#like memories scattering into the night sky

[chimeric-art]

"Nostalgic, isn't it darling?"

[shokocide]

HEART OF THE OCEAN - GOJO SATORU

summary. Gojo Satoru was never meant to survive your song. You were never meant to fall for a human. But the ocean has never followed the rules.

word count. 17.2k (nnyeah)

content. mdni fem!siren!reader, pirate!gojo, slowburn, mutual pining, forbidden love, reader lowkey has daddy issues, fluff, pet names, making out, really inaccurate transformations from siren to human, smut, fingering, p in v, feral gojo, slight dacryphilia, pearl necklaces, aftercare, ANGST, violence, gore and blood, major character death (not too graphic tho), reincarnation

author's note. idk y'all i just wanted to write some angst

The ship rocked gently beneath a sky smeared with pink clouds and salt-kissed breeze. The sails are full, the air warm, the crew loud as ever. Shoko tosses a flask to Geto across the deck, slouching against the railing with her usual lazy grin. Nanami mutters to himself over the ration count, already annoyed and it wasn’t even noon. Yuuji and Nobara are bickering again, locked in a heated knot-tying competition that neither of them are winning.

Gojo stood at the helm, one hand on the wheel, the other dragging along the edge of a map he’d practically memorized. His fingers paused over a spot he’d circled days ago, the charcoal mark smudged from how often he’d touched it.

"Been staring at that for hours, Satoru," Geto called out, an amused lilt in his voice. "You sure you’re not in love with that map?"

Gojo didn’t glance up. "If it leads to what I think it does, I just might propose."

"Treasure, treasure, treasure," Nobara groaned. She climbs up onto a barrel, arms crossed. "You know there’s more to life than gold, right?"

"I respectfully disagree," Nanami mumbles.

"I just hope we don’t run into any sirens," Yuuji says, tossing a pebble into the sea, watching it plop uselessly into the waves.

That earned a collective scoff.

"Oh, not this again," Nobara rolled her eyes.

"I’m serious!" Yuuji turned around, pointing his finger like he was telling a ghost story. "They sing to you and boom—you're overboard. You don’t even realize your legs stopped working ‘til you're halfway down."

"Those are just stories," Nobara snaps. "Tales to keep dumb kids from getting too close to the water."

"But what if they’re real?" Yuuji presses. "Like, really real. What if one of us hears singing and just jumps in without meaning to—"

"I vote Megumi," Nobara cut in, grinning.

Megumi didn’t even look up from the net he was mending. "You’d drown before I would."

Shoko snorted. "That tracks."

Their laughter rolled like thunder, loud and light. But Gojo’s gaze slid back to the horizon, narrowing just slightly. The water was still. Too still. Then, a ripple. Subtle, but there.

He blinked. A shimmer caught his eye—just beneath the sunlit surface. Iridescent. Brief. Gone.

His fingers flex around the wheel. There it was again. That strange pull. A drumbeat deep in his chest. Familiar and foreign, like a memory from a dream he couldn’t place.

He exhales. Must’ve been the fish.

"Alright," he says, snapping the map shut with one hand. "We drop anchor near that island before sundown. We’ll stay the night."

"Think the treasure’s buried there?" Geto asks, already reaching for the spyglass.

"No," Gojo replies, voice as easy as ever. "But I’ve got a good feeling."

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t mention the ripple, or the flash of light beneath the water. Doesn’t mention the song he swore he hears every now and then, just barely, rising from the sea.

-

The ship had long since gone quiet. Lanterns dimmed, voices hushed, footsteps replaced with the rhythmic creak of wood and the hush of waves licking the hull. The moon hung low, fat and silver, scattering a path of light across the water.

Gojo lay stretched across a barrel of rope, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded but nowhere near sleep. The wind was calm. Almost too calm. He should’ve been tired—hell, he was tired—but something kept tugging at him from inside his chest. That same pull again. A gnawing curiosity. A whisper. And then he heard it—voice. Not loud. Not calling. Just… singing.

Soft. Sweet. Smooth like honey and salt. The kind of sound that shouldn't exist out here. Not this far from civilization. Not on an unmarked island in the middle of nowhere.

He sat up slowly, blinking. The song wove through the air, light as seafoam, curling around him like mist. It didn’t sound human. It sounded too perfect for that. But it didn’t sound inhuman, either. It sounded like longing. What the hell?

He stood, quiet, careful not to wake the others. No one stirred—not even Geto, who usually slept with one eye open. Gojo climbed down the side of the ship, boots hitting sand with a soft thud. The island was still. The trees whispered, but there was no wind.

The voice carried again. Closer now. Just beyond the curve of the beach. He walked toward it, heart thumping hard. His mouth felt dry.

And then—he saw you.

You were seated on a wide rock near the shallows, bathed in moonlight. The surf curled gently around your feet. You glowed, in a way no human could—skin kissed with shimmer, hair catching the light like strands of pearl. And you were singing. Not to the sky, not to the sea. To him.

Gojo froze. You looked up, still singing. His throat went dry. He blinked once. Twice. No way.

He pinched his own arm, hard. Ow.

Still there. Still singing.

His heart was thundering now. Not in fear—he didn’t know what this was. Enchantment? A dream? A warning? He couldn’t tear his eyes away. He’d seen beauty. But this—this was something else. Something ethereal. Something that didn’t belong in a world full of men with swords and ships and thievery.

You smiled, just barely. And kept singing. To him.

You don’t stop singing. If anything, your voice softens, curling like silk around his ribs as he takes a slow step forward. Then another. The moonlight halos around you and the wet sheen of your skin shimmers. Your fingers trail along the stone you’re perched on, just barely touching the water, like you're inviting him in without a single word.

He’s never seen eyes like yours. Deep and endless, like the ocean. And they’re looking right at him. He swallows hard.

“...What are you?” he whispers. It’s not fear in his voice. It’s awe.

You tilt your head. Your song slows, just a little. A single note hangs in the air, trembling like a secret.

His boots crunch the sand as he nears the edge of the water, close enough to see the shimmer of your scales beneath the surface. He doesn’t stop walking. He should. But gods, he doesn’t want to.

You lift your hand then—slow, graceful, beckoning. He’s close enough now to see the curve of your mouth, the glint of something glowing faintly at your throat. An amulet. Round. Ancient. The glow pulsing softly like a heartbeat.

You hum one final note, low and intimate, and it lingers in the air like perfume. Your voice disappears into the sound of the sea.

Gojo takes another step, so close now the tide laps at his ankles. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something again, ask what this is, who you are, why it feels like the ocean is calling his name through your lips. But all that comes out is “You’re real.” And gods help him, he wants you to be.

The silence that follows is deafening. The sea seems to still around you. Even the breeze hesitates. He stands there, thigh-deep in the water now, eyes fixed on you like a man utterly enthralled. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. You watch him with a soft smile curling your lips—dangerously pretty, devastatingly calm.

Then, finally, you speak.

“Well,” you murmur, voice dipped in honey and seafoam. “Took you long enough.” It’s like breaking a spell—and casting another one right after.

His breath hitches. That teasing lilt in your voice? It sparks something wild in his chest. His fingers twitch at his sides.

“Was beginning to think you’d never come closer,” you purr, tilting your head, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. It bares your chest completely—not that you were hiding it.

Gojo’s breath catches. His hands—previously relaxed at his sides—suddenly twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His gaze darts away, toward the horizon, the water, anywhere but you. And yet—he keeps sneaking glances. Quick. Desperate. Guilty.

You watch his throat work around a swallow. He shifts his weight. Drags a hand down his face. Tries very hard to look like he’s not flustered out of his goddamn mind.

He fails spectacularly.

You don’t move. You don’t need to. Just sit there, naked under the moonlight, letting him unravel quietly in front of you.

The silence stretches.

His mouth opens. Closes. For once, Gojo Satoru is speechless.

“You—” he tries.

You blink slowly. Innocently. “Me?” The word rolls off your tongue like silk.

He swallows hard. “You’re not afraid I’ll—”

“What?” You laugh, soft and rich. “Try to capture me? Drag me aboard your little ship and chain me like some prize?”

His eyes narrow, but there's a flicker of a grin tugging at his lips.

You lean forward, elbows resting on your tail, eyes gleaming. “Tell me, sailor,” you whisper. “What would you even do with a creature like me?”

He’s standing there like a man caught between heaven and hell. Every instinct in him is screaming this is a bad idea. But gods above, he wants to find out.

You watch him take another step. The water reaches his hips now, the fabric of his coat floating around him in soft ripples. He’s soaked, hair damp, moonlight catching on the white strands like frost. But he doesn’t seem to care. You don’t move. You don’t need to. He’s the one crossing the sea for you.

“Still think you’re dreaming?” you ask, voice low, velvet-smooth. You rest your chin in your hand, gaze locked to his. There's a dangerous sort of curiosity behind those sea-deep eyes—like you’re not just waiting for him, but testing him.

He lets out a breathless laugh, half-shaky. “Wouldn’t be the strangest dream I’ve had.”

Gojo’s throat bobs as he swallows. His hand lifts slowly, as if moving through water thick with molasses, hesitation and desire tangling in every breath he takes. You watch him with a smile, calm and inviting.

His fingers are just inches from your skin now. The curve of your jaw. The shimmer of your collarbone. One final confirmation that you’re real.

He pauses. “You won’t disappear, will you?” he whispers.

“I could,” you say. “But I won’t.”

He reaches. Slowly. And when the tips of his fingers brush your skin—just barely—you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You lean in. A little. Just enough. Enough to make him ache.

Suddenly it isn’t just his hand. It’s his whole body straining forward, the pull of something ancient and dangerous and inevitable. You smell like salt and stormwinds, something sacred and wild, and when your skin meets his, warm and cool at once—

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for centuries.

You smile. “Not a dream,” you murmur. “Sorry, sailor.”

You feel it. The shift in the air, the quiet tremor in the waves. Your amulet pulses once, faintly, like it senses what’s supposed to happen next. The ritual. The ending.

But you ignore it.

Because he’s still looking at you, cerulean eyes boring into yours like he’s never seen anything more divine.

For just a little longer, you want to be worshipped.

Your fingers move before you even think. Lightly, you drag one hand along his collar—soft, teasing, feather-light. His breath stutters. You smile, letting your nails trail just barely down the line of his chest. He leans in without realizing it, gaze half-lidded, pupils blown wide.

“What’s the matter, sailor?” you whisper, voice melting like warm tidewater. “You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.”

His hands twitch at his sides. “Kinda hard to remember… when you keep doing that.”

You laugh—quiet, delighted. He doesn’t even know what that is. The way your voice coils around his ribs, your touch singing along his skin. He doesn’t know that every second he stays in your presence, he’s sinking.

Not just into the sea. But into you.

Your palm finds the side of his neck, thumb brushing just under his jaw. His heart races. You can feel it. It makes something hungry stir in your chest—but beneath that hunger is something else. Something like want.

You lean in until your lips are just a breath from his ear. “It’s time, you know,” you murmur, voice so low it’s almost a song again. “I’m supposed to take you now.”

He doesn’t pull away. He shivers.

“…Take me where?”

You smile, lips ghosting over his jaw. “To the depths. The dark. Where all your kind eventually go when they trespass too far.”

Silence stretches, heavy, water-thick. He finally meets your gaze again. “Then why haven’t you?”

Your smile fades. Not completely—but the edges tremble. Just slightly.

You trace the line of his collarbone, softer now. “Because I don’t want to. Not yet.”

And it’s true. You should have dragged him under the moment he stepped into the tide. But you can’t bring yourself to. Not with him. Not when you still want to hear the way he laughs. Still want to feel the heat of his skin beneath your hands. Still want to be wanted.

So instead, you look at him like he’s something sacred. Like he’s the one you’d worship.

And softly, you say: “Stay with me a little longer, sailor. Just a little while.”

Because even if the sea eventually takes him, you want him to be yours first.

He doesn’t know who moves first—him or you. All he knows is that your face is suddenly closer. The moonlight curves along your cheekbone, your lashes, the tip of your nose. And then, your lips brush his. Featherlight. Barely there. But it undoes him.

He inhales sharply, like you’ve stolen something from his chest. Like a breath, or maybe a part of his soul. It wasn’t a real kiss—not really—but gods, it might as well have been. Because everything inside him lurches forward. He needs more. Needs to feel your warmth pressed to him, to find out what it’s like to drown in you.

But before he can pull you closer—before his hands can cup your face and drag you into the kind of kiss that ends men—you’re already gone.

A teasing smile dances on your lips as you drift back, slow and languid, water curling around your waist.

“Goodnight, sailor,” you murmur and then you dip beneath the waves.

The moonlight ripples where you vanish, and for a moment, he sees it—just the faintest shimmer of your tail, iridescent, unreal, slipping deeper and deeper into the dark.

He stays in the shallows, breath shallow, chest heaving. The sea laps at his thighs like it’s trying to tug him in after you. He doesn’t even realize his hand is still outstretched, reaching for something that’s already gone.

But now he’ll search every shore, scan every ripple, chase every whisper of song.

Just for a glimpse of you.

Just for another chance.

-

The waters are quiet.

You sit curled within the shell of your chamber, arms wrapped around your tail, staring out the arched opening where light from the surface used to filter in. Now there’s only dark. The soft glow of the seabed pulses around you—blue, green, violet. It reflects off the polished coral walls, dances across your skin like gentle ghosts. But you barely notice it.

Because all you can think about is him.

The sailor with sapphire eyes and a grin like sunlight. The one who didn’t flinch when you touched him. The one whose heart beat so loud, you could still hear it ringing in your ears even now.

“Stupid,” you mutter under your breath, sinking your chin to where your tail bends. “Stupid, stupid—”

“You’re not stupid,” comes a voice, soft and familiar.

You glance up to see your sister floating just outside the chamber, arms crossed, watching you with an arched brow.

You blink. “Were you listening?”

“I didn’t need to. Your amulet’s been glowing for the past half hour like you swallowed a lanternfish. What’s going on?”

You try to play it off. “Nothing. Just tired.”

She swims closer, unimpressed. “Liar. You only get like this when something really bad happens. Or really good.”

You sigh, letting yourself drift down a little, hair fanning around you like seaweed. “I… I met someone.”

That gets her attention.

“Oh?” Her tone sharpens, cautious. “Down by the shore?”

You nod. “He was on a ship. Docked just off the cove. I heard his voice before I saw him.”

“Did you sing?”

“Of course I did.”

“And?”

“I was supposed to take him under.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “But you didn’t.”

“No.”

A long pause. Then: “Why?”

You shake your head, frustrated. “I don’t know. I should’ve. It would’ve been easy. He was right there. I touched him. He was already falling.” Your voice trails off. The memory of his warmth haunts your fingertips. “But I didn’t want to. I just… wanted to keep him for a little longer. Just—just talk. Just see him.”

Your sister tilts her head. “You’re not supposed to see them. You’re supposed to lure them, enchant them, end them. That’s what we do.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you still thinking about him?”

You don’t answer. Because you don’t have one. All you know is that his laugh is stuck in your head. His breathless voice. The stunned way he looked at you when you kissed him—if you could even call it a kiss.

You press your hand to your chest, just above where your amulet hums. And softly, almost too quiet for even the sea to hear: “I don’t think I want to forget him.”

Your sister doesn’t speak for a long time. She just floats there, expression unreadable, eyes dark with something older than you can name. Then she drifts closer, gently reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.

“We wouldn’t know this. We weren’t born yet,” she says softly, “but it wasn’t always like this. The reefs used to glow. The caverns used to sing with color. Our kind would  dance with dolphins, weave pearls through our hair, and the waters would hum beneath us—alive.”

You look up at her, startled by the sadness in her voice.

“It was beautiful,” she says, almost to herself. “Before they came.”

You know who she means. The humans. Greedy fingers always reaching for more.

“They took everything. Our shells, our corals, our sacred stones. Even the bones of our dead. Called them artifacts. Called them treasure.” Her voice hardens. “They don’t see us. Only what we can give them. And they always want more.”

You want to argue, say he’s not like that, but the words tangle in your throat. She sees it. “You think he’s different.” A statement, not a question.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Maybe.”

“You hope he is.” She shakes her head. “But hope doesn’t stop a ship’s hull from crushing the sea floor. Doesn’t stop the spears. The nets. The hands that rip and take and never give back.” She floats away from you then, back toward the chamber’s edge.

“You don’t know what it means to lose your first home,” she says quietly. “To watch the sea dim, to see your mother weep because the place she was born in no longer sings. You don’t remember the day we buried our queen and humans tore open her grave two tides later.”

Your chest aches.

“They don’t love us. Not really. They love the idea of us. They love the lure. And they’ll take everything you are if you let them.” She turns back once, eyes sharp, but not unkind.

“So whatever you think you feel—kill it. Before it kills you first.” Then she’s gone.

And you’re left alone in the dim quiet of your chamber, the weight of her words settling like silt in your bones. But still, you think of him.

What if he is different?

-

The surface is calm tonight. Moonlight drapes across it like silk, soft and glowing.

You hover just beneath, eyes fixed on the ship above. On him.

He’s standing there again. Alone, hands on the railing, silver hair catching the wind like sea foam. He doesn’t know it—but he calls to you. Every night. Not with his voice, no. But with something else.

A longing. A question. A pull in your chest you hate and crave at once.

You shouldn’t have come back. You told yourself that night was a mistake. That you'd been foolish to linger. To touch him.

But here you are. Again.

The current shifts. You swim a little closer. Close enough to see the frustration in his face. The tension in his jaw. He’s been looking for you. You know it.

Your fingers curl at your sides.

One more song and he’ll follow. That’s how it works. You know the rules. Lure them. Seduce them. Pull them down. Return the treasures they stole with their lives.

But he didn’t take anything. He only looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And damn it all if that isn’t the worst kind of theft.

You drift to the surface. Just your eyes above water now. Watching. Waiting.

He sighs, and his hand lifts—briefly—toward the sea. Like he knows. Like he feels you here.

He doesn’t call out. Not this time. He just walks to the same stretch of shore, boots sinking into the sand, cloak fluttering behind him. The moon is brighter tonight. Or maybe he just wants it to be.

He stares out at the water. “I know you’re there,” he says quietly.

Silence.

Then a ripple. A shimmer. And then you. Rising from the waves with water trailing down your arms like glass. Your hair clings to your skin, your eyes reflect the moonlight, and your expression? Playful. Curious. Maybe even… fond.

He steps forward. Doesn’t dare blink.

“Did you miss me, sailor?” you ask.

His lips twitch. “Starting to think I dreamt you up.”

You tilt your head. “Would that be so bad?”

He’s close now. Close enough to see the droplets on your lashes, the delicate gleam of scales at your shoulders, the curve of your smile. “I don’t dream like this,” he murmurs.

You glide a little closer, arms resting on the rock, the moonlight catching on your skin and droplets of water that haven’t quite dried. The sea rocks beneath you gently.

Gojo’s doing his best. Really.

But his eyes keep flicking downward and snapping back up—like he's fighting a war with his own damn brain. He clears his throat, face a little pink. Then pinker.

Then finally: “Uh… don’t mermaids usually wear… like… shells? On their, y’know. Their… uh.” He gestures vaguely in your direction, eyes avoiding your chest like it’s going to smite him.

You blink at him. Then smile. Not cruel. Not teasing. Just… amused. “Shells?”

He shrugs helplessly, ears going red now. “Yeah. You know. Like in the drawings? I thought it was a mermaid thing.”

You laugh—quiet and genuinely delighted. You’ve never seen a human blush like this. Pink all across his cheeks, nose, even the tips of his ears.

You tilt your head. “You think I’d strap bits of broken clam to my chest for modesty?”

He makes a sound that might be a choke or a laugh. You’re not sure.

You let your gaze drift up and down his face, watching how he refuses to meet your eyes for too long. It’s charming, really—how flustered he gets when you do absolutely nothing but exist.

“I never understood why humans found breasts so enticing,” you murmur, thoughtful now. “They’re just for feeding the younglings. We never bother covering them.”

Gojo covers his face with one hand.

You smile wider. “And yet you’re looking at me like I’ve committed a crime.”

“I’m not!” His voice jumps. “I’m not looking—I mean—I’m trying not to.”

You hum, resting your chin on your arms. “You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.” You tilt your head at him, gaze soft, voice feather-light.

“If it’s troubling you so much,” you say, letting your fingers lazily swirl the water, “I suppose I can do something about it.” You smile, watching his composure slip through his fingers like sand.

“What would you prefer, sailor? Shells? Seaweed?” You lean forward just slightly. “Or should I just stay like this and let you keep pretending not to look?”

Gojo’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He’s blinking fast, flaming in the face now. “I—uh—whatever—” he swallows hard, waves a hand uselessly between you and the horizon. “Whatever you’re—uh—comfortable with.”

You laugh—a soft, melodic thing that makes his chest ache.

He looks like he wants the sea to swallow him whole. His ears have gone from pink to red, and he’s clearly regretting everything that brought him to this moment.

You hum, lounging back a little. “You really are sweet.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, still pink to the tips of his ears, but now there’s a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. He reaches out again. Slower this time. Testing the moment. His fingers brush your cheek. Trail down your neck. Neither of you move.

“You’re real.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “You say that like you still don’t believe it.”

“Maybe I’m afraid if I do, you’ll vanish.”

You wade in closer, just enough that the sea brushes his boots, and he doesn’t move back. “You came back,” you murmur.

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes not leaving yours. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You laugh softly. “A sailor with a soft heart. That’s new.”

“You’re the one who sang to me.”

“I sing to many.”

He narrows his eyes. “Did you kiss them too?”

That catches you off guard—but you recover quick, smile sharpening. “Would it matter if I did?”

He doesn’t answer right away. But there’s something darker flickering in his gaze now. Possessive. Curious. “…No,” he lies.

You swim forward, water lapping at your waist. “You don’t even know my name.”

“I don’t need it.”

“And what if I pull you under?” you ask, voice like silk and storm.

He smirks. “Then I’ll die with a smile.”

You blink. For a moment, you’re not sure if he’s joking. But he is. Mostly.

Still—his words land heavy. Make your throat tighten. “Humans don’t speak like that,” you say.

“I’m not most humans.”

Silence stretches again. His eyes roam over you. Not in lust—not yet—but in reverence. Like he’s trying to understand what you are. Why he isn’t scared. Why he feels like he’s been waiting for you.

You reach for him then—not to kiss. Just to touch. A gentle drag of your fingertips across his wrist. He doesn’t flinch. He leans in.

“Why are you here?” you ask, softly.

He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “I think,” he says, “I was meant to find you.”

Your heart skips. The ocean pulls at your waist. It’s almost time. But you stay a little longer. “You should be careful, sailor,” you whisper. “Saying things like that. You’ll make me believe you.”

He watches you like he already does.

You don’t notice the ripple. Not the soft shift in the waves behind you, not the gleam of eyes just beneath the surface. You’re too caught up in him.

You tease him, you laugh. You reach out again, a touch light as foam across his skin. And this time, he leans into it.

You don’t pull him under. Not yet.

You want more of this. The way he speaks. The way he looks at you. The way he doesn’t flinch from you like the others do. You want to keep this, even if just a little longer.

But you’re not alone.

Far behind you, beneath a curtain of kelp and shadow, a shape floats. Still. Silent. Watching.

Your sister’s eyes glint through the dark, catching every flicker of movement between you and the sailor.

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. She sees enough.

And when she finally sinks back into the depths, the water grows colder in her wake.

-

The moonlight hasn’t even faded from the surface when you slip back beneath the waves.

Your pulse is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm. His voice still rings in your ears—teasing, amused, wanting. And stars, if he had leaned in just a little more, you might’ve let him kiss you.

You should feel shame. But all you feel is light.

Until the sea goes cold.

There’s a shift in the current—sudden and sharp—and when you whirl around, she’s there. Floating in the dark like a phantom. Your sister.

Her expression is unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line, dark hair fanning out around her shoulders like a halo of judgment. “Sister,” she says, voice low and echoing. “Do you think we wouldn’t notice?”

You open your mouth—but nothing comes out.

She swims closer. “The sailor,” she hisses. “You’ve met him more than once now. I saw you. I saw everything.” Her words slice into you like a harpoon.

“I wasn’t going to—”

“You weren’t going to what?” she snaps. “Pull him under? Take what belongs to our people? Do your duty?”

You flinch. “He’s not like the others—”

Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “They never are. Until they are.” She grabs your wrist, not harshly—but firmly. “You’re forgetting why we sing. Why our mother gave us this gift. We are not meant to love them. We are meant to protect what’s left.”

You look away. But she’s not done.

“You think he’s blind? He knows what you are. Your tail, your voice, all of it.”

Your jaw tightens. “And yet he’s still here.”

She blinks. You keep going, voice sharp. “He’s not afraid. He doesn’t flinch. He treats me like I’m more than just a creature in the water. Can you say the same about anyone else?”

Her eyes flash. “That’s not the point—”

“No, you’re missing the point,” you snap. “I’m not dragging him under. I’m not stealing from him. I’m not using him. I’m just… being with him.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “And maybe I want to be more than what we’ve been taught to be. Maybe I want something for me.”

The silence that follows is heavy, the water still between you. But you don’t regret saying it. Not this time.

Your sister says nothing for a long moment. The anger in her eyes dims, simmering into something quieter, wearier.

Finally, she sighs. “You always were the stubborn one.”

You don’t speak. You’re still braced for more venom, more warnings. But instead, she moves closer, brushing her fingers against yours beneath the water. A small, wordless gesture of truce.

“I still don’t trust him,” she murmurs. “But I trust you. And if this is something real… I won’t stop you.”

Your chest tightens.

Then she adds, low and urgent, “But we can’t let Father know. You know what he’d do. To him, all humans are thieves.”

You nod, slowly. “I know.”

She meets your eyes, serious now. “Then be careful, sister. Whatever this is… keep it hidden. For both your sakes.”

And just like that, the warmth of her hand fades as she turns, slipping back into the dark sea, leaving you alone again—with your heart, your secret, and the ache of wanting something that feels more dangerous than ever.

-

The tide laps gently at the shore, but you hear none of it. All you hear is his breath.

He’s there again. Leaning against a crooked, barnacle-bitten post, sleeves rolled to his elbows, moonlight caught in the silver strands of his hair. He doesn’t speak when you emerge. He just watches, as if he’s afraid too much sound might send you fleeing back into the sea.

Your arms fold loosely across your chest, and you regard him with cool eyes. “You’re persistent.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Only when I think it’s worth it.”

That stupid charm at your chest pulses again. You hate it. Almost.

You rise from the water just a little, arms shifting subtly—and for the first time, he notices something different.

Draped lazily across your chest: a strand of seaweed, delicate and half-hearted, barely clinging to its job. Twined between it—two pearlescent shells, awkwardly fastened like a joke.

His gaze catches. Lingers. His brows lift in disbelief.

You blink at him, expression unreadable. Then slowly—so slowly—you smile. “Better?”

He lets out a disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “You did not—”

“I thought it might make you more comfortable,” you say, perfectly composed. “Isn’t this how your kind prefers mermaids?”

“You’re mocking me.”

You tilt your head. “Am I?”

Silence stretches between you, filled only by the sound of waves kissing the sand. He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t even step forward. But you can feel his eyes—soft and searching, like he’s trying to read the parts of you you’re too afraid to say aloud.

Your gaze flicks toward the water. “This is a bad idea.”

“I know.”

Your brows knit. “Then why are you here?”

He pauses, then slowly reaches into his coat. “To give you this.”

He steps forward—not too close—and opens his palm.

A pendant. Sea glass, pale and smoothed by time, looped into a simple twine necklace. It glows faintly blue beneath the moonlight.

“I don’t know if it’s good enough,” he says, voice low, “but I thought… maybe you’d like something that wasn’t stolen.”

Your heart jerks. You stare at it. Then at him. And for a moment, you can’t breathe.

This—this isn’t what humans do. They come to take. Always. Treasures, songs, magic, you. But this one came to give. Something small. Something quiet. But his.

You take it with trembling fingers, brushing his palm as you do. Your voice is soft. “Thank you.”

His smile is gentle. “Didn’t know if you’d show.”

“I shouldn’t have,” you murmur.

“But you did.”

You pull back before it aches more. Let the waves touch your skin again.

“Don’t follow me,” you say—not unkindly, a soft warning.

He nods. Doesn’t stop you. Just watches you go, watches the silver glint of the ocean close around you. Watches the glimmer of sea glass now hanging around your neck.

-

There’s a puddle of rum soaking into his map. Gojo doesn’t notice.

Not when he’s got his chin in his hand, elbow propped up on the wooden table, and a downright dreamy expression on his face. His eyes are unfocused. His mouth is curved in a faraway smile. And he hasn’t blinked in… a while.

“Okay, what is wrong with you?” Nobara’s voice cuts through the cabin like a blade.

He doesn’t react.

Yuji leans over the table and waves a hand in front of his captain’s face. “Hellooo? Earth to Gojo?”

Still nothing.

Shoko groans and sips lazily from her flask. “He’s doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” Megumi deadpans, though he already knows.

“That thing where he zones out and grins like he’s in love.” Nanami’s tone is dry as the open sea.

“Because he is,” Geto mutters, arms crossed.

That gets Gojo’s attention—he blinks rapidly and jerks upright like he’s been caught with a dagger behind his back. “What? No. I’m not—what do you mean in love? I’m not in love. You’re in love. Shut up.”

“You literally didn’t hear a single word of our battle plan,” Geto says.

“There was a plan?” Gojo blinks again. “Oh… crap.”

Nobara slaps the table. “See?! He’s bewitched.”

“Bewitched,” Shoko echoes with a snort. “You’ve been reading Yuji’s ghost stories again, haven’t you?”

Yuji raises his hands defensively. “They’re good stories!”

Gojo stands, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. “Listen, listen. I’m fine. Perfectly composed. Mentally sound. Fully focused.”

Megumi gives him a look. “You just tried to drink ink thinking it was rum.”

Gojo looks at the bottle of ink in his hand—the one he's brought dangerously close to his mouth. “Not my fault the bottle looks the same.”

“You’re seeing someone,” Nobara accuses.

Gojo doesn’t even deny it this time. He just hums under his breath, dreamy-eyed as he watches the waves lap against the hull.

Shoko raises an eyebrow. “And who exactly is this mystery woman?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” he says, ever the smug bastard, but there's a wistful edge in his voice. Like he’s holding on to something delicate.

Yuji leans in. “Is she pretty?”

“She’s… beyond.” Gojo exhales, like saying even that aloud is sacred. “She makes the sea itself look dull.”

“Ugh,” Nobara groans. “You are so whipped. You don’t even know her last name.”

“Or her name,” Megumi mutters.

Gojo only smiles. Because he doesn’t know. Not really. You never gave it. Never offered. Only left behind shimmer and salt and the echo of your laugh in the breeze.

-

The sea is quiet tonight. Not still, but calm—the kind of hush that makes it feel like the world’s listening in.

You float easily beside the ship, water lapping gently against the hull. The sea glass he gave you hangs around your neck, cool and smooth, right beneath your amulet and shifting with every little ripple. You still don’t understand why he gave it to you. Maybe he doesn’t either.

Gojo leans against the railing above, chin resting on his forearms. He’s not smiling, but he looks… content. Like just being here is enough for him.

"You never told me your name," he says.

His voice is quieter at night. Less show, more real. He’s asked before, but not like this. Not like it actually matters.

You trail your fingers along the wood of the hull.

"Names carry weight," you murmur. "Especially mine."

He hums, like he gets it. "Then I’ll carry it carefully."

It’s not a line. Just something simple and steady, like most things about him that surprise you.

You glance up at him. Moonlight catches in his white hair, makes him look more ghost than man. And still—he waits. Patient, like the sea.

You hesitate. You’ve kept it to yourself for so long it almost feels like giving it away would be losing something. But he gave first. Not a demand. Not a trick. A gift.

"Would you even use it?" you ask.

"Only when it matters," he says.

That earns the smallest flicker of a smile from you. Not that he sees it.

So you say it. Soft. Almost like you’re not sure you meant to. But he hears it.

He says it back—quiet, careful. Like he doesn’t want to chip it, like it’s something that can bruise if he’s not gentle.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but it sticks. Settles into the space between you like it belongs there.

"Can I come down?"

His voice drifts lazily over the railing, casual like he's asking to sit beside you—not throw himself into the ocean.

You glance up at him, raising a brow. "What, you planning to jump?"

There's a flicker in his eye. Something boyish and stupid and far too Satoru.

Something in your gut tightens. “Don’t.”

But his smile tips, sharp and boyish. “Too late.”

Before you can make sense of it—before you can even move—he cannonballs.

You barely have time to curse before instinct takes over. You dart backward, tail slicing through the water as you throw yourself out of the drop zone. The splash hits like a small explosion—loud and ridiculous and completely him. Salt sprays across your face, cool and stinging, and you blink rapidly, water rushing past your ears.

He breaks the surface a moment later, coughing, laughing, looking wildly pleased with himself.

"You're insane," you sputter, treading a safe distance away. "You almost landed on me."

He slicks his hair back with both hands, grin still wide. “I knew you’d move.”

“You hoped I’d move.”

“Same thing,” he says easily, floating on his back now, arms stretched wide like he belongs here. Like the ocean’s always been waiting for him.

You stare at him. You should be mad. You should be furious—he scared the breath out of you, risked everything on a whim, shattered the calm of the night like it meant nothing.

But all that comes out is a laugh.

A real one. Unfiltered. It bubbles up from your chest before you can stop it—light, surprised, almost giddy. You cover your mouth too late, shoulders shaking.

Gojo blinks. Then stares.

And slowly, that ridiculous grin fades—not fully, but enough for something softer to settle in its place. Something honest.

“That,” he says, voice quieter now, “is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

Because he says it like he means it. Like your laugh just rewired something in him. Like that sound—the one you didn’t even mean to give—touched a part of him no one else ever has.

You duck under the surface for a moment, just long enough to cool the flush spreading across your skin. When you rise again, he’s still watching you. Not smug. Not proud.

Just there. Floating in your world. Not asking for anything. Not running.

“I thought humans were supposed to take,” you say quietly, your voice barely above the lapping waves. “Steal. Want. Use.”

His brows lift just slightly, water beading on his lashes. “Maybe I’m just bad at it.”

You shake your head. “No. You’re just… different.”

You don’t know why you say it. But it’s true. You’ve known it for a while now.

He’s not perfect. He’s a little reckless, probably too brave for his own good, but he gives. Things that matter. His attention. His time. The necklace still hanging at your throat. Your laugh.

He blinks salt from his eyes, and when he speaks, it’s soft. “So are you.”

You look at him for a long time, silence pulling between you like a tide.

You were supposed to drag him under. That was the plan. Lure, tempt, drown. Like you’ve done before. Like you were made to do.

But now… all you want is to float beside him, just like this. For a little longer. Maybe forever.

Gojo floats a little closer. He’s still grinning, but it’s softer now. Less playful, more… thoughtful. The kind of look he only gets when he forgets to be loud. When the walls slip and all that’s left is the man underneath—tired, curious, dangerous, and kind.

His voice breaks the hush, low and deliberate. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“Why haven’t you pulled me under yet?”

The question sinks like stone.

You don’t answer at first. Not with words. Just look at him—really look—and see all the reasons you haven’t. The way he watches you like you’re not a threat but a wonder. The way he gives without expecting. The way his voice softens around your name like it’s something sacred.

“I was supposed to,” you admit. “The first time I saw you. You were an easy mark.”

He lets out a low breath, water curling around his fingers. “But?”

You shake your head. “You smiled at me. Like I was real. Like I wasn’t just something to catch.”

His eyes flicker. Something shifts behind them—something too big to name.

You don’t notice how close he’s gotten until your hands brush beneath the surface. Neither of you moves away.

You feel the pull of it now, subtle and steady. Not magic. Just you, drawn toward him like the tide.

“Are you gonna kiss me?” you ask, the words barely audible.

Gojo tilts his head. “I want to,” he says.

You blink. The breath in your lungs feels heavy, thick with the weight of everything this isn’t supposed to be. You shouldn’t let this happen. You shouldn’t. But you nod.

And then he waits.

He waits while the space between you shrinks, while the water ripples with tension. He waits with his gaze fixed on you, patient, like this is the first thing he’s ever wanted badly enough not to rush.

You lean in—barely. Enough to close half the distance.

He mirrors you.

It’s slow. So slow. One inch, then another. Close enough now that your noses almost brush. Close enough to feel his breath against your lips, warm despite the chill of the ocean.

Your eyes flick to his. There’s no trick there. No hunger. Just want.

And when you close the gap, it’s not a crash. It’s a pull.

The kiss is gentle, almost shy. Like you’re both afraid to break it. Like neither of you expected this to feel like something holy.

And then—something cracks.

Maybe it’s the way you tilt your head just slightly, or the way his fingers lift from the water and find your jaw like it’s instinct. But the moment shifts, deepens.

He kisses you again, firmer this time.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb skimming along your skin, warm and reverent. Your body leans into his before you can think to stop it, the sea curling around you both like it’s trying to pull you closer.

He exhales against your mouth—half a sigh, half a groan—like he’s been holding this in for far too long.

And then he kisses you properly.

Deep. Slow. Like he’s learning you one breath at a time.

You feel his other hand slide along your side beneath the surface, barely touching, not pushing—just there, steady, grounding. Your fingers curl around his wrist. Not to stop him. Just to feel him there.

You move closer to him, body pressed flush against him. The heat comes quiet, curling up your spine, pooling low. Not wild, not frantic—just consuming.

He pulls back just slightly, just to breathe—but his forehead rests against yours, and his mouth still ghosts over yours like he’s not ready to let go.

Neither are you.

“Wow,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “That was…”

“I know,” you whisper.

His thumb traces your cheek again, slower now. You’re both breathing hard, but it’s not tension anymore—it’s something else. Something softer.

He laughs, just a puff of breath against your mouth.

And then he leans in again—not a kiss, not quite. Just his nose brushing yours. His forehead still pressed to yours. Like he can’t bear to be further away than this.

No more talking. Just warmth. His hands on you. Yours on him. Water cradling you both.

Like the sea finally made space for two.

-

The waters of your chamber are still. For once.

No humming currents. No idle song. Just the soft flicker of bioluminescent light playing across the curved walls of coral and stone. You hover near the ceiling, resting against a smooth shelf of shell, the sea-cushioned silence wrapping around you like a second skin.

The charm at your chest glows faintly. Steady. Unyielding.

It hasn't dimmed since your last meeting with him.

You close your fingers over it—try to will it still.

A shadow passes the outer threshold. Then a ripple, soft and polite, before a familiar voice filters in: “Forgive me, my lady. Your father has asked for you.”

You don’t move right away. Just tilt your head slightly, slow and deliberate.

“Did he say what for?”

The palace stirs as you pass through.

You swim down the coral corridor with practiced grace, head held high, ignoring the way the other courtiers glance your way—curious, cautious, always whispering behind their hands.

The throne room opens like a cavern—high and echoing, walls pulsing with soft light from the sponges embedded in the stone. The court has gathered, a loose semicircle of officials and guards trailing the edges of the chamber.

And there he sits. Your father. Tall and silver-scaled, eyes like polished obsidian. He watches as you approach.

You stop a few lengths from the throne, posture poised.

“You summoned me,” you say.

A pause. The room is quiet.

Then, his voice: “I did.”

He shifts on the throne, steepling his long fingers, scarred from past wars.

“There’s been talk,” he says slowly, “of a ship lingering far too close to our waters.”

Your chest tightens.

He meets your eyes.

“And I’ve heard whispers,” he continues, voice sharper now, “that its captain has not drowned.”

Your spine stays straight, but you feel the flicker of heat pulse at your chest. Not from fear. From that cursed charm. Still glowing. Still betraying you.

You school your features. “Plenty of ships pass through our waters. If they’ve not drowned, perhaps they’ve not been foolish.”

Your father’s gaze sharpens. “Or perhaps they’ve been warned.”

The air—no, the water—tightens. Just slightly.

You don’t flinch. “I wouldn’t waste my song on men who pose no threat.”

A silence blooms after that. Heavy. Testing.

Then he leans forward, voice dropping low. “There are rumors, child. A human—a pirate—who’s seen you more than once. Who still lives.”

You say nothing.

His eyes narrow. “If a human captain resists a siren’s call, it invites suspicion. If a siren chooses not to call—”

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

“I have not failed my duty,” you say, calm, cool, perfectly composed.

“But you haven’t fulfilled it, either,” he counters. “Not yet.”

Your jaw tightens. A flicker of motion at your side—a ripple of your tail.

Your father leans back again, like he’s weighing something.

Then “You have until the next moonrise. Handle it.”

He doesn’t say what “it” means. He doesn’t have to.

-

He’s already there when you emerge.

He’s sprawled out on the sand like he’s got nowhere else to be—hands behind his head, boots kicked off, one knee bent lazily as he stares up at the sky. The sea breeze stirs his white hair, moonlight catching in the strands like glass.

When he hears the water shift, he turns his head and grins.

“Took you long enough,” he calls. “Was starting to think you’d moved on to prettier sailors.”

You roll your eyes, swimming closer. “You’d be the last to believe someone prettier than you exists.”

His grin widens. “True. But flattery from a sea goddess? I’ll take it.”

You laugh. Light. Smooth. Just like always.

You even smile up at him, that soft little tilt he’s grown too fond of. It feels easy—almost too easy—to slip back into it.

He starts walking. Slow, unhurried, straight into the sea.

The waves rush over his ankles, then knees, soaking his rolled-up trousers until the fabric clings to him. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate.

“Most men run from the sea,” you murmur, brow lifting.

He grins. “Most men don’t get invited back.”

You let him come closer.

The water laps at his hips now, warm and slow between you. He stops just short of where you hover—still half-submerged, hair trailing like silk beneath the surface.

“So,” he says lightly, “do I pass the test?”

You hum. “That depends.”

“On?”

You tilt your head. “Whether you plan on drowning.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes flicking over your face, then down to your fingers curled lightly against the water’s surface. The charm at your chest pulses faintly, soft as a heartbeat.

“I think,” he says, voice gentler now, “if I were going to drown… I’d want it to be like this.”

And for a moment—just one—you forget what you are. What he is.

You forget the crown in your blood, your father’s cold warning, the weight of your song.

There’s only him. Standing in the sea like he belongs there. Looking at you like you do.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

The water is still between you—warm and golden in the fading light. His eyes hold yours like they’re tethered, soft at the edges, full of something that makes your chest ache.

Then—

He flicks water at you.

You blink, stunned.

A single splash, right to your cheek.

Gojo grins. “You were looking too serious.”

You sputter, flicking water right back—quick and sharp, right between his eyes.

He laughs. Loud, real, head tipping back as droplets catch on his lashes. “Oh, is that how it is?”

You duck half-under the surface, sending a wave his way with a flick of your tail. He gasps, mock-betrayed, and retaliates with both hands—splashes big enough to soak your hair again. The charm at your chest pulses with warmth, steady now, matching the laughter bubbling out of you.

You’re not thinking of your father.

Not of the sea. Not even of what this could cost.

Just this—this moment.

Him. You. The light in his eyes. And the sound of your laughter rising above the waves.

The waves settle.

Laughter fades into the hush of the sea, and slowly, the two of you drift back toward the shore—water clinging to you like a second skin.

You lie on your back just where the sand meets the tide, the cool grains molding to your elbows. Gojo flops down beside you, chest rising and falling as he catches his breath, hair sticking out in damp tufts.

For a while, neither of you speak.

Just the sound of waves. Wind. The far-off cry of a gull.

Above, the sky stretches wide and black, scattered with stars.

And yet you can’t enjoy it. Not fully. Not with your heart tight in your chest.

He turns his head lazily toward you, voice soft. “You're quiet.”

You swallow. “I’m thinking.”

He hums, teasing lightly. “Should I be worried?”

But you don’t laugh. You don't even smile.

And that’s when he sits up a little, his brows drawing together as he watches you more closely.

“What’s wrong?”

You don’t want to ruin this moment. You really don’t. But the words come anyway, soft and shaking at the edges.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The look on his face flickers—surprise first, then something more unreadable. “You’re serious.”

You nod slowly, arms curled around your tail. “You don’t understand what you’re stepping into. What I am. What this is.”

He doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, quiet and still.

You keep your eyes down, watching your fingers press into the wet sand.

“I was supposed to lure you in,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “Draw you under. That’s what we do.”

Your voice trembles, and for the first time in a long time, you feel something unfamiliar tighten in your chest.

“But then you gave me that necklace,” you continue. “And you didn’t take anything in return. You just… smiled at me like I was someone.”

A shaky breath escapes you.

“And now I don’t know how to stop this.”

Gojo’s face softens—but he doesn’t rush in. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just lets you speak.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” you whisper, finally looking at him. “But I think—”

You stop. Bite your lip.

“I think I’m falling. For you,” you finish, so quietly you’re not sure he even hears it. “And I don’t know what that means for either of us.”

He doesn’t speak right away.

Just watches you.

Then, with that same gentle steadiness, he shifts closer, brushing the wet hair from your face with fingers that tremble just slightly.

“Let me stay. Just for now,” he says quietly. “Just… don’t push me away.”

You blink, breath catching. You hesitate.

And then, slowly, you lean into him. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his. Just enough that you feel his warmth.

The tide laps gently at your fins. Above, the stars keep watching.

And below them, you let yourself fall—just a little more.

You don’t realize how close he’s gotten until the distance between you feels like nothing. Just breath and warmth.

Your fingers twitch where they rest in the sand—close enough to his that the edges brush.

He doesn’t move. So you do.

Slowly, you turn your hand, the tips of your fingers grazing the back of his. And when he still doesn’t flinch, you let them slide higher, curling gently around his wrist.

You reach up with your other hand, brush his hair back from his face, and your fingers linger—just a moment longer than they should.

He exhales, slow. Careful. Like he's scared one wrong move will send you swimming off into the dark.

But you're not running. Not this time.

His hand lifts to your cheek—hesitating, then settling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thumb strokes the curve of your jaw, and you tilt into it, letting your eyes flutter shut.

Then his lips are on yours.

Not greedy. Not rushed. Just soft.

Like he wants to memorize the shape of you this way. The taste of salt on your lips. The quiet catch in your breath.

Your amulet pulses low and warm against your collarbone, steady as your heartbeat.

When the kiss deepens, it’s unspoken permission. His hand tangles in your hair, your fingers sliding up his chest, feeling the damp fabric clinging to skin.

It shouldn’t happen.

But it is.

And gods—neither of you wants it to stop.

The kiss deepens—soft to slow, slow to aching. Every brush of his mouth against yours says please don’t send me away yet.

Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, then slide down his throat, feeling the heat under his skin. He exhales shakily when your hand flattens against his chest, just over his racing heart.

His own hands hesitate at first, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this much. But when you don’t stop him—when you lean into his touch like it’s the only thing anchoring you—he gives in.

One hand cradles your face, the other drifts down, tracing the edge of your ribs where skin meets the soft iridescence of your scales.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips.

"If I’m leaving, at least let me have this."

You open your eyes. He’s looking at you like he already knows how this ends—and wants this moment anyway.

Your charm pulses once—bright and warm between you.

You nod, barely.

And that’s all he needs.

His hands grow bolder. Slower. Reverent. Like he wants to map every inch of you to memory. His lips trail down your neck, lingering at the curve of your shoulder, your collarbone. Your fingers thread into his damp hair, tugging just slightly, urging him closer.

He groans low against your skin. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head, breathless. “Don’t.”

The moonlight catches the water still clinging to your skin, to his. Everything feels soft. Dreamlike.

Your bodies press together—heat against heat, breath catching, mouths seeking. It’s not rushed. It’s intentional.

And when his hand grazes the edge of your hip—where scales shimmer under his palm—and you shift closer with a soft gasp, he kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to.

Because maybe it is.

Your back arches under him, breath trembling. His mouth finds the center of your throat and lingers there, reverent, like he can feel your pulse answering his own.

Then—

“Wait,” you whisper.

His head lifts instantly. He’s off of you in a heartbeat, but still so close, lips parted, breath warm against your cheek. Hands hovering, eyes searching yours.

He doesn’t ask why. He just waits. Because that’s the kind of man he is.

You sit up slowly, water slipping off your skin, your tail coiled beneath you. You reach out, cup his face gently in both palms and then cover his eyes with one.

He stiffens, just for a second. But he trusts you.

Your amulet glows.

It begins soft—just a pulse, like a heartbeat. Then brighter. Warmer. It blooms across your collarbone, pulsing with something deeper than magic.

When you remove your hand from his eyes, they open slowly, blinking against the moonlight, the shimmer still lingering in the air.

And what he sees leaves him speechless.

Your tail is gone. And in its place there’s a pair of legs.

Smooth and bare.

Skin kissed with salt and moonlight, knees curled delicately beneath you. You’re still you, but softer. Closer. Changed.

For him.

His mouth parts slightly. Not in lust. In awe.

“Gods,” he breathes.

You smile, just barely. “Better?”

He swallows hard. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,��� you say, quiet. “I want you.”

And that’s it. That’s all he can take.

He’s on you again—but slower now. Like he’s been handed something fragile. His hands slide up your thighs, careful, reverent, like he can’t believe you’re real. His mouth meets yours with heat, with hunger—but still gentle. Still asking.

And this time, when you press your chest to his and pull him in with both hands, there’s nothing between you.

Only skin. Only breath. Only wanting.

The glow at your throat flares again—hotter now. Brighter.

It pulses against your chest, steady at first. Then quicker.

Gojo pulls back just enough to look down at it, breathless, the tips of his fingers still ghosting along your skin. The glow matches the rhythm of your breathing—no, your arousal.

He laughs under his breath, something low and amazed, eyes wide as he watches the way your amulet throbs brighter each time his palm smooths over your skin. “It responds to touch,” he murmurs, like he’s just discovered treasure. “To you.”

His hand moves, slow and steady—gliding up from your waist, fingers splaying across your ribs until they rest just beneath your breasts. His touch lingers.

And then, with a careful brush of his fingers, he nudges the coverings away. You shiver—not from cold, but from how he looks at you.

He doesn’t rush. Just grazes his palm over one breast, watching the charm flare in response. His thumb circles over your nipple gently, and your breath catches. Your eyes flutter half-shut, hips shifting just slightly toward him.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs.

You almost want to laugh—except he’s looking at you like he’s in awe, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and it makes your pulse skip.

His hand drifts down, fingers mapping the line of your hip. Over your thigh. Skin to skin, gliding slow.

And then lower.

He watches you the whole time—eyes dark, steady, waiting for the moment your body reacts. His hand dips between your thighs, and the charm flares, sharp and brilliant and hot.

You gasp—eyes fluttering closed, hips tipping into his hand.

“Gods,” he breathes. “That’s incredible.”

His fingers tease, slow and deliberate, and you feel your thoughts unravel with every stroke. Every touch echoes in your core—and in the gem at your chest, glowing like a heartbeat, wild and bright.

“Is this…” he leans closer, lips brushing your jaw, “...what you want?”

You can barely speak—but you nod, eyes glazed, back arching toward him.

His fingers slip lower, parting you with reverence and care.

And there—there it is.

That first brush over your clit, light and exploratory, has your hips jerking and your lips parting in a soft gasp. The charm at your collar flares like it’s tethered to the aching beat between your legs—responding with each subtle throb, each flutter of sensation.

“Shit,” he whispers, mesmerized.

He strokes again, more deliberately now—just the pads of two fingers sliding through your slick, testing how wet you already are. The gem flashes again, and your head falls back with a breathless whimper. Your thighs twitch beneath his touch, eyes hazy as he watches you squirm. Then—gently, carefully—he sinks a single finger inside.

The charm flares so bright it casts shadows along the shore.

You’re impossibly warm around him—soft, tight, slick with want—and when he curls his finger just right, your body clenches, a pulse deep inside that matches the flickering of the charm exactly.

His breath catches. “You feel—fuck—you feel perfect.”

He moves slowly, drawing that finger out, then easing a second in with practiced patience. The stretch makes you moan, your hand flying to his arm like you need something to hold onto. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Breathe, angel. You’re doing so good.”

The glow brightens with every pump of his fingers, every soft squelch of wet heat. The deeper he strokes, the harder your body responds—hips rising into him, breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

And the amulet pulses in perfect rhythm with your cunt.

Throb. Glow. Throb. Glow. Throb.

“Can’t believe this thing’s showing me everything you’re feeling,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. “You like this? Like my fingers inside you?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak—your body already trembling, on the edge.

And he feels it.

The way your walls start to flutter, how the glow grows unstable—flickering wildly now, close to bursting.

“Let go for me,” he whispers, dragging his thumb up to circle your clit just once—soft and perfect.

And you do.

You fall apart with a cry, back arching, thighs shaking, body clenching around his fingers as the charm explodes in a radiant wave of golden light.

He watches it all—spellbound.

Then leans in to kiss you—slow and deep and full of heat that says we’re not done yet.

He watches your cunt flutter around nothing, charm still flickering weakly at your throat like it’s trying to recover from what just happened. You’re limp beneath him, chest rising and falling, skin shining with salt and moonlight.

“Didn’t know you could sound that sweet,” he breathes, dragging his fingers up your thigh, smearing your slick along your skin like he wants to mark you with it. “Might lose my mind if you do that again.”

You try to say something back—something sharp, something teasing—but all that comes out is a soft, shattered whimper.

He groans.

Low and ragged and wrecked.

His head drops for a second like he’s trying to collect himself—but you feel it. The tension in his body, the restraint snapping thin. He looks at you, eyes blown wide, lips parted.

And then—“Fuck this.”

He shifts back onto his knees, still between your thighs, eyes raking over your glowing body as he tugs at his soaked shirt. The fabric sticks to his skin, but he doesn’t care. Just wrestles it off and tosses it somewhere behind him, hair even messier now, chest rising fast.

You blink up at him—bare-chested now, sea-glossed skin kissed with salt and moonlight. He looks wild like this. Like he could devour you whole.

And still not have enough.

Then comes the belt—fingers fumbling, desperate. He mutters a curse, half-laughs through it, then undoes his pants, shoving them down with just as much frustration. You catch a glimpse of him, long and heavy and twitching with need.

He kicks the rest of it off and lowers himself over you again, your slick thighs pressing to his hips, the heat between you crackling.

And oh, the moan he lets out when your bare chest presses to his.

“That’s better,” he whispers, forehead against yours, hips rocking once more, cock sliding between your folds. “So much better.”

He looks down at the glow between your breasts, at the way your body responds to his bare skin like it’s craving it.

And he grins.

“Think your magic likes me.”

And then he’s back over you—fully bare, hot and heavy against your slick, glowing skin. “Gods,” he murmurs. “You’re unreal.”

You whine as he settles between your thighs, guiding himself to your entrance. His cock is thick, flushed, glistening with precum. The tip nudges at your folds—hot, insistent—and your breath catches in your throat.

“You can take it,” he murmurs, hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “Already so wet for me.”

He starts to push in. Slow. So slow you feel every inch. Every stretch. Your back arches and your mouth parts in a silent gasp. He groans low in his throat, dropping his head to your shoulder as he sinks deeper.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hisses.

You’re trembling beneath him—clutching at his arms, moaning helplessly as he bottoms out.

And once he’s fully inside, he stills. Not out of mercy. But reverence.

“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to see your face, the glow between your breasts starting to flare again. “All stretched out just for me.”

He rocks into you once. Slow. Deep.

You mewl, legs instinctively trying to wrap around his waist—and the glow pulses brighter.

“Gods—let me see how much you want it, sweetheart.”

He sets a rhythm that’s deep and steady, hips rolling into yours with that perfect pressure that has you melting under him. One hand tangled in your hair, the other on your thigh, pushing it open further so he can fuck you deeper.

And he talks the whole time.

So sweet. So filthy.

“Taking me so good. So perfect inside.” “You were made for this, weren’t you? For me.” “Look at you. So needy, so pretty.”

You’re babbling now—half his name, half nonsense, your hands scrabbling at his back like you need to anchor yourself.

He watches the way your lips part, the way your lashes flutter.

You feel the stretch as he pushes in again—inch by inch, deliberate—like he’s savoring the way you tremble beneath him.

“Shit—too much?” he asks, voice tight, lips brushing yours.

You shake your head, a breathy moan breaking free.

“N-no—don’t stop—fuck, ’Toru!”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours. His hands grip your hips like he’s anchoring himself there, holding you still as he sinks into the feeling of being completely surrounded by you.

“Feels so fucking good,” he whispers. “You—you feel so good.”

He pulls back just enough to thrust in again—slow, smooth, deep—and your body arches.

The sound you make is soft, helpless.

He does it again. And again.

You’re gasping now, fingernails digging into his back, every roll of his hips sending sparks down your spine.

“Yeah? That what you needed?” he murmurs against your throat. “Want me to fuck you slow like this, baby? Let you feel every inch?”

Your only answer is a broken moan—and he grins.

His rhythm stays steady. Deep. Each thrust has your body trembling, your cunt clenching so tight around him that he shudders.

His groans grow louder. He doesn’t care if his crew wakes up from it. Can’t even think about it now, not with the way you clench around him like that.

“Gods, I’m not gonna last,” he admits, voice hoarse. “Not when you’re like this—tight little thing, crying under me—fuck—”

You try to speak, to beg for more, for faster, for anything, but your brain’s not working anymore. All you can do is cling to him, ride out the wave of pleasure crashing over and over—

And he feels it.

Feels the way you start to shake, the way your breath hitches.

He grabs your hand, laces your fingers with his, and presses your arm into the sand beside your head.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice soft—almost reverent now. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

His thrusts grow more desperate—less patient, more need—until your body tightens beneath him with a stuttering gasp and you fall apart all over again.

Your orgasm hits hard. A cry breaks from your throat, your body arching as you clench around him—pulsing, shaking, stars exploding behind your eyes.

Gojo groans as you come—low and rough and helpless.

“Holy shit—fuck, that’s it, that’s my girl—”

He thrusts once, twice more before pulling out and shooting his load all over your stomach and chest with a broken sound, his fist tight around his cock, hips twitching.

And then silence. Heavy breathing.

His lips brush your temple.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice hoarse but soft.

You’re barely breathing.

Chest rising in little, uneven gasps, thighs trembling, your hand still tangled in his hair like you forgot how to let go.

Gojo doesn’t move at first.

He just stays there, nose brushing your cheek, lips parted against your skin. You can feel the beat of his heart where his chest rests over yours, still racing.

He presses a kiss to your jaw.

Then another, to the corner of your mouth. His hand slips down to soothe the shake in your thighs, thumb grazing your hip.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You okay?”

You nod, blinking dazedly, lips barely able to form the words.

He huffs a soft laugh, curling beside you, arm hooked under your head to ease you into his chest. He’s warm. Still a little damp. Still naked. Still pressing soft kisses wherever he can reach.

You manage a breathless smile, curling closer. His hand trails down your spine, settling low on your back like he needs to keep touching you.

And for a while, that’s all it is.

Touch. Breath. Silence.

Then “I should get you cleaned up,” he murmurs. “You’ve got sand in places sand was never meant to be.”

You laugh—softly, tiredly—and he grins like he just won something.

He shifts, kneeling between your legs, coaxing you to sit up. His hands are gentle, wiping away the mess, brushing the hair from your face, fingers lingering everywhere like he can’t believe you’re real.

And when he wraps you in his discarded shirt, helps you back into the shallows to rinse off, he does it all like you’re something sacred.

Afterwards, he’s dressed again—barely dry, shirt wrinkled and hair a mess, but somehow still glowing in that effortless, infuriating way. He settles next to you, arms folded behind his head, eyes on the stars.

You lie beside him in silence, your body still humming from everything he gave you. Everything you let him give you.

Then he says it, so simply, like it costs him nothing at all: “Stay.”

You turn your head.

His eyes are closed, voice soft. “Just a little longer.”

You don’t answer. You just stay.

You stay as the moon climbs higher, casting silver light across his face. You stay until his breathing evens out, until his eyes can’t stay open any longer and until the smirk fades from his lips, replaced by something softer. Peaceful.

You reach out, brushing your fingers through his hair once—just once.

Then you rise, slow and silent, not daring to look back. The sand is cool beneath your feet as you cross to the water’s edge. Each step feels heavier than the last.

When your toes meet the sea, you pause. Your hand lifts to your chest.

The amulet pulses—soft and bright.

One more step.

The glow flares as your legs shift, flesh transforming back into scaled fin, your body easing into the current like it belongs there.

You look back only once.

He’s still there. Still asleep. Still smiling, just a little.

And then you sink beneath the surface—silent, alone, and glowing like you’re breaking apart from the inside out.

-

The ocean is quiet today.

Too quiet.

No schools of fish flitting past your chambers. No kelp swaying with the currents. Even the water feels heavier somehow, like the weight of what you did has sunk into the sea itself.

You don't sleep that night. Not really.

You drift. You float.

You try not to think about his hands, his mouth, the way your charm glowed for him like it had never glowed before.

But the sea doesn’t forget.

By morning, a summons arrives.

No explanation. Just a stiff nod from the attendant, eyes carefully averted, voice flat:

“Your father wants to see you.”

You already know what for.

Still, you school your face into something composed as you swim through the winding halls, past the guards who can barely meet your gaze. You feel the glimmer of your charm even now—dulled, but not dark. Not completely.

Your father is waiting.

Throned, still, massive. His presence fills the chamber before his voice ever does.

“You broke the law,” he says.

You lift your chin, but say nothing.

He rises—slowly, deliberately—and you feel the pressure of his disappointment before he’s even crossed the floor. “With him. A human. You let him touch you.” His eyes narrow, ancient and sharp. “You let him claim you.”

Your fingers twitch at your sides. Not in denial. Not even in shame. But in memory.

Because you remember the way Gojo held you like you were something to be worshipped, not stolen. Not claimed.

Still, you say nothing. And your silence seals it.

Your father exhales, slow. “Then you leave me no choice.”

His trident slams to the ocean floor with a crack that echoes through your bones.

