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joemama-2 · 8 days ago

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a dead end | chap. 5

༺♰༻ gojo x fem reader

𓉸♱𓉸 synopsis: you were a star under stadium lights, gojo satoru a savior in sterile halls. now, the world rots, and survival is your only stage. amid the relentless dead and the horrors of the living, an unsteady bond forms—but trust is as fragile as life itself. in the shadows of ruin, love and death walk hand in hand. which will claim you first?

༺♰༻ wc: 10.5k

༺♰༻ tags/warnings: death, angst, violence, smut, cannibalism, murder, blood, gore, zombie apocalypse, crazy people, reader is a little bitchy at first, character development, torture, guns, weapons, alcohol, drugs, medical talk here and there, research talk, mentions of a leaked sextape, bullying, betrayal, lying, love, surgeon! satoru, cheerleader! reader, small age gap

༺♰༻ series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

“Y/N?”

The sound of your name being called causes you to pause, your face contorting into confusion. Slowly, you turn your head over your shoulder. A blink. Then another. Until your body fully turns to face the new incomer.

“Mr. Hayashi?”

“Oh, oh, oh my god. It’s you. It’s really you.” The older man laughs out dryly, relief in his tone. His blue, plaid shirt looks wrinkled, with tears at the bottom. He’s no longer wearing the glasses you’ve become so accustomed to seeing him with. Greying hair tousled as if he just went through some shit. There’s sweat beading at his forehead that he wipes away with the back of his palm, stepping closer.

From your peripheral vision, Satoru takes a small step forward, body stiffening.

Mr. Hayashi finally notices him, shakily holding his hands up. “I—I mean no trouble. I swear.”

Satoru doesn’t look at him, instead glancing at you. “Who’s this?”

“He’s the building manager.” You reply, glancing between the two men. Your eyes narrow slightly at Mr. Hayashi’s right hand, the sight of blood staining his fingertips. He hides it behind his back before you can determine whether it’s his blood or not. “What happened?”

“What didn’t?” He huffs a dry chortle out, shaking his head as he looks down at his feet. “It was just supposed to be a normal day, check in on things. But then…then people started getting weird, someone ran into the lobby, then another person, then another, and another. There was…so much…blood. I-I panicked. I ran up here and went looking for you, searched your apartment, but you weren’t there. I thought the worst.”

Searched your apartment? Is that why it was left open? The thought of your building manager searching for you first instead of getting to his own safety fills you with an uncomfortable tension, unsure if you should be flattered or disturbed. Satoru must have the same thought process as you, the pair of you sharing a silent, quick glance at one another. “And you’ve just been…hiding up here?”

Mr. Hayashi nods. “I have. Haven’t been down there in hours. H-How is it?”

“Not good,” Satoru replies.

Mr. Hayashi’s face crumples at Satoru’s bluntness, the lines on his face deepening with fear and despair. He sways slightly on his feet, as if just hearing the words drains the last bit of strength from his body. You catch yourself instinctively stepping forward, your body betraying the compassion clawing its way up your throat, but you stop yourself short. You don’t know what this man has seen, what he’s done, or what he’s willing to do to survive.

You can’t afford to trust anyone right now. You barely trust this white-haired fool.

Mr. Hayashi looks up at you, almost pleading. “You’re—you’re leaving, right? You’re getting out of here?”

You hesitate. Satoru doesn’t. “Yeah, we are.”

There’s an unbearable pause. Mr. Hayashi wrings his hands together like a desperate man on the brink of begging. “Please,” he rasps, voice cracking. “Please take me with you.”

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Your mind flashes back to yesterday—the blood, the screams, the chaos—and your stomach twists. Taking him with you means another possible liability. Another person to watch over. Another person slowing you down when speed could mean the difference between life and death. Your gaze flicks instinctively to Satoru, who’s watching Mr. Hayashi with a cool, unreadable expression.

“No,” Satoru says flatly.

It hits the air like a gunshot. Mr. Hayashi visibly flinches, shoulders collapsing inward like he’s been physically struck.

“W-Why not? I won’t—I won’t be a burden. I can help! I know the building, I know the streets around here. Please, please, you have to—!”

Satoru’s jaw ticks. He shifts his body subtly, like he’s positioning himself between you and the older man. “No offense, old man, but this isn’t charity work. It’s survival. We barely got enough supplies for two.” His voice is steely, sharp, and final.

But then Mr. Hayashi turns his pleading gaze back to you. You. Not Satoru.

“Y/N, please. I know you. I watched you blossom in this building. I—” his voice cracks again, and this time it sounds real, not manipulative. “Please don’t leave me here.”

The sound of your name on his tongue, so full of desperate hope, makes your heart lurch painfully against your ribs.

You clench your fists tight, nails digging into your palms. The logical part of your brain screams at you to leave him. You owe him nothing. The world is burning, and you can’t carry everyone on your back. But the guilt is a gnawing, bitter thing that eats at your insides. It’s been eating at you. You peer at Satoru again, but he doesn’t say anything.

Your chest rises and falls in slow, steady breaths, your heart pounding like war drums against your ribs.

Save him and risk everything?

Or leave him and save yourself?

Either way, you know that whatever you choose, it’s another weight you’ll have to carry. Forever.

The hallway is unbearably still, the low hum of whatever the fuck in the distance the only reminder that you don’t have all the time in the world to decide. Mr. Hayashi stumbles once more, hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. Your body moves without thinking, helping catch his body.

“Are you hurt?” You ask, eyes roving over him.

“I—y-yes…” he coughs out.

“Where are you hurt? He’s a doctor, he can help you before we move.”

“Y/N—”

“He’s hurt.” You reiterate, fixing Satoru with a steely gaze. “We need to help him.”

“It was already a risk coming here in the first place. We didn’t agree to bring along stragglers.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Exactly, not stupid.”

You scoff in disbelief, eyes narrowing at him. “You’re a shitty human being.” Without waiting for another response from him, you assist in lying Mr. Hayashi on his back on the floor. Hands hovering over his body, unsure of where to even start.

Satoru watches you with that same maddening calm, his jaw locked tight and the muscle in his cheek twitching. You can feel his frustration radiating behind you, but you don’t care. You’re too far gone now. You’ve already made the choice—and even if it was a stupid one, it’s yours to live with.

“Shitty human being,” he mutters, running a hand down his face as he kneels beside you, eyeing Mr. Hayashi’s form with clinical detachment. “You’re really pulling the moral card right now? You don’t even know what kind of mess we’re walking into. This guy slows us down, we die. You get that, right?”

You ignore him, fingers brushing over Mr. Hayashi’s side, where the blood has bloomed the darkest. You’re no expert, but there’s a tear along the hem of his shirt and dried blood crusting at his ribs. A puncture wound, maybe. Definitely not fresh.

“He’s already lost blood,” you say, voice tight. “We won’t get far if we don’t stabilize him.”

“Oh, great. So we’re not only babysitting, we’re dragging around a half-dead man.” Satoru’s tone is biting, but his hands move with practiced ease. He peels back the fabric, revealing the wound more clearly. “Knife. Small blade. Didn’t hit anything fatal, but if it gets infected, he’s done.”

Mr. Hayashi winces under the touch, but doesn’t cry out. His breathing is shallow and ragged, and the sweat clinging to his temples is fresh. “It—it was someone from the second floor. I think. I tried to stop him, but he just—he just looked at me. Didn’t even speak. Like he wasn’t there.”

You and Satoru exchange another glance. No one says the word. Not yet. But it’s there.

Infected.

“They’re most likely changing faster,” Satoru mutters, eyes flicking up to you. “If he got cut by someone like that—”

“There’s no bite,” you say sharply. “It’s a cut. Nothing else.”

“You sure you wanna bet your life on that?”

You flinch. Not because you doubt yourself, but because the truth is, you don’t know. You can’t know. Not yet.

“Wrap him up,” you say, voice hard. “Give him a chance. You don’t get to decide who lives or dies.”

Satoru’s silence feels like a judgment in itself, but he doesn’t argue again. Instead, he digs into his bag, pulling out gauze and disinfectant like a man resigned to the worst. The scent of antiseptic fills the air, sharp and stinging as he works quickly, hands steady even when the rest of him vibrates with tension. “You’re lucky she’s got a heart,” he tells Mr. Hayashi, not looking up. “Most people don’t anymore.”

Mr. Hayashi gives you a weak, grateful look. “Thank you. I won’t forget this.”

You don’t reply. You’re already trying to picture what the next few hours will look like—with him in tow, with Satoru seething at your side, with the threat of another attack hanging over your heads like a noose.

You’ll carry the weight. But you’ll be damned if you let someone die in front of you again without trying first.

Still crouched by Mr. Hayashi’s side, you glance at Satoru, who’s repacking his supplies with a clipped kind of efficiency.

“Ready?” you ask quietly.

He exhales through his nose. “No. But let’s go anyway.”

You help Mr. Hayashi to his feet, his weight leaning against you heavily. Your knees buckle slightly, but you steady yourself, anchoring him with both arms. You can feel Satoru watching again, quiet and unreadable. Then, without another word, the three of you move toward the stairwell, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the quiet roar of a world that’s already started falling apart.

You’re not sure what comes next. But you’ve already made your choice.

You’ll live with it.

“You can walk, right?” You ask, fixing his arm around your shoulder.

“No choice.” He grunts out, face scrunched as he begins the descent down.

It’s hard helping a man twice your size down the stairs, especially when there’s someone else who can assist. But you don’t complain, it was your choice to bring him along, it’s your responsibility to help keep him alive. It’s quiet, only the quiet grunts from Mr. Hayashi filling the air.

Satoru trails behind the two of you, his footsteps light and deliberate, eyes darting around. You don’t have to look back to feel his silent disapproval—it clings to the air like static. But he says nothing, and in this silence, the weight of your decision settles deeper into your bones. Each step down feels like a negotiation. Mr. Hayashi leans heavier into you the lower you get, and your shoulder aches from the strain, but you grit your teeth and keep going. You feel his breath hitch with every jolt, but he doesn’t complain either. Maybe he knows he’s on borrowed time.

“We’ll need to stop soon,” Satoru murmurs eventually. “You’re slowing down.”

“I’m fine,” you snap, sharper than you mean to be. You’re not. But it doesn’t matter.

“No, you’re not,” he replies, voice cool but not unkind. “You’re shaking.”

Your legs are trembling, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Not when Mr. Hayashi’s still bleeding. Not when the building is too quiet. Not when you know what’s waiting beyond the front doors. Not when you’re still multiple floors up from the ground.

You swallow hard. “I said I’m fine.”

Satoru clicks his tongue in annoyance, but lets it go. For now.

The three of you descend another flight. The emergency lights flicker above, casting the stairwell in an eerie, reddish glow. Mr. Hayashi’s breathing grows more labored with each step. Sweat soaks through his shirt, his limp heavier, and your guilt rises all over again.

You hear it then—something—a metallic rattle from below. A soft, scraping sound. Like nails dragging across concrete.

Satoru halts instantly.

You freeze, too.

Mr. Hayashi’s breath catches.

Satoru’s voice drops to a whisper. “Stay quiet.” Then, slowly, carefully, he starts to descend alone, his hand drifting toward the blade strapped to his person.

You tighten your grip on Mr. Hayashi. Because whatever’s down there… you know it’s not human.

You hold your breath, watching Satoru’s back as he goes down a few more steps, tilting his head down over the railing over the stairs to peer at the floors below. He says nothing for a few seconds, watching the darkness in preparation for any shadows that may pop out of nowhere. He then looks back at you, motioning silently with his head. You get the message, following after him even slower than before.

“Almost there.” You whisper to Mr. Hayashi, who offers nothing more than a simple, brief nod. You’re not really almost there, but the reassurance would probably do him well. However, he’s probably too focused on not bleeding out, just like you’re too focused on not becoming something’s next meal.

The stairwell creaks underfoot, the faint echo of your steps like warning bells in the dead stillness. The tension in your body is unbearable, every nerve pulled taut. You descend behind Satoru one slow, careful step at a time, Mr. Hayashi’s weight dragging your pace down even further. You can hear the slick sound of his blood soaking into his pant leg, the faint hiss of his breath through clenched teeth.

Satoru moves ahead like a shadow, silent and sharp. His blade is already in hand now, glinting faintly under the red emergency light. His posture screams readiness—knees slightly bent, shoulders relaxed but alert, eyes scanning the darkness like a predator.

Another faint noise. This time closer.

You freeze, your fingers tightening around Mr. Hayashi’s arm. His grip on your shoulder turns into a desperate claw, breath hitching audibly.

Then—

A soft, wet shuffle. Not from you. Not from Satoru.

Something else is here.

Satoru holds up a hand, palm flat. Stop.

You do.

He shifts down another step, slow, careful. A bead of sweat trails down your neck. Mr. Hayashi is trembling now, his legs barely holding. You can feel it in how he leans harder into you.

Satoru rounds the corner of the last flight and—

He halts.

You can’t see what he’s looking at. But his breath leaves his lungs a little too slowly.

His voice is low, cold:

“…It’s feeding.”

He turns back up to you, gaze deadly serious.

“Whatever you do, don’t make a sound.”

Every joint in your body is trembling even faster than when you drank two 5-Hour Energies, coupled with a Red Bull. Bile threatens to rise in your throat, and you swallow it back down with a hard gulp. The word feeding scares you, sets off every fight-or-flight response in your soul. Except, all you want to do is run. Just don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. Don’t make a sound, not a single sound.

You repeat this mantra in your head, taking a tiny step one by one behind Satoru. The wet sound of this creature’s feast is new, one that you may never be able to erase from your mind. Biting hard on your lip to hold back a quivering breath, holding back a hot set of tears that pool in your eyes.

You barely even dare to continue breathing. Each movement feels like you’re dragging your body through quicksand, the air around you so thick with terror it’s nearly suffocating. You can’t spare Mr. Hayashi a glance—not when you’re certain that even the smallest slip-up could end in blood.

Ahead, Satoru is already moving, slow but purposeful. His blade stays low, angled behind his leg to hide the reflection. He doesn’t look back to ensure you’re not too far behind, but you know he’s listening—every fiber of him tuned to you and the creature just feet away.

Another wet, slurping noise reaches your ears, and your stomach flips violently. You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, just to ground yourself, just to breathe without falling apart.

Step.

Your foot accidentally brushes against a loose piece of debris.

A tiny clatter.

Your heart stops.

The feeding noises halt instantly.

Silence.

The most horrifying kind of silence.

You can hear the thick drip of blood onto the floor now, slow and steady. You can hear Mr. Hayashi’s ragged breathing. You can hear the low rumble—a barely audible warning sound, like a wolf baring its teeth.

And then—

The sound of something sniffing. Wet, heavy, greedy.

It knows you’re here.

Satoru slowly raises his free hand, a single finger pressed firmly to his lips.

Don’t. Move.

You nod shakily, looking to your left to communicate the same message with Mr. Hayashi. His eyelids droop lower by the second, which only intensifies your internal panicking. Even in the darkened setting, you can see the way his skin pales, his responses growing minimal by the second. You try to nudge him with your shoulder, which only causes him to groan lightly.

The world freezes. It feels like an eternity that you three have stayed frozen in place, ears perked up for the slightest noise or movement. Satoru’s foot hovers above the step below, just barely pressing down on it. Once again, you mirror his actions, attempting to get Mr. Hayashi to use whatever will he has left to stay quiet and follow.

However, the movement only makes him grunt again. And you’ve run out of chances.

Before you can even react, the sound of snarling and footsteps rushing toward your small group is all that encapsulates your senses. You don’t even know if it’s coming from right next to you, running up, or down; all you know is Satoru is clashing with the creature with his knife.

The suddenness makes you misstep, and you go stumbling down the remaining steps with Mr. Hayashi in tow. Your bodies hit the wall with a big thud and a sharp grunt, the back of your head colliding into the wall.

Sharp ringing bounces throughout your skull.

The pain is immediate and blinding, shooting down your spine like a bolt of lightning. The world spins wildly around you, warping and blurring into a sickening swirl of shadows and noise. You blink hard, trying to clear your vision, trying to think, but everything feels distant, like you’re floating outside your own body.

Through the haze, you hear it—the wet, ugly sound of a struggle, the growls and snarls of the creature, the sharp, desperate grunts of Satoru fighting for both your lives. You try to push yourself up, but Mr. Hayashi’s weight pins you down, leaving you vulnerable, trapped. You can feel him breathing—shallow, labored—as he struggles to stay conscious. Or maybe that’s you. You can’t tell anymore.

Somewhere nearby, Satoru curses under his breath, a sound raw and vicious, followed by the crack of something—bone? Blade? Who knows.

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, tasting blood, forcing yourself back to focus. Move. Move now or die. With a broken gasp, you shove Mr. Hayashi off you as gently as you can, feeling the sickening warmth of blood coating his side, coating your hands. You stagger to your knees, your body screaming in protest.

Your blurred gaze locks onto Satoru—he’s grappling the creature, his knife embedded deep in its side, but it’s not going down without a fight. Its grotesque, twitching body snaps and thrashes like a rabid animal.

You don’t think. You just move.

Hand fumbling for anything, you grab a broken piece of wood lying nearby. A shard of someone’s ruined life. Gripping it tight, you launch yourself toward the creature’s exposed back.

You won’t be useless. You won’t die here.

With every ounce of strength you have left, you drive the shard downward, right onto the creature’s head.

The contact is a direct hit, blood sloshing and splurting from the open wound. The wood piece is stuck in place from the hit, allowing Satoru to hastily remove his knife from its side. You pull back harshly, the wood lifting. Again, you swing down. The wood splits the creature's head in two. Letting go, it goes down to its knees, falling down the stairs, and next to Mr. Hayashi’s body.

