#last chapter before the two epilogues! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ittybittyfanblog · 5 months ago

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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”

“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold.

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug.

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works?

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really."

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table; framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly – not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me–”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say... until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy.

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter; just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just, vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours.

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit.

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you. Time moves like water carving through rock; gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.)

And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?”

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by.

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself.

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill.

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter.

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it.

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons.

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical.

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind.

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session.

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I saw you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I wasn't, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I did my TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.”

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?”

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from the cringe of it all.

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her.

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.”

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him.

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams.

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine.

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown.

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood.

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight.

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen in mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner��cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light.

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival.

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clang of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond.

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.”

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment.

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable.

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unrealized. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her.

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just so you could feel less alone about your own failures. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake.

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose.

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization.

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her father struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you.

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark.

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it.

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict.

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth. Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door.

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point.

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes.

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences.

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him.

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation.

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home.

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown.

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath.

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation.

He exhales. Then winces.

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it.

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh.

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left.

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago.

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware.

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago.

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil.

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively.

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer.

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting.

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable.

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere.

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists.

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home.

____

“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #sylus x non mc reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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bowtiepasta · 1 month ago

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NOT EVEN DEATH FT. ATSUMU MIYA

I don’t like to gossip — but a little birdie told me the best man is head over heels for the maid of honor.

eventual smut! minors do not interact with nsfw chapters. indulging: smau with loads of written content, best friends to lovers, f!reader with she pronouns, matchmaking, grief, angst, drama, check individual chapter warnings before reading.

taglist is open! comment on this post to be tagged (30/50)

MAIN STORY

listen while you read: series playlist / atsumu on aux

chapter zero — meet the cast.

dude, we’re getting the band back together!

chapter one — bonnie and clyde.

bachelorette parties, gender reveals. are we allowed to have strippers at both or would that be entirely wrong?

chapter two — mrs. iwaizumi.

after one too many emotional toasts and one too many champagne flutes at kiyoko’s wedding, you decide to play matchmaker. (written part included)

chapter three — quid pro quo.

grief is complicated. so is talking about it with your ex.

chapter four — semantics.

bad omens, old flames, and misunderstandings, seem to all go hand in hand at suna’s wedding.

chapter five — monkey brain.

time goes funny in places like graveyards. — a flashback chapter (written part included)

chapter six — at last.

the weekend winds down, the tension finally snaps, and you and atsumu give in—messy, breathless, long overdue.

chapter seven — o’ wise cupid.

tba

chapter eight — orange juice.

tba

epilogue — delta dawn.

tba

SIDE STORIES

osamu miya — title pending 18+

you didn’t mean to babytrap your friend with benefits. but he doesn’t seem to mind? in fact, he seems more than keen on the situation at hand. or should I say, fingers.. (wc tba)

tba…

consider reblogging, commenting, or sending an ask if you enjoyed. thank you for reading not even death ! ❤︎ do not copy, edit, repost, or translate, any of my content on any platforms.

GUESTLIST

if your username is in green, please head to your settings -> general settings -> mentions, and enable them for your blog. otherwise, you will be removed from the taglist.

@pmgranate @silkloom @reidsworld @scoutings @nightcityaliens @loveyislost @megumuro @quemirasboboandapaya @katsuphobic @jayathelostdragon @sun4san0 @asxprse @hwanghyunjinismybae @whoevenisjessica @neeeooon @sexylexy12 @carminechrollo @celestialm1nd @pookalicious-hq @shozuken @pha2nt0m @tojirin @evilari111 @cotton-eee @lovley212 @londonsworldddd @softtashoney @ihatetakumi @chososcamgirl

#ant with knapsack #haikyuu x reader #atsumu x reader #atsumu miya #atsumu miya x reader #hq x reader #miya atsumu #haikyuu atsumu #hq atsumu #haikyuu smut #hq smut #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #hq smau #haikyuu smau #haikyuu smau series #atsumu shaped

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izzih22 · 3 months ago

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Masterlist PT. 1

Paige x Azzi

Everything and More

Nowhere but Here

Home in You Part 1 Part 2

Can’t Look Away

Warm Water, Warmer Hands

First Time

Safe in Your Arms

Truth be Told

Simp City

Power Couple Vibes

Ink of Victory

A Final Play

Clumsy Love

You Don’t Have to be The Hero Today

City Lights

Your Gonna be The Death of Me

Your my Favorite Medicine

The Best Win of All

Drunk in Love… Literally

My Sisters Gay— and She’s Awesome

Heaven Sent

One Last Dance

The Strength of Us

Caught in The Act

Someday, Together

Just Missed You

The Rivalry

Flight Risk (Of Love)

Baby On Board

Your So Whipped

The Calm Before The Draft

Your So Pretty

In Sickness And In Health And In Payback

Too Many Athletes, Not Enough Chill

Breathe, Baby — I’ve Got You

Yours.

The Air Between Us

In The Quiet Chapter 1: USA Basketball

Chapter 2: Something in the Air

Chapter 3: Just Say You Need Me

Chapter 4: Like We’ve Always Been

Chapter 5: Yours Without Asking

Chapter 6: Almost

Chapter 7: The Space Between

Chapter 8: Like Gravity

Chapter 9: Ours

Epilogue: Ours, Out Loud

She’s Already Got Me

Braver With You

Left on Read

Everything She’s Ever Wanted

Come Back Home

Safe With You

You Scared Me

Just Let It Out

Team Azzi (Forever)

So Whipped

When It’s You

Wrapped Around You

Wrapped Around Her Finger

Let Me Take Care Of You

Can’t Hide From You

Go Away (Don’t Actually)

Kiss Me, Maybe?

Don’t Touch Her

This Is Why We Close The Door

Only You Know

Bench Behavior

Everything You’re Not Saying

Just Five More Minutes

Whose Side Are You On?

Don’t Let Go

Settle, Baby

Leave the Hat On

The Worst Way To Love You

For Everything We Dreamed

All the Quiet Things

What Breaks and What Holds

Always You

Winner Takes All

Say That Again

Wipe Out

Valerie

Two States, One Heart

Earned

Inside Voice, Outside World

The Bueckers Bundle

You Came/ You Called

Family Business

Hormones And Huskies

Written in Ink

The Only One

Right Beside You

I’m Not Mad… I Just Miss You

Whatever You Want

Built Different

I Just Need You

Just Us

Breathe, Babe

#uconn wbb #paige bueckers #paige x azzi #pazzi fics #azzi fudd #paige and azzi #pazzi

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millermouth · 6 months ago

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Summary: Being raised by a survivalist father meant learning two things: endure at all costs, and trust no one. And you lived by those rules, even after he was gone, surviving alone in a world that never gave second chances. But enduring becomes far more complicated when a familiar face returns, burdened with a fierce young girl and a mission that was never meant to include you. When you're forced from the only home you’ve ever known, survival is no longer just about the next meal or the next breath—it’s about who you become when there’s no way back. You’ve spent years believing your father’s lessons—that needing people is a sign of weakness. But as the miles stretch on, as survival becomes more than just a fight for the next day, one truth becomes harder to ignore—you can’t live by your father’s rule of trusting no one anymore.

And one man makes following that rule damn near impossible.

Themes: Joel miller x reader slow burn romance, post-outbreak, grief, healing, angst & longing.

Warnings: canon-type violence, death, depictions of grief and trauma, age gap romance, suicide (referenced, not graphic), intimacy and eventual smut. 18+ only MDNI, but I can't control what you do so discretion is advised.

Other: reader is afab, long hair (enough to grab, put up in a ponytail) may be mentioned. no other physical characteristics. graphics do not reflect character description, only used for vibes. Follows Season 1 of The Last of Us. Blend of show and game canon. Picture Joel as you prefer, but I will be mentioning Pedro Pascal's brown eyes. No use of Y/N. In the beginning of the story, time hops are not canon.

Prologue

Before: 5 Years Old

Before: 10 Years Old

Before: 15 Years Old

Before: 18 Years Old

Before: 20 Years Old

Before: 23 Years Old

Now: 25 Years Old

Chapter 1: Joel and Ellie

Chapter 2: Escape

Chapter 3: The Envelope

Chapter 4: Fungus Ain't That Smart

Chapter 5: Kansas City

Chapter 6: The Climb

Chapter 7: Turret

Chapter 8: Strangers

Chapter 9: Spotlight

Chapter 10: Into the Water

Chapter 11: The Suburbs

Chapter 12: Fight and Flight

Chapter 13: Breaking Point

Chapter 14: One Month Later

Chapter 15: Jackson

Chapter 16: Thresholds

Chapter 17: Thinking of You

Chapter 18: Betrayal

Chapter 19: On the Road Again

Chapter 20: The Basement

Chapter 21: David

Chapter 22: Capture

Chapter 23: Blood and Fire

Chapter 24: What Comes After

Chapter 25: Waterways

Chapter 26: What Was Lost and What Was Taken

Epilogue

Ever After

Four Years Later

more coming soon

Hey, you beautiful, amazing people.

I don’t even know where to start, but thank you. Seriously. From the bottom of my heart: to everyone who read, liked, reblogged, screamed in the tags, sent me messages, or just silently followed along—you made this story so much more than I ever imagined.

Every comment, every reaction, every little freak-out over a scene made my day (and honestly fueled me to keep going). The way you connected with this story, these characters—it means everything. Writing this was one thing, but experiencing it with all of you? That was the best part.

So, to everyone who stuck with me, whether from the beginning or just recently—thank you for being here. Thank you for caring. Thank you for making this so special.

I love you all. Truly.

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fictionalsweethearts · 6 months ago

Text

THE COMMISSION PT. 4 | SEVIKA X READER | ARCANE

'The Commission' series: pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, epilogue.

Synopsis: You've been her personal mechanic for two years, but your growing reputation in the field has earned you dozens of clients and commissions. Sevika was looking for something fresh, durable and of good quality, and when it came to her sexual appetite, she only accepted the best. So she turned to you for a special commission.

Contains: arcane!sevika, feminine reader, lesbians, lots of dialogues, arcane universe, cannon sevika, mechanic!reader, wlw, slow burn baby 💋, several parts btw, nsfw, smut, fingering omgg

If you're underage, be responsible and don't consume smut content. I AIN'T YOUR MAMA TO SPANK YOUR ASS.

Word count: 5,384 (yes, things HAPPEN in this chapter)

Note: English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistake in my writing. Enjoy!

Two years earlier

"I'm fine." Sevika murmured, in a tone that could scare anyone away. Except you.

Third day in a row you slept in Zaun's main square, you were cold and your stomach was asking for a more substantial dish than the cookies you could afford. You smelled of street, oil and rain, you were risking everything to get some money and sleep under a roof today.

Many warned you about Sevika, it was better not to mess with her or even show your nose, unless you were proposing a card game, a business or you were a lady-in-waiting. You were none of the three, but you trusted what your hands and your tools were capable of. You held the toolbox, keeping an upright posture even though inside you feared ending up in a dumpster or bleeding to death in the middle of the Last Drop.

"Your arm seems to need a checkup." You insisted. "I know the model, I assume you've had it for about five years, yeah?"

Sevika frowned, putting down the cards and letting out a puff of smoke. She didn't look convinced, more irritated. You insisted.

"I don't charge much."

Sevika flicked her eyes up and down your form, her expression stern. She had seen you before - a street rat, hanging around the less salubrious parts of the city. You were skinny, dirty, and reeked of poverty. You had no business approaching her, let alone with such audacity.

"And what makes you think you can fix it?” she scowled, her voice as harsh as sandpaper. "You some kind of mechanic?”

"Yes." you said, noticing the way Sevika was studying you. You couldn't call her out, you had to swallow your pride in order to swallow a decdent meal later, if everything goes right. "I used to work at Benzo's pawn shop, fixing unused appliances. I brought fine pieces back to life." you said, your eyes flickering to Sevika's mechanic arm. "Like yours."

Certainly Sevika was not pleased with your audacity, she was forced to answer for Silco to idiots, drug addicts, gang members and murderers, so you were just another one to add to the list.

"Used to?" she grunted, her eyes narrowing as she took another drag on her cigarette. "What, you get fired or something?"

"He's dead." you reminded her, knowing damn well Silco's goons were behind that.

Yes, you were bretraying yourself and your past by turning to Sevika to offer your services, but your situation wasn't getting any better. Not with a dead father, an absent mother, and debts to deal with. You should have known better, gambling leads to no good, neither does the air of Zaun. You fell victim to both, the first killed your father, the second probably killed your mother, you weren't sure. And the debt collectors were breathing down your neck.

She eyed you for a moment longer, her gaze weighing your worth. You were desperate, that much was obvious. And she couldn't help but see an opportunity in that. "Alright," she grunted, her voice gruff. "Let's say I let you take a look. What's it gonna cost me?"

You huffed, you were losing dignity there. "A meal." you shrugged. "And a sip of whiskey if you're feeling generous. But I assure you, I do a fine job."

"You'll get your meal and your shot of whiskey," she grumbled, knwoing she would regret giving you a chance. "But if you don't do a damn good job, I'll rip your pretty little head off."

"My head will stay above my shoulders..." you stated. "And your arm, brand new." you added.

Sevika raised her eyebrows, giving the guard a signal to let you come over and take a seat next to her on the couch. You had little time to prove that your offer was not talk but fact. You opened the toolbox, taking out a screwdriver to begin taking apart the arm and separating the pieces. The supply of Shimmer on top seemed novel, but predictable. You knew what to do

As you progressed with your work, Sevika's first impression about you began to crumble. Beneath the hollow cheeks and dark circles under her eyes was a beautiful girl intent on her task, with attentive eyes, deft fingers, and latent confidence. The woman then began to ask questions, hoping to intimidate you.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty-six."

"So young, and already out on the streets?" she grunted, her voice carrying a hint of mockery. "What, your parents throw you out or something?"

"They're dead." you mumbled. Sevika was holding her card with her flesh hand, still gambling while you were attending her prosthetic arm.

Your confession did not move her, having parents alive and present in Zaun was a privilege. However, her curiosity only increased. "Orphan?"

"You could say so." you said, glancing at the disassembled parts, studying the system of Sevika’s arm. The thermal paste needed changing, luckily you had some on you, the seals needed oil too, and some of the gears could use replacing.

"So you're just a street rat then," she said bluntly. "No family, no friends, nowhere to call home."

"Rat." you huffed. "I'm prettier than that." you might have been hungry, skinny and dirty, but you were a lot smarter and prettier than a goddamn rat.

"Maybe," she smirked. "But you still smell worse than one."

As Sevika took the time to mock you, your eyes were split between the arm and the opponents' play. You were sure that Sevika was taking a big risk by continuing to allow the cuprier to keep adding cards to the deck. "Stand," you whispered. "You're too close."

Sevika raised her eyebrow, planning to ignore you, however your comment didn't seem to be wrong. She let out a sigh before raising her hand to the cuprier. With that, the man turned over his cards. "Seventeen." The man said, to which you looked with pleased eyes at Sevika's nineteen.

"Agh, for fuck's sake." groaned one of the opponents, losing the bet. Blackjack was quite unpredictable, but you advised Sevika well; she hit the jackpot.

She chuckled, turning to look at you with a mix of surprise and respect. "Well then, not bad," she said, her voice gruff but impressed. "You really know your stuff."

"The rat's useful." you mumbled. "I have a name, though."

"I haven't asked your name." she replied, as she placed her just won chips on the pile.

"I rather you to remember the quality of my work than my name." you stated, assembling the arm back on Sevika. You turned the last screws, applied oil to the parts, and finally inserted the supply of Shimmer into the shoulder compartment, clicking your tongue. "Set and done, miss."

As the arm connected to her system, Sevika immediately noticed the fluidity of the gears and the restored sensitivity of the metal fingers. She flexed her arm and stretched it out, looking at you with a half-smile. It was all she would give you, along with an, "And here I thought I would rip your head off."

Before you could accept the praise wholeheartedly, there was this sudden commotion in the club. Another bastard too immersed in Shimmer to contain himself had entered, knocking out the guards with just the touch of a hand, and actually, knocking down everything in his path.

Fuck.

Sevika tensed, eyes flickering to the situation. She recognized the signs of a Shimmer-induced maniac, and knew damn well the trouble that could follow.

"Gods," she growled under her breath. "Not this bastard again."

Sevika quickly rose from her seat, her eyes watching the Shimmer-fueled maniac with a steely glare. It was only a matter of time before he would turn his attention to the rest of the bar, and Sevika knew she had to act fast. One of the other players had already fled, hiding behind the wall near the bar. The other stood frozen in fear, unable to speak or move. But you remained calm, your eyes on Sevika, awaiting her next move.

Sevika looked more irritated than alert, she moved her mechanical arm and walked towards the purple beast in front of her, her bearing filling the entire place, her confidence latent. You watched the fight unfold with a smile, the arm worked like a charm and there was no denying that you did a great job, especially when Sevika pulled the opponent’s leg against her and her elbow landed on the knee joint, bending the limb at an unnatural angle, followed by a punch capable of sending him flying through the air and landing in front of the bar. You drank from her glass, watching the guards carry the unconscious opponent away and Sevika letting out a sigh. The music began playing again.

Sevika raised an eyebrow, and by then you had realized that it was a habit of hers, and before scolding you for your attitude and your audacity in drinking from her glass, the woman called for the waiter. "Bring the girl dinner, and a glass of whiskey." she mumbled.

"I like it with soda," you added, smiling pleased from the couch.

Sevika rolled her eyes. "With soda," she said.

When you had already filled your stomach and calmed your nerves with a good whiskey, Sevika reappeared through the door. She had disappeared during your dinner, but returned to the room with a small bag of coins between her fingers and a less cold look than before; you could read the ambition on her face.

"For the arm repair," Sevika said, placing the pouch next to you on the table. To it, she added a small card with an address and the Silco symbol on the bottom, known as the "Eye of Zaun."

You knew that card was your golden ticket.

"This..." she said lowly. "Is a way to keep yourself fed and off the streets, if you're interested."

As you nodded, Sevika leaned in to whisper in a tone that made you shudder. Her scent of tobacco wafted into your nose, her closeness overwhelming. "Report to this address tomorrow at 8. Not a single minute later. We'll talk business when the time comes."

"Yes, ma'am." you said, making Sevika grin.

"Sevika." she said. "I am not into formality."

With that, she walked away, leaving you with a job opportunity and a pouch full of coins.

You did it. You fucking did it.

And tomorrow you would prove that your actions weren't just talk but pure merit. You counted the coins, it was enough for a hotel room and half of what you owed Horner. You smiled, he's always been good faking a Shimmer overdose.

As the days went by, you went from rat to girl. You met Silco, you closed a deal for private services to the organization, you took care of the maintenance of machinery, clothing and weapons. You were a full-time worker, you spent your hours within the four walls of the workshop, living off of coffee, bread, fruit and whiskey. Sevika watched you from the beginning, it was the task that Silco had entrusted to her; "Keep an eye on the girl, make her work and keep her mouth shut."

And that's what you did.

When the time came, you went from girl to mechanic. The workshop was not only your workplace, but your temple. Silco allowed you to accept external orders, you began to build a business that not only gave you autonomy, but also colored your cheeks, filled out your muscles and gave you the beauty that poverty had taken from you.

It was then that you went from mechanic to sweetheart. And Sevika forced herself to keep her distance, but the numerous appointments to check her arm, the jokes, the glances and the talks had loosened this armor against you. Now you ate full dinners, steaks, roasted vegetables, drank lemonade and replaced coffee with Shimmer, with Sevika as your only provider.

That was her mistake.

She thought she had done you a favor by providing you the doses. You worked better, your efficiency was through the roof, your performance impeccable. But that night, seeing you unconscious on the floor of her office, surrounded by paramedics and pale as snow, Sevika knew that you ended up like this because of her.

Her fault. Her damn fault.

"You've allowed this." said Silco, dragging from his cigar. He seemed quite unbothered by the situation, considering your incident as another problematic worker that couldn't control herself. All businesses have causalities, however, this wasn't just any. "She wasn't supposed to be at your office."

Your inert eyes, the way your body lay languid, a purple substance coming out of the corner of your mouth as if your insides were melting, the paramedics trying to revive a being whose life was hanging by a thread. It was a nightmare.

"She's dead." The paramedic said.

Dead.

You died for her.

Because of her.

"Ah!" Sevika sat up suddenly, a drop of sweat wetting the back of her neck when her eyes landed on the halo of moonlight that was leaking through the window. She had dreamed of the accident again.

She wiped the sweat from her neck with a quick gesture and took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing thoughts. Just a dream, she told herself, just a damn dream.

Sevika didn't even stop to put her mechanical arm on, which was resting next to her bed, but left the room at a quick pace and uncovered your sleeping figure on the living room couch.

You were fine.

You were curled up on the couch, your bandaged wrist resting next to your face, serene and calm. Your breathing reminded Sevika that you were still alive, even though you threatened to die on the old wooden floor of her office a month ago. But you were too stubborn to die from an overdose. You shifted in your spot, the breeze biting at your skin in the absence of the blanket over you, and when you opened your eyes you found the immense silhouette of Sevika before you. You screamed.

Sevika winced at your sharp cry, her hand reaching out instinctively to cover your mouth, to silence the sound before it echoed through the apartment.

"Shhh!" she hissed, her eyes darting towards the main door. The last thing she needed was for someone to think she was murdering someone in there.

"Quiet, quiet," she whispered, her hand still firmly over your mouth. "You'll wake the whole damn block with that shrieking."

Your heart skipped a beat before connecting two coherent thoughts and realizing it was Sevika. The woman pulled her hand away. "Fuck, don't stand in front of me like that again," you gasped. "I thought it was the grim reaper."

She took a step back, giving you some breathing room. "Believe me, he must have more important things to attend to," she said, her voice still low. "Just came to check on you. Didn't mean to scare you like that."

You sat up, reaching out to turn the oil lamp on. Sevika was still on her tank top and boxers, it was unusual to see her without the prosthetic arm. "I'm fine." you said. "You could've came to check in the morning, damn... what time it is?" you asked.

It's three," she replied, her tone still hushed. "Go back to sleep, girl. I just... wanted to make sure you were alright."

The lamplight outlined Sevika's silhouette, you could see the sweat on her neck and a certain pallor on her face. You assumed it was another nightmare, you already knew about them, but you avoided bringing them up because every time you did, she would shut you up with an "I'm fine, girl, go to sleep."

You watched her walk towards the balcony, a pack of cigarettes in her hand and a deep sigh leaving her lips. When she had the cigarette between her lips, you were suddenly beside her, lighting it up. “What’s really going on?” you asked.

"Can't a woman just enjoy her smoke in peace?" she grumbled, taking a drag from the cigarette. But there was no real malice in her voice, just a touch of weariness. She leaned against the balcony railing, the metal cool beneath her bare arm.

You sighed, coming up against a wall again. Sevika was impenetrable, so much so that you didn't know what was going through her mind unless she said it, and you could certainly assume it had to do with her nightmares, but you didn't dare to intrude on her fears. Still, you stayed next to her on the balcony, your stomach aching as the first sign of withdrawal.

The first few days were atrocious, you trembled and vomited every hour, you believed that dying was more pleasant than enduring such nausea and fits of anger and pain. However, Sevika stood firm by your side, brought you to her apartment and such a nurse, kept track of your symptoms and silenced them with the medicines the doctor had prescribed you. More than once, she stayed next to you on the couch, talking to you about trivialities or reading a book until the sleeping pill took effect and you could sleep. Only then did Sevika allow herself to stroke your forehead and relive the guilt of the accident.

Sevika had lived long enough to witness the effects of Shimmer on people. It didn't just destroy wills, it destroyed bodies and minds. The mutations from overuse of Shimmer were morbid and grotesque, luckily you didn't experience any, but that didn't make seeing you on the office floor, languid, pale, with your eyes open any less terrifying. Silco saw Sevika lose her temper for the first time in his life.

"I shouldn't have let you take those doses," she finally muttered, the words coming out with a hint of gravel in her voice. "I should've found a different way. This..." she gestured to you, the signs of her failure still lingering in the bags under your eyes and the scars along your arms, "...this is on me. My fault."

So that's what it was all about; guilt. Sevika had learned to take the blame for other people, to take responsibility for other people's mistakes, and this time was no different. Yes, she made a mistake by giving you doses of Shimmer for two years, but you were the one who decided to relapse. And you took all the blame. "Nobody forced me to relapse that day, Sevika." you stated. "And nobody could've stopped me neither, not even you."

For a moment, she was quiet, mulling over your words, the smoke from her cigarette spiraling up into the night air.

“You shouldn’t be the one consoling me, girl,” she said finally, the vulnerability in her tone betraying her gruff exterior. “I should be the one taking care of you, not the other way around.”

"We both know that a worker isn't taken care of the way you take care of me," you stated, your words implying more than what they said.

"You've never been a mere worker for me," she stated, letting out a puff of smoke, moving away into the air. Zaun was quiet, as if the city had stopped the day you nearly died. "Sometimes I can't stand you, you don't know when to back off."

You reached for her cigarette, taking a drag. "I never learned to back off."

“Of course, you didn’t,” she said, a note of resignation in her voice. “You’re as stubborn as they come. Should’ve known from the beginning that I’d have my hands full with you.”

And here you were, two years later, sleeping on her couch and making her coffee in the mornings, refusing to die without proving once again that you are many things, but not a street rat.

You had already settled into a routine. Sevika would leave early in the morning, usually returning at noon to check on you. You always waited for her with a cigarette and a cup of coffee, you started adding a touch of whiskey when you realized she liked it. You used to keep the apartment clean, read the books Sevika kept, play with her cards and sometimes take out your tools and make crafts or repair unused items, even though Sevika had forbidden you to work until you had recovered.

"Your recovery comes first, girl. Go easy."

Sometimes you found yourself chatting with her on the balcony, taking drags from her cigarette and oiling her mechanical arm, before daring to ask how her day was, absorbing her worries and whispering a "you always put up with too much, Sev" afterwads, only for her to shrug and light another cigarette. Being her tenant had allowed you to see Sevika in a much more intimate setting, without the need to maintain the impenetrable facade. You watched her sleep, yawn, train, and even cook; your favorite was the mushroom stew with enhacium powder. It was quite the meal, always leaving you with a heavy stomach and a pleasant drowsiness, although your tongue took the brunt of the sting of the powder. Sevika could feel you starting to itch as your cheeks colored, and with a smile, she would hand you the lemonade.

You were embarrassed to admit it, even more so considering that the overdose could have killed you, but you were grateful that circumstances led you to live with Sevika. Sometimes you wished you had done it sooner, but you remembered the way she reacted when you woke up in the hospital and regretted it.

"Don't you ever do that to me again, girl, understood? Never again." she said, agitated, holding your hand in hers.

You could never apologize enough to take the blame off Sevika's chest, so you just limited yourself to being a good roommate.

"Would you mind helping me with the painkiller?" you asked then, placing the cigarette between Sevika's lips. Despite having started the methadone treatment more than a month ago, it still gave you the shivers to handle the syringe.

"Of course," she said simply, her voice a mix of gruffness and understanding. "Let me do it."

You two sat down on the couch, Sevika holding the cigarette between her lips as she wrapped the elastic around your arm and tightened it. You didn’t admit it out loud, but ever since you’d been staying at Sevika’s apartment, your favorite time of day was when she helped you with the methadone. You loved the way her eyes focused on you, her thumb gently searching for your vein, commanding you to close your fist, then after piercing your skin, whispering “there you go,” pulling the needle back out before caressing the mark with her finger and purring “good girl.” She made you feel special, you were pampered by a woman who didn’t pamper anyone, and it was exhilarating in the most unusual way.

You thought you could take a thousand injections if it meant continuing to be Sevika’s good girl.

"Easy as pie," she said, her voice a rough whisper. "No pain, no drama." she added, disposing of the syringe in the trash can.

You watched her put out her cigarette in the ashtray, expecting her to sit next to you and wait for you to fall asleep like she always did. You had gotten used to hearing her voice by now. Just then, the first hit of the drug bathed you. It was always the strongest, however after a few weeks, the dose had decreased and only gave you a pleasant drowsiness.

"You're getting sleepy." she said. "Good."

Sevika watched as your eyelids fluttered shut, your body slumping back against the couch. The drug had done its work, a gentle drowsiness seeping into your limbs and calming your nerves. You felt an arm wrap around your waist, Sevika lifted you over her shoulder and carefully carried you to her bed. "It's too damn cold in the living room," was her excuse, even though you didn't ask for one. The bed was still warm, wide and the sheets smooth. Sevika wasn't lying when she said she prefers her whiskey neat and her bed soft.

She turned off the lamp, snuggling up to you, keeping a prudent distance that at the moment seemed ridiculous to you. "Do I scare you?" you teased her.

"Scare me?" she huffed. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Come closer then." you said, pushing your luck just enough. And Sevika seemed to give in.

You rested your head on her chest, allowing yourself to inhale her scent and feel the beat of her heart; it was slow, imposing, just like her. Sevika frowned, ignoring the urge to bury her nose in your hair and entwine her legs with yours. You heard her sigh, you were dozing off by then. "Rest, girl, you need it."

Sevika wasn’t the best early riser, but she woke up in a better mood that morning. A hand around your waist, her nose on your neck as if your scent alone had calmed all her nightmares, and it did. You were still asleep, comfortable and serene while she spooned you, unaware that Sevika pulled you close to her, taking in your cleavage from where she was; your shirt had shifted in the night, revealing more of your skin.

Look away, Sevika, get a grip.

Sevika sighed against your neck, knowing she was treading unfamiliar and inappropriate territory, but she couldn't help it. Her hand found the edge of your tank top, pulling it down just to reveal your breasts; smooth, tender and full.

No, she shouldn't, but... she wanted to? Absolutely.

Her lips found the sensitive area of your neck, trailing kisses and nips down to your shoulders and collarbone, daring to squeeze one of your tits between her fingers. You shifted on your place, the air biting on your bare chest managed to draw your attention and Sevika pulled her hands off, as if she was spooked of herself.

What the hell am I doing?

"Mhm..." you uttered, your hand seeking for Sevika's, bringing it back towards your chest. "Don't stop." you whispered, your eyes still closed.

Sevika gulped, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her body as she reached out again, catching your breast between her fingers and massaging it gently, peppering kisses down your neck, your cheek, your shoulder. You felt her abdomen press harder against your back, you shifted your ass against her, half asleep but perfectly aware of what was happening, and you wouldn’t let her stop.

She grunted against your neck, her hand squeezing harder your breast. "Don't move," she growled softly, her breath hot against your ear. "Stay just like this."

You moaned, your hand reaching her cheek, urging her to touch you, to kiss you. Your eyes fluttered open as she ran her hand down your stomach, teasing your lower belly, down to your legs, the inner side of your thighs. "Sev..." you purred.

"I'm here," she whispered against your ear. "I've got you."

"Shit." you whimpered, your eyes shutting once she slipped her hand into your shorts, settling between your legs. That's all you needed to fully wake up. "Ah, god." you panted, feeling her fingers against your slick.

"You're so wet for me, aren't you?" she breathed against your ear, her words sending a shiver down your spine. She pressed kisses along your neck, her teeth grazing your skin. "Yes, you are."

As much confidence Sevika showed, the truth was that inside she was shaking with fear. She was crossing a line she had imposed on herself when she met you two years ago, and she had never felt so out of control as she did now. It wasn’t just your moans, it was your scent, your heat, the idea that she was the one who gave you the opportunity that night at the club and now you were lying on her bed, squirming under her hand. She forged this situation from the moment she laid eyes on you, not knowing that you intended to end up in this position ever since she leaned in and her tobacco scent filled your nostrils. You intended to work for Sevika, to be her confidant, her best partner and above all… to become her weak point.

You pulled your head back, moaning as Sevika parted your legs and eased a finger inside you, licking your ear. "Sleeping on my couch, playing with my cards, wearing my clothes while I'm gone; all you've done to end up here." she mumbled, easing a second one, knowing you could take it.

"Yes, I... I did it." you whimpered, gripping the sheets between your fingers.

