#i will be honest. i do not think this is finished

[itsnesss]

hihi!! could you please do a younger driver (like ollie or kimi) and a piece on missing the reader’s graduation bc of a race?

𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐫 | oliver bearman × fem!reader

summary | you graduate, but ollie misses it because of a race. you give your speech, heart heavy, thinking of him

warnings | fluff, soft romance, mild angst, long-distance struggles, emotional vulnerability, comfort

word count | 1.5 k

🖇 more ob87 🖇 f1 masterlist

Your dress has been hanging in the closet for days, protected by a garment bag. It’s the same one you picked out with your mom, the one Ollie said made you look like a movie star.

Less than 24 hours to your graduation, and as you place the cap on the bed, you check your phone one more time. Nothing. No new messages. No calls. No news from Ollie.

You knew. You knew there was a chance. A high chance, to be honest, that he wouldn’t make it. But you had made so many plans… He himself promised he would try everything to be there.

“What if I get there just at the end, and I give you a hug when you finish your speech?” he had said excitedly, days before.

You practiced that speech with him. Several times. On video calls from hotels all around the world. He corrected you, laughed when you made a bad joke, asked you to say it slower when you rushed.

And you did it hoping that, when you walked on stage and read the final words, his eyes would be waiting for you in the audience.

But now, less than a day away, everything points to him not being there.

You sit on the bed and dial his number. It goes straight to voicemail.

You take a deep breath, swallowing the disappointment. He loves you. You know that. But sometimes loving someone who also loves their dream is… lonely.

You want to scream. Not at him. At the world.

Then, your phone vibrates.

A voice message from Ollie.

“Hey... love. I’m sure you probably already know what I’m about to say. I tried, really. But I’m not going to make it. I’m stuck here because of the rankings. They won’t let me move anything. I’m so sorry. So sorry. I thought if I didn’t tell you earlier, there might still be a tiny chance. But there isn’t…”

Pause.

“It hurts more than I can explain not to be there tomorrow. I know how much it means to you. To both of us. But even if I can’t see you walk across that stage, I’ll be watching you from wherever I am. And when you finish, when you have your diploma in your hands… call me. Please. Because even if I can’t hug you, I promise I’ll be with you in everything that comes after.”

A tear escapes.

Tomorrow is still ahead.

The sun falls perfectly over campus when you leave the house with your cap in hand and your eyes still swollen from crying the night before. You look in the rearview mirror of your dad’s car and smile automatically. You’ve waited for this day for years. You imagined it again and again. But in all those versions… Ollie was there.

When you get out of the car, everyone seems to be shining. Your classmates take selfies, some rush to meet their families, others joke about not tripping going up the stage. You just look for a face you already know you won’t find.

The ceremony begins. Your name is on the program. You’re going to give a speech. One you practiced with him. One you read over and over so he could hear it between training, interviews, and flights.

“Now, please welcome our graduating class’s guest speaker…”

You’re asked to go up.

The lights blind you a little. The auditorium is huge. It feels bigger without him.

“Good afternoon. I want to start with something very simple… thank you.”

Your voice is steady. No one notices how tightly you grip the edge of the podium, or how your eyes wander over the rows, hoping to see him somewhere. Hoping you could trick fate and make him appear.

“Thank you to my teachers, my parents, my friends… and to someone who isn’t here today. Though he was in every rehearsal, in every word of this speech. This person… believed in me when I didn’t. He listened, encouraged me, interrupted me with bad jokes so I wouldn’t take everything so seriously. And even though he’s not sitting here today… he’s with me. I’m sorry. Because that’s what the people we love do: they’re there, even when they can’t be.”

There’s a long silence. Some people applaud. Others smile, not fully understanding who you meant.

But you know. And that’s enough.

When you step down from the stage, your chest burns a little. Pride, sadness, a warm hollow that carries his name.

You go through the ceremony like a spectator of your own movie. You receive your diploma. You get hugs. Your parents congratulate you. Friends take pictures with you.

And you smile. Because you made it this far.

But something is missing. And no matter how much you deny it, you feel it.

Later, when you’re at home, the dress already wrinkled and the cap on the table, your phone vibrates.

Ollie: Can I call you?

You answer with a simple “Yes.”

Seconds later, his name appears on the screen. You pick up.

“Hi,” you say, barely a whisper.

“You look beautiful,” he says without hesitation.

“How do you know?”

“I watched the whole stream. I had an interview at the same time, but I snuck away. I saw you give the speech. You have no idea how hard it was not to cry like an idiot at the part about ‘the people we love are there, even when they can’t be��…”

You bite your lip. There’s a huge knot in your throat.

“I really wanted you to be there.”

“Me too. Every second. Every damn second. Can I send you something?”

Before you can answer, a notification arrives.

An attached file. A video.

You open it.

It’s Ollie, in his hotel room, still wearing his team suit, holding a small homemade sign that says “Congrats, love. You did it. I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s cheesy,” he laughs from the phone. “But I made it while watching the ceremony. Just in case… you couldn’t see me, so at least you’d know I was with you. In my way.”

And you… you break down crying. Silently. With the full weight of having wanted that moment so badly with him.

“Thank you, Ollie.”

“I’m going to make it up to you. All of it. I promise.”

“No need. Just… thank you for not making me feel alone, even though you were so far away.”

Silence. Warmth.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, steady.

Your heart stops for a second.

“I love you too.”

And at that moment, even though you’re miles apart, even though you haven’t seen each other, even though there’s no photo of you both at your graduation… you know this day will live in your memory as one of the most beautiful ever.

Only three days have passed since your graduation, but it feels like an eternity. After the call with Ollie, everything was bittersweet: you knew he loved you, you knew he tried, but not being able to hug him that day hurt more than you thought.

And you accepted it. You learned to let go of the idea of “the perfect moment.”

Today is Sunday, and you’re at home, in pajamas, watching a documentary you’re barely listening to. Your family is out. You have the house to yourself. Your phone is silent. You don’t even know what country Ollie is in now.

Someone rings the doorbell.

You frown. A package? A neighbor? You get up dragging your feet, expecting anything but what you see when you open the door.

“Hi, love.”

And there he is.

With his suitcase at his side, a cap crooked on his head, hair messy like he just ran out of the airport. His eyes lock onto yours like he can’t believe he’s really seeing you. Like he’s afraid you’re part of a jet-lagged dream.

And you… you’re frozen in shock.

“Ollie,” you whisper.

“I didn’t want to miss another important thing. I took the first flight after the GP. I just arrived. I couldn’t tell you. My battery died, I lost signal, then I got lost in the airport… but… I’m here. And I don’t care how I look now, or that I don’t have a gift, or that I’m sweating like crazy. I just needed to see that you were okay.”

Your eyes fill with tears.

And then you run.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. You just hug him like your body finally remembers what breathing well means. Like he fits with your chest, your arms, your story.

He laughs into your neck, his hands firm on your back.

“It was so hard not to cry earlier,” he murmurs. “But this… this is a miracle.”

You pull him tighter.

“It’s not a miracle. It’s that you love me.”

He pulls back a little just to look at you. His fingers brush a strand of hair from your face.

“So much.”

“Want to come in?” you ask with a teary smile.

“Only if you give me coffee and a tour of a brilliant graduate.”

“I’ll give you anything. But the tour starts with you hugging me for another half hour.”

“Deal.”

You close the door. He puts down his suitcase. And without another word, you hug again in the hallway, as if the world has finally aligned.

[nurse-floyd]

Walk it Off

Request: Can you pls write a fic about Oscar x driver reader and she crashes and it’s Oscar and Lando’s reactions

@callsign-swan @ice-man-goes-bwoah @vroomvroomcircuit

Monaco. The most anticipated grid on the calendar. It was most of your home country, well not your home country but the place most of you found and called your own. The glitz, the glamor, the historic circuit - it all amped up the excitement of the race every year. If you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t really like the circuit itself, it was boring. Qualifying pretty much summed up who would finish where, the track was too small for the ever growing cars. Still, it was a race and you were determined to enjoy it and finish as high within the points as you could. 

The crash looked worse than it was. One minute you were holding back Albon, chasing down Alonso, then something clipped your rear tire and slammed you hard into the wall. Carbon fibre flew off your car and scattered across the track as the car crumpled around you. Your car came to a stop and you slammed your hands against the steering wheel in frustration. 

“Red flag Oscar, red flag,” his engineer's voice crackled over the radio. 

“Who?” 

He said your name. 

“Is she okay?” he asked, bringing his car to a slow. 

“We are checking.”

*** 

“Are you okay?” Crackled your engineer's voice over the radio. 

“Fucking, fuck! Stupid piece of shit Williams clipped my rear! What a fucking idiot!” You didn’t mean to yell that many expletives. 

“Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fucking fine. Cars fucking wrecked though.” 

You pulled the headrest off and pushed it aside, holding onto the halo as you climbed out of the wreckage. 

You dusted off your race suit and started walking away, ignoring the panicked marshalls. Helmet and HANS device still attached, suit still on your boots clicked confidently along the pavement, past the crowds. The cameras followed, the drone overhead hovering over you as you climbed over a barrier and casually stepped onto the dock lined with yachts. Your yacht was moored there, a couple of your friends who’d come to watch the race sat there in bathing suits, champagne flutes in hands. 

You didn’t even look back, too pissed off and probably slightly concussed but that didn’t bother you. 

You took your helmet off, balaclava following suit as you shook your hair loose and tossed it to the side. You’d need a new one anyway so you didn’t care. You collapsed onto the sofa, sliding your sunglasses on like you hadn’t just crashed out of one of the most prestigious races in the world. 

Someone handed you a drink which you took gladly, leaning back into the seat. 

*** 

Back in the paddock, the two McLaren boys watched on. 

“How much of a fine do you think that’s gonna cost her?” Lando asked with a smirk. 

“She’s not even been checked over, probably could blame it on a concussion and get out of it,” Oscar replied. 

Lando snorted. “I can’t decide if I’m in love with her or terrified.”

Oscar turned to his teammate, as they watched the screens and waited for the track to be cleared a crooked grin forming. “I’ve been both since Australia.”

Ko-fi - please consider donating to my cats vet bills.

[notthemonthbutmarch]

I nearly forgot about this! Sorry!

Favorite Color: Yellow! Or Orange. I like warm tones, so yellows, orange, red. Fall. Makes me happy lol

Currently Reading: Does @thatonegreyghost’s Genshin fanfic count? I don’t remember if I finished the Convergence Protocol because I’m always hella behind but yeah, that!

Last Song: “Steady, Steady” by The Crane Wives. It’s in a playlist I made for one of my million ocs

Last Film: I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie lmao. I think it was the FNaF movie I’m gonna be honest

Last Series: I don’t want that much TV as well. Does movie series count? Into the Spiderverse maybe????

Sweet//Salty//Savory: You can’t do this to mee those are some of my favorite types of food and snacks. I think snack wise I usually go salty, but overall I’m a sweets kinda person. Savory is the best for meals

Tea or Coffee?: I’m firmly on the tea side, I can’t drink coffee, I don’t like the taste I’m sorryyyy. I’ve been meaning to give coffee another chance, especially the sweeter coffees, but I haven’t done it yet so I’m gonna say tea

Working On: Currently Working on what I’m calling a “Birthday Week.” 5 OCs of mine have fully set birthdays, like all three: day/month/year. It’s going to be 5 days of small fluff fics about my OCs, with the first one being Anby next week! I’ve been thinking of posting them here but I don’t have the time to proofread them as much as I want to, do I think for now I’m gonna send them privately to my friends, fix them up over time, and post them late to Tumblr. I am also almost done graduating, the ceremony is literally tomorrow, so I’m planning on starting my book series “The Cyclical!” It’ll be fun to finally have some canon content written out.

Anyways, I’m not sure who to tag, so if anyone sees this and wants to do a fun tag game, please do!

Nine People I Wish I Knew Better

i've never gotten tagged in these before, it's kinda exciting :D -> and so a very special thanks to: @rose-margaritas n @robyngoesrogue

Favorite Colour: green!!! or grey, or sage

Currently Reading: Like We're Gonna Die Young (Again) by RoseGanymede95 [go read it, it's amazing >:3c]

Last Song: E.T. by Katie Perry

Last Film: i don't really watch movies that often, so i couldn't say ^óWo^ |u u |__

Last Series: last one i watched all the way through was Étoile, and i'm currently debating watching Red, White, and Royal Blue :3

Sweet//Salty//Savory: i prefer more savory things, but my drinks are sweet enough to give ya cavities hehe

Tea or Coffee?: my sociology teacher told me that if i replaced all the coffee i drank with hard drugs i'd have a serious addiction problem

Working On: ooh... so much actually.. so so much. i've got a post-canon Étoile fic i've gotten like- halfway through [featuring jayenne AND gabias] a pokemon Étoile au [bc i love pokemon] a stobotnik fic i'm struggling with, two wbk fics, a link click fic i'm stuck on, QUITE a few polychampions fics, annnd a few more in the beginning stages of fleshing ;3

Tagging [i hope it's not a bother]: @sun-shine-lolli-pops @noteofjoy @technically-human @justcallmeemily @littlepocketuniverse @zephie-zee @candy-coated-eyes @notthemonthbutmarch @starguardianniom

[drfruitcake]

Matcha

Michael Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader

Rating: Explicit/MDNI (language and smut) Word count: ~17,000 Tags: slow burn, slight plot but mostly just an excuse for eventual smut, slight age gap, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, p in v, oral, friends to lovers, colleagues to lovers, mutual pining, meet the parents, reader insert, no y/n, 2nd person POV, no beta

Summary: It's Thanksgiving and you're en route to introduce your boyfriend, Dr. Robby, to your parents for the first time. Though you're nervous about their reaction to your age difference, you reflect on the journey of your relationship and how proud you are to call him yours.

Notes: Reader is a 35-year-old psych doc. Dr. Robby is 50. This takes place a year after S1 ends. I never know if I should refer to him as Michael or Robby, but Michael just feels so weird to me. Also, I am not a doctor or any type of medical professional, so please forgive any medical inaccuracies. Thanks to all who take the time to read!

I'll upload this to AO3 once my invitation request goes through. Until then, read below the cut.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Nope, not like this.

Bringing a boyfriend home to meet your parents was supposed to be thrilling. And truthfully, it was. You adored your boyfriend and you were proud of him. After years of a slow-burn back-and-forth, the two of you finally breached the boundaries of the ‘will-they-won’t-they’ whispers within the curious confines of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

So yes, you were excited to introduce your man to your parents, and they were excited to meet him, too. After all, you hadn’t introduced them to a boyfriend in nearly two decades, since you were sixteen. They’d spent years patiently waiting on you to finish med school and acclimate to your career. Now, they were ready to see you settle down and start a family. They were both newly retired and itching for grandchildren. 

But they didn’t know your boyfriend was closer to them in age than he was to you.

You, personally, didn’t view it as a problem. It wasn’t a scandalous age gap. Your boyfriend was experienced, mature, and over the performative bullshit that often accompanied relationships. He was open, honest and blunt about what he wanted, not to mention he was in therapy now, something most men your age avoided like the plague. He made you feel safe and secure, valued and loved. Most importantly, you couldn’t get enough of each other.

So yes, you loved your boyfriend. But you weren’t sure your parents would love the notion of their 35-year-old daughter dating a 50-year-old man.

The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland was quiet at first. You insisted on driving – you enjoyed it and you knew where you were going, you claimed. In truth, you hoped focusing on the roads would prevent you from dwelling too deep within your own insecurities.

The roads swished with steady traffic beneath grey skies as other travelers headed home for the Thanksgiving holiday. You promised your mother you’d arrive by 2 p.m. Dinner was planned for 4 p.m., and then you’d spend the night at your parents’ house before returning to Pittsburgh in the morning.

It all seemed so simple. The plans were in place, your parents were happily awaiting your arrival, and you were smitten with the man sitting beside you. But your brain buzzed with anxious energy.

Your parents were good people – kind, friendly and hard-working. They ensured you got into med school and supported your decision to specialize in psych, rather than become a primary care physician like they’d hoped. And when you’d decided to remain in Pittsburgh rather than return to Cleveland to work, they remained supportive.

But they were still old-school, set in a particular way of doing things. Your dad was protective and your mom still worried far too much about what others thought. And now, you were worried over what they’d think. 

There was no reason for them to dislike your boyfriend beyond your age gap. He was handsome and humble, but sharply intelligent and competent. Most importantly, he adored you. But you weren’t sure your parents would be able to see past the 15 years that separated you. They’d surely wonder what a 50-year-old man was doing with you.

Sometimes you wondered that, too. There was the obvious – you were pretty. And you were sharp as hell, often deemed snarky and sarcastic by your friends, but also one of the smartest people in every room. You were the classic honor student turned doctor, but that of course meant you’d ignored much of the social life you should have had in your 20s. Dating wasn’t your expertise. You were more of the girl who went home with men and forgot to call them back. But while others looked at you as the boring, albeit brilliant, workaholic, your boyfriend saw someone who understood the sacrifices required of a career in health care.

You knew your parents would also wonder what you saw in him. The short answer was everything, but you also knew few people understood your boyfriend the way you did. Others saw a man who could be gruff and moody. You saw a man who merely wanted to save as many people as possible, even if it meant sacrificing his own best interests. But you were helping him work on that.

Others also wondered why you didn’t date someone your own age, who didn’t carry as much emotional baggage, or who better aligned with your generational interests. You saw a man who didn’t lie or cheat, who didn’t waste your time or his, and who preferred to catch a ballgame than catch an STI at the club.

The two of you were simpatico, a match meant only for your understanding. You brought light to his darkness, but you never tried to extinguish it. You didn’t view him as someone who needed fixing. You embraced him exactly as he was, with hopes that seeing and accepting him would help him find comfort in you.

With twenty minutes remaining in your drive, the soft sounds of Springsteen wafting from the car speakers, you snuck a sideways glance. Though the two of you often sat in peaceful silence, your boyfriend was fidgeting with the strap of his seatbelt. His eyes remained forward, but it was clear he wasn’t actually observing anything.

“Robby,” you said gently, your eyes glinting with warm amusement. “You alright?”

His eyes shifted toward yours and he offered you a reassuring smile.

“Oh yeah, I’m good,” he said. You turned your head slightly to offer him a pointed stare, your eyes quickly returning to the road.

“Liar.” You smirked sideways at him and he chuckled.

“I’m fine, really,” he assured. “This is just…”

“Weird,” you finished. “It’s weird.”

“You said it, not me.”

It was your turn to chuckle softly. “I know,” you said sincerely. “I know it’s weird. Trust me, this was not on my life’s bingo card.”

“What, you mean to tell me the teenage version of yourself never envisioned bringing a 50-year-old boyfriend home to Mom and Dad?”

You laughed. “The teenage version of myself was supposed to end up marrying the lead singer of My Chemical Romance.”

“Guess that shouldn’t surprise me,” Robby said. “Your vinyl collection is atrocious.”

“Says the man who only owns Springsteen albums.”

“Hey, respect your elders.”

You rolled your eyes, the corners of your lips curved upward in a smile. “They’ll love you, you know,” you said encouragingly. 

“I still think you should have disclosed some of the more important details,” Robby muttered.

“I did disclose the important details,” you noted. “I told them you’re an ER doc at Pitt Trauma, that you’ve never been married, no kids and no criminal background.”

“Just not the part where I’m only twelve years younger than your dad.”

“And you’re only fifteen years older than me. It’s not a big deal,” you insisted. “It’s not like this is a Bill Belichick situation.”

“Isn’t your dad a Browns fan?”

“Yes.”

“Feel like I’d be better off as Belichick.”

You heaved a sigh, though you’d be lying if you said you weren’t entertained. After all, this was a predicament of your own doing, so you might as well learn to laugh through the discomfort. Not that you’d intended to fall for the ER’s senior attending in the first place. 

Your crush on Dr. Robby developed long before you had any idea you’d end up working in the same hospital as him long-term. 

You first met him in the Pitt Trauma ER during your clinical rotations, where you quickly decided you weren’t interested in emergency medicine. Still, you developed a close bond with the ER staff and grew to view many of them like family. Once you’d decided on psych, you desperately wanted a residency at Pitt Trauma to remain close to them.

But even after you completed your residency and cemented your spot on staff within the Pitt Trauma psychiatric care team, you never predicted you’d find love within the hospital’s walls, too. After your residency, you opened up more to dating. You swiped your way through apps, stumbled home with men from bars and even let Dana set you up with a family friend.

Dates came and went, some stuck around for weeks, even months. You even had a three-month fling with Dr. Shen that fizzled when you discovered him following far too many models on Instagram.

But you never envisioned yourself in a months-long relationship with Dr. Robby of all people. You’d always admired him from afar, a schoolgirl-type crush in which you often daydreamed of pulling him into a supply closet for a hook-up, but never thought you’d learn what he eats for breakfast or what brand of deodorant he buys.

But your attraction stemmed from more than mere physical desire. You felt pulled to him. He was confident and commanding, respected and revered. Even when you made it clear you weren’t interested in pursuing emergency medicine, Robby taught you things few students had the opportunity to learn. And when you revealed you were interested in psych, he ensured you were included in all of the interesting psych cases.

You respected the hell out of Dr. Robby. The gentle banter and attraction for him were merely bonuses, as far as you were concerned.

But once you began visiting the ER for psych consultations and were no longer under his direct supervision, your chemistry with Dr. Robby ignited from a simmer to a rapid, rolling boil.

Your colleagues noticed, no matter how much you insisted on the contrary. Meanwhile, you remained convinced Dr. Robby remained clueless. But he heard the whispers, too. He shrugged off inquisitive remarks from Dana and Dr. Abbot, stifled the jealousy that shredded his insides when you dated Dr. Shen, and did his best to maintain a respectful and professional distance.

The night at the bar was the first time the two of you approached the edge, the near-tipping point into something you couldn’t claw your way back from. 

Trinity convinced you to go, insisting that most of the ER day shift would be there. So you tagged along and spent the first portion of the night laughing and drinking with your old friends.

You enjoyed catching up with them, nostalgic for your time spent in the trenches of The Pitt, while your eyes occasionally swept toward the TV airing the Pirates game above the bar. You were simply checking the score, you told yourself. You were most certainly not glancing at Robby, who stood at the opposite end of the bar with Frank Langdon.

But as the night progressed, so did the confidence in some random bar bro who offered to buy you drinks. You kindly thanked him for the offer and said no, but he lingered. You could feel his eyes clinging to you the entire evening, like a predator biding his time.

Typically your friends would have your back and tell the guy to fuck off. Typically you would, too.

But Samira was working late, Cassie was with her son and Trinity was too busy trying to beat Mateo on the skee-ball machine. And an incident a few weeks prior hovered in the back of your mind. 

You were in line at a coffee shop when a man struck up a conversation with you. You were polite and friendly, perhaps too much, because by the time you left the shop, he asked you to dinner. And when you said no, he called you a “fucking tease” and a “waste of time,” vowing that someday, women like you would "pay for your bullshit behavior.”

So when the bro at the bar moved in again, the smell of liquor and cigarettes smothering your senses as he tried to ask about your Penguins sweatshirt, you seized an opportunity as Robby happened to emerge from the bathroom.

“There you are!” you squealed, making a quick beeline toward him, leaving the bro with your vacated barstool. You tossed your arms around Robby’s neck and he froze, his eyes wide in confusion and lips lopsided in an amused smile. “Babe, it was the longest day without you!”

“Uh, you too,” Robby managed, his posture rigid. Neither of you could believe you were that close. You silently thanked the gods that Robby was sharp enough to catch on to what was happening.

“Babe, let’s go out back to the patio and have a smoke,” you said, grabbing Robby by the hand to drag him toward the back door. He followed you without resistance.

You snuck one final glance toward the bro at the bar, who was scowling at your retreating forms. Once outside, you dropped Robby’s hand immediately. 

“I am so sorry!” you exclaimed hurriedly. “That guy, he’s been following me around all night. Couldn't take a hint.”

“It’s alright,” Robby chuckled, amusement blooming within his warm eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” you said with an assuring nod. “Just didn’t want that weirdo near me anymore.”

“I’ve been watching him all night. Seems like he was pretty drunk.”

Your lips thinned at Robby’s admission. Why had he been watching that guy? Was it because he was also keeping an eye on you? You swallowed the naive notion and flashed Robby a grin.

“I’m sure he’s harmless,” you said. “But can’t be too sure. Anyway, thank you for… you know, being my boyfriend for 30 seconds.”

“Anytime.” Robby stood with his hands in his sweatshirt pockets, the signature pose you’d come to expect from him. You struggled to meet his eyes and prayed he couldn't see the flush creeping up the back of your neck.

“Well, I think I’m going to call it a night,” you finally said with a soft smile. 

“I’ll come with you.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, I’ll walk you home.” More amusement glimmered in Robby’s eyes and all you could think about was how fucking appealing he looked.

“Oh. No, you don’t have to do that,” you said as casually as you could manage; nevermind the sudden spike in the pitch of your voice. “My apartment isn’t far, I’ll be fine. I have pepper spray.”

“Nonsense,” Robby said, motioning you toward the door. “I couldn’t live with myself if I let you walk home alone after some creep’s been following you all night. I was getting ready to head out anyway.”

