#i need someone to slip their hand into that back window

[berryz-writes]

Nightmare

azriel x reader

summary: The roles have switched. Now it's Azriel broken and tired needing your comfort after a nightmare

Note: Guyss ik ik the title is basic but i wanted to post it and i've been staring at this for like 10 minutes because i can't think of one 😭 anyways enjoy <33

I had woken in the early hours, the kind of wakefulness that comes suddenly and without reason. My throat burned for water and no matter how many times I flipped my pillow or shifted beneath the sheets, sleep simply wouldn’t come. So I had slipped out, barefoot and quiet, letting the gentle hum of magic guide me down the hall to the kitchen.

I drank, cool water soothing my throat, the glass trembling slightly in my hand from the residual grogginess but as I made my way back toward my room the air shifted.

It started as a feeling. The faintest drop in temperature. A weight pressing down on the space between my shoulders, not painful, but insistent.

And then I saw them.

A slow, thick tendril of shadows spilled out from beneath a door -Azriel's door - curling like smoke over the cold marble floor. They moved with purpose, toward me it seemed.

They seemed distressed, brushing up my ankles more shadows joining a trail of them going to a crack in his door. My pulse spiked, but not from fear. From knowing.

Azriel.

I crossed the hall, the cool stone soothing against my feet, and stopped in front of the heavy oak door. The shadows recoiled slightly, drawing back as if giving me space, encouraging me to enter. I raised my hand and knocked softly.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Silence.

Only the sound of strained breathing carried faintly through the wood- sharp, uneven, like someone struggling to breathe without waking themselves. My brows pulled together, heart sinking. The shadows didn’t move now simply hovered near the door, waiting. As if pleading.

“Az?” I said, voice low. I turned the handle. It gave way with a soft click.

Darkness swallowed the room. No candles, no fire. Only moonlight spilled across the far wall casting pale light in narrow ribbons through the windows. And there, tangled in the sheets of his bed was Azriel.

Even in sleep he looked tense- dangerously so.

His wings were half-unfurled, his body was twisted in the sheets, muscles rigid beneath sweat-dampened skin and his brow was drawn so tightly it looked painful. The smooth caramel of his skin was filled with strain, his breath coming in short almost gasping bursts. Shadows clung to his face like a second skin, obscuring parts of it revealing just enough to see the silver trail of tears carving their way down his cheeks.

Something shattered in me at the sight.

He never cried. Not when he bled, not when he was broken. But he was crying now and utterly silent about it.

I stepped closer, heart in my throat and gently placed my hand on his shoulder.

“Azriel” I whispered.

His eyes flew open.

And everything happened at once.

In a blur of movement the shadows exploded outward and I was slammed down into the mattress, the cold bite of steel at my throat before I could even blink.

The blade shimmered with blue siphon-light, the edge so sharp I felt it hum against my skin. I froze. My breath hitched. His body hovered above mine, tense as a coiled spring. His hand gripped the hilt of his dagger with terrifying precision every muscle locked in place.

His eyes- hazel ringed in gold- burned into mine. Wide. Ferocious. Haunted.

For one long second we just stared at each other, my heart slamming against my ribs. The moonlight struck his features fully now: the angular lines of his cheekbones, the scarred curve of his jaw, his lips parted slightly, drawing shallow, panicked breaths. His hair, dark and tousled fell across his forehead in damp waves.

“Azriel” I said softly, carefully. “It’s me.”

The blade didn’t move.

But his eyes did- searching, flickering with recognition.

Then…something cracked.

His grip loosened. The dagger slipped from his hand and landed with a dull thud on the mattress beside us. His breath hitched sharply and he scrambled back, horror etched into every line of his face.

“I-” His voice broke. “Fuck- I didn’t know- it was instinct- I thought...”

“It’s okay” I breathed, sitting up slowly.

He backed into the far side of the bed dragging both hands through his hair. His wings trembled slightly before folding in tight against his back, like they too were ashamed of the outburst.

“I thought it was real” he whispered, barely audible. “I was still there.”

My chest ached. “What did you dream about?”

He shook his head once, jaw clenched, eyes unfocused. “I can’t- ” His voice caught. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does” I said, gently, crawling across the bed toward him.

He looked at me finally. His eyes were rimmed with red, still wet with the aftermath of whatever storm had ripped through him in his sleep. A warrior broken open.

“You didn’t call for anyone” I murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “But your shadows did”

His eyes widened slightly. “They…brought you?”

I nodded.

He exhaled shakily, some part of him unravelling.

He didn't wipe the tears.

He didn’t even blink them away.

They trailed silently down the strong lines of his face. Azriel sat motionless on the edge of the bed, hunched slightly forward, eyes locked on the far wall with the expression of someone looking through it.

Not at it.

And gods, his face…

His mouth was slack, lips parted as he breathed- barely. His jaw, normally clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone, now hung loose with something I could only call defeat. His eyes, usually sharp enough to peel lies from truth were distant. Dead.

And still, the tears kept falling.

Not sobbing. Not gasping. Just…falling.

I couldn’t take it. Not one more second.

I moved closer, slowly, gently, like approaching a man on the edge of a crumbling ledge. Because he was. His broad back rose and fell unevenly, wings trembling with the effort of keeping still. His head bowed slightly forward now, shoulders caved in like the weight of it all had finally broken through that impossible armour.

“Az” I whispered, kneeling before him on the bed “Look at me.”

He didn’t.

But when I reached up, when I cupped the side of his face in my hand- he flinched.

Not from fear. From shame.

His eyes squeezed shut, his whole body tensing like he was bracing for a blow. My thumb brushed beneath his eye, catching a fresh tear.

That single act undid him.

A sound escaped him- guttural, broken, like something being torn from the deepest part of his chest. His body folded inward like the strength holding him up had simply vanished. And then he was collapsing into me.

Into my arms.

He clutched me with such raw desperation it stole the breath from my lungs. His arms wrapped tight around my waist, his face burying in the crook of my neck as his body shuddered. Trembled and fell apart.

And he cried.

Not the silent tears I’d found him with but deep, aching sobs. The kind that only came from wounds so old, so buried, that they bled in silence until the dam finally broke. His entire frame shook, wings pulled in tight, shadows flickering helplessly around him like they didn’t know how to comfort him anymore.

I held him tighter. Pressed my lips to his temple. Let him break without judgment, without fear.

And then through the broken gasps he started to speak.

“They locked me in that cell when I was eight.”

His voice was hollow. Shaky.

“I screamed for three days. My brothers told me if I made a sound, they’d break my wings. So I screamed into my hands until my voice disappeared.”

My breath hitched, but I said nothing. Just kept my fingers threaded through his hair grounding him.

He pulled in a sharp breath and exhaled like it hurt.

“I started…seeing things in the dark. Hearing voices that weren’t mine. The walls felt like they were closing in. Sometimes I still feel them now.”

I kept my hand at the back of his neck, thumb stroking softly. Up and down. A soothing rhythm.

His voice cracked further. “The worst part wasn’t the silence. It was the hope. Every time I heard a footstep above, I thought it might be my mother." His voice broke off again. “She never came”

I shut my eyes, just for a moment, as grief twisted in my chest.

“And now” he rasped, shaking his head “even when I sleep- I go back there. That fucking cellar. I can’t stop it. I smell the mould on the walls. I taste blood in my mouth. And all I can think is that I deserved it. That somehow it made me stronger. Made me who I am today”

My hands stilled.

He laughed once- bitter and hollow. “What kind of person thanks the people who broke them?”

I tilted his face gently forcing him to meet my eyes. “You survived them” I whispered. “You're so strong....the man you are now is because of yourself.”

He stared at me, blinking slowly, as if the words didn’t compute.

“You didn’t deserve any of that, Azriel. Not then. Not now.”

He shook his head, but his grip on me only tightened, fingers digging into my waist.

“I’m not- ” His throat worked around the words. “I’m not good at this. Letting people see me like this.”

I smiled faintly, brushing away another tear from his cheek. “You don’t have to be good at it”

His breath caught. And for a moment, his eyes searched mine like he wasn’t sure how this was real.

“I don’t know how to let people love me” he whispered.

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead to his. “Then let me start.”

He closed his eyes. A fresh tear slid down, catching the moonlight. But this time, he let me wipe it away.

And he didn’t look at the wall again.

**the next morning**

The morning sunlight bathed the room completely.

It filtered in through the windows in long, golden threads, brushing over the stone walls and scattering across the bed in delicate beams. The warmth crept over my skin slowly, and I blinked awake, not quite remembering where I was- until I felt the weight.

Azriel.

His arm was draped over my waist, heavy and secure. His head rested against my shoulder, his dark hair spilling across my collarbone. One of his wings was curled around us like a blanket, shielding us from the world. His breathing was steady now. Peaceful.

I hadn’t seen him look this peaceful before. Not once.

He still held onto me in sleep, fingers curled loosely at my hip like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that the danger was gone.

I shifted carefully, not to leave but to see him fully.

He looked younger in the daylight. Softer. His scars caught the sunlight and turned to gold against his skin. His tears from the night before had dried, but I could still see the faint streaks they’d left behind. And gods, it broke me all over again.

Because even now- even resting in safety- he looked like someone who expected to be alone.

I reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his face, fingertips ghosting along the curve of his temple. He didn’t stir but his brow twitched faintly. I wondered how long it had been since someone touched him without needing something in return.

Azriel didn’t ask for things. He endured.

He gave and gave and bled for the ones he loved and yet he never asked for anything in return. Not comfort. Not kindness. Certainly not this.

But last night…last night he’d let me see the pieces he buried so deep I wasn’t sure he remembered they were still there. He had broken in my arms and still clung to me like I was something worth holding onto.

He stirred slightly and I felt the moment his body tensed, his mind waking faster than the rest of him.

His hand tightened reflexively at my side before he blinked his eyes open.

Those beautiful hazel eyes found mine.

And for one heartbeat he looked like he might panic. Like he remembered everything and was about to retreat behind those stone walls again.

So I whispered, soft as a secret “You’re okay.”

Azriel didn’t move. His lips parted like he wanted to speak but no sound came. Instead his eyes searched mine- as if trying to figure out why I was still there. Why I hadn’t run.

Why I hadn’t seen the worst of him and walked away.

“I’m still here” I said, reading the question he didn’t ask. My hand came up again brushing his cheek with my knuckles. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. His voice, when it came was hoarse.

“I thought maybe…I dreamed it.”

“You didn’t.” I smiled gently. “You opened up. And I listened”

His gaze flicked away, shame creeping in around the edges.

But I touched his jaw, guiding his face back to mine. “Don’t do that” I whispered. “Don’t hide from me now.”

He nodded once, slowly. Like he didn’t know how to believe me but wanted to try. Pressing a soft kiss to my head we laid there in silence his wing still wrapped around us.

Azriel shifted closer again, hesitating, then pressed his forehead lightly to mine.

“I don't know how to do it without you” he said softly.

“You don’t have to” I murmured. “I'll always be here. I promise”

And then he closed his eyes, content to lie here with me for all eternity.

note: UHHHH idk if i did this idea justice guys. As you can tell I've recently learnt how to properly use effect in sentences. (look at me using them commas and dashes EXCESSIVELY😋) anyway i totally am not writing this note because i'm CRINGING at my old fics

[wordsofwhimsy]

Unhinged Tech Support

Pairing: No Goggles!Mark Grayson x Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Hurt/comfort, fluff & comedy

Word Count: 565

Synopsis: Your laptop breaks, and your heart goes along with it. Who better to comfort you than your psychotic boyfriend?

a/n: really needed to write this for a little bit of comfort amidst this tragedy i’m facing 😭

You didn’t even notice the broken sound that came out of your throat until it echoed off the walls. Your laptop screen was black, the keys unresponsive, and everything—everything—was gone.

Your writing. Your stories. Your worlds. Just… deleted from existence.

You sat frozen in place, shaking. Then—click—you heard the sound of your bedroom window sliding open.

You didn’t turn around. You already knew.

Mark slipped inside with the kind of casual stealth that should’ve been illegal. No knocking, no warning. Just a dark blur and the creak of floorboards as he stalked into the living room like he owned the place—or like he was casing it for fun.

“Baaabe,” Mark drawled, voice casual and lilting with mock concern. “You look like someone just ran over your cat. Twice.”

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. The heat of him was enough—simmering chaos wrapped in bloodstained knuckles and a half-cocked smile.

“It’s gone,” you said numbly.

Mark tilted his head, slowly. “Define ‘it.’”

“My writing. My laptop crashed. All of it. Everything I’ve written for years is just… erased.”

Silence.

Then: "Damn."

He whistled low. “That’s cold. Multiverse gets shredded like paper mâché every other Tuesday, but God forbid your Word doc doesn't survive a power surge.”

You glared at him through the blur of tears. “Glad you think this is funny.”

He plopped down beside you, legs splayed out like he owned the floor, picking up your dead laptop with a look of exaggerated reverence. “Oh no, baby, I’m devastated. Really. This... this is your magnum opus, gone up in smoke. It’s like watching Rome burn. Except if Rome was about hot vampire detectives and gay pirates.”

You threw a pillow at him. He let it hit him square in the face.

“I’m serious, Mark!”

And suddenly, so was he.

In a blink, he was closer—leaning in, grin gone, replaced by something sharp and steady.

“Yeah. You are. And I get it.”

You blinked. That caught you off-guard.

“I know what it’s like to build something that matters. Something that feels like you. And then one day, it’s just… gone. Like it never existed. Except it did. And now you’re stuck in the wreckage, looking around like, ‘What the hell am I supposed to do now?’”

Your breath caught.

“But here’s the thing,” he went on, tapping your temple with two fingers. “It didn’t come from there—” he jiggled the dead machine in his other hand, “—it came from here. You can do it again. Better. Weirder. With more violence and unnecessary smut.”

You laughed, watery and surprised.

Then he held the laptop out. “Want me to kill it?”

You blinked. “What?”

“This little traitor. Let me rip it in half. I’ll do it. Right here. Therapeutic destruction.”

You snorted. “You’re such a drama queen.”

He grinned.

And then—CRACK.

The sound was horrifying. Metal bent like taffy. Plastic split. Wires sparked. One half of your laptop flopped to the floor like a dying fish.

“MARK!”

“What? You said it was dead!”

“I didn’t mean literally destroy it!”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Too late. Can’t go back. Welcome to the healing process.”

You stared at the wreckage, stunned. Then, slowly, you started laughing. Really laughing.

And Mark just leaned back with that smug, unhinged smirk like he’d just solved grief itself with raw strength and poor impulse control.

[delilahsturniolo]

— ★ party 4 u . . . m.s

(making out, cheating, reader is in a toxic relationship, being intoxicated, drinking & mentions of alcohol, suggestive but no smut.)

requested by anon!

you’re five drinks in and already regretting every second of this party. the room spins around you in lazy circles. the music is so loud it rattles in your chest, making your head throb with every beat. sweaty bodies bump into you. someone spills a drink near your feet. you don’t care. you can barely stand straight, but that’s not what’s bothering you.

it’s him.

your boyfriend is draped over you like a bad habit. his arm is slung around your shoulders, his breath hot against your neck, and he reeks of whiskey and weed. you shift uncomfortably, trying to slide out from under him, but he only grips tighter.“where the hell do you think you’re going?” he slurs into your ear, loud and mean and unmistakably drunk.

“i just need a little air,” you mutter, not even sure he hears you. he scoffs, pulling back enough to look at you with narrowed eyes. “what, you’re gonna start crying again? god, you’re so fucking dramatic.” you flinch. maybe he doesn’t notice. or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. “you dragged me here,” you remind him, voice barely above a whisper. “i didn’t even wanna come.”

he laughs, mean and sharp. “then why’d you put on that dress? huh? trying to get attention? ‘cause congrats, baby. mission accomplished.” you feel your throat tighten, heat rising behind your eyes. you’re not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the words or just… the weight of it all. you pull out your phone with shaky fingers. “who the fuck are you texting?” he snaps. “no one,” you say, not looking at him.

you storm off outside, you just hit the call button. it rings once. twice. “hello?” matt’s voice is low and groggy, he was probably asleep. your heart squeezes at the sound of it. “can you come get me?” your voice is thick and cracked. “please, i… i need to leave.” there’s a pause. “where are you?” you send him the address, barely able to type through the blur of your vision. “i’m on my way. stay outside, alright?”

you hang up, slipping your phone back in your pocket and standing. your boyfriend grabs your wrist. “you’re seriously leaving?” he sneers. “you’re such a fucking joke.” you yank your hand away. “don’t talk to me like that.” he snorts. “whatever. go run to matt. i don’t give a fuck.”

you don’t say anything. you stumble into the cool night air, head spinning in a way that’s no longer just about the alcohol. your body feels heavy. your heart, heavier. ten minutes later, matt’s car pulls up. you practically fall into the passenger seat.

“jesus,” he says softly, reaching across you to buckle your seatbelt. “you okay? you’re wasted, kid.”

“i’m fine,” you slur. slumping against the window. “thanks for coming.” he doesn’t press the conversation, he just starts driving. the car ride is quiet. too quiet. you can feel him glancing at you from time to time, but he doesn’t say anything. not until you’re pulling into his driveway. “you shouldn’t keep going back to him,” matt says, cutting the engine. his voice is low, rough. “he treats you like shit.”

“i know.”

you both sit there for a second, the silence buzzing. “you deserve better,” he adds, softer this time.

you turn your head to look at him. his jaw is tense. his hands are still on the wheel like he’s grounding himself. “then why haven’t you done anything?” you ask, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “if you care so much… why haven’t you ever tried?” his eyes snap to yours. you don’t know who leans in first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s him. but then his mouth is on yours, and suddenly the world falls out from under your feet. it’s not gentle. it’s not sweet.

it’s desperate.

his hands are in your hair, tilting your head, and your fingers clutch at his hoodie like he’s the only thing holding you together. your lips part on instinct, and he takes it as an invitation, deepening the kiss, tongue brushing yours, tasting like heat and something so long buried it hurts.

you moan against his mouth, and it’s like a switch flips in him. his hands slide to your waist, gripping tight, pulling you closer across the center console. you don’t even care that you’re still in the car, still wearing that stupid dress you put on for a boy who didn’t deserve you. because this…this is what you needed.

this is what you’ve been craving.

his mouth trails to your jaw, down your neck, lips hot against your skin. your breath catches, and you tilt your head to give him more. your thigh brushes his, and he groans low in his throat, like he’s barely holding himself back. you whisper his name, and it breaks something. he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, lips pink and swollen, breathing hard. his eyes widened, realizing what just happened. you were drunk, you both just kissed, you had a boyfriend.

“we should…go inside,” he says, voice wrecked. you nod. your hand finds his. and for the first time all night, you feel something like relief. but fuck, this was wrong, this was so fucking wrong.

but yet, it felt so right.

© delilahsturniolo

[honeydippedfiction]

I loved your f1 drivers knowing about protective styles, can we get something like that with Joe?

main navigation | reqs | table of contents | F1 Version

Joe Burrow x black!femreader

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The afternoon had slipped into one of those gray, whisper-quiet moments that seemed to press a stillness into everything. Rain tapped softly against the windows of the condo, smearing the skyline into a watercolor blur. Inside, the living room was warm and cocooned in that kind of quiet that comes when two people know how to exist in the same space without needing to fill the silence.

A muted football game from earlier still flickered on the television, long forgotten. A lavender and sage candle flickered low on the coffee table, its scent curling in lazy spirals through the room. Joe was stretched out at one end of the couch in black sweats and a fitted long-sleeve tee, legs slightly splayed, his tablet balanced against one knee as he watched game film through a single earbud. His eyes tracked across the screen with quiet intensity, fingers occasionally swiping or pausing to scribble something with the stylus.

At the other end of the couch, she sat nestled into a throw blanket, legs tucked beneath her, phone cradled in one hand. Her screen glowed with images — close-ups of box braids, boho knotless styles with curly tendrils, marley twists, braided bobs, stitch feed-ins with clean parts, honey blondes, burgundy reds, and ombré browns. Every few seconds, she'd let out a tiny sigh. Not quite loud enough to be a cry for help, but just loud enough to register.

Joe didn’t react the first or second time. He’d been watching film long enough to know when to let a few plays run before making a move. But after the third sigh — this one slightly longer and tinged with frustration — he pulled his earbud out and glanced over.

“You okay, babe?” he asked, voice low and casual, like he already half-knew the answer.

She didn’t look up from her phone. “Mhm.”

“You sure? That sounded like a ‘these-Pinterest-girls-are-lying-to-me’ kind of sigh.”

That got a small laugh from her, barely a puff of air through her nose.

“I’m just…” She turned the screen toward him, briefly flashing a grid of photos. “My appointment’s on Thursday, and I still don’t know what I want. Every style looks good until I imagine sitting in the chair for six hours and ending up hating it.”

He nodded, lips twitching with amusement. “You’ve said that before.”

“It’s a commitment! And I can’t be walking around for three weeks looking like someone’s tired cousin.”

Joe set the tablet down for a second, leaning his elbows on his knees. He studied her for a moment, eyes scanning the open tabs of hairstyles she had on her phone, then said, without hesitation, “Why don’t you do goddess braids again? The ones you had in August — with the cinnamon brown? You said that color mix was fire on you.”

There was a beat of silence.

Her head snapped toward him like she hadn’t heard him right. “What?”

He repeated it, slower this time, like maybe he’d just asked her to name every route in a playbook. “Goddess braids. Cinnamon brown. You know — the one that’s, like… color 30 mixed with a little 33? You said it matched your skin tone better than the copper you tried last spring.”

She blinked. Then blinked again.

“Joe…” she said slowly, brows knitting together in both awe and suspicion. “How do you know that? How do you know exactly what I was wearing and the color code?”

“I just remember stuff.”

“Mmhmm.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is that so?”

He gave a lazy shrug, leaning back again, the picture of innocence. “Yeah. You liked that style. You said it made your face look — what was the word? Snatched? And I liked it too. You looked good.”

She wasn’t smiling. Not yet. She tilted her head, gaze sharp now. “That’s weirdly specific. So you just remembered the name of the braids and the color?”

“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word like it should’ve been obvious.

She gave him a long, pointed side-eye. “Must be the sidechicks in your DMs, huh? You out here consulting on protective styles behind my back?”

Joe froze for half a second, then let out a laugh, short and incredulous. “Sidechicks?”

She lifted her eyebrows. “I mean… knowing the difference between color 30 and 33? That sounds like someone’s been in the chat rooms.”

He clutched his chest in mock betrayal. “Wow. So that’s what we’re doing now?”

She kept a straight face, lips twitching. “Just saying, it’s giving… secret HairTok account.”

Joe chuckled and leaned toward her again, resting one arm along the back of the couch behind her head. “Sweetheart, no one in my DMs is asking me for hair advice. You think women are sliding in talking about braid patterns?”

“I don’t know what women are sliding in talking about. But clearly somebody taught you about color blends.”

“You did!” he shot back. “Babe — you were up until, like, 1 a.m. watching hair tutorials last month, remember? You had that one lady on full blast, talking about pre-stretched hair and mousse application.”

“Oh my God,” she laughed, covering her face. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. And I was trying to sleep, but all I heard was, ‘Make sure to wrap your ends before dipping!’” he mimicked in a high-pitched voice.

She burst out laughing and shoved his shoulder. “Stop it.”

“I had to learn,” he said, grinning, pulling her closer under his arm. “It was either that or be confused every time you started talking about textures and curl patterns. You teach me football stuff sometimes — I’m just trying to keep up.”

She gave him a mock-suspicious look, but the warmth in her eyes had softened. “Okay, fine. Maybe you do pay attention.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Always.”

She turned her phone back toward herself, scrolling up until she found the style he’d mentioned. Goddess braids, waist-length, curled ends, and yes — cinnamon brown, laced with subtle highlights. She paused.

“You really think I should go with this again?”

“I do. You looked good. You felt good. That’s what matters.”

She glanced back at him, her smile slower this time, thoughtful. “You know I’m telling my stylist you picked this one, right?”

“As long as I get credit for the assist.”

“You’re still not off the hook for the sidechick accusation.”

Joe smirked and picked his tablet back up. “I’ll take the flag. Worth it.”

She nestled closer under his arm, letting her head rest on his shoulder as the candle flickered low beside them and the rain softened against the glass. For a while, they didn’t say anything else.

Her phone screen dimmed, but the photo stayed open — cinnamon goddess braids, just like he’d said.

Maybe he really was paying attention, after all.

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The salon buzzed with the familiar energy of a Thursday afternoon — blow dryers whirring, Afrobeats humming from a speaker near the front, the occasional burst of laughter or the snap of a stylist’s gloves. The air smelled of peppermint oil, setting mousse, and the sweet burn of flat irons somewhere in the back.

She sat in her usual stylist’s chair, fingers dancing across the hem of the salon cape draped over her lap. Even though she’d settled on the style days ago — or rather, Joe had — a familiar flutter of uncertainty bubbled beneath her ribs. Would the color pop the same way? Would the curls hold? Was it giving what it needed to give?

“You brought the hair, right?” her stylist asked, glancing at her through the mirror with a teasing smirk.

