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faithsmadhouse · 2 days ago

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Miss gurl your max fics are giving me everything I want and now I see you posted about chubby reader?? Please would u do a piece about strong max manhandling chubby reader who doesnt believe he can handle it and he proves her wrong 😼

Prove me wrong||Max Verstappen x Chubby!Fem!reader

Summary— reader thinks she’s too much for max and he proves her wrong

Warnings— brief mentions of oral f receiving, spanking, praise, manhandling, shower sex/wall sex. I also can’t remember what else

Word count — 2245

You were lounging on the couch, curled up with a book when Max came up behind you, hands slipping around your waist. His fingers brushed the soft curve of your belly, and you immediately stiffened, instinctively pulling away. “Careful,” you muttered with a laugh. “I’m not exactly lightweight, you know.”

Max scoffed, his hands tightening their grip. “You think I can’t handle you?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m just saying… you’ve got cars to drive, not—”

Before you could finish, you found yourself lifted off the couch, strong arms securing you effortlessly. A gasp escaped your lips as your feet dangled off the floor, and Max’s smug grin appeared inches from your face. “What were you saying?”

“Max!” you squealed, hands clutching his shoulders. He didn’t even falter, his grip firm as if you weighed nothing. His hands slid to the backs of your thighs, hoisting you up until your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

“Light as a feather,” he teased, voice dripping with confidence. “Maybe I should carry you around all the time. Keep you close.”

Your cheeks burned, heart pounding as he began walking, steady and sure, as if he carried you every day. “Proved you wrong, huh?”

You swallowed hard, eyes meeting his. “Maybe you should try again…just to be sure.”

His grin widened. “Oh, I intend to.”

Max’s eyes darkened at your challenge, the flicker of something dangerous and thrilling sparking behind that familiar blue. Without another word, he tightened his grip, fingers pressing possessively into your thighs as he carried you effortlessly towards the bedroom.

You barely had time to process the shift before your back met the mattress, and Max followed, hovering above you. His hands didn’t leave your body—not for a second. They roamed over your curves, mapping the softness of your hips, the plushness of your thighs, the gentle swell of your stomach.

His eyes met yours, blazing with determination. “You think I don’t want this? That I can’t handle all of you?” His hands squeezed your thighs for emphasis, spreading them wider beneath him. “You’ve got no idea what I can handle, schat.”

Your breath hitched as he dipped his head, mouth tracing the line of your jaw, down to your neck. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer—closer than you thought possible. His touch was firm, possessive, like he was staking a claim. “I’ve been dying to show you,” he murmured against your skin, lips trailing fire down your throat.

You gasped when his hands slid under your shirt, fingers brushing bare skin. He pulled back just long enough to peel the fabric over your head, his gaze drinking you in. There wasn’t a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, only raw hunger. “Perfect,” he whispered, almost reverent, before his hands gripped your hips and yanked you towards him.

The strength of it made you cry out, back arching as he settled between your thighs. His mouth was on you again—hot, demanding, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the swell of your breasts, your stomach, your hips. He kissed every inch like it was something to be worshiped, and you were losing yourself in it.

“Max,” you breathed, fingers tangling in his hair as he looked up, eyes blazing. “I didn’t know—”

“That I could handle you?” he finished for you, lips quirking up into a grin. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading them wider. “Let me show you just how wrong you are.”

Max didn’t wait for permission. His hands, strong and unyielding, gripped your thighs and pulled—hard. You yelped as he dragged you closer to the edge of the mattress, your body sliding effortlessly under his control. The grin he shot you was wicked, eyes glimmering with unspoken promises.

“See?” he rasped, voice low and rough. “Told you I could handle you.” He didn’t give you a moment to reply before his hands slid beneath your hips, lifting you clean off the mattress with a strength that had your breath catching.

“Max!” you gasped, but he only chuckled darkly, turning you with ease until you were on your stomach, hips raised, knees digging into the soft sheets. His large hands spread across your ass, squeezing possessively before one slid up your back, pressing you deeper into the mattress.

“You’re always so quick to doubt me,” he murmured, voice husky as he leaned over you, his chest flush with your back. His hand was still splayed firmly between your shoulder blades, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. “Guess I’ll have to remind you.”

You shivered as his lips traced the shell of your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. “Gonna take everything I give you, aren’t you?”

A whimper escaped your lips, but that wasn’t enough for him. His hand came down sharply on your ass, the smack echoing in the room. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” you gasped, fingers curling into the sheets. “I’ll take it.”

“That’s my girl,” he growled, his hand soothing the sting with slow, deliberate circles. He shifted behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he positioned himself, his hands spreading your thighs wider, thumbs digging into the soft flesh. “Look at you,” he murmured appreciatively. “All spread out for me… ready to be handled.”

Before you could even catch your breath, he gripped your hips again, pulling you back to meet him. The force of it sent a shockwave through your body, and you cried out, his name tumbling from your lips. He didn’t relent—instead, he set a rhythm that was unyielding, powerful. Every snap of his hips was punctuated with a grunt of satisfaction, like he was proving a point with every thrust.

You tried to push back, to meet his movements, but he wasn’t having it. One of his hands slid up to the back of your neck, pressing you deeper into the mattress, holding you firmly in place. “Stay still,” he commanded, voice dripping with dominance. “Let me do the work.”

And God, he did. He drove into you with a force that bordered on brutal, but you loved it, craved it. His grip was ironclad, pulling and pushing you exactly how he wanted, manhandling you like you weighed nothing at all. His hands roamed, squeezing your hips, sliding up to your waist, gripping you tight enough to leave marks.

“You still think I can’t handle you?” he panted, breath coming hot and heavy against your back.

“N-No,” you choked out, fingers clenching the sheets. “You can…you can.”

His laugh was rough and dark. “Damn right, I can.” His hand came down on your ass again, the sting mixing with the pleasure until you were trembling beneath him. “And I’m not done with you yet.”

Max didn’t give you a second to catch your breath. His grip on your hips was relentless, large hands holding you steady as he picked up the pace, each thrust harder, deeper, like he was determined to make you feel him everywhere. Your moans spilled out, unrestrained and desperate, but it only seemed to spur him on.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice thick with satisfaction. “Let everyone hear how well you’re taking it.” His hand came down again with a sharp slap, and you cried out, the sting sending a fresh wave of heat through your body. He bent over you, chest pressing into your back as his mouth found your ear. “Knew you could handle it. Knew you could take everything I give you.”

His hand slid from your hip to your throat, fingers wrapping around the sides, tilting your head back until you were arching into him. The stretch of it made you gasp, eyes fluttering shut as his teeth scraped along your neck. “Feel so good,” he murmured against your skin, voice dripping with pride. “So perfect… just for me.”

He straightened up, hands gripping your waist once more, and suddenly you were lifted—hauled up until your back was flush against his chest. His hand splayed across your stomach, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he held you up, your feet barely touching the floor. “See?” he whispered, his other hand slipping down between your thighs, fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles. “Told you I could handle you.”

Your hands flew back to grasp at his shoulders, holding on as he moved you with an effortless strength that made your head spin. His hand on your stomach pulled you tighter against him, making you feel every inch, every flex of muscle as he thrust up into you. It was raw, powerful, and you could feel how much he loved it—how much he loved you.

“You like that?” he growled, breath hot against your ear. His hand slipped lower, teasing you with just enough pressure to make your knees shake. “You like knowing I can do this? That I can throw you around however I want?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasped, head falling back against his shoulder. His grip tightened, and you felt the low rumble of his chuckle against your back.

“Good,” he whispered darkly. “Because I’m not stopping until you forget your own name.”

Without warning, he turned you in his arms, your feet barely hitting the floor before he lifted you again, your back hitting the wall with a thud that knocked the breath from your lungs. His hands were everywhere—gripping, exploring, owning every part of you as he buried himself in you again, hard and deep. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, holding on as he drove you higher, every thrust sending sparks down your spine.

“You still doubting me?” he panted, teeth grazing the side of your neck, his hands bracing your thighs as he held you there like you weighed nothing.

“N-No,” you stammered, nails digging into his shoulders. “Never… never again.”

“Damn right,” he growled, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Now hold on, because I’m nowhere near done proving it.”

Max’s grin was feral as he held you against the wall, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, his hands gripping your thighs with bruising strength. His breathing was ragged, eyes fixed on you with a hunger that made your stomach flip. “Still with me, sweetheart?” he asked, voice rough and dripping with satisfaction.

You could only nod, breathless and dazed, and his grin widened. “Good,” he murmured, shifting his grip. His hands slid under your thighs, and before you could process the movement, he lifted you—effortlessly—and began walking towards the bathroom.

“Max—” you started, clutching his shoulders. He didn’t break his stride, his grip firm and unyielding as he pushed the bathroom door open with his foot. The room was cool against your flushed skin, and you shivered as he set you down on the counter, his hands never leaving your body.

“Think I’m done proving my point?” he asked, eyes glittering as he leaned in, his hands braced on either side of you. His gaze roamed over you—disheveled, breathless, completely under his control—and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “Not even close.”

He reached over, turning the shower on, the water splattering against the tile with a hiss of steam. His hands returned to you immediately, sliding under your thighs to pull you to the edge of the counter, his mouth crashing against yours. It was messy, all teeth and tongue, his hands gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

“Up,” he growled, tapping your thighs, and you barely had time to comply before he lifted you again, carrying you under the hot spray of the shower. Water cascaded over both of you, soaking your hair and slicking your skin, but Max didn’t seem to notice. His focus was entirely on you—on the way your body reacted to his touch, the way your breath hitched every time he pulled you closer.

Your back pressed against the cool tile, and he caged you in, his hands spreading your thighs with practiced ease. “I want you to hold on,” he commanded, voice husky as his hands slid to grip your ass. “I’m not letting go until you understand just how strong I am.”

You barely had time to react before he lifted you again, pressing you up against the wall. The water streamed down your bodies, mixing with the heat and urgency between you. His hips snapped forward, and you cried out, nails clawing at his shoulders as he set a relentless rhythm. The steam curled around you, fogging the glass as his hands held you firmly in place, your weight supported entirely by his strength.

“Max,” you whimpered, the sensation overwhelming as he drove into you with powerful, precise thrusts. He chuckled darkly against your neck, his teeth scraping your skin.

“You feel that?” he growled, voice vibrating through your bones. “You still think I can’t handle you?” His hands gripped you harder, pulling you closer, deeper, until you couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe. All you could do was hold on, trusting him to keep you steady as he unraveled you.

Your legs tightened around him, hips moving with his, and his hand slid up your back, pressing you even closer. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough and thick with pride. “Take it. Take everything I give you.”

The water continued to pour over both of you, washing away the evidence of his dominance only for him to mark you again, harder, deeper. His fingers dug into your skin, leaving bruises that you’d find later—reminders of just how thoroughly he’d proven you wrong.

#f1 smut #f1 x you #formula one x you #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #formula one x reader #f1 x female reader #formula one x y/n #f1 imagine #f1 one shot #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x female reader #max verstappen smut #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen one shot

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andy-15-07 · 2 days ago

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Hi! I.m not sure if your requests are still open of if this is where we ask for them and if its not im sorry. I was wondering if you could do something with Joel where he finds her when he is trying to save Ellie. He finds out that reader is also immune and the fireflies were gonna kill her too. So he saves her and he becomes the only person she trusts and doesn't really talk to anyone but him when they get back to Jackson. Joel slowly falls in love with her and one day on patrol he kisses her because they almost died and he think it's now or never. if not it's all good. Thanks!

Something Better

PAIRING: Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 1290 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

It had been days since Joel had seen another human face that wasn’t trying to kill him.

Ellie was gone. Taken by the Fireflies.

His boots were soaked with blood and melting snow as he moved through the sterile white halls of the hospital, heart pounding, rifle tight in his grip. He’d done the unthinkable already. The doctors were dead. Marlene too. All for Ellie.

But just as he turned a corner toward the recovery wing, he heard a voice. Not Ellie’s. Quieter. Raspy. And scared.

"Please don’t take me back. Please... I didn’t say yes."

Joel froze.

He stepped closer and peered into one of the observation rooms. A girl, maybe a few years older than Ellie, lay strapped to a hospital bed. Her arms were bruised from needles and restraints. She had dark circles under her eyes, lips dry, and skin pale,but she was very much alive.

And awake.

Her eyes widened when she saw him.

"Are you here to kill me too?"

Joel lowered his gun immediately. "No, darlin'. I ain't here to hurt you."

She looked so tired. So damn scared.

"They said I was like her. The other immune one. But I didn’t want this. They were going to cut into my brain."

Joel’s heart dropped. Another one? Another immune girl, treated like cargo. An experiment.

He crossed the room in two strides and started undoing the straps. "You're getting outta here. What's your name?"

She hesitated. "Y/N."

"Y/N, I'm Joel. We don’t have much time. Come on."

The drive back to Jackson was quiet. Ellie was unconscious in the backseat, safe, and Y/N sat next to Joel in the passenger seat, barely speaking.

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t cry. Just sat still, staring out the window like she was trying to memorize the world in case it disappeared again.

Joel offered her food. Blankets. Water. Nothing made her flinch except when he touched her wrist by accident.

"Sorry," he muttered.

She shook her head, finally speaking, voice a whisper. "Not your fault. You didn’t put me there. You got me out."

Back in Jackson, life was... different.

Y/N was placed in a spare cabin. Ellie healed. People smiled again. But Y/N? She didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t trust anyone.

Except Joel.

When she did talk, it was to him. In quiet places. On patrol. On walks. In the early morning when the rest of the town was asleep. She felt safest with Joel.

"You ever think about leaving?" she asked once, during a patrol.

"Used to. Not anymore."

"Why not?"

He looked at her. "Because you’re here. Ellie’s here. It’s the first time in twenty years I got somethin' to lose."

She turned her face away, hiding her blush. But Joel saw it.

They grew close. Closer than Joel expected.

He’d find excuses to patrol with her. She’d bring him coffee. They’d share quiet dinners. She’d sit by his fire when sleep wouldn’t come. And Joel? He found himself watching her laugh. Noticed the way her eyes crinkled. The way she said his name like it meant something.

He was falling.

Hard.

The day it all changed started like any other patrol.

Snow. Footprints. Clickers in the woods.

But when one came too close, too fast, Joel almost didn’t react in time.

Y/N did.

She threw herself between him and the infected, burying her machete into its throat. It collapsed at her feet.

Joel’s heart nearly stopped.

"Jesus," he rasped, grabbing her shoulders. "What the hell were you thinking?!"

She was panting, wild-eyed. "I thought it was gonna get you."

"So you just threw yourself in the way?!"

"Yeah! Because I care about you, Joel!"

Silence.

Their breath came in clouds. His hands were still gripping her coat.

"You what?"

She swallowed. "You heard me."

He didn’t wait. He kissed her.

Joel pulled away just enough to look her in the eyes. "I thought I lost you. I ain’t never felt that scared in my life. Not since Sarah. Not even with Ellie."

Y/N blinked, her chest rising and falling, trying to keep pace with the thundering of her heart. Joel's hand was still warm at her jaw, thumb brushing back and forth like he was memorizing the feel of her.

"Joel," she whispered. "You kissed me."

"I know. Shouldn't have done it like that, not out here. But hell... you got in front of that Clicker for me. And it hit me,I can't lose you. Not after everything."

Her eyes softened. She took his hand from her jaw and held it between hers. "I didn’t jump in front of it for fun. I did it because I care about you. More than I should. You’re the only one I trust."

He swallowed. Hard. "Do you... wanna go back to Jackson? We can talk more. Just you and me."

She nodded, cheeks flushed. "Yeah. Let’s go home."

They rode in silence the rest of the way, but their hands kept brushing. When they got to Jackson, the world was quieter, more forgiving. Snow lined the rooftops, horses snorted in the early dusk, and families bustled behind closed doors.

Joel led her to his house instead of hers. She didn’t fight it.

"You warm enough?" he asked after hanging up their jackets.

Y/N nodded. Her fingers itched to reach for him again. Instead, she paced a little, unsure.

Joel moved to the kitchen, poured two mugs of tea,one with a splash of whiskey, just how she liked it. When he handed it to her, their fingers brushed again.

"Joel, about what happened out there,"

"Let me say it first," he interrupted gently. "I've been fighting how I feel. Since the day I met you. You were scared, covered in blood and bruises when I pulled you out of that Firefly hospital. And yet, you looked at me like I was the only safe thing left in the world. I didn’t deserve that."

"You saved my life."

"So did you. You don't even talk to most people. You talk to me. Trust me. That means somethin'."

Y/N stepped closer. "It means everything. Joel, you're the first person I've felt...safe with. Like I'm not a science experiment. Not just 'the other immune girl.'"

He reached out, thumb brushing her cheek again. "You ain't just any girl, Y/N. You're strong. Brave. Kind, even after all you've been through. And goddamn if I haven’t been fallin' in love with you a little more every day."

She inhaled sharply. Her chest ached in the best way.

"I love you too," she said. "Even when you scowl. Especially then."

He laughed, quiet and rough, and closed the distance.

The kiss this time was slower. More certain. His hands slid around her waist and hers curled into the collar of his flannel. His lips were warm, chapped, familiar. The sound of their breath, the creak of the floorboards, the soft knock of teeth. All of it was them.

