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killerplink · 20 hours ago

Text

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader

Words: 4,8k

Plot: After a long night of patrol, Nightwing comes home, too tired for anything—but he's never too tired for you.

CW: 18+, smut, established relationship, praise, creamp!e

Dick's body aches by the time he gets home, his muscles tight from a long night of patrolling and fighting. Blood, grime, and sweat cling to his skin, and all he can think about is getting clean and sinking into bed beside you.

His steps falter as he walks into the bedroom and his eyes rake over you—the way his favorite black lace set hugs your curves, your thighs pressing together as you shift in your sleep. You're lying on your stomach, the soft, delicate fabric of your thong perfectly framing the curve of your ass.

The straps rest high on your hips, leaving just enough of your skin bare to make his dick twitch against the towel. God, he loves how that little number hugs your body. Even after all these years, you can ruin him with so much as an innocent stretch.

But this? There's nothing innocent about the way you're laid out like a gift for him.

He runs a hand through his damp hair, trying to focus on not waking you, but the ache in his body shifts downward. He should have been exhausted after the long patrol, but right now, the only thing he wants is you.

Dick crawls onto the bed, careful not to wake you fully, and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, then another to your back. His arm circles around your waist as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the familiar scent of your skin as he presses himself against your warm, soft body.

"Hi, doll," he murmurs as his lips continue to brush tender kisses along your shoulder.

Your sleepy hum vibrates against him, and you stir in his hold. "Baby..." you whisper, the sound almost a whimper as you instinctively press back against him.

Your ass grinds lazily against his cock, which is hard and heavy beneath the towel, and his breath catches in his throat.

"Yeah, sweet girl?" he asks, his voice strained.

His hand roams over your waist, slipping beneath the thin strap of your thong to squeeze the soft flesh of your hip. Dick can't stop himself from grinding against you for a moment, reveling in the feel of your soft curves against his aching cock.

"Missed you," you murmur, your tone laced with sleep and heat, and he chuckles softly, his lips brushing your ear.

"I missed you too," he replies, his voice soft like velvet.

But the smile playing on his lips quickly turns into a groan when you roll your hips again. The way you move, even half-asleep, drives him insane. Your body rolls back against his, and the lazy grind of your hips has him throbbing. His large, warm palm slides down to cup your ass before dipping between your legs.

The second his fingers brush over the damp fabric of your panties, he groans. "Fuck," he mutters, his thumb pressing against your clit through the thin lace. "Did you play with yourself before I got home, baby? You're soaked."

Your cheeks heat at the question, but you nod, murmuring sheepishly, "Mhmm, too horny... couldn't help it," you admit.

Dick hisses as his cock throbs, pressing insistently against the thin towel. "I'm sorry I was late. Let me make it up to you, yeah?" he murmurs, his tone laced with genuine remorse, but his fingers don't let up, circling your clit with practiced precision.

You whimper as his fingers tease your entrance, dipping inside just enough to make your hips jerk. You moan softly, pushing back against him, your body silently pleading for more.

"Need your dick, love," you plead, your voice sweet and needy, and his restraint snaps.

His breath hitches at your words, and he doesn't need to be told twice. His hand leaves your clit, and he tugs down his towel, tossing it carelessly, his dick springing free.

Your panties are soaked, the thin fabric clinging to your folds, and he swears under his breath as he slides them aside. You feel the thick weight of his cock press against your bare ass, his warm precum smearing across your skin as he moves you, positioning you against him with your back flush to his muscular chest.

But then one of your hands reaches between your bodies, trembling slightly as you grab his dick, guiding him to your entrance. The blunt head presses against your folds, the stretch burning in the most delicious way.

"God, this pussy," he thinks, jaw clenching as he slides deeper, "so warm, so fucking tight."

Your thoughts mirror his—he's perfect, thick and long, veins pressing along his length, the flushed head leaking against your slick folds, filling you in a way that always leaves you breathless. No matter how many times he fucks you, it's never enough. His dick stretches you open, inch by inch, and he bites his lip to keep from losing it right then and there.

"Fuck, baby," you moan, your walls fluttering around him as you adjust to the stretch.

"God," he groans, his voice rough as he sinks deeper into you.

Your pussy molds around his dick, so perfect, like you were made for him, and he's always mesmerized. He's hard, hot and fucking perfect, filling you so deeply you can feel every ridge, every pulse of his cock as he bottoms out. A moan slips from your lips, soft and needy, and he presses a kiss to your neck.

"You feel so good, baby. Always so good for me," he murmurs softly, almost sweet.

Your body trembles, a quivering, writhing mess against him, every nerve alight with pleasure as his cock moves inside you. The way he fills you—his length dragging slowly against your sensitive walls—has your mind spiraling, the deep pressure of his thrusts making your toes curl. Your pussy grips him tightly, clenching greedily with every stroke, and the wet, obscene sounds of his cock gliding in and out of your slick heat make your cheeks flush.

Dick groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck where his lips linger. "Fuck, my love," he rasps, his hips rolling in a deliberate rhythm.

His cock feels like it's made to ruin you—stretching you perfectly, the veins along his shaft brushing sensitive spots inside you as his head nudges against that sweet, devastatingly good place with every deep thrust.

"You're so tight, baby," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear.

The words send a shiver down your spine, your walls fluttering around him as you gasp his name. "Dick... oh, God," you whimper, the stretch of him almost too much, but exactly what you need.

One of his hands slips under your body to cup your tits through your lacy bra, his fingers tugging gently at your nipples, teasing them into stiff peaks, while the other grips your thigh, keeping you spread wide open for him.

"Greedy little thing," he growls, his large hand sliding down to grab your ass, spreading your cheeks as he watches his cock disappear into your slick heat. The sight makes his dick twitch inside you, and he lets out a low, guttural groan. "Look at this pretty pussy, swallowing me up like it was made for it."

You whimper at his filthy praise, your walls fluttering around him. The angle has you gasping, sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.

Every thrust feels deeper than the last, each one deliberate, calculated to drag against every sensitive spot inside you. He watches the way your arousal coats his dick, glistening in the dim light of the bedroom, and groans again, deeper this time.