“Got it right here,” she said, lifting the bag beside her. “Color 30, with a little 33.”

“Oooh, cinnamon brown today?” Her stylist raised a brow, approving. “A fall favorite.”

“Apparently,” she said, half-laughing, “my boyfriend requested it.”

The stylist’s head snapped up with a playful grin. “He picked it? Girl, since when do men know the difference between a 1B and a 4?”

“Exactly! That’s what I said. He was just like, ‘Do the goddess braids again — the cinnamon ones.’ Like it was nothing.”

“I know that’s right,” her stylist said, chuckling as she started parting out her hair. “You better keep that one. He might be the chosen one.”

As the braids began to take shape — long, neat rows weaving down her back with soft curled ends trailing at the bottom — she relaxed into the rhythm of it all. The tug of sections, the cool mist of setting spray, the hum of easy salon chatter. Three hours in, she opened her camera and checked the mirror on her screen. The color shimmered like honey dipped in cinnamon — warm, rich, and smooth against her skin.

Joe had been right.

Of course he had.

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By the time she left, the city had cooled into the gold-blue haze of early evening. She stepped into the condo an hour later with her hoodie up, keys jingling in her hand and her edges freshly laid under a silk scarf. She was half-hoping to sneak in unnoticed, maybe let the big reveal wait until she could shower and wrap the ends.

No such luck.

Joe was already in the kitchen, barefoot in sweats and a gray T-shirt, tossing popcorn into a bowl. The game film was off for once — in its place, ESPN hummed quietly from the mounted TV in the living room. He glanced up as she walked in.

“Hey, honey.”

“Hey,” she said, nonchalant, kicking her sneakers off by the door and padding in on quiet feet.

Joe squinted a little as she walked past. “You got it done?”

“Mmhm,” she said, casual.

“You gonna show me?”

She paused, then gave a slow smile over her shoulder. “Why, Mr. Cinnamon Brown, you feeling confident?”

He chuckled. “I just want to see if my vision came to life.”

“Your vision, huh?”

“Absolutely. I curated this look.”

With a laugh, she pulled the hoodie back slowly and unwound the silk scarf with a slight flourish. The goddess braids spilled down her shoulders in full reveal — waist-length, curled ends bouncing slightly with movement, and that warm cinnamon hue catching the soft overhead lighting just right.

Joe froze.

Then let out a low whistle.

“Damn.”

She smirked, turning slightly so he could see the full 360. “You did good, huh?”

“No, you did good. I just made the assist. This is…” He trailed off, coming closer, reaching out to gently finger one of the braids. “Baby, this color is insane on you. Like — not to sound dramatic — but this might be top-tier level.”

She laughed, pretending to fan herself. “I mean, it is giving."

“It’s giving everything.” Joe tilted his head, still visibly impressed. “You walking into the stadium like this Sunday, or...?”

“Please,” she laughed. “You want me to outshine you on your own field?”

He leaned in, brushing a kiss against her temple. “Always.”

They stood there for a moment, his fingers still lightly grazing her braids, her smile quiet and content.

“You know,” she murmured, resting a hand on his chest, “I really thought you were cheating for a second. When you knew the hair code.”

Joe grinned. “Told you — I listen. And I love you in every version of you, but this one?” He gave a dramatic nod of approval. “Yeah. This one’s special.”

She leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. “Well… lucky for you, this one’s staying around for a while.”

“And lucky for you,” he said, sliding his arms around her waist, “I’ve got a lot of free time tonight to admire it.”

She laughed as he pulled her close, the popcorn now completely forgotten.

In the background, ESPN droned on about passing yards and defensive lines, but none of that mattered. Not here, not in their little pocket of quiet — where cinnamon braids and side-eyes had given way to warmth, laughter, and the kind of love that noticed every little detail.

[nizhspo]

genre: haikyuu imagine, fluff

pairing: atsumu miya x fem!reader

summary: you need a job, and the miyas are hiring.

you applied on a monday. it was hot out—like, unbearable, swamp-ass hot. the kind of heat that made you question every life choice that had led to you walking around in knockoff slip-resistant shoes, filling out paper applications for family-owned businesses that probably didn’t even use email.

but you needed a job.

your last one, at that grimy-ass burger chain off the highway, ended in flames—literally.

someone had started a grease fire and blamed it on you and suna, even though you’d both been outside laughing about something stupid near the dumpster. but maybe that was the problem. you laughed too much. slacked off. took tips you technically weren’t allowed to. you fell asleep once in the mop closet. once. and just like that, fired.

but suna kept the job. of course he did. he smiled with his eyes and knew how to look pathetic enough for forgiveness. you, on the other hand?

yeah. you were the cautionary tale now.

so when he sent you the link to some random ass place called miya south third, with a blurry little picture of a chalkboard menu and mismatched stools, you clicked apply.

“they need summer help,” he said. “real short-staffed. family-owned. kinda cute inside.”

you narrowed your eyes. “why does it look like someone took this photo on a toaster.”

“just go. trust me.”

…

you showed up in jean shorts and your best ‘please hire me, i am not a girl who steals food from the kitchen’ smile (you definitely are).

the building was small, with chipped blue trim around the windows and a porch swing out front for whatever reason. inside, it smelled like sugar and butter and smoked meat.

like heaven.

the guy at the register had a clean apron on, rolled sleeves, and a streak of flour across his forearm. black hair, grey at the tips, probably natural. he looked like he took his job a little too seriously.

“what can i get for ya?” he asked in a southern drawl, voice smooth and dry like cornbread.

you hesitated. “um, actually… i’m here with my application?”

his eyebrows lifted. “oh. ma—” he called back, without even turning around. “got another one.”

“be right there!” a woman’s voice shouted, from somewhere in the back.

she appeared a moment later, older, strong-featured, hair pulled back in a loose bun. the kind of lady who could command a kitchen and a church pew in the same breath.

“hi, sweetie,” she smiled. “i’m mayumi. come on back.”

you liked her. she talked fast, like she was already three thoughts ahead, but still made space to ask you things like how school was going, if you had any food allergies, whether or not you could count change without a calculator.

“you can start tomorrow,” she said finally, handing you a paper schedule. “we’re relaxed on dress code, but keep it neat. and no crop tops. this ain’t sonic.”

you winced. “actually, is it okay if i start the day after tomorrow? i have my cousin’s graduation—”

her smile faltered, just a little. “mm. sure. that’s fine.”

…

you met osamu officially on your first shift. same guy from the register. he handed you an apron and walked you through your duties: wipe tables, refill waters, keep the silverware stocked, run food when it’s ready, don’t ask stupid questions.

he wasn’t mean. just dry. meticulous. he had his own little rhythm behind the line and didn’t like being interrupted. but he made good food. real good.

cheesy onigiri that made your mouth water. fried pork belly skewers with peach glaze. buttered cornbread you swore he’d stolen from god’s personal recipe book.

“hey, do you make everything?” you asked, once, cautiously.

“most of it,” he shrugged, flipping a pan. “some of the prep’s ma. desserts are all hers.”

you started to like it there. the place felt like a secret, half cafe, half kitchen table. quiet but never empty.

old ladies came for their tea and gossip. high school kids rolled through sweaty from practice, crashing into booths and inhaling everything. a couple of cops came in like clockwork every thursday and flirted harmlessly with mayumi. regulars knew your name by week two.

but there was always one name you heard more than any other.

atsumu.

“that boy ain’t been in since sunday.”

“atsumu was supposed to close but left at eight.”

“atsumu’s good with customers, but he’s got a squirrel brain.”

you never saw him. never even glimpsed him. like a fucking myth. the golden child with a bad work ethic. a tornado with bleach-blond roots.

“is he real?” you asked osamu one day, half-joking.

he just scowled. “unfortunately.”

…

you met him in week four.

you’d been working by yourself all night. slow shift. only two tables, both polite. you were wiping down the counter when the bell above the door jingled and a voice called out—

“yo! sorry i’m late.”

you turned. blinked. stared.

shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, hair a tousled mess. taller than you expected. sharp jaw, easy grin, eyes gold like honey under the flickering track lights.

and obnoxiously, obviously confident.

“you’re the new girl?” he asked, eyes sweeping over your apron, your name tag, your lip gloss.

“yeah.”

he tilted his head, smirking like he already knew something you didn’t. “damn. if osamu told me we was hiring pretty girls, i would’ve stopped by way sooner.”

you raised a brow, tone dry. “maybe he didn’t want to scare us off.”

he laughed. “relax. i’m just sayin’ hey.”

you didn’t respond. just handed him the rag and pointed to the tables.

“if you’re here,” you said, “you’re working.”

he whistled, low and impressed. “feisty.”

you turned before he could see the corner of your mouth twitch.

…

working with him was chaos. he was all energy and bad ideas. put music on the speakers when he wasn’t supposed to. gave customers extra sauces just to piss off osamu. leaned against the counters telling stories that went nowhere.

but he was good with people. really good.

old ladies loved him. toddlers gave him high-fives. couples tipped more when he flirted with both of them.

he had that thing. the kind of charm you couldn’t fake.

and the worst part?

he could actually cook. really cook. when he tried. he made a grilled mackerel sandwich that left you speechless and a watermelon-mint slushie that saved your ass one day when you got overheated near the fryer.

“you could be, like, amazing,” you told him once.

he winked. “i am amazing.”

you rolled your eyes. “no, i mean, here. if you tried.”

he leaned in a little too close. “you tryna make me a better man, sweetheart?”

you swatted at him with a menu. “i’m trying to get through one shift without a health code violation.”

…

then there was the suna thing.

you were restocking forks near the back, squatting by the shelves with one airpod in and your mind half on nothing, when the bell over the front door jingled.

then— “yo. smellin’ real good in here today.”

you blinked. froze. that voice.

you popped your head up so fast you smacked your elbow on the counter. “rintarou?”

he was already grinning, hands in his pockets like he owned the place. “sup.”

“what are you doing here?”

atsumu, drying his hands on a rag, leaned around from the kitchen with a raised brow. “you know him?”

“uh, yeah? this is my best friend.” you looked between them, still reeling. “you know him?”

atsumu and suna dapped each other up like they’ve been doing it since birth. casual. like it was normal.

“uh, yeah? we go to school together?” suna said, deadpan. “he’s literally in my homeroom.”

you whipped toward suna so fast your ponytail hit your cheek. “so you sent me to work with this asshole and didn’t say anything?”

he blinked. shrugged. “you needed a job did you not?”

you threw a paper napkin at his face with the force of someone who wanted it to be a brick.

he didn’t even flinch.

just caught it, tucked it in his pocket like it was a gift, and walked straight to the fridge in the lobby. “y’all got any more of that green tea?”

…

things changed after that.

you started getting shifts with atsumu more often. sometimes on accident. sometimes not. sometimes he’d text you, yo, need help tonight? and you’d say no, but he’d show up anyway.

he always found something to tease you about. your hair, your handwriting, the way you folded napkins like a little perfectionist. but he also brought you lemonade when you looked tired. kept your favorite station playing when it was just the two of you. helped you mop even when he technically didn’t have to.

you didn’t admit it, but you looked forward to seeing him.

you’d watch him out the corner of your eye, shirt untucked and dancing to a playlist he definitely wasn’t allowed to control, singing along under his breath. you’d pretend not to notice how he glanced at you in the reflection of the fridge glass. how he always brushed your arm when you passed behind him. how his smile changed when it was just you and him and the open hum of the kitchen at night.

…

the kiss came late. a tuesday. close to midnight.

you were both closing. a mess of dishes behind you. air thick with fryer heat and the distant smell of brown sugar. you were stacking chairs when he said, real quiet—

“you like it here?”

you looked at him. “yeah. i do.”

he nodded. shifted his weight. “good. ‘cause i was kinda hopin’ you’d stay.”

you smiled. “you trying to make sure you don’t have to cover more shifts?”

he stepped a little closer. “nah. i mean. that, too. but…”

his fingers brushed yours. warm. nervous.

“you ever wonder what we’d be like?”

you blinked. heartbeat stuttering. “what do you mean?”

he shrugged, leaned back on his elbows like the question wasn’t setting your whole world on fire.

“i mean… if i kissed you right now, would you tell me to fuck off or kiss me back?”

his voice was low. careful. almost teasing, but not quite.

that grin was there, yeah, but it didn’t touch his eyes. not the way it usually did when he was joking.

this wasn’t a joke. and he knew you knew that.

you didn’t answer. just tilted your head. stepped in.

and kissed him.

he kissed like he did everything. cocky, a little messy, but surprisingly sweet. his hands on your hips, yours in his hair. the fridge humming behind you. your apron still tied, the smell of powdered sugar in your hair.

when you pulled away, he whispered, “gonna make this night last real long, huh?”

you snorted. “you wish.”

he kissed you again anyway.

…

weeks passed. things got easier. funnier. warmer. he still flirted with customers, but now he always looked at you after, like he was waiting for your reaction.

you just rolled your eyes, threw wadded-up receipts at his head, laughed when he missed the trash bin three times in a row.

you were still the only non-miya working there. but it didn’t feel weird anymore. it felt like home.

especially with him.

on your birthday, he brought in pink cupcakes with ��happy shift queen” written in terrible icing. you swore he paid some toddler to do it.

on his day off, he still came in. sat on the counter with his chin in his hand, watching you wipe tables.

“can’t stay away, huh?” you asked.

“nah,” he said. “my girl’s here.”

you rolled your eyes. “you’re so annoying.”

“but cute, though.”

you didn’t disagree.

…

that night, when the last customer left, he locked the door behind them, flipped the sign, and leaned back against the glass.

“hey,” he said, tugging you gently by your apron.

you looked up. “yeah?”

he grinned. “kiss the cook?”

you kissed him slow, laughter in your chest. “only if the cook actually does his job tonight.”

“you wound me.”

but he was already moving toward the kitchen, grabbing a mop with one hand and your waist with the other.

and yeah. maybe you were still technically the only non-miya working at miya south third.

but they were starting to feel a little like family, too.

[hoiststowline]

_sunstreaker x bartender!reader

prompt: a bot runs an important item up to your place of work.

[a/n: hi!! please check out my lovely friends' versions of this prompt @drabbletron here, & @dommiso here!]

there was a lingering emotion that rattled his processor each time he watched you up the steps into your job, yourself easily ignoring his complaints on the subject. Sunstreaker wouldn’t call it loneliness, but it was a feeling adjacent to the tightness that seizes in his chassis. 

you had extended the sympathetic notion and reminder that it wasn’t as if you thoroughly enjoyed going to work, but it was a requirement and obligation that paid the bills. perhaps the more sour part of it all appeared to be that you had picked up a shift on a weekday that the two of you typically spend together, but Sunstreaker had scoffed when you tried to apologize. 

still, watching you disappear into the glass doors and out of his sight never quite gets any easier. others may observe his snarl as jealousy, when in reality, he was just an impatient ass and needy bastard all around. 

engine revving, he goes to take off in search of something to kill time for the next eight hours, but his wheels never move. gingerly, his rearview mirror tilts, catching the small metal object laying on the passenger seat. Sunstreaker has no idea what the device is, but he can count several times he’s caught you toying with it on drives home, only to shove it back into your pocket. 

curiously, his gaze moves from the leather seat back to the door. 

you hadn’t been behind the bar for more than five minutes when someone asked for a beer, your fingers immediately sliding into your front pocket to grab your wine key, only to find it empty. brow furrowed, you move down the bar to steal a co-workers, if only to get this beer open for the customer right in front of you. 

after cashing him out, your hands slide over your pants, realizing that your bottle opener was not on your person, something that would prove immensely annoying on a Friday night shift. 

“Forget something?”

prompted, you halt your frustrated pat down of your pockets, turning toward the new voice at your left. 

a laugh bubbles in your throat first, but know better than to release it. Sunstreaker’s holoform was not someone you were well acquainted with, only having witnessed such a treat a handful of times. he doesn’t appear all that pleased, your wine key somewhat lost in his hand, but still, he offers it to you. 

“Sunny,” you breathe, either in relief or adoration, the line remains hazy. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you so much” 

he grumbles a reply when your hand slips into his, retrieving the object from his palm. “It must’ve fallen out of your pocket. It was on your seat.” 

your seat. 

his description of the spot makes your heart skip a beat, but are forced to shelve such a sentiment for later. bringing it up now, especially in public, would not be doing yourself any favors for tonight, as he already was irritated you picked up this shift in the first place. 

“I appreciate you bringing it in.” reluctantly, your fingers fall away from his, if only to avoid the nosey stares from your co-workers. “I owe you one.” 

“How about we leave, and do something else instead.” Sunstreaker looms over the bar, to which you roll your eyes and move to begin counting inventory. “I’m serious, y/n.” 

“What, are you going to sit there all night and pout if I say no?” you return, turning your back on him to see what stock you needed. to some mild horror, upon looking back over your shoulder, Sunstreaker has taken residency on one of the many stools at your front.

“You aren’t serious, Sunny.” 

at your plea, your co-worker slides down your way, all to forward for your liking. “Hi. That’s your boyfriend's ride?”

both yourself and Sunstreaker turn to where they’re pointing, just out the front window to find the yellow lamborghini backed into one of the spots, facing the restaurant. 

“Yes.” Sunstreaker rumbles proudly.

simultaneously, you respond with an annoyed groan. “No.”

is that what organics referred to their partners, boyfriend? all to much having his ego stroked, he was unable to help the small smile that adhered to his holo-form. Sunstreaker liked that title, and admired it even more when someone else referred to you and him as such. 

shuffling away from the other bartender, you try to scrounge some patience to ask in the nicest way possible. “Sunny, can you please go?”

to your dismay, he confirmed the answer you knew he was going to provide. “No. I think I’ll stay.”

Sunstreaker was foolish to ever disregard or question your skill, indifferent to your explanation when you had tried to explain that mixing drinks was similar, but vastly unconnected between your species. watching you bartend was entrancing, and every so often you’d blow him a kiss over your shoulder, seemingly gotten over the fact that he decided to hang around your station. 

your co-worker kept bouncing their gaze between him and the car outside, obviously distracted by his presence, attempting to figure him out, he assumes. Sunstreaker’s evidently permanent scowl likely didn’t help the equation, as how could someone as friendly as you find affection for him. 

he is well aware of your polar opposite personalities, and has heavily dwelled on such an observation before. even the way you chat with who he assumes are total strangers, a gentle twinkle in your eyes as you multitask. you’re a wonder to watch. 

“I pour liquor.” you’d softly laughed at his ogling, catching the way he fumbles with a coaster that had been discarded on the bar. “There’s nothing spectacular about that.” 

Sunstreaker wishes to praise you, the sentiment sits in his mouth, but it never escapes. the effortlessness that you possess is entrancing, and that is not strictly adhered to your occupation. you are so jovial, as if blessed with a never yielding patience for his irksome personality at times. he’s definitely made strides to better behave himself, but surveying you so naturally in your element has him questioning your rationale for putting up with him. 

“Opposites attract,” you’d shrugged in response, a genuine smile on your face, meaning the words you say wholeheartedly.

[sleepdeprivedf1fan]

Checkered Flag

———

———

The Miami Grand Prix had been a whirlwind of excitement and disappointment, and as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the bustling streets, Charles Leclerc sat in the backseat of the team van, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. The energy from the race still buzzed in the air, but Charles was far from thrilled. A P7 finish after leading the race for a significant portion had left him feeling frustrated, and you could feel the tension radiating off him like heat waves from the asphalt.

When you had seen him cross the finish line, you had felt a mix of pride and concern. You knew how much he had poured into this race, how hard he had pushed himself, and how crushing it felt to miss out on a podium. You had been waiting in the paddock, ready to greet him with a smile and a hug, but as he climbed out of the car, the look on his face told you everything you needed to know.

You both made your way back to the hotel, the silence in the van suffocating. You glanced over at him, watching as he stared out the window, the Miami skyline blurring past. You wanted to reach out, to comfort him, but you knew that right now, he was in a world of his own, battling his own demons.

As you entered the hotel room, the tension was palpable. Charles dropped his bag on the floor with a thud, and you winced at the sound. You took a deep breath, ready to address the elephant in the room.

“Hey, Charles… I know you’re upset about the race,” you began softly, hoping to ease the storm brewing inside him. “But you drove so well. You had some great moments out there.”

He spun around to face you, his eyes flashing with anger. “Great moments? Do you know how close I was to winning? I had it in my hands, and it slipped away because of—” he paused, struggling to articulate the frustration boiling inside him. “Because of that stupid strategy!”

You felt your heart sink. You understood racing and the pressures he faced, but his anger was directed at you, and it stung. “Charles, I get it. I really do. But lashing out at me won’t change what happened. I’m just trying to support you.”

“Support me? By telling me I did great when I clearly didn’t?” he snapped, his voice rising. “I don’t need platitudes right now. I need someone to understand how much this hurts!”

You crossed your arms, feeling a mix of hurt and anger. “I’m trying to understand, but you’re making it really difficult! I’m not the enemy here, Charles!”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I’m sorry, I just… I can’t process this right now. Everything is just… so frustrating!” He turned away from you, his back rigid.

You took a step closer, wanting to bridge the gap between you. “I know you’re frustrated. I’m frustrated too. But we’re in this together. Can’t we talk about it?”

He turned back to you, his expression softening for a moment before hardening again. “What’s there to talk about? I failed. I had the chance to win, and I blew it!”

You felt your own frustration bubbling over. “You didn’t blow it! You’re not a failure just because you didn’t win one race! You can’t keep holding yourself to this impossible standard. It’s not fair to you… or to me!”

“Maybe I’m just tired of everyone telling me how great I am when I feel like I’m failing,” he shot back, his voice thick with emotion. “You don’t understand the pressure I’m under!”

Your chest tightened at his words. “Then help me understand, Charles! Don’t shut me out. I’m here for you, but you have to let me in!”

He turned away again, this time pacing the small room. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. I just want to be alone.”

The words hit you like a slap. You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “Fine. If that’s what you want, I’ll give you space,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “But don’t expect me to wait around forever.”

You stormed out of the room, heart pounding and emotions swirling. You needed air, to clear your head away from the suffocating tension between you. As you wandered the hotel’s corridor, you tried to calm yourself, to not let the fight consume you. But the hurt lingered, gnawing at your insides.

After what felt like an eternity, you returned to the room, determined to confront the situation, but as you opened the door, you found Charles sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He looked up as you entered, and you could see the weariness etched on his face.

“Can we talk?” you asked softly, your heart still racing.

He nodded slowly, his expression shifting from anger to guilt. “I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I’m overwhelmed.”

You moved closer, sitting beside him on the bed. “I know it’s a lot. But I want you to know that I’m here for you, no matter what. You don’t have to face this alone.”

He sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. “I just feel like I’m letting everyone down. My team, the fans, you… It’s hard to carry that weight.”

You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers. “You’re not letting me down. I admire you for what you do. But you need to let yourself feel these emotions. It’s okay to be frustrated, to be angry. Just don’t take it out on me.”

He looked down at your hands, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “I’m sorry. You deserve better than my outbursts.”

“You’re human, Charles. You’re allowed to feel things. But we need to communicate. I can’t help you if you shut me out,” you replied, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you.

He turned to face you, his expression softening further. “I don’t want to fight. I hate seeing you upset.”

“I hate seeing you upset too,” you admitted, a small smile breaking through the tension. “So let’s work on it together.”

He nodded, and for a moment, the air between you felt lighter. But then, he leaned closer, his gaze intense. “Can I be honest?”

“Always,” you replied, your heart racing again, this time from anticipation.

“I need you right now. I need you to help me forget everything, even if it’s just for a little while,” he said, his voice low and sultry.

You felt a rush of heat at his words, the tension shifting from anger to desire. “You want me to help you forget?”

He nodded, his eyes darkening with need. “I want you to be with me.”

Before you could respond, he closed the distance between you, capturing your lips with his. The kiss was fierce, filled with the pent-up emotions of the day, and you melted into him, responding with equal passion. His hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer as you deepened the kiss.

You could feel the weight of the world lift off your shoulders as you surrendered to the moment. In the midst of the chaos, it was just the two of you, and nothing else mattered.

As the kiss broke, you both gasped for air, foreheads resting together. “Forget everything,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “Just be with me.”

You nodded, and he leaned in again, this time trailing kisses down your neck. You shivered at the sensation, your body responding to his every touch. The frustration and anger from earlier melted away, replaced by raw desire.

You pulled him closer, urging him to explore every inch of you. The fight had ignited a fire within you both, and you were ready to unleash it. Clothes were shed in a flurry of passion, and soon you found yourselves tangled in the sheets, the world outside fading into oblivion.

Charles’s hands roamed your body, igniting sparks of pleasure with every caress. You gasped as he took his time, worshipping you with his lips, his tongue tracing patterns that made your skin tingle. You could feel the tension building between you, a sweet urgency that demanded release.

As he entered you, a moan escaped your lips, and you could see the relief wash over his face. This was what he needed, what you both needed—to connect, to lose yourselves in each other, if only for a moment. The rhythm of your bodies moved in perfect harmony, a dance of desire that pushed you closer to the edge.

