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pucksandpower · 1 month ago

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All the Way Home

Toto Wolff x Lauda!Reader

Summary: growing up, you were the closest thing to a princess the paddock had, but then your Opa died and your father stole everything that was supposed to be yours while making sure to ship you far away from everything you called home … until a chance encounter with Toto brings back hope you were too afraid to feel for years

“You know,” Toto mutters, flicking a drop of latte foam off his blazer, “I think this is the universe telling me to stop drinking oat milk.”

You blink up at him, brows lifted, expression somewhere between mortified and amused. “Or maybe just … stop walking while texting.”

The coffee has already started to soak into his shirt. You’re holding what’s left of yours — lid cracked, brown ring around the rim, paper sleeve twisted halfway off. The crowd of students on Harvard Yard swirls around you like you’re a rock in a stream.

He squints at you. There’s something — some flicker of recognition behind his eyes. And for a moment you think maybe you imagined it, but then he tilts his head. “I know you.”

You’re already taking a step back. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes,” he insists. “I do. That voice. That accent.”

“Lots of people have accents,” you reply, sharper than you meant. It’s reflex. That blade in your voice — that edge you honed after years of learning how to disappear without actually vanishing.

He studies you more closely now. Tall and deliberate. Eyes narrowing like he’s squinting through fog.

You turn. “Sorry about your shirt.”

“Wait-” He reaches for your arm but doesn’t touch. “Please. Just a second.”

You stop. Only just. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way he says it. Not commanding. Not pushy. Just … asking.

He exhales. “You’re her. You’re Niki’s-”

“Don’t,” you cut in. Quietly. But it lands like a punch.

Toto’s mouth snaps shut. You stare at him for a moment, jaw tight, chest taut with that old ache that always finds a way to crawl back up your throat.

You don’t want to cry. Not here. Not now.

He clears his throat, gestures vaguely to the now-soggy sleeve of his shirt. “You owe me a new coffee.”

You arch a brow. That old Lauda move. He sees it and his expression flickers. Something like heartbreak and wonder at once. “I don’t owe you anything,” you say, but it doesn’t have bite this time. It’s … tired.

“I was joking,” he says quickly, raising both hands. “Of course.”

You sigh. The cup in your hand is still warm, but it doesn’t comfort you. You glance down at it. Then back up.

He looks older. But grounded. Solid. He doesn’t wear grief like you do, but you can see it. There. Behind the smile lines. In the slower way he breathes.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he says, after a long pause.

“Clearly.”

“You’re a student?”

“Yes.” You hesitate. “A bit over a year left.”

Toto’s brows rise, impressed. “What are you studying?”

“Finance.”

He chuckles. “Of course you are.”

You shift, uncomfortable. “Why are you here?”

“Guest lecture,” he says. “Leadership series.”

You nod, even though you don’t really care. Not about that, at least.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” he adds, softer now. “None of us knew where you went.”

“That was the point.”

His jaw ticks. There’s silence between you again, thick and humming. The background chatter of students, birds, bikes zipping by — it all fades for a second.

“I looked for you,” he says. “After Niki passed.”

You feel that pang in your chest again, sharp and raw. You push it down. “Well,” you say, “my father made sure no one would find me.”

Toto’s face hardens. “I know.”

You cross your arms. “Do you?”

“I know what he did. I tried to intervene, but-”

“But it wasn’t your fight,” you finish for him. You don’t mean to sound bitter, but maybe you do.

He takes that. Doesn’t flinch. “I wish I’d made it mine.”

You blink. That hits somewhere unexpected.

“I’m sorry,” he adds.

You shake your head. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“It does.”

“No.” You take a step back. “It really doesn’t.”

He watches you, carefully. “Let me buy you another coffee.”

“I don’t want a coffee.”

“Something else, then.”

You hesitate. For a beat too long. He sees it.

You don’t know what it is. Something about his voice? His presence? The way he says it like it’s not an offer, but a peace treaty?

You look away. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t.” He shrugs. “I want to.”

You almost laugh. “What, out of guilt?”

“No,” he says. “Out of care.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

There’s a pause. He glances at your hand. The way your fingers tighten around the cup. The way your nails dig into the paper sleeve.

“How long has it been since you spoke to anyone from the paddock?” He asks.

You laugh. Just once. Dry. “Since the day I was forced to leave.”

“Anyone?”

You shake your head. “I cut everyone off.”

“But why?”

You look him dead in the eyes. “Because it was easier.”

His expression falters. Just slightly.

“I had to survive,” you continue. “And no one was going to save me. Not back then.”

He breathes out slowly. “I’m sorry we didn’t.”

“I didn’t say that to make you feel bad.”

“I know.” A pause. “But I still do.”

You look at him. For a long, quiet moment. This man who used to call you “mäuschen” when you would wander around the Mercedes garage in your soundproof headphones, gripping Niki’s hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth. This man who used to sneak you chocolate and sit you on the pit wall during debriefs, even when it pissed everyone off.

You exhale.

“It’s been a long time,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’m not the same person anymore.”

“Neither am I.”

You nod slowly. “You should change your shirt.”

He grins. “That bad?”

“Very.”

“Will you be at the lecture?”

You snort. “God, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have three final projects, a CAPSTONE defense, and a job offer for next summer I haven’t decided if I’m taking.”

“Impressive.”

You shrug. “It keeps me busy.”

“Where’s the offer?”

“London.”

That surprises him. He doesn’t say anything for a second. “You’d be closer to the team.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not why I’m going.”

He smiles. “Still. It’s a nice thought.”

You fidget with your sleeve. “I don’t know if I’ll take it.”

“Well,” he says, “if you do … maybe we talk again?”

You hesitate. That familiar voice in your head wants to say no. The one that’s protected you for years. But you look at him. And suddenly you’re eight again, in the paddock, sitting on Niki’s shoulders, watching Toto yell at a race strategist with one hand while handing you a juice box with the other.

Maybe you’re allowed to want a sliver of something soft again.

“Maybe,” you say.

He beams.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t get excited.”

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes. “Goodbye, Toto.”

He gives you a little wave as you turn to go.

But just before you vanish into the stream of students, you hear him call out. “Hey!”

You stop. Half-turn.

His smile is lopsided. “You look just like him, you know.”

You don’t ask who. You don’t have to. You nod. Once. And then you’re gone.

But he’s still standing there, dripping coffee and smiling like someone just handed him back something he thought was lost forever.

***

It starts with an email.

You’re curled up in a library armchair, shoes kicked off under the table, your laptop balanced on your knees. The screen glows with half-finished spreadsheets and a cruelly blinking cursor in the middle of a thesis sentence that refuses to write itself.

Your phone buzzes. You glance down, expecting a reminder or another notification about graduation regalia, but it’s an email.

From: [email protected]

Subject: An Apology, Properly This Time

You stare at it for a full ten seconds before clicking.

Dear Y/N,

I wanted to say again how sorry I am — for the coffee, for the past, for losing track of you when it mattered most.

It was a surprise to see you, but a welcome one. If you’re willing, I’d love the chance to talk properly. Maybe I can buy you that replacement coffee after all.

Wishing you a good rest of the semester.

Warmly,

Toto

You roll your eyes. Warmly. He always did try too hard to be approachable in emails. You and Niki used to laugh at that.

Your fingers hover over the keys. You type three words.

I’m fine, thanks.

And hit send. Done.

Or so you think.

***

A day later, another email.

This time, the subject line is just your name.

Y/N,

I hope you won’t mind me writing again. I keep thinking about what you said or didn’t say. I know you don’t want to talk about Niki. Or the past. But not seeing you at races has been … strange.

The paddock still feels like it’s waiting for you to show up. Sometimes I catch myself turning, expecting to see you sitting in your old seat on the pit wall.

You were always there. Every race. Every season. You were a part of this world.

I suppose I just wanted you to know … we noticed when you disappeared. And I’m sorry we didn’t say so sooner.

- Toto

This one sits in your inbox all afternoon. You reread it between lectures. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. Just nostalgia. But something in your chest cracks open just a little — hairline, nothing dangerous — and you find yourself hitting reply.

Fine. One lunch. You pick the place. I pick the time. You’re paying.

Don’t get used to it.

***

You meet at a little café near campus — somewhere he won’t be recognized, you hope. He’s already there when you arrive, sitting on the outdoor patio, awkwardly tall in a chair clearly not built for someone with his legs.

He stands when he sees you.

“You came,” he says, as if surprised.

You shrug, sliding into the seat across from him. “You wouldn’t shut up.”

He grins. “Persistent, not annoying.”

“Debatable.”

The waitress brings menus, but you barely glance at yours.

Toto peers over his. “You know what you want?”

“Anything that’s not ramen,” you mutter.

He chuckles. “That bad?”

“I’ve had instant noodles for dinner every night this week.”

There’s a pause. Then he looks up. “You don’t have to-”

“Don’t,” you say, sharply. “Don’t offer money. Or help. Or sympathy. This isn’t a rescue lunch.”

He nods slowly, lips pressing together. “Understood.”

A beat passes. The air between you cools. You open your menu again, mostly to avoid his eyes.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, “we would have taken care of you.”

You don’t look up. “You didn’t get the chance.”

Toto lets that hang in the air for a moment. He doesn’t push. That’s always been his thing. Niki used to call him the tactician. Playing the long game.

Finally, you sigh. “You know, I thought maybe the F1 world would forget about me. Or pretend I was never there.”

He tilts his head. “You really think that?”

You glance up. “Don’t tell me I’m some legendary mystery now.”

Toto smiles faintly. “Actually, yes. Sort of. You vanished. No one knew where you went. People asked.”

“Who?”

“Lewis. Nico. Valterri. Everyone at Brackley. People from Ferrari. Red Bull, even. You were … part of the paddock.”

“Were,” you say. “Past tense.”

He shakes his head. “Not for us.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything.

The waitress returns. You order something with actual protein and real vegetables, just because you can. Toto gets a quiche. You hand her the menus and fold your arms on the table.

“Fine,” you say. “You want the story? Here it is.”

He straightens slightly. He doesn’t interrupt.

“My father,” you begin, “never wanted me. Not when I was born. Not ever.”

Toto’s jaw tightens, but he nods for you to go on.

“I was an inconvenience. An accident. Opa … he took one look at me and decided I was his. That was it. He raised me like I was a second chance.”

Toto smiles, almost wistfully. “He adored you.”

You nod. “I know. I know he did.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard.

“He brought me to every race. Every meeting. Every single Grand Prix. I knew the names of every mechanic before I could spell my own. You were all my family.”

Toto doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“And then he died. And everything stopped.”

You pause. The air turns heavier.

“My father used a loophole in the will. Something buried in the Austrian estate law. It took a week — one week — and everything was gone.”

Toto’s brows furrow. “Gone?”

“Everything Opa left me. Every cent. Every asset. The houses. The trust fund. Gone.” You laugh, short and bitter. “He even took the watch Opa gave me on my sixteenth birthday.”

Toto looks like he’s going to be sick.

You go on. “Next thing I knew, I was on a plane to Geneva with a suitcase and a pre-paid tuition slip. No more phone. No contacts. No access. Just silence.”

“But the team-”

“I wasn’t allowed to reach out,” you say. “He made it very clear. And honestly? I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.”

Toto’s face hardens. “You were a child.”

You smile faintly. “Not really. Not after that.”

He runs a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

You tap the table. “So yeah. That’s how I went from the paddock to scholarship kid eating ramen.”

There’s a silence after that. A deep one. Then Toto says, voice low, “We would’ve fought for you.”

You meet his eyes. “It would’ve ruined you.”

“I don’t care.”

You believe him. But it doesn’t change anything.

“You’re here now,” he says. “That’s-”

“I work three jobs,” you interrupt. “One in the library, one at the student union, and one grading econ papers. I live on black coffee and stolen WiFi.”

His mouth opens, then closes again.

You smirk. “Still think I’m the girl from the pit wall?”

“I think you’re stronger than anyone I know,” he says, quietly.

That hits somewhere it shouldn’t.

The food arrives. You both pretend to eat.

Finally, you say, “Why did you really email me?”

Toto blinks. “I told you.”

“No,” you press. “Not just guilt. Not just Niki. Why?”

He hesitates. “Because I think you still belong with us.”

You laugh. “You don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“I think I’m getting a pretty good picture.”

You sit back, watching him. Measuring. “Lunch doesn’t mean anything,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’m not coming back.”

He nods. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“Then don’t take it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You always this persistent?”

He smiles. “Only for people who matter.”

You look away. Pretend the food matters more than the ache in your chest. But for the first time in years, the ache feels just a little less lonely.

***

Toto doesn’t sleep that night. He tells himself it’s the jet lag. Or the speech he has to deliver tomorrow. Or the espresso shot he downed at 8 PM like he wasn’t fifty-something with a tendency toward insomnia. But it’s not any of those things.

It’s you. It’s the way you said it — flat, matter-of-fact, like you were reciting the weather. My father stole everything. I work three jobs. I live on coffee and WiFi.

He’s haunted by the image of you sitting across from him at that little café, shoulders squared like armor, voice steady in a way that only people who’ve had to grow up too fast can manage. Niki would’ve lost his mind.

Toto rubs a hand down his face and opens his laptop. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for at first. Then he types:

Niki Lauda probate case.

The search results light up instantly. Austrian court records. Legal filings. Estate dispute. It’s all there — cold, clinical, digitized.

He clicks through, heart in his throat. And then he sees it. Niki’s will.

Filed one week after the funeral. A scanned PDF, official letterhead, stiff legalese.

To my only granddaughter, Y/N Lauda, I leave all personal assets, properties, and financial holdings under the Lauda Family Trust …

Toto’s mouth goes dry. There. In black and white. Niki left you everything. Just like he said he would.

But there’s more. A new filing. Contested. Your father’s name plastered all over it. Lawyers arguing that the will was “not consistent with existing family arrangements.” That Niki was “mentally compromised” in his final months. That the Lauda Trust should revert to the immediate heir under Austrian inheritance law.

And somehow they won.

Toto leans back in his chair, stunned. The legal gymnastics are breathtaking. Technicalities stacked on loopholes stacked on decades-old clauses Niki probably never even remembered existed. And no one fought it. No one even appealed.

You were seventeen. Still in shock. Still reeling. And they took everything.

He exhales sharply, pushes away from the desk. Stands. Paces. Swears under his breath. Then he grabs his phone.

***

You’re still half-asleep when it buzzes. Four times. You groan, roll over, slap at the screen until you find the call.

“Toto,” you croak, voice hoarse. “It’s six-thirty in the morning.”

“I read the will.”

You sit up. “What?”

“I pulled the court records. Niki left everything to you.”

Your stomach drops.

“Toto-”

“They stole it,” he says. “Your father. His lawyers. They-”

“I know,” you snap.

Silence.

You rub your eyes. “I know. Okay? I read it too. Years ago.”

“You didn’t tell me-”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

He makes a strangled sound, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “It matters.”

“No, it’s over,” you say. “The case is closed. It’s done.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Then, “You don’t believe that.”

“I do.”

“You’re lying.”

You grit your teeth. “Toto, I swear to God-”

“He left it to you,” he says again, quieter now. “He meant for you to have it. Every bit of it.”

You exhale, long and shaky. “And he’s dead. And I didn’t have the money or the power to fight them. So I lost.”

“But I do,” he says.

You freeze.

“No,” you say quickly. “Don’t.”

“You know I can help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not some lost cause you need to fix!” Your voice breaks. “I’m not a team project, Toto. I’m not a race strategy you can outmaneuver.”

His breath catches on the line.

And then, softly, “That’s not what this is.”

You close your eyes. “I can’t do this again. I can’t lose more.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

Another long silence.

Then he says, quietly, “You’re allowed to let someone help you.”

You hang up.

***

You avoid him for two days.

It’s childish, maybe, but you’re exhausted. From finals, from pretending, from carrying this thing like it’s not heavy. And now there’s him. Toto. This immovable force from your past suddenly crashing back into your orbit, and he’s not like you remember.

He’s worse. He’s older, yes — but not in the way you expected. Not smaller. Not dimmer. If anything, he’s more. More commanding. More composed. But also warmer. Gentler.

It throws you off balance.

The Toto you remember barked orders, clapped shoulders too hard, handed you protein bars and told you to “eat something that isn’t sugar.”

This one … This one looks at you like you matter. Like you still belong. And that’s worse than anything.

Because you don’t. Not anymore.

***

You’re walking across the quad when you spot him.

He’s standing near the gates, sunglasses pushed into his hair, hands in his coat pockets like he’s trying to look casual but failing spectacularly.

You stop. Groan. “Seriously?”

He turns. Smiles.

“I thought you were leaving,” you say.

“Tonight.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Taking a walk,” he says, clearly lying.

You walk past him. He falls into step beside you.

You glare. “You don’t know how to quit, do you?”

“No,” he says. “I really don’t.”

You sigh.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just footsteps on pavement. Then he says, “I talked to a friend in Vienna.”

Your jaw tightens. “Toto-”

“She’s a probate lawyer. And a pain in the ass. She took one look at the filings and said they reek of manipulation.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“She wants to talk to you.”

You stop walking.

“I said no,” you say, firmly.

“I know.”

“And you did it anyway.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

And not in that polite, professional, Toto way. This is something else. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Every wall, every scar.

“You shouldn’t have to carry this alone,” he says.

You hate how it sounds. Like kindness. Like care.

You look away. “You don’t get to care now.”

“I never stopped.”

That makes your breath catch.

He softens. “You think we all forgot. We didn’t. We were told you were … taken care of.”

You snort. “Yeah. I was.”

“Not the way you deserved.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, cold despite the sun. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“This,” you say. “This thing where you swoop in like some — some savior. You’re not responsible for what happened.”

“Maybe not,” he says. “But I can still do something about it.”

You shake your head. “I’ve already rebuilt everything from nothing. I have a life now. A plan.”

He steps closer. “And what if you could have your life back?”

Your eyes meet. The air shifts. You don’t say it, but he sees it. That flicker of longing. The one you’ve buried so deep it hardly breathes anymore. But it’s still there.

You look away. “You should go.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you.

“Goodbye, Toto.”

He nods, once. “For now.”

***

That night, you sit on your bed, staring at your ceiling. Your laptop is still open to your resume draft. You have a final in two days. Your phone is dark.

And still — you can’t stop thinking about him. The way he stood there. Solid. Unshaken. Like he’d tear the sky apart if it meant fixing this for you. Like he cared. Really, really cared.

You remember being ten, sitting on his shoulders after a podium, Niki laughing beside you, champagne sticky on your shirt. You remember Toto carrying you out of the garage when you fell asleep under a desk during FP2. You remember trust.

And now? Now he’s a man. And you’re a woman who’s spent the last six years learning not to want things she can’t have.

You close your laptop and turn off the light. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself imagine what it would feel like to let someone fight for you.

Even if it’s him. Especially if it’s him.

***

The subject line of the email reads:

Austrian Grand Prix — A Terribly Unconvincing Excuse to Kidnap You for a Weekend.

You open it, already sighing.

From: [email protected]

I think you should come.

Not for the politics. Not for the will. Not for me. Come because it’s Austria. Come because it’s Spielberg. Come because the garage still has your name written into its bones.

Take a break. We’ll call it … strategic recovery. I’ll arrange everything.

- Toto

You stare at it for a long time. Your cursor hovers over “delete.”

You hit reply instead.

This doesn’t mean anything.

Y/N

Two minutes later:

Understood. But I’m still putting wine in your hotel room.

- Toto

***

The private flight makes you uncomfortable. Too much legroom. Too quiet. The kind of luxury you were once too used to and now don’t know how to exist inside. The flight attendant offers you fresh berries and coffee in a porcelain cup. You accept both out of guilt.

When you land in Austria, the air hits you differently. Sharper. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

It’s been six years. Six years since you left the track in tears and didn’t return. Since the headlines turned to nothing at all. Since you buried Niki and yourself all in the same summer.

Toto meets you at the entrance to the paddock.

“Welcome home,” he says.

You give him a look. “It’s not home.”

He lifts a brow. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer.

***

The moment you step through the paddock gates, time collapses.

People stop in their tracks. A Mercedes engineer drops his clipboard. Another one — the tall one with the silver hair, you can’t remember his name — just stares. His lip trembles.

You nod politely. Keep walking.

Toto walks beside you, a steady presence. Subtle, quiet, unmistakable. His hand never touches you, not quite, but it hovers behind your back like a safety net. Invisible unless you’re paying attention.

You are.

The Mercedes garage comes into view.

You stop. Your breath catches.

And then the crowd parts.

“Y/N?”

The voice is soft, stunned.

You turn. Lewis Hamilton.

He’s in red now — Ferrari. The suit fits him differently, like he’s carrying someone else’s legacy for a while. But his eyes are the same. Kind. Knowing.

“Holy sh-” He doesn’t finish. Just crosses the space between you in seconds and hugs you.

Hard.

You freeze for a beat. Then you melt.

He smells like sweat and tire rubber and something that’s always felt like safety. He pulls back to look at you, eyes wet. “You disappeared.”

“I know.”

“No one knew what happened.”

“I know.”

He studies your face. “You okay?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Then nod. Barely.

“You’re here now,” he says.

It shouldn’t matter that much. But it does.

***

More people come. Mechanics. Engineers. James Vowles, now in Williams blue. Even Nico Rosberg takes a detour from reporting in the pit lane. They all say the same thing.

We missed you.

Where have you been?

Is it really you?

You smile until your face hurts. Nod until your neck aches. When someone asks if you’re back for good, you excuse yourself.

Toto finds you five minutes later behind the hospitality unit. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. Just offers a bottle of water and waits.

You take it.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“Don’t be.”

“It’s just a lot.”

“I know.”

You sit on the edge of a storage crate. He leans beside you.

“You knew this would happen,” you say.

“I hoped,” he admits.

You glance at him. “You’re not even pretending this was about rest.”

“Wasn’t my best lie.”

“No,” you say. “It really wasn’t.”

He grins.

***

By the time the day winds down, your nerves are shot. You let Toto walk you to your hotel room because you’re too tired to argue. It’s nice. Warm. The lights glow low. The view faces the hills.

There’s wine waiting. Of course.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says at the door.

You hesitate. “You could … stay.”

His brow lifts.

“I mean for a glass,” you say quickly. “Just a glass.”

“Right,” he says, smiling. “Just a glass.”

***

The wine is good. Too good. You’re on your second glass before you feel your shoulders loosen.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, barefoot, legs tucked under you. He’s in the armchair, his jacket shed, tie loosened. He watches you like he used to. Carefully. Kindly.

“So,” you say. “This was your plan.”

“Plan is a strong word.”

“Plot, then.”

“I prefer ‘gentle manipulation.’”

You laugh. You didn’t expect to. It surprises both of you.

You sip your wine. “It was nice. Today.”

He nods.

“Also horrible,” you add.

He nods again.

You stare into your glass. “I really loved it here.”

“I know.”

You trace the rim of the glass. “I was going to work for the team, you know? After university. Opa wanted me in strategy. Said I had the right kind of cruel.”

Toto smiles faintly. “He did say that.”

You swallow. “It’s like I lost him, and then I lost myself.”

You don’t mean to say it. But it slips out, raw and quiet.

Toto puts down his glass. You keep talking.

“And I didn’t know how to fight them. His lawyers. My father. They talked about trust funds and family trusts and implied Niki was confused when he wrote that will. And I was seventeen. I didn’t know who to call. I just … I shut down.”

Your hands shake. You place your glass on the table carefully. Toto says nothing. Just listens.

“I hate them,” you whisper. “And I hate myself for not fighting harder.”

He leans forward. “You were a child.”

“I was supposed to be smarter.”

“You were grieving.”

You blink hard. “I thought I could make it all mean something. Like if I just kept going. Got good grades. Worked hard. Became someone worth the Lauda name — maybe it would matter less that I lost everything else.”

Toto doesn’t speak.

You curl your fingers into fists. “But I still wake up sometimes thinking about the garage. The smell of rubber and champagne. Opa yelling at me in German because I forgot to zip up my jacket. You picking me up after I got too close to the pit lane.”

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

“I miss being part of something,” you say. “I miss belonging.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. You don’t know why it breaks you.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the room. Maybe it’s just him. But the tears come fast. You curl in on yourself. Press your knuckles to your eyes. Try to swallow it down.

And then Toto is there. He moves carefully, slowly, like you’re a deer in the woods. He sits beside you on the couch and opens his arms.

You don’t hesitate. You fold into him like you’re made to fit there.

He holds you. Not tightly. Not possessively. But completely. Like you’re something precious. Something once lost and newly found.

You cry until your throat hurts. Until your chest unclenches. Until all that’s left is the sound of his heartbeat under your cheek.

He doesn’t speak. He just holds you.

Eventually, your breathing evens. Your hands unclench. And you whisper, “Thank you.”

He says nothing. Just brushes his thumb gently over your shoulder.

You don’t move. You don’t want to. Nothing happens. But everything changes.

***

Cambridge looks different after Spielberg. Quieter. Greyer. Like someone turned down the saturation on the world.

You sit at your desk, textbooks spread open, half-read papers blinking on your laptop screen, but nothing sticks. Not the words, not the purpose. Everything’s a fog of too-late thoughts and echoing memories.

You haven’t responded to Toto’s last message. It’s not that you’re avoiding him — though, if pressed, you’d admit that you are. It’s just that being near him feels dangerous. He makes everything feel too sharp and too soft at once. He makes it harder to pretend that you're fine with the scraps. With the half-life you’ve built out of what was taken.

So you pull back. You don’t text. You don’t email. You don’t call.

He doesn’t chase. But he doesn’t vanish, either.

***

The package arrives on a Thursday. A long, sleek box in matte black with no return address.

You almost don’t open it. You tell yourself it’s nothing. A mistake. You set it on the corner of your desk like it doesn’t matter. But an hour later, when your nerves fray and your hands won’t stop fidgeting, you reach for it.

Inside is a leather-bound book, thick and heavy. Handmade. The cover is etched with the words:

LAUDA: A HISTORY IN MOTION

Your chest tightens. It’s not just any book. It’s yours. Photos you didn’t know existed. Notes in Niki’s handwriting. Marginalia from strategy meetings, race notes, printed-out emails between you and the engineers when you were sixteen and insufferable.

You flip to the first page. A card rests inside, handwritten in firm, slanted script.

For when you miss home.

No pressure. No agenda. Just memory.

- Toto

You put the book down. You pick it back up a second later. Then you cry for the first time in a week.

***

Three days later, a message lights up your phone.

I’m in New York for business. If you happen to feel like taking the train down … dinner’s on me.

You stare at it.

You type: I can’t.

You delete it.

You type: Maybe.

You delete that, too.

You end up sending just: When?

His reply is instant.

Tomorrow. 8pm. I’ll send the address. No pressure. Just food.

***

The hotel is expensive. Of course it is. Glass and stone and sleek grey walls with too many sconces. You feel out of place in your jeans and boots. But when you knock on the suite door and Toto opens it, he smiles like you’re exactly what belongs.

“You came.”

“You invited me,” you say, shrugging.

“You still came.”

You glance around. “This room costs more than my monthly rent.”

“Technically,” he says, stepping aside to let you in, “it costs more than your yearly rent.”

You snort. “You’re disgusting.”

He pours wine. “I’ve been called worse.”

***

Dinner is on the coffee table, not the dining table. You’re both cross-legged on the rug, barefoot, chopsticks in hand, picking at spicy tuna rolls and soft dumplings like it’s a sleepover.

Toto watches you closely. You try not to look back too much. But it’s hard. He looks stupid good in casual clothes — black t-shirt, dark jeans, hair a little messier than usual. His laugh is soft and infrequent, but when it happens, it’s like heat curling in your chest.

He tops off your wine. You sip too fast.

“You okay?” He asks after a long silence.

You nod. He waits. You cave.

“I’ve just … never been looked after by anyone who didn’t think they were owed something.”

The words hang there. Soft and sharp at the same time.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at you like he’s seeing every version of you at once. Then, slowly, he reaches over and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You never owed me anything,” he says.

Your breath catches. It’s stupid, but that one sentence hits deeper than any gesture anyone’s made in years.