There’s only a momentary spout of silence from the scene that just erupted before it all spreads like wildfire.

Groans, grunts, creaking, and clicking noises.

Satoru grabs your arm, hoisting you along as you practically float down the stairs.

“Mr. Hayashi!” You call out.

“We have no time!” Satoru barks out.

Your heart fractures at the words, every instinct screaming at you to turn back, to help him, but Satoru’s grip is iron around your wrist, dragging you forward. You whip your head around, catching one last glimpse of Mr. Hayashi’s crumpled figure as he weakly tries to reach out, his mouth moving soundlessly.

You choke back a sob, the horror of abandoning yet another person sinking into your bones, burning hotter than the blood pounding in your ears.

Behind you, the sounds swell—more footsteps, more hungry, twisted things stirred from the darkness by the scent of blood and the promise of a fresh kill. The air feels heavier, thicker, suffocating with the weight of what you’ve left behind.

You stumble, but Satoru doesn’t let go, half-carrying, half-dragging you through the building’s rotting stairwells. Every turn feels endless, every second you stay in this place, tightening the noose around your neck. Your throat burns, and you realize you’re muttering under your breath again—

“Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back.”

Satoru’s voice cuts through the panic like a blade. “Focus. Move your damn feet or we’re dead.”

And somehow, you do.

You both scramble down the rest of the stairs, uncaring of the amount of sound you’re making, never looking back. You both push open the door to the lobby, racing out the way you came in. The monsters—creatures—zombies—whatever the hell they are—chase you both with a horrifying amount of speed.

The light from outside almost blinds you, but nonetheless, you run and run back to his parked car. He unlocks it from a distance with his key fob, and you two hurry in, closing the doors in a slammed rush. As soon as you do, the creatures slam into the windows, giving you front row seats to their red, frenzied eyes. Their wide mouths showcase the teeth that tear through flesh. Banging with their fists and heads, anything to get through the barriers.

Satoru starts the car, reversing back. The car thumps up as if it rode over something—a body, most likely.

You don’t even have the strength to react, only squeezing your eyes shut as the tires crunch over whatever is beneath.

The car swerves wildly for a moment, tires screeching against the pavement, before Satoru regains control, flooring it down the cracked asphalt of the abandoned street. The creatures chase after you, some so fast they nearly keep up, slamming their fists against the back windows in a desperate, clawing frenzy.

Your entire body trembles, hands gripping the seat so hard your knuckles turn white.

“Faster, Satoru!” you gasp, voice raw with fear.

“I know!” he growls back, slamming his foot harder on the gas pedal. The car jolts forward, the engine whining in protest.

One by one, they fall behind, until finally—finally—they’re no more than small figures in the rearview mirror, swallowed by the darkness you barely escaped. Breathing heavily, you sag against the seat, chest heaving as you stare at the cracked dashboard, too exhausted to even cry.

Satoru exhales sharply next to you, one hand gripping the wheel, the other slamming the car door lock button again and again, as if it’ll somehow keep the horror at bay. For a long moment, neither of you says anything. Just breathing. Just surviving.

Goosebumps run through the surface of your body, the back of your head feeling tingly from where you knocked it before. You blink and blink, vision blurring then darkening before regaining it.

You swallow thickly, willing yourself to stay conscious, to stay alert. But everything feels distant—the rumble of the car beneath you, the burning in your lungs, even Satoru’s tight, frantic grip on the wheel.

“Stay with me,” his voice slices through the haze, low and rough. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his gaze flickering over to you and then back to the road. “Don’t you dare pass out on me.”

You nod weakly, not trusting yourself to speak. Your tongue feels heavy, your mouth dry. Every blink feels slower than the last, the black edges of your vision creeping inward.

Satoru curses under his breath and takes a sharp turn onto another road, the tires skidding slightly. He spares another glance at you. “We’re almost there. Just a little longer, alright?”

You hum in response, a faint sound, barely audible. The words “almost there” circle your mind like a chant, the same lie you told Mr. Hayashi.

A lump forms in your throat. You didn’t save him.

You didn’t save him.

Your nails dig into the fabric of the seat, trying to ground yourself, trying to stay here—because if you start thinking about it, you’ll spiral, and if you spiral, you might not come back. You open your mouth to say something—to apologize, to scream, to cry—but all that comes out is a shaky whisper:

“…Where are we going?”

“Away from here,” is all he says before you inevitably lose yourself in the darkness.

Slowly, your eyes blink open, the sunlight beaming down on you. It takes you a moment to realize you’re reclined in the passenger seat, the sun shining through the windshield. You don’t move, rooted in place for a good moment. You fear that even if you try to move, the onslaught of pain might shoot up your bones again. You’re trying to shake off the haze clouding your mind. The events of the day rush back in flashes—Satoru, the creatures, the blood, the chaos, Mr. Hayashi—and you wince at the memories. Every muscle in your body feels sore, as if you’ve been through hell, and you’re not sure whether your exhaustion is physical or emotional.

Turning your head slightly, you see Satoru in the driver’s seat, his profile tense and unreadable. The silence between you two hangs heavily, thick with everything unsaid. The car is parked somewhere safe, the sounds of the outside world muffled by the thick walls of your own thoughts. You don’t know how long you’ve been out, but judging by the angle of the sun, it’s probably late morning, close to lunchtime.

Damn, you’ve lived a lot of lives already, haven’t you?

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you manage to push yourself upright, wincing as the soreness settles deeper into your body. Your throat feels raw, your head a pounding mess of memories and lingering dizziness. “Are we safe?” Your voice cracks, rough from lack of use, and you can hear the shakiness in it as you ask.

Satoru’s gaze shifts to you, his eyes dark and tired, but his tone is firm, reassuring in the way he answers. “For now.”

That’s good enough.

He hands you a water bottle. “Drink this before you get even more dehydrated. You’ve probably got a concussion, by the way.”

Lazily, you take it, bringing it to your lips and chugging.

The cool water flows down your throat, soothing the dry ache that’s settled there. It’s refreshing, but it only makes you more aware of how much your body is demanding from you, like a ticking time bomb waiting to go off once your adrenaline wears off. You hand the bottle back to him after draining it, your fingers tingling as you do. He takes it, but you can see the way his jaw clenches as he holds it, the tension in his posture never quite disappearing.

“Thanks,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Satoru nods, but he doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he looks out the windshield, his eyes scanning the world outside as if expecting something to jump out of the shadows at any moment. “How are you feeling now?”

“Like shit.” You mutter, lying back in your seat. Your head lolls to the side, looking out the window. It’s strange how such a nice day can be contradicted by a big blood bath. You almost want to laugh at the circumstances.

“There’s a gas station not too far, we’ll head there.”

You hum lowly. “For your snacks.”

“And for you.”

You look at him from the corner of your eye.

“There’s no exact cure for a concussion,” he sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “But we can get you a shitload of medication to ease it for a bit. Some food, Pedialyte, whatever.”

“Sounds like a five-star plan.”

“It is. Unless you want me to do brain surgery on you with a pocket-knife, though that’s not really my specialty.” He says, shoulders rolling back and forth.

You hmph back, holding an arm to your stomach as he starts the car up again, slowly rolling forward in order not to upset your sensitive stomach. “Right. Well, only if you’re buying the treatment.”

His lip quirks up in a dry smirk. “Right, I am a gentleman, after all.”

The reassurance, even if laced with his sarcastic humor, eases some of the tightness in your chest. You don’t answer, just keep your gaze tilted out the window, watching the world go past—cracked streets, overgrown sidewalks, the occasional overturned car. It feels a little easier to breathe knowing you have even a scrap of a plan.

Even if everything else still feels like it’s dangling by a thread.

“You holding up okay?” he asks after a beat, his voice a little quieter, a little more careful this time.

How do you even answer that?

You swallow, fingers tightening slightly in your lap.

“…I’m still here,” you finally say. It’s not much. But for now, it’s enough.

Satoru glances at you briefly, and in that small, flickering look, you can see it. The way he’s holding himself together just as desperately as you are.

The gas station is only about a ten-minute drive. It’s done in complete silence, however. The streets look familiar to you, memories flashing through your twitcy mind.

“Stop.”

He glances at you, eyebrow raised. “Wha—”

“Just…stop.”

Sensing the tired, affirmative tone, he quickly checks around before coming to a stop. Putting the car in park, he turns his body towards you. You say nothing, reaching for the door handle before being promptly stopped. His hand is on your other arm.

“What the hell are you doing?” He grills, confusion laced with a hint of frustration. “I said we’re going to the gas station.”

“I know, but…but I just—I need to check something.”

“Did you hit your head that damn hard?”

You shake your head weakly, prying his fingers off your arm. “I just need five minutes. Please.”

The way your voice cracks on the last word makes him freeze, jaw tightening. He stares at you for a long second, conflict flashing across his face. Finally, he exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair in agitation.

“Fine. But I’m coming with you.”

You nod, too drained to argue.

Without another word, you push open the car door, stepping out onto the uneven asphalt. Your legs feel like they’re made of glass, but you force yourself forward, heart pounding harder with every step you take.

The world feels eerily quiet around you—like even the wind is holding its breath. You spot the intersection up ahead, twisted metal still littering the street.

Your chest tightens unbearably.

There.

The wreckage.

The car.

Exactly where you left it.

You almost can’t breathe as you half-walk, half-stumble toward it, Satoru shadowing your steps, silent but close.

The crumpled remains of your old car sit wedged against a broken streetlight, glass scattered like diamonds around it. You hesitate, staring down at the overturned frame, your hands shaking so badly they feel like they might snap off.

A little more down, another car stands still, frozen in time.

“Sayo…” you whisper hoarsely, barely audible.

And then, slowly—terrified—you walk over, crouching down to look underneath.

You don’t know what you were expecting to see. In a perfect world, Sayo would have been there, lying unharmed. Or, you might’ve scared yourself even more by staring at her mangled body. Anything.

What you didn’t expect to see was nothing, no body, no article of jewelry or clothing left, absolutely nothing. Just a puddle of dried blood that now stains the cement.

Your breath catches in your throat, a hollow ache ripping through your chest. Nothing. Not even a scrap of her.

You sit there frozen, crouched in the dust and debris, staring at that dark, ugly stain where your teammate should’ve been. “She’s gone,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else.

Satoru stays a few steps behind you, his hands shoved into his jean pockets. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t try to offer any empty condolences of what he can only assume is a personal loss for you. Maybe he knows there’s nothing he could say that would fix this anyway. The world feels heavier now, the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders until your arms start to tremble. You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, blinking furiously against the sting building in your eyes.

You stayed alive.

And Sayo didn’t even get a chance. No one did.

For a long, breathless moment, you kneel there in the broken silence—until finally, a calloused hand presses against your back. “Come on,” Satoru says quietly. “It’s not safe out here.”

You don’t have the strength to argue. You just close your eyes for one long, aching second—then push yourself up, legs wobbling, and let him steer you back toward the car.

He doesn’t question the moment as you two sit back in your reserved seats, putting the key in the ignition before continuing the intended trek. Your brain runs miles a minute, thoughts swirling. Dread pools in your soul, head tilting against the headrest of the seat. Guilt once again creeps back in, raising a hand to your forehead to smooth out the crinkles of your strained expression.

You find yourself wanting to laugh again out of pure spite. A worthless sense of living is all you can associate with. Just how a person like you—a person who’s committed more sins than you’d like to admit—is the one breathing instead of someone who actually deserves it is the ultimate question you have. Is it the world’s sick way of getting back at you? Of making you suffer through this guilt with no one to turn to? Well, at least someone you’d want to turn to. All your friends are more than likely dead. Your family. Everyone you could possibly love and care about…gone.

Damn, this…this is really happening.

You squeeze your eyes shut, nails digging into the palms of your hands until they sting. There’s no waking up from this. No undoing it. The soft rumble of the car beneath you feels detached, distant, like it’s carrying someone else away—someone who still had a future.

You don’t even notice the shallow, erratic way you’re breathing until Satoru’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Hey,” he says, a little gruff, but not unkind. “You’re not gonna do me much good if you pass out again.”

You huff out a hollow breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “I’m fine,” you lie.

He doesn’t call you on it. He knows better than to try.

Instead, the two of you drive on through the hollowed-out skeleton of what used to be a world worth living in, the gas station inching closer with every second. And all you can think about is how survival doesn’t feel like winning anymore.

It feels like punishment.

He stops right in front, pocketing the key and sighing. “You can stay in here, I’ll be quick.”

“I’m going.”

He gives you a sidelong look, jaw clenching in frustration. “You can barely stand,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“I’m not sitting in the car like some helpless idiot,” you snap back, already forcing the door open despite the deep ache rattling your bones.

Satoru huffs under his breath but doesn’t argue further. Maybe he figures it’s pointless. Or, he understands in a way that words don’t need to explain. Without another word, you both step out into the open, the stale, metallic scent of dried blood and burnt rubber clinging to the air like a curse.

He tightens the strap on his backpack and moves ahead of you, knife glinting at his side, his frame tense and alert. You trail behind him, fists clenching at your sides, ready for whatever the hell is waiting beyond the shattered doors of the gas station. He hands you a tote bag, the blue logo of the Tokyo Metropolitan Hospital printed on it.

Inside the gas station is deserted. Items left scattered around by people who were probably in a rush to get the hell away from whatever occurred here. There are no working lights, and the sound of chips crunching beneath your feet as you venture further in. Satoru peeks over the other side of the counter to where the attendant would have normally been standing. His face doesn’t change, looking away and moving down the aisles. “Don’t go back there.”

You wouldn’t dare. You’ve seen enough death for today.

The refrigerators call your name.

The cool, stale air rushes out as you crack one open, the faint hum of whatever backup generator is left alive filling your ears. Most of the shelves are picked clean—only a few battered bottles of water, some questionable-looking sandwiches, and cans of energy drinks remain. You grab what you can with shaking hands, stuffing bottles into the tote. Your fingers graze over a pack of Pedialyte at the bottom shelf, and without thinking, you yank it too.

From behind you, you hear Satoru rummaging through shelves, the soft clinking of cans and pill bottles being shoved into his bag. No words are exchanged; none are needed. Survival has its own language. You spot a lone protein bar lodged behind a case of toppled soda cans. You lean down to reach for it—

—and the sudden slam of something heavy in the back room sends your heart dropping to your stomach.

Not again.

Satoru moves quicker than you do, coming over to your aisle in practiced quietness. “Stay here. Don’t move, don’t speak. I’ll tell you when to come out.”

You nod, swallowing the lump of fear clawing up your throat. Your fingers tighten around the tote bag, your body instinctively shrinking smaller, pressing against the refrigerator door for whatever little cover it can give. Satoru slips forward, moving like a shadow between the shelves, his knife already drawn. Every step he takes is measured, deliberate, almost too calm for the circumstances. You watch him until he disappears around the corner, leaving you alone with nothing but the sound of your own blood pounding in your ears.

You grip the bag tighter, forcing yourself to breathe slowly and silently, straining your ears for anything—anything—that might tell you what’s lurking just beyond your sight.

Satoru’s eyes narrow, scanning his surroundings with calculation. He avoids any scattered items of food on the ground to avoid unnecessary noise, stalking closer and closer to the back room. The closer he gets, the heavier the air feels, thick with the metallic scent of blood and something sour—something wrong. His knife is steady in his hand, the grip sure and tight, knuckles paling slightly.

He stops just outside the swinging door leading into the back, angling his body to the side to listen. There’s a faint, irregular shuffling noise—too heavy to be a rat, too erratic to be anything human.

His jaw clenches.

One breath in. One breath out.

Without hesitating, Satoru kicks the door open with the side of his boot, blade raised, ready to strike whatever hell waits for him inside. He reacts quicker than expected. Spotting the shadows in his left periphery. He raises his knife, anticipating hearing the squishy sound of rotting flesh being forcefully stabbed in, one he’s growing more accustomed to.

However, a dull banging is what resounds.

A second passes. Then two. And then three.

Satoru lowers his knife just slightly. Immediately, his eyes widen, lips parting in shock.

“…Nanami?”

Lo and behold, his two former(?) coworkers stand before him, looking just as frenzied, but ready for a fight as he is. They’re still wearing their scrubs, though they lost their pristine color of blue. Tattered, stained, no longer representing what they were trained for.

“Satoru?” Nanami breathes out, lowering the metal baseball bat in hand. He pushes his glasses up, hair tousled and breathing heavily. Standing beside him, slightly behind, is Takuma. Holding nothing in his shaky hands except for a broken glass of beer.

Satoru almost wants to scoff in happy disbelief. Lip moving up into a half-smile. “You…you guys are alive?”

Nanami huffs out a dry, almost humorless laugh, the bat lowering fully to his side. “Barely,” he mutters, voice rough with exhaustion. His eyes flick briefly toward the door behind Satoru, where you still wait anxiously in the other aisle.

Takuma gives a nervous glance around the dim room, wiping his sweaty palms against his pants. “We thought you were dead, Satoru,” he says quietly, voice trembling slightly. “We tried going back to the hospital for you, but…”

Satoru tightens his grip on the knife instinctively, memories flashing behind his eyes. Blood. Screaming. Chaos.

“We can catch up later,” Nanami says, shaking his head as if to ward off the past. His gaze sharpens. “Is it just you?”

Satoru glances back toward your aisle, then returns his eyes to them. “Not just me,” he says simply. “I’m with someone.”

“Human?”

“Damn right.”

“Oh, I’m so happy you’re alive!” Takuma rushes forward, sloppily hugging Satoru like a pair of friends who have just been reunited after ten years apart.

