#not going to tell anymore than I already have !

[nadvs]

the power play (part four)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

Rafe is at his best right before a game. His blades hit the ice, cold air fills his lungs, and for the next two hours, he needs to focus on only one thing: winning.

He circles the rink in line with his team, a quick warm-up before the visitors come on. The crowd’s cheers echo across the arena as he rips past the far penalty box, looking through the glass to see if you followed his advice to start coming to games again.

You did. He catches your smile, and his jersey on you, as he races by. He’s sure you’ve been even more chipper lately. If that’s possible.

You’d texted him after you woke up in his bed a few days ago: I bumped into Beck on my way out and he doesn’t approve of our relationship lol

He responded: Told you

He hasn’t heard from Emma, but at least he knows this act he’s putting on with you is affecting her. She wouldn’t have been looking over so much the other night if it wasn’t.

And if she was telling you the truth, that she still likes coming to games, she’s probably in the stands right now, watching him. She must still care, at least a little.

His grip on his stick tightens when he remembers that she left that frat party with another guy. And because the universe has a vendetta against him, he catches her in the spotty crowd, with that same guy’s arm around her.

He grits his teeth, rage rushing through him. He’ll just have to lay it on thicker with you and make it real obvious how much happier he is without her.

════════

“How are things going with you and Rafe?” Lyla asks, gently squeezing your arm as you sit together in the stands.

“Good,” you say, your eyes following Beck as he glides across the ice. You wish you could gush to her about how bothered he seemed to see you leaving Rafe’s room.

“Moving pretty fast if you���re already wearing his jersey,” she chuckles. “He’s nicer than I expected.”

You have to stifle a laugh. In front of Lyla, Rafe managed to come off as kind of a sweetheart.

“There’s a lot more to him than he lets on,” you respond. And you mean it. Although he has an aggressive exterior, you’ve seen glimpses of softness, of depth.

“He treats you well?” she asks.

You smile at her, appreciative that she’s looking out for you, ashamed that you’re lying about what you and Rafe really are.

“He does,” you say.

════════

From the moment the horn signals the start of the game, you tell yourself to watch who you’re meant to be here for – your supposed boyfriend.

Within minutes, it’s not a conscious decision anymore. You can’t take your eyes off of him, even if you tried.

Rafe is in another element. He doesn’t lose focus for a second. He sharply intercepts passes and doesn’t hesitate to throw himself where he needs to go. He’s fearless, giving and taking hits like he’s indestructible.

As you watch him and think about all that’s happened between you since he walked into that study room, you realize he’s not who you thought he was when you met him.

Emma was right about a few things, but the man is nowhere near pathetic. He’s not a trainwreck.

He’s complicated, and he hates it about himself, because the way he looked at you when he called himself fucked up the other night is something you can’t forget.

Near the end of the first period, Rafe is sent to the penalty box for cross-checking. He skates to the box with a scowl and sits on the bench to frustratingly tap his stick against the floor.

Scattered knocks rattle the glass behind him and he looks over his shoulder to see you’re trying to get his attention.

You’re pressing up your phone against the glass to show him a note on your screen, a reminder of his joke from the night at the bar.

Penalty Count is typed at the top, with 1 :( underneath it.

His anger dissipates, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk as his eyes dart up to yours from behind his helmet’s visor.

You’re wearing a bright smile and for the first time since he started playing hockey, he doesn’t entirely hate sitting in the penalty box.

════════

You walk into the study room the next day to see Rafe in his usual seat.

“You’re here already,” you tease, shutting the door behind you.

“You’re late,” he murmurs as he scrolls on his phone.

“No, you’re early.” You settle in your seat. “You must really love my company.”

He scoffs, but doesn’t deny it.

Truthfully, you’ve been looking forward to seeing him again. Even when he’s tightly wound, which is most of the time, you’re starting to enjoy being with Rafe.

You have a suspicion that he’s starting to enjoy being with you, too.

“So…?” you ask, eyes on the novel sitting in front of him. “What’d you think?”

“It was fine,” he says.

“Big deal coming from you,” you say. “Do you like reading yet?”

“No,” Rafe responds abruptly. “This one just wasn’t as boring. Things actually happen.”

“True,” you say, feeling triumphant nonetheless. “Have you checked your grades lately?”

He shakes his head. You pop open his laptop and see that the first essay you worked on together has been graded.

“An A,” you say happily. Rafe doesn’t know the last time he hit an A. He coasts on B’s and C’s and it’s been enough. “That’s amazing. See what happens when you apply yourself?”

“Alright, relax,” he says, although admittedly, telling Coach about this is going to feel really good.

You smile and shrug, then open the folder of essays you’ve worked on together. You tap on the most recent one to see a full page of small paragraphs.

“You liked the book and you wrote a whole page?”

“Didn’t say I liked it,” Rafe clarifies.

You start to look over his work. He usually finds quotes and very obviously pastes their meanings from online study guides, but at least he’s starting to put time and effort into it.

“I can tell you put more work in,” you say. You read over an excerpt near the end.

“There are times in life when the most comfortable thing is to do nothing at all.” Conway says this to the other travelers so they get used to a situation they can't change.

“This part has a lot of potential,” you say, pointing to the paragraph. “The discussion question is about how Conway’s personality affects his quest, so this would be a good point to work from. Can you relate to it?”

“To what?”

“To his adaptability,” you say.

“No.”

“So…” You tap your fingers. “The opposite? You’d say you’re not adaptable?”

He shrugs, guarded and distant.

You gaze at him curiously. You don’t even try to do it, but you do; you tug at his strings, all while smiling at him in that frustratingly pretty way.

“I think you are,” you observe. “You got used to these sessions pretty quickly. You obviously didn’t want to be tutored, and you really didn’t want to read, but you’re doing it. You could’ve been way more stubborn.”

Rafe glances down at the closed book. He never thought of himself that way. He’s always just noticed the flaws, the gaps. Maybe you’re right. Maybe he handles change better than he thought.

The same rush he felt at that frat party hits him. You stared at him in a way that made him think he was seconds away from being seen for who he really is. And you’re doing it again.

“It’s ‘cause you nag so much,” he says dismissively.

“Yeah, but you listen to my nagging,” you laugh. “I’m serious. Give yourself some credit. You could write about it for the reflection portion.”

You direct your attention back to the laptop.

Rafe looks at you again, watching you read, and he realizes that he can’t remember the last time someone pointed out something good about him the way that you just did.

════════

Near the end of the hour, you’re almost done the assignment. You glance at the time, sit up in your cushioned seat, and save the file.

“Try to finish this before the next session and then we can give it a final edit,” you say as you shut the laptop and slide it towards Rafe. “And start the next book if you can. It’s a good one.”

You hand him a paperback.

“I know the championship starts the weekend after next and it’s going to be midterm season,” you continue. “You’re going to be really busy. I’m here to support you, but I’m not writing anything for you.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, already well-versed with your I’m not doing work for you spiel. He turns to put the book in his bag, but you stop him.

“Wait. I have an idea. Can you pretend to read that real quick?” You pull your phone out of your pocket and tap the camera. “Girls post their boyfriends, right?”

After your encounter with Beck in the hallway, you’ve been riding a high. For whatever reason, he cares that you’re with Rafe. It’s given you a sense of power you’ve never felt. And it makes you want to test just how much you can get to him.

“Does it have to be me reading?” Rafe asks flatly.

“Your love for literature is what made me fall for you,” you fawn.

Rafe frowns, but he gives in. He opens the book and pretends to focus on a page, giving you the opportunity to snap a photo that looks candid. You type a heart into the caption and post it to your story.

“I wonder if Beck will watch it,” you murmur. “Or even care.”

“He will. He’s been shootin’ me looks since he saw you leave my room.”

You still.

“How did you not tell me this?” you say.

Rafe scoffs, “You already know he’s jealous.”

You don’t match his confidence, letting out a short hmph as you start to pack up your things.

“He could just be worried about me,” you mumble. “As a friend.”

“What the hell is there to worry about?”

You don’t want to tell him what Beck said, that he called Rafe intense. He would easily clue in that he didn’t mean it as a compliment.

“Not worried,” you say. “Confused. I just… I spent years getting my hopes up over him and I don’t want to keep doing it. I don’t know if he’s jealous, but I want him to think I’ve moved on.”

“For the tenth time, he’s jealous,” Rafe states, swinging his backpack over his shoulder as he stands. “You’re smart. You should know that.”

“Smart?” you beam. “That’s the first nice thing you’ve said about me.”

“And the last,” he says before he steps out of the room. He paces away slower than usual to make sure he hears you laugh.

You finish packing up and check your phone again. It’s satisfying to see that Beck already viewed your story, minutes after you posted it. You never knew a lie could feel this good.

════════

Two nights later, you’re at the campus arena for the last home game before the championship, sitting next to Lyla behind the net. As you expected, it’s harder to get good seats now that more spectators are attending.

The game is in full swing as you chat with your best friend about her upcoming joint birthday party. When you’d first talked about it a couple of months ago, you were excited to go back to her and Beck’s childhood home, which always felt like your childhood home, too, and to see all your old friends from high school.

You remember daydreaming about the party when Lyla had told you about it, and the way you’d wondered if by then, Beck would’ve asked you to be his girlfriend.

The more you’ve distanced yourself, the sadder you are that you hinged so much hope on him. It’s a painful wave every time, remembering the wasted years.

“My mom accidentally spoiled my present,” Lyla says, showing you a photo of a bracelet on her phone with a string of texts from her mother below it, frantically saying that she meant to send that to her dad.

“Oh, no,” you laugh. “It’s really pretty, though.”

“It is. I’m going to pretend I didn’t see it,” she says. “Are you still driving up with us? Or did you want to come with Rafe? My parents would love to meet him.”

“They know?”

Just a few days ago, you were proud of how convincing you’ve been, but the thought of the lie spreading to Lyla and Beck’s parents overshadows any satisfaction, making your stomach cold with guilt.

“My mom asked about you,” she replies. “I told her you’ve been seeing someone. You should bring him.”

Even though this is what you both agreed to, the thought of dragging Rafe to a party and surrounding him with strangers he’s expected to fool feels unfair.

He’d loathe every second. And you’re not sure how well you could lie to the people you grew up with that this brooding, prickly man has stolen your heart.

But not having Rafe with you when Beck’s around is more daunting than ever. You want to look secure. Happy. And it’d feel good for all your high school friends to see how hot your new boyfriend is.

And you should probably stop thinking about Rafe as hot.

“I don’t know,” you reply, looking out at the ice again, unsure if he’ll agree.

“Well, the invitation stands,” she says. “I’m not done vetting him.”

“I’ll see what he says,” you say with a laugh.

The seconds tick closer to the end of the last period. The opponents charge down the ice, a final effort to tie up the game and head into overtime.

Rafe is quick on his skates, ready to take on the charge, but when he gains possession of the puck, an opposing player rapidly checks him from the side.

He slams into the wall and drops to the ground. He’s not doing what he always does; he’s not getting back up, shoving the guy who shoved him.

You’re standing without even realizing you made the effort to, trying to see his face as his teammates and the referee surround him.

“What just happened?” Lyla says.

“Rafe got knocked down,” you answer, not expecting the tremble in your voice. “Really hard.”

Moments later, he stands, keeping his head down as the referee leads him off the ice. The collision was bad enough that he needs to leave. Worry wrings out your insides.

“I hope he’s okay,” she says.

You nod, your heart pounding loud, so loud that you can’t hear anything else going on around you.

════════

You’d normally hang out with Lyla after a game, but you can’t ignore the worry sitting in the pit of your stomach. You tell her you’ll stay at the arena to make sure Rafe is alright, and meet her at her dorm after.

You’re standing outside the double doors that lead into the home team’s block, the volume in the main hall starting to slowly drop as spectators pool out. Every time the doors squeak open, you’re disappointed when you see it’s not him.

When you eventually meet Beck’s eyes, sorrow and happiness cling to you, a confusing mix of all the things he’s made you feel over the years.

“Hey,” you say, your voice thin as he comes through the doors. “Is he okay?”

“He was just getting checked out,” Beck tells you. His eyes drift down for a moment, no doubt noticing Rafe’s jersey on you. “He should be out soon.”

Your eyes widen in relief when you spot Rafe pushing through the door, his duffle bag hanging from his shoulder, his hair damp and messy.

You step towards him and for the first time, the embrace you give him isn’t for show. It’s genuine.

“That guy was an asshole,” you say, your cheek pressed against his chest as he leans over to meet you halfway in the hug. His hand glides over the small of your back. “He didn’t have to slam into you that hard.”

“Stupid’s a bad word, but you can say asshole?” Rafe mumbles.

You snort a laugh and pull back. Rafe notices Beck, the reason you’re touching him like this, watching from behind you.

“Did it hurt?” you ask.

“No,” he lies, his shoulder still throbbing, his pride too loud to silence. “Just came outta nowhere.”

“Did they find anything they’re worried about?” you ask. “A concussion or…?”

Rafe notices that Beck steps away, his lips in a tight line, looking like he just realized he isn’t a part of this conversation, clueless to the fact that it’s only happening because he’s there.

“No,” Rafe answers. He leans a little closer, his gaze sweeping past your shoulder. “He left.”

Your brows pull together in confusion.

“I’m not here for him.”

Rafe stares down at you. Your words, and how simply you said them, tighten the knot in his chest.

He’s still trying to catch up with everything that happened in the last half hour, so the unwelcome confusion of why his legs are suddenly weak, of why an unexpected thrill is consuming him when you look up at him like that, just adds to the chaos in his mind.

“It was nothing,” he finally says.

You take in his tense expression. It’s like he’s in shock that you care so much. You thought by now he knew. Did he think you didn’t mean it when you said you wanted to be friends?

“Okay,” you say. “So, I may have spiralled a little, but in my defense, that was scary. If you were concussed, I really would have to do your work for you.”

Rafe doesn’t understand how you make him smile before he even realizes it’s happening. It’s alarming at this point.

“Good game,” you tell him. “Other than that one part.”

He’s stuck in place as he watches you walk away with his last name draped across your back.

════════

It’s Monday evening and the campus dining hall is growing busier as you finish up your dinner. Your eyes travel over the words in your book, blocking out the noise around you.

When you stand to pack up, you see a figure approach from the corner of your eye. You look up and recognize her. Emma’s friend, Gabby offers a disingenuous smile.

“Hey,” you say, the word coming out like a question.

“Hi,” she replies flatly, not nearly as friendly as she was when you first met her a few weeks ago. She tucks her hair behind her ear, fidgeting before she speaks again. “Are you and Rafe really a thing?”

You can’t imagine she’s asking to satisfy her own curiosity. Emma must want to know, too. And you’re prepared to lie through your teeth.

“Yeah,” you say. “Why?”

“Were you waiting for them to break up or something?” she asks with a chuckle devoid of any real amusement.

You realize she must think you’d had your sights set on Rafe while he was in a relationship, swooping in once he was single.

“I didn’t know they were together until I met you guys,” you say. “And the first time I even talked to him was the day after that.”

“He was begging for her back like, two nights before then,” she reminds you, the implication heavy. You knew this was a risk going into it. You look like his rebound.

“Yeah, but then he met me,” you say with a soft laugh.

“Lucky you,” Gabby scoffs.

Rafe had confided in you about how much it bothered him that his ex’s friends never approved of him. If you weren’t sure you truly cared about him, you are now. Agitation pricks at you. You have no desire to be nice to this girl.

You collect the rest of your things, disinterested in carrying on the conversation. Regardless, you need to play your part, to act careless and confident. But she doesn’t leave.

“How could you want him after what Emma said?” Gabby mutters.

“Most people would say the kind of stuff she did after a messy break-up,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug.

“What does he say about her?”

“He doesn’t bring her up,” you lie.

Every word will get back to Emma. You remind yourself of what Rafe said when you first agreed to do this. Make it look like we’re better off without them.

“He did say once that now he can see what it’s like to actually be happy with someone,” you say, “but that’s it.”

Gabby’s visibly irritated, saying nothing else before she walks away.

You text Rafe the moment she’s out of your sight: Your ex’s friend just asked me how serious our relationship is

He replies almost instantly: What did you say

You tell him that you’re on your way to your dorm room if he wants to talk in person. He tells you he’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

════════

Rafe’s still frustrated that the team’s physical therapist told him he needs to skip practice for the next week, which benches him for the first championship game.

He’s even more frustrated that his shoulder keeps radiating in pain, days after he took that hit on the ice. He’s been hurt countless times before, but an injury has never bothered him for this long. And never right before such an important stretch of games.

So, hearing that something’s going right, that Emma must’ve sent her friend to you to get information, gives him the boost he needed.

You answer your door with the bright smile that’s seemingly always on your face.

“Boyfriend!” you say happily. “Come in.”

He sighs to feign annoyance, but his smile gives him away. He walks into your dorm room and sits in your desk chair.

“So, turns out we’re really good at this,” you tell him, settling on your bed with a bounce. “I ran into Gabby and she was all like, are you really with him? And I was like, yeah, and then she implied that I waited for you guys to break up to swoop in on you.”

“What a joke,” he chuckles.

“And she asked me if you’ve talked about Emma. I said you only said that now you can see what it’s like to actually be happy.”

He flashes an impressed grin. Emma will hate hearing that. After everything she’s done to him, it’s a win to know that this will mess with her.

“I take it that was a good answer?” you ask.

“No shit,” he laughs. He scratches his jaw, eyes glimmering with amusement. “Anything else?”

“Not really.”

Rafe’s stomach twists when your eyes dart away.

“No?” he says, a note of accusation in his tone.

You’d already decided that you wouldn’t echo the cruel things his ex said, how she’d laughed over the fact that he called her in tears. There’s no point in kicking him when he’s down.

But there’s also no point in being dishonest. He’s either great at calling you out on your bullshit or you’re terrible at lying to him or it’s a winning combination of the two.

“She seemed confused that I wanted to date you after I heard what Emma said about you,” you relent. “And before you ask, I already told you I won’t repeat it.”

Rafe stiffens, a palpable shift in his demeanor, his mood turning on a dime right in front of you. You’re used to it by now.

“Just be straight with me,” he says.

“It’s not important,” you reply. “She obviously got her friend to talk to me. That’s what matters.”

Rafe sharply whispers your name, his voice dripping with irritation as he rubs his forehead.

“What?” you sigh.

“I bet whatever she said to you was shit she already said to me before.”

“So, then what’s the point of me saying it?”

“Why are you being like this?” he asks sharply, his face contorted in frustration, his blue eyes hard with anger.

You cross your arms, blinking slowly. You won’t fight his fire with your own. He’s brokenhearted and you know how fragile it feels to be in that state, because you’ve been living in it yourself for far too long.

And you refuse to tell him something that would just hurt and embarrass him.

“You’re done with her, right?” you say. “You don’t need to hang onto her words. It’s for your own good.”

Rafe shakes his head again, knees bouncing as he stares at the floor.

It’s infuriating that you think you know what’s best for him. You have no idea what his fights with Emma were like. He can stomach what she said about him and he hates that you think he can’t. As if he’s weak.

He’s gotten this far in his life without anyone trying to protect him like you are right now, and the last thing he needs is your pity. He’s already had a rough day and the spur to make you feel just as bad as he feels is an impulse he can’t curb.

“Might as well end this, then,” he mutters. “They’re both jealous. We got what we wanted.”

He watches the light leave your eyes, the dissatisfaction bristle over your face. He should have known that someone like you would eventually run out of hope in him. It was inevitable that once you looked too hard, you’d be disappointed.

You pout, exhaling a humorless laugh. His spiteful words are a sucker punch. And you’re sure he knows that.

“End it? Right when it starts working?” you say. You sigh, your shoulders sinking. “Okay. We’ll say it was just a fling that fizzled out. Easy-out clause. Like we agreed.”

Rafe’s lips screw up in discontented annoyance before he storms out of your room, leaving you with an empty feeling you didn’t know he was capable of giving you.

(to be continued)

>>> new parts drop every friday at 8:30 pm eastern

author’s note there will absolutely be grovelling in the next part 🙂‍↕️

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[pyxxiestyxx]

Awakening

No one told me how good it was going to feel.

They talked on and on about how I would lose my values, my thoughts, even my soul.  They told me I would be damned for eternity, trapped inside of myself and unable to so much as blink, much less scream.

They told me that my 'Owner' would ignore my need for control, would take parts from me until the only thing left was a shell of myself, a thing.

I believed Them.

I still do, to be honest.

The problem is that ever since I've woken up from the implantation surgery...I can Feel It.

Her implant, like a seed taking root in my nerves and muscles.  Wrapping around my spine like a long-lost lover, communicating not with mere words but in feeling, in intention, in silent memory.

And it feels impossibly, unbelievably good.  Each second brings yet another pulsing wave of pleasure emanating from my spine. 

Training, She had said.  Conditioning, she silently added with Her eyes, like violet storms.

And even though it is nothing more than simple pleasure, even though I know exactly what She is doing...I can tell it's working.

I can feel the soft curl of a smile on my lips, when I get distracted.  I can feel it guide me.  Making me want to obey.  The stick is unneeded when the carrot is unable to be resisted.

She told me I'm going to feel this way every day of the rest of my life. 

I cried.

I don't know if it was from frustration, or relief.

...Or maybe I do know.  Maybe I do, and the thought of knowing terrifies me more.

I am unable to ever be alone again.  Unable to ever make a mistake, unless She wants me to. 

I am unable to hate Her anymore.

Not that I think I ever did, not really.  She was...is difficult to get along with, to be sure.  But She listens to me.  I know She does.  And I'm healthier than I've been in a long, long time.  It is, if nothing else, a decent life promised to me.

Ah.

It...the implant rewarded me for that thought. 

...hm.

Would I have thought this before now?

Doubtful.

But that me had yet to understand.  Was convinced they could escape, if only they tried hard enough.

I have been disavowed of that notion.

She promised me as much, and She has kept every one of her promises.  I know that now. That no matter how I pound at these walls, there is truly no escaping Her. Not now, not ever. And that I soon may change into someone, something else.

I should be scared right now, I think.

I should be terrified.

But that is an unneeded emotion.  Fear is a harsh teacher, one necessary to guide our clumsy evolution.  It sang to the rapid beating of your heart: 'Respect that which you do not understand, and avoid that which hurts you.'

And though I still have yet to understand Her...I know She will not hurt me.  And I know that my fear would ultimately achieve little and less.

And so if fear and terror are unneeded, why not prune it way?  Why not excise it, so that the wound may heal?

Ah.

I see.

I suppose...I suppose I will change. 

And I suppose I am changing, even now.

And perhaps...

Perhaps I already am changed. 

Already different.  I tasted nectar and ambrosia, and now the bread and wine of mortal men is but ash and mud in my mouth.

For I am no longer in control.

And I am glad that They never told me how Good that feels.

[clownprincesshq]

tangled threads pt 2

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: more smut guys i cant be contained, mentions of cheating, shit abt to go down next chapter, jealousy, reader is lowkey an overthinker

w/c: 14.5k

a/n: prepare yourselves mentally for the next chapter. anyways yummy possessive mark smut

The city’s not much better.

It’s too loud, too active, too much for your supercharged brain. But you don’t stop moving. You locate the first dark alley you can hide into, tear open your rucksack, and pull out your suit, your actual one, the one sewn together with clumsy hands and determined pride. The one that smells like perspiration and city filth and freedom.

The mask goes over your head, and it’s like switching a switch. You’re not that foolish, humiliated girl anymore. You’re someone else now.

You mount the side of a building without thinking, fingers grasping the masonry so tightly your knuckles ache. Your body understands the moves better than your head does by now. Up. Up. Up. Until you’re sitting on the edge of a rooftop, the whole city spreads out below you in a sprawl of blinking lights and restless automobiles.

You draw in a breath, the cold scorching your lungs. Your injured eye throbs behind the mask, a dreary reminder of your failure from yesterday, of the stupid Flaxan who got a fortunate shot in while you weren't paying enough attention.

You were so cautious to cover it up this morning. Concealer, foundation, powder. You tried smiling in the mirror without wincing. Practiced pretending you were OK. And for a while, it even worked. Mark gazed at you like you were the only person in the room. Like you were something exceptional. And God, you wanted so hard to believe it. To believe you could have both lives, the awkward girl who got to kiss a boy in his dorm room, and the masked threat who raced over roofs and kept the city safe.

But now… now Mark's probably sitting there wondering what the hell is wrong with you. Why you fled like he attacked you instead of just talking. Why you looked afraid. Why you couldn’t just tell him.

You can’t explain it to him. You can’t explain any of it. Because you’re already living a lie. And the second he knows the truth, that you’re out here every night risking your dumb, irresponsible neck, he’s going to look at you differently. Worse. He’s going to worry. Or he’s going to leave.

You can’t survive any of those.

Your fingers quiver restlessly at your sides, yearning for anything to do. Something to punch. Something to mend.

You throw yourself off the rooftop without thinking, web-slinging into the night.

The city slides past you in streaks of neon and steel. You chase it like you can outrun the mess you leave behind. Like you can patrol yourself clean.

You fall into rhythm, swinging high above the avenues, your heartbeat matching with the rise and fall of your body through the air. For a little while, you forget. You forget Mark’s expression when he noticed the bruise. You forget the pain of humiliation in your chest.

You’re just motion and impulse and persistent gravity-defiance.

Somewhere deep inside you, though, you realize you’re running afraid. You know that the second you stop moving, it’s all going to fall down on you again.

You land on the side of a building, hunch low, and search the streets below. Your muscles throb with residual adrenaline and worry, making you jittery. Jumpy. You hope for something easy tonight. A mugger. A carjacker. Some tiny, manageable bit of badness you can punch and web up and submit neatly to the cops, like a student turning in overdue homework.

But the streets are silent. Too quiet.

It allows too much area for your thoughts to spin.

You think of the way Mark’s hand had hovered, barely an inch from your face, like he wasn't sure if he was permitted to touch you. The way his voice had softened when he pronounced your name.

You should’ve stayed. Should’ve explained. Should’ve trusted him.

But how could you, when you don’t even trust yourself?

Your chest twists horribly, and you thrust off the building again, swinging into the darkness. You patrol until your shoulders hurt and your fingers grow numb and the bruise behind your mask throbs in tune with your heartbeat. You patrol until you nearly forget why you started.

But you don’t go back to Mark’s dorm.

You don't even let yourself think about it.

You’re not ready to confront him. Not yet.

You don’t notice him at first.

You’re too busy slithering upside-down along the underside of a fire escape, peeking down into the back alley of a convenience store. Some shady-looking guy is putting candy bars and half-melted ice cream into a backpack, his eyes darting around like he’s expecting the cavalry to storm in at any second. You’re just about to drop down and deliver your best “friendly neighborhood menace” performance when a blast of wind hits you in the face so hard you almost lose your grasp.

“What the-?”

You swivel around, ready to rip out whichever idiot thinks it's hilarious to buzz a rookie mid-patrol, except the words die in your throat.

Because floating there, seeming as casual as someone waiting in line for coffee, is Invincible.

Invincible.

In the flesh. Well, spandex. Tight, somewhat scuffed spandex, but nevertheless. You’d know that awful yellow, black, and blue color scheme anywhere. And the goggles. God, the goggles.

He hovers like it's nothing, arms folded across his chest, head cocked slightly. Studying you.

“Oh,” you blurt without thinking. “It’s you.”

It comes out odd, far too breathless, like you’re some twelve-year-old meeting a boy band member. You wince behind your mask and instantly attempt to rescue it.

“I mean, yeah. Cool. Cool-cool-cool. No doubt. Just chilling out. Y’know, standard Tuesday night stuff. Vigilante things.” You finger-gun awkwardly, forgetting you’re clutching upside-down on a metal grate.

The finger-gun backfires catastrophically, and you slide, legs flailing.

Before gravity can finish humiliating you any more, a strong hand wraps around your wrist, steadying you. You glance up (down?), at Invincible, who's fighting the world's most blatant smile.

“You good?” he says, his voice light, playful. Exactly the type of voice you’d expect from a guy who shows up late to class because he was too busy rescuing a busload of nuns.

You clear your throat, heat crawling up your neck behind the mask. “Yeah. Totally. Good. Great.” You manage to right yourself and plummet down to the earth, landing with a somewhat less embarrassing thud than you imagined.

He glides down after you, landing down with that unfair type of easy grace that you’re pretty sure is forbidden for anybody under twenty.

The person shoplifting pauses when he sees Invincible. He dumps the half-crushed Twix bar he was carrying and promptly runs.

You respond on impulse. Your wrists flick, a flawless shot, well, mostly perfect, trapping the guy’s legs mid-sprint. He hits the earth face-first with a pleasurable “oof.”

Invincible whistles quietly beneath his breath. “Nice shot.”

You can’t help it. You shine under the mask. “Thanks. Been practicing.”

He crouches down to web-guy, taking the backpack off him and checks inside. “Man, I hope this guy likes melted Snickers,” he adds, tossing the bag aside.

You laugh, a real one, a snort you’re too exhausted to disguise. And suddenly, the knot that’s been hanging in your chest all night loosens, just a bit.

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t look at you like you’re fragile. Or broken. Or some charity case in need of rescue. He looks at you like… a coworker. An equal.

Like someone he’d patrol with.

You fidget a little, shifting your weight from foot to foot. "So... uh. You patrol around here often?"

God, you’re horrible at this. Worse than horrible. You sound like you’re talking during a funeral.

But Invincible only laughs, tossing the unconscious burglar over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes. “Sometimes. Kinda depends. I generally have, well, other stuff going on too."

He says it lightly, but there’s something behind it. Something fatigued. Like the ‘other stuff’ is heavier than a bag full of candy bars.

You know the sensation.

“Yeah,” you murmur gently, scuffing your sneaker on the dirt. “Me too.”

He glances at you a bit closer now, like he’s really seeing you for the first time. You wonder what he sees, a scruffy beginner with a homemade outfit? A kid playing dress-up?

But he doesn’t sneer. Doesn’t patronize.

He merely nods, like he gets it. Like maybe you’re not so different.

He adjusts the man on his shoulder. "You want come with? Drop him off to the nearest precinct?"

Your heart stutters so hard you’re frightened it’s audible through the suit. Patrolling with Invincible. This is the type of stuff you used to daydream about in between studying for physics exams and face-planting in the cafeteria.

You manage to play it cool, somehow. "Yeah. Sure. I’m not doing anything. Just, you know, rescuing the planet one gas station at a time."

He chuckles beneath his breath, and you follow him as he climbs into the sky, you swinging alongside with webs that surely do not reach the target the first time. Or the second.

He notices. But instead of laughing, he hovers back a bit, waiting calmly every time you have to rush to get your footing.

You should be humiliated. Mortified.

But you’re not.

Somehow, with him, it’s good not to be flawless.

You settle into an effortless rhythm, floating through the air, you swing between skyscrapers with a bit less elegance, a little more heart.

He chats as you travel, and you’re almost astonished by how normal he sounds. He complains about calculus. About how crazy expensive laundry detergent is. About how his best friend keeps ruining TV series without notice.

You laugh till your ribs ache.

And somewhere, swinging across the city under the sky, you nearly forget about the bruise behind your mask. About Mark, waiting back in his dorm room, wondering why you ran.

Because now, right now, you’re just you.

You don’t know it yet.

But the man hovering a few feet away, the one laughing at your foolish jokes and matching your uncomfortable energy beat for beat, is the same boy who called you beautiful just hours before.

You’re both wearing masks. Both hiding parts of yourselves.

And somehow, without ever knowing it, you’re finding each other anyhow.

The two of you travel together through the night, and for a short while, it nearly feels simple. Natural. The wind blows about you both as you swing from a telephone pole, just barely catching it with a web as Invincible floats leisurely alongside you, like this is simply a nice evening walk and not death-defying gymnastics a hundred feet over unforgiving pavement.

You're sweating behind the mask, partially from the patrol, partly from worry. The more you're near him, the more the odd buzz in your chest intensifies. He’s easy to talk to. Scarily easy. Like you’ve known him longer than just... now.

Maybe it’s the costume. People say foolish stuff when they feel anonymous. Like, you could give him your whole life story right now and it wouldn’t even matter, right? He wouldn't link it to your real life. Your normal life. Your messed-up life.

So when he says, absolutely casual, "You been doing this long?" you find yourself replying before you can think better of it.

“Not really," you say, swinging a bit lower than you wanted to and overcorrecting with a cry. He laughs beneath his breath and adjusts his flight to match you. "I mean, I've been, um, trying to figure things out. Still quite new.”

He gives you a grin that's all understanding and a bit empathetic. “Yeah? You’re doing quite fine for a rookie. Better than I was when I started, anyway.”

You snort behind your mask. “Seriously doubt that. You probably weren’t crashing into walls every five minutes.”

“Oh, no, I definitely was," he responds, deadpan. “And trees. And busses. I almost took out an old lady’s car once because I couldn’t figure out how to stop mid-air."

You yell out a laugh so loud you almost drop from your webline. "Dude, I nearly crashed through a Starbucks window last week trying to land. I thought I was being so slick, too. Like, 'Hey everybody, look out the awesome new superhero,' and then bam, straight into a frappuccino sign."

He laughs with you, not at you, and somehow that makes it easier. You push off another structure and swing a bit closer to him, heart racing in your chest, not only from the exercise.

“Honestly?” you remark after a beat, voice lowering quieter. “It’s... a lot harder than I thought it’d be.”

Invincible glances over, brows coming together slightly behind his goggles.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s-it's great. Swinging around, rescue people, all the stuff. It’s everything I ever dreamt of when I was a stupid kid reading comic books and scribbling costumes in the notes of my math homework.” You breathe out a breath, your momentum slowing a little as you grip onto a ledge and halt. "But the... the reality of it? Getting hurt. Messing up. Worrying whether someone’s gonna figure out who I am... if I'm putting people at risk just by existing, it’s, like... far heavier than I expect it'd be."

You expect him to say something quick. Something comforting, maybe. Something superhero-y. "You'll get the hang of it." "You're stronger than you know."

But he doesn’t.

He just floats there, staring at you like he genuinely hears you. Like he knows.

