at a time, turning brittle under the pressure of his stare. 

You have to gulp down an unsteady inhale of air, swallowing down your nerves.  "I shouldn't." 

That's not a no, and it should be. It's an excuse to your own ears, weak willed and flimsy. 

"Why not?" His head tilts on his shoulders while he squints up at you, analyzing the frequent rise and fall of your chest. "Holdin' out for your husband who's probably wet between some other woman's thighs?" 

You almost slap him, but old instincts stop you before your free hand could lift away from your side and strike his cheek. Lashing out's never gotten you anywhere before, still the itch to give into it never truly fades. You know that he can see the hatred burning in your eyes. Unlike your husband, his face doesn't contort from rage, he doesn't raise his voice to spew venomous insults, his patience remains intact, satisfied and deceptively sweet. 

" Don't get angry, get even. I can show you how to live without him." You can't get yourself to protest as he shifts closer still, nudging himself forward until your knees are only able to comply in giving him more space, spreading open to allow him room to wedge his body between your legs. It has the fabric of your skirt pulling taught and lifting up, threatening to give and slip over your knees.

It's purely indecent, revealing more skin that he should be able to witness. You can't keep yourself from reaching down to try and pluck your skirt back at a more respectable length but the way that he has your thighs wedged apart obstructs you from properly doing so, leaving the fabric to remain in place, creased and high around the shape of your knees. 

You can smell him like this, the night still clings to him, humidity and earth. You don't like how it sticks to you now, how he speaks of 'getting even,' of insulting Colin even if he won't be directly aware of the transgression. It's petty, perhaps disgusting how you long to give in. How curiosity sings against logic and urges you to relent, to see where this man with fire in his eyes and temptation pouring from his lips might take you. 

You've been in denial for a long time, you think, walking around with your eyes closed shut, pretending to see that parts of yourself that are ugly and ache and hate. You've always been the woman you were raised to be, holding your longing close, shutting it tight behind your chest, pretending that it isn't there. 

It's gotten you nothing but hurt and man who only touches you when he's raising his hand against you. And now he's probably a few miles away from home, swaying drunkenly on barstool while he drinks himself one bottle closer to an early grave. And this is what's set to be your life, isn't it? 

One day blurring between the other, smearing between weeks left isolated behind old wallpaper and smarting bruises. You know deep down that if you let this strange man win, let him get what he wants, then maybe you won't be surviving the night. You've heard that beings like this usually settle in taking your life in some way, regardless if it's by collecting your soul or sinking their teeth in until all that's left is bloodied remains, is inconsequential. 

You've always known that you were going to die in this house, at least now it'll be done by your terms. You've always been too afraid to take risks, too much of a coward to allow yourself to act, keeping your fantasies of escaping your life firmly trapped within your head. Abandoned and left for you to ruminate on, spinning around inside of your mind like a stunned bird flapping uselessly across the ground, trying desperately to find lift on damaged feathers. 

It's laughable that for the only time in your life, you've been allowed to know what it feels like to have control, though you know in your bones it's only the illusion of it. The stranger crouched between your legs could (will) surely kill you in a blink, snap the wrist he has clutched within his palm with the flick of his hand. It shouldn't thrill you, but it does. 

"Fine then," you relent, strengthening your tone with a confidence that you don't entirely feel. "Show me." 

His guise fully slips then, the both of you seeming to come to an unspoken unanimous agreement to quit with facades. You feel disgusting, allowing yourself to relent, baring the grimy parts of your soul to this demon in human flesh; in turn he grins, victorious. Shows teeth that aren't human, jagged and serrated, designed to cut flesh and tear. 

He drools and his eyes reflect, the gleam of blood-soaked coins. You've known now that he isn't human, but to see your suspicions so clearly confirmed, revealed to you so casually is as terrifying as it is reaffirming. 

"I'll make it all better, don't worry." You feel puffs of air brush over you from his words, drawing over your hand, ghosting along the cut on your palm. The wound throbs and stings from the chill of his voice, aching while he speaks into your blood as though he's making a vow, trying to imprint it into your being. 

Blood and his spit smears on your hand. It seems profane to see the blur of it so close to the ring on your finger. The sight alone has to be a sin, a perversion, but worse than all of that, you find that you don't truly care. The thought doesn't wrack you with guilt, it doesn't char in your gut, it rolls past you, as slick as any oil. Reason and morality begin to abandon you, leaving you behind to be a helpless observer as he lowers his face to your open palm. 

Fear shifts dim in your veins, unimportant, overpowered by the fascination while his lip's part and his tongue slips out to trace over your blood. You can hear the voice of rationality crying distantly, your psyches last resort to try and snap you from the daze of intrigue that clouds over you. But not even the burn of his tongue dragging over the split in your skin is enough to save you now, not even while your hiss through your teeth and twitch from the pain. 

The ruined nerves within the raw slice shriek, boiling hot from the press of his mouth. Your muscles bunch in preparation to tear your arm out from the source of the pain. Just as quickly, the urge nullifies, washes away from the look in his eyes. He watches you, seeming to gauge your reaction while he continues to lap at your blood. But that glazed quality is back in his stare, intoxicated, enraptured, lashes fluttering like he's consuming an ambrosia. 

You don't expect the groan that rumbles from his chest, though you probably should, a guttural, heavy noise that skips through his throat in a snarl - an inhuman noise that causes the small hairs on the nape of your neck to stand on end, goose flesh prickling on your arms and legs. 

"Don't pull away. Lemme see you." A gentle warning if you've ever heard one. Slurred from how he doesn't bother to remove his mouth to speak, smothering his face to your palm. He's hardly lapping at this point, unwilling to sacrifice the sliver of space that would require, instead opting to latch his lips around the laceration to draw in the scraps of blood draining from it, gulping and sucking like he means to drink down your very heartbeat. 

He curls himself closer, torso pressing into your knees so close that his head is practically in your lap, severing the minute scale of space between your bodies while he latches on to you with more conviction, holding onto your wrist with all the fervor of a disciple cradling a sacred object. 

Your jaw parts open, a revelation of your disbelief, a gasp stuttering inside of you while you watch. It's paralyzing, the constant pain and soothe of his mouth, the wet drag of his tongue curling and stroking. You can see his throat flexing; the thin gold chain draped around his neck catching light while he drinks down what must only be thin remnants of your blood. The flow had been previously staved off by the bandage, already congealing and turning thick to heal. 

He's groaning over what could only be compared to crumbs, a dog eating off of the floor, happy to gnaw the old dry bones given. A part of you uselessly attempts to convince yourself that this isn't real, an odd dream, or strange fantasy. That truly, you've swallowed down all of Colin's gin and drunk yourself into a stupor, passed out at the kitchen table and you'll wake soon, safe and sound. Untouched. 

You know that isn't the truth though. This strange man is here, kneeling at your feet, teeth too sharp to be normal scraping over the heel of your palm, breathing heavily through his nose, panting as though he'd die without the taste of you on his tongue. 

It's hypnotic. You've never seen anything like this in all of your days. Your imagination had never been inspired to create an image such as this and seeing it before you with your physical eyes has you breathless. Sparks scatter down your spine, pouring down to settle inside the shape of your hips, molten, honeyed, a shock of heat and stars that simmer between your legs. 

It should be insulting, shameful, the familiar heat coiling deep inside your belly, but the remorse doesn't have time to settle or secure itself, because he parts his mouth from you. A brief lull, a break from the sting and a strange glide of his tongue before he's rotating your hand around with his own. He descends just as quickly as he had separated, slipping your thumb inside his mouth to lave his tongue over the sliver of a cut slicing up the length of it, sucking on you the digit.  

His violent teeth trace over it, and he eyes you when the enamel grazes. You swear an unspoken, I could bite if I wanted to hangs in the humid air. It's twisted tight between you, a tense, quivering thing that hums while he cradles your thumb beneath his tongue. 

It's an indecent show, far beyond what is respectable between a man and a woman - strangers, no less. Then again, there hasn't been a single thing about this night that's been respectable. Your mother would swat you if she could see you now, pull you up by your nape and strike some decency into you. Prompt you to recite prayers until you lost your voice, until the words stung your throat. 

But shame is a faraway concept now. Diluted and vanquished from the fever spreading through your being, the calefaction building inside of you is poisonous, as steady and potent as any disease. 

Your thighs switch, muscles involuntarily squeezing to seek out a friction that isn't there, impeded by the wedge of his shoulders between them. Your cheeks tingle, humiliation waxing across your face when your mind, sluggish and hindered from the syrup that clings to your thoughts like molasses, processes what you've done. When you fully notice how your hips have begun to move on their own, subtly shifting on the seat of your chair, longing to raise and find something to ease the ache that's pooled between your legs. 

You're as rigid as a doll when you freeze, bunching your muscles up to coerce yourself back still on the seat. You can only hope that he hasn't noticed it, but you know that he has. There isn't a chance in hell that he hadn't seen you starting to hump at the air, as flagrant as any dog. 

You almost wish that he'd scold you for it, that he'd call you out for the degenerate that you are. He doesn't. He does look at you though, watching curiously, staring with eyes that see you for what you truly are but don't judge. 

Still, you can't keep yourself from apologizing, a hushed whisper of a thing uttered out on humiliated lips. The need to rectifying the wrong ignores that he's much more debased, polluting you slowly, drinking your blood from an open wound.  "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me." 

It's only then that he removes his mouth from your thumb, slipping his mouth from it with a damp pop! He shakes his head, not a silent admonishment but a confirmation of sorts - the apology isn't necessary. He licks his lips instead, cleaning up the drool that's sapped around his mouth, as though even the faintest pieces of you, small scraps and thin iotas deserved to be savored. 

He laps at the pad of your thumb one last time, like a parting kiss, before he trails his lips over heel of your palm, just outside the damaged flesh. It's as though he can't bear to part, inhaling deeply to draw in the scent that clings to your skin, the fragrance of blood staining the angry slash. 

You aren't expecting him to say your name (I didn't give him my name, you note distantly, thoughts distorted under fog. Haven't said it once), you aren't anticipating the reverence it's spoken with either, the tenderness, candied between his teeth. It shocks you immobile, confuses you into silence. He regards you - sees you entirely, you know that now. He watches like he's picked you apart, slipped past your flesh and rummaged around in all your parts, traveled from the fringes of your soul and all the way down to the pit of it, and equally delighted and sympathized in what he's seen. 

It has you naked while you sit fully clothed. Vulnerable and exposed within your own home. 

"He don't treat you right, does he." It isn't really a question. It's rhetorical, an observation. For perhaps a moment too long it takes a while for it to click, for you to make sense of what and who he's referring to. But once it all does, weak threads tug together, connecting under the inert pace of your mind, you can only stare at him. Voice stolen, snuffed out. 

It's as though he well and truly knows, as though he's carded through your memories, felt the strikes of an open palm and closed fists himself, tasted the echoes of violence and agony held within your veins. Perhaps he has. You've heard of the power that flows in blood, it's uses in practices. In spells and prayers, blood vows, pacts made and forged by blades to flesh. 

You aren't certain of what he is. Some sort of demon sent to prowl about the earth, a starved spirit that preys on the weak, either of those could be true or false, so it shouldn't surprise you that he was able to peek inside of your soul through the passage of your blood. That he's witnessed the reflections of your life, learned your name all from drinking you down with his tongue, but it does. The possibility of it unsettles you, curdles inside of your marrow, makes your stomach roll with nausea. 

It's wrong - this is wrong. This entire night has turned bad, unnatural, mangled and warped. He isn't meant to be here. He shouldn't be in your home; you never should have invited him inside. And yet your jaw remains a steel trap, containing your fears and opinions inside on a shuddering breath, just as it always does. Rendering you voiceless, compliant, the same as when Colin comes home in a mood, set on seeking out an outlet in your flesh. 

You stopped fighting years ago, the fervor for survival dying inside of you, a forgotten thing. 

You shouldn't enjoy that this unnamed man from the dark, this otherworldly traveler has seen the worst parts of you. The secrets that were supposed to remain hidden, the horrors you've kept close. What happens between a man and his wife isn't meant for the attention or council of others, it's a private affair, and yet he's peeked inside of you. Seen more than Collin ever will, forever set to be ignorant to how much you loathe him, how you wish that God would finally answer your prayers and strike him dead. 

There's been countless nights where you've sat across from your husband at this very table, hardly able to sit from the welts burning your ass, raised and white-hot, hellfire on your flesh. All while he perched directly across from you, unaffected by the sting on his right hand while he ate and partook in the dinner you'd spent hours making for him. 

You would dream that he'd choke on it. That the mouthfuls would catch in his throat and he'd collapse onto the floor in a suffocating heap, looking up to you with a plead for mercy glazing over in his eyes. Asking for the empathy that he's never shown you. 

"Men such as him deserved to be beaten within an inch of their lives."

It snaps you from your reverie, your fantasizing like the crack of dead branch splintering over a knee. 

There's a danger that lurks in his tone, sinister and coarse, the inflections enclosing on the sound of a growl. You swear the noise of it reverberates throughout your skeleton, it thrums up the nape of your neck, itching, clawing, phantom fingertips skirting over your scalp. His eyes are still burning, alight with the depths of hell, scorching, consuming. It'd be easy to believe that his body has been hollowed out, a vacant shell captained only by the flames of damnation, seeking to burn and corrupt. 

Maybe you were just easy kindling. 

"But I'm gonna make it alright," he presses the plush of his mouth to your palm again, a cloying glide of lips. "Let me kiss it better." 

You don't get to object or agree. There's not a second to process the salacious nature of his words because he lies to you. He doesn't kiss - he bites. 

It's a blur. A contorted smudge, grease besmirching a fine painting; he pounces forward, lithe and too quick to be tracked. And then teeth sink in, parting meat between the fine, daggerlike points, puncturing tissue and sweet flesh with a brutal mouth. Liquid fire douses across the heel of your hand, the one already damaged by the slice of glass, previously soothed by the sweep of his tongue. 

You cry out, from shock, from terror and agony. A shrill wail that cuts and chisels at your quivering ribcage when it pours from your throat. You writhe and heave in place, a rabbit caught in snare, struggling to hoist yourself out of your seat. You don't know if it's possible to feel betrayed by a man you don't truly know, but the sting of it blossoms regardless, violent and fatal. 

The chair wobbles beneath you, feet dragging across the floor with a shrill scrape that sounds like the call of a wounded animal. Despite all of your flailing, he doesn't budge. He's latched onto you, hand secured around your wrist in a vice, jaw locked onto you as though his teeth have become one with your being, enamel suturing to the bone beneath the damaged sinew. 

You try to strike him with the arm that's still free, but he takes that one too, clipping it down before it could be brought down upon the crown of his head. Gripping it within the steady clasp of his fingers, monstrous talons raking over you as they curl around the joint of your wrist to render you immobile. 

Tears blur and crystalize along your waterline, unshed but no less distressed. It's difficult to see past the watery film they leave in your vision, silvery wisps and hazy shapes making up what's visible, but you can still understand him through the distress. He's clutched onto you, still kneeling but just as selfish and persistent as any parasite, throat bobbing as he gulps down the blood that flows abundantly from where he's bitten. 

His thumbs caress you, elongated now, spidery and sweeping back and forth in motions that are meant to conciliate, but it only rouses more anger, more dread. You feel tricked even though he's been nothing but honest with his nature, drooling and flashing vicious teeth at all night. You were the one who tricked yourself, allowed yourself to believe that he wouldn't turn them against you. 

This is what happens when you allow strays inside of your home, expecting kindness instead of a snarling maw. 

Maybe a part of your soul recognized the death in his eyes long before the rest of you did. Maybe that's what you truly wanted. The solace of it, the release. 

He drinks and drinks and drinks. Filling his mouth and his belly while your head fills with fog and stuffing saturated with wine, inebriated and weighed down. Your skull lolls on its neck, suddenly heavy, too much to bear and your chin dips down towards your chest, giving you no other option but gaze down at him. An unwilling observer of the saliva and blood that slips past the seam of his lips, threading through your twitching fingers, soiling the gold hue of your wedding ring before it all drips and drops onto the floor in a rusted combination of blush and scarlet. 

It would be easy to assume that you've passed on already with how lethargic his bite has turned you, his gluttonous eating diminishing the blood in your veins gulp by gulp. It guides you into a sensation so dreamy, so airy and delicate that it feels as though you've slipped outside of your body and begun to levitate, but you know that you haven't. 

The view you have of him still kneeling before you, mouth fixed around your hand confirms it. Your limbs belong to a doll, motionless, unable to move, the connection between your brain and body having seemed to be stretched wide apart, too far for thoughts to travel. 

Limbs fill with sand, useless, unable to function from the fatigue that drips through your body and pours down your ligaments in a paralyzing pulse and boneless thrum. Something is taking root, sprouting where his fangs puncture you. Its seeps inside of your bloodstream, tingling, bubbling within vessels, sugar glazing across nerves. Working through your system, intrusive, an alien element that was never meant to join inside of your body. But you can feel it, you know that you can. Spreading, altering, searing and soothing simultaneously, rendering you stationary. 

He's a rattlesnake. Curled up in the grass, visible only until it's too late with fangs that kill. His venom's inside of you now, reaching depths beyond your understanding, altering tissue, destroying you from the inside out. 

He removes his mouth from you with a heavy sigh, one of relief. The kind of noise you let out after a long day of great labor once you're finally able to rest your feet and feed the ache in your belly. 

He bestows another kiss to the gash he's left behind. A gnarled wound, deep rows made from the rip of sawtooth fangs, torn over the cut from the glass. This kiss isn't sugared; it doesn't make that longing side of you swoon beneath his lips. You can't forget your rage, not with his mouth now glistening with the red of your blood, flickers of gold shimmering across the damp, reflecting from the light above. 

"I know you're mad at me," he answers, as though it's enough. A proper excuse and not an insult - a mockery. "I can see your anger, and I don't blame ya for it. But this - " he lifts your wounded hand, still cradled inside his lithe talons - "This is how how we're gonna get you better. How we save you from the man who was meant to keep you safe. You aren't gonna need Colin anymore. Not now, not ever again." 

You don't want to hear it, don't want to listen to the lies he spews, but the sound of his voice spirals and twines inside your ears in a that smoky drawl. Too hypnotic for his perversions. Your body yields all the same. You tell yourself that it's only the venom that no he doubt possesses that has you going lax, turning malleable despite the hatred that still lies in your heart, but you don't know if that's the case anymore. 

