#its like two steps forward two steps back three steps forward two steps back two steps forward three steps back etc

[divadepreshawn]

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆

Aaron Hotchner × fem!reader

Summary: You spent a large part of your life taking care of people. Between a test to grade, a phone call to calm Spencer down, and the problems of everyday life, there was never any time left. And honestly? You never cared about investing in your own love life. Love (in the intimate sense, between two people) was something for other people. But it seems that destiny had other plans. Warnings: This is part three, you can find the other parts here. I am in a terrible phase and my brain refuses to work, so if it sounds repetitive (which to me sounds a bit) just be kind and ignore - please. WC: 2 587

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It had been a few months since you had been in your new – now more like old than new – apartment. Even though you still had to make a mental effort to remember where some things were, this was a good place. It was actually safer than the old one, the acoustics were better, there was a grocery store a block away – that always saves you because, even with a list, you inevitably forget something. And best of all, it was only a few minutes from work, guaranteeing thirty more minutes of sleep, a decent breakfast and less traffic.

And the best addition to your routine that you could not even imagine.

Okay, maybe there are two additions: A little man with an adorable laugh – may he never hear this – Bert who is over six feet tall.

Even though, technically, you had met Aaron before – bumped into him, tripped, almost fell and knocked him over in the process. Feeling mortified with embarrassment. Does that count as meeting him? – Jack won you over first.

You didn't have much contact with children, except for Spencer, of course. Let's be fair, he's not an example of child development. He was affectionate, kind and curious like any child, but he had his own peculiarities that made him unique. Spencer didn't like playing outside, he had an aversion to sand and wasn't a big fan of the texture of grass, he hated any loud noise and it took him about six months to accept your hugs without feeling like he was being dipped in a tank of acid.

Jack, on the other hand, despite having a truly surprising vocabulary for his age, loves getting dirty, loves hugs and is naturally very affectionate – both in words and gestures. He would wait for you in the hallway to tell you about his day at school. He would draw little animals and slip them under your door. Would ask if you could go to the school presentation. Would invite you to go to the park, to accompany Jessica while he played with his friends.

How could you resist that?

Aaron, on the other hand… He was harder to read.

It wasn't that he was rude, far from it. He was always kind, respectful, and terribly polite. But he never got too close. It was as if, as the conversations in the hallway got longer each day, as soon as you shared some more personal information, he would hit an invisible barrier, and then retreat.

It was a slow dance, one step forward and two steps back.

You were walking back from the market, your arms almost giving out from the weight of the bags, gravity making sure to show its truth with every step. All you needed was some butter, it was the only thing you had forgotten on the list. A simple butter. But, of course, the market seemed to have conspired against you. The very day you decided to walk to the market, there were sales in practically every aisle – especially those huge aisles of cleaning products. And who can resist a good discount on detergent, degreaser, and fabric softener? That's not you.

You could feel the thin strap of the bag cutting into the flesh of your arms – but you ignored it, too proud to stop. After all, if you could walk from the market to the building, you would certainly be able to carry them to your kitchen, right? Wrong.

When you got to the elevator, pressing the button became an impossible task. You tried. God knows how much you tried. But your arm simply wouldn't obey your command – the more you tried, the more it shook from the effort.

You sighed, irritated. Mentally calculating the probability of falling if you tried to press it with your foot.

"Do you need help?", Aaron's voice sounded behind you, softly low, trying not to scare you.

You turned slowly, mentally thanking the divine entity that answered your prayers first. "I… Yes, please."

Without saying anything, he approached and took more than half of the bags from your hands. The tension in your arms disappeared immediately, replaced by the burning due to the effort. You let out a grunt of satisfaction, finally managing to lift your hand to press the button.

“Thanks,” you murmured, studying the small depressions in your skin.

“No problem,” he replied, his tone neutral and polite – as always, terribly polite – before nodding for you to enter the elevator first. “Did you walk a block with all that?”

You let out a short laugh, rethinking the route. “‘Walk’ is an optimistic word. I did what I could to get here.”

The corner of his lips lifted in a slight smile, he glanced at you quickly. “And why didn’t you drive?”

“Well, initially I went to the market to just buy some butter,” you glanced at the bags he was holding. “But the cleaning section was on sale.”

“And then you decided to stock up on a year’s worth of supplies,” he added, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“Don’t judge my logic for a sale,” you snapped, looking at him with mock indignation. “These are good brands and they were at a good price. A great price, in fact.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused by your ‘concept’ of a sale – everything in the bag would easily last a year. “Right… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude.”

“Oh, please,” you said, waving his apology away. “I see you more than I see my family. I understand that you’re a natural gentleman, but you don’t have to be so formal with me. I thought we were past that.”

He frowned, his smile almost overpowering his seriousness. “I’m not being formal. That’s my neutral expression.”

“Intimidating,” you corrected, without hesitation. A laugh escaped at the look of indignation on his face. “With all due respect, you are the epitome of the ‘angry dog: keep out of the way’ sign.”

Aaron snorted – the closest you’d ever come to laughing – shaking his head, in disbelief that he was being compared to a grumpy dog. “Angry dog? Seriously?”

The elevator dinged as the doors opened. You stepped out first, turning your back to the hallway, maintaining eye contact. “Ask any of your neighbors. I bet they’d agree with me.”

He sighed, carrying the bags, following you down the hallway, waiting patiently until you found your keys and unlocked the door.

Aaron paused in the doorway, looking around the apartment hesitantly. “Do you want me to put them in the kitchen or…?”

You smiled, appreciating his concern. “No need, I think I can do it now,” you murmured, holding out your arms for him to fit the bags back in.

He stood there for a moment, motionless, his gaze flickering between the heavy bags in his hands and your outstretched arm. “Are you sure?”

“No. But if it goes wrong, I can drag myself to the kitchen.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow, scolding you with his gaze. He took a second before giving in, moving slowly – as if that would lessen the weight of the bags. Carefully, he fitted the bags onto your arms, his fingers gliding delicately over your skin.

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “Seriously, we need to work on your sense of humor.”

“Well, I’m laughing inside.”

You just hummed in response, not trusting your brain to generate a coherent response. If he knew the whirlwind of thoughts and sensations that touch had stirred, sir, you’d be stuck.

—

“Come on, prettyboy,” Morgan approached Spencer as he walked through the glass door.

“The answer is still no,” he said, avoiding eye contact as he tightened his grip on the strap of his bag, quickening his pace to escape the conversation.

Spencer knew this was going to happen – it always did. He only had two certainties in life. The first was that one day he would die. And the second was the certainty that, as soon as Derek laid eyes on you, he would start teasing you.

No matter how much Spencer told himself that Derek didn’t look at you like that, he knew it wouldn’t stop the jokes, the smirks, and the nicknames that would come.

Morgan smiled, unfazed by the immediate denial. He followed Spencer to the table, crossing his arms and leaning his hip casually on the corner of the table. “Come on, Spencer. Give me a plausible reason why you don’t want to give me her number.”

Spencer sighed, placing her bag on the table with more force than necessary, sitting back in her chair before looking back at him. “Derek, you know I’d take a bullet for you. But… I’m not going to throw you to the lions.”

“Throw who to the lions?” JJ asked, her eyes flicking between Spencer and Morgan.

Spencer leaned back in her chair. “My sister.”

JJ raised an eyebrow in surprise before looking at Morgan skeptically. “You want to date Spence’s sister?”

Morgan shrugged. “Look at that face,” he said, pointing to himself –as if that were justification enough. “Just imagine our kids. They’d be beautiful and geniuses. A gift to humanity.”

JJ stifled a laugh, taking a sip of her coffee before replying. “Okay, ‘gift to humanity,’ let Penelope hear that.”

“I’m sure my Babygirl would support that.”

Spencer let out a muffled groan, resting his face in his hands. He would rather be dragged into a hostage negotiation, or even retake the physical fitness test, than continue this conversation.

“Derek, please. She literally took care of me… she’s like my mother. And you’re not going out with my mother.”

Morgan paused, pretending to consider what he’d said, and then smiled even wider. “Oh, I get it. You’re afraid of being promoted to big brother.”

“Shut up,” he snapped, burying his face in the files in front of him to end the subject.

“Good morning, my weirdos,” Rossi said, crossing the bullpen. He glanced around the group, quickly scanning their expressions. “Does anyone want to update me on…?”

“Just Morgan trying to destroy the peace in the Reid family,” JJ explained with a smile, as he walked away to his desk.

“Reid family?” Morgan repeated with a half smile. “Mrs. Morgan you mean.”

“I resign,” Spencer declared, rising from his chair with a grimace, starting to walk away towards the kitchen.

Morgan laughed out loud, the laugh so intense that his knees began to buckle, causing him to brace his hands on the table to keep himself upright. “Dude, I’m kidding! You know that, right?”

Rossi headed to his office, muttering “I don’t know why I even ask,” as he shook his head.

—

Aaron was going crazy, getting older, reaching senescence more quickly. He could almost see his gray matter shrinking considerably – which is, to say the least, ironic. He’s been dealing with mountains of paperwork, heinous crimes, serial killers for years, and until then he had managed to maintain his sanity at about seventy-five percent. But you managed to zero that in a few months.

It was almost funny. If it weren’t so humiliating.

All of this was unconscious at first, of course. He was worried about work, friends, his son, so it’s natural that he paid attention to you. But now? They’re frequent and painfully conscious.

He tried to rationalize this feeling, the only plausible explanation for him having liked you before knowing your name, profession, criminal record was the way you treated Jack.

Of course, it was all about that. It’s easy to like someone who treats those who are important to us so well, right? Every father would think so.

It wasn't because you were beautiful, incredibly beautiful. He certainly didn't notice how shy you are despite the perfect way you hide it, or how everything about your appearance is meticulously constructed.

The way he tried to push you away from his thoughts was pathetic. With each attempt, it was as if he reinforced each memory even more. The sound of your laughter, your heels hitting the floor in the hallway, the way you cursed the wind for messing up your hair, the way you talked to Jack.

Going crazy was the only plausible explanation for him liking you.

He was sitting at his desk, silent, mentally wandering. Was staring at the computer screen – for at least fifteen minutes. The more he tried to focus on work, the more his mind betrayed him with absolutely irrelevant memories.

“Hotch?”

You seemed genuinely happy to see Jessica this morning. Are you already friends or are you just being very polite? Maybe both, but Aaron senses that there’s something Jessica isn’t telling him–

“Aaron, are you okay?” Rossi’s voice interrupted his reverie. Aaron looked up slowly. He was leaning against the doorframe, holding a cup of coffee, his worried gaze analyzing every microexpression.

Aaron thought about changing the subject, disguising himself, making up any excuse to get him to leave. But if he was honest with himself, who else could he talk to?

“I need to make an appointment with a psychiatrist.”

Rossi arched an eyebrow, immediately walking into the office, sitting in the chair across from him. “Seriously? What’s going on? Are you having trouble sleeping again?”

Aaron rubbed his eyes, resting his face in his hands. “No. I don’t know, I’m exhausted, irritated. And tired. Yeah, I’m tired of her.”

Rossi blinked, pausing for a second to try to follow his train of thought. “Her? You need to be more specific than that.”

“My neighbor,” he replied with disgust, as if it physically hurt to admit it out loud. “The woman from the apartment across the street.”

Rossi took a sip of his coffee, waiting for Aaron to continue his explanation – but he remained silent, staring at the wooden table. “Right. And what exactly did she do?”

Aaron took a deep breath, pondering how he could describe you. “She’s inconvenient.”

Rossi stared at him for a second, processing. “Inconvenient, how…?”

“She… leaves the elevator smelling of vanilla. Every time. It’s agonizing the minutes until she gets to the lobby. And her laugh, lord, is too loud. You should see when Jack and her meet,” Aaron grimaced, trying to find an explanation for your relationship. "They go into their own bubble, and I watch from the outside, not knowing what to do. She walks past my door and wishes me good morning –even when I pretend to be on the phone. She's not intimidated by my dry comments."

He set his coffee cup down on the table, crossing his arms over his chest with a smile, having a vague idea of ​​what was happening to his friend. "Are you complaining about the fact that she's kind, has social skills, and is minimally hygienic?"

"No, you don't understand," Aaron retorted, in an exasperated tone. "This happens every day. Every. Single. Day. It's been four months. Four months. And she does the same things, always with the same smile, the same intonation as if it were the first time. If I close my eyes, I can still hear her heels clicking on the hallway floor."

Rossi no longer bothered to hide his amusement. It was almost charming to watch one of the FBI's most brilliant minds stumbling over his feelings like a teenager. How could someone whose job it is to identify the smallest patterns in details have missed the most obvious signs? All it took was a simple synapse – there was no ambiguity – one plus one equals two, simple as that.

“I need medication. Anything to make it stop,” Aaron muttered, rubbing his face with both hands. “She’s trouble.”

Rossi coughed to hide a laugh. “Aaron, mio ​​dio, are you listening to yourself?”

Aaron frowned. “What?”

“You don’t need a shrink, you need a date.”

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Tag: @presidentdangdang @dramioneforevertilltheend @esposadomd @hederahelix12 @cultish-corner @iyskgd @newavenger @khxna @anonymouse1807 @theprettyandthereckless @sabrinaselina55 @skull-centric @poseidons-lovechild @jaydaaasworld @questionably-intelligent69 @ninniesontheglass3 @herondale-lightworm @ampal98 @beesin03 @imgunnapayforthis @madnessinwrighting @mellyie @jorileychan @tessanikk

[itsnotyouithink]

AFRAID

PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Tara comes to your basketball game after you pass the most recent Film 101 test and you don’t expect the feelings you feel when you see her in the crowd cheering for you. You also didn’t expect your night to turn into an Ocean’s 8 reboot while trying to get “Drunk Tara” back into her own apartment.

WARNINGS: underage drinking, daddy issues

WORD COUNT: 4.1k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: send requests i’m bored

previous | next chapter

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The gym is electric, humming with pre-game adrenaline and the sticky throb of too many bodies in one space. Air conditioning exists only in theory; the overhead lights radiate down like they're trying to cook everyone alive. The floor already glistens with condensation before the first whistle.

You're bent over at the waist near the scorers' table, sweat already lining your spine and pooling in the crease behind your knee. Your taped ankle pulses—tight, reliable pain. It's fine. You've played through worse. You stretch, pull your hoodie over your head, and shake out your arms.

Then you look up.

She's here.

Tara Carpenter. Second row, dead center. She's not front row—she said she wouldn't do front row—but she's close enough to see the way your jersey clings to your back. Close enough to hear your sneakers squeak across the court.

She's in a black ribbed tank and low-rise jeans, hair half-up and loose, strands sticking slightly to her cheeks from the heat. She's leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees, lips parted just slightly. There's a red Gatorade tucked between her feet like it's waiting to be handed off.

She doesn't wave. Doesn't smile.

She just watches.

"Eyes up, killer," Chad says as he jogs past you behind the scorer’s table, grinning like he's about to say something deeply inappropriate. "The professor showed."

You roll your eyes and jog back to the line-up. Tara's not your professor. She's your film studies tutor. Who sometimes brings you coffee and sometimes rolls her eyes when you flirt. Who told you, dead serious, that if you passed the test last week she'd consider coming to a game. And now she's here. With the Gatorade. Watching.

The ball goes up.

You don't get the tip, but you get the first steal.

Banks—number 5—telegraphs a lazy pass and you pick it, quick hands and quicker feet, and take it coast to coast. Easy two off the glass.

The bench is already shouting.

Your team runs motion and you're slicing through defenders, ghosting left and exploding right. You hit a pull-up jumper from the elbow. Then a deep three from the wing. Then another. You're finding seams where there are none.

Eight. Ten. Fifteen. By the end of the first quarter, you've dropped seventeen.

The gym smells like wood polish and sweat and something sweeter—the syrupy bite of Gatorade opened in warm hands. You glance at her once. Just once.

Tara hasn't touched the bottle. The crowd groans as someone misses a layup.

She's leaned back now, arms crossed. Her face is unreadable, but her foot is tapping. She's in it. You know that rhythm. It's how she tapped during your last study session, during a scene in The Babadook she couldn't look away from.

Mindy's beside her, shouting stats. Anika's filming. Chad's across the court pretending to be your hype man. He's yelling your name like he's your agent.

"She's gonna drop forty!" he calls at the start of the second. "Y'all better call SportsCenter!"

Tara doesn't react. But her eyes never leave you.

Then it happens.

You pivot off a screen, plant your foot wrong. Your ankle gives—not fully, not enough to fall, but enough that you feel the twinge. You bite down hard and keep going, but the limp shows in your next step.

Banks notices. Smirks.

"Uh oh," she says. "Little glass foot."

You say nothing.

You score twice more.

Twenty-four.

The crowd is a body of its own now—roaring, pulsing, reacting to every touch. It moves like breath. Every time you hit the floor, someone screams your name.

But there's a cold knot somewhere in your chest. And it tightens when you catch a glimpse—just beyond the student section, seated three rows up, expression locked in place like it's carved into stone.

Your father.

He's dressed like he came from work—suit jacket folded over one leg, tie loosened. He sits with his elbows on his knees, watching like a scout, like a coach. Not like a parent.

No smile. No reaction.

You feel it in your teeth.

By halftime, you've scored 28. You limp toward the tunnel, ignoring the trainer trying to catch your eye. The locker room is a blur of shouts, water bottles, and sweat-drenched towels. You sit. Untape your ankle. Retape it tighter.

You think about quitting. For half a second. But you can't. Not tonight. Not when he's here. Not when she is.

Back on the court, the heat feels worse. Like the building's gotten angrier. But you don't slow down.

Thirty. Then thirty-four.

The defense tightens. You take a shoulder to the ribs. No call. Banks clips you going up for a layup and laughs on the way down.

Mindy's standing now, cupping her hands around her mouth. "Ref! What's your job, babe?!"

Tara's not smiling. Her jaw's tight. Her hands are clenched in her lap. That red bottle has moved to the edge of her seat.

You miss your next shot.

Then—next possession—Banks hits you hard. Deliberate. You hit the floor. The gym gasps.

You hear Chad yell, "Hands! She's all hands!"

Mindy: "Deck her, babe! We won't tell!"

You press a palm to the court and push yourself up. The pain flares. Your ankle screams. But you get up.

The crowd rises with you.

Tara rises, too. Slowly. Her brows knit. The look on her face isn't exactly worry. It's closer to rage.

You keep playing.

Fourth quarter. Final minutes. You're at 39.

Down two. The gym is vibrating. The bench is up. Students are on their feet.

You fake right, step back left, and shoot.

It arcs.

Time stalls.

Swish.

Forty-two.

You barely hear the buzzer. The bodies crashing into you. The coach clapping your back. Chad screaming like he's at a wedding. Mindy waving a towel like it's a flag of surrender. Anika already filming your sweaty face in case it goes viral.

Your chest is heaving. Your ankle's on fire.

And she's still there.

Tara Carpenter, second row. Standing now. The Gatorade open, finally, in her hand. Her bangs are damp. Her face is unreadable.

But this time—when you meet her eyes?

She smiles.

Barely. But it's there.

You limp to the sideline. One of your teammates passes you a towel, but you brush them off. You keep your eyes on her.

Tara doesn't say anything. Doesn't wave. She just takes a slow sip from the bottle and watches you like the whole court still belongs to you.

And maybe, just maybe—you believe it.

⸻

The hallway outside the locker room was colder than the gym, but not by much. The walls were that pale institutional yellow that made everything feel a little sick. Rubber soles squeaked on the tile as players came and went in bursts—laughing, shouting, dragging gym bags over one shoulder and reeking of adrenaline and deodorant and sweat.

You moved slower than the rest.

Towel around your neck, jersey damp and clinging to your ribs, hair sticking to your temple, ankle burning with each step like someone had poured something molten into the joint. You should've been sitting. You should've been icing. You should've been letting the trainer tape you up again, but your eyes weren't on the locker room door anymore.

They were locked on the girl leaning against the cinderblock wall across the hall.

Tara Carpenter. Arms crossed. One foot pressed back against the brick like she wasn't planning on staying. Red Gatorade in one hand, label torn halfway off, condensation slicking her fingers. She had her head tilted just slightly, like she was still trying to decide if she'd made the right choice coming.

The hallway lighting did her no favors, but she still looked good in that infuriating way she always did—black tank clinging to her ribs, jeans low on her hips, hair half-up and loose from the heat of the gym. Her small braid had half fallen out, wavy strands curling at her cheekbones. Her expression was unreadable. Or at least, it would've been to anyone else.

But you knew better now.

You hobbled your way toward her.

Slow. Slight limp. Every nerve still buzzing. Not from pain. From her.

She didn't look up at first. Pretended not to notice. Pretended she wasn't watching you limp your way toward her like you hadn't just broken your body on a hardwood floor for 42 points and a maybe.

When you were only a few feet away, she finally glanced up. The corner of her mouth tugged upward, just slightly. Just enough to hurt.

"I didn't think you'd actually come," you said, breath catching a little from the lingering burn in your chest.

"I told you. If you passed the test, I'd consider it." Her voice was cool. Even. Like she hadn't spent the entire game on the edge of her seat. "I didn't say anything about staying."

"You stayed."

"I was waiting for it to be over."

"Forty-two's a long wait."

Tara's eyes flicked down to your ankle, then back up. "And what'd that cost you? Half a foot?"

You grinned, sweat still beading down your neck. "Most of one, yeah."

She held out the Gatorade like she was offering you a settlement. Her fingers brushed yours again when you took it—cool plastic against your overheated palm. You didn't drink it yet. You just held it between you.

You searched her face for something. Warmth? Relief? Maybe even a sliver of pride?

But she just looked at you like she was trying to hide something behind all that silence.

"You looked pissed," you said. "Third quarter. You stood up."

"I looked annoyed."

"You stood up, Carpenter. Don't try and spin that."

Her arms crossed tighter over her chest. "You were being dramatic."

"She elbowed me in the ribs."

"You've played through worse."

"You remember that?" you asked, your voice softer now. "You remembered I've played through worse?"

Tara didn't answer. Her jaw flexed. Her eyes dropped to your lips for a second and then darted away.

Inside the locker room, someone slammed a locker shut and shouted your name. Chad's voice rang out next from down the hall before Mindy slapped his chest to shut up, "Are we going or what, MVP?! There's literally jungle juice calling your name!"

You didn't take your eyes off her.

"You going to the party?" she asked.

Her tone was casual. But her eyes weren't.

You took a long sip of the Gatorade. It was warm now. But still sweet.

"I wasn't gonna," you said, "but if you're gonna be there..."

"I didn't say I was going."

"You didn't say no."

Tara tilted her head, mouth curling into something half-cocky, half-intrigued. "I've been to your parties before. It's loud. It smells like sweat and spilled vodka."

"I smell like sweat and spilled vodka," you offered.

She gave you a once-over. "You smell like painkillers and ego."

You laughed. It hurt, but it was worth it. She was close now. Closer than she'd been in weeks. And the weight of her stare made your skin hum.

You leaned forward slightly, voice low. "You could just say it."

"Say what?"

"That you're proud of me."

Tara rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it physically hurt her. But the flush in her cheeks gave her away.

"I didn't say I wasn't," she murmured.

The hallway quieted for a moment. Just the two of you and the buzz of the lights and your teammates yelling inside. You watched her watch you. Her eyes traced the curve of your shoulder, the red mark on your chin from the fall, the way you were trying not to favor your ankle.

She swallowed.

"Go get changed," she said finally, voice tight. "Before I say something I regret."

You smirked. "That a yes?"

"It's a maybe."

You backed away, smiling into your Gatorade. "Good enough for me."

And just before you slipped back into the locker room, you glanced over your shoulder—

She was still watching.

Like she couldn't stop.

Like maybe this wasn't just about a game anymore.

⸻

The hallway of the athlete dorms smells like victory and sweat and the kind of cheap pizza they only order when someone breaks a record.

You've got one arm slung around Chad's shoulders for balance, the other gripping a water bottle like it's a trophy. Your hair's damp, jersey untucked, ankle wrapped tight but still throbbing. Every movement hurts, but you're grinning so hard your face aches.

"Forty-two!" Mindy shouts like she's announcing a lottery number. "I've never seen a game like that. You literally had the crowd in cardiac arrest."

"Banks was crying," Anika adds, deadpan. "She said she was sweating but we all saw it."

"I got that shot on video," Chad says, gesturing wildly. "You hear me screaming in the background like I was being born again."

The group laughs. Tara had to do damage control before sneaking out for the party later in the night. You nodded with a small smile before you watched her go - Mindy joked with you the whole walk back to your dorm. The stairwell echoes with noise and sneakers and energy, other sports teams buzzing like they just won too.

You finally reach your door, cheeks still flushed, high off the chaos. Someone's still humming the fight song. Mindy's behind you, dancing with a box of pizza someone stole from the locker room. Your ankle twinges as you reach for the keycard.

"You need to sit down before your foot straight-up detaches," Anika says.

You swipe your key. The light flashes green.

And then you open the door.

And everything stops.

The dorm lights are on. Too bright. Not the warm fairy lights you usually plug in. Not the soft, lived-in glow. No music. No movement. Just cold fluorescents and—

Your father. Sitting at your desk.

Still in his button-up from the game. Collar undone. Tie hanging loose. One leg crossed over the other like he's been there for a while. His hands are steepled under his chin. He doesn't stand. He doesn't smile. He just looks at you like he's already decided something.

Silence.

A full, crushing beat of it.

Then Chad, blinking. "Uh... Coach?"

You don't move. Just grip the doorframe like it might hold you upright.

"He's not a coach," you say flatly. "Guys... it's fine."

"You sure?" Mindy asks, quieter now.

You force a smile. "Yeah. I'll see you at the party."

The group hesitates—like maybe they don't want to leave you—but you're already stepping inside, already closing the door behind you. The latch clicks too loud. It echoes.

Still silence.

You drop your bag by the foot of the bed. The ice pack from the trainer thumps as it hits the floor.

"You let her hit you three times before the refs blew the whistle," he says.

Not hello. Not good job.

Just that.

You peel off your jersey, slow, careful, trying not to let it stick to your back. "They were late. I still scored."

"You played sloppy in the third quarter."

"I was doubled."

"You should've adapted."

You toss the jersey onto your desk—next to his elbow. You don't meet his eyes. You head to your duffel bag and grab the Gatorade Tara brought. Still unopened by you. You uncap it now, take a slow sip.

"You came all the way here just to say that?"

"I came because no one on your team has the balls to tell you when you mess up."

You lean back against the wall, arms crossed, the bottle pressed to your wrist.

"I dropped forty-two points."

"You could've dropped forty-five if you kept your head in the game."

Your breath catches. You bite it down.

"I didn't know you were coming."

"I didn't come to be seen."

"No," you say. "You came to watch."

Your voice is sharp now. Tired. Not angry—just done. The kind of exhaustion that settles in your chest like wet concrete.

"You were three rows up. Stone-faced the whole time. I nearly rolled my ankle into a spiral fracture and you didn't even flinch."

He shrugs. "You kept playing."

"I always do." You shake your head, “But that’s what you taught me, right?”

That lands. A flicker of something in his jaw. Maybe regret. More likely just disappointment trying on a new expression.

"I need to change," you say finally, voice quiet.

He stands. Straightens his sleeves.

"I'll see you at the next one."

You don't answer. You don't look at him.

The door opens. Closes.

Silence again.

And in it—you're just a girl standing in a room still heavy with his absence.

Skirt still in your drawer.

Tara's voice still echoing in your head: I like watching you when you're not pretending.

You sit down on the edge of your bed. Hold the Gatorade in your lap.

And let the silence hum.

⸻

As soon as you entered the frat house, you went straight for the alcohol. You absentmindedly waved at people shouting your name, played a few rounds of Cup Pong with your teammates in a mess of drunken bets and shots.

The party's at its loudest now. Music thumping. Lights dimmed to a haze of color. Every cup's sticky. Every face flushed. You've been complimented thirty times, kissed on the cheek at least five, and someone made a toast with Jell-O shots in your honor.

You earned this. You won this.

And yet—

Your crown is slipping. Because somewhere in the back of the house, Tara Carpenter is absolutely wrecked.

"We need evac, NOW," Mindy yells, cutting through a crowd of girls doing TikTok choreography in the hallway. "She's on the coffee table, screaming about gender theory and how she'd fight Freud with her bare hands."

"She what?" you blink.

"-Tearing him apart," Anika says, breathless. "It was like watching a TED Talk delivered by a gremlin."

You drop your drink and follow them through the chaos. Bodies part for you like you're royalty—or a handler trying to rescue a drunken celebrity. And then you see her.

Tara.

Standing on the coffee table in combat boots and a tank top, one braid unraveling, cheeks flushed to hell, arms outstretched like she's trying to summon a demon.

"IF I'M CRAZY THEN CALL ME KATHY BATES!" she yells.

A guy nearby cheers. Someone else drops a joint in awe.

Mindy grabs her ankle. "Tara, babe. Please come down."

"I'm making a point!"

"You're gonna make a trip to the ER!" Anika calls.

Tara squints, sees you, and gasps dramatically like she's in a soap opera.

"You're here," she says, eyes glassy, wobbling a little. "Oh my God, she came."

"Of course I came," you sigh, stepping closer. "It's my party."

She crouches down on the table like she's preparing to leap into your arms. "Catch me."

"Do not jump."

"I'm gonna do it," she stage-whispers.

"You jump and I let you hit the floor, Carpenter."

Mindy slaps a hand over her face. "This is a disaster."

Chad appears beside you, holding a slice of pizza like a scroll. "She also told three people she invented lesbianism."

"I DIDN'T SAY I INVENTED IT," Tara shrieks, hopping off the table directly into your arms with absolutely no warning. "I said I redefined it!"

You catch her. She smells like tequila, peach lip balm, and rage.

"We have to get her home," Anika says, eyes darting around. "Sam cannot find out."

"She's gonna kill us," Mindy mutters.

"She's gonna start with me," you say, adjusting your grip on Tara as she curls against you like you're her designated pillow. "I was the one who was found with her locked in the basketball gym two weeks ago at midnight. Her sister already probably hates me.”

"Holy shit," Chad says solemnly. "You are gonna die.”

⸻

1:23 a.m. – Outside the Apartment

The porch light above flickers like it's struggling to stay conscious—maybe in solidarity with Tara, who's folded into your side, draped half-limp across your back, breath warm on your neck and smelling like peach Schnapps and bad decisions. Her left boot is missing. Her right sock is wet for some reason no one understands. There's glitter on her shoulder, and her braid has completely unraveled, curls stuck to her cheek like sleep lines made of chaos.

The rest of the group crowds behind you: Mindy pacing with military intensity, Anika wringing her hands like she's praying, and Chad holding Tara's boot, a bag of ice, and a Gatorade like he's bracing for an apocalypse.

