#just kind of sweet and simple and slice of life

[yourislandgirl]

* ༘𐙚 THE RULE OF FLOWERS ✿˖˚ || 박성훈 x fem!reader || fic

summary: sunghoon thinks he’s about to get an early grave, or finally achieve his inner rebel’s dream of having a brush with the law, all thanks to your darling daughter and ... her “husband”??

genres: tired girl dad!sunghoon x mum!reader, fluff, crack, slice of life, parents!au,

warnings: attempts at humour, pet names, a little skinship (kissing), not much swearing for a change but sunghoon does say the word ass like once (the child is not present dw), silly dad!sunghoon, protective dad!sunghoon, kids taking everything literally, ref. to classic kids media (finding nemo, curious george), the kid doesn't have a name bcs ... deciding names is hard

w.c: 5.5k

[archive]

Sunghoon’s plan for the night was simple. After making your daughter’s lunch for preschool tomorrow, he’d wash the dishes, brew up two nice, warm mugs of tea for himself and his lovely wife, and then kiss his daughter goodnight before binging some ridiculous drama, until you pulled him into the bedroom to go to sleep.

It was the perfect plan to wind down. It was relaxing enough. And he was looking forward to it as he dried his hands of dishwater after placing your daughter’s colourful dinner plate in the drying rack.

But nothing could have prepared him for the scene that would enter the kitchen and adjoined living room.

“Stop running, you little monkey!”

Shrieks of laughter echoed off your quaint apartment walls. Sunghoon had barely sat down before jolting at the sight of his four year old girl, bright eyed with a mischievous grin on her face, running towards him at full speed. You were hot on her heels.

Her fluffy panda bathrobe was wrapped tightly around her, the hood falling back to reveal dark, slightly damp hair.

Sunghoon opened his arms wide and braced, ready to catch the cannonball he had for a kid. “Woah! Hold it,” reaching forward, Sunghoon scooped her up, laughing at the way she shuffled to escape his grasp but ultimately gave up, curling into him. “Now, where do you think you’re going?”

You slowed down, your own hair and hands a little damp from playing the family favourite Finding Nemo game in the bath with your little girl.

The same little girl who was grinning widely at you, safe in the arms of her father. “Mama’s chasing me.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of you. “I can see that.”

“Because it’s bed time,” you pursed your lips to keep yourself from smiling. “And your Little Miss Monkey book isn’t gonna read itself.”

Your daughter frowned. “Why not?” She asked with genuine seriousness.

“Because it’s not that kind of book, sweets.”

You watched the way you daughter gave her father a glance. “Why not?” She asked again.

Shrugging, Sunghoon tucked some of her hair behind her ear. “I guess there aren’t any self reading books at the store.”

You took a few steps froward, a hand out for your child to hold onto. “We can look for one in another book shop sometime, okay? But right now, it’s time for bed.”

“No,” she shook her head. “Appa needs to come too.” She then proceeded to bury her face into Sunghoon’s chest.

All Sunghoon could do was smile at you. His uncontrollable grin had your heart leaping at the sight. Fatherhood had him melting at your daughter’s every request.

He would go to the convenience store during the middle of work just because he thought about his little girl and wanted to buy her favourite pocky. He would mute work calls just to take a few minutes to watch her twirl in the new fairy dress that your mother had bought her. He’d have an almost Superman-adjacent sense of hearing when it came to her small whimpers in the middle of the night, calling out for the two of you amidst a nightmare.

He was playing Superman again, holding your daughter as if she was flying, her bathrobe’s hood as her hero’s cape, doing a full loop of the world (your living room) before heading to her bedroom. As the three of you walked past the kitchen, Sunghoon felt a small hand tug on the material of his shirt’s collar.

Twisting around in her father’s hands, your little girl had her eyes glued on the kitchen island. More specifically the bouquet arrangement that Sunghoon had brought home yesterday. They were placed at the centre, in a lovely glass vase, reflecting little sparkles onto the countertop from the lights.

“Wait, wait.” Your daughter pointed at the flowers. “I want to do flower face time.”

You breathed out a little laugh, the endearing nickname for the act of smelling flowers had stuck with your daughter through the years. She’d watched you bury your nose into the fragrant petals every time Sunghoon handed them to you.

Sunghoon was just as aware of the nickname. Didn’t stop him from pouting in a comically confused manner, though. “You want to video call the flowers?”

Giggles started to bubble out of the kid that was beaming in his arms. “No!”

“Hello? Flowers?” Sunghoon waved a hand at the bouquet, fighting back a grin. “Can you see me?”

You leaned against the kitchen island, laughing behind your hand at the sight before you.

“Appa!”

“What?” Sunghoon’s dimple peeked through as his smile widened. “I thought we were face timing the flowers.”

“I want to smell the flowers.” The sheer power of your daughters eyeroll had you shaking your head in amusement. An all too familiar reaction to Sunghoon’s teasing.

You’d been on the receiving end of his teasing many times. Fighting back smiles as you tried to remain annoyed, and yet were incapable of staying in a dull mood when it came to the man before you.

The same man who was stroking his chin in a dramatic act of realisation. “Ah, right. Of course.” He manoeuvred your daughter so she could lean closer to the bouquet. “Here.”

Smiling, she took a deep inhale and nodded very officially. “Mm, they’re lovely.”

“Just like you?” You asked, poking her cheek lightly.

“Yep.” Her smile widened and just like that, a tiny dimple blossomed, right where your finger was, just moments ago. A perfect mirror to Sunghoon. As he held her closer, their faces smushed together, side by side, all you could see was a mini version of him.

Unbeknownst to you, all Sunghoon saw when he looked at your daughter, was you. Your warmth, your laugh, the way you see brightness in mundanity and appreciate any gesture of kindness or love, no matter how small.

Like the flowers. For as long as you could remember, Sunghoon had been gifting you flowers.

There was never a standard type or a pattern that he followed, he always said that he just entered whatever flower shop was nearby and picked up the prettiest bouquet he saw.

Sometimes it was for a special occasion, sometimes it was just because, and you quickly came to realise that your kitchen island was never bare — there was always a lovely arrangement in the vase. And the minute the old, wilted stems had to be tossed, Sunghoon arrived home that afternoon with a new bouquet in hand.

Every time, he would hand them to you with a smile, one hand behind his back. Like a prince.

You’d hold them closer and breathe in the scent before sighing, and you’d say, “Thank you. They’re lovely.”

And every time, Sunghoon would lean forward, kiss your cheek and whisper in your ear, “Just like you.”

“Appa likes flowers.” Your daughter mused to herself as Sunghoon carried her towards her bedroom. You were following behind them, smiling up at your girl.

“Mama likes flowers.” Sunghoon made a point to turn and look at you as he spoke. “Appa likes making Mama happy.”

Humming as a response, your daughter giggled to herself quietly. “My husband likes making me happy too.”

It wasn’t normal to see person freeze mid-step like in a cartoon. But that was exactly what Sunghoon did. In an instant you felt your eyebrows crease together, utter confusion flooding your face. But for Sunghoon? His shoulders tensed, he turned and looked at you with an expression of pure panic and what could only be described as befuddlement.

You cleared your throat. “I- What?”

“Excuse me?” Sunghoon moved his hold on your child, propping her up between the two of you so that you both could see her face.

Ironically, her own face held confusion. She patted Sunghoon’s arm. “You didn’t burp, Appa,” she said, reassuringly.

It was anything but reassuring to Sunghoon. “No, no, what husband?”

“Baby, what are you talking about?” You reached forward, your thumb gently stroking her soft cheek.

“My husband.” She said it so matter-of-factly. Like the very sentence didn’t just drop a bombshell into the middle of your conversation. Instead, she simply blinked at the two of you, “He gives me flowers. Just like you and Appa.”

Sunghoon leaned a little closer to you. “I think I just forgot how to breathe,” he whispered.

“You did not forget how to breathe”

“How do you know, Y/n? I’m imploding.”

Your daughter leaned closer too. “Who’s mimloading?”

“Who‘s your husband?” Sunghoon countered.

“Taesan!” You watched the way Sunghoon mouthed the name, as if committing it to memory. On the other hand, your little girl was still all smiles and excitement. “His flowers are in my backpack. I’ll show you!”

She started to wriggle out of Sunghoon’s hands, excitedly skipping towards her room once he placed her down. All you could do was watch her as she walked past the doorframe before you turned to each other.

“She has a husband?” Sunghoon tried his best to keep his voice low, a hushed yell that could only be heard by you.

Sighing, you rubbed your temples with your hands. “She does not have a husband.”

Sunghoon scoffed. “She said it with way too much confidence.”

“She says everything with way too much confidence. She’s four.”

“What are we gonna do?”

As he started to pace up and down the hallway, you slid in front of him to get his attention. “First step is to take a deep breath and calm down.”

He frowned. “I’m perfectly calm.”

“Two seconds ago you said you forgot how to breathe.”

“Well, five seconds ago our daughter was just our daughter, but now apparently she’s someone’s wife!” He gestured wildly in the direction of her room. And as much as you didn’t want to admit it, he had a point.

“Things are escalating here, Y/n,” he went on. “We need to keep up.”

“Okay, I get what you’re saying, but—”

Straightening up a little, Sunghoon gave a nod of pure determination. “I need to see the evidence.”

You shut your eyes tiredly. “Evidence? Really- Sunghoon!” You hadn’t even finished the thought before you opened your eyes to see him already walking towards your daughter’s room. So you hurried after him.

“What took so long?” She was sitting near her preschool backpack, one hand grasping a few green stems, some with small purple flowers.

Sunghoon crouched beside her “Sorry honey.”

“What did you wanna show us?” You asked.

She pushed her hand forward, showing off the small garden flowers. “Look!”

“Wow!” You gave her hair a small ruffle while waiting for Sunghoon to react.

“They’re…” He glanced at you hesitantly, but it took only one warning look from you for him to get his act together. “Pretty. They’re really pretty.”

Standing up, your daughter pointed at an empty green stem. “This one was a dandylier.”

“Dandelion.” You corrected her gently.

“Yeah, dandelion. And this one’s a- …I don’t know. But it smells lovely.”

Sunghoon nodded. “And, um, Taesan gave these to you?”

Placing a hand on his shoulder, you watched Sunghoon fight every urge to switch from the usual soft expressions he gives his little girl, for a more stoic one. One that would actually fit his mood at that moment.

Your daughter nodded. “Yep. So he’s my husband, right?”

Sunghoon lost his balance and ended up sitting down, turning a little to meet your eyes. “I’m imploding again,” he muttered.

His wide eyed stare, basically begging you to figure out what to do, it was a little adorable. You sat down next to him, cross legged, and reached to pull your daughter closer. “Not everybody who gives you flowers is your husband, kiddo.” You placed her on your lap.

“Oh. Why not?” The genuine confusion in her voice was palpable as she leaned against your collarbone. “I thought that was the rule. “

For the first time since the corridor outside the bedroom, Sunghoon finally cracked a small smile. It was a look of amusement and endearment, wrapped together, as he gently took her small fingers into his larger ones. “I don’t get Mama flowers because there’s a rule,” he explained. “I get her flowers because I want to see her smile.”

Your daughter sat up a little. “If that’s it, then why are you her husband?”

“Oh my god.” You hid your smile behind your hand, stifling back laughter and failing to do it successfully.

“Mama smiles at a lot of people.”

Your eyes creased shut as you looked away, still finding the complete seriousness of your daughter’s tone to be hilarious.

Sunghoon just blinked a few times. The learning curve of parenthood had struck again and in the last few years, as your child picked up words and sentences and opinions properly, you each had been subjected to a lot of harsh truths told in a devastatingly cute voice.

“How do I answer that?” Sunghoon asked you.

You tapped your daughter’s nose, causing her to turn to you. “He’s my husband because we love each other and want to keep loving each other forever.”

“Oh.”

“Appa getting me flowers is like, an added bonus, you get me?”

She started nodding slowly. “I guess. But Appa said he likes making you smile, and Taesan likes making me smile too, I think.”

Sunghoon muttered something incomprehensible under his breath before standing up. “Who is this kid?”

“Sunghoon.” Once again, your eyes shut, a little tired of Sunghoon being so typically Sunghoon.

When you turned to look at him he was at the other end of the room, near a small bookcase. It had numerous bedtime stories, picture books, interactive music books, photo albums. Sunghoon was crouched in front of it, his fingers running across each spine as he tried to look for something.

“You kept her preschool class photos in this room, right?” He asked over his shoulder.

You scoffed in disbelief. Amused and yet equally concerned. “You are not seriously scoping him out right now.”

“I’m just getting an idea of what I’m up against.”

You wanted to laugh. “There is no up against, Sunghoon!”

“I’m just curious, babe.”

“Just like George!” Your daughter smiled over your shoulder.

Sunghoon smirked. “Exactly. I’m just like George.” He gestured to your child with his eyebrows. “She gets me,” he said to you.

“Yeah, I get you, Appa.”

Shaking your head, you held your kid closer and shuffled to her dresser. “Okay, why don’t you and I focus on bedtime.”

She hummed. “Okay.”

Sunghoon seemingly gave up his search and came to join you as you both worked in tandem to get your daughter ready for bed. Sunghoon helped her tiny hands through the sleeve holes of her pyjamas, while you gently brushed her hair. The whole routine feeling like a ritual as she relaxed against you.

You figured it was a perfect moment to talk to your daughter. “I’m sure Taesan likes seeing you smile, love. You have an incredible smile.”

Sunghoon stilled ever so slightly but let you continue, focused on hanging her small panda bathrobe on one of the tiny chairs in the room.

You carefully applied a little night time moisturiser to her cheeks as you spoke. “But you need to understand something; just because someone is nice to you, and gives you flowers, and likes your smile, doesn’t make them your husband. There’s a lot more to it than that. That’s the reason why all the husbands you’ve met are adults. Remember?“

“Oh. Yeah,” she drawled out in realisation. “So Taesan can only be my husband when he’s an adult?”

“Exactly.”

Sunghoon frowned, pouting a little. “Don’t encourage that!” He whisper-yelled at you.

“Oh, what? You think we’re gonna revisit this exact situation in twenty years?”

“We might?”

“And if that happens, I’ll owe you one. How about that?”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“I have no doubt.” You rolled your eyes.

You felt a small tug at your shirt. “Mama?”

“Yeah?”

Your little girl looked deep in thought. “Taesan can still be my friend, right?”

“Of course he can. If you want him to be.”

“Yeah!” She said, excitedly. “He let me win at hopscotch yesterday and his mama makes really yummy cheesecake.”

“She’s in it for the cheesecake?” Sunghoon muttered dryly as he came to sit back down next to the two of you.

Smirking at him, you shrugged. “I can’t even blame her. It’s cheesecake.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t need Taesan for that.” He pouted again. “I’ll make her cheesecake.”

That immediately caught your daughter’s attention. She clambered over your legs to get into Sunghoon’s lap. “Right now?” Her eyes and smile were the hook, line and sinker.

“Sure—”

“No!” Your hand shot out and clasped over Sunghoon’s mouth. “Not right now.” You looked between both of them, pursing your lips to prevent a smile at the sight of their pleading eyes. “Later, okay? Soon,” you said, softly.

Sunghoon chuckled as your daughter practically deflated against him. “Fine. I wish it was now.”

You giggled. “I’m sure you do, baby.”

Carefully getting off her dad’s lap, she made her way back to her backpack.

“Where’re you going?”

At Sunghoon’s question, she held up the empty stem of the dandelion. “Is my dandyliar finished?”

“Well, it looks you already blew out your wish so, yeah.” You took the empty stem in your hands and placed it on her small drawing table. “But it’s ok. We can look for another one tomorrow morning.”

“Aw.” She deflated all over again. “I wanted to wish for Appa to make a cheesecake.”

“I’ll make you one.” Sunghoon groaned a little as he stood up before he took a few steps to cross the distance between them. It always made you smile at how your daughters many little steps to get from one point to another would take you and Sunghoon only one or two to bridge the gap.

Even just the sight of him standing beside her had your cheeks stinging with that good kind of pain where you feel yourself smiling longer and longer with each second, unable to suppress the warmth erupting from inside of you.

Sunghoon ruffled his fingers through your daughter’s hair. “I promise, I’ll make you one.”

“Pinkie!” She held up the single finger expectantly.

And Sunghoon responded readily. “Pinkie.” Sealing the promise with her thumb meeting his. “Perfect. Now,” he snapped his finger, pointing across the room. “Get in bed.”

“Carry me.”

You scoffed at the utter dramatics. Her hands thrown up, eyes closed as if defeated by a tiring day of colouring and hopscotch.

But Sunghoon didn’t complain. He never complained. If anything, he was hoping she would ask. “Of course,” his voice was soft, you could barely hear it.

“You know, you can climb into bed on your own, little miss.” You tried to chastise her. Your heart wasn’t really in it, but, it felt like something you were supposed to do.

She wasn’t having it though. “I don’t want to,” she said over Sunghoon’s shoulder.

“She doesn’t want to,” Sunghoon repeated, giving you a smug smile.

“Fair enough.” Joining Sunghoon at her bed, you sighed while crouching down to level with her. “Seems like you’ve had a nice long day.”

Nodding, your daughter laid back and shuffled into her pillows. “Did you have a nice long day, Mama?”

You thought for a moment. “Hm, sorta.”

Pouting, she looked at her dad. “Appa.”

“Yes, princess,” Sunghoon mused while he brought the soft covers up to her chin.

“Carry Mama to bed.”

Sunghoon grinned at the authoritative tone of a four year old, but couldn’t pass up on such an easy task. “It would be my pleasure.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from looking at him. At the way his eyes still held the same love and affection and desire that he had years ago. That it hadn’t changed with time but rather aged with care.

Sunghoon’s hand snuck across the carpeted floor to rest on top of yours.

You could see the way he was ever so slowly leaning closer, out of pure habit if nothing else, but you needed to put your little girl to sleep.

“Before that, it’s time for Little Miss Monkey.” You gestured with your eyebrows to the bookshelf behind Sunghoon and giggled at the way he snapped back to the present before turning to get your daughter's favourite bedtime story

“Yes! Wait, I need Puddles.” She searched among her many stuffed animals to pick out the soft yellow duck. Her best friend, according to her. She held it close, getting back under the covers.

Sunghoon cleared his throat, opening the storybook. “Is Puddles ready?”

“Yep!”

And so began the nightly routine of Little Miss Monkey and her quest for the the perfect jungle party present. An odd story that seemed to stick with your daughter, whether it was the various different animals or the various different voices that Sunghoon insisted on using when reading for each animal, you knew the day was never really complete without Little Miss Monkey successfully reaching her jungle party.

As Sunghoon closed the book and placed it back on the shelf you leaned forward and gave your daughter a kiss on the forehead. “Get some sleep,” you whispered.

“But Puddles said she wants to stay awake.” Her stubbornness was still fighting with her exhaustion.

You had to admit, it was pretty cute. “Puddles said that, did she?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Uh huh.”

Sunghoon placed a hand on the small of your back, you could hear the quiet huff of amusement he let out.

But you weren’t one to give up that easily. “Well I’m sorry, sweets, but you and Puddles are gonna feel tired in the morning if you don’t sleep now.”

“Puddles won’t feel tired. She only feels tired if I tell her to.” Apparently your daughter got her stubbornness from you.

Sunghoon gave you a smirk, a sort of challenging grin as he watched the scene unfold before him.

“Oh, that’s right.” You nodded. “So she wants to stay awake right now because you told her to?”

“…No?”

Sunghoon bent down to whisper to her. “Mama’s gonna win this, princess.”

“I know,” she whispered back.

“Besides, you‘ll want enough energy to win at hopscotch tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Sunghoon nodded. “Exactly.”

“So,” You leaned down next to him, your fingers trailing down your little girl’s forehead, following the bridge of her nose. “Close your eyes.”

“That tickles,” she giggled.

Sunghoon gave her hand a gentle kiss. “Keep them closed.”

“No peeking?”

“Nope.” Taking your hand into his, Sunghoon started to slowly pull you towards the door.

As you tip toed towards the door, you heard her gentle sigh. “Okay. Goodnight.”

You smiled, looking back to see her eyes still shut. Puddles held tightly as she curled on her side.

“Goodnight, baby,” you called out.

Sunghoon carefully opened the door to not be too loud. “We love you.”

You both waited for her reply. She always replied back.

“Mm, love you.” Soft and wispy, sleep was slowly catching up to her and you could hear it from her voice. So you did your best to shut the door extra slowly, waiting for the subtle click before quietly walking off.

You leaned your head on Sunghoon’s shoulder as you entered the kitchen. “Are you still imploding?”

“I’m fine. Cool as a cucumber.” He was doing his best to ignore the look of amused disbelief that you were giving him.

“Ya know, someone who’s actually cool as a cucumber wouldn’t use that kind of phrase.”

“Look, I just…” You chuckled at the arbitrary hand flails he was doing, incapable of articulating his feelings exactly.

“You freaked out?”

Sunghoon squinted at you a little. “I think my freak out was perfectly sound, given the circumstances.”

“Perfectly sound, huh?”

His hands went up to plead innocence. “Objectively speaking.”

“You wanted the kid’s mug, Sunghoon.” You scoffed as you walked towards the cabinets, getting yourself a glass of water.

“Again, a perfectly sound request.”

You paused after taking a sip, giving Sunghoon a blank stare while you wondered whether your daughter’s stubbornness really came from you or her father. “You should rethink your definitions.”

Reaching across the kitchen island, Sunghoon took a few sips of water from your glass. “Taesan should rethink his decisions.”

“My god.” You muttered under your breath as Sunghoon straightened up, already preparing to explain his point.

“No, no, babe, it starts with flowers and cheesecake and then the next thing you know, it’s February 14th and he’s gotten her a be-my-valentine chocolate box.”

“You’ve got be kidding me.”

“She loves chocolate, Y/n, she won’t be able to resist. That kid is scheming.” He pointed his thumb at the direction of your front door, as if poor little Taesan was waiting out there.

You laughed quietly to yourself. “My love, he’s a four year old child. He does not have that kind of speed.”

“Did you just black out and forget the way our own daughter was bolting around this house? Kids have speed, Y/n”

“That’s not- You know what I meant.”

Sunghoon slouched down on one of the counter chairs. “I’m coping with humour right now, okay? It’s either this or I eat a tub of ice cream.”

“You’re kinda cute when you’re like this,” you smirked.

“I’m glad my spiralling is entertaining to you.”

“Oh, very. But I hope this isn’t gonna be your attitude if she actually does get married in the future.”

“By that point in time, I’ll be alright with it.” He spoke with a lot of unearned confidence which had you raising an eyebrow. “I’ll try to be.” Your expression was unmoving. “It’s the thought that counts, okay?”

You shook your head, unable to hold off the smile as you got started on putting the dry dishes away. Sunghoon instinctively came to help, still trying to find a way to explain exactly what he was feeling.

“Look,” he started. “I just don’t think that she should be calling every flower-gifting-guy her husband.”

“Well, no. But we did our part in telling her as much.” You handed him the ceramic dishes that had to go on the higher shelves. “I think you can relax a little bit now, right?”

“I’ll relax after she deems my cheesecake better than Taesan’s mum’s.”

You smirked. “So we’re beefing with his mum now too?”

“It’s her kid.”

“Right,” You put the dish in your hands back on the rack. turning Sunghoon by his elbow to get him to face you. “Her sweet kid, who gave our daughter flowers because his mum probably taught him to treat girls nicely. And let them win every now and then. And share yummy food with them.”

He frowned. “Ok, so, I see your point. But—”

“Didn’t your mum teach you the same?” You crossed your arms, walking back to lean against the counter, a little smile on your face. “I specifically remember a scrawny teenager holding a lovely bouquet of lilies.”

“I- Scrawny?”

“You’re gonna look me in my face and tell me you weren’t scrawny at nineteen?”

“I was,” Sunghoon smirked, walking closer to you. “But I was hoping you remembered more about our first date than just lilies and my scrawny ass.”

You tried to bite your lower lip to keep from smiling wider. “I remember every moment of it, Sunghoon.”

“Good.” He leaned down slowly, his breath was warm against your lips right before he kissed you. Firm hands held your waist, lifting you on top of the counter as he pulled you against him. But then he froze and leaned back. “Mm mm,” he shook his head, “Back to point.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead against his chest, tired of the topic already.