With every thrust, every whispered promise, you felt the weight of the world lift, replaced by the intoxicating haze of passion. You were lost in a whirlwind of sensations, the fight from earlier now a distant memory as you surrendered to the pleasure building inside you.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Don’t hold back. Just like that. Good girl.”

You nodded, feeling the climax approaching, a wave building within you, ready to crash. The sounds of skin against skin filled the room, mingling with your breathless gasps and his low growls of pleasure. It was a symphony of intimacy that drowned out all the frustration and pain from earlier.

With one final surge, you both reached the peak, cries of ecstasy echoing in the room as you found your release together, bodies entwined in the afterglow of passion. You lay there, hearts racing, the world outside forgotten, the fight replaced by a deeper connection.

As you snuggled into his side, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. Charles kissed the top of your head, a gentle reminder that even amidst the chaos, you could always find your way back to each other.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” he whispered, his voice warm against your skin. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“I know,” you replied softly, tracing your fingers over his chest. “But I’m glad we found our way back.”

He smiled, a genuine smile that lit up his face. “Always. No matter how hard the race gets, I’ll always come back to you.”

And in that moment, you knew that no matter the challenges ahead, togethe

[abbi111]

𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆!𝑲𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒊 ( Part V )

Tags: YandereKakashi, Iruka, Dark, PossessiveKakashi, Power Imbalance, Bruises, Abuse, EmotionalManipulation, Kakashi x Reader, Angst, ControlAndIsolation, IrukaRescuePlan, NSFWThemes, TwistedLove

The market was quiet at this hour—barely open, the air cool with dew. Morning light filtered pale through the awnings. You moved quickly, list clutched tight in one hand, bag dangling from the other.

Eggs. Ginger. Soy sauce. Something sweet.

Straight there. Straight home. Don’t speak to anyone.

You were halfway through the list when you heard your name.

“(Y/N)?”

Your body stiffened. The voice was warm, familiar. Too familiar.

You turned slowly.

Iruka.

His eyes lit up. He stepped forward with a smile that didn’t know it shouldn’t be there. “It’s really you! I haven’t seen you in so long.”

You tried to smile back, but it faltered. Your stomach twisted. Kakashi. He’d told you not to talk to anyone. Iruka and you practically grew up together. He was someone from your past life you missed the most.

You dipped your head, voice low. “Hi, Iruka.”

It was all you said. You tried to step past him, but he caught your sleeve gently. “Wait. Are you okay?”

That’s when he saw it.

Not just the paleness in your skin, or the way you shrunk back from touch. But your eyes is what he focused on, gone was the spark he remembered. What looked back at him now was hollow, watchful.

His gaze dropped. And then he saw what you’d tried to hide.

A bruise just below your collarbone—faint, yellowing, just visible beneath your scarf where it had slipped. Another, darker, on your wrist when your sleeve shifted.

He froze. His expression cracked.

You took a step back. “I should go—”

“(Y/N), wait.” His voice was softer now. No longer just surprise. It was sorrow. “You don’t have to say anything. I get it. I do. But… I want to help.”

Your lips parted but the fear was faster than your words.

Iruka looked around quickly, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out something small—a white paper crane, folded perfectly. He pressed it into your palm.

“If you ever need out—if you need me—put this under the bridge by the red Torii gate, where we used to feed the stray cats. I’ll check every day. You don’t have to say a word. Just leave it.”

You stared at it, throat thick.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

“You can. Just not today.”

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t give it back. That was enough.

Iruka gave a quiet nod, and didn’t follow when you turned to leave.

You carried the crane all the way home in a clenched fist.

When you stepped into the apartment, the silence was absolute. Kakashi wasn’t in the room—but he was home. You could always feel it, like static in the air.

You moved quickly, placing the groceries on the counter just how he liked. Put the eggs toward the front. Sweet rolls on top. Nothing bruised, nothing forgotten.

You smoothed the edge of the rug, double-checked the fridge handle, and went to change.

The whole time, the paper crane sat tucked in your cardigan pocket like it was burning a hole through your ribs.

⸻

Later – School Time Skip

The bell rang sometime after noon. You’d barely heard it.

You moved through your classes like a ghost again, more aware than ever of how easy it would be to vanish completely. No one knew you. No one saw you.

But he had.

Iruka’s words haunted you.

You don’t have to say a word.

Just leave it.

The paper crane in your bag felt heavier than your books—so delicate, so small, yet sharp enough to pierce a hole straight through your chest. You hadn’t unfolded it. Hadn’t dared. But it was there. A promise.

If you need me, I’ll know.

You weren’t sure if that scared you more than everything else.

In third period, your mind wandered—until you noticed something that made your stomach curl.

The seat near the window. Fourth desk in. The one closest to the gate.

Empty.

Your eyes fixed on it before you even realized why.

It was where she sat—the girl who’d walked you to the gate yesterday. Kind eyes, casual voice. She hadn’t asked questions. Just smiled. Just existed near you without pressing too close.

Gone.

You blinked, then scanned the room again. Maybe she was late. Maybe in the nurse’s office.

But she wasn’t.

And then, from the corner of the room, you heard it.

Two girls whispering behind cupped hands.

“I heard she transferred.”

“What? That fast?”

“Yeah, something about a sudden move. Didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

A chill crept down your spine like a crack in glass.

Transferred. No warning. No goodbye. No reason.

The same girl who smiled at you. Spoke to you. Gave you a moment of normal.

And now she was gone.

Just like that.

Just like he warned.

“If anyone so much as looks at you like they shouldn’t…”

You shifted in your seat, suddenly breathless. The walls of the classroom felt thinner. More fragile.

You stared at the empty desk again.

And then slowly—without thinking—you reached into your bag, fingers brushing the tiny paper crane hidden in the lining of your pencil pouch.

It felt too light to matter.

Too fragile to change anything.

But now you knew: it might be the only thing that could.

⸻

Evening – Back Home

The apartment was dim when you returned. Kakashi was sitting on the couch, mask in place, one leg draped casually over the other. He looked up the moment you stepped through the door.

“You made it back before dark,” he said simply. “Good girl.”

You swallowed the tightness in your throat. “I came straight home.”

“Of course you did.” He set down his book and stood. “Did you find what I asked for?”

“Yes. Everything.”

He stepped closer. His hand brushed against your lower back in a gesture that might’ve looked affectionate to someone else. But to you—it was a reminder.

His voice dipped. “Anyone bother you today?”

You shook your head too fast. “No.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Too long. But he said nothing. Just pulled you in gently, kissed the top of your head.

“Good. I knew I could trust you.”

But your heart beat louder than his praise.

Because he didn’t know.

Not yet.

The crane was still in your school bag.

Folded. Hidden. Waiting.

Just like you.

——

Home

The sound of the front door closing echoed softly behind you. You slipped off your shoes, shoulders tight, heart still beating faster than it should.

Dinner.

That’s what you had to focus on.

The kitchen was quiet. Familiar. You moved automatically, laying out ingredients from the shopping trip—rice, vegetables, chicken, soy sauce. Sweet buns for dessert, just like Kakashi liked. Your hands knew what to do even if your mind was somewhere else—folding cranes and bridges and paper promises.

You were halfway through chopping the scallions when you heard his footsteps.

Kakashi entered the kitchen quietly, hair still damp from the shower. He leaned against the doorway, mask back on, his ANBU vest gone. Just a dark tee and those same low-hanging sweatpants. Casual. Deceptively soft.

“You’re doing good,” he said, voice low. “Smells great.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, eyes on the cutting board.

A pause.

“Guy’s coming over tonight.”

Your hand froze over the cutting board.

He noticed, of course.

“Just for a little while,” he added smoothly. “Old friends. He asked to catch up.”

You didn’t respond.

Kakashi stepped forward, his fingers brushing your spine lightly, possessively. “Be your best for me, alright, sweetheart?”

You nodded, slow and small.

“And smile.” His voice dropped an octave. “He’s loud. But he’s not stupid.”

You swallowed hard and went back to slicing.

⸻

The timing, of course, was perfect.

You’d just finished plating dinner when there was a knock on the door—one knock, loud and enthusiastic.

“Yo, Kakashi! The flames of my youth burn ever brighter for curry night!”

You flinched.

Kakashi chuckled.

It wasn’t his usual dry hum. It was light, amused—like the man he used to be.

He opened the door and let Guy in.

The tall shinobi practically bounded inside, eyes twinkling beneath thick brows. “There she is! You must be the lovely mystery girl I’ve heard so little—and so very much—about.”

You gave a polite smile, careful, lips barely parting. “Hi, Guy.”

He strode over like a man twice as comfortable as he should be and extended a hand. You hesitated—but took it.

Firm grip. Warm. Too long.

Kakashi’s eye twitched just slightly.

“Oh, she’s adorable,” Guy said, eyes bouncing between the two of you. “How did you manage this, Kakashi? Your personality is like a wet blanket wrapped around a riddle inside a sulking cat.”

Kakashi snorted, sinking into the couch with practiced ease. “Charm. And a deep appreciation for good cooking.”

“You lucky bastard,” Guy muttered, still grinning as he flopped into the seat across from him.

Kakashi’s visible eye smiled, but the air shifted. His fingers drummed silently against the couch.

You finished setting the table and sat when he nodded.

Guy dug in like a starving wolf, humming happily between bites. “This is incredible.”

Kakashi leaned back, relaxed on the surface, but his eyes—his real one, and the hidden red glow beneath the forehead protector—never left you.

You laughed once—small, hollow. “I like cooking.”

Kakashi’s tone dropped, silken. “Guy.”

“What?” Guy grinned. “I’m just saying—she’s polite, she’s pretty, she cooks like my mother, and she hasn’t told me to shut up once. Marry her, you fool.”

You didn’t miss the way Kakashi’s hand curled around his cup just a little too tightly.

“I’m working on it,” he said, too sweetly.

Dinner passed like a performance.

You answered when spoken to. You kept your eyes low. You smiled when Guy laughed, and never once looked at Kakashi longer than you had to.

You were good. You were perfect.

And still, beneath the table, his hand found your knee.

Gentle. Heavy. Warning.

⸻

After conversations about mission and their rivalry Guy stood, stretching with a groan. “Well, I’ve eaten myself into oblivion. I’ll be running laps around the village for the next hour.”

Kakashi walked him to the door.

“Thanks again, you two. Seriously.” Guy clapped Kakashi on the shoulder, then turned to you. “If you ever want someone who can hold a conversation longer than a haiku, come find me.”

Kakashi laughed. But his hand was on the door.

“See you soon, Guy.”

And then he was gone.

The smile was gone.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

The air felt too still—like the village before a summer storm, charged with something unseen.

You didn’t move.

You kept drying the plate in your hands as if it was the last fragile thing tethering you to calm.

Behind you, you heard his footsteps. Slow. Controlled. Measured like a hunter approaching prey.

His Sharingan flared softly behind the forehead protector, even beneath the cloth mask.

“Knew you’d be perfect,” Kakashi murmured, voice low and smooth as silk.

You swallowed.

“You remembered your place. Smiled when you were supposed to. Didn’t say too much.”

The plate slipped from your fingers and clinked into the sink, but you didn’t turn around.

A warm hand came to rest lightly on your hip.

“Did you like Guy’s compliments?”

You froze.

He stepped closer, body heat pressing into your back. His voice dropped to a breath. “The way he looked at you. Like he didn’t care you belonged to someone else.”

“I—” you started, but it caught in your throat.

He pressed in closer, his other hand sliding up, over your ribs, brushing your jaw until his fingers tilted your chin just enough to turn your head.

“Did you blush,” he whispered, “when he called you beautiful?”

You shook your head.

“Oh?” He hummed, lips brushing your ear. “No? Because I saw something. Right here.”

He turned you gently, firmly, until your back hit the wall.

“You looked down.” He tapped your cheek lightly. “You touched your face. Little nervous laugh. That’s the face you make when you like it.”

You stared up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted, but no sound came out.

Kakashi leaned in, his masked face only inches from yours. His hands planted on either side of your head, caging you in like a secret.

“You love attention, don’t you?” he said, soft and dark. “Just a little bit. From anyone who gives it.”

“N-No,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t—”

He tilted his head, one brow rising.

“You didn’t what?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“To what?” he asked, voice low but not loud, which was somehow worse. “To smile? To soak it in? To forget who keeps you fed and warm and safe?”

You flinched.

He leaned in until his forehead touched yours.

“I don’t like people touching what’s mine,” he whispered, and suddenly his tone shifted—calmer, gentle, dangerous. “But you know that. Don’t you?”

You nodded, quickly.

“Good girl.”

He pulled back slightly, watching you—studying you like a puzzle he already solved but liked taking apart over and over again.

“I know you didn’t mean anything by it. You’re just soft. Sweet. It’s not your fault.”

He cupped your face.

“But next time someone flirts with you, you tell me right away. So I can handle it.”

You nodded again.

“Good. That’s all I need from you. Honesty.”

His thumb brushed your collarbone.

“I’d hate to have to remind you.”

[brights-place]

⋆˚࿔ 【 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞‼ - Ch.14 - 16】 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Read The full book on my wattpad

The group of four soon entered a dense bushland, swathed in tangled greenery and veiled in an unnatural hush. Though nature thrived in every corner, something about the atmosphere gnawed at the edges of their nerves. It was as if the trees themselves stood sentinel, their gnarled limbs creaking with unspoken warnings.

Towering trunks loomed like ancient pillars, reaching high into the canopy, where moonlight struggled to filter through the dense foliage. Shadows pooled along the narrow, uneven path, draping the forest floor in an eerie twilight. A stream wove between the roots, its waters gleaming like liquid sapphires. Wildflowers trembled in the breeze, their colors dulled under the somber light. Ivy strangled tree trunks and rocks alike, while the scent of wet soil clung heavily in the air. The silence was broken only by the faint chirr of unseen insects and the crunch of cautious footsteps.

In the heart of the woods stood a peculiar sight a small, vine-wrapped cottage cradled by the forest like a forgotten relic. Time had worn its bones, but the structure still clung to a fairy-tale charm, both inviting and sinister. Moss blanketed the shingled roof, tinged in deep crimson and green. The stone walls, once painted, now bore the faded streaks of ivy's claim. Its windows were clouded by age, spiderwebs curled in the corners like silver lace. Even in decay, the cottage had more grace than Ramshackle's so-called "rustic charm." Deuce scanned the area with quiet caution, his shoulders tense. "So this is the Dwarfs' Mine... Heard it used to be filled with magestones."

Grim wrinkled his nose, ears flicking. "Urgh... Creepy. Who knows what's living here now?" He kicked a pebble aside, trying to sound casual but clearly on edge. [Name] stepped forward, her boots brushing past ivy-coated roots, her deep e/c eyes narrowing as they locked onto the cottage. There was something strangely familiar about it. The ache of déjà vu tugged at her thoughts, but she remained silent, her expression composed and sharp. Ace, as bold as ever, placed his hands on his hips. "Look, it's just a house. Someone might still be living there," he said, already heading toward the crooked door. "No harm in checking."

[Name] drew a quiet breath, her gaze lingering on the warped wood of the door. She didn't notice Ace glance at her, then wordlessly reach over and slip his fingers around hers. With an unspoken tug, he led her forward, joined by Deuce and Grim.

They halted before the timeworn door. [Name] lifted her fist, rapping it against the wood with a measured firmness. Her stare was unwavering, face carved with a cool restraint. Only the sighing wind replied.

"Hello?" she called out, voice smooth yet laced with suspicion. "Is anyone home?" Deuce reached for the knob, only to pause as [Name] raised a brow at him. She nudged him aside with a silent flick of her fingers. "Right. Sorry," he mumbled, stepping back.

With elegant precision, [Name] placed her hand on the handle, her brows briefly furrowing. She muttered something under her breath, the words like a whisper of old magic: "From my toes to my chin, all I desire is for this gate to open and let us in."

The door creaked, then slammed open with an almost dramatic force. Ace flinched. Grim shrieked, diving behind [Name]'s leg, his fur on end. [Name] crossed the threshold first, only to sneeze abruptly from the dust thick in the air. She waved a hand in front of her face, eyes narrowing at the gloom. Deuce wordlessly offered her a napkin, which she accepted with a quiet "Thanks."

"...Looks abandoned," Deuce murmured. "What a mess." "Puwah! I got a spider web in my face! Peh! Peh!" Grim sputtered, desperately trying to clean himself. Ace peered around the cramped interior. "Aren't the chairs a little small? They look like they're made for kids." He counted quickly. "One, two... Seven. Really? Who needs that many chairs?"

"It's near the Dwarfs' Mine," [Name] replied evenly, brushing dust off a crooked chair. "Wouldn't be surprising if dwarfs lived here." Deuce nodded, running his finger along a dusty countertop. "This place must've been lively once. Especially when the mine was booming."

Amid the disarray, [Name] spotted something an untouched basket on the table, inside it a single, polished apple. Its sheen stood out starkly against the filth and decay. Her throat tightened. There was something haunting about how pristine it was, like a memory lingering just out of reach.

Grim gagged again. "Bwah! Another spider web—ptchoo!" Ace stepped forward. "Let's not waste time here. The magestone's probably in the mine. Come on."

The others began filing out, but [Name] lingered. Her gaze returned to the apple. It glowed with an unnatural luster. She stared at it with a subtle grimace, and a flicker of a memory of another girl, of bittersweet laughter flashed through her mind.

The mine entrance loomed ahead, jagged and dark. Moss clung to the rocks like a second skin. A frigid wind burst from its depths, making [Name] tense and curl her arms protectively around Grim, who clutched her chest like a scared kitten.

"Who knows what's in there?" Grim quivered. "It's pitch black!" Ace rolled his eyes, smirking. "What, afraid of the dark?" "Myah?! I'm not scared!" Grim huffed, wriggling free. "I'll go first, thank you very much!" He stomped into the mine with puffed-up bravado. "Grim, wait- !" [Name] sighed, exchanging a glance with Ace before following.

As they ventured deeper, Ace glanced sideways at her. "You cold?" [Name] smirked faintly. "Nah. Just getting Mother-goosebumps." The interior was worse than it looked. Damp air clung to their skin, and the wooden supports groaned with age. Yet even here, the mine sparkled with beauty gemstones of crimson, emerald, and sapphire shimmered faintly in the darkness. None of them were the magestones they needed, but still... [Name] allowed herself a rare smile even in places of ruin, there could still be brilliance. The soft glows of the crystals even in the dim cave shined onto her face. Ace is stare lingering onto her for a moment longer.

Deuce came to an abrupt halt halfway through the mine tunnel, his footsteps echoing across the stone floor before silence fell upon the group. "Huh? Hold up," he called out, causing Ace to groan and roll his head in frustration.

"What now?" Deuce pointed ahead, eyes narrowing. "There's something there." Immediately, [Name] snapped her head toward the darkened tunnel, the air growing heavier around her. Grim let out a startled yelp. "Myah?!" From the depths of the shadows, a series of giggles echoed like eerie wind chimes.

"Hee hee hee! Visitors! The first in ten years..."  All three students gasped, instinctively stepping back as another ghostly voice cooed, "Do make yourselves at home... you can stay forever!" Without warning, two pale ghosts swooped out of the darkness, their forms little more than streaks of flickering mist. They darted between [Name] and Ace, forcing them to stumble backward. Their chilling laughter echoed as they vanished down the tunnel again.

Ace flailed for balance, yelping. "[Name]—! Are you seeing this?!" She had caught herself just in time, heels digging into the dusty ground. Her narrowed eyes followed the retreating specters, amethyst gaze sharp with suspicion. "They're playing with us."

Ace groaned, loud and theatrical. "More ghosts?! Seriously? They're everywhere!"  Deuce stepped forward, trying to regain control. "If we stop to fight, we'll never get anywhere. Let's just keep moving." He strode past them, his jaw set. [Name] followed closely, her long coat swishing behind her with every purposeful step. Ace scoffed and hurried after them.

"Sure, but don't act like we elected you leader. We're only here 'cause of your dumb idea in the first place." Deuce glanced back with a smirk. "Oh? Pretty sure this all started when you tried skipping your punishment." Ace placed his hands on his hips, offended. "So now we're digging up ancient history? Fine. If we're pointing fingers, this all started when the furball torched the statue!"

Grim snapped his head back. "Myah?! Maybe you shouldn't have made fun of me then!"  [Name] pinched the bridge of her nose and glared at both of them. "For the love of fate... must we always resort to blame? You both lost your crowns and cast spells without a second thought. Spare me the wicked tantrums over spilled magic beans."

Her voice was calm yet cutting, dripping with a regal disdain that silenced them both. Grim pawed gently at her leg. "That's not fair..." he muttered. But the look she shot him made him go quiet instantly.

Deuce chuckled softly, nodding in agreement. "She's right. No time for this. Let's get the magestone and get out of here..." Ace grumbled under his breath. "Yeah, yeah. Doesn't mean you get to order us around..." [Name] huffed, brushing her hair over her shoulder with a flick. A moment later, she felt a light tap on her shoulder Deuce.

"Um... [Name]? What did you mean earlier about flipping their crowns?" She blinked, then offered a small, knowing smile. "It's a metaphor. Think of it like losing your head... like the Queen of Hearts says. Or just... losing your mind." Deuce gave a slow, uncertain nod. Before anyone could say more, a new voice echoed down the tunnel.

"...iiivvv... ...oooouuu..." Deuce's brows furrowed. "Sounds like it's getting closer..." "Stooonesss... Stooonesss aaare miiiiine!" All three of them screamed as a figure emerged from the gloom. Floating, it wore tattered robes and a saggy brown hat. But its most disturbing feature was its head a glass vial filled with swirling black sludge, like ink or tar, pulsing as it moved.

[Name] froze in place, her eyes locked on the figure. Grim had already bolted, sprinting on all fours with a shriek of panic. Ace grabbed [Name]'s arm and yanked her forward, dragging her along the tunnel rails as they raced away. "What is that thing?!" Deuce shouted, glancing over his shoulder.

"No one said anything about monsters!" Grim cried. "We're getting outta here!" Ace's grip tightened when [Name] began to fall behind. "Creepy thing's talkin' about 'stones'! What does that mean?!" Grim skidded to a halt, confused. "Wait- what?!"  "Stooonesss... nevvva give stooonesss...!" "Eeeep!" And he was off again.

Deuce's eyes lit up with realization. "Then there are still magestones here!" Grim leapt over a fallen rock. "Even as a master sorcerer, I- I can't take that thing down!" They rounded a corner, pressing themselves flat against the stone wall, gasping for breath. [Name]'s chest heaved as her eyes darted around, calculating.

"We need a magestone, or we'll be expelled!" Deuce hissed. "I'm going in!" He raised his magic pen, determination blazing in his expression. "Are you outta your mind?!" Ace yelled. "I won't be expelled! No matter what!" Deuce shot back, before turning the corner and firing a burst of magic at the creature.

The monster reeled from the impact only to let out a furious growl and keep coming. Deuce fired again. And again. But nothing seemed to stop it. [Name] cursed sharply, then sprinted to Deuce's side. The monster loomed ever closer.

"Begone! Begone! Begooone!" it shrieked.  "Let's go!" [Name] shouted, lifting Deuce over her shoulder in one graceful motion. Ace was already moving, ready to bolt. But the monster swung its arm, striking them both down.

"Aw, crap! He's got Loosey-Deucey and N/N! Not on my watch!!" Ace cried out, aiming his pen at the creature. The monster roared in rage. Just as [Name] and Deuce scrambled back to their feet, Ace was knocked down, grunting in pain. The monster turned toward Grim. "Myaah! Stay away from me!" he shrieked, sending a blast of fire at its face. The flames hit dead-on yet it didn't flinch. It simply roared again and charged forward. "It's not even scratched!" Grim gasped, retreating quickly. But then, [Name] noticed something. Inside the monster's glass head, beneath the churning ink, a glow blue and pulsing, like a gem. A swirling spiral of magical color.

Her eyes widened, lips parting "Wait..." Ace beamed for a moment pointing before going back to a panicked tone "Behind the monster! There's something sparkling in the mineshaft!" Deuce whipped his head around. "Could that have been a magestone?!" He yelled hopefully. The monster seemed enraged at the mere mention of the stone. "GWAAAAAAAH! Nooo giiive yooouuu stooooooone!" The group yelped running off, trying to get to the exit. "[Name]," Grim panted, "we need to book it, and fast! That thing's gonna pound us into tuna paste!" [Name] nodded as the two other boys ran beside her and grim "THERE" Grim shouted the group escaping through the exit.

GRRRAAAWRRR!

The quartet burst out of the mine just as a monstrous roar echoed behind them. They had managed to put a fair distance between themselves and the entrance, though it still loomed within view. As soon as their feet hit grass, Grim collapsed face-first with a pitiful groan. [Name] dropped to her knees, hunched over with one hand bracing her weight against the ground, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath. Beside her, the two boys with card symbols on their faces flopped to the ground with matching groans, the exhaustion etched deep into their expressions.

“Owww... What was that thing? No one said there’d be anything like that!” Ace complained, clutching his side and panting. Deuce let out a huff, his brows drawn tight. “That was no normal ghost, that’s for sure.” Ace scowled and kicked at the dirt beneath his heel. “Let’s just give up and go home. I’ll happily take the expulsion if it means never having to fight that thing again.”