They moved together like they’d been waiting years.

Hours later, they sat curled on his worn couch, her legs draped over his, her head on his chest.

"You ever think about what comes next?" she asked softly.

Joel rubbed lazy circles into her back. "Used to be, I didn’t. Was too busy surviving. But now... with you? Yeah. I think about a lot."

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but sure. "I want a life. Not just surviving. A real life. With you."

Joel leaned in, kissed her temple. "Then we’ll make one. Right here. Together."

Outside, the wind howled. But inside, Joel held her like she was the last soft thing in the world.

And for the first time in years, she believed in something better than survival.

She believed in them.

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vaginalvr · 22 hours ago

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can you write about gf who is really insecure about her body so she hadn’t had sex with spencer yet but she has given him bjs and stuff, but she’s still needy and horny not being touched so one day spencer unintentionally catches her touching herself and she’s terrified but he’s really sweet about it??

aw stawp ill cry yes absolutely

cw: insecure reader, mutual masturbation, accidental voyeurism, emotional smut, praise kink, first time sex, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), slow and soft, aftercare, reassurance, established relationship

REQUESTS OPEN!

You weren’t ashamed of wanting Spencer.

Just… ashamed of yourself.

Your soft stomach, your stretch marks, your chest that didn’t look like the girls he probably had posters of as a teenager. He never made you feel unwanted — not once — but sometimes you caught yourself wondering if he’d ever actually seen you, body and all. If he’d still love you when he did.

So you’d kept the lights off. Stuck to blowjobs, kisses, sleeping with a tank top on. Spencer, being the patient saint he was, never pushed. Never even hinted. He just held you close at night and whispered how much he loved you. How beautiful your mouth was. How good you made him feel.

Still, need had a way of building. And lately, when he wasn’t around, your hands wandered more often than you cared to admit. It wasn’t the same — not even close — but it was better than nothing.

You just didn’t expect him to walk in on you.

It happened on a Sunday morning.

You thought he was out getting groceries. He said he’d be a while. So you stayed in bed, warm under the blankets, one hand between your thighs, the other squeezing your pillow as you whimpered into it.

You imagined it was Spencer’s voice whispering in your ear. Spencer’s hand on your body. Spencer’s cock between your thighs instead of your fingers. It didn’t take long to get desperate — hips rocking, toes curling, your breathing ragged.

So you didn’t hear the front door open. Or his footsteps down the hall.

Didn’t hear him call your name.

Didn’t even notice the bedroom door open until you looked up, gasping — only to meet Spencer’s wide eyes across the room.

“Shit!” you yelped, yanking the covers up to your chin, eyes welling instantly. “I—I didn’t hear you—Spence, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

But Spencer didn’t look grossed out. Or mad. Or even surprised.

He looked… stunned. Flushed. Breathless.

His voice cracked. “Were you… thinking about me?”

Your cheeks burned. You couldn’t even answer.

He stepped closer, slow, gentle, like you were a frightened animal. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to hide. You looked… really beautiful.”

You laughed bitterly, curling into yourself. “Don’t say that. I know what I look like.”

He frowned, heart breaking. “So do I.”

You shook your head. “You’ve never even seen all of me. Not really.”

“I’ve seen you,” he whispered. “And I want you. All of you. Always have.”

You blinked at him, vulnerable and trembling. “But I don’t look like—like what people expect. I’m not skinny. My stomach—”

“—is gorgeous,” he said firmly. “Soft and real and yours. I’ve been dying to touch you. But I didn’t want to push.”

He hesitated. “Can I touch you now?”

You swallowed hard. Nodded.

Spencer crawled onto the bed like he was approaching an altar.

He kissed your cheek first, then your collarbone, your shoulder. His hands never wandered too fast — just brushing your waist, your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

When his fingers finally slipped beneath the blanket and found you soaked, he gasped softly. “God, you’re wet.”

“Thinking about you,” you whispered, still breathless. “Thinking about your fingers.”

His eyes darkened. “I’ll give you everything you want. Just let me love you.”

You nodded again. “Please.”

He kissed down your stomach — the part you always tried to hide — and he lingered there, mouthing at the softness, whispering praise like a spell. His hands held your thighs open, spreading you gently, reverently.

“Let me eat you,” he breathed. “Let me make you feel good.”

You whimpered, already nodding, already so needy you could cry.

Spencer’s tongue was magic — soft, slow, teasing, until your hips were rocking up into his mouth and your hands were in his hair. He moaned when you came, when your thighs quivered, when you said his name like it meant salvation.

And when you looked down, teary and flushed, he looked proud. Worshipful.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded, tugging him up. “Want more.”

You let him undress fully, finally taking him in — his flushed cock, his trembling hands. He was just as nervous as you. Just as soft.

He lined himself up, barely pushing in, then pausing. “Still okay?”

“Yes, Spence,” you whispered. “I want you so bad.”

He groaned when he pushed inside — slow, deep, eyes locked on yours.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, kissing your jaw. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You moaned, arms around him, legs around his waist.

He rocked into you gently, whispering the sweetest things — how beautiful you looked spread out for him, how good your pussy felt, how he never wanted anyone but you.

When you came again, he followed with a desperate moan, burying himself deep as he whispered your name over and over again like a prayer.

After, he held you close, stroking your arm, voice soft in your ear.

“I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to hide from me. Not your body. Not your needs. I want all of you. Every inch.”

You smiled into his chest, heart full.

“I think I finally believe you.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid smut #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x you #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x fem reader

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4linos · 2 days ago

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the stranger you loved 2.

lee minho x fem!reader

synopsis: you don’t know him anymore. but minho knows you, every laugh, every tear, every promise. and he’s not giving up.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, memory loss, emotional manipulation, mentions of family rejection.

wc: 11,879

[part 1]

He had been alone in his thoughts for too long.

Minho sat in the dim corner of the hospital corridor where the light flickered just a little too much, that familiar, sterile hum filling his ears. His hoodie was damp from where he’d wiped his face. His eyes ached. His heart ached more. Time had stopped having any shape or meaning, just hours of cold air, the occasional footsteps echoing off linoleum, and the unbearable weight of not being able to fix anything.

He couldn’t keep sitting there. Couldn’t stay in the silence, with the ache growing heavier by the minute. Eventually, he stood, slowly, stiffly and made his way back to your hospital room. He just needed to see you again, maybe even talk to you from the doorway. Nothing intense. Nothing that would make things worse. Just presence. Just proof that he was still here.

But as he neared your room, one of the nurses, one he vaguely recognized from the night shift stepped in front of him, hands gentle but firm.

“Mr. Lee,” she said softly, “I’m really sorry, but… we’re asking you not to go in right now.”

Minho blinked. At first, he thought he’d misheard. “What?”

The nurse glanced over her shoulder, toward your room, then turned back, her expression apologetic. “The doctor spoke with Y/N not long after you left. She was… visibly shaken. Scared, confused. Her vitals spiked. She was overwhelmed. We think it’s best to give her a little space while she adjusts.”

Minho stared at her like the words didn’t quite make sense. His eyebrows slowly drew together, a disbelieving scoff slipping from his lips. “I’m not some random guy off the street,” he said, voice rising just enough to draw a few glances. “I stayed by her side all night. I didn’t leave the room once. Not when the monitors beeped, not when the nurses came in, not even when you told me visiting hours were over. You all saw me there. You know that.”

The nurse’s expression didn’t waver, but her voice softened. “I do. We all saw it. And I know how much you care. But she doesn’t remember that, Minho. Right now, from her perspective… she’s waking up in a strange place, surrounded by strangers. Her memory is fractured. And when she saw your face, when you reacted so emotionally, it startled her. She’s not in a place yet where she can process all of that safely.”

Minho exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. He could feel the sting behind his eyes again, and he fought it, hard. He wasn’t angry at the nurse. Not really. But he didn’t know where else to aim the pain inside him. The grief. The helplessness. Because how was it fair? He had held your hand through the night. Had whispered to you about the little bakery you loved, your favorite songs, how you always pretended not to cry at sad movies but always did anyway. He had begged you to wake up.

And you had.

Only now, he wasn’t allowed near you.

“I just want to see her,” he said again, quieter now. “I won’t upset her. I’ll stay back. I won’t even speak if that’s what you want. Just let me be there. Please.”

The nurse looked torn. She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I’ll talk to the doctor. Maybe tomorrow, after some rest and evaluation, we can try again. But tonight... she needs calm. The brain needs quiet to begin the healing process. For now, just, trust us, okay?”

Minho didn’t answer. He nodded stiffly, backing away from the door like it burned him.

But in his chest, he could feel the unraveling.

He returned to that same quiet hallway, but this time it felt colder. Lonelier. He leaned against the wall, staring at the pale floor tiles like they might give him something clarity, answers, maybe just a way to stay grounded when everything he knew was crumbling.

He was still here.

Still your Minho.

But you didn’t remember that.

And now… you weren’t ready to see him.

Even love, deep, steady, desperate love wasn’t enough right now.

And that was a kind of heartbreak he never knew existed.

Minho had barely slept.

The coffee in his hand was lukewarm now, even though he’d just bought it minutes ago. He hadn’t tasted it. He didn’t care. The bitter steam curling from the cup only reminded him of the night before, hours of pacing cold hallways, of sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs, of whispering to your unconscious body like it might tether you back to him.

And then the morning came, and with it, the nurse’s gentle insistence that he stay back. That his presence had made you worse. That for now, it was better if you didn’t see him at all.

He hadn't fought them again. Not this time. Not after seeing the look in your eyes, the way you'd flinched at his touch. The quiet, scared voice asking him to leave.

But it didn’t stop the ache that settled into his chest like a second heartbeat, pulsing with every second that passed without you remembering him.

He was just coming back from the hospital lobby, a paper cup in one hand and his phone in the other, the screen still black. No messages. No calls. Not that he was expecting any. The only message he wanted was your voice, saying his name like you remembered. Like you loved him again.

He turned the corner, heading back toward the ICU, when he saw him.

Jay.

At first, Minho froze, unsure if he was imagining it. It had been so long since he'd seen that face, longer still since he’d thought of him. But there he was, standing stiffly at the nurse’s desk, dressed too neatly for a hospital visit, his dark hair styled like he was coming from somewhere important.

Minho’s blood ran cold.

Jay.

What the hell is he doing here?

He watched, heart pounding, as Jay leaned in toward the nurse with an overly concerned expression on his face. Like he belonged there. Like he had the right.

“Hi,” Jay said, glancing at the nameplate clipped to her scrubs, “I’m a friend of Y/N’s. I heard about the accident—I just need to know what room she’s in, and what happened. Please. I need to see her.”

The nurse gave him a quick look of polite skepticism, as she should. But before she could say anything, Minho was already moving, hot coffee sloshing in his cup as his steps quickened across the hallway floor.

“Hey,” Minho snapped, his voice sharp, tense with disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Jay turned slowly, his mouth pulling into a tight, false smile. “Minho.”

Minho stood toe to toe with him now, hands clenched, posture rigid. He didn’t want to cause a scene, not here, not in the hallway of the ICU, but he couldn’t stop the fire rising in his chest. “You don’t belong here.”

“I came to check on Y/N,” Jay said smoothly, unbothered. “Someone had to.”

That was it.

Minho’s jaw locked. “Don’t act like you care.”

“I do care,” Jay countered. “Not that you’d know anything about being a real friend.”

The insult was barely veiled, and Minho flinched like he'd been struck. But it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, not from him.

Because Jay wasn’t just anyone.

He was the friend you used to be inseparable from, the one you trusted with everything, until Minho came along. And from the moment Jay realized how serious the two of you were becoming, he’d tried everything he could to sabotage it. The comments. The rumors. The passive-aggressive texts. That one night he cornered you after practice and told you Minho would never love you the way you deserved, that he was cold, manipulative, temporary.

Jay never liked Minho. Never even pretended to. And when you chose Minho anyway, when you distanced yourself from Jay and made it clear where your heart was, he turned bitter. He stopped pretending. Started treating Minho like the enemy.

And now here he was.

Minho stepped forward, voice low, teeth clenched. “You think showing up now makes up for what you did? You weren’t there when she needed support. You weren’t there when she was hurting. You disappeared the second she chose me, and now you want to show up like some concerned guardian?”

“She doesn’t remember you, does she?” Jay asked, his tone light but the venom unmistakable. “So maybe this is the universe giving her a second chance.”

Minho’s hands curled into fists. He saw red for a moment pure, unfiltered rage bubbling just under his skin.

The nurse intervened then, stepping between them before things could go further. “Hey, please. This is a hospital.”

Minho turned to her, still breathing hard. “You can’t let him see her. He’s not family. He’s not—he’s not anything to her anymore.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

The words stung more than Minho expected. The truth was, right now… he wasn’t sure how to answer. Because to you, in your broken, half-lit memories, he was nothing. A stranger. An unfamiliar face who cried too easily and begged too hard.

The nurse looked between the two men, clearly uncomfortable. “I can’t make decisions based on history I don’t know. If the patient recognizes Mr. Jay, and she’s comfortable with it, we allow visitors. But for now, we’re trying to avoid overwhelming her.”

She turned back to Jay. “You may go in, but keep it short. And speak gently. She’s still very fragile.”

Minho opened his mouth to protest, but it was already too late.

Jay was walking past him, heading for your room with confident strides, as if he had every right in the world to be there. As if he hadn’t tried to pull you away from Minho every chance he got.

And the worst part? Minho couldn’t follow.

He stood there in the hallway, helpless, his fists clenched and his heart in his throat. The nurse gave him an apologetic glance before walking away.

Minho was left standing alone again.

Another locked door. Another piece of you slipping further from his grasp.

And now he was in there with you.

He didn’t know if you’d recognize Jay. If your mind had pulled him back while leaving Minho behind. If you’d smile for him. Laugh. If Jay would take advantage of the blank slate that the accident had given you.

But Minho knew one thing with unbearable certainty.

He’d spent the night holding your hand, whispering his love into the dark like a prayer.

And now he was being replaced again by the one person who had always wanted to take you away.

The nurses and doctors kept saying you were getting better.

They said it like it was a fact, like a milestone you had clearly reached "You’ll be out of here in no time," they smiled, charts in hand, voices warm with optimism. "Your vitals are strong, and your cognition is improving every day. Just keep resting, okay?"

But the truth was, you didn’t feel better.

You felt like you were drowning.

Not in pain exactly, though your head still throbbed sometimes and your body felt stiff in ways that made simple movements difficult, but in confusion. In the aching, suffocating emptiness where your memories used to be. People told you things: names, stories, reassurances. Faces came and went, some that sparked a flicker of recognition, most that didn’t. The world around you looked familiar, but distant like trying to peer through fogged glass at a life that had once been yours.

You tried so hard.

You spent hours straining your mind, pushing yourself to remember anything. A moment. A voice. A laugh. A feeling. You stared at photos, flipped through magazines, even listened to music they said you used to love. But it was all blank. All white noise.

So when the nurses brought you a puzzle and suggested you work on it to pass the time, you agreed because at least it gave your hands something to do. Something to focus on besides the panic always threatening to creep in at the edges of your silence.

You were bent over the little tray table, trying to find the right edge piece, when the door creaked open behind you.

At first, you didn’t look up. You assumed it was another nurse with more encouraging platitudes or another round of gentle cognitive tests. But then you heard his voice.

Soft. Careful. Familiar.

“Hey...”

You turned slowly, and your eyes landed on a tall figure standing awkwardly just inside the room, his hand still resting on the door handle like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve come in. He looked nervous. His smile was small, but his eyes were filled with something else, something harder to define.

And something in you stirred.

You stared at him.

His face... it was like a name on the tip of your tongue. Like a dream you’d half forgotten the second you woke up. It pulled at something deep inside you, something quiet and buried.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he said, shifting his weight. “I just... I heard about what happened, and I had to see you.”

Your heart picked up speed.

There was something about the way he said it. Something real. Something that rang true in a way nothing else had since you woke up in this hospital bed.

You blinked fast, overwhelmed.

“Do I... do I know you?” you asked quietly, the words cracking on their way out.

The boy stepped forward slowly, eyes flicking toward the puzzle pieces, then back to your face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “You do. Or... you did. I’m Jay.”

And then it hit you.

Like a rush of cold air after being underwater too long.

Jay.

You knew that name. You knew him.

It wasn’t everything not a full memory, not even close, but it was a spark. A sliver of light through the fog. You remembered the way he laughed, the way he talked too fast when he was excited. You remembered late nights and long walks, sitting on sidewalks and laughing at dumb things only the two of you found funny.

Your breath caught.

A tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized it was coming. Your hand reached up to cover your mouth as a sob built in your throat.

Jay’s face softened immediately, and before you could speak, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you gently, careful not to hurt you.

And you let him.

You let yourself sink into that hug, into the one familiar feeling you'd had in days. Your fingers clutched at the back of his shirt as you tried to ground yourself in the warmth of his embrace, your body shaking from emotion you didn’t have words for.

He didn’t say anything. He just held you. And for a brief, flickering second, the ache in your chest eased. You weren’t drowning anymore. Not in that moment.