"I need absolute silence," Mindy says. "We're going full Special Ops. Tara, you're not allowed to speak unless you're unconscious."

"I am unconscious," Tara mumbles against your shoulder. "I'm just narrating from the beyond."

"Shut it," you whisper. "You smell like a jelly bean died in your mouth."

"You smell like a warm bakery and judgment."

"She's feral," Chad says reverently.

"She's possessed," Anika corrects. "That's not alcohol. That's demon juice."

The door creaks open. It sounds like it's screaming in slow motion.

The apartment is dark, cloaked in shadow. The hum of the fridge is the only sound. The air is warm, still laced with dinner and detergent and something sharp underneath—like someone left out tension to ferment.

You take a breath and cross the threshold.

⸻

1:25 a.m. – Entering the Apartment

Every step is a war crime waiting to happen. The floorboards have never sounded louder, like they've unionized against your mission.

"Step only on the edge of the runner," Mindy mouths as she tiptoes ahead. "Not the middle. And whatever you do—don't look at Sam's door. She'll feel it."

Tara clings to your neck tighter. "You're doing so good. You're like... a hero."

"Shhh."

"You smell like a cinnamon candle."

"Please."

"I'd die for you."

"Then die quietly."

Behind you, Chad stubs his toe and drops the ice bag. It hits the floor with a wet slap. Everyone flinches.

The light under Sam's door flickers slightly.

No movement.

Anika mouths, we're dead.

Mindy waves a hand. Abort nothing. Proceed.

You adjust Tara in your arms. She nestles into your chest like she belongs there—like she's always belonged there—and hums something incoherent against your shirt. Her fingers curl in the fabric like a child's.

"I feel like a burrito," she murmurs. "A burrito... of shame."

"You're a quesadilla of regret," you whisper back.

"I'd let you eat me."

"Okay," Mindy hisses. "We're officially on pause. She's cut off for eternity."

⸻

1:28 a.m. – Hallway to Doom

Tara's room is seven steps away. Sam's door is four steps closer.

The floor groans like a warning bell. You hold Tara tighter, adjusting your grip beneath her thighs, one hand splayed against the small of her back, heat radiating between you.

Her skin is warm. Her breath is shallow.

"I want you to come tuck me in," she whispers.

"I'm doing that."

"With, like, affection."

You glance toward Sam's door. The hallway feels like it's holding its breath.

You whisper, "Tara. Focus."

She leans up just enough to nose your cheek. "You're so bossy. It's... intoxicating."

"You're already intoxicated."

"I'm double drunk. I'm you-drunk."

You almost drop her.

Mindy hisses: "MOVE. MOVE NOW."

You surge forward—two steps, three, four—

Anika twists Tara's bedroom doorknob, holding it open like a bodyguard ushering in a VIP client. Chad crouches in the corner, whispering prayers to no god in particular.

You slip inside just as a floorboard pops loudly behind you.

You freeze. The hallway stays silent.

No Sam.

You exhale like you just survived a plane crash.

⸻

1:30 a.m. – Tara's Room

The door shuts behind you.

You set her down carefully, slowly, easing her onto the bed like she's made of glass and landmines. Her head falls back against the pillow, curls spilling across the case like a halo of static.

Her lips are pink, parted. Her eyes flutter open halfway, mascara smudged just enough to make her look like a tragic silent film star. Her tank top rides up just enough to show the scar below her ribs.

She looks up at you like you're something she dreamed.

"Don't go."

Your throat closes.

Mindy tosses a water bottle on the nightstand and nods like a soldier finishing a mission. "She's down. Let's run."

Anika tugs Chad toward the door.

But Tara's hand finds yours before you can follow.

"Wait," she murmurs. "You stayed."

"I always stay."

Her thumb traces your knuckles. She smiles—barely. Sleepily.

"You're really hot when you panic."

You snort softly. "You're going to forget all of this."

"Maybe." A pause. "Maybe not."

You tuck the blanket around her, brushing the hair from her forehead with a tenderness you try not to analyze.

Her eyes slip closed again.

She exhales. "My heart is so stupid for you."

And then—out.

⸻

Back in the hallway, the others are waiting. Mindy's pressed against the wall like she's just pulled off a heist. Anika's shaking out her hands like she's landed a plane. Chad solemnly holds up the boot.

"She's safe," you whisper.

"For now," Mindy mutters. "Until the Sam Bomb goes off tomorrow."

You nod once.

But even as you walk away, even as the door clicks shut behind you—

You can still feel Tara's fingers wrapped around yours.

Like she never let go.

[mapsthewanderer]

Plated VIII

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 8300 words of pure chaos. The Bear AU. Fem!Reader x LADS Cast. This chapter brings together Raf, Caleb, and Sylus for the most unhinged showdown yet—but not the kind you’re expecting. Dialogue heavy. There’s love, a little noti-noti 18+ tension, a challenge or two, and a turn you won’t see coming. A confession. A clearing of air—and something heavier left in its place. You’re in for it. Right?

Chapters: pilot, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven

Tags: @gavin3469 @animegamerfox @beaconsxd @lemonwithstupidity

Mise en Scène, Mise en Flame | Chapter 8

“Wow. Caleb. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Raf tilts his head, mouth curled in a grin too sharp to be harmless. “Did you take a red-eye just to slut-shame your ex in another country?”

Before Caleb can respond, footsteps echo down the corridor—measured, expensive.

Sylus appears like a full stop—glass of wine in one hand, not a strand of hair out of place. Black-on-black with a crimson cardigan thrown over his shoulders like wrath in knitwear. His expression? Not tired. Not surprised. Just… unimpressed.

“…Did I forget which floor I was on,” he says coolly, “or did I just walk into a very passive-aggressive porno?”

Caleb straightens. Raf doesn’t flinch. And you—you freeze—suspended, like breath caught between two lives.

“It’s fine,” you say, voice tight. “I can talk to him.”

Sylus takes his time scanning the room—Caleb. Raf. Then you.

“Fine,” he mutters, already turning. “Keep it short. And for god’s sake, nobody bleed on the carpet.”

He leaves like he was never part of the scene at all—too smooth, too practiced, like a man who’s seen worse and filed it away.

Caleb looks at you. But Raf—arms crossed, robe cinched tight, hair still wet—moves in front of you without hesitation.

“No. Nope. Not happening,” Raf says, voice calm but iron.

“You think you can just follow her to Copenhagen? Ambush her after she says goodbye to me?” He tilts his head, eyes briefly softening as they meet yours. “Flame, seriously. You don’t owe him a conversation.”

Then—back to Caleb. Cool again. “You wanna guilt her for moving on? After offering me a job like it wasn’t a power play?”

Caleb’s jaw tics. “It wasn’t. It isn’t.”

Raf scoffs. “You offered me a position under you the night we both outdid ourselves culinarily. You gonna pretend that’s a coincidence?”

The silence curdles.

Caleb doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. His whole body is tension, jaw set like a steel trap.

You? You’re barely breathing.

Raf’s voice drops an octave, quieter now—but sharper, pointed.

“You want to be the man in her life again? Start by acting like one.”

Caleb steps forward—

but Raf’s already there. Blocking. Solid. A breath closer to dangerous.

“She doesn’t need you at her door in the middle of the night like a punishment,” he says. “You wanna talk? She decides when. And where. And I stay until she says otherwise.”

He turns slightly, gaze finding yours, steady as bedrock.

“You want me to leave, Flame?” Raf asks. “Say the word.” He waits. “Otherwise, I’m staying. You don’t face him alone. Not this time.”

And that’s when it happens.

Caleb sees it.

Not just the robe. Not the necklace. Not the kiss still smudged on your mouth or the faint flush still blooming on your cheeks.

But the stance.

The certainty.

Raf, unmoving. Undeniable. No longer a fling.

He’s a wall.

A line in the sand.

Caleb stares at you like you’re the punchline to a joke he hasn’t figured out yet. Then he exhales—slow, bitter, like air pressed through clenched teeth. His eyes sweep over you.

Hair damp. Cheeks warm. Unapologetic. Whatever mask he brought to wear—it cracks.

He laughs once. Low. Bitter. Barely there.

“God. You look…”

He doesn’t finish it. Doesn’t need to.

“I flew in hours after the VIP night. Figured I’d do the work. Be good.” His jaw shifts like it’s wired shut. “Then I see you. Like this. And I don’t know if it’s fate or just the universe trying to fuck with me.”

You inhale—but he lifts a hand. Like he can’t bear to hear it. Not yet.

“Tell me,” he says. “Was this the plan all along? For me to walk in and see what I missed?”

You flinch like it’s a physical blow.

“… I—I’m not following you,” he mutters, the edge gone soft, hollow. “I was here before you came.” But already, his eyes are distant. Somewhere past the hallway. Past you.

“I’m staging at the Alchemist. Funneling whatever’s left of me into a tasting menu that doesn’t flinch.” His voice flattens. His jaw works. Silence swells. Then—

“I thought maybe we could talk like people. Like we meant something.”

His eyes flick to Raf’s bare feet. The robe. The hush behind you.

“But I see I misread the invitation.”

“Caleb—” you start.

“I saw you come in,” he says quietly. “Didn’t know you were here. Was—” A pause. Something close to a swallow. “Excited, actually.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Beside you, Raf doesn’t move. Just stays—present, grounded, a weight at your side. His arm brushes yours.

Caleb glances at Raf. Then back to you.

His voice softens, pulls taut like a fraying thread. “I’m not here to interrupt anything. I’m staying at the same hotel. That’s all.”

A beat.

“I’ll stay out of your hair.”

Another beat. He doesn’t look away. “I didn’t mean to crash into your night,” he adds. “It’s just… if we’re still playing our game… I guess I didn’t realize I was already losing.”

He lets the silence sit.

Then breathes out—sharp. Quiet. Real. “Is this what we are now? Just… moves and counters? I keep thinking I’m catching up. Then I see you. Like this. And suddenly I’m five steps behind again.”

No demand. No accusation. Just a confession disguised as surrender. Then—he turns. No storming. Just quiet retreat.

The elevator dings. The doors glide open.

He steps in. Doesn’t look back.

The doors close.

Raf exhales, long and low. “Damn,” he murmurs. “He even broods in Scandinavian.”

Your hand finds Raf’s robe belt and curls around it, fingers tightening like you could anchor yourself to now. To him.

He doesn’t pull away.

The lock clicks behind you.

And it’s just you and Raf. He just lets you breathe. Lets you feel what safety tastes like, even after the door closes on something else. Raf doesn’t speak. He just guides you to the bed in silence, one hand warm on your lower back, the other brushing a thumb beneath your eye—not to fix, just to say I see you. Then he lets go.

You reach for your phone. Your hands are too steady to be calm and you call Sylus. He picks up on the second ring—already alert, like he’s been waiting.

“What happened?”

You don’t hesitate. “Did you know?”

A pause. Not long. But long enough to feel it press against your ribs. Then—quiet. Honest.

“No.”

You hear it. The stillness in him. The barest edge of surprise. Sylus doesn’t fake ignorance. Doesn’t need to. If he’d known, he would’ve told you. Or burned the whole Alchemist plan to the ground. You sit on the edge of the bed. Bare feet to polished floor. The room too big. The night too full. Your breath tight in your throat.

“The city isn’t big,” you murmur. “I just… didn’t think it’d feel this small.”

“I’ll cancel it,” Sylus says. “The whole thing. You don’t have to train with him. I’ll find another kitchen, another city—”

“No.” You swallow hard. “No. I’ll do it.”

“Even if—”

“I’ll do it,” you repeat, firmer now. “Even if it means shadowing him. Even if it means seeing him. I signed the contract. I wanted this.”

Silence again. But this one lands differently.

Not pity.

Not control.

Respect.

“All right,” Sylus says quietly. “If that’s the road—you won’t walk it alone. I’ve got your back.”

You pause. The phone pressed to your ear. The words settle. Then, softer—barely a breath, but full of every thread pulled too tight tonight:

“I… I know. Thank you. Really.”

You hang up.

And for the first time in hours, the world feels just a little less sharp around the edges. The phone slips from your hand, sliding across the duvet like it’s fleeing the weight of the moment. And Raf—he’s still there. Leaning in the bathroom doorway like he never moved. Like the confrontation didn’t just gut the air between you.

He doesn’t ask.

Doesn’t prod.

Doesn’t give voice to anything lingering sharp in the air.

Just nods toward the steam rising behind him, quiet as dusk.

“I ran it hot.”

You don’t answer. Can’t—not with words. You just move toward him. Like if you walk too fast, the spell will shatter. Like if you speak, the ache will leak out and flood everything.

You undress in silence. Peeling away the day like bark—layer by layer. Tension clinging to your skin like a second shirt. Raf doesn’t stare. Doesn’t leer. He witnesses. Gentle. Present. Still.

By the time the water hisses to life, he steps in behind you. Bare skin meets bare skin. His arms loop around your waist, holding you there. Mouth warm against the base of your neck, breath skipping over your spine.

You let yourself lean back.

Into him.

Into heat.

Into the single solid thing in a night that keeps threatening to fall apart.

The water scalds at first. But so does your heartbeat. And maybe this moment won’t fix anything. Won’t untangle what just happened. But in Raf’s arms, under the pressure of steam and skin, you finally let the weight sag from your ribs.

It doesn’t heal.

But it softens.

You stay until the water runs cool and your fingertips prune. Until the breath in your chest stops catching at the name Caleb like it’s still sharp.

Later—beneath linen sheets damp with warmth and faint rain—you lie beside Raf in the lowlight of what’s left of the night. His body curves around yours. One hand rests against your stomach, grounding. The other traces idle circles on your thigh, not greedy, just there.

He speaks without opening his eyes. Just into the space between breaths.

“You sure about tomorrow?”

You hesitate. Then: “I’m not sure about anything.” Your voice is a rasp. Honest. “But I’m going.”

He exhales into your hair. The shape of it tells you everything. Not defeat. Not fear. Just acceptance. Fierce, loyal, quiet.

“Then I’m with you.”

But there’s more in his silence. And you know him well enough to wait for it.

It comes.

“I didn’t come here to stage,” Raf says at last. “Didn’t plan to train. This trip was supposed to be… just you. Just… us.”

You turn to face him, the sheets twisting at your waist. The dark makes him even gentler somehow—softens the edge of his cheekbones, throws warmth into the violet undertones of his hair. You can barely make out his lashes, but his eyes are open. Watching you with that quiet, endless focus that feels somewhere between sea and sky.

“But I’ll come with you,” he adds. “Whatever it looks like. Whatever he looks like. I’m not sitting this one out.”

Your heart knocks. Not because you doubt him. But because, for a second, you realize what it means to be chosen—again. Despite. In spite. Without condition.

You kiss him. Not for distraction. Not for power. But because you want to. Because you need to. Because Raf’s mouth feels like fire disguised as sanctuary, and you’re done pretending you don’t burn for it.

You didn’t plan to sleep with him again tonight. Not after the hallway. Not after Caleb’s voice carving new canyons through your ribs.

You thought you’d need space. But Raf moves closer. Slow. Sure. Lit from within. And you—helpless, grateful, greedy—stop pretending you’re made of walls. Fingers find the chain at your neck. He unclasps it gently.

You let him have you.

Slow. Wrecked. Worshipped.

He murmurs your name—your real name, not Flame. Like saying it means claiming something fragile and true. His eyes stay open, watching you like he doesn’t want to miss a single flicker of you coming undone. And when it’s over—when your pulse slows, when your body folds into the quiet shelter of his—

you stay.

Held.

Chosen.

Again.

——————————————————————————

You don’t sleep right away. You whisper through the edges of midnight about the Alchemist—its mysteries, its madness. What to expect. What to fear. Raf, ever the balm, slips into banter just to make you laugh.

“Definitely a Michelin cult,” he murmurs, nosing your shoulder. “There’ll be a tasting menu followed by blood pacts. And a ceremonial elderflower sacrifice.”

You laugh. Really laugh. The kind that makes your ribs ache in a different way. And somewhere between the rhythm of his breath and the weight of your own resolve, you drift off.

——————————————————————————

You wake to the muted hush of morning—light filtered through bone-white curtains and the sound of bicycles humming over cobblestones below. For a breath, it’s just you and the stillness. The weight of hotel linen tangled around your legs. The trace memory of warm water on skin. Raf’s arm draped over your waist, slack with sleep, his breath soft at the base of your neck.

Then—like a match to dry paper—reality catches.

The Alchemist.

Closed-door training.

You. Caleb. And the ghosts of everything unsaid.

You slip from the bed, careful not to wake Raf. The sheets resist, holding your warmth. You pull free, padded feet hitting cold floor. The bathroom light is low. You shower again—not because you need to, but because some part of you is still trying to rinse off last night. The sting of memory. The haze of Caleb’s voice. The question he never let you answer.

But nothing washes away.

You dress with care—chef’s jacket crisp, collar stiff, each button a decision. Shoes polished like they’re meant to argue with the floor. Hair pulled into a clean knot. No perfume. No makeup. Just focus. Just armor.

Raf stirs as you return to the room, still half-asleep, curls a lavender halo of chaos. Pillow-creased cheek. The kind of vulnerable softness that hurts to look at for too long. You lean over and press a kiss to his temple. “You coming?”

He groans faintly, blinking one eye open. “In a minute. Still channeling my inner monk not to headbutt Caleb.”

You snort. “Good luck with that.”

Before you can straighten, his arm snakes around your waist and yanks you down with gentle force. His kiss catches you mid-laugh—hot, deep, still sticky with sleep. He tastes like dawn and sugar and the part of you that doesn’t want to go.

“Evil tempter,” you whisper, breath stolen.

“Mm.” His eyes flutter shut again. “You love it.”

You do. And you leave with his mouth still on yours.

——————————————————————————

You meet Sylus in the lobby at 08:46.

He’s already waiting—poised, sharp as ever. No tie, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest menace. He hands you a coffee without a word, the exact way you like it. Not that you told him.

“Sleep?” he asks.

“Some,” you lie.

He doesn’t press. The car waiting outside is black, silent, understated elegance. Inside, Sylus stares out the window like the city is speaking and he’s just here to listen. You don’t interrupt. There’s comfort in his silence—as if he breathes, you’re allowed to, too.

The streets blur. And then it rises before you.

Tucked on a quiet block. The Alchemist doesn’t invite—it dares. Stark white lines against a grey sky, all ambition and restraint. A lab dressed as a temple. A kitchen masquerading as myth.

Inside, the kitchen breathes like a living organism—under ambient light and echoing with mechanical whispers, it pulses with quiet precision. Above, the dome pulsed in slow ultraviolet waves, drifting algae and jellyfish silhouettes forecasting beyond sensory shock. Matte-black inox surfaces glint under shadowed halos, and seamless workstations line the walls like stages in a silent laboratory. Every blade meets board with ritualistic sharpness; every flame is calibrated, every scent measured.

And then—across the prep station—you see him.

Gloved hands piping something impossibly delicate. Lit like a Renaissance sketch caught in ultraviolet. Every angle of him glows—bone and cheek, the bridge of his nose, even the laces of his apron—illuminated under the spectral wash of light that bathes the Alchemist’s kitchen in surreal reverence. Violet eyes catch the shimmer of jellyfish drifting above the ceiling glass. Jacket—flawless. Stark white turned otherworldly, catching flashes of violet-blue with every subtle movement.

He doesn’t look up. But you know he knows.

You feel it in the marrow.

Sylus clears his throat. Formal. Composed. He introduces you to the kitchen. A few heads nod. One of the younger chefs—tall, freckled, his apron too clean—grins when he hears your name.

“Plated’s new head chef? With a thing for yuzu?”

You let a soft laugh escape. “Guilty.”

Still, Caleb doesn’t look at you. Then, finally—his voice. It slices through the quiet with ease.

“Knife skills first. Let’s see if you remember how to brunoise, Hotshot.”

Your breath catches.

Hotshot.

It hits like a memory punched into your ribs. He hasn’t called you by your nickname like that in weeks. Maybe he’s said it—but not like this. Not casual. Not teasing. Not like nothing ever cracked.

You don’t respond. Just step forward and reach for the knife. The blade is cool in your hand.

You dice.

The room watches.

Caleb’s presence moves beside you like a second heat source. Not loud. Not looming. Just there. The Alchemist crew speaks little. They’re exact. Elegant. Ghosts in aprons. But you don’t feel invisible. You feel watched—and not just by them.

Sylus lingers at the edge of the station. Arms crossed. His gaze pins everything. You slip—barely—a sauce beginning to split at the edge of the pan.

Sylus opens his mouth.

But Caleb beats him to it.

“Try swirling the base first before you mount it,” he says, tone light. Almost warm.

Your hands move. The sauce recovers.

Sylus closes his mouth.

“You’re quicker than I remember,” Caleb notes, not quite smiling. “Still tense in your shoulders, tho.”

“And you’re still annoying,” you mutter, adjusting your grip.

That does make him grin. Sharp. Beautiful.

God, he glows in here. Not with ego. Not like before. He’s present. Nimble. Leading without lording. And for a moment—a terrible, wonderful moment—you miss it. Not the pain. But the way you used to work together like a symphony.

You don’t say it. But your hands remember. And Caleb? He never once misses a beat.

Then—Raf curses loud enough to turn heads from the pastry station.

“Fucking—why is the freeze dryer cursed?” he snaps, yanking open the drawer like it personally offended him.

You blink, turning. “Jesus. I didn’t know you were here already.”

Raf straightens, scowling at the machine like it’s a former lover. A fine dust of powdered sugar clings to his wrist, like evidence of a failed duel. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, brushing his palms off on a towel, “picked up a thing or two from Xavier.”

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

Raf shrugs, already reaching for a tray like it’s the only thing keeping him from setting the whole kitchen on fire. “Showing up silently. Brooding in corners. Judging flawed equipment. You know—classic ninja shit.”

You smirk. “You’re missing the haunting quiet.”

“I’m working on it,” he deadpans. “Give me a week and a traumatic flashback.”

A chef beside him offers a hand, but Raf’s already untying his apron, flushed and muttering under his breath. “I’m taking a tactical retreat,” he declares, brushing powdered sugar off his sleeves. “One more broken tuile and I’m defecting to France… Temporarily.”

From across the room, Caleb glances up with that unbearable calm. “Want me to save you a slice of my brilliance?”

Raf doesn’t even blink. “Save me your silence,” he mutters, stalking out of the kitchen like he’s leaving a battlefield.

A beat passes. Then someone chuckles, quickly silenced by the knife-sharp tension that still hums in the air.

You don’t dare laugh.

Caleb sidles closer. “Poor thing,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. “Pastry’s a cruel mistress.”

You shoot him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

He shrugs. “I’m enjoying you.” Then, quieter, lower: “You always looked better with a knife in your hand.”

The weight of that shouldn’t settle so sweetly in your chest. But it does—like a song you still know all the words to.

You refocus. Steel yourself. The cutting board becomes your compass again. You move beside him—silent, syncopated. He doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t hover. Just watches. Comments now and then, but never to outshine. It’s praise by omission. Instruction through presence. With every plated test dish, your walls inch lower—not because you’ve forgiven him, but because here, he’s everything he once promised to be.

The light through the tall windows turns golden. Everything glows faintly amber. Caleb places something exquisite onto a dish—clean, elegant, absurdly intentional—and slides it toward you.

“For you,” he says. “Because that cut on the beef? That was hot.”

You flush. That single, stupid nickname still echoes under your skin.

And that’s when it hits you:

You’re not angry.

You’re scared.

Because here, in Copenhagen, inside the impossible bones of the Alchemist—Caleb is free.

The scent of browned butter and rendered duck fat winds through the room. You’re still in your rhythm—chopping, searing, layering, moving like you belong. Beside you, Caleb hums something low under his breath. He sways as he slices fennel, almost theatrical.

“You’re enjoying yourself a little too much,” you mutter.

“I’m making art,” he replies, flicking you a look. “You’re just here to make me look good.”

“I’m not your garnish, Chef.”

“You are when I’m plating, Chef.”

Across the room, Sylus makes a sound—half sigh, half strangled sense of authority. He leans against the pass like a marble statue of judgment—arms folded, one eyebrow lifted, every inch of him reading the room like a chef’s confession.

“Chef Caleb,” he drawls, voice cool as steel, “stop flirting while handling a mandoline.”

Caleb doesn’t miss a beat. “Please. If I get cut, I’ll just plate the blood.”

“You’d serve it with microgreens,” Sylus replies. “And call it a study in mortality.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

A bark of laughter startles the room—Raf, magically returning with a fresh tuile and something suspiciously glittery on his cheekbone. You don’t point it out. He’d only weaponize it.

“PUh-LeEase,” Raf groans, theatrically dropping the tuile onto his station. “If I hear one more sentence about ‘mortality’ or ‘umami transcendence,’ I’m stabbing someone with a sugar shard.”

You grin before you can stop yourself. It’s stupid. It’s dangerous.

But it feels like old times.

Caleb twirls a spoon between two fingers, lazily pointing it at Raf. “You’ll stab yourself if you temper incorrectly again.”

“My dear former maestro,” Raf shoots back, eyes narrowing. “Like I haven’t tempered your ego a thousand times already.”

Sylus clears his throat with the authority of someone about to fire them all. “Play nice. You’re not at Plated.”

“No,” Raf mutters, brushing past you, eyes flicking briefly to Caleb. “But it’s starting to feel like it.”

You freeze.

That hangs. Just for a moment. Caleb at the hot line. Raf at pastry. Sylus in the wings. You, right in the middle—knife in hand, heart in your throat. The kitchen you dreamed of. The fire you feared. Then Caleb, like it’s nothing, torches a scallop to a perfect bronze and slides it onto a shell. He passes it to you like a gift. Like a test.

“Don’t get sentimental,” he murmurs, voice a shade too soft. “It’s still just food. Fire and timing.”

You take the shell. Taste it.

It’s divine.

But the room—it’s crackling now. With memory. With possibility.

Raf pipes up again, too casual. “Flame, tell me you’re not falling for his Michelin monologue again.”

Caleb smirks. “Jealousy looks good on you.”

“I’m not jealous,” Raf shoots back. “I’m territorial. There’s a difference.”

“Boys… Chefs—,” Sylus cuts in, not looking up. “Do I need to remind you both that she’s the one leading Plated’s tasting menu?”

That lands like a blade. They both fall quiet—just for a beat. Just long enough for pride to surface and die behind their lashes.

You glance at Sylus. “So… am I allowed to be nostalgic?”

He exhales, the corner of his mouth ticking up like he’s holding back the weight of memories. “You’re allowed to be whatever you want. As long as the mise is clean and no one bleeds.” Then, almost too quietly:

“Just don’t forget which version of this dream hurt the most.”

He turns. Walks away.

Caleb doesn’t reply. Raf doesn’t follow. The three of you are left in the quiet hum of ovens and ambition.

It tastes like the past. Smells like legacy. And burns—quiet, steady, holy—like it always did.

——————————————————————————

You don’t know how it got here.

One minute you were dragging off your apron, legs sore and laughter still fizzing in your chest from a day in the kitchen that didn’t quite destroy you.

The next—

You’re a bottle deep beneath the Alchemist’s underworld, tucked into a bar that smells like citrus zest, salt, and secrets. Wine glasses shimmer everywhere. The playlist hums with late-night lofi—smoky, bass-heavy, a little distorted. Like time folded in on itself just to bring you here.

Raf’s slumped beside you, half-asleep, head warm against your shoulder. He murmurs against your ear like a lullaby composed of chaos.

“Mmmm… Kinda hornii,” he mumbles. “But, like… horizontally. Not vertically. Too tired. Need a snack. Maybe you. Maybe seaweed. Can’t decide.”

You snort into your wine. Nearly spill it.

Across the bar, Sylus and Caleb are deep in a wine-fueled battle of intellect and ego, glaring at the sommelier like she’s the final boss in a Michelin-rated video game.

“No, no,” Caleb says, swirling his glass like a weapon. “This has too much spine. It’s performing for attention.”

Sylus scoffs. “Says the man who once plated saffron emulsion with a pipette.”

“Exactly. The pipette equals controlled saffron,” Caleb corrects, deadpan. “Not all of us plate like bored reptiles on a throne.”

The door hisses open. In walks the Alchemist’s head chef—wind in his coat, smug in his stance—carrying a silver bin like it holds buried treasure. Inside: oysters. Glinting, cold, slick as moonstones on crushed ice.

Sylus doesn’t miss a beat. “Oyster challenge.”

Your glass stills mid-air.

Caleb’s brows lift. “What?”

Raf perks up, blinking himself into alertness. “Oh. Oh no. Oh yes. But definitely no.”

The entire bar pivots. Junior chefs elbow each other. Someone who might be the forager stands reverently like it’s a sacred rite. The sommelier lights up, vanishes, and returns with a bottle of Bollinger La Cote 2013 like she’s waited her whole life for this moment.

Oysters are shucked with flair, lined up like ammunition. Sylus rolls his sleeves higher, the picture of a man about to bury someone with dignity. Caleb squares his shoulders, jaw tight, like he’s walking into battle.

Raf lifts a hand weakly. “For the record—I love seafood,” he announces, already sipping from the fancy champagne Sylus opened like it’s a party. “But I draw the line at slurping ocean phlegm.”

You nearly choke. He nudges you. “Seriously. Who decided to make mucous romantic?”

“You’re just scared, Raf.”

“Pffft… I’m not scared. I’m evolved, Flame.”

The first slurp rings out like a starter pistol.

Then—chaos. The kitchen staff goes feral. Bets are placed. Someone pulls out a whiteboard.

“Briny. Clean. Like kissing Poseidon’s cheek,” Sylus murmurs after one.

Caleb makes a face. “Mine tastes like Poseidon’s lower half.”

“Poor thing,” Sylus purrs. “Not used to food being more cultured than him.”

You nearly snort champagne out your nose.

Caleb slurps another. Grimaces. “God, it’s like sucking the sea through a sock.”

“Better than most things you’ve sucked in the last year,” Sylus replies without blinking.

“Oyster number six is… chewy,” Caleb mutters, swallowing hard. “That one had emotional baggage.”

“Of course. It was preparing for life inside your stomach.”

Raf cackles, doubled over. “Keep going! Please! This is better than reality TV.” Someone passes you a fresh flute. Raf leans into your shoulder, eyes glued to the slow-motion carnage. “It’s like Top Chef met Fear Factor and had a baby raised in Versailles.”

You raise a brow. “You’re oddly invested for someone who won’t try one.”

“Alright, alright—” Raf says, lifting a champagne flute like a judge. “That one looked like it winked at me. I swear.”

You hesitate, curiosity catching you.

Raf catches the look.

“Oh no. No. Don’t you dare.”

But you’re already reaching. Just one. Cold. Briny. Silk and muscle and nerve. You tip it back.

It carries the ache of a poem written for someone else. And your face says it all.