The truth seems murky now. An uncertain, undefined thing, and you're not certain if it ever existed in the first place or if it was always just a fairytale you told yourself for comfort. 

It doesn't help that he's staring up at you as though he's seeking your forgiveness, eyes wide, brows furrowed in a guilty pinch. The image of culpability, of remorse seeking forgiveness. It has you so transfixed that you don't feel him place your injured hand down inside of your lap, and you don't entirely register the glide of his palms cupping the outside of your thighs, honed points of his claws trailing over the supple skin, daring to slip just the scantest inch beneath the hem of your skirt. 

A suggestion, a request. 

He only deserves your denial. Your refusal. He's repulsive, a monster performing as a man, lurking around the shadows while you were vulnerable. And now here he is, still at your feet, the implication of obscene desires evident on his face. Behaving as though the proof of his deceit isn't torn into the flesh of your hand, blood trickling to stain the fabric of your dress. 

He's selfish, having injected the venom on his teeth into your veins. You're too dazed to physically reject him, inebriated fumes seeming to warp inside of your skull, fuzz brushes within your fingertips and toes, as though you've been encased within a perfumed mist. Though you still have enough clarity to cling to your animosity and pride, as tattered and useless as it might be, moth eaten paper clutched in a quivering grasp. 

You should cling to your righteous fury, your disdain, and yet it begins to slip. It grows brittle, tainted by the persistent warmth that remains between your thighs. A constant manifestation of your want that hasn't waned, not even when he'd sank his teeth into you. 

He must see the war on your face, the conflict. Because understanding shows on his, patient and lacking negativity. 

"I told you I'd kiss it better, didn't I?" 

"You lied." You don't spare him your indignation, glowering with all the visible loathing you can manage. He doesn't waver beneath it, as resolute as mountain pelted by the ferocity of a summer downpour. 

"I did," he agrees easily.

And you hate how something as simple as his admittance is enough to mollify some of the hurt and outrage storming inside of you. You're just as starved as he is, desperate for an escape, an exit that you'll only have in death. If you had something to live for, perhaps you'd find the will to fight. Maybe you'd generate an impossible strength and turn your teeth on him instead. But you don't have the resistance in you anymore. Sometimes you wonder if you ever did. 

"Let me show you I'm good for my word." His head bows, low enough for him to press the point of his nose to your knee, separated only by the thin cut of your skirt. He observes you from there, shadows spilling over his face, crimson smoldering from where peers he up at you. "Let me ease the ache." 

And you are aching, aren't you? Your body is buzzing, a humming livewire, something ancient and primal creeping up from the base of your spine. A ghost, an apparition, alive and singing with primordial promises and impulses that merge with the venom in your veins. It twists together, a confusing merge until you can't tell which symptom is a product of which, an ouroboros of heat that rides off the back of the haze clouding your head. 

You've never felt like this. So consumed. Turned inside out and left wanting. The loose fit of your dress is too tight, clinging to your hips and breasts in all the wrong ways, uncomfortable in a way that it's never been before. Your nipples brush against the material with each inhale of your lungs, annoying and tantalizing all at once. 

You're outside yourself, unable to recognize who you are as a need that you've never experienced rises up, seeking and frenzied. It's worse still because you aren't entirely sure if you can blame it on his influence, the infection that must be spreading and ravaging your body. It's terrifying to think that venom might have only induced or invigorated the desire that was already there, heating it until it could finally give and bubble up to the surface. 

Something in you breaks, snaps beneath all the conflict and pressure, the ceaseless tug between morality and longing. It could also be that you're tired of resisting, of holding yourself back from the lust coiling inside of you like a serpent. It could be how he continues to look at you, a little pathetic, devout. A worshipper at an altar. 

It's instinct and surrender concurrently. 

You allow yourself to settle against the back rest of the chair, hearing it creak softly from the weight, getting comfortable. Not once do you tear your attention from the man in front of you, not even as you reach down with your uninjured hand, using it to pluck at the length of your skirt, gathering it up to pool it on your lap. 

You don't know where this sudden surge of boldness has come from. Where the confidence that allows you to spread your thighs wide has developed, and why it's chosen now of all times to reveal itself. But it's empowering, stimulating. 

His own focus drops down between your legs, watching while you reach down to hook your fingers beneath your undergarments. You're both silent while you slip them down your thighs, gliding them down the hitch of your knees. You don't have to work them down the rest of the way. He does that for you, cutting them free from your legs with the sharpness of his claws. 

You feel them fall to the floor, useless, tattered. But you can't pay that any mind, not while you spread yourself open for him. You've bared yourself completely, and the caress of the satin air gliding across your cunt makes you crudely aware of the arousal that's smeared down the inner cushion of your thighs. 

You're soaked and aching, splayed open like a whore that's been paid, and he looks everything like a creature that's tore itself from the bowels of hell. Long talons raking across your flesh, elongated, boney fingers trembling with fracturing self-restraint, blood - your blood - blemishing his face in a stain of carnage. 

And yet you've never wanted a man as much as you do now. Not your own husband, not even when you were young and he was still tender towards you. Your fantasies then had been rose-tinted, spring blossoms and intimate embraces. Nothing as carnal as this. An animal creeps inside, snarling, vile, rippling beneath the cage of your ribs, contained only by bone and lungs. 

He stares between the apex of your legs as though he's been entranced. A hint if drool begins to drain from the corner of his mouth again, teeth flashing as he parts his lips and inhales in a greedy gulp of air. 

He's breathing you in, you realize, scenting your cunt in a disgusting display of hedonism. 

It doesn't repulse you like it should. You think you're too gone for reason to properly reach you now, floating on a high of intemperance and indulgence. Despite the temptation you know that if you go down this road, give him permission again that he'll mark each and every part of you - if he already hasn't. 

You don't know what might become of you, but you can already feel yourself changing. The exhaustion weighing you down grows heavier, dipping you closer towards a dark warmth that mimics the welcome of sleep, but it's too distorted and peculiar to be something so innocent - unusual, cold. Skeleton fingers. You assume, down in the furthest parts of you, the pieces that just know things, animal instincts, that it might be death coming to collect you. 

You aren't sure if there will be another side to great you. If you'll still be entirely you or not once you cross over it, or if you'll be just the same as him. A perversion of nature, of the soul. The venom must have done its work, set in too deep, because you no longer care what lies ahead of you. You can only think of now, of the drooling fiend wedged between your thighs. 

"Go on then," you prompt, reclining further. Draping yourself along the chair, unabashed, spread open. "You said you were going to set it right." 

He grins, wicked and pleased. He remains in place for only a second, just long enough to offer a gratified "Yes, ma'am" before he's leaning over and burying his face directly between your thighs. There's no teasing or playing, no unnecessary intention to draw it out to frustrate you. He gets right to it, dipping his tongue inside the entrance of your cunt, stroking it inside to gulp you down his throat as though it's holy water and he means to cleanse himself from the inside out. 

He eats you like he's still starved. A bottomless pit, cursed with gluttony. You couldn't have anticipated the fervency behind his hunger - not for this, at least. It has your spine bowing already, hips tilting up to catch the friction of his mouth and he groans, contented like he's the one being fucked. As though the pleasure is eating him alive and not you. 

Your jaw drops with a breathless sigh as your head rolls back to thump against the top edge of the backrest, body conflicted between going completely lax and basking in the steady drag of his tongue or allowing yourself to grind and chase after his mouth; greedy, wanton. 

The point of his nose catches on your clit, the rounded shape of it pressing onto it just as he effortlessly finds that spot inside of you - the same one that Colin always struggles to reach, probing at you with inept, impatient fingers. He doesn't struggle at all though, and the dual points of pleasure make you melt, thighs twitching while you roll yourself onto the rhythm of his tongue. 

It's messy. The combination of his saliva and your arousal is wet on your flesh, besmearing down the swell of your ass. You can hear it when his tongue splits you open, rebounding softly across the close walls of the kitchen in a lewd melody. The damp smack of his lips moves up to draw around your clit; a coarse, sloppy noise induced by the steady pulse of his tongue. Electricity skirts down your nerves and ignites inside the foundation of your spine, ravaging you with heat - lightning striking the earth in a thunderstorm. 

You can count on a single hand the number of times your husband has had you like this, an event arising only in a blue moon when you managed the confidence to request it; treating your pleasure with a detach responsibility. There was never any effort put into the curl of his fingers or the glide of his tongue. He approaches it with about as much enthusiasm as a chore, as though it's an obligation that he was unable to escape. 

Always clumsy, incurious. It never failed to make you guilty, weighing down your shoulders with an adamant shame, wracking you with humiliation and remorse, until you simply stopped asking it of him. It's what a good wife would do, after all. 

This though is shared ecstasy. There's no air of burden or indifference surrounding the man currently kneeling at your feet. He does so with passion you've never been subjected to, enthusiastic in a carnal way. Burying his face deeper as though he intends to suffocate himself with you. 

Though you wonder if a creature such as him bothers with an earthly requirement like breathing. 

You should be repulsed with yourself. This entire encounter, as unnatural as it is, goes against everything you've been taught as a self-respecting woman. Your wedding band is still on your finger, chilled and heavy despite the humidity and the balmy temperature of your skin. Another man is gripping onto your hips with claws, mouth on your cunt while he fucks you with his tongue, jagged teeth lightly grazing over tender flesh making your knees shake. 

It's obscene in every sense of the word. There's a high chance you're going to hell. You can practically feel the flames already, licking up your back, burning within your gut like a furnace. And yet you don't care. 

He's seen your thoughts, relived your memories like they were his own, slipped inside of your limbs and felt the scale and variety of your emotions. It's sickening how he's witnessed you in your most vulnerable stages of life, seen the worst of you from the reflections of your blood. There's nothing left to hide, no barrier to protect yourself under. 

It shouldn't excite you, it's horrid, invasive . . .  intimate. But there's something thrilling about a person observing the worst facets of you, the insecurities and the sins, the parts you've tried your best to repress and remaining unaffected, unbothered.

(Probably because he's so much worse.) 

Perhaps it's the blood loss giving you lightheaded delusions, darkening around your vision in a hazy vignette, or the venom infiltrating your body and soul, but you think that you can feel him too now. Twisting and invading through the map of your brain, singing in your blood to spread with the lethality of a disease, embedding down into the center of your bones where its deep and rich with life and marrow. He's in your soul too, he has to be with how something in you cries out, equally in spiritual terror and hedonistic elation. 

A wind that isn't real caresses over you, full of the scent of dew and fruitful earth, damp soil, the distant salt of far-off tumultuous water - waves, cresting and rushing. It's a land you don't recognize, but you know it now. Know it better than you know yourself, even as you see the impressions of it through another's eyes. 

Sights and sounds cocoon around you, vivid, vociferous, phantom touches of experiences you haven't personally endured pour across your body, a surge of mirages - of memories not belonging to you, expanding, stretching out years beyond your comprehension. A lucid, dramatic mosaic. You can taste his years on your tongue, like an aged wine, ancient, enduring. 

Whispers crowd your skull, fluttering about you, ceaseless, persistent, uttering a tongue unheard of to your ears. A throaty, rhythmic cadence; circling and persistent echoes that layer and overlap upon each other. Ghosts caught in different shades of emotions, some humming gentle tunes, some raising in blood curling shrieks, agony, terror; faint curls of laughter rising and falling in their mirth. You smell smoke, taste ash on your tongue, feel a terror and heartache that guts you down the middle. 

Something shifts above the rest, the silver flash of a fish gliding beneath the ripples and dapples of a stream, elusive and quick. Darting away before it can be caught. Scales slipping through an unsteady palm. You try to concentrate on it, try to pull it forward into something tangible but the pleasure distracts you, swelling and subsiding, a constant cycle of and bliss, repeating over and over again, unraveling you at the seams. 

He doesn't stop, doesn't give you time to breathe and process the sensations of it all. He's eating you alive, in each and every sense of the meaning. Taking you in, slipping little pieces of you inside of him, tunneling himself within you in turn, nesting, bridging you together until it all starts to become a little clearer. 

That one word becomes more distinct, shadows slipping back with the illumination of a midnight sun, silver scales brightening in the dark: stars crystalizing to spell names, uncovering false identities; faces he's claimed, lives he's taken, names he's stolen. Whispering them over and over, but one rises above the others, persistent among the mob, demanding, longing to be know. Chanting in the command to be spoken.  

It's right there, dangling on the edge of your consciousness, just out of bounds, suspended there as though to tease. A glimmer of gold peeking through mud and red earth, smudged in centuries, tantalizing. Each letter reverberates through your bones, lighting sparks along your nerves, the memories held with it cauterize, leaving a mark on your spirit that can't be seen with the naked eye. 

Longing undulates, the impact of a cold stone breaking water, an emotion so raw you nearly mistake it for your own, but it's far too ancient. A wound that spans years long before your making, still bleeding, gouged and picked clean, torn wide. A carcass hollowed out of all that it's made of, yearning to be filled, to have the appeasement of warmth and touch. But it's grown teeth, become violent, feral. A hatred, a starvation that's rabid, frothing at the mouth to infect. To tear when the prey isn't willing, forcing the resistant into compliance. 

Forcing just as violent hands willed it into acceptance. A hypocrisy. 

You nearly sob from the brunt of it, crushed under the agony of it, the devastation, the horror. The logic within you - the part of your being that seems to be dying off with the rest of you - attempts to swim and find the surface of reason, but the light never comes. 

His tongue glides over you, the point of it swirling around the shape of your clit in a succession of enticing circles before alternating into steady flicks that turn your thoughts and will into vapor. Dissolving, salt in murky water. His palms smooth down your hips, talons tracing down your flesh like he's tempted to leave marks; the sting blazes down your flesh from the fine points of them, and a twisted sort of pleasure scatters beneath their razor-sharp tips. 

He counters the subtle pain, dropping his mouth open to pulse the muted chill of his mouth around your clit, dousing you in bliss from head to toe. He gets greedy, apparently not close enough despite being shoved face first against your cunt. He grips your thighs, lifting them to hinge your knees over his shoulders, using the angle to shove you closer with a harsh jerk that almost has you slipping out of the chair entirely. 

Your hands fly up on instinct, raising to steady yourself and they find the crown of his head in your blind reach for an anchor, fingers threading through the sweat-damp tresses of his hair in a steel grip. Your injured palm screams from the pain of it, the pressure searing up the wound, but you can't manage to rip your palms from him, and he groans in the response to the tight clasp you have on his scalp. But it's from pleasure, not pain. 

You can feel yourself dying, fading around the edges, energy draining from you in a steady flow. You think your heart is straining inside your chest, pumping in vain on the meager flow that still supplies your system; the pathetic scraps that he didn't drink from you. 

You should tear him away from you, toss him to the floor and demand that he leaves, but you know that that opportunity has come and gone, snuffed out as a flame on a wick, a hot coal dulled to charcoal. You're already dead, you know that now, and when you wake up again, either minutes or hours from now, you wonder what kind of monster you'll make. 

A ruined, damned imitation of your current self. Unfortunately, you've always been tricked by pretty things, by decorated promises and rosewater words. You've cursed yourself once again, once with a ring and vows, and a second time with blood and teeth. 

Your fingers flex in his hair, split with the opposite desires to pull him away and bring him closer. You're between the rift of it, drawn in a limbo while your body squirms beneath his mouth, seeking out a bliss and reprieve from the onslaught of his tongue, but he's relentless. He doesn't let up, doesn't allow you a second to breathe or think, to gather a thought and center yourself. 

It's ceaseless, almost brutal in its ecstasy, tracing over you with a fervor and practice that you've never been pinned under. He's steadfast and calculated in his determination to bring you over that tantalizing edge. You're almost afraid for it to be over, horrified of losing the bliss that pulses over you, as molten as liquid fire. But more potent than anything is the fear of what comes after this ends, the promise of eternity looming over you with disturbing consequences. 

You think you've always longed for death. Yearned for the finality, the release, the embrace of it. And now that it's come to collect, smelt your desire on the air like a scent, infected your bloodstream with its venom, regret wells up inside of you. But it's come too late, you can't escape now - if you ever could. You've made your bed, and now you have to lie in it. 

"Remmick." 

It leaves your lips, thoughtless, odd, tasting ancient. Strained on a thin whisper, a beg for mercy or a request for more, you can't tell anymore. 

He answers you with another groan, not bothering to remove himself from as makes his next plea, purred out between licks on a throaty sigh. His eyes flicker up to look at you from his place between your thighs, two small flames flickering in the dark, drawing you in. "My name sounds pretty comin' from you, darlin'. Say it again for me." 

He seems determined to stir it from you, not waiting for you gather the breath to speak it yourself, he seeks to draw it out of you himself. His hands slip up, roaming over your body in a rapacious sweep, not stopping until he finds the shape of your breasts beneath the material of your dress. He doesn't waste a second to grope and feel, massaging his fingers over the fat. Your spine arches to meet his palms, seeking out more, pressing into the weight of his hands for more. 

You don't entirely register the shrill sound of fabric tearing, a thin hiss across the thick atmosphere. But then you feel it, the tepid skim of air drifting across your chest, pressing down upon your skin in a soft caress. 

You have to force your head to roll on your neck, the weight of it beginning to become too much, exhaustion creeping up on you makes your neck feel as though it's as weak and loose as a string. Your chin tucks against your chest, nudging close to your clavicle while you watch him - Remmick, your brain laggardly recalls - fondle and pluck at your now bare breasts. 

He's torn your dress, split the material right down the middle with his claws as though it was made of paper. An admonishment is right there, scathing and ready to be said, but it gets choked behind a moan. You can feel him grinning, the impression of his smile on your skin, the flash of his teeth grazing over your cunt. His hands are everywhere now, your breasts, tracing your ribs, smoothing over your hips and thighs, clinging over you as though he's memorizing your body, desperate to touch each and every part of you. 

He's inside of you in a way that no other could be, stained across your soul, minds merged together in an inseparable link. You can feel him too, the inside of him. As though you're sitting within his body. It's distant, fuzzy, but the press of the floor against his knees is on your own, textured and hard; you can feel the smooth plains of your body beneath his palms as though his hands are yours, stroking across yourself all while your fingers remain rooted within his hair. 

