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thatfeelinwhenyou · 3 days ago

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SAFE & SOUND — part 4

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 20k

MASTERLIST

Blood.

The warm, red liquid splatters onto your face, dripping down your neck and soaking into your clothes. For a split second, your mind blanks. You’ve been shot?

You freeze, waiting for the pain to hit, for the sting of a bullet tearing through flesh. But there’s nothing. No sharp ache. No burning sensation.

Not you.

Your gaze shifts downward. The woman in front of you staggers, her breath hitching painfully in her throat. Her wide eyes stare at the man in front of her in shock, unblinking, as blood pours from the gaping wound in her neck. The bullet has lodged itself on the right side, just above her collarbone. Her lips move—trying to form words, trying to breathe—but all that comes out is a gurgled wheeze.

Your heart pounds violently in your chest, the world tilting sideways as you try to make sense of what just happened. You turn your head, slow and deliberate, your body moving on instinct rather than thought.

Jungwon. He’s still crouched near the van, his hands empty. The rifle remains untouched on the ground beside him, exactly where he left it. His eyes meet yours for a brief second, wide with alarm, but it’s not him.

Your gaze shifts forward.

Sunoo. He’s mid-tackle, slamming into the man with the rifle. Smoke curls lazily from the barrel, the sharp scent of gunpowder stinging your nose.

The woman collapses into a heap at your feet, her blood pooling beneath her.

For a moment, everything stands still.

Silent.

Still.

Then—

Chaos.

A heart-wrenching scream cuts through the silence, raw and broken.

“No!” The man in front of you drops to his knees, his voice cracking as he cradles the woman’s body.

It’s a sound you’ll never forget. Pure grief. Devastation.

Your hands tremble, the knife slipping from your fingers and clattering uselessly to the ground. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Your mind races, but your body remains frozen, your legs rooted in place. You feel the warmth of the blood on your skin, smell the metallic tang in the air, taste the bitterness on your tongue.

You blink once. Twice.

No. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The plan was to scare them off. To protect your people. To survive.

But now there’s a woman lying dead at your feet, and you’re the one who held her hostage. You’re the one who brought her into this.

Would this be how it played out in Jay’s mind every night since it happened—the same nightmare on repeat? The man with the knife. The girl he cared so much for held hostage, and later had her life ripped away from her right in front of him. The choice he made to satisfy his hunger for revenge.

Would you now become the monster in someone else’s story? The monster who leaves nothing but broken people in their wake? The one they obsess over, hunt down, seeking revenge? You’ve seen what grief can do, how it festers and twists until there’s nothing left but hatred and the singular need for retribution.

Your chest tightens painfully, tears pooling in your eyes, blurring your vision. You don’t even realise you’re shaking until you feel the tremor in your legs. Everything feels wrong—so, so wrong.

Movement.

Ni-ki sprints across from the front of the van, no longer bound. He’s quick, his hands working fast to untie the ropes holding Sunghoon, Jake and Heeseung. Jake is already moving, reaching for the med kit, but he falters, his gaze falling on the lifeless body on the ground.

Sunoo is still wrestling the man with the rifle, their grunts and shouts blending into the background noise of your panic. The other two attackers stand frozen, clearly in shock. They don’t move. They don’t reach for their weapons.

Maybe they’re victims too.

Maybe they didn’t want this.

None of you did.

Everything is happening too fast.

Your mind screams at you to move, to react, but your body refuses to obey. You don’t even catch the shift in the man at your feet—the subtle way his grief twists into rage—until it’s too late.

His hand shoots out, grabbing you by the throat.

You gasp, your hands flying to his arm, trying to pry his fingers loose. His grip is like iron, crushing your windpipe, cutting off your air. Black spots dance in your vision as he drags you closer, his bloodshot eyes locking onto yours with pure hatred. His face is twisted, consumed by pain, fury, and vengeance.

“You—” he spits, his voice raw with grief. “You did this. You—”

A gunshot. Sudden. Sharp. Deafening.

The pressure around your neck disappears instantly. The man collapses to the ground, his body crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut, right next to the woman. Blood seeps from the bullet wound in his temple, his expression frozen in an eternal snarl.

Your hands fly to your throat, coughing and gasping for breath as you stumble backwards. The world spins, your lungs burning as you suck in desperate gulps of air.

Jungwon. He’s standing now, rifle in hand, his gaze locked on the lifeless man on the ground. His expression is unreadable—calm, composed—but there’s something dark lurking behind his eyes.

You wipe the blood from your face with trembling hands, your mind struggling to catch up with reality. Everything feels surreal. Disjointed. Like a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

Jungwon steps closer, lowering the rifle. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet. Controlled. “Are you alright?”

You nod, though you’re not sure if it’s true. Your voice won’t come, stuck somewhere in your throat, tangled with the sobs you’re trying to suppress.

You don’t even have time to catch your breath when you hear the scream tear through the air, cutting through the chaos like a knife.

“Y/N, watch out!”

Your head snaps forward, your heart plummeting into your stomach. Sunoo’s down—pinned to the dirt—his hands grappling uselessly as the man he tackled scrambles to his feet, grabbing the fallen rifle.

Sunghoon is already sprinting toward him, but he’s too far. He won’t make it in time. The man grips the rifle tightly, his eyes wild with panic and grief, and before you can even think to move, he spins—locking the crosshairs squarely on you.

The world slows. You see it all in perfect, horrifying detail. His hands trembling as he raises the weapon. His lips pressed into a thin line. The way his chest heaves with shallow, erratic breaths. And the tears. The tears welling up in his eyes, glistening as they fall.

He’s going to do it.

Your feet won’t move. You’re rooted to the ground, frozen by the realisation.

He’s going to kill you.

And you deserve it, don’t you? After what just happened—after the woman died at your hands, after everything that’s led to this moment—maybe this is the inevitable outcome. His finger tightens on the trigger.

You close your eyes. You’re not ready. You’ll never be ready. The thought crashes over you like a wave. This is it.

And then—

The gunshot.

It echoes through the surrounding, deafening, final.

You’re not dead. Slowly, shakily, you open your eyes. Your knees buckle, nearly giving out beneath you at the sight before you.

Jay.

With his pistol in hand, dangling at his side. He must’ve circled around to retrieve it—used the chaos, used you as the distraction. He could’ve taken the shot clean. He could’ve stayed hidden, waited for the right angle, and taken down the guy aiming for you without risking himself.

But he didn’t.

Jay is standing in front of you.

His body sways slightly, his stance unsteady, but he holds firm. There’s blood—so much blood—it seeps through his shirt, dark and spreading fast, soaking the fabric and dripping down his side. So much blood. It stains the hem of his jacket and clings to his skin like oil, like ink.

You blink, unable to process what you’re seeing, unwilling to believe it.

Jay took a bullet for you.

The bullet hit him in the side, just below his ribs—aimed for him but meant for you. If he hadn’t taken it, it would’ve hit you square in the heart.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Then he drops to his knees.

“No. No, no, no.” The words tumble from your lips as you rush to his side, your hands shaking as you reach out to steady him. “Jay, why—why would you—”

He lets out a sharp breath, cutting you off. His usual glare is gone, replaced with something softer. Weaker. Human.

“Couldn’t let you die,” he says, his voice strained but steady. “Not like that.”

Your chest tightens painfully, your eyes burning with unshed tears. “You—stupid—”

“Yeah,” he interrupts, managing a weak chuckle. “I’ve heard that before.”

Ahead of you, Sunghoon reaches Sunoo, pulling him to his feet. The shooter is on his knees, his hands raised in surrender, his rifle now in the hands of Ni-ki.

But none of that matters right now. All you can see is Jay. All you can think about is the blood on your hands—his blood—and how he took that bullet for you.

“We need to get him back to the van,” Jake’s voice cuts through the fog in your mind, calm but urgent. He kneels beside you, his gaze locking onto Jay’s. “You’ll be alright. Just hold on.”

Jay’s lips twitch into a faint smirk. “Didn’t… think you cared.”

Jake’s jaw clenches. “Shut up.”

Heeseung and Sunghoon sprint over, their footsteps pounding against the dirt. “We’ve got him,” Heeseung says, already lifting Jay’s arm over his shoulder.

Jake rushes forward with the med kit, his face pale. “We need to stop the bleeding.”

You stay by Jay’s side, your hands hovering uselessly. Why did he do it? Why would he risk everything for you?

As they lift him, Jay’s gaze meets yours again, his eyes slightly glassy. “Don’t…,” he murmurs, barely audible.

“What?” you lean in closer, holding your ear close to his lips but he fails to conjure enough energy to speak.

Guilt. Fear. Regret. It all coils inside you, twisting and knotting until it takes shape—rage.

White-hot, blinding rage.

You barely register your own movements as you lunge forward, your hand closing around Jay’s pistol lying in a pool of his own blood. The metal feels cold against your skin, slick with crimson that seeps between your fingers. It makes you sick, but not enough to stop you. Not enough to drown out the fury coursing through your veins.

Your legs move on their own, shaky but determined, carrying you over the lifeless bodies sprawled across the dirt. The crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot echoes in your ears, drowned out by the pounding of your heart. You don’t falter. Not when you reach him—the one who pulled the trigger.

He’s on his knees, trembling, eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief. His hands are raised in a futile plea for mercy, but you’ve got none to give. Not now. Not after Jay.

The gun feels heavier in your hand than it should, weighted down by blood and grief. You raise it slowly, deliberately, your aim locking onto his forehead. He flinches, his lips trembling as if to beg, but you don’t hear his words. You don’t care.

Your finger curls around the trigger. But just as you’re about to squeeze, a deafening gunshot shatters the air.

Your body jolts, your eyes snapping wide as the man before you crumples to the ground, blood pooling from a clean shot through his skull. You freeze, the gun still raised, your breathing ragged as you process what just happened.

Slowly, you turn.

Jungwon stands a few feet behind you, the rifle pressed firmly against his shoulder, barrel still smoking. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—dark and piercing—say everything he doesn’t. His hands are steady, his grip unwavering. There’s no hesitation in him. No regret.

He lowers the rifle slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. The silence between you is deafening, save for the fading echo of the gunshot ringing in your ears.

You drop the pistol, the weight of it suddenly too much to bear. It hits the ground with a dull thud, splattering crimson droplets across the dirt and all over your boots. Your arms fall limply to your sides, trembling as the adrenaline starts to wear off.

Jungwon steps closer, each footfall deliberate, cautious. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet but firm. “You don’t need to carry that weight.”

His words linger in the air, but they don’t sink in—not yet. Your gaze drifts back to the lifeless bodies, to Jay lying still in the back of the van, blood staining the carpet beneath him.

You swallow hard, your voice barely a whisper. “He saved me.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, his gaze flickering to Jay before settling back on you. “I know.”

You close your eyes briefly, guilt gnawing at your insides, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “I was going to kill him.”

“I know that too.”

You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. “And you did it for me.”

Jungwon exhales softly, his voice steady. “No. I did it for me.”

The weight of his words sinks in, pressing down on your chest. There’s no solace in them, no comfort. What did he mean? He did it for himself?

The echo of the gunshot lingers in the air, a haunting reminder of what just happened. But it doesn’t linger alone for long. The groans begin—a low, guttural sound that rises from the treeline like a warning bell.

The dead are coming.

Jungwon hears it too. His head snaps toward the trees, his hand tightening around the rifle. "We need to go," he says, voice clipped and urgent.

You nod numbly, forcing your legs to move. You turn back towards the van, your steps unsteady, mind racing to catch up with the chaos around you. Sunghoon is already at the van, throwing the back doors open. Jake is inside, frantically working with Heeseung and Sunoo to keep pressure on Jay’s wound, their hands slick with blood. Jay groans, shifting weakly, his eyes fluttering open for a brief second before closing again.

"Let’s go!" Ni-ki quickly pours however much gas he can from the canister into the fuel tank, packs up whatever's left and jumps into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition. The engine sputters to life, the familiar rumble somehow grounding you in reality. You climb into the van, pulling the door shut behind you.

The van rumbles down the cracked road, each bump jostling Jay in the back as Jake works tirelessly to slow the bleeding. The tension is suffocating, thick and heavy in the air. The only sounds inside are laboured breaths, the low hum of the engine, and the faint groans of the dead growing more distant.

Then—footsteps. Rapid. Desperate.

You glance out the back window and see them—the two remaining men from the other group. It was so chaotic that you don’t even remember seeing them around the area. Maybe they hid in fear. Doesn't matter. Because they're running now, stumbling over roots and rocks, trying to keep up with the van. They’ve ditched their weapons. They’re unarmed, vulnerable. And terrified.

One of them shouts, his voice hoarse. "Wait! Please! Don’t leave us!"

You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms. Your mind flashes back to the chaos moments earlier—the gunfire, the blood, the woman collapsing at your feet. These two men had stood by, not pulling the trigger but not stopping it either. Complicit of your actions.

"Jungwon," you whisper, your gaze flicking to him. He’s sitting in the front passenger seat, his rifle resting on his lap. His eyes are hard, his jaw set. He doesn’t look back at you.

Behind the van, the men stumble again. One of them falls to his knees, chest heaving, before scrambling back to his feet. "We’re sorry!" the other shouts, his voice cracking. "We didn’t want it to go this far! Please, we just want to live!"

The van lurches forward, and you feel the weight of their desperation pressing down on your chest.

"They’re unarmed," you say quietly, though you’re not sure if it’s a statement or an excuse. "They don’t have anything left."

Jungwon finally speaks, his voice low and steady. "Neither did we. Didn’t stop them from coming after us."

"They’re running," you counter. "Not fighting."

"They’re running because they lost," Jungwon says coldly, his gaze locked on the road ahead. "If we stop, they’ll turn on us the second they get the chance."

In the rearview mirror, you catch Ni-ki’s expression—stoic, but his clenched jaw betrays his unease. Jake doesn’t look up from Jay, focused on keeping him alive, while Sunghoon grips the other rifle tighter, his knuckles white.

The men’s voices grow louder, more desperate. "We’ll do anything!" one of them screams. "We’ll work for you—protect you! Please, just don’t leave us here!"

You can feel the eyes of the group on you, waiting for your reaction. It’s suffocating.

And then, one of the men stumbles again, falling hard to the ground. He stays there this time, his hands pressed to his knees as he gasps for air. The other one slows down, grabbing his friend’s arm, pulling him up.

"Y/N." It’s Jungwon’s voice, cutting through your thoughts like a blade. "We don’t have time for this."

Your gaze flicks to him. His eyes meet yours—steady, unwavering. But there’s something else in them. Something more. Regret? Sadness? You can’t tell.

"They don’t have a weapon," you say again, quieter this time. "They’re not a threat."

Jungwon exhales sharply. "They were part of the group that almost killed you. That shot Jay. That held the rest of them hostage."

"That woman—" you start, but the words catch in your throat. That woman begged for her life. She was just as scared as they are now. And you stood there. You let her die.

Your heart twists painfully in your chest.

Sunghoon, sitting in the corner with his arms hanging over his knees, finally speaks. His voice is softer than usual. "We can’t save everyone."

It hits you like a punch to the gut. He’s right. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

Jungwon nods once, his expression hardening again. "Keep driving," he says to Ni-ki. The latter hesitates for a moment, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. Then he presses his foot on the accelerator, and the van picks up speed.

"No!" the man screams behind you, his voice breaking. "Please! We don’t want to die!"

You can’t look away as they fade into the distance. One of them collapses again, clutching his chest as he gasps for air. The other tries to pull him up, but they’re too slow. Too weak.

And then, the groans return. The dead have caught their scent.

They’re going to die.

Your chest feels like it’s being crushed. You press your hand against the window, watching as the two men disappear from sight. Jungwon doesn’t say anything. Neither does anyone else.

You lean back against the van, the weight of what just happened settles over you, suffocating and inescapable.

They begged for mercy but you left them anyway. This shouldn’t surprise you. It’s the right call, after all. And if you’d been alone, you know you’d have done the same thing. Survival over sympathy—that’s the rule you’ve lived by since the community building fell. You don’t waste time mourning strangers.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You’re not alone anymore.

And as the van jolts over the uneven road, the weight of that difference presses heavily on your chest. Jay’s words from earlier echo in your mind, cutting through the silence like a knife:

The whole point of this group—the way Jungwon leads us—is to make sure we don’t become the monsters we ran away from.

It hits you then, the realisation settling like a stone in your stomach. Maybe a part of you wanted to protect something for them. To preserve that fragile thread of humanity they’ve managed to hold onto in this fucked up world.

But all you did was shatter it. Leaving behind the cold hard truth of survival.

You see it in their faces now. The way Sunoo curls in on himself, as if he’s trying to disappear. The way Sunghoon’s jaw clenches tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek. The way Jake’s hands tremble ever so slightly as he presses another bandage to Jay’s side. The way Heeseung is wiping away the sweat forming on Jay’s forehead, almost absentmindely. Even Ni-ki, who’s been quiet since you left that village, looks lost in thought, his grip on the wheel a little too tight.

And then there’s Jungwon.

He’s always been the calm in the storm. The one who makes the hard decisions so no one else has to carry that weight. But right now, he looks as hollow as you feel. He’s sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, his gaze locked on the road ahead. His rifle rests across his lap, but his hands aren’t on it. They’re clenched into fists, pressed tightly against his thighs, like he’s carrying something far too heavy for one person to bear.

You glance down at your hands, noticing the faint red stains on your palms. Blood of all that lost and almost lost their lives. You wipe them on your jeans, but the stain lingers in your mind.

If you’d run into this group back at that auto shop—if they were the people they are now: hardened, desperate, with the blood of three strangers on their hands—they wouldn’t have kept you alive.

They wouldn’t have let you speak.

They wouldn’t have given you a chance to prove your worth.

It would’ve been a cold, practical choice. Eliminate the threat before it had the chance to grow. And you wouldn’t have blamed them.

But now? You wonder if they’re blaming you. Blaming you for the decision to leave those two men behind. For the way things spiralled.

The woman’s face flashes in your mind. Her wide, terrified eyes. The blood pooling around her body. “We’ve crossed a line,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the hum of the van’s engine. Jungwon’s head tilts slightly, but he doesn’t look at you.

No one argues. No one tries to convince you otherwise.

Because they all know it’s true.

Sunoo finally speaks, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. “We’ve crossed plenty of lines before.”

“Not like this,” you murmur, your words settling heavily between you all.

Ni-ki shifts in the driver’s seat, breaking the silence. “What do we do now?”

No one answers. Because none of you know. Not even Jungwon. And you can’t help but wonder if this is the beginning of the end. Not for the world—it ended a long time ago.

But for this group. For the fragile hope that’s kept them all going.

You lean your head back against the window, eyes drifting shut.

You’ve crossed a line. And you know you’re going to keep crossing lines, one after another, until there’s no point of return.

Ironically, that’s the one thing you’ve been trying so desperately to hold onto—your sanity, your humanity.

And now you’re afraid. Afriad of how the weight of their survival—the choices you’ll have to make, the risks you’ll have to take—is going to change you.

You’ve spent so long fighting to hold onto the parts of yourself that still feel human. That separates you from the dead that damned the earth.

Your boundaries, your morals, the thin, fragile line between surviving and losing who you are. You told yourself that as long as you had those things—those pieces of yourself—you wouldn’t become just another product of this world’s cruelty.

But now, you can feel that line blurring.

Whatever you said to Jay back in that field, about how wanting justice or revenge makes you human—you’re not so sure if you believe that anymore.

Because protecting them might mean crossing lines you swore you never would. It might mean compromising the very things that make you you.

And isn’t that how it starts?

One compromise. One choice made out of desperation. One decision that feels necessary in the moment.

Then another.

And another.

Until one day, you look at yourself and don’t recognise the person staring back. Until you realise you’re no different from the people you swore you’d never become.

And that’s what terrifies you.

Not them.

But the person you might become for them.

“Ni-ki pull over. We’ll stop here for today.” Jungwon speaks, the first words uttered from any of you in the past hour and a half or so. The sun is still out, early afternoon by what you can tell.

Ni-ki’s hands tighten on the steering wheel as he glances in the rear-view mirror. “We’ve still got a few hours of sunlight. We can keep going. We’ll reach the rest stop by dusk,” he says, confusion lacing his voice. But despite his words, he slows the van and pulls it to the side of the cracked road.

“We’ll stop here for today,” Jungwon repeats softly, his gaze fixed ahead. His tone leaves no room for argument.

The van grinds to a halt with a jolt, the engine ticking as it cools in the quiet. For a moment, no one moves.

“I can hear your stomach growling,” Jungwon says, glancing at Ni-ki with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s take a short break. Eat something before we move on, yeah?”

It’s a lie. You all know it. His voice lacks its usual firmness, and there’s no mistaking the heaviness in the air. No one argues, though. There’s a quiet understanding that Jungwon needs space, and this cramped van isn’t offering him any. So, without a word, everyone begins moving, stretching out stiff limbs and gathering what little supplies remain to set up camp by the roadside.

Jungwon heads straight for the edge of the road, lowering himself onto the ground with a weary sigh. He pulls his knees up to his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around them as he stares into the distance. The way he sits—hunched, small—makes your chest ache. He looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and for once, you can’t blame him. He had to pull the trigger today. Twice. On strangers who, by all rights, had it coming. But that doesn’t make it any easier. Killing people, even in self-defence, leaves a mark. One that never quite fades.

You take a hesitant step toward him, considering whether to offer him someone to talk to. But before you can get far, Heeseung catches your arm, shaking his head. His gaze is soft but firm.

“Let him be,” Heeseung murmurs. “He needs time.”

You nod, pulling back, though the guilt lingers in your chest. Jungwon shouldn’t have to bear this alone. None of you should.

Behind you, Sunoo’s voice breaks the tense silence. “Seriously? This is all we’ve got left?” His frustration is palpable as he crouches by the van, rummaging through the supply bag. “I swear we had five extra cans of beans last night.”

You tear your gaze away from Jungwon, forcing yourself to focus on the immediate problem. Food. Or rather, the lack of it. You walk over to where Ni-ki and Sunoo are crouched, the bag of supplies between them. The way they sift through it—careful, precise—makes the meagre contents all the more depressing.

“Are we running low?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intend.

“Yeah.” Sunoo’s lips twist into a grimace. “Those bastards—sorry, I mean, those men from earlier—they ate some of our food while we were waiting for you to get back.”

Even in the apocalypse, it seems disrespecting the dead doesn’t sit well.

You peer into the bag, taking stock. Two dented cans of baked beans. Five energy bars. One sad little sachet of instant coffee. And a leftover packet of ramen seasoning. It’s pitiful. Barely enough to sustain eight people. And Jay needs more than this. He needs proper food. Protein. Calories to help his body recover.

Your gaze shifts to the van. Jay is still lying flat on his back, propped up by makeshift bedding. His chest rises and falls slowly, his bandages soaked through with dried blood. His eyes are closed, but the furrow in his brow betrays the pain he’s in.

“We’re not going to make it far on this,” you say, glancing at Heeseung. “Not with Jay in that state.”

Heeseung sighs, running a hand through his hair. His fingers snag on the tangles, and he winces, but he doesn’t stop. “I know. We’ll reach the rest stop soon, hopefully they left something for us there.”

“Soon isn’t good enough.” Jake crouches down, picking up one of the cans, it looks almost too light in his hands. “Jay’s barely hanging on.”

Sunghoon nods in agreement. “And Ni-ki’s right. We could’ve kept going. We should’ve kept going.”

“We can’t push too hard,” Heeseung counters gently. “Jungwon…” His gaze flickers toward the figure still sitting at the roadside. “He’s trying to keep it together, but he’s hanging by a thread.”

You follow his gaze, watching Jungwon’s silhouette against the pale afternoon sky. He hasn’t moved from his spot. He sits so still, like a statue carved from grief and exhaustion.

“What do we do?” you ask quietly.

Heeseung exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for hours. “We give him a moment. And then we keep moving. We don’t have a choice.”

The words sit heavy in the air. You know he’s right. There’s no time to stop, no time to rest—not really. The dead don’t wait. And neither does the world that’s out to kill you.

You glance at Jay again. His lips are pale, his skin clammy. He shifts slightly, letting out a soft groan of pain.