Heaven help you. You returned inside the bar, where you waved goodbye to your friends and pretended to ignore Trinity’s piercing stare when she realized Robby was leaving with you. 

Once outside on the sidewalk, you silently begged every higher power to prevent you from embarrassing yourself. You weren’t sure why you were so flustered – beyond the fact the man you’d held a years-long torch for was walking you home.

But this was Dr. Robby. You’d known him for years and you were comfortable in his presence (when you weren’t thinking about how handsome he was or how nice his hands were). There was no reason to be rattled by him. Nothing had ever happened between the two of you, nor would it in the future, you reminded yourself. He was your colleague and a mentor. You couldn’t allow your silly crush to jeopardize your relationship.

“Did you, uh, end up admitting that patient this afternoon?” Robby asked as you walked. “The man who was presenting with ideation?”

“We did,” you sighed. “He has family flying in from Florida in the morning.”

Robby nodded in quiet acknowledgment. Silence settled between the two of you, and you couldn’t decide if you were grateful or terrified. You glanced at your phone to check the score of the Pirates game, desperate for a distraction. Robby smiled.

“Still the eighth inning?” he asked.

You shook your head as you slid your phone back into your bag. “Bottom of the ninth. They’re down one.”

“You ever find one of those co-ed softball leagues?” Robby asked. “I remember you mentioning wanting to join one.”

“I did, but it was too late,” you replied. “Their season had already started and the spots were full.”

“Ah, too bad.”

“I was thinking we could start a Pitt Trauma team,” you mused. “Santos said she used to play and Langdon’s competitive as hell. Could be fun. You in?”

“Oh, no one wants to see that,” Robby joked with a shake of the head. 

“Oh, come on,” you teased. “You love baseball. How bad can you be?”

“I’d rather not find out.”

You laughed, thankful for the ease in your self-inflicted tension. But as you neared your building, the anxiety bubbled into your throat again. 

“Cool building,” Robby commented as you approached the front steps. His head tilted backward as he scanned the building’s exterior to admire the historic details. “I love this part of town, all the old architecture.”

“It’s a great neighborhood,” you agreed. In fact, the architecture and old charm was precisely why you’d picked it. You fished your keys from your bag and met Robby’s eyes with a smile. “Well, thanks for getting me home… and for, you know, keeping me safe from bar creeps.”

“Anytime,” Robby said. The warmth in his eyes seemed to permeate your skin, sweeping across your flesh with a crimson flush. You hoped it was too dark to notice.

You knew it was time to say goodnight, or to say literally anything to initiate your exit. It was time to go inside, to hop in the shower and crawl into bed to pretend you weren’t down bad for the senior attending of the ER. But you remained frozen in place, your feet unable – and perhaps unwilling – to step away from Robby.

“See you tomorrow?” you finally managed. Robby seemed to swallow, though his eyes held your gaze, heavy and intense. They pierced the battlements of your resolve, then flickered downward for a fleeting moment toward your lips. You held your breath as you wondered if he was going to kiss you. Your heart threatened to slam against your ribcage. 

“Ah, yeah, I’m on tomorrow,” he said instead, knocking the air from your lungs with disappointment.

“Oh, great,” you said, much too cheerily. “See you then. Goodnight, Dr. Robby.”

“Goodnight.”

You avoided the ER at all costs the next day.

Weeks passed and you had managed to move past whatever that moment was outside your apartment. In fact, you convinced yourself it was nothing. Robby acted no differently at work, so you decided to do the same. You had merely been swept up in a wave of wishful thinking, you told yourself.

But the fire changed everything.

It was your day off and you’d spent the afternoon running errands around town before meeting up with a college friend for dinner and drinks. 

You declined to mention Robby when she pressed you for details on your dating life. After all, he’d need to ask you on a date for it to count as anything more than a crush, right? Instead, you merely shrugged and insisted you weren’t seeing anyone, nor were you interested in any prospects. Your friend called you boring. You didn’t disagree.

As she disclosed more details about her upcoming wedding, you were none the wiser to the fire that threatened to destroy your home. In fact, Robby learned of it first.

The ER received two transports from the scene, a mother and son who had suffered burns and smoke inhalation. Then more victims trickled in, none seriously injured but coughing and covered in smoke and soot.

“What happened?” Robby asked as another victim was wheeled past him.

“Apartment fire,” one of the EMTs answered. “1100 block of Liberty Avenue.”

Robby froze. “Liberty Avenue?”

“Yeah, big old brick building. Sounds like it started as a dryer fire in the basement.”

Robby swallowed the lump forming in his throat. Focus, he told himself. You’re needed here. She doesn’t need you.

But by the end of his shift, he was damn near ready to sprint to Liberty Avenue. He went straight there, eyes roaming the building as he approached. The flames and smoke had been doused hours ago, but fire crews were still on scene and the sidewalks were still wet. 

He didn’t know why he thought he’d be able to help you. The entire building had been evacuated, its residents gone in search of other living arrangements. You had always been tough and independent. Surely you’d already figured things out.

Robby heaved a sigh and shook his head, annoyed at himself for coming there. If you’d needed him, you would have reached out. And the notion that you would have picked him for help now felt silly. You were closer with McKay, Mohan, even Dana would have been a likelier choice. 

He turned to head home, his eyes widening when they landed on you. You had just rounded the corner from the bus stop, your shocked expression revealing that this was the first time you’d been home all day. Before he could react, Robby watched you sprint toward the building before you were stopped by the fire crew. He jogged after you.

“But I need my stuff!” you were shouting. “All of my stuff is in there!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t let anyone in. It could be dangerous. The structure has to be checked and secured, and the investigators need time to determine the fire’s cause,” a fireman told you.

“But what do I do? Where do I go? I have nowhere to stay! I have no stuff!” 

“See that van over there?” The fireman gestured toward the other side of the street. “That’s the American Red Cross. They’ll help you out.”

“But my stuff— Dr. Robby? What are you doing here?”

“I heard about the fire at work,” Robby answered quickly. “We treated a few of the victims and I… I thought I’d check and make sure you’re okay.”

“Clearly not,” you mumbled, your head spinning at the overwhelming clash of emotion. You were exhausted and stunned, scared and aggravated. But you were also relieved to see Robby.

“Come on,” he said, draping a gentle arm around your shoulder. “You can crash at my place.”

“What? Oh- no, no I can’t ask you to do that-” you started, your panic threatening to swell into a full-blown attack.

“You’re right, you can’t, because you don’t need to ask,” Robby said. 

“No,” you repeated. “I can’t, I won’t be a burden. I mean, I don’t even know how long until they’ll let me move back in and-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Robby said. He began steering you away from the building. 

“But I have no clothes. I have work in the morning. How am-”

“I’ll hook you up,” Robby said. “At least until the morning when we can get you some new clothes.”

You didn’t want new clothes. You wanted your clothes, which were carefully curated from years of an Anthropologie shopping addiction. Besides, Robby lived alone. He didn’t have a girlfriend or wife or daughter whose clothes you could borrow. Your eyes began to tear up at the thought of having to sleep in the jeans you were wearing. But it wasn’t the actual jeans or clothes that were making you cry. It was the sudden, crushing realization of what was happening to you.

You refused to let Robby see you cry, so instead you walked in determined silence. You didn’t even notice when you reached his building until he was leading you into an elevator. You stared at your reflection in the steel doors. Robby remained quiet.

When he unlocked his door and motioned you inside, you paused. You never dreamed you’d actually ever see the inside of Robby’s home, let alone under such bizarre circumstances.

“Go on,” Robby said in your ear as he held the door open for you. “I promise, it’ll be fine.”

You held your breath and stepped inside. Had you not been distraught over your present predicament, you might have smiled. Robby’s apartment was exactly as you would have imagined – clean and tidy, but completely lacking in character or decor. The far wall was exposed brick and a vinyl record player sat on a table against it. There was no artwork on the walls, but a framed photo of Robby and Jake at a Pirates game sat on a corner of the TV stand.

“Make yourself at home, okay? I’ll be right back,” Robby said as he brushed past you. He tossed his backpack and keys on the counter before disappearing down the hallway.

As you stood, glued to your spot near the door, Robby scrambled around his bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, his bedroom was neat and orderly, but he kicked his laundry basket into the corner and hurriedly changed the bedding. He had nothing to hide, nothing embarrassing in the apartment, but he still felt the undeniable pressure to impress you. Or at the very least, he wanted you to feel comfortable. 

He popped into the bathroom to make sure it was clean – it was – before returning to you. You hadn’t moved.

“Are you alright?” Robby asked gently. His eyes suffocated you with their concern.

“I’m fine,” you sighed. “Just… processing everything, is all.”

Robby nodded with sympathy. “I can’t imagine how you feel right now,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do-”

“Trust me, you’re doing more than enough,” you said. 

“Well, if there’s anything more I can do, just ask.”

“You know I won’t,” you couldn’t help but joke. Robby smiled.

“I know,” he agreed. “It’s not like you to ask for help. But I want you to know you can.”

You nodded in silent acknowledgement, not that either of you believed you.

“Right now, all I want is a hot shower. And maybe a beer.”

“At the same time?”

“Do I look like a frat boy to you?”

“Just checking.” Robby chuckled as he motioned you toward the hallway. He reached into the bathroom to turn the light on before he stood back, hands finding their usual place in the pockets of his hoodie. “Towels are under the sink. Take your time and I’ll go get that beer ready. No IPAs, right?”

“Right,” you breathed, flattered he remembered your beer preferences. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Robby retreated to the kitchen and you quietly snapped the bathroom door shut. You closed your eyes, grateful for the peace and solitude. And once you stepped into the hot shower, you couldn’t help but chuckle quietly to yourself. You couldn’t believe where the fuck you’d ended up. 

You were presently naked in Robby’s apartment, no clothing, nowhere to go. Sure, you could have checked into a hotel, but something had blocked your brain from entertaining the idea. You blinked at the bottles of shampoo and soap and snorted. What the fuck is Old Spice Swagger? You sighed and lathered up, your senses quickly recognizing the familiar woodsy scent that you had always associated with Robby. 

By the time you finished showering, steam had fully fogged up the bathroom mirror. You dug beneath the sink for a towel and cursed under your breath. Clothes. You forgot to ask for clothes. 

You muttered a string of “fucks” under your breath before securing the towel around your body. You checked it twice and a third time until you were certain it was more secure than a deadbolt. 

Your feet padded quietly down the hallway until you carefully peeked around the corner. Robby was sitting on the leather sofa, a beer in hand while the Pirates game played on TV. You inhaled sharply, as if oxygen would give you the courage to speak up.

“Hey,” you managed, stepping tentatively into the living room, very aware that you were nearly naked in front of someone who was technically your superior. “Um, I need some  clothes.”

“Oh, fuck!” Robby exclaimed as he scrambled to his feet. It would’ve been a comical moment had his eyes not been so wide and your cheeks not so flushed. He set his beer down and scurried past you into the hallway. “Sorry, I meant to get you some clothes before you got in the shower.”

“It’s my bad, I should have asked,” you offered, fingers gripping your towel for dear life. You followed Robby toward the bedroom and lingered in the doorway, unsure if you should follow him as he rummaged through his dresser. After all, when you’d fantasized about being naked in his bedroom, it certainly wasn’t under these circumstances.

“Here,” he said, offering you a pair of black sweatpants and a t-shirt. You took the pants but blinked pointedly at the shirt.

“I'm not wearing that,” you deadpanned.

“What? What’s wrong with– oh, that’s right. You’re a Cleveland girl.”

“Damn right, I am. I won’t be caught dead in Steelers gear.”

“But you root for the Pirates.”

“That’s different. Different divisions, plus Cleveland’s in the American League. I don’t mind rooting for an American League and a National League team. Now put that hideous Steelers shirt away… or in the garbage.”

“Right, right, I get it,” Robby sighed. He returned to the dresser and fished out another shirt. “Here,” he said as he held it up. “What are your allegiances to The Who?”

You snorted but reached for the shirt. “God, you’re old,” you teased. 

“Sorry it’s not Jay-Z.”

“Jay-Z’s old, too. I’m more of a Nas fan anyway.”

You both fell quiet and for a fleeting moment, you thought you caught his eyes roaming your toweled form.

“Right, well, I know that’s not exactly your style, but it’ll get you through the night. Tomorrow you can go shopping for clothes that fit,” he said. 

“I don’t mind the oversized part,” you mused. “It’s the old man aesthetic that bothers me.”

“Then maybe you can stop by the Baby Gap,” Robby teased. 

“Probably cooler clothes than what you wear,” you shot back. Robby chuckled and moved for the door. 

“You can change in here,” he said. “Your beer’s waiting for you on the counter when you’re done.”

The moment he closed the door behind himself, you seized the opportunity to examine his bedroom. A king-size bed was an interesting choice, you thought, as you couldn’t help but wonder how often Robby needed a bed that big. A TV was mounted to the wall opposite the bed above a dresser, which was cluttered with a watch, Robby’s wallet and a stack of books. You decided the room was clean and spacious, with dark, masculine tones. Once again, it was very Robby. You resisted the temptation to rummage through the nightstand and got dressed.

Robby’s gaze wasn’t lost on you as you returned to the living room. You prayed he wasn’t appalled by your make-up free face or your body, which was drowning beneath his baggy clothes.

Of course, Robby had seen enough of you to picture your body beneath the oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. He’d seen you in everything from scrubs to professional dresses and jackets to jeans so tight they looked like they were painted on. Those were his favorite. But this was new. He loved seeing you in his clothes. In fact, he decided you’d never looked more alluring. 

As you turned toward the counter to fetch your beer, he shifted in his seat, his head swarming with filthy thoughts as he remembered you weren’t wearing any underwear beneath those loose pants.

You sat at the other end of the sofa, your legs tucked beneath yourself as you pretended to be positively enthralled by the Pirates game. Nevermind the score was 10-1 and they were losing.

“Terrible at-bat,” you muttered as you watched Tommy Pham strike out. “He couldn’t hit sand on a goddamn beach.”

Robby laughed and eyed you from the corner of his eye. Your hair was still wet, dripping damp spots across the t-shirt. You hadn’t noticed, but the white cotton was clinging to your skin in translucent patches. Just the right amount of light and he might be able to see the pink of your— fuck, Robby thought as he scolded himself for thinking of you like that. You’d surely scold him for being such a pervy old man. He decided it would be a good time to excuse himself to the shower.

Once he was out of the room, you tilted your head back and closed your eyes. How the fuck were you going to survive this? It was agonizing enough to be wearing Robby’s clothes and sitting next to him, alone, but what if you had to do this for weeks? 

There was no way. You���d check into a hotel or find a friend to stay with. There was no way in hell you could do this for more than one night.

You rested your eyes and listened to the TV until you could feel your phone buzzing in the pocket of your sweatpants. Your group text with Samira, Cassie and Trinity was full of missed texts.

Cassie: Heard about your apartment! You good?

Samira: Do you need a place to crash? You can stay with Jack and me.

Trinity: Or you can stay with me if you want to steer clear of the lovebirds. I can make Whitaker sleep on the couch.

Samira: Rude.

Trinity: You aren’t dead, are you?

You sighed and tried to choose your words carefully. Not that it mattered. They were going to freak out regardless.

‘I’m okay!’ You wrote back. ‘I’m staying with Robby.’

The replies were instant.

Samira: ??????

Cassie: WHAT?

Trinity: DR. ROBBY?!

You: Yes. He came by to check on me.

Samira: What do you mean he came by? Came by where? 

Trinity: I bet it won’t be the first time tonight he’s going to c-

You dropped your phone as Robby reentered the room. It clattered to the floor with a thud and you scrambled to pick it up. Robby lifted an amused eyebrow at you and you became determined to deflect your embarrassment.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a dog,” you commented with a casual air. Robby tilted his head to look at you. 

“Why does that surprise you?” he asked as he lowered himself to the couch again. You averted your eyes when you realized he was wearing grey sweatpants. 

“I don’t know,” you said with a shrug. “I guess I always figured you were a dog guy.”

“I love dogs,” Robby agreed. “But I’m also not home enough to take care of one.”

“Ah, that’s fair.”

“Pretty tough to keep a pet with this lifestyle. Or to keep much of anything.”

“Cheers to that,” you muttered as you raised your bottle. 

“Says the woman who just had the day off,” Robby teased.

“And whose apartment nearly burned down!”

“Ah yeah, I suppose that’s true.” You rolled your eyes at him and returned your attention to the TV. But you could feel him studying you. “You sure you’re okay?” he finally asked.

You nodded and tilted your head to meet his gaze to assure him. “I’m fine,” you said. “Not like there’s much I can do.”

“Well, if you need to talk…”

You smiled at him. It was an amusing spin of fate. Just a year ago, you’d been the one offering to talk to Robby when it became clear he wasn’t healing from the deaths of Dr. Adamson and Jake’s girlfriend. Then Dr. Collins moved to Arizona, leaving him with no one who could pull him from the dark place that was dragging him downward.

So you spent numerous nights on the roof of Pitt Trauma Medical Center with Robby. You didn’t want to pry or overstep your boundaries, to make him feel like you were trying to treat him like one of your patients. You merely offered him friendship that crafted a slow, budding trust that eventually eased Robby into opening up more to you. 

Some nights, you'd sit there in cheap lawn chairs and share takeout, bantering back and forth. Other times, he'd speak to you with a quiet vulnerability, detailing the demons that lingered in the dark corners of his head.

And when you decided he needed help from a professional he didn’t know personally, you recommended a colleague with a private practice. Robby began weekly therapy sessions — and he hadn’t missed one yet.  

Slowly, you watched the sadness vacate Robby’s eyes. It was replaced with the old familiar laughter you’d once adored. 

“I’m fine, really,” you finally insisted. “In the grand scheme of things, this is merely an inconvenience, right? At least the whole damn building didn’t burn down, and at least no one died.”

Robby nodded in agreement. “And at least you’re safe.”

“You didn’t have to come check on me, you know,” you said. You quelled the temptation to ask him why he did so in the first place. Though you were dying to hear an explanation, you didn’t need to make Robby uncomfortable in his own home.

“I know. But when I heard the EMTs mention the fire was at your building, I got worried,” he said.

It was an honest reason, and you weren’t sure why you felt surprised by it. Robby had always been one of the most honest men you’d known, almost to a fault at times. Perhaps you were merely surprised because, though you considered him a friend and colleague, you didn’t expect him to spend any time thinking about you outside of the workplace.

“Well, thank you for checking. And for this,” you said, gesturing around the room.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Robby said seriously, his eyes matching his tone. 

The room’s atmosphere was shifting. You could feel it in the way it pricked your skin, the way it hummed in your ear, a low buzz meant to distract you from all decorum. It was a devil on your shoulder, dangerous and desperate to make you do things that would surely sever your friendship and working relationship with Robby.

He sensed it, too. He clenched his jaw, fingers gripping his bottle of beer with far too much pressure in an effort to calm his nerves. The air felt like charged static; it crackled overhead, oppressive and full of energy.

What you craved felt forbidden. You weren’t sure why. You certainly wouldn’t be the first attending and former student to do this, nor would you be the first age-gap couple to grace the halls of Pitt Trauma. 

But this felt taboo because it was Robby. Everyone wondered if he’d ever settle down, find someone who didn’t fear his surly nature and obnoxious devotion to his job. Then you came around and the whispers shifted to you, the pretty intern-turned-doctor who clearly had chemistry with Robby. But neither of you dared to breach the boundary of professionalism. And you were convinced Robby was too mature, too jaded and too busy to bother with someone like you.

“I should probably get some sleep,” you finally said. Robby swallowed audibly, but you pretended not to notice.

“Of course,” he rasped. “Bed’s ready for you. There’s an extra blanket in the closet if you get too cold.”

You blinked at him in confusion. “Wait. No. No, no, no, I can’t. I won’t impose like that-”

“Nonsense,” Robby cut you off. 

“No, let me sleep on the couch.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But-”

“The answer is no. So either you take the bed, or we’re both sleeping on the couch.”

Your lips thinned as you searched your mind for words that could help you reason with him. You genuinely hadn’t expected to take over this man’s bed when he offered to let you stay with him. If anything, you wanted to share it with him.

“Robby, I can’t-”

“You can and you will,” Robby insisted. “Now off you go.”

You sighed and rose to your feet. You were afraid to look at him, fearful how you might react to his gaze. 

“Goodnight, Dr. Robby.”

“Goodnight.”

Your insistence on only staying with Robby for a night or two fell on deaf ears. He refused to take no for an answer, even when you swore you could afford a hotel. Meanwhile, your building manager said it would take weeks before you could move in again, due to concerns about structural integrity. So you became Robby’s unofficial roommate, much to the jubilation of your friends.

“How’s it going?” Dana asked one morning when you wandered into the ER for a psych eval. “You poison Robby’s dinner yet?”

“Things are great,” you chirped. Dana offered you a knowing smile.

“I’m sure they are,” she mewed. “But I’m sure he’s also driving you crazy.”

“What? Robby’s great!” you insisted. “He’s easy to live with. Clean, quiet… I’ve got no complaints.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Dana said with a smirk as she sauntered off to check on a patient.

You were about to shout a rebuttal at her when a familiar voice found you.

“There’s my favorite shrink.”

“Good morning, Myrna,” you called over your shoulder, not bothering to look. “How are you today?”

“I have a bone to pick with you.”

“Oh?” You spun to face Myrna, curious what kind of out-of-pocket accusation she’d make this time.

“I heard a little rumor about you,” she said in her usual raspy tone. “I heard you’ve been shacking up with Dr. Robby.”

You sucked your top row of teeth. “Oh? And who told you that?”

“I was eavesdropping on the nurses,” Myrna answered simply. “They said you moved in with him weeks ago, you dirty girl.”

“Oh did they now?” You returned to the paperwork you needed to complete. The quicker you finished, the quicker you could get out of the ER.

“Spill it, sweetheart,” Myrna continued. “I’ve gotta know.”

“Know what?”

“About Dr. Robby! I’ll tell ya, I always thought he was a fruitcake. Didn’t know he had it in him to go after the young ones.”

“Myrna, I’m in my thirties,” you deadpanned.

“Makes you a youngin’ compared to me. Now tell me, sweetheart, what’s it like? How is he?”

“How is he?”

“In the sack!”

You closed your eyes, unsure if you should laugh or sprint toward the stairs. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Myrna?” You knew she didn’t. She never did.

“At least tell me the size we’re workin’ with here, doll,” Myrna pressed. “With that posture, I can tell he’s hung like a hor-”

“Goodbye, Myrna.”

Despite the incessant teasing from your colleagues, you and Robby quickly fell into a comfortable routine. You’d never been one to go out after work much, save for the occasional date or round of drinks with friends. But now, you found yourself wanting to go straight to Robby’s apartment as soon as your shift ended.

On the days where you both managed to get off work around the same time, you’d meet him outside the ER and walk home with him. Sometimes you’d join him and the rest of the ER day shift crew in the park for beers. 

Other nights, when he ended up working late, you’d head to his apartment and have dinner ready for the two of you. He never said it, but he looked forward to those evenings the most. It’d been ages since anyone cooked for him – and ages since he came home to any company. Some nights, you sat together and ate at the counter, but most nights, you sat in front of the TV with the Pirates game on. You chatted about your days, joked about your colleagues and merely appreciated each other’s presence.

You also realized that Robby noticed the little things. When he gave you his spare key, you expressed concern you’d lose it, so he rummaged through his junk drawer until he found an old keychain from Southern Tier Brewery to help you keep track of it. The next day, you noticed he cleared space on the hook next to his by the door, where you could hang your keys and purse.

He also noticed that, like him, you enjoyed reading. One evening you emerged from a shower and found him reading on the couch, his glasses on and an open beer on the coffee table. The two of you slipped into a discussion of your reading lists and favorite writers. The next morning, you found two books from your list waiting for you on the counter, plucked from Robby’s collection.

But your favorite simple gesture was the matcha. Robby noticed you didn’t drink coffee in the mornings. Instead, you’d stop at a shop on your way to the hospital for a matcha latte. Robby teased you, said you were blowing money on “grass water,” but two days later, you discovered a tin of matcha in the cupboard.

It was simple but comforting. You’d never admit it to anyone, but you didn’t want your time there to end.

Still, you and Robby remained at arm’s length inside his apartment. You never stood too close, always sat at opposite ends of the sofa and never discussed topics that were too personal. Until the night you went out with Santos and Whitaker.

You and Trinity dragged Dennis to a karaoke bar one Thursday night after he revealed he’d never been to one. Several rounds of drinks and a group performance of Espresso later, you found yourself swaying on your barstool.

“You good?” Trinity asked, smirking at you in amusement.

“I’m fine,” you sighed wistfully, the latest round of tequila shots taking command of your composure. It was becoming painfully clear you couldn’t keep up with the 20-somethings anymore. “But I kinda wanna go home.”

“Home?” Trinity mused. “As in, to your condemned apartment, or to Dr. Robby?”

“Robby’s apartment is really nice,” you babbled. “I love the exposed brick. And he somehow manages to keep it so clean. And he buys the good ice cream, not the shitty generic brands.”