Rafayel leans in, voice mock-gentle. “Don’t worry, Flame. Some things just aren’t meant to be swallowed.” Before you can even answer, Raf clears his throat—

“I mean, if anyone’s curious, my libido’s just fine without slurping aphrodisiac slime.”

Caleb slurps down what must be his twelfth oyster—grim determination in every chew—then raises a brow. “You sure? You sound… defensive.”

Sylus doesn’t even glance up as he downs another oyster to match Caleb, “Textbook projection.”

Raf holds up a finger. “Puh-lease. I do not need mollusks to get it up.” Then, with a lazy smirk and a tilt of his glass:

“Just ask Flame.”

You cough. Violently. Champagne burns the back of your throat as you cover your mouth, eyes watering.

And then—

Caleb gags.

Visibly. Audibly.

His face goes a little green. He sways. “Nope. Nope. Fuck—” He stumbles off the barstool, hand bracing on the counter, and bolts.

Raf shrugs. “What? I’m usually a ‘don’t kiss and tell’ kind of guy. But sometimes—” he flashes you a wink, “—you gotta let the art speak for itself.”

You bury your face in your sleeve, mortified and slightly flattered, while the sommelier, wisely, pretends to be deaf. You’re still blushing when Raf kisses your temple, smug as sin.

“Go after him,” he murmurs, voice low against your ear. “He needs a little coddling.” Then, with a knowing smirk: “Just don’t let him milk it too hard. He’s dramatic even when fully hydrated.”

You don’t hesitate. Just toss your napkin and follow. Raf lifts his glass and calls after you, dreamy and unbothered: “Tell him he still looked hot doing it!” Raf calls after you, raising his glass like it’s a toast. Then, with a thoughtful pause and a tilt of his head: “Bit green, maybe. But, like… aesthetic green.” He winks.

“On some people, nausea’s a vibe.”

——————————————————————————

You find Caleb in the hallway just off the prep kitchen—dimly lit, walls slick with condensation and silence. He’s braced against the tiled wall, one hand splayed flat like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His chest rises in slow, uneven pulls. A linen napkin is clutched in his other hand, stained faintly from where he spit earlier. You’re not even sure where he got it. Probably stole it off some abandoned tray.

He doesn’t notice you at first.

Or maybe he does, and just doesn’t know how to look at you yet.

“…You okay?” you ask, voice soft but cutting through the quiet.

He doesn’t turn. Just nods once, small and sharp. “Fine,” he says. “Just humiliated. Defeated by a mollusk.” His tone’s dry, but it doesn’t land like a joke. It lands like defeat.

You offer him a water glass from the cart near the wall. He takes it, barely looking, fingers trembling just slightly as they close around the rim. He drinks. Swallows hard.

“I mean…” you murmur, gentler now, “you did make it to what—twelve?”

“Twelve too many,” he mutters, then leans his head back against the wall with a quiet thunk. A slow exhale. Then, softer—almost wistful: “You always used to be the one to make me try things I hated.”

He pauses. Breathes in the silence. Then adds, wry: “Hard enough facing the fog prince in a mollusk duel without Raf moaning aphrodisiac nonsense behind me. Ugh— I’m not saying it broke me, but it definitely shaved a year off my life.”

You snort—can’t help it.

Caleb glances over, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Honestly, I think he was trying to psych me out. Worked a little.”

You don’t answer. The sounds of the bar echo faintly down the corridor—champagne flutes clinking, Sylus’s velvet laugh, Raf’s voice calling someone a “salt-slicked harlot.” You almost smile.

Almost.

Caleb tilts his head to glance at you. His eyes are clearer now, but the wine has peeled back something else—something raw beneath the grin.

“You’re still doing that,” he says. “Pushing me. Even when you’re not trying to.”

You step a little closer, leaning your back against the opposite wall. Just enough space to breathe. Just close enough to hear the heat in his voice.

“You always were better when you had something to prove,” you say.

He huffs a breath—part laugh, part sigh. “I used to think that was you.”

The silence stretches. You don’t know what’s being built between you here—if it’s a bridge, or just a plank you’ll both fall off.

A voice cuts in from the bar: “Caleb! You alive or drowned in snot oysters?”

He closes his eyes. “Tell them I ascended,” he murmurs, raising a hand weakly toward the ceiling.

You laugh—quiet, involuntary. And he cracks a voilet eye open to look at you again.

“… Flashbacks,” he mutters. “Culinary school. That week I gave myself food poisoning from veal tartare.”

“You blamed the garlic.”

He smirks. “It was the garlic. And also maybe the part where I didn’t refrigerate it properly.”

You arch a brow.

“Some of us peak early, alright?” he adds.

There’s another pause. This one longer. Weighted. Then—quieter. Careful:

“I’ll be fine. I always am.”

You don’t believe him. Not really. Not with the way his shoulders sag just enough to show the cracks. Not with how his fingers still shake around the glass.

“Thank you,” you say, finally.

His brow furrows. “For what?”

“For today. For being… like that.”

“Like what?”

You gesture vaguely. Toward the bar. The oysters. The Caleb who flirted with knives and held space without taking it.

“Normal,” you say. “Sharp. Playful. Competitive. You.”

That stops him. He swallows—shallow. The kind of breath people take when they’re afraid to let anything out.

“I’ve missed you like that,” you say.

He looks at you, long and searching, like he’s trying to decide if this is a trick of the lighting or the truth. Then, barely audible: “I wonder if that version of me only exists with you.”

Your chest stings.

He chuckles, just once. “Or maybe Sylus just really does it for me.”

“Oh, he definitely does,” you deadpan.

That breaks the tension—just slightly. Enough to breathe.

Caleb exhales and glances down the hallway like it might lead anywhere else. But then his gaze returns to you. Steady.

“You coming back in?” you ask.

“In a minute,” he says. “Tell Raf I owe him a seafood duel. I bring butter.”

You snort and shake your head. But you walk away. And his eyes—just like always—stay fixed to your back the whole way down.

Not burning.

Just… remembering.

——————————————————————————

By the time you reenter the bar, the warmth inside has mellowed to something dreamlike—gold-edged and blue-tinged. Bottles gleam behind the counter. The laughter has thinned to a hum. Someone’s playing a slow cover of a pop standard on the sound system. You pause in the doorway.

Raf spots you first, leaning over the bar, now vertical and alert again—his sleeves rumpled, and his eyes a little too sharp.

“Where is he?” he asks.

And then—Caleb reappears behind you, quiet as ever, slipping into the light like it doesn’t quite belong to him.

“I think I’m heading back to the hotel,” Caleb says softly, sliding his empty glass toward the edge of the bar. Then, with a glance your way: “Uh—… Care to walk with me?”

You barely part your lips before Raf—still perched two stools down—cuts in like a blade.

“Seriously?” he snaps. “You wanna take her for a stroll now? After being normal for one day?”

Caleb meets his glare calmly. No flare. No smirk. Just stillness.

“If you hurt her…” Raf begins, jaw tight. Then pauses. Lets it hang. Lets it mean something. “Emotionally,” he clarifies. “And don’t even get me started on physically.” He leans forward, voice low. No threat. Just truth.

“I don’t care what history you’ve got. I will make it my business.”

Caleb nods. “I won’t,” he says. “I swear it.”

Another pause.

Raf watches him like a sommelier studying a new vintage. Deciding whether it’s worth the risk. Finally, he nods once. Grudging.

“I… trust you,” Raf says. “But don’t get clever, Chef de Ego. I’ll be in the hotel lobby. Waiting. And if she doesn’t come back safe…” He taps the bar. Then smirks, dry and sharp. “You’ll be limping. Emotionally. Or not.”

Caleb’s lip lifts. “Fair.”

You touch Raf’s wrist as you pass. He catches your hand instead—gently, but with purpose—and lifts it to his mouth. Presses a kiss just below your knuckles, like it costs him and soothes him in equal measure.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“You still feel like mine, you know,” Raf murmurs, voice low and steady. “Even when you’re not.”

Your breath hitches. He smiles—soft, bittersweet. ”I know how this story goes,” he adds. “Just… don’t forget who’d burn for you.”

And then he lets go. But the weight of him stays. Fierce. Unmistakably yours, even now.

Then you and Caleb step into the Copenhagen night—cool, clean, and humming.

And somewhere behind you, Sylus raises his glass, barely audible over the hum of the bar.

“Careful, boys. She’s not picking favorites. If you’re going to duel, at least do it with plating tongs. Blood stains the marble.”

——————————————————————————

The streets are quieter now.

Golden-lit windows blur behind condensation-streaked glass. Copenhagen hums low around you—bicycles drifting past in pairs, the scent of warm bread trailing from a corner café that never really closes. A man plays harmonica at the harbor’s edge. Not for money—just for the echo.

You and Caleb walk without speaking. Your shoes whisper across the damp cobblestones, his stride easy but closed off. The silence between you isn’t cold—it’s dense. Weathered. The kind that carries history in its pauses. The city smells like yeast, salt, and the ghost of rain.

Caleb hasn’t really spoken since the bar. Just held the door with that tight jaw and that silence he wears. The same silence he always hid behind when the stakes got too close.

You glance at him. “Sure you’re okay?”

He shrugs. “I will be.” Then, quieter—an echo of earlier, a mantra worn thin: “I always am.”

But you know better. And so does he.

You pause when you reach the pier. A low stone railing frames the water—still black, slick as lacquer. Fairy lights sag between rusted hooks, forgotten from someone’s celebration. The harmonica wavers through a blues scale like it’s remembering something tender.

He stops beside you. Hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, jaw still locked.

After a moment, his voice emerges.

“You remember culinary school?”

You glance sideways. “Hm.. of course… What part?”

A faint smile plays at his lips. “First day. You walked in late. Denim jacket. Boots. Didn’t give a shit.”

“I gave a little shit.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. You gave zero. You sat down between two guys twice your size and told them to move their ‘fucking elbows.’ Loud enough for the whole class to hear.”

You huff a laugh. “Sounds about right.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. “I thought you were the fiercest person I’d ever seen.”

Your heart skips. He’s always been honest in the quiet. You stare at the water. “I always thought you wanted me to thrive.”

“I did.” He breathes in. “I—… I do.”

“Then why did it feel like you kept… pulling me back?”

He looks away.

“I thought I was protecting you.”

You start to speak—but he cuts in.

“I know. It’s a shitty excuse. It’s the line. But I meant it. When Bourdain burned me out—when I lost that job for not being cutthroat enough—when I couldn’t be cutthroat enough—I saw how sharp this world is. How much it takes. I didn’t want it to chew you up too.”

You stay quiet.

“I wasn’t afraid of your talent. I was afraid of what would happen to you if you succeeded the way I couldn’t. Of what it would cost.”

Your eyes sting. You look at him—really look—and see it: the weight he’s been dragging behind his ribs for years.

“I thought if I left… if I pulled back… it’d hurt less.”

You whisper, “Did it?”

He hesitates. Then, low: “No.”

He exhales hard, hands flexing in his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I burned it down before I ever gave us a chance. I didn’t think I deserved it. You. Plated. Any of it. So I ran.”

“And left me in the ashes. Again.”

His voice catches. “I know.”

You don’t touch him. Not yet.

“But that VIP night?” he continues. “Seeing you like that—in your element. Commanding the kitchen. All eyes on you. I’ve never been prouder. Or more wrecked. Because that was the dream. Us. Side by side. Except I blinked, and it wasn’t me beside you anymore.”

A long beat. Then—quietly: “I loved you then. I still do. But I didn’t know how to love you without trying to own you. And I hated that about myself.”

Your throat closes around his honesty. You step in. Slowly. A breath away from him. “I’ve always loved you,” you say. “But Caleb… stop trying to save me from the life I chose.”

He stills.

“You don’t get to dim me because you’re scared I’ll burn.”

His breath hitches.

“I want to be seen. Not managed. Not protected. And if you still want to be in my life, you don’t stand in front of me or behind me. You stand beside me.”

A tear slides down his cheek. You catch it with your thumb before it falls.

“I thought I had to shield you from this world,” he whispers. “Turns out, you’re the only one who ever scared it.”

You smile, soft and sad. “Damn right I did.”

He chuckles, raw and trembling. Then—without moving—he breathes:

“Yeah, you’re perfect, Hotshot.”

And he looks at you with no walls. No armor. You step in close. Not to comfort—but to be clear.

“Caleb. Don’t try that shit with me again,” you say, voice low, even. “Don’t you dare try to hide me. Or tempt me into some soft-focus fantasy where you get to control the version of me that fits your guilt.”

His breath catches.

“I don’t want your protection. I don’t want illusions. I want reality. And if you ever try to dim me again—to shrink me to fit the shape of your fear—I will cut you out completely.”

His shoulders stiffen.

“I have people now,” you continue. “People who show up. Who fight beside me. Who don’t disappear when it gets messy. So if you walk again? That void you leave? It will be filled. It already is.”

You let that hang in the air, sharp and final.

Then, softer, but no less resolute: “Choose me as I am. Or don’t. But don’t ask me to make myself smaller to earn it.”

There’s a beat. A long, aching beat.

Then—

“I—… Okay.”

And when you turn to leave, he doesn’t stop you. He just follows. One step beside you, matching your stride. And for the first time in years, it feels like you’re walking forward together.

——————————————————————————

The hotel lobby is too bright. Too clean. And far too quiet—until it isn’t.

You step through the revolving doors. The last of the night clings to you—cobblestones and harmonica notes, sea wind and confessions that aren’t quite regrets. Inside, the air is filtered and hushed, like the world hasn’t caught up to what just happened.

But you have.

And then you see Raf.

Not crying.

Sobbing.

He’s collapsed against the lobby bar like his spine gave out. Shoulders curled. Hands hiding his face. His whole body trembles like it’s trying to escape itself. The kind of grief that doesn’t ask for permission. That rips its way out of your chest and pours into the open.

Caleb’s hand tightens on your arm. Then, slowly, he lets go.

Because across the room, sharp as a cut—

Sylus.

Suit immaculate. Top button undone. One hand pressed to his temple, the other clenched around his phone like it might keep him from unraveling entirely. His voice, always a blade wrapped in velvet, is cracked now—tight, curt, fraying at the edges.

You hear pieces as you cross the room.

“—partial collapse—”

“…equipment’s gone. Ceiling damage. Entire kitchen’s—”

“No. I understand. I said I understand.”

He turns. Paces. Sits. Stands. Paces again. A perfect metronome with something broken underneath. And then Raf breaks—louder.

A sound you’ve never heard from him before.

You’re at his side before you know it, arms around him. He clutches you like driftwood in a storm, burying his face into your shoulder, shaking so hard your breath catches with it.

Caleb’s behind you now. One hand between your shoulder blades. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. It’s glowing in your palm before you remember to check.

Group chat. Chaos:

Zayne: Building’s cordoned off. Full loss.

Xavier: I just saw the feed. Kitchen’s gone.

Zayne: Insurance?

Xavier: Sylus isn’t answering. Raf’s not reading. You?

Zayne: No. Tell me someone’s with them.

Xavier: Second set is. I’m sure.

You lift your gaze just as Sylus lowers his phone. The screen goes dark.

And then—

He slams his fist into the bar. The sound cracks like thunder. The bartender flinches. A bottle nearly topples. Glasses tremble in their racks.

Sylus doesn’t blink. Doesn’t apologize. He just reaches blindly, grabs the nearest bottle—something deep amber—and pours a full shot with shaking fingers. Downs it like it’s water. Breathes like it’s fire.

Then—quietly. Hollow: “It’s gone.” He’s not just talking about the building. “Plated’s gone. Beyond saving.”

Raf makes a strangled noise behind you, a choked inhale that ends in silence. Your elbow hooks around him automatically, anchoring both of you.

Caleb shifts closer, hand finding your waist. But the world is tilting. It’s a grief you can’t cook through. Can’t bury in butter or reduction.

Then Sylus turns. Starts to walk out.

Out of the bar. Out of the hotel. Out of the moment.

Out of this.

But not this time.

You’re faster. You move like fire. Catch his wrist before he can disappear.

He flinches. Sylus flinches. Like your touch scorched him. Like it made something real.

“Don’t,” you say. “You’re not doing this alone.“

He turns, slowly. And for the first time since you’ve known him, Sylus looks… wrecked. Not tired. Not busy. Not bleeding behind control.

Broken. The version of him only real fire could reveal. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed like they’re finally too tired to square.

“I’d rather get stabbed in the chest than hear that phone ring like that again,” he whispers.

You nod once. Say nothing.

“They said… ‘the ceiling collapsed where the pastry fridge used to be.’” His voice cracks. “That’s the line. That’s the legacy. That’s all they’ll write down.”

He laughs. Sharp. Bitter. Wrong.

“… Pastry fridge.”

And suddenly, the air tastes like ash.

Behind you, Raf wraps his arms around your waist, holding you like you’re the only thing real. Caleb stands near, silent, watching Sylus with something almost like reverence.

And then Sylus breathes. Not words. Just breath. And finally speaks again:

“I should’ve been there. I built it to stand without me. And it still fell.”

Your lips part to respond, but he barrels on. Too fast. Too raw.

“We plated perfection. Every goddamn night. We built something out of fire and will and twenty-hour shifts and—”

He swallows hard.

“And now it’s buried under concrete and soot and whatever the fuck’s left of the pastry fridge.”

He falters—but you catch him with the words he once gave you. The ones that mattered most. “All right,” you say softly. “If this is the road… you don’t walk it alone.”

Red eyes meet yours.

“I’ve got your back,” you finish.

A pause. Then he nods. Just once. Like it costs him everything. But he believes you. And maybe that’s the beginning.

Because then—he smiles.

A snarl. A promise.

“Hmph… Then let it burn.” His voice is low now. “We’ll build again.” And then softer. More dangerous.

“And next time?”

His eyes hold yours. Steady. Unyielding.

“Next time, it won’t collapse without warning.”

You say nothing. No one does. Because that’s enough. Because you believe him.

All of you do.

In the wreckage, in the ruin, in the ash still curling in your lungs like smoke—

There is still something left.

And maybe that’s how it begins again.

Not with perfection.

Not with fire.

But with you standing in what’s left.

And choosing to stay. Even in the wreckage.

——————————————————————————

Writer’s mote: Caleb calling Sylus the fog prince might be my favorite accidental brilliance to date. I laughed way too hard—one of those hobby-writer moments where your brain just goes: “Yes. That’s it. That’s the entire vibe” lololol. Anyway. Hope you enjoyed this drrrraaaamatic chapter. Also—look at this picture of The Alchemist. Tell me it doesn’t look like Raf’s restaurant. I mean. Come on. God, I love summer holidays. I get to sip wine, proofread, and entertain myself well into the night. Bliss. (Kinda wanna doodle raf in his bathrobe staring Caleb down lolol) Thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[sillyparadiselady]

💙 “Dr. Love and Dr. McCoy”

Bones McCoy x Reader Romantic Comedy | Sci-Fi | Chaos | Fluff | Mutual Pining | Jekyll & Hyde but with love

It started, like most disasters aboard the USS Enterprise, with Spock saying something perfectly logical that turned out to be anything but.

“Theoretical projections indicate that temporary emotional dampening could assist humanoid patients in traumatic recovery,” Spock said, hands behind his back, face neutral as always. “However, the procedure requires voluntary testing to finalize its safety parameters.”

“That’s Vulcan for ‘this is probably a bad idea, but let’s try it anyway,’” McCoy grumbled from the biobed, glaring at the blinking console. His arms were crossed, shoulders tense, blue medical tunic rumpled from an hour of arguing.

“I fail to see how that conclusion is accurate,” Spock replied, unimpressed.

You stood behind the observation console with Jim, monitoring cortical wave outputs while chewing your bottom lip. “You sure about this, Bones?” you asked, your voice more nervous than you intended.

“No. Not even a little,” he muttered. “But I’d rather it be me than some poor cadet with half my brain cells.”

Jim leaned forward with a grin. “Oh, come on, Bones. What’s the worst that could happen? You become… less cranky?”

“Don’t jinx it, Jim.”

With a reluctant sigh, Bones sat back against the biobed, adjusting the neural nodes on his temples. “Let’s get this over with.”

You nodded, fingers moving over the control panel. “Starting dampener in three… two… one.”

The device activated with a soft hum. Blue energy pulsed through the air, scanning his neural pathways. For a few moments, the readings stayed stable. Perfect. Balanced.

“Vitals normal,” you said, relief creeping into your voice.

“Indeed,” Spock nodded. “Cortical regions responding predictably.”

Then the console sparked.

A low-pitched alarm howled through Sickbay. The lights flickered. Bones jolted upright as arcs of blue electricity snapped from the machine straight into the neural nodes.

“Cut the power!” Bones shouted, but before you could slap the emergency shutoff, the system blew.

Silence followed. Just the crackle of overloaded circuits and the echo of everyone’s breath.

“Leonard?” You rushed to his side, waving a scanner. “Are you—”

His eyes opened. Slowly.

And then he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not the usual exasperated curl of his lip. This was soft. Gentle. Almost… adoring. His blue eyes seemed brighter, like the stars themselves reflected in them.

He reached for your hand, fingers warm as they slid over yours. “(Y/N)...” he murmured, voice like smooth velvet, “have I ever told you how breathtaking you are?”

You blinked. “...What?”

He sat up straighter, thumb brushing the back of your hand like it was the most natural thing in the universe. “Like a sunrise over Georgia fields. Like starlight through nebula clouds. You—you’re...” He sighed. “Radiant.”

Jim’s jaw dropped. “Holy crap.”

Spock tilted his head. “Fascinating.”

Your brain fully blue-screened. “...Is he broken?”

“Oh, sugar,” Bones chuckled, “far from it. I feel... liberated.”

The next few hours were a lesson in chaos management.

Bones was… different. Still himself in body and voice, but every ounce of gruffness, sarcasm, and cynicism was wiped away. In its place stood someone devastatingly sincere, hopelessly romantic, and absolutely committed to the art of flustering you beyond recovery.

When you entered Sickbay for your next shift, you were greeted by the sight of a bouquet of roses sitting on the console.

“For you, my starshine,” Bones said, strolling out of his office with a dreamy smile. “To brighten your already dazzling presence.”

You nearly walked straight into a bio-bed. “Leonard—what—”

He stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back. “Have I told you how your laugh sounds like the chiming of windbells on a spring morning?”

“Stop it.”

“Oh, but why stop when the truth flows so easily?” His grin widened. “The way your eyes light up when you focus… darlin’, I’ve seen supernovas dimmer than you.”

Nurse Chapel wheezed into her hand. Jim nearly dropped his coffee. Even Spock blinked, which for him was the equivalent of a full-body double take.

“Doctor,” Spock said, raising an eyebrow, “your neural patterns indicate a highly elevated production of oxytocin and dopamine. This level of romantic fixation is... illogical.”

Bones didn’t even flinch. “Oh, I know, Spock. But sometimes illogic is the most beautiful thing in the universe.”

And then came the breaking point.

You were scanning a crewman’s sprained wrist when the doors slid open — and you froze.

Sickbay was… different.

Candles flickered along the bio-monitor shelves (thankfully, holographic). Soft piano music played from the comm system. There were flowers — real, replicated, and holographic — draped across every flat surface. A picnic blanket was spread across one of the biobeds with what looked like a replicated cheese board and wine glasses.

And there stood Bones. Sleeves rolled up, rose tucked behind one ear, holding a glass of what was probably sparkling cider but felt like it should be champagne.

“My love,” he breathed when he saw you. “You’ve arrived.”

“Leonard,” you said flatly, “what... is this?”

“A dinner,” he said proudly. “For the most radiant soul aboard this vessel.”

“...On a bio-bed.”

“Only the finest for you.”

Before you could even process a response—

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!”

The doors slammed open again, and there stood another McCoy. Hair disheveled, uniform wrinkled, looking utterly done with life.

Your jaw dropped. “There are two of you.”

“Unfortunately,” Grumpy!Bones groaned. “This damn experiment split my emotional cortex in half. Him—” he gestured at his romantic twin “—and me.”

Romantic!Bones smiled lazily, sipping his drink. “He’s the caution. I’m the courage.”

“You’re an embarrassment!” Grumpy snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What the hell are you doing serenading them in Sickbay?!”

“Expressing what you’ve suppressed for years,” Romantic said with a wink. “Oh, don’t look so scandalized, Leonard. You’ve been head over heels for (Y/N) since the day they walked onto this ship.”

You nearly fell over. “Wait. What.”

Grumpy Bones spluttered. “I—NO—I mean—not like—SHUT UP!!”

Romantic Bones grinned wider. “Oh come now, even a blind tribble could see it.” He turned to you, utterly sincere. “You are... extraordinary. A supernova wrapped in starlight. Every moment with you is a blessing I never had the courage to ask for.”

“STOP TALKING!!” Grumpy Bones practically threw a tricorder at him. “They don’t need to hear—this isn’t—”

You raised a hand. “Hold on. Leonard.” You turned to Grumpy Bones, pointing directly at him. “Is this… true?”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. His face turned beet red. “...Yeah.”

Silence. Thick. Tangled. Electric.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” Grumpy Bones finally mumbled, avoiding your eyes. “Didn’t think I could. I figured… hell, figured you deserved better than a cranky, overworked, twice-divorced country doctor.”

“Leonard…” you stepped forward, fingers brushing his sleeve. “You absolute idiot.”

His head jerked up, startled. “...What?”

You grinned. “You think I don’t feel the same?”

For a heartbeat, both McCoys stared at you. Then Romantic Bones fist-pumped the air. “Ha! I knew it!”

Grumpy groaned. “Oh my God shut up.”

But then, as you slipped your hand into his — his real hand, warm and trembling and so very, very human — his grumpy scowl melted into something softer. Something real.

A crooked, shy, utterly adorable smile. “Yeah... well... guess I ain’t as smooth as him, but... if you’ll have me…”

“I’ll have you,” you said, smiling back. “All of you.”

Spock managed to reintegrate the split personalities the next day, to Bones’ profound relief and equal embarrassment.

But even with his brain back in one piece, something had shifted. A softness now lingered at the edges of his usual sarcasm. A hand held longer. A smile exchanged over shared coffee in the medbay.

A week later, you found a note tucked in your locker in his messy scrawl:

“You’re still the prettiest damn thing in this whole galaxy. —L”

You held it to your chest, grinning like an idiot.

Maybe he wasn’t Dr. Love anymore. But he was still your Bones.

And that was more than enough.

💫 The End... (Or the beginning of something even better.)

XO -Silly

@enchantedflameandflower It's for you! The Jekyll and Hide' Bones is out! 😜🤭🤪

[knowledgeableknitter]

The New Avengers... And Their Mom

Chapter Three: Better On You Anyway

*****

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Kay Romano, a plus sized/curvy ofc; Platonic Thunderbolts x Kay

Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: Kay’s warmth and wit continue to bond her with the team, while Bucky finds himself increasingly drawn to her presence, care, and quiet intimacy. A late-night dessert and shared moment in the kitchen ends in her wearing his hoodie. 

Trigger warnings: Alexei gets tapped by a wooden spoon to the hand; a too-thin stray cat; John being a bit rude?; Bucky has extra dessert (not a euphemism; it's literally dessert); flirting; she calls him handsome again?; Bucky gives her his hoodie; momentary self doubt (Bucky); It's just fluff, guys.

In my infinite insanity, I rewrote this today, so I'm sorry for any mistakes I may have missed!

Story Masterlist

Chapter 2

*****

From the hallway, Bucky paused just outside the kitchen. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, only grab a coffee, but Kay’s voice caught his attention. It was gentle, steady, and patient in a way that felt more intentional than usual.

Inside, Bob stood by the counter, tall and stiff, holding a wooden spoon like it was a live grenade. His eyes were locked on the mixing bowl in front of him, jaw tight with focus. But Kay stood beside him, moving slowly and deliberately. Like she knew exactly how much space he needed, and gave it without hesitation.

“Creaming the butter and sugar just means mixing them until they’re fluffy,” she said, tone light but never condescending. “Like clouds.” 

Bob gave a small huff, barely there. His shoulders didn’t drop, not yet, but his eyes narrowed as he began to stir.

Bucky watched, as he was wont to do. The two of them looked like something out of a dream: sunlight catching in Kay’s hair, a smudge of flour already dusted across her shoulder. Bob, silent and steady, easing into the rhythm she offered him.

She didn’t fill the silence with nervous chatter. Didn’t joke to soften the moment. She just stood beside him. 

Bucky felt awe bloom in his chest. The way she moved among them with that quiet grace, like she’d already made peace with every broken thing and simply chose to love it anyway.

She handed Bob a set of measuring cups. “You want to do the dry ingredients next? I can show you how to level it.”

Bob hesitated. Then nodded again. She showed him how to even the flour with the flat of a knife, and he followed her motion with a kind of reverence, like he didn’t want to get it wrong. Not because he feared failure, but because he didn’t want to disappoint her.

“Perfect,” she said, smiling at him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Bucky’s throat tightened. He wasn’t even sure why.

Perhaps it was because she allowed everyone to simply be themselves. She had a way of making Bob's quiet moments feel comfortable, and she created space for others without drawing attention to it. 

He lingered a moment longer. Then quietly turned and walked away, the smell of cinnamon trailing after him.

He’d come back later, when the cookies were done. Maybe offer to help clean up.

*****

Bucky stepped into the alley behind HQ, the late afternoon sun throwing long golden streaks across the cracked pavement. He wasn’t expecting to see Kay crouched low beside a battered old milk bowl, and Yelena perched on an overturned crate like some chaotic little gremlin in tactical boots.

A lanky orange tabby with one torn ear and a permanent scowl prowled forward cautiously, whiskers twitching, before deciding Kay was safe enough to allow a touch. She didn't hesitate, softly caressing underneath its chin.

“I’m just saying,” Yelena said, holding up the corner of an empty tuna pouch like a trophy, “if he comes back again tomorrow, he belongs to me now.”

Kay glanced over her shoulder. “Uh-huh. That how it works with men too?”

Yelena smirked. “Only the emotionally repressed ones.”

The two women grinned at each other, and Bucky huffed a quiet laugh from the main street before stepping into view.

Kay looked up, hand still lightly stroking the cat’s too-thin back. “We’re naming him.”

Bucky arched an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

Yelena tilted her chin toward Kay, smug. “Go on. Tell him.”

Kay cleared her throat, utterly deadpan. “Captain Meowvel.”

Bucky blinked. His lips twitched. “You didn’t.”

“We did,” Yelena said, practically vibrating with amusement. “And now he’s stuck with it.”

The cat gave a slow blink, utterly indifferent.

Bucky shook his head, hands resting on his hips, as he observed them. Sunlight streamed across Kay's cheek as she turned her gaze back to the tabby, continuing to stroke him as if she had all the time in the world.

God help him, it was always like this. These small moments. The quiet humor she shared with Yelena. The way she offered tenderness like it cost her nothing. The way the others, hell, even he, started to soften just by being near her.