It's out of body, unnatural, but the doubled sensations is damning. You can feel his pleasure, the taste of yourself on his tongue, earthy and rich, the salt of your skin, subtly sweet in an aftertaste of powdered sugar. It creates an endless loop, an echo that's rapturous. You know that he's hard inside of his drawers, aching and throbbing, pressed up tight against the seam, getting off on your pleasure like it's his own. 

It makes it impossible to escape, overwhelming in the most delightful, terrible way possible. Your breaths come out quick, shuddering from your lungs in a steady rhythm of heavy panting, pitching and keening in the air. He's got you right on the edge, a burning wick, heat sparking and thrumming, smoldering into something dangerous and debilitating. 

You can't keep yourself from chasing after it, hips rolling, grinding yourself across his face and he seems all too eager to let you use him for it. His lashes are fluttering like he's actively resisting the urge to let them slip close, all so that he can watch you hurtle closer to your pleasure. 

It isn't now that you've noticed that you've been chanting his name, repeating it with the fervency of a newly learned prayer. His expression is smug, eyes shifting in the dark, a reflection of contentment and ego. 

You've never heard of a man getting off on someone else's pleasure, feeding from it so explicitly. Not like this. It's like he lives for it, hanging on the twitch of your thighs, the rise and fall of your breasts, the wet smear of your arousal glistening on his lips. And he has you right there, balancing on the precipice. All you need is a small nudge, a light push into the chasm below. 

All you can feel now is him, all you can hear is the both of you, the thrum of his pleased groans humming across your cunt, the messy, lewd sounds slipping from where you both meet; his tongue splitting you open, languid and hungry. His nose nuzzles over you, brushing along the apex of your thigh when he tilts his head to gently draw one of your lips between his teeth, sucking lazily to savor all of you. 

It's the first teasing thing he's done, parting from where you directly need him the most to skim his mouth over you, tracing it along the tender skin of your inner thighs. He nips and sucks where he goes, but he soothes the stinging just as quickly, dragging his tongue over the smarting to ease it with the chilled temperature of his spit. 

"Remmick." It's something akin to a reprimanding hiss and a needy whine. 

You hate how familiar that sensation is. The feeling of having the rug pulled out from beneath your feet, the promise of bliss being snatched out from your hands before you could bask in the brunt of it. You've been here a million times, worked up to ecstasy, tasted it on your tongue only to have it extinguished, lost on talentless fingers - by a husband that doesn't even know how to use his cock properly. Not for you, at least.  

You could sob or curse from the frustration of it. Your fingers flex with the temptation to shove him back right where you want him, but he hushes you again, head shaking just the slightest, holding your vexed stare with his pleased one while he leans down, placing a kiss just above your clit. His hands travel down as a pair, one on either side of you, drifting down to cradle the swell of your ass, holding you in place while he slips his thumbs along your cunt. 

You can't help the way you twist on the seat, instinct and worry spiking in you from the proximity of his talons held so close to the most intimate part of you. He silences your concern with a coo before you can even voice them, that patronizing sound that unfortunately works on you. Your muscles go lax, turning malleable as he spreads you open further with his thumbs, splaying you open in a pornographic display. 

You feel the old bruises there too. Still fading, reminders of Colin's last punishment, only just beginning to fade. It makes you nervous, disgust and hesitation bubbling in your gut, but Remmick doesn't allow you to ruminate on it. That new, strange connection between you hums, coming alive with a delicate caress, and that sliver of trepidation vanishes as though it had never existed at all.

"I got you," he murmurs gently. 

You can feel Remmick's devotion and lust trickle through you as if it were your own, burning and lecherous, gentle and worshipful, smoldering inside of your bones - in his. It's beautiful. It's horrible. 

"Don't worry. If I tease you, it's on purpose." At first you assume it's just arrogance, a man's confidence, but your dying mind gradually connects the dots. The realization that he's seen your memories - lived through them - catches up to you, and you see the comment for what it is. A subtle dig at your husband. A crass insult aimed at Colin's struggles with bringing you to orgasm. 

"You ain't gotta worry about your pleasure with me baby." 

That's all he says - his reassurance - before he starts right back where he left off, mouth fastening over your cunt, tongue licking over you in a persistent pattern that has stars and galaxies diffusing and streaking across your vision. It's as though he's never stopped. You're right back at the point that he had you off in, already burning, body on fire as though you've been doused in syrupy warmth, honey left to heat on a stove. 

He seems to double his efforts, going at it like he has a point to prove, and you're already splitting at the seams. You're wanton, coming undone, nerves lighting up to set you on fire. Pressure builds in your gut and your muscles drawn up tight, body winding up in anticipation while bliss and sugar washes over your palate. It's a euphoria that going to be crippling, winding back a loop, constantly recycled between the connection that's still tethering and strengthening between you and Remmick. 

You can feel him, and he can feel you, and it's overwhelming. An entire ocean dumped upon your head, a current pulling you under to pour inside of your lungs, suffocating you. Choking you on until you taste it. 

Suddenly it's on you. Too quick for you to anticipate. Cresting, churning, building, lightning beneath your skin. 

"Remmick -" You try to warn him, a plead for him not to stop, for him not to ruin the high blazing over you, but all you manage is a pathetic moan, forced out on a gasp. 

He must understand you, must feel your need, hear your thoughts in his head, because he doesn't change his pace, doesn't alter the lap of his tongue or the brush of his lips. He keeps it steady, persistent in the cadence he's built. He guides you through it, holding onto you with his hands beneath your ass, keeping you secure to his mouth, chasing after the desperate roll of your hips as you cling to and seek out the rapture of it all. 

The brunt of it rips through you, tears you open from the inside out. Guts you with pleasure until it's all that remains inside, molten, simmering, consuming you with ecstasy that blurs across your vision and blinds you; darkness and constellations rupturing in a kaleidoscope. 

The only thing to guide you through it is the press of his head beneath your hands, the grip of your fingers on his hair, clinging on to the damp tresses as though the hold might save you; the sound of his panting rising up alongside yours is just as wrecked, just as wild. All of it rings across that strange bond connected between you, singing and echoing between your minds or souls, or both, you aren't sure, but it feels infinite. Webbing, uniting, fusing, over and over and over until it seems eternal. 

He hasn't stopped, you realize. Hasn't let up, hasn't allowed the pleasure to crest over you and ebb. It as though he's determined to remain this way forever, keeping you beneath his mouth, tormented and loved by it. 

You didn't realize that your eyes had closed until you're willing them open. A simple action that takes more effort than it should, but the blood loss and the venom is doing its work, and the warmth soaking in your limbs, settled in by the blaze of your orgasm has all but sapped you of the fumes of energy you had left. Renders you all but limp and useless, unable to do anything else but watch as Remmick continues to subject you to more, gliding his tongue over you, grinding his nose on your clit. 

He looks just as blissed out as you must, eyes glazed over and drunk, hair mussed from your hands. Far too intoxicated for a man who's only been eating you out. But then you notice it, the frantic but subtle jerk of his hips, grinding into a friction that isn't there, riding out a pleasure that he shouldn't feel. It dawns on you suddenly, the severity of the connection between the two of you. 

He must have felt when you had cum. Felt it as his own, scalding and vicious beneath his skin, and his own body had reached its peak that same moment yours did. And now he's greedy, desperate like a mutt. An animal that's been spoiled, fed a proper meal and now it's ravenous. Insatiable and starved. 

He doesn't stop. He keeps his hands on you, secures you underneath his mouth and doesn't cease or pause in feasting. He must realize you're watching, feel you staring down at him through the bond maybe, because his lashes flutter open, vision lazily flickering up to take you in as you stare at him in shock. 

"Can't blame a man for gettin' off when you taste so good." He answers, voice slurred and smoky, drugged on you. "You're just too sweet." 

Everything fringes on too much, but he keeps going, pushing you to your limits. You're left to endure all of the sensations, sight, sound, the feel of him on you, inside of you. It seems impossible to recall how many times he built you back up that debilitating elation, hellfire and indulgence. Bringing the both of you to orgasm over and over again - twice more, three times, four - you aren't certain. 

They all merge into the other, pouring and intersecting, crisscrossing into an infinite torture, consumed constantly, expanding into something that the earthly flesh isn't meant to experience. 

You only know when it finally stops. A reprieve. A gasp for air after being held underwater. The kisses he peppers across your thighs bring you back to reality, escorting you down into your body, slipping you within the place of your weary bones and sweat-slick skin. Your chest heaves, lungs making an effort to cling onto oxygen, thighs quivering with the exhaustion of someone who's ran miles. 

You can feel it, really feel it now, the influence of death slipping over you, a chill on your skin that prevails in the sticky heat clinging to the air. It isn't far off in its lurking anymore, it's imminent. A hitch in your breath, a delay in your lungs. The terror that awakens within you is a primal thing, frenzied, a determination to live, unfortunately that resolve sits host inside a body that's half dead. One foot already out the door, standing on the other side. 

You could sob, cry out from the hopelessness of it, but you can't manage a sound. Not with how weak you've grown, heart overexerted, growing lethargic inside of your chest with only pitiful drops of blood left to pump. You've been bled out, and the one responsible for the bleeding caresses you like you're breakable. 

"Don't fight it now," he soothes or warns. Still knelt between your legs. He cups them both, removing them from their places balanced on his shoulders, settling them down until the soles of your feet settle back on the floor. Moving you tenderly, like one would something cherished. His eyes glitter still, red hued, stunning and hideous in the dark. "You're gonna feel so much better when you wake up. It's all gonna be so much better, you'll see. For all of us." 

He grins up at you, still kneeling, but there isn't an ounce of control in your grasp. The bond you have already sings, twines across your psyche, joins you to him, but you know that it's yet to take full effect. You aren't dead yet, and once you are there will be no escape for you then. You'll be a part of him fully, as attached as any other limb, a unit in separate bodies; sewn to him by fragments of your spirit, threads from your blood. 

Death is inevitable in two ways now: death of the body and of your soul. A wish you've always made, sent out to the universe and now it's answered the call. Delivered a creature to your doorstep and now he waits at your feet, carefully fixing your skirt back down around your knees, as considerate as any lover should be, but his eyes show the truth. A truth that you had been too stupid to see. 

When you slip off into the threads of death, as welcoming and soft as a blanket, you drift off with a life that doesn't belong to you playing across your vision. Facsimiles of a land and a time you've never witnessed before. Faces, voices, horrors and cruelties; old memories, unwelcome and unfamiliar, take root as though they're yours, clicking into place right alongside images of your own life like they'd always existed there. 

A cuckoo's egg in a blue jay's nest. 

And it's with your heartbeat dying in your ears, inspiring a final flicker of consciousness, a weak death rattle of the mind that you think of regret. The regret of opening the door when that knock had sounded from the other side. 

You see his eyes burning in front of you through the film tainting your vision, the same color of the blood on his lips - your blood - perched at your feet, as loyal as a guardian angel; a scavenger waiting for a weakened animal to finally collapse beneath its own weight so that it can feast on the remains. 

It all begins to vignette, shadows elongating, crowding around you, desperate for flesh. 

Those eyes are the final thing you see. Burning, horrid coins, unwavering in their observation of your trip to the other side. Pretty, otherworldly, grotesque. 

You never should have answered the door. 

[marscardigan]

red wine supernova

neighbor!ellie williams x reader

neighbor!ellie universe

summary: celebrating your birthday for the first time without your family was hard, but ellie was there to make your special day better.

word count: 4.8k

YOU HEARD the clunk first.

Then came the gurgle. The kind of unsettling gurgle that said hey, I’m broken and probably leaking. You stared at your kitchen sink. The faucet was dripping slowly, then rapidly, and then suddenly it made a soft hissing pop and began a very non-cute stream from underneath the counter. You were already freaking out when you texted Ellie. 'help. the sink just made a sound like a dying animal D:'

Less than five minutes later, you heard a knock on your door, and there she was—smug little smirk, toolbox in hand. "Your handy girlfriend has arrived," Ellie announced, stepping inside dramatically. "I heard there’s a damsel in distress."

You squinted at her. "You’re holding your hammer upside down."

She paused. Glanced at it. "That’s... just how I carry it. For style."

"You sure you know what you’re doing?"

Ellie strutted past you like she owned the place, setting her toolbox on your counter and crouching to inspect under the sink. "I fixed Jesse’s garbage disposal once. Plus I watched, like, a lot of plumbing videos after the shower head incident at my place."

You narrowed your eyes. "The incident where you broke it off the wall and flooded your whole bathroom?"

Ellie’s head popped out from beneath the counter. "Okay, rude. That was sabotage. Gravity was involved."

You sat on the floor beside her, watching her try to identify which pipe did what with the confidence of someone who had no idea but didn’t want to admit it.

"Need a hand, baby?" you asked.

"No, no. I got it. I just.. I’m just surveying. For strategy, you know?"

Unbeknownst to you, Ellie pulled her phone from her back pocket while pretending to stretch and started texting someone. 

"No way," you peeked over her shoulder. "Are you texting Joel?"

Ellie froze. "No?"

You blinked. "Why are you lying?"

She groaned. "Okay, yes. But listen. I’m still doing the work. Joel is just... coaching. Spiritually."

You smirked. "Aren’t you supposed to be handy? You know, being a lesbian and all?"

Ellie sat up so fast she hit her head on the bottom of the sink, cursed, then pointed an accusing wrench at you. "Wow. I could say the same, ma’am."

You blinked, but a small smile appeared on your lips. "Touché."

She rubbed the back of her head, then sat beside you on the floor with an exaggerated sigh. "Okay. Real talk? I don’t actually know what the fuck I’m doing. I just wanted to impress you."

"You don’t need to impress me, El. You already do."

She gave you a sheepish little half-smile, bumping her shoulder against yours. "Even if I can’t fix your sink?"

"Especially because you tried to anyway."

You leaned your head on her shoulder, both of you sitting on the floor beside the broken sink, surrounded by scattered tools. Ellie let her head tilt onto yours, and for a moment the silence felt warm, easy. Comfortable.

Then the faucet hissed again. And it made you both jump.

"Okay," Ellie muttered. "Maybe we should call a real plumber before your kitchen becomes a swimming pool."

You didn’t expect Joel to show up with that much swagger. The moment you opened the door for him, he was already smirking like he had three dad-jokes lined up and a plumber's ego the size of Texas.

"Where’s the patient?" he asked, stepping into your apartment.

Ellie, who had been sulking on your couch with her arms crossed, shot you a betrayed look the second she heard his voice. "You called him?"

"You were texting him already," you pointed out, holding back a laugh. "I just… escalated."

Joel chuckled and patted Ellie’s shoulder on his way to the kitchen. "Don’t worry, kiddo. Some people are meant to fix sinks. Some are meant to break ‘em."

"It was already broken!"

You leaned on the counter and watched as Joel got to work. He made a few small grunting sounds, twisted a couple of things, mumbled to himself, and five minutes later, your sink no longer sounded like a dying animal.

You blinked. "Wait. That’s it?"

Joel stood up and dusted his hands off. "Yeah. It was just a loose coupling and a misaligned gasket. Easy fix."

Ellie was standing with her arms crossed now, jaw tight. "Cool. Thanks for making me look useless in front of my girlfriend."

Joel grinned, but didn’t bother to say anything. He just turned to grab his thermos. "So. You two are still comin’ over next weekend?"

You frowned a little, confused. "Wait… next weekend?"

"Yeah, before your birthday, right?" Joel said, totally casual.

You blinked. "How do you know it’s my birthday?"

He smirked as he took a sip of the coffee you made for him. "Ellie hasn’t shut up about it for two weeks."

You looked over just in time to see Ellie’s soul exit her body. "I—what—okay." She stood up straighter, backing toward the door like she was about to physically eject Joel from the apartment. "Thank you so much for the sink, Joel. Appreciate it. Really. You can leave now. Door’s right here. Bye!"

Joel laughed, deeply amused. "Just sayin’. That girl has been stressin’ about gettin’ you the right gift. Keeps mutterin’ 'what if it’s too much?' and 'what if she doesn’t like sur—'"

"BYE, JOEL!"

You were full-on cackling now, covering your mouth as Ellie turned cherry red and started shoving Joel gently toward the door. "Hey, hey!" Joel laughed, holding his hands up. "No need to assault me for being observant."

"Out." Ellie insisted, dragging him by the sleeve.

Joel turned to you, still laughing. "You’re comin’ next week, though, right?"

You nodded, smiling warmly. "Yeah. Wouldn’t dare to miss it."

"Good." He winked at Ellie, who was as red as her flannel.

Once the door shut, she turned around, arms stiff at her sides, eyes wide like she’d just been hit by a truck. You tried not to laugh. You really did. But her face was so red.

"Couldn’t shut up, huh?"

Ellie groaned and pressed her forehead into your shoulder. "I hate him."

You wrapped your arms around her and smiled against her temple. "I don’t. He’s kind of my favorite person right now."

She peeked up at you with a pout. "I thought I was your favorite."

You grinned. "Well, you were. Until Joel complimented my kitchen."

Ellie narrowed her eyes. But you leaned in and kissed her quickly, soft and sweet. "I love you, dork."

Her face softened instantly. "Yeah," she murmured. "Love you too."

Then she sniffed. "… How did he fix that in five minutes?! I was literally googling what a gasket even is."

You laughed again, pulling her close. "It’s okay, plumber girl. Your efforts were adorable."

She groaned into your shoulder. "I’m gonna hear about this forever."

"You are," you teased. "Forever. Just like Joel said."

She looked up again, defeated but grinning. "Okay. Now I hate you too."

THE TV flickered softly across the dim living room. Ellie lounged at the end of the couch, socked feet kicked up on the coffee table. Her hair was a mess, and her oversized t-shirt hung off one shoulder, exposing the faint lines of freckles dancing around her pale skin.

The movie she’d put on was halfway through, and Ellie was narrating more than watching.

"Okay, okay, look— this part? Where Luke flips off the skiff? He actually did that himself, no stunt double. Mark Hamill, certified badass." She leaned toward you, finger pointing at the screen like you might miss it. "Also? Carrie Fisher hated that metal bikini. Like, despised it. Rightfully so."

You smiled faintly, eyes on the screen, but not really seeing it.