“We’ll get him through this,” Heeseung says, his voice firm with quiet determination. “We’ve made it this far. We’re not losing anyone else.”

His words aren’t loud, but they don’t need to be. They carry weight, grounding everyone in a way that feels almost tangible. You watch as the effect of his reassurance ripples through the group, see how the flicker of hope reignites in their faces, how determination replaces the exhaustion etched into their features.

Your respect for Heeseung grows.

He isn’t trying to be the leader, isn’t trying to take Jungwon’s place, but his presence is undeniable. He’s become the steady force they need right now, the glue holding them together when everything feels like it’s about to fall apart.

And in that moment, you realise something you hadn’t before: maybe the strength of this group doesn’t rest on just one person. Maybe it’s not just Jungwon who holds them together.

It’s all of them.

All of them, picking up the pieces when one of them falters, stepping in without hesitation when someone needs support. Even if it means carrying more weight than they’re used to, they do it. Without complaint. Without hesitation.

And you can’t help but wonder if Jungwon knows.

Knows how much they lean on each other when he can’t carry the weight himself. Knows how much his own silence and retreat weigh on the group. Knows how they’re quietly filling the gaps he’s leaving behind, steadying themselves and each other without blame or resentment.

You wonder if he realises that even though he leads, it’s not his burden alone. It never was. It’s all of theirs, shared in a way that keeps them moving forward—even when it feels impossible.

And you want to believe him. Believe that you’ll get through this. But as you look at the dwindling supplies and the fading light of day, a gnawing doubt takes root in your chest.

You push yourself to your feet, brushing dirt from your hands as you glance around the makeshift camp.

“We can’t just sit here waiting for the rest of the world to collapse around us,” you say, breaking the silence. “I’m going into the forest to hunt. I could bring back some game for all of us.”

Heeseung immediately rises to his feet. “I’ll go with you.”

“No,” you reply quickly. The sharpness in your tone makes him pause. “I’m going alone.”

Heeseung’s brows knit together, concern flickering across his face. “It’s not safe out there. You shouldn’t—”

“I said no,” you cut him off, your gaze locking with his. There’s a finality in your voice that stops him from pressing further. Heeseung knows better than to argue with a woman bleeding her fury. His shoulders slump slightly, and he nods once, reluctantly stepping back.

The group needs Heeseung to rely on at the moment, and having him come along will only plunge them into deeper anxiety.

You know it’s dangerous not having anyone to watch your back. One wrong step or a moment of inattention could end everything. But that also means you don’t have to worry about watching someone else’s back.

And frankly, you’d rather be alone right now. You don’t have the capacity to look out for someone else. You’re mentally disoriented, emotions frayed and teetering on the edge of control. In this state, you’re probably more dangerous than the dead if someone presses the wrong buttons.

Human beings, right? How weak they are. Easily impressionable, quick to trust the wrong person, to follow blindly. Stupid, with an unmatched talent for self-destruction. They build, only to tear themselves apart. They cling to fragile hopes and ideals that crumble at the first sign of adversity.

It’s baffling how you and these people even made it through the initial chaos of the outbreak that rattled the world.

Without another word, you head toward the van. The air feels heavier with each step, your thoughts churning in your mind as you approach the vehicle. You reach the foot of the van, reaching down to grab your bag and Jay’s bow, when a familiar voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?”

You freeze, your hand still on the strap of your bag. Slowly, you turn to see Jay sitting upright in the van, his eyes half-lidded but sharp, piercing through the haze of pain he’s in.

Your heart skips a beat. He knows.

“What makes you say that?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

Jay’s lips twitch into a faint, humourless smile. “Because I was going to. Back then… when I lost her.” His gaze drops to his lap, his fingers picking at the edge of the blanket covering his legs. “The pain was so unbearable that I didn’t think I could handle losing anyone else. I just wanted to be alone with her ghost.”

Your chest tightens at his words. There’s so much grief buried in his voice, a sadness so deep that it feels like it could swallow you whole.

“She must’ve really meant a lot to you,” you say.

“The world,” says Jay, his voice barely above a whisper. “She was my world. But then I found new meaning to keep going. To keep these people safe, no matter what it costs me.”

You shake your head, guilt settling in your chest like a stone. “Now, look at the state I’ve got you in,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “You’re not keeping anybody safe like this.”

Jay’s gaze lifts, his eyes locking onto yours with a quiet intensity that takes you by surprise. “I kept you safe, didn’t I?”

The weight of his words crashes over you like a wave. You don’t know what to say. You’ve never thought of yourself as someone worth saving—worth sacrificing for.

“Jay…” you trail off, your throat tight.

“Just promise me,” he says softly, his voice steady despite the pain etched into his features. “Promise me you won’t run off.”

You hesitate, your grip tightening on your bag. Lying to him feels wrong, but you can’t give him false hope. You can’t promise something you know you won’t keep.

So you compromise.

“I’ll make sure you’re alive before I do,” you say, your voice wavering with a bitter edge of truth.

Jay chuckles quietly, though it sounds more like a soft exhale of exhaustion. “That’s the best I’m going to get from you, isn’t it?”

You don’t answer, but your silence speaks volumes.

He leans back against the van’s wall, his gaze drifting to the sky outside. “You’re stronger than you think, you know. But you’re also more stubborn than you realise.”

You laugh softly, a sound that surprises even you. “Takes one to know one.”

Jay smiles faintly, but the warmth of it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just… be careful. You’ve got more people who care about you than you think.”

His words settle into your chest, heavy and uncomfortable. You don’t respond. You can’t. The knot in your throat makes it impossible to speak.

Instead, you sling your bag over your shoulder and adjust your weapon, giving Jay one last look before turning away. His eyes follow you, but he doesn’t say anything more. As you walk toward the treeline, your footsteps slow. The implication of Jay’s words hangs over you, intertwining with the growing ache in your chest.

The forest feels heavier than it should. Each step you take presses down on the dry leaves and twigs beneath your boots, the crunch echoing in the otherwise still air. You keep your grip firm on the knife in your hand, eyes scanning your surroundings for any sign of movement. It’s eerily quiet, but that’s how it always is now. The world hasn’t made a sound in a long time—at least not the kind that reassures you that life still exists.

You don’t know how far you’ve walked. Maybe a mile. Maybe more. The camp is long out of sight, and the silence in the trees feels more oppressive with each step. There’s no wind, no birdsong, no rustling of leaves. Just you, your footsteps, and your thoughts.

I kept you safe, didn’t I?

It stings. Not because it’s untrue, but because it is. He did keep you safe. He took a bullet for you, risked his life more times than you can count. And what are you doing in return? Hunting pathetic game and picking berries hanging heavy off bushes.

You shake your head, forcing the thoughts away as you crouch near a patch of moss. There are tracks—faint, but there. Rabbits, maybe. Or something smaller. You run your fingers over the prints, noting their direction. They lead deeper into the forest.

The sun filters through the canopy above, casting long shadows across the forest floor. You keep your steps light, your ears straining for any sound of movement. A rustle in the bushes makes you freeze, your grip tightening on your weapon.

There—just ahead. A rabbit. It’s small, barely enough to feed one person, but it’s something.

You lower yourself into a crouch, holding your breath as you inch closer. Your heart pounds in your chest, the adrenaline sharpening your senses. You’re close enough now. Just a little further—

A snap of a twig under your foot.

The rabbit bolts, disappearing into the undergrowth.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, rising to your full height.

Frustration prickles at the edge of your nerves, but you force yourself to stay calm. This isn’t like the hunts you’ve seen on TV. There’s no waiting in a tree stand with a high-powered rifle. No camouflage, no bait. This is raw survival, and more often than not, you walk away empty-handed.

But you can’t go back empty-handed. Not today.

Determined, you keep moving, weaving through the trees with renewed focus. You’ve lost track of time, your eyes scan for more tracks, more signs of life. And then you hear it: the soft, melodic trickle of a stream.

A water source. Not just for you, but the animals. You move toward the sound, careful with your steps, until the trees part to reveal a small clearing. The stream cuts through the earth like a silver ribbon, its water sparkling in the late afternoon light.

And there it is. A deer. It’s young—small, but it’s enough. Enough to feed the group, to keep Jay’s strength up. Enough to make this trip worth it.

It stands on the other side of the stream. Its oblivious as it dips its head to drink from the cool water. The sight is almost magical, like a scene pulled from a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

For a moment, you just watch. You can’t help it. The way the deer moves, the way the light plays on its fur—it feels like something out of a movie. You’re struck by how much has changed, how far removed the world has become from anything remotely beautiful. And yet here it is: beauty, in its purest, most natural form.

But reality quickly pulls you back. This isn’t a movie, and you’re not here to admire the scenery.

You crouch slowly, your movements calculated and silent. You reach for the bow slung over your shoulder, your fingers steady as you pull it into position. The string hums softly as you notch an arrow, your heart beating in sync with the rhythm of the forest. You take aim, your breath slow and controlled, the deer still unaware of your presence.

The release is smooth, and the arrow flies true. A soft thud follows as the arrow finds its mark. The deer stumbles, collapsing to the ground with barely a sound. Relief washes over you, but it’s tempered by a twinge of guilt. It’s fleeting, though.

You move quickly, crossing the stream and kneeling beside the deer. Your hands are steady as you check its pulse, ensuring it passed without much suffering. You offer a silent thanks—not to a god, but to the animal itself—for what it’s giving you, for what it’ll mean to the others.

You do your best to drain the blood and skin the deer by the stream. It’s messy, your hands slick and trembling from the sheer mass of it, and the finished product is far from professional. But who’s complaining about fresh venison meat in the middle of an apocalypse?

When you return to the camp, the pleased expressions on their faces ignite a spark of accomplishment in your chest.

“Holy shit, you actually did it,” Sunoo breathes, his voice a mix of awe and disbelief as he stares at the game you’ve brought back.

Jake wastes no time updating you. “Jay’s been going in and out of consciousness. He’s desperate for something—anything—other than beans.”

You glance at Jungwon, half-expecting some critique or lecture about risks. But he doesn’t say a word. Instead, you catch the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s enough. Enough to know he’s grateful.

The rest of the group gets to work immediately, dividing the meat. Half of it is chopped into small cubes and added to the bubbling concoction of beans and ramen soup seasoning. The other half is sliced into smaller pieces, skewered onto sticks, and slowly roasted over the flames.

The waiting process is brutal.

The fire crackles, filling the silence as everyone stares at the cooking meat with unwavering focus, as if sheer willpower could make it cook faster. The air is thick with the scent of roasting venison, and stomachs rumble audibly, a cruel reminder of how long it’s been since anyone had a real meal.

Finally, Heeseung gives the go-ahead, and no one hesitates. They dig in with abandon, the first taste of fresh meat in what feels like forever sending a ripple of relief through the group.

Jake carefully scoops some of the broth into a makeshift bowl carved from wood and brings it to Jay in the van. When you catch Jay’s gaze, the look in his eyes says it all.

He’s grateful—not just for the food, but for the fact that you didn’t take off running into the woods.

The next morning—or afternoon, rather—everyone except Jungwon sleeps in, a luxury that feels foreign in this world. You never thought you’d use the phrase “overate” in the middle of an apocalypse, but that’s exactly what happened. With no way to preserve the meat, everyone unanimously agreed to finish it off while it was still good.

Jungwon looks noticeably better—calmer, more grounded—compared to the tense, hollow version of himself from the day before. By the time the camp starts packing up, he’s fully back in his role, directing the group with quiet authority.

Before long, you’re all on the move again, resuming the trip to the rest stop. The exhaustion lingers, but for now, this is a win. And in this world, wins like these are few and far between.

The sun dips low on the horizon by the time you arrive at the bus terminal leading out of the city, signalling that the rest stop is not far now—about another thirty minutes' drive. That is if you can get past the bus terminal without any hiccups.

The terminal looms like a forgotten monument—its once-bustling gates now a graveyard of cars, all frozen in time from when people tried to flee the city. Some doors hang ajar, others sealed shut. Windows cracked, tyres deflated, their drivers long gone—or worse, still inside.

The terminal is a bottleneck, leading into a wide expanse of roads out of Seoul. But it’s a choke point, too—a trap. You know that every car out there is a potential coffin, and every shadow could be hiding something worse. The dead don’t move until they hear or smell something alive. Something warm. Something vulnerable.

Like a van carrying eight passengers. One of which is bleeding out of a hole in his body.

The scent of Jay’s blood is thick in the confined space, metallic and unforgiving. It clings to your skin, your clothes, your thoughts. You glance back at him. He’s still pale, still barely holding on, Jake pressing a bloodied cloth against his side to stem the bleeding. But it won’t be enough. Not if you don’t keep moving.

“The last time I was here, I went on foot,” you murmur quietly to nobody in particular—maybe someone in particular but you try not to make it obvious. Your voice feels too loud in the tense silence. “Even then, it was risky. There are too many cars, too many places for them to hide.”

Jungwon doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed ahead, his grip on the rifle tightening with every passing second. “We don’t have that option now.”

No. You don’t.

“Why does this feel so eerie?” Sunoo’s voice breaks the silence, his usual sarcasm stripped down to unease. He leans forward from the back seat, resting his arms on the centre console. His eyes dart around the scene outside, scanning the cars and the deserted terminal. “Like we’re being watched.”

You don’t respond, but you feel it too—that creeping sense that you’ve just walked into something far more dangerous than you anticipated.

“Ni-ki, switch off the headlights,” Jungwon orders quietly. His voice is calm, measured, but there’s an edge to it. A tension that pulls tighter with each passing second.

Ni-ki reaches for the switch, cutting the lights. Darkness swallows the road ahead, the only illumination now coming from the fading light of the setting sun. He carefully guides the van up the curb, circling around the edges of the terminal as quietly as possible.

You crane your neck, glancing out the window. Bodies sit slumped in the front seats of cars, their heads tilted at unnatural angles. Their hands still grip steering wheels, as though they never made it out of the city. Some are fully decayed, little more than skeletal remains in tattered clothes. Others… others look almost whole.

Your stomach churns. You’ve seen enough to know the difference.

The van bumps gently as it rolls over debris—discarded suitcases, backpacks, remnants of lives left behind. You catch sight of a baby seat in the back of one of the cars, a blanket still draped over it.

Don’t look too closely.

Don’t think about it.

“There,” Jungwon whispers, pointing to a narrow gap between two cars ahead. It’s barely wide enough for the van to squeeze through. “Go slow. Keep the engine quiet.”

Ni-ki nods, his hands steady on the wheel as he manoeuvres the van through the gap. The tyres crunch softly over gravel and shattered glass.

“Do you think they’re dead?” Sunoo whispers, his voice low and tense. You glance at him. His gaze is locked on a car to your right—a man slumped against the window, his face pressed to the glass. His eyes are closed, his mouth slack. He looks dead. But you’ve seen them wake before.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But we shouldn’t stay to find out.”

Jungwon presses his hand against the dashboard, leaning forward to get a better look at the road ahead. His knuckles are white, his expression unreadable. “Keep moving. Slowly.”

The van inches forward, navigating the maze of cars and debris. You press your hand against the door, your fingers twitching near the knife strapped to your leg. Every instinct in your body screams to stay alert, to be ready for anything.

But nothing happens. The van makes it through the terminal without incident. No sudden lurches of movement from the cars, no decayed hands clawing at the windows. Just silence. You exhale slowly, the tension in your chest easing ever so slightly.

Maybe the dead aren’t here after all.

Ni-ki steers the van onto the open road beyond the terminal, the cracked asphalt stretching endlessly ahead. The trees lining the road sway gently in the breeze, their rustling leaves the only sound aside from the low hum of the engine.

“We made it,” Ni-ki breathes out, leaning back in his seat with a relieved sigh. “Thank fuck.”

Even Jungwon’s shoulders relax, his grip on the rifle loosening just a fraction.

But the moment is fleeting.

A wet, rattling cough echoes from the back of the van and everyone’s heads snap toward the sound.

Jay.

He’s laying flat on the carpet, his face pale and slick with sweat. His hand, trembling slightly, presses against his wounded side. But it’s the blood staining his lips that catches your attention—the dark red smear he tries to wipe away before anyone can see.

“Jay?” Jake is the first to move, scrambling to his side. “Hey, look at me.”

Jay coughs again, harder this time, his whole body shaking with the effort. Blood spatters onto his shirt, onto Jake’s hands as he tries to steady him.

“Pull over!” Jake snaps, his voice urgent. “Now!”

Ni-ki doesn’t hesitate, swerving the van to the side of the road and bringing it to a screeching halt. The tyres crunch against the gravel, and the van shudders as it comes to a stop.

Jake lifts the cloth that’s been pressing onto the wound, checking with practised hands. His fingers come away slick with fresh blood. Too much blood.

Your eyes dart to the wound, taking in the angry, swollen edges and the telltale patches of red creeping outward, spidering across his skin. You don’t have to be a doctor to recognise the symptoms of blood poisoning.

“Fuck,” Jake mutters under his breath, grabbing a clean cloth from the med kit. He presses it against Jay’s side, applying pressure. “It’s worse than I thought.”

Jay lets out a weak laugh, his voice strained. “Yeah… figured.”

“Don’t joke about this,” Jake snaps, his usual calm demeanour cracking under the weight of the situation. “You should’ve told me the moment it got worse.”

Jay doesn’t respond. He just leans back against the carpet, his chest heaving with laboured breaths. His gaze flickers to you for a brief moment before closing again, like he’s too exhausted to hold it.

Jungwon is out of the van in seconds, sliding open the side door with a sharp tug. His movements are sharp, precise, but there’s an edge to them—a barely concealed frustration that you can practically feel radiating off him.

His footsteps crunch against the gravel as he paces in front of the vehicle, his hands resting on his hips, fingers digging into his sides. His shoulders are tense, rising and falling with each heavy breath, and his jaw clenches and unclenches in a steady rhythm. You can see it clearly: his mind spiralling through every possible scenario, none of them ending well.

And if you know Jungwon the way you think you do, he’s probably blaming himself. Blaming himself for stopping yesterday. Telling himself that if he hadn’t broken down, if he hadn’t let himself falter for even a moment, they’d have reached the rest stop by now. They’d be safer, better prepared, instead of stuck here with too many variables and not enough solutions.

It’s a vicious cycle. And no matter how many times you tell him it’s not his fault, you know he’ll never believe it.

Because that’s who Jungwon is. The leader who carries the weight of everyone’s survival. The one who always blames himself when things go wrong.

But it’s something you all should’ve seen coming. Considering the conditions and the crude materials Jake had to work with just to stem the bleeding, infection was always a risk—one you all silently hoped wouldn’t happen. But now, staring at the unmistakable signs spreading across his skin, you realise there’s no more denying it.

It also means his countdown has started. Time is slipping away, and with every passing minute, his chances of survival grow thinner.

“What do we do?” Sunoo asks quietly from inside the van. His usual sarcasm is gone, replaced by a cautious uncertainty that makes your chest tighten.

Jake doesn’t lift his head from where he’s crouched beside Jay, his hands pressing down on the makeshift bandage to stem the bleeding. “We need to stop the bleeding,” he says firmly. “But he needs rest. Proper rest.”

“There’s nowhere safe,” Jungwon mutters, still pacing, his eyes darting to the road and back again. “Not out here.”

You watch him carefully, noting the way he keeps flexing his fingers, like he’s trying to ground himself. Then, as if sensing your gaze, he stops abruptly and turns to you. His dark eyes lock onto yours, a flicker of something vulnerable slipping through the cracks of his usual calm exterior.

He’s looking to you for help.

It catches you off guard—this boy, who always seems to have the answers, who leads with quiet confidence and keeps the group together through sheer willpower. And now he’s standing there, staring at you like he’s out of ideas, like he needs you to have the solution he doesn’t.

Your gaze flickers to Jay. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. His skin is deathly pale, and sweat beads along his hairline. He’s slipping, and fast.

Your thoughts flash back to the moment he jumped in front of you, taking the bullet that should’ve been yours. The memory hits you like a punch to the gut. Hell, you don’t even know how you’d handle it if he died because of you.

Your mind races, turning over every possibility, every bit of knowledge you’ve gathered from surviving on your own. And then your eyes land on the bus terminal in the distance.

“Jake, what do you need?” you speak up, your voice steady despite the chaos in your mind.

Jake blinks, startled. “What?”

“What do you need to keep him alive?” you press. “Just name it. Whatever it is, we’ll find it.”

Jake’s brow furrows in thought, his hands still working on Jay’s bandages. “Well, it doesn’t look like it hit any major organs. That’s the only good news. The bullet is still inside, and I can’t wedge it out now without any equipment or at least antiseptic, it’ll only worsen the infection. He’s also lost way too much blood and is starting to burn up. If we don’t get antibiotics into him and stabilise his blood pressure, he’ll go into septic shock.”

“Jake, layman terms, please.” Sunghoon says as he pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated.

Jake sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Basically, if we don’t find the medicine and supplies he needs soon, he’ll die.”

The words hang there, unspoken fears suddenly given form. Silence falls over the group like a heavy blanket, pressing down on all of you harder than ever. The only sounds are Jay’s laboured breaths and the distant rustle of wind through the abandoned cars. You glance around at the others—Jungwon, Heeseung, Sunghoon, Ni-ki, and Sunoo—all of them wearing the same haunted expressions.

“There’s a drug store at the terminal,” you say, your voice breaking the silence. Everyone turns to you, hope flickering in their eyes, fragile but present. “If we can get behind the counters where they keep the prescription meds, we might find antibiotics. Maybe corticosteroids, TXA—whatever Jake needs.”

Jungwon’s gaze sharpens, locking onto you with unwavering focus. “You’ve been there?”

You nod, brushing stray hair from your face. “I passed through. There were supplies. But the locked room at the back? I couldn’t get in without making a lot of noise. I doubt anyone else would’ve been desperate enough to risk it, so there’s a good chance the medicine is still there.”

Jungwon straightens, adjusting the strap of his rifle across his chest. The cracks you saw earlier—the uncertainty, the fear—are gone, buried beneath that steely mask of determination he always wears when the group needs him most.

“We don’t have a choice,” says Jungwon, his tone resolute. “We’ll go. We’ll find what we need.”

“We?” Sunoo’s sceptical voice cuts through the tense air, his eyebrow arching. “Who’s we?”

“Me and Y/N,” Jungwon replies without hesitation. “The rest of you stay here with Jay.” His words leave no room for debate, but Ni-ki shifts uncomfortably, clearly wanting to protest. The severity in Jungwon’s voice, however, stops him in his tracks.

Jake speaks next, his eyes darting between you and Jungwon before ultimately fixing on you. “You can recognise the medicine, right? Make sure you get the antibiotics. Hard, strong ones. If we don’t hit him with the right stuff, it won’t make a difference.”

“I know what to look for,” you assure him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll grab everything we can.”

Jake exhales deeply, but his jaw remains tight. “I would offer to go myself, but if anything happens to him while I’m gone…” He trails off, glancing at Jay, who looks pale and lifeless where he lies.

“We got this,” you promise, your voice unwavering. “You focus on keeping him alive until we get back.”

“In the meantime,” you add, turning to the others, “two of you should head to the rest stop on foot. Scout the area for any signs of trouble. But be careful. If I’m wrong and The Future is still there, at least we won’t be driving straight into their crosshairs.”

Jungwon’s eyes linger on you again, something flickering behind his expression. It’s not just relief—it’s trust. He trusts you. Despite everything that’s happened, despite how little time you’ve spent with the group, he’s relying on you now.

“Yeah, that would be smart,” Heeseung says, stepping forward. “Sunoo and I can handle it. Ni-ki, Sunghoon and Jake should stay here and keep watch.”

“If we’re not back before you two, just leave without us. We’ll meet you halfway.” Heeseung adds, his voice even.

“And if we’re not back before you two, and the rest stop is safe, leave without us,” Jungwon says, his words carrying a weight that, unlike Heeseung, seems to hang in the air. His eyes lift to meet yours for a fleeting second—a silent understanding passing between you. “We’ll catch up.”

You give him a firm nod, mirroring his determination. Neither of you says it aloud, but the message is clear.