“There is only one thing left to sever the bond you’ve created.”

Your breath stutters in your throat.

He looks down at you. “You will return to the surface. And you will bring me his heart.”

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

His words hang heavy in the water, thick as blood.

Your heart thunders, but your voice is barely a whisper. “…No.”

He narrows his eyes. “You would defy me?”

“I—please.” The word leaves you before you can stop it. Your hands rise, open in front of you. “You don’t understand. He’s not like the others. He didn’t take anything—he gave.”

“A trinket,” your father snaps. “A distraction.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t just that.”

Silence follows. Deep. Crushing.

His eyes bore into you like the weight of the entire sea. But still, you try again.

“Let him go,” you whisper. “Please. If I made a mistake, punish me. But don’t—don’t hurt him.”

Your father stares for a long, still moment. And then, he speaks again. Quietly this time.

“If you cannot do it,” he says, “I have men who will.”

“No—” you surge forward, falling to your knees before him. “Please, Father. I’ll stay here. I won’t see him again. I’ll do whatever you ask, but don’t send anyone after him—don’t kill him.”

You’re shaking. You can feel it. The way your voice trembles. The way the charm around your neck flickers in protest.

But your father doesn’t soften.

He looks down at you—not as his daughter, but as something lesser. A traitor. A disappointment.

“You broke the laws that bind our kind. You let a human inside your mind, your body, your power.” He leans forward. “This is not about love. This is about balance. And you have tipped it.”

You go quiet.

Because you know then—he’s already made up his mind.

Gojo Satoru is as good as dead.

Unless you get to him first.

The moment you rise from the floor, ready to run—he moves faster.

A wave of pressure slams down around you. Not painful, but impossible to push through. You twist, try to swim forward, but it holds you in place like invisible chains.

“I know you, daughter,” he says, voice colder now, more ancient. “I know what you’d do.”

Your eyes widen.

“Don’t,” you breathe. “Please—”

“You would betray your kingdom for one man,” he says. “I won’t let you.”

You surge forward, desperate, heart thudding so loud you swear he can hear it through the water. But the force field remains. Sealed. Final. “Father.”

He turns his back to you. His guards step in. “Lock her in the coral chamber,” he commands.

“No!” Your scream is swallowed by the sea. “Please, don’t do this—he’ll think I left—he’ll think I meant to—”

But your father doesn’t look back. Not even once.

And as the guards grab your arms, drag you through the halls, you realize something far worse than being punished: Satoru will never see this coming.

-

The coral chamber is silent but for the soft hum of the magic holding it sealed. It’s not a prison in the traditional sense—but it might as well be. The walls pulse with a faint light, ancient enchantments woven into every inch of the reef.

And then a ripple. You spin, heart in your throat, and see her.

Your sister floats just outside the barrier, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “You look like you’re going to pass out,” she says coolly. “Did you think you could hide it forever?”

You exhale shakily. “He wasn’t supposed to find out.”

“I told you,” she snaps, gliding closer, her face stern. “You were reckless. You fell for a land-strider. You gave him your power. Do you have any idea what that means for us?”

“I didn’t give him anything!” you hiss. “It wasn’t like that.”

Her silence is pointed.

You run a hand through your hair, frustrated, angry, terrified all at once. “He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t want to take. He saw me.”

Her jaw tightens.

“And now he’s going to die for it,” you whisper, voice cracking. You reach the edge of the barrier, fingertips barely brushing the glowing wall. “Please. Please, I need to warn him.”

She doesn’t answer. You see it in her face—the doubt, the war she’s fighting behind her eyes. “Do you love him?” she asks finally.

You hesitate. “…Yes.”

Her features flicker, soften just a little. “You know what our father will do to me if I help you.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” you whisper. “But if you don’t, he’ll never even see it coming. He’ll think I abandoned him.”

Silence stretches long between you. Then she breathes out through her nose. “You always were the reckless one.”

And her hand reaches forward. The barrier parts, just a crack. “Go. Now.”

You grip her wrist before she can pull away completely. “I can’t leave,” you say, voice trembling. “He’ll know. He’ll tighten the wards. But please. Just find him. Tell him I didn’t abandon him. Tell him I tried.”

Your sister hesitates. “…I don’t even know what he looks like.”

You give her the faintest smile. “Tall. White hair. Blue eyes. Stupidly pretty. He waits near the tide line at night.”

Her lips twitch. “Sounds irritating.”

“He is,” you breathe out. “But I—he matters.”

Another pause. And then she nods. “I’ll find him.”

You watch her disappear into the deep. You’re left with nothing but the steady pulse of the chamber’s magic and the wild pounding of your heart.

-

The tide laps gently against the rocks. Gojo sits near the edge, legs drawn up, his arms resting over his knees. The stars scatter across the surface like they’re watching him wait.

He checks the horizon again. Still no sign of you.

It’s the third night in a row.

His easy smile is gone now, replaced with a quiet furrow between his brows. “Starting to think I scared you off,” he mutters, trying to sound light. It falls flat.

Then a shimmer breaks the water. He jerks upright, hopeful.

But it’s not you. A different figure rises—eyes too familiar, but colder. Cautious.

His confusion lasts only a second. “You’re not her.”

“No,” she says. “I’m her sister.” She studies him, as if weighing whether he’s worth the risk she just took. “She didn’t leave because she wanted to,” she says. “Our father found out. He locked her away before she could warn you.”

Gojo goes still. The next beat of his heart is loud enough to drown out the sea.

“She tried,” her sister adds, voice quiet. “She begged.”

For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Just stares out at the water, jaw tight, something in his chest twisting painfully. Then, slowly—he stands.

“…Where is she?” Gojo takes a step toward the tide. “I’m going after her.”

She blinks. “Are you serious?”

His jaw is set. “You just said she’s locked away. I’m not letting her sit there thinking I gave up on her.”

“Okay,” she huffs, flicking a bit of water off her wrist, “and how exactly do you plan to breathe underwater?”

He pauses.

“…Minor setback.”

“Minor—” She cuts herself off, dragging a hand down her face. “Gods, she really would fall for someone like you.”

He flashes a grin. “Thanks.”

“Not a compliment.”

But the smile fades quickly. “I mean it. I have to do something.”

She regards him for a moment. He’s serious. Really serious. No smug teasing, no flirtation—just that unshakable look in his eyes that tells her he’d throw himself into the ocean for you without hesitation.

“She wanted to warn you,” she says more softly now. “She tried. But our father… he knows. And if he catches you near our waters again—he won’t show mercy.”

Gojo’s mouth tightens. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Then be afraid for her.”

That silences him.

Your sister crosses her arms, not cruel—just resigned. “The only way you keep her safe now is by staying away.”

“…So that’s it?” he asks hoarsely. “I just go? Pretend it never happened?”

“No,” she says, gentler now. “You remember it. Every moment of it. So does she.”

A long silence passes.

Then Gojo turns back to the shore. Shoulders stiff. Jaw clenched. He doesn’t look back when he walks away. But the ache he leaves in the sand stays long after the tide rolls in.

-

The ship creaks gently beneath their feet as the sails fill again with wind, the salt-stung breeze tugging at hair and loose shirts. They’ve set course for somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Gojo stands at the helm, one hand gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles pale. The horizon is just blue and endless, but he keeps staring, like he expects something to rise out of it. Like he’s hoping to catch one last glimpse of what he left behind.

Behind him, Shoko lights a cigarette and leans against the rail. “He’s been like that all morning.”

“More like all week,” Nanami mutters.

“Yuuji tried giving him an orange,” Nobara says, arms crossed. “Didn’t work.”

Megumi doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are fixed on Gojo’s back. He sees the way his captain keeps shifting like he’s restless. Like he’s waiting for the sea to give something back.

“Did something happen on shore?” Shoko asks finally.

Yuuji plops down on a crate nearby, chewing absently on a strip of dried mango. “Did mystery girl dump him or something?”

Gojo doesn’t flinch. But his grip tightens. Slightly. Sharply. The tension in his shoulders is sudden and obvious—and enough for Shoko to groan under her breath and flick Yuuji on the back of the head. “Yuuji.”

“Seriously?” Nobara scowls.

“...What?” Yuuji says, rubbing the spot. “I was joking!”

Megumi exhales slowly. “Read the room. Or boat.”

Gojo still hasn’t said anything.

Nobara steps up beside him, quieter now. “You don’t have to tell us what happened.”

Gojo’s voice finally breaks through, low and flat, “I left her behind.”

Silence spreads like fog.

“I didn’t want to,” he adds, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “I had to.”

Shoko crosses her arms. “Is she in danger?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Then—barely audible—“I don't know.”

And that’s all he says. No one jokes after that. Not even Yuuji.

-

The silence in your chambers has been so loud lately, it’s almost a relief when the door bursts open. Your sister rushes in, breathless, hair wild from swimming too fast. “They’re moving.”

You blink, still half-curled on the smooth stone floor, tail tucked beneath you like you were trying to disappear into it.

Her voice is breathless. Urgent. “The guards—Father’s men—they’re already close. Too close.”

Your heart stutters. “No,” you whisper, sitting upright fast, tail shifting beneath you, trembling. “He—he promised me time.”

“He never meant it,” she says, voice thin and breaking. “He just wanted you calm. You know how he is.”

The charm at your neck pulses once—weak and frightened. “How close?” Your voice comes out barely audible.

She hesitates. That alone is answer enough. “Close enough that you might not make it in time,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Your chest feels tight. Like the water around you is thickening, pressing in, suffocating. “I should’ve gone sooner,” you murmur, guilt blooming like ink in your gut. “I should’ve warned him.”

Your sister moves closer. “If you leave now—if you swim hard—maybe…”

You don’t respond. Because maybe isn’t good enough.

You move, slow at first, like your body is still catching up to what your mind already knows—then faster, faster, until you’re flying through the water, heart in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears.

Please, you think, over and over, please let me be wrong. Please let them be safe.

Because if you're not—if they aren’t—then it’s already too late.

-

The ocean is too quiet. Not calm—quiet.

The kind of stillness that makes even seasoned sailors look over their shoulders.

Gojo leans against the railing, forearms braced, eyes fixed on the horizon like he’s trying to find something he can’t name. His hair’s still damp from a morning swim he swore he wasn’t waiting around for. Salt clings to his skin. But his charm’s gone dim.

Behind him, the crew stirs with a strange energy.

Shoko’s brow is furrowed as she peers into the distance through a spyglass. “Feels wrong,” she mutters.

“Like storm weather?” Yuuji asks, quieter now.

“No,” Nanami says, voice low and firm. “Worse.”

Gojo turns finally, eyes narrowed just slightly. “How long until we’re ready to move?”

“Half hour, if the wind holds,” Megumi replies.

Gojo doesn’t nod. Doesn’t speak. Just looks out again—toward nothing—and feels something tightening in his chest.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but they can all tell:

Something’s coming.

The first jolt doesn’t come from above—it comes from below. A violent lurch rocks the ship, enough to knock Megumi sideways and send a bucket skittering across the deck.

“What the hell—?!” Shoko grabs the railing.

“Something hit the hull,” Nanami barks, already moving.

But it’s not just one strike. The second comes harder. Something slams into the underside of the ship with a dull, sickening crack, the kind of force that splinters wood. The whole vessel groans in protest.

“Below deck! Check for breach!” Geto shouts.

Gojo doesn’t move. He knows what this is. Not a storm. Not sea creatures.

This—this is retribution.

Another strike. This time from the side—something sharp tearing into the boards just above the waterline. A wave sloshes over the deck.

“Someone’s attacking us,” Nobara shouts, already drawing her blade.

“No ships in sight,” Shoko says, snapping the spyglass shut. “No sails. Nothing.”

“Because it’s not human,” Gojo says softly.

Everyone goes quiet. The water stills again. Only for a breath.

Then—something breaches. A dark, jagged figure shoots up from the depths, slicing the surface like a living spear before diving back under. Sleek. Fast. Not quite human.

There’s a chorus of shouted commands, boots thundering across wood, hands grabbing ropes and weapons. But Gojo doesn’t shout. He steps to the edge, staring down into the deep.

You promised him time. And he knows now—you never had it.

The first crash nearly knocks the mast loose. It hits low—beneath the waterline. A sickening jolt, wood shattering like ribs, sends barrels tumbling and sailors cursing.

“What the fuck was that?!” Nobara yells, grabbing onto the railing.

“Something’s under us!” Megumi shouts, already disappearing below deck.

Another impact. This one’s higher—near the stern. It scrapes deep, long, like claws carving into the hull.

The crew scrambles, chaos erupting.

“Plug the breach!” Nanami orders, voice like iron even as water pours through the cracks. “We’re taking on fast—!”

Then silence. Not peace. Stillness. It only lasts a second.

And then something launches from the water. It isn’t human. Slippery, scaled, and lean. Gills flaring. Hands like knives. A sea-creature—no, a hunter—lands on the deck.

“Starboard!” Shoko shouts, throwing a harpoon from behind a barrel. It pierces straight through the creature’s side—sends it flailing back over the railing with a screech.

But more are coming. Dozens. Fingers claw the sides of the ship. Webbed hands. Serrated weapons. Shifting forms dart just under the surface, circling like sharks.

Geto kicks a supply crate toward Yuuji. “Arm everyone—now!”

Nobara’s sword is slick with blood already. “I’ll gut every last one of you scaled fuckers!”

Gojo’s still at the edge. Frozen. Not with fear—but with a gut-deep knowing.

This isn’t a random attack. This is a message. From the sea. From the ones who’ve taken you.

Another clawed hand slams onto the railing beside him. He reacts fast—kicks it off, blade out, breath heavy.

Behind him, Nanami grabs rope and starts tying barrels together. “If we have to abandon ship—”

“We’re not abandoning shit,” Gojo snaps, spinning around. “We hold until we can’t.”

But even as he says it—his eyes flick toward the horizon. Still no sign of you. No soft laugh. No glowing charm.

Just the black, roiling sea.

The ship groans—loud, guttural, like it’s begging to stay afloat. They’re everywhere now. Climbing over the sides, pouring up from the sea. Not all of them fully formed—some half-human, half-monstrous, with fins instead of feet, barbed tails slashing through the air. The deck is slick with seawater and blood, bodies scrambling between debris and weapons, screams barely heard over the crash of the waves.

“Get back!” Nobara snarls, kicking a writhing thing off the main mast ladder.

“Too many!” Geto yells. “We won’t hold this!”

“I told you something felt wrong last night!” Shoko ducks under a spear, slices its wielder’s throat clean with a broken bottle. “Where the hell is Gojo?!”

Then they see him. At the far end of the deck. Standing above the chaos, coat soaked and sticking to his skin, hair clinging to his forehead, hands trembling just enough to show he’s running on pure adrenaline. His blade’s buried in one of the creatures—but he doesn’t look back at it. He’s looking at them. “Get to the rafts!” he shouts. “Now!”

“No—” Yuuji tries to argue, but Gojo’s already throwing a crate across the deck, knocking one of the attackers away from a half-loosened life raft. “We’re not leaving you!”

“Just go!” he shouts again, this time louder—eyes hard, desperate. “I’ll keep them off you!”

One of the creatures lunges at him from behind. He ducks it. Spins. Stabs. Another comes from the side. He doesn’t flinch—slams his elbow into its gills, kicks it back into the sea.

And when Geto opens his mouth to argue again—he sees it.

Gojo’s not planning on coming with them. Not yet. This happened because of him. He’s not letting anything happen to his crew—his family.

He’s buying them time. A distraction.

“Move!” Nanami grabs Yuuji by the collar, dragging him toward the rope ladders. “He made his choice—don’t waste it!”

The crew rushes to untie the rafts, each member fending off attacks as they scramble toward escape. The ship lurches again—one final groan from the keel, deep and ugly.

And through it all, Gojo fights. Face bloodied, body bruised from the impact of too many claws and spears. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look away. He stays. Waiting. Hoping.

Because maybe you’ll come. Maybe you know.

-

The water is far too calm.

Too still for what should’ve been here—shouts, battle cries, fire and fury. All that’s left is quiet. A quiet so deep it feels wrong, like the ocean itself is holding its breath.

You break the surface, expecting chaos. Expecting the fight. But there’s only ruin.

Pieces of the ship drift past you—shards of splintered wood, torn cloth fluttering uselessly. A piece of railing, a shattered crate. The scent of smoke still clings faintly in the air.

You swim further in. Your eyes are wide, darting. Searching. Where is he?

You don’t realize you're whispering his name until your voice cracks.

The deeper you go, the worse it gets. A mast, snapped clean in two. Ropes hanging uselessly. No figures. No sound. Just wreckage.

And blood—thin, diluted trails fading into the tide.

You pass the remains of a lifeboat. Empty.

Your stomach turns. Your hands tremble, barely keeping you above water now.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Just a hollow breath. The glow of your charm dims at your chest—flickering, like it, too, has begun to mourn. You turn slowly in the water.

And then you see it. A large, flat piece of the ship’s hull—still afloat, barely. And on it, unmoving, soaked through, arm dangling off the side—Gojo.

Your breath catches violently in your throat. You freeze. For a second, you don't move. Your body forgets how. Your mind goes blank. Then you’re flying through the water, limbs cutting through it as fast as you can move. You reach him and he’s still there. Still whole. Still—

“Satoru,” you whisper, pulling yourself up onto the debris, crawling to him on shaking arms. “Satoru—”

His skin is cold. Salt-stung. Pale.

You don’t know when you started shaking. Not from the cold, not from the sea.

From what rests in your arms.

You cradle him as best you can atop the broken hull, dragging his weight against you as your tail propels you toward shore. The waves are gentle now—cruelly so, as if mocking what the sea just took.

His head slumps against your shoulder. His skin is ice. No breath. No movement.

And still you keep going. You drag him onto the sand, gasping, coughing. The glow at your chest is frantic now—wild, erratic, pulsing like a heartbeat that doesn't belong to you anymore.

You drag him onto the sand, gasping, coughing. The glow at your chest is frantic now—wild, erratic, pulsing like a heartbeat that doesn't belong to you anymore.

You barely feel the shift until it’s already happening—muscle pulling, fins splitting apart, the weight of your tail giving way to something softer. The cool press of sand meets your knees. Your calves. Your feet. Legs.

Breath shudders out of you. You clutch at the charm, still burning warm against your palm, as if it’s trying to hold you together. But all you can see is him—still too still, too pale, the sea in his lungs and salt on his skin.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, your hands pressed against his chest. “Please—” You don’t know who you’re begging. Him. The ocean. The gods. Anyone.

You press your forehead to his, still dripping, still trembling. Saltwater pools around his body. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t breathe.

He’s gone. You know it.

But you refuse.

“No,” you breathe, louder this time, almost choking on it. “No—I didn’t come this far for you to leave me. You can’t—,” your voice breaks. Your chest heaves.

You sit there for what feels like forever—holding him, cradling his lifeless face, brushing damp white strands from his eyes.

“You said you'd always find me,” you whisper. “Even if I was hiding beneath the sea.”

Silence answers.

And still you stay there, beside him, your charm glowing so desperately it hurts.

Until the sea turns quiet again. Until your tears dry with the wind. Until you're left with nothing but the weight of him—and the crushing ache of everything you didn’t get to say.

You’re not sure how long you’ve sat there.

Long enough for the stars to shift overhead. Long enough for the tide to creep higher around your legs. Long enough to feel the weight of him turning cold in your arms. And still, you can’t let go.

Your fingers slip to your charm. It’s still glowing faintly—soft white, barely flickering, as if mourning with you. You don’t know what you’re doing until it’s already in your palm, the knotted cord pooling there. Your voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m so—so sorry.”

He’s heavy in your arms. Too still. His lips are blue. His skin is cold. You don’t realize you’re crying again until your tears hit his cheek.

Then you slip it around his neck, letting the charm settle over his chest, right where his heart should be beating.

The glow flickers. Soft. Faint. Then—bright.

But it’s not white. It’s blue. The deep, clear cerulean of his eyes. The kind of blue that once made you hesitate mid-sentence. The kind that lit up when he laughed. The kind that stared at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And then his body jerks. He spasms, and your hands fly to his shoulders just as he twists onto his side, choking, convulsing. He gasps—wet and raw. Saltwater floods from his mouth, spilling over his lips. He coughs hard, body wracked with it, and you hold him through every shudder. “Breathe,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Please. Just breathe.”

Another violent cough. His fingers dig into the sand, weak and scrambling. His chest heaves. And finally—finally—he sucks in a breath. A real one. It’s ragged. Fragile. But it’s there.

His eyelids flutter open slowly. His gaze is unfocused at first—glassy, dazed. But then those eyes shift. Land on you. “…You,” he croaks, hoarse. Barely a whisper.

Your heart cracks open. You lean over him, one hand cradling his cheek, the other smoothing wet hair back from his face. “I thought I lost you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just stares up at you like he doesn’t quite believe it either. Like he’s still half between this world and the next.

“I’m here,” you say, softly. “I’m right here.”

And finally, his eyes flutter closed again—not unconscious, just overwhelmed. He lets out a weak breath and presses his forehead against your palm. And you sit there, holding him, while the waves keep rising.

You feel warmth slowly return to him—the cold fading from his skin, replaced by the heat of life. Of him. He’s curled against you on the sand, breathing shallow but steady, as the ocean hums quietly at your back. Neither of you speak for a long while.

Then, his fingers twitch—reach for yours. And when you lace them together, he holds on like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world. “…You saved me,” he says, voice rough.

You don’t look at him. “You shouldn’t have been there.”

“I couldn’t stay away.” Your throat tightens. He squeezes your hand, and when you finally meet his gaze, it steals the air right from your lungs. He’s looking at you like you’re a miracle. Like he’s afraid to blink and lose you again.

“I thought you were gone,” you whisper. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Same,” he breathes, giving you a half smile—soft, tired. “But apparently I’m too pretty to die.”

You let out a shaky laugh. Then a tear slips down your cheek, and he catches it with his thumb. “No more running,” he says. “No more hiding.”

Your voice trembles. “They’ll come after you.”

“Then let them.” His tone is quiet but sure. “Let them come. I’m not leaving you.”

You barely have time to breathe before his hand is on your jaw, tilting your face toward his. He doesn’t kiss you gently. He crashes into you, his hand cupping your jaw, pulling you in as his lips claim yours with raw, aching need. There’s no hesitation, no fear. Just everything he’s wanted to say and never had the words for.

You melt into him, fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt—still soaked, still clinging to him like your touch does now. The taste of salt lingers between your mouths, your breaths shared and stolen, again and again. He groans softly into your lips as you shift over him, your body fitting against his like you were always meant to. His hands—calloused and warm—trail down your back, over the ridges of your spine, holding you closer, closer.

When you pull back to breathe, you hover there, foreheads pressed together, your lips barely apart. “I missed you,” he whispers. “More than I can explain.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “I never stopped thinking of you.”

Another kiss. Slower this time. Full of promise and pain and everything you’ve both fought so hard to bury. His tongue slides against yours—gentle, then greedy. And you let him have you, let him take all of it.

Because he came back. Because you saved him.

Because against every odd and warning, he’s still yours.

And you’re not letting go.

author's note. after almost A MONTH we're back gang. the PAIN i went thru before posting this- FUCK TUMBLR'S BLOCK LIMIT i had to delete an entire scene (but dw the full version will be on my ao3 soon)

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

[astraystayyh]

Not a lot, just forever.

🪷 In which you make flowers bloom in a heart hyunjin saw as lifeless.

pairing: (tortured) painter!hyunjin x florist!yn.

genre: fluff. strangers to lovers. angst (but not between the characters). just very soft and tender.

wc: 10.2k

a.n.: this entire fic is inspired by the fact that hyunjin has his florist’s number. so i ran with it and it gave way to this!! i really love this fic so i hope you’ll love it in return 🫶🏻 and, of course, happy birthday to my spring, my light, my hyune. thank you for being such an easy person to love. i hope happiness always finds you wherever you may go❣️you deserve it. (pic is mine which is #crazy still can’t believe i’ve been in monet’s home!!!!)

In theory, a heart is simply a heart—an organ, no more sacred than the others, pulsing to pump blood into our veins, working tirelessly to keep one alive.

But to Hyunjin, a heart is a bit more than that. To him, the heart is a graveyard, a hollow, decaying thing where his dreams are laid to rest before they ever bloom. He finds it cruel, almost laughable, that the very thing meant to sustain him is the tomb beneath which he perishes—day after day, night after night.

Hyunjin never understood the notion of ending one’s own life. Weren’t there always reasons to stay? Beautiful things to gaze at, to hold on to— the slant of golden light through a window, the swell of waves as they kissed the shore? Wasn’t the sun always there patiently waiting to be seen?

But now he understands. It doesn’t matter if the sun is there or not. For the sun rises every day, yet Hyunjin can no longer see it.

Hyunjin hadn’t seen the sun for a long time.

He wasn’t always like this. In fact, he loved existing. He loved finding beauty in the smallest of things, in the details that mortal eyes don’t often stop to admire, too busy running, too busy surviving. But Hyunjin was different. He craved living. So, he paused. Almost reverent in the way he’d breathe in the sweet perfume of roses, soak in the way the sea folded itself around his ankles.

And he liked commemorating his feelings, he didn’t have the strongest memory, so he painted. He liked painting. No, he loved it, since he was a child and he found out what a brush is. He loved it the way the ocean loves the shore, relentlessly, endlessly, painted until his hands ached and his bones grew weary. He painted the way he loved too— excessively, hungrily, until the first threads of light stretched across the sky, his fingers stained in oil and watercolor, in reds deep as longing and blues heavy as sorrow.

It felt like a waste not to spend every waking moment painting, loving, yearning. it felt a waste not to feel as grandly as the mountains, as vastly as the stretch of oceans.

It felt like a waste for Hyunjin not to love Scarlet.

It must have felt like a waste, too, for the universe not to let him die at her hands.

So it did.

Hyunjin has not been alive for a long time. He does not think he will ever be again.

He’s staring at the blank canvas before him, a cruel expanse of white that’s almost mocking him. If he looks long enough, he can almost see a shape forming, lips moving to whisper the same word, over and over—worthless. worthless. worthless.

His fist drives through the cloth. The canvas falls to the ground in a thud so loud Hyunjin has to cradle his temple to ease the pang of pain it shoots through him. The wood easel splatters to the floor, though it does not look out of place in the ruins of his studio. Not when his brushes are scattered everywhere, palettes smashed against the walls, paint smeared in angry streaks against his floor.

His chest heaves as he stands there, amidst the wreckage that he caused, the place that once used to be his sanctuary. When did it all change? Perhaps when there was nothing left worth painting. Nothing worth breathing for.

He has always known it. A life does not end when one is laid underneath the soil. A life ends when nothing stirs wonder in your heart anymore, when you pass through the days but they do not pass by you, when they leave you untouched, unchanged.

He buries the sob wrapping around his throat. He has cried enough for things he cannot change, hasn’t he?

With trembling hands, Hyunjin reaches for his phone, thumb pressing Felix’s name—his publicist, his friend.

“Did you paint something?” Felix’s voice is bright, unshaken as he replies instantly.

Hyunjin closes his eyes.

“No,” he breathes. Not anymore.

A pause. Then, “Would you book me that trip to Giverny?”

“Giverny?”

“I’m giving myself one last chance.”

“To paint?” Felix asks, tone too eager, too hopeful.

“Mm,” Hyunjin nods absentmindedly. He can’t find it within him to break Felix’s hope, to whisper bleak things when his voice is so cheerful.

It’s not about painting anymore.

This is Hyunjin’s last chance to live.

—

The bell above your florist shop chimes sweetly as someone pushes open the large wooden doors. You glance up, slipping off the gloves you wore to tend to the newest arrival of white roses, carefully removing every damaged leaf and petal.

Your smile falters.

A man stands in the doorway—not just any man, but the most beautiful human you have ever seen.

You’ve had many visitors in the short year you’ve been in Giverny—locals and tourists alike. There is always a certain gentleness to the people who choose to step inside, those who pause in the midst of their days, their travels, to admire flowers, to buy them for their loved ones. You’ve seen it all—honeymooners exchanging delicate bouquets, old couples finding the smallest excuses to gift each other roses, solo travelers picking their favorite flowers to commemorate their journeys.

But never have you seen someone so heartbreakingly beautiful, so unbearably sad stepping into your shop.

“May I help you?” you ask.

He jolts, as if pulled from deep waters. His eyes meet yours across the shop, and it strikes you then—how effortlessly he belongs among the flowers. How his eyes resemble withering petals, how his sunken cheeks remind you of a bloom left untended.

You take pride in the way you’ve arranged your small shop. No flower is placed randomly, rather, you wanted them to speak to one another, talking in a language only few can understand. All your visitors have never failed to mention just how beautiful it looks. And yet, here he stands, untouched by its light.

“I’m just looking,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, and you have to lean in to catch its fragmented pieces. His gaze skims over the flowers, never lingering, never seeing.

“Is it your first time in Giverny?” you ask.

He nods, tucking his hands into his pockets. A white graphic tee clings to him, a plaid shirt tied loosely around his waist. A cross dangles from his neck. Your eyes trace the hollows of his cheeks—he is beautiful in the way shattered glass is. In the way standing amidst a storm is.

“It is,” he says curtly, then hesitates. “I’ll be here for a little while, though. Three or four months… We’ll see.”

“That’s exciting!” You smile, sidling closer. He smells of something sweet—flowers and musk, warmth and rain. “So, you don’t know what kind of flowers you’re looking for, do you?”

He shakes his head. “No.” He whispers it as if ashamed of not knowing.

“Then I’ll make you a welcome bouquet! On the house.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he murmurs, your eyes locking on his. all you see is his sadness, it’s everywhere, dripping over his face, staining his clothes, the very air around him. He’s so sad it makes you sad too.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I’d like to.”

A pause, then, something uncontainable prompts you to add—

“I know what it’s like to need to get away. Even if just for a little while.”

Your cheeks warm under his scrutinizing gaze. You’ve never been this bold with a stranger. Did you overstep?

But he only holds your eyes a moment longer before exhaling, a quiet breath through his nose.

“Thank you.”

You get to work. He lingers by your desk, watching as you deliberate over which flowers to pick. Minutes pass, and you can feel his gaze, burning as it traces the nape of your neck.

You know what to pick then. White Freesia—delicate, trumpet-shaped, the star of the bouquet. You pair them with Delphinium, deep blue against soft white, and baby’s breath, like a scattering of stars. A touch of foliage, then—

“What’s your favorite color?” you ask suddenly.

His eyes widen.

“Hm? Oh. Um—blue.”

You grin, reaching for blue wrapping paper. Scribbling a note, you tuck it into the bouquet before placing it in his hands.

“Ta-da,” you smile. “I hope I’ll see you again.”

It’s a courtesy to say to all your clients, but somehow you find yourself meaning it more when it comes to him. His sadness startles you, you do not know what must be roaming inside his mind for him to be this sorrowful— like an open wound, gushing droplets of blood for everyone to see.

“Will I? Right?” you suddenly add, a touch eager, worried.

His fingers delicately brush the petals.

“Yeah. You will.”

—

It is many hours later, the sky is dipped in an exquisite shade of midnight blue. Yet, sleep still refused to visit Hyunjin.

He lies awake, staring at the bouquet by his bedside. The note you wrote him itched behind his eyelids: Listen to the flowers. They’re always talking :)

He exhales, finally reaching for his phone. He types in a quick search: meaning of Freesia.

Friendship.

A small smile tugs at his lips.

Would you like to be his friend?

He doesn’t have much to offer. But maybe you’d like it if he just sat by your side while you tended to your flowers. He’ll make himself small too. You wouldn’t even feel his presence.

—

Hyunjin hesitates at your shop entrance— Anthomania, the dusty pink sign reads, swaying softly with the breeze. It’s around nine a.m., the quaint town slowly buzzing with life, like a swarm of bees swirling around the first blooms of spring. He’s clad in a white blouse, its first two buttons undone. His jade necklace rests comfortably by his collarbones, and he itches to touch it, to ground himself away from the anxiety thrumming right beneath his skin.

Is it too soon? To see you again in the very first hour of the next day? What if he had misread your gesture? What if the bouquet was nothing more than kindness, a simple marketing strategy? He must not be the only one you’ve given flowers to-

“Oh, hey!” you greet cheerfully, suddenly appearing beside him, a basket of fresh yellow tulips balanced on your hips. The scent of roses clings to you. Your eyes are so bright as if morning dew dripped into them too. You look happy, and it’s nine a.m., and Hyunjin doesn’t regret coming by as much as before.

“Hi,” he smiles, hesitant, awkwardly, only to wince inwardly. Is this what he has come to? Second guessing everything he does, even something as instinctive as smiling?

“I, um... I brought you croissants?” The statement tilts into a question as he lifts the paper bag, the warmth of the bakery still clinging to it. “As a thank you. For the bouquet. For—” He hesitates, his gaze flickering downward. “The Freesia. And… the friendship.”

Your lips curve into a smile, the morning sun catching on the glitter dusted across your eyelids. “So, you did listen to what the flowers had to say.”

You push the wooden door open, and he quickly follows.

“I looked up their meaning, if that’s what you mean.”

“It doesn’t sound nearly as romantic when you word it this way,” you pout, plucking the croissants from his hands. Hyunjin has to smile, pretend as if your words did not just stab him right across his chest in the middle of your shop. A gruesome act in the midst of beauty.

He too used to look for romance in everything. Not anymore. The more you seek it, the more it learns how to wound you.

He clears his throat, swallowing the phantom taste of blood before it can spill past his lips—before it can stain your flowers, stain you.

“I also looked up the meaning of Anthomania, an obsession with flowers in Latin. Are you?”

“Obsessed? You mean?” you giggle softly. “Given that I packed my bags and opened a florist shop in this town despite everyone’s warnings… I’d say yes.”

“Why Giverny?”

“I don’t know,” you muse, gaze drifting toward the window. Two children are walking hand in hand past Anthomania, their giggles make you smile for a fleeting instant. “Some places just feel right to our souls. Maybe because they know before we do that something beautiful is meant to happen there.”

You turn back to him, eyes warm. “Coffee?” You gesture toward the machine, and he nods, lost in thought.

“You seem distant,” you muse, gently placing a steaming cup of coffee before him. The scent of freshly ground beans drifts through the air, but it doesn’t spark anything within him—nothing like it once did. Not anymore. “Like your heart is elsewhere,” you finish.

“My heart?” He smiles softly, a breathy laugh escaping him. “Doesn’t the expression say your mind?”

You giggle, shaking your head. “Our minds wander all the time, that’s natural,” you say, voice trailing off as you study his face. “But you…” You hesitate, unsure. “You look like someone who’s been separated from their heart, and now, you’re almost grieving for it.”

He flinches.

Your eyes widen, and in a panic, you cover your mouth. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I said that I didn’t mean to—fuck, I’m sorry, I never think before I speak—”

“No, no,” he interrupts, shaking his head, his voice gentle. You quiet down, the color rising to your cheeks, and he feels it—seen, in ways he hadn’t thought possible. By a florist on the other side of the world, a stranger, a kind one, a beautiful one.

“You’re right.” His fingers tighten around the cup, his grip a little too tight. “I don’t think I can get my heart back. It feels like it’s buried somewhere far from me… I think I buried it,” he adds in a choked whisper, “that makes it worse.”

It strikes him how easily the words fall from his lips, how terrifying they are to say aloud. Yet, they slip out before you with no resistance, no shame. Maybe it’s the flowers—the thought that their petals might absorb the ugliness of his words, carry them away. Or maybe it’s just you, and the warmth of your gaze, that makes it feel safe to speak.

“Do you know where the lotus grows?” you suddenly ask.

He shakes his head, caught off guard by the shift in conversation.

“Their seeds are buried deep into the mud, forgotten at the bottom of still water. But then they germinate. They break through the darkness, reaching for the sun rays, until one day, they bloom, floating atop the water, untouched by the ugliness of where they have been, beautiful.” Your gaze softens. “Maybe your heart is simply being reborn. Give it time. It will find its way back to you.”

—

Hyunjin sits on a bench overlooking the Epte River, a fresh bouquet beside him—white lilies and pink tulips. Hope and warmth. He insisted on paying this time, slipping you a tip far too generous against your loudest protests.

For the first time in six months, something stirs within Hyunjin. Not quite sadness, not quite grief—something else.

His fingers itch for his charcoal pens, for his pastel watercolors. not to sketch the bouquet at his side, not to capture the river’s beauty. No, only to try, attempt to trace the memory of your smile.

He clenches his fingers into a tight fist. Not yet. But maybe… soon. When he finally learns the sound of your name.

That happens quicker than Hyunjin thought it would.

For three days, Hyunjin has watched his flowers with bated breath, waiting for the first petal to give in, for the first sign of decay. Then, at last, the freesia wilts, one trumpet falling to his bedside. And before he can think, Hyunjin is already out the door, following the familiar path that leads him to Anthomania.

“Back so soon?” you tease, grinning as he steps inside, the bell above chiming sweetly.

He falters beneath your gaze, almost self-conscious, as warmth creeps up his neck, blooming across his cheeks in shades of pink. “I—uh—sorry, I can just—” He gestures toward the door, flustered, but you only laugh, reaching for his wrist and pulling him deeper into the shop.

“Oh my god, I’m kidding! You’re always welcome here.”

The ghost of your touch lingers on his skin, almost burning him right where your fingers rested. It feels unfamiliar, strange—to feel anything other than sorrow resting in his bones.

“I wanted new flowers,” he finally says.

You giggle. “Are you opening a flower shop?”

“Yeah,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Competing with yours, actually.”

You pout, snipping the stems of the sunflowers piled up before you. “That’s unfair. People will keep coming to you just because you’re pretty.”

“So you think I’m pretty?” He grins, a smile that does not feel rehearsed, nor heavy on his face. He’s smiling because he simply wishes to.

“Well, you are. Aren’t you?” you simply say, as if there is no reason to be coy about something as evident as this.

His smile softens, so does his voice. “You’re very truthful.”

“Isn’t it a waste of time to hide how you feel about things? Flowers are beautiful, right? Why is it so easy to say? Why should it be any different for people?”

You aren’t lying, that is your philosophy, you’ve found that lies sit heavy on your lungs, as if you’re caging your breaths in. Hiding the truth feels even heavier, like stones wrapped around your ankles, pulling you down. But still, complimenting Hyunjin makes you feel uncharacteristically shy.

You don’t know what to make of him—this stranger who keeps on returning to see you, his sadness trailing him like a shadow, his eyes dimmed, as if he had to snuff out their light, to pretend as if no soul inhabits his body, so he’d be left alone. So he’d survive.

“You’re right,” he says, gaze flickering toward the street. “I hate lies. I really, really hate them.” he grows quieter, smaller.

Something within you tightens at his words, at the sincerity within them mostly. You set your flowers down, turn to face him with your pinky extended.

“Then I promise that I’ll never lie to you.”

He exhales, his shoulders releasing some of their tension. And after a moment, his pinky hooks around yours. “Neither will I.”

Your fingers are soft, delicate, and he notices that your eyeshadow matches your shirt today. Auburn, a color that makes your irises gleam. He wants to tell you you’re beautiful, but the words feel too fragile in his mouth. Not as easy for him as they are for you.

Hyunjin had come for flowers, but you do not rush him. Instead, you bring him a glass of fresh lemonade, mint leaves and lemon slices swirling in ice, and pull up a stool by the window. The shop is quiet, save for the music floating from the speakers—Neon Moon by Cigarettes After Sex. His pick. You have similar tastes.

He watches you, not in a way that unsettles you, but in a way that makes you hyper-aware of your hands, of your breath, of your heartbeat. Mostly, he looks at the flowers, asking questions, his curiosity insatiable—What does this one symbolize? And this one? And this? But still, it is you who feels scrutinized, as if bathed in a bright, glaring neon light.

A soft hour passes then—soft like the moon light brushing against the window, soft like the way he speaks, voice never rising above a murmur when he answers your questions.

“I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s your name?”

“Hyunjin.”

You taste it, let the letters settle on your tongue before swallowing it down. It will take root within you and bloom into something beautiful later, though you do not yet know it.

You say yours.

“And what do you do, Hyunjin?” his name already feels familiar for you to speak.

“I’m a painter. Was. I… I’m not really sure.” he almost cowers in his place, you pretend as if you don’t notice, but your grip on the scissors falter.

“Was?” you echo.

“I haven’t painted in six months.”

Oh.

“Are you taking a break?”

“No. I… I actually,” he pauses, sighing. “I don’t want to lie to you, so I’d rather not answer,” he says, voice quiet, almost pleading, as if baring a wound too raw to support the weight of his words.

“It’s okay,” you smile, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. You can see his moles from this up close, the shape of his velvety lips as they part to exhale.

“I’d like to tell you, it’s just…”

“Does it hurt you?”

He nods, sudden tears glistening in his waterline. The sight makes something within you crumble. You know this pain—the kind that lingers just beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest touch to release it.

“The burden will ease with time. And then you’ll be able to speak of it. Your pain will be released into the wind, and the wind will scatter it away. it always does.”

“Will it still hurt this much?” he asks, lip trembling as he gazed up at you, pupils wide and lost

“It will be bearable. and soon you’ll grow accustomed to it. And then it will become a friend.”

“I suck at making friends though,” he says earnestly and you both burst into giggles.

“I don't think so. Look, you have befriended me.”

“Yeah, you’re my friend.” he smiles like the afternoon sun, like he has forgotten the warmth he used to carry at his zenith. “I'm happy you are.”

—

Hyunjin first met Scarlet in his art gallery, where the winter winds seemed to carry her in, sweeping past the doorway with each click of her heels.

She moved gracefully through the room, pausing before every painting, her crimson lips pressing together as she tilted her head to the side. Contemplating. Now and then, a hand would drift to her raven hair, tucking it behind her ear, twirling it between her delicate fingers. He was drawn to her— to her olive skin, the depth in her brown eyes, the curve of her neck that seemed to call his name.

Scarlet was a sculptor, and like the name she bore, she was vivid, untamed, catching the eyes of everyone around her. And she basked in their gaze, feeding on their admiration like it was the very oxygen she breathed.

She loved Hyunjin loudly, extravagantly, parading him through the world as if to say, Look what I have found. An artist who only has eyes for me. She draped him in praise, her voice ringing clear for all to hear. And for a while, he believed it.

But Scarlet did not love him—not in the way he had hoped. She loved his brightest hues, the fire in his hands, the sound of his name murmured in circles of art and acclaim. She stood beside him in the gallery, basking in the applause for his paintings as though it belonged to her. She loved the lights, the cameras, the way his gaze softened when it landed on her.

But she did not love his blues—the quiet ache that spilled from him when inspiration faded. She did not love the weight in his voice when he longed for a hand to hold, for a shoulder to rest upon. When the fire in him dimmed, when he was no longer the sun with planets orbiting at his feet, she withdrew. almost bored. He saw it in the flicker of her eyes, in the way her attention wandered elsewhere. As if he was a burden to care for, to tend to.

Hyunjin came to understand that Scarlet did not love him. Not truly. Not despite the way she swore she did. Not despite the way she kissed him before what turned to be his final work trip, her lips scorching against his skin. “So you’d carry me with you,” she had whispered, winking, leaving a mark on his neck like a signature, like a brand.

And he did carry her, he still does—like a weight wrapped around his ankles, like smoke filling his lungs, thick with the taste of his own shortcomings. He was not enough for her. And if he was not enough for her, then perhaps he would never be enough at all. in anything he does.

But the sting on his neck eases when he’s near you.

A month has passed since he arrived in Giverny. He has seen little of it—only the lake that stretches beyond his window, and you.

You do not shy away from his silence. If anything, your smile brightens when you see him. You do not speak of his withering career, his lost passion. You do not question why he needs flowers twice a week, and why he needs to talk to you for an hour—sometimes two, sometimes three—before deciding which blooms to pick. what words he’d like to convey to you without speaking.

Except for once.

He was lingering by the lilies, his fingers gently caressing their pink petals, tracing the lines of crimson right in their middle. Though it took him all his will to not look at you, again, more than what’s deemed socially acceptable. To capture you in his mind since he cannot do so with his pens.

“I saw your paintings,” you suddenly said, words coming out in a rushed string. He froze in his place, hand hovering over the rosy flowers. You sidled up to him. You smelled sweeter than all the blooms combined.

“I looked you up. I was curious and I… I can’t stop thinking of your paintings. They are exquisite Hyunjin.” you said with a conviction that seemed to rekindle something with him, a fire to paint even better so you’d compliment him more.

“Really?” he asked, turning to look at you. His eyes searched yours, looking for something, a reassurance, that he wasn’t a lost cause, that you’d look at him the way you do withering flowers, with the same affection as fully blooming ones.

“Yes. Your use of color… it’s breathtaking. It’s as if you give them voices, emotions, a soul almost. Especially that blue painting, the man screaming. His eyes… they feel endless, like sorrow spilling over. It’s so—” You stopped yourself, laughing. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“No—no,” he rushed to say, stepping closer, a flush creeping up his neck. “Please. Tell me more.”

And you did.

Over a chocolat chaud at your favorite pâtisserie, you pulled up each of his paintings, tracing every detail you loved with words only an outsider to art could offer—unpolished, unrestrained, but brimming with wonder. You asked him questions, too. What inspired you? Why this color, this shape, this technique? Which one was your favorite? Your hardest? Your loneliest?

You talked and talked, until the drink grew cold but his heart felt lighter than it had in months.

Hyunjin was no stranger to praise—he was South Korea’s youngest millionaire-painter, after all. His work was admired, auctioned, owned. And yet, no compliment had ever felt quite like yours—so eager, so sincere, so soothing.

That evening, he walked you home, stopping just before your front door, neither of you quite willing to part.

“Can I have your number?” he asked suddenly.

You tilted your head, smiling.

“For… for the flowers,” he added, a little too quickly. “So I can order them, you know, in advance?”

“Right,” you giggled, typing your number into his phone. His fingers brushed against yours, his soul felt like it was cleaved wide open.

That night, he lay in bed, staring at your empty conversation, heart thrumming. Finally, he types a message.

thank you for today :) i dont think i expressed it well, but your words made me happy

really

Two seconds.

of course!!!

And then—

idk what happened hyunjin, but… i think art will find you again,, i don’t think a painter like you could ever stop painting

it’d be a waste for our world, really

He reads your words again and again, a quiet smile curling at the corners of his lips. They linger in his mind as his fingers brush the worn spine of his sketchbook, as he coaxes it open after months of neglect. And then he draws for the first time in months—nothing grand, nothing worth sharing, surely. Just a rose at first, simple and familiar, like the path to Anthomania.

Then, he turns the page. His posture shifts; he leans into his desk, back curved, brow furrowed in concentration. Time spins forward unnoticed. He doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath till he finally exhales it, putting his pen down. he sees it then, what he painted in his insatiable frenzy. it’s you, smelling the rose.

He sleeps with a blooming blush on his face that night, as the inks in his dream bleeds into the color of your lips, the lines of his sketches softening into those of your silhouette.

—

Hyunjin started texting you more after that—on the days he forced himself not to drop by your flower shop. Because, yes, you said he was your friend, still, he didn’t know how many visits it’d take for you to realize he’s not worthy of friendship, or love, or the warm way you gaze at him.

But he was still greedy, drinking in the way conversations between you flowed as easily as rushing water. You spoke of everything and nothing: your favorite flower—tulips, his favorite painter—Monet. The way he missed the iced americanos from home, his deep disdain for eggplants, your love for glittery eyeshadow, and the names of the stars outside your window.

Your messages became a breath of fresh air to him, a little sanctuary hidden within his phone, filled with pictures of the blooms you carefully arranged each morning. He had no paintings to send in return, so instead, he captured his walks by the river, the way sunlight draped over the fruit he laid on his checkered picnic cloth.

Then, it turned to calls, and Hyunjin’s world shifted when your voice rang like an answered prayer through his phone. He was initially timid, calling you to check if you had sunflowers in your shop. It was an excuse, really, because it was nearing midnight and he felt terribly lonely in a way only you can soothe.

Your conversation didn’t stop then. Instead, it continued like the turning of books, spilling from one page to another. You were both so curious about one another, that it seemed as if you never ran out of questions to ask.

“When did you think of becoming a florist?” He asked you one night, the rustling of your sheets told him you were shifting in bed, in search of comfort.

“When I was five.” His eyes fluttered shut, as if to better listen, to pretend you were near. “My mom used to have lots of flowers in our backyard, and I’d tend to them on the weekends and vacation. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life surrounded by beauty, and wisdom.”

“Wisdom?” he asks.

“Mm.” And he can imagine you lying on your back, staring up at your ceiling. He suddenly wishes he was next to you, holding your hand as you spoke. “Everything I know is from flowers.”

“What’s the most valuable lesson, you think?”

You’re quiet for a long while, only the softness of your breathing ringing through the phone. It lulls him to a peaceful place he hasn’t set foot in in a long time. Somewhere where his worries drift away, carried by the tide of your presence.

“That flowers always bloom again. Even when the winter stretches for months and months, and the cold feels so harsh you forget what the sun ever felt like. Even then, the flowers will bloom once more. Winter passes, and spring comes.”

He bites his lip, as if trying to sew shut his mouth, physically stopping the strings of words from rolling off his tongue. And yet, they win.

“You feel like spring, little florist.”

A sharp inhale. Yours. A breath, unsteady. His. He wishes to bury himself within his covers. He wishes he could teleport to you.

“Thank you, Hyune.” The nickname settles against the sore places in his chest. He felt bruised by it, split open in the gentlest way.“I hope you have dreams as sweet as you.”

Hyunjin didn't sleep that night, not when his heart hadn’t felt this alive in an eternity, bursting with colors he hadn't seen in so long.

The phone calls continued, night after night, your voice coming to him as his own breath. still, no matter how much he enjoyed seeing your name light up his screen, nothing compared to you in person. Watching your expressions shift with his every word, witnessing your hands coax life into each bouquet, the warmth you pour nto every customer you spoke to.

People seemed to leave your shop a little lighter, as if you had tucked something magical between their petals. Hyunjin knew why. It’s because you understood flowers beyond their beauty, saw meaning even in the ones with bruised roots and browning leaves. And it is that same compassion you extended to humans. Though you seemed unaware of how much grace you carried within you.

It moved him. It unraveled him.

Hyunjin hadn’t known what he had been yearning for these past six months. The ache had been constant, an insatiable hunger for something nameless, a restlessness settling right beneath his skin, an itch he could not scratch. But now he knows—he has always been longing for kindness.

Your kindness, to be exact.

“You haven’t been to Monet’s house?!” you exclaim, eyes wide in disbelief. It’s your lunch break, and Hyunjin has brought you seafood pasta from a place he discovered on one of his walks.

“No, I haven’t seen much of Giverny, to be honest,” he admits.

“But you’ve been here for forty-five days.”

“Have you been counting?” he smirks, teasing.

“No,” your voice grows an octave higher, “it just coincided with a big shipment of roses, that’s all.” (That is a half-truth.)

You clear your throat, waving a hand dismissively in the air. “Anyways, let’s go tomorrow!”

Hyunjin’s heart plummets to his knees. You must notice it—the flicker in his expression, the slight falter in his gaze.

“Don’t you want to go?”

He says nothing. Your voice softens.

“Do you want to go alone?”

Hyunjin sighs, taking a long sip of the strawberry lemonade you prepared that day. The sweetness of the fruit makes it easier for him to speak.

“I told you that Monet is my favorite painter, right? When I started painting, I’m talking thirteen, fourteen, I was obsessed with technique, with proving that my paintings could be as realistic as possible. But then I discovered impressionism. And I… I fell in love with it. I realized that abstraction could hold even more emotion, even more depth than realistic paintings. And I… I’ve always wanted to see Monet’s gardens, to see what inspired so many of my favorite paintings.” He sucks in a deep breath, “but I’m scared… I’m terrified I’ll sit there amidst so much beauty and still feel nothing. That I won’t feel inspired. That I won’t wish to paint again.”

You nod, understanding, your eyes softening like silk honey. A quiet settles between you before your face brightens.

“Isn’t it good then? If you don’t feel inspired right away then we’ll have an excuse to visit such a beautiful place again.”

He exhales, something in his chest loosening.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Find a silver lining in everything I say.”

You smile, almost melancholic, your gaze lost somewhere else. “I believe life is made up of lots of sorrows and lots of silver linings.” Your eyes meet his again. “Since my house burned down, I now own a better view of the moon… It’s a Japanese quote,” you clarify after a heartbeat. “I’m not that good with words.”

“Really? I find that I like your words much more,” he says, earnestly.

Both your fingers twitch at the same time.

Do yours hungrily want to reach for his too?

—

You like Hyunjin.

It seemed to be an inevitable outcome, one you didn’t even try to outrun, a tide you did not resist, instead, letting the water carry you wherever it saw fit. It’s as if you knew it was bound to happen when he set foot into Anthomenia for the first time, when his eyes glazed over the flowers with so much sorrow it felt like thorns curling around your throat. When he returned, again and again, when you started awaiting him with your breath clenched between your teeth. When you selfishly wished your flowers would wilt faster just so you’d be able to see him again.

It was inevitable for you to like Hyunjin. The beautiful man who sees beauty in everything but himself. The tortured painter with a heart so bruised you’re scared a single press of your thumb would be his undoing, like an overripe fruit, so sensitive to any touch, aching to be treated with tenderness.

You do not expect anything out of this crush. You do not expect him to reciprocate your feelings. You don’t think he ever would; even fantasizing of him thinking of you as fondly as you think of him makes you feel like you’re floating on cotton clouds. But then, the plummeting would only hurt even more, wouldn’t it? The sweetest dreams always ache at their zenith right before they dissolve into nothingness.

But you understand Hyunjin, in ways even you can’t fully describe or explain. In ways you aren’t sure he would himself. You can’t fault him for that— Hyunjin can only see your glittering surface. After all, you’ve gotten better at concealing your anguish, worn it for so long it has become a second skin to you.

But what matters is that you understand Hyunjin. It is because you understand that you wish for his spark to come back.

A life with no spark is no life, after all.

Hyunjin is growing increasingly nervous as you wait in line to enter Monet’s home and gardens. He’s fiddling with his Vetements t-shirt, tucking his hand into his jeans only to remove them once again. His fingers twist his jade necklace, then spin the rings adorning his hand, only to reach for his necklace once more.

You stare right ahead as you finally take hold of his fingers, entwining them softly with yours. You can feel him staring at you, his gaze burning the curve of your neck as his hand goes limp in your hold. He looks at you, and you look ahead. You’re scared of what he will read in your trembling irises if you dare hold his gaze.

But he doesn’t let go. Only holding on to you tighter, his thumb swiping gently across your palm. Your wrist. Anywhere its softness can reach.

You’ve been within these colorful gardens countless times before. On your first day in Giverny and once per month since, without fail, except when it closes for Winter.

Yet, you are always as bewitched by how beautifully arranged the gardens are, by how vastly their greenery stretches before your eyes. There is beauty to behold wherever your eyes rest, conversations between blooms to catch at every corner. You smell the mingling fragrances— the sweetness of roses and the citrus of orange blossoms. You hear the birds, singing and rejoicing in seeing another day, the rush of water carving its path through stones.

It is buzzing with life, the nature that seems to stretch its hand at you, beckoning you into the warmest of embraces.

Though today, you do not heed its call. Today, you hold on to Hyunjin’s hand.

He doesn’t let go of your hold as he slowly strolls around, stopping by the dahlias, breath caught in his throat as a bee buzzes around a nearby crimson peony. He leans into a yellow rose, his nose nearly brushing the dewdrops gathered on its petals. He breathes in beauty, lets it fill the hollows within him, and you watch—because seeing it through his eyes makes it all the more beautiful.

He smiles as he climbs the stairs of the home. As he pauses in the living room, taking in the dozen paintings hung on the wall—A Woman with a Parasol, The Water Lily Pond, Impression, Sunrise, Poppies, Bouquet of Sunflowers. Then, the lively bedrooms scattered around the home, the vibrant blue kitchen, the Japanese prints, and the pink orchid.

There is a little magic to his step as you follow the flowery path to the Water Lily Pond, with bamboo trees greeting you on your walk. He pulls you onto a bench, his eyes fixed on the turquoise and the floating water lilies, rootless yet still as happy, as beautiful. Like Hyunjin.

You can’t be as truthful as you wish around him anymore. Every compliment is starting to taste like a confession to you.

“I was in love with a girl,” he says, resting your interwoven hands upon his thigh. Your breath stumbles. You did not expect the sharp, sudden sting of jealousy latching onto your ribs, the burn of it. You look at the pond, hoping the water will rise from its place and douse the fire in your chest.

“She was my muse for the longest time. I was foolish, so I… I placed my heart within her palms. Here, take it, it’s yours, I told her. I was too blinded by my own need to be loved to realize that she didn’t love me.”

You steal a glance at him to find his eyes closed, his head leaning back. He’s so beautiful it almost feels like a dagger pressed against your throat.

“She cheated on me. In my own bed. While I was away for work,” he whispers, but his words still ring loudly in your ear. His words are so violent they feel out of place in such a beautiful setting. You swallow them. You don’t let him bear their weight alone.

“I don’t love her anymore. I think it evaporated the moment I saw her with him. But what hurts–” His voice trembles, and when he turns to you, his eyes are glistening, “what kills me is that I showed her all of me. I bared my soul to her, and it did not matter. It wasn’t enough for her to love me. And I… I don’t paint out of thin air, I paint out of my soul. I pour from myself onto the canvas. And if what makes me me isn’t worthy, then how could my paintings ever be enough? How could I ever be enough? In anything, to anyone?”

What do you do when someone hands you their bruised heart, bloody and butchered, when they unveil their deepest pains under the scorching sunlight, out in the open, with nowhere to hide it, nowhere to cancel it? What do you do with this violence? How do you undo it? How do you soothe it?

You don’t know. You wish you knew, more than ever before, as Hyunjin looks at you—almost expectantly, pleadingly—as if he has been waiting for months to speak these words to another soul. To unveil it.

Release me. You could almost hear it on the tip of his tongue. Please. Please. Please.

“Hyunjin,” you choke, your thumbs sweeping away the reflections of the swaying branches on his tear-streaked skin. “Hyunjin, Hyunjin, Hyunjin,” you repeat, as if he could hear the weight his name carries, the way it has taken roots within your ribs. “You are enough. You were enough before her, and you will remain so after.”

His lower lip trembles and quakes; you can feel that he’s standing on the precipice of unraveling, completely, loose threads falling apart at the slightest gust of wind. You can’t stitch him back together, you can’t order the wind to pause in its travels. But you can speak.

“Don’t torture yourself over things that aren’t your doing. She may have been your inspiration, but she was never the sole core of your talent. That is all you, Hyunjin. Your kindness is you, and your paintings are you. No matter who you loved, or if you had loved no one at all. You still would have made it here. Because you are Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin exhales, a sound between a sigh and a sob. “What if I feel like nothing without her?”

“She’s only everything because you’ve given her your entire self. She’s everything because you see in her a reflection of yourself. Your beautiful self.” You exhale softly. His tears gather at his lashes like petals trembling before the fall.

“We promised not to lie to one another, didn’t we?” you say, voice barely above a breath. “I’ve been lonely here, Hyunjin. Not physically. But something has been missing. A friend. You. Having you here makes me happy. And someone who isn’t beautiful could never make the world more beautiful just by being in it.” You smile, your nose tip almost resting against his. “You are enough, Hyunjin. Her wrongdoings aren’t your fault.”

He nods, closing his eyes, leaning into the warmth of your palm, his lips almost brushing against your skin. “I want to paint again. I miss it terribly.”

“You will.”

His next words are softer than the wind rustling the trees. “I drew you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Did I turn out pretty?”

He smiles like a spring sun, warm and kind on your soul. “Of course. It would be impossible for you to be otherwise.”

—

Something has shifted.

Like sailing winds catching the perfect speed to carry a boat to safety, something within Hyunjin has clicked into place. Eased is the better way to describe it, as if his heart, once sinking like a stone in his chest, now floats weightlessly along his ribs, unrestrained.

He has been happier since stepping out of Monet’s house, his smile blooming the way flowers do in spring, the way water rushes down a waterfall, like a second nature.

He pauses before you, the sun that has pulled him from the dark, clasping his hands together. You smile, tilting your head, and his heart swoons at the simple motion, swaying as if caught in the wind.

“Should we rent bikes?” he asks, grinning. “There’s so much I haven’t seen in Giverny.”

You pout, teasing. “Is my shop no longer enough for you?”

He shakes his head fervently. “No, no, your shop is still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” His eyes widen with (exaggerated) sincerity. “I think all the other florists never stood a chance against you. In fact, every flower shop in the world should close right now!”

You laugh as he throws an arm over your shoulder, pulling you close. He leans into you instinctively, as if he belongs there, inhaling your flowery scent, borrowing your warmth.

“Alright, alright,” you giggle, “I’ll be your tour guide, then.”

True to your word, the two of you spend the afternoon biking—past the river, through the narrow streets of Giverny, past the old Mill of Vernon and the Impressionism Museum where flowers sketch your path. The sun sinks behind you, spilling watercolors across the sky. The wind tousles Hyunjin’s hair, and he feels it for the first time in a long time—what it must be like to be a bird. Free. Unbound. Guided by nothing but the pull of his own heart.

You keep glancing over your shoulder as you bike ahead of him, tossing excruciatingly beautiful smiles his way. He feels them in his chest, burning and ablaze where coldness once sat.

By the time you stop to rest, you’re both breathless, slightly sweaty but pleasantly exhausted.

He can already sense it– you’re only seconds away from saying you should head back, but he’s still not satiated of you, he doesn't think he ever will. “Come home with me. I want to cook for you. As a thank you.”

His cheeks are rosy, his chest rising and falling as he awaits your response. He prays you won’t say no. He thinks he’s ready to beg at your feet if you refuse.

But your smile is warm, your gaze soft as it traces the contours of his face. You’re already saying yes with your eyes.

“Depends. What will you cook for me, Mr. Hwang?”