You blink quickly. “You’re going to ruin me.”

He smiles faintly. “No, you’ve done that part already.”

You laugh. You don’t mean to. It spills out broken and surprised. You’re still laughing when you kiss him.

It’s instinct. Gravity. You lean forward without thinking. One hand on his cheek. His fingers on your wrist. His mouth is warm. Familiar and new all at once. He kisses you like he’s never known another language, like this is the only word he’s fluent in.

But just as you start to fall into it — just as your hand slips down his chest and he moves closer — he stops. Pulls back. Breath ragged.

You freeze.

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately. “Shit. I-”

“No,” he says, firm. “Don’t apologize.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I want this,” he says. “God, I want this.”

You’re holding your breath.

“But not like this,” he adds, softer. “Not while you’re still unsure. Not while you think this is something you don’t deserve.”

Your chest aches.

“I don’t think that.”

He tilts his head, eyes searching yours. “Don’t you?”

You close your eyes. Because yes. Yes, you do.

Not always. Not when you’re with him. But the second he leaves, the doubt comes crawling back. That you’re broken. That you’re baggage. That you’re something people have to carry, not choose.

“You deserve to be kissed,” he says, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, “like you’re not a weight.”

You open your eyes again.

He’s still close. He kisses your forehead — gently, like a promise — and leans back.

You sit in the silence for a while. Breathing.

“You could’ve taken advantage,” you say quietly.

“I’d never.”

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s what breaks me.”

***

You fall asleep on the couch. He covers you with a blanket. Turns off the lights. Leaves a bottle of water on the table.

In the morning, there’s a note.

Didn’t want to wake you.

I’ll be back in Cambridge soon.

In the meantime …

Remember you were never lost. Just waiting.

- Toto

You fold the note and tuck it into the back of the book he gave you. It’s the first thing you’ve kept in years.

***

The call comes while you’re walking out of a seminar, your phone vibrating insistently in the pocket of your coat. You answer without checking.

“Hello?”

“It’s done.”

Toto’s voice is calm. Steady. There’s something final in it.

You stop on the steps, heart stuttering. “What do you mean, it’s done?”

“Check your inbox.”

You already know before you open it. You already feel it, like a shift under your skin.

The subject line on the email reads Final Settlement Agreement - Lauda v. Lauda

Your stomach flips.

“You didn’t,” you say. “Toto, tell me you didn’t go behind my back-”

“I told you I would take care of it.”

“You said-” You press a hand to your forehead, trying to steady your breathing. “You said no pressure. That you wouldn’t interfere unless I asked.”

“I lied,” he says, bluntly. “I’m not sorry.”

You close your eyes.

***

It started two months ago.

You had mentioned it in passing — how your father’s lawyers had buried Niki’s will under a pile of counterclaims, how no one fought back. Because there was no one left to fight.

You remember the silence that followed. Heavy. Intentional.

Then Toto, voice like steel wrapped in velvet, had said, “Let me make this right.”

You’d shaken your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“It should be.”

“It’s over.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

You’d stood then, pacing, angry and cornered.

“I don’t want you to do this out of guilt. Or obligation. Or because you loved him.”

“I’m doing this,” he said evenly, “because someone should have the decency to protect you.”

You winced.

Toto took a breath. “I’m not asking for permission,” he said. “I’m just telling you you’re not alone in this.”

***

The legal battle is fast. Brutal. Clinical.

His team — six lawyers, two forensic accountants, and someone who used to work for the Austrian Ministry of Finance — descends like a controlled fire.

You never attend a single meeting. Toto won’t let you. Instead, he updates you in short bursts. Texts. Occasional calls. Never too much.

He’s panicking.

Tried to get the press involved.

We stopped it.

The judge reviewed the original will. It’s solid. Your father never stood a chance.

You don’t respond to most of them. You’re scared to feel hope. But it creeps in anyway.

***

When the settlement is finalized, your father demands a private meeting. Toto insists on being there.

It’s held in a sterile conference room in Vienna. You watch your father walk in, sunburned and stiff-jawed, flanked by two suits and an ego that’s been allowed to rot in peace for too long.

He doesn’t look at you. Just nods once at Toto.

“She wanted to waste it all,” your father says. “Planes. Champagne. Charity. That’s not what he built the company for.”

“She was seventeen,” Toto replies coolly. “What she wanted was time.”

Your father sneers. “You think this is noble? Giving it all back to a little girl who hasn’t worked a real job in her life?”

“I think,” Toto says, standing slowly, “that if you ever say her name with that tone again, I’ll bury you so far in litigation your great-grandchildren will need passports to find you.”

Your father laughs — short, bitter. “I could’ve gone to the press,” he says.

Toto slides a folder across the table.

“NDA,” he says. “If you breathe a word of this, the penalty clause will leave you selling furniture on Willhaben by spring.”

There’s a beat. Then your father signs. And just like that, it’s over.

***

The accounts transfer. The assets are returned. Property titles. Investments. Control of the Lauda Family Trust.

You are, technically, one of the wealthiest young women in Europe.

You should feel triumphant. You don’t. The moment the final document is notarized, you sit in Toto’s car in front of the legal office, staring at the streets you grew up knowing.

Vienna hasn’t changed. You have.

He’s silent beside you.

“You okay?” He asks eventually.

You nod. “Sure.”

“You don’t look okay.”

You laugh under your breath. “What does okay look like, exactly?”

He doesn't answer.

“I keep waiting to feel like her again,” you admit, finally. “The girl I was. But she’s gone.”

He turns to you. “You’re not gone.”

“I don’t know how to be her anymore. She trusted people. She believed the world would take care of her.”

“She was allowed to believe that,” he says gently.

You glance at him. “And now?”

“Now,” he says, “you don’t have to trust the world. You just have to trust me.”

That breaks something open in you. Quietly. Invisibly. Because it’s not a grand promise. It’s not a vow.

It’s a fact.

***

You don’t go back to Cambridge right away. Instead, you stay in Vienna for a few days. Walk old streets. Visit the empty house Niki left behind.

You don’t cry. Not until you find a scarf of his — still faintly smelling of aftershave — and sit on the edge of the tub in the master bathroom, holding it like a life vest.

Toto gives you space. But he doesn’t go far.

He cooks most nights. Texts you to remind you to eat. Doesn’t press when you go quiet, but he’s always there when you emerge, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

On the last night, he pours you a glass of wine and hands you the scarf you left folded on the table. “You should take it.”

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You won’t.”

You hold it for a moment. Then press it to your face.

“It still smells like him.”

Toto nods. “Sometimes I still wait for him to walk around the corner.”

You look up. “Me too.”

He smiles, faint and sad. “He’d be so damn proud of you.”

You shake your head.

“No, really,” he insists. “He’d be furious about what happened. But he’d be proud of how you survived.”

You take a long sip of wine.

“It doesn’t feel like surviving,” you admit.

He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees.

“It is,” he says. “And soon, it’ll feel like living again.”

You don’t believe him. But God, you want to.

***

You fly back to Massachusetts with a new bank account, a new title, and a legal team on retainer.

Everyone treats you differently now. You hate it.

So you don’t tell anyone. You don’t flaunt it. You keep wearing your old boots and your beat-up coat and sipping your $2 coffee because it still tastes better than the espresso in Vienna ever did.

But you write one check. One. To a foundation in Niki’s name. Quiet, unpublicized. Enough to fund STEM programs for underprivileged girls across Austria and the U.S. for the next ten years.

When the foundation director calls to thank you, you hang up before she finishes. You’re not ready for gratitude yet. You’re still learning how to hold good things without flinching.

***

Toto calls on a Wednesday. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

He pauses. “You always say that.”

“It’s the safest answer.”

There’s a beat.

“Come to Hungary,” he says.

You smile despite yourself. “Don’t you ever get tired of trying to drag me out of hiding?”

“No,” he says. “It’s become a hobby.”

You laugh. It feels like the first real one in weeks. You say yes. Not because you’re ready. But because maybe you want to be.

***

It starts with a knock at your door. No warning. No text. Just a steady, confident knock like he has every right to be here.

You open it in sweatpants and a t-shirt from the university bookstore, hair unbrushed, a pencil still tucked behind your ear.

And there he is. Toto Wolff. In Cambridge. On a Thursday night.

He’s in jeans and a black sweater, somehow making it look like formalwear, his hair slightly windblown, hands in his pockets.

“You flew here,” you say, deadpan.

“Yes.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“I did,” he says simply.

“Did you consider texting?”

“I thought about it. Then I thought, no — she’ll say she’s busy.”

You fold your arms. “Because I am.”

He tilts his head. “Are you, though?”

You narrow your eyes at him.

He shrugs, like he can’t help himself. “Also, I missed you.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Then step aside. “Come in.”

***

You don’t go out. It’s raining, and you’re tired, and everything in you resists the idea of putting on makeup just to sit under fluorescent lights and be seen.

So you order in. Italian. Pasta and a bottle of red.

You eat at the small table in your apartment, legs tangled under the wood, like two people who’ve done this a thousand times.

He keeps looking at you. Not in a way that makes you self-conscious, just … quiet, constant awareness. Like he’s memorizing you.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your bowl.

“I know.”

You chew slowly. Swallow.

“Toto,” you murmur, “why are you here?”

“I told you. I missed you.”

“You’re not the kind of man who misses people.”

He nods once. “You’re right. I’m not.”

Silence.

Then you push your bowl away and rest your elbows on the table. “Why me?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Because I care about you,” he says. “Because I remember who you were before the world got cruel. And I see who you are now, and I think you’re even stronger.”

You look down at your hands. “Toto-”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” You exhale shakily. “You didn’t see what it did to me. What it still does. You come in and you fix things and you’re kind and capable and impossible not to trust, but-”

You break off.

“But?”

“But I don’t know how to do this.”

He leans in, voice low.

“Do what?”

You look at him — eyes wide, raw, stripped of every defense.

“Let someone care about me without thinking it’ll cost me something.”

He goes still. Then he reaches out, slow and measured, and brushes a thumb against your cheek.

You hadn’t even realized you were crying.

“You don’t owe me gratitude,” he says softly. “You owe yourself peace.”

Your face crumples. God, you’re so tired of being strong.

***

After dinner, he insists on doing the dishes. You try to stop him — he ignores you. It’s so normal it almost feels like something sacred.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed. “Why do you do that?”

He glances over his shoulder. “What?”

“Take care of everything.”

He shrugs. “I like it.”

“No, seriously. Why?”

He puts down the sponge, dries his hands, then turns to face you fully.

“Because I’ve learned,” he says, “what it feels like to be taken care of. And what it feels like not to be. And I’d rather be the one doing the taking care, if I can help it.”

You study him. The lines around his eyes. The way he says things without softening them.

“And what if I want to take care of you?” You ask quietly.

That makes him smile, just a little. A flicker of something. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says.

***

You sit on the couch, side by side. The rain taps gently at the windows. Your knee bumps his. Neither of you moves.

You glance at him. “I meant what I said earlier.”

He nods, not asking which part.

“I want you.”

He turns his head. His voice is gentle. “You have me.”

“No, I mean-” You sigh, frustrated with yourself. “I mean, I want this. Us. Whatever we’re doing. But I don’t know how to trust it yet.”

He doesn’t move toward you. Doesn’t pull or push. He just waits. And somehow, that undoes you even more than if he’d kissed you senseless.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

“I know.”

You look down. “It’s not because of you. I just …”

“You’ve had to survive on your own for too long.”

You nod.

“And you learned not to need anyone.”

Another nod.

“But needing someone isn’t weakness,” he says. “It’s just proof that you’re human.”

You huff out a breath. “Spoken like someone who’s never had their world collapse.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You forget, I lost Niki too.”

You go quiet.

Toto shifts closer, but still not touching you.

“I know what it feels like to lose the one person who saw you. Really saw you. And then you’re left in a world where everything feels … too sharp. Too fake. Too loud.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” you whisper.

“I noticed.”

You finally look up at him. And when he reaches out, slow and careful, you let him touch you. His fingers trail softly along your jaw, then sweep your hair behind your ear. His hand lingers there, warm and steady.

“I’m not asking for all of you tonight,” he says. “I’m just asking for now. For this.”

You nod.

Then, with aching slowness, you lean in. And he kisses you. Not possessive. Not rushed. Just a gentle submission to something that’s been building for months — years, even.

A truth you’ve both tried to ignore.

His mouth moves against yours with reverence. His hand slides to the back of your neck, grounding you. You fist his sweater, afraid if you let go he’ll vanish.

But he doesn’t. He stays. And when the kiss breaks, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I won’t let you be alone,” he says.

You close your eyes. “Okay.”

***

You fall asleep on the couch, curled against him. His arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your cheek pressed to his chest.

No sex. No declarations. Just presence. Just the soft, steady rhythm of a man who made a promise without ever saying the words.

You’re safe now.

And for the first time in years, you believe it.

***

The wind coming off the North Sea smells like brine and smoke and burnt rubber. Zandvoort is alive, vibrating, a sea of orange and thunder. The kind of race weekend that doesn’t let you breathe unless you’re used to the air here.

You’re not used to it anymore. Not really. But you pretend you are. Because this time, you’re not sneaking in through a side gate, head low, eyes half-hidden behind sunglasses. You’re not here as a memory.

You’re here as someone real. Someone seen. Someone beside him.

You wear black, but the cut of the trousers is elegant, the blouse soft, and your posture straighter than it's been in years. You walk with Toto into the paddock at 10:47 a.m. sharp, his hand at your back as he nods to mechanics and engineers and PR staff who blink at you like a ghost just walked in and decided to stay.

But no one says it too loud.

Toto’s presence is a shield. And you walk with him like you’ve always walked beside giants.

You don’t flinch. You don’t look away. You belong here. God, you almost believe it.

***

It doesn’t take long for the cameras to catch on.

By FP2, the rumors are viral. TikTok’s already clipped a shot of Toto brushing something — dust, or a leaf, or maybe just a phantom — from your shoulder. There’s a still image of you two laughing at something George says in the garage. A blurry video of you standing just slightly behind Toto during a pre-race meeting with the press officers.

Commentators pick it up like they’ve been waiting for it. By the time the race goes live Sunday afternoon, Sky Sports is in full speculation mode.

“… well, she’s certainly not a new face to the paddock,” one of them says lightly. “If you’ve been around long enough, you’ll remember her-”

But they don’t get to finish. Because Nico Rosberg cuts in, voice hard and deliberate.

“Let’s be clear,” he says. “She’s not some mystery woman. That’s Niki’s granddaughter. She grew up in the garage with us. I remember her playing UNO with our engineers during rain delays.”

There’s an awkward pause. Nico keeps going.

“She disappeared because people failed her. That’s not gossip — that’s fact. She was seventeen when her life got pulled out from under her. And now that she’s back? Maybe the more respectful thing would be to welcome her, not turn her into a headline.”

Even the producer doesn’t know how to cut him off. Nico leans back in his chair like he just did what he’s always done — drove straight through the bullshit with no brakes.

You watch it later in your hotel room, stunned.

Toto grins at the screen. “Remind me to send him a bottle of something expensive.”

***

The paddock changes after that. The questions don’t stop — but they get quieter. People look you in the eye when they greet you. Mechanics you haven’t seen in nearly a decade stop you in the hallway.

“You look like your grandfather,” one says, voice thick. “You always did.”

Lewis finds you again in the back corridor of the hospitality suite on Sunday evening, just after podiums wrap.

He’s still in his race suit, zipped down to his waist, red fireproofs damp with sweat. You’ve barely opened your mouth when he pulls you into a tight, quiet hug that lasts almost too long.

“I missed you,” he says.

“I missed you more.”

He smiles, but his eyes are glassy. “You good?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You pause. Then nod again. “Better than I’ve been in years.”

Lewis glances behind you, toward where Toto’s voice carries from the other room. “Yeah,” he says, smiling wider. “I can see that.”

***

It’s late when you return to the hotel. The lights in the hallway hum gently. Your heels click across the polished floor.

He unlocks the suite door for you. You step inside. It’s quiet.

And then-

“I saw you,” he says.

You turn.

Toto stands near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled, shirt undone at the throat.

“I saw you today,” he says again. “Really saw you.”

You breathe in slow. “I was terrified.”

“You didn’t show it.”

You step closer. “I didn’t want to.”

He studies you. “You were magnificent.”

Your breath hitches.

He takes a step. Then another. And another. Until his hands are cupping your face and your eyes are locked on his.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he says quietly.

You nod.

His thumbs brush your cheeks. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Another nod.

He leans in. And kisses you.

***

The door shuts behind him with a soft click. The world stays outside.

His fingers are in your hair, at your waist, guiding without pulling, urging without demanding. You follow. The bed is too soft. The sheets too white. But his hands are steady, and you anchor yourself in the weight of him.

When your blouse slides from your shoulders, you think this isn’t about sex. It’s about being seen.

He doesn’t undress you. He undresses with you. Like it’s a slow collaboration. His mouth doesn’t take. It gives. Praise and patience, murmured reverence.

“Beautiful.”

“Every part of you.”

“You’re not broken.”

You tremble under the weight of it.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says against your neck.

“I want to,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“No,” he says. “You don’t have to want this like it’s an obligation. You deserve to be wanted for you. No guilt. No debts.”

You look up at him — this man who’s so much older, so much taller, so much more — and you don’t feel young. You feel safe.

And when his mouth trails reverent kisses down your skin, when he touches you like he’s been dreaming of it for years — like it’s a privilege, not a right — you understand what people mean when they say worship.

It’s not about power. It’s about surrender. You let yourself fall. You let him catch you.

You lose track of time. Of shame. Of the version of yourself who thought she didn’t deserve this.

After, you lie tangled together in the dark. His hand stroking your hair. Your fingers curled at his chest. He breathes, slow and quiet, like he could stay like this forever.

You whisper, “I don’t know what this is.”

He says, “It doesn’t have to be defined yet.”

You press your mouth to his collarbone. “But it’s real.”

“Yes,” he says, voice low. “Very real.”

You fall asleep there — his arms around you, your skin still humming, your heart finally still. And for the first time in your adult life, the future doesn’t feel like something to brace for. It feels like something to reach toward. With him.

***

The email comes at 3:08 a.m.

You’re awake. Not because you can’t sleep — those nights are mostly over — but because you flew halfway around the globe on a long weekend, the world feels lighter lately, and you’re learning to hold it in your hands without gripping too tight.

You read it twice. Then again.

Dear Miss Lauda,

We’re pleased to offer you a summer position with the Petersen-Welling Foundation. Your application was exceptional, and we’re eager to have your voice on the upcoming F1 Heritage and Inclusion initiative …

You don’t smile at first. You just exhale. Slowly. Like you’ve been holding your breath for a very long time.

***

Toto finds you in the kitchen of the penthouse in Monaco — barefoot, hair tied back, his hoodie drowning you. He’s already showered from his morning run, towel slung around his neck, coffee in hand.

He pauses when he sees your face.

“What happened?”

You hold out your phone.

He scans the screen. His mouth twitches.

“That’s a hell of a line on your resume,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Harvard, Lauda, and now an F1 foundation. Soon you’ll outrank me.”

You roll your eyes. “I already do.”

He hums. “True.”

There’s a beat. You pick at your thumbnail.

He softens. “What’s the hesitation?”

You shrug. “It’s … a lot. Another adjustment. Another version of me.”

“You don’t need to become anything you’re not.”

You glance at him. “Even if who I am isn’t enough?”

His voice lowers. “You are more than enough.”

You look down. Then up again. “Harvard said they’ll work with the Foundation to let me finish the final term remote. Conditionally. Since I’ll need to be based in Europe.”

“And?” He prompts gently.

“I think I want that.”

He nods. “Good.”

You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“I was hoping you’d say yes.” He grins. “I already made a copy of my keys-”

You groan. “Toto.”

He’s smiling too much to apologize.

***

It doesn’t happen all at once. Because nothing between you ever does.

You don’t move into his life like a storm. You settle like sunlight across the floor — gradual, warm, steady.

First, it’s the right side of the bed at his house near Brackley.

You joke that it’s more like a hotel than a home. He tells you to put your books on the shelves. You bring two at first. Then twelve. Then your sweaters. Then the half-finished sketchpad you stopped using at nineteen.

“Is this permanent?” You ask one night, curled beside him.

“Only if you want it to be,” he answers.

Then it’s Monaco. His penthouse. Your toothbrush beside his. Your name added to the concierge’s approved list. The first time someone calls you Madam Wolff, you laugh for five minutes straight. He grins, wide and unguarded, and doesn’t correct them.

Switzerland comes next. The chalet is silent but not lonely. He lights the fireplace. You bake (badly). He eats your too-dense banana bread like it’s gold.

“This is dry,” you say.

He shrugs. “It’s perfect.”

“You’re lying.”

“Of course.”

You both laugh until it hurts.

***

But Austria is the hardest. The Lauda estate feels frozen in amber. Rooms locked. Curtains drawn. Silence echoing down marble halls.

You stand in the entryway, keys shaking in your hand. Toto waits beside you, quiet.

“I don’t know if I can go in,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to.”

You pause. Then step forward.

The door opens with a groan.bIt smells like dust and memories.

The first room you enter is the library.

You stop cold. Nothing’s changed.

The old desk. The leather chair. The framed photo of you and Niki at age fourteen, covered in grease and pride, standing between Lewis and a smiling Toto.

You sink to your knees. He kneels with you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve-”

Toto catches your face in his hands.

“You were a child. And they failed you. We all failed you.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Let’s bring it back to life. Together.”

***

You do. Not quickly. Not easily. But you do.

The internship is demanding, exhilarating, and so completely you. You organize roundtables on legacy, inclusion, youth development. You write memos late at night in Monaco, edit presentations in Brackley, fly to interviews from Switzerland, and finally host your first panel in Austria.

At the Lauda estate.

You host something here. By choice. It’s full circle and forward motion all at once.

The old house feels different now. Softer. There are photos of you and Toto on the mantle. A few of your old sketches, framed. Your books. Your grandmother’s piano.

A home. Your home. Not just because it has your name on the deed again. But because you live in it on your own terms.

***

The night after the panel, you and Toto walk the long slope behind the house. The air is cool. The stars are out. You carry your heels in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

“You haven’t stopped working in weeks,” he murmurs beside you.

“I’m trying to catch up.”

“You don’t owe the world an apology for existing.”

You look at him. “Sometimes I think I owe Opa.”

He stops walking. “You don’t.”

You glance down.

“He’d be proud,” Toto says. “But he wouldn’t ask you to pay some imaginary debt to keep his memory alive. You do that just by being you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I wanted to ask you something,” you say softly.

“Anything.”

You face him fully.

“Do you think I belong here?”

He frowns. “Here as in …”

“In F1. In this world. In your world.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes your wineglass. Sets it on the stone wall.

Then takes your face in his hands. “I think,” he says, “that for six years, this world has been missing something vital. And now it’s whole again.”

You blink too fast.

“I think,” he continues, “that you belong here more than anyone.”

He presses his lips to your forehead. “But more than that … you belong in your world. Whatever shape that takes. Wherever you build it. And whoever you let into it.”

You don’t answer with words. You answer with your arms, sliding around his waist. Your cheek against his chest. His heart steady against your ear.

***

Later that night, back inside, you open your laptop. There’s an email waiting from Harvard.

Term completion approved.

Dean’s note: we expect great things. You’ve already begun delivering them.

You sit back.

Toto passes you a cup of tea and slides onto the couch beside you.

“Big news?” He asks, eyes amused.

You look at him. And then you say it. Not for the first time. But for the first time with full, undiluted certainty.

“I’m home.”

He sets his tea aside. Pulls you close. Whispers into your hair, “You always were.”

And for once, the past doesn’t pull at you. The future doesn’t scare you.

Because it’s not just about where you live or what you’ve lost. It’s about what you’ve claimed. What you’ve chosen. What you’ve built.

A home. A career. A future. A man beside you — not in front, not above — but beside.

And a life, finally, that is yours.

All the way home.

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krockon · 2 months ago

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Loves: if we're going to show the Chow's - Bo and Grace - some love for their characters in Sinners, please do your best to learn and tag the actors names.

Bo Chow is Southeast Asian, Bay Area native Yao. His public name is just one word; simple to remember. ETA: His given name is Thomas Pang Yao.

Grace Chow is Shanghai native Li Jun Li. She lived in Columbia, and Spanish is her second language.

Considering their performances as southern Asian American go-betweens of the Black community and the White establishment (Grace worked at the good store on the Whites only side of the road, Bo ran the Black grocery store across the road) everything from the accents to Grace's escalating horror/hysteria to Bo's chilling nonchalance deserves the recognition it's getting.

BUT. Please learn and use the actors' names.

#sinners spoilers #sinners #sinners movie #sinners 2025 #yao #thomas pang #li jun li #grace chow #bo chow #can't find any gifs of them specifically #but hopefully as more people see the film the more appreciation they'll get

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gf2bellamy · 6 months ago

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ramble — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer reid is rambling but you don't mind content warnings: ppl being bored of spencer's ramble

You were all working in the bullpen. Or at least pretending to.

Derek leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed behind his head as he finished a story about a failed flirtation. “And she didn’t even recognize me,” he groaned, slumping forward dramatically. “I mean, come on. I was unforgettable.”

Penelope didn’t miss a beat, rolling her eyes and waving a hand in mock exasperation. “Oh, poor Derek. How ever will your ego survive such a tragedy?”

You laughed at their exchange, shaking your head at Derek’s overly dramatic retelling. Across the bullpen, Spencer sat at his desk, directly in front of yours. He glanced up from his file, his fingers tapping absentmindedly on the desk.

“Did you know,” Spencer began, his voice cutting through the banter, “that statistically speaking, people are more likely to remember faces than names? It’s due to the fusiform face area in the brain, which is specifically attuned to facial recognition. The process of encoding a face involves—”

As Spencer launched into his explanation, you turned your full attention to him. You watched the way his hands moved as he spoke, punctuating his words with small, precise gestures.

Before you could ask him to elaborate, Derek cut in with a grin. “Thanks for the fun fact, pretty boy, but I think I zoned out halfway through that one.”

Garcia, always quick to follow suit, added with a teasing smile, “Honey, we love you, but you’ve gotta learn to cut your TED Talks into soundbites.”

The teasing was lighthearted, but Spencer’s shoulders slumped slightly as he glanced back down at his papers. He muttered a soft “sorry” before awkwardly adjusting his pen.

You glanced between Derek and Garcia, who had already resumed their bickering, and felt a pang of frustration.

“Spence,” you said gently, calling his attention.

He lifted his head, his hazel eyes meeting yours. “Yeah?”

You gave him a warm smile, leaning forward slightly. “I was actually going to ask you something about what you just said. How does the brain distinguish between similar faces? Like, how does it know to pick out subtle differences?”

His expression lit up, the hesitation melting away as he straightened in his seat. “Oh! That’s a great question. It has to do with the way our brains process fine details, like the spacing between eyes or the curve of someone’s lips and—”

As Spencer explained, his voice grew more confident, and the enthusiasm in his tone was infectious. You nodded along, genuinely fascinated, occasionally asking follow-up questions to keep him going.

Derek, noticing the exchange, leaned over to Garcia with a raised brow. “Looks like someone actually appreciates the genius over there.”

Garcia smirked, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “About time someone did.”

Unaware of their comments, Spencer finished his explanation, a small, proud smile tugging at his lips. “Does that make sense?” he asked, his gaze searching yours.

“Completely,” you replied with a grin. “Thanks for explaining.”

For a moment, Spencer just looked at you, his face softening. “You’re welcome,” he said, his voice quieter now but filled with a kind of gratitude that was hard to miss.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff

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rafecameronssl4t · 7 months ago

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One Big Misunderstanding || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: Tensions rise when an innocent comment about a missing bracelet sows doubt between you and Rafe, sparking suspicions of infidelity.

Warnings: ANGST GALORE

Word count: 2,711

A/n: inspired by the perfect couple on Netflix 😛

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

The sunlight streamed through the grand floor-to-ceiling windows of the drawing room, casting a warm glow on the pristine marble floors. You sat perched on one of the luxurious cream sofas, a curated array of diamond necklaces sprawled elegantly across the glass coffee table before you.

