#lots of complicated feelings on this one. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daryltwdixon · 6 hours ago

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Summary: The days blur together, a steady cycle of bottles, naps, laundry, a rhythm of new motherhood slowly reshaping you. Joel and Tommy orbit you in different ways, their presence both comfort and complication. Therapy brings things to the surface, but not resolution. And when the truth finally comes out over the dinner table, everything you thought you'd been holding together starts to come undone. || smut MDNI 18+, angst and fluff, therapy, mention of polyamory/throuples, tommy is still an ass, still aint kosher folks, sooo much kissing, pinv, dirty talk (!!), fingering, f!recieving oral, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, missionary (better to look into your eyes <3), 1 use of the word mama, please remember these characters suck at communicating, adding more tags later because I don't want to spoil! || a/n: woowee its a doozy. wc: 14k

“So, you’re back.”

In your arms, your baby squirms with a soft grunt, his little mouth puckered in protest. You shift him gently, rocking him with a practiced motion that’s more muscle memory than thought at this point. His weight is a comfort, solid against your chest. You breathe out a quiet laugh.

“Good to see you too, Dr. Servopulous.”

“Didn’t I say somethin’ about callin’ me Tess?”

Joel and Tommy both offer small smiles from either side of you. Tess returns them, her eyes warm as she leans forward, looking at the bundle in your arms.

“And look who we have here,” she says. “What’s his name?”

“This is Sammy,” you murmur, lifting your baby just slightly so she can see his round, pink-cheeked, bleary-eyed face. He yawns, clenching his fist around a lock of your hair.

“Samuel TJ Miller, ain’t that right, buddy?” Tommy adds with a soft smile, reaching to poke gently at the baby’s belly. Sammy squirms, kicking one foot free of the blanket.

“Thank you for joining us, Samuel,” Tess says with mock formality, then glances at the clipboard in her lap. “A lot has happened since I last saw you three.”

“Understatement of the century,” Tommy mutters.

You glance sideways at him, trying to read his face. It’s soft—eyes crinkled at the corners, tone easy with no bitterness. At least, not today.

Joel says nothing. He sits still on your other side, arm draped loosely across the back of the couch just behind your shoulders. His fingertips occasionally brush your upper arm when you shift, a quiet presence more than a participant.

Tess looks between the three of you, pen poised. “Tell me about your dynamic lately. We can start there and dig into what’s happened.”

You turn to Joel, exhaustion clinging to your bones, to your posture, to the deep, purple shadows carved beneath your eyes. Two months of near-sleepless nights etched into your skin like bruises. You look at him fully, wordlessly asking him to speak first.

Joel clears his throat and shifts forward, arm dropping to brace against his knees. “Uh, well,” he starts, nodding to himself. “We’ve been mostly focusin’ on takin’ care of Sam. Of her.”

Tess nods, encouraging.

“We’ve been a good team, I think.”

“It’s been quite the journey,” Tommy adds. “Feels like since Sam came into the world, things have been... I dunno. Easier, wouldn’t you say?” He glances between you and Joel.

“Define easy,” you scoff, untangling your hair from the baby’s fist.

“I just meant between us,” Tommy says, lifting a hand. “Not so much goin’ on dynamic-wise.”

“Then what brought you in?” Tess asks, calm and direct.

You pause, glancing between the two of them before your eyes land on the doctor again.

“I think... we’re trying to prepare. For when things don’t feel like survival mode anymore. When Sam’s sleeping through the night. When I’m ready to start…” You trail off, the words feeling distant, almost absurd. “Being intimate again.”

Tess nods, jotting something down. “And how have you been feeling? Emotionally.”

You hesitate, then shift Sammy in your arms and glance toward Tommy.

“Can you—?”

“Yeah, of course.” He takes the baby gently, already tucking the blanket around him just the way you like. You sink back into the couch, chest suddenly lighter without the weight of another body pressed against you. You exhale, slow.

“Obviously it’s hard,” you say finally. “Harder than I thought. I cry a lot. About nothing. About everything. I’ll lie awake wondering if he’s warm enough. If he’s eating enough. If he’s…” your voice falters, “...if he’s still breathing. I feel insane about it sometimes.”

“All very normal,” Tess says softly. You nod, staring at Sam as Tommy smiles down at him.

Tess gives you a moment, then adds, “And how about the dynamic between the three of you? How’s that felt lately?”

You look at the two men flanking you, and your mouth lifts slightly.

“Honestly... it’s been a gift. They’ve both been incredible. I’m never alone. They’re so good with him. I barely even have to ask, they just know.”

“Helps that you’ve done this before,” Tess says, smiling at Joel.

He chuckles under his breath, eyes down.

“My body still doesn’t quite feel like mine yet,” you admit. “But I feel... really connected. To both of them. And to Sam.”

“That’s really good,” Tess says. She scribbles a few more notes before shifting her attention.

“Now, Tommy,” she says, catching his eye. He straightens a little, as if realizing he’d tuned out, his mind and eyes having only been on the baby. “I want to talk about you for a moment. Last time we spoke, you were the one who had some reservations about opening the relationship. About all of this. How are you feeling now?”

Tommy looks between you and Joel, slow.

“I don’t really know how I feel,” he says. “Truth be told... things feel fine. Between me and her. Joel too.”

You let out a dry laugh and look to Tess.

“That’s ‘cause they barely see each other,” you say. “When Tommy’s at the site, Joel stays. When Joel’s working, Tommy’s there. We’ve got a rhythm. But it’s not... us. Not really.”

Tess nods slowly at your comment, the slight crease between her brows deepening.

“That 'rhythm' you’ve found sounds functional. But is it fulfilling?” she asks gently. “Or are you all just getting by?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. Joel doesn’t either.

Tess lets the silence sit for a moment before turning to Joel.

“Joel,” she says softly, “you’ve been quiet. I know that’s not unusual for you, but I want to check in. How are you feeling about all this?”

Joel shifts slightly, eyes on the floor. His voice is low when he answers.

“I think I’m just tryin’ to be where I’m needed,” he says. “Not stir things up too much. She’s been through a lot. The baby needs her calm. Last thing I want is to be another problem.”

“You think your presence is a problem?” Tess asks, head tilting.

Joel gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Sometimes it feels like it could be. I try to stay out the way.”

You turn to look at him then and there’s something in his face you hadn’t noticed before. A kind of quiet resignation. Like he’s still halfway out the door, even while sitting beside you.

“Joel,” Tess says after a moment, “that kind of self-erasure might feel noble. But it’s not sustainable. And it’s not honest, not if you care about them, which it’s obvious that you do.”

His jaw works for a moment before he nods, once.

“They…” you begin, fidgeting in your seat, fingers twisting into the fabric of your leggings. “They got into a bad fight. Right before I went into labor. I’d like to talk about that, if it’s okay.”

Joel glances over, his eyes meeting yours briefly. He gives a small nod, steady and quiet. You shift your gaze to the other side, to where Tommy sits. His arms are folded around the baby, posture rigid, a frown pulling at his mouth. But after a beat, he nods too.

“Um,”

You clear your throat, but the words won’t come easy. Because really, where the hell do you even start? How do you explain something like this? That Joel asked you to leave your husband, that you ignored him for weeks, shut him out like he hadn’t cracked something wide open in you, and then he showed up drunk, wild-eyed and full of hurt, and threw a punch at his own damn brother?

You shift in your seat, your chest tight, pulse fluttering. It's all there, still living in the back of your mind like a bruise you keep pressing, sharp and tender and unresolved.

“I acted like an idiot,” Joel says, cutting in when you still can’t find the words. His voice is low, rough. “Said things I shouldn’t have said. Did things I shouldn’t have done.”

You exhale slowly, eyes shifting to Tess.

She lifts her pen, not writing. “Care to tell me what those things were?”

Joel hesitates. His eyes meet hers, and when he speaks again, the words are quiet, nearly swallowed.

“I told her to leave him.”

The air seems to pull inward. The room holds its breath.

Tommy’s face doesn’t move for a second when you go to calculate his reaction. But then he blinks, a sharp laugh escaping his mouth, not a trace of humor in it.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” His voice slices the room open. The baby begins to squirm in his arms, face tightening, body fussing.

“That was months ago,” you say quickly, reaching over to settle your hand on Tommy’s arm. “And he regrets it. Don’t you?”

Joel’s eyes don’t leave the baby, his gaze a thousand miles away. His voice is flat. “I regret saying it out loud.”

Tommy turns sharply to look at him then, jaw clenched.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Joel—”

“Okay,” Tess interrupts, lifting a hand, her tone calm but firm. “Before this turns into something I can’t break apart, I’m going to ask all of us to take a breath together.”

You nod and reach out instinctively, taking the baby from Tommy’s arms. He gives him over willingly, the baby's small hands clenching the fabric of your shirt. Joel stops you, taking him from your arms. You look at him with wide eyes.

He shifts beside you, holding out his arms. “It’s fine. I got him.”

You hesitate, caught between them. Then you hand the baby over. Joel lifts him gently, settling him against his chest. The baby fusses once, then quiets.

Tess watches the exchange closely. “All right. Let’s take that breath.”

You inhale together, slowly.

Deep breath in.

Hold, hold, and exhale all the way out.

Another.

And another.

Your heart rate finally begins to slow. You open your eyes, grounded just enough to keep going.

Tess glances down at her notes, then back at the three of you. “I appreciate you all staying here in this moment. I know that wasn’t easy. But this is why we’re here. Not to pretend things are fine, but to look at what’s underneath.”

She shifts slightly in her seat. “Would you be open to trying something together? It��s an exercise I use often with couples. Or, in this case, throuples.”

You glance at Joel, then at Tommy. They both nod, though a little begrudgingly.

Tess continues, voice steady. “This is about transparency. About seeing each other, not just reacting to old patterns. It’s called the ‘I see you’ practice. One at a time, you’ll each speak to the others using a few prompts. You don’t have to explain or justify what you say. The goal is just to be witnessed.”

She picks up a note card. “You can use these to start:

What I see in you right now is… What I need from you is… What I miss about us is…

And you’ll finish the sentence for each one, to each other. This is your time to be honest, to be open.”

She turns her eyes to you first. “Do you want to start us off?”

You nod slowly, your heart thudding beneath the weight of it all. You smooth your palms against your thighs, grounding yourself, then look to Joel.

Tess sees the hesitation on your face and offers, gently, “Why don’t you hold her hand, Joel?”

Joel shifts, eyes searching yours as if asking permission. When you nod, he reaches across the small space between you, careful not to jostle the baby who is already dozing against his chest, and threads his fingers through yours. His hand is warm, steady. You feel the weight of it go straight through you.

Your voice wavers as you begin.

“What I see in you is someone who’s scared to admit his role in all this.”

You glance up into his eyes. Joel doesn’t look away. His brow creases, just slightly, but his grip on your hand tightens.

“I see someone who helps, day in and day out. Who shows up, quietly, constantly. But only says what he wants when everything’s already blown up and it’s too late.”

Joel swallows, throat bobbing as he shifts the baby slightly, and you think the touch of your hand might be grounding him too.

“What I need from you is honesty. Not just in the aftermath. All the time. I need you to stop playing the martyr. You don’t have to earn your place here. You already belong. With me. With us.”

You feel Joel’s thumb move across the back of your hand, slow and steady.

“What I miss about us is… is the fun we had. I miss taking Sarah out for ice cream. I miss going to the fair. I miss being spontaneous with you…even if that feels like a lifetime ago now. I realize we can’t just do those things now with the baby but…I still miss it.”

He smiles, nodding along with you. You take a breath and turn to Tommy, letting go of Joel's hand as you do so. He shifts slightly under your gaze, like he knows what’s coming.

Tess says gently, “Maybe place your hand on his arm.”

You do. Your fingertips brush his bicep, and you feel the slight tremble there. He doesn’t move away.

“What I see in you is someone holding a lot of resentment.”

His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt. His fingers twitch on his knee.

“What I need from you is consistency. I feel like one minute you’re with me, and the next you’re not. I just want to feel secure, to know you’re not going to pull back when this is hard.”

You press your fingers into his arm a little firmer now, a little more tender, “What I miss is… us.”

The words nearly catch in your throat, and you see Tommy’s eyebrows furrow in anguish.

“I miss the way you used to kiss me just because you were thinking about me. I miss the little touches like your hand on my back when we were brushing past each other in the kitchen. I miss being your best friend. I miss feeling like your wife. Your other half.”

Tommy’s hand comes to rest over yours, finally. He doesn’t speak yet, but his grip says what he can’t.

Tess gives a soft cue with her eyes, and Joel looks at Tommy.

Joel shifts slightly in his seat, adjusting the baby with one arm.

“What I see in you is someone who’s trying really hard to build a family. I see my brother. Someone I’ve known and loved my whole life. Since the day you were born.” He glances at Tommy, voice low.

“And I see you throwin’ it away with jealousy.”

Tommy stiffens, but doesn’t look away. His fingers curl around his knee.

“What I need from you is to stop pushin’ me out. I didn’t sneak in here. You asked me for this, and we all fell into it. And yeah, it got messy. But it’s happening. She wants me here. And I want to be here.”

Joel’s hand tightens protectively on the baby’s back as he continues.

“What I miss about us is knowin’ I could count on you. Maybe I haven’t earned that lately, but I need you to know you can still count on me. I’m still your brother, Tommy.”

Joel turns to look at you then, and your lungs catch.

His voice is soft, almost reverent, and his hand joins your fingers that are clammy and splayed on the couch, intertwining his with them again.

“What I see in you is... someone doin’ such a beautiful job bein’ a mother.” His eyes flicker over your face and your heart constricts.

“I see how tired you are. How you keep pushin’ through, even when you’ve got nothin’ left. Sam is lucky to have you. We all are.”

A long pause.

“When I see you... I see everything.” His eyes glint. “I see my future. I see the mother of my child—”

There’s a short pause as his eyes flicker over to Tommy, gauging the reaction, before gazing back at you, clearing his throat.

“What I need from you is to stop actin’ like you’re caught in the middle. You’re allowed to make a decision that might hurt us. But you chose this too, same as we did. You’re allowed to want both of us. To lean on us in different ways. We can work with that. We can make that work.”

“What I miss is... how easy it was. Bein’ near you, talkin’ to you. Just sittin’ in the same room and feelin’ like that was… enough.”

He glances at you, something flickering behind his eyes.

“It used to be simple. And I didn’t realize how much that mattered ‘til it wasn’t.”

The room quiets.

Tommy shifts forward slightly, his knees brushing yours. Tess watches closely.

“Tommy,” she says gently, “Why don’t you hold her hand while you speak?”

Tommy hesitates. Then he reaches out, lacing his fingers through your free hand. Your hands are linked between them, one held in each of theirs.

He turns to Joel first.

“What I see in you is someone who’s been trying to take my place.” Joel stiffens, but he lets Tommy keep going.

“I know how things got. How tangled up everything’s been. But I’m allowed to feel that way. You’ve been whisperin’ in her ear, turnin’ her against me when we fight. That’s what it’s felt like. But couples fight, Joel. They cry, they scream, they figure it out. It don’t mean it’s over.”

Joel opens his mouth, but Tess lifts a hand slightly: not yet.

“What I need from you is the truth. Not the quiet kind you use to protect people– to protect yourself more like. I need the real truth of it. Because if you’re gonna be here, then you better stop waitin’ for the bottom to fall out. Either be in it, or don’t.”

His eyes drop to his lap.

“What I miss is feelin’ like I could count on you too. Even before all this. Before we both fell in love with the same damn woman and stopped talkin’ like we used to. I miss gettin’ wings at the Tipsy Bison with you an’Sarah on Wednesdays. I miss watchin’ the Cowboys, crackin’ a cold one on a Sunday. I miss us just bein’... just brothers.”

Then Tommy turns to you, his thumb sweeping gently across the top of your knuckles.

“What I see in you is someone stretched thin. Tryin’ to be everything for everyone. And I think in the middle of that, I forgot how to make you feel safe.” His voice shakes just slightly.

“What I need from you is to stop actin’ like stayin quiet keeps everything fair. Like not choosin’ is somehow keepin’ the peace. It’s not. All it does is make me feel like I’m a third wheel in my own marriage.” he sighs, sorting through his thoughts, “I just want you to be honest about what you feel, what you need. From me. Not just from him. I don’t wanna feel like I’m always a step behind, tryin’ to prove I still matter in all this.

You squeeze his hand, nodding.

“What I miss about us,” he finishes softly, “is that feeling I used to have when I looked at you. That certainty. Like no matter what, we’d figure it out.”

You pinch your brows together, an apology written on your face as Tess draws in a soft breath, folding her hands over her clipboard.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice a little quieter now. “All of you.”

She pauses, letting her gaze pass over each of you — Joel, still holding the baby, Tommy, knuckles a little white where his hand still holds yours, and you, sitting between them, strung out and seen for the first time in what feels like months.

“That was not easy. And you stayed with each other through it.” Her eyes are kind, earnest. “That matters.”

She leans back slightly in her chair. “You’ve given each other a lot to think about. There’s hurt here, but there’s also love and commitment, even if it’s messy.”

She nods once, thoughtful.

“I’m not going to ask you to do more today. You’ve all been carrying enough. For now, I want you to sit with what was said. Let it settle. Think about each other’s expectations. How you heard each other. What you want moving forward.”

Her smile is gentle.

“We’ll meet again next week. No homework. No pressure. I know you’ll be busy with the little one.”

Joel glances down at the baby still cradled against his chest, his palm softly cupping the back of Sam’s tiny head. A quiet hum of agreement leaves him, like he already knows you'll be awake every hour tonight.

Tess stands slowly. “Take care of yourselves. And each other.”

Outside, the three of you walk out into the cooling afternoon air. The sun is low, casting gold along the pavement. Joel still carries Sam, his big hand shielding the baby’s head from the breeze.

The silence between you isn’t necessarily heavy, but full and settling.

You stop beside the car and turn toward both of them.

Without speaking, you wrap your arm around Joel’s side and your free arm around Tommy’s back, pulling them both in. Neither resists. Joel leans his head against yours for just a second. Tommy's hand presses gently at your lower back.

The hug holds.

Then Joel shifts, adjusting the baby and glancing down at him. “Here,” he murmurs, careful as he lifts Sam and passes him back to you.

You cradle the baby close, resting your cheek against the top of his soft little head, breathing him in.

Then you glance up at Joel, your voice gentle. “Come over for dinner tonight?”

He raises an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Tommy’s cooking his famous chili,” you add, nudging your shoulder lightly into Tommy’s side.

Joel’s brow lifts a little higher. “Since when you got a famous recipe I don't know about?”

Tommy shrugs with a quiet laugh. “Since I started doin’ more of the cookin’ lately. But… could be nice,” he says, glancing at Joel, then at you. “Just to talk.”

Joel hesitates for a second, then shifts his weight, looking over to his truck, “Can’t tonight. I gotta get Sarah settled, junior year’s kickin’ her butt right now, wanna make sure she has a good night.”

You nod, trying not to let your disappointment show, but he notices anyway.

“I’ll be over first thing in the morning,” he adds, then looks at his brother, “You’re good to be on site, right? Got contractors comin’ to lay the framing before they pour concrete.”

Tommy nods. “Eight sharp.”

Joel leans in, kisses your cheek, just light and familiar in his farewell. Then he rubs his knuckles gently over Sammy’s cheek, careful not to wake him.

He meets Tommy’s eyes and gives a short nod. “See you.”

Tommy nods back. “Yeah. See you.”

“Goodnight,” you murmur, watching him turn away.

Joel smiles briefly before walking off toward his truck, the light stretching long behind him.

“I just don’t understand why everything has to be a damn therapy session,” Tommy mutters, rubbing at his face as he yanks a shirt over his head, his voice low but sharp in the stillness of morning.

You shift Sammy against your chest, adjusting your grip as he nurses quietly, his small body heavy in your arms. The weight of him is comforting and exhausting all at once. Your back aches. Your eyes sting from another night of broken sleep. You’re still in the oversized shirt you slept in, bunched up awkwardly to give the baby access as you lean into the headboard.

“Tommy, it’s not,” you say, voice hoarse with tiredness. “Tess says we need to communicate. And I was just saying—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, bending to grab his boots from the floor. “You were sayin’ I don’t do enough.”