Deuce’s head whipped around, eyes wide in disbelief. “What?! Nuh-uh, not happenin’! I’d rather die than get expelled from Night Raven! How can you give up when the stone is right there?” he barked, glaring at Ace. Ace laughed bitterly. “Pfft. Big talk from someone who’s not even half the mage I am. You want that stone so bad, go get it yourself. I’m out.”

[Name] straightened, her brows furrowed in disapproval, the weight of her stare falling heavily on Ace. Deuce clenched his fists and stood up sharply, fury burning in his expression. “OH YEAH?! Fine, go back to your coop, you big chicken!” Ace’s head snapped around. “WHAT?? Who’re you callin’ chicken, huh?!”

[Name] groaned, standing upright with an air of cold annoyance while Grim flinched at the tension. “Whoa, Deuce… is it just me, or did you, like, turn into a totally different person just now?”  Caught off guard, Deuce coughed awkwardly into his gloved hand and looked away. “Sorry… lost my cool for a second there.”

[Name] sighed, crossing her arms. “So what do we do? The monster’s still in there.” Grim hesitated before speaking up, glancing between the tense group. “Can’t you guys just use magic?” Deuce shook his head, voice low and resigned. “The headmage said it himself… magic has limits. If you can’t strongly visualize your magic, it isn’t going to happen.”

[Name] nodded, placing a hand on her hip. “There can be limits, but you can surpass them.” Deuce’s voice was steadier as he continued. “Using magic at a greater scale, or using different types of magic those things require training.”

Ace, now leaning back on his palms, added with a shrug, “Yeah, that’s why magic academies exist. It takes a lot of training before you can snap your fingers and turn your thoughts into magic. And the more flustered you are, the more likely you are to make mistakes.”

[Name] fell silent for a moment, her gaze shifting to her hands. Memories flashed behind her eyes failed attempts to teleport, spells cast wrong at the worst times. Her fingers curled slightly as she remembered the chaos that always came when her emotions got in the way.

Deuce braced himself with one hand on the grass, determined. “Anyway, we need to find some way to defeat that creature and get the magestone.” Ace groaned dramatically, rolling his head back. “Yeaaaaah. Just like the time with the chandelier, right? You found some way, and now here we are. We just fought that thing and it creamed us. So what exactly is your plan here, genius? Because I sure don’t trust you to improvise!”

Deuce stood quickly, fists clenched at his sides. “What?! You’re the one who-" “Aaand they’re at it again,” Grim sighed. [Name] let out a long exhale, exasperated. “Did they both forget I fixed the chandelier? I can literally use my magic… if it decides to work,” she muttered, checking the ring on her finger. She glanced down at Grim, who nodded with understanding, his tail flicking.

With a harsh glare, [Name] turned back to the bickering boys. Her voice cracked like a whip, louder than both of theirs. “We have to work together, which sucks but we have to.” The boys flinched, clearly startled.

“Together? With him?!” Ace pointed accusingly at Deuce, who returned the glare in full. Ace scoffed. “No way—” “You said we’ll get that stone one way or another. This is our chance. We’re running out of time, but I need you guys to trust me.”

Ace and Deuce exchanged a look of mutual disgust. [Name] let out an exaggerated sigh, loud enough to get their attention again. She shook her head slowly, voice cold and dismissive. “So this is it, I guess. Let’s just get expelled, then.” The boys gasped in unison panicked as they flickered at the memory of the headmage threatening them in the cafeteria about the h/c girl with purple highlights.

“B-But [Name]—!” Deuce exclaimed in shock. Grim blinked, looking up at her with wide eyes. “Whoa, that was sudden. Where’d that come from?” [Name] sighed again, longer this time like a predator pretending to play victim. Her tone turned melancholic. “Well… if you guys won’t work together, then I don’t know what to do,” she murmured, lowering her eyes as if genuinely defeated.

Ace and Deuce visibly paled. She gestured faintly toward them, voice dripping with faux regret. “But I feel bad for you guys, too. It’s pretty lame to actually be accepted into an academy only to be kicked out the first day,” she added with a theatrical wince and a sharp inhale through her teeth.

Grim’s eyes widened in realization, catching on to her act faster than expected. He nodded along, trying to help sell it. “Yeah, gettin’ expelled on the first day… That is pretty lame too. Maybe even lamer that a girl also saved you guys with the chandelier-”

[Name] whipped her head toward Grim and gave his rear a light kick with her shoe. He yelped, tail puffing up as Ace scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “W-Well…” he muttered.

Deuce said nothing, but the gears were clearly turning behind his eyes. A sly smirk curled on [Name]’s lips. She’d snagged the bait. She released another dramatic sigh. “Totally uncool... Well! I guess that’s it. Darn... I really thought my plan was a good one, too which is rare.”

Ace groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine…” he grumbled. “Just this once, though! Let’s just get this over with, then. All right, N/N, what’s the plan?” [Name] grinned, the gleam of mischief returning to her eyes as she rubbed her hands together. “Well…”

⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶꒷⏝ Dictionary !!

Features!! Physical Appearances S/C: Skin Colour H/C: Hair Colour H/L: Hair Length E/C: Eye Colour

Other!! Other things that could be mentioned in chapter

Mage Stone: Magestones operate indiscriminately; they are used as everyday household appliance that anyone could use if they know how to operate the device to begin with.

Ace Trappola: A quick learner with an upbeat personality and a mischievous streak. Since he and are both freshmen in the same class, they regard one another with amicable antagonism.

Deuce Spade: An earnest young man who enrolled at Night Raven College with the singular aim of becoming a respectable mage.

Grim: A monster who aspires to be a great mage. He will eat anything and everything, and his tendency to get carried away often gets him and the main character into trouble.

Phrases/Sayings/Refrences/Quotes Ever after High dictionary/Rooms/ etc. from the show/or game!!

Gate Opening Spell: "From my toes to my chin, all I desire is for this gate to open and let us in" it's a spell to open gates, but can be used to open doors 

Good Godmothers: A phrase that means good god in ever after high used in a mildly blasphemous expression of surprise, outrage, or horror when used.

Lost Your Crown: Another word that means lost your mind but in this situation [Name] has used it have they lost their minds talking about the duo

Mother-goosebumps: Another word for goosebumps

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 / 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 【Hexes & Hushes — MASTERLIST】

Tag List @mochiclouds @ashjade19 @1abi

[missmadella]

Unspoken Currents (Kenma x Reader)

Summary: From the outside, it seemed simple enough—just a study session with Kenma, right? Books, papers, and pens scattered around. Nothing that would raise any eyebrows. But what you didn’t see was the tension, the way Kenma’s focus would drift from the textbook to me, how the silence between us wasn’t awkward, but heavy with something unspoken.

Words: 6435

Kenma’s room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the soft blue glow of his gaming monitor and the gentle afternoon sun filtering through half-closed curtains. His desk was cluttered with textbooks, notes, and a neglected open laptop — all untouched for the last forty minutes.

You weren’t even sure how it started this time. One moment you were both sitting on the floor going over math problems, Kenma absently twirling his pencil while mumbling through an equation. The next, he was leaning over you, hand brushing your knee, his eyes flicking down to your lips in that slow, unspoken way that always made your breath catch. You should’ve been solving formulas — but your backs were now against the edge of his bed, and Kenma’s lips were on yours, warm and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

His fingers tangled in the hem of your shirt, just a light touch — not enough to push boundaries, but enough to remind you that this wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“You’re not even pretending to study anymore,” you whispered against his mouth, trying to sound playful, but your voice came out breathy.

“I opened a textbook,” he murmured back, barely pulling away. “That’s halfway there.”

You laughed softly, the sound quiet against the thick stillness of the room. His hand found yours and rested there between you, thumb brushing lazy circles on your skin. There was something sweet about the way he touched you — never rushed, never rough. Just soft, secretive affection. Like you were both afraid the room might hear too much.

“You think Kuroo’s figured it out yet?” you asked, glancing toward the window out of habit — like someone might be listening in. You didn’t know why it made you nervous. Maybe it was because this — whatever this was between you and Kenma — had never been meant to happen under the cover of “study sessions.”

Kenma shook his head slightly. “He thinks you’re helping me pass physics,” he said, deadpan.

“And you are?”

“Barely.”

You snorted, but the laughter melted into silence again as Kenma leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. His eyes, half-lidded and steady, searched yours like he was memorizing your face for later.

“I like it like this,” he said quietly. “No one else. Just you and me.”

Your heart kicked a little faster, not from the kissing or the secrecy — but from the way he said that. Like he didn’t need anything else. Like it didn’t matter that it was all hidden away.

You nodded. “Me too.”

And then he kissed you again — slower this time. Lazy, careful. Like you had all the time in the world… even if you only had until Kuroo started wondering why neither of you was answering your phones.

___________________________________________________________________________

Kenma’s kiss was slow — almost too slow — like he was afraid to move too fast and break whatever invisible thread was holding the two of you together.

Your hands had found the collar of his hoodie, fingers curling there like you needed something to hold onto, something to anchor you while everything else slipped away. His fingers had moved from your hand to your waist now, resting lightly, but with that familiar hesitation — like every time he touched you, he was still making sure it was real.

He kissed you again. Then again. His lips pressed to yours like he couldn’t stop, like pulling away wasn’t even an option anymore. You both should’ve pulled back. Should’ve remembered this was supposed to be a study session. But that excuse had stopped meaning anything the moment your mouths found each other again.

You smiled a little against his lips, breath catching when he tilted his head just slightly, deepening it. Your back hit the edge of his bed as you leaned back without thinking, pulling him with you. Kenma followed — knee on the floor, hand on your thigh for balance, the quiet sound of his breath between kisses barely louder than the soft rustle of clothes against carpet.

“How… how did this even happen?” you mumbled against his mouth, dazed. “We were supposed to be—”

“Studying?” he interrupted, barely lifting his lips from yours. His voice was quiet and raspy, the kind he only used when he was completely relaxed — or completely lost in you.

You nodded slowly, your eyes fluttering open just enough to look at him — to really see him. Hair slightly messy from where your fingers had tangled in it, hoodie collar askew, cheeks faintly pink.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, eyes half-lidded and honest. “I didn’t think it would be like this. With you.”

You swallowed, heart tripping over itself as he kissed you again, slower this time. Not rushed. Not needy. Just there, fully present.

Kenma wasn’t usually like this — not verbal, not open. He was quiet by nature, unreadable unless you knew how to look past the surface. But here, in the low-lit hush of his room, with your lips still tingling from the last kiss and your breath tangled in his hoodie, he was open in a way he never was with anyone else.

“Me neither,” you whispered. “But I don’t want to stop.”

His hand moved, thumb brushing against your cheekbone, lingering like he was memorizing your skin. “Then don’t.”

And with that, he kissed you again, slower this time, like he could stay there forever. His fingers traced your jawline, gentle and reverent, like he was still surprised you were real — that this was real. Like maybe he’d been asking himself the same thing you were: how had something that started as a lie — a fake study session — turned into this? Into late afternoons spent with his mouth on yours, and the quiet ache of missing each other between every session?

Neither of you had an answer. But in that moment, you didn’t need one.

Because his lips were on yours again, and you both understood the truth in the silence:

You couldn’t get enough of each other. And neither of you wanted to stop.

___________________________________________________________________________

The room felt quieter now, like even the world outside had agreed to hush for a while — just long enough to give the two of you this.

Kenma hadn’t moved far from you — barely a breath apart — his forehead resting against yours, the weight of his body hovering, his fingers now tracing slow, thoughtful shapes along your hip through the fabric of your jeans. His touch was light, like he didn’t want to break whatever spell was hanging between you.

Neither of you said anything for a while. There was no need to.

You could feel his breath against your lips, warm and steady. You’d both kissed so much that your lips were tingling — but he still hadn’t let go. He still looked at you like he was trying to memorize you all over again.

“Your lips are red,” he murmured after a long silence, his voice soft and a little amused.

You laughed quietly, your fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck. “So are yours.”

He blinked at that, like the thought hadn’t occurred to him, then leaned in and kissed you again anyway — slow and indulgent. The kind of kiss that didn’t try to lead anywhere, didn’t need to. Just a lazy, lingering press of mouths, like he was letting himself enjoy every second of it. And you kissed him back like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

It wasn’t just physical anymore — not really. That part had come surprisingly easy after the first time, when everything had exploded in a rush of confused feelings and messy desire behind the excuse of “helping him study.”

But this? This quiet part? This was the part that crept in when no one was watching. When the kisses slowed down and his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth just to see you smile. When your head rested against his shoulder and he played with your fingers, never saying a word. When he pulled you a little closer even though you were already in his lap, and whispered things like, “Stay longer,” without really asking.

This was the part that scared you a little. Because you weren’t sure when it had stopped being just a hookup. You weren’t sure when you started noticing how tired he looked after practice, or how he always smelled like his shampoo — clean and a little like vanilla. Or when you started to care more about how he was doing than what excuse you’d use next time to see him.

Maybe he felt it too.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Kenma muttered, eyes still closed, like he could hear your thoughts in the quiet between kisses.

You smiled faintly. “Am I?”

He nodded slightly and opened his eyes again, looking at you in that soft, unguarded way that always left you breathless. “Don’t,” he said gently. “Not right now.”

And just like that, your overthinking melted away. Because he was right. There was nothing to figure out, not here — not while the room was still warm with stolen time, not while he was holding you like this.

So you kissed him again. Because that was the only thing that made sense.

And when he kissed you back — his hand curling into your shirt to pull you just a little closer, like he couldn’t stand the thought of even a few inches of space between you — you knew you weren’t alone in this.

Whatever it was, whatever it was becoming… it was real. Quiet. Hidden.

But real.

__________________________________________________________________________

You were half in his lap, one of your legs stretched out over the carpet, your head tucked against Kenma’s shoulder like you belonged there. His hand rested low on your back, thumb making lazy, soothing circles, while your fingers toyed with the edge of his sleeve.

Neither of you had said anything in minutes. You didn’t need to. The silence had turned warm, sleepy, safe.

Until there was a knock at the door.

It was sharp. Too loud in the quiet of the room.

You both froze.

You could feel the tension roll through Kenma’s body instantly — the way his muscles tensed under your hand, how his breath hitched and caught in his throat. Your eyes met in the thick silence that followed, wide and alarmed.

Then came the voice.

“Yo, Kenma? You alive in there?” Kuroo.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Kenma swore under his breath — something short and quiet — and you scrambled off him, both of you moving too fast, tangled in limbs and panic. You grabbed your bag, flipping it open like you were mid-study session, heart pounding as Kenma rushed to sit up straighter, grabbing a random notebook from his floor like it would somehow mask the fact that he’d been kissing you breathless less than thirty seconds ago.

Another knock. “I brought snacks. Figured you might need motivation or, like, actual food.”

Kenma’s voice came out hoarse, and you winced at how obvious it sounded. “Just— give me a second.”

He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah. Come in— wait, no. I mean— I’m… I’m busy.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, even as your pulse thrummed in your ears.

Kenma shot you a look — half-frantic, half-annoyed at himself — and you were pretty sure it mirrored your own expression.

Outside the door, there was a pause. Then Kuroo’s voice again, curious and too close for comfort. “Is she in there?”

You froze.

Kenma blinked, then leaned back a little and said, completely deadpan, “We’re doing physics.”

There was silence. You could feel Kuroo trying to decide whether or not to believe that.

“Uh-huh,” Kuroo finally said. “Well, make sure the only thing accelerating is your grades, alright?”

Your mouth dropped open. Kenma’s ears flushed red.

You smacked his arm lightly and mouthed what the hell at him, but he just gave you a helpless look like what was I supposed to say?

After a moment, Kuroo’s footsteps retreated, and the hallway quieted again.

Kenma let out a long breath, then flopped backward onto the floor, covering his face with one arm. You collapsed next to him, wide-eyed and trying not to burst into nervous laughter.

“Physics,” you whispered, grinning.

“It was the first thing I could think of,” he muttered, voice muffled by his sleeve.

You turned your head to look at him, your smile softening just a little. “That was way too close.”

Kenma peeked at you from under his arm, then reached out and tugged you closer again, just enough for your shoulders to bump. “We should probably stop,” he said.

You looked at him. “Do you want to?”

He was quiet for a beat. Then: “No.”

You leaned in and kissed him one more time, just a quick, stolen thing. “Me neither.”

___________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t get much more study time after the physics incident. After Kuroo left, the two of you were too shaken — and a little too giddy — to go back to equations. Instead, you lay side by side on the floor, hearts still racing, stealing quiet glances and whispers like you hadn’t just almost been caught in the middle of making out.

But the moment passed.

And the next day, everything felt… different.

Not between you and Kenma — not really. But in the hallway, when Kuroo passed you between classes, he gave you a look. Not accusing. Not teasing. Just… sharp. Like he’d noticed something off. Like maybe the pieces were starting to click.

Later that day, Kenma found you at your locker. Hoodie on, hood up, hair falling into his eyes. “He said something weird at lunch.”

“Kuroo?”

Kenma nodded. “He said I seemed ‘less stressed’ lately.” A pause. “Then asked if physics was that relaxing.”

You winced. “He knows.”

“He suspects,” Kenma corrected, voice calm but laced with tension. “He’s not dumb.”

You fell silent, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. You weren’t ashamed of this — of him. But something about being found out made your chest twist. The privacy of it had been your little world. Quiet. Yours.

Kenma must’ve noticed your silence, because after a beat, he said softly, “Do you want to stop?”

Your eyes shot to his, surprised. “No.”

He looked down for a second, hands in his pockets, then leaned slightly against the locker next to yours, still facing you. “Good,” he said simply. “Because I don’t want anyone else having this. Not yet.”

You blinked, heart stuttering. “What do you mean?”

Kenma shifted a little, clearly searching for words — something he didn’t always like doing. But this time, he tried. For you.

“I like that it’s just us. No one asking questions. No one watching us, or making it into something bigger than it is. I don’t want to have to explain it to anyone.” He paused. “I don’t want to share you yet.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

There was no dramatics in the way he said it. No over-the-top declarations. Just quiet honesty — the kind that hit deeper because it was so rare from him.

You nodded, smiling softly. “I feel the same.”

Kenma’s shoulders relaxed a little at that. His eyes flicked toward the hallway, then back to you. He leaned in — not to kiss you, not here — but just to let his hand brush yours for the briefest second before pulling away.

“We’ll be more careful,” he murmured. “Promise.”

But you both knew the tension was creeping in. That Kuroo wasn’t going to let this go.

Still, for now, you had this — the little moments. The secret touches. The shared looks in the hallway, the long afternoons in his room, the slow-burning way he always pulled you closer when he thought no one could see.

You had him. And that was enough.

For now.

___________________________________________________________________________

It was late. The kind of late where the world outside had gone still, and the quiet felt thicker than usual. The only sound in Kenma’s room was the hum of his PC in sleep mode and the faint rustle of fabric as he shifted beside you.

You were curled up in his bed — half under his blanket, half wrapped around him — both of you stretched out sideways across the mattress, your limbs tangled like neither of you had planned to move anytime soon.

The room smelled faintly like his shampoo and your vanilla chapstick, the scent of comfort and something soft you couldn’t quite name. The textbook you’d brought was still sitting at the edge of the desk, unopened. Again.

Kenma’s hand rested on your back, under your shirt — not for anything more than the warmth of skin-on-skin, the grounding weight of you being there. His thumb moved slowly, back and forth, just enough to keep you in the moment.

“You fall asleep, or just pretending?” he asked quietly, his voice low and a little raspy from how little he’d spoken tonight.

You didn’t open your eyes. “Just listening.”

“To what?”

“You breathing. The fan. Your heartbeat.”

There was a long pause, then the quiet shift of him exhaling against your hair. “That’s weird,” he murmured. But it didn’t sound like a complaint.

You smiled into his hoodie. “You like it.”

Kenma didn’t argue.

You tilted your head up to look at him. His face was relaxed, eyes soft and half-lidded as he looked down at you. No tension in his jaw, no guarded silence like he sometimes got in crowds. He looked safe. Like this was the only place he wanted to be.

“How long do you think we can keep this just ours?” you asked quietly, the words slipping out like a thought you hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Kenma was quiet for a moment, his fingers pausing against your back.

“Not forever,” he said eventually. “But I want it to be real before anyone else gets to talk about it.”

You blinked up at him. “Isn’t it already real?”

His eyes met yours — and this time, they didn’t drift away. “Yeah. But it’s starting to feel different.”

“Different how?”

Kenma shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Then another to your cheek. Then — just barely — one to your lips, so slow and soft it felt like a whisper.

“Like I’d tell them if they asked,” he said against your mouth. “Even Kuroo.”

You kissed him again. A little longer this time.

Then you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, letting it answer the question you didn’t know how to ask:

Do you feel this too?

He did.

And tonight, in the warmth of his bed and the quiet of the world outside, you both let yourselves feel it — no rush, no labels, no eyes on you. Just two people wrapped in the soft, honest kind of intimacy that didn’t need to be hidden, even if it still was.

___________________________________________________________________________

It happened on a Thursday.

You’d come by after class, the way you always did lately — under the excuse of a study session that, by now, absolutely no one believed. Kenma had left the door cracked, expecting you. You barely knocked.

Inside, the air was the same as always — low light from his desk lamp, faint scent of instant ramen and whatever game he’d paused. He barely looked up from his switch when you sat on the bed beside him. But the second your fingers brushed his hoodie sleeve, he leaned into you.

Simple. Familiar. Yours.

You thought you had time before Kuroo came home.

You were wrong.

The front door creaked open downstairs — louder than usual — and you both froze. A voice followed, casual, knowing.

“I knew it.”

Kenma blinked. You stared at the door. Footsteps. Closer now. Too late to pretend.

Kuroo’s head popped around the corner of the doorframe like he already knew exactly what he was walking into. “So. Physics, huh?”

You groaned quietly and dropped your forehead into Kenma’s shoulder. Kenma didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

Kuroo raised a brow, arms crossed. “You could’ve told me, you know.”

Kenma finally looked up, eyes calm. Unbothered. “Why? So you could make fun of me?”

Kuroo blinked. “No. So I could stop sending her in here to study with you when you’re clearly already getting top grades in—”

“—don’t finish that sentence,” you muttered, pulling a pillow into your lap.

Kenma tilted his head just slightly, watching Kuroo’s reaction the way he watched difficult boss fights — patient, but focused. Then he said it. Plain. No apology.

“We’re together.”

Kuroo stilled.

For a second, you thought he’d tease. That he’d smirk or say something sarcastic or start a speech about how he called it months ago.

But he didn’t. Instead, he looked between the two of you — your flushed face, Kenma’s quiet protectiveness — and his expression shifted. Something softer. Older-brotherish.

“…Okay,” he said. “I’m not mad. Just — surprised you actually caught feelings.”

Kenma shrugged. “I didn’t mean to.”

Your heart skipped at that. He hadn’t meant to — but he had. And he wasn’t hiding it anymore.

Kuroo let out a long breath. “Well. Don’t be weird about it at practice.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“What do you want, a dramatic speech? I’m not your anime protagonist.” He turned to leave, muttering under his breath. “God. I feel like I walked in on my kids.”

When the door shut behind him, Kenma was quiet for a long beat.

Then he turned to you, lips twitching. “Told you he wouldn’t care.”

You gave him a look. “You didn’t say that.”

“I thought it really loud,” he said, leaning in until your foreheads touched. “You just weren’t listening.”

You laughed, breathless with relief, and kissed him — not rushed, not secret — just soft and open and real.

No more hiding.

No more pretending it was just studying.

You were his now. Publicly.

And somehow, that made it feel even more real.

___________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t expect it to feel so different.

After Kuroo found out, it only took a day for the rest of the team to know — not because Kenma announced it or you posted about it, but because Kuroo is incapable of keeping anything to himself when he’s excited.

Which, apparently, he was.

“You’re dating Kenma?” Lev had asked in disbelief at lunch the next day, like you’d just said you were in a relationship with a ghost or a cat. “Like, actual Kenma?”

You just raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Lev. Actual Kenma.”

Lev blinked. “Huh. Wild.”

Yaku smacked him upside the head before he could say something worse, and that was that.

No one made a big deal out of it, but things changed in small, strange ways. During practice, Kuroo would shoot Kenma a knowing smirk if you happened to show up after class. Yamamoto looked like he was dying to ask for details but was too scared to make it weird. Even Coach Nekomata raised an eyebrow once during warmups and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Finally.”

But the biggest shift was with Kenma.

Now that it wasn’t a secret, he didn’t pull away when people looked. He didn’t hesitate when you walked into the gym or flinch if your hands brushed in the hallway. It wasn’t like he got more affectionate in public — he was still Kenma, after all — but there was this quiet confidence to it now. This steadiness.

He would wait for you after class.

He would hold your hand under the table if he knew no one was watching.

And when you were alone, it was like nothing had changed — except now the moments felt freer. Lighter. Like breathing fresh air after holding it in for too long.

That night, back in his room, you lay with him again — only this time, you didn’t need to jump apart at the sound of footsteps or make excuses if someone knocked on the door.