Across from you, Eloise, your private jewellery consultant, adjusted her notepad, a professional yet friendly smile playing on her lips. “Madeline, sweetie, no touching, please,” you gently reminded, catching your daughter’s small hands as they reached out eagerly for the sparkling treasures.

Her curious blue eyes, so much like Rafe’s, widened in innocent protest before she giggled, retreating to your lap with a playful pout. Eloise chuckled softly, waving at Madeline. “Someone has quite the eye for jewels already,” she teased, her gaze fond as Madeline shyly buried her face into the folds of your dress.

You let out a soft laugh, brushing Madeline’s hair back as your fingers glided over the dazzling collection. “I don’t think it’ll be too long before she’ll be in my position,” You softly say. The newest designs shimmered under the light, each more stunning than the last. “They’re all exquisite,” you sighed, lifting a delicate piece encrusted with diamonds.

“But I think I’ll take this one, and…” Your eyes roamed over the display again, settling on another necklace with an intricate design. “This.” “Excellent choices, Mrs. Cameron,” Eloise praised, jotting down notes in her leather-bound book. Her tone brimmed with approval, and her smile didn’t waver as she looked up.

Madeline squirmed in your lap, reaching up to tug at the simple necklace you were already wearing. You adjusted her gently, holding her small hands to keep them still. Eloise glanced up from her notes. “Did you like the bracelet Mr. Cameron gave you?” Her tone was casual, but her words made you pause. “Bracelet?” you echoed, your brow furrowing.

Your voice held a slight edge of confusion as you looked at her. “The gold bangle with the pavé diamonds,” she elaborated, glancing up with a look of delight. “Rafe spent so much time picking it out for you.” Her enthusiasm was almost contagious as she beamed. Your lips parted slightly in surprise, your mind racing.

You had no idea what she was talking about. A heavy silence lingered for a moment, and you felt the weight of Eloise’s expectant gaze. “Oh! The bracelet!” you quickly feigned recognition, a forced smile stretching across your face. “Yes, of course. It’s lovely—he knows me so well.” Your voice sounded light, but your heart sank as the lie left your lips.

Eloise didn’t seem to notice. She rose gracefully, tucking her notebook under her arm. “Well, I’ll be on my way. I’ll see you next month, Mrs. Cameron,” she said cheerfully, giving you a polite nod before heading toward the door. You stayed seated, your posture still and tense as Madeline babbled happily on your lap.

The silence of the room closed in around you once Eloise left, leaving you to wrestle with your thoughts. Rafe had bought you a bracelet? Why hadn’t he given it to you himself? Had he left it somewhere, expecting you to find it? Or had it been an afterthought, something he had no time—or desire—to present personally?

The questions swirled in your mind as you absentmindedly stroked Madeline’s hair, your gaze fixed on the glittering necklaces on the table. As much as you tried to push it aside, the confusion, and a small pang of hurt, lingered.

Later that night, you sat before your vanity, the familiar routine of your skincare ritual grounding you in a semblance of normalcy. The soft hum of the bathroom light and the gentle swish of creams and serums felt like a small act of defiance against the questions that kept circling in your mind. The bracelet. Rafe’s strange omission of it.

The way Eloise had mentioned it so casually, as though it was something you should’ve known. You brushed the thoughts aside, telling yourself you were overreacting, but they lingered, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. The bedroom door creaked open behind you, and without turning, you saw Rafe in the reflection of your mirror.

Still in his suit, looking as polished and untouchable as ever. You didn’t acknowledge him, continuing with your skincare, your movements slow and deliberate. “Busy day?” you asked, your voice flat, more out of routine than affection. His response was distant, lost on you as you remained absorbed in your own thoughts, the quiet hum of your routine enveloping you.

The bracelet. “How was the jewelry showing?” he asked, his voice still detached, but something in his tone caught your attention. You glanced up at him briefly through the mirror. His eyes were on you, studying you with a faint trace of curiosity. “It was good,” you mumbled, your focus wavering again.

Rafe’s brow furrowed as he watched you, sensing the lack of the usual excitement you carried after these showings. His fingers paused at the buttons of his shirt as he tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. “Did you… pick anything you liked?” he asked, his tone slower now, as if he was gauging your mood, sensing something was off.

“Yeah, I did,” you replied, your voice empty, devoid of any real emotion. Before he could continue, you stood up abruptly, tightening the robe around your body more than necessary. The familiar movement felt like a barrier, an armour you could slip into. “I’ll just make myself some tea,” you said, the words sounding rehearsed, like you were already running from the questions.

You didn’t spare him another glance as you walked past him, leaving the room without another word. You descended the stairs mechanically, but instead of following the usual route to the kitchen, your feet took you in the opposite direction, towards Rafe’s office. Your heart pounded as you approached the oak door, glancing over your shoulder to ensure no one was watching.

Slowly, you pushed the door open, the room still and quiet in its untouched state. The room was a sharp contrast to the chaos in your mind. Your eyes darted to his desk, and instinctively, you moved toward it. You knew Rafe kept everything meticulously in order, and his drawers were always locked. But tonight, your curiosity outweighed your caution.

You pulled open the first drawer, then the second. It was the third one that caught your attention. As your fingers sifted through papers, your eyes landed on a familiar logo—the jewelry shop. Your pulse quickened as you pulled it free, finding a receipt tucked between papers. The words on the page seemed to mock you as you read, Rafe Cameron, the date, and the item listed: Nature Bangle, Pavé, priced at $18,000.

A photo of the bracelet accompanied the receipt. The image burned itself into your mind—elegant, delicate, and undeniably expensive. Your breath caught in your throat, and your mind spun. You quickly shoved the receipt back into the drawer, snapping it closed. The weight of what you’d seen was suffocating, the overwhelming question taking shape in your mind.

Was Rafe cheating on you? The thought gnawed at you, its edge cutting deep. You had been with him long enough to believe that something like this wouldn’t happen. But the pieces didn’t fit. Rafe had always been… Rafe. He wasn’t the type to hide things, or at least, you never thought he was.

The doubts began to creep in, unsettling your thoughts, but before they could settle into a clear conclusion, you stood up from the desk and made your way out of the office.

The morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the living room. You sat on the plush sofa, coffee in hand, its warmth grounding you as you watched Leo and Madeline play on the rug before you. Their laughter filled the room, a soothing balm to the unease still simmering from the night before.

The sound of Rafe’s footsteps descending the staircase pulled your focus, and soon enough, he rounded the corner into the living room, his presence unmistakable in the tailored suit that hugged his frame. Despite the domestic setting, he still exuded the same composed, businesslike energy he carried everywhere.

“Jordan told me your schedule was clear for today,” you remarked, your voice calm but inquisitive as you tracked his movements. “Hm?” Rafe hummed in response, crouching slightly to press a kiss to the top of both Leo’s and Madeline’s heads. The gesture was effortless, automatic, and yet it made your chest tighten—a cruel contradiction to the doubts swirling in your mind.

“I said, Jordan told me your schedule is clear today,” you repeated, watching him carefully as he straightened, his gaze finally meeting yours. A small, almost nonchalant smile tugged at his lips. “Last-minute meeting, that’s all,” he replied smoothly, brushing off the question as if it were of little consequence. His tone was casual, but it didn’t sit right with you.

You cocked an eyebrow, your expression neutral but sharp enough to suggest you weren’t entirely convinced. “I’ll be back before three,” he added quickly, as though the reassurance might settle you. Without waiting for a response, he stepped closer, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek. The gesture was familiar, practiced, and yet it felt hollow.

You remained still, your eyes fixed straight ahead, your coffee cooling in your hand as his cologne lingered in the air. “Drive safe,” you murmured, your voice even but distant. You didn’t look at him as he pulled away and adjusted his cufflinks. The sound of his footsteps retreated, leaving a subtle void in the room once he was gone.

The door to your bedroom creaked open, and Rafe stepped in, his movements deliberate but calm. Your eyes lifted from your phone, following him briefly before drifting back to the glowing screen in your hand. “They’re asleep,” he murmured, his voice soft but tinged with exhaustion. You hummed in acknowledgment, barely lifting your gaze as he moved toward his side of the bed, shrugging off his jacket and placing it neatly on the chair by the window.

Rafe climbed into bed beside you, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He leaned back against the headboard, undoing the top few buttons of his shirt and letting out a quiet sigh. The silence between you felt heavy, the kind of quiet that wasn’t comfortable but wasn’t quite confrontational either. You placed your phone down on the nightstand, your fingers brushing its edge before folding neatly in your lap.

The glow of the bedside lamp softened the room, but it did little to ease the tension you felt knotting in your chest. “Are you cheating on me?” The words left your lips before you could stop them, your voice sharp yet trembling, slicing through the quiet. “What?” Rafe’s hand froze, his body stiffening as he turned to look at you, his tone laced with shock and disbelief. His brows furrowed deeply, searching your face for an explanation.

“Are you cheating on me?” you repeated, softer this time, the vulnerability in your voice stark against the tension building in the room. His lips parted, words stuttering for a moment before he finally asked, “What are you talking about?” You sat up straighter, folding your arms as you exhaled shakily. “The bracelet, Rafe.” The words were laced with hurt as your eyes locked onto his, watching the colour drain from his face.

His expression shifted—confusion, then understanding, and finally a look that you couldn’t quite place. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes began to water, the emotional floodgates breaking against your will. “Eloise mentioned it. She said you spent so much time picking it out, but I never got it, Rafe,” your voice cracked slightly. “So, where is it? Who is it for?”

Rafe ran a hand down his face, the exhaustion in his eyes now replaced with something akin to guilt—but not the kind you feared. He pushed himself up against the headboard, facing you fully. “It’s not what you think,” he said firmly, his voice low, almost pleading, but it did little to ease the storm brewing inside you. “Then explain,” you demanded, your voice trembling with a potent mix of anger and sorrow.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, hot and relentless, and you swiped at them quickly, unwilling to appear completely undone. But your composure was already fractured, and Rafe could see it in your glistening eyes and the slight quiver of your lip. His silence was unbearable. The hesitation hanging between you wasn’t just a pause—it was an admission, a crack that threatened to shatter everything you’d built together.

It cut deeper than words ever could, leaving a hollow ache in your chest. “Explain,” you repeated, your voice firmer now, laced with urgency. “For the sake of our children, for our marriage, Rafe. Tell me what I’m supposed to believe right now.” He ran a hand over his face, his usual confidence, his composed exterior, seemed to falter under your gaze. For once, Rafe Cameron looked unsteady.

“It wasn’t meant to be like this,” he muttered, his voice low. You blinked, your breath catching. “What wasn’t meant to be like this? Stop talking in circles and just tell me.” Your voice cracked on the last word, and you felt your chest tighten with the weight of your fears. Rafe exhaled sharply, finally looking up at you. His eyes locked onto yours, their usual sharpness softened by something unfamiliar—regret, perhaps.

“The bracelet,” he began, his words slow and deliberate, “was supposed to be a surprise. For you.” Your brows furrowed as you tried to process his words, your heart racing. “What?” He leaned back on the headboard, his hands clasped together. "It’s… for our anniversary. I wanted to give it to you then. I even had it engraved.” His voice wavered, and he shook his head.

“I thought I was doing something thoughtful, but I should’ve just given it to you right away. I didn’t think it would—” He stopped, the weight of your reaction sinking in. You stared at him, your mind reeling. His explanation had knocked the wind out of you, leaving you unsure whether to feel relief or frustration. “You… were planning to give it to me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.” He looked at you earnestly, his expression softening. “I didn’t realise it would make you question everything. That’s on me. I’m sorry.” Your tears slowed, but the tension in your chest lingered. “Why didn’t you just tell me that when I asked? Why make me feel like I was losing my mind?” Rafe sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Because I thought you’d laugh at me, or brush it off as something meaningless.

You don’t exactly make it easy to do… sentimental gestures.” His voice wasn’t accusatory, but it held a hint of frustration. You exhaled slowly, processing his words. The weight of your accusation settled heavily on your shoulders, mixing shame with residual doubt. “You should’ve told me,” you murmured, your voice soft but firm. “And you should’ve trusted me,” he countered gently, his tone not harsh but pointed.

“We can’t keep doing this—assuming the worst about each other.” You looked away, your throat tight as his words sank in. Perhaps he was right, but the wounds of mistrust weren’t so easily healed. “I just… I don’t want to be a fool,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly. “Not for you, not for anyone.” Rafe turned his head, his hand reaching over before settling on your knee. “You’re not a fool,” he said quietly, his voice steady.

“You’re my wife. And I know I don’t always get it right, but I need you to believe that I’m trying.” You met his gaze, searching for any flicker of insincerity but finding none. His blue eyes held yours, unwavering, and for the first time that night, you felt the tension in your chest begin to ease. “I’ll believe it,” you whispered, the words tentative but genuine.

"But you have to meet me halfway, Rafe. No more secrets. No more hesitation.” He nodded, his grip on your knees tightening briefly in silent agreement. “Deal.”

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beardedjoel · 17 days ago

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honey, honey | three: stirring up a hurricane

sugar daddy! joel x f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist

summary: a lunch outing with joel brings some unexpected company and digs up anxiety. 10.2k words.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, sugar daddy worthy age gap (reader is 21, joel is 54), slow burn! inherent power dynamic imbalance from a sugar daddy arrangement, flirting!, one (1) more jerk off session, talk of past relationships on joel's part, playing it a little fast and loose with pov, reader's clothing is described (dress and jacket).

a/n: i definitely intended to have this out sooner for y'all but life got in the way. i'm so ready to keep going on this journey with them, and this slow burn has been sooo fun to write. i really love them getting to know each other and fighting their feelings 🤭

The elevator softly whirs as you fly past the floors, all the way up to twenty. Alone and enclosed by the monochrome walls you fidget, smoothing your dress and wishing you had enough time to double check your appearance.

It’s exhausting, apparently, actually caring what Joel Miller thinks about you. He always seems to have a compliment or two in store, but you can’t shake this pesky, anxious feeling gnawing at you that comes at the prospect of seeing him. Of him seeing you - perceiving you - and deeming you worthy of his time and money.

The elevator doors open to the office beyond with a rounded, wood paneled desk sitting centered in the foyer. Joel’s company comprises the entire floor, and you see a bustling crew beyond the glass walls and dividers. Black, shining floors beneath your feet, dark wood walls, and leather furniture adorn what appears to be a waiting room. It's decidedly masculine, but it doesn't feel cold in the slightest.

You nearly turn back around, wondering if this is a good idea after all. Being seen out in public together held its risks, you know that, but Joel seems assured that nothing will come of it. And if it does, he's promised to be there for you. You aren’t a public figure by any means, but any overachiever here in the know of Joel’s business associates might be able to place you and your connection to your father. The thought alone makes you feel itchy.

The young man behind the desk greets you in a chipper, smooth voice before you can make a decision on scampering back the way you came. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

You snap back to attention, approaching the rest of the way, trying to move with more purpose, a way to trick your brain into believing this will all be okay. “Yes, I’m here for Mr. Miller. It’s a - a lunch meeting.” Your cheeks heat in a rapid blaze, not having rehearsed any of this. You couldn't be the first of this nature in the office, based on Joel’s history, and you wonder if the man - Vincent, by the little nameplate on the desk - knew exactly what you were to his boss.

With a few clicks on the computer in front of him, Vincent gives you a soft smile of recognition. “Absolutely. I’ve got explicit instructions to have you brought back to his office first.” He holds up a finger to you as he dials on the phone, speaking in a hushed tone.

“Mhm, Mr. Miller’s twelve thirty is here. Yes. Okay. Thanks.”

You shift awkwardly, but only for a few moments before a woman appears around the corner, wearing a stylish blue pantsuit. She calls you by name, making your eyes widen in surprise before beckoning you to follow her. You’re guided between cubicles, open areas that appear to be free working spaces, and conference rooms. The place is buzzing with energy, a well oiled machine with employees engrossed in their individual work or collaborating. A pang of jealousy shoots through you, reminding you just how far you are from your goal of feeling that same spirit and drive towards your work.

You stop short in front of an office enclosed with glass walls, half opaque, half clear. “Mr. Miller will be just a moment. You can have a seat,” the woman says. “Water? Coffee? Tea? While you wait?” She rapidly fires the questions at you, to which you shake your head mutely, having a seat on the leather sofa that sits opposite to Joel’s office.

She settles in at a nearby desk, turning her attention back to her computer, and it dawns on you that this must be Joel’s personal assistant here. Movement inside of Joel’s office catches your attention, your prying, curious eyes unable to look away even if giving Joel privacy feels like the right thing to do. Hurried movements ensue - a flash of Joel, hands flung up and then falling in frustration, and his face comes into view, screwed up tight before he says something that you can’t hear. You don’t see who he’s talking to, blocked by the fully opaque door, only leaving a shadow of a body that looks equally as heated.

A few uncomfortable, shameful moments of spying pass before the door to his office flies open and a woman appears, throwing it shut behind her with a purposefully loud and dramatic thud. She appears closer to Joel’s age, dressed well and adorned with expensive, flashing jewelry. She seems to have a permanent scowl on her face as she approaches where you sit, stalking with purpose in her heels.

When she makes eye contact with you, the side of her lip curls up with a sweep of her gaze up the entirety of your body. You feel small on the leather loveseat under her scrutinizing stare portraying her message loud and clear: I am better than you.

“Feels good to be the latest model, huh?” she rasps, hips swaying as she walks.

You stutter, your voice only able to make a strained sound before you finally squeak out, “E-excuse me?”

A scathing breath of a laugh leaves the woman, and she shakes her head as she slows to a stop in front of you, letting her eyes rake over your outfit once more. It’s a simple, casual dress covered with a jacket to keep the October chill off of you - you hadn’t wanted to go all out for only a lunch date, but you’d felt good, presentable, for Joel. Until now, that is.

“Good luck with that,” she says without any real sincerity behind it. A cruel joke sits in her words, something you don’t seem to be in on. “Until the next comes along.”

Your brows knit tightly as you just stare at her, your heart thundering heavily against your ribcage, nearly painful. No witty retort comes to you, too shocked by the turn of events to even think straight as she just huffs in satisfaction, moving along. You crane your neck, following her movements with your mouth agape until she turns the corner, not even bothering a glance back at you.

It feels like hours condensed into these few moments passing as you sit stupefied on that couch, your cheeks burning in shame. You try to avoid eye contact with Joel’s assistant who almost surely heard the entire exchange with how close she’s sitting. Eyes down, you finally bring them up when you hear Joel’s office door open once more.

He looks brighter than you’d seen him minutes ago, so heated inside his office with that woman. At least one of you seems to have shaken her off.

His smile is wide and warm when he spots you, and you hope the distressed look on your face has wiped off enough to avoid suspicion. You’re not sure if you want to tell him what just happened, unsure if what it all means is something you can handle. It was embarrassing too, to imagine speaking the words she’d said aloud to him. It had felt demeaning, your existence boiled down to whatever that mystery woman saw in you, some kind of less than being, some thing for Joel’s pleasure. She knew nothing about your situation, who you were to Joel, or the fact that he didn’t even seem interested in it becoming about more than money.

“Hey there,” Joel’s voice cuts through the depths of your mind, and you softly smile, standing to greet him. He places a hand on your bicep, wrapping his fingers tenderly around it, leaning in to peck your cheek. His scent envelops all of you, forcing you to hold back a sigh, this particular smell already worming its way to a place of comfort for you. “Y’look fantastic.”

You have to clear your throat before your voice betrays you. “T-thanks.” You flash him another smile that luckily he seems to buy, but that woman's piercing, judgemental stare has your confidence completely shaken up. Beyond that, your curiosity is piqued on who the hell she even is to Joel, but you don’t know if it’s nosing into his business too much to ask about it. The way things had seemed between the two, it gave the impression it was a topic best left forgotten in Joel’s eyes.

So you bite your tongue, trying to become the pleasant, fun-loving girl Joel signed up to spend time with. It’s hard though, to not break open this dam of emotions that’s been full to bursting. Everything has just been too much this past week.

This arrangement. That woman. Joel. School. Your parents. Lying.

You have nobody to lean on, nobody to understand the stress, the diamond forming amount of pressure you’re put under to be somebody you don’t want to be. You’ve been dodging calls from your father, not having the energy to make up lies about the firm you’re supposedly interning for. You know it’s only a matter of time before he figures it out somehow - knowing him he’ll likely try to call the CEO using his own influence just to try and keep tabs on you. To make sure you’re doing it all right, up to his gold standard. When this comes to light, the fallout could be catastrophic, and you wonder if it might be better to just come clean now, maybe helping to absorb some of the blow.

The thought of doing that instantly makes you feel nauseous, and you realize you’ve gone the entirety of the way back down the elevator and out onto the street with Joel, barely paying attention to your surroundings. Joel has been talking on and off the entire time, his voice a distant murmur, and you’re flooded with guilt for being so rude. The sudden city noise blaring hits your ears harshly, and you turn to look at him.

“I-I’m sorry, what’d you say?” you ask him.

“Oh, jus’ that we should walk to lunch. It’s nice enough, and the place is just a few blocks. That alright with you?”

“Right, um, sure,” you reply, stumbling over your words when you feel Joel’s questioning gaze on you. You try to brighten up to avoid suspicion, tuning in to the autumn sun on your face and Joel’s presence beside you. It doesn’t seem to help the constant loop of anxiety swirling in your gut like you'd been hoping.

“How’s school goin’?” Joel asks, sounding far away.

“Alright. Just trying to get through the semester until I figure things out,” you tell him on autopilot. You know he’s only being polite, trying to check in, but the question pulls up pressure from inside of you, choking your already anxious stomach. It’s like the weight of the world crashes on your shoulders, like you’re supposed to have it all figured out by now. That way, Joel can stop this ruse with you and get back to his normal life, not having to continue to waste his money taking care of someone who can’t seem to sort their life out. You’ve been researching schools, ideas, and careers, wanting to do your due diligence to Joel’s generosity, but you keep coming up short or feeling indecisive. It seems too big a choice, too weighty, right now to decide your entire future when for most of your life you’ve never been able to think this way.

“You’ve got nothin’ but time,” Joel replies, seeming to either not notice or not be bothered by your flat attitude today. His hand gives your back a quick, reassuring rub as you walk, and you stiffen, but only because of the unexpected flutter it brings to your belly, momentarily distracting you from overthinking.

You let him do most of the talking as you saunter along, and are grateful it’s only those few blocks until you reach the restaurant. It’s a chic, modern looking space with high, airy ceilings and minimalist furniture. It’s bustling, apparently a hot spot for the business elite to attend their lunches with each other and their clients as you scan the room and see mostly suits and black, gray, and navy attire.

You’re seated right away despite some lingering groups clearly waiting for tables at the front, which makes you finally crack a smile. Joel always has things so figured out, so planned to perfection.

“This place is all the rage, I guess,” Joel commentates, glancing around at the busy dining room. “Ate here a few weeks ago with some folks and it was pretty damn good. We’ve got to get you one of these grilled, uh, avocado appetizer things. Wouldn’t have thought myself keen on it, but hell, it surprised me,” Joel rambles on, picking up his menu and scanning it. He holds it further and further away from himself until he sighs, pulling his reading glasses from his jacket pocket and plopping them onto his nose with a frustrated sigh. The entire series of events melts away some of your sourness, and you grin at him. It makes you glad to have someone like Joel, who so effortlessly lifts your spirits.

“Don’t say anything,” Joel snips, noticing your amusement at his struggle. “You’ll need these someday too.”

“I didn’t say a word,” you reply smugly, glancing down at your own menu.

“This is nice, y’know,” Joel remarks out of nowhere after a beat of silence. “Goin’ out together, enjoying the day.”

“Yeah.” You smile a little brighter, almost starting to feel silly for pulling into your shell so much. Joel is always laid back in his own way it seems, acting as if it’s not a bother to be here with you. You only wish you could believe it to the degree he so effortlessly exudes it. “It is.”

Joel orders for the both of you when the server comes around, but only after finding out what you’re interested in eating. Of all the assholes you’d been set up with or asked out by, thinking they were doing you a favor by ordering for you, Joel has been the only one who actually asked.

Whether Joel has detected the difference in your mood or not, he seems intent on keeping the mood positive, continuing to carry the conversation while you two wait for your food. You do swear you perceive some minute difference in his eyes, though, some discerning quality that's attempting to figure you out. You try to avoid suspicion, but it seems that the harder you try to act normal, the less you feel it, and the more that Joel’s studying gaze deepens, trying to read your mind.

You answer his questions about school, about your life, and ask him how his week is going, playing the part as best you can. When the avocado appetizer Joel so excitedly mentioned comes, you rave about it, but everything feels half hearted when all you want to do is scream out in questioning about that rude woman at the office. Could Joel be secretly married or have some serious relationship you aren’t aware of? Could that be the type of woman he liked to affiliate with - someone cold and mean with no regard for other people’s feelings?

“Everything alright?” he finally decides to ask once the main course comes. His fingers wiggle together anxiously, his voice softer with a shy edge to it.

“Uh, y-yeah," you lie. You’re caught off guard, blurting it out before you can think about it. “Just tired with schoolwork and stuff. Haven’t been sleeping enough.”

That stare is on you again, his eyes slightly narrowed, but he nods. “Well alright, then,” he says faintly, looking down at his meal. You feel a pang in your chest, a desperation there to fix it. You’ve wounded him, and you open your mouth to speak, to retract what you said and tell him the truth, but something catches your eye over Joel’s shoulder. A woman is approaching, deliberate in her movements with her eyes on Joel’s back like she knows him.

“Joel?!” the woman’s perky voice cuts in. Joel turns just as the woman sidles up beside him, a cheerful look of recognition on his face. She’s dark haired, curly and wild, but in a way you know has been styled to look so effortless. She seems to have a glow about her, something glossy in her aura that’s instantly friendly and attractive. “I thought that was you!”

You hate that jealousy sears through you in an instant. You hate this protective feeling you get over Joel, over this undefined, amorphous thing you have with him. She’s everything you wonder if you should be - the perfect, shiny match to his desires for investing all his hard earned money. You’re only the latest model, after all.

“Valerie? Hey there.” Joel is up in an instant, wrapping his arms around the woman in a familiar embrace. Never forgetting his manners, he introduces you in the next breath. She flashes you a bright, inviting smile and tousels her hair before waving a hand at you.

“Valerie,” she replies with her graceful, perky body language, reaching out to shake your hand.

“Nice to meet you,” you muster up. The look she’s giving you is coy and knowing, understanding of the situation, because you’re guessing that she has been exactly where you are, who you are.

“Randy and I were just having lunch ourselves. We love this place. It’s so funny to run into you here. Did I tell you we got married last year?!” Valerie rambles on to Joel, her hands animated as she speaks, one of them held up to display the ring as if it would be hard to miss the giant, sparkling rock that sits heavily on her finger. She gestures to a table behind Joel, and you glance over his shoulder to see a man near Joel’s age, his hair a coiffed, shining silver. He’s facing away, typing on his phone, and blatantly unavailable and uninterested in his wife’s side quest to your table.

“That so? Well congrats to you two, then,” Joel says, sounding genuinely excited for her.

She nearly squeals. “Thank you, it was so beautiful! Just every girl’s dream, really. We flew everyone out to Fiji, did it on the beach at sunset and everything. But enough about me! I’ll let you two get back to your date. I just saw you here and had to say hi. It’s been too long, hasn’t it?!”

As much as Valerie steals the spotlight, you’re stuck on watching Joel’s face, the subtle ways it moves and reacts to her. The corner of his lip twitches up, clearly privately amused but not fazed by her erratic yet charming way of taking up the entirety of the space in the conversation. When he shoots a glance at you, your heart squeezes, feeling in on the little joke that this is just Valerie being Valerie. You feel part of his wide, glamorous world.

Joel is polite and kind as they wrap up the conversation, sending Valerie back to her table with a smile where it appears she begins to animatedly recount the entire conversation to her husband.

“Who was that?” you ask, your lip curling up a little deviously, your problems half forgotten for the moment at your piquing curiosity and seemingly innate desire to tease Joel. “One of your girlfriends?”