Ellie didn't notice at first, she was too busy giving you random trivia in her soft, nerdy ramble that always made you melt a little. But somewhere between the speeder bike chase and the Ewok celebration, Ellie finally glanced over. And paused mid-sentence.

You were curled up at the opposite end of the couch, knees tucked under your chin, blanket tight around your shoulders. Your eyes were dull, unfocused. Your expression that polite, empty kind of neutral you wore when you didn’t want anyone to ask you what was wrong. It was a dead giveaway.

Ellie immediately hit pause. The screen froze on a blurry Ewok mid-jump, mouth open like it had caught the tension in the room too.

You blinked slowly. "Hey, I was watching that."

She didn’t answer. Just turned toward you, her brows gently furrowed. "Okay, spill."

"What?"

"Don’t 'what' me," she said, voice soft but certain. "You’re quiet. That weird, echo-y kind of quiet."

You hesitated, fingers twitching with the blanket fabric. "It’s nothing. I’m just tired."

Ellie tilted her head, unconvinced. "You’re a terrible liar."

There was a long pause. The kind that buzzed in your ears. And finally, you sighed. "It’s just... weird. Thinking about celebrating my birthday without my family, I guess."

Ellie didn’t say anything for a second, and you hated how suddenly vulnerable you felt. You hadn’t cried or anything, hadn’t even planned to bring it up. But there it was, sitting thick in your throat like a rock. 

"My parents usually drove," you added after a second, eyes fixed on the paused screen. "Even if it was just for dinner. They’d bring cake and balloons, even when I told them not to. It was… dumb. But it felt good."

Ellie scooted closer, shifting the blanket without asking and tugging half of it over her own lap. Her hand found yours under the fleece, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

"I’m sorry," she said, voice barely above a whisper. You blinked fast, trying not to let it show how much that small gesture hit you. "But hey," she added, her lips twitching into a little smile. "I’m not, like, blood-related… but I am contractually obligated to be your emotional support."

You laughed softly, pressing your face into her shoulder.

Ellie pulled you close, kissing the side of your head. "We don’t have to do anything big if you don’t want to."

"I don’t know. It’s just… gonna feel different."

"Yeah," she murmured, letting her chin rest against your hair. "Different doesn’t have to mean bad, though."

"I know."

The two of you sat like that for a while — quiet, bundled in shared warmth, the paused Ewok still mid-celebration on the screen.

Then Ellie whispered, "I, uh… may or may not have something up my sleeve for your birthday."

You lifted your head, smiling faintly. "El…"

"No, no — I’m not telling you anything. This face?" She pointed at her own. "Vault. Steel trap."

You gave her a knowing look. "You’re literally the worst at keeping secrets."

"Hey! I kept the Christmas sweater surprise and the concert tickets last month."

"You told me about the concert while you were trying to buy the tickets."

"Anyway," she said, leaning back dramatically. "This one? You’ll never see it coming."

You let yourself sink back into her side, fingers brushing hers again, more at peace than you’d felt all day.

THE CAR was warm from the sun, windows cracked just enough to let the breeze in, and Ellie’s hand was resting on your thigh in that casual, grounding way that always made your chest flutter.

"You sure we have everything?" she asked, as if the road trip didn’t last twenty minutes.

You held up the tote bag you packed. "I got snacks, water, charger, and gum. I am the ideal road trip companion."

Ellie smirked. "Passenger princess, you mean."

You gasped, pretending to be scandalized. "That’s so rude. I am a navigation expert and playlist curator."

"Yeah?" she glanced at you, amused. "Then how come you opened Google Maps like five minutes ago and already told me to turn down a one-way?"

"That was a test. And you passed."

She snorted. "Sure."

You leaned back into the seat, sunglasses perched on your nose, your legs curled up slightly in the seat like you always did. "Okay, okay, serious now. What playlist do you want?"

Ellie raised an eyebrow. "Do you remember the one we did together?" You grinned, nodding. "Play that one."

You queued it up, and within seconds, the car was filled with music. Ellie hummed along under her breath, her fingers tapping the beat against your leg. You watched her drive for a minute — the way her jaw flexed when she focused, the small scar on her temple, the fact that she had her sleeves pushed up and one tattooed forearm resting lazily on the wheel. 

"What?" she asked, catching you staring.

"Nothing," you smiled. "You’re so pretty."

Her face pinked immediately. "Don’t distract me. You want us to crash before we even arrive?"

"I mean… if we crash into a field and get to live off the grid together, I’m not complaining."

Joel’s house at just outside a little forest area, one of those modest country homes with a porch swing and too many bird feeders. It wasn’t far from your apartment complex, but it felt different anyway. When you pulled into the driveway, Joel was already waiting on the porch with two beers and what looked like a glass of lemonade in his hand. You hopped out of the car before Ellie had even turned off the engine, practically bouncing on your feet.

"She’s excited," Ellie muttered, grabbing the bag from the backseat.

"I heard that!"

Joel stood up as you approached, already holding out the lemonade. "Told you she’d be happy to get outta the city."

"I’m always happy when there’s cake," you grinned, accepting the glass. "Hi, Joel."

"Happy early birthday, kiddo." He gave you a side hug and then clapped Ellie on the back. "You two hungry?"

"Always," you and Ellie said in unison.

Inside, Joel had really gone for it: steak, potatoes, cornbread, and now the three of you were settled on his large couch. You were sitting between them, Ellie with her arm casually draped along the back of the couch behind you, her fingers occasionally brushing your hair. Joel had turned on the Western on the old TV. 

Halfway through, Joel paused the movie. "Alright. Gimme a second."

You sat up slightly. "Wait, is it… is it cake time?"

"Patience," he grumbled, disappearing into the hallway.

Ellie gave you a look. "Gift time."

"What?"

Before you could say something else, Joel returned with a small box, wrapped in old newspaper and tied up with a small bow. He held it out to you, slightly awkward. "Here. It’s not much, but… I made it myself."

You blinked and took the box gently, heart already swelling before you’d even untied the bow. Ellie nudged your knee with hers, giving you a soft smile. Inside the box was a hand-carved wooden jewelry tray. The edges were smoothed out and rounded, the inside etched delicately with little stars and crescent moons. The craftsmanship wasn’t perfect, but it was personal. It was special. 

Joel scratched the back of his neck. "Thought maybe it’d look nice on your nightstand. Ellie said you keep losin’ your earrings."

"I don’t lose them—" you started, shooting Ellie a look.

"—She definitely loses them," Ellie confirmed.

You blinked hard, trying not to spill any tear. And then looked up at Joel. "This is… this is beautiful. Seriously."

He looked relieved. "Glad you think so."

You leaned over and gave him a hug without even thinking about it, arms around his middle, head resting on his shoulder. Joel went a little stiff, then sighed and patted your back. "You’re welcome, kid."

He looked over at Ellie, who gave him a thumbs up, smiling so hard it hurt. 

YOU WERE asleep. Deeply asleep.

Tucked into Ellie’s sheets, her warmth curled around you like a blanket of its own — one arm slung lazily over your waist, her breath slow and even against the back of your neck. The world was quiet, the apartment dark and still, save for the faintest hum of the city outside the window and the soft noise of a fan nearby.

"Baaaabe…"

You groaned. A soft kiss landed on your shoulder. Then another. Then one against your cheek. Then your jaw. Your temple. Your eyelid, which made you twitch.

"Babyyyyyy," Ellie singsonged, barely above a whisper but somehow managing to drag the vowels into your dreams like a little menace.

Your eyes fluttered open vaguely. "Ellie…" Your voice was thick with sleep. "Is the building on fire?"

"No," she grinned.

"Did the cat learn to talk?"

"We don’t have a cat."

"Exactly," you mumbled, rolling over toward her, face still half-smashed into the pillow. "Then why…"

Ellie’s face was inches from yours, eyes wide and shining in the dark like an excited kid. "It’s midnight," she said simply.

You blinked at her. "... And?"

"It’s your birthday, dummy."

You blinked again. Then, despite the groggy haze in your brain, you felt something warm pull at your chest. Ellie was grinning like she couldn’t contain it— her fingers gently sweeping a lock of hair from your forehead, her knee nudging yours under the covers.

"You woke me up… to say happy birthday?"

"Of course I did," she whispered, leaning down to brush her nose against yours. "I get to be the first one to say it."

Your heart did a little flip. Even in the dark, you could see the softness on her face. She tucked her face into your neck and kissed you there, just below your ear.

"Happy birthday, baby," she whispered. "I love you so much."

Your breath caught. Even half-asleep, that still made your stomach flutter. You let out a laugh, barely a puff of air. "Oh my god. You’re so annoying."

"Yup." She pressed another kiss to your cheek. "But, hey, birthday rules. I get to be as clingy and chaotic as I want."

"You're always clingy."

"Exactly. So today I will be even worse." She poked your side gently, drawing out a muffled yelp. "How does it feel? Being the prettiest, coolest, most perfect birthday girl in the world?"

You buried your face in her chest, hiding your grin. "Feels like I’m gonna fall back asleep any second."

Ellie laughed and pulled you tighter against her. "That’s fine. I just wanted to be the first. Didn’t even need fireworks or cake. Just… this." Her voice was quieter now, more serious under the softness. "Just you here. With me."

You closed your eyes, heart heavy in the best way. "Thanks for waking me up," you whispered.

Ellie kissed your forehead. "Anytime, birthday girl."

You were already halfway asleep again when she pulled the blanket tighter over you both, her fingers stroking slow, lazy circles against your hip. But then you felt her smile against your skin. And you fell asleep smiling too.

WHEN the sun came up, you started to notice something was with Ellie. She started to... over-explain things. Like when she insisted you really didn’t need to come with her to the store that morning.

"I just gotta pick up a few things," she said, avoiding eye contact. "For… uh. Repairs."

"Repairs?"

"Yeah. You know, the boring stuff."

You stared at her. She fidgeted. "… Ellie."

"It will be so boring. Not worth your time, for sure." She added, pulling on her hoodie string so hard it almost slapped her cheek.

And when you tried to press further, she kissed your forehead and said, "You’re really cute, but no questions," then tripped over the welcome mat on her way out.

Despite the nerves and the obvious attempts at cover-up, there was something endearing in how hard she was trying. She wasn’t that bad at hiding it. Just… twitchy. And excitable. And grinning to herself when she thought you weren’t looking.

It was honestly kind of adorable.

By the time the afternoon arrived, she was barely keeping it together. She texted you five times from her place. The one that was down the hall. Terrible poker face, Williams.

When you opened the door that evening, Ellie was already outside waiting for you, pretending she hadn’t been nervously pacing the corridor for fifteen minutes. She offered her hand with a shy grin and said, "You look good. Like… criminally good."

You raised an eyebrow. "Criminal?"

"Yeah. Like, if hotness was illegal, I’d be a getaway driver."

You laughed despite yourself. She kissed your knuckles and walked with you down the hallway like she hadn’t spent all week having semi-anxious spirals in group chats with Dina and Jesse.

When she opened her apartment door, a rush of warm air, soft lighting, and music hit you first. Then came the voices.

"SURPRISE!!"

And there they were. Not just Ellie’s friends. Not just Dina and Jesse— who were already grinning ear to ear. But your people. A few from college. A couple from high school. A girl you used to sit with in freshman year creative writing. People you hadn’t seen in forever. Faces from every corner of your past life, standing under twinkling lights and hand-cut banners that spelled Happy Birthday! in mismatched lettering.

You turned to Ellie, stunned. She just smiled back, so damn proud of herself. 

The night unfolded in a blur of laughter, hugs and stories. You caught up with old friends, shared drinks with Jesse who was aggressively proud of Ellie’s 'romantic little brain,' and danced to terrible pop music that Ellie claimed to hate — but still danced with you to.

At one point, you noticed her standing near the back wall, just watching you with the most ridiculous, soft smile on her face.

"How you did this?" you asked, taking her hand. 

She shrugged, ears flushed pink. "You talk about people when you’re happy. I just… remembered the names. Asked around. Dina helped me with the Insta creeping."

Your heart swelled. And you leaned in to kissed her. 

As the party wound down, your friends, who were half-tipsy already, floated the idea of heading to a bar across town.

"You two are totally coming," one of your oldest friends said, tugging at your hand. "We haven’t seen you in years, you can’t just disappear now."

You turned to Ellie, who already had that mischief look plastered on her face.

"C’mon," she said, brushing your hair behind your ear. "I’ll buy the first round."

The bar was dim and neon-drenched, full of people and terrible music. Ellie stayed close to your side, one hand in the back pocket of your jeans, laughing at your stories, letting you steal sips from her drink. It was strange seeing your two worlds blur like this. Your past and your present. Your oldest friends watching the way Ellie looked at you, some of them smirking behind their glasses, others giving you subtle thumbs-up when Ellie leaned in to whisper something soft in your ear.

As the night stretched, the drinks became foggy. You weren’t much of a heavy drinker, not usually. But tonight was different. Your birthday, Ellie by your side, surrounded by old friends and new memories. The kind of warmth that went straight to your chest and, okay, maybe your head too.

Ellie had been keeping count. She wasn’t a buzzkill about it, just quietly attuned. Two cocktails, one shot someone handed you during a toast, and a half-glass of whatever suspicious pink stuff was handed to you by a giggling friend. That was your limit. But Ellie knew better than to tell you that. She just hovered nearby, patient as ever.

You stumbled into her at the edge of the dance floor, head heavy on her shoulder, arms winding around her waist. "You’re so pretty," you slurred, eyes sparkling. "Did you know? God, Ellie. You’re so stupidly hot. Like, offensively attractive."

Ellie laughed, catching you by the waist. "Okay, babe. That’s number four talking."

"Nuh-uh," you protested, poking her chest. "That’s just me. I love you."

You clung to her like a very drunk koala, and she steadied you with both hands on your hips, heart swelling even as she rolled her eyes affectionately. "You do love me, huh?" she said, brushing some of your hair out of your face.

You nodded emphatically. "Like. So much. It’s actually disgusting."

She grinned, soft and crooked, the way she always did when she was trying to mask how much your affection hit her. "Alright, babe," she said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Let’s get you some water."

You went willingly, still nuzzling into her side, giggling every time she called you a nickname. The bartender handed over a tall glass of ice water with a straw, and Ellie pressed it to your lips. "Sip. You’re gonna thank me later."

You sipped. And she grinned, whispering a soft ‘atta girl’ in your ear. 

"You’re so bossy," you mumbled, cheeks flushed.

"Yeah, and you like it."

"Love it, sure." you whispered, leaning up to kiss her cheek.

Ellie stilled for a second, watching you with that soft, unreadable expression she always got when she was feeling more than she could say. Then she smiled, tucked your hair behind your ear, and gave your forehead a gentle kiss.

"Alright, lover girl," she murmured. "We’re going home," Ellie said firmly, glancing at your friends with a nod.

You whined quietly. "I don’t wanna go yet."

"Yeah, I know. But your eyes say you’re five minutes away from sleeping standing up."

"I don’t want to go to my apartment, El. I wish we could live together. It’s not fair," you mumbled, barely audible. "Can’t wait for you to be my forever home.”

Ellie froze. Looked down at you. And something in her expression softened so completely it nearly melted. "Jesus Christ," she whispered, more to herself than anyone. "You’re gonna ruin me."

You smiled sleepily into her collarbone, not fully aware of the words you just spilled, and how much they affected Ellie for the rest of the night.

After saying goodbye to your friend, Ellie called a cab, half-carrying you inside it, holding your hand the entire ride home while you talked in dreamy, quiet nonsense about clouds and cake and her freckles. When you reached the apartment building, Ellie kept an arm tight around your waist as she guided you down the hallway. You were still humming something that sounded vaguely like a love song, leaning all your weight on her and whispering, "I’d die for you, you know that?"

"Let’s not be dramatic," Ellie muttered, but her heart was a puddle.

Back at her place, she helped you out of your boots and your jacket, guiding you gently toward the bed. You flopped onto the mattress like a fainting Victorian lady.

"God," you mumbled. "You’re the best. You’re actually the best thing in the universe. I’d fight a bear for you."

"Good to know," Ellie said, pulling a blanket over you. "Just, maybe fight your hangover first, okay?"

You reached for her hand, and she took it instantly, sitting down beside you, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

"Stay here," you whispered.

"I’m not going anywhere."

You were asleep two minutes later. Ellie stayed up longer, watching you, brushing hair away from your face, and thinking about forever homes and just how fucking lucky she was.

YOU WOKE up to the soft buzz of your phone vibrating under your pillow, and the too-bright morning light pouring through Ellie’s bedroom window. Your head was pounding, your mouth tasted vaguely like tequila and regret, and you were about 85% sure you told Ellie you wanted to marry her in the middle of a bar last night.

Ellie was sitting at the edge of the bed when you finally groaned and shifted under the blankets. Her hair was a mess, and she still looked beautiful. 

"Morning, lover girl," she said softly, holding out a big glass of water.  "Survived?"

You took the glass, sip, and glare at her weakly. "Barely. You didn’t even drink."

"Someone had to be the responsible adult," she smirked, then leans over to press a kiss to your temple. "Also, watching you proclaim your undying love to me in front of your friends was kind of the highlight of my week."

You covered your face with a groan. "Fuck."

"No, no—don’t be embarrassed." Ellie was laughing now. Finally, she leaned in and rested her forehead against yours. "Next time," she murmured, "you propose, can you do it when I’m not holding your hair back in a bathroom?"

You snorted. "Noted."

Ellie pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose. "You want pancakes?"

"God, yes. Can we get greasy diner pancakes?"

"Absolutely."

You smiled, rubbing your hands over your face. "You’re the best."

"I know," she said, standing up with a stretch. As she left the room to get dressed, you flopped back into the sheets, smiling into the pillow. Your head still hurt. Your throat still burned. But your chest? Your chest felt light.

It had been a very different birthday, but your favorite by far.

perm taglist !

@valeisaslut @firefly-ace @sevslover @twopeoplee @mayfldss @elliesfavtoy @usuck @avalovesmus1c @samcvrpenters @mars4hellokitty @prettyinpink69 @yashirawr @furtherrawayy @maximumdreamlandcoffee @elliesfavgirlfriend @abcline006 @marieeeluvsyou @smaugayra @eriiwaiii2 @d1psht @creativedespaitr @leaaavesss @yasmilks @piastorys @nemesyaaa @elliewilliamskisser2000 @mascspleasegetmepregnant @oatmatchalatte @leeidk87 @morticeras @eddiesdrummergf @vahnilla

neighbor!ellie taglist !