Kenma was half-asleep, hoodie pulled over his head, one arm lazily slung around your waist. You toyed with his fingers, smiling at how quiet the world had gone.

“You okay with this?” you asked softly, almost afraid to break the peace.

He didn’t open his eyes. Just squeezed your hand once. “Yeah.”

“You sure? No second thoughts now that everyone knows?”

He cracked one eye open, his voice low and certain. “I waited this long to say something. If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t have said it at all.”

You smiled, heart full. “I really like you, you know.”

Kenma pulled you closer and buried his face in your neck.

“I know,” he whispered. “That’s why it scares me sometimes.”

You didn’t say anything to that. You didn’t need to.

You just held him tighter and let the quiet settle around you — not secret anymore, not hidden. Just yours.

___________________________________________________________________________

The game was nothing special — just a small local tournament. Kenma had agreed to sub in for another team after Nekomata gave his blessing, and you'd gone with him, mostly for moral support (and snacks).

It wasn’t a serious match. Not really. But you could tell he was still trying — even if he didn’t say it out loud. You watched from the bleachers, arms tucked in your hoodie, cheering quietly every time his fingers danced across a clean set or he caught a tricky serve with that unreadable focus of his.

When the final point landed and Kenma’s team won, the whole bench erupted in a quiet kind of pride. He didn’t smile big — Kenma never did — but he glanced up toward you in the crowd like he needed to make sure you had seen.

You had.

Later, when the sky had dimmed and the crowd had cleared, you found yourself walking beside him down the quiet street back to the station. His hoodie was slung over your shoulders now, and your fingers brushed with every step.

“You played really well,” you said, nudging his arm gently.

Kenma looked ahead. “Thanks.”

“You never give yourself enough credit.”

“You give me enough for both of us.”

You laughed softly — then fell quiet as you reached the bench near the corner, where you always waited when the train ran late. He sat first, then pulled you down gently beside him. Without a word, he laced his fingers through yours.

There were people around. Not many, but enough.

Still, he didn’t let go.

You glanced over at him — the soft curve of his mouth, the slight sheen of sweat still at his temple, the way his hair curled slightly from the humidity.

“You okay?” you asked.

He was quiet for a second. Then:

“…Yeah.”

And then, out of nowhere, his voice dropped even quieter.

“I love you.”

You blinked.

The words hung there. Not loud, not grand, not even looking at you — he was still staring ahead, as if the sky had asked him a question and that was just the answer.

But your breath caught.

He glanced at you then. Just barely. Just enough to make sure he hadn’t said it wrong.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he added, softer. “I just wanted you to know. I think I always did.”

You stared at him for a second. Not because you were unsure — but because you’d been waiting. For this. For him. To say it like this — quietly, honestly, without pressure or fear.

“I love you too,” you said.

No hesitation.

No nerves.

Just the truth.

Kenma’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand — once, twice — before he leaned his head on your shoulder.

No one stared. No one asked questions.

The world kept turning.

But something had shifted.

And from that moment on, everything — even the silence — felt full of something warm and unspoken.

Love.

Real, slow, steady love.

___________________________________________________________________________

It was one of those nights where everything felt like it slowed down. The hum of the city outside, the soft glow of the lamp by his bed, and the quiet that settled between the two of you, more comfortable than ever.

Kenma sat with his back against the headboard, legs stretched out, one arm draped over the edge of the bed, and his phone in hand — but you could tell his attention wasn’t really on it. It never was when you were near.

You leaned against him, your back pressed to his chest, the space between you closing as you reached for his hand and threaded your fingers through his. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away — he just held your hand loosely, like he was waiting for you to say something.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen, but you found yourself letting out a soft sigh, your words barely above a whisper.

“I really love you, Kenma.”

His thumb traced the outline of your hand, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I know.”

“Do you know how much?” You tilted your head back slightly, letting the words hang in the air for a second. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone before.”

Kenma’s fingers tightened slightly around yours, his voice a little quieter now. “I don’t think I have either.”

You turned in his arms, your body pressed against his, his chest warm beneath you. His eyes met yours — that familiar soft look, that mix of intensity and quiet affection that he didn’t always show but always felt.

“I don’t want to imagine my life without you in it,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear as you spoke. "I don’t want to hide anymore. I want this... us... to be something real."

Kenma paused for a moment, as if considering your words, before slowly bringing his hands to your face, cupping your cheeks. His touch was gentle, but his gaze was intense, like he wanted to make sure you understood every bit of what he was about to say.

“I don’t want to hide either,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your forehead. “I want you here. With me. Always.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, making your breath hitch. You could feel the weight of everything you’d built together — how much it meant that he wasn’t just in this for the fun or the fleeting moments. He was in it for real, just like you were.

Before you could respond, Kenma’s lips were on yours — slow, tender, like he had all the time in the world to kiss you. His hands slid from your cheeks to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. The kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a quiet urgency, like he couldn’t get enough of you, but also didn’t want to rush it.

You kissed him back, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as if you could press yourselves into one. His body felt warm and solid against yours, and you let yourself get lost in it — in him — in the love that didn’t need to be loud or dramatic to feel real.

Kenma broke away for a moment, just enough to look into your eyes, his breath shallow but steady.

“I love you,” he said, his voice low and a little rough, like the words had been waiting to be said for so long. “More than I thought I could love anyone.”

You smiled softly, your forehead resting against his, your hands now running through his messy hair.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your heart beating in time with his. “So much.”

Without another word, his lips were on yours again, the kiss a little deeper, a little more urgent this time. You could feel his hands trailing down your back, pulling you in closer, as if he was marking this moment — this time where you both knew, without a doubt, that you were in this together, completely.

The world outside didn’t matter. Kuroo’s teasing or the way the team would look at you when they found out. All that mattered was the quiet between the two of you, the weight of his hands on your skin, and the love that grew every time you touched.

For now, there were no barriers. No secrets. Just the two of you — kissing, touching, loving each other in the space you had carved out together.

When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless and smiling, Kenma tucked his head into the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping around you as if he never wanted to let you go.

“I really love you,” he mumbled against your skin.

And for the first time, you didn’t need to say it back right away. Because you both knew — in the way your hearts beat in sync, in the way his hands held you just a little tighter — that the words, no matter how often you said them, would never be enough to describe what you felt.

But that didn’t matter.

Because you had this.

And that was more than enough.

___________________________________________________________________________

It had been a few years since you and Kenma had started living together. His career as a streamer had skyrocketed, bringing him an impressive following and the kind of wealth that allowed him to live in a house that could have been taken straight out of the pages of a magazine. Spacious, modern, and sleek — but still comfortably cozy in all the ways that mattered.

His streaming setup was the centerpiece of the living room, a wall of neon-lit monitors, game consoles, and a few scattered action figures — including a rare one from his favorite game series. The space had become a blend of work and home life. The air was a little quieter now, with Kenma’s streams being a regular part of the day. You’d learned to navigate the rhythm of his career, and he’d learned to balance it with his personal life — something neither of you had imagined would be so natural.

Tonight, the two of you were relaxed, sitting together on the couch, his legs stretched out while you leaned into his side. He was streaming, but the vibe had changed. It wasn’t just him in front of the camera anymore. You’d gotten used to sitting beside him, letting his fans see glimpses of you — the person he’d been so quiet about at first. Now, they’d gotten used to your presence in the background, and they didn’t even make a big deal out of it.

Kenma had always been private, but over time, you’d become his steady, unspoken foundation — the person who was always there, supporting him quietly from the sidelines, even when the world was watching.

The chat was buzzing as usual with messages, but tonight, a particular message caught Kenma’s eye.

[Chat]: “Hey Kenma, is [Y/N] home today?”

Kenma didn’t immediately respond, his gaze still locked on the game in front of him. But you could feel his slight tension — the way his fingers hesitated on the controller, the way he glanced over at you, his eyes flicking to the camera for just a split second.

He’d gotten used to the questions, but this one felt different. His followers had gotten curious about you over time, and it had become an inside joke in his chat about how mysterious you were. Kenma always deflected in his usual, low-key way, but there was something a little more... affectionate in his approach lately.

[Chat]: “Come on, Kenma, we wanna see [Y/N]!”

You looked up at him, a playful grin on your face. “Go ahead. Let them see me. You’re always ignoring them anyway.”

Kenma shot you a glance, his lips twitching. “You’re not the one getting bombarded with questions.”

You chuckled, your fingers trailing along his arm in a comforting way. “It’s fine. I don’t mind them. You can just tell them to stop being so nosy.”

Kenma paused the game, turned slightly toward the camera, and tilted his head. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, half-smiling as he addressed the chat. “She’s here. Happy?”

[Chat]: “Omg it’s really [Y/N]! We finally get to see them!”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the flood of excited messages that immediately followed, but Kenma didn’t seem to mind. His eyes stayed soft, and you could tell he wasn’t bothered by the attention at all. In fact, you could see the small shift — the way he now casually acknowledged that you were a part of his world, both on and off the screen.

“You’re lucky I like you, Kenma,” you teased, resting your head on his shoulder.

Kenma glanced down at you, a hint of affection in his expression. “You’re lucky I don’t mind my fans being nosy.”

You gave him a small, contented smile, your hand settling over his. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Just don’t forget to love me even when they’re asking about me every time you’re live.”

He squeezed your hand softly, his gaze softening. “I love you all the time. Not just when I’m streaming.”

The chat flooded with heart emojis and comments about how “cute” the two of you were. For a moment, you could almost feel the warmth of it. The knowledge that no matter what the world saw, you and Kenma had created a space for yourselves. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t loud, but it was real. And that was enough.

[Chat]: “Kenma, when are we getting a couple’s stream?”

Kenma raised an eyebrow, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “Maybe never,” he said dryly, but there was no mistaking the affection in his voice. “But if you’re nice, I’ll let her hang out during more streams.”

You nudged him with your elbow, your face warm at the thought of it. “We’ll see,” you said playfully. “But I do have my limits.”

Kenma turned back to the game, his fingers resuming their steady rhythm on the controller. He glanced at you again, his voice low but filled with the kind of sincerity that always made your heart skip.

“Thanks for being here,” he said, almost as if it was something he needed to remind himself of.

You squeezed his hand. “Always.”

The stream continued, the chat flowing with messages of support and excitement. But for you and Kenma, it didn’t matter how many eyes were watching. You had each other. And as the night stretched on, you stayed close — comfortable in the silence, content in the love that didn’t need to be broadcasted for the world to see.

Because for the first time in a long time, Kenma didn’t just have a screen in front of him. He had you.

And that was all that mattered.

[euphoriaishername]

Peace, At Last

It was a quiet Thursday afternoon, the kind with pale sunlight slipping through café windows and a soft hum of conversation hanging in the air. You sat at a small corner table in the back of the café, by the window. Your hands wrapped around a warm mug of chamomile tea. You weren’t nervous—just steady, calm, and present. This wasn’t about getting answers anymore. It was just about meeting someone who had once meant something.

The door chimed gently as customers came and went, but your eyes didn’t dart around. You knew someone had your back.

A few tables away, Joshua sat with Jeonghan and Mingyu, casually sipping on iced americanos, their postures relaxed but eyes subtly attentive. Joshua had his cap pulled low and a hoodie drawn over, but his gaze flickered to you now and then, soft with concern. He didn’t want to interfere—but he would, if needed.

Jeonghan rested his cheek in his palm, watching you in that familiar way, a silent mix of protectiveness and softness, as if he could already tell how much strength it took for you to be sitting there. Mingyu kept glancing between the door and his phone, unusually quiet for someone who could barely sit still on normal days.

The air shifted when the door opened again. You looked up slowly.

Rohan stepped in.

He looked the same in many ways—older maybe, slightly leaner, but those familiar eyes scanned the café until they found you. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, but you didn’t flinch. You just gave a small, polite nod.

He walked toward you, a touch of hesitation in his steps.

Joshua’s jaw tensed slightly, but he stayed seated.

You shifted in your chair, calm still, your emotions tucked beneath a composed expression.

Rohan reached your table.

"Hey," he said quietly.

You looked at him for a second, your expression unreadable yet not cold.

"Hii," you replied softly, your voice calm, not distant. Just warm. Like it should be to a stranger.

There was no nervous energy in the air around you. Just the quiet grace of someone who had lived through pain, processed it, and was ready to close the book rather than reopen it.

Rohan sat down slowly, eyes flicking down before meeting yours again.

From a few tables away, Joshua exhaled quietly, hands folded loosely in front of him. Jeonghan hadn’t blinked in a while, his gaze steady on you like he could shield you just by watching. Mingyu had stopped checking his phone.

Rohan settled into the chair, fingers fidgeting for a moment before he clasped them together on the table. There was a pause—short, heavy, like he was still weighing the words in his mind.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, voice low but steady. “For leaving the way I did. For not giving you any answers. You didn’t deserve that.”

From your spot across the table, you listened—eyes calm, unreadable, but fully present.

The café noise blurred in the background. A spoon clinked gently. Joshua shifted in his seat, gaze glued to you, while Jeonghan’s fingers tapped silently on his cup, his jaw tight.

You didn’t say anything—just offered a soft, understanding look. Not one of forgiveness yet, but of openness. A quiet okay, I’m listening.

It was enough.

Rohan swallowed, then went on, his voice carrying more weight now, like the words had been stuck inside him for too long.

“I was scared. I didn’t know how to handle everything—us, the changes, our life moving forward so fast. You were always so focused, so strong. I felt like I was falling behind… and instead of saying anything, I just… left. I couldn’t face how much I was hurting you.”

There was a flicker of guilt in his eyes, the kind that came not just from regret but from knowing the damage had long been done.

Behind you, Joshua’s hand curled lightly into a fist, then relaxed. He knew this part wasn’t his to interrupt.

And you stayed quiet, still. But your gaze didn’t waver.

Rohan looked down for a second, then back up. “I didn’t come here to fix anything. I know I can’t. I just wanted you to hear it from me—I'm sorry. For disappearing, for not being the kind of person you could count on when you needed me the most.”

"You thought you were not enough?", you spoke calmly, as if already knowing the truth.

Rohan flinched slightly, eyes dropping for a moment before he met your gaze again.

“I didn’t know how to handle being with someone like you,” he said, voice low, almost ashamed. “You were always reaching higher, always so sure. I kept thinking you’d realize I wasn’t enough sooner or later. So I left before you could.”

The café around you blurred again into a quiet buzz. Joshua was watching intently, his knuckles white against his cup. Jeonghan’s brows had drawn slightly together, the corner of his mouth tugging down. Mingyu shifted, clearly uncomfortable with how raw the conversation had become.

But you didn’t break.

Rohan sighed, almost to himself. “I regret it every day.”

Silence followed—for now.

“I didn’t chase perfection. I just wanted you. Who listened to me throughout the years. Who helped me and stood beside me.”

Rohan’s face crumpled slightly at your words, the weight of your calm honesty hitting harder than any anger could have.

He looked down, swallowing hard. “And I threw that away.”

Joshua’s eyes closed for a second, as if grounding himself. Jeonghan’s gaze was fixed on you—soft, but deeply protective, like he wanted to wrap you in silence and pull you away from everything that ever hurt you.

“I was stupid,” Rohan whispered. “I know I can’t undo it. I just… I wanted to tell you that I know I messed up. And I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t crying, but his voice shook with everything he hadn’t said back then.

“Sorry doesn’t fix it, Rohan. You know it too.” Your voice was steady, but there was a subtle edge to it now. “You threw away not a relationship, but a friendship. You could have talked to me and asked me to end it and stay friends, but you decided to leave. And never look back.”

Rohan's face tightened as your words hit, each one a quiet blow that echoed in the space between you. His shoulders slumped slightly, the guilt radiating off him, but he didn’t speak right away.

His eyes lowered again, almost as if the weight of the moment was too much to hold. His lips parted, but words didn’t come.

Across the room, Joshua’s gaze remained locked on you, his expression a mixture of quiet understanding and subtle pain. Jeonghan’s hand was resting on his mug, fingers gripping the edge with quiet tension.

Mingyu shifted uncomfortably, as if wanting to say something, but holding back.

The air felt thick now, with only the sound of Rohan’s slow, steady breathing filling the space between you.

Rohan’s eyes flickered up to yours, but he didn’t respond immediately. You didn’t let the silence linger for long.

"Do you know what you left behind?"

Your voice was quieter this time, but the question was sharp—cutting through the hesitation he wore so clearly.

He looked at you, clearly struggling with the weight of it, his words coming out strained. "I know. I know I left everything behind. The friendship... everything we built together."

You didn’t look away. You just held his gaze, searching for whatever truth he could offer now.

But the truth still lingered between you—the truth that this wasn’t just about apologies. It was about the space he had left empty. The questions he never answered.

His lips parted, but again, no words came.

"You left a friendship of 6 years. Something I cherished dearly. Something I protected." The words you spoke hung heavy in the air, each one carrying years of unspoken feelings.

Rohan’s chest seemed to tighten, his hands clenching on the table. His eyes darted away for a moment, unable to meet yours, as if the weight of your statement was too much to bear.

“I know,” he whispered, the guilt now evident in every line of his face. “I can’t undo it. I know I lost something irreplaceable… and I can’t fix that.”

The room felt smaller now, the soft hum of voices around you becoming a distant murmur. You held your ground, the calm presence of your words a stark contrast to the turmoil they stirred within him.

"You should've talked to me," you said softly, but firmly. "You could've talked to me."

Rohan looked up, eyes now full of regret. He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but the words caught in his throat.

It was clear. The apology was too late.

Rohan’s eyes welled up slightly, his breath shaky as you spoke. Your words cut through the air with quiet strength.

"I trusted you. You know it too. I trusted you with my heart. And you broke it. Into pieces. You broke me, Rohan."

There was no response at first—just the heavy silence that followed, as if your words had stunned him. His eyes darted to the table, then back to you, searching for something to say, but the words failed him.

The look in his eyes was one of deep regret, but it wasn’t enough anymore. He knew it, and you knew it.

Joshua's hand tightened around his cup, his eyes flicking to you, but he stayed still, giving you the space to say what you needed to say. Jeonghan’s gaze softened, almost as if wanting to reach out, but he remained silent, watching you with that protective softness.

Rohan opened his mouth again, but all that came out was a broken, "I didn’t mean to."

It didn’t matter now.

You didn’t wait for him to respond, your voice steady but carrying the weight of everything you’d held inside for so long.

"Yet you did. Did you think about what would be the consequences of your actions? How they would impact me?"

Rohan’s gaze dropped to his hands, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. The weight of your words seemed to crush him, yet there was nothing left to say that could undo what had already been done.

The silence stretched between you, thick with everything he hadn’t thought about back then. Everything you had gone through alone after he left.

Joshua’s eyes were fixed on you, a deep concern etched in his expression, but he didn’t speak. Jeonghan was watching, his brows slightly furrowed, as if trying to understand everything that had led up to this moment.

Rohan finally looked back at you, voice barely above a whisper. "I didn’t think. I didn’t think about how it would hurt you. I was too selfish."

It didn’t change the past. It didn’t fix the break.

"You left me thinking I was too much. Too much to handle, to bear." Your voice was soft, but the weight of those words fell heavily. "I thought I did something wrong. That I never understood you properly."

Rohan flinched, his expression crumpling as you spoke. His face was a mixture of regret, guilt, and pain—pain that he could never take back what he had done. He opened his mouth, as if to protest or apologize, but you didn’t let him.

"You left me broken. You lived your life while I tried mending myself, fully knowing I could never fix myself completely again."

His eyes welled up now, his breath catching. "Aera, I... I didn’t want to hurt you. I never meant to—"

"You did," you interrupted, your tone steady, but the sadness was evident now. "You did, Rohan."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with everything left unspoken between you two. Rohan reached his hand out instinctively, but you didn’t move.

Joshua was watching closely now, his expression tight, the tension visible in the way he held his body. Jeonghan’s gaze was soft, almost mournful, as he quietly sipped his drink, letting you speak your truth. Mingyu’s face had fallen into a look of discomfort, knowing there was no fixing this moment, only letting it unfold.

Rohan’s voice cracked as he spoke again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry. I don’t expect forgiveness, but I needed you to know how sorry I am.”

But it still wasn’t enough.

You sat still, your hands resting on the table, your voice soft but firm as you spoke, cutting through the heavy air.

"I don't want your apologies. I didn't come for them. I wanted to know why you left and what went wrong. I got my closure I needed."

Rohan’s face crumpled again at your words, and he leaned forward, his voice desperate now. “Aera, I’m so sorry. I never should’ve left like that. I was scared, and I was selfish. I'm truly sorry for hurting you so much.”

But you didn’t respond. You just sat there, calm, eyes steady, letting him spill out his regret.

You didn’t need to hear it anymore. Not the apologies.

The silence between you deepened as you let him apologize once more, knowing this was the end of this chapter. You had your closure.

Rohan sat back, his shoulders sagging, the weight of his regret heavier than anything he could say. He looked up at you again, his eyes searching yours, but you didn’t flinch. Your voice was calm, soft, but there was an undeniable strength behind your words.

"I don’t hate you, Rohan. I could never. You were someone too close to my heart. I cared for you deeply once. And I still do, but never enough to lose myself for you again."

Your words hit him like a wave, his face falling even further, guilt and sorrow mixing in his features. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. There was nothing more to say.

You didn’t need to say more. You had already given him everything—your honesty, your pain, and now your peace.

Rohan’s eyes welled up once more, but he didn’t speak. He just nodded slowly, defeated.

Behind you, Joshua let out a quiet exhale, his gaze unwavering, though there was an almost imperceptible relief in his eyes. Jeonghan’s expression softened, his lips pressing together in a thin line of understanding. Mingyu’s eyes were fixed on you, silently supporting you in his own way.

You had said everything you needed to. The chapter was closed.

Rohan took a deep breath, looking at you with a mix of sincerity and regret. His voice was steady, though tinged with the weight of his emotions.

“Aera, I’ve been selfish. I can’t undo what I’ve done, but I need you to know how truly sorry I am. I’ve thought about it every day, and I realize I hurt you in ways I can never fix. I just... I want to ask for your forgiveness, if you can ever find it in you.”

He paused, waiting for your response, his expression hopeful yet filled with uncertainty.

“I forgave you, Rohan. A long time ago,” you said, offering a small smile. The kind that was calm, peaceful, not touched with sadness. “I couldn’t hold a grudge against you. You weren’t wrong. Neither was I. It was something not meant to be for us, no matter how much we would have tried.”

Rohan’s face softened, his eyes glistening with a mix of relief and lingering sorrow as he absorbed your words. He seemed to inhale deeply, a heavy weight lifting from his chest as your words finally gave him the closure he hadn’t known he needed. He nodded slowly, almost in acceptance, as if realizing that the past couldn’t be changed and that he no longer needed to carry this burden alone.

The silence between you felt different now—not filled with anger or regret, but with a kind of quiet understanding.

You had said what you needed to say, and in that moment, everything seemed to settle into place.

Rohan gave you a final, soft smile, his voice trembling slightly with emotion.

"Thank you, Aera. Truly. I hope... I hope you find the peace you deserve."

He paused, looking at you one last time, as if trying to say more but unable to find the words.

The guilt in his eyes began to dissipate, replaced by a quiet sense of gratitude.

"I did. I truly did," you said, your voice steady and calm, as you offered him a soft smile. "And it's all good now. I hope you don't carry this guilt with you. And I hope you find someone who is right for you, in every way."

Rohan hesitated, his brows knitting slightly as he searched your face. “Why are you being so kind to me, Aera?” he asked quietly, the question carrying a hint of confusion. “After everything that’s happened… I don’t understand why you're still offering me this peace.”

You met his gaze, your expression soft but steady. “You hurt me. Yes. But I know how it feels when you're guilty about hurting someone. I'm not a divine person. I've hurt people too, and the guilt has always lived with me. It's a terrible feeling. I don't want you to go through it because of me.”

You turned slightly, looking out the window as if lost in thought.

Rohan’s eyes welled up slightly, but he smiled back at you, the relief clear in his face. "Thank you," he whispered, the weight lifting off his shoulders. "I’ll always remember this… and you."

He sat frozen for a moment, his breath catching at your words. He hadn’t expected this finality, but he knew it was coming.

"This is it then, Rohan. Srivastava" You stood up, your voice calm and unwavering. "Our paths crossed today. But I hope they don't cross again." You spoke calmly.

It's for the best.

The hidden message behind those words.

You extended your hand for a shake, a simple gesture, but one that carried the weight of everything that had been said and done. There was no bitterness in your tone, just acceptance of what was, and what would never be.

Rohan hesitated for a brief moment, looking at your hand, and then at you. He swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. Finally, he reached out, taking your hand in his with a quiet nod, his grip gentle.

"I understand," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "Goodbye, Aera."

The shake was brief, but it marked the end of everything—your shared history, your pain, and the parting of ways.

You walked a few steps away, but then stopped, your heart holding you for just a moment longer. You turned slowly, looking back at him as he watched you, his gaze intense yet filled with something soft, almost regretful.

You met his eyes, and with a soft smile, you spoke.