Joel flushes, his cheeks tinged a soft pink. “You know I don -” He sighs, clearly flustered. “She’s an old friend. And married now, by the sound of it.”

“Ah, a friend. Like I’m your friend?” you ask, and Joel shoots you a pointed look.

“Would that be a problem?” He finally snaps, latching onto your teasing and throwing it right back with a raised brow as he leans towards you. Your face heats the tiniest bit, knowing despite your teasing that yes, it actually did seem to be a problem while Valerie was here chatting up a storm. Even if whatever it was between them was ancient history, you feel insecure, wondering if you can live up to the other women he’s let into his life. You’d been feeling good about the arrangement - finally - even excited for this lunch today, until that presumptuous woman at the office threw a complete wrench in your emotions.

“I’m juuust asking,” you tell him, “So…?”

“Yes, alright?” He clicks his tongue, sitting forward and placing his forearms on the table, challenging you. “It was ages ago now, but yes, if you must know we had a similar arrangement.”

You give him a slow, intrigued nod. “I see,” is all you reply.

Joel’s lips twist to the side in irritation, but the sparkle in his eye reminds you that he’s having just as much fun as you are with this. “You see, what?”

“Nothing!” You chuckle. “I swear. I just - she’s really nice. And pretty.” You hear the way your voice falls, cracks a little without trying, on your last words, so you clear your throat, hoping to cover it up. Eyes on the table, on your half eaten meal, you can feel Joel’s gaze boring into you.

“What is this? What’s goin’ on here?” he asks, sounding a little impatient, losing that light edge to his voice that says he’s no longer teasing.

You sigh, waving a dismissive hand. “No, nothing. I just, I mean what I said.”

“It’s true. Valerie’s wonderful person. And so are you.”

You nearly snort, but feel yourself go shy at the last minute under his praise. “I guess. Yeah, thank you.” You try to sound sincere, but you can hear the way you’re trying too hard, the strain of each syllable an attempt to hide your rising emotions.

“I don’t get it,” he says, sounding exasperated. Joel always tried his best, but sometimes he was stumped by the inner workings of the women’s minds he chose to have relationships with. Even Sarah, when she was growing up, had her share of moments just like this where he felt helpless, just wanting her to talk to him, let him help. “Are you jealous? Of a fling I had five years ago?” he asks, guessing what seems to be the first logical explanation. “Cause I promise you that I only like to focus on one woman at a time. That’s long in the pas-”

“It’s not that, I swear,” you cut in. Processing his words a second later, you flick your gaze to his, wonder in your widening eyes. “Wait, what? You - Joel, you don’t have to do that for me. This isn’t -” A relationship, you’d wanted to say. But you can’t discount that you did feel protective over keeping Joel all to yourself, even if he’d made the promise that it wouldn’t become anything more. “You shouldn’t hold yourself back because of me.”

“I’m doin’ nothing of the sort, I promise you. I’m too busy for having all kinds of relationships, and besides, I’m happy with where I’m at right now. I swear t’you.”

Joel’s reassurance instantly cuts through your racing thoughts. You put your head in your hands, your whole face hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’m acting so… so… insane right now. I mean we literally just started this whole thing and I’m already more trouble than it’s worth. God, I -”

“Stop it right there,” Joel says softly, but his voice hits a dichotomy with the biting edge to his words, urging you to listen. His hand reaches out, wrapping around your wrist. The touch is gentle but his fingers are thick and rough, sending a skittering of sparks across your skin. Affection isn’t something you’re used to, and it does the job he’d hoped of stopping you in your tracks. “Just know, whoever told you that about yourself before, it ain’t true. It’ll never be true. I chose this too, y’know. You didn’t force me to spend time with you, to want to help you out. I wanted it, too, right? Hell, I’m the one that offered, remember?”

Your breath catches, a lump in your throat thick as you attempt to swallow. You peek at Joel from where your head rests in your hands, slowly lowering them, but his hold on your wrist stays steady for a few more seconds, a comforting presence while his thumb rubs a few lazy circles.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him with a watery smile. “Thank you. I don’t know what’s going on with me. I think this is all just new, and a lot. And worrying about everything with my parents… Or being seen together like this…” You blow out a long, stressed breath. “Yeah, it’s a lot.”

Joel gives you a nod of understanding. “It’s true, it is a lot. You know I’ve got your back now though, yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“I’m not gonna go back on things, that’s just not the kind of guy I am.”

Until the next one. The woman’s words cut in, making you nearly flinch. You believe Joel, you do. He’d already proven to be generous and steadfast, but would he really show up for you long term? Would he keep up the charade of pretending you mattered in the world, that you could find your place with his help? Or would he be distracted as soon as something better came along?

You stare at him for a long, quiet moment, biting at the inside of your lip. “The - the woman… Who is she?” you ask quietly, balling your hands in your lap underneath the table. At Joel’s quizzical look, you sigh, elaborating. “At the office earlier.”

He clicks his tongue, his head drooping and fingers coming up to swipe at his eyes then pinch the bridge of his nose. He looks decidedly defeated and tired now. “God damn it, Marissa,” he mutters under his breath. His eyes flick back to yours, burning with fresh intensity. “What did she say?”

“I - Well-”

“What did she say to you?” Joel’s sudden surge of protectiveness over you is surprising, but welcome. The intensity of it, though, takes you aback, making you start to regret bringing it up. This was a whole new side of Joel you hadn’t gotten to see yet.

“J-Just some bullshit, it’s fine.”

You see the recognition flash across Joel’s face, now reaching a new level of anger and defeat. “I knew it was somethin’. That’s why you’ve been acting quiet today, yeah? So it ain’t fine.”

You groan internally, hating the confirmation that he’d noticed. “She just made a dumb comment about me being the latest model, or whatever.” And looked at you like you were the scum on the bottom of her shoe, but you hold back from saying that part out loud.

Joel rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “She’s got a flair for the dramatic, especially when she’s not gettin’ her way.” You stay silent, so Joel goes on. “That’s my ex. She’s - it’s complicated.”

“Two in one day. Lucky me,” you say flatly, and Joel offers you a sympathetic, guilt ridden smile. “At least one was nice.”

“Marissa is… it’s a different situation. As much as I wish we weren’t, we’re stuck together. On account of havin’ a kid and everything.”

The realization hits you hard. You’ve never seen Sarah’s mother or heard much about her. She doesn’t show up to functions, is never mentioned, and effectively, Joel has always seemed like a single dad from your perspective.

“Oh, shit. That’s Sarah’s mom?” you ask.

Joel nods solemnly. “It’s complicated, like I said. It’s a long history, and her favorite thing seems to be stirrin’ up trouble for me, so I’m sorry about that.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. That sounds awful,” you tell him, sympathetic to his cause.

“She shouldn’t have said that, or said anything to you at all. I’m sorry. She showed up this mornin’ out of the blue as she does, on her usual shit and I didn’t notice the time. Should have sent her away the minute I knew you’d be comin’.”

You give him a shrug. “It’s - it’s not your fault, Joel. You can’t control what she says.”

“There’s no merit to it, I swear. I would never have let her speak t’you that way. She say anything else?”

You shake your head at first, hesitant to share more for fear of hurting Joel. You could tell how heavily the guilt of someone else’s words was weighing on him, like he was responsible for everyone in his world and how they behaved.

“Not really. Just… basically that I was about to expire and be replaced any minute. And if looks could speak, well, yeah. She had a lot to say with those,” you tell him, avoiding eye contact, focusing on fiddling with your fork on the table.

Joel’s mouth presses into a flat line. “Don’t pay any mind to it. She’s always done this, always wanted to make sure I’m less happy than she is, even though I’m the one that took care of things when she was too -” Joel cuts himself off, placing his palms on the table. His sudden distress causes you to snap your head back up, looking to him and seeing the worry now etched on his features. It nearly breaks your heart to see him like this. “Sorry, you don’t need my whole sob story, sweetheart.”

This time, you reach to him, placing a hand on his and squeezing before pulling it back, unsure of yourself in the intimate gesture. Joel seems to be so much better than you at this kind of thing. “If you want to share, I’ll listen. I can’t imagine what that’s like. I - I thought she wasn’t even in the picture, but…”

“She ain’t,” Joel snips. “Not really. She comes and goes when she pleases, and I - I let her walk all over me, take from me. Shit, hard to even admit it, but that’s the truth. Never do that shit for anyone, just… when it comes to Sarah, I’ll do fuckin’ anything. Marissa knows that.” Joel avoids holding your gaze, his eyeline averted to the left at some spot off in the distance. “The worst part is, watchin’ Sarah get that hope in her eyes, like maybe it could be different this time. Even after all these years. God, listen to me. Second meal together and I’m turnin’ into this big sap, ranting like some sad old man. You should be havin’ fun, being shown a good time.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Joel,” you chide him. “What did you just tell me? About wanting to be here?”

He cracks a small smile and you return it. In a way, it’s nice to know he has this baggage, that he’s not always put together and suave. He has demons, like you do, like the rest of the world does. He’s not invincible, he’s complicated. Just like you, too.

“You’re a good one, kiddo, y’know that?” Joel says, sighing, and you try to fight the bolt of disappointment hurtling itself through your chest at the nominer. A kid. Joel says it so passively, and you know he’s not trying to undermine you, or make you feel the crush that it brings to know he doesn’t see you in the way you’d like him to, so you just smile.

“I like this kind of conversation much better, anyways,” you reply, swallowing down your hurt. “Helps me get to know you.”

Joel’s smile cocks sideways. “Right. Almost forgot this is what it’s all about, ain’t it?” he teases. “Been talkin’ your ear off, not even askin’ about you.”

“Oh, no, no. You’re not getting off that easily. I have more questions.”

He laughs, the thick tension in the air starting to evaporate as his shoulders relax. “Really, now? Alright, nosy, shoot.”

You bite your lip, reigning in your cheesy grin. “Okay. So… What happened with you and Valerie?”

Joel speaks bluntly. “We ended things. She did, actually.”

You raise one brow, unimpressed. “Well, that much is obvious. But, you just let her go? I don’t know, she seems so… nice. Perfect. Like someone every man would want to be with.”

Joel’s look shifts to something more amused. “You ever broken up with someone before?”

“I - Well, kind of, I guess. But they were assholes, and it wasn’t anything serious.”

“And maybe just not the right person for you, yeah?”

“A mistake, more like it,” you mumble, and Joel chuckles, scratching a hand through his beard as he shakes his head at you.

“My point is, some people just aren’t right for each other, no matter how perfect they seem,” he says pointedly. “Me and Valerie got along, but we were just wanting different levels of, er, commitment at the time, I guess.”

“Oh? And you… weren’t committing then?” It’s hard to see that for Joel, given what you’ve already learned about him in this short time. He was steadfast, seeming singularly focused when he put his mind to something, given his success, so it was hard to picture him shying away from commitment. Especially seeing as how whenever you’ve been in his presence, it's felt like you are his sole priority, like he's dedicated only to that moment with you - it seemed to be a gift he had.

“She was lookin’ for more, and I wasn’t really there with her back then. We were havin’ fun, and she realized she was lookin’ for someone to marry, spend her life with, y’know? So, I’m happy for her that she found it. She’s a nice gal, deserves that.”

You consider it, knowing there may be more to the story than he’s letting on, but you don’t press him. Maybe it’s too early to dig into things, despite you wanting to learn everything you can about him.

“That’s really sweet, actually. It seems like things ended amicably, then?”

Joel nods. “Yeah, it did. Never was really contentious with any of the others, neither. Sometimes y’just grow out of things, or realize it ain’t a good fit, even if money's the motivating factor. For me, I want to look forward to spendin’ time with the person, too. It makes it all worth it.”

You give him a genuine smile, feeling your gaze going soft. Something about the way Joel speaks about this, so surefooted and thoughtful, and the way he regards the women he’s involved in his lifestyle, it grasps at you and refuses to let go. He recognizes where he’s at and owns it - not trying to say anything to please you, but just speaking honestly about the experience.

“And not to mention the, you know, little boost of… motivation you get from it,” you say, poking at him.

Joel nearly chokes on the sip he’s taken from his water glass, then composes himself. “Very funny,” he grits out with an overexaggerated frown, one you can tell he’s forcing. “Keep it up, and we’ll see what happens.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You put your hands up in mock defeat. “It was just too easy. But I get what you’re saying. Uh… have the others known about that part of it, too? I - I’m just genuinely curious about all of this. I guess I never thought about the, uh, intricacies of these sorts of things.” You’d been wondering if it was obvious or expected in that kind of arrangement, or if what you knew about Joel was some kind of rarity. Was it always all about that for these men providing lavish gifts and financial stability? Or could it be something more, like what you and Joel have? Was it the big secret that all these women were in on, that writing checks and throwing credit cards their way was a one way ticket to these men getting hard in their overpriced slacks?

You’ve been feeling so naive, ruminating on it since that dinner with Joel, that you hadn’t guessed the minute he’d brought it up in his office that day. Was that the only reason he was here doing this, to get some kind of sexual satisfaction out of it?

Joel grimaces a little, clearly anxious about toeing back towards this topic with you. “Well, yeah, to a degree. It’s not always spoken, but sometimes it’s part of the fun. Making jokes about it, or… shit, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but we’re both adults here, I ‘spose. It’s foreplay at times, knowin’ about what’s going on for both people. Makes it fun.”

You fight the slight gape your mouth has dropped into, snapping it shut into a smug smile, nodding. “Oh,” you blurt out dumbly, feeling your cheeks go hot, curling the back of your knuckles to rest your chin in your hands, looking down. One mention of foreplay with Joel and you’re reduced to an awkward, wordless mess, unsure of how to proceed. There wasn’t any foreplay happening here, he’d made that very clear repeatedly, but your conversations always seem to edge towards something else, filled with an unspoken tension. It was messing with your mind, your ability to keep things compartmentalized for your own sanity. You pick up your fork, attempting to return to your meal just for something to do with your hands. “That’s…”

Joel seems to catch himself, leaping into action. “B-but not… this. This situation is different. I’m able to separate things, and… and… shit, I’m sorry. I’m the one goin’ on about not crossin’ those lines, and here we are. I was jus’ trying to tell you how it usually goes for lots of folks doing this sort of thing, that’s all.”

You wave your hands as if to pardon his blunder, finally collecting yourself. “No, no, I get it, and that makes sense. I was the one who asked. It sounds fun, honestly. I see why people do this.”

Joel loosens up, his tense shoulders dropping and lips giving you a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah, it is. I’m havin’ fun now, too, just to make that clear.”

“Oh gee, thanks,” you reply sarcastically, giving him a playful scrunch of your nose. “Me too, though,” you add on with more sincerity.

“Oh, so gettin’ treated to new things and meals because of me is fun, is it?”

You feign thinking for a long moment to irritate him. “Hmm, I guess so.” You laugh, grateful to be back on track with Joel, the banter right where it should be in both of your sweet spots. This was far from normal - secretly dating but not dating such an old friend of your father, accepting his money and gifts - but it felt like one of the most natural places you could be right now.

“Now, should we enjoy our meal together?” Joel asks.

Smiling at him, already feeling the hefty weight that had been pressing on your soul this entire week lifting some thanks to Joel, you nod.

You walk side by side along the busy sidewalks with Joel, his body constantly hovering close to you so as not to lose you amidst the throngs of people going about their busy days. The lunch rush is still alive and well, a blur of people in business casual rushing past, clutching their bags or talking hurriedly on their phones, likely all on their way back to their respective jobs.

Joel had insisted on walking together instead of going separate ways after lunch, seeming to have a secretive air about him that piqued your interest enough to go along with it.

“Want to make up for everythin’ from today,” he tells you, stopping outside of a jewelry store with gold and silver alike, gemstones and diamonds glittering in the window displays.

“Joel…” you chide. “There’s nothing to make up for. This seems to be a theme with you. Wasn’t lunch supposed to make up for the mustard incident where you almost poisoned me to death?”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Yes, but this is for Marissa.” At your insistent mouth opening to brush it off, he puts both his hands on your shoulders, stopping you. “I’m serious. I’m gonna have a talk with her about it. She shouldn’t be gettin’ into my business or yours. I really am sorry.”

You melt quickly under the softness in his tone and the bulk of his hands weighing comfortably on your shoulders.

“It’s really not like she’s making it out to be, I want you to know that. I know you don’t know me as well as you’d like yet, but it’s always been… as respectful as I can get things to be between me and whoever I’m with at the time. She can’t see that, and doesn’t want to, ‘cause she’s bitter she’s not getting more out of me. So if she made you feel like you’re just someone to use an’ throw away, I’m sorry about that. It couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m here until we get everythin’ sorted out for you and more, yeah?”

You blink rapidly, willing away the unwelcome tears starting to make your eyes shine. You’ve never heard words even remotely like what Joel is saying to you right now, never have had anyone take the time to express a sentiment like that, make you feel worth the time of day for it. It’s… incredible, a warmth that quickly burrows itself inside your chest, so foreign but so welcome to feel like you’re truly seen, truly matter to someone else beyond what it could give them. Even if it was Joel, who barely knows you, but seems to see the merit in helping you figure your life out despite it being risky for him. Nobody had ever done anything like that for you before.

“I…” you stutter out, clearing your throat and looking down at the sidewalk. Joel’s gaze is pensive and sharp as he studies you, trying to read the emotions warring within you. “Thank you, Joel. I’m sorry, I’ve just never - you’re really kind. Not just the money thing, but you’re… not what I expected.”

He smiles, seeming to understand the struggle you’re unable to verbalize. It was obvious here, what was going on based on everything you’d told him about your father. There was a deep wound you were simply trying to fill. It should make Joel feel dirty, but he lit with pride somewhere deep inside, making him want to keep being the reason for you to smile.

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he replies smugly, forcing a weak chuckle out of you. “Now c’mon. We’ve got things to buy.”

Joel surprises you when his hand trails down, grasping at yours, making a beeline for the door to the shop. You let your fingers intertwine with his like it’s a natural, everyday occurrence for the two of you, tugging you along.

The man behind the counter knows Joel, greeting him by name, which amuses you to no end. Joel really has perfected this type of relationship for himself, down to the jewelry shop he frequents. Joel introduces you, and you can only offer a shy smile and hello, feeling the difference between the bustle of the outside world and placidity of the polished jewelry shop hitting you hard. You’re too aware of the way your hand is clasped tightly in Joel’s now that you’re somewhere quiet with eyes on the two of you. The more places you’re seen together, the more likely it is that your entire world could come crashing down with this secret getting out. There are millions of people in this city, yet you keep getting the sinking feeling it would be just your luck to be spotted by the wrong one.

Joel senses your shift, slipping his hand out of yours and briefly grazing the small of your back with it. “Hey, it’s okay. Nobody here knows anythin’, or would say anythin’, even if they did,” he whispers, and you eye the clerk suddenly acting very interested in wiping the surface of a case across the room to give the two of you privacy.

You shoot him a nervous look. “Should we really be out together like this? It’s been making me nervous all day. What if - what if…?”

Joel’s entire body nearly lurches forward, but he holds himself back from grabbing onto you, squeezing those anxious cheeks of yours between his hands and holding them tightly, making sure you look into his eyes while he reassures you. This instinct he has, the one he’s never been able to ignore, feels like too much with you, too suffocating. You have a father, someone to look after you that way already. Hell, all of them have had a father, but never one that he knew personally. Yet, he saw the need you had for it, the craving maybe you weren’t aware of, the one that brought you to tears the moment he’d shown you any sign of that kindness.

It hurts his heart to see you so neglected - all these years of knowing you by proxy, and he’d never seen it. How could he have missed it, how miserable you’ve been? How much sooner could he have been able to help you realize that you were worth anyone’s time, that you were worthy of living the life you wanted to live? Somehow though, he felt that this was exactly where the two of you were meant to be at this point in your timelines. Any sooner and maybe he wouldn’t have been able to make the difference he wanted to because you’d not have been ready to face it, or too late in the game, already too miserably deep in your path to CEO to care.

Meant to be - the words that kept running through Joel’s mind, despite everything in him fighting to stop thinking like that, to stop gently placing your sweet self so deeply in his heart so early on in the relationship. You yearn so earnestly for something he was so innately able to give, and that’s making it harder than it ever had been with the others.

“We don’t have to go out like this again, if you don’t want. I know, I thought the same thing, and we can stick with my place if y’want to. I just want you to feel comfortable, that’s all.”

You throw him an appreciative smile. “I - I’ll think about it. I liked today, though.”

“Me too.” He smiles. “Now can I treat you to somethin’ pretty like I’m supposed to?”

“Alright, alright, Mr. Impatient. Let’s have a look,” you reply, stepping forward to peer down at the closest display, feeling Joel’s presence sidling up beside you. Heat radiates off of both him and the lights in the glittering case, making you sweat at the proximity of it all, the nearness of his body and that cologne of his wafting invitingly into your space.

“What do you usually like? Noticed you mostly wear gold. But not many bracelets.”

You flick your gaze to him, brows lifted. “Very observant of you.”

“It’s all part of the gig. Got to know what kinds of gifts you’re lookin’ for, so I can surprise you when you least expect it.” Joel’s pleased smugness shadows his face, and you roll your eyes at him, even though you are impressed. Men don’t have the best reputation for paying attention, or at least not the ones you’ve known. Your father has never opted to buy his own gifts for your mother, always either hiring someone to do it or deferring to you, since you’d clearly know better what his wife would like.

“Well, what would you pick out for me if I wasn’t here?” you ask him, feeling emboldened.

Joel seems to like this game, taking on the challenge with an intrigued twitch of his brows. He leans the tiniest bit closer to you, but he may as well have crossed an entire canyon with the difference the proximity makes to your steadily beating heart. He seems to morph into something more right there - giving you the suave show he offers to any other woman in your position.

“Alright, well, I’d want to know first if you don’t wear bracelets because you don’t like ‘em, or if you just don’t think about buyin’ them for yourself, which would be a damn shame. ‘Cause for some reason, I really want to be the one clasping something nice to your pretty wrists. Just a feeling I get.”

You can scarcely breathe at the way his voice reverberates so close to you, lowering to a gravelly rumble with each word weaving its way inside of you. It’s all too sensual, too evocative of an image painted in your mind for this to be the casual thing you’re both seeming to pretend it is. Your skin is prickling, warm all over as you stand with tightening thighs, your hip pressed against the jewelry case to help hold you steady. You don’t dare look him in the eye now, for fear he’ll be able to see the mortification burning its way through you at the effect his words have.

“I - I just don’t think about it. I like bracelets, though,” you somehow squeak out, keeping your answer safe and only opting to respond to the actual question rather than… whatever the hell all the other stuff was. You simply can’t dive into it further if you want to remain sane right now and pretend that Joel didn’t have some kind of obscene hold on you.

“Alright, then. Let’s have at it,” he says casually now, dropping some of the charm. He prowls along the cases at a slow, steady pace, carefully weighing the options. “I’ll stick with gold, for obvious reasons. No point in mixin’ it up if you’re not interested.” He flashes a glance back to you, to see if he’s on the right track, so you nod for him, agreeing. You do your own browsing, admiring the wide selection of jewelry while he’s quiet for a while, stopping to observe each case with scanning eyes before he glances to the clerk across the room.

“William, I think we’re all set here,” he booms out, and you look at him curiously, walking over to the case he’s landed on. You peer down through the glass, trying to guess which one he’s selected, but Joel stops you with a gentle hand to the shoulder. “Do you want it to be a surprise?”

You consider it, pursing your mouth in contemplation. A flutter moves through your middle, making you lick your lips before smiling wide for him. “Yeah, why the hell not?” you conclude.

Moments later, after dutifully averting your gaze from across the room as Joel and William pack up your new gift, he walks over to you with a slender, black box in hand. There’s a bag in his other for you to carry it home in, sporting tissue paper and the shop's name in a classy, black font across the front.

“For you,” Joel says quietly, presenting the box to you and cracking it open. It’s a dainty, gold bracelet, periodically studded with flowers, daisies by the look of it, each one beautifully crafted and shimmering with diamonds. You’re accustomed to nice things like this - diamonds, designer clothing and bags, all the highest quality things your parents provided for you growing up, yet you still gasp at the sight before you. There’s something touching about it being specifically chosen for you by someone who truly wanted to do it. That makes it the most beautiful piece of jewelry you’ve ever seen, despite having laid eyes on much more elaborate, eye-catching pieces.

This feeling was pure magic.

“I love it,” you exclaim softly, bringing a hand up to your mouth, some self conscious part of you desiring to conceal your smile, not wanting to seem materialistic. Joel’s hand goes to your wrist, moving it away, his eyes intently flashing between watching your grin and your eyes crinkling happily with it.

“Mm-mm,” he chastises you, nearly a whisper. “This is the best part, watchin’ you be happy.”

Your smile falls into something more subtle, an electricity crackling down to your very veins at the intimacy brimming in the air between the two of you. “Thank you, Joel. I love it. You did really good,” you manage to say, your breath a little shaky.

“Let me,” he says, bringing your wrist a little lower and gently pulling the new bracelet out of its box. The way he so gingerly moves, wrapping the gold chain around your wrist and clasping it, all so certain yet reverent, has something inexplicable taking hold of you. He’s an expert, this sort of thing practically a second job for him, yet you feel like it’s the first time, as if he’d never tire of making you feel this cherished and special.

“Now would you look at that,” Joel marvels as he finishes up, turning your wrist in a slow, graceful manner to allow a moment of appreciation as the bracelet shines and sparkles. When he lets go, you feel the absence like a plunge of ice to your skin, much colder than you could remember it being before he’d touched it. You smile absentmindedly at the bracelet, shaking it to hear the tiny, pleasant jingle.

“It’s perfect,” you tell Joel. “Thank you again.” Before you can think, your arms are thrown around him in an embrace, wanting to show your appreciation. You feel his hesitation at first, but once his arms finally wrap around you, they’re committed, squeezing you tightly to his chest. “I thoroughly forgive you now for your rude ex. And the mustard,” you say into his shirt.

You both descend into laughter, pulling away to watch his crooked smile lighting up his whole face. “Thank god. I was worried it was a deal breaker.”

You shrug. “Nah. More where this came from, and we’ll definitely be even.”

Joel’s hurried footsteps have him rushing along the sleek black floors past the front desk, not so much so as to not give Vincent a proper greeting as he passes. Thankfully Bianca, his assistant, is still on her lunch too, no questions or needs or check-ins from her buzzing in his ear. Just for these few minutes, that’s all he needs.

The office door closed in a haste, shaky hands pulling the shades on his windows into the hallway, he makes sure to lock the door before settling in at his desk. A heavy sigh escapes his lips, the half hard cock he’d been fighting for blocks now straining against his slacks, so stiff and achy it’s nearly painful. Leaking a spot onto his briefs, he palms it, sighing softly at the relief it brings.

Jerking on his cock, the length of springs out, slapping at his belly before he tugs out his balls too, resting heavily against the hastily shuffled down fabric. He swallows the tiny pit of shame growing inside of him before skimming a finger through his precum, spreading it along his head in a circular motion.

This time, he doesn’t even try to avoid picturing it’s you doing it.

He’s hardly allowed himself to let go like this for days, not since your first dinner together. It’s been too difficult to not tie it to you, to not conflate the fact that he was rock hard more often than was convenient now to the fact that he had someone new out there enjoying all the wonderful things he could provide for them. That someone being you, maybe one of the few people he absolutely should not be fantasizing about. He was coming on too strong, he knew that, unable to help himself from giving in to what seems to come naturally between you two. You’re too nice, too sweet to ruin with vain, carnal desires, so he’d have to resort to this instead - holding back until he’s nearly bursting with unplaced desire.

He thought he could handle the jewelry store, could handle you. But just as you’d said he’s different than you’d expected, so are you. Funny and biting, but so soft and caring underneath it all, passionate and driven but without a direction yet, something in you so wanting of it, so needing, you were simply… lovely. Radiant and perfect in all your own little ways, you’ve been one of the biggest pleasures to be around after only two god damned dates. Joel hates himself for it. It’s such a shame it had to be you, the one who’d finally caught his attention in this way. It has been too long since he’d indulged himself, let someone in and taken care of them. He’d just stayed focused on work and family, ignoring the part of him that ached to be satisfied with being seen as someone’s provider.