Trinity snorted. “That all you like about Dr. Robby’s place?”

“No,” you said dreamily, clearly too drunk to notice your whimsy state. “I like hanging out with him.”

“Yet neither of you has made a move yet,” Trinity noted.

“Oh, please,” you laughed. “That’s never going to happen. Robby is way too mature to be interested in me.”

“Dr. Robby is a single, straight man,” Trinity said. “Trust me, he isn’t worried about your age gap. It’s not that bad anyway. No one has a problem with Mohan and Abbot.”

“But this is Robby we’re talking about,” you insisted. “He’d never be interested in me.”

“You’re joking, right?” Trinity groaned. “Please don’t tell me you really think he’s out of your league or some self-esteem bullshit. You are way too hot to be talking like that.”

“It’s not that,” you sighed. “I just… he just…”

“You like him way too much,” Dennis cut in. “You like him so much, you’ve built him up in your head and now you think he’s unattainable.” You and Trinity both blinked at Dennis. “What?” he asked with a shrug. “I observe things.”

Trinity laughed. “Who knew Huckleberry was so perceptive.”

You walked back to Robby’s apartment well past midnight, and much later than you’d planned to be out. You treaded quietly when you approached the door, assuming he’d already be asleep on the couch. 

When you entered, the lights inside the apartment were still on and the TV was airing an old rerun of Bar Rescue. Robby was seated on the couch, an open pizza box on the coffee table. He clearly had nodded off.

Your plan had been to tiptoe to the bedroom without waking him. But your inebriated brain couldn’t quite compute the proper distance between your body and the furniture, meaning you bumped clumsily into the back of the sofa.

“Fuck!” you hissed at the sharp pain that surged within your hip, and at the sight of Robby stirring. He blinked a few times before his gaze found you. “Hey,” you giggled. “Did I wake you? Sorry.”

“S’alright,” he mumbled. The sleepy look in his eyes made you want to climb him like a tree.

“Didn’t mean to get in so late,” you continued. “But Whitaker was really into it. Guy’s a big Kesha fan.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind.”

You eyed the pizza sitting on the table and the tightening in your stomach reminded you it had been hours since dinner. 

You should have walked away, taken yourself straight to bed. Solitude inside the sanctity of Robby’s bedroom would have been the safe choice, where you couldn’t get yourself into any trouble.

Instead, you sank into your side of the sofa and reached for a slice of pizza.

“So, was it just you, Whittaker and Santos?” Robby asked. You nodded as you chewed.

“Mohan was supposed to come, but bailed. I saw Abbot had the night off so I suspect he spent it on her,” you said.

“Thank you for that visual,” Robby muttered. 

“Don’t be a hater,” you giggled. The laughter made your head spin. The room tilted and you decided it’d be in your best interest to be horizontal. You let yourself flop over until you were flat on your back, your head in Robby’s lap.

His spine straightened immediately.

“I think Samira and Abbot are great together,” you babbled on. “And he’s absolutely obsessed with her. Not in a creepy stalker way, but he clearly adores her.”

“You don’t think it’s weird?”

“Weird? Why is it weird? Two people with undeniable chemistry falling in love? Do you think it’s weird?” You stared upward at Robby curiously, your pulse spiking in anticipation.

“No, I don’t think it’s weird at all,” Robby responded. “I think they’re great together. I just wasn’t sure how you felt about your friend dating an old guy.”

“Aren’t you older than him?” you laughed. 

“By one measly year,” Robby noted. 

“Why do people get so hung up on age?” you rambled on. “It’s not like she’s a teenager. It’s not like he’s Leo DiCaprio. If two consenting adults want to be in a relationship, they deserve support, not judgment.”

“Hey, I’m with you,” Robby agreed. “I’ve just never heard you talk about Mohan and Abbot. Wasn’t sure how you felt about them.”

“I think they’re lovely together. And I think most of us could only be so lucky to find that kind of connection.”

The silence that settled between you rang in your ears, a screaming signal that you should say something, or better yet, take your ass to bed. But instead, you merely blinked up at Robby, who peered down at you with a soft smile. 

“You’re right,” he said. “They seem to make each other very happy.”

“Exactly. That’s all that matters.”

The warmth in Robby’s eyes made your pulse race. Maybe it was the curiosity in them, or maybe it was the alcohol surging through your bloodstream, but you were finding it hard to swallow the words that threatened to spill from your lips.

“What about you?” you finally asked, the liquid courage taking command. “When are you going to settle down?”

Robby laughed, but you noticed his smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll ever do that,” he said.

“Why not?” you asked innocently. “Marriage and kids not your thing?”

“I didn’t say that,” Robby replied. “I just haven’t had the best luck. Most people don’t understand what this job entails. It’s hard to convince anyone to stick around for very long.”

You nodded in understanding. “It is hard,” you admitted. “It’s a commitment and a sacrifice that rarely returns any favors.”

“See, you get it,” Robby said. 

You couldn’t help but pout at him, the alcohol tempting your thoughts with more truths. 

“But do you want to find that?” you pressed. “You know, your person?”

Robby shifted slightly, causing your head to bobble in his lap. If he felt it, he did a hell of a job of hiding it. 

“Of course, I do,” he answered simply. “But I’m not holding my breath. I spent a lot of years pushing people away when they got too close. My opportunities may have run their course.”

“I’m sure you will,” you said with far too much honesty. “I mean, of course you will. You’re too…”

Robby rose an eyebrow at you, urging you to continue. “Yes? Too what?”

Your eyes bailed, shifting toward the wall in a cowardly attempt to appear nonchalant. But your tongue continued to betray you.

“You’re too… everything,” you blurted out. “Too handsome, too brilliant, too good of a person. You’re far too good of a catch to miss out on your person.”

A flush crept across your face as you spoke, drawing another smile from Robby. 

“Handsome and brilliant?” he mused. “You should go out drinking more often.”

You scowled at him in faux annoyance and he laughed fondly at the way your face scrunched. 

“Watch yourself, old man,” you threatened. “I know where you sleep at night.”

“Says the lady who’s taken over my bed.”

“You offered me that bed.”

“And you’d better stop calling me old man unless you want me to take it back.”

You managed to swallow your thoughts before they could take on the form of words that would surely embarrass you. You wanted nothing more than for him to take his bed back, as long as you were still in it.

Instead, you continued to pout at him.

“Would you really put an innocent person out on the street?”

“No, I’d send you to go live with Mohan and Abbot.”

“That’s even worse.”

“I know.”

You shared a laugh that made your body bloom with more warmth. It sprawled over your skin, from the pit of your stomach outward to your toes and fingertips.

“And what about you?” Robby suddenly asked, his eyes studying your expression with far too much focus for your comfort. “Do you plan on finding your person?”

“Of course,” you offered with a bit too much gusto. “But it’s hard to weed out all the douchebags in bars and impatient idiots who don’t respect my career. Like you said, few people really get it.”

“Can I ask you something?” Robby blurted out. You tried not to tense, in case he could feel it. That question always had a way of unsettling you. “Why’d you date Shen?”

You shrugged in amusement, a drunken giggle threatening to surface. “I don’t know, honestly,” you answered. “He really isn’t a bad guy. He just needs to grow up a little. I’d like more conversation and less video games.” 

“Sounds about right,” Robby muttered. 

The silence that followed was more comfortable this time. You let your eyes fall shut, the sleepy stage of your drunken night out taking over. When you finally cracked them open again, Robby was staring at you. Though you felt like you might vomit your heart up, you lifted your head from his lap to sit back on your elbows. You were no longer in physical contact, but your face was much closer to his. 

“Sleepy?” he asked as he held your gaze. You were certain you were going to drown in his irises. 

“Very,” you breathed. The air inside the apartment seemed to hitch, as if the walls pulsed with a heartbeat of their own. They were waiting with bated breath for something, anything to happen. 

Instead, you smiled softly at Robby and sat all the way up, your hair falling in tangled tresses down your back. You rose to your feet and paced toward the hallway, stopping to linger in the archway as you turned to look back at Robby.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You crawled into bed and wondered how close you had just come to discovering the side of Robby you’d only envisioned in solitude. He went to sleep wondering why he stopped himself.

Three weeks became four and you began to wonder just how long you could get away with being Robby’s roommate. As much as you cherished all of the alone time you had with him, you felt guilty. The poor man had begun complaining of back pain, and though he’d never admit it, you knew it was from sleeping on the couch.

Finally, you received a call from your building manager informing you your building would reopen in a week. Your relief clashed with your disappointment.

Meanwhile, Robby found himself clashing with Gloria, per usual.

She cornered him in the ER one morning to remind him he hadn’t returned his RSVP for the hospital charity dinner. Robby swore under his breath.

“It’s non-negotiable,” Gloria warned. “You’re the head of this department and all department heads are expected to attend. The only reason I came down here to remind you to RSVP was so that we can add your plus-one to the list.”

“My plus-one,” Robby deadpanned.

“Yes, as in your date,” Gloria replied as if it were obvious. “Ask a date, rent a tux and don’t forget to return the RSVP.”

Robby muttered a string of curses as Gloria left.

When he returned home after his shift, he found you chopping bell peppers in the kitchen, wearing earbuds that were undoubtedly playing 90s music given the way you danced around.

He couldn’t help himself. He paused in the doorframe and watched, smiling softly to himself. It had become impossible to ignore the surge in serotonin he felt whenever he was in your presence. And this – this was too perfect; you, dressed in a skimpy pair of track shorts, your hair pulled back into a high ponytail as you hummed to the Spice Girls. It was a masterpiece mounted on canvas in Robby’s mind.

He watched as you began to chop another pepper and approached you with caution, reaching to remove your left earbud as he loomed behind you.

“Hey.”

You flinched and nearly dropped the knife. “Asshole!” you hissed, though the laughter in your voice negated your anger. “You can’t sneak up on people like that. I have a knife, for fuck’s sake.”

“Sorry,” Robby chuckled. “Didn’t consider the fact you might be capable of murder. What are you making?”

“Fajitas,” you said happily as you removed your other earbud. “We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“My building manager called. He says I can move back into my apartment in a week.”

“Oh.” Robby forced a smile and silently prayed it was convincing. “That’s great.”

“He said there was no significant damage to my unit, but they still need to treat the entire floor for smoke damage,” you continued casually, searching his eyes for something, anything that indicated disappointment. You thought you caught a glitch in his stare, but convinced yourself you were merely seeing what you wanted.

“Great,” Robby said, turning to fetch a beer from the fridge. “I’m glad they’ve got it all straightened out.”

“Me too.”

You weren’t sure what you were even hoping for. For him to beg you not to go, to please stay forever? That was ridiculous and unhinged and you knew it. But the disappointment sat heavy within your stomach, so much so, you no longer wanted any fajitas.

You both picked at your dinner in excruciating silence, your legs dangling nervously from your barstool at the counter. Robby could sense your shift in mood. It mirrored his own. 

He decided the past few weeks had been too good to give up on. You’d be moving back home, so he might as well find a way to craft another memory with you.

“Hey, are you going to the hospital charity dinner gala bullshit on Saturday?” he finally asked.

“Oh that,” you said with a fake laugh. “No, I’m not going. Dr. Meadows in neurology brought it up, but I told him I couldn’t make it.”

“Meadows asked you out?”

You nearly jumped in your seat at the sharpness in Robby’s tone. You blinked up at him, taken aback. 

“Yeah,” you answered slowly. “But I told him no. I figured I’ve got too much going on with my apartment and whatnot.”

“Oh.”

“...Are you going?”

“Don’t have a choice,” Robby sighed. “Gloria says it’s non-negotiable.”

You couldn’t help but smirk. “Maybe that’s just her way of getting you in a tux. Rumor has it she’s on the hunt for a new man now that her divorce has been finalized.”

“Can’t imagine why she of all people would be divorced,” Robby muttered. You snorted.

“I’m sure the dinner will be… nice,” you offered.

“Nice,” Robby deadpanned. “Nice and miserable.”

“Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad. You get to fill up on shrimp cocktail, schmooze the donors and pretend like people give a shit about supporting the American health care system.”

“Easy for you to say, you aren’t required to be there.”

“Eat some shrimp in my honor.”

“Actually, I was thinking,” Robby started. Your mouth became cotton as you waited with your breath held. “Maybe you could come with me. Then you could eat all the shrimp you want.”

You pleaded with yourself to stop from fucking this up – even if he was only asking out of what you assumed was convenience. You knew Robby. He’d likely hoped he could get out of attending the dinner and failed to ask anyone to be his date. Now, you were his only viable option.

But you liked spending time with Robby. And if you were going to be moving back home soon, you wanted to take advantage of whatever time you could get. Even if it would inevitably worsen your feelings for him.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” you noted. “All of my clothes probably reek of smoke.”

“So then we’ll go shopping.” 

You quirked an eyebrow at Robby. “What are you, my sugar daddy?” you couldn’t help but joke.

“I thought you said you’d knock it off with the old man jokes.”

“Never.” He was waiting, watching you intently for an answer. Even if you hadn’t wanted to go, you wouldn’t have said no. “Alright fine,” you finally said, not that you needed convincing. “I’ll go. But I can buy my own damn dress. And I get to make double the old man jokes.”

Two evenings later, you dragged Samira and Trinity to the mall after your shifts. Normally, Trinity would have needed to be tranquilized or bribed to go dress shopping, but given the circumstances, she was elated, and you were grateful for style advice from your younger friends. 

“I still can’t believe you’re going on a date with Dr. Robby,” Trinity teased as the three of you combed through racks of formal gowns.

“It’s not a date,” you insisted. “I’m going as his date. There’s a difference.”

“You’re full of shit. It’s a date.”

“No, it’s a convenient agreement between two friends,” you said tactfully. 

“A what?” Trinity snorted.

“He forgot to ask a date and I was around and available, so he asked me,” you said simply as you eyed a blue gown.

“Please don’t tell me you think that low of yourself,” Samira said. “We all know Dr. Robby wanted to ask you to begin with. He was just too much of a coward to do so and got lucky that you happen to be living with him, which gave him the perfect excuse.”

“Not for much longer. I can move back into my apartment in a few days,” you noted.

“Well then, sounds like you and Dr. Robby had better seal the deal soon,” Trinity said with a smirk. You rolled your eyes and disappeared into the fitting rooms.

By the time Saturday night arrived, you were certain you’d be better off flinging yourself from the roof of Pitt Trauma. You began to wonder if you were making a mistake, if you were setting yourself up for a disastrous freefall. But as you applied a coat of mascara and checked yourself in the bathroom mirror for the millionth time, it became painfully clear that you’d already tumbled too far deep into the point of no return. 

Robby was standing in the kitchen when you emerged from the bathroom. When you appeared, your heart jumped into your throat as you watched him do a double-take. His eyes scanned you with excruciating intensity, though his expression remained stoic.

“Wow,” he blurted out. “You look… Wow.”

You stifled the urge to squeal. Instead, you eyed him back. His tux fit him surprisingly well and you made a mental note to ask him why he had such a nice suit tucked away in his closet later. 

Though you felt incredibly confident and sexy in the dress you’d picked out, you wanted nothing more than for Robby to rip it off.

You failed to notice the way he dragged a palm across his face in agonizing lust when you turned to fetch your clutch, presenting him with another view of your very backless dress.

“You look wow, too,” you said simply when you turned around again. “Langdon insisted you don’t own a suit. Guess I should’ve bet him on it.”

By the time you arrived at the dinner, which was taking place at the Rivers Casino Event Center, you were certain you were going to pass out from nerves.

The walk into the ballroom was more daunting than your med school graduation, your first day of residency and your senior prom combined. The realization seemed to creep over the room like a slow surf, breaking and sprawling until it felt like all voices had fallen to a hush and all eyes were on you.

Neither of you spoke but as you swapped a glance, it was clear you and Robby were thinking the same thing: the rumor mill was about to spin at full force. But despite the inevitable gossip, you couldn’t help but swell with pride to be Michael Robinavitch’s date. Standing next to you, he was even prouder.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting from an evening as Robby’s date. You assumed you’d spend much of it on your own, chatting with random colleagues while Robby engaged in performative pleasantries next to Gloria. 

But he was astonishingly attentive to you. He fetched you flutes of champagne from the bar. He included you in every conversation, even the ones with the hospital big-wigs who would surely forget your name the minute they stepped away. He even held your clutch so your hands would be free to eat hors d'oeuvres. And every once in a while, you could feel his hand gently find the small of your back as he spoke, leaving traces of unbearable heat from his fingertips. 

The only time he wasn’t at your side was when you excused yourself to the restroom. While you were gone, Robby waited patiently at the bar.

“You lucky bastard,” Frank mused as he leaned against the bar next to him, a sly smirk across his features. 

“Gonna have to be more specific than that, Langdon,” Robby sighed.

“Oh, come on man,” Frank said. “You brought her? It was about time. But Jesus Christ, you’re making the rest of us look bad.”

“I know you aren’t objectifying my date, are you, Dr. Langon?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m certain I don’t.”

Frank shook his head and clapped Robby on the back. “Whatever you say, man,” he said as he walked away. “But we’re all happy for you.”

You could tell Robby was ready to leave by 10 p.m. He stopped trying to mask his annoyance with Gloria, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in aggravation each time she dragged him into conversation with another person of importance.

When he finally managed to slip away from her, you offered him a sympathetic smile.

“Want me to fake a seizure or something?” you offered as you stood in front of the room’s large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Ohio River. The reflections across the water’s surface seemed to dance and shimmer with the music playing behind you.

“You’re in a room full of doctors. They’d catch on in a heartbeat.”

“Want me to pull a fire alarm?”

“Pretty sure that’s a misdemeanor.”

“Wouldn’t be my first.” You cackled with laughter as Robby turned to look at you in bewilderment. “In all seriousness, if you need an excuse to leave, I’ll help you create one.”

“No,” Robby sighed. “I’m fine. Shouldn’t be too much longer before Gloria’s had enough wine to make her forget I’m here. By the way, I apologize for her calling you my girlfriend when she introduces you to people.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Robby couldn’t suppress a smile. “But you still haven’t asked me to dance,” you continued. 

“Yes, because I value your physical well-being,” Robby answered. “Trust me, you don’t want to dance with me.”  

“You’re no fun.”

“I’ll make it up to you later.” The words spilled before Robby could think to stop them. You tried to conceal your reaction, your eyes threatening to widen and lips tugging toward a nervous smile. Your brain began to short-circuit as you scrambled for a smart reply.

“Thought you couldn’t make it.” 

Oh, fuck. You recognized the voice of Dr. Cooper Meadows behind you. 

“Cooper,” you said warily as you turned to face him with a nervous smile. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s a surprise to see you,” Cooper said dryly. “Thought you said you were busy tonight.”

“Well, I kind of am, right?”

“Right.” His eyes flickered toward Robby. “I guess we have different definitions of busy.” 

“Look, Cooper, I’m sorry,” you sighed. “I genuinely wasn’t planning on coming tonight, but-”

“But what?”

But Robby needed a favor. That’s what you were going to say. That was the honest, surface-level truth. But the deeper truth was you wouldn’t have come with anyone else.

“But I twisted her arm until she agreed to come with me,” Robby cut in. 

“Figures,” Cooper muttered. “Another senior attending throwing his weight and authority around to chase younger tail. Thought you were better than that, Robinavitch.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” you cut in. “What the fuck, Cooper? Robby’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Bullshit. You know, I am so sick of the higher-ups at this hospital walking around like they’re gods,” Cooper continued, narrowing his eyes at Robby. Robby blinked at him and Cooper’s glare shifted back to you. “But how very stereotypical of you. The psych who needs to fix the miserable old senior attending just because he crashed out during an MCI last year.”

Robby opened his mouth to reply, but you were quicker. “Fuck you, Cooper,” you snapped. “You have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. I’m here because I want to be. I turned your miserable ass down because I was waiting for Robby to ask me. Just because your brain is too tiny to fathom the fact that someone is interested in someone other than you doesn’t mean you get to throw strays. Now fuck off so I can get back to my date.”

Cooper’s lip curled. He was clearly debating whether to keep pressing you, but finally rolled his eyes and stalked off. You swallowed in an attempt to ground yourself, too pissed and too embarrassed to look at Robby yet.

But he was looking at you intently. “Well, I think this night’s just about done,” he said. You thought you could detect a hint of amusement in his tone, but chose not to acknowledge it.

“Sorry,” you sighed, your eyes still refusing to meet his, mortified over your admission. “I forgot he’d be here. Though I didn’t think he’d be that much of an asshole.”

“He’s in neurology,” Robby mused. “Of course he’s an asshole.”

“I’d hate to hear what you say about psych.”

“Perhaps another time. You know, when you don’t look like you’re contemplating murder charges.”

“Can’t charge me if they can’t find the body.”

Robby chuckled and you felt his hand graze the small of your back again. You fought the instinct to tense. You didn’t want to tense. You wanted to melt to the floor so that Robby would scoop you up and carry you home. 

“Are you ready to get out of here?” he asked. You nodded, your eyes registering one final glance out the window. 

“Yeah,” you sighed. “Best leave before causing any more scenes.”

“At least we got some entertainment,” Robby offered. His hand was still on your back. Why was his hand still on your back? Nervous tension simmered through your body, rising into your skull until you could practically feel it pulsing in your hair.

Langdon caught Robby’s eye and raised a very suggestive eyebrow as the two of you headed for the door. Robby, still guiding you with his hand on your back, shot Frank a sharp look before he snuck a glance at you to ensure you hadn’t seen.

Instead, you were staring determinedly straight ahead, fearful your knees would give out. 

Something was happening. Something had changed, a shift in the current between you and Robby. Its usual push and pull, the back and forth that had always kept you hopeful yet hesitant, now felt smoother; a free flow of high-charged anticipation. It made your insides twist and your palms sweat, a clash of uncertainty and excitement. 

But what if it was all in your head? What if your delusions were crafting a foundation built on frail glass? Or what if the two of you were one act of bravery away from getting exactly what you wanted?

By the time you were climbing into the front seat of Robby’s SUV, you were gnawing at your fingernails. Robby, of course, noticed from the driver’s seat but said nothing.

“You enjoy yourself tonight?” he finally asked. Streetlights whizzed past your window and you tore your gaze from them to study him as you spoke.

“I did,” you said assuringly. “I ate more shrimp and shook more hands than I can count.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot of socializing,” Robby sighed. “Worst part of the job.”

“Gloria seemed pleased with you.”

“Gloria is never pleased with me.”

“Really? I would have thought a night of ass-kissing would do the trick.”

“You’d be surprised.”

A silence fell over the car as street signs swished past, but your mind raced faster. Were you and Robby really toeing a boundary, on the brink of leaping into something new and uncharted? Or were you merely making things up in your mind? Either way, the more you studied Robby from the corner of your eye, the clearer it was that you were already tripping over the unspoken line. 

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” Robby said quietly. You flashed him the prettiest smile you could manage, even if his eyes were on the road. 

“I appreciate the invite,” you said. “Even if it was only to please Gloria.”

“Can we please stop talking about pleasing Gloria? It sounds… wrong.”

“Fair enough,” you laughed.

“I didn’t ask you because I needed a date,” Robby pointed out. “You know that, right?”

“Oh.”

“I’ve gone to those damn fundraising events solo countless times. I asked you because I wanted you to be my date.”

“Oh.”

Robby cast an uneasy glance your way. The whoosh of a passing car roared in your ears, though it may have been blood rushing to your head. The air conditioning inside the car was on, but you felt flushed and flustered as you willed yourself to respond with poise – something, anything to give yourself a fighting chance.

Instead, you shifted in your seat. Robby’s eyes darted toward you, then downward for a fleeting moment at your exposed thigh in the high slit of your dress. You watched him flex his hand around the steering wheel. 

Your quick, shallow breaths stretched into torturous seconds of silence. You had a choice, you decided, and you wanted to choose Robby.

“Well, I’m glad you asked,” you said carefully, steady enough to convince Robby of your sincerity. “I didn’t want anyone else to ask me anyway.”

“Oh.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his response. “Yeah,” you continued. “The feeling was mutual… or is mutual.”

“Oh.”

You held your breath as you waited for his next move; a chess match between two people who had no desire to play in the first place. Neither of you wanted to continue your dance around the glaringly obvious. You didn’t want to play games. You were tired, needy and looked too damn good to waste your time on any more uncertainty.

“Well, I’m glad it worked out for us both then,” Robby finally continued. You both snuck a glance at the same time, your eyes meeting for a flash. It spiked your pulse and made your pupils dilate.

And finally, Robby’s hand slowly reached for the top of your thigh. The motion was smooth, as if his hand was always meant to be there. It was a dizzying juxtaposition – Robby’s large and rough, calloused hand against your smooth, soft flesh. Your knee stilled, as if moving it in the slightest would force his hand away. You wanted it to remain there forever.

Both of your eyes remained glued to the road straight ahead. Oasis played quietly from the radio.

The walk from the parking garage to the elevator inside Robby’s apartment building seemed to extend from mere feet to miles. When the elevator doors snapped shut, you held your breath again, eyes still fixated forward as Robby stood behind you. In the doors’ reflection, you could see his eyes clinging to your form.