"Look at you," he mutters, his voice rough. "So wet for me. You love this, don't you, baby?"

His hips snap forward, grinding deep, and you cry out, nodding desperately. God, he's so big, stretching you open, filling you up just right—perfectly, like he was made for you. Every slow, deliberate thrust presses you tighter against him, his broad chest flush against your back, muscles taut and burning with restraint. He's warm, solid, every inch of him hard in the way that drives you insane, from the thick curve of his cock to the powerful arms wrapped around you, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

And of course, you can't get enough. How could you? He's everything—tall, strong, built—his body a masterpiece of discipline and power, honed from years of pushing himself to his absolute limits.

And yet, here he is, using all that strength for you, to fuck you slow and deep, to keep you right where he needs you, to stretch your needy little pussy around his dick like it's the only thing that matters.

And it is, at least to him.

He groans, burying his face in your neck, voice thick and wrecked as he watches the way you take him, the way your body clings to him, sucking him in deeper every time he moves. He can feel how much you love it—how wet you are, how your slick coats his cock, dripping down to make a mess of his thighs. Fuck, you're perfect. And his. Completely, utterly his.

His fingers trail down, slipping between your legs, rubbing slow, teasing circles over your swollen clit. You shudder, gasping as pleasure sparks down your spine, and he smirks against your skin.

"You feel that, sweetheart?" he rasps, nipping at your ear. "The way you're squeezing me? So greedy, baby."

And you are. Desperate for him, desperate to take every inch, to keep him buried deep inside you, to let him fuck you until you're ruined—until you can't think of anything but him. And God, he's going to give it to you. All of it.

He smirks against your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin as his hips start to pick up speed, just a little. The drag of his length turns into long, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in with a steady, deliberate force. Each thrust sends a wave of heat rushing through your body, your cunt tightening around him as your moans grow louder.

The soaked lace of your panties, shoved to the side, clings to your skin and drags along his cock with every thrust, maddeningly slow and deliberate. The damp fabric, sticky with your slick, adds a friction so filthy it makes his head spin. Each movement sends a sharp jolt through him, the wet lace teasing his length as if designed to drive him insane.

It's intoxicating, the mess between you only making him lose himself more, and the thought of how soaked you are for him, how even your panties can't keep up, has him groaning, his hips slapping softly against your ass like he can't control it anymore.

"You take me so well," he praises, his voice soft but heavy with arousal. "Your pretty little pussy is so perfect for me, baby. Feels so fucking good."

And it does—he feels incredible, his cock pulsing inside you, the ridges of his shaft stroking your walls with every thrust. The way he moves is driving you crazy, his rhythm deep and unhurried, but perfectly in control, designed to keep you on the edge.

You're a vision of wrecked beauty, your body pliant and trembling against him, your moans like music to his ears. Your pussy squeezes him so tightly, sucking him in, slick and warm, the perfect fit. He's losing himself in the feel of you, the way your body responds to him, the soft, desperate sounds falling from your lips.

"Shit," he growls, his voice thick with need. "So sensitive, baby. You're close, aren't you?"

You nod, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as the pleasure builds, white-hot and all-consuming. "Close—so close," you whimper, your back arching as his cock thrusts deeper, hitting that perfect spot with devastating accuracy.

He leans down, pressing his lips to your ear as he whispers, "Cum for me, doll. Let me feel you."

And when you do, your pussy clenching around him like a vice, your cries spilling into the air, it's almost too much for him to handle. Your entire body trembles, back arching as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you, each pulse of your cunt around his cock drawing a ragged groan from his chest. It's intense, the way your walls flutter and tighten, gripping him so perfectly, like you're made to keep him right there, buried as deep as possible inside you.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, and the sound only spurs him on. His hips snap forward, grinding deeper, and you swear you can feel him everywhere—stretching you open, rubbing against every spot that makes you see stars, pulling every last ounce of pleasure from you.

Your slick gushes out, dripping onto his cock and your thighs, the lewd, wet sounds filling the room as he keeps moving, fucking you lazily through your orgasm like he's got all the time in the world.

And he doesn't stop—won't stop—not until he's wrung every last shudder, every last moan from you. His large hand splays over your thigh, gripping tight, spreading you open wider so he can push deeper, chasing the way your pussy clenches and pulses around him. He's groaning your name, low and wrecked, his cock twitching with every squeeze of your cunt.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice full of praise as his thrusts slow slightly, but remain deep, deliberate. "So perfect, baby. Always so good for me."

Your voice is soft but so utterly desperate, trembling as you whimper, "Dick, please, baby. Pump me full."

His cock twitches inside you at your plea, the sweet, breathless way you beg for him undoing him every time. He always gives you what you want—there's never been a single time he could resist you—but the way you ask for it, the need in your tone, makes his chest tighten and his blood burn hot.

How could he ever say no to you when you're trembling, soaked, and so damn sweet for him? He doesn't even want to try.

"Fuck," he growls low in his throat, his hips rolling deeper, the thick weight of his cock pressing into every inch of your sensitive walls. "You're gonna get it. Gonna fill this pretty little pussy up, just like you want."

You moan at his words, already desperate for the warmth of his cum. "Please, baby," you whimper. "Give it to me—want all of it."

"That's it, doll," he rasps, his hips stuttering as he chases his own release. "Fuck—gonna fill you up, sweetheart."

The promise alone makes you moan, your body arching against him, your overstimulated cunt clenching around him as if trying to pull him deeper, if possible. Your mind is hazy, fogged with nothing but the feeling of him stretching you so perfectly, hitting every nerve, every spot that makes you shatter.

You're still sensitive from earlier—three orgasms on your toy hadn't been nearly enough to take the edge off, and now, the intensity of him inside you has every inch of your body alight with need. It's overwhelming, but you've learned to crave this with him: the way he pushes you, drags you past your limits, only to leave you trembling with more pleasure than you thought possible.