He remembered you. And, finally you remembered something.

Jay stayed with you for a long time.

Longer than any of the doctors or nurses expected, longer than any other visitor had. And you didn’t mind. In fact, for the first time since waking up in that sterile white room, you felt… okay. Not good, exactly. Not whole. But safe. Familiar. Like the world around you had finally cracked open just a little bit and let in a beam of warmth.

He sat in the chair beside your bed, his body slouched like he’d done it a hundred times before. He looked around like he hated the hospital, called it “soulless,” said it didn’t suit someone like you and you laughed at that. It was a genuine laugh. Small, but real. You didn’t even realize how long it had been since you’d felt one rise naturally from your chest.

Jay began to tell you stories. Small, scattered things. Fleeting moments from your childhood, things he said the two of you used to joke about. He mentioned how you used to dare each other to jump into freezing water at the lake near your old neighborhood. How you used to call his mom “Mom #2” and how she always made your favorite pancakes with too many chocolate chips. He told you about a time you’d both skipped school and gone to a matinee movie, just the two of you, stuffing your pockets with snacks and swearing the popcorn had never tasted better.

You didn’t remember the details, not really, but the way he told them made you believe they were true. Made you feel like somewhere, deep down, maybe those memories were still there. You smiled as he spoke, sometimes even laughed softly, and each time you did, he smiled wider. Like he was proud of himself. Like helping you feel something again meant something to him too.

Then, after a pause, his tone changed.

He hesitated, his eyes flickering toward the hallway outside. He leaned forward, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear what he was about to say. His voice lowered, gentled, but carried a certain edge beneath the softness.

He started talking about Minho.

“You might not remember him,” Jay said slowly, “but… maybe that’s for the best.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at the name. Minho. It tugged at something in your chest, nothing solid, but not nothing either.

“He’s not who you think,” Jay continued. “Everyone acts like you two were some kind of perfect couple, but I was there. I saw what it was really like. He was bad news. Controlling. Jealous. He made you change cut people off, stop doing things you loved. You stopped talking to me because of him. Said he didn’t like the way I ‘got in the middle.’”

You blinked, the confusion settling heavy over your features.

“I’m not saying this to upset you,” he added, eyes searching yours. “I just want you to be careful. If you don’t remember him, don’t let anyone rush you into something you don’t feel. Don’t let them convince you of a version of the past that wasn’t real.”

You didn’t say anything. You just stared down at your hands, now limp in your lap. The warmth you’d felt earlier had started to drain away, replaced by a fog of doubt. Who was Minho to you, really? What did you forget?

Jay noticed your silence. He reached out and gently touched your hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, giving your fingers a soft squeeze. “I didn’t mean to drop all that on you. I just… I care about you. I always have.”

And when he stood to leave, hours later, after the sun had shifted across the room and the nurses had come in twice to check your vitals, you felt a panic rise in your chest. You didn’t want him to go.

You didn’t want to be alone again.

“Can’t you stay a little longer?” you asked, your voice small.

His eyes softened, but he shook his head. “I want to. I do. But they said visiting hours are over. I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? I promise.”

And for some reason, that made tears prick at the corners of your eyes again. He stepped close, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and said gently, “Try to rest. Don’t think too much. Just take it one day at a time.”

You nodded.

But once he was gone, and the door clicked shut behind him, the room suddenly felt colder. And quieter. And your thoughts, once briefly still, began to race again.

Who was Minho?

And why did Jay’s words make something in your heart feel uneasy?

Minho was going crazy.

Not in the dramatic, exaggerated way people throw that word around. He was unraveling in real time, second by second, thread by thread, as the hands of the clock moved painfully slow.

It had been exactly three hours since Jay walked into your hospital room. Minho knew because he’d been counting. Watching the time tick by on the faded wall clock above the nurses’ station like it was mocking him. Every minute that passed with Jay in your room and not him made something deep inside his chest tighten.

He’d tried everything.

First, he asked the nurses calmly if he could go in, just for a moment. They said no. Said they’d been advised to limit your visitors for your “emotional recovery.” He reminded them, again that he wasn’t just anyone. That he’d been there every day since the accident. That he’d slept in those hard plastic chairs outside your room. That he’d sat by your bedside, talking to you even when you couldn’t respond. That he loved you.

They gave him tight smiles. Apologetic, tired ones. “We understand, Mr. Lee, but she needs time. She was very distressed last time. We’re following doctor’s orders.”

He didn’t yell. Not at first. He just clenched his jaw and walked away, pacing the hallway like a man trying to out-walk his own panic. But every so often, he returned. Softened. Pleaded. Asked a different nurse. Asked again. Just one of them to please, please check in on you, just make sure you were okay. That Jay wasn’t saying anything that might confuse or hurt you.

At some point, after the third nurse, the fourth, maybe the fifth, they stopped pretending to care. They brushed him off with distracted nods or curt reassurances. One even told him to go get some fresh air, that “hovering wasn’t helping anyone.”

He almost laughed at that. Hovering? He wanted to scream.

And then finally, finally, Jay emerged.

The door to your room swung open, and Minho’s heart immediately surged with hope. Maybe he could go in now. Maybe you were asking for him. Maybe you remembered.

But then he saw him.

Jay stepped into the hallway like he owned the place, his hands casually tucked in his coat pockets, that same smug, self-satisfied look on his face that Minho had hated since the very first time they met. The glint in his eye, the cocky tilt of his head, it was like he was silently daring Minho to say something. Like he wanted a reaction.

Minho stood frozen. His fists clenched so tight at his sides his knuckles turned white. His jaw locked. He could feel every part of his body screaming at him to move, to do something, to grab him, shove him against the wall, demand to know what he said to you. Because he knew Jay. Knew the games he played. Knew how good he was at twisting the truth, planting seeds of doubt.

He also knew how much Jay had always hated him.

Jay had never made a secret of it. From the very start, he’d done everything he could to tear the two of you apart. Told you Minho was bad for you. Controlling. Dangerous. Said things behind Minho’s back, things he couldn’t prove but could feel were poisoning you slowly. He'd always smiled to your face but looked at Minho like he was a threat. And now, with you vulnerable, confused, unable to remember, he finally had the chance to rewrite history. To plant his own version of the past in your head.

Minho could see it in the way Jay looked at him now. Like he’d won.

Jay gave a small, mocking nod as he walked past, brushing just close enough to Minho’s shoulder that it could’ve been an accident, but wasn’t. And Minho… Minho had to dig his nails into his palm to keep from doing something reckless. Something he’d regret.

He didn’t care what the nurses said anymore.

He needed to see you. Needed to look into your eyes and hear your voice. To remind you of the truth, your truth and not whatever lies Jay had just spent three hours feeding you.

Minho waited until Jay disappeared down the hallway before moving.

He lingered just out of view behind the corner of the hallway, where the nurses wouldn’t notice him, where the monitors wouldn’t give away his presence. He was done being brushed off, done being treated like he was some stranger hovering around a patient who didn’t want him. Because he knew the truth, he wasn’t a stranger. He was yours.

He had spent every day since the accident aching to be by your side. But for hours now, he had paced, waited, begged just for a chance to see you. And now, Jay was finally gone. The coast was clear. The nurses were distracted, and for the first time in what felt like forever, your door stood slightly open. Like fate had finally cracked a window in the thick, suffocating wall that had kept him out.

He moved quickly, quietly, his heart pounding so hard in his chest he swore it echoed through the floor.

As he stepped into the room, the soft click of the door closing behind him made you look up from a puzzle on your tray.

The moment your eyes landed on him, something shifted.

Minho froze.

You were staring at him, not with recognition, not with warmth, but with the same look you’d had the first time you saw him after waking up: confusion. Hesitation. That faint edge of alarm. It hit him like a punch to the chest. He didn’t even get a word out before he saw your hand move not toward him, but toward the red call button clipped to the side of your bed.

His instincts kicked in. He stepped forward quickly and reached out, not to hurt, not to scare, just to stop you. His hand gently covered yours, just before your finger could press it.

"Please," he breathed out, his voice cracking already. “Just… please. Just give me a minute. One minute. That’s all I’m asking.”

You stared at him, your lips parted but no words coming out. Your hand under his didn’t move, but you didn’t pull away either. You were trying to place him, he could see it in your eyes. Like your brain was flipping through the pages of a book that had been burned halfway through, trying to find a sentence that made sense.

He pulled his hand back, slowly. Raised both palms, like he was surrendering.

“I know you don’t remember me,” he said softly. “I know I’m just some… stranger in your eyes. I get it. I saw it the second you looked at me. But I’m not a stranger. I’m not.”

You were still silent. He didn’t even know if you were hearing him, really hearing him, but he couldn’t stop the words from coming out now. They’d been bottled up for too long.

“I’m Minho,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m the guy who’s been here every day. I’ve been sitting outside that door since the day they brought you here. I slept in that chair—” he gestured to the hard plastic seat by your bed “—because I couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone. Not even for a second.”

Your expression didn’t change, and that broke him a little more.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”

His throat tightened, and he looked down, trying to blink back the sting in his eyes, but it was no use. The tears came. Quiet, helpless tears. The kind that didn’t come from just sadness, but from fear. Fear that you were slipping through his fingers. That he’d already lost you, not to death, but to forgetting.

“I don’t know what Jay said to you,” he said, barely able to speak through the lump in his throat, “but whatever it was… whatever he told you… it’s not the whole story. Please don’t let him be the one to define us.”

You watched him. Still silent. Still unsure. Your eyes were softening, but you didn’t speak, and he didn’t push you.

“I just want a chance,” he murmured. “To help you remember. To remind you who we were. Who we are. Even if you never remember, even if it takes forever, I’ll be here.”

He let the silence settle then, stepping back just enough to give you space, but close enough that you could still feel the weight of his presence. His heart was in his hands now, and all he could do was wait.

When you didn’t respond, didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t even blink for what felt like an eternity, Minho felt something inside him shatter.

He had come in here, heart in his hands, stripped raw with desperation and grief, hoping that something in you would remember him. Hoping your silence meant your mind was turning over something familiar, that maybe, maybe some part of you was starting to click into place.

But you just… stared.

Like he was nobody. Like he hadn’t spent years building a life with you. Like he hadn’t held you on the nights you couldn’t sleep, memorized the rhythms of your laugh, or traced every line of your face a thousand times. You stared at him like he was just another person in a room full of machines and white walls.

And he couldn’t take it.

He wiped at his cheeks roughly, turning away so you wouldn’t see the full force of it, the way his face twisted as he tried to swallow the hurt. He muttered something under his breath, barely audible but bitter. A curse word. Anger at himself, at the situation, at fate for putting the person he loved most in front of him only to make her forget who he even was.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” he said, voice flat now, hollowed out by pain. “Maybe you’re better off without me if you really don’t see anything left. If Jay already got in your head, maybe I was stupid to think—”

He turned, hand reaching for the doorknob. He was about to walk out, to disappear the way everyone seemed to want him to.

But then, your voice cut through the quiet.

“Wait.”

It was soft. Hesitant. But enough.

He froze mid-step, his fingers resting against the cool metal of the door handle, shoulders rigid as he slowly turned back around to face you.

You looked nervous. Your eyes flickered between his and your own hands, which were now fidgeting with the edge of the blanket in your lap. You swallowed before speaking again, voice still unsure but steadier.

“Jay… he told me things. About you. About us.”

Minho stayed still, his gaze locked on you, not daring to interrupt.

“He said…” you hesitated, trying to remember the exact words, “that we were together. But that you weren’t good for me. That we were toxic. He said you… made me feel small. That you made me cry a lot. That I changed when I was with you, and not in a good way.”

You looked at him now, not with confusion, but something else. Something bordering on hurt. Vulnerability.

“I don’t remember those things,” you said. “But I don’t remember not feeling that way either. So how do I know what’s true?”

Minho’s jaw clenched slightly, but he didn’t lash out. He didn’t defend himself with rage or denial. Instead, he just looked down, breathing through his nose, composing himself before speaking.

You continued, quieter now. “I want to believe you. I really do. But right now… I believe Jay. Because he’s the only one who’s reminded me of anything. He made me laugh. He told me stories I could almost remember. And you… you just make me feel confused. Scared.”

Minho winced like you’d hit him, but still he didn’t walk away.

Then, you said the words that changed everything.

“So prove him wrong.”

The room went still again, but this time it was charged. Like the air had shifted.

Your voice steadied with the weight of your decision. “If everything he said is a lie, then prove it. Prove to me that I wasn’t wrong to love you. Prove that I didn’t make a mistake.”

Minho stared at you for a long time. His heart still ached, but now there was something else, something sparking behind his eyes. A flicker of hope.

He stepped closer, slowly, as if afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast.

“I will,” he said, voice thick but firm. “Whatever it takes. I’ll remind you of every good thing. Every moment that mattered. And I’ll do it without pushing, without rushing. I’ll wait. I’ll be patient. But I won’t stop until you see the truth.”

His expression softened. “Because I know what we had. And I know what kind of man I am when I’m with you. That’s what I’m going to show you.”

You nodded, unsure of what you were agreeing to, but willing to let him try.

And for the first time since everything changed, there was a thread, thin, fragile, but real connecting the two of you again.

The morning sun filtered gently through the half-closed blinds of your hospital room, casting soft gold streaks across the floor. You had barely slept, your mind buzzing from the night before, Minho’s visit, his tears, his voice as he pleaded for you to remember him, to trust him. Something about the way he looked at you had stayed with you long after he left. It felt too intense to be fake. Too familiar to be made up.

Still, when Jay showed up early, carrying a takeout tray of warm breakfast and that easy, familiar smile of his, you felt the same uneasiness. He looked like a piece of a memory you couldn’t quite reach but almost could. The way he greeted you, cheerful, teasing, like you’d just seen him yesterday, felt grounding. It made the confusion from the night before quiet down a bit.

“I brought your favorite,” he said, holding up the tray with a dramatic grin as he set it down on your tray table. “Okay, well, at least what I think used to be your favorite. I might be wrong. But I’m also usually right.”

You smiled small, but genuine and he noticed, clearly pleased with himself. He helped you unwrap the meal, cutting pieces where you struggled, holding your water cup steady. It wasn’t the most graceful moment, but he filled the quiet with light jokes and soft reassurances. You laughed once, softly. He smiled wider.

Then, between bites, you spoke.

“Minho came by last night.”

Jay’s hands stilled.

You didn’t notice right away. You were focused on your fork, pushing around a piece of fruit.

“He just… showed up. The nurses didn’t know he came in. He said he loves me.”

The silence between you and Jay stretched suddenly. When you finally glanced up, his face had changed. He was no longer smiling.

Jay set the cup in his hand down slowly, his eyes scanning yours as if trying to read how deeply you meant what you were saying. “He said he loves you?”

You nodded. “I don’t remember everything. I still don’t. But something about the way he said it… felt real.”

Jay leaned back slightly, his mouth tightening into a line. His voice dropped, no longer as playful as it had been just moments ago.

“I told you, he’s not what he says he is,” he said. “Minho might look convincing, but he’s good at that. That’s the problem.”

You furrowed your brow, unsure.

“He said he’d prove it,” you murmured. “That he’d show me what we had.”

Jay sighed, rubbing a hand across his jaw. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone. “I didn’t want to do this unless I had to,” he said, unlocking the screen, “but I can’t sit here and let him manipulate you again. Not after everything I watched him put you through.”

You watched as he tapped a few times on the screen before turning it toward you.

There were screenshots, texts. They looked like messages from Minho. Angry words, frustration, accusations. “You never listen to me,” one said. Another: “I’m not doing this anymore, you're impossible.”

You stared at them, trying to make sense of the harsh tone. You didn’t know enough to understand the context, but it felt like something. Like a warning. Maybe Jay had been right.

Then he showed you a photo. You weren’t in it, but it was of Minho, arms around another girl at what looked like a party, dim lighting and loud energy caught in the background. Jay didn’t even explain it; he just let it sit there between you.

“You still want to believe he’s the kind of person who’ll prove anything?” he asked softly, but there was an edge under it. “He had you wrapped around his finger, and I watched it happen. You cried to me so many nights, said you felt like you were losing yourself.”

Your stomach churned. You didn’t know if the texts were real. You didn’t know if that girl in the picture was just a friend. But Jay sounded so sure. And you didn’t remember anything to fight what he was saying. All you had were emotions, and right now, they were tangled and contradicting.

You looked down, quietly.

Jay noticed, leaning forward a little. “I’m not trying to control what you do. But I’m your friend. I care about you. I’ve always been the one who told you the truth, even when it hurt.”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure what to say.

Outside your room, the hallway stirred faintly with movement. Unseen by you or Jay, Minho had arrived, earlier than expected, just like he promised himself. And he had heard just enough to stop him cold in his tracks.

Minho stood frozen just outside the doorway, the hospital corridor quiet around him except for the low hum of distant monitors and footsteps. He hadn’t expected Jay to be there again, hadn’t expected that.

He had arrived early, just like he told himself he would, carrying a small duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Inside were pieces of your shared life: polaroid photos from your first trip together, a worn hoodie he knew you used to steal from him when you couldn’t sleep, a playlist he'd burned onto an old CD because you once said you missed mixtapes. He was ready. He had come here to remind you who he was, who you both were.

