#it's never stayed the same with anyone ever

[wonwunss]

–ᝰ.ᐟ✮ In a world where Choi Seungcheol commands boardrooms with sharp words and sharper standards, no one dares get close—until her.

To everyone else, he’s a calm, calculating CEO. But behind closed doors, it’s her voice that grounds him, her presence that quiets the noise.

pairing: CEO!seungcheol x f!reader

genre: fluff, CEO au, established relationship, comfort and emotional vulnerability, acts of service and gift giving, luxury setting, “just because” affection, clingy couple energy

word count: 2.1k

a/n: may this kind of love find me 🫣🫣😍

The meeting room was too loud for how little anyone was saying.

Seungcheol sat at the head of the table, not speaking, just watching. His expression didn’t give much away—but those who worked under him knew the silence was dangerous. And the flick of his pen against the glossy report file? A quiet warning shot.

“Redo this,” he said, voice low and measured, but with an edge sharp enough to silence the room.

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t stay to hear excuses.

By the time he was back in his office, the ticking inside his head had grown unbearable. Deadlines, investors, expectations—stacked up like dominoes waiting to collapse. His fingers itched to loosen the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t. Not yet. He reached for his phone instead, already knowing who he needed.

He didn’t even think. Just pressed call.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then—

“Hi, Cheol.”

His breath left him all at once. A slow, quiet exhale, as if he hadn’t realized how tight his chest had been until he heard her voice.

“…Hey,” he said, a little rougher than he intended.

“Tough day?” she asked softly, like she already knew. She always knew.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. The sunlight streaming in through the blinds painted slats of gold across his sharp features, but they softened, ever so slightly, with each second of her voice in his ear.

“The usual,” he muttered. “Numbers didn’t add up. People didn’t listen. You’re the only thing making sense today.”

She laughed—gentle and warm. “I hope that’s not just the exhaustion talking.”

“It’s not,” he replied instantly, and the speed of his answer made her go quiet for a second.

His eyes fluttered open. He stared out the window at the city skyline, but it wasn’t the view that grounded him. It was her.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” he said after a beat. “I just… needed to hear you.”

“You never bother me.”

Silence stretched between them, but it was the kind that comforted, not strained.

“I wish I was there,” she added.

And God, he wished the same.

There were things he couldn’t say during the day. Not to his staff, not to anyone. He wasn’t cruel—just meticulous, precise. No-nonsense. And if that made people keep their distance, all the better. It made things easier.

Except when it came to her. With her, everything unraveled in the best way.

His shoulders finally slumped. “I’m in my office.”

“Lights off, sleeves rolled up?” she teased lightly.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You know me too well.”

“I do.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then— “Talk to me,” he murmured. “Doesn’t matter what. Just… keep talking.”

So she did. She told him about her day, about the weird dream she had the night before, about the cat she saw perched dramatically on a taxi roof downtown. And Seungcheol—CEO, perfectionist, powerful—sat back and let her voice pour through the cracks of his armor like sunlight through broken blinds.

He didn’t need fixing. He just needed her. And somehow, without even trying, she was enough to make the world feel a little less loud.

The clock on the wall blinked 2:14 AM in soft red light.

Seungcheol unlocked the front door with a weary sigh, the click of the handle almost deafening in the stillness of the apartment. The kind of silence that stretched long after a day like his—after meetings gone sideways and numbers that danced too close to disaster.

He slipped his shoes off slowly, rolling his neck with a wince. Every muscle in his body ached from hours of tension, and all he had wanted by the end of it was to walk into the quiet, undisturbed dark and pass out.

But the lamp in the living room was on.

And so was she.

Curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around her like armor, feet tucked beneath her. She blinked drowsily up at him, eyes soft and warm and a little guilty.

“…Hi,” she whispered, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to say it.

He blinked, not quite believing she was real for a moment. “You’re still awake?”

“You told me not to wait,” she murmured, pushing the blanket off her lap. “I tried. I really did.”

Seungcheol swallowed, guilt twisting somewhere low in his chest. He stepped closer, kneeling in front of her wordlessly.

“I didn’t want you to be tired,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You have your presentation tomorrow.”

“And you had the kind of day that would’ve driven anyone else to put their fist through a wall,” she countered softly, resting her hand over his. “I wasn’t going to sleep not knowing how you were doing.”

His jaw clenched—not from anger, but the effort of keeping his emotions in check. Her voice, even this late, still made him feel like the tension in his bones was finally loosening. She always had that effect on him.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” he said again, but this time it came out gentler, almost pleading.

She just smiled, the kind of tired smile that still felt like home. “And you shouldn’t have to come back to an empty apartment after a day like that.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that. Because she was right.

Without a word, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. Her hands came up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. He felt like he could finally breathe.

“I missed you,” he said, voice a whisper against her lips.

“I’m right here.”

And she was. Warm and real and everything good in his life.

He stayed there for a moment, breathing her in, her presence calming the storm still lingering beneath his skin. Eventually, she tugged him toward the couch, and he followed, letting her wrap the blanket around both of them. His head dropped to her shoulder, and for the first time all day, he let his guard down.

Not the CEO. Not the man everyone walked on eggshells around.

Just Seungcheol. Just hers.

And when she pressed a soft kiss to his temple and whispered, “You did your best today,” that was all he needed.

He finally closed his eyes.

The presentation had gone better than she expected.

There had been nerves—of course there had. The weight of all those eyes on her, the pressure to deliver something flawless after weeks of late nights and revisions. But the moment it ended, and the conference room erupted in polite applause, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

Relief washed over her in waves.

Still, as she walked out of the building, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving only exhaustion behind. Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, the mid-morning sun warming her cheeks.

And then she saw him.

Leaning against the hood of his car, hair slightly tousled from the wind, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, sunglasses pushed into his hair. A paper bag in one hand, a drink carrier in the other.

And a bouquet of her favorite flowers cradled in the crook of his arm.

She froze, heart stuttering.

He looked up from his phone, then smiled when he saw her. The smile—the one that was just for her. The one he never wore in meetings or in boardrooms or in front of anyone else.

Her feet moved on instinct, almost running by the time she reached him.

“You—” she began, breathless. “What—?”

Seungcheol handed her the bouquet before she could finish.

“For your nerves,” he said casually, like showing up outside her office before 11AM with her favorite drink and a fresh raspberry croissant was normal. “And because I know you skipped breakfast.”

She blinked down at the flowers in her arms, the familiar colors and soft petals almost making her emotional. “Cheol…”

He held up the coffee. “Extra shot of vanilla. Just how you like it.”

She took it slowly, like if she moved too fast the whole moment might disappear.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he said simply. “That’s why I wanted to.”

His voice was quieter now. More tender. “You did good today. I’m proud of you.”

And just like that, everything she’d been holding together all morning threatened to unravel. The late nights, the self-doubt, the mental notes scribbled at 2AM—it all felt worth it, just to hear those words from him.

“I didn’t think you’d be up,” she whispered.

He reached out, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t gonna miss this. Not after you stayed up for me.”

She smiled, blinking quickly to keep the tears at bay. “You’re unfair.”

“I know,” he said with a soft grin. “But I’m cute, so you’ll forgive me.”

“Barely.”

He chuckled, and then pulled her gently into his arms, careful not to crush the flowers. She melted against his chest, his scent grounding her in the quietest, sweetest way.

“I love you,” she mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.

His grip around her tightened. “I know. I love you too.”

The restaurant they headed to afterwards was the kind of place you didn’t find on Google Maps.

It didn’t need reviews. It didn’t need ads. The kind of place where your name alone got you a table—and Seungcheol’s name carried more weight than most.

Tucked into the top floor of an art gallery building, the restaurant opened out into floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. The air smelled of aged wine and freshly baked truffle bread. Gentle jazz played in the background, echoing off warm mahogany panels and velvet-draped walls.

When the hostess saw them walk in—his hand on the small of her back, her fingers curled into the front of his shirt—she bowed deeply, almost reverently.

“Welcome back, Mr. Choi. Your usual table?”

He nodded once, eyes flickering down to the woman beside him. “Yes. Thank you.”

Their table wasn’t in the center of the room. It was nestled into a corner, semi-enclosed by sheer drapes, with an uninterrupted view of the skyline. Private. Quiet. Safe.

And instead of sitting opposite her, Seungcheol guided her to the inside of the half-moon shaped booth, sliding in right beside her like it was second nature.

Because it was.

Their knees touched. Their shoulders bumped. His hand immediately found hers under the table.

“You’re really spoiling me today,” she said with a small laugh, glancing around at the gold-rimmed plates and the personalized menu printed with her name.

“You deserve it,” he said, simple as anything. “You killed it today.”

She blushed, tucking her face into his shoulder for a second before peeking up at him again. “So… just how expensive is this place?”

Seungcheol smirked. “You don’t want to know.”

“That bad?”

“Let’s just say…” he leaned in, brushing his nose against her temple, “I could’ve bought us a weekend in Paris. But you looked too pretty to make wait for a plane.”

She gawked at him, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “Choi Seungcheol.”

“Worth it,” he said with a grin, catching her wrist and pulling her hand back to intertwine with his again. “Every cent.”

The waiter came and went like a ghost—present only to refill wine glasses and deliver each artful course with quiet precision. Caviar with crème fraîche. Handmade pasta rolled so thin it nearly dissolved on the tongue. Wagyu that melted the moment it touched her mouth.

But Seungcheol only had eyes for her.

“You always look at me like that,” she murmured at some point, cheeks still warm from the wine and the weight of his gaze.

“Like what?”

“Like I hung the stars.”

He tilted his head, thumb brushing her knuckles beneath the table. “Because you do. For me, you do.”

She couldn’t say anything to that without her heart falling out of her chest, so she leaned in and kissed him instead—just a short, sweet press of lips that left him smiling against her mouth.

“You know…” he whispered against her cheek, “if you ever want to quit your job and let me pamper you like this every day…��

“Nope,” she laughed, resting her head against his shoulder. “But I’ll let you keep feeding me wagyu if you insist.”

“Deal,” he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. “But you have to keep looking this proud of yourself. I like this version of you.”

She turned her face slightly toward his neck, murmuring, “You bring it out of me.”

And so they sat—shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, the city beneath them, the world hushed around them—and for once, there were no meetings, no presentations, no pressure.

Just him. Just her. Just them.

Exactly where they always came back to.

[badassthezubat]

Wanted to add on to above, especially for anyone that hasn't gotten to experience this yet as an adult: This doesn't stop in the workplace, but as an adult you have the power to not put up with it in a way you couldn't as a kid. These people exist in every field, in every job, and if you encounter them the thing you have to remember is that this is THEIR problem, not yours; you aren't imagining it, and you did nothing to cause it. Don't let them make you feel bad about yourself or shrink into yourself just because they're shitty.

Anyone that's moving into the adult world or in the deep end already, don't ever feel like you have to stay some place if there's a piranha in the fish tank. The absolute best thing about adulthood is that you can just fuck off and leave, and that you can seek out and FIND places that won't make you feel terrible. As a kid, you had no power and just had to ride out the misery- regardless of what anyone tells you, no one has that power over you now, and you do NOT have to tolerate that kind of behavior, regardless of who the person is. You may not be able to change the environment, but you CAN find a better one. Nothing about you justifies their behavior, and their lack of empathy is their own problem, not yours.

(More under the break, because the word vomit got out of hand)

In a workplace, the sweet, neurotypical anti-bullying woman will be just as well loved as she was as a teacher- she might be your manager, or your boss, or in HR, or just a well-liked colleague that's been there a while. They could also be a sweet old guy that genuinely gets to know you, or a manager that always beelines to talk about a movie he just watched or always gives a wink and a nudge to make you feel welcome. They're always quick to discuss the importance of mental health days and taking care of yourself, and they'll be in the same environment as a lot of genuine, kind people that want to help and create a good environment, and probably put a lot of work into MAKING the environment better for most of the office.

Bullying as an adult in the workplace can be just as overt or incredibly subtle as when you were a kid, and hard to pin down- it can be joking-not-joking comments about you in front of the group, or a weird sense that colleagues you've never spoken to before are suddenly not respecting you, or are talking down to you out of nowhere. It can be feeling like no amount of work is good enough, or like you're spending more time worrying about what you're doing wrong and getting pulled aside for minor mistakes than doing your actual job. The person may flip 180 outside of work and act very friendly, warm, and trustworthy, which will make you doubt yourself, or wonder if maybe you're overanalyzing- especially if you're not neurotypical. I have horrific ADHD, and for me I spent more time than I should have blaming myself for fucking up so often, especially when my manager was "just trying to help" and was always delivering the criticism in a kind tone. She would always say she was trying to toe the line between being supportive and professionally strict, and would joke about how she was pulling the "mom voice" out on me, which I would laugh and thank her for. She would sandwich criticism between stressing the importance of mental health and cute stories about her kids, and then I would start hearing other managers use the same words to describe me and my work (lazy, overthinking, not ready for my position, seeing my work as busy work, etc) even when I had been honest with those managers and working late, unreported hours just to keep up with the workload. I worked at that office for six months, and by the time she fired me I had lost 40 lbs, had dark bags under my eyes, and was consistently working from 7 to 9 or 10 nearly every day of the week. I was a shaking, anxiety ridden mess in ways I hadn't been SINCE K-12, and finally got fired at 2pm on a Wednesday- right after I met a deadline I'd stayed til 9 the day before to work on, as I was finally managing to eat my lunch. I got pulled into a conference room, let go, and wasn't allowed to collect my things before I left- in the time it took an Uber to arrive my email had been shut off, I'd been removed from the website, and other coworkers had already been told about it. The next day I woke up for the first time in months feeling genuinely good and relaxed, and when my belongings arrived via courier later that day (lmao) I was genuinely relieved that I never had to go back.

The people like above see themselves as good people, and for a lot of people that may genuinely be the case- but people can justify a weird amount of cruelty towards someone that's 'different' or 'weird', and they honestly genuinely believe that they're being kind, or that they're right to treat you poorly because you aren't succeeding or reacting well like everyone else. Their kindness to everyone else becomes a bias, because every person they've helped becomes evidence that if YOU'RE struggling, that's because YOU are a problem, because look at everyone else this didn't happen with. At the end of the day, you have to be kind to yourself, and believe yourself and what you experience even if no one else does.

One of the good things about getting older is that your sphere of people can constantly shift and widen as you go through life- and I can promise that there ARE genuinely good, kind people in the world. I left that job with four new friends that I still keep in touch with, and every comment above is evidence that for every shitty person you encounter, there ARE people who notice and are bothered by that person's behavior. They could become friends or remain strangers, and they may not be in an environment where they can help as much as they'd like, but I can promise that behavior like this is noticed and noted as a black mark against that person- not you. Don't let people kill your joys in life or make you hate yourself, and don't let those people become what you expect from every person you meet- they don't deserve that much power over your day-to-day.

Look out for people the people like this, and look out for anyone suffering because of these people. The shit from your childhood won't go away, but it also never has to happen again, and it can help you support other people now the way you wish you'd been supported then. (Or be incredibly vindicating to Not Put Up With It now, the way you couldn't when you were a kid- best fucking feeling.)

every piece of ""autistic representation"" in hollywood sucks not just because of the infantalization and inspiration porn but because movie executives always fail to realize the real universal autistic experience: spending your childhood slowly and unfalteringly realizing all of your friends not so secretly hated and/or merely tolerated you at best and you've missed every social signal about it ever

[khloberry]

❝ If payback is a bitch and revenge is sweet. Then you’re the sweetest bitch he’ll ever meet… ❞

Best Served Sweet

Rafe Cameron x bitchy!reader | 18+ smut

Saw @zyafics mrga campaign & wanted to join!

Two can play that game.

If he wanted to play, you could play too.

And better.

You can feel him watching you from across the room, his piercing blue eyes burning a hole into you as you dance on some cute guy at the party. It’s his friend’s party, but you're here dancing with someone who isn’t him. He finds that very disrespectful. Normally, you wouldn’t be doing something so brazen like this, but right now, there’s nothing more you want than to make Rafe mad. To give your on again, off again boyfriend a taste of his own medicine. From the look on his face right now, you’re giving him the perfect dose.

It was one week ago when you and Rafe got into a fight that led to another breakup. You were always breaking up, then making up, and repeating that same toxic cycle. You knew you should’ve left Rafe for good a long time ago, but something always kept you there. Love? Good dick? Stupidity? Probably all three. One thing was always clear, though. Rafe was no Prince Charming, and there was no question that you knew you could do better.

The other day, you heard that he hooked up with some girl at Topper’s pool party. Some slut that he fucked right in his friend’s bathroom. How tacky. It wasn’t even a week after you broke up and he was already banging somebody else. You guessed it was payback for breaking up with him and not going right back. At first, you felt hurt, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of ever knowing it. No, your days of crying over Rafe Cameron and going back to him were over. If he wanted to hurt you, you would hurt him right back. Right where you knew it would hurt him the most.

His ego.

Everyone in Kildare knew you were Rafe’s girl. That meant you weren’t supposed to be seen with anyone else. You were his. Like he owned you. Like you were some kind of property. You hated it. Rafe could do whatever he wanted, whoever he wanted, but you were expected to be his good girl and stay with him no matter what. Fuck that. He could get a damn dog if he wanted unwavering loyalty.

You were done.

Back at the party, the little denim skirt you’re wearing is riding up your thighs as you grind against the cute guy. His hands slide from your waist down to your hips and you bite your lip, enjoying the show that you’re putting on. There isn’t anything innocent about the way you’re dry fucking him in the middle of the room for everyone to see. Rafe is standing with his friends watching your every move.

“Damn, Rafe, look at your girl,” you hear one of them say.

He’s pissed and his anger is growing more as he watches your ass move on someone who isn’t him. He can’t believe that you’re doing this. How fucking dare you. When he sees the guy drop his hands lower and move along your thighs, he shoots you a death glare that almost makes you think twice about what you’re doing.

Almost.

You grind against him harder.

Rafe pushes off the wall and walks in your direction, moving closer and closer until you feel his hand close around your arm, roughly yanking you away.

“What the fuck? Get off me, Rafe.”

“Let’s go,” he says calmly.

It was too calm.

And he isn’t giving you the same death glare that he was just a moment ago. His expression has changed to something that’s almost a smile. Rafe Cameron suddenly smiling at you when you know he’s livid…

That’s dangerous.

You wanted to make him mad, but now you’re wondering if maybe you pushed too far. You don’t think that he would actually hurt you, but Rafe can be unpredictable when he gets angry. Although it’s never been you, you’ve witnessed others experience his wrath.

You try to free yourself, but he only tightens his grip on your arm and leads you into one of the bedrooms. The sound of the door slamming and the lock clicking makes you flinch. You’re more nervous than you want to admit. But you can’t let him know that.

“I have nothing to say to you, Rafe.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares.

“We’re done.”

More silence.

“Do you hear me? I said we’re fucking done! Over.”

He smiles. “I hear you.” He walks over and stands behind you, his hand pushing your hair aside as his fingertips brush against your neck. “But hear me when I tell you that will never fucking happen.”

He lowers his head and presses a kiss on your neck, his hands sliding down your waist before settling on your ass. You hate how his touch instantly makes you hot. Hate how your pussy instantly gets wet.

“You embarrassed me tonight,” he says, still kissing your neck. “Coming here and letting some dude feel you up in front of all my friends. In front of me… acting like a fucking whore.”

You scoff and abruptly pull yourself away from his grasp. “Says the whore who fucks randoms in bathrooms.”

“She wasn’t random,” he says in a way that’s meant to get under your skin.

It does.

“Oh? So you’ve fucked her before then?”

“No,” he smirks. “But I could’ve. She’s been wanting me.”

Asshole.

You let out a sound of disgust. “She can have you.”

“I don’t want her.”

“And I don’t want you.”

Without another word, Rafe lifts you up and places you on the nearby dresser. You know you shouldn’t let him, but it seems that your voice has forgotten how to speak now. His hand eases between your legs, tracing over the curve of your thigh before slowly moving up to your panties. You’re dripping, just like he thought.

“That’s a lie,” he says smugly. His hand slides under the wet fabric and strokes your pussy. “Look at how wet I make her.”

The pleasure hits you instantly and you hold back a moan as he swiftly slips a finger, then another, inside you. Part of you wants to scream for him to stop, but the other part wants him to be so deep inside you that you’re screaming don’t stop. You wish it didn’t feel as good as it does. Wish you could push him away, leave, and never go back to him like you promised yourself. But to your dismay, you close your eyes and let his fingers fuck you until you don’t even have a coherent thought.

You hate it.

This isn’t supposed to be happening.

And yet, it’s happening.

“Rafe, please I—”

He puts a finger to your lips, silencing you. The same finger that’s now slick with your wetness and traces it over your bottom lip.

“You taste how good I make you feel?”

You nod as you softly suck his finger, tasting yourself, feeling your control slipping more. He’s about to have you so gone, and you want to curse yourself for giving in so easily.