"You still were the best part of my school life, Ro," you said, the nickname carrying with it years of shared moments. "My memories from there are precious, and you're there in all of them. It was a beautiful chapter with you, which I would never forget. You taught me a lot. Thank for everything."

A quiet sigh escaped you as you gathered your words, letting them hang in the air, unhurried.

"May destiny unfold and work its plan, may fate cast its magic. May they intertwine a soul, so beautiful, into your life, heal you and you'll find peace and happiness."

Rohan sat still, his eyes locked onto yours, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to quiet around you both. The past, the pain, and the good had come full circle, and it was time to let go.

You turned once more, continuing on your path, but this time, there was no weight in your steps. The chapter was closed, and all that remained was peace.

Rohan stood frozen in place, watching your figure slowly disappear into the soft hum of the café’s afternoon stillness. The chair you had once occupied felt impossibly empty now, as though it still carried the imprint of your strength, your calm, your voice.

His chest felt hollow—strangely light, strangely full. Your final words echoed in his mind like a lullaby laced with sorrow and serenity.

“You still were the best part of my school life, Ro...”

He had almost broken at the sound of that name. The way only you ever said it. It was more than a nickname—it was a reminder of every shared laugh, every comforting silence, every late-night conversation when the world felt too big. A reminder that he lost something so beautiful yet he didn’t want to find it again, just for your sake. He hadn’t realized just how much of himself was still entangled in those memories until this moment.

But you were gone now. And this time, it wasn’t because he walked away. It was you who had turned with grace, dignity, and closure.

He sank back into his seat, staring at the spot you had left. His hands clenched gently around his coffee cup as your words returned again, this time not as pain, but as understanding.

“May destiny unfold and work its plan, may fate cast its magic…”

Rohan knew then—he had held onto guilt like a shield, mistaking it for responsibility. But you had released him. Not in anger. Not in bitterness. But in something deeper. A kind of love that doesn’t need to stay to be real.

And so he breathed. For the first time in what felt like years, he let the past go. Guilt didn’t leave completely, but it loosened. And in its place came clarity. Gratitude.

You had found your peace. And now, he could start looking for his too.

With a final glance toward where you’d gone, Rohan smiled—soft, bittersweet.

“Thank you, Aera,” he whispered. “For everything.”

You stepped out of the café, the late afternoon sunlight gently brushing your skin, as if the world itself was offering you a soft, knowing farewell. Behind you, the door chimed once more, but the sound no longer held the weight it once did. It was just a door now. Just a café. Just a moment that had passed.

Inside, Joshua stood up slowly, following you with his eyes, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to ease. Jeonghan leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply, the protective sharpness in his gaze softening into quiet respect. Mingyu rubbed the back of his neck, whispering something to Jeonghan, his eyes still on the empty seat you had just left.

Outside, your steps were steady. Light.

You hadn’t just closed a chapter—you had finished the book. Not with bitterness, not with regret. But with grace.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the real kind of closure—the kind that didn’t come from someone else’s apology, but from your own peace.

[mixanji]

luca is so pretty you have no idea

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐘 “𝐋𝐄𝐓’𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓” 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐌

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

Xavier’s expression shifts subtly—a change most wouldn’t notice, but you’ve learned to read him. His dark eyes focus entirely on you, any trace of his usual sleepiness vanishing instantly.

“That’s dangerous, giving me cues like that,” he murmurs, his voice low and unchanged in tone despite the intensity behind his words.

He closes the distance without warning, one hand cupping your face while the other slides around your waist, pulling you against him. There’s something possessive in the way his lips claim yours—deliberate and unhurried, yet leaving no room for retreat.

Time seems irrelevant as he deepens the kiss. For someone who typically appears so detached, his actions speak volumes, betraying the emotions he reserves only for you. When you attempt to pull back for air, he follows, unwilling to break contact.

“Not yet,” he whispers against your lips, his breath warm. “I’m not done with you.”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

Zayne sits at his desk in his home office. He looks up, dark eyes meeting yours over the rim of his glasses. Without a word, he removes them carefully, placing them beside his laptop.

“I suppose I’m due for a break,” he says, pushing back from his desk.

He stands and gestures for you to come closer. When you reach him, his hands find your waist, guiding you against the edge of his desk.

The kiss starts measured, methodical—like everything else he does—but quickly deepens with underlying hunger. His fingers trace up your spine, cradling the back of your neck with surprising tenderness.

“Fifteen minutes,” he murmurs in between kisses. “That’s all I need to refresh before returning to these reports.”

But the way he pulls you closer, the subtle sweetness on his tongue from the candy he keeps hidden in his desk drawer, suggests he might extend his break after all.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The afternoon light streams through the studio windows, casting golden hues across Rafayel’s canvas. His pauses, his paintbrush hanging suspended above vibrant blues and greens.

A smile spreads across his face as he sets his palette down. “And here I was thinking I’d need to convince you to distract me today.”

Paint-stained fingers carefully return the brush to its holder before he steps down from his step ladder. He allows you to make the first move, watching with fascination as you approach.

“For inspiration’s sake,” he whispers as your lips meet, though the way his breath catches suggests it’s more than artistic motivation driving him.

He lets you set the pace initially, responding to your lead with appreciative hums, his hands roaming your body. Then, something shifts—he’s in control.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your neck, fingers finally tangling in your hair.

His kiss deepens—wild and untethered, like he might disappear with the tide if not anchored to this moment with you.

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

“What a bold request,” Sylus says, making no move to stand. Instead, he pushes his chair back slightly from the table, eyes never leaving yours. “If that’s what you want, come here and take it.”

The challenge in his voice is clear—he wants you to approach him, to claim what you desire. As you cross the room, his expression remains composed, though a certain hunger darkens his gaze.

When you settle onto his lap, his hands rest lightly on your hips, neither pulling nor pushing. “Well?” he prompts, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “You made the request. I’m merely accommodating it.”

You initiate the kiss, setting a tentative pace that he follows without trying to accelerate. He restrains himself—a calculated decision to let you lead while he receives. Only when you deepen the contact does he respond in kind, his composure slipping just enough to reveal how much he’s been holding back.

“Good,” he breathes against your lips. “Now, show me what else you want.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The moment the words leave your mouth, Caleb’s expression darkens. He reaches past you to lock his bedroom door, the click echoing in the sudden silence.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, voice dropping lower as he backs you against the wall.

His lips find yours with urgent precision, one hand braced against the wall while the other cups your face. The kiss is consuming—a clear message that now that he has you, he won’t be letting go anytime soon.

You stumble backward as he guides you through his room, neither of you willing to break contact. Your back hits the wall next to his desk, and he cages you in with his arms, lips never leaving yours except for the briefest moments to catch your breath.

“Been thinking about you all day,” he confesses against your neck, voice ragged. His lips remain possessively on yours throughout the close-distance trip to his bed.

“Mine,” he whispers, pulling you down with him.

Another post upcoming for today 😼

[bizarrelovetriangel]

n i g h t m a r e s.

angst with comfort. they have a nightmare where they lost you.

sylus

You were in the N109 Zone for hunters business, and he only found out from Mephisto. Sylus got on his bike and rushed over to your location to demand answers. Why are you there? Why are you alone? Why didn't you tell him anything?

Once he saw you in the middle of a battleground surrounded by unconscious bodies and wrapping a bandage around your left arm, Sylus's breath hitched.

"So the kitten got scratched, despite how ferocious she is." He reached out to help you with your bandage, but you took a step back and frowned at him.

"Don't touch me."

"Oh?" He raised a brow at your cold tone. "Woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, sweetie?"

You gritted your teeth and turned away from him.

"Stay away from me, Sylus."

Confusion flashed in his eyes. You didn't look like you're in a joking mood, and the way you looked at him with empty eyes felt like a stab to his chest.

"What's wrong?" he asked carefully, not taking a single step towards you just in case you start running away. "Have I done something to piss you off?"

"Done something?" you laughed bitterly. "What haven't you done?"

No, there wasn't just emptiness in your eyes. There was disgust. Repulsion, directed at him. You haven't looked at him in that way for a long time, and he was reminded of how much he hated it.

"Sweetie, let's talk -"

He made the mistake of reaching out to touch you, so you slapped his hand away and jumped back.

"I said stay away from me! Don't.... don't talk to me anymore, don't follow me, just don't.... just stay out of my life! I don't want to be with a monster like you!"

A monster.

So, that's what it was.

He can't say he was surprised.

He always had a feeling that one day, you'll come to your senses and ask yourself, how could you ever love someone like him?

Looks like you've finally woken up from whatever spell he put on you. Now, you want nothing to do with him.

"Stay away from me." You took even more steps back, your figure was starting to merge with the shadows. "Goodbye, Sylus."

His feet were stuck to the bloodstained ground as he watched you disappear in his life forever.

Suddenly, he became aware of how cold the air is, and how quiet it is around him. His heart twinged, as if he'd been pierced by multiple daggers. His body felt numb and empty.

Standing became difficult, and his eyes felt like anchors that demanded to be shut. He gasped for air as he feels his chest tightening, but he only felt even more drowned.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't move.

He wanted go run after you, but bloodied hands had sprung out of nowhere and started pulling his feet deeper in the ground.

"Sylus..."

"...."

"Sylus."

His eyes opened and squinted from the setting sun's light that slipped past the curtains of his bedroom windows.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

He sat up and frantically scanned his surroundings. He ran a hand through his hair and felt all the sweat that were on his forehead.

"Sylus?"

His eyes slowly met yours, and they lingered for a long time. It's as if he's waiting and searching for something.

"You had a nightmare, right?" You looked at him with concern. "Are you okay? I'm gonna go get you a glass of water. I'll be back - "

"No, wait."

Sylus caught your hand as you tried to leave. His thumb caressed the back of your hand and observed it for a moment before taking a deep breath.

"Just stay here with me. I just...need you here."

"Okay." You sat still next to him and let him fiddle with your hands, as it seems to be giving him comfort. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Sylus tangled his fingers against yours, keeping his eyes on your joined hands. "You're not...." He paused for a second as he felt his throat drying up nervously. "You're not repulsed by me, are you?"

"What?"

"You know what l've done.... What I do, and who I am. Do you still... Do you still...."

You were quick to understand what he was trying to ask, and what he might have dreamt about.

"I love you." You looked into his eyes that seems to lack its usual life and confidence. "I know what you do and who you are, and I still love you, Sylus. Whatever happened in your dream.... it's not real."

He closed his eyes and let your words sink in deep in his heart, replaying them to forget about the painful words you threw at him in his nightmare.

It wasn't real.

What's real is you, in front of him, holding his hands and you telling him that you love him.

What's real is you caring about him and sticking by his side even when he's feeling vulnerable.

Sylus' silent reply came with a lingering kiss on your forehead. He wrapped one arm around your shoulders and guided you to lie back down. Once your back is flat against the soft mattress, Sylus pulled you close to him.

Even though he didn't say anything, you felt his gratitude with the way he embraced you with such warm, gentle, and secure arms.

As he closed his eyes, he continued to replay the words you told him.

At last, he was gifted with a peaceful dream.

///////

xavier

Surrounded by speck of lights, Xavier spun you around as you and him dance slowly underneath the stars.

You two were on your way home after a dinner date when you heard music blasting from a nearby concert venue. Live music echoes throughout the park with the big water fountain, completely empty since it's already quite late.

Xavier gazed at the way your face lit up as you laugh after suddenly losing balance and almost stepping on his feet.

"You didn't accidentally drink alcohol tonight, did you?" He held your hands tightly to keep you stable.

"Of course not! I just got a little dizzy, that's all."

"Maybe you just need to sleep more." he says half-jokingly as he rested his hands on your waist. "Instead of leaving the bed so early in the morning, you should just wait for me to wake you up. I'll be your alarm clock."

"Pfft. If that's the case, we might be sleeping forever." You cupped his face with your hands as he looks at you with bright eyes.

"That doesn't sound too bad." he whispers, leaning closely to brush his lips against yours. "I don't mind, as long as you're next to me. We have all the time in the world."

Just as he closed the distance between your lips, you suddenly froze and moved back.

"Hmm? What's - "

You let go of him and put a hand on your chest, right over your heart.

"It... it hurts..."

Your face suddenly turned pale.

"I - can't b-breathe..."

Xavier felt his world stop as your legs gave out. His arms stopped your knees from hitting the ground, and his body became numb after feeling how clammy your skin had gotten.

"X-xavier...."

He found himself struggling to take a breathe, too.

He was petrified.

He didn't know what to do.

It was happening again. He was losing you all over again, just like in every life time he had with you. Just when he thought he finally got it right this time, just when he thought he'd get his happy ending...

He couldn't lose you.

Not now. Not again.

He has to do something.

"Xavier..."

His vision suddenly darkened. You vanished completely, and he couldn't feel your body at all. It's like you'd turned into dust.

"No..."

"Xavier..."

"Where are you?" he cried in panic, desperately looking around for you yet not a single light welcomed his eyes. He called out your name repeatedly, but your voice was fading away.

"Where....."

"Xavier!"

And in an instant, a flash of light embraced him. He opened his eyes and the first thing he sees is you, sitting next to him and looking at him with wide, worried eyes.

You were wearing pajamas rather than the fancy dress he last saw you in. There is no fountain, and you were not at a park. You two are in his apartment, in his bedroom.

"You...." His heart was racing as he looked at you for a long time. "You're..... you're...." His throat felt tight and dry.

You took his hands and held them tightly. "I'm right here, Xavier." You pulled him into your arms and rested his face against your chest. "Everything is fine."

He closed his eyes and exhaled as he heard the sound of your stable heartbeat.

You're here and you're okay.

"I thought...." Xavier groans and shakes his head. He'd rather not recall that nightmare. "I'm... I'm glad you're here."

You held him tighter, feeling his body's warmth returning. "I won't go anywhere."

You took the hint that he didn't want to talk about what got him shaking and breathing heavily in his sleep. Sometimes, it's good to talk about nightmares, and sometimes it's better to just let it fade away.

"It's around five in the morning." you told him. "The birds are gonna start chriping soon. Do you wanna step out with me to see them?

"Yeah." he smiled against your chest. "I'd like that."

////////

rafayel

It was his own fault that you ran away from him. He was feeling sick, particularly due to his Lemurian nature, and he blurted out that he needed some time away from you for a while, right when you were trying to take care of him. He was overwhelmed and frustrated, and he told you something he didn't mean.

And now, you're gone.

The house and the beach have never felt so empty and lonely.

He couldn't recall when was the last time he'd seen you and heard your voice.

Rafayel finds himself sitting in front of an unfinished painting of the one he loves. He'd memorized the expression you wear when you'd admire the sunset with him after collecting sea shells. He painted that precious memory just so he can see your face outside of his head.

He wondered what you would think about your portrait once he shows it to you.

He waited and waited.

But you never came back.

Rafayel couldn't remember. Has it been weeks? Months? Years? Did another lifetime pass? Will he have to search for you again?

Of course, he'd do it. He'll wait for you and search for you for as long as he needs. For as long as he can.

But he really thought this lifetime would be it. He thought, maybe, you won't lose each other this time. He had everything he wanted, and yet...

You left him again. You'd given up on him.

If only he could turn back time, he'll find a way to show his true feelings. He'd find a way to keep you close and never let you go.

If only....

"What a mess you are."

"....huh....?"

That was your voice.

His eyes snapped wide open to see you looking down on him. He was sitting down on a chair and his head was down on a table, on top of the unfinished painting of you.

He had fallen asleep with paint all over his face and clothes, though he didn't care about that.

Was it all just a dream?

Was he given another chance?

"You... Are you really here?"

You tilted your head at the sound of his weak voice. "I am. Mostly, I'm here to check up on you because I thought you wouldn't sleep. I'm glad to learn that I was wrong. You were talking in your sleep."

He was saying some things in Lemurian, so you didn't understand. Though, he clearly looked upset, so you contemplated whether to wake him up or not. Nonetheless, his eyes opened at the sound of your voice, no matter how quiet you tried to be.

"You're here....Even though I...." he looks away, feeling his stomach churning with discomfort. "Even though I pushed you away...." He looked down at the portrait he'd been working on. "In my dream, you left and didn't come back. I was waiting for you, but you weren't coming. I thought I wasn't going to see you again, and I was.... I was scared."

You felt your heart drop as his voice quivered. You stepped towards him and pulled him into a hug, catching him by surprise.

"Rafayel..." He buried his face in your stomach. "I'm not going to leave you. Sure, you can be a little dramatic and moody. Sometimes, you overwhelmed and frustrated. Sometimes, you'd want space, and that's perfectly okay."

He wrapped his arms around you tightly.

"I couldn't resist staying away from you for more than five days." you laughed. "That's why I'm here. To see how you are."

"I..." he looks up at you and flashes you a smile. "I'm feeling better now that you're here."

"Good." You caressed his face and wiped a speck of paint that was on his chin. "Now let's get you cleaned up."

"Okay!"

///////

zayne

Zayne exited a patient's room just in time to hear the commotion out in the hallway. He could hear Yvonne giving out orders. She's trying to sound calm, but he could tell that she was shaken by something.

He took five steps right before an unconscious body was brought in a stretcher.

His eyes noticed the hunters' uniform first, torn and covered in blood. Then, there was the gaping wound on your stomach. Lastly, your cold, paling face.

Zayne dropped the clipboard that was in his hand. His feet acted on their own and rushed to your side, shakily calling out your name.

His hands shook and his vision blurred.

"Doctor Zayne!" Yvonne came up next to him. "She's - "

"I'm her primary doctor. I'll -"

He was stopped from entering the room that you was taken into.

Instead, Greyson came running in, but not before giving Zayne a look of sympathy. "I'll do all that I can to save her."

"I'm going in too."

Yvonne put a hand on his shoulder.

"Doctor Zayne... She's going to be okay. We can trust Doctor Greyson."

His breath comes out raggedy as he tries to calm his pounding heart in his tightening chest. "But I'm her physician. I'm the one that should be treating her."

"I'm sorry, Doctor Zayne."

He knows the rules, yet he found them hard to follow at the moment.

Doctors are generally not supposed to operate on anyone that's close to them, such as a family member or a partner, due to several complicated ethical matters.

But still, he should be the one to treat you.

What was the point of him becoming a doctor if he couldn't save your life?

"Let me...."

"We're losing her!" someone exclaims from your room.

Zayne felt his vision spinning. He tried to get to you, but his legs stopped working.

Why couldn't he move?

He needed to see you. To save you.

Move.

Save her.

There's no time.

Move.

Move, or else she's going to....

"Zayne!"

His body felt as if it had been pulled out of a frozen lake. He gasped and shot up from his seat, finding his legs working perfectly. He's inside his home office and he had taken a nap right on his desk.

"Zayne! Are you okay? I heard you screaming so I -" you failed to finish your sentence as you were suddenly pulled in his arms.

Your feet lifted from the ground while you wrapped your arms around his back. Zayne rested his face against your neck and took a deep breath and a slow exhale, tickling your skin.

From where your hands are, you could feel him slightly trembling. He must have had a horrible nightmare.

"I never want to feel that again." he whispered, pressing you tighter against him. "Please, don't go."

You ran your hands up and down his back. "I'm not going anywhere."

Zayne didn't leave your side for the rest of the night.

////////

caleb

After all these years, he couldn't believe he finally got what he wanted. You're by his side, not just as your childhood friend, but as your lover.

Out of all the people, you chose him.

It felt too good to be true.

And maybe that's why you were once again taken from him.

One day, he received a call from your boss. Apparently, you had encountered someone from Ever and got in a dangerous fight. You were taken to a hospital, so Caleb instantly left Skyhaven to see you.

He entered your room with a basket full of apples. "Pip-squeak, you look terrible."

You stared at him with a deadpanned expression.

You had bandages wrapped around the top of your head, since that was where your main injury is. Aside from that, you had minor bruises and scratches on your arms.

"Tough crowd today." He sat on the chair and held your left hand.

You pulled away quickly.

"Huh? What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

You blinked at him with confusion. "....Who are you?"

"...." Caleb lets out a chuckle, even though his heart had already dropped. "That's not funny."

The look on your face told him that you weren't in the mood for jokes either.

"You.... you don't remember me?"

You shook your head. "I'm sorry, but I can't remember..."

His entire world felt like it came crashing down.

All the memories he'd desperately tried to preserve. All the moments you'd spent together, from when you were kids that were nothing more than lab rats, to when you both started living with your grandma, to when you reunited after the incident, and to when you started to become lovers. All of it is gone.

You're looking at him with nothing but confusion in your eyes.

You didn't even want to hold his hand.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault." Behind his pained smile, he clenched his fists even though he could no longer feel them.

This is all Ever's fault.

He is going to make them pay for hurting you and taking away all of your precious memories, stripping you of your identity.

"While you recover, I'll look after you." he told you while holding an apple towards you. "If you need anything, just let me know."

"Okay."

Despite your reply, you never came to him for help. Even when your injuries got better, you refused his offers to look after you and keep you company.

You never asked about your old memories. You weren't even trying to regain them. It's like you'd turned into a new person, and he had become a stranger to you.

You were his entire world, but he was nothing but a fragment of your past that you no longer know and care for. He was nothing to you.

It should be fine, right?

You're alive. That's the most important part.

You were safe, and he's going to make sure you stay safe, even if he has to stay in the shadows.

So, why does it hurt so much?

Why did getting out of bed feel pointless? Why does he check his phone, knowing he hasn't crossed your mind at all? Why did his shoulders feel heavier and his chest tighter?

He just wanted to see you. He wanted to hear your voice, calling his name to show him something silly so he can laugh with you.

He wouldn't mind if you get angry with him for all the stupid things he'd done. As long as you know he's there, as long as you look at him, that's enough for him.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Caleb almost fell out of bed at the alarm ringing in full blast.

"What....?"

He wasn't in his dark, lonely room in Skyhaven. He's in your bright and colorful apartment, on your warm bed.

And there was someone humming from outside the room.

Caleb slowly got out of bed and followed the source of the humming that had his heart racing and swelling, warming up his body that had been feeling cold and empty just seconds ago.

He enters the kitchen and finds you cooking breakfast.

Suddenly, breathing became ten times easier.

You yelped as you were hugged from behind. "Caleb! Don't scare me like that!"

He smiled against your shoulders. "It's you that scared me to death, pip-squeak."

"Me? What do you mean?!"

"Nothing." He pressed his lips on your right cheek. "So, what's for breakfast?"

It was just a nightmare. It wasn't real, and it's never going to be real. He'll make sure of it. He will never let anything happen to you for as long as he lives.

All he ask for in return is for you to keep looking at him with the same light of love and happiness in your eyes.

[pucksandpower]

Car Trouble

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: in which it starts with Max insisting that you borrow one of his many cars while yours is in the shop and somehow turns into you being dragged away in handcuffs because (according to your jealous housemates) the only way you could ever afford a car like that is by having stolen it … suffice to say, your protective boyfriend is less than amused

Warnings: law enforcement abuse of power

The thing is, you know it’s a gamble the moment you put the key in the ignition. Your little car, a 2004 Fiat Panda with a chipped paint job and a suspiciously rattling exhaust, has been teetering on the edge for months. But it’s all you have, and it’s gotten you this far.

Except now, as you sit in Max’s driveway, the dashboard flickers ominously, a banner of orange warning lights. You groan, lean your head against the steering wheel, and curse under your breath. Maybe it’s the alternator. Or the battery. Or the car’s just finally decided it’s had enough.

Max is at his kitchen window, a mug of coffee in hand, his eyes narrowing as he watches you. He steps out, still in his Red Bull Racing hoodie, hair a mess, and jogs over. You don’t even get the chance to open your mouth before he’s leaning down, peering through your open window.

“Car trouble?” He asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question.

“Take a wild guess,” you mutter, throwing your hands up.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Let me have a look.”

He gestures for you to pop the hood, and you do, reluctantly. Max circles around, lifting it with a practiced ease, his brow furrowing as he inspects the engine. You know he’s not a mechanic, but he knows enough to recognize that it’s bad news.

“I think it’s, um, all of it,” he says, voice laced with amusement. He looks up at you. “You really drove all the way here like this?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say defensively. “It was fine when I left. Mostly.”

Max gives you a pointed look but lets it slide. He straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and nods toward the house. “Come on. I’ll call someone to get it towed.”

You hesitate. “Max, I can-”

“I know you can,” he interrupts gently, eyes locking with yours. “But why should you?”

He has this way of cutting through your defenses with a single look, and it’s infuriating. You sigh, climbing out of the car and slamming the door shut. Max winces, raising an eyebrow.

“Easy. I think she’s suffered enough,” he teases.

You glare at him, but he’s already dialing a number, one hand braced on his hip, the other holding the phone to his ear. He’s so calm, so unbothered, like this is just another Friday, and your car isn’t smoking in his driveway. It makes you feel small, somehow, and a little embarrassed.

“Hey, mate. Got a Fiat here that needs towing. Yeah, looks pretty bad. Can you get someone here today?” Max pauses, glancing at you, then back to the ground. “Nah, it’s not mine. It’s my girlfriend’s.”

The word hangs in the air, filling the space between you. It’s not the first time he’s called you that, but every time he does, it sends a little thrill through you. You shove your hands into your pockets, kicking at the gravel with the toe of your shoe as he finishes up the call.