His hand slides down to your swollen clit again, rubbing slow, purposeful circles as his dick drives deeper, harder. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice rough, full of adoration. "You're so wet for me. So greedy, baby. This pussy's perfect, always takes me so well."

Your breath catches as his words send a new wave of heat rushing through you, and you feel the tension coiling tight in your belly once more. The sensitivity is almost unbearable, every drag of his dick against your tender walls sending a fresh jolt of pleasure-pain through you.

"Dick," you gasp, your nails digging into the sheets as your thighs tremble. "Please—need it. Need your cum. Please."

"Shit," he hisses, his head dropping to press against the curve of your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin as he groans. His thrusts grow sharper, his rhythm erratic as the tight heat of your cunt pushes him closer to the edge. You're squeezing him so perfectly, your body trembling, your moans soft and needy as you beg for what he's already dying to give you. "Gonna cum, doll."

You nod frantically, your voice trembling as you whimper, "Yes, baby. Please, want it so bad."

His groan is guttural, torn from deep in his chest, as his thrusts slow but grow impossibly deeper. Each roll of his hips is deliberate, precise, his cock stretching and filling you to the brim with every inch. You can feel every throb of him, how he twitches inside you as his control finally snaps.

When he cums, it's with a sharp curse of your name, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. His dick jerks, pulsing deep inside you, and then you feel it—thick, hot ropes of his release spilling into you, flooding your needy cunt. The heat of it is almost too much, the way it fills you so completely, and it's all you can do to moan, your voice breaking as the sensation sends shockwaves of pleasure rippling through you.

Your body reacts instantly, your pussy clenching down around him, milking him for everything he has. The way he fills you, his cock still hard and nestled deep, sends you over the edge again.

Your orgasm crashes over you in dizzying waves, and you cry out, trembling as your cunt flutters and tightens around him, sucking him deeper. It's messy—so messy—his cum mixing with your slick, dripping down between your thighs as your body quivers uncontrollably.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his voice thick and wrecked.

His hips roll again, slow and deliberate, grinding against you, pushing his release deeper. You can feel him painting your walls, the sticky heat of his cum coating every inch of your pussy, and he doesn't stop—not until he's sure every last drop is exactly where he wants it.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his hand sliding to grip your thigh, spreading you wider so he can watch his cock disappear into your slick, messy cunt. "Taking me so fucking well, baby. You're perfect—fuck, you're perfect."

And you can't stop trembling, your body still riding out the aftershocks as his deep, deliberate thrusts drag your pleasure out. The stretch of his dick, the way it fills you and presses against every sensitive spot, leaves your mind blank and your voice hoarse from crying out his name.

Your moans soften into needy whimpers, your body limp as his hips slow, finally stilling. But even then, you can still feel him—hard and warm and buried deep, his cum seeping out around him despite how tightly your cunt clings to him.

You turn your head slightly, catching his lips in a soft, sleepy kiss, but it quickly deepens the moment his mouth moves against yours. His tongue brushes along the seam of your lips, coaxing them open, and you gasp softly as his dick shifts inside you, the sensation sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through you.

He takes advantage of the little sound, his tongue slipping into your mouth, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring every second of it. The kiss is messy, your tongues tangling together as soft moans spill from you, each one muffled by his lips.

His hand grips your thigh tighter, pulling you closer as his hips rock just enough to make you feel him—hard, thick, and buried so deep it has you clenching around him all over again.

You whimper against his mouth, your sleepy haze making the kiss sloppier, wetter, your tongues sliding and licking against each other as you chase the taste of him. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging gently, and you can't help but moan, your head tilting further to give him better access.

His groan rumbles low in his chest as he swallows your sounds, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, holding you in place as he kisses you deeper, filthier. Every movement of his tongue against yours feels electric, sending shivers through your body and making you grind back against him instinctively, desperate for more.

"Fuck, doll," he breathes against your lips, his voice low and wrecked.

But you're already pulling him back in, kissing him like you'll fall apart without the heat of his mouth on yours. It's needy, unrestrained, and he matches you completely, his own low moans slipping free as the kiss grows impossibly hotter.

"You feel so fucking good," you whisper, your voice laced with affection.

"Yeah, baby? You feel that?" he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Feel how full you are? How messy we've made you?"

You whimper, your pussy clenching involuntarily around him as his words send another rush of heat pooling in your belly. The wet sounds of his cock sliding through the mess he's made only make it worse, and you bite your lip, trying to keep your moans in check.

"Fuck," he pants, pressing soft kisses to your neck as he holds you close. His fingers trace lazy circles on your skin, soothing you as your body trembles in the aftermath.

You shiver, your voice soft, breathless, as you murmur, "More, baby."

His lips twitch into a smirk against your neck, and his hand tightens on your thigh once again, spreading you wider. "Oh, you're getting more, alright," he murmurs, his voice full of promise.

Before you can catch your breath, he shifts, flipping you onto your stomach with an ease that makes you shiver. He grips your hips, pulling you back onto his dick in one smooth motion, burying himself deep. The new angle has you crying out, the way he hits that perfect spot inside you over and over leaving you clawing at the sheets, desperate and completely at his mercy.

His thrusts grow harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room as he pounds into you. Each stroke is precise, deliberate, making you feel every thick, veiny inch of him stretching you, filling you to the brim. His large hands grip your ass, spreading you wider as he watches himself disappear into your dripping, swollen cunt.

You moan into the mattress, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crash over you. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, your voice cracking with each broken cry he pulls from you. And he doesn't stop—doesn't even slow—driving into you with everything he has, determined to leave you a trembling mess.

Hours later, when your body finally goes limp, completely wrecked and satisfied, he watches you with a smug, adoring grin. His large hands smooth over your shaky thighs, fingers brushing the sticky mess that's dripping from your pussy, his cum still leaking out no matter how deep he fucked it into you.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with pride. "So full of me, baby. You made such a mess, but you're so perfect like this."

He lets his fingers trail lazily between your thighs, spreading you open just enough to watch his release spill out, dripping down onto the sheets. The sight alone makes his cock twitch again, still heavy and sticky from everything you've already given him.