“I’m sorry,” he says next. “I was mad at you. I didn’t mean to hurt you, baby.”

And just like that, those words flip a switch in you. They're the same words that you’ve heard so many times before. Every time he did something wrong and wanted your forgiveness. Every time you foolishly forgave him. Every time he promised he would never do it again, only to keep doing it.

“Your days of crying over Rafe Cameron and going back to him were over…”

You’re quiet for a moment before you say, “I forgive you, Rafe.” You lean in and whisper. “Go lay down.”

Rafe quickly strips down and does as he's told while you stand at the edge of the bed, looking at how ready he is for you. Slowly, you remove your skirt and panties and crawl up to him.

You press a kiss just below his navel, feeling his muscles jump beneath you. “Did you miss me?”

“You…” Rafe sucks in a breath. “You know I did.” It’s getting harder for him to speak now as you press soft, teasing kisses along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.

“How much?” You wrap your hand around him, stroking him slowly as you look into his eyes.

“So much, baby.”

He wants you so bad that you can feel it in every breath he takes. His dick is so hard, it’s begging for your mouth. You run your tongue up his length with a long, slow lick. He shudders. You smile. You love Rafe like this. So vulnerable. So desperate for you. You slowly take him into your mouth and quickly remind him of one of the reasons why he loves you.

“Fuck…” he groans and the sound is music to your ears.

You know you have him right on the edge. From the way his breaths turn to low, needy moans to the way his hand tightens in your hair as you take him deeper. Your mouth feels so good to him that if you asked him for the moon and the stars right now, he would try to get them for you. With each lick and the deeper you take him to the back of your throat, you can feel him losing a little more control.

You have him right where you want him.

Time to ruin him now.

You straddle him and guide his hands to your hips, watching him watch you as you take him in inch by inch. The feeling is just as good as it’s always been. Your pussy hugs him tight as you start to ride him so good that his head falls back against the pillow.

“Feel good, baby?”

You know it does, but you want to hear him say it.

“So fucking good,” he groans, barely holding it together as you wreck him.

Big Bad Rafe all fucked out.

There’s truly nothing better than having him completely in your control. You can tell he’s getting close, and you start moving faster and harder, every one of your movements working to give Rafe the best fuck of his life. To ruin him for anyone else. To make your pussy the one he can still feel in his dreams.

As you ride him to completion, you feel that familiar feeling inside you growing more intense, building higher and higher until you can’t hold back anymore. You tremble as your orgasm rocks your body, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. He’s almost there.

A little faster.

A little harder.

A little more.

“Fuck, baby, I’m about to…” He doesn’t even get the rest of his words out as you clench around him tightly and a rough groan rips from his throat.

There’s a satisfied smile on your face as you watch him fall apart under you. You keep riding until his warm cum is filling you up, spilling deep inside you. You take a moment to gather your breath before you slowly ease up from him.

Without a word, you quickly put your clothes back on and walk to the door.

Rafe is visibly confused. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving,” you smile sweetly. “I hope you enjoyed that because you’ll never get it again.”

You leave without even bothering to close the door behind you.

You actually are done with Rafe Cameron.

Give him the best sex of his life and then leave his ass? Sure did.

Nothing felt sweeter.

[formulafanfics13]

Childhood sweetheart reader x max Verstappen. She has always been their for him from the start of everything. The one who is always looking up at the podium with heart eyes. Then max gets into f1 with fanbases of girls and fame starting to get to his head. Starts to ignore and leave her behind breaking her heart. Fast forward max still thinks about her and wants her back. Reader is still in contact with Victoria then you can proceed however you would like the fic to go. Please

You Left Me Before You Left - MV1

Masterlist

Summary: Years after letting her slip away during his rise to fame, Max Verstappen runs into his first love in Monaco — the one who supported him before anyone knew his name. The reunion is raw, emotional, and unresolved, but leaves the door open for redemption.

Warnings: Emotional angst, themes of abandonment, unresolved romantic tension, past heartbreak, implied long-term emotional neglect.

Before he ever stood on a podium, she was the one cheering.

Not with flags or painted signs or screaming in the grandstands. With soft smiles. With steady hands. With arms that held him when he lost and eyes that burned with pride when he won. She was there. Always there. From the first time he climbed into a kart to the last time he kissed her in the parking lot before boarding a flight to Barcelona.

He told her he’d text when he landed. He didn’t. That was how it started.

One missed message. Then a weekend away. Then press. Then photos. New girls. Blonde. French. Influencers. All of them with curated smiles and names that trended.

And her? She stayed in the background. Quiet. Watching. 

She still watched the races.

Still knew the exact curve of his hands on the wheel. Still read every second of his sector times like scripture. Still looked up at the podium with heart eyes even when he didn’t glance down to see them.

Until it stopped. Until she couldn’t take it anymore.

She left the paddock. Deleted the race calendar from her phone. Learned how to sleep through Sundays. Pretended her heart didn’t skip every time she saw his face on a billboard.

Victoria never stopped calling. That was the part Max didn’t know.

That his sister still sent her updates. Still invited her over. Still called when she was sad or bored or drunk and needed someone who understood what it meant to be close to Max Verstappen.

She never asked about him. Never once. But she always listened.

And Max?

Max noticed the silence before he noticed the ache.

It came slowly. A hollow kind of awareness. At first, he told himself she was busy. That they were growing apart. That people change. But deep down, he knew.

He had left her before he ever left the country.

And now, years later, after titles and champagne and nights he couldn’t remember — she was still the ghost he couldn’t shake.

It happened in Monaco. He didn’t know she was in town. Didn’t expect to see her standing in the sun, wearing sunglasses and a linen dress, laughing at something Victoria said as they walked out of a café.

She didn’t see him at first. He stopped. Froze.

She looked different. Older. Softer in some ways, sharper in others. She still wore that same necklace. The one he gave her on her 17th birthday. The one with the little silver star.

He didn’t think. Just crossed the street. “Hey.”

She turned. The smile dropped.

He saw it in her eyes, that flicker of recognition, then the shutters slamming down.

“Hi,” she said. Polite. Distant.

Victoria looked between them and stepped back. “I’m going to… give you two a second.”

Silence.

Max stared at her. “You’re still here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Did you think I vanished?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You stopped talking to me.”

“You stopped listening.”

He flinched.

She shrugged. “What do you want, Max?”

He stepped closer. “To talk.”

“About what?”

“About us.”

“There is no us.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? Because you miss me?”

“Yes,” he said, voice cracking. “I fucking miss you.”

She looked at him then. Really looked. And for a second, it was like nothing had changed. The boy she loved was still there. Buried under the fame and the arrogance and the silence. But then the moment passed.

“I missed you too,” she said quietly. “But you didn’t notice.”

“I did.”

“Not enough.”

He stepped forward. “Let me make it right.”

“You can’t.”

“I want to try.”

She looked away.

“I know I hurt you,” he said. “I was stupid. I got caught up in everything. I thought I had time. That you’d wait.”

She met his eyes. “I did wait.”

His chest cracked open. “You were the only real thing in my life,” he whispered. “And I lost you.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then she sighed. “It’s not about whether you lost me, Max. It’s about whether you deserve me back.”

He looked at her like she was oxygen.

“I don’t,” he said. “But I still love you.”

Tears prickled in her eyes. “I don’t know if that’s enough anymore.” 

He stepped closer. Took her hand. Held it like it was glass. “I’ll earn it.”

She didn’t let go. And maybe that was enough for now.

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

Baby I need more of our weird little monster husband :3 He's rotting my brain

Have you lot never heard of stranger danger? Honestly

Contains- more horrors! Gore, violence, possessive behaviour, body horror

Yandere husband??? X fem reader

It seems as though you're the only person who has noticed anything different about your husband since his return. But when the household runs as smoothly as always it doesn't feel too much of a concern to explain to everybody that the Lord of the castle has been replaced by a creature who shifts faces and changes skin like he's dressing for dinner. The only difference in his demeanor is his new love for you but it's no one's place to question the relationship their lord has with his lady.

Small mercies you suppose. You once asked him what had happened to anyone who realised he really was. Your husband turned to you in bed with that lovesick smile he has every time you speak.

“I ate them, my dear,” he says it so casually the words take a moment to settle in. There are only little cracks in his facade, slightly more pronounced at night when he lets himself relax, those teeth of his, sharpened to a point are always there, peeking out if you looked hard enough.

You pale, “you eat people” repeating the obvious as you suddenly think of every time he ever nipped at you, the marks littering your neck, chest, and thighs. How you showed very little resistance to them,

“I can steal anyone's face, but if I want their memories too I eat them as well.”

“Does that mean you ate my husband?” You turn over to face his side. He looks so proud of himself as he nods. “What made you choose to take his place?” you finally ask the question you've been holding onto ever since the night he revealed himself towards you.He pulls a grimaced face at your words, cradling your head in his hands, as he pulls you so close your noses touch.

“I'm your husband now, don't call that man by the same name as me,” he pouts, it's absurd this creature pouting in your bed. “He cared nothing for you, didn't deserve that title, he didn't deserve to have you first and then waste it.” He strokes your hair lovingly. “It was an accident at first, he found me feeding and tried to kill me on his own. When his men came looking for him I had already taken his face and his memories along with that. So I thought of taking his place too.I wasn't expecting anything much but when I came here and saw you.” He leans in, peppering new kisses across your cheeks, “how could I not stay here when I have the most precious pet by my side?” he pulls you down in one sudden movement. Hovering above you as he did that night with delight in those unending eyes of his .That's what you were in his mind, the most sweetest little pet to adore. Although he may look at you with all this love, you don't believe he truly can love . He can observe, obsess and adore, but can any of this really be called love?

It's the closest thing you've ever experienced to it though. So perhaps that's why you say nothing, don't look for any help and merely melt into his touch when he is so quick to offer it. Overlooking the way he glares at anyone else who takes up space near you, the insistence on only himself accompanying you every time you want to leave the castle grounds. You can't protest these restrictions when all the permissions you enjoyed previously were all from your first husband's neglect. So you say nothing.

Until you find your way to the stables, wanting an early morning ride, one of your few freedoms he hasn't thought to amend yet. It is quiet. Too quiet when the stable boy spends each morning singing to some ballad or other as he readies your mare for you. When you open the door the sun illuminates the horrors before you, your husband half regressed into his true form. That unending black mass of teeth and claws clashing against the form he's chosen to take. Bone and flesh corrupted in this unfinished mess, feasting on something. You think it's a horse at first, your brain trying to trick your eyes to protect you from the sight of that monster consuming from the broken ribs of that stable boy. His head littered close to your feet, face frozen in a terror you must also share, the eyes having been plucked out.

That sweet stable boy who was but your own age and stammered every time you spoke. Was that his great crime?

You don't scream, you don't think you even can, there's a slow dripping sound as the creature becomes aware of the light, swiveling his neck to see who discovered this massacre. The sight of his face, a cruel amalgamation of your husband and the stable boy as well as his own form, features contorting to a mockery of your own terror. Is this being discovered in this state? He makes no move to speak, only watching your reaction as you heave your breakfast all over the stable floor. Crooning in that tenderness he seems to hold for you. He doesn't chase after you when you flee back to your bed chamber, locking the door and throwing salt against it as though that could do anything.

You made a mistake in thinking your monster was harmless to the world just because he shows gentleness with you.

There is a knock on the door, the same mournful voice crying out over and over “If you loved me you'd let me in.” howling with the wind outside. He changes tactics every so often, now it's the guilting, trying to cajole you to the door. Begging for a warm hand like a stray dog. You stay in your room, wrapped in your blanket to keep out the cold, to keep out his words. Shaking under the bed.

“Please forgive me ,I didn't mean to do it in front of you, I didn't know you would have seen it” . You pray silently that the door holds but when have the gods ever heard a prayer of protection from him? “I was only thinking for your sake, you knew the way he'd look at you, I couldn't bear it if you fell for him. And I warned him before all this, to stay away from what's mine. But he didn't listen and I had to act before it was too late. You understand why I had to do it for you, right?” He waits for your answer growing more frustrated with silence “right?” He screams, the sound echoing. He pauses, you could think he was taking deep breaths to calm himself if he was capable of breathing.

“My love, my sweet sweet love,” the door begins to shake in its frame “I didn't mean to scare you. You must have been so scared to see me like that. But I promise you, I'd never do such a thing to you. I love you too much to ever lay a finger on you, so please let me in.” There is silence finally, but no footsteps making their way away from the door. Then a slow heavy sound, as you look from the crack of light where the quilt doesn't meet the floorboards.

A black form seeping underneath the crack in the door, like ink overturned onto a page. You curl into a ball and tremble. How could you think you would be able to barricade yourself against something that can become smoke or water just as easily as he becomes solid. He is silent as he forms himself again, clothing clean, with no memory of the blood and viscera that he was soiled in. Something both solid and smoke grabs at you with little ceremony. Dragging you from your hiding place into his arms, he embraces you as though with enough effort he can squeeze you into himself.

“You were sick,” he mutters, as though that was the only thing that happened. “You should return to bed.” no word goes between you about what was just witnessed. You only nod and let him put you to bed.

“I love you,” he says over and over as though those words could erase what was seen from your mind. “I know you don't love me yet,” he cradles you against his chest. Faintly, you can still smell rust from his skin. The bile begins to rise in the back of your throat. “but I can wait, and I'll protect you to make sure no one steals you from me until then.” When he kisses you, there is no taste on his tongue. No trace of that sweet stable boy apart from a blood stain on the stable floor.

[eddiemunsonsbabygirl]

Back Back

Summary: A massage on a hot day leads to an even hotter moment.

A/N: More smut y’all I heard this banger by Zeddy Will and I need back shots from my fucking man 😩🥵🫦 REBLOGS AND COMMENTS MUCH APPRECIATED!

WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT!, POC!READER! (not specified), unprotected piv (don’t do this if you ain’t like kids), fluff! Lemme know if I missed anything!

After a long, rough day, the couple chilled at home relaxing and getting a massage.

Well, she was getting a massage of course. Both of them naked due to the hot weather and the muggy trailer. She laid flat on her stomach, head rested in her crossed arms. Her beautiful skin shined with the oil he had put on her. His hands were soft and moist as they got every tight knot stuck in her body. She held a blunt between her lips, getting high with her man as he treated her like the Goddess she was.

A beautiful woman with spice in her blood. A goddess of color. So fucking beautiful and smart. She works so hard for her loved ones and friends. She does so much for people. Too much, in Eddie’s opinion. She didn’t deserve the shit they threw at her. As if she was nothing. But she was everything. An angel sent from heaven and all for Eddie. For Eddie? The freak? The monster?

Yeah, Munson. For you. All for you. Only for you.

He had a type. Women of color. Women who understood him more than anyone could.

And he won the goddamn lottery. 

She was naked on his messy bed, skin shining and beautiful, hair a little tousled, looking like a dream. She was angelic, so sweet and precious. He wasn’t ever going to let this amazing thing go. This powerful being of a woman. 

And he was the lucky white bastard that she proudly and happily called hers. That he got to call his. Un-fucking-believable.

He’d never know how he did it. She just walked in his life one day and decided that his heart was now her treasure and he gladly let her have it. She knew everything about him because she was one in the same with him. She loved him because of who he was as a person, being hot was a bonus. He never thought he’d see the day where the freak gets a Goddess. If you told him a year before he’d laugh in your face and call you stupid.

But he wasn’t dreaming. He was here, happy as ever. The happiest man alive.

As he rubbed her body, he thought about how beautiful she looked right now. His hands slowly moved down to her ass, squishing the soft globes. The action caused her to let out a sigh and for his cock to stir. He slowly scooted a bit forward behind her and sat on her thighs, cock resting on her ass. He bit his bottom lip as he messed with her butt, leaning down occasionally to kiss her back. She got the message and slowly shifted to get on her knees, head still laying on the pillow. He moved back as she did, hands holding her waist as she moved her ass up and spread her legs apart.

She was dripping and not from the oil he used. Pussy so wet and beautiful and already needy for him. He let out a soft groan at the sight, mouth watering. One hand stayed on her hip while the other moved on her ass, then down between her legs in front of her. He traced his middle finger between her slick folds, making her gasp softly.

“You’re drippin’ baby.” He murmured in a low rumble. That only got her more wetter and her hole clenched around nothing. 

“Eddie~ please~” she moaned breathlessly. And with that, she needed no more. He got right behind her ass and wrapped his oily hand around his dick, pumping slowly and groaning at the action. He bit at his bottom lip once more, teasing the tip of his cock against her needy hole. And soon, he slid in slowly.

They moaned in unison, her soft lips parted and his nose flared. “Fuck baby, so tight~ Fuckin’ soaked. So beautiful~” He moaned aloud as you took all of him slowly. Once he was buried at the hilt, he let out a gasp.

The sight of your greedy pussy taking his big cock was enough to almost make him bust right there. So he looked up and whimpered, shutting his eyes tight. “Fuck baby, you’re so fuckin’ hot~ Takin’ all of me, almost just came right then and there~” He moaned deeply, slowly rocking his hips and moving her hips to be in sync with him. 

His window was open, the wind hitting both of their heated bodies. The fan was on, the sun was bright and setting, it was hot in the trailer. So the moment was perfect. The feeling of his cock stuffed inside her was filling and he was hitting her g-spot just right.

He wasn’t in any rush. He was doing in slow. She wanted it more rough but even this was perfect. It felt too good to ask for more. All she could do was moan and push her ass back. He sped up a little and stayed at that pace, still slow. His hands wandered all over her from squeezing her ass to gently scratching on her back. She was beautiful like this. Body slick, skin warm and moist and shiny, the feeling of her walls closing his dick in. The greediest pussy of them all and his cock was in heaven. He loved how selfish it was. It made him feel good all over. Finally, he looked down to see the breathtaking sight. He let out a whimper in response, speeding up his thrusts to watch how fast she takes him back.

Moans fell from their lips, the only name they knew wash of each other. They both felt so good, it fuzzed their mind. How big Eddie was and how hot he sounded. How beautiful she was and how it was a miracle he was still lasting. 

His hand moved down in front of her and he began to rub at her clit quickly. He leaned down, his chest against her back and he nipped at her ear. Because of how sensitive her poor nub was, she was mewling and her volume increased as his thick, calloused digits rubbed her in circles. His free hand moved down her arm, grabbing her hand in his. 

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful baby~ You feel so fucking good, holy shit~ Taking me all, fuck~! Fuckin’ love you, baby!” He moaned in her ear, nipping it every so often. He knew she liked that from how she gasped and how her pussy squeezed him even tighter. She was getting close and so was he.

“E-Eddie~ I love you too~ oh fuck~ baby~!”

And with that and a gasp, she moaned aloud as she came, him soon following after. He shot his load deep in her and fucked as much of it as he could inside her. After they rode out their orgasms, they toppled over with Eddie laying on his side with her in his arms, giggling at they laid in bed with Eddie spooning her and still deep inside her. He pressed kisses to her shoulder, smiling as he did so.

“I love you, pretty girl.” He cooed, which earned him a soft giggle. She turned her head to him, smiling wide. 

“I love you too, handsome.” She spoke softly, sealing her words with a kiss.

Edward fuckin’ Munson hit the jackpot.

Taglist: @nymphforquinn, @shmeddieshmunson, @ali-r3n, @iheartgrayson, @violetcamryn, @robinbuckleywife, @keeryhours, @spookydelusiondream, @spookybecc, @micro-kat, @mayo-nouns-blog, @dreamerjj, @daisy-rome, @herhideoutbluebird, @lily2105, @gwenmsblog, @wandamox, @downthewitchingwell, @caylieeh, @lil-quinnie, @fandomgirl1999, @secretleyastag, @atla08, @becausecorpseisworthit, @nightwitchlurker, @crybabydoll, @crow03, @yourvenusyour-love, @drowning-in-cosmic-hopes, @shadytimetravelstrawberry, @jadealex02, @rubidubisblog, @bunnygirlgracesworld, @multi-culti-girl, @rainybloo28, @liliglasermunsonquinn, @the-disaster-in-waiting, @bunnygirlgracesworld, @nikki-is-a-nerd, @gh0st-b1tcg, @littlesunandmoon, @thepurplelovewitch! Lemme if you’d like to be added/removed from the taglist 💕

♥️

[empressdede]

Tangled In The Ashes - I

Part One

“Daddy, you burnt the pancake again.”

Roman looked down at the skillet and cursed under his breath.

He flipped the pancake anyway, dark edges and all, sliding it onto the plate like it was gourmet. Melo didn’t seem to mind. The five-year-old was already swinging his legs at the breakfast table, humming to himself.

Roman poured syrup over the pile. “You gon’ eat it or you gon’ judge it?”

Melo grinned. “Eat it.”

Roman smirked and ruffled his curls before taking a seat across from him. Sundays were slow, quiet—just him and his son. He lived for these weekends. Especially when Amaya wasn’t blowing up his phone with her moods.