Joel’s slick hand slides up his cock, gripping tightly, a dichotomous hope uttered on his lips that it should be you, and that he wishes it wasn’t you running through his mind during such an intimate act.

“F-fuck, yeah,” he mutters to himself, stroking faster. You and that smile, the new bracelet hanging off your wrist, just as he’d imagined it. The new dress you’d worn to dinner, aching to see more, more, more - new, pretty things, or to watch your stress melt away as he took on all those burdens for you. You could have everything, you could have it all, because of him.

He’d never touch you, no, and never let you touch him like this. But in this moment, squeezing his own slickened cock, he allows himself just one glimpse of it in his mind - one time, and he’d be done. One moment of imagining your hand wrapped around his shaft, fingers curling delicately as they move up and down, struggling to take him all in your hand. You would struggle, with that pretty new bracelet sparkling the entire way through.

He groans.

It’s louder than he’d meant, unexpectedly so, but that’s just what you do to him. The unexpected. A thin sheen of sweat coats Joel’s brow now as he strokes himself furiously, enjoying every second of allowing himself to relinquish his morals. It would be over too soon, he thinks to himself, catching a glimpse of his ruddy, pulsing cock in his hand, desperately imagining you’re there instead, touching it, riding it, the two of you doing something nobody has to know about.

“Sh-shit, shit,” Joel blurts out, hastily reaching for a tissue, pumping his cock a few more times, throwing his head back. When he comes, it’s harder than he has in recent memory, so much built up tension and need behind it all, but he doesn’t picture any specific thing to push him over the edge. It’s just you.

Catching his breath, he copes with the shame of it all, still feeling you buzzing pleasantly around his mind. This thing he can not rid himself of now that you’ve taken up residence there. It was a new kind of high, one he hadn’t felt in years, or maybe ever. None of the others had felt like this, his heart and mind seeming to slip out of his control and into something dangerous. Joel always found he didn’t like things to be out of his control if he could help it. You, however, were completely, irrefutably out of his control now.

Sitting there in his pool of shame, Joel cleans himself up and discards the evidence in the trash, feeling defeated. He’s already let this get too far, putting you in a dicey position, and for what? For him to self satisfy some part of him that he’s considered broken?

Isn’t that exactly what you were doing too? Could two people trying to fix what’s broken come together and not have it end in disaster? This isn't like his other relationships - there hadn’t been so much at stake, no end that resulted in upsetting the status quo of the other’s life.

He’s pondering all of it, if he’s being fair to you, if he should be more careful with what parts of your life he holds in his hands now, when he feels his phone buzz inside his pocket.

You’ve sent him a photo of your wrist, seemingly out on the street somewhere. He catches the facade of a high end, cream colored building in the background, and he wonders in passing if that’s where you call home. Wonders if he’ll be able to see it, be let into your world a little more. Not the parts of it he knows from being on the fringes, but the bits of you that you don’t share with your parents, your friends, or maybe anyone else.

Never taking this off, you tease in the message attached to the photo, and Joel’s chest tightens and swells with affection. He longs to make you feel like this every day, to make sure you know that you have someone looking out for you even when so many people in your life seem to have forsaken that. He studies the picture, looking over every inch and promising himself to put aside his vain desires to see this through for you. To give you all the things you deserve to have, because you’re a nice girl who deserves better than the lowness he’s stooped to in his office today.

It nags at his mind though, in a way he can’t shake off despite trying, the things he feels when he looks at the photo, the new bracelet shining in the sun. The things he feels when he looks at you.

You. You were certainly going to be the death of him.

#fic: honey honey #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #sugar daddy! joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #x reader #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction

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doll3scent · 6 months ago

Text

★ Pornstar 3 ★

John Price x Cam girl! reader

warnings- 18+-mdni, smut, age gap, cam girl reader, explicit language, video call sex.

wc. 5k

a/n i’m already halfway done with pt 4…i have a lot of free time…

2, 3, 4,

master list 𓂃۶ৎ

It had been a week, and Price couldn’t shake the knot of paranoia in his chest. Every time he saw your brother, he expected the conversation to turn, expected him to throw a punch or call him out for his disgusting actions. Price had barely slept, imagining the fallout: the disgust in your brother’s eyes, Ghost’s sharp judgment if he found out his captain was sneaking onto your streams.

But nothing had happened. Ghost remained oblivious and hadn’t acted any differently toward him. That only made it worse—because Price was certain you hadn’t forgotten. No, you had recognized him. You’d seen him.

And yet, you hadn’t said a word. The silence was eating him alive. Were you disgusted? Angry? Planning to expose him? The uncertainty was unbearable. He tried to keep his mind busy by burying himself in his work. But he was constantly plagued by the fear that he’d get a knock on his door, and it would be Ghost, ready to beat him within an inch of his life.

Price couldn’t stop thinking about you. It was maddening. Every quiet moment, every pause in the day, his thoughts drifted back to you—back to that call. The way you moved, the way your voice hitched when you spoke to him, and that soft gasp when you realized who he was.

He’d spent the entire week replaying it in his mind. How you’d looked, how you’d blushed when he praised you, and the way you scrambled to end the call when recognition dawned on your face. The memory made his chest tighten and his blood heat. He knew it was wrong—knew the lines he’d crossed—but that didn’t stop him. It only made the desire worse.

Nights were the hardest. Lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, he could almost hear your voice again, soft and sweet, calling him “Daddy” in that timid little tone. He’d clench his fists, trying to shake the thought, but it never worked. He hated himself for it—wanted to convince himself that it was just the heat of the moment—but he knew better. You were under his skin now, and he couldn’t shake you loose.

He tried distracting himself with work. Paperwork, training schedules, anything to keep his hands busy. But every time he’d pass Ghost, that familiar pang of paranoia would hit him. What if he knows? What if you told him? It was a vicious cycle—work, worry, and want, all twisting together until he was a mess of frustration.

And then there were the quiet moments when his mind wandered without permission. He found himself wondering what you were doing now. Were you thinking about him too? Were you avoiding your streams, afraid he might appear again? Or worse—were you streaming, letting someone else watch you, hear you, make you blush like that? The thought made his jaw clench.

One night, he sat alone in his office, a glass of whiskey in hand, the dim light casting long shadows on the walls. He pulled out his phone, his finger hovering over the app he’d used to find you. It would be so easy to look you up again, to click and see if you were live. But he stopped himself, setting the phone down with a growl. He couldn’t. Not again. But God, he wanted to.

For days, you stayed curled up in your pink, soft blankets, replaying the moment over and over in your mind. You should've been disgusted, horrified even, that your brother's captain—his boss-had been watching you like that. And yet, every time you thought about it, your cheeks burned for an entirely different reason.

You couldn't shake the way his deep, commanding voice had sent shivers down your spine. The way he praised you, so filthy and raw, had you plunging your fingers into your wet cunt again and again.

And the way he bossed you around, his tone laced with authority, had made your body ache in ways you didn't want to admit. You knew it was wrong-so, so wrong-but the thought of him, of how he wanted you, refused to leave your mind. It was dangerous, forbidden, and yet you couldn't stop yourself from wondering... what if it happened again?

You clutched the edge of your blanket, staring at the blank screen in front of you, your thoughts spiraling. He didn't know it was you-how could he? You'd always worn your mask, kept your identity hidden. To him, you were just another faceless streamer. Just someone he stumbled upon, nothing more. That thought gave you a strange sense of reassurance.

He couldn't possibly connect the dots. He didn't know you were his lieutenant's little sister. That made it... safe, didn't it? At least, that's what you kept telling yourself. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, your heart racing as your mind whispered dangerous thoughts.

Would it really be so wrong if it happened again? If you let him watch, let him command you? You reasoned it wasn't personal for him —it was just the thrill of the moment. But for you... the memory of his voice alone made your stomach twist in ways you couldn't ignore.

You bit your lip, a mixture of guilt and anticipation flooding your senses. One more time wouldn't hurt. He didn't know. He couldn't know. You conjured up an email, hoping he'd respond.

Hi! Price,

I just wanted to say how sorry I am for how our last call ended. Something personal came up, and I had to leave so suddenly... I really hope I didn't upset you.

As a way to make it up to you, l'd love to offer another video call, completely free, if you'd like. Just let me know what works best for you, and I'll make sure I'm all yours this time.

Thank you for being so understanding. I hope to hear from you soon!

Yours,

Angel

You stared at the screen, your finger hovering over the send button. The thought of him finding out it was you-your brother's captain, of all people-made your stomach flip with anxiety. What if he did recognize you? What if he went straight to your brother and told him what his little sister was doing?

The mere thought sent a chill down your spine. But... then again, what if he didn't find out? What it you were careful, kept everything just right, and he never connected the dots? Your heart raced with the risk, the thrill of the secrecy. If you could just keep your identity hidden a little longer, maybe you could let this dangerous game play out. You swallowed hard, trying to steady your nerves. The desire to continue, to feel that rush again, gnawed at you. Your hands trembled as you clicked the send button.

John sat back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his face. The past week had been a blur of tension, his thoughts plagued by that night. He couldn't stop thinking about the look on your face when the webcam shifted, the shock in your eyes as you recognized him.

He had barely slept since, half-expecting you to show up at his door or, worse, tell your brother what you'd seen. He opened his inbox absentmindedly, eyes scanning the subject line of a new email. It caught his attention-your name glowing back at him-and a pang of curiosity tugged at his chest. He clicked open the message and started reading, his brow furrowing as he processed your words.

"I'm so sorry how our last call ended..."

A wave of relief washed over him as he read further. You were apologizing for the way things had ended, offering to make it up to him. His fingers lingered over the screen as he reread the part about a free rescheduled call, and his heart raced. Were you serious? Or was this some sort of trap? Would your brother be on the other end of that call?

John leaned back, tension settling back into his shoulders. He could feel the heat of the situation creeping up on him again. The desire to see you, to hear you, to feel that connection again was almost too strong to resist.

John leaned back in his chair, trying to suppress the rush of emotions that flooded his chest as he remembered the way you had responded to him. The soft, breathy gasps, the way your body had moved in perfect sync with his words—it was like you had become his in that moment. He could still feel the tension in the air, how you had melted at his voice, obediently following his instructions without hesitation.

Your responses had been soft, shy, and yet there was something powerful in the way you surrendered to him, something that had stirred something deep inside him.

He hadn't expected you to listen so easily, to let go of your inhibitions like that. And the way your body had moved-slow, deliberate, responding to him like he was the only thing that mattered.

He bit his lip, remembering how he had commanded, how you had obeyed. His heart thumped in his chest as he realized just how much control he had over you, how much you had let him in. It made him want to take it further, push the limits, see just how far you'd go.

His thoughts drifted to the email now sitting in his inbox, a silent invitation from you. He couldn't stop the grin from tugging at his lips. He knew it was risky, but the temptation was too strong. He had to see you again, hear you again, and feel that same power dynamic build between you.

Dear Angel,

First off, no need to apologize-I completely understand that things can come up. That being said, Ive been thinking about our last call... and I have to admit, I haven't been able to shake the memory of it.

I'd definitely be interested in rescheduling, and I'll make sure we have a bit more time to really enjoy our time. How does tomorrow evening sound to you? I'm flexible, so just let me know what works for you.

Looking forward to it.

Best,

Price

You giggle softly, your cheeks flushing as you read his reply. The thought that he's been thinking about you too sends a thrill through you. You glance at his words about his flexibility and the teasing thought crosses your mind. You want to reply something cheeky, something bold like how you're flexible too, and how he can bend you however he wants. You could say it... something bold, something that would make him want you more.

But you bite your lip, hesitant. Instead, you type a more subtle response, keeping your playful nature intact, but holding back the risqué thoughts.

Price,

That sounds perfect. I'll make myself available, just let me know what time specifically works for you. Can't wait to talk again soon.

Yours,

Angel

You lie in bed, the soft sheets wrapped around you as your mind drifts, you can't help but imagine how you'll look on the next call-how you'll make sure every inch of you is perfect for him. You run your fingers through your hair, mentally picturing yourself in the right lighting, the right angle.

You want to be flawless, to catch his attention in a way that makes him crave you more. The thought of impressing him, of hearing his approval, fills you with anticipation.

You slip out of bed, the warmth of the blankets leaving you with a soft shiver. You know exactly what you need, and the idea of finding the perfect lingerie set for him sends a thrill through your body. You quickly get dressed, pulling on something comfortable, and head out to the nearest Victoria's Secret, your mind racing with anticipation.

As you walk through the store, your fingers graze the delicate fabrics, envisioning how it will look on you. You want it to be just right, so perfect for him.

A stunning pink lace lingerie set catches your eye. The corset is beautiful, hugging the waist in all the right places, cinching you in perfectly, making your curves pop. The lace details are delicate, almost fragile, and the tiny bows scattered along it only add to the allure.

Attached to the corset is a skirt made of the same soft pink lace, flowing gently around your hips, teasing just enough.

But it's the garters and thigh-high stockings that really seal the deal. The set is perfect-sexy, feminine, and exactly what you need to make an unforgettable impression. You bite your lip, already imagining how it'll look when you wear it, and you can't help but feel a little thrill run through you at the thought of what's to come.

The next day, you wake up with a flutter of nerves in your stomach, the excitement building as the time for your call draws near. You spend the entire morning getting ready, carefully setting the mood for what's about to unfold.

You start with a long, hot shower, letting the water relax your muscles as you shave every inch of your skin. The scent of your favorite body wash fills the air, and once you're done, you lotion every part of your body, making your skin soft and silky to the touch. You follow with a layer of oil, making sure you glow. You even powder lightly, giving yourself a flawless finish, as if you're preparing for a show, not just a call.

Even though he can't smell you through the screen, you spritz your best perfume- something light, fresh, and sweet-just for the touch of confidence it gives you. It's your little secret, and it makes you feel ready.

You curl your hair perfectly, each wave soft and bouncy, framing your face just the way you like it. When you step back and look at yourself in the mirror, you feel... different. You feel empowered, beautiful, ready. The lingerie set you picked out is waiting for you, laid neatly on your bed.

As the time ticks closer, you take one last glance around your room, making sure everything is just as you want it. Even your bed is perfectly made, the soft sheets and pillows arranged just so, setting the stage for the night ahead. Your heart races with anticipation, knowing every detail is about to fall into place.

You move toward your setup, carefully adjusting your webcam, making sure the angle captures just the right view. Then, you flick on your setup lights, but only direct them toward the bed. The soft glow they cast highlights the space perfectly, making the room feel inviting and intimate. With a deep breath, you switch off your bedroom lights, letting the cool darkness surround you. The only illumination now comes from the candles you've scattered around the room. Their dancing flames flicker softly, casting shadows that add an alluring, romantic vibe to the room. The air feels charged, the atmosphere thick with anticipation.

Everything is set. All that's left is the call. Your nerves mingle with excitement, knowing this is the moment you've been waiting for.

With a deep breath, you step into the lingerie, feeling the soft lace hug your body in all the right ways. The corset cinches your waist, accentuating your curves, while the delicate lace feels like a second skin. You pull on the matching panties, the fabric smooth and soft against your skin.

Carefully, you adjust the tiny skirt, letting it fall perfectly over your hips. It's light, teasing, and just enough to make the outfit feel complete. You attach the stockings to the garters, feeling the smooth fabric stretch over your legs, the garters snug against your thighs, holding them in place.

The set fits you perfectly, every detail just as it should be. You look at yourself in the mirror, feeling a mix of excitement and a little nervousness, knowing that everything is ready now. The candles flicker in the dim room, casting soft light over the delicate lace. You take a final breath, steeling yourself for the call that's about to begin.

You reach for your little white lace mask, your fingers brushing over the delicate fabric. It's the finishing touch. You tie it carefully behind your head, adjusting it so it sits perfectly, framing your eyes and cheeks.

You sit on the edge of the bed, your legs crossed delicately, hands resting in your lap as you try to calm your racing heart. The soft glow from the setup lights bathes you in a flattering hue, while the flickering candlelight creates an intimate ambiance around the room.

You glance at the screen, the little "connecting" symbol spinning as you wait for him to join. Every second feels like an eternity, your nerves buzzing with anticipation.

You adjust the tiny skirt once more, smoothing it down over your thighs, and take a slow, steadying breath. The moment the screen flickers to life, your heart skips a beat. His face appears, and you're immediately struck by the way his sharp features soften slightly as he takes you in. You can see his jaw tighten, his eyes scanning the screen, taking in every detail of you.

You bite your lip, your voice soft as you finally speak.

"Hi..."

The moment his face appears on the screen, he's completely silent. His dark eyes roam over you slowly, taking in every painstaking detail-the delicate pink lingerie hugging your body, the way your perfectly curled hair frames your face, the soft glow of your skin in the candlelight.

His gaze lingers, almost reverent, as though he's trying to memorize every inch of you. The corner of his mouth tugs upward into a faint smirk, but his silence speaks louder than any words could. It's in the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, the way his eyes darken with something raw and unrestrained.

For a moment, the tension hangs thick between you, his voice caught somewhere in his throat. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, rough, and thick with desire. "Christ... you're perfect."

You smile softly, your cheeks warming under his intense gaze. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you let your eyes flicker down shyly for a moment before meeting his again. "Sorry about how I ended our last call...something came up" you say softly, forcing a polite smile. Your voice is steady, but inside, your heart is racing. You can still remember the moment you realized who he was, the rush of shock that made you end the call so abruptly. But you've convinced yourself that he doesn't know, that he couldn't possibly have pieced it together.

On the other side of the screen, his smirk twitches, subtle but unmistakable. His sharp eyes linger on you a little too long, and there's something in his expression —a flicker of amusement, maybe even satisfaction-that makes your stomach twist. He leans back slightly, his tone casual but laced with a knowing edge.

"Something came up, huh?" he repeats, almost like he's testing you. But he doesn't push, letting the moment hang between you.

You nod quickly, desperate to keep the air light, unaware that he already knows exactly why you ended the call-and that he's watching you closely, waiting for you to slip. "Don't worry, sweetheart," he says, leaning in just a little closer, his voice smooth, almost reassuring, "I understand. Things come up. We're good, yeah?"

You clear your throat, trying to shake off the awkwardness that lingers in the air. "So, how've you been?" you ask, your voice a little softer than usual, almost uncertain. You can't help the way your nerves spike, knowing exactly who he is-your brother's boss, a military captain in his 40s. And yet, here he is, sitting across from you on a video call, just another man on the other side of the screen. But it's not just any call-it's this call. This man, so authoritative in his world, is sitting here, watching you.

Price can't help but smile as you talk to him, he knows you're lying. He doesn't call you out on it, but he's enjoying the fact that you don't know that he knows. He can tell just by the sound of your voice alone that you're nervous, but you're trying to act polite.

"I've been good, darlin". Been missing you though", he responds with a soft chuckle. He tries not to sound too desperate or obvious, he wants to play along and see how long it'll take you to crack. You can't help but smile, the warmth spreading across your face as the sound of his voice lingers in your mind. You let out a little giggle, almost shy, but it escapes before you can stop it. "Really?" you ask.

Price can't help but smirk at your school girl giggle, the sound of which seems to go straight to his core. "Yes, really" he responds playfully. "I've been thinking about you a lot, doll" he adds, his voice low. You shift on your bed, feeling a rush of heat flood your cheeks. The way he's looking at you, the way his words hang in the air, makes your heart race and your stomach flutter. You can't help but feel giddy, your body betraying your attempt to stay composed.

“...Thinking about me how?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, and you can't quite bring yourself to meet his gaze. There's a pause on Price's end, a moment that seems to stretch on into eternity as he stares at you through the screen. "Oh, you want specific details, huh darling?" he asks lowly, his eyes roaming over you. He can barely keep his voice steady, his body is heating up just looking at you.

You nod softly, your fingers nervously playing with the fabric of your skirt, twisting and turning as you try to steady your breath. The quiet tension between you both feels like it's building with every second. You can't help but feel a little shy under his gaze, yet at the same time, the thrill of it all keeps you grounded, your curiosity pushing you to want to know more.

You glance up briefly, meeting his eyes for just a moment, the weight of the question hanging in the air. “..l want to know" you murmur, your voice soft but eager. Price's gaze is intense as he stares deeply into your eyes through the screen, taking in your every move.

Your shyness is only making Price want you even more, and the tension between you is growing. When you tell him you want to know his lips curve into a smirk, his eyes flickering over your body. He leans forward, the whiskey glass dangling loosely from his fingers, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Been thinking about that tight little cunt of yours, mostly. Fantasizing about bending you over every fucking surface I see"

Price's blunt words have a powerful effect on you, they make your mind go blank for an instance before a wave of heat washes over you, his voice alone is enough to drive you insane. He's watching you intensely through the screen, taking in your reaction to his filthily words.

"You like the sound of that, baby?" he asks with a smirk, his eyes roaming over you. Price's own words make his own mind start to wander, images of you writhing under him, bent over his desk flooding his mind. "I've been thinking about your soft little moans" he says in a low voice, his eyes roaming over you on the screen. "I've been thinking about how badly I want my hands on you"

Price notices the way your thighs clench in response to his words, and it ignites something in him. "Oh, darlin...are you getting excited?" he asks with a grin, his tone a little teasing. He sets the whiskey glass down, his eyes never leaving yours as he reaches down to adjust his pants, making sure his growing erection is comfortable. "I can tell by the way you're squeezing those thighs together. You're fucking dripping for me, aren't vou. andel?"

Price can't help but admire you through the screen, his eyes darkened with intensity and desire. His hand reaches down to subtly adjust the growing bulge in his pants, trying to ignore the ache in his groin. Your legs are squeezing together, as if trying to find some sort of relief for the ache that's building between your legs.

Your face is flushed, your breathing is becoming more erratic, and you're struggling to keep your eyes on him without looking away out of shyness. Price's voice drops even lower, smooth and commanding, as his gaze locks onto yours.

"Call me daddy," he says, each word deliberate, like a challenge and a request all at once. He leans forward slightly, his tone thick with desire, as he adds, "Can you do that for me, sweetheart?" You blush, the warmth creeping up your neck as you nod, your voice barely a whisper.

'Yes" you reply softly, the word slipping out almost shyly. Price's gaze sharpens, his lips curling into a small smirk. "I want to hear you say it," he commands gently, his tone firm but not unkind. "Say it for me, sweetheart." The room feels heavier with his words, the air thick with tension as he waits, his eyes never leaving you, eager for your response.

You whisper it, barely above a breath, the words almost lost in the quiet room “....Yes, daddy.." you murmur, your face flushed with warmth as you feel his gaze linger on you, intense and expectant. The way the words feel leaving your lips sends a wave of nervous excitement through you, making your heart race all over again.

Price's whole body almost shudders as he hears you call him that, and his eyes nearly roll back in his head. It's almost too much, hearing you refer to him like that.It's a power dynamic that he never knew he craved, until he met you. He takes a moment to collect himself, taking a deep breath and trying to keep his own desire under control. "Good girl" he praises, watching you closely to see how you react to his words.

The soft whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it, a sound so quiet, yet it doesn't go unnoticed.

Price's smirk deepens as he watches you, the shift in your demeanor not lost on him. He can see how his words are affecting you, how they make you tremble, and it only fuels the desire that's already burning inside him.

He leans in slightly, voice dropping to a lower, more possessive tone. "That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs, the words like a caress. "Let me hear more of that." His eyes remain locked on yours, searching for every reaction, every tiny movement you make.

He smirks as he sees your reaction, clearly savoring the effect his words have on you. "Such a good girl, making those sweet little noises for Daddy." He leans back, purposely giving you a glimpse of his muscular frame through his partially unbuttoned shirt.

His voice drops to a commanding growl as his eyes rake hungrily over your image on the screen. "Strip for me, angel. Nice and slow. Let Daddy see that gorgeous body he's been jerking off to every fucking night."

“Yes, daddy" you slip off your panties, tossing them to the end of bed. "Leave the stockings on," he orders, his tone smooth and firm. You slide your fingers over the delicate lace of your lingerie, the fabric clinging to your body just enough to tease, before you begin to pull it away slowly, deliberately. The tension in the air grows thick as you reveal more of you skin, each inch of you body exposed with a careful, almost tantalizing slowness.

Your hands trail down your sides, feeling the smoothness of your skin as you slides the fabric down, the lace brushing against you hips before it slips completely off. You don't rush, letting each moment stretch out, letting the anticipation build. You let the lingerie drop to the floor with a soft flutter, you body now fully exposed, save for the stockings you've kept on, the lace clinging to your legs, a final piece of the puzzle that leaves just enough to the imagination. The room is heavy with your movements, the way your eyes flick up to meet his, revealing just how much you're willing to give in this moment.

He watches with bated breath as you slowly reveal your body, his heart pounding in his chest like a fucking war drum. Every inch of exposed skin makes his mouth water, his dick hardening further in his pants. "Fuck, look at you...like a goddamn wet dream." He reaches out, his finger hovering over the screen, as if he could touch you through it. "I want to see those stockings, angel. I want to see you stand up and let me see how they cling to those fucking perfect legs of yours."

You step off the bed, moving the webcam back as you stand. His eyes lock onto your legs, the black lace stockings clinging to your shapely thighs like a second skin. He swallows hard, his mind racing with images of running his hands up those silky legs. "Turn around"

You turn obediently facing your bed.

He drinks in the view of your back, the way the stockings disappear into the curve of your backside, leaving the rest of you bare. He can't help but notice the slight sway of your hips as you turn. "Bend over," he growls. You can hear him fumbling with something before the sound of a zipper being unzipped, you try to stand and turn to see him.

"Stay," he commands, his voice low and authoritative.

He wraps his fingers around his length, slowly stroking himself as he watches you bent over, the lace stockings hugging your thighs. You let out a frustrated whine "I wanna see you.."

"Not yet," he murmurs, his eyes glued to the screen as he continues to slowly stroke himself, the tip of his thumb rubbing over the sensitive head each time he reaches the top. "Please daddy?"

His hand pauses, his thumb hovering over the tip as he hears those words. He can feel his body tensing, ready to snap. "You calling me daddy isn't going to make me show you," he says gruffly. "Spread them wider," he orders, his voice low and demanding. He watches intently as you comply, the lace stockings stretching taut over your thighs as you widen your stance.

"Put your hand between your legs and rub your fucking cunt," he growls, his voice rough and commanding. He starts to stroke himself faster, watching with rapt attention as he waits for you to follow his orders.

"Slowly." You lift you upper half off the bed enough to slide your hand down to your dripping wet pussy. You let you a whine as you start to rub yourself painfully slow.

He watches intently, his cock throbbing in his hand as he sees your fingers disappear between your legs, moving languidly over your sex. The sight of your slow, teasing touches makes his teeth grind with barely restrained desire.* "Fuck, that's it..."

His eyes narrow as he sees you try to push your fingers inside. "Did I say you could fuck yourself with your fingers?" he snaps, his grip tightening around his cock.

"No, I told you to fucking rub, not shove your fingers in like a goddamn whore."

"Im sorry daddy.."

"You'd better be," he growls, his face contorting with anger and unsatisfied lust. "Now spread your legs wider and rub slower," he demands, his voice dripping with authority and unspent desire. "I want to see your fingers barely touching your little pink folds."

"No please-"

"Yes, because if you don't start fucking listening and doing exactly as I say, I'll hang up this call and leave you fucking spread open and desperate," he interrupts harshly. "So you'd better start rubbing that fucking pussy like I told you before I lose my patience."

"No! i'll listen I promise!"

He watches closely, his cock throbbing as he sees your fingers quiver against your mound, barely grazing the swollen flesh. Each feather-light stroke over your clit makes his breath hitch. "That's it... fuck," he growls approvingly, starting to stroke himself faster.

"You're doing so good being a good girl and listening," he praises softly, his tone deceivingly gentle as he continues to watch your slow, torturous rubs. "But you know what else I want?"

"What daddy?"

"I want to see you spread your lips open with your fingers," he orders, his voice low and thick with desire.