@alinerr @liztreez @wwefan2002 @ellielvrssss @ellieslittleslutt @elliesfavwife @uselessnewt @lvmxih

[sinstear]

── put her canine teeth in the side of my neck

mdni 18+ strap usage, dirty talk, blood, vampire!reader, vampire!vi, sub!vi, dom!reader, slight dom!vi sprinkled in there. fluff if you squint ig. continuation for this fic. well, sideeye, i dunno what happened here.

4 days. 4 days it’s been since vi begged, in such a pretty way if you might add, for you to sink your teeth into the juncture of where her neck and shoulder meets. for the first day you knew it wouldn’t work. you were too powerful, you knew that, had you accidentally killed your girlfriend? did you bite down too hard and her just laying there still for a day, was your karma? just making you watch her lay there, not even moving, was this a sick joke the world decided to play on you?

by the second day, you were at your wits end, pacing around the empty dark bedroom like a gust of wind that’s caught up in the midst of a tornado; pace pace pace, you don’t stop, you’re already working out plans, figuring out ways to fix the fucked up problem you caused. how could you do this to the woman you said you loved? if you hadn’t stopped your pace, the fights going on in your head, you wouldn’t have even noticed the twitching of her fingers, the slow way her eyelids moved, nor would you have paid attention to the subtle sounds of her teeth grinding together.

click click click, you do it yourself a lot when you’re focused, grind grind grind, your head snaps around quickly to find her sitting there, looking at you, her beautiful skin even paler, but it’s those captivating eyes of hers. what was once a shade of blue, were now tinted with red and you swallowed the lump forming in your throat. why the fuck were you nervous? why the fuck could you feel your knees going weak at the way she simply grinned at you, the sharp fangs sinking into her plump lips like they were made for her?

when it turned into the third day, vi was still getting used to hearing every small sound she could never really hear before. the soft drip of the water in the faucet, the chitter of the crickets from outside the window, even your own damn heart. the thumping sound would catch her off guard, brushing her fingers over it, and you saw the way her pupils dilated immensely when she caught the smallest whiff of your blood or the pinewood body wash on you.

by the fifth day, vi was needy, too needy, more than she was before. clinging to you when you would lay down, refusing to let you get up off the bed; her stronger newfound strength going against yours when you tried to get up to use the restroom. her fangs would nip the skin of your shoulder when you tried; a warning to not leave, and you melted into her touch each time she did it and never once got up. it was bizarre in the hottest way possible.

the sixth day you were sure she was testing your patience and the will to break you. you were woken up with the feeling of her lips wrapping around your clit, the subtle shlick sounds had caused you to stir, the thumpin’ of your heart ringing through her ears loudly with each swirl of her tongue; knowing she had you where she wanted you. the strongest vampire alive, keening and arching into her mouth, begging her without having to say a single word? violet’s blush bloomed on her cheeks, ascending down her neck and sending shivers down her spine as she deliciously made you cum that first morning.

but now that she’s different, she’s needier, impatient, whiny. she can’t get enough of feeling your arms around her waist, the teasing of your lips against her neck; her heart jumps, almost leaps out of her chest at each graze of your fangs against the supple softness of her skin. violet’s body arches into your touch like you’re the anchor of her being, reeling her in, keeping her safe and protected against you, and she’s so loud. cupping the back of your head, blunt nails decorating crescent moons your skin with how hard she clings to you. she can’t focus, can’t bring herself to care about how needy she’s being, how needy she’s become over the past week almost, not when you’re sliding your fingers between her legs, brushing two light fingers over her clit.  

“that’s it, baby, take what you need,” you murmur into her neck, rubbing slow circles on the bud, chucklin’ at the way she tilts her head, grips your shoulder in her hand and clenches around the silicone cock. “yeah, you’re takin’ what you need alright, ain’t you?”

“feels so good,” violet whines, slumping her forehead against yours, leaning more into your touch, gasping at each feeling of your hands guiding her hips, fucking up into her harder, with more vigor. “shit, feels s’good, need more.” she cries out, gripping your skin harder. 

her walls flutter around the silicone, she’s lost count on how many times by now, blunt nails seeping into the skin of your arm; deep and raw, but you aren’t focused on that, not when she’s grinding her hips down, taking more and more, gasping and whining against you.

“become such a needy thing, haven’t you? didn’t think it was possible,” you murmured, voice cracked with a slight growl as your hands wondered over her body, stopping at her hips and holding her down, fucking yours up in her at a slow pace. a pace that has her clinging onto you tighter, anchoring her in reality. “yeah, just needed your pretty pussy filled and all your thoughts taken away. might be a little harder now that you can read mine, and sweet girl, they aren’t innocent ones either.”

vi cries out, removing one hand from you and pressing it between her legs, fingers finding her sensitive bud and rubbing feather like circles. “s’all i can think about, hearing your thoughts, need ‘em, need it all. don’t care what they are,” your girlfriend whimpered, fucking herself down harder on your cock, not caring about who can hear her. she’s drunk, drunk on the feeling of you, the smell of you, the intoxicating thump of your heart keeps her steady, the rushing of blood through your system has her blood rushing to her head, erratic thoughts and emotions coursing through her veins. “need you so bad it hurts.”

her words, as well as her movements, have you gripping her hips harder; surely to leave bruises in your wake, and your head spins at her needy pleas and begs for more. the hand violet’s got on your shoulder moves, subtly creeping up and cupping your neck, not a light touch, one that asserts she’s there, and she’s not going anywhere. the bluntness of her nails dig into your skin, hips moving frantically and she’s barely able to keep a coherent sound audible as the thickness of the cock brushes her velvet walls in a way she’s never felt before. even so, the stretch burns, a good burn and all previous thoughts are knocked from her head when you’re pushing away the hand she’s got between her legs and replacing her fingers with your own; only this time, your circles are more faster, eyes locked onto her more hooded ones with each ministrations.

“i know,” were you being condescending? mocking her? she couldn’t tell, not right now. “i can hear all your little thoughts. you needed this bad, didn’t you? needed me to take care of you now that you’re exactly like me. don’t worry, sweetheart, i’ll take good care of you. won’t let a single thought or person hurt you ever again. they’ll have to get through me if they even try.” you promised, chuckling at the way she’s trying to kiss you, but your thrusts keep her from doing so.

you both don’t know how long you’ve been here, track of time seems to lose you both whenever you’re together and vi squirms in your hold. that familiar feeling is slowly rising in her lower stomach, her walls clamping around the cock tightly. she doesn’t have to say anything, you know, you always know. kissing her jaw, nipping at her skin lightly, you grinned. “gonna cum, baby? cum all over my cock like the good girl i know you are?”

“yeah, m’gonna cum.” she nods, eyebrows furrowed together tightly and drops of sweat trickle down her temple.  her body was coated in a thin layer of sweat, although she barely paid attention to it. her body and mind were more focused on the way you were fucking up into her with more vigor, pouring all your emotions and feelings into her with each thrust of your hips. it made you both delirious, the subtle sounds of skin slapping, the moans and growls filling and mixing in the thick air. she needed more, she needed everything you were willing to give her. “please let me cum, been so good for you, please please,” violet feels pathetic in the way she’s been reduced to such a whimpering mess, but can you blame her? not really. “been your good girl, let me cum.” fuckin’ hell. 

“sound so pretty when you beg me, prettiest thing ever. yeah, you wanna cum already? haven’t even had my fun with you yet, baby, and you already wanna cream on my cock? fine, i suppose you’ve been my good girl, and i always reward my good girl, don’t i?” ohmyfucking god, violet has never met anyone who sounds so sexy and hot when they’re being so disgustingly obscene and she loves it. “go on then, sweet, show me how good you can cum because of me, make a mess, know you can do it.”

please please please, keep saying stuff like that and you’re gonna kill me.

her thighs trembles on either side of your waist, trying to meet the same rhythm as your hips, sliding herself up and down the plastic cock with a faster pace. wanting and needing to desperately cum, to show you she can make a mess for you, make it known that you make her feel so fuckin’ good. “gonna make a mess, just for you, always for you,” violet trails off, hips rocking back and forth sloppily. “need more please, give me more, need to, fuck, need you.” 

“god, fucked you stupid already, haven’t i? go on baby, i got you, always.”

violet’s vision blacks out at the next powerful thrust of your hips, brain completely empty from a singular thought, her body tenses, trembles, her eyes roll back, and then she comes with a shudder, your fingers still keep up the rubbing ministrations on her clit. “that’s it, good girl, ride it out.” you cooed, using your free hand to cup her chin.

“fuckk,” she gasps, slowing down the movements of her hips, slowly riding you through her orgasm “mmm,” her nose brushes your neck and you go still. your heart thumps loudly in your chest and you know she knows what you’re thinking. “please, baby.”

wordlessly, you nod, not trusting your words and just as you give her your silent yes, you feel it. the sharpness of her fangs tearing into the skin, holding you there and she moans against you. “jesus fuckin’ christ.” you choked out, nails sinking deeply into the skin of her hips.

a deep growl emits her throat, free hand coming up and cupping one of your tits tightly. her tongue flicks out and quickly catches the droplet of blood dripping down your neck, can’t afford to waste a single drop. you just taste so good and she needs every last bit of it. “love how you taste,” she groans softly, rolling your hard nipple between her fingers and laughing at your sharp inhale. “can’t wait to have you coming around my cock, need it s’bad, to see how pretty you look taking my cock like a slut.”

jesus christ. bloody christ. you’re killing me, you think as she sucks your neck harder, fangs sinking deeper.

“whatever you want, sweet, you can have it all,” you managed to stutter.

“let me feed first, then i want you, yeah?”

[romancherry]

caged in silk (4) — false alarm

pairings ➝ dark!joel miller x dark!javier peña x dark!marcus acacius x female!reader

summary ➝ after a false dissapearance gave them quite the scare, joel loses control in his task to teach you a lesson.

warnings ➝ explicit smut, dark!fic, dubious consent, unprotected p in v, rough vaginal sex, missionary, squirting, creampie, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, breast & nipple play, hickeys and marking kink, posessive and dominant joel, submissive reader, sub space, daddy kink, heavy makeout session, crying kink, praise kink, pet names, pussy pronouns, aftercare, manipulation, dirty talk, swearing and other explicit language, 18+, MINORS: DO NOT INTERACT.

word count ➝ 4.111

author's note ➝ hello again! it took me more time to motivate my lazy ass to write this chapter than actually finishing it. i hope you like it and if you do please leave a comment or motivational reblog 🌸 if i missed any warnings let me know.

do NOT repost, reupload, translate or plagiarize my work.

it was almost midnight when the men realized it has been quiet for far too long. they were so deep in their thoughts and work that they hadn’t realized just how fast time has passed. 

joel was fixing the dripping, rotten faucet in the kitchen. marcus was cleaning some rifles, tending to them as if they were the most precious pieces of porcelain. he was so very focused as he tried hard not to lose count on the ammunition. javier sat on his laptop, chain smoking and looking up surveillance cameras in the DEA office in medellin. the only pause between drags of smoke was when he lifted the glass of whiskey and brought it to his lips while listening very carefully on what the american ambassadors discussed – debating important classified cases, blissfully unaware of the hidden microphones javier placed right under their noses before resigning from this god forsaken job almost 3 years ago. 

joel glanced at his watch and scoffed when he realized just for how long he’s been working on fixing the faucet. he muttered a low good night to the boys, his voice grumpy and heavy with sleep, before making his way to his bedroom, already dreaming about how good he will sleep tonight with you in his bed.

he expected to find you under the covers, maybe reading, maybe already curled into your pillow like you usually were by this time of night. but when he pushed the door open and found the bed untouched, the lights off, and your scent faint in the air — not warm and recent, but old, like you hadn’t been there in hours — something in his chest coiled tight.

“sweetheart?” he called. 

nothing. 

he checked the bathroom next, knocking once, pushing open the door. empty. no sound of water. no used towel. 

he paused, brow furrowing.

“marcus?” he called out, already stepping back into the hallway. “you seen her?”

marcus freezes his actions entirely and puts the rifle on the couch next to him, his expression already serious. “i thought she was in your room.”

“no,” joel said, jaw beginning to grind. “she’s not.”

footsteps echoed on hardwood as javier came from the kitchen, still holding a half-empty glass of whiskey. “what do you mean she’s not?”

joel turned to face him, voice edged now. “i mean she’s gone.”

the silence that followed was sharp — thick with tension, panic, anger. 

javier placed the glass into the sink without looking. “check everywhere. right now.”

they split like shadows in motion — no yelling, no chaos, just the kind of cold, calculating urgency born from fear.

marcus hit the basement first, flashlight already in hand. he searched every corner like he was clearing enemy territory — eyes sharp, movements efficient. no sign of you.

joel moved through the rest of the first floor. he checked the pantry, the garage, the laundry room. doors were still locked. windows undisturbed. “nothing,” he muttered into his radio to the others.

javier moved fastest, pacing the perimeter outside barefoot, his phone already out, checking security cams and motion sensors. “no alarms triggered,” he hissed. “no movement out here in the last hour.”

joel stopped in the hallway, hand gripping the molding beside the doorframe like he needed to steady himself.

you wouldn’t try again, he told himself. not after last time. 

he closed his eyes, trying to focus on regulating his breathing and stop the panic from building his heartbeat rhythm until the point of explosion. he tried to think. to bring reason to light – to convince himself that you wouldn’t be so stupid and naive to run away during the night.

why would you want to run? what did they do to you this time? was the picnic too much? have you learned nothing from your last mistake?

his instinct dared to snap his own self out of the building panic and overwhelming thoughts. a wandering, fleeting thought which almost left his brain as quickly as it entered.

the last door in the hallway which led to a guest bedroom none of them ever used. 

the door was not even shut. it was slightly cracked. joel pushed it open with slow fingers, the old brass hinges creaking. and there you were.

fucking. sleeping.

your chest rose and fell in a peaceful rhythm, soft little exhales brushing the pillow. the blanket was wrapped around your body, one arm tucked underneath it and the other loose at your side. a book you never finished reading lay on the nightstand. the lamp was off. you’d gone to bed hours ago — quiet and unbothered.

joel didn’t say a word.

he stepped back into the hall and leaned against the wall for a beat, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face. relief poured over him like a wave, heavy and thick. he called it in over the radio.

“guest room.”

a few seconds later, marcus appeared, and behind him, javier — barefoot, heart pounding, eyes wild. they stopped in the doorway and stared.

“she’s fine?” marcus asked, voice hushed.

“fast asleep,” joel said. “like she didn’t just take five years off my life.”

javier ran a hand down his face. “fuck.”

you stirred, a little frown tugging between your brows as if you sensed their presence even in sleep. you turned onto your back, hair fanning across the pillow, lips slightly parted, still unaware.

joel walked in quietly and knelt by the bed. his hand reached out and brushed your cheek gently, thumb ghosting across your temple.

“jesus,” he whispered. “you don’t even know what you did to us.”

your eyes fluttered open, groggy and dazed. “…joel?” you murmured, blinking slowly at the sight of all three men surrounding the bed.

javier’s brows lifted, and he huffed a short breath. “you scared us shitless.” 

“i — what? why?” you asked, throat rough.

“why did you have to fall asleep here, sweetheart? you know we never enter this room,” javier asks.

“tired. jus’ wanted quiet…” 

javier knelt beside joel, his hand resting over your ankle beneath the blanket. “you could’ve said something, cariño. we tore the damn house apart.”

“yeah. thought you took off again,” joel added.

you blinked, then winced, voice still sleepy. “s’rry. didn’t mean to freak you out.”

marcus crouched on the other side of the bed, his gaze hard and unforgiving despite the quest to find you turning out successful. “we’ll lock every fucking door in this place from now on. don’t pull a stunt like that again, sweetheart.”

joel leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his voice low and tight. “he’s right, baby. you gave us one hell of a panic attack.”

you mutter one last tiny apology in joel’s ear before he lifts you off the bed and gently carries you to his bedroom, the place where you’ve been sleeping every night since they kidnapped you. each time was more comforting than the last; joel didn’t present himself as a threat and always kept a respectable distance between you two, although he always ached to touch and hold you tight against his chest. 

after he places you on the mattress, you notice marcus giving him a suggestive glance. 

joel leaves your side and makes his way to his brother’s side. out of your eavesdropping range.

“teach her a lesson. know you got a soft spot for her, but she needs to learn," marcus whispers in joel’s ear, his instructions clear. joel hesitates. doesn’t say anything for a couple of moments. he isn’t a fan of his older brother’s demands. he doesn’t want to break you in. not like this. 

marcus senses joel’s second thoughts and scoffs at his brother’s weak spot for you. “if you don’t, i will.”

that made joel’s eyes darken. not with thrill or hunger, but with the overwhelming need to protect you from marcus’ roughness. he failed to do so after your escape attempt and had no choice but to let marcus punish you. this time, he’ll carry the burden himself, in the only way he knows how. 

joel nods his head once and gives marcus a look of reassurance and cooperation. once marcus is convinced that joel will keep his promise true, he steps out of the doorway and shuts the door behind him. 

joel turns slowly towards the bed, watching the curiosity in your eyes mix with a potion of anxiety. you can tell. his tense stance. the way he won’t look you in the eye – not quite. his mind races. his hands tremble slightly, and you’re not sure why. is it because of anticipation or the tethering loss of control?

“take off your clothes.”

the order makes you flinch, your instincts telling you to back away slightly. your mind is fully alert now. the exhaustion and gentle yearning for the comfort of a warm and soft bed have been gathered together and thrown out the window. 