Failure isn’t an option.

“Let’s move,” Jungwon says, gripping his rifle tighter.

You and Jungwon move in silence, weaving between abandoned cars and twisted metal barricades. The stench of rot hangs in the air, thick and cloying, as if the dead themselves are watching, waiting for the right moment to lurch forward.

“Stay low,” Jungwon whispers, his voice barely audible over the crunch of gravel beneath your boots.

You nod, gripping your knife tightly as you press yourself against the side of a rusted bus. The terminal doors are just ahead, glass cracked but still intact. You glance at Jungwon, who gestures for you to move forward, his rifle at the ready.

The two of you approach cautiously, your steps light, deliberate. You catch a glimpse of movement inside—a lone zombie shuffling aimlessly near the entrance. Its clothes are tattered, blood smeared across its face, and its eyes… lifeless, yet all too aware of any sound that might bring it to life.

“I’ve got it,” you mouth, stepping forward. One quick jab to the temple and the zombie crumples to the floor, lifeless once more.

Jungwon nods approvingly, motioning for you to follow him inside. The terminal is eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl. Dust clings to every surface, softening the outlines of benches and kiosks that haven’t been touched in what seems like forever. Abandoned bags and scattered belongings lie across the floor like forgotten memories, each one telling a story you’ll never know.

Your eyes settle on a battered duffle bag near the entrance. The fabric is torn in places, and the faded logo suggests it once belonged to someone travelling light, someone who never made it to their destination. You crouch down, brushing off the dust before carefully tipping out its contents—clothes, a water bottle, a crumpled photograph. The remnants of a life reduced to debris.

You shake the bag to make sure it’s empty, then stretch it open to inspect the inside. It’s worn but sturdy. This should be big enough to store the medicine you need.

You make your way toward the drugstore tucked in the corner of the terminal. The moonlight reflects faintly off the sign above it, and the sliding doors are stuck a quarter-open, jammed by an overturned display rack.

Inside, shelves are mostly bare, but you search diligently. Bandages, aspirin, paracetamol—all over-the-counter stuff. Useful, but not what you need.

“Jake said we need antibiotics,” Jungwon reminds you, scanning the shelves. “Strong ones.”

“I know.” You crouch down, rifling through the lower shelves, frustration growing with each passing second. “But they’re not here. They’re probably locked in the backroom.”

Jungwon’s gaze shifts toward the heavy door at the back of the store. It’s secured with a sturdy lock, the kind that won’t budge without serious force.

You try the handle out of instinct, even though you already know it’s pointless. Yet, there’s that stubborn flicker of hope gnawing at you, the same irrational hope that’s kept you going this far. Who knows? Maybe some other stragglers came through, just as desperate as you to save a life, and managed to open it. But alas, it’s locked tight.

“Of course it is,” you mutter, brushing dust off your hands.

“We could try prying it open,” Jungwon suggests, but you both know it’ll take too long—and make too much noise.

“The longer we’re here, the more we’ll draw them in,” you say, casting a wary glance toward the entrance. You’ve already seen a few zombies shuffle past the glass doors, their hollow eyes scanning the streets for movement. They’re not inside yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

Jungwon steps closer to the door, inspecting the lock with a critical eye. His fingers tighten around the rifle slung across his chest.

“I could shoot it,” he offers, his tone calm, measured. “One shot to take the lock out. We grab what we need and get out.”

You hesitate, weighing the risks. The sound will draw them in, no question. But how long would it take to pry the door open? Too long. Far too long.

Jungwon sees the conflict in your eyes and steps into your line of sight, forcing you to look at him. “We don’t have time to think this through,” he says softly. “Jay doesn’t have time.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. Jay—lying back at the van, clinging to life.

Time is not on your side.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Do it.”

Jungwon raises his rifle, aiming directly at the lock. His hands are steady, his breathing controlled. “On my signal, we run in, grab everything we can, and get out. Don’t stop. Don’t second-guess. Just grab and go.”

“Understood.”

You brace yourself as he pulls the trigger. The shot echoes through the terminal, deafening in the stillness. The lock shatters, pieces of metal scattering across the floor. The backroom door swings open, revealing shelves packed with boxes of prescription medication.

But the noise has done its job.

From outside, you hear them—the unmistakable groans of the dead, drawn to the sound like moths to a flame.

“They’re coming,” you whisper.

Jungwon glances over his shoulder, then back at you. “Move. Now.”

You bolt inside, heart pounding as you grab boxes at random—anything that looks remotely useful. Antibiotics. Painkillers. Anti-inflammatory meds. You shove them into the duffle bag with shaking hands, your mind racing.

Behind you, Jungwon is doing the same, his movements quick and efficient. But you can hear the groans getting louder, the shuffling of feet growing closer.

“They’re inside,” Jungwon warns, his voice tight with urgency.

You glance toward the entrance of the store. Shadows flicker across the broken glass as the first zombie pushes its way inside, its dead eyes locking onto you.

“We need to go,” you say, slinging the duffle bag over your head, the straps digging into your shoulders. Your voice is steady, but your pulse thunders in your ears. You can’t stay here any longer. The scent of blood and decay is thick in the air, and every second you linger feels like borrowed time.

Jungwon nods without a word, grabbing one last box before turning toward the door. The corridor is filled with the low, guttural moans of the undead, their decayed bodies pressing forward in a relentless wave. They trip over each other, stumbling through the narrow store entrance, their milky eyes locked on the two of you.

Another shot rings out as Jungwon takes down a zombie clawing its way through the entrance. The recoil barely seems to faze him, but you notice the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands tighten around the rifle. He’s running out of bullets, and both of you know it.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, glancing back at the growing horde. “We’re trapped.”

Your eyes dart around the store, searching desperately for another way out. There’s no back exit. The front is swarming with rotters. But then—your gaze catches on something above. A hatch in the ceiling, barely noticeable through the dim lighting.

“There!” you shout, pointing.

Jungwon follows your line of sight, spotting the hatch. Without a word, he slings the rifle over his shoulder and moves toward it. “I’ll boost you up,” he says quickly, lacing his fingers together to form a step.

“No,” you say, shaking your head as you glance back at the corridor. More zombies are pushing through, their groans growing louder, more desperate. “You go first. I’m lighter. It'll be easier for you to pull me up.”

Jungwon looks at you, torn. His jaw clenches, his eyes flicking between you and the hatch. “We don’t have time to argue—”

“Exactly!” you snap, your voice cutting through the rising noise. “There’s no time. Quick—go!”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His expression is hard, conflicted. But then he nods sharply, understanding that there’s no time for stubbornness. He turns and grabs the edge of the shelf beneath the hatch, pulling himself up with a grunt. The wood creaks under his weight, but it holds.

As soon as he’s up, he reaches down, his hand outstretched. “Grab on.”

You don’t hesitate. Throwing the duffle bag behind you, you jump, gripping his wrist tightly as he pulls you up. The muscles in his arm flex with the strain, his face set in determination. But just as you reach the edge of the crawlspace, a hand shoots up.

The rotted hand grabs your ankle, its grip like a vice, fingers digging into your skin. You let out a startled gasp, kicking instinctively, but the zombie holds on tight, pulling with surprising strength.

“No—shit!” you hiss, panic lacing your voice as you scramble to free yourself. The jagged wood around the hole splinters under your weight, cracking with each tug of the zombie’s hand.

“Y/N!” Jungwon’s expression shifting from urgency to pure panic in an instant.

Your body jerks violently, your chest slamming against the rough edges of the hatch. Pain blossoms through your ribs, but you barely register it over the sheer terror coursing through you. You kick wildly, your free leg connecting with something solid—bone, maybe—but it’s not enough to break its grip.

“I’ve got you,” Jungwon says through gritted teeth, his grip on your wrist tightening as he pulls you back. His eyes burn with determination, his muscles straining as he fights to keep you from being dragged into the swarm below.

“Fuck, fuck—” Your heart pounds in your chest, the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears. You twist your body, trying to free your leg, but the zombie’s fingers are locked around your ankle like steel clamps.

More hands start clawing up, fingers reaching, desperate to grab hold of anything living.

Jungwon shifts, bracing his feet against the frame of the hatch for leverage. “Hold on! Don’t let go.”

“I’m trying!” you snap, panic making your voice sharper than intended. But your hands are sweating, your grip slipping, your strength waning. Faster now that the duffle bag is weighing you down.

You feel the zombie’s filthy nails scrape against your skin, digging in deep enough to draw blood. The rancid smell of decay wafts up from below, making your stomach churn.

Then you hear it—the unmistakable growl of another one joining the frenzy. They’re piling up, climbing over each other to get to you.

“Jungwon!” you gasp, desperation clawing at your throat. “They’re going to—”

He doesn’t let you finish. In one swift move, he lets go of one hand holding onto you and reaches for his rifle, swinging it around with practiced precision. He doesn’t hesitate. He aims down through the gap and fires.

The zombie’s head jerks back, a sickening crack echoing through the crawlspace as the bullet finds its mark. The grip on your ankle loosens, and with a final desperate kick, you free yourself.

Jungwon grabs your arm again, hauling you up with a grunt. You collapse onto the platform beside him, gasping for breath, your chest heaving.

“Are you hurt?” Jungwon’s voice is calm, but there’s an edge of urgency to it. His eyes scan you quickly, looking for any signs of a bite.

“I’m fine,” you manage, still catching your breath. “It didn’t get me.”

He nods, stepping closer to you, his hand hovering near your shoulder. “You sure?”

You nod, though your heart feels like it’s about to burst from your chest. “Yeah… yeah.”

But you both know it’s a lie. You’re not okay. Neither of you is. You can still feel the ghost of that grip around your ankle, the way it clung to you like death itself. You meet his gaze, and for a moment, you see the concern etched into his features—the slight crease between his brows, the way his lips press into a thin line. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

“We need to go,” Jungwon says, his voice softer now but still firm. He brushes a lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a second too long before he pulls back.

You nod again, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah, let’s go.”

You could’ve died. But even worse—if you hadn’t insisted Jungwon go first, he could have—no, there’s no “could’ve” about it. He would have died. You wouldn’t have had the strength to pull him up if the roles were reversed.

It’s always like this, isn’t it? The small choices. The split-second decisions that separate life from death. The apocalypse doesn’t give you time to reconsider, to take back your mistakes. If it had played out differently, if Jungwon hadn’t made it out of that hatch… you don’t think you’ll ever be able to face them again. Then, Jay would die. And The others wouldn’t survive much longer either.

The thought churns in your stomach, twisting like a knife. You force it down. There’s no room for regret. No time for fear. You’re still here. You’re not dead. Not yet. And you’ll make damn sure it stays that way.

“Y/N.” Jungwon’s voice pulls you from your spiralling thoughts. He’s a few paces ahead, glancing over his shoulder, his expression grim and serious. There’s a tension in his eyes that wasn’t there before, something raw and unspoken.

“Stay close. Please.”

His voice is quieter on that last word—almost a plea. It startles you more than anything else that’s happened so far.

You nod. “Got it.”

He peers over the edge of the roof, scanning the ground below for anything that can cushion your descent. His movements are quick, efficient, but you can see the weight he carries pressing down on his shoulders. He’s not just leading you right now; he’s holding everything together—the group, the plan, your survival—but more so himself.

“There.” Jungwon points to a vending machine tipped against the side of the terminal building. Its display glass is shattered, shards glinting in the fading light, and the machine itself is battered and empty. Still, it looks sturdy enough.

“We can use that to climb down.” says Jungwon.

He takes the lead without hesitation, lowering himself carefully over the edge and testing the machine’s stability before finding a footing on top of it.

Once he’s sure it can hold both your weight, he glances up at you and stretches out a hand.

“Come on.”

You hesitate for half a second. Not because you’re scared, but because something about the sight of him—standing there with his hand outstretched, waiting for you—makes your chest tighten. He doesn’t have to do that. He doesn’t have to look back for you. But he always does.

You slowly ease into him. His grip around your waist is firm, steady as he lands you gently beside him on the machine. And for a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe that everything will be fine.

However, the moment your feet touches the ground, the sound of distant groans reaches your ears. It’s faint, but growing louder.

Jungwon’s fingers slip into yours without warning, his grip firm but not crushing. It’s instinctive—there’s no hesitation, no second-guessing, as though the simple act of interlocking his hand with yours is the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t pull away.

His palm is calloused, but his touch is grounding, like a tether keeping you from spiralling into the chaos around you. The warmth of his hand seeps into your skin, anchoring you to this moment.

The world around you feels like a blur—half-destroyed buildings and rusting cars blending together in the fading light. The distant groans of the undead echo from somewhere behind you, a haunting reminder that danger is never far. But Jungwon’s focus never wavers. His steps are quick but deliberate, each one calculated.

It’s like he knows exactly where to go.

The path ahead seems impossible to see—fog, shadow and debris blocking your view—but Jungwon moves with certainty, his eyes scanning the terrain with a sharpness that only someone used to surviving in this world could possess.

“Watch your step,” he says softly, guiding you around a cluster of jagged rocks and broken glass. His hand tightens slightly around yours as you stumble over a crack in the pavement. His fingers squeeze gently, a silent reassurance.

You glance at him, and for a fleeting moment, you catch a glimpse of something rare—something softer beneath the hardened exterior he wears so well. His brows are drawn together in concentration, but his lips press into a line that seems more anxious than confident.

“Do you even know where we’re going?” you ask, your voice hushed.

“We just need to make it past the gate, can’t be that hard,” Jungwon says, his voice steady and composed, but the lack of conviction in his tone is deafening. He doesn’t look back as he speaks, his pace quickening as if he’s trying to outrun the weight of his own words.

It makes your chest ache. Even when he’s unsure, he keeps the facade up—for you, for everyone. To keep you hoping. To give you something to cling to, no matter how thin it might be. But Jungwon knows better than to hold you to meaningless reassurances. He knows you don’t believe it, not really. Yet he says it anyway, maybe out of habit. Maybe because it’s all he knows how to do.

You wonder if he’s afraid. Surely, he must be. Only you’re not sure if that fear is directed towards the dead.

Before you can think too much, Jungwon halts abruptly, the sudden stop jolting you out of your spiralling thoughts. His hand clamps around your wrist as he pulls you forward, weaving through the maze of rusted and abandoned cars, his grip firm, unrelenting. His movements are sharper now, deliberate, and it doesn’t take much to realise he’s actually running from something.

You want to turn back, to see what it is that’s chasing you, but Jungwon doesn’t give you the chance. His arm loops around your waist, and before you know it, he’s hoisting you onto the back of a battered lorry that looks like it’s barely holding itself together. You don’t have time to ask what’s going on before he’s climbing up after you, throwing a filthy, moth-eaten tarp over the both of you, cocooning you in darkness.

“What—” The question barely escapes your lips before his hand presses against your mouth, silencing you. His other arm braces over your body, shielding you.

Then you hear it.

A sound that chills you to your very core. Low, guttural groans, and the unmistakable shuffle of dozens—no, more than dozens—of dragging feet. The dead are close. Too close.

They’re moving past you, the tarp hiding you from their vacant stares, but the proximity makes your breath hitch in your throat. It’s not just one or two. The sound is overwhelming, the groans echoing all around you like a sinister symphony of death. You can feel the vibrations through the lorry’s frame, the weight of their movements too much to ignore.

But it’s not just the horde that sends a chill down your spine. It’s the direction they came from.

The van.

Your mind races, panic clawing at the edges of your thoughts. Did Heeseung and Sunoo make it back to the van? Did the dead catch onto Jay’s blood? Are they— No. You can’t think about that. You can’t let your mind spiral like this. Not now.

Jungwon’s hand shifts slightly, his grip loosening as he removes it from your mouth. You’re on the verge of falling apart, the weight of everything threatening to crush you. But then you feel it—a gentle squeeze around your waist. Reassuring, grounding.

You glance up, meeting Jungwon’s eyes in the dim light filtering through the tarp. His gaze locks onto yours, steady and calm despite the chaos around you. He’s saying something without words, speaking to you through his expression.

They’re okay. I know they are.

The words ring silently in your mind, a fragile lifeline in the sea of doubt. But even as you hold onto that unspoken promise, you know.

Even Jungwon can’t say for sure.

The tension is suffocating, thick enough to choke on as the minutes crawl by at an excruciating pace. Every second drags painfully, your body tense and your breathing shallow, afraid that even the smallest sound will betray your presence. The groans of the undead echo just beyond the tarp, their shuffling feet and guttural rasps terrifyingly close.

You force yourself to take stock of your position, assess how easy it would be for you to get up and run if the situation permits. You’re lying on your side, pressed tightly against Jungwon. His body is turned towards you, his arm cradling your head while his other hand rests firmly on your waist.

You try to shift slightly, attempting to ease the weight off his arm. The last thing you want is to make this uncomfortable for him on top of everything else. But before you can move much further, Jungwon’s grip tightens. His hand presses gently but firmly against the back of your head, pulling you closer to his chest until your cheek is practically resting against his collarbone.

“Stop moving, will you?” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. The low timbre of his voice sends a chill down your spine, a contrast to the heat emitting from his body.

Your breath hitches, not just from the tension of the situation but from the unexpected intimacy of it. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your cheek, grounding you in a way that feels strange and unsettling. You nod slightly, a silent agreement to stay still, and Jungwon relaxes just a fraction, his hand still resting on the curve of your waist.

The world outside the tarp feels like it’s closing in, the groans of the dead growing louder before tapering off again as the horde slowly moves on. Each sound sets your nerves alight, your muscles tensing involuntarily as you wait for the inevitable moment when one of them will catch a whiff of life and turn back. But that moment doesn’t come. Not yet.

Beneath the tarp, the silence between you is thick, heavy with unspoken words and unacknowledged emotions. You can’t bring yourself to look up at him, but you feel the weight of his gaze, protective and steady even in this precarious situation.

You stay under the tarp for what feels like hours, though you’re not sure how much time has passed. The groans of the horde slowly grow more distant, but the occasional shuffle of feet or guttural rasp reminds you they’re still out there—stragglers lingering behind.

Jungwon hasn’t moved, his arm still lightly draped around your waist. His breathing is steady, but you can feel the tension radiating off him. He’s waiting, listening, calculating. You don’t dare to speak, your heart hammering against your ribs as you lie there in silence.

Eventually, the noise dwindles to nothing more than faint echoes. Jungwon tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he listens intently for any signs of danger. After what feels like an eternity, he lets out a quiet exhale and shifts slightly, lifting the edge of the tarp just enough to peer out.

“Come on,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. You nod, following his lead as he slides out from under the tarp and drops to the ground.

The air feels heavier now, thick with the stench of decay. The horde might have passed, but the stragglers are everywhere.

Jungwon motions for you to follow, his movements silent and deliberate. You mimic his steps, keeping low and hugging the shadows of the abandoned vehicles. The slightest misstep could draw their attention, and you’re hyper-aware of every rustle of fabric as you move.

As you near the edge of the terminal, your eyes dart frantically across the barren lot, scanning for any sign of the van, of Heeseung and Sunoo, of the others. The silence feels heavy, pressing against your ears as you search. But all you see is emptiness—the van is gone.

For a moment, dread begins to creep in, whispering that maybe—just maybe—they didn’t make it. And then it hits you.

The van is gone.

Thank fucking god.

Jungwon’s hand brushes against yours, snapping you out of your thoughts. He points towards the tyre tracks leading away from the terminal, faint but unmistakable in the dirt.

“They made it out, they’re alive,” Jungwon murmurs, his voice low but filled with conviction. His words aren’t just for you—they’re for himself too. A reassurance that the others are okay. That the plan worked.

Relief washes over you like a wave, but it’s quickly replaced by a new urgency. Your thoughts snap back to the weight of the bag on your shoulder, heavy with the precious medicines and supplies you risked everything to find.

“Jay’s medicine,” you say, your voice breaking the silence.

Jungwon nods, already stepping forward, his rifle at the ready as his eyes sweep the path ahead. There’s no time to waste. Not with Jay’s life hanging on a silver thread.

“Let’s go, it’s not far now.”

The walk to the rest stop is weighed down by silence. Every step feels heavier than the last, each one dragging you further into your own thoughts. There’s a thousand things you want to say—words that linger at the back of your throat, pressing against your chest—but you can’t seem to summon the courage to speak them out loud.

You glance at Jungwon from the corner of your eye, half-expecting to catch him doing the thing. The thing where he sneaks glances at you when he has something to say but is not sure how, only to avert his gaze nervously the moment your eyes meet. But this time, there’s none of that. His focus is locked ahead, his expression unreadable.

He has nothing to say to you.

The silence follows you like a shadow, lingering even as you catch sight of the van parked in the clearing. Relief flickers in your chest for a brief moment, but it’s quickly snuffed out when your gaze shifts to the towering barricade surrounding the rest stop.

It’s clearly the work of some powerful force. Military-grade equipment is woven through the defences, the barb wire circling the top of the enclosure glinting under the moonlight. Wooden spikes line the perimeter like jagged teeth, making it abundantly clear that this place was never meant to welcome anyone.

Which is weird because the last time you passed through this place in search for food, it was nothing more than an open rest stop. It’s not one of the sprawling ones you’d find further down the expressway, but it’s big enough. Big enough to refuel, grab a bite, and carry on your way.

Jungwon’s eyes narrow as he takes in the scene. His hand hovers near his rifle, fingers flexing restlessly. “Looks fortified,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

“Too fortified,” you mutter, your gaze following the stretch of barricades. The gas station and the attached convenience store sit within the enclosure like something out of a nightmare—a beacon of hope warped into something far more sinister.

The location is perfect. Open road for miles, no trees or buildings to block your view. If a horde approached, you’d see it long before it became a threat. Which begs the question...

Why the hell is it abandoned?

You approach the van slowly, your footsteps crunching softly against the gravel. With every step, your heart pounds louder in your chest. Half of you expects to see it empty, and when you peek inside, you find that you’re right.

“They must be inside,” you murmur, glancing towards the barricade.

Jungwon doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his tension in the way he grips his rifle tighter. He’s thinking what you are—if they’re inside, why is everything so quiet?

You both make your way to the gate. It’s slightly ajar, swaying just enough to make you think it’s been left that way deliberately. You hesitate before pushing it open, and the rusty metal gives a screech that cuts through the eerie silence. The sound makes you wince, setting your teeth on edge. But nothing stirs.

You step inside cautiously, your eyes sweeping the area. The gas station looms ahead, the broken windows glinting like jagged shards of glass. The convenience store sits just beyond it, the door perfectly intact which is more than what you can say for other places you’ve scavenged. Everything looks wrong—too clean, too still, too quiet.

Not a single living soul in sight.

You glance at Jungwon, who’s scanning the surroundings just as intently as you are. His brow is furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. You know what he knows, even without him telling you. In this case, it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

People like The Future don’t abandon their posts. Not without a damn good reason.

“No way they’d leave a set-up like this behind.” Jungwon whispers, the words barely audible

The door to the convenience store glides smoothly as you push it open, the stale air inside rushing out to meet you. The smell of dust and old wood fills your lungs as you step inside cautiously, your eyes darting around the room. It’s dark, but even with the dim light filtering through the cracked windows, you can see the shelves are completely gone.

In their place are makeshift beddings—sleeping bags spread out haphazardly, blankets thrown over crates to make impromptu mattresses. There are even personal belongings scattered around—boots lined neatly by a corner, a few scattered pieces of clothing draped over the back of chairs.

Your stomach knots. This wasn’t how the place looked the last time you were here.

Your eyes drift down to the floor, and that’s when you see them—a cluster of bags, familiar ones. Your breath catches in your throat as you step closer. You kneel down, running your hands over the straps, the worn fabric.

These aren’t just any bags. They belong to your group.

Heeseung’s patch-covered backpack. Jake’s med kit bag. Even Sunoo’s colourful duffle that Ni-ki has been begging him to cover with mud to conceal the colours.

Panic rises in your chest like a tidal wave. “No,” you whisper under your breath, shaking your head. “No, no, no…”

You scramble to your feet, stumbling towards the back of the store. “Heeseung? Sunoo? Jake?” Your voice echoes through the empty space, growing more frantic with each name. “Sunghoon? Ni-ki? Jay?”