The dip in the back of your dress, the pieces of hair that had fallen loose from your updo, the scent of neroli and jasmine from your perfume; it was all pulling Robby to a vexing place where he was torn between his desire to stop resisting you and the vulnerability required to do so.

The clack of your heels echoed through the hallway towards Robby’s apartment door, a steady tick-tock that counted you both down to the moment of truth. When you reached the door, eyes clouded with desperation, you shared one final glance. Robby’s eyes darkened with hunger. 

He wanted to be gentle, wanted to be careful and sweet. But all of his suppressed cravings breached their dam, spilling from their confines in the form of primal dominance.

The sharp click of the lock felt symbolic – unlatching years of what-ifs. Robby entered the apartment first, tossing his keys on the counter before he whirled around. Before the door could fall shut, he had you pinned against it. It latched when it met the force of your back, concealing the two of you from the outside world with a quick thud.

Robby held your face in his hands as he kissed you. It knocked the breath you’d been holding for weeks from your lungs in the form of a pitiful whimper. The kiss was deep but sensual, fervid but sophisticated, giving yet demanding. It continued until you were gasping into his mouth, desperate for air and desperate more. When he finally pulled away, his hands lingered, still cupping your face as he studied the reaction in your wide eyes. You stared back, your chest rising and falling as you caught your breath. 

You didn’t blink. You didn’t move. You refused to do anything that could be misinterpreted as anything but your desire to stand right there in that moment.

Robby kissed you again. This time, your hands snaked over his arms until you were sliding his suit jacket off. You only removed your lips from his to shift your focus to his tie. Once you loosened the knot, he pulled you toward himself this time, one hand pressed flat into the small of your back as he kissed you.

He dared to step forward, pressing his body against yours until he had you backed against the edge of the counter. Your fingers worked over the buttons of his shirt until you could skim your palms over his chest. You could feel it rising and falling beneath them as Robby’s breathing became more ragged.

Once his shirt was off, he raised an eyebrow at you. 

“How come I’m the only one getting undressed?” he murmured. You offered him a pointed blink.

“I don’t see anyone stopping you from helping me out of this dress,” you replied matter-of-factly. Robby couldn’t argue with that. 

You expected him to make a hasty move for your dress, but instead he hooked an arm around your waist to pull you in for another kiss. This one was slow and deliberate. Your teeth grazed gently against his bottom lip, desperate to pull more from him. Your arms clung to his neck until you were damn hear hanging from him, thankful for his sturdy frame.

You could feel his hand glide from your hip to the slit of your dress, his fingertips caressing over your thigh. His lips found your neck, first pressing a tender kiss there until he dragged his lips toward your collar bone. A low moan hummed in your throat. His touches were tender and deliberate. The ache between your thighs burned to your core.

Robby’s hand disappeared inside the slit of your dress and your breath hitched as he finally swiped a finger against the fabric of your thong, relieving some of the agonizing tension. The slickness pooling at your entrance was a dizzying paradox to the heat that scalded your nerve endings. Robby inched two fingers inside your panties and groaned at the sensation of your arousal clinging to them. And before you could beg him to continue, his index and middle fingers skimmed your folds. They met your clit and pressed until a whimper escaped your throat.

Robby leaned with one hand on the edge of the counter, the other dragging against your sacred flesh until your knees threatened to give out. Your head tipped back, your eyes squeezed shut as you silently thanked every higher power you didn’t believe in for granting you the privilege of crossing paths with Michael Robinavitch.

His lips found your neck again, ghosting hot breath against your skin that sent goosebumps peppering across the surface. 

You inhaled sharply as Robby sank a slow finger inside you until you could feel the heel of his palm pressed against your clit. It quickly became clear that Robby knew what he was doing – not that you had expected anything less.

The obscene sound of his rhythmic hand pulling you toward the edge echoed around you, your labored breaths its only rival. You whimpered over the mounting pressure within your walls, tightening them until Robby groaned again. 

“Robby,” you panted with a desperate plea. He curled his fingers and you choked out a moan. The coil inside you tightened as Robby’s hand hastened its pace, his fingers pulling against your front wall until they dabbed your sweet spot. Your fingers clutched at his bicep, nails pricking at his skin as your body tensed. 

Your hips jutted forward and a pitchy whine rose in your throat until the coil inside you finally snapped, sending your climax pulsing through your core. Your hips rolled as you rode it out around Robby’s fingers, your clit grinding against his palm until your high subsided, leaving you slumped against him.

You didn’t speak – hell, you couldn’t – but Robby eyed you in quiet satisfaction, grunting in arousal as he removed his fingers from your soaked cunt. Your chest rose and fell as you caught your breath, head still cloudy in its post-orgasm haze.

Finally, you felt Robby’s arm squeeze around your torso as he lifted you up, your feet dangling in the air as he supported you on his shoulder.

“You know, I’m perfectly capable of walking,” you noted from over his shoulder.

“Really? Because I seem to recall you nearly falling in those heels no less than five times tonight,” Robby replied.

“I thought you wouldn’t notice.”

You could feel Robby’s body shake as he chuckled. He carried you toward the bedroom and you became certain he could feel your heartbeat rattling within your ribcage. When he set you on your feet again, he studied you with pensive eyes, as if he were waiting for you to change your mind. 

You shimmied your arms from the straps of your dress, revealing your bare chest. Robby stilled.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “You are… so fucking beautiful.”

Words were failing you so you licked your lips in anticipation. Robby lifted a slow hand to guide your dress downward until it pooled in a heap at your feet. You stepped out of it and kicked your heels off, widening your height difference. You tilted your head backward to peer up at Robby, urging him to act. 

He leaned into you for a long kiss, his hand roaming from your waist until it was cupping your breast. His thumb brushed over your nipple and you could feel his erection pressing against your stomach, triggering your impatience. You fiddled with his belt until it clinked apart. 

Once you managed to shove Robby’s remaining clothing to the floor, he stepped from his shoes and you chewed at your bottom lip. It’d been weeks since you had sex, since before you moved in with Robby. And it’d been ages since you had sex with someone that big. You swallowed a laugh as you realized Myrna was right.

The groan Robby released when your hand curled around his cock sounded like it had been stifled for weeks. Of course, that had been exactly the case.

“Fuck,” he rasped as you stroked him, his jaw clenching at your touch. You could practically feel his cock twitching in your hand. 

Your patience waned until you were practically dragging Robby toward the bed. He tugged your thong down and kissed you hard, his hand tangling itself in your hair while the backs of your knees met the bed frame.

Robby eased you onto your back, his knee between your thighs as he planted a trail of kisses from your neck, across your collar bone and to the swell of your breasts. The ache returned between your thighs.

You held your breath as his kisses drifted downward past your navel to your hip bone, then across the tops of your thighs. You could feel them tensing, squeezing together in an attempt to relieve the throbbing between them.

Robby smirked against your skin. His hands gently parted your thighs and you sucked in a sharp breath when you felt his tongue find your clit. Your hips grinded upward, desperate for more until you were fisting his hair. It spurred Robby on, leaving his arms hooked around your thighs. The sight of your soaked entrance ignited an invigorating surge of avidity in him. He’d fling himself from the roof of Pitt Trauma before he allowed anyone to deny him a taste.

His tongue flattened against your clit, pressing and prodding until your legs were shaking. Your eyes fluttered shut and Robby hummed against you in approval of your taste.

“Jesus Christ, Robby,” you breathed, unsure if you could withstand the sensitivity. But the way your hips were jutting upward, pressing your entrance against his tongue, told him you wanted more.

He drove his tongue harder against your clit, forcing it in swift, short swipes until your feet were kicking from the pleasure swelling inside your nerve endings. You ground yourself against his tongue in slow, sweeping motions, desperate for more friction. 

Robby received the hint. He sucked on your clit, lips pulling it against his rigid tongue. It was a tactical assault of unwavering pressure. Your cries chorused higher until you issued a rapid succession of whimpers, one after another, as you climbed toward your climax. 

Robby applied more force and held his tongue in place until your body seized, your nails sinking into the back of Robby’s neck as heat sprawled across your cunt, its ripples triggering a blissful shriek from you. It left you boneless, your head void of all coherent thought.

But Robby’s desperation peaked. He crawled on top of you, his eyes dancing with a raw greed you’d never seen before. He leaned down to kiss you, his lips slow and assuring as if the two of you were exchanging an agreement to stop withholding from one another.

Robby’s eyes locked on yours when he pulled away to position himself between your legs. Your heart hammered as he held your gaze and lined the tip of his cock against your entrance. The air in your lungs screamed for relief as you held your breath, your fingers pressing into the mattress in anticipation.

He sank into you slowly, groaning at the squeeze of your tight heat. Your teeth chewed at your bottom lip as you willed your walls to stretch around him. The friction was dizzying as he filled you. Robby clenched his jaw so hard, his teeth threatened to crack. 

Once he’d reached the hilt, a clarity settled within your skull and your senses became hypersensitive to every movement, every breath and every agonizing second that Robby wasn’t driving you into the mattress.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Robby rasped. His voice was strained, as if he was in pain. In truth, he was merely fighting his final threads of self-restraint.

Robby was torn. The sight of your folds swallowing his cock was beyond anything he’d imagined, a vision he wanted burned into his mind forever. But he also felt a desperate longing to be close to you. He wanted to shower your face and lips with kisses while he whispered passionate prose in your ear.

“Robby, please,” you begged. As arousing as the power was to Robby – the pitiful whine of your voice, the plea in your eyes, the way your body twitched in response to his cock – he didn’t make you beg again.

Robby’s hips retreated and snapped forward, driving his cock within your plush walls. You issued a low, guttural moan in response. Robby’s hands reached for your hips, pulling you into him in contrast to his thrusts. Together, your bodies composed a symphony that was approaching a grand coda.

“You feel so fucking good,” Robby groaned. You bucked your hips in response, his praise heightening your arousal and your desperation to learn how it would feel to fall apart around his cock.

You squirmed beneath him, each panting breath signaling your impending orgasm. You squeezed your cunt tighter around him and your eyes clamped shut as you focused on the friction within your core. Robby shifted until he was directly above you, supporting himself with one arm as his shaft dragged through your walls and his tip pressed into the deepest part of you. The bedsheets clung to their corners for dear life. 

Your nails sank into Robby’s shoulder, leaving tiny half-moon divots. If he felt them, he said nothing. Instead, he grit his teeth at your slick passage, his cock nudging you closer to the edge with each snap of his hips until you were certain the force would drive your heart straight into your throat.

Heaven couldn’t feel this good and hell couldn’t feel this hot. 

“Oh fuck, Robby,” you moaned. The sound of his name spilling from your lips became his new favorite song. “Robby, I’m close.”

The desperation in your voice instilled a sense of urgency within Robby; a demand for deliverance that could only be rivaled by the high pitch of a flatlining patient. But this wasn’t loss of life; this was rebirth.

Robby rocked back to a kneeling position, his eyes glued to your joint union as he drove his cock upward. It speared your core’s pressure point until your toes were curling.

Your cunt clenched tighter, beckoning your release. It mounted within your walls, swelling until it surged. You unleashed a sharp, ringing cry that filled the bedroom while your back arched off the bed and stars filled your eyes. Robby maintained his pace as your cunt convulsed, sending spasms searing through your nerve endings.

The end of your high marked the beginning of Robby’s. The vision of your mouth hanging open, breasts bouncing, dripping cunt swallowing his cock, was far more than he could handle. He swore loudly as his cock twitched. He yanked your hips flush with his as he spilled himself inside you, his fingers pressing hard into your flesh. 

Robby stilled when it was over. He released your hips and collapsed on the pillow beside you, his arms snaking their way around your torso as he pulled you close. You, however, were incapable of any movement. Your fucked out frame was limp and weak, but you couldn’t remember the last time you were this satisfied.

Faint traces of the morning’s first sunlight leaked through the curtains of Robby’s bedroom when you awoke. He slept with one arm flung across your torso. You studied him quietly as he slept. His peaceful breaths were a soothing contrast to his serious demeanor.

Then he snored so abruptly, he jerked awake. You bit back a laugh.

“Hey,” you said softly. Robby rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and offered you a crooked smile.

“Hey.” Robby studied you with such intensity, you could feel the familiar flush threatening to creep over your cheeks. “You sleep alright?”

You nodded. “You?”

Robby cracked another smile. “I did, considering it’s the first time I’ve slept in my own bed in weeks.”

“And whose fault is that?” you laughed with faux indignation. “I seem to recall offering to let you have the bed.”

“I only wanted it if I could share it with you.”

You swallowed your heart back down to your chest. “Well you left that minor detail out,” you quipped.

“Well I wasn’t aware it was an option,” Robby replied. You chewed at your bottom lip, unsure how to respond and annoyed at yourself for the lack of confidence. But in all fairness, it'd only been mere hours since the man had absolutely ruined you by turning you into a pitiful, whimpering, moaning mess. “But in all seriousness,” Robby continued, the amusement in his eyes shifting to something much more serious, “You do understand that I didn’t want for this to be a one-time thing, right?”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“But if you do want it to be a one-time thing, it’s alright,” Robby continued. “I just… you just…” His eyes scanned the ceiling as he decided on the right words. “Just tell me, okay?”

“I don’t want it to be a one-time thing, either,” you said immediately. Normally, you’d have practiced more restraint, more poise, played it cool and nonchalant, but this felt too raw and honest to hold back. 

“You don’t,” Robby repeated as if he needed confirmation.

“No.”

“Okay, good.”

You shifted to rest your head on his chest, the warmth of his body enveloping you with comfort. 

You couldn’t believe that, finally, you got what you wanted. Now it all seemed so simple; you and Robby made sense and it shouldn’t have taken so long for the two of you to reach that mutual understanding. But now, you were too giddy and too relieved to dwell on the past.

“The ER’s going to have a field day about us,” Robby muttered. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m pretty sure they’ve all had their bets placed for quite some time,” you said.

“We don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want to,” Robby said carefully. “But I don’t want you to feel like we have to be a secret. You’re not a secret or something that I could ever be ashamed of, but I understand if you want to keep this under wraps.”

“I’m not ashamed either,” you said with a frown. “Robby, I’ve wanted this – wanted you – for as long as I’ve known you.”

“Oh.” Robby seemed genuinely surprised by your revelation. He dragged a palm across his face and grimaced. “Guess we both wasted the past few years then.”

“Guess we’ll have to make up for it,” you said, drawing a grin from Robby. “But maybe to start, we just let everyone at work figure it out on their own.”

“Wanna bet on who’s the first to figure it out?”

“Oh, I’ll put $20 on Mohan,” you said confidently.

“I’ll put $20 on Dana.”

“Deal.”

A quiet moment fell over you, and you couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by the momentous change that had just taken hold of your life. Just 24 hours ago, you were single and pining hopelessly for the senior attending you thought couldn’t be bothered with any interest in you.

“I’m going to make some tea,” you declared, sliding out of bed to pull your bathrobe on. 

Once you were alone in the kitchen, you couldn’t help but grin to yourself. You gazed around the kitchen, now wondering how often you’d spend time there in the future. Sure, you’d move back to your apartment in a few days, but you couldn’t help but feel like you were in your second home.

The sudden buzz of your phone on the counter pulled you from your daydreams. 

“Hey,” you said, accepting a Facetime call from Trinity.

“Goooood morning,” she said in a sing-song tone as Samira peered over her shoulder. They were clearly at work, standing at the nurses’ station. You’d never been so grateful for you and Robby to have a mutual day off.

“Good morning,” you said carefully, your tone cheery but not too jubilant.

“How’d it go?” Samira asked eagerly.

“Wait,” you said with a frown. “Samira, didn’t you work last night? Why are you there?”

“Working a double,” she responded breezily. “Now quit deflecting. How was the charity gala?”

“It was good,” you offered casually, propping your phone up on the counter against the backsplash so you could retrieve your tin of matcha from the cupboard. “I had a good time.”

“A good time,” Trinity repeated blankly.

“That’s what I said,” you hummed.

“Oh, come on,” Samira whined. “We need details. Did anything happen?”

“Define ‘anything,’” you replied as you filled the tea kettle with water.

Trinity rolled her eyes. “You’re really going to hold out on us, after all we’ve done for you.”

“What exactly did you do for me?” you laughed.

“We helped you pick out that stunningly sexy dress that Dr. Robby was supposed to tear off of you,” Samira answered matter-of-factly. 

“You two are insane.”

“And you are an asshole,” Trinity retorted. “Come on, give us something. You really can’t tell us that nothing-”

Her voice stopped abruptly and you watched her eyes widen at something behind you. You turned to look over your shoulder, where a shirtless Robby had appeared. 

“Hey, Dr. Robby!” Samira called out merrily. Meanwhile, Trinity’s jaw was hanging open.

Robby blinked, his hair still a tousled mess. “Good morning,” he said, stepping closer to peer at your phone. “Everything alright?”

“Everything is splendid,” Trinity answered. Even through your phone screen, you could see her eyes glinting with glee.

“Is that Dr. Robby?” Dana’s face appeared in frame and you sighed as you watched her expression react to seeing her senior attending standing in nothing but sweatpants behind you. “Well good morning to you both!” she mused with a knowing smile.

“Fuuuuuck,” Robby groaned from behind you. 

You glared daggers of annoyance at your friends. “We’re hanging up now,” you said.

“We’re hanging up?” Trinity mused. “You hear that? She’s already referring to them as ‘we.’” 

“Goodbye!” you sang as you ended the call. Behind you, Robby was rubbing his temples.

“Sorry,” he sighed. 

“It’s fine,” you said, more amused than annoyed. You’d known all along your secret would be short-lived. You crossed the kitchen to slide your arms around Robby’s torso, tilting your head backward to smirk up at him. 

“Guess you technically owe me $20, though.”

By the time you turned onto your parents’ street, your nerves had you anxiously drumming your hands on the steering wheel. You tried to play it cool, to keep Robby from worrying more, but the closer you came to your childhood home, the more the knot in your stomach tightened.

When you pulled into the driveway, you could see your mom peeking from the living room curtains.

“Ready?” you asked as you put the car in park.

“Ready,” Robby said with a surprising air of confidence. You couldn’t help but raise a curious eyebrow at him. “Look,” he continued. “I want your parents to like me, obviously, but I’m also too old to think that their opinion of our relationship is going to make a difference. How they feel about us isn’t going to change how I feel about you. They love you, and so do I.”

You offered him a smile, your heart swelling over how fucking lucky you felt. 

“You’re right,” you agreed, reaching to the passenger’s seat to give his knee a gentle squeeze. “Regardless of what they think, it’s still you and me.”

The glance exchanged between your parents when you introduced Robby wasn’t lost on you. You knew what they were thinking — they were surprised you’d brought home an older man. But as the evening progressed, you found yourself seated at the dinner table, smiling to yourself at the warm conversation that unfolded. You felt silly for doubting your parents. Sure, they could be a bit conservative and too concerned with keeping up appearances, but by the time your mom was cutting the pumpkin pie for dessert, they had embraced Robby with fondness. 

“And you really doubted me,” Robby murmured into your hair as you cuddled up to him in bed that night. 

“I didn’t doubt you,” you pointed out, turning to peer at him through the lenses of his reading glasses. “I doubted them. And I guess I shouldn’t have.”

“That remark your mom made about grandkids was a bit alarming though.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” you sighed. “But at least she likes you enough to grant you permission to make her a grandparent.”

“She does know any child of mine will be raised a Steelers fan, right?”

You smacked him with a pillow. 

You woke up early the next morning and crept quietly into your parents’ kitchen, leaving Robby to sleep. Your mom was already up, drinking coffee in her favorite armchair by the front window. 

“Morning,” she chirped, motioning for you to sit on the sofa. When you obliged, she smiled at you. “Robby seems really nice, honey,” she said. “He seems like a hell of a doctor. And he really seems to care about you.”

“He’s brilliant,” you agreed. “And he’s a far better person than I could’ve asked for.”

“Do you think he’s the one?” 

“I hope so,” you answered. “Because even if there were two of him, he’s the only one I’d want.”

By the time Robby woke up and strode into the living room, you and your mom were watching the latest episode of 90 Day Fiance. Robby shook his head at you and headed toward the kitchen for coffee. 

“Sorry I don’t have any tea for you, honey,” your mom apologized. “I always forget that you don’t drink coffee.”

“I have tea.” Robby poked his head back into the living room. “I brought your matcha. It’s in my backpack.”

From across the living room, your mom smiled at you in approval.

[thepinkpanther83]

Reader (person A) and Eddie (person B) are hanging out in eddies trailer and the following below happens but they don't talk about it until reader thinks of the chapstick challenge which leads to them confessing and making out? You can choose the flavors.

Please? Thank you 😊

The Cherry on Top

One-Shot Request: “The Cherry on Top”

Eddie Munson x Reader

💌 Author’s Note: Huge thank you to the wonderful @meankenna for inspiring this one-shot with such a fun, and flirty prompt! This story was an absolute blast to write- equal parts sweet and shameless, and I hope it gives you all the butterflies it gave me while working on it. You’ve got great taste (in fic ideas and chapstick). 💋

If you enjoyed this story, consider leaving a comment or reblog- it helps more than you know! Stay soft, stay curious, and never underestimate a well-timed kiss. ~Pinkie 🍒

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Summary:

A lazy afternoon at Eddie Munson’s trailer takes a turn when one little question about cherry chapstick leads to a moment neither of you can pretend didn’t happen. Suddenly, there’s tension where there used to be teasing, and silence where there used to be laughter. But when a certain “challenge” comes to mind, you decide it’s time to settle the score… with lips, not logic. What started as a joke, might just be the cherry on top of something real.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

The Cherry on Top

One-Shot Request: “The Cherry on Top”

The hum of the cassette player fills the trailer with the low, raspy growl of Dio’s vocals, humming like a heartbeat beneath your easy chatter. You’re sprawled on Eddie’s old couch, one leg tucked underneath you, the other stretched out dangerously close to where his thigh is angled across the cushion.

Neither of you are really talking about anything important. You’re just… there. Comfortable. Close. Too close, if you stopped to think about it- which you absolutely refuse to do.

Eddie’s sitting sideways, arm thrown over the back of the couch, rings tapping absent patterns into the upholstery behind your neck. He’s grinning, eyes half-lidded, face soft from the lazy rhythm of the day. There’s an open bag of pretzels on the table, forgotten. One of your hoodies is balled up at your side, still holding your body heat from earlier.

You’d watched a movie hours ago. Or at least started one. Now it's just staticy music and half-finished conversations, the kind that drift off when they get too honest.

And in a moment of autopilot, you fish out your cherry chapstick. Twist the cap. Swipe it across your lips.

That’s when everything shifts.

You don’t notice him freeze- not at first. But he does. Like someone hit pause on his whole body. His eyes flick to your mouth and stay there, lips parting the tiniest bit, as if caught in the middle of a thought he forgot to say out loud.

“…What flavor is that?” he asks, like it physically hurts him not to know.

You blink at him. “Uh. Cherry.” You roll the cap back on and toss the stick into your hoodie pocket. “It’s really good, too.”

Eddie nods once, slowly. Then leans in just a fraction. “Can I try it?”

You’re already reaching for your hoodie, digging out the chapstick again. “Sure,” you say, holding it out between two fingers.

He doesn't take it.

Instead, Eddie leans in, slow but certain, like gravity’s finally had enough of your mutual pretending. His hand brushes your wrist, lowers the chapstick gently. Then- without giving you a second to react… he kisses you.

It’s not rough. Not frantic. Just deliberate. Lips warm and firm against yours, tasting faintly of cherry and Eddie and a hundred things you’ve never had the courage to name.

He pulls back just a breath, close enough that you can feel the smirk forming on his mouth before he even speaks.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “You’re right. It does taste good.”

You stare at him, brain officially fried. Function: unavailable. Thoughts: error 404. All you can do is sit there, lips tingling, mouth open just a little, totally wrecked by one kiss and a comment about chapstick.

You’re still staring at him.

He’s still staring at you.

The trailer is quiet. Like, you can hear the hum of the refrigerator and the flick of his thumb as he nervously picks at a loose string on the couch.

Then Eddie clears his throat. Loud. Awkward. Dramatic. “So,” he says, voice about an octave higher than normal, “you, uh… think Dio would survive in a bare-knuckle cage match against Ozzy?”

What.

Your lips are still tingling, and this man is asking about metal frontmen hypothetical brawls like he didn’t just bypass years of friendship rules and press his mouth to yours like it was nothing.

“…Are we seriously not gonna talk about what just happened?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

He glances at you. Smiles. Shrugs.

“Dunno what you mean,” he says coolly, casually, the picture of someone who is not currently imploding on the inside. “I asked for chapstick. You gave it to me. I tried it. It’s good. Mission accomplished.”

You blink. “You kissed me, Eddie.”

He fake gasps. “I did? Oh no. Must’ve slipped. Could’ve sworn I was reaching for the stick.”

“Eddie-”

“Hey, d’you wanna throw on another tape?” he interrupts, already getting up, not looking at you. “I think I’ve got that W.A.S.P. live album somewhere in the crate. Or- wait, no- Queen! We need to appreciate the artistry of Brian May more.”