“i won’t ask again.”

shivers crawl up your spine at his intimidating tone. if he was trying to inflict fear upon you, to make you forget about all the times he was gentle and careful with you as if you were a porcelain doll — he has done it. with minimal effort. 

you carefully lift yourself off the bed and stand in front of him. there were only a few feet between you. he could take two large steps and you’d be done for. clothes ripped off, a hand wrapped around your throat while he did as he pleased. 

you try to banish these thoughts out of your head and presume it’s best if you try to hurry up slightly. you don’t want things to come to that. you still believe that if you cooperate, he’ll be gentle. a part of you tells you that he doesn’t want to do this. 

but that part of you is so wrong, my dear. because while joel doesn’t want to scare you away and force you into submission like marcus wants, he is still, at the end of the day – a man. 

a man who has built a life out of butchering people for money since his daughters died. a god among men who ripped the soul out of living and well breathing creatures and never felt sorry for it.

until the day you came into his life. when he saw you for the first time and figured you are not a thing to be broken and burned alive. but to be molded and carefully guided into a lifestyle he and his brothers crafted specifically to force you to accept them as your new reality.

in conclusion; he wants you. oh, how much he wants to give into his carnage and tear you apart with his cock. only when he remembers the way your moans filled his ears like a melody when your orgasm flooded his mouth the last time…

god, it’s maddening. infuriating. 

but he must not act on primal instincts and think with his cock. no matter how painful it feels. no matter how the majority of the blood in his brain now flows in his cock right now. and he can barely resist anymore. 

he watches your lip tremble and eyes grow heavy with tears as you quietly do as instructed. 

you start with your socks, quickly discarding them on the floor so you don’t keep him waiting. so you don’t let him think you’re dragging this out to think of an escape.

your loose sweatpants come off next. when you reveal your bare thighs to him, he swears he feels like a medieval man who saw ankles for the first time. 

skin so soft. flesh so plump and glowy. his mind drifts off to when his head rested in between them to devour your pussy. how good it was when he felt the pressure of your muscles against the sides of his skull. an orgasm so intense he was worried you’d crack his head like a watermelon. but he loved it so much he made a promise to himself he’ll experience the same pain again when he made you ride his face and smother him with your thighs.

your t-shirt was next to drop on the floor. it belonged to none other than joel. he felt a sense of pride and ownership each time he saw you wearing his clothes around the house. knowing your scent mixed with his drove him crazy because he yearned to inhale directly from the source. 

tonight, he would achieve this and more. 

the sight of your bare breasts made his heart skip a beat.

he has never seen such work of art in his life. your full chest looking as if it’s been crafted by the gods themselves. like aphrodite chose you as her avatar.

he doesn’t wait for you to take your panties off. in two long strides, he breaks the barrier between you two. his hands immediately jump at your breasts, cupping them in earnest. 

he weighs and plays with them in his calloused palms. he is not being a gentleman at all – rough fingertips graze over your buds until they swell. the moment they rise to angry little peaks, his mouth latches onto one while the other is being tended to vigorously.

you quickly grow overwhelmed by his lustful attack. his warm, wet tongue lapping hungrily at your nipple, sucking and drinking as if the elixir of life itself courses through it. 

the other poor, tortured nipple – red and aching from the relentless pinching and twirling between his thumb and index. you squirm in his hold, hands grabbing a tight hold of his salt and pepper hair. 

you moan, but you don’t think it’s because of displeasure. yes, there is pain. but there is also beauty.

beauty in the way he makes you feel so wanted. so worshipped. he kisses and bites and marks every inch of your chest. he groans in both relief and pleasure when his mouth runs a path upwards on your body and finally stops at the nape of your neck. 

not only does he pull a bit of flesh in between his teeth to paint your skin in bruises – he also inhales deeply at the same time as he sucks. 

your natural scent – finally flowing through his nostrils. so sweet and musky at the same time, with notes of a warm sleep and the masculine scent of his t-shirt.

when he is satisfied with his work over your neck, his lips trace a path towards your jaw. not once do they depart from you.

you’re both breathless when he pulls you in for a kiss. he didn’t even look at you before he claimed your mouth. he needed to do this before he could stop himself.

his hands are everywhere on the lower half of your body now. he keeps you flushed against his chest, your nipples grazing uncomfortably against his blouse. he grinds and ruts himself against your thighs like a stray dog. makes sure you have nowhere to go too – his hands presenting themselves as a tight and sure anchor over your buttcheeks; smothering, kneading and occasionally slapping the tender flesh until it jiggles like jelly in his palm.

you give up on trying to put space between you. no matter how much force you channel into your hands and wrists, you can’t move this brute wall off of you. 

instead, you accept him. pull him closer, even. the act makes him moan into your mouth, deep and rough. 

the kiss bruises you. makes you shake in his grip and you’re sure that if he wasn’t holding you now, you’d fall. 

he is not here to make love to your mouth. at least not yet.

he kisses you as if he’ll never get another chance to. he needs to explore your hole and claim it with his teeth and tongue before he can soothe the ache he caused.

it’s possessive. controlling. desperate and needy. you don’t bother fighting for control and dominance. you just let him take what he wants in order to indulge himself in the pleasures he has been denying and ignoring for too long.

he shocks you when he takes you into his arms. gathering a handful of your asscheeks before using his sheer power to lift you in his lap.

he drops you both onto the mattress. your back pressed between a soft cloud and a massive brick.

not even once does he break the kiss. he swallows every moan and gasp that comes out of your mouth and greedily licks every corner with his tongue, teeth occasionally lathering attention to your bottom lip to drag and nip it.

his hands move from your ass to fumble with his own sweatpants. he is so thankful to just drag them down his thighs along with his boxers; his cock finally having enough room to breathe.

you try to break the kiss to get a look, but to no avail. he keeps your head in place with his free hand resting on your neck. his fingertips firmly pressing into the sides, a silent command to stay still. his mouth still makes out with yours hungrily as if he’s trying to keep you busy and not allow any anxiety creeping in your pretty little head. 

the hand he used in order to free his cock from his boxers moved directly to your clothed pussy. his index ran one trail up your slit to feel the cool wetness sink into the material before gathering it in between his fingers and pulling it to the side.

he didn’t waste any more time. as soon as he cleared the way, he grabbed himself by the base of his cock and gathered your juices on his own leaking head before sliding home in one smooth thrust.

you both broke the kiss at the same time to fill the room with your own moans. once he bottomed out and felt the dangerously addicting way your walls squeezed him, he didn’t know how to stop. he just lost every last drop of control he thought he had and unleashed all the pent up desire he felt for you.

“oh god, babygirl,” joel chanted as he threw his head back, eyes shut in bliss. “fuck, i can’t stop. i’m so sorry.” 

he moved his hand from your throat to the back of your head, gently lifting it a few inches to bring you closer to him. his other hand made its way under your knee. making sure to keep your legs as open as possible for him to fuck you as hard and deep as he liked.

“joel, n-no! oh my god – fuck!” 

the burning sensation left your tight channel as quickly as it came. it was soon replaced by complete and utter pleasure as your already soaking wet pussy gushed and clenched around him as he pistoned in and out of you. 

your walls presented no restraint. your pussy greedily welcomed him as if she has waited her entire life for this moment. to fulfill her duty as nothing more than a cocksleeve – a hole to serve him warmth and pleasure. 

your broken moans ambitioned him to sink deeper inside you. he plunged in deep, hard and fast, not giving you any time to adjust as he took whatever he wanted from your willing body. god, he hoped it wouldn’t come to this. he hoped his restraint and control would not shatter so quickly. but when he saw your beautiful naked body and felt you soaking wet through your panties, he knew you were made for him. he knew this pussy had a mind of her own. 

“atta girl. pussy knows what she wants, huh? t’be fucked and destroyed by a nice, big cock. fill her up with cum and never let her go.”

he tears his gaze from your swollen pussy to your face and really looks at you. 

blabbering, crying, moaning and utterly ruined. 

pink sore eyes filled with glossy tears. flushed cheeks. mouth slightly open in a round shape with a string of saliva dripping in the corner. your own finger resting on top of your tongue. a physical guardian to stop more moans and pleas from making their way out.

“fuck, look at my girl,” joel praises. he presses a soft plump kiss in between your eyebrows – an unusual contrast to the way he ruts roughly between your thighs, assaulting your poor pussy as she gushes her release all over his cock and the sheets beneath. he lost count of how many times he made you cum until now. he’s more than convinced you never actually kept count, your mind too blank and pliant to bother yourself with too much thought.

“what’s wrong, baby? cock so good it fucked ya stupid?”

you shake your head in approval, your eyes wide and glossy like precious pearls and diamonds. there’s no coherent thought behind those eyes – he scared them all away. no insecurities or anxiety in the way to stop you from feeling him at full intensity. 

and he’s so proud. so so proud he made all the voices in your head shut down for once. his heart swells with how much trust you put in him to break you apart and put you back together.

“that’s a good girl. mhm, the best girl in the whole damn world. my good girl gon’ let me cum deep inside her? hm? swell her belly full a’ babies?”

you nod in earnest, a big bright smile creeping up your face like it’s the best deal in the world. like it’s your whole life purpose.

“y-yes, d-daddy. p-please fill m-me up. wan’ your babies!”

your innocent little plea does it for him. his rhythm wavers as he buries himself to the hilt and cums deep inside you, filling your belly up with a big load. 

he stays attached and connected to you both physically and spiritually. he swears he can feel your hearts beating in sync as he holds you close to his chest and soothes your nerves by placing a few wet gentle pecks on your cheeks and forehead. 

“shhh, baby. my sweet baby. gotcha now. did so, so well for daddy. my perfect lil’ girl.”

he forces himself to remove his softening cock from between your legs. once he does, he makes sure not to leave you alone and sweaty for too long. he takes off his damp blouse and uses it as a makeshift rag to clean you up. he soothes every cry and unintelligible word that comes out of your sweet mouth.

“here, honey. drink. you did perfect. so proud of ya," he praises as he helps you drink a much needed glass of cold water. 

after he’s done cleaning both of you up, he joins you under the blankets. his fingers trace the side of your arm as he looks at your relaxed form. so obedient, full and content. 

“bet ya enjoyed your lesson, huh?” joel murmurs, aware of how close you are to drifting off to sleep. “don’ ever scare us like that again, sweetheart.”

“mmmm,” you nod while keeping your eyes closed, although you’re not so sleek in hiding your small grin of mischief, “no promise."

he chuckles, shaking his head in amusement at your little attitude. “you’re trouble, sweetheart. what are we gon’ do with you?”

oh, he knows exactly what they will do with you. 

and in the bedroom next door and the living room respectively, javier and marcus have figured out a few plans in their mind themselves. 

because you may not realise it yet, but joel had just paved the way for his brothers. made their life easier. broke you in and gave you a taste of what your future will be with, under and on top of them. 

without needing to even speak to each other, they all know you’ve just become addicted. soon enough, one man will not be enough to satisfy the burning hunger inside you; you’ll need all three to satiate your needs and take care of you.

and honey, they will. in each of their own, unique ways – they will make you forget why you even fought them off in the first place.

[goldfades]

‘This is not the version of you I fell in love with. And honestly, I've forgotten the real you.’

‘So you choose them over me? After all we've been through together, you choose them?’

^joe burrow happy ending

my 6k celly!

warnings: angst, asshole!joe, arguing, happy ending!

The kitchen was quiet, but it wasn’t calm. Not even close.

There was a tension in the air that clung to your skin, thick and unmoving, like the summer heat outside pressing against the windows. The fridge hummed. The faucet dripped. Somewhere in the next room, a notification lit up Joe’s phone and went ignored. And you stood across from him, arms crossed, heartbeat heavy in your throat, trying to swallow the words that were practically clawing to get out.

Joe wasn’t looking at you. He was leaning against the counter like he’d rather melt into it than face this head-on, eyes fixed somewhere just past your shoulder, probably pretending this was just another hiccup. Another pointless, dramatic thing you’d drag out before coming back to bed like always.

Except this didn’t feel like always. Not anymore.

“So, that’s it?” His voice finally broke the silence, low and sharp. “You don’t even try to come to things anymore. You don’t even want to be around.”

You blinked. Laughed, bitter and short. “Don’t even want to be around? Joe, I’m the one who waits up for you to come home. I’m the one who watches the same game five times because you said you wanted to talk about tape. I’m the one who’s been dragging myself to those goddamn events where nobody even tries to pretend they like me.”

“They do like you.” He said it too fast, too flat and you knew he didn’t believe it either.

You stared at him, something inside your chest folding in on itself. “No, Joe. They tolerate me. And honestly? You’ve started doing the same.”

He looked up at that — really looked and something flickered in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. But he didn’t say anything. Didn’t refute it. And that silence said more than anything else could have.

“You used to — God.” You exhaled hard, voice shaking. “You used to look at me like I was something good. Something solid. And now? Now I just feel like some obligation. Like you’re too tired to deal with me but too guilty to let me go.”

“That’s not fair,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “You know that’s not what this is.”

“Then what is this, Joe? Because I’m not doing this anymore. This cold, distant, performative thing we’ve got going on. I didn’t sign up for this version of you.”

And then, before you could even think to stop yourself, you said it, soft but lethal: “This is not the version of you I fell in love with. And honestly, I've forgotten the real you.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut. You saw it in his face. The twitch in his jaw. The way his eyes darkened, not with anger but something worse. Something like betrayal.

He took a step toward you but it wasn’t to comfort. “You really want to do this now?” he said, voice low and tight. “After everything? After everything we’ve been through, you throw that in my face?”

“I’m not throwing anything. I’m telling you how I feel. I’m tired of pretending we’re okay just because it’s easier than starting over.”

He laughed. A cold, humorless sound. “So you’d rather run?”

“Don’t you dare.” Your voice cracked then, despite your best effort. “Don’t you dare act like I haven’t fought for this. For you. I’ve been here. I’ve been trying. You’re the one who checked out months ago.”

His hands went to his hips and he turned away, shaking his head. “You want to talk about checked out? You can’t even show up to one goddamn dinner without looking like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“Because I would,” you snapped and the second it left your mouth, you regretted it. But you didn’t take it back. “Those people? That world? They don’t care about me, Joe. I don’t fit into that little box your team, your image, your life wants me to be in.”

He turned back to you slowly, eyes narrowed. “So you choose them over me?” His voice wasn’t raised, but it might as well have been a scream. “After all we’ve been through together, you choose them?”

And just like that, your breath caught.

Your arms dropped to your sides, fingers trembling where they brushed against your thighs. You couldn’t even process what he meant at first. Choose who? His teammates? The media? The version of yourself that wasn’t so easily digested by the NFL machine?

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. And he didn’t stop.

“You’re punishing me for the way my life looks now,” he said. “Like I asked for all of this. Like I’m the one who changed the rules. You think I don’t notice? The way you pull away when cameras are around? The way you shrink every time I have to be someone else in public?”

“Because I miss you,” you said, the words rough and raw and so much more honest than you meant them to be. “I miss the way you used to look at me like I was the only thing that made sense in your world.”

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but whatever it was, it died there on his tongue. Instead, he just looked at you — finally, fully, and you saw it. The wear. The burn out. The walls.

And something in him cracked.

“I didn’t think you’d end up resenting me,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “But I guess that’s on me.”

You shook your head, heart pounding so hard you could barely hear your own thoughts. “I don’t resent you, Joe. I just-” You exhaled. “I just don’t know how to love someone who doesn’t want to be seen anymore.”

You didn’t expect the next thing he said. Not even close.

Because Joe stepped forward, eyes bright with something that could’ve been anger, or pain, or desperation and he said it. Loud. Final.

“Well maybe if you weren’t so damn insecure, you wouldn’t make everything about you.”

And just like that, the room froze.

The silence that followed didn’t feel like tension anymore. It felt like impact. The silence after Joe’s words wasn’t just thick, it was devastating.

Your body stilled, the world suddenly quieter than you ever remembered it being. The air didn’t move. The walls didn’t creak. Even the fridge had the decency to shut up. You just stood there, stunned, staring at him like he’d grown a second head, like this stranger in front of you couldn’t possibly be the same person who once traced lazy circles on your thigh in bed while whispering all the reasons he loved you into your skin.

Insecure.

He said it like it was a flaw. Like it was a weakness. Like it was a burden that you brought into the room.

You swallowed hard, the burn at the back of your throat impossible to ignore. “Wow.”

Joe flinched. Just barely. Like even he was shocked he’d said it.

You turned your back to him. You had to. You weren’t crying — yet — but the dam was right there and you could feel it. All that effort you’d put into standing your ground, speaking your truth without breaking, it cracked the second that word left his mouth.

“Wait,” he said softly behind you. “No. That’s not what I meant. Shit. Just... can you not walk away right now?”

“I’m not walking away,” you managed, voice flat, brittle. “I’m turning around so I don’t say something just as cruel.”

He sighed: long, guttural, like the weight of the whole damn season was stuck in his lungs. “That wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean that.”

You didn’t respond. Not immediately.

Instead, you stared at the cabinets above his sink and remembered all the mornings you’d spent there, pouring coffee into mismatched mugs, your arms wrapped around his waist from behind, your cheek pressed into his back while he mumbled about practice and game tape and some running back you didn’t even pretend to care about.

You remembered the first time he made you breakfast, how he nearly set the smoke alarm off trying to make eggs, how proud he was of the half-burnt toast anyway. You remembered how often you used to laugh in this room. How easy it was, back then.

It hadn’t been easy in a long time.

You drew in a breath and finally turned to face him. He was standing in the same spot, arms slack at his sides, his expression a painful mix of regret and helplessness.

“You don’t get to call me insecure,” you said quietly. “Not after everything. Not after the last year of me trying to belong somewhere I was never welcomed.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know, I swear. I didn’t mean it. I was just mad. Scared. I don’t know. You said you didn’t recognize me anymore and that-” He broke off, dragging a hand over his face. “That fucking gutted me.”

You blinked at him. “And instead of saying that, you decided to gut me back.”

“I know.” He met your eyes then, and you saw it, really saw it. The cracks. The fear. The mess of it all under that calm, Joe Burrow exterior. “I’m sorry. That was a low blow. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”

You didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, you walked past him and sat at the edge of the couch, elbows on your knees, hands twisted in your lap. A few seconds later, you heard him follow, felt the weight of him sit beside you. But he didn’t touch you. He didn’t speak.

He waited.

And when you finally looked at him, your voice was soft. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were scared?”

He blinked. His jaw clenched again, then relaxed. “Because I thought if I admitted that, I’d lose something. I thought if I wasn’t perfect all the time, if I started slipping, even a little, I’d end up failing you too.”