“Anything you’d like.”

That turns out to be just ramyeon as Hyunjin quickly realizes his fridge is unfit for anything more elaborate. He peers inside, dismayed, and you burst into laughter at his expression, clutching the sides of your stomach. But as you watch him move around the kitchen, speaking excitedly about all the paintings he’s inspired to create now, your laughter slowly fades.

Because you see it then—a vision. Hyunjin cooking you breakfast tomorrow. And the day after. And the years to come. You see yourself standing up, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing a tender kiss to the nape of his neck. It’s so vivid, so sweet to imagine that it disarms you. Leaves you aching and pulsing for nothing. Like a heart beating with no blood flowing through it.

The vision lingers, syrup-thick, as Hyunjin hands you a steaming bowl of noodles. And when he gently wipes a smudge of sauce from the corner of your lips—when he licks it from his own thumb without thinking—your pulse stutters. His gaze darkens, storms brewing behind his irises. You feel as if he’s kissing you with his eyes alone, touching you as he stands a few feet away.

Hyunjin only manages to steady himself when you both settle in the canopy in his backyard, sipping the peach lemonade you made for him days ago, listening to the cicadas humming far away. The breeze is cool against his collarbones. The full moon bathes you both in silver light.

It seems closer tonight, as if watching over him. As if urging him to speak.

“Can I paint you?” he asks suddenly. “I… I’d like to paint you with you here.”

You blink, caught off guard, before placing your hand over his.

“I’d love that, Hyune.” You smile softly. “But tonight, I’d rather you paint yourself. I think it would help you see that you don’t need any muse but you.”

The sincerity in your voice makes him ache, makes him want to collapse into your arms with the certainty that you would catch him. You didn’t run when his pain shadowed you, when his tears slipped down your palm like salty rivulets. You didn’t let go.

He feels you within him now—a soft mass of stars and sunlight, resting below his ribs, expanding, glowing, loving.

So he does exactly that.

As the night weaves itself forward, the two of you settle into his room—you curled up on his bed, thumbing through a book, while he brings out his oil paints, the scent of turpentine invading his senses at once, like an old friend. The sight of you in his room drives him to the edge of delirium. You belong in his home, in his heart, so effortlessly that it makes something deep in his chest ache.

The conversation drifts in and out between you, like waves kissing the shore—never fully retreating, never fully letting go. Shadows stretch and soften beneath the moonlight. You are half-asleep when his voice stirs you awake.

“What do you think, little florist?”

He tilts the painting toward you, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

It is a portrait of himself—but not as the world sees him. Rendered in deep Prussian and Manganese blue, abstract save for his eyes, which shimmer with unshed tears caught in the waterline. Yet his expression is not sorrow. No, it speaks of reverence. As if he is gazing upon something unbearably beautiful. Something so profound, it threatens to undo him.

You.

Your breath catches as you push yourself up, eyes widening.

“My God, you are so talented,” you whisper, stepping beside him, drawn in by the painting. He almost—almost—lets his head rest against your side but stops himself. Instead, your hand finds his shoulder, grounding, warm. You squeeze gently.

“How you ever thought you weren’t good enough is beyond me. This is the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen. I mean it.”

His ears burn. He feels their warmth creeping down his neck, this unbearable, tender shyness you seem to bring out in him every time.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a breath.

Your gaze flickers to the window, to the darkened sky. “It’s 3 a.m. already?” you murmur, blinking as exhaustion settles over you.

He hesitates for only a moment before reaching out, fingers curling lightly around your wrist.

“Stay the night.” It isn’t a demand, nor is it casual—it is hesitant, hopeful. “Unless you want me to take you home. I will, of course, but—I’d like you here.”

A pause. Two paths forging before you.

“I’d like that too.”

You change into the oversized T-shirt and pair of shorts he hands you, the fabric hanging loose around your frame. It smells like him—like paint and something sweet, something flowery too, as if he carries Anthomania on his skin like you do.

As you climb into his bed, he lights a single vanilla candle, its flame wavers, and you watch it for a while, thinking. The bed is wide enough that you do not have to touch. And yet—like a moth to a flame, like a flower bending instinctively toward the light—something in you aches to move closer. To rest against him. To rest in him.

He feels the same.

It starts with his hand, inching toward yours.

Then, the slow, tentative brush of his pinky against your skin, gently tracing the contours of your palm. Your fingers slide over his, resting there.

“You’re still awake,” he murmurs, voice low and drowsy.

“So are you.”

He hums softly, and his thumb begins to move—small, absentminded circles against your skin. As if his body has decided to reach for you before his mind can catch up.

You shift onto your side, edging closer, and now you can see him fully—the candlelight catching on his cheekbone, the way his dark hair spills onto the pillow. His eyes flicker open at the movement, lazy and heavy-lidded, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

A pause. A heartbeat.

Then, softer, more vulnerable, he whispers, “Can I hold you?”

Your heart stumbles. For a moment, neither of you breathe.

“Can I tell you something first?” you ask, fully turning toward him, and he follows suit. Your fingers inch toward his face, ghosting over the mole by his eye, the one near the bridge of his nose, then down to his jaw, tracing his pulse where it beats wildly beneath your touch.

“Anything, little florist.”

You swallow. “I’ve never been in love before. And I’ve never been loved. I’ve spent the better part of my life craving a feeling that always seemed just out of reach.” A sad smile tugs at your lips. Hyunjin’s eyes soften at your confession. “It’s as if I’ve been deprived of something monumental and grand, something I searched for in everything I did.” You bite your lip. “And I like you, Hyunjin. I like you a lot. As silly as it is, because you are you and I am me, but it would kill me if you only wanted to hold me as a friend.”

“Shh, what are you saying?” he whispers, his thumb brushing over your lips, soft and reverent. “can’t you see it? you are the one who brought me back to life. I was a wilted thing before you. i feel as if you watered me, like one of your flowers.”

“Well, you are as beautiful as a flower.” A tear slips past your lashes. “And I am just a florist.” Perhaps it’s the late hour, or the way his warmth lulls you toward something soft, something safe. Or maybe it’s because the most beautiful person you’ve ever met is looking at you as if you are something holy.

But you start crying, unyielding tears coating your cheeks in their wetness. You don’t cry prettily nor quietly, but Hyunjin doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t leave before this gushing wound you’ve carried—this thirst for love you could never quench—now overflowing, too much, too much, too much.

Instead, he gently takes your hand, and presses it over his chest. Beneath your palm, his heart pounds wildly, you cannot fathom that it is your doing.

“I think you’re more beautiful than all the flowers combined.” His knuckle tenderly wipes your tears away. “And I adore you, my little florist. Not as a friend. In case that wasn’t clear.” He giggles, and so do you, something light and giddy coming to life between you.

“Then, can you hold me? Please.”

And he does. Instantly, greedily—his arms curling around you, pulling you into the warmth of him. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, letting him breathe you in. You both sigh at once, as if you’ve been waiting your whole lives to reach this moment. As if you have spent too many years with no safe space to exhale.

“So, you like me?” he asks, pressing a tender kiss to your hair.

“I think I’ve made it pretty clear.” You smile, and he laughs.

“You feel warm,” he whispers, voice quieter now. “And safe. I never thought I’d feel this way again.” His nose tip grazes yours tenderly. “Please don’t hurt me, my little florist.”

“I think I’d rather hurt myself,” you confess, gently tucking away strands of his hair behind the cuff of his ear.

“Then, never mind. Hurt me instead,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you to cry anymore.”

“Are you trying to outdo me?”

“Mm, just need to prove I like you more.”

You giggle quietly, blushing. It’s nearly five a.m. now.

“I feel like I’m dreaming, Hyunjin. I’m scared I’ll wake up and won’t find you near.”

“I’m here,” he reassures, placing a tender kiss on the crown of your head. “I won’t leave. But would you wait for me? There are parts of myself I still need to heal before I can love you properly. You understand, right?”

“Love?” you echo.

“Is it too soon?” He shakes his head. “You know, I don’t care. I know that if we continue this way, I’ll only end up loving you. I think I’ve always known.”

“So did I,” you grin like the sun. “But I won’t wait for you from afar. I’ll hold your hand till you become even happier.”

He exhales, eyes fluttering shut. It looks like the milky way is swimming within his eyes once they lock on you. “I want to love you so much you’ll forget what it felt like to not be loved. I will. I promise you.”

And you believe him.

“Can you start tonight?”

It happens then—both of you moving at once, drawn together like tides to the moon, like roots seeking water. Your lips meet and something inside you quakes, shatters, is born again. His kiss is gentle, reverent, the kind of softness that makes your skin prickle, makes you ache in places you didn’t know could.

He tastes like peaches, like flowers, like the way his name sounds in your mouth. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into the curve of you, tracing the length of your spine as if memorizing the shape of you, as if afraid you might slip away. And you are floating, slipping in and out of consciousness, dizzy with warmth, with his touch, with the way his lips seek yours again and again, as if he could kiss you for eternity and it still wouldn’t be enough to quench his thirst.

Your hand is the first to move beneath his shirt, fingertips grazing over his fevered skin. He shudders, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

And Hyunjin swears he could die like this—if this is death, he would meet it ten times over at your hands.

He is everywhere, all-encompassing, warm, and tender, the weight of him pressing into you, anchoring you to this moment. Still he keeps asking, voice unsteady— Would you like me to stop? Tell me and I will. His fingers slip down the ridges of your stomach, tracing every dip, every line of yours, and your answer remains the same, pleading— No, keep going, please. please. You are a flower cracking through the hard soil, unfurling, meeting the light for the first time.

You have your answer then— why Giverny? It was to find him. It was to be found. It drapes over you like a certainty a year later, when his arm wraps around your shoulders, his chin resting on the crown of your head. As you gaze at the series of paintings he’s created over the past seven months— every bouquet you’ve ever made him since his first visit to you. Your gaze drifts to the central piece of his newest exposition— you, looking out of his window, laying on a bed of wildflowers, the light grazing your bare back like a lover.

He titled it Anthomania. An obsession with you.

[reilemon]

Beneath The Abyss - pt. 2

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠ ♡︎ part 1

♡︎ synopsis: Though it's only been a few days, you miss Rafayel too much. So you decide to go visit him, the full moon illuminating your path.

♡︎ pairing: merman!Rafayel x fem!reader

♡︎ tags: almost no plot, fluff, smut, just a tiny bit of merman heat i guess, multiple orgasms

♡︎ word count: 5.9k

♡︎ a/n: well, here's the sequel. maybe this summer i'll write some more for merman!Rafayel.

♡︎ Thank you to my dearest friend and my beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @/anitalenia

The air is warm and heavy, still carrying a trace of the rain from the past few days. Streetlamps cast their golden glow, their light turning streets of cobblestones into scattered amber. A soft hum of cicadas fills the quiet, mingling with the voices of people who are passing by, and still sitting in cafes.

You walk side by side with Thomas, carrying a small paper bag with dessert, a token of the dinner you’ve just shared—a simple meal in a quiet restaurant, filled with laughter and memories of childhood.

“I’m glad you could make time tonight,” Thomas says, his voice warm and genuine. “It’s been ages since I’ve had a night like this.”

“You’re the one who always says he’s too busy to visit.” you tease, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

He chuckles. “True. And I’m here more for work than leisure.” he admits, glancing down the street. “On top of the exhibition preparation, I somehow need to find time to visit the beach house.”

“Oh right.” You glance at him. “Your grandmother…”

He nods. “It’s a beautiful place, but I haven’t had the time to do much with it.”

“Do you need help?” you offer instinctively. “I could—”

He gives you a faint smile. “I’ll let you know when I make some room in my schedule.” His gaze shifts back to the street ahead, his fingers brushing thoughtfully over his chin. “Maybe one day I’ll turn it into a proper getaway spot.”

His idea stirs something in you—a thought, half-formed and fleeting. You tuck it away for now. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

Thomas hums in agreement. “I think so. I don’t know why my grandmother held on to it all these years, even after she stopped going. There must be something special about it, you know?”

You nod, wondering the same thing.

Slowly you reach a familiar turn, and you glance up instinctively. Above, the night sky is adorned with glittering stars and a bright full moon. For a moment, its beauty takes your breath away—but then a memory seeps in.

Rafayel had mentioned this week would bring a full moon, his tone serious. “Don’t come,” he had said, his hand brushing your arm tenderly. “I - ... Full moon… strong.” But that night had felt so far away then, the days stretching endlessly. Now, you’ve endured three nights of relentless thunderstorms since that intimate night by the cove. Three long nights without seeing him. The ache of missing him pricks in your chest, and you make your decision.

“Thomas,” you say, glancing at him. “I’ll be fine from here.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas’s brow furrows slightly with concern. “It’s late.”

You nod with a reassuring smile.

He lets out a sigh of resignation. “Alright. But promise to text me when you get home.”

“I promise.” you say.

Thomas watches you for a moment longer. “Goodnight, then.” he says finally, stepping closer, his arms pulling you into a familiar, warm hug.

“Goodnight.” you reply, stepping back and watching as he continues down the street. When he disappears around the corner, you take a deep breath and, with a determined turn, you leave the main road behind. The air grows cooler as your feet take you down the hidden path toward the sea, each step quickening your heart.

₊‧.°.⋆🫧•˚₊‧⋆.

The cove is illuminated under the full moon’s silver glow. The air smells fresh, tinged with salt and the faint remnants of rain, and as you step onto the sand, you brace yourself for chaos. You expect the aftermath of the storms to greet you—branches tangled with seaweed, leaves and litter scattered haphazardly. But instead, the sight makes you pause. The debris has been moved, branches and leaves piled to the side, leaving the shore surprisingly pristine.

Your heart stirs as you glance around. Was it him?

You take a few more steps, scanning the water, the shadows, and the rocks along the shore. Your purse slips from your shoulder, and you place it carefully on the sand along with the bag of dessert, but your eyes are fixed elsewhere. You squint at the surface of the sea, searching for a hint of movement, for the unmistakable glimmer of dusky purple hair catching the moonlight. Minutes pass, and your excitement begins to fade into disappointment. Maybe he isn’t here after all. You sigh, reaching for your belongings with reluctance. You glance one last time toward the horizon, feeling the ache of the past few nights without him.

But then—movement. A subtle shimmer far in the distance, not the moon’s light on the water but something else - two glowing specks, faint but unmistakable. Your breath catches, and your heart leaps. Those aren’t reflections—they’re eyes. His eyes.

A smile pulls at your lips, and you straighten instinctively, the heaviness in your chest fading away. You take a step closer to the edge of the water, unable to keep from whispering his name softly into the night, the sweet sound of your voice carried by the gentle breeze. Those glowing specks blink once, twice, and then, they begin to move closer.

He closes the distance so quickly, it steals your breath. Though you know Rafayel is a faster swimmer than any human, you’re still taken aback by the sheer speed with which he moves. In mere seconds, the water ripples against your legs, and before you can fully process it, he’s sitting by the shore. You sink to your knees in front of him - no words are exchanged. His arms are around you almost before you’ve settled, pulling you into a tight embrace. You bury your face against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of the sea that clings to him.

You’re the first to pull back, but only just enough to lift your face to his. Without hesitation, you lean in, brushing your lips against his in a kiss that’s gentle at first but deepens as his eagerness matches yours. His hands linger on your back, firm yet tender, drawing you closer even as your lips meet again and again.

When you finally pull back, your breath mingles with his, and you truly meet his gaze. The sight makes you pause. His eyes are sparkling blue and pink sapphires — brighter than you’ve seen them before. For a moment, you think it must be the reflection of the moon tricking your eyes, shining his already unique features with an otherworldly light. His hands linger at your waist, his touch soothing you even as his mesmerizing gaze makes your heart race.

Then his hand trails up and brushes your cheek, leaving wet trail on your skin. “I tell – I told you, to not come.” His voice is soft, but there’s a note of discontent in it.

You hesitate for a moment. The truth—that you missed him so much it ached, even after just a few days—sits on the tip of your tongue, but saying it feels almost too vulnerable. So you put on a teasing smile. “Well… you came too.”

He searches your eyes for a moment, before he exhales and a chuckle leaves his lips. “I know… you will come.” he says, his voice laced with that familiar teasing warmth.

Your cheeks flush, and you drop your gaze for a second before lifting it again. “What’s the big deal, anyway? Look at the moon.” You nod towards the sky. “Wouldn’t it be a pity not to gaze at it together?”

Though you pointed at the moon, your eyes catch the moonlight reflected on the iridescent scales of his tail, on the ethereal features of his face. Tonight he seems to be glowing brighter. His skin feels warmer beneath your touch, a subtle heat radiating through the arm still wrapped around you. Your curiosity stirs, but before you can ask, he leans in. His breath tickles the side of your neck, and then you feel him take a deep inhale as he takes in your scent.

He pauses, his head tilting slightly. “Smell… different.” he murmurs.

His closeness sends a shiver down your spine. “Different?” you ask.

He doesn’t respond immediately, his fingers tightening slightly at your waist. His nose brushes lightly against your shoulder, then slides along the curve of your neck, before nuzzling his neck against yours, scales and gills grazing your skin.

“Better now.” he murmurs, his voice low. His cheek presses against your neck for a moment longer before he finally pulls back, his eyes meeting yours.

You laugh softly, his nuzzling leaving a warm, lingering sensation on your neck, and a little confusion on the reason behind the gesture. Then your eyes land on the bag you brought, and an idea strikes you.

“I brought something for myself,” you say, reaching for the bag beside you. “But maybe you’d like to try it?”

Rafayel tilts his head, his gaze following your movements. “Try?” he echoes.

You pull out the takeout box, opening it to reveal the neatly arranged fruit dessert. The scent of ripe grapes, sweet peaches and sugar fills the air. “It’s mostly fruit,” you explain. “I know you probably don’t eat human food, but this is light. Maybe just one bite?”

He studies the dessert with an unreadable expression, his gaze flickering between it and your face. “Safe?” he asks.

You nod. “No harm in trying, right?” Your tone is gentle, almost coaxing, as you scoop a small portion with the wooden fork, holding it out toward him.

For a moment, he hesitates, his eyes narrowing slightly, but then, slowly, he leans forward and takes the bite.

You watch him closely, waiting for his reaction, as he processes the unfamiliar texture and taste. His brows lift slightly, and you can’t help but laugh at the faint look of surprise on his face.

“Sweet.” He pauses, considering, before he nods towards the dessert, “More… please?” he asks with a hint of eagerness that makes you smile.

You scoop another small bite, holding it toward him again. “Only if you say it’s good this time,” you say with a teasing smile.

He blinks, considering, before a giving you a playful smile. “Good.” he says simply, leaning forward for another taste. You chuckle softly, watching him savor the unfamiliar flavor.

“This is the first time we’ve eaten together.” you realize out loud, the thought slipping out as you lower the fork. The two of you exist in such different worlds—what seems small and every day for you, feels significant here, under the moon’s glow, with him. But the thought doesn’t linger, not with the way he’s looking at you now—like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this moment, to this world.

As you feed him the last bite of the fruit dessert, grateful that he can stomach it, you start talking about your past few days. You tell him how the storms rattled your windows at night, about the way the streets smelled fresh after the rain finally stopped. Then, with an absentminded smile, you mention how Thomas had been in town, how he invited you to dinner, how you spent the evening catching up over warm food and old stories.

Rafayel doesn’t say anything – but his jaw tightens, his lips parting slightly as if to speak, but no words come. You don’t notice. Or, rather, you assume his silence is just his usual way of listening. You continue talking, oblivious to the way his tail flicks against the water just a little harder than before, or how he glances toward the sea for a fleeting second, his expression unreadable.

The gentle rhythm of the waves lulls you into the moment, their sound blending with Rafayel’s soft breaths as he watches you. But suddenly, a wave rolls in further than expected, sweeping over the shore and drenching the bottom half of your dress. You gasp, startled at the chill.

“Oh no…” you mutter, standing up and bunching up the soaked fabric. Normally, you’d shrug it off—every night you’d have come prepared, a swimsuit beneath your dress ready for the sea. But tonight, you hadn’t planned to come here. The realization that your underwear is wet as well makes your cheeks flush.

Rafayel tilts his head, watching your movements with that familiar curiosity, “Cold?” he asks, his brows furrowing slightly as his gaze flickers to your dress. His concern is genuine, but his observation only makes your cheeks burn hotter.

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I just wasn’t… prepared for this tonight.”

You tug at the hem of your dress again, the wet fabric sticking stubbornly to your thighs. Rafayel watches you closely, his bright eyes tracking every movement.

“Wet dress bad?” he asks.

You glance at him, scrambling your brain on how to explain the sensation he has probably never felt before. “Not bad,” you say, still fidgeting with the clinging fabric. “Just uncomfortable.”

Rafayel moves closer to you, his eyes taking in the wet dress clinging to your figure, the fabric outlining the curves of your body. His brows furrows slightly, and then, with a simplicity that catches you completely off guard, he says, “Take it off.”

You blink at him, torn between laughter and disbelief. Then the realization washes over you - you’ve never been completely bare in front of Rafayel. Even the night you were most vulnerable, you still had your dress on.

Rafayel shifts closer, his eyes never leaving yours as he reaches out, his fingers grazing the hem of your dress. He doesn’t speak, but the silent encouragement is clear in his gentle yet insistent tug. You exhale a shaky breath, your hands trembling slightly as you reach for the zipper at your side. The fabric slides down your body, pooling briefly at your feet before you place it onto the dry sand.

Rafayel’s eyes soak in the sight of you in just your underwear, taking in every dip and curve of your figure. “Beautiful.” he murmurs. His hands reach out, slowly sliding over your calves, stopping just below your knees, the touch sending goosebumps up your legs. Then his lips meet your skin, placing feather-light kisses along your knees and up toward your thighs. His fingers glide over your hips, until they reach the lace edge of your damp underwear. He pauses, his eyes meeting yours again, as if searching for permission.

You nod, heart racing in your chest under his unwavering attention. He hooks his fingers under the lace and slides them down slowly, the fabric clinging slightly to your damp skin before pooling at your ankles. You step out of them, the cool night air brushing against your newly bare skin.

When you glance down at him, the sight catches you off guard. His face is flushed, a bright pink brushing across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again, and in some ways, he is. The sight between your thighs is one he discovered only a few nights ago, yet it feels like a lifetime to him, one he’s missed painfully in the days apart.

His gaze lifts to meet yours again, and the pure longing in his expression makes you tremble. Slowly, he takes your hand and guides you down, leading you to straddle him, his tail curling slightly beneath you to support you both.

“Beautiful.” he murmurs again, the word barely audible. His hands settle on your hips, holding you there.

A gasp catches in your throat as your bare skin presses against his scales. The sensation is entirely new—cool, smooth, almost impossibly slick against the heat pooling between your thighs. You feel the distinct ridge of his sheath beneath you, the faint bulge growing against your most sensitive parts. Before you can process the new sensations, he leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His hands trail upward, gliding over your sides, while your fingers clutch his shoulders at first, steadying yourself against the strength of his grip. But soon, they drift upward, tangling in the damp, wavy strands of his hair, and you find yourself pulling him closer, needing more of him.

Your hips begin to move instinctively, rolling against him slowly. The slick scales rub against your sensitive folds, the ridge of his sheath pressing in a way that sends jolts of pleasure up your spine. A soft moan escapes you, muffled against his mouth, and the sound seems to spur him on. Rafayel’s hands move again, sliding up to your shoulders and then to the thin straps of your bra. He tugs them down until they slip off your shoulder. His lips part briefly as he pulls back, his glowing eyes fixed on the fabric still covering your chest. His fingers toy with it, and then he tries to pull it up, but the clasp holds firm.

You realize what’s happening immediately, a soft smile curling on your lips. He doesn’t understand how it works. It’s endearing, the way he fumbles slightly, his expression focused yet confused.

“Here.” you murmur softly, reaching behind you. With ease you unhook your bra, and slip it off, tossing it beside your dress on the sand.

Rafayel freezes for a moment, his eyes drinking in the sight of your bare chest. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to speak but has forgotten the words. His fingers skim along the line of your collarbone before trailing downward. Rafayel’s glowing eyes lock onto yours, his pupils dilated with arousal, watching you as his hand moves to cup your breast. His thumb brushes over your nipple, the touch light and hesitant at first.

A soft moan escapes your lips, and you arch into his touch. “Like this.” you whisper. You take his hand, pressing it slightly firmer against your skin, showing him the right pressure. His lips part, and he nods faintly, his hand following your lead. Then, his head dips, his lips brushing against the soft skin around your nipple. The kisses are almost cautions at first, but they grow bolder as he gains confidence. His tongue flicks out, wet and warm, tracing delicate circles before his lips wrap around the sensitive bud.

You gasp softly as you feel it—the firm, heated length of him slipping free from its sheath. It presses against your folds, gliding against your sensitive skin.  Your hips roll against him, earning a muffled groan from Rafayel. It’s warm and firm, sliding with ease against your slickness as you grind against him, each movement drawing quiet, breathy sounds from your lips.

Rafayel’s lips remain relentless, his mouth moving from one breast to the other, sucking, licking, and nipping at the sensitive peaks while his hands knead and tease. Each movement of his lips and fingers draws soft gasps from you, your body trembling as the pleasure builds rapidly.

The sensation of the tip catching your clit with each grind of your hips sends jolts of ecstasy through you, your moans mixing with his, his tail flicking restlessly behind you as his own need grows.

“I—I’m -” You can barely form the words, your breath hitching as your orgasm rips through you. His hands steady your hips, guiding your movements to prolong the bliss coursing through you, his eyes watching you fall apart. The sensation of your climax against his cock pushes him to the edge. A moan escapes his lips as he latches onto your mouth in a hungry kiss, drinking in your whines, his chest heaving against yours. His body tenses beneath you, his tail curling slightly as his release spills between your bellies. For a moment, both of you are caught in a haze of your shared release, your breaths mingling as the sound of soothing waves fills the silence.

As your breathing slows, you begin to stir. You expect him to soften and your mind shifts to cleaning up, checking on your dress, and resuming the lighthearted conversation you had earlier. But he is still hard, still insistent between your folds. A faint shiver runs through you as Rafayel’s grip on your hips tightens.

“More.” he murmurs against your lips.

Before you can process his request, his hands move your hips, lifting you slightly, aligning the tip with your slick entrance. He moves slowly, his glowing eyes watching your face, and with a nod you encourage him to continue. As he begins to lower you, his body trembles beneath yours, a low groan slipping from his lips as your warmth begins to envelop him. The stretch is slow at first, as he wants to give you time to adjust to his size, but then his control falters—his hips buck involuntarily, thrusting his length deeper into you.

A gasp escapes your lips, and his hand cups your cheek as he whispers a small sorry with a shaky breath. You can feel the restraint in his voice, the tremor of his hand and in his heavy-lidded eyes, which only makes you crave more of him. You lower yourself fully, your clit pressing against his pelvis as he fills you completely.  Rafayel’s eyes flutter closed, his head tipping back slightly, exposing the smooth line of his throat. The sound he makes is guttural, raw, the kind of noise that sends heat coursing through your veins.

You press your palms against his chest for balance as you start to move. Rafayel’s hypnotizing gaze locks onto yours again, his hands griping your hips as he guides you, his hips moving to meet yours. The rhythm between you builds quickly, the slick friction of his member against your walls drawing breathy moans from your lips.

Then, just as you feel another wave of pleasure approaching, Rafayel stills.

The sudden stop catches you off guard, your hips pausing as you look down at him. He tilts his head slightly, frowning as if he’s straining to hear something just beyond your perception.

“Rafayel?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his focus locked on something in the distance, while his arms move to wrap around your waist, holding you firmly in place.

“People.” he murmurs finally.

You glance over his shoulder, your heart racing, though you can’t hear anything beyond the soft crash of the waves. “Are you sure?” you ask, your voice barely above whisper.

He nods, his expression more alert. His tail shifts again, and in one fluid motion, he flips you on top of your dress, his body covering yours completely. His arms and tail curl protectively around you, shielding you from sight even though it’s him who is truly at risk. His body remains still, tense above yours, yet the sensation of him buried so deeply inside you is impossible to ignore.

Your heart races beneath him, a strange mix of confusion and arousal coursing through you. You part your lips to whisper his name, to ask what’s happening, but before you can do so, his hand gently covers your mouth. “Sorry.” he whispers. His gaze doesn’t leave the horizon, his head tilting slightly as if straining to catch a sound only he can hear.

Then, slowly, his hips move. It’s subtle at first, but then his length slips out and sinks in further with every roll which has you gasping against his hand. His breath catches, a soft groan rumbling in his throat as his hips find a steady rhythm. Even as his attention remains on the distant sound, his body betrays him. Your muffled moans spill against his palm, your back arching to meet his thrusts.

After a few more strokes, Rafayel exhales sharply, his hand slipping away from your mouth, and you only have a second to breathe in before his lips crash against yours. His hand grabs your cheeks as his teeth graze and nip your lips, before his tongue slips between them, tangling with yours. His smooth pelvis smacks against your clit as he picks up the pace, sending electric jolts of pleasure through you.

Just as you begin to lose yourself in the rhythm of Rafayel’s body moving against yours, he stills again. His eyes narrow slightly, focusing somewhere above you.

“What is it?” you whisper, wondering if he heard people in the distance again.

Before he can answer, your phone starts ringing, the sound jarring against the intimacy of the moment. You glance toward the bag where the screen is faintly lighting the inside. “It’s probably Thomas,” you mutter, brushing it off. “I’ll call him back later.” You shift slightly, but Rafayel’s hand tightens on your waist, holding you in place.

“Thomas.” he repeats, his gaze now on you. Then, after a moment, he nods toward the bag. “Answer.” he murmurs, his voice low and firm, though his gaze is far from neutral.

You blink, your body still buzzing. “Really? It’s not important—”

“Go,” he says softly now. “Answer.”

He slips out of you as he speaks, the sudden emptiness almost making you whine. His hands leave your waist just long enough for you to roll onto your front, reaching toward the bag and fishing out the phone. The screen flashes Thomas’ name, and with a resigned sigh, you accept the call.

“Hey, Thomas.” you say, doing your best to keep your voice steady.

Rafayel doesn’t wait though. The moment you’re distracted his hands begin their gentle exploration of your hips and thighs, his fingers tracing over your skin with maddening leisure. You press your face against your arm, trying to steady your breathing.

“Just wanted to check,” Thomas says, his voice warm and friendly, completely unaware of the situation you’re in. “You didn’t message me like you promised. Are you home safe?”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer, your voice wavering as Rafayel shifts slightly behind you. His hands slide towards the curve of your buttocks, kneading and cupping the soft flesh, his touch lingering as though committing the sensation to memory. “I’m fine. Just… uh, got distracted.”

Thomas chuckles softly, his tone light. “Glad to hear it. Actually, I was wondering—my schedule just changed, and I’ve got some free time tomorrow morning. I thought it might be a good chance to visit the beach house. Do you still want to come with me?”

Rafayel leans forward, his lips brushing over the base of your spine, the light kiss sending shivers through you. Then he settles between your legs, aligning himself with your entrance, the tip pressing teasingly against you before he pushes back inside in one fluid motion. You squeeze your eyes shut, struggling to focus on Thomas’ words as Rafayel begins to move.

“I - I’m not sure,” you manage, your voice catching as Rafayel’s thrusts grow more greedy. “I’ll have to check.”

“That’s fine,” Thomas replies. “The place is pretty secluded, though, and I’m not too familiar with the area. But I’m sure you’ll know how to get us there.”

Rafayel’s hips snap forward suddenly, his cock grazing all the right spots inside of you. Your lips part in a soft gasp, but you quickly bite it back, hoping the sound doesn’t carry through the phone. His hands grip your waist firmly, guiding you to meet his rhythm. The wet slap of his hips against your butt grows louder, and you can only pray Thomas can’t hear it over the call.

“I—uh—probably.” you stammer. Your fingers clutch at the phone desperately, while you bite the back of your free hand. Rafayel leans forward, his breath warm against your back.

“Is everything okay?” Thomas asks, concern clear in his voice. “You sound distracted.”

“I’m fine!” you blurt out, your voice higher than intended. Rafayel chuckles softly against your ear, the sound low and teasing, before his hips roll forward again, the force of his movements pulling another muffled moan from your lips.

“I’ll text you later!” you hang up before he can respond, the phone slipping from your hand as a soft moan escapes your lips.

“Everything okay?” Rafayel repeats Thomas’ question, his voice laced with amusement. The faint smirk on his lips doesn’t escape you as you look over your shoulder, his eyes glinting with self-satisfaction as he watches your flushed face.

“You’re sneaky.” you say, your voice half-accusing. You know it’s impossible for you to be annoyed at him.

Rafayel tilts his head, his expression feigning innocence. “Sneaky?” he echoes. “Don’t understand.”

You roll your eyes, but the small laugh that escapes you betrays your exasperation. “Oh, I think you do,” you reply, your voice softening.

Rafayel’s hands trail upward, brushing over your waist as his body leans closer, his weight pressing against your back. His lips hover near your ear, his breath warm as he murmurs, “You feel… good?”

There’s a flicker of something vulnerable in his tone, as though he’s searching for reassurance.

You nod quickly, the words tumbling from your lips without hesitation. “Yes. So good, Rafayel.”

The smile that spreads across his lips is subtle but genuine. He leans further over you, his chest pressing against your back as his hand slips lower, his fingers seeking out the bundle of nerves he’s learned to coax so well. Your breath hitches as he begins to circle your clit, your hips instinctively pushing back against him. He presses more insistently, finding a rhythm that draws sweet moans from your lips.

“Good?” he asks again, his movements unwavering as his fingers draw you closer to the edge.

“Yes,” you gasp, your hand gripping his arm that rests next to you. “You feel so good inside me, Rafayel. Don't stop.” you manage between shaky breaths, the praise slipping out without thought. The words seem to spur him on, his fingers quickening just slightly, enough to push you over the edge.

The orgasm hits you in a rush, your body shaking beneath his as you cry out, muffling the sound against his bicep. Rafayel murmurs something soothing in your ear, his hand slowing but not stopping as he guides you through the aftershocks, letting you feel every last pulse of pleasure.

He waits for you to catch your breath before he moves, his hands slipping under you to lift your body with ease and turn you onto your back. Rafayel hovers above you, his elbows supporting his weight on either side of you, his chest pressed lightly against yours, his warmth enveloping you as his gaze locks onto yours.

For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you—the glow of his eyes, the warmth of his breath, the weight of his body. His hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin as his lips part.

“I missed you,” he murmurs. His hips shift slightly, his length filling you again. “Always… want to be close. Always.”

His words send a shiver through you, the vulnerability in them tugging at your heart. You reach up, your hands sliding into his curls, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch. “I missed you too,” you whisper. “So much.”

Rafayel’s lips find yours again. The kiss is slow, tender, relishing in the quiet moment you have together. His hips move in rhythm with the kiss, each thrust slow and deep, as though he’s savoring every second, every inch of you.

As your lips part, the intensity of his gaze never wavers, his eyes searching yours as his movements grow more urgent, what little restraint he had quickly vanishing . His cock throbs inside you, the sensation intensifying as his hips drive deeper, the wet slide of his thrusts accompanied by the soft, breathy sounds spilling from his lips.

“Rafayel.” you whisper against his lips.

At the sound of his name, his body shudders, his rhythm faltering for a moment before his hips snap forward again, harder this time. “Close,” he rasps, his voice breaking. “So… close.”

You hold onto him tighter, your arms wrapping around his back, while your legs lock around his waist, pulling him flush against you.

And then, with a low, strangled moan, he buries himself deep inside you, his release spilling into you in hot, pulsing waves. His entire body tenses, his arms trembling as he holds himself above you, his forehead resting against yours.

Rafayel’s lips brush against your temple as the tremors in his body begin to subside. His arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly close until you feel every flex of his muscles, every erratic beat of his heart. You close your eyes, letting yourself melt into his touch, his warmth, his presence—completely enveloped.

The moment his breathing evens, he lowers himself beside you. His arm rests on your waist, pulling you close, his body curving slightly to shield yours as though the world outside your bubble still holds threats. You rest your head against his shoulder, your fingers trailing lazily over the smooth scales of his tail. After a while, you glance up at him. His eyes have softened, the primal need subsided, but the faint blush on his cheeks remains.

“Are you okay?” you murmur, your voice soft.

He nods slowly. “Good… now,” he says. His fingers trail lightly down your arm, as though reassuring himself that you’re still there, still with him.

You smile, your fingers tracing idle patterns over his chest. But the memory of his earlier warning lingers. “You know,” you say, your tone turning playful, “I think I’ve figured out why you told me to stay away tonight.”

His eyes widen slightly, and the faint blush on his cheeks deepens. “Why?” he asks cautiously.

“Well,” you begin, propping yourself up on your elbow. “You’ve been so… sensitive tonight. Fidgety. Like you couldn’t sit still. And, I mean…” Your lips curl into a teasing smile. “I think you’ve been very affected by the moon.”

Rafayel’s cheeks flush a deeper shade, and he averts his gaze, his lips pressing into a pout. “Not… fidgety.” he mutters, his voice defensive but lacking conviction.

You laugh softly, leaning in to nuzzle his neck. “Oh, you definitely were. You didn’t want me to see you like this, huh?”

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer. “You… tease.” he grumbles.

“Maybe a little,” you admit, kissing his jaw. “But only because it’s so obvious now. You’re adorable when you blush, you know.”

He lets out an almost exasperated sigh. Then, his lips curve into a faint smirk, and he tilts his head to meet your gaze. “Tease… dangerous.”

You laugh softly, tilting your head to look at him. “Dangerous? How so?”

His eyes narrow playfully, “I can… do this all night.” He leans in closer, brushing his nose against your cheek as he adds, “Cutie.”

The word catches you off guard, heat blooming in your face. “C-cutie?” you stammer, meeting his gaze.

He tilts his head, savoring your reaction. “Yes,” he says simply, his smirk widening. “You… blush more. I like it.”

You bury your face in his chest, your laugh muffled against his skin. “You’re impossible.” you murmur, though the warmth spreading through your chest betrays your words.

“Cutie.” he repeats, teasing lilt fading into affection. His fingers trace lazy circles along your back as he presses a kiss to your temple.

The world beyond this moment doesn’t matter—not the sea stretching endlessly behind him, nor the land you call home. Your hearts are bound by something neither of you fully understands, something that defies logic and fate. Maybe the future is uncertain. Maybe there will always be questions without answers, problems without solutions. But here, in his arms, wrapped in his warmth, everything seems possible.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

@sapphic-daze @effervescent-unicorn @damatically @m1gota @hanaluxx @girl-who-lives-in-delusion @totallytaurus4 @poisonf0rest @grabby-smitten

[bklynsboys]

The Theory on Other Halves

pairing: spencer reid x reader summary: "there's an old buddhist saying, i once read, that when you meet your soulmate, remember that the act to bring you together was 500 years in the making." genre: fluff word count: 1k author's notes: i wrote this because this particular line of spencer's is one of my absolute favorites! i think it's really beautiful how all of the people we love were meant to be in our lives since 500 years ago. and of course, as a fan of space & constellations, i had to insert it into this fic. enjoy <3

THE AIR HUNG HEAVY WITH THE AFTERMATH OF A PARTICULARLY BRUTAL CASE—TYPICAL FOR A DAY IN THE BAU. Dust specks danced in the pale slivers of moonlight filtering through the blinds. Hotch decided it'd be best to give the team a few hours to rest in the motel before heading back home. If it were up to you, you'd be back in your bed as soon as humanly possible, but rooming with the resident genius, Dr. Spencer Reid—the object of your unspoken affections—is an opportunity you wouldn't miss.

For months, the two of you have shared a silent dance of exchanged glances and shared interests. Your colleagues, particularly the girls whom you confided in, seemed to think it was mutual. Now, you sat across from each other on motel beds, a comfortable silence blanketing the room. You traced a thoughtful finger along the rim of your empty coffee cup.

"You have a constellation," he said softly, breaking the stillness.

Your gaze flicked to Spencer, then down to your arm where his hand had landed. A faint scattering of moles dotted the inside of your forearm, resembling a modicum of stars. A small smile tugged at your lips.

"Looks like Ursa Major," he mused, tracing the pattern with his finger. "Though perhaps a little worse for wear, and without the usual bright light, of course."

You chuckled, mirroring his action on your arm. There, nestled just below your elbow, was a crescent moon birthmark, a surprise you always enjoyed revealing.

"Here's another one," you offered.

He turned his hand, examining the crescent with a childlike curiosity. " It's beautiful," he said simply.

"Did you know," Spencer added softly, his voice barely a murmur, "that the ancient Greek saw Ursa Major as a bear?"

You tilted your head, surprised by the random fact. " A bear?"

A smile played on his lip. " Apparently, the constellation's asterism resembled the animal to them. Makes you wonder what they saw in the night sky that we don't."

"Well, my mom had a different take on that," you began, a fond memory surfacing. " She used to say my moon and stars meant I'd meet a space nerd someday who'd love these marks, and we'd be orbiting each other, kind of like the Earth and the sun. She was into soulmates, you see, and space."

The conversation flowed easily, a map of your bodies sketched through shared stories. You pointed to a jagged scar on your knee, the fading memory of you running around and ending up with a scrape on your knee. He, in turn, showed you the faint line on his palm, a souvenir from a particularly enthusiastic attempt at a science experiment as a child.

Your fingers trailed down the faint scar near his hairline, so faint one wouldn't notice it if they weren't looking at Spencer's face intently. "What's this from?" you asked gently.

Spencer chuckled. " You know, how I have really bad coordination?" He sighed. " I was lost in a book, I ran straight into a doorpost. My mom called me 'Crash' after that."

You squeezed his hand gently, a silent understanding passing between you. You knew how much Spencer cherished his mom, especially with her health declining. Sharing stories about her felt like a tender offering of his vulnerability.

He returned the gesture, his thumb tracing the faint outline of a mango-shaped birthmark on your back. " My mom swears it's from all the mangoes she craved while pregnant," you said with a laugh, remembering your childhood debates about the science behind birthmarks.

As the night wore on, your exploration became a conversation without words. You ended up curled up on one bed. You ran your fingers over the slight dip in his lower back, a lingering ache from a wrestling match between an unsub gone wrong. He skimmed his thumb across the freckle dusting your shoulder, a map of sun-drenched summer days.

There was no urgency, no pressure. Just a quiet appreciation for the way your bodies, like your minds, fit together, like puzzle pieces worn from being fitted together—entangled from experiences, both big and small. In the faint intimacy, you found a deeper connection, a comfort that transcended beyond just physical.

Suddenly, Spencer spoke, his voice soft. " Maybe your mom was right, you know."

"Right about what?" You murmured, head tilting at the man's question.

His gaze met yours, a thoughtful crease furrowing his brow. " About finding your soulmate," he said hesitantly. " There's an old Buddhist saying, I once read, that when you meet your soulmate, remember that the act to bring you together was 500 years in the making."

A thoughtful hum escaped your lips. " That's beautiful, Spencer," you whispered.

He continued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, "Plato once wrote humans used to have four arms, four legs, and two faces, but Zeus split us in half as a punishment for our pride, and we were destined to walk the Earth searching for our other half."

A soft blush crept up your neck. You hadn't expected such a personal turn in the conversation.

"Plato," you murmured, surprised." The one who wasn't a big fan of the soulmate idea, right?"

Spencer's lips curved into a small smile.

"True," he admitted. "But even a brilliant mind like his couldn't deny the undeniable pull we sometimes feel towards certain people. Maybe the Greeks weren't so far off . Maybe the stars, the constellations, these little imperfections on our skin... Maybe they all tell us a story of where we belong."

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You found yourself captivated by the way the moonlight glinted in his eyes.

"So," you finally spoke, your voice barely a whisper, "are you saying we're destined to be wandering halves searching for the other?"

Spencer shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. "No," he said, his voice a smooth cadence. " Maybe... Maybe we already found each other."

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken sentiments. The air crackled with a tension that both terrified and exhilarated you. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat to the quiet reverberation of the night. Curled beside him, Spencer's arm draped casually across you, its weight a comforting presence, you drifted off to sleep.

A faint smile touched Spencer's lips as he listened to your soft snores. "Good night," he whispered into the darkness.

[zyafics]

ANGRY GOD | 02

MASTERLIST (Series)

Pairing — S2!Rafe Cameron x (F)Reader

Summary — Rafe always struggled with being the only person in his head. When he meets you on the balcony of Tannyhill, everything changes. As sweet and kind as you appear to be, you turn out to be a reflection of Rafe and his dark thoughts. A burnt soul. A perfect companion. But as much as he wants you, as much as you deserve each other, something stands in the way: your relationship with JJ.

Content — angst, suggestive themes, cheating (not on each other), minor blood kink, rafe does coke, reader smokes cigarettes, toxic dynamic, obsessive and psychopathic behavior, and subtle dubcon.

Word Count — 3.9K

lıllılı Deja Vu and She's Mine Pt. 1 by J Cole

Dedication — to @cybersunnie who read it first and gave me lovely feedback, ily my southeast asian bestie <3

Rafe looks for you everywhere.

Ever since that fateful night, he had searched every room and crowd for a glimpse of your face. Most times, he doesn't find what he's looking for, and a lump of frustration curls up his throat. A wasted effort, he tells himself, to look for someone who isn't his, but he does it anyway.

He's never been good at letting go of things that belonged to him.

Tonight's bonfire is on the beach. The firepit is surrounded by keggers lined neatly along the edges, and the salty tang of driftwood smoke hangs in the air. Flickering embers roared to the sky, while the drunken crowd moved in scattered clusters, their laughter coalescing with the music as they stumble over their steps. Rafe can't help but scoff at the very sight.

He had snorted a couple of lines before his arrival. Nothing calms him down quicker than strips of white powder that substitute for dopamine, but it still isn't quite the replacement he's looking for. It may make him feel lighter, unable to feel the depth of his soul sinking like an anchor to the bottom of the ocean floor, but it's ineffective. Riffled with the knowledge that there's something better for him out in the world, something that mirrors the use of a drug, something that can save him.

You.

Rafe sips on the beer he's been nursing for the past half-hour—coke and liquor are a hangover's bitch—and his eyes survey the mass of people in futile efforts. Everyone has arrived, including those Pogue friends of yours, but there are still no traces of you. Once again, Rafe believes that you've decided to forgo the invite to forget him.

Until he finds you off in the distance.

In the corner of the world, sitting on the shore and counting waves, with your legs drawn to your chest and your arms draped across your knees. Parties have always been a troublesome endeavor for you, rekindling old memories you want nothing more than to forget, but you always find yourself succumbing to one. It's a nasty habit you're unable to break.

You had slipped away—from the masses, from your friends, from JJ—for some peace on the edge of the earth. No one seems to have noticed your missing presence. At least, that's what you believe.

Something settles at your side, darkening your solace with its thick presence, and you turn to discover Rafe. He sinks into the empty space beside you, cold brew in hand, and refuses to meet your gaze. Your heartbeat skips, alarm bells activating and cautioning you to leave, but you choose to stay.

Silence engulfs the air and despite the heavy bass reverberating through the air and the flurries of chatters from Kooks and Pogues alike, none of that seems to matter. As always, with Rafe, it feels like you two are the only people remaining on Earth, spinning on its axis, waiting.

It isn't like this with anyone else.

"You've been ignoring me," Rafe announces flatly. His stare set to the horizon of the coastline, watching waves flatten into the salt-soaked sand inches away from his feet.

"I haven't," you defend, a little too quickly, wincing at the projection of your voice. "We just haven't been going to the same places."

He scoffs dryly, "Because you've been ignoring me."

You shake your head softly, but Rafe doesn't acknowledge the gesture. You doubt he cares. It mirrors you in that aspect, knowing exactly how his mind behaves—believing his version of events to be the only correct reality. Nothing you do, or say, will change it.

It's hard to talk to someone who's stubborn.

It's worse when the person knows you too well.

Because in some ways, he's right. Several invitations to various functions have been sent, but you've opted out of attending any of them. Partly because you don't want to be in that environment. Mostly because you're afraid of facing Rafe. You had assumed it'd be an easy facade to maintain—just as the rest of your friends suspected you simply weren't into parties—but Rafe sees directly through you, like glass.

He resists the urge to look at you. Fearing if he does, he'll never stop. It isn't enough for him to be within your proximity, he wants to have you, and it's a debilitating feeling to know he can't. Blood coats his senses, and he realizes he bite his tongue too hard.

Yet, he feels the heat of your stare on his profile. Your eyes sweep over every feature, every twitch of muscle as if you're committing to memory the days you haven't seen him. Pride finds him in that regard—to know he consumes your thoughts as much as you consumed him.

He begs to be wanted.

He wants you to beg for him.

"Your bruises are healing nicely," you say softly, admiring the faded damning colors of his assault to the healing yellows that smother his skin. "That's good."

His resolve breaks and Rafe turns. The corner of his lips lifts. "You would care, wouldn't you?"

You blink in surprise, but Rafe takes it as some protest of resilience. You won't admit it, as much as you want him, as much as you need him, and the anguish seeps into his bones. unable to detangle itself from skin. "Of course I do," you stutter a reply, "I patched you up."

"But it isn't the only reason," he presses, "Is it?"

His eyes meet yours, and it rivals the first look he's ever given you. Full of scorn and disdain, Rafe had once wanted nothing more than you to be out of his sight. Now, he can't have enough of it.

It evokes honesty in you. "It isn't."

Rafe grins, taking any small victory as a celebration.

You can't take it, deciding to break contact to reach into the pockets of your shorts. You fish out the lighter and a small box of cigarettes before torching the end of the stick and inhaling a sharp breath. Nicotine slithers into your system, calming your raging nerves.

Rafe watches with amusement. He had always hated a woman who smokes. It was unorthodox, dirty, and not someone he sees himself with. But when he watches the way the puff of smoke exits your lips, the calamity smoothening your features, he's never wanted to kiss you more.

“You smoke?” Rafe asks as you lower the cigarette to your side. The butt of the blunt brushes against the grains of sand.

“Yeah.” You say timidly. “It’s a bad habit I can’t break.”

"Interesting."

"What?"

"Didn't take you as a smoker," Rafe confesses, but something in his statement reeks of judgment. As much as you hate the need to be validated by others, something about Rafe leaves you desiring acceptance.

You scramble to form an excuse. “I only do it when I’m nervous.”

“I make you nervous?”

You don't respond, but you're sure the split-second expression on your face revealed it all. Pressing your lips together, you rip your gaze from Rafe to look back to the ocean currents, raging and coursing through the tides as if a storm is brewing. You hoped this respite would dissolve the tension in the air, but it doesn't.

Thick and hot, you can't decide if it's the heat of the firepit against your backside or the idea of Rafe's close—too close—proximity to you. Your truth. The persona you've carefully crafted on the verge of collapsing.

Rafe finally understands why you don't go to parties. Even if you don't explicitly state it; it's him. The way he can read you, understand you, and make you feel. A parallel of himself in you that feels like a reflection against a pond. It scares you. It terrifies him. Yet he can't get enough of it.

You clear your throat, taking another puff of your cigarette, before returning your gaze back to him. "You left your own party again."

Is this what you want to talk about? Rafe would rather push past the small talk, but he entertains it nonetheless. At least it's something to keep you close. "It's not my party."

"Right." You hum, inhaling a nicotine-saturated breath that hisses and chars the end of the blunt. "But you left it all the same. Shouldn't you be with your friends?"

"I could ask the same about you."

"I asked you first."

"Is that how you want to play it?"

Rafe cocks his head in challenge, armed with the mockery and condescension of his dripping tone. But it's not aimed at you, but rather for you. A provocation that asks: one of us is lying here, who will it be?

"You're baiting me," you announce, digging the burnt end of the cigarette into the sand to extinguish it. "It's not going to work."

Rather than take offense from your blatant callout, he scoffs out a smirk. His perfect teeth glistened underneath the moonlight, which can almost be read as fangs.

"Smart girl too," he muses, more to himself than you, before taking a swing of his beer. Directing his line of vision towards the darkened horizon, you watch him swallow with a bob of his Adam's apple. "I was looking for you."

"Me?" You repeat. "Why would you be looking for me?"

"Don't act dumb, princess. It's not cute."

Silence stretches among you, and the only soothing sound of this moment is the cascades of water meeting sand. Your heart doubles its tempo, reconciling with Rafe's words before he pierces the quietude with another confession. "They don't care."

This time, you don't play dumb. You know exactly what he's referring to. Rafe made a bold accusation that his friends don't care about him, and you have a sneaking suspicion that he is right.

From what you heard from your own group, no one is friends with Rafe. Not really. All they want is to get out of his way, to avoid being the receiving end of his wrath. Rapport is the closest method towards that settlement. A falsehood for security. He had come to the bitter realization on his own; that no one is real with him except you.

You don't take the time to be frivolous and reassure him with meaningless consolation. You cut straight to the chase.

"Then why come?" You ask, not knowing if he'll respond. But what you don't know is Rafe would answer almost anything if it came from you. "Why attend something when none of these people care about you?"

The instantaneous reply is a howling wind from the ocean, breezing over your skin and raising goosebumps on your arms. But you remain still. Unsure if Rafe will answer, you wait until he admits, "It's better than being alone."

All the air leaves your lungs.

Your heart pumps like it's about to burst.

Because Rafe confirms what you’re thinking.

And you feel the same way.

You're certain you're in an exact predicament but you don't have the courage to voice it. The Pogues only tolerate you because you're in this relationship with JJ, but you have a sinking feeling that it's just the novelty. Something short and fleeting. Something false.

You entered it under the assumption that JJ understood you—a burnt soul recognizing a companion. But that's proven to be completely untrue. JJ may have faced hardships, but his entire network is built on camaraderie. You never had that. Neither did Rafe.

Maybe that's why you gravitate towards him.

Maybe that's why you're afraid.

"Why are you here?" Rafe prompts, turning the spotlight back onto you.

You lick your lips, suddenly dry. "The Pogues invited—"

"No, don't give me that bullshit," he snaps, but his tone lacks the bite. All it demands is truth. "I mean, why did you come this time? You've been avoiding me for a reason."

You scoff. "You know."

A cruel smirk carves the corner of his mouth, framed with an innocent dimple. "I want to hear you say it."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you're a liar, princess. Just like all of them."

Fire ignites in your chest by his accusation, reminding you closely of that night at Tannyhill, and your hands squeeze into tight fists. Sucking on the inside of your cheek, and licking the residual nicotine sticking to your gums, give you a minor boost of confidence. "I thought if I didn't, they'd stop inviting me."

You exhale a blow of air, similar to your cigarette, but a heavy weight lifts off your chest. You don't turn to meet Rafe's eyes, but you feel the heat of his stare.

Rafe grins, self-satisfaction ripples through his features in unparalleled triumph. "Just like me."

"Don't be a dick," you declare.

"I'm not trying to." He says. "It's just ironic."

"Ironic how?"

He takes a second to answer, lingering on the moment by sipping on the rim of his beer, letting a slow, singular drop fall from the corner of his mouth. "Because every party I've seen you at, you're always escaping it."

You shrink under this observation, nails buried into the sand to find grounding. "I needed a break."

"All the time?" He taunts.

You say absolutely nothing. And Rafe chuckles dryly. "The girl who always leaves the party. The boy who needs it. We'll make a good couple."

You lift your head. "Is that your criteria for a relationship?"

"No. But I'll take any excuse to have you."

Your breath stutters in your throat. From your previous interaction with Rafe, you concluded that he cuts through the drivel. But it's different this time around. Now, it riffled with the knowledge of knowing you, of wanting you.

Rafe always had a single-minded ambition, the type to chase after his goal until he captured it within the palm of his hand. That's you to him.

Morals be damned. As long as he has you.

To be wanted like that terrifies you. With your heart palpitating in your chest, you feel the urge to rebuild your walls. To add that familiar and safe space between you and him. "Rafe..." You trail off in warning.

Instantaneously, as if he can read you, he knows why.

Frowning, Rafe says, "Hm. Forget you're with Maybank."

You don't think that's entirely true.

"I should get back," to him, but that part remains unspoken.

Rising from your seat, you dust off the sheen coat of sand under your thighs before motioning to leave. But Rafe snatches your wrist. His grip is firm but loose enough for you to slip out, only begging you not to.

You look down, however Rafe refuses to meet your gaze. In fact, he avoids it, opting for the dark coastline that rivals the turbulent feeling in his chest. "Why are you with him?" He whispers against the wind, his tone seeping with vulnerability. "Why are you with him when you can be with me?"

You don't know how to answer that. "He was nice to me."

"I can be nice to you."

You shake your head. "It's not the same."

"Why not?" Rafe asks wretchedly, lifting his head to finally meet your gaze and you read how broken he truly is. Your chest tightens. His icy blue eyes warmed with desperation, and his grip around your wrist tightens, like a beggar seeking approval.

For a moment, you considered lying. It's the easiest way out. But there's no one here but the two of you. No one to perform to. No one but an audience who knows you soul-deep. How do you lie out of this one?

"I think you need me," you whisper. "I don't know how to be needed like that."

If you were anyone else, he'd feel insulted. To insinuate he needs someone—anyone—to function implies he's weak. That he's dependent on another. But Rafe hasn't felt this sense of gratification in years. A kinship that emerges from a soul recognizing a burnt soul. He can't lose that.

"Neither do I," he answers, almost pleading. "Let's try it out."

"Try what?"

"Us." He urges. "You and me."

You shouldn't, but you can't help but consider the proposal. It's awful, especially knowing you're in a committed relationship—as committed as you can be—and you try to build excuses and logic on why this couldn't work. Why it shouldn't work. But all of them fell flat.

"You hate me."

"I didn't know you."

"You called me a bitch."

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely.

"You called me a liar," you accuse, unmasking the sting from the label.

"You are," Rafe insists without missing a beat. "But I'll take it."

You chew on your bottom lip, gnawing on the raw, broken skin until you taste iron. "I don't know," you admit, voice low, chest heavy. "I don't know if I can save you, Rafe."

This time, he doesn't have a response. This time, he's rendered speechless. It's a confessional—what he truly desires from you is redemption. To possess a mirror that resolves him of his own sins.

His fingers loosen around your wrist.

"I have to go," you say softly, taking a step towards the exit.

But it isn't quick enough.

Rafe grabs you again and gives you one last tug, forcing you to land on his lap. Before you can move, he grabs the nape of your neck and pulls you close, forehead pressed against his, chest meeting the other.

You feel the rapid thumping of his own heartbeats.

"One taste," Rafe murmurs, his eyes on yours and they're pitch-black, all dissolved of his color. "Just one taste and I'll let you go."

"One?" You ask meekly, your heart threatening to spill.

"One." He confirms, reeking of the same desperation he's always been ashamed of revealing. But he doesn't care anymore. "And you can go back to Maybank and do whatever the fuck you want."

You search his face, trying to read him, but nothing but pure primal instinct coats his rugged features. He wants you—in a way that's so animalistic, he's actively holding himself back from taking more. A sick satisfaction curves up your throat at being desired by such capacity.

"Okay."

Rafe doesn't give you a moment to retract your consent before he drags your mouth down to his, silencing every pounding thought with a kiss.

Instinctively, you steel your spine from the assault before slowly unwinding. From all the venom and vile words spilled from Rafe's tongue, his mouth is surprisingly soft and tender. His kiss is rich with desire, gripped with desperation, and it pours all his silent confessions into one. Your heart has never raced so frantically but has never been this calm.

You want this.

Logic and reason chip away when you feel how warm Rafe is. How he laps over the broken piece of your bottom lip like worship, how he craves you with the depravity of a man receiving his last meal, licking you clean until you're nothing but bones.

It's intoxicating. Where has Rafe been all your life? Why haven't you done this sooner? Your mind can't find a proper answer until a slow, nauseating reminder strikes your drunken and lustful state. It's because you're taken. It answers. You're committed to someone who isn't him.

Pulling away, you breathe, "Rafe—"

"Not enough," he declares roughly, dragging your back and stealing another kiss. It's as if it's the only air he's willing to take. He demands it—it's his.

And yet, for all your stream of moral consciousness, there's little resistance.

You allow him to take you. Devour you. To suck on your bottom lip until a metallic tang is shared between you, and to feel the warm liquid ooze onto your tongue like sacred waters. He tastes so good, and Rafe's hands fall from your arm to your waist, tugging you along until you're centered on his lap. With an automatic roll of your hips, he groans, and you feel the growing erection form in his jeans demonstrating his obsession with you.

It's just one. But one kiss turns into two and three, and suddenly you can't stop. Nothing has ever felt as right as this moment with Rafe.

Pulling back a second time, your murmur against his swollen lips. "This is a bad idea."

"This is the best goddamn idea I've ever had," he breathes into your mouth, his hand straying to cup a handful of your ass under your shorts. "You taste better than I imagined."

"What do I taste like?"

"Mine," Rafe answers breathily, before cupping the back of your neck once again and aligning your mouth to his.

Addiction. Rafe is certain that's what this is. The way you rock against him, the way your body molds into his—like a perfect puzzle finding its match—he can't help but believe in fate. It infuriates him that it took him this long.

But even in a perfect moment, the illusion quickly shatters by a grating voice from the distance. Rafe wants nothing more than to ignore its bugging nuisance, but you can't seem to.

Because it's your boyfriend.

You rip away from Rafe to discover JJ's silhouette approaching the shore, searching for you. Panic zigzags through your chest and you swiftly leave Rafe's lap, brushing away any criminalizing evidence of your infidelity.

"That's one. We're done."

When JJ arrives, Rafe doesn't move. He doesn't even make a gesture to conceal the situation as JJ's eyes dart between the two of you, trying to piece together what you were doing with the Kook in the first place.

But no one reveals a thing. Not even you. You quickly apologize for leaving the party and fumble a flimsy excuse for Rafe's presence. And JJ's birdbrain accepts it, causing Rafe to scoff at the fool you're with.

When he takes your hand, leading you back to the party, you quickly accept—dragging yourself into the same space you beg to break from. And doing nothing but leaving Rafe behind.