"You were testing me." she stated, biting on your neck. "Always pushing my buttons to see when I would give in."

You knew Sevika wasn't just playing around with you when she rubbed the heel of her hand against your clit, already swollen and sensitive for her. The room was filled with the obscene sound of your slick, your moans and Sevika's words. "Legs apart." she commanded. "You never learned to follow instructions, learn now." she said.

"Yes, ma'am." you whined, before Sevika chuckled.

"Didn't I tell you I'm not into formality?"

She could never forget the details of the time they met, no. Not when she was the one who saw you enter the club with your toolbox, your tired eyes, your steely confidence. Not when she was the one who asked Silco for a job opportunity for you and paid you with her own coins. Not when she chose you, for herself, from the first moment.

You were hers from the beggining, and somehow you knew it.

Her hand continued to work between your legs, her fingers moving expertly, making pleasurable heat pool in your belly. "You can pretend to be tough all you want, but when you're with me, you're not."

Your legs were locking around her hand, your breathing quick and ragged as Sevika sped up the motion of her fingers. Fuck, you were starting to shake, that tickling sensation settling in your stomach.

"You and your insolent mouth, your smug smile…" she whispered. "I wanted them for myself, I always did." You shifted, knowing that if Sevika had the mechanical arm on, she would already be choking you. However, you felt her move over you, trapping you against the mattress.

"Sevika… I'm…" you mewled, realizing you were on the very edge. "Huh, please..."

"I know." she smiled, as she laid above you, her hand firmly working on your throbbing pussy. "Now kiss me, pretty girl. Earn it."

You cupped her cheeks, kissing her as much as your moans would allow, tasting the tobacco on her tongue, her teeth between your lips. Sevika kissed like she walked, and that was saying a lot. You pulled back, realizing the trembling of your legs was the hint of an orgasm you couldn't contain. "Oh... god...!" you cried against her lips before you dove into the sensation.

And you melted.

Sevika leaned down to kiss your chin, your neck, totally in love with your whimpers and trembling lips, your smell of sweat, your juicy pussy. You barely rode the high when Sevika kissed your belly, a hand tracing fingers on your knee as her mouth hovered over your core. "I could lick it off of you, y'know?" she smirked.

You were in no position to ask or deny anything, but Sevika was in the perfect position to tempt you and play on your desire. “If only I didn’t have that meeting with Silco in…” she glanced at the clock beside the bed. “Ten minutes.”

Oh, no.

"Ten minutes is more than enough." you said, even though it sounded like a plea.

But Sevika chuckled, leaning to place a kiss on your lips. "I don't rush things when I eat a pretty girl out." she stated, leaving the bed.

You propped yourself up on your elbow, staring at Sevika with your lips apart. Unfazed, she took the mechanical arm and connected it to her shoulder, glancing at you with a rose brow.

"Wait for me with the coffee ready," she said, walking to the dresser to get ready. "I'll finish what I started, sugar, don't worry."

To be continued...

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wooyoungiewritings · 1 month ago

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Borrowed Time - Seonghwa x Reader (EPILOGUE)

Summary: It's been a year since you and Seonghwa decided to commit to each other fully. You have a date night, casual teasing as usual, until you accidentally say something that makes Seonghwa doubt himself. Wanting to apologize, you do what you know he'll love. And it's not for the weak ones.

Word count: 11.1K

Genre: Fluff, Rich Seonghwa, SMUT

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), she accidentally hurts Seonghwa's feelings, our boy is sad and hurt :(, TEASING, Seonghwa is a menace, DOM/SUB Seonghwa, DOM/SUB reader, fingering, oral (fem and male receiving), LOTS of dirtytalk, sex while on the phone (omg yall it's so filthy i'm sorry), creampie, aftercare (<3), lmk if I missed anything!

Authors note: The very last chapter we're gonna get from this story and this Seonghwa.. A little bittersweet because I LOVED writing him and I can tell he's got you all hooked as well. But thank you so much for the support on the story, I can't put into words how thankful I am. I wish you all the best, stay tuned for the next story! <3

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Seonghwa in any way.

It’s been a year since you and Seonghwa officially started your relationship, and so much has changed. The time between you has been full of growth, personally, emotionally, and together as a couple. What started as stolen moments between two people who couldn’t help but be drawn to each other has evolved into something solid and unshakable.

You left your old life behind in more ways than one. The house you once shared with your ex-husband, the memories of your past life, all of it now feels like a distant chapter. With Seonghwa’s quiet, unwavering support, you packed up your things, everything from old photos that no longer held meaning, to the things that represented who you used to be.

Seonghwa helped you move every single item from your old house. He was there for the little things, like when you found the remnants of an old birthday card tucked away in a box, or when you had to call the movers to sort through the mess of broken furniture. Through it all, he remained a constant. His presence was a reassurance, his touch gentle but firm when you needed it.

You moved into his place soon after. His apartment, which already had the warmth of someone who lived there fully, felt like home in an instant.

And yet, the transition hasn’t been without its challenges. Your ex-husband, in the wake of everything, struggled to understand why you had chosen to walk away. Even after the day your ex-husband tried to lash out at Seonghwa and he had pulled a knife. The arguments had been tense, but Seonghwa made you feel safe.

Your ex-husband was charged with assault and carrying a weapon. The legal proceedings have been slow, but it’s clear he’s facing serious consequences for his actions. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but it’s also a relief. You’re no longer tethered to a life that no longer made sense, and Seonghwa’s support through the entire ordeal has been everything you needed.

The candle flickers between you at the restaurant midtown, silverware clinking against plates, low conversations around you filling the silence as you have dinner with the love of your life.

“Wait, did you remember to move the laundry before we left?” you ask, mid-laugh, swirling the wine in your glass as you lean toward him across the table. There’s a tiny smudge of sauce on your plate and soft piano music humming through the air, but all you’re looking at is him.

Seonghwa pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. The guilt flashes across his face immediately. “...I absolutely did not.”

You gasp, faux-offended. “Seonghwa.”

“I got distracted!” he defends quickly, placing his fork down. “You were standing in the hallway wearing that dress and spraying perfume and looking like… like that-, what was I supposed to do? I barely remembered how to speak, let alone handle the laundry.”

You smirk, tilting your head. “So, we’re coming home to damp, probably mildew-scented towels. Again.”

He gives you a sheepish look, reaching for his wine. “I’ll rewash them. I swear. With lavender detergent. Extra soft cycle. Don’t punish me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, I will punish you.”

He coughs into his drink, eyes flicking up to yours with a flicker of heat. “Not sure if that was meant to sound like a threat or a promise, but either way, I’m listening.”

The smile you give him is wicked and slow. “Depends on how the towels smell when we get home.”

He exhales through a breathy laugh, watching you like he’s almost tempted to skip dessert and drag you home right now. His fingers tap idly against the stem of his glass. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You kick his ankle gently beneath the table. “You’re lucky I love you. You’ve ruined three loads of laundry in the last month and tried to blame it on the weather.”

“The weather was humid.”

You roll your eyes, but you're still smiling. His hand slides across the table to brush yours. Warm, calloused fingertips graze your knuckles, lingering. The light from the candles flickers against his jaw, casting shadows that make him look dangerously beautiful.

You intertwine your fingers with his. “Are you working late on Monday?”

Seonghwa’s gaze lifts to meet yours, his thumb still idly stroking along your palm. “No,” he says. “Switched a few things around. I’m all yours.”

You hum softly, your foot sliding slowly up his leg under the table, brushing along the warm skin through his trousers. The slow movement isn’t innocent, you feel it, and so does he. “Good,” you say, lips curving into a sly smile, the kind that hints you’re already miles ahead in your own head.

His eyes narrow just a little, curious. “Why?”

You glance at your wine, then back at him, smirking like you’re keeping a secret. “Because I already know how I want you Monday night.”

His fork freezes halfway to his plate.

“…You can’t just say that to me in public,” he mutters, eyes darkening slightly.

You tilt your head. “But I just did.”

His eyes flicker over your lips, then back up to your eyes, burning with a heat that makes your breath hitch. He raises his glass slowly, taking a measured sip, jaw tightening as if fighting a rising tide of want. The silence stretches, thick and electric.

He watches you over the rim of his glass as he drinks, jaw tight, eyes smoldering. “Tell me.”

You blink, pretending to play innocent. “Tell you what?”

His voice dips lower, more dangerous. “How you want me.”

You lean in just a little closer, your eyes locked on his, shining with that mischievous light he knows too well. The restaurant’s soft lighting brushes over your skin, but all he can focus on is your voice, smooth and casual, like you’re talking about the weather.

“Monday,” you say, slow and deliberate, “I want you to tie me up.”

He nearly chokes on his wine. The glass slips, and he coughs, hand flying to his throat as if trying to catch his breath. His eyes widen, flicking around the restaurant like he’s checking if anyone else heard what you said.

You sit back, innocently biting your lip, pretending to be utterly unaware of the effect you just had.

His fingers tremble slightly as they fumble with the top button of his shirt, loosening it with more force than necessary. He leans back, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake off the sudden rush of heat, but his eyes never leave you. “That’s not something you just throw out casually over dinner.

You shrug slowly, biting your lip. “I mean, you can. If you want to.”

He blinks, slow and deliberate, like he’s just recalibrating his thoughts. His usual steady composure flickers for a heartbeat, just a quick flash of surprise, but then he smiles, cool and collected, fingers tightening on the wine glass as if to remind himself who’s in charge.

“You say that like it’s nothing,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes darkening with something sharper now. “But I can see exactly what it does to you… seeing me like this.” His gaze drifts to your lips for a moment before snapping back to your eyes, cutting through your teasing smile.

You bite your lip, slow and deliberate, watching him more than you speak. “Maybe I like seeing you like this,” you say, voice innocent, but the heat behind it is unmistakable.

He chuckles, deep and slow, the kind of sound that promises he’s not about to lose control, no matter how much you push. “Careful,” he warns, leaning closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “You’re tempting me in all the wrong ways, and I’m not sure I’ll play nice Monday.”

You settle into the challenge, your fingers tightening around his hand beneath the table. “Good,” you whisper. “I wouldn’t want anything less.”

The evening ends with sexual tension and laughter still lingering between you two, the kind of easy, effortless laughter that fills the air as you walk down the sidewalk. The night is cool but not too chilly, and Seonghwa’s hand is warm in yours. You chat about nothing in particular, tossing around silly comments and inside jokes. It’s just the two of you, enjoying the simplicity of being together after so much time has passed.

“We need to pick up a few things for the week,” you say, breaking the comfortable silence between you as you step toward a convenience store. “I don’t feel like cooking tomorrow. Maybe just a quick, easy dinner.”

Seonghwa gives a nod of agreement, his smile soft and easy. “I got it,” he says, already heading inside with you. “You just tell me what you need.”

You follow him through the automatic doors, the familiar buzz of the store greeting you with its aisles of snacks, drinks, and everyday essentials as Seonghwa grabs a basket.

He picks up a few things, your favorite tea, the cereal you’ve been eating for months, a couple of random things that seem to just appear in his hands as if he knows what you like before you do. It’s easy, almost like you don’t need to say anything at all, and he just knows what to do.

You can’t help but feel a little guilty. “You always do too much,” you joke, glancing at him as you reach the pasta aisle. “I don’t need all of this. I can do it myself.”

He laughs, a light sound that makes your heart feel full. “I know you can,” he says, but his tone softens slightly. “I just like to take care of you. I want you to feel good at home.”

You stop for a second, glancing at the shelves and picking out a jar of pasta sauce. “Yeah, I know. It’s sweet of you.” You pause, a teasing smile playing at your lips as you turn to him. “But don’t get too comfortable, you know. You’re not the only guy who can win me over.”

You say it offhandedly, your tone light, more as a joke than anything else. But as soon as the words leave your lips, you don’t notice the shift in Seonghwa’s expression. His smile falters for just a second, his eyes clouding over with something that catches him off guard.

He doesn’t even know why it stings so badly. It’s just a joke. A stupid, offhand remark. But suddenly, he’s questioning everything.

He takes a deep breath, his gaze drifting toward the shelves in front of him as he forces a smile, but it’s tight, and it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You’re already moving on, picking up a carton of milk and dropping it into the basket. “So, should we get eggs? I’m kind of craving some scrambled eggs for breakfast tomorrow.”

Seonghwa just nods, quiet, as he grabs a few more things off the shelves, his movements slightly slower now. He keeps his distance, trying to figure out what to say, what to do, but the uncertainty in him is louder than anything else. He’s unsure of how to move forward without feeling like he’s overstepping, unsure if being this sweet, this attentive, has been a mistake all along.

You don’t notice it, but for him, it feels like a reality he’s been dreading, a quiet reminder that no matter how much he tries to be perfect, no matter how much effort he pours into showing you he’s there for you, there’s always the possibility that you might slip away.

You push open the door to the convenience store with your hip, arms full of snacks, grinning as Seonghwa keeps it open for you without a word. The cool night air hits your skin, and you shiver slightly as you step out under the glow of the parking lot lights.

“I swear, we went in for two things and came out with enough for a sleepover party,” you say, adjusting the bags in your arms.

You glance at him, expecting a grin, maybe a sarcastic comment, but his face is neutral, lips drawn into a soft line, eyes focused on the pavement as you walk to the car.

The ride back is quiet. You talk most of the way, telling him about a trailer you saw earlier for a movie you want to watch, asking him about the weekend. He gives short answers. There’s no more teasing tonight. No warmth in his voice. But you’re still caught up in your own good mood, not quite catching on.

When you pull up to the apartment, he takes the bags without a word. You thank him, distracted, already going on about what movie you might watch while unpacking things in the kitchen.

He helps, silently passing things to you or putting them away himself. No jokes. No small touches. Just a quiet presence.

At one point, you bump into him while reaching for the fridge handle. He steps back quickly, avoiding the usual playful contact.

You don’t think about it. You’re already talking about something else.

Later, when you crawl into bed and call out to him to hurry up, he just murmurs, “Coming,” from the bathroom.

He slides in beside you a few minutes later, settling stiffly on his side of the bed. His arm is warm when it wraps around you, but there’s hesitation in the way he holds you, like he’s not sure he should.

You let out a happy sigh, burying your face in his chest. “I love nights like this.”

He smiles, but you don’t see that it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”

But inside, your words still echo.

“Don’t get too comfortable. You’re not the only guy who can win me over.”

You’d said it like a joke. Something flippant. Light. But it hadn’t landed that way.

Not to him.

Because he was comfortable. Not with the idea of being safe, but with you. Because he didn’t think of this as temporary. Because he'd been trying so hard to be everything you needed.

And maybe that was the mistake.

He stares at the ceiling long after your breathing slows. He wonders if he’s been too much. Or maybe not enough.

He closes his eyes, and holds you tighter anyway.

***

The apartment is quiet when you wake. The warm morning light spills through the curtains, soft and golden, but it does nothing to soothe the weight in your chest. You turn over expecting to find Seonghwa asleep, but he’s already up, sitting at the edge of the bed, shirtless, hunched slightly, hands resting on his thighs.

You blink the sleep from your eyes, sitting up slowly. “You okay?”

He turns with a small smile, one that barely brushes his lips. “Yeah. Just couldn’t sleep much.”

There’s something distant about him. You watch as he pulls on a hoodie, movements slower than usual, like his body is weighed down by something heavier than tiredness.

You hesitate. “You sure you’re okay?”

He nods, still avoiding your eyes. “Do you want coffee? I was about to make some.”

You climb out of bed, following him to the kitchen. He doesn’t reach for your hand like he usually does. He doesn’t tease you about being a sleepyhead or offer you the first cup like he always does without fail. Instead, he pours two mugs silently, sliding one across the counter to you without looking up.

“Thanks,” you say softly. He just nods.

Something’s off. Really off.

“Are we okay?” you ask quietly.

There’s a pause. Just a breath too long.

“Of course,” he says gently. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

You look into his eyes with worry, brows furrowing. “Because you’re acting weird.”

“I’m not.” He smiles again, but it’s too quick. Too practiced. He leans against the counter and sips his coffee, eyes down. You study him for a long moment.

“Seonghwa.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze dropping to his coffee. “I don't want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Out of what?”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nothing. Seriously. Let’s not-”

“No,” you cut in, your voice soft but steady. “You always tell me to be honest with you. That I don’t have to pretend I’m okay when I’m not.”

That stops him. His eyes lift to yours. For a second, they just search your face, like he’s trying to gauge how much to say. Whether it’s worth the risk.

Then something gives. A crack in the surface.

“…Right,” he murmurs, voice quiet.

“So…” you continue gently. “Can’t you do the same with me?”

His jaw tenses a little, he looks like he’s thinking through every possible way to respond. His lips press together, and he exhales through his nose like he’s been holding it in all night. He sets the cup down slowly. Then finally, he speaks.

“That thing you said last night,” he says. “About me not being the only guy who can win you over.”

You feel the air still. Your heart dips.

He gives a soft, humorless chuckle, but there’s no real amusement in it. “I know it was a joke. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

“But it hurt,” you say.

He nods slowly. “Yeah. It did.”

You wait, quietly.

“I know it was a joke,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “But I’ve been trying so hard to be good for you. I don’t expect anything back. I just… I want to be the person who makes you feel safe. Loved. Like you’re not alone. And hearing that…” He pauses again, swallowing thickly. “It felt like none of it mattered. Like it could be anyone. Like I could lose you just like that.”

He lets out a breath, voice more fragile now. “And it made me wonder if I’ve been doing too much. If I’m just overwhelming you.”

“No, Seonghwa-” you begin, but he gently raises a hand.

“I know you didn’t mean it that way,” he says quickly, softer this time. “But I need you to know that I’m not trying to be some perfect boyfriend. I just want to be someone you don’t want to leave.”

You don’t speak, your chest is too tight.

“I spent the night wondering if I’m just… trying too hard.” he took a deep breath. “I thought maybe if I did everything right, I wouldn’t have to worry,” he says, his tone finally beginning to crack. “But when you said that, when you laughed and told me not to get too comfortable, it was like… I don’t know. Like I could do everything right and it still wouldn’t be enough. That maybe I am too comfortable.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s my worst nightmare. That I’m doing everything I can and I’d still lose you. And I can't lose you again.”

You step closer, cupping his cheek. He leans into the touch instinctively, eyes closing for a moment.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean it. I never wanted to hurt you. I was careless with my words, and I’m so sorry. You do so much for me, more than I deserve, honestly. I’m grateful every day that you’re here.”

His eyes finally meet yours, and for the first time since yesterday, you see the mask drop completely. The hurt. The quiet fear beneath the surface. Like something delicate in him has cracked open.

He gives a slow nod as he closes his eyes briefly, jaw working as if holding back something. “You don’t have to say that. I know. I see it too.”

You smile softly, the corners of your lips lifting with genuine warmth. “I want you to know, I see everything you do. And I see you. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to prove yourself to me. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He opens his eyes, shimmering with something tender and real. Then, with a small, almost shy smile, he cups your face and pulls you into a kiss, Slow, deep, full of all the unspoken words between you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his lips. Stroking your thumb along his cheek.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice raw.

Then his hands find your waist again, sliding gently over your sides, grounding himself in your warmth. He leans in, pressing his lips to yours again, not rushed, not needy, just full of quiet emotion. A kiss that says we’re okay.

You melt into him, arms winding around his shoulders as his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. He kisses you again, and again, soft and slow, like he can’t get enough of you. Like he’s memorizing the way you feel, the way you taste when it’s safe again between you.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, your noses bump and you both laugh under your breath, forehead to forehead. His thumb brushes beneath your jaw as he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your forehead.

Then you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in as he breathes you in like he needs it, like he missed this even in the smallest absence.

You smile again, a little crooked now, brushing your nose against his. “Can we go make breakfast now? I want to pretend this morning started in the kitchen. Not me being an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” He laughs, low and genuine, kissing your forehead. “Maybe a little,” he teases gently. “But you’re my idiot.”

You smile, cheeks flushed, and slide your arms around his neck. “So… should we start the day over?”

He grins, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

Fingers laced, hearts lighter, you head further into the kitchen together, ready to begin the morning again, this time side by side.

You start pulling ingredients from the fridge, working in easy rhythm together. He’s in charge of eggs, and you handle the toast and coffee. Every time he passes behind you, his hand brushes along your lower back or waist, and you steal a kiss on his cheek each time he reaches for something near you. It’s sweet, almost ridiculous, like you’re teenagers in love for the first time, unable to keep your hands to yourselves.

You’re standing at the counter spreading butter when your phone buzzes in your hoodie pocket.

You pull it out lazily. The name on the screen makes your stomach twist.

Ex-husband Can we talk? Please. I just want to see you.

The sight of his name alone used to wreck you, stir up all the confusion and pain. But now… now it just feels distant. Faint. You stare at the screen for a second, lips parting in surprise. Not because it’s unexpected, he’s been sending messages like this every few months, but because of how numb you feel reading it now.

Your eyes drift to Seonghwa. He’s by the stove, sleeves pushed up, brow furrowed slightly as he cracks an egg with one hand, effortlessly graceful even in a hoodie and sweats. He glances over and smiles at you, the kind of smile that says you’re his favorite part of the morning.

Something swells in your chest. You lock your phone without replying and leave it on the counter.

Then, quietly, you walk up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist.

He freezes for half a second, then leans back into you with a breathy little laugh. “Again?”

“Mhm,” you mumble into the fabric of his hoodie. “Can’t help it.”

Your hands slide up under the hem of his hoodie and find the bare skin of his stomach, soft at first, then slowly tracing over firm muscle with featherlight fingers.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His breath hitches. “I love you too but,” then, low and warm: “you need to be careful.”

You bite back a grin and slowly release him, stepping away like nothing happened. “Sorry,” you sing innocently, moving back to your toast.

He watches you out of the corner of his eye, a smirk pulling at his lips as he stirs the eggs. But you act like you didn’t just get a reaction out of him. Like you didn’t just wake something up.

He chuckles, but then pauses when you lean over the counter just a bit too far, the curve of your body on full display. Your hoodie rides up just enough to tease his imagination, and your little satisfied sigh as you sip your coffee doesn’t help.

Even with the tension rising between you, there’s something light and beautiful in the air. You steal bites from each other’s plates, wipe crumbs off each other’s lips, laugh too loudly when you burn the first toast. You kiss over the coffee pot.

It’s not dramatic or extravagant, but it’s everything.

The quiet gratitude that you don’t have to wish for love anymore. You’re living it.

The rest of the morning flows in that slow, perfect rhythm. Dishes done together, sunlight spilling through the windows, occasional kisses stolen in the hallway. It’s one of those quiet days that doesn’t need a plan. No errands. No meetings. Just two people wrapped up in each other, moving through the softness of a lazy Sunday.

By early afternoon, Seonghwa is curled up on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped along the backrest. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and an old black tee, barefoot, hair a little messy from your fingers running through it earlier. His phone rests beside him, untouched. Some documentary plays in the background, but he isn’t really watching it. He’s just… existing. Content.

You peek around the corner from the hallway, heart fluttering as you tighten the belt on your robe. You come padding into the room, soft steps on the hardwood floor. He glances up casually at first, then does a double take.

You’re wrapped in your short silkrobe, cinched tight at the waist, hair still slightly damp from the shower, skin soft and glowing. Something about the way you carry yourself is different. Intentional. A quiet tension hums beneath your slow approach, and it draws him in immediately.

He’s watching you too closely now, sensing something in the air.

“Hey,” you murmur, stopping a few feet from where he sits.

“Hey,” he says back, voice a little rougher now. “You okay?”

You nod, gaze flickering down as you toy with the edge of your sleeve. “I was just… thinking about last night again.”

His brows pull together slightly. “You don’t have to keep thinking about that. We talked-”

“I know,” you say quickly. “I know we did. And I know you said it’s okay. But I still feel bad.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just a touch as he studies you. “You don’t need to. Really.”

You take another slow step forward, the robe shifting slightly with your movement. His eyes follow the delicate sway of fabric, the way it clings and parts at your legs just enough to hint at what’s underneath.

“But I want you to know,,” you say, eyes flickering to his and away again. “That I really hate that I said something that made you feel like I didn’t love you enough. Or that you weren’t enough. You are. You’re… everything to me.”

He blinks, caught off guard by the sincerity in your voice. His throat bobs as he swallows, caught off guard by how soft your voice is. How close you’re getting. How goddamn breathtaking you look under this lazy afternoon light, skin glowing, lashes casting shadows, mouth pink and nervous.

You take another step, and he shifts a little on the couch, legs parting instinctively as you drift closer into the space between them. You’re not touching him, not yet, but the tension is a livewire stretched between you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes meeting his. “I’m really sorry.”

He blinks slowly. “You’ve said that like… four times now.”

You smile, just barely, lashes lowering. “I know. I just need you to understand how much I mean it.”

“Mmhm,” he hums suspiciously. “And this doesn’t feel at all like the start of something else?”

You widen your eyes innocently. “Like what?”

His gaze drops to where your robe has shifted slightly, just the faintest hint of something darker, softer, underneath. Not skin, not yet, but something lacy and out of place for a lazy Sunday.

Your smile grows, sweet, cheeky, utterly full of mischief. The robe shifts again as you step even closer, until you’re right in front of him, standing between his legs, barely breathing. You pull at the belt just slightly, just enough that it loosens at your waist.

“I just want to say sorry properly,” you murmur, the robe loosening, parting just slightly at the top to reveal a delicate strap against your shoulder. “That’s all.”

“Uh huh,” he says, dry but breathless, leaning back into the couch like he’s trying to maintain some sort of composure. “Just a pure, heartfelt apology?”

“Exactly. Nothing more.”

His gaze flickers over you, jaw slackening as more and more of the robe shifts, revealing the delicate curve of your waist, the high cut of the lingerie hugging your hips, the way the lace kisses your skin in all the places he loves most.

You drop the robe entirely, letting it slide off your shoulders and down your arms in one fluid, quiet movement.

His mouth opens, but no words come out. He’s completely paralyzed, unable to form anything coherent, his eyes glued to you, his gaze scanning the curve of your body like he’s memorizing every detail.

You’re standing above him in the most stunning set of black lingerie he’s ever seen, something sheer, something lace, something you bought weeks ago but never wore. You’d told yourself it had to be the right time. Something meaningful. Not just lust, but love. Trust. A real connection.

And today, after the talk, the honesty, the sweetness. Today feels like that day.

But it’s not just the outfit. It’s you. The confidence in your posture, the softness in your expression, the way you look at him like he’s the only thing that matters.

You place your hands on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing underneath your fingertips.

His hands twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t dare touch you, not yet. Not until you allow it.

You lean forward, just enough for him to feel your breath ghosting across his skin. His eyes flutter, and you smirk, knowing exactly what you’re doing to him. You move your lips closer to his neck, brushing softly at first, testing the waters. You pull his hair gently, just enough to tilt his head back. Your lips trail lower, over his pulse, down to his collarbone, leaving light, lingering kisses.

Seonghwa’s body tenses with every touch, his hands curling into fists beside him. His lips part again, but it’s still only a soundless gasp.

"Seonghwa..." you whisper, your hands sliding down his body, fingers tracing the muscles under his shirt, teasing him with just enough contact to drive him crazy. You look up at him, your eyes glimmering with mischief as you drag your fingertips along his abs, taking your time.

He’s shaking, his breath coming in uneven pants now, but still, he can’t speak. He doesn’t know how to. There’s nothing to describe how beautiful you are, nothing he can say to capture how stunning, how perfect you look standing before him, so in control.

One thing you’ve learned about Seonghwa this year is how he adores when you take control. When you take the lead, tell him what to do, all while behaving so innocent. It weakens him and you love it.

And when you reach the hem of his shirt, he finally mutters something close to a whisper, his voice thick with need.

Your heart races as you drop down onto your knees, placing yourself between his legs. He doesn’t move, his eyes wide, drinking in the sight of you. You gaze up at him through your lashes, your hands resting lightly on his thighs. There’s a playful glint in your eyes, one that tells him exactly what you're about to do.

“Seonghwa,” you murmur softly, still looking up at him, “I don’t want to make you feel like you're not enough,” you continue, your voice sweet but layered with something deeper now, something he can’t ignore. “I feel so bad for saying what I did.”

You let your hands slide up his thighs slowly, the touch light and teasing. He’s growing noticeably harder under your touch, his body betraying him, but he’s still silent, completely at your mercy. You smile softly, knowing the effect you’re having on him.

“Do you know what it does to me… watching you try so hard to take care of me?” you ask, voice airy, adoring. Your fingers moving higher now, brushing gently against his waistband. You let the edge of your fingers trace the fabric, feeling him react to every light touch. “How strong you are? How patient?”

Seonghwa swallows, the tension in his jaw obvious. “Y/N,” he manages, but his voice is shaky, low. “What are you doing?”

You look up at him, your expression innocent, yet full of mischief. “I’m just trying to apologize properly,” you reply, voice sweet and slow. “Don’t you want me to make it up to you?”

His mouth opens, but no words come out. He’s breathless, completely caught in the spell you’ve woven around him.

You give him a playful, teasing smile as your fingers tease the waistband of his sweats.

Seonghwa's eyes flicker between your face and your hands, watching your every movement as you tease him.

You finally slide your fingers under the waistband of his sweats, your touch just light enough to make his body tense. Slowly, you begin to touch him, gently, at first, just over the fabric, and he inhales sharply, caught between breath and moan.

“Does that feel good?” you ask innocently, your voice sweet, but there’s no hiding the teasing tone.

His chest heaves with another shaky breath, and he finally speaks, though his voice is hoarse and strained. “Y/N… you’re killing me…”

You don’t stop, your hand moves lower, wrapping around him just slightly through the fabric, feeling the full length of him, the heat of his skin through the material. He groans softly, his eyes closing for a moment as his grip tightens on the couch.

“I love you,” you murmur softly, voice tender but with a hint of playful fire. “You’re the strongest, most incredible man I’ve ever known. You make me feel safe, loved... like I’m the most important thing in the world to you.”

He swallows hard, jaw tight, eyes dark and fixed on you like you’re the only thing that matters. He’s completely under your spell now.

Your nails skim lightly beneath the elastic, just enough to make his breath catch again. You glance up at him through your lashes, lips barely parted.

“Still okay?” you ask sweetly, voice soft and full of false innocence.

He swallows hard, then gives a weak, breathless nod. “Y-Yeah,” he manages.

You hum approvingly and begin to ease his sweats down slowly, your fingers careful and unhurried. He lifts his hips just slightly to help, and you smile at his obedience. The fabric drags over his skin until the waistband of his briefs is exposed, then those too, bit by bit, revealing the unmistakable evidence of how much he’s aching for you.

He’s fully hard now, flushed and heavy, resting against his stomach. You pause for a moment, eyes fixed on him, before looking up to meet his gaze again. He’s watching you like he’s dreaming, his lips parted, chest rising with shallow breaths.

“You’re so quiet,” you whisper, teasing. “No words for me?”

He tries, but nothing comes out. Just a soft, guttural sound in the back of his throat as you lean in, breath ghosting over his skin.

You place a single kiss just above his hipbone, your hands spreading over his thighs, holding him still. Then another kiss, lower this time, close enough that his body jerks ever so slightly.

You run your fingers along the inside of his thigh, nails grazing delicately as you keep your eyes on him. “You’re incredible,” you murmur, your voice rich and low, “So strong, patient, and completely perfect.”

His hand twitches against the cushion, and he exhales sharply.

“You always make me feel so good,” you go on, brushing your lips over his lower stomach, so soft it’s barely contact. “And now it’s your turn.”

You trail your fingers to the base of his length, light and slow, and he groans, finally breaking the silence.

“Please…” he whispers.

You smile. “Please, what?”

His eyes meet yours, dark, dazed, desperate. “Just… please.”

You press one more kiss to the base of him, just above where your hand rests. Then your lips part, and you finally take him in your mouth, just the tip, warm and slow, and his head falls back against the couch with a quiet, broken sound.

You hollow your cheeks slightly, tongue teasing the underside as you start to move. Soft, steady, deliberate.