Satoru stiffens for a second—almost out of instinct—but then he lets out a breathy chuckle and pats Takuma’s back a little roughly. “Alright, alright. Don’t get all emotional on me.”

Takuma laughs wetly, pulling away, his face a mess of relief and lingering fear. “Man, it’s been hell.”

Nanami steps closer too, more reserved but still visibly relieved. “We thought we were the only ones left. We didn’t know if any of the hospital staff made it.”

Satoru’s half-smile falters for a split second before he masks it again, his hand twitching at his side. “Yeah, they didn’t.”

There’s a tense pause, the three men standing in the wrecked gas station, the remnants of their old lives clinging to them like ghosts.

“Well,” Takuma starts, wiping down his clothes with a proud smile. “We have Mr. Gojo here now, our chances of survival are higher, Nanami!” He tosses his poor excuse of a weapon to the side, being the first to head out of the break room.

“We all got this, we all can—”

“Ah!”

The sound of something hitting something—presumably the back of Ino’s head—is all that’s heard before his body slumps to the ground face-forward. Nanami and Satoru stand still, watching the energetic, younger half of their trio knocked down to the ground.

Their eyes flicker to the right.

There you stand with a bloodied can of beans clutched tightly in your hand, raised defensively. Your chest heaves from the adrenaline, your stance wide, ready to swing again if necessary.

For a moment, no one moves.

Then Satoru runs a hand down his face, exhaling in a long, slow sigh. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I said stay put.”

Nanami, ever the diplomat, simply blinks at you, deadpan. “Reasonable reaction,” he says, voice dry as sandpaper.

You stare at the two men, wide-eyed, heart pounding against your ribs. “H-He came out of nowhere!” you blurt, still gripping the can like your life depends on it.

Takuma groans from the ground, slowly rolling over onto his side, cradling the back of his head. “W-what happened…?” he whimpers.

“You got beaned,” Satoru says flatly. He finally walks over, gently lowering your arm with the can in it. “It’s okay. They’re friends. Dumbass friends, but friends.”

You glance warily between the two strangers, muscles still tense. “You sure?”

“As sure as I can be in this messed up world,” Satoru says, shooting you a small, crooked smile. “Put the weapon down, Rambo.”

Reluctantly, you lower the can, though you still keep it in your hand. Just in case.

You flinch slightly when the blonde man steps up to you, surveying eyes roaming over you, as if searching for an imperfection. Defensively, you shrink in on yourself, eyes narrowed.

“This is my best pal, Nanami, or Nanamin, or Kento if you’re really boring. We work together.” Satoru introduces, slinging his arm over the other man’s shoulders. “That there writhing on the floor, Takuma Ino. Resident where we work.”

Nanami barely reacts to Satoru’s arm around him, only offering you a polite but curt nod. His eyes, though sharp, seem less judging and more…calculating. Like he’s sizing you up for survival, not morality. “Pleasure,” he says, though his tone is so dry it’s hard to tell if he means it.

Meanwhile, Takuma lets out another soft groan from the ground, still not fully recovered from your ambush. “H-Hi…” he wheezes weakly, waving a hand without looking up.

Satoru grins, giving Nanami a firm slap on the back before stepping away, hands lazily shoved into his pockets. “Now that all the introductions are done and no one else has a concussion, maybe we can focus on getting what we came here for?”

You nod stiffly, still tense, still unsure if you can really trust these men. But a part of you—the part that’s clinging desperately to the idea that not everyone is lost—whispers that you don’t have much of a choice.

Nanami must see the doubt in your eyes, because he adds, voice low and steady, “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re just trying to survive. Same as you.”

You swallow thickly, nodding once more, finally lowering the can fully to your side.

Satoru tosses you a wink. “See? We’re all just one big, dysfunctional family now.”

Takuma, still face-down on the floor, groans, “Best family reunion ever…”

The car ride out of the gas station after your raid is a silent one. Still recovering from your concussion, it’s taking everything in you not to snap at the star-struck man sitting up from the backseat, blatantly staring at your pinched side profile.

You peek.

Yep, still staring.

A small scoff exits your mouth, brows furrowing even deeper.

“I—I just can’t believe I’m…you—you’re really—wow, you’re so much prettier than the TV.”

You don’t reply, eyes trained forward on the road. You would think for someone who just got their shit rocked would be less lively than this. Apparently not.

“You know, my favorite performance you did was the Championship two years ago! I don’t even really like baseball, but you guys always have the best routines. You’re just so flexible, it’s insane! And I—oh, you smell so good!”

“Quit that.” Nanami gruffs, pushing Ino’s side.

It doesn’t deter him, however. Finally seeing the star captain of the Yomiuri Giants cheer team right before his eyes, the one he’s always daydreamed of meeting…sitting right in front of him. Life couldn’t be better!

You don’t have the energy to deal with this. Your head is pounding, your stomach turns uneasily with every word that comes out of his mouth, and the last thing you want is to be reminded of the person you were before everything went to hell.

Satoru, sensing your growing irritation, leans back casually in his seat, arm draped lazily over the wheel. “Oi, Ino. You’re gonna make her jump out the damn car if you don’t shut up.”

“But—but it’s her!” Ino protests like a whiny kid, clutching the back of the driver’s seat dramatically. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing! You can’t blame me for being excited!”

Nanami sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Control yourself. She’s not here to sign autographs.”

You shift uncomfortably, dragging a hand down your face. “I’m not her anymore,” you mutter under your breath, almost wishing they hadn’t recognized you at all.

The weight of it—the life you lost, the people you lost—it settles even heavier on your shoulders.

Satoru glances at you out of the corner of his eye, catching the way your hands tremble slightly in your lap. Without saying anything, he reaches forward and turns up whatever is left of the radio, just enough to drown out Ino’s giddy rambling, a silent show of mercy. And for the first time since leaving the gas station, you feel like maybe you can actually breathe.

Even if just a little.

“You’re not her anymore,” Satoru thinks to himself, glancing briefly at you. But whoever you are now… you’re still alive. And that has to count for something.

For now.

“Where are we heading?” Nanami asks from beside Ino in the backseat, sighing heavily. “There’s not much to go to, we should be indoors before sunset.”

Satoru taps his fingers lightly against the steering wheel, eyes locked ahead. “There’s an old motel about fifty minutes from here,” he says casually, but there’s an edge to his voice. “Off the highway, tucked behind some trees. I used to pass it on my commute when I lived in Minano. Looked abandoned.”

“Abandoned could mean infested,” Nanami points out flatly.

Satoru smirks without humor. “Yeah, well, everything’s a gamble now, isn’t it?”

You lean your head back against the seat, staring blankly out the window at the decaying world flashing by. Part of you wants to tell them to just find the nearest ditch and let you all rot there. Safer than pretending there’s some place out there untouched. But another, smaller part—the one that’s too stubborn to die—keeps quiet.

“We’ll clear it if we have to,” Satoru adds, glancing quickly at you, then back to the road. “It’s better than spending the night in a damn gas station parking lot.”

Nanami grunts his reluctant agreement.

Ino just smiles brightly, oblivious to the weight crushing the rest of you.

An abandoned motel. Sounds about right.

You nap for the remainder of the ride. You don’t remember falling asleep. One minute you’re watching the cracked pavement blur by, and the next you’re being shaken awake by a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Hey,” Satoru murmurs, voice low, almost careful. “We’re here.”

Your eyes peel open sluggishly, the incoming afternoon sun bleeding orange across the sky, casting eerie shadows over the crumbling building in front of you.

The motel looks worse up close—a lot worse.

Windows shattered, doors either hanging off their hinges or bolted shut with whatever scrap the previous tenants could find. Faded paint peels off the wooden exterior, vines curling hungrily up the walls.

You sit up straighter, blinking the sleep from your eyes. The air is heavy with the scent of damp wood and something metallic lurking underneath. Nanami and Ino are already getting out, stretching stiffly, weapon gripped tight.

Satoru lingers by your side for a moment longer, watching you with an unreadable expression. “You good?” he asks quietly.

You nod once, though your body screams otherwise. You’re exhausted, sick to your stomach, and mentally fraying at the seams. But what else is new?

You shove the door open and step out into the dying light.

The ground crunches under your shoes—glass, debris, God knows what else.

Nanami’s already surveying the perimeter, and Ino’s bouncing on the balls of his feet like a damn puppy, coming up to your side.

Satoru comes around the front of the car, twirling the knife lazily between his fingers.

“Alright,” he says, voice deceptively light, “let’s clear us a place to sleep, shall we?”

You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, holding the tote in your other hand. If the motel wasn’t infested before… it might be soon. One way or another, tonight would be anything but restful.

“I can carry that for you.” Ino’s voice chirps up, hands hovering above the straps of your backpack and the tote.

You cast him a glance. “I don’t need a lovesick fool like you helping me.”

Ino physically recoils like you slapped him, hands awkwardly pulling back to his sides. “Ouch,” he mumbles, pouting a little as he kicks a pebble at his foot.

Satoru snorts loudly from a few steps ahead, not even bothering to hide his amusement. “Don’t take it personal, Ino. She’s mean to everyone she likes,” he calls over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes but don’t bother correcting him.

If Ino were smart, he’d learn fast that getting attached to you would be the worst mistake he could make. Nanami, who’s been silently scouting the building’s outer edges, returns to the group. “The doors on the east side are less barricaded. We’ll start there,” he says, jerking his chin toward a crumbling walkway.

Satoru spins his knife once before catching it neatly by the handle.

“Let’s get this over with.”

And without waiting for a response, he strides forward, the rest of you trailing behind into the mouth of the rotting motel.

The entrance groans ominously as Satoru shoves the door open with his shoulder, the hinges protesting with a metallic whine. The inside smells even worse—like mildew, rotted wood, and the faint, stomach-churning tang of decay. You instinctively pull your shirt over your nose, muscles tensing as your eyes adjust to the gloom.

Wallpaper peels in long, curling strips. The carpet is stained beyond recognition. Furniture, if you can even call it that anymore, is overturned and gutted like some desperate animal tore through it.

Satoru moves first, knife gleaming even in the low light, every step calculated and soft. Nanami follows close behind, baseball bat held at the ready.

You take up the rear, feeling Ino nervously hover too close behind you. Every cracked door you pass feels like it’s hiding something. Every faint creak or scuttle in the shadows has your heart hammering against your ribs.

Satoru raises a hand—a silent signal.

You all freeze.

He points to a door slightly ajar at the end of the hall.

The room number, barely clinging to the wall above it, reads 207. A faint shuffle echoes from inside. Without a word, Satoru inches closer, signaling for Nanami to flank the opposite side.

You press yourself against the wall, holding your breath.

The air is so thick with tension you feel like you might choke on it. A beat. Another. Then Satoru kicks the door open.

What greets you isn’t a monster, but something else—

A man.

Disheveled, gaunt, eyes wild and sunken in, brandishing a rusty piece of pipe like a cornered animal.

He shrieks wordlessly and lunges. Satoru is faster. In one clean, brutal movement, he sidesteps and slams the man face-first into the floor, the knife pressed warningly against the side of his neck. The man thrashes weakly, but it’s clear he’s more bark than bite.

“Not infected,” Nanami states flatly, voice void of surprise.

Satoru leans down slightly, voice cold and low. “Then what the hell are you doing here, huh?”

The man whimpers, lips trembling. “H-hiding. Please—please don’t kill me.”

Your stomach churns unpleasantly.

If you hadn’t gotten here first, how long until this guy would’ve turned desperate enough to bash your head in for supplies?

Satoru sighs heavily, straightening and backing off. “Lucky you.”

The man scrambles away from him like a kicked dog, disappearing into the shadows at the far end of the building without a second glance back.

No one speaks for a long moment.

The quiet creeps in again, heavier than before. “Well,” Satoru says at last, sheathing his knife with a soft click. “At least it’s not infested.”

Nanami looks unimpressed. Ino looks like he might faint. You just tighten your grip on your sanity and steel yourself. This motel would be your home for the night. Whether you liked it or not.

“How do we know he won’t come back to try and kill us in our sleep?” You ask out, looking at Satoru.

Satoru tilts his head slightly, considering the question for a moment. His gaze flickers to the dark hallway behind you, then back to you. His expression is unreadable, though there’s a hint of something—calculated amusement or maybe something darker. “Because,” he says, voice smooth and casual, “if he had any intentions, he’d have already acted. A man like that, desperate and alone, wouldn’t have hesitated to take a swing if he thought he could get away with it.” He shrugs, as if the thought of being attacked in his sleep is more of a nuisance than a legitimate concern.

“You don’t survive this long by being dumb,” he adds. “He’s got no fight left in him. If he does come back, we’ll be ready. And if he doesn’t, well, then we can just go to bed.”

You stare at him, skeptical.

“Not that easy,” Nanami mutters from behind you, running his fingers through his disheveled hair. “But, I suppose it’s better than camping outside and hoping we don’t get surrounded.”

You can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s not fully convinced, but it’s clear he’s willing to go along with Satoru’s plan. He shoots a glance at Ino, who’s still looking pale but seems to be getting a grip on himself.

“Alright,” you finally say, your voice steady despite the storm of thoughts running through your head. “So, we post watches then.”

“Exactly,” Satoru agrees easily, leaning against the wall with a smirk. “I’ll take first, and Nanami can take second. Ino—” He glances over at the younger man, who’s busy trying to wipe away the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “You can take third. Sound fair?”

Ino nods quickly, still looking somewhat out of his element. “Got it!”

You’re still on edge, but at least there’s some plan in place. Satoru’s smirk flickers and then fades as he steps past you toward the lobby area. “Just don’t do anything stupid,” he says, his voice dropping in volume as he goes. “We’re not out of this yet.”

You take a deep breath and follow him, your mind still racing. The man who’d been hiding in the room is long gone, but the unease doesn’t leave. If you could trust anything right now, it was that nothing in this place was what it seemed. You could hear the faint hum of a distant generator somewhere in the building, the flickering of lights above your head. It was a temporary shelter, and nothing more.

“Let’s just get through tonight,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.

Nanami gives you a look that’s almost approving, like he understands where you’re coming from.

Satoru glances back, pausing just long enough for you to meet his eyes, his expression shifting briefly. “Tomorrow, we move out. Find a more stable safe house, we can’t keep moving every night.”

Tomorrow. The word doesn’t feel real anymore. Nothing feels real. You nod, letting the silence drag you into the night.

After carefully looking through each room on the first floor, you all decide to camp out in the room furthest down the hall on the second floor. Two beds with a dusty TV in front. You claim the bed closest to the window, dropping your things onto it with a huff. The sheets look like they could be cleaner. But it beats having to sleep on the ground. You can only hope and pray no bugs crawl into your ears during the night.

“Alright, princess gets her own bed and we three can share the other one like a bunch of best buddies.” Satoru claps, setting his bag down.

“I’m not cuddling you.”

“You say that now, Nanamin.”

Nanami rolls his eyes, moving to dump his things onto the second bed with an exaggerated sigh. “I’d rather sleep standing than anywhere near you two.” His voice is dry, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to him.

Ino, however, seems oddly enthusiastic. “I’m okay with the whole ‘sharing’ thing! It’ll be like a sleepover.” His nervous energy still buzzing around him like an annoying fly. “Do we have snacks? I can go check the vending machine downstairs.”

You glance at him, wondering if he’s genuinely this optimistic or just trying to distract himself from the unsettling situation. Either way, his excitement feels out of place here, like a reminder that there are still moments in the world to be happy—even if it’s as small as a vending machine snack.

“Relax, Ino,” Satoru says, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not going anywhere. I’ll keep watch, but don’t get too comfortable thinking you’re gonna snack your way through the end of the world.”

Ino makes a disappointed noise but doesn’t protest. Instead, he lies down on the bed, his hands behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. His gaze flickers from you to Satoru, then back to the far corner of the room, where the faint outlines of shadows play in the dying light of the day.

“So,” he begins, breaking the silence that had settled uncomfortably in the room, “anyone have any stories or something? You know, to help us forget how much the world sucks right now?”

You shoot him a look, unsure if he’s trying to lighten the mood or if he genuinely wants to pass the time. The last thing you want to do is start talking about the old world, but it’s hard to ignore that he’s reaching out for some kind of comfort, even if it’s misguided.

Satoru leans back against the wall, his usual smirk back in place, though it’s a little more tired now. “I’ve got plenty of stories, but none of them are gonna make you feel better. Trust me.”

Nanami shoots him a look from across the room. “Keep it to yourself, Satoru. We don’t need your ‘life wisdom’ right now.”

You roll your eyes, feeling the weight in the air slightly lift. For the first time since entering this damn motel, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. At least for tonight, the world could feel a little more like it was before. Even if it was just for a few hours. As Satoru takes his position by the window, keeping watch for any signs of movement outside, you curl into the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. There’s no telling what tomorrow will bring. But for tonight, you allow yourself a small moment of peace.

Let’s see if you can even get a wink of sleep tonight.

(if i forgot to tag you, pls let me know) taglist: @sukuxna0 @heartsteelkaynconsumer @myahfig4 @kirachuyuu @sypnasis

@ducky1232 @oromanticism @2late4breakfast @beabamboo @dickktektive

@sleepyyammy @tbzzluvr @beabamboo @lovely-maryj @n1vi

@ojdubije @reixtsu @istha5 @ritsatoru @sadmonke

@zoeyflower @topmeyelena @sourairi @jlandersen01 @vamppirez

@ac27dj @aquariusscollection @itzkawaiix @a-trashbag @satorugirlie

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onlyfezco · 1 year ago

Text

Obvious - Fezco

Summary: You insist on meeting your cousin Rue's drug dealer and an interesting friendship develops in the process.