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before dragging his lips to yours, soft at first but growing hungrier with each passing second. His tongue slips into your mouth, tasting you, teasing you, even as his hand strokes your trembling thigh, his grip firm and grounding.

"Made it up to you, didn't I, my love?" he murmurs, his voice low and sweet.

You hum weakly in response, and he chuckles, pulling you into his arms, his body still pressed against yours as he holds you close. His fingers lazily trace patterns over your sweat-slicked skin, and you can't help but feel utterly adored—ruined, yes, but completely his.

No matter how exhausted or bruised he might be from a night of patrol—whether it's the weight of the city's darkness or the physical toll on his body—Dick never lets it show when he's with you. He's always there, still finding the energy to smile, to laugh, to touch you with that same warmth that's been constant since the beginning.

You can see it in the way he makes time for you, no matter how drained he might be. And it's that part of him, that unwavering commitment, that you love most. Even when the world is demanding everything from him, he still gives you all of him.

He kisses your forehead softly, his arms tightening around you slightly. Even when the weight of the world feels like it's crushing him, the moment he's in your arms, everything fades away.

It's not just the way you soothe him with your words—it's the way you are there, a steady presence in the chaos of his life. Whether it's holding him in silence after a long night or taking the time to gently tend to the bruises he's too used to hiding, you make him feel human again.

You don't treat him like the city's hero or the man with too many scars; you treat him like someone worth caring for, someone who deserves softness. And somehow, that's exactly what he needs—what he craves, even more than the sleep that often eludes him. With you, he feels like he can breathe again.

When he finally carries you to the bathroom, the exhaustion is still there, but it feels like a quiet, shared bond between the two of you. Neither of you speaks—there's no need. The warmth of his arms around you, the steady rhythm of his breath against your temple, it all says more than words ever could.

He sits by the tub with you still clinging to him, his grip firm but gentle, like he knows you need this closeness just as much as he does. His free hand reaches for the faucet, twisting it until a stream of warm water begins to fill the tub, steam curling into the air around you.

You don't move, don't loosen your grip, and he doesn't make you. Instead, he shifts just enough to let you stay curled against his chest, one hand stroking slow, soothing circles over your back. The heat from the water seeps into the air, but all you can focus on is him—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers trace mindless patterns against your skin, the quiet strength in his hold.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice soft but sure, lips brushing against your temple. "Just breathe, baby."

You do. You breathe with him, feeling the last remnants of tension start to ebb away, washed out by the warmth of his touch and the rhythmic sound of the water filling the tub.

When he finally moves, it's only to make sure the temperature is just right. He tests it with his hand before turning back to you, his touch as careful as ever. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get you in."

You nod, but you still don't let go, and he doesn't ask you to. Instead, he helps you into the tub with quiet patience, keeping you close, keeping you grounded.

When the water finally surrounds you, it's like a second layer of comfort, wrapping around your tired limbs, but it's still his presence that keeps you steady.

You both have the same goal now—cleaning up, but it's so much more than that. You've made a mess, but somehow, cleaning up together feels like a perfect reflection of how you care for each other.

And when he slides in behind you, pulling you back against him, arms wrapped securely around your waist, you finally let out a soft, shaky sigh. You feel the words slip from your lips, sleepiness making your voice softer, more vulnerable.

"I love you so much," you murmur, looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

You can feel his smile before you even see it, that same tenderness you know so well. With him, everything feels right, even in the aftermath of chaos. He pulls you a little closer, and his hands never stop moving—one smoothing up and down your arm, the other resting over your stomach, holding you like he's afraid to let go.

He presses a kiss to the side of your head, voice nothing more than a quiet murmur against your skin. "I love you too, baby."

The water swirls softly around you both, the quiet hum of the tub filling the space. It's intimate, it's comforting, and as he holds you, everything feels like it's been put back where it belongs.

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cherryloveshs · 10 hours ago

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WOAH ACING MY PHYSICS TEST, BEING GIFTED A HS1 VINYL ANDDD MY FAV WRITER POSTED ALL IN ONE DAY ???? chat is this heaven???? i love you this made me all giddy and gave me butterflies hehe 🥰

xoxo, i.

𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 | 𝐇.𝐒 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐘𝐍 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭.

𝐂𝐖: requested exrry blurb (thank u anon!), slight angst, happy ending, fem!reader, actress!reader, unedited.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 5k

❏ HI ! it’s been such a long time :( but i’m hoping i’m finally through with writers block. i feel like this doesn’t exactlyyyy fit anon’s request but i hope u liked it even a lil bit! i’m not 100% happy w this but i really wanna get something out so this will just have to suffice. missed yall <3

masterlist

there are moments in every love story when the world rearranges itself, tilts just enough to change the course of everything. it's the way a cigarette burns unevenly when the wind interferes, how a misplaced step shifts the dancer's rhythm, or the way a train leaves the station one minute too soon. for harry and YN, their love had been both a symphony and a storm, a masterpiece constructed on fragile scaffolding. in its final act, it had unraveled quietly, with only the sound of two hearts breaking in unison.

they hadn’t spoken in two years. two years of silences punctuated only by the occasional headline, the brush of a photo on a magazine rack, his voice threading through the speakers of a café. the world, it seemed, refused to let her forget him. but there he was now, not a photograph or a memory, but him. real, palpable, standing at the edge of her periphery like a ghost who hadn’t yet decided if it would haunt her or let her go.