“Right,” he says, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “They’ll be here in an hour or so. Want to come inside?”

You nod, following him up the steps and into the house. It’s quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floorboards beneath your feet. Max leads you to the kitchen, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. He pours you a cup without asking, handing it to you as you sink into a chair.

“So,” he begins, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “What’s your plan?”

You shrug. “Get it fixed, I guess. If it’s even worth fixing.”

“It’s not,” he says bluntly. “That thing’s a death trap.”

You know he’s right, but hearing it out loud stings. “I can’t just buy a new car, Max.”

“I’m not saying you should,” he replies, voice softening. “But you can’t keep driving that. It’s not safe.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that makes you feel like you should say something, but you don’t know what. Max watches you carefully, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on in your head. He always does that — wants to fix everything, make it all better. And it’s sweet, but sometimes, it’s exhausting.

“Look, I have an idea,” he says finally, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. “You can use one of my cars until yours is sorted.”

You blink up at him. “Max, I can’t-”

“You can,” he insists, a determined edge to his voice. “And you will. You need a car, and I have plenty. It makes sense.”

“It’s too much,” you protest, shaking your head. “I can’t just borrow one of your cars like it’s no big deal.”

“It is no big deal,” he counters, his gaze steady and unwavering. “It’s a car. I have, like, a dozen of them. And I want you to be safe.”

The logic is sound, but it still feels wrong. You open your mouth to argue, but Max holds up a hand.

“Let me finish,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re here for the weekend, right? We’ll get your car towed to a shop, see what they say. In the meantime, you use one of mine. If they can’t fix it, we’ll figure something else out.”

“Max-”

“No arguments,” he interrupts again, smiling faintly. “Please. For me.”

You huff, staring down at your coffee like it might provide some kind of answer. When you look up, Max is still watching you, his expression soft and earnest. He’s not going to let this go, you realize. And maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

“Which one?” You ask, finally relenting.

A slow grin spreads across his face. “The DBS.”

Your eyes widen. “The Aston Martin?”

He nods, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yep.”

“You’re insane,” you say flatly. “I can’t drive that.”

“Sure, you can. I’ll teach you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?” He steps closer, dropping to a crouch in front of you so you’re eye to eye. “That you don’t want to accept help from your boyfriend? Because, if that’s it, we’re going to have a problem.”

His words catch you off guard, and you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” he murmurs, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I want you to have it. Just until you’re sorted.”

You let out a long breath, your shoulders sagging as the fight leaves you. “Fine. But I’m not keeping it.”

“Deal,” he says instantly, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

There’s a beat of quiet as he stands, pulling out his phone again. He’s about to dial when you speak up.

“Wait.”

He pauses, glancing at you. “Yeah?”

You chew on your bottom lip, considering your next words carefully. “Are you sure? I don’t want to scratch it or-”

“Hey,” he cuts you off, voice gentle. “It’s a car not a piece of priceless china. It’ll be fine.”

His nonchalance is almost infuriating, but you can’t help the way your heart swells at his unwavering confidence in you. He believes in you, even when you don’t.

“Okay,” you whisper, and it’s like something shifts in the air between you. Max’s gaze softens, and he reaches out, squeezing your hand.

“Good. Now, let’s go get the keys.”

***

It’s raining, and the house smells like damp clothes and stale toast. Chloe stands by the living room window, holding her cup of tea, her gaze idly drifting over the dreary street. The drizzling rain matches her mood, which is sour on a good day and worse now that she’s been stuck inside with a mountain of uni work she has no interest in.

A sigh escapes her lips, louder than she means it to, but no one’s around to hear. Her housemates — well, most of them — are scattered across campus, probably doing something useful with their lives. And then there’s you. Always flitting in and out with your head held high, like you’re too good for this dump of a house.

Chloe rolls her eyes at the thought of you. She’s been harboring this quiet disdain ever since you moved in. It’s irrational, she knows that. You haven’t done anything to her, not really. But there’s something about the way you carry yourself, always so composed, so put together, that grates on her nerves. And lately, you’ve been acting … different. Happier, even. Chloe’s seen you, the way you disappear for the weekends, only to return with that smug smile. It’s not hard to guess why.

Chloe knows you have a boyfriend, though you’ve been annoyingly tight-lipped about it. She’s overheard snippets of conversation, seen the texts you try to hide when someone else walks into the room. But still, she can’t figure out why you’re with someone who clearly has money. A lot of money. The kind of money girls like you — girls like them — don’t get near unless there’s some major luck involved.

As she stares out the window, she suddenly sees something that makes her pause. Her tea sloshes dangerously close to the rim of the mug as her hand freezes. There, pulling into the lot, is an Aston Martin. Glossy, sleek, and roaring like a mechanical beast as it glides through the rain. The headlights cut through the fog, and the car comes to a slow, calculated stop directly in front of their house.

Chloe’s brow furrows, her pulse quickening. What in the world …

She watches, transfixed, as the driver’s door opens, and you step out, closing the door behind you like it’s no big deal. You glance around the street, pulling the collar of your jacket higher against the rain, completely oblivious to the fact that Chloe is practically burning a hole through the window with her gaze.

“What the hell?” Chloe breathes, her voice sharp in the stillness of the room.

Her eyes narrow as you cross the street, keys jingling in your hand, moving with an air of confidence that has no right to belong to someone pulling up in a car like that. Chloe watches every step, every casual flick of your wrist as you lock the car and walk toward the front door.

She should turn away, pretend she didn’t see anything, but her brain is spinning, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. That’s a three-hundred-thousand-pound car. You can barely afford rent, let alone something like that. Her mind races with the only plausible explanation — there’s no way in hell that car belongs to you.

Chloe slams her cup down on the coffee table, not caring that it splashes tea everywhere, and darts toward the stairs. She takes them two at a time, bursting into her flatmate Amelia’s room without knocking.

“Amelia! You won’t believe this.”

Amelia looks up from her laptop, startled. “Chloe, what the-”

“Come here. Now.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, spinning on her heel and rushing back down the stairs, Amelia reluctantly trailing after her. Chloe pulls her toward the window, jabbing a finger in the direction of the car still parked outside.

“Look,” she says breathlessly, her words tumbling out too fast. “Look at that.”

Amelia leans closer to the window, blinking at the car through the rain-streaked glass. “Is that an Aston Martin?”

“Exactly.” Chloe’s voice is a mix of disbelief and something darker. “And guess who just stepped out of it?”

Amelia frowns, her brow creasing. “No way. You’re joking.”

“I’m dead serious. She just parked it like she owns the place. What the hell is going on?”

Amelia lets out a low whistle, leaning back against the couch. “I mean, that’s … that’s not normal.”

Chloe folds her arms, pacing the length of the room now. “She’s probably stolen it. I mean, there’s no way she could afford something like that. Do you know how much that car’s worth?”

Amelia shakes her head slowly, eyes still glued to the car outside. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s her boyfriend’s?”

“That’s what I thought,” Chloe snaps, “but come on, who does she know that has that kind of money? I don’t care who her boyfriend is, something’s off.”

They both fall silent for a moment, the only sound the rain tapping against the window. Chloe’s mind races, jumping to conclusions faster than she can keep up. Everything about this feels wrong. She’s always suspected there was something up with you, but this? This is something else entirely.

Amelia breaks the silence, her voice hesitant. “Maybe she’s just lucky? I mean, maybe he’s, like, rich-rich. You know?”

Chloe scoffs. “No one gets that lucky. And she’s been acting so secretive lately. What if she’s involved in something shady? I mean, who just pulls up in a car like that?”

Amelia shrugs, clearly unsure how to respond. But Chloe’s not done. There’s a fire in her now, a burning need to know what’s going on. You’ve always been too quiet, too private, and now it’s all starting to make sense. There’s no way you’re as innocent as you pretend to be.

She whirls back around to Amelia, eyes blazing. “You know what? I’m going to call the police.”

“What?” Amelia’s eyes widen in shock. “Chloe, are you serious? You can’t just-”

“Yes, I can,” Chloe cuts her off, already reaching for her phone. “She’s clearly up to something, and I’m not going to sit here and let her get away with it.”

Amelia tries to protest, but Chloe’s mind is already made up. Her fingers fly across her phone screen, dialing the non-emergency number. Her heart pounds in her chest as the call connects, and she presses the phone to her ear, pacing as she waits for someone to pick up.

“Chloe, this is crazy,” Amelia says again, her voice laced with anxiety. “You don’t even know-”

“Shh!” Chloe hisses, waving a hand to silence her.

Finally, the line clicks, and a calm voice greets her. “Thames Valley Police, how can I help you?”

Chloe takes a deep breath, her voice steady as she launches into her story. “Hi, I’m calling to report a suspicious vehicle. It’s parked outside my house, and I’m pretty sure it’s been stolen.”

The operator asks for details, and Chloe rattles off the make and model of the car, her eyes never leaving the Aston Martin still parked outside. She glances at Amelia, who’s biting her lip, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, but Chloe’s too far gone to care.

“I just … I know the girl who’s driving it, and there’s no way she could afford a car like that,” Chloe explains, her tone sharp. “I think she might have stolen it.”

The operator asks a few more questions, and Chloe answers each one with growing confidence. She can feel it in her bones — something’s off, and she’s not about to let it slide.

When the call ends, Chloe lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, her hands shaking slightly as she lowers her phone.

“Chloe, you didn’t have to do that,” Amelia says quietly, her voice full of worry. “What if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not wrong,” Chloe insists, her jaw clenched. “You’ll see. The police will sort it out.”

She turns back to the window, her eyes narrowing as she watches the car, half-expecting something to happen. But nothing does. The car sits there, pristine and out of place, mocking her with its sheer audacity.

And you? You have no idea what’s coming.

***

It’s supposed to be a quiet afternoon — one of those rare breaks between classes when you can actually catch your breath. The rain’s let up, and a misty sun filters through the clouds, casting a soft glow over the pavement outside. You’re halfway up the stairs to your room, your backpack slung over one shoulder, when there’s a loud knock on the door.

The sound is sharp, authoritative, and it echoes through the house, stopping you in your tracks. You glance down, frowning slightly. It’s not like you’re expecting anyone, and the others aren’t home yet. Maybe it’s just a delivery.

But then the knocking comes again — louder, more insistent. Your unease deepens as you drop your bag and head back down the stairs. By the time you reach the door, a faint prickle of anxiety is buzzing under your skin.

You pull the door open, and there they are — two uniformed officers standing on the doorstep. They look serious, their expressions neutral but firm, and you feel your heart sink. This isn’t a casual visit.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is steady, though confusion laces each word.

One of the officers, a tall woman with cropped brown hair and a no-nonsense gaze, steps forward. “Are you the owner of the Aston Martin parked outside?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Um, no,” you say, blinking at them. “It’s not mine, but-”

“We’re going to have to ask you to step outside, please,” the other officer, a man with a stern jawline and dark eyes, interrupts. He glances over your shoulder, as if assessing whether you’re alone.

“What’s this about?” You can hear the uncertainty in your voice now, a sharp edge creeping in. “The car belongs to my boyfriend. I’m just borrowing it-”

“Step outside, miss,” the woman repeats, her tone brooking no argument.

Swallowing hard, you do as you’re told, stepping out onto the front stoop. The chill of the autumn air hits you, and you wrap your arms around yourself instinctively. This isn’t making any sense.

“I don’t understand,” you say again, a little louder this time. “What’s going on?”

The officers exchange a look, and then the man speaks. “We received a report that the vehicle may have been stolen. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Stolen?” The word feels foreign on your tongue. “No, it’s not stolen! I told you, it belongs to my boyfriend-”

“Do you have any proof of ownership?” the woman asks sharply, cutting you off. “Registration documents, anything like that?”

You open your mouth, then close it, frustration building. “The registration is in the glove compartment. If you just let me get it-”

“Stay where you are,” the man says firmly, holding up a hand to stop you. “We’ll check it ourselves.”

“Can’t you just let me show you?” You take a step forward, but both officers tense, their hands hovering near their belts. Your heart stutters in your chest, a cold trickle of fear sliding down your spine. “I’m telling the truth! I can unlock the car and show you. Please, just let me-”

“Miss, please calm down,” the woman says, her tone laced with a warning. “We’re following protocol here. If you cooperate, this will go much smoother.”

“But I am cooperating!” The words burst out, your voice rising despite yourself. “I’m not lying. It’s my boyfriend’s car, he let me borrow it while mine is in the shop-”

“Miss, we need you to step away from the vehicle,” the man says again, more forcefully this time. He pulls out a small notepad, flipping it open. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

You hesitate, caught off guard. “Max,” you say finally, your voice faltering slightly. “Max Verstappen.”

There’s a pause — one that stretches uncomfortably long. The officers exchange another look, something almost skeptical passing between them.

“Right,” the woman says slowly, like she’s testing the words in her mouth. “And you expect us to believe that Max Verstappen, the Formula 1 driver, lent you his Aston Martin?”

“Yes!” Your hands are shaking now, anger and disbelief mixing with fear in a volatile cocktail. “Why would I lie about that? Just let me-”

“Miss,” the man interrupts, his tone hardening. “We need you to turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

The words hit you like a slap, knocking the breath from your lungs. “What? No, you can’t-”

“Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” he repeats, each word clipped and precise.

You look from him to the woman, desperation clawing at your throat. “Please, just let me open the car. I can prove it’s not stolen. Please-”

But they’re not listening. Before you can say another word, the woman steps forward, reaching for your arm. You flinch back instinctively, panic flaring in your chest.

“Don’t-”

“Miss, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” the woman says sharply, grabbing your wrist with practiced ease. She spins you around, her grip firm but not painful, and then you feel the cold, unforgiving bite of metal as she snaps a pair of handcuffs around your wrists.

“No, wait-” You twist, struggling against her hold, but it’s useless. The cuffs dig into your skin, and you can’t breathe, can’t think.

“Please, I didn’t do anything! You’re making a mistake!”

The man steps closer, his face impassive. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence …”

His voice blurs, the words running together in a nauseating hum. You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes. “No, no, please, I didn’t steal anything! Just call Max, he’ll explain-”

“Miss, we’re taking you down to the station,” the woman says, steering you away from the house and toward their patrol car parked at the curb. “We’ll sort this out there.”

“Wait!” You stumble, the cuffs biting into your wrists as they push you forward. “You’re not listening! The car isn’t stolen! If you just let me get the registration-”

But they ignore you, their grips unyielding. The street seems to tilt and blur as they guide you toward the back of the car, your shoes scuffing against the wet pavement. Everything feels surreal, like you’ve been dropped into a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

The woman opens the back door, and the man gives you a gentle but firm shove. You fall into the seat, the leather cold against your legs. They close the door with a solid thunk, the sound reverberating through your bones.

“Please,” you whisper, leaning forward as much as the cuffs allow. “You’re making a mistake. I’m telling the truth …”

But they’re already walking away, their voices low as they talk to each other. You catch fragments of their conversation — words like “protocol” and “standard procedure” — but it all feels distant, unreal.

You slump back in the seat, staring blankly out the window as the patrol car starts up, the engine a low, steady hum. The world outside blurs into a swirl of gray and green as they pull away from the curb, and your mind races, panic and disbelief tangling together in a messy knot.

How did this happen? One minute you were heading to your room, and now you’re being carted off to a police station like some sort of criminal. It doesn’t make any sense.

You try to replay the last few minutes in your head, searching for something — anything — you could have said or done differently. But there’s nothing. They weren’t listening to you. They didn’t care about your explanation. They just saw a girl with an expensive car and decided you must be guilty of something.

Tears prick your eyes again, and you blink them back furiously. You can’t fall apart now. You have to think, to figure out what to do next.

Max. You need to call Max. He’ll sort this out. He’ll tell them the truth, and they’ll have to let you go. But how are you supposed to do that when they’ve got you locked up in the back of a patrol car?

The drive to the station feels like it takes forever, each second dragging out in painful clarity. You try to keep calm, to breathe through the panic tightening in your chest, but it’s hard when every bump in the road makes the cuffs dig deeper into your skin.

Finally, they pull up in front of the station, and the officers get out, coming around to your side. The door opens, and the woman leans down, her expression unreadable.

“Come on, miss. Let’s get this sorted out.”

You nod numbly, letting them help you out of the car. Your legs feel shaky, your whole body trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. They lead you up the steps, through the front doors, and into a small, sterile room that smells faintly of disinfectant.

“Please,” you say one last time, your voice breaking. “Please, just call him. He’ll explain everything.”

But they only exchange another glance, and the woman shakes her head slightly. “Let’s get your statement first, miss.”

And then they’re sitting you down, the lights glaring down from above, the cuffs still biting into your wrists. And all you can do is sit there, your heart pounding in your chest, as the nightmare continues to unfold around you.

***

The fluorescent lights above hum softly, the cold, sterile environment of the police station pressing down on you from every angle. It feels like you’ve been here for hours, your wrists still red from the handcuffs, a dull ache in your joints from sitting on the hard chair. Every second stretches, torturing you with the weight of waiting.

You're trying to stay calm, but your thoughts keep spiraling — back to the car, back to the police showing up at your doorstep, back to the way they refused to listen. Your voice shakes every time you try to explain, but it’s like they can’t hear you. It’s suffocating.

Across the room, the officer — her name’s Thompson, you think — sits at her desk, flipping through some paperwork. The sound of pages turning feels louder than it should. Every time you shift in your seat, she gives you this look, like she’s annoyed by your very presence. Like she’s waiting for you to break.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore.

“I want to make a phone call,” you say, your voice cutting through the stillness. You sit up straighter, your hands balled into fists on your lap.

Thompson doesn’t even look up. “You’ll get your chance,” she says dismissively, still flipping through the file.

“No,” you say, firmer this time. “I want to make it now. I have the right to make a phone call.”

This time, she looks up, her expression flat. “You’ll have to wait.”

“I’ve waited long enough,” you snap, surprising yourself with the force in your voice. Your patience is gone, the fear of being trapped in this nightmare pushing you into desperation. “I know my rights. I’m allowed one phone call, and I want to make it.”

Thompson raises an eyebrow, like she’s weighing whether or not you’re serious. After a beat, she sighs, pushing the stack of papers aside and standing. “Fine,” she says curtly. “One phone call.”

She leads you to a small side room — bare, with only a table, a chair, and a landline phone sitting in the middle. You sit down, and Thompson places the phone in front of you like it’s some kind of offering.

“One call,” she says again, her eyes narrowing. “Make it count.”

You don’t hesitate. You dial Max’s number, your fingers trembling slightly as you press the buttons. The ring tone fills the room, each ring stretching out the time between your breaths. You press the phone closer to your ear, your heart pounding.

It rings once. Twice. And then-

“Hello?”

Max’s voice comes through the line, smooth and steady, as if he’s just woken up from a nap and isn’t even remotely phased by the sudden call. But you know him better than that — there’s a sharp edge beneath the surface, a protective tension that’s always there when it comes to you.

You swallow hard, fighting back the lump in your throat. “Max …”

There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts — serious, focused. “What’s wrong?”

“They arrested me,” you say, the words rushing out before you can stop them. “The police — they think I stole your car.”

There’s silence on the other end, just for a second. Then his voice drops, low and dangerous. “What?”

You feel the weight of his anger through the phone, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you feel a flicker of relief. He’s going to fix this. He’s not going to let them treat you like this.

“They showed up at the house,” you explain, your voice trembling slightly. “They wouldn’t let me get the registration. They didn’t believe me when I said the car was yours. They just-”

“Where are you?” His voice cuts through your explanation, sharp and commanding. “Which station?”

You glance around the room. “Bedfordshire Police Station. They won’t let me-”

“Stay where you are,” he says, his voice brooking no argument. “Don’t talk to anyone else. I’m on my way.”

The line goes dead before you can respond, the dial tone ringing in your ears. You stare at the phone for a moment, your heart racing. You know Max is angry — no, furious — but that anger isn’t directed at you. It’s for them, the people who put you in this position.

Thompson steps back into the room, her expression unreadable. “Finished?”

You nod, handing the phone back. She doesn’t say anything as she leads you back to the main room, but you can feel her eyes on you, judging, assessing.

You sit down again, your legs shaky, but now there’s a quiet fire burning in your chest. Max is coming. He’s going to make this right.

The minutes tick by, painfully slow. Thompson goes back to her paperwork, the other officers moving around the station like it’s just another day. But for you, every second is excruciating, the tension building in your chest like a storm.

Then, finally, the door to the station swings open with a heavy thud, and you hear the low murmur of voices — followed by a voice you’d recognize anywhere.

Max.

You can’t see him from where you’re sitting, but you can feel the shift in the room. There’s a sudden stillness, the officers glancing up from their desks, their postures stiffening. Even Thompson’s face changes, a flicker of surprise crossing her features before she composes herself.

You strain to hear the conversation at the front desk, but it’s muffled. Still, you catch bits and pieces — his name, the car, your name. And then there’s the sharp, unmistakable edge of authority in Max’s voice as he says something that makes the desk officer sit up a little straighter.

Moments later, the door to the holding area swings open, and there he is. Max strides in, every movement purposeful, his eyes locking onto you immediately. There’s a fire in his gaze — controlled, but fierce — and the tension in his jaw tells you everything you need to know.

He’s not just angry. He’s livid.

“Max …” Your voice is small, a mixture of relief and shame. You hadn’t wanted to drag him into this mess, but you also know that no one else could’ve handled it the way he can.

He crosses the room in a few quick strides, his hand reaching for yours. “Are you okay?” His voice is low, steady, but you can hear the tightness underneath it.

You nod, but tears prick at your eyes. “I-I didn’t know what to do. They wouldn’t listen to me …”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve got it from here.” His tone is resolute, his eyes never leaving yours.

Then, without another word to you, Max turns to face the officers. His entire demeanor shifts, his posture straightening, his presence filling the room with an air of control that demands respect.

“Who’s in charge here?” He asks, his voice calm but unmistakably authoritative.

Thompson steps forward, though there’s a flicker of hesitation in her movements. “I am,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Officer Thompson.”

Max doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “You arrested my girlfriend under suspicion of theft. I’d like to see the evidence you have for that.”

Thompson falters, her eyes flicking over to the other officers. “We … we received a report of a stolen vehicle, and-”

“And instead of verifying the ownership, you decided to arrest her?” Max’s voice is cold, each word measured. “Did you even check the registration in the glove compartment?”

Thompson’s jaw tightens. “We were following standard procedure. She became agitated and-”

“She was agitated because you were treating her like a criminal,” Max cuts in, his tone sharp. “You had no reason to arrest her. If you had checked the registration, you would’ve seen my name on it.”

He takes a step closer, his presence towering over Thompson, making her shift uneasily on her feet. “Do you know who I am?”

There’s a beat of silence. The room feels like it’s holding its breath.

Thompson nods slowly. “Yes. Mr. Verstappen, we-”

“Then you know how much trouble you’re in,” Max says, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. “You’re going to release her. Now. And then you’re going to issue a formal apology.”

Thompson blinks, clearly taken aback by his bluntness. “Mr. Verstappen, I understand your frustration, but we were simply-”

“Don’t patronize me,” Max interrupts, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. “You’ve already made a mess of this situation. Don’t make it worse by pretending this was some kind of mistake. You arrested her because you assumed she didn’t belong in that car. Because you didn’t bother to listen.”

Thompson opens her mouth to argue, but Max doesn’t give her the chance. “I’ll be contacting my legal team,” he says, his tone firm. “And if you don’t release her immediately, I’ll make sure this becomes a very public issue.”

The threat hangs in the air, thick and heavy. Thompson hesitates for a moment longer, and then — finally — she nods.

“Release her,” she says quietly, signaling to one of the other officers.

The relief that washes over you is immediate, your heart pounding in your chest as the handcuffs are removed. Max’s hand is on your shoulder in an instant, grounding you, his touch warm and reassuring.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he looks down at you. “We’re getting out of here.”

You nod, letting him guide you out of the station. But before you step through the door, you glance back at Thompson, who’s still standing there, her expression strained.

Max pauses, following your gaze. He meets Thompson’s eyes, his expression unreadable. “Don’t ever treat her like that again,” he says quietly, the words carrying more weight than any threat could.

And with that, he leads you out into the cool night air, his arm wrapped protectively around you as you step outside.

***

Max’s fingers are wrapped tightly around your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, as he guides you toward his car in the station’s dimly lit parking lot. It’s quieter out here, the cool air thick with the scent of autumn leaves and something sharper — the lingering smell of petrol. The night is still, almost peaceful, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of chaos you’ve just been dragged through.

But Max’s silence is unnerving. He’s holding onto your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

He stops in front of a sleek, black Porsche 911 GT3 RS, the kind of car that turns heads and raises eyebrows. It’s an aggressive machine, all sharp edges and raw power — just like Max right now.

“Get in,” he says, his voice low and controlled, as if he’s holding back a storm. He opens the passenger side door for you, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

You hesitate for a second, looking up at him, trying to gauge his mood. “Max-”

“Get. In,” he repeats, enunciating each word with a finality that leaves no room for argument.