Your heart clenched. “You haven’t failed me, Joe. I just… I miss us. I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he said, like it was the first real thing he’d said all night. “I miss how easy it used to be. How much you believed in me. I think somewhere along the way, I started taking that for granted.”

You looked down at your hands. “You didn’t have to be perfect. I never wanted perfect. I just wanted you. Honest, present, not whatever version of you they keep trying to package up for cameras.”

Joe turned toward you, slowly, like he was afraid of messing it all up again. “Then let’s get back to that. Let me get back to you. I’m serious. We don’t have to go to those parties. We don’t have to pretend for anybody. We can start over. I want to start over.”

You looked at him, really looked: messy hair, tired eyes, a man worn thin by all the expectations he never asked for, and yet still trying. Still showing up. Still trying for you.

“You hurt me tonight,” you said, honestly. “It’s going to take a while to undo that.”

“I’ll wait,” he replied. “I’ll do better. I’ll learn how to talk to you instead of throwing shit that doesn’t even belong to you. I’ll be your Joe again. If you’ll let me.”

A pause. Just long enough for the weight of it to settle.

Then he added, voice cracking just enough to break something open in your chest: “I’d rather fight with you for the rest of my life than pretend with anyone else.”

And that was it.

The words weren’t perfect. The moment wasn’t wrapped in a bow. But it was honest. And for the first time in months, that felt like enough.

You leaned into him, slow, cautious, your forehead brushing his shoulder and when he slid an arm around you, tentative but warm, the tension between you didn’t disappear but it shifted. Softened. Became something that might one day feel like closeness again.

“I want to come home,” he said into your hair. “Not to the apartment. To you.”

And you, still bruised, still uncertain, whispered back the truest thing you could muster: “Then start walking.”

[blond3ang3l]

here’s another one: reader finds out logan’s a little masochist

LMAO the way that was my reaction to that tiktok. Haven't written for Logan in sooo long, my fav old man 🙂‍↕️

⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱⋰

It was a pure accident that you stumbled across your friend putting out the cigar on his hand. Yeah, it made sense with his healing factor that he'd try to test it every once in a while. You went to fetch him from outside your place so he could finish fixing the leaky faucet in your bathroom when you saw it. He just put his cigar out on his hand.

The sound of it burning against his flesh apparent.

It was so quick for him, like it was absolutely nothing. You didn't even realize you were staring till you heard him grunt and turn to start going in that house only to be greeted by your body leaning against the doorway, seemingly waiting for him. "Didn't take too long did I?" With a simple head shake you followed behind hin as he came back into your home. A groan eliciting from him as he bent down, crawling under your sink.

A silent "oh my god" falling from your lips and watched his legs spread while laid on his back trying to determine what was wrong with the appliance. Was it really your fault your mind started to wander back to the little unintentional show he put on earlier? Did he know how sexy it was? For him it obviously felt like nothing since he had way worse but for you it was like he rewired your brain.

Would he let you do worse? You had always been on the more "exciting" side when it came to kinks. Previous partners had just been too boring for you after a while, but maybe you just needed your dear friend to show you how a man could keep up with you.

Would he let you put his cigar out on him like he did himself? Maybe drip wax down his chest, watched as it cooled against him. Maybe you could pull his hair as he fucked you into the mattress. Just what could you get away with? What would be his limit. Fuck, you needed to know now.

You shouldn't have been thinking about him like this. He was your best friend. But with how good he looked at that moment, doing all the things YOUR man should have been. You were quickly snapped out of your thoughts by him literally snapping to get your attention

"huh? Sorry, what'd you say Lo?" "Bring your ass over here, if I'm fixing this then you're sitting here and helping me with what I need." He spread his legs more for you to make your way over to him. Feeling your breath hitch a bit you walked over, sitting on his lap. "Right here?" A silly question to ask since you knew if you'd had been anyone else he would have tried to bite your head off. "Yeah. Stay right there and don't move. Gonna need your help real soon."

God you were horrible. The ache in your core you knew it was only a matter of minutes before you pounced on him. But for now you had to wait. At least until he finished.

⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱⋰

[wishingonjellyfish]

♡ Soaking with Sevika ♡

synopsis: you and sevika just got done doing the rumpy pumpy and take a bubble bath together

A/N: hehehehhe ;)

Sevika gently sets you on the counter before turning around and turning the tub faucet on.

Sevika tries to avoid looking at your body, wanting to get the bath started first.

She doesn’t trust herself not to get distracted by you.

She can still see and feel you on her fingers. She pushes those thoughts out of her mind.

You sit quietly on the counter, eyes fixed on Sevika as the tub slowly fills with water.

Sevika notices you staring at her and glances back, her eyes roaming over your body.

“You look incredible sitting there, waiting for me,” she says, her voice low.

A slight shiver runs through her as she struggles to keep her focus on the task at hand.

“Almost ready,” she adds, turning back toward the tub, trying to hold herself together.

“Okay,” you mumble, more to yourself than to her, absentmindedly swinging your feet back and forth over the edge of the counter.

Sevika glances at you, then toward the tub, and says, “The tub is full.”

Sevika reaches down carefully, testing the water with her good hand, making sure it’s just the right temperature—warm enough to soothe, but not hot enough to burn.

You shift slightly on the counter; the cool air contrasts with the warmth radiating from the tub.

There’s a quiet tension in the space between the two of you. “I’ll help you in,” Sevika says softly, stepping closer with a hand outstretched.

Her fingers brush lightly against your arm, sending a small shiver through both of you.

She clears her throat, trying to steady her voice. “Careful, the edge is slippery.”

As you carefully slide off the counter and lower yourself into the bath, the warm water laps around your skin.

Sevika looks at you. “You alright, love? Comfortable?” she asks.

“I’d be more comfortable with you in here,” you grin, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.

Sevika can’t stop herself from laughing, her eyes rolling with playful amusement.

“Please,” you beg, looking up at her with puppy dog eyes.

She nearly bursts out laughing at your puppy eyes—the cutest, goofiest expression. She can’t believe how much power you hold over her with just one look.

“Alright, love, I’ll get in with you—just give me a second.”

You quietly let out a heartfelt “Yay,” mostly cheering just for yourself.

Sevika laughs softly at your excitement—seeing you so happy is absolutely adorable, she thinks.

Sevika moves to undress her lower half; her upper half is already bare.

Her gaze never leaves you, her breathing shallow.

You watch her undress, your eyes locked with hers the entire time, your mood shifting from playful to intense desire.

Sevika feels your gaze burning on her, her body still sensitive from earlier, her mind craving you. She tries to hold herself back, but the way you’re looking at her makes her feel almost feral.

The room feels smaller now—more intimate. The scent of lavender and sage from the bath salts fills the air, mingling with the faint sound of water dripping from the faucet.

Sevika finally lets out a shaky breath.

“You’re… perfect,” she admits, voice barely above a whisper. When your eyes meet hers, the silence between you speaks louder than any words ever could.

Sevika slowly steps into the tub, the warm water swirling around her legs before she lowers herself completely beside you, her prosthetic arm resting outside the tub on a folded towel.

The heat wraps around you both, dissolving the lingering tension. Beneath the surface of the water, her hand finds yours—fingertips brushing gently—a quiet promise exchanged without words.

She leans in just a little, the steam curling around her face, making her look even more ethereal.

“I’ve missed this,” she confesses, voice husky. “Missed being close to you like this, where nothing else matters.”

You shift closer, the water lapping gently against your skin as you wrap an arm around her waist.

Her breath catches, and she presses her cheek to your shoulder, the warmth of her skin grounding you.

Sevika’s fingers trace lazy circles along your arm, sending sparks up your spine.

“I still think it’s ridiculous,” she mutters, cracking one eye open. “Me. Bubble baths.”

You smirk, scooping up a palmful of bubbles and flicking them toward her. “Oh please,” you say.

“You’ve threatened people for less. Don’t act like you’re not enjoying it.”

Sevika lets out a low huff—not quite a laugh—and sinks deeper into the water, letting it rise to kiss her collarbones.

“Maybe I am. But if you tell anyone…”

You lean over with a grin, brushing damp strands of her hair behind her ear.

“I won’t. Promise.”

For a while, silence stretches comfortably between you.

Just the occasional drip of water, the quiet hiss of cooling steam.

Her eyes flick to yours—sharp, searching, but with a gentleness few ever get to see.

“You calm me down,” she says simply.

You reach out, your fingers brushing hers under the water.

“And you make me feel safe.”

Sevika doesn’t say anything at first, just watches your fingers intertwine with hers beneath the surface, her thumb brushing soft circles against your skin.

Her lips part slightly, as though she wants to say more but doesn’t trust her voice.

Eventually, she leans her head back against the tub’s edge, closing her eyes.

“You know… I never thought I’d have this. Peace. Someone to come home to.”

You shift a little closer, your leg brushing gently against hers.

“You deserve it,” you say quietly. “More than you know.”

Her eyes open slowly, turning toward you—something raw and vulnerable flickering just beneath the surface.

“Sometimes I think I’m just waiting for it all to fall apart,” she murmurs. “For someone to take it away.”

You give a firm shake of your head.

“Then we fight for it—together.”

Sevika’s jaw tenses slightly, emotion thick in her throat. She turns toward you more fully, her wet fingers reaching to cradle your cheek.

“Damn it,” she whispers, voice rough. “You’re going to ruin me.”

You lean into her touch, your gaze gentle yet unwavering.

“Then I’ll handle every broken piece with care.”

For a moment, all she can do is look at you, her thumb gently brushing over your cheekbone.

Then, without warning, she leans in and kisses you—not rough or hurried like before, but slow, reverent.

Like she’s memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, for a world where maybe this doesn’t last—but here, now, it does.

The water sloshes gently as your bodies press closer, the kiss deepening with each breath.

The heat between you grows—not just from the bath, but from every whispered promise, every soft sigh exchanged between lips and hands.

When she finally draws away, Sevika presses her forehead against yours.

“You’re my peace,” she murmurs. “And my fire.”

You smile softly against her lips.

“Then we’ll burn quietly, side by side.”

She chuckles, low and warm in her chest.

“Quiet’s never really been our thing.”

“No,” you admit. “But it’s nice… once in a while.”

She nods slowly, pulling you gently into her arms, your back pressed to her chest as she settles behind you.

Her chin tucks against your shoulder, her breath steady and slow.

For the first time in a long time, the world outside doesn’t matter. It’s just you. Her. And the warmth that wraps around you both—body and soul.

[hellothereobiwankenobi]

yellow ribbon on the door | chapter four

⟢ summary: Joel keeps finding excuses to see you.

⟢ pairing: joel miller x afab!reader (femme but not descriptive as to actual features)

⟢ tags: no outbreak au, flower shop au, idiots in love, small age gap, joel is 35 and reader is 29 about to be 30, reader is a war widow, operation desert storm mentioned, reader is a single mother to ellie, eventual smut, no beta reader we die like men

⟢ wc: 5.5k

⟢ authors notes: Hello, friends! It's been almost two weeks since my last update. I'm so sorry for that. I am a university student, so very regularly real life gets too busy for me to write. Very inconsiderate of the my professors to give me so much homework and distract me from my real passion if you ask me. I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

Also this is the longest chapter I have written yet... so enjoy!

ꕥ previous │ navigation │ao3 │ next ꕥ

This afternoon marks the third time Joel has arrived unannounced at your flower store in the past three weeks. He explained that the last time he was here, he noticed one of your display tables had a wobble. That's all he said before setting his tools down, kneeling next to the faulty table leg, and getting to work. He worked in relative silence, allowing you to continue your daily duties undisturbed. Once he had evened out the legs and ensured they were secure, he gave you a curt goodbye and left without saying anything else. Two days later, he came again. This time, it was your front door. He stated the hinges were squeaky and needed to be oiled. The following week, he returned again. The faucet of the utility sink in your back storage room, where you wash used planter pots and fill your watering can, would drip even when turned off fully. It started to seem every time he came, he noticed something else that needed to be fixed.

Joel's surprise visits had become a semiweekly tradition. Despite the rocky past shared between you, having him there starts to feel normal. The two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm like this. He would work on the myriad of repairs as you helped customers, fulfilled orders, or completed regular housekeeping around the shop, sneaking glances at each other whenever the other was distracted. 

With each visit, you see glimpses of the man Tommy described to you all those months ago—a quiet, stoic facade but protective and dependable.

One morning, he arrives before the store is open. You're on the front sidewalk, eyes closed, face scrunched, and both hands clutching a large bag of potting soil. At least nine matching bags are stacked outside the shop next to you.

You give up, drop the bag you're trying to drag inside, and wipe the sweat starting to accumulate at your temples. You don't know how to get them inside, but your current efforts are not working.

Joel jumps out of his truck and jogs over to where you are standing.

"Oh, good morning, Joel." Your breath comes out in huffs, the exertion apparent from your shaky voice. You gesture down at the bags of soil giving you so much trouble. "The delivery guy usually brings them in for me, but they were just sitting there when I got here."

Without saying anything, Joel tosses one bag over his left shoulder and tucks another under his right arm. He carries each bag of potting soil to the back storage as you stand in shock, wondering how strong could he really be?

It's mid-August, and Joel is adding extra supports to the ceiling to hold the crystal chandelier that illuminates the front showroom. His brows pull together as he takes the final support screw from between his teeth and inserts it into the ceiling with an electric drill. 

You're arranging baby pink alstroemeria and white carnations in a red-tinted vase at the front counter. A soft, unconscious smile pulls at your lips as you preen the bouquet before you. This is the kind of moment Joel likes the most. The kind that makes all his labors around the shop worth the effort. It's only the two of you. The store is quiet, apart from the same poppy tune you've been humming all morning. He can ignore all the world's demands outside and enjoy the peace that being with you like this brings.

"What's your favorite?" Joel's voice pulls you from your reverie. 

Your head jerks up, eyes wide in surprise. "I'm sorry, what?"

"What's your favorite flower?" He repeats.

It was a simple question, but you're taken aback. You aren't used to Joel asking you about yourself. Truthfully, you aren't used to him asking you anything.

You try to collect your thoughts. "Well, I like sunflowers. Primrose begonia. Mecardonia. Black-eyed Susan. Creeping Zinnia" 

A sudden wave of self-awareness washes over you. You feel a bit silly, rattling off half a dozen names. You let out a nervous laugh while your cheeks begin to warm. Adding in a rush, "Anything yellow. It's my favorite color."

If Joel notices your onset discomfort, he doesn't let it show. He returns his attention to screwing in the last support. 

Joel completes his efforts regarding the chandelier and makes a final trip from the shop to his work truck to return his tools. You want to catch him before he can make his usual silent goodbye. Tugging at the apron strings tied behind your back, you pull your head through the neck-straps, hanging it on a hook by the register. "Think I'll close up for an hour and grab something for lunch."

Joel turns around sharply at the sound of your voice, his dark eyes immediately finding you. He's just staring at you, so you continue, "Would you like to come with me?" 

The gears in his head start to work overtime. You want to get lunch. 

With him. 

Over the past several weeks, the two of you have spent countless hours together. You've seen each other more regularly than ever before. The idea of getting lunch together shouldn't fluster him like this… but it does.

You are still waiting for a reply.

Shit. Shit, say something, he mentally scolds himself.

"Yes." Is all he can force out.

You didn't realize it, but you had been holding your breath, waiting for his answer. The last time you presented him with a similar offer, he had blatantly shut it down. You crack a slight smile that develops into the kind that makes the corners of your eyes crinkle. "Okay, let me lock up real quick."

Joel brings the last of his tools to his truck and waits outside for you. You carry a camel-colored leather tote under one arm and meet him outside. Flipping a small sign that reads 'Be Back Soon' you lock the front door before dropping the keys into your purse.

"We can walk from here. One of the perks of being downtown." You lead the way to a coffee shop just around the block. It's the type of trendy business that has been popping up throughout the downtown district for the last several years. Joel would never go somewhere like this on his own. The crowds that frequent these places were a little too clean cut for his liking and don't typically mix with working-class folk like him.

The two of you enter and join the line to order. The café's interior is decorated in warm earth tones and natural wood.

"They have the best bagel sandwiches here." You look up at Joel with bright eyes and a broad smile, making his stomach flip. Giddy excitement is painted across your face. How could he think of food when you're looking at him like that?

Stepping up to the counter, you ask, "Can I get a medium iced caramel latte with extra drizzle and a toasted turkey bagel sandwich cut in half, please?"

The college-age barista behind the counter scribbles down your order on a palm-sized notepad before turning his attention to Joel. "And you, sir?"

Joel is still looking down at you, but his gaze is fixated on your bare upper arm. The short puff sleeves of your orange and white gingham linen dress left most of your arms on display. He imagines reaching out, just a few inches, and brushing his knuckles down the exposed skin—feeling how soft you are.

"Sir?" the barista repeats, louder this time.

This finally pulls Joel's attention back to the café. But his mind has been too preoccupied; he hasn't given any thought to what he wants to order. 

"Black coffee." He hurries out.

The barista looks a bit confused but writes it down on the notepad.

"You don't want anything to eat?" Your gaze is directed to Joel, concern swimming in your eyes.

He shakes his head. "I'll be fine."

"Hmm," you're not convinced, but you choose not to push the issue. Opening your purse, you dig through the mess, looking for your wallet. The medium-sized bag seems bottomless, filled with old receipts, a pack of baby wipes, ChapStick, a travel-size bottle of sunscreen, a used tissue or two, and an astronaut LEGO figure you're sure Ellie dropped in there.

When you finally find it, Joel is already pulling a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his own. He reaches around you and slides it across the counter to the barista. 

"Why did you do that?" you ask, shooting him a disapproving look. "I invited you. You need to finally let me thank you for all your help."

Maybe it was his southern upbringing but Joel could never imagine letting a lady pay for their date. 

Not that this is a date, he thinks to himself.

"I'll get it next time." You huff before marching off to find a table.

The two of you settle on a two-person table next to the front windows of the café, but the gravity of the situation quickly makes itself known. Sitting across from each other like this feels more intimate than it should.

Silence falls between you, both waiting for the other to break it first. You keep a small, practiced smile on your face, but hidden under the table, your fidgeting fingers betray you. Joel nervously bounces his knee, his posture too straight, and his usual stony expression occupies his face.

"So," you can’t take the silence anymore and ask, "Is Sarah ready for the first day of school next week?" hoping to ease the growing tension.