Fezco x Reader

Word Count: 4,840

Author's Note: Started this in March of 2022 and it's finally getting posted lol. This is my first Fezco fic since Angus' passing which is so hard to type I'm crying at that. I still miss him. A lot. Dividers from @firefly-graphics

Rue was your closest cousin. Not that you had many, and the few you did have lived somewhere outside of East Highland, but that was beside the point. She was a year younger than you, so the two of you spent most of your childhood glued to one another. When her dad died, you saw the toll it took on her. You realized then that she started using but she played it off like she had it all under control. That’s what an addict does. Eventually you did confront her about it. She said it was mostly weed, so you let it slide. One day she had you drive her to restock her supply. That’s when you met Fezco for the first time.

“So you’re the guy selling my baby cousin drugs,” you blurted out after Rue did a quick introduction then started making her way to Ashtray behind the refrigerated drinks.

“Y/N, what the fuck,” Rue shouted at you annoyed. “You’re only a year older than me.”

“A year and three months,” you corrected. You only got specific with the three months to annoy Rue. You crossed your arms over your chest as you eyed the ginger sitting on the counter in front of you. “And how old are you?”

Fez observed you carefully. It’s not everyday some random person immediately brings up him selling drugs directly to his face. Especially a cute random person. “You always talk to new people like this?”

“Only when my cousin’s health is at stake.” You sighed and shook your head. “Look, I don’t have beef with you. I realized a while ago that Rue’s gonna do what she wants. I just want to make sure she’s being safe about it... well, as safe as you can get with drugs.”

Fez nodded along as you spoke understanding your concern for your cousin. He knew Rue wasn’t going around promoting that she was doing drugs or that he sold. You were just looking out for her. “I get it.”

“I’ve heard too many stories about people overdosing on Fentanyl or something they didn’t know was laced with Fentanyl. I don’t want to find out that happened to my cousin.”

“You don’t have to worry, ma. I don’t mess with that shit. All my stuff is good.”

You squinted at him taking in his words. “Better be. Otherwise I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Fez chuckled. He didn’t doubt for a second you wouldn’t fight behind Rue. “Understood.”

“You go to school with Rue? I ain’t never seen you ‘round before.” Fez went to most of the East Highland High School parties to deal. Since he’s never seen you there, either you didn’t go to that school, or you didn’t go to parties. Either way, he was missing out on you.

“Oh God, no,” you said. “I go to Centenary.”

“Oh, so you smart smart.” You smiled and rolled your eyes at Fezco’s statement, and he decided right then and there that was something he wanted to see more of.

“Something like that,” you replied giggling.

“You ready to go, Y/N,” Rue popped up practically out of no where and asked. Damn, why did Rue have to be so quick.

“Uhh, yeah,” you said to your cousin. Rue shoved her hands into her dad’s old maroon jacket and started to walk out the store. You turned to Fezco and said, “I’m gonna be watching you, sir.”

Fez smiled at the thought. “I look forward to it, ma.”

After that, you made a few impromptu trips to Fez’s store without Rue. You told him your grandma lived in the neighborhood, which she did, so it wasn’t a lie. But Fez did point out that before Rue, you had never came to the store before.

“I mean I could always go somewhere else for my carbonated beverages if you want,” you said as you turned on your heel to leave the store without making your usual purchase.

“Nah,” Fez replied grabbing your wrist stopping you, “I ain’t say all that.”

When your mom told you that Rue overdosed, you couldn’t help but feel guilty. Maybe if you had told your Aunt Leslie what Rue was doing, she could have got some help. But you knew Rue. Ever since her dad’s death she had been struggling. She would have to finally deal with that grief if she was going to stop, and you knew that was the last thing she wanted to do.

A few days after Rue’s overdose, you went to visit Fezco. You weren’t sure if he knew or not. Even though he was her dealer, he was close to Rue, so you thought he should know. And it would be better coming from you than to hear it on the street.

“Well if it isn’t Y/N Y/L/N,” Fezco greeted you with a smile on his face.

You tried to smile at the red head, but it was weak. “Hey Fezco.”

“What’s wrong,” Fez asked, immediately knowing something was up.

You walked to him fiddling with your fingers nervous to tell him about your cousin. “Uh... it’s Rue,” you said looking up at him with somber eyes. “She overdosed.”

Fez’s face became tense. He didn’t question it. He wasn’t shocked, just sad.

You couldn’t take looking into his piercing blue eyes any longer and set your eyes on the candy on the counter. “She’s still at the hospital going through withdrawals. Aunt Leslie’s going to put her in rehab when she gets out.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Fez said as he placed his hand on your arm to comfort you. Your eyes met his again and you could tell he genuinely felt bad.

“Its..,” you paused and laughed. “I was going to say it’s okay, but its not. She didn’t die, so that’s great but... I didn’t know it was this bad with her.”

Fez dropped his hand and leaned against the counter behind him. “Why’d you come here, ma?”

You looked at him confused. “What are you talking about? Rue’s your friend, I thought you should know.”

“She is but... you ain’t come here to blame me?”

You were taken aback. “No, Fez. It’s not your fault. Rue made a choice. And if she didn’t get her drugs from you, it would be someone else.”

Fez was quiet as he took in what you said. You wanted to, no, needed him to understand this wasn’t his fault.

“Listen to me Fezco. Rue’s got a lot of problems that she has to deal with. She was using drugs to cope with her grief. I know you wouldn’t want her to OD. I’d rather know she was going to you for her fix, than some random guy who didn’t give two shits about whether or not she lived or died. So I don’t want you putting any of this on yourself, okay?”

Fez gave a small nod to let you knew he understood. You don’t know if he actually believed what you said, but you were glad it was out there.

Over the summer, you visited the store more frequently. You did see him outside the store once at a pool party. Of course you pointed out that you’d never seen him at a party before. Your crowd was a little different than the East Highland High School bunch. Fez played it off though, but you knew he was only there for you.

An unexpected hangout occurred one evening when you stopped by the store on a cloudy day. The flow of customers was already crazy slow, then it started raining and store had been empty besides you, Fez, and Ash for the last hour.

“Aye, bro, can we go home? I’m bored as shit,” Ash said coming from behind the refrigerators.

Fez looked to you sitting on top of the freezer that held the popsicles and ice-cream before he spoke. “Uh, yeah. Go head and pack up.”

You hopped off your self designated spot in store. “Welp, I guess that’s my queue to head home.”

“Nah,” Fez said and stopped you in your tracks. “You ain’t gotta go home.”

“But I gotta get outta here,” you interrupted giggling.

“Nah, ma. I was finna say you could come to my place and hang... if you want.”

Your eyebrows shot up. Fez’s and your relationship mostly consisted of you just hanging out at his store while he worked. The two of you texted every now and then, but that was about it.

“Oh... Uh, sure,” you managed to stammer out. Then you realized that didn’t sound very enthusiastic so you added, “Yeah, I’d love to come over.”

You followed Fez and Ashtray home in your car since you drove yourself to the store. You were anxious the whole way there and the rain definitely wasn’t helping.

Fez’s place looked homey. The living room felt familiar; the couches reminding you of your grandma’s house.

“You want anythin’ to drank,” Fez asked making his way to the kitchen.

“Uh, no, I’m good. Thanks though,” you replied slowly making your way to where he went. It was always awkward the first time you went over to a friend’s house.

Fez reappeared from the kitchen with a beer in his hand. He eyed you for a second before speaking. “You want to watch a movie or somethin’?”

The rest of the evening was spent on Fez’s couch, watching old 90′s movies. Even Ashtray joined you for one. It was nice. It felt normal, not like you somehow became friends with you cousin’s drug dealer.

“Oh my God, Fezzy,” you shouted excitedly. “You won’t believe- Rue,” you paused when you saw your cousin coming from the back door that led to Ashtray. You glanced at Fez, then back to Rue. “What are you doing here?”

“Just popped in for a visit,” Rue answered. Her hands fidgeted in her pockets of her dad’s jacket.

“Unhuh...,” you hummed knowing she didn’t just stop by to see the boys.

“What are you doing here,” Rue asked curious.

“I came by to see Fez,” you stated quickly. “You just got out of rehab, Rue.”

Rue rolled her eyes at you. “Yeah, and I had no plans on staying clean. I learned my lesson cuz. I know my limits now.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “You only know your limits cause you overdosed Rue! You almost died!”

“Key word being almost.”

“Oh my God,” you shook your head again turning away from the conversation. “I’ll talk to you later, Fez,” you said then turned to walk out of the store.

“Hey, Y/N,” Rue said and you stopped in your tracks. “You’re not gonna tell my mom are you?”

You huffed exhausted by your cousin. You telling her mom should be the least of her concerns. You still faced the door but turned your head to look at Rue. Your eyes glossed over with frustrated tears. “I wish you cared about yourself like the rest of us do.”

Two weeks went by before you saw Fez again. The ginger was starting to think you blamed him for Rue’s relapse. Even though you had told him Rue made a choice to do drugs so it wasn’t his fault, your silence made him think you thought otherwise now.

It was Sunday afternoon when Fez heard someone at his door. He looked through the peephole and saw you, then quickly opened the door.

“What’s up, ma?”

“Hey... I went by the store first but you weren’t there. I know I should have called or something, but I just wanted to see you.”

“Nah, you good. I’m just surprised is all.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“Nah, come in,” Fez said then stepped to the side to let you in.

“Thanks,” you replied as you walked past him. You had only been in Fez’s place once, but it felt familiar. You just stood in the entry way while Fez closed the door. “Um, can we talk?”

“Yeah, come on,” Fez said nodding towards the living room.

Fez took his usual place on the couch and you followed suit sitting beside him.

“I’m sorry about ghosting you these last two weeks,” you said, not being able to make eye contact with him. You felt guilty for ignoring him even though your issues were with Rue. Fez just sat there quiet. He wasn’t a man of many words, but you needed him to say something. “Not to sound cliché, but it was me not you.”

“It sure felt like it was because of me,” Fez said.

You turned on the couch to face him more. “It wasn’t, Fez. I promise. I’m mad at Rue, and I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

“Yeah, but she got her drugs from me and Ash. I could have told her no.”

“And then she would have thrown a fit and went somewhere else. Probably somewhere dangerous.”

“Why you keep makin’ excuses for me? You shouldn’t be anywhere near me.”

“What,” you asked, your eyebrows pinched together in confusion. “Fez, no, I don’t want to be anywhere else but near you.” You spoke before you could realize what you were saying but it was true. Fez finally looked towards you and you averted his eyes. The silence was too loud. You were careful with your next words. “If I have to tell you every day, then I will,” you said slowly then looked back up at him. “Rue’s choice to do drugs, and keep doing them after her OD, is hers and hers alone. It’s not your fault.”

Fez took in what you said and how it made him feel then began to shake his head. “Nah, y/n. You tryin’ to justify it still don’t make it right.”

“Fine,” you said exhausted, throwing your hands up in the air. “It’s not right! Rue coping with drugs. You selling her drugs. None of it is right, okay! But Rue is family and you’re my friend. So I’m not going anywhere,” you shouted then just fell back into the couch crossing your arms over your chest.

Fez just watched you from his place on the couch. Anger and annoyance evident on your face. The situation sucked, but Fez didn’t want to lose you. He was worried if Rue overdosed again, not only would he lose a sister, but you would never forgive him. Regardless of how much you told him it wasn’t his fault she was on drugs, he was the supplier. But, if you wanted to keep being friends with him, who was he to tell you no.

“Aight, ma,” Fez drawled out in his usual tone.

“Aight what,” you asked for clarification.

“You’re right... and stubborn,” Fez said, trying to stifle a laugh.

You eyed him cautiously. “Elaborate.”

Fez stayed sitting forward, but turned his head turned towards you and let it fall back on the couch. “Rue’s gonna find a way to do drugs whether or not I give them to her. She was on them before she met me.”

You uncrossed your arms resting them in your lap as you sighed feeling sorry about your cousin. You hated the mess she got in and wished for nothing more than her sobriety. While you were thinking about Rue, Fez’s hand grabbed your forearm then slid down to your hand, pulling it so it was on the empty cushion space between you two, so he could hold it.

“And you’re right about us being friends,” Fez continued. You bit your lip trying to stop your grin from getting too big, and Fez returned a small smile.

After that day, you had seen less of Fez than you usually had in the summer. It was your senior year, so you were busy trying to keep your grades up while staying active in your clubs. You explained your schedule to Fez so he didn’t trip at the fact that he was seeing less of you.

Things between you and Rue were strained. After you talked to Fez, you talked to your cousin and told her if she kept doing drugs you weren’t going to stick around and watch her kill herself. You were no longer holding any sympathy for what she was going through. Your Aunt Leslie and Gia managed to keep living without having their grief hold them back, why couldn’t Rue at least try? But Rue became spiteful, not caring that you were cutting yourself off from her.

You missed how things were in the summer. No stress. Rue was in rehab so you knew she was safe. Spending afternoons at Fez’s store. Missing Fez was how you found yourself at an East Highland party. One of your friends brought it up and you were quick to agree to the outing. You knew he would be dealing at the party, and that was more than enough of a reason to go.

“Hey,” Rue said plopping down on the couch by Fez.

“What’s up, kid?”

“What’s going on with you and my cousin,” Rue asked, cutting straight to the chase. She was never one to beat around the bush.

“Whatchu mean,” Fez asked.

“Y/N doesn’t do parties. Especially not East Highland parties. And I know she’s not here for me.”

“Shit, she might be here for you,” Fez replied nonchalantly but he was hoping you were here for him. He missed seeing you on a regular basis.

“Nah, she’s not even talking to me right now. Cut me off cause I won’t stop using. Trying to teach me a lesson or some shit,” Rue said while she rolled her eyes. “So much for family.”

“Don’t say that shit, Rue.” Fez was getting agitated, because he knew how much you cared for her. “That girl loves you. She just wants you to do better.”

“If she loved me, she wouldn’t leave,” Rue argued, her shoulders tensing up.

“Nah, kid. That’s not how love works. She just doesn’t want to sit around and watch you kill yo’self.”

Rue sat there stunned, your words replaying in her head. “That’s exactly what Y/N told me... how much have you two been hanging out?”

Fez just shook his head as he took his blunt from behind his ear and lit it. “She misses you. Talk to her, Rue.”

You had been at the party for about an hour now. Attempting to play it cool as if Fez wasn’t the sole reason for you being there, you were trying to wait before you went and actually spoke to him. You noticed him a few minutes after you arrived. The two of you made eye contact and waved, but that was it.

Finally managing to leave your friends, you were making your way to Fezco when Rue stepped in front of you.

“Oh sor- hey Rue.”

“Hey, cuz,” Rue said. She looked... nervous. She was fidgeting with her jacket’s hood strings. Her eyes looking practically everywhere else but at you. “Um, can we talk for a sec?”

You looked past her to see Fez still sitting on the couch. Some guy coming up to him to make a deal. “Uh, yeah. Of course. Let’s step outside.”

Rue nodded, then you both made your way to the front door. There was too much going on in the backyard to have a private conversation there. You opened the door and let Rue step out into the cool night air first.

You leaned against one of the front porch beams while Rue just stood there awkwardly and shoved her hands into her jacket pockets.

The silence between you two was awkward which was a first. You tried to wait for Rue to speak, but she struggled to find the words.

“What’s up, Rue?”

“Umm, I just- I,” Rue stammered out while she fidgeted in her spot. “Shit, I’m sorry, Y/N. We’ve never not talked to each other like this and I hate it. I miss you.”

You sighed, sorrow filling your eyes. “I miss you, too, cousin.”

Rue’s eyes glossed over as she started to smile. “Uh, I haven’t been using as much anymore.”

You reached out and placed your hand on her wrist for a moment. “That’s great.”

Rue nodded, her eyes dogging around. “Yeah... I met someone.”

“Oh,” you replied, your eyebrows rising up in surprise. You were thrilled Rue was using less, but you knew if her sobriety was because of a person, it wouldn’t last long. “Do I know them?”

“No, she’s new. Her name is Jules.”

“Jules,” you repeated, making sure you pronounced it right.

Rue nodded, her smile growing bigger. “Yeah, she’s here tonight. Pretty blonde in the bright pink mini skirt.”

“You look happy.”

She ran her fingers through her curls, pushing her hair back. “I’m working on it.”

It was quiet for a moment as you looked down at your cousin. “Hey, Rue.”

“Yeah?”

“I know we haven’t been talking, but... you know I’m here if you need me.” You placed your hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

“I know,” Rue said nodding. Then you placed your other hand on her shoulder and pulled her in for a hug. Since you were on the step above her, you towered over her in the hug so you sat your chin on her head.

“Okay... you can let go now, Y/N,” Rue said after you were holding onto her a little too long.

“No, gotta make up for lost time,” you said, hugging her tighter.

“It wasn’t that much time.”

“It felt like forever,” you said dragging out the r then placing a bunch of kisses on Rue’s head.

“Ew, okay okay, I get it,” Rue said squirming in your arms. “Why don’t you go and kiss Fez?”

You stopped abruptly, pulling back slightly to look down at Rue. “Why would you say that? Did he... did he say something to you?”

Rue gently pushed herself out of your arms. “No, but it’s obvious something is happening between you two.”

“What,” you asked shaking your head, nervously running your hand over your hair. “Nothing’s happening. We’re just friends.”

“Yeah, friends who wanna fuck,” Rue replied. She was always the blunt one in the family.

“Rue!”

“Am I wrong,” she asked, her eyes on you.

“Uhh-I mean...”

“Un huh. Just tell him how you feel,” Rue said as she started to make her way back into the party.

“You say that like it’s so easy.”

Rue turned around so she was walking backwards now. “It is when the other person likes you back.” Then she turned back around and you lost sight of her in the sea of people.