Not that he blamed her.

Their whole relationship had been a long, drawn-out tug-of-war. Some nights they’d fight like strangers, other nights they’d find themselves tangled up in sheets like nothing ever broke.

But Amaya had been distant lately.

Too distant.

“So, what you and Mommy do this week?”

Melo’s mouth was full, but that didn’t stop him from answering. “We went to the zoo on Friday. Then Mommy’s friend came over.”

Roman’s brow twitched. “Friend?”

“Yeah. He brought pizza and stayed for movie night. Mommy laughed a lot. Then in the morning I saw his shoes by the door, so I think he slept over—”

Roman’s chair scraped back slowly.

Melo blinked up at him, syrup on his chin.

Roman didn’t say a word at first. Just stood there, staring at his son like the words hadn’t hit yet. But they had.

Slept over?

Shoes by the door?

Laughed a lot?

Roman picked up his phone. Opened a new message. Closed it. Opened it again.

He didn’t even know what to say to her without cussing her out.

Because the truth was, Amaya wasn’t just some girl he used to mess with.

She was his Amaya.

The one he kept coming back to.

The one he couldn’t let go of—even if he was out here doing God knows what with whoever whenever. That didn’t matter.

Amaya was his.

Even if she said otherwise.

Even if she was out here laughing with some man.

He poured himself coffee and sipped slow, jaw tight, his mind already spiraling.

Let her play house if she wants to

He’d burn it down before he let anyone think she belonged to someone else.

⸻

The drop-off was tense before she even opened the door.

Amaya had that familiar look—lips tight, hair in a puff, no makeup, hoodie stretched over her curves. The same curves he still thought about late at night when he was alone.

“Hey, baby,” she said, ignoring Roman as she reached for Melo. “Did you have fun?”

“Uh huh. Daddy made pancakes again but he burned ‘em.”

Roman leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her.

“Yo,” he said low.

She glanced up. “Roman.”

“We need to talk.”

“I don’t think we do.”

“Oh, we do,” he said, stepping outside with her. “Melo mentioned some… ‘friend’ of yours. Said y’all had a sleepover.”

Amaya blinked. “We’re not doing this right now.”

“Who is he?”

She let out a breath. “Tyler.”

Roman scoffed. “Tyler.”

“Yeah,” she said, chin up. “My boyfriend.”

Something in him flared.

Boyfriend. Nah.

Not happening.

He stepped closer. “Since when?”

“Three weeks.”

“You serious right now?”

“Yes, Roman.”

She turned to go back inside, but he blocked the door with one hand.

“Let me guess. You needed something real this time, right? Tired of going back and forth with me, so you picked the first safe idiot who brought you pizza and a smile?”

Amaya’s nostrils flared. “You really wanna do this? You, of all people? The man who disappears for three days then texts me at 3 a.m. like nothing happened?”

“I never brought another woman around my son.”

“I wouldn’t have to bring anyone around him if you didn’t keep playing with me like I’m an option.”

He stared at her, chest rising.

“You are not an option.”

She laughed bitterly. “You treat me like one.”

Roman didn’t respond right away. He just looked at her like he always did—intense, unreadable. Like he was trying to decide if he wanted to kiss her or ruin her whole life.

“You still mine, Amaya,” he said quietly. “Even when you act like you’re not.”

“No, Roman. I’m not. I’m done being your convenience.”

“You’re not done with me,” he said, stepping even closer. “We’ve never been done. You just mad I don’t move the way you want me to.”

“No,” she said. “I’m mad that you know exactly what I need—and still refuse to give it to me. Loyalty. Consistency. Respect. I gave you chance after chance, and you kept showing me I wasn’t enough.”

He was quiet again.

The silence between them was heavy, charged.

He looked down at her lips.

“You still love me.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s always the point.”

Amaya swallowed hard, fighting the heat behind her eyes.

Roman’s voice dropped even lower. “That man? He ain’t me.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m trying to make it work with him.”

That one hit.

He clenched his jaw and nodded once, like he was accepting a challenge.

“Aight. Cool. I’ll meet him.”

“What?”

“I said I’ll meet him,” Roman repeated. “Since he around my son, I got a right.”

Amaya hesitated. “You’re not gonna scare him off.”

Roman’s smirk was damn near sinister. “I don’t have to. Real men know when they’re outta their league.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re exhausting.”

“Funny, you never say that when you’re in my bed.”

Her breath caught, and Roman saw it—the way her eyes flickered. He still had her. She was trying to close the door, but he was the storm she couldn’t fully lock out.

And he knew it.

Roman finally stepped back. “Tell ‘Tyler’ I’ll see him tomorrow.”

And just like that, he walked off, the final word echoing in the tension he left behind.

⸻

That night, Amaya sat in bed with her knees pulled to her chest.

Tyler had texted a goodnight selfie, and she replied with a heart. But her heart wasn’t really in it.

She hated the way Roman got under her skin. Hated that he could still make her feel so torn.

She wanted peace.

Stability.

Someone who showed up when they said they would. Someone who didn’t have a trail of women still clinging to him.

But Roman?

He was the kind of man who made it hard to forget the highs, even if the lows damn near destroyed her.

Her phone lit up.

Roman: “You looked good today.”

She didn’t respond.

A minute later, another text came.

Roman: “You still mine, Ma. Even when you pretend otherwise.”

She closed her eyes and let the phone drop onto the bed.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

And she knew it.

Tyler adjusted the sleeves of his button-down in the hallway mirror, then turned to Amaya with a nervous smile.

“You sure this is a good idea?”

She was standing by the door, arms crossed, every nerve in her body humming.

“No,” she admitted. “But Roman insisted. And if this is gonna work, you and him gotta be able to coexist.”

Tyler nodded slowly. “Coexist… with your baby daddy who still texts you at midnight.”

Amaya looked away. “It’s not like that.”

Tyler raised a brow. “Isn’t it?”

Before she could respond, there was a knock at the door.

Heavy. Confident. Like the person on the other side wasn’t waiting on permission to be let in.

Amaya’s stomach twisted.

Roman didn’t knock like a visitor.

He knocked like he owned the place.

When she opened the door, he stood there in black slacks and a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up, chains peeking from beneath the collar. His beard was trimmed, hair slicked back, scent sharp and unmistakable.

He looked good.

He knew it.

Roman stepped in without waiting for an invite, eyes sweeping the space before locking onto Tyler like a predator clocking another animal in his territory.

“So you the dude,” he said, coolly.

Tyler offered a hand. “Tyler. Nice to finally meet you.”

Roman stared at the hand like it was a joke, then slowly shook it—firm, just long enough to prove dominance.

“Melo still sleep?” Roman asked Amaya, not taking his eyes off Tyler.

“Yeah. He just knocked out,” she said. “Let’s keep it quiet.”

Roman nodded and took a seat on the edge of the couch like it was his.

Tyler sat across from him, and Amaya stood between them, arms crossed, heartbeat in her throat.

“I just wanted to meet the man my son is around,” Roman said, voice steady. “Make sure he’s not some clown.”

Tyler smiled slightly. “I get that. Totally understandable. I care about Melo, and I respect Amaya.”

Roman tilted his head. “Respect?”

“Yeah.”

“You respect her,” Roman repeated slowly. “So that include not touchin’ her while my son’s in the house?”

Amaya’s eyes widened.

Tyler blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Roman said. “You sleep here?”

“I have, yeah.”

“And you think that’s respectful?” Roman’s voice was calm, but the weight of it filled the room. “Layin’ up in the bed I used to break her back in. Next room over from my son.”

“Roman—” Amaya snapped.

“Nah, let him answer.”

Tyler held his composure, but his jaw clenched. “I think what’s disrespectful is acting like she’s still yours when you’re not together.”

Roman’s smile was slow, dangerous.

“That’s where you’re wrong. Me and Amaya? We never really been done. She just likes to pretend sometimes.”

Amaya exhaled, exasperated. “You don’t get to do this, Roman. You had your chance—chances. Tyler’s been nothing but good to me, and I’m not gonna let you come in here and piss all over it.”

Roman stood up slowly. “This ain’t about pissin’ on nothin’. I just don’t like the idea of some man who don’t know me playin’ stepdaddy like he built somethin’ here.”

“I’m not trying to replace you,” Tyler said. “I respect the bond you have with your son. I just want to be here for Amaya and Melo in a real way.”

Roman turned to Amaya, eyes burning through her. “So that’s what you want now? A ‘real way’?”

“Yes,” she said, voice steady even as her hands trembled. “I want consistency. I want peace. I want someone who doesn’t drag me through hell just to love me.”

Roman took a slow step toward her.

“You really think he gon’ love you better than me?”

“He already does,” she whispered.

Roman’s nostrils flared. “Say it again.��

“He already does.”

The silence was thick.

Roman stared at her like she betrayed him. Like she’d just stabbed him in the back and twisted the knife.

“You forget who you are when you with me,” he said, voice low and tight. “You was soft. Open. Always lookin’ at me like I was the only thing that mattered. Don’t pretend like he give you that same feeling.”

Amaya blinked back heat in her eyes. “Because I was in love with you. I fought for us for years. But you never chose me fully. So I stopped choosing you.”

Roman stepped back, something shifting in his face. Something wounded and prideful and furious all at once.

“Tyler,” he said, turning to him now, “you seem like a decent dude. But let me make somethin’ clear.”

Tyler stood, eyes steady.

“I don’t care how many movie nights y’all have. How many pizza boxes you bring over. That’s my son. And Amaya?” Roman’s smirk returned. “She still got me in her blood. You just… temporary relief.”

Tyler didn’t flinch. “We’ll see.”

Roman’s smile dropped.

“You won’t last,” he said flatly. “Not because she don’t want to move on. But because the moment I decide to come back? She’ll open the door.”

“Roman—” Amaya snapped, tears brimming now. “Leave.”

He stared at her.

She was trembling.

Not with fear—but with restraint.

He loved that about her.

Hated it, too.

“You want me to leave?” he asked, voice softer now.

“Yes.”

His eyes flicked to Tyler. Then back to her.

“Okay.”

Roman walked to the door, opening it slowly, but before he stepped out, he looked over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you at the drop-off.”

Then he was gone.

⸻⸻

Tyler sat back down, rubbing the back of his neck.

“That man…” he exhaled. “He’s something else.”

Amaya didn’t speak.

She sat on the arm of the couch, shoulders shaking.

“Hey,” Tyler said, walking over, crouching in front of her. “You okay?”

“I hate him,” she whispered. “I hate that he knows exactly where to cut.”

“You don’t have to let him do it anymore,” Tyler said gently. “We’re not doing this triangle shit. If we’re serious, you need to shut that door for real.”

She looked at him.

Tired. Torn.

“I’m trying.”

Tyler held her hands. “Then try harder. Because I won’t fight for a woman who won’t fight for me.”

Amaya nodded slowly.

But later that night, as she lay in bed with Tyler asleep beside her, her phone buzzed again.

Roman: “He not built for you.”

Roman: “But I am.”

She didn’t respond.

But she didn’t delete the messages either.

And that said everything.

“You let him in your house?” Naomi nearly choked on her wine. “And let him sit across from your new man like it’s a damn reality show reunion?”

Amaya groaned, sinking deeper into the couch, wrapping her throw blanket tighter around her body.

“I didn’t let him. Roman insisted. You know how he is. When he wants something… it just happens.”

Mariah poured another glass of red and handed it to her sister. “You should’ve made it clear. There’s boundaries, Amaya.”

“I did! I told him we were over, I told him I’m with Tyler now, I told him he doesn’t get to act like I’m still his—”

“But you are, though,” Naomi cut in, raising her brow.

Mariah rolled her eyes hard enough to cause whiplash. “Naomi, don’t start.”

“No, I’m just saying,” Naomi shrugged. “Let’s not act brand new. Roman is a lot—too much, even—but you’re not exactly indifferent, sis. You still feel him. I can see it all over your face.”

“I’m tired of feeling him,” Amaya whispered, looking down at her wine. “He’s like gravity. Even when I try to get away, something keeps pulling me back.”

Mariah sat on the edge of the armchair, voice firm. “Then cut the cord. For real this time. Tyler is stable. He shows up. He’s good to Melo. He ain’t gonna have you crying in the shower and second-guessing yourself every week.”

Naomi shook her head. “That man ain’t ever gonna make her feel like Roman did.”

“And that’s the point,” Mariah snapped. “She doesn’t need to feel like that again. That toxic, up-and-down mess had her losing sleep, losing herself. What Tyler lacks in heat, he makes up for in peace.”

Naomi took a slow sip. “I’m sorry, but peace is not supposed to feel like watching paint dry.”

“Oh my God,” Mariah muttered.

“No, for real,” Naomi leaned forward, locking eyes with Amaya. “I know y’all all about ‘healing’ and ‘boundaries’ now, and I support it—I do. But you can’t force your heart to forget who set it on fire just because he disappointed you.”

Amaya gave her a look. “Disappointed? Naomi, Roman devastated me. Over and over again. You know that.”

“I do,” Naomi nodded. “But I also know you. And I know what you looked like when y’all were good. You were glowing. You were soft and confident and alive in a way I haven’t seen since you’ve been with Tyler.”

Mariah scoffed. “Girl, she was glowing in between breakdowns. Let’s not glamorize trauma just because the sex was good and the apologies were poetic.”

Amaya covered her face. “Y’all are stressing me out.”

Naomi grinned. “We love you, that’s all.”

Mariah leaned in, serious now. “Sis, you say you want peace. But you can’t keep texting Roman back and expecting Tyler not to notice the shift.”

“I didn’t text him back,” Amaya defended.

“But you wanted to,” Mariah said. “And you didn’t block him either.”

Silence.

Naomi smirked. “Told you. Still his.”

Amaya shot her a look. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“No,” Amaya said, her voice trembling. “Because I spent too long confusing obsession with love. Roman loves me when it’s convenient. Tyler loves me consistently. But… I don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of love.”

Mariah nodded slowly. “Because it’s quiet. And you’re used to chaos.”

Naomi sat back, thoughtful. “Or maybe… it’s just not deep enough.”

“Naomi,” Mariah warned.

“No, hear me out,” she said. “I’m not saying Tyler’s not a good man. But not every good man is your man. Just like not every passionate relationship is meant to last. But Roman? That man looks at her like she’s the air he breathes. I saw it. I felt it when we all used to hang out.”

Amaya swallowed. “That look… it’s a lie.”

“But it still gets to you,” Naomi whispered. “Even now.”

Amaya didn’t respond.

Because she knew it was true.

Roman had a hold on her, even when he was quiet. Even when he wasn’t in her bed or blowing up her phone. He lived in the back of her mind like a ghost who refused to die.

And Tyler?

He was kind. Thoughtful. Steady. But sometimes his steadiness made her feel like she was waiting for a spark that would never come.

“I just… I want to be free,” Amaya finally said. “From all of it.”

Mariah reached for her hand. “Then choose. And stand on it. Don’t text Roman. Don’t let him pop in whenever he feels like it. Don’t leave Tyler hanging while you sort through unfinished business.”

Naomi raised a brow. “Or—hear me out—you finish that business first. See if Roman’s really ready to give you what you need. If not, then close the door.”

“You mean reopen the door he already halfway broke off the hinges?” Mariah snorted. “She’s not a revolving door, Naomi.”

“Maybe not,” Naomi said with a shrug. “But she’s still in love. And love makes things messy.”

Amaya leaned her head back against the couch, eyes closed.

“I wish I could just… shut my heart off. Pick the right thing. Not the addicting thing. Not the familiar pain dressed up as passion.”

“But you won’t,” Naomi said gently. “Because your heart still remembers what it was like to be wanted that deeply.”

Mariah shook her head. “And your heart still remembers what it was like to cry alone while he was with someone else.”

Amaya bit her lip.

“Tyler wants a future,” Mariah continued. “He’s not perfect, but he’s safe. And maybe that’s the kind of love you deserve.”

“But what if safe feels like settling?” Amaya whispered.

“That’s the trauma talking,” Mariah said.

“Or it’s the truth,” Naomi countered.

Silence fell again.

Three women. Three opinions. And one exhausted heart caught in the middle.

“I’m scared,” Amaya admitted finally. “If I give Roman another chance, I might lose myself again. But if I let Tyler go, I might lose the man who would’ve stayed.”

Naomi stood up and kissed the top of her head. “Then take your time. But don’t lie to yourself while you do it.”

Mariah hugged her from the side. “And don’t break someone else’s heart while trying to fix your own.”

⸻⸻

Later that night, Amaya lay in bed, phone on her chest.

She opened her text thread with Roman.

She hovered.

Then she typed.

Amaya: “Don’t come to the house unannounced again.”

She stared at it.

Then added:

Amaya: “I’m trying to move on. Please let me.”

A few moments passed.

Then the bubbles appeared.

Roman: “If you wanted to move on, you wouldn’t still be texting me.”

Her breath caught.

Then another came.

Roman: “Tell your boyfriend to sleep light.”

She didn’t respond.

She just locked her phone, rolled over, and let the war inside her heart rage on in silence.

Ngl I love Toxic baby daddy Jey and I thought…. Hmmm, what would Roman look like as a toxic baby daddy. 🤣🤣 How we feeling?

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[therobotsarestuckinmyhead]

Hi! Could you write a headcanon for Transformers: Prime set during Season 2, where the Autobots discover another Transformer who’s been hiding in Brazil and can transform into a red Chevrolet Celta? And could the reader be a chill and funny guy, but a bit on the scaredy-cat side? Sorry if that’s too specific 😅

☆|♡ "NEW FRIEND & OLD MEMORIES"

OHHHHHH ANON… didnt mention whether platonic or romantic </3 so i went with a fine middle line. for plot reasons, there was an omega key in Brazil. i had to research on Brazil. forgive me for inaccuracies. also uhhh heads up for the Arcee part.

scenario: on a mission to recover one of the omega keys, the Autobots encounter another bot

including: Smokescreen, Optimus, Arcee, Bulkhead

note: reader is depicted to have an accent cause i <3 transformers with accents

BACKGROUND:

This dirt ball was where Optimus said he'd be at— You had the coordinates and everything! Yet your escape pod crashed right into Brazil, the coordinates for Jasper, Nevada must've been a few kliks off because you found yourself in the forest outskirts of Manaus, Amazonas all the way in Brazil. Not even the right country but you didn't realize that until much later.

You'd managed to set up a make-shift base within the forest; far, far away from any human settlements. The last thing you want is to catch anyone's attention before you find the rest of the Autobots, especially the natives.

No ship, no crew, no contact... nothing.

But hey! That's just a minor set-back. You're sure you can manage.

Of course you knew how to defend yourself. Not the best on the offensive but a good enough defensive, managing to stay undercover. You managed to build a low-quality but functioning radio transmitter, you're a bit of a techie— nothing big, just a few simple things you'd picked up after being stuck in this seemingly never ending war. You hoped your messages would reach where ever Prime and the rest of the Autobots are. Until then you're stuck all alone with many misadventures. Like living off of energon you manage to steal from Decepticon energon mines deeper into the forest.

Until you met a fellow Autobot.

Smokescreen:

— Smokescreen is the one who found you in the forest, the exact same forest where the third Omega Key just so happened to be located. He encountered you through a misunderstanding actually; you almost mistook him for a possible Decepticon when you managed to pick up a spark-signal. But once you saw him, you realized you were wrong and he debrief you on everything you missed out on (everything he was aware of at least). However, the two of you were knocked out cold by Starscream and that twat managed snatch the Omega Key right out of Smokescreen's servos!

— Smokescreen is relatively easy to get along with. He enjoys your company, even if you clearly are a bit of a scaredy-cat. In fact he actually likes that about you, it gives him a lot more ammo he could use to tease you with.

— He laughs the loudest at your jokes, you managed to cheer him up after losing the third Omega Key so Smokescreen does get a bit attached to you. He may or may not get attached a bit too easily... and quickly.

— Also he's definitely not really vibing with you alt mode of choice, I mean, a Chevrolet Celta? Why not a luxury sports car or a race car! Like his own Indy 500 race car alt mode? You're quick to retort with how much more noticeable a sports car or a race car is and how it beats the purpose of 'Robots in Disguise' but he pretends not to hear it... He doesn't want to admit that you may have a really good point there. Only because he is a race car.

— Smokescreen does like the red paint though and how you've managed to keep it relatively scratch-less given you're in a forest. But he does wish you'd add some more colour to it, you're a pretty vibrant bot so he thinks a few more streaks and colouring would really suit you.

— You can bet your spark that he's going to use the fact that he's a sport-car to his advantage because he is constantly challenging you to a race and you're clearly not able to keep up with him. He has a proud smug smile on his face. Finally! After cycles of losing to Bumblebee, he's farming race wins for once like Max Verstrappen does.

— Your accent throws him off a little but he's gets used to it quickly. Again, you crashed in Brazil, its only natural that you learnt Portuguese before you did English. He could easily learn Portuguese too, mostly cause of the existence of the internet. Well, not really learn per say but translate his way through conversation.