Silence.

“Where are they?” you mutter, spinning around, eyes darting from one shadowed corner to the next. “Where the fuck are they?”

“Y/N.” Jungwon’s voice is firm, grounding. “We’ll find them.”

But you’re already moving, your gaze locking onto something near the far wall—a door. It’s subtle, blending almost perfectly into the wallpaper, but the peeling edges give it away. There’s no handle, just a faint outline of a frame.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you approach it cautiously. You glance at Jungwon, who gives a small nod, his rifle raised. With a deep breath, you press your hand to the door and push.

The door swings open easily, revealing a dimly lit room beyond. The room must be soundproof, because the moment the door opens, the noise rushes out—a mixture of hushed conversation and distant shuffling. The voices are familiar. Too familiar.

Your hand trembles as you push the door fully open, stepping inside.

The first thing you see is Jay.

He’s sitting upright right beside the door frame, leaning against the wall, his head resting back. His shirt is still stained with blood, but you can see his torso is wrapped up with fresh bandages. His eyes flutter open when he hears the door creak, and he turns his head slowly to look at you.

“Hey,” you whisper, crouching low to meet his eye, your voice cracking with emotion. “Are you okay?”

Jay gives you a weak smile, his lips twitching at the corners. He doesn’t speak but you can tell he’s happy to see you two alive.

Relief crashes over you, so overwhelming that your knees nearly give out beneath you. Before you can say anything else, Jungwon’s voice pulls your attention.

“Y/N,” he calls out, stepping into the room behind you. His voice holds a mix of awe and disbelief. “Look.”

You follow his gaze and finally take a good look around.

The shelves—the ones that had been removed from the front of the store—are all here. Lined neatly in rows, stacked with canned goods, MREs, bottles of water, medical supplies, ammos. Enough to last an entire year or more with careful rationing. More than you’ve ever seen in one place since the world ended.

“Holy shit,” you breathe out, taking a slow step forward.

Jungwon lowers his rifle, his expression unreadable as he scans the room. “They’ve been stockpiling.”

Your fingers brush over a can of soup on one of the shelves. It’s pristine, untouched. Like it’s been waiting here just for you.

“Jungwon? Y/N?”

The voice comes from the back of the room, faint but unmistakable. Your head snaps around, your heart thumping in your chest. It’s too dim to make out his face at first, but the familiarity of that voice cuts through the haze of exhaustion like a knife.

“Jake,” Jungwon breathes, his steps quickening as he strides toward the figure emerging from the shadows.

Jake barely has time to react before Jungwon wraps him in a tight hug, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. “Fuck, man,” Jungwon mutters, his voice rough with relief. “I’m glad you lot are okay.”

Jake pats him on the back, his own relief evident in the way he sags slightly into the embrace. “We thought something happened,” he says, pulling away. His face is tired, dark circles shadowing his eyes, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips. “We heard the gunshot. Sunghoon and Ni-ki wanted to go after you, but then the horde started coming down on us.”

He pauses, glancing over at you. “We waited as long as we could, but Jay’s wound…” Jake’s voice trails off, his expression tightening. “We were afraid the dead would catch the scent of his blood.”

You barely process what he’s saying. Your mind is too busy counting heads, scanning the room for the others. They’re safe. They’re alive

“Yeah, we ran into a bit of trouble,” Jungwon says, glancing at you briefly before turning back to Jake. “But good news—we got the antibiotics you needed.” He pulls the bag from his shoulder and opens it, revealing boxes of prescription medicine that even The Future can’t get their hands on.

Jake’s eyes widen as he takes in the haul. “Shit. Damn. Don’t be disappointed, Jay. Looks like you’re living another day.” His grin is infectious, a flash of humour cutting through the tension. “That rhymes, by the way. And that too.”

Jay lets out a weak laugh from his spot on the floor. “Looks like you’re the one disappointed, Jake.”

The warmth of their banter spreads through the room, and for a brief moment, everything feels normal. The tension in your chest loosens slightly, but you know it won’t last. It feels fragile. Like a glass bubble that could shatter at any second.

“I already took the bullet out,” Jake says, pulling you from your thoughts. “Thanks to the supplies stockpiled here. And thank fuck this room’s soundproof, because he was screaming like a bloody baby.” Jake crushes a tablet into a cup of water and holds it out to Jay, who takes it with a grimace.

Your gaze drifts across the room. It’s genuinely surreal. “What is this place?” you murmur, still taking it all in.

Jake shrugs. “Heaven in hell, apparently.” He gestures toward the far end of the room. “There’s a basement too. Stocked to the brim.”

The sound of footsteps draws your attention. From the shadows, Sunoo emerges, a flashlight in hand, its beam bouncing off the walls in jagged patterns. His grin is wide, lighting up his face in a way you’ve rarely seen since you’ve been with this group. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, his steps light, his voice carrying a note of relief that feels almost out of place in this grim, desolate world.

“Thank god you’re both okay!” he exclaims, rushing towards you and Jungwon, his feet barely touching the ground as he moves. The rest of them follow suit, trailing beind him.

“Have you seen this place? The supplies would last us for months! And that barricade outside—it’s miles better than the one we had before.” Sunoo exclaims.

That’s the thing. You have seen this place. And it wasn’t like this.

Your stomach twists as dread coils in your chest. Slowly, you shake your head. “Something’s not right,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. “When I came here two months ago, it wasn’t like this. There were no barricades. No fortifications. It was just… a regular rest stop.”

Heeseung turns towards you with a frown. His brows furrow, confusion flickering across his face. “I could’ve sworn they marked this place on one of their maps back at base camp. Captain Hwang showed it to me when I got promoted in the security department.”

“Maybe it was a work-in-progress,” Jake suggests, his voice steady but thoughtful. “They could’ve started building it but hadn’t fully moved in when Y/N passed through.”

You can hear the curiosity in his voice, the way he’s already trying to rationalise what you’re saying. It’s how they survive—by making sense of things, by explaining away every lingering threat until it no longer feels like one.

“Maybe,” you admit reluctantly, though the unease gnawing at your gut doesn’t let up. ”But it’s clearly no longer a work-in-progress. Whoever built this will come back.”

Heeseung runs his finger along one of the shelves, lifting a thick layer of grime and holding it up for everyone to see. “No one’s been here in a while. Those sleeping bags outside? Covered in dust. Same with these shelves.”

Dust means time. Time means abandonment. But why? Why would anyone leave behind a place fortified this well, stocked with enough supplies to last a year? Which in apocalypse standard time, it might as well be a lifetime.

Your gut twists uncomfortably. “Like Jake said, this is heaven in hell. An oasis in the desert. It just doesn’t make sense, why would anyone leave all this behind? It’s not safe to stay here. We should grab whatever we can carry and keep moving.”

The moment those words leave your mouth however, a heavy silence falls over the room, heavy and suffocating. You glance around, catching the way their faces shift—how exhaustion weighs down their expressions, dulling the sharp edges of fear and worry. That’s when it hits you.

They’ve already made up their minds.

They’re tired. Tired of running. Tired of scraping by on borrowed time. Tired of surviving without truly living. And this place, with its sturdy barricades and stockpiled supplies, promises them something they haven’t had in a long time.

A home.

They see this place as a refuge. A chance to finally stop running. The desire to settle down, to stop looking over their shoulders, has taken root, pulling them in like a siren’s song. But it’s nothing but a lie—a lie that this world has dangled in front of you far too many times.

You turn to Jungwon, hoping—praying—that he’ll say something. That he’ll back you up. That he’ll remind them of what you all know deep down: nothing good ever comes easy in this world.

But when your eyes meet his, your heart sinks.

Because you see it in him too. That same exhaustion. That same longing for rest. The desire to finally stop running.

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice amidst the rising panic in your chest. “Jungwon, you know we can’t stay,” you say, your voice quieter than you’d like.

Jungwon looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. There’s a heaviness in his gaze, a weariness that mirrors your own. He knows you’re right. You can see it in the way his shoulders sag just slightly, in the way he presses his lips together like he’s trying to stop himself from agreeing.

Because places like this don’t just get abandoned without a reason. The apocalypse is full of these places, scattered across the country like cursed relics of a civilisation long gone. You’ve learned the hard way that anything that looks too good to be true usually is.

But before Jungwon can say anything, Ni-ki steps forward. His expression is calm, collected, his eyes calculating as they sweep across the room. “Whoever left these supplies behind will come back,” he says, his voice steady. “But when they do, they’ll find eight armed individuals. If we play our cards right, we could secure this place.”

Jake nods. “Jay isn’t fit to move. He needs rest if he’s going to fight off the infection. We’ve got medicine, sure, but if we keep running, he won’t stand a chance.”

“I’m with Ni-ki on this,” Sunoo adds. “This place is too good to give up. It gives us a fighting chance against whatever’s out there.”

Your frustration boils over before you can stop it. “And what makes you think whatever’s out there won’t find a way in here?” you snap, your voice sharper than you intended. The room falls silent again, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

Ni-ki’s glare cuts through the stillness like ice. His jaw tightens, his arms crossing over his chest. “You’re the one who led us here,” he says, his voice low and biting. “And now you want us to leave all this behind?”

The guilt hits you like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you. He’s right. You did lead them here. Just like you led them into every bit of danger that almost cost them their lives; the motel, the village, the bus terminal—and now, here. Every risk, every danger—it all ties back to you. And now they’re looking at you like you’ve betrayed them.

“I didn’t bring you here to settle,” you say quietly, the weight of your own words pressing down on your chest. “I brought you here to survive.”

Ni-ki doesn’t waver. His voice remains steady, calm. “We will survive. We can survive here. We don’t need to keep running.”

And that’s when you realise.

They’ve already stopped running.

Your chest tightens as Ni-ki’s words settle over the group like a final verdict. The exhaustion, the constant fear—it’s worn them down to the point where even the slightest hope of stability feels like salvation.

And who could blame them? You’ve all been running for so long, barely surviving. This place offers a lifeline, however fragile it may be.

But it doesn’t feel right.

It can’t be right.

Jungwon hasn’t spoken since you addressed him directly, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces. You watch him carefully, hoping for that flicker of leadership you’ve come to depend on, the clarity he always brings in moments of uncertainty. But it’s not there. Instead, there’s a weariness that drags him down like chains around his ankles.

“You’re right,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. It catches you off guard, making your heart skip a beat.

“We’ve been running for too long.”

Your stomach twists. No. He’s giving in.

“But—” he adds, glancing up to meet your gaze. “We’re not settling blindly. We don’t know why this place was abandoned, and we can’t afford to assume it’s safe. We secure it. We prepare for the worst.”

There’s a collective exhale from the group, the tension easing slightly. Ni-ki nods in agreement. “We fortify the barricade. Set up traps, expand our perimeter. If anyone comes back, they’ll regret it.”

“I’ll keep an eye on Jay. He’s stable for now, but he needs proper rest.” Jake says, wiping his hands on his jeans as he rises from where he was crouching beside Jay.

Sunoo chimes in next, his voice lighter than before. “I’ll start taking stock of the supplies. We need to ration carefully if we’re staying.”

Everyone seems to fall into place, tasks assigned and agreed upon with a silent understanding. But you remain still, your hands clenched at your sides, heart pounding in your chest.

“Jungwon.” You call his name softly, pulling him aside as the others begin to disperse.

He follows you out of the room without question, the two of you stepping into the cool night air outside the barricade. The wind carries the faint scent of petrol and dust, mingling with the metallic tang of lingering fear.

Jungwon’s gaze is locked on the barricade, his rifle hanging loosely in his grip. You watch him for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch slightly. There’s exhaustion in the way he stands, a bone-deep weariness that makes your chest ache. And it’s more than just physical fatigue. You see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the void behind his eyes.

“You know this is a mistake,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “You know better than anyone that places like this don’t stay safe.”

Jungwon sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I know. I know it’s a risk.”

“Then why are you letting them believe it’s safe?”

He looks at you for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. “Because they need it. We need it.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling over. “And what happens when whoever built this place comes back? When they’re more armed, more prepared than we are?”

“We’ll handle it,” he says firmly.

“Jungwon—”

“I can’t keep running.”

You blink, taken aback by the vulnerability in his tone. You’ve seen him tired, stressed, angry—but this is different. He’s crumbling under pressure.

“I can’t keep dragging them from place to place, always looking over my shoulder,” he continues, voice cracking slightly. “I’m tired, Y/N. We all are. This might not be the perfect solution, but it’s what we have right now.”

The words settle between you like a stone sinking to the bottom of a river. They’re heavy, filled with truths you know too well. But another weight—one you’ve been carrying since the village—presses down on you harder.

“You hate me, don’t you?” Your voice comes out quieter than you expect, almost swallowed by the night air. It’s not really a question. More of a statement.

Jungwon’s brow furrows as he glances at you. “I don’t.”

“You regret letting me come along,” you press, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “I’ve done nothing but put you all through hell since you let me in.”

“Y/N—”

“No, listen.” You take a breath, forcing yourself to keep going. “Ni-ki doesn’t have to say it, but I know he thinks I’ve got no clue what I’m doing most of the time. And he’s right! Half the time, I’m winging it.”

“Y/N.”

“And you—” Your voice trembles as you continue. “You keep risking your life to protect me, and I don’t even know why. I should’ve just let that zombie bite me in the auto shop. I was supposed to go down with the city that day. Hell, I should’ve taken that bullet. I—”

“Y/N!” Jungwon’s voice cuts through your rambling like a knife, sharp and commanding. He steps closer, turning to face you fully. His eyes bore into yours, intense and unwavering.

It silences you instantly.

“Stop,” he says quietly, almost pleading. “Stop doing this to yourself.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“Ni-ki’s just frustrated. He doesn’t think that about you. And you can’t put us through hell if we’re already living in it.” His voice softens further, exhaustion creeping into his words. “I don’t regret making the decision to keep you. Jay would never forgive himself if something happened to you. And I don’t hate you.”

There’s a pause, and then he adds, so quietly you almost miss it, “I hate myself. For letting the world get to me.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you. For a moment, you can’t think of anything to say. You’ve never seen him this vulnerable, this open. It’s both unsettling and grounding, and you feel the cracks in your own walls widening.

“No.” You shake your head slowly, your voice trembling. “You hate me for driving you this way. It’s not the world. The world doesn’t have anything on you.”

Jungwon tilts his head slightly, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smirk. “And you think you have the power to influence me in ways the world can’t?”

You let out a shaky laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “No. But I think you look at me like I could be someone who can finally lift the burden of leadership off your shoulders. You trust my calls. You listen to my opinions. And what I said back at the field, about justice and revenge—you weren’t just listening. You were thinking.”

He doesn’t deny it. His gaze flickers, but he stays quiet, letting you speak.

“Thinking about how maybe I might have a point,” you continue. “Thinking about how you might have been approaching the world the wrong way. But that’s the thing—I don’t want you to think. To second-guess what you’ve always believed in just to weigh mine in.”

Your voice falters slightly, but you push on. “I don’t want you to change. You don’t owe me or the world anything. Fuck the world. To hell with it.”

Jungwon lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You’re cute when you’re hating the world. As ironic as that is.”

The comment catches you off guard. Cute? Your brows furrow in confusion as your mind scrambles to process his words. How can he crack a joke right now?

But there’s something about the way he says it—the way his lips twitch into the faintest smile, the way his eyes soften just a little. He’s trying to lighten the moment, to ease the tension that hangs between you like a noose.

And it works. Sort of.

“I don’t want to hate the world,” you murmur, your gaze locking onto his. Your voice is softer now, raw. “After all, it has all of you in it.”

Jungwon’s expression shifts, his playful smirk fading into something more serious. His gaze lingers on you, studying your face like he’s searching for something he can’t quite name.

“It’s not just about what you said. If that’s what you’re wondering.” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “I felt it—the blinding rage for justice… or revenge.”

Your heart stutters in your chest as you turn to him fully, waiting for him to continue.

“When he had you in that chokehold,” he says, his jaw tightening at the memory, “my mind switched off. I wasn’t even thinking. All I knew was that I couldn’t let you die. I picked up that rifle and pulled the trigger without a second thought. And when Jay…” ”

His voice cracks, the name catching in his throat. He stops, closing his eyes briefly to steady himself before speaking again. “When Jay took that bullet for you, I lost it. I completely lost it. That’s when I started thinking about what you said.”

“And you’re right,” he continues, voice quieter now. “If either of you had died right there and then, I would’ve done worse than just give him a quick death.”

You blink rapidly, struggling to process his words. The sheer depth of his emotions is overwhelming, leaving your mind scrambling for a response.

What Jungwon is saying is valid. You know that deep down. You would’ve done things—unimaginable, unspeakable things—if Jay, Jungwon, or anyone else had died. You would’ve burned the world down, torn apart every last remnant of civilisation if it meant protecting them.

But that’s what makes this even harder to hear. Because it also means Jungwon truly, deeply cares for you. The same way you truly, deeply care for them.

And that wasn’t part of your plan.

Noticing your loss for words, Jungwon seizes the moment to press on, his tone quieter, more reflective. “And you’re also right… I don’t like the fact that their lives are practically in my hands. It’s suffocating.”

He pauses, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. “But when you came along… I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. You know how to make the hard calls, the split-second decisions that mean life or death. And all I’ve been doing is leading this group away from those problems. Trying to avoid them. Making decisions in their stead so they don’t have to. Hoping they’ll never have to face it.”

“Well, it’s not exactly a good problem to have,” you shake your head, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

Jungwon huffs out a dry laugh, one that barely passes for amusement. “No, it’s not.” He pauses, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion evident in every movement.

“Jungwon,” you say softly, your voice careful. He doesn’t look at you immediately, so you step closer, catching his gaze. “You’re not sheltering them the way you think you are.”

That gets his attention. His brows furrow slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. “What?”

“These people aren’t following you because you’re their leader,” you continue, your tone gentle but firm. “They’re following you because you’re you. They trust you, even if it costs them everything.”

“And you’ve done a phenomenal job keeping them alive, better than most would” you add, your voice softening. Jungwon stays quiet, his gaze flicking to the ground, as if he’s trying to process your words. You can tell he’s not used to hearing this—compliments don’t seem like something he knows how to take.

He exhales sharply, a sound caught between frustration and exhaustion, his shoulders slumping as if the weight he’s been carrying has suddenly doubled.

“I never asked to lead,” he murmurs, the words heavy with quiet resentment.

“But that’s the thing about responsibility, isn’t it? You don’t get to pick and choose when it falls on you.” you say.

For a moment, he just stands there, his lips pressed into a thin line. You can see the conflict playing out in his expression—the part of him that wants to argue, to deny what you’re saying, because he doesn’t believe it himself. But there’s another part—a quieter, more vulnerable part—that knows you’re right. That knows he’s been carrying this burden far longer than anyone should have to.

“Jungwon,” you whisper, stepping closer. “This place… it feels wrong, and you know it. They trust you. If you tell them to leave, they’ll listen. They’ll pack up and—”

“This place,” he interrupts, his tone deliberate and resolute, cutting through your words like a blade. “It’s hope. Something that these people need now more than anything. And if they think it’s worth fighting for, it is.”

His voice carries the finality of someone who’s already made up his mind. You don’t miss the way his gaze hardens, the way his jaw tightens as he speaks. He doesn’t say it outright, but you can tell he’s not just talking about the others.

This place is hope for him too.

It’s all they have left now, after everything else has crumbled—their faith, their humanity, their belief in something better. And now that their previous hope of holding on to what made them human has shattered—by the likes of you—they’re desperate. Clinging to anything that might give their lives meaning.

And once hope takes root, there’s nothing you can do to convince him otherwise. Jungwon has already decided that this is where they’ll make their stand, no matter how dangerous it might be.

And if Jungwon isn’t leaving, none of them will.

They’ll stay. They’ll fight. And they’ll fall right into the trap of whoever left it here. And the worst part?

They’ll do it willingly.

For hope. For him.

You glance at Jungwon again, noticing the way his eyes drift toward the barricade behind you, scanning the treeline and the roads as if he’s mapping out every possible threat in his head. Even in a rare moment of rest, he’s on guard. Always looking out for them. Always protecting. Always leading.

And in this moment, a realisation settles heavily in your chest—you don’t actually know him the way you think you do.

Because unlike Jungwon, you’ve never had to carry the weight of leading people. You’ve never had to shoulder the responsibility of keeping them alive, day after day. You’ve never had to watch people you care about die because of decisions you made.

You wouldn’t even count the people back at the community building among the people you care about. Sure, you’d shared meals, traded supplies, and worked together to keep the place standing. But at the end of the day, that’s all it was—a band of survivors benefiting from each other’s abilities. A mutual arrangement, nothing more.

When it really comes down to it, you wouldn’t take a bullet for any of them. Not the way Jungwon would. Not the way you’ve seen him do—standing between danger and his people, no hesitation, no second-guessing.

And in that sense, you and Jungwon are different.

Where he sees people worth saving, you see liabilities. Where he sees hope, you see a death trap waiting to happen. Where he takes on the burden of leadership, you’ve kept your distance, never letting yourself get too close. Never letting yourself care too much.

You tell yourself it’s because caring makes you vulnerable. But deep down, you know it’s because you’re afraid—afraid of the weight Jungwon carries every day. Afraid you wouldn’t be able to bear it.

And you’d be right, because you see the toll it’s taken on him written all over his face. The haunted look in his eyes, the tension in his posture, the weariness in his voice. It’s all there. And it’s breaking him, piece by piece.

“I don’t want to see you lose yourself,” you say softly, your words hanging in the air between you.

Jungwon sighs, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. His voice lowers, as if speaking any louder would make him crumble. “I’m not losing myself. And I won’t let the group lose themselves either.” He pauses, his gaze meeting yours with quiet intensity. “That’s why you’re here. You keep me grounded.”

You scoff quietly, shaking your head. “I’m not exactly the best moral compass.”

“You are for me,” he says simply.

The honesty in his words makes your breath catch in your throat. It’s raw. Unfiltered. And it terrifies you.

“I hope you’d stop looking at me like I could solve all your problems. I could never replace you. Even if you wanted me to,” you say, your voice wavering slightly before you swallow hard, trying to steady yourself. You glance at Jungwon, searching his expression for any sign that he might push back, but he’s listening—silent, thoughtful, waiting.

“But what you can do,” you continue, softer this time, “is share the burden. Share it with the people who’ll gladly bear it with you. Heeseung, Jay, Jake, Sunghoon, Sunoo, Ni-ki… they're not helpless, you know? And I know for one that they’ll follow you anywhere.”

His gaze shifts ever so slightly, something flickering in his eyes at the mention of their names. A hint of guilt, maybe. Or perhaps a deep-rooted fear that he’s failed them somehow, that he’s not enough.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, eyes searching yours. And his next words hit harder than you’re prepared for.

“Will you?”

Your chest tightens, and for a second, you hesitate. But before you can stop yourself, the word slips out.

“Yeah.”

The lie falls from your lips so easily, it surprises even you.

Jungwon’s expression softens, relief flickering in his eyes. He nods once, quietly accepting your answer. But as soon as the word is out, regret crashes over you like a wave, cold and unrelenting. Because you know the truth.

You’re not going to stay.

You’re not going to help him carry that burden.

You’re going to run.

And Jungwon doesn’t know it yet, but when you leave—when you inevitably abandon them—he’ll have to pick up that burden all over again.

And somehow, you know that will hurt more than anything the world could throw at him.

part 3 - whispers | masterlist | part 5 - people

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: happy lunar new year to all celebrating! this is actually the last part i have in drafts... meaning i have to race against time to get the next part written and ready by next week... don't hold me to that though. i'll try my best 🫡 and shoutout to @youcancometome for guessing the title of this part right!!!

perm taglist. @m1kkso @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @m1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna @no1likeneo @ChVcon3 @karasusrealwife @addictedtohobi

taglist open. 1/2 @sungbyhoon @theothernads @kyshhhhhh @jiryunn @strxwbloody @jaklvbub @rikikiynikilcykiki @jakesimfromstatefarm @rikiiisoob @doublebunv @thinkinboutbin @eunandonly @wilonevys @sugarikiz @jellymiki @adoredbyjay @rebeccaaaaaaaa @strawberryhotlips @baedreamverse

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formula-ghost · 1 day ago

Text

The Driver (FC43 x fem!reader)

SUMMARY: After years of being with your boyfriend, Franco Colapinto, you should feel secure and ready for your budding future. When old anxieties creep in, will your relationship withstand the pressure?