“But...,” you shouted then began to whisper since you no longer saw her, “how do you know he likes me?”

Now you were nervous. You weren’t really one to flirt, at least not on purpose anyway. It was one thing to act normal around Fez and pretend you didn’t have a huge crush on him, it was another for someone to tell you he liked you and pretend to be normal. What if Rue was wrong? What if whatever sign she was getting from Fezco, was just him being a good friend, and not him being interested in you?

You made your way back into the party, but completely passed by the living room and went straight for the bathroom. Surprisingly, there wasn’t a line so you went right in. You locked the door then went to the mirror to look at yourself. Everything was still in place. Your lipstick was perfect. Your hair styled the way you liked it. Now, if only you could get that look of fear off your face.

“Breath, Y/N,” you said to yourself. You took a long exhale then inhaled. “Rue wouldn’t lie to you... well, maybe about drugs but not about this. And it’s Fez. Just put out some feelers to see where his head is at.” You nodded at yourself then turned the faucet on to splash a little water on yourself. Then your eyes grew wide as you thought, looking at yourself in the mirror again. “But what if he’s just being nice? IT’S FEZ! He’d never intentionally be mean to me. So how will I know if he’s only being polite and not actually flirting with me. Ughh!”

You dried your hand on a nearby towel then turned away from the mirror. You took some deep breaths to try and shake off the nervous feeling growing in the pit of your stomach. “Okay. It’s fine. You’re fine.” You thought about every time you hung out with Fez over the summer. Going to his house for the first time. Him giving you candy for free at the store. Him holding your hand on his couch. Fez was a good friend and you didn’t want to lose that, but you couldn’t keep holding your feelings for the ginger in.

“Hey Y/N,” Fezco said once you stopped in front of him. A small smile growing on his lips. Somehow his eyes managed to shimmer in the crappy living room lighting.

“Uh can you give me a ride home? I don’t feel so hot and I can’t find my friends.”

Technically it wasn’t a lie. You didn’t feel great. Your anxiety about asking Fez how he felt about you made you sick to your stomach.

“Sure thing, ma,” Fez replied, getting up from the couch without a second thought. Add that to the list of reasons you liked Fez. He would drop everything for you. The party wasn’t done so there was still money to be made, yet here he was, walking you out the party to his car.

The ride was quiet and awkward which was unusual. You only felt awkward around Fez when you had to bring up Rue’s drug addiction. Glancing over at Fez, he was oblivious to the worry that was going on in your head. His eyes focused on the dark road ahead as he nodded along to the music. The streetlights highlighting his freckles as you drove through the neighborhood.

“Do you like me,” you asked, interrupting Fez.

Fez’s eyes left the road for a moment confused at your sudden change in the conversation. He readjusted himself in his spot before he spoke. “Yeah, course I like you. Wouldn’t be giving you a ride home if I didn’t.”

You shook your head annoyed. “No, Fez. I mean do you like like me? Like if we were in middle school and you found a note in your locker that said ‘do you like me? Yes or no.’ Which one would you circle?”

“Oh.”

Oh. OH! What did he mean by oh. Your brain was running a mile a minute now. Fez better say something else and quick.

After what felt like forever, but was only about 5 seconds. “Yeah... thought it was obvious I was feelin’ you.”

You let out a breathy laugh in disbelief. “Obvious?”

“Yeah, I mean I thought you was real cute that first day you came in the store grillin’ me about what I was sellin’ Rue.” Fez chuckled to himself remembering that day.

“You thought I was cute,” you asked baffled. This was all so confusing for you.

Fez shook his head, eyes still focused on the road. “You gonna just keep repeating everything I’m sayin?”

“Uhh, yeah,” you replied, your eyes wide trying to prosses what he was saying to you. “It doesn’t make sense and you’re being so nonchalant about this.”

“How am I supposed to be?”

“I don’t know,” you answered, your hands flailing around. “Not like this! Just a minute ago I was freaking out wondering if I would ruin our friendship, or if there was even the slightest chance you liked me back... and you do. My brain can’t comprehend.”

Fezco put his car in park and you realized you were in front of you house. “Well, comprehend, ma.”

You slouched back in your seat staring out at the road ahead of you taking it all in. Rue was right. “What do we do now?”

Fez reached over the center console and grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers. “Well, we could start with a date?”

You turned at looked at Fez, biting your lip to stop your smile from getting too big. “I’d like that,” you said, nodding your head.

“Cool,” Fez said smiling.

“Cool,” you repeated grinning right back.

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, just staring at one another.

“You know what. I’m feeling way better now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah... don’t think I’m quite ready to go inside yet.”

“You got something in mind?”

“Not really,” you said, pausing to think for a second. “Just not ready to leave you yet,” you replied, squeezing his hand a little while rubbing your thumb back and forth on the back of his hand.

Fezco’s checks got incredibly hotter as he looked away from you avoiding your eyes. He let go of your hand and put his car back in drive beginning to drive off then said, "I think I know a place."

#fezco x reader #fezco one shot #fez x reader #fez fanfic #fezco #euphoria fan fiction #euphoria one shot #euphoria

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chemxpertdatabase · 7 months ago

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Caffeine in the USA | Chemical Properties, Market Size, and Regulatory Landscape

Caffeine is a familiar friend whose usefulness can hardly be overestimated, it is taken in the morning and during working hours to prevent the sense of fatigue. This psychoactive stimulant used in drinks as coffee, tea, energy drinks and in various dietary supplements has attracted consumers worldwide. It is a complex compound, which has a multi-faceted role in our daily lives, that is why caffeine an indispensable part of our diets and a major component in the global economy. In this blog, we look at the basic details about caffeine including its chemical properties, the growth in global market size over the years and the current rules governing it in the United States.

#medicine export from India #new drug development process #api medicine #clinical research companies in India #latest trends in pharmaceutical industry

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theblue-hairedarcadian · 6 months ago

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(SPOILERS!)

content warning ⚠️ subtle implications of assault.

yes, i am still not sold with the sequel.

i do agree that ‘double exposure has an interesting plot and new characters AND it could’ve been written better or it didn’t include max at all to sell the game’ can still exist in the same sentence.

but i have to admit that this video i stumbled upon tiktok today exploring max’s trauma back in the first game was beautifully made and devastating to witness at the same time. (i refuse to watch the whole scene because i personally think it’s so corny, i might take back my statement.)

hannah’s performance as max—especially when she is raising her voice; breaking out from her “shy, nerdy, camera geek” person that she constantly boxes herself in—always sends a chill down to my spine.

this is the same girl who watched her best friend get killed in the junkyard and was also drugged during that process, who had to hold the burden of knowing almost every single female student in blackwell is also a victim of the professor he looked up to, who had to rely on no one but her destructive rewinding powers at the age of eighteen, reliving it all over again after how many years.

“no, no... never again! once is all you get!”

my heart breaks so much for you. i love you, max caufield. 🦋

i just hope that the deck nine developers treat you and chloe price better in the next game.

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reasonsforhope · 9 months ago

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Article | Paywall Free

"The Food and Drug Administration approved new mRNA coronavirus vaccines Thursday [August 22, 2024], clearing the way for shots manufactured by Pfizer-BioNTech and Moderna to start hitting pharmacy shelves and doctor’s offices within a week.

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The FDA has yet to approve an updated vaccine from Novavax, which uses a more conventional vaccine development method but has faced financial challenges.

Our scientific understanding of coronavirus vaccines has evolved since they debuted in late 2020. Here’s what to know about the new vaccines.

Why are there new vaccines?

The coronavirus keeps evolving to overcome our immune defenses, and the shield offered by vaccines weakens over time. That’s why federal health officials want people to get an annual updated coronavirus vaccine designed to target the latest variants. They approve them for release in late summer or early fall to coincide with flu shots that Americans are already used to getting.

The underlying vaccine technology and manufacturing process are the same, but components change to account for how the virus morphs. The new vaccines target the KP.2 variant because most recent covid cases are caused by that strain or closely related ones...

Do the vaccines prevent infection?

You probably know by now that vaccinated people can still get covid. But the shots do offer some protection against infection, just not the kind of protection you get from highly effective vaccines for other diseases such as measles.

The 2023-2024 vaccine provided 54 percent increased protection against symptomatic covid infections, according to a CDC study of people who tested for the coronavirus at pharmacies during the first four months after that year’s shot was released...

A nasal vaccine could be better at stopping infections outright by increasing immunity where they take hold, and one is being studied in a trial sponsored by the National Institutes of Health.

If you really want to dodge covid, don’t rely on the vaccine alone and take other precautions such as masking or avoiding crowds...

Do the vaccines help prevent transmission?

You may remember from early coverage of coronavirus vaccines that it was unclear whether shots would reduce transmission. Now, scientists say the answer is yes — even if you’re actively shedding virus.

That’s because the vaccine creates antibodies that reduce the amount of virus entering your cells, limiting how much the virus can replicate and make you even sicker. When vaccination prevents symptoms such as coughing and sneezing, people expel fewer respiratory droplets carrying the virus. When it reduces the viral load in an infected person, people become less contagious.

That’s why Peter Hotez, a physician and co-director of the Texas Children’s Hospital Center for Vaccine Development, said he feels more comfortable in a crowded medical conference, where attendees are probably up to date on their vaccines, than in a crowded airport.

“By having so many vaccinated people, it’s decreasing the number of days you are shedding virus if you get a breakthrough infection, and it decreases the amount of virus you are shedding,” Hotez said.

Do vaccines prevent long covid?

While the threat of acute serious respiratory covid disease has faded, developing the lingering symptoms of “long covid” remains a concern for people who have had even mild cases. The CDC says vaccination is the “best available tool” to reduce the risk of long covid in children and adults. The exact mechanism is unclear, but experts theorize that vaccines help by reducing the severity of illness, which is a major risk factor for long covid.

When is the best time to get a new coronavirus vaccine?

It depends on your circumstances, including risk factors for severe disease, when you were last infected or vaccinated, and plans for the months ahead. It’s best to talk these issues through with a doctor.

If you are at high risk and have not recently been vaccinated or infected, you may want to get a shot as soon as possible while cases remain high. The summer wave has shown signs of peaking, but cases can still be elevated and take weeks to return to low levels. It’s hard to predict when a winter wave will begin....

Where do I find vaccines?

CVS said its expects to start administering them within days, and Walgreens said that it would start scheduling appointments to receive shots after Sept. 6 and that customers can walk in before then.

Availability at doctor’s offices might take longer. Finding shots for infants and toddlers could be more difficult because many pharmacies do not administer them and not every pediatrician’s office will stock them given low demand and limited storage space.

This year’s updated coronavirus vaccines are supposed to have a longer shelf life, which eases the financial pressures of stocking them.

The CDC plans to relaunch its vaccine locator when the new vaccines are widely available, and similar services are offered by Moderna and Pfizer."

-via The Washington Post, August 22, 2024

#covid #long covid #vaccines #vaccination #covid vaccine #covid19 #public health #united states #good news #hope

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foreverisntenough · 6 days ago

Text

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Please read: Little note from me about him and one more about our community In summary: This is a swan song fic. The fic was never really about "him" as much as it was a fictional story and character I got to create and share with you all. I hope you still love reading it as much as I still love writing it. xx

Chapter 18- 'Birthday Baby' | 'Aperture'

word count - 12.8k

[Crashing Down - Kali Uchis ft. d4vd]

Things had been… different since London. Not loud or dramatic or marked with any real shift—but quieter, steadier. Like something fragile had been mended between you and Trent that night in the hotel, and now, you were both walking carefully over the seams, pretending the cracks weren’t still visible in certain light.

You hadn't talked about love since LA. Since that stupid night where it spilled out of him in a breathless, broken release like he knew he shouldn’t have said it then but couldn't stop himself. You hadn’t brought it up since. And he hadn’t said it again. Still, things felt lighter lately. Like maybe you were both starting to feel safe again in something that never felt entirely real when it hurt too much to hold.

The afternoon had been simple. You’d grabbed lunch in a quiet part of town, nothing flashy, nothing for anyone else. Trent had kept his hood up and smiled every time your knee brushed his under the table, purposefully nudging yours back reminding you he wanted the touches and reminding himself you were actually there. And you—well, you tried not to read too much into the way his fingers found yours without even looking when he drove you home. One hand on the steering wheel, the other laced with yours across the middle console. You two holding hands was a new phenomenon that was occurring more since those three words were uttered. Suddenly, intertwined fingers were somehow more intimate than sex could ever be. Like they meant something real. So you stared down at your intertwined hands like they were trying to tell you something. The shape of your fingers slotted into his. The soft scratch of his thumb over your knuckle, absent but intimate. You told yourself not to spiral. But he kept glancing over like he was memorizing you, like he hadn’t had the chance to before today, like he didn’t understand how the world let him have you like this again and again. You caught his gaze once and he looked away too quickly, eyes flickering back to the road ahead, like he’d been caught feeling something he shouldn’t say out loud.

And maybe that was what scared you most—how easy it would be to believe he loved you if he just said it again. How maybe he already did and it was you who didn’t know how to ask. When he pulled up outside your building, the street was slick from the morning rain, the grey sky starting to warm with the lazy orange blush of late afternoon. But Trent didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t lean over and peck your cheek like he sometimes did when he was trying to behave, trying to not hurt your hearts that were aching for more even when more would feel like not enough.

No, this time… he leaned in slow. His hand slid up your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath it with that maddening softness that always turned your thoughts to liquid. And then he kissed you—lingering, unhurried. His perfect plump, soft, lips against yours. Like he was tasting honey and didn’t want to waste a drop. Like the world could wait a little longer while he held your mouth on his. He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips still grazing yours, smile crooked and smug like he already missed you. That boyish glint in his eyes always made your heart stutter.

“Baby,” he said, voice lazy, undeniably loving. Your eyes flickered with hope. “You busy Friday afternoon?” Your breath caught. Friday. Your birthday. You felt your heart crack slow. Not a sharp break—but a delicate fracture, like a porcelain plate dropped on the counter. Still intact. Still beautiful. But not quite the same. You blinked once. Twice. He didn’t laugh, didn’t say only joking. Just smiled at you like it was any other week. “I’ve gotta run a few errands. Was gonna see if you’d come with, beautiful.” The disappointment settled over you like fog. Heavy. Inevitable. You nodded. Quiet.

“Yeah. Sure.” You replied softly. You didn’t want to seem dramatic. Didn’t want to be the girl who expected surprises or attention or magic. You weren’t that girl. You weren’t desperate but maybe desperation would’ve spared you the hurt you were feeling right now. So you’d waited. Silently. Hoping. Wanting him to remember you without being reminded. Trent hesitated. Just for a second. And maybe in that second, he felt guilty. He didn’t like that he could see the hurt of feeling forgotten flashing in your eyes. But not guilty enough. No. The plan had to be set in motion even if it began with hurt.

“Alright, good.” His voice hummed like it was coming from far away. But he wouldn’t let you drift too far, he cared too much about you to do that, even for another few days. So instead, he kissed you again—deeper this time. Like he needed to seal the moment shut before the truth slipped through. His hand cupped your cheek, fingers pressing into the soft spot behind your ear, kissing you until your mind went hazy and you almost forgot the way your stomach had just dropped through your feet. You pulled away and smiled, soft and small.

“Thank you for lunch, T.” Your voice was light, but inside you felt hollow. You slipped out of the car and onto the wet pavement, the cool air biting at your skin as you shut the door. Trent exhaled, guilt rushing back. You didn’t look back at him. Not until you heard the slow whir of the window rolling down.

“Don’t forget, beautiful,” he said, leaning across the passenger seat, voice soft but full of something else. “Friday. I’ll need you.” You looked at him. Really looked. His face was glowing in the soft grey light. His lips curled gently, soft, annoyingly kissable. Eyes a little too bright. He winked. That wink used to flip your stomach. Now it just… sank. Like your body knew something your heart didn’t want to admit. You nodded and he drove off. Taillights disappearing into the golden mist of the coming dusk. And you stood there a moment longer, on the curb, the sky stretching wide above you—two people in the same moment, the same day, the same city. But somehow, not in the same story. Not yet.

—

The gallery had the hush of someplace sacred. Early afternoon sun gently spilled in through the high, arched windows, gilding everything in liquid gold. The white walls glowed with it, kissed with amber light that shifted as shadows danced across the hardwood floors. The faintest smell of fresh-cut flowers and polish lingered in the air, mingling with something even softer—like anticipation, or hope. Campbell stood in the center of the room, holding her breath as she spun slowly in place, taking it all in. It wasn’t just a birthday surprise. It was cinematic.

Every corner of the space had been transformed. Flowers were beginning to be laid in soft, sweeping arrangements—nothing rigid or too polished. Just wild, beautiful things, white camellias, hundreds for now. Like a painting brought to life. Like the softness of you, made tangible. And then the walls. Image after image, hung with intention and reverence, curated and compiled with the help of your bestf riend and the boy who was so madly in love with you he enlisted her help. They were photos Trent had taken over the past year. Or ones others had taken of the two of you together. But mostly his. Candid shots, selfies and stolen glances, moments only someone deeply in love would notice—let alone keep. You in his hoodie, curled into the passenger seat of his car. You dancing barefoot in Delaney’s kitchen with friends. Asleep on his chest in your bed. You laughing too hard to breathe, head thrown back, eyes lit like stars.

“I’m gonna cry,” Campbell murmured, almost a giggle of disbelief, brushing a knuckle beneath her eye and pretending it was dust. Trent stood a few feet away, fidgeting with the cuff of his jumper. His stomach twisted like he’d swallowed bees. “She’s gonna love it,” she said again, firmer this time, catching his eye.

“Yeah?” He gave her a small, lopsided smile—grateful, but still wracked with nerves. Before she could answer, the door to the gallery space slid open.