He’s unraveling already, hips twitching beneath your hold, one hand leaving the couch to bury itself in your hair. But even then, he doesn’t push or guide, he just holds, grounding himself.

You pull back just enough to speak, your voice low and sultry. “Do you want to touch me?”

His eyes darken with need, flickering between your face and your body. His breath hitches, voice rough and eager. “Please… can I?”

You smile, slow and knowing. “Not yet.”

His hand twitches in the air, hesitant, like he’s begging for permission, utterly captivated by your control.

With a playful gleam, you reach for the thin rope from your robe, twisting it between your fingers. Before he can protest, you loop the soft fabric around his wrists, knotting them together gently but firmly. His breath catches, a mix of surprise and thrill sparking in his eyes.

You smile, satisfied, and then take him in deeper this time, tongue curling, hand stroking what you don’t fit. He groans again, louder now, the sound raw and unfiltered. His hands tied tightly, leaving him utterly helpless. All he can do now is watch you, eyes wide, breath hitching.

You’ve got him exactly where you want him, breathless, speechless, and completely at your mercy.

And the best part is: you’re just getting started.

“Say something,” you purr, kissing the sensitive tip again, tongue flicking out ever so lightly. “Or are you already too far gone?”

He tightens what little grip he has, hands bound, clutching at the air, then shakes his head as if trying to clear the fog.

“I-, fuck-,” he rasps, voice low and hoarse. “You’re… unbelievable.”

You giggle sweetly, like it’s the most innocent thing in the world, dragging your tongue slowly along the underside of him in a long, languid lick that makes his hips jerk and a choked moan escape his throat.

“Mm. You liked that,” you say smugly, then take him back into your mouth, a little deeper this time, slow and warm and deliberate.

You pull off with a soft pop, saliva connecting your lips to his skin for just a moment before you lick it away, hand replacing where your mouth was, stroking him in that perfect rhythm that makes his head fall back with a desperate groan.

“You’re shaking,” you tease gently, voice full of amusement. “Is that for me?”

He barely nods, swallowing hard. “Y-yeah. You-, fuck, Y/N, you’re gonna kill me.”

You pout mockingly. “Awh, I know you can take it.”

He lets out a broken laugh, half-disbelief, half-plea, and you grin, proud of yourself.

“I’m here to take care of you,” you say sweetly, licking the tip again, giving him one slow stroke from base to tip. “You know you’re doing so well, don’t you?”

His voice is barely there now. “Yes… I try.”

You pull back, breath warm against his skin, eyes sparkling.

“Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not stopping until I say so.”

Your mouth returns to him, slow and hot and wet, and this time, you suck just a little harder, swirl your tongue in just the right spot, and the noise he makes? It’s ruined. Absolutely ruined.

His breath is ragged now, chest rising and falling like he just ran miles, tied hands clenched into fists, thighs trembling under your touch. Every time your mouth pulls off him, he lets out the softest sound of frustration, like it’s physically painful to be denied.

And you love it.

You press a soft kiss to the inside of his thigh, then lick slowly back up to his hip.

“Y/N-” he groans, his voice cracking around your name.

You glance up at him, lips glistening, cheeks flushed. “Hmm?”

His eyes are wrecked, pleading, helpless, needy. “I’m-, fuck, I’m close. Can I-...”

You give him one more long stroke, slow and tight, then let go completely, hands sliding back up his trembling thighs instead.

“Can you what?” you ask sweetly, feigning innocence even as your eyes gleam with control.

He swallows hard. “Can I… can I cum?”

You tilt your head, pretend to think about it, even as your hands press into his thighs to spread him a little wider between your knees.

“I don’t know…” you murmur, lips curving. “Do you want to?”

“Yes,” he breathes out instantly, no hesitation, no shame. “Please.”

You trail one hand up his stomach, nails scraping lightly over his skin under his shirt, just to feel the shudder it sends through him. Then you lean up, mouth at his ear.

“But wouldn’t it feel better,” you whisper slowly, “if you came inside me instead?”

He practically whimpers.

You pull back, just enough to see the complete desperation in his eyes, the flush in his cheeks, the way he’s barely holding himself together.

“Do you want that, baby?” you ask gently, your thumb brushing over the head of his cock, making him jolt. “Want to be inside me?”

“Yes-, fuck, yes, please.”

You smile, satisfied. Then, your hands move to the rope binding his wrists, fingers working carefully to loosen the knot. His eyes widen, breath hitching as you free him, letting his hands fall to your skin.

Then you pull back just enough to meet his eyes and murmur:

“Then take me.”

And in the next instant, he moves.

His arms shoot around you, strong and sudden, standing with you in one smooth motion as if he doesn’t even feel the weight. He’s carrying you before you can blink, mouth crashing to yours like he’s starving.

You laugh into the kiss, breathless, triumphant, dizzy with how much he wants you.

He’s hard. So hard, the outline of him straining against his sweats still burned into your vision, and now it presses hot against your thigh as he carries you. His jaw is clenched, breath shallow, like he’s using every ounce of strength to not lose it completely.

By the time he reaches the bed, he’s trembling.

But even now, even now, he sets you down with care. Like you’re too precious to just drop. Like he worships the very feel of you.

His eyes flick over your body, dressed in lingerie, glazed with hunger and awe.

You shift onto your elbows, spread your legs just a little more, watching the way he swallows hard, so hard it looks like it hurts.

“Cat got your tongue?” you tease, voice syrupy sweet.

He exhales shakily, running a hand down his face. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Oh, I think I do,” you purr, trailing one finger down your stomach. “You’ve been so good, baby. Letting me tease you. Beg. You were gonna come just from my hand, weren’t you?”

He groans, like the memory physically pains him.

You crook your finger at him, eyes heavy with heat. “Come here. Let me feel how badly you want me.”

He moves like a man possessed, kneeling on the bed, hands already reaching, but he doesn’t dare touch until you nod.

Only then does he slide a hand up your thigh, mouth parted like he can’t believe this is real.

“I want to make you feel good too,” he breathes. “Let me. Please.”

You smile, fingers threading into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him moan.

“Then make me feel it.” you whisper.

He moves without hesitation.

One second he’s on his knees, eyes locked to yours like he’s praying, and the next, he’s lowering himself between your thighs with a reverence that makes your breath catch.

His shirt is off in a second, his hands slide under your thighs and pull you closer to the edge of the bed, lips grazing the soft skin there as his breath shudders out of him.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers like it’s hurting him, tugging your panties down as he looks at you like you’re the most precious thing.

You rest back on your elbows, heart hammering in your chest as you watch him kiss up the inside of your thigh.

He dives in slow, teasing at first, tongue sliding between your folds like he’s savoring every inch, every sound you make. His hands are firm on your hips, keeping you exactly where he wants you, but it’s not about control, it’s about devotion.

He moans softly the first time he tastes you fully, and the vibration sends a jolt through your spine. You reach down, fingers weaving into his hair, and tug just a little, guiding him, grounding yourself.

“Right there,” you gasp, and he groans again, like your pleasure is his reward.

He flattens his tongue, licking deep and slow, then flicks it exactly where he knows you need it. He’s relentless, not rough, not rushed, just overwhelming in how thoroughly he focuses on you. Like you’re the only thing that exists in his world right now.

Your thighs tremble, your back arches, and you feel the first wave of heat beginning to build, steady and sharp, curling low in your belly.

And Seonghwa knows.

“Already?” he murmurs against your skin, lips glistening. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice breaking.

He doesn’t. If anything, he doubles down, lips wrapping around your clit as he sucks just enough to make your legs start to shake. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you still, and when your hips buck, he lets out a deep groan that goes straight through you.

You’re teetering on the edge, eyes squeezed shut, breathing shallow.

Then you feel his hand leave your thigh, only for a second, before a single long finger slides inside you, slow, deep.

You cry out.

His mouth doesn’t stop moving.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice wrecked and reverent. “Come on, baby. Let me feel it.”

And with one more deep flick of his tongue and a curl of his finger, you fall apart for him, back arching, fingers fisting in his hair, legs clamping around his shoulders as your orgasm crashes through you.

But even then, he doesn’t stop.

He licks you through it, eyes fluttering closed like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

Only when your hips twitch, too sensitive to take any more, does he finally pull back, panting, lips swollen, chin wet with you.

He looks up at you, completely gone.

“Can I have you now?” he whispers, voice rough and full of need.

Seonghwa leans in, his lips brushing over your collarbone as he kisses his way to your neck. His hand slides down, finally reaching the waistband of his sweats.

“I want you, Y/N,” he murmurs against your skin, and before you can respond, he’s pulling down his sweats, his cock springing free, fully hard and pressing against your inner thigh.

His eyes don’t leave yours, blazing with hunger, a slow burn that sears through you. He leans over you, pushing you back into the sheets, his weight settling between your legs, strong thighs caging you in. He takes your wrists in his hands, pinning them gently above your head.

And then, to your surprise, you hear a familiar sound.

A soft pull of fabric. The faint slide of a knot being tightened.

Your breath catches as you realize what he’s done.

He brought the rope.

The same one you used on him earlier.

You hadn’t noticed, hadn’t seen when he grabbed it, but now it’s there, looped around your wrists as he secures it snugly, expertly, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

Your wrists press together above your head, bound tightly to each other. Not painfully. But firmly. Completely.

Your eyes flick up to meet his, wide with surprise and heat, and his expression is dark with satisfaction.

“You didn’t think I’d let that little stunt go unanswered, did you?” he says, voice low and dangerous, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “You tied me up and made me beg.”

He dips his head, kissing you slowly, deeply, until you’re breathless beneath him.

“Now it’s my turn.”

You whimper against his mouth, hips rising instinctively to meet his, but he pins you down with one strong hand on your thigh, not allowing you even that much freedom.

“I said no more teasing,” he growls softly. “You’re going to feel me, Y/N, every inch of me, and you’re not going to move until I say so.”

His words are devastating. Delicious.

But he’s doing it for you. Because you asked. Because he remembers everything you said.

And because, right now, he wants nothing more than to make you come completely undone.

His words make your pulse race, but there's something else, a deep trust in him, the way he makes you feel safe while still pushing you to the edge.

You feel him shift, one hand moving between your legs to line himself up with your entrance. The anticipation is unbearable, the air thick with tension.

But just as the thick head of his cock begins to press into you, slow and deliberate, he stills.

“Tell me you want this,” he demands, his voice quiet but firm, his eyes locked on yours.

Your wrists tug instinctively at the rope above your head, bound tightly and useless now. You’re completely at his mercy, and he knows it. “I want you,” you whisper.

And that’s all he needs.

With a powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, filling you in one smooth, possessive motion. The sudden fullness knocks the air from your lungs, a soft gasp spilling from your lips as your body arches beneath him.

He doesn’t hesitate. He starts to move, slow at first, purposeful, but it builds fast, his hips snapping harder, deeper, each stroke more intense than the last. His hands leave your thighs only to clutch at your hips, dragging you down onto him with every thrust, like he’s trying to pull you even closer, like he needs to feel you everywhere.

Your wrists are tied together in front of you, still flushed and trembling from how he bound them, and now they’re pressed against your chest as he pounds into you with maddening control.

“You feel that?” he growls into your ear, teeth grazing your jaw. “Every inch of me inside you, just like I said.”

You nod helplessly, unable to do more than moan and cling to the sheets with your bound hands, the rope tight and biting into your skin in the most perfect way.

But then, your phone rings.

His gaze shifts to the nightstand, where your phone buzzes insistently.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. If anything, he grins, that wicked, knowing smirk spreading across his lips like he’s been waiting for this.

Seonghwa leans over, eyes glinting with mischief, and grabs it. Glances at the screen.

“Well, well…” he hums. “Look who wants your attention.”

He smirks. Looks down at you, flushed and wrecked beneath him, helpless in the knots he tied.

“It’s your ex-husband,” he murmurs, his voice dark and teasing, still thrusting into you like he owns the moment. “Answer it.”

He holds the phone above you, just out of reach, taunting. His pace doesn’t slow, not even a little. And the look in his eyes?

It says you’re his now.

Your body goes rigid as the phone keeps ringing, your heart pounding, your breath hitching, but the last thing you want is to speak to him. Especially now. Especially like this.

Your bound hands tremble as you take the phone from him, just barely able to clutch it between your fingers. You hesitate for half a second, but one dark look from Seonghwa, one slow roll of his hips that makes your eyes roll back, and you obey.

You barely manage to slide your thumb across the screen to accept the call, your voice a whisper as the line opens. “H-Hello?”

Seonghwa doesn’t pause. He fucks you through the word, drawing out the breath at the end of it, making your voice shake in a way you know your ex will hear.

He watches you with a crooked smirk, fucking into you slowly now, deliberately, dragging it out, because he wants you squirming, wants to see how long you can keep your voice steady.

“Y/N?” your ex’s voice crackles through. “You sound… are you okay? I’ve been calling-”

“I’m f-fine,” you manage to breathe, fighting to keep your tone level, even as Seonghwa shifts his angle and thrusts up hard, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through your spine.

Seonghwa’s smirk deepens, his thumb brushing over your clit in slow, lazy circles that nearly make you cry out. “Tell him you’re better than fine,” he whispers against your jaw, his breath hot and cruel. “Tell him you’ve never felt better.”

You bite your lip hard.

“I’m just… busy,” you murmur into the phone, your voice breaking as your hips jerk from the next thrust.

Seonghwa chuckles darkly against your ear, his breath hot as his lips graze your skin.

“Busy,” he echoes under his breath, and then drives into you again, harder. “That’s one way to put it.”

Seonghwa’s tongue drags up the side of your neck, slow and possessive. “Hold the phone still, sweetheart. Let him hear how happy you sound.”

You try, god, you try, but your hands are shaking, wrists straining against the rope, voice catching with every deep thrust he gives you.

You don’t even hear your ex-husband’s voice clearly anymore, everything fading into the background as Seonghwa takes you to the edge.

He grins, knowing you won’t be able to speak much longer, that the pleasure will soon take over completely.

“Such a good girl,” Seonghwa murmurs, voice thick with lust. “Answering your ex like this with my cock buried inside you… God, look at you.”

You’re barely holding on, your bound hands wobbling as the phone threatens to slip from your grasp. Seonghwa notices, of course he does, and with a soft laugh, he plucks it from your fingers effortlessly.

He leans back for a moment, letting you feel every inch of his length as he pulls out slowly, teasing. His cock glistens in the low light, and he doesn’t break eye contact as he brings the phone to his ear.

Your chest rises and falls quickly, your whole body aching from the edge he keeps dragging you along.

Seonghwa tilts his head slightly, listening to your ex's voice, panicked and confused, on the other end.

Then he smiles. That smile.

He leans down, his lips brushing your ear, and his voice is just loud enough for you to hear over the pounding in your chest.

“You’re not really interested in hearing this, are you?” he whispers, his tone amused, taunting.

And then, with an audible smirk in his voice, he leans back again and speaks into the phone.

“You know, buddy,” he drawls lazily, thrusting back into you with just enough force to make you gasp, “we’re kind of in the middle of something.”

“Wait-, what? Is this—Seonghwa?” your ex stammers. “What the fuck is going on? I just want to talk. I’m still—”

Your cheeks burn, humiliation and arousal tangling into something electric, something dangerous. Your bound hands twitch, instinctively trying to reach for the phone, but Seonghwa catches your wrists easily, wrapping his fingers around them like it’s nothing.

He pauses, hips grinding into you, his cock hitting that spot that makes you cry out. His grin widens as he watches the sound punch out of your chest.

“She’s not really available right now,” he says into the phone, voice thick with satisfaction. “But don’t worry. I’m taking good care of her.”

Your ex’s voice spikes in frustration. “What the fuck are you doing with her?!”

Seonghwa laughs softly, clearly enjoying this. “Well, that’s none of your business. Excuse us.”

And then, casually, like it means nothing to him, he taps the speaker button and tosses the phone onto the mattress beside your head.

Then he fucks you harder, brutal, relentless. The rhythm, the pressure, the humiliation of your ex’s voice being drowned out by the filthy sounds of your pleasure, your moans echoing through the room. Seonghwa’s hand tightens around your wrists, keeping you grounded, keeping you his, as he drives you closer to the edge.

You try to hold it back, but it’s useless.

Every inch of you is trembling, raw and exposed, as you finally let go, the orgasm tearing through your body in an overwhelming wave that makes your vision blur.

It’s like everything else disappears.

The only thing you can feel is him.

You’re a breathless mess beneath him, barely holding it together, your body trembling. But Seonghwa isn’t finished. He grabs the phone again with a smirk when he sees the call is still going, his voice low, commanding as he speaks directly into it.

“Oops… guess I forgot to hang up.” A smirk lifts the corner of his lips as he presses the button, ending the call with a casual flick of his thumb. The room falls into heavy silence, broken only by the sound of your breathing, unsteady and wrecked, and the faint echo of your pulse in your ears.

He leans down slowly, his mouth brushing your ear. “Now, where were we?” he whispers, voice low and smug.

His eyes lock on yours, dark with lust, satisfaction, and something more. Something possessive.

Before you can answer, his lips are on yours, not rough this time, but slow and hungry, like he wants to taste the way you’ve fallen apart for him. He kisses you deep, teasing, savoring, like the rest of the world still doesn’t exist.

Then he starts moving again.

His thrusts pick up pace, fast and relentless, slamming into you with the kind of rhythm that makes your legs shake. You’re already so sensitive, your nerves shot, but he doesn’t slow down. He won’t. He chases his own high with the same control he’s had from the start, hands gripping your hips, holding you exactly where he wants you.

You’re barely aware of the choked cry that escapes your throat as he pushes you straight into another climax. It crashes through you like lightning, your wrists trembling where they’re tied together in front of you, fingers clenched uselessly.

And Seonghwa groans against your neck, finally giving in, his hips snapping forward one last time as he spills inside you.

You feel every pulse of him.

He stays there, buried deep, chest heaving against your back, his breath warm and ragged in your ear. His hand slides up your side, slowing, grounding you. Neither of you speak, the silence somehow louder than anything.

Eventually, Seonghwa shifts, his fingers grazing the knot at your wrists. There’s a tenderness in the way he unties you, like his own quiet form of aftercare. The rope slips away, and your hands fall loose with a sigh of relief.

And then, finally, you reach for him.

Your arms wrap around him weakly, pulling him closer, needing him. Not just the way he fucked you, not just the way he ruined you, but the way he stayed. The way he held you there after. The way he gave you all of him.

He lets himself collapse against you, careful not to crush, just to be there.

Skin to skin. Chest to chest. His warmth wraps around you like a second blanket, his head resting in the crook of your neck, the softest sigh falling against your shoulder. One of his hands slips into your hair, fingertips massaging lightly at your scalp, the other resting protectively over your hip, holding you close without a word.

Then, slowly, with care you didn’t know he was still capable of after all that intensity, he begins to guide himself out of you. You whimper without meaning to, not in pain, just from the loss, the ache of being that full of him for so long, and now not.

He hears it instantly. Feels it.

His lips press to your shoulder before you can even breathe his name.

“Baby,” he murmurs, guilt softening every syllable. “Don’t move, okay? Let me take care of you.”

You hum, melted into the mattress, and he presses one more kiss to your skin before slipping away.

You hear the faucet, the rustle of towels, drawers opening. He returns within moments, quiet, collected, but his hands shake when they first touch your skin again.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, kneeling beside you on the bed.

The first press of warm cloth between your legs makes you exhale, your lashes fluttering. It’s gentle, so gentle, like he’s afraid to touch you too firmly, as if you might break. He dabs softly, cleaning you with the kind of reverence most people wouldn’t even know how to give.

To him, this isn’t a chore. It’s devotion.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice low, threaded with concern.

You hum. “Mhm. Still floating.”

He smiles, even though you can’t see it. You turn over on your stomach, resting your face on a pillow as you close your eyes. You can feel his love in his kiss when he leans down to press his mouth to your lower back, right at the curve of your spine. He kisses you again, a little higher. Then again. His mouth moves over your skin like he’s rewriting the story he just left behind in red, not erasing it, just softening the edges.

“I didn’t mean to mark you so much,” he murmurs, tracing a thumb over one of the faint handprints on your hip. “But God… the way you feel… the way you sound when you fall apart for me…”

His voice cracks a little, like the emotion is catching up to him.

You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair instead. He leans into your touch instantly, sighing into your skin.

“I like the marks,” you whisper, smiling softly. “It means you wanted me. It means you couldn’t help it.”

His fingers are so soft, so careful, tracing every mark he left behind, like he’s trying to memorize them. Then, his lips follow.

Kisses. Dozens of them. Scattered like stars across your back, your shoulders, your neck. Tender and slow and endless.

His breath hitches, and then he’s leaning over you again, pulling the blankets up carefully over both of you before tucking himself behind you, chest pressed to your back, one leg tangled with yours, his arm sliding beneath your neck to cradle you. You can feel him everywhere.

He nuzzles your touch immediately, pressing his nose to the side of your face with a long exhale. “Does anything hurt, my love?”

“No,” you breathe. “Just sore. In a good way.”

“Too much?”

“Never.”

His arm slides around you, and he reaches for your hand, the one you wear the ring on. The promise ring. The one he gave you after everything. After you chose him. But you didn’t know that he bought it before you knew you’d be his forever. When he had no right to. When all he could do was hope.

He finds your fingers and threads his through them, bringing them up between you.

And then, he kisses your finger with the ring.

Not quickly. Not casually.

It’s the kind of kiss that makes your breath catch.

It’s slow. Gentle. Reverent.

“I love you,” you whisper, the words trembling out.

He tucks his face into the crook of your neck, his arms tightening around you.

“I love you more,” he breathes. “And I’ll keep choosing you. Every day. Just like I always have.”

And that’s how you fall asleep, his fingers laced with yours, the promise of forever resting warm and golden between you. His kisses don’t stop. Neither does his touch. Neither does his love.

And he’ll never stop.

Not in this lifetime. Not in any.

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pboogerswbb · 7 months ago

Text

TOO LOST IN YOU - part IX

Paige Bueckers x bartender!oc

Warnings: emotional rollercoaster-ish? p having her last game :( SMUT (handcuffs...)

Wordcount: 11.9K

A/N: this is it, the final chapter. i know it's incredibly long but people voted to have a longer chapter instead of two parts so this is what i did. i genuinely can not thank every person who has read/liked/reposted this series enough - i never thought so many people would show so much love for what i've written and it genuinely moves me as a writer. i'm feeling surprisingly emotional letting go of Valerie and Paige, but i know the time has come. expect an epilogue eventually, but also tune in for my next series So It Goes, which will be a much longer project! anyways genuinely, ty from the bottom of my heart, i'm grateful for each and every person reading this <3 ALSO HAPPY GAME DAY WE BETTER DUNK ON ND IDC

“Shot clock at four, Chen to Bueckers,”

The four seconds somehow feel closer to a minute, time slowing down around me, people moving in slow motion as I step back and get settled behind the three point line. With a flick of my wrist I let the ball fly.

“Bueckers for three…”

My eyes follow the ball as it soars in an angle, silently praying it’s the correct one I had practiced over and over as it starts coming down. I barely hear the crowd roaring, everyone on their feet. This was our last chance and it was all up to me. What could be my final game in this uniform, with these people I loved could be over in a matter of seconds. I let the gratitude wash over me. If this is it then I’m incredibly blessed, but please God, don’t let this be it.

Like instant gratification for my faith, with a swish the ball slips through the net, the buzzer going off, barely audible over the uproar of the crowd deafening me.

“GOT IT! Bueckers brings Huskies to a two point lead, taking them to the final four!”

The waves of relief and adrenaline fill me from head to toe when my teammates run to me, all of us jumping up and down. Clammy hands are grabbing me everywhere, squeezing my shoulder and ruffling my hair. We did it, the National Championship barely out of our reach now.

“Thank God!” I sigh in relief, looking up to the sky in a silent prayer. I’m interrupted as the girls around chant “BDB, BDB” over and over, all circling me with excitement. I feel overjoyed, all the sacrifices, challenges I’d been through were worth this moment. I feel my eyes well up as I take it all in, the girls laughing with joy all around me, the crowd cheering louder than ever before this season, and Coach walking to me and patting my shoulder. That’s all I needed to know what he meant. I made him proud. The moment is nearly perfect, only one person missing to make it complete.

“BABE??” Valerie’s voice comes through the phone harshly, speaking loud over a chattering crowd of people.

“Why are we yelling?” I chuckle, leaning my back against the changing room wall, cold on my sweaty back.

“BABY THAT WAS INSANE!” She says, voice excited. “I’M AT TED’S SO I CAN’T REALLY HEAR YOU.”

“I’m so happy but fuck I miss you ma-”

“Wait Paige you there?!” She speaks over me, clearly not hearing a word.

“Val can you hear me?”

“P? You there?”

The beeps stop me, the call over before it even began. Rubbing my jaw I feel a twinge in my chest. All I wanted right now was her, the lost connection only reminding me more of the distance between us. It felt uncomfortable, almost painful in my body to be so far away from her.

the connections bad ):

paige i’m so fucking proud of you, you should’ve seen me i was jumping up and down

That’s okay ma. Wish I seen it too.

Wish u were here

It was selfish of me, in fact I had been the one to tell Valerie not to come watch us play. Last time she watched me, I’d been a mess. I couldn’t risk being distracted this time.

I had found my groove quickly, the fine line between being Paige Buckets and girlfriend Paige. A lot of it was due to Valerie’s surprising patience with me while I figured all this out. Somehow it made me better on the court too - I never found myself pretending to be someone else anymore. However, having my girl in the crowd watching me, cheering me on, well that was a different subject. I couldn’t help but fear that her presence would have me messing up, getting unfocused. And now wasn’t the time to test the waters. So I had told her to stay home.

Valerie wanted anything but that, her mouth quickly turning into a frown as I told her no. But after some arguing back and forth I sweet talked her out of it.

“I thought you’d want me there,” her words still echoed in my head. As much as it pained me to admit, Valerie was right. Now that it was all done, all I wanted was my girl on my arm.

told you

Call me when u get home?

are you tryna get rid of me?

Never

good

My voice is slurred as I lock myself in the bathroom, hands clumsily handling the lock before I coo into the phone.

“Babyyyy,”

“Paige, are you drunk?” Valerie chuckles. I nod as if the girl on the phone could see me. After we won the drinks had been flowing, me and the girls locking ourselves into one of the hotel rooms and sharing a bottle of Tito’s. It wasn’t necessarily allowed but Geno and CD were usually good sports about it, turning their backs and letting us do what kids in college did.

“Perhaps,” I giggle, which makes the girl on the phone let out a bright laugh.

“You’re really milking that Unrivaled ad huh? Never heard you say that word in my life before that,” she teases.

“Are you tryna say I’m bad with words? What about ‘work tour’ and ‘I did all I could so God could do all I can’t’? Now those went hard.”

“Paige I’ve seen the folder on your phone full of lil things like that for you to say. You’re not that slick,” Valerie laughs into the phone. She was right of course. I wasn’t that slick. I might’ve been embarrassed by the way I’d been exposed, but I simply couldn’t. Hearing her voice, even when insulting me, had me weak in the knees.

“I love you,” I sigh into the phone, leaning against the cold marble of the bathroom sink.

“I love you too, P. I meant what I said earlier. I’m so fucking proud of you,” she murmurs, voice turning softer like it always did when she was telling me something important.

Grinning to myself a sinister thought flashes across my mind, which I would usually keep to myself but the alcohol in my blood had me feeling bold.

“Whatchu wearing ma?”

Valerie scoffs and giggles into the phone, “Bro chill!”

“C’mon Val I won big today and I miss my girl,” I whine, the foolproof method to get the brunette to bend to my will working this time too.

“Well I just got in bed,” she murmurs, I hear her shifting. “Just in that T-shirt you left and panties.”

For a moment I close my eyes imagining her, smooth legs sprawled over the blanket, bare tits so easy to expose just by pulling that damn shirt off.

“What kinda panties?” I ask, my voice now hoarse and deeper than before.

“You’re not with the girls still?” Val asks but I’m quick to answer, impatient for the detail I had asked for.

“I’m alone, I’m in the bathroom in my room. What kinda panties?”

The phone catches the heavy sigh Valerie lets out, a sign of her own arousal growing, caused by the urgency, sheer need in my voice.

“Red ones, the lace ones with the bows?”

I cuss under my breath, pressing my thighs together, eyes still closed envisioning my girl.

“Take the shirt off,” I command, Valerie shifting to pull the top off.

“It’s off,” she whispers, her voice breathy with need.

Biting my lip I throw my head back, desperate for her. “Can you show me ma?”

She doesn’t hesitate, less than a minute later a notification comes through. Fumbling with my phone I finally get the picture open, letting out an audible groan. It’s my girl lying on her back, back arching so her breasts are perked up, the bows of the red panties decorating her body, thick thighs pressing together deliciously. I can’t help but drag my hand into my sweatpants, sliding it beneath my boxers to find some sort of relief to my need.

“Fuck ma you’re so sexy,” I groan, my fingers swirling in my folds, making my knees shake. “You should- ah shit, you should play with yourself.”

“Yeah?” she asks so innocently I nearly come.

“Yea baby, I am.”

Suddenly I hear her gasping, which only makes me groan more. The adrenaline of the game, the post win euphoria and the need for my girl had made me soaked and the picture was only spurring me on.

“Tell me how wet that pussy is,” I whimper into the phone, the sounds of Valerie’s moans turning me on even more. The marble is cold against my lower back, but I’m only paying attention to the sounds filling my ear, and the way my fingertips rub against my clit, getting me to the edge quickly.

“So- so wet P, all for you,” she whines.

“Need you to finger yourself baby,” I order, squeezing my eyes shut, lost in the memory of how her cunt felt squeezing my fingers. “Imagine it’s me.”

The girl lets out a sharp inhale, and I know she’s working herself close to the edge.

“Fuck a dub, you’re my prize,” I murmur into the phone, trying to control my moans. My words are only encouraging the brunette, making her moan louder.

“Baby, need you here so bad,” she cries out, voice turning more high pitched. I let my head lull back as I rub my clit in sloppy circles, feeling myself teetering the edge.

“I know baby, ‘m right here,” I breathe heavily, feeling my slick cover my fingers. “I’m not gon’ last long Val.”

Hearing that does it, her moans turning desperate in that familiar way - she was there too.

“P I’m gonna come!”

“Shit baby, come on,” I let out a groan, my fingers quickly working me over the edge as I listen to Valerie’s moans on the phone. Waves of pleasure wash over me as I grip the sink behind me, watching the picture of Valerie nearly naked on my screen. I lucked out.

“Oh fuck,” Valerie breathes into the phone as she comes down, my own legs still shaking from the climax.

“I know,” I exhale and pull my hand out of my pants, allowing some space for both of us to calm down. Now that I was feeling more sober it really hit me hard, the distance. All I wanted was to wrap my arms around her and inhale the scent of her hair, feel her body molding into mine. I know Valerie feels it too when I hear her speak.

“Can’t believe you’re moving to Dallas soon,” she murmurs quietly, her voice small.

We had been tactically avoiding the conversation, both of us having the same fears of how the discussion might go. Long-distance was hard for anyone, but I barely knew how to be in a relationship. In only the last week or so we had ran into many issues mostly caused by me and my lack of communication skills. I was learning fast and I wanted to for her - but the weight of the future felt heavy on my chest and doubt was starting to creep in. Not all the time, but in moments like this. When I saw a glimpse of what might lie ahead of us. Many nights like these.

I had grown enough to know that this wasn’t the time to have that discussion though.

“Hey maybe I’ll get drafted to the Sparks, we don’t know yet,” I joke trying to lighten the mood, as if that was any better. Well for me it was, I wouldn’t have to live in fuck ass Dallas.

“Mhm,” she mumbles and I could tell from her voice reality was hitting her quick. Last thing I wanted was for her to be upset, so I try to steer the conversation once more.

“I’m so excited for this date I got planned baby, you’re gon love it,” I murmur into the phone washing my hands. Her tone shifts, now slightly lighter.