WORD COUNT: 9.5k

WARNINGS: Semi-public car sex (reader and Franco are both switches, fingering, p in v). Angst, mentions of cheating. Heavy mentions of marriage, incredibly Champagne Problems coded but I have to stick to the Måneskin theme. Probably incorrect geographical depictions of Spain. Reader has an anxiety disorder/struggles with mental health. Same universe as Supermodel/RYD (in RYD, Franco’s Aston Martin contract is only one year, so we’re just skipping ahead here).

A/N: You all asked for Franco car sex and instead I gave you emotional pain :) I don’t think I’ll ever stop writing for RYD!Franco, I just love him too much. After this I’ll keep writing for Wildflower and then maybe do a few one shots before the next series perhaps? Either way, hope you enjoy!

TAGLIST: [COMMENT TO BE ADDED TO MY FRANCO TAGLIST!] @scopeiguess @storyteller-le @xivilivix @htpssgavi @wierdflowerpower @justsisse @uncreativetm @ncrsbrg @tillyt04 @amz824 @ellelabelle @aliwritex

If you gonna set fire to the night, baby let me be the lighter

If you’re already high and you wanna fly, I’ll be the hit that takes you higher

If you wanna love when you touch the sky, you can be my midnight rider

If there’s nowhere to go when you wanna go wild, I wanna be the driver

After getting his first multi-year Formula 1 contract—complete with a hefty sign-on bonus—there were three things that Franco Colapinto needed to buy.

The first was a house for his parents.

He led his mother around the massive home, showing her every little detail that he had noticed when he chose it, all perfectly arranged according to her taste. At first, she wasn’t sure what her son was doing; he had wanted it to be a surprise, so he didn’t tell her anything.

“Yes, Franquito, the home is beautiful,” she said, craning her neck to look at the high ceilings, the sunlight from the massive windows illuminating her face. “But why would you buy a house here in Argentina? You’re hardly ever home, you can just stay with us in the off season.”

Franco, like his mother, was a pragmatist. He’d never buy himself a mansion in Argentina unless he had retired from F1 and decided to settle down. But his career was just getting started.

She continued, “I mean, you and YN don’t need this much space—”

“It’s not for us, Mami,” he said, finally letting loose the smile that he’d be fighting all day. He was never able to keep secrets, too much of a chatterbox. “It’s for you.”

“Franco—”

“Mami,” he said, already anticipating her hesitation. “It is the least I can do. I can never repay you for all you’ve done for me.”

“That’s my job. You don’t need to repay me.”

“Maybe I don’t need to, but I want to.”

Tears had begun to well up in his mother’s eyes. She knew it was impossible to stop him. It was every athlete’s dream to make enough money to buy their mother a house one day; she wouldn’t take that from him. “I’m so proud of you, mijo,” he said, enveloping her son in her arms. “You have made me proud beyond measure.”

It was Franco’s turn now to tear up, though he blinked them away and smiled. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I figured something was up,” she laughed, “this house is too much my style for you to buy it. I think YN would like it, though. How is she doing?”

“She’s good,” he answered, unsure of how to proceed. His mother let him pause, knowing he was about to say something. “I’m… thinking about asking her to marry me.”

“Oh, wonderful!” she replied, her smile now stretching ear to ear.

“We haven’t talked about it yet, though. So don’t get your hopes up. She might not say yes.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” his mother questioned. “You’ve been together for years, through thick and thin.”

“I don’t know,” he said, scratching the back of his neck in nervousness. “We just…haven’t talked about it. I’m nervous.”

“Well, don’t ask her until you’ve talked about it. But I see no reason why she’d say no.” She reached out to smooth over a piece of his hair that was stuck up at an odd angle. “Take your time,” she continued. “If you all aren’t ready now, there’s no harm in waiting. You have the entire rest of your lives to be together.”

Franco gave her a weak smile, his expression still plastered with nervousness. “But when you do get married,” she continued, as if it was a fact, “I expect grandbabies.”

He laughed, despite knowing that she was dead serious. That would be a bridge to cross later.

For now, he had a second purchase to make: his first real car.

Franco, despite being a Formula 1 driver, had always been down to earth. When he drove for Williams, they had to fight him over taking the bus every day. Even in his early days, his future had been too unstable to spend all his hard-earned money on something like a flashy car, especially since he’d be away so often that he’d hardly be able to use it.

But now, he knew that the time was right, and he’d more than earned it. So, when Franco woke you up at the crack of dawn to go to the luxury dealership in Madrid to pick up his new car the second that they opened, you obliged him despite the hour being far too early.

As the salesman handed him the keys, Franco beamed as if he was holding his newborn child, his eyes wide with love and anticipation.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered, running his hands up and down along the hood of the flashy luxury car.

You stood back, afraid to even touch this car that was more expensive than your net worth.

“She’s perfect. She’s the most perfect car I’ve ever seen.” He looked up at you, smiling like a giddy child. “Isn’t she perfect?”

You smiled back, amused by Franco’s happiness. “It certainly is a nice car.”

“It’s not just a nice car. She’s a machine.” You chuckled back at him. “Let’s go for a ride.”

You were honestly a little scared of getting in the car. But when Franco crossed over to open your door for you and help you inside, you couldn’t tell him no.

Sitting inside, you had to admit that it was a really nice car. Franco yapped on about the technical abilities of the engine, but it was in one ear and out the other—despite his many years in F1, you couldn’t say you had learned anything about the machines that your longtime boyfriend drove for a living. But you loved to hear him talk, especially when he was this happy, so you nodded as if you were listening intently.

Franco went to back up the car, putting his hand on your headrest and leaning over his shoulder. The move showed off his prominent muscles and instantly melted you. Even after all these years, it was the little things that you never got tired of.

He sped along the highways, giggling to himself as he heard the engine rev and felt the smoothness of the ride. His smile never wavered as he increased his speed and weaved through the slower cars.

He skipped the exit that would lead back to your home, though. “Where are we going?” you asked.

“I want to show you something,” he said, being intentionally vague with his intentions.

You raised an eyebrow. Franco wasn’t one for surprises; he talked too damn much to ever keep them. If he hadn’t told you before now, it must be something serious.

He moved his hand over to hold your thigh, another one of those little things he did that still made you crazy no matter how many times he did it. “Trust me, amor,” he said.

Of course, you trusted him. So when he exited the highway and began driving into the Spanish countryside, you said nothing, instead choosing to enjoy the feeling of his hand rubbing soft circles into your thigh as the trees blurred past you and the engine purred.

After a while he finally slowed his speed, bringing the car up to an empty overlook off the main road. Through the tinted windows, you could see that this place was hidden, nestled off by the trees so that you could only get here if you knew where you were going. The view was gorgeous; miles and miles of lush greenery, and in the far off distance, the city that you had just left.

“Wow..” you whispered. “How’d you find this place?”

“I used to run on these roads out here when I was younger,” he said, admiring you as you admired the view.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I don’t get to come here much anymore,” he said. “I never thought I’d come back here one day as a Formula 1 driver.”

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. His face had the slightest tinge of blush, so subtle that only you could see it.

“Come on, let’s get a good look,” he said, turning off the engine and opening his door.

You got out of the car and softly gasped again when you saw the view with your own two eyes, rather than through the tinted glass. It left you breathless.

You sat cross legged next to Franco on the grass, taking in the sights of the countryside around you. For a while you were quiet, just soaking in the sounds of nature.

Then Franco broke the calmness. “Have you ever thought about getting married?”

His voice was soft, but his words startled you. “Married?”

“I mean, we’ve been together for a while. About time, no?”

Truthfully, you had thought about marriage quite a bit. The mere idea of it scared you. And talking about it scared you even more.

“You sound enthusiastic,” you joked.

“You know what I mean.” He looked down, clearly also nervous for this momentous discussion. Still, he kept his voice light and steady. “I love you. I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to spend the rest of my life with.”

“I’d hope not,” you chuckled. But your attempts at diffusing the tension with humor failed.

He adopted a more serious tone. “YN, I want to marry you,” he said. His eyes looked up to meet yours, and for some reason, you felt your heart drop into your stomach. “I’m not proposing right now, but it’s something we should start thinking and talking about.”

You looked out into the distance and took a shaky breath. Why was this so difficult?

“So, talk to me, amor,” he said.

“You want to marry me?” you asked, your voice small and squeaky.

“Of course I do,” he replied, brushing your hair out of your face. Now there were no barriers between you. “You’re the love of my life.”

You wanted to cry. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. It’s just so…final. What if something goes wrong?”

“Then we work through it, like we always do.” He was right. Your relationship with Franco had certainly had its rocky patches, but he treated you like a queen. You two overcame every obstacle, including your own mind that often worked against you. You often felt like you didn’t deserve someone so patient and kind.

“Things change when you get married.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m not saying any of this lightly. I’ve thought about it a lot.”

Even after years of loving him, it still surprised you whenever Franco told you that he thought of you. You could never get used to existing in his head when you physically weren’t there.

“What do you think about?” you asked, moving closer to him.

He reached his arm around your waist, resting his hand on your hip. “I think about you, in a white dress. We’d be in the church in Argentina.” You knew the one. He’d gone there growing up, and had shown it to you several times when you went to visit his family. “And we’d have a ridiculous party, into the morning,” he said smiling, leaning his head down closer to you. “And, a while after that, maybe a few months or a year or so, you’d be eating for two.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop your eyes from watering. “That sounds…”

“Perfect?”

No. You were going to say real. That sounds real. And it scared you.

Truthfully, you could imagine the wedding, and the babies, and the many happy years of being Franco’s wife.

But you could also imagine the distance. The exhaustion. The bitterness.

“Growing up, I never thought I’d get married,” you said, shifting the conversation. “I just… I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to marry me,” you laughed.

“I do,” he said. The effect of his words weren’t lost on you; the same words he would say to take the vow. “I want to marry you.”

You had told him a long time ago that your insecurities weren’t something he could fix. He remembered that, and he respected it. But still, it always broke his heart when he realized that even after years of loving you, those old wounds refused to heal.

“Why?” you asked. Your head was beginning to hurt from holding in all the tears.

“Why?” he echoed, incredulous at why you’d even need to ask such a ridiculous question. His voice held no malice, though. “Because I love you.”

“Don’t you get tired of this?”

“Of what?”

“Of…me being difficult for no good reason?”

“You’re not being difficult. Marriage is a huge deal, obviously. I don’t want us to rush into it if you’re not ready.”

“What if I’m never ready?”

He sighed. “Then…well, honestly, that would break my heart. I’d want you to work through whatever is holding you back. But I’d be with you every step of the way.”

You looked away into the distance. Part of you wanted to run and disappear in the thick foliage of the Spanish countryside. The other part of you wanted to bury your head in Franco’s chest, finally letting go of all the reservations that had haunted you for years.

You knew Franco. You loved Franco. You trusted Franco.

So why were you still so afraid?

“Mi amor,” he said, gently guiding your head so you had to look at him. “Do you want to get married?” He tilted his head closer to you.

You knew what he was asking. Not if you were ready right now, not if you were scared; but deep down, in your heart of hearts, did you want to marry Franco Colapinto?

“Yes,” you whispered. Just as he didn’t have to explain, neither did you. He knew what you meant; yes, but I’m scared. Yes, but I’m not ready. Yes, but I’m afraid I’ll never be ready.

He brought his lips to yours, gently kissing you as you let the few tears that had been welling up in your eyes finally go. When he pulled back, he wiped them away.

“We don’t have to make a decision now,” he said. “We’ve got time. I want us both to be ready.”

You kissed him again, this time more forceful. There was nothing sexier than a man with emotional intelligence.

He pulled away again to finish his thought. “Just keep thinking on it, okay? We can talk about it as much as you want.”

“Okay,” you said, smiling as he looked at you.

“What?” he asked, his own playful smile dancing across his face.

“You’re so hot when you respect my boundaries.”

He laughed. “Mi amor, that’s the bare minimum.”

“Keep going,” you joked, “I’m so close.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, leaning down to kiss your neck. “I’ll start misbehaving.”

“Maybe I want you to,” he said, sharply inhaling as he gently bit the skin on your neck, sure to leave a mark.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he whispered in your ear, sending shivers down your spine as he nibbled on your earlobe.

“Get me home and show me how horrible I am, then,” you teased, reaching out to touch his waist.

“We don’t even need to get home.” He reached up to hold your neck with one hand as he continued kissing up and down your jaw.

“Here?” you said, darting your eyes around.

“In the car,” he said, his voice already getting breathy.

“No,” you urged. “It’s new.”

“Exactly. We have to break it in, no? Or bless it,” he said. His hands were beginning to roam underneath the hem of your shirt now.

“You’d never forgive me if I messed up the seats.”

“They’re leather, it cleans easy. I can get it detailed.” He stifled your next complaint with a deep kiss. “No one is ever around here. And the windows are tinted,” he whispered into your mouth.

You laughed. “You’re a freak.”

“I’m your freak. And don’t lie, you love it,” he said, snaking his hand down to tease its way under your skirt. “I can tell how much you love it.”

You stopped him before his hand could go any further—after all, you were technically still in public.

“Get in the car, whore,” you joked, before Franco hopped up and nearly sprinted to open the car door and set his seat back as far as it could go.

He sat in the seat and patted his lap. “You joining me?”

You playfully rolled your eyes, getting up to meet your lover at the car and carefully climb onto his lap, occupying his lips with a deep kiss that he moaned into.

“Did you plan this?” you asked.

“Plan what?” he said, a devilish grin across his face.

“Bringing me out to your scenic spot to fuck me in your new sports car?”

“Wasn’t planned at all. I’m a spontaneous man.”

“Mhm. How many other girls did you bring here before we started dating?”

“Less talking, more fucking, yeah?” he said. You probably didn’t want to know the answer. But that was all in the past. Franco was yours—he had been for years now, and he wanted to be yours forever.

There would be time to think about that later. Right now, all you could think about was the beautiful boy sitting beneath you, looking at you as if he needed you as simply as he needed air. You could feel him hardening beneath you.

You shifted your weight to straddle him, grinding down on his length, eliciting a sharp exhale from him.

“You’re so needy today, Franco,” you said as you ran your fingers through his soft curls.

“I’m always needy for you.” He brought his lips back to yours, hungry for the taste of you. His lips trailed down to your jaw and neck. “YN, you don’t know what you do to me…”

“I think I can feel it,” you joked, softly grinding your clothed pussy over the growing bulge in his jeans.

“Don’t tease me,” he begged, roaming his hands up the hem of your blouse.

“But it’s so fun,” you said, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “I love to see you fall apart underneath me.”

“Fuck, YN—”

“Less talking, more fucking, no?” you said, mocking his statement from earlier. You met his mouth in a kiss, and he moved his hands down under your skirt, running up and down the soft skin of your thighs. When he finally teased his fingers over the wet spot that was already growing in your panties, you softly inhaled, showing your desire for him.

“I’m not the only needy one,” he teased, breathing in the smell of your perfume and shampoo, his head buried in your neck.

You softly moaned as he moved your panties to the side and began circling his fingers around your clit.

“Franco, fuck…”

“What happened to all that talk, huh? Or are you too busy trying not to cum on my fingers?”

All you could do was breathe as his fingers found their way inside of you, pumping in and out to prepare you for his cock.

“Don’t try to stop it,” he said, “let go. Cum for me.”

You obeyed, your legs shaking as your walls pulsated on his fingers. You whimpered into his neck, steadying yourself by holding him.

He kissed your cheek, but wasted no time in unzipping his jeans and plunging into you while you rode out the waves of your orgasm. He let out a breathy moan as he felt the sweet warmth of you wrapped around him.

You were overcome with sensation; the burn of his cock stretching you out, the last dregs of pleasure now mixed with the pain, and the burn in your legs from sitting in the same position for too long.

It was all the more motivation to bounce up and down on his cock, finding a steady rhythm as he guided his hands to your hips.

You rested your head next to his, moaning into his ear with every thrust. The small space of the car may be cramped, but you couldn’t help but appreciate the intimacy of the moment. Franco’s eyes were closed in sensual bliss, his breath ragged as you increased your speed.

You wanted to watch him come undone from the sinful pleasure that your pussy brought him.

“YN—” he moaned, his hands digging hard enough into your hips to leave bruises, “Oh, God, YN, you always feel so fucking good. So good for me.”

You whimpered from both the praise and the pleasure. You had to slow down—the fast stamina was too much on your legs, which were now burning from the awkward position you were stuck in.

“I think you were made for me,” Franco whispered. “And I was made for you. See how well we fit together?” He took control, lifting you up as if you were weightless and bouncing you up and down on his own. You yelped at first, then your surprise gave way to bliss as you both chased your release.

But Franco was relentless in his praise. “You’re my fucking soulmate. I wanna fuck you every day for the rest of our lives.”

“Franco, I’m so close—”

“Cum for me, mi amor. Again.” His own voice was strangled with desire, so close to his own peak.

With a high pitched whine, you obeyed, and the heavenly feeling of your walls contracted around him brought your lover to the edge soon after.

And when you did both finish, you held each other, too tired to even move from the uncomfortable position from the car.

Franco was a talker. You always knew that. He loved nothing more than to fill your ears with sweet nothings when you made love. But the context of the conversation that just transpired weighed on you, even with the comfort of Franco’s hands rubbing small circles into your back as you both tried to catch your breath.

“You okay?” he asked, and you murmured in response, unable to form any coherent words in the aftermath of everything. “Let’s get home and we can take a shower, yeah?”

A warm shower sounded heavenly right now. You awkwardly shimmied your way into the passenger seat and took one last look at the view, thankful that the overlook was still deserted. You sighed as you settled in and buckled your seatbelt, relishing the relief of finally being able to stretch your legs.

“Hey,” Franco asked as he readjusted his seat and turned on the car. “Are you okay, really?”

“Yeah,” you said. It was true; you were exhausted, overwhelmed, and hurting, but it was all worth it for him.

He leaned over to kiss your cheek and smiled before putting the car in reverse.

The third item that Franco had to buy was the ring.

Truthfully, the conversation hadn’t gone as smoothly as he would have liked. In his dreams, you'd jumped for joy when he’d broached the subject, and you’d live happily ever after.

But despite his disappointment, he understood your hesitancy. He was just as afraid to ask the question as you were to say yes. He knew that your struggles with self esteem and anxiety were lifelong. He knew all this about you from the very beginning, and he loved you anyway.

Still, it was times like this when it broke his heart that he couldn’t fix it.

It didn’t matter. You’d come around eventually, you always did. And you had been honest when you said you wanted to marry him—there was just a lot of stuff in the way, mentally and emotionally.

So yes, he’d wait a while before he popped the question. But that didn’t mean he had to wait to buy the ring.

He knew the exact one. You had fallen in love with it years ago, when you had worn it in a PR shoot for one of his high profile sponsors. Though time had passed, he still remembered the sadness in your eyes when you had to give it back after the photoshoot. He had vowed to himself that day that he’d earn enough to get you that ring.

And now he finally had.

A few days after your conversation, he found the now faded card that he had stuck in his wallet and called the number. When the same brand rep picked up, he exhaled, letting go of his fear.

“Franco! How nice to hear from you. I was beginning to think we’d scared you away.”

“No,” he laughed. “The opposite, actually.”

“Let me guess. You’re ready for that ring?”

‘How’d you know?”

“I’ve been doing this a long time. When a woman looks at a ring like that, and she’s with a man that truly loves her, it’s just a matter of time.”

He had swiped another ring of yours to get the measurements, and he completed the entire order over the phone on his drive back home from a day of pre-season meetings. He had three months before the beginning of the new season, and he wanted to propose before that so you could start wedding planning once the season started. Would three months be enough time for you to think about it? He didn’t know.

But he couldn’t wait any longer. The giddiness was eating him alive.

You could tell something was amiss, but the idea of a proposal was the last thing on your mind.

Franco was hiding his phone from you. Which meant that Franco was hiding something important from you, and he was doing a horrible job of it.

Your lover was never the type to be quiet or secretive about…anything really. He talked too much. You had to physically restrain him every Christmas from spoiling what he got you weeks in advance. So if there was something that he was truly trying to hide, it was something major.

And it scared you.

The thought that you had been holding back for years finally broke through one night where he put his phone face down at the dinner table after his phone lit up with several notifications.

“Who’s texting you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice innocent despite the rush of dread that was rising in your stomach.

“No one,” he answered, too quickly for your liking. You didn’t respond.

You knew Franco was attractive. Every girl would kill to have him. He was kind, funny, beautiful, and flirtatious. But he was yours. Right?

Franco had never crossed the line before. You trusted him with your life. But something within you just felt deeply, deeply wrong, and it came spilling out later that night when he tried to touch you.

His phone was left on the nightstand, untouched since dinner; his focus was on you, running his hand up and down your side, gently dressing his lips to your shoulder as you faced away from him.

“Not tonight,” you whispered, unable to keep your voice from shaking.

“All you alright, mi amor?” he asked, pulling back your shoulder to make you face him, seeing how you were desperately trying to keep the tears at bay.

“I’m fine,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek.

Even after all your years together, Franco never quite knew when to press on and when to keep quiet when you said those two infamous words. And he didn’t have much time to think, because you rose from the bed and left the room, mumbling about needing a minute to get fresh air.

You stepped onto the back porch and took a deep breath, steadying your heart rate and calming your nerves, if only for a moment. The night air was serene; you felt vile contaminating the peace with your anxiety.

Would this last forever? You couldn’t remember a time when you hadn’t felt this push and pull. You wanted to tell Franco to go, to relieve himself of the burden of your mental illness. You wanted to bottle up every insecurity, every doubt, every negative thought into a vault that you didn’t share with anyone.

But you couldn’t. If Franco left you’d be broken. You couldn’t stop yourself from letting these thoughts and fears control you. In the past, therapy had helped, but you knew this was a weight you’d always have to carry. And that made you miserable.

So yes, maybe it was for the better that Franco move on, find someone better, more stable, and build a life with her.

“Mi amor?”

Franco’s voice broke your hopeless contemplation.

“Talk to me,” he said.

You just shook your head. He must be so tired of reassuring you, endlessly, knowing that it didn’t help one bit.

“YN,” he urged, “you know I don’t like it when you try to shoulder everything alone.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. That was all you could say. “I’m sorry that I’m like this.”

“Like what?”

“Impossible.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. We have the same conversation over and over again. Don’t you get tired of it? Of having to reassure me and it never helping? Of me crying over every little thing? Franco, I’m a mess!”

“YN…” he sighed, “When have I ever said any of that?”

He was right. He had never expressed any frustration regarding your mental struggles. He had always been there when you needed him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Have you just been up in your head, or did something happen?”

You contemplated lying, but you knew better. “You set your phone face down at dinner.”

“I— did you think I was…?”

“It’s not you, Franco. It’s never you. That’s the worst part. You have to deal with all of this and it’s not your fault at all,” you said, not even allowing him to say aloud what you both knew was true.

Franco took a deep breath. “YN,” he said, calmly, “let’s go back inside and go through my phone.”

“No—”

“Yes,” he commanded. “I want you to be 100% confident that I love you and only you.”

“Franco—”

“Let’s go.”

He had a firmness in his voice that only made your anxiety worse, and immediately you felt horrible for even insinuating anything to the opposite. But he was your rock of reason in times like these when your anxiety took over, and so you followed his command, unlocking his phone when he handed it to you.

As expected, there was no incriminating evidence, just far too many unopened emails and messages left on delivered. Even his recently deleted texts showed nothing.

The buzzing that you had been so afraid of turning out to be…emails from a jewelry company?

“I ordered a custom necklace for your birthday,” Franco explained. “They’ve been so difficult, though. They lost the order and then sent me the wrong thing. It’s been hell.”

You handed back the phone with your head hung low, ashamed. “I’m sorry I ruined the surprise.”

“You know I would have ruined it beforehand anyway,” he said. “I’m not upset at you.”