“OH MY GOD.” Foster’s voice sliced through the gentle quiet like a cymbal crash.

“Jesus Christ,” Kieren muttered, visibly jolting as he spun around from his place in the corner of the room trying to work out how the lighting in the gallery should be later for you.

“T!!!” Foster squealed, her eyes wide, hands thrown up like she physically couldn’t take it. “Are you fucking serious right now?!” Trent rubbed the back of his neck, his ears going pink.

“You good?” He raised his brow mocking her overzealousness but frankly, her reaction was merited. The fact that Trent even asked for help spoke volumes. Foster ignored him completely, spinning in a slow, dramatic circle.

“This is the most insane thing I’ve ever seen. This is like her— in gallery form. This is like cinematic universe level devotion. What the actual—”

“Alright, lads,” Leon cut in coolly as he strolled in behind her, dapping Trent and Kieren up without missing a beat. “Place looks mad.”

“It’s so good,” Campbell said, laughing as she exchanged a look with Foster—equal parts I told you so and can you believe this man?

“Alright, shhh, yeah?” Trent chuckled nervously, glancing around like the gallery owner might come back in and shoo them out for being too loud. Then Campbell froze, her gaze snagging on a particular photo as she continued to help.

“Oh… my god…” She stepped closer, reaching out like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to touch it. Her fingers hovered near the image hung. The photo was grainy and dark, but beautiful in that way intimacy always is. You, tangled in Trent’s lap in his cinema room. A night that had gotten away from the both of you. His shirt on you unbuttoned entirely, hair mussed, thighs bare. His hand cradling the back of your head like he was trying to memorize the way you felt in his palms. You were smiling into his skin, lips at his neck. Utterly, shamelessly in love. He took the selfie but you were too lost in the moment to notice it. Campbell’s jaw dropped. “Oh… my god.” She repeated. Trent didn’t even try to suppress the smirk blooming on his face.

“Okay, seriously, keep it hush please.” He rubbed a hand across his mouth, half-sheepish, half-smug. The people who mattered most—your people—were finally seeing it. The truth of it. The quiet, unrelenting devotion. The knowing. That he didn’t just love you—he understood you. Knew every curve of your smile, every version of your laughter. Knew the map of your skin in darkness and daylight. Foster snatched the photo from Campbell with a gasp.

“Ugh, she’s so hot. Are you joking?” She held it up to inspect it closer. “Look at her. Look at you! You’ve got her purring in your ear don’t you, T?” She teased. The photo looked like a whole dream, your lips glossy, his dimples deep, your hand cradling his jaw like saying mine without speaking. Trent looked down, but the way his lip curled gave him away. “Lucky you, T,” Foster added, nudging him gently. He shrugged, trying and failing to appear nonchalant.

“Dunno what you’re on about.” But he knew exactly what they were on about. It was all there, in every photo. Every frame. Every stolen moment hung on the wall like it belonged in a museum. A whole gallery of proof that he didn’t just love you—he saw you. And later, when you walked in, you’d finally see what he saw too.

“Fos, alright shhh,” Leon muttered, low and amused, tugging her gently into his chest like he could absorb her volume by osmosis. He pressed a kiss to her temple, grounding her. But Foster only wriggled out with a grin, mischief burning bright in her eyes as she snagged another photo from the display table—this one of you in Trent’s kitchen, half-wrapped around him, arms around his shoulders, hair still damp from a shower you likely took together, your cheek resting on his bare back like it was your pillow, your safe place. You looked so at home in him, like you belonged nowhere else. Foster held the print up like it was incriminating evidence.

“Oh stop… Come on. We’re all here aren’t we? Bit obvious now they fuck.” She smirked, correct and honest. Foster to a T. Leon groaned quietly, dragging a hand over his face. She turned away from him with a wicked little look. “And you’ve been fucking.” She teased swiveling to Trent, daring him now, “You probably tell them everything she’s told us too.” Trent’s jaw ticked—amused, caught, and maybe a little flustered. He didn’t offer a rebuttal. Couldn’t. The silence was louder than anything he could say. His ears went a shade pinker again. “Mmhmm.” Foster smirked.

“Yeah?” Trent challenged softly, tilting his head toward her, eyes narrowing with fondness. “And what’s she tell you, then?” Before she could reply, Campbell chimed in from across the room, plucking a photo from the wall with delicate fingers.

“Oh we’ve heard things.” She gave a cheeky shrug, her mouth quirked in a knowing grin. You’d share the types of things only girls told their best friends. But even so, the truth was, no one knew everything—not the late-night whispers, not the tremble in your voice when you talked about him like it hurt to hold it in. But they didn’t need to. It was written in the way you looked at each other. Blatant. Bare. Like the kind of love that made other people shift in their seats. It was making everyone sick, honestly. Sick and soft and completely obsessed. Campbell wandered back over and slipped her arm around Trent in a side hug, voice low.

“Gonna tell her?” He didn’t look at her at first, eyes still on the print in Foster’s hand.

“She knows,” he said. Quiet but sure. Like his bones believed it. Campbell turned to look up at him.

“Gonna tell her?” she repeated, softer this time. No teasing, no bite—just the weight of a best friend who wanted you to have the world and the man who could give it to you. Trent finally met her eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, exhaling slowly. “I’mma tell her again.” But his gaze drifted—somewhere behind her, beyond the frames, into the unknown. Past the blooming florals and the photographs and the soft orange light that painted the walls. Past all the proof that his love had been real for a long, long time. He was scared. Scared that loving you out loud meant risking it all. That the silence you sometimes met him with was fear, not affection. That maybe you loved him too, but not in a way that stayed.

“Gonna ask her, lad?” Kieren’s voice broke the quiet. He nudged Trent’s shoulder with a sly pinch, disrupting the spiral, the doubt. Trent rolled his eyes, shaking his head like he could shake off the vulnerability, but he didn’t step away.

“I’m gonna try.” He said it low, like a promise. Like a prayer. Campbell squeezed him tighter, her warmth pressed into his side. Her hand rubbed slow circles into his back, grounding him. Letting him be scared, but reminding him he wasn’t alone. The room buzzed with the hush of friends who’d seen it all, who knew the ache behind the silence, the softness behind the swagger. Who knew what it meant to love someone so much that your body felt too small to hold it. He loved you. He wanted you. Now, he just had to tell you that. And hope—God, hope—that when the door opened, you’d be ready to hear it.

—

[Fade into You - Mazzy Star]

The sky was bruised with clouds, heavy and slow, rain that came this afternoon falling in soft, delicate sighs as it painted the windows of the car. You hadn’t paid much attention to where you were going, legs curled under you, the rigid denim [ref index] pinching your skin but you didn’t care, your sandals on the floor juxtaposed by your jacket you maybe didn’t need. It was subtle, something you supposed a boy wouldn’t notice–wearing something sparkly on your birthday—and now you sort of wished you hadn’t. You pressed your cheek lazily to Trent’s shoulder, watching the city blur and weep. You’d said you’d help him run errands today—groggily agreeing with a half-hearted shrug over a phone call this morning, assuming it was something trivial, maybe trainers or food, maybe something for his brother. The morning of your birthday felt cold. No call from your friends or delivery of flowers from your mum could warm your soul up. You wanted him to know you. You just wanted him to remember you. You thought he would and yet you found yourself in his car, still cold. But then… reality came creeping in, you were somewhere unfamiliar. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere… wrong for errands and a warmth in your chest began to bloom.

Your brows furrowed as you stepped out beneath Trent’s outstretched hand holding an umbrella, shielding you both from the drizzle. He still hadn’t explained a thing, only tugged you gently forward, fingers brushing yours until he properly laced your hand with his—an act that was rare since LA, since everything between you had become both closer and yet infinitely harder to name. But the warmth of it was magnetic. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t want to. If he tried, you’d let him every time.

The building he led you into was tucked off a small street, anonymous and whitewashed from the outside—barely even noticeable. You blinked against the sudden change in light as the door clicked shut behind you. And then…You froze. Your breath caught. Your lips parted. Your fingers slackened in his but he didn’t let go. The world had fallen away and become something else entirely.

The room was soft-lit and cavernous in the quiet way that galleries always were—white walls glowing dimly, shadows and softness dancing where light touched it. But the floor… The floor was blanketed in white camellias, hundreds—maybe thousands— like they were a part of the floorboards beneath your feet. A sea of fragile beauty, pure and calm. The scent hit you next: delicate, green, clean like tea leaves and soap and something faintly citrus. It wrapped around you like a memory. Like a hand smoothing over your skin. But it was the walls that undid you. Prints. Almost a hundred of black and white prints. Of you.

Your breath hitched. You took a step forward. Then another. Each image—hung deliberately, carefully spaced—was one you didn’t know existed. Some, maybe you remembered. The back of your head walking toward his car, a grocery bag trailing from your hand. Your bare legs tucked up on a sunlit balcony, coffee between your palms. You laughing, mouth open, head thrown back—smiling in a way you didn’t recognize, not because it was staged, but because it was real. Unaware. Unfiltered. Seen. You moved slowly, reverently. Your fingers hovering near the wall but never touching. Photos stitched into thick horizontal strips—moments strung together in time. You saw yourself sleeping in a hoodie you’d stolen from him. You saw yourself squinting in the mirror fixing your lip liner, Trent rolling his eyes at you. You saw yourself blurry and spinning in a club, your smile wild and wide. You saw yourself. The way he saw you. The girl behind the camera, now on display. Your throat burned.

"Trent," you whispered, barely audible. The sound like a prayer. Or maybe a gasp. But he didn’t speak yet. He only came up behind you, wordless, and wrapped his arms around your waist—slow and certain. His chest flush to your back, his chin resting gently on your shoulder, his scent curling into your lungs like something holy. Like rain on concrete, clean and warm and real. He let the silence hold for a moment longer, your breathing shaky against his ribs, your heart trying not to shatter from the weight of what this all meant. His arms stayed around you like he wasn’t sure if the gravity in the room would hold you otherwise. His voice, when it came again, was low. Meant for only you.

“You’re always the one behind the camera,” he murmured, chin resting on your shoulder, his words soft like light spilling through curtains. “Always the one capturing everything and everyone else… but never really letting yourself be seen.” Your breath caught. “But I see you,” he whispered. “Lucky enough too.” His fingers gently tightened at your waist like he needed to ground you—to ground himself. “You’re in the front of every composition I carry with me. Even when you’re not in the frame… you’re there. In the way I think about light. In the way I notice beautiful things now. It’s all because of you.” You felt something in your chest ache. It was the kind of ache that came with being understood. Known. Warm. “I just wanted to try to give that back to you,” he said, voice almost breaking with how much he meant it. You turned your head slightly, just enough to feel the stubble of his jaw against your cheek. Your eyes blurred, your chest rising and falling far too fast. His next words barely a breath: “I wanted you to know you’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.” A pause. “And I wanted you to see it, too. See what I see when I look at you.” A pause. A heartbeat. A pulse skipping through time. Then, whispered against the shell of your ear, soft and certain: “Happy birthday, baby.” You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. You ran your hands over his in a state of shock, letting the weight of love unspoken fold itself into the space between your ribcages. His arms locked tight around you as if he could hold you in this moment forever. And you? You let him. Because this wasn’t just a gallery. This was a heart—his heart—turned inside out, beating across the walls in silver and black and white. And he had given it to you.

—

You barely noticed the warmth of his chest pulling away until it was gone. Trent took a half-step back, and the absence of him made your breath catch in your throat. Like you were free-falling. Like your body didn’t know how to exist without the shelter of his. Instinctively, without thinking, your hands found his—pulling them gently back against your stomach, holding them there, holding him there, like a quiet plea. Don’t go. He looked at you then. Really looked. Something passed behind his eyes that made your skin prickle. You didn’t say a word—but he heard you all the same. There was just no way he was real. A soft, husky laugh fell from his lips, barely audible over the hum of the dim gallery.

“I still haven’t given you your presents yet,” he whispered, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “Can I get them?” He smirked softly.

“This is a present, Trent.” You blinked up at him, dazed. Your voice cracked on it. Quiet. Fragile. Honest. “I don’t need anything else.” His smile faltered. His expression softened into something raw and unreadable, something close to adoration but heavier somehow. Like it hurt to feel this much. But he didn’t say anything—he just leaned in and kissed your temple, then let go. He disappeared for a moment into the room, and the silence that followed made the flowers seem louder, like they were rustling secrets between their petals. When he returned, he was holding two bags. The matte black ribbons danced as he walked toward you, and you nearly laughed because of course—Chanel. He set the first bag down on the nearby bench and knelt beside it,

“Well c’mere. Come open this f’me.” He purred and so you did. You took the box from him with trembling hands, pulling the ribbon, undoing the tissue paper, opening the dust bag in what felt like slow motion until you pulled out a black purse [ref index.] It wasn’t a purse though. Not really. It looked like a quilted camera only Lagerfeld could come up with, glinting under the soft gallery lights. “Little on the nose but made me think of you,” he said casually, his voice low and quiet, like he didn’t want to break the magic of the moment. You stared at it, at him, and giggled—lightheaded with disbelief.

“You didn’t have to get me anything. This…” You gestured to the room, the flowers, the photos, him. “This is everything.” But he was already reaching into the same bag again. Another box. Your breath hitched. “T… Seriously, stop.” You cautioned him. It was too much. You didn’t need another gift. And certainly not anything that came in a smaller box with the bigger price tag you knew was coming inside of it.

“If you don’t want to open it, I’ll do it for you.” He smirked, devastatingly, lethal, and like a punch to the stomach scarily reminiscent of the way his lips curled when you first met. And yet, he wasn’t the same. Not one bit. No, because he’d opened himself up to you in a way you couldn’t have ever imagined. And he was about to do it again. He opened the box slowly. Nestled in velvet, a delicate gold and diamond Coco Crush bracelet shimmered back at you. The diamonds catching the soft light. So small. So intentional. So achingly beautiful. Tears burned behind your eyes before you could stop them. You blinked, but they spilled anyway, slipping down your cheeks as you turned towards him, pouting in disbelief. You stared down at the bracelet—at the way the diamonds glimmered like they belonged against your skin, like they were always meant to catch the light there. You couldn’t speak. Not because you didn’t have words, but because you didn’t know where to begin. The ache in your chest swelled, not from sadness, but from the impossibility of it all—of being this seen, this known, this adored. Trent didn’t just get you things. He got you. He knew everything about you like it was a part of him. He noticed how you always reached for gold before silver. How you tucked your fingers under the strap of your camera bag when you were nervous. How you liked your things to be timeless but not boring.

“Thank you.” You whispered. But that didn’t feel like enough. So you said what was really sitting at the base of your throat. “No one’s ever made me feel the way you do,” you whispered again, but it didn’t sound the same this time. Your voice was waterlogged, thick with disbelief and devotion and something dangerously close to forever. He knew you. And something about that knowledge—not just the gallery, not just the flowers or the photos, but this—this material echo of being paid attention to—shattered you. Tears burned again. And this time, you didn’t blink them away. Because love like this didn’t arrive with fireworks. It came quiet. It came in details. It came in the things no one else ever saw, or if they did, didn’t care to remember. But Trent had remembered. He had remembered everything. Still, Trent just looked at you like he’d been waiting for this—for you to see yourself through his eyes. And then he pulled you in, pressing a kiss to your mouth so tender it made your knees wobble. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t deepen it. He just held you there like he couldn’t stand the thought of you floating away. Like if he kissed you carefully enough, maybe you’d believe it too. Soft. Slow. A kiss that tasted like every word neither of you had said out loud. His lips pressed against yours like a promise—like he couldn’t help himself. When he finally pulled back, your lashes fluttered open just in time to feel the brush of his lips ghosting yours, his breath warm and steady against your face. His mouth barely against yours, breath warm and steady, tethering you there.

“I’ve got one more,” he whispered, the words slipping into the space between your lips like a secret too sacred for distance. But even if he hadn’t said a thing more, you were already undone. Because he could’ve given you nothing but this room and that kiss and you'd still be certain of it—you were completely, devastatingly in love with him. And you had been.

—

You blinked, lashes sticky with tears as Trent reached for one last box. It wasn’t as glossy as the others—no Chanel ribbon, no tissue paper rustling like music. Just a small, matte black box, inconspicuous and simple. But something in your chest tightened the moment you saw it. Like your body already knew this one would wreck you because you recognized it. You knew what store used these boxes. Your fingers trembled as you peeled the lid back, breath snagging in your throat. Inside, nestled in soft velvet, sat a perfectly refurbished vintage Polaroid camera. Ivory cream with gold-rimmed buttons and the faintest marks of time on the body—like it had lived a life before this one, but was made to end up here, in your hands. You stared at it, eyes wide and glassy.

“I know you like your film cameras,” Trent started quietly, a hint of nervousness curled into the edge of his voice. “The ones that take their time. The ones that make you wait. But…” You looked up at him, and he was scratching the back of his neck like he hadn’t fully rehearsed this part. “I thought maybe… I just liked the idea of this one, that’s all. Because it prints instantly. And I dunno,” he chuckled, sheepish now, “sometimes it feels like every second you exist is something I wanna capture and print out right then and there. So I can tuck it away in my pocket.” Your lips parted, but nothing came out. The tears slipped down your cheek. Trent saw them and laughed—soft and shy, a little helpless. “Baby,” he said gently, stepping forward to catch one with his thumb. “Didn’t mean to make you cry so much, beautiful.” You shook your head, unable to stop the way your mouth quivered. “It’s just…” he trailed off, gaze flicking around the gallery like he needed it to hold him steady. “Sometimes it feels like my brain’s this room. Full of you. All these images of you, just… popping up. Everywhere.” He looked back at you, voice lower now. “So I thought maybe having them print out might be nice. So you could see what I see, like this, real time.” You were already ruined. Already folding into yourself, undone by the way he said it. So casually, so earnestly. As if it wasn’t the most devastatingly romantic thing you’d ever heard. He lifted the camera carefully from its box and turned it over in his hands, adjusting the lens, checking the light.