He’s practically scrambling toward the tape shelf, muttering nonsense, hair falling in his face, while you sit there in complete disbelief.

You don’t push. You don’t chase him down or beg for clarity. You’re too scared of what it might do to the delicate thread tying the two of you together- so you let him keep pretending. You help. You joke. You nod along when he makes some stupid remark about Freddie Mercury’s god-tier vocal range.

But neither of you laughs the same.

The air’s different now- tight, humming, like a storm you both agreed not to name. You make it through the rest of the afternoon with polite smiles and long, loaded silences where your knees accidentally touch and neither of you breathes.

Eventually, you say you’ve gotta head home. Something about chores, or helping your mom, or feeding your cat. It doesn’t matter. You just need to get out.

He walks you to the door, as always. He tells you to page him when you get home, as always.

He doesn’t mention the kiss. At all.

And you don’t either.

Not until you’re in your room later that night, lights off, fingers brushing your bottom lip like you’re checking to see if the feeling’s still there.

You try journaling. You write “HE KISSED ME” in all caps three times before ripping the page out and stuffing it under your bed like a confession. Then you pace. Then you lay down. Then you sit back up. Then you wonder what would’ve happened if you kissed him back just a little harder, or said something like, “Do it again.”

But you didn’t.

And now you’re spiraling, tangled in your sheets, a cherry flavored ghost still dancing across your lips, trying to figure out if he meant it- or if he was just being Eddie.

It’s been days.

Days since “The Incident.”

Days since the kiss he never explained. Days since you half-lost your mind and wrote a fake letter to him you’ll never send titled, Dear Eddie, please do that again, I beg of you.

Now you’re back at his trailer, like nothing happened- except everything did. You’re both pretending to be normal. Again. You’re on the couch. Again. He’s doing that dumb thing where he pokes your knee with his toe like a child seeking attention. Again.

But tonight, you’re ready. Tonight, you brought props.

You wait until the timing’s perfect- he’s mid-rant about how Ace of Spades was robbed at the Grammys' when you interrupt with:

“Hey, so… remember when you totally stole my chapstick with your mouth and then never brought it up again?”

He chokes on a handful of Doritos. “I mean, stole is a strong word-”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure there’s a federal charge for grand larceny of flavored lip balm.”

He snorts, a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright, maybe I panicked. Maybe I got carried away.”

You lean forward on your elbows, casual but not really. “You know there’s an actual Chapstick Challenge, right? Where you’re supposed to guess the flavor by kissing someone?”

He freezes. “…That’s real?”

“Yup.” You pull a little zippered pouch from your bag and spill a rainbow army of chapsticks onto the table. “I brought options.”

His eyes go huge. “You’re kidding.”

You smirk. “Nope. Wanna try the official version this time?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

He launches himself across the couch, lips crashing into yours with so much enthusiasm you laugh into the kiss. His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting for clearance, and yours tangle in that ridiculous mop of curls. It’s messy and a little clumsy, both of you grinning like idiots between breaths.

You taste like strawberry first. He gets it right. Then vanilla mint. Right again.

“Okay,” he gasps between kisses, “I’m kind of a prodigy at this.”

“Shut up and kiss me again.”

He does. Over and over between applications. With gusto. With reverence. With the sort of soft desperation that only comes from finally getting the thing you thought you’d never have.

“Wait- what flavor is this?” he mumbles against your mouth.

You blink, confused. “I didn’t put anything on-”

He grins. “Hmm. Must just be ‘You.’ That one’s my favorite.”

You shove his shoulder. He kisses you harder.

Eventually, you’re a giggling, half-dazed mess on the couch, limbs tangled and chapstick containers strewn around like colorful evidence of the war you just won.

He pulls back only slightly, forehead pressed to yours, and whispers:

“So… you wanna, I dunno… maybe be my cherry-flavored girlfriend or something?”

You smile and kiss him again.

Translation: Yes.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list!

@justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust @meankenna

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[qwordavoider]

Hi, my love!!! I ran so fast to ask for more of your new wip 'cause it's so good!!

🚒🚒🚒 pwease

Thank you so much, love! Since you asked so nicely 😉 Here's 500 more words for you (following immediately after this)

-

Buck was grateful to Ravi for not trying to talk him out of the decision, but that meant he had nothing keeping him busy to avoid telling Chim. But Buck owed it to him to be honest about everything. Plus he would probably appreciate having time to find a replacement or a floater until he could find someone permanent. He needs to do this now. 

He heads over to the office where Chim had come in early to get a head start on paperwork. He knocks on the door frame and heads in when Chim looks up and motions him in. When he sits, he finds himself tapping his hands against his leg as he waits for Chim to finish writing. 

“Buck, what can I do for you?” 

He takes a deep breath, before getting it over with,  “I didn’t pull my transfer papers. Today is my last shift at the 118.”

“What? Buck no. What about Bobby’s legacy? Leaving isn’t going to make it hurt less, you’ll just be alone.”

I’m already alone, Buck thinks. But he gives Chim the partially true line he decided would be the easier reason, “I need a change of pace. Everything here reminds me of him.”

“What about this family? You’re going to walk away from this?” Chim asked.

“You’re married to my sister, we’re always going to be family Chim. This doesn’t change that. And all due respect, I will go over your head if you try and stop it yourself,” Buck said before he walked out of his office. 

He had tried to stay calm and reasonable with Chim, but at the end he let some of his anger slip out. Yet again, he is being told what to do and what to think. He didn’t realize how frequent it was or how much it bothered him until Chim called him out in the middle of the apparatus floor for his decision. One speech, as heartfelt as it was, isn’t enough to erase the last month. 

He tamps down on the emotions as he heads up to the loft. He passes by Ravi who gives him a questioning look, but he just shakes his head. Buck can’t talk about it right now. Not in front of everyone else. Instead he focuses on making breakfast for everyone. One of Bobby’s old egg bake recipes. 

He begins prepping the ingredients when Ravi walks over, “What can I help prep?”

“Can you crack and whisk the eggs?”

“Yes, sir,” Ravi says with a quick salute, pulling an unexpected chuckle from Buck. 

They work in a comfortable silence aside from some additional instructions on how to complete everything. Once they get it in the oven, they work together to clean up the other dishes, falling into a rhythm that feels familiar after many recent shifts together as partners in the field. He gets so lost in the relaxation of it, that he barely registers Chim coming up the stairs and speaking quietly with Hen and Eddie. 

He notices when Eddie storms over and begins yelling. 

-

Next part ~ Make me write

[jaewritesfic]

Melon AU! Part 6

Part 5

While Alfred does what little he can to mend the creature's wounds, Bruce finds himself on the Batcomputer looking through their files on known species.

They've catalogued so much, both from the regular League and Justice League Dark.

Surely in all the combined experiences and knowledge of the vast network of heroes and civilizations that work together with the League there will be something on this creature and his species.

Nothing.

Bruce can't find anything like him in their files, he can't even really find anything close.

It's baffling.

“Our guest has no heartbeat, if that helps at all,” Alfred says casually, drawing up to Bruce's elbow. Bruce casts him a sharp and highly alarmed look. 

“Excuse me?”

Alfred must have just finished his work, his sleeves rolled up and arms and hands freshly scrubbed of green.

“Yes, I was rather alarmed myself when I could find no pulse. With a stethoscope you can find a humming sound in his chest, however. I can only assume that's whatever he has instead - perhaps he simply has no heart. Different organs entirely.”

Bruce sure fucking hopes so. He inputs the added criteria despite being certain he's already covered every nook and cranny of the database he can.

Nothing. Still nothing that remotely resembles the creature in their medical bed.

Movement out of the corner of Bruce's eye brings his attention to Tim, who is approaching from the labs with tablet in hand and a frown on his face. 

He'd taken a sample of the substance their guest bleeds to go analyze it while Alfred worked and Bruce searched.

“I'm going to take a wild guess and say you couldn't find anything,” Tim says. He only actually looks up from the tablet when he draws up next to Bruce, so he can't have developed that guess just from Bruce's expression. 

If that's the case… “You couldn't identify the substance?” Bruce muses, because he hopes that's the possibility out of the two available to them Tim is going to confirm.

Tim's mouth thins into a line. Bruce closes his eyes for a moment.

“It's Lazarus water, isn't it.”

“I mean,” Tim hedges. “Yeah. But like. No?”

Bruce frowns. “Explain.”

“It's definitely the same thing,” Tim says, “but in the same way that like…filtered bottled water and scummy pond water are both water. Whatever shadow noodle bleeds, it's clean. I didn't know Lazarus water was dirty, but this stuff is so different. Seriously it's like if someone broke Lazarus water down into a few key elements and all the rest was actually just pollutants or something.”

Bruce blinks, sitting back in his chair slowly.

That's…he doesn't know what that is, to be honest. It's something.

“He is a Pit Demon after all, then,” Damian says from a short distance away.

Cass lays a gentle hand on his head. “Not a demon. Don't be mean.”

Damian ducks the hand and flushes a little. “I am not being mean. We have confirmation that he bleeds some form of Lazarus water, and we have no record of his kind. It is the closest approximation we have as of yet.”

Alfred hums thoughtfully. “The boy seemed surprised by Miss Cassandra's willingness to listen and talk to him, no?”

“Very,” Bruce confirms.

Alfred nods. “Your logic is sound, Master Damian,” he concedes. “And I understand that it is in logic your choice of words are found. But the aforementioned behavior would suggest to me that our guest is quite used to similar rhetoric from mouths that do not use the term so neutrally.

“We want him to see this as a safe place when he wakes. It would be best to avoid such loaded terms as ‘demon’, I believe.”

Damian blinks, nodding slowly. “I see. Very well.”

Thank God for Alfred, Bruce thinks.

“So now it's just a waiting game, huh?” Dick asks, striding up behind Bruce's chair and frowning at the screen. “Wait for him to wake up and see what happens? What he can tell us?”

Bruce hums, recognizing the false calm in his oldest's voice.

What Dick really means is that he wants to know exactly who did this to a living creature, and where he can find them. Any other information is secondary to that anger in him right now.

Bruce sighs and stands from the computer, turning towards the still, dark figure in the displaced medical bed.

They're all trying to keep a little bit of distance and stay relatively quiet so as to let the creature rest and not spook him. There are already too many of them in the Cave as is for Bruce's liking - this is still an unknown, after all - so Bruce has messaged Jason and Duke and asked that they stay out of the Cave unless absolutely necessary for now.

Jason was not pleased considering the potential - confirmed, now - connection to the Lazarus Pits. 

That's exactly why Bruce doesn't want him here yet, though. He fears there might be some kind of reaction, and he at least wants to know more about their guest before that happens.

He at least wants their guest to fully understand they're not a threat to him first.

Bruce looks the creature over as he approaches the bed quietly. He's still incredibly still, chest motionless with the absence of breath.

Alfred has wrapped his newly stitched chest, the bandages seeming blindingly white against the impossible darkness of his skin.

It's with a heavy heart and a sick stomach that Bruce sees the hints of green staining the clean cloth in a distinctive Y.

Perhaps him not breathing is a good thing. At least a consistent rise and fall of the chest won't cause constant pain from shifting the incision.

Still, it unnerves Bruce. 

No heartbeat, either? Bruce doesn't dare lower his head to the poor creature's chest to try to listen for the humming Alfred mentioned, but he does reach down for one of those spindly wrists as if Alfred could ever be wrong about a pulse.

Bruce presses his fingers to the inside of the creature's wrist, frowning when he can't find anything.

Like this, no breathing, no heartbeat, the creature looks for all the world like he's dead.

Bruce wraps his hand around the wrist as if getting a better grip will change the result.

The creature's eyes snap open immediately, rooting him in place with a wave of that strange projected emotion Bruce had noticed on the rooftop.

Paralyzing fear.

Then he opens his mouth and nearly blows Bruce's eardrums out with an unholy, nightmarish shriek on par with Black Canary.

Masterpost

[missjomarch]

The Distance Between - N. Hischier

Summary: Tomorrow is the most important day of your adult life, but Nico Hischier is 4000 miles away in Denmark. And you've never needed him more than you do right now.

Warnings: a little bit of sadness and tears? Kissing. That's it folks.

Word count: 3,000

A/N: Well hi :) I do still exist and apparently know how to write things? @ladylooch has been hounding me since like...March to write something. When I finally finished school last week she sent in a request to get my thoughts going.

B, I don't think I ever would've returned to writing with your support, encouragement, and a bit of delusion. Not only do you support me in writing, but in life as well. You are constantly listening to my melt downs and complaints about adult life and you give wise advice with grace every time. The best big sis. This is for you. 💜

The apartment greets me with its usual silence, but today it feels like it's holding its breath. Like it's waiting for the dam to finally break. It is almost suffocating, and I can’t stop the sigh that escapes as I abandon my work bag and slump into the nearest chair. The flashcards on the coffee table mock me, looking sturdier than I currently feel. My eyes close involuntarily. 

Tomorrow, I think, tomorrow it will all be over.

After four years of grueling work, tomorrow is the day I defend my dissertation for my PhD. The day before your defense is supposed to be peaceful. The hard part is over, and the reward is on the horizon. But this doesn’t feel like peace. My nerves choke me, sitting thick at the base of my throat, and a heavy feeling of dread weighs on my chest.

I drag my eyes open before I can continue down the path of anxiety and despair that I have spent so many hours on these past few weeks. My work bag taunts me from the corner, holding both my laptop and my phone. 

Both demand my attention.

Neither will get it. 

My advisor basically forbade me from doing any sort of PhD related work today, and insisted I rest and reflect. Solid advice, if I’m being honest. Even if I wasn’t exhausted, I wouldn’t have been able to focus today anyway. My mind is elsewhere. Particularly 4,000 miles away in Denmark. 

In the 8 months I’ve been dating Nico Hischier, this has always been the plan. I would defend in May and he would either be with New Jersey in the playoffs, or with Team Switzerland at Worlds. It hadn’t bothered me at first, but as the date approached a harsh realization struck. I would be doing this alone. My parents were already taking off work for graduation in 2 weeks, so they couldn’t make this trip. My roommate had gone home for the week. And Nico was at Worlds. 

It’s not that I was angry. This was the plan, the expectation. Nico and I haven’t even been together for a year, so I would never expect him to change his annual plans for me. But still, a small kernel of hurt was steadily growing inside of me. One that couldn’t be ignored, and carried a quiet, devastating truth. 

I needed Nico. His strong and steady presence. His gooey eyes and proud smile. Even his corny captain pep-talks would be appreciated right now. 

Nico and I met at a bar last October, after I’d wandered a bit too far from the Rutgers campus. My friends had insisted that we head deeper into the city to avoid the Halloween parties filled with undergrads, and we finally ended up in a dim cocktail bar in Newark. 

Naturally, I ran into him and spilled his drink on my way to the bathroom. After I’d offered him one of my thirteen test tube jello-shots as a replacement and spent fifteen minutes explaining that I was supposed to be a sexy scientist and not a nurse, he asked for my number. 

I’d like to say it was smooth sailing from there, but making time for each other between a grad school schedule and a hockey career proved to be a challenge. It never seemed to weigh on Nico, though. He’d pick me up from classes, let me practice presentations in the car, or take pregame naps at my apartment just to get a few more hours together before a long roadie. 

In the chaos of the past eight months, Nico has been a steady presence. The unmovable rock in the storm of job applications, exams, and defense prep. That’s what makes this so difficult. He should be here helping me through this.

The ringing of my phone breaks me from my thoughts. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but the hope that it's Nico has me dragging myself from my chair to where my bag sits on the floor. When I see his name flashing across the screen, a small smile tugs at my lips and I quickly swipe to answer the call. 

“Hey schatz,” his warm voice lifts a small weight from my shoulders and I can’t keep the smile from my voice as I reply. 

“Hey Neeks,” I spare a quick glance at the clock, “It’s midnight there, why’re you up?” 

“I wanted to check on you before I went to bed. The boys and I just got back to the hotel. You hanging in there?”  

“That sounds fun. Did you guys have dinner with the team?” 

Nico sighs as I dodge the question, but plays along nonetheless. “Yeah. Had dinner at a place down the street with Timo and Jonas. Emma and Nola came too,” he pauses, voice softening. “Made me wish you were here, sweets.” 

His words are soft, but they sharpen the ache forming deep in my chest. I knew the distance was hurting him too, but the clear longing in his voice made it difficult to keep pretending I was fine. 

“I wish I was too. Maybe I can go with you next year since I’ll be out of school. You’ll wish you were able to get rid of me.” 

The rumble of his laugh warms me through the phone, “I would never want to get rid of you. I want you with me all the time. And just think, next year I can parade you around as Dr. Hischer.” 

The possessive tone in his voice is obvious, as is the smirk playing on his lips. I can’t help the snort that escapes me. 

“Hischier, huh? You gonna make me your wife?” 

“Been thinking about it. I want everyone to know you’re mine.” 

“I think you make that pretty clear, even without a ring,” I tease. 

“Still. It wouldn’t hurt. I’d get you a big one too. Something shiny, so men could see it from across the room. Then they’d know your mine before they could even think about walking over.” 

“Mhmm. I’m sure you would,” I grin, “Nice try, Hisch, but your name isn’t going on my degree. I’ve spent too much time and money on it for a man to get credit.” 

Nico pretends to think about it, “Fair enough. I’ll still be the one cheering the loudest when you walk across that stage, though.” 

The playfulness in his tone is replaced by a warmth that squeezes my heart. I have to swallow the lump in my throat before I can speak again. 

“You’ll have to fight my dad for that title,” I manage, but the words are hoarse. I clear my throat in a desperate attempt to stop the emotion clawing its way up. “Fuck, I miss you, Neeks.” 

The admission is no more than a squeak, and then I’m sniffling. I’d been fighting the tears for days, unwilling to let him know just how terrified I was, and how hard the distance had become. But I could never hide from Nico. He saw right through me, recognizing that his absence was unraveling me, no matter how hard I tried to pretend otherwise. 

There’s a rustle of fabric as he shifts in the hotel bed, and then comes his voice. Low, and gentle in a way that breaks me all over again. 

“I know, Schatz. I’m so sorry,” his voice breaks, “I would do anything to be with you right now.”

I nodded even though he can’t see me, a silent tear slipping down my cheek.

When I don’t respond, he continues. “I’m so damn proud of you, you know that? You are the most hard-working and determined person I have ever met. You’ve earned every bit of this recognition.” 

His words send goose-bumps skittering across my skin. The obvious pride in his voice soothes the shadow of doubt I’ve been carrying. It's his unshakeable faith that has me finally voicing the fears I’ve been dwelling on the past few weeks. 

“What if I don’t pass?” 

“Then you don’t pass. And we will deal with it together,” he says, like that isn’t the most terrifying outcome. “But that isn’t going to happen, sweets. You have given everything you have to this program for four years, and you know your thesis inside and out. I think you could defend in your sleep at this point.” 

The thought has a small giggle forcing its way out of me, “I don’t think that would go well.” 

“Maybe not,” Nico agrees, “that’s why you’re going to be up bright and early tomorrow. Coffee in hand, cute outfit on. Ready to girl boss your way to a PhD.” 

“Girl boss? You need to get off TikTok.”

“Nooo!” He protests, “I want to be able to speak your brain rot language.” 

“I do NOT have brain rot. I am on social media a perfectly normal amount.” 

Nico hums like he doesn’t believe me. I roll my eyes, choosing to move on instead of bringing up his Facebook addiction. 

“Speaking of bright and early, can you call me in the morning to make sure I’m up by seven?” 

“Of course, Schatz. We’ll be done with practice at eleven here, so I’ll give you a wake up call at 6:45? I can DoorDash you coffee, too.” 

“That’d be perfect,” I sigh. “Thank you.” 

Nico tells me a bit more about their time in Denmark so far, though it's pretty limited since he’s only been there for 24 hours. I fill him in on my post-defense plans, and soon we’re saying goodnight and ending the call. 

I don’t have the energy to do much else after that. I eat leftovers from the fridge while watching our show. Usually, he’d complain about me getting ahead, but he admitted on the phone that he’d watched an episode on the plane. So really, I was just catching up. 

After dinner, I shower, letting the warm water wash away the borrowed stress of tomorrow. I skip the hairdryer, knowing I’ll just curl it in the morning, and collapse into bed. The sheets cocoon around me, smelling faintly of Nico. 

I’m suddenly glad I didn’t do laundry last weekend, even though it's been on the to-do list for two weeks. My heart lurches, still aching for him despite the hour long phone call we just shared. My anxieties about tomorrow fight to keep me awake, but eventually exhaustion wins out and I drift to sleep. 

…

Nico is annoyingly on time with his phone call. The harsh ring of my phone drags me from sleep at exactly 6:45. My arm shoots out and I blindly fumble for my phone on my night stand. Finally, I grasp it and begrudgingly click the answer button. 

“What?” I slur, sleep still clouding my words. 

“Someone is in a lovely mood,” he drawls, a grin evident in his voice. 

“Shut up,” I whine into the phone, “I’m sleepy.” 

“I know, sweetheart. But todays the big day. Gotta get up.” 

“Mmmmm…no.”

“Take a sip of your coffee and see if that motivates you at all. I ordered your favorite.” 

I frown, still half asleep. “What coffee?” 

“The one on your night stand.” 

I pop one eye open, and sure enough, an iced latte sits on the bedside table. 

“How did you get it in my room?” I ask, suspicious. “I thought you were DoorDashing it.” 

“I gave him the code to your apartment,” a voice answers. Not from my phone. It’s too loud. Too close. 

My eyes pop open in disbelief, and Nico Hischer stands in my doorway. His phone is still pressed to his ear and a shit-eating grin is spreading across his face. 

My jaw drops and a strangled sound between sob and a laugh leaves me as I shoot up from the bed. My phone is left behind in the sheets and his clatters to the floor as I launch into his arms. He catches me, laughing as I wrap myself around him completely. I shake as I cling to him, the adrenaline overwhelming. His arms tighten around my waist as my hands thread through his hair. And we hold each other. Like this might all fall apart if we let go. 

We stay like that for minutes that feel like hours before I’m pulling back to look at him. 

Tears stain both our faces as my eyes meet his, “What’re you doing here-” 

He’s kissing me before I can finish. It is all consuming. Everything I needed wrapped into one touch, one action. One arm releases my waist to thread through my messy hair, pulling me impossibly closer to him, while my hands plant themselves firmly on his cheeks. By the time we pull away, we are both breathing heavily and our lips are plump and red. 

I rest my forehead against his and close my eyes. “You’re here,” I whisper. 

“Of course I’m here,” he kisses the tip of my nose. “I wanted to be here for you, sweetheart.” 

I shake my head lightly, still trying to make sense of him being here. I pull back to look at him. “But Worlds?” 

“Can wait,” he says simply, matter of factly. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

I take in a shuddering breath and rest my cheek against his shoulder. “Even the Stanley Cup finals?” 

A small grin plays at his lips, “Maybe not that. Fitzy would probably kill me. But thankfully, that’s not the case.” 

“Knew you loved hockey more than me,” I teased, nipping at his neck playfully. He chuckles softly and presses a kiss to my cheek. 

His tone is suddenly serious when he responds. “No, schatz. This matters more to me. You matter more to me. More than hockey. More than anything.” 

I pull my head from his shoulder to look at him. Tears well in my eyes once again when I see the gooey, love-struck look in his. “I love you, Nico Hischier.” 

He kisses me deeply before pulling back to mumble against my lips, “I love you, too.” 

Then he’s giving a soft smack to my ass before releasing me from his hold. “Now, let’s get you caffeinated Dr. Almost-Hischier.” 

I give him an incredulous look, “I am neither a doctor nor a Hischier.” 

“Yet,” he smirks. “But you will be one of them by the end of the day.” 

I roll my eyes, “And if I don’t pass?” 

“Then I’m proposing at dinner,” he shrugs, seemingly certain about this decision. 

My cheeks heat at the potential idea of seeing Nico down on one knee, and I have to physically shake my head to clear the image from my mind. I choose not to respond to avoid saying something embarrassingly desperate in my flustered state, and down a third of my coffee instead. 

“Ugh, I love honey lavender lattes,” I groan as I savor the taste.

“I know,” Nico says, taking the coffee and gently pushing me towards my vanity. “Now go get ready.” 

...

The rest of the morning flies by in a blur. Nico makes me breakfast while I curl my hair and finish my coffee. He lets me review my major points as I apply my make-up, helps put on my heels, and ensures my water bottle is full before we leave the apartment. He asks me potential questions on my material as he drives me to campus, and hands me my flashcards with a kiss as he drops me off with a promise to pick me up when I’m finished. 

The defense goes off without a hitch, and by twelve they’re inviting me back in the room to share their decision. The table of advisors looks much less intimidating when I reenter the conference room, despite the fact that they currently withhold the most important decision of my life to date. 

“Congratulations, Doctor!” The chairwoman beams, reaching to shake my hand. For the first time in four years, I take a full breath. 

“We have passed you with no revisions to your thesis. This is incredible work.” 

After much congratulations and thanks, I gather my things and all but sprint to the parking lot. The tears are already falling before I even exit the building, but they only fall faster when I see Nico leaning against his car in the parking lot. 