YN leaned against the balustrade, clutching a glass of something that tasted more sour than it should have. the event itself was a haze of champagne flutes and low conversations, an industry soirée dripping in muted opulence. her dress was a deep shade of dusk, clinging to her like a second skin, and she felt beautiful in it—had felt beautiful in it—until she saw him.

harry was dressed as he always was: an effortless mosaic of contradictions. the suit was tailored to perfection, but his hair, unruly curls with the hint of rebellion, softened the sharp edges. there was no mistaking the tilt of his head, the way his eyes skimmed the room with an almost reluctant ease. she wondered if he’d seen her yet, if he’d feel that same quiet thrum in his chest when he did.

as if on cue, his eyes met hers.

the evening wasn’t designed for heartache. the sky, opalescent and blushing, rippled with the soft hues of twilight. lights strung through the manicured gardens of the estate flickered like fireflies caught in some eternal dance, glasses catching the shimmer like constellations in orbit. laughter rippled through the space, every corner alive with movement and conversation, yet harry could feel only the staccato of his pulse, sharp and relentless.

he wasn't supposed to see her tonight. it wasn't part of the plan—then again, plans were always shaky things when it came to them, built on the hope that tomorrow wouldn't bring a gust strong enough to dismantle it all.

it wasn’t a moment of cinematic epiphany. there was no gasp, no clinking glass slipping from trembling fingers. it was quieter than that, heavier. their eyes had met, and the weight of two years folded between them like a tide coming in—inevitable, undeniable.

his gaze dropped to her hands, searching for a ring, as though her life might have accelerated in the time since they'd parted. nothing. his chest tightened with something unnamable—relief? regret? both?

the last time they’d been in the same room, the air had been filled with shouting and static. their words had ricocheted off walls that had once heard laughter. they had been too much and not enough, two meteors colliding, destroying everything they touched in their desperate attempt to remain whole.

she loved him. god, how she had loved him. loves.

their love had been big. not in the way people tell stories about epic romances, but in the way it consumed everything around it. they fought like gods waging war. they loved like the first spring after a century of winter. they tore each other apart and put each other back together, over and over, until they couldn't remember what they had looked like before.

they stood like that for what felt like hours but must've been seconds, suspended in a quiet kind of agony. the people around them blurred into shapes, the air alive with the hum of champagne-fueled conversations and the laughter of people who had no concept of loss beyond the polite kind—misplaced keys, a delayed flight, the end of a film they'd rather not have finished. the only thing that seemed real was the chasm between them—filled with every moment they'd ever shared, every word spoken and unspoken, every touch and tear and promise.

he was walking toward her now. she could feel it in her chest before she saw it—the air shifting, the atoms around her realigning themselves to make room for his presence.

YN was radiant, in the way she always had been— light incarnate. her eyes, the same shade of longing he remembered, tried not to meet his own, but of course, they did. she's only human, and humans have always been drawn to the things that ruin them.

“YN.” he breathed when he was close enough, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to utter.

“harry.” his name tasted unfamiliar on her tongue, like a word spoken in a foreign language after years of disuse.

there were too many things she wanted to say, too many memories fighting to rise to the surface. she remembered the way his hands had once mapped her skin like a cartographer desperate to chart every inch. she remembered mornings spent tangled in sheets, the sunlight spilling over their laughter. she remembered the fights, the nights spent in separate rooms, the echoes of their own voices loud in the spaces between them.

“you look—” he started, then stopped, as though the right words had slipped through his fingers.

“so do you.”

silence bloomed between them, heavy and awkward, like a third presence neither of them invited. she takes a sip of her drink to fill it, but the taste is sour, bitter. or maybe that's just her.

he couldn’t tell how long they just stood there. time had a way of folding in on itself since her, the days bleeding into nights, the minutes stretching and collapsing all at once. einstein once said time was relative, but harry was sure he hadn't meant this.

his lips parted, “i didn’t think you’d be here.”

“neither did i.”

the truth was, she almost hadn’t come. it was only her publicist’s insistence that had dragged her out of her apartment and into this room filled with people who didn’t really know her. but now, standing here in front of him, she wondered if some part of her had known—had hoped.

there was a question hanging in the air between them, not uttered, but loud enough to fill the silence. had they made a mistake?

he remembers how they agreed it was for the best—right person, wrong time. they'd parted with a kiss that tasted of salt and regret, a mutual agreement born not out of lack of love, but out of too much of it.

but how could it be for the best when the air at home still smelled like her, when her name was stitched into the fabric of every song he wrote? he thought of the way she used to rest her head against his chest at night, the way her fingers traced lazy patterns along his skin, as if she were memorizing him in braille. the intimacy of it—the quiet kind, the kind that felt like forever—had undone him. no one ever teaches you how to live without forever.

the first time they met, they were children pretending to be adults. a festival in the desert, both of them younger and wilder, sweat-soaked and sunburnt and drunk on music. they danced in a crowd of thousands, but it felt like the earth shrank to the size of a postage stamp, and they were the only two people left. he had kissed her that night, tequila and the promise of something infinite lingering on his tongue.

“i’ve missed you,” he admitted, so softly she almost didn’t hear it.

her heart stuttered, the words settling into the cracks she hadn’t known were still there. “me too.”

and just like that, the world rearranged itself again.

it had been three days, but the memory of her face still lingered on the edges of harry’s consciousness like the afterimage of a camera flash. no matter how many times he blinked, it refused to fade. he felt haunted—not in the dramatic sense of ghosts rattling chains, but in the quiet, insidious way grief lingers, reshaping the air around it. she had looked beautiful, devastatingly so. and when their eyes had met, he swore he felt time buckle under the weight of something he couldn’t acknowledge, not yet.

it was morning now, or what passed for it in january—a hesitant kind of light filtering through the clouds, pale and thin like it didn’t quite belong. harry sat at his kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling between his hands. the mug had been a gift from gemma years ago, the words world’s okayest brother faded from too many cycles through the dishwasher. he liked its imperfection, the way it felt worn and familiar. it reminded him of things that didn’t change, which was a comfort on days like these.

the newspapers were spread out in front of him, though he wasn’t reading them. his eyes kept drifting to the same headline over and over: YN stuns at charity gala, sparking reunion rumors. there was a picture, of course. she was outside, her dress a shadow clinging to her frame, her gaze distant and heavy with thoughts he couldn’t begin to guess at.

it was cruel, he thought, how the world always seemed to capture her in a way that felt so achingly intimate. even in the stillness of a photograph, she looked alive, as though she might step off the page and straight into his arms.

but she wouldn’t.

he hadn’t expected to see her, not after all this time. the last two years had been a lesson in avoidance—of places she might be, of mutual friends who still spoke her name with a fondness that made his chest ache. he had buried himself in work, in music, in anything that might fill the spaces she had left behind. and for a while, it had worked. or at least, it had felt like it did.

until three days ago.