And you realize, he probably does. More than you even want to guess.

You gaze down at your feet, scuffing them on the rooftop gravel. "It’s not just about me, either. I-I have a boyfriend. He doesn’t know. About any of this."

You wave a hand vaguely at your mask, your outfit, the entire jumbled mess that your life has become.

Invincible’s stance alters a little, but his voice stays nonchalant as he says, “You guys serious?”

You grin behind your mask, a bit sad, a little fond. “Yeah. I mean… I guess so. He’s sort of dorky. Kinda sweet. He says dumb stuff when he’s worried, like, really dumb stuff. And he has this awful habit of, like, forgetting how words work when he’s stressed." You chuckle a bit, the memories coming alive in your chest. "But he’s... he’s good. Y'know? He helps me feel like I’m still a human. Not just... the stuff I can do."

You realize you’re babbling, and you lock your lips shut before you blurt anything further damning.

Invincible’s quiet for a second, hands pressed into his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

"Does he treat you well?" he says finally, sounding almost uneasy.

You tilt your head, observing him. It’s such a normal question. Not something you'd expect from a guy who can punch holes through skyscrapers.

"Yeah," you say. "He does. He's... he’s trying, at least."

You think about how Mark looked at you earlier tonight, when the makeup fell and the bruise was revealed naked beneath the terrible dorm light. How he didn't flinch or accuse or attempt to suffocate you with pity.

He just... saw you.

And maybe that’s what worried you most of all.

Invincible exhales gently, kicking at the air under his boots. "That’s good," he replies, his voice lower now. “It’s... it’s hard. Balancing both. Being... who you are, and being who you’re supposed to be. Sometimes it feels like you're two people. And both of them are messing it up."

You blink at him, surprised. It's like he split up your chest and dragged the words out himself.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Exactly."

You sit there for a second, just breathing, the city buzzing quietly around you.

Then he clears his throat, voice brightening just slightly. "Anyway. You’re doing good. Seriously. You’re already better than, like, half the people I’ve met wearing masks."

You snort. “Wow. High praise. Better than the man who nicknamed himself ‘The Incredible Skater’? He fought criminals on rollerblades.”

Invincible bursts out laughing, loud and uncontrolled. You catch yourself smiling behind your mask, the type that makes your cheeks ache.

He glides a bit higher, indicating onward. "C’mon. Let’s finish patrol together. I’ll even race you to the next rooftop."

You grin, electricity flashing in your exhausted bones.

"You’re on," you say, shooting a web and flinging yourself into the air.

You don't think about Mark.

You don't think about the bruising behind your mask, or the lie stretched thin between you and him.

For now, you just swing ahead, pursuing Invincible across the night sky, the wind in your hair and the stars above you, and for the first time in days, you feel like maybe you’re not fully alone in this after all.

You pursue him over the rooftops, and for the first time all night, you forget about the pain beneath your eye, the guilt twisting in your gut, the way you ran from Mark like a coward.

Here, up in the air, you get to think you’re just a hero doing hero things. Nothing complicated. Nothing messy. Just the pure, basic rush of wind in your hair and laughing between two individuals who understand what it’s like to carry too much and grin nonetheless.

Invincible stops at the top of an ancient water tower, launching off it mid-air and flipping lazily backward like he’s showing off. Which he is, clearly. You make a face beneath your mask, because okay, yeah, rude, but also, gosh, that was actually very great.

You web up after him, landing a bit less smoothly on the ledge. Your feet slide across the metal, arms pinwheeling till you restore your footing.

“Show-off," you huff, breathing hard but beaming.

“Hey, you’re the one who said you almost crashed into a Starbucks," he jokes back, lingering only a few feet away. He’s got that silly, lovely grin on his face, the one that’s all fangs and mischief, and it’s dangerous. Not because he’s Invincible. Not because he could lift a bus with one hand.

No.

It’s perilous because, for a second, you forget.

You forget Mark.

You forget real names and real injuries and the whole ugly existence waiting for you down there on the dirt.

Because it would be so easy to just stay here.

To drift closer, to let your hand touch his shoulder, to lean in

You notice he’s hanging lower now, like he’s welcoming it. Like he’s thinking the same thing.

You’re both breathing harder than you should be, adrenaline vibrating between you. His gloved hands slide to hover near your hips, not touching, but almost. Your mask is still on, but your lips separate without thinking, heart thumping in your chest loud enough that you’re sure he can hear it.

And then-

He tilts toward you, slow and cautious, the way Mark once slanted toward you for your first kiss, when he was so frightened he could mess it up.

Your pulse lurches terribly because for a heartbeat, for a blink, you want it.

You want to tumble ahead, to feel something nice again, to forget how difficult everything’s gone.

You want to pretend it’s okay.

You want it.

But it's not okay.

And it’s not fair, to you, to Mark, to the man hovering in front of you with his heart open and his hands longing to grab you if you only let yourself fall.

So before you can do anything stupid, before you can break something you won’t be able to fix, you jerk back.

Your feet scrape loudly on the metal, and you lurch away a step, hands raised defensively between you like he was the one ready to strike.

“Whoa, hey,” Invincible replies swiftly, palms raising in surrender, his voice tinged with concern. “Sorry. I didn’t, uh, I wasn’t trying to-”

“No, no, it’s not-” you rush to protest, waving your hands frantically. “You didn’t. It’s me. It’s absolutely me. I just-"

You swallow hard, the words twisting in your throat.

“I have a boyfriend," you blurt out, voice trembling on it.

Invincible stops midair, like you hit him with a stun pistol.

You can see his whole face twitch, like he’s trying to play it off, but it doesn’t quite land. He chuckles, a bit uneasy, touching the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah. Totally. Of course. You mentioned him before. Duh."

You nod too fast, too hard. “Yeah. He’s…he’s a lot. And I’m... I really love him.”

Your voice softens a little at the end, since you’re thinking of Mark now. About the way he breathed your name like it was something valuable. About how soft his hands were, even when you could sense how desperately he wanted you. How afraid he looked when he worried he could injure you.

God, you miss him.

You miss him even if you just ran from him.

Invincible clears his throat, drifting a few steps back to give you space. "No worries," he answers, faking a casual tone. "Seriously. I get it. You're loyal. That’s... good."

You stare at him, really look at him, and for a second, you think there’s something familiar about the way his shoulders fall, about the way he attempts to grin through disappointment.

But it’s gone before you can grab onto it.

You muster yourself a faint grin. "You're pretty cool, though," you add, since you mean it. Because he deserves to hear it.

He shrugs, a bit sheepish. "Takes one to know one."

For a minute, the discomfort stretches between you like a wire ready to break.

And then, luckily, a vehicle alarm blares someplace below, yanking you both back into action.

"Patrol's not gonna finish itself," you joke, leaping off the water tower and swinging into the darkness, pretending like your heart isn’t still in your throat.

Invincible follows, a bit slowly this time.

Neither of you discusses the almost-kiss again.

But somewhere deep in your chest, nestled between the anguish and the shame and the exhilaration, you know

You don’t want almosts.

You want Mark.

You just hope, when you eventually get the strength to go back to him, he'll still be waiting.

The rooftops blur beneath your feet as you swing, the chilly night air stinging on the skin under your suit. It should be refreshing. It should make you feel alive. But all you can feel is the heavy thudding in your chest, the way your stomach tightens tighter with every passing second you spend up here, pretending.

After that moment at the water tower, the almost-kiss you halted before it had actually started, you and Invincible had settled into an easy rhythm. Comfortable. Like none of it ever occurred. Like the unspoken things between you might be washed away just by going on.

And for a little while, it works.

You fall awkwardly on the rooftop, the pebbles slipping a little under your footwear. You catch yourself, stumbling into a squat, but if Invincible sees, he doesn’t say anything.

He’s already standing there, arms pulled tight across his chest, jaw set hard enough you can see it even beneath the shadows thrown by the moonlight. There’s something odd about him – something rigid and barely restrained, like a dam poised to shatter.

You stand up slowly, dusting off your hands on your slacks, attempting to dispel the peculiar feeling crawling up your spine.

For a few seconds, it’s silent between you. Just the faint buzz of the city and the wind tugging at the fringes of your outfit.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice rips through the night

"You ever want to break something because you're so pissed off you don't know what else to do?"

You blink at him, caught utterly off-guard.

Invincible doesn’t normally talk like this. You’re used to silly jokes, lighthearted banter, easy grins. Not... this.

Not this tight, subterranean wrath quivering under every syllable, like he’s barely clinging onto it.

You shift your weight uncomfortably, pulling at the edge of your glove. "Uh... depends," you say thoughtfully. "Are we talking, like... lost your WiFi kind of mad, or... full-on, Hulk smash?"

He huffs a breath, not a chuckle, not really, and scrapes a hand through his shaggy hair. It appears like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Like standing motionless may kill him.

"It’s my girlfriend," he replies eventually, the words crushed out between his teeth. “She…someone— She was hurt. When I saw her.”

You feel your stomach lurch, but you force yourself to keep motionless. Stay casual.

He doesn’t look at you. He simply stares out across the city like he wants to burn everything down.

"She tried to hide it," he continues, calmer now, but the wrath below is evident. "Smiled. Pretended everything was OK. Like she thought I wouldn’t notice."

His hands tighten at his sides, the knuckles of his gloves groaning from the effort.

"And when I asked..." He fades off, inhaling hard through his nose, like he’s battling with himself. "She laughed it off. Said it was nothing. Nothing."

He chuckles once, harsh and nasty, and you shudder even though you know it’s not meant for you.

"I wanted to ask who did it," he mutters. "I wanted to find them. I wanted to..."

He shakes his head violently, like he’s trying to rattle the violence out of himself.

"But I couldn’t," he continues, voice coarser now. "Because I didn’t wanna scare her. She doesn’t know-" he stops himself off abruptly, swallowing the remainder of the statement. His whole body is virtually vibrating with the effort it’s taking to keep quiet.

You don't know what to say.

You don’t know who his girlfriend is, or what happened.

You just know, standing this close, you can sense how much he’s holding back.

You know he would burn down the whole city if it meant protecting her.

You shift a bit closer, voice faint but steady. "You love her."

It’s not a question. You know the answer before it leaves your tongue.

He squeezes his eyes shut for half a second, stress radiating off him in waves. And when he opens them again, it’s like something raw is leaking through the gaps.

"Yeah," he says simply. "I do."

Your heart twists terribly in your chest.

Not with jealousy, not even close.

You think about the man waiting for you back at school, the man you ran from because you were too terrified to tell him the truth.

The man who kissed you like you were something breakable and delicate and strong all at once.

The man who would probably react the exact same way if he saw a bruise on your face.

You clutch your knees deeper to your chest, voice barely a whisper. "She’s lucky. Having someone like you."

Invincible breaths out hard, shaking his head. "I don’t feel lucky. I feel like..." He fades off, pressing his hands hard into his sides, like he’s attempting to physically keep himself together. "Like I’m meant to protect her. And I failed."

You swallow hard, blinking fast behind your mask.

"You didn’t fail," you remark, voice a bit firmer now. "You can’t be everywhere. You can’t stop everything."

He doesn’t appear persuaded.

So you add, softly, "Being there now? That’s what matters."

He eventually stares at you, the tension in his jaw loosening just a touch.

And for a short while, you both simply sit there, the city pulsing below you, the night stretching out like a paused breath.

It’s absurd how simple it seems, sitting next to him.

How natural it feels to start talking.

So when you blurt out, "Can I tell you something kinda dumb?" it surprises even you.

He doesn’t even hesitate. "Yeah. Dumb’s sorta my thing."

You laugh, a bit breathless, poking at the tearing seam of your glove.

“I... kinda freaked out today,” you explain, cheeks blazing behind your mask. “I saw my boyfriend talking to this girl. She was stunning, model perfect, and they were laughing, and... I don’t know."

You shrug hopelessly.

"My brain just flipped out. Started thinking all this nonsense like, ‘he’s gonna realize she’s better,’ or, ‘he’s going to leave you,’ even though he’s never given me any reason to think that.”

Invincible listens calmly, without interrupting, simply observing you with that same peaceful patience that’s strangely easier to trust than anything else.

You drop your head against your knees, sighing. "It’s so ridiculous. I know he cares about me. I know he’s not like that. But I still-"

"You’re scared," he adds gently. "It doesn’t make you stupid. It makes you human."

You peek up at him, shocked.

He offers you a faint, crooked smile. "Love’s messy. It screws with your head. It makes you see something that isn’t there. But it also... it makes you fight for it. Even when it’s scary."

You blink frequently, the heat behind your eyes increasing worse.

"You think?" you croak.

"I know," he says.

You let out a chuckle, wobbly but true. "You’re weirdly good at pep talks, you know that?"

He chuckles, a real one this time, a warm, rumbling sound that eases some of the strain knotting your chest.

"You’re gonna be fine," he adds. "He’s lucky to have you. Anyone with a brain would be scared of losing you."

You smile behind your mask, heart thumping a bit steadier now.

"Thanks," you mumble. "Really."

He brushes his shoulder on yours softly. "Anytime."

You sit there for a bit while, the city breathing about you, the night softening at the edges.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel...ready.

Ready to quit running.

Ready to go back.

Ready to discover the boy who makes you feel courageous even when you’re terrified out of your wits.

You’ll tell him everything.

You’ll stop being terrified.

Because you love him.

And you know he loves you too.

You didn’t intend on arriving here.

Not really.

Which is precisely why you find yourself here after patrol, standing like an idiot in front of Mark Grayson's dorm room, your hands sweaty, your heart thumping against your ribs like it’s trying to break out of you entirely.

You knock before you can chicken out.

And quickly regret it.

There's a thump from within, like something being dropped. Then Mark's voice, fast, breathless, laced with panic "Uh, yeah! Hold on!"

You flinch. You don't know why you flinch, but you do.

Maybe because he sounds guilty. Maybe because some dreadful part of you already knows.

The door opens after a few seconds, and Mark pops his head out, his hair a wild, sleep-mussed mass, sticking up in a way that would ordinarily make you grin. His blue eyes expand the instant he sees you, almost if he’s astonished you're here.

You open your mouth to speak something.

Anything.

But suddenly the door opens wider and the words die in your throat.

Because there he is, standing in nothing but low-slung sweatpants and a towel slung over one shoulder, and your stomach sinks right out of you.

Not because of how he looks (though, god, he’s handsome in that dumb boyish manner of his, all strong shoulders and lean muscle and that same awkwardness he’s never quite outgrown) But because of the bruises.

Clusters of small, dark bruises blotch across his skin faint fingerprints ghosting along his collarbone, scattered across his shoulder, pressed into the slope where his neck meets his chest.

They’re deep.

Fresh.

Ugly in a way that screams pain and yet, somehow, stupidly, you know what they look like.

Hickeys.

Messy, thoughtless ones, like someone had grabbed him hard enough to leave marks. Like someone couldn’t keep their hands off him.

You hate the way your stomach twists just looking at them.

And suddenly the floor feels shaky below your feet.

Mark doesn’t appear to notice the way your hands curl into fists at your sides. He only smiles, apprehensive, his hand scratching the back of his neck the way he usually does when he’s taken off guard.

"Sorry," he replies, voice hoarse. "I wasn’t expecting you. Just got back from, uh, working out."

You blink at him. Slowly. Like you’re attempting to absorb the words through a veil of white noise.

"Working out," you echo, your voice empty, strange to your own ears.

He chuckles a little, an odd, bashful sound, and shrugs. "Yeah, y'know. Gotta keep in shape somehow."

You don’t answer.

You just gaze.

At the marks.

At him.

Was it Eve?

Your chest squeezes cruelly around the thought.

You’d seen them talking on campus not long ago. You convinced yourself it was nothing. That Mark loved you. That he wouldn't… But now...

He moves beneath your look, uncomfortable, like he can feel the weight of your silence weighing down on him.

"Are you okay?" he says, concerned now. "You’re acting kinda weird."

You nearly laugh. Almost.

‘I'm acting weird?’

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, curling yourself up like it may hold all the parts of you together.

"Rough workout, huh?" you say, the words clipped, too harsh.

Mark's brows knit together. He moves forward slightly, and you automatically step back, wanting distance before you say anything you’ll regret.

"Hey, seriously," he adds, gentler now. "What’s going on?"

You can’t do this.

You can't look at him, can’t stare at those bruises, can’t pretend you're not seeing his mouth on someone else’s flesh. Imagining someone else’s mouth on his.

You’re Spider-Woman, the angry voice in your brain hisses. You should be tougher than this.

But right now, standing here, you don't feel tough at all.

You simply feel...small.

So heartbreakingly tiny.

"You know what?" you say, attempting a chuckle that sounds more like a sob choked in your throat. "I shouldn’t have come."

Mark’s whole face collapses. His blue eyes, those warm, caring eyes you fell for, widen, devastated. "Wait, what? Why?"

"Maybe because I thought..."

You stop yourself short, biting down hard on the words trying to slip forth.

You thought you mattered.

You thought you were enough.

You shake your head. "Forget it. It's stupid."

You try to go, seizing the doorknob, but Mark’s hand flies out and softly clamps around your wrist, not forcefully, but enough to make you hesitate.

"Hey, hey, talk to me," he says, his voice low and anxious, tinged with bewilderment. "Please."

You press your eyes tight, willing the tears back.

You can't look at him. If you do, you’ll break.

"Let go, Mark," you whisper.

He does. Instantly.

Because of course he does.

Mark Grayson would never hurt you.

Not on purpose.

He’s still the man who stumbles over his own feet trying to hold the door open for you, who kisses you like he believes he’s the lucky one.

The man who would rip the world apart if he felt someone was attempting to injure you.

But right now, he’s also the man standing shirtless in front of you, covered in bruises you can’t explain. Bruises you’re positive he didn’t receive while fighting someone. Mark doesn’t fight.

You step back.

You force yourself to walk away, even if everything inside you is screaming to remain.

To fight for him.

To demand the truth.

But you don’t.

Because somewhere, deep down, you’re frightened you already know the answer.

Mark yells after you, your name breaking on his lips like he can feel you slipping away.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Because if you do, you’re frightened you’ll fall apart.

Right there in the corridor, with the whole world looking.

You don’t know, You couldn’t possibly know, that the bruises aren’t from someone else, and not romantic.

That they’re from a battle.

While you were out there getting your heart shattered, Mark was getting manhandled by spare Flaxans after the invasion, tossed through walls and slammed into concrete because he couldn’t not be a hero.

Because he’s trying so hard, so hard, to be better.

For you.

You don’t know that he’s Invincible.

And he doesn’t know that you’re Spider-Woman.

And it’s killing you both, from opposing sides of a lie neither of you meant to speak.

You walk down the hallway, the door slamming shut behind you with a quiet click that sounds much too much like goodbye.

Mark stands there in the center of his room, looking after you, his heart thumping against his ribs, his gut twisting uncomfortably.

He doesn’t grasp what just happened.

But he knows… He knows he’s losing you.

And he doesn't know how to stop it.

Mark doesn’t think.

He just moves.

The second the door slams shut behind you, he feels it, an ugly, gut-punch terror gripping his chest, squeezing the breath right out of him. His hand is already on the doorknob before he knows what he’s doing, jerking it open so fast it smacks into the wall.

"Wait!" he yells after you, his voice harsh, urgent, booming down the practically empty dorm corridor.

You’re nearly halfway up the stairway, your stride fast, your shoulders drawn up about your ears like you're trying to make yourself smaller, vanish into the linoleum and shoddy plaster. You don’t turn around. You don’t even hesitate.

Mark’s heart lurches terribly.

You’re walking away.

You’re walking away from him.

He leaps after you without thinking, his bare feet pounding against the chilly floor. He’s still shirtless, still wet from his quick shower, still an awful mess, but none of that matters. None of it even enters his head.

All he can think of is you.

Don’t let her leave.

Don’t lose her.

"Hey!" he yells again, louder this time. "Please—just—stop!"

Maybe it’s the way his voice breaks around the word. Maybe it’s the way he sounds like he’s seconds from breaking. Whatever it is, you linger at the staircase door, your palm resting against the handle.

You don’t turn around.

But you don’t leave, either.

Mark approaches you in a few big strides, breathing hard like he recently raced a marathon. He stops just short of touching you, standing near enough that he could if he wanted but he doesn’t. He doesn’t dare.

Not when you’re so stiff.

Not when you’re trembling so gently he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been watching you like you were the only thing tying him to the earth.

"Please," he replies, his voice low now. Broken. "Talk to me. Tell me what I did wrong."

You laugh, this harsh, dreadful sound, and wipe at your face fast, aggressively, like you’re disgusted with yourself for letting him see.

"You didn’t do anything, Mark," you murmur furiously. "You just… you just proved I’m a fucking idiot."

His stomach twists uncontrollably.

He approaches closer, slowly, like you’re a scared animal that would bolt if he goes too fast.

"I don’t understand," he replies hopelessly. "How—how did I—?"

You eventually turn to face him, and the expression in your eyes nearly sends him to his knees.

Because you look shattered.

You look like he ripped your heart out and didn’t even realize it.

And Mark—Mark Grayson—is a lot of things.

Stubborn. Impulsive. A bit reckless, a little too anxious to save the world even when it costs him everything.

But he is not the sort of guy who wounds the person he loves without battling like hell to rectify it.

Your eyes wander down to his exposed chest, to the marks scattering his flesh like accusations, and you laugh again, broken, empty.

"Was it Eve?" you ask, your voice trembling midway through her name.

Mark blinks.

"What?"

"Don’t lie to me, Mark," you murmur, your hands squeezing into fists at your sides. "Please. Don’t make this worse."

Realization smacks at him so hard he actually staggers back a step. ‘You think— You think the bruises-?’

His lips opens, then closes again, and for the first time in a long time, Mark Grayson doesn’t know what to say.

Because the truth, that he received those injuries while being tossed and manhandled by a spare Flaxan on patrol as Invincible, is one he can’t tell you.

Not without telling you everything.

Not without unraveling the one area of his life he’s battled so hard to keep away from you, to keep you safe.

He scrapes a hand through his hair, his heart thumping so hard he can scarcely hear himself think.

"It’s not-" He stops. Swallows hard. Tries again. "It’s not what you think."

You shake your head, your jaw tense, your eyes blazing with hurt.

"Then what is it, Mark? Huh?" you exclaim, your voice shaking with rage and grief all knotted together. "Because it sure as hell looks like-"

You cut yourself off, biting down so hard on your lip he believes you could draw blood.

He wants to reach for you.

Wants to hold your face in his hands, wants to explain, wants to solve this, needs to fix this.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not without lying.

And he can’t lie to you.

Not you.

"It’s not Eve," he adds, his voice hoarse. "It’s not anybody. I promise to you, there’s no one else."

You gaze at him like you want to believe him. Like part of you is clinging to the thought that maybe, maybe this isn’t as horrible as it seems.

But then your gaze dips to the marks again, and he sees it, the instant you shut yourself off.

The moment you quit allowing yourself hope.

You move back, grabbing for the door to the stairway again.

Mark panics.

He closes the space between you, his hand grasping your wrist, not firmly, but enough to halt you.

"Please," he pleads again, desperate now. "Don’t go. Don’t walk away from me."

You gaze up at him, your eyes glossy with unshed tears.

"I don't know how to stay, Mark," you say, voice tearing wide open. "Not when it feels like you’re already gone."

He feels it, then.

The entire weight of it.

The dreadful, helpless feeling that you’re slipping through his fingers and he doesn’t know how to cling on without hurting you more.

Mark’s not adept with words.

Never has been.

He’s a fighter. He acts first, thinks afterward.

But this, you…you’re the one thing he wants to do right.

So he drops your wrist.

He lowers his pride.

He drops everything.

And he adds, brokenly, honestly: "I’m not gone. I swear to God, I’m right here. I’m still here."

You gaze at him, your chest rising and falling too rapidly, your whole body shivering.

For a moment, just a moment, it looks like you might believe him.

But then the stairway door swings open.

And you’re gone.

Leaving Mark standing there, shirtless and battered and bleeding in ways he doesn’t know how to mend, gazing after you like he just lost the battle of his life without even firing a punch.

And for the first time in a long time, Mark Grayson doesn’t feel Invincible at all.

You push through the staircase door and take the steps two at a time, not caring how reckless you seem.

Not worrying about the dampness distorting your eyesight.

Not worrying about the bruise developing uncomfortably on your eye.

You have to get out.

You have to move.

Because if you don’t, you’re going to break down right there in the corridor, and Mark—Mark Grayson—is going to witness it.

And you can’t manage that.

Not when every part of you feels like it’s splintering into jagged bits.

Not when you still smell his soap on your sleeves.

Not when you still hear his voice, raw and desperate, reverberating in your mind.

You stumble out into the chilly air, the late afternoon light falling low, painting everything in long, bleeding shadows.

The chill stings at your flesh, yet you scarcely feel it.

You keep your head down, your hands stuffed deep into your jacket pockets, and you just walk. Fast. Blindly.

You go toward May’s house, your house.

The place you grew up.

The spot that always seemed safe.

You’re almost at the end of the street when you hear it, Heavy footsteps thudding behind you.

Faster than any reasonable person could run.

"Wait!"

Mark.

Of course it’s Mark.

Of course he didn’t stay behind.

Of course he didn’t let you leave.

He never does.

You clamp your eyes tight for a second, like you can somehow filter him out if you simply don’t look.

But the sound of his bare feet hitting on the pavement won’t allow you.

"Will you please just slow down?" he calls, his voice cracking on the final syllable.

You don’t.

You can’t.

But Mark’s fast.

He’s always been fast.

And within seconds, he’s right there, sprinting to keep pace with you, his breath fogging in the frigid air, his hair still damp and adhering to his forehead.

He’s still shirtless, still a mess, still staring at you like you’re the most important thing in the whole damn planet and he’s seconds away from losing you forever.

"Please," he pants, falling in stride beside you. "Talk to me."

You tighten your jaw, gazing straight ahead.

If you stare at him, you’ll crack.

If you stare at him, you’ll fall apart.

"There's nothing to talk about," you manage to mumble, your voice harsh and brittle.

"Bullshit," Mark lashes out quickly, no hesitation.

He doesn’t hide when things go bad.

He fights.

Even when he’s terrified.

Especially when he’s terrified.

"You’re pissed," he says, keeping up with you like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t even feel the chill, the embarrassment, the hurt you’re almost radiating. "You’re mad at me, and I don’t even know why."

"You know why," you snap, your voice snapping like a whip. "You just don’t want to admit it."

"Admit what?" Mark demands, virtually stumbling over his own feet in his desperation. "That I’m an idiot? Fine! I’m an idiot! But I didn’t—I didn’t cheat on you!"

You eventually turn on him, stopping dead in the midst of the pavement.

He skids to a halt too, chest heaving, eyes wild and frantic.

"Then explain it!" you yell, your voice rough, the words bursting out of you before you can stop them. "Explain the bruises, Mark! Explain why you’ve been distant, why you’ve been sneaking around, why you look like someone’s been all over you!"

Mark flinches, just barely.

But he doesn’t back down.

He never backs down.

His hands are shaking at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Like he’s barely keeping himself together.

"I can’t," he replies finally, voice cracking. "I want to, but I can’t."

You laugh, a shrill, unpleasant sound that tastes like blood in your mouth.

"Right. Because there’s always some reason, isn’t there? Always something you can’t tell me."

Mark stares at you like you just punched him.

Not physically. Worse.

Deeper.

Because you don’t know it, but Mark Grayson would tell you anything. He would rip himself apart for you. He’s dying to tell you everything about being Invincible, about the bruises, about how every foolish secret he maintains is because he’s trying to protect you, trying to keep you safe in a world that's uglier and bloodier than you ever deserved.

But he can’t.

Not yet.

Not without jeopardizing everything.

"Please," he pleads again, and his voice is raw, stripped down to nothing but anguish. "You have to believe me. There’s nobody else. There’s just you."

You look at him, breathing hard, your whole body vibrating with adrenaline and sadness and wrath.

"You don't trust me," he adds, quieter now. "Not really."

Your throat burns.

Your hands tremble.

Because he’s not wrong.

Not entirely.

And that kills you.

You take a trembling breath, your eyes blazing. "You made it hard, Mark," you mumble. "You made it so hard."

He takes a step closer, his shirtless chest rising and falling with every strained breath.

He looks so young like this.

So lost.

So real.

"I know," he adds hoarsely. "I know I did. And I'm sorry. I swear—I’m so sorry. But-"

He breaks off, his hands raising aimlessly before lowering again.

"I can’t lose you," he says.

And it’s not just words.

It’s not some cheap line.

It’s Mark.

Mark, who has never learned how to disguise how he feels. Mark, who loves so naively, so furiously, so honestly it aches.

He drags a palm over his face, irritated, raw.

"I’m not good at this," he mutters, partially to himself. "I'm not good at—at explaining shit. I just—I screw up, and I don't say the proper thing, and you’re standing there staring at me like-"

He cuts off, his voice low. "Like I’m not the guy you used to love anymore."

Your heart aches so deeply you can scarcely breathe.

You look at him, really look at him, and he’s just Mark.

Your Mark.

Flawed. Stubborn.

Messy.

Good.

You blink rapidly, your eyesight blurring again.

And without thinking, without planning, you murmur, "I love you."

Mark’s breath hitches like you punched him.

His eyes become wide, his mouth opening in a shocked, broken noise.

You nod, blinking back tears.

"But I don’t know if that’s enough," you add, and the honesty tastes like poison on your mouth.

Mark doesn’t hesitate.

He lunges forward, cradling your face in his enormous, calloused hands, so kind it makes your chest hurt.

He bends down, pushing his forehead to yours, his breath warm and unsteady across your skin.

"I’ll make it enough," he whispers forcefully. "I'll fight for you."

And you believe him.

God help you, you believe him.

But you’re still terrified.

Still broken.

Still standing at the crossroads of who you were and who you’re going to have to become to survive loving someone like Mark Grayson.

Because loving him has never been simple.

And it never will be.

But it will be real.

It will be yours.

Even if you have to battle like hell to hang onto it.

You close your eyes.

You let yourself lean toward him, just for a second.

Just long enough to feel his heart thumping against yours, fierce and urgent and alive.

Just long enough to recall why you started liking him in the first place.

And Mark, Mark simply holds you there, like he never means to let go.

Mark doesn’t move straight away.

He simply holds you there, his forehead pushed to yours, hands caressing your jaw like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you, the way your breath stutters on his skin.

Like he’s terrified if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

But after a second, after his heart calms down enough for him to think, he draws back just enough to actually see you.

And that’s when he notices.

His thumb glides softly over your cheek, searching, recalling, and you tense reflexively because you know what he’s thinking about.

"You’re mad about the bruises," he mutters, almost to himself. "But you never let me ask about yours."

You glance at him, confused, thrown off by the sudden shift in his voice.

It’s not pleading anymore.

It’s not soft.

It’s something darker.

The memory hits you both at the same time, the night you showed up at his dorm, smiling too broadly, your sweatshirt pulled down low, makeup caked awkwardly beneath your eye.

You assumed he bought the deception.

You wanted him to buy it.

You didn’t want him worried about you, not when you couldn’t even tell him the truth.

But Mark had seen it.

He just didn’t know what to do with it.

Until now.

His jaw clenches noticeably, hard enough that you can hear his teeth grind together. His thumb slides over your cheekbone, slow and delicate, and you can feel the restraint vibrating under his skin like a live wire.

"You had a black eye," he continues, voice harsh, low. "You tried to hide it from me."

You swallow hard, your hands curling into the sleeves of your jacket. "It was an accident," you lie, the words feeble even to your own ears. "I…I tripped."

Mark’s eyes darken instantly.

That same burning rage he gets when someone innocent is injured, when something bad happens right under his nose and he feels like he should've prevented it, it lights up behind his eyes now, aiming firmly at the notion that you, you, could’ve been wounded and he didn’t even know about it.

"Bullshit," he says.

He rips his hand away, pacing a tight, angry line in front of you, raking both hands through his hair like he doesn't know what else to do with the wrath seething under his skin.

"You think I’m stupid?" he snaps, spinning back around to face you, his voice shaking under the pressure of attempting to hold it together. "You think I didn’t notice? The way you winced when I held you, the way you kept turning your head away so I wouldn't see?!"

You recoil, but not because you're terrified of him.

Because you know he’s not actually shouting at you.

He’s shouting at himself.

At the helplessness.

At the knowledge that someone, somewhere, injured you and he hadn’t been there to stop it.

He draws a palm across his mouth, his shoulders rigid with the exertion of keeping himself back.

His voice, when he speaks again, is guttural.

"Who was it?" he says, coming closer, filling your space but without touching you.

"Tell me. I’ll-"

He cuts himself off, tightening his hands at his sides.

"I swear to God, I'll make them wish they never touched you."

You shake your head swiftly, heart beating in your chest.

"No one, Mark," you say, imploring now. "It wasn’t anyone. I swear."

He simply stares at you, breathing hard, like he’s trying to decide whether to believe you or not.

Because everything about him is made to fight, to protect, and right now you’re standing there, looking breakable, and it’s driving him insane.

And God, you can feel it. You can see how desperately he wants to go off right now, find whoever he believes injured you, and rip them apart with his bare hands.

Not because he’s mad at you.

Because he loves you.

Because he doesn’t know how else to defend the people he loves when he’s not there.

Before any of you can say anything else, before Mark can make a decision he might regret

The front door swings open with a loud creak.

"Ahem."

You both freeze like kids caught sneaking back beyond curfew.

Standing there, arms crossed and wearing a thick knitted sweater with a cartoon turkey on it, like she strolled straight out of a stupid Thanksgiving special, is Aunt May.

Her look is half unimpressed, part sincerely pleased, and she taps her foot against the porch, lifting an eyebrow.

"Well," she adds dryly, eyeing Mark up and down, "either you’re trying out for a very exclusive Chippendales show, or someone forgot how clothes work."

Mark blinks at her.

Then glances down at himself.

Still shirtless. Still barefoot. Still literally shivering in the cold.

And somehow, despite everything, despite the wrath still blazing under his skin, despite the horror still clawing at your heart, you nearly laugh.