Sunghoon was determined though. “That was a date, Y/n. Getting your date flowers isn’t life changing, okay? It’s law- Oh my god.”

“What?” You raised your head.

“I think she might be right about the rule of flowers…”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his low murmurs of realisation. “Aw, Sunghoon.” You reached up and cupped his face, brushing his hair back as he returned your smile.

“I just got scared there for a minute,” he whispered. “That’s all.”

“I got scared too. It’s normal.”

“Yeah, but you handled it like a pro, unlike me.”

You stroked his cheek. “Again, very normal for us.”

He frowned, trying to remain serious despite your playful smile, the teasing glint in your eyes. His resolve only lasted about three seconds before he sighed.

“Yeah.” Nodding, Sunghoon admitted defeat, pulling you closer once more as he wrapped his arms around you, his head slotting itself into the crook of your neck.

He felt the way you seemed to decompress in his arms, your own hands stroking his hair, lighting scratching his back. It was unreal how relaxing it was to hold and be held by you.

“You tired?” He murmured against your neck.

You hummed. “A little.”

“Alright then.” Stepping back, Sunghoon slid one arm under your knees and other around holding your waist as he lifted you.

“Woah, what—” Your hands clasped around his neck, confused, as he gave you a light kiss on the cheek.

“I believe I promised our daughter that I would carry you to bed.”

Your gentle laughter became a little muffled as you curled your face into his chest, listening to the steady beat of your husband’s heart while he carried you to the bedroom.

“Alright.” Carefully laying you onto the mattress, he propped up the pillows for you to lean against. “You get comfy. I need to head out for a moment, but I’ll be quick.”

You frowned. “Where to?”

“Convenience store.” He headed into the closet, as he spoke. “She wants a cheesecake so I need to get a few more ingredients. And I’d ask you to come with, but, someone’s gotta be here.”

“Sunghoon,” you sighed. “She doesn’t need it first thing in the morning.”

“Speak for yourself.” Sunghoon gave you a deadpanned expression as he walked back out, pulling on a coat and some gloves. “If I was her, I’d want it first thing in the morning.”

There was no point trying to convince him otherwise, so you simply did as he asked and got comfy. “You should get blueberries.”

“Already on the list.” He gave you a wink as you leaned across to your bedside table for the novel you were currently reading. “Can never have enough blueberries in this house,” he muttered.

“She gets it from you.”

Sunghoon just shrugged, walking closer. “They’re the perfect snack. Well, besides you.” He bent down to give you one last kiss, letting it linger a little longer than you’d have expected. The book had almost slipped out of your hands before he stepped back, smirking, like he knew exactly what he just did.

“Be quick.” You looked down at the page, not really reading anything but just not wanting to give him any satisfaction.

“Or you’ll miss me?”

“More like you‘ll miss me.”

“Right, cause that’s exactly what’s gonna happen.” He waved before walking out the room and soon, you heard the faint sound of the front door shutting.

You settled into the bed, bringing the covers up to your waist, and you’d just started to get into the novel when you heard the gentle buzz of your phone beside you. You breathed a little sigh, already expecting it.

You didn’t even bother checking who it was when you picked up. “Did you forget something?” You asked.

“Nope,” Sunghoon responded and you could almost hear the smile in his voice. “I just missed you.”

a.n: this feels diff to my other fics bcs it’s so dialogue heavy but . i didn’t know how else to write the idea that i had. i feel like a family’s dynamic is seen really well through both verbal and non verbal communication but for a fic where the kid is so young, verbal communication just sorta made the most sense? hopefully people like this as much as descriptive/prose-y fics 🤞🏽

perm taglist: @oceanstide — @sheepsgf — @itsrinsdrs — @enjakey — @kissmete — @jaylaxies — @tobiosbbyghorl — @hoondrop — @chaeneu

2025 © yourislandgirl

[oceandolores]

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

Chapter I

masterlist!

next | chapter II

The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.

Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.

You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.

You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.

The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.

You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.

Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.

“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.

You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.

She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.

The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.

Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.

Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.

The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.

The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.

You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.

Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.

Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.

“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.

“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.

As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.

“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.

Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.

“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.

You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.

She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.

As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”

You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”

“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”

You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.

“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”

Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.

You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.

You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.

“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.

The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.

You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.

Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.

Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.

Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.

You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.

There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.

Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.

When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.

“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.

She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.

To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.

Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.

“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”

You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.

But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”

Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.

“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”

You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.

The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.

Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.

Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.

Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.

Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”

You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.

“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.

“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.

The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.

The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.

You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.

But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.

Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.

Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.

If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.

Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.

The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.

Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.

The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.

And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.

“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.

Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.

“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”

Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.

Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.

The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.

The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.

Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.

You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.

Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.

“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.

Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”

“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.

"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.

But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.

***

The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.

The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.

Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.

You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.

This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.

The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.

The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.

Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.

The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.

To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.

You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.

It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.

You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.

Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.

Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.

Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.

Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.

These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.

You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.

You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.

This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.

The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.

You know who he is. How could you not?

General Marcus Acacius.

Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.

You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.

But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.

Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.

The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.

His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.

Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.

And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.

It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.

His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.

His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.

But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.

They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.

Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.

He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.

His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.

Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.

“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.

It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.

You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"

His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.

Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”

You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.

“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.

His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.

Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”

Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.

“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”

The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.

You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.

Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.

He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.

“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”

The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.

It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.

“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.

“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.

But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.

You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.

“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.

“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.

“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”

Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.

The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”

But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.

“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”

Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.

The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.

“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”

“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.

“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."

You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.

The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.

You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.

There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.

The man behind the titles and statues.

You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.

And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.

Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”

He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”

You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.

Princess Lucilla.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.

“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.

Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.

Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.

Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”

Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.

“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”

You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”

At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.

“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.

“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”

For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.

A man bound not just by duty but by love.

His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.

“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”

You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”

Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.

You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"

His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.

Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.

The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.

Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"

Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.

"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.

His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.

There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.

You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.

There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.

Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.

You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.

Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.

“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.

“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”

You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”

She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”

You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.

You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.

A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.

As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.

To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.

You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.

Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.

He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.

And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.

You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.

Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.

But Marcus is no abstraction.

He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.

To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.

“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.

[sweethoneyjays]

pet names they call you ᯓ★

❀ �� paring ◦ enha x reader ❀ ◦ genre ◦ fluff fluff n a lil bit of crack ❀ ◦ word count ◦ 1.9k

❀ ◦ masterlist

❀ ◦ note ◦ felt cute and sappy for this one <3 thank you @lovegreenie for beta reading AND THE RIKI INSPO (her head canons for it r freakin adorable) so freakin goated. cooking up a smau so pls look forward to it! ❀ ◦ taglist ◦ @kristynaaah @beenusflytrap @nari-roll

heeseung ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ angel or dear

You were curled up on the couch, watching your favorite show, when your stomach let out a loud, rumble. As if on cue, Heeseung peeked his head around the corner of the living room.

"Heeey, my sweet angel, are you hungry?" he asked, his voice soft and warm.

Stepping fully into view, he held a steaming, delicious-looking bowl of ramyeon.

You eyed him suspiciously.

what a sweet gesture... but you knew better.

"What do you want, hee?" you chuckled, raising an eyebrow.

"What? Can't I just cook yummy ramyeon for my angel?" heeseung grinned sweetly, though the mischievous glint in his eyes gave him away. He placed the bowl on the coffee table in front of you.

You stared him down, knowing he was about to ask for something. heeseung tried to keep up his innocent act, but it didn’t last long.

"Ah, okay, fine! I know you’re not a big fan of games, but there’s this new multiplayer game I really want to play with you. PLEASE, PLEASE!"

He dramatically dropped to his knees, clinging onto your legs as if his life depended on it.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his cuteness.

Gently cupping his cheeks, you lifted his face so he’d look into your eyes. His big, adorable doe gaze met yours, hopeful and pleading.

"Well, since you asked so nicely..." you teased, smiling at him. heeseung;s eyes lit up.

"Thank you so much, dear!" he cheered, instantly jumping up and dashing into the other room to grab the game disc.

jay ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ honey or sweetheart

"Sweetheart, I love you so much, but please don’t touch that," jay exclaims from the other side of the kitchen.

You stand in front of a mixing bowl, ingredients laid out and ready to be combined, while jay works at another counter, slicing carrots with steady precision.

You huff. "okay, okay, uhh, I can just preheat the pan..?" you say, smiling up at him.

"honey, hold on, the other ingredients aren’t ready yet" Jay chuckles, continuing to cut the vegetables.

"Then maybe I can help you chop the veggies?" you suggest, making your way over to his station.

jay shakes his head with a small smile.

"Honey, it’s okay, I’m almost done." He carefully transfers the chopped veggies into separate bowls while you sulk beside him.

"I want to help you cook. You always cook for me, so I wanna learn so I can cook for you too" you pout, looking at him with determination.

Jay glances over, his expression softening as a fond smile tugs at his lips. "That’s really sweet of you, hon" he chuckles, placing a gentle peck on your forehead. "Okay, okay, you can help me season the meat."

You instantly brighten, rushing to the refrigerator to grab the ground beef and seasonings. jay leans against the counter, watching you with amusement, taking in how adorably excited you look, how you practically light up with energy. He lets out a happy sigh, warmth filling his chest as you carefully place the ingredients onto the counter.

"Thank you, sweetheart" jay murmurs, before pressing another soft kiss to your temple.

"Okay, let’s do this!" he grins, pumping his fist in the air. "Fighting!"

The rest of the afternoon unfolds as a cute little cooking session with your best boyfriend, jay. Filled with laughter, stolen glances, and the kind of warmth that makes even a simple meal feel special.

jake ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ baby or babe

Jake had been begging you to visit a cute little pet shop with him for one of your dates, and today was finally the day.

Who would have thought your heart would explode from this much cuteness?

"Baby, look how cute she is" jake pouted hard, cradling a tiny puppy in his arms. He looked up at you with puppy eyes of his own, practically mirroring the little fluffball in his grasp.

It was like looking at long-lost siblings, both gazing up at you with the same soft, irresistible expression.

"Baby, can we keep her?" jake whined, his pout growing even more dramatic.

You sighed, chuckling as you crouched down to pet the puppy. "See, this is why I didn’t wanna come here. I knew you’d want another dog. Don’t we already have our fur baby, Layla?"

"Babe, this is exactly why we need another one!" Jake pleaded, lifting the puppy higher, her tiny paws resting against his chest. "Layla gets lonely… she can be a big sister!"

You shook your head, uncertain. "jakey, I don’t know…" you murmured, biting your lip. "Can we really handle another dog?"

Jake sighed, pressing the puppy against his face again, both of them wearing matching pleading expressions, the kind you knew you’d always fold to.

"You’re already a great dog mom, babe," Jake teased, sneaking a quick peck onto your cheek. You groaned, already feeling yourself caving.

"Okay, fine! You win this time, sim jaeyun," you chuckled, standing up to head toward the counter.

"Let’s go! Thank you so much, baby!" jake giggled, chasing after you with the tiny puppy still nestled in his arms.

He glanced down at her, beaming. "Looks like you’re getting a new home, cutie."

sunghoon ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ love or lovie

Sunghoon had decided that for your third monthsary, he was going to take you shopping, there was nothing he wanted more than to spoil the love of his life.

The two of you wandered through the mall, browsing clothes, cosmetics, and little trinkets, enjoying the easy rhythm of the day.

You were in a little clothing store, immersed in a clothing rack, examining fabric choices, while sunghoon had wandered off to the other side of the store.

That was, until-

"Lovie! Lovie! Look at this!"

His voice was bright, filled with excitement, pulling your attention toward him. You turned to find him holding up a very cute coat, his eyes shining as he grinned at you. Your own eyes glistened with interest as you walked toward him.

"Do you think it’s cute, love? I think it’ll look really cute on you" sunghoon beamed, handing you the coat.

You gasped softly, running your fingers across the soft inner lining. "Ooo, this is really cute, hoon" you said in awe.

But before you could admire it for too long, sunghoon reached for another coat, an identical one, just a bigger size.

Your eyes widened. "Lovie! We can match!" he exclaimed, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

"YES! hoon, that’s such a cute idea!" you giggled, barely having a second to react before he grabbed both coats, and your hand, before making a beeline for the counter.

"hoon-ah, slow down! The coats aren’t going anywhere!" you laughed, trying to keep up with his excitement.

Sunghoon paused momentarily, looking back at you with a sheepish grin.

"hehe, sorry, love. I just wanna match with you already," he said, placing a small peck on your temple before dragging you toward the register once more.

sunoo ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ sweetie or peach

You and sunoo strolled down a slightly busy street, the morning air crisp and pleasant. The clouds painted a soft, dreamy shade over the city, the perfect balance of warmth and coolness. Sunlight spilled through the trees as leaves fluttered gently in the breeze.

The two of you chatted, jumping from one topic to the next, until something caught Sunoo’s eye.

"Sweetie, look!" he gasped, pointing excitedly toward a small, tucked-away pastry shop.

"Woah, I’ve never seen this before" you murmured in surprise, feeling an invisible pull toward the charming little store.

"This is so cute! I think it just opened recently" Sunoo giggled, squeezing your hand as you both stepped inside.

The shop was small but utterly inviting, the lighting was warm, cozy, and welcoming. Though the seats remained mostly empty, the charm of the space gave it all the life it needed.

"peach, look at all the baked goods!" sunoo gasped, eyes sparkling as he admired the neatly arranged rows of pastries in the display case.

"omg, sun, this looks so cute," you breathed, equally enchanted by the assortment of treats. One of the workers greeted you warmly, sharing that the shop had just opened and that business had been slow during their launch.

"sweetie, what do you want? I'll buy for us!" sunoo grinned, clearly excited to treat you both to something special.

"Hmm… I kinda want the strawberry shortcake," you mused softly, eyeing the delicate pastries.

"Okay! One strawberry shortcake and a peach puff pastry," sunoo chirped, flashing a bright smile at the worker.

You blinked. "Peach? I didn’t know you liked peaches," you said, raising an eyebrow.

Sunoo glanced at you, his lips curling into a knowing smile before he chuckled softly.

"A cute little peach… just like you," he teased, leaning in to place a gentle peck on your cheek.

jungwon ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ babie or just your name.

It was a warm afternoon, and you and jungwon had just finished eating, deciding to spend the rest of the day curled up on the couch.

Jungwon lazily scrolled through Instagram, one hand absentmindedly petting Maeumi, who was comfortably settled on his lap. You were doing the same, scrolling through your feed, when a post caught your attention. A list of cute pet names to call your partner.

You paused, thinking for a moment.

"wonie, how come you don’t give me a lot of cute nicknames?" you asked, turning toward him.

Jungwon, lost in whatever was on his screen, stopped to glance at you, his expression confused. "What do you mean? I call you babie" he chuckled.

"Yeahhh, but most of the time, you just call me by my name" you huffed, dramatically pouting at him.

Jungwon rolled his eyes playfully, finally letting go of Maeumi to reach for you instead, squishing your cheeks between his palms.

"I don’t call you other nicknames because I like your name" he murmured with a soft smile, his face inches from yours.

You felt your breath hitch slightly before he leaned in, placing a delicate peck on your lips.

"pretty, just like your name… got it, babie?" he teased, pulling away with a smirk.

Flustered, you blinked rapidly, heat rushing to your cheeks. Feeling the panic settle in your chest, you playfully smacked his arm in retaliation.

Jungwon immediately burst into laughter, his bright giggles filling the space around you.

niki ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ cutie or princess

You groaned, shuffling through two tops, unable to decide which one to wear for your date with ni-ki.

From his spot on the bed beside the dresser, ni-ki chuckled, watching you struggle.

"You’re such a cutie" he mused.

"Thanks for finding my distress adorable" you whined, grabbing another top from the closet to see if it looked any better.

Ni-ki leaned in, scanning your closet. "What about that one?" He pointed toward a flowy top with delicate lace details.

You pouted, shaking your head. "I dunno… not really feeling it."

He hummed thoughtfully before pointing at another option, a cropped shirt with a bold graphic print. "What about this one?"

You sighed, pushing through the seemingly endless piles of clothes. "Mmm… no, I’m not a fan of that right now."

Ni-ki chuckled, rolling his eyes playfully.

"Princess, you look great in anything. Just pick something you feel comfortable in" he said, pressing a soft peck to your temple, completely charmed by how cute you looked in that moment.

"But you are a fashion diva!" you teased, grinning. "I have to match your game, riki."

Ni-ki shook his head with a smile before rummaging through your clothes himself. After a quick scan, he pulled out a simple, fitted top, baggy jeans, and a cozy, soft jacket.

"Here, princess. Wear this," he said warmly. "I’ll change so we can match."

"Matchie?" You looked up at him, eyes lighting up with excitement.

He nodded, already heading toward his wardrobe to pick out a similar outfit.

"Go pick out some matching accessories, cutie" he giggled before disappearing into the bathroom to change.

[rothpie]

❝FIDELITY❞ |part12

MASTERLIST -`✮´- Rafe Cameron x Kook!Reader x JJ Maybank

Summary: Kook!Reader’s world is upended by betrayal, and her only way forward might lie with the most unlikely person—JJ Maybank. But as they build a new life together, old flames and past mistakes refuse to stay buried.

Warnings: time jump, anxiety(?)

EXTRA -`✮´- JJ’s and Reader’s lock screen.

previous - next

Twelve Month Old.

Life moved fast. There was no denying it. 

Everything happened in such a whirlwind that before you knew it, an entire year had slipped by. A whole journey you had managed to navigate, though, of course, not without JJ’s irreplaceable help. 

The kitchen hummed with a peaceful kind of chaos, the sweet scent of strawberries mingling in the air. You stood at the counter, focused on decorating the cake while half your attention was tuned to the laughter drifting in from the living room. Small giggles, paired with JJ’s playful chuckles, echoed through the walls of your little home. 

As you carefully placed sliced strawberries atop the creamy frosting, you glanced toward the living room. Your little girl sat in the corner, clutching her stuffed teddy with delighted excitement. Across from her, on his knees, was JJ, pulling the silliest faces imaginable to keep her entertained. Her infectious laughter seemed to chase away every ounce of exhaustion you felt. 

For a moment, a warm wave of contentment washed over you. Sometimes, amidst all the chaos, it was these simple moments that made life truly worth it. Still, you forced yourself to focus. As much as you wanted to join them, you had a cake to finish—and today had to be perfect. 

As you piped the homemade frosting onto the cake, you listened closely to the sounds from the other room. JJ’s low murmurs, the pitter-patter of tiny feet, and your daughter’s joyous squeals filled the house. 

Even without seeing them, you could picture it all in your mind. A soft smile spread across your face as you worked on the cake for her first birthday celebration. Tomorrow, she would officially turn one. An entire year. 

How had you made it to this point? Time had flown so fast you never even had the chance to ask, “What’s happening right now?” Everything had raced by, and now, here you were—your daughter, a whole year old. Twelve months gone in the blink of an eye. 

The party wouldn’t be big. Just a simple setup on the back porch with a decorated table. Your parents would come, along with JJ’s friends and maybe a couple of neighbors. Mostly, it would be Liliana’s playmates from the park. That was all. 

Even though she wouldn’t remember it, you wanted her to smile when she looked back at the photos one day. You wanted her to feel a sense of peace, a happiness unclouded by memories of the separation her parents had gone through. 

In fact, you hoped those memories wouldn’t even cross her mind. 

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled you from your thoughts. You set down the piping bag and turned to see JJ walking toward you, your daughter balanced in his arms. A wide grin spread across your face. 

“She’s all worn out from playing too much,” JJ said, his smile as easy as ever. He started tickling her with his free hand, and the kitchen filled with her bright laughter. Just hearing it warmed you from the inside out. 

“Oh, is that so?” you teased. Anytime they played too hard, Liliana seemed to go straight into what you called “hibernation mode.” She’d be asleep in minutes. Classic JJ effect. Joining in, you reached over to tickle her too, but you both stopped after a moment, not wanting to tire her out any further. She was already sleepy enough. 

You stepped back slightly as JJ leaned in to check on the cake over your shoulder. His hand hovered dangerously close to the frosting, ready to sneak a taste, but when he caught your raised brow, he quickly withdrew. 

“Almost done, huh?” he said, his eyes still locked on the cake like it was a masterpiece—or maybe just his next meal. 

You nodded, glancing back at your work. “Isn’t that right, Liliana? Look what Mommy made!” 

JJ pointed to the cake as Liliana let out a tiny laugh, reaching her hands toward you. Without hesitation, you scooped her up into your arms. 

“Yeah, do you like it, sweetheart?” you cooed, giving her a gentle sway. Her head lolled onto your shoulder, and you and JJ couldn’t help but chuckle. Her sleepy demeanor was always the sweetest thing. She wasn’t an overly hyper child, but when she was tired, she turned into the most docile little angel. 

“You really wore her out,” you murmured, stroking her messy hair with a fond smile. It was far from the neat ponytails you had done that morning—proof of how much fun she’d had with JJ. 

“That’s my specialty,” he said proudly, tapping Liliana’s chubby cheek with a grin. He lifted her tiny hand and planted a series of dramatic kisses on it. “Swear she’s about to knock out,” he added with a lopsided smile. 

You lifted Liliana and pressed a kiss to her plump cheek, unable to stop the warmth that filled your heart. This past year had been the best of your life. Every moment with her had been worth everything. 

The first few weeks had been tough—what new mother didn’t struggle? But you were endlessly grateful for the people who had stayed by your side, supporting you every step of the way. Your parents had stayed with you, helping whenever they could. And then there were Cleo and Sarah—both absolute sweethearts who never hesitated to lend a hand. 

Thinking back to the times when it was just the four of you always brought a smile to your face. And Sarah, oh Sarah. Her relentless efforts to declare herself “Aunt Sarah” to the world were both endearing and hilarious. If you’d let her, she probably would’ve gotten it printed on a banner. 

And then there was JJ. You didn’t even hesitate to call him Liliana’s uncle. Because he truly was. He stood behind you like a fortress, always keeping you steady. Whenever you felt overwhelmed or doubted yourself, he was the one who wouldn’t let you fall. In the early months of your pregnancy, you had stumbled more times than you cared to admit, but once JJ became a permanent fixture in your life, that never happened again. He simply wouldn’t let it. 

Of course, there had been challenges. But his unwavering support had made it all worthwhile. 

Liliana’s tiny hands brushing against your face made you laugh softly. You kissed her little fingers and smiled. “If you can keep her entertained for just a little longer, I’ll finish up the cake and then put her down for a nap. Sound good?” 

You glanced up at JJ as you spoke. He was leaning casually against the counter, one arm propped up while his free hand snagged a strawberry from the cutting board. Popping it into his mouth, he shrugged, barely pausing to enjoy the taste before muttering something nonsensical to Liliana, who giggled in reply. 

JJ licked his fingers clean and reached toward you to take Liliana. “You know, I could do it,” he said with a mock-seriousness as he adjusted her securely against his hip. You watched as Liliana instantly settled, her little head coming to rest against his chest. The sight of the two of them like that filled your heart with warmth. 

“I know,” you replied with a nod. But JJ didn’t look entirely convinced. His uncertain gaze lingered on you, as if he wasn’t sure what to do next. You knew he had a full plate—work often wore him out, and some days it was a struggle for him to even take time off. Yet no matter how tired he was, whenever you needed help with Liliana or anything around the house, he never hesitated. 

Even so, you didn’t want to burden him more than necessary. Besides, it wasn’t a difficult task. Liliana was a calm child, and with her nap time fast approaching, she was already on the brink of sleep. JJ had clearly tired her out with all their playing. You were confident she’d drift off quickly. 

JJ opened his mouth to say something, but before he could get the words out, a small, unmistakable sound broke through the air. 

“Ma-ma.” 

You froze. Completely, utterly froze. The kitchen fell silent, as if the whole world had paused with you. The strawberry JJ had been reaching for slipped from his hand and landed on the counter. His wide eyes darted to Liliana. 

“What… What did she just say?” he whispered, his voice a mix of shock and awe. 

Liliana, grinning ear to ear, pushed herself against him, her small face glowing with excitement. Before you could even process what was happening, she let out a gleeful laugh and bounced in his arms, nearly losing her balance in her excitement. Her tiny pigtails bobbed as she steadied herself. 

This time, more clearly, she said it again, with determination. “Ma-ma.” 