— Cue you and Smokes conversing in Portuguese while the rest of the team is incredibly confused as to what the two of you are saying. You have a secret language with him. The two of you are teasing the kids, especially Miko. It's driving her nuts how the two of you are talking and she can't make out a WORD. She wants to get into it as well, she's begging you to let her get into this 'secret language'. Then Raf tells her its Portuguese and not some secret alien language and her excitement dies down.

Optimus:

— Optimus is happy to have you onboard even if he is disheartened at not being able to get one of the keys because in the end of the day, its more Autobot to their mission and they need all the help they can get to gather all the four Omega Keys.

— Optimus is more reliable than Smokescreen when it comes to letting you know what's happening so he fills in any gaps Smokescreen may have left out. He also takes the liberty to introduce you to everyone.

— Optimus finds you interesting, mostly because you managed to survive on a completely different continent and managed to stay hidden so well that Ratchet’s detection systems couldn't pick up on your spark signature.

— Optimus is observant, a lot more than one would think and from all he's managed to understand from your story, you're a survivalist with the talent when it comes to staying hidden. He can see how resillant you are, managing to find fuel even in such a precarious situation. The attempts to hand-repair your frame by yourself is clear with poorly welding marks as well as remnants of blasterfire burns.

— Your tech-knowledge would definitely help them, its a massive advantage for their side. Ratchet is a medic, he's not exactly an engineer. Even the little engineering knowledge you have is useful to them, you could assist Ratchet and perhaps maybe even improve the ground bridge.

— Sometimes, you say Brazillian phrases/sayings and it confuses Optimus. He just nods his helm like he does with Agent Fowler's other Earth sayings in English. Yours just confuses him a bit more because its in a language he hasn't conversed in yet. He might get curious and try to learn some Portuguese himself.

— And since you seemed to have managed to pick up on Earth languages very well, along with their customes, Optimus thinks that theres a very high chance that you might be some sort of 'human expert' because he still finds himself struggling with a few sayings and such. Human lingo is just not for him.. Optimus thinks you'd be great to interact with humans.

— Your strong basic knowledge in tech is a huge service because now you're helping Ratchet improve his weapons systems. He's grateful to have you.

— Optimus does want to get to know you better but he isn't exactly sure on how to approach you, the Prime can be slightly awkward at times (evident with how he tried to talk to Wheeljack that one EP) so he's still figuring it out.

— You're getting most of the maintenance work now. Fixing the lights at the base, ground-bridge maintenance, tweaking systems, maximizing performance... You've slowly become an integral part of the team. Your tweaks to the systems have made it a lot easier to decrypt the coordinates of the fourth Omega Key.

Arcee:

— Oh Arcee, she's really going through with it the moment she saw you. You just remind her of Cliffjumper, its like you're a walking-talking replica of the bot. So similar yet so, so different. From the red paint to the sense of humour and light-heartedness, you're triggering a lot of memories for her.

— So, she does what she normally does when she has something which triggers the flashbacks. Avoid it. Arcee is avoiding you like you're the Rust Plague. She is cold to you, not exactly rude but incredibly silent when you're around and you can sense it: the way her frame seems to stiffen slightly, her EM field tucked to herself tightly as if she doesn't want you to know what she's feeling— her guard is constantly up when you're around.

— You notice this. At first you wonder if you're doing something wrong. Perhaps she's just skeptical about the credibility of your story? An understandable concern which could be talked out... or so you thought because when you try to confront her about it, she usually says something flat and cold, just leaving you there after giving some excuse to ditch the conversation. It annoys you because every time you try to talk to her, she shoots you down like you're a Vehicon.

— You come to the conclusion that there may not be anything wrong with you but instead, there could be something wrong with her. You're not sure. Does she just not like you for no reason? Your relationship with Arcee is strained.

— But it slowly does get better as time moves on and when she does, she feels bad about how she was like towards you.

Bulkhead:

— You know him! You two have met before back on Cybertron during the war so he's someone you're a lot more comfortable with and its relatively easy to get along with him too. He's a chill guy and you're a chill guy. It was bound to be like that.

— But you and Smokescreen have doomed him into having to learn Japanese because Miko is adamantly trying to make sure she and Bulkhead have a secret language no one else can understand! When Bulkhead asked why she couldn't just do that with Jack and Raf, she said that it'd be much easier teaching him than them. So now his databanks have files on all three different Japanese writing systems and over three thounsand Kanji. Now he's gotten better than Miko at Japanese.

— Cue Miko dragging him in when you are Smokescreen are talking in Portuguese so that Bulkhead can show off his Japanese. He's got a big frown on his face; he's very embarrassed, evident from his EM field and you're trying not to laugh as Smokescreen is trying his hardest to hold it back.

— Considering he used to work in construction, he's usually the one doing most of the maintenance work but then you came along so now he's helping you out with most them. He's like your assistant, he can't stay committed to keeping the base alright when he's usually out on the field.

— But other than that, he likes having you around. You're funny, you've managed to get multiple snickers out of him.

— If you get even closer to him, he'll have some crazy Wrecker stories to tell you. The more tame ones that aren't extremely traumatic for him to say, Miko is secretly listening in the background.

— He likes talking to you and will start striking up more casual chats with you, you make the heavy atmosphere of the room a lot lighter and bearable. Something he really needs with how hectic its been trying to locate these Omega Keys.

— Bulkhead knows Arcee wouldn't like it but when you keep asking him about why Arcee doesn't like you, he's going to be the one to tell you what's wrong.

— Bulkhead is the main reason why your relationship with Arcee improves because he's trying to talk to her, trying to reach out to her though its mainly Optimus who's confronting her after noticing something off. He knew immediately why Arcee was avoiding you because he felt the same way, you were just like Cliff.

— Also one time, Miko dressed herself up in a very convincing Scraplet costume. You and Bulkhead were talking and the lights flickered off, you were not very happy about that cause the two of you just finished maintenance work. Then the lights flicker on and the two of you see this scraplet and immediately scream together, holding onto each other for a moment. You were about to shoot with your cannon until Miko removed the costumes head and began hysterically laughing while the two of you are holding onto each other for life.

— Neither of you were pleased and took her straight to Optimus so she could have a "chat" with the boss bot. Miko is your and Bulkhead's adopted child at this point.

the description you gave me reminded me too much of Cliffjumper and idk if it were intention but it gave me ideas :3

[robiinurheart33]

Lately, Noelle has been thinking.

Does she matter?

It wasn’t the first time. But she’d been thinking this a lot more lately. Does anything really matter? Everyday is the same. Everything stays the same. She stays the same. Same clothes, same haircut since she was 4, same town, same classmates.

Or maybe she just wasn’t used to change.

When Dess first disappeared, she didn’t believe it. She wanted to, but just couldn’t. She would knock on her door in the middle of the day before remembering that she’d been forbidden to touch the door. She would turn corners and expect blood-red antlers peeking over the wall. The pounding, screaming bloody murder music that had driven her crazy before was completely silent. Like everything had been frozen in place.

Dess wasnt the model older sister that Noelle was supposed to have. But she was imperfect in all the best ways. She always stood up for Noelle when she had cried over the smallest things, let her win in racing games even though her little thumbs would jumble up the buttons and let her get into last place, watched her play guitar with Asriel, laugh loud and brazenly in the face of danger. Dess had a temper to her, and Noelle wasn’t spared from it either. She yelled and slammed doors, sneaked out and had Noelle promise not to tell. She locked the door even when their mom made her mumble not to, and folded her pizza in half to stuff the whole slice into her mouth, helped her dad with peeling his antlers when it came time for them to shed. She was untouchable, is what Noelle thought back then.

That day, everything became silent.

That day, everything seemed to stand still.

That day, Noelle lost her sister.

That day, everything changed.

But she stood still. Nothing anyone said could help her, and she didn’t expect it to. She cried, and sobbed. It didn’t bring her back. She ached and scratched her chest until her fur had come out in patches. It didn’t bring her back. She tried, she tried, and tried again. Nothing worked. It never, ever brought her sister back. Did it matter if she did anything in the first place?

If she didn’t cry, if she didn’t wander into the woods and beg them to take her away too, would everything have had the exact same outcome? What was the point of wasting energy mourning when it didn’t bring back the one thing that would help her become better?

But Noelle knew, deep down, that if she never did those things, if she withdrew and stayed silent like Kris, a deep guilt would crawl its way through her body, like a ghost hovering over her shoulder at all times. But she couldn’t survive like this; there was no possible way. So, she threw herself into her work. Like mother, like daughter, right? She took up extra credit classes, signed up for almost every possible extra curricular activity, studied until she could hear the birds sing. Anything to keep her from thinking too deep.

Noelle grew. Her antlers grew towards each other and her hair grew in thick curls that she tried to straighten every morning. “It’s not how a proper girl should look.” Her mother said. She grew into a lanky, awkward body that she still wasn’t used to be in. More freckles appeared on her face that her mother tried to scrub away. She poked and prodded her face with a slim finger, grimacing at what she saw.

Noelle still stands in front of her door sometimes, just staring. She doesn’t go in. It doesn’t matter if she does. It wouldn’t change anything anyways.

She still thinks about Kris though, more than she would be willing to admit. She traces the dust on the piano sometimes and positions her hand like they would, eventually standing up and leaving the kitchen in a hurry, biting her lip. When Kris stopped talking, and Asriel stopped visiting her, and her dad started to visit the hospital more and more over “nothing”, the house was empty. Noelle felt empty. If a tree falls down and no one hears it fall, did it ever make a sound in the first place? Did anything matter? If she pretended to be okay, would anything be different? Would she still have been left behind?

Would her and Kris walk past each other like they didn’t spend every waking moment of their childhood together? Noelle hates to admit it, but she does worry about them. Are they also sitting by themselves in a shared room for one, sitting in a building too big to be called a home? She only could ever spare a nervous wave, and try to help them in any way she could without seeming suffocating. Would they notice? Would it matter?

Noelle wasn’t anything like December. She was meek and scared of the smallest things. She couldn’t talk back, no matter how hard she tries. But she tries, and that has to mean something, right? She tries her best everyday to pat down her hair, and smooth out the wrinkles on her sleeves, practises her smiles in front of the mirror, visits her dad in the hospital every day after school. She lends pencils, helps berdly with his schoolwork, carries Ms Alphys’s books, runs cross country like there’s something to get away from.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? What is the problem? How does she fix it? How does she stop feeling like every day is a monochrome smear? She tries, she swears. She tries every single day, and she cares, doesn’t she?

Noelle can’t tell.

Does it matter?

Then one day, something changes. A whole new world at her fingertips, neon green burning her retinas, flashing traffic lights and Susie. She looked stunning with her axe blazing in the darkness, her frizzy hair blowing in the wind with a crazy glint in her eye. Noelle couldn’t look away. She could admit that she’s seen her in a more appreciative light recently. It was sort of like when Dess used to cover Noelle’s eyes during the scary parts of a zombie movie and she would swat her hand away, claiming that she could take it. (They both knew that she couldn’t, but wasn’t the adrenaline and excitement worth it anyways?) She was unapologetic in whatever she did, jagged edges and a crooked smile that made her eyes crinkle. Noelle was smitten, to say the least.

Susie was everything that she admired. And in this hazy world, where her hair is a lighter blonde, perfect curls falling over her shoulder, antlers perfectly symmetrical, fur velvety and a dress that flowed like water, she could almost imagine herself to be someone that another could love.

Queen was…an experience. Noelle knew from the start that she was being manipulated, but Queen spoke in a way that felt like she was wanted. Needed. And it felt nice. It felt new. Queen never criticised her once, spoke to her like she was something to be cherished, even if it was superficial. At the very least, she did make her feel like she was someone worth to be around. Berdly….was also there.

And then she woke up, and the dream abruptly ended. It wasn’t real. It felt real.

If a tree falls down, and no one hears it, does it make a sound?

And the next day was supposed to be the same. And suddenly Noelle couldn’t take it anymore. The monotonous repetition of the days, it drove her insane. After a taste of it, she needed something new. Something different. Something that mattered. She laid awake at night, staring at the glint that cast from the snowflakes that hung from her ceiling. She thought about Kris, and Susie. She thought about what she wanted. She wanted to talk to Kris again. She wanted to know Susie better. She wanted to be more confident. She wanted to make her own decisions, wear what she wanted. Have the freedom of choice, like she wasn’t just stuck like a deer in headlights.

Did it matter, in the end, what she wanted?

Noelle closed her eyes, Dess’s smiling face flashing in front of her.

She wanted it to.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

It’s a bit of a strange thing I’ve had on my mind but will the fandom forever consider the twst boys to be the age on their profile?

I know that they have had birthdays because the main story has been progressing through the months but they never changed in the profile menus. Not with the player moving through the game or with the years of the games release, this is pretty normal though for most games. I only actually started thinking about this because they changed Silvers name at the end of chapter 7, including in the character menu after you compete that part of the story… so they do update the profiles as the story progresses? It’s just a funny thing I’ve had in my mind and I wonder if they will ever update them (prolly not cause their birthdays aren’t celebrated in the main story) but I wonder how the fandom will consider their ages at this point in the story?

Time has definitely been passing in the main story! Months and school events + holidays associated with them (such as winter break, the new year, etc.) have been mentioned several times.

Book 7 ends on May 15, Silver’s birthday, which officially makes him 18 years old. This is explicitly stated by Malleus and therefore confirms that anyone with a birthday from September to May 15 should have aged up one year. It also means that the ages currently stated on the character profiles are the ages the characters are at the START of the school year (in September). This is also confirmed by Yana herself via Twitter.

There’s been a few instances of the profiles in Twst updating:

Firstly, Ortho pre-book 6 and post-book 6. Before book 6, his profile is pretty short and does not include the same level of detail as other students. After book 6, Ortho gets the same level of detail as other students, as this is when he formally becomes one. Things like class, club, and best subject are finally added.

All of the NRC staff had their profiles updated (in the JP server) too; this coincided with the 5th anniversary QoL updates and not any in-game story event. This added many more details to the basic staff profiles (which we still see in EN). The updated JP profiles include details like their birthdays, the club they were in when they were a student, special talent, etc.

If you want to see all 5 updated staff profiles, you can find translated versions here.

And then we have Silver, whose profile updates at the end of book 7 to reflect his new surname. This was the only change he received; all other details (including his age) are the same.

To this day, there has been NO age-related changes to the Twst character profiles. I find this odd since Ortho and Silver’s profiles changed to correspond with main story events which clearly indicate the passage of time. Shouldn’t all characters’ ages also go up as the main story progresses instead of staying the static number that they were in September/at the start of the school year? Regardless of what the profiles currently say though, the fact remains that many characters have gone up a year in age by book 7’s end.

I’m not exactly sure how the fandom is treating this? I’d imagine that it varies based on the individual fan 🤷‍♀️ I feel like most people will go with whatever ages they’d be at by whatever point in the main story they’re at, since the main story literally went and said Silver IS 18 now. Of course, there will always be those few extreme fans who claim you cannot EVER age up a character because they assume it’s for Weird purposes and not just people wanting to acknowledge character development and the natural progression of time. Personally, I’m big on following canon (and love exploring how the boys change with their experiences!!) so I choose to treat the characters as however old the main story timeline implies they are.

[anakinsluvrgirl]

✧ sam monroe x f!reader

summary: you and sam have always been close, maybe too close. now its just late night, quiet kisses, and feelings that neither of you are ready to name.

warnings: none ! simply making out.

a/n: ok this is the first minimally good thing ive written in MONTHS so im kinda proud of it ngl 😣 its pretty simple but i hope you like it as much as i do <3

divider creds: @roseraris

Sam Monroe had many hobbies. None of them particularly healthy. Smoking, dealing, blasting music loud enough to piss off the neighbours — And of course, making out with his best friend like it wasn’t a total disaster waiting to happen. Things to fill the silence.

Risky? Sure. But that wasn’t the right word for it. Sloppy felt more accurate, like something unplanned, impulsive, the kind of thing that started without meaning to and never really stopped. You couldn’t remember the first time it happened. The first kiss, the first time you ended up tangled in his sheets, breathless and laughing like idiots, but it blurred together after that. Like muscle memory.

You didn’t talk about it. You didn’t need to. And honestly? You weren’t really complaining. It wasn’t love, at least not in the clean, safe way people always talked about it. Something kept pulling you back into his orbit, night after night, until it stopped feeling strange and just started feeling like the only thing that made sense. Neither of you asked what it meant. Neither of you cared enough to stop. Or maybe you cared too much to say it out loud.

Though you refused to admit it. Dating? No, you two weren’t dating. Best friends? Definitely. You always said that you two were just really close. But deep down you both knew that it wasn’t entirely true. However, can you really call it a real friendship if you don’t occasionally make out or fool around a bit?

You and Sam had been orbiting each other for as long as you could remember. He’d always just been there. This permanent fixture in your life, like a scar or a favorite song you never got sick of. From scraped knees and schoolyard fights to late-night drives and cigarette ash on hoodie sleeves, he was a constant. Reliable in his own unpredictable way.

You know each other better than anyone else ever could, down to the exact same look he’d give when something was bothering him but he didn’t want to talk about it, or the way his voice dropped when he was trying not to like he cared. He never had to say too much, and you never had to ask. Inseparable didn’t even begin to cover it. You were entangled. Years of shared secrets, close calls, and unfinished sentences had made sure of that.

Deep down, you knew you weren’t supposed to be here again, but you just couldn’t resist the urge to see him. It was a random Tuesday, barely past midnight, and his window was still half open, like he expected you to crawl through it.

Sam didn’t say anything when you stepped inside. He just blinked at you through the smoke curling off the cigarette between his fingers. He was sitting on his bed, hoodie falling off one shoulder, eyeliner faded into tiredness shadows. His room was a mess, still smelled like paint thinner and cheap cologne.

“You forgot how to knock or something?” He muttered, his voice low and scratchy.

You didn’t say anything, you simply sat beside him, your knees touching. He passed you the cigarette wordlessly. You didn’t really smoke, but you took a drag anyway. Something about the way his lips had just been on it made you feel high enough.

“Rough night?” He raised an eyebrow as he observed you. You stayed silent for a few more moments, before finally speaking up, “Aren’t they all?” You mumbled, turning your gaze towards him, the cigarette between your fingers.

Sam leaned in before you could say anything else, pressing his mouth to yours like it was the only thing that made sense. The cigarette in your hands was immediately forgotten. His hands moved to your waist, pulling your body closer. The way his hands slid up your hoodie, the way you tilted your head just so, the familiar scrape of his lip ring against your mouth. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. You kissed like you were trying to prove something, like maybe if you stayed close enough, long enough, it’d start to feel real.

Sam pulled back just enough to speak, his voice nothing more than a murmur against your lips, “You’re gonna get tired of this someday,” he spoke. “And you’re gonna pretend like you won’t care,” you shot back.

He didn’t argue. Just kisses you again, deeper this time, like he was trying to drown the silence between the words neither of you would ever say.

His fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt. Your hoodie was already half off, and so was his. The room was cold, but his hands were warm, calloused, familiar. He tugged you closer, until you were practically on his lap, your thighs straddling his and your breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat.

You almost said something, something stupid like “don’t go falling in love with me” but the words died before they made it out.

Because deep down, you weren’t sure which of you would be more likely to mean it.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 212 (Lost in the Volcano Caves)

"Ash, we've seen this tunnel before," Lavender insisted, following her brother at a dragging pace as they wandered aimlessly through the winding volcano caves. Gord and Captain Whitaker stuck close, eyeing their young humans with confusion.

"How can you tell? Half the tunnels look the same as this one and we've looked at the same rocks for hours!"

Ash was tired and worried. His phone couldn't get a signal in the tunnels they were lost in; if they ever found their way out of here, he knew they'd be in trouble.

"Maybe Gord and Captain Whitaker can find a way out that's only big enough for dogs and get help," she suggested. "I'm getting hungry."

"Me too," he agreed. "Why did you have to run in so far, Lava?"

"I thought I heard a mermaid! Isn't that what Mommy and Daddy are here to look for?"

"There's no mermaids here!" he argued. "No water, just rocks."

"I didn't know that!"

The dogs barked to stop their bickering, and Ash relented to his sister's idea. "Go find help," he urged them, but the dogs waited before taking their leave. Ash bent down to rub them both behind their ears. "We'll be okay until you get back."

With his assurance, the dogs headed off into the darkness, leaving the siblings to turn yet another corner to another endless tunnel.

"We haven't been down this way, at least." Lavender studied graffiti on the walls, illuminated by strange glowing rock formations. "Who do you think painted all these?"

Ash shrugged. "Could have been anyone."

Living with Conrad had trained them well, and both Ash and Lavender set to work cleaning the tags off the walls with their pocket sponges.

"Looks perfect, now," Lavender said, but the momentary burst of pride for their good deed was soon replaced by the grumble of their stomachs. They were still lost. "So what do we do now?"