He could leave now. After all, he came out to the shores searching for you. But there's a calamity that comes from being out here. Seeing the waters, watching the crashing of the waves. It allows him to truly think—away from the noises, away from the people, away from all the meaningless distractions.

Rafe swipes his thumb across his bottom lip, feeling the buzzing sensation left behind from your kiss, and collects a single droplet of blood. It must've spilled from you, or his bitten tongue, he doesn't know for sure. All he does is slip it right back into his mouth.

And for the first time throughout this entire night, Rafe grins. A real one. A devious one. Because he's coming to a familiar conclusion.

You parade among the people who don't give a damn about you, who don't know a single truth, and pretend you fit in their world. But you don't. You're a liar.

But as Rafe remembers the taste of your hot lips on his, the way your body fits in with his, the taste of your blood on his tongue—he realizes, so is he.

Because there's no way that is the last time he'll kiss you. That he has you. No. He had one taste and it wasn't enough.

Rafe is coming back for more.

Whether you like it or not.

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Navigation — Part 01 | Part 02 | Part 03 / End

[tsukumomei]

—as long as it's you

ft. Sae Itoshi

summary: everything was in place, but when his mother accidentally reveals the surprise, sae has to improvise. wc. 1.3 k

Sae had it all planned out.

He wasn’t the type to make grand romantic gestures; he preferred to keep things simple and understated. 

But for you, he wanted to try, because he knew you deserved nothing less.

You loved people, gatherings, and celebrations. You thrived in the presence of those you held dear, so he’d taken note of every little thing you loved and orchestrated an evening just for you. Sae rented out the quaint, secluded garden café that had become your spot—a place where you made countless memories with.

The place would be adorned with soft fairy lights, casting a golden glow over the field. To top it all off, he had planned a fireworks display that would light up the night sky with the words: Will you marry me? 

He really was going all out for this.

The tables would be draped in elegant linen and scattered with your favorite flowers. He’d chosen a menu you would love, with dishes catered to every one of your favorites, down to the dessert: the same tiramisu you raved about during your first date.

It's great because it's so unbelievably out-of-character for him to do that you'd never guess it.

And then there was the ring.

He’d spent weeks looking for the perfect one, turning down countless designs until he found a jeweler in Italy who could create something unique—something as special as you. A custom piece: a delicate rose-gold band with a center diamond that sparkled like starlight, flanked by tiny sapphires to match the color of his eyes.

The ring had finally arrived today, nestled in an elegant velvet box. He held it in his hands for a moment, marveling at how something so small could hold so much meaning. The anticipation was almost unbearable, but there was still time to wait. He tucked the box into a drawer in his study before heading out to handle some business, reminding himself to grab it later.

Just as he was leaving, his mother noticed the package in his hand. "What’s that, Sae?" she asked, her tone light and curious.

He hesitated, then gave a faint smile. "Just something for y/n."

But fate, as it often does, had other plans.

Later that afternoon, you dropped by on a whim. "I just wanted to visit," you said with that radiant smile of yours, and Sae’s mother welcomed you warmly. She adored you—always had, ever since you and Sae were kids running around the neighborhood together.

As you chatted with Sae’s mother over tea, her voice turned light and casual, as if she were sharing a harmless little secret. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, setting her cup down with a soft clink. “Sae mentioned he got something for you. It’s in the study drawer over there. You should go get it.”

Your eyes immediately lit up with curiosity, a delighted smile spreading across your face. “Really? What is it?!” you asked, excitement bubbling in your tone as you pushed your chair back and made your way toward the study.

Sae’s mother opened her mouth, realizing her mistake too late. “Oh, wait—” she started, but you were already out of earshot.

In the study, you scanned the room quickly before spotting the drawer she mentioned. With eager hands, you pulled it open and found a small, elegant box sitting right on top. The rich, deep velvet of the box alone made your heart race.

You gasped softly, fingers trembling slightly as you lifted it from the drawer. It felt heavier than you expected, the weight somehow adding to the anticipation. Holding your breath, you carefully opened it, and there it was—the engagement ring.

The soft light from the study window caught the diamond, sending a brilliant array of colors dancing across the room. The intricate rose-gold band gleamed, and the tiny sapphires flanking the center stone shimmered like they held a secret of their own.

For a long moment, you were stunned. Your lips parted slightly in disbelief as your heart pounded in your chest. It wasn’t just a ring; it was the ring.

You turned back toward the kitchen, holding the open box in your hand. “Is this…?” you began, but the words trailed off as your eyes met Sae’s mother.

Her expression mirrored your shock—wide-eyed and horrified. Her hands flew to her mouth, her face flushing with the realization of what had just happened.

“Oh no…” you both said in unison, the words hanging in the air like a shared confession.

Sae’s mother shook her head frantically. “I—I didn’t know! He didn’t tell me what it was!” she stammered, clearly panicking.

You let out a nervous laugh, holding up the box. “This is what he got for me?” you asked, voice tinged with disbelief and amusement.

She nodded, still looking mortified. “I think I just ruined everything.”

And that’s how the proposal venue shifted from a dreamy garden setting to the family kitchen.

When Sae came home later that evening, the scene awaiting him was… not what he had envisioned. 

You and his mother were seated at the kitchen table, both looking unusually guilty, like two kids caught raiding the cookie jar.

His mother was the first to react, rushing to him with the velvet box in hand, her words tumbling out in a flurry of apologies. "Sae, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—I didn’t think she’d actually open it!"

He blinked, then sighed. Well, so much for surprises.

His gaze shifted to you. There you were, cheeks glowing with embarrassment. He could tell you were trying to act innocent, but the slight twitch of your lips gave you away.

He set the box down on the table and pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something. Then, with a resigned sort of determination, he grabbed the box and turned to you.

“Oh well,” he said with a shrug, his tone deadpan but his eyes soft. “You already know, so I might as well do this now.”

Before you could process what was happening, Sae was down on one knee in the middle of the kitchen, holding the ring up toward you.

“You will marry me,” he said matter-of-factly, already taking your hand. “You don’t have a choice.” He slid the ring onto your finger with the same no-nonsense precision he used in every part of his life.

The sheer audacity of his approach made you burst into laughter. “You’re lucky I wasn’t going to say no even if you did ask properly,” you teased, your smile widening as you admired the ring.

His mother, standing nearby, had already pulled out her phone and was filming the entire thing, tearing up at the unexpected sweetness of the moment.

As Sae stood, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close. Your voice was soft, laced with both joy and disbelief. “So, this is it,” you murmured, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

He gazed down at you, his hands settling gently on your waist, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade away. His lips curled into the smallest of smiles, but his eyes were filled with so much love it took your breath away. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a warmth that wrapped around your heart. “This is it.”

Sae’s expression shifted slightly, a hint of regret flickering in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low. “I had it all planned out, you know? You would’ve loved it—the garden, the lights, the fireworks. It was going to be perfect.” He gave a small, sheepish smile, but his gaze never left yours.

You reached up, cupping his face gently in your hands. “Sae,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I’d take anything as long as it’s with you.”

The engagement was sealed right there—not in the garden surrounded by flowers and fairy lights, but in the cozy kitchen, filled with the lingering aroma of coffee and laughter, and a witness armed with a smartphone. 

Though it wasn’t the grand, meticulously planned proposal Sae had envisioned, as he looked into your eyes, he realized something important. The sparkle of the ring on your finger paled in comparison to the glow of your smile, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

The garden, with its fairy lights and fireworks, would now be the backdrop for your engagement party—the perfect imperfection of life’s unexpected moments. 

And as you leaned up to kiss him, Sae couldn’t help but think that this, right here, was better than perfect.

—

a/n: I am indeed a victim of the Sae brainrot

[universefcb]

NIGHT IN PARIS, PEDRI GONZÁLEZ.

→ Summary: It's a week off for the team, so Pedri decides to take you on a trip to Paris. To celebrate your anniversary.

→ Warning: Mention of Reader. Fluff. Spanish phrases.

→ Author's note: I'm thinking about opening up my requests again because I've been missing you guys sending me ideas.

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

Paris looked like it had been hand-painted that morning. A soft blue, with scattered clouds, contrasted with the golden tones of the trees in early autumn. The leaves danced on the sidewalk as she walked beside Pedri, their fingers intertwined as if time had not managed to undo the intimacy built over five years of history. And he, as always, disguised himself so as not to be recognized.

It was rare for them to spend a whole week together. The intense season, the exhausting training sessions, the team trips — all of this made these moments precious. But when Barcelona announced the short break, Pedri didn't think twice. He booked the flights, planned every detail and, smiling from the corner of his eye, hid at the bottom of his suitcase the things that would make their anniversary unforgettable.

“Is it the most cliché city to celebrate five years in?” he asked playfully as they crossed the Pont Alexandre III, the Seine sparkling in the sunlight.

“Totalmente. Y absolutamente perfecto.” she replied, with a smile that made his chest warm. (Totally. And absolutely perfect,)

In the following days, they walked slowly through Montmartre, lost themselves in old bookshops, tasted sweets in bakeries that looked like they had come out of a movie, and took photos on every corner as if they were living in a dream. Pedri never took his eyes off her—not when she laughed with a crepe in her hands, nor when she was moved by the immensity of Notre-Dame.

The sixth night arrived colder, but with a typical Parisian charm. Pedri appeared in the hotel room wearing a well-cut suit, black shirt and discreet perfume. She, wrapped in a long dress made of light fabric, carried in her eyes the same emotion of someone who knew that that night would be different.

Without revealing the destination, he drove her through the city's bright streets to a discreet restaurant hidden on one of the rooftops of an elegant building. The maître d’ led them down a glass-enclosed corridor to an exclusive balcony, where a round table awaited them—candles lit, glasses sparkling, and a view that took their breath away: the entire Eiffel Tower, shining against the dark sky, as if it had been decorated just for them.

She put her hand to her mouth in surprise.

“Pedro…”

“Felices cinco años,” he whispered, pulling out the chair for her to sit in. (Happy five years)

Dinner was spent with quiet laughter, long glances, and memories of the past. They talked about their first awkward kiss, their silly fights, the nights when he would come home from a game exhausted but would still call to hear her voice. They talked about love—without having to use the word.

At the end of dessert, Pedri stood up, adjusted his shirt cuffs and excused himself. He returned shortly after with his hands hidden behind his back and a nervous look in his eyes. He stopped next to her chair.

“I thought of a thousand ways to do this. At home, at the beach, in the countryside... but none of them seemed right. Until I imagined this moment” with you, in Paris, celebrating everything we have built.

She looked at him with growing curiosity, her heart racing.

“Do you remember on our first anniversary you gave me a letter saying that you hoped that one day I would be more than your boyfriend?”

She nodded, laughing. She remembered perfectly. He had written in handwriting that he wanted to be “your best friend, your life partner, and if possible, your fiancé… someday.”

Pedri then took a small blue box from behind his back. She put one hand to her chest, frozen. But before she could react, he knelt down—and, upon opening the box, he revealed not a ring, but two delicate, simple, and elegant gold bands.

“I want to ask you something, but not what you are thinking right now.”

She frowned in surprise.

“We’ve chosen each other every day for the past five years. But we’ve never put it into words, or even a symbolic commitment. So…” he held out his hand, “will you marry me?”

She looked at him, between tears and laughter. He smiled back, with a sparkle in his eyes that revealed the seriousness behind the gesture.

“Marry me, I wouldn’t live without you by my side for even a second,” he added, still kneeling.

She got down from her chair without thinking twice and threw herself into his arms, making the waiters discreetly applaud in the background. In the middle of the tight hug, she whispered a "yes" so sincere that it made the whole world seem lighter.

Then he placed the ring on her finger and she did the same. When their eyes met again, everything that was left unsaid was imprinted there—in the silence filled with love, in the delicate touch of their fingers, in the tender kiss that sealed that new phase.

Paris witnessed the most beautiful beginning of a story that two hearts could live. And the Eiffel Tower, behind them, continued to shine — as if it knew exactly what was happening.

Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789

[joelsrose]

hey angels, i'm back! here is part 3!

i'm so sorry but i wont be doing a taglist because it gets so confusing!!! hope you understand

im so glad everyone is enjoying this series so far and i had so much fun writing it. part 1 and part 2 are here!

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Joel woke the next morning already muttering under his breath, half-formed curses strung between his teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed and yanked his boots on with more force than necessary, like the act of getting dressed itself was an inconvenience, like the cold floorboards and the memory of what he’d said weren’t already chewing at his thoughts.

“This is stupid,” he grumbled to the empty room, rubbing a hand over his face, jaw still clenched from a restless night. “Ain’t nothin’ to fix.”

But still—he tugged his jacket on.

Still—he grabbed the folded cloth bundle off the counter, the one with the damn bread he made that morning even though he told himself it was just habit, just something to do with his hands.

And still—he left the house, boots crunching against gravel, the sky above streaked with soft clouds, pale light pouring through the breaks like the morning itself hadn’t quite decided what kind of day it wanted to be.

He didn’t know exactly what he was going to say. He never did.

But he walked anyway.

Down the worn trail between cabins, past the little wooden fence where Benji’s toys were still scattered in the dirt from yesterday’s visit, past the quiet murmur of townsfolk just beginning to stir.

His shoulders were hunched slightly against the cold, but his hands were steady, and his steps had that slow, stubborn rhythm—the kind he got when he was doing something he didn’t want to admit he cared about.

He knew where you’d be.

You always helped unload the greenhouse supply crates on Wednesdays, that gentle routine of yours as predictable as sunrise.

He imagined you there now, bent slightly at the waist, sleeves pushed up as you wiped your hands on your apron, maybe tucking that strand of hair behind your ear the way you always did when you were focused—so damn kind it irritated him, so soft he wanted to look away from it but never could.

And as he reached the edge of the garden path, his boots just shy of the gravel turn where your shadow flickered against the greenhouse wall, Joel took a breath that felt too tight in his chest, cleared his throat like he could clear the guilt right along with it, and prepared himself to do the one thing he hated more than almost anything else.

Try.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You didn’t see him at first—not until you turned, arms full of empty baskets, ready to head back toward the shed and put some space between you and the ache still lingering at the edge of your chest—and there he was.

Joel.

Standing awkwardly at the far end of the garden path, backlit by the pale morning sun, looking far too large for the little patch of earth beneath his boots, with a bundle clutched in his hands like he wasn’t sure whether he meant to offer it or throw it away.

His shoulders were stiff, like they hadn’t decided whether this was worth the embarrassment, and his mouth was set in that same unreadable line that had pushed you away the night before.

And your first instinct—stupid and human and wholly unprepared for this—was to turn.

To leave.

To slip out of reach before he could speak, before he could say something else that might finish what yesterday’s silence had started.

You mumbled something half-formed, barely audible—“I should—sorry, I didn’t realize—” and took one uncertain step backward, your gaze fixed somewhere near the dirt, anywhere but his eyes.

But his voice stopped you.

Low. Rough. The kind of quiet only a man like Joel could make sound like a command.

“You don’t gotta run.”

The words landed soft but heavy, like the earth had exhaled with him.

You froze, your fingers tightening around the handle of the basket, not out of fear—but out of that unbearable vulnerability, the kind that comes when someone you want to care has already proven they can hurt you.

He took one step forward, not enough to close the space, but enough to be noticed.

“I, uh…” he started, then paused, his eyes dropping to the bundle in his hands like maybe it could speak for him. “I made this. S’just bread.”

You looked up slowly, cautiously, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment between you—and sure enough, in his hands was a folded cloth, still faintly steaming at the corners, the scent of rosemary and flour curling into the cold morning air like some kind of truce.

“I ain’t…” he tried again, then cleared his throat. “Ain’t good at talkin’. Or… at fixin’ shit I broke.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched long and uncertain but didn’t hurt the way it had the night before.

You stepped forward, just slightly, just enough to meet him in the middle, your voice smaller than usual but steady.

“Is this an apology?” you asked gently, a ghost of something like hope threading through your words.

Joel exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the ground, jaw tight.

“It’s bread,” he muttered.

You bit your lip, fighting a smile you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Okay,” you said, reaching out to take it from him, your fingers brushing his just slightly, like the contact didn’t mean anything and meant everything all at once. “I like bread.”

He nodded once, then again, like maybe twice would make it feel less like something important had just happened.

You stood there for a long moment, two people surrounded by garden beds and quiet things beginning to grow.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You two were back at yours now, the walk from the garden long enough for the silence to soften into something companionable, almost shy, like neither of you quite knew how you’d gotten here but both were willing to let the moment stretch a little longer just to see where it went.

Joel had never been to your house—not that there’d ever been a reason for him to be—and yet the second he stepped through the door, he felt like he was intruding on something tender and private and irrevocably you.

There were wildflowers tucked into jars on every windowsill, their petals curling toward the sun like they belonged in your palms; a pink throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch; a little ceramic dish shaped like a heart filled with gold rings and mismatched earrings by the sink; and the faint scent of rosewater and vanilla that hung in the air like a whisper of someone who believed—deep down, in spite of everything—that love was still something worth inviting in.

It was small, sweet, soft around the edges in a way Joel had never let his life become.

And now he sat awkwardly at your tiny coffee table, a mug between his hands that read “love you, mean it” in swirling cursive, drinking coffee that was far too sweet, far too creamy, far too… you—and yet he didn’t complain, didn’t grimace, didn’t say a word.

He just sat there like a piece of furniture out of place, this broad, battle-worn man folded into your dainty, lavender-drenched kitchen like someone waiting for a punchline.

You watched him from across the table, cheeks warm with amusement, lashes fluttering as you stirred a second sugar cube into your own mug—your voice soft and curious when you finally spoke.

“So…” you said, cocking your head to the side just slightly, like you were trying to see if the light would hit him differently, “what made you change your mind?”

He didn’t answer right away—just sighed, long and low, like the breath had been sitting in his chest for years, waiting for the right moment to leave.

His thumb ran over the rim of the mug, slow and absent, eyes fixed on the table, not yours.

“I didn’t,” he muttered. “Not really.”

You blinked, heart skipping once, but said nothing.

Joel shifted slightly, his broad shoulders hunched in on themselves like he was trying to make himself smaller in a space too delicate to hold him.

“I just figured…” he continued, voice rough but quiet now, “if it meant you’d stop lookin’ at me like I kicked your damn puppy... I’d let you try.”

Your lips twitched, a laugh almost escaping—but it caught in your throat, tangled in something softer, something more fragile, because there was a flicker of something beneath his words. You could’ve pushed. Asked again. Called out the lie—because you knew Joel Miller didn’t change his mind for no reason, especially not about something as small and inconvenient as feelings. But instead, you let him sit in it. Let him keep his pride. Let him lie.

“Well,” you said, wrapping your hands around your mug and letting your thumb trace the rim the way he had, “I promise not to pair you with anyone who hates dogs.”

Joel huffed a low breath through his nose.

“Okay,” you said brightly, already shifting into your element, that familiar spark lighting up your features as you leaned forward and reached into the woven basket beside your chair.

Joel watched you warily as you unfolded your reading glasses—thin, gold-rimmed, delicate little things that perched on your nose like they belonged in a much gentler world.

And then—like magic, like some conjurer of hearts and chaos—you pulled a small, worn notebook from seemingly nowhere, its edges dog-eared, spine cracked, and corners filled with little stickers and loops of hearts, as if you couldn’t quite help decorating love wherever you touched it.

Joel blinked at the sight, his frown deepening.

“The hell is that?” he asked, suspicion laced thick in his voice, like you’d just pulled a grenade pin instead of a spiral-bound pastel journal.

You flipped it open with a satisfying little flutter of paper, your fingers brushing gently across the pages like they were sacred, until you landed on one in particular—a page that had clearly seen better days, with a name at the top that had been written in bold cursive, then scratched out, rewritten, circled, underlined, and scratched out again in a mess of exasperated swirls.

“It’s my matchmaking journal,” you said sweetly, tapping the page with your pen as if that explained everything.

Joel squinted. “Your what?”

“My matchmaking journal,” you repeated, pushing your glasses up your nose in that distracted, charming way of someone who was already too deep in thought. “It’s where I write down all my pairings, compatibility theories, failed first dates—oh, and moon sign clashes. That’s a big one.”

Joel just stared. At the journal. At you.

At his name, scratched out no less than three times.

And then back at you again.

“You’ve got moon signs in there?”

“Mhm.”

“And me.”

“Yes.”

“Scratched out.”

You blinked innocently. “You weren’t very cooperative.”

Joel leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and let out a low, grumbled exhale—the kind that said this is ridiculous.

“You’re serious about this?”

“As a heart attack,” you said brightly, flipping the page and clicking your pen like a surgeon preparing for something far more dangerous than romance. “Now, let’s start.”

Joel muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

But he stayed.

And you smiled.

And maybe—just maybe—this was going to work.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You started off simple—careful not to spook him, not to dive too deep too fast. The page, faintly crinkled from how many times you'd opened it, bore his name in bold ink: Joel Miller, underlined twice, as if writing it down could make sense of him.

You chewed the end of your pen for a moment, eyelashes fluttering in thought before you began speaking aloud, mostly to yourself but loud enough that the grumpy man across from you could hear every word.

“Joel Miller,” you read softly, tilting your head. “Fifty-six years old… former contractor… current grumbler…”

Joel shot you a look. “What?”

You smiled sweetly, tapping your pen against your chin. “Nothing. Just jotting down your strengths.”

He raised a brow. “That’s a strength?”

You nodded, scribbling something else down. “You’re consistent. Consistency is a green flag.”

He scoffed. “That what passes for romance these days?”

“Oh, I never said you were romantic,” you hummed, flipping the page to one with a soft pink sticky note that read Miller, Joel – High risk / High reward? in your looping script. “But that’s what I’m here for. We build from the rubble.”

Joel looked like he might argue. Or leave. Or groan loud enough to shake the walls. But he didn't, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing along the handle of his mug, saying nothing.

“Okay,” you said brightly, flipping a fresh page in your notebook, pen poised like you were about to solve a case. “Let’s start with something easy. What are some of your hobbies?”

“I ain’t got hobbies,” he muttered, not even bothering to look up from the swirl of black coffee in his cup.

You frowned, nose scrunching slightly as you tapped the pen against the notebook. “That’s not true. Everyone has hobbies.”

“Not me,” he said again, firmer this time, like the topic was already closed.

You exhaled through your nose, more amused than frustrated, and scribbled something down anyway.

Joel squinted across the table. “What’re you writin’?”

“Just… that your hobbies include cooking.”

“That ain’t a hobby,” he grunted, frown deepening.

“Yes it is,” you insisted sweetly, lips quirking as you glanced up at him. “And you’re good at it.”

He shifted slightly in his chair, the faintest twitch of discomfort in his jaw. Joel Miller was not a man used to compliments—at least, not the kind that came with soft smiles and genuine warmth. He grumbled something incoherent under his breath, but you caught the way his ears turned a delicate shade of pink, like embarrassment blooming just beneath the skin.

You smiled to yourself and closed the book gently. You met his eyes then—steady and warm—and tilted your head.

“Okay. How about we try this instead,” you said, voice softer now. “What do you look for in a partner?”

Joel’s sigh was long and heavy, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest like it hurt to even entertain the thought. He rubbed a hand down his face, fingers catching on the roughness of his stubble.

“I ain’t lookin’ for a partner,” he said finally, voice low, like he meant to end the conversation right there.

You exhaled softly and gave him a small, patient smile and said, “Joel. You said you’d do this. So if you’re going to—if you’re really going to—we might as well try.”

Joel just sat there in the soft golden quiet of your kitchen, shoulders hunched slightly forward, eyes fixed on the coffee in his mug like maybe it held a better answer than he could ever offer. The silence stretched for a moment too long, not tense exactly, but brittle.

“If it’s easier,” you offered gently, tilting your head, your voice that same calm lilt you used with nervous couples on their first matchmaking visit, “what kind of women did you used to date? You know… before all of this.”

He finally looked up, brows tugging together in a way that made the lines on his forehead deepen, like they’d been carved there by years of grief and sleepless nights. He squinted at you, skeptical. “You mean like… twenty years ago?”

You nodded, lashes fluttering once as you rested your chin in your hand, the pen still tucked between your fingers like you were ready to write down anything he might dare to say.

Joel exhaled, low and rough. “Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Ain’t thought about that in a long time.”

You stayed quiet, letting him take his time.

He gave a small shrug, eyes drifting toward the window. “Guess I used to go for women who didn’t take shit from me. Strong. Didn’t scare easy. Had their own lives, their own jobs… smart, too. I liked that.”

You smiled softly, already scribbling something in your notebook - something along the lines of - Looking for someone strong. Opinionated. Doesn’t back down. Smart. - Sally from the infirmary maybe???

He glanced at you, almost defensively. “That don’t mean I’m lookin’ for anyone now.”

“I know,” you said, that little smile still playing on your lips. “But it helps. Just paintin’ the picture.”

Joel grunted again—his signature form of communication, really—but it wasn’t the sharp kind anymore. More like a low, irritated rumble that said I’m only tolerating this because you made the coffee. He scratched at the side of his jaw, where the stubble had turned nearly silver, and narrowed his eyes at you as if you’d just asked him to solve advanced calculus.

“Okay,” you said, undeterred, pen poised above the notebook with a hopeful gleam in your eyes, “do you have any deal breakers? Like kids? Pets? A specific age range? Blondes? Brunettes? People who clap when the plane lands?”

That earned you a look. Flat, squinting, vaguely appalled.

“I ain’t orderin’ off a damn menu,” Joel muttered, leaning back in the tiny kitchen chair that looked about two seconds from surrendering under his weight. “This ain’t the goddamn Cheesecake Factory.”

You bit back a giggle, twirling the pen between your fingers. “So… no preference?”

He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “My preference is peace and quiet.”

You gave him a look then—not judgmental, not pushy, just something warm and amused beneath your lashes, the kind of expression that made people feel safe enough to say things they didn’t mean to.

You tucked your pen behind your ear like you’d done this a hundred times before, and folded your hands in your lap, watching him with that unshakable patience he found both infuriating and disarming.

Joel exhaled through his nose, slow and rough, eyes dropping to his coffee as if it might offer him a way out.

The silence stretched between you for a beat, maybe two, and just when you thought he might clamp down entirely, he spoke—gruff, honest, voice low like he didn’t much care to hear it out loud.

“Someone kind,” he muttered. “Someone who doesn’t—doesn’t need me to be anything more than I am. Ain’t lookin’ to be fixed. Just… someone real. Good with quiet. Good with… mess.”

Your gaze softened, a small shift in your posture like you were trying to absorb the weight of what he’d said without frightening it back into hiding.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t scribble it down like you had the other answers. You just looked at him, like maybe you understood the kind of ache he carried.

Joel cleared his throat then, uncomfortable with the silence, with your eyes on him like that. “But I still don’t want no one clappin’ when the plane lands. That’s just—hell no.”

You laughed, and it was light and musical and so very you, and for the first time since walking through your door, Joel didn’t feel like bolting.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

[kabsey]

Lucanis could not fall asleep.

He had been avoiding it for so long that he was not sure he remembered how. Even before the Ossuary, sleep had not come to him easily. If there had ever been a time when it had, it was lost to the murky mists of his childhood, along with the sound of his father's laugh and the color of his mother's eyes.

As he lay on the chaise, Spite paced beside the windows like a caged animal. Rook had worried at first that the underwater view from her room would disturb them, but he'd told her that he and Spite rarely saw the parts of the Ossuary that she had, the bright colors of the passing sea life, the greenery that waved gently in the currents. They had only caught glimpses as they were dragged from their cell to the torture rooms and back again. Those brief moments of light had reminded Lucanis that, far above them, another world went on, a world where the baristas at Cafe Pietra brewed his favorite coffee, where the markets went on all night, where his grandmother chastised his cousin.

His memories of the surface had fascinated Spite, and he had always surged to take control and fought the guards tooth and nail for even just a few more fleeting seconds with the sea that extended all the way to the sky he'd never seen. Whenever they came into Rook's room, he plastered himself to the window and watched the fish for hours, less out of an interest in marine life than to luxuriate in gleeful satisfaction that the ones who used to pull him away from such a view were nothing but rotting corpses.

But not even the fish could calm Spite with Rook gone. When he noticed Lucanis watching him, he snarled.

"Sleep!" he demanded.

"I'm trying."

"Not! Enough!"

Rather than argue that a glowing demon growling at him was hardly restful, Lucanis dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and tried to empty his mind. He'd managed in the Ossuary, had managed it day after day until days turned to weeks and then months. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Rook. He saw her fighting, laughing, talking, reading, drinking ciocolatta calda. He saw her in firelight and sunlight, moonlight and candlelight. A hundred moments, a hundred looks, a hundred smiles, all embedded as deeply within him as his ribcage, his lungs, his heart—every part of him that ached with her absence.

His eyes burned, and he dug his hands in harder, as if he could physically push back the tears. The slow, even rhythm of the deep breathing he'd been trained in as a child faltered. His next inhale caught in his throat and choked him. He tried to swallow it down, but it thrashed and flailed, transforming into a harsher version of itself. There was no deal he could make that would keep it inside, and it burst out from his lips as a broken sob.

A sharp rap came from the door, and the shock of the sound enabled him to smooth out his next shuddering breath. Spite stopped pacing. The irrational idea that Rook would walk through bounced between them for just a moment before they both forced it down. Lucanis sat up and called for whoever it was to enter, expecting Bellara with yet another cup of tea or Emmrich with a page of notes and a question for Spite.

Instead he felt another jolt of shock as Viago stepped inside.

If his fellow Talon had been expecting some kind of welcome, he didn't receive it. Lucanis was too rattled by the incongruity of Viago in the Lighthouse to greet him. He could only stare as Viago looked around the room, gaze lingering here and there as he took in the various trinkets and books and clothing scattered across the furniture. He came to stand at the foot of the chaise, posture and seams as straight as ever, every hair in place.

But his eyes were bloodshot and bruised with fatigue.

"Taash came to the Diamond," he said. "To update us on the search."

Lucanis swallowed. "I'm sorry," he replied, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat before continuing. "I should have—"

Viago cut him off with the raise of a gloved hand. "Let's not waste time. They said that your demon can find Rook?"

"Yes!" Spite shouted, his impatience and aggravation returned tenfold. He dismissed the novelty of Viago to return to his pacing and muttering.

"He believes he can," Lucanis said. "And Emmrich seems to believe it too. Something about how if I sleep while here in the Fade, the connection in my dreams will be strong enough for him to slip through."

Viago nodded. Then he glanced around again before his eyes caught on the table that held Rook's small wooden chest of elixirs and powders for brewing poisons and antidotes. His eyes briefly closed, and a deep furrow appeared in his brow. Lucanis had just a moment to see the muscles in his jaw clench and to notice that he carried a near-identical chest under one arm. Then Viago opened his eyes and stalked to the table. He shifted Rook's chest slightly and set his own beside it.

"Humans sleep in cycles," he said as he opened the lid. He glanced over his shoulder at Lucanis. "Are you aware of this?"

When Lucanis shook his head, he turned back to the chest and pulled out a vial that he gripped gently in his hand, as though its contents were valuable.

"Our minds can only touch the Face when we are in the deepest stage of the cycle. Though we may reach this stage three or four times a night, each instance only lasts for an hour at most."

Spite whipped around, wings flaring. "Not enough!" He rushed to Lucanis. "Not! Enough! I need! More! Time!"

"Let him finish," Lucanis said.

When he turned back to Viago, the man had stopped halfway to the chaise. His next steps were slower, more cautious, wary of a threat he could not see.

"I can induce the deepest stage in you and then keep you there for an extended time."

"Yes!" Spite exclaimed. "How long?"

"How long?" Lucanis asked out loud.

"An hour at first—" The rest was drowned out by Spite.

"NOT! ENOUGH!"

Lucanis winced and massaged his temple as Spite's shouting echoed in his skull. Viago paused, seeming to realize that Lucanis hadn't heard him.

"Are you—"

This time Lucanis raised a hand. "I'm fine. But an hour's not enough. He needs more time."

Viago raised an eyebrow. "As I was saying, I need to see how well you tolerate the first dose. If you tolerate it as I expect, we can double the next dose. If you tolerate that, we double it again. Up to eight hours."

Lucanis glanced at Spite, who seemed to be mentally calculating how much of the Fade he could search in eight hours.

"You can't do more?" Lucanis asked.

Viago frowned. "Not in a single stretch. Your body will need breaks for food and water."

"I've gone much longer than eight hours without both."

Viago's frown deepened. "This is not about how long you can go under duress. I will essentially be putting you into a coma. It will affect you mentally and physically. If I determine that the effects are too deleterious, I will stop the doses altogether."

The underlying threat was clear: they did this Viago's way or not at all.

Lucanis looked at Spite, who, after peering at Viago suspiciously for a moment, met his gaze and nodded.

Lucanis turned back to Viago. "We can start right now."

Viago waved at him to lay back on the chaise. From the corner of his eye, he could see Spite pacing again, but rather than trapped, he seemed coiled, ready to spring the instant the lock to his cage was released. At Viago's direction, Lucanis opened his mouth and let Viago place a single drop of the potion on his tongue. The taste was faint, slightly floral, and more pleasant than he was expecting.

He closed his eyes and resumed the deep breathing he had been attempting before. He heard footsteps, clearly trained to be quiet and only audible to him because he had been trained to hear them. It reminded him so strongly of Rook that he was half-convinced that if he opened his eyes, she would be standing there, hands on her hips, smirking at him and chastising him to go back to sleep.

The image was so strong that he tried to open his eyes, even though he knew he would see nothing but disappointment. But his eyelids were strangely heavy, and they managed no more than a weak flutter. A moment later, he could not remember why he had wanted to open them in the first place. A soft sound—clinking glass—seemed to ring in his ears twice; Spite was hovering close, so close that his impressions were leaking into Lucanis's.

They heard Viago clear his throat softly, then his voice, quiet and thick with emotion.

"I don't know if you can hear me, demon, but... please. Find her."

If he said anything beyond that, the words did not reach Lucanis. His consciousness dissolved into the Fade like a drop of ink in water, and Spite flowed away, free to navigate the currents of his native sea in search of the one who had brought them both to shore.

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 1

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

notes; Yo everyone, I'm back with another fanfiction featuring our lovely Shadow Singer. Hope you all like it <3 Just a small reminder: English isn’t my first language, so I’ve tried my best. Enjoy the first chapter!

next

The dusk sky draped the House of Wind in soft shades of lavender and rose, its tall windows open to the gentle, jasmine-scented breeze of Velaris below. Rhysand’s office, spacious but not ostentatious, offered a panoramic view of the starlit city, where lanterns were beginning to glow and laughter drifted upward like a distant, cheerful hum. The high shelves, carved of dark wood, were lined with neat rows of books and rolled charts, their parchment edges softened by centuries of use. A low-burning lamp cast warm light over a desk scattered with papers, quills, and a half-filled inkpot.

Madja stood near the window with Rhys, both of them watching as wings and shadows moved quietly through the city’s streets below. The old healer’s posture was poised despite her age; her long, silver-streaked hair was bound in a simple braid. Time had etched fine lines around her eyes and mouth—soft marks of the centuries she’d spent mending flesh and bone, soothing pain, and whispering encouragement into the darkest hours of countless lives.

Rhysand kept his gaze on the vista beyond the glass, arms folded casually, the glow of faelight catching in his violet eyes. He knew Madja had come here for something particular. She wasn’t one to linger unnecessarily, nor did she shy from speaking her mind. The hush in the room was comfortable, respectful of the weight of the moment.

Madja cleared her throat softly, her voice as calm and steady as it had been through all the emergencies and late-night visits to the healing rooms. “Rhysand,” she began, her tone gentle yet determined, “I need to speak with you about a matter of some importance to me.”

Rhys turned his head slightly, giving her his full attention. “Of course,” he said, voice low and reassuring. “What’s on your mind?”

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, as though considering each word carefully. “I’ve served this court for a very long time. Longer than many remember—tending to soldiers, midwives, children, courtiers, High Lords and Ladies alike.” Her gaze drifted toward the city lights, as if recalling memories that danced among those glowing streets. “It’s been my honor and my purpose.”

Rhysand inclined his head, respect and gratitude shining in his eyes. “We owe you more than can ever be repaid, Madja. Your skill, your kindness... You’ve saved so many of us in ways we cannot count.”

She offered a small, affectionate smile. “I know my role has mattered. But Rhys,” she paused, and the name alone carried a lifetime of familiarity that few could claim with him, “I find that my hands are not as steady as they once were. My eyes grow weary by candlelight. My back aches after hours bent over the injured.”

A slight breeze stirred the curtains, and the scent of night-blooming flowers drifted in, a gentle reminder of how time moved ever forward. Rhysand said nothing yet, allowing her the space to say what she must.

Madja continued softly, “I believe it’s time for me to step back. To retire from my duties as the court’s primary healer.” She turned to face him fully, shoulders squared, but her gaze kind and open. “I’ve trained many capable healers over the years. The work will continue. The Night Court does not lack for talent or compassion.”

Rhysand exhaled quietly, pressing his lips into a thoughtful line. The notion of Madja not being there—her swift and sure presence absent from their healing wards—seemed strange. She had always been a constant, a quiet pillar in the court’s foundation. But he would not deny her what she deserved.

“Are you certain?” he asked gently, voice low enough that it felt like they were confiding secrets rather than discussing court affairs. “If you wish fewer hours, or only to train the younger healers, we can arrange that.”

Madja shook her head, a decisive yet kind gesture. “No, Rhys. I’ve thought this through. I’m old, my friend. Old, even by our standards.” A hint of dry humor touched her tone. “My future lies in rest, in tending a garden rather than wounded flesh. I wish to spend whatever years remain in quiet peace, perhaps in a small cottage overlooking a meadow or stream.”

In the quiet that followed, Rhysand reached out to gently clasp her hand, the gesture sincere. “We’ll ensure you have all you need. A place of comfort, security—whatever you desire. And know that you will always be welcome in these halls, never forgotten.”

Madja squeezed his hand, gratitude and affection shining in her eyes. “I expected nothing less. You have all grown into fine leaders, fine friends. It eases my heart to know I leave the court in good hands.”

Rhysand released Madja’s hand gently, taking in her decision with thoughtful acceptance. The room felt quieter, a hush that allowed them both to measure the weight of this change. He crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the desk, considering how best to carry out her retirement. There would need to be someone to fill her role—someone skilled, empathetic, and unshakably capable of handling whatever the Night Court might face.

“Have you thought about who might take your place?” Rhys asked softly, meeting her steady gaze. “I can’t imagine you leaving us without a successor in mind.”

A hint of pride lit Madja’s eyes, a spark of confidence in the future she was preparing to leave behind. “Of course I have. You know me better than that, Rhys. I would never abandon my post without ensuring someone could step into it seamlessly.”

Rhys inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if he had expected nothing less. “And who have you chosen?”

Madja’s grip on the windowsill tightened slightly, not in apprehension, but in anticipation of sharing something long-cherished. “I have someone perfect in mind. A child of the Night Court—an orphan of the first war against Hybern, in fact. I took her under my wing when she was very young, taught her the basics of healing and care.”

Rhysand’s brows rose, curiosity piqued. He could not recall all the children Madja had trained personally, centuries and centuries blending faces and names into a kind tapestry of service. “Who might this be?”

“Y/N,” Madja said, voice warm with fondness. “You may remember her. She was quiet but determined, always studying late into the night, always asking how to ease pain more efficiently or mend a broken bone with fewer scars. A true healer’s heart.” She paused, letting the memory breathe life into the silence. “A few centuries ago, she left the Night Court to travel among the other courts and even beyond Prythian’s borders—visiting unknown continents, I believe. All to deepen her knowledge and hone her healing skills.”

Rhysand searched his memories, vague images surfacing: a young, focused individual hovering near Madja’s side, attentive as a student could be. He had been too busy with rebuilding and healing wounds on a much larger scale then, but he remembered the name faintly, the glimpses of a dedicated figure slipping through the halls.

Madja continued, “I reached out to her a few months ago, requested her return. I told her of my plans, that I would soon step down and that I wanted her to take my place. She agreed. She should be arriving any day now, if my calculations are correct.”

Rhysand nodded thoughtfully, pressing his fingertips together. “So Y/N will take on your mantle,” he said quietly, more to himself than Madja. “If you trust her, then I will welcome her home with open arms. I know the court will benefit from such devotion and training.”

Madja’s smile deepened, an affectionate and proud curve of her lips. “She will do well, Rhys. She’s grown into a capable healer—perhaps even more skilled than I. She brings with her new techniques and knowledge from lands we can barely imagine. It is only fitting that someone so dedicated should stand where I once stood.”

Outside, the city’s laughter and murmurs drifted into the room. Rhysand and Madja stood in quiet agreement. As one chapter closed gently, another prepared to open. The Night Court, always at the crossroads of past and future, would soon meet the one who would continue its legacy of healing and mercy.

The winter air carried a quiet hush as you approached the gates of Velaris. The land slumbered under a light blanket of snow, crystals glittering like tiny fallen stars beneath the moonlight. It had been centuries since you’d last seen this city, and now each lantern-lit arch, each faint silhouette of distant rooftops, stirred memories long tucked away. The cold breeze nipped at your cheeks, but you were well-prepared: a heavy, fur-lined cape draped over your shoulders, its generous folds keeping out the chill. Beneath it, your traveling garb—leather boots crusted with frost, worn gloves, and trousers meant for long rides—hinted at the countless roads you had trodden in your self-imposed exile.

Your horse’s breath plumed in the crisp air, its dark coat standing out starkly against the snowy ground. Every hoof-fall was muffled by that thin layer of powder, giving the night an even gentler hush. Above you, the eagle circled again, a lone sentinel under a sky brushed with starlight and the faint glow of a crescent moon. It cried softly, its voice echoing in the stillness, as if announcing your return.

Velaris—once the place of your youth, where you learned the first steps of healing under Madja’s patient eye—felt both familiar and strange. You had wandered distant courts, continents with different climates and creatures, honing your craft and expanding your knowledge. Yet here, now, the curve of a familiar street corner, the warm glow of lamplight on old stone, tugged at your heart. It was nostalgia mingled with quiet apprehension, the weight of centuries settling gently on your shoulders. Back then, you had left as a young apprentice, uncertain and hungry for wisdom. Tonight, you returned as a seasoned healer, with secrets and skills gleaned from every corner of Prythian and beyond.

At the gate, a couple of sentries wrapped in thick cloaks watched your approach. The lanterns beside them radiated a comforting warmth against the frosty night. They noted your horse’s slow pace, your cape embroidered subtly with practical patterns, the saddlebags heavy with bandages, tonics, and texts. They glanced upward at the eagle, curious, but found no threat in this silent dance of traveler and guardian.

One guard stepped forward, voice muted yet carried easily through the still air. “Late traveler,” he said, respectful but cautious, “state your name and purpose.”

You drew the reins gently, bringing the horse to a stop, your dark mount stamping once on the snowy ground. A faint smile touched your lips as you pushed back your hood, exposing features sharpened by experience, softened by understanding. Even now, the cold flushed your cheeks slightly, and a strand of white hair slipped free, catching the moonlight.

“I am Y/N,” you said, your voice steady and warm, echoing with an old familiarity. “A healer returning to the Night Court. I believe I am expected.”

The guards exchanged a glance—this name carried weight, a quiet rumor of a healer summoned home by Madja herself. They stepped aside, allowing you entry, no further questions needed. Beyond them lay Velaris, blanketed softly in winter’s hush. You remembered it bustling with life in greener times, but even now, beneath the snow and distant laughter, you felt the city’s heart welcoming you home.

With a gentle press of your heel, you urged your horse onward. The eagle’s shadow passed over the gate, and then it soared above the rooftops, perhaps to find its own perch. A familiar scent drifted through the crisp night air—something like cinnamon and distant hearth fires. You took it in, remembering quiet evenings of study and healing in warm, lamplit rooms.

You had left as a student, eager and uncertain. You returned a master of your craft, ready to shoulder the responsibilities your old mentor had chosen for you. The quiet crunch of hooves in snow was the only sound as you entered Velaris, a place you had not seen in a hundred lifetimes, yet still knew in your bones.

As soon as you passed through the gates, you swung your leg over the horse’s side and dismounted with a practiced ease. The animal, sensing your familiarity, snorted softly, its breath making small clouds in the winter air. The snow crunched beneath your boots as you took the saddle in hand, leading your horse forward at a leisurely pace. A few onlookers spared curious glances—travelers weren’t uncommon in Velaris, but your arrival at this late hour and in these quiet conditions drew subdued interest.

You let your gaze drift, taking in the sights around you. Velaris had always been a jewel among cities, but under the moon and dusting of snow, it gleamed with a serene kind of splendor. Buildings of carved stone and elegant wood bore soft, golden lights that spilled onto cobblestone streets. The scent of fresh bread and distant hearth fires mingled with the crispness of winter. You noted subtle changes—new sculptures in gardens, fresh murals adorning certain walls, the hum of gentle magic woven into everyday corners. It had grown even lovelier with time.

You had heard the tales, even far away on foreign shores: the once-hidden city revealed to the world, the ferocious attack it had endured, and the grand victory that followed. Rumors traveled quickly among healers and traders, and from what you gathered, Velaris had suffered but risen stronger, its spirit unbroken. The idea that your old home, once so secretive, had been thrust onto the world stage still left an odd taste in your mouth. You’d never imagined such an outcome all those centuries ago.

And Rhysand—when you’d left, he’d only just ascended as High Lord after his father’s passing. You remembered him as calm, shrewd, haunted by new responsibilities thrust upon him too young. Now, you’d learned that he had reigned through wars and alliances, reshaping the Night Court into something more open, more formidable. Most astonishing of all was the whisper that a High Lady stood beside him, equal in power and rank. Such a thing had been unthinkable in the old days, when tradition and suspicion ruled the courts.

You ran a hand along the horse’s neck, both reassuring it and steadying yourself. Time had flowed like a great river, carving new courses in this land you once knew. The Night Court wasn’t just shadows and silence anymore—if anything, it hummed with a brighter, more inclusive magic.

A small smile tugged at your lips, though touched by nostalgia. You wondered if you would still recognize old acquaintances, if any remained. Madja, of course, you would know. She was the reason you had returned. But what about the healers who trained alongside you, or the courtiers who once sought your help for quiet fevers and twisted ankles?

Your breath fogged in the cold as you carried your saddle and led the horse onward into the velvety night of Velaris. In that soft hush, surrounded by lamplight and murmuring streets, you acknowledged what had been and what now was. A thousand changes had come to pass while you walked distant roads, yet here you were again—a piece of the past stepping into the present, ready to adapt and serve once more.

With a gentle tug on the reins, you guided your horse through Velaris’ winding streets until you reached a small inn known for accommodating travelers with mounts. The sign outside bore simple script and a painted image of a horse’s head, letting you know this was a place that catered to riders who needed both rest and a safe spot for their companions. A narrow stable area hugged one side of the building, the wooden stalls visible through an open arch, and the soft whicker of other horses drifted out into the cold night.

You tied your horse securely at a hitching post near the stable entrance, giving it a few soft strokes along its neck and murmuring quiet words of reassurance. The inn’s lights glowed warmly through its windows, promising respite from the chill outside. Carrying only what you needed for the night—your saddle and a small bag slung over your shoulder—you stepped up onto the worn threshold.

Inside, the inn’s atmosphere enveloped you like a comforting blanket. The interior was modest yet inviting, with low ceilings supported by dark wooden beams that lent the space a cozy, intimate feel. A large hearth crackled at one end, its firelight dancing across the polished floorboards and simple, sturdy tables. The scent of mulled wine and hearty stew drifted through the air, mingling with the faint tang of old wood and woolen fabrics. A few patrons sat scattered around, some nursing tankards, others finishing quiet meals, their murmured conversations melding into a pleasant hum.

Lamps hung at intervals along the walls, their warm glow illuminating the simple artwork—landscapes of rolling hills and starry skies, scenes that might be familiar to travelers who came and went. A rack near the door held thick cloaks and traveling staffs, and straw mats by the hearth encouraged weary wanderers to warm their feet by the flames.

Approaching the small counter near the fire, you found a stout figure in an apron waiting, brows lifting slightly at your approach. The innkeeper—a middle-aged fae with kind eyes and a no-nonsense posture—took in your travel-worn attire and the faint smell of stable hay clinging to your clothes without judgment.

“I need a room for the night,” you said, voice low but clear. You placed a few coins on the counter, enough to cover lodging and a decent meal. “And a safe place for my horse,” you added, gesturing out the door with a tilt of your head.

The innkeeper nodded, pocketing the coins and scribbling a note in a ledger. “You’ve chosen the right place, traveler. We’ve a stable hand on duty tonight, and plenty of hay and water for your mount. I’ll have your belongings sent up to your room—top of the stairs, second door on the right. Will you be needing dinner?”

The gentle crackle of the hearth made you realize how hungry you were. “Yes, please. Something hot.” The tension of your long journey began to ease as you spoke. Soon, you would have a warm meal and a quiet room, a moment to gather your thoughts before facing the days to come in Velaris.

The innkeeper nodded again. “We’ll have stew and bread ready for you in a moment. Make yourself comfortable.”

You thanked them quietly and made your way toward a table near the fire. Settling down, you let the warmth seep into your bones. Outside, the snow continued to fall lightly, dusting the night-silenced streets. Inside, the inn’s modest comfort wrapped around you, a gentle reminder that, for all the changes beyond these walls, solace could still be found in simple things: a crackling fire, a hot meal, and a secure place to rest.

You thanked the inn’s attendant who brought your things upstairs—your saddle and bag neatly placed in one corner, your personal items laid out on a small bench. As soon as the door closed, you set about making yourself comfortable. The tiny room was modest but cozy: a single bed with a thick quilt, a wooden chest for your belongings, and a narrow door that led to a private washroom. The lamp on the bedside table glowed softly, illuminating rough-hewn beams overhead and the simple woven rug underfoot.

The bath you drew was warm and fragrant, a rare luxury after so many months on the road. You sighed as the hot water embraced your tired muscles, steam rising to blur the edges of the lamplight. Every ache and tension slipped away, replaced by a gentle calm. You lingered there longer than you intended, letting the warmth and quiet stillness soothe the raw edges of your journey.

Eventually, you stepped out, drying off with a towel that smelled faintly of lavender. Pulling on more comfortable clothes—soft trousers, a loose tunic, and thick socks—you immediately felt lighter, more at ease. Settling into the single chair at the small desk, you opened your sketchbook. The pages bore neat sketches of rare herbs, diagrams of organs and nerve clusters, annotations in your own careful handwriting describing remedies learned in distant courts. You added a few more notes now, clarifying a technique you’d picked up in the Winter Court for combating frostbite injuries—how their healers used crushed frost lily petals to reduce swelling.

You’d barely finished jotting down a final sentence when a gentle knock sounded at the door. Crossing the tiny space in a few strides, you opened it to find the innkeeper’s assistant holding a tray. The rich aroma of stew—savory and warm—wafted into your room. You offered a quiet thanks, voice hushed as if not to disturb the hush of the night. The assistant nodded politely and retreated, footsteps receding down the hallway.

Placing the tray on a small round table by the window, you pulled up the chair. The stew steamed before you—thick and hearty, with chunks of root vegetables, tender meat, and herbs that reminded you of home. Next to it was a small loaf of crusty bread and a pat of butter, already soft enough to spread easily.

As you dipped your spoon and brought the first mouthful to your lips, the flavors bloomed across your tongue—rich, comforting, and exactly what you needed. Your gaze drifted past the rim of the bowl to the window. Beyond the glass, the Sidra River shimmered softly under starlight. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the night, catching in the glow of distant lanterns. Across the water, the Rainbow—Velaris’s famed artistic district—was lit with gentle hues, colors blending seamlessly into the darkness.

The scene was a masterpiece of tranquility: the star-flecked sky, the quiet city, the snow falling softly as if trying not to wake the world. You savored another spoonful of stew and leaned back, allowing the moment to settle around you. Here you were, in a city you’d left centuries ago, come home to take up a mantle left by your old mentor. So much had changed and yet this moment—warm meal, quiet window, gentle snow—reminded you why you returned. Comfort, safety, purpose, and memory woven together in a tapestry of starlit peace.

You finished the last of your meal, wiped the bowl clean with a piece of bread, and gently pushed the tray aside. The steady warmth of the stew had settled in your stomach, making your limbs feel pleasantly heavy. Outside, the snow continued its quiet descent, dusting the rooftops and the narrow streets with sparkling powder. The lamplight in your room seemed softer now, the hush of the winter night wrapping around you like a familiar old cloak.

Rising from the small chair, you crossed the room and extinguished the lamp on the bedside table. Only moonlight and the reflection from the snow-blanketed city remained, sending faint silver shapes dancing along the floorboards. You slipped beneath the quilt, the scent of wool and lavender drifting from the linens. The mattress gave slightly under your weight, a gentle cradle after so many hard beds and forest floors.

Your thoughts drifted naturally to the meeting you’d have the next day. Madja’s voice echoed faintly in your memory—her gentle, steady guidance so many years ago. Tomorrow, you would see her again, no longer as a wide-eyed apprentice, but as a seasoned healer returning to take up her mantle. The idea hummed softly through your mind, a mixture of anticipation and a quiet, nervous pride.

The distant murmur of Velaris lulled you: the soft creak of settling beams, the whisper of the Sidra’s current, the faint call of a night bird. Within moments, the fatigue of long travel and the comfort of a true bed smoothed away the edges of wakefulness. Your eyelids grew heavy and closed, shutting out the gentle glow of stars and snow.

Wrapped in warmth and memory, you drifted into sleep, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would begin a new chapter—one you were finally ready to embrace.

don't hesitate to comment if you want to be added to the tag list ;)))

[lazy-ahh]

Hi, Lazy-ahh! Can I ask for main Mark x AMAB reader? In another universe, reader lost his Mark. He somehow travels to main Mark’s universe. Out of desperation, reader murders the other version of himself to take his place and have a second chance with his boyfriend. But it’s only a matter of time before Mark finds out.

REPLACEABLE

pairing mark grayson x (alternate dimension) AMAB reader

in another dimension, you lost mark. now, you'll destroy anything—even yourself—to get him back. but when mark starts noticing the blood under your nails, you realize: some ghosts can't be buried. and some loves aren't yours to keep.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

you miss him.

it’s a hollow, gnawing thing, chewing through your ribs like a starving animal, leaving behind nothing but an ache so deep you swear it’s carved into your bones. you miss the way he laughed, loud and unguarded, the way his nose scrunched when he teased you, the way his fingers tangled in yours like he never wanted to let go—like you were something precious, something worth holding onto.

but your mark is gone.

you don’t remember much about how it happened, the memory too traumatic to remember yet too painful to forget—just screaming, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the way his body hit the ground too hard, too still, the sickening crack of impact that still echoes in your nightmares. you remember clutching his face, your fingers smearing red across his cheeks, begging him to wake up, to breathe, but his eyes stayed empty, staring past you into nothing.

you weren’t fast enough. you weren’t strong enough.

and then, somehow, you weren’t in your world anymore.

you weren’t even given the chance to grieve yet, to mourn, to scream into the void until your voice gave out. one second, you were kneeling in the wreckage of your life, and the next, you were standing on a sidewalk under a sun that felt too bright, too cruel.

this universe is almost the same. the same streets, the same sky, the same stupid posters of omni-man and the guardians of the globe plastered on bus stops, their smug faces grinning down at you like some sick joke. but then you see him—mark, your mark, alive and whole and laughing, his voice ringing through the air like a punch to the chest. your breath stutters, your chest cracks open, and suddenly you’re drowning all over again.

he’s right there.

you watch him for days, a ghost haunting the edges of his life. he goes to class, he texts his friends, he flies off to fight bad guys like nothing’s wrong, like the world hasn’t ended. it seems like he had just recently gotten his superpowers, his movements still a little unsteady mid-air, nothing like the effortless grace of your mark. your mark had gained his while he was trying to save you during a villain attack, his body slamming into yours as he shielded you from debris, his eyes wide with panic and determination as his powers finally sparked to life. you’d been walking toward a comic store to buy the latest issue of seance dog, his hand warm in yours, his voice teasing as he argued about which volume was better—as cliché and romantic as the scenario was, it was yours. but this mark wasn’t your mark. he didn’t have the memories you two shared, the inside jokes, the quiet nights pressed together under the glow of his laptop screen. he just lived his life happily and heroically, like he didn’t die in your arms. like you didn’t lose everything.

and then you see him. no—not him. you.

the other version of you in this dimension. it seemed like you didn’t get superpowers, didn’t go through the intense training that carved your body into something sharper, something meant to survive. you were... normal. soft in a way you hadn’t been in years. this version of you didn’t get to go on dates where you and mark just flew through the vast, endless night sky, the air cold and biting as you clung to him, the world below reduced to scattered lights while above you, the cosmos sprawled out in all its glory—endless stars, streaks of auroras painting the dark in rippling greens and purples, depending on where the two of you decided to go that night. you didn’t get to fight side by side, didn’t get to know the rush of battle, the way mark’s laughter would cut through the chaos as the two of you pulled off some stupid, reckless stunt, the way he’d press his forehead to yours after, breathless and bleeding, whispering, we make a good team.

but this you—this soft, powerless, ordinary you—was the one who still got to hold mark’s hand. who still got to kiss him goodnight. who still got to exist in a world where he was alive.

it’s not fair.

you don’t plan it. at least, you don’t think you do. but when you see them together—mark’s arm slung around his shoulders, his smile so bright it hurts, like looking directly into the sun—something inside you snaps. something dark and cruel and selfish, something that’s been festering deep inside you, rotting you from the core, finally consumes you whole.

he was walking home alone. it’s easy. he was normal. you were not.

you remember not even letting him scream. every time the memory comes crashing back, it’s like watching a scene play out from somewhere outside your body—like you’re floating in the back of your own mind, numb and detached, as the darkness in your veins pulls your strings, as your hands move without your permission. you let it happen. you let yourself drown.

you had gracefully landed behind them, silent as a shadow. your reflection in the dim streetlights would’ve been horrifying if they’d turned around fast enough to see it—your eyes sunken, bruised with exhaustion, your lips chapped from biting back screams, your hair a mess from nights spent clawing at your own scalp just to feel something. you looked like a ghost. like something already dead.

you remember the way they turned around, playful and fond, expecting it to be mark, only for their expression to twist into surprise. then—wonder? awe? you remember feeling perplexed, watching as this other version of you lit up, rambling in passionate excitement about how cool it was to see another version of himself. you had explained, briefly, that you were a superhero in your dimension, that you fought alongside mark, and their face had glowed with admiration, with playful jealousy, with this aching, innocent want—god, i wish i could do that. i wish i could be out there with him.

then, you remember telling them, voice hollow, that your mark died. because you were too weak. too slow. too human to save him.

and their expression—it falls. their smile shatters like glass, their eyes widening in something like grief, like understanding, because they love mark too, and the thought of losing him—

you watch the exact moment realization creeps in. their breath hitches. their fingers twitch, like they want to reach for you, or maybe run. their lips part—wait—

but you’re already moving.

"but... don’t worry," you whisper, and your voice doesn’t even sound like yours anymore. "you’ll be able to fight alongside him too. it’s just... it wouldn’t be you." your hand brushes their cheek, almost tender. "but then again, we are the same person anyway, right...?"

their face twists in horror.

you don’t let them scream.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

mark notices something's off.

not at first. at first, you're perfect—maybe too perfect. you know all his favorite foods (the way he likes his burgers slightly pink in the middle, how he picks the mushrooms out of his pasta but will eat them if they're chopped small enough). you remember every stupid inside joke, every embarrassing childhood story his mom told you that one thanksgiving. your hands find all the right places—the spot behind his ear that makes him shiver, the way his shoulders tense after patrol that requires just the right amount of pressure to melt away. you curl into him on the couch like a dying star collapsing inward, pressing your face into the warm hollow of his neck, breathing him in like he's oxygen and you've been drowning for months.

maybe he is. maybe he's the only thing keeping you from dissolving completely.

"you've been clingy lately," he murmurs one night, fingers tracing idle circles along the knobs of your spine. you've lost weight. his voice is fond but there's something else there now—a question. "not that i'm complaining."

you tighten your arms around him like he might vanish if you loosen your grip. "just missed you."

he laughs, soft and warm, but it doesn't reach his eyes the way it used to. "i was gone for, like, two hours."

you press closer instead of answering, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

silence stretches. then his hand stills on your back. "...y/n?"

"mhm?"

"look at me."

you don't want to. but you do.

his brows are furrowed, thumb brushing under your eye where the shadows have grown darker, more permanent. "you look like shit." it's supposed to be a joke but his voice cracks. "when was the last time you slept? actually slept?"

you try to smile. it feels like tearing open a wound. "'m fine."

"bullshit." his hands frame your face, calloused and warm and so painfully familiar it makes your chest ache. "you're shaking. you've been—i don't know, jumpy? like you're expecting something to—" he cuts himself off, swallows hard. "talk to me. please."

the concern in his voice is worse than anger would've been. you want to laugh. you want to scream. you want to tell him everything—how you wake up choking on his name, how every time he leaves the room you're half-convinced he won't come back, how sometimes you still smell blood when there's none there.

instead, you press your forehead to his and whisper, "bad dreams."

it's not entirely a lie.

mark exhales, long and slow, his breath warm against your lips. "okay," he murmurs, like he doesn't believe you but won't push. not yet. "okay. but you gotta eat something, alright? and sleep. actual sleep. i'll be right here." his arms tighten around you. "not going anywhere."

you close your eyes.