“you’re brooding.”

the voice startled him, and he looked up to find jeff standing in the doorway, a coffee cup in one hand and a knowing look in the other.

“morning to you, too,” harry muttered, running a hand through his hair.

he raised an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at that paper for the better part of an hour. do you want to talk about it, or should i just pretend i don’t notice?”

“not much to talk about, yeah?”

“uh-huh.” he set his coffee down and slid into the chair opposite him. “you saw her.”

“yeah.”

“and?”

harry sighed, “i dunno. s’like… seeing her again made everything i’ve been trying to forget just resurface. two fucking years of nothing and then—” he gestured vaguely, another sigh falling from his lips.

“you still care about her.”

“‘course i do,” harry said, almost sharply. “but that doesn’t mean it changes anything. timing wasn’t right—we missed out.”

jeff studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “you know, timing’s a funny thing. but things do change, harry. don’t lose something you never needed to lose in the first place.”

the words hit harder than harry wanted to admit. he didn’t respond, instead lifting his mug to his lips and taking a long sip.

the tea had gone cold.

–

the email arrived in the late afternoon, slipping into her inbox like an intruder she hadn’t invited. YN stared at the screen for a long time, her tea cooling on the windowsill beside her. she didn’t open it right away; instead, she just sat there, the glow of her laptop casting faint shadows on the walls of her living room.

harry’s name stared back at her, bold and impossible to ignore. two years of silence, and now this.

the day had started out quiet. she’d spent the morning working through a script, her highlighter uncapping and capping in time with the low hum of the music she had on in the background. a storm had rolled in sometime around noon, the sky turning the color of damp stone. she liked storms—their chaos, the way they reminded her of things bigger than herself.

she didn’t like this.

her thumb hovered over the trackpad, indecisive. opening the email felt like a betrayal of all the walls she’d built, but leaving it unread felt equally unbearable. the memory of seeing him at the gala, standing there like something carved out of memory and moonlight, tugged at her resolve.

so, she clicked.

subject: reaching out

from: hs@—

to: YN@—

i wasn’t sure if this was still your email. if it’s not, i guess someone else is reading this, which would be… awkward. but if it is you, then: hey.

i know it’s been a while. seeing you the other night caught me off guard. in a good way. you looked beautiful. not that that’s news or anything, but still. it felt worth saying.

i’ve been thinking about you. not in a way that expects anything, just thinking. like in the way you’re in the lyrics i write without thinking. or when i see a blank sheet of paper i think of the origami you’d make on a whim.

this probably sounds ridiculous. i don’t really know what i’m trying to say. maybe just that it was good to see you.

for old times sake: all my stars and moons,

all my stars and moons.

he used to say it with a lopsided smile, his voice soft, reverent, like it was the only way he could capture what she meant to him.

it wasn't just an i love you—it was a promise, a vow that she had been his beginning and his end. her reply had always been equally unorthodox, a kind of shared language only they understood.

she read the email twice, then a third time, the words tumbling through her mind like loose change in a pocket.

it wasn’t much. it wasn’t an apology or an admission or even an invitation. but it was something—a crack in the silence, a thread pulled loose from fabric.

her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind a cacophony of what-ifs. she didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if she should say anything.

the cursor blinked at her, patient and unyielding. YN rested her chin in her hand, staring at the blank reply box as if it might conjure the words for her. the storm outside continued its symphony, wind rattling the windowpanes in uneven bursts. it felt fitting—this chaotic, uncertain moment mirrored by the world beyond her walls.

she had typed and deleted half a dozen responses already, each one feeling either too much or not enough.

harry, she’d started, but even his name felt loaded, like a weight she couldn’t quite lift.

it’s good to hear from you. no, too polite, too distant, too not them.

why now? the most honest question, but also the one she didn’t have the courage to ask outright.

she leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. part of her wanted to ignore it. to close her laptop, pour another cup of tea, and pretend she hadn’t read it. but that wasn’t who she was—not with him.

because no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much they had broken each other, there was still that small, stubborn part of her that believed in the rightness of them.

she let her fingers hover over the keyboard, her thoughts coalescing into something that felt almost like clarity.

harry,

it is still my email. though if it weren’t, i’d like to think whoever got this would’ve found it endearing.

i don’t know how to describe how it felt seeing you again. unexpected doesn’t feel like enough. i wasn’t ready for it, i guess. not that anyone’s ever really ready to run into their past like that. believe me when i say that you looked even more beautiful.

your email was nice to read, though i’m not sure how to respond to it. i don’t know if i have the right words anymore, or if i ever did. but i’ve been thinking about you too. i’m not sure that ever really stopped, if i’m honest. it’s strange, isn’t it? how someone can take up so much space in your mind, even after so much time has passed.

it’s hard to know what else to say. part of me wonders if we made a mistake. you’re making me remember paper cranes on your coffee table, of mornings where the sunlight always seemed brighter on your side of the bed. remembering makes it harder to pretend like none of it mattered.

but it did. it still does. in ways i can't always explain, and maybe that's why i don't know how to respond. anyway, i guess i just wanted to say that it was good to see you, too.

forever and a day,

YN.

her finger hovered over the send button, her heart hammering in her chest. there was no taking it back once it was gone, no undoing the vulnerability she had laid bare. but she clicked it anyway, the whoosh of the email sending ringing loud in the quiet of her apartment.

forever and a day.

it had been her answer to him, her way of telling him that love wasn't bound by time or space, that it was infinite. it had been their secret, the thread woven through the chaos of their lives.

she didn’t know what would come next. maybe nothing. maybe everything. so, she waited—which only let things unravel further.

the emails became their lifeline over the past few days, a tenuous thread bridging the gap between the past and whatever they were doing now. it had started cautiously—polite acknowledgments, carefully chosen words that skirted too close to old wounds. but as the hours and days wore on, their messages grew longer, softer, laced with the quiet intimacy of people rediscovering the shape of each other.