Yelena tossed the empty pouch into a nearby bin and stood. “We should start paying her for therapy sessions,” she muttered under her breath as she passed him.

Bucky didn’t move yet. Just watched Kay a beat longer, that stupid name still echoing in his head.

Captain Meowvel.

She glanced up at him again, catching him staring. “What?” she asked, amused.

He shrugged. “Nothing. Just… you’re kind of a menace.”

Her smile deepened as she rose to her feet, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Takes one to know one, handsome.”

And as she passed him on the way inside, Bucky let himself smile. Just a little.

*****

The rich, warm scent of chocolate filled the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of freshly baked pastries. Alexei leaned dangerously close to the cooling rack, his eyes fixated on the glossy, chocolate-coated biscotti that lay temptingly within reach. His fingers twitched, inching towards the irresistible treat. Just as his hand darted forward, a wooden spoon descended with a swift, decisive thwack, snapping against the back of his hand and halting his attempted theft.

“Back, Red Rover,” Kay scolded, brandishing the spoon like a weapon. “The chocolate needs to set.”

Alexei recoiled, his entire body jerking backward as he dramatically clutched his hand. “Baking Angel has fire!” he bellowed. “She fits right in!”

Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her clear off the ground in a bear hug so tight that it forced a surprised squeal from her lips, her protests mingling with laughter as she dangled in the air.

“Put me down, you behemoth!”

Bucky walked by, a steaming mug in his hand, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting around him. He snorted quietly into the warm, dark caramel colored liquid, a soft chuckle escaping as a smile tugged irresistibly at the corner of his mouth. 

He remained silent, observing with amusement as she wriggled out of his hold, her laughter ringing out. Her eyes twinkled with amusement as she regained her freedom, and then, with a teasing grin, she chastised Alexei once more, her voice carrying a blend of playful admonishment and affection.

She took their chaos and wrapped it in kindness. And the way she navigated each of them, so different, so broken, like she had some sort of invisible map in her back pocket? It left him stunned. 

*****

It started small, like everything Kay did.

At first, Ava barely spoke to her. She was polite, distant, all sharp-edged professionalism and quiet calculation. Always watching, always measuring. Bucky couldn’t blame her. Trust didn’t come easy with any of their histories.

But Kay didn’t push. She didn’t try to impress her or crack her open with forced friendliness. She just… showed up.

Every lunch break, she’d sit near Ava with a book in hand. It could be a novel or hefty medical journals filled with tiny diagrams and lengthy, Latin-based terminology. She’d occasionally mention an article she’d come across, sharing some obscure and intriguing detail about implant compatibility or blood-brain barriers. Afterward, she'd fall silent, allowing the quiet to settle comfortably between them.

Bucky noticed, of course. He noticed everything about her.

But the moment that really stuck with him came one quiet afternoon, late in the day, when he came to the common area to read the newspaper and saw them together. Sitting at the corner table, Kay leaned forward, animated, one hand gesturing midair, and Ava nodded attentively, eyes focused, actually engaging. They were deep in a conversation about the regulation of nanotechnology, specifically how different governments were categorizing adaptive implants.

Ava was genuinely involved in the conversation. She wasn't merely being polite.

Kay glowed in that subtle way she did when someone let her be a nerd at full strength. Ava’s posture had relaxed just a little. Her walls were still there, only now a little… bent.

And then, twenty minutes later, Bucky caught something that surprised him more than any breakthrough in conversation ever could.

Ava was at the kettle, boiling water for tea. Raspberry herbal, a little honey, bag left in the cup. Just how Kay liked it. 

It was simple, but when Ava handed it to her, Kay smiled like it was a gift wrapped in gold foil.

Bucky stood there a beat longer than he meant to, watching Kay cup the tea in both hands like it was something sacred. 

That was the moment Ava accepted her.

Not with words or promises. Just a mug of tea made exactly right.

And Bucky, who had spent much of his life knowing exactly what it meant to be on the outside looking in, felt a comforting warmth spread through his chest.

She made people feel safe just by staying.

*****

For Walker, it started with the lasagna.

John glanced at the pan, jabbed his fork into the corner as if it had personally offended him. “Should’ve just ordered pizza,” he muttered.

In just ten minutes, he had finished his plate, and Bucky observed him casually returning for a second helping. Like he hadn’t scraped the last bit of sauce from the edge with his last bite of garlic bread.

Kay didn’t say anything. Just smiled to herself as she rinsed out the mixing bowl.

It became a pattern.

Every time she cooked John had always had a comment. He’d grumble under his breath about how maple-glazed ham was too fancy, or how she was wasting her time grinding her own burger meat like they were on Top Chef. He’d complain about her “bougie little brioche buns” and insist that milkshakes didn’t need sea salt caramel.

But Bucky noticed how he always sat at the table before anyone else and always refilled his plate. 

He never skipped a meal, just grumbled with his mouth full.

Tonight it was burgers. Thick and perfectly seared, piled high on toasted buns, with crisp bacon, grilled onions, and a house sauce Kay had spent the morning perfecting. The milkshakes were in mason jars, frosty and topped with real whipped cream.

John took a bite, chewed like he was preparing to launch into a complaint. And then paused.

“Damn it,” he muttered, eyes narrowing at his food like it had betrayed him.

Kay raised a brow from across the kitchen. “Something wrong?”

“No,” he snapped, already lifting the burger for another bite. “Shut up.”

Yelena snorted into her milkshake. Bob rolled his eyes.

Bucky, sitting at the table's farthest corner, leaned back in his chair and watched everyone enjoy their dinner. Kay joined him, slipping into the seat next to him and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her cheeks slightly flushed from the warmth of the kitchen.

She didn’t gloat. Didn’t comment on John’s second helping. Or even his third. 

Bucky leaned closer, his voice low. “You know he’d fight someone for the last fry, right?”

Kay smirked. “With this crowd? He’d lose.”

Bucky laughed under his breath, stealing one of her fries.

And across the table, John muttered something unintelligible with a full mouth and reached for another burger.

No thanks. No compliments.

But no leftovers, either.

*****

Bucky didn’t want to admit it, but he liked her. Too much, maybe.

He liked the way she teased John without flinching, got Alexei to eat a damn vegetable, got Bob to smile. The way she gently reminded people of appointments, or refilled the coffee pot exactly on time. She carried calendars in her head and cookies in her pockets.

But mostly, he liked the way she looked. Her figure was curvy, her skin soft, and she was lush in a way that he hadn't allowed himself to think about in decades. Yet now, he found himself doing just that, more frequently than he would ever admit.

His fingers burned to trace the alluring curve of her waist every time she bent over the oven. The sight of her in that V-neck mauve tee was enough to make his jaw clench so hard, he was certain he would break a molar. The urge to brush against the bare, inviting skin at her collarbone was a longing that consumed him entirely.

And when she ruffled Bob’s hair one morning and called him “kiddo” with that warm, unfiltered affection?

Bucky had wanted it to be him under her gentle touch.

Even her coffee for him was always the perfect balance. A hint of sugar, a drop of cream, and hot enough to burn the sleep off. He never had to ask. She remembered, after the very first time.

And once a week, like clockwork, she tried something new. A fruit tart with plums. A chocolate pudding from a 1935 recipe. A pear and raisin cobbler so good it made him literally drool.

Though she never explicitly stated it was for him, he could tell. Her eyes lingered on him, watching every flicker of emotion in his expression, gauging his reactions with a subtle intensity. On those particular evenings, she ensured his plate was heaped with an extra serving, the portions carefully chosen to show her silent care. 

He never told her what it meant. He didn’t know how to. Each time he tried to find the words, they slipped away like grains of sand through his fingers, leaving him speechless and fumbling. 

But whenever her fingers brushed against his as she handed him his mug in the morning, or when he leaned in, invading her space, to grab a glass from the shelf behind her, his hand lingering deliberately on her back… 

She didn’t move away. 

*****

The kitchen was quiet. Peaceful in the way only late evenings could be. The overhead lights were dimmed, casting a warm amber glow over gleaming countertops and the last of the dinner dishes drying on a towel. The scent of cinnamon and browned butter lingered in the air, along with a faint vanilla warmth from the dessert Kay had pulled together that evening.

Bucky lingered in the doorway, his gaze piercing through the dim light as he watched her.

She was humming under her breath, barefoot now, one foot tapping gently to a tune only she knew. 

Her hair, still styled in that trademark messy bun, now had a few more rebellious strands cascading down to frame her face. 

She looked… tired, maybe, the subtle shadows of fatigue outlining her eyes. But she was content. The kind of deep contentment that came from a day well spent, with moments of quiet joy.

He cleared his throat gently. “Hey.”

She turned, smiling gently at him as usual. “Back for seconds?”

“I thought I had a little more room.” He stepped into the room, patting his stomach while eyeing the tray of apple-cinnamon bread pudding she hadn’t yet moved to the fridge. “That dessert was good.”

“Thanks,” she said, brushing her hands on a dish towel. “Old recipe. Depression-era thing. I figured it was your kind of comfort food.”

“It was,” he said simply, and grabbed a spoon.

She leaned back against the island counter, her arms folded across her chest, a playful smile dancing on her lips as she watched him. Her posture was relaxed, yet there was an air of curiosity in her gaze, as if she found a certain charm in the simple act of him enjoying his meal. “Should I start rationing it? I’m pretty sure that’s actually your third helping today.” 

He flashed her a lopsided grin, his cheeks puffed out with food. "Just try and stop me," he challenged, his eyes twinkling with mischief. 

A moment of easy silence passed between them, broken only by the clink of the spoon against the dish and the distant hum of the building’s heating system kicking on. And promptly failing to warm the place.

Kay shivered. "Who on earth thought it was smart to put an entire wall of windows in a skyscraper? It's absolutely ridiculous. I'm freezing." 

Bucky chuckled, a deep, warm sound that resonated in the quiet room. Without hesitation, he set down his dish with a soft clink on the counter and reached for the hem of his well-worn navy blue hoodie. The fabric was faded, its original color dulled by countless washes, but it was soft and comfortable, like a cherished memory. In one fluid motion, he pulled it over his head, his hair momentarily tousled as the hoodie slipped off. “Here, doll, throw this on,” he said, extending the cozy garment with a gentle smile, his eyes twinkling with a mix of roguishness and affection.

She hesitated. "You sure, handsome? Won't you be cold now?" 

“Nah,” he shrugged, “I run hot anyway with my metabolism.”

She accepted the hoodie without another word, pulling it over her head unhurriedly. The fabric was soft against her skin, slightly oversized but not absurdly so. The sleeves extended to her fingertips, engulfing her hands in a comfortable embrace, while the hem settled snugly around her hips, accentuating her silhouette. She looked absolutely perfect in it. Warm, enveloped in coziness, and undeniably his.

He gazed at her with a look in his eyes that she hadn't seen from him before, "Looks better on you anyway."

Her hands tightened around the collar, pulling it up to her face as she buried her nose into its folds. The fabric was soft against her skin, carrying his familiar scent that she inhaled deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed, savoring the moment. When she opened them again, her gaze was locked onto him. Steady, unreadable, and somehow conveying more intimacy than any words ever could.

“Smells like you,” she murmured. “Might have to keep it until it needs a recharge.”

His breath caught, but he recovered with a low hum and a sly smirk. “You do that.” he replied, his voice smooth with the invitation.

They didn’t speak much after that. She sat at the island, sipping her raspberry herbal tea. She just watched him, wrapped in his still-warm hoodie, her expression a mix of amusement and curiosity, like she was trying to decide what to do with the moment. Or where it might lead.

And Bucky? Bucky didn’t move either. He ate his dessert slowly, watching the steam curl from her mug. He thought about how close she was, without actually being his. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but a man could dream. 

They lingered in that quiet moment for a few more heartbeats, surrounded by the still, warm kitchen, as if the world had shrunk to just them and the gentle buzz of electricity in the walls.

Eventually, she rose with a sleepy stretch, her arms reaching high above her head as if trying to touch the high ceiling. With a soft, contented sigh, she placed her mug in the dishwasher and padded off toward the hall, her footsteps barely making a sound on the floor. “Thanks for the hoodie,” she said lightly, a playful lilt in her voice as the moment shifted once more into something warm and reassuring. Safe.

But the spark wasn’t gone.

He watched her, making a conscious effort not to let his gaze linger too long. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach out, but he held them in check. He struggled to not think of drawing her into his arms, and telling her he wanted more than warm muffins and playful banter and how captivating she looked in his clothes. 

Instead, he finished the last bite of his dessert, rinsed his dish, and set it silently in the dishwasher next to her mug. 

And behind him, as she walked out into the dim hall, he could hear the soft hum of her voice as she started to sing again. Quiet, tuneless, something old and sweet.

It floated around his senses like the smell of cinnamon.

*****

A few days later, Bucky walked into his room and stopped short.

His hoodie was folded with precision at the end of his bed, its fabric smooth and unwrinkled. The scent of detergent and fresh air lingered in the cotton, a stark contrast to the comforting warmth it once held. No trace of her warmth remained.

For a brief second, a sharp pang twisted deep within his chest, like a sudden, unexpected knot. His face creased into a frown, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion and discomfort. 

Maybe she had no desire to keep it. Maybe she was just being polite. It could be that this was her subtle way of reestablishing boundaries, a gentle yet firm way of signaling a return to personal space and limits.

But then, he remembered what she said, her voice etched in his mind: Might have to keep it until it needs a recharge.

His smile was slow, but it transformed him entirely, spreading warmth and a hint of mischief across his face.

He slipped the hoodie over his head, nestling into its warmth as the scent of her fabric softener mixed with a cinnamon sweetness settled over him like a comforting blanket. Ensuring that his scent had thoroughly infused the material, he carefully folded it and placed it back on her bed the following afternoon, right on top of her pillow.

Atop it, a note:

I slept in it last night to recharge. Think of me when you wear it.— B

Chapter 4

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch 

[speedlimit15]

guys you wont believe this but ive accidentally messed up the exact same part of my doily twice this week and just got back to where i was and realized i'd messed it up in yet another, even worse way which requires undoing all of my rework. so i've made negative progress on it in the last five days

[silent-sentinels]

overly simplifying the situation bc full context would take too long: we were doing a thing and it didnt save our progress and now we are frustrated/sad/disappointed.

[abyssyby]

welded by water

— you take the time to explore the base he offers you as your home, wandering through countless doors. but your favorite will always be the one that leads to him.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: OR SYLUS SWIMMING IN A POOL 😩 sylus’s birthday is in 3 days & i’m unwell ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ he’s gonna be celebrated for the first time and my heart bleeds i love him sm. anyway! this idea was born out of that one ingredient story where he pulls u in the pool I SCREAMED its so romantic & thinking abt sylus in a private pool changed my life 😵‍💫 i hope you enjoy!! ❀-urs

sylus x reader | fluff, romantic tension, smoochie kisses, sylus in a swimming pool hehehe

tw: suggestive touches, very brief description of drowning

You knew the base was big. You barely found your way around to the training room, feeling as if the halls shift and shuffle like an enchanted maze. Usually, Sylus would show you around— lead you by the elbow pushing forward, clasp your hands together to pull you to a secret garden, hike you up his hips and carry you to his bedroom. 

But today you decided exploring would be a good thing. Equipped with Mephisto on your shoulder (a ceasefire between you two today), you walk down the dim crossroads and forks of the building with confidence. 

You’d asked permission before, to walk around and open doors. Sylus merely hummed, lips pressed to your shoulder, saying, “Everything I own is yours.”

You didn’t take that lightly. You refused— tried to— but you knew he was certain. Every word uttered from his lips weighs like a stone in water. You knew, in your heart, he would claim the world and say that all he has conquered is yours to take and use according to your will. 

So here you are, assuming responsibility. Knowing the kingdom where you lay claim. With your phone on the notes app open, you tap tap tap away at directions and take stock of the rooms there are in his— your home.

It’s fun to discover to an extent. Although, when all Mephisto can give you is a head nuzzle and a squawk, you quickly lose interest by the fourth armory. Light fingers trace a line down from the bird’s head to his beak, “Where’s Sylus?” 

Mephisto shakes, his metallic feathers fluttering like real ones except they sound like windchimes— extremely thin iron tendrils clinking against each other like rain. One of your many favorite things about him.

The bird takes off to fulfill your request. This time, he waits for you to keep up. He leads you past an artificial greenhouse, another showcase room displaying his many gem collections, the boxing gym and then…

Mephisto perches himself on the top of the doorway of two double doors. If you’re correct, you should be west of the house. Maybe a wall of the whole structure. Beyond the threshold could be taller windows and maybe the sky. Maybe a telescope. With all the things you’ve seen, an observatory wouldn’t be surprising.

“Bet you three nut-bolts it’s an observatory.” you say and lean your weight into your shoulder against the door. “Though, I never thought him to be interested in astrono…” 

The words fizzle and die on your lips as you’re kissed by a faint blast of moisture and the sound of splashing echoing loud through the hall. Your gaze is drawn upwards at the high ceiling reverberating the sound, and then across the molded crowns of the walls. You follow the pattern, bewildered gaze racing down the curves of the large french windows. The stars— no, the galaxies, splattered like paint onto glass. The moon shines through the glass, and reflects unto the rippling water of the swimming pool. 

The pool where Sylus swam with refined grace. Running through laps with no signs of tiring. Breaking the surface of the water for breath, and then going back under to pop up again on the other end.

You’re too engrossed by the look of it all— how a room with a pool can rival the size of a library, can also feel like an observatory. You file your initial guess as a win at that.

Carefully, you step inside. Almost as if afraid to disrupt the sanctity of it all. But you push forward, into the candle-like glow of the lamps around the pool.

You make your way to the edge, sit cross legged and watch him swim. Up and down. Fast, faster. Silently and then with more force. A faint beeping signals his stop, and he emerges from the water like a god that commands the seas. The moonlight shines on his hair and transforms it into liquid silver melting over his eyes. 

Warm and cool reflect of the wet planes of his body, creating an ethereal illusion glimmering an otherworldly glow. 

And his eyes, so dark and yet brighter than a dying sun, find you. Hold you captive in their focus. Your stomach caves and your chest burns at his perception. 

The little jolt he gets in his chest whenever he finds you staring at him like that never fails to fluster him. What a gift to see you in general, but he cannot deny that he loves when you seek him out. When you emerge from your world and join him in his. When he finds you sitting there, staring, waiting for him. 

He swims from the other edge of the pool towards you. A swan through the water with practiced grace. And when he reaches your dry little island, he pulls himself up by his forearms to greet you. “Done exploring, sweetie?” 

You swallow. Happy he is here, but you often tend to forget how he looks beneath all his designer refinery and comfy, steal-able clothes. Strangled, an “mhm” manages to wriggle its way out your throat. 

“Cat got your tongue?” he smirks, catching the way your pupils scramble down so quickly and clumsily over his body. Beneath his cool exterior, his heart spasms with endearment. “Kitten?” 

And he’s back— love of your life, most annoying man on the planet. Stupid, cocky look dripping along with the droplets of his face as he challenges you. You dig through your pocket and find a coin. 

Swift and easy, you toss it into the pool. It plops and leaves ripples right by his hip. A beat, and then he tilts his head at you in confusion. “Made a wish?” 

“Enriching this pool.” you explain. “It lacks gold, and I’ve always seen you as someone who should be swimming in it.” 

“Is that a compliment?”

“Don’t take it then.” you huff.

He chuckles, turning your upturned nose back towards him with wet fingers, making you scowl. He grins wider, “No, no. it’s just… not enough.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh. I’m sorry, would you like me to throw in a hundred in there?” 

He snorts. “Sweetheart, you can do better than that.”

“Your black card drowns then.”

He laughs, whole and soulful. And it echoes through the hall as this beautiful symphony. “None of that is enough to enrich the pool.” 

“Calling yourself broke isn’t as humbling as you think.”

“Darling.”

“What?”

“Hold your nose.” splash! In a single movement, he’s grasped your hand and pulled you into the water. Your arms flail, but his touch never leaves you as he hauls his soaked little dragon li up to the surface.

“Sylus!” you screech, finding his shoulders and pulling yourself flush against him for leverage. You didn’t expect it to be that deep. His arms wrap around you tightly as he chuckles. 

Truly, how delightful is your misery.

“Now it’s enriched.” he says slowly. Glancing down at your downturned lips and your angry brow. A request you recognize and melts you right away.

Your distance makes it easier to curl your fingers on the nape of his neck and tug his lips to yours in a slow, languid kiss. 

You breathe, “How’d you know my wish?”

He grins, pressing one, two, three kisses to your lips in rapid successions. He has no answer, but he lets you know that he wished for it too. 

You’re pulled further into the pool, his movements smooth and unhurried as he kisses you again. A man starved. The first drop of water in the desert. 

You cling tighter, worried when your feet can’t find the ground. But he guides your thigh up and taps the back of your knee so you wrap your legs around his waist. 

“Sweetie.” he murmurs, motions taking pause. He delights in the way you push more, chasing his halted kisses with your soft lips. “Mm, beloved.”

“Yes?” you almost whine, irked by the interruption. Every fiber of his soul frays and blows into the wind at the sound anyway.

“Look.” he says, only because he knows you’ll love it. Gentle fingers wrap around your chin, turning your head towards the length of the pool. With your stillness, the water follows suit, and reveals an endless mirror for the endless sky. 

“Oh,” your lips part, your eyes widen, and you get the urge to cling onto Sylus’s strong shoulders a little more. You press your cheek to his to marvel at the beauty he beholds you.

The flecks of lights dance on the warbling glass you swim in, the lunar touch transmutes the water into silk. The sky is on your body and both are doused in starlight. 

“Beautiful.” you breathe, touching the silver surface carefully, watching the tiniest waves disturb the image. 

“Yes.” he says, but his fingers find your cheek. And his eyes have never left your face, waiting and watching for this reaction exactly. Delighting in the cosmos as well— on your skin, in your eyes. He thinks: Gorgeous. Ethereal. Divine.

All mine. 

You turn to see his drunken gaze at you and smile at the implication of his words. Noses brush and kisses resume. 

“I think this is my favorite room.” you say, but your head is filled with him who holds you in his space.  

His amusement takes form in a laugh, low and suave. “Yeah?” 

You hum. Brush his hair back— bundles of moonlight slipping through your fingers— plant your palms on his chest, and lean your forehead on his. 

His warm hands travel up your back, pushing you impossibly closer to his warmth. Until you’re welded by the sparks of light in the sky. Until you meld together in a warm loving tangle of limbs and breath. He says, “It’s all yours.”

But amongst all the wealth, the treasures and the rooms he chooses to share with you, he is the only one you truly desire. Him, and your soul asks nothing more. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

thank you for reading!

[ichorai]

xerox ; robert reynolds ; part three.

part one. | part two. | part four.

pairing ; robert (bob) reynolds x reader, thunderbolts & reader

synopsis ; you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

words ; 4.3k

themes ; action, angst, slowburn, fluffy near the end, the beginnings of romance

warnings / includes ; violence, reader has the ability to split into multiple bodies (think dupli-kate from invincible), the void is hot unfortunately, foul language, everyone's mental health sucks but they're actually getting better now!

a/n ; this chapter is a bit shorter than the other two just because it only covers the very end of the movie PLUS a little bonus scene to get you guys excited for future avengers tower moments :) thank you again for all the support! also did you guys catch the mutant mention wink wonk

main masterlist. read on ao3!

listen to a xerox playlist on spotify / youtube music! xerox's face claim :)

Bob’s first room had an angry, middle-aged man standing in the very center, veins protruding out of his neck as he yelled gibberish. Flecks of spittle fell from his slurring lips. Bob, whose warm hand was intertwined with yours, flinched at the sudden volume. 

Walker didn’t hesitate to strike him down with his taco-shaped shield. 

“He seems nice,” Ava said.

The room gave a massive rumble, as if upset that things weren’t going its way, and the walls began to close in. 

“This way!” Alexei bellowed, ushering everyone forward into a wooden wardrobe full of clothes. 

“Narnia?” you asked as you shouldered through moth-eaten coats, giving Bob a quick glance over your shoulder. 

Bob gave you a nervous smile. “It was one of my favorites as a kid.”

The floors gave out beneath you, and you found yourself free-falling for a few seconds before landing on the rough ground with a resounding thud. The new room smelled of gasoline and burnt rubber tires.

You helped Yelena up to her feet, only to be whacked over the back of the head with a sharp plastic sign that read ALFREDO’S BAIL BONDS! in a hideous shade of red, by a chicken mascot that had equally hard-on-the-eyes yellow feathers. With a low moan, you started crawling away from the crazed chicken, who had turned to attack Ava and Alexei. 

“Oh, God!” Bob exclaimed, scrambling over to give you a hand. “Are you okay?”

“IF YOU DON’T STOP HITTING ME WITH THAT SIGN—!” Alexei gruffed from across the room, now bleeding from the nose.

“I was on meth!” Bob shrieked apologetically right before grabbing your head and shoving you down just in time to duck away from another sign-swing from the high chicken. 

Whilst lowered, you spotted a stack of wooden vegetable crates across the street. There seemed to be no other exits from the room. Ava kept the chicken occupied and distracted by repeatedly phasing through him, so you took the opportunity to break open the bottom of the crates, which smelled faintly of rotting tomatoes.

“Through here!” you called. “Crawl through the crates!”

Past-Bob made a bee-line for current Bob, the sharp end of the sign aimed straight at him like a crude stake. With a stinging cheek and a clenched jaw, Bucky stepped in between them and punched the chicken square in the face (beak?) with his metal arm. 

As you made your way through to the new room, you distantly heard Walker gagging behind you. “I hate tomatoes.”

Through the crates was a cleaner, more sterile space. The new room looked… clinical. You immediately tensed, eyes darting back and forth. There were beakers, needles, and measuring devices everywhere—all the marks of a science lab. You had to suck in a deep, painful breath to remind yourself that this wasn’t your room—it was Bob’s. A few meters away from you, there was an operating table. Big surgical lights looming over it like curved, robotic flowers. And on the bed sat past-Bob, shoulders hunched into himself. He looked the very same as the Bob right beside you, holding your hand. But his eyes were sunken and empty. Tired.

“I’ve been here before,” Yelena whispered. “Malaysia.”

Bob bit down on the inside of his cheek. “It’s where it all started. I was roaming Southeast Asia. Thought I’d figure something out. A way to find more drugs. And there’s this guy… he started talking to me about a medical study. A trial drug that can make me stronger and not feel like… me anymore. It was like a miracle.”

You felt your face fall with sympathy. You squeezed his hand, and Bob met your gaze with pursed lips. Slowly, the group began to advance towards Past-Bob. At least he wasn’t swinging a sign at all of your heads in a chicken suit this time.

“I thought I would get to show everyone that I was more… that I was something,” Bob told everyone, shame tinting each of his words a melancholic blue.

Past-Bob, now shrouded in shadow, finally straightened. 

“And look what you unleashed,” the voice purred, echoing in your head as if he had managed to worm inside and tapping at the very base of your ear drums.

That wasn’t Bob, you realized with a heavy pit in your stomach. It was the Void. He hopped off the surgical table, turning to face the team, face dark, but eyes glowing.

“How could you possibly think you could be worth anything?” he said, calm as untouched waters. You could feel your skin prickle.

Yelena stepped forward. “We’re leaving.”

The Void stayed silent for a moment, scrutinizing the ragged team of misfits and criminals with an empty expression. Then, he shook his head in miniscule movements. “No,” he simply said.

Behind him the surgical table rose into the air and flew across the room at a startlingly rapid speed, crashing against Yelena and Alexei, pinning them against the wall behind. The long strips of buzzing, artificial lights above were torn from the ceiling and wound around Bucky, keeping him to one of the lab’s counters. Several metal frames from a window came whizzing across the room to bury into the edges of Walker’s suit, keeping him stuck on the ground. Ava was sent flying into the other side of the lab when a crumbled garbage can wound about her midriff. She would have phased right through it, but there was a force weighing her down. 

You managed to dodge the door that was coming at you, having to relinquish Bob’s hand to do so, but missed the heavy metal shelf used to store plastic pill pots heading toward you from the opposite direction. It slammed into your stomach, knocking the wind from your lungs, and you were left struggling fruitlessly against the wall it lodged you up against. 

“Stop,” Bob pleaded to the Void with wide, watery eyes. “Let them go.”

“You think they care about you?” The Void stepped closer until he was right in front of you, close enough that you could feel it—the cold darkness. The dread. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. The weight of all you’ve done wrong, all the people you’ve murdered and maimed, all your deaths, all your lies—resting right on top of your sternum. You gasped for breath. You felt something cold touch your face, so cold it felt blistering hot. You simultaneously wanted to pull away and lean in closer. The Void’s fingers were caressing your cheek ever so gently, and Bob did nothing but watch. He felt frozen to the floor, paralyzed with fear and uncertainty. 

“Xerox… lovely, sad Xerox…” crooned the Void, almost sing-songy. “Bob’s got a fixation with you, you know. It’s pathetic. He’s like a sad mutt begging for scraps from the table.” There was an amused hum from him before he continued, this time speaking to Bob. “Xerox doesn’t want to help you. None of them do. They’re all using you. Deep down, you know they despise you. You’re a burden.”

“That’s not true!” Yelena screamed from the opposite side of the room. IV drip wires wrapped around her throat so tight her eyelids fluttered and her words were caught on her tongue. 

“Isn’t that right, Xerox?” said the Void, his cool thumb slipped beneath your chin to tilt your head up as he regarded you with those cold, blank eyes. “You chose the darkness. You chose me.”

“I came…” The weight was growing stronger. The words felt like thorns in your mouth, painful to speak. What was he doing to you? “I came to help him.”

The Void tilted his head. Then, you felt the coldness close around your throat. The edges of your vision darkened. If your hands weren’t pinned back, you would’ve been clawing at your neck for breath.

“I told you… he doesn’t want your help. He’s pathetic. Why would he deserve it? Deserve you? Now tell him. Tell him the truth. It’s what he needs to hear… some tough love.”

When you opened your mouth this time, words spilled out that weren’t yours. “I don’t want to help you,” you found yourself saying. Not to the Void, but to Bob. Your Pal. You gasped, a cold tear slipping down your cheek. The words came out grated, as if someone had forced you to swallow razors. “I never liked you, Robert. You’re nothing. In fact, worse than that. You’re an active hindrance. A thorn in everyone’s side. I wish… schkk—I wish you had stayed dead when they shot you down.”

“That’s right,” murmured the Void. “Good.”

“Please stop,” Bob ground out. You weren’t sure if he was saying that to you or to the Void. 

His dark counterpart laughed a deep, rumbling noise. “Robert the Hero. Doesn’t sound right, does it? Fake. Like a comic book story. What a joke.”

Walker was close to prying himself out of his confines. 