(you don't tell him that's what your mark said too.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

it's the little things that give you away.

the way you flinch when a car backfires two blocks away—too loud, too sudden, too much like that day. how you forget cecil's name during dinner when mark mentions him, even though the other you had known him since freshman year. the way you sometimes stare at mark across the room like he's a miracle, like he's already gone, your fingers twitching with the need to touch him just to prove he's real.

and then there are the nightmares.

you wake up screaming more often than not, sheets tangled around your thrashing limbs, your throat raw like you've been swallowing glass. the images never fade—blood on your hands, mark's vacant eyes, the way his body had felt so heavy when you cradled him. you scrub your skin raw in the shower until it's pink and stinging, but the phantom stains remain. you see them in the dark, in the flicker of streetlights through the blinds, in the rust-colored water swirling down the drain.

mark always wakes when you do.

his arms are around you before you can choke out another sob, pulling you against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat—steady, alive, here. "hey," he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with sleep but achingly tender, "it's okay. i've got you." his lips press against your damp temple, your forehead, the corner of your eye where tears still cling. "breathe, baby. just breathe."

you want to sob harder at the pet name. the other you had loved it too.

your fingers clutch at his shirt like a lifeline, nails digging into the fabric as you try to anchor yourself in the present. mark doesn't complain, just holds you tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. "was it the same dream?" he asks softly.

you nod against his collarbone, unable to speak past the guilt lodged in your throat.

"wanna talk about it?"

you shake your head.

he doesn't push. just shifts until he can tuck you under his chin, your ear pressed over his pulse point. "listen to that," he whispers. "i'm right here. not going anywhere." his fingers card through your sweat-damp hair, gentle and sure. "you're stuck with me, y'know?"

a wet laugh escapes you, half-hysterical. if only he knew.

when you finally drift off again, it's to the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his hand still tangled in yours—like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

(you wish you could tell him he's holding a ghost.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

he finds out on a thursday.

you don't know how. maybe he followed you when you slipped out before dawn to scrub blood from under your nails in a gas station bathroom. maybe he found the shallow grave you dug behind the abandoned church, the dirt still loose after three weeks of rain. maybe the other you's friends noticed their texts going unanswered, their calls ignored, the way you'd flinch whenever someone said their name.

but when you push open the bedroom door—still smiling, still pretending, still holding the takeout bag from mark's favorite burger place—he's standing in the middle of the room. the blinds are closed. the lights are too bright. his face is pale as milkglass.

"where's y/n?" he asks. his voice is too quiet, too careful, like he's holding back a hurricane.

your stomach drops through the floor. the bag slips from your fingers, greasy fries scattering across the hardwood. "i'm right here."

"no." his hands are shaking now, clenched at his sides like he wants to hit something. or you. "the real y/n. where are they?"

you open your mouth. nothing comes out but a thin, wounded sound.

mark's eyes drag over you—the too-sharp angles of your face that don't quite match the photos on the fridge, the way your fingers twitch toward your pockets where bloodstained gloves are hidden, the defensive hunch of your shoulders like you're waiting for the world to end. again. his breath hitches. "oh my god." his voice cracks down the middle. "you—you're not them. what did you do?"

the grief in his voice is a knife between your ribs. you can feel yourself splitting open at the seams.

"i had to," you whisper. your voice sounds shattered, like you've been screaming for years. "i couldn't—i couldn't lose you again."

"again?" his face twists like he's tasting something rotten. "what the fuck are you talking about?"

"you died." the words pour out of you like pus from an infected wound, thick and putrid with guilt. "in my world, you died in my arms—your blood soaking through my clothes, your eyes going blank while i begged you to stay—and i—" your voice fractures, "i wasn't fast enough, i wasn't strong enough, and then i was here and you were alive but you weren't mine and i just—" your knees hit the floor with a sickening crack, but you don't feel the pain. "i just wanted you back."

mark stumbles back like you've physically struck him, his shoulders hitting the wall with a dull thud. his hands fly up to clutch at his hair, fingers twisting in the dark strands until his knuckles bleach white. "so you killed him?" his voice is barely recognizable—raw and shattered. "you killed yourself just to—to what? replace him? wear his face like some fucked-up mask?!"

"i didn't want to be alone!" you scream so hard your throat tears, the taste of copper flooding your mouth. "you don't understand—you're alive here, breathing and whole and—" your voice breaks into a whimper, "and i couldn't—i couldn't keep waking up to a world where you don't exist—"

mark's crying. really crying—the kind of sobs that wrack his entire body, tears streaming down his face in hot, silent rivers. you've never seen him cry before, not even when he broke his arm during a fight, not even when his dad disappointed him for the hundredth time. his breath comes in ragged, wet gasps as he slides down the wall, his legs giving out beneath him.

"you're a monster," he chokes out, the words barely audible but cutting deeper than any blade. his red-rimmed eyes meet yours, and the look in them—horror, grief, betrayal—makes your stomach twist violently.

you collapse forward, your forehead pressing against the cold floor as your body convulses with silent sobs. the weight of what you've done crushes you into nothingness, until you're not sure you even exist anymore. the last thing you hear before darkness swallows you whole is mark's broken whisper:

"i loved him."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

he doesn't turn you in.

you don't know why. maybe he pities you—sees the hollows under your eyes, the way your hands never stop shaking, and thinks you've suffered enough. maybe he's too horrified to think straight, his mind still reeling from the blood under the floorboards, the missing person posters plastered across town. or maybe, in some terrible, twisted way, he understands. because he's lost people too—nearly lost himself a dozen times over—and that kind of grief does things to a person. makes them desperate. makes them dangerous. especially if that person was the love of your life. your soulmate. your heart. your everything.

but he doesn't look at you the same.

he doesn't touch you—no more casual brushes of fingers, no more sleepy cuddles on the couch, no more pressing kisses to your scars like they're something precious. doesn't smile at your stupid jokes, doesn't light up when you walk into the room. doesn't say your name like it means something, just avoids it entirely, like the syllables burn his tongue.

you broke him.

(and you wonder, with a sick sort of clarity, if this is how your mark felt when you died in your world. if he'd screamed himself raw, if he'd begged some higher power for a second chance, if he'd have done something just as monstrous to get you back. the thought makes you nauseous. you understand now. you wish you didn't.)

you leave before he can.

you don't belong here. you never did.

the last thing you see is mark's face—angry, grieving, alive—his mouth forming words you'll never hear, his hands reaching out like some part of him still wants to catch you. then the portal swallows you whole, and there's nothing but static and the phantom feeling of his fingers slipping through yours.

(you hope, wherever you end up, that there's a version of him who still loves you. but you know, deep down, you don't deserve it.)

3.1k words and I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMOREEEE WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS TO MYSELFFFFFF AHHHHHHH thank you so much to the lovely anon who requested this! <33 hopefully you didn't cry as hard as i did when you read this...

[hivemuthur]

Request:

fem!reader being OBSESSED with Viktor’s hands: the way they move, the way they hold things, the way they touch her.

I just need an ode to this man's hands ughhhh 😮‍💨

Oh Anon, you and me both. The Reader came out gn, because they are barely there :')

The Hollow of His Hand

Let's say viktorxgn!reader, mature. It really is just an ode to Viktor's hands; gif op, I apologize for using your brilliant work for something so depraved.

word count: 1,1K

author’s note: Freaktor this, Freaktor that, how about Reader is a freak for once? I'm not obsessed, you are obsessed.

—

It’s your favourite place—there, where his palm wrinkles, where fingers meet at the tips, extending whenever he passes something to you or reaches out, hand turned upward, letting you study the lines of the sole of his hand while he waits to receive something in it. Occasionally, your fingertips brush, sending a tingling sensation down to your elbow, making you linger.

It is either that Viktor knows or is entirely unaware of the shapes his hands take. When he writes, the pen rests strangely on his ring finger, with his index and middle keeping it in place, tendons flexing, wrist bending. You watch carefully, studying, memorizing for later—for when you are alone, so you can picture your own hand as his, were you ever so lucky.

You do not know which one it is in the workshop, when he adjusts the screws. If he knows, if he doesn’t. If he is aware of how the tendons in his hands pull taut, how the skin stretches over bone, how his knuckles bloom white when he tightens a bolt with precision. You watch the curl of his fingers, the way his nails, short and neat but never quite clean, catch the low light of the workshop’s lamps. The grease stains never quite leave, not entirely, dark crescents that sit beneath the nails like the shadowed banks of a river, tracing the paths of his labour. His hands bear no softness, no idle smoothness of a life untested. They are lined with the effort of creation, etched with the memory of every project he has built, repaired, torn apart, reassembled.

His forearms, dusted with hair that catches gold when he turns beneath the lamp, are a map of tension and movement. The veins rise to the surface when he grips the wrench, thick as the roots of an old tree pressing against damp soil. A freckle, then another, and another, scattered like a night sky inverted, the dark spots turned pale against the warmth of his skin. They sprawl up toward the hidden place where his sleeves remain stubbornly rolled, bunched at his elbows, the fabric wrinkled from long hours, from heat, from the constant shift of his limbs in motion. The muscle there is lean, work-honed, and when he leans into the machine, adjusting his stance, the curve of his bicep tightens, a flicker of strength beneath the skin.

But it is the place you have never seen that haunts you most. The place just beyond where the fabric ends, where his shoulder meets his neck, the juncture always concealed by layers of shirts, vests, coats, a guarded piece of him that only the mirror and the dark truly know. You imagine it warm beneath your lips, a hollow to rest your mouth against, to press into, to taste salt and heat and Viktor. The thought knots something low in your stomach, fingers twitching at your sides, the sheer want of it too much to swallow. You should not be watching. But how could you not?

What you do not know is whether it’s the labour-bared version of his hands or the relaxed one—the one resting on his cane, fingers curled idly; the one splayed across his thigh when he reads; or the one hovering close to yours on the desk as he writes—that haunts you most. It’s most likely the latter, the gentler version, the one that lingers in your mind unrestrained, creeping into the quiet hours of the evening when your chin rests on your knuckles, your gaze fixed, your thoughts drifting. To his thumb brushing your lower lip, then pressing inside.

Your mind fills with images of you taking him into your mouth, the way his fingers would press past your lips, the taste of salt and metal lingering on his skin, the faintest trace of ink at the pads. His knuckles would catch at the seam of your lips, but you’d open for him, let him slide in slow, let him feel the heat of your tongue, the soft press of it against the ridges of his fingerprints. You’d hollow your cheeks, suck him in deeper, and he—he would watch, breath uneven, eyes dark, lips parted as if he could feel the pull of it somewhere lower. His fingers would flex, testing the give of your mouth, the way your tongue curls around them, and you’d hum, a quiet, pleased sound, just to see how he reacts—to watch his throat bob with the effort of swallowing, his free hand gripping his thigh, his breath leaving in a sharp, unsteady exhale.

From that, you think of his fingers tracing down your spine, featherlight at first, then pressing, pressing, pressing until your skin dimples beneath the weight of his fingertips. His palm, broad and warm, spanning the small of your back, keeping you close, right where he wants you, God you wish. You think of the way his knuckles would drag over your ribs, slow, gentle, as if counting each one, mapping the cage that holds your breath, your heart—his now, if he asked.

His fingers, long and deft, would skim lower, curl under the hem of your shirt, just enough for his nails—sharp when they need to be—to scratch at your skin, raising gooseflesh in their wake. You imagine them undoing buttons with methodical ease, the same precision he gives to his work, until fabric slips from your shoulders, and you are left bare beneath his gaze. How he might pause, knuckles grazing your collarbone, his thumb finding the hollow at the base of your throat, pressing there just enough to make you swallow around it.

And then lower still, his hands bracketing your hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh, fingers splaying, pulling, guiding. You can see it so clearly—his wrists flexing, his forearms tensing, the fine dusting of hair shifting as he moves. How he would grip, firm but never rough, his palms anchoring you to him as he drags you into his lap, until you are flush against him, breath mingling, the heat of his skin seeping into yours.

But it’s truly the hollow of his hand where you want to rest the most—to shrink yourself down and be cradled, warm and safe, there, where Viktor would pick you up and keep you in his chest pocket, close to his heart.

Suddenly, in the dim light of the workshop, he sighs deeply, and like through thick water, his voice reaches you: “Are you with me?”

The sound of your own name, spoken with quiet concern, breaks through the haze, and you finally look up. And oh—it’s his mouth, forming the syllables, shaping the sound. His lips, right there, moving, parting. His lips are, of course, an entirely different story.

[seospicybin]

EVERMORE.

CHAPTER II

Bangchan x reader x Hyunjin. (s,f,a)

EVERMORE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When your daughter’s wedding weekend brings you, a former it-girl and Chris, a legendary rockstar back under one roof, the two of you must navigate old memories, unexpected feelings, and the chaos of family. As laughter, love, and a hint of scandal unfold, you're both reminded that some love stories don’t end—they just change shape. (25,6k words)

Author's note: Thank you for patiently waiting for the new chapter. Can't wait to read your feedback on it ♡

[EXCLUSIVE] Rumors Swirl Around Bang Theory Reunion—But It’s All About Love This Time June 20, 2025 — by Sky Kim.

The internet went into a frenzy this weekend when whispers of a Bang Theory reunion tour sent fans of the iconic '90s rock band into nostalgic chaos. The spark? A grainy video clip of frontman Chris Bang passionately performing on stage surfaced online late Saturday night—complete with pyrotechnics, a mic drop, and… a somersault gone wrong? But before fans could start petitioning for world tour dates, a little digging uncovered the truth: Chris Bang wasn’t reigniting Bang Theory for a tour. Instead, he was rocking out for a far more personal gig—his daughter Tigerlily’s wedding. Yes, you read that right. Sources close to the family confirmed that Chris reunited with his old bandmates for a surprise set during the wedding reception of his daughter. The performance was said to be “equal parts chaotic, emotional, and iconic,” with one insider joking, “It felt like the '90s again… until Chris faceplanted off the stage.” (He’s reportedly recovering well, and in true Chris fashion, already making jokes about it.) Despite the reunion rumors being nothing more than a wedding gift in the form of nostalgia and guitar solos, fans are still buzzing. Could this heartfelt one-night-only performance lead to something bigger? For now, it seems Chris is more focused on family than fame. But if this weekend taught us anything, it’s that you can take the man out of Bang Theory, but you can’t take Bang Theory out of the man. Stay tuned. And congratulations to the bride and groom.

-

The garden glows in soft amber light, wrapped in a golden haze as the sun begins to dip behind the trees. Strings of fairy lights flicker gently overhead, casting everything in a romantic shimmer. Laughter drifts through the warm air, mingling with the gentle clinking of glasses and the rustle of leaves dancing in the breeze. Guests settle into their seats at the long tables adorned with white linen, scattered florals, and glowing candles. It's the kind of evening that feels suspended in time—dreamlike, sacred.

Chris stands slowly from his seat, a champagne flute in one hand, the other smoothing down the front of his black suit. He clears his throat as someone passes him a mic, the subtle shift in attention moving toward him. He looks out at everyone, but mostly at her—his daughter, his Tigerlily—radiant in her wedding dress and laughing softly at something Julian just whispered to her. His throat tightens, but he starts with a familiar glint in his eyes.

“Well,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching, “I just want to take a moment to call out a traitor.”

The laughter begins immediately, warm and curious. Chris turns toward Tigerlily, mock betrayal written all over his face. “You. Yeah, you. You promised me, when you were five and wearing light-up princess shoes and eating peanut butter straight from the jar, that you were going to marry me.”

The laughter swells. Tigerlily covers her face with both hands as her shoulders shake with amusement.

“I was your first love. You said no one else could compete. And now look at you.” He gestures dramatically toward Julian. “Running off with this guy.”

Julian gives a sheepish grin, and the guests eat it up. Chris shakes his head dramatically before he continues, voice growing softer even as the laughter fades. “But the truth is, I’ve been preparing for this day in my own way, probably since the day you were born. Even if I didn’t want to admit it.”

He looks at Tigerlily, and the air seems to still around him. “You were always magic, little cub. Even when you were tiny—especially when you were tiny—you had this energy about you. You lit up every room. I remember holding you on my shoulders during rehearsals, watching you bop around to the noise like it was music. I didn’t know it then, but those were the moments I’d keep in my back pocket forever.”

He turns toward Julian now, eyes still soft, but steady. “Julian, I know we joke—and I will keep joking—but I also want you to know… I trust her with you. And I trust you with her. Please, love her right. Because she’s my whole world.”

He pauses, emotion catching in his chest, but he swallows it down with a smile.

“To Tigerlily and Julian,” he says, raising his glass, voice bright with both pride and bittersweet joy. “May your life together be louder than a Bang Theory concert, but just as unforgettable.”

Cheers erupt across the garden, glasses clink, and Chris slowly sits down, heart thudding in his chest. He exhales quietly as he watches his daughter beam at the man she chose, her smile bright enough to carry him through the ache of letting her go. He then settles back into his seat, still feeling the ghost of the mic in his hand, the warmth of everyone's attention slowly ebbing away. The laughter, the applause—it all lingers around him like a soft echo. He catches you looking at him with that expression, the one he remembers from years ago, back when you’d watch him after shows, proud but trying not to let it show too much.

“That was a good speech,” you say, nudging his elbow gently. “You did good.”

Chris lets out a breath, almost a laugh. “You think so?”

You nod, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. “I know so.”

He grins and turns to the teenager next to him, nudging her with the same hopeful energy. “Hey, Riley bear. What did you think? Pretty solid, right? A little funny, a little touching?”

Riley doesn’t even look up from her phone. She just lifts a thumb in the air in response, eyes glued to her screen.

Chris stares at her in mock betrayal. “A thumbs-up? That’s it? My finest performance in years and I get a thumb?”

Still nothing so he slides his arm around her shoulder and leans in dramatically. “You know what? That’s it. As of this moment, you are officially not allowed to date. Ever.”

Riley lets out a loud groan without breaking eye contact with her phone. “Oh my god, Dad.”

You chuckle, reaching across the table to tug on his sleeve. “Come here,” you whisper, leaning close. He shifts toward you, and you murmur conspiratorially, “You know nothing about teenagers. The more you tell them no, the more they gonna want to do it.”

Chris leans back, eyes narrowed like he’s just been told a trade secret. “So you're saying… I should encourage her to date?”

“No,” you say through a laugh, “I’m saying be less obvious.”

He huffs. “Fine. I’ll just plant a tracker in her shoes.”

That earns him a full-bodied laugh from you, rich and unguarded, the kind he used to chase when you were still his. It hits him in the chest more than he expects. He missed that laugh. He missed you, in all the quiet, unspoken ways that sneak up on him like this.

You bump your shoulder against his, teasing. “Didn't you know, Chris? Love finds a way.”

He glances back at Riley, still firmly ignoring him, and sighs with an exaggerated shake of his head. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

But there’s no bitterness in his voice—just a tired kind of joy. A surrender to the passage of time and the impossibility of holding onto anything forever. Except maybe memories like this. Family, laughter, the sound of your voice next to his. That, he can hold onto a little longer.

-

The stage is small, a modest wooden platform strung with warm, golden lights and flowers, but as Chris strums the first few chords, it feels like home. It always does. His fingers remember every note like muscle memory, even though it’s been years since The Bang Theory played anything beyond a casual jam in someone’s garage.

The crowd at the wedding is electric with warmth—family, friends, strangers, all laughing, clinking glasses, swaying to the music. But Chris doesn’t see them. Not really. Not yet. He sings the words, not thinking too hard about them—just letting them carry through the air. His voice still holds. Maybe a little more gravel, a little more soul. Maybe that’s age, or maybe that’s just what happens when life keeps turning the pages faster than you can read.

He scans the crowd while his bandmates pick up the next chorus. Familiar faces drift past—Julian with his arm around Tigerlily’s waist, Maude and Riley taking a video on her phone, a few old friends from the label. But he’s still searching. His heart doesn’t settle until it finds you. Then, a moment later, he spots you. You’re making your way toward Tigerlily and once you're by her side, you’re both dancing, singing and laughing—his girls. Tigerlily, radiant in her dress, twirling with ease, her face bright with joy. And you, swaying with her, singing the chorus back at him. Not for the crowd. For him. It guts him in the best and worst way.

The memory hits like a wave. Another wedding. Another stage. Tigerlily in his arms, small enough to rest on one hip, clapping her little hands to the beat while you laughed beside him. She didn’t know the words back then, but she still sang them. Gurgled them, really. And now she’s here—grown, glowing, a bride.

Chris blinks through the swell in his chest. For a second, his voice almost catches. His bandmates keep going, none the wiser, but Chris has to turn his head and refocus on the strings under his fingers.

This is joy. This is what it looks like. Not stadiums. Not gold records. This. His daughter dancing in a white dress. You laughing beside her. This music, this moment, this life that somehow kept going even after everything cracked and fell apart. He takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes for the last chorus.

This one’s not just for Tigerlily. It’s for you, too. Because you’re still here. You’ve always been and that’s enough to carry him through the song. And this— This energy is addictive. Chris can feel it pulsing through his veins like a second heartbeat—music, laughter, the stomping of feet, the kind of wild joy that used to live in his bones back when stages were his second home. He didn’t realize how much he missed this—needed this—until the spotlight found him again, until the cheers roared like an old familiar friend.

People are shouting his name. Singing along. Phones are up. His bandmates are grinning like teenagers, feeding off the crowd. But none of it compares to the way Tigerlily beams at him from the dance floor, her hands up in the air, veil clipped to the side now, her cheeks flushed with happiness.

He points at her, chest swelling. “This one’s for you,” he calls into the mic. “My little cub, my Tigerlily.”

The crowd hollers. Tigerlily covers her face with both hands in mock embarrassment, but she’s grinning from ear to ear. It hits him all at once—how alive he feels, how proud, how the moment stretches so wide it could hold a lifetime. He’s never been good at sitting still, not when there’s rhythm in the air and the world’s spinning like a record. So he does what instinct tells him to do. What used to make fans scream in stadiums and what his knees warned him not to even think about anymore. He goes for the somersault.

The adrenaline makes it feel like flying for a second. The cheers spike. But the landing—oh, hell—the landing doesn’t come easy. His foot catches on a loose cable near the speaker. It jerks mid-air. His balance shifts. He hits the edge of the stage with a crack of bone and sound equipment.

The crowd gasps as his body lurches forward, his arms flailing to catch anything—but there’s nothing. Chris faceplants into the grass with a dull thud, mic still in hand, and the music cuts off with a horrible screech of feedback.

There’s a beat of pure silence. Then, all at once—shouts. Gasping. Someone screams his name. Tigerlily’s voice pierces through it like a blade. Feet scramble. Chairs screech. Phones drop. The stage, the celebration, the euphoria—gone in a heartbeat and then, everything blurs to white noise.

-

The fluorescent light above him hums low and constant. The antiseptic scent clings to everything, even the blanket draped over his lower half. His leg—he can’t even see it—rests stiffly elevated in a cast, bulky and awkward.

Chris exhales heavily, tilting his head toward the voices murmuring near the doorway. You and Tigerlily stand together, still in your dresses from the wedding, now a little crinkled from the chaos. The doctor finishes his long, clinical summary with a gentle smile.

“He’s fractured his ankle,” she says. “A clean break, but he’ll need to rest for 6 to 10 weeks. We’ll reevaluate for physical therapy later on. For now, minimal movement.”

The doctor excuses himself and leaves you two alone with Chris. He looks at you both, the guilt already gnawing at him. “I ruined it, didn’t I?”

Tigerlily gives him a look, arms crossed. “Well… yeah. You did a somersault at my wedding and faceplanted.”

“I was going to stick the landing,” Chris mutters.

You lean against the edge of the bed, lifting a brow. “And I was going to marry the Danish prince. Things change.”

He huffs. “I’m sorry. Both of you. I really—”

“As much as I enjoy seeing you in pain,” you cut in dryly, a glint of playfulness in your eyes, “you’re not allowed to die yet. You still have to live long enough to see your future grandkids.”

Tigerlily lets out a laugh, bumping your shoulder affectionately. “And spoil them rotten.”

Chris gives a sheepish smile, his eyes softening as he looks at his daughter. “Speaking of… where’s Riley?”

“She’s with Julian at home,” you reassure him. “Eating the wedding cake and probably laughing at your fall in 4K.”

He winces. “Great. Viral before I even leave the hospital.”

“Only because someone decided to stage dive without warning,” Tigerlily teases.

Chris reaches for her hand and holds it gently. “I’m really sorry, cub.”

Tigerlily leans over and wraps her arms around him, careful not to bump his leg. “You’re okay. That’s all that matters. We’ll laugh about it—just… not tonight.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the tenderness in the room, your presence steady beside him, and his daughter’s embrace warm and forgiving.

-

Chris is sleeping, finally. You sit quietly beside his hospital bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. His leg is elevated, stiff in the fresh cast, and his face is slack with exhaustion—lines of pain and embarrassment still etched faintly into his features. Your mind drifts back to Tigerlily’s words earlier, just after the doctor broke the news.

“Mom, can he stay with you for a while? Just until he’s okay enough to fly home?”

There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation in your answer. Of course. Because Chris is her dad. Because back home, no one’s really there to take care of him, not the way he needs. And Riley—sweet, spirited Riley—is far too young for the responsibility.

You reach out and gently adjust the blanket covering him, letting your fingers linger at the edge before slowly pulling back. Then, quietly, you rise and slip out of the room.

The door clicks shut behind you, and when you lift your eyes, you see Hyunjin. He’s waiting by the wall, casual and calm, but the worry in his eyes gives him away. When he spots you, he straightens, and the moment you’re close enough, he wraps you up in a warm, wordless hug. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, the scent of him—faint cologne and something undeniably his—settling your nerves. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He pulls back, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. He hands you a duffel bag and you peek inside to see clothes and a toiletry bag which you guess is packed by Tigerlily.

“Thank you,” you mutter with a soft smile. “How’s Riley?”

“Riley’s fine. Tigerlily and Julian are staying with her at your place.”

You nod again, and squeeze his hand in gratitude.

“Come on,” Hyunjin says gently, threading his fingers through yours. “Let’s get you some coffee.”

The café is empty except for some nurses and hospital staff fueling up for the night shift with loads of caffeine. You see Hyunjin returns from ordering coffee carrying a tray in his hands.

“Here,” he says, setting a cup of coffee in front of you and sliding over a small plate with a slice of cake and a few cookies. Then, without a word, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders. It’s still warm from him, and you sink into it instinctively, the weight of it grounding you.

He sits down next to you, close enough that your knees bump under the table. “How’s Chris doing?” he asks, his voice low, concerned.

You wrap your hands around the coffee cup, exhaling. “The doctor said minimal movement. A lot of rest. Probably physical therapy later.” You pause before adding, “He’s lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Hyunjin nods, sipping his drink slowly, eyes never leaving your face.

“And… it seems like he'll be staying at my place,” you say after a beat. “At least until he’s well enough to fly home.”

Hyunjin arches an eyebrow, but his expression is unreadable. “How do you feel about that?”

You look at him. “It’s fine, honestly. I want him to be taken care of. It’s just—” you exhale with a small smile, “—it means we’ll have to postpone the trip.”

A soft smile curves his lips. “That’s okay,” he says, reaching up to gently brush your hair behind your ear. “We’ll take that trip next time.”

You give him a grateful look, warmed by how easily he understands you. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Then you lean in and press a sweet kiss to his lips, soft and lingering. When you pull away, Hyunjin doesn’t miss a beat—he steals another kiss, a longer one, before finally letting you go with a grin.

You laugh under your breath and pick up your fork, digging into the cake, but just as you take the first bite, Hyunjin tilts his head and says with a playful smirk, “But are you sure that it's not some Chris's devious plans that he’s just trying to get back together with you by breaking his leg?”

You nearly choke on the cake as laughter bursts out of you. “Oh my god,” you say, dabbing your mouth with a napkin. “If that’s the case, you need a better plan than him.”

Hyunjin gasps, placing a hand on his chest in mock offense. “Excuse me. My plan involves far fewer hospitals and much better wardrobe choices.”

You both dissolve into laughter, and for the first time in what feels like hours, everything feels light again.

-

The car ride is mostly quiet but every bump in the road sends a dull ache through his leg, wrapped tight in a stiff cast and resting on the backseat. Julian’s driving carefully, like he knows every pothole could ruin what little comfort Chris has left.

Tigerlily turns from the passenger seat every so often to check on him, her brows furrowed in that particular way she used to do as a kid when she was worried—when she didn’t know how to fix something but desperately wanted to. “We’re almost home, dad,” she says gently.

Chris gives her a half-smile. “You act like we’re going to war.”

When they finally pull up to the house, he sees you and Riley waiting on the front porch. You’re in comfy clothes, hair tied up, and Riley’s already halfway down the steps before the car fully stops. There’s something so warm and familiar about the sight, and despite the throb in his leg, Chris feels a little less miserable. As soon as the car is parked, Tigerlily and Julian jump out.

“Okay, slow and steady,” Julian says, opening the door and helping Chris swing his casted leg out. Tigerlily grabs the crutches from the trunk, adjusting them before handing them over.

“I feel like an ancient rock star,” Chris mutters, gripping the crutches and bracing himself for the awkward maneuvering.

Riley runs toward him, arms wide, throwing herself into a gentle hug. Chris chuckles and hugs her back. “I should break my leg more often if this is what it takes to get you to hug me.”

Riley pulls back just far enough to punch him lightly on the chest. “Don’t even joke about it!”

He yelps anyway, rubbing his chest like she really did damage. “Ow! Abuse to the disabled! Unbelievable.”

And then his eyes meet yours, and there it is—that look. You’re grinning, arms crossed, that same sparkle in your eyes that’s always both comforting and dangerous.

“You’ve never looked this good before, Chris,” you say, eyes trailing down to the crutches. “Remind me again why we got divorced?”

Chris arches a brow, smirking. “Well, it only took a traumatic injury, mild public humiliation, and a hospital bill to get your attention again. Worth it.”

Everyone laughs, and for a moment, the pain fades behind the easy rhythm of being home. With Tigerlily and Julian flanking him, Chris hobbles his way toward the door, Riley skipping ahead to hold it open. Together, you all step into the house—something about it feels like slipping into an old song. Familiar, comforting, and maybe… just a little unfinished.

Lunch is simple but comforting—crispy sandwiches, soup in mismatched bowls, and a pitcher of lemonade sweating on the table. Everyone digs in like they haven’t eaten in days, the laughter already bubbling before the first bite is finished.

Tigerlily is the first to strike. She pulls her phone out, turns it toward the group, and presses play. Chris hears it before he sees it—the familiar chords of The Bang Theory mid-performance, the cheers from the crowd, and then, in glorious high-definition: himself soaring off the stage like a man possessed before planting face-first into the floor.

“Okay, okay—” he tries, holding up his hand, but it’s too late.

Julian’s laughing so hard he nearly chokes on a piece of grilled cheese. “You looked like a rockstar… for three seconds.”

Riley is cackling, phone in hand. “Dad, it’s everywhere. You're all over the fyp page. There’s already a remix version of it.”

Chris buries his face in his hands. “I was on adrenaline! The music took over!”

You’re laughing behind your hand, trying and failing to keep it together. “Honestly, if you hadn’t broken your leg, I would’ve sworn you were doing a bit.”

He glares at his soup like it betrayed him. “This is how you all repay me? A lifetime of music, memories—and you sell me out for a meme?”

Tigerlily leans over and kisses the top of his head. “We love you, dad.”

Chris lets out a huff, but he’s smiling. He can’t help it. This—this table, this meal, this stupid video on loop—is everything. Maybe he didn’t need a reunion tour. Maybe everything he ever needed was already right here. He reaches for his spoon, winces at the pull in his side, and mumbles, “Next time I want attention, I’m just faking a fever.”

You snort. “Next time, try doing it without turning into a trending hashtag.”

The laughter gradually softens into easy chatter, plates half-cleared and soup bowls nearly empty. Chris leans back, shifting his leg on the stool propped beneath the table, and glances at Tigerlily and Julian seated side by side—her fingers laced through his, their shoulders bumping gently every now and then like they’ve always belonged to each other.

“So,” he begins, swirling what’s left of his lemonade. “Aren’t you two should be on your way to your honeymoon? Or are you two just going to live here and keep mocking your injured old man for the rest of the month?”

Tigerlily chuckles, squeezing Julian’s hand. “We’re actually heading to the airport in a couple hours.”

“Somewhere warm?” he asks.

Julian grins. “Somewhere sunny. No signal. Just naps and fruity drinks.”

Chris smiles. “Sounds perfect.”

Tigerlily rests her chin on her palm, eyes softening. “You don’t need to worry about anything, okay? Just focus on getting better. You’re the only person I know who manages to break a leg mid-performance.”

“Gotta keep it interesting.” He turns toward you now, gaze warm. “Thank you, seriously. For letting me crash at your place.”

You shrug, reaching for your drink with a teasing glint in your eyes. “Don’t thank me just yet. I’m planning to ditch you the second your daughter’s on that plane.”

Chris laughs, the sound light and genuine. “Ruthless.”

You lean in a little, mock-whispering, “You better hope you’re still viral by tomorrow. Sympathy’s on a timer.”

Everyone chuckles again, but the moment softens between the cracks of laughter. Chris looks at his daughter—his newlywed daughter—and then at you, still wearing the faint shimmer of the wedding makeup, still hosting him like it’s no burden at all, and he feels the quiet weight of gratitude anchor somewhere deep in his chest.

Tigerlily glances at her phone, sighs gently, then looks over at Julian. He gives her a small nod, already reaching for their bags near the door. “That’s our cue,” she says, standing up and smoothing her dress. “We should head out before traffic gets crazy.”

Chris feels his chest tighten, even if he hides it with a casual shrug. “You sure you don’t want to delay it a day or two? Maybe wait until my other leg’s broken too?”

Tigerlily grins and walks over, bending slightly to give him a gentle hug around the shoulders. “No more falling, please.”

Julian comes around to shake Chris’s hand, firm and respectful. “We’ll call once we land.”

“Or don’t,” Chris says. “Go have your fun. You’ve earned it.”

Tigerlily turns to you next, wrapping her arms around you in a long, lingering hug. “Thanks again—for everything. And for letting Dad stay.”

You smile and squeeze her tightly. “Just enjoy your honeymoon. Your dad’s already threatening to take over the guest room forever.”

“Then you can start charging him rent,” Tigerlily jokes, pulling back. She turns to Riley next, who gives her a hug that’s more of a shoulder bump, the kind that says she’s too cool for sentiment but still means it. “Take care of them for me, okay?”

Riley nods solemnly. “I’ll keep him from trying to somersault in the living room.”

“Hey!” Chris hisses in protest and followed by more laughter. The good kind.

Then, after one more round of hugs and kisses, Tigerlily and Julian are out the door, dragging their suitcases down the porch steps. You and Chris watch from the entryway, standing side by side in silence as they wave one last time before disappearing into the car.

Chris lets out a quiet breath, his voice softer than before. “She is someone’s wife now.”

You glance at him, lips curling gently. “Yeah. She is.”

He leans a little on his crutch. “God, I’m old.”

You chuckle. “You’re not old. Just broken.”

He grins at that, and the two of you step back inside, closing the door behind you.

-

Later after dinner, the house is quiet in that peaceful, lived-in way. The clatter of dishes has faded, replaced by the soft hum of conversation and the occasional laugh echoing from the kitchen. Riley’s been helping dry the plates while you rinse them, the two of you slipping into an easy rhythm that makes Chris feel like something out of a memory.

Once the last dish is tucked away, Riley leans against the counter, drying her hands on a towel. “Hey, Dad,” she says casually—too casually. “Can I go hang out with Maude for a bit?”

Chris immediately frowns. “Aren't you flying home tomorrow?”

“C’mon,” she groans. “It’s not like I’m leaving tonight.”

“She has a point,” you say, stepping in beside her, your elbow brushing his. “She’s packed and everything. Let her enjoy the town with her friend.”

Chris looks between the two of you, instantly outnumbered. Riley with her pleading eyes. You with that soft, knowing look that says you already know he’s going to cave. He exhales. “Fine. But—”

“Since she’s staying at my house,” you cut in with a smirk, “she has to follow my rules.”

Riley straightens, hopeful as you turn to face her. “Home by ten,” you say.

Riley immediately groans, “Ten? Come on.”

Chris crosses his arms, backing you up. “Ten’s fair.”

Riley’s already scheming. “Eleven?”

You tilt your head. “Ten-thirty.”

And she grins, victorious. “Deal.”

She steps forward to give Chris a quick hug. “Thanks, Dad.”

Then she leans in and gives you one, just as quick, before darting out of the kitchen and up the stairs to get changed. Chris turns slowly toward you, brow raised. “You’re spoiling her.”

You only smile at him, utterly unapologetic. “Don’t act like you haven’t done the same with Tigerlily.”

Done with tidying up the kitchen, you help ease Chris down onto the sofa, one hand supporting his arm while the other steadies his casted leg as he shifts with a wince. The cushions swallow him up in familiar softness, and he exhales a long breath through his nose.

“I feel bad,” he mutters, adjusting the blanket you toss over his lap. “Making you take care of me like this.”

You shake your head, brushing him off with a wave of your hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d do the same for me.”

Chris watches you for a moment, quietly grateful, quietly thinking. Then, with a little more caution, he says, “Is your boyfriend okay with me staying here?”

You glance at him, one brow lifting. “You mean Hyunjin?”

Chris nods, and his expression twists in confusion. “Remind me again—what does he do?”

You chuckle softly as you reach for the mug on the coffee table and hand it to him. “He’s a pottery artist. And yes, he’s fine with it. He gets it. He’s busy prepping for his next exhibition anyway.”

Chris sips from the mug and hums thoughtfully, then side-eyes you. “So… how far are you two?”

You shoot him a dry look. “We’re taking it slow.”

He nods, accepting that. “Good. I like seeing you happy.”

That makes you shyly smile. “And I like seeing you in pain.”

Chris groans, dropping his head back against the cushion. “When will people stop teasing me about this?”

You laugh, rising from your seat. “When it stops being funny.”

He watches you walk toward the hallway. “Where are you going now?”

“To get your meds,” you call over your shoulder. “So you’ll heal faster and be out of my hair sooner.”

Chris chuckles, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Brutal,” he murmurs to himself, but there’s no mistaking the warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It takes a little while, but with your help, Chris eventually makes it to the guest bedroom—the one with the soft blue sheets and the window that catches the morning light just right. You move slowly with him, patient as ever, guiding him as he hobbles in on crutches, then helping him sit, then lie back, careful not to jostle his cast.

You fuss with the blanket, tucking it around him like he's not a grown man but someone still worthy of being taken care of. It makes something ache in his chest—something soft and unfamiliar.

Chris watches you adjust the pillow beneath his head. “Hey, can you check on Riley for me?” he asks quietly.

You smile as you sit at the edge of the bed. “I called Maude. She and Riley are already on their way home. She’s fine, Chris. You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m her dad,” he says, voice dry. “Worrying’s kind of the gig.”

You reach out and briefly brush his hair from his forehead in the same way you used to when he’d stay over during tours and couldn’t sleep. “I’ll worry enough for the both of us. You just sleep.”

He nods, the heaviness of the day settling into his bones now that the adrenaline is gone. You rise from the bed and head for the door.

“Goodnight, Chris,” you say gently, your silhouette framed in the soft glow from the hallway.

“Night,” he murmurs.

The door clicks softly shut, and the room falls into a comforting dimness. Outside, he can faintly hear the wind brushing past the window, and somewhere further off, maybe Tigerlily’s laugh as the front door creaks open.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Chris exhales and feels the tension ease from his chest. He’s not on tour, he’s not chasing time—he’s home, or something close to it. And for the first time in a long time, he feels at ease.

-

The morning light is soft, filtering through the pale curtains of Tigerlily’s old room. You gently push the door open and find Riley sitting cross-legged on the bed, her open suitcase in front of her, carefully folding clothes with a quiet focus. Her hair is a little messy from sleep, and the room still smells faintly of the floral shampoo she used the night before.

From the doorway, you clear your throat. “Hey, Riley bear. I think you're forgetting something,” you say, holding up the pastel slip dress she wore to the rehearsal dinner, draped gently over your arm.

Riley looks up, her eyes wide. “Wait—is that...?” She scrambles to her feet and gasps. “Are you giving me the dress?”

You nod, smiling. “It’s yours now.”

She beams as she takes it from you with reverent hands, smoothing out the fabric like it’s something sacred. “Thank you so much,” she says softly, folding it carefully and placing it into her suitcase.

You cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. “Your dad called your mom and she’ll pick you up at the airport.”

Riley nods without looking up, adjusting something in her bag. “Is Dad going to be okay?”

You glance toward the window, your thoughts momentarily drifting to Chris snoring softly on the couch with his leg propped up on a mountain of pillows. “Of course. Don’t worry about him—just focus on your school, okay?”

She pauses and then glances at you with a knowing smile. “I’m not worried,” she says. “You’re taking care of him.”

You grin and slightly roll your eyes. “Obviously. I’m a world-class babysitter.”

She laughs at that, a bright, clear sound, and you pat the space next to you on the bed. Riley plops down beside you, and you drape an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close.

“You can come here whenever you want, you know,” you tell her. “You can borrow more dresses—or hang out. If you don’t mind hanging out with an old lady like me.”

Riley leans her head against your shoulder. “You’re not that old,” she says. “And you’re cool.”

You gasp dramatically. “Coming from you? That’s a high honor.”

The two of you burst into laughter, and the sound fills the room—warm, bright, and easy.

Later that afternoon, you sit behind the wheel, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel as the engine hums softly. From the driver’s seat, you watch through the windshield as Chris leans against his crutches on the front porch. Riley stands in front of him, her bag already tucked in the trunk, her hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands. They’re saying goodbye.

Chris wraps one arm around her in a hug, pulling her in with a gentleness that always catches you off guard. He leans his head down, murmurs something into her ear that makes her laugh through a tearful smile, and then he presses a kiss to her temple—tender, lingering.

And just like that, you’re back in time. A younger Chris, crouched down by the sidewalk with little Tigerlily in his arms. Her pigtails bouncing, her cheeks sticky from popsicle syrup, her tiny arms thrown around his neck. He’d done the same thing then—held her close, kissed her on the temple, whispered a promise into her ear before sending her off with you.

Now here he is, older, slower, but still her father. And Riley—well, she knows she's not his only daughter, but there’s something in the way she leans into him like she knows she can rely her life on him and that's special. Precious.

You glance away, giving them a private moment. A beat later, Riley climbs into the passenger seat beside you, her eyes a little glassy but her smile firm.

“All good?” you ask softly.

She nods. “Yeah.”

In the rearview mirror, you catch a final glimpse of Chris waving, his expression unreadable, before you pull away from the curb. As you drive toward the airport, Riley leans her head against the window, and you feel something settle quietly in your chest—warm and bittersweet. Some goodbyes never get easier.

-

From his spot on the living room sofa, Chris watches the way you move in the kitchen—fluid, relaxed, a wooden spoon in one hand, a faint hum in your throat as the scent of garlic and something rich fills the air. There's something quietly mesmerizing about the scene, the domesticity of it, the warmth.

“Need help with anything?” he asks, shifting his casted leg slightly on the ottoman.

You glance over your shoulder and smile, that soft kind of smile that’s always caught him off guard. “Yeah, you can sit there and look pretty. Maybe put on something good for me to cook to?”

Chris snorts. “So I’m the house DJ now?”

“That, and the broken mascot,” you tease.

He laughs, grabbing his phone and flipping through a playlist. “Alright. Your soundtrack is ready.”

A mellow tune begins to play—something old, probably something from the Bang Theory days because you’ve always had a thing for nostalgia—and you give a little sway of your hips as you stir the pot. Chris chuckles under his breath. “You always dance when you cook?”

“Only when I have a pretty audience,” you toss back, not even looking at him.

“Flatterer.”

You smirk, but before you can reply, the doorbell rings, cutting through the moment. You set the spoon down and wipe your hands on a towel before heading toward the door.

Chris stays put, listening. He hears the quiet murmur of exchanged greetings, too muffled to catch the words. Then footsteps—two sets—approaching.

You return a few moments later, and this time, you’re not alone. Behind you is Hyunjin, tall and graceful as ever, a fruit basket cradled in one arm and a polite smile on his face. Chris sits up straighter instinctively, caught a little off-guard by the sudden shift in the energy.

“Hey,” Hyunjin says with easy warmth. “Thought I’d drop by. Brought this for you.”

Hyunjin holds out the basket toward Chris and he manages a smile, nodding at the gesture. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Hyunjin replies, settling into the space like he belongs there.

And maybe, Chris thinks, watching the way you smile at Hyunjin as you gently nudge the door closed, maybe he does.

Dinner is simple but delicious—roasted chicken, potatoes, something green that Chris can’t name but eats anyway because it tastes good and you cooked it. The three of you sit around the dining table, the evening soft and mellow, the lighting warm enough to make the moment feel like it’s been pulled from a memory he hasn’t made yet.

“So there was this one time,” Chris says, leaning back in his chair, “we were playing a festival in Brazil—middle of a thunderstorm, the power cuts out mid-song, and our drummer thinks, ‘This is the perfect time for a solo.’” He grins. “Dude went wild. People thought it was part of the act.”

You chuckle, eyes crinkling. “That actually sounds kind of iconic.”

“Oh, it was. We got soaked, the whole stage nearly collapsed, and we ended the night with someone handing us a baby monkey like it was a trophy.”

Hyunjin laughs—open and genuine, the kind of laugh Chris respects. “That’s a hell of a story. I feel like I’m not living enough.”

Chris raises his glass. “You’re dating her. That’s living dangerously.”

You roll your eyes as you reach over to steal a bite of Hyunjin’s salad like it’s the most natural thing, and Hyunjin just slides the bowl closer to you without a word, like he already expected you to do that.

Chris watches it all unfold—your subtle smiles, the way Hyunjin’s hand rests lightly on the back of your chair, your legs brushing beneath the table. It's not dramatic or flashy. It's quiet affection, the kind that speaks volumes without a single word.

You’ve always been soft with the people you love, but it’s been a long time since he’s seen you like this—content, calm, at ease. And even though there’s a dull ache in his leg and maybe a sharper one in his chest he doesn’t want to name, Chris finds himself smiling too.

-

Chris is in rare form tonight—witty, nosy, and clearly trying to establish dominance from the corner of the living room where he's lounging like some kind of injured rockstar king. You knew the moment Hyunjin walked through the door with that fruit basket that Chris was going to put him through something resembling a war trial masked as small talk and he doesn’t disappoint. You’re curled up next to Hyunjin on the couch, sipping tea when Chris starts his ambush.

“So, Hyunjin,” Chris says, swirling his water like it’s wine. “What are your intentions with our dear girl here?”

You groan. “Chris…”

But Hyunjin just smiles, unfazed. “Good ones,” he replies easily.

Chris narrows his eyes. “Define good.”

“Chris!” you scold, half-laughing, half-mortified.

Hyunjin glances at you with an amused glint in his eyes. “I mean that I care about her. I think she's incredible. I respect her. I’m not here to mess around.”

Chris pretends to be unimpressed, asking question after ridiculous question—about changing tires, knowing your coffee order, and even how he handles power tools. It’s ridiculous. But what surprises you the most is how calm Hyunjin stays. Charming, even. He doesn’t squirm. He doesn't falter. And he answers everything with a kind of quiet grace that makes your heart clench.

“You pay attention,” you murmur, impressed.

Hyunjin offers you a small smile. “Always.”

Chris blinks. You swear, for a second, even he’s impressed. Though of course, he hides it behind a grumble. “Barely passed.”

“Chris, you're scaring him away,” you say, nudging Chris’s foot with yours.

Chris shrugs. “Good. If he scares easy, he’s not worth it.”

Hyunjin laughs. “I’m not scared.”

Chris studies him again, then leans back with a groan, giving his approval in the most Chris-like way—by pretending to be annoyed. “Alright. Interrogation’s over. You can breathe again.”

You roll your eyes and grin, settling back against Hyunjin as the conversation shifts into easy territory—stories from Chris’s band days, the kind that are so ridiculous they don’t even sound real, and you’re not sure how much is fact and how much is filtered through nostalgia.

Still, the atmosphere is soft. Comfortable. Hyunjin’s arm is warm around you, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your arm. And Chris—even with his broken leg and sarcasm—is clearly enjoying the company.

It feels like something real. Something warm and human and a little chaotic in the best way. And when Hyunjin calls it that he's overstaying his visit, you let out a sigh of relief. Relieved because you can finally get Hyunjin away from Chris and the side effects of the painkillers he's taking.

Hyunjin slips his shoes on slowly, like he’s stalling—like he’s not quite ready to go yet. “Thanks for dinner,” he says, looking at you with that sweet, sleepy glint in his eyes. His voice is low, a little rough, like the night settled into his throat.

You smile at him, soft and warm. “You can thank me for it in another way.”

His brows lift, but the smirk that follows is immediate. He knows exactly what you mean. Without another word, Hyunjin steps closer, arms circling around your waist, drawing you to him until your bodies are pressed together. He leans in and kisses you—hard, deep, like he’s been holding it in all night. It’s the kind of kiss that leaves you breathless, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

When he pulls away, his voice is a murmur against your lips. “I missed you.”

You cup his cheek, brushing your thumb along his skin before kissing him back—this time slower, but just as full of everything you haven’t said out loud. “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t let go. His hands stay firm on your back, and you don’t try to move either. You just lean into the warmth of him for a second longer, until he breaks the silence again.

“Can I take you out this Friday night?” he pauses for a second, his eyes glint mischievously. “Or do I have to ask Chris’s permission first?”

You snort, lightly swatting his chest. “No, but I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into. I need to know what to wear.”

He only leans in, brushing a kiss against your lips. “Can’t tell you that. It’s a surprise.”

You roll your eyes at him, but it’s fond. “Fine,” you say, already knowing you’d say yes anyway. “I’ll go.”

And then he kisses you again—deeper, harder, with more heat and just enough tongue that when he finally pulls away, you’re gasping softly, blinking up at him.

“Goodnight,” Hyunjin says innocently, but his smirk gives him away as he slowly backs toward his car.

“Goodnight,” you manage, a little dazed as you wave, watching him drive off into the night.

Your lips still tingle from the kiss, and there’s a flutter in your chest that doesn’t quite settle even after the taillights disappear. Friday can’t come soon enough.

-

The water is warm, and for a little while, Chris almost forgets about the ridiculous cast on his leg, sticking out over the edge of the tub like some awkward decoration. He leans back, arms stretched along the sides, eyes closed, letting the steam ease the tension in his shoulders. Getting into the bath wasn’t easy, but he managed. Getting out, though… that’s a different story.

He stares at the edge of the tub, doing the math in his head. No grip, no proper leverage, one working leg. He shifts, trying to maneuver his body upright, and winces. Nope. Not happening.

“This is so stupid,” he mutters under his breath.

A minute passes. Two. His pride holds the line for as long as it can before it finally caves. “Hey!” he calls out, voice echoing slightly in the bathroom. “Can I get a little help in here?”

Footsteps approach. The door creaks open and you peek your head in. “Everything okay?”

Chris sighs, shoulders slumping. “I, uh… didn’t really think through the getting out part.”

You suppress a laugh as you walk in, crossing your arms. “Are you seriously embarrassed I might see you naked?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You used to scold me for walking around the house shirtless. ‘Put a top on, Christopher, there’s a child in this house!’ Sound familiar?”

You smirk and hold out your hand. “Come on. Let’s get you out before you prune.”

He takes your hand, the other gripping the edge of the tub. With a grunt, he lifts himself—but pushes too hard. His wet body stumbles forward, crashing into yours. Water drips onto your dress as he presses against you for balance. “Shit—sorry,” he says quickly.

You snort at the way he holds you so tightly as he steadies himself. “Just stay hold on to me as I grab a towel for you, okay?”

He obeys, clinging to you as you reach for the shelf and grab a clean towel from the top of the stack. Once you get it, Chris slowly pulls back while grabbing the towel you shove at him.

You step away, but not before he sees it: your dress, soaked and clinging to you, almost transparent. His eyes widen and he quickly looks anywhere else. “I didn’t mean to—” he starts.

“It’s fine,” you cut him off, grabbing another towel for yourself. “Not the first time I’ve ended up wet because of you.”

Chris lets out a surprised laugh, choking on it halfway through. “Wow. Okay.”

You glance at him as you towel off. “Need help with anything else?”

He grins. “Well, if you’re offering… can you dress me too?”

Your towel lands on his chest with a thud. “Don’t get too comfortable, rockstar.”

You’re already walking out as he starts laughing, water still dripping from his hair. And even though he’s half-naked and slightly humiliated, he’s smiling.

Freshly dressed, Chris walks out of the bedroom, the soft thump of his crutch echoing down the hallway. He makes his way to the kitchen, and when he gets there, he pauses. On the dining table is a single plate, carefully prepared and still warm. Just one. He furrows his brows, glancing around. “Hey, why’s there only dinner for one?”

He fills a glass of water from the sink, and just as he takes a sip, he hears the sound of your footsteps descending the stairs. He turns toward the sound—and stops. You appear at the base of the stairs, dressed in a black dress, your hair swept up to show the curve of your neck. There's a light touch of makeup on your face, your lips painted a vivid shade of red. You look… radiant.

“Forgot to tell you I’m going out with Hyunjin tonight,” you say, adjusting the strap of your purse on your shoulder.

Chris stares for a second too long before blinking and offering a small, stunned smile. “Whoa. You look… incredible.”

A soft blush colors your cheeks as you give him a flustered laugh. “Thanks. And I’ll probably be home late, so don’t wait up.”

Chris nods, pushing down the little twist in his chest. “Have fun. Don’t worry about me.”

You’re already halfway to the door when you turn and smirk at him. “I’m not worrying. Not after you tried to stage dive at your age.”

Chris groans with a laugh. “I’ll never live that down, huh?”

You shake your head, heading for the door when he calls out, “Hey—wait.”

You pause, turning on your heel to face him.

“You should wear your hair down,” he says, his voice softer now, sincere.

You blink, confused for a moment, but slowly reach up, pulling out the pins and ties holding your hair up. It falls over your shoulders in gentle waves.

Chris smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and lingers for a beat too long. “You’re more beautiful with your hair down.”

Your gaze lingers on his for a second, touched. “Thanks, Chris.”

He nods, and you quietly slip out the door. Just before it clicks shut, your voice drifts back in. “Goodnight.”

Chris stands in the kitchen, the soft echoes of your heels fading away down the path.

“Goodnight,” he says, but you’re already gone and suddenly, the room feels a lot quieter without you.

-

The restaurant is quiet, tucked away behind ivy-covered walls and glowing lanterns, the kind of place you’d only know about if someone had whispered it to you like a secret. The lighting is soft and golden, and your heels click softly against the floor as you settle into your seat across from Hyunjin. He looks good tonight—black button-down rolled at the sleeves, a silver chain catching the low light. His buzzed hair has grown longer and you like the way his eyes soften when they land on you.

You’re halfway unfolding your napkin when he leans forward, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Did Chris say anything about you going out tonight?”

You snort, reaching for your water. “What, do you think he’d ground me or something?”

Hyunjin shrugs, casual, but you catch the glint of something teasing in his eyes. “He lives with you. I just don’t want to get between the retired rockstar and his… babysitter.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Chris is fine. He’s got a warm meal, his pain meds, and his laptop. He’ll live.”

“Which means,” Hyunjin murmurs, his voice dipping a little lower, “you’re all mine tonight?”

You arch a brow, leaning forward so your elbows rest against the table. “Aren’t I always yours?”

That makes his gaze darken just enough, his posture shifting ever so slightly before he mirrors your movement, leaning in until your faces are only inches apart. His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s warm and slow at first—but deepens fast. The kind of kiss that curls heat low in your belly, that makes you forget, for a moment, that you're in public.

When you finally pull away, slightly breathless, you catch the smudge of your lipstick staining the corner of his mouth and laugh under your breath as you reach for a napkin. “Hold still, potter boy,” you murmur while dabbing at his lips. “Can’t have you looking like you just made out with this old lady.”

Hyunjin grins, tilting his face toward your touch. “Which in my defense only makes it hotter.”

The taste of rosemary and lemon still lingering on your tongue from the appetizer as you swirl your glass of red wine, catching the way Hyunjin’s eyes fixed on you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. “You’re being very mysterious tonight.”

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I?”

You nod, leaning forward just a little. “You said this wasn’t the only stop tonight. Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or do I have to keep guessing?”

He chuckles softly, setting his glass down. “Depends. What’s your guess?”

You tap a finger against your lips thoughtfully, eyes narrowing in mock concentration. “It’s either something very artsy, like a pop-up gallery you’re secretly featured in… or something romantic, like a rooftop somewhere with fairy lights and dessert.”

“Both interesting guesses,” he says, his smile growing. “But no.”

You squint. “Okay, now I’m even more curious.”

Hyunjin leans in across the table, his voice low, playful. “I’ll tell you this much—it’s something I’ve been wanting to do with you for a while.”

Your heart flutters a little at that. “That’s vague. And mildly dangerous.”

He laughs again, then reaches for your hand, brushing his thumb gently over your knuckles. “You’ll like it. I promise.”

You glance down at your joined hands, then back up at him, letting a soft smile tug at your lips. “I already like this.”

And you mean it. Whatever he’s planned, wherever the night goes, it’s already perfect—because he’s here, looking at you like that.

-

Hyunjin parks the car behind a nondescript building, the kind of place that looks more like a storage warehouse than a destination for a Friday night. You glance around as he cuts the engine, confusion twisting your brows. There’s no sign, no line of people, nothing to give it away. Just a dim back alley and the sound of distant city life.

Before you can ask, Hyunjin shrugs off his jacket and gets out, circling around to your side. He opens the passenger door for you with that easy charm, his hand already extended for yours.

You take it, stepping out in your heels, eyeing him with growing curiosity. “Okay,” you start, suspicious, “are you finally going to tell me where you’re taking me?”

But Hyunjin just grins, lips twitching as he leans in close. “Trust me,” he says, voice warm, “just come with me.”

So you do as he leads you through a side door tucked into the wall of the building. The hallway inside is narrow and dimly lit, almost like a service entrance. Every step you take makes the mystery grow thicker. “You know this is the kind of hallway where people get murdered in thrillers, right?” you mutter.

Hyunjin only chuckles and squeezes your hand. The further you walk, the louder the music becomes—low, thumping, vibrating faintly through the floors and walls. You exchange a glance with him, eyebrows raised, but he still gives nothing away. Just that quiet smile. Then you push through a final door, and suddenly you’re hit with the dim light and pulsing energy of a crowded venue. You blink, your eyes adjusting to the haze and strobes overhead, taking in the press of bodies all facing one direction. A stage sits under soft red lights, still empty—but the crowd’s buzzing. Waiting.

Hyunjin wraps an arm around your waist, guiding you through the crowd until you find a decent spot near the side of the room. You’re about to ask what this place is—what kind of event this even is—when the cheers erupt. You snap your head toward the stage. One by one, people step into view: guitarists, a drummer, a keyboardist. And then—her.

It takes you a second to believe your eyes. She’s changed, older now, but unmistakable—her. Your favorite singer. The former lead vocalist of the band you practically worshipped as a teenager. The one whose songs you screamed into your pillow and played on repeat during every heartbreak. She steps up to the mic with a knowing smile and starts singing, her voice carrying years of history and grit and something raw that punches you right in the chest. You whip your head around, mouth parting as you stare at Hyunjin in disbelief. He’s already watching you, smiling like he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Are you serious right now?” you shout over the music, eyes wide.

He leans in, his mouth close to your ear. “You said you never got to see her live,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Thought it was about time you did.”

You don’t even realize you’ve grabbed his face until your hands are on his cheeks, kissing him hard in the middle of the crowd, your heart pounding like it’s synced to the bass.

He laughs into the kiss, then wraps his arms around you and sways with you to the music as your favorite song from years ago floods the room.

It doesn't take long to make you lose yourself in the music. The moment your favorite song spills from the speakers, something in you lights up. You’re dancing before you even realize it—arms swaying, hips moving, mouth shouting every lyric like it’s still 1994 and you’ve got posters on your wall and heartbreak in your chest.

And Hyunjin—God, Hyunjin—isn’t even pretending to watch the stage. He’s watching you. You can feel his gaze like a touch. Even in the shifting lights and the chaos of the crowd, you know he’s locked in on you, drinking you in like the music was just the opening act and you are the real show.

You spin around to face him mid-chorus, laughing breathlessly, and before he can say a word, you throw your arms around his neck and kiss him—fast, messy, a little off-center from all the movement, but so full of joy it makes your chest ache.

He laughs into the kiss, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other already sliding around your waist as the next song kicks in. It’s another one you love, and you turn in his arms, still moving with the beat, still singing at the top of your lungs as he pulls you close from behind.

Hyunjin sways with you, slow and lazy, despite the fast tempo of the music. He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you can feel the warmth of his smile against your skin as he holds you tighter and lets you scream every lyric like you’re sixteen again and nothing in the world hurts.

You’re not thinking about anything else—not Chris, not real life, not what tomorrow might bring. Just this moment. Just this music. Just Hyunjin, dancing with you under the haze of stage lights, letting you steal the spotlight without even trying.

-

The night air is cool against your flushed skin as you walk barefoot in Hyunjin’s shoes—your heels dangling from his hand while he strolls beside you in his black socks, not caring about it as long as you're walking comfortably next to him. You glance at him every now and then, both of you worn out but glowing, your fingers linked as you quietly head back toward the car. Your feet ache, your voice is raw from screaming lyrics, your cheeks hurt from smiling too much—and still, you feel like you’re floating.

Hyunjin breaks the silence first, voice low and soft, “Are you happy?”

You nod right away, not even needing to think. “I’m really happy,” you say, exhaling the words like a warm breath in winter. “Like… stupidly happy.”

His mouth curls into that sweet smile of his, the one that always melts you. “Then I’m happy too.”

You clutch his arm tighter and lean up to kiss the corner of his mouth, quick and playful, and he chuckles, the sound rich and fond, watching you like you’re his whole world wrapped in a black dress and someone else’s shoes.

When you reach the car, Hyunjin opens the door for you like he always does—gentle, thoughtful—but just as you’re about to get in, he asks, “Ready to go home?”

You stop and look up at him, something new sparking in your eyes. “I don’t want to go home,” you murmur.