“That’s not what I said.” You exhale hard, slumping back as the baby shifts and latches again. “I said maybe if you were more aware of how you’re feeling, I wouldn’t have to pull it out of you every damn time.”

He lets out a soft, humorless laugh as he sits on the edge of the bed to tie his laces. “Sounds like the same thing to me.”

You adjust the blanket over Sammy’s back, trying to focus on the slow rhythm of his breathing, his tiny hand resting against your chest. Everything in you feels pulled taut. Between your body and your thoughts, there’s nothing left that belongs only to you.

“I’m not trying to fight,” you say, quieter now. “I just don’t want to keep playing this guessing game of how you’re feeling. We have to talk to each other.”

Tommy doesn’t answer. He finishes tying his boots, stands, and grabs his jacket from the hook by the bedroom door. For a second, it seems like he might walk out without saying anything at all.

But then he circles around the bed and leans down and kisses the top of your head, his lips barely touching your hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re right.”

And that’s it.

Not tender but not unkind either. Just enough to move past it.

You nod, but your eyes stay on the baby. Tommy lingers for a moment longer, then heads for the door. The sound of it closing behind him is soft, but it feels louder than it should.

You adjust Sammy again, not because he needs it, but because you don’t know what else to do with your hands.

Downstairs, you hear the low murmur of voices, a few words exchanged, calm and indistinct. Joel, you assume. Then footsteps, slow and familiar, making their way up the stairs.

He appears in the doorway with a mug in his hand and that quiet, almost apologetic smile he gets in the mornings. His voice is soft when he speaks.

“Mornin’.”

“Hey,” you exhale, too tired to say more.

He comes around the bed just as you lift Sammy up to your shoulder, patting gently at his back. Joel sets the mug down on the nightstand and holds out his hands.

“Let me take him.”

You don’t hesitate. You ease the baby into his arms, and Joel takes him like it’s second nature, one hand cradling his head, the other curling protectively around his small body, patting him on his back.

“Get some more sleep,” he says, voice low, steady. “Tommy said you were up half the night. I got this.”

You manage a faint smile and murmur your thanks. Joel just nods, already rocking gently in place, gaze focused on the baby like there’s nothing else in the world that needs his attention right now.

And as he shuts the door behind him, you’re already drifting back to sleep.

When you wake again, the light in the room has shifted, warmer now and spilling across the hardwood in quiet streaks. You lie still for a moment, your body heavy and aching in all the familiar places—shoulders sore, lower back aching, and breasts heavy.

The house is quiet, but not silent. There’s a low, murmuring voice downstairs, rhythmic and gentle. You push the blankets back and stand, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you shuffle barefoot to the door.

Once down the stairs, you detour into the kitchen, grabbing a piece of toast from the counter, half-eaten from a midnight snack during the wee hours of the morning. The murmuring continues closer now, just around the corner in the living room.

You peek in.

Joel is on the couch, legs bent with his heels resting on the coffee table. Sammy lies across his thighs, his head by Joel’s knees, arms flailing in slow-motion like he’s swimming through thick air. His little feet keep kicking up into Joel’s stomach, and Joel keeps pretending to be offended by it.

“Oh, alright,” Joel says softly, eyes on the baby, grabbing his feet gently after one good kick. “You’re feelin’ tough this morning, huh? Gonna try and take me out one toe at a time?” He leans in slightly, eyebrows raised, and gives the tiniest shake of his head. “You don’t even know how dangerous I am, buddy. One more punch to the gut and I’ll eat those toes right off.”

He scoops up one of Sam’s feet and presses a loud, smacking kiss to the bottom of it. Sam wiggles, blinking up at the ceiling, cheeks pulling into a half smile.

Joel grins. “Tough crowd.”

You lean against the doorway, smiling into your toast, watching the way Joel’s voice softens around the baby. He looks completely at home, like this is the only thing he was meant to do. He took to the caretaker role with ease, with a gentleness you knew was there but still pulled at your heartstrings to see. His hand rests gently on Sam’s belly, thumb stroking absent patterns through the fabric of the blanket.

Eventually he glances up and spots you there.

“Hey,” he says.

You step into the room, yawning softly. “I’m surprised he let me sleep so long,”

Joel nods. “Oh, yeah. We’ve been busy havin’ lots of intelligent conversations about how to build a house, how kickin’ your daddy is rude,”

Your feet still halfway across the rug.

It hangs in the air, the word daddy.

Joel doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t look at you either. Just gently tugs the baby’s sock back into place like nothing happened.

You move toward the couch slowly, toast forgotten in your hand. He said it so easily, like it belonged to him, like it didn’t need discussion.

You’re not mad. Not even really surprised. But something knots in your stomach all the same. Not in a bad way, just… tight. Complicated.

Because what do you call him? What do you call either of them?

Tommy’s the husband. The legal father. But Joel’s the one who got you here, who made this all possible. He’s been here in the quiet hours, the one who holds Sammy like he’s always known him, the one who keeps showing up with soft hands and gentler eyes than he knows what to do with.

Is it normal for a baby to have two dads?

You don’t know. But somehow, it doesn’t feel wrong.

Joel finally glances up, like he can feel you thinking too loud. His eyes meet yours, uncertain.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, like he’s backing away from the thought.

You shake your head, sitting down beside him. “Don’t be.”

And just like that, you both look down at the baby again.

“He’s probably due to eat again soon,” you say, voice low.

Joel nods, “I figured. He’s been frowin’ at me for the last ten minutes.”

“He gets that from you,” you say around your last bite of toast as you brush the crumbs off your fingers, holding your hands out to take the baby. Joel transfers him gently into your arms without a word, just a soft look. You adjust your shirt and get Sammy latched, his small mouth working almost immediately. It still aches a little, but you’re used to that now. The sting fades fast enough.

Joel doesn’t look away from your face. He just watches you, like he’s still surprised by the whole thing. The way your body knows what to do. The way you cradle Sam like he was always supposed to be here.

“It suits you,” he says finally, “Motherhood.”

You scoff, “Not so sure about that,�� then, tucking the blanket around the baby, you add. “I look like I got hit by a truck.”

Joel huffs a breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “Still.”

You glance up at him, cheeks warm, but before you can say anything else, he leans over and presses a kiss to your temple.

And then your cheek.

And then, gently, he kisses your lips.

It’s slow. Soft. Still tinged with that quiet affection that’s been simmering between you since before everything fell apart.

You let it happen, you even lean into it.

But when he pulls back, your mouth curls into a crooked little smile.

“Real romantic of you,” you murmur. “Kissin’ me with a baby attached to my boob.”

Joel laughs, real and warm, the sound vibrating from his chest. “Can’t help myself,” he says, eyes flicking over your face. “You’re just so damn pretty.”

You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. Sammy suckles contentedly between you, unaware of the way his mother and… whatever Joel is now… keep orbiting closer and closer.

You don’t have the words for any of it. Not yet. But it feels good. It feels okay.

The thing is, you'd already gotten the all-clear from your doctor. Physically, your body was healed, ready to be intimate again. But emotionally, mentally, you hadn’t felt ready. Not yet.

Not when your body still felt like a vessel. A machine built to feed, to soothe, to keep tiny lungs breathing steady through the night. You hadn’t really felt like you again. Not in the way that mattered. You were a mother now, and that shift had been swift and irreversible. Beautiful, yes, but altering in a way that left you grasping for pieces of who you used to be.

And now, everything had more weight. You weren’t just navigating your own wants, or theirs. There was someone else in the mix. A tiny person who would grow up watching you, learning from the way you looked at Joel, the way you touched Tommy. Watching the love between all three of you and making sense of it in his own way. That made you cautious. Careful.

Sarah came around too. Mostly in the afternoons now that fall was in full swing and she was buried in homework. She’d slip in after school, wave hello, drop her backpack by the couch and curl up to do her work while Joel rocked Sam or helped you prep dinner. She didn’t ask questions, not yet—but there were still answers you knew would have to come.

At least the chaos had begun to settle. Sam was four months old and sleeping longer stretches now, Joel coming and going with his usual quiet consistency. Tommy stayed most mornings, all of you still trying to find the rhythm of it all. You hadn’t lied to the therapist when you said you’d found a groove, something steady in the storm of new parenthood.

But where you fit in it...that still felt blurry.

This morning, Tommy’s home. You’d heard him moving quietly through the nursery, the soft creak of the floorboards and the hushed murmurs he offered the baby as he changed a diaper. And now, he’s by your side, handing Sam over with no more than a gentle brush of your fingers. He doesn’t say much, but he sits back in bed, yawning. The morning is still early, the sky outside a pale wash of gray and blue.

After Sammy finishes nursing, you hold him close for a while, letting his warmth soak into your skin, getting him to let out a little burp against your shoulder. His breath is slow and steady, his small weight curled against your chest like he still belongs to your body. But eventually, he’s out cold, and you carefully get up lay him back to his nursery and set him in the crib.

When you walk back to your bedroom, it’s still quiet. Morning light filters in through the curtains, the house hasn’t woken up fully yet, and neither has the day. It feels like one of those rare soft moments, the ones you’d come to cherish just between you and your husband.

So you climb back into bed and turn toward Tommy, watching as he stretches out beside you. You touch his arm, then his chest, letting your hand linger.

“Come here,” you murmur, your voice still gentle from sleep.

He does. He settles in next to you, his arm rising to loop around your shoulders and pulling the blanket over both your bodies. You nestle close, your face tucked near his collarbone. It feels good. Solid. Safe.

You kiss him, tentative at first, testing the waters. He kisses you back, warm and a little surprised, but you press into it with more urgency, craving that spark you’ve been missing. The one that used to live between you so easily.

Your body is finally feeling like yours again—or, at least, starting to. For the first time in months, you feel that ache in your belly that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with having a man with his arms around you. With missing the feeling of being wanted. Your blood feels warmer, your skin more sensitive. You’re ready. You want this. You want him.

Your hand moves to his waist, slips beneath his shirt. You press your chest against his, mouth parting against his.

But Tommy pulls back a little.

Not completely or abruptly, just… enough. His hand stills on your hip. His eyes dart toward the monitor on your bedside table.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. You can feel it, that reluctance. The discomfort.

You pause, breath shallow in your throat.

“…What?” you whisper, “You okay?”

Tommy shifts, pulling his hand away. “Yeah. I just—” He sits up slightly, dragging a hand down his face. “I dunno. It’s early. Gotta keep an eye on the monitor. And I just…”

He doesn’t finish.

You sit back against the pillows, heart sinking. The moment has slipped through your fingers like sand, and now you’re left holding the shape of something that could’ve been.

It’s been months. And within the past week, you’d started to feel like you again. And your husband said no. Maybe not outright, but not a wholehearted yes either. He’s allowed that, sure. You just…didn’t expect it.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and say nothing.

Tommy exhales and swings his legs off the bed. “I’ll make some coffee,” he mutters.

You nod, eyes locked on the ceiling, willing the sting behind them to go away.

You sit across from him at the dinner table that evening, a simple dinner between you, picked up while you and Sammy napped that afternoon.

Sammy kicks his legs with soft, erratic movements, his little fists in the air. He coos soft and sweet, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan, then flickering toward the two of you. When you lean over and tickle his tummy, his mouth opens in a gummy grin.

You smile back, brushing your knuckles lightly over his soft cotton onesie. “You’re in a good mood today,” you murmur.

Across the table, Tommy forks food into his mouth with one hand, scrolling something on his phone with the other.

“How’s work been?” you ask, trying not to let the silence stretch too far.

He shrugs. “Busy. Contractors finally started pourin’ today.”

“That’s good.”

“Mm.”

You push a piece of food around your plate before bringing it to your mouth and chewing slowly as you glance at him. His face is unreadable, focused somewhere far away. Not cold, just distant.

“You’ve been quiet,” you say. “Even this morning. I just… I don’t know where your head is lately.”

Tommy sets down his fork, wiping his hands on a napkin.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Instead, he glances over at the baby, at the slow bounce of the seat, the soft dimples pulling in your son's cheeks as he looks back at him. They both smile at each other for a moment, though Tommy’s doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Like I said before” you offer, “I just don’t want to have to guess what you’re feelin’, if you’d just—”

“I’ve been seein’ Maria.”

The words land like a weight between you. No preamble. No softening. Just like that.

You blink. The baby kicks again, cooing again for your attention.

The room goes still.

“You’ve been…seeing….” your brain feels like static, channels flickering through words as you try to piece them together, “Maria…”

Tommy sighs, rubbing his jaw. “Her an’ Frankie split, ya know. I’ve been stoppin’ by her place sometimes, see if I can help with anythin’. We got to talkin’. About everything—relationships, parenthood. It’s been nice, havin’ someone to talk to about all of it.”

“Okay,” you say slowly.

He looks over at you, “We’ve been sleepin’ together.”

Your eyes don’t move from him, but they begin to burn with a slow, simmering rage. “When the hell did you even have time for that? Between the site and bein’ here with Sam—”

He shrugs, jaw tight. “Made time.”

You blink at him. The room feels smaller.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tommy.” you say, throwing down your napkin, the utensils clattering on the table.

His voice flares a little. “It ain’t like you and Joel haven’t—”

“Don��t,” you say sharply, standing up so fast your chair scrapes against the floor. “That is not remotely the same.”

Sammy fusses at the sudden tension, a little cry bubbling up in his chest.

“I’m not doin’ this right now,” Tommy mutters, shaking his head.

“You brought it up!” you shoot back. “You practically dropped it in my lap like some casual thing! Like it doesn’t wreck everything we’ve been trying to do!”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks past you, jaw tight, fingers flexing slightly against the table as Sam starts to cry again.

You take a breath. “How long?”

He finally looks at you. There’s no fight in his eyes. No remorse, either. Just tired acceptance.

“A few months.”

Your throat tightens. You push your chair back fully, bending down to lift Sammy from the bouncer, hitching him on your hip. He quiets as you lift him up, his little hands pressing into your collarbone, both of you looking at Tommy with red cheeks and glistening eyes.

“Well,” you say quietly, adjusting the baby's onesie with trembling fingers, “I was really trying to figure all this out. Trying to make it work.” You lift your eyes to him, something sharp creeping into your voice. “But I guess you’ve gone and made the decision for us.”

Tommy’s brow furrows, his jaw working like he wants to say something as he looks up at you from his seat.

“I want a divorce, Tommy.”

He flinches like you hit him. But he doesn’t argue or raise his voice. After a moment, he sighs and just nods. Like it’s something he’s already thought about.

And that somehow hurts worse than if he’d fought you on it. He doesn’t even ask for an explanation.

You hug Sammy a little closer, watching Tommy’s shoulders sag.

“Why the hell did we even go to therapy if this was already happening? Why’d you sit next to me and bother to pretend like you were trying?”

“I was tryin’,” he says, but the words are thin, paper-flat. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I was tryin’ to be a good dad. And I figured…if I could just do that much…”

You hadn’t seen it. Not really. He’d been good with the baby, gentle and helpful, and you’d been too tired to notice how he’d already left you behind. Not physically. Emotionally. As a husband. As a partner.

And now, when you need him to show up and fight, there’s nothing left in him. Nothing but a shrug and a sigh.

You take a breath, force your voice to stay calm.

“Well, I hope Maria has room in her bed for you tonight,” you say, shifting the baby higher in your arms. “Get out.”

The next morning, you wake with a jolt.

The light streaming through the blinds is too bright. Not the soft pale glow of early morning, but that harsh, bright sunlight of the day already starting without you. You hadn’t woken up to the sound of Sam crying for his next meal. You shoot upright, heart hammering and hand already reaching towards the baby monitor on your bedside table.

But the crib is empty.

You sit up quickly. The covers slide off your legs. Your throat tightens.

Empty.

For a second, your breath stops. You forget how to move. Your entire body goes still, locked in place as the worst possibilities flash through your mind like a siren. The room tilts slightly before the static hum from the monitor finally catches up, and then a soft sound filters through the tiny speaker. A voice.

It's just a gentle murmuring from Joel’s figure, voice low and quiet, the familiar rasp of it slowed into something gentle. You blink at the screen. The camera has tilted slightly, off center, but just enough to catch the edges of the rocker in the corner of the nursery. Joel’s legs are stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other, his body relaxed in that way only he ever manages. Your son is in his arms, nestled to his chest with a bottle held steady in one hand.

You hear him singing.

“If I ever were to lose you…”

You sink back into the pillows, one hand pressed flat over your chest, trying to slow your breathing. The tension melts from your body all at once, leaving behind something else—something heavier.

“...I’d surely lose myself,”

You watch him on the monitor as the image flickers again. Joel is looking down at Sam like he’s the most important thing he’s ever held. His expression is so soft it makes your chest ache. The bottle is nearly empty. The baby’s fingers curl loosely around one of Joel’s thumbs, and Joel shifts just enough to cradle his small head more securely.

“Everything I have found dear, I’ve not found by myself…”

You stare and stare and stare at the monitor screen.

Your hand lifts to your mouth without thinking. Your palm presses firm against your lips, trying to stop the feelings before they start.

“Try and sometimes you’ll succeed… to make this man of me…”

You don’t mean to cry. You don’t even feel it coming. One second, you’re watching Joel rock gently with your son, and the next your eyes blur, your shoulders hitch. A sob climbs up the back of your throat, muffled beneath your hand as you try to keep quiet.

You tell yourself it’s the postpartum. The hormones. The sleeplessness. The residual ache in your joints, the rawness in your body, the way your heart seems too big for your chest lately.

But you know that’s not the truth.

Not the whole truth.

You know it in the deepest parts of yourself. In the spaces you haven’t had time to visit lately. The ones that have gone untouched while you learned how to be someone new. A mother. A woman who survived childbirth. A woman who stayed up night after night whispering lullabies in the dark, nursing a child while the man she married quietly drifted further and further away.

It had been happening for months. You see it clearly now. You were so consumed with survival, with getting through the day and the next one after that, that you didn’t realize how far gone he was.

Tommy found something in Maria that you weren’t giving him. Something easier, maybe something softer. You don’t even blame him, not really. You know you’ve been hard to love lately. Closed off, frayed at the edges. But he didn’t fight for you. He just went and found someone else. And now that you know, the hollowness inside you twists into heartbreak.

“...All my stolen missing parts, I've no need for anymore…”

Joel’s voice settles over you like a blanket. You close your eyes, clutching the edge of the plastic monitor in your hand, as your ribs ache from trying not to fall apart completely.

You think of the way he always holds Sam like he was made for it. The way he instinctively knows how to quiet him when he fusses. The way his voice drops into something softer, something warmer, even when he’s speaking to you.

Joel has always been steady. Even in his silence, even in his desolation. He never once let you feel alone, even when you tried to push him away.

And now, as he rocks your child in the nursery, singing softly through the monitor, you feel something split open in your chest.

Because he never made you guess where his heart was.

He gave you everything without needing to be asked.

And it was never about obligation. He knew how to see you without looking away. He made you feel wanted. Desired. Not for what you could do. Not for the baby you could make, but for who you were.

Joel made it about you. Always you.

Tommy wanted a future. A family. A child. And in so many ways, he meant well. He was good. He gave you so much. But there had always been this sense, deep underneath it all, that you were trying to become the version of yourself he needed. That everything you were, everything you gave, was meant to fit into that shape he’d carved out for a life with you.

You curl onto your side, tears sliding across the pillow, the monitor still clutched in your hand.

“I believe,” Joel sings, voice quieter now, but still carrying through the static, “and I believe, ’cause I can see… our future days. Days of you and me.”

You sob quietly into the sheets, biting your knuckle so you won’t wake the whole house.

But eventually, a little while later, your body’s needs win over any semblance of staying in bed. Hunger gnaws at the edges of you, and the dull ache behind your ribs reminds you to get up. To eat, to do something. So you peel yourself from the bed with effort, padding barefoot into the hallway.

You expect silence, maybe Joel whispering to the baby in the nursery, maybe the sound of a lullaby or soft humming. What you don’t expect is the low hum of the washer and the sight of him shirtless over it, the laundry room door wide open. The soft light of the hanging bulb spills out around his frame, casting him in a light frame of gold.

He hears your steps immediately.

“Hey,” he says, glancing up.