The clack of my heels against the concrete has his head jerking up from his phone. A brief, concerned look crosses his face at the tears leaking from my eyes, but it disappears as a wide grin appears alongside them. 

“I passed!” I screech, and fling myself into his arms for the second time in 24 hours. 

He pulls me in tight, face buried in my hair, and inhales deeply. “I knew you could do it. Never a doubt in my mind,” he breathes. “Fuck, I’m so proud of you.” 

It’s then I realize that even if I had failed miserably, I would’ve been fine. I already have everything I need with Nico. We could be living in a cardboard box on the street, and I’d still be madly in love with him. 

I pulled back then, grasping his face to force him to look at me. 

“Thank you. For everything,” the tears threaten to choke me. “For being here. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

His gooey brown eyes meet mine, equally as watery. “Always, schatz. I’d drop anything for you. Hockey or not. If you need me, I’m there. You are everything to me now.” 

I melt into his chest, overwhelmed by his admission and the events of the past few hours. We stay there for a moment, Nico swaying us as his hand rubs circles along my back.

“I’m gonna marry you someday, Hisch.” I mumble into his chest. 

He is unphased, still swaying gently as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. His response is certain. 

“Not if I marry you first, Dr. Hischier.”

[biblical-chronicles]

Unfiltered

___________________________________________

where a drunken, accidental love confession reminds Liam it's time to finally do something about it.

___________________________________________

Liam was sunk deep into a low-backed chair in the far corner of the event, pint glass clutched loose in his hand, legs stretched out comfortably. His sunglasses had migrated to the top of his head, hair a bit messier than usual, a half-eaten packet of salt and vinegar crisps balanced precariously on his knee.

It wasn't too long before an interviewer clocked him from across the room. Clipboard in hand, recorder already flashing red before she sat down in a chair beside him.

“Liam,” she smiled, teeth bright. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

He just blinked at her slowly. “You are.”

She laughed, like he was being funny. He wasn’t.

“I just wanted a few quick questions—"

“Course you do.” He took another swig, looked her over a bit more.

“Well actually,” she leaned in, “I was going to start with what brings you out tonight.”

He sniffed. “Free booze.”

She waited. He didn’t elaborate.

Eventually, she tried again. “You’ve been seen around quite a bit lately with someone — a new face. People are curious.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just scratched the edge of his stubble with a knuckle and finished off what was left in his glass. She almost moved on, thinking she’d lost him, when he sat forward suddenly and looked her dead in the eye.

“You mean her?”

She nodded, eyebrows up like she was trying to act like she didn’t care, even though her grip on the clipboard tightened.

Liam settled back again, slower now. Less posturing. He looked sideways, not at her, but somewhere just past her shoulder. His mouth twitched.

“She’s class, that one,” he muttered.

The interviewer straightened.

“She got this voice,” he continued, rubbing the back of his neck, “not loud or any of that, just soft, you know? But when she talks, people actually listen. You don’t even realise it at first, then bang, you’re in it. Caught. Mad.”

There was a beat of silence.

“She’s got this way of lookin’ at you like she already knows if you’re talking shite. Doesn’t even have to say owt. Just gives you that look.” He gave a crooked smile, eyes still unfocused. “Drives me up the wall. Can’t get away with nothin’.”

The interviewer looked giddy now, trying to look neutral. “Sounds like you’re taken with her.”

Liam shrugged, but there was no denial. “Yeah, well. She’s not just a pretty face, is she? She’s got the sort of mind on her that makes you question your own. Keeps me honest. Or tries to. Doesn’t always work.”

He scratched his chin absently, fingers jittery with drink.

“She laughs like she doesn’t care who’s listenin’. Big. Proper loud. Can’t fake that kind of laugh. It’s not for show. You get me?”

The interviewer was nodding, but gently now. Like even she knew he wasn’t really talking to her anymore.

Liam leaned forward a little, another pint glass dangling from his fingers now, full and sloshing slightly. He looked tired all of a sudden.

“She’s always cold,” he murmured. “Hands like ice. Always shovin’ 'em into me pockets like it’s her god-given right. I pretend to hate it, but I don’t.”

Then he laughed, just once, soft and low, almost fond.

“Any lad’d want her, wouldn’t they?” he said. “You’d have to be mad not to.”

Silence followed. The kind that doesn’t land right.

And then it hit him.

His face didn’t change at first. Not obviously. Just a little less flushed.

The glass stopped moving in his hand.

Then, suddenly, he stood.

Didn’t say a word. Didn’t look at her.

Just drank a bit from his glass and started walking toward the exit like he’d remembered something urgent.

The interviewer called after him, but he didn’t stop.

He shoved open the side door, half-blocked by a coat rack, and disappeared into the car park.

The knock came slow, then again, louder this time, not frantic, but persistent in the sort of way only a drunk person could manage. You opened the door expecting a neighbour, maybe a delivery gone wrong, but not this.

Liam stood on your doorstep, slightly hunched, flushed from drink or the cold or both. His jacket hung half-open, one arm sort of jammed into the sleeve, and in his left hand, a pint glass, half full, beer sloshing close to the rim every time he shifted.

You stared. "Liam?"

He gave a slow, crooked grin. “Evenin’, love.”

You glanced down. “...Where did you steal that from?”

He blinked at the glass, like he’d only just realized he was still holding it. “Steal? Me? Never. Christ.” He looked deeply offended for a second. “Borrowed. It’s a loaner. Glass on tour. Don’t get sentimental on me.”

You squinted. “From where?”

“That... event. The swanky one.”

“Alright, and you walked out with a glass?”

He looked at it again, frowning. “Well I couldn’t leave him behind, could I?” He raised it like a companion. “We’ve bonded.”

You exhaled through your nose. “Alright. Let’s get this sorted before you bond your forehead to the pavement.”

He made a weak attempt to hide the glass behind his back, stumbling into the threshold. You reached for it. He pulled it back.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, shuffling a step further into your flat, wobbling a bit. “This is important. I’m on a mission.”

“Yeah, and your mission’s about to end in shattered glass and regret,” you muttered, reaching again. “Give it here.”

“I’m not drunk,” he announced. “I’m serious. I’ve come here to tell you things. Profound things.”

“You’re slurring.”

“Stylistic choice,” he said quickly. “S’my accent, it's part of the charm.”

“Liam.”

You went for the glass again, and he pivoted away, clutching it to his chest like a priceless relic.

“Don’t you dare, woman,” he warned. “Let me say what I gotta say.”

You stepped in closer. “Hand it over or I’m prying it out of your fingers.”

“Try it.”

So you did.

What followed was an awkward, undignified shuffle, you trying to wrestle the glass from him, him turning and twisting like a schoolboy who didn’t want to hand over contraband. You bumped into the wall. He elbowed the coat rack by mistake, muttering an apology to it. You finally managed to snatch the glass and sidestepped like a goalkeeper, victorious.

“Ha!” you held it above your head. “Got it.”

He looked positively betrayed. “That’s sabotage. That’s betrayal. You’ve ruined me plans.”

“You were going to cut your lip on that thing.”

“I was fine. I was tryin' to deliver me truth.”

You turned toward the kitchen, calling over your shoulder, “You can deliver it after you sit on the bloody couch.”

Behind you, he mumbled something about not being bossed around in his own life, but when you returned, he was on the couch, sitting sideways, legs stretched out, head lolling a bit as he watched you come back in.

After a mooment he sniffled. Not a full snort, just a sort of sharp breath in, and when you glanced over, he looked downright miserable.

You tilted your head. “What now?”

He didn’t answer at first, just let out a long, soggy sigh and slumped deeper into the couch. You could practically see the dark cloud forming over his head.

“That bloody interviewer,” he muttered eventually.

You raised a brow. “Interviewer?”

“She cornered me, didn’t she? All cheeky smile and microphone, like she was doin’ a charity drive. Started pokin’ about you — sayin’ we’ve been spotted together. Asking what the deal was.”

You crossed your arms, trying to stay neutral. “And what did you say?”

Liam looked up at you, eyes bloodshot and glassy but dead serious. “Told her you’re class. Said your voice is unreal, said you’ve got this way of speakin’ that’s just… it sticks in me head, y’know? Proper echo. Said your eyes are dangerous, and your smile should be regulated, and—” he paused, seeming to realise he’d started reciting a love letter. “Anyway. She ate it up. She loved it. Thought she’d proper cracked me open.”

You gave a soft snort, trying not to smile too much.

“But it doesn’t matter now, does it?” he said, eyes wide with sudden dread. “You think I’m a thief.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The glass,” he said dramatically, pointing toward the kitchen where you set the pint. “You caught me red-handed. I’ve sullied me name. You’ll never trust me again.”

You laughed, a startled, amused little burst. “Liam—”

“I didn’t mean to nick it! I swear!” He stood now, pacing nervously. “It were just… in me hand. One minute I’m talkin’ about your laugh to some daft interviewer, next thing I know I’m halfway down the street with a half pint.”

You covered your mouth to try and stifle another laugh.

He kept going, voice rising, arms flailing. “I didn’t even finish it, look! Left some behind like a gentleman. That’s remorse, that is. Or respect. Or summat.”

“Liam,” you tried again, chuckling now.

“Honestly, if I’d known this’d be the end, I’d’ve left the glass behind and just brought you flowers or, I don’t know, chocolates or some other bollocks—”

“Liam.”

He stopped dead. Looked at you like you’d just said his name in morse code.

“I don’t think you’re a thief,” you said gently. “I was taking the piss, I do not think any less of you.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Not even a bit.”

He blinked at you, properly stunned. “Really?”

“Really.”

He stared at you a moment longer, as if waiting for the gotcha, the sudden reveal that you were, in fact, calling the cops. But all you did was smile and shrug, and that seemed to unlock something in him.

“Oh, thank god,” he said, collapsing back onto the couch like a man reprieved. “Was ready to write a bloody apology letter to the pub landlord. Felt the shame of me ancestors. Thought I’d be banned from your gaff for life.”

You walked over and sat beside him, this time a little closer. “You’re ridiculous.”

He gave you a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe. But I meant all of it, y’know. The stuff I said to her. The stuff about you.”

Your heart fluttered again, because it was hard not to believe him, flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, the quiet slur of sincerity.

“So,” you said slowly, “what are we calling this? A confession or a breakdown?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Both?”

You laughed, and he looked at you with something soft behind his eyes.

“Come here,” you said, and before he could ask what you meant, you leaned in and kissed him.

He made a small, surprised noise, and then kissed you back slowly. His hand found your knee, grounding himself, while yours settled at his jaw.

When you finally pulled away, he looked slightly dazed.

“So,” he said again, grinning now, “let me confirm, you do actually fancy me, and won't report me for theft?”

You rolled your eyes. “Let's get you to bed.”

___________________________________________

a fic for the Liam nation today xx

hope ya lot liked it, and thanks for the request !! promise I'll get me arse to work on these fics this week x

[5oclocksomwhere]

Only When it Burns -Rafe Cameron

You weren’t supposed to kiss him the first time.

It happened on a dare. On the back of a dock, drunk on tequila and moonlight, your lips pressed to Rafe Cameron’s like you were trying to silence every warning in your head. And he kissed you back like someone who had waited his whole life for the excuse.

It was supposed to be a mistake.

It became a secret.

Now it’s the only thing you think about.

Tonight, he pretends you don’t exist.

You’re across the fire pit from him, hair curled from the salt air, laughter tucked behind the red Solo cup in your hand. A Pogue boy — you think his name is Leo — sits too close. Flirts too hard.

You try to ignore the way Rafe’s gaze burns through you.

“You gonna dance?” Leo asks, tugging at your hand as someone’s speaker bumps into an old summer anthem.

You laugh, soft and unsure. “Maybe later.”

Across the fire, Rafe takes a drag from something and exhales like it means nothing. Like you mean nothing. But you know the truth.

You know how his hands shake when they’re tangled in your shirt at midnight. You know the sound he makes when your teeth scrape his jaw. You know how he calls you sweetheart like it’s a promise and a curse.

Leo touches your knee. That’s all it takes.

Suddenly, Rafe is on his feet.

“Problem?” he asks, voice deceptively calm.

Leo blinks. “What?”

“You’re in my seat.”

You’re not sure what hits faster — the tension or JJ, who clocks what’s about to happen before Leo even stands up.

“Rafe, walk away,” JJ warns, standing too. His hand’s already hovering near the gun under his jacket.

But Rafe isn’t looking at him. He’s looking at you.

“Let’s go,” he says, low and direct.

Your breath stumbles.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Not like this.”

Leo snorts. “She’s not yours, man.”

That’s when it happens.

The fight breaks out like summer lightning — fast and hot and chaotic. JJ shoves Rafe. Leo swings. A body hits the bonfire ring and someone screams. It doesn’t matter how it started. You know how it’ll end.

You grab Rafe’s arm and run.

You don’t speak until you’re in the woods, far from the fire, breathless and furious.

“What the hell was that?” you demand, shoving his chest.

He catches your wrists. Holds you still. His eyes are wild.

“You let him touch you.”

“You were ignoring me!”

“You know why.”

You rip free. “Do I?”

He swallows. “Because I can’t be the guy who takes you home.”

“I never asked you to.”

“No. But you keep coming back.”

You want to deny it. But the truth is louder.

You do keep coming back.

Because every time he looks at you like this — like he wants to set the world on fire just to feel something real — you forget every reason you’re not supposed to want him.

You reach for his shirt, fisting it tight.

“You don’t get to touch me and then pretend I’m nothing.”

His mouth is on yours before you finish the sentence.

You crash into him like waves against rock, frantic and raw. His hands are at your waist, lifting you, pinning you to the tree behind. You kiss like you’re both drowning, like maybe this is the only way to breathe.

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft.

But it’s honest.

“I hate that I can’t stay away from you,” he says against your throat.

“You don’t,” you whisper.

“No,” he agrees. “I don’t.”

You press your forehead to his. Try to slow your heart.

“What is this?” you ask quietly.

His hands still.

“It’s real,” he says, finally. “That’s all I know.”

And somehow, that’s enough.

Later, you’ll walk home alone.

You’ll pretend nothing happened.

You’ll lie to everyone who asks.

But you’ll know the truth.

And so will he.

Because whatever this is — it doesn’t end tonight.

Not even close.

THE END.

[majoryeager104]

heyyyyy Chloeeeeeweeewwweeeew can you maybe do a little thing for putting flowers/making flower crowns for Touya and/or Keigo? 🥺🥺🥺 Thank yewwwww <3333

(I thought of this the other day since I’ve always imagined Touya with super fluffy hair and i can’t stop thinking about it 😭)

squealing rn this is an amazing idea omg <3

Keigo <3

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You're halfway through the fruit you packed, lying on your softest blanket under a big patch of blue sky, when Keigo flops onto his side beside you. He’s already stolen three strawberries, unwrapped the sandwich you specifically said was yours, and is now staring at you like you're more interesting than anything else in the world.

“What’re you doing, sweets?” he asks, watching your fingers twist dainty white clover flowers into a chain.

“Making you a crown,” you reply, nonchalant.

His wings give a little flutter behind him. “For me?”

“Who else?” you laugh.

Keigo props himself up on one elbow, eyes glinting with amusement. “You sure it’s a good idea? I mean, I already look too good. This might break the balance of the universe.”

“You’ll live.”

He watches as you finish the last loop, your tongue poking out in concentration. When you finally place the flower crown gently on his head, he freezes dramatically.

“Be honest,” he says. “Do I look majestic? Adorable? Ethereal?”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “You look like someone’s very handsome garden fairy boyfriend.”

He grins wide, tugging you into his lap without warning. “Lucky for you, I only do flower crowns and picnics for people I’m crazy about.”

“And stealing their sandwiches?”

“Part of the boyfriend tax,” he says, mouth near your ear now. “Also, you forgot dessert.”

You look at the empty container. “You ate dessert.”

Keigo smiles, feather-light and smug. “Oh yeah. Whoops.” He shrugs, drawing a giggle from you no matter how hard you tried not to give in. 

And despite your mock annoyance, you don’t move from his lap. No, you just lean back against him, his crown slightly askew, wings stretched lazily behind you in the afternoon sun.

You don't say it, but you’re thinking it: You’d crown him a thousand times over, if it meant he’d always look at you like that.

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Touya <3

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It starts with a walk. Quiet, slow, and unusually peaceful for someone like Touya, a man so often wrapped in smoke, fire, and tension. The sky is overcast, the wind light, and the park nearly empty. You spot a patch of small, wildflowers blooming by the edge of the trail- pale purples, sunny yellows, a few stubborn dandelions- and your eyes light up.

“Hold this,” you say, handing him your phone and sitting cross-legged on the grass.

Touya raises a brow. “The hell are you doing?”

“Making something,” you hum.

He watches you pluck flowers and braid their delicate stems together with careful fingers. It’s silly, he thinks at first. Something soft people do. Not for people like him. But then you glance up at him and smile, bright and beautiful, and he swallows that thought.

When you finish, you stand and face him with both hands behind your back.

“Bend down,” you say sweetly.

“No.”

You step closer, rising to your toes. “Touya.”

His eye twitches. “Why do I feel like I’m gonna regret this?”

You pull the crown from behind your back and gently, very gently, place it on his head, his soft fluffy hair poking out at every angle underneath it.

For a moment, he just blinks at you. The faintest pink rises to his ears.

“You look cute,” you say.

He huffs a laugh through his nose, but doesn’t take it off. “I look ridiculous.”

“No,” you murmur, brushing a strand of his white hair behind his ear. “You look like something beautiful pretending to be dangerous.”

He stares at you then- longer than necessary, longer than friends do- and says, a little quieter than usual, “You’re a menace.”

You grin. “You love it.”

He doesn’t argue.

He just leans down and kisses you, flower crown now lopsided in his hair.

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Did I capture the yearning

[iraot]

The Sound of Staying

Pairing: Sylus x f!reader Summary: Your worries never scared him. He could quiet those fears. Similar plot line to "Every Answer, Always" Word Count: 9467 AO3

The car ride back was slow, unhurried by traffic or tension, just the hum of tires over asphalt and the occasional click of the turn signal. Streetlights passed over the windshield like brief pulses of gold, flashing soft shadows across her face where she sat beside him, quiet. Sylus glanced over once—then again—just long enough to catch the slight crease at her brow, the edge of her bottom lip tugged in, bitten without thought. Not alarmed, but lost somewhere inward, spinning through something she wasn’t saying.

He parked, engine easing into stillness with a low sigh, and turned to face her, resting an elbow casually on the steering wheel. “You look like you’re trying to untangle three knots in the dark,” he said lightly, voice low, the kind that seemed like it came from the back of his throat, patient and textured. He didn’t press, didn’t poke—just gave her that space to confirm or brush it away. She didn’t respond at first, just looked out at the soft lights of her apartment and then down at her hands, fingers laced tight.

“Something I did?” he asked, letting the question hang in the air without weight. His red eyes were striking, yes, but there was nothing sharp in them now—only a kind of slow-burning attentiveness, like he was already halfway through mapping out the answer she might not know how to voice. His voice dropped a note, more intimate without becoming urgent. “Or maybe something I didn’t?”

Her head tilted, uncertain, caught between brushing it off and being honest. He didn’t wait. “Let me guess,” he went on, smoothly, as if reciting a familiar script. “You're wondering if you said something too much, or not enough. Whether the silence in the restaurant meant I was bored, or thoughtful, or both. Whether leaning into me when we walked back was okay or if I was just polite and now you're replaying every step wondering which part crossed some invisible line.”

She blinked, mouth parting slightly. His gaze didn’t shift. He leaned in a bit, his shoulder brushing hers just barely. “You’re not wrong for wondering. You’re not crazy. But I think you’re used to people who let you wonder instead of answering.” A pause, deliberate. “So let me be the guy who answers.”

A breath left her. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Relief beginning to thread in, cautious but real.

“I liked tonight,” he said. “I like the way you watch people when you think no one’s paying attention. I liked how you asked the waiter if he was okay after he spilled the water. I liked that you were nervous but came anyway. I liked that you talked about the novel you started but didn’t finish because you got scared it wouldn't be good.” He paused, just for the rhythm of it. “I liked that you were willing to be a little real.”

Her voice was soft when it finally came. “But I talk a lot when I’m nervous. Ramble.”

“So let me listen when you ramble,” he murmured, smiling slightly. “I’ve got more patience than you think.”

She turned toward him then, more fully, shoulders easing just slightly. The look she gave him wasn’t wide-eyed or grateful—it was tentative, like testing a bridge to see if it would hold her weight.

“And if I overthink everything?” she asked, finally voicing it.

“Then I’ll over-explain everything,” he said without missing a beat. “I don’t care if it takes three conversations and a pie chart. I’ll walk you through what I feel, what I meant, what I didn’t mean, and when I breathed. You never have to guess with me.”

A beat of silence. She looked down again, this time not out of retreat, but recalibration. A quiet surprise that maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to keep doing all the math alone.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Sylus reached up and brushed a knuckle gently down the side of her cheek, not as a caress but a promise. “No ghosts. No riddles. Just us. And maybe some late-night takeout if you’re hungry.”

Her smile then—small, real—was all he needed. The air between them changed. Still tender, still cautious, but beginning to open. He walked her to the door without rushing, his fingers brushing her lower back with an easy, anchoring kind of care. The kind that said: I see you. You’re safe. You’re not too much.

—

Her number lit up his screen just past midnight, soft buzz against the wooden table where his book lay open but long since forgotten. Sylus blinked once at the name, then again at the time, the corners of his lips twitching faintly. He didn’t hesitate. Thumb tapped “Answer” before the second ring could roll into the third.

“Hey.” His voice was low, sleep-roughened but not annoyed, carrying that smooth weight like a blanket pulled close on a cold night. “Everything alright?”

There was a pause. Breathing on the other end—quick, caught, trying to steady. “I… I didn’t want to bother you,” she said, her voice a quiet scrape. “I just—something’s been gnawing at me and I couldn’t sleep, and I know it’s probably nothing but it feels like something, and the longer I sit with it, the worse it gets.”

He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the back, a muscle twitching in his jaw not from irritation, but empathy. “You’re not bothering me,” he said simply, and meant it. “Tell me what’s gnawing.”

She exhaled a small, nervous laugh. “It’s stupid. I keep thinking back to when I made that joke about your reading habits. The vampire comment? And you didn’t really laugh, and I just… I don’t know. Maybe I crossed a line, or maybe you thought I was making fun of you.”

A slow smile pulled at his mouth. His white hair slipped forward slightly as he tipped his head, listening like someone savoring every word of a song. He didn’t interrupt. Let her keep going.

“And then I remembered you went kind of quiet after that, and I wondered if I killed the mood, and maybe that’s why you didn’t text yesterday, and I know it’s only been a couple days but my brain’s been running loops, like… like I ruined it. Somehow.”

Sylus breathed in, slow and deep, the kind of breath meant to ground more than just himself. “You’re doing a whole autopsy on a moment that didn’t even die,” he said gently, voice threaded with warmth. “I didn’t laugh at the vampire thing because I was trying not to make a face. I was swallowing a mouthful of wine. And I didn’t text because I passed out the second I got home. You didn’t ruin anything.”

A pause. Soft breath on the line. She didn’t speak, but he could feel it—her shoulders starting to loosen.

“I liked the joke, for the record,” he added, red eyes flickering as he stood and paced slowly toward his window, the city lights casting faint patterns over the floor. “You saw something about me and made it playful instead of weird. Most people don’t know how to do that.”

She made a small, involuntary sound. “God, I feel ridiculous.”

“Then be ridiculous,” he said, with the easy cadence of someone who'd made peace with all his own sharp edges. “Be anxious, be honest. Let me meet you there instead of watching you spiral alone.”

She went quiet again, but it was different now. No tension in it, just processing. Just quiet appreciation without knowing how to voice it.

He leaned against the window frame, bare chest reflected faintly in the glass, and said, softer now, “You don’t have to rehearse your heart with me..”

A small laugh escaped her. Real this time, light enough to chase the shadows back.

“I didn’t want to seem… clingy.”

“If this is clingy, then I’m building the damn shrine,” he murmured. “Call me when you need. Or when you don’t. I’ll answer either way.”

He could hear the way her breathing changed then—slowed, softened. Like she’d finally let herself exhale. The silence between them stretched, but it was warm now, full of permission.

“You should sleep,” she whispered eventually.

“I will,” he said, sitting down again. “After you do.”

“You don’t have to wait—”

“I know. Still will.” His voice dipped again, that signature tone of quiet finality wrapped in care. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

She hesitated, then whispered it back: “Goodnight.”

He didn’t hang up. Waited until her side of the call went still, breathing deep and slow, before he let the line fall quiet—like a watchful promise held through static.

—

It happened at the edge of quiet, in the hush that follows laughter when two people have run out of things to joke about but not out of reasons to stay close. They were sitting on the stairs outside her building, not in any hurry, Sylus with one knee up, arm draped casually over it, his other hand resting just inches from hers on the step. The night was cool, not cold, the kind of evening that coaxed confessions and comfortable silences, and she’d just finished telling him some childhood memory—something silly and embarrassing, complete with hand gestures and mock voices.