The Void flicked his wrist. All the glass from the beakers and volumetric cylinders in the lab exploded. Crystal shards scratched at the team’s face, leaving everyone with stinging, bloodied cuts. The Void’s hand slipped away from your throat to pull out the piece of glass that had embedded into your skin. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said, almost a whisper. It would’ve sounded sincere if it hadn’t sounded like an automated message. “You do enough of that to yourself. Did you enjoy what I showed you? The darkness has been kind to you, hasn’t it? The only one you can trust is yourself.”

“Yes,” you choked out, and your head bowed into a nod even though you hadn’t wanted to. “I deserve to relive it all. All the worst parts of me. I’m just as bad as I thought I was.”

Bob was breathing heavily, expression twisted into one of pain. The Void was hurting you. He was hurting you. 

“I’m stronger than you,” Bob told his alter-ego, trying to sound more confident than he was. “I can beat you.”

The Void grinned. It was a terrifying sight. Wolfish. Predatory. “Let’s see.”

The shadowed figure finally stepped away from you, and you seemed to lean forward, as if chasing his touch. Once the Void was far enough, Bob watched you recoil with a trace of disgust to your expression. At yourself or at him?

“It wasn’t me,” you croaked, misty eyes now glued to Bob. Not the Void. Just Bob. “Palindrome. It wasn’t me.”

And Bob believed you. He trusted you. With a determined nod, he ran forward and swung a punch to the Void. The dark mass hit back with equal ferocity, sending Bob sprawling to the ground. Glass dug into his skin.

“Get up, Bobby,” Walker gruffed. “Get up!”

“You thought you would be some great man? Some savior?” taunted the Void as he kicked at Bob. “You can’t even save yourself.”

You watched in horror as the Void picked Bob up by the scruff of his sweatshirt, and struck him three more times. 

“We will always be alone.”

The room began to shift, elongating. The entire group was pulled further and further away from Bob and the Void. Bob watched the team go—his friends grow smaller with the distance—and blew out a choked breath. Alexei was bleeding profusely from his head. Yelena’s face was turning blue from the cords cutting her airway. Ava, Bucky, and John were still working against their bonds. Bob glanced at you hanging limply behind the shelf, staring at nothing in particular with glazed eyes. No doubt that was the Void’s doing. 

Bob turned. His lips curled angrily. Then he launched himself at the Void with a mangled cry. He began punching the figure with all his might. To his fury, the Void only smiled, unhurt.

“There we go,” the Void whispered in a mocking manner. “Show them how strong you are.”

The room began to crack and crumble. Darkness began to eat away at Bob the more he struck his darker self. His shoes were swallowed first, now beginning to crawl up his shins. 

“This isn’t right,” Bucky gruffed. 

“Bob, stop!” Yelena coughed out. Having had enough, Alexei strained as much as he could to push the weight off of them. Just enough to let Yelena wriggle loose. She slipped out with a pained groan, tore the IV off her, and began running towards Bob. The room shifted to try to stop her—throwing cabinets and beakers and tables at her, but she lithely dodged each one. 

By the time she got to Bob, the darkness had seeped up to his neck. 

“I’m here,” she said, wrapping her arms around Bob from behind, trying to hold him back. Bob kept hitting the darkness, relentless.

“It will always be just us,” the Void told him, almost comforting. “I’m the only one you can rely on.”

Yelena held onto him tighter. “I’m here, Bob,” repeated Yelena. “You’re not alone.”

Finally, Bucky managed to tear himself free. He helped Walker get free, and Walker then stalked over to push the shelf off of you with a grunt. You collapsed with a dizzy intake of breath. Ava and Alexei were quick to free themselves afterwards, bonds slightly loosened—it seemed that Yelena’s words of comfort were actually helping. 

The rest of the team ran towards Bob, Yelena, and the Void. 

“We’re all here,” Yelena told her friend. “We’re here for you, Bob.”

You kneeled down beside him, hand wrapping around the wrist that led to a now-bloodied fist. The team piled together, all holding Bob—and each other. In the tangled mess of limbs and arms, Bob began to weep. His head knocked against yours as he sobbed, and you held him all the tighter. 

“Let it out, Pal,” you said. “We’ve got you.”

Then the entire group fell backwards. Your spine hit the rough surface of a broken road. After blinking several times and adjusting to the sudden onslaught of light, the city of New York came back into view. The shadows were slowly but surely melting away. 

The team slowly struggled to their feet. People were gradually but surely returning from the Void’s realm.

You sniffled, wiping an errant tear with your sleeve. The Void’s hold on your mind was still fresh, and you certainly felt a little worse for wear. You felt Bob’s concerned hand on your shoulder, and you turned and enveloped him into a sudden, tight hug, yanking him close. He emitted a noise of surprise, but his arms wound around you out of instinct. 

“I’m so sorry,” you said, breathing shallow and rapid. “I don’t wish you died. I don’t think you’re a burden. I think you’re really sweet and cool and—” Your words were spoken so quickly and pretty muffled into the fabric of his sweatshirt that Bob didn’t really catch them.

Bob held you until your breaths mellowed out a bit. Even patted your back a few times for good measure. There were no complaints on his end for the hug, but he wasn’t very sure why you were giving him one. 

“This is nice,” he started, uncertain.

“Sorry, I didn’t ask if I could hug you,” you whispered once you pulled away, cheeks flushed.

“You don’t need to ask,” he said, almost too quickly. There was a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks. “You don’t ever need to ask to hug me. It’s nice. I like it.”

Walker came to stand beside you, having done a quick survey of the premise. “You were great in there, Bob.”

Bob blinked at the bearded man and smiled. That was probably the nicest thing Walker has ever said to him. Too bad he had no clue what he was talking about. “Thanks, Walker,” he said, still smiling goofily. “In—wait, in where?” Finally, Bob took a glance around. There was wreckage everywhere. Had the Avengers totaled New York yet again? “Woah. What happened here?”

“You don’t… remember?” you asked, eyeing him with kinked brows.. “Did you hit your head a bit too hard?”

Bob patted down his skull. “Feels normal.” He laughed a bit—a nervous, knee-jerk reaction. “Sorry, I’m a bit confused.”

“Are you okay?” Yelena asked, looking at him with nothing but concern. 

Bob’s brows twitched, still completely lost. “Yeah. I’m fine. Why’s everyone looking at me like that?”

“Are you serious?” Alexei deadpanned. “We were in crazy rooms of despair and misery and—”

“Thanks, Alexei,” you cut in, giving the giant of a man a pointed look. “You did good, Bob. I can explain the details later. For now—”

Your reassurance was cut off by Valentina shrilly speaking into a phone, only a few yards away. You could feel anger twist your insides just from seeing her. 

“I’m going to kill that woman,” Alexei gruffed.

“We can’t kill her. We have to take her in,” Bucky said with an exasperated sigh. It was clear that he had plenty of experience being the voice of reason. 

“What happens when he regains his memory?” Walker asked. “Will we have to go through that all over again?”

Yelena shook her head. She took Bob by the elbow and began leading him towards Valentina. “Okay. Come on, Bob.”

“I’m going with you guys?”

“Of course you are,” you said as you walked alongside them towards Valentina, nudging Bob with a soft smile. “We’re a team now.”

Bob returned your smile easily. “That sounds nice.”

Yelena nodded. “We stick together from now on.”

When Valentina spotted the Thunderbolts coming towards her, she began to hurry backwards. “Hello, team! I know we’re all dealing with very big feelings right now, just give me—give me half a second—!”

She disappeared behind some wreckage. 

As you rounded the broken pieces of construction, you were met with the blinding flashes of about fifty cameras. There were news trucks, reporters, microphones, the entire shebang. Even a podium for Valentina to stand behind as she hushed the audience. A small part of you thought about all the dried blood on your face and body—it was a relief your suit was dark, or it would’ve looked like you were mauled by a bear. Or, more likely that you were the one that mauled the bear. 

“What’s going on?” Bob leaned closer to whisper to you.

“No idea,” you whispered back.

“Cool.” The smile that appeared on his face was boyish and lopsided. “It’s nice not being the only one who’s confused.”

“Are we live?” Valentina asked one of the cameramen. Once he nodded, she began speaking with a shiny, rehearsed smile. “For years, I have been working secretly to develop a new age of protection. Today, the citizens of the United States need that protection. Thanks to my hard work, they got it. Ladies and gentlemen… meet the new Avengers.”

Avenger? You? That didn’t sound quite right. The Avengers were heroes. They were a beacon of light and hope and occasional destruction of city-folk. You were… 

Just a person trying to do better.

The Thunderbolts stared at each other in a mixture of disbelief and disdain. Bob began to clap loudly, but you put a hand on his, forcing him to lower them down. 

“What?” he asked, still completely miffed, and you shook your head with an I’ll tell you later look. Bob nodded solemnly and put his hands behind his back, which made you hold back an amused grin. The snaps coming from the cameras seemed to flare with every tiny movement you made, so you weren’t too keen on giving them anything to pick apart. 

Yelena strode up to Valentina. She covered the microphone, leaned down, and said, just loud enough so she and the rest of the team could hear. “We own you now.”

This time, you didn’t bother trying to smother your smile. The cameras went crazy.

“Have you seen the news?” Bob asked you, settling down next to you on the couch. He handed you the steaming mug of tea, made just the way you liked. His knees knocked against yours. 

You glanced away from your crossword puzzle and took the mug with a warm smile. “Thanks. Seen what? I haven’t checked ever since news of mutants broke out.” You were still waiting for your own test results to come back. The memory of the clinic drawing your blood made you shudder. It did, however, make you feel slightly better knowing that the entire team was squashed in the tiny waiting room right outside the door for you. Even Bucky, who swore up and down that he was busy that afternoon still showed up. You made a mental note to get him a smoothie from that juice shop he liked so much. 

Bob gave you an awkward grimace. “They’re writing about us again.”

This made you roll your eyes. “They’re always writing about us.”

Just yesterday, Ava had shown you an article that said: THE HEROES NOBODY ASKED FOR! IS NEW ALWAYS BETTER? 

Which, to be fair, was a completely valid article. However, counterpoint, none of you asked to be on the Avengers. Except Alexei and Walker at some point, you suspected.

“No,” Bob said, clearing his throat. “Not us like the group, but us us.”

“Oh?” You quirked a brow. “What are they saying this time?” Last week, they were convinced Bob was a special secret agent of sorts. 

Bob handed you the rolled up newspaper he was holding. 

SPOTTED: BOB WHO? MYSTERY MAN SEEN WITH NEW AVENGER ‘XEROX’ — ROMANCE BLOSSOMING IN THE TOWER?

Though you were wearing a baseball cap, that clearly wasn’t enough to hide your identity. Beneath the article title was a grainy image of you and Bob in the park, feeding the ducks. The two of you were wearing identical, fond grins; but you were looking at the ducks, and his eyes were trained on you. There was another photo beneath where the two of you were sharing a milkshake in one of your favorite diners. You let out a sigh—you supposed you couldn’t be going to that diner as often anymore.

“Oh,” you muttered, reading through the first few lines, which turned out to be a whole bunch of speculative nonsense. “They’re always doing this, aren’t they? Making something out of nothing.” 

“Right,” said Bob, nodding. “It’s nothing. You’re right.”

When you caught his eye, noting the slightly crestfallen look on his face, you shook your head, assuming he was just upset about the whole ordeal. You could understand—losing your privacy overnight wasn’t something you were very keen about, either. “Try not to pay too much mind to the news people. I guess we just have to lay low for a while. It’ll die down. They’ll move on to the next big trendy thing in a minute or two.”

“Yeah, of course,” Bob said. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “Does this mean we have to stop going to the park together?”

“No,” you reassured. “We just have to put on some better disguises. I’m sure Valentina could scrounge up the money. After all, she kinda has to do whatever we want now.”

Bob smiled, all awkward and endearing. “Good. Yeah. I… I like the time we spend together.”

“I like it, too,” you said, lips upturned. Bob had to force his eyes away. It was nothing. Right.

You patted his leg and returned to your crossword puzzle. You were about halfway through the crossword book that Bob had bought for you from the musty cornerstore two blocks away. It was the first gift you’d ever gotten from someone. 

Yelena walked into one of the Tower’s many common areas an hour later to find you and Bob leaning against each other, dozing away. Your puzzle book was discarded to the side, pencil sticking out one of the pages to mark your place. Bob’s mouth was slightly agape and he looked about two seconds away from slipping and face-planting painfully into the boniest part of your shoulder. Your legs were intertwined with his in a position that certainly couldn’t have been comfortable. Yelena regarded the two of you with a downturned smile. 

“Okay, you sleepy lovebirds,” she muttered, grabbing a neatly folded blanket from the corner of the long couch and draping it over the both of you. You stirred ever so slightly, mumbling something under your breath, then settled back closer to Bob. “Sweet dreams.”

The two of you were startled awake just as Yelena was leaving and Alexei stormed in, loudly complaining about how this lady in the grocery store wouldn’t buy the Avengers Wheaties cereal box even though he’d explicitly recommended it to her.

You rubbed your eyes tiredly, standing up to stretch upwards like a feline after a long nap. Bob watched you with a sleepy grin. “Ooh, that just reminded me. I need to go pick up some ingredients for soup night tomorrow. Walker hates tomatoes, so tomato soup is off the menu.” 

With no hesitation whatsoever, Bob asked, “Can I come with you?” 

You thought distantly to the news reports. Let them think what they want. Whatever you had with Bob, you liked it just as it was.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d love that. We can stop by the library afterwards, too. I’ve heard they’ve got a new copy of…”

Alexei and Yelena watched the two of you head out, animatedly discussing some sort of new mystery book, shoulders practically pressed up to each other. 

“Are they—” Alexei sent his daughter a pointed look. “You know?”

“I’m not speaking about this with you,” Yelena curtly said, turning on her heel. “But no, not yet. Ava and I have a bet going on.”

This made a devilish grin spread over Alexei’s face. “He makes it obvious, the way he looks at Xerox. I give them a week.”

Yelena scoffed. He was such an optimist. She gave them three months at the very least. “You’re on.”

[mssishipi]

okay? okay. — sjy

two awkward nobodies turns tension into physical.

content tags: set in 1990's, no plot just loser!jake & loser!reader, s-stuttering? bear with them. explicit content (smut): cunnilingus, fingering, little bit of nipple play. MDNI! WC: 2.3k

It wasn't like Jake had no friends, at least not entirely. Technically, he had three people he occasionally talked to. Maybe not friends in the traditional sense, more like peripheral figures, one he sometimes exchanged notes with before class started, another who shared the same lunch table out of habit, and the third... well, Jake wasn't quite sure who the third was anymore.

When his mother found out it was his birthday, she lit up with an enthusiasm so disproportionate to the occasion that Jake felt immediately suffocated. She insisted on celebrating—went out and bought cake, plastic streamers that sagged against the living room wall, and even set out paper plates. Then she turned to him with a forced smile and said, "Invite your friends, sweetheart. All of them. It'll be fun!"

So, he'd done exactly that. Messaged the three people whose numbers sat unused in his contacts list. He waited until the very last minute, typing out a bland, uncertain invitation that he almost deleted several times before finally pressing send. Predictably, none of them replied.

Except for you.

You showed up ten minutes after the time listed on the message. Jake opened the door like he'd just been caught off guard, blinking behind his crooked glasses as if unsure whether to smile or hide.

"U-uh... H-happy b-birthd-day, J-Jake," you stammered, eyes flicking away from his.

He moved aside to let you in without saying a word, and now the two of you sat at the edge of the couch in his living room.

You kept tapping your foot against the carpet. Jake sat beside you, hunched slightly forward, hands wringing together in his lap, shoulders high. He kept adjusting his glasses even though they didn't need adjusting, the same way you kept picking at your nails or brushing invisible lint from your sleeve. Both of you mirrored each other's awkward tics without realizing it. The half-eaten cake on the coffee table sat untouched, its frosting slowly melting.

Jake finally broke the silence. "S-so... you came."

You nodded once, eyes flicking briefly toward him before darting away again. Your mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. "Y-yeah. Um. I d-didn't have anything else, so..."

The sentence trailed off, neither of you bothering to pretend it was a convincing excuse. There was no music playing. No other voices in the house. His mother had retreated to the kitchen, likely pretending to busy herself while eavesdropping.

Minutes dragged of another silence, Jake reached for a slice of cake, changed his mind, pulled his hand back. You leaned forward like you might say something, then leaned back instead.

Jake cleared his throat, “uh… want to go to my room?”

Your cheeks warmed instantly, heat rising from your collar to your ears. You adjusted your glasses with shaky fingers, blinking once, then nodding. “Y-yeah… okay.”

"R-right there, Jake… ahhh. Just like that, please."

The faint static hum of the cassette player filled the air, mixed by the breathy sound of your voice that was something Jake never imagined he’d hear.

He never thought the first time he'd taste someone—you, of all people—would feel like this.

It was like a discovery. A minute ago, it had been all small talk and the awkward thuds of your steps across his carpeted floor. Now, his mouth was buried between your legs, and his world had narrowed to the rhythm of your breath and the sweetness of your skin.

Jake seen you at school, always half-hidden under oversized jumpers and layers. You’d sit beside him sometimes at lunch, two losers orbiting the same cafeteria table in silence, sharing glances that lasted just a second too long, and yet neither of you had ever said anything

Now, he realized what he’d missed, what had been concealed beneath the quiet demeanor and deliberately plain clothes. Your body was insanely hot, sinfully curved in ways that had Jake's hands unsure of where to settle, his brain desperately trying to keep up with what his body was experiencing. His glasses were slightly askew, fogged with heat, and the tips of his ears were burning as he adjusted his angle and listened to every sound you made in response to his tongue.

He licked tentatively at first, awkward, but then you moaned his name and something in him snapped. His hands gripped your thighs with more certainty. He moved his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes, testing what made your hips twitch or your breath hitch. Each reaction you gave was a reward, and Jake chased them obsessively.

"Please… m-more."

Jake nearly lost his mind. He moaned, open-mouthed, right against your soaked folds, the sound vibrating into you as he pushed his tongue in deeper.

There was still a part of him that couldn’t believe this was real. That he was doing this. That someone was writhing beneath him, clenching at his sheets, begging him not to stop.

He remembered how grossed out he used to be, overhearing locker room talk from guys who bragged about "the best pussy of their lives." Their words always came with a smirk, with arrogance, with a tone Jake hated. He thought it was pathetic.

Now, he fucking understood. The sounds you made, the way you whined, whimpered, and gasped sent heat rushing to his groin, making his cock throb painfully in his pants. But he ignored it. You were the center of his world right now. Your pleasure. Your body. Your voice. He’d never been good at much, but if he could just make you feel like this, if he could memorize every twitch and moan, then maybe he could be good at you.

Jake glanced up through the fogged lenses of his glasses, catching a glimpse of your face. Your eyes were barely open, mouth parted, cheeks flushed. Your head was tilted back, exposing the column of your neck as your hips rolled into him, grinding your heat against his mouth.

He groaned again, involuntarily, as he looked lower—your breasts bouncing softly with every motion, round and heavy and perfect, the sight alone enough to make him dizzy.

God, you were so fucking hot.

He pulled back just enough to drag his tongue slowly across your slit, savoring the taste. Then, with shaky resolve, he let one hand slide lower.

He pressed a finger against your entrance and felt how wet you were. Tentatively, he pushed in, slowly, watching your reaction, his finger slid inside you, warm and tight, and Jake nearly whimpered at how it felt around him.

Your moan cracked sharp through the air, and he moved quickly, adjusting. He ducked his head, focusing his lips on your clit, sucking softly. Your hips twitched against his face, your moans climbing in pitch, and Jake’s eyes fluttered closed as he moved his finger in a gentle rhythm—curling, dragging, retreating before plunging in again.

"Jake!"

He added a second finger without overthinking it, pushing deeper as he sucked harder on your clit. His pace grew more confident now, still trembling slightly, but driven by the way your thighs began to clamp around his shoulders, your body helplessly responding to everything he did. He could feel the way your walls clenched around his fingers. 

He was drowning in you, and he didn’t want to come up for air.

His hand gripped your thigh harder as he thrust his fingers faster, curling them just right, chasing the way your cries rose in volume and pitch. Jake couldn’t stop moaning either. 

Jake lifted his head, pulling back just enough to speak, breathless, face glistening. His fingers never stopped moving inside you. "Am I… am I doing a good job?" he asked,  eyes wide with hunger.

You reached for him, grabbing the frame of his glasses, tugging them gently off his face and setting them aside. Then your hand cradled his jaw, pulled him up over your body, and you kissed him hard.

The moment your lips crashed into his, you both moaned into each other’s mouths. Your kiss was all teeth and tongue, sloppy and intense, spit-slicked and shameless. Jake’s hand stayed between your legs, his fingers never stopping, still thrusting and curling inside you as your hips rocked against his palm.

Your tongues tangled in a frantic rhythm, colliding like neither of you had ever kissed someone before—and in truth, maybe neither of you had quite like this.

Jake whimpered against your mouth as your teeth caught his lower lip, tugging at it before crashing into him again. He tasted you on your tongue, on your lips, everywhere. 

His free hand slid under your back, holding you tighter, pulling you against him. Your breath hitched as his fingers curled again inside you, faster now, more urgent. The wet sounds of his hand between your legs mixed with the quiet, needy gasps you both kept sharing in between kisses.

Jake groaned into your mouth, hips grinding unconsciously against the mattress, desperate for relief, but he never stopped moving his fingers inside you.

You broke the kiss first, gasping for breath, your lips swollen, eyes fluttering open with a dazed kind of bliss.

“A-are you close?” Jake asked.

You nodded frantically, whimpering louder as your hips rocked down against his hand, chasing the high he was pulling from you so perfectly.

Jake shifted, sliding behind you, pulling your body back against his chest. He wrapped an arm under your chest, his palm cupping one of your breasts. The second his fingers brushed your nipple, he moaned against your neck—actually moaned—at how soft and warm you were in his hand. His thumb began to flick over it, teasing it to a stiff peak while his other hand stayed between your legs, fingers thrusting deeper now from this new angle.

In this position, he had control.

His legs tangled with yours, spreading them open, locking you down so you couldn’t close them even if you tried. His chest pressed against your back, every shaky breath he took ghosting over your shoulder. His fingers buried inside you could now reach places that made you cry out, nearly screaming as your head fell back against his shoulder.

Jake caught the sound with his mouth again, kissing you, swallowing your cries as he worked you relentlessly.

"Say my name when you cum," he breathed, voice cracking with need. "Tell me I'm doing good. Please. Please."

His hips rocked against you from behind, his clothed cock rutting helplessly against your lower back, leaking through his boxers. His thumb kept playing with your nipple, gentle and desperate at once, trying to hold you in place while you trembled against him.

You could barely think. Your skin was burning, your stomach tight with that sharp, spiraling pleasure that was just about to break loose.

You grabbed his wrist, guiding his fingers faster, pushing yourself down on them.

“Y-You’re doing so good, Jake,” you moaned, biting your lip. “Fuck, your fingers feel so good—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.”

Jake gasped behind you, clinging tighter to your body, lips trailing along your jaw, your neck, desperate to be anywhere on you. You kept whispering, choking on moans, eyes rolling back as your climax crept closer with every flick of his wrist.

“You’re making me cum, Jake,” you panted, mouth falling open, hips jerking. “God, I’m gonna cum so fucking hard on your fingers—fuck—don’t stop.” 

Jake whimpered again, rutting harder against you from behind. 

And then you came.

You screamed his name, your body convulsed in his grasp, your slick heat pulsing in wet, desperate contractions that squeezed him in a way that made his brain blank out completely.

Jake’s eyes widened in a haze of disbelief as his cock throbbed once—twice—and then spilled. Completely untouched, fully clothed, still grinding against your back, he came in his pants.  His cum soaked the front of his boxers, but the feeling that overtook him was so violently good, he couldn’t even care.

He gasped, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, body trembling as the orgasm ripped through him, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out like an idiot. His hips jerked again, trying to ride out the friction.

Jake made a girl cum.

Jake made a girl fucking cum.

His mind couldn’t process anything else. Jake slowly pulled his fingers from your soaked cunt, blinking down at them in disbelief—glossy with slick, dripping down to his knuckles. Your cum. 

His heart pounded in his ears. His glasses were gone. His pants were soaked with his own mess.

And still, a breathless, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he whispered, “I… I made you cum.”

"Y-yeah," you squeaked, still catching your breath. Your fingers reached behind you, gently brushing over his thigh. “T-thank you, Jake…”

He swallowed hard. “Did I… Was it… okay?”

You turned slightly, shifting in his lap, enough to glance back at him. His face was flushed deep red, hair sticking up in awkward angles, your lips curved into a soft, breathless smile, and you leaned back against him again hesitantly. 

Your lips curved into a soft, breathless smile. You leaned back against him again, a bit hesitant, but you wanted him close. 

“Okay?” you echoed with a light laugh, still flushed. “Jake, I couldn’t see straight. You made me forget my own name.”

Jake blinked rapidly. “U-uh, really?” His voice cracked.

You nodded, biting your lip as your gaze dropped, suddenly shy again in the aftermath. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Really.”

There was silence. You felt Jake shift behind you slightly, still holding your body.

And then, in the quietest voice, he asked:

“T-then… can I… can I keep doing this to you?”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes again. He looked scared. Like he’d already started bracing for rejection. 

You nodded, leaning in to press your lips to his jaw. “O-okay.”

His hands tightened around your waist, you could feel him harden again against you, still trapped inside soaked boxers, his body catching up fast to what his heart had just heard. 

"Okay? Okay." 

[cherrygirlfriend]

── THREE INCIDENTS ❤︎

❤︎ pairing: spencer x gf!reader

❤︎ summary: three different incidents that revealed to spencer’s team that he has a girlfriend.

❤︎ warnings / tags: fluff!

❤︎ author's note: i got a new tattoo on my wrist yesterday so it’s been a bit more difficult to write but i had this in my drafts!! hope you like it sweetiepies <3

SPENCER REID MASTERLIST ❤︎

incident number one - the mystery of the baked goods.

"where did they come from?" emily asked with furrowed brows, her head cocked to the side. "i have no idea..." morgan mumbled in response. "did you ask garcia if she brought them?"

"brought what?" garcia walked into the kitchen area, a wide smile on her face until she saw what was on the table, "oh."

"baby, did you bring those?" morgan asked, making the blonde shake her head, "no idea where they came from." "why's everyone gathered around-" jj's sentence was interrupted once she spotted the same thing garcia had. "do you think they're poisoned?" garcia whispered.

"what's going on, guys?" spencer came into the kitchen area with a smile on his lips, but unlike everyone else, he ignored what they were looking at, making a beeline towards the coffee maker, pouring some into his cup. "cupcakes." garcia responded.

spencer turned to face them with a slightly amused expression on his face, looking between the box of cupcakes to his team, "what about them?" he asked, lifting the coffee cup to his lips, "they just appeared there." emily said, making spencer let out a breath of a laugh, "no they didn't. i brought them."

"you? what'd you bring cupcakes for, kid?" morgan asked, "did i forget someone's birthday?" "no." spencer shrugged, "i brought them just because. if you guys don't want them i can—" "nope, we'll take them." morgan interrupted, grabbing a cupcake, the rest following suit.

that evening, spencer got to his apartment, recognizing the sound of debussy's rêverie playing on the record player and the sound of sizzling coming from the kitchen. he took off his satchel and placing it in its usual spot. when he made his way into the kitchen, he saw you standing at the stove, a wooden spatula in your hand. spencer leaned his head on the doorway, a small smile as he watched you.

when you finally noticed spencer, a wide smile overtook your face, "hey there, stranger. how was work?" "tiring." he smiled, taking slow steps towards you. spencer wrapped his arms around your middle and pressing himself close to you, nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck. "how was your day?"

"it was good." spencer mumbled, pressing a kiss against your neck that made you shiver. "they liked the cupcakes you made." "they did?" you smiled, "they did." "maybe i'll start baking more often."

and so... the BAU break room started having homemade baked goods every week. and every time, spencer said that he was the one who brought them.

incident number two - the mystery of the TARDIS mug.

spencer was seated at his desk, going over paperwork yet occasionally glancing at the clock on the wall as if willing it to move. spencer picked up his cup, taking a long sip of coffee, only to hear a loud gasp come from next to him.

when he lowered his cup, he saw garcia staring at it with wide eyes, "oh. my. god." she exclaimed, "where did you get that?"

spencer looked at the cup in his hand, a slight fond smile on his lips as he was brought back to the moment you gave him the TARDIS-shaped mug, the man beaming at you before lurching forward and pressing his lips on yours.

"oh, it was a gift." spencer smiled softly, "i don't know where it's from, but i'll ask her and i'll let you know."

penelope's smile quirked up at his response, "her?"

spencer cleared his throat, turning back to the paperwork and pretending to focus on it again, "it was from a friend." he replied quietly, but garcia still walked away with a grin on her lips.

incident number three - the mystery of the go-bag.

spencer had an eidetic memory, which made it nearly impossible for him to forget anything.

but that morning, his alarm clock had malfunctioned, and he was running late, and somehow... he had forgotten to take his go bag with him after having taken it to home to wash it.

hotch had said that they'd be leaving in thirty minutes, but it'd take spencer about forty-three minutes just to get to his apartment, and another to get back, and he couldn't possibly ask the team to stand back... he heard the ding! of the elevator, but the man ignored it. maybe he could call you and ask you to-

his train of thought was interrupted by someone clearing their throat, and when he looked up, spencer's eyes widened in surprise to see you standing in front of him, holding up his go-bag with your eyebrows raised and a slightly teasing smile. "you forgot something."

spencer rose to his feet, making his way over to you, completely unaware of the looks the two of you were receiving, "thank you, i just realized i didn't have it with me." your boyfriend said with an appreciative smile, "you also left your phone home." you chuckled softly, cocking your head to the side and holding out his phone, the man taking it and slipping it into his satchel, "thank you for bringing me these. i'll call you later, alright?"

"alright." you pressed a kiss too spencer's cheek, "love you."

"love you too." spencer replied, waving at you as you took a couple steps backwards, before turning around and walking to the elevator. he watched as you pressed the button, turning to look at him one more time and waving at him before getting onto the elevator.

"you have some explaining to do, pretty boy." morgan grinned, pressing his hand on spencer's shoulder, making the man's cheeks start to turn red.

[layaispunk]

still here with me

my masterlist | taking requests! <3

pairing: jackson!joel x female!reader

summary: you save Joel.

warnings: spoilers for episode 2. canon typical violence, jackson's hoard, angst, lil bit of fluff. Ellie isnt mentioned.

a/n: i love abby but NOT ON MY WATCH. anyway .... how are we feeling ....? 🫂

The sounds of gunfire crackled through the cold. 