“Gonna let me take one of you?” He softly smirked and you shook your head reluctantly.

“Now?” You blinked. His eyes softened.

“Yeah. Just like this.” And even though you felt messy and fragile and far too full of feeling to be seen—you nodded. Because if it was Trent behind the lens, you’d let him see anything. You stepped back, into the sea of camellias and film, and lifted your chin. He raised the camera, and something in the air shifted. The silence wrapped around you like silk. Through the viewfinder, Trent saw you in a way no one ever had. You weren’t just pretty. You weren’t just his. You were this living, breathing paradox—delicate and strong, composed and falling apart, glowing under gallery lights like you belonged somewhere like the Louvre, not in a moment with someone like him. Your cheeks flushed, your lips parted in a shy half-smile. Your hands fidgeted at your sides. And even in the quiet, you burned. Because no one had ever turned the camera on you before. Not like this. But he had. Again and again. You had spent a life behind the lens—chronicling others, finding beauty in the unnoticed, building a career on seeing what no one else could. But now? Now someone saw you. And it was Trent. The boy you met on a thoughtless holiday. The man who had waited. The one who somehow knew exactly how to love you—not in grand declarations or perfect timing—but in attention, in meaning, in seeing. He snapped the photo. The click echoed through the room like a secret. A soft whirr. Then, like magic, the print slid out, slow and humming with heat. Trent caught it with a little grin, but then frowned, squinting at the grayish sheet in his hand.

“Oh—shit,” he muttered, pouting. “It’s gray or something. I messed it up, didn’t I?” You giggled—soft, breathy, still teary-eyed.

“No, baby. Perfect. Just wait…,” you whispered, stepping closer. And as you said it, Trent exhaled because he’d wait a million years for you. “Even Polaroids take a minute. Gotta be patient.” You softly spoke, taking the image from him wafting it in the air in an effort to speed up time but all you wanted to do was pause it. He looked at you then, like maybe you hadn’t just been talking about film. And then the corners of his mouth lifted, slow and adoring as he took the photo back. He watched as the image bloomed between his fingers—your smile coming into focus, the glow of you framed in a gallery of yourself, surrounded by memories he had spent months collecting, curating, cherishing. A portrait of you in your element, yet finally, for once, inside the frame.

And then he handed it to you. But as you took it, you realized— it was thicker than one photo, there were two prints so you shifted the one on top. The photo of your reflection, reframed through love moved to the side. The second wasn’t an image. It was blank, entirely white except for a handwritten note scrawled carefully across it in Trent’s unmistakable script.

You read it once. Slow. Then again. Slower. And then the breath left your lungs.

I developed feelings for you faster than any photo ever could. But I know real things take time. You taught me that—just like you taught me film does. I’ll never rush you. I’d never want to rush this. I just need you to know that I’m patient. And I’ll be patiently, desperately in love with you… probably for the rest of my life. No matter how you feel or what you decide you feel. No matter how long it could take even if you never come to find me. I’ll be there. Loving you and waiting for you. Happy Birthday, baby.

Your Trent.

Your lips parted, but the words caught in your throat. Your fingers shook. The tears spilled before you even realized they were coming again, warm streaks cutting down your cheeks. Something inside you cracked wide open—something soft and aching that had tried so hard to stay guarded. Before you could speak—before you could even think—he stepped forward and gathered you into his arms. He didn’t think of how you’d react. He wasn’t prepared and yet he was still strong and gentle, the way only Trent could be.

“Shhh,” he murmured, holding you close, one hand on your back, the other threading through your hair like he’d done it a thousand times in dreams. “Don’t have to say anything.” You sobbed softly into his chest. His hoodie smelled like clean cotton and a cologne that had long since started to feel like home. He held you tighter. His own vulnerability starting to leak out. “Just…” he paused, breath catching in a way that told you this was hard for him too. “Just think about it.” He leaned back enough to look at you—eyes searching yours, shining. “We’ve got time, baby,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “You’ve got time with me… always.” And that was the thing about Trent. He never asked you to fall, but he built the safest place for you to land.

–

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, still clinging to the last note of his voice. You’ve got time with me… always. Your fingers tightened just slightly over the fabric of his hoodie. His heartbeat was a steady thrum beneath your palms. Like he was reminding you he was here. Still here. Still yours, if you wanted him. The words sat behind your ribs, soft and pulsing like light through sheer fabric. But your body knew what to do—what it had always done with him. You looked up. Still trembling. Still clutching the two Polaroids like they were evidence of something you couldn’t name—but felt in every bone of your body. He was so close now. So warm. So real. His hands hadn’t left you, and yours hadn’t let go either. Your lashes fluttered. A tear caught on the corner of your mouth. You didn’t wipe it away. Neither did he. His lashes were damp. Whether from the rain or something else, you couldn’t tell. He was close enough that you could count the freckles dusting under his eye. Close enough to see the pulse ticking faintly in his neck. Close enough to fall, if you hadn’t already. And then—slowly—you lifted your hand to his jaw. Your thumb brushed over the corner of his mouth, soft and trembling. A reverent kind of touch. The kind that says I see you. I know you. I’ve always loved you, I think. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let you study him, like you were the one holding the camera now—framing him in your mind’s eye, etching this version of him into memory: eyes full of hope, a little heartbreak, and every quiet promise a heart can make. And then, with a breath that sounded almost like a prayer, you kissed him, slowly, so slowly, your lips grazed his. Barely a whisper of contact. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a surrender. And it broke him.

You tilted your head and pressed your lips to his like it was the only way to say everything you never could out loud. It was soft, at first. Barely there. But he understood. His hands came to your waist. Yours slid into his hair. And the kiss deepened, not with urgency, but with knowing—like you’d both finally arrived at the truth you’d been circling. He pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours between breaths. His nose brushed yours. He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a year. Like every second since LA, he’d been praying for this moment without ever daring to believe it would come. His hand came up to your face, fingers feather-light at your jaw, thumb catching the tear that had spilled but hadn’t fallen. His eyes never left yours. Not even when his mouth finally—finally—met yours in full. It was so gentle. So reverent. Like he was kissing you in prayer. Like your mouth was something sacred. You melted into it, melted into him, into the warm press of his chest, the protective cradle of his arms, the soft groan he gave when your fingers fisted in the back of his shirt like you needed him to stay anchored to you forever. He didn’t rush it. Because this wasn’t about hunger. It wasn’t about want. It was about love. And Trent Alexander-Arnold kissed you like a man who had fallen quietly, fully, and undeniably in love. The kind that lingers. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything in return, but hopes. When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. Just rested his forehead against yours again, eyes shut, both of you breathing like you’d survived something. Maybe you had. Maybe he didn’t. You didn’t say anything. The kiss had spoken for you. And in the hush of that gallery—surrounded by white camellias, memories printed in silver halide and heartache, soft light spilling in from the overcast sky—it was enough. You were enough. And he was still holding you like he always would be.

—

You stayed like that for a while. His arms wrapped around you. Your hands tangled in the cotton at the base of his neck. The kiss still blooming between your mouths like something sacred. Something neither of you wanted to disturb. But eventually, reality crept in—the kind that doesn't slam, but taps. The kind that reminds you how fragile it is to feel this much. You pulled back just an inch. His face stayed close. Still searching. Still open. And your lips parted, trembling slightly with the weight of something trying to escape.

“I…” your voice cracked on the vowel, barely audible. You blinked hard. “I—” again, softer. Helpless. His brows knit, worry folding across his forehead. But he didn’t speak. Didn’t rush you. “I’m scared,” you breathed. The words slipped out like confession, like surrender. “I’m so scared, Trent.” It wasn’t fair—the way his expression fractured. His entire face falling into something so visibly gutted, it felt like the floor cracked beneath you. Like your fear had hurt him more than silence ever could. His throat bobbed. His hands didn’t leave your body. But he was still. His mouth parted like he wanted to say something, anything—but he didn’t. And you couldn’t take it. Couldn’t bear the pain you saw in the softness of his eyes. So you leaned forward again, holding his face between your palms, and pressed your forehead to his. “Thank you,” you whispered, voice already wet with tears. “Thank you, baby.” And that wrecked him. His eyes squeezed shut. His shoulders curled toward you like you were gravity and sanctuary all at once. Like your thank you had sealed something inside him that had been breaking open for too long. He didn’t kiss you again right away. He just held you tighter, like your body could hear the words he still couldn’t speak. Like his touch could tell you what his heart had been screaming for months: That he loved you more than anything. That he would wait forever. That even if your fear never left, he never would either.

“I’m here,” he murmured eventually, voice cracked and low against your temple. “No matter what, I’m here.” And for the first time in so long, you let yourself believe it. The rain kept falling outside. The lights dimmed to gold. And in the gallery filled with memories of you, you let him make another one—this one quiet and unfolding and true.

—

The car ride was gentle. Trent had his hand on your thigh, thumb brushing in slow, lazy arcs across your jeans, but he was quiet. Thoughtful. Like he was trying to tuck his heart back into his chest before you noticed it had fallen out entirely. He told you you didn’t have to say anything but he wished you did. He wanted you to. He prayed you would. He gave you everything. He gave you himself and still those words he wanted so badly didn’t come from your lips. You leaned into the silence, your head resting against the window, the sky still swollen with rainclouds and streaks of fading sun. Everything glowed in that melancholic blur that follows crying—the world looking softer, more vulnerable, like you. When you arrived at Leon and Foster’s, the door flew open with warmth. Music spilled into the driveway. So did laughter, a blur of hugs and excitment.

“Happy Birthday, babe!!” Campbell was already dragging you inside with a glass of champagne that had a little pink bow tied to the stem. It should’ve felt perfect. And in some ways, it did. The house smelled like vanilla and candle wax and fresh flowers. Foster had cooked her famous lemon garlic pasta. There were balloons strung across the dining room with polaroids of you and your friends clipped to a ribbon between them.

“Birthday girl!” Leon came over, arms wide and dimple deep as he kissed your cheek and shouted. But underneath the laughter, something lingered. A thrum just beneath your skin. Trent stayed close the whole time. His touch never far—brushing your waist as he passed behind you, refilling your drink without asking, his hand warm on the small of your back when someone got too close. And when Campbell turned the lights low and called everyone into the kitchen for cake, he pulled you back against him with a low murmur of your name.

You tried to laugh, the sound came out it did—giddy with champagne and all the love in the room—as they carried out the cake but in a way it hurt. A soft chocolate sponge with whipped icing, a single sparkler flaring on top and golden candles flickering beneath. And Trent was behind you. Chest to your back. One arm slid low around your waist, the other braced on the countertop beside you, caging you in like instinct. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he didn’t want to let go—not even for this. Not even if you didn’t love him back. You felt his breath on your shoulder. Quiet. Heavy. The kind of exhale that carries more than air. Everyone sang. You smiled so hard it almost hurt, cheeks flushed and heart fluttering—but it was there. That ache. That hum in your bones that something was missing, even as you were surrounded by everything. You closed your eyes. Took a breath. Made a wish. And as you blew out the candles, Trent did too—behind you, unseen. His chest rising with yours, his breath leaving him slow and almost trembling.

He didn’t say what he wished for. He never would. But he didn’t need to. Because as the candlelight snuffed out and the kitchen burst into cheers, he looked at the back of your head with the kind of ache that only love can create. He wished for you to love him someday. And even if you never did—not the way he loved you—he’d still be here. Still close. Maybe still wishing.

—

[Party 4 U - Charli XCX]

Campbell had waited all night for a quiet second with him. The moment she saw Trent alone, rinsing a glass under the kitchen tap like he needed something to focus on besides the heaviness in his own chest, she tugged him by the wrist down the hallway.

“Okay, okay—but wait,” Campbell hissed, grabbing Trent’s wrist with a bounce in her step, her glossy lip gloss catching the twinkle lights overhead. “You have to tell me what she said. About the gallery. About the flowers. About the bracelet, Trent, please.” She practically dragged him through the hallway, giddy and glowing, already preparing her emotional reaction like she hadn’t cried three times setting up the exhibit with him. Her voice was all sparkle and hope, eyes shining with the glow of someone who believed in grand gestures and earned love. She’d helped him plan it for weeks, seen the way his hands shook opening the box of prints, how he ran his thumb over the bracelet like it was too delicate to touch. She knew how much he cared. How deeply he wanted you to feel seen. But when Trent turned, his expression didn’t match hers. His lips were tight. Pained. Like they were trying to survive having touched yours. So when he didn’t smile back— When his lips didn’t quirk, didn’t even twitch— So un-Trent. Campbell’s heart and stomach dropped. “What?” she whispered, the light dimming in her eyes. He shrugged. A slow, defeated little rise and fall of his shoulders that felt like watching a tide go out for the last time.

“It didn’t happen, Cam.” Trent looked at her like he’d lost something. No, someone. His voice was soft. Almost apologetic. “It just didn’t happen.”

“What do you mean it didn’t happen? You didn’t say—?” Her brow knit.

“I said it,” Trent said softly. “I just… I don’t think she feels that way. I misread the whole thing. She doesn’t want it. And I wasn’t gonna ask her to be something she doesn’t want after that.” His voice was raw. Like he’d scraped it across gravel just to get the words out. It shattered something in Campbell.

“T, come on.” She blinked.

“I said it.” He swallowed, eyes fixed somewhere just past her. “Told her I loved her. Meant every word of it.”

“Okay…” Campbell’s chest was tight now, a slow pressure building like rising water.

“She didn’t say it back.” The silence that followed felt louder than the party still humming down the hall.

“No,” she said too fast, shaking her head. “No, Trent, she—she does. You know she does.”

“Cam.” He gave her a look—tired, a little broken. “Please don’t. Don’t try to convince me.”

“I’m not—I’m not convincing anyone. I just—she probably just got scared, you know? She’s just—” She panicked, heartbroken, confused, unable to articulate something that made no sense.

“She shouldn’t need to be convinced to love me,” he said, gentle but resolute. “That’s not how it should work.” Campbell stared at him, her jaw slack with disbelief.

“Trent… no. She does—she just—she probably froze. You know how she gets when she’s scared.” He shook his head, gently, like the movement itself hurt.

“Don’t.” His voice cracked. “Don’t try to explain it away. Don’t make it easier for me.”

“Then let me talk to her.” She offered.

“I don’t want you to.” He looked her in the eye for the first time. “I love her. She doesn’t love me. No one should have to be convinced to love me.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Campbell winced.

“I know,” he murmured. “But it’s how it feels.” His throat worked as he swallowed again, emotion lodged like gravel. “She doesn’t owe me anything,” he added, voice barely audible over the bass down the hall. “I just needed her to know. And now she does. It’s not her problem.”

“Yeah but you’re still in love with her though.” Trent gave a short breath of a laugh.

“My heart’s hers, Cam. Whether she wants it or not. She knows that… but it wasn’t enough. The gallery. The gifts. The words. The kisses. Me.” She felt sick. Sick for him. For you. For the night that should’ve ended in joy but now glinted like broken glass in the dim. Campbell’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. Trent looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “It doesn’t matter. I meant what I said. My feelings aren’t going anywhere. She doesn’t have to love me back. It’s not her fault. My heart’s hers either way.” And that was it. He walked away, and Campbell stood frozen, her own throat tightening. And then, just like that, the hallway disappeared. The music surged back to life, voices rose in chorus, the pulse of the party beating against the bones of the house. People laughed and swayed and toasted into the night like nothing had cracked open in the quietest corridor. But Campbell saw everything. She watched as Trent leaned against the kitchen island, one hand braced as if to keep himself from falling, shoulder slumped, gaze pulled magnetically to where you stood across the room in a pool of warm light. You were radiant—bathed in candle glow and soft laughter, wine glass in hand, your smile blooming wide at something Delaney said. Trent stared like he’d never seen something so painful and beautiful in his life. He smiled hearing you. It was quiet and pained—barely-there—but it was real. He looked like someone who’d been punched in the chest and asked for another.

You turned slightly, catching him watching, and he straightened like he hadn’t been caught. You didn’t say anything. But then you moved closer. You slid between him and the counter, his hands instinctively landing at your hips—like he didn’t need permission. Like muscle memory. Like the place he was always supposed to be. Glasses clinked. Laughter roared from the other room, but everything slowed—like a movie reel skipping frames—as Campbell followed the flicker of you and him through the crowd. You reached behind him, dipped your pinky finger in the frosting on the cake still resting nearby, and smudged it on the tip of his nose with a smirk. His lashes fluttered, mouth twitching into the faintest smile. And when you softly giggled, carefree and melodic— Trent blinked. He closed his eyes tighter this time. Just for a heartbeat. You laughed and it hurt. But he’d pretend he was breaking inside for you. Because even the sound of your laughter was enough to bring him to his knees. Just for a heartbeat. Just to feel what it was like to stand inside the sound of your happiness. Even if it wasn’t love.