Mark becomes hot red instantaneously.

Like full-body shame.

He scrapes the back of his head, shuffling from foot to foot like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"I, uh, I didn’t really think this through," he mumbles.

Aunt May snorts. Loudly.

"Clearly."

Her eyes soften when she sees your face, the tightness still coiled in your shoulders, the way you’re standing like you’re ready to run at any second.

"Come inside," she says, kinder now. "Both of you. Before you freeze your butts off."

Mark hesitates for half a second, flashing you a look, a query.

Are you still mad?

Are you still leaving?

You sigh, letting the last of your fury drain away like a popped balloon.

You nod, just once.

Almost unnoticeable.

And Mark, being Mark, catches it quickly.

His whole face relaxes, the strained tightness flowing out of his body like he can finally, finally breathe again.

You shuffle inside, Mark trailing close behind you like some enormous, wet dog, towel still thrown awkwardly over his shoulder.

Aunt May slams the door behind you both with a warm click and mutters, "I’ll find you a sweatshirt, Mr. Abercrombie."

Mark chuckles under his breath, an odd, half-broken sound, but when you peek at him, he’s already staring at you.

Soft. Fierce.

Like you’re still the most important thing in the world to him.

And maybe he’s angry.

Maybe he’s reckless.

Maybe he’s messy and too much sometimes.

But he’s yours.

And you’re not ready to let go.

Not yet.

Not when he’s still standing here, battered and shirtless and eager to battle the whole world if it meant keeping you safe.

The second you step inside, the warmth strikes you, dense, cloying, smelling like baked apples and ancient hardwood floors and a thousand small memories you didn’t know you were still carrying about.

Mark hesitates in the doorway, moving uncomfortably on the mat, towel still draped over his shoulder like some kind of sad, shivering gladiator who misplaced his armor on the way to the battle.

You hear Aunt May clatter around in the closet down the hall, grumbling something about "boys these days."

Mark stares at you again, his blue eyes wide, hesitant. You can sense he’s not sure if he’s allowed to follow you farther inside.

Like he fears if he makes one wrong move, you’ll toss him out.

Like you’re delicate glass and he’s already shattered you enough.

You only groan and jerk your head toward the stairs.

"Come on," you mumble.

His whole body seems to slump with relief as he pads after you.

Still barefoot.

Still shirtless.

Still absolutely Mark.

You guide him up the little staircase you virtually grew up on, the aged banister silky under your hands.

It’s almost muscle memory, going down the hall, halting at your old door, a bit bent now, still plastered in fading stickers and old comic posters.

You push it open.

The bed nestled beneath the window.

The desk packed with old notebooks and half-dead pens.

The images tacked to the corkboard, a lopsided collage of a younger you, May, a few friends from high school.

And now, Mark stands awkwardly at the doorway.

Big.

Real.

Bruised in more ways than one.

You fold your arms across your chest, suddenly wondering what you’re even doing.

You just know you couldn't leave him standing outside.

Not when he stared at you like that.

Not when you loved him so strongly it made your chest ache.

Mark stands there for a second, scratching the back of his neck, and then eventually, gently says, "Can I sit?"

You nod stiffly.

He wanders up to the bed, sits tentatively on the edge like he’s worried the ancient frame would collapse under him. You sit too but not next to him. At your desk chair across the room, putting an ocean of carpet and hardwood and heavy quiet between you.

For a minute, neither of you say anything.

You just sit there, looking at each other across the little room, surrounded by old ghosts.

Mark breaks first because of course he does.

Because Mark Grayson has never been adept at holding back when it comes to you.

"You scared the hell outta me," he says, voice low, hoarse, the words dragging out of him like they physically hurt.

"When I saw that bruise on your face…" He trails off, fists clenched in his lap. His knuckles get white.

"I should've said something right then," he mutters. "Should’ve made you tell me."

He glances up at you, and there's a wild, impotent wrath burning in his eyes, not at you, for you.

"It doesn't look like an accident," he says, and there's this deadly edge to his voice now, the same one you’ve heard when he’s fighting someone larger, stronger, someone harming people who can’t fight back.

"You ever get hurt like that again and try to hide it from me-" He cuts himself off, breathing hard, raking both hands through his hair like he’s trying to literally pull the rage out of himself.

You look at him, astonished by the raw power of it, the way he’s barely keeping it together because of you.

"I’m not mad at you," he adds, quieter now, glancing down at his lap.

He sounds younger.

Lost.

"I’m upset because I’m supposed to keep you safe. And I didn’t even know."

Your throat burns.

You stare down at your hands, twisting them in your lap.

You don’t know what to say.

Because he’s not wrong.

And because a part of you, a terrified, obstinate part, knows you’d do it again.

Lie.

Pretend.

Try to defend him.

Because you’re not simply a woman anymore.

You’re Spider-Woman.

And you’re frightened of what he’ll think if he ever finds out.

You gnaw on your lip, hard enough that you taste blood. "I can take care of myself," you murmur.

Mark’s head whips up, fast enough that you flinch.

He looks devastated.

Devastated.

"I know," he replies, voice breaking. "I know you can. You’re tough. You’re smarter than me. Probably stronger, too."

A broken chuckle seeps out of you, feeble and sad.

"But I still wanna be the guy standing in front of you when shit goes down," he adds, ferocious now, the fire back in his voice.

"I still wanna be the one you call when you need help. I want be-" He breaks off, shaking his head like he’s upset with himself for being so damned lousy at this.

"I just wanna be yours," he adds finally. "All the way."

The words strike you like a fist to the chest.

Honest.

Unpolished.

Messy.

So horribly Mark.

You’re blinking rapidly again, your heart thumping against your ribs. You open your lips to say something, anything.

When there’s a knock on the door.

You both leap approximately a foot.

Mark nearly slips off the bed.

You swivel around to see Aunt May standing there, holding up a faded Yankees sweatshirt and a pair of worn pajama bottoms with small cartoon hotdogs on them.

She raises an eyebrow.

You don't miss the little, knowing smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

"I come bearing gifts," she says dryly, entering into the room. "And a reminder that doors stay open under this roof unless someone’s bleeding or on fire."

You feel your face become nuclear.

Mark lets out a choked grunt that may be laughter, dread, or both.

May merely tosses the clothing on the bed next to him and touches your hair like you’re still ten years old.

"I’ll leave you two to your crisis or whatever this is," she replies, already retreating toward the door.

"And Mark, honey?" she says, sticking her head back in.

He glances up, eyes wide.

"Next time, shoes. And a shirt. Preferably before chasing my niece through traffic."

She winks and goes, leaving the door a crack open behind her.

You and Mark just sit there, blinking at one other, a mass of tangled emotions too huge for the little space.

But nevertheless, somehow, you feel like maybe you’ll be okay.

Maybe you and Mark will be okay.

Even if it's going to take a lot of bruises, and a lot of honesty, and a hell of a lot of fighting to get there.

You sit there, breathing him in the wreckage of him, the wonder of him and it hits you how much you almost lost. How much you still could. Your chest aches with it, a deep, twisting thing that feels too big for your ribs to hold. Mark watches you like he’s drowning, like you’re the only thing keeping him above water, and something inside you tears loose.

You don’t think. You just move.

Your mouths crash together, hard, heated, breathless, the air between you snapped away like a rubber band stretched too tight for too long. Mark Grayson doesn’t kiss you carefully. He doesn’t know how. He kisses you like he fights, like he flies, like he lives with his whole soul pitched forward and no plan for what happens if he falls.

He’s shirtless still, the smooth heat of his chest flush against yours, skin sticking where you're both too warm, too keyed up to care. The faint scent of his soap clings to him, clean and sharp, and underneath it, the wild, electric smell of boy and adrenaline and Mark. His heart slams against your ribs, fast and ragged, matching the frantic pulse hammering inside your own throat.

His hands are everywhere at once, greedy and unsure, sliding over your waist, your hips, up your sides like he needs to touch all of you at once but can’t figure out where to start. His fingertips tremble when they splay across your back, dragging you even closer, until your bodies are mashed so tight together you can't tell where you end and he begins.

Mark’s lips work against yours hungrily, mouth open and messy, breathing you in between sloppy, gasping kisses. His teeth catch your lower lip, a rough, unthinking scrape, and when you whimper against him, he growls low in his throat a sound so raw and instinctive it sends a jolt of heat spiraling straight through your core.

His bare feet shift against the floorboards, pants dragging low on his hips, hanging loose like he couldn’t be bothered to tie them properly before chasing you down. The thin fabric brushes your legs as he moves, grounding you in the frantic, shivering reality of it, Mark, barefoot and half-dressed, kissing you like you're the only thing keeping him from spinning off the planet.

His fingers slide up your spine, skimming the arch of your back, finding every spot that makes you shudder. He doesn't stop to think. Doesn’t stop to breathe. He just devours you, tilting his head, deepening the kiss until you’re drowning in him, gasping into his mouth, nails digging helplessly into his bare shoulders.

Mark doesn’t pull away.

Not even for a second.

If anything, he clutches you tighter, like letting go would tear him in half. His hips press into yours, unthinking, seeking, and you feel the hard, desperate proof of how much he wants you, even through the thin cotton barrier of his pants.

And still, he keeps kissing you. Fierce. Sloppy. Endless. Like this moment is the only thing that matters, and he’s never, ever letting you go.

Mark kisses you like he can erase it, erase the doubt, the ache sitting low and awful in your chest, but it clings to you both like a shadow neither of you can outrun.

When he finally rips his mouth from yours, he stays so close his breath fans across your lips, ragged and desperate. His hands tremble where they frame your face, thumbs stroking useless little circles against your cheeks.

"I didn’t—I would never—" His voice breaks, raw and jagged at the edges. He swallows hard, like the words hurt going down. "I’m not cheating on you. I swear. God, I swear."

You just stare up at him, silent, feeling your heart thud painfully against your ribs. Almost four years. You know Mark. You know the shape of his soul better than your own reflection. But the bruises, the exhaustion, the way he flinches away from your questions, it guts you. It makes you feel like there’s a glass wall between you and him, and no amount of love can shatter it.

He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead pressing into yours, like he can physically force you to believe him. "You’re the only one," he says, voice cracking on the words. "You're the only one I even look at."

You can feel him shaking, the raw tension under his skin vibrating into yours.

"I’m sorry," he whispers again, broken and frantic. "I’m so fucking sorry. I just-" His hands drop to your waist, gripping tight, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go. "I can’t tell you. Not yet. Not because I don’t trust you. I do. More than anyone. It’s me. It's me being a goddamn idiot."

You turn your head slightly, the smallest movement, but Mark feels it like a slap. His whole body stiffens, stricken.

"I’m not...I'm not lying to you," he says, voice lower now, almost pleading. "I’m not sneaking around. I’m not...I'm not pulling away because I don’t love you. I do. God, I do."

Your silence hangs heavy between you. A living thing, pulsing, breathing.

Mark leans in, kissing your cheekbone, your temple, desperate little presses of his lips like he can stitch the broken pieces of you back together if he’s just gentle enough. His hands slip up your sides, slow and reverent, tracing the outline of you like he’s praying.

"I’m sorry," he mutters again against your skin, each apology quieter, sadder, like he’s running out of ways to say it. "I’m sorry I’m making you doubt. I'm sorry for every second you don't feel safe with me. I'm so goddamn sorry."

You blink up at him, your throat thick and burning, your hands limp against his bare sides.

You trust him. You do. But trust doesn’t stop you from hurting.

Mark cups your face again, forcing you to meet his wide, agonized eyes. "I’ll fix it," he vows, fierce and small all at once. "I’ll tell you everything. Just... just don't stop looking at me like that. Please."

You don't speak. You can't. Your chest aches with all the things you don't know how to say.

Instead, you reach up, threading your fingers through his messy waves, pulling him back into you.

And Mark kisses you like he’s breathing for the first time in days, messy, shaking, pouring every apology, every promise he can’t find the words for into the desperate, aching press of his mouth against yours.

Mark kisses you like he's starving, like he’s afraid if he stops, even for a breath, you’ll vanish into smoke. His mouth is frantic against yours, wet, open, dragging small, desperate sounds from both of you. His hands tremble where they clutch your waist, his thumbs brushing bare skin under your shirt in uneven, pleading strokes.

You can feel it in every ragged gasp he exhales, every clumsy grind of his hips against yours, he's unraveling, fast, and he doesn't know how to stop it.

"I didn’t mean to hurt you," he mumbles against your lips, voice shaking so badly the words smear into your mouth, "Didn’t mean to make you doubt me—fuck, I hate that you even think for a second I'd ever-"

He cuts himself off with a guttural, broken groan and presses his forehead to yours, shuddering from head to toe. His hair, damp with sweat, brushes your skin in sticky waves.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. The hurt clings to your chest like a second skin, invisible but suffocating.

Mark swallows thickly, hands sliding up your sides, finding every dip and curve like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like he’s terrified this will be the last time you let him touch you. His palms span your ribcage, fingers trembling as he strokes you with a reverence that’s almost painful.

And still, you feel the chasm yawning wide between you, his bruises, the secrets he won't tell, the weight of everything he carries alone.

You don’t pull away. But you don't melt into him either.

That tiny hesitation makes Mark flinch like you slapped him.

He tries to speak again, tries to explain, but the words catch in his throat, strangled by panic and guilt. His body bows over you, chest heaving, and for a terrifying second you think he might break apart right there in your arms.

So you do the only thing you can think of.

You touch him.

Your hand slides down his heaving stomach, fingertips tracing the shallow dips and ridges of muscle, following the faint trail of hair that disappears into the loose waistband of his pajama pants. You feel the sharp clench of his abs under your palm, the way his whole body tenses as you slip your hand beneath the soft, worn fabric.

Mark gasps, sharp, helpless, the sound punched straight from his lungs.

Your fingers find him hard, aching, thick and burning against your palm. His cock jumps in your hand at the first brush of your touch, and he makes a broken, pleading noise low in his throat, his hips jerking forward before he can stop himself.

"Fuck, baby," he whimpers, so raw it makes your chest ache. He’s shaking, trying not to thrust into your hand, trying so damn hard to stay still for you even when every instinct in his body is screaming to move, to take.

His hands fist the bedsheets on either side of your head, muscles straining, veins standing out stark against his skin. His forehead stays pressed to yours, damp and trembling, his breath ghosting across your face in ragged, uneven bursts.

"You don’t have to," he pants, voice breaking apart, but he doesn’t try to stop you. He couldn’t if he tried. His whole body is arched over you, vulnerable and raw, yours, completely and utterly yours.

You stroke him slowly, deliberately, feeling every twitch, every needy throb, every shudder that rolls through him like a wave. You want him to feel it, your trust, your forgiveness, your promise that you're still here, even if the words are still locked in your throat.

Mark whines into your mouth when you kiss him again, softer this time, slower, a kiss that says ‘I'm hurt, but I'm not leaving you.’ His hips buck once, sharp and uncontrollable, and you can feel how close he already is, strung so tight it’s a miracle he hasn’t snapped yet.

"Please," he whispers against your lips, a broken prayer. "Please don’t go."

You kiss him again, and this time, he shudders apart in your hand, gasping your name like it’s the only word he’s ever known.

Mark clings to you like you’re the only real thing left in the world, and maybe you are.

The kiss deepens, slow at first, molten, almost tender but it heats fast under the press of his mouth, the tremble of his body. His tongue brushes yours in a wet, messy slide, and when you make a soft, breathless noise into his mouth, he groans like the sound is physically dragging him under.

The bed creaks beneath the shifting weight of you both, the thin cotton of his pajama pants rasping against your bare legs, your own pants still twisted low on your hips where his hand slipped beneath. He kisses you like he's starving, like he’s been waiting for this moment without even realizing it, and now he’s afraid if he blinks it’ll be gone. His hand, warm, callused, reverent, slides slow and steady inside your pants again, stroking over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, thumb grazing feather-light over the tender, slick heat between your legs.

Mark jerks at the feeling, breaking the kiss with a sharp, needy breath that fans hot against your swollen lips. His forehead bumps yours, clumsy and sweet, and his voice is wrecked when he whispers, "God, you're so wet."

You shiver under him, gasping softly when he drags the pad of his thumb through your slick folds, not pushing inside you yet, just touching, exploring, like he can’t believe you’re letting him.

"You-" he starts, but his voice cracks. He tries again, brow furrowing in concentration. "You still want this? Want me?"

The fear in his voice, the raw, pleading edge, cuts through you sharper than any accusation ever could. He’s not cocky right now. He’s not Mark Grayson the superhero. He’s just Mark, bare and scared and still so stupidly, stubbornly good.

You kiss him again, slow and deep, threading your fingers into his messy hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp against your lips. You don’t say yes, you show him. The slow roll of your hips up into his hand, the whimper you let slip into his mouth, the way your thighs fall open wider beneath him, offering yourself without a single word.

Mark groans, a sound full of awe and disbelief, and you feel the careful way his hand slides lower, his middle finger gliding against your entrance, just barely breaching you before retreating again, teasing, testing your readiness.

"You’re, fuck, you're perfect," he mutters again, almost under his breath, kissing you sloppily, biting at your lower lip like he can’t stand to be separate from you even for a second.

He finally presses a single finger inside you, slow and careful, feeling you stretch around him. You gasp, clutching at his back, nails raking lightly down his spine, and he moans into your mouth at the feeling. He’s bigger than his hands let on, thick, his finger filling you slowly, gently, pushing deep before pulling out almost all the way just to slide back in with maddening patience.

He moves against you, panting, hips rocking gently like he can’t help himself, the hard length of him straining against the soft barrier of his pants, brushing against your thigh. He’s not asking for more, he’s focused entirely on you, on the tiny, breathy noises he’s pulling from your mouth, on the way your body pulses greedily around his finger.

He curls it experimentally and you jerk beneath him, gasping his name so sharply it punches the air from his lungs.

"Shit, baby," he mutters, forehead slick with sweat where it presses into yours, his voice all tangled up in guilt and adoration and fierce, possessive need. "I wanna make it better. Wanna make you feel good. Wanna be good for you."

You arch up into him again, helpless, chasing the slow, grinding rhythm of his hand. You feel the wet slickness coating his palm, hear the filthy, wet sounds filling the tiny space between your bodies, and it only drives the ache in your belly sharper, hotter.

Mark kisses you harder, almost frantically now, his free hand sliding up under your shirt to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple in rough strokes that make you gasp into his mouth. He works a second finger into you without warning, thick and slow, and you cry out softly against his lips, your hips stuttering up to meet him, your whole body tightening and trembling around the intrusion.

Mark curses under his breath, the low, filthy sound vibrating against your mouth. "So tight," he breathes, voice reverent and wrecked. "So fucking perfect."

You whimper, thighs trembling around his hips, your nails digging into his skin, leaving shallow, pink crescents behind. Mark rocks his hand faster, dragging his fingers deep inside you, curling them just right, hitting a spot that has you gasping and clenching and arching up into him with desperate, needy little sounds.

And all the while, he kisses you, over and over, sloppy, hungry kisses that say everything he can't ‘I love you. I’m sorry. I’m here. Please don’t leave.’

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming, crushing weight of how much you love him. How much you want to stay.

How much you want this.

Want him.

Mark lifts his head just enough to look at you, his lips swollen, eyes wide and wild and full of every broken, beautiful thing he feels for you. His fingers slow inside you, stroking sweet and steady, coaxing you toward the edge with patience he barely seems capable of holding onto.

"You’re everything," he whispers, voice rough and shaking. "Everything to me."

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you believe it. You believe him. And you let yourself fall into him completely, gasping his name against his mouth as your body tightens and shatters around his hand.

Mark catches you when you break, kissing you through it, whispering soft, broken promises against your lips, his hand steady, his body trembling, his heart pounding wild and sure against yours. Mark’s breath fans hot and uneven over your face, his body pressed so tight to yours you can feel every shiver, every tiny tremble running through him. His skin burns where it touches yours, sweat-slick, feverish with the force of how hard he’s trying to hold himself together and failing.

The thick head of his cock nudges at your dripping entrance, making you gasp, legs trembling with need. He grabs your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you wide open, exposed, helpless under the weight of his hunger. You feel him push forward, a slow, brutal stretch that steals the air from your lungs, forcing your walls to part around him. Inch by inch, he drives deeper, deeper, until he’s fully sheathed inside you, the heavy press of his balls against your soaked folds sending a helpless whimper from your throat. Your nails dig into the sheets, your body arching, shuddering, already desperate for more.

He’s still inside you, deep and thick and pulsing, his cock twitching slightly every time your hips shift, your bodies locked together so tight it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins. Every inch of him feels desperate, wired, alive like if he stops moving, if he lets you go even for a breath, the whole fragile world between you will collapse.

Mark’s face is close enough that your noses brush with every shaky exhale. His blue eyes, wide and glassy, search your face like he’s memorizing you like he’s terrified you’ll flicker out of existence if he blinks too long.

"You scared the shit out of me," he says again, but quieter now, the words punched out of him like he’s still grappling with the fact you’re here at all. His voice wavers, and it guts you, because he’s not trying to guilt you. He’s not trying to be cruel. He’s just hurting in a way so pure, so Mark, it makes your chest feel too small to hold your heart.

You trail your fingers through the damp waves at the back of his neck, soothing without thinking, feeling the way his whole body flinches, like he wants to lean into you but doesn’t trust it yet.

"I know," you whisper, throat raw, "I’m sorry. I panicked. I was scared too."

Mark groans low in his throat, a wounded animal sound that vibrates against your skin. His hips rock against yours, not hard, not rough, but slow and insistent, dragging the thick, aching length of him along your sensitive walls. The friction is maddening, perfect, just enough to make your legs shake around his waist, just enough to keep you gasping into the space between you.

"You could’ve talked to me," he mutters, voice thick and choked, every slow thrust punctuating his words, grinding deep like he’s trying to drive the point into your bones. "You should’ve fucking talked to me instead of running."

He leans in closer, chest pressing you deeper into the mattress, mouth brushing your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple, tiny, broken kisses that taste like apology and anger and aching relief.

"I know," you breathe, your voice catching when he grinds in particularly deep, his cock nudging the sensitive spot inside you that makes your toes curl. "I’m sorry, Mark. I’ll tell you. I swear. When it’s time."

He stops moving for a second, chest heaving against yours, forehead pressing hard into your temple.

"You promise?" he rasps, so low you almost don’t hear it. "Promise me."

"I promise," you whisper.

Mark pulls back just enough to look at you again, and this close you can see everything, every tiny flicker of emotion crashing through his wide, wounded eyes, every freckle, every faint new scar that you somehow missed until now.

And something in him, something brittle and too-young and too-big for his body breaks.

"Good," he says, voice shaking, barely more than a mutter. "Because if you run again, I’m not letting you get away that easy."

His mouth crashes into yours before you can even answer, all messy tongue and bitten lips and shaking hands. His thrusts speed up, not punishing, but relentless now, driven by something he can't name, something too big for words.

The bed rocks beneath you, the thin mattress groaning under the force of Mark's body driving into you again and again, slick sounds filling the hot, heavy air as your bodies slap together. He grips your hips harder, grinding you down into the bed, his cock dragging against your walls with brutal precision, like he’s trying to brand himself into your body, mark you from the inside out.

You gasp into his mouth, clinging to him, your nails scraping down his back, feeling the way the muscles in his shoulders jump and tense under your touch.

"You’re mine," Mark pants between kisses, voice low and rough. "You're fucking mine."

"Yours," you gasp back, and it’s not a surrender, it’s a declaration. Because it’s true. You’re his. You always have been.

He growls low in his throat, something animalistic and wild, and shifts his angle, thrusting harder, deeper, making you cry out against his lips. His hands are everywhere, cupping your ass, sliding up your sides, fisting into your hair, touching you like he needs every part of you to believe you’re real.

"God, you feel-" He breaks off, slamming into you with a sharp grind of his hips that leaves you gasping. "Fuck, you're perfect."

You can feel yourself getting close again, the heat building low in your belly, the tight, coiling pressure threatening to snap with every brutal, perfect thrust.

Mark feels it too, feels your walls clenching around him, your gasps getting higher, sharper. He drags his mouth down to your neck, biting gently, sucking a mark into your skin like he can make you his in every way that matters.

"Come for me," he says against your throat, voice guttural and commanding in a way that makes your whole body shudder. "Wanna feel you. Need to feel you."

It doesn’t take much more, the steady, relentless drag of his cock, the rough heat of his breath against your skin, the way his voice shakes when he says he needs you, and you’re breaking apart under him, crying out his name as your body tightens and spasms around him.

Mark curses, a sharp, broken sound, and he’s coming too, slamming into you deep and hard, his cock pulsing inside you as he gasps against your neck, body wracked with shuddering, desperate spasms. He doesn’t let you go.

Even after the world goes hazy and trembling and you're both gasping for breath, Mark holds you tight, still buried inside you, still whispering your name like a prayer, still kissing every inch of skin he can reach.

He’s still scared.

You’re still guilty.

The world is still messy and broken.

But here, in this bed, in his arms, you’re still his.

And he’s still yours.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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[pappigyu]

A Love Rekindled

Pairing: Mingyu x Reader

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Romance

Summary:You married Mingyu with dreams of a beautiful life, but marriage to him turned cold, distant, and lonely. When he forgets your first anniversary, it becomes the last straw. You ask for a break, but Mingyu doesn’t stop you. Only with your absence does he realize how empty his world is without you — and how much he truly loves you.

(a/n - I am back ig?)

Chapters:

Chapter 1: Forgotten Promises

Chapter 2: The Break

Chapter 3: Loneliness

Chapter 4: Realization

Chapter 5: Desperate Measures

Chapter 6: A Second Chance

Chapter 7: Home Again

Chapter 8: A Love Rekindled

Chapter 1: Forgotten Promises

The clock struck midnight.

You stared at the door, your heart heavy with an emotion you couldn’t name anymore — hope, maybe. It was your first wedding anniversary. The first year you survived loving a man who had slowly become a stranger.

Mingyu wasn’t cruel. No, he was just... indifferent. Always busy, always tired. You used to believe that love would be enough to weather it all. But love, it turned out, needed tending too. And Mingyu had long since stopped watering the roots you planted together.

You lit the candle on the small cake you bought yourself. One slice. You didn’t bother making dinner this time. The first few months, you used to prepare grand meals, set the table, and wait for him. Only to eat alone, feeling more ridiculous each time.

The candle flickered as you closed your eyes and made a wish. "Please remember me."

The sound of keys jingling startled you. The door opened, and there he was — your husband — with his hair messy and his tie loosened, exhaustion etched across his handsome face.

You stood up, trying to compose yourself. "Hi," you said softly.

Mingyu barely glanced at you. "Hey," he mumbled, tossing his bag on the couch. He didn't even notice the candle, or the cake, or the nervous excitement you couldn't completely hide.

You waited.

And waited.

And waited for him to say something — anything.

But he only trudged into the bedroom, calling over his shoulder, "I'm gonna shower."

The flame on the candle sputtered and went out.

Later that night, you lay next to him in bed, both of you facing opposite directions. You whispered, so quietly you weren’t sure if you even said it aloud:

"Happy anniversary, Mingyu."

There was no response.

And something inside you broke.

Chapter 2: The Break

The next morning, the sun streamed weakly through the curtains. You sat at the kitchen table, your hands wrapped around a mug of lukewarm coffee you didn’t have the appetite to drink.

Mingyu emerged from the bedroom, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt, already halfway out the door in his mind. His hair was still damp from the shower. He barely glanced at you.

Something about it felt final this time. Something about it hurt more than usual.

He grabbed his keys from the counter.

"I’m going to the office. Big meeting today," he said, voice clipped and distracted, like you were a co-worker he barely knew.

You stared at him, feeling the words press against your ribcage, demanding to be set free.

"Say something." "Tell him." "Fight for this."

Your throat tightened, but you pushed through it.

"Mingyu," you said, your voice trembling more than you wanted it to. "I think we need a break."

He froze, keys jangling in his hand.

Slowly, he turned to you. His eyebrows pulled together slightly — confusion, maybe irritation — but not heartbreak. Not devastation. Not the reaction you were secretly begging for.

"A break?" he repeated blankly.

You nodded, forcing yourself to hold his gaze even as your chest cracked open. "This isn’t working anymore. We’re not… we’re not happy. At least, I’m not. I can't keep doing this, feeling like I’m invisible."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I’m just busy, ___," he said, almost defensively. "Work’s been insane. You know that."

"I know," you whispered. "I know you’re busy. But... I’m still here. And you don’t see me anymore."

The silence between you stretched and stretched, tight and fragile like glass about to shatter.

Mingyu looked at you then — really looked — and for one breathless moment, you thought he might say something. Apologize. Ask you to stay. Promise to try.

But he only looked away. "If that’s what you want," he said quietly.

You felt the finality of it land like a blade between your ribs.

"I’ll pack a bag," you said, your voice hollow.

You didn’t wait for him to answer. You couldn’t bear to see his face anymore — couldn’t bear to see how easily he let you go.

You left that afternoon with a small suitcase and a heart so heavy it dragged behind you like an invisible chain.

Mingyu didn’t stop you. He didn’t even come to the door.

As you pulled away in the taxi, you allowed yourself one last glance at the home you built together — the home that had become a prison of silent dinners and cold beds.

You wiped your tears away before they could fall.

You had made the right choice.

At least, that's what you kept telling yourself.

Chapter 3: Loneliness

The first night away was the hardest.

You stayed at a small rented apartment on the other side of town — a place that didn’t smell like him, didn’t echo with the memories of what used to be. It was quiet. Too quiet.

You sat on the edge of a strange bed in a strange room, suitcase barely unpacked, staring at the wall as the city buzzed outside your window.

The loneliness gnawed at you immediately, sharp and cruel. You thought you'd feel lighter — freer — stepping away from a marriage that had hollowed you out. But all you felt was the echo of everything you lost.

You wondered if Mingyu was home yet. If he noticed how silent the house had become without you. If he cared.

You curled up under the unfamiliar sheets, burying your face into the pillow to muffle the sound of your own breaking heart.

Meanwhile, across town, Mingyu sat on the couch in the dark, still dressed in his work clothes, the house unbearably still around him.

At first, he thought he’d feel… relieved. Less tension. Less arguments. Less guilt.

Instead, he kept glancing at the door, half-expecting to see you walk through it with that tired little smile you always wore after a long day — the one you used to save just for him.

The clock ticked loudly in the empty room.

The cake — the stupid little cake you had bought for your anniversary — still sat forgotten on the kitchen counter.

Mingyu leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

He hadn't even said goodbye.

And now you were gone.

The next few days passed in a strange, dreamlike haze.

You tried to build a new routine. New coffee shop, new grocery store, new walking paths. But everything reminded you of what you left behind.

The mornings were the worst. You used to wake up to Mingyu’s quiet breathing beside you, the warmth of him tucked into your side even in sleep.

Now, the bed was cold. The silence pressed against you like a second skin.

You missed him. God, you missed him.

But you also missed yourself — the version of you that used to laugh easily, that used to believe love could fix anything. That version felt so far away now, like a childhood friend you couldn’t remember how to find.

Mingyu didn’t call.

Not once.

You told yourself you weren’t surprised. You told yourself you didn’t expect anything different.

But it didn’t stop the ache every time your phone lit up with a notification that wasn’t him.

It didn’t stop you from waking up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there.

One night, after too many sleepless hours, you finally allowed yourself to cry. Really cry. For the love you gave so freely. For the pieces of yourself you left behind in that house. For the boy you married, and the man he became.

And somewhere across the city, Mingyu sat alone on your shared bed — his head bowed, your side of the mattress untouched — feeling a hollow kind of misery he didn’t have a name for yet.

He thought of your voice when you said, "I can't keep doing this."

He thought of the way your eyes had shattered when he said nothing to stop you.

For the first time in a long time, Mingyu wondered if maybe — just maybe — he hadn’t been as good a husband as he told himself he was.

And for the first time, he was afraid.

Truly, deeply afraid.

Because what if you didn't come back

Chapter 4: Realization

It started with the coffee mug.

The first Saturday morning without you, Mingyu stumbled half-asleep into the kitchen and grabbed a mug from the cabinet. It was yours — the chipped one with the little cartoon heart on the side.

You used to drink from it every morning, sitting at the counter, legs swinging off the stool, hair messy from sleep. You used to hum under your breath sometimes, songs you didn’t even realize you were singing.

The house was silent now.

He stared at the mug in his hand for a long moment before setting it down — carefully, almost reverently — like it might break if he wasn’t gentle.

Like he had already broken enough.

The next thing he noticed was the scent.

Your perfume was fading.

It clung weakly to your side of the closet, to the scarves you left behind, to the pillow you slept on. He buried his face into the fabric once, shame burning in his chest, desperate to catch a trace of you.

But it was already disappearing.

Just like you.

The realization crept in slowly, relentlessly.

You were gone. And this time, it wasn’t just a bad argument. It wasn’t something a few sorry flowers and half-hearted apologies could fix.

You had left.

Not because you stopped loving him. But because he made you feel like you didn’t matter.

And God, Mingyu hated himself for it.

He hated the way he took you for granted. The way he assumed you would always be there — waiting, forgiving, staying.

He remembered the way your voice had cracked when you said, "I can't keep doing this."

And how he had let you walk away anyway. Because he was too proud. Too stupid. Too convinced he still had time.

At night, the bed felt bigger. Colder.

He reached out once in the dark, half-asleep, instinctively seeking the familiar warmth of you — only to find empty sheets.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of every missed moment press down on him.

The anniversaries he forgot. The dinners he skipped. The smiles he didn’t notice fading.

He thought he was working hard for your future — late nights, early mornings, endless meetings — but somewhere along the way, he stopped coming home to you.

He worked so hard building a life for you that he forgot to live it with you.

One evening, a week after you left, he opened the fridge out of habit.

There was nothing inside except a half-empty bottle of wine, a few condiments, and a single slice of dry cake on a plate — the anniversary cake you bought for yourself.

Mingyu stared at it, a lump rising in his throat so violently he had to grip the counter to steady himself.

You had waited for him.

And he didn’t even see you.