The blizzard felt like an entity - roaring, kicking up like ash as the hoard was running toward Jackson’s gates - hundreds of them, more than you'd ever seen. Clickers, stalkers, runners. Screeching. Crawling. Dying in waves, but still coming.

You stood on the wall beside Tommy, breath steaming in the cold as your rifle jerked back with each shot. “There’s too many, Tommy. We need the barrels."

“Fuck!” Tommy yelled, loading another round. “Keep your aim steady!” Tommy barked.

But you weren't hearing him anymore. Your ears were ringing. Joel.

You blinked hard, fired another round. “Tommy,” you muttered, voice tight.

He didn’t turn. “What?”

“I have to go.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“I need to find him. I need to find Joel. Amy said he's at the ski lodge."

Tommy finally looked at her, eyes wide. “Are you crazy?"

 “Something’s wrong, Tommy. I can feel it.”

Tommy grabbed your arm. “You run out now, you’ll die. Its a death trap.”

“Then I'll die trying.” you muttered, his hand still on yours.

He hesitated—just a breath—then nodded toward the watchtower behind them. “Back gate. It’s clearer that way. Take a horse and ride fast. You hear me? Be fuckin safe. Go."

You sprinted to the stables, saddled a horse with shaky hands, and rode like hell—snow blurring your vision, heart screaming louder than the wind, outrunning the hoard. Toward the lodge. 

Every fiber of you wanted to scream Joel and Dina's names to look for them. To cry out. But you had enough experience to know that you couldn’t.

If they were in trouble, if they're hurt —you yelling would only paint a target on your back. Or theirs. It wasn't an option. 

So you rode low in the saddle, head ducked beneath the howling wind, your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might crack a rib.

When you finally reached the edge of the lodge, you dismounted, boots hitting the ground heavy and wet. Snow clung to your coat and lashes. The horse huffed, nervous.

You crept forward, one foot after the other. Fingers clenched around your rifle. No footprints leading away from the door. No sign of anyone leaving in a hurry. Just quiet.

The sky above you was darkening fast, blizzard now in full force. 

You walked in, slowly. . It felt like your body knew something before your mind did, like it was bracing for impact. Weathered wood, furniture covered in plastic. Then, you saw a door. You placed your gloved hand on the knob, the other pressing your body flush to the wall beside it. Then you leaned in, ear to the wood.

Voices.

Muffled.

A woman’s voice.

"where was the last place you saw the fireflies?,” she was saying, her tone sharp but almost distant, like she was trying to keep steady.

Think. Think, think, think.

You didn’t know for certain—It could be anyone. But something in your chest twisted so violently, it was like your body already knew Joel and Dina were in that room, and they were running out of time.

How many voices? Two? Three? More? Your blood roared in your ears. You couldn’t make out words—just tones. Angry. Confident. Like they weren’t worried about being caught. 

You stepped back from the door, trying to breathe past the knot in your chest and move as quietly as possible. You had to distract them. Get them away from him. Make them come to you.

You crept down the hall, eyes sweeping the room. Old furniture, untouched for years. You spotted a rusted kettle on the stove and stealthily, you knocked it off with your rifle. You usually do this tactic with glass bottles, but you needed to think fast. 

It hit the ground hard—clang—echoing through the lodge.

Shouts followed. Heavy footsteps. “What the hell was that?”

You dropped behind furniture just as two came around the corner, both unarmed. 

There was a high-pitched ring in your ears, drowning out everything but your own pulse.

Your hands moved before your mind caught up and you stealthily walked behind them and plunged the knife into the side of their throat, a trail of bodies behind you now. 

You crept back toward that door, heart slamming against your ribs. You kicked it open hard, rifle raised—ready to die if it meant he lived.

Joel. On his knees, arms up, breathing heavily. Dina passed out on the floor. And in front of Joel —a woman. Armed. Blonde. Braid hanging down her back. Gun aimed at his head.

You didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. Bang.

She dropped before she even turned fully.

The other two put their hands up, trying to save themselves. You fired again. And again. You needed to move fast. 

You ran to him. You dropped your rifle, crossed the room in seconds, and crashed into him like you were afraid he might disappear if you let another second pass.

Joel caught you with both arms, pulling you in so tight it felt like your ribs would snap. His eyes were red and teary, his body was shaking. You could feel his heart hammering through his chest, loud and frantic, like it was trying to fight its way into yours. 

Neither of you spoke. Just the sound of your breathing—sharp, broken. His forehead pressed against yours. His hand tangled in the back of your jacket like he couldn’t let go.

By the time you made it back to Jackson, the blizzard had quieted, but the damage was done.

The wall was down. Dead clickers littered the snow, half-buried in blood and snow. Smoke curled from where fires had been. Guards moved slowly through the wreckage, dragging corpses, calling out names.

You rode in with Joel just behind you, Dina slumped between your arms on the saddle. She hadn’t woken up yet, still drugged, still breathing.

Tommy met you at the gate - or what was left of it. His face was pale with ash and blood, eyes going wide when he saw the three of you.

Joel slid off the horse first, then reached up to take Dina from your arms.

You followed, boots hitting the red-streaked snow, gaze locked on the chaos around you.

Jackson had survived, but just barely.

You and Joel sat in the quiet of the house, the kind of silence that only comes after something  that violent. Your jacket was still damp from the snow, but your hands were warm now—held out toward the fireplace in your home. 

Joel hadn’t said much since you got back.

You’d stayed behind, helped with the wreckage. But Tommy had grabbed your arm, eyes heavy, voice low. “You’ve done enough. Take him home. Take care of him.”

So now here you were. Home. With the love of your life. 

He sat in the armchair beside you, elbows on his knees, head bowed like he was still catching his breath from hours ago. The firelight danced across his face, cutting soft gold into the bruises blooming along his jaw. Gosh, he looks so beautiful. 

You walked over slowly, knees brushing his as you knelt in front of him. He looked up—eyes tired, but still Joel. Still your Joel.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just reached forward, pulling you into his lap like he’d been waiting all night to feel you close.

You curled into him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, hands threaded into his hair. He let out a shaky breath against your neck, like he’d been holding it in for hours.

You pulled back just a little, just enough to look at him.

Then you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. Slow. Careful. Like you were afraid he might break if you weren’t gentle.

“I’m so happy you’re still here with me,” you whispered, voice thick with everything you didn’t say out loud.

Joel didn’t answer—not with words. But the way he held you tighter, like he’d never let go again… that was enough.

For now, it was enough.

[pseudowho]

"So, you go against the hairs...that's right...and then with the hairs..."

"...is-- is this right?"

"Mmm. Now, clean your blade..."

You pretended to tidy the bedroom, sneaking glances up to Kento, and Yuuji, stood shirtless at the bathroom sink. Both had thickly lathered faces, and sharp razors, examining their faces in the mirror with absolute precision.

Sshhhhick. Swshswshswsh. Shhhhick-ck-ck. Swshswshswsh.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Peach fuzz.

"...and so anyway, I said to Fushiguro, shadows are great but sometimes you gotta just hit a guy..."

Kento listened, quiet, his mind always calculating several threads while mentoring Yuuji; yet, he was distracted. The old school corridor bathed in orange evening light, setting Yuuji's hair aflame, to coral in rocks. With Yuuji's nattering profile illuminated, the edges of his cheeks blurred from their usual sharp relief.

Fuzzy.

"...like, Kugisaki gets it, but she's like, just a bit feral and..."

Kento wondered if Yuuji had noticed. Kento recalled he only noticed, when his grandfather brushed his jaw with one clawed-over old hand, softly mocking Kento's furry scowl in lilting Danish. Kento's eyes lowered to the floor, counting his own steps and thinking in one, two, three and thoughtful on four, five, six.

"...Gojo's great but it's hard to learn from a guy who's that far out of my league, y'know? So--"

"Itadori-kun."

Kento had stopped, straightening his glasses, looking out onto suburban skyline. Yuuji stopped with him, inquisitive. A train rattled through, distant, splitting through the sunset. Kento looked back to Yuuji.

"It's important to look tidy, at work. Professional."

Yuuji raised his eyebrows, elbows rounded as he held his arms out, looking down at himself. He shot Kento a bashful smile, rubbing the back of his head.

Fuzzy peach.

"...ah-- yeah...guess I've always been a bit scruffy, huh? My grandad used to tell me I'd never get a job with hair like this."

Kento hummed. He stepped forwards, and raised one long-fingered, broad hand to gently grasp Yuuji's jaw, tilting it back and forth in the amber glow. Yuuji's bottom lip drew up, his eyes wide in surprise.

"...Nanamin?"

"Has anyone taught you how to shave, Yuuji?"

Yuuji blushed, his eyes flicking away from Kento in a mortified little scowl, his jaw still clasped. Kento released him, clearing his throat and checking his watch.

"I think we're finished up, here. Do you have any evening plans, Itadori-kun?"

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"If you need to go over an area again, get more shaving foam-- not that much-- and repeat the steps..."

"...this is...tricky..."

"With regular practice, you can improve any skill, Itadori-kun. Unless you'd like a beard, which still needs management, you'll be shaving every few days, or more."

"...you always...look so tidy..." swshswshswsh.

"It takes effort." Shhhick. Swsh.

"Yeah right. I bet you wake up like that. Tie and all."

A deep, rumbling laugh. Yuuji's foamy, surprised face, looking so boyish.

You slid past the bathroom. You pulled your phone out, surreptitiously clicking a photo. Kento and Yuuji, leaning over the sink while Kento steadfastly instructed him, became your new phone background, and stayed as such for a full year.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Took a lot of portions to send him to bed with a full tummy."

Kento chuckled at you, his hair mussed and soft. Legs crossed in bed, with a book on his lap, he read to the sound of soft snores in the guest bedroom next door. The lamplight, low and warm, illuminated Kento's face in the gloom.

Stubbly.

You reached a hand out, brushing across his jaw, feeling its sandpaper rasp across your fingers.

"I think you were so busy teaching Yuuji," you whispered, scratching Kento's chin as he crumpled his lower lip up, "that you missed some patches yourself. C'mere."

You stood, walking to the bathroom and sitting on the counter, grabbing a razor and shaving foam. Kento's eyes twinkled at you, feigning annoyance. He walked to you at the sink, looking straight into the bones of you. He grasped your thighs, pushing them apart before settling between them, chuckling again as you lathered his face.

Shhhhick. Swshswshswsh. Shhhick-ck-ck. Swshswshswsh.

You felt a growing pressure between your legs as you focused on shaving Kento's jaw. Kento fidgeted, pyjamas tight and tenting. You bit your lip, smirking.

"...Mr.Nanami. I am trying to concentrate."

"Mmm, so am I, but it's...hard."

"Yes. I can feel that."

Another deep rumble of a laugh. Kento grasped your thighs tighter, pressing forwards into you. You gasped, taking the razor from his face as Kento nuzzled shaving foam into your giggling neck.

"Don't stop." He whispered, a crooked smile on his lathered face. "Concentrate, please, Mrs.Nanami."

[sai-int]

i saw this a few days ago and i've been plagued by ghoap x reader ever since

The warm water lapped gently at your skin as you leaned back against the edge of the tub, sighing in bliss. The steam curled around you, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the bath salts you’d poured in earlier. After a long day, this was exactly what you needed. Simon and Johnny were stuck with paperwork back on base, so you had the rare chance to soak in peace, letting the heat work its way into your tired muscles.

You’d just started to drift when the sound of the front door opening snapped you out of your daze. Footsteps, heavy and familiar, made their way down the hall before stopping right outside the bathroom.

The door cracked open just enough for you to catch a glimpse of a skull-painted balaclava.

Simon.

He didn’t say a word, just tilted his head slightly as if asking permission. You sighed, amused, and scooted forward in the tub. “Hello to you too,” you murmured.

That was all he needed. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, and within moments, he was stripping off his clothes with practiced efficiency. Then, he slid in behind you, his solid form pressing against your back as he sank into the heat with a satisfied exhale. His arms came around you, hands settling on your shoulders as he kneaded at the tension there.

“Long day?” he asked, voice low and rough against your ear.

“You’ve no idea,” you murmured, melting under his touch.

“Aye, we do,” came a much louder voice from down the hall. “Some of us actually did the bloody paperwork.”

Before you could react, the bathroom door swung open with zero hesitation, and Johnny strode in, already tugging his shirt off. His grin was wide and mischievous as he took in the sight of you and Simon tucked into the tub together.

“ye two weren’t plannin’ on startin’ without me, were ye?”

Simon sighed, his fingers still working against your muscles. “Dunno if there’s room for you, love.”

“Like hell there isn’t.”

And then, he jumped—no—launched himself into the tub

Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as Johnny all but catapulted himself, jostling both you and Simon. You squeaked in protest, but the sound was drowned out by Johnny’s triumphant laugh as he wedged himself in between your legs, forming a delectable man-sandwich with you as the middle.

“Fuckin' hell, babe,” Simon grumbled, shaking his head as he wiped a splash of water from his face.

Johnny just beamed, utterly unrepentant. “What? Ye know I hate missin’ out.”

You sighed, shaking your head as you leaned back into Simon’s chest, letting Johnny rest his head against your chest. The water, still warm despite Johnny’s dramatic entrance, wrapped around the three of you as Simon’s hands resumed their massage.

A peaceful silence settled between you, broken only by the occasional sighs of relaxation. Johnny, ever the fidgety one, eventually started tracing nonsense patterns against your legs under the water, and Simon’s pressed soft kiss against your temple, thumbs pressed firm, soothing circles into your shoulders.

“Love my boys,” you murmured, eyes slipping shut.

Johnny grinned, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your skin. “Aye, you’re stuck with us,”

Simon huffed, the sound almost amused as he pulled you even closer. “Poor thing, never stood a chance, hmm?”

[barnacles34]

Mutually Assured Destruction

Chaewon x Male Reader

Tags: Angst, Smut

9k words

The world is, simply put, against you.

You love Chaewon.

But you can't tell her. Not yet.

New York. Day twenty-one. The hotel hallway stretches before you, each step toward her room heavier than the last.

Your tie feels too tight, your collar suffocating—the uniform of an executive becoming the noose of a condemned man.

Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of seeing her across rooms, of catching her scent in empty elevators, of watching her perform while pretending she was nothing more than a company asset.

Three weeks of dying slowly.

You knock. The sound echoes in the empty corridor. One heartbeat. Two. The door opens.

Chaewon stands there, barefoot, in simple shorts and an oversized t-shirt. No makeup. No stage presence. Just her.

The most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

‘You came,’ she whispers, like she still can't believe it.

You step inside, the door closing behind you with a soft click. The sound of the outside world being shut away.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Three feet of carpet between you might as well be an ocean.

Then she breaks, a dam of tears giving way after holding back too long. She crosses the distance, collides with you, arms wrapping around your waist, face buried in your chest.

‘I haven't seen you for 3 weeks,’ she mumbles against your jacket, her voice cracking, fighting tears that are already falling.

You want to speak, but your throat closes. Her name forms in your mind—a prayer, a plea.

Chaewon.

Her fingers clutch at your jacket, desperate, like you might disappear if she loosens her grip.

‘I am so unhappy,’ she whispers, the words muffled against the fabric.

Your hand moves of its own accord, finding the back of her head, cradling it gently. Her hair is soft between your fingers, just as you'd dreamed during those endless nights alone.

Chaewon!

‘I am so stupid,’ she continues, her whole body trembling. ‘Dear, I cannot live without you. You know this.’

She pulls back just enough to look up at you, her face tear-streaked, eyes red-rimmed and vulnerable. She's so close now, her cheek just an inch from yours, her breath warm against your skin.

You dare not look directly at her—afraid that if you do, all your carefully constructed walls will crumble.

Instead, your gaze falls to her shoulder, exposed where the sweater has slipped. Her skin is like milk, almost translucent in the soft hotel light, with that hint of pink beneath that makes her seem both fragile and impossibly alive.

Oh, you want her so badly.

The weight of the past bears down on you. When you were younger, life felt limitless—an odyssey of possibility stretching endlessly before you.

But youth is a loan that must be repaid. Each choice carries consequences. Each victory seemingly increasing the magnitude of future defeat.

How strange to realize you can barely remember the person you were before all this. Before her.

It's as if you've been playing a role for so long—the ambitious executive, the company man—that you've forgotten who you really are.

Her hands move to your face, fingertips gentle against your jaw, tilting your gaze to meet hers.

‘Look at me,’ she whispers. ‘Please.’

You do, and it undoes you. The nakedness of her emotion. The love written so plainly across her features.

‘I love you,’ she says, the words hanging in the air between you. ‘I've always loved you.’

Everything in you wants to say it back. To cross that final line.

To throw away everything—your career, your reputation, your carefully constructed life—just to hold her without fear.

But you can't. Not because you don't love her, but because loving her means protecting her. And right now, loving her means waiting.

‘Not yet,’ you whisper, the words catching in your throat as you brush away a tear from her cheek with your thumb. ‘Not yet.’

The pain in her eyes is unbearable. But there's understanding there too, buried beneath the hurt.

She leans forward, resting her forehead against your chest.

‘How much longer?’ she asks, her voice small.

You have no answer. Only the weight of what stands between you—the company, the threats, the world that has decided your love is forbidden.

Your mouth feels clamped shut, your vocal cords frozen, your eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.

In the end, you say nothing more.

You hold her for one more moment, committing to memory the weight of her in your arms, the scent of her hair, the warmth of her body against yours.

Then you let go. Turn away. Walk to the door.

And leave.

—

Chaewon's Diary - May 15, 2025

I cannot remember feeling this way before. The emotions are too new, too raw to categorize.

Rejection should feel bitter. Should taste like failure. Instead, it tasted like promise.

I stood before him, heart exposed, only to hear those two impossible words: ‘Not yet.’

Not never. Not no. Not goodbye.

Not yet.

I should have been humiliated. Should have been angry. Instead, when he brushed the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs, I felt known. Truly seen, perhaps for the first time.

When he uttered

‘Not yet’

I felt warm. Happy.

How am I so happy for rejection?

I closed my eyes and leaned into his touch, memorizing the feeling of his hands on my face, his breath mingling with mine.

Before him, I had never felt the touch of someone who could see past my surface, past the idol, past the carefully crafted image.

I want him.

I know with absolute certainty: No other man will touch my heart for as long as I live.

I will wait, forever and longer.

Not yet.

—

3 Weeks Ago - April 25, 2025

You were staring at a spreadsheet when Chaewon walked in without knocking.

'Hey,' she said.

You kept typing. 'Hey.'

She stood there for a second too long before sitting down across from you. Put her coffee on your desk. The ice shifted.

'So.'

'So,' you echoed, still not looking up.

'You eat yet?'

'What?'

'Food. Have you had any?'

You glanced at your watch. It was almost 8. 'No.'

'Me neither,' she said. 'We should fix that.'

You finally looked at her. She was wearing the same clothes from the morning meeting, but her makeup had that slightly smudged quality of someone who'd been awake too long.

'I've got to finish this,' you said.

'No you don't.'

'I do, actually.'

She sighed. 'Will the company collapse if you don't do it right this second?'

'That's not the point.'

'That's exactly the point.' She tapped your desk with her fingernail. 'Come on. Food. A real restaurant. Thirty minutes.'

'I'm not hungry.'

'Liar.'

You almost smiled. 'I have work.'

'Work will still be there.' She didn't blink. 'Food might not.'

'That makes no sense.'

'I know. Just come anyway.'

You looked at your laptop, then back at her. She had that expression, the one that said she wouldn't leave until she got her way.

'Thirty minutes.'

She grinned. 'Look at you, making healthy choices.'

'Don't push it.'

The elevator ride was quiet. Not uncomfortable, just quiet. You both watched the numbers change.

'Where are we going?' you asked.

'Place down the street.'

'What kind of place?'

'The kind with food.' She glanced at you. 'You allergic to anything?'

'No.'

'Good.' She seemed satisfied with that.

Outside, the air felt different. Heavier. Like it might rain again.

'So is this like, a work thing, or...' you trailed off.

'Or what?'

'I don't know. You asked me to dinner.'

'Yeah.'

'So I'm just trying to understand what this is.'

She almost laughed. 'It's food. That's all. Don't overthink it.'

'I'm not overthinking.'

'You overthink everything. It's your whole deal.'

'That's not fair.'

'Probably not—but hey, fair character assessment is a luxury these days.' she giggled.

You huffed under your breath.

You walked together, not quite in step. The city moved around you—people leaving work, heading home, living lives that had nothing to do with quarterly reports or dance practices.

The restaurant was small. Unassuming. No sign outside, just a door between two other businesses.

'Here?' you asked.

'Yeah. Problem?'

'No. Just not what I expected.'

'What did you expect?'

You shrugged. 'Something with a line outside. Trending on Instagram.'

'Wow.' She held the door for you. 'You really don't know me at all.'

Inside was dimly lit. Maybe fifteen tables. Half of them occupied. No one looked up when you entered.

You followed her to a table near the back. Sat down across from her. The menus were just single sheets of paper.

'I come here a lot,' she said. 'After practice sometimes. When I don't want to go back to the dorm.'

'They don't recognize you?'

'They do. They just don't care.' She looked at the menu even though she probably had it memorized. 'That's why I like it.'

The waiter came over. Older guy, maybe fifty. Nodded at Chaewon like he'd seen her yesterday.

'The usual?' he asked her.

'Yeah. Thanks.'

He looked at you.

'Uh,' you fumbled with the menu. 'What's good?'

'Steak,' Chaewon said. 'You like steak, right? You seem like a steak guy.'

'Sure.'

'Medium rare?'

'Medium.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Of course.'

The waiter left. You fidgeted with your napkin.

'You really come here a lot?' you asked.

'Couple times a month.'

'Alone?'

'Usually.'

'Why?'

She looked at you like she was deciding whether to give you a real answer or not. 'Because no one bothers me. Because the food's good. Because sometimes I need to remember I'm still just a person.'

'And your members don't come?'

'They have their own places.' She took a sip of water. 'We don't actually do everything together, you know.'

'Right.'

'You sound surprised.'

'Not surprised. Just...' you couldn't find the right word.

'It's fine. People always think we're this perfect unit. Always together, always in sync.' She traced a pattern on the tablecloth with her finger. 'It's not like that.'

'What's it like?'

'It's like any job. You work with people. You care about them. But you still need your own space sometimes.'

'That makes sense.'

'Does it? You seem like the type who'd live at the office if they'd let you.'

You almost denied it, then didn't. 'Fair point.'

The food came faster than you expected. Her pasta. Your steak. Simple stuff, but it smelled good.

'This isn't exactly what I pictured when you said dinner,' you admitted.

'What did you picture?'

'I don't know. Something more...'

'Fancy?'

'Maybe.'

She shrugged. 'I sit in enough fancy restaurants for work. This is better.'

You took a bite of steak. It was actually good. Really good.

'Not bad,' you said.

'High praise.'

'It is, from me.'

'I know.' She twirled pasta around her fork. 'So, can I ask you something?'

'You just did.'

'Ha ha.' She didn't look amused. 'Seriously though.'

'Go ahead.'

'Do you actually like what you do? Your job?'

You considered bullshitting, then didn't. 'Sometimes.'

'Which parts?'

'The quiet ones. When I'm working on something complicated and it's just me and the problem.' You cut another piece of steak. 'You?'

'Performing. Being on stage. The three minutes where nothing else matters.' She didn't hesitate. 'Everything else is just... stuff I do so I can have those moments.'

'That's a lot of stuff for three minutes.'

'Yeah.' She looked down at her food, prodding with a dash of frustration. 'Yeah, it is.'

You ate in silence for a minute. Not awkward, just... thinking silence.

'Can I ask you something now?' you said.

'Sure.'

'Why'd you ask me to dinner? Really?'

She poked at her pasta. 'I don't know. You looked like you needed it.'

'That's it?'

'Does there have to be more?'

'Usually is.'

She sighed. 'Look, I've sat through enough meetings with you to know you skip lunch most days. And I saw your car in the parking garage at midnight last week when I was leaving the practice room. And then today, you looked...' she gestured vaguely at your face.

'I looked what?'

'Empty-tired, not the usual tiredness you wear on your face. You know?' 

You weren't sure what to say to that.

'Anyway,' she continued. 'It's just dinner. It's not that deep.'

'Right.'

'Right,' she echoed.

The silence that followed should have been uncomfortable. But it wasn't, really. Just quiet.

'It's good,' you finally said, gesturing to your plate. 'The food.'

'Told you.'

'You did.'

She smiled, just slightly. 'I'm right about a lot of things.'

'I'll reserve judgment on that.'

'Smart.' She took a sip of water. 'So... was this weird? Me asking you to dinner?'

You thought about it. 'A little.'

'Sorry.'

'Don't be. Weird isn't bad.'

She nodded. 'No, it's not.'

The rest of the meal was easier. You talked about nothing important. Work, a little. Music she was listening to. A book you'd been meaning to read but hadn't found time for. Normal stuff that normal people probably talked about all the time.

When the check came, you reached for it.

'I got it,' she said.

'You invited me.'

'Exactly.'

'That's not how it works.'

'Says who?' She grabbed the check before you could. 'Too slow, Mr. Executive.'

Outside, the air felt damp. Like it had rained while you were eating, or was about to.

'Which way you headed?' she asked.

You pointed vaguely east.

'I'm that way too. For a few blocks, anyway.'

You walked together. Not too close. Just two people who happened to be going the same direction.

'Thanks,' you said after a minute.

'For what?'

'Dinner.'

'Was it terrible?'

'No.'

'High praise,' she said again.

'I mean it. It was... nice.'

'Wow. Nice. I'm flattered.'

'Shut up.'

She laughed. Not her public laugh, the perfect one from interviews. A real one, slightly too loud.

'You know what?' she said.

'What?'

'You're not as scary as they say.'

'Who says I'm scary?'

'Everyone.' She kicked a small stone on the sidewalk. 'The whole office. The interns call you The Terminator.'

'They do not.'

'They absolutely do.' She grinned. 'But I'll keep your secret.'

'What secret?'

'That you're actually just a regular person who works too much.'

'I don't work too much.'

'Sureeee.' She stopped walking. 'This is me.'

You looked up at her building. Nice but not flashy. 'This is you.'

'Yeah.' She rocked back on her heels slightly. 'So.'

'So.'

'Thanks for coming.'

'Thanks for asking.'

She looked like she might say something else, then didn't. Just nodded. 'See you tomorrow.'

'See you tomorrow.'

She turned, walked toward her door. You should have left then. Just turned and walked away.

Instead, you watched her go. Watched as she paused at the entrance, like maybe she was going to look back.

She didn't.

And that was fine. Better, probably.

You turned and walked home, feeling something you couldn't quite name. Not happiness, exactly. But maybe something close to it. Something adjacent.

Like maybe for the first time in a long time, you'd been a person instead of a position. And maybe that was enough.

—

Chaewon's Diary - April 25, 2025

It's stupid to write this down. Dangerous, probably.

I love him.

I tried not to. Made lists of reasons why I shouldn't. His position. My career. The company. The members. The fans.

The lists didn't help.

I tried imagining my life without him in it. Moving companies. Going solo. Leaving the country. None of it worked because he'd still exist somewhere. I'd still know he was out there.

It's not that I need him. I was fine before him. I'll be fine after, I guess.

But I don't want to be.

I love the way he focuses when he reads reports. How he thinks no one notices when he's tired. How he pretends not to care about things but always remembers details about everyone.

I love how he never says more than he needs to. How he leaves room for silence.

I love that he came to dinner with me. That he let himself be normal for one night.

If he doesn't love me back, that's okay.

But I think sometimes… maybe he could.

—

Morning hit you like a truck.

Your phone was buzzing. Had been buzzing. You fumbled for it, eyes still closed.

Missed call. Another. Another. Another.

You squinted at the screen.

9 missed calls from your manager. 4 from some board member. 8 from numbers you didn't recognize.

The time was 7:12 AM.

More buzzing. Texts now. Emails.

You sat up, suddenly very awake.

First text: a link. You clicked it.

"COMPANY CEO AND IDOL MEMBER CAUGHT ON SECRET DATE"

There was a photo. You and Chaewon at the restaurant. Her laughing. You almost smiling. It looked... not innocent.

More links.

"SOURCE CONFIRMS: CEO AND KIM CHAEWON 'MORE THAN PROFESSIONAL'"

"INSIDER: 'THEY'VE BEEN HIDING IT FOR MONTHS'"

You felt sick. Scrolled back through your notifications, mind racing.

Then you saw it. Late-night texts from Chaewon.

1:12 AM 

don't freak out when you wake up 

someone took pictures at the restaurant 

it's already online i'm sorry

1:14 AM 

my manager is losing it 

company PR called an emergency meeting 

they're saying we can't talk to each other

1:27 AM 

they want me to say it was just a work dinner 

that we barely know each other 

is that what you want me to say?

1:41 AM 

i can't sleep this is so stupid 

we didn't do anything wrong

1:55 AM 

maybe we did though 

maybe i did

1:56 AM 

i've never told you this 

never thought i would need to

1:58 AM 

i love you 

i think i have for a long time 

i just never saw the point in saying it 

it seemed impossible

2:01 AM 

i'm sorry you didn't need this 

not now not with everything else

2:03 AM

forget i said anything blame the dinner on me 

i'll fix this

Your phone started ringing again. Board chairman.

You let it ring.

Read the texts again. And again.

The world was imploding around you, your career possibly in flames, and all you could think about was that last message.

i love you

Your thumb hovered over the screen. What could you possibly say now? What was left to say when everything had already changed?

The phone kept ringing.

—

The boardroom was too bright. Fluorescent lights reflecting off the polished table where twelve men in identical suits sat judging you.

You'd always seen success as a game with simple rules. Work harder. Think faster. Never look back. That's how you climbed here—by treating everything as disposable.

Turns out you were wrong.

You weren't disposable. Chaewon wasn't disposable. Whatever had grown between you wasn't disposable.

But they were treating it like it was.

‘The optics are unacceptable,’ said the Vice Chairman, his voice clinical. ‘A senior executive and an idol? The media is already spinning narratives.’

You watched his mouth move but barely heard the words. Your phone weighed heavy in your pocket. Her message burned into your mind.

i love you i always have

‘Are you listening?’ Someone was addressing you directly now.

‘Yes,’ you lied.

The Chairman leaned forward. ‘We've spent a decade building this company's reputation. We won't let one indiscretion destroy it.’

Indiscretion. As if dinner between two people was a crime.

‘We've developed a containment strategy,’ said the PR director, sliding folders across the table. You didn't open yours. ‘First, no contact with Kim Chaewon. None. Effective immediately.’

Your jaw tightened.

‘Second, you'll accompany Le Sserafim to America. Three weeks of promotional activities. You'll be positioned as overseeing the company's international expansion. Professional distance will be maintained at all times.’

You looked around the table. Not a single sympathetic face.

‘What happens to Chaewon?’ you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

‘She'll be fine,’ said the Chairman dismissively. ‘As long as this situation is managed correctly.’ 