“It better be good, I’ve been waiting,” she jokes and I let out a sigh of relief knowing the difficult conversation could be pushed off to another day.

“Oh trust, it will be.”

I check my hair one more time, my brunette locks in a perfect blowout when there’s a faint knock on the door.

“Valerie! It’s for you I think,” my roomie Amy shouts. I quickly grab a sweater to throw over the black long bodycon dress I was wearing in case it got cold, taking my purse to go open the door. I could feel excitement swirling in my gut for our first date. Giddy like a child on Christmas morning I tiptoe to the door, my roomies all whistling at how good the dress made my ass look - which was precisely the reason I wore it.

Opening the door I’m met with a huge bouquet of deep red roses before I even see the blonde holding them. Gasping I grab the flowers, burying my nose in and inhaling.

“Oh my Goooood,” I gleam, letting the floral scent fill my nostrils. Finally lifting my gaze I see Paige, with a stupid wide grin on her face watching me, looking fine as hell as usual. Her blonde hair is slicked back in a bun, wearing black cargos and a white long sleeve, diamond studs decorating her ears and a chain with the number 5 hanging off her neck.

“You look so good,” I gasp and throw myself at the blonde, wrapping my arms around her dramatically and kissing her. She chuckles but kisses me back, but when she sees my outfit her face falls.

“Val, the dress…”

I immediately frown, feeling self-conscious. “Oh… you don’t like it?”

“Oh God no I love it, wanna take it off you right now,” she says her voice low and quiet so my roommates don’t overhear. “But you’re gon’ get cold baby.”

“Well you didn’t tell me what to dress for,” I say slightly annoyed, still holding the bouquet. If she wanted me to dress a certain way she could’ve let me know. I was trying to give Paige the benefit of the doubt. She wasn’t used to any of this, real dates, a real girlfriend.

“You right that’s my bad,” Paige murmurs, scratching the back of her neck. “You should change into something a lil warmer tho. I’ll put the flowers in a vase for you ma.”

“Fine.”

With a defiant groan I march into my room, leaving Paige to chat with my roommates, Amy and Layla. Neither the biggest fans of the basketball star after seeing the rollercoaster she put me through since we met. I knew they were still suspicious. I was just hoping Paige’s charms could win them over.

Taking off my dress I stand in the carefully picked lingerie staring into my wardrobe. Suddenly the door opens, the tall blonde making her way in and whistling when her eyes fall on the purple set on my body.

“NO! You’re not supposed to see yet!” I yelp and try to cover up with a pillow - unsuccessfully. Laughing, Paige closes her eyes and walks over to me bumping into my desk until her stretched out hands land on my ass.

“Well hello,” she grins, wiggling her brows, eyes still squeezed shut.

“Paige!! Stop!” I complain, though I liked the way her hands were feeling me up everywhere.

“Hey! I’m not lookin at least, gimme something,” she says and stands behind me, her hands snaking around to squeeze both my breasts, making me both flustered and giggly.

“Okay I gotta get dressed P or we’ll never get out,” I chuckle and grab a pair of white cargos and a black and white striped sweater to put on.

“Fineeeee,” the girl groans and plops herself down onto my bed, still with her eyes closed. Once the clothes are on I walk over to her, standing in between her legs as I lean down and kiss her cheek. Her blue eyes open, sparkling when she sees me.

“You look perfect,” she hums, shoving her hands in my back pockets to feel my ass up.

“Well that dress would’ve been nicer,” I murmur, still a little annoyed. Paige, rolling her eyes, stands up and walks me out the door by my shoulders.

“Well now you won’t be bitchin’ about being cold and shit,” she says.

I had no idea what Paige had planned, but she had been acting all sly about the plans the entire week. It had grown so irritating I almost wanted to tell her off for it, but I knew it was her way of showing she was excited which in turn excited me as well.

The air is surprisingly warm despite the grey overcast caused by the cloudy sky as we head out. Paige opens the door to the passenger seat of her Jeep for me, quickly walking over to the other side and climbing in.

“Sooo where are we going?” I ask, trying to peek into the backseat for any clues. Paige proudly grins as I lean back to find only water bottles, a couple of Nike shoe boxes and a basketball in there. Way to play into every stereotype.

“You’ll see Val,” she beams, her hand coming to rest on my thigh as she accelerates on the highway. “It’s like a little over an hour away.”

Knowing it would be pointless to pry, I stare at the scenery out the car window, enjoying the comfortable silence falling over me and Paige - a rare occasion considering her mouth was always going. I felt at ease, her presence wrapping me in a duvet of calm. Of course my fears were still there when it came to the girl next to me. It would take months of building trust and communication to let go of all that had happened between us. The thing was, we didn’t have months.

In fact a month was all we barely had left before Paige would be leaving for Dallas. Obviously it wasn’t official yet, not till the draft. But we both know what the future holds.

I look at Paige, her side profile outlined beautifully against the light shining in through the window behind her. My eyes roam the tip of her nose, the curve of her lips as she raps along to some song I wasn’t paying attention to. Paige had become a master at the art of evasion, the unmentioned topic heavy between me and her. Mentally I was beginning to prepare for the worst, to face the truth. We could barely stick by each other’s side the past few months and we lived on the same campus - how could we ever make it through long-distance while I finish my masters?

And what then? I pack my shit up and move to Dallas? Would Paige even want me there? She’s gonna meet so many new people, her whole life is about to change. Even if she wanted me now, I’m not so sure she’ll want me a year later. The idea was terrifying, causing a twist in my gut, us finally sorting our shit out just to have to give all this up. So I was just trying to soak in every moment I had with her, even if they were our last ones before the inevitable.

Eventually my eyes land on blue waves stretching across the horizon before us as Paige turns left into a parking lot. I feel excitement growing in my chest for what the girl might’ve planned, pushing away the thoughts of the inevitable end that was looming right in front of us.

“Isn’t it a lil cold for swimming?” I ask confused as Paige parks, my gaze taking in the waves crashing against the sand, only a few others walking along the coastline on the cloudy day. I had always found there to be something extremely serene about a grey day on the beach, the ocean smelled different, the humidity causing the air to grow heavy.

“We’re not going for a swim ma, I’m taking you on a picnic,” she grins and I can tell from the look on her face that she’s proud of this. Paige Bueckers, the All-American basketball star, the one I’d been begging to let me sleep over just a few months ago taking me on a picnic. My heart nearly bursts with affection and I don’t fight the urge to lean over and kiss her. The blonde smiles into the kiss, her lips fitting against mine just right.

As I reach for the door Paige slaps my hand away, the sting making me jump.

“Ow what the hell!”

“Don’t even think about it,” she says as she gets out and walks to the other side to pull the car door open for me.

“Ma’am,” she teases but I look at her, still rubbing my hand.

“That hurt y’know,” I mumble, it didn’t really but something about Paige made me play up my theatrics.

“I did what I had to, now stand the hell up,” she commands pulling me out.

“This isn’t my idea of romantic P,” I complain as she walks me to the trunk of the car by my arm and opens it. I immediately swallow my words when I see what’s inside - a checkered picnic blanket, pillows, a large picnic basket, a cooler and a small speaker.

“This better?” Paige asks, watching my face light up. I would never admit it but part of me thought she could never plan something like this, that it wasn’t her thing. I suppose I was wrong.

“This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I gasp and wrap my arms around her neck and jump, knowing Paige will catch me everytime. She holds me up in the air by my waist and lets me pepper kisses all along her face.

“You deserve it ma, you deserve a whole lot,” she murmurs into my ear before placing me down, hands rubbing up and down my back. “Would give you the whole world if I could.”

Her eyes are blue and sparkling as my gaze meets hers. I wanna pause the moment, stay there with her forever.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

Paige grabs all the heavy stuff insisting I grab the blanket and the pillow instead. Picking the perfect spot we set everything down, the blonde not letting me help the tiniest bit as she sets everything up for us. I inhale the salty air, humming as the scent fills my nostrils. The high-pitched screeches of seagulls echo across the waves and I step out of my shoes, letting the sand against my bare feet ground me.

“Aight, I think we’re set,” Paige says, setting open the picnic basket. Sitting down on the blanket I watch carefully as the blonde pulls out different foods. Chocolate covered strawberries, croissants and pastries - very elegant, very not Paige.

“How did you-?”

“I googled uh, romantic foods… and the girls thought this was a good idea,” she explains sheepishly, handing me a Coke from the cooler. “Is this lame?”

There’s genuine panic on her face and for the first time I notice a slight shake in her hands. Paige Bueckers was nervous. I could barely believe it.

“Paige I love it,” I reassure her but notice the way she’s chewing the insides of her cheeks, tapping her fingers against her Coke can. Without thinking I bring my hand to hers, our eyes meeting. “I mean it. I love this baby.”

She lets out a relieved exhale, a hesitant smile growing on her face. “I did good?”. Looking for praise, as always.

I nod. “Yes, P, you did good,” I grin and lean over to peck her cheek. Smirking, the blonde lifts her arm up to flex.

“Well yeah I knew that,” she rolls her eyes and I scoff when I feel a bead of water drip down my forehead.

Paige feels it too, her blue eyes darting to the sky. The clouds are turning dark above us at a rapid rate, an ominous sign telling us the date might end before it even starts.

“Did you check the weather before P?” I ask as more rain begins to fall down.

“Fuck…” Paige sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose in frustration telling me that she in fact didn’t.

I could tell that she was starting to feel discouraged, it was all a little hard for her - the relationship stuff. For me it was enough that she was trying, but that would never be enough for Paige. Always the winner.

“Maybe it’ll pass… it’s fine!” I assure her and grab a chocolate strawberry, trying to feed it to her. But all of a sudden the soft spring rain turns into a heavy downpour, my hair and clothes getting drenched in a matter of seconds, sticking to my skin. So much for the blowout I spent an hour on this morning.

“Forreal?!” Paige groans, blonde strands darkening from the rain.

“We should probably pack up P…” I carefully tell her, getting up and offering a hand to her. She’s looking defeated and frustrated, staring at the ground. With a heavy sigh she stands up without grabbing my hand, head nodding towards the parking lot.

“No, lemme. You get in the car so you don’t get wet,” she murmurs hopelessly, not meeting my gaze, clenching her hand into a fist.

“No I wanna help-”

“Valerie get in the damn car.”

I knew the blonde well enough to know there was no fighting her once she got like this, so I obey, grabbing the pillows and heading towards the car. I knew exactly what Paige was thinking - that perhaps this was a sign from God of what was to come, that we just weren’t meant to be doing any of this.

Then it hits me - an idea that might save this whole day. I empty the backseat and the trunk completely, placing everything neatly on the front seats (and wondering why she needed 3 basketballs in her car but… sure). After fiddling with the seats in the back I fold them flat, opening up plenty of space in the trunk. Grateful for the hoarding Paige had been practicing, I lay down some towels I found in her car and the slightly damp pillows, setting them up for us.

“Val I told you to get in, you’re gettin’ wet,” Paige lectures as she returns, quickly stopping in her tracks when she sees what I had done.

The back of Paige’s Jeep is laid out flat, the trunk open for a view of the beach stretched out along the horizon. It wasn’t what we had planned for, but I would be damned before I give up on this day.

“C’mon,” I tell the blonde as I climb in, sitting cross-legged as I watch her wordlessly follow. Both of us are soaked, hair dripping water and the fabric of our clothes cold and sticking to our skin. Nevertheless I was hellbent on making this work somehow.

Turning to Paige I smile proudly but she’s frowning, eyes locked on her own lap. She’s upset, not with me but herself.

“I’m so fucking bad at this Val,” she murmurs disappointedly. My heart aches for her, but also for me, terrified knowing the blonde didn’t like to do things she didn’t excel at - this being one of them. Maybe it was only a matter of time when she’d decide to give up on this. On us.

“Paige-”

“And then you fix everything, when I’m supposed to be the one taking you out. Fuck, Val, you should just be with someone who can actually do this shit,” she’s rambling on and I feel that fear growing with each defeated word she says.

“Paige! We’re supposed to be a team, sometimes you drop the ball and I pick it up, so when I drop it, it’s gonna be your turn, ok?” I tell her, my voice steady but stern. She meets my gaze, frowning and shaking her head.

“Ion got time to figure this all out before…” she sighs, a deep furrow in her brows, stopping herself before the painful words slip out. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.

“Really? Now you wanna have that conversation?” I ask annoyed. She couldn’t just let me fix the date, she just had to start talking about this now. If there was something she really wasn’t the master of it was time and place.

“Well we gotta talk it out at some point ma,” Paige says, her rising voice making me feel defensive.

“Alright so during our first date then? Now?!” I say, closing the picnic basket.

Paige lets out a bitter chuckle, throwing her head back. “This ain’t counting as a date, trust.”

“Why do you have to be like that? I’m tryna fix this and you do that? I don’t need any of this,” I say pointing to the picnic basket and the cooler and the beach. “Just needed you with me and I woulda been happy!”

“Well I figured it wasn’t enough for you before!”

I know exactly what she means. How I wanted her to myself when she had a roster full of girls, how I wanted more. But the way she said it was like I was selfish, like it was too much to want her to myself. Like she didn’t want the same.

It hurts. I go quiet, averting my gaze from her. I feel my eyes burn but don’t let the tears fall. I hear the girl in front of me take a deep sigh, rubbing her jaw.

“Shit… Val, I didn’t mean it like that…” she murmurs but I don’t pay attention.

“We should go back,” I sigh, defeated.

“No no no, baby please, lemme try again plea-”

“I want to go home.” I say sternly and climb out of the trunk. I could feel my heart breaking, now that I got a preview of what was to come once Paige left for Dallas. We would never survive it.

We drive home in silence, but not the easy, comfortable kind. The air inside the car is heavy with things left unsaid. Once we get to Storrs Paige walks me to my dorm, leaning into the door frame as I take off my shoes, eager to get out of the freezing cold clothes, sticking to my skin uncomfortably. The red roses sit pretty in a vase on my nightstand, reminding me of the excitement of earlier and how quickly it had fizzled out. Paige was one of the most resilient people I knew when it came to her sport - however that certainly wasn’t the case in her relationships. It was as if all her fight was reserved for basketball.

“Can I come in for a bit?” She asks carefully.

“I need to get outta these clothes and shower,” I mumble to the blonde. I was hoping she’d fight me, plead to let her in.

She exhales but doesn’t, that quick to give up on us.

“Okay.”

She’s chasing my gaze, but I can’t look at her. Reality was hitting me faster than I’d like and it was so much more painful than all those times Paige went and slept with another girl. Somehow this was way worse. I don’t know how to react without starting to cry - so I don’t react at all.

“Okay.”

Paige sighs and touches my arm just for a second.

“I love you, I’ll text you.”

“Okay P, love you too.”

With that she leaves, no kiss, no hug and she’s gone. Just like she will be in a month or so.

“You’re so stupid Paige,” Jana rolls her eyes and the other girls nod in agreement.

“Forreal you need like dating lessons or sumn,” Aubrey says, manspreading on the couch. I’m lying in the middle of the living room floor, retelling what happened just the other day with me and Valerie.

“I know how to date,” I scoff, throwing my arm over my face.

“No you know how to fuck, there’s a difference,” KK says and the girls hum, nodding their heads.

Azzi walks into the living room, holding a bottle of water, watching all of us gathered around me and my dramatics.

“What’s going on?” She questions, watching me sprawled out on the floor.

“Our BDB here started talking about the Dallas thing in the middle of their first date,” Kaitlyn shakes her head, making Azzi’s eyes widen.

“Girl… you’re an idiot.”

“That’s what I said,” Jana agrees. I groan and rub my face, I suppose they were right.

“That’s what I’m sayin’ tho, I dunno how to be in a relationship so how am I gonna do long-distance with anyone?” I ask, feeling dejected.

Aubrey throws a pillow on me but I was too tired to dodge, letting it land on me. “You’re so stupid.”

“What I’m saying,” Azzi hums, sitting on the edge of the couch. “You’re all about the fight and being resilient. You’ve been through so much shit and pushed through it but some relationship issues and you give up already?”

The words hit hard as I take them in. Because every single word was right. I was a fighter, a demon on the court at my best - so why wasn’t I fighting for me and Valerie.

“You love this girl right?” Aubrey asks, already knowing the answer.

“The most,” I admit, tilting my head to look at her.

“And she’s worth fighting for?”

Fuck yeah she was. More than anyone. I nod.

“Then what’s your problem?” KK asks.

Deep down I knew what my problem was. I was scared. Fucking terrified. I knew if I worked really hard for this and it all went down the drain, it would be the biggest pain of my life. But then again Valerie was worth that risk. I loved her with my whole existence, every cell in me burning for her. Letting her go without a fight might be the only thing that could hurt me more.

“You right,” I murmur and finally get up from the floor, checking the time. Her night shift had just started. “Anyone wanna go to Ted’s?”

The bar is crowded, the end of March bringing students from all over to spend the sunny spring day drinking and dancing. It’s pleasantly busy but not packed to the brim. Everytime I walk into Ted’s I’m brought back to the times I spent sitting in that one table by the corner, drinking Shirleys and watching over Valerie, begging that some sort of miracle would allow her to be mine. The way her mouth twisted into a smile each night I stepped in will forever be engraved in my mind.

To my surprise, I’m met with that same, familiar smile when our eyes meet. I thought she might be upset with me, but the way her perfect face lights up behind the bar makes me feel relieved.

She scurries to me from behind the bar counter, and hugs me tight. Without a care in the world I kiss her, not caring who might see, what the students watching might say behind our backs. Who cares, I’d be leaving in a bit anyway.

Valerie kisses me back, humming into my mouth clearly pleased about my affections. The smell of coconut enamors me, drawing me in.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmur against her in between desperate kisses.

“Forget it, just happy you’re here,” the girl sighs, her kisses filled with a similar urgency. Neither of us wanted to fight, not knowing these were our last moments in Storrs.

Her fingertips press into the back of my head, pulling me in closer when we’re rudely interrupted.

“I love you guys but Riri I need your help,” Natalie laughs, making drinks hurriedly.

We pull apart, her brown eyes twinkling in the low light. “Sorry Nat,” Valerie chuckles, giving me a smile that says everything’s okay. Hesitantly, we let go of each other, the girl returning to her job.

“So I think y’all are good,” KK laughs and the girls join in. I shrug, still feeling the tingle of her kiss on my lips. “Should we go sit?”

“You guys go, I’ll be there in a bit,” I wave the girls off, taking a seat on a stool by the bar. My eyes watch closely as Valerie works, taking in every movement. Her concentrated expression, the slightly clumsy way she handles the bottles because of how small her hands are. It all makes me love her more.

I sit there for 15 minutes, 30 minutes, then an hour has passed but I barely realise, living for the stolen glances and giggles between us. I could watch her forever. For the rest of my life.

“Do you come with the drink?” I overhear some guy, definitely shorter than me and younger, asks Valerie as she’s serving him. Immediately I let out an annoyed scoff, rolling my eyes.

“Unfortunately no,” Valerie chuckles in a friendly manner, fishing for tips. I feel myself growing more irritated, seeing the way this guy is eyeing my girl, the way his eyes lock on her chest in the white top. Now don’t get me wrong, I was the first person to understand why someone would ogle over Valerie - she always looked incredible. The way her work uniform of blue jeans and a white top hugged her body, the slight wave of her hair she hadn’t blow dried, the minimal makeup she wore to work, it all made her look so good I could’ve eaten her alive. But she was my Valerie, mine to look at, to flirt with.

“Damn, what if I tip well,” the guy continues, making me get up from my seat.

“Yoooo chill chill, not too much,” I say with slight irritation, finding to my pleasure that I am in fact taller than the guy as I walk up to him. His eyes flash with recognition as he takes me in, quickly backing down.

“Paige uhh,” he murmurs, lifting his hands up. “My bad, she your girl?”

“She is,” I glance over to Valerie who’s smiling at me.

“And she tips pretty well so…” Valerie adds, making the guy chuckle awkwardly. God I loved her. The guy is quick to back away.

“You can’t work here anymore,” I say jokingly, just meaning it the tiniest bit.

Valerie scoffs, giggling to herself. “Yeah then who’s gonna pay my rent?”

“I’ll pay for everything, I got that NIL deal ma.”

Paige has spent hours sitting on that one stool, shooing off one guy after another trying to hit on me.

“You gotta stop working here,” she repeated to me after the fifth guy had tried to take me home. Thankfully the moment the men saw Paige and realised who she was, they were quick to back off. I didn’t wanna find out what might happen if they didn’t.

“Alright Nat, you gonna be good for the night?” I ask as I take off my nametag, letting my long hair down, feeling it fall down my back.

“All good hun! Go home, have some fun with your lady,” she grins and I chuckle.

“Speaking of, where’s P?”

My eyes roam the crowd, the blonde not hard to find being one of the tallest women here. To my surprise she’s talking to a group of people - and not just any people. My best friends and roommates.

An unease takes over me, knowing that a conflict was likely to erupt unless my roomies could keep their mouths shut. I loved them dearly but once they disliked someone it was impossible to change their minds.

Taking hurried steps, preparing to diffuse the situation, to my surprise, everyone’s laughing, including Paige, telling some sort of story about when KK locked herself out of their dorm.

“What’s going on here?” I chuckle awkwardly, the blonde immediately wrapping her arm tightly around my waist and placing a kiss on the top of my head.

“We were thinking Paige should come to our next dinner party!” Layla says excitedly, clapping her hands together. Monthly dinner parties had become a tradition for us, the first weekend of each month dedicated to spending time together around a shared meal. It had become important, almost sacred. Warmth spreads in my chest thinking about how it was even a consideration to include my girlfriend.

“Ohh P’s gonna be in Tampa,” I realise, leaning my head against her side. “She’s got the final games then.”

“Aww no way,” some of my friends pout to my surprise, genuinely disappointed.

“Then Val can’t come either,” Paige says ruffling my hair. I smooth over it quickly, shooting her a confused look.

“You’re coming to Tampa too, right ma?” She asks.

It’s like my heart skips a beat when her words land. The image flashes in my head, of me getting to watch my girl dominate the court and bring home the Championship if God willing. The thought alone is enough to make me emotional.

There’s a stupid grin on my face when I turn to Paige.

“Are you sure because last time-”

“I was stupid last time, I need you there with me. I’ll sort out the flights and hotels and tickets and everything.”

And hearing her say that means nothing short of everything.

Be You. Be Great.

I repeat the words to myself over and over in my head, a silent prayer. I look at my reflection, the navy Uconn jersey on my body for the very last time. It almost felt too small on me, I knew realistically it wasn’t. But something about it felt like I was close to outgrowing it.

I remember my first game like it was yesterday, the way the jersey felt then, how it swallowed my lanky body. I was just a kid then, not that I felt like an adult now. But I did feel wiser. My arms and shoulders were bigger, filling out the jersey now. I was carrying my name and the number on my back for Uconn for the very last time.

“Paige…” Allie interrupts my thoughts, knocking on the wall next to me. Suddenly I’m back in the dressing rooms, in Tampa, and she’s watching me with a sly smile.

“Sup Allie,” I grin and wrap my arm around my freshie, wanting to savour every second of these last moments I got to spend with the girls as a Husky.

“Come with meeee,” Allie smiles, pushing me towards the cubbies where all the girls are in a half circle, smiling at me. A little creepy, I think to myself as she leaves me to stand in front of the team on my own.

“Uhhh is this when you kill me?” I ask with a grin, causing the girls to erupt into giggles.

“We got you something Paigey,” Ice smiles and walks up to me, handing me a small present, wrapped in purple paper. I feel my chest tightening as I hold the neatly wrapped box in my hands, slowly starting to unwrap it.

“HOLLUP HOLLUP!” KK suddenly interrupts and runs to me holding another present, this one much less neatly wrapped, more of a pile of wrapping paper all taped together.

“It’s from me,” the girl next to me grins.

Ice and Azzi scoff. “Hey we said no present of our own!”

“Well you don’t love P Boogers like I do,” KK sneers and turns to me. “Open mine first!”

“Okayy okay,” I laugh and unwrap the present in my hands, one layer of paper after another.

“Damn did you use a whole roll of paper for this?” I ask, peeling away.

“Be nice or I’m taking it away,” KK scolds, giddy by my side. Finally I reach the last layers, ripping up the paper to reveal… furry purple handcuffs?

Before I can say anything KK has cuffed my left hand to her right one, painfully yanking my arm around as she cheers.

“What the hell???” I yelp, yanking my hand back to my side and looking at the furry cuff tightened around my wrist.

“Now you won’t leave me,” KK hums and wraps her arms around me tight. Everyone bursts into laughter, including me but I hug the girl back - she was like a little sister, this whole team was my family and Storrs was my home. I was already feeling the dread of having to say goodbye itching in the back of my mind.

“Now how we gon explain this to coach?” I chuckle, squeezing KK’s shoulder and dangling our cuffed wrists in the air.

“Guess we just gotta play like this,” she shrugs.

Rolling my eyes I shake my head and look across the room. “I’m gon miss so many layups today guys.”

Laughs erupt all around the room, except from beside me where KK is looking at me scoldingly.

“Don’ say that,” she argues and starts unlocking the cuffs, unhappy with me.

“I get to keep these tho?” I ask with a grin, my mind already going to filthy images of all the opportunities to use these on Valerie.

“Nasty,” KK mumbles, finally freeing my hand as I grab the cuffs and the key. Returning to the neatly wrapped gift I unwrap one corner at a time, finding a navy blue jewelry case inside. Opening it I gasp, seeing three silver rings lined up in a neat row - each one a letter. BDB.

“Are you forreal,” I chuckle excitedly, my mouth falling open as the girls cheer. I carefully take them out, placing each one on the fingers of my left hand, unable to stop the huge grin on my face.

“Guys…” I pout, already feeling tears forming but Jana is quick to stop me.

“Not yet!”

Suddenly I feel hands wrap around my waist from behind me squeezing tight. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. I can tell just by the weight of her touch.

“Hey baby,” Valerie murmurs and places a kiss on my shoulder as I turn around. Immediately I wrap my arms around her waist, holding her in the air and letting my nose bury into her hair. I had seen her this morning before getting to the arena, but all day I’d been complaining to the girls about how I wish I could see her just for a second before we start preparing for this game.

Valerie giggles as I spin her, finally placing her on the ground.

“Don’t tell Coach or CD,” Aubrey laughs. “We snuck her in.”

It’s then when I notice Valerie’s outfit. A miniskirt and boots which would have driven me crazy if it wasn’t for what was covering her upper body - A white Uconn jersey, with my name and number on it in big bold letters. Her face is bright, like she’s proud to carry my name on her. Proud to be mine. And it’s at that moment the tears begin to burn in my eyes.

“You’re wearing it,” I say weakly, a single tear rolling down my cheek.

“Baby why are you crying?” Valerie asks, surprised, wrapping her arms around me tight as the girls gush looking at us.

“Remember when we first met and you wouldn’t wear my hoodie?”

“Yes, silly that’s why I’m wearing this. I’m making it up for you,” she giggles and kisses my cheek before pulling away. Her hand however remains around my waist as we both turn to the team, comfortingly rubbing her thumb against my skin. All the anticipation, the nerves and the emotion were overwhelming me, heightening all my senses. I sniffle a little, turning to the girls, my family.

“We love you Paige,” Ice says, her voice shaky with emotion. The girls nod in agreement, many meeting my level of emotion, eyes welling up and lower lips trembling. “You’re not just a part of the team but a coach to all of us.”

“Forreal thank you, for everything,” Jana adds.

“We got it from here P,” Sarah smiles at me and it makes me feel at ease, knowing I did what I could, gave everything I had to them. That I could leave knowing I did my all, gave them all I got.

“Don’t forget us in Dallas tho,” KK says as Valerie rubs my back comfortingly, knowing without words that I needed it before my emotions took over. “Now let’s get this Natty y’all!”

I clap as we huddle up, all my girls around me as we hug and hype each other up, Valerie so short she’s almost getting crushed by Jana and Aubrey jumping up and down next to her. Laughing through the tears I wrap my arm protectively around her and kiss the top of her head, inhaling her scent one more time. I had everything I needed right here to win.

Buzzer.

“And the drought has ended! The National Championship goes to Connecticut for the first time since 2016! Paige Bueckers ends her college career with 27 points in this game, leading the Huskies to a long awaited victory!”

It’s immediate, the joy, the tears. I don’t think I’m completely in my body when me and the girls all crash into poor Geno, hugging him tight, jumping up and down around him. I let my emotions take over, letting the tears run down my cheeks. I look around and see my girls doing the same, letting their tears flow. We fought for this, we earned this. I’m not saying it was late, but it was right on time.

When Coach turns to hug me, there are tears in his eyes too. I knew he wanted this for me as much as I did, but seeing the look on his face makes me feel it even more. After all the adversity, the injuries, the lessons life had thrown in my face - I was finally here. On the other side of it all, victorious. In that moment I realise all the setbacks made this moment a million times sweeter.

“You did it kid, you deserve it,” he says into my ear and it means everything.

We finally break apart from our group hug, my mind immediately going to the one person missing. But before I can even look around, I hear her deafening cheer, her golden brown hair swaying in the air as she jumps up and down, beaming at me.

Before my mind thinks it through I’m running to her, wrapping my arms around her and picking her up, my lips crashing into hers. The audience, the media, our coaching staff might as well not have been there. I didn’t care who saw, or filmed or whatever else. I just won the National Championship and I needed to kiss my girl.

“Paige,” she giggles against my lips but kisses me back, her careful hands wrapping around my neck. I’m sweaty and sticky and my face is wet with tears and this would be all over Tiktok tomorrow but we couldn’t care less.

“I love you,” I gasp as I pull away, shocked to find her brown eyes welling up as she smiles at me.

“I love you so much,” she sniffles as I let her on the ground, her small hands coming to wipe tears off my face. “I’m so fucking proud of you P.”

“I’m so happy you came,” I hum, more happy tears rolling down my cheeks. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

And it was the truth. All this time I had been so worried about Valerie being a distraction, something that would cause me to fail. But now I realised she was the biggest motivator, my biggest fan. Seeing her looking at me with tears in her eyes, a grin on her face and beaming brightly made me realise winning with my girl by my side felt a million times better. The best prize I could ask for.

“You’re supposed to swipe it,” the girl behind me mumbles, her words a little slurred from the alcohol that had been consumed at the afterparty.

“I know how to open a damn door,” I complain, just as tipsy if not more as I fumble with the card.

“Hurry, P,” she whines, her hands wrapping around me from behind me as she kisses my upper back, making me see stars already.

“That’s really not helpin’ ma,” I groan, finally getting the door open by some miracle, crashing into the hotel room I had booked for Val just a couple blocks away from our hotel. We had stayed at the afterparty as long as we physically could, but all I could think about was having this girl bent over in front of me with those purple cuffs around her wrists ever since I finished my first drink of the night. It didn’t help that she was in the tightest, shortest purple dress for me, my hand itching to make its way beneath the hem.

The second the door closes Valerie’s pushing me against it, kissing my neck heatedly. I let out a moan, my hands flying to her ass, lifting the short hem out of the way. I feel her hot whimper against my skin when I grope her behind, feeling her up hungrily. We’re both starving for each other.

She’s trying to pin me against the door with her smaller frame, and it’s almost pathetic how easily I flip us over, taking charge. Valerie gasps as her back presses against the door and I manoeuvre my thigh in between her legs, pressing against her core harshly as I begin to kiss her, dragging against her clit.

“Fuck me,” she gasps into my mouth like a plea. I pin her against the door, both my big hands on her waist as I grind my thigh into her, already feeling a slight tremble in my legs.

“Oh baby I plan to,” I tell her, kissing along her neck leaving a trail of purple marks. “Got a lotta plans for you.”

“Need more,” the brunette whimpers, the whine in her voice driving me insane. Unable to hold back anymore myself I lift her up by her thighs with ease, throwing her onto the hotel bed.

“Get undressed,” I command, watching the way she’s trying to catch her breath as I shed clothes till I’m in black boxers and a matching sports bra. Putting on a show for me, Valerie slowly shimmies the purple dress off her body, my jaw falling slack to find no bra underneath it. But it’s the crotchless purple panties that make me groan out loud.