“You should be. You deserve someone who trusts you.”

“You do trust me,” he said, “I know you do. It’s not you that’s saying this.”

Fuck. Franco really did know you too well.

“You know why I stay with you, even with all this?” You looked up at him, curious for the answer. He had never been this direct before. He continued, “Well, first of all, because I love you. But even during times when I’m frustrated, I remember everything we’ve been through, when you forgave me and were there for me when I didn’t deserve it. I was so close to losing you and it terrified me.”

Once again, your eyes were watering. He said, “I promised myself that if you really gave me a chance, I’d never forget it. I’d be there for you and be the best boyfriend I could be. Because…” he paused, searching for the right words, “I know that some of why you feel these things is because of how I acted in the past. I’ve done my best to make it right, but some things never leave you.”

“When did you become so damn wise?” you said, laughing through the tears as he smiled and wiped them away.

“You bring out the best in me.”

The conversation was laid to rest then. Franco held you until you fell asleep, safe in his arms. As he heard your soft breaths even out, he grabbed his phone and frantically searched for a necklace to buy to cover his lie.

He hated lying to you, but in this case, what else was he to do?

The necklace and the ring arrived a few weeks later, right before you all were scheduled to take a flight to Buenos Aires to spend the rest of the break with his family.

But he had a plan. The break in Buenos Aires would be one to remember—for your “birthday” he was also flying out your friends and family for a few days. He had the whole idea plotted out, with help from many others, to plan a surprise karting birthday celebration, with all your loved ones there. Then, he would propose.

It seemed so perfect—surrounded by all your loved ones, doing a fun activity, the perfect balance between public and private. He knew you’d love it. He knew you’d say yes.

He was giddy as he carefully packed the two jewelry boxes in his luggage, surrounded by clothes for safe keeping.

And as the day of the birthday party came closer and closer, he could barely hold in his excitement. Everyone knew but you; he had colluded with every guest, telling them his plan and getting their blessing to finally ask you to spend the rest of your life with him.

Everything was perfect. The day before, you parents and friends arrived, and Franco told you everything but the grand reveal.

He gave you the present, a beautiful necklace that complimented your tastes perfectly. You split a bottle of wine amongst loved ones, and your parents brought out their own gift: a photo album of pictures that they’d never been able to show Franco.

You cringed at the embarrassing baby photos and records of bad middle school haircuts, but you couldn’t help the tipsy smile on your face. You leaned your head on Franco’s shoulder as he flipped through the pages.

Franco’s mother got out her own photo albums, showing picture after picture of him as a baby, his blonde curls and toothy grin smiling from ear to ear.

“You were such a cute baby,” you giggled, and he blushed.

“Were? I’m still a cute baby,” he joked, kissing you on the cheek. You scrunched your nose and smiled.

You were so in love with this man that it hurt.

That night, when you all retired to your room, he rubbed your back, enjoying the simple quiet between you two.

“I love you,” you said to him out of the blue. He smiled; he said those words often, and you always said them back, but it was rarer, more meaningful, for you to say them unprompted.

“But it’s not fair. You were a cute baby and you’re cute now. You can’t have both,” you giggled.

“We’d make cute babies,” he teased, and you blushed.

“You trying to find out?” you responded, the alcohol in your veins giving you more boldness.

“Not when you’re this tipsy,” he said. “Besides, I need to put a ring on your finger first.”

At the mention of marriage, you sobered up quickly. You hadn’t really been thinking about that conversation you’d had back in Spain—in fact, every time you thought about it, it just made you more anxious, so it had the opposite effect of you actively avoiding it.

Of course, you were still scared. You loved Franco more than words could say, and that was the problem—it was so good that eventually, it would have to not be good. It was a backwards logic, yes, you had convinced yourself that at some point, things would only be able to go down.

You didn’t want to lose this beautiful thing you had created. But Franco had said he wasn’t planning to propose any time soon, right? In your mind, you still had plenty of time.

But Franco did not, and the next morning was chaos.

His phone was blowing up with last minute organizing and words of encouragement from your friends and family in the proposal plan group chat. He was sweating bullets, constantly checking his pockets before you all left for the kart track to make sure that yes, he had the ring. He contemplated putting it in his bag instead, but he didn’t want to lose it, so he ultimately settled on his pockets.

He knew that he needed to stop checking them or else you’d notice and ask. You were always observant, in that way.

But every time he sat down, the stupid box kept falling out of his shorts. The pockets were too small. He’d just have to check one last time before he left the house and be careful. Yes, everything was going to go according to plan.

And as you all arrived and he changed into his race suit quickly, all he could think about was the speech he had tried to memorize. You were a woman who appreciated words; he wanted to express how you made him feel, but in his head, he kept stumbling over them.

YN, you make me so happy. No, too simple.

YN, will you make me the happiest man in the world? No, too cliche.

YN, I never knew happiness until I saw your smile. No, too melodramatic.

He’d have to figure out the words as he said them. For now, he’d just focus on enjoying the moment with you.

And that wasn’t hard; you were as giddy as a child as you sped around the track, spinning out and pushing the poor kart to go faster and faster.

Franco had arranged a tournament of sorts; of course, he had spoken with everyone beforehand to rig you as the winner.

On your end, you knew everyone was letting you win. You were awful at karting. But it was your birthday event, after all. You didn’t care, you were having fun.

It came down to the “championship” battle: you versus Franco. Of course, you knew your boyfriend would let you win, as he always did, but you loved the rush of adrenaline as the wind whipped past you anyway. You couldn’t stop smiling as you crossed the finish line and took off your helmet, flipping your hair out.

You heard Franco stop his car behind you and get out, too.

“I can’t believe YN won!” Franco’s mother said, smiling wide.

“Thank you all for so graciously giving me that win,” you joked, looking to all your family and friends circled round, cheering for you. Franco was behind you still. You almost turned to him, but his mother interrupted. “Let me take a picture!”

This was the moment. All he had to do was take the ring out of his pocket and get down on one knee.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out… nothing.

His pockets were empty.

He looked back at his father, the fear of God in his eyes, and patted his empty pockets. No one said a word.

His mother, now done with taking the picture, leaned over to give you a hug. She sent a death glare to Franco over your shoulder, but still gave him the time to sprint back to the locker room to try and find the goddamn thing.

He ran faster than his F1 car could drive, cursing under his breath at how stupid he could be. He could still save this, though.

He found his bag and shook out the contents, frantically searching, until finally, at the bottom of the bag, he saw the box. He must have stuck it there while changing and forgot about it.

He let out a breath with enough power to shake the entire building. He opened the box to get a quick glance just to make sure everything was okay.

Except, everything wasn’t. There was no ring in the box.

He had grabbed the empty necklace box.

Knowing you were far enough away to not hear him, he sweared very, very loudly. Unbeknownst to Franco, his father had followed him back to the locker room.

“Did you find it, mijo?”

“I brought the wrong box,” he said, “This is for the necklace.”

His father sighed. “Franco…”

“I know, I know.”

“We can still fix this. Give her the ring at dinner!”

“I guess I’ll have to,” Franco said. He had never been more disappointed in himself. He had ruined everything.

“Hey,” his father said, “chin up. You’ve still got this. The ring will be the perfect end to the perfect day, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, still not entirely convinced. But you would be wondering where he went soon; he couldn’t stay and mope too long.

His father left him to go relay the information to the rest of the group. Franco took a few deep breaths as he changed, mentally readying himself to see you again. He put on a smile as he saw you waiting for him outside the track with the others.

“So, we’ll all head back and get ready, then meet for dinner tonight?” his mother said.

“Sounds good,” Franco answered, wrapping his arm around you as he walked you back to the car.

Thankfully, when you got back to his parent’s house, you immediately wanted to take a shower and wash your hair, giving him time to search the entire room. Which he did, from top to bottom, and he still couldn’t find the ring.

It was just…gone. He had gone through every compartment of his suitcase, every pocket in his clothes, every hiding space. Still, it was nowhere to be found.

His parents even helped him look, carefully parsing through every possible place until it was too late. You were nearly ready for dinner, and they all had to rush to get ready to make it to the restaurant in time for the reservation.

Franco texted the groupchat the horrible news—he had fucked up. He had lost the ring. There would be no proposal.

Kind words flooded his phone, but they meant nothing to the depressed Argentine. He had planned this out so perfectly; how did it end so badly?

And the worst part? He couldn’t even tell you.

The atmosphere at dinner was more somber than usual. His sister had bought a bottle of nice champagne that would now have to go unopened. He would just have to propose some other time.

That’s what he reminded himself, every time the thought came up and threatened to choke him. Maybe next time he would fly his family out to Spain instead. He wasn’t in any rush. And you’d never have to know how badly he fumbled.

Well, while you didn’t know the details, you could tell something was up. You mentioned it to Franco on the way home.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, and Franco cringed internally. He was always bad about hiding his emotions.

“No, I’m fine,” he answered.

“Well, everyone at dinner just seemed…off.”

“Probably just tired.”

You just hummed to yourself, refusing to allow your thoughts to wander any further. You, too, were tired. When you got back to the house, you both started to get undressed, taking off your fancy heels and jewelry.

You took off your necklace—the beautiful gift that Franco had given you, that you’d now treasure forever—but the box wasn’t on the nightstand where you had left it yesterday.

“Franco, have you seen my necklace box?” you asked from the bedroom. He was in the bathroom washing his face, and only barely heard you over the running of water. The mention of the box just made the whole night worse.

“Yeah, it’s in my bag,” he said, and you raised an eyebrow. How had your necklace box ended up there?

You leaned down to his bag, rustling around until you found the familiar box, though it was heavier than you remembered.

When you opened it, you were nearly blinded by the glint of a beautiful diamond engagement ring.

It was familiar; the same ring you had fallen in love with years ago. And it was in Franco’s bag. He had…bought you an engagement ring.

He was going to propose.

You could feel your heart rate increasing by the second. But you weren’t ready. You had only talked about it a few weeks ago. You were scared.

It was okay, though. It was okay. You would just put the ring back. You’d find a way to hint to him that it wasn’t the right time. You could just fake it. He’d never have to—

“YN?”

You looked up at Franco’s face, widened with shock. You didn’t respond.

“Where did you find that?”

“In your bag.” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“I—” Franco was too stunned to speak. You quickly closed the box and put it back in the bag.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see anything. This never happened,” you said, your voice rapidly talking without even thinking. You got up to leave the room, too anxious to stay seated, talking to yourself even after you were out of earshot of your lover.

Franco sat on the bed and sighed. Now he had majorly fucked up. First of all, how had no one found the ring in his bag, even after 3 people looked in there? And second of all, how did you find it?

But that wasn’t the biggest issue anymore. His plan had already been ruined, but he knew by the look on your face that your surprise was not a good one. He saw that fear that nestled itself into every crevice of your expression.

You weren’t happy to find that ring. Not because it had ruined the surprise element—you just didn’t want him to propose.

He now had two options. He could do what he knew you’d want: act as if nothing ever happened and never broach the subject of marriage for several years to come, allowing you to shove away all those scary feelings until you’d deluded yourself into thinking you were over it.

Or, he could do what he needed to do, and talk to you.

He took a deep breath and followed you outside.

You were sitting on the back porch. Not crying, just quiet, looking out into the backyard. When Franco sat next to you, you didn’t say anything. He reached out to grab your hand, and you let him, softly admiring how he curled his thumb around your palm in soothing circles.

“The plan,” he began, “was to ask you today. At the karting track. But I brought the wrong box.” He softly smiled at the absurdity of it. “When you were getting ready we were all frantically looking for it. I don’t know how we missed it.”

You just hummed in response, unsure of what to say. You needed to be honest. You needed to say the difficult things.

You began, though your voice felt choked. “Franco, if you would have asked me today, I would have said no.” You felt his hand tense up. “I mean, I would have said yes, because everyone was there. But…”

You trailed off, your words fleeing from you now.

“I don’t understand,” Franco confessed. “We’re happy. You’re happy with me, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Then why don’t you want to marry me?” His voice dripped with sadness, and all you wanted to do was hold him. You turned your head to face him, and the deep sorrow in his eyes nearly brought you to tears.

“I do want to. I just…”

“I’ve done everything I can to be good to you. I’ve tried to always be there. I know I’m not perfect, but—”

“It’s not you, Franco. It was never you.”

“Then why? What can I do?” His voice cracked, seeping with hopelessness and frustration. “If it’s not because of me, then what am I supposed to do?”

You got up. “Come here,” you said, and led him to the living room. The home was quiet; his parents were asleep, and the vast emptiness of the home was eerie.

You grabbed the photo album that your parents had given you, and sat down on the couch, motioning for Franco to sit next to you.

You opened it to a picture of you at your 4th birthday party. In the photo, you grimaced though the uncomfortable sensation of a plastic party hat. “Do you see her?” you asked him. He nodded.

“I remember feeling like this when I was that little. This…fear. I desperately wanted friends but was too afraid to talk to anyone.”

You flipped to the next page, pointing to a photo of you sitting alone in a park, a forced smile across your face. “What do you notice about this picture?” you asked him.

Franco leaned in closer to look. “I don’t know,” he said.

“I’m alone. See all the other kids in the background?”

You kept flipping until you found the first photo of you when Franco knew you. You were fifteen, smack in the middle of your awkward teenage years, in the stands at one of his races.

“I remember that,” he said.

“That’s me, spending time with my first real friend,” you said. “I didn’t know it yet, but I had a huge crush on him,” you joked.

“He was going to ask you to marry him today. And you just told him you would have said no.”

“I know,” you said, trying to be gentle with your tone. “But what I’m trying to say is that you’re not just asking me. You’re asking her. And she feels so alone, and she’s scared to trust anyone.”

Franco sat with the thought for a moment, before getting up to grab his own photo book. He opened it to the first page, and pointed to a photo of him as a toddler, wrapped in a scarf, toothy grin spread wide.

“And that’s who asked you.”

You felt a knot of emotion in your stomach break. All you wanted was to cry.

“This goes both ways, YN,” Franco continued. “I understand that you’re scared. But I can’t fix that fear. Only you can.”

The dam broke, your tears flooding forth. He was right. So you told him.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” you said, and he wrapped his arm around you, rubbing your back through the tears.

“I’m not perfect either. I shouldn’t have rushed it, I was just excited.”

“Don’t apologize for being excited to propose,” you laughed through your tears. “I should probably go back to therapy.”

“If you think that’ll help,” he said.

“It will,” you sniffled. “I just… I’ve been so afraid that I’ve been ignoring all the signs. I should have seen this coming. You’re never that excited to let me beat you in karting.”

He smiled at your banter. You continued, “But really, you’re right. I’ve just been avoiding this because I’m scared, getting up in my head. I just feel so happy and that scares me, because at some point it has to fall apart, right? You’re never happy forever.”

“You’re not unhappy forever, either. Of course we’d have rough spots. But that’s the beauty of marriage,” he said, “you vow to be there for each other through it all.”

“How did I get so lucky to have you?” you asked, meeting his gaze.

His eyes were full of compassion and love. “I’m the lucky one.” He leaned down to kiss you.

You didn’t really believe him. You still didn’t understand how someone so perfect could love you, someone so…broken. But one day you would. You had to.

The next year was difficult. You began your healing journey again—a journey you were convinced you’d be on your entire life. But you’d do it for him, and for you.

And slowly, bit by bit, the wounds began to heal.

It wasn’t linear. With Franco’s new contract, he had lots of attention and responsibilities. He was away from home more. He was tired, stressed, more short-tempered. There were arguments. Some days it felt like you took one step forward and two steps back.

But you made it through. For every argument there was an honest conversation. For every night away there was a sweet gesture or text message to remind you that he still loved you, and from it grew a solid, blooming trust. For every mistake—on both ends—there was an apology and a commitment to be better. For every night of tears, there was a night of laughter with the man you loved most in the world.

And by the end of the season, you and the relationship were stronger than ever.

Of course, things weren’t perfect. But the fear that had once held you hostage was an adversary you knew you could overcome.

Franco kept the ring in his nightstand. You had found it again one day while cleaning. It wasn’t really hidden, as if to say, we’ll get to this later. It was no secret now. You just put it back in its place and smiled, going on about your day.

But Franco had been giving the proposal much thought. He decided against inviting anyone again, wanting it to be a tender moment of vulnerability between you and him.

No, he wanted this time to be simple. Honest.

He just hoped you were ready.

A few weeks before the beginning of the next season, he took you out to the place where all this had begun; the outlook in the countryside, where he first told you that he wanted to marry you.

This time, he double and triple checked to make sure the ring was there in his pocket.

The sun was setting over the Spanish countryside, painting the sky rich shades of orange and yellow. The air had cooled with the impending coming of night.

He opened your car door and set up a blanket on the ground, where you sat and he laid his head in your lap, letting your fingers run through his hair as a way to calm his nerves.

He took a deep breath as he sat up, and you knew what was coming. Again, he had rehearsed a speech, but almost instantly forgot it the second he opened his mouth.

“YN,” he began, looking you directly in the eyes, “I… I love you. So much. More than words can say.” He was nervous, swallowing before he continued, letting his eyes wander off to the picturesque view. But he had more important things to be looking at.

“I can’t imagine a version of my life without you in it. I grew up with you. I want to grow old with you. You’ve made me into the best version of myself. We’ve gone through so many things and come out on the other side so much stronger. And I want this,” he said, reaching out to wipe away the happy tears that now flowed down your cheeks. “I want to be with you. Even though we’re both imperfect, even though we both have our problems to work through, YN, I want to do this with you, forever. I want to fall asleep next to you and wake up next to you. I want to have children and grandchildren with you. I…” he trailed off, not knowing how to finally say what he really wanted to say.

You smiled through the tears. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring, flipping it open and showing it to you.

“Marry me,” he whispered.

Your smile widened. “Yes,” you answered. “Yes.”

He kissed you with a fervent passion. When he pulled away, his smile couldn’t be contained.

“She said yes!” he cried out, though you both were alone. “I did it! She said yes!” You laughed at his antics.

In a few weeks, you’d have the official photo shoot where he got down on one knee. You’d show the world the carefully constructed version that was all they got to see.

But this was real. And maybe it was imperfect; maybe he hadn’t really asked, more instructed, and maybe he hadn’t gotten down on one knee, and maybe, yes, you had found the ring beforehand.

But this was real. In all the ups and downs, the hurt and healing, this love you shared with your now fiance was real. The world didn’t get to see that.

And maybe that fear was still within you. It was smaller now. And when you had seen that shine of the ring, maybe you had felt it rise within you again. But you knew now that it was just a feeling, something you could control. You didn’t have to ignore it or let it reign you. It was just there.

It wasn't real though. And this was. The cold metal of the ring slid onto your finger. The feeling of Franco’s lips on yours. The strain in your face muscles from all the smiling. His hand around your waist, pulling you closer as the sun dipped below the sky, leaving you and your lover alone in the dark—yes, this was real.

And this was yours; he was yours.

For the first time in a long time, you knew you had nothing to fear.

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nestofstraightlines · 1 day ago

Text

I’ve always found Gaiman’s decisions and statements around GO rather tacky and sus, and it’s tempting to feel vindicated now it turns out he is in entirely unrelated ways a shit. But of course the emergence of separate crimes and abuses reveals nothing about this part of his life.

I’m just glad, if that’s the word, that Gaiman’s downfall removes him from his position as a handler of Pratchett’s legacy.

I really don’t like the Good Omens series but it was of course very popular. Probably the most popular adaptation of a book Gaiman (co)authored in recent years, and the adaptation he was most actively involved in. Given that Prime would surely be clamouring for a follow-up of sone kind to capitalise on the audience , and given so much of Gaiman’s own work has already been adapted for screen I had a vision of Gaiman moving on to overseeing adaptations of Pratchett’s own books for screen - and all in the vein of Good Omens. Agh.

On the whole mine is no more noble an objection than personal taste. But I will say my problems with the GO series were at base founded in the profound lack of understanding or respect the show paid to Pratchett’s craft, the craft he employed to make the book what it is as the clear senior creative voice in the books creation - that is, comedy as a storytelling form and art form.

No comedy personnel were employed in any key roles in the original series. Gaiman isn’t a comedy writer, Doug McKinnon has no experience in comedy directing, and the editors were likewise only versed in straight drama. I should give the production credit for course-correcting for the second series to some extent by bringing in John Finnemore as co-writer.

But for all Gaiman’s talk of honouring Pratchett with the adaptation, it doesn’t feel like this respect amounted to much when the adaptation treated as utterly disposable to working with the text the art form and skill set that Pratchett used to write it.

On the whole I don’t ascribe this to hubris or cynicism on Gaiman’s part, more him just not being very intelligent or skilled in the kind of storytelling forms we’re talking about here. I would say Gaiman is incredible in terms of his Sandman work and is elsewhere most successful where he works in a similar form to that - short story-ish neo-folk-tale stuff. He’s honestly just not in a similar league to Pratchett as a novelist. So I don’t quite blame him for not really having a basic recognition of what Pratchett is doing.

But the upshot is an adaptation that fundamentally disregards the author that Gaiman claimed to want to honour, and I’m relieved - supposing I ever had anything to worry about on this front, which pure conjecture on my part - that we are now at least guaranteed not to see any more Pratchett adaptation overseen by a man who hasn’t got a basic respect for - because he so totally lacks an understanding of - comedy storytelling.

There was an interesting thread on Bluesky dissecting Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's relationship

TL:DR - It seems like Gaiman has been exaggerating the level of closeness between them for YEARS

#good omens #neil gaiman #terry pratchett

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hexhomos · 1 day ago

Note

Maybe I’m that one oomf that’s too woke, but I have a feeling that people being weird about jayvik is a sign of Bad Things on the rise =/ I’m old as balls and I’ve been in fandom spaces since late 2000s, and I’ve never seen people act so hostile towards a fanon mlm ship. I mean precisely in women and queer dominated fandom spaces, dudebros never change, whatever. And of course there were always ship wars. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen people act so oppressed over being into het ships, crash out over their ships not being endgame and demand from fandom content creators to accommodate them. What is happening.

I think this started happening around 2023~ to be more precise bc that's when i started getting weird ass entitled comments on OTHER gay ships. IMHO the real issue here is that we are going through fandom clash with a newgen that did not experience early internet and they take the gayness in fandom spaces completely for granted. As in, they think these little niche holes we've built are the de facto 'effortless norm' and minimize the work that's been done to create these safe spaces. This is the kind of rhetoric i keep seeing pop up:

Many of them have also grown up almost exclusively interacting with art created by old fandom graduates where queerness is presented casually. They're not watching shit from the 90's or 00's. They're not adults, so they don't have a personal contrast experience seeing that 'rep' dwindling consistently over the years. They don't remember a time before this and don't know how bad it was.

OFC there are always old ass conservative weirdos riding on this wave to be even more annoying (certain infamous viktor stan accs... lol!) but #backtotradition rightwing bullshit has been on the rise worldwide, and so are the viral tiktok tradwife alphamale detransition white supremacy grifters. Its a larger cultural problem feeding into the micro stuff we see daily and it's terrible. It's also why I tune this shit out and I stand my ground. I'll draw what I WANT to draw and I'm not going to be twisting myself into pretzel shapes to appeal to anyone and everyone; go get YOUR shit elsewhere!

I *do* think people have been getting way more entitled towards fanworks, and that comes with a heightened level of apathy. You can notice this on the decreased number and quality of feedback across twitter, as an example (seeing as that place has been consumed by the conservative grifter wave) but it's also been reported by every fic writer who's consistently used AO3 for years. Tags on tumblr aren't as widely used. The focus on 'community' has been replaced by 'DOES THIS MAXIMIZE ENGAGEMENT?'. I know from personal experience that there is this one specific asshole who, for almost a year now, has been trawling the trans viktor tag and leaving insanely long transphobic critique comments on works of newer writers to discourage them from writing. (They are always on the cusp of open violent transphobia, but shittily cloaked as 'debates' on ~natural biology~ and fantasy logic so they don't get banned. If you've seen the ao3 pfp of a smirking white haired woman before you know who im talking about.)