Then he really looks at you, and his brow furrows. “Hey,” again, firmer this time, already stepping forward. His hands come to your face without hesitation, warm and steady. “What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?”

That voice, so kind and low and worried, is enough to split you wide open. Your chin trembles as your hands find his shoulders, curling into the back of his neck, fingers tangled in the curls at his nape. You don’t answer him. You just pull him down and kiss him.

It’s messy and desperate and tastes like salt and his minty toothpaste, but he meets you right there, mouth warm and open against yours, hands sliding around your head and into your hair to steady you.

When he pulls back, it’s just enough to breathe. “What’s—”

But you cut him off again. Another kiss, more feverish this time. You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to think. You just want to feel something that isn’t betrayal or failure or loneliness.

He kisses you back until he can’t anymore, and then he murmurs against your lips, “Baby, stop. Come on.”

You finally let him go, arms dropping limply to your sides. Rejection stings like vinegar in a wound. You know it’s not fair, Joel doesn’t owe you this, he doesn’t understand. But still, it’s there, sharp and fresh.

And he sees it, of course he does. He stays close, cupping your jaw, eyes darting between yours, steady and searching. “Talk to me.”

You deflect without thinking, looking down at the running wash. “What happened to your shirt?”

He blinks at the question, thrown for a second, but he lets it go. “Got spit up on by your son.”

“Your son,” you echo, soft and low. Your fingers brush over his chest, the hair there thick and coarse under your touch.

Joel huffs a soft laugh, and you feel his hands move to your ribs. He lifts you with ease, turning and setting you on top of the dryer, the machine quiet beneath you. He leans in, arms caging on either side of you with his palms flat, face close.

“Talk to me, please,” he says again, quieter now. He kisses the corner of your mouth, gentle and coaxing.

You drop your face into your hands. You can't look at him. Not yet. But Joel doesn’t let you hide, he takes your wrists carefully, the pads of his thumbs stroking over your pulse as he draws your hands away. He presses a kiss to one fingertip. Then another, and another. The tenderness of it threatens to break something open in you.

“I just… I feel like I do everything wrong,” you murmur.

Joel starts to shake his head. “You don’t—”

“I’ve been a terrible partner. To you. To Tommy.” Your voice wavers, thick with shame. “I pushed him away. I know I did.”

“Hey,” he says gently, leaning in, “no—”

But you shake your head, and Joel quiets immediately. He waits, still and steady, just like always. You can feel him holding space for you, not trying to fix it, not trying to rush you. Just being there.

You swallow hard, throat tight. “He told me…” You pause, breathing in a deep gulp of air, “Tommy told me he’s been seein’ Maria.”

Joel’s body tenses, the air goes very still, only filled with the sound of the washer, your uneven breathing, your sniffling.

“He what now?”

Your throat tightens. The tears burn again. You nod, swallowing hard.

“He’s been seeing her for months. Since her and Frankie separated.” You look down at your hands again, like maybe they’ll make this make sense. “He said they’ve been talkin’. About parenting. About everything. That it…just happened. And I just… I asked for a divorce, Joel.”

It takes him a long beat to respond. You watch the storm pass through him, one of anger, disbelief, something colder and harder. He closes his eyes, moving to press his forehead to yours. His breath is deep, slow, like he’s forcing himself to stay grounded.

His hands come back to your face, strong and warm.

“He’s got no idea,” Joel mutters, voice like gravel. “He has no clue what he’s got.”

You shake your head slightly, and Joel feels it, his grip only tightens.

“He has no fuckin’ clue what a prize you are,” he breathes.

Your hands find his wrists, clutching hard. Tears spill again, hot and fast.

“He’s a fuckin’ idiot if he thought he could do better. You are everything. I mean it.”

He kisses you, slow and sure, pressing into you like he’s trying to remind you with every breath who you are. Who you’ve always been.

“I don’t ever wanna hear you thinkin’ otherwise,” he murmurs between kisses. “Not ever. This ain’t on you.”

You let out a choked little sound that might’ve been a sob, might’ve been relief. His hands are so soothing as they begin to drag along your sides, your arms, warm against your waist, and you can’t help the way you lean into him. How your body starts to melt under his touch. You sigh, your lips parting under his, the kiss deepening all on its own. Your tongue meets his and something inside you shivers awake, slow and warm and wanting.

“I love you, Joel,” you whisper between kisses, your chest tight as the words spill out. “I’m sorry. For everything. For puttin’ you through all—”

“No,” he says quickly, firmly, pulling away for a moment to brush your hair back with a shake of his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t start with that. None of that was on you.”

He trails his mouth down your jaw, warm and open, grazing your pulse with his lips. Then your neck. Then the soft curve just beneath your ear.

“‘Nough of that apologizin’,” he says again, barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes as he plants little soft kisses against you, and you feel that deep want inside you awaken, making your skin sensitive and belly flip beneath his touch. You grip his shoulders and pull him back to your mouth, needing more of him, needing everything.

“I love you too,” Joel murmurs, kissing you deeper now, his hands spreading wide over your hips. “And miss you. Missed kissin’ you. Missed havin’ you close.”

“I miss you,” you whisper, broken and breathless. “All the time.”

Joel groans quietly against your mouth, like it physically hurts him to hear that.

“I’m right here, baby,” he breathes, kissing you again like a promise. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Your breath shudders out of you, lips pushing against his. “Joel…” you whisper.

He stills, watching your face closely, his hands warm where they hold you.

“I’m ready,” you say, voice small but certain. “Please. I want you. So badly.”

His brow knits together, like he wants to be sure—completely sure. “You feel okay?” he asks quietly. “You sure you’re up for it?”

You nod, cupping his face with both hands now, the stubble scraping your palms. “I feel more myself than I have in months,” you say. “Please, Joel. I need you.”

And that seems like it’s enough for him.

He kisses you again, but messier this time, wetter, like he can’t hold back anymore. His mouth slants over yours with more hunger, more heat, like he’s trying to get closer than skin will allow. His hands slide under your thighs and pull you further to the edge of the dryer, crowding into you until there’s nothing left between you but heat.

He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow beneath your ear, each place drawing a little gasp from your lips. And when you sigh his name again, something soft and breathless, Joel growls low in his chest.

His mouth moves lower, dragging over your collarbone, your chest. He pulls at the hem of your sleep shirt, tugging it upward, exposing you to the open air and the warmth of his mouth. He kisses your breasts, slow and open-mouthed, tongue flicking softly as you arch under him.

“Christ,” he mutters against your skin. “Missed you so much. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

You whimper, thighs tightening around him, and he kisses down the curve of your stomach, and you lean back to give him access as his lips press into every inch he can reach, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties.

When he tugs them down, slow and careful, his eyes flick up to meet yours again.

“You still sure?” he asks, voice low.

You reach for him again, threading your fingers into his hair. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He hums softly, a little broken sound, and kisses the inside of your thigh and his hands slide down your legs, fingers grazing over your knees.

“Let me take care of you, baby,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. His hands guide your legs apart with care, spreading you open for him as he kisses a path up from your knees. His lips graze the inside of one thigh, then the other, slow and careful, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s savoring you.

Your breath comes quicker the higher he gets, chest rising and falling with shallow little pants, your skin already flushed and hot. It’s been so long—months— since anyone touched you like this, looked at you like this, and Joel is looking at you like you’re holy.

He glances up, eyes half lidded and dark. “Always so good for me,” he murmurs against your thigh, voice a low drawl that makes your belly clench. “You’re burnin’ up, sweetheart.”

“Joel,” you whisper, your voice nearly breaking on his name. You can’t sit still, your hips already tilting toward his mouth like you’re starving.

His hands squeeze at your thighs. “I got you,” he says, and kisses right at the crease where your leg meets your hip. “Just let me take my time with you. Been dreamin’ about this.”

Then finally, his mouth finds you.

You cry out softly, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue parts you with aching slowness. Hooking your legs over his shoulders, a low hum of contentment rumbles from his throat as he tastes you. His fingers press into your thighs, holding you still as he works, mouth so gentle, so thorough it makes your legs tremble.

He pulls back just a little, breath hot against you. “So sensitive, baby,” he says, grinning a little when you mewl and try to press yourself closer.

Joel leans in again, licking a long stripe before wrapping his lips around you, tongue flicking gently before suckling around your clit.

“Gonna make a mess of you, sweet girl. Make you come so many times before I even get my cock in you,” he pants, one of his hands sliding upward, the pads of his fingers finding you and pushing inside of you with slow, careful movement, curling just right once pressed to the knuckle. The stretch makes you moan, your hips undulating against his fingers and mouth. He groans into you, loving the sound, the way you clench around him.

He licks and strokes you, teasing until you’re shaking, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. He keeps one hand firm on your thigh, his eyes never leaving your face as you come unravel above him. Every gasp, every cry, he drinks it in like he’s been starving for the sound of it.

That pressure, the kind only he ever managed to pull from you like this and always so damn quick, coils deep along your spine, winding tighter with every curl of his fingers. And then he finds it, just that one spot, and presses.

You wail, high and ragged, your body bowing toward him as the wave crashes through you, fierce and fast and blinding. You’re cresting, cascading, bursting at the seams, coming hard around his fingers with a helpless cry that rips from your throat.

Joel groans into your center, holding you through it, letting you shake apart in his hands.

His hands slow. One strokes your hip, the other smoothing gently over your thigh after he pulls it from your walls. He kisses the inside of your leg, then again a little higher, then higher still, trailing a path back up along your skin.

You feel his breath first, then the low rasp of his voice.

"How many more you think you can do?" he murmurs against you, lips brushing against your stomach.

Your head falls back, neck craning as you catch your breath, body limp and overheated, sweat clinging to your skin. You run your fingers through his hair again, a gentle tug, and sigh with a breathy laugh.

“Oh god,” you whisper, still panting. “I don’t know if I could take any more.”

Joel chuckles against your thigh, hot and smug and a little devilish. He lifts his head just a little, and you look back down at him to see a devilish glint in his eye.

“I don’t know, sweetheart…” he says, bringing his hand between your thighs. You jolt as his thumb begins brushing the lightest feather touch to your swollen, sensitive clit. “Our record’s five just from this. Think I could get at least six.”

Your eyes widen, your jaw dropping a little in disbelief, a laugh bubbling up in your chest. “Joel—”

But he just winks, and before you can finish whatever protest you were about to make, he dives back in, tongue and fingers working in tandem like a man on a mission. And all you can do is gasp, clutch his hair tighter, and try not to completely fall apart all over again.

But he makes you.

Again.

And again.

“Okay, okay, okay!” you eventually squeal, breathless and trembling, your whole body buzzing as you push him away from your soaked center. You're slick with sweat, flushed all over, and the insides of your thighs slide against one another, wet from your own arousal. Your skin is glistening, the aftermath of release painting every inch of you. Joel slowly pulls his fingers from between your legs, wet and glistening with the proof of your seventh—yes, seventh—orgasm.

You pant, trying to catch your breath, still twitching from his attack on you. “I’m only just getting back into this,” you manage, voice thin and hoarse with pleasure. “You gotta go easy.”

“That was me goin’ easy,” Joel mutters, standing and kissing you before you can protest. He tastes like you, tangy and sweet. His beard is damp, his lips sticky from the mess he made of you, and when he plunges his tongue into your mouth, you moan at the flavor of yourself on him. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight, then carefully lifts you from the dryer and carries you down the hallway.

As he passes the nursery, he whispers against your ear, “How much more time you think we got before he’s up?”

“At least twenty minutes.”

“Perfect.”

He nudges your bedroom door open with his boot and steps inside, the room dim and soft in the mid morning light. He lays you gently down on the bedspread and doesn’t move right away. He stays there, looking at you like he’s memorizing every part of you. One hand lifts to brush your damp hair back from your face. His eyes are still dark with want, but there’s something else there too, something quieter.

“I love you,” he says, voice steady and low.

You feel the words tighten in your throat, a rush of emotion sweeping over you. Your hands reach up to cup his face, fingers threading into his hair.

“I love you, Joel.”

He kisses your chin, your jaw, the tip of your nose, then finds your mouth again and kisses you slow and deep, like he’s sealing it in place.

Then he sits up, and you watch as he strips off what little clothing he has left. You don’t look away, taking in every inch of him.

“You’re so pretty,” you murmur.

He laughs under his breath, bending back over to kiss your neck, his beard rasping gently across your oversensitive skin.

“You’re so pretty,” he replies, voice teasing.

“I’m serious,” you say, smiling.

“So am I. Now shut your mouth before I start blushin’.”

You both go quiet then, but the smiles don’t fade. You just look at each other for a long, suspended moment, something soft and unspoken settling between your bare skin and the morning light.

“I’m sorry,” Joel says eventually, voice low. “About my brother.”

You shake your head, hands still buried in his hair, “I don’t wanna think about that right now.”

He nods, leaning down to kiss you again, slow and warm, like a balm.

“Just wanna show you how good you are,” he murmurs against your lips. “How perfect. For me. With me.”

You hesitate for a second, remembering the boundary you’d tried to put in place last time. No more messy comparisons or crossing wires. No more talk of Tommy during sex. But right now, with Joel hovering over you, his cock hard and hot against your thigh, your body still shaking from his mouth, all you want is to feel wanted. Claimed. Loved in the most primal, unshakable way.

“No one makes me feel like you do,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it, the truth of it curling in the space between you.

Joel stills slightly, lifting his head just enough to catch your eyes. “What was that?”

You look right at him, breath catching a little. “Tommy could never make me feel as good as you do, Joel.”

And maybe it’s petty, maybe it's mean and vengeful, but you don’t care. Because Joel’s eyes darken instantly. A low sound rumbles from his chest, and he leans in, lips brushing yours, voice barely held back. He nips at your bottom lip before murmuring:

“Say it again.”

You swallow, your pulse thrumming in your throat, your body still trembling from everything he’d already given you.

“You fuck me better than he ever could,” you whisper, breath hitching in your lungs. “Better than anyone ever has.”

Joel groans, low and rough, like it’s been pulled straight from his chest. He presses his forehead into the crook of your neck, the heat of his breath hot against your skin. One hand slides down to your thigh, gripping firmly, spreading you wider as he nestles between your legs. His other hand wraps around himself, thick and heavy in his palm.

You reach down, your smaller hand covering his, fingers curling over his wrist as you guide him to your center.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs, his voice reverent as he rubs the head of his cock through your slick folds. “So wet.”

Your breath shudders out, your lips brushing against his cheek. “For you, all for you,” you whisper, words trembling on your tongue. “I missed you, missed the way you make me feel. Every time.”

Joel groans again, rutting forward just enough to press the head of his cock at your entrance.

“Fill me up, Joel,” you breathe, your voice soft and aching. “Please.”

He sinks into you with a groan that sounds torn between pleasure and pain, the thick stretch of him dragging against every hypersensitive inch of your walls. It’s too much and not enough all at once. He fills you up completely, your pussy fluttering and pulsing just trying to accommodate the size of him, the heat of him. You gasp as your back bows, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders for purchase.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, legs wrapping tight around his hips, anchoring him to you. “You’re so…so deep.”

Joel’s head drops to your shoulder, his mouth pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin as he slowly starts to move, moaning into your skin. He takes long, languid strokes that feel endless, like he’s dragging himself through molasses, letting you feel every inch of him, every vein, the blunt head catching just right.

“You take me so goddamn well, baby,” he mutters, voice thick and reverent. “Always do. Always so tight, so fuckin’ wet for me.”

His body eclipses yours entirely, shielding you from the rest of the world like he’s your shelter, your storm, your everything. His forearms bracket your head, caging you in, the muscles in his back working under your palms as he drives into you with slow, consuming force.

“Feels so good, Joel,” you whisper, mouth pressing into his as his head turns to you, and you let out a breathless laugh as you admit, “Feels like you’re splitting me in half,”

You kiss him deeper, your tongue sweeping through his mouth before you say, “You make me feel so good, so wanted. Like I’m yours.”

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you again, lips kiss bitten and his eyes wild with heat and something deeper.

“You are mine,” he says, jaw tight. “Look at you, baby. Look at how fuckin’ pretty you are. Laid out for me like this. All mine.”

His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, as he shifts the angle of his hips. The new rhythm hits something inside you that makes you cry out, your fingers clawing at his back. Joel’s lip snarls at the look on your face, that primal, possessive side of him clawing its way out as he growls low in his throat, a sound more animal than human. He dips his head to take your breast in his mouth, sucking your nipple between his teeth while his hips never stop.

Your body lights up at the sensation, pleasure ripping through you as you keen beneath him, sweat beading at your temple.

He releases you with a wet pop, panting against your skin, the sound making your walls convulse and flutter around him. “You feel that, sweetheart? That’s how much I missed you. Missed this tight little pussy. Fuck—” he bites down gently on your other breast, then kisses the sting away.

You whimper, your body jerking as his cock pulses inside you.

“You’re so fucking big,” you gasp, “I can feel you everywhere—Joel—oh my god—”

“That’s it,” he grits, one hand slipping down to rub slow, aching circles over your clit. “Come on, baby. Come again for me. Let me feel you squeeze me. I need it. Need to feel you.”

Your head tips back as the pleasure builds again, white-hot and unforgiving. Your thighs tremble around his waist, slick with sweat and arousal, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the quiet of the room.

“Joel, I—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he rasps, speeding up, fucking you harder now, his mouth at your ear. “You’re so close, I can feel it. Come for me. Right now, mama. Right on this cock.”

You shatter for him, again, your whole body locking up as your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your vision blurring with the force of it. Joel curses, groaning as he watches you fall apart, his hips stuttering with the effort to hold back.

He doesn't stop.

Joel fucks you, his rhythm slow but steady as you milk him through your orgasm, savoring the stretch, watching your body open up around him. You’re soaked, still twitching and trembling as you come down, and he’s so thick but it doesn’t matter. You take him anyway. Your cunt flutters, pulling him in, and he grits his teeth at the way you clench down on him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice wrecked. “You feel like heaven, such a good girl for me,”

Your nails dig into his biceps as he starts to move faster again, hips grinding deep and mean, dragging moans out of you with every thrust. The stretch, the pressure, the weight of him has you gasping again, mouth open, eyes fluttering.

“Joel—”

“Uh-uh,” he growls, hand wrapping around your jaw, not tight, just enough to hold your head still so you’ll look at him. “Don’t start with the whining, sweetheart. You wanted this. You begged for it. Said no one fucks you like I do, remember? Look at me.”

You do, whimpering and pulling his thumb into your mouth, suckling on it, and that only makes him smile, a little dark and wicked but a sweetness still there when he kisses you over it.

“That’s right,” he says, rocking into you harder, filthier. “You like it when I ruin you. When I split you open and stuff you full of cock. You fuckin’ love it.”

You cry out as his hips slam forward, the angle brutal and perfect. He pulls his hand away to watch your tits bounce with every thrust, swollen and heavy.

“Christ,” he groans, “Look at these tits. So full. So fuckin’ pretty. My girl. The mother of my goddamn baby and still beggin’ for it so pretty, too.”

You clench around him at that, and he laughs, low and breathless.

“Oh, I know you like that, like when I talk dirty to you, huh, baby? When I tell you how good you are like this, all open and wet and mine?”

“Joel—please—”

“You’re fuckin’ milkin' me,” he growls, deep and low and primal, pulling back to watch his cock disappear into you again and again. “Drippin’ all over me. Look at this pussy, baby. Takin’ what’s hers, tight as a damn vice.”

You’re spiraling, thighs twitching, body already racing toward another climax. Joel feels it, sees it, smells it on you. His hand drops between your legs and he starts circling your clit, fingers rough, perfect, practiced.

“What’re we at now? Eight? Wanna make it nine?”

You shake your head, hands gripping his wrist, pushing him away.

“But you feel so good, clenchin’ around me like that baby, I think she wants it, damn near loves it.”

You shake your head again, but it’s half-hearted now, your grip on his wrist already weakening. The moment his fingers start circling again—tight and relentless, exactly where you need it—you whimper, back arching, thighs quivering around his hips.

“You’re so goddamn perfect. Every inch of you.”

You exhale hard, trying to catch your breath. “Joel…”

He leans over you, brushing a thumb along your cheekbone, then down to your lips, which are swollen and slick. “Talk to me, baby.”