“You’re such a slut,” I murmur, watching her laying on her back on the bed and spreading her legs.

“Mmmh you like it,” she giggles. I feel my mouth watering, watching the way her pussy is glistening for me already.

“I do ma,” I murmur, dragging a finger slowly upwards from her ankle, goosebumps following my touch as I reach her knee, her thigh, her inner thigh - just ghosting where she needed me most to bring my fingers splayed on her lower stomach, watching her squirm.

“You wanna be a good girl for me?” I ask, as if I wasn’t about to fuck her no matter the answer. I can feel my boxers growing wetter as her big brown eyes look up at me, needy.

“Whatever you want baby, I’m all yours,” she tells me. The words are music to my ears.

I lick my lips as my fingertip circles her nipple, gently tucking on it to find it quickly getting hard under my touch.

“Shit, stay right there,” I hiss and walk to my bag, pulling out the purple furry handcuffs. Valerie’s eyes widen as she sees them, but the smile on her face tells me she approves.

“You down?” I ask carefully, wanting to make sure. The brunette nods, eyes locked on the cuffs.

I tut at her, my hand grabbing her chin and forcing her gaze on me, dangling the cuffs in front of her like a prize.

“Use your words ma,” I encourage, the blush on Valerie’s face turning deeper, my dominance flustering the girl

“Yes,” she murmurs and I smirk, brushing her now messy hair off her face. She might be feisty, always putting up a fight. But once I got her wet it was so easy to get her to submit, to let me take charge. I loved it.

“There we go,” I praise, swiftly grabbing her wrists and cuffing them to the metal of bed frame, making sure I could celebrate my win without Valerie’s hands getting in the way.

She’s already squirming, too impatient to wait. Shit, so was I. I had been waiting to have my way with her all night.

I walk to the end of the bed, spreading her legs open for me, the view of her cunt in the crotchless panties driving me up the wall. Taking her ankle into my hand I begin to kiss up her leg, slowly making my way upwards to her inner thigh, leaving small marks behind.

“Mmhm, Paige…” she whines.

“Relax, you’ll get it,” I coo, pulling my own boxers down. “But you’re gonna do a lil sumn for me first.”

With that I straddle Valerie’s face, feeling my need dripping down my thighs. I needed her bad, my head spinning and cunt throbbing at this point. She lets out a moan seeing me so close and soaked for her.

“Please baby,” she whimpers, goosebumps everywhere when I feel her hot breath on my core. She’s trying to chase after me, her neck stretching to reach my core.

“Shit, you want it?”

“So bad please,” Valerie whines and I can’t take it anymore.

My hands entangle in her hair as I lower myself onto her, Valerie’s perfect mouth beginning to work immediately.

“Oh shiiiiit ma,” I groan, throwing my head back, her tongue moving back and forth in my folds just the way I liked.

“Taste so good Paige,” she moans against my clit before her plump lips wrap around it and suck, tongue circling in a way that was dizzying. I could feel the way I was getting wetter, the way I was probably making a mess all over Valerie’s face but the way she was lapping me up seemed like she was loving this as much as I was.

“So fucking good, fuck,” I moan, tightening my grip in Valerie’s perfect brown locks and beginning to guide her mouth wherever I wanted. I could feel the muscles in my thighs begin to shake, my free hand grabbing the headboard of the bed as I ride her face.

She’s squirming under me, squeezing her thighs shut to seek any friction at all which only makes me groan louder. My eyes lock onto her face underneath me, scrunched up in pleasure, mouth buried in my cunt, head moving wherever I yanked it.

Needing more, I pull her closer, not entirely sure if she can breathe but when I feel my climax start to build, I decide I don’t care.

“Just like that Valerie,” I praise, my voice and body shaking now as I’m literally grinding myself against her face, my cunt throbbing as I feel myself near the edge. I hear her muffled moans, feel the vibrations against me as my eyes squeeze shut, my orgasm taking over.

“Oh shit, Val,” I groan, pulling her impossibly close. “That’s it, fuck, that’s it.”

The pleasure ripples over me, coming in waves as I come against Valerie’s face, watching the way her pretty hands are grabbing onto the handcuffs decorating her wrists. I grip her hair tight, pulling on it as I moan.

“Damn,” I exhale, my chest heaving as I lift myself off her. Valerie’s face is glistening with my mess, and she’s hungrily licking it off her lips, arching her back, a feeble attempt to tell me one and only thing - she needs to be touched. Bad.

“Now lemme eat this pussy,” I tell her, my mouth already watering as I crawl between her legs, wrapping my arms around her thighs to lift them on my shoulders. And I dive in. I had been waiting all night for this.

A loud moan escapes Valerie’s lips as my tongue works her, slow licks from her entrance to her clit as to clean her up. The taste of her makes me moan out loud, her arousal dripping out of her already, before I had barely touched her.

“This wet already huh? You like watching me play that bad?” I hum against her, watching the way she’s squirming, the way her hands are already tucking at the cuffs - desperate to grab my head and pull me closer.

“Paige, moreeee,” she cries, trying to buck her hips closer but unable to do anything else with the way she was stuck to the bed. Her helplessness only made me wanna drag it out for longer.

“Answer the question,” I demand my tongue now circling her entrance menacingly, licking upwards and repeating.

She huffs and whines frustratedly. “Like watching you win.”

Good answer.

That moment I bury myself into her pussy, beginning to flick my tongue over her clit at an impossible speed, quickly overwhelming her. My eyes squeeze shut as I alternate between sloppy laps on her pussy and precise circles on her clit, Valerie’s thighs quickly closing in on my head as she writhes, handcuffs clanking against the metal of the bed frame. Her moans and the sinful sounds my mouth is making as I eat her fill the hotel room.

“Paige right there oh fuck,” she nearly screams, the alcohol in her system making her more bold. I keep eating her out, tasting every inch of her. Fuck I could never get enough, I was drunk off her pussy. I wanted to be for the rest of my fucking life.

“I gotchu mama,” I moan against her, keeping up my movements until her moans turn high pitched, and I can tell she’s on the edge. Reaching up, I take her nipples in between my fingers, fondling them as I keep moving my tongue back and forth on her clit at a rapid pace.

“Shit, shit shit,” she’s gasping now, back arching high as she releases all over my tongue, making me groan in response. My head is buried in her cunt, coaxing her through the orgasm.

I’m only starting to come down from my orgasm when Paige pulls back and suddenly two of her fingers slide inside me, quickly beginning to pump in and out.

“Wait, no, too much,” I gasp, doing everything I could to pull my hands free but it was no use. Her hand doesn’t slow down despite my whining. A loud moan spills from between my lips, the stretch completely overwhelming my sensitive cunt.

“Need one more from you Val,” Paige praises, watching the way I swallow her fingers up closely. “Gonna feel so good I promise.”

I cry out, my eyes welling with tears at the overwhelming sensation, Paige’s long and nimble fingers curving inwards against my walls, making me even throb around her.

“Ohh shit that’s it,” she gasps, repeating the movement and feeling me throb once more. “Can fucking feel it.”

I squirm, legs shaking and closing around her but she pries them open with ease, the bicep in her right arm flexing as she pumps in faster, the veins of her hands popping more prominently. The wet sounds coming from inside me fill the room - almost embarrassingly loud.

“Too much,” I whine. Without stopping her movements, Paige climbs up to face me from between my legs, grabbing my jaw, licking her lips.

“You said whatever I want before,” she reminds me, her voice stern, demanding. “You’re gon take it ma.”

My eyes flutter shut, the mix of her words and her fingers moving at an overwhelming speed making my mind spin. I keep yanking on the cuffs, not because I think I’ll get free, but because I don’t know what to do with my hands, immense pleasure taking over my body.

“So fucking perfect,” Paige murmurs, still holding my face as she adds a third finger, the stretch now enough to make my whole body tremble. “Could fuck this pussy forever.”

“Open your mouth,” she coos and I do as I’m told, too weak to even think for myself. To think of anything but the way Paige’s fingers are stretching me out, the squelching sound filling my ears as she pounds them into me.

Paige leans down to kiss me, her tongue meeting mine before our lips crash. She still tastes like a mix of me and herself. I keep moaning, my mouth wide open as she kisses around it, cussing to herself.

“Shit, so fucking tight for me huh?”

“Paige,” I plead, unsure of what for when my back arches and I feel my walls tighten, squeezing Paige’s fingers. She feels it too, letting out a groan. My hips are squirming uncontrollably, forcing Paige to pin me back down against the bed, hand pressing hard on my lower stomach as she sits up to finger me even faster.

The pressure on my abdomen and the rapid speed make my eyes roll back, my climax building impossibly strong.

“I’m so close, oh shi-” I’m gasping for air, mind spinning, Paige’s cussing the only anchor to the moment as I throb around her, teetering right on the edge.

“Tell me you’re my girl baby,” Paige moans, making me nod desperately.

“I’m your girl, shit, all yours.”

“That’s right, my good girl.”

With that, the orgasm washes over me, Paige’s fingers pressing against my walls, creating such an intense stretch I swear I’m on the verge of blacking out. My moans are deafening as my back arches uncontrollably, Paige’s other hand remaining on my stomach. The waves of pleasure are incredibly intense as I mewl and release with force, the world going black for a second.

I’m brought back by the blonde’s fingers sliding out, leaving an uncomfortable emptiness within me. I let out a whine, feeling sweat dripping down my neck, the sheets sticking to my skin. I don’t open my eyes until Paige has unlocked the handcuffs, carefully caressing over my wrists and kissing them as she pulls a blanket over me.

“Valerie?”

“Yeah?” I whisper, still attempting to catch my breath.

“You alive mama?” Paige grins as my eyes slowly flutter open, watching her bring me water and a small present wrapped with a blue paper and white ribbon.

“Just about,” I mumble, shimmying up the bed to lean against the pillows behind me. I felt completely fucked out - and surely looked it. Paige certainly did, straight hair that had been down now tangled at the back but her usual braids still perfectly in place, mascara flaking underneath her eyes.

“What’s that?” I ask, eyeing the gift in the blonde’s hand. She chuckles and offers me a bottle of water.

“Drink a lil first, don’t want you to pass out,” she laughs as she climbs over me to the other side of the bed. Deciding she was probably right, I throw my head back and chuck some of the water, feeling the cold liquid make its way down.

“I gotchu a lil something,” Paige starts, handing the present to me. I take it with both hands, eyes flickering between it and the blonde’s bright blue eyes.

“No, I should be the one getting you a gift, you kidding?” I ask, but Paige leans over, her big hand pressing against my cheek as she kisses me.

“I already got my gift,” she murmurs against my lips. Usually I would’ve made a comment about her corny line, but today I couldn’t. I knew exactly what she meant. “Open it.”

Slowly I unwrap the gift, finding a small box inside. I furrow my brows in confusion, but grin.

“Girl you better not be proposing because I think it’s a lil early,” I joke, making Paige let out a heartfelt laugh.

“Just open the damn box,” she complains, watching me closely. I do as I’m told, finding inside a little golden charm. Eyeing it closer, I realise it’s the number 5.

“For your bracelet,” Paige says. I let out a shaky breath, bringing the box closer to my face. It was beautiful, but what it meant was even more important to me. What it might signify.

“Paige…” I sigh contentedly, watching as the blonde with great care holds my wrist and places the charm on the gold bracelet that I wore, each day of my life. Now decorated with a golden 5. My girl’s 5.

Our eyes meet and we wrap our arms around each other, soft kisses between us as we lie down on the bed, Paige pulling me on her chest.

“I love you Valerie,” she hums, fingertips playing with the ends of my brown hair.

“I love you too,” I murmur against her lips, placing soft kisses all over them. Nuzzling my nose, the blonde pulls back. I watch her blue eyes, the way they twinkle in the dim hotel room. My national champion, my winner, my Paige. All mine.

“Come to Dallas with me,” she whispers, a surprising sureness in her voice.

Batting my eyes, I pull back. “What?”

She grabs my hand in hers and kisses my fingers, one by one.

“Don’t make me go without you,” she pleads. “At least come and stay for the summer, and then we can think about what we do.”

“But what about school? I still got a year left P…” I remind her but she shakes her head.

“Just for the summer, and then if you hate it you can come back and I won’t even complain,” the blonde puts her hand up. “Scouts honor.”

Taking it all in, my chest fills with affection. She really wanted me with her.

“You forreal?” I ask carefully, making Paige grin.

“Val, Ion wanna even think about life without you. I can’t be away from you,” she says, pulling me into another kiss. This one is slow, meaningful. Telling me she means every word - and I trust it. I trust her.

“We’re gonna make this work no matter what,” she whispers, nose nuzzling into mine. “Gonna need you there for all my wins.”

I can already see it. Me sitting courtside, watching her win game after game, fulfilling her destiny with me by her side. Having her come home to me, waking up next to her every morning. Perhaps for the rest of my life.

So there’s nothing else I can do but agree. There were no other options I could fathom. I would go to the ends of the earth for her. And it feels incredible to trust - to know - that she would do the same for me. It’s in the twinkle of her eye when she looks at me, the way her hands always find my waist, how her voice lowers and softens when whispering sweet nothings into my ear. I didn’t need words from her. I knew all of it without.

ily guys

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#too lost in you #lilas writing #paige bueckers #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x female oc #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers fanfiction #wnba x oc

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ittybittyfanblog · 7 months ago

Text

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 6

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a (!) player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, you get your very own samantha from her (2013) lol, time skips as a plot device!, this has an arc i promise, if anybody here plays disco elysium you’ll find that i took concepts of “the pale” as inspo at some points in this chapter lmao A/N: Oof this one’s a little longer than any of the previous chapters. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3 (and just a heads up, this might be the last chapter I post before I kick it off for the holidays. advance happy holidays! if you guys celebrate that sort of thing.)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

There’s a quiet stillness brought by the morning after that makes the problems of a heavier night seem like a fairly distant memory.

For at least a few minutes past the moment you blink away the stubborn grit in your eyes – you don’t remember the last time you’ve been this well-rested in ages – you lie, listless, on the soft powder-blue bedding of your twin-size mattress, watching specks of dander and dust drift from the amber sunlight that filters through the cracked panes of the casement window.

It floats aimlessly; unhurried. Much like you.

The echo of last night’s events return to you in sporadic flashes—fragmented and unsteady. The whispered exchanges, the playful banter between you and your unlikely conversation partner play back in your mind, like some half-finished supercut.

And the more you recall, the more awake you feel, chipping away the last traces of daytime lethargy weighing you down.

“So, what happens now?”

The sound of a car backfiring breaks through from the outside, like a starting pistol signalling the beginning of another day. A familiar, heavy weight presses against your side, and you thread your fingers through the scraggly fur of the purring feline who’s taken the empty space on your left, just above the covers.

You breathe in deeply, closing your eyes.

“I wish I had an answer—I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

You realize how many questions still linger, a lot more left unanswered. Far more than what you were able to glean, at least. From what little you’ve learned, an entirely new moral dilemma emerges—one you never imagined you'd have to contend with.

There’s a lot of things you’ve never expected to happen. Yet here you are.

“Seems we’re at an impasse.”

It’s an odd thing in itself. You keep waiting for the disbelief to catch up, for a shred of sanity to surface and make you reject the situation you’ve found yourself entangled in. You should be feeling the same, pesky feelings that pulled you sharply out of your flight of fancy last night; a sense of trepidation for what lies ahead in this precarious game of two.

But instead, you’re here. Now fully awake, and already looking forward to the day with wary acceptance. Looking forward to resuming where you’ve left off with that charming anomaly who’s upended your world, and left you suspended in an exhilarating limbo of uncertainty and excitement.

“...Indeed.”

You crave it—like the first stirrings of a neophyte druggie teetering on the edge of an irreversible habit.

You need another hit.

“Why the long face, little dove?”

Because if desire could manifest into being, it would’ve been Sylus.

“We can figure this out together, can’t we?”

You pick up your phone.

––––

“You’re here? Make yourself at home.”

You look at him, deadpan. He looks back at you serenely.

Your voice takes on a dry monotone when you respond, “Keep talking like that, I’m about to cum.”

There’s a shocked silence; then—

Sylus barks out a surprised laugh, immediately breaking character.

You snort. “Good morning to you too, I guess.”

He meets your gaze with a look of scandalized amusement, his smile wide enough to flash teeth.

"Good morning, indeed."

––––

You two fall into a natural rhythm even before the day comes to a close. Perceptive as he is, Sylus hasn’t let you linger in the unease left over from last night any longer than necessary; which to say, should be left buried and forgotten, past its provenance.

“So you could, like– hypothetically, top up my ascension materials… indefinitely?” There’s a manic shine to your eyes when you confront him back at the home screen, gleeful and triumphant after you boost almost all the 5-star cards you have of him up to max level. “Like an infinite glitch?”

He’s content to just simply listen to your excited chatter from his languid perch on the seat, one palm resting against the side of his face as he watches you, half-lidded and relaxed. Utterly entertained by your antics.

The slight twitching of his mouth, the subtle tilt of his head… each minute shift in his expression makes a whole world of difference from the version you’ve known him longest—almost a lifetime ago.

Now he acts so human, so alive, that it’s almost unreal.

(It’s almost imperceptible, but you swear the air also feels different; like the pixelated space around him is bending, stretching, to accommodate this newer him.)

“Sure,” he shrugs, lips quirking up into a half-smile as he notices the deep crease forming between your brows.

He knows the question you’re about to ask, curious thing that you are.

“How, though? Like, what are ‘materials’ to you?” You make air quotes with your fingers, making you appear all the more endearing to him look at, in your process to make sense of a world that’s unfamiliar to you.

“Think of it as upgrades,” Sylus explains patiently. “You place the order to modify the equipment I use, in whichever situation calls for it.”

“And Memory Cards?”

“... A video reel, maybe. Or a restricted case file—locked until you’ve got enough to trade for the information you want.”

“And I suppose the dealer in question here is you?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Who else?”

“Huh,” you say, considering. “So, Deepspace Trials. That’s something you do on the daily? Because I… make you?”

“More or less.”

“And you never thought to question that?”

“Mm, maybe I’ll start charging for my services this time around.”

You roll your eyes, already accepting his analogy for what it is. “Oh, please. With the amount of money I’ve spent on this game, consider yourself paid in full.”

––––

You were right about your earlier prediction—this new Sylus in combat mode is something else.

For starters, he’s a lot chattier.

“Ouch, kitten– don’t charge in like that.”

“Why are you using a sword? Don’t you like the guns I’ve given you specifically for this?”

“What are you waiting for? Make her resonate with me now.”

And, instead of sticking to his lines and responding to whatever the MC’s programmed to say during battle, he focuses on whatever you’re fussing over—no matter how… moronic it is.

“Ah, fuck! I hate that spinning thing!”

“Move, then. Let me handle it.”

“Block it, block it!”

“I would, if you weren’t halfway across the field. Stick closer to your partner next time, yeah?”

He doesn’t say any of his usual lines. Nothing from his scripted prompts. When all Wanderers are defeated, there’s no post-battle banter between him and the MC.

“Goddamn, you’re strong!” You whoop giddily, completely energized by straight winning almost twelve Orbit trials in a row. I guess that’s what a fully awakened Solar pair gets you, huh?

Sylus lets out a chuckle, infected by your enthusiasm. He doesn’t sound the least bit winded, despite all the damned fighting you’ve put him through.

“We make a good team,” he allows. And because he likes the little nose scrunch you do when you’re annoyed— “Although your dodging really needs more practice, sweetie.”

Before you could think of a comeback, the pop-up window for the next stage comes up. Ass.

––––

Come Monday morning and you’re once again swamped with work.

You barely have enough time to scrounge something up for lunch—if it weren’t for the persistent reminders from Sylus, chiming in every five minutes once the digital clock on your phone had hit eleven-thirty, you’d probably skip eating altogether.

And make something else than just boiling a pot of instant ramen, sweetheart. You’re on track for an early grave at this rate.

“I could… add an egg?” You suggest, unsure. “Maybe cut up some tofu, make it gourmet?”

He doesn’t even dignify the egg suggestion with a response. Tofu’s a good start. Now, what else do you have in your pantry that has nutritional value?

“I despise that,” you mutter, but start rifling through the cupboards anyway.

After amassing enough ingredients—or what looks more like a sad pile—that might, with some effort, turn into something healthier than your usual go-to fix, you start Googling recipes online.

‘tofu easy lunch recipe’

‘10 mins tofu recipes’

‘begginer recipe using tofu frozen dory mixed veg—’ Ping!

… Really, kitten?

You don’t even have to see him to know he’s giving you that look, the one that’s practically dripping with judgment over your dubious life choices.

(You know it all too well. Personally, in fact. You see it on some relatives' faces at the family get-togethers you’re always required to attend.)

Great. Heat creeps up your face as you mumble defensively, “Stop. Not everyone’s a culinary genius, okay?”

After that, he lets you be – something you’re thankful for, really. He’s being too distracting anyway.

Swallowing down the–stubborn and suffocating–embarrassment that's now stuck in your throat, you keep scrolling through Tasty dot co, praying you can whip up something edible with what (little) you have. You’re fully aware that you’re a grown-ass woman who can’t manage a basic life skill and that you’re probably about to burn down your kitchen—

Another notification pops up.

Pull up your tabs, sweetie. I think you’ll find something there that we could put together easily.

Confused, you do as he says. Sure enough, four tofu-related recipes are neatly grouped together in your Chrome browser, ready to be tried and tested.

Your eyes widen. “Wait—you did this? How?”

He doesn’t answer your question. He does, however, offer: Want me to coach you through it? Cooking’s more fun done with a partner, I’d say.

In the end, you manage to make something that tasted way better than you thought you could do by yourself. You have him to thank for that.

“You happy with it?” Sylus asks, grinning at the satisfied look on your face.

“Mhm!” you hum around a mouthful of food. “Fanks, Sy.”

“Anytime, darling.”

––––

“Do you really have to call me ‘kitten’? You sound like a Discord mod.”

Sylus has no idea what a Discord mod is, but judging by the contempt in your voice, it’s clear that you’re not giving him a compliment.

"What do you prefer, then? Princess? Poppet? Sweet thing?" He pauses, tilting his head. "Baby?"

You blush and look away. "...Ugh, whatever. Kitten's fine."

––––

Your routine with Sylus settles into a seamless, effortless flow as the days go by; it’s almost second nature, talking to him. So much so that you’d think nothing could faze you anymore.

Well. Almost nothing.

A message bubble from an unknown number appears on your lock screen: Hi, sweetheart. X

You almost ignore it – brushing it off as some dumb prank from a bored rando – when, not even five seconds later, another text pops up.

+0063-XXXXXX: Its Sylus.

… Huh?

“Is someone fucking with me right now, or…”

+0063-XXXXXX: Nobodys ‘fucking with you,’ kitten.

Then–

+0063-XXXXXX: Send a reply so I can see how it shows up on my end.

Your jaw drops. “Holy shit– you can text?? How are you doing that?” and, “Did you just cuss...?”

+0063-XXXXXX: 👍

+0063-XXXXXX: And Ill let you know if you text me the question 🙄

So you do. You tack on a now spill?? at the end for good measure.

You watch the “typing…” bubble appear, holding your breath.

+0063-XXXXXX: Its a complex mix of technical code and harnessing the energy from a dormant protofield Ive discovered, just south of Vagrants Land.

+0063-XXXXXX: The energy I got from it felt different somehow from your normal protofield. I figured I could put it to good use.

+0063-XXXXXX: Oddly enough, theres an… indescribable effect to oneself when youre nearing the centre of disturbance, shall we say.

+0063-XXXXXX: I can only decrypt the waveforms by the rarefield border surrounding the AoR. Any further and Im afraid the adverse effects may do more harm than good.

+0063-XXXXXX: But if amplified, it seems responsive to the filament of what connects your signal from deep space to this planet.

+0063-XXXXXX: Who knew it could act as a transmitter to send you something as rudimentary as a telegraph?

… Sometimes you forget how smart Sylus really is.

You: that’s pretty amazing ?? wtf sylus

+0063-XXXXXX: I get by OK.

You could practically feel his smugness radiating from those four words. You scoff, shaking your head in a mix of awe and begrudging admiration.

He sends two more messages.

+0063-XXXXXX: Im just glad we can communicate through other means, sweetie.

Sy-Sy (??): Now save my number. Sy Sy will suffice 😉

––––

Since your latest discovery that Sylus can now text (!!), you’ve been talking to him outside the game non-stop. It’s like talking to a very active friend who never leaves you on read, and you couldn’t be more ecstatic.

You: so no one else in ur universe knows anything abt ur situation?

You: no one else acting funny or sumn ? >.>

Sy-Sy (??): None that I know of, no. I prefer to keep it under wraps.

Sy-Sy (??): Now that you mention it, Mephisto has been acting quite suspicious lately.

You: ?? suspicious-suspicious or just reg suspicious??

Sy-Sy (??): Hes with his other crow friends now. They might be attempting a murder.

You: ………. is that…. supposed 2 be a joke……….

Sy-Sy (??): Im running on 3 hours of sleep, give me a break.

Sy-Sy (??): Also your textspeak is horrendous, sweetie.

"Um, hello–?"

Your gaze snaps back to the—very real, very present—person sitting across from you at the table, sporting box-dyed blue hair and a frown. You're at the Annex House; a sleek, new-age Japandi-style bar downtown, just an easy five stations away from your place. You both decided to try it for their infamous Rotten Apple cocktail and, of course, your weekly catch-up.

Khol, your friend of eight years since college, is currently giving you a mildly annoyed look.

Oops.

They point at you accusingly while complaining, "Ugh, we don’t use our phones when we’re hanging out! That’s the rule!"

You smile at them, sheepish, pocketing your phone as discreetly as you could. “I know, I know. Sorry.”

Then, puffing out your cheeks, you meekly ask, “You were talking about Anna...?”

They roll their eyes but go over the gossip a second time, much to your benefit. Phew.

Your phone vibrates. Twice.

…

You sneak a quick, final peek.

Sy-Sy (??): Enjoy your night out, darling ❤️

Sy-Sy (??): You let me know when youre back home, OK?

Biting back a grin, you send out one last text in reply.

You: will do !:9

Sy-Sy (??): Good girl.

––––

"Um–so this is my cat, Maru," you say by way of introduction, holding the plump, orange tabby in front of your phone that’s propped up against a carton of Koko Krunch. There’s a slight struggle in lifting his left paw between your fingers to wave at the man on the other side of the screen. "Say hi, Maru."

“Hello, Maru,” Sylus greets amicably in return, watching the both of you with clear amusement in his eyes. “Care to tell me the origin of this proud beast?”

You recount the story where you’ve first seen Maru five years ago, nothing more than a scraggly little runt at the time, hiding in the gap between a dumpster and the interstice of a cragged wall. You were walking home from a night out drinking with your uni buddies, when you heard the incessant meowing.

It drew you in like a siren’s call. If the siren in question had the vocal prowess of a warbling whale on the brink of death.

Upon closer inspection, the grimy fluffball revealed a stubby, crooked tail and wide, beady eyes. In your alcohol-fueled haze, you briefly wondered if you were staring at a tiny ginger rat.

“Well, it’s definitely all cat,” your friend Bee declared by noon the following day, calmly retracting a scratched and bloodied hand from the disgruntled feline, which promptly hissed and darted right back under the bed.

You hummed in agreement, passing her a wad of tissue.

"I couldn’t decide between Nospurratu and Catpin Meow," you say matter-of-factly, giving your capricious son a scritch under his chin. "Bee suggested I stick to something simpler, like Maru. Hence the name."

Your explanation is punctuated by an offended nip on your pointer finger.

Sylus is covering his mouth, but nods solemnly. “I think Maru is a nice name.”

There’s a moment where the two seem locked in a silent standoff, neither breaking eye contact nor making any sort of outward reaction. Just as you’re about to step in and interrupt the bizarre staring contest, Maru gives a slow, deliberate blink.

Sylus takes it as a sign of victory—or perhaps a ceremonial seal of approval.

With a faint smirk on his lips, he offers the cat a small bow in respect.

––––

You’ve practically emptied the entire arcade of plushies – enough to put it out of business if it were actually, you know, real – and you’re bored to tears.

“Another round of Kitty Cards, perhaps?” Sylus suggests, but a single glance at your face is enough to let him know that you’d rather gnaw off your own hand. Or his. He might just let you.

Sighing dramatically, you complain about the limited playability of the “mini-games” in-game.

“There’s literally nothing else to do. Same old shit, over and over again.” There’s a pout on your face that Sylus wants to nibble on, not that you’re aware of the forming thoughts in his head. “No new banners. I’m stuck between Kitty Cards and the claw machines... I’m bored, Syyyyy,” you whine, stretching the last syllable for effect.

To be fair, he has tried to make it a bit more challenging for you. He stopped fucking around during Kitty Cards – no more extra two cards in exchange for one of yours, no longer placing different colored kitties deliberately in the wrong cups.

After six straight losses, your frustration is palpable. The fun is gone.

He makes audible commentaries during each of your six tries at the claw machine. Every time you manage to snag a plushie, he praises you for a job well done (It flusters you, not that he needs to know that). When your luck runs out and you grab onto nothing but air, he wryly points it out through some slight ribbing, but nothing that’s actually hurtful (This flusters you too—again, not that he needs to know any of this).

There’s nothing else to do. It’s like you’ve exhausted all you could in this small, curated window of his that you’re privy to. If only there’s a way to leave the mini-games behind, to do something new, perhaps outside of what the game has to offer…

Oh, wait.

“Hey, Sy,” you call the man to attention. “Wanna try something out?”

You beat him at Words with Friends by a small margin.

“Ha! That’s thirty-nine points, buddy.” You crow proudly, after putting down Devotees in a straight column.

He eviscerates you at Zynga Poker.

“... How are you so good at this??”

“Comes with the package, sweetie,” he says with faux-modesty after revealing (yet another!!) full house, winking like he hasn’t just wiped the floor with you.

By the end of it, both of you are in high spirits—except, maybe, for your bruised ego.

––––

“Say my name, say my name… If no one is around you, say baby I love you…”

“It’s nice to know that we have another thing in common, little dove.”

It takes you a moment to process what he’s implying.

You stop singing, affronted. “Wh—how dare you.”

––––

“Are you having fun?” Sylus asks, his tone droll as he stands there, hands on his hips and a small scowl on his face. You’re too busy spinning him around, thoroughly entertained by the number of outfits and accessories you’ve forced upon your slightly reluctant model in the photoshoot that's currently taking place.

It’s more amusing, knowing that he’s fully-aware of what’s happening. And that you know he’s aware of what’s happening.

He’s like your personal, sentient Ken doll; if Ken had ashy grey hair, red eyes, and a mercurial attitude.

“I am, actually,” you shoot back, grinning as you plop a tomato stuffie on top of his head. “Look, you two match!”

He exhales a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

Not that it stops you. Fluffy bunny ears, a fish headband, an uncharacteristic halo—you’re relentless. “Hey, can you try a different pose?”

“That depends on the pose… and how nicely you ask.”

“Dear Sylus,” you sing, jutting your bottom lip forward and fluttering your eyelashes exaggeratedly, “could you please, pretty please, flip the camera off?”

He snorts but obliges, raising his hand to deliver the most effortlessly cool middle finger you’ve ever seen. “Happy?”

Woah. That’s… hot. “Oh! Uh. Yeah. Yeah, that’s—”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your reaction. You giggle nervously. “You look… hot.”

“Mm?” His smirk grows, teasing and predatory. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” you blurt out, but the pinking of your cheeks betrays you. He’s definitely enjoying this now.

“I could be convinced to do another one,” he murmurs, voice pitching a little lower.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to say the first thing that comes to mind. Stop, you whore.

Your nerves get the best of you. Without thinking, you switch to putting the MC back on screen.

Sylus blinks, red eyes narrowing as he looks at you, perplexed.

“Uh,” you shift your gaze between her frozen stance and his idle figure. The sudden silence hangs a little heavy in the air. “Would–would you like to do poses? With her?”

He opens his mouth, an automatic response—but he stops, expression flickering into something unreadable. Confusion? Hesitation?