Hyunjin blinks, brows lifting slightly. You pause, then add, with a soft, shy smile tugging at your lips, “I want to spend the night at my boyfriend’s place.”

His face warms instantly, that surprised grin spreading across it like sunlight. And before he can say a word, you lean in and kiss him again—slow, sure, a little deeper this time—like you’ve made your decision and now all that’s left is to feel the way he kisses you back, like he’s been waiting for you to say those exact words all night.

-

The two of you pushing through the door to Hyunjin’s apartment, tangled up in each other—lips crashing, breaths quick and heated. You're both laughing in between kisses, fumbling with shoes and jackets and anything that dares to be in the way. His keys clatter somewhere to the floor, forgotten.

Hyunjin backs you into the wall, his hands firm on your waist as his mouth finds yours again—this time slower, deeper, like he’s been holding this in all night and he’s finally letting go. His body presses into yours, solid and warm, and your hands slip under the hem of his shirt just to feel more of him, to anchor yourself to the heat of his skin. You gasp against his mouth when his fingers trail up your sides, drawing your body flush with his. Your leg hooks around his hip instinctively, keeping him close, needing him close.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, eyes dark and heavy with want, his lips swollen and parted like he’s struggling to catch his breath. “I don’t think I'd be able to stop,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You smile, playful and breathless. “Then don’t fight it.”

And he doesn’t. He kisses you again, this time deeper, more desperate. The world fades—just skin and sighs and the electric buzz between you. It's not rushed, but there's urgency, like you're both afraid the night might slip away if you don't hold it tight enough.

Hyunjin lifts you, carrying you through the low-lit apartment with ease, like he already knows exactly where he wants you, and your fingers find the back of his neck, holding on as your laughter melts into another kiss, dizzy and all-consuming. Next thing you know, you feel the cool press of the dining table beneath you as he sets you down on the edge, his lips never far from yours. The kiss deepens—hotter, heavier—and his hands grip your hips like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“The way you looked tonight oh...” he murmurs against your mouth, each word laced with heat. “I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things I want to do to you.”

You let out a soft, teasing laugh, lips brushing his. “What things?” you ask, already knowing, already craving.

“Sinful things,” he whispers, and his smirk sends a shiver down your spine.

That makes you giggle, and you kiss him again—hard, greedy—playfully tugging his bottom lip between your teeth before letting it go with a soft pop. He groans at that, low and throaty, before grabbing your legs and wrapping them around his waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss turns messier, hungrier. Your fingers tangle in his hair, his hands roaming your sides, your back—like he can’t get enough. You’re both breathless, laughing in between the gasps, and yet neither of you want to stop. The tension between you crackles like fire.

Hyunjin rocks against you slowly, his hips pressing into your heating core with just enough friction to make your breath catch. Your foreheads pressed together, looking into each other’s eyes—and it’s there, clear as day. Want. Need. The palpable desire.

“I want it,” you whisper, voice barely there.

His eyes search yours, heat smoldering in the way he asks, “Here?”

You nod, lips brushing his. “I feel like doing something reckless tonight.”

That’s all it takes for his mouth to crash into yours again, urgent and wild, as the world narrows to just the two of you. Your hands fumble impatiently at Hyunjin’s waistband, tugging at his slacks like you can’t bear to wait another second. He lets out a breathy laugh, helping you get them down just enough before his hands find the hem of your dress. With practiced ease, his fingers slip beneath the fabric, hooking onto the elastic band of your underwear. In one smooth motion, he pulls them down your legs, his eyes locked onto yours the entire time. The hem of your dress bunches up around your waist as he parts your legs, spreading you open before him—and the way his eyes darken, the way his lips part like he’s forgetting how to breathe, tells you everything. He's practically salivating at the sight of your throbbing cunt but something holds him back.

“What are you waiting for, mmh?” you whisper, your voice low and filled with desire.

Hyunjin hesitates, brushing his thumb gently against your thigh. “Is it okay… to do it without protection?”

You smile at that, your hand sliding down to wrap gently around his cock, hot and pulsating in your palm. He twitches in your grasp, his breath hitching as you slowly stroke him.

“I want to feel all of you tonight,” you say, kissing the hollow of his throat, your lips lingering there. Then, in a sultry whisper, “Don’t you want to feel all of me too?”

The look in his eyes is molten—his restraint slipping fast. You guide him to you, the heat between your bodies coiling tighter with every breath, every second. As you align him at your entrance and put just the tip inside you, letting him to do the rest. It takes a second until he finally caves, groaning softly as he pushes the remaining length into you, slow and deep, until he’s buried to the hilt. Your head falls back, his name a whisper on your lips and from there, there’s no stopping either of you—only the rhythm you fall into, lost in the feeling of being completely, recklessly consumed.

Hyunjin moves with desperate need, his hips driving into you with a hard, steady rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. Your lips stay tangled in a messy, open-mouthed kiss—teeth grazing, tongues colliding, moans swallowed into each other as you cling to him like you’ll unravel without the anchor of his body against yours. You shift against him, angling just right so he hits that perfect spot deep inside you, again and again. Your moans rise with each thrust, echoing through the apartment, shameless and sweet and full of heat.

He grips you tighter, one arm around your waist, the other braced on the table to keep you steady as he drives into you with everything he has. The world feels far away—there’s only him, only you, only this fire burning between your bodies.

It's raw, it's messy. It's this pure, primal need for each other that brings the two of you to your highs, crashing over both of you fast and hard. You fall apart together, your back arching as you cry out his name, and Hyunjin’s grip turns bruising for a moment as he gasps against your neck. He barely manages to pull out just in time, and you both glance down at the mess he leaves on your thighs—warm, pearly white sheen of his seed painted your skin, undeniable evidence of how far gone the two of you were. You look back up at him, breathless and flushed, and the grin on your face matches the one tugging at his lips—satisfied, dazed, and completely smitten.

Hyunjin leans in, still breathless, and presses a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. “That was so hot,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice low and a little dazed.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s still not ready to let go of the moment. Then, with a teasing grin, he pulls back just enough to whisper, “I’m never going to be able to eat at this table without thinking about this.”

You laugh, nudging your nose against his. “Is that a complaint?”

“Not at all,” he says, his hands tightening around your waist before crashing his lips onto yours again, a little more desperate, a little more possessive.

When you finally pull back, your lips still tingling, you glance over his shoulder and eye the living room sofa. You arch a brow and say with a playful gleam in your eyes, “I just had a new idea where we can do it next.”

Hyunjin follows your gaze, then looks back at you with a slow, wicked smile that tells you he’s more than on board. You slide off the edge of the dining table, your legs still a little shaky, and pull Hyunjin in for another heated kiss. As your lips move against his, you begin walking him backward—slow, careful steps until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the sofa. With a playful smirk, you give him a gentle push and he drops onto the cushions with a surprised laugh, eyes wide and dark with anticipation. He barely has time to react before you're kneeling between his legs, your hands gliding up his thighs as you part them. Your smile turns sly, eyes twinkling with something mischievous as you reach for the front of his slacks.

“You're really not going to catch a break tonight,” you murmur, fingers already undoing his fly.

Hyunjin lets out a breathy laugh, his gaze locked on yours, heavy and full of want. You pull his cock free, your hand wrapping around him with a slow, teasing stroke that makes his breath hitch. You lean in close, your lips ghosting over the crest of his cock, not touching—just letting your warm breath tease him as your hand continues its lazy rhythm. His fingers tighten on the sofa cushions, and the way he looks at you—like he’s completely undone—only makes your grin widen. You glance up at him, lips brushing against the length of his shaft just enough to drive him mad.

“I want you to think of this whenever you sit on this sofa,” you whisper, voice low and sultry.

Your smile deepens as you lower your gaze, your fingers tightening just slightly around him. Hyunjin’s breath catches—his chest rising and falling a little faster now, his hands twitching like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or just watch. You lean in, placing a slow, teasing kiss on his abdomen first—just to tease—and then another, lower and closer to where he wants you this time. The tension in his body winds tighter with every second, and when you finally press your lips against his tip, his head tips back against the sofa with a soft, shaky groan.

You take your time, putting his length into you little by little, savoring every inch of him and at the same time, drawing a shudder out of him. Hyunjin’s hand finds the back of your head, not guiding—just resting, like he needs the anchor. You hum softly, letting him feel it, the feel of your mouth and how it's vibrating around him, and he mutters your name like it’s the only word he knows.

Every now and then, you glance up at him, locking eyes just long enough to watch him fall apart—his lips parted, his brows furrowed in disbelief at how good it feels. You know exactly what you're doing, and the satisfied curl of your mouth says it all.

Your lips curve around him with practiced ease, the slow rhythm you keep making Hyunjin melt deeper into the cushions beneath him. He’s breathing heavy now—chest rising and falling fast, hands gripping the sofa like he’s trying to ground himself, but it’s your name he whispers like a prayer. Then his fingers tangle in your hair—firm, maybe a little too much, but it tells you just how close he is. “Baby,” he gasps, voice ragged. “Wait—stop, please…”

You pull back, slow and teasing, your lips still curled in that wicked little smile. You look up at him, chest heaving, eyes dark and dazed, and swipe your tongue across your lower lip just to mess with him. “Too much?” you ask sweetly.

Hyunjin groans, swiping his thumb gently over your mouth, wiping away the last trace of your affection. “You’re too good at that,” he breathes, eyes flickering over your face. “I almost—God, I was so close.”

You tilt your head, playful. “So? What’s stopping you?”

He laughs, low and breathless, brushing the back of his fingers down your cheek. “Because,” he says, his voice rough with want, “I want you on my bed next.”

Your smile turns softer, more dangerous somehow, and you slowly rise to your feet, eyes locked on his. “Then what are we waiting for?” you murmur.

Hyunjin doesn’t say a word—he just sweeps you off your feet, literally, arms tucked beneath your back and knees as he carries you bridal style through the soft glow of the apartment. You giggle against his chest, your arms looped around his neck, heart fluttering with anticipation.

When he sets you down on the bed, it’s with a gentleness that contrasts the fire in his eyes. You sink into the plush bedding, propped up on your elbows as he straightens, standing at the foot of the bed. His eyes never leave yours as he slowly peels off his clothes—first his shirt, then his slacks—revealing skin and toned muscle, each movement deliberate, unrushed. You drink him in, quietly, your gaze tracing the lines of his arms, the dip of his waist, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s just as breathless as you are. Every inch of him, familiar yet thrilling, makes the knot in your stomach tighten with each passing second.

Hyunjin smirks when he catches the way your lips part slightly, your eyes trailing shamelessly. “You’re staring,” he teases softly, voice low and warm.

You bite back a smile. “Can you blame me?” you whisper. “You’re kind of… irresistible.”

His eyes darken just a little more at that, and as he climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, he murmurs, “Good. Because I only undress like this for you.”

Hyunjin hovers above you, his bare skin brushing against yours as his hands move with reverence, peeling away the last of what you’re wearing until you’re bare beneath him. The air shifts between you, warm and charged, and he pulls back just enough to take you in—his gaze drinking you in with quiet awe. His fingers trail gently over your curves, slow and deliberate, as if committing you to memory. “I want all of this,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion, like the weight of what he feels is almost too much to say aloud.

You meet his eyes, your hand reaching to rest against his cheek. “It’s yours,” you whisper softly.

His breath catches. “All of this? Really mine?”

You nod, pulling him down to you. “Wholly. Completely. Yours.”

He doesn’t respond right away—not with words, at least. Instead, he lowers himself until your lips meet, and in that kiss, there’s nothing held back. Just the certainty of belonging, of devotion, of everything unspoken that now lingers between you.

The mattress dips under his weight as he turns you over until you lay on your stomach and then settles himself behind you, he's pulling you close until your bodies align perfectly. He uses his fingers to tease your already soaked cunt, running them between the folds and pushing two digits to milk more arousal out of you, getting you ready for what's coming next. You're unable to look but you know that he's using the tip of his cock now to tease your entrance, wetting it with your arousal before finally pushing it in, entering you and not holding back from whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being wrapped in your warm, tight walls.

Hyunjin slowly lowers himself, his chest meeting your back, his breath is warm against the back of your neck, his fingers firm at your waist, and when he moves—slowly at first—it draws a quiet, desperate sound from deep in your throat.

The bed creaks beneath the rhythm he sets, steady and hard, just the way you asked for it. You grip the sheets and whisper his name between gasps, urging him on, asking for more. “Harder, Hyunjin, please, harder!”

And every time you do, Hyunjin answers—thrusting deeper, faster, his hand slipping under you to stroke at your clit with knowing fingers.

It doesn’t take long before you're unraveling again, your body trembling as the pleasure crashes over you. But even through your haze, you manage to breathe out, “Don’t stop.”

He holds you tighter, chest pressed to your back as he chases his own release. You feel the tension in him, the way his body coils tighter with every movement, and when you sense he's close, you hurriedly grab his arm and pull it across your front. Turning your head just enough to meet his eyes, you whisper, “Don’t pull out.”

His response is a kiss—deep, messy, filled with heat—and you both tumble over the edge together, your bodies stay tangled close as he spills into you, filling you with his seed with one hand gently rubbing at your abdomen. His plush lips brushes your ear as he mutters, “Yeah, take all of me, baby, it's all yours.”

In the next moment, the room turns quiet, the only sounds are the slow, steady breaths the two of you share in the afterglow. Hyunjin doesn’t let you go—not even for a second. He’s wrapped around you, arms firm yet gentle, as if he’s afraid you might slip away if he loosens his hold. His lips press against your shoulder, your jaw, the crown of your head, in soft, lingering kisses.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your skin, voice hushed. “For tonight. For letting me meet the you from back then. The one who sang her heart out to her favorite band and danced like nothing else mattered.”

You smile lazily at that, eyes already growing heavy. “I think she’s back in her current version cause she feels so sleepy… It’s way past her bedtime,” you mumble with a teasing pout, nuzzling deeper into his chest.

Hyunjin lets out a soft chuckle, brushing your hair away from your face before kissing your temple. “Then I’ll make sure that she sleeps well and have the sweetest dream tonight.”

He presses one last sweet kiss to your lips. “Goodnight, angel.”

Your sleepy smile lingers as you whisper back, “Goodnight…”

As your breathing slows and your thoughts begin to blur, a soft wave of happiness washes over you—warm and weightless. You fall asleep feeling safe in his arms, your heart full, and a quiet joy humming in your chest… because tonight, you got to relive your teenage years. And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-

Slivers of sunlight spills gently through the curtains, painting soft golden streaks across the bed. You stir slightly, feeling the warmth of a body beside you before you even open your eyes. When you do, it’s to the sight of Hyunjin lying on his side, watching you with that quiet, tender gaze that makes your heart flutter. His fingers are gently brushing strands of hair away from your face, careful not to wake you—though you’re already awake, and the way his lips curve into a sleepy smile lets you know he’s noticed.

“Good morning, angel,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder, the heat of it lingering on your skin.

You groan a little, half your face disappearing under the duvet. “Morning…” you mumble, voice still thick with sleep, self-conscious about your messy hair and morning breath.

Hyunjin chuckles softly and keeps stroking your hair, his fingers moving with a kind of reverence. “How’d you sleep?”

You peek at him through the edge of the duvet and smile. “Excellent. Like a teenage girl who just lived her dream.”

That earns you a grin. “I’m glad.” He pauses, eyes dancing. “So, what do you want for breakfast?”

You blink. “You’re cooking?”

He nods, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. “Of course. Why so surprised?”

Your smile grows wistful. “It’s been a long time since someone cooked me breakfast. A really long time…”

“Well,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle your nose, “that’s about to change.”

Your face lights up. “So I get to choose anything?”

“Anything,” he says, firm but playful. “After what you did last night? You deserve a five-star menu.”

At the mention of that, memories from last night flash in your mind—wild and sweet, messy and intimate—and your cheeks instantly heat. You cover your face again with the duvet, laughing quietly. “Don’t say it like that.”

He gently tugs the duvet back down so he can see your face. “Then tell me. What are you craving?”

You hum thoughtfully, then start listing things. “Pancakes. And eggs. A little fruit. Maybe hash browns? And coffee. Definitely coffee.”

“Coming right up,” he grins, cupping your jaw and brushing his thumb across your cheek. Then, with a lingering kiss to your lips—warm, unhurried—he slides out of bed. “Stay right here. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

You watch him head out, shirtless and tousled, your heart full and your soul wrapped in a kind of peace you haven’t felt in a long time. As he ordered, you stay lying on the bed, the sheets still warm from where Hyunjin had just been. The faint sound of him moving around in the kitchen drifts in from the other side of the apartment.

There’s a strange but comforting intimacy in it all, the kind you’ve only read about or seen in movies—the feeling of waking up in someone else’s bed not out of recklessness or mistake, but because you wanted to be there. Last night was wild, beautiful, tender, and real. And this morning feels just as special. The kind of morning where you could let the sun warm your skin, feel the softness of a stranger's sheets beneath you, and believe—just for a little while—that things are falling into place.

The weather outside looks gorgeous. Golden sunlight peeks through the curtain slits, dancing along the floor in quiet invitation. And you feel… good. Light. Like the day is already off to a perfect start. That is, until your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You reach over lazily and grab it, blinking a few times as your eyes adjust to the screen. Several missed calls from Chris stare back at you, along with a stream of increasingly chaotic texts. You can almost see him in your head—shirtless in sweatpants, hair a mess, glaring at the kitchen as if it’s personally offended him, a wooden spoon in one hand and a phone in the other. He’s probably fine. Probably. Unless he somehow manages to set a pot of water on fire. Again.

Chris isn’t exactly known for his domestic abilities, and the fact that he didn’t pick up when you called back immediately makes your stomach twist. You try calling him again. It rings. And rings. And rings. Then goes to voicemail.

“Crap.” Your smile fades and you sit up quickly, suddenly wide awake. Another call—no answer. You swing your legs off the bed, grabbing your phone and starting to pace. The texts didn’t sound urgent, but they were spaced apart, and the last one was ten minutes ago.

That’s long enough to set something on fire, your brain unhelpfully supplies.

"Okay, okay," you mutter to yourself, heart starting to race.

You scramble to your feet, grabbing last night’s dress and tugging it on in a rush. Your heels are somewhere near the couch—you’ll find them later. You barely run a hand through your hair before slipping your phone into your bag and heading for the door, fingers trembling slightly as you try calling him again and still no answer.

“Please don’t burn the house down, Chris,” you murmur under your breath as you tug the bedroom door open. “I swear, if I walk in and the smoke detector's going off…”

-

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Chris hobbles out of his bedroom, his cast thumping against the floor with every step. “Hello?” he calls, voice echoing through the empty space.

No answer. He checks the living room, then the kitchen, peering down the hallway just to be sure. Still no sign of you. He sighs, reaching for his phone. A couple of missed calls, a few texts sent your way already. All still unread. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. You didn’t come home last night.

His thumb hovers over your name again, but he doesn’t call. Instead, he grabs the crutch and limps over to the kitchen. He’ll just make breakfast and deal with the radio silence later. Except—he doesn’t know where anything is.

He opens cabinet after cabinet, drawers clicking and clattering as he searches for the frying pan, the oil, the damn spatula. Nothing’s where he remembers it, or maybe it never was. The ache in his leg flares up the longer he stands, and when he finally locates everything he needs, he’s already drenched in frustration and sweat. One more step and a jolt of pain shoots through his knee.

“Forget it,” he mutters, grabbing the cereal box and slamming it on the counter. Milk. Bowl. Spoon. Fine.

He eats standing by the sink, crunching angrily through mouthfuls of cereal that taste like defeat. His leg throbs. His pride stings worse. All this because he couldn’t make himself a proper breakfast.

Chris pushes the bowl away and rubs a hand over his face, jaw tight. He feels useless. Pathetic even. Like he’s become a burden to himself. And with the house empty, your absence pressing on every wall like a bruise, that feeling only digs deeper. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he misses you and it’s barely 9 AM.

An hour later, Chris hears the front door open, followed by the distinct click of your heels on the floor and the rustling of something heavy in your arms. Then a dull thud as you drop a package on the kitchen island. You’re still in the same dress from last night, your hair tousled and windblown, cheeks flushed like you ran up the driveway.

“It’s for you,” you say, slightly breathless, nodding at the box. “Some music thing—I don’t know but it's from your label. The delivery guy left it on the porch.”

Chris doesn’t respond right away. His eyes scan you, lingering on the smudged makeup under your eyes, the wrinkled dress, the shoes dangling from your fingers. He doesn't mean to, but his frustration speaks first. “You didn’t come home,” he mutters, voice low but sharp.

“I know,” you say, taking a breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan to stay over—”

“You should’ve planned better,” Chris cuts in, his voice rising. “You could’ve said something.”

Your jaw clenches as you glance away, blinking hard. “I tried calling you—”

“And where were you, anyway? With that potter boy?” He leans against the counter, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. “You do know your boyfriend is like, what, ten years younger than you? You think he’s going to stick around when the novelty wears off?”

Your head jerks toward him, eyes narrowing. A cold, sarcastic laugh escapes your lips as you shake your head in disbelief. “Why did I even apologize?” you mutter, more to yourself than him. “Why am I explaining anything when I came back to my own house?”

Chris opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already past the point of listening.

“You know what?” you snap, your voice cold now, sharp. “I’m not responsible for your reckless decision to try and play acrobatic at your daughter’s wedding. It's not my job to take care of you. But I still rushed back. Still tried to make things easier for you. And this—this is what I get?”

You clutch your heels and purse in your arms like a shield, fury radiating off of you in waves. “I try so hard to be good to you,” you continue, voice shaking with emotion, “but clearly, that’s not enough.”

And with that, you storm past him, heels thudding against the floor. “Such a nuisance,” you mutter loud enough for him to hear.

Your footsteps growing louder as you stomp your way up the stairs and disappear into your room, slamming the door behind you.

Chris stays rooted in place, staring at the box on the counter and for once, he doesn’t feel triumphant for speaking his mind. He just feels... empty.

-

The silence that hangs in the house is deafening. Chris lies back against the pillows, staring blankly at the ceiling, the weight of silence pressing down on him like a second blanket. No faint music playing from your phone, no clinking of dishes from the kitchen, not even your light footsteps moving from one room to another. Nothing. Just stillness. And he knows it’s because of him.

After this morning’s blow-up, you’ve been avoiding him—steering clear like he’s radioactive. He can hear you downstairs sometimes, your movements careful like you're making sure you won’t cross paths with him. You’ve barely said a word to him. Not a glance. Not even a sigh in his direction.

Chris hates it. He hates how cold the house feels without your presence filling it. And more than anything, he hates himself for making it that way. He runs a hand over his face, jaw clenched tight.

“God, I was such an asshole,” he mutters into the silence. His voice is small, as if even he’s afraid of hearing himself admit it.

You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t owe him an explanation. You were kind. Thoughtful. Rushed back home when he didn’t answer his phone. And how did he repay that? By lashing out like a bitter, insecure idiot. He squeezes his eyes shut, every word he’d spat at you replaying on a loop in his mind, each one cutting deeper than the last. You’re too old for him. He’s just using you. What if he gets bored?

None of that was true. It was just fear. And jealousy. Ugly things that came out of his mouth because for one second, he felt helpless—because of a damn broken leg and a bowl of cereal. You were just trying to take care of him.

Chris lets out a long sigh and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. If he could punch himself, he would. Hard. So instead, he stays in his room. Keeps his distance. He doesn’t want to upset you more than he already has. You need space, and he owes you that much—no, more. He owes you a real apology. But for now, he lets the house stay quiet, even though it kills him.

But then, Chris’s stomach growls—loud and insistent, reminding him he hasn’t eaten anything since that sad bowl of cereal this morning. He sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment, listening. No sound from downstairs so he figures it’s safe to come out of his bedroom.

Chris pads quietly out of his room, careful not to make any noise. He knows you're still home—he heard the water running in the upstairs bathroom earlier. But the silence between you has stretched long and heavy, and he doesn't want to intrude on your space unless he has to. He makes his way to the kitchen, limping slightly, his crutches tucked under his arms. The plan is simple: grab something from the fridge—leftovers, maybe an apple—and head back to the safety of his room, but then he stops.

There, on the dining table, is a plate of dinner. His dinner. A warm meal served neatly, steam still rising from it, and next to the plate, a folded napkin, his pain meds, and a glass of water. No note. No fanfare. Just quiet care. The kind that breaks his heart more than any fight ever could.

Chris stares at it for a long second, his throat tight. He doesn’t hear you—he doesn’t need to. He knows you left this out after he locked himself away all day. He knows you did it without saying a word, not for thanks or acknowledgment, but because despite everything, you still care. A quiet curse slips from his lips, full of regret. “Damn it.”

He sits down heavily at the table, setting his crutches aside and running a hand through his hair before picking up the fork. The food is warm, flavorful, perfectly cooked, but it tastes bittersweet. Because all he can think about is how you still made him dinner—even when he didn’t deserve it and that thought stays with him long after he finishes every last bite.

-

That night, sleep doesn't come easy to you. You're lying on your side, staring at the wall in the dim light of your bedroom, the silence pressing down like a weight on your chest. You've tossed and turned so much the sheets are a mess around your legs, and no matter how many times you close your eyes, your mind keeps going back to this morning. To the things you said to Chris. The way your voice shook in anger. The sound of your heels stomping up the stairs. Did I go too far? Did I say something I shouldn’t have?

You replay every word, overanalyzing each line and expression, each moment of silence that followed. He was frustrating, yes, but you knew he was hurting. You knew he was struggling. And maybe… maybe you should’ve been softer, should've been more understanding. With a heavy sigh, you roll over and grab your phone, blinking at the time. It’s late. Too late. Hyunjin’s probably already asleep. Still, you tap his name and call.

He picks up after a few rings, his voice soft and raspy with sleep. “Hey, beautiful.”

You press the phone to your ear, your voice low. “Were you sleeping?”

“No,” he lies, and you can tell he’s smiling. “I was just lying here thinking about you.”

That makes you giggle, quiet and shy. “What about me?”

“About last night. And everything we did. On this very bed.” His tone dips slightly, playful but full of warmth, and it sends a tingle through your chest.

You bury your face in your pillow to muffle your laugh. “Hyunjin…”

“Don’t go all shy on me now,” he teases. “You were a lot braver last night.”

You sigh, smile lingering on your lips. “I’m sorry, by the way… for leaving in such a hurry. I didn’t even eat the breakfast you made.”

“It’s okay,” he says easily. “I’ll make you breakfast again. But—” he pauses, then grumbles, “—you didn’t even kiss me goodbye. I was robbed.”

That makes your smile falter just slightly, your thoughts drifting back to how rushed and frazzled you were this morning. “I know… I’m sorry.”

There's a beat of silence, then Hyunjin speaks again, softer this time. “Is something bothering you?”

You're just about to answer—to let it all out, to tell him how badly you feel, how heavy it’s been sitting on your chest—when you hear the unmistakable sound of your car engine roaring to life. You bolt upright. “What the hell—”

You jump out of bed and rush to the window, heart hammering. “Hyunjin… I have to call you back.”

“What? Wait—”

You hang up without answering, panic crawling up your spine as you see someone in your driveway turning on your car. Barefoot and breathless, you grab your robe and dash downstairs, not even bothering to tie it properly, just praying you’re not too late—

You burst out the front door, feet slapping against the pavement, robe fluttering wildly around your legs. Your heart’s in your throat as you rush toward the car, shouting, “Hey! What the hell are you doing?!”

The driver’s side door swings open—and your breath stumbles when you see who it is. Chris. Just sitting there, behind the wheel, completely nonplussed, with his casted leg awkwardly hanging out of the car and one hand loosely resting on the steering wheel like he’s about to take a casual Sunday drive.

You stop short beside the car, panting. “What the hell, Chris?”

He flinches slightly, then gives you a sheepish little grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “I�� I wanted to drive somewhere.”

You blink at him, completely dumbfounded. “You wanted to drive? With a broken leg?”

He shrugs. “I thought I’d figure it out.”

You stare at him. “Figure it out? Chris, you can’t even stand for more than five minutes without groaning like an old man!”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, eyes flicking away, “I got bored. The house was too quiet.”

You let out a long exhale, tugging the robe tighter around your waist. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I am kind of charming,” he says with an innocent grin, and that earns him a glare.

“Move,” you say firmly, jerking your thumb toward the other side. “Passenger seat. Now.”

Chris blinks. “What? Why?”

“I’ll drive,” you say, opening the door and gesturing for him to scoot. “Clearly you’re on a mission. Let’s go before you end up reversing into the neighbor’s mailbox.”

He hesitates, then sighs and hobbles over to the other side without another word. You slide behind the wheel, trying not to roll your eyes too hard as he settles in with a grunt. His cast bumps the dashboard, and he winces, but says nothing.

Once you start the car and pull out of the driveway, you finally glance over at him. “So… where exactly are we going?”

-

Chris stays quiet, hands resting on his lap as the streetlights painted soft orange patterns on the dashboard. The air in the car is still tense, but not sharp anymore—more like static, waiting to settle. He steals a few glances your way as you drive, noticing how your jaw tightens every time the silence stretches a little too long.

When the familiar glowing sign of a fast food chain appears, he mumbles, “Can we stop there?”

You don’t say anything, just pull into the drive-thru without comment, the tires crunching over gravel and painted lines. As the car rolls to a slow stop in front of the glowing speaker, you reach for the button to lower the window and say flatly, still not looking at him, “Go ahead. Tell them your order.”

Chris leans forward with an easy grin, eyes fixed on the menu board. “Okay, uh… one double cheeseburger with large fries, a six-piece nugget, a spicy chicken sandwich, oh—and a chocolate shake. Large.”

You shoot him a look, but he just shrugs. “I’m starving.”

Then he turns to you, voice gentler. “You want anything?”

You’re silent. Chris doesn’t press. He knows you’re still mad—and you have every right to be. Still, he tries. “C’mon… I know you can’t say no to a cheeseburger and fries.”

Your expression doesn’t budge, but then, after a beat of silence, you finally turn to the speaker and calmly add your own order—cheeseburger, fries, and a drink.

Chris grins, triumphant. “Knew it.”

You sigh like you’re annoyed, but the corner of your mouth twitches just enough to betray you. Turning to him, you arch a brow. “You’re paying for this.”

Chris stifles a laugh, holding both hands up in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of making you pay for your own peace offering.”

The salty air stings a little as it whips past his face, but Chris doesn’t really mind it. He’s too busy chewing on a burger that tastes far better than anything he’s managed to scrounge up at home lately. The two of you sit on the hood of the car, legs dangling as the sea stretches out endlessly in front of you, glimmering silver under the moonlight.

It’s quiet—just the faint crash of waves below and the crinkle of fast food wrappers between you. He knows he should say something. The words have been brewing since you pulled out of the driveway, since he saw your shoulders tense behind the wheel, your silence stretching longer than it ever should between two people who used to be everything to each other.

“I, uh…” Chris swallows thickly, then clears his throat. “I need to say something.”

You glance at him, not saying anything but not stopping him either.

“I was a dick this morning,” he admits. “And I said some really shitty things about you and your boyfriend. That wasn’t fair. Not to him—and definitely not to you.”

The burger suddenly doesn’t taste so good. He sets it down on the wrapper in his lap, staring out at the water like it might give him the right words. “It’s just… this broken leg, the meds, being stuck inside—I’m losing my mind a little. But that’s not an excuse. I lashed out because I was frustrated. And insecure. I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. He wonders if you’re going to stay silent. If he deserves it. But then you turn to him, your expression softer than he expects. “I accept your apology,” you say, voice gentle.

His eyes flick to yours, surprised. But you’re not done.

“And I’m sorry too. For saying mean things. For storming off like that.” You glance away, your voice quieter now. “You’re not a nuisance, Chris. I actually… like having you around.”

You actually like having him around? Before he can grin or say something stupid that might ruin the moment, you add flatly, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He lets out a low chuckle, warmth bubbling in his chest. He picks up his burger again, the bite he takes somehow lighter, easier. “Too late,” he says with a smirk.

The ocean glows faintly ahead, but he’s not looking at it anymore. His gaze lingers somewhere between the horizon and the truth that’s been sitting heavy in his chest for weeks now.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I’ve been feeling like everyone’s leaving me behind.”

You turn to look at him, and he feels your eyes even though he’s still staring ahead.

“It started when Rowan and I separated. Even though it was mutual, it still felt like this… severing. Of everything. Of home. Of normalcy.” He lets out a breath. “Then Tigerlily got married. And don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of her. So damn proud. But suddenly she’s not just my little girl anymore. She’s someone else’s now, too. And it hurts more than I thought it would.”

There’s a lump in his throat now, and he swallows it down. “And Rowan’s been calling, trying to take Riley with her for a while. Wants her to stay with her. And I get it, she’s her mother, she has a right, but I just…”

He pauses. You’re listening. That’s what gets to him the most. You’re actually listening. “I feel so alone, most days. Despite the music, despite the name, the fame, all of it. It means nothing when you’re eating cereal in an empty kitchen with a broken leg and no one to talk to. I don’t know who I’d even be right now if I wasn’t staying with you.”

He finally turns to you. “I got really happy when you let me stay,” he says honestly. “Like, actually happy. And—” he chuckles softly, “I don’t know if this makes me a complete idiot, but… I’m kinda glad I broke my leg.”

You swat his arm, just like he hoped you would. “Hey! Don’t even joke about that.”

But he catches your eyes, holds them there with something real. “I mean it,” he says, quieter this time. “I’m happy I’m here. With you.”

It slips out before he can stop it. Raw and unfiltered. And for a second, he sees something flicker in your expression—something unspoken but shared. Then you laugh. “It’s really hard to take you seriously when you’ve got ketchup on your face.”

Chris blinks. “Wait, what?”

You’re already reaching over, grabbing a napkin from the bag and dabbing gently at the corner of his mouth. Your touch is careful. Familiar. Kind.

And as ridiculous as it sounds, that fluttering feeling—like something starting again inside him—rushes in all at once. It’s the same feeling he had when he first met you. But for now, Chris keeps it tucked away, tucked quiet in the center of his chest. For now, being here—sharing a quiet moment under the stars with you—is enough.

-

The afternoon sun casts golden streaks across the kitchen counter as you line it with bowls, measuring cups, and a fresh bag of chocolate chips. You hum to yourself while tying the strings of your apron behind your back, the scent of vanilla already floating faintly in the air.

After everything Chris shared last night, something settled in your chest. A quiet understanding. He’s been feeling stuck—helpless, in a way that doesn’t sit well with someone like him. Chris is someone who likes being needed, who feels most like himself when he can be useful. And though he's never said it out loud, you know his broken leg has been making him feel anything but.

You peek down the hallway and call out, “Chris! Come help me bake cookies!”

There's a beat of silence before you hear his voice reply with a spark of interest, “Am I seriously just got promoted from kitchen DJ to a kitchen assistant now?”

“Let's see how well you do in the kitchen first,” you playfully reply.

Soon, you hear his crutches tapping against the floor as he makes his way to the kitchen. He enters with his hair slightly messy and a curious look on his face, like he’s not entirely sure if you’re kidding or not. But once he sees the counter full of ingredients, his grin stretches wide. “Oh, we’re really doing this.”

You hand him a spoon and flick the speaker on, the sound of soft upbeat music filling the room. It doesn’t take long for the mood to lift—Chris is dancing awkwardly while stirring the batter, and you’re laughing as he keeps snacking on chocolate chips from the bowl.

“Chris!” you scold, slapping his hand lightly. “Stop eating them—we need those!”

He grins like a guilty kid. “Quality control. Someone’s gotta make sure they’re safe.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you finish mixing the dough and start rolling it into neat balls. Chris joins you, carefully shaping them with one hand while balancing his crutch with the other. You slide the first tray into the oven, then take out a warm, golden batch, setting it to cool by the window. The scent of melting chocolate and warm butter wraps around you like a hug.

“Okay,” you say, watching him as he sets the next batch on the tray, “I think you’re officially hired as my sous chef.”

Chris smirks. “Does that come with benefits? Like… extra cookies?”

You shake your head, laughing. “Only if you stop stealing from the chocolate chip stash.”

You move around each other with ease, bumping elbows, exchanging smirks and floury fingerprints. And in that moment—just the two of you in the kitchen, music playing, cookies baking—you feel it. The way things feel light again. Like maybe, just maybe, Chris is starting to feel a little less stuck.

After the first batch of cookies is out of the oven, you and Chris sit side by side at the kitchen island, each of you with a plate of warm cookies in front of you. The smell is divine, the chocolate chips still melty in the center, and every bite feels like a reward. Chris licks a smudge of chocolate from his thumb and hums in satisfaction.

“Okay, I’ll give it to you,” he says, leaning back with a content sigh. “These might be the best cookies I’ve ever had.”

You smile and offering your fist at him. “We made a great team!”

Chris chuckles before gently hitting your fist with his. He then gets up from his chair, pushing his plate aside and getting up. “I’ll get the milk. Cookies this good deserve milk.”

As he opens the fridge and grabs a carton, you check the oven again. The timer’s nearly up, and you watch the cookies through the glass like a hawk, not wanting to burn even a single batch. Just as you pull them out onto the cooling rack, your phone rings. It buzzes on the counter, right beside Chris’s, and before you can slip your mittens off, he picks it up, peeking at the screen.

“It’s Hyunjin,” he says with a mischievous grin. Then, into the phone: “She’s a little busy right now—in the kitchen with me. I'm tasting her cookie right now.”

You immediately shoot him a glare, snatching one mitten off. “Chris!”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Kidding, kidding! Here.” He passes the phone to you with a sheepish smile.

You finally tug the other mitten off and press the phone to your ear. “Hey.”

Hyunjin’s voice is soft and familiar. “Hey. What are you doing?”

“Just baking some cookies,” you say, already smiling again.

There’s a pause. “Sounds like you and Chris are having fun,” he says, and there's something in his voice—light, but unmistakably tinged with jealousy.

You laugh gently. “He’s just on a sugar high from all the chocolate chips he’s been snacking. I’ve had to swat his hand five times.”

Hyunjin chuckles quietly on the other end. “Can I come over?”

Your smile grows. “Absolutely.”

“I’ll see you soon,” he says warmly.

“See you soon” you reply, heart fluttering just a little as the call ends.

You set your phone down and turn to find Chris already pouring milk into two glasses. He gives you a look as he hands one over, a raised brow and a half-smile like he knows something’s brewing beneath the surface. But for now, you sip your milk, munch your cookie, and let the warmth of the moment settle in your chest.

-

Chris licks melted chocolate from his thumb, leaning back in his chair with a soft exhale. The cookies are warm and gooey in all the right places, the milk is cold, and the soft hum of music mixes with the occasional clink of plates and your quiet laughter. It’s simple. Easy. And for the first time in a while, he feels like he can breathe.

He watches you from across the island—hair tied up messily, sleeves dusted in flour, a smudge of dough on your cheek. You look… peaceful. Happy. And God, he didn’t realize how much he missed seeing you like this. Seeing himself like this, too. It makes him wonder how the hell he ever let you slip through his fingers.

Your phone buzzes beside him on the counter, screen lighting up with Hyunjin’s name. Chris hesitates. A small, petty part of him wants to let it ring. Just one more quiet minute. One more bite of warm cookies before the real world knocks again. But instead, he sighs and taps “accept,” lifting the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause. “Uh… Chris?”

Chris smirks. “Sure is.”

“…Where’s—uh, is she around?”

Chris leans back in his chair and tosses the words out casually. “She’s a little busy right now—in the kitchen with me. I'm tasting her cookie right now.”

Your head snaps up immediately, eyes narrowing into a glare. “Chris!” you say, voice low and warning, already reaching for the phone.

He holds up both hands in mock surrender, grinning as he passes it to you. “She’s all yours.”

You take the phone, mittens off now, pressing it to your ear like it belongs there. “Hey…” you say, voice soft, warm in that way that’s unmistakably for Hyunjin.

Chris turns back to his half-eaten cookie, chewing slowly. He tells himself it’s fine. That it’s nothing. That he’s being ridiculous. But watching the way you smile as you talk, hearing the way your voice dips into something just a little sweeter—it knots something sharp and jealous low in his chest. He hates to admit it, but it stings.

Hyunjin shows up not long after the call ends. He walks into the kitchen with that easy grin, kissing your cheek before helping himself to a cookie off the tray like he’s always belonged here. Chris watches the way you look at him—soft, familiar—and it pulls at something in his chest he’s not quite ready to name. He keeps it cool, making room for Hyunjin and even pouring him a glass of milk. They chat, the three of you, nibbling cookies and laughing at how many chocolate chips Chris stole before the dough even hit the oven. Then Chris’s phone buzzes this time and he glances at the screen. Riley.

“Sorry, gotta take this,” he says, already stepping toward the back porch for some privacy.

The cool air outside hits him as he slides the door open and leans against the railing. “Hey, Riley bear. Everything okay?”

Riley’s voice is upbeat. “Yeah! I was just wondering if I could have a sleepover this weekend?”

Chris chuckles. “How many friends?”

“Just… five?”

Chris groans. “Five? Riley, that’s a whole squad.”

“But Dad,” she whines, dragging the word out.

He negotiates, like always. They settle on three friends, no loud music, and lights out by midnight. “And steer clear of my studio,” he adds.

By the time Chris hangs up, he’s smiling, but that fades the second he steps back toward the kitchen. He stops in his tracks. Through the doorway, he sees you and Hyunjin, kissing with your hands gently curled behind his neck, his hand on your waist. Chris instinctively ducks out of view, pressing himself back behind the wall, heart thudding in his chest. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. But he can’t help it.

“Just for ten days,” Hyunjin murmurs against your lips.

“Ten?” you echo, brows knit with concern.

Chris hears the sound of another kiss. Then Hyunjin’s voice, low and affectionate. “I’ll be back before you know it. Can’t wait to take that trip and finally be alone with you.”

More kisses. The wet, soft kind. Chris closes his eyes. That same burning feeling blooms in his chest again—jealousy or something dangerously close. He doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s there, bitter on his tongue.

He takes a breath, then deliberately stomps his way back toward the kitchen, exaggerating his steps loud enough to warn you both. By the time he walks in, you and Hyunjin are standing apart, faces flushed. Chris doesn’t comment. He just saunters to the counter like nothing happened.

“Riley’s having a few friends over for a sleepover,” he says, grabbing another cookie. “I’m ninety percent sure they’ll break the house apart.”

You chuckle. “Let her have some fun.”

Chris grins. “With me not around, that should be fun for everyone.”

That earns a laugh from both you and Hyunjin. Chris joins in, but only half-heartedly. He doesn’t say it, but that burning in his chest still lingers.

-

You walk Hyunjin out to his car with a warm jar of cookies pressed into his hands, the lid tied with a little ribbon you found in the kitchen drawer. He cradles it like a gift and leans in to kiss you—slow, deliberate, a long peck on your lips that makes you want to hold him there just a few seconds longer.

"Don't go getting back together with your ex-husband while I’m gone," he teases, eyes twinkling.

You laugh against his lips. "Only if you promise to turn away every time you see an older woman."

Hyunjin barks out a laugh, his hands still resting lightly on your hips. "You wound me."

You give him one last kiss—short, sweet, maybe a little reluctant—and then step back as he opens the car door. He gets in, his window still rolled down as he gives you a little wave. “Ten days,” he says. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“Oh, no. What should I do? I miss you already,” you tease him.

With that, Hyunjin walks to his and gets in. You smile, watching his car roll down the street and disappear around the corner.

The house feels quieter when you walk back in. A little colder without him in it. You kick off your shoes and wander into the kitchen, finding Chris at the sink, stacking the dirty dishes from your baking session. He’s got the sleeves of his hoodie shoved up, one hand awkwardly holding a plate, the other trying not to knock over a glass.

You come up beside him and lean your hip against the counter. “Since we’re both too tired to even think about cooking after all that,” you start, voice playful, “how about we just order something for dinner?”

Chris turns to you with a grin, towel slung over his shoulder. “Oh, thank God! Finally. I don't have to lie and say that your cooking is good,” he says with a rather dramatic tone.

Later that night, you both huddled over the dining table, sleeves rolled up, newspapers spread beneath metal trays filled with steaming seafood boil—shrimp, mussels, crab legs, corn, and potatoes all soaked in garlicky, buttery sauce. Chris insisted on it for dinner, and now he’s grinning like a kid in a candy store, elbow-deep in shellfish. You munch on a piece of corn, watching as Chris meticulously peels shrimp after shrimp—not just for himself, but for you too. He quietly places a perfectly peeled one on your plate, then another, and another.

“You know I can do that myself,” you say between bites, amused.

“I know,” he shrugs, all smug and proud as he wipes his fingers on the edge of the napkin and goes right back to peeling more for you.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You eat like a child.”

Chris pauses, mid-bite. “What?”

You point with your greasy finger. “You’ve got sauce on the corner of your mouth.”

He tries to lick it off, tongue darting out to the side. He misses completely. “Did I get it?”

“Not even close.”

“Well,” he leans in toward you, eyes gleaming mischievously, “help me out then.”

You snort, eyes widening as you look at both of your hands coated with the sauce. “My hands are dirty.”

“Just lick it off then,” he deadpans, tapping his casted leg under the table. “Come on. I'm injured.”

You roll your eyes, but the moment lingers—his face is close, and you catch the faint scent of lemon and garlic and something warm and familiar that’s just him. You hesitate only for a second before you lean in and lick the corner of his mouth quickly, your lips brushing his skin.

Chris looks shocked and then smug. “You missed a spot.”

He swipes more sauce with his finger, smearing it deliberately across the corner of his mouth like a child trying to frame a moment. “Guess you’ll have to clean it again.”

You gape at him in disbelief, grab a shrimp from your plate, and shove it into his open mouth before he can say another word.

He hums exaggeratedly as he chews. “Worth it.”

You can’t stop laughing and for a minute, it feels like the two of you are back in some lighter, simpler version of your lives—sleeves rolled, hands messy, hearts full. You hum softly to yourself as you clean up after dinner, wiping down the sticky table and putting away the dirty dishes into the sink. Chris is moving slower behind you, his cast dragging just a little, but he insists on helping despite your protests. Then, as you're about to rinse the last dish, he opens the freezer and pulls out a tub of ice cream with a grin.

“Dessert?” he offers, wiggling his brows.

You glance at the tub, then at him, and shrug. “Why not? We’ve already made a mess.”

So the two of you settle back at the dining table, this time with two spoons and a tub of chocolate ice cream between you. You sit side by side, legs brushing, both a little warm from the food and laughter still lingering in the air.

Chris scoops the first bite, moaning dramatically as he eats it. “God, I missed this.”

You laugh. “What? Ice cream?”

“No. Eating dessert with someone and not having to share with a teenager who hogs the last bite.”

That makes you smile. “Speaking of—how’s Riley?”

He leans back with a sigh. “She’s good. She called earlier to ask if she could have friends over. We negotiated.”

“Negotiated?”

“I’ve had to learn,” he says with a smirk. “Parenting a teenager is like hostage diplomacy. You give an inch, they want a concert ticket.”

You chuckle. “That’s good for you, though. Builds character.”

He grins. “Also found out she snuck a drink from my liquor cabinet a few weeks ago.”

You snort. “Classic teenager behavior.”

“She’s sneaky.”

“We’ve done worse,” you say playfully, nudging his shoulder with yours.

He barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Oh god. You remember that time we snuck into that concert pretending to be part of the crew?”

You burst into laughter. “And you carried a random amp just to sell the lie!”

He grins wide, cheeks slightly flushed as you both tumble down memory lane. The conversation flows easily, laced with laughter and little looks that linger too long. You feel it—the atmosphere changing. Getting quieter, softer, more intimate. Then Chris shifts, turning slightly toward you. “Hey… that package from yesterday? It was a bottle of liquor. A ‘Get well soon’ gift from my label.”

You raise a brow. “Fancy.”

“Yeah. I thought maybe we could open it. You know… share a glass?”

You glance at the clock, then back at him. The warm food still weighs on your belly. You offer him a soft smile. “I feel kind of full, honestly. Maybe another time?”

Chris nods slowly. “Yeah. Of course. Another time.”

You rise from your seat, brushing invisible crumbs off your clothes. “I’m gonna head to bed early.”

“Okay,” he says, standing as well despite the awkwardness of his cast. You meet in a loose embrace near the kitchen doorway, and as you pull away to wish him goodnight, Chris places a kiss that lands on the corner of your lips. It’s soft, brief—but enough to steal your breath. You step back, eyes flicking to his for a second, searching for something you’re not ready to name.

“I didn’t mean—” He stammers, “I was going for a full on, lips lock... kiss.”

You shake your head and chuckle at him, “Goodnight, Chris.”

You don’t look back as you head upstairs, your heart picking up pace like you’re running from something—maybe the feeling blooming somewhere deep inside, somewhere you told yourself you’d locked tight.

-

There’s something about this house that always feels a little warmer in the late morning light. Maybe it’s the way the house always bathed in sunlight, or maybe it’s just you. Chris leans quietly against the doorway, his arms folded as he watches you in your reading nook. You’re sitting with your legs stretched out in front of you, tucked under a soft throw blanket, completely immersed in a book. You don’t notice him, and he doesn’t call out to you. He doesn’t want to break the moment.

He’s seen you do a thousand beautiful things—over five years of marriage, you were always dazzling in a way that pulled him in without trying. But somehow, watching you like this—quiet, relaxed, just being—feels different. Feels deeper. Your fingers absentmindedly play with the tassel of your blanket. Your brow furrows a little, then lifts as you read between the lines. Chris watches the way your toes curl and uncurl, like they’re reacting to the tension in the story. It’s cute. All of it. It shouldn’t make his heart thump the way it does, but it does. He could watch you for hours like this, then your eyes lift and catch his, and it feels like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You tilt your head. “Do you need something, Chris?”

Chris clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Uh—yeah. Just wondering if you remember about my doctor’s appointment?”

Your eyes widen as you check the time on your phone. “Oh my god—I totally lost track of time.”

You close the book quickly, already rising from the nook. “Let me get ready, I’ll be quick!”

He just nods, lips twitching with a faint smile as he watches you rush out of the room. He’s not sure what exactly he’s feeling—but it’s warm and heavy in his chest, and for a fleeting second, it almost feels like the past, like something familiar and tender that he didn’t realize he missed until just now.

Chris doesn’t really need your help walking, not this much at least. The crutches work fine and the doctor even said he’s healing faster than expected. But still… he likes it. The way your arm is linked with his, your other hand gently resting over his as the two of you make your way down the hospital corridor.

It’s slow and quiet, just the faint squeak of his crutch against the linoleum floor and the soft echo of your steps beside him. And he can’t help but wonder what people see when they pass by. To anyone else, it probably looks like you’re his wife. The devoted one. The one who still sticks around even when he’s limping through life—literally and metaphorically. And god, he likes that thought way more than he should.

You lean in a little closer when a nurse pushes a cart past you both, and Chris feels your shoulder brush against his. His heart does this dumb little stutter in his chest, like it still hasn’t figured out that this kind of intimacy is borrowed now, temporary. Still, he clings to it.

“You okay?” you ask, glancing up at him with that soft concern that always seems to undo him.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower than he means for it to be. “I’m good.”

Chris should want to go home. He should be tired after the appointment, after walking more than he probably should have. But there’s this ache in his chest that’s got nothing to do with his leg, and everything to do with the fact that he just… doesn’t want this to be over yet. So he clears his throat, casual like he's not already thinking too much about how to say it. “Hey,” he says, turning his head a little toward you. “You hungry?”

You briefly glance away from the road ahead “A little. Why?”

“I was thinking…” He pauses for dramatic effect, because he knows you hate that. “Early dinner? I'm thinking Italian, pasta or maybe steak?”

You squint at him for a second, like you’re trying to read between the lines. He shrugs, looking out the window, like it's not a big deal. “Only if you're not in a rush to get home.”

You’re quiet for a beat, and he doesn’t even breathe as he waits for your answer. Then you sigh, a soft little smile curling on your lips. “Yeah. Sure,” you say. “You can just say that you don't want to eat my cooking, Chris.”

He grins, relief and something warmer blooming in his chest. “You read my mind,” he teasingly says.

The restaurant isn’t crowded, just the way he likes it. There’s a gentle breeze sweeping through the outdoor patio where the two of you sit, your hair moving with it, catching bits of sunlight. Chris leans back in his chair, his cast resting comfortably, and watches as you open the menu with a kind of focus he swears you used to reserve only for editing scripts or assembling furniture. Your eyes scan the options like it’s a high-stakes test. He smirks to himself, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table as he rests his chin in one hand, just watching you.

You hum thoughtfully, then glance at him. “Okay, hear me out. If we get the grilled octopus, the sea bass, and the truffle fries, we can split them and still have room for dessert.”

Chris nods solemnly. “Smart. Strategic.”

“I know,” you say with a satisfied grin, then turn back to the menu. “Also, we should get the mussels.”

“That’s four dishes,” he teases.

“We’ll pace ourselves.” You flip a page. “And we’re getting the wine. That red blend we tried that one time—remember?”

He remembers everything. “How could I forget?”

The waiter comes, and you order with such certainty, like you’ve already envisioned the entire meal playing out. Chris can’t stop smiling. Something about the way you talk to the waiter—clear, kind, decisive—makes something settle warm in his chest. You’ve always been like this. Always good at taking care of people, of moments, of making things feel easy without trying. And he thinks—yeah. He’s going to enjoy every damn second of this. Not just the wine, or the food, or the sunset that’s slowly dipping behind your shoulder. But this. Sitting across from you. Listening to you talk. Watching you reach for your glass and wrinkle your nose as you swirl the wine, pretending to be a snob about it before breaking into laughter. It’s all so familiar. And god, he’s missed it more than he’s willing to admit.

The food is incredible and the wine is warm in his chest, loosening things that he usually keeps tucked away. "If this is what we would've been like back then," Chris says, voice low, casual but meaning every word, "maybe we never would’ve gotten divorced."

You look up at him, your fork pausing midair. Your eyes catch the light — same as they always have — and something in Chris's chest aches. "Yeah," you murmur, setting your fork down. "Maybe."

He toys with the edge of his wine glass, tracing it with his finger, pretending he’s not hanging onto every second of your silence. "Sometimes I think about it," he admits. "If we’d just waited a little longer. Grown up a little more. If we hadn’t been so damn stubborn about everything."

You smile — a little sad, a little knowing — and Chris swears it’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen all night. "We were so young," you say, your voice gentle. "We didn’t know how to fight for the right things."

Chris chuckles under his breath, remembering all the late nights and slammed doors, the pride that always came first. "We knew how to fight, though," he jokes lightly.

Your laughter is soft, almost tender. It hits him harder than he expects. "Yeah. We were good at that."

For a moment, the world goes quiet around you — just the hum of the restaurant, the flicker of the candle between you, the way your eyes hold his like they’re remembering too.

"I don’t regret it," you say, your voice steady. "Not meeting you. Not marrying you."

Chris's heart knocks hard against his ribs. He drinks you in — the curve of your mouth, the quiet way you look at him, like you mean it. "Me neither," he says, and it comes out rougher than he intended. "Not even for a second."

Without thinking, Chris reaches across the table — maybe to grab another plate, maybe to get your attention — but instead, his fingers brush against yours. You freeze, looking up at him.

Chris’s mouth goes dry. His hand lingers over yours for a second longer than necessary. He half-expects you to pull away. Tease him. Make a joke like you always do, but you don’t. You just look at him with that quiet, familiar softness. The same one you used to look at him with in the mornings, when it was just the two of you and no walls between you. He feels his heart thudding in his ears. Slowly, he curls his fingers around yours. Testing. Asking. You don't pull away. You smile — a small, secret thing — and let your thumb lightly brush over his knuckles. It’s nothing. Barely anything, but to Chris, it feels like everything.

He swallows hard and forces a chuckle, squeezing your hand once before letting go — before he does something stupid like pulling you across the table just to kiss you. "You know I was reaching for the fries, right?" he muses, picking up his fork again to distract himself.

You laugh softly, reaching for your glass of wine. "Yes. And I successfully stopped you from taking it."

Chris grins despite himself, heart too full, hands still tingling where they touched you. Maybe he’s a fool, maybe he’s setting himself up to get hurt all over again, but right now, he doesn’t care about all of that. He just wants more of this — more of you.

-

Toward the night, the weather turns bad. The rain comes fast, a steady drum against the windshield as you pull into the driveway. You shift the car into park, turning to Chris.

"Stay put," you tell him firmly, already reaching for the umbrella behind your seat. "I'll come around and help you."

Chris opens his mouth, probably to protest, but you shoot him a look that makes him snap it closed again, grinning helplessly instead.

You shove the car door open and dart out, the cold rain immediately soaking into your clothes. You wrestle the umbrella open, fighting the wind for a second before managing to steady it, then hurry to the passenger side.

Chris is already half out of the car, and you have to laugh a little under your breath because he's stubborn even now.

"Hold on," you say, breathless from the run and the rain, as you wedge yourself between him and the car, the umbrella awkwardly angled over the both of you. One hand gripping the umbrella handle, you extend the other to him. "Okay, come on."

Chris leans heavily into you as he swings his good leg out. His cast bumps clumsily against the door, and you wince for him, but he just chuckles low in his throat and wraps an arm around your shoulders without hesitation.

"Gotcha," he murmurs into your ear, his voice warm despite the chilly rain.

You cling to each other, awkward and close under the flimsy umbrella as you make your way up the driveway. Every step has you practically pressed chest-to-chest, Chris clutching you for balance and you gripping his waist tightly, both of you half laughing as you stumble once, twice, splashing through shallow puddles. The front door never looked so far away.

By the time you get inside, you’re both half-soaked, your shoes squelching against the floor. You slam the door shut behind you, breathing hard from the run and the cold. Chris's arm is still around you, your bodies still pressed close as if neither of you quite wants to let go yet. You feel his chest rise and fall against yours, the shared breath between you heavy with something that feels... different. You tilt your head back to look up at him, and for one suspended second, neither of you says a word.

Chris’s gaze lingering on you, heavier than before. It’s not playful or casual like it’s been lately. It’s intense, almost like he’s seeing right through you. It’s the way he used to look at you years ago, back when the world felt small and safe because you had each other. Back when just one look from him could tell you everything he was feeling and right now, it’s telling you too much. You feel your heart clench, your chest tighten with the weight of everything unsaid between you. The conversation you had over dinner still hums in the air, a thread pulled too tight, fraying at the edges. You swallow hard, breaking your gaze away before you can let yourself drown in it.

"I'm gonna head upstairs and dry off, and uh... sleep," you say lightly, forcing a small smile as you step away from him, peeling off your damp jacket and hanging it by the door.

You don’t miss the quick flicker of disappointment that crosses Chris’s face. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced with that familiar, easy smile he always wears when he’s trying not to show too much.

"Yeah," he says, his voice a little rougher than before. "Goodnight."

You nod, hugging your arms to your chest. "Goodnight, Chris."

You don’t dare look back as you head for the stairs, your footsteps soft against the wood. You can feel his eyes on you until you disappear from view, the pull between you stretching thinner and thinner—like a rubber band waiting to snap. Behind you, the house feels too quiet, and somehow, you feel like you’re running away from something you’re not ready to face.

The rain drums steadily against the windows, a constant, restless sound. You lay curled under the covers, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never comes. When the thunder cracks again, louder this time, you sigh and reach for your phone on the nightstand. Instinctively, your fingers find Hyunjin’s name and you press call. It rings once, twice, three times. No answer. You chew on your lip for a moment, then quickly type a text instead: "Just checking on you... hope you haven't found another older woman to steal your attention. :)"

You smile softly to yourself as you hit send, imagining him rolling his eyes with that fond little grin of his. Setting the phone back down, you exhale a long breath and stare into the darkness. But the thunder keeps coming, low and rumbling, rattling the windows. It’s clear you’re not going to sleep through this. You throw the blanket off and slip out of bed, shivering slightly as your feet touch the cool floor. You pull a bedrobe over your nightdress, tying it loosely at the waist, and quietly head for the stairs.

When you reach the first floor, you catch Chris stepping out of his room with his hair tousled wildly, sticking out in every direction. You both stop and chuckle when your eyes meet, the absurdity of the timing not lost on either of you.

"Can’t sleep, huh?" you ask, your voice low, almost conspiratorial against the storm’s noise.

Chris scrubs a hand through his messy hair, his mouth curling into a tired smile. "Yeah. Guess not."

He glances toward the kitchen, then back at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Maybe this is the perfect time to crack open that 'Get well soon' gift," he suggests.

You raise an eyebrow, pretending to consider it, then shrug. "Why not," you say, the words feeling lighter than the knot sitting in your chest.

Chris grins, his face lighting up for real this time, and you follow him into the kitchen—both of you barefoot and slightly disheveled, like two teenagers sneaking around past curfew.

-

Chris is back in his room to get the bottle of liquor, finding it still tucked in its box. It’s a fancy-looking thing, something expensive if the weight of it in his hand says anything. When he turns around, he finds you already poking through the pantry, pulling out a bag of chips and a container of peanut butter-filled pretzels. You flash him a triumphant smile, and he can't help but grin back. It’s stupid how easily you make him feel lighter, like the two of you are just kids up too late, sneaking junk food behind your parents' backs.

You both settle onto the sofa, the movie playing quietly in the background, though neither of you are really paying attention to what’s on. You tuck your legs underneath you, pulling the blanket over the both of you without a second thought, and Chris shifts closer, careful with his leg. You pour the first two shots, and you clink glasses with a soft clink.

“To thunderstorms," you say, grinning.

"And insomnia," Chris adds, smiling back at you.

You both down the shots and immediately reach for the snacks, laughing at the way the liquor burns its way down. You make a face, sticking your tongue out dramatically, and Chris nudges your side with his elbow, pretending to scold you.

"Lightweight," he teases.

"You wish," you shoot back, tossing a pretzel at him. It bounces off his forehead, making both of you burst into laughter. It feels easy. So easy.