—

Later, when the party mellowed into golden haze, you found your way to him again. Settling into the space of his body like you were made for it. Your knees slung over his lap, head tucked beneath his chin, your hand curled around the fabric of his shirt like a tether like the most natural thing in the world listening to Leon and Foster tell a story simultaneously, cutting each other off with eagerness and laughter. And Trent held you close, fingers drawing shapes along your arm. From far away, it looked perfect… It looked like love. But Campbell saw it. Saw him blink a few times too hard. Saw the way his hand faltered for half a second on your shoulder. She followed the flick of his gaze to the edge of the counter, where your bag sat open and the corner of a polaroid peeked out—his handwriting barely visible in the low light. How he held you like he’d already lost you. How he never stopped looking at you like you were celestial—like your very existence hurt and healed him at once. He hadn’t stopped looking at you all night. Hadn’t stopped loving you since he met you. Like you were the moon and he was just a boy on earth, aching to understand how something so far away could still pull his whole tide. And as the party carried on—people dancing, drinking, slipping into that glittery blur of celebration—Campbell watched a boy bleed quietly in a room filled with candles and cake and the girl he’d never stop waiting to love him back.

—

The night had turned syrupy and slow, humming with the kind of warmth only good friends and red wine could summon. Laughter lilted low from the other room, blurred with the soft echo of music and the occasional clink of a glass. Your limbs were loose, your heart full—buzzing with the love that surrounded you, but aching quietly with the one you hadn’t let yourself say. Trent. Your Trent. You could feel him like gravity all night. Always in your periphery. Always nearby, and still—somehow—not close enough. And maybe it wasn’t fair. He’d done so much. Given so much. That gallery. The photos. The note he’d handwritten, more vulnerable than anything he’d ever said out loud. He’d told you he loved you. And you hadn’t said it back.

But the ache of that moment, the tremble it left in your chest, was beginning to dissolve in the heat of wine and the softness of celebration. You were full of sugar and nostalgia, of the sweetness of candles and cake—but more than anything, you were filled with need. The kind that pulled your body forward before your mind had caught up. You found him mid-conversation, half-laughing with Kieren, that same low-lidded grin he always wore when he was a few drinks in. His head tipped back, smile lazy, bicep flexing where he gripped a glass. You reached for that arm without thinking, curling your fingers gently around it.

“Can you come with me?” you whispered, voice soft and shy but lit with something slow-burning. Trent turned to you instantly, smile melting into something far softer, far more undone. He didn’t answer, just nodded once, setting the glass down and following you without a word. Not even a glance back to Kieren.

“You alright, birthday girl?” he asked, voice lower now—cooing, intimate. Charming even when he was breaking. You turned as you walked backwards, hands still wrapped in his.

“Mhm,” you murmured, biting your lip, unable to look at him too long without your stomach twisting. There it was. That flare of something too close to love in your eyes. And Trent saw it. God, he felt it. He followed you into the next room—one of the guest bedrooms left untouched by the party. The door clicked shut behind him with a low finality, muting the world in one soft swoop. And then it was just you. You, standing inches away. Your eyes wide, glazed with wine and something else—something real. You stepped closer, your hands finding the edge of his shirt, smoothing it down like you needed the contact to steady your nerves.

“Thank you for tonight,” you whispered, voice velvet.

“’Course, beautiful.” Trent smiled, lazy and wrecked by the sight of you. Like he didn’t even care you hurt him if it meant he got you alone. Like he was lucky to be the one you were breaking. His hands found your hips like they always did, like they were made for it. He tugged you flush against him, his palms warm and large as they settled, anchoring you to him. But his chest was beating fast. You felt it. You felt everything.

“Can I have one more birthday present?” you asked suddenly, your breath catching just slightly at the end. Greedy. Unfair and greedy. Trent’s eyes flickered down to your lips. His grip tightened.

“Anything you want, baby,” he murmured, his voice a rough prayer. His thumbs brushed slow over the curve of your ass, his whole body aching, desperate. In his mind, he was screaming. Please say you love me. Please say it back. You swallowed hard.

“Can I have another kiss?” Your voice was barely a sound, your request so tender it felt like it would break in the air if he didn’t catch it fast enough. “Just for my birthday,” you added quickly, cheeks flushing. You were scared he’d say no. Scared he’d finally stop giving and start protecting his own heart. Trent stilled. His hand slid up, gentle, holding your neck with a reverence that made your knees weak. Who was he to deprive you, deprive himself. His forehead met yours, breath brushing over your lips, his eyes heavy with a thousand things unsaid.

“For your birthday…” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “For you… forever, baby.” And then he kissed you. Slow. Devastating. Sacred. His mouth moved over yours with the kind of tenderness that made your chest ache—like he was spelling I love you with every pass of his lips, like he was trying to breathe the words into your skin. You whimpered softly into him, arms winding around his neck as your body melted, your hands grabbing at his curls, his shirt, anything to bring him closer. You kissed like you needed him to keep you from falling apart. He kissed like he’d been holding this in for years. It was messy and perfect, too much and not enough. The kind of kiss that made time irrelevant. That turned the air to gold. That whispered I love you even when you still weren’t ready to say it. But your body told the truth. Your mouth did. And Trent felt you unraveling for him. Because of him. With him. And he let you. Even if it wasn’t the words he was waiting for.

The kiss deepened, slow and hungry, like you’d both been starving for each other in silence. Trent’s hands slid up beneath the hem of your top, splaying across your bare back like he needed to memorize every inch of you—like he’d forget how to breathe if he didn’t touch skin. And you let him. Let him press you close, let him taste the truth from your mouth because even if your lips wouldn’t say I love you, they sure as hell felt like they did. You kissed him like he was home. You kissed him like you’d never been kissed by anyone else. Like the past didn’t exist and the fear that’d been holding you back was folding into this moment, this reckless, raw need to just feel something true. Trent groaned softly into your mouth, thumb tracing slow along your spine. He was pouring himself into it. Every ounce of love. Every second of missing you. Every imagined future he kept tucked behind his ribs. And you could feel it. He kissed you like he loved you. And you kissed him right back like you loved him too. Because you did. You did. But the words— They wouldn’t come. Why wouldn’t they fucking come out? They caught in your throat like a scream. Trapped and trembling and terrified. Because saying them meant changing everything. Meant trusting that if you gave him your heart, he wouldn’t run. That he wouldn’t break it. That maybe you wouldn’t. So instead, you kissed him harder. Clutched at him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth, fingers fisting in the soft fabric of his tee. Your mouths moved like they were trying to speak in touches, in sighs, in the slide of lips and breathless gasps. You didn’t realize the tear had fallen until it slid warm and slow down your cheek. Until Trent pulled back just enough to see it. His brows furrowed. A soft, broken sound left his throat—like something inside him cracked.

“Baby…” he whispered, voice wrecked and shaking. His thumb brushed the tear away so gently it made your heart ache. You gasped—just slightly—your breath hitching as your chest caved in on itself. You could feel it. You were hurting him. The silence between your kiss and your truth was killing him inch by inch. “Please, baby…” he said again, barely a sound, like it cost him something just to say it. And you knew what he meant. Please don’t cry. Please tell me I’m not alone in this. Please say it back. Please love me. But you didn’t. You just surged forward again, mouth colliding with his in a desperate blur, needing to feel the thing you couldn’t say. Needing him close because close was safer than honesty. He kissed you back instantly, hands fierce and trembling, dragging your body into his like he wanted to disappear inside you. Like maybe if he held you hard enough, the words might come. That maybe your love would spill out without you even realizing. But it didn’t. Only the kiss. Only this. And it was beautiful. It was bruising. It was everything. But the silence? The silence was killing him.

—

The bedroom was dim, golden light seeping through gauzy curtains, the music from the other room a muffled pulse behind thick walls. It smelled like something sweet, something warm. A contrast to the party outside, which pulsed with bodies and bass and artificial joy. Here, it was just the two of you. You were warm with champagne and attention, cheeks flushed from being celebrated, but none of it touched the place inside you that only he could reach. Trent kissed you like he always did—like he knew you down to the marrow. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth again, just in case it was the last time. Your hands were in his curls, his were anchored on your hips, and every slow press of his lips said what you both kept swallowing. Slow. Searching. Starving. It was your birthday. But it felt like he was the one falling apart from it. You wouldn’t say it. And that’s what broke him. Because he did love you. Had for ages. Loved you through silence, through anger, through touch. And still—still—you wouldn’t let the words out. Wouldn’t free him. His mouth moved against yours with the reverence of someone memorizing the taste of something he thought he might never get again. And maybe he wouldn’t. That was the cruelty of it—you, so close, pressed into every inch of him, and still somehow miles away. And Trent could feel it—fuck, he could feel it. In the way you clung to him like you were afraid to fall, but wouldn’t say why. In the way your hands were trembling where they rested at his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheeks, tender like you loved him—but never saying it. His heart was trying to claw its way out of his chest. Because every kiss from you felt like a promise, but every silence was a betrayal. He couldn’t do it. Not tonight. Not when he knew—knew—that he’d give you every part of himself and you’d still be holding something back. He pulled away. Not far, just enough for the air to stretch thin between you. His lips were parted, raw, kiss-bitten. His eyes full of something he hadn’t let you see before—hurt. Real, sharp, undiluted. His breath shaky, like the distance physically hurt. You leaned into him like a reflex, nuzzling into the curve of his neck like you hadn’t even noticed he’d retreated. And that hurt worse. That you didn’t feel the shift, soft and thoughtless and it made his heart ache sharper but you had.

“Come on, birthday girl…” he tried, voice barely steady. “Gotta get you back.” He made it sound teasing. He tried for cheeky. Tried to be the version of himself you liked best—easy, light, charming. But his voice cracked halfway through, and his hands—traitorous hands—were already sliding up your spine like they missed you. Your nose skimmed the sensitive skin beneath his ear, your breath warm there, making his eyelids flutter shut.

“MmNm,” you hummed into him, drunk on closeness. He hated how much he loved the way you said no. How you always said it like yes. Your nose buried in the warm column of his throat. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to be seen by anyone but him. Didn’t want to be reminded that the rest of the world still existed when this was happening. Whatever this was.

“They wanna see you.” His voice was hoarse, weighted, control unraveling by the second. His arms had gone soft around you again, unwilling to let go. “Can’t keep you all to myself.” God, how he wanted to though.His fingers were curling at your waist again, pulling you in, palms splayed wide like he wanted to hold all of you at once.

“I just wanna see you though,” you whispered, pulling back, just enough to look at him. The shift was seismic.

A thud—silent but heavy—landed in the room between you. It was the weight of everything unspoken. Of your eyes meeting his and holding, glassy with unshed meaning. Of all the things you wouldn’t say but he could feel blooming between your ribs.His jaw ticked. His eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with effort. With restraint. Willing himself not to give in to the hope that shimmered in your gaze. Why couldn’t you just say it? Why couldn’t you love him out loud? Still… still… he softened. Trent’s breath stilled. Your eyes—wide, glassy, smudged with makeup and meaning—were staring straight into his. There was so much in them. All that unspoken affection and fear and longing. It hit him in the chest like a punch. You weren’t trying to hurt him. But you were. Because he could see it—right there—and still held back. You were holding it hostage behind your teeth. He tried not to show how badly it broke him. His eyes narrowed slightly, jaw clenched—not with anger, but with effort. With restraint. Willing himself not to give in to the hope that shimmered in your gaze. A quiet fight. Heart vs. pride.

“You’ll see me,” he managed, voice softer now, sadder. “I’ll be right there. Keep my eyes on you the whole time.” Your fingertips trailed up his chest, slow and deliberate. You leaned in again, brushing your body against his, voice a whisper of silk and smoke. It wasn’t fair. Using physicality to mask something so emotional.

“And your hands?” you asked, laced in velvet and sin. He exhaled hard, breath catching on a groan and a grin.

“Yeah… can do that too.” His hands found the small of your back. Warm, familiar. Home. Greedy in his own right. “How about I keep ’em right here?”

“Lower,” you whispered, and your eyes were liquid now. All innocence and desire and heartbreak. You said it like it hurt to ask, breathless, eyes wide and pleading like it hurt you not to be touched the way you needed. He stared at you, chest rising and falling too fast, lips parted, utterly undone.

“Little lower, huh?” You didn’t wait. You moved his hands yourself, dragging them down until they cupped your ass. His fingers flexed instinctively. You could feel how hard he was against you. How much he still wanted you. Despite everything.

“T…” you whispered, like you were asking for something and apologizing for it all at once.

“Mm.” His eyes fluttered closed. A tremor ran through him.

“When the party’s over…” Your voice cracked. You were shaking, just slightly. “I want to tell you something.” you whispered, and the way you said it—it didn’t sound casual. It sounded like you were about to change the weather in his chest. The room went still. Trent’s eyes snapped open, searching yours. His hands on your body stilled, his heart stopped. The possibility of it—the thing he had dreamed about, begged for in silence—hovered between you, terrifying and magnetic. He didn’t say anything but his heart slammed into his ribs. He just held you tighter. God, please. Like maybe this time, you’d be real. “And after…” your voice was thinner now, tremulous, “I want you to lay me down. I want you to take off all my clothes. I want you to do whatever you want.” Your lips brushed his with the lightest tease. Not a kiss. A promise. A prayer. He nearly crumbled. Trent’s hands tightened on you. His breath hitched. Jesus Christ.

“Sure it’s not my birthday?” he rasped, voice breaking on a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. A boyish lilt, one last defense before he caved completely. You shook your head, so slowly. His hands tightened where they rested. Possessive. Careful. He didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to do here. Lead with his heart, and risk it shattering again? Or stay quiet and let this moment pass him by?

“Alright… Whatever you wish for,” he said, the words a benediction against your lips.

“Need,” you breathed, correcting him, eyes so full of him it made his knees weak. His smirk faltered, jaw tensing, reverence sliding in.

“Yeah… you need me.” He doubled down because no matter how much it hurt inside his chest, outside his body was purring for yours.

“Need you,” you whispered an echo. This time when you kissed him, it was trembling, soft but urgent, like you were begging him not to give up on you before you were brave enough to give him everything. And he kissed you back like a dying man taking one last breath. Because maybe—just maybe—after the party, you’d finally say it. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to bring him back to life. He didn’t know whether to let go or hold on for dear life. Because somewhere between love and lust and longing, he was losing his grip—and all you had to offer him was a maybe.

—-

[Answering Machine - Ruby Haunt]

The party didn’t end all at once. It leaked, like something punctured. Like a slow deflation. One by one, the bodies slipped out of the house in a trail of perfume and aftershave and laughter grown too tired to last. The music was still playing—muffled now, barely there, more background than beat. Empty glasses littered the countertops, glitter stuck to the tiles. The house had the scent of friends and champagne and over-perfumed hugs goodbye. And with every guest that left, it was like the air changed. The silence crept in like a tide. And with it… the words. Those words. They crept up the back of your throat, tentative and heavy, sticky with fear. Each footstep toward the door—each final wave, each echo of ‘happy birthday’ slurred with Moët—seemed to carve the path clearer.

Campbell was on the couch, curled beneath a throw blanket, watching it all unfold with a look that could only be described as exhausted dread. Like she was witnessing the tail-end of a love story she knew was either about to blossom or explode. Her eyes flicked between you and Trent as he trailed behind you like a shadow, soft and loyal and helpless. And she knew—she knew—that this was gonna end in tears no matter how good it felt in the moment, she just wasn’t sure who’s they’d be. You glanced at her. She raised her brows. You looked away. Back to him. He was slouched in the doorway now, shirt wrinkled, smile a little messier than the beginning of the night. Eyes never leaving you as promised. The soft amber light from the kitchen hit the sharp edges of his cheekbones and made him look too beautiful to be real. And maybe that was the whole problem. Because Trent looked at you like you were already his. And you knew you’d never stop wanting him. But wanting wasn’t the same as saying it. Not when love meant ruin. Not when love meant no take-backs.

“You ready?” he asked quietly, voice coarse, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. You nodded. Didn’t move. He pushed off the doorway, came to stand in front of you. The energy between you pulled taut like thread. His body grazed yours. You exhaled. You pressed your palm to his chest and felt the thud of his heart—fast, unsteady, too big for his body.

“Can I still sleep with you?” The words came out trembling. A question soaked in guilt and need. Your voice was soft, scared. Begging for him to not make you do this. You tried to convince yourself you wanted him to reject you so you didn’t have to confront your fears but Trent didn’t want that. He wanted this and he knew you did too. So he exhaled looking down at you, startled by the simplicity of it. By the sadness tucked into the way you phrased it like a question. Like you didn’t know if you’d crossed the line. Like touching him meant something else now—something more dangerous.

“Baby, you know I’ll never say no to you.” His answer was breathless. Immediate. That was the problem. You both knew it. His lips twitched at the corner, not quite a smile, but something softer. His eyes flicked across your face, studying you like he could read the confession on your skin before you ever spoke it aloud. Campbell sat up behind you. Her expression was tight. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. You could feel her thoughts echoing in your chest like a second heartbeat.

Say it. Or let him go.

But you didn’t say it. Not yet. Instead, you let Trent take your hand. You let him lead you upstairs. The hallway was quieter than it had any right to be. Your fingers intertwined, warm and steady, and he didn’t speak—just kept glancing over at you like he was waiting for you to speak first. You passed Kieren asleep on the sofa, Leon and Foster curled together on a chair for one, Delaney’s heels kicked off in the hallway. And when he finally opened a bedroom door, the air inside was cooler than before. Quieter. Like even the walls knew what was coming. He let go of your hand only to touch your back, gently guiding you in. Then the door shut behind you with a softness that betrayed the weight of what was about to happen. That borrowed room felt like limbo. Not yours. Not his. A purgatory made of crisp sheets and white walls that didn’t hold your history. A single bedside lamp cast a golden glow, too warm and too cruel—highlighting your faces like a painting neither of you felt brave enough to finish. You turned. Your chest rose and fell too fast. He didn’t touch you. He waited. Waited for you to speak. Waited for the slow leak to finally rupture. Waited for the thing he knew he wanted to hear, but his pride wouldn’t dare let him beg for.

•

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Next part - Chapter 19 - Still

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