His brows knit together, and for a short while, he just studies you, the space between you thick with unspoken questions.

“Do you want me to?” he asks finally, his voice quieter, almost careful.

No–I don’t want you to— To pose with someone who looks so-–

perfectperfectperfect by your side—I only want to see you—

I want to see you––

Why do I care–?

I don’t care––I care, I care so much––

“Why not?” you choke out, the forced cheer in your voice grating even to your own ears. You shrug, nonchalant in all the ways you’re not. “I’ll dress her up real nice, and then—” You slap a pink bow onto his head. “You can try to keep up.”

He doesn’t move, not paying the offending accessory any attention. His gaze is solely locked onto yours.

I don’t care. I don’t.

You take the first shot.

____

“What’s the song you’re playing?”

You pause mid-mop, cocking your head to the side in slight surprise.

“Uhh– Pedestal,” you answer unsurely. “By Portishead. You like it?”

He hums, eyes glinting with interest. “I do. Play the rest.”

And just like that, you’re introducing Sylus to modern twenty-first century music—and to Spotify.

____

From that point on, Sylus begins using your Spotify account to discover a whole new world of music—quite literally, in his case. Sometimes he steals the control from you, overriding what you’re currently listening to, just to hear the most random track play from your speakers.

In the middle of a mundane afternoon while you're completely locked in at work—hyperpop synths blaring in your ears—you’re suddenly jolted by the sound of heavy mandolins as an honest-to-god Russian military march blasts through your headphones, shattering your focus like a damn rhino in a china shop.

And so with the level of patience that could put the Virgin Mary to shame, you painstakingly explain to your friend the courtesy of not stealing the proverbial AUX cord from the “driver,” especially when it’s their turn on the radio.

The two of you reach a compromise, and thus the birth of your “shared” playlist. Sylus reluctantly agrees to explore on his own time—when you’re not using the app. Like when you’re busy with other things. Or when you're asleep.

You wake up to the first strings of a Muse song. One of your favorites, in fact.

Sy-Sy (??): Good morning, sweetie.

Sy-Sy (??): Last night was enlightening. I have you to thank for that.

Sy-Sy (??): Oh, and I hope you could indulge me. I added some songs to our playlist. I think youll like them. We both seem to have a thing for alt-rock.

Sy-Sy (??): Give me time and Im sure Ill acquire a taste for electronic music too. Be patient.

You huff out a laugh, lazily rolling over as you check your shared playlist. Sure enough, there’s twelve new songs on it.

You: awe that’s great sy :)) and these songz r rly good !! u got sum of my faves here

You: based on what u like maybe u can try looking up sum david bowie, probz massive attack idk

You: i’ll add stuff later for u to listen 2!!! <2

You: <3*

Sy-Sy (??): Alright, sweetheart. Im looking forward to it.

Sy-Sy (??): ♥️

____

From the outside, the studio is just another unit among endless rows of dull grey—small and unassuming. Tucked away on the sixth floor of a nondescript building, it’s built as unremarkable as the rest.

Through a window stained with a mix of corrosive ochre and burnt sienna, there’s a quiet hum; the presence of something that wasn’t there a week ago. Life has shifted, ever so subtly, from an oppressive achroma to a much warmer vibrancy.

There’s a faint hint of movement. Inside, the young woman wears an almost-permanent smile, her phone an extension of her hand as she taps away with no semblance of rhyme nor rhythm—only in a continuous staccato. Her eyes are locked on the screen, as if drawn by an invisible force.

It’s elusive; this connection. Something beyond. Supranatural. It weaves through the room like whispered secrets shared in the dead of the night, beneath a city blanketed in deep ultramarine. Soft, like a wind brushing through a still everglade.

The apartment, once steeped in a self-inflicted solitude – one that went by unnoticed for a long period of time – comes alive as an intangible presence fills its nooks and crannies with the steady warmth of companionship. There’s a gentle heat to the space now, like the glow of an invisible hearth.

The flickering of the string lights, the muted laughter shared with a voice through the tinny speakers of a handheld device, a slight signal interference… all feel like the genesis of an impossible story.

Outside, the evening sky is fading into twilight.

And as one looks out onto the street below from the sixth floor window, it’s almost as if the world outside doesn’t quite matter anymore.

Inside, the air is full of life, in ways it has never been.

____

“Come to me, just in a dream

Come on and rescue me

Yes, I know I can be wrong

And maybe you’re too headstrong

Our love is––”

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @i2sannie @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @slyfoxtsu @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @tinyweebsstuff @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean

(if..... for some damn reason..... the tags still don't work i rly don't know what i'm doing wrong T_T i'm posting this from a macbook is that it, is the ghost of steve jobs fucking with me rn)

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unhappy-sometimes · 6 months ago

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a 2024 reading retrospective

so. i read a lot of fics in 2024. here are some of my favorites.

before i get started, please note that these are not in any particular order and these are not all of my favorites!!!!!!!! i wanted to include so many more but i just wasn't able to! also please don't roast me for reading stuff from more than two years ago :(((

anyway, here we go!!

1. Air by Cantare

as always, @cantareincminor knocks it out of the park. i'm a sucker for alternate first meeting AUs and Air is one of the good ones!! i find that it can be hard to find authentic sounding banter between yor and twilight, but cantare manages it somehow! they have such great and natural sounding dialogue. it's just a one chapter fic, but maybe if we ask nicely enough, cantare will continue one day 😏

2. like the wild geese by anonymous_viscacha

okay in all honesty, i read this for the first time last week and i scrambled to add this one to the list. it's a short one shot about a shared lunch break between yor and loid, but it's so sweet and endearing that i just had to put it on. i love love love it when people let loid and yor catch up on the childhood they lost because they deserve it. i'm kinda obsessed with this fic right now.

3. what happens outside by aerequets

it's kinda unfair that @aerequets gets to be a great artist and author but here we are. i'm not complaining tho because what happens outside is a delightful read. i enjoy exploring post reveal pre relationship twiyor and this fic is perfect for that!! it's also just really cute and reading things from yor's perspective is super endearing.

4. chaos theory by sarsaparillia

so ngl this one scared me at first because i do NOT like major character death fics and this one really seems like it, but this fic was unexpectedly wholesome and has a happy ending!!! it's short but bittersweet so i can't really talk about it without spoiling it any more. go read it! it's short!

5. eventually i fall into you, you attack my heart by princessguard

i know this is a controversial (and somewhat ironic) take but i usually really don't like eden AUs but. this fic is proof that there are always exceptions to the rule. this one is a short little story about a serious student at eden and the weird girl he keeps meeting in trees. i don't know exactly why i love this one so much but it do. it's cute and the epilogue got me grinning like a fool.

6. like real people do by Puolain

once again another alternative meeting AU. i dunno, man, it's just so much fun to see twilight and yor having the chance to be real people and accidentally fall in love which each other. i eat that up every time. great work @loveroma!

7. I'll Be There in a Minute, Dear by fluffmelange

i was SO CLOSE to putting fluffmelange's "Leave No Trace of Yourself" here because that one is SO FUNNY but alas, this delightful fic barely won out in the end. you know what you should do? read both. fluffmelange is keeping us all fed with short and sweet fics that are so much fun to read. this one is a favorite simply because the premise is so goofy and simple but i could 100% see it being canon lol. we are in your capable hands @fluffmelange.

8. I've Been Throwing Bricks At Your Window Like There's No Better Way To Say Hello by thesmallestfishinthesea

this fic has such a silly and simply premise but i love it so so so much. it's about the three times yor forgets her keys (plus one extra time loid forgets!!!!) and it's so cute to have a view inside yor's (often frazzled) mind. i don't know what else to say other than READ IT RIGHT NOW!!! great work @smallest-fish-inthesea!

this is not all!! i really wanted to include the wonderful works of @whateversawesome, @briefhottubcoffee, @spencer-is-alive, luinel, and more (ao3 literally went out just as i was typing this UGH what awful timing) but i wanted to do something to give back to this awesome community. fun fact, today is my birthday and there's a tradition in my family where the birthday person gives presents to others. so this is my present to everyone!! thanks for everything you guys and here's to another great year!

oh oh oh one last thing, i tried to link everyone's tumblr if they have one, so if there's an author on here who has a tumblr that i didn't link, let me know and i'll link them.

okay! thanks everyone!

(ALSO DON'T MAKE FUN OF HOW DIFFERENT SOME OF THE DRAWING STYLES LOOK IN SOME OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS, I WAS EXPERIMENTING WITH DIFFERENT TECHNIQUES AND THEY LOOK STUPID ALL PUT TOGETHER LEAVE ME ALONE😭😭😭😭😭😭)

#sxf #spy x family #loid forger #spyxfamily #yor forger #twiyor #spy x family fanfiction #unso lore

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damneddamsy · 1 month ago

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part xiv)

THE FINAL INTEGRATION—All the fragments unify into something new.

a/n: Last chapter :) :( I'm so emotional, this is awful but so spectacular - it's all coming together and it's finally over! I was sobbing so hard, tearing up, choking up - I had this idea in my head for so long, now seeing it executed... I can't believe it. Epilogue left to wrap this baby up 🌻

word count: 18,000+ (woo, mama, she's a big one)

What is home?

See, it really depends on the person you ask. To a reader, it might be a stack of books, their broken spines and the soft hum of imagination. To a child, it might be the warmth of their parents’ voice at bedtime.

Now, if you asked Joel Miller what home is, he would tell you that it is the nicest word out there. You can build a house anywhere, but a home? He was too much of a pragmatist to be poignant, but he knows exactly what it feels like to lose it, and how rare it is to find it again. And when you have lived as long as him, you know: when you find it, you do everything you can to deserve that goddamn feeling. Even if you're not sure you ever will.

Home wasn’t where Joel laid his head. It wasn’t the decorated walls and soaring ceilings of the big, white house—not in any way that mattered. Home was the physical structure where Leela could shut her eyes and not flinch when he draped his arm across her waist. Home was a second mug set out beside his, even if he was the first one up. Home was where Maya’s laughter could rise—unburdened, unguarded—without the shadow of the world chasing it down.

Home wasn’t just where they were. It was where they lived.

And still—the non-allusive home list never stopped creeping in.

A squeaky hinge on the front gate. Chipped paint on the eaves. One of the rain barrels had a slow leak, a dark stain bleeding against the siding. The back steps needed resealing before the frost set in, or Leela would lose her footing come winter.

And Maya’s bed.

It would not have been an issue if not for his little troublemaker who had figured out how to climb out of her crib a few months ago—nearly gave him a heart attack when he found her downstairs in the kitchen at two in the morning, knuckle deep in a bottle of jam, no pants on. He kept telling Leela he’d replace the crib with a real bed soon, but every time he tried, he’d end up just standing in the doorway, watching her sleep from over the rails, unable to bring himself to take it down.

Her new bed was upstairs in his workshop, still raw in places, still missing the final polish on the edges. Pinewood. Sturdy as shit. He’d hand-picked the planks while running two towns over, carrying them back on his shoulders.

He’d started carving it a year ago, just after the thaw. A simple design—square legs, clean lines, not much ornament. But on the arch of the headboard, he’d carved her name. Each letter was in cursive, meticulous grooves. M-A-Y-A. He’d traced them with his thumb afterwards, wondering how many years it would take before she outgrew it. If she knew that he'd been there, right next to her mother, when they named her.

It sat in his space. Joel’s space.

The workshop on the third storey, tucked into the far end of the house, where the bare rafters angled low and the windows stretched wide across the back wall. This was his bastion—no one else’s—just as much a part of him as Leela was. And she had established it so.

Not a man cave or a den, as much as Tommy taunted. A room that didn’t ask for much or pretend to be anything other than what it was: wood, dust, light, and Joel.

Sunlight filtered through the high, slanted windows in shifting moods—at times too sharp, at others perfectly subdued. Mornings arrived in a flood of amber, gilding the furniture and suspending dust motes in a celestial dance. By evening, it softened into burnished streaks that stretched across the floorboards. Joel often found himself staring, transfixed on those fading lines longer than he meant to.

The walls were bare but for a few scattered tools and a calendar frozen decades ago. Beneath the windows, a long wooden workbench ran the length of the room—its surface worn smooth in places, splintered in others. It was always cluttered: wood shavings, clamps, loose nails, a steel square, and a dented tin of wood glue with its lid stuck askew. A tiny, abandoned, poorly-carved figurine that Maya had insisted was a three-eyed alien sat among the disarray like a forgotten thought.

No matter how often he swept, a fine layer of sawdust clung to everything. Along the back wall, shelves sagged under half-used varnish cans, loose screws, folded rags, and off to the side sat a chair he’d reupholstered himself—too stiff for most, but just right for him.

No one came up here unless he said so. And even then, they tread lightly. Leela called it his “thinking room,” and aptly so. Some days, Joel sat there just to let his mind run amok. Other days, he came up simply to fall apart—quiet, alone, unburdened by the need to explain himself.

And in one of the little drawers—right-hand side, third down—was the ring.

It hadn’t started out that way. He’d found it all the way back in Vegas, of all places. The thing had been broken straight through the band, warped like someone’d tried to twist it off in anger. No gem. Just the ghost of where one used to sit. It looked like the kind of ring that once meant everything to someone—and then didn’t.

He’d picked it up anyway. A part of him hoped it could still mean something, given the right hands.

It took him all of five straight months once he started working on the ring, in holes and corners.

He wasn’t a jeweller. Wasn’t even an artist, not unless bullheadedness counted as talent. But he had tools, he had time, and he had a piece of oak. From the big, old tree out front—the one that’d stood through too many winters and dropped leaves in slow gold spirals every fall. Maya’s favourite playground, Leela’s greatest shade.

He’d carved the wood into a thin inlay, cradled around the repaired band like a second spine, dark against the soft gleam of restored gold, the colour of desert dusk. Filled the rupture in the metal with painstaking heat, forged the shape again, slow and exact, hammered it soft where it had gone brittle. He’d even filed the edges smooth and dared a small flourish on the oak—enamelled, rose-shaped ridges, intricate wreaths. Elegant in its own rough way.

It wasn’t flashy. No lofty gems. Only a touch of a woodworker’s pride.

If he thought about it, the ring was them—Leela, the soft blush of gold once broken now cautiously welded, gleaming with grace; Joel, the deep-grained oak that held it in a reinforced circle, weathered and stubborn the way old trees are.

And it had been ready for months now. All polished. Finished, and just sitting there.

He’d rolled it between his fingers a dozen times since, thumb brushing over the seam he’d sanded down by hand, almost invisible now unless you knew where to look—at the workbench, on the porch, tucked in his coat pocket on those quiet walks back from patrol. Always waiting for the moment that felt like it mattered enough. The right breath, the right light, the right words.

He didn’t hear the stairs creak one afternoon—Leela moved like a ghost when she wanted to—but he heard her voice, breathless and distracted.

“Joel, I—”

He startled, just enough to curse himself for it, then push the ring under an oil-stained rag. She stepped into the doorway a second later, her silhouette backlit by afternoon sun.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him, head tilted, brow drawn.

“Sorry, did I interrupt you?” she asked, tone softened. “I should get a door fixed here soon.”

He nodded inanely, then shook his head. Swallowed. “Yeah. No. Nah, no need. Was just—workin’.”

She glanced at the bench, then back to him, a sceptical brow arching. “Alright, um. I need your hands for a sec. The tomato trellis is sagging, and baby girl swears there’s a spider the size of her face in there.”

Joel stood, brushing sawdust from his jeans. “Tell her that the spider’s paid the rent. It stays.”

Leela didn’t smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She turned to go.

He opened his mouth, reaching for the rag. “Honey—”

She stopped. Looked over her shoulder. Skin dewy from the heat, a little furrow between her eyes, and the light shimmered on her cheekbones and the line of her throat, where sweat had caught the sun, and she looked jewelled for a second.

And just like that—he had lost his nerve. He could’ve said it then. Could’ve pulled the ring from the shadows, could’ve made a joke about it being too stupid or too late or whatever the hell it was. He had nothing prepared. Mundane and marred by spider eviction.

So instead, Joel nudged the ring farther back beneath the rag.

“Be right there,” he muttered around his throat closing up, grabbing a pair of work gloves from the peg.

Alas, that right, light-bulb moment never quite came. Nothing ever felt big enough. Not after everything they’d already lived through. Not when the days already felt borrowed.

They had a daughter. A big house. Nights spent curled together like old trees grown toward the same sun. There wasn’t anything missing, and the people in Jackson already talked like it was done.

“Joel’s folks.”

“Joel’s girl.”

And his least favourite, “The Miller baby.”

Everyone saw them for what they were.

Still, it gnawed at him. He wanted something more than knowing. More than the comfort of habit. He wanted something in fact. Tactile. Seen. A thing that didn’t live only in gestures or glances or the way she said hi, Joel, after a long day.

He wanted to see that ring glint on her finger when she brushed the hair from Maya’s face. He wanted to feel its cool shape against his callused palm when she reached for him in the night.

On this hot afternoon—Joel sat back against the trunk of a sycamore tree just off the ridge trail, elbows on his knees, the ring between his fingers. Spinning it slow, like maybe—if he looked at it long enough—it would just tell him what to do. Like the answer might rise out of the metal, plain as daylight, if he just waited quiet and still.

The trail below was quiet, sun hammering down through the branches, the grass around them dry and crackling in the breeze. They’d cleared the area an hour ago, but Tommy had gone ahead to check the northern bend. Joel thought he had time.

He didn’t hear the bastard come back until boots crunched right behind him. Same little shit behaviour, couldn't give him a moment of peace.

Joel flinched a little—just in his eyes—then quickly pocketed the ring, like he was sixteen again and got caught smoking. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Tommy let out a low whistle, stepping up beside him with a shit-eating grin. “Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?”

He shot him a sideways glance. “You people gotta stop sneakin’ up on me. I used to be foolproof at this shit.”

Tommy chuckled. “You’re slippin’, old man. Maybe it’s time you quit patrol.”

“I’ll show you slippin’ if you open that big hole again.”

That made him laugh harder. “You gettin’ jumped this easy? Can’t have Jackson’s best gunslinger losin’ his edge over a tiny ring.”

“Maybe I just got too much on my mind,” he mumbled.

“That ain’t a bad thing anymore, brother.”

Tommy crouched beside Joel with the easy, infuriating grace of someone who hadn’t just hiked ten miles in the heat. Pulled his canteen off his belt, took a long sip.

“So, how long have you been haulin’ that thing around?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. A while.”

Tommy sighed, shaking his head. “About goddamn time, is all.”

Joel didn’t say anything to that. Just stared forward at the empty hills. Chin resting in his hand now. Thumb stroking his lip like he could erase the expression off his own damn face.

Tommy, then said, quieter, more to the trees than to his brother, “I get it, y’know. I’m glad you want this for yourself.”

Joel didn’t respond, but it landed.

Of all the people left in the world, Tommy was the only one who could say that and mean it. Because Tommy had seen him through everything.

Before the fall. After it. In the thick of the fire and fury, when Joel had become someone hard and horrific and capable of things they didn’t talk about anymore. And now that he’d found a new purpose in the quiet hum of Jackson, in the child’s head resting on his shoulder, in the sound of her laugh.

His little brother had been there for all of it. He’d seen Joel break, and survive, and soften.

“What’d you—” Joel started, then stopped. Took a long breath, like the words weren’t shaped right in his mouth. “What’d you do for Maria?”

Tommy blinked, not expecting the question. “What d’you mean?”

Joel looked out across the clearing, squinting into the sun-glared trees like the answer might be hiding out there, just waiting to be found. “Just—when you asked her. To... marry you.”

Tommy took another sip, then leaned back beside him, stretching his legs out in the dust. Let out a low, thoughtful hum. “Not much. I just asked her.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “That it?”

“That’s it.”

“You didn’t—plan nothin’?”

Tommy gave a lazy shrug. “Figured she already knew I was an idiot. Didn’t need to prove it with the whole song and dance.”

Joel huffed a short laugh, but there wasn’t much humour in it. More like steam escaping. His thumb worked across the ridges of the ring again. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Tommy didn’t help one bit. It just made him feel like he was doing it wrong. Maybe other men just asked and it worked out, and he was the only fool who needed to rehearse a thousand different versions of a sentence he still couldn’t quite say.

Joel swallowed hard. “S’pose I don’t ask it right,” he muttered.

Tommy crossed his arms, exasperated. “There ain’t a right way, Joel.”

And he looked at Joel then—not as the little brother, not as the man who used to pull him out of bar fights, or drag him back from the edge, or talk him off a bad decision—but as the man who’d walked with him through hell and come out the other side.

“You’ve already done the hardest shit a man can do. You made it out,” Tommy said.

He clapped a hand once on Joel’s shoulder. “So if you’re waitin’ for a sign, maybe just… stop. 'Cause she’s right there. And you already know.”

Yet, Joel kept the ring close.

Tucked it into different pockets depending on the day—his coat, the small drawer by the bed, the inner lining of his backpack when he was out for patrol. Some nights, it lived beneath his pillow. Not because he thought she’d find it, but because he liked knowing it was near. A secret between him and the future he didn’t quite believe he deserved. Like it might vibrate or shine if the right moment came.

There’d been a handful of almosts. Moments where he’d come so close he could taste the words in the back of his throat. All the permutations of a few simple words.

Please marry me. Leela, marry me. I wanna marry you, Leela.

But he’d say it how he meant it.

I want you. All the way. Every day of the week. Even when you don’t talk for three of them. Even when your brain goes fuzzy and you make me feel like I’m missing a decimal point. I still want you until I'm a dead man.

Like that time he caught her humming to Maya in the bathtub—laughing, sleeves rolled, her knees on the tile, playfully creating a shark fin out of foam and Maya's curls. Joel had stood in the hallway, just out of sight, the scent of soap and warm water drifting through the air.

Or all those nights they’d danced, slow and off-beat in the living room, barefoot on warm floorboards, Leela swaying with him while Percy Sledge rasped on about love that wouldn’t let go. She’d never once asked what he was thinking during those dances, but sometimes—especially when her forehead rested just under his chin—he thought maybe she knew.

Look, the thing is, Joel Miller didn’t ask easy. He’d loved and lost and paid for both. And though time had softened the sharper edges of his grief, it hadn’t erased it. He was a man rebuilt from wreckage—stronger in some places, brittle in others—and he’d learned the hard way not to reach too fast for anything that felt too good.

What if she said no when he popped the question?

Or worse—what if she said yes, and somewhere down the line, looked at him with that distance he’d seen in too many eyes, that what did I do kind of sorrow?

Because one night, not long ago, they’d sat on the porch together—full of warmth, of breath, of small giggles, of a peace they didn’t speak of because naming it might break the spell. The sky had been that deep western blue, just shy of dusk, the kind of shade that made shadows stretch like sleepy children. Crickets were starting up in the brush. The wind wound through Leela’s hair like an old friend.

And she’d looked at him.

Not smiling or blinking. As if she saw right through the walls, he still hadn’t realised he kept. And then she said, while the silence waited for her—soft, certain:

“You make me feel like I survived on purpose, Joel.”

The words had struck something so deep in him he hadn’t known how to hold them. Like she’d laid a gift in his lap, tender, bone-deep, and all he could do was nod. His fingers had curled into the armrest until his knuckles went white, trying to ground himself in something. Because Christ, that was a thing to be told.

Not I love you. Not I need you. That would have been a letdown.

I lived—and now I know why.

He could’ve asked her then. The ring was sitting in that drawer by the bed, tucked inside a flannel shirt he never wore. It would’ve taken less than a minute. Less than a breath. Just a few words.

But he didn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to. He’d been carrying that want around like a second heart, beating hard every time she laughed, every time she leaned into his side, every time she held their baby girl.

No—he didn’t ask because he was still Joel.

Still, that man who had learned the hard way what it cost to love something more than the world could bear. Still a man who sometimes woke up half-expecting it to all be gone. Who held joy like it might break in his hands if he wasn’t careful.

Tommy cleared his throat, suckered him back to the trail ahead, like he was winding up for something. They rode single file through the narrow trail, the horses steady beneath them, and Jackson wasn’t far now��maybe another hour if they didn’t stop.

“Tell you what,” Tommy started, giving his reins a lazy flick. “This weekend—dinner with the whole family. I’ll get the grill goin’, and I will personally make sure Ellie shows. No bullshit excuses. You ask Leela then.”

Joel shot him a look. “In front of everyone?”

Tommy shrugged, unbothered. “Nah, we’ll be watchin’ from a respectful distance. You need your emotional support system, big guy. And you take Leela aside. Do the damn thing. Then you take her home and make sweet love to your new wife.”

Joel huffed through his nose. “Jesus, Tommy. The hell is wrong with you?”

“What? She’ll say yes, ya wuss. Everybody and their mother knows it. It ain’t that deep.”

“Don’t need an audience,” Joel said, shaking his head, but Tommy wasn’t done.

“You think I’m missin’ the moment my pain-in-the-ass brother tries to get down on one knee?” He chuckled. “Not a chance. That’s goin’ in the family vault. Right next to the time you fell off the roof fixin’ the antenna. Sixteen-year-old dumbfuck.”

Joel grunted. “That wasn’t my goddamn fault. Wind kicked up, and you were rushing me.”

“Uh-huh. Just like it’ll be the wind’s fault if you chicken out again.”

His jaw worked, teeth grinding against the storm of thoughts in his head.

He could see it too clearly—the glass slipping from his fingers, the moment crumbling like dust in his mouth. Maybe he said the wrong thing. Maybe he said too much. Maybe the look on her face turned uncertain, and the silence stretched too long. Maybe she didn’t say anything at all.

He gripped the saddle horn a little tighter. The ring was still in his coat pocket. Same place it’d been for a while now.

Tommy kept talking, not helping one goddamn bit. “You overthink everything, man. Always have.”

Joel muttered, “And you never think at all.”

Tommy just laughed, like he didn’t mind being told the truth.

Although lately... lately, something had shifted. Joel clocked it the minute it arrived.

Because he wasn’t just a man grieving anymore. He was something almost foreign to him. Something he hadn’t dared to be since before the world turned to ash and bone.

He was hopeful. Making rings, planning a proposal, a whole, nice family around him. Was that the difference this time around?

Because love, for a man like Joel Miller, was never gonna be fireworks or proposals in fields of flowers. He didn’t know how to make speeches. He didn’t trust perfect moments. The world had taught him too well how things fall apart.

To him, love didn’t promise safety. If anything, it made the fall steeper. And Joel had spent too long learning how to stand back up. Because needing meant breaking, needing meant pain.

They were about forty minutes out from the gate when the bend in the trail opened up near the creek, and Joel saw movement—two figures just off the path, half in shadow, half in gold-streaked midday screening through the trees. A man stood tall, blonde, broad-shouldered, one arm raised in a friendly wave that felt just a little too staged. The woman beside him leaned against the trunk of a skinny spruce, arms folded, gaze fixed in that way that wasn’t bored or wary—just watchful.

Tommy slowed first, fingers brushing his holster in that smooth, practised way. Not drawing, not just yet. Joel mirrored him a beat later, easing the reins back, quietly. First, he just took them in.

The man was definitely ex-military or something close to it; that kind of posture didn’t just come from ranch work. He looked fit, shoulders squared, like he knew how to take a punch and stay on his feet. The woman wasn’t slack either, built like an ox—tall, maybe five-ten, and there was tension in her arms and stance, like she could bolt or strike and hadn’t decided which she preferred.

Joel didn’t like it one bit. Too calm. Too tidy. Too alert for two stragglers lost in the woods.

“Afternoon,” the man called as they approached. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” Tommy replied, his own tone casual but clipped. “You folks alright?”

“We’re fine,” the man said. “Just passing through. Got turned around near the pass.”

That instantly made Joel narrow his eyes. Nobody got turned around near that pass without being real damn unlucky—or real damn curious.

“Where you two headed?” Joel asked, making certain.

The man glanced sideways at the woman, then looked back. An obvious signal. Bunch of seedy pricks, that was for sure. “Nowhere in particular. Heard there’s a settlement not too far. Jackson City, right?”

There it was. Joel clocked it right then. Subtle, but unmistakable. They were looking for names.

Tommy nodded slowly. “That’s right.”

“You two from there?”

The air changed. Just a little. Just enough so Joel could feel Tommy hesitate—briefly, maybe half a second—but long enough for Joel to notice. Long enough for someone else to notice, too.

“Yeah,” Joel said, cutting in, voice even. “Been there a while.”

The woman spoke then. First time. She hadn’t moved a muscle. She was calm. Almost too even. “Have you had any Fireflies come through these parts?” A pause. “Anyone looking to settle down sometime ago?”

It was the way she said it—like it didn’t matter. Like she was asking about the weather. But her eyes were fixed, like she was listening for the snap of a tripwire in the grass.

Joel didn’t blink.

She hadn’t asked if either of them had come through. She was hunting for a breadcrumb, not the whole damn loaf.

He knew the shape of that question. He’d used it before—back when he was tracking people. Back when it was his job to find folks who didn’t want to be found. And that man beside her—he was quiet now, but his gaze was doing the same work. Sweeping over Joel and Tommy like he was looking for something to snag on. A familiar gait. A voice. A scar.

Joel kept his tone neutral. “Not for a long time, ma'am,” he said. “Pretty quiet around these parts. Nothin’ but raiders.”

But he felt the tension rise up the back of his neck, slow drips, like water rising in a well.

Then the man asked, just a touch too casually, “Place like Jackson—y’all must get travellers every now and then. Guess it’s good if someone’s lookin’ to start over.”

Start over. Joel heard it like a gun cocking under a table.

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even suspicious—on paper. But it was the way it layered—soft probes, neutral phrases, no names. They were trying to walk backwards into a truth without triggering the alarm. No doubt coached themselves: Don’t ask about him. Not directly. Feel it out first.

And Joel felt it, a nail pressed into his back.

He didn’t show a damn thing. But in his head, the alarm bells had already started to ring.

“What about anyone coming through from Salt Lake City?” she asked, sounding frustrated now. “A couple of years back, maybe more. They settle down here?”

It was almost nothing. Just a question. Said easily. No lean on it. Yet, it was a wire snapping tight across his chest.

Salt Lake City.

He didn’t show it. Not in his shoulders, not in his eyes. But inside, something went still. Like the silence right before a storm tears the sky open.

Salt Lake was a name no one mentioned unless they were pulling at his thread.

And the way she said it? It wasn’t vague curiosity. It wasn’t nonchalant. It was placed—premeditated, rehearsed even. She was watching him, not for the answer, but for the reaction.

Joel kept his eyes level, gave a short shrug like he had to think about it. “No one comes to mind. Quite far from here, ain’t it?”

“Lookin' for someone in particular?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah.” Again, no names, nothing.

But his pulse had already picked up, pounding hot blood behind his ribs.

Tommy shifted slightly in his saddle. Joel could feel his brother’s confusion—he didn’t know what the hell Salt Lake City meant to them, but he sure as shit knew what it meant to Joel.

The man—whatever the fuck he went by—glanced at the woman, but didn’t press. Joel could see it now—the way they stood, the way they spoke. They weren’t wandering. They were hunting. Controlled. Like folks who’d trained themselves to look normal.

Verifying intel. About what happened out west. About Salt Lake.

And Joel knew. Right then, as clear as if they’d drawn on him. They didn’t come out here by chance. They came looking for a man who disappeared off the face of the earth. A man who walked out of a hospital in Salt Lake, left a trail of gunpowder and bullet smoke, with a young girl covered in blood and never looked back.

They were looking for Joel fucking Miller.

“You got names?” he asked.

Joel didn’t hesitate. Hesitation was a crack. And cracks split wide under pressure.

“James,” he said, tapping his chest. “That’s Steve.”

He didn’t look at Tommy—just heard the dry scoff behind him, the faint shift of saddle leather. That was Tommy’s protest. Wordless, but understood. But he didn’t correct or call him out. Good.

Joel kept his eyes on the two.

“You two got names?” he asked, playing the game, keeping the rhythm casual.

The man smiled, just a twitch at the corners of his mouth, as if he had passed some test. “Manny,” he said. Nodded to the woman. “That’s Nora.”