Ash shrugged. "Stay here, I guess?"

"It sorta smells here," Lavender observed. "It smells like bad eggs."

"Try not to think about it."

"Are you Ash Landgraab?"

The voice from behind them stopped him in his tracks. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what? Is it the dogs? Are they back already?"

Ash whipped around to the sound of the voice. He expected a ghost, but the translucent figure of a woman in prison scrubs and French-style braids threw him back.

"Ash, who is it?" Lavender wondered feverishly. "Is it a ghost? Is it Layne Coffin?"

The figure scowled as Lavender asked a million questions, her ghostly outline a shade of tense orange. "Kids are so annoying. Make her stop," she said.

"Lavender, be quiet! It's not Layne Coffin."

"Well, who is it?"

"It's not important," he said. "It's just a ghost. Just let me talk to them."

"They said I'd find you up here," the ghostly woman continued. "I need you to tell my brother Rafa something for me."

Ash's eyes formed into slits. "Tell him yourself," he shot back.

"I can't leave here," argued Ximena's ghost. "I came up through the gate from..." Her eyes travelled downward, as if glancing past the stones underfoot.

"You went to-?"

"At least I'm not the only one down there," she sneered. "I ended up where I deserved."

"What does Rafa need to know?"

"He needs to know the cartel will destroy them both if he raises my baby. They'll take her from him just like they took me from our parents and turn her into the same woman I became, even if he's not in Selva."

"Won't Los Tigres come for anyone who raises her, then?"

She shook her head. "There are people on the mainland they don't like to touch if they can help it."

"Like who?"

"Like people with the last name Landgraab, or closely connected families. They'll turn all of Selva upside down, terrorize locals into compliance, but they like to stay out of the way of Landgraabs, Altos, Villareals as much as possible - any family with more police connections than they've got."

"Do you know my mom and Conrad want to adopt her?"

She nodded. "I hate that name: Iris, but she's not mine anymore. She never was. I just want to do this one thing for her, to make sure she'll never have to live like I did. Not one day in her life."

"Are you going to haunt us if we take her to Brindleton Bay?"

"I told you, I can't leave here. That's part of the punishment when you go where I am."

Ash scoffed. "I wouldn't know."

"You might know this place someday, Landgraab."

Ximena's tense outline had faded to confident blue - she could sense that her words had been heard by the ghost whisperer she'd come to meet, and her usual bite was still apparent despite her translucence.

Lavender had moved to a stone-carved bench. "Ash, who is it?" she pressed, knowing far less about her father's cartel ex than Ash did. "Are you talking about Iris?"

"It's Iris' birth mother," Ash told her, and Lavender gasped.

"She died?!"

"She asks too many questions," moaned Ximena.

A black-robed figure floated into the cave through the wall, and Lavender stood with excitement when she spotted him. "Grim's here!"

"Hello Lavender, Ash." He nodded politely in their direction before pointing his staff toward Ximena. "I've come to make sure this one heads back downstairs."

"Oh, please! I said what I needed to say, and I'll never leave before a certain cherry redhead comes down to join me. Why would I haunt living sims when I can toy with her for an eternity?"

Her eyes burned with fury at the mention of the woman who killed her, and Grim shook his head with disappointment. "That's exactly why you're down there, you know. You still think about revenge, even in death."

"I let go of Conrad and his family," she pointed out. "I'm trying to keep Rafa safe, too. I'm not trying to save my ghostly soul."

With one last look toward Ash and his sister, Ximena's ghost began to fade into the walls of the cave. "She'll be safe with you," she insisted, just before she disappeared.

Lavender noticed her brother's body language relax, and she knew Ximena was finally gone. "Ash, are you okay?"

He nodded slowly. "I'm fine, and she'll never come back to bother any of us once we take Iris home to the Bay."

The Grim Reaper nodded plainly. "She said all she wanted to say. I'll stick around until the gate's locked behind her, but she's sincere. She's got nothing left to gain by lying to you."

Lavender's stomach growled again. "Well, that's good, then! Grim, do you know how we can get out of here? We're really hungry."

Grim nodded, pointing in the direction of another dark tunnel. "Walk that way about twenty paces and turn left. There's a small stone staircase that opens toward the top of the hiking path up to the edge of the volcano."

"Will Gord and Captain Whitaker find us there?"

"The dogs know your smell," Grim assured them. "They'll know where you are."

Following his direction, Ash and Lavender finally found their way out of the volcano caves, emerging into night and bathed in excessive warmth from the fiery glow of molten lava.

"Should we walk back down to the cave entrance?" said Ash, but Lavender was on her knees digging around a shiny rock. "There's something under here," she said. "It's a treasure map!"

"We go home in less than a week. We don't have time to look for buried treasure."

"It doesn't even look like it's for Sulani," she argued. "Maybe it'll just be a place for me to find more MySims dolls! I haven't found any since Daddy gave me his collection to finish."

Their conversation was interrupted by distant barking, and it only took a moment before the hairy frames of their adventurous dogs bounded up the path. Rafa, Conrad, and Heather raced up behind them, embracing both kids as relief washed their fears away.

"I'm sorry," Ash said. "I lied about leaving the beach, and then we got lost inside the volcano caves and I lost phone service."

Heather wrapped her arms around him tightly, but she pulled away with a look of consternation. "I'm glad you can be honest about lying, but you're grounded as soon as we get back to the Bay. Just school, homework, and chores for the next month. And Lavender, you can have extra chores."

"I'll miss the opening of Pearl and Nan's new show!" he protested. "It's A Midsummer Night's Dream and Pearl's Helena!"

"Maybe you can catch the show when you're done being grounded," Conrad countered. "You said you'd stick to the beach, but then lied to your mother and put your little sister at risk."

Ash moaned but understood as his stepfather embraced him. "She asked and I just wanted to see the beach where Marco took me, but then...inside the cave, I saw Ximena's ghost. She talked to me."

Both Conrad and Rafa perked up. "What did she say to you?" Rafa pressed.

"She just wanted to make sure Iris was raised in a good home far away from anyone in Los Tigres. She said if Rafa and Melissa raise her, they'll eventually take her away just like they took her from Selvadorada."

Rafa frowned. "She told you all that?"

"What else did she say?" Conrad pressed.

"She said she wanted to do one good thing for her and for her brother before she never bothers us again. I didn't tell her you'd already called Felix and Judge Morrison to talk about the adoption paperwork, but she knows about it. She wanted to make sure it happens."

Heather's heartrate quickened. "So, now, she's gone for good?"

"Yeah. She seems fine where she is."

The family returned to Ohan'ali Town to pick up Roan from Rafa and Melissa's, where Ash asked if he could be the one to feed baby Iris. His new sister looked up at him with wide eyes in anticipation of the bottle of formula, nestling against his protective embrace.

Ash watched Iris drink with a sense of calm. If the power of his name could protect an innocent baby, he had to use it.

Maybe this could be a way for him to beat back the curse of his family's cruel and punishing legacy. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary | Gen 2.2 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

WCIF Cave Tunnel: The Tunnel by leahvigs on the Sims 4 Gallery. I got rid of most of the lot just to avoid building my own cave tunnel, and this did more than enough because it even gave me graffiti to match Ash's gameplay popup! The original has a DJ booth inside and it's basically an abandoned tunnel turned into a lot for sims into the underground rave scene.

[mggssocks]

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: fem!kook!reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: good ole love makin'

a/n: sooo...just a note, I've been trying to post every Sunday for the last few chapters and will continue along with that schedule. Also, I imagine Owen as Ross Lynch when he was brunette. And one last thing... I reached 200 followers the other day and just wanted to take a quick moment to show my gratitude for everything- the likes, reblogs, and comments. I'm glad this series is being enjoyed and loved. More to come.. stay tuned!

You’re seated on your flight back to New York, forehead gently pressed against the cool window. The sky outside is a wash of fading blues and soft clouds, but you barely notice. You’re not watching the scenery- you’re hiding behind it. Quietly crying in business class.You blink quickly, trying to keep your tears from becoming too obvious, even as one slips down your cheek. You dab it away with the corner of your sleeve, pretending to adjust your seatbelt. You’ve never cried like this over a goodbye before- not even the dramatic ones in the past. But this one? This one tore something out of you.

It was the hardest goodbye you’ve ever had to say.

By the time the wheels touch down in New York, you feel slightly more composed. Slightly. The kind of “fine” that’s just good enough to get you through baggage claim. But your face tells the truth- eyes puffy and rimmed red, your cheeks flushed, your nose sore from dabbing away tears for hours. Your driver says nothing, thankfully. Just nods and helps with your bag before dropping you off at your apartment. Once inside, you shut the door behind you and lean your forehead against it for a moment. The quiet of your place feels heavier than usual, like it knows your heart is too full and too empty at the same time.

You strip off your travel clothes and run a warm bath, letting the tub fill slowly while you pour in lavender salts, a few drops of oil, and a bath bomb that releases soft foam. You sink in and let your head fall back, the warmth wrapping around your body like a hug you didn’t know you needed. But even the water can’t wash away the ache in your chest. After your bath, you towel off, slip into your softest lounge clothes, and curl up on the couch. You don’t even bother opening the blinds. The apartment stays dim and cozy as you pull a blanket over your legs, open a fresh bag of snacks, and flip on Love Island- the kind of background noise that doesn’t require thinking.

You’d always judged the show a little, but now, in your raw emotional state, something about it feels… oddly comforting. You start to understand the appeal—- the longing, the messiness, the way people reach for love even when it’s complicated and loud and imperfect. You feel your eyelids grow heavy. The soft sound of accents and flirtations fades into the background as sleep starts to pull you under.

Knock knock.

The sudden sound jerks you awake. You sit up, blinking fast, heart racing slightly from the jolt of it. You weren’t expecting anyone. Not tonight. Not now. You glance at the door. Another knock.

Slower this time. More hesitant. You wipe your face with your sleeve again and stand, your breath catching in your throat as you quietly cross the room, wondering who could possibly be on the other side.

You press your eye to the peephole, squinting. The fisheye lens distorts everything, but there’s no mistaking the two figures on the other side of your door: Noel is practically pressed against it, her face magnified and wide-eyed, while Allegra stands a few feet behind her, effortlessly composed, arms crossed like she’s posing for the cover of a fashion editorial. You crack the door open.

Before you can even say hello, Noel throws herself at you with a dramatic squeal, wrapping her arms tightly around your neck. You stumble back a step from the force of her hug, the breath catching in your throat, but it’s a good kind of surprise.

“You’re back!” she says, squeezing you like she hasn’t seen you in years.

Allegra walks in behind her, cool as ever, letting the door click shut behind her. She doesn’t say much, just offers you a quiet, assessing look as she leans against the wall, arms still folded. She’s the final boss of emotional control, sharp eyes taking in everything without giving much away.

“I am,” you reply softly, finally letting Noel go.

Noel’s still smiling as she pulls back, but her expression shifts when she gets a better look at you. Her brows furrow and she tilts her head, the way someone does when they’re not sure if you’re about to laugh or cry.

“You okay?” she asks gently, one hand rubbing your upper arm in slow circles.

You nod automatically- an instinct, a reflex, a lie you don’t even mean to tell. You try to summon a smile, but it wavers before it can fully form. Allegra’s gaze sharpens a little, and Noel’s hand stills.

And then it hits you. Like a crack in the dam.

Your breath hitches, your chin trembles, and before you can stop yourself, you’re covering your face with your hands and sobbing- raw, quiet at first, then deeper, like something’s been waiting to escape. Noel immediately wraps her arms around you again, holding you tighter than before, rubbing your back and whispering something soft you can’t quite make out.

“Oh, Y/N…” she breathes, her voice a blend of sympathy and heartbreak.

Allegra crosses the room quietly, sitting on the arm of your couch. She doesn’t say anything just yet- but her posture shifts. Arms uncrossed, one hand resting on her thigh, the other hanging loosely. Still chill, but open. Present. The silence in the room is suddenly warm. Held. You’re not alone in this. You let Noel hold you for a little longer before finally exhaling against her shoulder, your body a little lighter for it.

After Allegra brews a pot of tea in your kitchen -her only domestic act of the week, probably- the three of you settle back onto your living room couch, mugs in hand and socks pulled up. The steam curls between you like fog over water, and for once, the room feels soft enough to confess in.

You tell them everything. About Rafe. About your parents. About how you lied to Becca yesterday- and how the guilt of it is still sitting on your chest like a paperweight. 

Allegra takes a long sip of her tea and raises an eyebrow. “This Rafe guy better be hot for all that trouble.”

You let out a breath of a laugh, rubbing your fingers along the rim of your mug.

“He is. Unfortunately. He’s also an asshole… but like-” you shrug with a helpless smile, “in the most charmingly infuriating way possible.”

“Charming assholes are still assholes.” Allegra snorts, ever the realist.

Noel gives her a subtle side-eye, the way a tired mom might glance at a brash aunt during a family dinner. She turns back to you, voice softer.

“It was really sweet of him. All those gifts. The ring. And letting you set boundaries without throwing a tantrum? That’s… rare.”

She’s always been the optimist of the two. The one who looks for the stitch in the tear. They don’t press you for more. Instead, they stay for another half hour, chatting about upcoming shoots and weird subway stories before eventually gathering their things. You walk them to the door, hugging Noel tight and giving Allegra a playful side-eye when she calls you a “lovesick poet.”

Once they leave, the apartment falls into quiet again. You pad barefoot back into the kitchen, tossing the used tea bags in the trash and rinsing out the mugs before setting them in the sink. Your fingers trail across the counter. You pause a moment, just breathing. Letting the stillness settle.

Then you return to your dent in the couch, picking up your phone absentmindedly. There’s a missed call. Rafe.

Your heart jumps- not sharply, but enough to remind you it’s still tender. You hadn’t heard it. The phone was on vibrate. Without thinking too hard, you press redial.

He answers almost instantly, like he’s been holding the phone in his hand.

“Y/n,” he breathes. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you say softly, tucking your knees up. “Sorry I missed your call- I had some friends over.”

There’s a pause. You don’t say who. He doesn’t ask. But you can feel the question hovering there, unsaid, like smoke.

“I was just calling to see how your flight went,” he says finally, voice low and careful. It sounds like he’s lying in bed, speaking in that nighttime tone, halfway between sleepy and raw.

Your eyes sting suddenly. Not sadness exactly. But a wave of something, nostalgia, grief, longing, all braided together.

“It was fine,” you whisper, brushing away a tear. “Thanks for asking.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Do you need anything?” His voice drops even gentler, like he’s checking on a sick child. A part of you aches at the tenderness.

You shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “No… I’m okay. Do you?”

“I’m good,” he says, though there’s something fragile behind the words.

The silence that follows is not awkward. It’s not heavy either. Just full. Like you’re both on the other end of something you don’t know how to name.

“I should let you get some sleep,” he says at last, even though neither of you want to hang up.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Y/n.”

“Goodnight, Rafe.” You hesitate.

And then he says it, so softly you almost miss it: “Love you.”

You don’t know if it’s muscle memory or something he meant to say. But it leaves you breathless all the same.

“I love you too,” you reply without thinking, because it’s true, even if it’s not simple.

—

You walk the red carpet beside Celeste, the sharp hum of camera shutters creating a kind of rhythm beneath the clamor. Bright flashes go off from every direction, bouncing off the velvet ropes and polished shoes. You try to keep your expression neutral, composed, but your fingers are gripping the clutch in your hand like it’s a lifeline. Never in a million years did you imagine you’d be the one being photographed by paparazzi. The second you both step inside the venue, the sound dims behind the thick doors, replaced by a pulsing bass and the muffled chatter of a glamorous crowd. Glittering chandeliers hang overhead, and fashion insiders dressed in layers of perfectly executed effortlessness float from corner to corner.

“You’ll be doing this soon,” Celeste says, glancing over at you with a knowing smile. “Running around, getting people ready for a show. Styling chaos. Controlled panic. And the best adrenaline rush you’ll ever have.”

You nod, managing a smile. It’s genuine. But faint.

She notices. Of course she does. “You okay?” she asks, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back.

You nod again, shaking yourself out of your thoughts. “Yeah, I’m good. Just… feeling a little off today.”

Her eyes study your face, sharp and soft at once. “You sure? You’ve seemed… a little out of it. Since you got back from the OBX- what, two weeks ago?” She lowers her voice slightly, leaning in. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“What? No! God, no,” you whisper-shout, turning to her with wide eyes.

She lifts her hands in mock surrender, though there’s a glint of amusement in her expression. Still, she gives you a sympathetic look. Celeste doesn’t push -not when she knows you’re not ready- but she doesn’t stop noticing either.

“Well, if you ever want to talk about whatever’s causing that far-off stare of yours…” she taps the side of her own head before straightening. “Want to go backstage?”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, we can do that?”

“This is one of the perks, sweetheart,” she grins. “Come on.”

She leads you through a side corridor lined with moody lighting and abstract art, and suddenly, the glamour gives way to organized chaos. Backstage is a world of its own -flooded with fluorescent lights, the smell of hairspray and heat tools thick in the air. Models swerve around racks of clothes in six-inch heels. Stylists bark last-minute changes. There’s a distinct hiss of a steamer somewhere and the rhythmic click of someone power-walking in platform boots.

“This,” Celeste says, gesturing to the controlled whirlwind around you, “is what you’ll be knee-deep in soon.”

You blink, wide-eyed, taking it all in. “It’s like a beautiful war zone.”

She laughs. “Exactly. And you’re going to thrive in it.”

A voice calls out over the clamor. “Celeste, darling!”

You both turn. The woman approaching is unmistakably the designer- she wears a cropped white baby tee with a blue-and-green patterned shawl tossed over it, like a cape. A flowy cobalt skirt brushes the floor as she walks, her oversized glasses perched at the tip of her nose. Her hair’s twisted into a makeshift bun, held together by a pencil, and somehow it works.

She hugs your aunt tightly before turning to you. “And this must be the lovely Y/N I keep hearing about!”

Caught slightly off guard, you offer a shy wave before reaching out your hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m incredibly honored to be here.”

She takes your hand with the grace of someone who knows the importance of first impressions. 

“The honor’s all mine. Celeste tells me you’re the future of this industry.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “She’s being generous,” you say, glancing at your aunt.

“She’s being honest,” the designer corrects you with a wink. “And something tells me you’ll be running a show of your own soon enough.”

Celeste nudges you gently. “Told you.”

And for a moment, surrounded by talent and vision and the buzz of creativity, you almost believe it. Almost forget the ache of a boy back home, the tension with your mother, and the lie that still lingers between you and Becca.

Almost.

-

As you and Celeste settle into your assigned seats near the front row, a soft hum of anticipation buzzes through the room. Guests chat over glasses of champagne, glossy programs flutter in manicured hands, and the runway -clean, stark, and glowing under overhead lights- waits like a blank canvas about to come alive.

You glance down at your phone, unlocking it out of instinct, and see a notification: a text from Rafe.

Rafe: that’s good to hear. hope you enjoy it. love you.

Your stomach flips- not in a bad way, but not in a good one either. That sort of ache that reminds you of what once felt like home. This was his response to you telling him you were attending a fashion show.

Since you left the Outer Banks, the two of you have been… cordial. The texts are consistent. Soft check-ins. How are you’s. What are you up to today’s. The kind of gentle familiarity you might find between two people pretending they’re not standing on the remnants of something once intense.

There are no late-night confessions. No flirtatious remarks. No heavy moments of emotional weight. Just small conversations that carefully tiptoe around the memory of a shared summer.

But the “I love yous”- those still come from him. Regularly. Softly. Like muscle memory.

And you? You’ve stopped saying it first. You’ll echo it when you hang up the phone, maybe. Whisper it back sometimes when it feels right. But never more than that. Never like before. Because you’re trying to keep it friendly.

You’re trying to make it platonic. At least… that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You snap a quick photo of the runway -just the clean minimalist view, nothing filtered, nothing curated- and send it to him without a caption. Something casual. Easy. Just as the house lights begin to dim, you slide your phone into your purse out of respect, folding your hands in your lap. The music starts low and slow, and you take a steadying breath as the first model steps out.

Your eyes remain fixed on the runway. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re still thinking about that text. Still thinking about him.

——

After lunch with Celeste and a few others—publishers, models, someone who swore they’d “just flown in from Paris that morning”- you return to your apartment. You’re full, a little dazed from small talk, and even more exhausted from pretending to be okay.

As soon as you unlock the door, Celeste walks in behind you and pauses just past the threshold, surveying the space.

“You haven’t really decorated much, have you?” she muses aloud, toeing off her heels with a soft clunk.

“Not really, no,” you mumble, already flopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. She joins you, folding herself gracefully into the seat beside you, one leg tucked under the other. She leans her head on her hand, elbow perched on the back cushion, watching you quietly.

“I’m not going to push,” she starts, her voice gentle. “But I just want you to know that if -or when- you want to talk, I’m here. No pressure. I just… I’ve known you long enough to know you’re not being yourself. And it’s worrying me.”