He’d laughed—really laughed, low and rough and genuine. And then he’d gone quiet, not because the story wasn’t good, but because he didn’t want to chase that moment away too quickly.

She glanced over, eyes catching on the sharp lines of his face, the white fall of hair brushing over his cheekbone, those red eyes softened now like embers rather than flame. And he was looking at her—not just glancing, but watching, with a focus that didn’t flinch, like he was memorizing her face in case he’d never see it again.

“You do that,” she murmured.

His brow arched slightly. “Do what?”

“Look at me like… like you already know something I don’t.”

Sylus’s mouth curved faintly. “Maybe I do.”

Her heart kicked once, sharp and unexpected. He didn’t lean in—not yet—but he shifted, just a fraction closer, the space between them thinning to something almost intimate. “You don’t talk to fill silence,” he said, voice low. “You talk to see if someone will stay.”

She opened her mouth—then closed it. That was too close to the truth.

He reached up then, slow, telegraphed every movement, giving her time to pull back, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fingers grazing the curve of her cheek. His touch was warm, firm but not forceful, as though the weight of her against his palm was something he’d thought about longer than he should have.

“I’m still here,” he murmured.

Her breath hitched. And then she leaned, not in a dramatic sweep, just enough to cross the line between wondering and wanting. His hand slid from her cheek to her jaw, guiding—not taking—and when his mouth finally touched hers, it was with startling care. Not tentative, not unsure, but intentional. His lips moved slowly against hers, tasting, exploring, telling her in pressure and heat what his words hadn’t dared say yet.

She melted into it almost without meaning to, fingers curling against the fabric of his sleeve, grounding herself in the moment as his thumb stroked lightly beneath her ear. The kiss deepened—not rushed, but inevitable—until their mouths moved with a rhythm that spoke of things unspoken, of late-night phone calls and slow-burning promises, of a man who kissed like he explained: thoroughly, attentively, leaving no part of her doubt untouched.

When they finally pulled apart, her lips tingled, flushed and full. He stayed close, forehead nearly brushing hers, red eyes half-lidded and watching her with something quiet and devastatingly warm.

“I wanted to do that since the first time you said my name,” he murmured.

Her smile came slowly, blooming like a secret.

“I’m glad you waited,” she said.

“So am I.”

—

She closed the front door behind them with a soft click, the hallway light catching on the curve of her cheek as she turned to Sylus, her fingers still laced around his. The smile she’d worn through most of dinner had faded now, lips pressed into a thoughtful line, eyes distant. He could already read it—the gears spinning too fast, replaying the evening in fragments and tones.

They reached her apartment door before she spoke, her voice low, hesitant. “Did… what my dad said—about your eyes—did that bother you?” She wasn’t looking at him, not directly. “I don’t think he meant it in a bad way, he just—he can be blunt sometimes, and now I keep thinking about it and it’s sitting weird.”

Sylus paused. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and brushed his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face up gently so their eyes met. His were unreadable for a second, glowing faint under the dim hallway light, and then softened into something unmistakably warm.

“You mean the part where he asked if I wore contacts because they looked unnatural?” he said with a ghost of a smirk. “Or the bit where he wondered out loud if I was part ‘something’ because of the ‘sharp features’?”

Her mouth opened, horror flickering in her expression. “God. That’s it. That’s exactly what I—he didn’t mean it like—”

“I know,” Sylus cut in, gently, thumb brushing across the underside of her jaw. “I’ve met that kind of man before. Observational, not malicious. Says what he sees and doesn’t dress it up. I didn’t take it personally.”

She blinked. “But still. I should’ve said something.”

“You did,” he said simply. “Your hand tightened around mine when he said it. I felt it. That was enough.”

A breath caught in her throat, half-relief, half-something else—something tangled in guilt, or the ache of wanting to shield someone you care about from things they may not even be hurt by.

Sylus stepped closer, until her back brushed the door. “You don’t have to carry every awkward thing someone says like it’s yours to fix. You already do enough of that.” His voice dropped slightly. “I don’t bruise that easy. And I don’t expect your family to filter their curiosity before I’ve even earned their trust.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure whether to lean into the comfort or apologize again.

He beat her to it. “Besides,” he added with a smirk, “he didn’t say anything about my height, or the fact that I eat steak like I’m stalking it. I count that as a win.”

She laughed, a real laugh this time, head tipping forward into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, pressing his lips briefly to her temple.

“I like them,” he murmured into her hair. “And I like how much you care. But next time, let me decide what stings and what doesn’t. You just keep holding my hand.”

She nodded against him, breath easing. “Deal.”

— She hadn’t said much through dessert, which was the first red flag. No warm tease when he subtly stole the last spoonful of her tiramisu, no amused glance when her cousin’s obnoxious friend launched into yet another overly dramatic story punctuated with a flirty giggle and barely-disguised glances at Sylus. Her hands were still—too still—and when she finally excused herself from the table, she didn’t touch his arm or shoulder or back on the way out. That was the second.

He found her on the terrace, pacing, arms crossed. Her jaw was set, not with sadness or hurt, but tight fury barely held together under a thin veneer of calm.

“She really thought I was going to sit there and smile through it,” she muttered without turning around, as if the moment he walked out, she knew it was him. “Like I was invisible. Like I was the fucking potted plant between her and you.”

Sylus leaned against the railing beside her, arms folded over his chest, his white hair catching the low golden patio light like moonlight over bone. “Are we talking about the friend with the nails that could gouge glass?” he asked, tone casual but edged.

She cut him a look. “Don’t joke.”

He straightened, no longer leaning. “Wasn’t joking. Just trying to see if you’re pissed about the right person. Because it sure as hell better not be me.”

“I’m not mad at you.” The words came sharp, fast, like a reflex. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You never do. That’s what pisses me off. She saw me with you. She saw us. And she still—God—she was halfway in your lap every time she leaned forward to tell some story she probably rehearsed in the mirror.”

He didn’t smile, not even a flicker. Instead, he reached out and caught her hand mid-gesture, drawing it down to his chest, right over his heart.

“You think I didn’t feel that?” he said, voice low. “Every time she looked at me, I looked at you. Every time she touched my arm, I shifted closer to you. You think I didn’t notice you dying in your seat because I was waiting to see if you’d speak or if you’d swallow it?”

Her breath stuttered. Her eyes flicked down to where his fingers had closed around hers.

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” she muttered.

“You can set the whole table on fire if someone disrespects you,” he said calmly. “I won’t blink. I’ll pass you the matches.”

A breath caught in her throat, then softened into something deeper. He pulled her in slowly, arms wrapping around her waist, holding her tight, grounding her in the sheer solid mass of him—warm, calm, unbothered, but entirely hers.

“You don’t have to question if I’m yours,” he murmured, lips brushing against her temple. “But if someone wants to pretend they don’t see the crown on your head, I have no problem reminding them who stands beside you.”

She exhaled shakily, pressing her face against his chest, fury ebbing into frustration and finally into something she didn’t need to name—safe, steady, solid.

“I don’t like being disrespected,” she whispered.

“And I don’t like watching you try to swallow it down,” he said. “Next time, let me take her wrist when she gets too close. Just a tap. Enough for the message.”

She laughed into his shirt. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’m not interested in subtle when it comes to you.” His voice dropped even lower, right against her ear. “I want the world to know where I stand—and who I stand with.”

She looked up at him then, fire still in her eyes but calmed now, focused.

“You really weren’t tempted?”

Sylus bent down, pressing his lips to hers—slow, sure, and deeply possessive. “Tempted?” he echoed against her mouth. “I can’t even see other women when you’re in the room. She was a shadow. You are gravity.”

She kissed him again, hands fisting in his shirt, and this time the heat wasn’t from anger.

— The villa they’d rented was tucked along a quiet stretch of coastline, sun-warmed stone and drifting salt air, with a private pool that shimmered like melted sapphire under the late morning light. She stood just inside the glass doors, wrapped in a towel, fingers bunching the fabric tight around her middle. The scent of sunscreen lingered faint on her skin, but she hadn’t stepped outside yet.

Sylus was already by the pool, lounging back on one of the low chairs, dark swim trunks slung low on his hips, hair a tousled shock of white in the sun. He’d pulled his shirt off casually and tossed it aside—muscled, broad, comfortable in his skin in a way that made it look effortless, but never performative. When he noticed the movement behind the glass, he turned his head—and stilled.

Her hand hovered on the doorframe. She wasn’t trembling, but her body language said it all: hesitation strung tight as a drawn bow. The towel hadn’t shifted, not even a little. She was still wrapped like armor.

His gaze softened instantly.

He rose slowly, not with urgency, but purpose, and crossed the patio toward her, every step of his tall frame radiating ease. He opened the sliding door himself and stepped in, not saying a word at first. Just looked at her, quiet and steady.

“You don’t have to,” he said, gently. “You don’t owe me a show. Not here. Not ever.”

She looked up at him, uncertain, caught between the vulnerability of being seen and the fear of not being enough in the face of someone like him—someone who made turning heads look accidental.

“I know,” she said, voice small. “But I wanted to. For me. I just…”

Sylus leaned down slightly, one hand coming to rest at her hip, the other brushing a thumb just beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his.

“You know what I saw when I looked over just now?” he murmured. “You. Standing in the sunlight, wrapped up like the fabric was holding you together, but your eyes already out here. You looked beautiful before you even stepped outside.”

She swallowed, lips parting—but he wasn’t done.

“I don’t care about stretch marks. Or softness. Or lines. I care about the way you look at me when you’re trying not to smile. The way you walk into a room like you don’t belong, and then own the air in it. That’s what I see when I look at you. Not what you’re wearing. Not what you’re hiding.”

Her fingers relaxed around the towel slightly.

“And if you come out there,” he added, voice velvet and certainty all at once, “I’ll make sure you never have to wonder if I see anything but the woman I chose.”

She stared up at him, then slowly nodded. Hands moved, unfastening the towel with a slow breath and letting it fall from her shoulders. The swimsuit hugged her close—flattering, but revealing enough that the unease curled just beneath her ribs.

Sylus didn’t look away. His red eyes tracked down and up again with open reverence—not hunger, not evaluation, but pride.

“Holy shit,” he said softly, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You’re stunning.”

Her blush bloomed so fast it made her laugh, half hiding her face.

He stepped back, offered his hand with an incline of his head toward the sunlit pool. “Come on. Let the sun see what I get to wake up beside.”

And she followed him—still a little self-conscious, still adjusting—but walking straighter, a smile fighting its way back onto her face, because he wasn’t looking at her like she was pretending to be beautiful.

He looked at her like she already was.

— It happened slowly, like warmth creeping into cold skin—no sudden fire, no frenzy, just a steady draw, a pull that had been simmering under every glance, every brush of fingers, every breath caught between silences.

They’d fallen asleep curled together on the second night of the trip, tangled beneath white linen sheets, the balcony doors open to let the night breeze sweep in, carrying salt and jasmine and moonlight. At some point before dawn, she’d stirred, shifting closer in the dark, her hand sliding across his chest with the kind of quiet need that wasn't asking for sex—it was asking for closeness. For skin. For certainty.

Sylus hadn’t been asleep.

His arm wrapped around her immediately, drawing her in with that same confident, unhurried strength he always carried—like the weight of him alone could make her feel anchored. He tilted his head, nuzzling his nose just under her ear, and whispered her name—soft and full of things unspoken.

“I know,” she murmured, barely audible. “I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

No need to name it. The way her fingers curled against his side, the way her thigh slid over his, the way their mouths found each other in the dark with instinct more than aim—it said enough. The first kiss wasn’t like the others. Slower. Mouths open, lips brushing again and again as if searching for the right angle, the right rhythm. He kissed her like she was something sacred, something fragile but fierce, letting her set the pace.

Her hands explored tentatively, tracing the hard planes of his shoulders, the smooth warmth of his chest, down to the sharp V of muscle just above his waistband. He shivered beneath her touch, but never rushed her, letting her feel every shift in him, every breath he took like it meant something.

When she pulled back to look at him, moonlight caught in the strands of his white hair, she saw more than want in his red eyes. She saw restraint. Devotion. An almost unbearable care that made her heart throb harder than the slow ache building low in her belly.

“Are you sure?” he asked, even now, even with his hands cupping her waist, thumbs stroking gentle arcs over bare skin.

She nodded, voice caught somewhere in her throat. “I want to remember this.”

His expression shifted—something tender and reverent sliding over his features—and he kissed her again, deeper this time, rolling her gently onto her back, blanketing her with his body without crushing, without taking. His weight was heat and solidity, his breath warm against her neck as his lips traveled lower, trailing over her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of her chest.

He undressed her slowly, like he’d dreamed of doing it a hundred times but had waited for the real thing. Every inch of her he revealed was met with a kiss, a brush of his knuckles, a quiet murmur of something that wasn’t quite words—just low sounds of approval, of worship.

When he finally slid inside her, it wasn’t fast or frantic. It was slow—achingly slow—his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing each other in. She gasped, one hand gripping his back, the other curled into the sheets as her body stretched to take him. He groaned low, barely holding onto his control, and whispered her name like it steadied him.

“Look at me,” he murmured, hips rolling forward, filling her in smooth, measured thrusts. “I want to see you when you fall apart.”

She did.

She watched him watching her, eyes locked as his body moved with hers—no rush, no pounding pace, just a rhythm that built and built until it felt like they were unraveling together. Her moans were soft at first, lips parting in disbelief at the fullness, the stretch, the pressure that climbed higher with every movement. He kissed her when she whimpered, kissed her when she cried out, kissed her when her back arched and her legs trembled around his hips.

And when she came—fingers digging into his arms, breath stuttering, body clenching around him—he didn’t stop. He rode it out with her, whispering praises against her skin, holding her like something precious even while his control finally broke.

He came with a groan against her shoulder, deep and raw, his body shaking as he buried himself inside her, holding her tight like he needed her to feel how much it meant. Not just the pleasure—though there was that, too—but the trust, the closeness, the act of being let in.

Afterward, he didn’t roll away.

He stayed wrapped around her, hand on her lower belly, nose buried in her hair, whispering small things in the dark that made her laugh softly, even as her limbs ached and her skin buzzed. He didn’t fall asleep right away, and neither did she. They just lay there, the sea whispering outside, their bodies pressed together, and nothing between them but breath.

— The restaurant was beautiful, the kind of hidden rooftop jewel that didn’t rely on popularity to fill its tables—just moonlight, music soft as breath, and the city stretching out beneath them like a painting. Their table sat near the edge, candlelight flickering gently between them, casting warm shadows across the sharp lines of his face.

But Sylus hadn’t touched his wine. He hadn’t even made one of his quiet, amused jabs when she mispronounced the appetizer. He was watching her too closely, smile a little too careful, gaze flicking down to the tablecloth when she reached for his hand.

“You’re quiet,” she said, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Not in the ‘I’m enjoying the view’ way. In the ‘I’m stuck in my own damn head’ way.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Observant.”

“Try dating you for a year,” she teased lightly. “I speak fluent Sylus silence now.”

He looked up then, really looked at her, and the flicker in his expression—an almost-vulnerability, the edge of something deeper just beneath—made her pulse skip.

“I’ve been overthinking this night since last week,” he admitted. “What to wear, where to go, what gift to get. What words to say.” He exhaled, low and rough. “And the truth is, I don’t think any of it really matters. Because all I keep thinking is… this shouldn't have lasted.”

Her eyebrows knit, lips parting—but he shook his head, gently.

“Not because I didn’t want it to,” he went on, voice softer now. “Because I’ve never had something like this not fall apart. Never felt… wanted, without it turning into obligation or distance or something ugly with teeth.” He swallowed, gaze falling again to where her hand still held his. “The first few months, I kept waiting for the moment you’d see too much. Or get bored. Or realize I wasn’t what you thought.”

“Sylus…” she whispered, but he wasn’t finished.

“But it didn’t happen,” he said. “You kept showing up. Not just for the good parts. For the hard stuff. For my worst moods. For the silences I couldn’t explain. And after a while, it stopped feeling like a countdown to failure.” His eyes lifted to hers, red and burning and bare. “It started feeling like home.”

Her chest tightened. Emotion caught thick in her throat.

“I love you,” he said simply. “And not in the fragile, fairy tale way. I love you because you make me feel like I don’t have to hold my breath waiting for it to implode. Because with you, everything feels like it fits. Like I was never made for anything else but this.”

She didn’t speak for a second. Just looked at him—this man with fire in his eyes and careful hands and a soul so much gentler than anyone ever noticed. And when she did speak, her voice shook a little.

“I felt the same,” she said, fingers tightening around his. “From the beginning. I kept waiting for you to realize I was messy. Or too sensitive. Or not enough. And every time I started doubting, you just… saw me. Really saw me. And stayed.”

A smile finally broke through his tension, slow and raw.

She leaned forward, brushing her lips across his knuckles. “You’re not just loved, Sylus. You’re wanted. All of you. The overthinking, the intensity, the calm, the chaos—every part.”

He stood then—without thinking, without caring if anyone watched—and pulled her up into his arms. There, in the golden halo of candlelight and stars, he held her like the words had finally sunk in. Like maybe this was real, and maybe it wasn’t going anywhere.

And when he kissed her—slow, reverent—it wasn’t for show, or ceremony, or because the night demanded romance.

It was because she had given him something no one else ever had.

A year of peace in a heart that had only ever known war.

–

It happened quietly, the way all their moments did when they mattered most—not with a flourish, not with a spotlight, but in that hush that fell when the world outside stopped mattering and it was just her heartbeat and his breath in the same space.

They were in the kitchen. Not a candlelit dinner. Not a staged event. She was barefoot, hair pulled back, one hand around a mug that had gone lukewarm while she stared out the window, too lost in thought to drink it. The late afternoon sun spilled gold across the floor, streaked her collarbone with warmth, lit her like something he hadn’t quite deserved but somehow still got to keep.

Sylus leaned in the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He watched the way she chewed the inside of her cheek, the way her foot tapped slightly against the tile like her body was trying to siphon off the excess noise in her head.

He knew that look.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stepped in slowly, letting his presence press into the silence without demanding anything of it.

Her eyes flicked up when he reached her. Then down again.

He didn’t need to ask what was wrong. He’d learned her rhythms the way some people learned languages—by immersion, by instinct, by a willingness to get it wrong until it became second nature.

“You’re doing it again,” he said softly, voice low and warm. Not accusing. Just factual.

She blinked. “What?”

“The math,” he said, brushing a knuckle along the edge of her jaw, lifting her gaze. “Trying to calculate how long I’ll stay. What it means that I didn’t say ‘I love you’ after I hung up yesterday. Whether me forgetting to buy your oat milk means I’m forgetting to see you.”

Her breath hitched, jaw tightening like she wanted to argue—then slacked, because she knew he was right.

“It’s not fair,” she murmured. “You shouldn’t have to keep... talking me down.”

“I’m not talking you down,” he said. “I’m walking beside you. That’s different.”

He took the mug from her hands, set it gently on the counter behind her, then stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to keep eye contact. His hands didn’t touch her yet. Just hovered near her waist, like asking permission even after all this time.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, quietly, steadily. “Not about if—I haven’t questioned the if since the first time I fell asleep with you beside me and woke up wishing we had forever. I’ve just been thinking about when. When’s the right moment. When you’ll feel safe enough not to flinch at the idea of permanence.”

She stilled. Her breathing slowed. Her arms wrapped around herself like a shield.

“And now you’re overthinking again,” he added gently. “Trying to read the signs. Wondering if this is a setup, if there’s a speech coming, if you’re supposed to react a certain way.”

She opened her mouth.

He stepped in before she could.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t try to manage this. Don’t plan your face. Don’t rehearse your heart.”

A breath. His hands finally settled—one at her waist, the other sliding up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing across skin he knew like second nature.

“I don’t want the perfect proposal,” he said. “I want you. I want every anxious question, every night where you double-check the tone of my text, every time you ask me if I’m sure—even when I’ve told you a thousand times. I want the messy love. The kind that holds, even when it shakes. The kind that stays.”

She blinked fast, once, then again. Her lips parted, but her voice stuck somewhere in the middle of a breath.

So he gave her something to hold onto.

From the back pocket of his jeans, he pulled out a ring. No box. No speech. Just silver and stone warmed by the heat of his skin. He held it up between them—not kneeling, not dramatic. Just holding it the way he held everything with her: steady, open, real.

“You want to know if I’m sure?” His voice was quieter now, threading under her ribs like a second heartbeat. “I’m sure enough to risk everything I’ve never had. I’m sure enough to want your overthinking and your soft mornings and your full-body laughs and your ‘are you mad at me?’ texts after I go quiet for five minutes. I’m sure enough to put it all in your hands. Because I’d rather live in the chaos of us than peace anywhere else.”

Tears welled but didn’t fall. She stared at the ring, then at him, and something in her cracked—not in pain, but in recognition. The dam of doubt finally breaking.

“You don’t have to say anything yet,” he whispered. “Just… take it. If not the ring, then the moment. Let it be real.”

Her hand trembled as she reached out. He let her take the ring. No pressure to put it on. No demand.

But when her fingers closed around it, and her gaze finally lifted to meet his fully, something shifted in her expression. A quiet relief. A wonder so thick it left no room for fear.

“I was going to say yes,” she said, voice thin with emotion. “But now I just want to hold it for a second.”

“Take your time,” Sylus murmured, smiling like the sun had landed behind his eyes. “I’ve got the rest of my life.”

And when she stepped into his arms, tucked her face into his chest, the ring held tight in her palm like a promise forming shape, he held her like it was already done.

Because to him, it was.

—

It didn’t feel like a momentous discovery. Not at first. Not the way movies painted it—no dramatic music, no gasped realization in a public bathroom. Just the quiet sound of her toothbrush clattering into the sink and her hand bracing against the counter as the wave of nausea subsided, leaving her hollow and shaken.

She stared at her reflection, pale, a bead of sweat tracing her temple. It was the third morning in a row, and while she could’ve written it off as stress or bad sleep or the ever-tightening knot of wedding planning, something in her gut—the part that knew things before her brain could process them—was whispering the truth.

It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. But it curled around her ribs and pressed just a little too hard, made her throat tight and her breathing shallow.

She’d taken the test half an hour ago. It sat on the bathroom counter now, facedown, like even looking at it might turn the possibility into permanence.

She hadn’t touched it since.

From the living room came the quiet hum of Sylus’s voice, low and amused, talking on the phone with the florist. Something about white garden roses and whether or not they clashed with black calla lilies. He sounded calm. Warm. Present. Like he always did when he was talking about them—the future they were building, the life they were threading together, piece by slow, deliberate piece.

She reached for the test.

Turned it.

And everything stilled.

Positive.

The word hit her harder than expected, like a soft punch to the chest. Not painful—but disorienting. Her fingers tightened around the plastic, breath catching. She couldn’t quite name what she was feeling—joy laced with panic, wonder tangled with disbelief. A flutter of something ancient and instinctive moved low in her belly, just beneath the fear.

She didn’t know how long she stood there.

But it was long enough that Sylus noticed.

She heard his steps first. Bare feet across the hardwood. Then the door opened—softly, like he was trying not to startle her. She didn’t turn.

“You okay?” His voice, right behind her now. Concern threaded through it instantly, like it was second nature. “You didn’t answer when I called out.”

She blinked. Her voice stuck in her throat. So she lifted the test instead, hand trembling just enough to betray her calm.

There was a beat of silence.

Then his hand closed gently over hers, steadying it, steadying her.

He looked at it.

Then he looked at her.

His expression didn’t crack into shock. He didn’t go wide-eyed, didn’t step back or freeze. No. His breath caught—barely audible—and his other hand came up to her face, tilting her gently toward him. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, as if checking for tears. There were none. Just something quiet and raw and too big to hold alone.

“You’re…” he began, but the word didn’t finish. Not because he didn’t believe it. Because he did.

“I didn’t plan—” she started, but he shook his head, not sharply, just enough to stop her spiral before it could unfurl.

“I don’t care,” he said, voice hushed and thick and steady. “I don’t care if we didn’t plan it. I care that you’re okay. That you’re not standing here alone thinking you have to carry this before you even know how to feel.”

She exhaled, shaky, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. His arms came around her instantly, locking tight, anchoring.

“I don’t even know if I’m scared or excited,” she whispered. “I just… it doesn’t feel real.”

“Let it be what it is,” Sylus murmured into her hair. “Let it be messy. Let it be big. We’ll sort the rest.”

Her laugh was wet, close to breaking. “God, you’re too calm. You’re too calm. Are you not freaking out at all?”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes—and there it was. That faint flicker behind his gaze, the crackle of stunned awe barely contained. But he wasn’t spiraling. He was anchoring her.

“I’m freaking out,” he said. “But not the way you think. I’m... overwhelmed, yeah. But not scared. Because it’s you. And me. And now—this. And I don’t know how to feel anything but...” He paused, breath catching. “Lucky.”

She blinked. “Lucky?”

“Yeah.” His thumb stroked her cheek, reverent. “You’re going to grow a life. In there.” His hand drifted down, barely grazing her belly. “Our life. And I get to watch it. I get to help raise it. Love it. Protect it. Just like I protect you.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Only a slow unraveling inside her, like every knot had been tied too tight for too long and now they were giving way under the warmth of his voice.