“I love you,” you breathe, blinking up at him.

“I know, baby, I know,” he says breathlessly.

Your eyes squeeze shut, and the tears finally slip free, clinging to your lashes before they fall. You nod, lips trembling as you breathe through it, the words cracking out of you like you’ve been holding them back for years.

“You’ve always made me feel safe. Like... like I’m home.”

You don’t even know where it’s coming from, only that it’s true. Maybe it’s the release. Maybe it’s the eighth orgasm. Maybe it’s the months of aching and wanting and feeling like you’d lost yourself. But now, with him, his hands on you, his body still buried inside you, you feel found.

His hand cups your jaw, steadying you. “You are home. Right here with me. Always.”

You whimper as he slows down, still just as deep, stretching every inch of you. It’s overwhelming, even after everything, but it’s perfect—he’s perfect—and you cling to him like you might fall apart without him.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

You do. You meet those heavy, hazel and honey-dark eyes, and he stares back like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“Mine.” he murmurs, not asking, just claiming. “Always have been.”

Your breath stutters, your thighs twitching again. “Yours,” you echo, and he smiles like he’s never heard anything better.

“Say it again.”

“Yours, Joel,” you whimper. “I’m yours.”

“Damn right,” he whispers, picking up pace again. “And I’m yours. Every piece.”

You hold on with everything you have, arms locked around his neck, legs trembling, ankles crossed tight at his back, but your body is barely hanging on. You’ve lost count more than once of your orgasms, your body exhausted. Every nerve ending is raw, every breath shallow. You’re shaking, soaked, spread wide and taken fully, your skin slick with sweat and his touch.

He fucks you like he’s starved for it, like every part of him belongs here, in this moment, inside you. And it’s too much. The way his body dwarfs yours, his broad chest brushing your flushed, sensitive breasts, the deep, aching drag of his cock that finds every part of you like it was made to. You feel him everywhere. In your lungs. Your ribs. Your throat.

“Please,” you whisper, or maybe you moan, it doesn’t matter. It’s all coming apart at the seams, your vision blurring with tears of pleasure and overstimulation. “Please come with me.”

Joel groans, low and guttural, his hand cradling the back of your head as he presses a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your lips. “I will,” he breathes. “I got you. I always got you.”

Then you’re gone.

The world whites out. Your body locks, then convulses. Your thighs shake violently, clamping around his hips as your back arches off the bed. You feel everything and nothing—just heat, just pressure, just the overwhelming wave of pleasure snapping through your core and spiraling you under. You can’t breathe, can’t see. All you hear is Joel, panting and whispering your name like a prayer, his voice like static through the roar in your ears.

He follows, and you can feel it all. That deep, jolting pulse as he buries himself inside you and comes with a desperate, broken grunt. You feel every thick, hot rope of spend filling you, the warmth spreading deep, spilling from the seams. He twitches inside you, stilling as he empties himself completely.

Your eyes stay closed, the blackness of your lids soothing as your body pulses with the aftershocks of everything. You feel Joel, though. You feel the way his fingers press into your hair, tethering you to reality. His length still inside you, still pulsing, his lips still kissing you softly, over and over, like he’s trying to bring you back from wherever you just went.

“I got you, pretty girl,” he murmurs, barely audible over the sound of your panting. “I got you.”

You hum in response, tongue swiping over dry lips, lungs still trying to remember how to breathe.

“Holy shit,” you manage, voice hoarse, a dazed smile tugging at your mouth.

Joel chuckles, the sound rough and full of affection. “Too much?”

You shake your head slowly, the movement loose, hazy. You open your eyes to finally meet his, warm and swimming with something that settles you down to the bones.

“No,” you breathe. “Perfect.”

The crackle of the baby monitor cuts through the last of the silence, followed by a sharp, insistent cry. You both go still for a beat, like your minds haven’t quite caught up yet.

You groan softly, pressing your palm to your face. “Guess it’s my turn.”

Joel’s already moving, slowly sitting up and reaching for his pants at the foot of the bed. “Nah, I got 'em.”

You blink at him through the strands of your hair, still splayed against the pillow. “No, it’s okay, you were with him all morning—”

“I said I got him,” he says again, firmer this time, but not unkind. He leans over, brushes your hair gently away from your forehead, and kisses the space just above your brow. “You take a shower. We’ll join you in a minute. He needs a bath anyway. Little guy stinks.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Oh, so like you?”

His hand stills on his belt, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Easy,” he warns, though you can see the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

You giggle, covering your smile with the sheet as he buttons his fly and finishes dressing. He’s half-disheveled, hair a mess, skin blotchy red and a sheen of sweat across his chest, but still. You think he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Joel heads for the door, pausing just before the threshold. He glances back at you, eyes soft, a little smirk tugging at his lips. “You're gonna be okay. We will.”

You watch him go, heart aching in that strange, quiet way it does when you realize you're deeply, hopelessly in love. Not just with the way he touches you or how he fucks you—but with the way he remembers the baby needs a bath, the way he tells you to rest, the way he makes you feel safe and wanted and not alone in any of it.

The bed is warm around you, the room still thick with the scent of him, of you, of what you’ve just shared. You press your hand to your belly, smile against your wrist, and finally let yourself breathe.

It's going to be okay.

6 Months Later

Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Sammy, Happy birthday to you!

Applause erupts around the yard, a chorus of clapping and laughter and camera shutters. Sam just blinks, stunned by the attention, his round cheeks dusted pink as he stares at the sea of faces all beaming at him.

Joel steps up with the smash cake, all blue and white icing swirled across the top just like you made it the night before, carefully piping it under the glow of the kitchen light after Sammy had gone down. He sets it on the highchair, and the baby leans forward, captivated, pudgy hands curling into tight fists at the edge of the tray.

You guide him gently, pressing your own finger into the frosting to show him what to do. When you pop the sweet mess into your mouth, Sam follows, smashing his hand into the cake and shoving a generous amount into his mouth with startling determination.

You laugh, licking icing off your finger, glancing back at Joel beside you. “He gets that sweet tooth from you, you know.”

Joel hums in amused protest, slipping his arm around your shoulders. He dips a finger into the frosting and swipes it across your nose. You gasp, playfully scandalized, and he leans in to kiss it off with a quick, warm brush of his lips. Around you, no one notices. Phones are out, Sammy is being thoroughly documented from every angle, and the low buzz of chatter and laughter fills the air.

When the kiss ends, you linger just long enough to rest your head against Joel’s shoulder, soaking it in—an entire year of you and your baby. And Joel. Memories fly through your mind like a cinematic reel, first words, first steps, first tooth. He was growing too fast for his own good.

Then your eyes catch on something across the yard.

Tommy and Maria stand off to the side, a little tucked away but not distant. Maria has baby Abigail on her hip, the girl wearing a pale pink dress and matching bow, her tiny fingers waving excitedly in the direction of the cake. Tommy’s arm brushes Maria’s as they both smile toward Sam, and for a moment, it’s almost hard to remember how much it hurt—how messy things were.

“Dada!” Sammy calls out from the highchair, cake smeared from cheek to ear, holding up a sticky hand like an offering. Joel smiles, crouching to take a bite straight from his tiny fist. The baby squeals, delighted.

You leave Joel to play and cross the yard, dodging through guests of familiar neighbors, a few folks from Joel’s job, Sarah’s friends.

“Hey,” you say softly, coming to stand in front of Maria and Tommy.

“Hi,” they both say in near unison. There’s no tension in their voices, just tired smiles and that kind of weary, mutual understanding that only time can build.

You smile at the toddler in Maria’s arms. “Hi, miss Abby,” you coo, brushing a finger along her arm. “You enjoying the party? You get yourself some lunch?”

Abigail nods emphatically, then stretches out her arms toward you, open and wanting. “Auntie!”

Maria lets you take her without hesitation, and the baby settles in your arms with the trust of someone who already knows you love her. You hold her close, already sticky from something and warm, and glance back at your son, who’s now banging his fist against the tray while Joel pretends to be scandalized by every slap of icing.

“Thank you for coming,” you say to Maria, voice quiet but sincere.

“Of course,” she replies without missing a beat. “She’s been talking about ‘Sammy’s party’ for days.”

Tommy adds, rubbing a hand along Maria's back, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, smiling, and shift Abby against your hip. “You wanna go help Sam eat some of that cake?”

“Yes!!!” she squeals, and all three of you laugh.

And as you carry Abby back into the fray of laughter and frosting and the remains of one-year-old chaos, you feel the ache in your chest shift.

It’s not what any of you imagined. It’s more complicated, more layered. But the love is still there. There's effort. There's presence.

It’s messy, but it's family.

And family matters.

you guys 😭 what a journey it has been! THANK YOU so much for everyone who has been along for the ride with me. Whether you've been here since the very start, where I'd listened to some podcast tell a reddit story about a brother helping a couple conceive and falling in love, or maybe you found it somewhere along the way, i'm so so grateful you're here.

I had no idea it would grow into something like this or that so many of you would love it the way you have. Your comments, reblogs, messages, they mean the world to me. You've made the story feel bigger than just some silly joel miller fanfic I wrote in my free time. you made this truly special.

thank you for reading, for sharing, for sending me all your feelings, for rooting for these chaotic characters.

I love you. I'm eternally grateful.

love, may x

taglist: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @alidiggory92 @pinkylouise @izzy698 @doblasftcisco @devotedlypaleluminary @elsplayground @puduvallee @victoriaholland @legoemma @leenieweenie12 @possiblyafangirl @alitaar @mads198-9 @emmaoc10 @auteurdelabre @the-last-twin-of-krypton @lilasskicker2 @levislegislation @flowercrowns-goodvibes@starmurdock, @94namkooksworld, @staley83, @escapefromrealitylol, @starkleila, @ashleyfilm, @honeyydip, @timeladyrikaofgallifrey, @brooklynbbxo, @ratoonstown, @caroldxnvxrs, @lovelykat001, @snowlycanroc, @powellssaturn, @marylimlp, @pklol, @tomie-it-girl, @nayomi247, @joshylanefleet, @pedrospurplerain, @person-005, @beewithouthoney, @thegoldenhood, @aj0elap0l0gist

#family matters #the last freaking chapter omg :'(((#joel miller #tommy miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #tommy miller x you #tommy miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #tlou #the last of us #the last of us fic #tlou fic #joel tlou

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loop-lover-central · 2 days ago

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Not enough people talk about how all of the isat cast have some sort of parent issues.

Isabeau had a large family and was probably overlooked a lot. He dreamed of becoming someone that everyone would love pay attention to. He acts like a loud, boisterous, jokester and thinks that people are ashamed of knowing him from the get go. Middle child+gifted child that burned out to the MAX.

Mirabelle's parents most likely just did not understand her. And while they all love each other there's a huge disconnect between them and her (probably because of Mirabelle's struggles with amatonormativity). This is probably also why she thinks so highly of the head housemaiden and Odile tbh. Not maternal figures for Mira but more "Older women who (seem to) have themselves figured out and know what they want".

Bonnie's parents were literally just abusive. Like there's no beating around the bush with this one. It was so bad that Nille has obvious PTSD and ran away from home with Bonnie before Bonnie could remember them well, so like 5 tops. So if Bonnie is like 12-ish in game and Petronille is around Mira's age, which is early twenties, Nille ran away when she was like 15-ish probably.

Odile has such a complicated and deep parental issue that she still is feeling the ramifications of it into her late adulthood. She hates the absence of her mother. All the gaps that she left behind in her life. And while she loved her father deeply all the way until he died, there was probably some complicated slight resentment there. Because sometimes when you hate one of your parents you end up being mad at both of them because "why the fuck did you put me in this position".

Siffrin's parents just got Thanos snapped. And there's nothing he can do about that. He has to live with the absence always lingering just on the edge of his mind but disappearing as soon as they focus on it. And for an extra layer of Misery Loop has this same exact problem but WORSE because they literally erased their entire fucking timeline on top of that. And while Siffrin losing his parents was NOT his fault, Loop snuffing out an entire timeline and hitting the reset button is literally directly because they wished to never be alone again, stuck themselves in a time loop, and got so miserable and desperate they decided in a split moment that any price would be worth it.

Average queer friend group honestly.

#llc thinks #isat #isat spoilers #this whole family is mental illness incarnate I love them

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theseh00perscanh00p · 2 days ago

Text

Par for the Heart: Part 12

paige x azzi

a/n: This one was another emotional roller coaster, so sorry in advance. Contains some sexual content. Let me know your reactions and feedback and how many parts do we think this should be lol

word count: 10.4k

"Home for the Holidays (and Everything That Came With It)"

Even without snow, the city buzzed with a low hum of December—storefronts glowing, traffic lights blinking red and green, and the air holding a soft kind of anticipation. Their house smelled faintly of pine and gingerbread from the candle Azzi had insisted on lighting that morning. A box of half-wrapped presents sat open on the coffee table, scraps of festive paper curling at the corners. Christmas jazz hummed from the speaker in the background, and the heat kicked on just as Azzi sank onto the couch beside Paige.

But something in her didn’t settle.

She watched Paige scribble something on a gift tag—To Drew, from both of us—and swallowed hard.

Paige didn’t notice at first. Not until Azzi reached for the tape and missed it completely, fingers fumbling against the edge of the couch cushion like her mind had drifted somewhere far off.

“You good?” Paige asked, quiet, but not casual.

Azzi hesitated before nodding. “Yeah. I mean—no. I don’t know.”

That was enough for Paige to turn fully toward her, pen forgotten.

“What’s going on?”

Azzi looked at her for a long moment, expression almost sheepish. “I just realized… I don’t know that much about your family.”

Paige blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’re about to go spend the holidays with them, and I know their names, and you’ve told me little stories, but… I don’t really know them. Not the way you know mine.”

Paige softened immediately. “Az…”

“I feel kind of shitty about it,” Azzi admitted. “Like I’ve just been enjoying this version of you that lives here with me and works out with me and makes cinnamon toast on Sundays, but I haven’t asked enough about where you came from. And now we’re heading straight into all of that, and I just—what if I get it wrong?”

Paige reached for her hand, thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles. “You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s on me.”

Azzi looked skeptical. “How?”

“Because I didn’t offer it up,” Paige said. Her voice was steady, but there was something quieter under it. “I’ve spent a long time keeping all of that… at arm’s length. The mess. The hard stuff.”

Azzi’s brow furrowed.

“My family’s not bad,” Paige continued. “Just complicated. My parents split when I was young. And they didn’t just split—they detonated. Like, courtrooms and custody battles and new marriages within a year kind of detonated.”

Azzi squeezed her hand, staying silent.

“I spent a lot of years trying to be the neutral party. The fixer. The one who kept the peace. I think I got good at pretending none of it hurt. So even now, it’s just… easier not to talk about it.”

Azzi’s heart ached. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Paige gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know. I’m trying. I really am. But don’t beat yourself up for not knowing something I haven’t let anyone close enough to find out.”

“I want to be close enough,” Azzi whispered.

“I know,” Paige said, and this time, she smiled for real. “And you are.”

They sat in the quiet hum of the holidays for a few moments longer, fingers laced, wrapping paper forgotten.

“Okay,” Azzi said finally. “So maybe over the next few days, you tell me a story or two. Anything you want. Good or bad. I’ll take it all.”

Paige nodded. “Deal.”

Then, softly, “And just so you know—you’re gonna be great. My family’s complicated, but you… you’re solid.”

Azzi exhaled slowly, the weight in her chest easing.

“Okay then,” she said. “Let’s go do complicated.”

Paige leaned in, kissed her temple. “Together.”

—-

The rain had started that afternoon—gentle at first, just enough to gloss the windows of the house in a thin, shimmering layer. Now it was a soft backdrop to the evening, a rhythmic hush against the glass as Paige and Azzi sat on the couch, wrapped in the familiar comfort of shared silence.

Azzi’s head rested in Paige’s lap, long legs sprawled out over the cushions, while Paige absentmindedly played with a loose curl. The warmth between them was easy, familiar.

But tonight, something about the way Paige moved—just a little slower, a little more distant in her eyes—made Azzi pause.

“You good?” Azzi asked softly, fingers brushing Paige’s thigh.

Paige hesitated. Just long enough for Azzi to notice.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” she admitted. “About… what you said earlier, how little you actually know about my family background.”

Azzi sat up gently, giving her space but staying close. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready for.”

Paige shook her head. “I want to. You deserve to know. I just… I’ve spent so much of my life trying to unlearn it, I think I forgot how to talk about it.”

Azzi waited.

Paige took a deep breath, then let it go slow.

“My mom is… a narcissist,” she said plainly, like it was a fact she’d rehearsed. “It took me a long time to say that out loud. But it’s true. Everything in our house was always about her—her mood, her approval, her disappointment. You learn to shrink around people like that. To contort yourself into what makes them comfortable.”

Azzi reached for her hand, holding it gently between hers.

“I remember once—” Paige’s voice caught, but she kept going. “I got into this big junior tournament. It was the first time a scout was going to come see me play. I was twelve. I was so proud. And all she could say was that I needed to ‘tone it down’ because I looked like I was showing off in the video they filmed. She said, ‘You’ll make people hate you if you’re too good.’ Like she couldn’t stand me being good at something unless it made her look good.”

Azzi didn’t speak, just rubbed her thumb across Paige’s knuckles.

“My dad wasn’t… cruel like her. Just… quiet. Detached. Like he never knew what to do when things got loud or painful. I used to think he didn’t care, but now I know he just didn’t know how to show up. He finally apologized to me, after I moved to LA. Said he was sorry for not being better, for not seeing me.”

Paige paused. “We’re closer now, I guess. But it still feels like something’s unfinished.”

Azzi’s eyes softened. “That’s why you’re so soft with me,” she whispered. “Why you listen so hard. Why you notice the little things.”

Paige nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Because I know what it feels like to grow up in a house where no one sees you clearly. I swore I’d never make someone I love feel that way.”

Azzi leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You don’t. I’ve never felt more seen.”

They sat there a long while—Azzi with her hand on Paige’s knee, Paige with her heart cracked just enough to let more light in.

“I’m still learning how to trust that what we have is real,” Paige admitted quietly. “Some days I catch myself waiting for it to go sideways. But then you do something small—like today, when you remembered my dumb iced coffee order without asking—and it reminds me: not everything has to be hard.”

Azzi smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Paige’s ear. “We’ll keep making it easy. Together.”

Outside, the rain continued to fall, soft and steady like a promise.

And inside, Paige felt—maybe for the first time—like she didn’t have to carry any of it alone.

Paige’s thumb traced idle circles on the hem of the throw blanket draped across her lap. The rain hadn’t let up, but it suited the moment—like the world outside knew it wasn’t meant to interrupt.

Azzi was still curled close, listening with the kind of presence that made Paige feel like every word she spoke landed somewhere safe.

“There was this night,” Paige said, her voice quiet. “I think I was around eleven. My mom and dad had this screaming match in the kitchen—about bills or him getting home late or something. I’d just come home from practice. I remember standing at the front door, frozen, golf bag still on my back.”

Azzi watched her closely, barely breathing.

“I didn’t go in,” Paige continued. “I sat on the porch for three hours. It was freezing, but I didn’t care. I kept thinking: If they can’t get it together, what chance do I have?”

Azzi’s heart ached.

“That night,” Paige said slowly, “I decided I’d never yell in a relationship. That I’d never slam a door. That I’d always make the people I love feel chosen. Not tolerated.”

She blinked hard, like something was clawing its way out from years of being buried.

“I started keeping a journal around then—filled it with all the ways I’d want to be loved one day. Dumb things, like: asks how my day was even if I don’t say anything first, or doesn’t make me beg for attention.”

Azzi reached out and gently laced their fingers together.

“I think I became so soft,” Paige whispered, “because I had to be my own safe place for so long. And now with you… I get to share it.”

Azzi leaned forward, kissing her hand. “You’re still that safe place. But now you don’t have to be it alone.”

There was a pause, one of those full silences.

“Did you ever tell anyone this before?” Azzi asked.

Paige shook her head. “I’ve hinted. KK probably knows more than she lets on. But no, not like this.”

“I’m honored,” Azzi said softly. “I mean that.”