You try to swallow it down, but the weight of her words hits something raw in you. Your throat tightens. “I just…” you begin, already blinking past the sting behind your eyes. “I like this life. I really do. The job, the city, the opportunity… I should be happy.” You pause, voice breaking. “But I left so much behind. And it hurts more than I thought it would.”

Celeste nods slowly. “It does hurt,” she agrees quietly, her tone warm and maternal. “Letting go of anything meaningful always does.” Then, she tilts her head, studying you carefully. “Is this about that Rafe character?”

You look at her, startled. “How did you—?”

She chuckles, waving a hand. “Your mom and I aren’t as estranged as you think. She said a name in passing. And you’re not exactly hard to read when something’s weighing on you.”

Your gaze drops to the coffee table, where your sketches and fabric swatches lie in a beautiful mess. You sigh, reaching up to scratch at your temple like you’re trying to get the pressure out of your head.

“It’s a long story,” you say finally, voice low.

“Good,” she smiles, already standing up and heading for the kitchen. “Because I’m putting the kettle on.”

You hear her rummaging through cabinets, the sound of water running, and it brings a small bit of comfort. The kind of comfort that makes you feel, even for a moment, like you’re not entirely alone in this big, beautiful, lonely city.

-

It feels like déjà vu- just like that first night back in New York, sitting across from Allegra and Noel, pouring your heart out. Only this time, it’s Celeste. And somehow, repeating the story doesn’t make it any easier to tell.

You walk her through everything- your parents, Becca’s party, the summer that blurred into something both painful and beautiful, and finally, Rafe. Every detail, from the high to the heartbreak, spills out between quiet sips of tea.

When you finish, Celeste sits quietly for a moment, her hands wrapped around her mug.

“I’m not trying to invalidate your pain,” she says carefully, “but… I think you did the right thing.”

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

The silence that follows is thick. Not awkward- just heavy. You’re about to speak again when she gently lifts a few pages from the coffee table.

“These designs are really good,” she says, flipping through them slowly.

You glance up, grateful for the change in subject. You were dangerously close to crying again.

“You really think so?” you ask, wiping your cheek with your sleeve before she can notice the gloss in your eyes.

Celeste holds up one of your sketches- a slinky gown with layered mesh and delicate embroidery. “These could make it into a runway show someday, you know.”

You shrug, half-embarrassed. “I just… I drew them without thinking. Just something to get my mind off things.”

“Even better,” she says, looking up at you. “That just proves your talent. Some people spend weeks trying to force something that wouldn’t hold a candle to these.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. You stare into your mug, letting her words settle. Then, she sets the drawings down and glances at you with a more serious expression.

“How would you feel about running the behind-the-scenes of a show one day?” she asks, casually, but you can tell she’s testing the waters.

Your stomach flips. The idea excites you- but it terrifies you more.

“Uhhh… I don’t know,” you admit, your voice slightly tight. “That sounds… intense.”

“It is,” Celeste agrees. “But you don’t have to say yes now. Just think about it. It’s a good stepping stone- plus, it’ll give you more credibility when you’re the one running the show.”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. The idea lingers like the steam rising from your tea- hazy, warm, and a little intimidating. But maybe… maybe possible.

-

“You don’t want to do that though?” Rafe’s voice cuts through the quiet of your bedroom, low and pointed.

You’re mid-stride, walking around in a towel with under-eye patches stuck to your face, digging through your closet for something to wear. Your phone is propped up on the nightstand, plugged in and pointed at the ceiling. He’s FaceTiming you- his full face in frame as he lays on his bed, while yours is nowhere to be seen.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you say, tossing a rejected shirt onto the growing pile on your bed. “It’s just… it feels like too much, too fast.”

There’s a pause, long enough for you to wonder if he’s going to let it go. But then, his voice cuts through again- softer this time, careful.

“Isn’t that the whole point of walking away from the OBX?”

You freeze with your hand hovering over a pair of jeans. He’s not talking about the island. Not really. He’s talking about you and him. About how you pulled away- how you said goodbye. This is his quiet way of saying: Wasn’t that the reason you let me go?

You chew the inside of your cheek. Rafe Cameron holding up a mirror to you… yeah, you didn’t see that one coming. “I mean… yeah. I guess,” you admit, turning away from the closet. “I just didn’t think I’d get thrown into everything so fast. I needed time to… breathe.”

“What did you expect would happen?” he asks gently, but it still strikes a nerve- because he’s not wrong. And you hate that.

You sigh. “I don’t know.” You shrug as if he can see it. “Hey, um… I’m heading out in a sec. Can we talk later?”

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “Love you.”

You don’t say it back. Not this time. You just hang up before the silence gets any heavier. You finish getting ready in a rush, pulling on a gray miniskirt and a black corset top. The outfit is edgier than your usual, but there’s something about Allegra’s effortless cool that’s been rubbing off on you lately. Black platform Mary Janes, gold jewelry, a matching purse. You straighten your hair, swipe on a final coat of lip gloss, and give yourself a once-over in the mirror. You look good. You feel… almost good.

Phone in hand, you head downstairs. Owen’s already waiting in the lobby, leaning casually against the wall near the entrance. He smiles as soon as he sees you, stepping forward into a warm, friendly hug.

“Hey,” he says, pulling back with a quick glance over your outfit. “You look- wow.”

“Thanks,” you grin. “I see we’re still waiting on the girls?”

“Supposedly,” he chuckles, pulling out his phone. A moment later, both of yours buzz with the same group text.

Allegra: Change of plans. We’re bailing. Go without us. Have fun ;)

Noel: You’re welcome <3

You blink down at the screen, then glance up at Owen. He’s already smiling.

“They’re trying to set us up,” you say.

“Oh, absolutely,” he agrees.

A laugh escapes you as you both head toward the door.

“Well,” you say, pushing it open, “let’s give them something to gossip about.”

He laughs and follows you out into the night.

-

You swipe the last fry through the ketchup, popping it into your mouth just as Owen finishes telling a story that has you nearly choking from laughter.

“So then she looks at me -dead serious- and says, ‘You’re not even a real photographer, are you? You just pretend so you can sleep with models.’” He shakes his head, grinning at the memory. “Meanwhile, I’m literally holding a $5,000 camera and wearing a lanyard that says CREW.”

You snort. “No way.”

“I swear!” he says, still laughing. “And the craziest part is- she still tried to sleep with me.”

Your jaw drops in amused disbelief. “Wait. She thought you were some kind of fraud and still made a move?”

“Yep. Apparently, I’m just that charming.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “And you, a man, turned that down?”

He leans back in the booth, mock-offended. “What can I say? I’m not easy.”

You burst into laughter. “Wow. The bar. It’s in hell. But go ahead, king of standards.”

He gives you a playful salute. “A man of honor.”

You shake your head, still giggling as you reach for your water. And then, in a quiet moment between jokes, it hits you—you’re genuinely having a good time. Like… a real one. The first time since you left the OBX after Becca’s birthday that your laughter doesn’t feel like a mask or a distraction. It’s light, easy. It’s not pretending.

You lean your elbow on the table, resting your cheek in your palm, and glance at Owen. He’s still smiling, stirring the ice in his drink with his straw.

“I forgot how nice this could be,” you admit softly, mostly to yourself.

Owen looks up. “What?”

You sit up straight. “Nothing,” you say quickly, brushing it off with a smile. “Just… this has been nice.”

His smile softens. “Yeah. It really has.”

You look down at your empty plate, fighting the urge to overthink the moment. For now, it’s enough to feel like yourself again- even if only for the night.

“You’re not going to laugh if I ask whether you need me to walk you upstairs, are you?” Owen asks, his voice teasing but sincere.

You laugh, turning slightly toward him on the sidewalk. “Only if you’re not offering just to stoop below your usual standards and try to get with me.”

He lifts his hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his lips. “I swear, that wasn’t the intention. Scout’s honor.”

You tilt your head at him, amused. “I won’t laugh at you,” you say gently, “but I will turn down your offer- kindly.”

You step into a hug before he can say anything else, and his arms come around your waist without hesitation. It’s warm. Uncomplicated. And you’re not mad at it. Not at all.

“Goodnight, Owen,” you murmur into his shoulder before pulling away.

He blinks at you, looking slightly dazed. “I -uh- goodnight, Y/n,” he stumbles, running a hand through his hair as you walk away.

You flash a quick, polite smile to the doorman as he opens the building���s glass door for you. Once inside, you step into the elevator, leaning your head back against the wall with a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your apartment greets you with familiar stillness. You kick off your shoes, toss your purse on the counter, and head into your room, where the city lights bleed softly through the sheer curtains. 

You sit on the edge of your bed and finally let yourself smile- an honest, full one that spreads across your face like warmth.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t chaos. But it was something steady. Something light.

You think back over the evening -no pressure, no expectations, just genuine laughter and conversation- and a strange but welcome thought crosses your mind: this is the first time you’ve had a good time with a guy… without sex even being a part of the equation.

You exhale and nod to yourself, letting the realization settle. Maybe things really are starting to shift.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t dread what comes next.

-

Between work, late-night hangs with Allegra and Noel, and your one-on-one outings with Owen, life had taken on a kind of rhythm again. Not perfect- but steady. Predictable in a way that felt safe. You were finally slipping back into your groove, and for the first time since leaving OBX, things felt… healthy.

You still talked to Rafe from time to time -brief check-ins, the occasional “hope you’re okay” text- but it wasn’t like before. You hadn’t told him about Owen. It didn’t feel like something he needed to know. And, thankfully, he hadn’t pushed. His texts had gotten less frequent, more respectful of your space. Maybe he was finally realizing what you both had been too afraid to admit: that chapter needed to close, or at least stay tucked away for now.

You’re leaned over the bathroom sink, eyeliner in hand, trying to keep your hand steady as music thumps from your portable speaker. Allegra and Noel move around you like you’re all sharing choreography, slipping between makeup bags and hot tools without saying a word. This time, they were actually going out with you -no surprise dates, no matchmaker schemes- just a girls’ night.

The three of you end up at a sleek bar in SoHo- marble countertops, candlelight glow, overpriced martinis in frosted glasses. You’re mid-sip when a guy walks past your table and you and Allegra both clock him. Tall, good hair, sharp jaw.

“Him.” Allegra whispers with a smirk.

“I’d climb him like a tree,” you murmur, setting your glass down.

Noel makes a face. “Ew. He looks like he cries after sex.”

You laugh, nearly choking on your drink. That’s when it happens.

“Is that ALLEGRA?”

You turn simultaneously with the girls, your stomach already twisting at the tone. The voice belongs to a tall brunette with rich-girl posture, all cheekbones and lip gloss. She’s model-pretty, and worse- she knows it. You instinctively straighten your shoulders.

Allegra sets her martini down slowly, her expression souring just for a second before she spins around with a sugary smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Miya!” she sings, stepping in for a hug. You and Noel rise behind her like backup dancers, exchanging a quick look of shared dread.

“How are you?! You look amazing!” Miya exclaims, holding Allegra’s arms like she’s about to auction her off.

“I’m great, how are you? You look… exactly the same,” Allegra replies sweetly.

The passive aggression between them is so thick you could ice a cake with it. You want to laugh, but you don’t. You’re a guest in this catfight.

“Oh, you know,” Miya says, flipping her perfectly waved hair over her shoulder. “Just climbing the ranks, going into my third year of Fashion Week. No big deal.” Her tone is drenched in false humility. “It’s been incredible.”

“That’s amazing,” Allegra says, all smiles. “I love that for you and your nepotism.”

You nearly snort. Oscar-worthy, the both of them- smiling like sorority sisters, clawing like alley cats.

Miya doesn’t miss a beat. “So… what happened to you following me on Insta?” Her voice turns syrupy-sweet. “I was scrolling through my one point two million followers and noticed you weren’t there anymore, and I got sooo confused. I thought we were, like, really good friends.”

You and Noel visibly cringe.

Allegra cocks her head. “You know what? That was probably my agent. She goes through my socials sometimes and deletes accounts with low engagement or… irrelevant reach.” Her smile never wavers. “But I’ll be sure to follow you again. Promise.”

This whole interaction is faker than a reality TV romance.

“That’d be amazing,” Miya beams, her pouty lip back in place. “Because I still follow you- even though I promised myself I’d never follow anyone with less than a million.”

Allegra laughs like Miya just told a great joke. “Well, so good seeing you, girl! You look…” she pauses, eyeing her outfit, “expensive.”

“Always,” Miya chirps.

Allegra turns on her heel, and you and Noel follow like shadows. The second you’re out of earshot, Noel mutters, “Was she real, or a Madame Tussauds wax figure come to life?”

“I don’t think she even knows we exist,” you add.

“She doesn’t,” Allegra confirms, rolling her eyes. “And thank God for that.”

You clink your martinis in quiet solidarity and head toward the other end of the bar.

-

The three of you sit drunk in a half-empty local pizza joint, the glow of the fluorescent lights bouncing off the red-and-white checkered tablecloths. Aside from a couple slumped over in the corner and a lone delivery guy picking up an order, the place is practically deserted- not surprising since it’s close to midnight.

Laughter bubbles at your table, the kind that only comes when you’re slightly sleep-deprived, full of carbs, and safe with people who get you.

“I hate her,” Allegra declares, rolling her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck. She drops her phone onto the table with a dramatic thud- Miya’s Instagram page still open.

You lean over to glance at the grid of glossy selfies, ad campaigns, and filtered story highlights, before taking another bite of your pizza. “Okay, but what is your deal with her? It’s giving frenemy vibes… minus the ‘friend’ part.”

“She thinks she’s untouchable because her dad’s on the board for what gets approved for final Vogue spreads or something insane like that,” Allegra huffs, crossing her arms. “Top-tier nepotism baby. Trust fund. Insta fame. The face people fawn over?” She gestures at the screen. “Put under the needle. Thrice.”

Noel snorts into her water and glances your way. “That still doesn’t answer Y/N’s question.”

Allegra sighs, like the story itself is exhausting. “Okay, fine. We used to be cool. Like, actually cool. She was one of those trust-fund influencers who vlogged her whole life- Coachella trips, sponsored hauls, tacky celebrity parties with every D-list person you can think of.”

“She’s a stereotype,” Noel mutters.

“Exactly. Meanwhile, I moved here trying to go to acting school, remember? My dad  -a producer- was like, ‘You’re either singing, or I’m cutting you off.’ So I picked up a few modeling gigs to survive, ended up getting signed. Booked and Busy.” Allegra leans back in her chair with a shrug. “The second she saw I was doing something real with my life -more than just filming herself in crop tops- she got weird. Jealous. Next thing I know, she’s injecting her face, getting long-ass extensions, and suddenly she’s walking next to me at New York Fashion Week… for her first ever show.”

You and Noel exchange wide-eyed looks as Allegra continues, her voice rising slightly.

“Then she ghosted me. Pretended we were never close. But still acts fake nice every time we run into each other like tonight.” She lets out a sharp laugh. “Not me. That ship sailed. I think the fuck not, bitch.”

You can’t help it- you burst out laughing. There’s something deeply satisfying about Allegra’s unapologetic rage, especially paired with the dramatic flick of her wrist as she pushes the phone away from her. Curious, you pull out your own phone and type in Miya’s name.

Noel leans over. “You stalking now too?”

“Maybe,” you say, tapping through Miya’s photos- picture after picture of her posing outside art deco hotels and on rooftops in Paris. But it isn’t until you scroll to the top of the page that your heart skips.

You pause. Blink. Scroll back up to make sure you read it right.

Followed by RafeCameron_

You freeze.

“Something wrong?” Noel asks, catching your face change.

You force a half-smile and shake your head, but your stomach sinks slightly. You can’t help but wonder:

Did he just start following her… or has he been? And either answer feels worse than the other.

-

You lie on your bed, cross-legged in yesterday’s clothes, mind racing as you fiddle with your phone. Your fingers tap against the screen, then backtrack. You open Rafe’s contact. Close it. Open it again.

It’s almost 4 a.m. You know you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your brain won’t stop running laps. Miya.

You saw her name sitting right over that little “followed by RafeCameron_” on Instagram like it meant nothing. Maybe it does mean nothing. Maybe you’re spiraling for no reason. Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe it’s the pizza. Or maybe it’s the fact that no matter how hard you try to move forward, something about Rafe always drags you back into the undertow.

Logically, this isn’t your place. You’re the one who walked away. You’re the one who drew the line. You haven’t even told him about Owen. But this wasn’t about you right now. This was about her. Miya, with the high cheekbones and surgically perfected pout and the passive-aggressive grip on Allegra’s entire last nerve. Miya, who rubbed you the wrong way the moment she opened her mouth. And now she’s in his orbit?

You press the call button before your better judgment can slap the phone out of your hand.

The line rings. Once. Twice. Again. And again. No answer.

You stare at the screen for a while after it stops ringing, like you’re waiting for it to apologize for not fixing your heartache. You eventually set the phone on your nightstand, still face-up, still glowing. Then you pass out without even meaning to, mind whirring until sleep wins.

-

You wake up to your phone vibrating violently beside you and a loud, steady knocking at your front door. You groan, your limbs heavy and tangled in the blankets, and blink against the morning light cutting through your shades.

Your phone’s ringing. Celeste.

You swipe to answer just as you drag yourself out of bed, last night’s eyeliner smudged beneath your eyes like mascara war paint.

“Hey,” you croak, voice gravelly from sleep and dehydration.

“Open the damn door,” Celeste says flatly. “I’ve been knocking for ten minutes. I think your neighbors are about to call the cops.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” you mumble, trudging toward the door as you hang up.

You swing it open and Celeste pushes in immediately, not waiting for an invitation. She’s in tailored pants, hair in a claw clip, and her lipstick is already perfectly applied- too put together for someone who’s obviously been up just as early.

In her hand is a rolled-up copy of something thick and glossy.

“Rough night?” she asks, eyeing your smeared makeup and pajama-level effort.

You shrug, barely functioning. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Clearly,” she mutters. Then she holds out what’s in her hand. It’s a pre-release copy of Vogue.

You take it, brow furrowing- but then you see it. Right there on the glossy front page tag, in clean serif font:

“Spotlight: Valentina & Co.’s Meteoric Rise”

Your stomach drops. You fumble with the pages, flipping until you hit it. A full spread. Photos. Interviews. Details. Everything.

Valentina & Co. splashed across one of the most powerful pages in fashion- and you weren’t even sure how it got there.

You look up at Celeste. “How…?”

She shrugs a little, already sipping her iced coffee. “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

Your fingers trace the corner of the page, heart thudding for reasons you can’t quite name. It’s not jealousy, exactly. Not fear. But something about it buzzes under your skin. You blink down at the glossy pages again, a strange unease creeping in. You have no idea why, but this doesn’t feel like just another spread. 

It feels like the beginning of something. Something you can’t see yet.

-

You’re perched beside Allegra in the bustling prep area, watching as her glam team swirls around her like bees. She’s scheduled to walk for Christian Dior’s Fall/Winter collection, and thanks to your increasingly public ties to Valentina & Co., you’d been granted the rare honor of tagging along- though strictly as a spectator.

As a makeup artist smooths highlighter across Allegra’s cheekbone, she glances sideways at you. “So… when are you and Owen finally going to, you know, take things to the next level?”

You sigh, chest tightening. The question immediately calls up Rafe’s face in your mind like muscle memory- his laugh, the way he’d touch your jaw when he wanted your full attention, the softness you’d tried to walk away from. You shake your head gently, trying to dislodge the image.

“I don’t think I’m ready for… another relationship. Or a fling,” you mutter, sinking slightly lower into the chair.

Allegra’s lips twitch. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on-”

She’s cut off by a voice that grates like nails on glass.

“Oh. My. God. Don’t tell me we’re walking the same show!”

You both turn. Miya floats toward you in a voluminous silk robe with oversized feathered cuffs, her hair in rollers, her mouth already curled in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

You sense Allegra tense beside you but watch her pull out a sugary smile like muscle memory. 

“I guess we are,” she replies coolly.

Miya sinks into the chair across from you both, completely uninvited, dropping her phone onto the vanity with all the grace of a mic drop. Her legs cross, her lips pout, and her gaze flickers to Allegra.

“Still waiting for that follow baaack,” she sings.

Allegra’s smile doesn’t budge. “I don’t have Insta on my phone. My manager runs my account.” A bold-faced lie.

Miya hums. “Well, I’d really hate to unfollow you. But following someone with less than a million who doesn’t follow me back? It just, like, messes with the aesthetic, you know?”

“I like, totally get it,” Allegra replies in an exaggerated valley-girl drawl, barely concealing the mimicry. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing.

Miya lets it slide, adjusting her robe like she’s prepping for a photo shoot. “Anyway, crazy that we’re doing the same show. I haven’t walked in the States in forever.”