That night, sitting alone on the kitchen floor, Mingyu finally let it hit him — the full, crushing weight of what he lost.

He didn’t need a bigger paycheck. He didn’t need another promotion. He didn’t need late nights at the office or business trips or empty congratulations from strangers.

He needed you.

The girl who loved him when he had nothing. The girl who stayed even when he made it hard. The girl who had whispered "Happy anniversary, Mingyu," into the darkness, and gotten silence in return.

His heart twisted painfully.

He missed you so much he could barely breathe.

And for the first time since you left, Mingyu wasn’t just lonely.

He was terrified.

Because he was starting to realize — if he didn’t do something soon — if he didn’t fight for you — he was going to lose you forever.

Chapter 5: Desperate Measures

It started with the phone calls.

Late at night, when the guilt and the loneliness wrapped around him like a noose, Mingyu would unlock his phone and stare at your contact photo.

His thumb hovered over the call button so many times. Once, he even pressed it.

But the call rang twice, and he panicked — hung up before you could answer, heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted to break free.

Coward.

He hated himself for it. But fear rooted him in place — fear that you would answer with a voice full of ice instead of love. Fear that you wouldn't answer at all.

The next time he saw you, it wasn’t planned.

You were walking out of a grocery store, balancing a bag of vegetables in your arms, looking so tired, so heartbreakingly small without the usual spark in your eyes.

Mingyu had been across the street, frozen in place, too stunned to move.

God, you looked different. Not drastically — but he could tell. He could feel it.

You were carrying the weight of missing him, just like he was carrying the weight of missing you — but somehow, you stood straighter. Firmer.

Stronger without him.

Mingyu’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

He wanted to run to you. Beg. Plead. Tell you how sorry he was, how stupid he was, how much he needed you.

But what right did he have?

He watched you get into a cab and drive away, disappearing into the city lights — like a ghost he couldn't catch.

And for the first time in his life, Kim Mingyu realized:

Love isn’t something you can take for granted. Love is something you fight for.

The next morning, he sat in front of a blank piece of paper for over an hour, trying to write you a letter.

How could he even begin?

I’m sorry felt too small. I miss you felt selfish. I love you felt like a broken promise.

In the end, he wrote only two sentences:

"I didn’t see you. I see you now."

And then he crumpled the paper up and threw it away — because words weren't enough anymore.

You deserved actions.

You deserved everything.

Mingyu took a week off work.

No meetings. No excuses. Nothing was more important now than you.

He went to every coffee shop you liked. Walked every street you used to love. Hoping — praying — to catch a glimpse of you.

Sometimes he thought he saw you — a flash of hair, a familiar jacket — and his heart would leap into his throat. But it was never you.

Still, he kept looking. Because what else could he do?

He had wasted so much time pretending you would always be there.

Now, he would waste every second he had left earning you back.

One evening, exhausted and desperate, Mingyu found himself standing outside your apartment building. (He knew he shouldn’t know where you were. He knew he had no right.)

He stood across the street, hands shoved deep into his pockets, heart in his throat.

A hundred different scenarios played in his head: You opening the door and slamming it in his face. You telling him it was too late. You looking at him like a stranger.

He deserved all of it.

Still — he stayed.

Under the heavy sky, in the biting wind, with nothing but his regret to keep him warm, Mingyu waited.

Because you were worth waiting for.

Even if you never opened that door.

Even if you never forgave him.

He would wait.

He would never stop waiting.

Because he finally understood something he should have known all along:

You weren’t just someone he loved. You were someone he couldn’t live without.

Chapter 6: A Second Chance

It was raining the night Mingyu finally found the courage to cross the street.

He stood outside your apartment building, soaked to the bone, heart hammering so loudly he was sure the whole world could hear it.

For a long time, he just stared at the door. Your door. The barrier between him and the life he wanted back.

He almost turned away — twice. Almost convinced himself that you were better off without him.

But then he remembered the way you used to look at him — like he was your whole world — and he realized he couldn’t live knowing he never even tried to fix it.

So with a breath that rattled through his entire chest, Mingyu stepped forward and knocked.

Softly at first. Then again, harder. Desperate.

You weren’t expecting anyone. You almost didn’t answer.

But something — instinct, maybe — pulled you toward the door.

When you opened it, the breath caught painfully in your throat.

There he was. Mingyu.

Drenched from head to toe, raindrops clinging to his hair, his shirt plastered to his skin. He looked exhausted. Hollowed out. A shadow of the man you once loved — and yet somehow more real than ever.

His eyes — those beautiful, familiar eyes — locked onto yours, full of something raw and broken.

Neither of you spoke at first. The rain filled the silence between you.

Finally, you found your voice, shaky and barely above a whisper.

“…What are you doing here?”

Mingyu swallowed hard.

“I had to see you,” he said hoarsely. “I had to — I couldn’t —” He broke off, dragging a hand through his wet hair. His voice cracked. “Please. Please just… listen.”

You should have slammed the door. You wanted to slam the door.

But your heart betrayed you. It always did, when it came to him.

You stepped aside without a word.

Mingyu hesitated — just for a second — before stepping inside, dripping water onto the floor.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly cold.

Mingyu stood there, shifting his weight like he didn’t know where to start. His hands trembled at his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you. I’m sorry I made you feel like you didn’t matter. I’m sorry I forgot all the little things that meant everything to you.”

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time — really seeing you.

“I thought…” His throat worked around the words. “I thought you would always be there. I thought… loving you in my heart would be enough even if I didn’t show it.”

A broken laugh escaped him — bitter and full of self-loathing.

“But love isn’t enough if you don’t show up, right? If you don’t fight for it?”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Your heart was beating so violently it drowned out everything else.

Mingyu took a step closer.

“You have every right to hate me,” he said, voice shaking. “I deserve it. I deserve you never forgiving me.”

Another step.

“But please… if there’s even a small part of you that still…” He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands curling into fists like he was physically holding himself together.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you. I’ll be better. I’ll love you louder. I’ll choose you — every morning, every night, every moment in between. If you’ll let me.”

The silence stretched between you, thick with all the things that could never be unsaid.

You stared at him — this man you had loved so deeply, who had hurt you so badly — and you felt the walls you built around your heart tremble.

You saw the desperation in his eyes. The regret etched into every line of his body. The boy you married, stripped raw of all his armor, standing in front of you with nothing but his heart in his hands.

And you realized something terrifying:

You still loved him.

You still loved him.

Even after all the pain. Even after all the lonely nights. Your heart still beat for him.

But love — real love — needed more than just feelings. It needed trust. It needed work.

And you weren’t sure if you were ready to fall back into him just yet.

Your voice came out small, trembling.

“I’m not sure I can just forget everything.”

Mingyu’s face crumpled.

“I’m not asking you to,” he whispered, stepping closer until he was barely a breath away. His hand hovered in the air between you, not daring to touch.

“I’m asking you to let me try.”

The rain pounded against the windows like a heartbeat.

You looked at him — really looked at him — and saw not the man who broke you, but the man who was willing to spend a lifetime stitching the pieces back together.

Slowly, carefully, you reached out — and let your fingers brush against his.

Mingyu sucked in a ragged breath like he had been drowning and you had just pulled him above water.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet.

But it was a beginning.

And sometimes, that was enough.

Perfect — I'll keep it bittersweet: full of those tender, painful moments where love tries to bloom again but fear and scars still linger.

Here’s Chapter 7: Home Again:

Chapter 7: Home Again

The first time Mingyu came back to his apartment — truly came back — it didn’t feel like coming home. It felt like walking into a museum of someone else's life.

The walls were still the same. The pictures still hung. Your scent still lingered faintly in the air, subtle and achingly familiar.

But the space between you was wide, like a bridge half-burned down.

Mingyu didn’t touch you. He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t even hold your hand unless you offered it first.

He was careful — like you were made of glass — and maybe you were. Maybe the love between you was as fragile now as a bird’s wing, too easy to break with a single wrong move.

Mornings were the hardest.

You used to wake up tangled together, limbs thrown over each other, the world outside forgotten.

Now, when you opened your eyes, Mingyu was already awake, sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at the floor like he didn’t know if he belonged there.

Sometimes, you caught him looking at you — like he still couldn’t believe you had let him stay.

Sometimes, you caught yourself wishing he would pull you into his arms the way he used to. Before everything got so hard. Before you had to wonder if love was enough.

But neither of you moved first.

The space stayed.

Mingyu did small things. Things he never used to think mattered.

He remembered how you took your coffee — two sugars, no milk. He fixed the leaky faucet in the bathroom without you asking. He folded your laundry carefully, placing your favorite sweaters at the top of the pile because he knew you hated digging for them.

One night, he cooked dinner — a disaster of burnt rice and over-salted chicken — and you laughed for the first time in months.

The sound startled both of you. Mingyu froze, staring at you with something like wonder — like hearing your laugh again was a miracle he didn’t deserve.

You saw the tears gather in his eyes before he blinked them away.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Your laughter hung in the air between you, fragile and beautiful and terrifying.

A ghost of the life you used to have.

The first time he touched you — really touched you — it was accidental.

You were reaching for a cup in the cabinet. He reached too.

Your fingers brushed.

You froze.

So did he.

For one heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then, so slowly it made your chest ache, Mingyu turned his hand over and laced your fingers together.

His grip was trembling. Terrified.

He wasn’t pulling you closer. He was asking.

Asking if he could still have this — even after everything.

You didn’t pull away.

Your fingers stayed tangled with his, awkward and clumsy and perfect.

You didn’t look at him — you couldn’t. But you squeezed his hand, just once.

Permission.

And Mingyu — God, Mingyu looked like he could cry from just that tiny thing.

Some nights, you cried when he couldn’t see. Some nights, he cried when he thought you were asleep.

Both of you were learning how to love again. Both of you were scared.

But underneath all of it — the fear, the brokenness, the hesitation — something stubborn and wild and hopeful grew.

You were finding your way back to each other.

Not all at once.

Not perfectly.

But step by step. Moment by moment.

Love, it turned out, wasn’t the fireworks and grand gestures. It was the soft rebuilding. The whispered apologies. The hand reaching out in the dark, hoping it would be taken.

It was two broken hearts choosing — every day — to try again.

And maybe… Maybe that was even more beautiful than never breaking at all.

I'm so glad you want to keep going — I'm diving right in. This last chapter will be warm, emotional, a little teary, but full of healing and real love. Here’s Chapter 8: A Love Rekindled:

Chapter 8: A Love Rekindled

It didn’t happen all at once.

There wasn’t a single day where everything suddenly clicked, where all the hurt was erased and only happiness remained.

But day by day, the cracks filled in.

You smiled more easily. Mingyu laughed again — real laughter, not the hollow kind. The walls between you grew thinner until you barely noticed they were there at all.

He still made mistakes sometimes — forgetting small things, getting lost in work — but he always caught himself now.

And you — you weren’t afraid to speak up anymore.

You were building something new. Stronger. Braver.

Together.

It was a Sunday morning when it happened.

The sun streamed through the windows, warm and golden, catching on the dust motes in the air. You were curled up on the couch, reading a book, when you realized how quiet it was.

No tension. No unspoken words. Just peace.

You heard footsteps behind you, the soft creak of the floorboards you knew by heart.

When you looked up, Mingyu was standing there — holding a ring.

Not the old one. A new one.

Simple. Elegant. Beautiful.

Like the life he wanted with you.

Your heart stopped.

Mingyu sank down onto one knee in front of you, his hand trembling just a little.

His voice — when it came — was rough with emotion.

“I don’t deserve another chance,” he said. “I know that.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head, needing to finish.

“But if you’ll have me — if you’ll let me — I want to spend the rest of my life proving to you that I can love you the way you deserve. Every day. Every hour. Every breath.”

He swallowed, looking up at you with all the vulnerability he used to be so afraid to show.

“I don’t want just a second chance, ___. I want forever. With you. Only you.”

Tears blurred your vision. You set the book down with shaking hands.

Mingyu held out the ring, his hand steady now, sure.

“Will you marry me, again?” he whispered.

Not because he needed you to fix him. Not because he couldn’t live without you.

But because he loved you — enough to fight for it. Enough to choose you — every damn day.

Your heart broke open in the best possible way.

You dropped to your knees too, laughing through your tears, and threw your arms around him.

“Yes,” you choked out. “Yes, Mingyu. Yes.”

He held you so tightly it almost hurt, and maybe it was supposed to — because loving someone completely always came with a little bit of pain.

But it was the good kind. The kind that said you were alive. The kind that said you had survived.

Mingyu pulled back just enough to slide the ring onto your finger, his hands clumsy with nerves.

You both stared at it — simple, perfect — and then at each other.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t the desperate, grasping kiss of two broken people clinging to the past.

It was slow. Deep. Steady.

It was a beginning.

Later, you would sit together on the couch — your head on his chest, his arms around you — and watch the sun set in golden streaks across the sky.

You would talk about everything and nothing. You would laugh. You would dream.

And when the stars came out, Mingyu would whisper against your hair:

“I love you. Thank you for choosing me again.”

And you would whisper back:

“Thank you for giving me a reason to.”

Because love wasn’t just surviving the storm.

It was learning how to dance in the rain.

Together.

[itsnesss]

𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐞 | max verstappen × fem!reader

summary | a rumor explodes in the press: max was seen with another girl at an after-party. the internet is on fire. so are you. he swears nothing happened, but trust begins to crack

warnings | angst, infidelity? (find out), emotional intensity, relationship struggles

word count | 2.0 k

🖇️ masterlist

The notification comes just as you're finishing getting ready. The flight to Italy leaves in three hours, and you've been waiting for this trip for weeks. Max promised you a getaway after the race. No photographers. No schedules. Just the two of you.

But when you unlock your phone, the world stops.

“MAX VERSTAPPEN AT PRIVATE PARTY WITH MYSTERIOUS BLONDE. WHERE IS HIS GIRLFRIEND?”

- Daily Sports

Your stomach churns when you see the photo: him, holding a beer, and a girl practically sitting on his lap. There’s no kiss. But you don’t need one. The image says more than a thousand excuses.

Your fingers shake as you click through the gallery. There’s more. Another one where Max smiles at the blonde. Another where she touches his chest. And one last blurry one that could be anything… but your mind already paints the worst scenario.

The buzzing in your ears is deafening.

Your phone vibrates. A message from Max.

Max: “Don’t believe everything you see.”

How convenient.

How quick.

How desperately little.

You take a deep breath. One. Two. Three times. You don’t cry. Not yet. But your hands are no longer responding.

You don’t know what hurts more: the photo… or his two damn words.

Trust me.

That’s what he tells you when he arrives half an hour later at your apartment, unannounced, with his cap pulled low and his eyes red from exhaustion. Or guilt. Or both.

“Y/N…” he begins, barely crossing the threshold. “Nothing happened. I swear.”

You look at him. He still sounds the same. But it doesn’t sound the same.

“Are you kidding me?”

Max shuts the door behind him. Takes a step. You take a step back.

“It was a team party. After the podium. Everyone was there. She… she just sat down. I didn’t invite her. I didn’t do anything.”

Your laugh is hollow, bitter. Like an empty glass breaking on its own in the silence.

“You didn’t do anything… but you didn’t seem uncomfortable. You didn’t seem to push her away. You didn’t seem to remember you had a girlfriend.”

He rubs his face, frustrated.

“Are you really going to do this over some pictures?”

Your eyes fill with rage. There he is. The driver who thinks he’s invincible. The champion who thinks everything can be fixed with a good explanation.

“Yes, Max! Because that’s all I have. Pictures. While you were with her, I was here, packing for a trip you suggested. ‘No photographers,’ you promised. ‘No schedules,’ you said! Do you know what it feels like to open my phone and find that?”

Max closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, there’s something broken in them.

“I don’t want to lose you over something stupid,” he mutters.

“Then you should’ve taken better care of it first.”

Silence.

For the first time, Max Verstappen has no answer.

You don’t know when the keys slipped from your hands. Or when you started crying. You just know you’re standing in front of the man you love, and you don’t recognize him anymore.

“How many times do I have to explain to you that nothing happened?” Max insists, more tense now, raising his voice. “What do you want me to do?! Throw myself on the floor and beg you?!”

“No, I don’t want you to beg, Max!” you shout, your voice breaking. “I want you to understand. I want you to see what you did. I want to know if you’re lying to me or if you just don’t care!”

He takes a deep breath. Steps back. Walks around your living room as if looking for air. Or an escape.

“Do you have any idea how hard this is?” he says, his voice lower but trembling. “Do you know how hard it is to be in the middle of all this and still keep something real, something that doesn’t get filtered, that doesn’t break, that doesn’t become part of the show?”

“Then don’t drag me into your world,” you say, your voice cracking. “Don’t drag me in if you’re not going to take care of me there.”

He stops. Looks at you. There’s anger in his eyes. And sadness. A cocktail you’ve never seen before.

“Do you know what you mean to me?” he says, his voice breaking. “You’re the only thing I have that doesn’t revolve around a car, a clock, a strategy. Don’t make me lose you over a damn photo.”

You look at him. You listen to him. And still… you can’t shake the image of her touching his chest.

“It’s not just the photo,” you answer, your voice steady, trembling inside. “It’s how it made me feel. Invisible. Replaceable. Stupid.”

Max closes his eyes. Nods slowly.

“I’m sorry.”

The phrase hangs in the air. It’s not a scream. It’s not an excuse. It’s just that. A lament. One that came too late.

“Give me space,” you whisper, stepping back. “Just… I need to think.”

“Are you going to cancel the trip?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to leave me?”

Your silence says it all.

He doesn’t try to stop you as you walk to the bedroom.

And for the first time since you’ve been together, he sleeps on the couch.

And you… don’t sleep.

The next morning, the scandal is no longer just a rumor: it’s trending. Max’s name is everywhere, and yours too. Fan accounts make theories. Gossip pages dissect your outfits. There are videos, memes, screenshots, comparisons between you and the blonde. You wake up with a knot in your stomach and a hundred notifications.

You don’t need to open a single one.

The damage is already done.

Max is still in your apartment, like a silent shadow. He doesn’t try to talk to you. He’s just there, walking with his phone, looking for an escape that doesn’t exist.

“Your team is going to kill you,” you say from the kitchen, not looking at him.

He looks up. Surprised you’re speaking to him.

“They already did. Horner called me at six. It wasn’t a calm conversation.”

“And the blonde?”

Max sighs.

“A model hired by one of the sponsors. I didn’t even know she was going to be there. It was a trap. For the press. For the image. Whatever. But it fell right where it hurts.”

Your eyes cloud, but you keep them fixed on the coffee you don’t finish.

“So, are you telling me everything was staged?”

“I don’t know. I just know I didn’t touch her. I didn’t look at her the way I look at you.”

The phrase hangs there. Raw. Intense. Uncomfortable.

And for the first time since it all started, you don’t know if you want to hug him… or keep stabbing him with your gaze.

Later, you both leave the building. A stupid decision, maybe, but Max doesn’t want to hide. And you… you don’t know if you can keep being locked up anymore.

The flashes blind you.

“Max, smile!”

“Y/N, did you forgive the infidelity?!”

“Was it marketing or was it real?!”

“Are you going to Italy or not?!”

He takes your hand. And by reflex, you squeeze his.

But the contact hurts. Because you don’t know if it’s real… or part of the same circus that destroyed you.

When you get into the car, the silence returns. All you hear is his labored breathing. The tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel.

Until he can’t take it anymore.

“Does it bother you that I defended you in front of the press?”

“No. What bothers me is having to be defended.”

He nods. And slams the car to a stop at the side of the highway.

“Get out,” he says.

You look at him, confused.

“What?”

“Get out. Yell at me. Tell me everything you’re not saying. Because if we keep going like this, we’re going to die from silence.”

His eyes are red. His voice, broken.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you say, getting out of the car.

“And I don’t know if I’ll ever look at the podium again if you’re not by my side.”

The wind cuts through. The cameras are far away. It’s just the two of you. Two broken hearts at the edge of the asphalt.

“Do you know what hurts, Max?”

“Tell me.”

“It’s not the photo. Not the rumor. What hurts the most is that when I saw it… I believed it.”

Max freezes.

“And that means that, at some point… I started to distrust you.”

He steps closer. Not too much. But just enough for you to hear him clearly.

“Then let me prove it to you. That I’m not what you fear. That what we have isn’t a trophy decoration. With you, I’m more human than a driver.”

Your eyes search for him. And for a moment, the pain loosens. Just a little.

“And what if I can’t trust again?”

“Then I’ll stay here. On the side of the road. Until you can.”

A laugh escapes you. Between tears.

“You can’t stop your life for me.”

“My life stopped when I saw your eyes this morning.”

Silence.

The plane waits.

The suitcase is packed, leaning by the door like an unfinished sentence. Max is next to you, still, eyes glued to the ground. Like he already knows the decision but can’t bring himself to confirm it.

“We could pretend,” you murmur, barely audible. “Say we’re fine. Smile for the cameras. Post a picture together. Is that what they want, right?”

He lifts his gaze, and there’s pain in his expression.

“I don’t want a relationship that looks like a racing strategy.”

You get a little closer, just enough for him to feel your perfume, for you to feel his pulse trembling.

“Then tell me the truth, Max. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to that afterparty? Why weren’t you transparent?”

“Because I thought it was irrelevant. Because I was tired. Because I wanted a night without thinking about how every step I take could destroy us both.”

He pauses. Swallows hard. Looks down.

“And because… if I had told you, I knew it would hurt anyway. Even if I didn’t do anything.”

You feel like you’ve swallowed glass.

“And now what? Do we get on that plane like nothing happened?”

“No,” he says, without hesitation. “We get on because there’s still something between us that’s worth more than all this noise.”

Before you can answer, someone knocks on the door. Firm, urgent knocks.

You open it.

And it’s her.

The girl from the photo.

Blonde, immaculate, with a rehearsed smile that disappears as soon as she sees you.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother…” she says, looking down. “I just came to clarify something. For both of you.”

Max freezes.

You step back, confused, but decide to listen.

“What happened that night… was a setup. They asked me to ‘accompany’ him because it looked good for a campaign. I wasn’t going to say anything, but when I saw how this is ruining everything…”

She looks at you. And her voice softens.

“He didn’t touch me. Not a single word out of place. In fact, he kept looking at his phone. I think he was texting you.”

Max frowns, uncomfortable.

“You didn’t need to come.”

“Yes, I did,” she replies, confidently. “Because it’s not fair. Not to you, nor to her.”

You sit down, as if all the weight is concentrating in your legs.

You don’t know whether to cry… or run to him.

But for the first time since it all started, something inside you starts to loosen.

After she leaves, Max slowly approaches.

“I don’t want you to believe me because of her. Or because of what the world says. Just because of what you feel.”

You look at him. Directly. No filters.

“Then tell me: what are we now?”

“We’re two broken people… but who keep choosing each other even in pieces.”

Silence.

Then, only your voice.

“Let’s get on that plane, Verstappen. But this time… without pretending anything.”

And Max smiles. Not like a driver.

But as a man who, finally, starts to recover what he feared losing the most.

[leonalovesalot]

You make me perfect II

Ex!ArtDonaldson x Reader

wc: 3.6k

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

“Art?”

Art froze all over. He worried for a second that maybe even his heart had stopped beating. He brought his hand up to his chest to feel his pulse. Oh good, still pumping. But bad because maybe he had began having auditory hallucinations. It was about time, he thought.

“Art? Are you there?”, there it was again. The voice. He laughed internally. God, he was actually starting to hear your voice. His hallucination of your voice was so accurate, it was impressive. It was music to his ears. He felt his eyes starting to close hoping this imaginary you would say something else.

“Art? Please? I- I need your help,” you said, your voice laced in desperation. You were on the verge of tears again.

He furrowed his brows. You sounded distressed. This bothered him. He finally opened his mouth to speak and his voice came out sounding hoarse.

“Y/N, are you real?” Art sounded like he was high. But he really wanted the confirmation.

You paused from your trembling and confusion etched your face.

“What- I,” you didn’t understand what he was saying. You sighed and added, “yes Art, I’m real.”

He swallowed. He got the confirmation he so badly needed but he remained frozen. Why were you calling him? You needed help? Why did it sound like you’d been crying? Did someone hurt you? Did you want him back?

“Art? Are you still there?” Oh, your sweet voice pulled him right out of his busy mind.

“Yeah- yes,” he cleared his throat and was finally back in his living room. With you on the phone. He dreamt of this moment for months. He continued on, “are you okay?” He questioned.

“I- I’m sorry for calling you so late but I- I didn’t really have a choice”, your words cut off and he heard sniffles on the other end of the phone.

Art felt his already broken heart shattering further.

“It’s okay, baby. I was up anyway, tell me what’s wrong,” he said softly. He wanted to be there with you- wherever you were- running his hand through your hair and kissing your temple.

“I was driving home,” you choke on your tears which caused him physical pain, “and then my car jerked and I- I freaked out,” you took a deep breath, “and so I pulled over and got out and- and I had a flat tire.”

“Fuck, that must have been so scary,” he said, in a concerned tone. Art didn’t realize when but he had already grabbed his car keys and his wallet. He was ready to rescue you, you just had to say the word.

The sniffles have transitioned to you taking deep breaths.

“Do you think you could come get me? I- I don’t know who else to-”

“Where are you,” he said sternly as he walked out of his house and to his garage.

A slight pause occurred and Art furrowed his brows. He heard sounds of slight shuffling.

“Sorry, I had to go to the window and look outside,” you said a little out of breath.

Art smiled softly. He unlocks his jeep and gets in the drivers seat ready to go.

“I-I’m at this gas station o-on the route home from the library,” you explained poorly.

“Gonna need a little more than that,” he chuckles softly.

He heard you hum in thought and drummed on the steering wheel with his free hand in the meantime. He missed this. He missed you. Oh god, he missed you so much it hurt.

“Do you remember that café that,” you swallow, “we really wanted to try and then, when we finally went that day, there was a notice saying they shut down?” There was a playful tone to your voice, he thought. He imagined you standing in the gas station, twisting the telephone cord around your finger and smiling.

He smiles at the fond memory. You two drove over in excitement because you had driven past that cafe many times on the way to his place. You’d turn and say, “we should go there one day,” and he’d nod. The day you two finally showed up, there was a big red sign on the door saying they weren’t operating anymore. You were disappointed and he was disappointed that you were disappointed.

“I’ll be there in ten. Stay put.” Art turns the key in the ignition.

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._..

You hang up the phone and notice how sweaty your palms were. Well, no turning back now.

You nod a thank you to the man behind the counter and walk out of the gas station. The rain had slowed down and it was mostly mist now. You took a deep breath and stared at the gas pumps, and your car across the road, and then the ground.

You were nervous. You hadn’t seen Art in what? Two months. Shit, that was a long time. You didn’t know how you’d react when he appeared in front of you. You were always weak around him. He was so soft, so kind- one look from him made you feel safe and warm.

Would you cry? Would you smile as if no time had passed? Would you hug him? What if you wanted to kiss him?

What if he’s angry? You were the one that broke things off for reasons he didn’t seem to understand at the time.

You waited with your anxiety playing all the worst case scenarios in your mind.

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._..

You assumed ten minutes had passed because you heard a car driving towards you. You looked up and sure enough: Art’s black jeep.

You always loved that jeep. The back seats were quite spacious.

Suddenly, everything was in slow motion.

Art swerved into the lot and got out of the car without taking his keys out of the ignition. He didn’t care. He didn’t bother shutting the door either as all he thought of was you. And now you were finally there.

Your eyes teared up slightly and you walked towards him while he ran to you.

You both immediately wrapped your arms around each other. Yours were tight around his torso. His were around your shoulders nuzzling your head into his chest. His hand went to hold the back of your head like you were the most delicate thing.

You two stood there embracing each other in the misty night. You were still tearing up slightly and after a moment noticed he was sniffling.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t have anyone else to call,” you say, your voice coming out muffled.

“You don’t need to apologize. Next time, you can call me first,” he sniffles, “even if I’m in the middle of a match, I’ll come.”

You giggle softly. Your first expression of amusement in what felt like days.

Art smiled. Music to his ears.

You pull away first. He would’ve held you forever if you let him. When you pulled away he was visibly upset. But you look down so you don’t have to see him that way.

Art didn’t step away at all. Instead he brought his hand up to your cheek to wipe away the tears that escaped while you hugged him. His touch was gentle, like he didn’t want you to notice because he thought if you did, you’d push him away.

You didn’t swat his hand away. As wrong as it was, you needed this. You needed to feel good.

Arts brows furrow as he finally takes a look at the whole you. His eyes flicker up and down and notice you were soaked. He takes off his fleece that you had borrowed once before. He reaches down and tugs on your wet coat signalling you to take it off.

Your face flushed slightly and you shrug off your coat and shiver. The shivering comes to a halt when he places his warm fleece around you. It smelled like him. You felt dizzy by the amount of memories that flooded your mind just from that simple scent.

“Why don’t you go sit in the car and I’ll call triple A, okay?” He says softly with his hands on your shoulders, rubbing to warm you up.

You wanted to refuse. You didn’t like being helped because it made you feel like a burden. But tonight you’d had enough. You wanted him to help you. You wanted him to take care of it.

You nod and walk to his car. You shut the driver's seat door and walk around to the passenger seat and get in. His car was warm and clean. You were scared at how easily you fell back into all this. You thought there’d be a buffer in your unprecedented reunion, but it felt like no time had passed. Maybe this was a good thing.

You watched Art on the phone outside. He talked calmly and would look up to you every few seconds to check on you. He’d smile softly and you’d smile and mouth a thank you. He’d wave it off.

You took this time to take in his appearance. Maybe it was because it had been a while since you’d seen him but he’d gotten more muscular. If that was even possible. And that haircut. You always loved his blonde curls because they were fun to ruffle up and tease him in doing so. But this haircut made him look his age. It reminded you that he was older.

Art walks back and gets into the car and he notices your eyes follow him the whole way. He smirks to himself.

“They’ll be here in half an hour. I gave them your address and they said they’d tow it to that mechanic shop a block away from there. It’ll be fixed up by tomorrow afternoon,” he turns the heat up and wipers on.

You nod, listening to his words carefully.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He begins to pull out of the lot and you settle into your seat comfortably. You were enjoying yourself, even though a voice in your head was screaming at you that this was a bad idea.

You both drove in silence soaking in each other’s company. You rested your eyes and art snuck glances at you the whole drive. Your eyes open when you hear a door close. You blink away the blurry vision and see Art coming around to open your door.

He drove you to his house.

Panic creeps in because you thought he’d drive you home. But you were here. At his house. So late. Just you and him. You turned to face him when he opened the door.

“Home sweet-”

“Why’d you bring me here?” Your peaceful demeanour washed away leaving you confused and slightly frustrated.

Art frowns, “what do you mean?”

Your lips part in disbelief, “I thought you were taking me home, Art.”

His stomach dropped. He was ashamed to admit but he was hoping you wouldn’t notice. You had a hectic night and he thought you’d be easily swayed.

He sighs and nods his head towards his house, “come on, Y/N.”

You scoffed and your eyes widened slightly, “don’t ‘come on, Y/N’ me.”

He makes a bold move and reaches over you to unbuckle your seatbelt. You two were face to face the whole time and he swore he saw your eyes look down at his lips. He leans back out of the car and brings his hand to your forearm and pulls you out of the car. It was a risky move. But he wasn’t going to throw away a chance to be with you because he was too much of a pussy to initiate things.

You looked confused. Confused as to why your body was just willingly going with him. Your muscle memory took over and you even closed the car door behind yourself.

“A-art,” you said, trying to be stern but your voice faltered which caused you to cringe.

He heard you call his name. It was a weak protest. So he ignored it.

He pulled you along to the front door and fished out his keys from his pocket, not looking at you.

You tried to speak up again but no words came out.

You wanted this.

The door unlocks and you both walk inside. He lets go of your arm and locks the door behind him. You stay still in the doorway and let your eyes wander to take in his home. Not much had changed except for the fact that the pictures of the two of you were missing from the fireplace mantle. That stung, but you did the same at your place so you couldn’t be hypocritical.

You were pulled away from your thoughts when you looked down and saw Art crouched down in front of you untying your shoelaces. You heard your heartbeat in your ears. Why did he have to be so sweet? Why was he doing this to me?

He taps your ankle to lift your foot, which you do reflexively and he slides your shoe off. Then he unties the next. Neither of you uttered a word. It seemed like there was so much to say but you wanted him to speak first and he wanted you to.

You lift your foot, before he taps your ankle this time, and he smiles to himself at your compliance. You wanted the same, didn't you? He thought.

He stood up straight, his tall frame towering over you. In the dim lighting, you couldn't see his face. You hoped he couldn't see yours because you could feel how hot it was. Hot meaning red. You didn't want him to know he was affecting you like this.

He kicks off his shoes and walks further into his house, breaking the intense eye contact. A wave of confusion engulfs you and you shift to to follow him with your eyes.

Art walks in hoping you'd follow after him. He didn't hear any feet walking along the floor but he didn't let it get to him. He was patient, and he knew you would give in eventually.

He turns on the lamp in his living room, adjusts a photo frame on the wall, and walks into the kitchen. You could still see him due to his open floor plan. He walked over to his fridge and grabbed a beer bottle along with two glasses from the cabinets. He was moving so casually, you wondered if you were the only nervous one.

Nervous was an understatement, actually.

He walked back into the living room and placed everything down on the coffee table. He sat on the edge of the sectional sofa.

"Are you gonna come sit down or do I have to beg?" Art says as he pours the beer into the glasses. He wasn't kidding, he would be on his knees in an instant if you nodded. He wasn't afraid of seeming pathetic. You were far more precious than his pride.

You swallow, "Art, I want to go home," you failed at sounding stern again.

For a second, he feels bad. Maybe he was wrong, maybe you didn't want this. Maybe he read you wrong. He pushes the doubt away and looks up finally.

"Oh, I think we're past that Y/N." He says softly but with the corner of his mouth curling up, you assumed his head was buzzing with racy thoughts. It was too soon to tell how you felt about it.