Paige gave a half-smile. “I think part of me was afraid if I said it out loud, it would make it too real. Like I’d have to admit how much of me was shaped by things I never asked for.”

“You didn’t deserve any of it,” Azzi said. “But you still became someone good. That’s not a coincidence.”

Paige turned her head, blinking down at her. “You really think I’m good?”

Azzi’s voice didn’t waver. “I think you’re the best person I know.”

The words landed heavy and warm, the kind of weight that didn’t hurt—but held.

And Paige, who’d spent years quieting herself, felt something shift. Like a knot finally loosening in the center of her chest.

She leaned forward, resting her forehead to Azzi’s.

“I love you,” she said, not like a confession—but like a truth finally safe enough to rest in.

Azzi smiled. “I know. And I love you right back.”

Rain tapped softly on the windows. The blanket settled warmer around them. And Paige, in the quiet of their home, felt something new and unfamiliar.

Peace.

They were still tucked on the couch, Paige’s legs stretched over Azzi’s lap, the city outside their windows a blur of lights behind the rain.

Paige shifted slightly, her fingers picking at a loose thread in the throw pillow beside her. “There’s another one,” she said after a while. “A memory. It’s small, but it kind of… stuck with me.”

Azzi looked up from where she’d been trailing gentle circles on Paige’s shin. “Tell me.”

Paige drew in a breath, eyes going soft with distance. “I had this elementary school awards ceremony—third grade, I think. I was getting something for perfect attendance, or reading… whatever it was, I was proud. And I remember standing on that little stage, looking out into the crowd.”

She paused.

“My mom had forgotten. She was supposed to come, but she didn’t show. My dad picked up a shift. So when they called my name, I walked across that stage to this auditorium of strangers. No clapping from anyone I knew. No pictures.”

Azzi’s chest tightened. “Paige…”

“I didn’t cry or anything. I just smiled for the photo and kept it moving.” She gave a short laugh. “Later that night, I taped the award to the fridge myself.”

Azzi didn’t interrupt—just listened.

“I think… that’s the moment something in me changed. Like, if I ever got the chance to be in someone’s corner, I’d never let them wonder if I was proud. Or if I’d show up.”

Azzi was quiet for a long beat, her eyes holding Paige’s. “And you’ve kept that promise. For everyone. For me.”

“I try,” Paige said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I think it’s why I go so hard for the people I love. I just… remember how it felt when no one showed up. I’d rather overdo it than let someone feel that way.”

Azzi leaned forward and kissed her, slow and certain. “You never have to do that alone again.”

“I know,” Paige whispered against her lips. “But sometimes it still feels like I do. Like I have to earn the good things.”

Azzi touched her cheek gently. “Not with me. You don’t have to earn a damn thing with me.”

They sat in that moment—two hearts, unlearning old survival instincts together. Paige didn’t say anything right away. But her body softened, just a little. Her head dropped to Azzi’s shoulder, and her breath eased out like she was finally setting something down.

A part of her would probably always carry that little girl, standing on a stage with no one in the crowd.

But now… someone was in the crowd. Always. And she was sitting right beside her.

—-

It was late in the evening, the night before their flight, and the house glowed with a gentle kind of stillness. The Christmas tree lights blinked quietly in the corner—soft whites and golds casting a calm warmth across the living room. The suitcase lay open on the rug, half-zipped, surrounded by folded clothes, tangled chargers, and a few scattered gift bags.

Paige sat cross-legged on the floor, tucking a final sweater into the side pocket, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration.

Behind her, Azzi moved around the space with the easy comfort of someone at home—folding the throw blanket over the back of the couch, checking the thermostat, turning off lights in the kitchen. She returned with quiet footsteps and sat behind Paige, wrapping her arms gently around her waist and resting her chin on Paige’s shoulder.

“You’ve packed this bag like six times,” Azzi murmured with a small smile. “What are we forgetting?”

Paige laughed under her breath. “Nothing, probably. I’m just… I don’t know. Making sure it all feels right.”

She leaned into Azzi’s hold slightly, her hands stilling on the zipper. The weight of anticipation hung in the air, not heavy, but full.

“You sure you still want to do the split?” Paige asked softly, her voice brushing against the quiet. “Christmas with your family, New Year’s with mine?”

Azzi didn’t hesitate. “That’s what we decided, right?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, nodding slowly. “I just… It’s a lot. My family’s… a lot. I’ve never brought someone into all of it before. And not just for a visit—for a whole thing.”

Azzi shifted beside her, brushing a piece of hair behind Paige’s ear. “It’s not just your family anymore. It’s us, now. Our holidays.”

Paige blinked, her heart catching in her chest at the word our. She smiled faintly, voice quiet. “That sounds really good when you say it like that.”

“It is good,” Azzi said. “It’s what we’ve been building. You don’t have to brace yourself for it alone.”

Paige exhaled, the tension softening in her shoulders just a little. “It’s strange… how easy this has all felt. Us. This place. The rhythms we’ve fallen into. I keep waiting for the shoe to drop.”

Azzi kissed her shoulder. “I think maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like. Not easy because it’s perfect—but easy because it’s right.”

They were quiet for a beat, both absorbing the stillness before the whirlwind of travel and family noise and overlapping traditions.

Then Paige smiled, just a little. “Okay. Let’s do this. One more check: chargers, pajamas, your grandma’s gift, and… oh, the travel snacks.”

“I already packed them,” Azzi said proudly.

“You’re amazing.”

“I know.”

Paige leaned back into her, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I’m really glad it’s you.”

Azzi squeezed her waist gently. “It was always going to be me.”

The moment stretched—soft, warm, and real. The tree lights blinked quietly beside them, and outside, the city buzzed in preparation for the holiday rush. But in here, it was still. Steady. Chosen.

Tomorrow would bring airports and family hugs and all the chaos that came with showing someone the people and places that made you who you were.

But tonight… it was just them.

Home, in the truest sense of the word.

—-

Azzi’s family home smelled like cinnamon and butter the second they walked in—someone had clearly been baking for hours, and based on the tray of cookies already sitting on the entryway table, it was only just beginning.

“Backpacks off. Coats off. Mouths open,” Azzi’s aunt called from the kitchen without even turning around. “We’re taste testing batches today.”

Paige laughed, arms still halfway through her coat sleeves. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

Azzi grinned. “Auntie Mel is in finals week mode. She’s not playing around.”

Within minutes, Paige had been pulled into the kitchen by two of Azzi’s cousins, offered a spatula covered in frosting, and then interrogated by Azzi’s uncle about how many layers she was packing for the family sledding tournament tomorrow.

“Layers save lives,” he declared solemnly, slapping a hand on her shoulder. “And don’t let Azzi fool you, she cheats. Waxes her sled.”

“I do not!” Azzi shouted from the living room, already helping untangle a string of lights while her grandma shouted commentary from her armchair.

Paige watched the chaos unfold with a soft kind of wonder. It was noisy. Messy. Beautiful. The kind of holiday energy you didn’t just feel—you waded through. And she had been welcomed in like she was already part of it all.

Azzi leaned against the wall beside her, elbow brushing Paige’s. “Overwhelmed yet?”

“A little,” Paige admitted, grinning. “But, like, in a good way. You were not kidding about Christmas being a sport in this house.”

Azzi smirked. “We don’t do casual.”

They spent the next several days tucked into the soft center of every family event imaginable. Cookie decorating turned into competitive snowman-building. They went ice skating and Paige somehow ended up racing Azzi’s younger cousins (and lost). Azzi’s grandma insisted on teaching Paige how to make traditional family recipes—while loudly declaring Paige was “too pretty to not know how to roll dough right.”

At night, Paige and Azzi curled up on the guest bed under a ridiculous holiday quilt, whispering and giggling like kids at a sleepover.

“I haven’t laughed this much in ages,” Paige whispered one night as they lay tangled together, the sound of wind and distant carolers leaking in from the frosty windows.

Azzi smiled sleepily. “They love you, you know.”

“I love them too,” Paige said, voice low. “And I love you.”

Azzi looked over at her, brushing her nose against Paige’s. “Merry almost-Christmas, P.”

“Merry almost-Christmas, Baby” Paige whispered back, heart full in a way she hadn’t even known she needed.

The next morning the house smelled like vanilla and something buttery in the oven. Holiday jazz played low from a speaker in the corner, barely audible over the flurry of voices and laughter filling every room. The fireplace cracked and popped beneath stockings too full to hang properly, and outside, snow blanketed the porch steps, undisturbed but glittering under the pale morning sun.

Paige stood tucked beside Azzi in the living room, mug of hot cocoa in her hands, watching as Azzi’s little cousins tore into wrapping paper like it was a sport. One of them held up a gift and shouted across the room, “Azzi, look what I got!” before immediately turning to Paige with just as much excitement: “Did you see?!”

Paige smiled, lifting her mug in salute. “Elite gift. You crushed it.”

Across the couch, Azzi’s uncle had fallen asleep halfway through his second cinnamon roll, and her aunt was bustling in and out with trays of food and plates of cookies she kept insisting people “just try one more of.” Wrapping paper littered the rug, and Paige had a fuzzy red bow stuck to the hem of her sweater that Azzi kept pretending not to see.

Azzi’s mom handed Paige a neatly wrapped box with a knowing smile. “For you, sweetie. From all of us.”

Paige blinked. “Wait—me?”

“Of course,” Azzi’s mom said, sliding an arm around her. “You’re family now, aren’t you?”

Paige’s heart skipped. The box felt heavier than it was—sentiment wrapped in ribbon.

Azzi leaned in and kissed the top of Paige’s shoulder. “Open it.”

Inside was a quilt—soft, oversized, clearly handmade. Sewn into the corner was a patch embroidered with a golf ball and a tiny heart. Paige ran her fingers over it like it might disappear if she looked away too long.

“Azzi told us you get cold all the time,” her aunt chimed in from the armchair. “And figured you might want something to keep at your place… or ours.”

It was said so casually. Yours… or ours. Like both belonged to her now.

Paige swallowed against the tightness in her throat, unsure how to respond without crying. “This is… beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re stuck with us now,” Azzi’s brother called from the corner with a wink.

Azzi pulled her close and whispered, “Told you they’d love you.”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She just leaned into Azzi’s side, tucked under her arm, and let herself be held by a family that made space for her—not just as Azzi’s girlfriend, but as someone who belonged.

Later that night, once the little ones were tucked in Paige caught Azzi in the hallway and whispered, “You still wanna do our gifts just us, right?”

Azzi nodded, a smile tucked behind tired eyes. “Just us.”

The fireplace was low and flickering, casting a golden hue over the living room. Azzi sat cross-legged in front of the tree, still wearing the oversized hoodie Paige had loaned her earlier that morning—her curls up in a messy bun, a little tinsel caught in one strand from helping the younger cousins redecorate after they’d knocked half the ornaments off during a game of tag.

Paige walked in carrying two neatly wrapped boxes and two glasses of red wine. She handed one to Azzi with a wink.

“This is the adult Christmas. Just us.”

Azzi smiled, her free hand brushing against Paige’s as she took the glass. “Finally. I love you, but if I had to watch one more Elf re-run with a six-year-old on my neck—”

Paige chuckled. “You love it.”

Azzi tilted her head. “I love you, being here for it. That’s different.”

Paige set their gifts on the rug between them and sat down, cross-legged, mirroring Azzi.

“Okay,” Paige said, suddenly a little shy. “Which one of us is going first?”

Azzi reached forward and nudged the smaller box toward Paige. “You.”

Paige gave her a look. “You sure?”

Azzi nodded. “I need to see your face when you open it.”

Paige peeled back the paper slowly—deliberately—revealing a black leather photo album with their initials embossed on the cover. Inside were printed photos from the past several months: candids from Azzi’s family lake house, a blurry one from the WNBA homecoming game, tournament selfies, Paige in a golf cart mid-laugh, Azzi icing her knee with a dramatic pout.

And on the final page—a picture of the two of them, curled up on the couch from just a week ago, captioned in Azzi’s handwriting:

“My favorite place to be is wherever you are.”

Paige didn’t say anything for a long moment—just flipped back to the beginning and stared, her fingertips brushing across each image like they were sacred.

When she finally looked up, her voice was thick. “I don’t even know how to thank you for this.”

Azzi shrugged, trying not to get emotional herself. “I just… I wanted us to have something to remember it all. Our first everything. In case one day we forget what the beginning looked like.”

Paige leaned forward and kissed her softly. “I’ll never forget.”

Azzi whispered, “Me either.”

Paige cleared her throat and reached behind her for her own box. “Okay. Your turn.”

Azzi tore the paper with far less grace—grinning as she opened the box to find… another, smaller box inside.

She shot Paige a look. “If this is a prank—”

“It’s not,” Paige promised.

Azzi opened the smaller box and gasped.

Inside was a custom silver pendant necklace—simple, delicate. On the front: the coordinates of where they’d met for the first time at the celebrity golf tournament. On the back, etched so small she had to hold it up to the light to read it:

“The moment I found you.”

Azzi stared at it, completely still.

Paige’s voice was soft. “I wanted to mark the exact place everything changed for me. Because the truth is, Az… I didn’t know what real love was supposed to feel like until I looked at you across that damn green and thought, I hope she talks to me.”

Azzi pressed the pendant to her lips. Her eyes were shimmering now, but she didn’t cry. Not yet.

“You said I gave you a place to belong,” she said quietly. “But you gave me a future I actually want to run toward.”

Paige reached for her hand. “So… this is our beginning. And I hope every Christmas after this one, we get to look back and say, that’s where it all really started.”

Azzi nodded, leaning in.

And this kiss wasn’t about heat, or need, or playfulness.

It was reverent. Soft. The kind of kiss that said: I’ll remember this. All of it. Always.

And when they pulled apart, Azzi looped the necklace around her neck and whispered,

“Now I get to carry you with me, everywhere.”

—-

The drive after landing in Minnesota to her mom’s house was quiet—not tense, just filled with the kind of silence that said this matters. Azzi reached over more than once, squeezing Paige’s thigh, brushing her pinky against Paige’s hand on the gearshift, all quiet reassurances that she was here, that she wasn’t going anywhere.

But as they pulled into the familiar driveway, Paige’s stomach twisted like it had when she was seventeen and about to ask for permission to move out.

Azzi noticed. Of course she did.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

Paige stared at the front door. “Yeah. Just… nerves. It’s been a while since I was here.”

“You don’t have to do this for anyone else.”

“I know,” Paige said. “But I want to do it for me.”

She stepped out of the car with resolve, Azzi close behind. As they reached the door, Paige took a breath and raised her hand to knock.

Her mother opened it a beat later, all lip-gloss smiles and over-rehearsed warmth.

“Paige! Finally,” she said, her voice sugary. Her eyes flicked to Azzi. “And you must be Azzi—how lovely to meet you.”

Azzi smiled and extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Jones.”

“Oh please, call me Amy,” her mother said, her voice a little too bright. “Come in, come in.”

Paige could feel the shift immediately—the performance, the pleasantries, the way her mom’s eyes skimmed over the subtle closeness between her and Azzi like she was pretending not to see it.

But then her little sister, Lauren, darted out from the hallway, practically launching into Paige’s arms.

“Paaaiiige!” she squealed. “You’re finally here!”

Paige crouched to hug her tight, heart already softening.

“I missed you so much, bug.”

Her younger brother, Ryan, followed with more reserved energy but just as much joy. “Hey, Azzi,” he said, surprising her. “I watched your last game before the injury. You’re a beast.”

Azzi laughed, genuinely. “Thanks, man. I’ve been trying to heal up fast.”

The evening settled into a soft rhythm. Dinner was calm. Lauren wouldn’t leave Azzi’s side, showing her drawings and asking about basketball. Ryan asked Paige about golf. For a moment, it all felt… okay.

Then came the party.

Amy’s holiday parties weren’t warm. They were curated. Everything from the wine selection to the jazz playing quietly through the sound system felt like it had been chosen to impress, not embrace. The guest list was a collection of polished people with perfect shoes and polite smiles—coworkers, clients, acquaintances who referred to each other by full names and job titles.

Paige had been to enough of these as a teenager to know how to survive them: smile tight, speak little, and don’t get in Amy’s way. But tonight, she wasn’t alone.

Azzi stood beside her in a cream sweater, her curls swept back, her presence effortlessly grounded in a room full of artifice. Paige hadn’t let go of her hand once—not out of nerves, but because holding it reminded her she didn’t have to shrink herself here anymore. Not tonight.

But then it happened.

They were near the mantel, Paige introducing Azzi to a vaguely familiar finance guy and his wife, when a woman in a sharp red coat turned to Amy with a warm smile and said, “Isn’t it lovely having your daughter home for the holidays?”

Amy smiled—glossy, polished. Too practiced.

“Oh yes,” she said smoothly, setting down her glass of prosecco. “Paige brought her friend Azzi—she’s an athlete too.”

Friend.

The word detonated in Paige’s chest like a slow-burning fuse.

She didn’t react at first—just blinked, like maybe she heard it wrong. But the look on Azzi’s face told her she hadn’t. Her jaw had gone tight, shoulders pulling in slightly. It was the kind of tension Paige had seen on her just before big games—when something unfair had happened and Azzi had to choose whether to react or rise above.

Paige stepped forward.

“Actually,” she said, steady but pointed, “Azzi’s my girlfriend.”

The conversation around them didn’t stop, but it might as well have.

“We’ve been together almost a year now,” Paige added, her voice ringing just loud enough.

The woman in red blinked, surprised but polite. “Oh! That’s lovely.”

Amy didn’t speak. But her smile faltered, her fingers tightening slightly around the stem of her glass. Her expression was unreadable, but Paige recognized the flicker behind her eyes: disapproval dressed up in restraint.

As the woman moved on to greet someone else, Amy turned toward Paige with a practiced smile stretched too thin.

“Could you not make a scene?” she hissed, voice low but biting. “This isn’t the time.”

Paige stared at her. “You mean it’s not the time to acknowledge who I love?”

Amy’s mouth flattened. “I didn’t want to have to explain your situation to every guest—”

“My situation?” Paige’s voice cut through, sharp now. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

Amy glanced around, eyes scanning the room like she was afraid someone might be watching.

“This is my home,” she said, voice tight.

“And this is my life,” Paige snapped. “Azzi is not a phase or a detail you get to rewrite. You don’t get to parade me around like some polished success story and then strip away the parts that don’t fit your image.”

Amy’s jaw clenched. “Paige—please don’t make this difficult.”

“I’m not,” Paige said, voice trembling with restraint. “You are. And you don’t have to like every part of who I am, but you will respect the person I love.”

A beat passed.

Then Azzi appeared, her presence grounding the tension instantly. She placed a gentle hand at the small of Paige’s back, looking between them.

“Everything okay?” she asked softly, already knowing it wasn’t.

Amy opened her mouth, but Paige was faster. “We were just clarifying something,” she said, turning toward Azzi. “That my life—and the person I choose—isn’t up for debate.”

Amy didn’t reply. Her silence—so often a tool of power—felt like an admission this time.

Paige turned to Azzi, nodding toward the back of the house. “Let’s go sit with Lauren and Ryan.”

Azzi nodded, slipping her hand into Paige’s as they walked away. Her touch was steady. Unwavering.

Later that night, in the quiet of the guest room with only the soft hum of wind outside the window, Paige lay on her back staring at the ceiling. Azzi was curled into her side, warm and quiet.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Then Azzi said, “You didn’t deserve that.”

Paige swallowed. “Neither did you.”

Azzi shifted, brushing her thumb over Paige’s hand. “You don’t always have to shield me, you know.”

“I know,” Paige whispered. “But when she tries to make me smaller… it’s you that reminds me I don’t have to be.”

Azzi kissed her temple. “I’ve got you. All of you.”

And this time, Paige didn’t argue. She just held on tighter.

Because maybe this wasn’t the home that held her best—but wrapped in Azzi’s arms, she had never felt more claimed. More chosen.

More seen.

The following morning sun spilled through gauzy curtains, but there was no warmth in the kitchen.

Paige sat stiffly at the breakfast bar, stirring her coffee long after the cream had settled. Azzi stood nearby, leaning silently against the counter, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, watching Paige like she might shatter.

Across from them, Amy moved around the kitchen with a kind of deliberate efficiency, pulling plates from the cabinets, buttering toast, as if nothing had happened the night before.