But now, as he stood just out of view and listened to Jay’s voice, quiet but sharp, digging into your uncertainty, Minho felt his stomach turn.

"He had you wrapped around his finger, and I watched it happen. You cried to me so many nights, said you felt like you were losing yourself."

Minho’s fingers clenched around the strap of the duffel bag.

Jay’s voice dripped with conviction, too confident, too rehearsed. And the worst part was, you weren’t arguing. You weren’t correcting him. You weren’t defending Minho at all. You were silent.

That silence did something to him.

Minho could feel the heat rising in his chest, shame, frustration, fear, all wrapped tight together. His jaw tensed, his throat burning. He wanted to burst in, tell you Jay was lying, that he had twisted every story, poisoned everything good between you. But he knew how that would look. Sound. Emotional, desperate, unstable. Exactly how Jay wanted him to look.

He backed away from the door, slowly. His breath was uneven, and he could feel his hands shaking as he tried to keep himself calm. This wasn’t just about you not remembering him anymore. This was about someone else rewriting the memories you did still have. Someone you used to trust. Jay wasn’t just some ex-friend trying to help. He was rewriting history while Minho had to wait behind locked doors.

The weight of that was unbearable.

Minho turned and walked away from the door before either of you could see him, his mind racing, pulse hammering in his ears. He made it to the end of the hall and leaned heavily against the wall, his bag sliding off his shoulder.

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a breath that shook too hard to hide. You didn’t even look at him like you once had. You were starting to look at Jay that way instead.

He hated him. He hated him for being in that room. For sounding so sure. For smiling while you forgot everything Minho had fought to build with you.

But more than anything, Minho was terrified, terrified that this time, Jay might actually succeed in taking you away.

Minho couldn’t back down.

His chest burned with every step as he marched back toward your room, the echoes of Jay’s voice bouncing off the walls of his skull like static he couldn’t shut off. His hands were fists, white-knuckled, the strap of the duffel now hanging loose at his side, forgotten. He didn’t even remember dropping it.

All he could think about was you sitting there, looking at Jay like he was someone you could trust. Like he was the one who had stayed, who had held your hand during sleepless nights, who had loved you through every breakdown, every high and low. Like he was the one who knew how you liked your coffee, how you couldn’t fall asleep unless someone rubbed your back in slow circles. Like he was the one who had never left you, not once.

The door was cracked open.

He didn’t hesitate.

He pushed it open so hard it hit the wall with a thud.

Both you and Jay jumped, startled and before Jay could even rise to his feet, Minho was on him.

He stormed in like a wave breaking through a dam, grabbing Jay by the front of his hoodie and yanking him up so hard his chair scraped backward across the linoleum. Jay stumbled straight into Minho’s chest, caught in the grip of hands that had been trembling just seconds earlier.

“You’re done talking to her,” Minho growled, voice low and shaking with barely contained fury. “You’re done lying to her.”

Jay didn’t react the way Minho thought he would. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t shout. Instead, his lips curled faintly, not into a full smile, but just enough. Enough for Minho to see it. Just enough to feel sick.

Then, with the theatrical subtlety of someone who had rehearsed this very moment, Jay turned his face toward you. His expression shifted instantly eyes wide, breath shallow, voice trembling with false vulnerability.

“See what I mean?” Jay said, loud enough for you to hear. “This is what I’m talking about. This is how he is. You think I’m making it up? Look at him.”

Minho froze.

His eyes snapped to you. You were sitting up in bed, the half-eaten breakfast tray still beside you. You were staring at him, not scared exactly, but unsure. Shaken. Like someone who had just watched two parts of their fractured life slam together with no warning.

Minho’s grip loosened.

His hands fell away from Jay’s hoodie, and Jay took a dramatic step back, brushing himself off with an exaggerated tremble in his fingers. His eyes never left you, like he was waiting for you to flinch or speak or believe.

But it was Minho who looked devastated.

His chest was rising and falling too fast now, not from rage but from panic. His whole expression crumpled in front of you like a paper burned at the edges. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t come in here to make things worse. He had come to fight for you, but not like this.

He turned to you fully now, his voice cracking when he spoke.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I just… I heard him, and I lost it. I lost you, and now he’s trying to take what little I have left.”

He looked so different then, no longer the angry, storming version of himself that had burst through the door. He looked like a man barely holding it together. Like someone who had spent every second loving you, only to be shut out when you needed love the most.

And yet, he didn’t step closer. He didn’t reach for you. He just stood there, waiting for you to decide what you believed.

Jay didn’t wait a second.

The moment Minho stepped back, just far enough for the tension to hang, thick and bitter in the air Jay straightened himself up, smoothing out his hoodie like it had actually been disturbed. His smirk had vanished again, replaced once more by that carefully measured, concerned expression he knew worked on people. The same one he used on teachers when he was younger, on your parents when he wanted their trust, on you now that he had your attention again.

He gave a subtle glance your way soft, comforting, almost protective. Like Minho was the threat and he was the shield.

Then he moved, stepping slightly in front of you not too obviously, just enough to make it seem like instinct. Like reflex. Like he was trying to keep you safe.

His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made Minho look even more volatile in comparison.

“This is exactly what I was trying to explain to you,” Jay said, shaking his head like he hated being right. “You don’t remember what he’s like when he gets like this. You never liked seeing him angry, remember? I told you he was bad for you.”

He turned to you fully now, crouching down just enough so he could meet your eyes on the same level. His tone softened even more.

“I know it’s confusing,” he said, carefully, like he was walking you through a lie he’d practiced a hundred times. “Everything’s messed up in your head right now. I get it. But you have to trust what you feel. That sick feeling in your gut when he stormed in? That means something.”

Minho opened his mouth to speak, but Jay didn’t give him the chance.

“I’m not trying to turn you against him,” Jay said quickly, eyes still on you. “I’m just reminding you what’s real. You were scared of him once. I was there. I saw it. He wasn’t good to you. Not really.”

That last part hit Minho like a slap, his fists clenched again, not to strike, but to hold back the scream in his throat. He wanted to yell that it was a lie, that you were never afraid of him, that everything Jay was saying was calculated, twisted, wrong.

But Jay’s trap was already set. Calm versus chaos. Friend versus partner. His words against Minho’s silence.

And Jay, he didn’t need to win the whole war. Just this one moment. Just enough to plant the seed of doubt.

So he placed a hand gently over yours on the blanket. Softly. Casually. And looked you straight in the eye.

“I’m just trying to protect you,” he said. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And Minho watched you, watched your face, your eyes, your hands under Jay’s as if he could still find the version of you that remembered.

Because Jay hadn’t won. Not yet. Not completely.

Minho stood there with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his other hand gripped tightly around the strap like it was the only thing holding him together.

He hadn’t come back that morning expecting a perfect reunion, he wasn’t that naive, but he hadn’t expected this either. Jay, already in your room like he belonged there. Jay, sitting at your side, feeding you bites of breakfast like it was normal. Jay, looking at him with that smug little grin barely hidden beneath faux concern. Like he’d already won.

Minho couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t watch someone else fill the space he’d been fighting to stay in. He’d spent the whole night digging through old things photos, playlists, that sweatshirt you always stole, things he thought might help trigger your memory, things he’d wanted to bring to you. To help you remember them. Remember him.

But instead, all he could do was stand there and watch Jay plant more lies in your mind. And you, you didn’t even know they were lies. You were just trying to survive inside your own confusion.

He lowered his head, letting his hand fall from the strap. He felt heavy. Tired in a way he hadn't even let himself admit until now.

“I’m going,” Minho muttered, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He didn’t look at you. “I shouldn’t have come back.”

You looked up, surprised. You hadn’t expected him to give up, not so suddenly, not when it was clear how much this meant to him. Jay didn’t say anything at first, just leaned back in the chair with a sigh, already satisfied.

“You should let him go,” Jay finally said under his breath, just loud enough for the silence to catch it. “He’s already done enough.”

Minho stiffened, but he didn’t argue. Didn’t yell. He turned toward the door with heavy steps, his hand brushing against the knob.

That’s when you said it.

“Min.”

Just one word. Just that nickname. Small, almost unsure, but the second it passed your lips, it was like the entire room stopped breathing.

Minho froze.

Slowly, he turned his head, not all the way, just enough to look over his shoulder. His eyes wide, almost disbelieving.

You saw it on his face immediately. Shock. Pain. Hope. All of it tangled together like a wound trying to heal too fast.

You didn’t even mean to say it. It had just slipped out, like it had been waiting quietly in the back of your mind for the right moment to rise. You didn’t remember everything. But something about the way he looked when he stood there, his shoulders hunched, that duffel bag barely clinging to him, his voice cracking, something about it broke your heart in a way that felt familiar.

Jay stiffened. His jaw clenched.

Minho turned fully now, his eyes locked on you. “What did you just say?”

You swallowed, suddenly unsure. “Min…”

It felt real in your mouth. Natural. Like it always had been.

Minho took one slow step back into the room. His duffel bag slipped off his shoulder and hit the floor with a soft thud.His eyes were glassy, his breathing unsteady.

“You used to call me that,” he whispered. “You used to call me Min. Everyday.”

Jay stood abruptly, suddenly aware that the atmosphere had shifted. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said quickly. “It’s just a nickname—”

“Shut up,” Minho snapped, not even looking at him. His eyes stayed on you.

“I didn’t think you remembered anything,” he said, voice barely holding together. “But maybe… maybe something's coming back.”

Your heart beat faster. You didn’t know why you said it, but now that you had, you didn’t want to take it back.

And Minho saw it. That flicker of recognition. The sliver of light trying to break through the dark.

It started like a whisper in the back of your mind.

As soon as the word “Min” left your mouth and you saw the way his eyes lit up, wet, wide, desperate, you felt something inside you shift. Something warm and painful and real. It didn’t come in a rush, didn’t hit you like a bolt of lightning the way people said memory sometimes did. It was softer than that. Like the faint flicker of a candle in a pitch-dark room. A glow you hadn’t seen in so long you forgot it was even there.

Minho took a careful step toward you, his expression so gentle, as if any wrong move might scare the moment away. Jay was saying something beside you, probably trying to pull your attention back, but you didn’t hear it. You were looking at Minho.

“I… I think I remember something,” you whispered, more to yourself than to anyone else. You swallowed, and your hands gripped the edge of your blanket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “It was raining. And I didn’t have anywhere to go. My family, my mom said I couldn’t come back. She locked the door. Jay told me it was my fault, that I ruined everything, and I, I didn’t know where else to go. I felt so stupid.”

Minho’s breath caught in his throat. You could see the way his body tensed at your words. He knew exactly what you were remembering.

“I was soaking wet,” you continued. “It was late. I called you… we hadn’t even been together that long. I don’t even know why I called. I just—something told me you’d answer. You told me to come over, and when I did, you were already waiting outside. You didn’t say anything when you saw me. You just… held me.”

The memory unfolded like a fragile piece of paper being smoothed out. You remembered the warmth of his arms. The scent of his hoodie. The way he kept brushing your wet hair out of your face, even though you were shivering and crying too hard to even speak. And then later, curled up on the old pull-out couch in his apartment, when you finally managed to get the words out, how he’d looked at you.

And said, “You don’t have to earn love. Not here. Not with me.”

“I remember,” you said again, your voice cracking. “You gave me dry clothes and made tea even though you didn’t know how. You burned the first batch.”

Minho let out a short, broken laugh. He was already wiping his eyes before you even finished speaking.

“I did,” he said, voice thick. “I left the bag in for twenty minutes. You still drank it.”

“Because I didn’t want to be rude.”

“No, it’s because you were trying not to cry again.”

Your bottom lip trembled, and you didn’t even realize when a tear slipped down your cheek.

Then Minho suddenly knelt down and set his duffel bag on the chair beside your bed. He unzipped it with a hand that was shaking now for a different reason. He rummaged through it for a few seconds before he pulled something out, a crumpled gray hoodie.

Your eyes widened. You knew that hoodie. Your fingers itched just looking at it.

“I kept it,” Minho said, his voice soft. “You used to wear it every night for the first few weeks you stayed with me. Even after we moved in together. I found it in the bottom of your drawer. It still smells like you. I brought it… just in case.”

You reached out for it, your hand hesitant at first, but then firmer, more certain. When your fingers touched the worn fabric, another memory sparked, curling into yourself in the corner of his couch, that same hoodie swallowing your frame, while Minho sat beside you, holding your hand and talking you through your breathing.

Minho saw the recognition in your face and gently helped you hold the hoodie in your lap. He crouched beside the bed, both hands resting on the mattress as he looked up at you.

“I didn’t just take you in,” he said quietly. “I wanted you there. You didn’t ruin anything. You saved me too. And I’ve been trying to hold on to you ever since.”

Behind you, Jay shifted in his seat, but neither of you looked at him. His presence seemed to fade as the moment between you and Minho deepened.

“You really said that?” you asked, tears streaming now.

Minho nodded, his own eyes just as glassy. “Every word.”

And even though your mind still felt like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, one thing suddenly became very clear: Minho hadn’t just been someone you loved.

He was home.

Jay shifted in the corner of the room, his chair scraping faintly against the hospital floor, the sound sharp in the silence that had settled after you finished speaking to Minho. His eyes flicked from your tear-streaked face to the hoodie in your lap, then to Minho’s crouched form beside your bed. You could see the way his jaw clenched. The way his fingers curled into fists at his sides. His whole body screamed discomfort not guilt, not regret, but defensiveness. Like a man losing control over a story he’d worked hard to rewrite.

He stood up.

“You can’t seriously believe all that,” Jay said, voice low but pointed. “It’s been months. You’ve been through a trauma. Your memory isn’t reliable. You don’t even know if what you’re remembering is—”

“Stop.”

Your voice cut through the room sharper than you meant it to, but you didn’t take it back. Jay flinched slightly, blinking like he couldn’t believe you’d raise your voice at him. You sat up a little straighter, hoodie still gripped in your lap, and looked directly at him, really looked. For the first time in days, something in your gaze felt solid. Anchored.

Jay’s mouth opened like he wanted to interrupt, but you kept going.

“I remember when everything fell apart. When my mom told me to leave. When I had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. You were the first person I called.”

You paused, swallowing.

The image of yourself standing outside his apartment door came rushing back with more clarity than you were ready for, the rain slamming down so hard it felt like it was trying to punch through your skin. The thunder, the way your phone screen had gone blurry from the water, how your fingers had started to go numb from the cold.

“I called you. I begged you to let me stay for just one night. You answered the door, saw me standing there soaking wet, and you looked me in the eye and told me I’d made my choice.”

Jay’s face paled, but he didn’t speak.

“You said, ‘You wanted Minho so bad? Go ask him for help.’ And then you shut the door.”

Minho, still crouched beside your bed, slowly turned his head toward Jay with a look that was anything but forgiving.

Jay’s lips parted again, trying to find something to say, but you weren’t done.

“You let me stand in the pouring rain,” you said, voice cracking just a little at the edges now. “You knew I had nowhere else to go. And you punished me for being with someone who actually cared about me.”

Jay's expression flickered, his smugness cracked for the first time since you’d woken up in that hospital bed. And all he could muster was a weak, “That’s not how it happened.”

“It is how it happened,” you replied, without hesitation. “And the fact that you came here, pretending like I could trust you after that… that you twisted everything just so I’d forget him…”

You shook your head slowly.

“You don’t get to play savior, Jay. Not after abandoning me when I needed you the most.”

Silence fell heavy between the three of you. Jay looked like he wanted to argue, to find a thread to pull so the truth would unravel again, but there were none left. You had your piece. The memory, fractured though it had been, was real. You felt it in your chest like a bruise that had finally begun to heal.

Minho didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His hand quietly found yours on the bed, and you let it. No hesitation this time.

Jay stood there for a long moment, eyes bouncing between you both, before he scoffed under his breath,, more out of disbelief than anger and turned toward the door.

You didn’t stop him.

For the first time since the accident, Minho felt like he could breathe.

It wasn’t just a metaphor, his lungs physically expanded with the deepest breath he’d taken in days, maybe weeks. His shoulders, always tense lately like they were holding up the weight of the entire world, finally relaxed, even if only slightly. There was a softness in your expression that hadn’t been there before, a quiet kind of trust peeking through the fog of confusion and hurt. And for him, that was everything.

He exhaled slowly, almost in disbelief, as if he had been holding that breath in ever since you forgot him. Ever since you looked into his eyes in that hospital room and saw a stranger.

But now, the faint curve of your lips, the gentle smile you gave him told him that maybe, just maybe, you were beginning to see him again. Not just as a person, but as your person.

You tilted your head toward him, voice soft, curious. “What else did you bring?”

Minho’s eyes lit up.

He immediately reached for the worn black duffel bag he had placed beside your hospital bed, he’d been dragging it around since the night he left to gather everything he could find that might help you remember. His fingers moved gently, reverently, like he was handling something sacred as he lifted it onto your lap, careful not to jostle you too much.

“This,” he said, unzipping it, “is basically our entire life in a bag.”

He opened it fully, revealing a chaotic but heartfelt assortment of items: Polaroids, little keepsakes, your favorite hoodie of his (the one you used to steal every other week), and even a coffee mug that had a tiny chip on the rim, something you always teased him for never replacing.