Tears filled your eyes. Your heart swelled in your chest, beating so hard it felt like a tidal wave crashing against your ribs. You took a step closer to JJ, your hand reaching out to gently stroke Liliana’s cheek. “She can’t possibly be saying that,” you murmured, your voice trembling with emotion. You wanted to scream with joy, but you held it in. You didn’t want to startle her. 

JJ, still holding her, looked down at her with a mixture of astonishment and a soft, almost reverent smile. “We’ve been waiting for her to talk, but… Oh God,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. 

It wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t been sneakily repeating “Ma-Ma” in her presence, hoping to nudge her toward saying it. 

You leaned in, kissing Liliana’s rosy cheeks, your heart overflowing with joy. If only you could’ve captured the moment on video. 

JJ, who had been relatively quiet in the background, finally spoke, his tone tinged with playful sarcasm. “So… do you love me as much as her now? Or am I still in trouble for that time I ruined the cake?” 

“What cake? What are you—” You whipped around to check the cake. Sure enough, one side of it had collapsed, the frosting smudged into an unsalvageable mess. 

JJ winced, offering a sheepish smile. “We can, uh, get a new one, right?” 

You couldn’t help but laugh, despite yourself. There, surrounded by the warm scents of strawberries and frosting, your little family shared a moment that felt timeless. For just a while, the rest of the world faded away, leaving only love, laughter, and the perfectly imperfect chaos of this life you were building together. 

One Year Old

The living room echoed with Liliana’s joyful laughter. The little girl stretched out her arms, wobbling on her tiny feet as she worked hard to find her balance. Amid the colorful plush toys scattered on the floor, she seemed to grasp an essential truth: falling wasn’t as important as learning to get back up. With every step, her small feet trembled, sometimes tipping her forward precariously. But she was persistent. Even when she toppled over, she would immediately try again. 

JJ sat on the edge of the couch, watching her with a proud grin. Setting his coffee mug aside, he leaned forward slightly and called out, “Liliana, careful now. Let’s not bump into the coffee table, alright?” 

At that exact moment, Liliana stumbled again and plopped onto the floor with a soft “Oops!” Her wide eyes turned to JJ, as if asking, What just happened?

JJ was at her side in an instant, crouching down and holding out his hands. “Look here, young lady. Even when we fall, we get right back up, don’t we? Like a true Pogue.” His voice carried a playful warmth as he smiled at her. 

Liliana babbled in response, her tiny, nonsensical sounds making JJ chuckle. She placed her little hands in his, using his support to stand up again. JJ nodded dramatically. “That’s my girl! Now, let’s try it again, sweetheart.” 

Determined, Liliana let go of JJ’s hands, took a few wobbly steps, and fell once more. But this time, her giggle rang out louder than ever. JJ joined her laughter as you sat on the floor nearby, coffee mug in hand, watching the scene unfold. Their shared joy and Liliana’s little triumphs momentarily swept you away into a bittersweet reverie. 

You couldn’t help but think about everything that had been and everything that could’ve been. 

As you watched JJ hold Liliana’s hands and help her stand again, a faint melancholy crept into your heart. Her smile warmed you, but your thoughts wandered far from the present. 

The turbulent times with Rafe felt like a wound tucked into the corner of your mind. The fear, uncertainty, and rejection you’d faced while carrying Liliana lingered, even as your life now brimmed with happiness. Liliana was growing up so fast. She was already halfway through her first year. And one day, the inevitable question would come: Where’s my dad?

The thought sent a pang through your chest. What would you tell her? The idea of saying Rafe’s name out loud made your stomach twist. But was it right to hide the truth? 

Your eyes shifted to JJ, who was now walking hand in hand with Liliana, her little giggles filling the room. JJ raised his arms in mock triumph, shouting, “Pogue for life!” 

You rolled your eyes at his antics but couldn’t suppress a smile. JJ had his way of turning any moment into something fun, and you let him. This was their time, a little world just for the two of them to share. 

Still, you couldn’t ignore the impact JJ had on Liliana’s life. He wasn’t just a friend or a fun uncle—he was a loving guide. But would that be enough? Would his presence fill the gap in Liliana’s heart when the questions came? 

Or worse—would she misinterpret his role in her life? Would she see him not as an uncle figure, but as a father? 

Someday, Liliana would see other kids with their parents. She would want to compare, to understand. When she noticed the difference—that she didn’t have a mom and dad like the others—what would she feel? Would she long for something you couldn’t give her? 

As Liliana’s laughter mingled with JJ’s playful banter, your thoughts continued to churn. But amidst the worry, one thing was clear: you would do everything in your power to be there for her. And so would JJ. Of that, you had no doubt. 

“Hey, you good?” JJ’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. 

You looked up to see him guiding Liliana as she toddled toward you, her tiny hands gripping his fingers tightly. A smile crept onto your face despite yourself. 

“Come to Mommy,” you encouraged Liliana softly, your voice light with laughter. She babbled something in return, her tone cheerful as ever. 

JJ winked at you, clearly proud of their progress. “Little Pogues never give up, you know,” he said, lifting Liliana slightly and twirling her in the air. 

In that moment, the dark cloud of your worries lifted, if only briefly. JJ’s boundless energy and Liliana’s infectious joy silenced the unease in your heart. Her delighted giggle as she clapped her tiny hands filled the room with warmth, and you couldn’t help but join in the laughter. 

These moments, you realized, were precious beyond measure. The future remained uncertain, but this—this love, this warmth—was everything. And for now, that was enough. 

Three Years Old

The backyard glowed softly in the warm light of a summer evening. The table had been beautifully set, laden with delicious dishes that made the scene feel like a small celebration. Over in the corner of the yard, Liliana was busy playing with little flowers. She gathered daisies into her tiny hands, attempting to craft a small bouquet while occasionally pausing to marvel at the bugs crawling nearby. 

For her, bugs were still a fascinating mystery. 

JJ stood in the middle of the yard, holding a bottle of lemonade, shaking it lightly as he exclaimed, “Wait a minute, hold on! You’re telling me this now? You—my childhood best friend—are actually planning to get married? Like, for real? This is happening?” 

Pope, his hands casually tucked in his pockets, smiled with quiet confidence. “I mean… yeah. The time just felt right. Who here didn’t see this coming?” He glanced around at the three of you, and you shrugged in response. 

You honestly weren’t surprised. Cleo and Pope had practically been living like a married couple for ages. Sharing a house, sharing a life—the only thing missing had been rings on their fingers. And now, even that seemed to be taken care of. 

Turning to Cleo, who stood beside you with an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes, you reached out and clasped her hands. Rising from your seat, you pulled her into a tight hug. “Congratulations, babe. But let’s be real—I knew this was only a matter of time.” 

Cleo laughed, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. You adored her, truly. As you pulled back, she smoothed her hair with a smile. “Thank you,” she murmured, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “Honestly, if he hadn’t proposed soon, he was about to start sleeping on the couch.” 

Both of you laughed, returning to your seats as JJ continued to hold court in the middle of the yard. He’d definitely had a bit to drink—not enough to be drunk, of course, especially not with Liliana around—but just enough to be fully basking in the moment. 

JJ flopped backward dramatically, as if falling into an invisible chair. For a split second, you almost reached out to catch him. “No, no, this has to be a joke,” he said, pointing at Cleo with exaggerated suspicion. “Because the Pope I know? He doesn’t do serious. And now we’re talking about marriage? Cleo, are you sure?” 

Without missing a beat, Cleo smacked him lightly on the head, earning an exaggerated yelp from JJ. 

“Hey! That hurt!” he protested, rubbing the spot dramatically. 

“Good,” Cleo shot back. “Maybe it’ll knock some sense into you.” 

JJ raised an eyebrow at her, a mischievous smirk spreading across his face. “Oh, is that what you think?” he teased, leaning closer to you for backup, clearly trying to rile you up too. 

Without hesitation, you pushed his face away with your hand, rolling your eyes as you grabbed a dessert from the table. A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. JJ, ever the entertainer, turned his attention back to Cleo, who was now watching the two of you with a look that was… curious. Maybe even amused. 

You caught the glance and quickly shifted your focus elsewhere, pretending not to notice. Your eyes landed on Liliana, who was still engrossed in her flower-gathering mission. Now, though, you realized she’d made more than one bouquet—the two little bundles of daisies on the ground made your heart swell with pride. 

Meanwhile, Cleo crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow at JJ. Her gaze darted between the two of you. “Look at this,” she said, her tone teasing. “Pope might actually be the most mature one here tonight.” 

“Wow, okay,” JJ said, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll give you that, Cleo. But I’ve gotta say—you’re a saint for putting up with him. Marrying Pope? That’s a big commitment,” he joked, grinning. 

Cleo tilted her head, a playful glint in her eye. “Oh, no doubt about it,” she replied, nodding as if in agreement. 

You laughed at their banter, thinking how these friends, once JJ’s alone, now felt like your family too. Thanks to him, yes, but still—there was no denying how much you adored them. 

The cheerful mood seemed to envelop everyone. Even Liliana, who had been absorbed in her flowers, perked up at the sound of JJ’s laughter. She toddled over to the group, holding out one of her bouquets to Pope. “This is for you,” she said, her tiny voice filled with pride. 

Pope crouched down, taking the bouquet with wide eyes. “Wow, thank you, little lady,” he said warmly. It was one of those heart-melting moments that left everyone smiling. 

She went on to distribute her bouquets to the rest of you, looking so proud of her work. 

Then, tugging at JJ’s pant leg, she said, “The flowers we saw the other day aren’t here.” She was referring to the pink flowers you’d noticed on a walk. JJ scooped her up with ease, lifting her high into the air. “How about tomorrow, we go find some of those for you, Lily?” he said, grinning as her face lit up with joy. He followed up with a series of playful kisses, her laughter ringing out like music. 

For a few minutes, the evening revolved entirely around her. But as the hour grew later, it became clear it was time to start wrapping things up. While Pope and JJ entertained Liliana with a game of make-believe involving her dolls, Cleo jumped in to help you clear the table. 

Missing an opportunity to spend a moment with her? Never. 

“She’s such a sweet kid,” Cleo said, her tone warm as she started washing the dishes. 

You smiled, nodding as you packed leftovers into containers. “Thank you. She adores you, by the way. Honestly, I think she’s smitten.” 

Cleo’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “Well, the feeling’s mutual,” she said, her voice soft. It was a small moment, but it spoke volumes, the kind of quiet connection that reminded you just how lucky you were to have her—and everyone else—here.

“Not like his father—thank God for that.” You couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t a particularly joyful smile, but the fact that Liliana didn’t resemble him in any way brought you some comfort. You didn’t know much about him anymore, not really. But the thought of even a part of your daughter resembling Rafe was enough to make your chest tighten.

“How’s he doing?” The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You hadn’t meant to ask. It wasn’t that you cared—it was just… curiosity. You wondered how he was holding up, what kind of life he was leading. 

Still, it felt like a ridiculous question. You were about to tell Cleo to just forget it. 

“Same as always,” she muttered nonchalantly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. She seemed to understand why you’d asked, even though you hadn’t explained. “We all grew up. Everyone’s got their thing going on now. I don’t even know if most people still bother showing up to parties. He’s running his dad’s business now. I barely see him.”

You didn’t know how to feel. As you packed leftovers into a container, you took a deep breath. What had you even expected to hear? At least he had finally gotten what he wanted.

He was happy, and you were too. Apart, but still happy. In the end, that was all that mattered. 

Whether he still harbored anything for you, you couldn’t say. Your feelings for him felt… dulled, as if they’d been packed away and forgotten. Since Liliana had become the center of your universe, things like dating or romance didn’t even register. And you didn’t miss them. Liliana was still young; she needed you.

Maybe that’s why any notion of love, of attraction, felt so foreign now. 

“This is normal, love. Whatever it is you’re feeling—it’s normal.” Cleo’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. You turned toward her, realizing you’d been staring blankly at the container in your hands. You blinked a few times, grounding yourself. 

Of course it was normal. 

You pushed your hair back and gave Cleo a nod of agreement as you snapped the lid onto the container and placed it in the fridge. When you turned back around, Cleo was suddenly closer. 

“You know,” she started, her tone shifting to something more teasing, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen JJ like this. He’s really changed. The difference between him back then and now? Night and day.” 

You were confused by the abrupt topic change, but you didn’t comment. Instead, your gaze drifted toward the backyard. Through the glass doors, you could see Pope, JJ, and Liliana playing together. 

“He’s good for you two, just like you’re good for him.” Cleo’s voice was softer now, almost like she was trying to coax a reaction out of you.

Your eyes lingered on JJ, watching him scoop Liliana into his arms and pepper her head with kisses. One of his hands was always hovering protectively near her, ready to catch her if she stumbled. A small smile crept onto your lips.

“Is it just me, or is there… something going on?” Cleo’s sly tone snapped your attention back to her so quickly, you almost got whiplash. Her expression was amused, her brow arched, and that same unreadable look was back in her eyes.

“What? Something going on?” Your voice was a mix of disbelief and nervous laughter. 

Cleo stepped back with a shrug, her lips pursed in mock innocence. Meanwhile, your eyebrows shot higher with every second. 

“I’m just saying!” she exclaimed, raising her hands as if she were completely innocent. The smile tugging at her lips told a different story, though. “A girl’s gotta point out what she sees.” She leaned casually against the counter, her eyes fixed on you with way too much amusement. 

“Especially when there are two people too blind to see it themselves.” Her tone was light, teasing, but the implication hit you like a ton of bricks. 

Your jaw dropped. “What? No—no, no.” You shook your head, the words spilling out before you even knew what you were saying. “That’s not… Cleo, come on.” 

She laughed, the sound echoing through the kitchen. You stepped closer, almost desperate to make her stop. “Cleo, no. Just—no.”

The idea made you feel strangely unsettled. JJ? You and JJ? That was absurd. You were friends, and that was it. You’d always been friends, nothing more. 

Cleo grabbed a dirty plate and turned toward the sink, seemingly unbothered by your protests. You leaned against the counter, trying to find the words to convince her. 

“We’re friends,” you said, your voice firm but a little too quick. “That’s all. For three—no, almost four years—we’ve lived together. That’s it. JJ and I are just friends.”

Cleo turned her head sharply, and for a second, her movement startled you into taking a step back. Her eyebrow arched higher, almost disappearing into her hairline. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. Cleo’s knowing gaze held you in place like a spotlight. 

JJ and you were friends. Always had been, always would be. The thought of anything else—it felt… wrong. Like it would betray everything you’d built together over the years. 

Cleo’s smirk only widened as she watched you flounder. “I—” you started, but nothing else came out.

The sound of the door opening made you jump. Your eyes darted toward it, and there they were—JJ, holding Liliana’s hand. For a split second, you felt like a teenager caught doing something wrong by their parents. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Cleo’s amused smile. You ignored it. 

“She said she had to pee,” JJ explained, nudging Liliana gently forward. You quickly stepped toward your daughter. 

“Yes,” Liliana confirmed, clutching her doll in one hand. “I have to pee.” 

“I’ll handle it,” you said, smiling at JJ. But when his gaze met yours, you suddenly felt... weird. Cleo’s earlier comments were still fresh in your mind, and now, any interaction between you and JJ felt like it carried a weight it hadn’t before. 

“I can take care of it—it’s no big deal,” JJ said with a casual shrug. He glanced down at Liliana, then placed his free hand lightly on your back. That simple gesture, one that had never bothered you before, now felt oddly charged. 

You hated it. 

This had never felt strange before. Nothing had changed—except Cleo’s remarks, which had now lodged themselves in your brain. Thanks a lot, Cleo. Really. 

“No, no. I’ve got it,” you said a bit too quickly. You saw JJ about to insist again, but you bent down and scooped Liliana into your arms before he could say anything more. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. 

Even his presence now made you uncomfortable—not because of anything he was doing, but because your mind kept wandering into territory it had no business being in. 

You and JJ were friends. Just friends. Imagining him kissing you, or holding you in a way that felt too intimate, felt like a betrayal of that friendship. And you were sure of that. 

“She’s got it, JJ,” Cleo’s sly tone cut in, and you took the opportunity to bolt with Liliana. You just needed a minute. Some space to clear your head. Surely, if you could shake off these ridiculous thoughts, everything would go back to normal. 

“Go grab Pope and get in here,” Cleo called out behind you. “My back’s killing me. Your turn.” 

Thanks a lot, Cleo. Really.

Three Year Old

The living room was dimly lit, a soft glow creating a calm atmosphere. You’d seized the opportunity of Liliana sleeping to make yourself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Meanwhile, JJ was pacing the room nervously, shoving his hands in and out of his pockets. He wore a pair of jeans and a simple shirt, but it was clear he wasn’t comfortable. 

JJ adjusted his shirt collar, his chest rising and falling like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. Do I really need to do this? he wondered. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go on this date; it was more like he was searching for an excuse not to. A noise from behind snapped him out of his thoughts. 

You peeked out from the kitchen with a smile, setting your cup on the table. “JJ, relax. It’s just a date, not a job interview.” His stress was written all over his face. 

It’s just a date. It isn’t like he’ll marrying the girl tonight. 

JJ stopped in his tracks, frowning. One hand reached up to rub his chin as if he was still weighing his options. Honestly, he looked ready to ditch his outfit, pull on something comfortable, and settle in for a movie night at home. He just needed one signal, one sign to justify staying—and he would. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “This feels stupid. I mean… it’s something a coworker set up. I don’t even know the woman.” 

You leaned casually against the edge of the table, shrugging. This wasn’t the end of the world. He’d go, spend a couple of hours out, and if he liked her? Great. If not? He’d move on. It wasn’t like you were going to stop him. What were you supposed to say, anyway? Hey JJ, I don’t go on dates, so you shouldn’t either?

Ridiculous.

You had your reasons. Expecting him to share them was absurd. It’s not like you two had ever talked about dating or relationships. Not seriously, anyway. Although, you were pretty sure he’d had his fair share of one-night stands. You weren’t naive; the nights he came home late and went straight for the shower said enough. But what could you do? Judge him for it? He was in his mid-twenties, for God’s sake.

It wasn’t your business. If he needed that, he needed it. Just because you didn’t do it didn’t mean he shouldn’t. Especially when you two were… nothing. 

Damn it, Cleo. You wouldn’t normally spiral into these thoughts. 

By “normally,” you meant before that night Cleo talked to you. Before then, these kinds of thoughts were off-limits, a red line you didn’t cross. Now here you were, dissecting JJ’s sex life. 

Of course, he could do whatever he wanted. Why wouldn’t he? 

It’s not like he needed your permission. 

Not that you didn’t have your own needs. But after years of going without, you weren’t exactly itching to jump into something casual. You didn’t want to leave your house, leave your daughter, and come back having spent the night with someone who didn’t mean anything to you. 

Maybe someday, when Liliana was older—maybe you’d be ready then. But not now. Not while she was just three years old. 

JJ’s nervous pacing snapped you out of your thoughts, and you cleared your throat. These ridiculous ideas running through your head were driving you crazy. He just needed to leave already so you could look at him like a friend again. “And that’s exactly why you should go. Who knows? You might actually have a good time. And at the very worst,” you said, pausing for dramatic effect, “you call me, and I’ll come rescue you.” 

JJ laughed a little, his shoulders relaxing. “You’re a real hero,” he replied with a smirk, running a hand through his hair. He licked his lips thoughtfully before glancing at you again. “But if I do call you, will you actually come?” 

You rolled your eyes. Was he seriously asking? “Of course I would. But not without letting you suffer a little first,” you teased. In reality, you’d hop in your car without a second thought—even though he had a car—and you’d go full drama mode if needed. Just for your friend. Yes, friend.

JJ chuckled, shaking his head. “If it comes to that, I’ll call. Promise.” He wandered around the room, checking to make sure he had everything. But as you watched him, something about it made you feel off. The idea of JJ going on a date with someone else felt… unsettling. You’d spent years side by side, and he’d never really left your orbit. Still, you were happy for him. 

At least, you thought you were. 

When he leaned down to kiss the top of your head before heading out, your eyes instinctively closed. He did it so casually, like it was nothing. But you couldn’t stop yourself from reading into it. Again. Thanks a lot, Cleo. 

A few minutes later, JJ was out the door, leaving you alone with your thoughts. And oh, how you hated being alone with them. Your mind always found the most nonsensical things to obsess over. JJ was a welcome distraction, and now that he was gone, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. 

Because thinking made everything feel… weird. 

Even though he has his own house, even though he paid the rent every month, he practically lived at your place. You had suggested it, and you didn’t regret it or find it awkward at all. But now, after Cleo’s comments, everything felt… suffocating. Like you were looking at your dynamic through a distorted lens. 

Your eyes drifted to the clock, the hands moving painfully slow. How much time had passed? You couldn’t tell. Your hands tightened around your coffee mug without you realizing it. You hated thinking. You didn’t want to think. You wished Liliana would wake up early, even if it wasn’t time yet. Anything to distract you. 

Who’s he meeting? What’s she like? The questions popped into your head unbidden, and you immediately despised them. Why do I care? you thought bitterly, shrugging to yourself. “What does it even matter?” you muttered under your breath. But the curiosity inside you wasn’t so easily silenced. 

When your coffee ran out, you didn’t hesitate to pour another cup. Maybe you needed some fresh air or something. These thoughts swirling around in your head were absurd, and you knew it. You blamed it on the lingering toxicity of Cleo’s words from months ago. Ever since that conversation, it felt like you’d been poisoned.

As the hours ticked by, the silence in the living room grew heavier. Every passing second transformed into an expectation—would JJ send a message? You kept your phone close, glancing at every notification with urgency. But there was nothing. 

You were ready, though—ready to rush out the door if JJ sent you a single text asking to be rescued. Or even, as he mentioned, if he called. 

At some point, you couldn’t take it anymore and went to the kitchen, fixing yourself a snack. You tried reading a few pages of a book, even made a couple of trips upstairs to check if Liliana was still asleep. But your mind kept drifting back to JJ and his date. For a fleeting moment, you thought, “Maybe it’s going badly.” That thought didn’t bring relief, though—it unsettled you. 

No, you’d be happier if things were going well. JJ’s happiness mattered. If he’d found someone who suited him, you’d convince him to pursue it. Maybe then, the tension between you could finally dissolve. But—then you wouldn’t see him as often. Neither you nor Liliana. Still, you knew his love for Liliana wouldn’t fade. 

As the night wore on, you kept yourself busy in the kitchen, but your eyes constantly flicked to your phone. No calls, no texts. You were dying to know how the date was going but fought hard to suppress that curiosity. Even after putting your phone on silent and leaving it on the table, you found yourself picking it up to check. 

Close to midnight, the front door creaked open. A few sounds of stumbling followed, grabbing your attention. JJ walked in, and it was immediately clear how much he’d had to drink. He was swaying slightly, the familiar exhaustion in his eyes telling you everything about his night. You were curled up on the couch, a book in hand, but as soon as you heard him, you looked up. 

It hadn’t gone terribly—that much you were sure of. He was drunk out of his mind and—he hadn’t called. At least his demeanor suggested nothing had happened between them—enough for you to focus on your own business. Still, you couldn’t help but note that if the roles were reversed and you’d hooked up with someone, you’d probably have stayed the night at their place. 

Crossing your arms, you watched as he wrestled with his shoes. “Well, since you made it home, I guess it wasn’t that bad,” you said, your tone laced with mockery to mask the mess of feelings churning inside. You hated yourself for saying it but couldn’t stop. 

JJ let out a laugh as he struggled with his shoes. “Actually… it was awful,” he slurred. You watched him stumble toward you, surprised by his response. You’d expected him to say it went well—but here was the truth. 

His eyes were red, and you couldn’t even guess how much he’d drunk. He dropped onto the couch beside you, head tilting back as he let out a long sigh. “She was sweet, but… I don’t know. Boring. And also…” He paused, his head lolling slightly to the side. His lips parted, and the smell of alcohol wafted over. “She wasn’t as beautiful as you.” 

Your mouth fell open in shock. You tried to form a response, but no words came out. JJ, meanwhile, seemed to be watching your every reaction, almost as if savoring it, his drunken gaze locked on you. Clearing your throat, you fought to dismiss his words. 

You were definitely going to kill Cleo.

Smiling, you raised an eyebrow and said, “Care to share the details?” in an overly casual tone. 