harry had spent more time staring at his screen than he cared to admit, his fingers hovering over the keys as he tried to balance honesty with restraint. they wrote about everything and nothing—her latest film, a quiet piece shot in the polish countryside, his afternoons spent in the studio, the strange emptiness of passing the time during a break.

sometimes, they slipped into the past. little anecdotes laced with humor or wistfulness, as though they were tiptoeing around the weight of what they’d once shared. he’d told her about the tulips he passed by in the shop one evening, how it made him think of her, if he’d ever buy such a thing for her again—and she’d replied with a teasing remark about how he’d always overthought these things.

it felt natural in a way neither of them had anticipated, like a rhythm they’d rediscovered without meaning to. but beneath the easy flow of words, there was a tension—an unspoken question threading its way through every sentence: what now?

and then, her last email.

he’d read it three times before he noticed the address tucked neatly at the bottom, like an afterthought.

subject: RE: late night thoughts

from: YN@—

to: hs@—

i don’t know why i’m telling you this, but the tulips? i would’ve liked them :)

anyway, you’re right! it’s easier to write like this, but it also feels a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it? like we’re pen pals in some old novel. maybe we should talk.

here’s my address. i’ve moved since before everything happened between us. if you’re ever around, stop by. no pressure though.

harry had laughed aloud when he saw it, shaking his head in disbelief. she hadn’t given him her number, but her address? it was such a maddeningly her thing to do.

he stared at the screen for a while afterward, debating what it meant, whether he should go, what he’d say if he did. and then, as if fate had decided for him, he found himself standing in another flower shop the next afternoon, staring at a display of tulips.

the shopkeeper had been kind, if a bit amused by his indecision. “you can’t go wrong with red,” she’d said, handing him a bunch wrapped in simple brown paper. “everyone likes red, yeah?”

he’d nodded, though his mind had been elsewhere, spiraling through a thousand scenarios of how this meeting might go.

and now, here he was, standing outside her building with the flowers clutched in one hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his coat.

he felt ridiculous. what was he doing here, showing up like this? but the thought of turning back felt worse. he buzzed her apartment, his heart pounding as he waited for her voice to crackle through the intercom.

“hello?”

“oh, YN. hi! it’s harry.”

a pause and the breathiest giggle, so quiet harry wasn’t sure if it was her or the crackle of the intercom. “come up.”

once up, she opened the door before he could knock, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of her apartment. she looked different and yet entirely the same—her hair pulled back, her sweater falling loosely over her frame, the kind of effortless beauty that had always undone him.

“hi.”

“hi,” he echoed, offering her a tentative smile.

she glanced at the tulips in his hand, her lips twitching into a small, knowing grin. “you brought flowers.”

“yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “thought about daisies. or lilies. but tulips–”

“you overthought it.”

“probably,” he said, handing them to her. “but you said you would’ve liked them.”

she took the flowers, her fingers brushing his briefly. “i do.”

he hesitated, shifting on his feet. “you didn’t give me your number, but you gave me your address. thought that was funny.”

her laugh was soft, almost shy. “guess i figured if you wanted to talk, you’d show up.”

“and here i am.”

“here you are.”

she stepped aside, letting him in, her apartment warm and inviting in contrast to the chill outside. the space was a bit small but full of character—books stacked haphazardly on shelves, a record player in the corner, the faint scent of tea lingering in the air.

“s’bigger than the last one.”

she hummed, setting the tulips on the counter and reaching for a vase. “it’s cozy.”

he watched her move, his chest tightening at the familiarity of it all—the way she tilted her head when she was concentrating, the slight curve of her mouth as she arranged the flowers.

“i’m surprised you actually came over.”

“‘course i did,” he said, his gaze steady. “you asked.”

“i didn’t think you would.”

he frowned slightly, “oh,” he paused, “why not?”

she shrugged, turning back to the flowers. “it’s been a long time, i guess. people change.”

“how much d’you think changes in two years?”

her hands stilled, her fingers brushing against the edge of a petal. she didn’t look at him, but he could see the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath caught.

“i don’t know what this is,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“s’just us talking. that’s all.”

they settled at the island in her kitchen eventually, stools drawn close but not close enough. it wasn’t purposeful—not exactly—but the gap between them felt intentional in its own way, a hesitation they hadn’t yet learned how to breach.

the space was quiet, save for the soft hum of the rain outside and the faint creak of the wood beneath them. the overhead light pooled in warm, golden tones across the countertop, casting long shadows that blurred the edges of the moment.

YN fit into the space like she always did—carefully, like she was trying to take up less room than she was owed. one knee tucked against her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around it, while her other leg dangled from the stool, her toes brushing just lightly against the floor. she turned slightly, her side leaning against the edge of the island, her eyes steady but unreadable.

his own body had never been built for this kind of furniture—too long limbs, too much of him for the delicate frame of the stool. he had to spread his legs wide, one foot braced against the floor to keep himself steady, his elbows resting on the countertop. his fingers toyed with the lip of a glass left abandoned,something to keep them occupied, something to keep them from reaching for her.

and then she said it.

“you’ve written songs about me.”

a statement, not a question. a fact pulled from the quiet places of their past, dusted off and placed between them like an offering.

harry felt the heat climb his neck before he could stop it, the corners of his mouth betraying him with the telltale pull of a smile. a man of twenty-nine reduced to something pink-cheeked and bashful, like a schoolboy caught in the act. his dimples carved deep, his fingers tightening around the glass as if he could pour all of his flustered energy into the curve of it.

“see that head of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller.”

his voice came easy, light with humor, a well-aimed deflection meant to soften the truth. but the truth was written all over him, in the way his gaze lingered, in the way his body angled toward hers as if he couldn’t help but close the distance.

she laughed, and the sound curled into his chest, tucked itself between his ribs like something meant to live there. her cheeks had gone pink too, though whether from the warmth of the room or the warmth of his attention, he wasn’t sure.

she pressed her temple against her knee, a slow, knowing smile stretching across her lips before she murmured—“red wine and ginger ale.”

it was enough to knock the breath from him, to make something stir deep in his gut, something familiar, aching, unshakable.

his grip tightened around the glass, knuckles going white. because of course she remembered. of course she had caught that line, plucked it from the verse and turned it over in her palm like a rare coin.

it had been a memory—hers, theirs, tucked into the lyrics like a secret, hidden in plain sight.

a dinner in chiswick, years ago, where he had ordered exactly that, red wine with ginger ale, because he liked the way the bitterness and sweetness met on his tongue. she had looked at him like he’d just confessed to some great crime, her nose scrunching, her lips parting in that wide-eyed, incredulous way.