As if she hadn’t called her daughter’s relationship a situation.

As if her silence hadn’t said everything.

“I’m not going to apologize,” Amy finally said, breaking the quiet.

Paige set her mug down with a soft clink. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“Well, good,” Amy said too quickly. “Because I think it’s unfair of you to expect me to change who I am just to accommodate—”

“To accommodate the fact that I’m in love with someone?” Paige cut in, voice low but firm.

Amy didn’t meet her eyes. “To accommodate the way you push everything into the spotlight.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You introduced my girlfriend as my friend,” Paige said, not angrily—but with a cool, sad finality. “You erased her in a room full of people who claim to know me. And you’ve been doing it for years in your own quiet way.”

Amy turned, arms folded. “This is my house.”

“Exactly,” Paige said. “It’s your house. It’s never been mine.”

Azzi flinched, just barely, at the quiet devastation in her voice.

Paige stood up, hands steady now.

“We’ll leave after breakfast,” she said, not as a threat—but a boundary drawn in permanent marker. “You don’t want us here. That’s clear. So we won’t stay where we’re not welcome.”

Just then, Lauren peeked around the corner, rubbing her eyes, Ryan trailing behind.

Paige’s heart cracked on sight.

She crouched low as they came into the room, gathering both into a hug, her voice soft but weighted.

“Hey. We’re gonna leave after breakfast, okay? But it’s not because of you.”

“But we just started hanging out,” Lauren pouted, burying her face into Paige’s hoodie.

“I know,” Paige said, brushing a curl from her sister’s cheek. “But we’ll see each other again later today, just… not here.”

Ryan frowned. “Is Mom mad?”

Paige hesitated. “Sometimes grown-ups don’t agree on things. But that has nothing to do with how much I love you both, okay? And I want you to always feel safe asking questions. Even the hard ones.”

Lauren nodded slowly.

Ryan looked at Azzi. “Can you still come, too?”

Azzi smiled gently. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Paige kissed both their foreheads and stood, turning toward her mom one last time.

“I hope one day you realize what you’re pushing away,” she said.

Amy said nothing.

But Paige didn’t need her to anymore.

She had made her choice.

And when they left that house—hand in hand—Paige didn’t look back.

Because some places weren’t home.

But people could be.

And Azzi was the only home she needed.

The tires hummed softly against the road as the car moved through winding backstreets, no real destination in mind. Just space. Just air.

The sky was heavy with gray-blue dusk, that in-between light where streetlamps flicker to life but the sun hasn’t fully let go. Paige had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh. Azzi’s fingers reached across the console, curled around hers like an anchor.

They hadn’t said much since pulling away from her mom’s house. The kind of silence that wasn’t cold—just full.

Finally, Paige exhaled. “That sucked.”

Azzi turned to look at her. “Yeah. It did.”

“I knew it was gonna be tense, but… I didn’t expect it to hit me like that,” Paige admitted. Her voice was calm, but threaded with something brittle. “It’s not even what she said. It’s what she didn’t say. What she’s always not said.”

Azzi nodded, thumb brushing small circles against Paige’s knuckles. “You held your ground.”

Paige gave a soft, wry smile. “You think?”

“I know.” Azzi shifted slightly in her seat, eyes locked on Paige. “You didn’t shrink yourself for her comfort. You called it out. You made space for the truth. That’s brave as hell.”

Paige let that sit for a moment. Then she laughed under her breath, short and a little tired. “You know what’s wild? I’m actually… proud of myself.”

Azzi’s eyes softened instantly. “Good. You should be.”

She blinked out at the windshield, the faint glow of oncoming headlights sliding across her face. “But it still hurts. Even when you expect it. Even when you’ve built a whole life that has nothing to do with their approval… it still stings.”

Azzi squeezed her hand. “Of course it does. You deserved better. You deserve better.”

Paige’s jaw tensed, then released. “It’s like… no matter how much success I have, how much love I have in my life now—it’s still not enough for her to see me fully.”

Azzi was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “I see you fully.”

That cracked something open. Not in a painful way—but in the way warmth seeps into frozen places.

Paige looked over, eyes glassy but steady. “Thank you for being there.”

Azzi leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “Always.”

They kept driving, slow and aimless, letting the quiet fill back in. Letting the pain ease its grip.

The night was still ahead of them. And despite everything, Paige felt lighter.

Maybe not whole.

But closer.

—-

The neon glow of the arcade blinked in bright blues and reds across Paige’s face as she watched her younger brother lose his mind over the claw machine. Azzi stood a few feet away with Paige’s sister, both of them laughing as they tried—and failed—to beat each other at ski ball.

It was noisy and chaotic and smelled like pizza grease and sour candy. But for once, none of it felt overwhelming. It felt right.

Paige leaned back against the side of the game cabinet, sipping her slushie and watching her siblings light up in a way she hadn’t seen in too long.

“Okay, okay—watch this one,” her brother said, intensely focused, maneuvering the joystick like it held the fate of the world.

“You’ve said that the last three times,” Paige teased.

“Yeah, but this time, I’m actually locked in.”

Azzi walked over with a smug smile. “He’s been locked in for twenty minutes. I’m pretty sure the machine’s just bullying him at this point.”

“I heard that!” he yelled, and they all laughed.

Later, after the games had been played and prize tickets cashed in for candy and slap bracelets and a single bouncy ball that cost 700 points, they all piled into the booth of a nearby ice cream spot—one of those ones with metal chairs and handwritten chalkboard menus.

Paige let her little sister steal some of her whipped cream. Azzi shared her cone with her brother because he needed to try the cotton candy flavor. They were loud and ridiculous and somehow a little family in their own right.

And for a moment, Paige forgot about the tension from the morning. Forgot about the look on her mom’s face when she corrected her. Forgot about all the years she spent trying to earn a kind of love that never came.

Because this—this right here—was love. Uncomplicated, goofy, sticky-fingered love.

“Thanks for today,” her sister said softly, swinging her legs under the table. “It’s been a while since it felt like this.”

Paige blinked, her chest pulling a little. “Like what?”

Her sister shrugged. “Like… you’re really here. Like everything’s okay.”

Paige reached out and gently tugged one of her curls. “I am really here.”

Her brother, mouth full of marshmallow topping, looked up. “You’re gonna come back more, right?”

Azzi stepped in without hesitation. “We both are.”

Paige glanced at her—at the way she didn’t flinch, didn’t wait to be asked. She just showed up. It made her heart do that fluttery, shaky thing it always did when Azzi said we like that.

“Yeah,” Paige echoed, voice softer. “We both are.”

Outside, the sky was streaked with stars. The kind you could barely see through the city’s glow, but they were there. Quiet. Constant.

And Paige, for the first time in a long time, felt like maybe—just maybe—she was starting to feel that way too.

—-

The hotel room was simple—two queen beds, warm lighting, and the faint scent of lemon cleaner still lingering in the air. Paige had kicked off her sneakers the second they got in and collapsed backward onto the bed with a long exhale, her arm draped over her eyes.

Azzi watched her for a moment from across the room, slipping out of her own shoes more slowly. There was something in the way Paige was lying there—not exhausted exactly, but unloaded. Like everything she’d been holding in had finally spilled out, and now there was nothing left but the ache of vulnerability.

Azzi padded over and crawled onto the bed beside her, laying on her side. Paige didn’t move at first, just kept her arm over her face like she wasn’t ready to be seen.

But Azzi reached up and gently pulled it away.

“Hey,” she said softly.

Paige blinked at the ceiling, her mouth twitching. “Hey.”

Azzi studied her face for a moment, then said, “You okay?”

Paige let out a breath through her nose. “I think so. That was just… a lot. I didn’t think seeing them would hit me like that.”

“You were amazing with them,” Azzi said. “The way they lit up around you? You’re their whole world.”

Paige looked over at her, eyes a little glassy. “Sometimes I feel like… I’m trying to stitch together a version of home that never really existed for me.”

Azzi’s chest pulled. She reached out and took Paige’s hand. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“It’s just scary,” Paige admitted. “Letting you see all this. Letting you into all this.”

Azzi squeezed her hand. “Paige… I’ve been in it. I know it’s messy. I know there are parts of you that still don’t believe you’re allowed to want the kind of love you give everyone else.”

Paige went quiet, her eyes searching Azzi’s like she wasn’t sure what to say.

Azzi leaned closer, her voice low but sure. “But I want you to know—I’m not scared off by any of it. Not your past. Not your mom. Not the years you spent learning how to take care of yourself because no one else did it right.”

She brushed a hand through Paige’s hair, her touch slow and grounding. “You’ve built this life with so much intention. With so much softness, despite everything that tried to harden you.”

A pause.

“I’m falling more in love with you because of it,” Azzi said, her voice catching just slightly. “Not in spite of it. Not around it. Because of it.”

Paige’s eyes welled, but she didn’t look away this time.

Azzi smiled gently. “You’ve been showing up for everyone your whole life. Let me show up for you, okay? Let me keep showing up.”

Paige’s lip trembled, and she nodded once before pulling Azzi into her arms, burying her face in her neck. The hug wasn’t frantic or urgent—it was slow and certain, a deep breath in human form.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For not flinching.”

Azzi kissed her temple. “Never.”

The hotel room was quiet, all the sharpness of the day dulled into a hush. The low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional swoosh of a passing car outside were the only sounds left in the world.

Paige lay on her side, one arm draped across Azzi’s waist, her cheek resting against her shoulder. Their bodies had long since learned each other. They’d touched, gasped, loved in every way before—but something about this moment felt different. Not new. Just… clearer.

Azzi’s fingers idly traced the curve of Paige’s back, slipping beneath the hem of her t-shirt to feel the warm skin there. She wasn’t coaxing anything. Just… there. Present. Intentional.

Eventually, Paige looked up, her eyes soft and steady.

“You okay?” Azzi murmured.

Paige nodded. “Yeah. Just… it feels like I’m finally breathing right.”

Azzi smiled, brushing a thumb across Paige’s cheek. “You are.”

There was a pause, not heavy—just thoughtful.

Then Paige’s gaze shifted, deepened.

“I want to love you tonight,” she said, her voice low but sure. “Not like a release. Not like a distraction. Just… you.”

Azzi didn’t need time to think. She simply nodded, pulling Paige closer until their foreheads touched. “Then love me. We know how.”

They moved together like muscle memory—but slower, more deliberate than before. Clothes were eased off, not in haste but reverence. There was nothing rushed in how Paige kissed down Azzi’s stomach, nothing performative in the way Azzi’s hands slid up her back. They’d done this before. But never like this.

Every kiss was quieter. Every breath was met with one in return. They weren’t chasing anything. They were meeting each other—touch for touch, heart for heart.

Paige laid herself fully over Azzi, fitting into her like she belonged there. Like she’d always belonged there. Her hand slid down Azzi’s thigh as her lips pressed to her neck, and Azzi tilted her head without thinking, offering the vulnerable space beneath her jaw like a secret.

“God, you feel like home,” Paige whispered, her breath warm against skin. “Like something I didn’t know I could have.”

Azzi pulled her tighter. “You do have it. You have me.”

And Paige showed her just how deeply she believed that.

She moved inside her with a kind of reverence that made Azzi tremble—slow, grounded thrusts that made her body arch and sigh, made her eyes flutter shut and then open again, needing to see Paige.

Their rhythm wasn’t new. But it had never felt this intentional.

Azzi clutched at Paige’s back, her legs tightening around her waist. “You love me different tonight,” she whispered.

Paige pressed their foreheads together. “I love you truer tonight.”

Their mouths met again, messier now—breathless and aching as Azzi’s moans grew quieter, tighter, hips beginning to shake with the buildup she couldn’t hold back.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped, “don’t stop—just like that—”

“I’m right here,” Paige murmured, voice hoarse. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”

And Azzi did.

Not with the same wild abandon they sometimes had—but with something quieter. More consuming. Her entire body tensed, then unfurled, her head falling back with a sound she only ever made when she felt safe.

Paige stayed with her through it, kissing her throat, her cheek, her temple—holding her like she was more than a body. Because she was.

When Azzi finally caught her breath, she cradled Paige’s face in her hands and pulled her into a kiss that said everything she didn’t have words for.

And Paige gave it all back.

Not because they hadn’t before—but because tonight, every touch said: I still choose you. I will keep choosing you. I want to grow this thing with you—on purpose.

Later, when the sweat had dried and the room dipped back into stillness, Paige stayed wrapped around her, face tucked into the curve of Azzi’s neck.

She waited until Azzi’s breathing slowed, until her body softened in sleep.

And then, when she thought no one could hear her:

“I’m so, so in love with you,” she whispered. “But someday… I’m gonna marry you. And somehow, someway… I’ll fall even more in love with you than I am now.”

Azzi didn’t stir.

Just breathed slow. Easy.

But when Paige finally slipped into sleep, Azzi shifted—gently curling tighter around her, fitting them together like something practiced and permanent.

She pressed a kiss to Paige’s bare shoulder and whispered into the dark:

“I hope that someday comes soon.”

A promise, not a wish.

And though Paige didn’t respond, a sleepy smile tugged at her lips.

Because maybe, deep down, she heard her after all.

The morning light filtered in slow, pale and golden, pooling across the rumpled hotel sheets and the tangle of limbs between them. Paige stirred first, blinking up at the ceiling like she needed a second to remember where she was.

Then she felt Azzi’s hand resting over her stomach. Their legs were still knotted together, bodies tucked into each other like they’d never moved from where they’d fallen asleep.

And maybe they hadn’t.

Paige turned her head slowly. Azzi was still asleep—or at least, pretending to be, her breath even, her lashes soft against her cheeks. Paige watched her for a long moment, her chest filling with something deep and quiet and certain.

She didn’t say anything this time.

Just leaned in and kissed her forehead.

Azzi smiled, eyes still closed. “Was that a good morning kiss or a you-talk-in-your-sleep-and-I-heard-every-word kiss?”

Paige flushed immediately. “You were awake?”

Azzi opened one eye, grinning. “I might’ve been.”

Paige groaned, burying her face in the pillow. “I’m never talking to you again.”

Azzi just laughed, pulling her closer. “You really want to marry me, huh?”

Paige peeked up at her with an embarrassed smile. “I said someday.”

Azzi kissed her cheek. “Well, I hope someday packs light, because we’ve got a drive ahead of us.”

They got dressed slowly, moving around each other with soft smiles and the kind of ease that only came after nights like that—after honesty like that. Paige packed her bag with a little more care than she had when they’d left her mom’s. Azzi triple-checked the directions.

By the time they were on the road, sun climbing higher in the sky, there was music playing low and Paige’s hand resting on Azzi’s thigh as they drove.

She stared out the window for a while, watching the hills roll by. Then, quietly: “It’s been a few years since I’ve seen him. We’ve talked more lately, but… I still don’t know what to expect.”

Azzi reached over and laced their fingers together. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it.”

Paige looked over at her, heart squeezing. “Yeah?”

Azzi nodded. “I’ve got you. Even if it’s awkward. Even if it’s weird. Even if it’s tense dad hugs and sad store-bought cookies weird. We’re good.”

Paige laughed softly. “You’re the best.”

“Tell me that after we survive your childhood bedroom.”

Paige groaned. “God, I bet the walls are still lime green.”

Azzi’s grin widened. “Even better.”

They drove on, the weight of yesterday easing into the open space ahead of them. The air between them was calm now—not because everything was perfect, but because they were moving through it all together.

And whatever was waiting at her dad’s house?

Paige wasn’t facing it alone.

—-

Paige didn’t realize how much tension she was still carrying until it started to melt away the second the front door opened.

“Look who it is,” her dad said with a big grin, pulling Paige into a firm, familiar hug. He smelled like sawdust and peppermint gum—somehow exactly the same and totally different from when she was a kid. When he pulled back, his eyes were a little glassy, but his voice stayed steady. “It’s really good to see you, kid.”

“You too,” Paige said, letting herself lean into the warmth of it.

“And this must be Azzi,” he added, turning toward her with the kind of welcome that didn’t feel forced or performative. He offered a hand but then pulled her into a hug before she could even shake it. “We’ve heard a lot about you. Hope you’re ready for chaos.”

Azzi laughed, visibly relieved by the shift in energy. “I was born ready.”

Just then, a blur came flying down the hallway. “PAIGE!”

Her little brother Drew—eleven years old and shooting up like a weed—barreled into her with an enthusiastic hug that nearly knocked her backward.

“Drew, dude,” Paige said, crouching to hug him properly. “You got tall since I saw you last.”

“I got fast too,” he said proudly, grinning wide before turning to Azzi. “You’re Azzi, right? You play basketball. I watched your highlight reel on YouTube.”

Azzi crouched to his level with a smile. “You did, huh? What was your favorite play?”

“The one where you blocked that girl so hard she fell down,” he said with complete seriousness.

“That’s a classic,” she said, winking.

From the kitchen, her step-mom called out, “We’ve got hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls if anyone’s hungry!”

The whole house smelled like cinnamon and comfort. The walls were lined with photos—some old, some new—including a framed one of Paige and Drew at his last school event. Paige didn’t even know that one existed. It sat right next to a holiday card Paige had sent with Azzi earlier in the month.

No performance. No rewriting of history. Just inclusion.

They migrated into the living room, where Paige’s dad handed her a mug with her name on it—clearly homemade by Drew, the letters a little uneven but full of love. The fire crackled in the background, a board game already half set up on the coffee table.

Everything about the space felt… easy.

“So,” Paige’s step-mom said, settling into the armchair with her own cocoa. “We were thinking gingerbread houses tonight, then movie night. Drew insists on Home Alone 2.”

“Because it’s the better one,” Drew added, offended anyone would even question it.

Azzi laughed and pointed at him. “You get it.”

Paige sat back on the couch, her thigh brushing Azzi’s, cocoa warming her hands and heart. She watched her dad joke with Azzi about the chaos of raising a middle-schooler, watched Drew already asking if she could come to one of his games, watched Paige’s step-mom quietly bring over a blanket and drape it over their laps.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was something better: intentional.

When she caught her dad watching her with that same look—regret, maybe, but also effort—he just nodded at her.

We’re trying, it said.

Paige nodded back.

And for the first time in days, the tightness in her chest released.

She reached over and laced her fingers through Azzi’s under the blanket, giving it a squeeze.

Azzi leaned into her and whispered, “This is good.”

Paige smiled. “Yeah. It really is.”

And just like that, they settled into the evening—with laughter, sugary snacks, and the kind of comfort Paige hadn’t realized she missed until it was right in front of her again.

The days between Christmas and New Year’s passed like a gentle snow globe shake—slow, sparkly, filled with little moments that shimmered when you looked close enough.

Azzi fell into rhythm with Paige’s family easily. Not in any grand or performative way, but in the small, sacred things.

One morning, she helped Drew put together a Lego set at the kitchen table, the two of them bent over the instructions like co-pilots on a mission. Paige’s dad watched from the counter, smiling into his coffee like he was seeing something he hadn’t known he’d been waiting for.

Later that afternoon, Azzi stood shoulder to shoulder with Paige’s step-mom as they organized old photo albums in the living room. At one point, Paige’s step-mom flipped to a younger version of Paige—missing her two front teeth, eyes wild with a pre-teen confidence. Azzi traced a finger along the photo.

“She always that fearless?” she asked, half teasing.

Paige’s step-mom smiled. “Even when she wasn’t… she tried to be.”

Paige had walked in just then, caught the look exchanged between them, and shook her head. “Don’t let them start on storytime. I’ll never recover.”

But she smiled anyway, tucked herself under Azzi’s arm, and didn’t let go.

There was a safety in this home that didn’t require apology. Paige still had moments—quiet ones, when she caught herself waiting for the other shoe to drop—but Azzi was always right there. Steady. Present. Not trying to fix anything, just… loving her through it.

New Year’s Eve came cold and clear, the sky painted with navy and stars as they bundled up and made their way to the center of the small town. It was the annual tradition—bonfires in the town square, booths with hot cider and kettle corn, a countdown projected on the side of the old town hall.

It was quaint and a little chaotic. Families mingled, teenagers threw snowballs, and someone’s aunt was already dancing like it was midnight at 9:30 p.m. sharp.