He pulled out the first photo, its edges slightly curled. It was a candid one, taken at the beach on your first trip together. You were mid-laugh, wind tangling your hair, Minho’s arm looped lazily around your waist. He handed it to you, watching carefully for your reaction.

“I took this one the day you said the sea always made you feel like you belonged to something bigger,” he murmured. “We got sunburned that day because we forgot sunscreen. I remember you yelled at me for it and then made me rub aloe vera on your back like twenty times.”

A small laugh slipped out of you, and his heart swelled.

One by one, he pulled out more, A charm bracelet with a single initial, M, you had bought it at a market and insisted on wearing it every day, even though the chain was barely holding together. Your shared apartment’s spare key, taped to a sticky note with your handwriting on it: “Don’t lose this, dummy.” And then finally, a notebook. Minho opened it and flipped to the dog-eared pages.

“This was your dream journal,” he said quietly. “You used to wake me up at like 2 AM just to write down the weird dreams you had. Sometimes they were scary, sometimes they made no sense, but you never wanted to forget them. You said they meant something. That all dreams do.”

You took the notebook slowly, running your fingers over the cover like it was a relic from another life. And in a way, it was.

“You kept all this?” you whispered.

“I kept everything,” he said. “Even the smallest things. Because you never know what will mean something later. What might bring you back.”

For a long time, you didn’t say anything. You just looked through the contents of the duffel bag, piece by piece, and with each item, something in your face softened. The fog hadn’t cleared completely, but there were pockets of clarity now, glimpses of the life you’d had, the love that still waited patiently for you to remember it.

Minho didn’t rush you. He just sat beside your bed, one hand loosely holding yours, hope flickering steadily in his chest now.

He had brought your life back to you. And this time, you didn’t push it away.

Minho stayed with you the entire time, watching with quiet devotion as you sifted through the pieces of the life you had forgotten.

Each item was a breadcrumb leading you somewhere deeper, somewhere softer, toward a version of yourself that still felt far away but not impossible to reach. You didn’t rush. You turned every photo gently in your hands, paused over every note, reread every little caption or scribbled doodle. You could feel the weight of them, not just the physical weight, but the emotional one. These weren’t just things. They were echoes. Proof of something real.

And Minho never said a word. He didn’t press you or try to force anything. He just stayed.

Eventually, the silence settled around you both, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that felt like safety, the kind that could only exist between two people who didn’t need to fill every space with words. His head had slowly tipped back against the chair, his arms folded loosely across his chest, legs stretched out in front of him. His breathing had gone soft and steady, and you glanced at him through the corner of your eye.

He’d fallen asleep.

You stared at him for a long while, taking him in again, the slope of his nose, the way his lashes brushed his cheeks, the slight crease between his brows that made it seem like he never fully relaxed, not even in sleep. There was a gentleness to him in that moment that tugged at something in your chest. You had this strange feeling like you’d seen him sleep like this before.

And then it hit you.

The memory didn’t return like lightning. It came in quietly, softly, almost like a dream.

You remembered a night, not too long after you’d first moved in with him. It had been raining. You were sitting on the floor in his bedroom, your knees pulled to your chest, trying to keep yourself from falling apart. The reality of what had happened, being kicked out by the people you once called family, losing your home, your stability had hit you like a tidal wave. You remembered how you had been trying so hard to stay strong for days. But that night, you broke.

And Minho… Minho didn’t ask questions. He didn’t try to tell you that it would all be okay. He didn’t offer platitudes or promises he couldn’t keep. Instead, he’d knelt down beside you and just… held you.

He’d pulled a hoodie over your head, one of his, because you were shivering. He wrapped you in his arms like a fortress and whispered, “You’re not alone anymore. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

And you had cried in his arms that night, not because you were weak, but because you were finally safe enough to fall apart.

The memory washed over you like warmth, like light breaking through after weeks of storm.

You looked back down at the things in your lap, and your fingers found the exact hoodie from that night, the one he had wrapped around you like a second skin. You held it against your chest, letting yourself feel every layer of the moment return. The rain. The ache. His voice.

And for the first time since the accident, the memory didn’t feel like a puzzle piece struggling to fit. It felt like something that had always been there. You had just forgotten where to look.

You turned back to Minho, still sleeping in the chair beside you, and whispered so quietly that only the stillness could hear:

“I remember.”

Minho stirred awake slowly, his body stiff from sleeping upright in the hospital chair, neck craned slightly to the side. He blinked a few times, disoriented, until his eyes adjusted to the soft morning light spilling in through the blinds. The rustling of the blanket over your legs caught his attention, and when he looked up fully, his breath caught.

You were watching him.

There was something different in your expression this time gentler, steadier. Your eyes weren’t clouded by confusion or hesitation. They were clearer, like something inside had clicked into place, even if just partially.

“Hey,” he said groggily, straightening up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

You shook your head and gave him a small, knowing smile. “It’s okay. You were here.”

That alone made his chest tighten. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, searching your face like he was still afraid it might disappear.

Then you spoke again quietly, but firmly. “Minho… I remember.”

His heart stopped.

You saw the way his entire body froze, his mouth parted like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you correctly. Before he could ask, before he could even breathe, you continued.

“I remembered that night,” you said softly, your fingers running along the edge of the hoodie in your lap, the one he’d given you all that time ago. “That night I stayed with you. After everything happened with my family… with Jay.”

His throat bobbed, overwhelmed.

“I remembered the rain. I remembered standing outside Jay’s place soaked and scared, calling him and him hanging up on me. And I remembered you, Minho. You opened the door to your apartment and didn’t even ask me why I was there. You just… pulled me inside and told me I wasn’t alone.”

Minho’s hands curled into fists in his lap. He was trying so hard to keep it together, to not break down right then and there.

“I wanted to tell you as soon as I woke up this morning,” you added, voice faltering, “but Jay got here first. And I— I didn’t want to say anything with him in the room. I didn’t trust it. I didn’t trust him. So… I waited. I pretended I didn’t remember. Because I wanted to say it to you. First.”

Minho let out a choked sound, like something between a laugh and a sob. “You remembered,” he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. “You remembered.”

You reached out and took his hand, your grip still tentative, still cautious, but it was yours. And it was real.

“My memories are still… fuzzy,” you admitted, “like I’m walking through fog. But I remember you. I remember how you made me feel. Safe. Seen. Loved.”

Tears welled up in Minho’s eyes again, but this time he didn’t look away. He let them fall, and he leaned forward to rest his forehead against your joined hands. “That’s all I need,” he whispered. “I’ll remind you of the rest. No rush. Just… let me stay. Let me be here.”

You smiled, heart aching with something so full it nearly brought you to tears. “I never wanted you to go. Even when I didn’t remember, some part of me missed you.”

Minho lifted his head, looking at you with awe, like you were a miracle he still couldn’t quite believe had returned. “You came back to me,” he whispered.

“No,” you corrected gently. “You never left me.”

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that there were still gaps in your memory or questions left unanswered. What mattered was that the one person who had held you through the darkness was still here, steady as ever, ready to walk you home, one step at a time.

masterlist.

❌proofread

a/n: ending was a little rushed i’m sorry 🙃. “jay” is someone i made up, not an idol 👍

[permanent taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]

[TSYL taglist @ari-hwanggg]

195 notes · View notes

elswhore · 2 days ago

Text

thinking about rich ceo abby all sharp suits and cool confidence, who would burn the world down just to see her bratty wife smile. mdni.

today, she’s gone all out—rented the entire damn mall, cleared it out for you to have your pick of anything and everything.

the marble floors gleam under the skylights, racks of designer clothes and shelves of sparkling jewelry laid out like a private kingdom.

her black amex is burning a hole in her pocket, and her patience? Its hanging on by a thread.

you have been at it for hours, flouncing from store to store, tossing aside gucci bags and sneering at diamond necklaces like theyre cheap trinkets.

abby trails behind, her tailored blazer brushing against displays, her jaw tightening with every sigh you let out.

shes trying—god, shes trying—to keep that calm, indulgent smile plastered on her face, but your attitude is testing her limits.

“i dont even like all of this.” you groan, flopping dramatically onto a velvet chaise in the middle of chanel.

your sundress rides up just enough to catch her eye, and you know it.

you’re being a bitch, and you’re not even sorry.

“this is boring, abby, can we just go home?” her eyes narrow, and for a second, you think you’ve pushed her too far.

she steps closer her polished loafers silent on the floor, and looms over you, the air shifts, heavy with the weight of her presence.

“boring?” she repeats, voice low. “i shut down a whole fucking mall for you, princess, and you are bored?” you pout crossing your arms, doubling down because you’re spoiled and you know she’ll cave.

“it’s all the same crap, i dont want it.” abby’s laugh is sharp, humorless, shes had enough.

in one fluid motion, she grabs your wrist, yanking you up from the chaise and pinning you against the nearest wall, her body caging yours.

the cool glass of the display case presses into your back, and your breath hitches as her hand slides up your thigh, fingers digging into the soft skin under your dress.

“ungrateful little brat,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear, her voice dripping with heat.

“you think you can whine and pout while im out here dropping millions to make you happy?” her free hand grips your chin, forcing you to meet her stormy gaze.

“im gonna remind you exactly who’s in charge.” your heart races, a mix of defiance and thrill, but before you can snap back, her mouth crashes onto yours, all hunger and no patience.

it’s messy, possessive, her teeth grazing your lip as she kisses you like she’s claiming every inch of your attitude.

you squirm, half-fighting, half-melting, but she’s stronger, her hands already tearing at the hem of your dress.

she spins you around bending you over the chaise you were just lounging on, your hands braced against the plush fabric.

“abby!” you gasp, half a protest, but it’s cut off by the sharp smack of her hand against your ass.

the sting makes you yelp your body jerking forward, and she doesn’t give you a second to recover before she’s yanking your panties down, leaving them tangled around your thighs

“you wanna act like a spoiled bitch?” she growls, her fingers sliding between your legs, finding you already wet despite your complaints.

“then ill fuck the attitude right out of you.” her voice is rough, raw, and the sound alone makes you whimper.

she doesn’t tease, doesn’t ease you into it, her fingers plunge into you, curling hard and fast, and you cry out, gripping the chaise as your legs shake.

the mall’s empty but the echo of your moans bounces off the walls, mingling with the faint hum of the air conditioning.

abby’s other hand fists your hair, tugging your head back so you’re forced to arch, her lips brushing your neck as she whispers.

“this what you needed, huh? my spoiled fucking princess needed to be put in her place.” you try to snap something back, but it’s incoherent, swallowed by the way her fingers work you, relentless, her thumb circling your clit just to drive you insane.

she’s merciless, pushing you toward the edge so fast your head spins.

“abby—fuck, please—” you manage, voice breaking and she laughs, dark and triumphant.

“please what?” she taunts slowing just enough to make you squirm. “you gonna be good for me now? or do i need to fuck you stupid right here in the middle of chanel?”

your answer is a choked moan and she takes it as surrender doubling down until you’re trembling, coming apart on her fingers with a cry that’s half her name, half a plea.

she doesn’t stop not until you’re a shaking mess, slumped against the chaise, gasping for air.

abby pulls back, adjusting her blazer like she didn’t just ruin you in a designer store.

she smirks wiping her fingers on a silk scarf from the display, then tosses it aside.

“pick something out.” she says, voice back to that cool, controlled tone, though her eyes still burn.

“or im dragging you to the next store and fucking you in the dressing room.” you glare, still catching your breath, but theres a spark in your eyes now, a challenge.

“fine.” you mutter, grabbing the nearest bag, a sleek overpriced thing you know she’ll pay for without blinking.

“but it better be quick.” her grin is feral, and as she loops an arm around your waist, steering you toward the next boutique, you know you’re in for it.

#abby smut #abby anderson #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x reader smut #abby tlou smut #abby x fem!reader #tlou abby #tlou smut #tlou x reader #── ۶ৎ abby anderson #abby tlou #abby x you #abby x reader

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soangelbaby · 2 days ago

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can you do one with bigbro rafe where topper and kelce find out, but they lowkey fw it??? ily your writing btw !!

😏 this was kinda chaotic buttttt nonnie u literally read my mind n tysm bb ily TW ; INCEST don’t like, don’t read 💋 might be sum typos too idk 😞

“ugh rafey — it’s so hot in here! why do you never have the ac on when your gross friends are over?” you whine, arms crossed above your head, chest pressed out, top rising above your hips. topper and kelce are slouched on the sofa, legs spread, controllers loose in their hands as they fumble around with the controls. rafe’s sat back on the recliner opposite of them, he glances to you briefly, eyes scanning over your outfit, stopping on your bare thighs barely covered by black spandex. exhaling through his nose, head snapping back to the tv, “get the hell out,” he mutters, loud enough for you to hear and deep enough to send a shiver up your spine, because he was giving you the exact reaction you wanted. you bit your lip to hide your smirk, stepping deeper into the den, pushing hair back that was sticking to your face, “i’m serious rafe!” huffing, hands flying to your hips, stomping at the floor like a child throwing a tantrum, “everytime you have them over—”

kelce leans over muttering something to topper with a smirk on his face as both their eyes trail down your frame. rafe’s jaw clenches and he rises from his seat, still trying to mask how much you’re affecting him, “i said get. out.” he repeats stepping closer to you, pointing towards the door. your breath catches in your throat, blinking up at him, he’s so close and so angry, you could literally feel the heat radiating from his body. “make me,” you say, voice full of challenge and defiance, tilting your head up and crossing your arms. rafe watches you for a second, tongue poking into his cheek before he reaches out snatching your wrist, “you wanna act like a slut? keep testing me,”

now he was making them watch, tugging your little shorts and panties down to your ankles, kelce and topper were in shock, but not because they didn’t think rafe was capable, they knew he was sick and fucked up. but the way you practically begged for it from the start? that’s what got them going, “you wanted this huh? acting like a little whore in front of my boys, wanted them to see you get ruined?” you tried to shake your head, whimpering ‘no’ but rafe doesn’t appreciate that, reaching up to slap you hard across the face, “don’t fuckin’ lie, say you wanted it, slut” you can already feel his dick lining up with your slit, daring to push in. and you do, crying out for your big brother’s dick in front of his friends.

“what the fuck is going on in this house?” kelce choked out under his breath, despite his eyes being glued to where rafe’s cock teases your cunt. topper’s already slipping his hand into his sweats, no shame, rubbing at his throbbing shaft, “bro, you’re sick” kelce mutters to topper, shifting in his seat. topper groans, “you’re watching too — don’t pretend you’re not into it,”

rafe shoves into you, no preparation, tip kissing your cervix as he bottoms out, “ah — fuck rafe!” you whine, trying to move up the couch, hands pushing at his chest, but he grips your hips tighter, slamming into you again, “don’t run baby, you needed this remember?” slow and deep, making sure you feel every inch, you clench so hard around him, release already building in your gut, “rafey — please, s’too deep,” you’re trembling under him, furniture rocking against the wall, and his friends are still getting off to you being split by him. rafe laughs low, “too deep?” grunting, driving in harder, hips flush against yours, “should’ve fuckin’ thought about that before you strolled in here like a bratty little bitch huh?”

your mouth falls open in a silent cry, head dizzy as your brother bulldozes your poor little cunt. topper groans, thumb rubbing over his glistening tip one last top before he spills right in his sweats, sticky cum soaking through the fabric. kelce isn’t far behind, leg bouncing and hips bucking against his denim jeans, just enough friction to make him bust at the sight of his best friend fucking his own little sister, “fucking shiit—“ he hisses, eyes fluttering shut for a second. rafe just laughs, reaching up to grab a fist full of your hair, yanking your head back just for them to see your face. “you see that? see how pathetic they are for you?” his hand comes in contact with your ass, sharp sting of the smack sending a jolt through you.

“gonna cum in this stupid little pussy — maybe next time you’ll think twice before acting out,” rafe thrust into you so hard the couch actually slides across the floor, scraping the tile, your body locks up as your orgasm washes over you, body going limp under him, whimpering as you scream rafe’s name. and then you feel it, thick hot ropes staining your walls, animalistic growls falling from his lips as he bites down on your shoulder, “fuck — that’s my girl,” he pants, not pulling out, cock still twitching inside you. his gaze snaps to kelce and topper, “next time she’s gonna ride me, wanna see how fucked out she looks on top,” and the way they nod? you knew he was serious..

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #bigbro!rafe #brother!rafe #rafe smut #tw inc*st #rafe x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe x you #this was longer than intended #big bro x lil sis #sibling incest

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yoursaltyqueen · 2 days ago

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You’re enough for me - Part 2

It had been three weeks.

Twenty-one days of waking up and remembering he was gone.

Of crying until your chest physically hurt, until you felt hollow and small and stupid for still loving someone who left you so easily.

You’d barely eaten. Barely slept.

Every mirror you passed made you flinch — like you didn’t recognize yourself anymore.

And now here you were, standing in Sam Wilson’s backyard, wearing a sundress that felt too bright for how heavy your heart was, pretending to sip the glass of cheap white wine in your hand.

Pretending you weren’t watching him.

Bucky Barnes.