“you’re disgusting.”

he had laughed, offered her a sip, only for her to recoil in mock horror. and later, in the taxi home, when he had kissed her, her lips had curled into a smile against his, and she had whispered against his mouth—

“m’never letting you live it down, baby.”

and she hadn’t. for months. for years. because she had hated the drink, but she had loved him, and that was enough.

and now, here she was, saying it back to him, plucking the words from a song meant for millions and holding them up to the light, a knowing glint in her gaze.

“you remember that?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.

“i remember everything.”

the words settled in his stomach, warm and heavy. he stared at her for a long moment, the air between them stretching thin.

he could still taste the memory of her, even now. and he wonders if she knows she’s still his favorite lyric.

time continued to stretch around them, hesitated words and heavy pauses, stolen glances and knuckles that barely grazed each other in fleeting touches.

they moved after that, standing from the stools as if a forced step back would be enough space to stop what hummed between them.

she turned to face him, her eyes searching his. for a moment, the air felt electric, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.

she lingered there, before her body angled toward the window as though she might drift outside. the soft light overhead caught the lines of her face, the curve of her shoulders.

she was beautiful in the way the stars were—distant but unmistakably present, a quiet inevitability against the darkness.

and just like the stars, she had always been there, even when he couldn't see her.

he crossed the room slowly, as though afraid that the floor might give out beneath him. his hands were empty now, his thoughts stripped bare. she turned slightly as he came closer, her eyes meeting his, and he could feel the pull of her, the way she seemed to realign the very fabric of the air between them.

YN could feel it, the frequency only the two of them could hear, a static that crackles in the air between bodies too familiar to be strangers, too distant to be anything else. the static that translated into pins and needles along their lips. the static, buzzing heat in their chest, not fire, not yet—but the ember that never fully died, flickering in the place where love was buried but never truly laid to rest.

"you came back.” she echoed from before, though it was less saturated in disbelief but rather dripping with solace.

he looked up, his throat tightening—the ache of déj�� vu wrapped in silk. his body remembers before his mind does—remembers the press of his palm against the small of her back, the weight of his mouth against hers, the way her breath used to tremble when she whispered his name.

you never left he wanted to say, but the syllables tangled in his throat, thick as honey, heavy as grief. because she hadn’t—not really. she lingered in each pause between heartbeats, in the empty quiet of rooms too big and beds too cold.

so, he keeps his mouth shut. he leans in, nose barely grazing hers. she can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against her cheek as his head tilts, he can feel the tremble of her breath.

he was merely a shipwreck, his body leaning toward the tide even as his mind screamed to stay ashore. but the tide is warm, and the tide is her, and oh—how easy it would be to drown again.

the collapse of distance, the death of restraint.

the air between them is thick with ruin and remembrance, a graveyard of every night they spent apart, every moment they spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

but the body is merciless in its remembering.

her breath stutters again as his fingertips ghost over her jaw, tracing the path of old devotion, the map of a love that never truly faded. it’s not a hesitation, not a question—it’s reverence, the final breath before a prayer is spoken. and then—

then he kisses her.

it’s not soft, not gentle. it’s every unsaid word, every agonizing hour, every night spent staring at the ceiling wondering if the she felt it too. it’s the pull of gravity, of fate, of something written into constellations.

his mouth slants over hers like a plea, like an apology, like a man succumbing. and she—she meets him with a hunger that borders on violent, fingers fisting in his collar, dragging him closer, closer, as if she could consume him, as if she could crawl inside his ribs and carve her name there all over again.

it tasted like champagne and ripe fruit, like summer bursting behind teeth and getting stuck there. peaches, maybe, or strawberries picked in the height of july. his tongue slid against hers like silk against satin, heady—red wine drunk too quickly, the dizzied sweetness of berries crushed between thumb and forefinger.

it didn’t seek, did not demand; it reclaimed, a vow remade in flesh.

his tongue curled, coaxed, tangled in the wet heat of her mouth. it was slow, decadent—the first pull of opium in the lungs, the hush of velvet being drawn through greedy fingers.

and when he deepened it—when he pulled her flush, let the kiss bleed into something savored, something syrup-thick, cursive against the roof of her mouth—she tasted it:

forgiveness, the hands of a clock rewinding.

not spoken, not granted, but exchanged in the language of tongue and teeth. of breath shared between gasps, of bodies rediscovering the art of belonging.

when they part, it is not for lack of wanting.

it’s for breath, for sanity, for the simple fear that if they do not stop now, they never will. she licked her lips—not to rid herself of him, but to commit him to memory.

"YN.” he murmured, her name nothing more than a breath, a vow, a benediction.

she swallowed, throat tight, her pulse a bird trapped beneath her skin. she wanted to say something, anything—wanted to capture this moment in words before it slipped through her fingers like sand.

but there was no language for this.

there was no word for what it meant to be kissed like that—like time had never moved forward, like they had never parted, like the years apart were nothing more than a cruel trick of the universe. no word for the way his tongue had found hers, the way he had kissed her not just with his lips, but with the sum of his longing, the marrow-deep ache of missing her. no word for the way she had melted into him, the way her mouth had answered his like it had been waiting all this time.

so she didn’t speak.

instead, she pressed her fingers against his mouth, feeling the shape of his lips beneath them, like trying to hold onto a dream before waking. and maybe he understood, because he only smiled—soft, knowing, his hands still firm against her skin.

all my stars and moons, he had said once.

forever and a day, she had answered.

#i love this man #i love you #mwah mwah mwah

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