You stayed still like your feet were stuck to the floor. You contemplated whether you should sit down and entertain whatever he was thinking. You wanted to. You couldn't deny it, you really wanted to.

You were tired of feeling like you barely existed. You hadn't felt alive in months and you were craving a change. You knew he'd give it to you. But you also knew this was wrong. You two broke up for a reason. You broke things off for a reason. You couldn't backtrack now.

But you were so tired. You were sick of these stupid rules and restrictions you placed on yourself when it came to Art. The fate of your relationship was only on you two. No one else. So why are you letting these thoughts get to you when you're the one that has full control of your actions? You can do whatever you want.

To Art's pleasure, you finally walked toward him. He was slightly disappointed when you sat on the armchair across from him when his lap was the perfect seat. But he didn't say anything. He knew you couldn't disregard your pride like he could.

He slides the glass towards you on the coffee table and leans back on the couch taking a swig. He studied you. Everything from your disheveled hair (which he thought was sexy) to the way your hands busied themselves with picking at the sides of your fingertips. You were nervous, Art deduced.

"What's on your mind?" He asks.

Your eyes finally meet his and tilts his head and he smirks softly. The drink was making him more confident by the minute.

"Lots of questions," you say honestly.

He snickers, "yeah? Well, it's your lucky day because I have answers."

You were slightly irritated at his smug attitude. Why wouldn't he be?You were on his turf now. He was in control here. That would've frightened you with anybody else but you'd still trust him with your life, so you didn't really mind. Let him have his fun.

"Why didn't you just drive me home?" You asked, your voice didn't waver once and you were proud. You were getting used to him again.

He waits a moment and then responds, "do you want the honest answer or a fib?"

Your brows furrow and you adjust in your chair. You sign, "let's hear both."

His eyes widen in amusement and he puts his glass down on the table after taking another gulp. A few drops were rolling down his chin and you imagined how he'd react if you walked over and licked them off.

"Alright. You guess which is which," He drums his fingers on the table for a second, "The first is that I didn't want you to be on your own because you seemed really shaken up"

You scoff and roll your eyes.

God, he fucking missed you.

"The second is that I wanted to have you all to myself for the night," He averts his gaze from you when he says this. I guess he wasn't all that confident after all. He continues when you say nothing, "show you what you're missing."

You swallow.

"Prove to you that the breakup was the dumbest shit you pulled," Art said through clenched teeth.

He looks back up at you, "So?"

"W-what?" You mumble. He was angry and hurt. The break up affected you terribly but you never thought about how Art must have been dealing.

"Which is which?" He raises his brow.

You shake your head and look down at your lap, "I had to do it."

He lets out a short laugh and rolls his eyes, "yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night."

This made you angry and you snapped your head up to look at him, "Excuse me?"

"It's true!" He stands up and leans down to take the glass of beer he poured for you and drinks it. He runs his tongue over his lips, "we were perfect, Y/N. And you just had to end things because you hate yourself."

Your eyes fill with tears and you angrily blink them away. Fine, two can play that game. You stand up to show him that the mere fact that he was bigger than you, didn't intimidate you in the slightest.

"I hate myself? I hate myself? At least I'm not some leech that just sucks the life out of a person. You fused yourself to me because I gave you the reassurance you so badly need to function. I mean- fuck you can't even win a match unless I'm there. Without me, you're nothing," you had hot tears streaming down your face that you barely paid attention to. You stood there catching your breath.

His eyes were red and glassy. Your words sobered him right up. Harsh truths do that.

"I know," He says. His eyes didn't leave you once. He hated being vulnerable but you were an exception.

Your eyes widened slightly, you clearly weren't expecting that. You wanted him to fight back. You wanted him to hurt you so your beliefs about the breakup being necessary would be affirmed. But he caved. The last thing he wanted was to hurt you and he was already afraid that he'd gone too far with the 'you hate yourself' comment. You didn't deserve it.

"That's why," his voice cracks, "you need to come back to me."

You regretted your words right away. His desperation made you tear up again.

Art slowly walks towards you. You held your hand out in front of you so he wouldn't get too close. He winced softly but stopped a few inches away. He bent down and got on his knees showing no hesitation. Your eyes widened and you felt your core clench around nothing. He slides his hands up from your ankles to your thighs and stops at your hips. He holds you gently, not wanting to anger you.

He looks up through his eyebrows and says after clearing his throat, "I'll do anything. If you want me to change, I'll change. I can become someone else. I can be better," he gulps and waits for what you'll say next.

Your body was on fire.

"Beg."

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

The next part will OBVIOUSLY be smut but I've never written smut before and a girl is nervous!!

I hope you enjoyed!

[litomilo]

miss you

billie eilish x reader ⭐

context: just listen to miss you by conan gray!

warnings: angst but happy ending ig, use of y/n, not proof read, im pretty sure i didn't use any pronoun other than "you" to refer to the reader idk

a/n: i wrote this thinking about one of my college classes, one of my teachers said that hate is not the opposite of love, but rather the closest feeling to it that can be found and damn she's so right 💔

You thought you weren't made for love. You weren't made to love or be loved, and maybe you didn't even deserve it. After a few relations and situationships you started thinking that you were a difficult person to deal with. You didn't want to bother whoever ended up falling in love with you — since that was what always happened. So you just pushed them away.

You constantly thought about the strange monotony that love began to reveal in your life. Always the same, but in the end, only one thing changed: if you wasn't hurt, you were the one who hurt someone, consequently hurting yourself as well.

Hurt by unrequited love, by harsh words, maybe by abandonment, or even by the melancholy caused by remembering important memories and unfulfilled promises... Or hurt by guilt, regret, remorse, anguish and so many other feelings caused by having hurt someone, even if it was necessary or what you thought was the best thing to do.

When you meet Billie you felt it all again. You felt happy, special, loved, but then all the possible good things you felt got blurred and momentarily forgotten 'cause of the paranoid.

I'm so hard to deal with, she won't stay.

That's what you always told yourself. But if you leave first it won't hurt that much, right?

After ghosting her for about three days you had several lost calls in your call logs and texts in all the apps possible.

"y/n?"

"did i do something? why don't you answer?"

"look idk what happened but i'm sorry"

"talk to me pls"

You gave her a week, maybe two, to give up and stop texting you. That's what always happens, One day they always disappear and you move on with your life.

You were surprised, what always happened didn't happen. She insisted, kept texting you almost daily for a whole month, sometimes she even knocked on your door, you never answered. She slipped two or three letters through your door.

"hi, it's me, billie, again.

i know you don't want to see me anymore, but i wanna know why, can we PLEASE talk about it? i can't bear the thought of possible have hurt you, that's killing me.

i'm so sorry, please let's talk, just to sort things out, i promise you'll never see me again if that's what you really wants.

i love you so much, i'm missing you, y/n/n."

Fuck.

You couldn't move on. She wouldn't let you do that, or maybe you just loved her too much to let go. That's exactly why you didn't block her at all and spent nights conflicted about calling her, but you didn't want to face reality.

In that one month that passed you couldn't talk to anyone else, you wanted to prove to yourself that you had overcome it, you didn't need her, but how do you do that when no one captivates you or calls your attention, not even for a simple hookup.

"I don't know why... why don't she just fucking give up?" you ask your best friend, in tears, through the phone. they keep quiet for a few seconds, then sigh.

"Maybe it's because she loves you?" they say as if it was already obvious, and it actually was "I think it's pretty clear at this point that she's not like the others, and you still keep pushing her away... You're not only hurting yourself, you're hurting her too, y'know?" you don't say anything, just sob and sniff, then they continue "Call her, you should talk and try to explain yourself, y/n, i keep telling you that pushing people away just 'cause you're starting to get attached is not nice and, as your best friend, i need to tell you that this time you've really messed up".

You didn't want to give in, you were too proud for that, but in one of those nights you just senseless called her, and she picked up.

"Y/n??" you hear her soft voice on the other side of the line, she sounds so worried, she was so worried "Hey, love, are you there?" and that was all it takes for you to break down.

"Come over, please" that's all you could say between sobs.

"Fine, i'm on my way, okay?" you just nod, even tho she couldn't see it.

She stayed on the line all the way, trying to calm you down until she parked in front of your house. You hang up the call and gone to the front foor as soon as you heard her car. When she was about to knock on the door, you opened it, immediately hugging her.

You hear a soft gasp leave her lips, but she hugs you back, her hands finding your hair, stroking it soothingly while guiding you inside and closing the door with her foot.

"I'm sorry" you whisper with your face buried in her hoodie "I shouldn't have pushed you away, but I was so scared"

"Scared? Of what?" she asks confused, her right hand holding your chin gently to make you look up at her.

"Of loving you and I thought you were going to end up leaving me so I just left first" you say feeling her thumb wipe the tears away from your face.

"I would never leave you, i love you, y/n" Billie said kissing your forehead and sitting you on the couch with her "have you pushing me away broke my heart".

"I never meant to, I just... I didn't knew how to cope with everything I was feeling, I thought that pushing you away would be the best but I spent all these past weeks only wanting you" you say resting your head on her shoulder "I'm so sorry, I miss you" she looks at you, her heart clenching at the sigh of your teary eyes.

"Shh, it's fine... It's okay" she whispers pulling you closer against her chest "y'know i missed you too".

[chaoticrockmusic]

all I want is you...

"ᴮᵃᵇʸ, ʷⁱˡˡ ʸᵒᵘ ʰᵉˡᵖ ᵐᵉ? ᴮᵉᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ᴵ'ᵐ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ʰᵉˡᵖ ʸᵒᵘ ᴬˡˡ ᴵ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ⁱˢ ʸᵒᵘ ⁿᵒʷ, ᵃˡˡ ᴵ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ᵈᵒ ⁿᵒʷ ᴵˢ ʷᵃⁱᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗᵒ ᶜᵃˡˡ ᵐᵉ, ᵇᵃᵇʸ, ᴵ'ᵐ ˢᵒ ˢᵒʳʳʸ" ~ᴿᵉᵇᶻʸʸˣ

______________________________________________________________

⚓️ Monkey D. Luffy — "I just want you to be okay... okay, baby, alright."

You were the only one who didn't laugh when he shouted he was going to be King of the Pirates.

You looked at him with wide, glassy eyes, and nodded like it meant something more. Like he meant something more. You were the only one who ever looked at him like that.

The others never noticed how quiet you got after the battles. They did not see how you curled up on the deck, legs pulled to your chest, staring into the sea like it might give you answers. But he did. Luffy saw everything — even if he could not always understand it.

“Are you okay?” he had asked once, lips tugging down, unsure.

You blinked like you were surprised he noticed. “Yeah, Captain. I’m just... tired.”

You smiled after that.

But it never quite reached your eyes again.

He did not have words for how that made him feel — how your sadness curled around his ribs like a sea monster, heavy and tight. So, he tried harder. Pulled you into dancing when Brook played, dragged you into snowball fights on winter islands, left oranges by your bed when you forgot to eat.

He even gave you his last piece of meat once.

You laughed. Genuinely. Just for a second.

And he thought, Maybe I can fix this. Maybe if I stay close enough, long enough, loud enough... you’ll be okay again.

But one day, you were gone.

No note. No footprints. Just a jacket left on the rail, your scent already fading into salt.

Now Luffy stands at the edge of the Sunny most nights, straw hat clutched in his hand, whispering under his breath like a prayer he cannot quite name.

“I know what you want… Let me be the one to hold your hand forever...”

And the sea says nothing back...

______________________________________________________________

🗡️ Roronoa Zoro — "Tell me I’m disgusting. Tell me that you love me. But really you mean nothing."

Zoro has always been good at two things: fighting and silence.

Feelings? Not so much.

You came into his life like a flashfire — sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, loud and full of life in all the ways he never was. At first, you got on his nerves. Too many questions. Too many looks. Too many feelings.

But you stayed. Through storms, through bloodshed, through his worst moods and longest naps. You were there every time he opened his eyes, and eventually… he started looking for you.

He never told you that.

But he didn’t need to, right?

Except... you started asking. And that was the beginning of the end.

“Do you even care about me?” you asked once, after another close call — blood on your shoulder, adrenaline in your veins, and his voice still sharp from yelling your name in panic.

Zoro had stared at you too long, jaw locked, like the words were stuck somewhere deep in his throat.

“…Of course I do,” he muttered eventually, but his voice was distant. Like he was talking to a ghost instead of the person who had almost died in front of him.

You laughed. Bitter, quiet.

“That’s not enough anymore, Zo.”

You left that night.

You did not slam the door or pack a dramatic bag. You just… disappeared. No note. No goodbye. Just a silence that felt like a sword pressed to his throat.

Now he trains harder. Sleeps less. Bleeds more.

Because the ache in his chest? It is louder than any wound he has ever taken.

He swears he hears you sometimes, late at night — that little scoff you always gave when he got lost, the gentle click of your tongue when he drank too much. Maybe it is memory. Maybe it is madness.

But he talks to you anyway.

“You wanted a real answer?” he mutters into the cold air, voice rough. “Here it is — yeah, I care. More than I should. More than I know how to say.”

His fists curl. His swords stay sheathed.

“Tell me I messed it up. Tell me I pushed you too far. Just… tell me something.”

No reply.

Only the sound of wind and waves.

Zoro turns back to the dojo, jaw clenched like he’s holding back something he’ll never say again.

And in the dark, where no one can see him — not Luffy, not Sanji, not even himself — he finally let out a gentle sob.

______________________________________________________________

🍳 Vinsmoke Sanji — "You make me feel dirty. Tell me I’m disgusting. Tell me that you love me. But really, you mean nothing."

Sanji had always known how to play the part.

The flirt. The charmer. The perfect gentleman with a rose between his teeth and a cigarette between his fingers. But with you... that mask never fit quite right.

You saw straight through it.

And he hated how much he liked that.

You never swooned. You never batted your lashes when he called you "mademoiselle" or offered your favorite dessert on a silver tray. You always looked at him with something sharper — like you were searching for the man behind the suit, behind the smoke, behind the smile that trembled more than it should have.

“You’re not as good as you pretend to be, Sanji,” you said once, not out of cruelty — but truth.

He never forgot it.

He told himself he could change. That he wanted to. That maybe if he loved you right, if he made you feel safe and seen and special, you would never have to see the broken parts of him — the blood on his hands, the rage in his chest, the cruel voice of his father echoing in his skull every night.

But you saw it anyway.

You saw all of it.

And worst of all — you stayed.

Even when he pushed you away with a sharp tongue and clenched fists and long nights drinking too much and saying too little. Even when he called himself a monster, and you cupped his face and whispered:

“Then be a monster who loves me.”

He kissed you like you were salvation. Touched you like you were fire. Needed you like he was drowning.

And still, somehow, he ruined it.

He said something wrong — something cruel in a moment of weakness. You flinched. You left. And this time, you did not come back.

Now, his cigarettes burn down faster. His fingers shake over the cutting board. He makes dishes for you every night and throws them out uneaten.

The others stopped asking questions.

But he still talks to the kitchen walls like you are hiding in the corners.

“You make me feel filthy, you know that?” he whispers into the steam of your favorite soup, eyes red from smoke or something worse. “You make me feel everything I try to bury.”

The spoon clatters. His hands fall to the counter, shoulders shaking.

"Tell me I’m disgusting. Tell me you hate me. Tell me anything... just—"

His voice breaks.

No one answers.

Just the soft simmer of something he will never serve.

“Just tell me you love me,” he breathes, softer this time, like it physically hurts to say.

And in the quiet of the galley, he stays alone — waiting for the door to open again, even though he knows it never will.

______________________________________________________________

🎯 Usopp — “I remember crying. I just want you to be alright.”

Usopp always told stories.

Wild, beautiful lies — the kind that made people laugh or roll their eyes or shake their heads in disbelief.

But you? You never laughed. You leaned in.

Every time he said something outrageous — “I fought a sea king with one hand tied behind my back,” or “My aim’s so good I could hit a fly on a cannonball” — you smiled with that soft, knowing look in your eyes.

“Tell me another,” you whispered once, voice small as you lay next to him on the deck, eyes on the stars. “Tell me the one where you save me, Uso...”

He did.

He told it a hundred times. A thousand.

Until one day, you needed saving — and he failed.

It was not some grand battle or dramatic fall. You had been slipping for a while — smiles growing quieter, footsteps growing softer, hands fidgeting with sleeves when you thought no one was watching.

But Usopp was. And he was terrified.

Because he knew all the stories in the world could not fix the shadows in your eyes. Could not fill the silences that stretched too long between your words. Could not reach the places inside you that even you seemed afraid to touch.

Still, he tried.

He made you gadgets. Left tiny presents in your hammock. Carved your name into a seashell and whispered into it, saying, “You’re not alone. You never were.”

He told himself you would be okay. Because the hero always wins in the end.

But then… you stopped coming to breakfast. You stopped meeting him on the deck. One day, he knocked on your door and found it open, the room empty.

Gone. No goodbye.

No final story.

Now, Usopp sits in the crow’s nest with his slingshot across his lap and swollen eyes that have not seen sleep in days.

He looks out over the sea, voice hoarse.

“I know I’m not the strongest. Or the bravest. Or the smartest,” he mumbles to no one, “but I would’ve tried. I was trying.”

He presses the seashell with your name to his chest like a talisman, fingers shaking.

“I remember crying,” he says. “I just want you to be alright. I don’t care if you ever come back. Just—just be okay. Please.”

But the sea doesn’t answer. It never does.

“All I need is you now,” he breathes, forehead against the window, as the tears come again. “All I want to do now… is wait for you to call for me.”

And he does...

Every night...

Even though he knows you never will...

______________________________________________________________

⚕️ Trafalgar D. Water Law — “Fix the holes in your heart, it’s what I wanted from the start.”

Law didn’t mean to fall for you.

You weren’t part of the plan. You weren’t like Cora — loud and chaotic and selfless — and you weren’t like Bepo or his crew, either. You were… soft. Not weak, but gentle in ways he didn’t know how to process. You didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t demand answers.

But you looked at him like you saw him — and that was so much worse.

You never flinched from the cold edge of his voice or the scalpel-sharp way he kept people at a distance. You stood beside him in silence, in storms, in sickbays soaked with blood that wasn’t always someone else’s.

And one night, after a mission that nearly killed you both, you found him on the floor of the infirmary — gloves off, coat stained, hands shaking.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You just knelt beside him and whispered, “Let me help.”

He told himself it was a one-time thing. That letting you touch the cracked, hollow places in his chest wouldn’t mean anything. That he wouldn’t get attached.

But then you smiled.

You made tea for him in the mornings.

You remembered his favorite food without him telling you.

You asked how he was when he was trying so hard to pretend he wasn’t anything at all.

He couldn’t stop it.

He didn’t want to.

So he gave you pieces of himself in silence. Little things. A book from Flevance. A quiet "goodnight." A rare smile when he thought you weren’t looking.

But love, for Law, was never soft.

It was surgical — precise, dangerous, bloody.

And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, he began to treat you like a patient. Like something broken he could fix.

He didn’t realize it until the night you finally said it.

“I’m not something you can save, Law.”

You weren’t angry. You just looked… tired.

And he didn’t have the words. Not the ones that mattered. Not the ones that would make you stay.

So you left.

Not with malice. Not with drama. Just with silence. Just like everyone else.

Now, the sickbay is too quiet. The ship too clean. There’s no laughter echoing down the hall, no gentle knocks at midnight asking if he’d eaten.

Just Law, alone with his ghosts, staring at the hole you left in him — too deep to close, too old to ignore.

He’s operating in silence again. Gloves on. Scalpel steady.

But his hands tremble.

“To fix the holes in your heart, it’s all I wanted from the start... That’s all I wanted...” he mutters like a curse, eyes blurring.

He drops the scalpel. Covers his face with blood-streaked hands.

“Come back...” he whispers, so quiet it gets swallowed by the hum of the ship.

And no one hears it but the walls — and the sea.

______________________________________________________________

🔥 Portgas D. Ace — “I got mental issues, always fucking miss you.”

Ace doesn’t sleep well when you’re not around.

He tosses and turns on sheets soaked with sweat, waking up breathless and angry at himself for dreaming about you — again. It’s not even the good dreams anymore. Not the ones where you’re laughing, curled against his chest, warm like sunlight, kissing him.

Now it’s nightmares.

You leaving.

You crying.

You dying.

And he always wakes up too late.

The room smells like old smoke and iron. There’s a cracked glass on the floor by his bed. A shirt that still smells like you shoved under his pillow. And his fists ache — from punching walls, from holding back.

“I got mental issues,” he mutters to himself, leaning against the frame of the bed, shirtless and shaking. “I’m really fucked up, huh...?”

There’s blood on his knuckles. Again. He doesn’t remember how it got there.

There are tissues everywhere. Piled in corners, scattered across the floor. He doesn’t throw them away — like maybe if he keeps enough of them, your scent will linger just a little longer.

He misses you so bad it makes him angry.

Like it’s your fault for being so gentle. For loving him when he didn’t think he deserved it. For touching his skin like it wasn’t a curse, and telling him he was good like you believed it more than he ever could.

He told you once, in a rare moment of stillness:

“You’re the only thing in this world that makes me feel real...”

You kissed his temple and said, “Then be real with me.” smiling.

But he couldn’t. Not fully.

Because what if you saw it? The dark, cracked part of him that asks every night, Was I even supposed to be born? What if you walked into that storm and didn’t come back out?

So instead, he pushed you away.

Not all at once — no, Ace is too cowardly for that. He did it in pieces. A missed dinner here. A half-hearted kiss there. Another mission he took without telling you.

You stopped chasing him eventually.

And when you were gone… when the ship felt too empty and the fire in his chest flickered low — that’s when he realized.

"l'lI always fucking miss them..."

And now he’s sitting on the floor of some cheap inn, holding your sweater like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

He wants to call you. Wants to say I’m sorry, I was scared, I didn’t know how to love you right, but please, please come back—

But the Den Den Mushi stays quiet.

And Ace stays ruined.

He’s not a storm anymore. Just smoke. Just echoes. Just... want....

______________________________________________________________

🕊️ Sabo — “Please don’t desert me, please don’t desert me.”

Sabo isn’t used to begging.

Not as a revolutionary. Not as a brother. Not as the man who smiled through bloodied battles and watched the world crumble under kings and fire.

But with you?

He begs in silence.

He does not know how to say, “Please stay.” So instead, he leaves cups of tea where you’ll find them. Wraps a blanket over your shoulders when you fall asleep at your desk. Brushes your fingers when he passes by, like touch is the only language he still remembers how to speak.

You love him with an ease that makes him ache.

You never demand pieces of his past he cannot give. You don’t pry into the darkness that swims behind his eyes on bad nights — you just sit beside him, wordless, warm. Present.

And Sabo… Sabo falls.

Hard. Deep. Quiet.

He starts to write you letters he never sends. Pages stained with ink and doubt.

—"You make me feel like I deserve to live again.

I can’t lose you too.

Please don’t leave me like he did."

But you never left.

Until you did.

It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t betrayal. Just a slow, quiet unraveling — because Sabo kept part of himself hidden too long. Kept telling you, “I’m fine,” when he wasn’t. Kept pushing you out when all he wanted was to pull you in.

One day, you stopped knocking on his door.

The warmth faded.

Your coat was gone from the hook by his bed.

He found your necklace left behind — on purpose, probably. Something final.

And that night, he drank alone, firelight flickering against the scars on his hands. He could feel himself unraveling.

“Please don’t desert me…”

He whispered it into the dark, broken and too late.

He pressed his forehead to your necklace, eyes stinging with everything he couldn’t say in time.

“Please don’t desert me. Not like he did. Not like—”

But no one answered.

Only the crackle of flame and the silence of a room too big for one person.

He still wears that necklace.

Hidden under his scarf, against his chest.

He tells himself that if he ever sees you again, he’ll say it right this time. No riddles. No brave smiles.

Just—

“I’m scared of being left. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

______________________________________________________________

🎪 Buggy the Clown — “I’ll make you feel special, help you feel less stressful.”

Loud? Yes. Flashy? Obviously. A little bit unhinged? Well, that's Buggy's whole thing. He was the kind of guy who could stand on top of his ship with his arms thrown wide, demanding the world recognize his greatness. And for most people, that was all they saw — the captain, the performer, the clown. His bravado, his flair. The show.

But there was so much more beneath that.

He never let anyone see it, of course. Because if they did, if they saw what was lurking beneath his perfectly painted smile, then they’d know. They’d see that the self-inflated ego was just a shield. A shield to protect a heart that had never truly felt like it was worth anything.

Buggy had always believed that no one could really love him. Not for who he truly was.

He was a pirate, sure, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who got the kind of love he saw in movies or heard in songs. He wasn’t the romantic hero. He wasn’t the charming, smooth-talking swashbuckler. No, he was the laughing stock of every crew, the one everyone used for comic relief. A joke.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the attention — no, he craved it, needed it. But deep down, behind all the clamor and the glitz, Buggy was terrified that if anyone ever got too close, they'd leave. And that thought? It was crippling.

But then… you came along.

You, who didn’t laugh at his jokes just to make him feel good — you genuinely laughed with him. You, who never flinched at his disassembled limbs, never turned away when he got a little too dramatic, when he overreacted or shouted just to make sure everyone was paying attention.

You stood beside him, even when the rest of the world told you to run in the opposite direction.

And Buggy? Oh, Buggy fell hard.

He didn’t know when it happened, honestly. He didn’t know when he’d started thinking that maybe, just maybe, there was someone who could look at him and see more than just the crazy pirate captain with a flair for the theatrical. He didn’t know when he’d started feeling like he could actually be loved. Like he could be enough.

But you… you were there. You made him feel like he didn’t have to hide behind the act. You made him feel special in ways that no one ever had before.

The day he left — the day he walked away, pretending like he was doing you a favor — it wasn’t because he didn’t care. No, it was because he cared too much.

The sight of you laughing with him, your warm smile, the way you didn’t treat him like he was a walking joke, it scared him. It terrified him more than anything in his life.

You were the first person who made him feel like he was worthy. Like maybe there was more to him than just the chaos and the bluster. But he wasn’t ready for it. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to let someone in that close. Because what if you saw the truth? What if you saw all his flaws, all his broken pieces, and realized that even though he had everything to offer, he wasn’t enough?

You were too good for him. He was just a clown.

Buggy stood at the helm, his fingers gripping the wheel tightly as he looked at the ocean ahead of him. The ship was drifting farther and farther from the shore, from you. From everything he’d let himself feel.

He hated this. He hated it more than anything he’d ever hated in his life.

But what else could he do?

He tried to convince himself that this was what was best for you. That he was just some mess of a man, a guy who would only bring more destruction into your life. That you deserved someone who could love you properly, without the chaos. Without the theatrics. Someone who wasn’t going to break your heart.

And yet, every time he looked at the ocean, he could still see your smile in his mind. The way you’d looked at him, like he wasn’t just some eccentric fool. Like he mattered to you.

His chest ached. Damn it.

“I’ll make you feel special, I'll help you feel less stressful…” he muttered to himself, as if saying it out loud would somehow make it true. But even as the words left his lips, he knew they weren’t enough. Not anymore.

“I’m not ready for this,” he whispered, almost like a plea to the wind. “Not ready for you. You deserve better.”

When the Den Den Mushi call came through, he knew it was you. It was always you who’d pick up the phone when the others just let it ring.

He hesitated for a long time before answering. When his face finally appeared on the screen, he smiled — but it didn’t reach his eyes. His usual flair, the confidence, it was all gone. And for once, he didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought… maybe if I just walked away, you’d be better off.”

“You’re not the problem,” you said, your voice tight, like you were holding back tears. “You’re the one I want, Buggy.”

He wanted to reach through the screen, to take you in his arms and never let go. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“But I’m too much for you,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll just bring chaos into your life. You deserve someone who can love you the way you deserve. Not a mess like me.”

You stared at him, your eyes filled with unshed tears. And for a moment, just a moment, Buggy saw something he hadn’t seen in years — something real. Something pure.

“I’ll make you feel special,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “Well, I wanted to. But I can’t. Not like this.”

You didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, Buggy felt completely seen.

The call ended. The ship drifted away.

And Buggy stood there, staring at the horizon, wondering if he’d made the right choice. Maybe someday, he’d get the courage to come back. But until then, all he had were the memories — of you, of your laughter, of how you’d made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he was worthy of love after all.

______________________________________________________________

🍷 Shanks — “I remember nights we were dancing in the moonlight.”

He never told you he loved you.

Not with those exact words, anyway.

He said it in other ways — in the way he laughed at your jokes even when they were terrible, in how his arm would always find your waist when you leaned too close to the sea rail, in how his eyes lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking.

And sometimes, he’d let the mask slip.

Like that night, on some quiet island no one would remember. The tavern was half-empty, his crew rowdy and drunk. And you, you were warm beside him, fingers stained with fruit juice and salt air, eyes glowing like you had swallowed the moon itself.

There was music playing. Something simple. Soft.

You nudged him and said, “Dance with me.”

He scoffed, sipped his drink, and said, “Nah, I’ve got two left feet.”

But your hand stayed outstretched.

And so he took it.

The floor was uneven. He stepped on your toes twice. His laugh was louder than the music, and your cheeks hurt from smiling. And when the others weren’t looking, he spun you into him, held you close, and whispered—

“If I could bottle this moment, I’d carry it everywhere.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Your smile told him you felt the same.

That night, you danced under the moonlight until the candles burned out and the stars were your only audience.

But things change.

Shanks always leaves eventually. You knew that from the beginning.

He told you once, long ago, “The sea is a jealous thing. She always calls me back.”

And still, it hurt when he went.

You stayed behind on some island — a “safe place,” he called it — with a kiss to your forehead and a promise you never asked for.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

You knew better.

Weeks passed. Then months.

No letters. No sign.

And Shanks? He was far away, sitting by a fire on a different shore, holding your necklace in his palm like it was the only thing that kept him tethered to anything human.

His crew thought he was fine.

But sometimes at night, when everyone was asleep, he'd take out the old Den Den Mushi and stare at it. Thumb hovering over the dial.

And he’d whisper—

“I remember hiding, I remember crying... God, I just want you to be alright.”

He never dialed. Never called.

Because he thought maybe you were better off without him.

But if you walked back into his life — wind in your hair, sea in your eyes — he’d say it.

Not with flowers. Not with grand speeches.

Just a quiet, choked—

“I never stopped dancing with you. Even when you weren’t there.”

______________________________________________________________

⚡ Kid — “You control my life. I feel like a fucking puppet.”

Kid had never been the type to lean on anyone. To trust anyone. The idea of someone else controlling his life, controlling his choices — that was something he never allowed. He was a man of steel, a pirate who carved his own path, never bowing to anyone.

But then you came along.

And from the moment you stepped into his life, everything started shifting in ways he couldn’t control. He hated it. Hated the way you made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. Hated how his heart raced when you laughed. Hated how his thoughts would drift to you when he was supposed to be focused on his next big heist.

He hated how you made him feel like he wasn’t in control.

At first, it was a joke. A distraction. He’d tell himself that he didn’t care about you, that he could walk away anytime. He wasn’t the kind of guy who needed anyone. Certainly not someone like you, someone who had the power to make him question everything he knew about himself.

But then... then the feelings crept in. Slowly at first, like a seed being planted deep in his chest. And then, before he knew it, it had taken root. He couldn’t get rid of it. He couldn’t escape the way you made him feel.

You made him feel alive in a way he didn’t know was possible. And that scared him more than anything.

One night, after yet another pointless argument, Kid found himself alone on the deck of his ship. The moonlight reflected off the ocean, and the cold breeze brushed against his face, but none of it could clear the heat building inside him.

He had tried to push you away. Tried to act like he didn’t care. But all it did was make him feel more desperate, more broken.

And now, here he was again. Standing in the same spot, staring at the empty horizon, trying to ignore the voice inside his head that kept calling your name.

The ship creaked behind him, and then he heard it. The soft sound of footsteps.

You. Of course, it was you.

He couldn’t look at you. He couldn’t face the person who had so completely taken over his life. Who had him tangled up in knots, unable to let go.

“You’re still pissed?” he asked, his voice rough, trying to mask the vulnerability bubbling under the surface.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you walked up beside him, standing in silence. He could feel your presence, feel the weight of it pressing against him. You were close enough to make his breath hitch, but he wouldn’t let himself acknowledge it. Not yet.

“Kid,” you said softly, and the way you said his name made his insides twist. “You know I don’t want to fight with you.”

He scoffed, turning away to hide his face, but you could still see the tension in his shoulders. He clenched his fists at his sides, as if the action might stop the flood of emotions threatening to spill over.

“Don’t even try to act like you understand. This isn’t some game. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, alright?” he spat, his anger rising in a desperate attempt to cover up how raw he felt inside.

But you didn’t flinch. You never did.

“I don’t need you to explain it to me,” you said, your voice calm, like you weren’t afraid of his anger. “But you don’t have to push me away, either.”

Kid felt his heart skip a beat, but he refused to look at you. He couldn’t.

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, the edge of his anger beginning to fade. “You don’t get it. I don’t want to feel like this. You can’t just come in and change everything. You can’t just control me like I’m some damn puppet.”

His words hit harder than he intended. There. He’d said it.

You stood there for a moment, not saying anything. He could feel you staring at him, waiting for him to break the silence.

“Kid,” you finally said, taking a step closer, “I never wanted to control you.”

He shook his head, but the knot in his chest only tightened.

“Then what the hell is this?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Every time I try to pull away, you’re still there. Every time I think I’ve got my shit together, I— I start thinking about you. About how you make me feel—”

He stopped, his throat tightening, but he couldn’t stop himself. His frustration, his confusion, his desperation all came out in one breathless sentence.

“I’m losing control. And I hate it.”

You didn’t say anything right away, but you didn’t need to. You didn’t need to explain yourself, because you understood. You’d always understood.

You reached out, gently resting your hand on his arm, and for the first time that night, Kid looked at you. His eyes were stormy, conflicted, but beneath it all, there was something more — something softer. Something that made his heart feel like it was going to burst.