JJ leaned forward, reaching for the coffee table. When you realized he was going for your water glass, you handed it to him, watching to ensure he drank. “Rachel thought I was—married,” he said, breaking into a laugh before taking a long sip of water, as if he’d been parched all night. 

The words hit like a bombshell, and your eyebrows shot up as your eyes widened in disbelief. You hadn’t expected that. Now you were even more curious, but JJ’s water-drinking intermission couldn’t have come at a worse time. “Wait, what? She thought you were married? Why?” 

For a few seconds, you just stared at him, lost for words. JJ, now done with the water, clumsily placed the glass back on the table and pulled his phone out of his pocket with some difficulty. He held it out to you before slumping back into the couch. As the screen lit up, it became clear. His wallpaper was a photo of you and Liliana hugging. 

“She saw that and said something like, ‘You left your family to come here?’ Then she lost it.” He spoke nonchalantly, tossing his head back again. His eyes were nearly closed, his speech slurred to the point of incoherence. 

Pressing your lips together, you held back laughter. You wanted to say something, but no words came. JJ misinterpreted your silence, continuing, “Honestly… it doesn’t really matter. Because…” He paused again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not more important than this.” 

Following his gaze, you saw he was staring at the wallpaper on his phone. Your heart skipped a beat. JJ’s words were purely alcohol-induced—you were sure of it. Composing yourself quickly, you forced a small smile. “You’re going to have a killer headache tomorrow. Let’s get you to bed.” 

Helping him up, you steadied his swaying form. Even though he insisted on giving Liliana a goodnight kiss, you managed to convince him otherwise and ushered him to his room. 

Once he was in bed, you pulled the blanket over him and stood there for a moment, watching him. His face was peaceful, utterly vulnerable in sleep. In that moment, you felt like you understood him more than ever. 

With a head full of swirling thoughts, you quietly left the room, closing the door behind you. But you knew—you wouldn’t forget tonight anytime soon.

Four Year Old

Outer Banks was a tangled web of memories for you. Going back wasn’t just about revisiting a place; it was stepping into a time capsule, into a life filled with complicated, conflicting emotions. The last few years with JJ and Liliana had taught you that no matter how safe you felt in the present, leaving parts of yourself behind was never easy. Outer Banks was the epicenter of your past struggles, losses, and, oddly enough, some of your most beautiful memories. 

The morning Liliana excitedly babbled about the upcoming wedding, you found yourself waking up with those very thoughts swirling in your mind. JJ was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, laughing as he answered Liliana’s barrage of questions. To her, the idea of attending Pope and Cleo’s wedding was an adventure, something to look forward to. For you, it was harder to embrace. While you were happy for your friends, the thought of returning to Outer Banks weighed heavy on you. 

“Let’s think this through,” JJ said, leaning against the counter, his gaze steady as if he could see the unease written all over your face. “I know this is tough for you, but it’s just a few days. I promise we’ll come straight back after.” 

You tightened your grip on your coffee mug and looked at him. Of course, it would be easier for him—you knew that. But going back there with a child made everything feel different. People would do the math. When they asked Liliana’s age, the unspoken questions would surface. “Is it really that simple?” you asked quietly. “Just go, smile, and pretend the past doesn’t exist?” 

They’d ask about Liliana’s father. Not just to you—but to her, too. The funny thing was, JJ had taken on the father figure role in her life so seamlessly that you were terrified she might actually mention his name when people asked. 

And then there was Rafe. The idea of him seeing you and Liliana again filled you with dread. You’d never imagined taking Liliana to Outer Banks; it always felt like you’d stay away forever. But now, with Cleo’s wedding, there was no choice. You wanted to be there for your friends, of course—but the thought of it all was overwhelming. 

JJ’s eyes softened as he picked up on your worry. Shrugging, he stepped closer until he was right in front of you. When his hands wrapped gently around yours, your eyes met. His thumb brushed the back of your hand in soothing circles, his voice calm and steady. “It’s not easy, I know. But we’re not going back for the past. This is about the present—about today. And we’re going together. Liliana’s coming with us. I’ll be with you every second if you need me. You trust me, don’t you?” 

The answer was so obvious it wasn’t even a question. You trusted him with everything—your life, Liliana’s life. You knew he’d protect you both no matter what. Without hesitation, you nodded. “Of course.” The words tumbled out quickly, your voice firm, as if to erase any doubt. JJ’s smile lit up his face, warm and reassuring. 

Liliana’s little voice broke in suddenly. She was tugging on JJ’s pant leg, her wide eyes sparkling with excitement. You noticed the toy she’d dropped on the floor and made a mental note to toss it into the bag. “Can I catch the wedding bouquet?” she asked, her words adorably slurred. You had to resist the urge to scoop her up and smother her with kisses—she was too cute for her own good. 

You found yourself smiling despite everything. Liliana’s joy was infectious, but beneath your smile, the unease lingered. Outer Banks wasn’t just a place; it was a collection of moments—lived experiences, shattered dreams, and wounds that never fully healed. 

“You might be a little young for that, sweetheart,” JJ teased with a grin. He shifted, letting go of one of your hands to scoop Liliana up, settling her on his hip. You watched as he kissed her chubby cheek, the affection in the gesture tugging at your heart. 

JJ must have sensed your inner turmoil because his tone shifted, turning serious as he looked at you again. His hand still held yours. “You know I’m here, right?” 

Those words settled something in your mind, quieting the chaos if only for a moment. There was always a layer of sincerity beneath JJ’s laid-back demeanor—a steadfastness that revealed itself when it mattered most. He wasn’t as careless as he often made himself out to be, especially not when it came to you. 

[deliciousangelfestival]

Only The Lonely - Bucky | Oneshot

Summary: Late at night, the last train is Bucky’s escape from the chaos of his life—quiet and predictable. It’s his only peaceful moment. But when a stranger’s simple kindness interrupts his routine, what starts as an annoyance slowly turns into something unexpected.

Character: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Genre: Romance, Action, Comedy, Slice Of Life

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

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By the way I publish my book Arrogant Ex Husband in Kindle. 👉 Now available on e-Kindle Amazon! << here's the link.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

1:00 a.m.

The last train of the night. The final hour before the city sleeps, when the world quiets and only a few remain in motion. Most passengers at this hour are creatures of necessity—night-shift workers dragging their tired bodies home, partygoers sobering up after a wild night, travelers in transit, students cramming for exams, or employees finishing late.

And then, there are the unpredictable ones. The lost souls.

It’s the perfect way to describe him. Bucky.

His job makes his life unpredictable—demanding, stressful, suffocating. Every day feels like it’s crushing him, the weight of expectations pressing down on his chest until it’s hard to breathe. But this train ride, the one just before the clock strikes 1:00 a.m., is his sanctuary.

It’s the only time his mind is blissfully empty. The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels on the tracks is a comfort—steady, reliable, unlike the chaos of his day. He listens to the low hum of the engine, the occasional screech as the train rounds a curve. He likes the way the train sways, how it rocks him gently, as if coaxing him to let go of his thoughts.

Most importantly, he likes being alone.

But tonight is different.

When he steps into the nearly empty car and heads to his usual seat, someone is already sitting there.

Have you ever felt that irritation when someone rearranges your kitchen and you can’t find the salt? That’s how Bucky feels. A simmering annoyance, irrational but undeniable.

He grits his teeth but says nothing. It’s public transportation—he has no right to be mad. Instead, he silently takes the seat across from the stranger, determined to ignore them.

At first, you don’t notice him bristling across from you. You’re relieved to see another person, especially this late at night. You’ve never liked taking the last train—it’s eerie when you’re alone—but it’s cheaper than a taxi, and money is tight. Working as a hotel chef is exhausting, and every penny counts.

“Oh, thank goodness. I was starting to think I’d be the only one on this train,” you say, offering a polite smile, hoping to make conversation.

Bucky doesn’t respond. He barely glances at you, his eyes dark and tired, fixed on the window as if willing the world outside to distract him. His shoulders are tense, his jaw set in a silent refusal to engage.

You sense his exhaustion and decide not to push. He’s tired, you think. Maybe next time.

The Next Night. When Bucky steps onto the train, he immediately spots you. Sitting in the same seat as before.

He exhales sharply through his nose, rolling his eyes. Not again.

As if sensing his presence, you look up and wave. It’s a small, friendly gesture. Bucky doesn’t wave back—he just nods, a curt, obligatory acknowledgment. He doesn’t want to be rude, but he also doesn’t want to encourage conversation.

The train ride is quiet, but Bucky’s peace is shattered.

The Third Night. This time, you both arrive at the station at the same time.

You smile when you see him. “Hey! We’re train buddies now,” you say cheerfully as you walk side by side toward the platform.

Bucky scoffs, a quiet, dry sound, but there’s no real malice in it. He glances at you briefly and catches the faint scent of caramel. It clings to you, sweet and warm, a stark contrast to the cold, metallic smell of the train station.

You’re talking about something—your day at work, maybe—but he’s not really listening. He’s too focused on keeping his distance.

Then, it happens.

A loud, unmistakable growl from his stomach.

The sound cuts through the quiet, echoing in the empty station.

You stop mid-sentence, blinking in surprise. Bucky clears his throat, his ears burning with embarrassment. He tries to appear nonchalant, but the redness creeping up his neck betrays him.

You stifle a giggle. “Looks like someone needs a snack.”

Bucky shoots you a glare, but there’s no heat in it. Just the begrudging realization that, for better or worse, you’ve become part of his routine.

You didn’t make a big deal of it—you simply reached into your bag and pulled something out. Holding it out to him, you offered, “Here, you can have this. We made too much in the kitchen today.”

Bucky glanced at the box in your hand. Before he could refuse, you added, “It’s monkey bread.” His gaze softened. It had been a long time since he’d had monkey bread. Hesitating for a moment, he finally took it. “Thank you.”

The sound of his voice surprised you—low and slightly raspy from exhaustion. It made you light up, a warm smile spreading across your face. “You’re welcome.”

The next evening, you boarded the train with a small container of cookies and handed it to him without a word. He didn’t say much, but the quiet kindness in your gesture spoke louder than words.

A few nights later, you offered him a neatly packaged serving of beef Wellington. “I can’t eat all this myself,” you said with a casual shrug. Bucky took it, feeling the warmth of the box seep into his cold hands. He wanted to say something but found himself at a loss for words, so he simply nodded, offering you a faint smile.

Then came fish and chips. “You’ll like this one,” you said, placing the box in his hands before settling into your seat. “It’s fresh.” Bucky chuckled softly, the sound almost foreign to him. He wasn’t used to this—someone thinking of him, sharing without expecting anything in return.

Day after day, you brought something new. Each time, he accepted it, and each time, he found himself looking forward to the brief exchange. Eventually, curiosity got the better of him.

“Why do you give me food every time we meet?” he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion as he studied you from across the train.

You shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “I just like sharing. Aren’t we train buddies?”

Your simple response caught him off guard. For a moment, Bucky was stunned. No ulterior motive, no hidden agenda. In your eyes, he was just a friend.

“I owe you,” he muttered, glancing away.

“It’s just extra food,” you said with a soft smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

That was the longest conversation Bucky had with another person, aside from those at his job. He thought only silence could bring him peace, but he realized that having friends could bring him peace too.

Then one day, you weren’t there.

He convinced himself it didn’t matter. Maybe you found a better job. Good for you.

But the train rides felt emptier. No chatter about your coworkers. No light-hearted complaints about your boss. No extra food in hand, given with that easy smile.

Something didn’t feel right.

Bucky found himself standing in front of the five-star hotel where you worked. He recognized the logo from the packaging you used. After asking a kitchen staff member about you, he was met with a puzzled look.

“She��s on the night shift. I’ve never met her,” the staff member said, scratching his head. “But I can ask my manager.”

Bucky nodded. “Thank you.”

Minutes later, the staff member returned, his expression more serious.

“She quit two weeks ago,” he explained. “Apparently, some guy came in and caused a scene—flipped a table, yelled about debt or something. The next day, she quit.”

Bucky’s heart sank. His chest tightened, and breathing felt harder.

Debt?

All this time, he thought you were the bright, carefree soul who brought light into his monotonous life. But now, he realized—you were the one hurting. Hiding behind your kindness.

He swallowed hard. “Thank you… and I’m sorry for bothering you.”

The staff member gave him a sympathetic nod.

Bucky walked out of the hotel, the weight of the truth pressing down on him. I never even asked…

He clenched his fists. He didn’t know anything about you—not your struggles, not your pain. But one thing was clear: He needed to find you.

👩‍🍳👩‍🍳👩‍🍳👩‍🍳

Bucky walked into his office during the morning shift—a time when he was rarely seen. Heads turned, confusion spreading among his coworkers as they whispered to each other. Bucky Barnes, the man who thrived in the shadows, was suddenly here in broad daylight.

“Is he… actually here in the morning?” one agent murmured.

“Maybe he couldn’t sleep,” another offered, but their eyes widened when they saw Bucky heading straight for the weapons locker.

The boss, a tall man with graying hair and a perpetual frown, stepped into the room just in time to see Bucky zipping up a weapon bag. His expression shifted from confusion to concern.

“Uhhh… Barnes, where are you going?” the boss asked, his hand resting on the doorframe as if blocking Bucky’s path.

Bucky didn’t pause. He slung the bag over his shoulder, his face unreadable. “Helping a buddy.”

The boss blinked. “Oh…” He nodded slowly, then frowned. “Wait. Who’s your buddy?”

“A train buddy,” Bucky said without missing a beat, securing the bag and striding past him.

The boss opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, watching Bucky disappear down the hall with a perplexed expression. “A train buddy?”

👩‍🍳👩‍🍳👩‍🍳👩‍🍳👩‍🍳

The basement was cold and damp, the air thick with the stench of mold and oil. The dim light from a single flickering bulb cast long shadows across the concrete floor.

In the center of the room, you sat tied to a chair, your wrists chafed from the rough rope binding you. Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at the group of gangsters lounging around, their faces hardened with cruelty.

One of them—a tall man with a scar running down his cheek—stood before you, arms crossed. “Your brother owes us a lot of money,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “And guess what? We don’t care where it comes from. You’re gonna pay it.”

Your voice trembled as you shook your head. “I don’t have the money. I told you, I don’t—”

The scarred man sighed, rubbing his temples as if dealing with a stubborn child. “Put her in liquid cement,” he said, his tone casual, like he was ordering a drink. “Then throw her into the sea.”

Your blood ran cold. Panic surged through you, and you pulled against the ropes, your breaths coming in short gasps. “No. No! God, please, no! Help!”

The men laughed, their footsteps echoing as they approached.

Then—darkness.

The flickering light went out, plunging the basement into complete blackness.

“What the hell?” one of the gangsters muttered.

Suddenly, the sound of a struggle erupted—thuds, grunts, the sharp crack of bones breaking. One by one, the gangsters fell. Some screamed in pain; others were silenced before they could make a sound.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your body trembling as the chaos unfolded around you. What’s happening?

Then—silence.

A familiar voice cut through the darkness, calm and steady. “You’re safe. Open your eyes.”

Your eyes flew open, heart racing. You blinked, adjusting to the faint light as the basement door creaked open, spilling in a sliver of light from the stairwell.

Standing in front of you, weapon in hand, was Bucky. His dark hair fell into his eyes, his jaw clenched in determination.

Your breath hitched. “Bucky?”

He moved quickly, crouching in front of you and cutting the ropes that bound your wrists and ankles. His hands were steady, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—concern.

As the ropes fell away, you flexed your stiff wrists, the lingering ache a reminder of how close you had come to disaster. “Why are you here? How did you find me?”

“Aren’t we train buddies?” he asked, his voice low and steady as if the answer mattered more than he let on.

You blinked, your chest tightening with a mix of relief and gratitude. Despite the chaos, despite the fear, here he was—your train buddy. Slowly, you nodded, a small, trembling smile forming on your lips.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

Join the taglist 💖💖💖

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[menelausblues]

man of indulgence.

꒰ you have an unorthodox online friendship with popular baking influencer, shen xavier. ꒱

𖥔 ݁ 6.8k. no evol, long distance au. hobby baker reader/mc x baking influencer xavier. online friendship. fluff. light angst : misunderstandings.

mdni.

SHEN XAVIER. XAVIBAKES 18 hours ago:

[ video ] an ez-pz pastry tutorial for the sun lovers. best enjoyed on a picnic with a loved one. if you make your own, be sure to tag me. i’d quite enjoy seeing everyone’s results with this one :-)

MISSHUNTER REPLIES: [ image ] okay, i did the best i could heh. 😅

nerves making your hands rattle, you shakily hit send on your post. immediately, your heart races at the thought of the potential hat he may actually reply. in your shallow breaths, there exists both anxiety and thrill.

you see, social media is often tangible evidence of hell’s position on this doomed earth, but shen xavier shines a bit of his wholesome light onto the timeline borderline religiously, and that’s enough to keep you around, dodging unprovoked opinions spewed from the cesspool. among a plethora of people who are willfully miserable and feel obligated to project it, there’s a single man who likes to bask in positivity. he asks others about their day, follows recipes, and shows everyone videos of his absurdly rambunctious cat – sylus – doing gymnastics around his modest flat. there’s something about men who gravitate towards domestic endeavors, men who love staying home so much they make a hobby of it by ensuring they never have to leave to enjoy themselves. a man who sees taking care of his home and related activities as desirable and goal-worthy? to you, that type of man is the pinnacle of attraction. that’s the kind of man that you, perhaps, would be willing to risk it all for. shen xavier is that man. but of course, he’s also an incredibly popular mostly-baking influencer based in an entirely different country that you’re well-aware you have no chance with whatsoever, but witnessing his existence is a constant reminder that the type of man you’re holding out for isn’t only a myth. it isn’t the fabrication of a delusion or a delightful daydream. it’s possible, albeit rare. you aren’t picky. it’s just that you’ve never been one to settle for “well enough”. a perfectionist’s spirit, your standards are high and unmoved, rightfully so. every slice of life xavier offers his audience reinforces your ideal type. every video he creates is an obvious labor of love for those who, like him, find great enthusiasm for being home and enjoy spending time in the kitchen. everything he does seems so thorough and authentic. he never places ads in his videos. he never takes on or talks about sponsored merchandise. he always responds to his followers and strives to make his content a group effort with them. everything he shows is just a glimpse into who he genuinely is at his core and outside his content: a simple man with simple hobbies who’s responsible and has a heart that’s teeming with kindness and pleasantries. so, of course, taking the leap and finally posting your attempt at one of his follow-alongs is absolutely nerve-wracking. like him, you have a great love for baking. you’re no professional and you’re no successful influencer, but it’s stress-relieving and you love fresh bread, desserts, and pastries. in fact, finding new things to try baking is how you stumbled upon his channel, fell head over heels in infatuation with him, and now follow him across all his socials, smiling like a common fool when he posts. ꒰ you’re not obsessed, just wildly enamored. ꒱ and on your attempt, you actually feel quite proud of your results. it comes out damn near identical to xavier’s. it maybe doesn’t taste nearly as good as you know his likely does, but it’s sweet and you enjoyed the time spent on it. as you close the app in post-reply sent shame, you inwardly hope the sight of your result is praise-worthy.

it takes three days before you finally dare to open the app again. you avoid the sweeping disappointment of rejection and no recognition as well as the overstimulation of acknowledgement. it may sound invariably insane, but even the thought that he may reply fills you with a sense of deep, overwhelming dread. the thought of being perceived by him gives you equal amounts of anxiety as it does excitement. both feelings differ but they feel exactly the same in your body. your nervousness seems to be warranted as you log on. your eyes go wide with perceivable shock as you take note of the 1,016 notifications. there’s an instant drop of your heart from your chest straight into your gut. you freeze for a moment, terrified for some reason to tap it. it’s clear that he’s replied or something since you’ve never had more than ten notifications on a good day. you tap the frightening little bell and swallow hard. you try your hardest not to eagerly take it all in and instead scroll all the way down where the notifications first begin. when you do, you’re left gasping at the words on the screen.

SHEN XAVIER. quoting MISSHUNTER: ‘the best you could’ was practically perfect! wow. color me impressed. good job, miss hunter :-) 

MISSHUNTER: [ image ] okay. i did the best i could heh. 😅

SHEN XAVIER. FOLLOWED YOU.

SHEN XAVIER. AND 143 OTHERS LIKED YOUR POST. homemade lemon bread. nothing crazy, but it’s delicious.

SHEN XAVIER. replying to MISSHUNTER: so it’s not just the picnic pie! this looks delicious :-D

SHEN XAVIER. quoting MISSHUNTER: oh man i think i found a rival.

MISSHUNTER: [ image ] decided to make blueberry cheesecake from scratch on a whim. 😅

꒰ MENELAUSBLUES OMI ꒱ AND 264 OTHERS FOLLOWED YOU.

scrolling through all the notifications, you can’t help the way you’re beaming. there’s a child-like and wondrous smile on your face as you see he not only replied to you, but followed you, scoped through your account, and boosted your hobby work as well. you blink in sheer shock as you see the stream of likes and retweets continuously flooding in. what makes you hold your breath is the little notification on your dm tab that reads ( 𝟑 ). ꒰ you don’t know it right then, how could you, but that notification in the bar and your choice to tap on it seals your fate. ꒱ 

xavier : 

what a pleasant surprise! someone just as enthusiastic about baking as me. i can’t believe this is your first time showing us your results! thank you for participating in the follow-along. lovely presentation. i looked through your media and salivated at your blueberry cheesecake. so i am here to ask what i have to do to get my hands on that recipe? i’d love to do a video over it and try it myself, with credit and your permission of course.

shocked doesn’t even begin to cover the way you feel. butterflies flutter ruthlessly in your stomach, making you clutch your abdomen as your lips purse together. the shen xavier just dm’d you. he sees your baked goods; he likes them. he sees your follow-along to his video; he likes it. he sees what you do in your spare time; he admits he’s impressed by you. he wants something from you to add substance to his channel. the realization of it all finally settles in and your lips part, your phone slipping from your hands and falling right onto the surface of your mattress. that’s when you just start squealing and haphazardly moving yourself. before you know it, you’re in your bed belly-first, face stuffed into your pillows while your legs kick rapidly behind you. thrilled, you roll onto your back with a content sigh and smile. you stare at the ceiling, recalling it all over again before excitedly grabbing your pillow, covering your face, and continuing as you were. “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! is this real?!” you ask the ether in disbelief. “shen-fucking-xavier?” taking a deep breath, you steady yourself and finally reply to his dms.

you : 

i cannot believe THE  shen xavier is following me, saw my treats, and is now dm-ing me for a RECIPE. am i dead? is this heaven??? wow, thank you so much for your support. i’m so shocked that you replied, let alone followed me and sent me a dm, :3 i’m honored you like things i’ve baked and i’d be even more honored to have you recreate my personal recipe!!!

it takes xavier much less time to reply.

xavier : 

haha i’m just a guy at home with his cat. i’m really nothing special to think you’ve died over, but i’ll admit your enthusiasm does boost my ego a little :-) are you kidding? i’d be a fool not to recognize talent and support it wholeheartedly. have you considered making videos of your own? 

you : 

i have, but i tried once, realized the extent of the time content creation takes, and realized i was a salary girl with work in the morning.

xavier : 

well now i /really/ have to do this recipe in your honor.

you’re not sure what emboldens your next words, but you don’t regret them and you’re only mildly embarrassed. it isn’t you blatantly taking a pass at him, but it’s definitely laying the groundwork to do such a thing. after all, xavier might be the man of your dreams.

you : 

i don’t know. what if you take off with my recipe and i never hear from you again? 😔

xavier : 

unfortunately, you have evidence against me so my diabolical plan to heist your blueberry cheesecake recipe without consequence has failed. i’ll /need/ the exact measurements so i’ll eat this cost, i suppose. i fear i may be stuck in contact with you :-)

and it probably shouldn’t make your heart skip. it’s your first time speaking to him and he’s obviously playing along with you – definitely not reciprocating your slightly flirtatious efforts – but you can’t stop yourself. but even his humor confirms he’s exactly who you think he is. the man of your dreams.