Things have been Bad and on the Rise for a while now. Look at the current shit on the news. Look at the presidencies around the world. And it's going to get worse before it gets better, because it always does; that's what forces people to wake up. Be annoying. Be watchful. Don't waste your time platforming or debating weirdos that should be left to die on obscurity - this is how trump got a memeable platform, and look at where we are now. Protect your peace.

#hexposts #meta tag

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sirenpearldust · 8 hours ago

Text

Found you 2

Baby Daddy Azriel!

Series masterlist ⋆ Part one ⋆ Part three

Pair: Azriel x Spring Court! Reader

Word count: 3.050

Warning: fluff

Summary: conditions are set

Azriel sat up straighter in his seat, he cleaned up, looked more put together. He wanted to make a better impression on his son than last time. The memory of his terrified face hasn’t left him, it has been haunting his dreams. Just the reminder unsettled him.

A hint of nervousness crept in, what if one misstep meant he wouldn’t be allowed to see his son again?

Meanwhile, you watched him as he sat across from you, dressed in black pants and a blouse that accentuated every defined muscle he had honed through years of training in the illyrian camps.

His piercing hazel eyes wandered intensely as he surveyed the room. Until they locked onto you, sharp and unyielding. His knuckles repeatedly tightened until they turned white before he forced himself to let go. Black massive wings folded tightly against his back, his shadows swirling around him, still inspecting the unfamiliar space.

Instead of his usual cold, detached demeanor, irritation flickered across his features.

That’s a first, you thought.

For once, he wasn’t emotionless.

For once, he was unraveling and it was because of you.

You had to hand it to his genes, you had basically birthed his twin. Amias was the spitting image of him, inheriting the same elegant planes of his face, a beauty that was almost otherworldly. He had his hair, his wings and even his skin tone. The only feature that set him apart were his eyes. Those were yours, a striking reminder of your Spring Court legacy shining through.

You still remembered the sadness, the ache in your chest as you watched your son grow into the features of his father.

The same scowl, the same smile, the same dimples.

It felt like a cruel twist of fate that your son had to look so much like the man who had caused you so much pain.

Sipping your tea, you deliberately avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the view outside. He didn’t deserve an ounce of your attention, not anymore.

You two were here for one reason and one reason only; to discuss Amias. You had to push your feelings aside, no matter how difficult it was.

It hadn’t been part of your plan for Amias to get to know Azriel. He wasn’t supposed to find out about him, he was meant to be raised by you, away from any danger.

Azriel’s presence now posed a threat to your role as a parent and as a noble in Spring. His work was dangerous enough and his ties to the Inner Circle only added more risks. The already volatile situation in Spring was bad enough already. You didn’t need to be accused of treason or colluding with the enemy, you’ve already had enough problems.

“Are you going to sit there silent again and not say anything?” Azriel asked, his shadows darkening around him.

Your lip curled in a faint smile. It was almost amusing, holding something over him, having a semblance of power for once. You might have felt guilty for using your son in this way, but Amias didn’t even know his father, not really, not the way you did.

He had no idea of the darkness and cruelty Azriel was capable of.

“You’re too loud,” you said softly, setting your tea cup down. His wings bristled, and you could tell it had pissed him off.

“I’ll lay the conditions out for you,” you continued, calm and unwavering.

“Be against even one of them and you’ll have no right to see my son.”

“Our son,” Azriel corrected, his jaw tightening as his knuckles turned white again. He knew, he knew you had set traps, and he wasn’t sure if he was prepared to navigate them.

“He’s my son too, Y/N,” Azriel said, frustration lacing his voice as his hand ran through his hair roughly.

“I only want what’s best for him.”

You ignored him.

Without a glance in his direction, you opened the folder and slid the sheet in front of him, wordlessly demanding his attention to what truly mattered now.

The conditions were clear and non-negotiable. They were there to protect Amias and you.

1. You are not allowed to take Amias without my permission.

2. Wherever you go with him, you must inform me first.

3. He’s my heir and will receive his education in Spring.

4. He will not train in the Illyrian camps unless he is of age and wishes to do so.

5. You will have no authority over me as his mother.

6. You will be a present father unless he chooses not to see you.

7. Your highest priority is to protect him, cherish him and ensure his safety.

8. You will treat him with respect, kindness and love.

9. You will not arrange or force any marriage upon him.

10. You will not harm me, kill me, or order anyone else to do so in order to have Amias.

11. You will not inform your family of his existence without my permission.

12. You will protect Amias before anyone else, this includes you protecting and serving your High Lord or your mate.

13. You will protect what is mine and what is automatically our son’s legacy.

14. In the event of my death, you will safeguard his wealth, inheritance and well-being. No one shall touch it.

15. You will not take Amias out of Spring unless he is in grave danger, or I am dead.

16. If you choose to have any other children, you are to treat them the same as Amias.

17. Any woman you decide to stay in a relationship with and who is to get to know our son, you will introduce to me first.

18. In the case of a mating bond between us, you will not force it upon me and will let it go if I do not want it.

19. You will not disturb my private life, you will treat me with respect and courtesy.

Azriel rubbed his temples, clearly irritated.

Most of the conditions were reasonable, but the restrictions on when and how he could see Amias gnawed at him.

Why did you have to control every aspect? Why did you have to approve when and if he could spend time alone with his son, or when his family could know about his existence?

“Can I introduce him to my family?” Azriel asked, his voice tight with frustration.

“No,” you replied coldly, your gaze unwavering. You hated the Night Court, they were the reason for Spring’s ruin and had caused multiple issues in Prythian across almost every court.

“He has a cousin,” Azriel pressed.

“You and I have no living siblings,” you shot back.

Azriel’s temper flared.

“Rhys has a son.”

“He’s your High Lord,” you responded flatly.

“He’s my brother.”

You sighed rolling your eyes. “Sure.”

“So can he see his cousin?”

“No!”

Azriel groaned in frustration, his patience running thin.

“Will you ever allow any of this to be permissible?”

You shrugged, taking another sip of that damned tea, that Azriel now seemed to take a dislike to.

“You either accept the conditions and make this bargain, or you can say goodbye to the future you’ve imagined,” you said, your voice steady but firm.

Azriel sighed, knowing full well you were serious.

“These conditions are set to protect Amias. He doesn’t know you and I won’t thrust him into your world directly.”

“What about condition 18?” Azriel asked, his voice tight,.

“What about it?” you responded, your gaze unwavering.

“Will you reject it?”

“There is no bond,” you replied, your tone cold.

Azriel’s jaw clenched again, the tension rising in his chest. “If there is one, will you reject it?”

“Most likely.”

His heart twinged painfully and an uncomfortable feeling settled in his stomach, like a bad omen. He hoped he wasn’t your mate because if he was, you would let him suffer. He was sure of it especially after what had happened.

“You know I’ll go insane from a rejected mating bond.”

You hummed in response, uncaring of the worry in his voice.

“Let’s then hope it doesn’t happen,” you said, a sharp smile playing on your lips as you met his eyes.

Azriel’s wings shuddered as the weight of the situation settled in. He didn’t feel good about this, not one bit.

“Fine,” he said, his voice resigned, “I accept all 19 conditions.”

You smiled and extended your hand. He took it without hesitation, his rough, scarred hand engulfing yours. The touch brought a flood of memories, both beautiful and painful.

Azriel couldn’t help but notice the softness of your skin, a stark contrast to the calluses and scars that marked his own.

In that brief moment, you both felt something, an electric jolt, a slight burning sensation. You felt the tattoo spreading under your chest, across your ribs. You were glad that you could hide it, no one had to know about what was happening.

Azriel’s breath caught. He opened his top, revealing the tattoo spreading underneath his pectorals. Tracing the lines with his fingers. You almost choked on your spit. What was he doing?

You quickly turned your face away, not wanting to see the sudden state of undress. It was nothing you hadn’t seen before, nothing you wanted to revisit, either.

In the brief glance you noticed something else, new scars. Some were fresh, still pink against his skin, while others had faded to white, stark against his tan.

“Roses,” Azriel murmured to himself.

“Now that we have a bargain, you can see him.”

You stood up, the white floral dress a stark contrast to Azriel’s dark attire.

Azriel was just a step behind you, he was eager to see his son.

He wanted to teach Amias how to fly, how to fight, to show him the things a father should. He wasn't going to abandon him the way he had been. No, he would be present. He would be the father his son deserved, a steady presence in his life.

For the first time in his life he had hope for a bright future, he wants to build something better, to give Amias a future full of care, love and guidance.

⋆ ♡ ⋆

Amias had been full of questions ever since he first met Azriel. His curiosity was boundless, he would comment on Azriel’s wings, marveling at how similar they were to his own. He spoke of the shadows, how they moved like his did.

Azriel’s shadows mingled with his own, twisting and swirling in a gentle dance and Amias couldn’t help but laugh whenever they played with him. They were soft and cool against his skin.

Azriel’s gaze softened when he heard his giggling. He felt this immense feeling seeing his son’s joy, feeling his happiness, hearing it, being a part of it.

He had come with presents - toys, books, sweets. He bought him books, child stories from the night court, stories of Illyrian legends, a little teddy bear and a bag filled with small cherry candies, you know Azriel enjoyed.

“Amias,” you called softly, lowering yourself to his level with open arms. He ran toward you, his little face lighting up as he kissed you on the cheek. You smiled, warmth flooding your chest as you gave him small kisses back, holding him close for a moment. You breathed him in, he smelled like a baby, you didn’t want him to grow up. He was already bigger than the other children his age.

Azriel watched the scene from a few steps behind, it stirred up memories he had long forgotten, pushed away. It reminded him of his own rare moments of excitement as a child, the joy he’d felt in those fleeting times he was allowed to see his mother, when he was out of the cell.

He observed how animatedly Amias spoke to you, his small hands gesturing wildly as he recounted his latest “battle” with his plushies. Azriel couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, he was in awe as he took in the pure, unrestrained joy of your son, their son.

Amias’s eyes wandered up to him. He immediately recognized Azriel, but this time, instead of looking scared like before, he smiled at him.

He was taken aback by his reaction. His eyes immediately searched yours, knowing you had something to do with it, but you ignored him, focused on brushing Amias’s hair.

It had grown long, already reaching his shoulders, he was in need of a new haircut.

Amias slowly slipped from your arms and stood in front of Azriel, his clothes a soft baby blue. His wings pressed tightly against his back and a shadow lingered at his feet. He stood there in awe, his eyes wide and round, smiling and giggling up at Azriel.

Azriel slowly lowered himself to Amias’s level. Even kneeling, his towering figure still loomed larger than both you and Amias. His sheer size stirred something hot inside you, something you’d buried long ago.

“Hello,” Azriel said softly.

Amias took a step back, looking at you for reassurance, as if searching for confirmation.

You smiled brightly, nodding and giving him the encouragement to go ahead. Amias turned toward Azriel again, his hands nervously fiddling. “Are you my daddy?”

Azriel’s breath hitched. There, standing in front of him, was his son, real and alive.

“Yeah, I am.”

Amias took a step toward him, wrapping his small arms around Azriel and pressing his tiny head into his chest, sniffling. You and Azriel watched as Amias’s small hands clung to him. Without hesitation, Azriel held him close as he cried silently, his heart pounding in his chest. He sat on the floor, embracing him tightly, gently caressing his head, whispering apologies for not being there all this time.

That’s how the three of you spent the afternoon into the evening, watching Amias play, him eagerly dragging both of you into his games.

Yet, he was always a little nervous, always turning toward Azriel, as if he feared his father might disappear again.

You both sat on the floor next to each other.

“Thank you,” he said, watching you. Your eyes never leaving Amias.

“For what?”

“For birthing, raising and loving him.”

“He’s my son. That’s a given.”

Azriel searched your eyes and this time, you didn’t look away. His gaze was soft and you hated the vulnerability in it.

“You know how they treat bastards.”

“We’re in spring,” you replied softly, making sure Amias wouldn’t overhear.

“Bastards are a given. What do you think happens after Calanmai?”

He nodded, relieved that his son wouldn’t be ignored or left alone.

“Even if he is Illyrian?”

You laughed softly, a touch of amusement in your voice.

“Yes, even then.”

“They don’t care about that,” you said, your tone steady. “You’d know that if you picked up a book once in a while.”

Azriel winced at the jab, his eyes narrowing slightly. Here he thought you were finally opening up to him, but your words made it clear how you felt about him.

“Spring is inherently open,” you continued, “We accept everyone and everything. That’s why festivals like Calanmai exist and the land prospered with children, happy, healthy children. At least, before Amarantha came and your Lords, or shall I say your “brother” and his runaway whore”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, the urge to retort rising in him. He wanted to tell you that Tamlin had been warned, that he had continued despite it all, but he couldn’t. Your son was here and he shouldn’t witness his parents fighting. But god, the way your eyes burned with hatred whenever you looked at him or spoke about the Night Court, it stung.

“Daddy are you angry?”

Azriel noticed the worry in Amias’s face and immediately smiled, shaking his head. “Just tired.”

“Mama tired too,” Amias added.

You chuckled softly at his cuteness.

You felt Azriels rage just a few seconds ago, you were thankful that he was still good at lying. You only cared about your son, Azriel’s feelings couldn’t interest you in the slightest.

“Amias, full sentences, please.”

“Mama, I am tired too.”

“You wanna go sleep with Daddy?” Azriel asked gently.

Amias nodded, his tiny arms stretching out toward Azriel. In his fathers arms, he stopped you from going to the office, where you usually spent your time.

You looked at him, noticing the expectant look in his eyes. “Can you both come?”

You nodded, glancing at Azriel. “You’ve got time, or do you need to go to work?”

Azriel smirked, scaring you. “I’m on vacation.”

The surprise was evident in your eyes as Azriel caught you off guard for the first time. Before you could respond, he scooped up Amias, who giggled in delight.

“Where is your room, little prince?” Azriel asked, holding his son up in the air with a grin.

Azriel’s smile was radiant and Amias looked so happy, it made your heart swell. Even if the reason behind it all was the sperm donor, the sight of your son so content made everything feel right.

“Let’s go,” Azriel said, his voice warm as he began to walk.

⋆ ♡ ⋆

There you three laid, Amias down in the middle, nestled safely between you both.

Azriel had woken up, his internal clock honed over centuries stirring him from sleep. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the sight before him felt almost unreal, like a dream he wasn’t ready to wake from.

His son was here and you. There you were, lying beside Amias, your long hair fanned out behind you, arms wrapped protectively around the small boy as he cuddled into you. It was endearing, the way you both slept so peacefully next to him.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Azriel had slept through the night, no nightmares, no restlessness, just quiet, steady breaths filling the space around him.

His eyelids grew heavy again and he let himself sink back into the warmth of the mattress. Just as he was drifting off, Amias stirred, sleepily turning toward him. Tiny hands reached for him as he snuggled into Azriel’s chest, his breath soft and steady.

Azriel let out a slow breath, wrapping an arm around his son.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he let himself rest again.

Main Taglist: @bubybubsters @lilah-asteria

Found you - Taglist: @bravo-delta-eccho @katherine-2007 @saltedcoffeescotch @the-onlyy-angie @sidthedollface2 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @asahinasstuff @azriels-human @ashjade19 @booksnwriting @starryhiraeth @anon1227 @1enas-12 @alittlelostalittlefound @queenoffeysand

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millionthcephalophore · 1 day ago

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Okay. A few things here. This is still bad! Buuuuut I would encourage people to read some full articles and get some context on Torres’ work to see exactly HOW these missteps could be justified and why they may have happened.

Portrait of Ross in LA is by farrrr Torres’ most famous candy portrait but it is not the only one! Plenty of them are frequently displayed in a line like the Smithsonian’s installation, is that less effective? Maybe. But it’s not out of line with his work. Nor is the plaques listing of an “ideal weight” or the exhibition’s listed concerns.

Gonzalez-Torres made a lot of work about AIDS and he made it exceptionally well. However, it was not his only artistic concern. This exhibition focuses on his innovations in portraiture and his lateral thinking about the genre. It would be absolutely disingenuous and sinister for the exhibit not to mention AIDS, but if I’m going to be a little honest I don’t have a problem with an exhibition placing its focus elsewhere. He was a brilliant artist and deserves recognition for all of his ideas, not just those related to his suffering.

The work is displayed and plaqued in a way that’s consistent with his other work and doesn’t go against the works’ certificate (basically it’s artist-stipulated display instructions). So from a curatorial standpoint it IS the same piece.

According to the curators a separate piece of wall text near the piece DOES further contextualize it reading, in part, “Gonzalez-Torres cared for his partner Ross Laycock, named in the candy work’s title, who died from HIV/AIDS in 1991. So there are some mentions of AIDS throughout the exhibit. I still think that this is not enough contextualization, but again, I see how it happened.

The display’s main problem is that its supremely fucking out of touch.

Portrait of Ross in LA means something to people, its more than just a portrait its a symbol, its a memorial, its grown past the artist and become something for an entire community that has frequently been robbed of the ability to openly mourn. I’ve gotten the privilege of seeing it in person a few times and it commands a reverence like nothing else I’ve ever seen. I keep the wrappers from my visit just to remind myself of that experience of twisting brilliant inadequate grief that it evoked in me. I keep the wrappers because it felt morally wrong to throw them away.

You have to treat Portrait of Ross in LA with fucking respect.

The conditions for respect have already been outlined, like several articles point out, we’ve already been here. The Art Institute did basically the same thing a few years ago and it was made clear by public outcry that caring for this piece and its significance means including a proper wall label. Its being respected by museum goers not already familiar with the piece is contingent on that wall label, people are less likely to read the other wall text.

SO. All in all I think that the curatorial decisions made here were pretty standard and I’d need to actually see the exhibit to make a ruling on their potential erasure of AIDS and Gonzalez-Torres’ sexuality within the exhibit as a whole. BUT the display also shows an ignorance of the work’s significance and a disregard for prior discourse/ meaning making surrounding it. It feels a bit like a slap in the face.

Anyways here’s another article with some more comments made by the curators if anyone wants more context:

https://www.artnews.com/art-news/news/felix-gonzalez-torres-national-portrait-gallery-untitled-portrait-of-ross-in-la-controversy-1234731113/

the david zwirner gallery and the felix gonzalez torres foundation in the smithsonian removed the descriptive plaque for portrait of ross in la by felix gonzalez-torres. the old plaque explained portrait for ross' origins as the artist's partner's aids related death, and replaced it with a plaque with absolutely no information about the piece itself, who ross was, or who gonzalez-torres was either. portrait of ross was also reeranged to lay on the floor long ways instead of in a pile as it typically is situated, and the plaque outside the exhibition FOR GONZALEZ-TORRES omits his sexuality, as well as his aids related death. i'm in utter disbelief

#I have. Many thoughts about this piece. Not all of them fully formed.#I want it to be treated well.#Sometimes that means respecting its fluidity and sometimes that means respecting its status as a memorial #both can be done

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angstywaifu · 2 days ago

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Everyone Has Secrets - Aaric Graycastle

Request: Aaric x reader where the reader is a rider but also a princess of another Provence, but she kept it a secret from everyone because she ran away to be a rider to fight venin because she didn’t want her people to suffer. A/N: This is my first time writing for Aaric so I hope you guys like it. I've seen a few requests come in for him now so I'll definitely be working on them and hope to improve my writing for him.

Warnings: The below contains spoilers for Onyx Storm. If you have not read Onyx Storm do not read the below!

Masterlist | Support Me

“What’s up with you and Aaric?” Sloane whispers to me as Devera asks Violet about her trip.

“Nothing. Why’s that?” I ask as I look up at her.

“Because he’s been staring at you since he sat down. It’s like he’s trying to read your mind.” She informs me.

I turn my head and meet Aaric’s piercing green eyes. And Sloane is right. The way he’s looking at me is like he’s trying to figure something out. And it’s like me looking at him confirms what ever it is he needs, quickly turning his attention back to the front of the room. What was that about?

“Maybe he was trying to see if we were ok? He’s been gone a while.” I whisper back with a shrug.

She shakes her head. “No. This is something else.”

Devera turns her attention back to the rest of us, putting an end to our conversation. It doesn’t take long for me to feel Aaric’s eyes on me, but I don’t turn to meet them this time.

Something had clearly happened while he was away with Violet and the squad she had put together. But I had no way of telling what it was.

Throughout the rest of our classes I feel Aaric’s eyes on me every now and then. But I couldn’t pin point why. And it honestly had me on edge. I’d never seen Aaric like that towards anyone since our time here. I had planned to ask him what his problem was, but his seat at our table remains empty during dinner.

“We’re going to go train, want to come with?” Sloane asks me as we stand up from our table.

I shake my head. “I’m going to have an early one tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I tell her as I back away towards the dorms.

She just nods and lets me go, knowing Aaric’s weird mood towards me had put me on edge. I was glad she’d opted for the let me be approach rather than distract me with training or plotting how we could find out what was going on.

As I push through the door to the dorms, someone grabs me from behind, causing me to yelp which echoes in the empty hall. I turn around to fight back, grasping a dagger in my hand which hangs in the air once I see the familiar green eyes I’d felt on me all day. Green eyes that feel like they’re staring into my soul.

I open my mouth to ask him what the hell is going on, but he just drags me up the stairs to the first year floor and down to his room. He shoves me inside before closing the door behind us, leaning back against it to block any attempt I might make to leave.

“What the hell is going on?” I demand, wanting to know why his behaviour towards me had changed so much since his trip.

“Seems you’ve been keeping secrets. Princess.”

My eyes go wide at his words, my dinner threatening to make an appearance. Shit. How the hell did he know? No one knew where I was from. Nowhere in Navarre knew who I was. Unless… shit.

“Everyone has secrets.” I say with a shrug, trying to play it off.

“Oh trust me, I know.” He replies cockily, causing me to narrow my eyes at him. What the hell did that mean. “And you probably would have gotten away with yours if I hadn’t gone with Violet.”

“What are you going on about?”

He pushes off the door and walks over to his desk. Going through the bag he was yet to unpack from his trip. He pulls out a frame, holding it out to me. I grasp it in my hands, turning it over as dread washes over me. Staring back at me is a painting of me with my parents done not long before I’d left. The family Id left behind to come and do something. To protect them from a war that would more than likely come our way one day. There was no way I could deny what Aaric had figured out.

“I always thought your eye colour was unique. Such an interesting shade of blue. Sometimes looking purple when the light hit it them right.” He tells me as he leans up against the desk, watching me take in the photo. “So you can probably guess the shock I got when we land in Hedotis, and we’re greeted by people with the same coloured eyes. The same ones I’ve been looking at since July. And then when I go looking around, I find this sitting on a desk.”

I look up at him, not sure what to say or do. I had thought my secret would be safe forever. No one here had ever been to Hedotis, and I honestly thought no one would ever go there. But now Aaric stood in front of me, waiting for answers.

“What are you going to do? Force me to go back? Go get whatever reward they want for my return?” I snap at him, shoving the painting back at him.

He shakes his head as he places the painting next to him on the desk. “Fuck no. I want to know why though. I have my reasons, but what are yours? Why make that big of a journey to come here of all places?”

His reasons? What the hell did that mean? Pretty sure it was going to be my turn to interrogate him after this at this rate.

“Because I didn’t want to sit back and do nothing.” I tell him as I walk over to his window, looking out over the forest below. “I was sick of us turning a blind eye to what could potentially come our way. Pretending that everything was fine and blissful. When over the ocean, people were dying. I needed to make a difference, even if my parents wouldn’t. All they cared about was marrying me off to make alliances. Give another province an heir that would make them allied to us. Even though we would never back them up if they needed help. I needed to do something.”

Aaric doesn’t say a word. Silence falling over us. I turn around to see him looking at me, a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth.

“Good. Because honestly your people are kinda shit.” He jokes as he steps away from the desk to walk over to the door.

“Not so fast Aaric.” I say, causing him to turn and look at me with a cocked eyebrow. “Now it’s your turn. Why do you have your reasons?”