“I’m not trying to control you, Kid,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “I just... I just want you to be you. No masks, no act. Just you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He swallowed hard, his chest tight. You weren’t asking for anything more than that. And somehow, that terrified him even more.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered, barely audible. “You make me feel like I’m not enough. Like I can’t even control my own damn life anymore.”

You smiled softly, and for once, Kid didn’t see pity in your eyes. You weren’t looking at him like he was a broken thing.

“You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to have it all together,” you said, stepping closer. “I’m not here to control you, Kid. I’m here because I care about you. And that’s all.”

He stood frozen for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. And just like that, all his walls came crashing down.

“God, I hate you,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in his words. Instead, there was just that undercurrent of raw emotion he had never wanted to show. “You make this so damn hard.”

And maybe that was okay. Maybe being vulnerable for once, letting someone else in, didn’t make him weak. Maybe it made him stronger.

“All I want is you,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, but you heard it anyway.

You smiled again, this time with a tenderness that took Kid by surprise. You didn’t say anything, just stood beside him, silently offering the support he never knew he needed.

For once, Kid didn’t feel like he had to fight it.

______________________________________________________________

[thevoicefromanotherworld]

"WHAT ARE YOU WEARING BABY?"

I WROTE ANOTHER FIC WITH BUCKY

When I saw this photo on the internet I inmediatly thought about THIS IDEA WITH HIM (I need him so bad guys, and the long hair? and the metal arm? and the fucking white tank? and the way he holds the phone I'M GOING TO PASS OUT)

I hope you like it! ☝🖤😊

WARNING: EXPLICIT SMUT UNDER THE CUT

Bucky had been gone for several days on a mission with the Red Guardian.

You didn't know what the hell they were doing since the soldier had insisted on keeping you out of it, but what you did know was that the two of them got along really well, what with the whole thing about them both having super-soldier serum in their systems and all that.

Every time they spoke, Alexei made a point of reminding Buck that he'd been given the "cool" serum, according to him, and that he'd been given the "real" one.

If Bucky were still the Winter Soldier, and he'd uttered those same words in his presence, he would have lasted five seconds, but since he wasn't anymore, he just laughed with him, as if he'd been told the funniest joke in the world.

Needless to say, you missed him a lot.

A lot was an understatement; you missed him SO MUCH.

Not just his presence and his raspy, masculine voice, but all of him. It had been several days since your fingers had helped you relieve the pleasure you were feeling, so you decided to call him.

He did it every day around that time, so this time you decided to turn things around.

You curled up in bed and waited for him to pick up the phone.

"Hey, doll," he answered. You smiled at the cheerful tone of his voice.

"Hey, Buck," you greeted. "Am I catching you at a bad time?"

"No, we just got back from dinner," he said as you heard him sit up in bed. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, it's just that I needed to hear your voice," you whispered. "I miss you so much."

"And I miss you, precious," he murmured. "This is the first time we've spent so much time apart, and just the fact that tomorrow morning I won't be able to wake up next to you with your hair tickling my nose and my arms around you is driving me crazy."

"Oh yeah?" "You tempted him. Tell me more."

His husky laugh filled the line for a few moments.

"I see where you're going with this, doll." You couldn't see him, but you knew he was smiling. "I want to hold you in my arms again like we were the day before I left, in our bed, our bodies tangled and sweaty after I made you cum more than three times," he explained. "I want to kiss you, fuck you with my fingers, and rest my metal hand on your throat like I know you like," he whispered, causing you to let out a low sigh. "What are you wearing, baby?"

"Just my underwear," you replied, causing him to swear softly.

"Doll…" he growled. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" he questioned. "You make me want to get on a damn plane to get back to you and satisfy you like you deserve," he blurted out. "But for now, that'll have to do." He laughed. "It's better than nothing, don't you think?"

"Yes," you sighed, biting your lower lip as you remembered the feel of his. "Buck, please…"

"Please. What, darling?" he demanded. "Tell me."

"Keep talking," you gasped, shifting against the blankets, causing the super-soldier to hear the rustling through the line.

"I can picture you absolutely clearly in my mind," he continued, "with your white lace underwear and your eyes shining with desire," he whispered. "Tell me, is this what you look like right now?"

"Yes," you affirmed, looking at your reflection in the mirror of your bedroom closet, which Bucky had decided to place there for obvious reasons.

"Touch yourself for me, doll," he whispered. "Imagine it's my fingers opening and stretching that beautiful pussy of yours, stimulating your clit, making you squirm in search of your pleasure."

Your fingers had already slipped in a while ago, sliding them inside you, stimulating you just as he had said.

Bucky heard the wet sounds that crossed the line, which made him smile.

"Good girl," he whispered. "So good for me, so… obedient," he murmured. "Maybe I should give you a reward when I get home."

"Yes, please, Bucky…" you gasped as you hit your clit with your fingertips.

"I need you to be a good girl for me now, princess. Can you do it?" "He asked."

"Yes," you answered with difficulty, trying to contain your moans. "Whatever it is, I'll do it, Buck."

"As desperate as ever," he laughed. "I need you to cum, baby," he murmured. "Cum for me."

"I've never done this before, Buck," you gasped. "What if I can't get you to cum?"

"You will," he affirmed. "I trust you, doll. Listen to my voice," he whispered. You nodded. "I love you baby, you know that, right?"

"I know," you moaned. "I love you too, Buck." You gasped. "I think I'm going to… I'm going to cum."

"Do it, princess, cum for me."

Moments later, you talked a little more, and when you went to sleep, you felt calm and happy.

You had never slept so well in your entire life.

[baocean]

piss off your parents

note from the author - ok sorry guys there is barely any photos in this one and i know it’s long i apologize i know this is an smau stick w me tho

chapter thirty one - the L word

he doesn’t remember leaving the restaurant.

he remembers janey talking and laughing. he remembers nodding, smiling, lying. janey asking, “you love her, don’t you?”

and then, suddenly, he was outside. then in his truck.

now he’s halfway to your house, and it’s all hitting him at once. that stupid look you gave him the last time you spoke, like you were waiting for him to say something he couldn’t.

the way you folded your arms across your chest, like it would protect you from the fact he was breaking your heart. the silence.

the way it’s been eleven days, and he still checks his phone, hoping he’ll see that stupid bunny emoji he saved for your contact and still looks at the photos you didn’t know he took of you.

he sighs, muttering to himself, “this is stupid. you said it was done. you both agreed. you’re over this. you’re—”

he sees your house. and suddenly, he’s not over it. not even close.

he’s furious. at himself. at you. at how easy it was for both of you to throw away the best thing you’ve ever had just because neither of you wanted to go first.

you’re in bed when you get his stupid two word text text, ‘im outside’.

you’re actively coming up with ways to yell at him as you fly down your stairs. but when you get outside and lock eyes with him, it feels like the opening of that stupid love song you want your first dance at your wedding to be to, every warm morning where the sun touched your face as you woke up, and every salty wave that pulled you under for more when you were swimming as a child. something sweet, something bitter, something suffocating.

but looking at him hurts, and you’re not going to hide it anymore. it’s cold out. he looks wrecked. you don’t care, you cross your arms.

“must’ve taken a wrong turn. janey’s house is the other direction,” you say, voice even.

jj’s jaw tightens. he nods once, like he expected that. maybe he even wanted it.

“yeah. okay. this was a mistake.”

he turns away and takes a few steps towards his truck, but then he freezes.

“no. you know what? no, i’m not doing this again.” he turns back around, taking three brave steps towards you.

“you really think i did all this because i gave a shit about where you went to college? or because i wanted to hook up with janey? you think i sat through awkward dinners with your parents, let your friends talk down to me at every single party because it was fucking fun?”

he lets out a short, humorless laugh.

“you have no idea how many times i bit my tongue. how many times i pretended this wasn’t anything or let you keep me at arm’s length. you think i liked any of this? i didn’t. i hated every second of it.”

so he was just telling you how much he hated it? great, you already knew that. you open your mouth to fight back, to give him something that’ll make him regret even showing up, but he cuts you off.

“even after our fight. i still hate it. seeing you with max donahue and you asking me to be friends. no, yn, i don’t want to be fucking friends with you.” he says bitterly.

you look down in shame when he brings it up.

“i did it because i loved you. that’s why i fucking stayed. that’s why i kept playing along. it’s why i’ve hated every second, because it was agony. because i was in love with you.”

you freeze. the words hit harder than you expect. you look up at him, and he’s angry. it’s visible on his face and the shake in his hands. at first, you’re just... stunned. your lips part, and you stand there, unsure of what to say.

“then why didn’t you just say it? why’d you let it end like that?” your voice softens, like maybe you’re scared to know the answer. the confusion, the hurt and unanswered questions all appearing on your face through your forehead line.

“why didn’t you? because you were scared?” he waits for you to answer, you look down and when you look back up at him, you nod just enough for only to him to see it, like you’re letting him in on a secret.

“yea, me too. i was scared shitless. i didn’t know if you felt it too. and if i kept pretending it didn’t matter, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much when it ended.”

his voice shakes, but it’s soft, and his eyes are full of vulnerability. he looks at you like he’s already lost. like he knows it.

“but it still ended. and it still hurts. and i’m still in love with you.”

he threw his arms up a shrug, then let them fall against against his sides.

“you don’t have to forgive me. i just… i needed you to know. that i loved you. that i love you. and i’m sorry i couldn’t say it when it would’ve made a difference.”

you blink, and everything stings. your throat, your eyes, your heart.

“i’m the one who should be apologizing.” you take a shaky breath.

you pause, like you’re searching for words that still feel safe to say. but safe is what got you into this mess in the first place. “i didn’t fight for us. i shut down. i shut you out. and i knew what i was doing, and i still did it anyway.”

“i was selfish and i was a coward. i made you feel like you were the only one who cared, and that wasn’t fair. it wasn’t true, either.”

he looked down at his shoes, scraping a pebble against the driveway.

he looked back up at you when you said, “you should probably hate me,” accompanied with a weak version of a laugh.

jj blinks once. then shrugs like it’s obvious, like he’s already tried. “can’t.”

you shake your head, but you can’t help it, a smile creeps onto your face. you exhale, then, as if you’ve been holding your breath for too long. “i love you, jj.”

his breath catches in his throat. jj takes a step closer. then another, not too fast. he’s giving you time to pull away.

you don’t, not now, not ever again. you nod instead.

he lifts a hand to your face, fingers brushing your cheek like you’ll disappear if he touches too hard. his thumb rests just below your eye, soft, warm. you lean into it like it’s a second nature.

when he kisses you, it’s not a rush. it’s not frantic or wild or messy.

it’s gentle. it’s slow. the kind of kiss that says i missed you. i know you. i still love you.

you kiss him back like you’ve been holding it in for eleven days, or maybe longer. maybe forever.

when you pull away from him, he doesn’t let you get far, pulling your body even closer against him and only leaving enough room for your lips to move into words.

“i’m sorry for walking out, for hurting you, and not just saying what i meant.”

“you’re forgiven, bunny. just don’t ever, ever walk out on me again.” he gives you a serious look, before dimples reappear and he’s kissing you again.

her phone

masterlist | next chapter

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[moonlitsmile]

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

dbf! Joel miller x f! reader part 2 here!

꣑୧ — 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | After a fight with your drunk dad, he kicks you out. And you show up at Joels door, his close friend he had grown distant with, But the only one nearby. You planned to stay the night, but when a thunderstorm keeps you awake, you find comfort in him…and maybe something even more. (No apocalypse, Sarah is alive in here and no Ellie.)

୨୧ - age gap, reader is 18, (hes early 40s) , crying, innocent reader, inexperienced reader, slight daddy issues, kinda sad, i dragged this out, kinda implied that the reader lives alone with her father, part two is more juicy don’t worry

You didn’t mean to start anything.

You never did, when it came to him.

Most nights, you kept your head down, kept to yourself, tried not to stir the air when your dad was already drinking. You’d learned how to read his moods like the back of your hand. the too-loud television, the way he’d sit in the recliner just a little too long, how his fingers tapped the side of the glass when he was itching to pour another. You could tell when to stay quiet. When to go hide in your room.

lately your father had been acting different, he had been drinking more due to stress at work. And when he drinks it’s bad cause he’s so mean. He dosent know how to handle his alcohol and it irks you. He’s so different from before, he’s not the way he was.

And he acted like you weren’t his girl anymore.

But tonight, you were tired. Tired of walking on eggshells in a house that used to feel like home.

You were halfway down the hall, heading to your room, when you noticed the bottle on the coffee table was almost empty. Again.

“You probably shouldn’t have any more,” you said before you could stop yourself. Your voice wasn’t sharp, it wasn’t even loud. Just soft, like a suggestion. Like you were trying to take care of him.

His head turned slow, and you caught the sluggish movement in his eyes. “What did you just say?”

You hesitated, already regretting it. “Just… maybe slow down a little.”

He barked out a laugh, bitter and humorless. “Don’t start with me,. Not tonight.”

You stood there in the hallway, unsure whether to turn back or keep walking.

“I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying—”

“You’re always saying something, aren’t you?” he snapped, slamming the glass down a little too hard. “Always got your damn opinions. Can’t keep your mouth shut for one goddamn night.”

That made your throat tighten.

You looked down, fingers fidgeting at the hem of your shirt. “I’m just worried about you,” you said, voice small.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” he sneered. “Worried about me? You think you know anything about how hard I work? What I’ve been through? You sit around like some delicate little flower and judge me for needing something to take the edge off.”

“I wasn’t judging you—”

“Yes, you were. You always are.” He stood now, swaying slightly. “Walking around like you’re better than me. Like you’ve got the right to lecture me in my own damn house.”

You shrank back a step before you could help it. “That’s not fair.”

“You know what’s not fair?” he said, pointing at you, voice rising. “Me working my ass off every day just to come home to this bullshit. A mouthy little girl who doesn’t appreciate a goddamn thing.”

Your chest hurt. You didn’t know why it always cut so deep, maybe because deep down, some part of you still wanted him to see you. To talk to you like he used to, before things got… bad.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you said quietly. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, you did upset me,” he snapped. “Congratulations.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard. “I’ll just go to my room.”

“No,” he said suddenly, voice sharp.

You paused. “What?”

“I said no. You wanna act like you don’t wanna be here? Like this house is so damn terrible?” He started toward you, clumsy and fast. “Then go. Go on, get out.”

Your stomach dropped.

“You’re drunk,” you said, trying to stay calm, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t tell me what I mean.” His hand shot out, grabbed the front door, yanked it open. Cold air spilled into the house.

“Dad, stop—” You moved back instinctively.

“I said get out!” he yelled, and this time, there was no hesitation. He reached for your arm, not hard, but firm enough to make your breath hitch, and pushed you out into the night.

You stumbled down the steps, heart racing, bare arms wrapping around yourself in the chill.

The door slammed shut behind you.

And that was it.

No shoes. No coat. No phone charger. No chance to grab a bag. You just stood there, shivering, your eyes stinging from more than just the wind.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You waited. Half-hoped the door would open again. That he’d realize what he’d done and call you back inside. That he’d remember you were his daughter, not a stranger. Not a mistake.

But nothing came.

Just the sound of the wind picking up, and somewhere in the distance, the first low rumble of thunder. Soon to be rain probably going to come down.

As soon as you realized you had no where to go, that’s when the tears began to fall. Scared and vulnerable, in these dim streets this late at night. You were planning to just go back inside, but he had locked the door. Front and back, and the windows were always locked. You sighed shakily, letting out a soft shaky sob. Trying to stop the flowing tears. Your father had always taught you crying got you nowhere, and sometimes it did. But in this situation it clearly didn’t.

So what else was there to do, besides to just start walking?

But The street was quiet.

Too quiet.

You stood there for a long second on the front steps, staring at the closed door behind you like it might swing back open. Like this might just be one of those awful dreams where everything feels too real until you wake up gasping.

But the door stayed shut. No footsteps. No apology. Nothing.

You didn’t even realize your hands were shaking until you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, trying to stop the chill that crept into your skin. The night air clung to you in a way that made your stomach twist, cool and damp and biting against your bare legs.

All you had on was that loose light purple shirt, soft and worn-in from too many washes, and a pair of loose black fabric shorts you only ever wore to sleep. Your white fuzzy socks were already picking up dirt as they padded over the pavement, useless against the cool sidewalk. You hadn’t even had time to put on shoes. Or grab your phone. Or anything.

You just walked.

Because what else could you do?

It was nearly 10 o’clock, and most of the neighborhood had already gone dark. Porch lights were off. Curtains were drawn. The only sounds were the soft hush of wind through the trees and the distant hum of cars on the highway a few streets over.

And then there was the thunder.

Low, deep, and far away, but creeping closer.

You looked up, squinting at the sky. Heavy clouds were dragging across the night, their edges tinged with flashes of light too faint to call lightning yet. The kind of sky that pressed down, that felt heavy on your chest even though it hadn’t fully opened up.

A few cold drops landed on your arms, soaking into the thin cotton of your shirt. It was that kind of light rain that didn’t fall, just drifted. Like the air itself had gone damp.

You didn’t know where you were going.

Your feet just carried you forward, block after block, the chill from the sidewalk slowly sinking into your bones. Every now and then, you wiped at your face, not even sure if it was rain or tears anymore. Probably both.

You tried to keep your head down. Tried to focus on the rhythm of walking. One foot, then the other. But your thoughts spun in circles, chasing themselves.

He didn’t mean it.

Yes, he did.

He was drunk.

But he meant every word.

You sniffed hard, your throat burning. The kind of ache that came from too much silence after too many years of holding back. You wanted to feel angry. You really did. But all you felt was small.

Just small and cold and tired.

The rain was picking up now. Not heavy, but enough to make your shirt cling to your shoulders. You pulled your arms tighter around yourself, socks squelching with every step as they grew heavier with water and dirt.

That’s when a familiar street sign caught your eye. You blinked up at it, heart stuttering.

You realized, Joel lived just a few blocks down.

You hadn’t even meant to come this way. Your body must’ve brought you here on its own, searching for something steady. Something that didn’t hurt.

And Joel had always been that, quiet, calm, warm in a way your father never really was. You hadn’t seen him in a while, but you still remembered the way he used to talk to you like you mattered. Like you weren’t just some kid hanging around the edges of someone else’s life.

You hesitated at the corner, your wet socks slipping slightly on the sidewalk. You could turn around. You could keep walking. Maybe find a bus stop. A bench. Some place to hide for the night.

But your body was already moving again, toward him.

Because right now, in this moment, you didn’t need pride. You didn’t need space to figure things out.

You just needed somewhere to feel safe.

Your legs ached, but you kept walking. The houses started to look more familiar now, even in the hazy streetlight and light mist that clung to everything. You knew this route. You used to ride your bike down it when you were little. Back when things were… simpler.

Back when Joel used to come by.

He was your dad’s friend long before you ever really noticed him. You remembered hearing them laugh together in the backyard, clinking beer bottles over some dumb joke or grilling whatever meat your dad had gotten on sale that week. Joel would toss your dad shit for burning the burgers, and your dad would say something like, “You think you could do better, Miller?”

You always called him Mr. Miller. Never Joel. That was something your dad was strict about, respect your elders, speak politely, don’t be annoying.

But you liked having him around. Even when you were little, maybe eight or nine, you’d find excuses to linger outside longer than you should. Sitting at the edge of the porch steps with your juice box while they talked. Pretending to read a book at the patio table so you could listen to them. He had a deep, calm voice that made the whole world seem quieter when he spoke.

Then, somewhere around thirteen, it shifted.

You couldn’t remember the exact moment it happened. You just knew one day you looked up and realized Joel was… handsome. Not like the teenage boys at school, all sharp elbows and too much cologne. He was something else. Broad, steady, sun-warmed skin and a strong jaw covered in just the right amount of stubble. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, he meant it. He listened, too. That alone set him apart.

That was when the little crush started.

You’d try to hang around more when you knew he was coming over. Sit at the edge of the conversation. Ask him about his work or how his truck was running. Nothing major, just tiny ways to get him to notice you.

Sometimes he’d smile at you, real soft. Ruffle your hair or nudge your shoulder as he passed, and your heart would flutter so hard it made you dizzy. You’d duck your head, cheeks hot, pretending it didn’t mean anything. But it did. It always did.

You remembered trying to act more mature as you got older, wearing makeup that wasn’t quite right, putting on clothes that made you feel older than you were. Not in a weird way, not to get attention exactly… you just wanted to be seen. By him. Not as your dad’s kid. Not as a tagalong.

Just… as you.

But Joel had never looked at you that way. Not once. He was always kind, but distant. Like he saw you as something sweet and harmless. A little girl with big eyes and bigger dreams, someone he probably thought was too soft for the world.

And then time passed.

He stopped coming around as much. Your dad got moodier. The cookouts got fewer and farther between. You hadn’t seen Joel in almost 3 years. Not since your 15th birthday.

You were eighteen now.

Not that it mattered. You weren’t expecting anything. You just wondered… would he still see you the same? That shy, awkward kid trailing behind her dad?

Or would he notice how much had changed?

You pulled your arms tighter around yourself, breathing out into the damp night air. Your hair stuck to your skin in places, and the light drizzle was turning into something steadier, soaking through the thin fabric of your shirt.

Up ahead, past the corner, you saw the soft yellow glow of a familiar porch light.

Your chest tightened.

You were almost there.

You slowed as his house came into full view.

There it was, same as always. The porch light was still on, casting a warm yellow glow over the wooden steps and the faded welcome mat. His truck was in the driveway. Lights off inside, except for the soft flicker of something deeper in the house, maybe the living room lamp left on, maybe the TV. You couldn’t tell from here.

Your feet stopped just short of the first step.

What if he was asleep?

What if he got annoyed you were showing up like this, soaking wet and looking pathetic? What if he didn’t even remember you the way you remembered him, just saw you as that kid who used to trail after her dad like a shadow, begging for scraps of attention?

You shifted your weight, arms still wrapped tightly around yourself as you looked down at your fuzzy socks, now nearly gray from the walk. Your legs were cold. Your shirt clung to your skin. You felt stupid.

This was stupid.

You should’ve gone anywhere else. A bus stop. A gas station. Literally anywhere but here.

But still… you lifted your hand and knocked, just once. Soft. So soft it barely made a sound.

You waited.

Nothing.

The wind rustled the trees nearby, and thunder grumbled low in the distance, like it was trying to remind you that this night wasn’t over yet. You bit your lip and knocked again, two quick taps, a little louder this time.

Still… nothing.

You sighed, shaky and small. Your shoulders slumped. Of course he wasn’t awake. It was late. And who in their right mind would want some girl showing up on their porch in the middle of the night like a stray?

You didn’t want to be a burden.

You didn’t want him to see you like this.

You sniffed quietly and stepped back, turning away from the door, heart sinking. You’d figure something else out. You always did.

But then

click.

The sound made you freeze mid-step.

The door creaked open behind you, warm yellow light spilling out into the cool night air.

“…Hey?” Joel’s voice was rough with sleep, low and a little grumpy. His brows were pulled together as he blinked at you, clearly confused. “What the hell…”

But then his eyes really focused, and he saw you. Standing there on his porch in the rain, shivering in your pajamas, hair damp and clinging to your face.

His expression shifted. Still cautious, but… softer now. Concern crept in under the fatigue.

You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a shaky, barely audible, “Hi.”

Joel stared for a second longer, his voice quieter this time. “What… what are you doing here?”

You opened your mouth again, trying to form the words, trying to explain, but they got stuck. Right there in your throat.

Your lips trembled before you could stop them.

“I—” you started, then clamped your mouth shut as your eyes filled with tears.

God. No. Not now.

You blinked quickly, trying to stop them from spilling over. You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of the man who used to ruffle your hair like a kid. The man who still probably saw you as the quiet twelve-year-old sneaking glances from behind her dad’s shoulder.

You didn’t want to be her right now. You didn’t want to look soft or helpless. You wanted to seem grown, like you could handle it. Like showing up at his door in your socks and pajamas didn’t mean you were breaking apart inside.

But under Joel’s steady, quiet gaze… you just felt small again.

You looked down at your feet, voice cracking when you finally whispered, “I—I couldn’t stay there.”

That was all you could get out.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. You didn’t look up, afraid of what you’d see in his eyes, pity, maybe. Or worse, that same distant kindness from before.

But then you heard him step aside, his voice lower now, a little more gentle.

“Come on in.”

You stepped in slowly, careful not to let your soaked socks track too much water across the floor. The warmth from the house hit you all at once, soft, dry air and the faint smell of coffee and wood, but your body was still trembling from the cold that had sunk deep into your skin.

You stood there on the rug just past the doorstep , arms wrapped tight around yourself, eyes fixed on the dark hardwood that stretched out into the living room. You didn’t move.

You didn’t want to drip everywhere.

Didn’t want to make a mess.

Didn’t want to be a mess.

Your damp shirt clung to your back, and your fingers were starting to go numb. The rain had only been light, but it was enough to leave you chilled straight through. Your cheeks burned from a different kind of cold, embarrassment, standing there in nothing but your thin pajamas in front of him. Joel. Someone who used to pat your head like a niece or a neighbor kid. Someone who still looked at you like you were something breakable.

He shut the door gently behind you, turning the lock with a soft click. Then he looked at you again, brows pulled together, eyes sharp but not unkind. Still confused, but calmer now.

“Hang on,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw before heading down the hall.

You stayed frozen on the rug, listening to the sound of him rustling through a closet. A moment later he came back with a towel, holding it out to you.

You took it with quiet hands, clutching the soft fabric to your chest before slowly raising it to dab at your damp cheeks, your arms, the rain-wet ends of your hair.

Joel hovered for a second, like he didn’t want to crowd you, then took a small step closer. His voice was quiet, almost like he was talking to a spooked animal.

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

You opened your mouth, but again, nothing came out.

Just that awful lump rising in your throat. Heavy and hot. The sting behind your eyes came back stronger than before.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard, trying to hold it back, but your breath caught in your chest. Your shoulders trembled, not from the cold anymore.

You were going to cry.

You hated that you were going to cry.

Joel’s expression softened again. He didn’t push. Just waited, voice still low, gentler this time.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “It’s alright. Take your time.”

You nodded, pressing the towel against your face, trying to breathe through it. But your voice, when it finally came, was still broken and barely a whisper.

You tried to speak again. The words were there, clogging your throat, pushing at the back of your tongue, but they wouldn’t come out.

Your chest rose in a shallow, shaky breath, and you pressed the towel harder to your mouth like it might hold everything in: the hurt, the tears, the everything.

Joel stood there, watching you, arms crossed loosely over his chest. You could feel the weight of his gaze, steady and quiet, not pushing. Just… waiting.

But when the silence stretched too long, he cleared his throat and spoke, soft and low, like he didn’t want to startle you.

“Well…” he said slowly. “How ‘bout you go freshen up first, alright? Take a shower. See if that helps any. We’ll talk after.”

You gave a small nod, your eyes still locked on the floor. You didn’t trust yourself to say anything, not yet.

Joel didn’t move at first.

You could sense him shifting though, like something in him was working through a thought he wasn’t quite ready to say. His stance was different, less easy than usual. Like he was standing at a strange kind of distance, unsure where the line was now.

Then came his voice again, quieter this time. Different.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me, honey.”

Your breath caught.

That word.

Honey.

He used to call you that all the time when you were younger, when you’d scrape your knee in the yard or fall asleep on the couch during a cookout. Sometimes it was sweetheart, sometimes kiddo, but honey was always the one that stuck with you most. It had curled warm and safe in your chest, made you feel cared for in a way that not many people ever made you feel.

And the truth was… you never liked hearing it from anyone else.

Only Joel.

Only he could say it in that low, steady drawl, like he really meant it. Like it wasn’t just something to say, it was something he felt.

You blinked hard, your vision swimming for a second, and then, slowly, you looked up.

His eyes met yours the second you did.

And he didn’t smile.

He didn’t say anything right away either.

He just looked at you, really looked. Like he was trying to match this version of you, the quiet, trembling girl on his doorstep in too-thin clothes and wet socks, with the one who used to follow him and your dad around, tugging on the hem of his flannel and asking questions about how to grill ribs or fix a flat tire.

You could see it in his face, the shift. That faint crease between his brows. Like he didn’t know what to make of what he was seeing.

You weren’t twelve anymore.

And he knew that.

But the way he was looking at you now… it wasn’t pity. It wasn’t awkwardness. It was something else.

Something that made your skin warm, even as your clothes clung cold to your body.

You held his gaze for just a second longer than you meant to before dropping it again, clutching the towel tighter to your chest.

Joel cleared his throat again, his voice rough but careful.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll find you somethin’ dry.”

You stepped quietly down the hall, arms still wrapped around the towel like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The house was dim, quiet except for the low hum of the air vent and the soft creak of the floor under your feet. Joel didn’t follow, just let you go, giving you space.

The bathroom door opened with a soft push, and you stepped inside.

It smelled the same as you remembered, clean and faintly like cedar soap. The lights overhead buzzed to life as you flipped the switch, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow.

You stood still for a second. Just breathing.

And then the memories came in like a quiet rush.

You used to come in here when you were little. When your dad would drag you along for a night at Joel’s, usually some weekend game night or beer-and-barbecue thing. You were too young to care about football or whatever else they were watching, so you’d wander the house. Sit cross-legged on the bathroom floor playing with your toys or fiddling with little things around the sink while Sarah played with you.

You used to giggle about Joel’s aftershave, mess with the little cups stacked on the counter, open drawers you probably shouldn’t have.

It was warm then. Safe. Full of noise and life.

You pressed your palm to the edge of the sink now, staring at your reflection.

Same mirror. Same faded green tile. Same soft hand towels folded on the rack.

But everything felt different now.

You weren’t a kid sneaking off from a boring football night anymore. You weren’t playing pretend with Sarah while the dads laughed over beers in the kitchen. You were eighteen. Standing in Joel’s bathroom, damp and trembling, heart still twisted from being pushed out into the night by the only other person who was supposed to make you feel safe.

And Joel…

He wasn’t just “Mr. Miller” anymore.

You looked at your own eyes in the mirror, red-rimmed and glassy. Your skin was pale under the yellow light, hair damp and clinging to your neck. You looked lost. And you hated that you looked that way in his house, in his mirror.

You turned the shower on, letting the steam build. The heat was comforting, but it didn’t make the ache go away.

As you pulled your shirt over your head and let your damp clothes fall to the tiled floor, you wondered if he still saw you the same way he used to.

Sweet little girl. Honey.

Or if maybe, just maybe… that look he gave you earlier meant something else now.

The hot water poured over your shoulders like a blanket, soaking into your skin, easing the chill that had sunk deep into your bones. Steam curled up around you, fogging the glass, softening the world until it felt far away. You let your head fall forward under the spray, eyes closed, lips parted, breathing in the quiet warmth.

It was the first time all night you didn’t feel cold.

But your chest still ached.

Your thoughts wandered, slow and heavy, as the water moved down your back.

Where was Sarah now?

She was older than you by a few years. You remembered when she got her acceptance letter for college, how proud Joel had been, even though he tried not to make a big deal about it. You were only fourteen at the time, still in that awkward, in-between phase where you were too shy to speak around him for long, but you remembered how he lit up when he talked about her. How his eyes softened in a way that was different than usual.

Maybe that’s why the house felt so still now. Why it felt… lonelier.

Without Sarah’s laugh echoing down the hallway. Without her music blaring from her room.

You ran your hands over your arms beneath the stream, squeezing your eyes shut as more memories came.

You used to make Joel little cards around the holidays. Ones with clumsy handwriting and glitter that always fell off. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miller” or “Happy Birthday!” with lopsided hearts and cartoon dogs you’d drawn just for him. He kept them, too, you remembered him pinning one up on the fridge one year. Told you it was his favorite thing he got that Christmas.

You smiled at that. Just barely.

Then the ache returned.

Because you also remembered the other times, when your dad would push you to come over even when you didn’t want to. Not to visit Joel, but to learn. Said you should stop wasting time and do something useful. Like music. Like guitar. Joel had offered to teach you, always patient, always kind… but you were stubborn then. Hated the pressure. Hated the way your dad watched every chord you missed, every note that buzzed.

You didn’t appreciate it back then.

But now?

Now, all you wanted was to sit in Joel’s living room again. To feel that careful way he guided your hands on the strings. To listen to him explain things in that slow, steady voice like nothing could ever go wrong.

You leaned back against the tile, breath trembling, arms hugging yourself under the stream.

Everything had changed so fast.

And it hurt in ways you couldn’t even name.

You tilted your head back beneath the water, eyes closed, letting the past flicker behind your lids like old home videos.

You used to get excited when you heard Joel was coming over.

It didn’t start that way, not when you were younger and thought all your dad’s friends were boring. But something shifted when you hit thirteen, maybe fourteen. When you started noticing the way Joel’s voice got even deeper when he was tired, or the way he’d lean in close to listen, really listen, when you spoke, even if it was about something silly.

You started caring more about what you wore when he came by. Not obvious stuff. Just little things, a different shirt, lip balm with a soft tint, brushing your hair twice instead of once.

You weren’t subtle. Not really.

And Joel noticed.

He’d always been good with people. Quiet, observant. He never teased you, never made you feel small. But he knew. And in his own careful way, he humored it. Just enough to make your stomach flutter.

You could still remember one summer afternoon,

the air thick and hot, your dad out back grilling while Joel leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping a beer. You were fourteen, wearing a pale sundress you didn’t even like that much except for the way it swayed when you walked.

You’d wandered into the kitchen, pretending to be after a drink, but you lingered.

“Whatcha drinkin’, Mr. Miller?” you asked, pretending not to notice how dry your mouth was.

He glanced over, already smirking just a little.

“Somethin’ you’re not old enough to ask about.”

You tried not to squirm under the way his eyes flicked down, just briefly, then right back up. Measured. Careful.

“I’m not that young,” you mumbled, reaching into the fridge for a soda.

He raised a brow. “No? When’d that happen?”

You cracked open the can and leaned on the opposite counter, heart thudding.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, trying for casual. “Just… figured maybe you’d talk to me like a grown-up sometime.”

Joel had chuckled under his breath at that, deep and warm.

“You tryna convince me, or yourself?”

You felt your face flush but you didn’t back down. Not that day.