Paige stood near the firepit with Azzi, their hands tucked into one shared pocket, cheeks pink from the cold and cider.

“I feel like I’m in a Hallmark movie,” Azzi said, glancing around with a crooked grin.

Paige laughed. “I know. I keep waiting for someone to challenge me to a snowman contest and teach me the true meaning of Christmas.”

Azzi bumped her hip. “You’d lose.”

“Debatable.”

Drew ran by with a sparkler, and Paige’s step-mom handed them both hot cocoa, whispering something about claiming the perfect spot for the countdown.

Paige looked around the square—the old stone clock tower, the string lights flickering between lampposts, her family standing just a few steps away. It didn’t feel performative like her mom’s. It felt… earned. Real. Like maybe this was a new memory she wouldn’t have to flinch from someday.

Azzi saw it in her face and leaned in closer. “You good?”

Paige nodded slowly. “Better than good.”

When the countdown finally started—10… 9… 8…—they found themselves pulled closer by instinct.

At midnight, surrounded by cheers and sparklers and soft laughter echoing down snowy streets, Paige kissed Azzi.

It wasn’t their first kiss.

But it felt like the first where Paige let herself really feel it—deep and slow and full of every promise they hadn’t said out loud yet and the promises they had said.

When they pulled back, foreheads resting together, Paige whispered, “Thank you for being all in with me.”

Azzi smiled, her breath warm against Paige’s lips. “I couldn’t be anything else.”

They stayed there, tangled in each other while the sky exploded above them—fireworks lighting up the town, the start of a new year unfolding with quiet certainty.

And for the first time in her life, Paige believed this kind of love could be hers. The kind you didn’t have to perform for. The kind you just chose, again and again.

Even when it was messy.

Even when it was hard.

Especially when it was this good.

—-

The morning they were set to fly home was crisp and quiet, the kind of stillness that made goodbyes feel heavier in the air.

The car was packed—suitcases in the trunk, travel pillows tossed into the backseat. Paige lingered by the front steps of her dad’s house, Azzi standing close beside her, both of them bundled up for one last Midwest chill.

Drew was the first to break the silence, launching himself into Paige’s arms with that reckless kind of kid hug that always made her heart squeeze.

“You better FaceTime me the next time you hit a hole-in-one,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

Paige laughed softly, brushing his curls back. “Deal. But only if you promise to send me your next three-pointer, too.”

“You got it.”

When she finally let go, her stepmom, pulled her into a gentler hug—one filled with the kind of understanding Paige never knew how much she needed until recently.

“You’re welcome here anytime,” she whispered. “And that includes both of you.”

Azzi smiled, stepping forward to hug her too, murmuring her own thanks and promises to keep in touch. It wasn’t loud or emotional—it was simple, grounded, real.

And then came her dad.

He didn’t say much at first. Just pulled Paige in, held her for a long time, and when he stepped back, he placed both hands on her shoulders like he was trying to memorize her face.

“You’ve got something really good,” he said, nodding toward Azzi. “And I can see she’s got something good in you, too.”

Paige swallowed hard. “Thanks, Dad.”

“We’ll come visit soon,” he added. “You two show us the LA version of family holidays next time.”

“We’d love that,” Azzi said, looping her arm through Paige’s.

As they climbed into the car and waved one last time from the driveway, Paige felt a quiet ache settle in her chest—not the heavy, complicated kind she’d carried leaving her mom’s house, but something bittersweet. Something soft.

Because this goodbye didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like the start of something new.

They drove toward the airport with fingers laced between them on the center console, the landscape rolling by in shades of winter brown and gold.

“You okay?” Azzi asked gently.

Paige nodded, eyes on the horizon. “Yeah. Actually… I think I am.”

“You sure we’re ready to go back?”

A pause. Then a smile.

“I’m ready to go home.”

Azzi squeezed her hand. “Me too.”

And just like that, they left behind the towns and tensions and toasts of the past few weeks—carrying only what mattered most: each other.

Los Angeles would be waiting. Their bed. Their mugs. Their playlists. Their routines.

Their home.

The one they were building together.

#paige x azzi #pazzi fics #pazzi

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elizabethwydevilles · 2 days ago

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One of my favourite elements is the potential relationship between Leia and Anakin, but it seems I'm very much in the minority in the fandom as it is now. The most popular theme is undoubtedly that Leia has zero interest in her bio parents and that Leia hates Anakin and good for her.

@batrachised has talked about why Leia bitterly hating Anakin jars uncomfortably with the movies message of 'hate leads to the darkside' so I'm not going to elaborate further on that, but I will say it's definitely something that current audiences struggle with. A lot of the ideas in Star Wars about hate and forgiveness do not sit comfortably alongside the current discourse in regards to resistance, etc. I sometimes feel this dissonance with what I believe at times, but these ideas are not subtle. You can see this tension when people are making posts about Leia disliking Padmé because she believed in Anakin (Leia doesn't seem to dislike Luke for the same though!) or people writing fic where Luke explains that he didn't actually forgive Anakin, et al.

Another issue of course is that people seem to feel that Leia coming to terms with Anakin as her bio father is somehow a rejection of Bail as her father (and Breha as her mother). Frankly this one annoys me because (talking in general, not in regards to Leia in particular) an adoptive/non-bio child being interested in their bio parent/s does not mean a rejection of the parents who raised them (and while this isn't applicable to Leia, it's not unheard of for an adoptive/non-bio child to have complicated feelings re: their adoption while still loving their adoptive parents). One of the things I really enjoyed in the OWK show was that Leia was interested in her biological parents and it was totally clear that she loved Bail and Breha as her parents. It really doesn't have to be an either/or situation.

The exception in the Anakin and Leia comparisons is, of course, when talking about Leia being angry. And she is angry at times! But she's also very kind. There's a real tendency to flatten Leia down to her spikiest moments and forget everything else that she is. I really would recommend this post from husborth about Leia and her characterisation, as it sits fairly closely to my own feelings re: Leia.

In the end, I will always find the idea of Leia finding some way to come to terms with Anakin being her bio father, despite everything he has done to her and those around her, to be the more compelling story than Leia simply not being bothered by it. I don't want her to have the same relationship with Anakin as Luke has — that would be boring —, it doesn't mean that Anakin would be her 'dad', it's about exploring Leia's character and what confronting this knowledge and legacy could bring to her character.

Leia will always be Leia Organa — she's also part of the Skywalker Saga. Why is it wrong to explore her in the context of that complicated legacy that is so central to the films?

#star wars #anakin skywalker #leia organa #texty post #obvious addendum: just because I link to someone doesn't mean that they agree with my take #(basically send me any hate not them xoxo)

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akpaleyreblogs · 3 days ago

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Based on the other things you've stated here, if you think racist jokes are funny the reason is that you don't feel threatened by them. Which is not just a not being part of that group thing! It's context!

I might feel threatened by sexist jokes in general, but they are hilarious when they come out of my husband. This is because we both know he doesn't believe that shit. There are two violations of reality going on: the statement itself and the idea that he would think that. It's not that I'm not effected or we don't care, it's that we both know that we both care so much that the concept of him saying the thing is a reality violation.

This is part of what makes this harder for folks to parse, because in groups tell these kinds of jokes about themselves all the time. What makes these jokes funny in those in groups is that often the context they have with one another removes the idea of threat and just makes it funnier.

This is. Understandably difficult to parse for people just learning humor (kids and teenagers). It is also understandably difficult to parse for people who do feel threatened by some of the punching up jokes trying to figure out why you get to tell "men suck" jokes but they don't get to tell "women suck" jokes. Why is it benign when it hurts their feelings but not when it hurts yours? (Structural sexism and racism favoring them make it more benign, but I would argue still maybe not great if, like me, you don't like when young men get radicalized. Teenage white boys are often not receiving your white boy jokes as benign.)

In general I think a good rule of thumb for people who are having difficulty reading the room is "don't make category of person jokes if there's any chance anyone present thinks you believe them," and then erring on the side of caution. But a lot of this stuff is very "learn to read the room," and significantly more complicated than "punch up not down" and "if you think this is funny you suck."

[x]

#sorry i sat on this for a week. forgot about it for a long time. and when i found the draft was like yeah i still agree with myself.#anyway. have nuance.#maybe i will delete this later I can't decide if i think it's breaking my no politics rule.

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seilnakyle · 1 day ago

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Ok you refer to selina as the matriarch of the batfam, and that makes me curious what are her relationships with each of them? I know her an jason def have a good relationship, but besides that i know nothing

Please enlighten me

Dick - Selina has known Dick since he was 8, and at first Dick didn’t really understand her and Bruce’s relationship, or what it was about this specific woman that caused his new father figure to fall over like a Skyrim character

Batman #1 / Batman #3 / Batman #15

But Dick also got to see Selina’s good side, she saves him from the Joker in Batman #2, and saves Batman at risk to her own life in Batman #62, Dick starts to realize she’s more complicated than just “villain”

Dick goes to Selina when seeking help against Talia during the Lazarus affair. Catwoman helps him and the family during Battle for the Cowl and continues to Support Dick as Batman even when they have disagreements

Gotham City Sirens (2010) #7

Nowadays they’re still very close and Dick pretty much considers her his stepmom in all but legal writing. They’re both very protective of each other, and have a real family relationship. Here is another post of some of my fave moments -> X

Babs - I love the dynamic between Babs and Selina sooo much. I have a post on my fave moments here and here

Selina serves as a kind of role model, not just to Barbara, but to pretty much every young female vigilante. And as Selina is a complicated woman, a character you can’t fit into the box of “good” or “bad”, she challenges them world view of characters like Barbara, the daughter of a cop who certainly needs her worldview challenged occasionally.

Birds of Prey: Catwoman/Oracle

Nowadays Catwoman is someone Oracle can count on to help out when the city or family needs her. Oracle has helped out Catwoman plenty of times, and sided with her in Gotham War. Selina even gave the Honeymoon suite that would have been for the batcat wedding to Dick and Babs when it didn’t happen. I love them :)

You said you already knew abt Jason but here and here are posts about him and Selina for anybody curious, and here is one for Helena B :)

Tim - Selina meets him during the 90s and they’re an underrated duo! At first Selina is annoyed by this kid trying to get in her way, but eventually becomes protective and caring to him. She finds him adorable tbh

Robin #28

”He’s a goody two-shoes but I like the kid”

Catwoman (1993) #31

Steph & Cass - Steph and Selina first meet during War games after Bruce has fired Steph and she’s accidentally started a gang war. Selina is one of the only people to show Steph some empathy during this time.

Catwoman (2002) #34

Even though New 52 was bad, I do miss Steph being a recurring Catwoman character, and I think Selina is a great mentor character for her, and Steph is terribly underused anyway.

Steph, like Babs and most female Gotham vigilantes, undoubtedly saw a role model in Catwoman even if she wasn’t completely hero oriented. She was Batman’s equal, and confident enough to not need or care about having his approval or not, but good enough to get it anyway, of Course Steph seeks her out for training!

Batman Eternal (2015) #43

But unfortunately DC was making Selina do crime boss things instead of being Catwoman so Steph was briefly trained by Eiko who was running a training school. Selina recognized a lot of potential in Steph, and later “deputized” her by using her detective skills for a case

Catwoman (2011) #42 / #44

Later on, Eiko was planning on killing several heads of crime families, and Steph immediately tells Selina. And tearfully confesses to killing Bill Turner as well. Selina lies to make Steph feel better, not wanting her to become another lost soul

Catwoman (2011) #46

As for Cass, Selina is VERY impressed with her Immediately

Selina enjoys hanging out with her even if she’s the strong silent type <3

Batman: Gotham Secret Files and Origins (2000)

And one thing for sure, Selina will ALWAYS be there to help the girls if they need her :’)

Catwoman (2018) #45

Birds of Prey (2023) #14

Damian - Selina and Damian technically met during his time under Dick’s guardianship, but don’t really have an interaction till much later. During Bruce and Selina’s engagement, Damian asks if he’s going to have to call her “mom” Selina would never expect this of course, and assured him that he never needed to call her that, but she would always have his back as long as he has her’s. It reminds me of the way she assured Jason that he never had to replace Nocturna as a mother figure in his heart…she is just the sweetest

Batman Prelude to the Wedding #1

And of course, they bond over love of cats! Selina helped rescue Alfred the Cat in New Showcase (2018), and donated 3 million to an animal sanctuary in the East End in Damian’s name. Damian rescued Selina’s cat Otto in Legends of The Dark Knight (2013) #48

Duke - They haven’t interacted much but Selina has been part of his training!

New Talent Showcase (2017)

Batman: Wayne Family Adventures - (s2) Ep. 62 Live From New York

#long post #dc comics #my post #selina kyle #comic panels #duke thomas #catwoman #batfam #batfamily #dick grayson #barbara gordon #stephanie brown #cassandra cain #batman #batman comics #ask box #tim drake

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seokwrts · 15 hours ago

Text

I LIKE ME BETTER | jjk

PART THREE

summary : After walking in on her boyfriend Sanho cheating, Y/N moves out and ends up living with Jungkook, a cocky yet caring acquaintance she once couldn’t stand. What begins as a tense, passive-aggressive roommates situation slowly transforms into something deeper, as both navigate heartbreak, vulnerability, and emotional healing. Through stormy nights, late-night confessions, domestic routines, and quiet tension, Y/N and Jungkook gradually uncover the warmth and safety they’ve both been missing—especially in each other.

“After all, what’s the worst that could happen just living under the same roof?”

pairing : jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre : roommates , fluff , smut

word count : 5.4k

warnings : Explicit. This story contains sexual content, explicit language, and themes of emotional trauma. Expect a roommates-to-lovers slow burn with intense enemies-to-lovers tension, mutual pining, and eventual smut. Features include domestic intimacy, past cheating, emotional hurt/comfort, and lots of kitchen tension. There’s jealousy, unresolved sexual tension, first times, comfort sex, and characters who are both emotionally guarded and touch-starved.

The kitchen felt too quiet after Jungkook left.

Y/N remained standing at the counter, one hand still curled around the green bottle, her other pressed flat to the cold marble. The echo of his footsteps faded into silence, but her body didn’t relax. She was frozen.

Her lips still tingled.

The aftertaste of soju—and him—clung to her mouth. Her heart pounded, not with excitement anymore, but with something sharp and hollow blooming in her chest. A burn that started low and kept spreading, like the silence had teeth and was gnawing straight through her ribs.

He walked away.

He kissed her like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like every second between them, all the fights and the too-long glances and the drunken almosts, had led to that moment. And then he walked away.

No warning. No words.

What does that mean now?

She stood there, blinking at the space he’d left behind, like she could rewind time just by staring hard enough. Like maybe if she closed her eyes, she’d feel his hand still at her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, his breath warm and desperate against her skin.

But there was nothing.

Only silence. Only cold tile and flickering fluorescent light and the faint hum of the fridge.

They were roommates. That was already complicated.

Now it was… worse.

Now there was something new in the air. Something heavy. A tension that crackled beneath the surface, like the moment before a storm breaks. Like the electricity that had sizzled between them wasn’t finished yet, even though he’d left her here, spinning.

She took a slow breath—then another, shallower this time—and sank down to the floor, bottle still in hand. Her legs folded beneath her, arms wrapped around her knees like she could hold herself together if she tried hard enough.

What was she supposed to do with this?

How the hell were they supposed to live together after that?

How do you go back to arguing about laundry after someone kisses you like they’re trying to undo every broken piece inside?

She let her head drop against her knees, eyes squeezed shut. Her thoughts raced, looping the scene over and over like a scratched record.

The way his voice cracked when he told her she didn’t want him.

The hurt in his eyes when he said he wasn’t safe.

The way he pulled her close anyway.

Like none of it mattered in that moment. Like needing her outweighed all the reasons he shouldn’t.

And then—he left. No explanation. No reassurance. Just vanished down the hall like it hadn’t happened.

Or like it had, and that was the problem.

Y/N let out a shaky breath, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. She hated how easily he got under her skin. How quickly he’d become more than just the guy who never replaced the toilet paper or left dishes in the sink too long.

Somewhere between the bickering and the late-night takeout runs, between the shared playlists and the shared silence, he’d become something else.

Someone else.

And now she didn’t know what to do with that.

She stared at the bottle beside her. Still nearly full, sweating with condensation. They’d been laughing ten minutes ago—drunk on soju and bad memories, play-fighting over who got the last dumpling. He’d called her annoying, like he always did, and she’d thrown a napkin at his face.

And then something shifted.

He’d looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Or maybe like he’d been trying not to for too long.

And he kissed her.

God, he kissed her.

Not like it was a mistake. Not like it was just the alcohol talking. He kissed her like he’d been drowning and she was the air.

And now he was gone.

She rubbed her fingers over her lips again, as if that would erase the feeling. Or maybe help her remember it more clearly—she didn’t know. Her heart felt like it had been yanked in two different directions and left somewhere in between.

Did he regret it?

Did he walk away because he knew they’d crossed a line?

Or because he wanted her to stop him?

The questions spiraled in her head, loud and relentless. She hated this—this limbo. The not knowing. The way it all hung in the air, waiting for her to make sense of it.

She pressed her palms flat against the cold tile floor, grounding herself in something real. Something solid.

Okay.

Okay, maybe this didn’t mean everything had to fall apart.

Maybe they could talk. Maybe he just needed space. Maybe—

She glanced toward the hallway again. Empty. Still. Her phone sat untouched on the counter. No texts. No calls. Just her, in a room that still smelled faintly of takeout and unresolved tension.

She leaned back against the cabinet, closing her eyes.

Tomorrow, they’d wake up and pretend to be normal. Pretend they hadn’t changed something fundamental in the space of one breathless moment. They’d dance around it, avoid it, maybe even bury it under sarcasm and shared chores and passive-aggressive notes on the fridge.

But she’d still remember this.

The way it felt when his lips met hers.

And the ache that followed when he let go.

When Y/N woke up the next morning, her head throbbed like someone had slammed it between two speakers. A slow, pulsing ache radiated from behind her eyes, growing sharper with every shift of movement. Her limbs were heavy, tangled in the sheets like they were made of concrete. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach churned with a familiar nausea—half hangover, half something she couldn’t quite name. Regret, maybe. Or sadness.

Or both.

She stayed in bed a minute longer than usual, willing herself to stay still, to not think, to not feel. But the memories came anyway.

His mouth on hers.

The way his breath caught.

The way he didn’t look back.

She rolled onto her side with a groan and reached for her phone on the nightstand.

No messages.

No missed calls.

Nothing from Jungkook.

The apartment was already quiet. Too quiet. That particular kind of quiet that told her she was alone. No soft footfalls from his room, no clink of dishes, no sound of music bleeding through the bathroom wall like he sometimes did in the mornings. Just silence. And a faint draft, like someone had left in a hurry and didn’t bother to close the window all the way.

Dragging herself up, she shuffled into the kitchen, the ache in her body worse with every step. Her feet were cold against the tile, and she didn’t bother turning on the light. The fridge was humming lowly, the same way it always did, and something about its normalcy felt mocking.

And then she saw it.

A yellow Post-it note stuck to the fridge door.

“Went out early, my friends are dropping by later — don’t freak — JK”

She stared at it. For a second, her blurry vision didn’t even register what she was reading.

And then it sank in.

No mention of last night. Not a single word. Not even a joke about the hangover. Not even a casual, “Feeling okay?” Nothing.

Just that. A scribbled note in that familiar, messy handwriting that somehow made it feel worse. Like it meant to be casual. Like it was supposed to be meaningless.

So that’s it, huh?

Just pretend it never happened.

Like he hadn’t kissed her. Like he hadn’t touched her like he’d been holding it back for months. Like he hadn’t told her—drunk or not—that she didn’t want him, like he wasn’t safe, and then done it anyway.

Y/N let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and crumpled the note in her fist.

She dropped it onto the counter and stood there, blankly staring at the fridge for a moment too long. Her chest ached—not sharp, not devastating, just heavy. Like something had settled there during the night and refused to leave.

Dragging her feet, she made her way to the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror looked about as bad as she felt. Pale. Tired. The corners of her lips were slightly chapped, but her eyes were worse—red-rimmed, dull.