‘And if it isn't?’

The question hung in the air. Someone cleared their throat.

‘Then her position in the group becomes untenable,’ said the A&R director finally. ‘The other members shouldn't suffer for her... complications.’

Complications. That's what they called her now. Not their star performer. Not the artist who'd brought in millions. A complication.

‘So that's the deal,’ you said flatly. ‘I go to America. Stay away from her. Keep my job.’

‘Precisely.’

‘And if I refuse?’

The Chairman's smile didn't reach his eyes. ‘Then you both lose everything.’

Simple as that. A business decision.

Your mind flashed to Chaewon. How she looked at dinner. How easily she laughed. The way she really saw you when no one else bothered to look.

For two years, she'd been the one constant. The one person who grew on you.

‘Do we have an understanding?’ the Chairman pressed.

Someone was speaking. You realized it was you.

‘I understand perfectly.’

Everything felt unreal. As if you were a mirage of yourself, observing yourself in the most dire situation.

‘Good. Your flight leaves tomorrow night. The PR team has prepared statements for both of you. Stick to the script.’

They moved on. Budget projections. Q3 forecasts. As if they hadn't just hollowed you out completely.

You sat there, a model of composure. Inside, something was breaking, tearing along a fault line you hadn't known existed until Chaewon walked into your office and asked you to dinner.

The meeting ended. Men in suits filed out, crisis averted.

You remained seated, staring at your reflection in the polished table.

Tomorrow you'd fly to America. You'd watch Chaewon from across rooms, pretend she was nothing to you. You'd do it because the alternative would destroy her.

Your phone buzzed once. A text.

It wasn't from her. It couldn't be. They'd already gotten to her.

You checked anyway.

From your assistant: ‘Car is waiting whenever you're ready, sir.’

You stood up. Straightened your tie. Gathered the folder you never opened.

They thought they'd won. Thought they'd contained the problem.

They didn't understand.

They'd taken everything from you except the one thing that mattered—the knowledge that somewhere in this building was a woman who loved you. Had always loved you.

And for the first time, you were certain you loved her too.

—

You left the boardroom, a hollow shell of yourself.

America. No Chaewon. For three weeks.

They called it mercy. You called it execution.

The flight to Los Angeles stretched endlessly, your thoughts circling like vultures. You didn't sleep. Couldn't. The empty seat beside you an accusation.

Your phone vibrated as the plane touched down.

11:42 PM

landed safe?

Chaewon.

You stared at her message until the screen dimmed, then went black. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

They couldn't monitor texts, could they? Were they watching?

You couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk her.

No response.

The California sun felt wrong on your skin. Too bright, too insistent. Your hotel suite overlooked the Pacific. Endless blue that reminded you of nothing but distance.

Day Three.

8:17 AM

meetings are boring without you to glare at everyone

8:19 AM

the new intern asked where you went

8:22 AM

i told her you were saving the american branch from themselves

You almost smiled. Almost.

No response.

The American executives treated you like royalty. A king in exile. Their offices were too bright, their coffee too bitter, their laughter too loud. You moved through meetings like a ghost, present but never there.

Day Five.

3:04 AM

can't sleep

3:05 AM

is it the time difference or is it just

3:11 AM

never mind

What would you say if you could? That you lay awake too, staring at hotel ceilings, replaying her confession like a film you couldn't pause?

No response.

You worked eighteen-hour days. Not because the work required it, but because your empty room was unbearable. The silence that you once called home—incomplete.

Day Seven.

1:47 PM

there's a rumor you're never coming back

1:48 PM

tell me that's not true

1:52 PM

please

The last word felt like a knife between your ribs. Please. As if you had a choice. As if any of this was within your control.

No response.

The days blurred. You functioned on autopilot, your mind perpetually seventeen hours ahead, in Seoul, where she was.

Day Nine.

5:31 PM

they announced the showcase dates

5:32 PM

we're coming to LA next week

5:33 PM

will you be there?

Le Sserafim. Coming to Los Angeles. Of course. The universe's cruelest joke—to bring her so close, yet keep her untouchable.

No response.

You attended dinners. Networking events. Smiled when appropriate. Spoke when necessary. No one noticed how your eyes constantly swept rooms, searching for threats that weren't there.

Day Twelve.

10:17 AM

we leave tomorrow

10:18 AM

i know you can't answer

10:25 AM

but please, if you can

10:26 AM

be there

They must have warnings in place. Her messages carried the weight of someone being careful—someone who knew the stakes.

No response.

Le Sserafim arrived with the usual fanfare. Cameras flashing. Fans screaming. You watched from the periphery as she emerged from the airport terminal, perfect smile in place, waving to the crowd.

She didn't look for you. Knew better than that.

But you saw the tension in her shoulders. The way her smile didn't quite reach her eyes; not quite the smile she had when she swiped up some of your steak.

Day Fourteen.

No messages.

You checked your phone obsessively. Refreshed the screen until the battery drained to critical. Nothing.

The silence was worse than any words could have been.

The showcase venue was packed—a sea of lightsticks and expectant faces. You stood in the shadows of the VIP section, surrounded by American executives who had no idea you were breaking apart inside.

Le Sserafim performed flawlessly. Of course they did. Chaewon shone like a star brought to earth—her voice clear, her movements precise, her smile blinding.

Not once did her eyes search the crowd. Not once did she falter.

Professional to her core.

You left before the final song. Couldn't bear another moment of proximity without contact.

In your hotel room, you drank two fingers of whiskey and watched the city lights blur through the window.

Your phone remained silent.

Day Sixteen.

You were leaving a restaurant when you saw her.

Across the street, surrounded by managers and security. The group heading into a high-end boutique.

Your driver opened your car door, but you stood frozen, watching as she disappeared inside the shop.

She didn't see you.

When you returned to your hotel, you found a message.

7:03 PM

i saw you today

7:04 PM

you looked tired

You stared at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs.

No response.

Day Nineteen.

The final showcase. The final night in Los Angeles. Tomorrow, Le Sserafim would fly to New York. You would follow a day later.

You sat in the back row, hidden in shadow. Watched her perform for the last time on American soil.

She was transcendent.

Afterward, you slipped backstage under the pretense of congratulating the team. Your company's biggest assets. Your professional obligation.

She stood with the other members, accepting praise from American executives. Smiling. Nodding. Perfect.

Your eyes met across the room.

One second. Two.

Then she looked away, her expression never changing.

But you saw it—the slight tremble of her hand at her side.

Back in your hotel room, your phone lit up.

8:30 PM

i miss you

8:31 PM

i know i shouldn't say that

8:31 PM

i know i shouldn't even text you

8:32 PM

but i can't do this anymore

8:32 PM

please say something

Your chest tightened. Three weeks of silence, and now this—her desperation breaking through, risking everything.

You stared at the screen, knowing what you should do. Delete. Ignore. Follow the rules that kept her safe.

Instead, your fingers moved.

8:35 PM

The coffee in LA is terrible.

A pause. You could almost see her confusion.

8:36 PM

what?

8:37 PM

that's what you have to say?

You smiled faintly. Even the way you message her—capitalized first letters—is unique from hers.

8:38 PM

I hear New York's is better

Might try it when I get there

8:40 PM

when will you be in new york?

8:41 PM

Tomorrow.

8:41 PM

Early flight.

You weren't supposed to be on tomorrow's flight. You were meant to follow a day later. Keep the distance. Maintain the separation they'd enforced.

8:42 PM

you changed your flight?

8:43 PM

Figured I should see the Empire State Building.

8:43 PM

Heard the view is worth the risk.

Your heart pounded. The careful wording. The hidden meaning. Saying everything without saying anything that could truly incriminate either of you.

8:45 PM

there's a small coffee shop

8:45 PM

by the hotel

8:46 PM

i was planning to go there

8:46 PM

after tomorrow's rehearsal

8:47 PM

around 4

A plan. Hidden in casual conversation.

8:48 PM

Sounds like a good place for coffee.

8:49 PM

it is

8:49 PM

they say it's quiet

8:50 PM

not many people know about it

8:51 PM

I like quiet.

The conversation was innocent enough on the surface. Anyone reading would see nothing but meaningless chatter about coffee.

But between the lines: a plan. A meeting. A rebellion.

8:53 PM

i have to go

8:53 PM

sakura is calling

8:54 PM

don't forget to try the coffee

8:54 PM

it's been too long since you had a good cup

You stared at those last words. The double meaning clear.

8:55 PM

I won't forget.

You deleted the conversation. She would do the same.

But the promise remained.

Tomorrow. New York. 4 PM.

Day Twenty-one would break the rules. Day Twenty-one would change everything.

—

You got to the airport before the others. Boarded the flight before the others. Got the first class treatment that the board thinks you like.

The whole seat had a door. You closed it just in case you saw Chaewon. In case you lost it.

Despite it all, you knew she was there, the wisp of her soft perfume serenaded you even through thick mahogany wood panels—through the opulence of first class.

You kept your eyes fixed on your laptop screen. Work emails you couldn't focus on. Words blurring together as your mind fixed on one thought:

Tomorrow. 4 PM. Her hotel.

The ‘coffee shop’ wasn't a coffee shop at all. You both knew that. A code thin enough that anyone monitoring would see through it, yet plausible enough to maintain deniability.

The flight attendant asked if you wanted champagne. You declined. Asked for water instead. Needed a clear head.

Five hours trapped in a metal tube, knowing she was just rows behind you. Five hours of pretending the center of your universe wasn't within reach.

Your phone buzzed. A text from the Chairman.

‘Landing at JFK ahead of Le Sserafim. Good optics. Keep distance in New York. Almost done.’

Almost done. The words echoed.

Twenty days down. One more to go.

Tomorrow, at 4 PM, you would break every rule they had set. You would go to her hotel. You would see her—really see her—for the first time in three weeks.

And then what?

You had no plan beyond that moment. No strategy for what came after. The executive who planned everything had no contingency for this. A hollow cadaver. Waning the flames that could be easily put if you just resisted.

If only.

The plane took off, carrying you toward New York. Toward her. Toward whatever came next.

You closed your eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. All you could think about was her text:

i miss you

Three small words that had unraveled three weeks of carefully maintained distance.

Three small words that weren't the three words you couldn't stop thinking about since that night:

i love you

—

After you left her hotel room, after you hugged her, after you saw her face up close—dangerously close to kissing her—everything collapsed once more. The dregs of your hope were gone once again: You wanted only her. Only her.

You walked past the hallway, trying not to look suspicious under the camera—which, to be frank, was impossible.

And pressed the keycard onto the door, as suspiciously as possible, and entered. With your back to the closed door, you pulled out your phone and messaged her.

4:07 PM

Let’s meet again

4:08 PM

where?

4:08 PM

On the rooftop

4:09 PM

i miss you

4:10 PM

You just saw me.

4:10 PM

i know

4:11 PM

Hang in there. 

Chaewon.

4:11 PM

i like it when you say my name.

4:12 PM

Chaewon, this can end your career.

4:12 PM

i dont care. 

i want you. 

only you.

You slid down the door and sat. With your phone still in hand. 

You’re about to risk everything. Was it love that meant protecting her forever? Was it love that meant you couldn’t still yourself for a month or a year, wait, and wait, until she’s finally free?

Damn it all.

—

Chaewon’s Diary—Part 2 of May 15, 2025

He wants to meet me. On the rooftop.

Why?

Is he gonna kiss me? Is he gonna reject me once more?

Was it even a rejection in the first place? He promised. He promised. Oh god, my head hurts, I can’t think of anything.

All I can think of is him. My executive. 

—

As the sun turns orange in its preparation for slumber, you make your way to the rooftop of the hotel. The elevator chimes, almost too loud, and you enter with a towel on-hand. There’s moments where the shiver runs through your entire body—not out of being scared, but of the possibility of seeing Chaewon again. 

The elevator reaches the top floor. And in your hopes of not seeing anyone there, you were vindicated. No one. Nobody. Just a heated pool with the bougiest accommodations possible.

Thank the heavens, you thought.

Now it’s time to patiently wait, to not gnaw through your teeth like it’s cardboard in anticipation (which is easier said than done).

Regardless, you waited, sitting on one of the chairs, overlooking the sunset. The breeze was chilly, but nothing that you couldn’t endure.

So you waited.

But just for a moment, you closed your eyes.

—

‘Silly.’ 

Your eyes opened.

There she was. Chaewon. In all her glory

In the 2 hours you haven’t seen her, when the sun gained its slightly orange tint, she’s progressed into something like a goddess. Brown bob-cut, a perfect face…. Perfection incarnate.

‘You fell asleep.’

‘Oh.’ That’s about all you could get out; too busy staring at her.

‘I missed you.’

‘It’s been 2 hours.’

‘I know.’

‘You’re about to risk everything.

‘I know.’

‘Your career. Your… everything.’

‘You are my everything.’ She replies—climbing on top of you. Crystalline tears formed around the rims of her eyes.

‘Chaewon. Please.’

‘There’s nothing quite like this… hm?’ She says, amused at how doomed everything seemed to be.

‘Fighting against inevitability.’ You continue. Pressing your thumbs against her cheekbones once again, where tears flow once again. 

‘I’m so selfish.’

‘Don’t say that. Don’t say that… I am too.’ 

‘I thought if I avoided you. Long enough. Maybe, just maybe, we would’ve had a better chance. Look at me now, on you, risking everything.’

She softly collapsed on your chest, huffing her tears. And you spread your palm along her soft hair, this perfect hair.

‘You are so beautiful. Chaewon.’

‘I love you.’

Perhaps this is where it all topples. The final wall, once a 100-story skyscraper, reduced to mere ruins.

And you kiss her; grab the nape of her neck and press yourself closer to the kiss. Her lips. Her soft moans. Little squeals. 

Fuck.

You press yourself against the hotness of her mouth. Her velvety mouth crossed along your own. An apprehensive rush to it—oxymoron be damned—you wanted everything Chaewon—while not crossing any lines.

Despite it all, Chaewon’s soft hands ventured forth to your arms, grasped them tight and placed them right along her thin waist.

She wants it.

She wants you.

And that just about does it.

You release just for a bit. Look at her half-lidded eyes, seemingly, under pure bliss.

‘If we continue…’ You say, each syllable harder than the previous. The fact that you’re here, kissing Chaewon, feeling her body, just as you dreamed, just as you wished for all time—makes it harder to think of all the consequences.

The impending doom—so to speak.

‘You idiot.’ She replies.

‘What?’ 

‘I’ve risked everything and more to be here with you right now. And you think I’ll flake out now? Of all times—now?’

You laugh, so close to her mouth; you stare at her, and she’s attempting eyebrow-knitted frustration that’s more cute than anything else.

‘You’re so cute.’

‘Oh shut up.’

‘You’re everything to me.’ 

‘...So are you.’

Her eyes glisten something transcendent and she moves to kiss you again. That velvety soft mouth, of mint, of something fruity.

Pure bliss.

‘I want you.’ She squeaks out, between the kisses.

‘You have me.’ You reply, accidentally bumping teeth. Soft laughter ensues.

She’s so soft against your palms—the small of her back, the tightness of her waist, the bump of her bra-strap. Inbetween it all, moaning something sweet into your mouth. She releases just for a second, catching a glimpse of you; her lips are all kiss-bitten and swollen, soft and supple; ‘We’re two walking cadavers, you know.’

‘Lust and learning Chaewon. That’s all there is to it.’

Instead of a quick and bratty reply—

‘That’s true.’

Her lips land on yours once again. Flight and apprehensive, her thin arms wrap around you like you’re something to lose: tight enough that you know she’s there.

Her meek body is warm against you—just a shroud of clothing between your hand and her milky skin. You needed her. Wanted her more. An indulgence that satiation could barely meet.

So you flip her over; on this thin pool chair, a little bougie, Chaewon was splayed across.

And god.

It was all worth it. Your executive position on standstill—bound for execution. Your impending exile. All of it.

White t-shirt, thin shorts, and just a smidgen of make-up—lip-stick all smudged along her plump lips.

Being away for just a second was tantamount to hell: You dived in. Her body felt so docile and meek under you—squirming along your hot touch. Surround your thick arms around her thin waist, let her back bend in response, feel her stomach press upon you as you kiss her into the pool chair—little soft squeals the guiding light to it all.

Her hands ventured low to bunch up her t-shirt, and you helped her; really, you wanted to press on her soft naked abdomen, venture up to her naked sternum, feeling the soft naked swell of her—

Her t-shirt slipped off quickly, and there laid her gorgeous torso. 

You pressed kisses along her collarbone; just enough pressure to leave a mark there for days.

Just in case, you say, don’t forget me, just for a day or two.

You press softer kisses along the softer flesh below her collarbone, feeling her skin, really conceptualizing that she’s there. Really fucking there. And you laugh, under your breath; as if Chaewon knew exactly what you were thinking, her palm lands right on your cheek—softly grazing.

‘I’m here.’

‘Right. Right.’ 

Gain composure. This goddess awaits you.

So you venture forth. Along her neck muscle, the soft tendon that trembles under your kiss, the loose skin that gets her squirming under you, muscles tensing. Just below her jaw, you suck on her skin, tight, really tight, until you’re sure that there’s a welting hickey right there.

You observe how the red blooms, slowly gaining almost a purple hue. Nothing could cover that.

‘You’re really asking to be caught.’ She says, almost satisfied you left a mark on her.

‘Are you gonna cover it?’

‘Why would I cover what you give me?’ Her expression is pure seduction. Aphrodite incarnate.

Again, your world exploded.

You kiss her rougher this time. Muss up her hair. Venture beneath her waist. Pull at her firm thighs. Hands venture along the sides of her, your cold fingertips get her softly squirming beneath your touch—shimmers of gooseflesh rising along the delicate curves of her side, right under your fingertips.

The bronze sun shimmers off her torso as something like a masterpiece—faint shadows articulated along her perfect body—different orange, yellow hues bouncing off and enhancing the swells and curves and everything she had.

You pull her waist softly to get it bent again, venturing underneath, feeling her spine; venturing along her spine, the soft swell of it all—she’s here, she wants you, all 2 years of it condensed into this moment.

The bra-strap hits you like a reminder that her bosom was hidden beneath, the gentle swells and curves all a devious hint at what lay under.

So you clip it.

She shivers at the realization. The clip was off. And your hands automatically moved to take it off completely.

Her arms softly push together her torso: Displaying the treasure that laid before you.

Beautiful bronze peaks.

God.

God!

‘Ready the funeral wreaths for me. Chaewon.’

She scoffs. Then a soft laugh choked her up.

Your two hands softly teased the sides of her breasts; the way it surrendered to the slightest force; you ventured across her swell, feeling the desperate softness of her naked breasts. All while kissing her desperately. Your hands felt up and down, side-to-side, until she squirmed for relief: That’s when your fingers brushed over her perfect nipples.

And you had to look.

The way she shivered. God. Biting the side of her index finger. Moaning. Soft. Squealing even as you watched her carefully. The way her tongue traced a wet line along her lips—goading you, Aphrodite.

Your kiss ventured down, the soft tendon of her neck, the firm sternum.

Then finally—her breasts.

You kiss the soft skin.

Circling it.

The part that needed relief.

Teasing her. Even if the perpetuity of a multi-billion dollar company finding a way to bury you was crushing, her presence relieved it all.

Latched on.

‘Ahhh~’

‘Music to my ears.’

‘Oh shut up.’

‘Gladly.’

You dug in. Breaths became rigidly quick. Your other hand massaged the other breast. The nipple between your teeth got the most beautiful notes out of her.

By the time you stopped, her entire body shook.

‘Did you just cum?’

Her weak arm fell softly on your chest—apparently—a punch. 

‘No.’

A sick grin grew on you, and you wrapped your arms around her; kissing her jawline. 

‘You really did cum.’

Before you could do anything, her two hands squished your cheeks together.

‘Take responsibility.’

Trapped between her two small hands, you laugh. ‘I know. I know.’ A soft kiss on her sweat-slick forehead.

Your smirk lingers as you press another kiss against her temple. ‘You’ve got some nerve, you know that?’

Chaewon shifts slightly, resting her chin on your shoulder. ‘Nerve?’ she echoes, voice still breathless.

‘You climbed on top of me, seduced me, came just from me playing with your tits…’ Your hands wander, sliding down the dip of her back, feeling the heat of her skin. ‘And now you’re telling me to take responsibility?’

She hums, fingers tracing light, absentminded shapes on your chest. ‘Mmm. That’s right.’

You chuckle against her perfumed hair—sweet, fruity. ‘And what exactly does ‘taking responsibility’ mean to you?’

Her lips barely brush your ear as she murmurs, ‘It means you don’t stop until I can’t think straight.’

Your breath catches.

And then, you’re moving.

With a swift motion, you flip her onto her back, her body bouncing slightly against the lounge chair. She gasps, eyes wide for only a second before a slow, knowing grin spreads across her lips.

‘Too much?’ you tease, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.

Chaewon shakes her head, cheeks flushed, wrists tightening. ‘Not even close.’

You take a moment to admire her like this—laid out beneath you, messy hair spread out over the cushion, lips still kiss-bitten and swollen. Her chest rises and falls with anticipation, and her legs shift restlessly against yours, already needing more.

‘I love this look on you,’ you murmur, tracing your free hand down her side. ‘All desperate and needy.’

Feigning offense, ‘I am not needy.’

‘Oh?’ Your fingers dance along the waistband of her shorts, teasing, not quite moving further. ‘Then what do you call this?’

She squirms. Just slightly. Just enough.

‘I call it,’ she whispers, tugging at her trapped wrists, ‘a challenge.’

Oh.

A thrill rushes through you.

Your grip on her wrists tightens slightly, your knee nudging between her legs, pressing against the wet heat of her core. She gasps, back arching, but you don’t move—just let her feel the pressure, let her know exactly what she’s asking for.

‘Careful, baby,’ you murmur, leaning down, lips hovering just above hers. ‘You might not like what happens when I take that challenge.’

Chaewon’s grin is pure defiance, pure want.

‘Try me.’

And so you do.

Your hand finally slips beneath the waistband of her shorts, fingers sliding between her soaked folds, feeling the way she clenches around nothing, already so ready for you.

‘You’re soaked,’ you murmur against her neck, voice full of something dark and satisfied. ‘You’ve been like this since I was playing with your tits, huh?’

She whines, trying to twist her wrists free, but you don’t let her go.

‘You’re not getting out of this,’ you tease, slipping one finger inside her, the velvety pink folds, feeling her tense, then relax, then tighten again as you curl it just right, just fucking right, just until she curls her back to you. ‘You wanted me to take responsibility?’ You slip another finger into her, the tight wetness of her, stretching her slowly. ‘Then take it.’

Her breath stutters. And she moans.

Your thumb circles her clit, slow but firm, coaxing out soft, trembling moans that get swallowed by the night air.

And then, just when she starts getting lost in it—just when her hips start rolling, when she’s clenching desperately around your fingers—you stop.

Your hand is stuck on her wrists, and the other—fucking her senseless.

Her whine is immediate. ‘No, no, don’t—’

You smirk against her throat. ‘Not so fun when I’m the one teasing, huh?’

‘You’re evil.’

‘I’m making sure you really feel it.’ You drag your fingers out completely, holding them up just enough for her to see the way they glisten in the dim light. ‘And you do feel it, don’t you, baby?’

Chaewon glares at you, still breathless, still burning up, but there’s something playful in the way she juts her chin out.

‘Fine,’ she murmurs. ‘If you’re gonna tease…’

Then, before you can react, she hooks her legs around your waist and grinds up against you, rubbing herself against your cock through your pants—needy, desperate, shameless.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp hiss.

‘Shit.’

She grins. ‘What was that?’

You grip her hips, forcing them to still. ‘You really wanna play that game?’

She tilts her head. ‘You gonna stop me?’

No. No, you’re not.

You’re gonna fuck her senseless.

Your grip tightens around her hips, firm enough that she stops moving—but not before you grind back, pressing yourself against the slick heat between her thighs, making her gasp.

‘Chaewon,’ you murmur, voice rough, a warning. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game.’

She exhales shakily, eyes locked onto yours, her body taut beneath you.

‘You sure you’re ready for the consequences?’ You add.

Instead of answering, she licks her lips and tugs at her trapped wrists again. ‘Dear, I forgot about consequences a long time ago.’

You smirk, it’s true. You’re about to fuck her on this pool chair. Open to 360 degrees of vision, just the slightest glimpse and they’d see you fucking Chaewon. The fact that you’d lose your position the moment they saw you within 5 feet of Chaewon, let alone fucking her.

Fight against fate with absurdity.

You shift, focusing on the moment, leaning down so your lips barely ghost over hers. ‘I like you like this,’ you admit, your voice low, teasing. ‘All spread out, squirming, desperate—’

She whimpers when you roll your hips into her again, the friction delicious, just enough to drive her crazy without giving her what she really wants.

‘You’re so mean,’ she breathes, but her body betrays her, arching up, trying to chase more.

You chuckle, finally freeing her wrists—only for her to grab the collar of your shirt and yank you down into a kiss.

It’s messy, all tongue and heat, her fingers tangling in your hair as she pulls you closer, like she’s trying to mold herself to you completely. You groan into her mouth, one hand gripping her thigh, the other slipping beneath her shorts again, fingers finding their place against her soaked entrance.

She’s so fucking wet.

You tease her with your fingertips, barely dipping inside, a soft squelch, just enough to make her whimper into the kiss.

‘God, you need it, huh?’ you murmur against her lips.

She nods frantically, her hands clawing at your shoulders. ‘Please.’

Your breath catches at how wrecked she already sounds. ‘Please what?’

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t hesitate. ‘Please fuck me.’

You curse under your breath.

Then you sit up, hands moving with quick precision—grabbing the waistband of her shorts and yanking them down her legs, tossing them aside without care.

And finally, she’s bare beneath you.

You take a moment, just looking at her. The way she’s sprawled out, chest rising and falling rapidly, legs slightly parted, glistening with need.

‘You’re perfect.’

Chaewon bites her lip, her gaze flicking down—to where you’re already painfully hard, straining against your pants. She reaches forward, fingers trembling slightly as they brush over you, tracing the outline of your cock.

You let out a sharp breath.

‘You’re still dressed,’ she murmurs. ‘Not fair.’

She’s right.

So you fix it.

You shed your clothes as quickly as possible, the fabric falling to the floor, forgotten. When you look at her again, she’s staring at you—all of you—her lips slightly parted, eyes dark.

Then, slowly, her fingers curl around your cock, stroking once, twice, making your whole body tense.

‘Fuck.’

She grins. ‘That was cute.’

You glare at her, grip tightening on her hips. ‘You wanna see cute? Keep talking.’

She laughs, breathy, and guides you between her legs.

Your tip brushes against her entrance, and her laughter dies into a shaky inhale.

You barely push in, just an inch, feeling how tight, how hot she is, and you both groan at the same time.

Chaewon’s nails dig into your shoulders. ‘More,’ she gasps.

You give her more.

You sink into her inch by inch, stretching her, filling her completely, watching the way her pink lips part as she takes all of you.

She feels unreal.

You curse, head falling to her shoulder, breathing heavily against her skin. ‘You’re so—fuck—you feel so good.’

She’s trembling, her arms wrapping around your back, holding you as close as possible. ‘Move. Please—move.’ she pleads, desperately whispering hot breath into your ear, as you bury yourself into her petite shoulder.

And so you do.

Your hips pull back, then roll forward again, slow, wet, a stretched squelch, setting a slow, deliberate pace—making sure she feels everything. Every inch, every pulse, every deep thrust that has her gasping your name like a prayer.

She’s already falling apart beneath you, legs wrapped around your waist, nails raking down your back.

‘Faster. Oh please, faster.’ she breathes.

You obey.

Your hips snap against hers, faster, deeper, her moans turning into desperate little cries with every thrust.

‘You’re taking me so well,’ you murmur, kissing the shell of her ear, your fingers tangling with hers as you pin her hands above her head again. ‘Like you were made for this.’

She nods frantically, barely able to form words, barely able to do anything but cling to you and feel.

Her lips quiver. ‘I was made for you.’

She finally unravels, clenching around you so tightly, her whole body trembling, a gushing pressure around your cock, her musical chant of bliss filling your ears—you follow right after, burying yourself as deep as possible, spilling into her your entire seed, painting her cervix white, losing yourself completely.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing, tangled limbs, the aftermath of everything you’ve held back for so long.

Then, finally, Chaewon exhales, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw.

‘You’re definitely taking responsibility,’ she whispers.

You chuckle, pressing your forehead against hers.

There’s something nonsensical about it all. You’d rather not think about it. Your lover. The woman of your dreams underneath you, who took your seed, who keeps kissing the shell of your ear like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

But it keeps coming back.

The fact that no one caught you on the rooftop is a miracle.

The fact that maybe tomorrow or the day after is the day you get caught is… reality.

You want to fight everything that distends you from your dream, your everything: Chaewon.

But it’s frail. You can see it in her eyes too. Even as you rest your sweat-slick forehead against hers, blowing soft hairs out of her forehead—you can see tears coast on her red-rimmed eyes.

She loves you.

The near chance that you may be separated tears at you, hacks at your soul.

Your heart has wings for her.

Chaewon.

Your queen.

Aphrodite incarnate.

The only one.

TO BE CONTINUED(?)

[be4chywritez]

red red wine | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem!reader

the week leading up to Quinn proposing to you, and the chaos that follows him.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

One Week Before

You stand in the kitchen of the lake house, absently scrolling through your phone while Jim and Ellen sit at the table, chatting over their morning coffee. Quinn is perched on a stool at the kitchen island, Jack and Luke beside him, all three listening in as you think out loud.

“I think I’m gonna get my nails done,” you say, mostly to yourself, glancing up from your screen. “I found this cute place nearby on Instagram. Might go check it out.”

Quinn freezes. Luke and Jack do the same, exchanging quick glances before all three of them force identical, strained smiles.

“Here?” Quinn asks, a little too casually.

You nod and turn your phone to show Ellen the pictures. “Yeah, thought it’d be nice to get a little pampered. Ellen, want to come with?”

For a split second, her eyes flick to Jim before she shakes her head with a warm—if slightly nervous—smile. “Oh, no, sweetheart. I think I’ll stay back, got a few things to tidy up around the house.”

You frown slightly, glancing between them. “I mean, I don’t have to go either. I could just hang—”

“NO!”

The entire Hughes family responds in unison, voices overlapping in a loud, comically panicked outburst. Even Jim, who’s been silent all morning, leans forward, wide-eyed like you just suggested setting the house on fire.

Quinn is the first to recover. He clears his throat and plasters on a quick, reassuring smile. “No, honey, you should definitely go. Treat yourself.” He waves a hand toward the door, trying—and failing—to sound nonchalant. “Have a nice day out.”