Manny. Nora. Manny. Nora. Fucking lies. There it was—another detail that settled wrong in his gut. The names came too quickly. No pause, no glance between them to coordinate.

Four names now, none real, sitting in the air, rounds chambered with unspent bullets.

Joel didn’t say anything, but in his head, the pieces were already falling into place. They weren't just passing through. They were hunting. They were scouts, and he was the goddamn map.

“You folks wanna head down to Jackson?” Tommy offered, leaning into his saddle, tone just a hair too smooth. “Restock, rest up? Diner’s got stew on most nights, and we can have rooms ready in no time.”

It was a test. Joel knew it. Tommy was trying to see what they’d do with an invitation. A wide, open front door.

Manny smiled again—polite, just the right amount. “Thank you, but we’ll keep moving. We don’t want to impose.”

Joel held his gaze a second longer, then gave a slow nod. “Suit yourselves.”

They stepped off the trail, just enough to let the horses through. Joel guided his mount past, hand close to the rifle slung by his leg, every muscle tense and humming. He didn’t look back, not until the trees had swallowed them up behind.

They were almost out of earshot when the call came again.

“Hey!”

Joel’s horse shifted under him, hooves scraping rock. He didn’t need to look—he already felt Tommy tense beside him.

They both turned.

Manny and Nora stood in the trail, maybe thirty paces back. Manny raised a hand, easy and nonthreatening. “Just a quick question.”

Tommy didn’t move much. Just unhooked the clasp over his sidearm, fingers resting lightly on the grip. “Go on.”

“You two know of any other settlements out here?” Manny asked. “West of here, maybe north? Somewhere people might’ve passed through?”

There it was again—smooth, specific. Not where they could go. Where others might’ve gone.

Joel didn’t say a word. Just stared ahead, a warning drum in his chest.

Tommy scratched at his jaw, then gave a half-smile. “Closest is a fishing camp up near Dubois. Might be one out near Tensleep. Little place tucked in the hills. Ain’t much—some cabins, old lodge, maybe a dozen folks running traps and brewing shine. They don’t take in newcomers unless someone vouches. Real closed off.”

Joel flicked a glance toward his brother. Tensleep was real—barely a dot on the map. He’d passed through it once, a long time ago. Nothing there but dead wood and wind through the hills. No lodge. No cabins. No community.

Smart. Close enough to sound real. Far enough from Jackson to send them the wrong way. Tiring enough to consider that their deadass lead has dried up.

Manny nodded like he was tucking the information into a mental drawer. “Good to know.”

Joel watched him just a second longer. Nora hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, watching Tommy, scrutinising Joel.

“Appreciate the help,” Manny added, with that same rehearsed smile.

Tommy only nodded. “Safe travels.”

Then they turned, Joel clicked his tongue once, and the horse moved.

This time, they didn’t stop them again.

They didn’t speak until the pines closed behind them and the sound of the other pair’s footsteps had faded into the brush.

Tommy blew out a breath. “Think they bought it?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He could feel the sweat down his spine, cold despite the sun.

“They didn’t call us on it,” he muttered. “That’s good enough.”

Tommy didn’t say a word after that—quite out of character for someone that mouthy—not until Jackson’s gates behind them clanked shut with a low metallic groan, sealing off the woods. The sound echoed for a moment, final and hollow, a lid being pressed down on something they weren’t meant to carry back in with them.

But they did. They always did.

By the time Joel made it back home, sleep had passed him over like he wasn’t even on the goddamn map. And he didn’t chase it. Just sat there for a while, elbows on his knees, the front door creaking behind him when the sky bruised into twilight. The house was waiting for him. Warm. Safe. That was the part he couldn’t get over—how safe it all felt every day.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about how close he’d come to losing all of it.

He hadn’t meant to see Manny’s face again. Or Nora’s. Or that unmistakable Firefly snarl of purpose, coming at him through the woods like a storm he’d outrun for too long. Their shadows had clawed him back to Salt Lake, to Ellie, to the screaming silence of that hallway. The rifle. The red on the walls.

Tommy had found him after. Looked at Joel the way men do when they see the edge and know you’ve gone over it once already.

Just said, “You’re off rotation.”

That was it. No talk, no vote, no lecture on reliability or protocol. Just a quiet, unmovable order. It stung coming from his little brother.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Tommy added, after a long beat. “Don’t push it. Focus on your family.”

So now Joel had to step in and say it. To tell Leela that he was too known around the continent for his grim, bloody decisions with that reluctant honesty that made his skin crawl.

He didn’t know what she’d say. He didn’t know what he wanted her to say.

He thought about it, while killing time in the barn and fixing his gear. He imagined how he might tell her. Started the sentence in his head so many times he could feel the shape of it in his throat.

Leela, there’s somethin’ you oughta know. I need to tell you what really happened with Ellie, a long time ago.

But every time, the words stuck, died on the back of his tongue. How do you tell the person you love that you killed a good future for their daughter? That you made yourself the villain in someone else's story, just so you could keep hold of one small, precious thing? How would you justify being a murderer for the sake of love?

So he didn’t say it. Figured she didn’t need that truth. Figured she already carried enough.

Still, it had to start somewhere.

Leela was at the stove when he stepped in, as quietly as he could to not alert Maya, while the home was awash with the low sizzle of onions and a spice beneath it—cumin, maybe, or fenugreek. Her sleeves were rolled, her thick braid twisted into that lazy knot, and her back was to him. She didn’t look up when he came in, just stretched a cute little smile.

“You’re late,” she noticed. “Maya waited for you all evening.”

A breezy “sorry,” was all he could respond with.

“Just fed her some leftover porridge from breakfast and put her down to bed a while ago. She might still be up.”

He stood there for a long moment, watching the way her wrist moved as she stirred.

“Darlin’, I... gotta tell you somethin’,” he started, letting his pack idle by the foyer shelves. He took off his boots, letting the warmth of the floorboards seep right into his soles.

Leela's head tilted, the way it always did when she was listening closely. But she kept stirring. “Mhm?”

He cleared his throat. Looked at the floor. “Tommy’s takin’ me off patrol.”

That made her pause. Not startled—more like she’d seen it coming before he had. She turned the flame low, let the wooden spoon rest on the lip of the pan, and finally looked over her shoulder.

Not relief, exactly—understanding. Maybe even… agreement. He couldn’t stand it.

“This ain’t how I meant to tell you,” Joel went on. “Was gonna bring it up myself, but…” He trailed off. Couldn’t say their names. Couldn’t say why Tommy had made the call. “Might be time for the young blood to take over.”

In all truth, he was starting to think maybe it was time to hang it up for good. The rifle. The shifts. The long, bone-cold rides out past the gates. Let someone younger take the reins. Let them chase shadows and walk barricade lines. He’d done more than enough of that; survival hadn't allowed for subtlety back then, but it did now.

And lately, the idea of going back to contracting—roofs, plumbing, clean, quiet work that didn’t come with blood—had started to settle into him naturally. Not a fallback, but a choice.

Leela dried her hands on a dish towel and turned to face him fully. Her eyes didn’t press, but they saw him, and that was worse in a way.

“Okay,” she said softly. “You’re home. That’s what matters.”

He felt a slow sprout of hope inside his chest, not sudden like a jolt, but gradual—like thaw. The ice that splits over a moving lake underneath. He didn’t know what to do with that grace. He didn’t feel like he’d earned it.

“I’ll pull my weight here,” he muttered, turning to the sink, letting the cold water run over his arms, washing off trail dust and dried sweat. Then leaned forward, splashed some over his face, rubbed a hand through his hair, combed the damp back with his fingers until he felt a little less like a scarecrow. He exhaled. It felt good. Real good.

He shook his head, letting the cold droplets run into his shirt. “Look, I’ll find other ways. I just—I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m quittin’ ‘cause I’m soft, or not up to it. I can still take shifts whenever—”

“Joel,” she halted.

“Baby,” he triumphed, hands on his hips.

“You didn’t make a mistake coming home. And it’d be nice to have you around more.”

With that, she turned back to the stove. Joel stood there, fists clenched, heart hollowed out and full at the same time.

He scratched the back of his neck. “You sure you can handle me hovering over your shoulder all day?”

Then she looked over at him again, a feeble smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Doing it right now. Besides, I’ve survived worse.”

And Joel, for all his doubts, for all the old narratives his bones still apprised him—about battles, about failure, about who he used to be—felt valuable. Not because he could shoot straight or hold a line—but because he was him. Because Leela knew all of him, and still chose to make space. He didn't have to be a fighter anymore just to matter to his family.

He was allowed to want. Allowed to want his home, his girls. He wanted to hear Maya’s footsteps in the morning and not worry if he’d be there to tuck her in at night. With Sarah, he never had the chance. He was always working, too busy hauling drywall, always chasing another job, always just a little too late to recitals, always thinking there’d be time later.

There hadn’t been.

Now with Leela—he didn’t always know how to help her. Didn’t have the right words, but understood what was happening behind those quiet eyes of hers. He just wanted to be close. To make sure she ate. Slept. Smiled. That she knew she wasn’t alone.

And then there was goddamn Ellie. She acted like she didn’t need anybody, that she had plans, that she didn’t need Joel, but he knew better. She was still just a kid herself, scratching eighteen, discovering herself, growing up too fast. And he didn’t want her to feel like she was being shuffled off while he built his own little world alongside hers.

He’d hold space for all of it. For her. For Maya. For Leela. And maybe, finally, for himself.

Joel let out a soft huff of air—half a laugh, half disbelief. That crooked smile of hers had a way of taking the fight out of him. Or maybe it just reminded him there wasn’t anything to fight.

“You just want someone to lift the heavy gizmos for you, huh?” he joked.

“That too.” She tipped her shoulder. “But also—some of the tools need rewiring. You’re good with your hands.”

“You bet your sweet bippy.”

He reached for a dish towel, wiped the water from his face, and wandered closer. He rested his hip against the counter, eyes tracking her movements as she spooned something from the skillet into a bowl.

“Been workin’ all day?” he asked, nodding toward the food. It was really late for her to be cooking.

She pouted in chagrin. “Barely got through my chore chart. I was in the basement all afternoon after I sent Maya off with Ellie. Worked on restringing the washing line later. It... got away from me.”

This was the cost of loving a woman smarter than god and twice as stubborn, who carried the future of goddamn science on her shoulders. Who kept Jackson humming with electricity and heat, who might—if she could finish what she started—be the reason a new generation didn’t grow up thinking math was an ancient language. This was the fallout of her last meltdown, or the one before that—one of plenty.

But, especially then, was when his big white house started to feel lived-in again. That was the best part—how the space had changed, like the tide coming back. It was slow at first, but now he saw signs of her everywhere again. Her workspace was bleeding into the house.

Her notebooks started showing up again, sprawled across the arm of the couch. Inexplicably brewed, half-drunk mugs left behind, always lukewarm tea, some with faint lip prints near the rim. Grocery lists scribbled and torn off on the backs of old lecture notes. A growing pile of crumpled paper by the trash can, evidence she’d missed it more often than not. Tiny equations in the margins of Maya’s drawings. A chalkboard in the kitchen was covered in half-finished thoughts and flowery chore charts.

That was Leela, always halfway between burnout and brilliance. A human fault line. He loved every inch of that chaos. It made the house feel like her again.

But not everything came easily.

There were gaps in her knowledge—biology, for one. The molecular, microscopic stuff. Things that didn’t bend to logic the way numbers did. She’d grown up with numbers, not cell cultures. She could program a solar grid blindfolded, but had to reread the same medical journal six times before she could make sense of it or until the print blurred.

Sometimes he’d find her like that. On the floor, back against the wall. Legs folded under her like she’d meant to sit for a minute and never got up. Notebooks fanned around her like feathers, papers scattered. Eyes all red, hands fisted in her sleeves, breaths shallow. Holding too much. Trying not to break under the duress.

Joel had learned the drill by now: don’t interfere. Don’t prod or touch. Let it ride. Let her burn out on her own terms.

He never asked. He just sat down beside her. Shoulder to shoulder, but not touching. Letting her remember the world was still turning. Letting her breathe in the silence until she found her own way back.

And eventually she did. She always did. She’d have a bruised whisper for him, sometimes. “It’s too much.”

Too much pressure for one young woman. Too many pieces looking to be fixed. Too many people hoping she could save this town.

And he’d shrug. Look off, scratch his chin. “So?”

It wasn’t her responsibility. It never was. She’d done enough. Hell, more than enough. The rest was for others to carry. She just had to do what she could. Then stop.

But she never did. And he was done asking her to stop.

“You need to cool it. I told you I'd do the washing line for you,” Joel pointed out. But no, housework was Leela pacing herself. It wasn’t for him or for Maya, not entirely. She was trying to make sure she didn’t collapse before the real work was done.

She chuckled. “My hero. I've done this only my entire life.”

He made a noise of acknowledgement, but his eyes were on her hands—how precise she was, the small lift of her wrist when she plated, the way she pressed the back of a spoon to flatten the top like it mattered. Like, care still had a place in the world.

He didn’t realise he’d been staring until she turned and held out a spoonful for him to try.

Joel blinked. “What is it?”

“Just try it.”

He leaned in and let her feed it to him, lips brushing the edge of the spoon. Warm, sharp with lemon and sumac, soft from lentils cooked down until they barely held shape. He groaned low in his throat, more surprise than anything. “Daggum, girl.”

She gave a tiny nod, lips pursed in mock approval. “You’re still trainable.”

He swallowed. “Still don’t know shit about fuck, darlin’. Just know it tastes good.”

She set the spoon aside and moved to grab the second bowl, and that’s when her eyes caught on his stomach. She paused, just a beat. Let her fingers hover, then rest lightly above the line of his hipbone.

Joel stiffened—reflex, not rejection. He felt the rampant impulse to shift, to suck in, to grumble at her to get it over with, but he didn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that.

He'd put on some weight lately—nothing great, but enough to notice. Enough to feel the change when he bent to tie his boots, and his belt dug in more than it used to. It wasn’t muscle. It was a carefully crafted softness. Around his middle. In his face, in the lighter eyes. Just under the skin, the healthy colour there.

He hadn’t been gaunt per se, this outbreak had made him its robust, powerful mirror—and hell, he'd been starving more years than not—but Jackson, and her, changed that. Her cooking, especially. She fed him like he was worth feeding. Making sure he ate, he relaxed, went to bed with that deep, restful sigh from a full stomach. All those portions of spiced rice, those heavenly lamb koftas. Flatbreads brushed with oil, saffron and sumac. Warm lentil soup with lemon and garlic, pulled fresh from the garden. Things he’d never even heard of before her, let alone tasted. Now he craved them like he craved her.

“Guess I’ve been eatin’ good this year. Too much of your fattening love,” he muttered first, stroking the top of his abdomen.

Leela looked up at him then, eyes shining. “You’ve been healing,” she said simply, fingers smoothing over the soft curve at his core. “I like it. It looks good on you.”

Joel’s throat worked. She didn’t say it like it was a weakness. Like softness was something to hide, ageing into something better. He really was the luckiest son of a bitch in this damnable world, wasn't he?

“C'mere,” he murmured, a hand crowning her throat to bring her closer.

He leaned down, kissed her—with his lips first, then deeper when she didn’t pull away, one hand slipping behind her neck to draw her in. Her lips were warm, familiar, and tasted faintly of lemon and the rosemary steam curling from the pot behind her.

She was humming into his mouth, her fingers sliding up under the hem of his shirt, when he decided: fuck it all.

Joel pulled back just long enough to mutter, “Screw it.”

He dropped everything then, turned the stove off with a practised flick and dropped the dishtowel somewhere behind him. Food was already made—a late dinner would do just fine. Maya was napping like a log, world on pause.

He'd picked Leela up, right there in the kitchen—arms under her thighs, holding her up and close, chest to chest.

“Joel, shower first! You smell!” she giggled.

“Shh-ssh, shower later,” he whispered against her jaw, “gonna make my girl feel like a queen first.”

And with her still in his arms—bare skin pressed to bare skin, hearts pounding in sync—he laid her back over the cool, accommodating marble of the counter, somewhere between the herb bundles. It caught the curve of her spine perfectly. She gasped at the contact, at the contrast, and he just grinned. Shifted her gently, until she was right where he wanted her.

He hefted himself over the counter without ceremony, grunting, his flannel landing on the sink, jeans halfway down, knocking aside shit to the floor with a crashes neither of them cared about nor did dozy Maya upstairs. All he knew was her, laid out like a fever dream beneath him. Dark braid fanned out. Her warm skin. Her open mouth. Her legs parted for him like instinct.

She was familiarised with him already. She knew it all by now, welcomed him to her. It wasn’t graceful, but it was real. Raw. Desperate. Fucking ridiculous, but fun as hell.

Mouth brushing her ear, he muttered, “We really fuckin’ on the kitchen counter. Right between baby girl’s rosemary and the salt jar.”

She let out a startled laugh as she tried to bury her face in his shoulder. “Joel—no.”

“What, you shy?” he teased, grinding into her just enough to make her gasp. “Gotta say, mama… if this is how you season your food, Daddy’s been eatin’ way too polite.”

“Stop it,” she whispered, flustered and grinning, hiding her face now with both hands.

He kissed her temple, grinning like the bastard he was. “Nothin’ to be shy about. You’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted in this kitchen.”

So when their bodies came together—sweaty, slick, trembling with restraint they no longer had—it wasn’t just about want. It was about possession. About claiming. About making each other feel real in a world that kept trying to strip that away.

“You with me, sweetheart?” Something he asked without fail until she gave him a fervent, eager nod.

She gasped when he slid two testing fingers inside her, already dripping, aching for a part of him. And right on schedule, “So fuckin’ ready for me,” he muttered, and it surprised him every time, never stopped being a miracle.

He lined himself up, ran the head of his cock through the slick heat of her, once, twice, slow, and her legs twitched around his hips.

Then he thrust in. Hard, deep, all the way, bottoming out with a groan that scraped right out of his chest.

“There’s my girl,” he hissed, staying buried inside her, forehead dropping to hers, both of them shaking, just for a moment, to feel her. To let her feel him. “How the hell do you keep gettin’ better every time?”

She couldn’t answer—just held him there, her fingers clawed at his back, dragging through sweat, through the grooves of muscle and old scar tissue, her walls fluttering around him like she was already close.

He pulled back slowly, savouring the drag, that acclimated part of her, then drove in again—hard enough to rock her against the countertop, make her moan. A prayer, a curse, a benediction.

Her legs locked around him. Her heels dug into his back, urging him deeper, faster. He caught her mouth. Licked into her like he was starved. One hand on her throat—not choking, just having, feeling her pulse thrash hard against his palm. The other slid down between them, thumb finding her clit, circling, rubbing, watching her come undone with every rough snap of his hips.

She was reclaiming something—piece by piece, touch by touch—and he was just lucky enough to witness it. To be the one she trusted with that fight.

And every time she took him—deliberately, slowly, selfishly—it damn near unmade him.

She could be shy about it, yes. Whisper soft little requests into the crook of his neck. Or she could be bold, back arched, and mouth falling open as she rode him like she meant to ruin him. Either way, she kept him guessing, kept him alive in ways he hadn’t known he’d gone numb.

Some nights, she touched him like she was trying to memorise him. Ran her hand down his chest, scratching at his scruff, in her own personal worship. Kissed the inside of his wrist. Bit the tendon in his neck, just because she liked the way he twitched.

Other mornings, half-asleep, arms slack on her, and soft with warmth, she pulled him close, guided him under her nightdress with nothing more than a sigh and a roll of her hips—just to let him come inside her slowly, just for the way it made her feel full throughout the day. Safe. His.

“More—please—more, Joel,” Leela huffed again when he pumped deep—but there was no laughter, no hesitation this time.

Joel lost it. His rhythm went savage, body slamming into hers with full weight, countertop rattling, her cries going high and sharp and needy as she clung to him.

“You ask so fuckin’ sweet,” he gritted out, driving into her again.

Look, people could say it was too much sex for a man like him. Too much hunger. Too much need. That he ought to slow down before his real age caught up with him.

But they didn’t know. Didn’t know what it meant to be dying for most of your goddamn life. To go decades without an ounce of softness. Without safety. Without something—or someone—you could lose yourself in without fear.

Here he was, only making up for the lost years. The dead years. The years when nothing felt like this.

And when grabbed her ass, pulled her in so he could thrust harder—when she wrapped her legs tighter him, dragged him close with that soft little whimper in her throat—they crashed together like it was the last time, like every second mattered.

When it hit—when he finally let go—it gutted him. Buried himself as deep as she’d take him, spilled with a roar that tore right from his chest, raw, guttural, desperate. Like every last decade he’d gone without this—without her—was pouring out of him all at once.

Like it was the only way he knew how to say I’m yours.

A vow. A promise made skin to skin, breath to breath. It was two people burning at the end of the world, holding on to each other like the flames hadn’t already taken everything else.

Time was always running out.

So they met it head-on—bodies breaking and blooming with every gasp, thrust, and whisper of each other’s name—repeatedly, again and again.

“Every shot you don’t take is a miss,” Maria had told him about tonight. Yeah, well. Plenty of shots aren’t worth taking either.

Joel adjusted the collar of the coudroy shirt he’d picked out—was wearing, really, because picking something out would’ve meant making a damn decision about his appearance, which had not—fancier than anything he’d worn in months, lifted from one of Dr. Reed’s abandoned closets as if it still had a mortgage on it. Stiff at the shoulders, rich at the cuffs. He couldn’t tell if it made him look handsome or like a fool playing dress-up in another man’s memories.

He eyed himself in the mirror like the man in there might blink first. Brushed his hand along the line of his jaw, then down to the traitorous little paunch he still wasn’t used to. The salt in his beard looked defiant tonight. That slicked-back hair, too. He tugged down the front of the shirt, opened another button. Still didn’t feel right. He looked like a cleaned-up version of a man who’d already done the worst thing in his life.

Proposal. Christ, this was torture.

He hadn’t had a whiskey in over a year. Not a drop. But standing here trying to figure out how to ask the biggest question of his whole damn life, relapse was starting to look more appealing than letting those few little words tumble out of his mouth.

Why was it so fucking hard? Leela was not expecting anything. He could leave the ring in his pocket and say it another time. He could practically hear Tommy’s voice needling him: What, you gonna keep waiting ‘til Maya’s thirty?

He swallowed, straightened again. Tonight was the night. No more stalling. No more waiting for a better moment. He was doing this. Now or never.

Tommy’s place. Backyard barbecue. Beer, burgers, laughter. Nothing dramatic, they had done this hundreds of times. Yet, the thought of doing it in front of his folks—Tommy, Maria, Ellie—made his stomach twist up like barbed wire.

And he still hadn’t found the words. He wasn’t good with those. Never had been.

He sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Get it together,” he told himself. He's been through worse than this.

A voice broke up his spiralling thoughts—her voice, warm and strong from downstairs. Thank fuck. “Joel! I’m sending Maya upstairs—can you please get her dressed?”

He cleared his throat, found his voice. “Yeah, I got her.” Then, in a lazy drawl, trying to joke his way back into his skin: “Hey, you wearin’ them strappy things tonight?”

Her laugh was distant, teasing. “You mean the dress? Do you want me to?”

He scratched at his neck, already hot under the collar. “…Yes.”

She didn’t answer. Or maybe she did, but he couldn’t hear it—because at that moment, there was a thunder of small feet on the stairs.

Maya burst through the door like a firework, in nothing but her nappy. Nearly three years old, a goddamn menace nowadays, but a whole comet made of giggles and sharp elbows. Today, her tangled curls were up in a complicated, tidy, intricate braid—Leela’s handiwork. A little crown on her head.

Joel barely had time to brace himself before Maya launched into his legs like she shot out of a cannon.

“Whoa—there you are. Pretty girl,” he muttered, scooping her up. She curled into him instinctively, her head finding the crook of his shoulder. At some point—maybe the moment she realised her body could launch wherever her mind went—she’d stopped asking. Now, she treated him like part of the furniture. Just another chair in the house with a heartbeat.

He could still carry her easy, but she was getting heavier. Her legs dangled lower than they used to. Her arms didn’t quite reach around his neck anymore.

“Mama did your hair so nice,” he murmured, brushing a hand over the braid, dropping a kiss there.

“’S too tight,” she whined, digging a finger into the base of her skull.

He smiled. “Yeah, well. That’s the price of royalty.”

She shoved the dress at him—an old button-down of his, faded soft, its sleeves trimmed, buttons reinforced and stitched with a little patch of flowers near the hem. Leela had turned it into a dress a year ago, when Maya decided “twirling” was essential to her identity.

“This one, wed colour,” she told him, grinning.

It hit him sometimes—out of nowhere—that she wouldn’t always fit like this, curled up against him, smelling faintly of powder and sun-warmed cotton. That one day she’d stop climbing all over him like her own tree. One day, she’d want space. Secrets. Doors closed. But right now she still thought he hung the damn moon. And he wasn’t ready to let that go.

“Alright, let’s wrangle you into this thing,” he mumbled.

Joel knelt, helping her step into it, his big, calloused hands fumbling a little on the buttons.

But noticed her attention wasn’t on him. She was turning something over in her hands, eyes focused, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in concentration. Probably a rock. Or a bottle cap. She was always collecting junk, fidgeting with things, just like her mother.

She launched into a half-babbled story about how she went to the park with Ellie today, and one of the kids had a big dog. And that his mama had caught him a fish from the creek.

“I wanna catch one, too,” Maya declared as he tightened the bow at her shoulders. “Can we go, Daddy? I want to keep my fish. And my turtles, my starfish... ah, my seahorse!”

“We’ll see,” Joel said, which was his favourite way to buy time when she got ideas.

What got him most wasn’t just what she said—but how she said it. Like it was nothing. Ordinary. Familiar. Not some big, scary thing she had to steel herself for.

But Joel remembered what it was like at the start—how she used to cling to Leela’s leg like ivy, her little body practically welded to her mother’s side. She’d hide her face in the fabric of Leela’s coat whenever someone new walked by. Wouldn’t set foot off the porch unless one of them was holding her hand the whole way. Wouldn’t even speak above a whisper if someone other than their folks were listening. Too quiet for a child.

And then Ellie showed up, with all the subtlety of a stampede and twice the stubbornness. Who didn’t care how shy Maya was, didn’t give up when she clammed up or bawled. Who dragged her into games of tag, taught her to throw rocks in the creek, and chased her down laughing until Maya forgot to be afraid. Ellie had a way of making the world feel like a place worth running around in.

And little by little, Maya started to believe it.

Now the park wasn’t just a place they passed on the way to the market. It was a real thing. Somewhere she looked forward to—asked for. Fit it into her days like brushing her teeth or untangling her curls.

Joel knew that kind of change didn’t just happen. It took time. It took patience. Weeks of gentle coaxing, trial runs, of walking beside her until she was ready to go a little further on her own. Of letting her come home early, face buried in Leela’s neck, when the noise or the crowd got too loud. Leela called it building the muscle. Joel figured that was just her way of saying it’s okay to start small.

Now here Maya was, chattering about creek fish and some boy with a dog like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He bent forward and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, rough hand cupping the back of it, just for a moment. “You’re gettin’ real brave, baby girl.”

Maya gave a toothy grin to the shiny thing in her palms. Joel didn’t think much of it until she tried to stick whatever was in her hand right into her mouth.

“Hey—hey. No.” He reached, pried it from her death grip. “C’mere. What’d I say about eatin’ crap off the floor—”

And then he stopped.

The ring. Shit.

He turned it over in his fingers, heart sinking straight through his boots. The damn thing must’ve fallen out of his pocket. He’d checked it this morning. Hell, he always checked it. Before breakfast, after lunch, after pissing—like some kind of nervous tic.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked, voice sharper than he meant.

Maya blinked up at him, unbothered. “Stairs.” Then, proudly, she chirped, “It’s mine now.”

Joel pressed a hand to his eyes. Of course. Of course, she’d find it. Three years old, couldn’t find her socks even if they were taped to her, but put one shiny object in her line of sight and she turned into goddamn Gollum.

“It’s not yours.” He sounded a little too sharp. When her lip started to tremble, he softened. “Hey. Listen to me. This is somethin’ real important, baby, okay?”

She gasped, appalled. “Gimme my ring!”

He was already regretting everything.

It was like every ounce of careful planning had crumbled with the shake of her little fist. Joel stared down at the ring, its band smudged now, Maya’s fingerprints across the enamel on the wood. He wiped it on his sleeve, heart hammering. Was that a sign? A warning? Or just toddler chaos in action?

Maya folded her arms and jutted her lip like she meant to put a hex on him. “Finders keepers.”

“Not with this one. It ain’t yours.” He sighed, trying to sound calm. “You can not tell Mama, alright?”

“Why not?” she asked, poking at his knee.

“’Cause it’s...” He hesitated—ambushed by her honesty, her curiosity. “Her big surprise tonight. Secret... surprise?” he offered at last.

“Ohh.” Her eyes lit up. She leaned forward and tapped a finger to her lips, “Shh-ssh. I won’t tell. Sec-wet.”

Joel’s laugh was small, startled. “Yeah, sec-wet.” He nodded, a hand brushing a few stray curls back from her face. “Thanks, baby girl.”

Then he did what any man in his position would—slid the ring deep into his front pocket to stop it from jumping out and start broadcasting itself. No damn chances. Not with a three-year-old wild card.

He decided, then and there, to keep Maya close through the rest of the night. The walk to Tommy’s place, the goddamn bathroom. No unnecessary interactions with Leela—not until the moment was right. Not until her attention was somewhere else.

Later on, Tommy made that easier than expected—plucking Maya into his arms and guiding her over to the spitting grill, holding her high like a little gymnast, her hand wrapped around the spatula with exaggerated seriousness as she helped him flip patties. She loved it. The flames licked too close, and when a gust of smoke blew toward her, she made a silly face and laughed like it was a game. Took it as a challenge. His girl, through and through.

Joel kept back, one boot on the deck rail, nursing a sweating beer he barely tasted, a thumb rubbing the label raw. He couldn’t stop watching her—Leela.

That wasn’t new. It had become muscle memory by now, the way his eyes found her across any room, any field, any porch. He watched for signs. All of it. Who she was talking to. If she was smiling because she meant it or because it was easier. If she was cold, if she needed a drink, if she looked away too long at nothing.

Tonight it wasn’t just instinct. It was that in a few short hours—hell, maybe less—she might say yes. She might become his wife.

Dr. Leela Miller. The words were absurd in his mouth.

He’d bagged a scientist, for Christ’s sake. Mind like an iron trap. Thinking in shapes and theories he didn’t have words for.

She solved things. He broke them. And yet—here they were.

He used to imagine himself ending up with someone… simpler. Maybe an older woman who let him take care of her, who liked country music and didn’t ask too many hard questions. A woman who liked the same things as him. Not someone who would outthink a room full of men in lab coats and look like that doing it.

But that was before he learned that love didn’t mean soft edges and easy silences. Sometimes it meant hard-earned peace.

And now, here he was. A battered old man, and this was the woman sharing her years with him—her best ones, if he was being honest. Years she could’ve spent anywhere, with anyone.

Just look at her. Look at his girl.

She wore that sundress tonight—the pale, crocheted fabric light against her bronze skin, clinging to her like water, delicate straps kissing her shoulders. The open back dipped low, exposing the twin ridges of her long spine and the elegant stretch of her neck in a way that should be outlawed. Her half-undone braid hung long and heavy, swaying like a dark pendulum with every movement—tick, tock, tick, tock—a countdown to the moment he still hadn’t worked up the nerve to reach.

He dragged his eyes away, tried to focus on anything else, then back again.

Those fucking legs of hers were endless. Bare to past mid-thigh, strong, and gleaming like summer itself, with whatever coconut oil she'd bartered from Maria for and insisted on using even when they were rationing rice.

The way her jaw angled when she tilted her head to listen to Maria—the gentle bow of her lips, parted in a small smile that didn’t always reach her eyes—Jesus. Jesus Christ. How the hell was she real?