11:04 AM.  xavier:

testing, testing. one two three.

it takes three weeks of back-and-forth communication before you toss it out to the wind that, perhaps, it’s a good time for the two of you to exchange imessage details and shift your consistent messaging to something a bit more formal and casual simultaneously. you use the excuse that keeping up with the social app just to talk to him is adding to your insane amount of time spent online lately. he teases you initially for signing on just to respond to him, about not being able to leave him waiting, but you know it’s the truth. you love talking to xavier. sure, the first few days you’re arguably starstruck, but by day five, there was a budding sense of comfort and casual dialogue exchange. you stop thinking about him as the shen xavier and start to see him as the guy who’s your blossoming friend. the friend you just so happen to have an impossible crush on. you both have a great deal in common, from your love of baking to your surprisingly shared love of classical music and bad movies. your interest in him romantically has yet to wane in the slightest, but you understand even if you both talk every day, there’s no way he sees you as more than an online companion in his same realm of interests. he’s half a world away from you and you’re both already jumping through timezone hoops just to catch each other for a mere friendship. still, you can’t help the way your heart flutters when you get a notification from him. you can’t stop the butterflies that swarm when you make a treat and post it on the timeline only to have him quote it and brag that he got to see it before anyone else.

11:07 AM.  you:

received. and excuse me, what time is it for you, sir?

11:08 AM.  xavier:

a very measly 3:08 am. hey! it’s morning for us both :-)

11:10 AM.  you:

 xavier !!! sir, go to bed.

when he finally responds, you find yourself in a similar state as when you noticed his follow and dms: your mouth slightly parts and your eyes are glued to your screen while your stomach flips where you stand, which just so happens to be right in the middle of your kitchen.

11:11 AM.  xavier:

and why would i do that when talking to you is on the table? i’m a man of indulgence after all.

꒰ 𝟒 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒 ! ꒱

5:35 PM.  xavier:

i think we should watch ‘the happening’ hm. i can’t say it’s “bad” but it really might not be good. 5.0 rating. it’ll be just like flipping a coin :-) what do you think?

it seems like he’s always punctual, prompt out of habit, and respects your time. a true gentleman through and through just like you always believed him to be. your feet have just barely tiptoed over the threshold and into your home before he texts you. ꒰ it doesn’t occur to you that he’s memorized your schedule. ꒱ all the ways time weaves between the two of you hardly ever crosses your mind.

interestingly, you don’t realize you swear off all your monday evenings without either of you ever actually agreeing to it. interestingly, you don’t realize that it’s already been three months in full and nearly two months worth of your monday evenings reserved for his tuesday mornings and a bad movie over facetime with tea. most interestingly, the only thing you do realize is that he’s now embossed into your habits, a consistent variable in all of your equations.

5:42 PM.  you:

i’ve seen it already. 😞 it’s terrible. got another?

5:45 PM.  xavier:

i always have a backup plan, of course. ‘twilight’ perhaps? i won’t lie it looks especially awful.

5:50 PM.  you:

saw that, too. but honestly take that back because that movie is a cult classic. 🫤

5:52 PM.  xavier:

i can almost assure you it’s not.

5:55 PM.  you:

ope! let’s watch it anyway. i just found an opportunity to prove you wrong and i’m taking it.

5:57 PM.  xavier:

if you’re wrong and i find it to be especially awful like i know i will, you do realize i’m going to make you watch ‘shooting stars’ again, right? you ought to consider stocking up on tissues.

5:59 PM.  you:

if i catch you having even a sliver of enjoyment like i know i will, you do realize i’m going to make you watch ‘new moon’ next, right?

6:01 PM.  xavier:

if i’m honest, i’ll watch anything you want. but still, you’re truly insufferable :-P are you almost ready?

6:03 PM.  you:

i’m making tea. are you rushing me, shen xavier?

6:04 PM.  xavier:

no i would /never/ but…you can’t call me for that? :-( i’m only indirectly emphasizing a need for haste due to the sheer capacity of which your absence has been felt.

6:05 PM.  you:

going full shakespeare to rush me is crazy work. truly unprecedented. perhaps, dare i say it, unnecessary even? 🤔 if you miss me then just say that.

6:06 PM.  xavier:

i’m not rushing you but i wouldn’t mind if you hurried. i miss you. 

you stare at the screen for approximately four minutes, heart oscillating wildly, breathing deeply as you feel it sinking and soaring in your chest ceaselessly. you almost can’t take it. every moment you spend seems to be a blend of familiarity and comfort, something remnant of home. there are moments when you blink and for a twinkle, you feel like you’re his. all his. his impatience is what drags you out of disbelief and reticence.

xavier. facetime video

six months pass in a dizzy blur and you’re quite certain that you are very much doomed. between the daily facetime calls, sitting on the phone with one another until the wee hours of the night for you or him, baking together over calls, and the night/day-long movie marathons, it’s official. shen xavier is the man of your dreams and despite the offensive amount of distance and time scattered between your bodies, you can no longer fight how badly you want to call him yours. you’ve realized a few things about xavier in the time you’ve known him, the first thing being that he’s as consistent as they come. he texts you every morning between 9-9:30 am your time, 1 am his time. in fact, he’s so consistent that you can’t recall the last time he’s gone to bed before the sun rises on his side of the world. not since the day you exchanged personal details. consistently, he stays up just to greet you, just to know how your day is starting and going, just to insert himself in any way he can.. the second thing you notice is the intensity of his reliability. if he says he’ll do something, he does it without fail, without falter. he doesn’t give excuses, only results, responsibility, and reasons. the third and most impactful thing to your heart is his shamelessness when he’s fond of someone. 

it started a week ago when he hit you with a goodnight text so charged, you almost couldn’t bring yourself to sleep. you mused over the words, turned them every which way in your mind to discover the hidden meaning behind them before accepting he meant exactly what he said: ‘goodnight. i’ll be here when you wake up, but i’ll most certainly miss you.’and he was there right when you woke up to greet you. you find it strange the way he barely did anything at all to weasel his way into the most important parts of your life. he slid in with ease and without warning. the most frightening part is the growing insistence to be there with you even though he can’t be there with you. this little development is exactly what lands you where you are right now: waiting in line for a very specific laptop you’ve been saving and waiting to release for months. it’s unbearably frigid outside, early december air nipping away at everyone’s comfort. you’re as bundled as you can be, but it somehow isn’t enough.

7:17 AM.  you:

xaviiiii, i made it, but the line is huge and it’s so cold. i’m going to be waiting forever, too. 😔

7:19 AM.  xavier:

poor thing. are you sure you want to do this? are you bundled? will you be warm enough?

7:20 AM.  you:

i’m bundled but bored 😔 i’m sure but shivering 😔 my legs are bouncing like i’m a bunny or smth just to produce /perceived/ warmth. that’s how cold it is.

7:22 AM.  xavier:

aw does my bunny want some company while she waits? :-) i have something to ask anyway.

there he goes again, catching you off guard with his sudden burst of cute responses that teeter on the line of flirting. you can’t seem to appropriately decipher them for all they’re worth. it’s the way he indirectly, even playfully, calls you his. it’s the string of worry you can feel in all his questioning. it’s the certainty you have in your bones that he’s the one who wants to keep you company. ꒰ for a split second, it almost dawns on you that he’s courting you. almost. ꒱ you dismiss it as the reminder of time and distance plague you.

7:23 AM. you:

what exactly are you suggesting? hmm?

a few minutes pass and no reply comes despite him reading it immediately as it delivers. you know it’s not abnormal for some time to pass between replies. you know that he’s a busy influencer. he has content to create and other people that require his attention. yet, you can’t help but want his reply as fast as all the others have come. you can’t help but want him to take care of you first before his work, to worry about you before all of the other arguably more important things.

i had his attention first anyway.

the simple thought crosses your mind and shock follows. you can’t believe you had such a blatant and disgustingly possessive thought. your feelings for him are blossoming far out of your control, you fear. the fear is solidified when your phone suddenly starts ringing and excitement pours out of you when you realize xavier is facetiming you, entirely unplanned and unprovoked. you answer timidly, earphones in as you look at the screen nervously waiting to connect. when it does, you’re met with pooling, warm eyes looking at you pleasantly and a slow smile spreading across supple lips. his ashen hair is tousled around his head and a white tee clings to his frame. every curve and shape of his shoulders, every bulge of his arms, all of it is on display. you gulp, swallowing down the thick sweetness rising like bile. your heart goes wild for him, fluttering at first before becoming a monstrosity of rapid beats and ceaseless thumping. “well hello, what a bundled bunny we have here indeed. cute,” he breathes. an arm rises to rest behind his head as he lays in bed, holding his phone slightly above him to give you a clear view of his coziness. your voice is soft and mumbled as you speak. “not cute, but this is a pleasant surprise.” “very cute,” xavier emphasizes. “i know it’s sudden, but i couldn’t give you wiggle room to reject me if i asked to call.” “as if i’d ever,” a grumble as your eyes move to the side. 

xavier, amusement tugging on his lips, chuckles. “what was that, bunny?” “i said…good evening.” you lie. you know he heard you and you know you meant it, but when he asks you to repeat yourself clearly, you think it might tell him much more than you want him to know in the moment. he hums curiously, studying you with a fixed gaze until you feel bashful. “good morning to you.” “what are you doing?” a soft inquiry laden with coyness, as if you haven’t been talking to him each day for a string of months now. he tilts the camera, revealing a bundle of white fluff curled up into a ball right next to his hip. his cat, sylus. as if well-aware he’s now being observed, piercing rubies open wide and stare into the screen intently, a perpetually grouchy look gracing his features. “i’m in bed, snuggling with my beloved cat who hates me.” xavier jokes, petting his head to which sylus hisses and bares his teeth. “aw, cute catlus. he’s so evil but so adorable.” you both laugh. “it’s getting late there, isn’t it?” “it is and i want to rest, but i have something particularly pathetic on my mind that i can’t shake. if you have time, could you help me out?” your agreement is immediate, almost a given. “of course, xavi. i’ll help you with anything.” he sighs, a wistful breath full of an emotion you can’t pin down, perhaps longing. “what’s silly is … i know that. i know that very well.” “so, what is it then?” you hum, a push for him to go on. “well, i’ve found myself in an interesting predicament. i like someone, a good friend of mine. quite a lot. and i’m at a loss as to how to make it obvious without putting myself in line for harsh rejection and ruining our friendship. it’s very dear to me, as i don’t have many.” “oh,” you murmur, disappointment filling your body with pressure and heat, suddenly embarrassed by your own adoration of him. “well,  xavi, i highly doubt anyone would reject you. you’re…y-you’re kinda the total package, you know?” it comes out as a mumble and a simple point of encouragement, but it feels like a confession the way you’re trying to bury all the loving connotations under your breath. “is that so? well, then i’m struggling to understand why she hasn’t shown the kind of interest in me i want. i’ve…tested the waters a little.” you shrug, eyes cast down as you speak to avoid him seeing the despondence in your eyes. you keep telling yourself that it’s always been silly to like him as more than a cherished friend, to fantasize about him in a romantic light even after getting close. you sigh. “maybe you’re not being clear. what have you tried?”

“admittedly, there’s only so much i can do, as it stands. i have tried to be subtle about it, but at the same time, maybe i’m far too subtle.” “hm, maybe you should confess, you know?” your voice is sad, but  xavier is your friend and he’s confiding in you. you take a deep breath and finally look at him. “some girls like grand gestures. maybe you could try that and segue into telling her how you feel.” “a grand gesture?” he questions, brows raising as his head tilts. you nod. “yeah, like whisk her away on a day together and then confess.” “i feel it might be difficult to do so, but say i do it. say i go out of my way and i whisk her off for a day with me. won’t that be very telling of my feelings?” “isn’t that what you want? more clarity? be bold, xavier. don’t play it safe or you might miss your shot.” don’t make the mistake i’m making. “like i said, you’re the total package. no one would reject you unless they’re blind, don’t like nice men with manners who mind their business, don’t like men in general, or just…isn’t the one for you.”

because maybe i am.

days pass and form into weeks before you’re worried it’s becoming painfully obvious that you’re sort of, kind of avoiding him now, but you don’t know what exactly to say. your enthusiasm since his admittance to liking someone else is drained. you want to talk to him, but talking to him seems to be coupled with deeply-rooted anxiety and soft sadness. you know it already, but now you can’t even delude yourself: there’s no chance for you with him. you have to fix the way you think of him, and fast, or you’ll watch your friendship fizzle out, buried under a heavy avalanche of your jealousy, insecurity, and unrequited affections. the friendship is still important and impactful even if it can never lead to romantic love, and you need to start acting like it. the truth is, there’s a thick fear slowly brewing under the surface of losing your consistent communication and gentle companionship. so, when he texts you for the third consecutive morning at the exact same time, you reason that he’s doing nothing but proving himself and his position in your life. you’ll still be important to him even if he starts to see someone. right?

9:30 AM.  xavier:

good morning bunny. i hope you’re okay. i haven’t heard from you lately. i miss you a lot :-(

‘bunny’ seems to be a new integration from your facetime fiasco during your laptop acquisition. you don’t mind it, but it makes the indirect friendzone hit even harder. that sickening, fuzzy feeling fills your gut; yearning floods your chest. underneath all of it is a dull ache, a painful anticipation of loss. but it’s impossible not to adore him, not to find endearment in everything he says and does. it’s impossible not to be riddled by your own feelings when he gives you cute names, texts you each morning and evening, stays up late just to speak to you, sends you pictures of the mundane but loveliest aspects of his days.

9:43 AM.  you:

i’m sorry. i haven’t felt the best lately.

9:47 AM.  xavier:

feeling sick, bunny? make sure you rest and stay hydrated for me, okay?

you groan, reading while a hand clutches at the fabric covering your stomach. saccharinity seeps from your lonely pores and drenches you in an unbreakable and loving reverence. it dawns on you right then. the longer you know him, the closer you get to him, the more you spend time talking about nothing and it feels like everything, you’re slowly submerging into the depths of a sinkhole that steadily fills up with love, genuine love decoupled from any fantasy or pretense you once had of him.

for you. god do i want to be for you.

9:50 AM.  you:

eh, it’s more of an emotional sickness. i got news i don’t think i wanted to get and it’s been rough. don’t worry about me. i’ll bounce back. i always do.

he seems to leave it at that and you assume that, for the first time,  xavier goes to bed at a slightly reasonable hour for him, which isn’t very reasonable at all, but it’s better than knowing he stays up until the crack of dawn or until whenever you bid him farewell for your own life throughout the day. yet, somehow, the shift in his behavior feels like an indication.

did he tell her? is he seeing someone now? is his attention already being divided?

you feel silly for your string of panicked thoughts and the way anxiety finds comfort settling in the chasm of your chest for over an hour when out of the blue, he responds.

11:10 AM.  xavier:

sorry, bunny. i was packing. anyway i always worry about you. always. what if i told you i had good news that might cheer you up?

you swallow the lump of your relief hard. it sinks and swirls around your lungs so swiftly that you feel a little breathless.

11:19 AM.  you:

oh yea? give it your best shot.

11:22 AM.  xavier:

i’m taking a trip near your area to film content with another baker. i would love to meet my bunny in person finally…if you’re willing to, that is.

and now here you stand, frozen in disbelief at the words you’ve just read. you read the text repeatedly, in rapid succession, confirming its content and its meaning. for a moment, you stop your breathing and stare. you thought that you’d both carry on like this, your hopeless feelings and his relentless consistency always having the distance between them in common. it was supposed to be easier in theory and practice to move past your pointless emotions because you weren’t ever going to have to look in his eyes for too long. there would always be a way to hide the severity of your fondness from him with screens forced between you. although, underneath your disbelief is sheer excitement.

11:27 AM.  you:

you’re coming here?! AND YOU WANT TO SEE ME?! UH,  XAVI!!! DUH! you were so right. that news did cheer me up a bit. when are you coming?

11:27 AM.  xavier:

my flight is booked three days from now. i’ll only be there for the weekend.

11:30 AM.  you:

only two days? 😞 will we have time to meet between your work? i don’t want to get in the way.

11:32 AM.  xavier:

you don’t know by now that i’ll always make time for you?

as you stand in your bedroom, phone clutched in tensed fingers, it becomes quite clear that you’re doomed. you’re absolutely doomed. devastation. you’re sure this can only end in your devastation.

the last couple of days have been interesting, to say the least. you danced the line of excitement and anxiety, but you also planned relentlessly with xavier. so much so that you have to keep reminding him his trip is intended to be work and not solely so the two of you can have fun together. he always only responds in a tender hum and asks you about what places you frequent and places you’ve never been. it’s facetime calls full of “what’s the weather going to be like?” and “don’t worry about your precious catlus. my neighbors luke and kieran will care for him. he likes them much more anyway.” it’s xavier changing the destination of his flight to arrive at an airport closest to you. it’s the two of you coordinating schedules and his murmurs that he can’t wait. it’s the utter lack of mention about filming with another influencer. it’s the fact that it feels like he’s coming to see you and your heart clings to the delusion with glee. so now, the sky blazes, the evening a fiery mural above your head. and it happens, the moment xavier is standing in your doorway, smiling at you like a fool. you can’t believe it. when you open the door, the last six months of your life flash before your eyes and you see a little collection of messages and moments that all lead you to right now: staring at a tall man with his broad shoulders and tousled hair, gentle eyes gazing back at you with a boyish smile, carrying a suitcase in hand and a jacket draped over his arm. he went from being your guilty pleasure to a mutual, from a mutual to a kind-hearted and loving friend, from a good friend to a heart-bursting crush, from a crush to being the man you’re undoubtedly in love with, a man that you’d give your blood, sweat, tears, and every bit of money you have for even a fraction of a chance with. “you’re…actually here…” a murmur made with a distant voice, soft and full of wonder. “you’re…” xavier nods, his voice equally tender but flooding with tepidness. “i’m here, bunny.” “i have to say. this wasn’t on my bingo card.” he chuckles. “are you going to let me in or stare me down?” you step to the side, trying your best to be discreet about the deep breath you take. xavier quietly discards his shoes at the door. “perhaps both,” you tease, closing the door behind him. “here, let me take that. i’ll show you to the guest room.” you reach for his luggage and he quickly pulls it away from your grasp. “don’t you dare. tell me where to put it. you don’t carry things while i’m here, not even your own things.” “i—” you pause, your heart beating so hard you can hear and feel it in your ears. heat fills your body; your face is full of pressure. “o-okay, i’m sorry.” xavier’s brows bunch together. “bunny, the last thing i want to hear is an apology when you’re quite literally hosting me for free. you could’ve easily left me to fend for myself.” “you know i wouldn’t.” you look down at your hands, fingers fumbling over one another. “you always have a place to stay if you’re ever in town again.” and xavier’s next confession leaves you totally stunned and flustered. “as long as you’re here, i’ll be back again and again, i’m sure…i hope.” ꒰ and you don’t know exactly what he means, but it’s another instance that passes when you catch something in his tone and you almost realize he’s courting you. ꒱ you feel like an idiot when you stand there and don’t speak. xavier purses his lips in amusement before adding to the myriad of reasons you’re unlikely to ever get over him. “i don’t mean to rush you, but i’ve only got so much self-control in me. i need to know where to put these things before i abandon them entirely just to hug you. i’d hate to leave such an awful first impression.”

is he… flirting with me?

“i…uh…follow me.” it comes out as a whisper as you hurriedly scurry from your foyer, down the hallway and to your left, right through the threshold of the simple guest room. a bed, a book, and a side table. the room is otherwise bare. “i know it’s not much, but…” xavier shakes his head, entering the room with a pleasant smile. “your home is cute and quaint. comfortable. i love it.”

well, i love you.

you stand in the bedroom’s entry and watch as he sets down his suitcase and jacket, only to turn around, stride across the room and stand before you. “c’mere,” he urges, arms opening and beckoning you forward. you open your mouth to speak, nervousness layering your every motion and thought, but he seems to be unmoved, indifferent to your hesitation as he grips your shoulders and pulls you into his torso. you hardly have time to understand what’s occurring before you’re engulfed in his arms, head pressed to his chest. the scent of teakwood, amber, and spice embraces you, too. you’re in his arms and it’s the most comfortable you’ve ever felt. of course yours slide around his waist to reciprocate. what feels like several minutes pass and xavier hasn’t moved from his position, keeping you tucked in the confines of his hold with no indication of releasing you. “you okay?” a delicate inquiry followed by his affirmative hum. “you like long hugs?” his chuckle vibrates in his chest. you feel the thrumming with your cheek pressed against his ribcage. “i do now, but only with you.” you wonder if he can feel your heart racing the way you can hear his.

it takes xavier a while to be willing to let you free from his enveloping hold. you enjoy it, but you can’t deny the confusion that sends your mind spiraling, nosediving into a faraway daydream of the possible, unspoken implications of his actions since he arrived.

is this normal for him? is he usually this affectionate and chivalrous? well, yes. but. everything he’s doing feels so unlike him but also very like him. sure, but a hug that lasts for ten minutes? he hasn’t stopped calling me bunny for weeks. i swear i saw something in his eyes when i opened the door. maybe i’m insane. maybe i’m seeing what i want to see.

“bunny,” xavier calls, snapping you from your war of thoughts. you look up at him and notice he holds the bottle of tequila he suggested to you prior to his arrival. “you brought it.” there’s a thankful smile on his face and you nod, matching him. “i did. you said you wanted to play a drinking game.” “i have a confession.” he says with a sigh. “i haven’t actually drank in years.” you giggle. “same, so maybe let’s take it easy? half shots.” he only hums, but you swear you hear him mumble, “i’ll need all the courage i can get.”

at first, the silence builds into thick awkwardness.

it’s only resolved by the ridiculous movie you guys decide to watch ꒰ this time with the intent of taking half-sized shots in response to every single instance someone says something ridiculously corny ꒱. this time it’s ‘hercules in new york’.

‘hey, mister! watch your talk!’ ‘i can hear my talk. i cannot watch it.’

“xav,” you laugh, preparing to take yet another swig. “what is this movie? the dialogue is horrendous. we might have to change the rules or i’ll be hospitalized.” like you have for the last few rounds, you pour just a bit of the brown liquid into each tiny glass, carefully measuring it out. when you turn to hand xavier his glass, you find half-lidded eyes staring at you, a hazy ocean swaying gently, flushed cheeks and a kiddish smile. “thanks, bunny.” he says, chuckling as he loosely raises his arms to grasp it. you narrow your eyes and pull the glass back. “hold on, sir. are you already too gone? mister ‘i need to have the exact measurements,’ do you know your own limit?” xavier’s smile widens and his reaching arm falls lazily into his lap. “i do. i’ve reached it.” “and you were really going to grab the drink anyway?” you ask incredulously, a brow raised. he shrugs. “it’s because…i think i’ll take anything you give to me. i like getting things from you.” “what are you even saying?” you grumble, placing the drinks down on the small table in front of you and your anxious hands in your own lap. the tv drones in front of you both, but the sound is drowned by the way your nervousness clouds all your senses right then. this is precisely what you feared, how you wouldn’t know how to react to his friendliness that feels so close to pursuit. silence settles for a moment; it rests between you both, teetering somewhere between comfortable and all-consuming. finally, he’s the one to speak. “you know…there’s…something specific i want you to give me.” he sighs and sits up, large body hunching over bent knees. slowly you turn your head to look at him. “m-me?” “you. i’m sorry if this isn’t as grand as you might have hoped.” confusion befalls you, and yet your clueless heart still bounces to the tune of his emphasis on you. “i’m uh…i’m not really following, xavier.” he grunts, straightens himself up, turns to look directly at you, and leans his face so close to yours, the feeling of his breath tickles your mouth. his eyes peer into yours, curiosity sparkling brilliantly like moissanite before he murmurs, “don’t you know by now that i love you?” xavier only lets two ticks pass before his desirous mouth collides with yours. he wants you to know the flavor of ardor on his lips; he wants to know if your longing tastes the same. he’s a man of indulgence, after all.