“Funds must be running loooow,” Allegra sing-songs under her breath, laughing as she flips her hair. Miya laughs too -way too hard- but there’s an edge to it.

“You’re hilarious. But no, I was just visiting my boyfriend.” She stands and brushes imaginary dust off her robe. “I’m off to change. See you out there!”

You and Allegra watch her leave like she’s a walking ad for artificial sugar.

“Fucking bitch thinks she’s Bella Hadid,” Allegra mutters once Miya is out of earshot.

You chuckle, the tension breaking for a moment. Allegra stands, smoothing down her robe.

“I’ve gotta get into my first look. You’ll be watching, yeah?” she winks.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you smile.

She disappears into the chaos of racks and models, and you sit for a moment, letting the movement of the room carry on around you. Stylists bark orders, steam hisses from irons, and perfumes mingle in the air. It’s beautiful, frantic, and utterly intoxicating.

Your gaze drifts casually to the vanity across from you- where Miya’s phone still lies. It vibrates once, skittering slightly on the surface.

You look.

And then you freeze.

Rafe C.

The name flashes across the screen. Your breath catches in your throat. The blood drains from your face.

You take a shaky step back, mind racing, chest tightening. Of all the possible explanations, the most painful one settles in your gut like a stone. You’re halfway to spiraling when you turn- and bump straight into someone.

“Oh- sorry,” you mumble, blinking away tears as you look up.

Standing before you is Aïsha Bellamy- creative director of the house.

“Y/N Y/L/N? You’re here!” she says brightly, clasping her hands together. “I’ve been meaning to reach out to you.”

You try to collect yourself, forcing your expression into something that vaguely resembles polite interest.

“Oh, uh, hi. Wow, yeah. That’s me.”

“I’d love to have you assist on one of our international shows. Milan or Paris, maybe? That’ll give you time to prep. We could really use your eye.”

You nod before fully processing. Anything to get away. “Yes. Definitely. I’d love to.”

“Great! My assistant will be in touch.” She pats your shoulder and disappears into the crowd.

And you? You beeline for the bathroom. Not because you’re going to cry- Because you already are.

-

“You’re awful quiet today,” Rafe says, voice soft through your laptop speakers.

You’re lying on your bed, MacBook propped on your lap, head tipped back against the headboard. The room is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the screen- and from him. He’s calling from his kitchen, phone leaned up against a glass, a reheated steak on the plate in front of him. Shirtless, naturally. And looking every bit as good as the food he’s eating.

You twist the silver ring on your finger-  one of the many pieces of jewelry he left in your childhood bedroom, the one you swore you’d put away but never did. “Just… long day,” you murmur, eyes drifting from his face to his hands, to the slice of steak he’s cutting with far too much sex appeal for a domestic task.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, biting a piece off his fork. He chews lazily, like he knows how pretty he looks doing absolutely nothing at all.

You glance at your screen, trying to gauge his expression, trying to figure out how to slip Miya into the conversation without sounding crazy.

“I, um… I went to a show earlier,” you start, keeping your tone light. “A friend of mine walked for Christian Dior.”

Nothing. No flicker in his expression, no shift in his tone. He just hums in vague interest, eyes still on his plate.

You try again, fingers fidgeting with the ring. “Anything exciting or… new in your life?”

He swallows, wipes his mouth on a napkin, and shrugs. “Nothing worth speaking about.”

And there it is- the first hit of disappointment. Not because you expected him to confess, but because some naïve part of you hoped he might.

There’s a silence that settles for a beat too long before you speak again. “I actually got invited to help on a show,” you say casually, like it’s not the biggest news of your week. “Christian Dior. One of their upcoming ones.”

Now he looks up.

His expression shifts immediately- his whole face lights up. “No way. Really?”

You nod, warmth spreading across your chest. His excitement is real. Genuine. And that makes you smile- not because of the opportunity, but because he’s smiling.

“Yeah… it’s either Milan or Paris. I haven’t gotten all the details yet.” You shrug like it’s nothing, but the pink in your cheeks gives you away.

“I’m seriously proud of you, Y/N,” he says, voice quieter, more sincere.

You lower your gaze, chewing the inside of your cheek, unable to suppress your grin. The feelings -the ones you’ve been trying to outrun in crowded rooms and through Owen’s easy smiles- are back, swelling in your chest, sharp and soft all at once.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He squints at the screen. “Wait a second… are you blushing right now?”

You immediately cover your face with your hands, laughing. “Absolutely not.”

He grins. “You totally are. It’s ‘cause I’m shirtless, isn’t it?”

“You wish,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes.

His voice drops a little, suddenly more vulnerable. “I wish I was up there with you right now.”

Your breath catches. The words land like a stone dropped in still water, rippling through your chest.

You stare at your keyboard, picking at a faded Vans sticker near the touchpad. “Me too,” you say, just barely loud enough for the mic to catch it- like you’re admitting it more to yourself than to him.

The silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid. You look at each other for a moment longer than you should, and for a moment it feels like nothing’s changed.

“I should let you get to bed,” he says finally, voice a little softer now. “You’ve got a show to run soon.”

“Yeah…” you nod slowly. “Goodnight, Rafe.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He hesitates. “I Love you.”

You don’t even think- the words come out before you can catch them. “I Love you too.”

You end the call, your screen fading to black.

And you sit there for a moment, the weight of what just happened pressing in like gravity. You’ve been busy, sure- distracted with work, dinners, nights out, Owen. But suddenly, all that noise feels like exactly what it was: a distraction.

Because the truth is…

You miss him.

More than you’ve let yourself admit.

-

You lean against the cool stone of the balcony doorframe, watching as Noel enthusiastically snaps photos of Allegra, who’s draped effortlessly over the terrace railing like she’s shooting an editorial spread. The glow of the Parisian evening bathes the scene in gold, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the background like a postcard come to life.

Tomorrow is the Christian Dior show -the first one you’ve ever been a part of- and “nervous” doesn’t begin to cover it. It feels like everything’s been leading to this, and yet the only people here to cheer you on are your two newest friends. Becca had family obligations. Marie’s back in school. Celeste wanted to come, but business wouldn’t allow it. Your parents haven’t said much beyond a vague “good luck.” And Rafe… well, he’s moved on.

You sip from your champagne glass, trying not to let the ache of that last thought linger too long. Instead, you laugh quietly as the girls bicker playfully on the balcony.

“Don’t get my bad side,” Allegra says, flipping her hair with practiced flair.

“Bitch, your bad side is still better than my good side,” Noel fires back, adjusting her camera angle without missing a beat.

The jazz you had playing through the speaker cuts off abruptly, replaced by your ringtone. You glance over to the side table and see Rafe’s name lighting up your screen.

Your stomach flips.

It’s six p.m. in Paris, which means it’s only noon in the OBX. You usually only talk late at night, when the weight of the day softens the edges between you. Midday calls aren’t your thing- and definitely not his.

You grab the phone and walk away from the balcony, your fingers brushing the screen as you switch off Bluetooth and press it to your ear.

“Hey, Rafe,” you say, voice low as you slip into a quieter corner near the door.

“Hey, darling.”

The way he says it -warm, careful, intimate- makes your breath catch. You’re used to affection from him, but this? This sounds like something heavier. Something older. Like you’re still his.

“What’s up?” you ask, pacing slowly in the little entryway between the bathroom and closet.

“I know your show’s tomorrow,” he says. “I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”

That’s all it takes. Your chest tightens instantly. You feel it not just in your heart but somewhere lower too, deeper. His voice hits like a trigger, one you’ve been tiptoeing around for weeks.

You blink fast, trying to hold it together. “I just…” Your voice falters. “I wish you were here.”

The silence that follows is thick, but not cold.

“Mmm,” he hums softly, and somehow that sound says everything he isn’t- like maybe he wishes he was there too. “You’re going to kill it tomorrow,” he adds. “I mean that.”

The tears finally fall. You shut yourself in the bathroom, turning the lock and bracing your hand against the marble counter as you look into the mirror. Your reflection is blurred by glassy eyes. You swipe at them quickly, hoping your mascara isn’t ruined.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

There’s a pause, and you can feel it building- something unspoken taking shape in the quiet.

Then he says it. “Hey… I love you.”

It doesn’t sound casual this time. It doesn’t sound like a placeholder, or an echo, or a routine sign-off. It sounds like a confession. You close your eyes.

“I love you too,” you reply- and this time, you mean it the way he does. Not platonic. Not safe. Just… real.

And as the words hang there between you, soft and fragile, you wonder if they’ll still mean the same thing tomorrow.

-

Outside, the hotel hallway is buzzing. Assistants rush by with garment bags slung over their shoulders, stylists with clipboards tap frantically on phones, and someone is yelling in French about a missing pair of heels.

By the time you reach the venue -an opulent courtyard wrapped in white florals and shimmering lights- the transformation is already underway. The Christian Dior team has taken a historic Parisian building and turned it into a dreamscape. The long runway, slick with soft light, cuts through the center of the room like a river of silver. Rows of editors, buyers, and celebrities already line the velvet benches, air-kissing and crossing their legs in curated choreography.

But you don’t sit down right away.

Instead, you’re led backstage- your domain tonight. Controlled chaos unfolds all around you: models ducking into dressing areas, hairstylists curling last-minute flyaways, makeup artists applying lip liner with military precision. Fabric whispers. Heels clack. Someone is crying. Someone is screaming about time.

And yet, amid it all, you find a strange calm in the rhythm.

You spot Allegra getting her final touches done- her gown draping off her like it was stitched directly onto her body. She glances over her shoulder and lifts a brow.

“You surviving?” she teases softly.

You smirk, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “Barely.”

A stylist taps your shoulder and asks for help pinning the hem of a jacket that snagged just before lineup. You kneel on the cold concrete floor and fix it carefully, your hands surprisingly steady.

You belong here.

Not because of your name. Not because of anyone else’s reputation. But because you’re learning how to make it work- quietly, efficiently. The designer, Aïsha Bellamy, passes through with her assistant and gives you a quick, approving nod. “Good,” she says simply, already moving on. It’s not effusive, but it’s enough. In this world, calm is currency.

Moments later, the lights dim and the music begins- haunting strings layered with a pulsing electronic beat. The show has begun.

From backstage, you watch Allegra take her first step onto the runway- measured, confident, seamless. Cameras flash in rhythm with her steps, and you find yourself exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

There’s no time to think about anything else- not Rafe, not what he’s doing, or if he somehow managed to stream the show. You’re too busy checking hems, smoothing collars, and nudging models toward the curtain at just the right time.

And when the final looks disappears down the runway, when the applause echoes faintly from the other side of the curtain, the energy backstage subtly shifts. The tension breaks -not with confetti or champagne- but with soft exhales, loosened shoulders, quiet grins. It’s done.

Allegra returns from the runway still glowing, stepping out of her heels the second she crosses backstage. She walks up to you and bumps your shoulder gently.

“No disasters. I’ll take that as a win,” she says, grabbing a bottle of water from a tray.

You smile faintly, too tired to offer anything more. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t explosive. But everything went the way it was supposed to- and that, in this world, is everything.

And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re running from something. You feel like you’re standing still, right where you need to be.

-

As you make your way through the venue, weaving between guests, you find yourself in conversation after conversation- thanking fashion editors, shaking hands with designers, nodding politely at influencers you’ve only seen on your feed. You’re smiling, you’re gracious, you’re doing everything you’re supposed to do. But beneath it all, your heart’s still thudding from the adrenaline of the show.

You’re halfway through a light chat with a journalist from Elle when something in the corner of your eye makes you freeze.

That buzzcut. That height. That familiar tilt of his head as he scans the crowd.

Your eyebrows knit as you trail off mid-sentence, excusing yourself with a soft “just a moment” and turning sharply, threading through the throng of well-dressed strangers, heels tapping quickly against the stone floor.

“Rafe?” you call out when you’re close enough.

He turns- like he was waiting to hear your voice. His eyes meet yours, and then he smiles, slow and warm, holding a single rose in his hand.

Your breath catches.

“What are you doing here?” you laugh, disbelief curling through your voice as you reach for him. 

He doesn’t answer right away- just pulls you into him. And you go willingly, arms winding around his middle, cheek pressed against his chest.

His voice is soft against your ear. “I wanted to support you. I couldn’t do that from the island.”

The hug isn’t polite. It’s full-bodied, long, grounding. His warmth seeps into your skin, and for a moment, everything around you -the lights, the cameras, the Parisian venue buzzing with couture energy- fades into static.

When you finally pull back, your hands stay at his sides, but your eyes roam over his face like you’re trying to convince yourself he’s real. The bridge of his nose. The slant of his mouth. Those damn eyes.

You blink, but the tears come anyway. He notices instantly.

“Hey…” His voice is barely above a whisper as he gently reaches up, brushes a strand of hair away from your face, and tucks the rose behind your ear. “Don’t cry.”

But you do. Quietly. Unstoppably. A single tear, then another. Not because you’re sad—but because he’s here. Because you missed him. Because you didn’t realize how much you needed this moment until it landed right in front of you. He lets you have it. No pressure. Just his eyes on yours, full of something that’s almost too tender to name. And for the first time in a long time, you’re not bracing for the goodbye.

You’re just… here. With him.

-

“This is Rafe,” you say, voice a little softer than intended, gesturing between him and the girls.

The venue has mostly cleared out now, just a few staff and cleaners buzzing around in the background, the glamour stripped away. It feels quieter, more intimate. You can sense Allegra and Noel already sizing him up before you finish speaking. They exchange a glance -one of those silent, telepathic girl-friend looks- and you swear an entire conversation just passed between them without a word.

Allegra steps forward first, extending her hand. “Allegra. Pleasure to meet you.” Her voice is smooth, a little too polite- but not cold. Surprisingly, this might be the most gracious you’ve seen her be to a man who wasn’t Owen.

Rafe shakes her hand with a polite nod before turning to Noel, who offers hers more hesitantly.

“Noel,” she says, her voice quiet, unsure, but curious. He takes it gently and nods again.

Then his attention returns to you- full, present, and almost boyish. “You doing anything tonight?” he asks, tone casual but familiar. It hits you with a strange wave of déjà vu. This is the Rafe from early summer- the one who flirted with ease and always felt one step ahead of your heartbeat.

You glance at the girls, who are very pointedly pretending not to eavesdrop, failing miserably. Their eyes are glued to the two of you.

“I didn’t exactly have anything planned,” you admit, glancing at them again. “We might do something later.”

Before Rafe can respond, Allegra pulls you aside, looping her arm through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

As soon as you’re a few feet away, she whispers, “So that’s Rafe.” Her eyes flick back to him, then to you again. “I get it now. Honestly, I might fall for it too.”

Noel leans in from your other side. “He’s hot. Like, dangerously hot,” she murmurs. “But he looks at you like he’d burn the world down for you, so… maybe worth it?”

You stifle a laugh, cheeks warming.

Allegra gives you a knowing nudge. “You gonna go? He looks like he came all this way for a reason.”

You hesitate. “I mean… if you guys don’t mind…”

“Girl.” Allegra deadpans. “We’re not your babysitters.”

“Go,” Noel adds with a grin.

When you turn back around, Rafe is still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you like he already knew how this was going to end.

“I know this spot,” he says before you can speak. “Private, low-key. Best steak in Paris. Let me take you to dinner.”

You pause. Just for a second. Then nod. “Okay,” you say, voice soft but sure.

And just like that, you’re walking toward him, heels echoing against the marble, leaving behind the remnants of the show -and the girls- who watch you go with matching smirks.

-

You’re silently grateful you didn’t let Becca convince you to swap out your private French lessons for Spanish back in tenth grade. The words still come slowly, sure- but you can read a menu without embarrassing yourself. That has to count for something.

After the show, Rafe insisted on taking you somewhere special. He let you stop by your hotel to change, and now you’re wrapped in a black backless midi dress with matching ballet flats, your hair left softly tousled from the night. You’d opted for simple gold earrings, no necklace. You didn’t need anything else.

Now you sit across from him in a dim, elegant restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. He’s still in the tux he wore to the show, the tie gone, the top buttons undone. The two of you are tucked into a quiet corner table by the window, and the glow of the tower outside filters in like something out of a dream.

You rub the goosebumps from your arms -more from the A/C than the view- and lift your wineglass to your lips. The burgundy liquid is velvety, expensive.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” you say with a quiet smile, looking at him over the rim of your glass.

His eyes are lit in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. “I’m glad that I am.” His gaze doesn’t waver. It’s steady, reverent. Like he’s memorizing your face.

There’s a stillness between you -soft piano music drifting in from the far side of the restaurant, silverware clinking gently, murmured conversation filling the rest of the space- but you’re only aware of him.

Then he speaks. “I need to come clean about something.”

Your stomach twists, but you keep your face neutral. Calm. Ready. You nod once, bracing yourself.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he reaches to adjust the knife on his side of the table, moves the candle an inch like it’s suddenly in the way.

“I don’t really know how to say it, so I’m just gonna… say it.”

“Okay,” you say softly, willing your breath to stay steady.

“I, uh… I was seeing someone.”

Your heart doesn’t just sink. It folds into itself. You look away, not trusting your face to hold itself together.

“It wasn’t anything,” he continues quickly. “Just-”

“You moved on,” you finish for him, the words more bitter than you meant.

“No.” His voice comes out louder than expected. Firm. Immediate. He glances around, then lowers his voice. “No. I never moved on.”

You look down at your lap, swallowing against the lump forming in your throat.

“That’s the thing,” he continues, voice low and slow. “Do you remember when Valentina & Co. got that full spread in that… Vogue magazine?”

You nod cautiously. “Yeah…”

His eyes meet yours. “That was me. Sort of. I… I dated this girl. Her dad’s one of the big players behind the scenes in that fashion shit. I convinced her to get it in front of him. To push it. I thought maybe it could help.”

You stare at him, mouth parting slightly. “Wait… you did that?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah.”

“Who was it?” you ask, though you already know.

He hesitates. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

He sighs. “Miya. Something. I don’t even remember her last name.”

You nod slowly, letting it settle. “So… you used her to help me?”

“I mean…” he leans back, running a hand over his face, “yeah. I guess I did.”

Your lips twitch into a smile you weren’t expecting. “You don’t feel bad about that.”

A grin pulls at his mouth. “No. Not really.”

The two of you laugh -quiet and conspiratorial- until the tension dissolves, leaving something warmer in its place.

After a beat, your voice drops, uncertain. “You didn’t… sleep with her, did you?”

He gives you a look. “God, no.”

You nod again, your breath releasing without realizing you’d been holding it.

The waiter places your food in front of you, and for a while, the conversation falls into an easy rhythm. You eat. You laugh about his god-awful French and how he refuses to even try with the pronunciation. He teases you for being a language snob. You tell him he’s lucky he’s pretty.

It’s not just dinner. It’s a return. A rebalancing.

You don’t say it, but you feel it: you’re not sure where this goes next. But for now -just for tonight- you’re glad he’s here. And you’re glad it still feels like this.

-

The car pulls up to the curb, the soft glow of the hotel’s golden lights reflecting off its polished windows. The driver gets out to open the door, and you and Rafe step out together, the quiet hum of the city night wrapping around you like silk. You’re both staying at the same hotel, something neither of you planned but secretly feel grateful for.

Inside, the marble floors gleam beneath the lobby chandelier. Rafe glances at you, his hand brushing yours for a second too long as you both slow your steps.

“Want me to walk you to your room?” he asks, voice casual but eyes unreadable.

You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sure.”

The two of you cross the vast lobby and step into the elevator, the hush of the space suddenly intimate. A woman slips in behind you—a tall blonde, maybe late twenties, in heels and a fitted dress that says she’s not here alone. She turns to Rafe, completely ignoring you.

“What floor?” she asks, smiling with a little too much interest.

Something twists low in your stomach. Maybe it’s irrational. Maybe it’s not. But you feel it all the same.

“Six,” you say, stepping a little closer and sliding your fingers through Rafe’s. Your tone is light, but the message is not.

You don’t look at him, but you can feel the smirk forming on his face. You don’t have to see it- you can feel the smug heat of it in the air between you. When the elevator dings and the doors open, Rafe’s hand is still wrapped around yours as you step out into the hallway.

The door to your room is only a few steps away, but the moment stretches like static.

“So…” he says, once you’re standing in front of it. “Was that jealousy back there?”

You roll your eyes, key card in hand. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He leans a shoulder against the wall, grinning. “You grabbed my hand like you were staking a claim.”

You shrug, but your smirk is involuntary. “Maybe I was.”

Rafe lifts an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this too much. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you still like me.”

You tap the key card, the lock flashing green with a soft click.

You glance back at him, your voice quieter now. “Do you want to come in?”

His teasing expression shifts- still amused, but softer now. “Yeah. I do.”

You push the door open and let him follow you inside.

The suite is spacious, luxurious, and -thankfully- no longer a disaster. You kick off your shoes, the plush carpet soft under your feet as you step inside. The chaos you left behind that morning has vanished. The remnants of your half-eaten room service breakfast are gone, the bed is freshly made, trash bins emptied, and the crisp scent of something clean and citrusy lingers in the air.