#fourth wing #fourth wing fanfic #the fourth wing #the empyrean #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #aaric fourth wing #aaric graycastle #aaric graycastle x reader #aaric x reader #onyx storm #iron flame #onyx storm spoilers #onyx storm fanfic #rebecca yarros #empyrean series

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max1461 · 1 day ago

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I mean, I think the CPC's mandate for rule is pretty well established by now, at least in China proper. They've massively lifted the country out of poverty in the last 40 years; that's not something people quickly forget. It seems to me that most Chinese people are not interested in a return to the status quo ante of chaos and poverty that any sort of political revolution would likely bring! Now this is maybe less true in the outlying regions, Tibet, Xinjiang, Inner Mongolia, where nationalist sentiments conflict with the benefits of stability, and indeed where these benefits have been less fully realized.

So my question is: why does the party feel increasing need to censor communications and media, at least in China proper? Xinjiang and Tibet aside, surely no one in fucking Jiangsu is going to be launching a revolution. So the party is stifling culture and commerce through censorship for what? Peace isn't actually delicate in China's core. Frankly I'm skeptical it's delicate at the periphery either; maybe in Tibet but I think a friendly strategy rather than a hostile one for integrating Xinjiang probably could have been viable. Maybe not anymore; China seems like it has failed to learn some of the lessons the US also failed to learn in Iraq and Afghanistan. Well I don't really know.

China's censorship largely seems stupid to me. But like I said in another post, I think Xi is basically a normie conservative who is dumb in all the ways normie conservatives are dumb, it's like a more exaggerated version of why the US right wants to censor porn right now. But that's stupid! You could have had a whole bishie boy soft power thing like South Korea, Xi, if you didn't have a problem with twinks on TV! What are you doing?

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fallinallincurls · 1 day ago

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Miles Away, I've Always Loved You

this is my entry for the 2025 winter fic exchange hosted by the lovely @wyattjohnston!! thank you as always for hosting!

my fic is for @writingonleaves! i had lots of fun writing this one and really hope you love it just as much.

hope you enjoy!! feedback is always appreciated! xx

word count: 5.1k

The knock on the door startles Reagan out of her thoughts. She had been mentally trying to figure out how to organize the bookshelf in her living room now that it’s been built.

The apartment is still mostly a mess. The move to Vancouver had been circled on her calendar for months, but Reagan knew the worst part about moving cross country completely by herself would be the unpacking and setting up of a new place. And so far, she’s been right.

From putting together all the furniture on her own, opening and emptying box after box and feeling that same exhaustion hit her every few hours, the move has been an insane amount of work to say the least. But she couldn’t be happier knowing that she moved to this city that she’s still a little familiar with for the job of her dreams. That alone makes everything worth it.

There’s another knock at the door and Reagan lets out a deep sigh. She’s not expecting someone as no one in the city knows who she is since she just arrived three days ago. She abandons the stacks of books on the floor and heads to the door, wondering who could possibly be on the other side.

Without bothering to look through the peephole, which might’ve been a mistake, Reagan swings open the door to reveal a man she’s never seen before. He looks just a little older than her 25 years of age, has a big smile that wrinkles the corners of his eyes and his hair is neatly styled. Before she can even open her mouth to say anything, he’s already speaking.

“Oh, hey!” He says with an element of surprise in his voice. “I didn’t know Cap had a girl, but I’m new here so I'm still trying to learn all of that, you know?”

She doesn’t know in fact because she has no idea what he’s talking about and the confusion must be evident on Reagan’s face because he continues talking in effort to explain.

“Um, I’m here for the team dinner? Apparently it’s tradition here for the captain to host everyone before training camp starts and so I brought this,” he shows you a bottle of expensive wine and then a container of store bought cookies, “and these.”

Everything the stranger standing in front of her has said only made the situation more odd. Team dinner? Tradition? He clearly mixed up numbers and is at the wrong apartment.

“I’m sorry,” she starts, but is almost immediately cut off when another voice calls out from down the hallway.

“Jake!”

The man turns towards the voice and a look of recognition passes over his face as his smile seemingly becomes brighter at the sight of whoever said his name.

“Q!” He says brightly, before returning his attention to her. “I’m sorry, I must’ve mixed up the apartment numbers.”

“It’s no problem.” Reagan reassures him before he waves a goodbye and starts heading to the apartment next to hers. The curiosity gets the better of her and she glances over to see who “Q” was and that’s when everything comes to a halt.

Because Q, or cap as Jake also called him, is Quinn Hughes. Her ex-boyfriend. The love of her life. And now, apparently, her next door neighbor.

Quinn must have sensed another pair of eyes on him because he looks over and meets her gaze. A look of disbelief crosses over his face for a split second, his brows furrowed in confusion as he realizes who his teammate bothered in the mixup.

“Reagan?”

It might have been two years since the last time she saw him, but hearing her name rolling off his tongue still had the same effect on her as it did then.

“Quinn?” She asks in response, unable to comprehend that he’s standing less than 100 feet away from her. Quinn. Her Quinn.

“Yeah, it’s me. What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, just moved in a few days ago.” Reagan starts to explain and then a rush of worry hits her. “I finally got the job I’ve been waiting for and it just so happened to be here in Vancouver. I had no idea you lived in this building at all,”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Quinn says softly, cutting off her rambling. “Congratulations, I know how hard you worked to get through school and do everything you could to get this job.”

“Thank you.” Reagan murmurs, pushing her hair behind her ear and nervously dropping her gaze to the floor. All the heartbreak from the last few years has disappeared in the matter of seconds and it almost feels like she’s back there. In a time where they were still together and so in love with each other.

But Reagan knows that’s not her reality anymore. Now, she’s standing in her doorway looking at the man who she gave her heart to all those years ago, but now he’s almost a stranger. Just her neighbor in a new city.

“Uh, I know this is probably unexpected and way too sudden, but do you want to come over for dinner? There’s definitely enough food and everything.”

Reagan feels a wave of surprise wash over her at his offer and even though her heart is screaming to say yes, she knows she can’t accept. At least not right now.

“Thank you for offering, but I’m okay. Still trying to get adjusted and all. Another time?” She replies, trying to push away the want that’s arisen within her. She wants to spend time with him even if she hasn’t seen him in a while and her heart is still a little broken. Quinn nods in understanding, a strand of hair falling perfectly over his forehead, but Reagan sees the familiar look of sadness in his blue green eyes.

A loud yell erupts from inside Quinn’s apartment disrupting the quiet air around the two of them.

“I should probably get back. Almost the entire team is in there and I don’t trust a lot of them by themselves.” Quinn chuckles and Reagan feels a smile tug at her lips. “It was really great to see you. I hope Vancouver treats you well.”

“Thanks, Quinn. Same to you.”

Quinn flashes you a sweet smile before ducking back inside. When the door to his apartment closes behind him, Reagan lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. Not only does she have to navigate life in a new city with a new job, but now she has to handle living next to her ex, the man who was her everything, on top of everything else.

The memories that came rushing back the moment she realized it was him standing in the hallway linger in her mind for a little longer. All the shared kisses, big hugs after good and bad games, nights on the porch at the lake house in the offseason, his unwavering support for everything she did, early mornings spent cuddling and so much more.

Reagan knew when they broke up that she would miss him for the rest of her life, but it feels like the wound has been reopened seeing him unexpectedly in person. Of course, she’s kept tabs on him by tuning into a few Canucks games and for a while, Jack was sending her regular life updates but those slowly came to an end.

Her heart aches knowing she is going to have to see him more often now that they’re neighbors. It’s a curveball she never saw coming or even considered when she chose to move to the city that he lives and plays in. But here she is.

With a shake of her head, Reagan clears her mind and pushes open her front door again. There’s relief that the entire interaction is over, both with Quinn and his teammate, but in a strange way, she also misses talking to him already.

Nothing could prepare her for randomly seeing the man she still loved years after he broke her heart.

A few days later, Reagan gets a strong sense of deja vu. She’s attempting to put together the coffee table for the third time, after the first two tries were unsuccessful, when there’s a knock at her door.

A heavy sigh slips past your lips as she drops the useless IKEA instructions to the floor. She’s already preparing a little speech in her head in anticipation it’s another one of Quinn’s teammates who got the apartment numbers mixed up again.

“Hey, sorry, Quinn is-“ Reagan starts as the door swings open and reveals the blue green eyed, curly haired hockey player who lives next door. “here?” She finishes, more like a question than a statement.

“Hey,” Quinn says, flashing that soft smile that makes her heart melt. “I, um,” he pauses, almost as if collecting his thoughts to get exactly what he wants to say correct. “I know how hard it is to move to a new place by yourself having done it myself so I wanted to help with anything you need. And I brought breakfast too. Hopefully your usual order hasn’t changed.”

Reagan’s heart swells with adoration, remembering this is the version of Quinn she fell in love with. The kind, thoughtful man who continuously surprised her in ways she never thought possible. And against all odds, here he is again.

She’s stunned into silence for a few seconds, overwhelmed by his offer. It’s genuine and shows he cares even after all this time but allowing him to help means spending time with him, reconnecting, and Reagan doesn’t know if she’s ready for that just yet.

But she also really wants that coffee table to be built. So for right now, the pros outweigh the cons.

“Thank you so much, Quinn. That’s really thoughtful of you and honestly, there are a few things I’ve realized I can’t accomplish by myself no matter how hard I try.”

Quinn’s smiling genuinely now. He can’t believe she’s letting him help despite the fact they haven’t seen each other in a while minus the mixup the other day. But he doesn’t care. This is his opportunity to catch up with her and he’s going to cherish every second.

“That’s why I’m here.” He chuckles in response, handing her the iced coffee and bagel he picked up for her. “Order still the same?” He asks again, more out of curiosity than anything.

“Order’s still the same. I’m more surprised you remembered it.”

Of course he remembers it. He remembers everything about Reagan despite the fact there was a time where he wished he could forget everything about her. He remembers the show she would only watch before bed and the scent of her favorite shampoo. He remembers the feel of her hand in his and the way he always felt so safe with her in his arms. He remembers her go-to lazy dinner and the songs she loved screaming at the top of her lungs in the car.

He remembers it all. But now, Reagan feels like a stranger for so many reasons.

Quinn takes this moment to really look at her. She’s still breathtakingly gorgeous. but he notices her wavy dark brown hair is lighter than he remembers it. Maybe she got highlights or has dyed it since the breakup. There are more freckles scattered across her cheeks than there were when they met. She’s wearing an old oversized Umich shirt that he realizes at the last second might be his. But when her brown eyes meet his, any anxiety he feels about this moment falls away.

This is still Reagan. His Reagan. Yes, it’s been a while but he knows her. She hasn’t changed that much. If she’s letting him help and being friendly, maybe she doesn’t hate him like he always thought she did after the way things ended between them.

“Of course I remember it.” Quinn says with a shrug, trying not to reveal how much he misses her. “So what do you need help with first?” He asks as Reagan waves him into her apartment and closes the door behind him.

Reagan explains her dilemma with the uncooperative coffee table which takes first priority before going through a small list of things she wanted to get done today like unpack her kitchen and finish building her vanity. Quinn nods along to everything she says, seemingly happy to offer his help even if he doesn’t] have to.

“Thank you,” Reagan says softly, the two words holding more meaning than she ever thought could be possible. Quinn gives her a slightly confused look as he sits down on the floor ready to tackle the coffee table. “For everything. You didn’t have to bring breakfast over and offer to help me get settled in considering we haven’t seen each other in a long time, but I really do appreciate it.”

“I’d do anything for you, Rea.”

Hearing that one line and the use of the nickname only Quinn has ever used for her sends a shiver through her body. She feels her heart being tugged in his direction again even if it never fully healed from their end years ago, but she desperately tries to keep herself in check. Their relationship came to an end because of him. Quinn wanted to focus solely on hockey and his need to constantly get better on the ice was more important than keeping her in his life.

So she moved on after he broke her heart. Or she thought she did until she saw him the other day. Her feelings have rushed back in no time, like nothing happened in the first place, but Reagan knows better.

“I know,” she murmurs, voice quiet as the wave of emotions hit her. “I’m going to start unpacking the kitchen. Let me know if you need any help. The instructions have been useless.” Quinn chuckles, that adorable sound filling her with a sense of happiness she hasn’t felt in so long. To this day his laugh is still one of her favorite sounds in the whole entire world.

For a good hour or so, the two of them work in comfortable silence. A random playlist Reagan selected is playing from a bluetooth speaker and every once in a while, she hears Quinn curse under his breath. She catches herself smiling a few times, the familiarity of it all bringing back so many memories.

“Reagan?” Quinn tentatively disrupts the quiet as she’s reaching up to place a stack of plates in a cabinet above the kitchen counter.

“Hm?” She hums in response, letting out a sign of relief when she gets the plates on the shelf. Quinn is grinning at the sight of her on her tiptoes trying to reach a higher shelf in her new home. This is something else that hasn’t changed since they were together. She still refuses to use any help to reach higher places despite being small enough that it would be beneficial.

“Coffee table is finished.” He says, pointing over his shoulder when she turns around to look at him. “You weren’t lying about it being difficult, but it’s done.” A look of surprise crosses over her face and something about her right then makes Quinn’s heart ache.

He knows he messed up when he broke it off with her years ago. His head was too stuck on hockey and only hockey. There was an unbearable amount of pressure on his shoulders after being drafted and he felt like he had to not only live up to the expectations, but defy them. And through all that, he lost the greatest thing to ever happen to him.

Reagan.

The woman who showed him unconditional love from the moment they met in college all the way through to the very end. Reagan who was there for every accomplishment and disappointment that happened in his career. The woman who always made sure he knew so many people, including her, were unbelievably proud of him at all times no matter what happened.

He never thought he would get to see her again and somehow here he is in her apartment that’s right next to his in the city that he’s been his second home for the last six years.

“Told you I wasn’t lying.” She laughs, the sound filling Quinn with joy like it always has. “We can tackle the vanity next if you’re up for it. It’s a lot for just one person.”

She leads him into her office where the unopened box is laying on the ground where she envisions the piece of furniture. Without a moment of hesitation, they get started on building the vanity as conversation flows freely. Quinn fills her in on everything going on with the Canucks from new teammates to how he likes being captain. She listens as he recommends some new restaurants and places to check out around the city and she fills him in on how everyone is doing back home in Michigan. Quinn asks about her new job and he can’t hide how proud he is when she tells him she got accepted into the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra.

Reagan has been playing the french horn since fourth grade and that’s the entire reason they met in college since Quinn ran into her at a UMich football game when she was part of the marching band. He remembers being struck by how pretty she was then even in the slightly unflattering bright blue and yellow uniform she was wearing with her instrument in hand. Over time as they became friends and eventually got together, Quinn learned her biggest dream was to play in a symphony. It’s difficult to get a seat anywhere, but if anyone could do it, Quinn knew it would be her. Reagan was talented, always has been, and knowing all that hard work finally paid off makes him beyond happy.

And secretly, he’s never been so glad that the music she loves so much brought her to the city he lives in now.

“I was nervous about being accepted. It’s one of the most prestigious symphonies on the West Coast, but I was sick of being in Michigan again even if I do love it there, so I took a chance and it worked out.” Reagan explains shyly, her eyes dropping to her fiddling fingers.

“Hey,” Quinn says, abandoning the half built vanity for a second to take hold of her hands. “I’m so proud of you. You deserve that seat and it’s incredibly brave of you to pack up and move halfway across the continent to live out your dream.”

They both are aware of the unspoken words there. That it was also brave to come back to the city where their love story crashed and burned.

“Thank you, Quinny. That means a lot.” The words are barely out of Reagan’s mouth before Quinn is wrapping his strong arms around her in a tight embrace. She melts into the hug, her head resting on his shoulder and lets the comfort wash over her. Quinn lets out a small sigh of relief. He missed having her in his arms and the feeling of peace that surrounds him is unmistakable.

God, he messed up so bad by letting her go, by ruining the best thing he’s ever had because he thought he couldn’t balance the pressure of being an NHL player and a relationship at the same time.

“Good to know Huggy Bear’s still got it.” Reagan teases him, reluctantly pulling away even if she wants to stay in his arms forever. But she can’t. She’s not that girl for him anymore.

“Yeah, yeah.” Quinn laughs, used to hearing the nickname his teammates gave him years ago when he joined the team. He meets her gaze and it’s then that an idea hits him. Reagan can see the look of hesitation in his blue green eyes, but waits patiently for him to continue. “Whenever you get settled in here and everything, would you maybe want to go skating? I know we used to go all the time and there’s this cool rink downtown you would love, but no pressure if not. I’m sure you’re going to be busy with work and adjusting to a new city.”

Reagan knows she should say no. She knows it would be better to leave the past in the past. But something about the way Quinn asks with pure honesty tugs at her and the small hope that maybe their love could get a second chance after all this time blossoms.

So she says yes.

“I would love that. Just text me when you’re free and we can schedule something.”

Quinn’s happiness at her response is immediately noticeable even though he tries to hide it so it’s not as obvious. The smile Reagan adores so much is on full display and she couldn’t be happier to have him in her half furnished apartment just days after she moved back to the city where her heart was broken.

Before she can get too swept up in the emotions, she gently pushes Quinn’s chest and giggles.

“We’ve got a list of things to do, Hughes. Get back to work.”

And with that, both of them work together to get through all the tasks Reagan wanted accomplished. That familiar sense of peace envelops the apartment and for the first time in a long time, Reagan’s heart isn’t heavy with sadness. Instead, it swells with joy like no other.

Between Quinn’s busy schedule of games, practices and traveling and Reagan’s new work schedule of getting acquainted with the symphony and joining practices of her own, it took a few weeks for them to find a day to go skating together.

But in that time, a constant stream of texts were exchanged and phone calls were made whether Quinn was next door or on the road. Reagan learned all about what happened in Quinn’s life for the two years she wasn’t part of it and heard so many stories of his teammates and his brothers, who she also missed since she hadn’t spoken to either of them since the breakup.

Quinn got a glimpse into who Reagan is now and if possible, he feels himself falling even harder for her all over again. His feelings never truly went away but every time he heard her laugh or she shared a secret, he knew that even after all that time, this girl is still the one he wants.

Finally, the agreed upon Sunday arrives and Quinn’s quiet, but strong knock sounds through Reagan’s apartment as she pulls a beanie on her head.

“Coming!” She yells, almost tripping on her way to the door. She’s nervous and excited all at once. When the door swings open, Reagan’s breath is stolen away for a second as Quinn stands in front of her looking extra cozy and comfy bundled up for the cold. His eyes are alight with wonder and his somewhat wild brown curls are peeking out from under his favorite navy blue beanie. He has a hoodie on under his winter jacket and there’s the faintest blush spreading across his cheeks.

“Hey, Rea,” Quinn greets her with a bright smile. The old nickname still sends a jolt of happiness through her veins even though he’s used it frequently over the last few weeks and she can’t help but feel hopeful. Maybe this is just the two of them going skating together, but there is a sense of something more in the air and if there’s even a chance Quinn wants to give their relationship another chance, Reagan is all in. She can tell he’s grown and matured in the time they’ve spent apart and if she didn’t see that, it would be much easier to ignore the feelings she has for him.

“Hey!” She replies, giving him a quick hug. Quinn is a little surprised, but welcomes the embrace for a moment before she pulls away and starts speaking in excitement. “Don’t worry about skates for me, I still use my favorite pair,” Reagan lifts her white pair of Bauer skates up and then glances at her warm, but cute winter outfit, “and I’m dressed for the weather since you said the rink is outside.”

“You’re all prepared,” Quinn chuckles, “Let’s go then.” He says almost sheepishly like he’s nervous all of the sudden, and reaches for her hand. Reagan intertwines her gloved fingers with his and offers him a reassuring smile to silently say “this is okay.” The rink is just a few blocks away from their shared apartment building so the walk over is cold, but brief and full of laughter and conversation between the two of them.

Reagan catches a glimpse of the rink when Quinn stops walking at the opening of a large clearing and her heart starts racing.

They are at Robson Square Ice Rink. The prettiest rink in all of Vancouver in Reagan’s opinion, but it’s also her favorite and was dubbed her and Quinn’s spot when they were dating.

“Quinn,” Reagan breathes out in disbelief. She doesn’t need to say anything else, Quinn can read all the emotions on her face. He squeezes her hand in reassurance while flashing her a sweet smile before leading her to the benches to help put her skates on.

“Come on,” He murmurs and Reagan swallows down the emotions in an effort to take in every detail of this moment. She immediately starts unlacing her skates when they claim a spot on the bench, but Quinn insists on doing it himself.

“I can do it myself, you know.”

“I know,” Quinn replies cheekily. “But you deserve to be taken care of so let me do it even if it’s just this one time.” Reagan sighs, in pure dramatics, which makes Quinn chuckle but her heart is warm and fuzzy. This is why she fell in love with him in the first place. He’s the most caring person she knows and would do anything for her. That much clearly hasn’t changed.

Reagan keeps her eyes on Quinn as he ties her skates perfectly until he taps the heel of her right skate to signal that she’s good to go and freezes. Her brows furrowed in confusion for a moment until it hits her.

Quinn got these skates for her years ago. They were her first pair and one of the best gifts she has ever received. But after taking them out for a few spins, she noticed that he had them customized. There was a little blue 43 printed onto the outside of the heel on her right skate which is exactly what Quinn is staring at right now.

“It’s still there.” He says quietly, tracing the two numbers before meeting Reagan’s eyes. It’s almost as if he expected her to cover the numbers up herself after the breakup and although she was angry about how everything happened, these skates are a reminder of the blissful beginning and she wanted that to remain untouched.

“Of course it is.” And just like earlier, this feels as if the simple moment holds a double meaning. As if that tiny 43 is a sign of hope for Quinn that he might get a second chance. That there’s still a spot for him in Reagan’s heart.

They share soft smiles and sit in the comfortable silence for a moment as Quinn puts his skates on. When Quinn takes her hand to help her onto the ice, Reagan lets herself be fully present. Months ago she never thought about reconnecting with the man who broke her heart, but now she couldn’t be happier that they’re friends again. She missed him beyond words.

It took a few laps around the rink to get her footing back, but once she did, she was challenging Quinn to races and constantly giggling as he tried to distract her from skating smoothly. Despite being one of the most well recognized people in the entire city of Vancouver, no one bothered Quinn on the public outdoor rink even if a few of the younger kids kept a watchful eye on him as if they recognized the captain of their favorite hockey team.

“How is it so far?” Quinn asks out of the blue as the two of them are skating at a leisurely pace. Reagan takes in the city skyline around them before meeting his gaze.

“Skating? Good! I always forget how fun it is and-”

“No,” he gently cuts you off and shakes his head, “I mean living in Vancouver. I know it’s been a huge adjustment for you.”

“Oh,” Reagan says in realization, taking a moment to think. “It’s been way better than I expected, honestly.” Quinn raises his eyebrows in surprise as an adorable smile blossoms across his face.

“Really?”

“Yeah and I have a sneaky feeling you already know you’re a big part of why that is, Quinny.” His cheeks become pink with blush and he looks down briefly before stopping the two of you for a second.

“Have you ever thought of giving us a second chance?”

The question is like a punch to the gut. Not only because Reagan never saw it coming, but it is exactly what she’s thought of asking Quinn herself a thousand times.

Has she thought of giving them another chance? Yes. Every single day she wonders what it would be like to be his girlfriend again. To allow herself to feel the overwhelming love she has for the oldest Hughes brother. To feel at home again because he’s back in her life. And Reagan has come to realize that she wants a second chance with Quinn more than anything.

He’s proven that he has grown and matured from the man he was years ago when he shattered her heart into a million pieces. He’s shown that her life and her dreams are just as important and he’ll do anything he can to support her every single day. His love has been on display since the first moment she saw him in the hallway of their apartment building weeks ago.

“Yes. Every single day.” Reagan responds with nothing but pure honesty.

“Me too.” Quinn almost whispers, trying not to let his nerves show. He’s biting his lip, a nervous habit of his that hasn’t disappeared. “Uh, you can say no if you’re not ready or anything, but would you like to go out with me? On a proper first date? Again?”

Instantly, a beaming smile is on Reagan’s face as his words process in her mind. It’s happening. Something she’s dreamed of for so long, it’s real.

“I’d love that, Quinn.” She hugs him tight, relishing in the joy rushing through her veins. Nothing could make this moment any better and when Quinn kisses her temple, also feeling the happiest he’s been in a long time, everything in the world feels right again.

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