Laughing with someone near the grill, head tipped back, sunlight catching on his dark hair.

Playing with Sam’s nephews like he wasn’t the same man who tore your heart in half three weeks ago.

Smiling like he hadn’t left you sobbing on the floor of your apartment, begging him to stay.

Your throat burned as you swallowed back the lump rising there.

It hurt.

God, it hurt watching him look happy.

Like leaving you had lifted some invisible weight off his shoulders.

Like breaking you was what finally gave him peace.

Your fingers tightened around the wine glass until your knuckles went white.

You looked away, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes.

Sam appeared beside you then, holding a beer, eyes already narrowed at you like he could see straight through your fake smile.

“You’ve been starin’ at him for twenty minutes,” he muttered, voice low enough that only you could hear over the summer music and laughter.

“Not real subtle, kid.”

You huffed out a humorless breath and tipped your glass back, wincing as the too-sweet wine burned on the way down.

“I’m not staring,” you mumbled.

“Just… observing.”

Sam gave you a long look.

The kind that made your skin itch because he didn’t buy your bullshit for a second.

“You okay?” he asked finally, voice softer.

It was the first time anyone had asked you that and actually meant it in weeks.

Your throat closed up.

You laughed — sharp, bitter.

“Do I look okay?”

Sam’s face didn’t change.

Didn’t flinch when your voice wobbled.

Didn’t look away when your eyes got glassy again.

“You look like hell,” he said bluntly.

“Like someone wrung you out and left you in the sun to dry.”

You let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob.

“Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Sam took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes flicking back toward Bucky — still grinning at the kids, like he was the goddamn poster boy for summer fun.

Then Sam looked at you again.

“You been cryin’ every night since it happened?” he asked, voice too calm.

Your chest went tight.

You looked away, swallowing hard.

“Every night,” you whispered.

“Sometimes during the day, too. Can’t eat. Can’t sleep. I keep thinking about what I did wrong. About why I wasn’t enough.”

Your voice cracked.

Sam cursed under his breath and reached out, squeezing your shoulder.

His hand was solid and warm, grounding you for a second when you felt like you might shatter all over again.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and firm.

“You didn’t do a damn thing wrong. That man—”

His jaw clenched.

“He’s got a brain full of demons that tell him he can’t have good things. That he’s safer alone. That if he lets himself be happy, he’s just waitin’ for it to get ripped away.”

Sam’s eyes softened, but his voice stayed steady.

“And it ain’t your job to fix that. It never was.”

You sucked in a shaky breath, tears burning again.

“Then why does it feel like I broke?” you whispered.

“Why does it feel like he got better and I’m the one who can’t breathe anymore?”

Sam’s face twisted, sympathy clear there even though he tried to play it cool.

“Because you loved him,” he said simply.

“Loved him so hard you forgot to leave some love for yourself.”

That broke something inside you again.

Your shoulders sagged, and you wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, trying to keep your mascara from smudging worse than it already had.

Sam’s hand stayed firm on your shoulder.

“You’re here,” he said.

“You showed up. You’re still standin’. That counts for somethin’, kid.”

Your breath shuddered out.

You nodded, even though your heart still felt like it was in pieces.

Your eyes flicked back toward Bucky — who was now leaning down, laughing as he let one of Sam’s nieces braid a little flower crown into his hair.

He looked soft. Gentle.

Happy.

And it made your chest ache all over again.

Because you’d seen that version of him, once.

In the dark, in your bed, whispering things against your skin like you were the only peace he’d ever known.

But now, watching him from across the yard, you wondered why he could give that smile to everyone else — but not to you.

Why loving you had been the thing that made him run.

Sam followed your gaze and sighed.

“You want me to kick him out?” he muttered.

“Say the word. I’ll make up somethin’ about him disrespecting the grill code or whatever.”

A broken little laugh escaped you.

You shook your head, tears still stinging but your lips twitching upward just a little.

“No. He looks… happy.”

Your voice cracked.

“Let him be happy.”

Sam’s jaw clenched again, but he nodded.

“Alright. But you come sit with me and Sarah. And you eat somethin’ before you pass out in this heat. Deal?”

You nodded, swallowing back the lump in your throat.

“Deal.”

Sam squeezed your shoulder one more time before steering you toward the picnic table.

But as you walked away, you couldn’t help but glance back one last time—

At Bucky.

At the man who still held your heart, even if he never wanted it again.

You sat stiffly at the picnic table while Sarah Wilson handed you a plate.

A burger, some salad, a scoop of potato something — all of it bright and summery, the opposite of how you felt inside.

Your stomach turned at the sight.

But Sam’s words echoed in your head.

“You eat somethin’ before you pass out in this heat. Deal?”

So you picked at the food.

Small bites. Swallowing around the lump in your throat.

Just enough to stop your hands from shaking.

Sarah slid onto the bench beside you, her presence warm and solid.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just sat there, letting the summer sounds and laughter fill the silence between you.

Finally, she spoke, voice soft but firm.

“You don’t gotta pretend with me, honey.”

Your throat closed up.

You blinked hard at your plate, your fork trembling a little as you stabbed at the salad.

“I’m fine,” you muttered automatically.

A lie so thin it almost made you laugh.

Sarah snorted.

“Yeah. And I’m the queen of Wakanda.”

You huffed out a weak, watery laugh, and your shoulders slumped.

The tears threatened again, but you swallowed them back.

Barely.

Sarah’s hand settled on your back, warm and steady.

“You loved that man,” she said gently.

“And he broke you clean in two. Ain’t no shame in hurtin’ from that.”

Your breath hitched.

The truth of it cracked something loose again.

Your jaw trembled as you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop hurting.”

Sarah rubbed a slow, soothing circle between your shoulder blades.

“You will. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, you’ll look at him and it won’t feel like you’re bleeding out.”

Her voice softened even more.

“And until then, you keep eatin’. You keep showin’ up. And you lean on people who got you. Like me. Like Sam.”

Your eyes stung again, but you nodded.

Took another bite of food.

It didn’t taste like much, but at least it stayed down.

And that, you figured, was progress.

****

Across the yard, Bucky stood near the grill, arms crossed tight over his chest.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

Sam noticed.

Of course he did.

Sam always noticed.

He stepped in close, voice low.

“Alright. Spit it out.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“Nothing to spit out.”

Sam gave him a look like he wanted to smack him upside the head.

“You think I can’t see you starin’ at her every five seconds? Man, you’re about as subtle as a car crash.”

Bucky’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“She’s not… supposed to be here,” he muttered.

Voice rough.

“She’s supposed to hate me.”

Sam let out a humorless laugh.

“Oh, she does. Believe me. But hate don’t cancel out heartbreak, Barnes. You left her in pieces, and now you’re both out here pretendin’ like you ain’t dyin’ inside.”

Bucky flinched.

His eyes flicked toward you — still sitting at the table, head bowed, Sarah rubbing your back like you might fall apart any second.

The sight made his chest ache.

Sam followed his gaze, his voice dropping lower.

“You look happy right now. Playin’ with my nephews, smilin’ like life’s all sunshine. But I know better. I see you, man. You ain’t slept right in weeks. You’ve lost weight. And you sure as hell ain’t happy.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened until the muscle there twitched.

His voice cracked when he finally said,

“I thought leaving her would make it easier. Safer.”

Sam’s eyes went sharp.

“For who? You? Or her?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Sam shook his head, disgusted.

“You broke her heart, man. And you broke your own right along with it. So what now? You just gonna keep standin’ here watchin’ her fall apart while you pretend you’re fine?”

Bucky’s eyes dropped to the ground, his throat working as he struggled to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

He felt like he was suffocating.

Like every part of him wanted to run to you — to fix what he broke — but the fear kept his feet glued to the spot.

Sam’s voice softened, but the edge stayed sharp.

“You want this to get better? Then stop lyin’ to yourself. And stop starin’ at her like you’re mournin’ your own damn funeral.”

Bucky’s head snapped up at that, pain flashing in his blue eyes.

Sam just stared him down, unrelenting.

Because someone had to say it.

And Bucky—

For the first time since he walked away—

Looked like he might finally crack.

****

The sky was bleeding out in colors — amber, pink, deep purple — as you sat at the edge of the pier behind Sam’s house.

Barefoot. Knees hugged to your chest.

Your summer dress fluttered lightly in the warm breeze, but you hardly noticed.

Your wine buzz had faded hours ago, leaving behind a dull headache and that hollow ache in your chest that had been your constant companion these past three weeks.

You didn’t want to go back inside.

Not yet.

Because you knew he was still in there.

Bucky.

The man who had looked you in the eye and said it was better this way while you begged him not to go.

The man who was now here, sharing the same roof because this stupid BBQ had been planned before he tore your heart in two.

You closed your eyes and let the salty air sting them.

It was quieter out here. Safer.

Footsteps behind you made your whole body stiffen.

Heavy. Familiar.

You knew it was him before he even spoke.

“…You’ve been out here a while.”

Your shoulders tensed, but you didn’t turn around.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing your face — the hurt written all over it.

He cleared his throat.

“I just—”

A pause.

“I wanted to say… I’m staying on the couch tonight. So you can have the room. I’ll keep my distance.”

Your jaw clenched.

Your nails dug into the soft skin of your thigh as you muttered, “How considerate of you.”

His breath hitched, just enough for you to catch it.

“I didn’t mean for—”

You shot to your feet so fast it startled him.

Turning to face him, your chest heaved, and your vision blurred with angry tears.

“You didn’t mean for what, Bucky?” you spat.

Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care.

“You didn’t mean to completely destroy me? To rip my heart out and act like it was for my own good?”

His face twisted, pained.

“I thought—”

“No. No, you don’t get to ‘thought’ me right now,” you snapped, stepping closer.

Your finger jabbed into his chest, hard enough that he flinched.

“You thought breaking me into pieces was better? You thought leaving me after everything we built would somehow protect me?!”

Bucky’s hands fisted at his sides.

His jaw clenched.

His breathing grew ragged.

“I’m dangerous—”

“Oh, save it,” you snarled.

The tears spilled over now, hot and furious as they tracked down your cheeks.

“I was willing to take every piece of danger if it meant I got to keep you! I loved you, Bucky! I still—”

Your voice cracked so hard it stole the air from your lungs.

“I still love you and I hate myself for it.”

That did it.

His face broke.

All that stoic coldness cracked wide open — guilt, grief, regret written in every line of him.

“I didn’t know what else to do!” he shouted back, voice raw now.

His chest heaved, his blue eyes wild.

“I thought if I walked away, you’d be safe—”

“From what?!” you sobbed.

“From the man who held me when I couldn’t breathe? Who made me feel like maybe I was worth loving? You think that man is a threat to me?!”

His hands raked through his hair, pacing now like a caged animal.

“I’m not good for you—”

“Bullshit!” you screamed, voice shaking with fury and heartbreak.

“You’re terrified! That’s all this is! You got scared of being loved so you destroyed it before it could destroy you!”

The silence after your words was deafening.

His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a marathon.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

And that—

That broke something in you completely.

You let out a bitter, wet laugh, wiping angrily at your tears.

“God. I can’t even look at you right now.”

You turned, your feet moving before your mind could catch up.

Stumbling back up the pier, heart pounding so loud you thought it might crack open right there in your chest.

“Wait—” Bucky called after you, his voice hoarse and desperate.

But you didn’t stop.

Didn’t turn around.

You just kept walking, back toward the house, toward the only place you could hide.

Away from him.

Because if you stayed out there one second longer, you knew you’d fall apart in front of him all over again.

And this time, you didn’t have the strength to beg.

Not again.

PART 3

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #sebastian stan #buck x bucky

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mocchiixxx · 3 days ago

Text

Words in Ruin Series # | 11 : Boo Seungkwan 🍊

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Emotional Healing

Warnings: Shouting, emotional breakdown, crying, comfort and reconciliation

Summary: Seungkwan’s laughter is infectious. His sharp wit and confident demeanor have always been a source of joy for those around him. But lately, the weight of constant expectations, both from the public and himself, have been chipping away at his spirit. When he lashes out at you, the person who’s always stood by him, he regrets it immediately, but the damage has already been done. Will you be there to help him rebuild the pieces?

The text came just as you were finishing dinner.

“Y-nnie, Seungkwan's not doing well today.”“He’s been quieter than usual… Don’t take it personally if he snaps, okay?”– Soonyoung🐯.

You frowned at your phone, heart clenching.

Another came seconds later.

“He messed up during rehearsals. Tried to laugh it off, but we can tell it hit him hard. Just be gentle with him tonight.” – Jeonghan.

You sighed quietly as you put your phone down.

It wasn’t the first time the members had reached out like this. They knew how close you were to Seungkwan, how often he ran to you when things got too loud or too heavy. You were his safe space. His place to fall apart, even if he never said it out loud.

Still, it hurt to know he was struggling and pretending like he wasn’t.

You looked down at the table, his favorite soup was still warm, the rice fluffed just the way he liked. You had lit a candle even though you knew he’d tease you for being cheesy again.

But tonight wasn’t about romance. It was about giving him peace, in whatever little way you could.

You looked around the apartment, quiet, warm, soft lighting, and hoped it was enough.

The door opened a while later.

You didn’t even have to see him to feel it.

The energy that usually radiated off him, like sunshine wrapped in sarcasm, was missing.

His steps were sluggish. There was no sing-songy “I’m home,” no dramatic entrance like he always did when he wanted attention.

Just the quiet thud of his bag hitting the floor and the soft shuffle of shoes being taken off.

You stepped out from the kitchen gently, not wanting to startle him. “Hey,” you said softly.

Seungkwan didn’t even look up.

“Kwannie, it’s okay to take a break,” you said gently, standing by the doorway as he was removing the tie of his shoes, still in his stage clothes, sweat-drenched and clearly worn thin.

He barely acknowledged you, brushing past in silence as he kicked his shoes off, picking up his bag once again, shoulders sagging under exhaustion. His hair was damp, face flushed, and eyes clouded.

This wasn't the bright-eyed Seungkwan you knew, the one who could light up a room with a single witty remark or laugh that echoed with warmth.

You followed him quietly into the kitchen. “I made your favorite. I thought it’d help you recover.”

No response. He dropped his bag on the dining table with a loud thud that made you jump slightly. He stared at the table, then at the floor.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered, voice clipped and cold.

Your heart sank. “Kwan… you didn’t eat lunch. You need to eat something, please.”

His jaw clenched. “I said I’m not hungry!”

You flinched. His voice, so sharp, so unfamiliar, cut straight through your chest.

Still, you tried to keep your voice calm. “I’m just worried, love. You’ve been pushing yourself so hard lately. I can see how tired you are.”

He turned to face you, and the frustration in his eyes startled you.

“Why do you always do this?!” he snapped, eyes suddenly glassy. “Why do you act like everything’s okay just because I’m home? Like your food or your soft voice can magically fix it all? I’m not okay! And I’m sick of pretending I am!”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

“You think because I smile and crack jokes that I’m fine? That I don’t feel anything?” His voice cracked, and for a moment, the mask slipped. “I’m not some entertainer for you to fix. I’m tired. I’m burnt out. And I feel like I’m falling apart, but no one seems to care unless I’m breaking down in front of a camera!”

You stared at him in shock. The man you loved, so sensitive, so expressive, was now standing in front of you like a shattered mirror, reflecting only jagged pieces.

“Seungkwan…” you said softly, but your throat was tight. “Why are you yelling at me? I didn’t do anything wrong…”

His face immediately fell. Guilt flooded his expression as he looked away, biting his lower lip.

“I… I didn’t mean that,” he whispered.

“But you said it,” you whispered back, tears brimming in your eyes. “You’re hurting, I can see that. But I’m not your punching bag.”

He sat down at the edge of the table, burying his face in his hands. His voice came out broken. “I know. I know, and I hate myself for it. I just… I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.”

You stood there for a moment, watching the man you loved fall apart in front of you, unsure if stepping closer would help or hurt more. Eventually, you sat beside him, gently placing a hand on his back.

“I get it,” you said softly. “You feel like you have to be strong all the time. That if you crack even a little, the whole world will see and question everything about you.”

He sniffled, his voice muffled. “I’m so tired, babe. I don’t even remember the last time I laughed for real. Not for a camera. Not for a crowd. Just… laughed, because I felt like it.”

Your hand rubbed slow circles on his back. “You don’t need to perform for me, Seungkwan. Not now, not ever. You don’t have to smile if you don’t feel like it. You don’t have to talk if it’s too much. Just… let me be here.”

He turned to you slowly, his cheeks tear-streaked, eyes swollen and red. “I shouted at you. You shouldn’t still be here.”

“I’m not here because you shouted at me. I’m here despite it,” you said. “Because I know that wasn’t you. That was the pressure talking. The pain you’ve been hiding. And you’re allowed to have a breaking point.”

He reached out, tentatively touching your hand. “I’m scared,” he said. “That if I stop pretending, people won’t love me anymore.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “Then let them go. Because the people who truly love you, like me and your members, will love you even on your worst days.”

He leaned into you, pressing his forehead against yours, letting out a shaky breath.

“I feel like I’m always letting someone down. The members. The fans. Myself. Even you.”

“You’re not,” you whispered. “But you’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to be.”