“What if I’m not ready?” she asked, not as a fear, but a confession.

He smiled, small and quiet and devastatingly sure. “Then we get ready. Together. I’ll build the crib, and you’ll yell at me because I read the instructions upside-down. I’ll hold your hair back when the morning sickness hits and sneak ginger candy into your purse like contraband. I’ll talk to your belly like a lunatic and cry the first time they kick. And when they’re born, I’ll be there. Every second. I’m already here.”

Tears burned, finally breaking loose.

She dropped the test on the counter and flung her arms around him, full force, burying her face in his neck.

He held her, stronger than the fear, softer than the doubt, the way he always did.

And when he whispered, “We’re already a family. This just makes bigger,”she believed him.

– She wasn’t going to cry over cake. She refused to cry over cake.

But she was three months pregnant, her feet hurt, her veil was lopsided because Aunt Marla had insisted on “fixing it” one too many times, and someone had changed the Spotify playlist from their carefully curated string quartet acoustic mix to some kind of... jazzy remix of Despacito, and now, on top of it all—

No cake.

Not just late. Not just “running a bit behind.” Gone.

The baker had called an hour into the reception—Sylus had answered because she was dancing with her cousin and he’d seen the number, stepped out with that unreadable expression she knew too well. When he came back, she could tell before he even opened his mouth. His tie was slightly undone. He was smiling, but his eyes had that I’ve got bad news but I’m going to say it gently look.

Now she stood in the side hall outside the reception room, heels dangling from her fingers, the hem of her dress bunched up in her fist, shoulders tight and breath shallow.

She felt a presence behind her before she heard it—the heat of his body, the way he always entered a space like gravity. Sylus stepped up silently, his tux jacket gone, sleeves rolled, hands still smelling faintly like whatever cologne he wore that made her go weak-kneed when he pressed too close.

“I could call them again,” he said quietly. “Demand blood. Or frosting. Either’s fine.”

She made a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so tired. “I know it’s ridiculous,” she muttered, rubbing at the corner of her eye. “It’s cake, for god’s sake. But I had this... this vision, okay? Of cutting into it with you, and it being this moment, and...”

“Of course you did.” He said it with zero mockery. Just a warm kind of knowing. “You made a place in your heart for it. It’s not about the sugar. It’s about the promise.”

Her bottom lip wobbled. “It was lemon with vanilla bean. And raspberry filling. And the sugar flowers were supposed to match the bouquet.”

He turned her gently to face him, large hands settling on her waist, warm even through the satin. “Then we’ll hunt it down, and I’ll make them rebuild it from the ashes of their bakery. Or,” he added, brushing a strand of hair from her temple, “we adapt.”

She looked up at him, cheeks flushed with the effort of holding it together. “Adapt?”

He pulled something from behind his back.

A cupcake.

She stared.

It was... lopsided. Slightly smushed. Frosting clinging to the edge of the napkin like it had been saved from a battlefield. Sprinkles that didn’t match their theme.

“Raided the kids' table,” Sylus said with a shrug. “Don't tell them. I think I traded a crayon and my dignity.”

She blinked once. Then laughed. A real one, small and incredulous and helpless.

“It’s chocolate,” she said.

“It is. Not lemon. No sugar flowers. But,” he said, leaning in close, mouth brushing her ear, “it’s from me. And it’s yours.”

She pulled back just enough to see his face.

“You really think this is going to fix it?”

He grinned—one of those lazy, crooked things that made his red eyes warm instead of dangerous.

“No,” he said. “I think we fix it. Like everything else. Together.”

And then, without waiting, he knelt—knelt, like they were about to do the whole ceremony over again—and offered it up to her like a ring, eyes gleaming with mischief and devotion in equal measure.

“Will you accept this completely inadequate yet lovingly stolen cupcake as a symbol of our resilience and my everlasting desire to feed you, even in times of dessert-related tragedy?”

She snorted. Loud. Then cupped his face in both hands and kissed him, soft and laughing and full of relief.

“I do,” she whispered.

And when he stood and they bit into the damn thing together, right there in the hallway under a flickering sconce, frosting smeared on his lip and her veil sliding again and neither of them caring—

it was the best fucking cupcake she’d ever tasted.

— It didn’t start with a dramatic water-breaking moment or a midnight dash to the hospital. It started with a backache. Then a shift in the rhythm of her breath. Then the slow, dawning realization that the tension in her belly wasn’t just Braxton Hicks—it had intent.

Sylus had noticed first.

Not because she said anything—she’d been quietly timing the contractions, stubbornly refusing to make it a thing until it was really a thing—but because he watched her. Always had. Always would.

He was folding baby clothes in the nursery, neatly, like they were sacred, and she leaned into the doorway, one hand low on her stomach, the other pressing against the frame to steady herself.

“You’re doing that breathing again,” he said without looking up.

She blinked. “What breathing?”

“The kind where you think if you exhale too fast, the contractions will notice.”

That earned him a narrow-eyed glare. But her lips twitched.

“It’s too early,” she muttered. “The due date’s still—”

Sylus finally turned, red eyes landing on her, already reading every unspoken word. “You’re in labor.”

“No, I’m—”

A contraction hit.

Not sharp. Not yet. But firm enough to buckle her knees a little, and he was there instantly—arms around her, steady, grounding, his breath in her ear before she could even ask for help.

“Hey. Okay. There we go,” he murmured. “Breathe, sweetheart. Let it ride. You don’t have to be stoic. Not now.”

She sagged into him, huffing out a curse, and he smiled into her hair.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s get the bag.��

—

Labor was a marathon made of moments: the ride to the hospital, his hand on her thigh at every red light, his voice soft and steady when hers started to fray. The sterile brightness of the maternity ward, the quick movements of nurses, the rush of monitors and questions.

Through it all—Sylus never left her side.

Not once.

He sat beside her when the contractions were just minutes apart, letting her crush his hand without complaint, murmuring low affirmations into her sweat-damp hair.

“You’re doing perfect. Breathe through it. That’s it, baby. I’ve got you.”

He reminded her to drink water. Brushed her hair back from her forehead. Pressed cool cloths to her skin. When the pain crested into something primal and hot and unrelenting, when she cried out—not from fear but from sheer exhaustion, from the intensity of it—Sylus leaned in, forehead touching hers, voice unshaken.

“You are the strongest thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered. “You’re fire and storm and I’m not leaving this room without both of you in my arms.”

She sobbed once, laughter and tears tangled, and gasped through another contraction.

Later, when the doctor said she was ready to push, when the world narrowed to the roar of her own heartbeat and the ring of white noise behind her eyes, Sylus stayed with her—one hand locked around hers, the other bracing her back as she bore down.

He counted with her. Breathed with her.

“Almost there,” he said, even when she cried that she couldn’t do it.

“You are doing it,” he said. “Look at me. Just one more. You’ve got this. I swear. I swear.”

And then—

A cry.

Not hers.

A new one.

Small. Fierce. The kind of sound that cracked the world open.

She fell back against the pillows, panting, body trembling, every muscle spent. Sylus didn’t look away from her. Not yet. His eyes burned—not from fear now, but from wonder. From the sheer, awful beauty of it.

Then the nurse turned, arms cradling a bundle that squirmed and wailed and flailed like a thunderstorm wrapped in flannel.

“A girl,” she said, smiling. “Congratulations.”

Sylus stood rooted for a second. Just one.

Then stepped forward, slower than she’d ever seen him move, hands shaking as he took his daughter into his arms for the first time.

She’d never forget the look on his face.

Not awe. Not shock.

Just stillness.

Like the universe had finally stopped spinning and landed squarely in his chest.

He turned back to her, eyes full and red, hair mussed and skin pale with spent adrenaline, and he knelt—knelt, again, because everything in him still bowed to her—and laid their daughter in her arms.

She was tiny. Soft. Red-faced and furious at having been born.

Sylus stroked one impossibly small hand and murmured, “She’s loud. Just like you.”

“Shut up,” she whispered hoarsely, but smiled, even as tears spilled over.

He leaned down, kissed her temple, then her lips.

“Thank you,” he said, voice breaking for the first time all night. “For surviving. For bringing her into this world. For being mine.”

She pressed her face to his neck, body aching but heart wide open.

“You didn’t let go,” she said.

“I never will.” His hand curled around both of theirs. “Welcome home, little one.”

And in that tiny, fluorescent-lit room, with exhaustion thick and the smell of antiseptic clinging to everything, they began again—just the three of them.

—

It was late. The kind of late that didn’t really belong to one day or the next, just that blurred space between hours when everything else had gone still—except for the baby.

She’d finally fallen asleep again, swaddled and nestled in the bassinet beside the bed, her tiny mouth open in a soft ‘o’, one mittened hand resting on her cheek like she was already dreaming of something important. The little sounds she made in her sleep—those hiccupy breaths, the almost-whimpers, the sighs—filled the room in quiet pulses.

But her mother couldn’t sleep.

She lay curled on Sylus’s chest, face turned into his shoulder, one arm draped loosely across his torso. He’d wrapped them both up in one of the oversized throw blankets from the couch, the one that smelled faintly of home and a little of lavender from the dryer sheets.

She wasn’t crying, but he could feel it anyway.

That tightness in her body. That breath held a second too long. That way her fingers kept twitching like they wanted something to hold harder than his skin.

Sylus had been silent for a while, letting the moment breathe. Letting her breathe. But when she still hadn’t said a word fifteen minutes after laying down—just blinked slowly in the dark, eyes glassy and far away—he finally spoke.

“Where did you go?” he asked, voice low, thick with sleep but warm, steady.

She shook her head against his shoulder.

“I’m here.”

“No,” he said gently. “You’re with me, but your head ran off somewhere. Come back.”

Her hand curled in the blanket, fingers knotting near his ribs.

“I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” he said dryly, and earned the softest snort from her.

But then she sighed. It came out shakier than she meant.

“I just keep… seeing things,” she whispered. “Little flashes. Her slipping in the bath. Me forgetting the car seat buckle. The stairs. The edge of the bed. Sudden silence. It’s like my brain is building a horror movie reel out of thin air, and I can’t turn it off.”

He said nothing at first.

Just held her closer.

“You’re not crazy,” he murmured finally. “You’re a mother.”

She didn’t move.

He went on. “Your brain’s trying to protect her. Trying to imagine every threat so you can stop it before it happens. It’s survival logic. It’s instinct. But it’s also cruel. And exhausting.”

Tears welled then. Quiet ones. No sobs, no gasps. Just wet warmth bleeding into the fabric of his shirt.

“I feel like I’m not allowed to break,” she said. “Like if I do, something bad will happen. Like I have to stay ahead of it.”

Sylus pressed his lips to the crown of her head, his fingers moving in slow, grounding strokes down her spine.

“You can break,” he said. “Break a thousand times. I’ll catch every piece.”

She shuddered out a breath.

“And when your head runs away,” he whispered, pulling her even closer until her leg draped over his, their bodies tangled like vines, “when the shadows start whispering lies—about what could go wrong, about how you’ll fail, about how you’re not enough—I want you to hear me louder.”

She swallowed hard.

“I will never let you fall alone. If you stumble, I’ll be the ground under your feet. If your mind slips, I’ll hold your body until it stops shaking. If all you can do is lie here and cry while she naps, then that’s what we do. And I’ll be here for all of it.”

Her tears were quieter now. Not gone, but gentler. Not terror anymore—just release.

“I don’t want to be weak,” she whispered.

“You’re not,” Sylus said, instantly. “You’re soft. There’s a difference. And soft is what raises the kind of child who knows how to be strong and kind. Soft is what she’ll remember when she falls asleep against your chest. Soft is how she’ll learn to love.”

She nodded against him. Silent. Breathing a little easier.

He ran his knuckles down her arm, slow, rhythmic, anchoring.

“You’re the safest place she’ll ever know,” he said. “And I’ll be the one who makes sure you feel safe.”

Her voice was a breath when it came.

“Even at 3 a.m.?”

He smiled into her hair.

“Especially at 3 a.m. Even if I’m covered in spit-up and only half-conscious. Even if you’re yelling at the breast pump or cursing the pediatrician or crying over a diaper blowout. I’ll be here. With you. For you.”

She curled in tighter, her breathing finally syncing with his.

“And if I forget how to breathe?”

“I’ll breathe for both of us,” he said. “Until you remember.”

And when she finally drifted off, held in his arms as their daughter slept inches away, Sylus stayed awake just a little longer. Watching both of them. Guarding. Loving. Silent and unmovable.

The protector of two hearts now. And never more certain of his purpose.

[dropthedemiurge]

Love for Love's Sake - Lee Taevin (Tae Myungha role) commentary

[Extra content from Bluray boxset]

If you take it to other platforms, please leave credit and original link. And don't share links to videos publicly as well, thank you ^^

[Translation by AmetistLex]

Q. What did you think when you received the script for "Love for Love's Sake"?

When I first read the script, I looked up the original novel. It felt like many different genres were mixed in this story, not only romance. So I thought if this story got made into a drama, it'll be an incredible series. That was my first impression of it.

Q. Are there any memorable adlibs?

Honestly, I like improvising on set a lot. But because my real personality sometimes slipped in, a lot of moments ended up being edited out. For example, I remember in the scene where I'm choosing sport shoes for Yeowoon and Sia was holding blue and white pair. I picked the blue shoes, but then looked at the second pair and said "Should I buy them as well?~". But it got cut.

Q. Any story about post-recording?

We had a lot of scenes filmed outside. When there was a lot of sounds of grasshoppers and crickets, we had to do really long dubbing sessions. I also ran a lot in the show and had to re-record my breathing for those scenes as well, all those "huh"s. I remember that I ran very diligently in the recording studio while watching the footage to match my breath. I think I ran for 3-4 hours... I even had to re-record my crying again in the studio.

Q. What was difficult during filming?

Synchronizing Myungha and myself was the hardest part, of course. To be honest, I kind of like adding cuteness to my characters when I'm acting, as well as manly charm? Can I even call it like that? Some sweet vibes, to put it nicely. So matching it with Myungha and tuning these vibes down was quite tough.

Q. What was the most joyful thing about filming?

When we filmed the happy scenes of Myungha hanging out with Yeowoon? I think I there were the most joyful moments. And when we ate some tasty food with Yeowoon, like samgyeopsal and tteokbokki. I was very happy then.

Q. How much Myungha and Lee Taevin are in sync?

When I first read the script, I thought we were alike only for 10%. Myungha was a very tough character to approach. But after going through script readings and inspecting scenes over and over, I felt like Myungha was similar to me for 50%. And during filming, I think we ended up becoming almost the same person.

Q. Outstanding Cha Yeowoon scene in your opinion?

There are so many! Yeowoon has a 'pocari' (sports drink) and 'I love you' scenes. He has a lot of pretty close-up shots, I think they are outstanding because Yeowoon's face did a lot of work there. And there was that break-up scene... ah, not the break-up one, the scene where he said a lot of 'don't' phrases. "Don't run away from me", "Don't get close to me..." ah no, he wouldn't say that. But there's a scene where he said all "don't" lines, like "Don't avoid me". I think, Yeowoon really captured the emotions very well with his acting then, so I really love this scene.

Q. What are Tae Myungha's strengths and flaws in your opinion?

Myungha doesn't look like it but he cries very easily. That's his strength. Flaw? ...He cries too easily.

Q. Tae Myungha and Cha Yeowoon are still living well, right?

In the present time? Tae Myungha and Cha Yeowoon are very happy. Cha Joowan and Lee Taevin are living very well now too.

Q. How do you think the actor Lee Taevin will remember "Love for Love's Sake" after 10 years?

Oh, you mean LFLS Season 10 that we just finished filming a few days ago? Well, we finished it only a few days ago, so... We're having a great time!

*cut to serious face* LFLS is a project that went beyond being just work for me, it really managed to delivery a message to me. It was a project that made me contemplate about happiness, love and relationships once again. It changed the things I value and my perspective on life. I think even after 10 years, I'll remember it as a project that was able to change me into a different person.

Q. From Lee Taevin to fans?

Dear Residents*, thank you for always supporting me. Some of you know me through LFLS, some residents are from my MyTeen (idol group) days. I hope you know for sure that the support from you gives me a lot of strength. I'm sincerely happy thanks to you. I hope you are happy too. Thank you.

Please don't ever forget LFLS. Thank you.

(*Taevin's fandom is "Taevin's Village" and fans are called "Residents" **I'm not sure about English translation that's used, I'm translating directly from Korean xD)

// other Love Supremacy Zone extra content /

[ness2d]

gonna be very honest and say that the doctor is not a black and white person when it comes to morals.

i was talking with a friend about this earlier.

if you're reading him in the context of conflict and have studied his character, he's a morally grey person, and if you feel betrayed by his actions in the interstellar song contest, then boy, i hope you never listen to big finish or read the vnas because there's so much shit he's done and decisions he's had to make that weren't perfect.

i wasn't surprised at what he did due to family of blood, timelord victorious, the war doctor and how he was in the audios, this actually isn't that out of character for the doctor. hell, nine was told "you would make a good dalek."

I saw trauma through both kid and the doctor because I've stared down that barrel myself. Both characters are survivors of war and the episode points out the fact that perpetuating a cycle of violence due to trauma isn't a good idea. Hell, the doctor (war doctor) has done what kid has with the moment and the most likely reason he stopped him was because he had to live with the consequences and the trauma of over three trillion people dying and the pain.

"i want to hurt others because I'm hurting myself" is something that I've done and still struggle with in my own activism, and i still have to check myself in my own community work and activist work to make sure that what I'm doing or saying isn't actively harming others who are also apart of marginalized groups in the process.

i learned to sit the fuck down and listen during the black lives matter protests because like kid, i was arrogant and spoke over people, wanting to take the most drastic action possible in a rabid hope for a complete revolution. (i ended up traumatized, ostracized, tear gassed and almost dead because i refused to listen like kid did.)

so if you're rooting for kid because you think he's doing a righteous thing, please consider the fact that maybe the message wasn't "the doctor is a horrible person because he stopped a person who was trying to kill over three trillion people who didn't know about the atrocities committed against his people" and "perpetuating a cycle of violence out of anger and selfishness is not sustainable nor ethical social justice whatsoever" because the principle of "well I'm hurting, so these people should hurt too!" is dangerous territory to be in.

this did make me think long and hard though about ethics and the arguments from both sides about the israeli-palestinian conflict, and the social sphere of american activism within the past few years. i wish i could have a critical discussion on this but yeah no.. that's not happening on this website. (that's a coffee date for another time with a friend.)

[aleksa-sims]

RL Story

This is where my Sis, Sonja, Rafi and I used to spend our summer holidays with our Grandma, when we were little . After the fight with my Mom yesterday, today started quite relaxed. We were all looking forward to this trip and wanted to spend a nice day together. For my son and nephew our trip was almost like a little adventure. We splashed in the lake, saw turtles and picked berries.

Later that afternoon, Sonja and I had a picnic with the kids. That was so funny. Lucas fell asleep while eating!!😄Almost exactly as in the picture above, just without Teddy Bear but with a slice of bread in his hand. And little Denis played soccer with Nico.

As the sun slowly set, this beautiful day ended with a quarrel like yesterday.  After finishing dinner together, I left our table for a short moment. On the way to the bathrooms I was approached by a stranger. I immediately felt uncomfortable. On the one hand I just wanted to ignore that guy- but on the other, I didn’t dare to be rude. After all he asked me for help?

Anyway, he wanted to know if I was familiar with this area? I told him that I was only visiting my grandma. Then he just started yapping... He told me he was here with his father, who has married a girl and yada, yada, yada....

Nico sat somewhere on a bench just a few steps away from us, but I didn’t notice. He watched me/us. I think he was waiting for me to end this conversation, but somehow I couldn't, bcs that guy just wouldn’t stop talking!!

Now I saw N. heading toward us. He explained to the stranger that I am his girlfriend! The guy apologized, several times! And wanted to leave. But that wasn’t enough for N. He wanted me to understand and feel, how pissed he was. 🤦‍♀️

So, he demeaned me in front of that strange guy 😒 and my DAD, who I (but also N.) didn’t see right away! And even though I was used to N.'s .....anger issues and all the fights with my Dad in the past, I got... really mad & hurt at the end.

N. asked the stranger if he finds me hot? 🤨 He wanted to know what the guy would do with me, alone? N. explained to him that I belong to him. That guy must ask him first, if he wants me! And I will do what Nico asks, whether I want it or not. That’s about how.... it came off and my Dad heard everything and understood it just the same! 😠And ofc, my Dad confronted Nico!

Nico: Come on, man, just relax. I was just joking.

Dad: You haven’t changed at all! Stop treating my daughter like a dog! Apologize to her! 😠

Nico: Stay out of our lives! I can talk to her any way I want! And since you just mentioned it, how about you apologize to me? 🤨

Dad: I certainly don’t apologize to you for trying to help my kid!

Nico: By getting me out of the way, to do Philip a favor?.. That was your first mistake back then! The second was, that you let her marry a drug addict. But well, I get it, everybody’s better for her than me... Why don't you just give up? You fucked up anyway.

Dad: Watch how you talk to me! And now listen to me so that you finally understand it! I didn’t like Daniel at first too. I threw him out of my house just like I did with you and her. But compared to you, Daniel had the balls to apologize to me AND ask for help! You instead left my daughter alone with your mother for weeks, to play soccer abroad. Then you took her pills away from her to get her clean. Like you’re a fucking doctor! And when that also didn’t work out, you got Philip into this shit, so he could watch her while you’re away!!! That’s crazy what you did!! You could have just come to me or my wife and just admit that you can’t deal with her alone.

Nico: That’s exactly what I did, man! But you sent me away! You forced me to break up with her or you didn’t want to help her.

Dad: By that time, she had already started using. And be honest! She asked me for help, not you! You broke my daughter then, and will do it now too. Because you haven’t changed at all! But I won’t let that happen!

Nico: And I don’t make the same mistake twice!

Nico: If you ever try to get rid of me again, I’ll take everything you have. Lucas! He's my son! If I want...... you’ll never see him again! 😠

Dad: What are you going to do? You’re never here anyway? And my daughter won’t keep my grandkid away from me.

Nico: If she doesn’t do what I say, I leave her.

Dad: Fine! Thats perfect! 🤷‍♂️

Nico: But I’m taking Lucas with me! He’s my son!

Dad: And she's his MOTHER!!!! 😠

Nico: A drug-addicted Mother, who may..... even relapse? And is still, married to a smackhead! 😡

Me: STOP!! I can’t listen to you two anymore! Honestly, I’m gonna puke! Besides, all this crap you two are always arguing about is PAST and over four years ago! 😡🤷‍��️

I got my Mom to help me with them. I was afraid they might come to blows. And as for N’s threat to take our son away from me bcs of my addiction, my Mom warned me exactly about this already during my pregnancy. But I never told him or talked to him about it. I just never believed he could- or would do that to me.

But now, I wasn’t sure anymore. 😓😢Also I didn't really get why N. got so mad at me today? I mean,..... I had an idea, but....yea, anyway. He has clearly gone too far this time!! 😠

Previous/Next

[bimboficationblues]

oh totally, although I think I'm saying something less expansive than you're reading me as saying.

1) I consider Marx’s work “post-liberal” in the same sense that we might use the phrase "post-Marxist," in that there may be some major continuities of values, and clearly what follows "post-" was formative to the person or movement being referred to. But there are serious points of rupture that make it useful to have a distinction. Marx's work comes into being out of the various forms of liberal and republican radicalism, and at least on an abstract level shares many core values, but in another sense his work is a loud attack on liberal failure to live up to their promises, and an attempt to answer why that failure must occur.

I refer to it as an unfinished critique because, well, he didn’t finish it, Capital (as a broadside against political economy, a major literary-theoretical genre of liberal political thought) remains incomplete both structurally - the investigation and presentation stopped at his death - and substantively, because in some ways Marx failed to fully break with political economy as a domain of specialized knowledge. Paul North in his intro to the new translation of V1 says: "The method was constantly under construction and the object of study kept eluding him, changing as he learned more about it and changing because one of capital's chief characteristics - identified by Marx - is to be in constant, savage change in multiple dimensions all the time."

2) yes I agree with this, I think there is a lot of incuriosity about the history of political thought in general. but definitely the kinds of specific people Marx and Engels were responding to contemporarily, as well as the major factional faultlines that immediately preceded them in the 18th and 17th centuries. I think engaging with post-liberal theory beyond Marx is pretty useful (and I need to do more of it to be perfectly honest with you), because it expands my horizons as a political thinker and helps me read everyone involved with a more developed picture of their intertextuality, which will give a better ability to think through and (ideally) make use of my political subjectivity. as far as studying political theory goes, Marx (and Marxism even moreso) cannot define our horizons.

Marx’s whole writing output is an unfinished critique of “liberal theory” broadly construed (and I would argue is necessarily "post-liberal" in some sense) so I do find it frustrating that many Marxists are so resistant to learning liberal theory in order to grasp or improve upon that critique. just in general I think it's rewarding to think through positions you don't hold or might be negatively disposed towards for a variety of reasons