As the storm outside grows wilder, you lean into him a little more, warm and soft under the blanket. Chris drapes his arm across the back of the sofa, pretending it’s casual, though really he’s just hoping you’ll lean even closer. You hand him another shot, and this time you both sip it slower, letting the conversation drift from silly things—bad reality TV shows, your weird obsession with true crime podcasts—to the movie still flickering in the background, some terrible romcom neither of you can take seriously.

"You would totally be the guy who trips over himself trying to win the girl back," you tease, smirking over your glass.

Chris scoffs, feigning offense. "I’m way smoother than that."

He then leans his head back against the couch, feeling the pleasant buzz of the alcohol seep into his veins, making everything a little hazy around the edges. His leg is stretched out carefully in front of him, the blanket pooled over his lap, and he watches you talk animatedly, your face flushed from the drinks and the warmth of the room.

"You know," you say, pointing a finger at him, your words just slightly slurring, "you were so bad at being romantic sometimes. Like—so bad."

Chris chuckles under his breath, lifting his glass lazily. "That’s not true. I was plenty romantic."

"You were not!" you argue, scoffing as you grab a handful of chips and shove a few into your mouth. "You forgot our anniversary once."

"It was one time!" Chris defends, laughing, though his protest is weak at best. "And I made it up to you."

"You bought me a hairdryer!" you say, throwing your head back against the couch dramatically. "A hairdryer, Chris!"

Chris snorts, nearly choking on his drink. "Hey, that was a very expensive hairdryer. Top of the line."

You glare at him, though the way your mouth twitches betrays your amusement. "That’s not the point," you mumble, poking his arm with your finger. "I wanted, like... romance. Flowers. Grand gestures."

Chris lifts his hands in surrender, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Okay, okay. Maybe I wasn’t exactly Romeo."

"Not even close," you mutter with a huff, your words dragging adorably.

He watches you as you curl deeper into the blanket, your frustration fading into giggles you can’t hold back. Chris can't help it—he laughs too, the sound low and fond. You're slurring more now, your sentences wandering, but Chris listens anyway, his heart squeezing a little tighter with each teasing complaint you toss at him.

Somewhere between the drinks and your sleepiness, Chris finds it hard to focus on anything other than the curve of your smile and the way you keep stealing glances at him through heavy lids. He wants to defend himself more, maybe argue that he did love you deeply even if he showed it clumsily—but he figures it’s a lost cause tonight. He shifts slightly, his voice light and teasing.

"You know," he says, nudging you gently with his shoulder, "I might’ve been bad at the whole romance thing, but I don’t remember you ever complaining about the... sex."

You let out a scoff, rolling your eyes without lifting your head. "I admit, you were good back then," you say with a mischievous glint in your eye as you glance down meaningfully at his injured leg. "But who knows if you still are. You're not exactly young anymore, Chris."

Chris gasps in mock offense, his mouth falling open dramatically as he clutches his chest. "Wow. Wounded physically and emotionally in the same month," he says, pouting exaggeratedly. "I’ll have you know that with age comes experience. I’m very, very good now."

You turn your head toward him, and Chris feels your warm breath brush across his cheek, sending a shiver down his spine. Your lips curve into a sly smile. "Very good at making terrible choices, you mean?" you muse, voice soft and teasing.

Chris narrows his eyes at you, the playful challenge sparking between you like static electricity. "You won’t believe me," he murmurs, his voice dropping low, "until I show you."

Before you can react, Chris reaches up and gently grabs your chin, holding your head steady. He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away—but you don’t. His lips brush yours, soft and careful, and for a heartbeat you don't kiss him back. Chris almost pulls away, heart thudding painfully in his chest—

But then you part your lips slightly, letting him deepen the kiss. His hand slides along your jaw, cradling you like something precious. It's unhurried, tender, a kiss that feels more like a memory than a temptation.

When you finally pull back, your laughter is warm and soft against his mouth. "Okay," you murmur, teasing. "You’re not that bad... but not that good either."

Chris lets out a low, breathless laugh, eyes glinting with mischief. "Is that so?"

Without giving you time to think, he leans in again and catches your mouth in another kiss—this time bolder, surer, stealing the breath right from your lungs and this time, you don't hesitate at all.

-

Chris can’t seem to stop himself. The second your lips part beneath his, something primal wakes up in him — something he’s been keeping buried, locked up for so long. His kisses grow hungrier, deeper, each one a little more desperate than the last, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again. His hand slides from the nape of your neck, fingers skimming down the line of your throat to your shoulder. You shiver against him, and it only spurs him on. His touch is deliberate but unhurried, tracing the curve of your collarbone through the soft fabric of your robe.

Chris shifts closer, his good leg anchoring him while he leans into you, his hand finally finding the loose belt of your robe. His fingers toy with it for a moment, giving you a heartbeat’s worth of time to stop him if you wanted to — but you don't. So he tugs, slow and certain, pulling the knot free. The robe falls open around you with a whisper of fabric against skin, revealing the silky nightdress you’re wearing underneath.

Chris exhales shakily against your mouth, his hand gliding under the open folds of your robe to settle at your waist, feeling the warmth of your body through the flimsy fabric. His forehead rests against yours for a beat, both of you breathing hard, the air between you thick with the heat of everything unspoken.

He drags his voluptuous lips down your neck, kissing a slow, reverent trail along the delicate curve of your throat. He feels you breathing harder, each soft exhale fanning across his hairline, sending a rush of heat through him. When he nips lightly at your skin, he hears the faintest sound escape you—a breathy gasp that curls something wild and reckless in his chest.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing along your cheek. Your eyes meet his, wide and uncertain, and for a moment, Chris feels the weight of everything that could fall apart if he takes this any further.

"Please," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "Stop me. Please stop me here… because if I kiss you again, I don't think I'll be able to stop."

The room crackles with tension. Chris watches the emotions flicker in your eyes—hesitation, longing, that same undeniable pull he's feeling too. He knows you’re both standing on the edge of something you might not be able to come back from.

And then you move. You don't answer him with words. Instead, you slide your hand into his hair, pulling him down, and crash your mouth against his with a desperate kind of hunger.

Chris groans low in his throat, the last thread of his restraint snapping as he kisses you back just as fiercely. Your kiss tells him everything he needs to know—no second-guessing, no going back. You're choosing this. You're choosing him. And he knows with absolute certainty: he’s about to lose himself in you all over again.

-

✨ Evermore: Chapter III is available on my Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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[xmpsrrr]

smolder

prohero bakugo x reader

summary: tension simmers between you and bakugo until it finally boils over into a night where restraint breaks, emotions run high, and whispered promises leave nothing but the memory of touch and trust in the aftermath.

A/N- 100 follower special hope u guys enjoy!!

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The night was dark, the kind of velvet-black sky scattered with pinpricks of stars that always made you feel just a little bit small. But tonight, it wasn’t the sky that made you feel that way—it was the man walking a few paces ahead, his pace steady and sure, every step crackling with restrained power.

Katsuki Bakugo. Pro Hero Dynamight. A man with a name as explosive as his quirk, a reputation for destruction, and a sharp tongue that kept even his allies at bay. But you, for some reason you didn’t fully understand, had earned his respect. Or at least, his tolerance.

You had been partnered with him for six months now—a quiet but capable hero, assigned to balance out his volatile energy. Where he roared, you whispered. Where he charged in headfirst, you held back, calculating. Together, you made a good team, though no one else quite understood how it worked.

“Stay close,” Bakugo grunted, glancing back at you over his shoulder. His voice was low, rough, but not as sharp as it usually was.

“I always do,” you replied softly, falling into step beside him.

His crimson eyes flicked toward you, narrowed slightly, but he said nothing more. He didn’t have to. You’d both grown used to these silences, to the weight of unspoken words hanging between you like thick, summer air.

Tonight’s patrol was uneventful so far. A few minor disturbances here and there, nothing you couldn’t handle. But you felt it—the tension in Bakugo’s shoulders, the way his jaw clenched tighter than usual. Something was bothering him.

“Bakugo,” you said quietly as you both turned down a narrow alley, the city lights casting long shadows. “You’re wound up tonight. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he snapped, but then sighed. “Just… be careful. There’ve been reports of some underground shit brewing. I don’t want you getting caught in the crossfire.”

It was the closest thing to concern you’d ever heard from him. Your heart gave an unexpected flutter, and you fought to keep your face neutral.

“I’ll watch your back,” you said, and his lips twitched into something that might almost be called a smile.

The rest of the patrol passed in tense silence, until the crackle of his comm drew both your attention. A dispatch call—an ambush at a nearby warehouse. Without hesitation, Bakugo jerked his head in the direction of the location. “Let’s move.”

You both sprinted, the night air sharp in your lungs. The warehouse loomed ahead, dark and ominous. You could already sense something wrong, feel the tension thrumming in the air like a wire stretched too tight.

Inside, chaos erupted. A gang of low-level villains, but they were organized, more than you’d expected. You and Bakugo fought back-to-back, your quirks complementing each other perfectly. His explosions rocked the walls, your precise strikes neutralized threats one by one.

But then—someone slipped past. A masked figure lunged at you from the shadows, faster than you anticipated. Before you could react, Bakugo was there, his body slamming into the assailant, a feral snarl ripping from his throat. He blasted the villain away with a burst of force that left scorch marks on the concrete.

“You alright?!” he barked, grabbing your arm, eyes scanning you frantically. His hand was rough but steady, his grip strong but not painful.

“I’m fine,” you breathed, heart racing. But his proximity, the way his breath ghosted over your skin, made something in your chest ache.

Bakugo’s jaw worked for a moment, as if he were trying to force words out. Finally, he growled, “Next time, don’t hesitate to call for me. Got it?”

You nodded, breathless. “Got it.”

He let go of your arm slowly, his fingers brushing yours as he stepped back. The fight was over, but something had shifted between you—something neither of you were quite ready to name.

The city buzzed with life long after the warehouse incident, but the rush of adrenaline was still thick between you and Bakugo. The silence that fell during the drive back to headquarters wasn’t uncomfortable, but heavy—filled with things left unsaid.

You glanced over at him once, watching the tension ripple beneath his skin as he gripped the steering wheel. His sharp eyes stared ahead, jaw clenched like he was fighting off some invisible weight.

“I could have handled it,” you said softly, breaking the quiet.

His eyes flicked to you briefly, eyebrows knitting together. “Don’t bullshit me. You almost got hit. If I wasn’t there—”

You cut him off with a small shake of your head. “I know. I’m glad you were.”

For a moment, something like vulnerability softened his expression, and you saw the man behind the hero—the one who carried more than he let on.

“We’ve got to watch each other’s backs. That’s what partners do.”

You nodded, feeling your chest tighten. Partners. The word lingered in the air, heavier than you expected.

Later, at the hero dorms, the quiet hum of the city was a distant murmur through the windows. You found yourself pacing, replaying the night in your mind—how close things had come to tipping over, how Bakugo’s concern had burned hotter than his explosions.

A knock at your door startled you. You opened it to find Bakugo standing there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the usual fiery edge softened just enough to be almost inviting.

“Needed to check if you’re really okay,” he said gruffly, avoiding your eyes.

You stepped aside, letting him in. “I’m fine. Thanks to you.”

His gaze finally met yours, intense and searching. “Don’t thank me. Just… don’t scare me like that again.”

There it was—the rare, raw honesty that caught your breath. You stepped closer, the space between you shrinking.

“Bakugo…”

He cut you off with a low, almost reluctant smile. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not soft.”

But in the quiet of the room, beneath the city lights, the heat between you spoke louder than words ever could.

Days passed like a slow fuse burning down, each moment with Bakugo charged with an electric undercurrent you both pretended not to notice.

At training, he was as fierce as ever—explosions marking every strike, his body taut with controlled aggression. But in the rare pauses, his eyes would catch yours just a little longer than necessary, flickers of something softer hidden beneath the usual fire.

One evening, after a grueling session, you both found yourselves alone in the quiet gym. Sweat clung to your skin, and your muscles ached pleasantly, but the tension was thicker than the humidity.

Bakugo wiped his brow with the back of his hand and let out a sharp breath. “You’re tougher than I thought.”

You raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on your lips. “Is that a compliment?”

He scowled but the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t push it.”

You stepped closer, the air between you crackling. “I’m just saying… you make me want to try harder.”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, the explosive hero dropped away, leaving a man who wanted to close the gap between words and action.

“You’re annoying,” he muttered, voice low.

“And you’re impossible to read.”

Bakugo’s lips twitched, and then he was suddenly close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint tang of smoke and something uniquely his.

“I’m not good at this—any of it,” he admitted, voice rough and honest. “But I’m damn good at knowing I want you.”

Your breath hitched, heart pounding in your ears. The slow burn was igniting, and neither of you could—or wanted to—put it out anymore.

For a long moment, you and Bakugo stood there, breath mingling in the thick silence. His confession—rough and edged with uncertainty—hung between you like the aftershocks of one of his blasts.

You were the first to move, a small step closer, so close your fingers brushed his. “Then why do you keep holding back?”

His jaw clenched, crimson eyes locked on yours, but his usual sharpness softened into something raw. “Because… if I give in, there’s no going back.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “And what if I don’t want you to hold back?”

The crack in his armor widened. His hand lifted hesitantly, fingers ghosting along your cheek before cupping your jaw with a tenderness you never thought Bakugo capable of.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he murmured, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“Good,” you whispered, leaning into his touch. “Because you’ve been in my head for months.”

With a low, rough groan, Bakugo finally closed the distance, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was as fierce as it was hesitant. His lips moved against yours with the urgency of someone who had waited too long, his hands framing your face like he was afraid you’d disappear.

The kiss deepened, and you felt the heat of him, the way he held himself back even now, trembling with restraint. When he pulled away, his breath was ragged, his forehead resting against yours.

“Not here,” he murmured, voice husky with need. “Not when I can’t do it right.”

You shivered, anticipation pooling low in your belly. “Then where?”

A dangerous smile tugged at his lips. “My place. Tomorrow. After the shift.”

You nodded, your pulse hammering. “Okay.”

As he stepped back, his hand lingered at your waist, his touch a silent promise of what was to come.

The next day passed with agonizing slowness. Every glance from Bakugo felt heavier, every brush of his hand against yours—accidental or not—sent sparks skittering across your skin. The air between you was thick with everything you hadn’t said, everything you were finally going to act on.

Your shift dragged until finally, mercifully, it ended. Bakugo was waiting at the exit, his usual scowl softened just enough to make your pulse jump.

“Ready?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, your throat dry.

The walk to his apartment was quiet, but not awkward. There was a sense of purpose in each step, in the way he glanced at you from the corner of his eye, as if making sure you were still with him.

When he unlocked his door and stepped aside to let you in, you felt the shift immediately. His apartment was surprisingly clean, the faint scent of burnt caramel in the air from a candle burning low on the counter.

“I didn’t want it to be… rushed,” Bakugo said quietly, his voice gruff but sincere.

You turned to face him, heart pounding, and stepped closer until you were standing chest to chest. “I don’t want rushed, either.”

His breath caught, and for a moment, it felt like the world held its breath with you. Then, slowly, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips lingering against your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

You shook your head, leaning in. “Don’t you dare.”

That was all it took. His mouth met yours in a kiss that was deeper than the first, a kiss that spoke of months of unspoken desire. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he devoured your lips with slow, deliberate care.

He pulled back just enough to speak against your mouth. “You’re so damn soft. You make me wanna be gentle. I’ve never wanted that before.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine. “Then be gentle. Show me.”

Bakugo’s groan was low and needy as he backed you toward his bedroom, his lips never leaving yours. His usual fire was there, but it was tempered by something sweeter, something more careful, like he was savoring every second of this build-up.

When the backs of your knees hit his bed, he paused, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath ragged. “I’m gonna take my time. Gonna make you feel so good, you won’t remember anyone else’s name but mine.”

Your pulse thrummed wildly. “Please, Katsuki…”

His eyes darkened at the sound of his name falling from your lips like a prayer, and then he was kissing you again, deeper, hotter, the slow burn finally tipping into something molten.

Bakugo’s hands were everywhere now—rough and calloused but moving with a gentleness that made you melt beneath his touch. His lips traced the line of your jaw, down your throat, leaving a trail of heated kisses that sent shivers through your entire body.

When he laid you back on the bed, his crimson eyes were dark, hungry, but still holding that softness that was reserved just for you. His hands followed, gliding along your sides, up beneath your shirt, fingertips dancing lightly against your skin as he eased the fabric over your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

Your breath hitched, a flush creeping up your neck. “You’ve been holding back for too long,” you whispered.

He growled low in his throat, leaning down to nip at your collarbone. “Damn right I have. But not anymore.”

Bakugo’s lips found yours again, his kiss deeper, more demanding now as he pressed you into the mattress. His hands were steady as they slid over you, unfastening and removing your remaining clothes with care.

When he finally had you bare beneath him, he pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes drinking you in with an intensity that made your breath catch. “So fucking perfect,” he rasped. “Mine.”

Your hands found the hem of his shirt, pushing it up and over his head, revealing the planes of muscle that flexed with every movement. You traced the scars and lines of his body, memorizing every inch as he shivered under your touch.

Bakugo groaned, his hips pressing against yours, the hardness of him undeniable. “Gonna make you feel so good,” he promised, voice low and rough. “Gonna have you saying my name over and over.”

Your hips arched into his, a needy sound escaping your lips. “Please, Katsuki…”

That was it—the final spark. He claimed your mouth again, his kiss hot and possessive, his hands everywhere at once—stroking, teasing, worshiping every inch of you. He took his time, lips mapping your skin, fingers coaxing gasps and moans from you until you were trembling beneath him.

When he finally slid inside you, it was with a slow, deliberate thrust that filled you perfectly. He groaned, forehead pressing to yours, his breath ragged. “Fuck… you feel so good,” he murmured.

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as he moved with deep, rolling thrusts that sent sparks of pleasure through you. He was relentless yet tender, his mouth finding yours again, his words a mix of praise and need.

“That’s it, baby… so good for me… taking me so well…”

Your body tightened around him, your climax building with every stroke, every whispered word. Bakugo’s pace quickened, his control slipping as his own release loomed.

“Come for me,” he groaned against your ear, his voice breaking. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me…”

The pleasure crashed over you like a wave, your cry muffled against his shoulder as you came, shuddering in his arms. Bakugo followed moments later, his own groan torn from his chest as he buried himself deep inside you.

For a long time, the only sounds were your combined breaths, the soft rustle of sheets, the quiet hum of satisfaction that filled the room.

Bakugo pressed a kiss to your temple, his arms tightening around you as he whispered, “Told you I’d take my time.”

Bakugo’s weight settled gently beside you, his breathing slowly returning to normal. His arm slipped around your waist, pulling you close, the heat of his skin searing into yours in the best way possible.

For a long moment, you lay there together in silence, your heartbeats gradually syncing, the world outside fading into irrelevance. His head dipped, pressing a soft kiss to your hairline, a quiet rumble of satisfaction vibrating in his chest.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough but softened by an unfamiliar tenderness.

You blinked up at him, head resting against his shoulder. “What?”

His crimson eyes, still dark with the aftermath of desire, met yours. “Didn’t think I’d… feel like this. Didn’t think I’d care so much it’d scare me shitless.”

A soft smile tugged at your lips. “I scare you?”

“Tch.” His scoff was half-hearted, and he rolled onto his side to face you fully, his hand coming up to trace along your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. “You scare me because you make me wanna be better. Not just a better hero. A better man. I don’t wanna fuck this up.”

Your chest tightened, emotions catching you off guard. You reached up, fingers curling into his hair, drawing him down into a slow, lingering kiss.

“You’re not going to,” you whispered against his lips. “We’re in this together.”

His breath hitched, a rare vulnerability flashing across his face before he masked it with a crooked smirk. “Damn right we are.”

The two of you lay there for a while longer, limbs tangled, the world quiet around you. Eventually, Bakugo’s voice rumbled low against your skin. “You’re staying the night. Non-negotiable.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving.”

“Good.” He tucked you closer, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your ear. “You’re mine now. And I’m yours.”

In the quiet that followed, you realized how right it felt—how natural it was to fit against him like this, to let your walls down completely. And when you finally drifted off to sleep, it was with a soft smile and the comforting weight of Bakugo’s arms around you, keeping you safe and warm.

Outside, the city lights shimmered like embers, and for the first time in a long while, you felt at peace—knowing the slow burn between you had finally ignited into something real.

[bakubrattt]

Sex and Bedtime Stories

-Zayne x Reader

What starts as a cozy stormy movie night between you and Zayne quickly turns into something much steamier. Instead of watching the movie, your arcade plushies get front-row seats to an entirely different show—a slow-burning, passionate reunion of bodies and hearts. As thunder crashes and memories resurface, love and lust take center stage.

word count: 22k

genre/warnings: 18+ explicit content--no minors!--fluff, smut, domestic, childhood flashbacks, Dawnbreaker foreshadowing, multiple orgasms, 69, Zayne likes getting scratched as punishment for hurting you

🩵My Zayne Masterlist🩵A03 Link🩵

Rain poured in heavy sheets outside the floor to ceiling windows of Zayne’s livingroom, turning the world beyond the glass into a blurred watercolor of motion and light. The space around you was dark, lit only by the cool, flickering glow of the flatscreen across the room. Its shifting light danced over the glossy surface of the marble coffee table, where a bowl of popcorn sat surrounded by scattered sweets—soft caramel chews, chocolate wrappers, and the last of the sour candies.

The storm’s voice was constant, a steady patter overhead as it drummed against the chimney cap and flowed in thick rivulets across the tiled rooftop. You could hear it everywhere—in the air vents, along the gutters, slipping like silver fingers over every edge of the house. Rain streamed behind the half-slit blinds, streaking like tears. Beyond the blinds, Zayne’s backyard fence lights glowed faintly, their warm hue distorted through the relentless onslaught of water, casting a hazy amber blur that pulsed with each gust of wind.

Then, there was a sudden flash of white. You froze. Your breath caught in your throat as your whole body went still, every muscle locking down in instinctive preparation. You didn’t even realize you’d reached for him until your fingers were clutching at Zayne’s arm, holding on tight beneath the thick sherpa blanket you shared on the couch. The warmth of him met your grip without hesitation.

He didn’t speak—just curled his hand over the inside of your knee, his palm steady and broad as he gave you a slow, comforting squeeze. The pressure was grounding, his thumb brushing softly along the curve of your leg as he gently pulled you closer into his side, tucking you into the safety of his body like it was second nature.

“Let me go get you my earplugs,” he said, glancing over at you as he picked up the PlayStation controller and paused the movie, barely started, the screen freezing on a frame bathed in cold blues and silvers.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, looking up at him. His face was painted in soft indigo light from the television, every line and angle of him carved in quiet tenderness, “it’s just the anticipation…Makes me a little jumpy, you know?”

KABROOM!!

The thunder ripped through the sky with a deafening boom, sharp and immediate—a sound that didn’t roll so much as crack, like the air itself had split open. You flinched violently, your whole body reacting before your mind could catch up. In a heartbeat, you pressed yourself against Zayne’s arm, burying your face into the warm strength of his shoulder. Your knees squeezed around the outside of his thigh as if you could anchor yourself there, as if you could hide inside the curve of his body until the sky calmed down again.

“Just the anticipation?” He asked knowingly, his voice low and warm with that signature gentleness that always bordered on mischief. He shifted closer, reaching over you with the smooth confidence of someone who knew your every tell. His large hand slid behind you, cradling the space between your shoulder blades, fingers spreading across your spine in a gesture that was part care, part command as he pulled you in.

“If you say so, Miss Hunter,” he whispered warmly into your hair, “now, let the doctor do his job and take care of his favorite patient, please.”

“But I’m fine!” You insisted, squirming a little as he gently coaxed you upright, his touch never forceful, just insistent—unshakably steady.

That knowing curve at the corner of his mouth never faltered. It was affectionate. Endearing. Infuriating. He petted your head with love, brushing your hair back in soft strokes that made your protest feel instantly foolish.

“Says the bravest frightened rabbit to gaslight herself in front of me,” he teased, voice dropping into something softer as he pressed a kiss to your forehead—featherlight, warm. Then he slid the blanket off your shoulders, the fabric whispering down your arms, and began to rise.

Zayne stood with a fluid ruffle of motion, tall and effortlessly graceful even barefoot on the rug. Before you could reach for him again, he tucked the sherpa blanket around you with exaggerated care, hooding it up over your head and wrapping you tightly like some overprotected nesting doll. The warmth enveloped you instantly, his scent still clinging to the thick fabric.

He loomed above you for a moment, his silhouette eclipsing the flickering glow of the paused television, emerald eyes crinkling in fond amusement as he murmured, “stay put, bunny.”

You didn’t argue. You simply watched. He padded across the room toward the gaming corner with quiet ease, his figure fluid in the low light. Then he retrieved something sitting besids the consoles and neatly tubked cords—Mr. Fleecy. The white plush sheep. You recognized him instantly, even from the couch. A gift from the past—won at that neon-lit arcade three years ago, back when you were still stumbling into the rhythm of being Zayne’s. It had taken him four tries and an unreasonable amount of concentration to snag it from the claw machine. You remembered the sound he made when he won—half triumph, half disbelief—and how he’d placed the soft little thing in your hands like it was a medal of honor.

He brought over the stuffed animal to you with a surprising degree of care, as though it were something fragile or precious. There was no trace of irony in his movements—only earnestness as he tucked it next to you, where he once sat.

“Mr. Fleecy will keep you company while I go get you my earplugs,” he said softly, the corners of his mouth lifting with that unshakable gentleness that always made you feel like the safest thing in the room, “okay?”

You looked up at him—his eyes, his lips, the low gleam of the paused TV softening his silhouette—and couldn’t help the smile that curled across your face, “okay…Thanks, Doctor Zayne.”

Without a word, Zayne turned, reaching toward the marble coffee table. His fingers found one of the foiled chocolates nestled inside the small porcelain bowl beside the popcorn—dark brown and blue, a familiar favorite. He turned back to you, unwrapping it in a smooth, practiced motion, and then leaned down and popped it gently into your mouth. Just like that. No warning. No hesitation. A casual act of sweetness, like muscle memory. The way someone might hand a child a reward after a doctor’s visit. The way he used to press peppermints into your palm when you were rushing out the door and had skipped breakfast.

You let out a small laugh, muffled around the chocolate, and chewed down into it as he walked off toward the bedroom. It was funny, really. The memory it stirred. Something about the gesture reminded you of when you were little and doctor visits ended with a lollipop. It brought with it a soft pang of nostalgia you hadn’t expected, paired with the sweetness coating your tongue. Despite the storm crackling outside—despite the way the unpredictable lightning strikes had left your nerves humming—you felt…Comforted. No, more than that. You felt held. There was something oddly intimate about the whole moment—an unspoken closeness that wrapped tighter around you with every subtle kindness Zayne gave. As if the storm had given you permission to lean deeper into him; to seek out the safety he always offered in the quiet, unshakable ways.

When he returned, it was with slow, padded steps and a familiar softness in his hand. The earplugs. Small and blue, you used them before—mostly for concerts, and mostly because of his quiet, insistent concern. You could still hear him, months ago, chiding you at the door before a late-night show with Tara: “At least take these. Please.”

He stood over you now, smiling faintly as he reached for the edge of the sherpa blanket still hooded over your head. He peeled it back with care, fingertips combing through your hair as he swept it behind your ears. His touch lingered longer than it needed to—soft, rhythmic strokes that settled your breath without effort.

You let out a small laugh, heart warm with quiet disbelief. A cardiac surgeon—brilliant, stoic, complex—tucking you in with a plush sheep and a pair of earplugs. And yet somehow, nothing had ever made more sense. Nothing had ever felt more right. Maybe it was silly. But the truth was even sillier: you loved it. You loved being cared for by Zayne. Loved the way he made room for your fragility. Loved how seamlessly he stepped in to soothe it without judgment, only gentleness. It touched something deep inside you—something soft and small and long-buried. Something childlike. It made you feel safe in the kind of way that echoed.

“You make me feel like a little girl sometimes,” you chuckled, your voice hushed beneath the sound of rain against the windows, eyes catching his just as he lifted one of the soft earplugs toward your ear.

His smile deepened at that, soft and amused, as he gently twisted the foam into place with the care of someone who’d done it a hundred times—never rushed, never rough. His fingers brushed your cheek in the process, and he tilted his head with faux offense, “why, was Mr. Fleecy too childish of a choice for a protector while I was gone?”

You grinned and leaned in just a little, dropping your voice to a whisper like it was a secret meant only for him, “between you and I,” you said, eyes gleaming, “I think Mr. Fleecy was more scared than I was…I think we need a real adult, here.”

“Oh, how silly of me,” he said with a mock sigh, matching your tone as he delicately wiggled the second earplug into place. Then, without warning, his hand ruffled through your hair, playful and affectionate, tugging a small laugh from your throat, “my apologies, sweetheart.”

Zayne straightened up and turned toward the far corner of the living room, where the soft glow of the flatscreen lights stretched shadows over your collection of plush toys—an endearing hoard of claw machine victories. You watched him with curious amusement, tucked beneath the sherpa blanket like a wrapped gift, your chin peeking over the edge as your eyes followed his every movement.

“Hm…” Zayne stood there in thought, one hand on his hip, the other pinching at the smooth edge of his freshly shaved chin in exaggerated thoughtfulness. His expression was the perfect blend of faux-serious and internally entertained, “ah.”

You saw him bend slightly at the waist, plucking a plush from the collection. But before you could glimpse what it was, he turned his back to you, hiding it swiftly behind his long frame. You caught only the amused twitch at the corner of his mouth as he peeked over his shoulder and saw the look on your face—narrow-eyed and smiling, utterly suspicious. He then turned fully, finally revealing his choice, and you practically choked.

“Wobbly Eggplant?!” You burst out, collapsing back into the couch as laughter overtook you, your body curling into the cushions as Mr. Fleecy tumbled off your lap in the chaos, “Zayne! What the hell! Are you kidding me?!”

“What?” He said, half-laughing, fully pleased with himself as he returned to the couch, settling beside you with the most exaggerated innocence, “you said I make you feel like a little girl, did you not?” He added, one brow arching as he placed the offending plush onto your lap, “implying, you’d prefer for me to make you feel like a grown woman.”

“No, I know!” You laughed, more flustered now than ever as your voice bubbled out in a breathless stammer, your stomach fluttering with butterflies. You grabbed the ridiculous plushie and smacked it lightly against his thigh, barely able to contain your grin, “I meant—why not Tippy Banana or something?! Wobbly Eggplant?! Seriously?!”

“It was the first one I saw,” he admitted with a soft chuckle, his voice low with amusement. His arm slipped smoothly behind your waist, drawing you in until your body rested snugly against his. With his free hand, he pulled the sherpa blanket over his lap, tucking it around the both of you in a familiar, easy motion, “fitting, though, isn’t it?”

You froze. Oh my god. For a full second, you stared at him, ready to kill him for a pun that dry—but the look on his face made you hesitate. Zayne didn’t seem aware of what he’d just said. His expression was neutral, completely innocent. He was still watching you like he was waiting for a response, and then…Slowly…You watched it dawn on him.

His brows knit slightly. His eyes shifted. He blinked once. And then he realized. The moment it clicked, you burst out laughing at the exact instant his expression turned sheepish.

“…That wasn’t intentional and you know it,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked away, flustered in a way that was rare for Zayne. The tips of his ears were pink as he sighed. Maybe even red, “you’re not going to let me live it down, are you?”

“Mmm…” You hummed, pretending to think as your fingers tiptoed teasingly up his lap, “depends…I could have mercy on you, this time.”

“Name your price,” he said, the playfulness in his voice dipping into something lower, something slower, as he guided you closer still. His fingers found the bare edge of your skin beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and sure as they traced over your waist.

Amazing how quickly things could shift between you and Zayne—how banter could dissolve into heat in the space of a breath. It always happened like this. Effortless. Unspoken. Inevitable. A slow smile crept across your lips as your palm flattened over his thigh, your thumb inching upward—just enough to be dangerous.

“Zayne Li,” you murmured, voice laced with amusement, “all six foot one of him.”

He faltered—just for a second. You’d caught him off guard. A candid laugh slipped from his lips, soft and genuine, before he gently took your wrist under the blanket and rubbed his thumb along the inside, grounding you both. A quiet redirection—affectionate, but clear. He was close to letting go. Close to being unraveled by the woman who knew exactly how to touch that switch in him. God, how he loved being craved by you. His gaze lifted slowly from your mouth to your eyes, and the warmth there softened him completely. His eyes shimmered in the low light—tender, steady—banked heat held back only by will and love.

“Behave yourself,” he chided with a smile, voice quiet and sweet, “it’s movie night. I’m all yours afterwards, you know that.”

“I know,” you laughed, quiet and light, as you tucked yourself deeper into the warmth of his side. His arm tightened instantly around you, pulling you in with the firm ease of someone who knew how to hold you just right. The other arm followed, sliding around your frame and locking you in against the clean, masculine scent of his shirt and the fresh trace of his shower.

Your hand curled lightly into the fabric at his chest. It was warm. Steady. Comforting in a way few things ever were, “I just like getting you all flustered—”

KABROOM!!

The thunder struck hard and sudden—louder than the last. Your body jolted reflexively, breath catching in your throat before you could stop it. Zayne moved immediately. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, reassurance before you could even fully exhale.

“It’s okay,” he whispered against your hair, “you’re alright…It’s just your natural startle response.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, your breath shaky as you let it out. His hands moved in tender, rhythmic rubs across your arms and back, soothing every tense muscle without even trying, “I just hate the damn jumps I get.”

“I know,” he said softly, his tone full of the kind of confidence you could anchor to, “they’ll subside a little more each time. That, I can assure you of.”

You let out a nervous little laugh, half-joking, half-hopeful as you snuggled even closer—less out of fear, now, and more because it just felt so good to be close, “what, is that like, a medical fact or something?”

“Actually, yes,” Zayne replied, his voice colored with that quiet pride he always wore when he got to explain something to you. He lifted the blanket a little higher around your shoulders with one hand, while the other fished out the controller, “it’s called parasympathetic activation.”

“Para…” You began, squinting a little in concentration.

“…Sympathetic activation,” he finished for you gently, the correction smooth, never condescending, “when you hear a sudden loud sound like thunder, your body reacts immediately by going into fight-or-flight mode. Your heart races, your muscles tense, your breathing quickens. All of that is controlled by your sympathetic nervous system. It’s the part of your body that prepares you for danger.”

Hou listened, your eyes on him, half of your attention fixed on the way his mouth moved, the way his eyes softened as he watched you take in his words.

“But once your brain realizes that the thunder isn’t actually a threat, just noise, no real danger, the opposite system takes over; the parasympathetic nervous system. It’s your body’s built-in calming mechanism. It slows your heart rate, relaxes your muscles, and tells your body it’s safe again.”

“Hmm…” You smiled up at him, a little quirk to your lips, your chest blooming with quiet affection. The way he explained things—it wasn’t just informative. It was grounding. Warm. Safe, “kind of like you.”

“Hm?” He murmured, voice dipping lower as his head tilted toward yours.

“You calm me down like that,” you said softly, pushing yourself up from his side.

With smooth, unhurried motion, you brought one leg over his lap, straddling him with easy confidence, your limbs tucking in close until you were seated fully atop him. The move caught him just a little off guard—just enough to make him still and attuned. You snuggled into him, your arms winding around his neck, fingers brushing against the soft ends of his hair. The warmth of his body was instant, his presence wrapping around you like a second heartbeat.

“And you make me feel safe…” You whispered into his ear.

“Is that so?” He asked quietly, the words brushing against your hair as his arms slid around your waist and rested gently at your hips. His palms curved against your sides, pulling you into him with a low, instinctive squeeze.

Then he lowered his face into your hair, breathing you in. A kiss—soft, reverent—pressed into your scalp. He didn’t rush it. He just stayed there, nestled in your scent, letting himself exhale into you like he was letting go of everything else in the world.

“Mhmm…” You sighed, your body relaxing completely as you settled into his lap, your full weight melting against his, “you’re my own personal calming system, baby…”

“Do I do a better job than Mr. Fleecy and Wobbly Eggplant?” Zayne murmured against your hair, smiling into the softness.

You let out a breathy laugh, tilting your head back to look at him. Your hands rose to cup his face—warm, beloved, impossibly handsome. His skin was smooth beneath your palms, freshly shaven, and he instantly leaned into your touch like it was instinct. His eyes fluttered half-lidded, his whole body melting into your affection like a sun-drowsy cat, content to bask in the quiet reverence of being touched by you.

“I don’t think any of our plushies can compete with my dear doctor,” you teased, your voice honeyed and slow as your thumb traced the edge of his lower lip.

That single touch made Zayne visibly falter. His breath hitched. His lashes flickered. For the briefest moment, he leaned in closer, his lips parting just slightly—just enough to graze the tip of your thumb with the barest suggestion of a bite. Then he caught himself. He swallowed the urge, exhaling slowly as he reached up and wrapped his hand around yours. His thumb stroked the back of your fingers once before lifting them delicately to his mouth. He kissed your knuckles—tender, devoted, controlled.

“Not even Tippy Banana?” He asked, arching a playful brow as he flicked a glance toward the absurd plushie nestled amongst the collection.

You tilted your head, “hmmmm…”

A pause. A grin.

“Between you and I,” you whispered, as if confessing something scandalous, “I like said doctor’s banana more…”

The effect was instantaneous. His eyes met yours—and you saw it. The faintest crack in his composure. You stroked your fingertips down the line of his jaw, soft as breath, then leaned in, your hips tilting with deliberate slowness. A roll of your pelvis. Just enough to grind down over the heat of his groin, your core pressing into him through the layers between you. Oh, you felt it. That telltale pulse beneath you—deep, full, hungry.

Zayne’s breath caught, and a shaky little sigh escaped him, grazing your knuckles where they lingered. His pupils dilated just enough to darken the green, his brows twitching upward in a fleeting, visible surrender before he fought to regain control. But you felt it in the way his fingers dug into your hip. One part of him begged for more. The other begged you to be kind. And you sat there, perfectly still in your straddle, the storm outside nothing compared to the electricity threading between your bodies.

“This is a bit more than just getting me flustered,” he chided, his voice a low, velvety murmur that threaded straight through your spine. He caught your mischievous hands before they could slide down the plane of his toned chest, fingers curling around your wrists with effortless precision. Then—oh, oh God—he brought them behind your back. His hand enveloped them easily, the warmth of his palm spanning both your wrists as he gently restrained them in place. The restraint wasn’t rough. It didn’t need to be. The control in it was total.

“Don’t you think?” He finished.

That did something to you—deep, low, immediate. The moment Zayne restrained you, something electric snapped to life beneath your skin. It wasn’t the pressure of his grip; it was the authority behind it. That calm dominance wrapped in silk, the kind that didn’t ask—it simply was. Your thighs tingled, pulsed, awakened by the unmistakable sensation of him thickening beneath you—long before you even consciously registered it. His arousal met you through the thin fabric separating your bodies, pressing into the heat of your core like a promise. And still, he looked up at you—eyes half-lidded, calm, unshaken, in control. Even while you were the one on top of him, he made you feel like you were at his mercy.

Fuck. The eye contact alone sent your heart rate climbing, your breath quickening. And from the way his thumb pressed against your wrist—measured and steady—you knew he felt it too. He knew the effect he had on you. He was savoring it.

“Is it?” You breathed, testing the waters, tilting your head in that soft, innocent way that always got to him.

You gave him that pleading look—the one you knew unraveled Zayne every single time. And then you moved. A slow, indulgent roll of your hips, grinding down just enough to feel the friction where you wanted it most. It drew a quiet sigh from him—rough at the edges, strained with restraint. His grip around your wrists tightened slightly, and his free hand found your thigh, fingers digging in like he needed something to hold onto to keep from snapping.

And still, you pushed, “you’re the one restraining me here…On top of you, nonetheless.”

That was when he moved. A sudden thrust of his hips—sharp, controlled, possessive—snapped through your core and sent you sitting upright with a soft gasp, your spine straightening instinctively at the command in the motion. It was decisive. Enough to remind you exactly who you were teasing. Zayne’s heat rippled through your body like a current.

“You’re being quite unruly,” he said, voice low with control, “I’m simply correcting your behavior. And you’re the one who put yourself in this position. Literally.”

“I can’t really help it, now can I?” You murmured with a breathy laugh, your voice gentled with warmth and something deeper—fondness, longing, “you’re hard for me to resist when we get all snuggly together…I start wanting to be all over you. Especially with this stupid storm outside, it’s even harder to resist you.”

Zayne sighed—a long, quiet exhale that melted into a little smile as his grip around your wrists loosened. He let you go with the ease of a man who wasn’t surrendering control, just offering you trust.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he murmured, voice honeyed as he tugged you in again.

His arms wrapped around you, long and warm and unshakably steady, pulling you flush to his chest. You let out a pleased little groan, muffled into the fabric of his shirt as he squeezed you tighter—like he wanted to anchor you to him, keep you there forever. God, his chest. Firm. Toned. Solid against you in a way that felt more protective than possessive—but still undeniably arousing.

“As much as you keep my nervous system calm…” He breathed into your hair, his voice dipping into a whisper, “you tend to…Arouse, certain parts of my body.”

You giggled, quiet and mischievous, like a secret being passed through the darkness between you. Then you turned your face up, brushing your nose to his, and kissed him. Featherlight. Fleeting. A tease of a touch that tasted like affection and implication all at once.

“I know,” you whispered between your smile, “I can feel it…And it’s not helping me very much, either.”

His lips curved as he kissed you back, once, then again—amusement flickering in the shadowed green of his eyes. He looked at you like you were the most precious, most maddening thing he’d ever had the privilege to hold. With a soft exhale, he reached up, brushing a few strands of hair away from your cheek, tucking them behind your ear with a gentleness that made your heart clench.

“Are you saying your personal calming system is failing to do his job right now?” He teased, his voice barely above a murmur.

“I’m saying he desperately needs to switch modes right now,” you murmured against his lips, your voice tinged with mischief and wrapped in heat, “otherwise we’re never gonna get back to watching the movie…”

You giggled—low, warm, helpless—then kissed him. Once. Then again. And again. Each kiss was slow, lingering, unrushed. Like tasting something too good to swallow, like memorizing Zayne through your mouth. Your lips moved over his with affectionate ease, but there was nothing casual about it. Every brush, every breath, every soft parting was soaked in craving and comfort. Your arms around his neck held him close; his hands on your body kept you there, needful even in their gentleness.

Zayne held you like he couldn’t bear the thought of you pulling away. His grip tightened, slowly but deliberately, like he wasn’t sure whether to keep you tenderly in place or pull you closer until there was no space left at all. He kissed you back with restrained hunger—lips soft, but deepening—his body responding faster than his mind was willing to admit. And you felt it. Even this tender affection—this calm, this closeness—was undoing both of you. The thrum between your legs swelled with the weight of wanting, and you could feel the way Zayne’s control faltered just beneath the surface. His kisses might’ve started sweet, but his body betrayed him—the heat blooming under your thighs, the tension rising under your hands, the telltale hardness pressing insistently between you.

Dear God, he was coming undone. And you were too. There was nothing calming about being this close anymore. His presence wasn’t stilling your nerves—it was setting them alight. You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger, melt, until your lungs ached for air and you pulled back only enough to breathe. Your hand moved, sliding down the curve of his chest. The warmth of him radiated through the soft cotton of his shirt, the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath growing heavier under your touch. You found his heart, thumping—steady, but elevated—and flattened your palm over it, your thumb stroking lightly as if you could soothe him through skin alone.

He felt you. He felt the subtle arch of your lower back pressing into his touch, the way your spine bowed like instinct, your body tilting up in invitation. One of his hands splayed wide over your back, tracing its shape like he was relearning it by heart. The other…The other slid beneath the sherpa blanket, dipping low along your thigh. The warmth of his hand met your bare skin ubder the hem of your loose shorts, igniting a wave of goosebumps in his wake. You gasped softly into the next kiss as his fingertips grazed the sensitive dip of your leg, his palm spreading, anchoring, as if your thigh belonged beneath his hand.

“You must be so cold,” Zayne breathed against your lips, his voice little more than a whisper—low and laced with knowing.

His hand rose to your face, brushing a few strands of hair gently behind your ear. His touch lingered, fingertips skimming along your cheek like a caress made of silk and intention. Then he moved again, reaching for the blanket behind your waist. With one smooth pull, he tucked it tighter around you, anchoring you against him until there was no space left at all—just warmth, just breath, just him.

“You have goosebumps…” His voice was soft, but the subtext burned.

Zayne wasn’t stupid—and neither were you. That comment, the look in his eyes, the way his hand curved possessively around the shape of your thighs where they spilled across his lap…It wasn’t about the cold. It was his way of acknowledging the heat gathering between you. The tension coiled beneath your skin. The quiet, beautiful fact that both of you were flushed, hungry, aching—and trying so sweetly to pretend otherwise.

“Come closer,” he whispered, voice a slow seduction wrapped in velvet, his lips brushing yours in a kiss so soft it barely landed.

His fingertips ghosted upward beneath the hem of your lounging shorts—high, delicate, exploratory. His touch barely skimmed the skin of your inner thigh, but it was enough to leave a trail of sparks in its wake. You could feel your breath catch, your muscles tighten.

“The night is still young,” he murmured against your mouth, his words a slow stroke against your skin, “we have plenty of time to watch the movie later…If you want to keep warm with me beforehand.”

You gasped softly at the press of his lips again—tender, coaxing—while his hand continued its slow journey over the curve of your thigh.

“We can share body heat together…”

“I thought you said—”

“—Never mind what I said,” he interrupted, cutting your protest short with a firmer kiss. His mouth closed over yours with more intent this time—more weight, more want. His hands slid out of your shorts, molding to the curves of your hips, climbing the slope of your back beneath your shirt until his fingers spread between your shoulder blades, warm skin against warm skin. He caged you against him with exquisite tenderness, holding you like a man determined to keep every inch of you close. He let you breathe. His eyes flicked up to yours, sharp even in the dark, glowing with a look that left your pulse stuttering.

“If watching the movie right now means you’ll be cold and wanting,” he murmured, voice molten, “I won’t enjoy it.”

A breath. A pause. His fingers tightened ever so slightly where they gripped you.

“I’ll be thinking about you the entire time…” He mapped large, reverent palms over the arch of your spine, “and then I’ll be cold and wanting, too…”

KABROOM!!

You flinched—but not as badly this time. Not with Zayne wrapped around you. His arms tightened instinctively, drawing you flush to him in one protective, seamless motion. The storm might’ve roared outside, but inside his embrace, it felt a world away. You laughed softly at yourself—at your body’s automatic response, at the faint adrenaline buzz still warming your skin. And at his words earlier, about how it would get easier. How eventually, your nervous system would settle. He’d been right. Though in your heart, you knew it wasn’t biology doing the work—it was Zayne.

Together, you both turned toward the tall windows. Rain traced intricate paths down the glass, moving in glistening rivers that caught the golden glow of the fence lights outside. The world beyond the pane was all blur and motion—an impressionist painting of water and light. You watched in quiet reverence, the hush between you soft as snowfall. But Zayne wasn’t watching the rain anymore. He was watching you. The graceful line of your jaw. The gentle slope of your neck, bare and soft and so close. The delicate pulse there, just under your skin. The faint scent of your shampoo, sweet and warm and feminine, wrapping around him with each inhale. The heat of your body, so close, so unaware of how much he adored every inch of you.

God. You. His beautiful, frightened little rabbit. He could still see it in you, that flicker of vulnerability hiding beneath your strength. It made him want to protect you with everything he had. Without a word, he reached for the edge of the blanket again and pulled it high around your shoulders, tucking you in against him. Enclosing you in warmth. Wrapping you in him. You smiled—soft and content, lips curving unconsciously—as you leaned a little deeper into his hold.

Then you turned. Your gaze drifted to him, and your smile shifted—playful, nostalgic, familiar. The kind of look only you could give him.

“Zaynie,” you whispered, using the nostalgic name that belonged to childhood, to memory, to a version of him only you had ever truly known.

Your fingers found the edge of his collar, toying with it absently, like you had a hundred times before. His breath caught, just slightly, at the sight of your hand on him, and the gentle, reverent way you said his name. God, the effect you had. You saw it—the subtle shift in his eyes, that crack of softness in his emerald gaze. That beautiful, quiet weakness that only surfaced when you touched him like this. When you remembered him like this.

“…You remember that one time when we were kids when we had just become friends,” you murmured, voice low and secretive, “there was that nasty storm at Akso Hospital that kept us all in for a whole week?”

Zayne remembered immediately. The memory didn’t just resurface—it rose, whole and intact, as if no time had passed at all. You were seven. He was twelve. The storm that week had been relentless, flooding the roads and turning the city into a network of isolated islands. The hospital—where you’d been left orphaned not long before—had transformed overnight into a shelter. Stranded patients, staff, and lost children tucked away in spare rooms and waiting areas, while the sky thundered for days on end.

Visitors were asked to stay put. Travel was discouraged. No one came in or out unless it was urgent. Zayne’s parents—two exhausted, overextended surgeons—had made the quiet decision to keep him close. They couldn’t bear the thought of their son alone in an empty house while they worked nonstop shifts. So he was given a cot in the pediatrics wing. A borrowed bed. A corner with a pillow and a blanket, and a world that suddenly felt heavier than it should have for a twelve-year-old boy.

And then there was you. A frightened little girl with trembling hands and tear-glossed eyes. Small, shell-shocked, tucked into a borrowed bed just across the hall. You and Zayne—both young, both displaced, both adrift in the chaos of something no child should have had to understand. It started then. The bond. The gravity. The friendship. You were drawn to him after you got over the initial fear—the quiet, tall boy with a book always in hand, who didn’t say much but always noticed. Who knew where the cafeteria kept the sweets and which nurses gave the lollipops. He became your first real friend.

“Like it was just yesterday,” Zayne said now, his voice low and warm, coated in memory. He reached up and gently pulled the blanket over your head like a hood, the gesture tender, familiar, playful.

You giggled at the motion, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you pressed your palm to his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your hand—calm, grounding.

“You were so frightened that first night,” he murmured, eyes soft as they held yours, “you started sobbing in the middle of the night. It was so loud I came to check on you,” his voice dipped even quieter, like it was a secret he still held close, “all of the doctors and nurses were busy… and the room my parents had me stay at in the pediatrics ward was right across from yours. I got there right away…”

FLASHBACK…

Another thunderclap split the night.

KABROOM!!

The sound tore through the silence like the sky had cracked in two. You shrieked—high-pitched and raw, your voice breaking under the weight of fear. The pounding in your chest was deafening. Every pulse felt like an earthquake in your ribs. Your body curled tighter into itself, a shaking knot of limbs beneath a scratchy hospital blanket. Your small fingers clutched the corners of the thin pillow like it was the only thing tethering you to earth. You pulled it over your head in desperation, trying to shut out the world. But it didn’t help. The storm was too loud. The fluorescent ceiling lights too harsh. The world felt too big.

You couldn’t breathe right. Your lungs took in air in shallow, panicked gasps. The sound of machines—heart monitors, IV drips, distant intercoms—blurred into a static hum in your ears. Footsteps echoed in the hallway just beyond the cracked door. Rushed. Purposeful. Unbothered by the way your world had ended. You were seven years old. No family. No home to return to. Just cold white walls, a wristband with someone else’s handwriting, and the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again.

Across the hallway, Zayne blinked awake. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the sound—another thunderclap, or something else. He had just started to drift off again when he heard it. The crying. Muffled, but persistent. Real. His body stirred on instinct, the haze of sleep slow to lift. He groaned softly as he sat up, rubbing his eyes until the dark smudges behind his lids cleared. His fingers reached across the pillow, brushing over the worn edges of the book he’d fallen asleep reading—An Illustrated Guide to the Human Body. Something he’d borrowed from one of the nurses who found his interest in medicine endearing. Perched beside it, his wire-rimmed glasses nearly dangling off the blanket. He slipped them on.

The hallway light under his door was bright—too bright for how exhausted he felt. He squinted as he swung his legs over the edge of the cot, his socked feet sliding into hospital-issued slippers. The movement was awkward, slow, groggy. He was only twelve, and the thin pediatric mattress had barely given him any real rest. But something in the sound—your sound—drew him up and out of bed. It wasn’t just crying. It was sobbing. A sound no kid should be making alone.

The hallway outside his room was mostly empty—just pale linoleum and white tile glowing under flickering fluorescent lights. The storm outside made the windows tremble in their panes, casting strange shadows that warped along the corridor floor. He winced at the brightness as he stepped out, his movements clumsy, legs not fully awake.

Zayne didn’t have to go far. Your room was just across from his. And even with the door barely cracked, he could hear you—your tiny voice breaking apart inside the quiet, the sound of your breath hitching as you tried to smother your fear in a borrowed blanket. He stood there for a moment, hand on the doorframe, blinking at the sight of you. Alone. Fragile. Terrified. A little girl swallowed by too much fear, too soon. Something twisted in his chest. He took a breath, then padded inside.

“…Y/n?” Zayne’s voice was tentative—soft, unsure, the sound of a boy who was barely awake and even less certain of what to do, “it’s me. It’s Zayne.”

No answer. You didn’t hear him. You couldn’t. You were buried deep beneath the blankets, wrapped in a trembling cocoon of hospital linen and panic. Your small body was curled into a ball, your arms locked tight around a pillow crushed over your ears, your knees pulled to your chest like you could make yourself disappear if you just folded tightly enough. All you could hear were your own sobs—loud, desperate, relentless—echoing in your ears louder than the storm, louder than the hospital, louder than anything else in the world.

Outside the room, the hospital continued its chaos. Zayne glanced down the corridor one last time—eyes scanning for a nurse, a doctor, someone. But there was no one. Just shadows darting past distant doors, the squeak of shoes on tile, the drone of distant voices echoing from unseen hallways. Monitors beeped behind closed doors. Clipboards shuffled. People moved.

But not for you. You were alone, and the world was too busy to notice. Zayne hesitated for a breath. Then another. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He wasn’t a doctor. He didn’t have the right words. He didn’t know the rules. But he imagined—if he were a doctor, like his mom or dad—what would they do? What would they say?

And then he stepped inside. Quietly. Carefully. Like entering someone else’s dream. The door creaked softly behind him, partially sealing the dark room off from the too-bright hallway. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Everything was washed in grayscale—pale walls, gray-blue bedding, the silhouette of machines blinking softly near your bedside.

“Y/n,” he tried again, a little firmer this time, but still gentle. His voice bounced off the walls and disappeared into the whimpering sobs coming from under the mound of blankets.

He took a slow step closer.

“Hellooo?” he said, pitching his voice with playful curiosity, trying to sound a little lighter, a little less nervous himself, “Y/n? Anyone home in there?”

Still nothing. Just the shaking form of a child curled tight in pain no one else could see. A shape made of sorrow and silence and thunder. Zayne exhaled a quiet, tired sigh. His slippers whispered against the linoleum as he moved slowly toward the bed. He hovered there for a moment, uncertain again, then cautiously knelt at the edge, trying to get a glimpse beneath the heavy layers of pillows and blankets, his hand bracing against the cool metal of the bedframe. You didn’t see him. You didn’t hear him. But he was there. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You left your front door open,” he said gently, his voice light with playfulness as he stepped further into the room. He gestured vaguely toward the hospital door he left cracked, “so, I welcomed myself in…”

The way he said it made it sound like this was just another visit between neighbors, like this sterile white hospital room was your own cozy apartment and not the space you’d been living in for the past few weeks under the hum of medical machines and the quiet shuffle of nurses’ shoes. Technically…It was your home, for now.

“I was falling asleep,” he continued, crossing the room with a slow, meandering kind of grace, “and then I heard you crying…So, like a good neighbor, I came to check up on you…”

His voice trailed off a little, half-murmured as he glanced around your darkened room. The only light came from the faint sliver behond the door, outlining his shape in the gloom. His eyes adjusted slowly, taking in the subtle touches of you scattered throughout the otherwise impersonal space. There was a small jasmine plant on the table near the heater. He smiled faintly when he saw it. He’d brought it for you just a few days ago, a “bravery reward” after you were cleared from the last of your stitches. You had held it like treasure, your little fingers tracing the leaves like you were afraid it might disappear.

Beside it, a familiar foil glint caught his eye—a chocolate wrapper, crinkled and empty. His smile deepened. That had been earlier today. A bribe, technically. If you promised not to run away from the nurse giving you your shot, you’d get a surprise. You’d held out until the very last second, but you didn’t bolt—and so he’d delivered.

Then, there was the book. The one with a stitched spine and painted cover—The Boy and the Library—resting gently beside a pad of scratch paper and a small pile of worn-down crayons. A gift from one of the older nurses, if Zayne remembered right. You’d spent half the afternoon with your tongue poked between your lips as you colored something in deep concentration.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, his voice dipping into something dry and fond as he made his way to your bedside table.

He adjusted his glasses with one hand and leaned closer, squinting at the drawings you’d made earlier. Wobbly shapes in shades of blue and white crowded the page—none of them quite even, but all of them clearly intentional.

His brow furrowed, amused and genuinely curious, “are those…Supposed to be snowballs?”

Zayne picked up the paper carefully, holding it at arm’s length like he was handling something delicate, something important. His brows pinched as he studied the chaotic doodles of blue and white crayon loops, scratching absently at his chin.

“Oh…” He muttered, a quiet little smiles spreading across his face, “they’re seals. I think…”

A chuckle escaped him—soft and uncertain—but there was no mockery in it, only affection. He turned the drawing gently in his hands, trying to orient the squiggly blobs into something like meaning.

“Maybe I can ask my parents to take us to the aquarium when you get discharged,” he added, half to himself, half to you, “they have passes. And kids under ten get in free for their first visit.” He placed the drawing carefully down on the table, “then you can see real seals.”

Something in you noticed a presence. A weight in the room. A shift in the air. You weren’t even sure when it had begun, only that somewhere in the endless noise of your sobs and the ringing pressure in your ears, you could feel something had changed. Someone was there. You didn’t lift your head. You didn’t move. You just stayed curled beneath the blanket, cocooned in heat and tears and damp cotton and hospital antiseptic. Your skin was raw—irritated from rubbing, itchy beneath the healing gauze. Every sniffle scraped your throat. Your breath hiccupped in gasps as you tried to stop crying, tried to pull yourself together the way adults always told you to. But your lungs were tired. Your face was a mess. And you didn’t know how to stop. Your mind assumed it was another nurse, an adult tasked with quieting you down. Someone older. Someone who spoke in soothing tones and pressed the call button when you couldn’t breathe.

“Did you know seals can slow down their heart rate on command?” Zayne asked softly, almost like he was talking to himself. His voice was gentle, but unafraid of your sadness. He didn’t tiptoe around it. He just filled the space beside it.

He pulled the chair beside your little table and sat, not bothering to turn on the overhead light. The soft hallway glow spilled in from the crack of the door, casting gentle outlines of just enough light as he reached for a clean sheet of paper. Your crayons were scattered everywhere, left in a chaotic trail like lightning had struck and you’d dropped everything in a rush to escape. He picked them up one by one, placing each back into the small cardboard box with quiet focus, occasionally examining a few of the more worn-down ones.

“It’s called bradycardia,” he added, his voice threading through the dark like a loft lullaby, “their heartbeat drops so low when they dive, it’s almost like they’re in hibernation. Some of them stay underwater for as much as two hours. Their blood only flows to the most important organs, like the brain and heart.”

You eased the pillow and blanket, just barely. The fabric peeled back in trembling inches, sticking a little to your damp cheeks. The air against your face felt cold after so long buried beneath the heat of your own crying, but it also felt…Clearer. Like your first real breath in hours had finally broken through. Your fingers clenched around the edge of the blanket as you waited—listening, tensing for the next crack of lightning, for another clap of thunder to shake your bones. But it didn’t come. Not yet. The room remained quiet. Dim. The storm still grumbled beyond the windows, but for now, it had pulled back just enough for you to lift your head from the sea of grief you’d been drowning in.

And then, you heard a faint, familiar sound beyond the muffle.

“Everything else just…Slows down,” Zayne’s voice floated gently in the dark, soft enough that it almost faded into the background hum of machines.

He was still seated at the small table, cradled in the spill of light coming from beyond the door. His glasses caught a faint glint as he tilted his head, his voice distant—thoughtful, almost like he was talking to himself more than to you. He stared at the crayons again, the colors now rearranged in their box with quiet precision. After a long pause, he reached for the black one. It wasn’t dramatic or striking. It was dull from use. But something about it seemed to call to him.

“They evolved for it,” he murmured, turning the crayon slowly between his fingers, ���collapsible lungs, too. So their ribcages don’t break under the pressure.”

His words soothed like water on overheated skin. They weren’t pointed. They weren’t even meant to fix you. They just were—offered without expectation, drifting through the silence like a lifeline for your trembling thoughts to cling to. Somewhere in the distance, you thought you heard another voice. A soft muffle. It might’ve been out in the hallway. Or on the intercom. Or maybe just another ghost noise in your overstimulated, overtired head. You were exhausted. From crying. From healing. From the invisible weight of what had been taken from you. Ever since the catastrophe, your life had been a loop of medication, monitoring, needles, and long, sterile days marked by careful voices and busy hands. You hadn’t even begun the adoption process yet. Not officially. Not while your records still listed your status as ‘under observation’. But Zayne kept talking.

“And their blood has more hemoglobin than ours does,” he said quietly, lowering his head as he began dragging the black crayon across a fresh piece of paper. His motions were slow, idle—he wasn’t drawing anything in particular. Just lines. Marks. Movements to fill the air, “so, they can hold more oxygen. They’re kind of like…Natural surgeons. Efficient. Focused. And quiet.”

The word surgeon echoed in the air between you, and your mind latched onto it like a lifeline. Zayne. Of course you thought of Zayne. Was that him talking? The boy in glasses who always wore a watch—serious, quiet, unusually graceful for his age. The one who never raised his voice, never interrupted, who moved like he was always thinking about something just a little too big for the room he was in.