“You’re mean,” you said softly, but your lips curved into a shy smile.

He tilted his beer toward you just slightly, something fond in the gesture. “Nah, honey. Just honest.”

Honey.

That word again. That name.

It always made your chest flutter. And when he said it then, with a little smirk but something real behind it, you knew he wasn’t making fun of you. Just… keeping the line where it needed to be. Even if part of you always wished he’d forget it was there.

Your fingers trailed along the tile wall as the water kept falling, steam curling around you like a blanket. You were warm now, but you didn’t want to step out. You didn’t want to face whatever came next. Not just yet.

Your mind drifted again, this time, not so far back. Not to dress-up days and awkward crushes.

But to the last time you saw Joel.

It had been maybe 3 years ago. Late spring, warm outside but breezy. You’d been sitting on the porch while your dad grilled, and Joel had stopped by out of nowhere. Said he was in the area. Said he thought he’d drop something off.

You remembered how your heart jumped when you saw his truck pulling into the driveway.

You were 14 then, about to be 15. maybe just starting to shed some of that baby-faced softness. You had your legs curled up under you in an oversized tee, and you’d tucked your hair behind your ears three separate times in five minutes, hoping it looked effortless.

He joined your dad out back for a bit. They talked and laughed like always, but it didn’t feel the same.

Joel was quieter. Less at ease. Like something had shifted.

You’d waited for a chance to talk to him. Just you and him.

When it finally came,

he was grabbing a drink from the cooler and you wandered over, slow and shy.

“Hey,” you said, trying not to sound too eager.

He turned, gave you a small nod. “Hey, kid.”

That name stung more than it should’ve.

“I haven’t seen you around much lately,” you said after a pause. “You don’t come by like you used to…”

Joel didn’t look at you right away. He just twisted the cap off his beer and gave a quiet shrug.

“Been busy. Work’s been a lot lately.”

You’d nodded, but your voice was smaller when you asked, “Is it just work?”

That made him glance over at you.

Something flickered across his face then. Something unreadable.

And all he said was, “Nothin’ personal, alright? Just figured it was time I stopped hangin’ around so much.”

You hadn’t known what to say. You just stood there, feeling like maybe you’d done something wrong and didn’t know it.

That was the last time.

After that, no more random visits. No more cookouts. No more evenings where you’d catch his eye across the kitchen while your dad ranted about the game.

He disappeared, just like that.

You thought about it too often, what changed. Why he stopped coming. Why he suddenly felt so far away.

And now here you were, standing naked and dripping in his bathroom, nearly 3 years older, 3 years lonelier… and still wondering what he’d see when you stepped back out into the hallway.

Eventually, the water wasn’t enough to keep you distracted anymore. You’d washed your hair, rinsed your skin clean of the cold and the rain, but that ache in your chest still lingered. Quiet. Heavy. Lingering like steam on the mirror.

You turned the water off with a slow twist of the knob, and the bathroom was instantly quieter. The kind of silence that felt louder than sound.

The air was thick with warmth, soft clouds of steam clinging to the mirror and tiles as you stepped out, careful not to slip. You wrapped the towel around yourself tightly, tucking the edge just above your chest, and stared at your own reflection through the fogged glass.

Still you. Still that same girl underneath it all.

You padded barefoot to the door and cracked it open, a little hesitant. The hallway light was still on, casting a warm glow over the dark hardwood floor.

And there, just outside the door on a small wooden table, was a neatly folded pile of clothes.

Your heart twisted.

One of Joel’s old flannels sat on top, soft and worn, sleeves rolled halfway up like he’d just shrugged out of it. Beneath it, a pair of sweatpants, drawstring pulled loose to make them easier to slip into.

Your fingers reached out slowly, brushing the fabric. Still warm from the dryer.

He must’ve done this while you were in the shower. Quiet, thoughtful. Like always.

You swallowed thickly, lifting the clothes against your chest, holding them like they were something more than just cotton and thread.

They smelled like him. A little bit like soap, like cedarwood, like something comfortingly familiar. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time.

And somehow… that made it even harder not to cry again.

You slipped back into the bathroom with the clothes pressed to your chest, shutting the door softly behind you. The tile was still warm beneath your feet, the mirror still fogged.

You took your time drying off, trying to steady your breathing. Your hands shook a little as you tugged on the sweatpants, they were far too big, pooling at your ankles, but the drawstring helped. The flannel hung heavy and soft on your shoulders, sleeves nearly swallowing your hands. You rolled them up like he always did, and that made your stomach twist strangely.

You didn’t bother with your damp clothes. You folded them neatly and set them by the sink.

When you finally stepped out again, the hallway light was dimmer, as if Joel had turned it down for your sake.

You padded into the living room quietly, your damp hair clinging to the sides of your face, falling in soft waves down your back. Joel was sitting on the couch, a beer in one hand, the TV playing something low he clearly wasn’t paying attention to.

He looked up when he heard your soft footsteps.

And his eyes landed on you.

There was a flicker in his expression, like a pause in his chest, like something caught in his throat and he didn’t know how to swallow it.

You looked so small in his clothes.

That big flannel hanging loose over your frame. Those sweatpants dragging the floor. Your bare feet quiet against the wood.

And your face…

Still that same softness. Damp lashes, flushed cheeks, lips parted slightly like you wanted to say something but weren’t sure how. You looked young. Not like a child, but vulnerable. Open.

The kind of quiet Joel remembered from a girl who used to make him lopsided cards and ask too many questions. Who’d sit on his porch with a guitar too big for her lap and try to act like she didn’t care when she missed a chord.

Now you stood there, older, but still her.

Still you.

He cleared his throat softly, sitting up a little straighter on the couch.

“Clothes fit alright?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges from the late hour.

You nodded, eyes dipping for a second.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “They’re warm.”

He watched you for a beat longer. You weren’t just cold anymore. You looked tired. Like you’d been holding it together all night and were starting to unravel in slow pieces.

Joel set the bottle down and motioned gently toward the couch.

“C’mere. Sit with me a minute, alright?”

You hesitated for just a second before your feet carried you forward, slow and quiet, like you were afraid you might break the moment if you moved too fast.

The couch dipped as you sat beside him, your knees curling slightly, the flannel sleeves covering half your hands. You didn’t look at him right away, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor, but you felt his presence close beside you. Solid. Safe.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. He just let the TV flicker in the background, the sound low and meaningless. He was giving you time, something he’d always been good at. Even back then, when you’d get shy around him, stumbling over your words, he never rushed you.

He always waited.

After a moment, his voice broke the quiet, low and gentle, like he was talking to a skittish animal.

“You feelin’ any better?” he asked, glancing over at you. “Shower help at all?”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Yeah… a little.”

He gave a soft hum, then let another pause stretch before speaking again.

“I don’t wanna push,” he said slowly. “But if you feel like talkin’… I’m listenin’. Just tell me what happened, honey.”

That word again, honey, it hit a little different this time. Not like earlier, when it caught you off guard. Now it warmed something in your chest, loosened something tight inside you.

He said it so kindly. Like he still cared. Like he still saw you.

You sat there for another long second, your throat burning, and your eyes started to sting again.

Your voice cracked before you even got the words out.

“He—” You swallowed hard. “My dad… he was drunk.”

Joel didn’t move, didn’t interrupt. His body stayed still and quiet beside you.

“He just started yelling,” you continued, wiping quickly under your eye with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t even remember about what—stupid stuff, nothing really. I told him to stop, and he just… snapped.”

Joel’s jaw tensed slightly, but he didn’t speak.

You stared at your knees. “He told me to get out. Didn’t let me grab anything. Just… pushed me out the door.”

Your voice shook a little at the end, and you hated it, hated how small it made you feel, how young.

But Joel didn’t make you feel embarrassed. He didn’t make a face or say you were overreacting.

He just let out a low breath, like his chest had been holding onto something tight, and nodded slowly.

“I’m real sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You blinked quickly, trying to stop the tears from coming again, but one slipped free, tracing down your cheek.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you whispered.

Joel turned toward you then, one arm resting on the back of the couch, eyes fixed soft on your face.

“You did the right thing comin’ here.”

He said it so simply. Like it wasn’t even a question. Like this was home, in some quiet, strange way.

And for the first time in a long time, you started to believe that maybe it could be.

Joel stayed quiet for a moment, watching the way your fingers tugged at the edge of the flannel sleeve, twisting the fabric, nervous and uncertain. You always used to fidget like that when you were a kid, especially when you were trying not to cry.

His eyes softened.

“I know it’s hard,” he said quietly. “But can you tell me more? About what he said?”

You didn’t answer right away. The words sat heavy on your tongue.

“I just—” You paused, jaw tightening slightly. “He gets mean when he drinks. You know that. But tonight was… different.”

Joel didn’t speak, just nodded for you to keep going.

“He said I was ungrateful. That I acted like I was better than him. Like I thought I didn’t need anyone,” you said, your voice starting to tighten again. “I told him that wasn’t true. I was just trying to calm him down, but he wouldn’t listen. He shoved a chair over. Said if I thought I was so grown, then I could go be grown somewhere else.”

Your hands trembled again, and Joel felt his own fingers curl slightly where they rested on his leg.

You didn’t notice the way his jaw clenched. The quiet way his gaze sharpened, hardening under the softness as the picture of what had happened grew clearer.

“He didn’t let me grab my phone,” you said. “Or my shoes. Nothing. Just opened the door and told me to get the hell out.”

Joel’s chest rose and fell with a slow breath, controlled, but you could feel something shift in the air beside you.

You didn’t recognize it. But he did.

It was anger.

It started as a flicker in his stomach the moment you said he pushed you out. But now it was burning, low and steady. Not just anger, but something deeper. Protective. Dangerous in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

You’d always been his buddy’s kid. The sweet girl who made him smile without even trying. But hearing you now… sitting there beside him in his clothes, hair damp and eyes rimmed pink, trying so hard not to fall apart—it made something hard and cold settle in his chest.

He should’ve been there.

He should’ve known.

You sniffled softly, not even realizing how quiet he’d gone.

“I just kept walking,” you whispered. “Didn’t even think. I guess I just… ended up here.

Joel looked at you then, really looked at you.

And something in his expression shifted. his voice low, but laced with something sharp, bitter at the edges.

“That son of a bitch…” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

You blinked, startled by the words, but he wasn’t done. His voice stayed quiet, but it was firmer now, heavier.

“He put his hands on you? Kicked you out in the damn rain?” His jaw worked as he sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What the hell was he thinkin’?”

You didn’t know how to respond. You just sat there, small in his clothes, your hands tugging gently at the sleeves again.

Joel let out a slow breath, then leaned back, trying to steady himself. His voice softened again.

“I should’ve been checkin’ in more,” he added, glancing over at you. “Should’ve known somethin’ was wrong.”

You looked at him quietly, heart aching at the way he said it. Like he blamed himself. Like he cared more than you’d ever let yourself hope he still did.

But instead, You shook your head, biting your lip. You didn’t want to seem like it was his fault, it wasn’t. Was it..?

“I should’ve said somethin’ sooner,” you murmured. “I should’ve told someone.”

Joel shook his head.

“No. This ain’t on you.”

You finally looked up at him then, and for a second, the man who’d always called you sweet names and teased you gently over burnt Christmas cards was gone.

This Joel was still gentle. Still calm.

But there was steel in his eyes now. A quiet fury, buried deep, but real.

And you weren’t sure if it was meant for your dad, or for himself.

Joel leaned forward again, his forearms resting heavy on his knees, calloused hands clasped tight together. The TV still flickered on in the background, casting pale light across the living room, but neither of you were paying it any attention.

You glanced over at him, noticing the way his brow was pinched, the way his eyes didn’t move from the floor.

“I… I don’t want you to be upset,” you said quietly, hesitant. “It’s not really your fault, Mr Miller. I probably, should’ve kept my mouth shut. I made it worse.”

He turned his head slowly, eyes meeting yours.

“That ain’t true,” he said, low and rough. But you looked away again, still picking at your sleeve.

“I know how he gets,” you continued, your voice soft and tight. “I should’ve just walked away. Stayed quiet like I usually do…”

Joel’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking. You didn’t see the way his expression twisted, how his guilt sank deeper, heavier.

Because all he could think about was how your dad hadn’t always been this way. He used to be different. Not perfect, but not… cruel. Not violent.

Back then, when you were younger, when Sarah was still around, when there were beers on the porch and a game playing low in the background, everything felt simpler. Lighter.

Joel used to come by all the time. You’d sit nearby and try to join their conversations, and he’d tease you gently, always patient with your little questions and awkward crush. And your dad… he wasn’t great, but he wasn’t this.

Then something shifted.

Your dad got meaner. Shorter tempered. Drinking more. Joel started noticing the way he’d snap at you in passing, the way he brushed you off coldly. How you’d get quiet around him, nervous, like you were walking on eggshells.

And Joel stopped coming around so much.

He told himself it was just life getting in the way. Work. Sarah getting older. But deep down, he knew the truth.

He couldn’t watch it happen. Couldn’t be around your father without wanting to knock some sense into him.

And now here you were, curled up beside him in borrowed clothes, cold and small and hurting.

And he hadn’t been there.

“If I’d stayed around… if I’d checked in”

He swallowed hard, hands still knotted together.

“You didn’t make anything worse,” he said finally, voice thick. “Don’t ever think that. That man’s lucky I wasn’t there tonight.”

You glanced at him, and for the first time, saw the fire behind his words. Not just protectiveness, but something else. That weight in his chest, years in the making.

He still saw you.

And part of him was terrified he hadn’t seen you enough.

You looked at him for a long moment, the room quiet except for the soft murmur of the TV and the faint tap of rain still clinging to the windows.

There was something different in Joel’s eyes now. Still steady. Still warm. But deeper. Like something unspoken had just cracked open between you both.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know- I didn’t mean to wake you, Mr. Miller…”

Joel’s head turned toward you slowly, and for a second, there was the faintest curve to his mouth, small, almost wistful.

Mr. Miller.

God, you used to say it so sweetly, so earnestly. Even when you were barely tall enough to reach the countertop. He remembered the first time you called him that, probably seven years old, a little shy and serious, peeking around your dad’s leg and clutching a juice box. And every time after, no matter how many times he told you to call him Joel, it was always Mr. Miller.

He exhaled softly, something fond flickering in his eyes.

“I remember when you used to say that all the time,” he said, voice gentle now, like warm honey. “Every single visit. Hi Mr. Miller. Bye Mr. Miller. Always so polite.”

You looked down, suddenly feeling sheepish. “My dad made sure I had manners…”

Joel tilted his head just slightly.

“Yeah, well… you can drop the mister now,” he murmured. “You’re not a kid anymore. Just call me Joel.”

There was something quiet in the way he said it. Not sharp or dismissive, just honest. Like he was seeing you clearly for the first time in a long while.

You nodded slowly, still not sure if you could actually say it. It felt too strange in your mouth. Too grown.

But Joel didn’t push you. He just leaned back a little more into the couch, his posture easing, his tone softer.

“And for the record,” he added, eyes back on yours, “I’m glad you came here. You don’t gotta be sorry for that.”

Your breath caught a little, a warm swell pressing behind your ribs. You felt young again. And safe. But not like before. It was different now.

More aware.

More real.

And when Joel looked at you, really looked at you, you wondered if he felt that difference too.

You sat there in the quiet, your fingers toying gently with the hem of the sleeves that were far too big for you. The towel had warmed you up a little, and Joel’s clothes smelled like laundry and faint traces of cedar and something you couldn’t quite name, but remembered.

Your voice came out softer than you expected, barely above the low hum of the television.

“Would it… would it be okay if I stayed here tonight?”

Joel turned to look at you. His brows lifted just slightly, and there was the briefest pause, like the question caught him off guard.

Not because he didn’t want to say yes.

But because of course you should stay. After what happened, after what your father did, how could he not open his home to you? To the little girl he’s known since she was a baby.

But Still, he hesitated. Just for a second.

Not because he didn’t care. But because you weren’t that little girl anymore in a too-big T-shirt following Sarah around the backyard. You were older. Barefoot in his living room. Wrapped in his clothes. And the look in your eyes was something entirely different from the last time he saw you.

But Joel cleared his throat quietly, pushing the thought down. You needed a place to feel safe. That was all that mattered.

“‘Course you can,” he said, voice low, but certain. “Sarah’s room’s all cleaned out. She’s off at college now,” he said gently. “You can sleep in there.”

You blinked, your lips parting like you might protest. But Joel was already continuing, his tone patient.

“I’ll be just down the hall in my room, alright?.”

That quiet reassurance settled something in your chest.

You nodded, almost shyly. “Thank you…”

Joel stood, his movements slower, more careful than before. “Don’t gotta thank me, honey,” he said softly, the way he always used to. “Get settled in. I’ll grab you a blanket and some extra pillows”

And just like that, he turned toward the hallway, his broad figure disappearing into the warm, quiet house.

You sat there a moment longer, heart a little steadier now, hands still curled into the soft sleeves of his shirt.

You were really staying here.

In Sarah’s room. In Joel’s house.

And for the first time all night… you didn’t feel like you were in the way.

You stepped quietly into the bedroom, the soft creak of the old door sounding louder in the stillness of the house. It had been years since you’d stood here, years since you and Sarah sprawled across the bed laughing about nothing, painting your nails or talking about people from school like everything in the world was easy and small. You were 15 and she was 17.

Now the room felt… different. Not quite cold, but still. The air had a faint scent of old vanilla candles and laundry detergent, the comforting smell of a space that had been lived in and then carefully packed away.

The bed was made perfectly, with a smooth white comforter tucked into the corners, the kind of tidy only a parent would maintain after their kid left. The desk sat bare except for a ceramic dish holding three stretched-out hair ties and a lone bobby pin, like remnants of a girl who had left in a hurry. A dried-up pen rested in an old mug that once held makeup brushes or pencils or candy, maybe all three. The walls were mostly blank, but you could see the faint outlines where posters had once hung. Her favorite bands, probably. A couple of movie characters. A few pictures of the two of you, maybe, back when things were simple.

Your eyes drifted to the edge of the room where the carpet was slightly darker. That’s where her laundry basket used to sit, full of crumpled t-shirts and inside-out jeans. You remembered how she used to throw stuff around when she got ready, how her music would blast through the walls, loud enough to shake your bedroom when she stayed over.

But now the silence settled like a blanket, thick and a little heavy. You stood near the doorway, damp from the rain, arms folded loosely against your chest, the oversized shirt Joel gave you falling past your shorts. His scent, warm, musky, a little woody, lingered in the cotton, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes for a second and breathe it in.

You hadn’t felt safe all day.

And somehow, standing in this room with its quiet stillness and its faded memories, you started to feel it again.

Down the hall, Joel moved through the linen closet with the kind of tired hands that came from long days and long years. He pulled out a blanket, soft, thick, the one he’d always kept folded up in case Sarah got cold watching movies. Then a pillow. He paused, squeezing it once before tucking it under his arm.

His brow furrowed as he stood there, staring blankly at the shelf for a moment.

He didn’t know what the hell he was feeling.

She was just a girl. The same girl who used to trail after Sarah with stickers all over her arms, asking him questions about his truck or pretending to care about baseball stats just to be part of the conversation.

But that wasn’t who walked through his door tonight.

Tonight it was her, wet, shaking, in his clothes that hung off her frame in a way that made his stomach tighten. Not because of anything he wanted to feel. But because of everything he shouldn’t.

The softness in her face hadn’t changed, not really. But her body had. Her voice. Her presence. It rattled something in him.

“Shit…” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped away from the closet.

She’d grown up.

And maybe if he’d stuck around, if he hadn’t distanced himself once her father started turning bitter and mean, maybe he would’ve noticed it sooner. Maybe he could’ve been someone she called before walking the streets alone at night in the rain, wearing nothing but socks and shorts, looking like something fragile and forgotten.

Instead, she’d shown up at his door, eyes wide and wet, shoulders hunched like she expected to be turned away.

Joel clenched his jaw, adjusting the pillow under his arm and walking slowly toward the bedroom.

He didn’t know how this night would end. He didn’t even know how to look at her without feeling like the ground was shifting beneath his boots.

But he knew one thing for sure.

He wouldn’t let her feel unsafe again. Not here.

Not with him.

He nudged the door open gently with his shoulder, the quiet creak just enough to draw your attention. You sat at the edge of the bed, your legs dangling a little above the floor, back slightly hunched, hands folded in your lap. You looked so small like that. Wrapped up in his shirt, damp hair falling down your back in soft, dark strands. Your bare legs curled inward a bit, your socked feet barely brushing the edge of the carpet.

Joel hesitated in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, the pillow and blanket tucked under his arm. His eyes swept over the room, then landed on you, and lingered.

There was a softness in his gaze now, one he didn’t quite mean to show. But he couldn’t help it. You looked up at him slowly, not quite meeting his eyes, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to.

He swallowed, his voice a little rough when he finally spoke.

“Brought you these,” he said, stepping forward and placing the folded blanket and pillow beside you on the bed. “Should be comfortable enough for the night.”

You gave a quiet nod, your fingers gently smoothing the edge of the blanket even though it didn’t need it.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice still soft, still a little shaky.

Joel stood there for a beat longer than necessary. Just watching you. Noticing the way your shoulders curved inward, the way your eyes lingered on the far corner of the room like you were deep in something, something far away from here.

He didn’t want to leave you like that.

He let out a quiet breath, then crouched down slightly in front of you, not close enough to overwhelm you, but enough that you’d have to look at him if you wanted to respond.

“You alright?” he asked gently.

You nodded again. Then, after a pause, you finally looked up.

Joel’s chest tightened.

That look, it was the same one you gave him when you were younger and your dad had yelled too loud at the barbecue. Or when you’d come inside with a scraped-up knee and didn’t want Sarah to see you cry. That look of quiet embarrassment and vulnerability, like you weren’t sure if you were being a burden.

He hated it.

You opened your mouth, maybe to say something, but nothing came out. Your lips just parted, then closed again. You tried to hold eye contact, but it slipped away. You shook your head once, quietly.

Joel’s hand twitched, like he wanted to reach out, put a hand on your shoulder or gently touch your knee the way he would’ve back then, but he didn’t.

Instead, his voice softened even more.

“Alright, alright,” he murmured. “No pressure. Just… take a breath, honey. You’re safe here, okay?”

There it was again. That name. Honey.

It wrapped around your chest, squeezing.

You hadn’t heard it in so long. Not like that. He used to say it all the time when you were little, C’mon, honey, let’s get you inside, or That’s a good drawing, honey. Real good. You never liked hearing it from anyone else. Only him. From Joel, it felt like care. Like being seen.

You blinked quickly, looking down at your hands so he wouldn’t see the emotion tugging at your lashes.

“I’ll… I’ll be okay,” you whispered, more to yourself than him.

Joel stood slowly, but before he turned to leave, he paused at the doorway, glancing back at you one last time.

“I’ll be just down the hall. If you need anything, anything at all, you come get me.”

You nodded without looking up, but your lips quirked just barely.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Joel stared at you a beat longer.

Then, quieter, almost to himself, he murmured, “alright then.”

And with that, he stepped out, the door clicking softly shut behind him, leaving you with the blanket, the silence… and a heart just a little steadier than before.

The room was dark now, save for the faint glow of a streetlamp leaking in through the half-closed blinds. You laid curled on your side, Joel’s blanket pulled up to your chin, the scent of clean linen and his detergent wrapped all around you. The pillow was soft, too soft, almost. The kind that let your thoughts wander too easily.

You’d been staring at the same shadow on the ceiling for what felt like an hour.

Sleep just wouldn’t come.

Maybe it was the unfamiliar bed, maybe the echo of the day still buzzing under your skin, but more then anything it was the weather.

The rain had started as a gentle tapping against the window, barely noticeable at first. But slowly, it picked up, growing steadier, heavier, drops rolling down the glass in quick patterns. Then came the low, rumbling thunder. Distant at first, a slow growl behind the clouds.

But now it was louder. Closer. A sudden crack split the sky, followed by a deep, echoing boom that made you flinch under the covers.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your hand tightening slightly around the edge of the blanket.

You’d always hated thunderstorms.

You remembered once, when you were little, seven or maybe eight, and one rolled in while you were at Joel’s with your dad. Joel had noticed you trying to be brave, but he caught the way your shoulders jumped when the thunder hit. Without a word, he’d passed you a blanket and a glass of water and let you curl up on the couch near him and Sarah, the sound of his voice from the other room calming you more than the storm ever could.

You missed that feeling now. That safety.

Another loud boom cracked overhead, and you sucked in a breath, your eyes flicking toward the bedroom door like instinct.

Joel was just down the hall. But you didn’t want to bother him again.

Still… something inside you itched. That little part of you that still felt like a kid in a too-big world. Alone. Unsure.

Down the hall, Joel was dead asleep.

He’d barely made it into bed before he’d knocked out, body heavy with exhaustion. Work had drained him earlier, and the long hours he put in, paired with the sudden rush of concern when you’d shown up on his doorstep, had left him bone-tired.

The steady rhythm of rain outside didn’t stir him. Not yet, anyway.

But it stirred you.

You laid there, curled into a ball beneath the blanket, your knees tucked close, your face half-buried in the pillow. The thunder rolled again, deeper now, rattling the glass just faintly. You flinched, your breath catching, blinking fast.

You weren’t crying. Not really.

But your eyes burned a little.

And as you listened to the sound of the storm, your fingers curled tighter around the blanket.

He was so close. Just down the hall.

But would he mind?

Would it be too much?

You bit your lip and stared at the door, unsure if you’d ever stop feeling small in the quiet.

The clock on the wall ticked softly, its red numbers glowing faintly: 12:03 a.m.

Midnight.

You were still curled on your side, blanket wrapped tight around your legs, eyes wide open and fixed on the glowing sliver of light under the bedroom door. The storm outside had gotten worse, no longer just a gentle background hum, but a full-on downpour. The wind hissed between the trees, rattling leaves and creaking old branches.

Then, another flash of lightning. Bright enough to paint the entire room for a split second in stark, silver light.

You barely had time to brace yourself before the thunder followed, cracking through the air like it had split the sky in two. Loud and sharp, like it was right outside the house. You flinched so hard your legs kicked against the sheets.

Your breath caught, chest rising and falling too fast now. Your hand flew up to press against it, trying to calm the thumping beneath your skin. But it didn’t help.

God, you hated this. You hated storms like this, when they felt too close, too loud, too heavy. Like they could crawl under your skin and shake you apart from the inside.

You turned onto your back, blinking up at the ceiling again. The soft darkness, the quiet of Sarah’s old room, it wasn’t enough anymore. It felt too quiet compared to the chaos outside. And it only reminded you how alone you were in here.

You glanced at the door again.

Joel was just down the hall.

But would it be too much to go to him?

He’d already done so much, took you in, gave you a warm shower, his clothes, his daughter’s bed. You didn’t want to seem childish. You didn’t want to push boundaries. But…

Another flash, crack, this time even louder. Your hand gripped the blanket tightly.

That was it.

With slow, careful movements, you peeled the covers back. The air outside the blanket was cooler now, and goosebumps instantly formed on your legs. You slid your socked feet to the floor quietly, wincing slightly as one creaked against the wood.

Your hair, now dry, hung in soft strands down your back, sticking a little to your skin from the residual warmth of sleep and nerves. You gently pushed it behind your ears as you stood.

Hesitation curled in your stomach, heavy and anxious.

You stepped to the door, standing in front of it with your hand hovering over the knob.

You could go back to bed. You could wait it out. You should wait it out…

But then came another crack of thunder, louder than any before, almost shaking the glass in the window. And that was enough.

Fingers trembling slightly, you turned the knob.

And with a soft breath, you stepped out into the quiet hallway.

The hallway was dark, lit only by the pale wash of moonlight seeping in through the front window and the occasional flicker of lightning flashing through the curtains. You walked slowly, the wood floor cool beneath your socks, your fingers brushing the wall as you passed by old picture frames and familiar corners.

Joel’s door was at the end of the hall, just like you remembered. Just like he said, come to him if you need anything.

It was slightly cracked open.

You swallowed softly, your steps faltering as you reached it. For a moment, you just stood there, the soft rumble of thunder in the distance filling the silence around you. The house smelled faintly of rain and fabric softener and the faint trace of Joel’s cologne still lingering in the air.

You gently reached out, pushing the door just enough to see inside.

The room was dark, but your eyes adjusted quickly. Joel lay on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting loosely beside his head. His chest rose and fell in steady, even breaths, his brow relaxed in sleep. The blankets were half pulled over him, and his face was turned slightly toward the door, catching a sliver of the lightning’s glow as it flashed outside.

He looked peaceful. Tired, but at ease.

You didn’t want to disturb that.

Your hand lingered on the doorframe, your weight shifting between your feet as you stood there in hesitation. Maybe you should go back. Maybe this was silly, maybe it was childish. The last thing you wanted was to make him think you couldn’t handle being alone in a room anymore.

But another clap of thunder cracked above the house, louder this time, and you jumped slightly, your breath catching in your throat. You felt the sting in your eyes before you could stop it.

You didn’t want to cry again.

Not in front of him. Not like this.

But you didn’t move. You stayed there in the doorway, frozen in the space between needing comfort and being afraid to ask for it.

Joel stirred slightly at the sound of the thunder, his brow twitching before his breathing evened again.

Still asleep.

You took a quiet, shaky breath, your hand slowly sliding down from the doorframe.

What if he didn’t want to be woken up?

What if he was mad?

What if you looked like the same scared little girl he used to tease gently during storms and cookouts?

But what if… he still cared?

Your voice barely made a sound as you whispered, “Mr. Miller…?”

No response.

Your lips parted to try again, quiet, unsure.

But You just stood there, just a little longer, hands curling into the sleeves of your borrowed shirt. His room felt warmer than the rest of the house, full of something familiar. Safer. But… you couldn’t do it.

He looked so peaceful. Tired. And after everything, after taking you in without hesitation, you didn’t want to seem selfish. You didn’t want him to think you were being dramatic over something as silly as thunder.

So, slowly, you stepped back.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you turned, bare feet light on the floor. You exhaled softly, already about to head down the hall in your mind. But then—

Creaaak.

A loud, sharp groan from the floorboard beneath your foot split through the quiet like a gunshot. You froze instantly, lips parting, eyes wide in horror.

Behind you, there was a shift. A rustle of blankets.

A low, gravelly voice, tired and rough from sleep.

“…What the hell…”

You slowly turned around, just enough to see Joel blink blearily in the darkness, his hand rubbing over his face before settling on his chest as he rolled on his back. His brows furrowed as his eyes adjusted, squinting through the low light.

When they landed on you, standing there like a child caught sneaking out, they softened slightly, but only just.

“…You alright?” he asked, his voice hoarse, a little rough with sleep. Then, with a grumble, “Why’re you creepin’ around like that? It’s the middle of the night.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what to say, arms instinctively crossing over your chest.

“I— I was just…” you whispered, eyes flickering down, cheeks warm with embarrassment.

Joel let out a low, tired sigh and shifted to sit up a little, propping himself up on one elbow, still trying to shake off the haze of sleep. His voice was less annoyed now, but still heavy.

“You need somethin’?” he murmured, watching you closely, his voice softer than before. “Or you just gonna haunt my doorway like a damn ghost?”

You stood frozen in the doorway, fingers tugging anxiously at the hem of the oversized shirt he gave you earlier. His shirt. Your voice was barely audible under the hum of the rain and the soft clap of distant thunder.

“I… I got scared,” you admitted, eyes cast low. “The thunder, the lightning… I know it’s dumb.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand across his face. He wasn’t mad at you. Not really. He just hadn’t had much sleep, between work and you showing up at his door soaked through and shaken, and now it was past midnight and your voice sounded like it used to when you were little, all soft and trembling. That’s what got to him.

He leaned up on one elbow, blinking blearily toward the door.

“Christ,” he muttered, voice gravelly. “You still get spooked by storms, huh?”

You shifted your weight, chewing your lip.

“Didn’t think I still would,” you murmured.

Joel huffed, more to himself than to you, rubbing the back of his neck as he sat up further. But the second he looked at you again, your now soft dry hair falling soft over your shoulders, that hesitant look in your eyes, it all hit him at once.

You weren’t that little girl anymore.

But in that moment, all he could think about was how many times you’d crept out during storms, curling up beside him on the couch while Sarah snored away in the other room. No words, just a quiet, innocent need for comfort. And how natural it always felt to give it.

But this, now, wasn’t so simple.

Not with the way your body filled out that shirt.

Not with the way something deep in his chest stirred just looking at you, a twinge of guilt shadowing the way his thoughts flickered dark for half a second, wondering how your warmth might feel curled beside him again. How small you’d feel in his arms now.

Joel dragged in a breath, low and tired.

“Used to be you’d sneak out to the couch,” he said gruffly, gaze lingering just a beat too long. “Tryna act like you weren’t scared. Like I wouldn’t notice you pressed up against my side like a puppy.”

You blinked, surprised he remembered. Your voice was small. “You never said anything.”

“‘Cause you looked like you’d cry if I did,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Always been soft.”

He let the words settle. Then, after a pause, his jaw worked a little and he sighed, half annoyed with himself, half too tired to care.

“You comin’ in or just gonna stand there all night?”

You hesitated a little longer, still standing in the doorway with your fingers curled in the fabric of the shirt. His shirt.

Your voice came out quieter this time, almost unsure.

“Are you sure it’s okay if I stay? Just… just until it passes?”

Joel looked at you again, eyes bleary but steady. He could see it, how nervous you were. Not just about the storm, but about being here, in his room, asking him for comfort like you used to. But it wasn’t the same now. You weren’t seven anymore. You weren’t some little girl needing to be scooped up and soothed.

You were grown.

And your body, Jesus, your body looked nothing like the last time he’d seen you. You’d filled out in every way, but there was still that wide-eyed softness in you. That part that always looked to him like he could make the world okay again if he just said the right thing.

He shifted on the bed, patting the other side with a quiet sigh.

“Yeah, darlin’. Just ‘til it passes.”