The butterflies raising havoc in Joel's stomach cease at the mention of Sara. Like all proud fathers, his favorite subject is his daughter. His expression softens, and his shoulders relax. "Yeah, first day of high school. Makes me feel old."

"I understand what you mean." You let out a small laugh. "Ellie's starting first grade. She's so excited to leave kindergarten and start 'big girl school.'"

Joel nods, and a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. The memory of Sarah in the same scenario comes to mind: "I reckon I was more scared than Sarah was for her first day. I walk her up to the classroom. As soon as she sees they have a rabbit for a class pet, she runs for it. Didn't look back once."

The atmosphere lightens as you discuss how nervous Ellie's transition to elementary school is making you. Deep down, Ellie is a sweet girl. She loves animals, likes to play with the younger kids she meets during trips to the park, and is fascinated by all things outer space. But you're also aware that she is a handful at the best of times.

The barista arrives at the table, holding your food and drinks on a black serving tray. He lays your respective drinks down and places a white ceramic plate in front of you before wishing you both a good meal. 

Looking over at Joel's lonely mug of black coffee, you place half of the bagel sandwich on a paper napkin and slide it across the table. As he opens his mouth to object, you shoot him one of those mom looks that reads, 'Don't even try to argue.' His mouth snaps shut, knowing this isn't a fight he will win.

You pick up the other half of the sandwich from the plate with both hands and take a bite. It's just as good as you remember. Washing it down with a sip of your latte, you wrap your lips around the straw. Joel becomes distracted by the seemingly innocent action as he watches your mouth carefully. Absent-mindedly, your tongue runs over your plush lips after removing the straw from between them. His mind drifts again, imagining what else he'd like to see your lips wrapped around.

Before you can catch him staring, Joel clears his throat and pushes those thoughts away. "Why a flower store?"

"There's no better gift than a bouquet of your favorite flowers." You set down your sandwich and wipe your hands on a napkin. "When I was a kid, my dad would come home from work and surprise my mom with flowers' just because'. I'll never forget the look on her face every time he did. Thought maybe I could be a part of that for someone else."

You take another drink before continuing, "And I've been digging in the garden for as long as I can remember. I never went to college, so plants are the only thing I really know."

Joel can understand that. He had been working his trade since he was fourteen. His father would dictate that he accompany him to different work sites during school breaks. His dad had insisted it would 'help him become a man,' but Joel knew the real reason was the family could use the money. After high school graduation, college seemed like a distant fantasy for him. He was a decent student, but the family's financial situation hadn't improved over the years. Joel knew his younger brother would have to take his place with their father if he had left. Tommy was only twelve at the time.

Eventually, Tommy finished his education and joined the Army. Joel stayed home and worked as an independent carpenter until he finished his enlistment. That's when the two brothers agreed to start Miller Brothers Contracting.

"Just before I lost my husband, I realized I didn't have a life outside of being a mom and an Army wife. So, when the life insurance money came, I put half away for Ellie's college fund. The rest I used to help open the shop."

Joel sipped his coffee as you spoke. He is sure that life must have been lonely. He knows firsthand what it's like to raise a daughter alone.

"You're not from here. Why stay in Austin?" Joel can't stop himself now. He's gotten a small look at who you really are and wants to see it all.

You squirm in your seat momentarily while thinking of an answer, and Joel wonders if he has overstepped.

"My hometown," you look down at your drink and stir the glass with the straw, apprehensive to continue, "isn't the type of place with a lot of opportunities. All the guys I grew up with joined the military, and all the girls got married right after graduation and started having babies. It's just not the kind of life I want for Ellie. I want her to have every opportunity I never had."

Joel can only nod his head. Your dejected look pulls hard on his heart, making it ache.

Without thinking, he blurts out, "Tommy's comin' over for dinner this weekend. You and Ellie should come on by."

"Really?" Your eyes jump from your coffee to the man sitting across from you. The beaming smile you give him melts away the aching in his chest. "That would be great!"

"Five o'clock, Saturday," Joel says before checking the time on his phone. "I gotta go. But, yeah, Saturday." He stands from his seat.

He exits the café, phone still in hand, and dials Tommy's number. 

"Tommy," he speaks into the receiver, "I need you to come over Saturday."

Standing on Joel's front porch, holding a bottle of expensive French wine that you can't pronounce the name of, you take a deep breath before knocking on the front door. Just before 5:00 PM, you and Ellie pull into his driveway.

This is just like the other times you've been here. It's nothing new, you remind yourself, trying to untangle the knots forming in your stomach.

The door swings open, and Sarah greets you both with a smile. "Hi, Mrs. Williams." She steps aside, allowing you two to step inside.

The sound of glass shattering echoes through the home, followed by a loud 'Damnit, Tommy' coming from the kitchen. 

"Dad and Uncle Tommy are in the kitchen." Sarah winces at the sound of broken glass. "They might need your help."

You let out a small laugh and shake your head. The Miller brothers never cease to entertain. Ellie and Sarah follow behind as you enter the kitchen.

Turning the corner, you see the two brothers bickering in front of the stove. There is a glass jar of spaghetti sauce splattered across the floor.

"I told you not to put that there." Joel points a wooden spoon at his brother's chest.

"Maybe if you looked where you were goin' for once, you wouldn't've knocked the damn thing over." Tommy shoots back. You imagine this is what they have been like since they were kids.

You clear your throat, and both men see the three of you watching them fight.

Tommy beams, stepping over the mess painting the kitchen floor, and bends to wrap his arms around Ellie. He picks her up into his arms and plants a quick kiss on her cheek. "How's my favorite baby girl?"

Ellie wraps her little arms around his neck but turns her nose up at the question, "I'm not a baby, Uncle Tommy. I go to big girl school now."

"You do?" he plays along as though he doesn't know. "Well, shit, kiddo. Pretty soon, your mama's gonna be teachin' you to drive."

"Tommy," You give a soft smack to his upper arm "language, please."

"Sorry, Sugar." He turns his head to you, a cheeky grin taking over his face. He gives Ellie one more kiss before returning her to the ground. He wraps his arms around you next, squeezing you tight. As he pulls away, he slips the bottle of wine from your hand.

Tommy lets out a low whistle as he reads the label "The good stuff. You tryin' to get me drunk?"

"Like you ever need help with that." You roll your eyes. "It was a gift from a client for doing their wedding arrangements on short notice."

Tommy nods to Joel over his shoulder, "I'll put this somewhere he can't knock it over." He exits the kitchen and disappears into the living room.

Joel looks ready to start round two with his brother but stops in his tracks when you turn your attention to him. You give him a small wave, accompanied by a gentle smile, and he forgets whatever heated remark he was going to make.

"Hey, Ellie." Sarah crouches down to her eye level. "Wanna play with bubbles in the backyard again?"

Ellie nods so fast that you think she'll make herself dizzy. The two girls exit through the glass sliding door and disappear into the late August sun, leaving you and Joel alone.

You look down at the mess on the floor. Taking a large step over it, you reach for a roll of paper towels on the counter. Crouching down, you collect the larger pieces of glass before discarding them in the trash can. Joel lowers himself to the floor beside you, and you hand him a wad of paper towels.

"So, I'm guessing we are having spaghetti." You tease.

"Was supposed'a be." He mumbles.

The two of you work to mop up the remaining spilled sauce. When the paper towels absorb the last few drops, you look up to see Joel is closer than you realize. His face is only inches away from your own. Heat burns at your cheeks and your breath hitches in your throat. Shooting up to a standing position, you throw away the soiled paper towels.

"Let's see what we can put together." you rush out, turning to wash your hands at the sink.

Joel stands back in amazement as you expertly scurry around the kitchen, making a single jar of pasta sauce stretch enough for five people. To the jar of premade sauce, you add two cans of crushed tomatoes and a tin of tomato paste he didn't know he had in his pantry. As the sauce thickens in a medium sized soup pot on the stove, you sprinkle in several dried seasons, stirring as needed. A pot of salted water comes to a boil as you place the pasta inside. After raiding his fridge for scraps, you pull together a salad from half a head of lettuce and miscellaneous garden vegetables.

When you find out the men hadn't thought of what to serve for dessert, you dig through the pantry to find a half-full bag of chocolate chips and just enough flour and sugar to make a single batch of cookies. You roll dough balls between your palms and place them on an oiled baking sheet. 

The comfortable silence that has taken over the kitchen as you worked breaks when Sarah and Ellie come running into the house from the backyard. Tommy had found himself outside playing with the girls, and now they are trying to outrun him. Tommy throws open the sliding door, baring his teeth and growling while he looks around the room, putting on his best monster impression. He catches sight of Ellie and bolts toward her. She bursts into laughter and runs to hide between you and the kitchen counter, trying to obscure herself behind your legs.

Tommy takes slow, heavy steps, getting closer and closer. His gaze moves from the laughing girl to the individual balls of cookie dough on the counter before you.

"Tommy, don't even think about it." You warn, "You'll ruin your appetite."

Tommy's eyes shift back to Ellie, who is still hiding behind your legs. He gives her a quick nod, a mischievous smile stretching across his face. He lunges forward, grabbing three cookie dough balls off the baking sheet and shouts "Girls, run!"

The three troublemakers race for the backyard, laughing the whole way.

A soft 'Damn it, Tommy' leaves your lips, but there is no malice behind the words.

Joel chuckles to himself at the exchange. A month ago, the same scene playing out in front of him would have left him seething. A bitter taste would have coated his tongue for the rest of the night. But as he has come to understand his feelings and gotten to know you better, the relationship between you and Tommy warms his heart. Add the fact that seeing you in his kitchen like this felt so domestic, so right. Like it is always supposed to be like this.

When dinner is ready, Joel calls out for Tommy and the girls to come inside. The five of you cram yourselves around a small, circular dining table. Throughout the meal, everyone bumps knees and is nearly rubbing shoulders, but no one minds.

Joel scolds Tommy for showing Sarah and Ellie a trick where he can pull a piece of spaghetti noodle from his nose that he learned while in boot camp. Sarah tells you how she has already planned every outfit for her first week of high school. Ellie shows the whole table how Uncle Tommy taught her to make farting sounds with her armpit. Then it's your turn to scold Tommy.

You sit back from the content chaos and take a sip from your glass of wine. You can't remember the last time you ate a meal like this as a big family. For years, it had been just you and Ellie. Before that, it was usually just you alone. But being here, watching the mayhem unfold, makes you feel whole.

After dinner, you sit with the two brothers on the deck overlooking the backyard. You notice Joel must have bought a third Adirondack chair since you were here last, which is nice as you no longer have to sit on the arm of Tommy's. You're explaining to Tommy all the work Joel has been doing around the shop; all the while, he throws his brother knowing grins.

Joel tries his best to block him out and listen to you speak. Usually, he would shrink away if someone were to gush about him like this, but it was coming from you. Your praises are making his heart race and filling him with a sense of pride he has never felt before.

You hear tiny feet stomping up the stairs, connecting the deck to the grassy yard and across to where you sit. 

"Mommy, Sarah said she can take me to the park. She said it has two slides, a little one and a big one, and a swing set." Ellie's eyes are wide with excitement. "Can I go?"

"Well," you draw out skeptically, thinking it over. You trust Sarah to be responsible, but letting Ellie out of your near proximity has always been anxiety-provoking.

"C'mon, now." Tommy pipes up, "Let the poor girl go swing." He takes a drink from the brown beer bottle in his hand. He had started drinking during dinner and now was on bottle number five.

You shift your face to him, about to say something about Uncle Tommy being a bad influence, but then your eyes turn to Joel. Sarah is his daughter. If he thinks she is mature enough to do it, you would say yes.

"Why don't you ask Sarah's daddy if it's okay." You give your daughter a reassuring smile and point to Joel.

Ellie turns her attention to Joel, "The asshole."

You think your heart has stopped beating. Your very coherent thought leaves your mind as the horror of what Ellie said settles around you. 

Tommy nearly chokes on his drink. He erupts into a screaming fit of laughter, squeezing his eyes shut as tears threaten to stream down his cheeks. 

"Ellie!" Your voice is shaky and panicked. You turn to Joel, face burning hot and crimson from mortification. You try to put on an apologetic smile, but your face feels like it's going numb. "I-I'm so sorry. I have, I have no idea where she heard."

"Mommy, you said that," Ellie replies nonchalantly as though she doesn't understand how you forgot.

"My love," your pitch is a bit too high to be natural. An artificial sweetness becomes present. "Remember when we talked about not repeating what Mommy says at home?" 

Ellie still doesn't see the problem with what she said. She shrugs her shoulders and gives a slight shake of her head.

"Okay, Ellie. Go to the park with Sarah." The unnatural sweetness is still in your voice.

Ellie runs off to rejoin Sarah without a second thought.

You shoot to your feet, refusing to look at either of the men next to you. "I'm going to grab another glass of wine." You rush into the house, clutching your empty wine glass, and slam the sliding door behind you.

Tommy wipes the tears from his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. His sides are sore and he feels like his face is going to split in half. He slaps a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Well, at least you ain't gotta wonder what she thinks about you anymore."

You fumble with the bottle of wine as you uncork it, pouring the burgundy liquid into the crystal glass. You throw back the entire glass before pouring another. 

Your heart rate has almost returned to normal when Joel enters the kitchen. 

A second wave of guilt washes over you again. You can't bring yourself to look at him. "Joel, I am so sorry."

"It's okay." he offers as he steps closer to you.

"No, really." Your voice grows small. "I'm so sorry. I never should have said that in front of Ellie, and I especially never should have said that about you.

"It's okay." He repeats.

You place the wine glass on the counter and stare down at your hands, fingers fidgeting. "When I said that, we barely knew each other." The more you speak, the more nervous you become. The fear of ruining your already fragile new relationship with Joel terrifies you. "You've been so amazing with all the help around the shop. I feel so awful. I just—"

Joel grabs you, wrapping his large hands around your upper arms. "It's okay."

You finally look at him, eyes wide. 

"I've been a real asshole to you since we met." Joel pauses. "And… I'm sorry."

The sensation of relief you feel from his words is overwhelmed by something different. 

Joel is touching you. 

He's never touched you before. The big hands and strong fingers you've caught yourself daydreaming about more than once are currently wrapped around your upper arms. Warm skin on warm skin. His palms are calloused from two decades of hard labor, but there is a softness to them as well that you didn't expect. 

Joel seems to realize this at the same time you do. He lets go of your arms and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The warmth from where his skin touched yours is gone within an instant.

The sun was setting when Sarah and Ellie returned from the park. Joel, Tommy and you all sat in the living room. The brothers sit on opposite sides of the brown leather couch while you occupy a black recliner. The television was tuned to a Texas Rangers game, but none of you were watching it.

You and Joel sit in a comfortable silence as Tommy fights to keep his eyes open. Though he refuses to admit it, he definitely had one too many tonight. 

Sarah and Ellie enter through the front door. Without saying a word, Ellie climbs into your lap, rests her little cheek against your chest, and closes her eyes.

"Did you two have fun at the park?" You ask, wrapping both arms around your daughter.

Ellie nods her head against your chest, eyes still closed.

Sarah sits on the couch between Joel and Tommy. She leans her head on her father's shoulder and wraps her arms around his.

"Think it's time for the little ones to get some sleep." You tease, rubbing Ellie's back as her breaths become slow and even.

"Joel, can I sleep here tonight?" Tommy slurs. 

"Yeah, go ahead." Joel agrees. The idea of Tommy behind the wheel in this state would terrify anyone. And the last thing Joel wants to do is pick up his younger brother from the Travis County Jail for another DUI.

Tommy pushes off the couch and stands on shaky legs. Once he finds his balance, he shoots you a toothy grin. "Nighty night, Sugar."

"Goodnight, Tommy." You let out a breathy laugh. Tommy was always Tommy, regardless of his sobriety level.

Tommy grabs the staircase's railing and climbs each step as carefully as he can in this state. Joel watches him, making sure there aren't any unfortunate accidents about to happen. 

Sarah also stands from the couch, stretching before wishing Joel and you a goodnight.

"We should probably get going, too." You shift Ellie in your arms, making carrying her to the car easier. You rise to your feet and look to Joel. "Thanks again for having us over."

He's on his feet in an instant. "Course, anytime." 

Joel races to the front door, holding it open for you. You walk toward the driveway where you had parked your car. Securing your hold on Ellie with one arm, you fish your keys out of your pocket with the other, clicking the unlock button on the key fob. Joel moves around you, opening the back passenger door so you can place Ellie into her car seat. Joel stays there, hand on the door as you secure the belt over your sleeping daughter. Once Ellie is strapped in, you step out of the way so Joel can gently shut the door.

"Y'all two can stay." Joel offers. He knew the three glasses of wine you drank weren't enough to get you drunk, but he still worried about you driving back to the city when it was so dark outside "I can kick Tommy outta the guest room and onta the couch."

"Or you girls can sleep in my bed, and I'll take the couch." Joel was ever the southern gentleman, offering his own room so you and Ellie would be comfortable.

"Sounds like you're just trying to get me in your bed, Joel." you tease, flashing him a flirtatious smile. 

Maybe you were more drunk than Joel initially thought.

Joel's heart starts to race, and he swallows thickly despite how dry his mouth has suddenly become, "I-I wasn't implyin'—"

"I'm just messing with you." You laugh. Your smile is so big it forces your eyes half closed.

Joel's mind is moving a million miles a minute, and he isn't sure how to respond.

Before he can formulate a sentence in reply, you are walking around the front of your car and climbing into the driver's seat. You start the engine, give Joel a polite wave goodbye, and pull out onto his street, driving into the night.

⟢ authors notes: I think I must be ovulating because writing Tommy's scene where he's playing with Ellie has me feeling some type of way. But can you tell how much I love Tommy?

Also, I'm trying to keep this story as realistic as possible. I've put a lot of research into grief, military life in the 1990's and early 2000's, and the general attitude of the continue during that time it for later chapters. The one thing I did take artistic liberty with is that someone is watching a Rangers game in Austin. I know that technically Astros territory, but fuck the Astros.

⟢ tag list: @koshkaj-blog @orcasoul @damneddamsy @legoemma @isabella-rose-trastamara @hoddystark @suzysface @speaktothehandpeasants @anoverwhelmingdin @orodaeh