You breathe in, grateful. When you’d rushed out earlier, it had looked like a hurricane passed through- clothes on chairs, towels on the floor, makeup scattered on the counter.

Now, everything feels quiet. Still. Intimate.

You walk over and sit at the edge of the bed, then let yourself fall backward with a soft thud, arms stretched above your head. Rafe is still near the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching you. It’s the first time in a while -maybe ever- that you’ve seen him without that usual air of cocky confidence. He looks… unsure. Out of place, even.

“You can sit, you know,” you say, casting him a lazy smile.

He huffs a soft laugh, like your comfort eases something in him, and walks toward you. Slowly, he drops down beside you, then leans back until you’re both lying side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Your faces are nearly aligned, breath mingling in the space between.

Silence stretches for a beat. Then he speaks, his voice impossibly neutral.

“You never moved on?”

Your chest tightens. The question is simple, but it lands like a weight.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. You turn toward him, propping yourself up on one elbow, hair cascading down the side of your face and brushing the bed.

“Never.”

Owen was sweet. He did everything right. But he wasn’t Rafe. He never could’ve been.

Rafe’s eyes flick toward you, catching you in the corner of his vision. “Never?” he repeats, a hint of disbelief -or hope- threaded through the word.

“Never,” you whisper, the truth sitting heavy in the space between you.

Your eyes stay locked, and something deep in your chest pushes you forward. You don’t kiss him. You don’t need to. Instead, you gently lay your head beside his, your nose brushing his cheekbone, your forehead pressing lightly against his temple. The warmth of him seeps into your skin, familiar and achingly missed.

He exhales slowly, like the words have been waiting years to escape.

“I’ll never not love you,” he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll never not love you too,” you breathe, the confession soft, reverent.

Another beat of silence, filled only with the hum of the city outside the window and the quiet thunder of your heart. Then you slowly sit up, crossing the room toward the en-suite bathroom.

You twist the handle in the shower, steam starting to rise almost instantly, curling in the air like ghosts.

When you step back out, he’s still lying on the bed, watching you.

You walk over, standing between his knees. No words. Just the water running in the background, the dim light casting a soft glow on your skin. You reach out a hand to him, no pressure, no performance. Just an invitation. He looks up at you, and then down at your hand. And when he takes it, it’s not just about the shower. It’s about everything that came before- and maybe, everything still ahead. You stand across from each other in the steamy glow of the bathroom, the sound of rushing water filling the space between you. Neither of you speaks as you undress, slow and unhurried, but there’s a nervous energy threading through the silence- your heartbeat is wild in your chest, and from the way Rafe stares down at the floor, jaw tense, you know he feels it too. He’s not smirking. Not teasing. Just quiet. Focused.

You step into the shower first, the blast of heat cascading over your skin and soaking your hair instantly. You tilt your face into the stream for a moment, eyes closed, grounding yourself in the warmth. Then you turn around- and he’s there. Rafe steps in behind you, and without a word, you wrap your arms around his torso, pressing your cheek to his chest. His arms encircle you in return, slow and sure, and he kisses the crown of your head like it’s second nature.

You both just stand there for a while, bodies swaying gently from side to side, water pouring over you like rainfall. Your eyes are closed, but your heart is wide open- his touch, his breath, the solid rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek… it’s all too much and somehow not enough.

Eventually, you both shift- he reaches for the body wash, you grab the loofah, and the moment turns practical but no less intimate. You wash each other’s backs, slow strokes and soft touches in between shy glances and barely-there smiles. There’s something sacred about it. No performance. Just care.

After rinsing off, you each step out, wrapping towels around yourselves. You press one to your face, still damp and flushed, while Rafe wanders the room like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. His towel hangs low on his hips, water dripping from the ends of his short hair as he stops in front of the dresser. He runs a finger over the surface, pausing at the decorative tray filled with little glass bottles, candles, and hotel trinkets. He’s quiet- like something’s heavy on his mind.

You walk up behind him, slipping your arms beneath his, hands curling gently over his shoulders. You press a kiss between his shoulder blades, then to the curve of his neck, your lips brushing warm skin still damp from the shower.

He watches you through the mirror for a beat, then turns his head, eyes locking with yours.

Without a word, he takes your hands and guides them down, turning around to face you fully. Then he lifts you effortlessly, and your legs wrap around his waist like instinct, like muscle memory. His eyes search yours- like he’s trying to find the exact words but knows he doesn’t need them. So you close the space between you, lips meeting his in a slow, deliberate kiss.

He carries you to the bed, laying you down with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He hovers over you, brushing damp hair from your face, and you reach between your bodies to untuck the towel from your frame, letting it fall away.

You break the kiss just enough to speak, eyes locked with his.

“I want to make love,” you whisper, voice trembling but steady with intent.

His eyes open, wide and searching. You expect a smile, maybe another kiss, but instead, he stills. For a second, you’re afraid he didn’t hear you right- until you notice the tears brimming in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

Your brows draw together in concern. “Rafe…”

But before you can finish, he nods, that familiar furrow in his brow deepening as he leans in and presses his mouth to yours again- this time with more purpose, more emotion.

You kiss him back like it’s the only way to stay grounded, your hands sliding to the sides of his face, holding him as if he might disappear- like if you let go, this might all vanish, a dream you’ve conjured from missing him for far too long.

Rafe pulls you with him, guiding you both up toward the head of the bed, his towel slipping off and forgotten somewhere along the way. His lips leave yours only briefly, traveling down to the delicate skin of your neck, then just beneath your ear. Every kiss he places feels deliberate, reverent, like he’s rediscovering you inch by inch.

He gently urges your legs apart, settling his weight between them with ease. You feel the heat of him against you, the soft drag of his tip gliding up and down your entrance- not teasing, just savoring. His eyes stay locked on yours, lips brushing over your jawline like a promise. You keep one hand cradling his cheek, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone slowly, eyes blinking against the overwhelming rush of emotion as he finally pushes in. The stretch is familiar, but the feeling? The feeling is entirely different.

This isn’t like the times before. Not your bedroom. Not his. Not Becca’s laundry room. Not the backseat of his car.

This time feels sacred.

Your mouth parts on a soft gasp, brows drawing together in pleasure- but your eyes never leave his. He begins to move, hips rolling in slow, tender thrusts, like he’s syncing his body to yours. One of his hands fists the pillow beside your head, the other gripping the edge of the sheet as if anchoring himself to this moment.

The bed creaks softly beneath you, your bodies finding a rhythm that’s more than physical- moans and breathless gasps filling the space like whispers of things you’re too afraid to say out loud. Your legs stay wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. Then he slides an arm beneath you, lifting you slightly so your chest presses to his, skin flush against skin. His head drops to the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged.

“Rafe,” you cry out, arms locking tightly around him, holding him with everything you have left.

“I know, baby. Let go,” he murmurs, voice low and strained—like he’s barely holding it together himself.

That’s all it takes.

Your body arches against his as release takes over, your head falling back as a raw cry slips from your lips. Your eyes roll back, your chest trembling, and it feels like your soul is being drawn from your body- too much, too beautiful, too intense.

Rafe isn’t far behind. He lowers you both to the bed, staying inside just long enough to feel your shudders slow before gently pulling out. He finishes on your stomach with a soft grunt, then reaches for one of the discarded towels, careful and quiet as he wipes you clean. There’s no rush. No awkwardness. Just silence and something that feels a lot like love.

Eventually, the sheets are pulled up over your bodies, and you both settle beneath them, limbs tangled. The window offers a postcard view of Paris- city lights twinkling across the skyline, the Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance like a dream you forgot you once had. Rafe’s arm is wrapped tightly around you, the hand of the arm you rest on woven through your fingers. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, chest rising and falling slow and steady beneath your cheek.

You don’t know what this means. Not for tomorrow. Not for when you both go back to the States. There are still questions lingering in the air, consequences waiting on the other side of sunrise.

But right now, none of that matters.

Right now, he’s here. You’re here. And nothing else in the world comes close to mattering as much as this moment.

[paperclips37]

so it's frank's first day back at the pitt, right? what if he has a breakdown during his shift and mel is there for him? 🥺🥺

Is it bad that I found this one fun?

Sorry Frank! Thanks @mateo-diaz!

---

Somewhere between the 3 random drug searches, constant disapproval and suspicion from Robby and the smell of burn flesh Frank doesn’t so much snap and dissolves.

There had been a massive fireworks related fire downtown because of course it had to happen today.

A self hating part of Frank’s brain wondered if Robby had set July 4th as his return date just to break him entirely. His final humiliation.

Over 150 people with a wide variety of burns, spanning the hole spectrum of possible burns. Santos had even vomited at the sixth degree burn. He’d followed suit. Somehow that had felt like a bonding moment. She’d only looked at him with mild pity.

It was the kid.

Same age as Tanner, same hair and friendship bracelet who would be lucky to survive the night that has him loosing touch with reality.

Frank sees that one of the nurses – newer ones – Dana, Princess and Perlah would never- has left the drug dispensing unit open and unlocked on the screen. And him all alone with it.

It would be so easy. The Pitt was an absolute circus, people screaming and crying. The team yelling medical orders back and forth. He could go get what every dark part of his brain was screaming for.

Relief.

Wash away his pain like a baptism.

It takes everything in him to not move. He can’t move away. But he takes that as a very hollow victory.

‘Langdon?’ He can hear someone looking for him. ‘Has anyone seen Langdon? I have a Le Fort Fracture and he is always the best with those fuckers.’ Frank is frozen. Unblinking staring at the cart. Was the universe telling him there was no hope? That no matter how hard he fought to stay sober he was going to get sucker punched with a trigger. The voice is only mildly irritated. Not dismissive or angry. Just annoyed that they can't find him.

‘He was here a moment ago. I’ll find him.’ Weirdly something in him defrosts slightly. The other voice, familiar and deep. These two voices lack the suspicion and horror at his presence that he’s dealt with from almost everyone else today.

‘Good and get him to walk you through the reset King.’ Abbot. The slightly heavier gait registers.

‘Doctor Langdon?’ His hands twitch. The only part of him able to move. Her voice is quiet, doing her best not to draw attention to her search. The curtain slips open, but just enough for her to slip in.

‘Doctor Langdon?’ Mel steps up next to him, not touching him but close enough that he can feel her warmth. ‘Is everything okay?’ She knows it not. He can feel the sweat soaking through his scrubs. With his thawed arm he pointed at the cart. Mel adjusts her glasses as she examines the open and unlocked device.

She steps over and closes everything quietly. His next tox screen was due. He wouldn’t blame Mel if she went and got someone immediately. She doesn’t. Mel turns to him a genuinely sweet but a little sad smile. It’s like she seen this before. Not for the first time he wonders about his former mentees life outside of this place.

‘I didn’t... I swear to god I didn’t....’ The panic attacks hits him like a freight train. The change from the slightly hesitant, easily overwhelmed young doctor to this much more self assured and decisive woman doesn’t take him by surprise. Her instant handling of him. Quite literally grabbing him by the elbow and guiding him towards the staff room.

People would talk. Let them.

‘Doctor Langdon, just take some deep breaths okay. Just breathe.’ Her hand gently guides him to a chair. Mindful of his still aching back. Gripping his shoulder. ‘You are perfectly safe.’

‘I could have- Jesus how I wanted to take and-’ A sob cuts through his chest. Would this be the rest of his life? Just waiting to see if he ever falls off that ledge? Maybe he should have left medicine.

‘But you didn’t.’ That broke through his fog. Blinking back to reality. Mel is kneeling in front of him, her hand still resting on his shoulder. Her dark eyes meeting his head on. There was something in her eyes. Something he hadn’t seen in anyone in almost a year.

Trust.

Mel King trusts him.

Even after he has violated almost every rule, any standard held for medical professionals and she still trusts him.

Just who the fuck is Mel King?

Frank hopes he gets a long time in her orbit to figure that question out. And to live up to this faith she has in him.

Maybe even grow to deserve it.

[bullet-prooflove]

The Rooftop: Peter Benton x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @hobbit-habbit @cannonindeez

Summary: After a bad day you always end up on the roof.

Companion piece to:

Plastics - Peter has never had a high opinion of plastics surgeons.

The Right One - Peter makes a realisation about you when the two of you share a patient.

Horror Show - Your date with Peter is thrown off course when John Carter is brought into the ER.

When you have a bad day, you end up on the roof.

It’s the same for everybody. It’s why some wise soul decided to put a bench up there, and another added some flower pots. It’s a closest thing to a rooftop garden that anyone who works in this hospital will ever get, with the exception of Carter.

It’s after ten when Peter opens the door and steps out into the cool nighttime air, he takes a deep breath as the chilled wind assaults him before striding towards the bench where you’re lying looking up at the stars.

“You can’t stay up here tonight.” He asserts as he stands next to the bench looking down at you. You’re zipped into your winter coat all the way up to your chin, the hood pulled up over your head to keep your ears warm. Your hands are tucked into the pockets, he can tell your wearing gloves from the hem that peeks out. “The temperatures supposed to drop.”

“My coat has insulation.” You inform him, snuggling down deeper into it. “I’ll be fine.”

“Mina…” He drawls out your name like a sigh.

“Go home.” You tell him. “I’m fine.”

But you’re not, not really. Peter may not be the most observant person when it comes to his colleagues but he is when it comes to you. He knows every single tell you have, from the way you brush your hair back behind your ear when you feel self-conscious to the way your nose twitches like a rabbit when you’re trying to hide your distaste at something Rocket’s said.

“If you stay then I stay.” He informs you, stripping off his jacket and fashioning it into a pillow, setting it on the ground alongside the bench. “Which means you’re responsible when they find my ass frozen to death.”

He lays down parallel to you, his gaze fixing on the stars that twinkle up above. His palms come to rest on his diaphragm, feeling the deep rise and fall of his chest. He finds himself focusing on it, the gentle lull of his breathing.  

“There was a girl that came in tonight.” You say finally, breaking the silence. “I reconstructed her face not too long ago because her boyfriend beat her so badly that that he almost disfigured her. She was supposed to be pressing charges but it turns out she went back to him and he rewarded by pouring battery acid over her head while she was sleeping. Her lungs were so scarred from the fumes, she died in the Trauma Room.”

“Shit like that… I’ll never understand it.” Peter says into the darkness. “How can you destroy the person you’re supposed to love?”

“It’s not about love, it’s about possessing a person, owning them.” You find yourself telling him. “I used to have a boyfriend like that in Med School and when I left him… he burned down my house. This thing with her tonight, it took me back there for a minute.”

He’s always wondered about the origins of the fire that changed the course of your life. There’s always been an undertone when you’ve talked about it, something that laced with more than just the trauma you’d experienced.

“Is that why you fall asleep on the roof sometimes, it makes you feel safe?” He questions, tilting his head towards the direction of your voice.

“No.” You say softly. “He’s in prison and I have an insane amount of smoke detectors. I’m good on that front. I just… being out here it soothes something inside me, it relaxes me, helps put things in perspective and sometimes... I fall asleep.”

“Well that will not be happening tonight.” Peter informs you, his elbows coming to rest on his knees as he sits up. “If you want to get out of your head there are other ways to do it.”

“Like?” You drawl out the word and he raises to his feet before pulling back your hood so he can see your face properly.

“Come with me and find out.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[secretlycursedd]

soft smut

Dean loves Sam to death, but he's too afraid to accidentally tell Sam about it during sex, because after everything Sam's been through, the last thing Dean wants is for Sam to think that Dean loves him only for his body.

But every time Dean barely holds back from saying those three words out loud.

Sam is too beautiful underneath him. His long hair is scattered across the pillow, and a few strands are stuck to his sweat-sticky forehead, his eyes are looking straight into Dean's, and Dean can't help but moan at the piercing, fucked-out gaze of his brother. Sam's cheeks are covered with a light blush, and his lips are plump from kisses, and Sam makes the most beautiful sounds on the planet, mixing them with needy and sincere "More, Dean, please, it feels so good, like this."

Dean lets out a soft groan as he buries his face in Sam's neck, pressing kisses and bites into the tanned skin, turning them both on even more. He changes the angle slightly and Sam whines, gripping Dean's shoulders tighter and spreading his legs wider, giving Dean more room to move.

"Fucking perfect for me, Sammy, my beautiful baby boy, just like that".

Dean has no control over what comes out of his mouth, but he knows that the sex he has with Sam is the most genuine thing that has ever happened in his life, and he regrets every stupid and meaningless night he spent with some stranger from a bar, instead of spending those same nights with Sam, methodically pounding into his brother's body, listening to his moans and receiving barely noticeable scratches from his short nails.

Sam is close, Dean can tell by the increased moans and the way Sam cups his face in his large hands, asking Dean for a kiss. He doesn't refuse, leaning closer and brushing his soft lips against Sam's, swallowing every moan and whimper from his little brother, picking up the pace.

And if hot and moaning Sam was beautiful, then Sam who cums from just Dean's cock, arching his back and opening his mouth in a silent cry, is simply incredible, and Dean doesn't think anyone could ever describe even a part of the feelings that Dean is experiencing at this moment.

Sam pulls Dean back to him, forcing him to press close, smearing white streaks of cum on Sam's stomach, and then he captures Dean's lips in his own again, almost immediately finding Dean's tongue with his own, catching every uneven groan Dean makes, bucking his hips to help Dean cum.

And this is the most dangerous moment, because Dean loses all vigilance when he reaches his peak.

He had never made a mistake before. He bit his tongue and didn't let the words escape his mouth, but today Sam is especially beautiful and vulnerable, especially soft and gentle, especially content and happy, and Dean makes one of his greatest fears come true when he whispers "I love you" into Sam's lips and then comes, resting his forehead against Sam's and letting his little brother wrap his muscular thighs around his body and not let go, squeezing Dean in his arms.

They stay like that for a while, catching their breath, but Dean can feel himself still tense and paralyzed with fear.

He waits for Sam to say something, because Sam always says something after sex. But today Sam is silent, instead tracing strange patterns on Dean's back with his fingertips and gently kissing his temple, and it can't help but be frightening.

Dean decides to break the silence first, awkwardly clearing his throat and asking a little fearfully, "Are you okay?", immediately kissing Sam's collarbone, moving to his neck, licking all the bites and hickeys he left a few minutes ago.

"Better than anyone," Sam says tiredly, and Dean hears a smile in his voice, but even that doesn't help him relax completely.

He's a complete idiot and a cretin, just a fool who couldn't cope with his stupid emotions and feelings, letting them get the better of him.

And so before Sam can say anything else, Dean lifts himself up slightly, resting his elbows on either side of Sam's head, and looks into his eyes, then leans down and kisses Sam deeply and long, burying the fingers of one hand into his little brother's wet and tangled hair, responding when Sam runs his tongue over his bottom lip.

"I love you," Dean says again when they pull away to breathe. "But I love you for more than that, okay?" he explains, his gaze darting over his brother's bare, toned body, then back to Sam's eyes, looking at them openly and sincerely, hoping Sam will understand. "I love you for you, Sammy. Always just love you. Love you so much."

And as if to cement his words, he kisses Sam again, tracing his own words on Sam's lips, leaving them as a silent promise.

"You know that, right? I need you to know, Sammy, tell me."

Dean doesn't immediately realize that he's stubbornly keeping his eyes closed, afraid to see any hurt or pain on Sam's face, but when Sam gently kisses his closed eyelids, Dean understands his silent request, opening his eyes and looking at a smiling and happy Sam, who can barely contain his contented laughter.

"I know, Dean. Always have." Sam runs his thumb over the freckles on Dean's cheek, and Dean can feel Sam lifting a huge amount of worry off his shoulders with that movement. "And I just love you, too, always so much."

And this time, Dean kisses the joyful laugh off Sam's lips, which is passed on to him too. He closes his eyes with happiness and lightness because everything is fine and he didn’t ruin anything. He realizes that Sam is getting better and that Sam is here, warm and happy, and his. Dean loves him so fucking much.

"I didn't know you were so sentimental," Sam tells him slyly, as Dean carefully rolls onto his side, pulling Sam along with him.

And maybe one day, when Dean is ready, he will tell Sam the reason for his emotions and fears, but it won't be today, and so he rolls his eyes good-naturedly, tsking.

"Oh shut up, I'm not sentimental."

"I could have sworn you were about to cry."

"Even if I did, it was because of the fucking good sex."

"Sentimental and horny."

"You enjoyed it, so don't act like I'm the only one."

"It doesn't change the fact that you're sentimental."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean pulls Sam closer anyway, gently lifting his chin and kissing his sly smile.

"I just love you so much," Dean tells him, brushing Sam's pointed nose with his own and closing his eyes, savoring the moment.

"I just love you so much, too," Sam tells him, and Dean drifts off to sleep, feeling lighter from the absence of stupid fear. Sam is there, safe and loved, and that's always been the most important thing to Dean.