She brushed her teeth, tied her hair up, splashed water on her face, but nothing helped. The ache lingered. The weight sat stubbornly behind her ribs. Her lips still ached, too—and she hated that she noticed.

When she stepped back into her room to get dressed, her eyes drifted to the clock on her nightstand. And something clicked.

Wait.

Her shift.

She stared at the numbers, blinking them into focus.

Right. Her part-time job.

Her first day.

The café.

Panic struck her chest like a slap. She had applied for the position on a whim a few weeks ago, not even sure if she had the energy to juggle classes, assignments, and this. But she needed the money—desperately. Tuition, rent, food, the occasional overpriced coffee she justified as “mental health therapy”—it all added up. Her bank balance had been crying for weeks. This café gig wasn’t a fix, but it was something. A start. A safety net, thin as it was.

Y/N yanked on a clean black T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Functional. Neutral. Just enough to look alive. She tugged her hoodie over her head, fingers moving faster than her brain, and stuffed her wallet, keys, and phone into her bag.

On her way out, she paused at the kitchen counter, grabbed a blue Post-it, and scribbled quickly:

“I’ll be home late. Around 7–8.

• Y/N”

She didn’t explain.

He didn’t either.

She smoothed the Post-it flat on the counter beside the crumpled yellow one and stared at them both for a beat too long—his neat, clipped tone versus her tight, closed-off scrawl. Side by side, they looked like the beginning of a conversation neither of them wanted to start.

With a sharp breath, she turned and left, locking the door behind her.

The air outside was too bright, too loud. Her eyes winced against the sun as she stepped onto the sidewalk, the city already pulsing with its usual morning chaos—cars honking, bikes weaving through traffic, people on their phones, coffee in hand, already halfway through their day.

Y/N wasn’t ready for any of it.

But she walked.

Each step helped her breathe a little easier. Not much—but enough.

Her head still pounded, her heart still bruised, but this? This she could control. Showing up. Doing her job. Tying her hair back and smiling at customers even when it hurt. That was something she could do.

She didn’t know what would happen when she came home.

She didn’t know what Jungkook would say—or if he’d say anything at all.

Maybe this was the start of something broken.

Or maybe it had already broken, and they were just pretending the pieces didn’t cut.

But for now, she had somewhere to be. Something to hold onto.

And maybe that was enough.

For now.

The night before, Jungkook hadn’t slept.

His bed was too soft, the sheets too warm, but his body refused to rest. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, tracing invisible cracks and stains that seemed to shift and writhe in the darkness. The plaster was blank and unmoving, yet in that stillness, it seemed to hold all the answers he wished he could find.

He wanted it to tell him what to do.

How to fix the mess he’d made. How to undo what he’d done. How to navigate the impossible tangle of everything that had happened between them.

But the ceiling didn’t say anything.

So he turned his head, biting his lip until it bled a little, and closed his eyes.

And then he opened them again.

Because he couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss.

Fuck.

That kiss.

The way she’d clung to him, like he was the only solid thing left in the world. The way her breath hitched when his hand slid up her neck, trembling beneath his fingertips. The way she whispered his name like it was a prayer, like it was the only language she could speak in that moment.

“Fuck, Jungkook.”

That sound was still buzzing in his ears.

Her lips were soft and warm, a little sweet from the soju, a little desperate with everything they both wanted to say but didn’t know how. Hot and messy and real—the kind of kiss that makes your whole body remember what it’s been missing, even if you didn’t know it was missing it.

His mind replayed it in endless loops, the taste of her, the feel of her, the way the world had slipped away until there was only her and him and the beating of their hearts.

He could still feel the vibration of her voice in his chest, the way her fingers clenched into his shirt like she was trying to hold onto something solid in the chaos. He could still feel the shape of her body pressed against his, trembling, uncertain, aching.

And God, he’d been hard for hours after that kiss. Shamefully, painfully hard, even though she wasn’t there anymore. More haunted by the memory of her touch than the physical feeling itself.

It scared the shit out of him.

Because Y/N wasn’t a girl you casually kissed in the kitchen.

Not like this.

She was complicated. Beautiful in a way that wasn’t obvious at first—like a wildflower growing through cracked concrete. Gentle but fierce, full of bite and heart and scars he could only guess at. She was juggling a thousand battles no one saw. Fighting her own hell while still showing up to her classes, carrying groceries up the stairs, and laughing when he teased her about her painfully indie playlists.

Somewhere in the messy dance of bickering and quiet glances, shared meals and late-night silences, he’d fallen for her.

Not just a little. Not a crush. Not a joke.

Completely.

He’d fallen in a way that scared him—deep in his chest, the kind of falling that could break you if you hit the ground too hard.

But the truth was, she didn’t need someone like him.

She didn’t need a guy who scraped by on scattered gigs and disappointments. Someone who lived in half-remembered dreams and constant self-doubt. Someone who believed he was inherently unsafe. Ungrounded. Temporary.

He was an earthquake.

A storm.

A wildfire that burned everything in its path.

She needed solid ground.

Someone who could be steady when the world shook. Someone who could hold her up, not pull her down. Someone who could promise safety, not chaos.

And he wasn’t that person.

He wasn’t even close.

He’d tried to tell her that. Told her he wasn’t safe, that she didn’t want him, that getting close to him would only break her in the end.

And then he kissed her anyway.

Like an idiot.

Like a fool.

Like someone who couldn’t stop himself.

He closed his eyes again, trying to will the image away.

But it lingered.

The way she looked at him—vulnerable and fierce all at once.

The way her body trembled in his arms.

The way he felt something shift inside himself, like the ground beneath him cracked open and swallowed everything he thought he knew.

He hated himself for it.

Hated the way he’d let his guard down.

Hated the way he’d made himself vulnerable to someone who deserved better.

The guilt was thick, suffocating.

If he stayed, if he looked at her again, if he let himself believe for a second that maybe this could be more than a mistake, he’d lose control.

He’d lose himself.

So he didn’t sleep.

Because sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant hope, and hope was dangerous.

He laid still in the dark, staring at the ceiling until the first hints of dawn blurred the edges of the cracks.

By then, his mind was a mess of what-ifs and maybes and could-have-beens.

He thought about getting up, but the weight in his chest was heavy. Like a stone dragging him down.

In the end, he did what he always did when things got too messy:

He left.

Quietly, without a word.

He slipped out before she woke, before the sun was fully up, before there was a chance to say something he’d regret.

Cowardice, maybe.

Mercy, maybe.

He couldn’t tell anymore.

He closed the door softly behind him and walked down the stairs, the empty apartment already echoing with the absence of her.

He didn’t look back.

Because if he did, he might change his mind.

And he knew he couldn’t afford that.

Outside, the city was waking up.

Jungkook let the morning air wash over him as he leaned against the cold brick wall of a nearby building. His fingers twitched, still trembling from the tension he couldn’t shake.

He wanted to call her.

Text her.

Tell her everything.

But the words caught in his throat.

How do you explain that you’re scared?

That you’re broken?

That the person who means everything to you is the person you’re afraid will get hurt the most?

He swallowed hard, eyes scanning the street.

He wanted to believe she could forgive him. That maybe this kiss wasn’t the end of something, but the beginning of everything.

But then the fear came back.

That he’d ruin it.

That he’d be the cause of more pain.

That he’d lose her.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Maybe one day he’d find the courage to be the person she needed.

But not today.

Today, all he could do was keep running.

Later that morning, Jungkook dragged himself into the studio, dressed in a hoodie and sunglasses like he was shielding himself from the entire world. He didn’t need a mirror to know how bad he looked—he felt it. Like exhaustion had taken a crowbar to his ribs and cracked something open.

The studio lights were too bright. The air too quiet. His head still echoed with her voice. Her breath. Her kiss.

He should’ve taken the day off.

But if he stayed home, he’d think about it. About her. And if he thought about it, he’d break something.

“Nice disguise,” Eunji said as he walked in, her tone dry and amused. She was lounging in her usual seat by the mixing desk, legs propped up on the armrest, hair swept up in a loose clip. “What’s the occasion? Did you rob a convenience store?”

“Didn’t sleep,” he muttered, tossing his bag down and pulling out his laptop.

“You don’t say.” She tipped her chin toward him, eyes raking down his frame without shame. “Though I gotta admit, the broody look? Kinda works for you.”

He gave her a flat look, but she only smiled wider.

“I mean, if this is your new thing—emotional damage chic—I support it. Fully. Creatively. Sexually, even.”

He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Eunji.”

“What? I’m appreciating the art,” she said, unbothered. “You walk in here all mysterious and messed-up, looking like you’ve been through hell. Do you know how hot that is?”

“I’m not a fantasy, I’m a functioning disaster.”

“Same difference,” she said with a wink.

Jungkook didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with her today, but that had never stopped Eunji before. She was all sharp lines and slick confidence, effortlessly cool in a way he sometimes envied. The kind of girl who flirted like it was breathing and didn’t flinch when people flinched back.

“I fixed the harmony,” she said casually, like they hadn’t just been toeing the line between friendly and something else. “Also added distortion to the vocal drop—layered it with a pitched octave. It slaps now. You’re welcome.”

He nodded, eyes on the monitor. “Let’s hear it.”

He queued the track, and the room filled with sound—thick synth, layered vocals, just the right amount of edge. Her voice slipped through the speakers like smoke. It really did slap.

But he wasn’t here for goosebumps today.

“Nice,” he muttered. “The new layer’s cleaner. Adds weight.”

“I know,” she said, smug. “I’m a genius.”

“You’re tolerable.”

She stretched, her shirt riding up slightly to reveal a flash of skin above her waistband. “You really should’ve let me stay over last night. We could’ve written a heartbreak anthem in real time.”

He gave her a side-eye. “That’s your idea of comforting someone?”

“I never said I was comforting you,” she said, tilting her head. “I said I was available. Big difference.”

He didn’t respond. Not because he didn’t hear the implication, but because the last thing he wanted was to think about anyone’s mouth except Y/N’s. And yet, Eunji was still watching him like a cat waiting for a reaction.

“You’re no fun when you’re haunted,” she added, softer this time. “Unless the moodiness is a long-term thing. In which case… it’s growing on me.”

Jungkook snorted under his breath and leaned back. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Flirting just to see what happens.”

She shrugged. “No. Sometimes I flirt because I want something.”

“And what do you want?”

Eunji met his gaze, her smile easy, almost challenging. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He blinked once, then turned back to his screen, trying not to bite down on the flicker of tension that suddenly threaded between them. She was always like this—blunt, playful, suggestive—but today it felt closer. More deliberate.

Still, he didn’t rise to it.

He couldn’t.

His chest was too full of someone else.

Instead, after a long beat, he said, “You doing anything Saturday?”

She raised a brow. “Are you asking me out, Jeon?”

He exhaled sharply. “Jimin’s throwing a party. Figured I’d go.”

“Ah. The infamous Jimin. Prince of Seoul nightlife.” She grinned. “You inviting me as your date?”

He shrugged. “I’m inviting you because I thought you might like to come.”

“That’s boring,” she said. “Try again. Add some romance.”

“Eunji—”

“You’re killing the vibe,” she cut in with mock despair. “Here I was, imagining us showing up together, stealing attention, letting the mystery spiral…”

He gave her a tired look. “You want to start rumors that bad?”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes glittering with mischief. “Babe, I live for it. Picture it: you and me, walking in like we’re a couple out of an indie film. You brooding in black. Me in something dramatic. Everyone wondering, Are they or aren’t they?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re a walking poem today. It’s a perfect match.”

Jungkook shook his head but didn’t say no.

Eunji smirked, sensing her win. “So, pick me up around eight?”

“I didn’t say I’d—”

“You definitely did,” she said, standing up and stretching. “And if you show up looking like you did this morning, I might just fall in love.”

He laughed, dry and low. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Too late.”

Eunji wandered to the mini-fridge and pulled out a can of cold brew. Her tone softened slightly as she added, “You could use a night out, though. Even if you just stand in the corner and glower at everyone.”

“I don’t glower.”

“Oh, baby. You glower.”

He didn’t argue.

Because maybe she was right.

Maybe he did need a distraction—something loud, something crowded, something that didn’t involve kitchens or kisses or the sound of his name slipping out of Y/N’s mouth like it meant something.

Even if Eunji was a hurricane of confidence and chaos, at least she didn’t come with memories attached.

At least with her, he didn’t feel like he was standing at the edge of something that could ruin him.

And that was safer.

Safer than her.

So he nodded once, quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll pick you up.”

Eunji smiled like she’d just won a bet with herself.

“Good boy.”

When Jungkook got home, the apartment was quiet again.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that didn’t just fill the space—it pressed against his ribs.

He shut the door behind him, toeing off his shoes, and dropped his keys on the entryway table with a soft clink. The low hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the place. No music from Y/N’s room. No kettle boiling. No footsteps. Just stillness.

And then he saw it.

A single blue Post-it stuck to the kitchen counter. Her handwriting—neat, always a little tilted left.

“I’ll be home late. Around 7-8 — Y/N”

No reason. No explanation. No smiley face.

Just words.

He stared at it for longer than necessary, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“She didn’t even tell me why,” he muttered under his breath.

He peeled the note off the counter, rubbing it between his fingers like it might offer more if he just held it long enough.

It didn’t.

It was just paper.

Just her telling him… nothing.

His chest felt tight again, that same twist that had settled in his gut since the night before. It had been stupid to think he’d come home and find some kind of clue—something in her eyes, or in the air, that would let him know where they stood.

But instead, she’d been gone. And in her place was this.

A sentence.

A timestamp.

Distance wrapped in politeness.

Still, his body moved on autopilot.

He tossed the note in the trash, then headed toward the kitchen. The living room looked like someone had lost a fight with gravity. A pillow on the floor. A hoodie draped over the back of the couch. An empty glass on the coffee table.

He hadn’t even realized how much of a mess they’d left behind.

He grabbed a rag from under the sink and started wiping the counters. Not because it needed to be done—but because he needed it. Something about the rhythm of it helped. Swipe, rinse, repeat. Clean one thing, then the next. Maybe if he could fix the space, he could quiet the noise in his head.

Jimin and Taehyung would be dropping by soon anyway. The apartment needed to look presentable. At least that was a task with a clear end. Something he could control.

He moved through the motions like a machine—picking up the hoodie, folding the blanket on the couch, fluffing the cushions. He took the glass from the table and set it in the sink, rinsed it twice before setting it on the drying rack.

Everything had its place.

Everything, except him.

Jungkook leaned on the counter and let out a long, slow breath, staring at the digital clock on the stove.

4:27 PM.

Still hours until she came home.

If she came home on time.

If she didn’t decide to stay out longer. To avoid him.

His fingers curled into fists on the cool granite.

The kiss had meant something. To him, at least. It wasn’t a drunken mistake, not some throwaway moment. It had cracked something open. The way she’d touched him. The way she’d whispered his name. That wasn’t nothing.

So why the silence?

Why hadn’t she said anything?

He tried to shake the thoughts loose, pushing himself off the counter and heading to the hallway to straighten up the rest of the space. He rearranged the shoes by the door. Took the trash out. Vacuumed the rug like it offended him.

The harder he moved, the less he had to feel.

Until he ended up back in the kitchen again, standing in the same spot where it happened.

Where they happened.

His gaze dropped to the floor. He remembered the feel of her fingers clutching his hoodie, her breath hot against his skin. The way she’d looked at him, like she didn’t want to stop.

Like she couldn’t.

But she had.

Or maybe he had.

Jungkook scrubbed a hand through his hair and dropped into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. His elbows hit the wood, hard, and he let his head hang.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

They were roommates. Not lovers. Not even friends, really—at least, not in the normal sense. Their connection had always been a little jagged, always filled with tension and heat and something unspoken.

Until now.

Now it wasn’t unspoken.

Now it was just avoided.

The doorbell rang.

Jungkook blinked, lifting his head slowly.

Right.

Jimin and Taehyung.

He stood up, brushed his hands on his jeans, and walked to the door.

He plastered on something like a smile and pulled it open.

Time to play it normal.

Even if everything inside him still felt wrecked.

The knock at the door was light and familiar.

Jungkook opened it to find Jimin standing there, a six-pack in one hand and a cocky grin already on his face.

“Finally,” Jungkook muttered, stepping aside to let him in. “Where’s Taehyung?”

Jimin kicked off his shoes and headed straight for the couch. “Still at the café. They’ve got a new part-timer who apparently can’t tell a milk frother from a fire extinguisher. He got stuck training her.”

Jungkook raised a brow. “Seriously?”

“Oh yeah.” Jimin dropped the beer onto the coffee table with a dramatic sigh. “He texted me like fifteen minutes ago. Said he’d be late, but, and I quote—‘she’s really pretty so maybe this is finally my chance to have a girlfriend.’”

Jungkook snorted. “That sounds exactly like him.”

“I told him to chill and maybe not flirt with someone who just burned their hand on a steam wand,” Jimin added, flopping down onto the couch. “But you know Tae. Optimism in human form.”

Jungkook sat beside him, cracking open one of the beers. “Watch him actually pull it off.”

Jimin grinned. “Hey, if she’s into chaos and philosophy rants, it might work.”

“Poor girl has no idea what’s coming.”

They both laughed, the easy rhythm of their banter cutting through the weird heaviness that had been hanging over Jungkook since this morning.

For a few minutes, it felt normal.

Comfortable.

They sipped their drinks, traded jabs about Taehyung’s love life, and debated the worst coffee shop customers they’d ever seen.

Then Jimin glanced sideways with that signature sly smile—the one that always meant he was about to stir the pot.

“So.”

Jungkook didn’t even need to look at him to know what was coming.

“Y/N?” Jimin said, dragging her name out like a tease.

Jungkook took another sip of beer and set the bottle down slowly.

“We… made out.”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“Last night.”

“You kissed her?!”

“She kissed me too,” Jungkook muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

Jimin sat back, stunned. “Holy shit. You’re serious?”

Jungkook nodded.

“When? Where?”

“Kitchen. After the soju.”

Jimin’s eyes were wide. “That’s not just a kiss, that’s a moment.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said quietly.

A beat passed.

Then Jimin leaned forward. “Okay, so… what now?”

“Nothing,” Jungkook said flatly. “It’s not happening again.”

“What?” Jimin blinked. “Why the hell not?”

“Because,” Jungkook began, voice harder than before, “this isn’t some slow-burn romance. I’m not the guy she ends up with. I’m just—”

“Don’t say ‘the guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ You’re not in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.”

“I’m serious,” Jungkook snapped.

Jimin didn’t back down. “So am I.”

“She doesn’t need me complicating her life. She needs solid ground, and I’m—” He cut himself off, jaw tight. “I’m not that.”

Jimin studied him for a long second. “You think you’re not good enough for her.”

Jungkook didn’t answer.

“That’s bullshit,” Jimin said. “And you know it.”

“I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Then don’t. It’s not that deep, dude. If you care about her, just be honest. That’s literally it.”

Jungkook opened his mouth to argue again, but—

The sound of the door unlocking cut through the tension.

They both turned.

Y/N stepped inside, laughing softly as she pulled her keys out of the lock. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her hair a little windswept.

Right behind her was Taehyung, carrying her bag like it was second nature.

She was wearing his jacket—oversized, navy blue, the sleeves swallowing her hands.

Jungkook stood up without realizing it.

Taehyung grinned. “Hope we’re not too late.”

“We grabbed coffee,” Y/N said, brushing snow from her shoulders. “I didn’t realize how cold it got.”

Her eyes flicked to Jungkook—but he wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking at Taehyung’s hand on her back.

Just a casual gesture. Innocent.

But something in his chest twisted, sharp and hot.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That last night was a mistake. A slip.

But watching her now—in someone else’s jacket, smiling at someone else—he couldn’t lie.

It mattered.

More than he wanted it to.

hey tumblr angels 🌸

I’m back with part three of “i like me better” and guess what? Things are finally starting to heat up 🔥

I’ve introduced three new characters in this part (yes, chaos is coming 😋), and I need to know—

What do we think about Taehyung and Y/N?And more importantly… will Jungkook be able to handle it? 👀

Also! I’m putting together a taglist for updates—drop a comment if you’d like to be added 🫶

As always, reblogs, comments, and kisses keep me going 💋thank you for reading 🥰❤️

with love,

xo ario 💌

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