[imhalfplastic]

still, in paris (2)

⊹ overview - pairing: mingyu x f!reader genre: slice of life · fluff · contemporary · slow burn · lighthearted tone themes: casual romance, soft humor, text-based narrative cw: brief mentions of social anxiety, lingering solitude, implied fame context, sfw

summary: it started with a laugh caught on camera and a feeling that never really left. not love, not quite... but something soft enough to remember. time passed, the world moved on and so did they. almost. until the right words slipped out at the wrong time.

from kai: hey guys!! part two is finally here! thank you so much for all the sweet messages 🫶 i'm really happy you’ve been enjoying it. not sure if y’all were expecting an ending here but spoiler: this isn’t it lol but good news: part three (final) is already done and coming soon. hope this one hits just as nice as the first :)

now playing: compliqué - ichon

back in los angeles, the jetlag hits weird. not dramatic or anything. just... off. like your brain’s trying to reboot but keeps glitching. the air in your apartment is too still, too quiet. outside, a siren wails somewhere in the distance, far enough not to matter but loud enough to remind you you're not in paris anymore.

you’re not ready to go back to real life.

you tell yourself it’s just a few days. just a little time to reset. but somehow, you don’t leave the apartment. not for any dramatic reason. just… inertia. the kind that settles in your bones after too much movement. after too many lights, too many people, too much of everything. days pass in a soft blur. toast for dinner, unread emails, the same song on repeat. you feel like your body came home but your head’s still somewhere in between.

paris felt like a movie. this feels like the part after. the credits. the silence.

you don’t really mind it. but you don’t really like it either. you stare at the ceiling for a while. then the floor. then the glow of your phone screen. and for no reason at all, you think about the way he looked at you when he said you were easy to talk to. like he meant it.

you’re half-curled on the couch, sideways, one sock on, one gone, phone slipping in and out of your hand. the tv’s on mute. a candle’s burning even though you forgot why you lit it. the air smells like vanilla and leftover takeout.

you should be sleeping. the sky outside is that soft navy-gray that means it's either very late or very early. you don’t check the time. instead, you’re aimlessly scrolling through instagram, brightness low, thumb moving without thinking but then you see mingyu's post.

a carousel. very “brand trip but make it fashion”. group shots. moody lighting. him clinking glasses with someone important. blurry backstage pics that somehow still look like an editorial.

you’re already halfway through when you spot it. sandwiched between a photo of him with some french creative director and a dramatic shot of the eiffel tower at sunset.

the picture. the two of you.

a photo taken mid-laugh, completely unposed. your elbow grazing his arm like you forgot anyone else was around. the kind of picture you only realize someone took after it’s already posted. natural, a little messy, and unmistakably real.

the caption’s simple: merci, paris.

no tags. no context. just... that.

you keep looking at it like it might change if you stare long enough. it doesn’t. it’s still you and him. still that split-second from a night that already feels more like a dream than something that actually happened.

you shift on the couch, pulling the blanket tighter, and a small smile creeps up before you can stop it. because now, somehow even hours behind and half a world away paris doesn’t feel over.

you tell yourself you’re not going to say anything. you open the chat anyway.

you bold move

there’s no typing bubble for a moment. you imagine him seeing it, grinning to himself like this was the plan all along.

mingyu which part

you posting that photo knowing exactly what it would do

mingyu ah the soft launch heard round the world

you snort, pulling the blanket up to your chin. he’s too proud of himself.

you you just wanted to cause chaos didn’t you

mingyu chaos is subjective i prefer “light mischief”

you i haven’t even checked twitter yet i’m scared

mingyu don’t it’s already a mess in the best way

you figures

mingyu someone always zooms someone always overanalyzes it’s tradition

you well mission accomplished “they ate” is probably trending again

mingyu naturally also saw one that said “this is enemies to lovers but they skipped the enemies part”

you pause, a quiet laugh leaving your mouth before you even register it.

you so how does it feel to be half of a fake couple?

mingyu undecided ask me again in a week after the fake breakup

you smile. soft. effortless.

you i’ll draft the notes app apology just in case

the next night has settled around you like a heavy blanket, but your mind refuses to quiet down. the hum of the city outside your window is a restless companion, a reminder that life goes on somewhere else. just not here and not now.

your phone buzzes. you don’t hesitate. maybe a distraction is exactly what you need.

mingyu seoul feels weirdly quiet tonight not peaceful quiet like... lonely quiet

you los angeles is the opposite everything’s loud and bright like it’s trying too hard

mingyu sounds like la and i have that in common trying too hard is kind of my brand

you really? i thought your brand was thirst trap photos and accidental charm

mingyu i was being deep and you turned it into slander incredible

you it’s three in the morning what did you expect?

mingyu it’s 7pm here i’m fully functional

you must be nice my brain clock is upside down and tap dancing

mingyu you’re texting surprisingly well for a sleep-deprived gremlin

you years of training

mingyu what’s keeping you up?

you you know the usual existential dread mixed with bad takeout and worse tv

mingyu sounds like la nightlife to me

you more like la no-life tbh how's your night?

mingyu pretty chill i've had dinner and emotional stability

you gross can't relate

mingyu want me to ship you some? the emotional stability, not dinner i ate it all

you rude but thanks for the thought ig

mingyu anytime especially if you keep texting like this top tier entertainment

you so i'm your free entertainment now? should i start charging

mingyu you’re already priceless don’t ruin the brand

you smooth do you practice these lines or is it just natural talent

mingyu a little of both

you humble and accurate

mingyu thanks i try to stay grounded despite being devastatingly charming

you your words not mine

mingyu give it time

you give me sleep and maybe i’ll consider it

mingyu can’t sleep won’t admit you’re flirting classic

you i’m not flirting i’m insomniac texting completely different genre

mingyu sure and i’m just “checking in” because i “care”

you do you?

mingyu maybe depends you always this fun at 3am?

you depends you always this charming at 7pm?

mingyu sadly yes it’s a burden

you must be exhausting

mingyu devastating, really but someone’s gotta do it

you laugh, soft and unexpected.

he always does this. pulls you out of your own head without even trying. you weren’t planning on smiling tonight, but then there he was.

the truth is, it’s him. mingyu makes everything feel easier to say. like you don’t have to filter the messy parts.

you go to bed with your phone still in your hand and his name still in your head. sleep comes quietly after that. and yeah. he might be the reason why.

but sadly you don’t talk much after that. not on purpose. there’s no big fight, no awkward silence that hangs heavy and needs to be broken.

just... time. work. different time zones. the kind of quiet that settles in when two worlds spin too fast to catch up.

sometimes you’d send a message at 11am your time and for him it’d be 3am. too late or too early for an immediate reply. sometimes the reply would come hours later. a “sorry. just woke up” or a “finally got a break”. and other times you’d wait for hours, fingers hovering over your phone then shrug and keep living.

he’s back to rehearsals, variety shows, photoshoots, the relentless blur of being an idol. you’re back to pretending to be other people for a living, slipping into scripts, interviews, premieres.

the messages slow down. then stop altogether.

and like clockwork, the internet shifts gears.

a new buzz starts: someone deletes all their posts, an unexpected collab stage, a blurry selfie that somehow crashes three fandoms. the excitement dies down. the noise settles. and you let go.

not because it didn’t count, but because maybe that was all it ever was. short. soft. a blink in the chaos. a passing scene.

one the internet spun into a headline before you even had a chance to figure out what it really was.

until

Y/N Y/LN Answers the Web’s Most Searched Questions | WIRED

[CAMERA ON – you’re seated in the WIRED studio, wearing something effortlessly cool. you smile at the camera, holding the classic board full of google questions].

Y/N: hello, i’m Y/N Y/LN and this is the WIRED autocomplete interview. (holds up board)

Y/N: this already feels like a mistake. let’s go.

[PEELS FIRST STRIP] Y/N (reading): "is y/n y/ln british?" (you blink once, then shake your head.)

nope. not even a little. (mock posh accent) but i do say “sorry” way too much, so spiritually? maybe. (smiles, shrugs)

[PEELS NEXT STRIP] Y/N: "how did y/n y/ln get famous?" (leans forward, mock whispering)

honestly? a mix of hard work, good timing, and a casting director who probably took pity on me. (grins) also crying. i cried a lot during the auditions. professionally. (tilts head)

[PEELS NEXT STRIP] (you pause, eyeing it like you already know what’s coming) Y/N (smiling): “are y/n y/ln dating mingyu from seventeen?” (you raise your eyebrows, then let out a breathy laugh. hold the strip up like a receipt.)

wow, straight to the rumors. (leans on one elbow, chin resting in hand)

so. here’s the thing: we met at a dior event. very fancy, very quick. we talked for, what, one minute? maybe two. and now everyone’s convinced we’ve been sneaking around for months. (shakes head, amused)

host: so that’s a no? (you raise a brow)

i mean... i don’t even think he has my number. (shrugs lightly) but i get it guys! paris has a way of making things look way more interesting than they are. (laughs softly)

anyway. next.

[PEELS NEXT STRIP] Y/N (reading): "does y/n y/ln have siblings?" (you instantly laugh, eyes crinkling.)

i do. they keep me humble by never watching anything i’m in until six months later. (pause) and then texting ‘not bad’ like they’re writing for the new york times. (beat) love them though. most of the time.

[PEELS NEXT STRIP] Y/N: "what is y/n y/ln doing next?" (sits up a little straighter, excited)

ooh, fun. i just shot a small part in a friend’s indie film. it’s weird and beautiful and possibly haunted. (grins) and we finished filming season two of the series that somehow got tagged ‘comfort show’ despite all the emotional damage. (raises eyebrows) so… yeah. can’t wait to traumatize you again.

[PEELS FINAL STRIP] Y/N (reading): "can y/n y/ln sing?" (nods confidently)

yes. should i? absolutely not. (laughs) but i do sing in the car. badly. with full confidence. which, if you ask me, is what really counts. (gestures like it’s a public service) you’re welcome, traffic.

[OUTRO – you smile at the camera, board now full.] Y/N: that was the WIRED autocomplete interview. thank you for asking very normal and totally not invasive questions about me. (pause, smirking) seriously though… this was fun. thanks for having me! (waves) bye!

hours after the interview dropped on youtube, you get a message from the team saying thanks. you thank them back for the invite and go on with your day. you’re halfway through microwaving leftover pasta when your phone lights up.

mingyu “i don’t even think he has my number”??

you stare at the message. sigh. pause the microwave.

you look things were happening lights were bright the board was judging me

mingyu so that was your panic response? cutting me off completely?

you i blacked out might sue for trauma

mingyu you made it sound like we met once and never talked again

you i wanted to be mysterious not make it look like you were a fever dream

mingyu mission failed the internet thinks we’re already broken up in code

you nooooo sad day for our fans

mingyu yeah they got a whole storyline you gave them season finale vibes

you i was just trying to survive the chaos and maybe keep some mystery alive you know protect it a little

mingyu protect what?

you whatever this is was. might still be?

mingyu so dramatic

you just french

mingyu next you’ll say you’ve been staring out rainy windows listening to sad playlists

you once maybe twice but it was very cinematic thanks

mingyu sure sure just promise to stop lying on camera

you no promises i’m a pro

mingyu then just text me next time before you erase me digitally

you deal

mingyu btw i didn’t delete your number just wasn’t sure if i was still supposed to have it

you i kept yours even when the texts stopped

you sit on the couch, less hungry suddenly

you but i get it you vanished into seventeen promo world i got swallowed by set life

mingyu true blinked and three months disappeared weird how quiet it got

you life’s loud that’s just how it goes

a beat.

mingyu you’re not quiet now

you neither are you

mingyu guess we’re even

you hm until the internet says we’re secretly married again

mingyu give it a week someone will find my reflection in your sunglasses and call it proof

you that’s on you for having such a recognizable shoulder

mingyu thanks?

you not sure if that’s a compliment but okay

mingyu so this is us trying normal?

you define “normal” cause we’re already weird

mingyu no cameras no headlines just us texting like regular people

you ambitious borderline unrealistic

mingyu i’ll take that challenge

you is this you trying?

mingyu painfully please clap

you i’ll consider it if you don’t disappear again

mingyu fair but same goes for you

you deal mutual ghosting is off the table

mingyu look at us growth

you emotional maturity looks good on you

mingyu don’t get used to it

you too late

you smile at your phone, the ease between you both settling in.

it’s not quite resolution. but it’s not uncertainty either. just this quiet pause, where neither of you is gone. two stories still moving, but maybe for now in the same page.

three days later, you’re curled up on the couch, cereal long past crunchy, some show playing in the background you’ve already forgotten the plot of. the wired interview’s been out for 72 hours, and the internet is still doing what it does best… spiraling. your best friend’s sent you edits. all lana del rey. all deeply chaotic. and honestly? kind of brilliant.

your phone buzzes.

mingyu they’re still talking about our breakup

you it’s been three days since the video dropped don’t they get tired?

mingyu apparently not someone just posted a theory that i got dumped mid-interview and have been crying in hidden messages ever since

you should i send you a fruit basket

mingyu definitely you told the world i didn’t even have your number in celebrity language it read as: “it’s not me, it’s you and also i blocked you”

you or maybe it just meant: “bright lights make me say dumb things and betray everyone i’ve ever cared about.”

mingyu i get it happens to the best of us but also some of us didn’t panic some of us stayed mysterious and romantic and didn’t forget our scene partner

you your version of romance is honestly terrifying

mingyu and yet... you’re still here

you out of curiosity maybe science?

mingyu sure a slow and cinematic kind of curiosity

you you’d love that

mingyu i do love that and speaking of slow and cinematic dior autumn-winter show is next month

you how subtle

mingyu i try

you is this you asking if i’ll be there?

mingyu this is me requesting my rightful redemption arc something poetic closure maybe on a rooftop rain optional

you optional? you’ve clearly rehearsed the whole scene

mingyu this is a yes?

you depends will you be there?

mingyu yeah i think it’d be a waste to let the story fade out not when we’ve got that sequel energy

you and what exactly does this sequel look like?

mingyu you me soft lighting less chaos more clarity

you paris again, huh?

mingyu feels like destiny doesn’t it

you i call it good brand connections

mingyu i prefer fate less corporate

you still involves a dress code

mingyu i’m just inviting you to finish the movie we accidentally started

you be careful that sounds dangerously like a date

mingyu maybe it is maybe it’s just two people wearing dramatic outfits in a dramatic city doing absolutely nothing subtle

you have you already planned the soundtrack?

mingyu only the important parts slow jazz some string instruments your laugh somewhere in the background

you you rehearsed that?

mingyu i live in rehearsals comes with the job

you so does pretending you planning on doing any of that?

mingyu not this time we could pick up where we left off see what happens when no one’s watching

you you think no one will be watching?

mingyu they’ll be watching but we won’t be performing not this time

you good i’m done pretending i don’t like good endings

mingyu maybe it’s not one maybe it’s just… the part where we stop acting like we don’t care what comes next

you you think there’s a next?

mingyu could be if you’re in paris

you maybe if you’re lucky

mingyu i usually am when it’s about you

you set your phone down, the glow still lingering behind your eyes. the room is quiet again, but it doesn't feel so empty. you sink deeper into the cushions, heart steady, mind softer than it’s been in days.

no big promises. no dramatic declarations. just something unfolding.

maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself. maybe paris will just be paris. but maybe not. maybe it’s exactly where the story picks up again.

previous - next

[palevcr]

FIVE MORE MINUTES

he’d seen war. he’d saved the world. but nothing ever wrecked him like her. she ruined him in the gentlest way—soft smiles in the morning light, her bare skin tangled in his sheets, the way she whispered his name like a promise. it was the way she looked at him, like he wasn’t captain america, just a man she loved. steve used to think battlefields were where he felt most alive. but now, he knew better. now, it was in slow mornings. in lazy touches and sleepy kisses. in the way her body clung to his even after the high passed. he’d never known peace could feel like this. like her. and hell if he’d ever give it up.

pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

genre: soft smut, established relationship, slice of life, fluff-heavy intimacy

bot version: STEVE ROGERS- lazy mornings

tw: MDNI 18+, explicit sexual content, lazy morning sex, emotional intimacy, creampie, post-sex vulnerability, domestic tenderness, soft!Steve, praise, sleepy touches, implied breeding kink, still-connected aftercare

Steve had spent most of his life finding purpose on the battlefield.

There was a certain clarity out there—chaos all around, but his path always sure. Danger made things simple. You protect people. You fight the bad guys. You move forward. It wasn’t easy, but it made sense. Adrenaline, discipline, the clean snap of decisions made in seconds—it all formed a rhythm that kept him going.

For a long time, he believed nothing could ever feel better than that—the high of a mission well done, the weight of his shield in his hands, the ache of tired muscles after a long fight for something that mattered.

Turns out, he’d just been looking in the wrong place.

Because nothing—nothing—compared to this.

To mornings like this.

No explosions. No briefings. No armor. Just sunlight and softness and her.

The bed was still warm with the comfort of sleep, the light outside pale and golden, sneaking through the half-drawn blinds. It spilled across the hardwood floor and the rumpled sheets in long, lazy stripes.

And there she was—lying beside him in one of his old T-shirts, faded from too many washes, draped messily off one shoulder. Her breathing was slow and even, lips parted slightly, cheek pressed into the pillow like she hadn’t a care in the world.

Steve watched her for a moment, the corners of his mouth tugging into a quiet, disbelieving smile. It still caught him off guard sometimes—that he got to have this. That he got to have her.

His fingers moved before he could think better of it, brushing lightly across the bare stretch of her thigh that had slipped out from under the covers. He slid closer, the weight of his arm curling around her waist as he gently pulled her back into his chest.

Her warmth sank into him like sunlight on skin. Familiar. Soothing.

He pressed a slow, reverent kiss to her exposed shoulder—soft and lingering, more breath than contact.

“Wake up, sweetheart,” he murmured against her skin, voice rough from sleep and laced with affection.

She stirred slightly, a muffled sound escaping her as she shifted back against him, but didn’t fully wake.

“I’ve got training with Bucky this morning,” he whispered, trailing his lips up toward her neck, brushing her with the kind of kisses that held no rush, no urgency—just devotion.

Her response came seconds later, voice gravelly and sweet in that way only early mornings could make it: “Five more minutes…”

She pressed her hips back into him unconsciously, tucking herself tighter into the curve of his body like a puzzle piece falling into place. Her ass brushed against the soft swell of him, and he exhaled, slow and shaky, the temptation curling low in his belly like smoke.

Steve chuckled against her neck, the sound low and warm. “Five more minutes,” he echoed, dragging his hand lazily across her stomach, the pads of his fingers dipping beneath the hem of the shirt. His shirt.

His fingers splayed wide, possessive without pressure, his thumb stroking the soft skin just above her hip bone.

She hummed sleepily, wriggling under his touch, and that simple, instinctive movement made something inside him tighten.

Still slow. Still tender.

His hand traveled up, slipping beneath the cotton to brush over the swell of her breast—bare, warm, perfect. He cupped her gently, thumb flicking over her nipple in a lazy, absent caress that had her sucking in a soft breath.

“Steve…”

“I know,” he whispered into the shell of her ear. “Just—just stay like this.”

His hips rolled forward, a slow grind, nothing sharp or desperate, just friction and heat and the sweet drag of skin on skin beneath the thin layer of fabric. She gasped quietly, hips tilting to meet his in a sleep-hazed rhythm that was more about feeling than thinking.

There was something unhurried about it. A kind of sacred intimacy in how he touched her. Like he had all the time in the world. Like this was the only thing that mattered.

Because, in that moment, it was.

He eased her leg forward with his knee, opening her up just enough. His hand slid down again, finding the warm, wet heat between her thighs, and he groaned softly at the feel of her. Ready for him. Even half-asleep, she was ready for him.

“Oh, sweetheart…” he breathed, pressing his forehead to the back of her neck.

She turned her face, looking over her shoulder at him, eyes still heavy with sleep, lips parted.

“Don’t stop.”

Like he ever could.

He shifted behind her, nudging his boxers down just enough to free himself, the tip of his cock brushing against the soft swell of her ass.

“Stay,” she whispered, almost inaudibly, breath stuttering as she felt him rub against her.

He kissed her shoulder again, again, like a prayer. “Always.”

Her breath caught as he pressed into her—inch by slow, reverent inch—his hand splayed across her belly, grounding them both. There was no rush in it, no frantic need. Just the quiet miracle of this. Of her. Of the way her body opened up for him, warm and slick and so heartbreakingly soft.

“God,” Steve exhaled, the sound almost a groan. He felt her tighten around him instinctively, like her body didn’t want to let him go. “You feel so good, sweetheart.”

She whimpered softly, caught between sleep and sensation, her hand slipping back to find his hip and hold him there. Her thighs relaxed around him, pliant, trusting, every breath she took hitching slightly as he bottomed out inside her and held there—deep, still, full.

Neither of them moved for a moment.

There was something sacred about it. The way their bodies fit. The quiet that wrapped around them like another blanket. Her heartbeat under his palm. Her breath against his skin. The slow, steady throb of him inside her.

Steve’s hand drifted up to cup her breast again, thumb brushing over her nipple in an absent, tender motion. Her hips tilted back against him, subtle, a wordless plea, and he answered it without hesitation.

His hips rolled forward—just barely. A lazy, deliberate thrust that dragged against the deepest part of her, pulling a low moan from her lips.

“That what you want?” he asked, voice like gravel, sleep-heavy and full of adoration. “Nice and slow?”

She nodded, eyes fluttering shut, her body melting under him.

And so he gave it to her. Everything.

He moved with an aching patience, hips grinding in a rhythm so slow it was almost torturous, his cock dragging through her slick heat like he had nowhere else in the world to be. Each thrust was deep and drawn-out, like he was savoring the feeling of her wrapped around him.

Their bodies rocked together under the thin weight of the sheets, the soft rustle of fabric and quiet, shared breaths filling the room. She gasped with each drag of him inside her, the pleasure curling through her low and thick like honey.

“Feel you everywhere,” she whispered, head tilting back into the crook of his neck, her voice barely more than a breath. “Steve—”

He kissed the side of her face, murmuring low things against her skin—things she’d never remember word for word, but would feel in her chest for the rest of the day. Sweet, quiet things like "I’ve got you," and "You’re everything," and "Just like that, baby, that’s it."

He brought her to the edge without ever changing the pace. No pounding. No frenzy. Just the slow, sweet burn of being loved.

When she came, it was quiet and full-bodied. A soft cry caught in her throat as her muscles clenched around him, her legs trembling slightly from where they tangled with his under the covers. Her body shook in his arms, her back arching, fingers curling into the sheets.

Steve held her through it, slowing even more as she fell apart, whispering praises into her ear, lips brushing her skin like he couldn’t stand not touching her.

It was only after her body stopped trembling that he let himself go—shallow thrusts and soft groans spilling into the hollow of her shoulder as he came deep inside her, arms tightening around her in something close to awe.

Then, stillness again.

The kind that didn’t demand anything. The kind that wrapped them in warmth and afterglow, in the scent of sweat and sex and sleep.

They stayed like that. His body flush against her back, his cock still nestled inside her, softened now but still thick and warm and keeping them connected. Neither of them made a move to shift. To clean up. To start the day.

She let out a breathy hum, the kind that sounded like satisfaction and contentment rolled into one.

“I can’t feel my legs,” she mumbled.

Steve let out a quiet laugh, nose buried in her hair. “You need ‘em right now?”

“Not really.” She shifted slightly, hips rolling back into his, and smiled when she felt him twitch inside her.

“Careful,” he warned, voice low, amused. “I said I’ve got training in an hour, not that I wouldn’t cancel it.”

She hummed again, her hand finding his and pulling it tighter around her waist. “Five more minutes.”

Steve smiled, soft and full of something warm in his chest. Something real.

“Five more minutes,” he repeated, resting his forehead against her shoulder.

And they stayed like that—wrapped in heat and softness, tangled up and not quite ready to let the morning go.

Because for all the wars he’d fought, this was the only place Steve Rogers ever truly wanted to be: still inside the woman he loved, the world outside quiet, and time stretching like eternity around them.

[22ayla21]

Quiet Moments of Care

In a world where Leona was accustomed to being the predator and the leader, he found solace and joy in simple and cozy moments in the kitchen with his wife.

Leona rarely went into the kitchen. It was his wife's domain, and she managed the cooking perfectly well, taking into account both his and the children's preferences. He never understood why bother with cooking when there were so many people capable of taking on those chores. His status as a prince had always allowed him to delegate tasks, and it seemed that housework was quite suitable for someone like her, especially since he had enough means to hire anyone.