And whose parents operated on you. You remembered the woman first. Pretty, with deep green eyes like her son’s and hair drawn into a perfect jet-black bun. She had spoken softly to you after surgery, tucking the blanket beneath your chin as you blinked against the brightness of recovery. Her husband had stood at her side—a strikingly tall, stoic man with a steady voice and the same sharp jawline you sometimes saw mirrored in Zayne’s young profile.

You blinked through the haze still clinging to your face and slowly, cautiously, pushed your head out from the shelter of your blanket cocoon. The pillow slipped back with you as you peeked over it, your breath still catching in soft, uneven drags. There he was. Zayne sat at your little bedside table, hunched slightly in his pajamas, the curve of his back soft in the low light. He wore his glasses, and they slid just slightly down his nose as he bent over the page. In his hand, the black crayon moved with surprising elegance—his grip light but focused, as if he wasn’t just scribbling, but conducting something silent and important.

His hands caught your attention—milk-pale and unmarked, not a scratch or bruise in sight. No scraped knuckles. No ink stains. No playground roughness. Just careful, clean skin. You could tell—this was a boy who followed rules. Who never got in trouble. Who lived inside books more than outside them. It made sense. Everyone whispered that Zayne Li had already skipped two grades.

You swallowed softly.

“Is…” Your voice cracked a little, hoarse from crying, “that what you wanna be when you grow up, Zaynie?”

His hand stilled. Zayne looked up at you slowly, almost like surfacing from deep underwater. For a moment, surprise flitted across his face—then something warmer. His eyes smiled before his mouth did, and the light in them softened as he adjusted his glasses with his fingertips.

“…It is,” he said, the answer falling easily from his lips.

He looked away for a second, almost shy, then back down at the black crayon he absentmindedly toyed with.

“But I’m not sure what kind of surgeon,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur, “I haven’t figured that part out yet. My parents said it’ll come with time.”

Your eyes followed his. The crayon in his hand had stopped moving, but the damage was done. His paper was crowded with harsh, jagged black lines—irregular strokes crisscrossing like cracked ice or shattered obsidian. There was no shape to it, no playfulness. Just something…Stark. Chaotic. The more you stared, the colder it looked.

Zayne blinked down at it like he was seeing it for the first time. His brows drew together slightly, and he frowned—not with anger, but with quiet confusion. Bother. The storm must’ve gotten into his hand. With a low exhale, he quickly swept up the paper and crumpled it in one fluid motion. The sound was loud in the quiet room—sharp and final. He tossed the ball of blackened paper toward the trash bin at his feet. A near miss.

“Um, please ignore that,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was back to soft again—gentle, almost apologetic, “I’m sleepy…These beds aren’t exactly very comfortable, so I guess I haven’t been getting the best sleep.”

“Did I…” You sniffled, your voice wobbling like your breath might give out again, “d-did I wake you up…Just now, Zaynie? I’m…I-I’m sorry…”

Your words came out in fragments, caught between guilt and exhaustion. You watched him move—his silhouette a soft blur in the dim room—as he crossed to the bedside table where a box of tissues sat untouched. He didn’t rush. He didn’t scold.

“It’s alright,” he said with sleepy patience as he plucked the box and brought it over.

He sat down beside you on the edge of the bed, leaving a polite space between your bodies—close enough to reach, but not too close to startle. He yawned into the back of his hand, his eyelids still heavy behind his glasses, and offered you the tissue box without hesitation.

“I don’t have to go back to school until the roads are clear,” he added, a little yawn tugging at his voice, “which means…I can sleep in tomorrow.”

You reached for the tissues with your small, trembling fingers, taking a clumsy wad into your hand. You didn’t think. You just brought it to your face like you always did—forgetting the bandages, the tenderness of healing skin, the ache still raw along your cheek. The sting hit instantly. You gasped. Sharp pain bloomed under your touch, and for a moment it threatened to undo you completely—but before the tears could rise again, Zayne moved. Fast. Instinctive.

He leaned in and gently took the tissues from your hands, blotting your face with the kind of caution only a child built for caregiving could manage. His touch was light—barely pressure at all—just enough to dry the tears, clear the worst of the mess, all without jostling the wounded skin beneath. You sat still for him. He didn’t ask you to. He just…Knew. You were so small in that moment, so heartbreakingly delicate—bandaged and blotchy and trying so hard to be brave. And Zayne felt it. The aching desire to take care of you anchored deep in his chest. A quiet, stubborn kind of protectiveness that settled into his bones like something permanent.

“…Do you want me to read you another bedtime story?” He suggested softly, nodding toward the book still sitting on your table.

You glanced at it—then to the curtains, where lightning flickered behind the pale window fabric. Then up at him. You didn’t say the book was boring and confusing, probably made for kids his age, not yours. That the pictures weren’t very good, or the plot made no sense—something about a boy trapped in a tower that had an endless library. You didn’t want him to stop. You would’ve listened to him talk about anything—surgery, seals, his dislike for his mother’s homemade carrot cake—as long as he stayed right there. As long as he didn’t leave.

“…Y-yeah,” you whispered, a shy, fragile smile touching your lips.

Zayne smiled back, then stood gently, careful not to jostle the bed as he pulled the blanket back over your shoulders with the care of someone three times his age. He tucked it under your arms, smoothing the edge just so, and watched as your eyes fluttered shut before he ever turned a page.

END OF FLASHBACK…

In the present, laughter danced between you. Soft and low at first, then building into a full-bodied warmth that filled the quiet space. You both leaned into it—into the memory, the familiarity, the gentle awe of having known one another so long. That stormy week in childhood had folded into your shared history like a worn page in a well-loved book, and now you were reading it again together, aloud in the hush of Zayne’s dim living room. You took your ear plugs out, no longer feeling a need for them.

Zayne had always been your protector. Even after the chaos. Even after his Evol fractured out of his young control, mere months after the day you met at Akso Hospital. Even when life became messier—more dangerous, more uncertain—he never stopped shielding you. Whether as the quiet boy who chased away your cries, the young cardiac surgeon who now knew your body better than anyone else, or the man whose arms were once again wrapped around you, holding you steady beneath the weight of a storm. He had always been this. Yours.

“You poor thing,” you murmured against his skin, fingers slipping beneath the collar of his shirt, stroking along the strong lines of his chest and up the curve of his neck. You leaned in, nestling closer, voice full of playful guilt and deep affection, “I kept you up so many nights that week…”

Zayne chuckled—low and affectionate, the kind of sound that always made your stomach flutter.  His body was warm beneath you—lean muscle and crisp cotton, his scent threading between you like the most familiar comfort in the world. Then his hand found your chin, and with a slow, practiced tenderness, he tilted your face to his. His fingers barely grazed your skin as he pinched gently—more a caress than anything—as if drawing your mouth toward his was something sacred, something slow and deliberate. His lips brushed against yours before the words even made it out, voice quiet, playful, wanting.

“That hasn’t changed,” he murmured against you, his breath warm and teasing as it curled over your lips, “you still keep me up most nights…”

A pause. His eyes searched yours—smoldering with affection, mischief, heat.

“…Albeit, for a different reason, now.”

The movie was long forgotten. Abandoned somewhere between the flicker of a screensaver and the molten glide of Zayne’s lips on yours. Forgotten before his teasing words had melted into breathless promises. Before he pulled you close—closer—and kissed you like he needed to devour every inch of the space that had dared exist between you.

His hand tangled into the back of your scalp, fingers threading through your hair with practiced ease as he drew you into him, mouth parting over yours with reverence and ache. You arched into the pull, your body reacting instinctively to the intensity he suddenly gave you—to the inhalation of your breath, the soft sigh of need he released as he pressed his mouth harder to yours. He always kissed like that when he was full—when his heart overflowed with more than words could hold. When love took root in his chest and twisted into hunger.

Zayne didn’t just kiss you. He claimed you. He poured every ounce of devotion, of yearning, of worship, into the heat of your lips, tasting you like a man who’d been starving for days and had finally come home to something he could never get enough of. God, he was hard beneath you all over again. The thick press of him strained up under the cradle of your weight, pulsing with growing urgency. His hands gripped you—one sliding low to the curve of your waist, the other spreading possessively across your back. He held you like he never wanted to let go. Like his body was imprinting you deeper with every second you didn’t pull away. And you didn’t want to. You couldn’t.

He moaned low into your mouth—just a breath, but it vibrated through your chest and curled down your spine, where it bloomed into a hot flush between your legs. Your body pulsed at the sound, at the feeling of him, at the way his tongue slid against yours with slow, aching precision. You were his drug. His kryptonite. The only thing on earth powerful enough to shatter his control—his carefully built restraint. And he let it happen. He wanted it to happen.

You gasped softly into the next kiss, overwhelmed by the sensation of his need pouring into you like liquid heat. Your skin tingled, goosebumps rising across your arms and thighs, your nipples hardening beneath the fabric of your shirt. You could feel his energy in your bones—like static, like electricity, like a current running from his fingers into your blood.

Your hand fisted his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The other slid to his arm, clutching at the strength in his bicep, feeling the way it tensed and flexed under your palm. Every sigh, every wet, desperate kiss, every slick drag of his lips over yours made you feel alive. Made you feel his.Your breasts pressed fully to his chest, the hard peaks of arousal unmistakable through the fabric—hot, aching proof of just how much you wanted him.

You arched instinctively, body following need, and ground your hips back in a slow, deliberate roll over the hard line of his groin. It wasn’t shy. It was self-indulgent. Intimate. You both moaned—quiet, unfiltered—mouths barely parted as the friction bloomed like a fire between your legs, pulsing with the promise of more. The kiss broke, but only just. You pulled back for air, for balance, for sanity—but even the small space between your lips felt unbearable. Dizzy with heat, you hovered near his mouth, your breath mixing with his as your eyes met.

And God—those eyes. Heavy-lidded. Dark with desire. They burned into you, green and molten, hooded and wrecked. His pupils were wide, his lashes low, and the tips of his ears and the high planes of his cheekbones were flushed pink with heat. He looked drunk. Not on wine or exhaustion—but on you. On your kiss. Your breath. Your body. Zayne always looked like that when you had him like this. Like he was already ruined. And he’d let himself be ruined again and again if it meant keeping you pressed to him like this—panting, pulsing, yours. There was no way in hell he’d let you go now in the name of a movie. And would you have? No. You were just as wrecked, just as needy, just as undone by the feel of him.

“You know,” you whispered breathlessly, a sly smile tugging at your lips as your fingertips dragged up the plane of his body, tracing the unsteady rhythm of his heart, “I think I’m suddenly cold and wanting, now…”

His lips quirked, barely, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. Still blown. Still hot.

“Oh no,” he murmured, the tease in his voice laced with velvet, “I’m afraid we simply can’t have that, now can we?”

He grabbed your hips with decisive ease. And your body answered like it always did. Your hands shot instinctively to his shoulders—not from surprise, but from muscle memory, like a reflex carved by nights and mornings and countless times where Zayne had held you like this before. It was a dance your body had learned long ago, and each time you followed its rhythm, it felt like home.

Gravity shifted beneath you. In one graceful, fluid motion, he lifted you and turned you beneath him, lowering you onto the couch with the practiced strength of someone who knew exactly how to make you fall apart. Your back hit the blanket-soft cushions, hair spilling in waves over the fabric like silk, your chest rising just as he climbed over you, caging you in. That warmth. That weight. The sheer nearness of him. No matter how many times it happened—no matter how many times he pinned you like this—your breath still stuttered. Your tummy still flipped.

Your wrists were already over your head, caught in the gentle prison of his long, elegant fingers, like he knew exactly where to find them without looking. As if he could read the mischief in your bones before you could even act on it. He always knew. And there was nothing rough about the way he held you down. Nothing forceful. But it was dominance, unmistakably. That quiet, commanding authority that only Zayne could carry in the gentlest of gestures. The kind that said, you started it, but he was finishing it. And every time he did…It thrilled you.

You looked up at him—eyes wide, lips parted, surrender written into every inch of your expression—and watched the way he stared back, heavy-lidded and unwavering. You lived for that moment. That quiet shift when control passed from your hands to his. That delicious second when playfulness turned to heat.

“No, we can’t,” you whispered breathlessly, playing along with a grin tugging at your mouth, though your heart was racing.

He leaned down, his face hovering over yours, his body firm and hot above you. You felt his free hand move blindly, reaching for the familiar strap beneath the couch—the one that transformed the cushions into a makeshift bed. He barely looked, his focus still locked on you. And you? You weren’t done teasing. You threw a leg around his waist, hooking him in and shifting your hips with just enough force to knock him off balance. Zayne let out a grunt of surprised laughter as he stumbled forward, catching himself just in time—but not before his face landed right above your chest, his nose brushing the softness of your breasts through the fabric of your shirt. You cackled, triumphant.

“Doctor Zayne,” you gasped through laughter, your fingers already threading into his hair, “that’s inappropriate!”

You glanced toward the edge of the couch with wide, mock-scandalized eyes.

“What’ll the plushies think of us?” You whispered, voice high with fake innocence, “they’re watching!”

Zayne pushed himself up on his palms, the crease of his brows slowly smoothing as his eyes drifted past you, past the curve of your flushed cheeks, and back to the quiet room around you both. He took it in.

The TV still glowed across the room with the icy blue shimmer of the floating screensaver—an endless arctic landscape cast in digital silence, the movie that never stood a chance playing now only in theory. The coffee table sat untouched. The bowl of popcorn remained nearly full. A few chocolate wrappers glinted in the soft flicker of the TV light. Everything was still—like the room had been patiently waiting for you both to return to it. Like the snacks, the screen, the space…Had become a witness to something far more intimate.

His gaze slid downward. Mister Fleecy. Wobbly Eggplant. Both were strewn across the rug and the couch like abandoned witnesses to a crime of passion, their cartoon faces frozen in innocent, lopsided smiles. The light from the TV cast a shifting glow over their little plush bodies, making them look almost alive in the soft dark.

And behind them—the windows. Rain still sheeted down the tall glass, pouring in relentless streaks, streaking over the slats of half-open blinds. Beyond that: the faint blur of outdoor string lights, glowing hazy gold beneath the storm. They swayed ever so slightly in the breeze, illuminating the rain like falling glitter.

Zayne etched it all into memory. Every detail. The quiet rhythm of a moment shared. The laughter. The soft weight of your body beneath his. The way your presence had woven itself into this house like sunlight in winter—warming everything it touched. This wasn’t just his place anymore. It was yours. It was home.

God, how he loved you. How he adored every trace of you left behind in his life. The smiley mugs you rearranged. The faint scent of your shampoo on his pillow. The warmth in the corners of each room where once there had only been sterile quiet. You changed him. You made him full. You made the cold man warm.

Zayne lowered himself to your lips, his expression softening into reverence as he pressed one kiss—sweet and slow. Then another. And on the third—deeper now—you arched, your breasts pressing into the solid weight of his chest, the heat of you seeking more. His hand wrapped firmly over your wrists above your head again, pinning you with the ease of someone who knew just how much you liked surrendering to his strength.

“We promised them a movie,” he breathed, lips brushing yours as he spoke, his voice low and full of affectionate mirth. His other hand trailed up your cheek, cupping the heat there with gentle fingers, stroking softly as his eyes twinkled, “…Didn’t we?”

You barely had time to answer before he pinched your chin with practiced familiarity, guiding your lips back to his in a firmer kiss—deeper now, more claiming. The kind that left you breathless, hanging off the edge of your own heartbeat. He let go, only to press his mouth to the angle of your jaw, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“What will the plushies think of us…” He murmured between kisses, “…If they don’t get what they were promised?”

You sighed beneath him. A long, shaky release of breath as his lips found the tender curve under your jaw, and the warmth of his mouth melted over your skin like slow honey. The sound of it—the soft, indulgent smooch he pressed there—was enough to unravel you. That sound alone made your spine arch and your thighs twitch with want. It wasn’t fair, the way Zayne could make you ache like this. So easily. So thoroughly.

“They’ll think we’re liars,” he murmured with affection as his hands slid beneath your forearms, palms warm and slow as they stroked up along your goosebumped skin. His touch was reverent, tracing the rise of each shiver like he was reading Braille—like your body’s response to him was scripture, “and we simply can’t have that either, my love…”

Your toes curled into the couch cushions, into the tangled sherpa blanket beneath you. The heat of him, the weight of him above you—it was like being blanketed in fire and silk at once. You tilted your head back, surrendering completely, neck exposed in that wordless plea he always pulled from you. And oh—the moment the tip of his tongue greeted the side of your throat, right where your vocal cords trembled beneath the skin—You whimpered. He smiled into your pulse, feeling the flutter of it under his lips.

“We have to keep the guests entertained,” he went on, deepening the tease, continuing the fantasy with that low, velvety edge in his voice—the kind that made your chest tighten and your legs shift restlessly beneath him. His fingers drifted slowly down your arms, trailing over your elbows as he sank further over you. His lips descended with him, kissing down the gentle slope of your neck, trailing heat with every breath. You could hear it now—need in his exhale, in the tension coiled in his body, the way each kiss lingered a second longer than the last, “don’t you want to be a good hostess?”

You didn’t know why—how—it worked so easily on you. It was ridiculous. Plushies. Imagined guests. His teasing stories. But somehow, Zayne could turn anything—anything—into seduction. And you couldn’t resist it. You were utterly powerless to the way his imagination wove into his touch, the way his voice threaded through your mind like velvet, like sin. Your cheeks were hot. Your body flushed. Your heart stammered.

“Y-yeah…” you whispered, the sound trembling from your throat, lost in the warmth of his mouth as it trailed lower, as his hands lowered and gripped the cushion around your body like he needed to anchor himself or risk losing control.

“Are you going to be a good hostess for them, Y/n?”

The way he said your name…God. It was sugar on his tongue. Silk. Worship. He kissed you like your skin was his only source of air. Like he couldn’t not taste you. Then he rolled his hips—slow, grinding up into the cradle of your heat with desperate precision—and the shock of pleasure knocked another breathless sound out of you, your eyes fluttering toward the ceiling like a prayer.

“Y-yes,” you gasped, nodding like you couldn’t think of anything else, like there was nothing else.

You pressed back against him, grinding in answer, your spine stretching in a sinuous line of tension. One leg rose high, curling around the strong plane of his back, drawing him in with everything you had.

He reached back with one strong hand and caught your calf behind him—his palm closing around the curve of your leg with quiet authority—and pressed it down into the cushions, pinning it open, wide, stretched over the length of the couch’s extended frame. The movement was slow. Unapologetic. He didn’t ask permission. He just claimed space. Claimed you.

And God—you couldn’t look away from him. Face to face now. So close your noses almost brushed. So close you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheek, taste the edge of him still on your lips. His body caged you in completely, one arm braced beside your head, the other curling around the back of your skull, cradling it like you were the most precious thing he’d ever laid hands on.

You looked up at him—and the sight of your own expression reflected in his eyes stole the breath from your lungs. You were undone. That look on your face—the one Zayne knew too well—wide-eyed, lips parted, flushed and trembling, helpless in the thick haze of need. It was the way you always looked when you were too far gone to play anymore. Too far gone to tease. Pleading without a word. Needing him in your bones. Submissive, his little snow bunny ready to be lovingly devoured by your arctic wolf.

And Zayne? He looked wrecked. His gaze indeed devoured you—clouded and dark, flickering between your lips and your eyes like he couldn’t decide where to lose himself first. He stared at you like he was trying to memorize you. Like he could see all the way through your skin, past your pulse, into your soul. And he didn’t just see it. He possessed it.

Then his lips hovered over yours—barely there—as he exhaled, breath hot and feather-light, and whispered the words that broke your mind open, “and are you going to be a good girl for me?”

That. Did. It. The words settled into you like a spell, like something sacred and sinful all at once. You didn’t even hesitate. You nodded—eager, small, trembling. Every inch of defiance melted from your spine. You were completely, blissfully submissive. Captured. Caught. Held in the warmth of his body and the fire of his gaze. You were burning up beneath him. You were his.

“I’m gonna be a good girl for you…” You whispered, breath shaky, voice so soft it nearly caught in your throat. It left your lips before you even realized you’d spoken—pure instinct, pure surrender, heat prickling up your neck like the words themselves had flayed you open.

And then he kissed you. Harder now. Needier. His mouth crushed against yours like you were the air he needed to breathe, and God, you gave it to him. You kissed him back like you couldn’t get enough—fingers clinging to his back, balling his shirt up in desperate handfuls, needing more, needing him. And Zayne…He was breathing like that again. That sound he made when he was holding himself back by a thread. That sound he made when he was dying for you.

His chest pressed flush to yours, rising and falling fast, lips trailing over yours, over your cheek, over your jaw, like he was trying to consume every piece of you all at once. His hands squeezed—your wrist, your side, the back of your neck—holding you there, grounding himself with the shape of you beneath him. Like love that had nowhere else to go but through you.

“Are you still cold?” He asked softly, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath shared between you in the shadow of your kiss.

He didn’t wait for your answer. His hands moved to the hem of his shirt, lifting the fabric in one smooth pull over his head, revealing the pale, sculpted lines of his chest, the rise and fall of his breath already heavy with desire. As the shirt hit the couch, he caught a glimpse of your eyes—and God, the look you gave him.

That needy, ravenous gaze. Like you wanted to taste his soul. Your hands were on him in an instant. Palming over the firm muscle of his chest, the strong column of his throat. You could feel his pulse jumping under your touch, the way your fingers alone made him tremble. You watched it—watched the way he flushed deeper, the way his lips parted around the sigh you drew from him.

“I’m freezing,” you whispered, breathless, and dragged his mouth back to yours like a crash of waves.

He groaned into you. Zayne kissed you hard—so hard it stole your breath. His hand dove beneath the hem of your shirt, spreading wide across your ribs, heat radiating from his palm as he pushed the fabric up, up, up. Your back arched into his touch, offering yourself to him, body pliant beneath the fire he stoked in you.

Then his lips found the soft under-curve your breast. No bra. Just skin. Just you. And he kissed you there like it was sacred—slow, open-mouthed devotion pressed into the tender dip beneath your breast before he peeled the shirt over your head entirely. You helped him, pulling your arms free and tossing the fabric away, all without taking your eyes off him.

“Keep me warm,” you begged softly, arms winding around his shoulders, one hand sliding into the midnight dark of his hair. You melted into his skin, into the heat of him, touching anything you could reach—his neck, his shoulders, his back.

“Warmer, baby, I’m—ohh—” You gasped as his lips closed around your nipple.

Zayne moaned into you, the sound low and rich, rumbling deep in his chest as he sucked you in—slow, thorough, almost painfully gentle in how he savored you. His tongue flicked over your stiff peak, teasing with rhythmic circles, every motion designed to undo you.

You arched into his mouth with a soft cry, your heels digging helplessly into the cushions, seeking purchase, grounding yourself in the growing heat that pulsed between your legs. He sucked again—deeper this time. Slower. His lips pulled off you with a soft, wet pop that made your stomach flip, made your thighs twitch. The sounds—God, the sounds alone. His lips. His breath. The hungry smacks and hums of satisfaction as he tasted you.

“Is this warm enough for you?” He breathed, his mouth hovering over your slick nipple, his breath scalding against your damp skin.

The ripple it sent through your nerves was instant. You could barely speak. You didn’t need to. Your body answered for you, trembling with want as you pulled him closer still, utterly undone. You trembled as his mouth drew tighter around your nipple, lips wet and hot and hungry. Your skin puckered beneath the pull of him—so sensitive it ached. You gasped, hips twitching, thighs clenching, your breath a stuttered prayer.

“N-no…” You whimpered, voice breaking on the need, a hand sliding up his hair, threading into the soft black at his crown. You clutched him tighter into you, holding his face to your chest like you needed his mouth there to survive, “I want more…”

Zayne’s response was a low, reverent sigh—half-possessive, half-adoring.

“Needy girl…” he murmured, the words brushing against your damp skin like silk and fire. His hand moved with purpose, gripping your other breast in a firm squeeze before giving a single, hungry pop that made you jolt against him, “my needy, greedy girl…”

God, greedy didn’t even scratch the surface. But between the two of you—it wasn’t really you who was insatiable. It was him. Zayne could never quite get enough of you. He didn’t just kiss you. He devoured you. He didn’t just touch you. He worshipped you. His hands roamed your body like a man mapping the lines of his own soul—every caress slow, sure, unrelenting. He held you like you were his air. Kissed you like he could live off your breath alone.

And you? You ached for it. You thrived on it. You wanted to be consumed by his love, crushed into his chest, reduced to nothing but trembles and sighs beneath the weight of his reverence. You wanted to submit to it, to feed the raw hunger in his eyes until you were boneless and undone, a fragile little thing cradled in the iron steadiness of Zayne’s hold.

Your body couldn’t wait anymore. While he lavished one breast, then the other—tongue swirling, lips smacking with slow indulgence until both were flushed and aching—you slid a hand down between your bodies, skin shivering as your fingers moved with growing urgency. You slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. Then lower—past the heat-swollen press of your panties—until your fingertips found it. The slick. You were soaked.

Your breath caught in your throat as you pressed your fingers to your swollen clit, rubbing slow circles for even a second of relief, the pleasure blooming up your spine like lightning. You gasped softly—and Zayne heard it. He caught the sound, lips pressing around your tortured nipple with a muffled kiss just as he reached down and grabbed your wrist. Firm. Wordless. He pulled your hand up from between your legs. And then, slowly, he raised it before his eyes.

The dim, cool light from the TV flickered over your skin—just enough to reveal the glisten coating your fingers. Wet. Shining. Proof of your desire laid bare between you. Your lips parted, caught in breathless anticipation. Zayne looked at your hand…Then at you. And God, the look in his eyes. That sharp, scolding heat. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The slow shake of his head. The flash of control in his gaze. The way his hand still wrapped tight around your wrist, lifting your slick fingers like he was about to punish you with pleasure…It was enough to make your core clench with anticipation.

“Your impatience is insulting,” he whispered, pushing your finger past his lips.

Oh God. Your heart just about stopped. You gasped—silent, stunned—your body frozen beneath him as your wide eyes locked onto the vision before you: Zayne sucking your arousal from your own fingers. His mouth wrapped around them with unhurried precision, his tongue licking slow and deliberate, like he wanted you to feel every humid flick, every stroke of heat, every bit of his mouth claiming the taste of you.

You damn near fainted. Your skin flushed in waves. Hot. Throbbing. Mortified. Horny. Your breath caught in your throat, and your thighs instinctively clenched inward—knees digging into his hips like your body was trying to trap itself from combusting entirely. He felt it.

“Then stop torturing me,” you whined softly, desperate, fingers shaking as you reached down with your free hand.

You slid it between your bodies, down the hard ridges of his abs. Down his long, muscled torso until you found it—the hot, heavy weight beneath his sweats. You cupped him. Wrapped your fingers around the thick girth of him. God, the way he twitched at your touch. The way he pulsed above your palm, swollen and rock-hard, straining for more. And that look he gave you—Brows pinching. Lips parting. Like you’d just snatched the breath from his lungs.

His eyes fluttered half-lidded in surrender as his forehead dropped to your collarbone. You felt it—the full-body tremor that rippled through him. That one second of sheer, unguarded vulnerability Zayne would never dream of giving to anyone else. But he gave it to you. You kissed his temple, lips brushing his hair as you cradled the back of his head with gentleness, even as your grip on his cock grew needier. You stroked him slowly, deliberately, your fingers sliding with reverence and hunger as you breathed into the softness of his raven strands. He whimpered. Quiet. Helpless. Each squeeze of your hand was a plea, a promise, a prayer. You could feel the heat of his breath pouring down your neck, feel the rise and fall of his chest hitching in time with yours.

You whispered into the soft strands of his hair, the scent of his shampoo—clean, familiar, his—folding around your senses, “I want you so fucking bad, Zayne—”

That was all it took. It snapped the last thread of restraint in him. Zayne moved without hesitation. No warning. No pause. Just a rush of pure, unleashed want. He shoved your hand aside, seized your mouth in a kiss so hot and immediate it made you gasp into him. His lips were demanding—wet, forceful, hungry—as his hands tore at the waistband of his sweats and briefs, shoving them down with an urgency that made your heart leap.

You fumbled just as frantically with your own clothes. Shorts. Panties. Fabric tugged down your legs, kicked aside, forgotten. Your kiss turned clumsy in the scramble—teeth clashing, lips dragging, breaths stuttering. But neither of you cared. You only wanted skin. And then you found it. Bare. Hot. Your hands were everywhere—his back, his ribs, his chest—touching with reverence and greed as he rose onto his knees and maneuvered lower. He was searching—reaching—for the place between your thighs. Needing to see you. Taste you. Open you. But before he could lower himself to worship, you surged forward.

You caught his broad shoulders in your hands and flipped him with a force that startled even him. His eyes flared, breath caught—but God, the look of thrilled surprise on his face. He didn’t resist. He just fell. You turned and straddled him in an instant, crawling over him on all fours, your knee lifting to mount the couch where his body sprawled in heat. His hand was already there—gripping your shin, guiding you into place with that silent strength, his touch reverent but insistent. The couch dipped under your shared weight, and he fumbled quickly for a decorative pillow, shoving it under his head, still watching you, still ready.

Then Zayne moved. He slid down just enough to wedge his shoulders beneath your thighs, his arms hooking under you in a way that pinned you above his chest. His large palms gripped your ass without hesitation, spreading you open like he’d been waiting for this moment for hours, not seconds. The moan that left your throat when his lips smacked a kiss to your slick heat—firm, wet, perfect—was nothing short of primal. Your spine arched, body twitching from the pleasure that rolled through you on contact, your fingers flying to his thighs h to steady yourself.

“Come here,” he sighed, voice husky against your dripping skin.

Then he pulled. His arms locked around your thighs and yanked you back—anchored you directly over his mouth like he couldn’t bear another second of you not being there. His grip was unrelenting, his mouth already moving, already open and wet and consuming.

“Don’t be coy now…” He murmured against your core, voice low, electric, edged with dark delight.

Your jaw dropped with a gasp—a soundless, broken thing—as that feeling returned. That overwhelming sensation that never failed to strike you like lightning, even now, even after all the times Zayne had worshipped you like this. It never dulled. It never normalized. It was always like the first time. The first time your body melted on his tongue. The first time his mouth baptized you in bliss.

You shuddered as his tongue dragged a long, aching swipe from the swollen bud of your clit to the fluttering edge of your entrance—slow, unrelenting, as though savoring every glossy inch. Your thighs trembled around the firm breadth of his shoulders, your breath leaving you in one long, stuttering exhale over the solid wall of his abs below you. God. It was divine. The way he craved you. The way he consumed you like your body was sacred scripture.

And all the while—his cock lay hard and flushed against his stomach, heavy and proud, nestled in the taut ridges of his lower abdomen, framed by the sharp lines of his pelvis. So beautiful. So obscene in its longing. It pulsed visibly, every throb a silent plea for you. You reached for it with trembling fingers, wrapping your hand around the thick shaft like it was second nature, like this was where your hand belonged. A hot flush bloomed in your cheeks as you leaned forward, sweeping all your hair over one shoulder to bare your neck, your spine, the full bow of your want.

You were drooling. Mouth wet. Tongue aching to taste. Body desperate to give him the same pleasure he was pouring into you with every worshipful flick of his tongue. You flattened your tongue to the base and licked—slow, long, savoring—dragging it up his length in one indulgent stroke. You palmed his cock to your mouth, and oh—the twitch you felt, the shudder that rippled up through him like you’d lit him on fire from the inside.

Zayne whimpered. It cracked loose from his throat before he muffled it against your clit, sealing his mouth over you again in a firmer, wetter kiss—like he needed the taste of your reaction to survive his own. And just like that, you were a mess. Your hips rolled instinctively, searching for friction against his mouth. Your lashes fluttered. His abs clenched. Your moan was met with the soft slap of your lips enveloping the head of his cock in a slow, silken kiss. The chain reaction between your bodies was hypnotic. Each of you tuning to the other’s pleasure with the precision of instinct. Every breath was mirrored. Every tremor shared.

Then—You opened your eyes. And you remembered. The plushies. Mister Fleecy. Wobbly Eggplant. They sat exactly where you’d left them—strewn along the rug, the couch. Their stitched-on smiles and beady, cartoony eyes beaming straight at you. Witnessing you. Live. Mouth full of Zayne’s  cock. Body shivering under the relentless indulgence of his tongue.

The shock that hit you was electric—hot, shameful, thrilling. Like being watched. Exposed. And somehow, impossibly, more turned on than you were seconds ago. You couldn’t explain it. And you didn’t care. Because you were already gone—already pushing the velvety head of his cock deeper into your mouth, lips plush and wet as they closed around him in an indulgent pop.

Zayne let out another sound—low, aching, drenched in need—muffled entirely between your soaked, swollen lips as his tongue moved with precision. He bent his knee and pushed his hips up slightly, chasing the pressure of your mouth, but his focus—his obsession—was still between your legs.

He squeezed his fingertips into the plush curve of your folds, prying you open with reverent force, holding you apart as if to witness you properly. The cool air touched your exposed clit—bare now, out from under its little hood—and just as the tremble hit your thighs—Slap. His tongue met you with a sudden, deliberate lash. You moaned—loud—your pleasure flooding back down to him, vibrating straight into the throbbing head of his cock still wet between your lips.

He felt it. All of it. And he loved it. You sealed your mouth around him again, cheeks hollowing as you sucked him deeper, drawing a hot, tight groan from the base of his gut. Your hand worked his length in tandem, stroking down the thick shaft, smearing your spit until his cock glistened—slick and flushed and twitching. You were greedy for him. Not just with hunger—but with need. With this ache to please him. To match his devotion lick for lick, moan for moan.

Your ass arched instinctively in his hands, chasing the drag of his tongue as he moved against you with absolute focus. Zayne was eating you out like a man starved, like his salvation lived in your taste and he had no intention of coming up for air. Every suck, every wet flick of his tongue against your clit was deliberate. He moved with the slow, sinfully patient rhythm of a man who worshipped your pleasure. Who lived to feel you fall apart in his mouth.

“You’re divine,” he exhaled huskily, hotly, lips trailing from your folds, “you’re absolutely divine…”

He lapped at your clit with thick, indulgent strokes; faster, then he buried his mouth against you with a hungry groan, tongue moving in tight, messy circles that made your entire body jump. You bounced in his grip, your hips fluttering in his hands as he pulled you down tighter onto his mouth. God, the heat, the dampness, the plush smother of his lips—he was making a meal of you, groaning into your cunt like he wanted to drown in it.

Your mouth responded with urgency. You sucked him harder, faster, the taste of him dizzying as your hand pumped his shaft with needy rhythm. Then you popped off, gasping for air as you twisted your grip noisily over the smear of his flushed head.

“I feel the same about you and this pretty cock,” your lips curled as you sucked him into your mouth again with hunger.

Your jaw ached with how much you wanted to please him—how good it felt to take him deep, to make him moan for you. Saliva slicked your lips, coated his cock, dripped messily between you. Until—Too much. You’d almost forgotten how well-endowed he was. You gagged suddenly, the depth catching you off guard. Your stomach clenched with the reflex, and you tore your mouth off him with a gasp, a thin string of spit connecting your lips to the flushed, twitching head of his cock still angled toward your face. You panted for breath, lips swollen and shining.

“Easy, darling,” Zayne murmured against your core, voice low and tender and wrecked with love.

Between each word, he kissed you—soft, wet smooches to your clit like he was calming it. Like he could kiss you through the overstimulation.

“Thumb in fist,” he whispered, voice soothing and dark with knowing, “don’t try taking it all…”

Right. You almost forgot. You breathed deep, centering yourself, and slipped your fingers around your thumb—curling them into a tight fist, just like Zayne had taught you. A pressure point trick, he’d said. A distraction for the vagus nerve. It helped quiet the gag reflex. You took another breath. Then you sank back down. Slowly, deliberately, swallowing him deeper, while your other hand twisted along the parts of him your throat couldn’t claim. The slick weight of him filled your mouth, heavy and hot and perfect, your lips stretching around the velvet girth of him as you sucked.

“Pace yourself,” Zayne uttered hoarsely from below, voice cracked and rich with barely-contained need. His hips jerked upward, twitching beneath you despite himself. His restraint was unraveling, thread by trembling thread, even as his mouth pressed another smooch into your soaked folds—wet, greedy, worshipful, “good girl…Such a good girl, my love…”

God. The way he praised you. Your moan vibrated around his cock, a muffled whimper that echoed back through him, and it destroyed him. His tongue stuttered at first, and then deepened—sliding slick between your folds with a pace that grew fast, uncoordinated, desperate. Zayne was lost in it now. In you. Every lap of his tongue was soaked in the kind of hunger that made your thighs shake. You felt his hands on your hips, guiding your grinding against his mouth—pulling you down onto his tongue, his nose, his breath, his heat. His mouth was relentless now, not gentle, not patient. Passionate. Shameless. He wasn’t teasing you. He was devouring you. And he was panting.

Oh God—he was breathing hard, each exhale fanning over your slick skin like heat lightning. You could feel how close he was to coming undone. He was panting into your cunt like he was on the verge of climax just from the taste of you, just from the feel of your pleasure trembling through his tongue. It made your mind spin. It was so hot. So unbearably good. Every time you moved against him, every time your clit grazed his tongue in friction with your grinding, the coil inside you wound tighter. Deeper. Harder. His tongue moved opposite to your rhythm, creating a perfect storm of stimulation. One stroke. One drag. One inhale. You were going to explode.

“I’m gonna cum, Zayne!” The words tumbled out in a gasp as your mouth slipped wetly off his cock, lips glistening, chest heaving. You didn’t stop your hand—couldn’t—your slick grip continued stroking him, faster, noisier, desperate to keep pleasuring him through the chaos building inside you, “I’m gonna cum! Yes! God, yes!”

You tried to take him back fully into your mouth, tried to suck him through your own breaking point, but the pleasure ripped through you too fast. Too big. Too much.

You popped off him again with a sharp cry of his name, your voice trembling with the sharp edge of bliss as your body pitched forward and then slammed back against his mouth. And oh, God. The orgasm hit you like an explosion. A full-body detonation—hot, electric, dizzying—rolling through your limbs in crashing waves. Your clit throbbed wildly against the slapping drag of his tongue, so sensitive, so impossibly stimulated you could hardly breathe. You gasped, moaned, whined his name like it was all you knew. Your free hand scrabbled for purchase on his thigh, your knees threatening to collapse, hips twitching with each tremor of pleasure ripping through you.

Zayne held you there. His arms locked around your hips like iron, anchoring your body down against the fervent press of his face. He smothered himself in you—moaning low, like your orgasm was the most sacred thing he’d ever tasted. He licked you through it, every pulse, every flutter, every shudder that tightened and rolled over his tongue. He loved it. He breathed it. He kissed your pleasure like prayer.

Only when your body started twitching—sensitive now, trembling from overstimulation—did he relent. His lips left your clit with a slow, reverent drag and traveled to your inner thighs, laying soft, open-mouthed kisses against the flushed skin as you tried to catch your breath. You were a mess. Hot. Trembling. Still pulsing with aftershocks as you came down in a haze of bliss. But it wasn’t over for you. Not even close.

You reached down with shaking hands and took him back into your mouth, still wild, still hungry. Your breath came hot and broken as you sucked him deep—your tongue lapping at his shaft like he was your only source of oxygen. You wanted him to feel what he gave you. You wanted him to lose it in your mouth. You were greedy now. Mindless. But Zayne was hanging on by a thread. He panted, hips jerking against your mouth as your tongue swept over the sensitive head again. His thighs flexed, his abs clenched, and you could hear the way his composure frayed with every stroke of your lips.

“No more,” he breathed, voice tight, wrecked, his hands sliding to your hips in warning. He tapped once. Twice. Desperate, “you’ll make me finish…!”

You ignored him. Completely. Instead, you took a deep, slow suck of him—your mouth hot and velvety as it sealed around his length, dragging back with a wet slurp that pulled a strangled, broken sound from Zayne’s throat. His fingers gripped tighter into your skin, sinking into the swell of your hips with a desperate squeeze.

“Stop being so greedy…!” He huffed, breath hitching, the edge of control fraying in his voice.

He leaned forward just enough to nip at your ass, his teeth grazing the soft flesh in a desperate warning. You jumped with a giggle that vibrated over his cock, making him twitch so hard it nearly made you laugh again.

“Otherwise you’ll have to wait for me to recover,” he muttered, trying to sound stern, failing miserably with the flush of arousal coloring his cheeks, “and we both know how impatient you—”

“—Fine!” you cut him off, laughing breathlessly as you finally let him slip from your lips with a wet pop, his cock falling against his abdomen—shiny, flushed, and twitching with every beat of his heart.

You reached for your discarded shirt, swiping it across your mouth and fingers with a rough wipe. But instead of dismounting like a so-called good girl, you straddled him with that familiar glint in your eyes and wiggled your hips down over the perfect seat of his face. A slow, bratty grind.

“Then you can keep eating my pussy,” you purred, your hands finding his chest—palming the warm muscle there before giving one of his nipples a playful little pinch, watching the twitch of pleasurable surprise that jolted through him beneath you, “I’ll just be greedy in another way.”

You knew what that did to him. Of course Zayne was more than okay with that. He was made for that. If satisfying you meant he had to hold back his own climax, if he had to lie there and let you use his mouth until your body melted into bliss—he welcomed it. No—he thrived on it. He took it as a privilege. A sacred offering. A kind of worship that filled him fuller than orgasm ever could. And sure enough…

“Mhmm…” He hummed beneath you, the sound low and approving, “with pleasure…”

His hands wrapped around your thighs, his grip firm as he guided your weight down, shifting you until your slick heat was spread perfectly over his mouth. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t tease. He dove in. Your jaw fell open as the first lap of his tongue swept across your soaked folds—slow, dragging, reverent. He licked you like a man granted the first taste of heaven. His mouth sealed over you like he wanted to get drunk on your afterglow, your slick, your sensitivity.

You gasped, body jerking in response. Too much. Too good. You were still trembling from your last orgasm, your thighs slick, skin flushed, sensitive—and now his tongue was coaxing you all over again, lighting your nerves back on fire with every tender swirl, every purposeful flick. You gripped his scarred forearms for anchor, melting into the strength of him, the unshakable steadiness that held you together while he unraveled you again.

You rocked—slow, instinctive, chasing his rhythm as your hips moved against his mouth. His hands tightened, guiding your motion, his tongue leading your body like a dance. You followed. You let yourself melt into it, your back arching, nipples hardening, breath catching in your throat.

“Zayne…” You sighed his name like a breathless benediction, your voice laced with awe and arousal as you looked down through your lashes, “oh, God!”

The sight of him between your thighs made your stomach twist with heat—his mouth buried beneath you, tongue stretching up from behind to sweep in long, flattened strokes over your clit. Each lick made your core jolt. Made your thighs twitch. Made your breath hitch. You could feel the devotion in every lap of his tongue, in every hum of satisfaction that purred from deep in his throat as he tasted you like you were ambrosia. His hands roamed your thighs—broad palms sliding over flushed, trembling skin—while his nose nuzzled deeper, his mouth moving in steady, sultry rhythm. His cock sat heavy and neglected against his abdomen, still thick, still hard as stone, flushed a dark pink and glistening at the tip. He hadn’t touched himself once. And yet…He was panting. Starving. Not for his own release—but for yours.

“I-I think you’re the greedy one, baby…” You breathed, watching the sheer zeal in his every movement, the unrestrained hunger that pulsed through the way he breathed you in, “God, eat me up, just like that…!”

You reached for his hands. Pulled them up your body, guiding them to your chest, where your nipples ached for touch. You placed his palms over your breasts, and Zayne let out a groan—low, unrestrained—as his fingers curled instinctively around the soft weight of you. He squeezed. You gasped. Zayne was unlike any man. His lust didn’t live in your appearance—it lived in your need. It lived in the way your body responded to his touch, the way your mouth fell open for him, the way your voice trembled when you begged. He didn’t worship the shell of you. He worshipped the soul of you. The emotion. The pleasure. The way you wanted him. The way you melted for him.

“Honey, don’t stop…” You whimpered, your breath catching on the crest of a moan as his tongue pressed deeper, firmer. The strokes were unrelenting now—wide drags that left your clit buzzing, your core clenching, your limbs trembling under the growing pressure.

He pinched your nipples—just enough. Just the right amount of sting to crack your composure. You gasped, the sound spilling from your lips raw and broken as your body jolted from the shock of pleasure that blossomed through your limbs, tingling and hot and addictive.

“P-please,” you stuttered, your hips beginning to buck in tiny, frantic thrusts, your body chasing every motion of his tongue, desperate for more.

You looked down again—looked past the flushed peaks of your breasts, past your stomach still fluttering with each breath—and there he was. His chin entirely slicked. Face buried. Mouth worshipping. Tongue lapping over your clit with rhythmic purpose, so devoted, so maddeningly focused, that you felt the next climax begin to build—the sparks already flickering behind your eyelids.

“Zayne!” You cried out, your fingers flying to his scarred hands, clutching tight as you arched into him.

You were unraveling. Panting. Moaning. Clutching his fingers tighter into your breasts like they were your only tether to earth. Your head tipped back as your breath shuddered out of you, mouth parted, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks. Your eyes rolled to the ceiling in helpless surrender, unable to look anywhere but up—up, as if the pleasure was lifting you out of your body entirely.

Each breath you took stoked the fire higher. Each flick of his tongue wound your core tighter. You were climbing. Climbing. Tension snapped through every muscle, inch by aching inch, your entire body curling inward as your insides cinched tighter and tighter toward breaking. One twitch. Two. Three. Then—snap.

“Damn it, Zayne!” you cried out, his name pouring from your throat like a psalm, bursting past your lips in a rush of gasping, shaking, feeling, “I’m cumming again!”

Your thighs clamped around his ears, but it didn’t matter. The sounds that followed were unstoppable. A symphony of your unraveling. A squeal. A moan. A choked gasp. A series of soft, whimpering cries, each one a different note of the same song—your ecstasy, played out like an aria right there in his living room. And Zayne—God, Zayne—drank in every note. He didn’t stop until he had everything. Until your thighs were quaking, your breaths reduced to hiccuping sobs of pleasure, your entire body limp and pulsing and done. Only then did he relent. Only then, at the edge of his own restraint, did he release you from his tongue’s final kiss.

Your limbs were useless—your knees jelly, your chest rising in uneven breaths—as he eased you back, gently guiding your trembling body down with reverent hands. He took your hands in his. Lifted you. Moved with you. And carefully, lovingly, flipped you onto your back, lowering you onto the couch like you were something sacred. Something holy. A gift too fragile to be mishandled even now.

Zayne’s face was flushed, drenched with your slick, glowing with satisfaction as he reached for a discarded shirt and wiped himself clean—slow, breath shaky, heart pounding just as hard as yours. Then he climbed over you. Eager. Unsteady with need. He nestled himself between your thighs, his body slotting into yours like a perfect, natural fit—like your trembling limbs had always been meant to cradle him. And then he kissed you. Messy. Deep. Hungry. And you tasted yourself on his tongue, felt your own saltiness between your lips as he devoured you slowly. Your scent was on him. Your heat was in him. He smelled like you. He tasted like you.

“I want to be inside of you,” he whispered against your lips—his voice husky, urgent, thick with emotion. The heat of it spilled into your mouth, tangled in the kiss you couldn’t stop chasing.

His fingers buried into your hair like he couldn’t let go. Like he wouldn’t. You pulled him down harder. Fistfuls of his hair, of his jaw, his shoulder—you didn’t care. Anything you could hold. Anything to drag him deeper into you. To fuse his body to yours. To disappear into him until you didn’t know where your skin ended and his began.

“Just…” He exhaled, shifting his hips with slow precision, aligning himself with a tremble, “…Be one with you.”

And then, your breath caught. So did his. Your nails curled into the meat of his shoulder as he pushed forward. Slowly. Deliberately. Stretching you open with a slick, gliding pressure that left you gasping into his kiss. His cock slipped deeper, deeper, parting your insides with aching tenderness until your walls wrapped tight around the thick, pulsing heat of him. You both whimpered at once. Mouths still clinging to each other. Breaths stuttering. Bodies curling inward.

You clutched at him. Clung. Your thighs trembled before they locked around his waist—pulling him in until there was no space left. No air. No separation. Until his cock was buried to the hilt, thick and throbbing and perfect, your legs wrapped tight, your core stretching to accommodate every inch. And then—Stillness.

You both froze, locked together, nothing moving but the pulse between your bodies where you were joined. His chest pressed to yours, hearts pounding against one another, thumping in desperate harmony. You exhaled together. The same breath. The same ache. You didn’t even register the crack of lightning as it split the sky behind the glass. Didn’t hear the downpour on the windows. The storm was nothing—gone—not when Zayne was inside you like this. Not when he overtook every sense, every cell, every thought in your body. You didn’t feel the room. The blanket. The couch.

You only felt him. The heat of his skin. The rhythm of his breath. The sacred weight of him, filling you, fusing with you like you were never meant to be two separate beings at all. Just one. No end. No beginning. Just love. He pulled back from your kiss just enough to look at you—really look at you—his lips flushed, his breath warm across your face. And then you saw it. His eyes. Endless green. Unfathomable depth. And pure, unshielded emotion. That was your universe. Your world. Your everything—right there in your hands, on top of you, inside of you. His gaze poured into yours, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your soul.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words shaped against your lips, warm and trembling, as his thumb swept gently over the flushed heat of your cheek. His gaze was so deeply fixed into yours, pupils blown wide and glassy with emotion, as if he’d completely lost himself in you and had no desire to find the way back, “more than life itself…”

And then he kissed you again—slow and consuming, the kind of kiss that didn’t just press mouths together but pulled souls into collision. His hips moved with it, drawing back until only the aching tip of him stretched you, just to slide back in with devastating depth. The plunge made you gasp into his mouth, your spine arching to meet him with a soft cry, your legs cinching tighter around his waist, locking him in, as if your body feared he’d leave before your heart could catch up. Your hands found the breadth of his back, fingers digging in with instinct, clinging to the solid muscle of him like he was your anchor and you were already adrift.

“I love you,” you breathed, the words shaking into his kiss, trembling with everything you couldn’t say fast enough, “s-so damn much—”

He thrust again, cutting your words short with a kiss that stole your breath, and everything else—your thoughts, your sense of time, the storm outside, even your name. All of it vanished in the heat between you, in the sweet stretch of him inside you, in the wet slick of skin against skin and the pressure building unbearably in your chest. There was no room for anything but him. Just Zayne—above you, inside you, around you—his breath tangled with yours, his rhythm deep and sure, each movement rocking you to your core like he was remapping your body with his. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t do anything but feel, the haze of arousal thick in your chest, blinding in your mind, drowning you both in waves of pleasure and unbearable tenderness.

Your breath started to shake. Your moans blurred into whimpers. You blinked against the sting behind your eyes, but it was no use. The weight of it—the emotion, the connection, the need—spilled out of you in hot, quiet tears before you could stop them. A sob cracked from your throat, soft and sudden, and Zayne felt it the second it left you. He didn’t stop moving. He didn’t speak. He just held you tighter, his lips brushing your temple, his rhythm a steady, grounding heartbeat, like he was trying to love you through every fracture in your soul and rebuild you with his body.

You felt it before you saw it—the faintest upward curve of his lips as he pressed a kiss into the damp trail of tears rolling toward your hairline. A smile not of amusement, but of something quieter, deeper—tenderness. Worship.

“Don’t hold back,” he whispered, the words kissed into your skin like a blessing.

You nodded, trembling, your breath catching as your lungs finally surrendered the air you’d been holding. As if that single exhale gave your body permission to fall completely apart for him. Zayne moved with you, through you, into you—his kisses slow and unhurried as they grazed along your temple, your cheek, the curve of your jaw. He rocked into you with purpose, every thrust a deep, sinfully slow plunge, the smothering weight of his pelvis rolling down against yours as you met him halfway with a hungry grind. You squeezed around him—God, you clutched him—with every slow press of his cock inside, the walls of your body rippling with the unbearable fullness he gave you.

But it wasn’t just your body he filled. It was everything. Your heart, your soul, every empty place in you that had ever longed to be seen was now bursting, overflowing with the heat of him, the love of him, the steady, breath-stealing rhythm of him making you feel like you were the only person that had ever existed in his universe.

A moan escaped your lips—raw, airy, helpless—when he ground harder, the thick slide of skin on skin igniting a rush of heat through your limbs. You reached for him instinctively, your hands finding the tight, sculpted muscle of his back, your nails pressing into his shoulder blades as if you needed something to anchor yourself in the rising tide of pleasure. You didn’t just hold him. You dug in.

Zayne shuddered above you, a sharp breath escaping him as he felt the rake of your nails dragging down his back in a trail of heat and sting. His rhythm faltered—just for a breath—before he responded with a harder thrust, his body answering yours with a sudden urgency. Faster. Deeper. Needier. His eyes found yours—clouded, hooded with heat, pupils dark and drowning. He looked wrecked, lost again in the folds of you, his brow twitching with each tight clench of your body around him. You were coming undone beneath him, your lips parted in silent cries, your lashes fluttering, your brows knitted in exquisite tension as your nails marked him with slow, burning precision.

Zayne let you. He wanted you to. He always let you. There was something in it that quieted the guilt that never fully left him. Something in the sting of your nails that he welcomed—invited—for the two times his Evol had failed him, the two times his power had slipped, the two times you bore the aftermath of what he couldn’t control. But this? This was control. This was love and ache and healing all knotted together in the friction of your bodies. It was you taking back your power with your hands on his skin. It was him surrendering, giving it all over, taking every plea, every scratch, every moan like penance. And it broke something loose in him.

With a sudden, sharp inhale, Zayne’s hips snapped forward, his thrusts picking up with raw fervor, chasing something deeper now—not just your pleasure, but his need to give it, to prove it. That you were safe. That you were cherished. That he would love you through the pain he once caused until the only thing you remembered was this. You. Him. Together. Sacred. And burning.

“God, you’re so good!” Your voice tore from your throat like a cry of surrender, high and breathless, as your neck arched back against the cushion, jaw slack, spine lifting. Your nails gripped desperately into the slick, shifting muscles of his back—his body rolling above you in fierce rhythm, sweat-slicked and searing, “Zayne, it feels so good! More! That feels—! O-oh, baby!”

He winced at your volume, his jaw tightening, but his hips never faltered. If anything, he moved harder. Faster. His thrusts snapped forward with brutal rhythm, each one driving deeper, heavier, more possessive. His pelvis smacked into yours with wet slaps, growing louder and louder in the humid air between your tangled bodies, echoing through the storm-muted room. Your skin clung to his. Sweat glistened between your breasts. Every breath he exhaled came ragged and hot by your ear.

“Show me how good it feels,” he rasped between thrusts, voice barely coherent through the heat clouding his mind, “let me feel it…”

You pried your eyes open, lashes fluttering through the haze, your gaze finding him—God, finding him there, above you, inside of you, wrecked for you. His brows were furrowed, his teeth clenched, the bridge of his nose wrinkled in exquisite tension as his whole body bucked into yours. He looked like a man in freefall, chasing the very essence of you, and you gave it to him willingly—every breath, every moan, every trembling inch.

You brought your hands to his back. And slowly, deliberately, you dragged your nails down his dripping skin. Inch by inch. Scratch by slow, deep, shaking scratch. You felt the way his muscles twitched beneath your touch, felt the long lines welt beneath your fingertips, each one painting a streak of heat across his sweat-drenched back. He shuddered above you, hard, his hips snapping into you with a savage grind that made your mouth fall open around a strangled moan.

“Yes!” He encouraged you, pain and pleasure laced in his breathless voice, “make me hurt, make me feel—Shit!”

You watched him through it—watched the pain flicker behind his clenched eyes, watched how he welcomed it, how he ached for it. He wanted to take it from you. Take everything. Your pain, your pleasure, your grief and desire. All of it. All of you. And you gave it. Every line you carved. Every sound you made. You clutched him like your body had forgotten how to exist without his—wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your legs tight around his waist, as if to keep him in your very core. As if to lock him inside your soul. Because that’s what it felt like. Like he was reaching so deep inside of you, you could feel him in your chest. Your lungs. Your mind.

Every time his cock slammed into you, it wasn’t just pleasure—it was a wildfire. A consuming, mind-erasing, reality-shattering euphoria that left you speechless, trembling, undone. And Zayne felt it too. His expression was unguarded, open, devoted, the way he looked down at you through his own haze of heat and emotion—like you were the center of the earth and he was willing to fall through the crust to reach you.

He pounded into you with a rhythm that was no longer controlled, voice low, husky, desperate, “you look so beautiful taking me…!”

It was hungry. Needy. Each thrust lifted your hips off the cushions, your body bouncing beneath him, your lips parted in a cry you couldn’t finish because the next one was already forming. You were melting beneath him, soaked, swollen, possessed by him. Your brain was hot. Your skin was on fire. Your breath ragged. And all you could do—all—was cling to Zayne and ride the wave until it destroyed you both.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whined tightly as heat boiled up your throat. Your fingers clawed at the expanse of his back, desperate for something to anchor you as your body bowed like a drawn bowstring, trembling and taut. Every muscle in you was pulled tight with unbearable tension, until it snapped—shattering you into convulsions of molten heat and quivering release, “oh my God, Zayne!”

He held you through it, arms a cage around your writhing form, his hands sinking possessively into your backside as you came undone. The storm of your climax soaked him in waves—slick heat spilling across his groin, his thighs, the ridges of his stomach, until his entire lower half was dripping in the proof of your euphoria. He groaned—low, guttural, reverent—not in protest, but in awe, as though he could drown in the sensation of your pleasure and gladly lose himself there.

“Cum with me,” he rasped against your ear, voice hoarse with urgency, his breath stuttering like he was falling, no—plummeting—with you.

And then he did. Your name escaped him like a sacred thing, a broken moan cast into the dark as his body surrendered. He buried himself in you with a desperate final thrust, hips trembling as he spilled into the trembling clutch of your walls, the silken suction milking every drop from him. His release came in thick, searing pulses, rope after rope of molten heat that painted you deep, until the only thing between you was the sound of wetness and breathlessness and the fragile tremble of limbs.

His forehead dropped to yours, a soft, shuddering moan leaking from his lips and into yours, raw with pleasure, with devotion. His entire body quaked, caught in the aftershocks of bliss as your essence still clung to his skin, his thighs, his cock, slick and decadent. Zayne collapsed atop you like a felled star—spent, trembling, and gloriously undone. His weight pressed you into the couch, a delicious kind of smothering you welcomed with open arms, wrapping yourself around him like he was the very air you breathed. His heart thundered against your chest, a wild, erratic rhythm you could feel through every inch of skin that still pulsed with afterglow. And yet, after a lingering moment of heavy silence and shared breath, he rolled gently to the side, just enough to let you inhale fully again, though his arms never left you. He pulled you close instead, cradling you to the bare heat of his chest like you were precious and breakable.

Both of you panted softly into the stillness, the sound of your mingled breaths the only thing in the quiet dark. Your hand, still unsteady, slid over his slick chest—warm and damp with the heat you’d made together. His skin fluttered under your touch, his heart galloping beneath your palm, and your lips found his shoulder, pressing a soft, reverent kiss into the flushed dampness there. Zayne responded in kind, bowing his head to kiss the crown of your hair. Again. And again. As if the act grounded him, as if he needed to taste your nearness to know this was real.

“Are you okay?” He asked, voice a low whisper frayed at the edges with exhaustion and tenderness. His fingers found your chin, tilting your face up into his. His gaze searched you—drowsy, concerned, warm, like sunlight through sleep-heavy lashes.

You gave him a tired smile and a nod, your arm curling around his back as your fingers ghosted over a welt you’d left behind. He winced—just slightly—and you grimaced.

“Sorry,” you murmured, “sorry, sweetie…Are you okay?”

He caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your bruised knuckles.

“I’m excellent,” he whispered, and it wasn’t just a reassurance. It was truth, spoken with the kind of adoration that made your chest ache.

A soft laugh trembled from your throat—soundless, breathy—as you leaned in to kiss him gently. It wasn’t urgent now. Just grateful. Sacred. You lingered there in the hush between heartbeats, tasting the echo of his sigh as your lips met again and again. Time seemed to slow around you, the silence becoming a cocoon.

Eventually, he helped you sit, moving with that same care he always did when you were fragile and spent. You winced as the shift reminded your body what had just passed between you, and without a word, he tucked a soft shirt beneath your core to catch the warmth still leaking from you. His touch was steady, despite the shake in his limbs. Zayne wrapped you in the dry side of the blanket, dabbing your flushed face with the edge of the fabric like he was tending to something precious.

He got up, only briefly, his naked and glistening silhouette framed in the dim light of the television. From your abandoned movie-night table, he returned with a piece of candy and unwrapped it carefully before pressing it to your lips. You let it melt on your tongue, sweetness blooming over the taste of him still lingering. He took one for himself, then reached for your water, lifting it to your lips like a ritual before drinking from his own.

Without needing to be asked, he busied himself gathering the scattered plushies that had been flung in the throes of your passion. He bent to pick them up, his back painted with countless red traces of your nails—marks carved with devotion, not violence. They caught the flicker of the screen like rose-colored signatures. You watched him with a strange fullness in your chest, your heart aching in the most exquisite way. There was no language for this kind of love. It wasn’t tidy or simple. It was messy and unspoken, scrawled in scratch marks and flushed cheeks and the soft sound of plastic crinkling as he straightened a plush and set it just right.

“Zaynie,” you called softly, your voice laced with a sleepy smile.

He turned, eyes already warm as they found yours.

“Will you read me a bedtime story tonight?”

There was a pause—only a breath’s worth—before the corner of his mouth curved and he crossed the room in easy steps, settling beside you again with the kind of smile that only ever belonged to you.

“Of course,” he murmured, brushing a stray hair from your temple before he kissed you.