"Use your index and middle finger, spread them open wide so I can see that fucking pink hole." You moan into the bed as you comply.

His eyes widen as he sees your fingers part your lips, revealing the glistening pink interior of your pussy. He can see the head of your clit peeking out from between your folds, and the way your inner lips are slightly puffy and swollen. "Fuck... look at that,"

He continues stroking himself, faster now, his breathing heavier as he takes in the vulgar sight of your exposed sex. His cock throbs in his hand, leaking precum. "Keep holding yourself open," he commands,

"use your other hand and rub your fucking clit. Gentle.'

"Please daddy" your other hand goes down to rub your clit. His cock twitches as he watches you hesitantly start to rub your clit, your fingers moving in cautious circles. "Yeah, just like that," he encourages hoarsely, stroking himself in tandem with your movements. "Nice and slow, get yourself fucking wet."

He watches intently as your fingers circle faster, your breathing growing more labored with each passing second. The sight of your fingers glistening with arousal makes his cock ache with need. "Look at that fucking pussy, getting all wet for me," he murmurs approvingly.

"Please let me-"

He squeezes his throbbing cock harder, feeling a bead of precum trickle down the shaft as he imagines sliding into your slick heat. "Fuck, I wish I was there, burying myself deep in this tight little pussy"

"I need you-*

The conversation takes a subtle shift as Price leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his intense gaze locked on you through the screen. His voice, low and deliberate, cuts through the quiet hum of the call.

"You know, sweetheart," he starts, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips, "this would be so much better if I were there in person." You stand up from the bed, turning to face the webcam.

The weight of his words makes your heart skip, and you pause, your hands stilling on the bedspread. He studies your reaction, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he already knows the effect he's having on you. "What do you say, doll?" he continues, his tone smooth and confident, laced with something deeper.

“I could come over... see you for real." He lets the suggestion hang in the air, watching as your eyes widen slightly, your cheeks flushing at the thought. "No cameras, no screens. Just you and me."

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goldsainz · 6 months ago

Text

# DREW STARKEY — BEHIND THE SCENES !

MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✯ a recollection of moments from when you and drew filmed your first movie together.

002. WARNINGS !

✯ probably inaccurate acting scenes, slight angst.

003. NOTE !

✯ guys i’ve spent more time conjuring up ideas about the fictional movie (knowing greek mythology paid off) than actually writing this. again, zendaya is just a face claim for the social media parts but the reader can be imagined as anything or anyone you want! this is also the longest piece of writing i’ve ever done so i really hope it was worth the wait 🫶

word count : 6,6k

There was something undeniably thrilling about starting a new movie project. It wasn’t just the act of filming that exhilarated you, no, it was the entire experience: stepping into a fresh role, meeting new colleagues, and immersing yourself in the intricacies of a new story. Each character brought a unique set of challenges and emotions, making acting as intoxicating as it was fulfilling.

When your agent first mentioned Damien Chazelle’s latest project, it felt like the stars had aligned. A psychological thriller, a role so complex and sought after—it was the kind of opportunity actors dream about. After various auditions and callbacks, you finally got the call: you’d landed the part. But nothing could have prepared you for the shock of learning that Drew Starkey would also be starring in the film.

You’d first met Drew during Variety’s Actors on Actors interview series. The chemistry between you two had been immediate, magnetic, and brimming with potential. The interview itself was lighthearted, but fans couldn’t stop buzzing about the dynamic between you afterward. Social media was flooded with calls for you both to star in a film together. Little did they know that dream would soon become reality.

Your first day on set felt surreal. Despite all your preparation, a flicker of nervous energy pulsed in your chest. It wasn’t just about embodying Isabella, a role that demanded every ounce of emotional depth you had; it was about reuniting with Drew after the whirlwind of speculation and excitement that followed your previous encounter.

Then, as if on cue, you spotted him. He stood across the bustling set, deep in conversation with Damien Chazelle. Already in costume—tailored slacks, an impeccably pressed shirt, and a hint of disheveled hair that somehow enhanced his charm—he looked every bit the enigmatic and manipulative art dealer, Theo. It was almost unsettling how effortlessly he slipped into character.

A pang of nervous energy tightened in your chest, but you masked it quickly. You were no stranger to working alongside talented actors, but something about Drew made you want to push yourself even harder—to impress him, match his intensity, or simply hold your own against the charisma that seemed to radiate from him.

As Drew turned and caught sight of you, his expression shifted. A flicker of recognition passed over his face, followed by a grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He excused himself from his conversation with Damien and strode toward you, his step casual yet deliberate.

“Well, look who’s here,” he said, his tone teasing but undeniably warm. “The artist herself.”

“Drew,” you replied, matching his energy with a smirk. “Or should I say, Theo?”

“Touché,” he shot back, his grin widening as he stopped in front of you. “Guess we’re both stepping into some big shoes this time.”

The air between you hummed with unspoken energy, the hum of the crew around you fading into the background.

“So,” he began, his voice quieter now, tinged with sincerity. “How are you feeling about all this? Ready to dive into the chaos?”

You chuckled softly, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling beneath the surface. “As ready as I’ll ever be. And you?”

His gaze softened, the playful edge giving way to something earnest. “Same. But if there’s anyone who can bring Isabella to life, it’s you. You’ve got this.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a warm blanket, bolstering your confidence. “Thanks, Drew,” you said, your voice touched with gratitude. “That means a lot.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Just don’t forget to save some of that intensity for the scenes. I hear Theo and Isabella have… interesting dynamics.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile curving your lips. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. Just try to keep up, Starkey.”

His laughter was genuine, the kind that made your chest feel lighter. “Challenge accepted.”

The set had an almost electric feel today. The tension in the air mirrored the intensity of the scene you were about to film, a confrontation that pushed Isabella to her limits. Drew had just finished his scenes as Theo, but instead of retreating to his trailer for a break, he chose to stay behind the cameras, watching you as you prepared for your big moment.

He leaned against a quiet corner of the set, his arms crossed, his gaze never leaving you. You were already in character, your body language shifting as you transformed into Isabella. Drew had seen it all; the way you could disappear into your role, the way you made every moment feel alive, even the smallest of gestures. It was magnetic, captivating, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

You were standing across from a male crew member, discussing the next scene. Drew noticed how naturally you interacted with him, the ease with which you joked around, the warm laughter that escaped you as you shared a quiet moment between takes. There was nothing flirtatious about it, nothing intentional. It was just your charm, your ability to connect with anyone, to make them feel like they were the only person in the room.

But as Drew watched, a pang of something unfamiliar twisted in his chest. The crew member—an assistant director, he knew—was praising you. “You’ve really outdone yourself today,” the man said with a grin, clapping you on the back. “Isabella’s depth? Incredible. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone pull that off quite like you.”

You smiled, your cheeks flushing with the kind of humility that made Drew’s heart ache. “Thank you, that’s all I wanted,” you said, clearly grateful for the acknowledgment but never one to boast.

Drew’s grip on the railing tightened, a strange feeling settling in his gut as he watched you laugh and engage so effortlessly. He had always admired your talent—hell, he had always been in awe of it—but today, for some reason, it felt different. The warmth in the crew member’s praise, the way he seemed to linger a little longer, a little too long, sent a sharp twinge of jealousy through Drew. He hated the way it felt, hated how quickly it consumed him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want you to be appreciated—he did. You deserved all the recognition in the world. But the knowledge that someone else was seeing the very qualities he had admired in you from the start, that someone else could see what made you so unique... it made something inside him stir.

And it wasn’t just admiration he felt for you—it was something deeper, something he had tried to ignore ever since that first interview. He could remember the spark between you both, the effortless connection that had only grown stronger since then. Every moment with you, every conversation, had somehow led him here. To this feeling, this painful realization that he wasn’t just drawn to you as a friend or a co-star—he was falling for you.

But he wasn’t sure if you saw him the same way. Or if you ever would.

He swallowed hard, trying to shake off the feeling, but it lingered, gnawing at him as the scene began. Drew watched from the shadows as you took your position, your posture shifting with the weight of Isabella’s inner turmoil. The camera rolled, and the world seemed to disappear. He wasn’t thinking about the crew member anymore, or the way you had smiled at him.

No, Drew was too focused on the way you delivered your lines. Every word you spoke seemed to come from a place of real pain, real desperation. It was like watching a storm roll in, one that consumed everything in its path.

When Damien called cut, the set fell silent for a beat. Drew’s breath caught in his throat. You were brilliant. He’d known it for a long time, but watching you right here, right now, brought it all to the forefront—how far you had come, how much of yourself you put into every scene.

He watched you stand tall, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes still distant from the intensity of the scene you’d just played. And as you looked around, Drew’s gaze softened. You were remarkable.

The crew member who had been praising you earlier walked up to you again, and Drew couldn’t help but feel that same uncomfortable stir in his chest. He had to admit, it wasn’t just the praise that bothered him—it was the way this guy kept looking at you. Drew quickly averted his eyes, his jaw tightening as he turned his attention back to the crew.

But as you turned toward Drew, your eyes meeting his for just a second, something passed between you, something unspoken. You offered him a small, genuine smile, the kind that only he seemed to get. And in that brief moment, everything else faded away.

He took a breath, forcing the jealousy back down. The weight of it, the sting, wasn’t going to cloud this moment. He knew what he felt. It was real, it was undeniable, and maybe, just maybe, there was still time to figure it all out. But for now, all he could do was admire you from afar, watch as you brought your character to life, and hope that one day, you’d see him the way he saw you.

And with that thought, Drew finally stepped forward, his resolve firming, ready to give you the space and respect you deserved while also knowing that there was so much more he wanted to say.

The scene you were filming was a culmination of everything Isabella had been building toward—raw, vulnerable, and utterly shattering. It wasn’t just a performance; it was a reckoning, the moment when all her carefully buried pain and longing erupted to the surface. Every word you spoke felt like tearing open a wound, every gesture a desperate plea for salvation. The air was thick with tension, and you could feel the weight of every eye on set, holding their breath, waiting to see if you could pull it off.

Drew, as Theo, stood before you, towering in every sense of the word. His presence wasn’t just physical; it consumed the space, dominating the scene like a storm about to break. His voice, low and cutting, delivered lines that felt like knives slicing through the air, leaving no room to hide. When his eyes locked onto yours, the intensity was unbearable, like he could see right into you—not just Isabella, but you.

The camera captured the moment your composure shattered, tears spilling as your voice cracked under the weight of the scene. You weren’t sure where Isabella ended and you began anymore. The pain felt too real, too sharp, and when Damien finally called “cut,” the word sliced through the tension like a knife. The silence that followed was deafening, a stark contrast to the storm you’d just weathered.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, the rawness of the moment clinging to you like a second skin. Your chest heaved as you struggled to come back to yourself, but the emotions wouldn’t let go. Your hands trembled at your sides, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you thought you might break apart completely.

“Hey,” Drew’s voice cut through the haze, soft but insistent. His hand was on your arm before you even realized he’d crossed the room. His touch was grounding, his presence a lifeline. “Look at me,” he said, his tone low, coaxing.

You turned your head slowly, meeting his eyes, and the concern there undid you. Your breath hitched, and a tear slid down your cheek before you could stop it. “I… I don’t know how long I can keep doing this,” you whispered, the words tumbling out, raw and unfiltered. “It’s too much. I feel like I’m drowning.”

Drew didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer, his hand sliding from your arm to your shoulder, then to the small of your back, pulling you gently but firmly into his embrace. You froze for a moment, caught between the instinct to hold it together and the overwhelming need to let go. His arms wrapped around you, warm and steady, and the dam broke.

“I can’t,” you choked out, your voice muffled against his chest. “I feel like I left everything out there, and there’s nothing left of me. Nothing.”

His grip tightened, his hand cradling the back of your head as his fingers threaded gently through your hair. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re not empty. You’re just wide open right now, and that’s what makes this real. That’s what makes you extraordinary.”

You clung to him, your hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as sobs wracked your body. He didn’t rush you, didn’t try to fix it or make it better. He just held you, his own breathing steady and calm, like he was anchoring you to the world.

“I saw you out there,” he whispered after a moment, his lips brushing against your temple. “You weren’t just acting. You were her. Every ounce of pain, every flicker of hope—you brought it to life. You made them feel it. You made me feel it.”

You pulled back slightly, your tear-streaked face tilted up to meet his gaze. His eyes were glassy, his own emotions barely restrained, and the vulnerability between you was electric. “But what if it’s not enough?” you asked, your voice breaking.

“It is,” he said firmly, his hand cupping your face now, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “It’s more than enough. You’re enough.” His voice cracked on the last word, the raw sincerity in it making your chest tighten.

The world around you seemed to blur, the sounds of the crew preparing for the next take fading into the background. All you could see, all you could feel, was Drew. He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his hand steadying your shoulder.“You’ve got this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but laced with unwavering conviction. “And I’ve got you. Always.”

The day had been long—endless takes, precision, and the kind of emotional exhaustion that made every muscle in your body ache. Filming had wrapped for the day, but the atmosphere on set hadn’t fully shifted. The quiet hum of equipment and the occasional voices from the crew still echoed around you, but you felt the weight of the day lift as you retreated to the solitude of your trailer.

You were halfway through removing your costume when a soft knock at the door caught your attention. It was a gentle knock, familiar in its rhythm, and you immediately recognized it.

“Come in,” you called, already knowing who it was.

The door creaked open, and there stood Drew, leaning against the frame with a lazy smile that instantly made the tension in your shoulders ease.

“Long day?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, and there was a glint of playfulness in his eyes, but it was tempered with something warmer, something more tender.

“Understatement,” you replied, rolling your eyes, though your smile betrayed the exhaustion you were trying to hide.

He nodded and pushed the door open a little more, stepping inside. The space felt smaller with him in it, but somehow it didn’t feel crowded. It felt… comfortable. Safe.

Drew’s gaze drifted over to the small sofa beside the window, and without a word, he took a seat, kicking his shoes off and stretching his legs out. You couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly he seemed to move, like he was made to fit into this small space as if he belonged here, with you.

You finished removing the last of the costume and dropped it into the nearby hamper, but instead of diving into your usual post-filming routine of unwinding, you found yourself walking over to him, drawn to the quiet energy between you. He looked up at you, his gaze softening as you neared.

“Come here,” he murmured, his voice almost a whisper, as if the very sound of it could pull you closer.

You didn’t hesitat to sit down beside him. There was a comfortable silence between you two, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words. You leaned back against the cushions, the heat from his body radiating beside you.

Drew turned his head slightly, catching your eye. His expression was different from how he’d been on set—this wasn’t the charismatic, calculated Theo. This was Drew, the man you had come to know off-camera. His gaze was tender, almost searching, as if he was asking permission for something more.

Without a word, he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing over yours before lacing them together. The small contact sent a flutter through you, the simple act of his touch carrying an intimacy that felt far more profound than it had any right to be.

“Can I just…” he began, his voice trailing off for a moment before he squeezed your hand gently. “Can I just be here with you for a while? No cameras, no lines, just us?”

You nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I’d like that.”

His thumb began to trace soft circles over the back of your hand, and you leaned into him, the quiet between you two settling into something even deeper than physical proximity. His body was warm, and his scent—fresh and slightly woody—wrapped around you like a blanket, comforting in its familiarity.

“You were incredible today,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His words held no pretense, just raw sincerity. “Every time I see you step into a scene, it’s like you bring something new to the table. I don’t know how you do it.”

You could feel your heart flutter at his praise, but instead of letting it sink in fully, you shifted your focus back to him, tilting your head slightly to catch his eyes. “What about you? You’re kind of a force to be reckoned with, Starkey.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and genuine, and you felt him shift closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. “I’m just trying to keep up with you,” he teased, but there was no mistaking the fondness in his voice. He leaned in just enough for his breath to graze your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Before you could respond, he moved his hand from yours, slowly resting it on your cheek, his touch soft but possessive. The weight of his gaze locked onto yours, and you could feel the air shift between you—charged, magnetic, undeniable.

“I’ve wanted this moment for a while,” he admitted quietly, his thumb grazing your cheekbone.

Your pulse quickened, your breath hitching as his hand slid around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. You didn’t fight it; you closed the gap, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and filled with the kind of quiet longing that had built between you for weeks now.

The kiss deepened, and everything outside of the small trailer seemed to fade away. There was no set, no crew, no expectations—just the two of you, wrapped up in the space you had created together. It wasn’t hurried or urgent. It was soft, a tender promise without words, like something neither of you had realized you needed until it was happening.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, you found yourself leaning your forehead against his, sharing the same air between you. He smiled, his eyes glimmering with something that went beyond attraction.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured, his voice thick with affection.

You closed your eyes, savoring the quiet after the storm of emotions on set, the gentle sound of his heartbeat in your ear, and the warmth of his embrace. “Me too,” you whispered back, letting the moment stretch on, knowing it was one you’d carry with you long after the lights went down and the cameras stopped rolling.

The morning after your quiet, intimate moment in the trailer felt different. There was a strange kind of weight in the air between you and Drew that neither of you could ignore. The atmosphere on set was charged with an unspoken energy, the kind that hung between two people who had shared something personal but weren’t quite sure how to navigate it in the daylight.

As the crew began setting up for the first scene of the day, you found yourself standing off to the side, absentmindedly checking your script, but every now and then, your eyes would flicker toward Drew. He was standing with Damien, talking animatedly about something, but there was a tightness in his posture that wasn’t there before. He had always exuded confidence, but now, there was a subtle hesitance to his movements—like he was still figuring out where you stood with each other after the kiss.

You could feel it too. The usual camaraderie between you two was laced with something different now. The chemistry was still there, but it felt like a live wire; dangerous and unpredictable. The playful banter that had flowed so easily between you the day before seemed distant, replaced by awkward silences whenever you found yourselves in the same vicinity.

You tried to shake it off. This was your job. You were here to work, to give your best performance, and that had to come first. But no matter how much you told yourself to focus, the tension was inescapable.

The first scene you were filming together was a pivotal one—Isabella’s first real confrontation with Theo, a moment where everything changes between them. Your character was supposed to be cool and collected, but deep down, she was unraveling at the seams. You had to bring all that turmoil, all that internal chaos to the surface in a matter of moments.

When Damien called “Action,” the professional masks slipped on almost instinctively, and you both fell into character.

Drew’s performance was colder today, more distant, his usual charm replaced by a simmering, quiet intensity. His eyes, once warm and full of teasing, now held a cold calculation as they met yours. You could feel the weight of his gaze, and though it was just acting, the memory of the night before lingered, making the scene feel even more charged than it should have been.

“You think you have control of this, Isabella?” Theo’s voice was sharp, the words cutting through the air like a blade.

You shot back, the defiance in Isabella’s eyes glaring through your own. “Your entire scheme depends on me, Theo. Without me, it crumbles to dust. If that’s not control, I don’t know what is.”

The words came easily, but every time you locked eyes with Drew, there was a brief flicker of something behind his gaze—a flicker of the intimacy you’d shared, a memory that was suddenly alive in the space between you. It was hard to shake, and you could tell it was affecting his performance too. His lines weren’t as crisp as usual, his timing slightly off, as though he was distracted.

The tension was palpable, hanging over the scene like a cloud, and the moment you wrapped the scene, the silence that followed felt deafening.

Damien looked between the two of you, his brow furrowing slightly. “Let’s take a break,” he said after a moment, clearly sensing the shift in energy. “Maybe a few minutes to reset?”

You nodded quickly, eager for the space, for the chance to breathe outside of the tight bubble of tension. Drew, on the other hand, didn’t say anything. He simply nodded curtly, giving you a quick glance that made your stomach flip before turning away to walk toward the corner of the set.

You stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Should you approach him? Pretend nothing had changed? Or should you give him space, let the awkwardness settle, and let the scene breathe?

You didn’t get the chance to think too long. A hand gently touched your shoulder, and you turned to find Cailee Spaney, your co-star, standing beside you, a concerned look on her face.

“You two okay?” she asked, her tone light, but there was a genuine curiosity behind it. She knew you both well enough to sense the shift.

You hesitated. “I think so. Just… a weird energy today, you know?”

Cailee’s eyes flickered over to where Drew stood, chatting with the crew but still glancing in your direction. “It’s pretty obvious to everyone. You’ve got to clear the air, or it’s going to keep hanging over both of you.”

You knew she was right. The unspoken tension between you and Drew wasn’t just something that could be ignored—it would affect the work, the connection between your characters, and maybe even the rest of the team’s comfort. But you weren’t sure how to fix it. How do you go from that intimate moment behind closed doors to this, to being back in the public eye with cameras rolling, no room for vulnerability?

As you stood there, lost in your thoughts, Drew’s voice broke through, calling your name.

“Hey,” he said, walking toward you, his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes uncertain but earnest. “Can we talk?”

You nodded, stepping a little closer to him. There was an intensity in his gaze now, but it wasn’t the cold, calculating Theo you’d seen on set. This was Drew, the one you knew—the one who had kissed you, the one who was just as affected by everything as you were.

“Look,” he started, his voice lower than usual. “I’m not… I don’t want this to be weird. I don’t want it to mess with the work, with the scenes. I just—”

“Yeah,” you interrupted softly, “me neither. It’s just… it’s hard to go back to pretending nothing happened.”

He smiled weakly, and you could see the tension in his face ease a little. “You’re right. But we’ve got this. We’ll figure it out. Just need to get through today, right?”

You took a deep breath, nodding. “Right.”

And for the first time since you’d kissed him, you both shared a moment of quiet understanding—no more words needed. You still didn’t know how this would all play out, but for now, you had a scene to finish, a role to play, and a bond that had quietly shifted in ways neither of you could ignore.

The last day on set arrived like a blur—one moment, you were just starting the project, and now, you were standing in the middle of the set for the final scene, everything winding down. It felt surreal, almost like you were moving through a dream. The camaraderie you’d built with the cast and crew, the long hours, the inside jokes, and the late-night rehearsals were all coming to a close. And yet, there was a weight in the air—one that had little to do with the wrap-up of the film.

You and Drew had navigated the tension between you both for weeks now, silently acknowledging it but never fully addressing it. Both of you had poured your energy into the project, the work taking center stage, but there had always been that quiet pull between you. Now, as you watched the final scene being set up, there was no denying it: this wasn’t just about wrapping the film. There was something unspoken that you knew needed to be said.

Drew was already on set, his costume as Theo impeccably sharp, his eyes distracted as he ran through lines under his breath. He looked different today—softer, like the walls he’d built around himself throughout the project were crumbling.

The last scene between Isabella and Theo was intense, charged with everything they’d been through together. It was a pivotal moment, where they both stood at a crossroads, neither sure of where the future would take them. The connection between you two felt more real than ever, and you knew this was the moment where it all had to come to a head—both on screen and off.

As the crew prepared for the final take, you caught Drew’s eye from across the set. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of hesitation, like he wanted to say something, but the moment wasn’t quite right. You couldn’t let it go.

You moved toward him, your footsteps echoing in the quiet before the chaos of the scene began. As you approached, Drew straightened up, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides.

"Hey," you said, offering him a small smile. “Ready to wrap this up?”

He returned the smile, but there was an unreadable look in his eyes. “Yeah, but... I’ve been thinking.”

You raised an eyebrow, a sense of curiosity stirring in your chest. “About?”

He shifted slightly, the weight of his words hanging between you two. “About us. About... everything.” He swallowed, his usual confident demeanor faltering. “You know, the way things have been between us. We’ve never really talked about it.”

Your heart skipped a beat. The air between you felt thick, charged. It was as if the words had been waiting to spill out for weeks, and now, in the stillness of the final day, they couldn’t be contained any longer.

“Drew…” you started, your voice barely a whisper, unsure of what to say.

He stepped closer, the space between you narrowing until it felt like no one else existed. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while now,” he continued, his voice a little rougher than usual, the weight of his feelings making every word feel like it carried more meaning than it ever had before. “I can’t pretend anymore. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not after how I feel about you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, everything around you seemed to fade into the background. The noise of the set, the crew bustling about, even the upcoming scene—it all vanished as Drew’s words sank in.

“I care about you,” he said, his voice softer now, the intensity of his confession undeniable. “More than I’ve let on. More than I probably should. But I can’t ignore it anymore, and I don’t want to walk away from this without telling you.”

You stood there, the weight of his confession hanging in the air. It felt like a moment frozen in time—one that had been building for weeks, but now that it was finally here, you didn’t know how to respond.

For a beat, you didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, trying to process the rush of emotions his words had triggered. But then, a smile began to tug at the corners of your lips. You took a step closer to him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I’m glad you said that,” you whispered, your voice steady, but your emotions running wild beneath the surface. “I’ve been feeling the same way, Drew. I just didn’t know if you felt the same.”

He gave a small, relieved laugh, his eyes brightening with that familiar warmth. “I’ve been trying to convince myself to wait until the film wrapped, until everything calmed down. But every time I looked at you... it just felt like I was lying to myself.”

You laughed softly, the tension between you easing, replaced by something deeper, something real. “I think we’ve both been lying to ourselves,” you said, your hand unconsciously reaching out for his.

Drew’s fingers curled around yours, and for the first time in weeks, there was no awkwardness, no uncertainty—just the simple connection between you both, like a thread that had always been there, waiting to be pulled.

As the crew called for the final take, you both stood there for a moment longer, simply taking in the quiet of the moment before the storm of filming began again.

“Let’s finish this,” Drew said with a grin, his fingers still tightly holding yours.

You nodded, the anticipation in your chest matching the excitement in his eyes. "Yeah. Let’s do this."

The scene was about to begin, but for once, you weren’t worried about the cameras, the crew, or the pressure. For the first time in a long while, you were just here—with him. And that was enough.

As you both walked back onto set, side by side, you knew this moment, this day, was one that would stay with you long after the credits rolled. Drew had confessed his feelings, and the truth between you was no longer hidden. You had one more scene to film, but in that moment, it felt like the beginning of something entirely new.

The post-wrap party was everything you’d imagined it would be—laughter, music, and the celebratory sound ofclinking of glasses. The set was a distant memory now, the whirlwind of the past few months slowly fading into the background as you found yourself in the midst of the crew and cast, celebrating the end of a long, intense journey. The atmosphere was warm, filled with a sense of accomplishment and camaraderie.

Lights twinkled overhead, casting a soft glow over the gathering. The chatter was a mix of congratulatory remarks and funny anecdotes from behind the scenes. You could hear snippets of conversations as people relived the chaos of filming, the challenges, and the triumphs, but amidst it all, your eyes couldn’t help but drift back to Drew.

He was leaning against the bar, chatting with a few of the crew members. Even from across the room, you could feel the pull between you—the magnetic energy that had only intensified since that first kiss. The way he’d laughed with you on set, the way he’d confessed his feelings on that last day—it all felt like a beautiful dream, yet it was real. You couldn’t shake the quiet contentment that had settled in your chest, a feeling that only seemed to grow stronger with every passing minute.

Your heart warmed as you watched him, the soft light from the party highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, the playfulness in his eyes. Drew looked at home here, yet he had a way of making everything feel more meaningful just by being present. He was grounded and alive in a way that made you feel safe, as if you’d found a place in this world where you truly belonged.

Finally, your legs moved on their own, carrying you through the crowd. Each step brought you closer to him, closer to something that felt inevitable. And when he turned toward you, as if he’d sensed your approach, his eyes lit up with the warmth that had become familiar. There was no awkwardness now, no uncertainty—only the comfort of knowing that you and Drew were no longer tiptoeing around each other. What had started as something tentative had grown into something real, something undeniable.

“Hey,” Drew said with that soft smile of his, his voice like home. “I was wondering when you’d come over.”

You smiled back, moving closer to him, feeling the way his presence filled the space between you. “Couldn’t resist. The party’s fun, but... I’d rather be here with you,” you replied, your voice low and sincere.

Drew’s smile deepened, his gaze softening as he looked at you, his eyes full of something that went beyond simple affection. He raised his glass in a mock toast. “To the film, to the work, and to... us, I guess,” he said, a little shy but so genuine that it made your chest ache.