“I’ll try,” he said, voice raw. “I can’t promise I’ll get it right all the time. But I’ll try to stop shutting you out.”

You pulled him into a tight embrace. “That’s all I ask. You don’t have to be perfect. Just be you. That’s more than enough for me.”

He clung to you like a lifeline, the dam finally breaking. The apartment filled with quiet sobs and whispered apologies. You held him through it all, through every tremble, every tear, every confession of fear.

After a long silence, he pulled away just enough to look you in the eyes.

“I love you,” he said, voice barely audible.

“I love you too,” you replied, brushing his bangs from his forehead. “More than you know.”

He let out a soft breath. “I don’t deserve you.”

You smiled. “Maybe. But you have me anyway.”

“Oh, by the way, don't forget to thank your hyungs when you see them. Soonyoung and Jeonghan oppa especially, they warned me before hand about you looking so down so I'm slightly prepared to a gloomy you. ”

A broken laugh escaped him then soft, real, a little tear-stained. And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t sound forced.

“Those guys... I'll thank them when we see each other tomorrow. Thank you for being patient with me babe.”

He leaned his head on your shoulder, and you sat there, the cold food forgotten, the weight on his chest just a little lighter.

You knew there would be more bad days. But you also knew he wouldn’t have to face them alone anymore.

Because behind the laugh, behind the exhaustion, behind the expectations...

there was Boo Seungkwan. And you’d always be there to remind him that he was loved, even in silence.

Taglist: @babycaratdeul @viacb97 @christinewithluv

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dramagodesss · 1 day ago

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twenty one : it hurts to say goodbye

playin' the players

you’re everywhere and nowhere at once.

every new party, every rooftop, every photo someone tags you in — they’re all starting to blur together. you keep the lipstick sharp, the drinks full, the smile just wide enough to fool the right people.

you let cleo drag you to another house show downtown. kie insists you dance. sarah throws her arm around you like a shield. you laugh, you drink, you vanish in the bathroom for a little too long.

you answer texts with half a heart. you leave people on read. you keep your notifications silent.

because it’s easier this way.

no one mentions the bet out loud anymore. no one talks about the rooftop blow-up. and that silence is louder than anything.

you catch yourself zoning out sometimes — like tonight, sitting on a stranger’s balcony with a red solo cup pressed to your lips and someone talking about camera angles beside you. you don’t even remember how you got here.

the sky’s dark. your fingers are cold. and the only thing you feel is tired. not physically. just… tired of it all.

of pretending you’re fine. of pretending it didn’t hurt. of pretending you didn’t care about both of them.

because you did. you do.

you check your phone again. nothing new.

and even though you told yourself you wanted space — that you didn’t want to talk to jj or rafe or anyone — it still stings.

for a second, you almost text him. jj,

i miss you jj,

i’m not okayjj—

or him.

rafe,

i need you rafe,

please come get me rafe—

but you don’t.

you just tip back your drink, lean your head against the cool brick wall behind you, and close your eyes.

and this time, you don’t dream of your brother. you just dream of leaving.

november 23rd

wes’s birthday.

he would’ve been fifteen today. the same age you were when he died in your arms.

fifteen.

you whisper it out loud, like saying the number might somehow slow the ache in your ribs. it doesn’t.

you don’t tell anyone what day it is. not sarah. not kie. not even cleo, who’s always been the best at noticing when you’re unraveling.

you wake up late, stay curled under the covers, and pretend the sunlight isn’t bleeding in through the curtains. you pretend the world isn’t still spinning.

but your mind won’t shut up.

flash. the car. the metal. your hands shaking too much to call 911 the first time. you still remember the exact ringtone when you finally did. your voice high, breaking, telling them please please hurry.

flash. his blood on your hoodie. his fingers gripping yours. him looking at you like he already knew. like he was trying to make you feel better.

“it’s okay, sissy. i love you.”

you remember how his breath rattled. how the words barely made it out. how you sobbed “no no no no no” over and over and held his face like that could keep him here.

he was twelve. twelve and kind and funny and stubborn and obsessed with superhero movies and used to tell people you were his best friend.

you were fifteen and too slow. too scared. you’ve never forgiven yourself for that.

you don’t cry right away today. you just sit there, wrapped in your blanket, phone in your lap, scrolling through pictures you don’t let anyone see.

one of him in a beanie too big for his head. one where he’s holding your hand at the beach. a video of him singing off-key in the car, making you laugh so hard you couldn’t breathe.

and then you do cry. quiet at first. then messier. grief doesn’t knock anymore — it just breaks the door down.

and still, you don’t text anyone. you don’t go out. you don’t even move for hours.

because today isn’t about anyone else.

today is wes’s.

and you just miss your little brother. you miss him so goddamn much you think it might kill you.

but you don’t plan it.

you just wake up, throw on the first hoodie that still smells like home, and walk until your legs hurt.

the tattoo shop’s half-empty. the guy at the counter doesn’t ask many questions, which you’re grateful for. you hand him the lyrics on a crumpled piece of paper.

“time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me.”

it was wes’s favorite. he used to dance like an idiot in the kitchen to it. used to belt the chorus like it was written for him. used to say “this is what i’m gonna sing when i’m famous.”

he never got the chance.

so now it’s on your skin — permanent, etched low across your back where only the people you choose will ever see it.

you don’t flinch when the needle starts. the pain feels good, almost. real. anchoring.

when it’s done, you pay in cash and thank the artist with a hoarse voice, throat tight from holding everything in.

by the time you get back to the apartment, golden hour is stretching lazy over the buildings. your roommates are gone. the world feels hushed.

you go straight to the rooftop.

hood still up.

joint between your fingers.

you light it without thinking, breathing deep. the air’s sharp. the sky’s turning pink. you feel… numb. or maybe just quiet.your phone buzzes once in your pocket. you ignore it. then again. again.

taglist : @beewritess @davinashifts333 @lanasangelsz @littlefreak-liz @drewstarkeyswife0 @lalaloopsieparty @ethanthequeefqueen @wtfisastiles @angelicameron @moth-feeet @drewstarkeyswife-7 @hiphopstar @cokewithcameron @cameronsbabydoll @chillgal135 @ayy1234567 @pogueprincesa @isinpfortvdmen @iheartrosalia @luvrclub @yesshewrites1 @sideboobrry11 @espressh0e @mysticbby2009 @arianagreenblattfanxx10 @hwaaholic @aves05 @thecolorpearl05 @dreamybabbyy @wintercrows @lesbiana2 @chillgal135 @verycherryblossomhideout @daddyrafeslittleslut @pillowprincess4him @xoxobellamy @dylsdaily @at-todds-heart @nonbeliever1 @rafes-honey @lilithblackkk @isktfguhn @rafecamssfavgirl @mirellef2001 @jennieonline @coriiiiiiioiii@scne-vampire

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yinyuedijun · 2 days ago

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anyway I joke a lot about mydei getting cucked in okhema and also being paranoid abt losing you but like the undercurrent to all of this is actually quite sad.

(cw slavery, war, discrimination etc)

mydei has only ever known you within a framework of violence. he led the kremnoan army to war with your city-state, he abducted you from your temple and took you to kremnos, he put you in chains as his people's laws demanded. yes, he was an unwilling participant, and yes, he tried his best to protect you, and yes, he wishes to usher in an era of peace for kremnos where such crimes will never happen again - but the fact of the matter is that mydeimos is the heir to a millennium of violence, and you are the ultimate reminder of that violence.

then you get to okhema, and mydei sees you for the first time in a framework of peace. living outside a reality that is hostile to you, in an environment where you laugh and smile and walk freely without chains. and mydei adores seeing you like this, thinks that there is no sight more beautiful. but the novelty of all this is also painful to him: the only reason you ever cry in okhema is out of joy, whereas in kremnos you only ever cried out of grief.

the people in okhema know, too. your former townspeople, the okheman natives, the refugees from the rest of amphoreus that warred with nikador over the years - all of them know this about you. yes, they are wrong about much of kremnos, vilify him and his people unfairly - but there is still an ugly truth to what they assume about your relationship.

you try your best to deny it. you always defend mydei steadfastly, make it clear that you are by his side willingly, always say that he has been nothing but good to you - but they disbelieve you. they pity you, grieve for you, want more for their innocent priestess that was taken by a kremnoan prince as his war prize. they have no doubt that he defiled you, that you were coerced into laying with him. you insist that this is wrong, that you are his lover - but they will always see you as a bed-slave so long as you are with him.

and they aren't wrong for that, are they? mydei has only ever known you in a framework of violence. the two of you fell in love, yes, but you did it while you were still in chains. no matter how gentle he is with you, his loving you has always been an inherently violent act.

so when mydei sees you in okhema, no longer existing under violence, he sees a life that he stole away from you. a life where you are free, where you can fall in love with a normal man rather than her captor, where you can get married as a legal wife rather than a concubine, where you can have children who are freedmen rather than nothoi who are in chains. mydei is trying so, so hard to create an era where this is no longer the case - but a great part of him fears that your relationship will always stay in this old era of strife.

when your aunties giggle and tell you to retire from your post and get married, to find someone from your town or maybe even a nice okheman boy, he knows what they mean to imply. you're free now, they're saying. you don't need to be the slave of the kremnoan prince anymore. you don't need to spread your legs for the monster who abducted you. you don't need to be his whore.

you can be happy now.

and they aren't wrong for that, are they? you are free now. you can finally escape the chains that castrum kremnos forced upon you - the chains that mydei put you in.

#sadge.....#mydei is going thru something internalized but also grappling with the legacy of castrum kremnos which is an ugly one #he loves his people and his culture but the history comes with such terrible baggage that u both have to navigate #in real life such a relationship could not be anything other than fucked up but within the context of this fictional #romance the two of you do make it work TRUST #you retire and he ends the kremnoan dynasty so you can get hitched as a normal couple #(if you ignore the demigod thing LOL)#and there is at least one timeline out there where mydei gets intense baby fever and you two have a kid LOL #my delusions are so terrible truly #cw.kids #cw.slavery #yueshuo

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lila-lou · 2 days ago

Text

✨Beyond his true fate - Part 2/14✨

Summary: Sequel to "His true fate".

(Jensen hasn't been happy for years. But it seems almost impossible for him to escape. After another nasty argument between him and his wife, he decides to visit his ´former´ best friend for his birthday. Back in Austin, an encounter awaits him that will turn his life completely upside down.)

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, age gap, tough topics

Word Count: 5290

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the soft vibration cutting through the quiet of the room. You glanced at the screen, expecting another message from your aunt Lisa, but instead, Jared Padalecki lit up on the caller ID.

You hesitated for a second before answering.

“Hey”, you said, your voice softer than you intended.

“Hey, kid”, Jared’s voice was warm, familiar. “Just checking in. How are you holding up?”.

You sighed, shifting against the pillows. “I’m… okay”, you said, though you knew it didn’t sound convincing.

Jared hummed knowingly. “Yeah? That sounded real confident”.

You let out a tired laugh. “I don’t know. I guess I just needed some space to breathe, you know?”.

“Yeah”, Jared said, and you could hear the genuine understanding in his voice. “I get it”.

There was a pause before he cleared his throat. “So, have you told your parents yet?”.

You froze, your fingers tightening around the blanket. “What?”.

Jared chuckled lightly. “You heard me”.

Your mind raced. How the hell did he know? Jensen had made it very clear that no one—not even family—could know about the pregnancy until he and his lawyer had worked out a public statement. That’s why you hadn’t told your parents. That’s why you had spent the last few weeks keeping it bottled up, feeling like you had no one to talk to.

“He told you?”, you asked, disbelief thick in your voice.

Jared sighed heavily on the other end. “I made him”, he admitted. “After you showed up at my door crying that night, what was I supposed to do? Pretend like I didn’t know something was really wrong? Jensen wasn’t talking, you weren’t talking—someone had to push”.

You closed your eyes, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Great”, you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. As if this entire situation wasn’t messy enough, now Jared knew, which meant Gen probably knew, too. You weren’t upset with Jared—you knew he meant well—but it still felt like yet another thing slipping out of your control.

Jared, ignoring your irritation, pushed forward. “So”, he said, his voice softer, more careful. “Did you tell your parents yet?”.

Your stomach twisted. You should have expected this. Jared wasn’t the type to let things go, especially when he thought he was helping. You let out a slow breath. “No”, you admitted, shaking your head slightly. “I haven’t”.

Jared hummed, and even through the phone, you could tell he was thinking. “I really think you should”, he said finally. “It’d be good to have someone to talk to. Someone who actually knows you”.

You swallowed hard. “I know”, you murmured. “I just… It’s complicated, Jared”.

“You mean because of Jensen”, Jared said bluntly.

You clenched your jaw. “Yeah”.

Jared sighed again, but this time, it wasn’t in frustration, it was in understanding. “Look, I know you’re waiting for him to be ready. But what about you?”, he asked. “You’re the one going through this pregnancy. You’re the one carrying the baby. You deserve support too”.

Tears burned the back of your eyes, but you blinked them away, pressing your fingers against your forehead. “I know”, you whispered, voice barely audible.

Jared didn’t push any further, but his next words weren’t a question—they were a statement. “I’m coming to see you”.

Your eyes widened slightly. “Jared—”.

“I’m not asking”, he interrupted. “I’m telling you. You need someone, and if you’re not gonna tell your parents yet, then it’s gonna be me”.

You huffed, shaking your head with a small, tired laugh. “You’re so damn stubborn”.

Jared chuckled. “Takes one to know one”.

You swallowed, already feeling exhausted just thinking about it. “Fine”, you muttered, rubbing your temple. “But don’t tell Jensen”.

Jared let out a dry chuckle. “Oh, trust me, I didn’t plan on”.

You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment. You knew Jared meant well, and honestly, the idea of having someone around who knew was… relieving. But at the same time, it made everything feel even more real.

“I’ll be there soon”, Jared added, his voice softer now. “Just sit tight, alright?”.

You didn’t have the energy to argue. “Yeah, okay”.

Jared was right—you needed to talk to someone. You needed support. But telling your parents meant making this real in a way that even Jensen’s avoidance hadn’t. And you weren’t sure if you were ready for that yet.

When Jared arrived later that day, he barely gave you time to say hello before pulling you into a firm, grounding hug. You melted into it, feeling the warmth of his embrace, the steady presence of someone who wasn’t tangled in the emotional mess you’d been drowning in for weeks.

But when he pulled back, his sharp eyes swept over you, and his expression shifted. “Jesus, (Y/N)”, he muttered. “You look exhausted”.

You rolled your eyes, waving him off as you made your way back to the couch. “Thanks for that, Jared. Real confidence boost”.

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he grabbed the nearest throw pillow, plopped it on the coffee table, and pointed at it. “Feet up. Now”.

You arched an eyebrow. “Bossy”.

“Damn right”. He waited until you obeyed before he made himself at home, striding toward the kitchen and opening the fridge like he owned the place. He started rummaging through it, letting out an unimpressed scoff. “Seriously? You barely have anything in here”.

You sighed, leaning your head back. “I haven’t really been in the mood to shop”.

Jared glanced over his shoulder. “You still nauseous?”.

“Yeah, but it’s mostly just… everything”. You gestured vaguely, not even knowing how to explain it. “Being alone. Thinking too much. Not knowing what the hell comes next”.

Jared grabbed a bottle of juice and a block of cheese, eyeing them like he wasn’t sure how they ended up in his hands. “You need to eat”. he muttered before looking back at you. “So, where are your parents?”.

You let out a slow breath. “At my aunt Melinda´s place for the weekend”.

He frowned, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And you didn’t go because…?”.

You hesitated, toying with the edge of your sleeve. “Because she’d probably make some comment about my belly, and since no one’s allowed to know, I don’t want to hear her call me fat too”.

Jared’s expression softened, his whole demeanor shifting. He set the juice and cheese on the counter, then walked over, sitting on the coffee table in front of you. “(Y/N)”, he said quietly. “You know you’re not—”.

“I know”, you cut in quickly, forcing a small smile. “I just… I don’t have the energy for it”.

Jared studied you for a moment, then sighed. “Okay”, he said simply. “Then we’re not thinking about that today”.

You gave him a skeptical look. “Oh, we’re not?”.

“Nope”, He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. “We’re thinking about what we’re ordering for dinner, because I’m not letting you survive off juice and whatever sad meal you’ve been picking at”.

Despite yourself, you smiled. “You’re very pushy”.

Jared grinned. “Gen says the same thing. Now, tell me what you’re craving, or I’m ordering way too much food”.

Jared sat back on the couch, scrolling through the delivery app, his expression casual—too casual. You could tell he was playing it cool, but his eyes kept flicking toward your belly every few seconds. It wasn’t obvious, but you noticed. You noticed everything these days.

“So”, he said, his tone deliberately light, “has Jensen reached out?”.

You swallowed, feeling your chest tighten at the mention of his name. You looked down, brushing your fingers over the fabric of your oversized sweater, a weak attempt at hiding the small but undeniable bump beneath it.

“Not since I told him I needed space”, you mumbled, keeping your voice even.

Jared hummed, his thumb still lazily scrolling, but his attention wasn’t really on the app anymore. “Huh”.

You frowned at his reaction, glancing at him. “Why do you sound like that?”.