But there was something in her desire to keep everything under control, in her care that always greeted him upon his return home – a hot dinner, a cozy house, a warm light in the kitchen. It was her place, and he always enjoyed watching her effortlessly create comfort, filling the house with tastes and smells. Leona knew that she would always be there to take care of him and the children, and he had often noticed how remarkably she managed to combine parental worries with a sincere desire to do everything with love. But each time, he felt increasingly uneasy when he realized that she was constantly cooking without even asking for his help.

It wasn't that he couldn't cook. Leona was quite capable of handling simple dishes. Meat, potatoes, a few side dishes – he could prepare all of that without much trouble, but these domestic trifles somehow faded into the background when he was faced with the opportunity to give an order or solve more important matters. But she... she cooked herself. Every time he entered the kitchen, he felt her hands at work, her focused gaze as she chopped or stirred something in a pot. He wasn't ignorant in this area, but it seemed that he didn't belong in her element.

Sometimes, despite this, he felt uncomfortable that she always did everything alone. He could simply summon one of the servants to cook for her, but for some reason, that never felt right. He began to feel useless if he didn't help, and in such moments, despite his grandeur and status, he sincerely felt how important this small act of care was that he could bring into their home.

In those moments when she stood in the kitchen, intently working, he would slowly approach and, without a word, start doing something nearby. His hands, accustomed to magic and diplomacy, felt clumsy on the kitchen surface, but he continued nonetheless. He would hand her a knife for slicing, help with the dishes, or wipe his hands on a towel, despite the slight displeasure in her gaze that seemed to say, "You don't know how." But it was important for him to be near, even if at first it only caused a slight smile on her face, as if she accepted his efforts as something sweet but completely unnecessary.

But in these moments, when time seemed to slow down, and their joint work in the kitchen became not just help but a small ritual, Leona began to feel a comfort and warmth that wasn't confined to luxurious halls and throne rooms. This moment was just theirs – cozy, quiet, and intimate. He couldn't say exactly what he liked so much about it, but every time they cooked together, when their hands accidentally touched, when she looked at him with a kind of light, ironic affection, he felt a special harmony that was so lacking in his life.

His wife didn't ask him to help, she didn't make him do it, but he knew that she was happy to see him nearby. Even if he couldn't do everything as perfectly as she did, even if his help was sometimes comical, it was important to her that he did it of his own free will. She always looked at him with gratitude, and sometimes her gaze said more than all the words. He was proud that he could give her such moments, even if they were imperfect.

It was more than just helping with the cooking. It was about how they together created that small world around them, where it didn't matter who was more skilled in the kitchen. The main thing was that they were together, and this moment was just theirs.

[shaiyasstuff]

lines that blur | zayne

synopsis : He wasn’t supposed to fall for you. Not with the kind of work you did—work that made men like him keep their distance. content : hostess!mc/reader, not fluff but not quite angst either, romance yes now playing : Old Love - Yuji, putri dahlia

He didn’t mean to fall for you.

Not for the way your smile slipped out when you thought no one was watching—soft, secret, curling up into your eyes like something you forgot to hide.

Not for the way your face lit up when you tasted something sweet, like joy was simple and he’d only just remembered what it looked like.

And definitely not for your laughter—god, your laughter—that didn’t belong in a place like this. It rang out clean, bright. Untouched.

He wasn’t supposed to fall.

Not with the kind of work you did—work that made men like him keep their distance.

Not when he’d built his life on lines he didn’t cross, rules he didn’t bend.

Not when he wasn’t even meant to be there that night—stuffed into a booth at the club, dragged out by Greyson for a birthday he hadn’t wanted to celebrate.

But you were there.

And suddenly—so was he.

Zayne had watched you that whole night.

Not on purpose—not at first. But his eyes kept drifting, finding you in every pause, every lull in conversation.

The soft sway of your hair with each step, like it had a rhythm all its own.

The way you poured wine without spilling a drop—elegant, effortless. Like this wasn’t just a job, but a craft you’d made your own.

In the low, moody glow of the club, you looked untouchable.

As if you didn’t belong to this place at all, but moved through it—like smoke, or something not quite real.

He watched. Quietly.

Careful not to let it show—not in his face, not in the way he sat rigid, fingers curled tight into his coat.

But god, he was mesmerised.

Fully. Completely.

And he hadn’t even touched you yet.

Greyson stumbled out first, the rest of the group trailing behind in a blur of laughter, apologies, and half-hearted goodbyes.

Then it was just you and Zayne.

He didn’t move. Didn’t look like he intended to.

So you tilted your head toward the bar—wordless—and walked.

He followed.

You sat him down and ordered a slice of cheesecake. The best one on the menu.

He didn’t ask why. Just picked up the fork and took a bite.

And that’s when it happened.

You laughed at something—small, probably stupid—but it slipped out before you could catch it. Light. Unfiltered.

Zayne went still beside you.

Completely still.

He hadn’t expected it. Not here. Not from you.

But god—it did something to him.

The kind of thing he didn’t have words for.

Not yet.

“You were so obedient,” you tease, licking your popsicle with an exaggerated wink as you glance up at him.

Zayne walks quietly beside you, milk tea in hand, eyes never on the pavement—always on you.

These walks had become routine now. Late-night dessert runs. After-shift drives.

Little rituals that started the night he’d stayed longer than he meant to… said more than he probably should have.

You remember it clearly. The way he’d asked to stay in touch.

You—just tipsy enough, basking in the slow glow of his attention—had leaned in with a grin and handed over your number.

It started small.

He’d show up during your shifts. Never making a scene, just watching. Waiting.

And when your night ended, he’d walk you to his car. Drive you home. Never asked for anything.

Then one evening, he’d asked if he could take you out. Just dessert.

You remember sliding into the passenger seat, laughing as you buckled in.

“You’re the first guy who’s ever taken me out for something other than sex,” you’d said—half a joke, half confession.

You hadn’t expected the way his face shifted. The quiet ache in his eyes.

His hands moved slower then, gentler, as he reached across you to pull the seatbelt into place.

The softness of it caught you off guard. Made your breath stutter.

“Then I’ll be the only guy from now on,” he said.

You laughed, brushed it off—playful, easy.

But your heart had already betrayed you.

And now?

Now, seeing you had become part of his routine. His rhythm.

Before your shift. After.

If you so much as texted craving something sweet, he’d show up with it—no questions, no hesitation.

He didn’t say much. Never asked for more.

But the way he looked at you?

He was starting to realise—he needed you more than he wanted to admit.

You both slowed as the club came into view, neon lights casting soft blue against the pavement.

You turned to him, that familiar grin on your lips. Playful. Easy. “This is it. I’m going now.”

He gave a small nod, hands tucked deep in his coat pockets. “I won’t be able to pick you up tonight,” he said, voice lower than usual.

You waved him off. “It’s okay. I know you’ve got a long shift.”

A step back. Still smiling. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

His gaze softened—barely, but you caught it.

The crease between his brows smoothed, and for a heartbeat, he just looked at you.

Like you were something fragile in a world too sharp. Something he didn’t quite know how to protect…

But wanted to.

“I know,” he said.

But what he didn’t say—not out loud—was that he wished you didn’t have to.

He stayed there, watching as you disappeared into the club, swallowed by low lights and velvet curtains.

Only when the door clicked shut behind you did he finally turn and head for his car.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he exhaled slowly.

His palms itched against the steering wheel. His collar felt too tight.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.

But god, the image of you clung to him.

The way your head tilted when you teased. The spark in your eyes. The curve of your smile like you knew exactly what you were doing.

That dress—barely skimming your thighs.

The way you walked. The way you moved in those heels like the world owed you its attention.

He leaned back, closed his eyes.

Let out a quiet, frustrated breath.

You were driving him mad.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know it.

—•

The hospital hums with beeping monitors and rolling carts, a constant background chorus of machinery and footsteps.

Zayne moves through it all on autopilot—writing reports on whiteboards, checking charts, letting children place sticker crowns on his shoulder as he makes his rounds.

Then comes a thought.

Sharp. Uninvited.

What would your children look like?

And then—did you even like children?

He chokes on his own spit, coughing into his fist.

“You good, doctor?” Greyson appears beside him, giving his back a firm pat.

Zayne raises a hand, nodding as he swallows down the last of the cough.

“Yes. I’m fine,” he says after a beat, voice tight but steady.

Greyson studies him a second longer before shrugging and moving on, clipboard tucked beneath his arm.

Zayne exhales, adjusting the stethoscope around his neck like it might steady him. But the thought lingers.

You—holding a toddler. Your laugh mixing with theirs. Something soft, impossible. A vision from a life he had no business imagining.

He drags a hand down his face.

It’s stupid.

He’s never even seen you in daylight.

He forces his focus to the next room. To the patient. To anything else.

A little girl with tangled hair and smudges of marker on her arms beams at him as he walks in. Her grin is gap-toothed and infectious.

“Dr. Zayne!” she calls.

“Hey, princess,” he says, masking the shake in his chest with a practiced smile. “Did you draw me something today?”

She holds up a page—stick figures under a rainbow. Or maybe an explosion. He can’t tell.

“That one’s you,” she says, pointing to the tallest figure with absurdly long arms.

Zayne crouches beside her bed, taking the drawing like it might fall apart in his hands.

“And who’s this?” he asks, tapping the smaller figure beside him—big eyes, a dress, a smile that somehow feels too familiar.

She shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe your wife.”

He freezes.

Just for a second.

Long enough for the air to shift.

Long enough for the thought to wedge itself deeper.

Maybe.

“Maybe,” he says softly, folding the paper and slipping it into his coat pocket.

Her monitor beeps steadily. His heart doesn’t.

He finishes his rounds on muscle memory—hallways blurring past, fluorescent lights feeling too bright, too white.

By the time he makes it to the parking lot, the sun’s slipping behind the buildings.

He leans against his car, pulls out his phone. Opens a message thread.

‘Craving anything sweet tonight?’

He stares at the words.

Deletes them.

Types again.

‘Are you okay?’

No.

Backspace. Gone.

He locks the screen and exhales, head tipping back, eyes closed against the fading sky.

God, what were you doing to him?

Over at the club, the shift drags.

The music is louder than usual, the crowd drunker, the tips smaller. You’re on your feet for hours, smile painted on and cracking at the edges.

Someone spills a drink on your tray. Another tries to grab your waist like you’re part of the decor. You laugh it off—polite, effortless. Like always.

But tonight, it wears on you more than usual.

Maybe it’s the ache in your legs.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s not here.

He usually is. Somewhere in the corner, tucked into a booth, quiet and watching like he’s memorising the shape of you.

But not tonight.

You told him it was fine. That you didn’t need looking after.

You meant it. Mostly.

Still, when you glance at your phone between tables, you find yourself hoping for something.

A text. A dumb dessert joke. A “you good?”

Something.

Nothing.

You wipe down the counter harder than necessary, forcing a breath through your nose.

Don’t be needy.

Don’t get used to kindness that was never promised.

The club lights shift—purple to red, red to gold—and your head throbs with it. You duck into the back for a break, slipping behind the staff door and leaning against the cool wall.

You check your phone again.

Still nothing.

You open his name. Type.

‘Busy shift?’

Pause. Backspace.

‘I didn’t see you. Everything okay?’

Backspace.

You sigh, thumb hovering.

Instead, you swipe up and lock the screen.

Shove the phone into your pocket like it’s heavy.

Because the truth is, you’re not used to missing people. You’ve made an art out of not needing anyone.

But Zayne?

Zayne is making you forget the rules you built around your own heart.

And that’s dangerous.

You shove the phone deeper into your apron pocket and push off the wall, heading back out into the club.

The music swallows you whole again—bass thudding against your ribs like a second heartbeat.

You move on instinct, clearing glasses, flashing smiles, pretending you belong in a place that feels more like a cage with every passing night.

But your mind drifts.

It always does when you’re tired. When you let your guard down even a little.

You remember the first time you walked into a place like this.

Not because you wanted to.

Because you had to.

The debt collector had been polite, at least. Smiling when he explained it in simple words your mother couldn’t quite grasp, not through the painkillers and the hospital bills.

Smiling when he leaned back in his chair and said, “It’s simple. A few nights a week. Some tips, some cash under the table. You’ll make a dent in what’s owed.”

Like it was nothing.

Like it was normal.

And maybe it is, for girls like you.

Girls who grew up learning that being pretty was a currency, that being polite was a shield, that survival sometimes meant smiling even when you wanted to scream.

You hadn’t screamed.

You’d just nodded.

And now here you are. Still smiling. Still surviving.

Some nights it’s almost easy. Some nights you almost forget.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you feel every compromise pressed against your skin. Every choice you didn’t really get to make.

And for the first time in a long time, you wish someone would notice.

You wish someone would see past the gloss and the grin and the practiced tilt of your head.

Someone like him.

Zayne.

You shake the thought off, slipping between tables with mechanical grace.

You don’t have time for stupid things like hope.

Hope gets you reckless.

Hope gets you hurt.

You know better by now.

You wipe down the counter one more time, even though it’s already clean, just for something to do with your hands.

And when your break finally rolls around, you duck back into the staff hallway, sink onto the bench, and let your head fall back against the wall.

Your phone buzzes.

Your heart jumps—too fast, too hopeful.

But it’s just a shift schedule update.

You let the screen dim without reading it.

And in the hollow quiet between songs, you whisper the one thing you’ll never say out loud.

“I miss you.”

—•

It was supposed to be a forgettable night.

Just one drink. A quick in-and-out for Greyson’s birthday. He hadn’t even planned to stay past the first round.

But then the music shifted. The crowd parted.

And there you were.

You moved through the club like it didn’t touch you. Like the noise and heat and heavy stares slid right off your skin.

Your tray was balanced with casual precision, your smile a half-formed thing you only gave to customers who tipped well.

But it wasn’t your smile that caught him.

It was the quiet.

There was a stillness in you, even in motion.

Something practiced. Controlled.

Like you’d learned how to be looked at without being seen.

He knew the look. Knew the posture.

It was armor.

You stopped at a nearby table, set down a round of drinks. A man reached for your wrist—too familiar, too fast.

Zayne tensed.

But you stepped back smoothly, smile never slipping, voice light as sugar as you said something he couldn’t hear.

Whatever it was, it worked. The man laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender.

You walked away untouched.

But he didn’t.

He was still sitting there, heart beating faster than it should’ve, watching the place you’d just been.

It should’ve ended there.

Just a glance. Just a moment. Just a beautiful woman in a too-loud club, doing her job.

But then you passed his table. You didn’t look at him—but he looked at you.

And for the briefest second—half a breath, maybe—you brushed a hand across your hip.

A nervous tic. A flicker of discomfort.

Gone just as fast.

But he saw it.

And it stayed.

Even after Greyson had one too many and spilled whiskey on his sleeve. Even after the group peeled off into the night, loud and laughing.

Even after he should’ve left, should’ve gone home, should’ve forgotten you.

He stayed.

He sat in that booth long after his reason for being there had disappeared.

Because of you.

Not your smile. Not your body.

But that flicker.

That moment when your guard cracked.

That was the night it started.

The night you became more than a passing glance.

More than a pretty girl in a loud room.

You became a question he couldn’t stop asking.

The drawing is still in his coat pocket.

He hasn’t taken it out, hasn’t looked at it again—but he knows it’s there.

Knows the crayon lines are probably smudged now from how many times he’s slipped his hand over that spot, just to feel the weight of it.

The thought of you still hasn’t left him. Not since the hospital. Not since the half-typed texts in the parking lot.

He told himself he’d leave it alone.

Give you space. Give himself time.

Be smart.

But smart doesn’t feel the way you do when you laugh.

It’s nearly midnight now.

The hospital is quiet, fluorescent lights dimmed, halls echoing with tired footsteps and vending machine hums.

He should go home. Sleep. Reset.

Instead, he leans against the break room counter, thumb hovering over your name in his phone.

There’s a long pause before he types.

Just one line.

'Still working?'

He stares at it.

It’s too casual. Too easy.

But he sends it anyway.

And for a minute, he regrets it. Instantly. Completely.

Wonders if you’ll ignore it.

If he’s overstepped. If he’s made the wrong move again.

But then, three blinking dots.

You reply.

'Yeah. Almost done. You okay?'

He exhales, his shoulders dropping just slightly as he types, slower this time.

'I had a rough day. Thought about cheesecake.'

He thinks for moment. Then—

'You free after?'

You don’t tell him yes.

You just send a location.

A late-night diner tucked behind a gas station on the edge of downtown. The kind of place that smells like burnt coffee and fried things, with flickering neon signs and booths that have seen too much.

You get there first and slide into a corner booth, tired and still half in uniform, the faint shimmer of the club lights still clinging to your skin.

You order coffee you won’t drink and a slice of pie you don’t really want, just to have something on the table.

You check your phone twice.

He walks in just as the server sets down your plate. His coat is still on, hospital badge clipped to the pocket, hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it all night.

He spots you instantly. Doesn’t smile.

But his eyes do something soft. Something wrecked.

Zayne slides into the booth across from you.

You study him for a second.

He looks tired. Paler than usual. There’s a crease between his brows like something’s still pressing on him.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods.

Then shakes his head.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

It’s the first honest thing he’s said all day.

You push the plate toward him without a word.

He doesn’t hesitate. Picks up the fork. Takes a bite.

Silence stretches, but it’s not the kind that hurts. It’s the kind that feels… mutual. Like you’re both resting in it. Like your bodies are tired of pretending.

Zayne sets the fork down slowly, eyes still on the pie.

Then, “I thought about you all day.”

You blink.

It’s not like him. Not like this.

He keeps going, quietly.

“At work. During rounds. Between rooms. I couldn’t stop. It was…” He trails off, shaking his head. “It was too much.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Your heart is loud enough inside your chest to answer for you.

He finally looks up. Meets your eyes.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says. “But I keep coming back to it.”

To you.

You lean back against the booth, eyes soft, mouth tugging into the faintest smile.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know.”

“But you did anyway.”

He nods.

You stir your coffee. Take a slow sip. It’s gone cold.

“Maybe I’m bad for you,” you say. It’s not flirtation. It’s a warning.

“I think we both already knew that.”

And still—neither of you moves to leave.

The pie sits between you, half-finished. The lights buzz above your heads. Somewhere, a jukebox plays a song neither of you recognise.

And under the table, your knees brush.

Just slightly.

But neither of you pulls away.

You don’t move your knee. Neither does he.

The contact is small, meaningless to anyone else. But for you, it feels like a crack in the dam. Like if one of you shifts just a little further, it might all come pouring out.

Zayne’s fingers curl on the edge of his plate. Not tight, just steadying. Like he’s holding himself in place.

Your gaze drops to his hand.

Then rises back to his face.

“I used to come here a lot,” you say, voice low, mostly to fill the space. “After work. When I first started at the club.”

He glances up, waiting.

“My feet would hurt, and I’d smell like vodka and desperation, and I’d sit in that corner over there—” you nod toward the back booth “—and pretend I was someone else.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

Then Zayne speaks, softer than before. “Did it work?”

You shake your head. “Not really. But for ten minutes, with a slice of pie and no one looking at me like I was for sale… it helped.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Anger, maybe. Or helplessness.

But all he says is, “I hate that that’s the world you live in.”

You offer a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, “It’s just the world.”

Another silence. Comfortable. Heavy.

Zayne shifts slightly, resting his elbow on the table, hand open between you.

It’s not an invitation. Not exactly.

But it’s there.

You look at it. Then at him.

Slowly—so slowly—you reach across the table and lay your hand in his. Fingertips first. Like a question.

His fingers close around yours cold, but careful.

For a while, neither of you speak.

You just sit there, two tired souls in a fluorescent-lit booth at the edge of the world, holding onto something small and quiet, real.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel like you’re performing.

And when he finally walks you to your apartment door, he doesn’t try to kiss you.

He just stands outside your door, waits for you to get in, and waits for you to close it.

You give him a shy smile, “I still don’t know what this is.”

He meets your eyes.

“Me neither.”

And then—finally—a smile. Faint, a little broken, but honest.

“Good night,” he says.

You smile and nod, closing the door. His touch still lingered on your hand.

And for once, you don’t feel like running from it.

The city is still stretching when you wake.

Sunlight spills in slanted lines across your bed, catching the shimmer of your discarded heels by the door.

You’re not usually awake this early—not without a shift dragging you from bed—but this morning, you are.

Because you didn’t sleep much.

Because your hand still remembers the shape of his.

You roll over and check your phone. No new messages.

Just the one from last night, still sitting there like an afterthought, like a thread you could pull on if you wanted to:

‘You free after?’

Your lips tug into the smallest smile. You don’t reply. Not yet.

You press the phone to your chest and let the silence settle around you—not heavy this time, but calm.

It’s been a long time since quiet felt like anything other than loneliness.

You pull on a hoodie and wander into the kitchen barefoot. Make toast you don’t eat. Brew coffee you forget about.

The apartment is still. Safe. Yours.

And for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel the need to be anywhere else.

He doesn’t sleep either.

The couch is stiff. The apartment too quiet. He keeps the TV on low just for the illusion of company.

But it’s you he’s thinking about.

The way your fingers curled into his like it wasn’t a question. The sound of your voice when you told him about sitting in that corner booth like you were trying to disappear.

It gutted him.

Not because you were broken.

But because you’d learned to live like it was normal.

He wants to text you. Something small. Something stupid.

‘Did you ever actually eat that pie?’

He doesn’t.

Instead, he lets himself lie back, eyes half-closed, and replay the moment your hand touched his across the table. Not rushed. Not reckless.

Just… soft.

And that’s the problem.

You’re not a mistake he made one night.

You’re something quiet and persistent.

Like a pulse beneath the skin.

Something that makes him feel alive—and that terrifies him.

He sits up. Rubs a hand over his face.

Maybe he shouldn’t see you today.

But he knows he will.

Your shift doesn’t start for hours. No need to rush.

So you let the water run hotter than usual, stand still beneath it, eyes closed, as if the heat could erase the noise from last night—the bodies, the stares, the constant wanting.

But it’s not the club that lingers.

It’s him.

Zayne.

The quiet way his hand found yours, careful, like he was holding something fragile.

The way he didn’t kiss you—not out of disinterest, but something that felt like reverence. Like restraint was his language for care.

And that’s what unsettles you most.

Because you’ve known touch that took.

Words that smiled while hands closed in.

People who made affection feel like a transaction.

But Zayne doesn’t take.

He waits.

And it’s that waiting that’s dangerous. The kind that makes you want to give something away, without being asked.

You catch your reflection in the fogged mirror.

For a second, it’s easy to imagine his fingers along your jaw—soft, not searching. Just… there. Present.

That’s where the ache begins.

Not in your body—but somewhere deeper. Somewhere you thought you’d sealed off for good.

You brace your hands on the sink, exhale slow.

Don’t get used to it.

Softness is expensive. And you’ve already paid more than enough.

Later, when you’re stepping out the door, your hand moves on instinct.

Phone. Screen. Empty.

Still no message.

You don’t know if that’s better or worse.

You type anyway.

‘Last night was nice.’

Four small words. Quiet things.

You hover for a beat too long.

Then send them.

And tuck the phone away before your doubt catches up.

He doesn’t plan to see you.

Not really.

He just ends up outside the club around the time you usually show. A coincidence, maybe.

A lie he tells himself because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

You spot him before he sees you—leaning against the hood of his car, hands tucked into his coat pockets, the city casting him in gold and shadow.

You can’t help the way your mouth curves. Barely. Just a flicker of something soft.

You cross the sidewalk slow, hands buried in your jacket.

“You stalking me now?” you ask.

“Maybe,” he says, like it doesn’t matter either way.

You lift a brow. “You’re not even gonna deny it?”

Zayne shrugs. One corner of his mouth tugs up, tired and honest.

“Didn’t feel like lying today.”

The quiet stretches between you. Not awkward. Not quite.

Then, quieter—

“I don’t have to be in for another twenty.”

He nods toward the passenger seat.

You open the door and get in.

Neither of you speaks much.

The windows are down. The wind moves through the car like it’s trying to carry something away—your thoughts, maybe. The fear. The wanting.

He doesn’t ask where you want to go. He just drives.

Like the road is the only thing that makes sense.

Like proximity is enough.

You sit curled sideways in the seat, arm propped against the window, eyes half-lidded, watching the city slip by in streaks of light and blur.

You glance at him. Study his profile.

“I don’t get it,” you murmur.

He doesn’t look over. “Get what?”

“You. This.”