You lifted your own glass to meet his, the soft clink of the glasses an almost imperceptible note in the music that surrounded you. “To us,” you echoed, the words settling deep within you, filling the empty spaces you didn’t even realize existed. It was real now, the connection, the undeniable bond that had been growing between you since the moment you first locked eyes on set.

The music played softly in the background, but in that moment, it felt like everything was quieter—more intimate. You were standing there together, both of you caught in the soft embrace of a night that felt endless, where time stood still. Drew’s presence was a comfort you hadn’t known you needed, and as you stood beside him, a peace settled over you that you hadn’t expected.

“Are you happy with how everything turned out?” Drew asked, his voice sincere, his eyes searching yours for something only you could give him.

You thought for a moment, your heart beating steadily in your chest. The long hours, the late-night rehearsals, the emotional scenes—it had all been a whirlwind. But standing there with Drew, feeling the warmth of his hand resting just above your waist, everything felt clearer. “Yeah,” you said, your voice steady but filled with warmth. “I’m proud of everything we did. Proud of how far we’ve come.”

Drew nodded, his gaze softening, and his lips curved into a smile that made your heart flutter. “Same here. You were incredible. You brought Isabella to life in a way I never thought possible.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Well, you weren’t so bad yourself, Starkey. Theo was... captivating, to say the least.” The words were teasing, but your smile spoke of something deeper—a sense of admiration and respect for everything he’d brought to the character.

His laugh was soft, a sound that sent warmth through your veins, and he moved a little closer, the space between you disappearing. “Thanks. But I think you’re the one who made everything come together. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner.” His words were simple, yet they carried a weight that made your chest tighten in the most wonderful way.

The connection between you deepened in that moment, like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. Drew’s gaze softened, and his voice dropped to a quiet whisper. “I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured, taking a step closer, his hand slipping into yours. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I know it’s crazy, but... I don’t want this to be just a set thing. What we have, I mean. I don’t want it to end when the film does.”

Your heart raced, and without a second thought, you took a small step toward him, the space between you now nonexistent. “Me neither,” you whispered, your hand gently cupping his face as you looked into his eyes. “I think this is just the beginning, Drew.”

A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and his hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer, the warmth of his body enveloping you. Without another word, Drew leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in the softest kiss—a kiss that held everything unspoken. It was slow, a gentle exploration, as though both of you were savoring the moment, the sweetness of everything that had led you here.

When you pulled away, the world around you seemed to fade. The music, the laughter, the chatter—it all felt distant, as if the only thing that mattered was Drew, and the feeling of his arms around you, his lips on yours. “Then let’s see where it goes,” he said softly, his breath warm against your cheek.

You smiled, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. The world felt right in a way it hadn’t before. The film was over, but the connection you shared with Drew was just beginning to blossom, and you were content, certain that whatever happened next, you’d face it together.

The night continued around you, but for the two of you, it was just the beginning.

#*ੈ✩༄ my works !#drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x you #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x female reader #drew starkey fanfiction #drew starkey fic #drew starkey fluff #drew starkey angst #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey social media au #drew starkey smau #celebrity x reader #celebrity fanfic #rafe cameron x reader

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sleepy-bear-tm · 6 months ago

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Was going through my gallery and found these old drawings of my oc's... gotta get back to drawing these fools.

#pangs of recognition #maria pace #aristotle janus #asher janus #oc art #oc #original character #my art #art #old art #digital art

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the-winter-spider · 8 months ago

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Mine | One Shot

Parings: Bucky x Reader AU

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: Probably the fluffiest thing ive ever written, of course angst.

A/N: Yall this AU bucky branch ive extended has been life changing for me lmaoooo

The first time you meet Bucky Barnes, he’s already looking at you, a soft, open look in his eyes that sends a jolt through you. You’ve just started a new job in town and ended up here at a cozy, dimly lit bar one night after work. You sit down a few stools away, glancing over at him—he’s warm, approachable, not exactly the type you’d expect to find sitting alone.

You look away quickly, heart suddenly racing, though you’re not sure why. He’s a stranger, just someone you’ll see tonight and probably never again, but something about him feels safe in a way you haven’t felt in years.

A few minutes later, he moves closer, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Rough day?” he asks, voice gentle, as if he’s been waiting for you to say something first.

You nod, a little surprised by both his forwardness and the kindness in his tone. You’re used to handling things on your own, keeping walls up that no one’s ever bothered to climb. But something about Bucky makes you want to drop your guard, if only for a moment.

You offer Bucky a small smile, feeling strangely at ease under his gaze. “Yeah, you could say that,” you reply, letting out a quiet sigh. “It’s been… a long week. Just finished my first week at a new job, and I’m still finding my footing. Everything’s just a bit overwhelming, you know?”

Bucky nods, understanding flashing in his eyes. “New job, new town?” he asks, his tone inviting, like he genuinely wants to know, not just make conversation.

You nod, surprised at how easy it feels to open up. “Yeah, both, actually. I just moved here, so it’s been a lot of… adjustment.”

He tilts his head, his expression warm and reassuring. “That’s a lot to take on. I remember when I first moved here… let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a smooth transition.” He chuckles softly, the sound low and comforting, and you can’t help but smile.

“Really?” you ask, curious despite yourself. “What brought you here?”

His gaze softens as he considers the question, as though he’s debating just how much to share. “Needed a fresh start,” he says simply, a hint of something unspoken in his eyes. “Figured this was a good place to do that.”

You feel a pang of recognition—you understand that need to start over, to build something new. “I get that,” you murmur. “Sometimes… sometimes you just need a change to get things back on track.”

“Exactly,” he replies, his eyes brightening as he leans a little closer. “Sounds like we might have a bit in common, then.”

There’s a brief silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s like the two of you are sharing something without needing to say it outright. You feel your usual guardedness slipping, replaced by a warmth that’s both thrilling and unsettling. It’s strange—he’s still a stranger, and yet he feels familiar, like someone you could trust, someone who understands.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, his voice gentle, his gaze steady. “Just to celebrate surviving the first week. It’s no small thing.”

You smile, nodding as a rush of gratitude fills you. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Bucky signals to the bartender, ordering two drinks and settling back beside you, his posture relaxed. Bucky leans in, a warm smile lighting up his face as he listens, his full attention on you. It’s like he’s hanging on every word, nodding and chuckling at all the right moments, his eyes crinkling at the corners every time you say something that amuses him.

“So, then,” you continue, trying to hold back a laugh as you recall the memory, “I walked into what I thought was the meeting room, you know, just trying to make a good first impression… only to realize it was the break room. And everyone just kind of stared at me like I was some intruder there to steal their coffee.”

Bucky lets out a genuine laugh, shaking his head. “Oh no! And you didn’t just play it cool?”

You grin, rolling your eyes. “Nope, not at all. I panicked and mumbled something about being ‘lost’—in the most literal sense. And then, to top it off, I nearly backed into a coffee machine trying to escape!"

He laughs harder, the sound warm and genuine, filling the space between you. “I think that’s endearing,” he says, his tone sincere. “Bet they thought you were charming.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say sarcastically, unable to hide your smile. “If by ‘charming’ you mean they think I’m the odd one in the office now, then yeah, absolutely. As if being the 'new girl' wasnt enough"

He smirks, leaning his chin on his hand as he watches you, that mischievous glint still in his eyes. “Hey, at least you’re memorable. It’s not every day people meet someone with personality.”

You laugh, giving him a playful nudge. “Oh, so I have ‘personality’ now?”

“Definitely,” he teases, taking a sip of his drink. “You’re… different. In a good way.” His gaze softens, and for a moment, you see something more serious flicker in his eyes, something that makes your heart skip a beat.

Trying to ignore the fluttering feeling in your chest, you shake your head, focusing on lightening the mood. “So,” you say, grinning, “what about you? Any embarrassing first-day stories?”

He chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, way too many,” he says, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “When I started at my last job, they had this big company lunch. I was so nervous that I accidentally grabbed the CEO’s sandwich off his plate, thinking it was from the catering table.”

Your jaw drops. “No! What did you do?”

He laughs, shaking his head at the memory. “Honestly? I didn’t even realize until I’d taken the first bite. The CEO looked at me, just stunned, and I kind of just froze, sandwich halfway to my mouth. I thought for sure I was going to get fired on the spot.”

You’re laughing so hard you nearly spill your drink. “So, did he say anything?”

“Oh, he said plenty,” Bucky says, chuckling along with you. “But, somehow, he found it funny. Or maybe he just took pity on me, who knows? Either way, I survived, but I don’t think I’ll ever live it down.”

You both sit there, laughter fading into comfortable silence as you sip your drinks, sharing those lighthearted moments and embarrassing stories that somehow make you feel closer. After a few beats, he glances at you, his expression softening.

“It’s nice, you know… hearing all this,” he says quietly. “Feels like I’m getting to know the real you.”

Your cheeks flush, but his words make you feel seen in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying. “Yeah… I think maybe you are,” you say softly.

His gaze holds yours, an unspoken understanding passing between you. And as you sit together, in the dim light of the bar with laughter still lingering in the air, you realize that this—this feeling of being understood, of being truly known—is something you didn’t even know you were missing. And with Bucky, it feels like you’re finally finding it.

By the time you’re finishing your second drink, you’re feeling lighter, the weight of the past week fading away, replaced by a warmth that seems to linger between you and Bucky.

“Well,” he says after a moment, glancing at his watch but making no move to leave. “Thank you for letting me share your first-week celebration. I don’t know about you, but I’d say this is the best part of any first week—meeting someone you didn’t expect to.”

You blush, looking down with a shy smile. “Yeah… me too.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, and in the back of your mind, you realize you’re hoping this won’t be the last time you see him. Maybe he feels the same way, because as you gather your things to leave, he clears his throat, a hint of nervousness flickering in his eyes.

“So, listen… if you ever want some company after work or need someone to talk to about the craziness of starting over, I’d be happy to be that person,” he says, his voice soft, a little uncertain.

Your heart skips a beat, and you smile, feeling that warmth spread through you again. “I’d like that, Bucky. I’d really like that.”

With one last shared smile, you both exchange numbers, a quiet promise lingering in the air that this, whatever it is, isn’t just a fleeting moment.

“You know,” he says, after a quiet moment, “if you’re free tomorrow, i can show you the best place for coffee in the morning.”

For reasons you can’t explain, you say yes. And it’s the first of many yeses you’ll say to him, even if you can’t shake the feeling that opening up to someone can only lead to getting hurt.

The next morning, you meet Bucky outside a quaint little café, the kind with mismatched chairs and hanging plants that give it a cozy, lived-in feel. Sunlight spills across the sidewalk, and there’s a crispness in the air that makes everything feel brighter, more hopeful.

You both order coffee and pastries and find a table outside. As you settle in, he looks over at you with that same soft, open smile that feels like a balm to your heart. You’re not sure if it’s the warmth of the coffee or his presence, but somehow you feel yourself letting go, leaning into the morning with him as if it’s a part of something bigger.

“So, did you always know you wanted to be here?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving yours.

You shake your head with a little laugh. “Not exactly. Moving here was… spontaneous. I just needed a change, I guess. I don’t know if it’s where I want to end up, but it feels like a good place to be, at least for now.”

He nods thoughtfully, a smile tugging at his lips. “I get that. Change is… good sometimes. Scary, but good.”

There’s a brief silence before you turn the question back on him. “What about you? Have you always been here?”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. “No, I bounced around a lot before I landed here. I’m from Brooklyn, actually. Grew up in a small apartment with my mom and sister, Rebecca. It wasn’t much, but it was home.”

He pauses, his gaze drifting, and you can see a fondness there, mingled with nostalgia. “My sister used to make me these ridiculous lunches for school. You know those sandwiches where it’s way too much peanut butter, like it’d practically glue your mouth shut?”

You laugh, picturing a young Bucky struggling with a lopsided sandwich. “So what, she was trying to get you to stop talking?”

“Maybe! It probably worked a few times,” he says with a grin. “She was older than me, and she loved teasing me. But she’d also defend me to the ends of the earth if I needed it. She was tough but loyal—still is. We used to spend summers playing stickball in the streets or riding our bikes down to the pier until the sun set. Those were good days.”

You find yourself smiling, caught up in the warmth of his stories. There’s something about the way he talks about his sister and his childhood that feels so genuine, so open, and it makes you feel safe somehow, like you could share parts of yourself that you usually keep hidden.

“Sounds like you were close,” you say softly.

“Yeah,” he replies, nodding. “We still are, even though we don’t see each other as much these days. But you know how it is. Life gets busy, people drift….” He trails off, looking a little pensive, but then he catches your gaze and offers a reassuring smile. “But we still check in. She likes to give me a hard time about how I’ve ‘softened up’ over the years.”

“Oh, so you used to be a real troublemaker, huh?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe a little,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But only in the fun ways. My friends and I—especially my best friend, Steve—always found ways to keep things interesting. Steve was the wild one, though, always dragging me into things. He’d get these ideas—like, one summer, he convinced me we could make a raft and take it out on the East River.”

“Wait, you didn’t actually try that, did you?” you ask, laughing as you imagine two boys clinging to a makeshift raft.

“Oh, we tried,” Bucky says, shaking his head with a chuckle. “It was a disaster. We were out there for maybe ten minutes before the whole thing started falling apart, and we ended up soaking wet, half-drowning, while everyone on the shore was just watching and laughing. My mom nearly had a heart attack when she found out.”

You laugh, clutching your coffee cup as you picture the scene. “So, I guess you didn’t end up the next great explorers of Brooklyn?”

“Nope, that dream died real fast,” he says, grinning. “But that was Steve for you—big dreams, no plans. I think that’s why we were close, though. He’d always push me to do things I wouldn’t even think about trying. He’d challenge me in ways that I didn’t know I needed. Kind of made me who I am today.”

You see a glimmer of nostalgia and perhaps a little sadness in his eyes as he talks about Steve, and you wonder if they’re still close. But before you can ask, he leans forward, his expression softening as he looks at you.

“So, how about you?” he asks, changing the subject. “Any siblings?”

You nod, taking a small sip of your coffee. “Yeah, an older brother. We were close growing up, but life kind of… pulled us in different directions. He was the one who kept me out of trouble, actually. He fled home as soon as he was old enough” You chuckle sadly “Always thought he was the responsible one, and I was the daydreamer. Guess some things never change.”

Bucky’s eyes light up, as if he’s seeing a new side of you. “Daydreamer, huh? What kind of dreams?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you’re not sure how to answer. But then you feel that familiar warmth between you, the kind that feels safe, inviting you to share a little more of yourself.

“Honestly, I don’t know anymore,” you admit softly. “I guess that’s part of why I moved here. Trying to figure it out, trying to find something that feels… real.”

He nods, his gaze understanding, as if he sees right through you in a way that’s both comforting and a little terrifying. “Well, I think that’s brave,” he says quietly. “Taking a leap, starting fresh… not everyone has the guts to do that.”

The way he says it, so genuine and reassuring, makes you feel like maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, like maybe the path isn’t as uncertain as it once felt.

The conversation drifts into comfortable silence, and you both take a moment to sip your coffee and enjoy the warmth of the sun. After a while, he leans back, his expression thoughtful as he looks over at you.

“You know, meeting someone like you… it’s kind of a rare thing,” he says, his voice soft but full of a sincerity that takes you by surprise. “I don’t know how to explain it, but it feels… right.”

His words settle into your heart, and you feel a warmth spreading through you, a connection that feels deeper than anything you expected to find in a new town, with a man you’ve only just met. And in that moment, with the sunlight catching in his eyes, you feel a quiet certainty that this—whatever this is—might be the beginning of something real.

Over the next few weeks, life begins to settle into a new rhythm. Days are marked by coffee dates that turn into long walks down the quiet streets, and those walks stretch into late-night conversations on park benches under streetlights. Bucky has quickly become your favorite part of the day, and even though neither of you has spoken about how you feel, there’s a growing closeness—a feeling of inevitability that’s hard to ignore.

One night, after a cozy dinner together, you find yourselves lingering on a quiet bench, watching the lights of the city reflected on the river. The silence between you is easy, comfortable, but there’s an unspoken tension there, too—something that hovers in the space between words, in the quiet glances you both share.

Bucky looks over at you, a warm smile playing at his lips. “I can’t believe it’s only been a few weeks,” he says, his voice soft. “Feels like I’ve known you… longer.”

You nod, feeling your heart race at the sincerity in his eyes. “I know what you mean,” you murmur, glancing down to hide your own smile. “I don’t usually… open up to people like this. But with you, it just feels easy.”

He grins, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes. “So you’re saying I’m easy to talk to?”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Don’t get too cocky, Barnes. I’m just saying you have… potential.”

“Oh, potential, huh?” he teases, giving you a mock-hurt look. “Wow. Just when I thought I was doing well.”

You can’t help but laugh, feeling a lightness you hadn’t felt in a long time. Somehow, Bucky has a way of making you feel like yourself, like you don’t have to be anything other than exactly who you are.

As the night deepens, you both head home, reluctantly parting with lingering glances and unspoken words hanging in the air. But when you finally get home, your phone lights up with a text, and you feel a thrill run through you as you see Bucky’s name.

Bucky: So, I’m not getting cocky, but… any chance I passed the “potential” test?

You laugh, typing out a reply.

You: I’d say you’re doing okay… so far.

Almost immediately, he texts back.

Bucky: Just okay? You’re killing me here. I might have to try harder.

You: I think I can handle that.

There’s a pause, and you watch as the typing bubble pops up again, wondering what he’ll say next.

Bucky: Just so we’re clear, I’m pretty sure you’re the highlight of my day. Don’t tell anyone—I’ve got a reputation to maintain.

You feel your cheeks warm, smiling at your phone. It’s strange how quickly he’s managed to find his way into your heart, and even stranger how natural it feels to be talking to him like this.

You: Highlight of your day, huh? That’s some big talk, Barnes.

Bucky: It’s not just talk, sweet girl....I mean it.

You pause, taking in the sincerity of his words. For a second, you wonder if he can feel the same pull you do, the same feeling that this could be something real.

You: Guess I’ll see what you come up with next time.

Bucky: Oh, so now I’m being challenged? I’ll have to think of something special.

You: Good luck with that, I’m a tough critic.

Bucky: Challenge accepted, darling.

His use of the word “darling” sends a thrill through you, and you feel yourself blush, biting your lip as you smile at the screen. The lighthearted back-and-forth carries on into the night, each text feeling like another step closer to something you’re both tiptoeing around, something you’re both afraid to fully acknowledge yet.

And as you finally say goodnight, you feel a contented warmth settle over you, the kind that promises there’s something real here, something waiting to unfold. But for now, the unspoken words, the quiet glances, and the sweet, flirty texts are more than enough, leaving you falling asleep with a smile on your face.

One night, you’re both walking through a nearby park, the cool evening air wrapping around you. It’s late enough that the world feels almost empty, like the two of you are the only ones who know this quiet part of the city. You’re talking about your favorite childhood movies, laughing over memories, and you feel a lightness in you, a happiness that’s been dormant for so long you’d nearly forgotten it was there.

“So you’re telling me,” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow as he glances over at you, “that you actually dressed up as an elf for three Halloweens in a row because of Lord of the Rings?”

You laugh, feeling your cheeks flush. “Yes! I was obsessed. It was all I wanted to do for years. I think I had pointy ears stashed in every drawer.”

Bucky grins, his eyes twinkling. “I can’t believe I missed out on that... bet you made a cute elf.”

“Oh, please.” You roll your eyes, trying to stifle a laugh. “It was… an intense phase. I still cringe a little thinking about it.”

“I don’t know,” he says, nudging you playfully. “I think it sounds perfect. I used to dress up as a knight when I was a kid. One time, I even convinced Steve to be the dragon.”

You laugh, picturing a younger version of him, full of life and laughter. “Please tell me there’s photographic evidence of that.”

“There might be,” he teases, smirking. “But I think you’re going to have to stick around a little longer before I start sharing the embarrassing childhood photos.”

Something in his tone, playful yet sincere, makes your heart skip a beat. You realize how much you look forward to these moments, how he’s become a part of your life in a way you never saw coming. There’s a softness about him that pulls you in, a kindness that makes you feel safe, and the thought of seeing where this goes fills you with a quiet excitement.

You walk a bit further, the silence between you comfortable, and he glances over, a question lingering in his eyes. “So,” he starts, a little hesitant. “Are you… happy here? I mean, you said you needed a change. Do you feel like this is it?”

You think about his question, about how you arrived here hoping to find a fresh start, not knowing if it would ever feel like home. But now, as you stand beside him, there’s a sense of belonging that surprises you.

“Honestly?” you say, your voice soft. “I think I am. It’s strange, but being here… it’s like I can breathe again. Like maybe I can finally be myself, without all the expectations I left behind.”

Bucky nods, his expression thoughtful, and he stops walking for a moment, turning to face you. “I’m glad,” he says quietly, his gaze holding yours. “You deserve that. You deserve… to feel free.”

His words sink into you, and for a moment, all you can do is look at him, taking in the gentleness in his eyes, the warmth in his smile. It’s almost too much—the idea that someone could see you this clearly, understand you so deeply.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

He reaches out, brushing his fingers against yours in a simple, tender gesture. “You don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs, his voice low. “I’m just glad I get to know you.”

There’s a vulnerability in his words that catches you off guard, and for a moment, you’re both standing there, the world around you quiet and still. You want to say something, to let him know how much he’s come to mean to you, how his presence feels like a light that’s brought you back to yourself. But the words catch in your throat, so instead, you simply squeeze his hand, letting the warmth of his touch speak for you.

----

Another evening, you’re both sitting on a small bench at the edge of the park, looking up at the stars. Bucky has his arm around you, pulling you close against the chill of the night, and you rest your head on his shoulder, feeling a peace you haven’t felt in years.

“Do you ever think about the future?” he asks suddenly, his voice soft, as though he’s been thinking about the question for a while.

You’re quiet for a moment, surprised by the question. You used to avoid thinking about the future, unsure of where you fit in, always second-guessing yourself. But now, with him, the idea of the future doesn’t feel as daunting.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “I do. But it’s different now. I guess… I’m not so afraid of it anymore.”

He nods, a small smile on his face. “I’m glad,” he says, his voice filled with a tenderness that makes your heart ache in the best way. He hesitates, glancing over at you. “I know we’re just… starting this, whatever it is, but I hope you know that I’m here, for all of it. I don’t… plan on going anywhere.”

The sincerity in his words makes you catch your breath, and you feel that familiar warmth rising in your chest, a mixture of gratitude and something deeper. You don’t say anything, instead reaching up to brush a gentle hand against his cheek, letting him know that you feel the same, even if the words are still forming in your heart.

As the night deepens, you sit there in a comfortable silence, his arm around you, his steady presence grounding you. And as you look up at the stars, you realize that for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of what lies ahead.

But yet, every time he leans a little closer, touches your hand, or tells you something vulnerable, you can’t help but feel that old anxiety creeping in, telling you to be careful. It’s as if you’re back to being a kid, watching your parents’ marriage shatter right in front of you. You’ve told yourself for years that love can’t be trusted, that letting people in only leads to pain.

---

One evening, when you’re sitting beside him at your favorite spot near the river, he reaches over, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re safe with me, you know?” he says softly, sensing the hesitation in your gaze.

The words linger in the air, and you look down, feeling your defenses rise again. “I don’t think you understand,” you murmur. “People leave. Or worse, they hurt you without even meaning to.”

Bucky takes your hand, holding it gently, grounding you. “I know,” he says quietly. “But maybe… maybe you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

The river flows quietly beside you both, the soft murmur of water filling the silence between you. Bucky’s hand is still gently wrapped around yours, grounding you with a warmth that feels both comforting and unfamiliar. Part of you wants to pull away, to shield yourself from the vulnerability you feel creeping in, but there’s something about him that makes you feel safe, even when the memories are so raw.

You take a shaky breath, finally letting your eyes meet his. “My parents… they didn’t have the kind of love that you read about, or see in movies. It was messy and… destructive. They fought constantly—screaming, blaming each other for everything wrong in their lives. Growing up, I thought that was just how it was supposed to be. That love was meant to hurt.”

Bucky listens intently, his expression softening as you continue, no hint of judgment in his gaze. He’s just… there, holding space for you in a way that makes you feel seen, like you don’t have to hide.

You swallow, feeling the ache of those memories resurface. “I used to tell myself that when I grew up, I’d find someone who was different. Someone who wouldn’t treat me like my father treated my mother.” Your voice drops, barely a whisper now. “But when I left home, I fell for someone who was just like him. He was… careless, selfish. I gave everything I had because I thought that was what love was. And he hurt me, Bucky, over and over, but I convinced myself it was my fault, that if I just tried harder, he’d change.”

Bucky’s grip on your hand tightens, his gaze filled with a fierce protectiveness that you didn’t expect. You can see his jaw clench, as though he’s holding back words he wants to say, but he lets you continue, giving you the space you need.

“When he finally left,” you continue, your voice breaking slightly, “I felt… empty. Like I’d failed. Everyone always leaves, and somehow, I believed it was because of something I did or something I wasn’t. For a long time, I thought I didn’t deserve anything better.”

You feel a tear slip down your cheek, and before you can brush it away, Bucky reaches out, gently wiping it with his thumb. His touch is so tender, so careful, that it breaks something inside you, a wall you didn’t realize you were still holding up.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he says softly, his voice full of conviction. “None of it. And it wasn’t your fault.”

You try to look away, the old shame rising up, but he places a gentle hand on your cheek, his thumb brushing soothing circles on your skin. “Hey,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “Look at me.”

You meet his gaze, and the kindness there is almost too much to bear.

“I don’t care what your past looked like,” he says, his voice steady and certain. “None of that changes how I feel about you. You are worth more than any of the pain you’ve been through. You deserve love that feels safe, that feels steady. You deserve someone who chooses you, every single day, this is worth the risk to me, you're worth it to me"

The words sink into you, healing in a way you never thought possible. His hand rests on your cheek, grounding you, and for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could be right. That maybe love doesn’t have to hurt.

Bucky leans in, his forehead resting gently against yours, his voice a soft promise. “I’m not going anywhere. I know it’s hard to believe, and I know trust doesn’t come easy. But I want to be here for you. Every single day.”

Your eyes close, and you feel his warmth surrounding you, filling the empty spaces you’ve carried for so long. He stays close, his presence steady and unyielding, like a lifeline you didn’t know you needed.

When you finally find your voice, it’s soft, almost trembling. “How can you be so sure?”

He smiles, a gentle, understanding smile that melts every last piece of fear you’re holding onto. “Because I know what it’s like to feel broken. And I also know that finding someone who understands, who sees you for who you really are… that’s worth everything.”

In that moment, you feel a shift inside you, a glimmer of hope where there used to be only fear. Bucky is everything you thought you’d never find—kind, patient, willing to fight for you even when you’re not sure you can fight for yourself.

You let out a shaky breath, a tear slipping down your cheek, but this time it’s not one of sadness. It’s the relief of knowing that maybe, just maybe, you’re not alone anymore.

“I don’t know if I know how to love like that,” you admit quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s hand gently trails down to your chin, lifting it so your eyes meet his. “Then we’ll learn together,” he says softly, his gaze filled with a warmth and patience that takes your breath away. “One day at a time.”

And as he pulls you into his arms, holding you close against the quiet backdrop of the river, you let yourself believe that this—this love, this kindness, this man—might just be the home you’ve been searching for all along..

You stay there together by the river, wrapped in the warmth of Bucky’s arms as the soft murmur of the water flows beside you. His steady heartbeat under your cheek is calming, and you close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the safety of the moment. It’s as if time has slowed, like the world has paused just for the two of you, letting you both breathe.

After a while, he pulls back slightly, enough to look down at you, his hand still resting gently against your cheek. There’s a softness in his gaze, a vulnerability that mirrors your own, as if he’s waiting for just the right moment.

His thumb traces a soft line along your cheek, and he hesitates, as though he’s searching for the right words. Finally, he takes a deep breath, his voice low and steady, full of a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“Will you do me the honor,” he begins, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine, “of being mine, darling?”