How the hell did he come home to her? Some days, he still waited to wake up alone. One blink, and it was over. As if all this—her, Maya, this chance at a future—was some long con his own mind had pulled to survive.

No, this was real. And soon enough, people would see a ring on her hand and know. That woman? She was spoken for by a man like him.

And maybe they’d stare. Maybe they’d wonder what she was doing with him—what deal she’d made, what kindness she was repaying.

But he’d know better because she chose him. Had chosen him again and again, in a hundred small, quiet ways. Every worn, angry, aching part of him.

His throat went dry again when he thought of words. He still could not find a goddamn syllable, at least not until she was looking at him—not distracted, not tired, not halfway out of a conversation with someone else.

Then—

“Cheese, put the cheese, uncle!”

The spell shattered like glass underfoot. Joel blinked, pulled back to earth, and turned toward the grill. His little girl, sitting on Tommy’s hip, had latched onto his arm like a baby sloth, legs swinging, tiny fists tangled in his beard.

“Ow—Jesus, the paws on you, squirt,” Tommy grunted, trying to balance a spatula in one hand and fend her off with the other. “Ay, I gave you a bunch!”

“I want more!” she howled. “Put—put more!”

“You want more, ask your precious daddy to make you some,” Tommy shot back, far too smug for a grown man battling a toddler over shredded cheddar.

“Auntie, look!” Maya screeched, throwing a dramatic finger at his chest. “He’s bein’ mean again!”

Maria appeared with the timing of a saint—or a fed-up bartender—marching up the porch with a sloshy beer in one hand and a look of long-suffering amusement on her face. “Baby, why do you keep picking fights with her?”

Tommy raised both hands in surrender. “She starts it.”

Ellie barked out a laugh from the porch swing, legs kicked up, looking like summer mischief incarnate. “C’mere, you gremlin,” she called, arms outstretched.

Maya didn’t hesitate. She launched off Tommy’s side with alarming speed, limbs flailing, landing square on Ellie’s back with a triumphant giggle.

Joel winced. “Christ,” he muttered. “No fear, that one.”

“Ellie, cheese,” Maya stage-whispered to her.

Ellie gave a soft grunt as she straightened up, hands under Maya’s knees. “Yep. She’s gonna run this town by the time she’s six,” she said over her shoulder, carrying the kid like it was second nature.

As she passed Joel, she leaned in just enough to talk low, real casual-like, but he caught the glint in her eye.

“So,” she murmured, “I heard you’re breeding doves and shit for tonight.”

Joel didn’t have the breath to joke back. Just stiffened a little.

Ellie nudged his elbow with her shoulder. “Gonna propose, or you gonna wuss out and die of a heart attack before dessert?”

Joel exhaled through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he could manage. “Got anything else against my ticker?”

Ellie glanced down at Maya, who was busy combing her fingers through Ellie's ponytail. “You’re probably out here thinkin’ you’re too busted up or whatever,” she said. “Just gotta ask, man.”

She turned to go, but not before tossing a last look over her shoulder. “Besides, the kid’s already calling you Dad. Might as well make it official.”

He stayed there a moment longer after Ellie disappeared inside, her words still hanging in the air like a bell just rung. You just gotta ask. Simple, as though anything about Leela ever had been.

He rubbed a thumb over the callus on his palm, eyes finding her the way they always did—unconsciously, inevitably.

She was alone now, standing at the edge of the porch where the string lights flickered like dying fireflies. Her gaze was caught—intent—by the glow that shimmered off the wires. Always watching. Always had to fix things, even if no one asked her to. Her fingers moved with quiet purpose, already unspooling one loose bulb like it had wronged her.

He knew that particular bulb had been out since the last storm. Had seen it a dozen times and let it be. But not her, she didn’t let broken things lie.

Low-hung string lights, the ones Maria had put up last winter when the dark came too early. Maya loved them—called them stars you could reach. They weren’t one bit of magic. But in Jackson, they were close enough. And in that moment, with Leela outlined in gold and dusk, they might as well have been divine.

The porch had emptied. The grill snuffed out, and the rest of them had moved inside. He watched Tommy amble past with a tray of half-charred patties, grin wide like he already knew what was about to happen. He caught Joel’s eye on the way past, gave him a wiseass grin, and a smug clap to the shoulder before disappearing through the screen door.

Joel stood for a beat longer. Then moved, no decision, only motion. How a lodestone drags metal, or the moon controls the tides.

He bent down beside the cooler, fished around till his knuckles hit glass, pulled a bottle free and popped the cap open with his canines—a barbaric, stupid little trick that always got a rise out of her.

“Can’t stay put for a second, can you?” he said as he offered her the bottle.

She glanced his way, half-distracted, fingers still curled around the base of a bulb. “Just a loose wire,” she murmured. “Ruins the whole thing.”

One last twist, and it sparked back to life, scattering warm shadows over her face. It caught in her eyes, lit the curve of her cheek. For a heartbeat, she seemed as if she were holding the blazing sun in her hands—and Joel felt, with a stiff certainty, that’s exactly what she was in his life. A bright, beautiful, terrifying thing that left everywhere else in the dusk.

“We oughta put some of these up at our place,” he said, like it was just a passing thought.

She hoisted herself onto the porch rail, all effortless and bare legs, taking a swig from the bottle before resting it on her thigh. He moved instinctively—his palm hovering behind her lower back as her safety net, just in case.

She looked at him then, that gaze that never missed a damn thing. A slantwise smile crept onto her lips, and she laughed softly, buzzing low against the rim of the bottle.

Joel’s brows ticked down. “What?”

“You look so much more human when you’re nervous. Less of a hardass,” she said, with a sweet fondness in her voice.

Joel gave a huff of a laugh and looked down at his boots. “Thought I was hidin’ that pretty well.”

“Not since you quit patrol.”

He scratched at the back of his neck, half a smile on his lips, and took a slow swig from his beer, the fizz settling behind his teeth. “’Mfine, baby. Couldn’t’ve come at a better time.”

She squinted at him, like she was weighing him against the truth—some private scale only she could read. She didn’t call him on it, only let it sit.

“Be honest. What do you want to do, Joel?” Her voice was gentle, not accusing. “I’m not asking you to get out of the house and kill those things, am I? You did enough of that for ten lives.”

Those words landed like a fist to the ribs, and he puffed out the discomfort. “I told you I’ll find somethin’. Not in a rush.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, matter-of-fact. “You could just… stay. Be here. Grow old. Get fat and lazy. Let me take care of everything else.”

Joel raised a brow, baring an amused smile. “Would you do that too?”

There was a pause. She didn’t smile this time. Her eyes tracked toward the window where the curtains billowed, letting a sliver of warm lamplight spill out onto the porch. Inside, he could hear Maya’s voice, high and bright like wind chimes.

“If L.A. didn’t happen,” she said slowly, “I might’ve. I would've let myself slow down.”

Joel caught the flicker in her voice. “But now,” she continued, eyes still on the window, “I have commitments. I have a future to protect.”

Joel followed her gaze. Maya’s silhouette spun behind the curtain, arms in the air like she was catching invisible snow.

That was the thing about Leela. She didn’t speak in dreams or wishes—she spoke in tethers. In roots. And he felt it again—that old ache, that rising tide of don’t fuck this up.

Joel watched the way her fingers fussed with the bottle. Spinning it. Wiping away condensation. Giving her hands something to do when her mouth wanted to say more than she could bear.

“Leela,” he muttered, leaning in just enough to study the shadows on her face. “What’s really on your mind?”

She rolled her lips inward, like she was biting back a smile—or a secret. Then she laid her hand flat across her forehead and gave a careless, little laugh.

“Oh, no, don’t ask me that. I’ll upset you,” she moaned.

“You could never, not ever,” he said without hesitation. And he truly meant it. If she opened her mouth and told him she was leaving him in the morning, it’d level him—but he’d still mean it.

She released her bitten lip, a scroll unravelling. And that’s when he saw it—that softening in her eyes, the complicacy that would eventually land between them.

“I know about the ring, Joel.”

His deaf ear must've definitely failed him then. Just to confirm—“What?”

She chuckled. “The ring. Was it not for me?”

Everything in him deflated: his nerves, his strength, his words. All in a slow exhale when that pinched valve inside him gave way. Like the last little bit of breath he’d been holding onto leaked right out of him.

He blinked once, then rubbed at the back of his neck like it might dislodge whatever came next. Then he sank down beside her on the porch rail, knees wide, boots scuffing the planks, elbows on thighs, eyes fixed on the space between his boots.

“How long’ve you known?” he mumbled.

The words came out unintentionally rough-edged. He wasn’t angry. It was all the thoughts in his head—Be gentle. Or don’t. But please, not this way.

Because what he wanted—what he feared—wasn’t just that she knew. It was how she knew, and why she hadn’t said anything 'til now. Because that was the part he couldn’t bear—if she'd seen the ring and walked past it. If she’d picked it up in her hand, held it, felt all his time and love, and thought no.

And still didn’t tell him. The ache of the answer already there—quiet, and kindly given, but still: no.

“A few hours,” she eventually confessed. “Found it on the stairs, then I left it there. Figured you’d come back for it.”

He let out a soft, pained sound—almost a laugh, but there was no humour in it. “Jesus. I really am slippin’.”

“It’s a beautiful ring. I know you made it, I could tell,” she offered gently, like it was something he could still be proud of.

He didn’t answer right away, only managed a quiet nod. He fished into his pocket and pulled the ring out, the wood warm from his body heat, cradling it in his palm, more than some whittled promise. It looked small there, the gold catching against his callused thumb. A simple circle of carved oak, ringed with gold. Made by hand, with time, for her.

Leela didn’t reach for it, but she was studying it—and him—from a place he couldn’t follow.

She smiled, half-lidded. “And after everything I said about marriage being obsolete. Symbolism that doesn’t serve us anymore.”

She wasn’t trying to hurt him. He knew that. That was just her—clear-eyed, clinical, stripped of sentiment when it got in the way of understanding. Like solving a math problem. Reduce it. Isolate the variable. Eliminate the excess.

The only thing was—this wasn’t excess. Not to him.

“Never said you didn’t want a ring,” he muttered, unconvinced.

She let out a soft breath of honest laughter. “No, I did not.”

He didn’t look at her. Just placed the ring carefully on the porch rail beside her thigh. His hands gripped the wood like he was bracing for the unexpected, maybe—impact, rejection, he didn’t know.

He frankly didn’t know if she’d pick it up, or walk away from it. Didn’t even know what her silence meant. All he knew was he’d laid it out now. Given it air. And it hurt like hell not to know if it’d be received.

He cleared his throat. “Baby…” His voice scratched at the edge of the words. “I ain’t got nothin’ prepared for you. No speech. No kneelin’, none of that.”

Her smile twitched again. “Joel—”

“No,” he said, quietly insistent. “Lemme get through it.”

She nodded once, solemn.

His gaze drifted past her, toward the window—lit amber from inside, the soft blur of voices and laughter filtering through the glass. Maya’s silhouette flitted across the frame, trailing something sparkly Ellie had tied around her wrist. Maria was leaning against the table, wine in hand, grinning at something Tommy was saying. Sometimes, he didn't know what to do with that kind of softness.

“I spent a long time thinkin’ I’d die alone,” Joel began. “Figured maybe that’s what I earned. For all the shit I’ve done to survive, everyone I let down. I made peace with it. Thought that was it.”

His fingers twitched where they curled around the railing.

“Then you came along,” he said, voice thickening. “And I didn’t know what to do with you. Still don’t, most days. You’re smart, and stubborn, and so damn strong it scares the hell outta me. I watch you with our baby girl, and I think… this is it. This is what the world was supposed to be. What it could have been if things had gone right, and... I saved her.”

He didn’t mean to say it. The words just dropped, like gravity had been holding them in and finally gave out. He blinked hard, the weight of it settling into his chest.

For a breath, he wasn’t on the porch anymore. He was somewhere else—long ago, yet too close. Sarah’s tinny laughter echoing down a hallway, that sunshine voice teasing him over scorched eggs or his taste in music. That drowsy, unfiltered way she used to mumble “You’re such a big softie, Dad” when she caught him watching her sleep after a late night.

He wondered, not for the first time, what she might have said if she could see him now. If she’d even see him past the anger, his bloodied hands, and consider him her father. If she’d appreciate Leela as much as him. If she’d love Maya and Ellie as her own.

He drew in a slow, uneven breath and turned his head, finally looking at Leela—she wasn’t smiling anymore. Just holding still, eyes glinting in the string lights, her hand suspended halfway between her knee and the porch rail like she didn’t trust herself to move.

And in that moment, Joel didn’t see two separate lives. Just one long, brutal road that had somehow led him here, across from a big, white house, and to this family, to her.

“I don’t have much left to offer,” he said. “Just myself. My hands. My time. Whatever years I’ve got left.”

He flicked his eyes down to the ring, then back to her.

“But they’re all yours, Leela, if you want ’em.”

Silence stretched—long, weighted, adoring—demanding nothing but holding everything inside it. The cicadas hummed low in the distance. Wind brushed against the porch screens.

And Joel waited; not like a man expecting yes or no, but like someone who’d finally unshouldered a burden he’d been carrying for miles.

And then—Leela reached for it. A decision she had made before her mind caught up, she picked up where he had left it, and nestled it in her palms, how a nest held a baby bird. Joel watched her thumb stroking over the smooth gold, the uneven grain of the oak, his own hands hanging useless by his sides.

And watched her fingers close around it, gentle as ever.

Then—quietly, with a voice that cracked and held at once—she spoke. “I never thought I’d have anyone to myself. Not where it was safe to want it.”

Her eyes lifted to search his—slow, cautious. And Joel let her look at all of it. The lines, the cracks, the history. The ugly things. The beautiful ones, too, even if he still didn’t know how to hold those proper. If she still wanted him afterwards.

Her gaze softened. “And if that’s what this ring means,” she murmured, barely more than breath, “then…”

She reached again—this time for him.

Her hand slid over his, careful not to drop the ring. She pressed her fingers to his, fitting them into the grooves of his knuckles, as though they were shaped for her.

“Then yes,” she said. “I want it all.”

Joel blinked once, slow, like maybe he’d misheard her. Like the years of grief and failure and blood had finally caught up and were playing tricks on his ears.

That word—yes—cracked him, like a floodgate giving way. Quiet, massive, unstoppable. She was saying yes to all of it.

All the worries he’d carried—how she'd flinch from the shadows of his past, how he’d never be clean enough, soft enough, good enough for her—all of it seemed ridiculous now. Foolish and small compared to the weight of her looking at him like that, like she knew him and still chose him.

He made a sound—half-gasp, half-sob—and his hand moved before he could stop it. Twitched under hers, then closed around it instinctively, like his body had been waiting for this—her—for decades.

His chest roared with nerves, but his fingers were gentle, almost trembling, as he eased the ring onto her ring finger where it would sit for another fifty years. It was nestled askew, a little too big.

“I’ll solder it later,” she said quickly, like it didn’t matter, like she was afraid he’d apologise for it.

How the hell did he get this lucky? He didn’t say a damn thing, didn’t trust his voice not to break.

Instead, Joel's hands went to her waist—and before she could say another word, he lifted her clean off the porch railing.

He laughed, a sound so old it almost startled him. It came from deep in his gut, hopeful and breathless, broken through with joy he didn’t recognise as his own at first.

Leela let out a startled little sound, her arms catching naturally around his neck. Her forehead bumped his as he spun her in a rough circle, boots scraping on the wood, the wind catching the stray wisps of hair around her cheeks.

“Put me down!” she whispered, half-laughing against his throat. “You’re gonna throw your back out.”

“Don’t care,” he muttered, still laughing.

When he set her down again, his hands didn’t move far. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t ask for permission, just leaned in and kissed every piece of her he could find. Her warm cheek. Her closed eyes, lashes damp. The corner of her mouth. Her hairline. Her jaw. Her temple. The shell of her ear.

He didn’t have the words to tell her what this meant. That he hadn’t believed he’d ever get this again—not after everything, not after Sarah, not after all the ruin he carried around like second skin.

“Leela,” he murmured, his voice roughened with more than just emotion—like it hurt to speak and feel so much all at once. He cupped the back of her head, foreheads pressed, and he stayed there, breathing her in.

“Leela Miller,” she corrected.

His brow lifted, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward despite the lump still stuck in his throat. “That right?” he rasped, gravel and wonder all tangled up. “Ain’t too late to run, y’know.”

Leela didn’t budge. “I wouldn’t get too far.”

Joel snickered, mock-considering. “I’d give you a head start. Maybe five steps.”

She hummed, eyes half-lidded, still nestled close. “Ruined it.”

“Then c'mere and fix it,” he muttered, already leaning in; the only thing left in the world was the shape of her mouth and the promise of home in her breath.

But a sharp tap-tap-tap rattled the porch window before he could catch her mouth.

They both jerked, startled.

Four faces pressed against the glass like in a stage play, barely obscured by the parted curtain. Tommy was grinning like a lunatic, one arm flung around Maria’s shoulders. Maria had her hand to her heart, visibly misty-eyed. Ellie had both fists pumped in victory, mouthing something like “Holy shit!” through the pane. And dead centre, propped up in Maria’s arms, was Maya—head tilted, brows furrowed in that serious, confused little way of hers as she squinted at the adults with the kind of scrutiny only a toddler could manage.

Tommy whooped so loud that Joel was sure someone two streets down heard it. “Fina-fuckin’-ally!”

Leela giggled—a rare, bubbling sound—and clapped a hand over her mouth like she could catch it before it escaped. She held up her left hand, fingers splayed, flashing the ring like it might answer Maya’s question.

Her eyes widened, then came her muffled squeal, “Daddy sec-wet!”

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, muttering something inaudible that might have been “Oh, Christ,” but he didn’t look away.

The door flew open, and the whole damn crew poured out.

Boots scuffed hard against wood, and then it was a mess of limbs and hollering. Joel barely had time to register the blur of motion before he was hit from both sides—Tommy barreling into him, and Ellie launching herself at Leela like a skinny linebacker.

“You fucking said yes!” Ellie hollered, clinging to Leela, nearly raising her off the floor. Joel caught a flash of her grinning face as she hooted again, and Leela staggered a little but didn’t stop laughing.

“Look at you,” Tommy barked, dragging Joel into a half-headlock, knuckles grinding affectionately into his scalp. “Didn’t think you had the stones, jackass.”

Joel grunted, wind knocked out of him, but he didn’t push him off. Couldn’t, not when his chest was a mess of noise and heartbeat and something terrifyingly close to joy. So he shook his head, still stunned.

Tommy finally let him go with a slap to his back, and he was still catching his breath when he looked up—

Leela stood a few feet away, partly circled by Maria and Ellie now, Maya cradled between them, his baby girl’s tiny face peeking out over her mother’s shoulder.

What Joel saw was his Leela, everything else out of focus. At the lines of the porch light carved into her cheekbones. At the worn braid that lay across her collarbone. At the place on her throat where her pulse ticked, constant as a metronome.

Someone—maybe Tommy—muttered something about champagne. Ellie snorted and called back, “You think we got champagne? Shit, we’ve got apple cider. Or my moonshine if you wanna blackout during the toast.”

Joel huffed a low breath of a laugh. That sounded more like home.

And what he truthfully felt wasn’t clarity or certainty. He didn’t believe in that shit anymore, not like he used to. This was...

Conviction.

This woman—this stunning woman—was the one who’d shown him there was a future left to want. Who didn’t fix him, because that was never hers to do.

And in a world where most things broke and stayed broken—she was the thing that held.

He stood there a long beat, surrounded by all the noise, the cider being passed around in mismatched mugs, Maya's delighted squeal of wanting some, Ellie already climbing up on the porch rail like she was gearing up for a ridiculous toast, one neither of them would forget—or forgive her for.

But all Joel could fucking do was stare at his wife.

Her dark eyes found his in the chaos, and she smiled, quiet and knowing, like she already understood every word he hadn’t said out loud.

He took a reflexive step toward her—then another—cutting through his folks, without a word, because words would’ve only cheapened it.

She didn’t flinch when he reached his place. She shifted Maya a little higher against her chest and tilted her face toward him, as if to say—Come home, Joel.

So touched her hand first—just a brush of fingers, his open door. Then his palm slid around her neck, callused thumb resting beneath her jaw. Maya blinked up at him, wide-eyed, her curls scattered against Leela’s collar like tiny question marks. Joel reached out again, this time to her back, a whisper of contact. Leela moved just enough, granting him space to hold his daughter.

And this was it.

This was the future now, and he was stepping through the doors—finally, entirely—with his eyes wide open.

That same night, Joel found himself dismantling Maya’s crib, the act itself deserving of his utmost reverence.

“What’s Daddy doing?” Leela whispered from the hallway.

“Fixin’,” Maya whispered back.

He didn’t rush. Each screw he loosened felt like the end of a chapter. His palms moved with care—thumb smoothing over the worn wood rail, the one Maya used to chew when she was teething. The teeth marks were still there. Tiny, crescent-shaped reminders. Part of him wanted to leave them. Another part knew he had to start the ball rolling.

The house was quiet—unnaturally so, after all those toasts to forever, the laughter, the clink of mugs—and Maya padded after him like a duckling, barefoot, two fingers picking at her lips in her nervous rut, and her eyes, big and brown like her mama’s, tracked his every move. If she blinked, she would miss something important.

And of course, Joel could see it plain as day, his baby girl was overwhelmed. Way past her bedtime, belly full of Tommy's generously cheese-ed burgers, everyone hugging her mama like they were old friends, slapping his back with words like “Congratulations!” as if she was supposed to know what that spell meant. And now, her room, her safe space, the one thing that never changed, was being taken apart right in front of her?

“She doesn’t get it,” he murmured under his breath as he passed her, ruffling her curls. “I got you, baby girl.”

Hell, Joel wasn’t sure he could wrap his head around it either. One minute, she was a newborn, featherlight, curled along his forearm, breathing those tiny sighs against his neck. Now she was watching him take apart her whole world.

But he kept working. Pulled on his gloves, toolbelt slung low on his hips, and still wearing the button-up he hadn’t changed out of since dinner, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sweat blooming at the collar. He could’ve waited until morning and let her sleep one more night in the old crib, surrounded by what she knew. But the accomplishment about it—about today—made him press on, and made him want her to have this now. Maybe it was pride, or guilt, or the quiet ache of her having called out to him many times tonight, meaning it like a promise.

Like giving Leela that ring. Or Ellie with that guitar.

Maya deserved her own piece of the day to call her own. A gesture that said: You’re growing up, sweetheart. I see it. I’m here with you.

He dragged the new bed down from his shop, careful not to wake the house. There was absolutely no room for mistakes once he laid out the parts, sorted the screws, set every board down with care. Checked angles twice. Rugged pinewood he’d shaped himself—soft edges, low frame, solid enough to last and hold all the dreams a little girl might grow into.

She stood at the doorway the whole time, little feet planted like she was standing guard, or maybe waiting for permission to step into the future.

“I help, Daddy. See, I do,” she chirped once, already tugging a scrap of sandpaper off the floor.

He let out a soft breath, smiling despite himself. “Not this time, busybee.” Scooped her up, set her gently by the door again. “Don’t want you hurtin’ your pretty fingers.”

Twice more she tried, wandered off, then circled back. Grunting, dragging a bed slat like it weighed a hundred pounds. Each time, Joel had to stop what he was doing and guide her back with a kiss to her temple, even though all he wanted was to let her stay near.

The third time, Leela’s arms wrapped around her from behind, lifting her up.

“C’mon, Maya,” she murmured, voice soft against the crown of Maya’s curls. “Let’s go take a bath.”

Maya whined in protest, feet kicking in midair.

Joel caught her eye and winked. “Go on now. Let Mama fuss over you.”

She pouted, but she went along with Leela.

And then it was just him again.

Alone in the soft hush of the nursery, tightening every last screw with the same hands that once knew only how to break things, pull triggers and crush windpipes. Now they smoothed edges, lined up joints flush, and held things together instead of tearing them apart.

Was that not the point of raising a daughter? To rewrite your story in the margins of hers, not by erasing the past, but by refusing to pass it on.

He sanded off the splinters, double-checked every bolt, all of it a punctuation mark in an unfinished story. Hauled in the mattress from one of the empty, unused guest rooms, a little too big, but she would grow into it. He laid the blankets, pink and green to match her walls, corners tucked, one pillow fluffed and centred. Her favourite starry blanket, spread just so—faded navy with constellations stitched in silver thread.

It wasn’t just a bed for his daughter.

It was a beginning. A place for burrowing, for burying your face after a hard day. For whispered secrets beneath the covers and flashlight adventures. For hiding under when the world felt too loud. For outgrowing, eventually—but not yet. A place where Maya's big dreams could sprawl.

He stood back when it was done, undid his toolbelt and wiped the sweat from his brow. Finally over.

Then came the gallop of footsteps. A shrill squeal that yanked a smile on Joel's face. That fast Maya rhythm of joy in motion.

She came soaring down the hall, freshly pajamaed, her whole little body warm from the bath, curls still dripping. She barreled into the doorway, saw it—and stopped cold.

For half a heartbeat, she just stood there, eyes wide, blinking like she couldn’t quite believe it was real.

Then she launched herself forward, airborne for a good second.

“So biiiig!” she shrieked, arms flung out like she was leaping into the stars themselves. Her little body landed belly-first on the bed, and she kicked her legs so hard the blanket wrinkled under her.

Joel crouched beside her, a grin pulled helplessly across his face. “Like it?”

She giggled—natural, full-bellied joy—rolled over till only her eyes peeked above the blanket, dark and gleaming.

Behind him, soft footsteps trudged forward. He felt Leela before she touched him, slid an arm across his back, and her palm found the place between his shoulder blades that always ached after a long day. Now he could feel the new depression of the ring.

They stood side by side in the doorframe, married now in name and blood and every hard-won mile between.

Joel cleared his throat to tell her, “I didn’t want her feelin’ left out. What with the ring, and the fuss, and all that attention on us.” He glanced at Leela, eyes crinkling. “She’s part of this, too.”

Leela smiled. “Such a good dad.”

Joel shook his head, his heart almost leaping ahead of his body. “Tryin’ every day.”

She turned his hand over and pressed a kiss to the scarred knuckles, and he let her.

“Are you happy?” she asked, eyes suddenly worlds deep.

He did not overthink a thing. He simply nodded and pulled her close by the waist, his hand curling around the dip of her hip.

“Yeah. Piece of cake.”

Not at the least. It wasn’t the building—that part came easy, muscle memory, comfort. No, the hard part was what it implied. The bed, the dreams woven on her blanket, the way her legs already stretched longer than he remembered.

She was growing up. And there’d come a day—not too far off, but someday—when she wouldn’t need him crouched beside her like this. She wouldn’t ask or even think to.

“Daddy.”

Maya, wrapped up tight, her blanket pulled to her nose, was peeking over the edge of the pillow. She beckoned him close with one small finger.

He knelt and leaned in, brows raised, the stiffness in his knees forgotten. “What?”

She cupped her hand to his ear like she was telling a secret meant only for him.

“Stay next to me.”

He hung his head, a laugh escaping his chest. Wrecked, helpless. Then laid a kiss against her forehead. “How’m I supposed to say no to that?”

Leela did not need any other words out there. She only breathed out a sigh, pushed one last kiss to the top of his head, whispering, “Honeymoon in your Maranello later?”

“Be right there, Mrs Miller.”

She smiled—soft, crooked—and twisted her fingers briefly through his, letting them linger just a second longer than needed before she slipped away, the door shunting close behind her.

Soon, Joel kicked off his boots with a grunt, untucking his shirt, one hand steadying himself against the bed frame like an old man—because that’s what he was now, wasn’t he?—and eased himself down onto the mattress with an exaggerated sigh.

Maya giggled immediately.

She climbed over him, a tangle of knees and elbows and warm limbs, and flopped herself down right on his chest. Her head landed just over his heart, curls still damp from her bath, smelling like soap and sleeptime.

“Oof,” Joel grunted, eyes squeezed shut. “Watch them knees, darlin’. Too sharp.”

“You’re loud,” she said, poking his chest once with a tiny finger.

Joel cracked one eye open. “Yeah? What’s loud?”

She poked him again, right over his heartbeat. “This. It’s tryna come out.”

He chuckled, his hand instinctively resting on her back, palm spanning nearly the whole width of her.

Joel blinked, amused. “Is it sayin’ your name?”

“No, sayin’ d-duh, d-duh, d-duh.”

She didn’t quite understand. But maybe she did, in her own way—some simple, three-year-old truth that needed no translation.

“I catch it, Daddy,” she whispered, a promise.

He snorted softly, overwhelmed. “You gonna catch my heart?”

She nodded, solemn. “Mhm. If it falls out. I’ll keep it in my pocket. Fix it for you.”

He smiled through it, blinking past the sting in his eyes. “Don’t think even you could fix that busted old thing.”

“I can!” she insisted, frowning, her brow furrowed in that stubborn, Leela-like way. She believed it—with all the might in her small body.

He swallowed. “If you say so.”

Undeterred, she snuggled in tighter. “An’ if it really won’t start,” she added, mumbling into his shirt, “I’ll just build a shiny new one.”

Mama’s girl—whichever way he looked at it. Joel's breath hitched in his throat; his little girl had no idea what she was doing to him. The way she said it—so certain, like love alone could will a heart back to life.

“Doesn’t work that way, baby,” he murmured, threaded with old grief or maybe it was just love. At this point, he wasn’t sure there was a difference. “Hearts… they don’t come back.”

“Aw, man,” she moaned, clearly displeased with the rules of the universe. But he could feel those fast, tiny gears in her head moving—the way her body stilled, how her breath slowed, how her fingers moved slowly over the fabric of his shirt, like she was tracing the beat beneath it.

Then, gently, he spoke into her hair, the words coming slowly, like they were carved in a place deep inside him.

“You listen to me now, baby girl.”

She was quiet a moment longer, as though something in her knew this wasn’t just a bedtime talk. “Mhm?”

“This world’s gonna ask a lot of you someday,” he went on, rough-edged. “More than it ought to. And I won’t always be here to help you or Mama through it.”

His words weren’t just for her. They were for himself, for Leela, for everything he couldn’t put back the way it was. He knew he wouldn’t always be around—not forever. The thought clawed at him with indelible talons, but it didn’t scare him like it used to. Not if Maya was the one left holding what mattered.

“And Mama…” His voice drifted, caught for a second. His hand cradled her head. “Mama’s got this big, loud heart that feels everything. She feels things real deep, even when she doesn’t say so. So I need you to help me, alright?”

She stirred, just a little, but kept her cheek pressed close to him. “Okay. I help you.”

He kissed her curls. “I need you to look after Mama’s heart. Help her stay soft.”

She blinked up at him, big eyes all confused. “But I’m little.”

“I know,” Joel smiled gently, brushing her hair back. “That’s what makes you special. You see things big people miss.”

Maya thought about that for a second, humming, her nose scrunching. “Like… when she hugs me ‘cause she’s sad?”

Joel let out a soft laugh. “Exactly like that.”

Maya’s little palm slid up his chest and curled into his shirt, right over his heart, like she was trying to hold it still.

He nodded, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You guard it, baby. You be the one who sees her.”

He didn’t say the rest—not out loud. That death was inevitable. That the years would pass, fast and unkind. That he’d already wasted too many of them learning too late how to love this hard. But maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t missed his chance to leave behind what mattered.

Not if Maya remembered. Not if she held it—his heart, Leela’s, the thread between them all—with her fierce little hands.

Soft and sacred, his promise spoke one of her own.

“I will,” Maya murmured. “I see. I see you and Mama. I... take care.”

And it wasn’t just a bare sentence—it was unassailable. It was hers, his daughter's. The way she said it, Joel knew she meant it the way only a child can: with her whole self.

Joel closed his eyes, his arms wrapping fully around her now, one hand spread protectively over her back as though he could shield her from everything—even time. That instinct—the one that had been knotted for years, held in a fist so tight it forgot how to let go—finally eased.

Whatever else came next—whatever stretch he had left, however his story ended—this moment was the limit.

And before long, he let his heart rest.

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