A vague gesture between you—fragile and undefined.

“You’re good,” you say. “Clean. You don’t belong in my world.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just presses his mouth into a line and turns off onto a narrow road. Trees rising on either side, the city falling behind.

When he stops, it’s at a quiet overlook—nothing but sky and the glitter of far-off buildings.

He shifts into park. Kills the engine. Everything goes still.

Then he turns to you, slow.

“You think I’m clean?” he asks. Not mocking. Just… tired.

You study him now. Really study him.

The faint stubble. The lines beneath his eyes. The way his shoulders slope under invisible weight.

“No,” you say. “Not now.”

A beat.

“But you make me feel like I could be.”

His hand moves—hesitant. Reaching without reaching.

Fingertips graze your wrist, like he’s asking for permission without needing an answer.

“Don’t say that,” he whispers.

You don’t pull away.

“Why not?”

His eyes flicker.

“Because I don’t know how to deserve it.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty.

It’s full of every word neither of you knows how to say.

Then he lifts his hand—slow, reverent—and lets it settle along your jaw. Just barely. Like you might vanish if he touches you too fast.

You let your eyes fall closed.

So does he.

His mouth hovers near yours. A breath away.

And then—

you both pull back.

At the same time.

Like something holy just almost happened.

Like it still could.

You lean in, rest your forehead against his shoulder. He exhales, soft and long, and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Neither of you says anything.

Because sometimes silence is the answer.

And for now, it’s enough.

masterlist

[kdylight]

blue cashmere - kdy

content: kim doyoung x reader, fluff, marriage

this is my first fic! >.<

ੈ✩‧₊˚

you push open your front door with a groan, when suddenly a sweet aroma hits your senses. the soup you’ve been craving for the past couple of weeks. the smell is coming from the kitchen, followed by a few melodic hums in the same direction. you had just come home from a grueling day at the office, your ears still ringing from all the constant requests from your superiors. corporate life wasn’t what you had dreamed of, but its what kept you afloat.

you close the door carefully, making your way to the living area of your apartment. the sight you walk to makes your heart burst out of your chest. standing behind the stove, you can see your husband focused on cooking your favourite meal for dinner. the sudden thought hits you, this is why i work so hard... to come back home to this everyday.

doyoung is humming away happily, and despite only seeing his back profile, the curves of his cheeks visibly poke out as he smiles in thought. clearly he doesn’t know you’ve come home yet…

quietly, you tiptoe into the kitchen, approaching him from behind. he's wearing an apron wrapped over a soft blue cashmere sweater, which hugs his figure divinely. as you get closer, your hands wrap around his small waist gently, making him jump.

"ah! that scared me. i didn't hear you come home!" his head turns quickly, as his startled body eases into your touch. you sigh softly, resting your head against his broad back. your hands trail under his apron and up against his abdomen, stroking the soft fabric of his sweater, your gentle movements prompting him to say something.

"everything alright, love?" his head bends over to give you a kiss on the top of your head.

"yeah... just missed you a lot today..." the kiss from doyoung brings all the stress and physical pain to a halt. just a simple gesture of love makes your heart skip several beats. how did i get this lucky? your eyes scan the kitchen, taking in all the dishes he's probably been spending hours preparing for your return home. to think you didn't even have to tell him you've been craving his special soup... the plethora of intense thoughts in your mind cause you to impulsively squeeze your arms in your current embrace around doyoung. startled, doyoung slightly jumps again.

"hey, are you sure you're okay? you're not sick right?" doyoung asks you in a concerned tone, unbeknowst to the improper thoughts in your mind.

you shake your head, nuzzling into his soft sweater. he takes it as an okay, and resumes his cooking, stirring a few sliced vegetables into the pot, before covering it with a glass lid. whenever your colleagues or friends would discuss marriage, they'd often express their envy in your lifestyle —having a husband who treats you like his queen... and its nights like these where you can't help but feel proud. you lift your head up, and doyoung turns again to look at you, noticing your dazed eyes.

"huh? are you sure you're okay?" doyoung's voice full of concern, his free hand cups your cheek. you quickly peck his lips, surprising him.

"i'm fine!" you speak, a hint of red creeping up your cheeks. he narrows his eyes, not completely convinced. its a little bit hard to bring up the fact that your husband cooking your favourite soup for dinner after a long day of work is one of the most attractive things he could ever do. still a teenager at heart, you feel too awkward to express your overwhelming gratitude to him directly, and you know doyoung would probably shrivel in embarrassment if you were to tell him... he's the type to do kind gestures, but not exactly the best at receiving thank you's. so tonight, you plan to show him.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

to be continued…?

a/n : my first time writing :0 hope u enjoyed… let me know if any of u want a part 2….

[yoredoesmore]

Peaches Leave A Lascivious Aftertaste | IDMCWBM AU

pairing: hoshina soshiro x reader

genre: romance

summary: you tell your boyfriend that you don't like peaches so he tries to change your mind

wc: 1k

enjoy!

“Ya don't like peaches?”

It wasn't like he felt offended or confused by your confession. His voice carried but a genuine hint of curiosity.

Yet you still sighed. Was this an interrogation?

“Not particularly.” Your eyes focused on the shifting ice cubes in your lemonade, slowly melting away in the summer's burning afternoon heat. Just like you. Yet he didn't even seem to break a sweat.

“But the peach lemonade yer drinkin right now..?” Now it felt like he was judging. Soshiro's gaze fell on your drink, observing it to make sure that he was not mistaken. But no. You had downed the peach flavor iced tea within minutes, leaving but a little sip behind.

“This is different.” You snapped back, as if it was the most obvious fact known to mankind. Regret flossed over you as you realized how harsh you had sounded. You didn't mean for the words to come out so rash, abrupt. But whenever you were being questioned, the dire need to defend yourself tugged on your skin like an itch.

“Is it a texture thing?” Soshiro's hands reached for one of the neatly cut peach slices on the table. Your eyes followed his movement, running after the peaches before they landed on his lips.

“Not really. I can't put my dislike for certain things, especially food, into words. But in the case of peaches I don’t hate them entirely. There are certain things that simply taste better when put into another form or paired up with something that enhances or changes their flavor. Does that make sense?”

Soshiro hesitated for a second. At first he wanted to give you an immediate answer, since his reply came to him rather quickly, but something told him to go with a completely different route. To weigh your words carefully and give them more thought.

You felt nervous just watching him, and the silence surely did not help.

It was just the two of you here in your small abode. A mission has carried you on the far outskirts of Tokyo– near a beautiful village with an ocean view.

Since things wrapped up pretty quickly and the casualty was taken care of in no time, you and Soshiro were given permission to stay for the remaining days and make sure that there wouldn't be a second wave of attacks.

The countryside was as peaceful as it could get. Neither of you had many opportunities to take a leave from work and relax, thus you tried your best to enjoy your time here.

But he made it impossible.

Despite being in an established relationship, the man's presence still managed to sweep you off your feet or catch you off guard. His way of caring for you, understanding your small outbursts and need to constantly defend yourself– how was it possible for a human being to be so kind and genuine.

He had his moments of tease and foolery but in moments like these, you really got to see his sweet side.

“I understand what you mean, Y/n.” His hands reached for the next peace slide. But this time he did not discard it in three simple bites. Instead, he held the fruit hostage between his teeth and turned his face towards you.

“Wanna thry it nouwh?”

“Eh?”

Soshiro's face inched closer to yours, peach tightly trapped in his mouth, as his eyes innocently locked onto yours.

Is he serious??

Your mind temporarily went into a lockdown, overstimulating by your boyfriend's sudden change of behavior.

Soshiro was already a lot to handle when he was joking around. In your monotone and serious life, he was the little dot of color that could brighten up your entire day. You already found it difficult to keep up your stoic demeanor when he was dead set on making you laugh but when he was trying to flirt, things took a whole different turn.

Your cheeks burned with fluster, his lascivious request crawling deep into the layers of your heart and making you uncomfortable.

As someone who has never ventured into this level of intimacy, his straightforwardness brought forth feelings unknown to your body and mind.

The unknown scared you, yet at the same time, you wished to thoroughly explore it all. Together with him. It was a discomfort that you welcomed and hoped to one day concour.

“Don't be ridiculous.” You gently shoved his face away from you as you rolled your eyes.

“My flavor theory doesn't work like that.” Your words connected to your previously spoken statement.

Lips slightly parted, you thought of something else to add to your explanation, but you found yourself ambushed by two fingers gently, which gently guided your face back towards his.

Soft, wet lips pushed themselves against yours, capturing you in a warm kiss. You felt yourself completely melt into him in an instant– your body recognizing the familiar warmth. The way his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you even closer, it added a lewd sensation to the kiss.

When Soshiro kissed you it either made you feel loved and cared for or desired and hot. His lips caressed you in a way that made you feel like the peach. Although you sat seated on the ground, your body almost fell over him with how strong he was pulling you in.

Only when the both of you had to come up for air, did he let go of you. An intense taste of peaches now sat on your lips. But it also somehow tasted like him.

Soshiro only smiled when he saw the breathless look on your face. He was acting as if he didn't almost devour you whole. The audacity of this man. His hands reached for another peach slice, causing your eyes to wander along once again.

“Wanna give it another try? Maybe you'll change your mind this time.” His lips tugged into that infamous smirk of his.

You ended up eating the peach. Its taste did not peak your interest, but it did leave a lascivious aftertaste in your mouth.

a/n: it's been a while :0 how's everyone doing??

[wonboni]

『∘꙳✷ STUCK ON YOU』┆P.JONGSEONG

『•˙synopsis: Jay finds comfort in you after a hectic tour, realizing he can just be himself. Stuck on You is a heartwarming story about finding peace in each other.

『•˙pairing: Jay (ENHYPEN) x Reader

『•˙genre: Romance, Slice of Life, Fluff

『•˙warnings: Fluff, Mild emotional vulnerability

『•˙word count: 920❦

『•˙note: yippie!

Jay had always found comfort in routine. The long hours in the studio, the rush of concert preparations, the late-night chats with his members—they were all parts of a life that felt, for the most part, predictable. But then there were moments like this, moments that seemed to pull him out of that steady rhythm, make him pause and take in the simple things.

It was a lazy afternoon, one of those rare days off when everything seemed to slow down. Jay sat on the couch, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, when a text from you popped up.

“Hey, what are you up to today?”

It was a simple question, but it had a warmth to it, like a little spark on an otherwise ordinary day. He smiled to himself, replying quickly:

“Just chilling at home, nothing exciting. What about you?”

You sent a picture of a cup of coffee and a half-eaten pastry, with a caption that simply read, “Waiting for you to bring some excitement into my life 😉.”

Jay chuckled softly, his heart doing that little skip it always did when you were around. He couldn’t help but feel the pull of your energy, the way you made everything feel brighter without even trying.

A few minutes later, you were at his door, knocking lightly. He opened it to find you standing there with that easy smile of yours, wearing a hoodie a bit too big for you, hair pulled into a messy bun.

“You look like you need to get out of your head for a bit,” you said, stepping inside. “How about we go for a walk?”

Jay raised an eyebrow, but he couldn’t say no to you. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

You grinned, grabbing his hand and pulling him out the door. The streets were quieter than usual, the kind of peaceful afternoon where everything felt still, yet alive. As you both walked, you talked about everything and nothing—how your day was going, the random thoughts that popped into your head, and even a little bit about the things Jay didn’t usually talk about with anyone else.

There was something about being with you that made him forget about the constant pressure of work and expectations. It was like you were his anchor, making him feel grounded even in the chaos.

“So,” you said, glancing over at him with a playful smile. “What’s it like, being Jay from ENHYPEN? The whole world knows you, but I feel like I only know the real you.”

Jay laughed softly, his heart warming at your honesty. “It’s a lot of pressure sometimes,” he admitted, “but when I’m with you, it feels like... none of that matters.”

You squeezed his hand, your smile turning softer. “You’re not just Jay from ENHYPEN, you know. You’re just Jay. And I like him a lot.”

Jay’s chest tightened a little at your words. There was a sweetness in them, a tenderness that made him feel seen in a way he wasn’t used to. He didn’t have to be the perfect idol. With you, he was just Jay—the guy who liked simple things, who found comfort in the quiet moments and who enjoyed being near you.

You paused for a moment, looking up at him with that gentle expression you always had when you were being sincere. “You know, I feel like you’re the kind of person who gets stuck in your own head a lot. But I’m glad I’m the glue that holds you together.”

Jay’s heart skipped a beat, his gaze softening. He’d never really thought about it that way, but he realized how much you meant to him—how much you really did feel like the one thing that kept him grounded. The way you were always there, always making him feel like he didn’t have to have everything figured out. You were his anchor, his glue.

He smiled warmly, squeezing your hand back. “I think I’m stuck on you,” he teased, but there was a hint of seriousness in his voice that you caught.

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “I’m glad, because I’m pretty sure I’m stuck on you, too.”

The walk continued, the two of you talking and laughing, feeling the bond between you grow stronger with every step. When you finally stopped to sit on a bench near the park, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of pink and orange. The world felt calm, the perfect end to a perfect day.

Jay looked over at you, his smile soft. “You make everything feel easier, you know that?”

You shrugged, pretending to be modest, but there was a glimmer of happiness in your eyes. “I just like being with you. You make me feel like I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

For a moment, the world felt like it stopped moving, just the two of you, sitting side by side, feeling like you were exactly where you were meant to be. It was simple, but it was enough. Jay didn’t need anything else in that moment.

As the day faded into night, Jay realized that with you, he didn’t need to be anyone else. He didn’t need to be perfect, he didn’t need to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. With you, everything just... clicked. You were the glue, holding him together in a way he never even knew he needed.

And for the first time in a long while, Jay felt truly at peace.

© WONBONI

[synity]

it's me again 🥹🥹 i love your jihoon fics so bad, i literally get so excited when i see your works. so NEW REQ

this is completely up to you, whether you want it to be angst or not. how about chef jihoon 😼 or or a school teacher etc like a different job :D that'd be kewl, also hope you have a great day ahead :]

A RECIPE FOR US

(Chef!Lee Jihhon x FemReader)

*slice of life, romance, drama, Emotional Connection*

You never thought cooking could be such an adventure until Jihoon stepped into your life. Not just as your best friend, but as an unexpectedly talented chef who somehow managed to turn every simple meal into a moment worth savoring

Jihoon wasn’t flashy in the kitchen. No grandiose techniques or fancy ingredients just pure, sincere passion. The kind that made even burnt toast feel like a masterpiec

It had been a draining day. Your body felt heavy, and your mind was foggy as you dragged yourself through the door. The usual plan was to eat something quick, something easy or maybe nothing at all, just collapse into bed.

But instead, you were met with the faint sound of sizzling, the sweet smell of garlic and herbs wafting through the air. You blinked, confused. Jihoon stood by your stove, apron tied around his waist, concentrating hard as he chopped onions with precise, deliberate motions.

“Surprise!” he said, grinning sheepishly when he noticed you.

You leaned against the doorframe, eyes wide. “Since when do you cook?”

He shrugged casually, but you caught the nervous spark in his eyes. “Since I wanted to make you dinner.”

Your exhaustion lifted just a little as you took a seat at the small kitchen table. The next hour was a blur of flavors, laughter, and stories shared over a steaming bowl of homemade soup.

That night, you realized that food was more than just fuel it was love served on a plate.

Over the next few weeks, Jihoon’s cooking became a constant in your life. Sometimes it was a carefully prepared meal; other times, an experimental dish that went hilariously wrong like the time he forgot to set the timer and your kitchen filled with smoke.

But it didn’t matter. What mattered was the way he looked at you when you smiled, the way he reached out to hold your hand across the table, and how even his mistakes felt like little love notes.

One afternoon, while you were helping him stir a pot of sauce, he confided, “I’ve been taking cooking classes.”

You nearly dropped the spoon. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He laughed softly. “Because I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted to get better, for you.”

Your heart melted. You wrapped your arms around him, grateful for this quiet, unassuming kind of love.

The kitchen was their favorite place sometimes more than the couch, the park, or anywhere else.

There were nights when the music was low, but their laughter was loud. Jihoon would pull you close between stirring pots and chopping vegetables, spinning you around in a goofy kitchen dance.

You’d bump into counters, knock over bowls, but neither of you cared. You were alive, present, and everything felt perfect.

Between stolen kisses and shared smiles, you realized you were falling not just for the delicious meals, but for the man who made them.

One evening, after a long day, Jihoon surprised you again.

He set the table, lit candles, and served a dessert he’d spent hours perfecting: a delicate chocolate mousse with fresh strawberries.

As you savored the sweetness, he reached across the table, taking your hand in his.

“You’re my favorite recipe,” he said quietly. “One I want to keep perfect forever.”

Your cheeks flushed. The moment was delicate, a mixture of hope and fear, but you found yourself whispering, “Me too.”

Of course, it wasn’t all easy. There were days when Jihoon’s perfectionism in the kitchen spilled over into his patience with himself and sometimes with you.

You learned to support him through his doubts, to remind him that imperfection was part of the beauty.

And he learned to trust you to let his guard down and share his dreams, fears, and the little secrets he’d never told anyone else.

One chilly winter night, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by the soft glow of fairy lights in your tiny apartment, Jihoon pulled out a small box from his pocket.

Inside was a simple silver ring elegant, understated, just like him.

“I don’t need a fancy restaurant or a perfect dish to tell you this,” he said, voice trembling with nervs. “But I want to spend every meal, every moment, with you.”

Tears filled your eyes as you nodded, heart bursting with love.

In that moment, you knew your recipe for forever was just beginning.

[baocean]

farmgirl!reader

farmgirl!reader who grew up just outside of town, on one hundred acres of farm land. who was a daddy's girl at heart, attached at the hip as soon as you could walk. wearing tutus and princess crowns, talking baby babble in john deer tractors as your daddy worked.

farmgirl!reader who always wore a beat-up cap low over your eyes and little braids woven into your hair, like you were halfway to church and halfway to a bonfire. you woke up with a rats nest for hair and mascara smudged from the night before and didn’t care. the kind of pretty that didn’t need fixing, just existed.

farmgirl!reader who had a soft spot for injured animals. once brought home a baby possum in your hoodie and tried to feed it cornbread. who let the dog sleep on the porch, the cat sleep in your bed, and kept a notebook full of things you would never say out loud under the seat of your truck.

farmgirl!reader who either listened to divorced dad rock and country music, or beach bum music. and no in between.

farmgirl!reader who took over your dad's worn down truck when you finally turned sixteen, and let it collect all your things. a bandana and a rosary hung over the rearview mirror, t-shirts and bikinis in the backseat. an old mug of coffee in the cup holder. surfboard and chunky blankets in the bed.

farmgirl!reader who used to be the sweet girl at the market in checkered dresses and dirt-scuffed boots. now, you were the story whispered between gas pumps and sunday sermons. the farm girl who grew up and got a little too good at causing trouble with those four pogues from town, always laughing too loud, always slipping away before anyone could catch you.

farmgirl!reader who jj maybank was fond of from day one. dragged to the farmers market by kie on a saturday, too early. but when he stopped by your stand just to get a closer look at you, heard that touch of southern accent, he was done for in three seconds flat.

farmgirl!reader who said “y’all” and “fixin’” like you were straight out of a country song. jj always teased you for it, until you told him to shut up or you'd leave his ass with a grin in your teeth. he never brought it up again, but he started saying “reckon” just to make you laugh.

farmgirl!reader whose dad hated jj. the kind of dad who'd clench his jaw whenever jj’s name came up, muttering about how "that boy's trouble" and "no good will come of him." but you just shrugged it off, like you didn't care.

farmgirl!reader who knew what it meant to work hard, your hands always a little rough from farm life, your heart always a little open to the world. you didn’t need a lot to be happy, just the simple things, like your dad’s truck, a stolen kiss from jj in the barn, and the feeling of the sun setting over your little slice of land.

[vonlycsnn]

Hello! May I request a Von lycaon x Gn Reader who is blind but has a optimistic personality? One who uses to love the simple things in life like feeling the sun, taking walks and enjoying any meals

Thank you so much! ♡

Have a nice day •u<~☆

♡ — A RAY OF SUNSHINE

~ VON LYCAON X BLIND (GN) READER.

SUMMARY: You spend your usual morning with your lover, Lycaon. He can't help but appreciate how optimistic you are despite your disability.

cw/tw: none.

A/N: I love this idea so much! I tried to do as much research as i possibly could for this, so my sincere apologies if i got anything wrong. Thank you for the kind words and for the request, I hope you enjoy reading this!

Faint footsteps can be heard approaching your bedroom. Soon after, the door gently opened. It made a quiet but noticeable squeak. But you were too deep in your sleep to hear any of it. The footsteps walked across the room and stopped.

 

Clawed hands grabbed the curtains and drew them open, revealing the morning view outside. You were suddenly hit by the sensation of warmth on your bare skin. You whined in protest. Knowing exactly what that meant.

 

You opened your eyes to see the blurry environment around you, folding the pillow you were laying on as a way to tell your beloved butler that you didn't want to get up just yet.

 

You hear a chuckle from your left ear, the bed sheets folded as you felt someone sitting on the edge of the bed. Then you felt someone breathing close to your neck; you couldn't help but giggle at how it feels.

 

"It's time to wake up, dear." Lycaon whispered.

 

You adjusted your position to face him, trying your best find his face with your hands. He chuckled once more and guided your hands to his fluffy cheeks. Immediately after you moved your fingers to feel his fur, he smiled.

 

"Mm...enjoying yourself?" The thiren asked. You merely nodded as you were still too sleepy to say anything just yet. You felt something brush against your legs, assuming that it's Lycaon's tail wagging.

 

You kept running your fingers against his fur for what seemed like minutes until you felt arms behind your back, lifting you up from your land of peace. "Lycaon nooo..." You lazily protested.

 

"Come on now. I've made you breakfast, fresh and warm for you to enjoy." He explains as he approaches the dining room.

 

The dining table was neatly organized, and the floors were spotless—a perfect start to your day. Oh, if only you could appreciate the effort he has put into cleaning this area...

 

He carefully put you down and guided you to your seat. As soon as you sat down, you smelt a delicious scent in front of you. You couldn't help but smile big when you realized what it was.

 

"I've made your favorite; french toast with a few slices of bacon."

 

You heard utensils being grabbed by the thiren; a hand gently moved your head in his direction. All you could see was a blurry white figure in front of you, but nevertheless you smiled softly.

 

"Open your mouth, love."

 

You obliged, happily receiving the food he's feeding you. Once you tasted the sweetness of the French toast and the salty bacon, you felt like you were sent to heaven. Lycaon's cooking is always so good.

 

As he was feeding you, he begins to reminisce about the past. Back when the two of you were merely friends.

 

—

 

"Master, you mustn't walk too far."

 

You heard him warning you; all you gave him was a smile and a giggle. One step...two step...You walked forward. Shoes removed to feel the concrete floor beneath your foot, and the cold air touched your face gently...It was soothing.

 

"Don't worry, Lycaon. I'm just going to stay right here." You assured him. His mouth opened, clearly wanting to say something, but he didn't. He merely stood there, waiting for you to finish your moment.

 

"The rooftop of this building...it's my favorite. Open spaces like these in general are a delight to be in."

 

You closed your eyes, strengthening your other senses. Being blind is not easy by any means. You remember the day you cried your eyes out as a child over the fact that you couldn't recognize simple shapes and figures. 

 

Your parents did everything in their power to help you; of course you were grateful for their efforts. But they knew that someday they couldn't help you anymore; that's why they hired the best servant they know: Von Lycaon from Victoria Housekeeping Co.

 

Someone who could help you with everyday needs, someone who could keep you safe from the dangers of the outside world—you were truly thankful for all he has done.

 

Despite your early disappointments and everyday struggles, you learned to accept how you are and enjoy your life with the things you already had. You were born with this condition. You couldn't change anything, and that's okay, even if you wanted to enjoy life like the rest of the world.

 

The thiren stayed silent, admiring you from afar. You were always the cheerful type, but hearing you say such optimistic words despite the disability you were given with...it was inspiring.

 

Lycaon smiled, and he walked towards you. You felt a hand on your shoulder.

 

"Then I'll bring you here more frequently if you'd like." Lycaon suggested.

 

You smiled big, nodding vigorously.

You couldn't be happier.