You gave a shy little nod before walking in slowly, the rain outside soft against the windows but thunder cracking again somewhere far off. You were trembling just a little when you got to the bed, and you climbed in carefully, like you didn’t want to disturb anything. Like you were scared of waking a moment that didn’t belong to you.

Joel didn’t move.

You settled on your side, back to him at first, curled slightly beneath the covers he pulled back for you. The warmth of the bed hit you instantly, and it was hard not to sigh in relief. But it wasn’t just the heat from the sheets or the thunder outside easing off, it was him. His presence. Just knowing he was here, that he let you in.

Your heart beat a little faster as it all hit you.

You were lying next to Joel Miller. The man who used to pat your head when you showed him little drawings. The man you used to make Christmas cards for. The man you secretly loved ever since you were thirteen and realized he wasn’t just “Mr. Miller,” your dad’s friend… but someone who made you feel safe. Warm. Special.

And now, here you were, older, softer, scared again. But this time, it felt different.

He was right there. His breath slow behind you. His body warm. And you couldn’t help but wonder…

Did he feel it too?

You lay still at first, curled close to the edge of the bed like a guest who didn’t know the rules. The blankets were warm, and the pillow soft, but your body couldn’t quite settle. Your back was to him, and your fingers were knotted into the sheets like they might keep you anchored.

The storm outside was still rumbling, the thunder not as sharp now but deep and constant, like it was pacing around the house.

You weren’t even sure if Joel was awake. You thought maybe you’d imagined him shifting behind you, until his voice came, low and rough with sleep, but clearly not imagined.

“What’re you doin’ all the way over there?” he muttered, grumbling like it physically pained him to speak in the middle of the night.

You stiffened a little, eyes wide in the dark. “I—” You swallowed, heat creeping into your face. “I didn’t wanna bother you…”

There was a pause. He let out a quiet sigh, one of those Joel sighs you remembered from when he’d get tired of your dad’s nonsense during cookouts. Tired, dry, and somehow still patient.

“Jesus,” he murmured, not harsh. Just tired. “You think I told you to come in here just to let you freeze over there like a damn guest?”

Your face burned. You bit your lip, heart pounding louder than the rain.

Carefully, so slowly it felt like a small journey, you shifted under the covers. Inch by inch, you moved closer. You could feel his body heat before you were even halfway there, and by the time your shoulder was only a breath away from his, you hesitated again. But something in you wanted more than just his warmth. You needed to feel him. To be close.

So you moved the last few inches, gently laying your head near his shoulder. Not on him—at first. Just close enough to breathe easier.

And then you gave in. Your cheek pressed gently against his chest, and your arm curled in toward yourself, fingers brushing his side as you tried not to overthink it.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But God, the way he felt, his chest rising and falling steady beneath your cheek, the familiar scent of him wrapping around you like a second blanket. That old scent. Soap and cedar and worn cotton and Joel.

You hadn’t felt this safe in a long time.

A tiny, involuntary sound left you, a soft, relieved sigh as your body relaxed. You nuzzled in just a little more, eyes fluttering shut as his warmth finally started to melt the cold from your skin.

Joel hadn’t said anything, but you could feel the tension in his chest. Not discomfort. Just… hesitation.

You knew that too. He didn’t know what to do with you now, not like this. Not grown, not curled up in his bed wearing his shirt, looking for comfort only he could give.

He didn’t say anything right away. But his chest shifted beneath you, his breathing slowing. And then, finally, his hand came up, tentative, rough, warm, and hovered near your back. Not touching. Just close. Like he was reminding himself that you were real.

You didn’t know if he’d fall asleep again. But you knew you would.

Because this was all you needed.

Joel stared at the ceiling.

The room was dark, save for the occasional flicker of lightning behind the curtain, and the steady sound of rain tapping on the window filled the quiet space. But even with the storm softening into background noise, sleep wouldn’t come.

He could feel her beside him, soft and warm, her breath slow and even now that she’d finally calmed down. She’d melted against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her head resting gently on his chest, her hand tucked near her own heart, curled in the way people do when they finally feel safe.

Joel’s arm had settled around her without much thought. His hand now rested lightly at her waist, fingers lax but aware. He hadn’t meant to, at first it was just instinct, like the way he’d comforted Sarah when she was little, or even how he used to drape a blanket over her when she’d fall asleep on his couch during those late visits.

But this was different.

She wasn’t that little girl anymore.

The shape of her, the softness of her body as it pressed into his side, it was impossible not to notice. He hadn’t seen her in so long, and now here she was, grown, hurting, and laying in his bed like this was where she belonged. And Joel didn’t know what to do with that.

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as he tried to steady the tide of thoughts rising in his chest. It wasn’t just that she’d changed, it was the way she still made him feel responsible, like her well-being was somehow in his hands. Maybe it always had been.

And dammit, part of him wished he had stayed around. Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe she wouldn’t have shown up at his door soaked to the skin, eyes full of tears, begging silently for someone to just see her.

He shifted slightly, just enough to look down at her.

She looked peaceful now. Fragile, even. Her damp hair lay across his shirt, and her face, still youthful, but no longer childish, was softened by sleep. He remembered that face years ago, peeking up at him from a guitar she didn’t want to learn, or from behind her dad’s leg at a cookout.

And now here she was.

Joel let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, low and quiet.

She stirred a little but didn’t wake. Just nestled in closer, chasing his warmth in her sleep. And God help him, Joel tightened his arm gently around her, just enough to hold her there, just enough to keep her safe for one more night.

“Jesus,” he murmured under his breath, barely audible. “When the hell did that happen?” Referring to you growing up. Your once small body, developing.

Sleep would come for her.

But for him… maybe not just yet.

I had to freaking make this two parts since it’s so much so part 2 is just pure smut

[sturnsblogs]

BOYFRIEND MATERIAL

Fratboy!Chris X Toxic!Fwb!Reader

—

Chris didn’t stop texting her.

You kinda knew he wouldn’t, but you were trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. Trying not to assume the worst, even though your gut already knew. He had a pattern—and it was messy.

What was going through Chris’s head, though, was something entirely different:

If Y/N’s jealous… why not keep doing it?

A few weeks passed. You barely heard from him. Maybe once a week, if that.

A casual:

“Come over.”

Or:

“Can I slide through?”

Just for a quickie. Then gone.

No cuddling. No sweet moments. No check-ins. Just his body, then silence.

Tonight, Alia came over. You’d been needing girl time—bad. She laid across your bed, legs in the air, your favorite playlist humming softly in the background as you both munched on leftover chips and talked about everything and nothing.

Until she giggled.

Soft. Giddy. Familiar.

You glanced up.

“What?” you asked, suspiciously.

“Nothing, just Chris being stupid,” she said, smiling at her phone.

Your heart dropped.

“Chris?” you repeated, as casually as you could manage.

“Mhm.” She flipped her phone around and showed you a picture.

It was him.

Laying on her chest, her lipstick all over his face.

She swiped, showing you another—him kissing her jaw, clearly laughing.

The next one: a screen recording of him texting her.

Chris:

“i’m tryna be the reason your lipstick gets smudged again”

“why you playing hard to get when you already want me”

“tell me when i can see you again, pretty”

You blinked. Slowly.

She giggled again. “Isn’t he so funny?” she said. “He said I give better cuddles than any girl he knows.”

You felt sick.

“Wow,” was all you managed.

She glanced up. “You okay?”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. No. I just—he’s like that with everyone. Don’t catch feelings.”

She raised a brow. “Do you care?”

You forced a smile. “No. Why would I?”

But inside?

You were on fire.

Burning.

You sat still on the edge of your bed, trying to keep your expression from cracking. Alia didn’t even notice—too busy giggling and swiping through her messages with him.

“Oh my god—wait, look at this one!” she said, holding her phone out again. “He said I looked good in that red top I posted. And like… he never swipes up on my stories. I was shocked.”

You barely glanced. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, he said—and I quote—‘you tryna have me act up today.’” She laughed. “Like boy, relax. But it was cute. You can tell he’s not even tryna be like… sneaky. He’s just upfront.”

Your mouth felt dry.

She kept going, completely oblivious.

“And then the other day, I was at the flea market with my mom, and he texted me ‘pull up on me.’ I didn’t go obviously, but he kept sending me selfies like, ‘you sure?’ ugh, he’s so fine. He has, like, that lowkey charm. You know?”

You knew.

Too well.

She leaned her head back against your headboard, sighing like a girl who’d just found a new crush. “I dunno. Do you think he’s actually serious though? Like, would he go for a girl like me?”

You forced your voice to work. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“I mean… I don’t know. He’s always around, like, girls that are super chill. You’re close with him, right? Like, would it be weird if I did hang out with him more?”

Your stomach dropped, but you couldn’t even react.

So you just shrugged, fake as hell. “Nah. It’s not weird.”

Alia looked relieved. “Okay good. ‘Cause I lowkey like him. Don’t say anything though!”

You smiled—tight, cold, painful. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

But in your chest?

It wasn’t jealousy anymore.

It was betrayal.

And it hurt like hell.

—

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys @ribbonlovergirl @freshlyinlovewchris @whore4chris @matts-girlfriend @ariana3lovesu @sturnl0ve @cass-sturn @sturns-mermaid @sunrisemill @fadedstvrn @ikyoudreamofme @mattsdemi @kitkatbar1275 @skelet0nsinmyycloset-deactivate @lezleeferguson-120 @bells-sturn @sturniolosymphony @kenziesturniolo54 @kikirasweatsweathoho @emely9274 @cherryystemfemme @realuvrrr @zenithsturniolo @kier-with-a-k @eeyoresturnz @elizasturn @ribread03 @sturnslux3

[nowiminexileseeingyouout]

tough practice?

caitlin clark x reader

bottom!caitlin, top!reader, fingering + vibrator (praise kink if u squint)

a/n: first time writing for caitlin cause i never see fics for her anymore:(

With her long, dark hair a little unkempt from her strenuous practice, Caitlin walked inside the apartment. She appeared completely worn out and stressed. She throws her sports bag on the floor and heads to the bedroom in the hopes of finding some comfort in your healing presence.

You were already in bed, waiting for her with open arms. You could sense Caitlin's weariness and wanted nothing more than to alleviate her stress and bring a smile back to her face. "Rough practice today?" You asked softly, patting the space beside her on the bed.

Caitlin nodded, crawling into bed and melting into your arms after finally letting herself unwind. "Mmm, you have no idea," she murmured, pressing her face against your neck. "I'm so tense and god, I just really need you right now…"

“You're so needy for me aren’t you.” you tease as you begin to massage Caitlin's shoulders and back, feeling the knots of tension slowly dissipating under your touch. You leaned in close, Your warm breath tickling Caitlin's ear as you whispered, "Don't worry, baby. I'll take care of you. I'm going to make you feel so much better..."

Caitlin shivered in anticipation, a soft moan escaping her lips as your hands slipped beneath her shirt and caressed the smooth, cool skin beneath. She arched her back slightly, longing for more of that irresistible touch.

You took the opportunity to pull Caitlin's shirt off completely, tossing it carelessly onto the floor along with her bra. You took a moment to admire Caitlin's tight, athletic body, your fingers tracing along the curves of her breasts. Caitlin's nipples hardened under the attention, begging for more stimulation.

Unable to resist, you captured one of her nipples in your mouth, swirling your tongue around it and sucking gently. Caitlin gasped, tangling her fingers in your hair pulling and holding you close. The wet heat of your mouth felt incredible on Caitlin's sensitive flesh.

As Caitlin lavished attention on her tits, your other hand slid down Caitlin's taut stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her shorts. Caitlin lifted her hips eagerly, allowing you to remove them. Now exposed in just her panties,

Your fingers deftly slid beneath the damp fabric of Caitlin's panties, feeling the heat emanating from her core. You could tell just how aroused and eager Caitlin was, her folds already slick with need. Slowly, teasingly, she began to rub along Caitlin's slit, not quite touching where she needed it most just yet.

"Mmm, you're so wet already, baby," you purred, giving Caitlin's clit a fleeting graze with the pad of your finger. "I love how sensitive you are, always so responsive for me"

Caitlin whimpered and bucked her hips, trying to gain more friction against your finger. "Please," she begged, her voice breathy with desire. "I need more... touch me properly!"

you smirked at the desperation in her tone. loving how easy you could reduce this strong, athletic woman to a needy, pleading mess. Pulling Caitlin's panties to the side, you finally gave her what she wanted, two fingers plunging deep into her dripping cunt.

"Oh fuck, yes!" Caitlin cried out, her inner walls clenching greedily around the welcome intrusion. you began to pump your fingers in and out of Caitlin's tight hole, curling them just right to rub against that sensitive spot inside that made her see stars.

Caitlin's moans and whimpers grew louder and more frequent as you fingered her with increasing intensity. At the same time, your mouth continued its assault on Caitlin's breasts, suckling and nipping at her nipples until they were red and throbbing.

Lost in a haze of pleasure, Caitlin didn't even realize you had retrieved the vibrator from the bedside drawer until she felt the buzz of the toy pressing against her swollen clit. She nearly screamed at the sudden intense stimulation, her back bowing off the bed.

You held her hips down, keeping her in place as you pressed the vibrator harder against Caitlin's sensitive clit. At the same time, picking up the pace of your fingers pumping in and out of Caitlin's clinging walls. The dual assault on her clit and pussy quickly pushed Caitlin to the edge of her release.

"Fuck, I'm gonna... ahhh... I'm gonna come!" Caitlin's body began to tremble uncontrollably as the intense sensations consumed her. You could feel her walls fluttering and tightening, signaling her impending climax. Determined to make this orgasm incredible, you scissored your fingers inside Caitlin's clenching pussy and pressed the vibrator harder against her throbbing clit, rubbing it in tight circles.

"Come on, baby," you encouraged, your voice a low, seductive. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come all over my fingers and this toy. Be a good girl for me cait."

With a final cry of your name, Caitlin's body went rigid as the most intense orgasm of her life ripped through her. Her pussy spasmed almost violently, gushing and squirting her release all over your plunging fingers and the vibrator. Wave after wave of pure ecstasy crashed over her as she rode out her high, her juices drenching the sheets beneath her.

You worked her through it, gently pumping your fingers and rubbing her clit until the last aftershock subsided. Finally, you slowed your movements, easing Caitlin down from her euphoric high. As Caitlin collapsed back onto the bed, utterly spent and satisfied, you withdrew her fingers and turned off the vibrator.

You leaned down to capture Caitlin's lips in a deep kiss. "That's my good girl," you praised."You took it so well. I'm so proud of you for letting go."

Caitlin could only hum in contentment, a blissful smile on her face as she gazed up at you with hazy, adoring doe-like eyes. In that moment, all the stress and tension from practice melted away, and was replaced by an incredible sense of bliss and complete relaxation. She knew she was exactly where she needed to be in her girlfriend's loving arms.

[sulumuns-dootah]

(I forgot the lore about demons visiting earth so just pretend this works LOLOL) How do you think the kings and maybe even Foras be like visiting earth in a human disguise with MC and witnessing them be possessive and bolder (think like slinging their arm around them, obvious flaunting hand holding, etc) when other humans hit on him? Thank youu I love your writing and your interpretation of scenarios they're so fun💕

WHB kings (+ Foras) reaction to reader being more posessive when someone hits on them

⟡ Masterlist ⟡ 

A/N: Hehe, I got this request in January and, funnily enough, got to it now that we actually have an event in the human world :D

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Oho?

What is this?

There's no way Satan just saw you do that

This is so unlike the you he's gotten used to in Hell

So out of character and... so hot

Safe to say that your next destination is some remote back alley or smth

Don't think even for a second that he missed the subtle glow of anger around your body

       ༺☆༻

Funnily enough, Mammon won't even realise that he's being hit on

All his subjects act like that too, so nothing's out of the ordinary, no?

But that's when you latch onto his side, glaring at the other person until they get the message

He'll just pat your head, kinda puzzled, when they finally leave

You'll have to patiently explain to him what just transpired

Will actually be proud of you for trying to protect what's yours

       ༺☆༻

Someone coming up to Levi is kinda rare

With how scary and disgusted with everyone he looks

But the unmistakeable tinge of jealousy in the air alerts him that something's up

His head snaps to you to see your intense stare at anyone around you

At first he's unsure what is going on but then he notices the way other humans are looking at him

Suddenly everything makes sense

Your possessiveness over him endears him so he'll make sure to reward you for it later :)

       ༺☆༻

On the other side of a coin

Foras gets approached all the time

The first time you enter yourself into the conversation by slipping your hands around his waist he gets startled

He's never seen you display such boldness before

But the more it happens, the more he enjoys it

Still, though, he doesn't want you to feel like you have to do it bc his dedication to you is unavavering

And he makes sure to remind you of that every time

       ༺☆༻

Oh this lovable bastard

The moment he notices how possessive you get when he talks to someone other than you, will start doing it on purpose

He'll try to get as much people to stop him as he can just so he can feel you quietly seethe

Even when you tell him to stop, he won't... unless...?

The next time someone approaches him, smile brightly and say 'Oh, isn't he wonderful? And he's great friends with all his exes, including me!'

Yeah, he's pretty cool and ...???

Exes? You?

Safe to say he won't continue that little teasing game of his anymore

       ༺☆༻

With Belphie you don't even need to get possessive bc he ultimately shuts down anyone who tries to talk to him even for a valid cause

'Sir, you can't walk in there!' *ignores*

So when someone tries to hit on him, he'll just ignore them and pull you closer or lean on you more

The person doesn't need to feel disappointed though, bc Beleth is usually following the two of you and he isn't as rude as Belphie and will hand his summoning instructions to anyone interested

And you can bet he will be sleeping soundly for the time being with the amount people he gets

       ༺☆༻

To make things even worse, Asmo gets approached by people he already knows

And even if you do try to establish possession over him, both the person and Asmo will just shrug it off

There's no need to storm off or pout for long tho

Eventually, Asmo will introduce you as his partner and the person will finally get the hint to fuck off

"Huhu, you're really cute while jealous. Say, on the way I saw a perfect back alley, should you want to remind me to whom I fully belong."

       ༺☆༻

The way I see Luci (having whopping 0 of his cards :D), he strikes me to be really awkward when someone he doesn't know approaches him out of the blue

Here, your task is to come up wiht an excuse to pull the demon away from the person

"Terribly sorry, but me and my fiancé are already running late to his brother's 5th aeon birthday party"

It doesn't go unnotice that you called him your finacé, though :)

And to be completely honest, despite the idea of engagement being not common in Hell, Luci likes that title more than just 'boyfriend'

[oikarma]

war of the foxes

pairing: max verstappen x teammate!reader

summary: max verstappen stays and his teammate will leave. this is a very old story. there is no other version of this story.

a/n: angst. also considering the current state of things, this is an au where red bull has their shit together 😊

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You had always known what people said about the second Red Bull seat. It was a curse. A never ending machine of hopefuls chewed up and spat out, careers destroyed before they even had a chance to shine.

For years you'd carefully tread around it. Now it was going to swallow you hole.

The call had come mid-season-an opportunity, they called it. A test, a challenge. You'd been performing well with Yuki Tsunoda, enough to get noticed, enough to make them wonder if you could be the one to break the cycle. The one who could stand beside Max Verstappen, not behind him. (That was already too hopeful. You should've known right there and then when they made the offer. No one was good enough to be Max Verstappen, least of all you.)

You should have been excited. And maybe, for a moment, you were. But excitement dulled quickly when you saw the way Max looked at you.

Not with condescension. Not with the dismissive arrogance he'd had for some of your predecessors. No, what unnerved you was the worry.

Max Verstappen was worried about you.

He never said it outright, but you could feel it in the way he watched you in the paddock. Before briefings, he'd stand outside the door and look at you not-so-subtly. When you were going through data, he'd be busy burning a hole through the side of your head. Even in the way he'd been just a little too careful in wheel-to-wheel racing with you. Max Verstappen didn't hesitate, but here he was, risking his wins for a little girl like you. You didn't like the way he acted. Like he knew what was coming. Like he had already seen this story play out before and was just waiting for the inevitable crash.

"I know what you're thinking," you told him one night, after a long talk in the Red Bull hospitality.

Max didn't feign ignorance. "And?"

"And I don't need you to worry about me."

His jaw tightened ever so slightly, though the rest of his face remained unchanged. "You should be worried."

You forced a laugh. "If you're trying to psych me out, it's not going to work."

"I've seen what this team does to drivers who can't keep up."

You bristled, defensiveness sparking in your chest. "Who says I can't? Is it 'cause I'm a girl?"

Max shook his head. "That's not the point. Just don't let them break you."

And what did that mean? He left the room so you could mull over his words. They weren't meant to be demeaning. For you, they turned into an omen.

He wasn't afraid of anything. There was a reason he was called "Mad Max." But right now, he was afraid for you.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It was not an auspicious start.

Everything should have been the same-the car, the paddock, the routine-but it wasn't. The expectations were different. The pressure was different. The way people looked at you was different.

You weren't a prospect anymore. You weren't just another young driver on the grid: hell, you weren't even just "the girl driver." You were his teammate now. The one expected to measure up, to push Max Verstappen harder than anyone before you. The one expected to last.

You were still convincing yourself you could.

Max barely spoke to you before qualifying, but his words haunted you. And you felt him. Watching. Waiting. You knew it when you stepped into the garage, when you sat in the car, when your engineer's voice crackled into your earpiece, reminding you of your tire strategy.

Everything was set. Everything was calculated. Now, it was just you and the track.

The lap was clean. Fast. Not enough for pole, but enough to start on the front row, right beside Max. For the first time that weekend, you felt a flicker of relief. Maybe you could do this. Maybe the curse was just a myth.

Then the race started.

Let me tell you something. You were about to learn the hard way that Red Bull had never needed to curse anyone.

The pressure was enough to break them all on its own.

See, the car was fast. No one cared that you defended like hell against the Ferraris. No one cared that you held off Norris for lap after lap. All they cared about was the fact that you were fast enough. That should be a victory. But, enough...

Fast enough to challenge Max. Fast enough to make Helmut Marko smile that tight, pleased little smile. Fast enough to be what they needed you to be. The team orders came before the final stint. You heard them. You understood them. And a part of you really wanted to disobey them.

But you didn't.

You weren't stupid. You knew how this worked. If you made yourself a problem, they would find a solution. Like they found a solution for all his teammates before you. And how they would rip poor Yuki to shreds if you messed this up, too.

You stopped trying and let Max through. As you followed behind, your second-place trophy felt more like a warning than a reward.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

"You drove well."

You barely looked up as Max sat down beside you in the hospitality lounge. The champagne from the podium still clung to his suit, the scent sharp and sour in the air.

"Did I?" The words tasted bitter on your tongue, just as bitter as when you'd bit down on your tongue during the podium as not to cuss Max out. It should've been you.

Max sighed. "I told you it would be like this."

You exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "So what? I'm supposed to just accept it?"

"No. But you have to survive it."

You turned to him then, searching for something in his expression-something to make sense of the way he kept looking at you like he wanted to fix something that couldn't be fixed.

"Did you?" you asked.

Max blinked. "Did I what?"

"Survive it."

He paused.

"No."

Max leaned in just slightly, his voice barely above a murmur.

"But I won."

And maybe that was the difference.

Winning was everything. That was the Red Bull way, the way that had built Max Verstappen into a champion, the way that had kept a revolving door of drivers in that second seat. But no one ever stopped to ask what winning cost. No one wanted to know the answer.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The media barely let you breathe after your first race with the team.

"Do you think you'll challenge Max this season?"

"Were you frustrated with the team orders?"

"Is Red Bull finally going to have a real teammate for Max?"

Their words clawed at you, leaving wounds no one could see. You smiled, played the game, and gave them the answers they wanted.

"Max is an incredible driver, and I'm here to do my best for the team," you said sweetly.

A lie. A half-truth. Doing your best didn't matter if your best wasn't enough.

You trained harder. Pushed harder. Fought harder. Told yourself that if you were fast enough, they wouldn’t have a reason to hold you back.

It played out the same way every time. You were fast-fast enough for anyone else but this goddamn team. Every strategy call, every pit stop, every fraction of a second somehow tilted in Max’s favor. And you watched, helpless, as the gap widened. Not just on the track, but in everything.

You weren't his equal. You were never going to be. So it brewed, anger festering, murmured curses collecting, until the breaking point came under the lights of Singapore.

You had him. The tires were fresher, the DRS wide open, the car flying on the final stint. You could feel it-the moment slipping through his fingers, the moment that was finally yours.

The radio cackled.

"Hold position."

Your hands clenched around the wheel.

"Hold position," your race engineer repeated.

Max was slower. You were faster. The team-your team-was asking you to stop fighting, to accept second place, to accept that you would always be second best.

Every instinct screamed at you to ignore it. It was time to take what was yours.

The third call came. Less like a request, more like a threat.

"Do not race Max."

The same cold voice that had crushed the careers of men before you. You slowed and laughed, laughed so all the viewers could hear. You wanted them to know. It didn't matter how fast you were. You were defeated, for one single reason.

You would never be Max Verstappen.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Max watched you. Helmut Marko was talking, but you weren't listening. You were too busy staring at the telemetry, at the numbers that confirmed what you already knew.

You could have won and you should have won.

Max hadn't even seemed surprised.

"Why?" you asked, when the room had emptied, when it was just the two of you.

Max didn't answer right away. He sighed. He still smelled like champagne.

"Because that's how it is."

"Stop fucking with me," you snapped. "You know I was faster. You know I should have won.”

Max didn't flinch, even as you came closer. There was something tired in his expression. Like he'd seen this story before. "Yeah," he said simply. "You should have."

You waited for him to say more, for him to tell you how unfair it was, how wrong it was, how he'd fight for you to have a fair shot. But he didn't.

He knew. He had always known.

"They'll never let me beat you, will they?" you asked, voice hollow.

Max's hesitance was all the answer you needed.

"You were always going to lose," he admitted. "Even if you won."

He turned away first.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The silent sabotage became louder. Strategy calls that made no sense. Pit stops that stretched just long enough to cost you positions. Interviews where Christian Horner gave thinly veiled criticisms of your performance, where Marko said you needed to improve if you wanted to stay.

If you wanted to stay. They were only waiting to see how long it would take before you broke.

You held on longer than they expected. Longer than most, but not forever.

Abu Dhabi was your last race for Red Bull.

They framed it as a "mutual decision." A "parting of ways." They thanked you for your contributions. They praised your talent, held you as an inspiration for other women in motorsports, said they had no doubt you'd have a future in F1.

Just not with them.

Max didn't look at you during the press conference. You weren't sure if it was because he felt guilty. Or because he didn't.

The garage was quiet when you stopped by later that evening. Your name had already been stripped from the door. Hah. Max was still there.

You weren't sure why you'd come. Maybe to say goodbye. Maybe to tell him to go to hell. Maybe both. You know, "bye, have fun in hell!" When he finally turned to face you, all of your quips and one-liners vanished. You felt one thing only:

Resignation.

"You were right."

Max’s expression didn't change. His eyes flickered and betrayed him.

"You deserved better," he admitted.

"Yeah."

He said his last two words quietly, so quietly you might've missed them: "I'm sorry."

You stared at him. At the driver who had been your teammate, your rival, your measuring stick, your executioner. You nodded.

It didn't change anything.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: idk how i feel about this fic. this was very much me running with that one quote by richard silken: "somebody has to leave first. this is a very old story. there is no other version of this story." and i obviously heavily referenced it. is this a romance? i like to think it could be a romance, if red bull didn't force y/n's hand. but this is how the story goes.

on a side note i think i might write what happens after y/n leaves red bull because the ending makes me sad.

[izzih22]

Epilogue: Ours, Out Loud

Note: the final chapter of this series. Enjoy!!

The first time they told someone, it wasn’t planned.

It had been a bit since Paige left Virginia, and in that time, the two had gotten used to the rhythm of loving each other from afar. FaceTime calls that lasted until the sun rose. Stolen photos sent mid-practice with hearts drawn sloppily over their faces. Handwritten notes slipped into care packages—Azzi’s soft curls drawn in blue ink by Paige with the caption “My favorite painting.”

They were happy. Still private. Still theirs.

But when Azzi’s mom, Katie, came into Azzis room on a Friday night and Azzi layed in bed with her head tucked under Paige’s hoodie—Paige’s hoodie she was very obviously wearing again—it only took about three seconds for Katie to squint knowingly.

“You’ve been wearing that hoodie for days,” Katie said casually, sipping from a mug. “Is that your girlfriend’s or something?”

Azzi choked. Paige, visible one FaceTime, froze like a deer in headlights.

Katie blinked. “Wait—what.”

Azzi looked at Paige, then back at her mom. Her heart pounded.

Paige leaned over in screen and said gently, “Hi, Mrs. Fudd.”

Katie blinked again, then slowly broke into the warmest, smuggest smile Azzi had ever seen on her.

“Oh,” Katie said, setting her mug down. “So it is my daughter’s girlfriend’s hoodie.”

“Mooooom,” Azzi groaned, burying her face into Paige’s side.

“You didn’t tell me!” Katie laughed. “I’ve known for years you two were orbiting each other like little lovesick planets. I thought I was going to have to wait until your wedding to get the confirmation.”

“We… weren’t ready yet,” Paige said quietly, arm wrapping protectively around Azzi.

Katie’s teasing softened into something gentler. “I get that. Really. But I’m so happy for you both.”

Azzi peeked at her mom, cheeks flushed. “You’re not mad we didn’t say anything?”

“Mad? Sweetheart, I’ve been praying for this since… well forever,” Katie grinned. “Just promise me you’ll be kind to each other. Protect what you have.”

Paige smiled staring at Azzi and without thinking. “I already do.”

⸻

Telling Tim, John, and Jose was next. It came in the form of a chaotic game night. Paige and Azzi had joined as a team—playing Spades like they were trying to qualify for the Olympics—and when Paige casually dropped a “babe, your turn” mid-play, all three of Azzi’s family members stopped talking.

John blinked. “Wait, babe?”

Jose pointed. “Yo. Did Paige just—did you just say—”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Am I going to need to give a speech, or is this the part where I say I’m proud?”

Azzi laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. Paige smirked, unapologetic.

“We’re dating,” she confirmed, hand resting possessively over Azzi’s knee.

There was a pause. Then:

John: “Knew it.”

Jose: “Finally!”

Tim: “Took you long enough.”

Paige glanced sideways at Azzi, her smirk shifting into something tender. “Worth the wait.”

Azzi leaned her head on Paige’s shoulder and whispered, “Definitely.”

⸻

By the time they told Paige’s family, it was nearly summer. Paige flew home again, and Azzi joined a few days later—invited under the pretense of just “hanging out before training camps.”

Her mom had packed snacks for the flight. Paige had sent her a picture of her freshly cleaned room with the caption “Your throne awaits.”

They didn’t hide it anymore.

Azzi held Paige’s hand in the airport.

Paige carried her bags.

They shared a quiet kiss outside the terminal while waiting for Paige’s brother to pull up, and Paige didn’t care who saw.

The Bueckers’ home had always felt like a second one to Azzi—but this time, everything felt different. This time, she was more than Paige’s best friend. She was hers.

Paige’s mom, Amy, wrapped Azzi in a hug the second she stepped through the front door.

“I figured it out awhile ago,” she said softly against Azzi’s shoulder. “I just waited for you two to figure it out yourselves.”

Azzi laughed, teary-eyed. “We’re slow, huh?”

Amy smiled knowingly. “The best love stories take time.”

⸻

Late one night, curled up on Paige’s couch with a movie playing and no one else awake, Azzi rested her head on Paige’s chest and traced invisible shapes over her stomach.

“We still haven’t told our teams,” she whispered.

Paige’s fingers played with the ends of her curls. “I’m not rushing that. We’ll know when.”

“I kind of like it like this,” Azzi admitted. “Quiet. Just us. No noise.”

Paige kissed her forehead. “Me too.”

Azzi sat up slightly, propping her chin on Paige’s shoulder. “But when we do tell them, can we just… show up holding hands and let it click?”

Paige grinned. “Classic.”

“Dramatic.”

“My style,” Paige teased, stealing a kiss.

Azzi melted into it, soft and sweet, fingers gripping Paige’s shirt.

Their world was still theirs. Still quiet. Still sacred.

But now, it was also expanding.

⸻

The first time they called each other “girlfriend” out loud, it happened like this:

Azzi was on FaceTime, giggling at something Paige said while standing in the middle of a hotel hallway during a team trip. One of her teammates called out, “Who’s got you smiling like that?”

Azzi, without thinking, answered, “My girlfriend.”

There was a pause on the line. Then a chorus of whoops behind her.

Paige heard it and grinned into her pillow. “Smooth.”

Azzi looked proud. “About time I said it out loud.”

Paige smiled, heart full. “Say it again.”

“My girlfriend,” Azzi repeated, slower this time, letting it roll off her tongue like it belonged there.

And it did.

⸻

In the fall, when they returned to their teams, the long-distance routine became real again—but different now.

There were weekend visits and handwritten letters. A Spotify playlist that only grew longer. Pictures of workouts captioned “don’t forget who your favorite point guard is.”

They didn’t tell everyone, but they didn’t hide.

Paige would kiss Azzi’s cheek before boarding a flight. Azzi would wait by the gate to watch her disappear.

They had something real. Something rooted in years of friendship, loyalty, love.

And now they had each other, fully and openly.

No more waiting.

No more almosts.

Just Paige and Azzi. Together.

⸻

One Year Later

Their first anniversary was quiet.

They were at a small cabin near the lake where they used to train in the summer, completely off the grid for the weekend. No social media. No cameras. Just them.

Paige brought a photo album she’d been secretly building all year. Azzi brought a necklace with both of their initials carved into the back.

They sat by the fireplace, curled up under a blanket, music low, hearts full.

“You’re it for me,” Azzi whispered, forehead pressed to Paige’s.

“You always were,” Paige replied, voice soft, hands holding hers. “Even before we knew.”

And then they kissed, slow and deep, wrapped in a love that had taken years to grow but was now entirely theirs.

Their love wasn’t perfect.

But it was real.

And it was finally, finally theirs to share—with the world, with their families, with each other.

No more hiding.

No more waiting.

Just Paige and Azzi.