“Like what?”, he asked innocently.

“Like you know something”.

Jared smirked, finally looking up at you. “Because I do”.

You narrowed your eyes. “Jared”.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. He’s been… a mess”.

You looked down, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your sweater, the guilt creeping in before you could stop it. Your voice was barely above a whisper. “He made me go”.

Jared sighed, rubbing his palm over his face, his expression softening. “I know”, he admitted. “And trust me, he knows it too”.

Your throat tightened. “Then why does it feel like I’m the one who did something wrong?”.

“You didn’t”, Jared said quickly, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt.

But the lump in your throat didn’t ease. The tears gathered in your eyes again, and Jared must have noticed because his expression shifted—less serious, more gentle. He exhaled through his nose, then suddenly changed the topic, his tone lighter.

“So”, he said, leaning back against the couch. “Are you feeling anything by now?”.

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift, but the change was welcome. The corners of your lips twitched, and you let out a soft breath. “A little”, you admitted, resting a hand against your belly. “Just a few movements, but not really kicks yet”.

Jared smiled, warmth filling his eyes as he watched you. “That’s still pretty cool”, he said. “Five months, right? You’ll probably start feeling real kicks soon”.

You nodded, a small, genuine smile breaking through the weight of everything else. “Yeah. I mean, I know I should feel something more by now, but every doctor says it’s normal for a first pregnancy to take longer. It’s mostly just little flutters here and there”.

Jared’s heart swelled a little, seeing the way your face lit up. It was so clear how much this meant to you, how badly you needed to talk about it—needed someone to share in this excitement with. And he hated that you hadn’t had that. That you’d been going through it mostly alone.

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Man, I forgot how wild that part is. When Gen was pregnant, she’d wake me up at three in the morning, making me feel her stomach because she swore the baby kicked”.

You laughed, relaxing a little. “That sounds like something I’d do”.

Jared smirked. “You totally will”.

Your smile lingered as you absentmindedly rubbed your belly. The moment felt good—normal. A rare break from the tension that had been hanging over you for weeks.

Then, after a pause, Jared said carefully, “I know it’s not my place, but you should be able to share this stuff with Jensen too, you know”.

Your smile faltered slightly, but you didn’t shut down. You just sighed. “I know”.

Jared watched you for a moment before nudging your leg with his knee. “Look, I don’t know where you two go from here, but I do know one thing—you’re not in this alone. No matter what happens”.

Your throat tightened, but this time, it wasn’t from sadness. You reached over, giving Jared’s hand a grateful squeeze. “Thank you”, you whispered.

He gave your hand a quick squeeze back before grabbing his phone again. “Alright, enough emotions. Let’s get some food before this kid starts kicking your ass for not eating”.

Later that night, you sat in bed, your phone resting on your stomach, the screen dimly glowing in the dark. Jensen’s name sat at the top of your messages, untouched. You stared at it, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, debating.

You had so much to say.

But every time you started typing, your chest tightened, and you erased the words before they could ever be sent.

So, instead, you locked your phone and set it aside, exhaling slowly.

Meanwhile, miles away, Jensen sat at the dining table, the soft glow of his laptop illuminating his face. He wasn’t texting you either—but he was thinking about you. More than that, he was thinking about the baby.

He clicked through your Amazon wishlist, the one he had secretly known about for weeks. He’d seen you adding things to it before, little moments when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. At the time, he hadn’t let himself think about it. Hadn’t let himself process what it meant.

But now, he was looking at it properly. And for the past few nights, he had been buying things off of it.

Not everything—he knew you’d want to pick things yourself. But little things. The onesies you had hesitated on but kept going back to. The baby monitor. The ridiculously soft-looking stuffed elephant he had seen you smile at once.

And now, tonight, he was adding more. A bassinet. A diaper bag. A baby book.

Jensen sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before glancing toward the nursery. The crib was already set up, the walls painted. But now, sitting in front of him was his latest project—a mobile he had absolutely no idea how to put together.

He stared at the instructions, completely lost. “This is ridiculous”, he muttered to himself, flipping the paper over like a new angle would somehow make it make sense.

He let out a frustrated sigh, dragging a hand through his hair before dropping the pieces onto the table with a dull thud.

He was trying. God, he was trying.

But it still felt like he was two steps behind, like no matter how much he did, he wasn’t sure if it would ever be enough to fix what had already broken.

He reached for his phone, staring at your name in his contacts, his thumb hovering over it. But just like you had done minutes before—he hesitated. And in the end, he locked his phone and set it aside, exhaling slowly.

Just like you.

The next day, Jensen barely had the door open before Jared was pushing his way inside, taking one sweeping glance at the chaos in the living room and nursery before raising a knowing eyebrow.

"So", Jared drawled, hands on his hips as he surveyed the half-assembled mobile, an open Amazon box spilling out baby supplies, and the clear frustration written all over Jensen's face. "This what rock bottom looks like, or are we finally making progress?".

Jensen shot him a glare before running a hand through his already-messy hair. "Shut up".

Jared chuckled, stepping over a pile of packing materials and nudging the bassinet with his foot. "Damn. Guess we are making progress".

Jensen sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't know what I'm doing".

Jared hummed, picking up the instruction manual for the mobile, flipping it dramatically. "Yeah, I can see that. Mobile’s still in pieces, and I’m pretty sure you put this part on backward". He pointed at one of the dangling plush stars, which was barely hanging on.

Jensen groaned, dropping into one of the dining chairs, rubbing a hand over his face. "It’s not just the damn mobile, man. It’s—". He gestured vaguely around him. "All of it".

Jared sat across from him, letting out a slow breath. "You're doing something, though. That’s more than you were a couple weeks ago".

Jensen leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. "Doesn’t feel like enough".

Jared studied him for a long moment before nodding toward the pile of baby clothes stacked on the couch. "She doesn’t know, does she?".

Jensen shook his head. "No".

"You gonna tell her?".

Jensen hesitated, staring at the half-built nursery like it held the answer. "Not yet".

Jared leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Alright. Then what’s the plan here, man? You finally let yourself start putting shit together, but you’re still sitting here like you’re waiting for something".

Jensen exhaled sharply. "I don’t know. I keep thinking maybe if I get everything ready, if I start acting like I should, then maybe she’ll come back, and I’ll—I’ll finally feel like I can do this".

Jared frowned. "And what if she doesn’t come back, Jensen?".

Jensen's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. "She will".

Jared sighed, shaking his head. "You can’t just wait around hoping, man. You need to show her. Not just through baby stuff—not just through fixing a damn nursery—but by being there. By talking to her. By—".

"I know", Jensen cut in, his voice hoarse. He rubbed his hands over his face before letting out a heavy breath. "I know, Jared".

Jared sat back, watching him for a long moment before nodding. "Alright", he said finally. "Then let’s start with this damn mobile before you burn the house down trying to put it together".

Jensen huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as Jared grabbed the pieces.

Later, at night, Jensen sat in the nursery, the soft glow of the nightlight casting a warm hue over the freshly painted walls. The mobile he and Jared had wrestled with earlier now hung above the crib, finally assembled, its tiny plush stars and moons swaying slightly in the still air.

The room was coming together. Slowly. Quietly.

But it was still missing something. Or rather, someone.

He let out a heavy breath, leaning forward in the rocking chair Jared had convinced him to buy ealier, his elbows resting on his knees. His phone sat in his palm, your name glowing on the screen.

You.

For over three weeks, he had respected your space, given you the time you asked for—even if it had been absolute hell.

But now? Now he wasn’t sure he could hold out much longer.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard, hesitation keeping him frozen. He didn’t know what to say—how to say it. No matter what words he typed, they wouldn’t be enough to erase the damage he had done.

But maybe… maybe they could be a start.

Finally, after a long pause, he exhaled sharply and started typing.Jensen: I don’t even know where to start. I don’t know if you even want to hear from me, if you’ll even read this, but I have to try. I miss you, (Y/N). I miss you so goddamn much, and I hate myself for how I made you feel, for how I pushed you away when all you ever did was love me, when all you ever did was try to bring me in. You were right. I made you feel like you were in this alone, and the truth is, I was just too fucking scared to admit how much this was changing me. How much I let my own fears take over instead of just holding onto you. But I’m trying. I swear to you, I’m trying. It took me too long to get here, but I need you to know that I want this. You, our baby. I want it, and I don’t know if I deserve another chance to prove that to you, but I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying if you let me. I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. Just please, (Y/N). Just tell me you’re okay. Tell me you still—

He hesitated before backspacing that last line, his chest aching.Just text me back when you’re ready. Please.

Jensen stared at the screen for a long moment, his throat tight, before finally hitting send. And then, all he could do was wait.

You stared at the message, your phone screen glowing in the dim light of your bedroom. Jensen’s words blurred slightly as fresh tears gathered in your eyes, your chest tightening with emotions too tangled to unravel.

He was trying. You could see that. Every word he had typed carried weight—regret, desperation, love. But it didn’t erase everything. It didn’t undo the weeks of feeling abandoned, of carrying this baby alone while he wrestled with his own demons in silence.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, aching to respond. To tell him that you missed him too, that the loneliness had been unbearable. That you wanted so badly to believe him.

But you couldn’t. Not yet.

Instead, you locked your phone, setting it face-down on the nightstand as you curled onto your side. The baby shifted slightly inside you, a gentle reminder that you weren’t completely alone, even if it felt like it.

You closed your eyes, taking a slow, shaky breath. You needed more time. You weren’t sure how much, or what it would take for you to fully trust Jensen again, but right now, answering him felt like opening a door you weren’t ready to step through.

So, for now, you let the silence remain.

Two days later, the internet exploded.

Jensen had finally posted the long-awaited, lawyer-approved statement about his divorce from Danneel. It was short, direct, and carefully worded—acknowledging their separation, expressing respect for the mother of his children, and asking for privacy. It was the exact kind of statement the media expected from him.

And it worked.

The moment it went live, the internet caught fire. Articles, speculation, Twitter threads dissecting every word. Some people praised the maturity of the statement, others dug up old interviews of Jensen and Danneel, searching for signs of trouble. Some fans were just heartbroken, unable to believe the seemingly perfect couple had fallen apart.

But nowhere in the statement was your name.

Jensen had deliberately kept you out of it, both to protect you from the first wave of chaos and because, deep down, he didn’t know if he even had the right to claim you anymore. You hadn’t responded to his message, and every passing hour without hearing from you twisted something deep in his chest.

Still, he found himself checking your social media. Not obsessively—at least, that’s what he told himself. But enough to make sure you weren’t being dragged into the storm.

So far, you weren’t. But it was only a matter of time.

Sitting in the dim light of the nursery, Jensen ran a hand down his face, his phone in his lap. The mobile he’d struggled to put together hung over the crib, slowly rotating, its soft pastel colors catching in the glow of the nightlight.

He had chosen this alone. Just like he had picked out the crib, painted the walls, ordered things off your wishlist. Things that, until recently, he had convinced himself he’d never do again.

But none of it mattered if you weren’t here.

He exhaled slowly, staring at his phone. The last message he had sent still sat unanswered. He wanted to text again, to call, but he didn’t. Not yet. Because if you needed time, he would give it to you. Even if it killed him.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You ignored it at first, curled up on your side, lost in the haze of your thoughts. But when it vibrated again, and then again, you sighed and reached for it.

Jared: Check out Jensen’s Instagram. Jared: Like, now.

Your stomach twisted instantly. You hadn’t looked at anything related to Jensen in days—not his texts, not the internet chaos surrounding him, not the quiet storm brewing in the back of your mind. You didn’t know if you were ready.

But your fingers moved before your brain could stop them. You pulled up Instagram, hesitating for a long second before clicking on his profile. The moment his latest post filled your screen, your breath hitched.

It was the official statement. The one you had been waiting for. The one you had dreaded.

You read it once. Then again. Then a third time, just to make sure you weren’t imagining it.

It was clean. Professional. Just enough emotion to feel personal but carefully worded to avoid scandal. It said all the right things—acknowledging the divorce, thanking the public for their support, asking for privacy for his family.

But nowhere—nowhere—did it mention you.

Your chest tightened. It was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To be kept out of the media storm? To not be dragged into the chaos before you had even figured out where you stood with him? So why did it still sting?

You stared at the post for what felt like forever, your thumb hovering over the screen. Liking it felt… wrong. But ignoring it felt worse.

Finally, you exhaled sharply, your fingers hesitating for only a moment before you closed the app completely. You weren’t ready. Not yet.

Your phone buzzed again. Jared.

Jared: You good?

You swallowed, your fingers typing a response before you could overthink it.

You: Yeah. Just needed a second.

A few beats later, Jared responded.

Jared: You wanna talk?

You stared at the message, your chest feeling impossibly tight.

You: Not right now.

You put your phone on silent and rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling, your mind racing with too many thoughts. Jensen had made his move. Now you had to figure out yours.

Jensen still sat on the floor of the nursery, his legs stretched out, a pile of tiny, freshly washed baby clothes in front of him. He ran his fingers over the soft fabric, trying—really trying—to fold them neatly, but they were so damn small. Every time he thought he had one folded properly, it just ended up looking like a crumpled mess.

Still, he kept at it. Because this was all he could do.

He hadn’t bought much—just a few neutral onesies, a couple of soft blankets, tiny socks that barely looked big enough to fit on his fingertips. He wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing, but he washed them, dried them, and now he was carefully placing them into the crib. For you. For when you came home… If you came home.

His phone buzzed on the floor beside him. Then again. And again. He ignored it at first, but eventually, the screen lit up enough times that he sighed and picked it up.

Thirty-two unread messages.

Relatives. Old friends. Colleagues. Women he hadn’t spoken to in years suddenly finding reasons to “check in”. His Instagram was still blowing up—thousands of comments, articles already circulating. Everyone had something to say about his post, his divorce. About him.

But none of them mattered. All he could think about was you.

Jensen let the phone drop beside him with a heavy sigh, scrubbing his hands down his face. How the hell had it come to this? His mind drifted, unbidden, back to the first time he ever saw you.

Jared’s birthday. The liquor store.

Jared, being Jared, had immediately invited you to his birthday party that same night. Just… invited a complete stranger to his party. Because he saw it—even back then—the way Jensen was starstruck by you.

Jensen let out a heavy exhale, running a hand through his hair.

How the hell had they gone from that to this? From stolen glances in a liquor store to separate houses, unanswered texts, an unfinished nursery that might never get used?

His chest tightened. His hands curled into fists. Jensen felt helpless.

Just then, his phone screen lit up with an incoming text, and his stomach twisted before he even looked.

Jared: Heard from her yet?

Jensen exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. He didn’t need the reminder. The answer was still the same.

Jensen: No.

It took Jared less than thirty seconds to type back.

Jared: Man…

That was it. Just that one word. But it hit Jensen harder than any long-winded speech would have. Because if Jared was feeling the weight of this, then it was bad.

Jensen clenched his jaw, staring down at his phone, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. His chest felt tight. His head was pounding. His thoughts were a mess. He had spent the last two weeks pouring himself into getting ready—painting the nursery, picking out a damn crib, folding baby clothes like a father should—but none of it mattered if you didn’t come back. And you hadn’t.

Jared was the only one you were still talking to. Jensen knew that. And that fucking killed him.

Jensen hesitated for a long moment, then, before he could stop himself, he finally typed the question that had been eating at him for days.

Jensen: Is she coming back?

He stared at the screen, waiting, his heart hammering in his chest. The message was marked as read. Jared was typing. Jensen swallowed hard, his grip on the phone tightening. His pulse roared in his ears. And then, finally, Jared responded.

Jared: I don’t know, man. But she misses you.

Jensen stared at the message, his heart pounding so damn hard it felt like it might break through his ribs. She misses you.

It should’ve been a relief. It should’ve given him hope. But instead, all it did was make his stomach twist. Because missing someone didn’t mean coming back. It didn’t mean forgiving them. And it sure as hell didn’t mean she was ready to have him in her life again.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, but what was there to say? I miss her too? Of course he did. That was the understatement of the century. He felt like he was suffocating without you. Every damn second. Instead, he finally typed:

Jensen: What do I do?

Jared read it immediately. Jensen could picture him, probably sighing, rubbing a hand through his hair, debating whether to give him some tough love or actual advice. A moment later, his phone buzzed.

Jared: You keep fighting for her. If you want her, if you want that baby, you don’t stop showing her that. And you don’t wait for permission to do it. You show up.

Jensen swallowed, his throat tight.

Jensen: What if she doesn’t want me to?

Jared’s response came almost instantly.

Jared: Then at least she knows you tried. But you can’t just sit there and hope she comes back. That’s not how this works, man.

Jensen exhaled sharply, setting his phone down, rubbing his hands over his face. Show up. Not wait. Not hope. Show up.

He looked around the nursery, at the folded baby clothes, the crib he’d built, the stupid mobile he’d fought with for hours. It wasn’t enough. Not even close. Because none of it mattered without you. Jensen picked up his phone again.

Jensen: Where is she?

Jared didn’t respond right away. Jensen’s jaw clenched.

Jensen: Jared.

Three dots appeared. Then—

Jared: You know where she is, man.

Jensen’s breath hitched. Yeah. Yeah, he did.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

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