Your eyes narrow. “Okay…?” You drag the word out, suspicious, but slide your phone into your bag anyway. Grabbing your keys, you head for the door, throwing one last curious glance over your shoulder before stepping out.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Luke lets out a long breath. “Close call.”

Jim shakes his head, grinning. “She almost caught on already. We need to be more careful, boys.”

Downtown is quiet, the main street lined with flower boxes and little local shops. Lakeside Nails sits nestled between a café and an old bookstore, its windows decorated with delicate white lettering.

A nail tech waves you over with a friendly smile. “Hi! You must be my one o’clock.”

“That’s me.” You settle into the chair as she sets up.

“I’m Maya. What are we doing today?”

You pull up a photo. “Something like this? Just a clean, neutral look.”

Maya nods approvingly. “Pretty! So, just a little solo pampering trip?”

“Sort of. I’m staying at the lake house with my boyfriend and his family. Thought I’d take a little break and explore.”

Maya hums, focusing on your nails. “How’d you two meet?”

You smile, thinking back. “Through mutual friends. He was quiet at first, but then he made me laugh when I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t know… I just felt comfortable with him.”

“Those are the best ones,” she says with a grin. “Sounds like a good guy.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, warmth blooming in your chest. “He really is.”

When you walk back into the lake house, Quinn is stretched out on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He glances up as you come in, a lazy smile spreading across his face.

“Hey,” he says, sitting up. “Let’s see the nails.”

You plop down beside him, holding out your hand. He takes it, running his thumb lightly over your fingers. “Looks good,” he says, approving.

“Glad you think so.” You lean into him as his arm wraps around you, the warmth of his touch settling you into an easy quiet.

The rest of the evening is simple—pasta and salad for dinner, laughter when Quinn drops a handful of cherry tomatoes and watches them roll across the counter. Later, you curl up under a blanket with an old movie on, his fingers absentmindedly running through your hair. The house is peaceful, filled with the soft flicker of the TV and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You don’t notice the way he looks at you. The way his gaze lingers, like he’s memorizing everything. Like he’s counting down.

Five Days Before

You wake slowly, the warmth of morning light filtering through the curtains. Quinn’s arm is draped over your waist, his hand resting lightly on your hip, his breathing steady and close. He stirs, his nose brushing against the back of your neck as he pulls you closer.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

You smile, rolling over to face him. His eyes are still half-closed, messy hair falling over his forehead. You trace your fingers along his cheek, feeling the scratch of stubble. He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

“Good morning,” you whisper.

He catches your hand, lacing his fingers through yours before bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

You don’t realize how he looks at you—like you might disappear if he blinks.

“Honey, we’re on breakfast duty,” you remind him.

Quinn groans, shoving his face into your collarbone, stubble tickling your skin. He mumbles something, voice muffled.

You laugh. “No, we can’t let your brothers do it. Unless you want the house to burn down.”

Another grunt, but this time, he shifts, reluctantly getting up. You follow, falling into your usual morning routine.

As you pull on a sweater, he watches from the bathroom mirror, hoping you don’t dig too far into his sock drawer.

Hoping you don’t find the velvet box.

You don’t, thanks to a the higher power, but it only puts more pressure on Quinn to pop the damn question.

Four Days Before 

The lake house hums with its usual morning energy—Jack and Luke bickering over who gets the last pancake, Ellen moving around the kitchen with effortless ease, and Jim sipping his coffee while reading the newspaper like he’s immune to the chaos around him.

Quinn, however, is focused on one thing.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching as you sit at the kitchen table, scrolling absently through your phone. Every few seconds, you look up to add something to the conversation, laughing as Luke launches a grape at Jack’s head. Quinn should be listening, should be jumping in with a comment of his own, but instead, his mind is caught on a single thought: How do I get her to buy the dress?

The dress—the one he wants to see you in when he finally asks the biggest question of his life. He saw it a few days ago when you were flipping through your phone, showing Ellen some boutique you wanted to check out. You hadn’t bought anything yet, just admired a few pieces before getting distracted by something else.

Now, with only four days to go, he needs to make sure you pick the one.

Quinn exhales through his nose and glances toward his brothers. Perfect.

Jack notices first, eyebrows furrowing as he watches Quinn silently glare at him. What? he mouths.

Quinn jerks his head toward the living room, signaling them to follow. Jack and Luke exchange a glance but don’t argue, trudging after him as he disappears down the hallway.

Once they’re out of earshot, Quinn turns to them, hands on his hips like he’s about to give them the most important assignment of their lives.

“Alright, I need you two to do something for me.”

Jack immediately groans. “Oh my god, what now?”

“It’s important,” Quinn says, leveling them with a look.

Luke raises an eyebrow. “Like, life-or-death important? Or are we talking Quinn-important, which means it’s about the love of your life?”

Jack snorts. “Yeah, do we need to prepare a eulogy?”

Quinn ignores them. “I need you guys to get her to buy a dress.”

Both of them stare at him.

“A dress,” Jack repeats flatly. “You dragged us away from breakfast for that?”

“Not just any dress,” Quinn says, rubbing the back of his neck. He feels stupid saying it out loud, but if there’s anyone who can pull this off without making it suspicious, it’s these two. “She was looking at this one the other day. It’s perfect for when I—” He stops himself before finishing the sentence, clearing his throat.

Luke catches on first. His eyes widen slightly before he grins. “Ohhh. You mean the dress.”

Jack still looks lost. “What—Oh. Ohhh.”

Quinn nods.

“Okay, so you want us to, what? Trick her into buying it?” Jack asks, crossing his arms.

“Not trick her,” Quinn corrects. “Just… steer her in the right direction.”

Luke grins. “You want us to gaslight her into thinking she needs it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You basically did,” Jack says.

Quinn sighs. “Can you two just do it?”

Luke claps a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Q, we got this. She’ll be buying that dress by the end of the day.”

Jack cracks his knuckles. “Time to be annoying.”

“Just don’t make it obvious,” Quinn warns.

Luke grins. “No promises.”

–

You hadn’t really planned on buying anything today.

The town’s little boutique district is charming, with its cobblestone paths and flower boxes hanging from the windows, but you were mostly browsing—taking in the sights, enjoying the crisp summer air, and, apparently, getting bombarded with very strong opinions from Jack and Luke.

“I’m just saying,” Jack starts, walking beside you with his hands in his pockets, “you’ve been talking about wanting a nice dress for a while.”

“Have I?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Luke, walking on your other side, nods solemnly. “Oh yeah. All the time. Constantly.”

You snort. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t.”

Jack ignores you. “And look at this!” He gestures dramatically toward one of the boutique windows. “A whole store dedicated to dresses! What are the odds?”

“Crazy,” Luke deadpans.

You give them a suspicious look. “Are you guys okay?”

“We’re great,” Jack says. “But you’d be even better if you had a new dress.”

Luke nods. “The best version of yourself, really.”

You shake your head with a laugh. “What is wrong with you two?”

“Nothing,” Jack says quickly. “We just care about you. And your wardrobe.”

“Especially that one dress you liked the other day,” Luke adds casually. “That was a good one.”

You narrow your eyes. “How do you even know about that?”

Jack elbows Luke. 

He gives you a pained smile, “intuition?” 

Luke sighs dramatically, turning toward you. “Look,, all I’m saying is that you should try it on. No pressure. No commitment. Just try it on and see how you feel.”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. “Worst case? You hate it, and we all move on with our lives. Best case? You look amazing, and you thank us forever.”

You roll your eyes but, against your better judgment, let them lead you inside. The boutique is small but elegant, with soft lighting and carefully arranged racks of clothing. A sales associate greets you warmly, and before you know it, Luke and Jack are pushing you toward the exact dress they’ve clearly been scheming about.

You sigh, running your fingers over the fabric. It is beautiful.

“Just try it,” Luke urges. “For science.”

“For science,” Jack echoes.

You huff a laugh. “Fine. But if I don’t like it, you both owe me coffee.”

“Deal,” they say in unison.

Ten minutes later, you step out of the dressing room, smoothing your hands over the fabric. The dress fits perfectly, hugging in all the right places, flowing just enough to feel effortless. You glance at your reflection in the boutique mirror, tilting your head slightly.

“Well?” Jack asks, leaning forward eagerly.

Luke grins. “Yup. That’s the one.”

You shake your head, but you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “You guys are the worst.”

“And yet, we just helped you find your new favorite dress,” Jack points out.

You sigh. “Fine. But you’re still buying me coffee.”

Luke claps his hands. “Worth it.”

Meanwhile, back at the lake house, Quinn gets a text.

Luke: Mission accomplished.

He exhales, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Three more days.

Three Days Before

The morning sun spills through the windows of the lake house, casting warm golden hues over the kitchen. You hum softly to yourself as you pour a cup of coffee, the scent of roasted beans filling the air. Ellen is at the stove flipping pancakes while Jim reads the newspaper at the table, occasionally sipping his coffee. Jack and Luke sit across from him, bickering over who gets the last piece of toast.

Quinn stands by the fridge, looking unusually tense as he scrolls through his phone. You don’t think much of it—he’s always been the quiet, deep-in-thought type—but there’s something about the way he keeps glancing at you that makes you pause.

"Morning," you say, leaning against the counter as you take a slow sip of coffee. "What's up?"

Quinn's head snaps up like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. His fingers tighten around his phone, and for a second, he looks almost guilty.

"Uh—nothing. Just checking something." His voice is too quick, too casual, and you narrow your eyes.

Before you can push him further, Ellen calls over her shoulder, "Sweetheart, could you grab the syrup?"

You nod and step toward the pantry, but just as you do, Quinn leans closer to Ellen and whispers something.

You freeze mid-step.

It’s barely audible, just the faintest murmur of his voice, but you catch it. Ellen’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before she quickly schools her expression into something neutral.

Jim, who’s been mostly uninvolved in the morning chaos, suddenly folds his newspaper with a snap and clears his throat. Jack and Luke immediately stop arguing and sit up straighter, the air shifting ever so slightly.

You narrow your eyes. "Okay, what was that?"

Quinn immediately shakes his head. "What was what?"

"The whispering. The weird glances. Why do you all look like you just got caught committing a crime?"

Jack lets out a bark of nervous laughter. "Pfft, what? No crime here."

Luke elbows him, and he winces. "We were just—uh, talking about, um—"

"The weather," Jim supplies, nodding sagely.

"The weather?" you repeat flatly.

"Yup," Quinn says, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl and peeling it aggressively like that’ll somehow sell the lie.

You cross your arms, skeptical. "And what, exactly, about the weather required a top-secret family meeting?"

Ellen waves a hand dismissively. "Oh, just—just how lovely it's supposed to be this weekend! Perfect for, um, outdoor activities."

Jack nods. "Yeah, so perfect. Like, suspiciously perfect."

Luke elbows him again.

You squint at them, taking a slow sip of your coffee, watching as they all sit a little too still, looking a little too casual.

Something is definitely going on.

But before you can press further, Quinn suddenly steps forward, wraps an arm around your waist, and presses a kiss to your temple.

"Hey, didn’t you want to go into town today?" His voice is soft, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against your hip.

You blink up at him. "I mean, yeah, but—"

"Perfect," he says quickly. "You should go. Take your time. Enjoy yourself."

Jack and Luke nod in unison. "Yes. Enjoy. Take hours if you need."

Your eyes dart between them. They are terrible liars. But you sigh, deciding to let it go—for now.

"Fine," you say slowly, grabbing your bag. "But if I find out you guys are hiding something from me—"

"You won’t!" they all chorus at once.

You stare for another long beat before shaking your head and heading for the door.

As soon as it closes behind you, Quinn lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair.

Luke whistles. "That was way too close."

Jim chuckles. "You boys need to step up your game. She's sharp."

Quinn groans, rubbing his face. "I know. And we still have two more days of this."

Jack claps a hand on his shoulder. "Good luck, bud. You're gonna need it.

Two Days Before 

The lake stretches out before you, calm and glassy under the moonlight. It’s late—too late to still be outside, but the warmth of summer lingers in the air, and neither of you wants to go in just yet.

You sit beside Quinn on the dock, your legs dangling over the edge, bare feet skimming the cool water. The night is quiet, save for the occasional chirp of crickets and the distant rustling of trees.

Quinn hasn’t said much in the last few minutes.

He sits close—so close that your shoulders press together, his warmth seeping into you. His hand is resting between you, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but is too lost in thought to do it.

You nudge him gently. "Penny for your thoughts?"

He exhales, a soft, slow sound. "Just thinking."

You tilt your head, watching him. His profile is illuminated by the glow of the moon, sharp angles softened by the night. His jaw flexes, and his fingers tighten slightly against the dock.

"About what?"

He hesitates, then turns to you. "The future."

Your chest tightens, a warmth blooming there. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His voice is quiet, thoughtful. "I was just thinking about... where we'll be, years from now." He swallows, his throat bobbing. "What it'll look like."

You smile, leaning into him. "And? What does it look like?"

He glances down at his hands. "Us," he says simply. "Still together. Maybe a house. Maybe a dog." His lips twitch. "You always talk about wanting a golden retriever."

Your heart stutters.

"You actually listen when I say that?"

His brow furrows. "Of course I do."

There’s something so earnest about the way he says it—so completely sure.

You take his hand in yours, threading your fingers together. "I like that version of the future," you say softly.

Quinn looks at you then, his eyes dark and unreadable, something heavy sitting behind them. For a second, you think he’s about to say something—something big.

But instead, he squeezes your hand.

"Me too."

He presses a lingering kiss to your knuckles, then rests his forehead against yours.

You close your eyes, breathing him in, feeling the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart.

Neither of you says anything else.

But Quinn’s already made up his mind.

Tomorrow, he finds the perfect spot.

And in two days, he asks you to be his forever.

One Day Before 

The lake stretches endlessly before you, a shimmering expanse of deep blue beneath the warmth of the afternoon sun. A gentle breeze tugs at your hair, and the rhythmic rocking of the boat lulls you into a peaceful state. The water is calm, only disturbed by the occasional ripple from a passing jet ski or the soft lapping against the side of the boat.

You inhale deeply, letting the fresh air fill your lungs as you lean back against the cushioned seat. The warmth of the sun kisses your skin, and for the first time in a long while, you feel like time has slowed down.

Jim sits at the helm, hands steady on the wheel as he navigates through the open water. His expression is relaxed, a rare sight considering the chaos that usually follows whenever all three of his boys are together.

Ellen sits beside you, sunglasses perched on her nose, a soft smile on her lips as she watches the water shimmer.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” she muses, her voice light with contentment.

You nod, shifting slightly to soak in more of the sun. “Yeah, it really is.”

It’s not often that you get moments like this—just the three of you. Usually, Jack and Luke are wreaking havoc, Quinn is rolling his eyes fondly at their antics, and everything is a blur of chirps and laughter. But today is quiet. Peaceful.

You glance around the boat, taking in the emptiness where Quinn should be.

Your chest tightens slightly.

This morning, when you asked him if he was coming, he had been vague—mumbling something about needing to run an errand and promising he’d see you later. You hadn’t pushed, but now, with the afternoon stretching on without him, you can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Ellen asks gently, tilting her head toward you.

You blink, realizing you had been staring at the empty seat beside you. Forcing a smile, you nod. “Yeah, just thinking.”

Ellen hums knowingly. “Quinn will be back soon, don’t worry. He’s probably just making sure whatever he’s doing is absolutely perfect.”

Jim chuckles from the driver’s seat. “Sounds about right.”

You frown slightly, narrowing your eyes. “Do you guys know something I don’t?”

Ellen and Jim exchange a quick glance, but Ellen’s smile doesn’t waver.

“Oh, honey,” she says, reaching over to pat your hand. “We always know something you don’t.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of warmth and comfort. You soak up every moment—the way the sun reflects off the water like scattered diamonds, the sound of Jim’s easy laughter, the way Ellen insists on reapplying sunscreen to your shoulders even though you swear you’re fine.

And for a little while, you let yourself forget the strange feeling in your chest.

Meanwhile, deep in the woods, Quinn is on a mission.

Your absence is a weight he feels in his chest, but he knows this is worth it.

His boots crunch against the forest floor as he makes his way through the secluded clearing he stumbled upon earlier. The air smells like pine and fresh earth, the quiet only disturbed by the rustling of leaves in the wind.

It’s perfect. Tucked away from the main trails, surrounded by towering trees, with a small opening where the lake peeks through.

This is it.

Carefully, he unrolls the string of photos he printed last week, each one capturing a frozen moment in time—the two of you at your first hockey game together, laughing with noses pressed close; a blurry snapshot of you mid-laugh, taken when you weren’t looking; a quiet moment in bed, tangled in the sheets with sunlight painting your skin.

Every single one tells your story.

His hands shake slightly as he fastens them to the branches, adjusting them until they drape just right.

“Dude, this is insanely romantic,” Jack mutters behind him.

Quinn steps back, hands on his hips as he surveys the clearing. The photos sway gently in the breeze, catching the fading sunlight. Everything is almost perfect.

Except for Jack, who is standing in the middle of the setup like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“This is so weird,” Jack complains, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t know why I have to be her.”

Quinn sighs, rubbing his temples. “Because I need to make sure everything looks right, and you’re the closest to her height.”

“That’s actually so offensive,” Jack deadpans. “I don’t even know how, but it is.”

Luke snorts from behind the camera. “Just shut up and stand there, man. You’re ruining the vision.”

Jack groans dramatically but doesn’t move. “You owe me for this, dude. Big time.”

Quinn ignores him, stepping closer to adjust the positioning. He takes a deep breath, trying to picture you standing there instead of his little brother, who is doing a horrible job of being still.

“This is where I’ll kneel,” Quinn murmurs, mostly to himself. He drops down, testing the angle, the feel of the moment. His heart races, imagining the way you’ll look—eyes wide, lips parted in surprise, the way your breath will hitch right before you say yes.

Jack stares down at him, unimpressed. “I feel like I should be flattered, but mostly I feel like an idiot.”

Quinn huffs, looking up at him. “Can you at least pretend to be in love with me?”

Jack stares blankly for a second before bursting out laughing. “Dude. Dude. I cannot take this seriously.” He turns to Luke, who’s adjusting the camera settings. “Are you getting this? The absolute desperation in his eyes?”

Luke barely glances up. “You’re making it worse.”

“I’m making this worse?” Jack gestures at the setup. “Quinn is professing his undying love to me right now, and I’M the problem?”

Quinn groans, running a hand over his face. “Just shut up and look moved or something.”

Jack schools his expression into something vaguely serious and stares dramatically into the distance. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he says, voice overly soft. “We’ve been through so much together.”

Luke nearly drops the camera laughing. “Oh my god,” he wheezes.

Quinn pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hate both of you.”

Jack smirks, but he does settle down a little, standing a bit more still as Quinn makes the final adjustments.

After a few minutes of adjusting the lighting and the placement of the photos, Luke finally lifts the camera. “Alright, let’s get a test shot.”

Jack sighs dramatically but stays put. Quinn watches as Luke moves around, snapping photos from different angles. He frowns slightly, tilting the camera to check the preview.

“It looks good,” Luke says slowly, adjusting the focus. “But I think we need—Jack, stop standing like that.”

Jack scoffs. “Like what?”

“Like a dude who is about to ask another dude to prom,” Luke deadpans. “You look so uncomfortable.”

Jack throws his arms out. “Because I am uncomfortable! I am literally standing in the middle of a fake proposal, playing the role of my brother’s girlfriend.”

Quinn shakes his head. “Fine. Just—stand normal.”

Jack exhales sharply but follows instructions, his posture finally settling into something less stiff.

Luke snaps a few more photos before nodding. “Okay, that’s it. That’s the shot.”

Quinn steps back, taking in the clearing one last time. The photos, the lighting, the atmosphere—it’s all exactly how he pictured it. His heart pounds as he exhales, the reality of it hitting him all at once.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, you will be standing here.

Tomorrow, you will be the one in front of him when he kneels.

And tomorrow, you will say yes.

Jack claps him on the back, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Alright, Romeo. Can we go now? I have literally never felt more single in my life.”

Quinn rolls his eyes, but there’s a fondness behind it. “Yeah, we’re done.”

Luke stretches, shoving the camera back into his bag. “You better make this the best proposal of all time, bro. Because if we went through all of this for nothing—”

Quinn grins, confidence settling in his chest. “She’s gonna love it.”

Jack sighs dramatically. “You owe us.”

Quinn just laughs, already imagining how perfect tomorrow will be.

That night, you’re curled up in bed when Quinn finally slips into the room. The warmth of his body presses against yours as he slides beneath the covers, pulling you into his arms.

“You have fun today?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“Mmm,” you hum, half-asleep. “Missed you.”

His chest tightens.

He buries his face in your hair, arms tightening around you. “Missed you too.”

You sigh softly, relaxing into him.

Quinn stays awake long after you drift off, heart thudding with anticipation.

One more night.

Tomorrow, everything changes.

Proposal Day

The morning sun filters through the kitchen windows, casting a golden glow over the lake house. The scent of fresh coffee lingers in the air as you lean against the counter, watching the Hughes family settle into their usual breakfast chaos.

Jack is the first to steal the last piece of toast off Luke’s plate, and Luke retaliates by flicking a grape at his forehead. Quinn sighs, stirring his coffee like he’s debating whether it’s worth intervening. Ellen is at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease, while Jim nurses his coffee at the table, reading something on his phone.

Ellen turns toward you with a smile. “I was thinking,” she starts, “since everyone’s here, we should do a nice family dinner tonight.”

Luke perks up. “Ooh, like a fancy dinner? Do I have to wear a button-up?”

“Yes,” Ellen says firmly.

Jack groans dramatically. “Can I at least wear my nice hoodie?”

Jim barely looks up. “No.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you sip your coffee. “A dinner sounds nice.”

Ellen nods. “Good, because I already bought all the stuff.”

Quinn finally speaks, glancing at you. “You should wear that dress you got.”

You arch an eyebrow. “The one you definitely weren’t scheming to get me to buy?”

Jack and Luke both snicker, and Quinn glares at them before turning back to you, feigning innocence. “What? I just think you’d look really nice in it.”

Luke leans in conspiratorially. “You should do it. Mostly because if you don’t, Quinn will spend the entire dinner sulking and staring at you like a sad puppy.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Jack smirks. “Nope. That’s how we end up with emo Quinn, and nobody wants that.”

Quinn groans. “I hate all of you.”

Ellen hides a smile as she flips another pancake. “You love them,” she corrects.

Quinn sighs, shooting you a hopeful glance. “So, the dress?”

You shake your head, amused. “Fine. But if I do, Luke and Jack owe me dessert.”

Luke claps a hand over his heart. “Done.”

Jack nods. “Easiest deal of my life.”

Quinn smiles to himself, satisfied. One step closer.

Dinner starts out promising enough. The table is set, the food looks amazing, and the sunset paints the lake in warm hues. It should be perfect.

And then… things start to go sideways.

First, Luke—being Luke—tries to help bring the dishes to the table and nearly drops the salad bowl. In his panic to save it, he elbows Jack, who’s carrying a basket of rolls. The bread goes flying, one roll landing directly in Jim’s drink.

“Nice,” Jim mutters, plucking it out with a sigh.

Ellen shakes her head, clearly unimpressed but used to this kind of chaos. “Can we go one meal without something ending up on the floor?”

Jack, unfazed, shrugs. “Technically, it landed in Dad’s glass.”

You try to hold back a laugh as Quinn pulls out a chair for you, but the moment you sit, you realize something is… off. The seat wobbles, just enough to be noticeable, and before you can react, one of the legs gives way entirely.

“Shit—”

You barely manage to catch yourself before fully hitting the ground. Quinn moves fast, steadying you before you can completely fall, but the damage is done. Luke is doubled over laughing, and Jack is wheezing so hard he can’t breathe.

“I—” Jack tries, but he’s laughing too hard to finish. “I swear—we didn’t—touch—that chair—”

Quinn glares at them before looking at you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, face burning as you straighten up. “Just my pride taking a hit.”

Ellen sighs. “That chair was wobbly this morning. I told you boys to fix it.”

Jack wipes a tear from his eye. “Well, now we know it was definitely broken.”

Dinner resumes, and for a few blessed minutes, everything is normal. The conversation flows, the food is delicious, and you almost forget about the earlier chaos.

Until Luke, in all his wisdom, decides he needs more steak sauce. He reaches across the table, miscalculating just how close his elbow is to your glass of wine.

The second the glass tips, it’s over.

Red wine splashes everywhere—your dress, the table, Quinn’s sleeve.

“Oh my God,” you exclaim, pushing back from the table as the cold liquid soaks into the fabric.

Luke freezes. “Oh—oh, shit. Oh, no—”

Ellen is already up, grabbing napkins. “Luke.” Her voice is the kind of exasperated that only comes from years of dealing with sons who can’t sit still. “Seriously?”

“I didn’t mean to!” Luke looks at you with pure panic. “I—I can fix this—”

Jack leans back, shaking his head. “Man, you just ruined her dress.”

“I know!” Luke groans, looking like he genuinely feels terrible. “I’ll—uh—I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

Quinn, who’s been silent through all of this, takes one look at you and then turns to Luke with the calmest voice imaginable.

“Get up.”

Luke blinks. “What?”

“Get. Up.”

There’s a long pause before Luke, sensing the very real possibility of Quinn throwing him into the lake, slowly pushes his chair back and stands.

Quinn doesn’t hesitate—he grabs Luke’s napkin and dabs at your dress, his brows furrowed in frustration. “I told you not to sit next to her.”

Luke throws his hands up. “How is this my fault?!”

Ellen sighs again. “Alright, alright, it’s just a little wine.” She turns to you. “Honey, let’s go see if we can salvage your dress.”

You follow her inside, but despite her best efforts, the stain refuses to come out.

You sigh, looking at Ellen through the mirror. “Ellen, I think it’s unsalvageable.”

She looks up at you, guilt evident on her face. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

You shake your head with a small smile. “It’s fine, really.”

When you return downstairs, Luke looks like a kicked puppy, eyes glued to the floor. Quinn scans your dress, his jaw tightening.

“Goddammit, Luke,” Quinn mutters.

You step beside him, nudging Luke lightly with your foot. “It’s fine, really,” you say softly.

Quinn exhales, rubbing his jaw before looking at you. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

You blink at him. “Right now?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice quieter now, more certain. “Right now.”

You hesitate, then nod. “Okay.”

The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the lingering warmth of the lake. The sound of crickets hums in the background as you and Quinn walk in comfortable silence, his fingers laced through yours. The chaos of dinner fades into the background, replaced by the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath your feet.

“You okay?” you ask softly, glancing up at him.

Quinn exhales through his nose, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Just… today didn’t go exactly how I planned.”

You squeeze his hand. “You had a plan?”

His smile grows slightly. “Believe it or not, yeah. Kind of.”

You smirk. “Well, that was your first mistake.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Tell me about it.”

You keep walking, but the farther you go, the more familiar the path becomes. It’s only when the trees thin, revealing a quiet clearing, that you realize where he’s leading you. Your steps slow as you take it in.

Strung between the branches, illuminated by the soft glow of the moon and the fairy lights Quinn must have set up earlier, are dozens of photos—memories captured and preserved in time.

Your breath catches as you step forward, reaching out to gently touch one of them. It’s a picture from your first hockey game together, noses nearly pressed together as you grinned at the camera. Another of you mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with joy. One from a lazy morning in bed, sunlight spilling across your tangled limbs.

Every single one tells your story.

You turn back to Quinn, your chest tight with emotion. “You did all this?”

He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I—I wanted you to see what I see. Every time I look at you, it’s just… it’s all of this. Every moment, every memory, everything that makes us, us.”

Your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“I wanted everything to be perfect,” he continues, voice quiet but steady. “I had this whole idea in my head—this big, perfect moment. The dinner, the dress, the way tonight was supposed to go.” He shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “And then Luke knocked wine all over you, and Jack wouldn’t stop chirping, and everything kind of fell apart.”

You smile, tilting your head. “Sounds about right.”

Quinn looks at you, his blue eyes searching yours. “Yeah. But then I realized… this is perfect.” He lets out a small, breathy laugh, almost like he’s realizing it in real time. “The chaos, the interruptions, the fact that nothing ever goes exactly how we plan it. That’s us. That’s our life.”

Your breath catches slightly.

He takes a deep breath, then lets go of one of your hands, reaching into his pocket. And suddenly, he’s kneeling before you, a small velvet box in his palm, slightly illuminated by the moonlight.

“I don’t need the perfect moment,” he says, looking up at you. “I just need you.”

Your heart pounds, your vision blurring as you try to take in everything at once—the way he’s looking at you, the way his fingers tremble just slightly around the box, the way the entire world feels like it’s tilting on its axis.

“Marry me?” he asks, voice soft but sure.

You let out a shaky breath, a laugh breaking through the tears already forming in your eyes. “Quinn, of course I’ll marry you.”

A breath of relief escapes him before he grins—grins in that rare, open way he only does when he’s truly happy. He stands quickly, slipping the ring onto your finger before wrapping his arms around you, holding you close.

You bury your face in his shoulder, laughing through your tears. “God, I love you.”

His grip tightens around you, his voice warm against your ear. “Love you more.”

By the time you and Quinn make it back, hand in hand, the Hughes family is waiting—Jack and Luke perched on the couch, Jim leaning against the counter, and Ellen practically bouncing in place.

Jack spots the ring first. “Oh my god—”

Ellen claps her hands together, her eyes shining. “You said yes?”

You hold up your hand, and the room erupts.

Jack groans dramatically, flopping back onto the couch. “I can’t believe this. Quinn won at life.”

Jim claps Quinn on the shoulder with a proud nod, and Ellen pulls you into a tight hug, murmuring how happy she is for you both.

Luke hangs back, hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes darting toward you before dropping to the floor. His face is tight, like he’s been debating something in his head.

You don’t give him the chance to overthink it. Without a word, you step toward him and wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug.

Luke stiffens in surprise before slowly relaxing, exhaling a breath. “I—I really didn’t mean to ruin your dress,” he mumbles, voice small.

You smile against his shoulder. “I know, Luke. It’s just a dress.”

He hesitates before hugging you back, his grip a little tight, like he’s still worried about the whole thing. “I felt really bad.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Well, you can make it up to me by giving a really good speech at the wedding.”

His eyes widen. “Wait—I can do a speech?”

Quinn sighs, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “I never said that.”

Luke smirks. “You didn’t have to.”

Jack groans. “Oh god, this is gonna be unbearable.”

Quinn shakes his head, pulling you back to his side. “I should’ve proposed in private,” he mutters under his breath.

You laugh, squeezing his hand. “Nah. This is perfect.”

And as the Hughes family falls into their usual rhythm of chirps and laughter, as Quinn’s hand tightens around yours, you know that nothing—no chaos, no spilled wine, no wobbly chairs—could have made this moment any better.

beachy’s notes: hello babes please please, please send me fic requests