You slip into the passenger seat without another word, the leather cool against your skin. The car’s interior is immaculate, everything in its place, the faint smell of new leather lingering in the air. Max rounds the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat, his movements tight and controlled. He doesn’t say anything as he starts the engine, the car roaring to life with a low, throaty growl.

He peels out of the parking lot with a precision that feels almost surgical, his eyes locked on the road ahead, his jaw clenched. The silence between you is heavy, charged with an emotion you can’t quite name.

“Max-”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” His voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and accusing. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel.

You blink, taken aback by the question. “Tell you what?”

“That they arrested you,” he says, each word bitten off like it’s leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “That they-” He breaks off, shaking his head like he can’t even bring himself to say it. “Why didn’t you call me immediately?”

You swallow hard, your gaze dropping to your lap. “I-I didn’t want to worry you. You were probably busy, and-”

“Busy?” He lets out a short, humorless laugh, his eyes flashing as he glances at you. “You think I care about being busy when something like this happens? When you’re involved?”

“Max, I didn’t want you to-”

“To what? Be pissed off? Too late for that,” he snaps, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. He takes a deep breath, his grip on the steering wheel loosening slightly. “What happened, exactly?”

You tell him, your voice halting at first but gaining strength as you recount every detail — the officers showing up, the handcuffs, the questions, the disbelief when you tried to explain the car belonged to him. Max’s expression darkens with each word, his jaw set in a hard line.

“They just … wouldn’t listen,” you finish softly, staring down at your hands. “I told them it was yours. I even tried to show them the registration, but they didn’t care.”

“They didn’t care because they had already made up their minds,” Max growls, his voice a dangerous rumble. “They saw you and assumed you didn’t belong in that car.”

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to keep his temper in check.

“Why would they think the car was stolen in the first place?” He mutters, more to himself than to you. His fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel, his mind clearly racing.

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Someone must have reported it,” you say slowly, the realization dawning on you as you speak. “Someone must have seen me with it and assumed …”

Max’s gaze snaps to you, sharp and focused. “Who would do that?”

“I-I don’t know.” You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “It could’ve been anyone. The car … it stands out. Maybe someone thought it looked out of place at the house.”

Max’s frown deepens. “No,” he says firmly, his eyes narrowing. “No, it wasn’t just anyone. It was someone who knows you. Someone who knew that wasn’t your car.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and damning. Someone who knew you. Someone who saw you with the Aston Martin. Someone who-

“One of your housemates,” Max says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur.

You open your mouth to protest, but then you stop, the pieces falling into place in your mind. One of your housemates. One of the people who knows you can’t afford a car like that, who might have thought — wrongly, jealously — that you had gotten your hands on it through some shady means.

Max’s eyes are hard, unyielding. “It has to be,” he says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Someone saw you with the car and called the police. There’s no other explanation.”

You take a deep breath, the realization settling in your chest like a lead weight. “But … why would they do that? Why would they assume I stole it?”

“Because people are idiots,” Max mutters, his gaze flicking back to the road. “Because people are jealous. And because they didn’t like seeing you with something they thought you shouldn’t have.”

There’s a bitter edge to his words, and it makes your heart ache. Max has dealt with his share of jealousy, of people looking at him like he doesn’t deserve what he’s earned. He knows what it’s like to be judged, to have assumptions made about him based on nothing but surface impressions.

But this is different. This is personal.

“Whoever did this,” Max says, his voice low and controlled, “is going to regret it.”

Your eyes widen, a pang of fear and something else — something almost like excitement — flaring in your chest. “Max, wait-”

“We’re going to your house,” he continues, his tone brooking no argument. “We’re going to find out who made that call, and I’m going to make sure they understand exactly what kind of trouble they’ve caused.”

“Max, no,” you protest, your voice rising. “You don’t have to do that. I-I can handle it. I’ll talk to them, I’ll-”

“No, you won’t.” He glances at you, his eyes blazing. “You’ve been through enough tonight. I’m handling this.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the look on his face stops you cold. There’s a steely determination in his eyes, an unshakeable resolve that tells you there’s no point in fighting him on this.

He’s already made up his mind.

“Max, please-”

“Enough,” he says softly, but there’s no gentleness in his tone. “I’m not letting them get away with this.”

You fall silent, your heart racing as the car speeds down the quiet, empty streets. The tension in the car is suffocating, but there’s also a strange sense of relief. Relief that he’s here, that he’s taking control, that he’s going to make this right.

You know you should feel bad, should feel guilty for dragging him into this mess. But right now, all you feel is a fierce, overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Max’s hand finds yours again, his fingers lacing through yours, squeezing gently. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, his voice softening just a fraction. “I’m going to take care of it.”

You nod, swallowing back the words you want to say — the apologies, the pleas for him not to do anything reckless. Because you know it won’t make a difference. Max is stubborn, determined, protective to a fault. And when it comes to you, he’s willing to do whatever it takes.

The drive to your house feels both too long and too short, every second charged with anticipation. When Max finally pulls up outside your shared house, he cuts the engine and turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“Stay in the car,” he says firmly.

You blink, surprised. “What?”

“Stay. In. The. Car.” He enunciates each word with that same controlled intensity, his eyes boring into yours. “I’m going inside.”

“Max, you can’t-”

“I can and I will,” he interrupts, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m not letting you go in there and face them after everything that’s happened tonight.”

He reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek gently, his thumb brushing over your skin in a soft, soothing gesture. “Just stay here, okay? Let me handle it.”

You want to argue, to tell him it’s not necessary, but the look in his eyes stops you. There’s a fierce protectiveness there, a determination that makes your chest tighten.

“Max …”

“Please,” he murmurs, his voice softening. “Just this once. Let me take care of it.”

You hesitate, then nod slowly. “Okay.”

He leans forward, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your forehead before pulling back. “Good.”

And with that, he steps out of the car, the door closing with a soft thud behind him. You watch as he strides toward the front door of your house, his shoulders squared, his posture radiating confidence and control.

But the second he disappears from view, you find yourself reaching for the door handle. You know he told you to stay in the car. You know he wants to protect you.

But you can’t just sit here and let him fight your battles for you.

Taking a deep breath, you push the door open and step out into the cool night air, following him up the path toward the house.

***

The door swings open with a resounding bang, ricocheting with enough force to make the picture frames on the adjacent wall rattle. Every head in the common room snaps up, eyes wide and startled as they turn toward the unexpected intrusion.

Max stands in the doorway, the very picture of barely restrained fury, his presence so commanding it seems to suck the air out of the room. His gaze sweeps over the small group of people lounging on the mismatched sofas, taking in their shocked expressions and slack-jawed stares with a level of disdain that’s almost palpable.

“What the hell is going on?” He demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl that reverberates through the room.

No one answers immediately. They’re all too stunned, too caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the tall, broad-shouldered stranger radiating aggression. It’s Chloe who finally finds her voice, pushing herself up from her seat on the sofa and taking a hesitant step forward.

“Um, excuse me, but who are you?” Her voice wavers slightly, but she lifts her chin defiantly, trying to project an air of authority. “You can’t just barge in here like this.”

Max’s eyes lock onto her, and something in his gaze makes her flinch back, the confidence in her stance faltering. He doesn’t bother answering her question. Instead, he turns his head slightly, calling out over his shoulder.

“Come in here,” he says, his tone softer but no less commanding.

You step into the doorway behind him, hesitant and unsure, your gaze flicking nervously between Max and your housemates. You don’t miss the way their expressions shift when they see you — surprise, confusion, and something darker, more judgmental, flickering across their faces.

“Y/N?” It’s Amelia who speaks this time, her brows furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on? Who is this guy?”

Max’s jaw tightens, his gaze still fixed on Chloe. “I’m Max,” he says curtly, as if the name alone should explain everything.

It clearly doesn’t. The blank stares from around the room make that abundantly clear.

“Max Verstappen,” he adds, impatience lacing his tone. Still no recognition. “Formula 1 driver? Y/N’s boyfriend?” He tries again, a hint of disbelief in his voice now.

A flicker of something like realization crosses a few faces, but Chloe just scoffs, folding her arms across her chest.

“Yeah, sure,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “And I’m Lewis Hamilton.”

Max’s lips curl into a cold, humorless smile. “Trust me, I would never want to be him.”

The comment flies over Chloe’s head, but it’s enough to send a ripple of laughter through the room. Max’s smile fades as quickly as it came, his expression hardening once more.

“I’m her boyfriend,” he says again flatly, jerking his head in your direction. “And I’m here to find out which one of you decided it was a good idea to call the police and have her arrested.”

The laughter dies instantly. The air in the room thickens with tension, eyes darting from Max to you and back again.

“Arrested?” Amelia repeats, her voice rising in pitch. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Max snaps, his gaze still boring into Chloe, like he can see straight through her. “One of you called the cops and reported her for driving a stolen car. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

A murmur of confusion ripples through the group, genuine bewilderment on most faces. But Chloe’s eyes dart away, a flicker of guilt crossing her expression before she schools it back into one of indifference.

“What — no, that’s ridiculous!” She says, her voice a touch too high-pitched. “Why would any of us do that?”

Max’s gaze narrows, his eyes zeroing in on her like a hawk spotting prey. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously quiet. “You tell me.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick and heavy. Chloe shifts uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the others as if searching for support. But no one says anything. No one moves.

“Look,” Chloe finally says, trying for a breezy tone that falls flat. “If she got arrested, that’s … that’s not our fault, okay? Maybe there was a misunderstanding or something.”

Max’s eyes flash, and you feel a shiver run down your spine at the barely restrained fury simmering beneath the surface.

“A misunderstanding?” He repeats, his voice deceptively calm. “Yeah, I’d say there was a huge misunderstanding. Like the fact that you assumed she couldn’t possibly be driving that car legitimately. Like the fact that you assumed she’d have to steal it to have something that nice.”

He takes a step closer to Chloe, and she instinctively steps back, her expression faltering. “Whoever made that call didn’t just cause a ‘misunderstanding.’ They caused a whole lot of trouble for no reason other than pettiness and jealousy.”

“Hey, wait a minute-” One of the other housemates tries to interject, but Max doesn’t even spare her a glance.

“Do you know what it’s like to get a phone call telling you the person you love is sitting in a cell?” He asks, his gaze never leaving Chloe’s face. “Do you know what it’s like to hear that they were treated like a criminal just because someone here,” — he practically spits the word — “decided to be a self-righteous, vindictive bitch?”

The room goes deathly silent. Chloe’s face has gone pale, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, no words forthcoming.

“Max, maybe we should-” you start, reaching out to touch his arm.

He cuts you off with a quick shake of his head, his eyes still locked on Chloe. “No. She needs to hear this.”

You shrink back slightly, your stomach twisting with a mix of anxiety and something else — something like relief. Because as harsh as Max is being, there’s a part of you that’s grateful. Grateful that he’s standing up for you, that he’s putting words to all the anger and frustration you’ve been bottling up since this whole nightmare began.

“You don’t get to treat people like that,” Max continues, his voice low and cold. “You don’t get to make snap judgments about someone based on what you think they deserve. And you sure as hell don’t get to sic the cops on them just because you’re too insecure to handle seeing someone else with something you want.”

Chloe’s lips tremble, her eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape route. “I … I didn’t …”

“Didn’t what?” Max demands, his voice rising. “Didn’t think it would matter? Didn’t think about the consequences? Or didn’t think you’d get caught?”

The accusation hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. No one moves. No one breathes.

“I didn’t think-” Chloe starts, but the words catch in her throat. She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I just — I thought …”

Max lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Yeah, you thought. That’s the problem.”

He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as if trying to calm himself. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, steadier, but no less cutting.

“You know what? I don’t even care what your excuse is,” he says quietly. “Because there is no excuse. Nothing you say is going to change what you did. Nothing is going to make up for the fact that you had her dragged off in handcuffs for no reason other than your own messed-up assumptions.”

Chloe flinches at the words, her shoulders hunching as if she’s trying to make herself smaller. You almost feel a pang of sympathy for her — almost. But then you remember the cold metal of the handcuffs around your wrists, the humiliating feeling of being treated like a criminal, and the sympathy evaporates.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Max says, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re going to apologize. Right now. To her.”

He steps back slightly, giving Chloe a clear line of sight to you. She hesitates, her gaze flicking up to yours, and for a moment, she just stares at you, her eyes wide and fearful.

“I … I’m sorry,” she finally mutters, the words barely audible.

Max’s gaze hardens. “Louder.”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe repeats, her voice trembling. “I-I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. I just … I thought the car was … that it wasn’t …”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish. But she trails off, her face crumpling with guilt and shame. It’s not much of an apology, but it’s more than you expected.

You take a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

Max nods once, satisfied. “Good. Now, if I ever hear about you pulling something like this again,” he says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “you’ll regret it. Understand?”

Chloe nods frantically, her face ashen. “Y-Yes, I understand.”

“Great.” Max turns away from her, his gaze softening as it lands on you. “Come on,” he murmurs, reaching out to take your hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

***

The Porsche purrs along the quiet stretch of motorway, the engine’s deep growl a steady undercurrent to the conversation hanging in the air. It’s late — well past midnight — but neither of you seem in any hurry to get home. There’s a lingering tension, a heaviness that neither of you know quite how to disperse.

Max’s hand grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles stark against the leather. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the faint glow of the dashboard casting shadows across his face. His jaw is set, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that betrays the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

He hasn’t said much since leaving your house. Just a few clipped sentences, terse reassurances that he’s not mad at you, that you didn’t do anything wrong. But the words feel hollow, inadequate against the weight of what happened tonight.

After a few more minutes of silence, Max finally speaks, his voice low and controlled. “I talked to the mechanics earlier today.”

You blink, taken aback by the abrupt shift in conversation. “The mechanics?”

“Yeah.” He glances at you briefly before returning his gaze to the road. “About your car.”

Oh. You feel a pang of anxiety, your stomach twisting unpleasantly. You’d almost forgotten about your poor, beat-up little car, abandoned at some garage in Milton Keynes. “What did they say?”

Max hesitates, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “It’s … not good.”

You swallow hard, your heart sinking. “What do you mean?”

“They think it’s beyond saving.” His voice is careful, as if he’s trying to break the news gently. “There’s too much damage. The engine’s shot, the transmission’s on its last legs … basically, it’d cost more to repair it than it’s worth.”

You stare at him, uncomprehending. “But … but I just had it serviced a few months ago,” you protest weakly. “It shouldn’t be that bad-”

“It’s not your fault,” Max interrupts gently. “That car’s been through hell. It’s a miracle it’s lasted as long as it has.”

“But I can’t just … give up on it,” you say, a note of desperation creeping into your voice. “It’s my car, Max. I need it.”

“You need a car,” Max corrects softly. “Not that car. There’s a difference.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “I can’t afford a new one right now. I still have to pay for-”

“Hey, hey.” Max’s hand leaves the steering wheel to rest on your knee, squeezing gently. “I’m not saying you have to buy a new car.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flaring. “What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying,” Max begins, his tone careful, measured, “that I’ll get you a new one.”

The words hang in the air between you, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your mind struggling to process what he’s suggesting.

“No,” you say finally, shaking your head vehemently. “Absolutely not.”

Max’s brow furrows, his gaze flickering to yours. “Why not?”

“Because … because that’s ridiculous!” You sputter. “I’m not letting you buy me a car. That’s way too much.”

“It’s not too much if you need it,” he argues calmly.

“Yes, it is!” You insist, your voice rising. “It’s too much, and it’s not your responsibility. I’ll figure something out-”

“Like what?” Max challenges, his voice sharpening. “What are you going to do, keep borrowing cars you’re hesitant to actually use? Take public transport everywhere? What happens when you need to get somewhere and you don’t have a ride?”

“I’ll manage,” you say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. “I always have.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to anymore,” Max snaps, his frustration breaking through. “Why won’t you just let me help you?”

“Because it’s not your problem to solve!” You shout back, the words bursting out before you can stop them.

Max goes silent, his gaze turning stony. For a few long moments, the only sound in the car is the steady thrum of the engine and your own harsh breathing.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that makes your stomach twist. “You’re my girlfriend. That means if you have a problem, it is my problem to solve.”

The certainty in his tone makes your breath catch in your throat. You look at him, really look at him, and see the determination blazing in his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw.

“Max …” you begin softly, but he cuts you off with a quick shake of his head.

“No, listen to me.” He takes a deep breath, his hand tightening on your knee. “I know you’re independent. I know you’re used to handling things on your own. But this isn’t about money, or pride, or any of that. It’s about making sure you’re safe, that you have what you need to get around. And right now, that means getting you a new car.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he presses on, his gaze never wavering from yours.

“Let me do this for you,” he says quietly, almost pleadingly. “Please.”

His sincerity takes the wind out of your sails, your protests dying on your lips. You stare at him, the weight of his words settling heavily on your shoulders.

“But … it’s just … too much,” you say weakly, your resolve crumbling.

Max’s expression softens, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t think so. And even if it is, I don’t care. You’re worth it.”

The simple, earnest declaration sends a rush of warmth flooding through you, your heart swelling in your chest. You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink them back furiously, refusing to let them fall.

“Why do you have to be so damn convincing?” You mutter, half exasperated, half amused.

Max’s smile widens slightly, his thumb brushing gently over your knee. “It’s a gift.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he says dryly, his eyes twinkling with a hint of humor. “So … you’ll let me do this?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. It still feels like too much, like accepting would be crossing some invisible line. But there’s a part of you that knows he’s right — that trying to handle this on your own would be stubborn and impractical and would probably end up causing more problems than it’s worth.

And more than that, you can see how much it means to him. How much he wants to do this for you.

“Fine,” you say finally, letting out a long sigh. “But only because you’re so damn insistent.”

Max’s grin is dazzling, the relief and joy in his eyes almost overwhelming. “Good. I’ll start looking for something first thing tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind the gesture. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably in love with you,” he counters smoothly, his grin widening at your soft, exasperated laugh.

“Cheesy,” you accuse, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“Maybe,” he concedes with a shrug. “But it’s true.”

You shake your head, your heart feeling lighter than it has in days. “I’m still not letting you get me something ridiculously expensive,” you warn, trying to sound stern.

“We’ll see,” Max says noncommittally, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Max-”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he says quickly, holding up his free hand in mock surrender. “We’ll get something practical, okay? Something that’s safe and reliable and not … ridiculous.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “Promise?”

Max’s smile softens, and he nods, his gaze holding yours steadily. “Promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, a sense of peace settling over you. Maybe it’s not ideal, accepting something so big from him, but … maybe it’s okay to let him take care of you, just this once.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

Max’s smile is soft and warm and full of so much affection it makes your chest ache. He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. “No, thank you.”

[callsign-fox]

Dance with Me? - Bob/Robert Reynolds

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Fem!Reader/Superhero

Super fluffy, no warnings xo

I knew this movie would get me to write again, and I haven't even seen it yet! Don't worry, I am seeing it tomorrow ;)

Bucky’s apartment wasn’t home—but it was the closest thing to it. Nestled in a secured corner of Brooklyn, reinforced by his new position as a Congressman, it was a safe haven. A quiet place to hide. It was where Y/N had been laying low ever since she’d turned into a massive, flaming Phoenix above Manhattan—an event that had sent the world into a panic. The headlines hadn’t stopped. Neither had the government’s search.

The Phoenix inside her was too new. Too wild. Too dangerous. So, she stayed hidden. Waiting. Healing.

But that quiet broke the moment the Thunderbolts burst through Bucky’s door, weapons holstered but tension palpable—and someone new in their midst.

Something inside her shifted.

Light moved over her skin like a breeze—curious, tingling, alive. She felt it before she even saw him. From her place curled on the couch, Y/N lifted her head, gaze narrowing on the stranger. Her voice was calm, but her instincts were alert.

“Who's your new friend?”

“This is Bob,” Bucky replied casually, already heading toward the kitchen like this was just another Tuesday.

But Bob… wasn’t just another face.

Y/N’s eyes lingered longer than they should have. She could feel it—that coiled, restrained power humming beneath his skin. But deeper than that was something raw. Broken. Familiar.

He met her gaze, but didn’t smile.

She wondered if he felt her too.

Rising from the couch, Y/N moved a step closer, her voice soft. “He’s not like the rest of you.”

“No,” Yelena cut in, her eyes sharp. “Is this where you’ve been hiding the past few months?”

“Maybe,” Y/N answered, a sly grin tugging at her lips as she picked up her empty mug and headed to the kitchen.

“You’re a terrible government official,” Yelena called after Bucky. “Hiding a nuclear-level threat under your own roof. Cute.”

“I’m not a threat,” Y/N muttered, rolling her eyes.

Yelena mumbled something under her breath that Y/N chose to ignore. Bob quietly slipped into one of the armchairs while Yelena turned to the group.

“We’ve got things to discuss. Mind babysitting, Phoenix?”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Bob said, barely louder than a breath. But even he didn’t sound convinced.

Y/N moved back into the living room, her fingers trailing along the back of the couch as she sat, perching at its edge. Yelena took the hint and filed out, Bucky following her with a last glance.

“You two don’t get into any trouble,” he said before the door clicked shut behind him.

Silence settled over the apartment like dust in sunlight.

Y/N rose slowly, her bare feet brushing over the cool hardwood floor. She could feel him watching her—his presence tugging at something inside her chest. It was strange. Electric. Right.

“You don’t talk much,” she said quietly.

Bob’s voice was rough, but not unfriendly. “Not a lot to say.”

She didn’t push. Instead, she turned to the bookshelf, flipping through the records until her fingers landed on something smooth and timeless—Sam Cooke. She dropped the needle, and the music filled the apartment like warmth spilling from an open window.

Turning to face him, she lifted a brow. “When’s the last time you smiled?”

He blinked. “I don’t really know.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Well… I don’t know you yet, Bob, but I have a feeling I can fix that.”

She held out her hand. He stared at it, confused.

“What?”

“Dance with me?”

A flicker of something crossed his face—surprise, maybe. Hope. He didn’t move, not at first.

“You want me to dance with you?”

“You heard me,” she teased, her grin growing. “A pretty girl is asking you to dance, you’re not going to turn her down, are you?”

He opened his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to laugh—but no words came. Instead, he slipped his hand into hers and stood, slow and uncertain.

His hand was warm in hers. Solid. Real.

“One song,” she said softly. “No brooding. No worrying. Just… be human with me. Just for a moment.”

She guided him in, gently placing his hand on her waist, her other hand resting against his chest. It had been years since someone touched him like that—like he wasn’t dangerous. Like he wasn’t broken.

She moved first—swaying slowly, fluid and graceful. Bob was stiff at first, clumsy and hesitant, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t watching his feet.

She was watching his face.

“What are you, anyway?” she asked, her voice soft but steady.

His eyes narrowed, shadows flickering behind them. “Something powerful. Too powerful.”

She studied him for a beat, then nodded with a hint of a smirk. “Sounds like you’d give me a run for my money.”

He gave a small shrug, unreadable. “Maybe.”

But he didn’t look away, his eyes locked on hers.

“You’re allowed to let go sometimes you know,” she whispered, her breath brushing against his cheek. “I do.”

His eyes met hers, flickering with something fragile. “What happens if I let go… and everything falls apart?”

She tilted her head, inching closer. “Then we dance in the ashes.”

Something in him unraveled.

His shoulders dropped, his arm relaxed against her waist—and then, for the first time in what might’ve been forever, he smiled.

Y/N’s heart skipped, and she beamed back at him.

“There it is,” she said. “And it’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

His smile lingered, shy and uncertain, but real. Y/N felt it again—like a pull deep in her chest, a thread tying her to him. It wasn’t just the dance or the song. It was him. The quiet storm beneath his surface. The sense that somehow, even though they'd just met, he wasn’t a stranger.

Their movements slowed until they were barely swaying, just standing in each other’s space. Close. Breath mingling.

Her hand slid up from his chest to rest just over his heart. “That smile looks good on you.”

Bob looked down at her, his brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a rather difficult puzzle. “You feel… familiar,” he murmured, his voice soft and reverent, like he was afraid of breaking whatever moment they’d stumbled into. 

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. “I was thinking the same thing.”

The air between them shifted—charged, magnetic. Her eyes flicked to his lips just as he leaned the smallest bit closer. His hand at her waist tightened, just slightly, anchoring them in that fragile, suspended second.

It felt like the world had gone still, like the Phoenix inside her was holding its breath.

Then—

Click.

The front door swung open.

“You leave them alone for five minutes,” Bucky’s voice filled the room, too casual and far too loud, “and they throw a damn prom.”

Y/N took a sharp step back, cheeks flushed, pretending she hadn’t just been about to kiss a man she’d known for less than an hour.

Bob ran a hand through his hair and turned away, the moment shattered like glass underfoot.

Bucky blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Nope,” Y/N said, voice an octave too high as she reached to turn off the record player. “Just... entertaining your guest.”

Bob sat back down without a word, his eyes carefully avoiding hers now, like if he looked again, he’d lean right back in.

Bucky raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “Right. Well. We’ve got updates. Let’s all have a chat, shall we?”

Y/N nodded, but as she brushed past Bob on her way to the kitchen, her fingers grazed his—and just for a second, she felt that spark again. That pull.

Whatever this was between them—it wasn’t done yet.