The question hangs in the air, his words so simple yet carrying so much weight, so much love. You feel the familiar urge to pull back, to put up your defenses, but with Bucky standing there, his gaze unwavering, you realize that you don’t want to run anymore. Not from him.

A warmth spreads through you, a quiet happiness that feels like it’s been waiting for this moment all along. You meet his gaze, feeling every ounce of his love and devotion, and you realize that, with him, you don’t have to be afraid. Not of love, not of loss—because he’s here, and he’s choosing you.

With a soft, shaky breath, you nod, a smile breaking across your face as you whisper, “Yes, Bucky. I’m yours.”

A look of pure joy lights up his face, and he pulls you close, pressing his forehead against yours as he lets out a relieved laugh, as if he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have. His hand cups the back of your neck, and he murmurs softly, his voice full of warmth and certainty, “I'm not going anywhere ever, your stuck with me angel"

He leans in, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips, and in that moment, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of each other, and you feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

As he pulls you back into his arms, holding you close against the night, you know that this—this love, this connection, this man—is home. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe love doesn’t have to hurt; maybe it can be kind, steady, and true.

---

Over the next few months, Bucky weaves his way into every part of your life, becoming as familiar and comforting as home itself. He’s there for all of it—the quiet, mundane moments, the small victories, and the heavy days when the past creeps in and weighs on you. It’s as if he knows exactly when to be there, a steady presence who never asks more of you than you’re ready to give.

One day, after a long day, you find yourself curled up on the couch with him, your head resting against his shoulder. You’re both wrapped in a comfortable silence, but he can sense that something’s weighing on you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently, his fingers trailing soothingly along your arm. He doesn’t push, just leaves the door open, giving you the choice.

You hesitate for a moment, the familiar fear creeping in, but with him, it’s easier to let down your guard. You take a breath, leaning into his warmth as you begin to speak.

“Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever stop carrying all of it with me,” you admit softly. “My parents… their anger was everywhere. They’d go from silence to shouting, always blaming each other. As a kid, I used to hide in my room, but I could still feel it, like their anger was seeping through the walls.”

Bucky’s hand stills, his fingers curling around yours, grounding you. He doesn’t interrupt, just listens, his eyes filled with a quiet empathy that makes it easier to continue.

“I used to think it was normal, that that was just… how love looked. Chaotic, painful. When I got older, I started building walls, just to keep people at a distance. It felt safer that way.”

He nods, squeezing your hand gently. “That must have been so hard,” he says quietly, his voice laced with understanding. “To grow up thinking that’s all there was to love.”

You nod, letting out a shaky breath. “I know it sounds strange, but I thought maybe I’d somehow inherited that anger, that chaos. Like… if I let anyone close, it would just repeat. That I’d end up hurting them, or they’d hurt me.”

Bucky’s gaze softens, and he shifts slightly, turning so that he’s fully facing you, his thumb brushing tenderly across your cheek. “You’re not them,” he whispers, his voice steady and sure. “And you don’t have to carry their mistakes.”

The kindness in his eyes, the unwavering gentleness, makes you feel like a knot is loosening in your chest. You hadn’t realized how heavy those fears had become, how deeply they’d settled into you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “For being here. For listening.”

“Always,” he says, his hand still resting against your cheek. “I’ll be here, no matter what.”

On a lighter day, Bucky’s there for your small victories, too, celebrating them as if they’re his own. You remember a Friday afternoon, when you’d finally completed a major project at work, one you’d been stressing over for weeks. You’d texted him, excited but exhausted, and by the time you got home, you found him standing in your kitchen with a bottle of champagne and a cake with “You did it!” iced onto it in wobbly, uneven letters.

“You did all this… for me?” you ask, laughing as you read the words on the cake.

“Of course,” he says, grinning as he pops the cork on the champagne. “You’ve been working so hard, and I thought you deserved a little celebration.”

You can’t help but laugh, feeling the warmth of his joy for you radiate through the room. “You know, no one’s ever celebrated something like this with me before.”

“Well,” he says, pouring two glasses and handing you one, “then it’s about time someone did, and in honoured it gets to be me"

You clink glasses, and as you take a sip, you realize just how much he’s become part of your life, filling the empty spaces you’d once thought would always be there.

You sip the champagne, feeling the bubbles dance on your tongue as you look at Bucky, the warmth of the moment settling over you like a blanket. He’s watching you with that easy, genuine smile, the kind that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. You’d been working so hard, pouring everything you had into that project, and it was like he knew exactly how much you needed someone to see you, to be there, to celebrate this small victory with you.

“Really,” you say, setting down your glass and shaking your head with a laugh. “I still can’t believe you did all of this… for me. The cake, the champagne… It’s so thoughtful.”

He shrugs, but there’s a softness in his eyes. “You deserve it. I know how hard you’ve been working.” He glances at the cake, chuckling a little. “Even if the cake looks like it was made by a five-year-old.”

“It’s perfect,” you say, a laugh escaping you as you look at the uneven letters again, and he grins, that familiar glint of mischief lighting up his eyes.

Over the past few weeks, he’s taken to saying those three words to you—quietly, simply, as if he’s known them all along. It usually happens in those gentle moments, the ones that sneak up on you and make you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. The first time he’d said it, you’d felt the words catch in your throat, and he’d squeezed your hand, smiling softly.

“It’s okay,” he’d whispered. “You don’t have to say it back. I just… wanted you to know.”

And he’s been true to his word, never pressuring you, never expecting more than you’re ready to give. He says it without hesitation, as though his love for you is as natural as breathing, and each time, it feels like another piece of the armor around your heart softens. You’ve been holding those words close, letting them settle, and tonight, with him standing here in your kitchen, celebrating you, it’s like they’re finally ready to take flight.

You take a breath, setting your glass down and looking at him, really looking at him. He’s so patient, so steady, just waiting for you to be ready, and in that moment, the words slip out, simple and true.

“I love you too, Bucky.”

For a moment, he looks surprised, his eyes widening just slightly. Then a slow, radiant smile spreads across his face, and he lets out a soft, relieved laugh, like he’s been holding onto a breath he didn’t realize he’d taken.

“Yeah?” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, and there’s a gentleness in his gaze that makes your heart feel like it’s glowing.

You nod, a warmth blooming in your chest as you watch him, feeling the weight of those words sink in, wrapping around the two of you. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I love you.”

He takes a step closer, reaching out to take your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours in that familiar way that makes you feel safe, cherished. He doesn’t say anything else—he doesn’t have to. The way he looks at you, like you’re the most precious thing in his world, says it all.

You stand there together, the sound of quiet laughter and clinking glasses filling the air, and as you look into his eyes, you know this is just the beginning of something beautiful.

---

One night, over a year after that moment by the river, you’re sitting on the back porch with him, wrapped in a blanket as you watch the stars. It’s quiet, peaceful, and he has his arm around you, pulling you close as you lean into him.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur, breaking the silence.

“Anything,” he replies, his voice soft.

“Do you ever… I don’t know… feel like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop?” you ask, the vulnerability of the question catching in your throat. “Like things are too good, and maybe it won’t last?”

He’s quiet for a moment, as if he’s considering your words, and then he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “I used to,” he admits. “But then I realized that waiting for something to go wrong just robs you of all the good things you’ve got right here, right now.”

You nod, letting his words sink in. He has a way of grounding you, of making the fears that once felt so overwhelming seem smaller, more manageable.

“Look,” he says, pulling back slightly so he can look into your eyes, “I know you still have walls up baby, I know you’ve been through things I can’t even imagine. But none of that changes how I feel about you. You’re it for me sweet heart"

The sincerity in his eyes makes your heart race, and you feel that familiar warmth, that sense of safety you’ve come to cherish with him. You open your mouth to respond, but he reaches out, crashes his lips to yours, as his lips meet yours, everything else fades away. The quiet of the night, the cool breeze, the blanket wrapped around you both—none of it matters except the feel of him, warm and steady and here. His hand cradles the back of your head, gentle yet certain, as if he’s savoring this moment just as much as you are. There’s a tender urgency in the way he kisses you, a depth of feeling that words could never fully capture.

His other hand moves to your waist, pulling you even closer, and you find yourself letting go, allowing the barriers you’ve held up for so long to slip away. In his arms, every lingering fear, every shadow of doubt feels smaller, quieter. He’s the one constant you never thought you’d find, and here, beneath the blanket of stars, you feel safe enough to let him see all of you.

You run your hands along his shoulders, feeling the strength there, the solidity, as if to reassure yourself that he’s real, that he’s yours. He senses the hesitation in your touch and gently deepens the kiss, pouring his own quiet reassurance into each soft brush of his lips against yours. He’s unhurried, savoring the closeness, the warmth shared between you, as if he has all the time in the world.

When you finally pull back to catch your breath, his forehead rests against yours, his eyes soft and full of that familiar warmth that’s always steadied you. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering as he looks at you, his gaze tender and unguarded.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs, his voice a soft rasp. “I hope you know that.”

Your heart swells, and you can’t help but reach up, your fingers tracing his jaw, memorizing the lines of his face. “I do,” you whisper, smiling as you take in the love shining in his eyes. “And you’re everything to me, too.”

The moment is gentle, intimate, a quiet affirmation of all that you’ve come to mean to each other. As the night drifts on, you find yourselves wrapped in each other’s arms, exchanging soft kisses and whispered promises, the world around you falling away until it’s just you and him, together in the safe haven you’ve created.

---

It isn’t until months later, on a quiet afternoon in your small apartment, that you realize how much he’s changed you. You’re both in the kitchen, making dinner, when he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his head on your shoulder. In that moment, feeling the solid warmth of him, something inside you finally softens, and you feel that long-buried fear of love start to melt away.

Turning around to face him, you look into his eyes, your heart pounding but steady. “You’re… you’re home,” you say softly, finally daring to voice the truth you’ve been feeling for so long.

Bucky smiles, and it’s the warmest, most genuine smile you’ve ever seen. “And so are you,” he murmurs, brushing a gentle kiss across your forehead. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

As you lean into him, you feel a deep sense of peace—a peace that tells you love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real, that sometimes, it’s okay to let yourself be someone else’s. And for the first time, you let yourself believe that you can be loved without fear.

In his arms, you know that no matter where life takes you, he’ll always be there, steady as ever, reminding you every day that you’re his, and he’s yours.

The soft simmering of the pot on the stove fades into the background as you hold each other in the kitchen, wrapped in a quiet warmth that feels like it’s seeped into every corner of your life together. The room is filled with the comforting scent of herbs and spices, but all you can focus on is him—his arms around you, his steady breathing, the familiar warmth of his presence.

You look up at him, and there’s a softness in his eyes, a light you’ve come to recognize as the kind of love that expects nothing but offers everything.

“I don’t know if I tell you this enough,” he murmurs, running his fingers gently along your back. “But you… you make me feel whole. Like I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

His words settle over you like a balm, soothing any lingering fear you still carry. There’s a deep sincerity in his gaze, a warmth that has become your comfort, your safety. You feel your heart swell, a surge of gratitude that he’s here, that he chose you even with all the jagged edges you thought would push people away.

“Bucky,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “I never thought I’d find this. Find… you.”

He smiles, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to trust me. But you’re everything I ever wanted… everything I never thought I deserved.”

You laugh softly, the sound breaking through the quiet as you realize how much he’s come to mean to you, how he’s become the constant in your life, the calm in your storms. “You deserve all of it, love....Every bit of happiness there is.”

His eyes soften, and he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, lingering as if he’s savoring the moment, as if he’s savoring you. “Then stay with me,” he whispers, his voice low and full of emotion. “For as long as we have… let’s make this our forever.”

Your heart races as his words sink in, and you feel a warmth bloom within you, a peace that you’ve only known with him. The future, once clouded by fear and doubt, now feels open, full of possibility, and you realize that with him, you’re no longer afraid of what lies ahead.

You take his hands in yours, feeling the roughness of his palms, the strength that’s always there, supporting you. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say, looking up into his eyes. “I’m yours, Bucky. Completely.”

He smiles, a look of relief mixed with pure joy lighting up his face, and he pulls you close, his arms wrapped securely around you as he holds you like he never intends to let go.

“I’ll remind you of that every day,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice a soft promise. “You’re mine. And I love you… more than I could ever put into words.”

In that quiet moment, held close in his arms, you feel it—this deep, steady love that you never believed could be yours. And you know, as long as you have him, you are finally, truly home.

Bucky’s arms wrap around you a little tighter, pulling you closer, and in his embrace, you feel every ounce of love and devotion he’s offered you so freely. His hands rest at the small of your back, gentle but firm, grounding you. The simmering sounds from the stove fade into the background as he holds you, the world narrowing down to just the two of you in this shared moment.

He dips his head, his lips brushing softly against yours in a kiss that’s unhurried, tender, but filled with an intensity that leaves you breathless. His hand moves to cradle your cheek, his thumb tracing a gentle path along your jawline, a soft reverence in his touch, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

You feel the roughness of his palms as his hands settle along your waist, his fingers splaying across your back, drawing you even closer. The air between you feels charged, a steady, simmering warmth that’s both comforting and thrilling. You let your fingers trail up his shoulders, feeling the strength and warmth there, feeling safe and cherished.

“Bucky,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you lean into him, pressing soft kisses along his jawline, savoring the way his breathing hitches ever so slightly at your touch.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his gaze soft but intense, filled with a tenderness that makes your heart ache in the best way. “You’re everything,” he whispers, his forehead resting gently against yours as he closes his eyes, breathing you in. “Everything I never knew I could have.”

---

A few months later, everything feels like it’s slipping out of your hands. Work is stressful, you’ve hardly had a moment to yourself let alone with Bucky, and the anxieties that you thought you’d buried start creeping back in, tainting every small moment of happiness with doubt. Bucky notices, of course. He’s always paying attention, always picking up on the little things.

After a long, exhausting day, you come home and find him waiting for you in your small, cluttered living room. He’s made dinner, and the smell of pasta fills the apartment, a small act of love that you know he did just to make you feel better.

But instead of feeling grateful, all you feel is overwhelmed.

As you set your bag down, you glance at him, trying to ignore the pressure building in your chest. “You don’t have to keep doing this, you know,” you say, your voice sharper than you intended. “I don’t need you to take care of me all the time, i can do it myself!"

He blinks, taken aback by the edge in your tone. “I know you can baby, ” he says carefully. “I just wanted to make things a little easier tonight"

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t need you to!” you snap, unable to hold back the frustration boiling over inside. “I’m fine on my own....I’ve always been fine on my own!"

Bucky’s face falls, and he sets down the plate he was holding, his gaze steady but pained. “Where’s this coming from?” he asks quietly.

You don’t know how to answer, not when everything feels so confusing and raw. “Maybe… maybe we were a mistake,” you murmur, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Maybe we got too close too fast.”

His jaw clenches, hurt flashing across his face. “Do you really mean that?” His voice is low, almost breaking. “Or are you just scared?”

The question hits you like a punch to the gut, because he’s right. You are scared—scared of getting hurt, scared of being vulnerable, and scared of what it means to love someone so deeply. And yet, instead of admitting it, you double down, pushing him further away.

“What if I am scared, Bucky?” you snap, crossing your arms. “Maybe I don’t want to put myself through this. People always leave, and were in so deep! I, I’m just—” You stop, your voice catching as the memories of your parents’ fights come rushing back, the anger, the silence, the way love had turned to something dark and painful.

Bucky steps forward, his expression softened but resolute. “I’m not your Father, we're not your parents” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “I’m not going to walk away just because things get hard.”

You turn away, trying to hide the tears that have started to well up. “How can you say that? You don’t know… what it was like.”

He takes a breath, his hand reaching out to yours, fingers warm and steady around yours. “Then tell me,” he says, his voice steady but full of emotion. “Help me understand, so I can be here for you the way you need.”

The walls you’ve built around your heart feel like they’re crumbling, and you struggle to keep them in place, to hold onto the safety they give you. But Bucky’s still there, holding your hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

With a shaky breath, you finally let go, everything you've been keeping inside for the last couple weeks pours out of you, your eyes like waterfalls. Bucky has his arms wrapped around faster than you could wipe your tears away. His grip firm, as he rubs circles on your back. Holding you close, and you feel the weight of his presence, grounding you, filling the empty spaces with a warmth you were about to let yourself lose.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs softly, his fingers brushing soothingly along your back. “No matter how scared you get, I’m here. You’re not alone, you’re worth it, i promise angel”

You pull back, looking up at him, feeling the truth of his words sink into you. The fear is still there, lingering around the edges, but somehow it feels smaller now, less overwhelming.

As you hold his gaze, you realize that this—this moment, where you’re both standing on the edge of your fears and still choosing each other—is what love is meant to be. It’s not about perfection or never fighting. It’s about standing together, even when things get messy, even when it feels like everything is falling apart.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean it, ant of it Bucky I’m just… scared of losing you.”

He smiles, brushing a tear from your cheek. “Then hold onto me,” he says softly “Because I’m not letting you go"

---

Bucky has been working long hours lately, pulling extra shifts and coming home exhausted. You’ve noticed how he’s barely had a moment to breathe, how he comes home later every night, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes as he falls onto the couch. You’ve asked him if everything’s okay, and every time, he just smiles, brushes a kiss across your forehead, and says he’s fine, just a little busy.

What you don’t know is that Bucky’s been saving up for something big, something he’s been dreaming about since the day he realized he couldn’t imagine a life without you. He’s been setting aside every extra dollar to buy you a ring, one that feels worthy of you. But between work and stress, his nerves are stretched thin, and even though he tries to be patient, exhaustion is starting to get the better of him.

You come home from work and find him in the kitchen, staring blankly at a half-prepared dinner, his face worn and tired. You reach out to touch his arm, concerned. “Bucky, you don’t have to do everything, you know. I could’ve picked something up.”

He doesn’t look at you, just sighs, his voice tense. “I’m fine doll, I can handle it.”

You press a little further, sensing something beneath his words. “Are you sure? You’ve been so… distant lately. I just feel like we barely talk anymore.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffen, and he glances over at you, a flicker of frustration in his gaze. “I don’t get why you’re always questioning me,” he snaps, voice sharper than usual. “I’m here, aren’t I? It’s not like I’m going anywhere, i've told you"

You flinch at his words, feeling a familiar ache settle in your chest. “I’m not… I just don’t understand why you’re shutting me out.”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, and you can tell he’s trying to keep his emotions in check. “I’m not shutting you out, alright? Not everything has to be a big deal.”

The words feel dismissive, and something inside you snaps, the old fears rising up. “I just… I need to know what’s going on, Bucky, you know this, I-I....You say you’re here, but it doesn’t feel like it right now, It’s like you’re already halfway gone already..."

The moment you say it, his expression changes, a spark of hurt flashing across his face. “Are you serious?” he asks, his tone suddenly defensive. “I’ve been working myself to the bone for us, trying to make things better. I’m here every night, putting in the effort, and you’re just waiting for me to mess up. Waiting for an excuse to push me away! "

Your breath catches, his words cutting deeper than you expected. “That’s not fair,” you say, voice trembling. “You know why I have a hard time trusting people, why I get scared. You’re the one who made me feel safe again. And now it’s like… it’s like you’re proving me right.”

He looks away, jaw clenched, but the frustration and exhaustion finally get the better of him. “Maybe I don’t know how to prove it to you, then,” he mutters, anger shading his words. “I don’t know what more you need from me!"

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and suddenly the air feels too thick, the walls of your house are suddenly too close. Without thinking, you grab your coat, needing to escape the pain before it breaks you completely.

“Where are you going?” he calls after you, the anger giving way to worry as he realizes you’re actually leaving. “It’s 2:30AM! Y-you cant just walk out!

You pause at the door, tears streaming down your cheeks as you look back at him, the hurt and fear finally spilling over“I’m leaving before you leave me,” you choke out, your voice barely a whisper. “I told you would! Everyone always does.”

With that, you slip out the door, stepping into the quiet, empty street. You start walking, the chill of the night biting into your skin as you try to hold back the tears. The memory of his words lingers, replaying in your mind, amplifying every insecurity you’ve ever felt.

But then you hear footsteps behind you, and before you can turn, Bucky’s voice reaches you, a soft, desperate sound. “Wait, Baby please, just… stop for a second"

You hesitate, swallowing down the sob that’s caught in your throat as he steps closer, his face a mix of regret and something you can’t name. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, his voice breaking slightly, his own tears spilling over “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

You take a shaky breath, your voice full of the hurt you can’t hide. “You’re right, though. I don’t know how to believe you’ll stay. I can’t get rid of this feeling that you’ll change your mind.”

He closes the gap between you, his gaze softening as he reaches out, brushing a tear from your cheek. “Hey,” he whispers, his voice gentle, grounding. “I’m not going anywhere. You know why I’ve been working so much?”

You shake your head, your mind still reeling.

He lets out a deep breath, pulling something from his pocket, a small, worn ring box. “This...This is why I’ve been putting in those hours. Because I want to be with you, forever....For good.”

You stare at the box in his hand, the realization washing over you like a wave. Bucky steps closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been saving up to buy you a ring. Because all I want is a life with you. No running, no more fears. Just us...till death do us part and all..."

The words sink in, and your heart feels like it’s breaking open and mending at the same time. “Bucky, I… I didn’t know.”

“I know, you weren't suppose to sweet girl” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. “I know, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I was just… scared, too. Scared that maybe you’d never really believe I’d stay or be too scared to stay yourself.."

You cling to him, feeling the warmth of his embrace seep into you, grounding you. For the first time, you let yourself feel the truth in his words, the steady, unyielding love he’s shown you all along.

As he holds you in the quiet of the night, you finally feel something shift deep inside, a sense of peace replacing the old fears. And as you look up into his blue eyes, you know, without a doubt, that this is what home looks like.

Bucky holds you close, his arms wrapped around you as you both stand on the empty street, the quiet stillness of the night surrounding you. You can feel the steady beat of his heart as he holds you, each thump anchoring you back into the moment, reminding you of everything he’s done to show you he’s here to stay.

After a few moments, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze soft and full of a warmth that nearly takes your breath away. He glances down at the small ring box in his hand, then back up at you, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I was planning this whole big thing, you know,” he says, a soft laugh escaping him as he looks at you, his eyes bright with a tenderness that makes your heart ache in the best way. “A perfect night, the right words… I wanted it to be special. Because you deserve that, you deserve everything.”

Your breath catches, your eyes filling with tears again, but this time they’re tears of joy, of a hope that’s finally free of the shadows that used to hold you back.

“But somehow,” he continues, his thumb brushing softly across your cheek, “this feels right. Standing here with you, just… us, no walls, no fears.”

Slowly, Bucky lowers himself down onto one knee, opening the small ring box to reveal a simple but beautiful ring that catches the glow of the streetlight. His eyes never leave yours as he speaks, his voice thick with emotion.

“I know we’ve both been through a lot, and I know we’ve still got our fears,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, each word carrying the weight of everything he feels. “But there’s no one else I’d rather face them with. You’re it for me. You’re my home, my everything.”

He takes a steadying breath, his gaze unwavering as he holds the ring up to you. “Will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life proving to you that I’m never going to leave?”

You feel the tears spill over, but this time you don’t bother wiping them away. Nodding, you barely manage to whisper, the easiest words you ever said before “Yes...Yes, Bucky, I’ll marry you"

A bright smile breaks across his face as he slips the ring onto your finger, then rises to his feet, pulling you back into his arms. He kisses you softly, a lingering kiss filled with every unspoken promise between you "I love you Bucky Barnes"

As he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, a smile playing on his lips. "And I love you, forever" he whispers, his voice filled with warmth and certainty. “You’re the best thing that's ever been mine,”

#Spotify #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes au #bucky banres #james bucky barnes #james barnes x you #james barnes fanfiction

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novaursa · 10 months ago

Note

Good evening love

I was thinking about that last night!

When Daemon and Rhaenyra goes to brothel they sleep together and obviously she’s pregnant and coz it’s just before her wedding (we will says it just before) everyone thing it’s Leanor.

She gave birth to a little girl all Targaryen looks. They’re was always some rumors but since she looks like every targ it’s easier for her. Harwin played dad role for her and she’s really protective of her brother.

more time passed and everyone can clearly see that she looked exactly like daemon physically and mentally.

And it’s finally during the funeral of her aunt, Daemon see her and he understand that she is his. She’s everything he want and have a special bound with her (first child, heir of the throne, powerful dragon)

Fire in Her Veins

- Summary: During Laena’s funeral, Daemon recognizes you as his own blood.

- Pairing: (daughter) targ!reader/(father) Daemon Targaryen (platonic)

- Note: The reader is the firstborn child and only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. The reader is also bonded to Vermithor.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The sea air on Driftmark is filled with salt and sorrow, the crashing waves of the Narrow Sea providing a mournful backdrop to the solemn gathering. You stand with your brothers on the stone cliffs of the island, your hands clasped tightly together in front of you as the funeral procession moves solemnly forward. Lady Laena’s casket is adorned with pearls and driftwood, her body wrapped in the traditional Velaryon colors, and you can feel the weight of your family’s grief pressing heavily upon your shoulders.

The mood is somber, the sky above gray and heavy, as if even the gods mourn the loss of Laena Velaryon. The Velaryon banners flap in the wind, and from where you stand, you see the faces of the royal family—Alicent and her children, all clustered together, keeping their distance from you and your brothers. Their green dresses stand out like bright flames against the dark ocean and black mourning attire.

You feel a familiar pang of protectiveness as you glance toward your brothers, who are standing just to your right, their small faces grim and pale. You notice how Jacaerys keeps his head down, avoiding the stern gazes from across the gathering. You recognize the unspoken tension between the two halves of the family, an invisible line that divides you all.

Behind you, you hear the murmurs of the court, soft whispers that seem to follow you wherever you go. They speak of many things—the death of Lady Laena, the grief of her husband Daemon, and the unspoken truth that seems to hang in the air around you. The truth of who you are.

"She looks more like him every day," you overhear a noblewoman whisper, though she thinks she is being quiet enough to go unnoticed.

And you know who they mean. Not Laenor Velaryon, who raised you as his own. Not Harwin Strong, who shielded you when you were small, his fierce protectiveness marking him as a father figure in your life. But Daemon.

Your eyes, so like his—stormy, burning with fire—scan the crowd until they land on him.

Daemon Targaryen stands just beyond the gathering of mourners, his face half-hidden beneath his hood, his silver hair blowing in the wind. There is something wild about him, something untamed, as though he belongs to the sea and the sky more than he belongs to the earth. He looks broken today, mourning his wife, but in his eyes there is a flicker of something as he catches your gaze—recognition, perhaps.

Your heart beats harder, and you lift your chin, a Targaryen through and through. You are not afraid to meet his gaze. In fact, there’s something in you that draws you closer to him, though your feet remain rooted to the ground.

Daemon's eyes narrow, the brief glint of recognition becoming a full realization. His mouth parts slightly as if he is going to speak, but no words come out. You see the flicker of memory in his gaze, a moment that stretches back to the night you were conceived—the night Rhaenyra escaped into the shadows of King's Landing, into his arms, if only for a single stolen moment.

The likeness between the two of you is undeniable, your shared features as plain as day to anyone who cared to look closely. Your high cheekbones, the curve of your lips, the storm in your gaze. And there is something more than just the physical—an energy, a fierceness that burns in you as much as it does in him.

"Y/N," Daemon murmurs your name under his breath as he steps forward, moving as though drawn to you by some unseen force.

You do not step back. You hold your ground, standing taller, your spine straight. You are not the little girl who needed protection anymore. You are Rhaenyra’s daughter, the rider of Vermithor, a dragon like no other.

Your brothers shift uncomfortably beside you as Daemon approaches, and you gently place a hand on Jacaerys’ shoulder, a silent reassurance that you will protect them. They are yours, just as much as you are theirs, and no one, not even Daemon, can change that.

“Do you remember me?” Daemon’s voice is low, so low that only you can hear it. His eyes never leave yours.

Your lips part, but words fail you for a moment. You do remember him through your memory as he was a ghost—and the stories your mother told you, the truths she revealed as you grew older. You remember the fire that courses through your veins, the unyielding bond with your dragon, the instincts that set you apart. It all comes from him.

"How could I not?" you reply, your voice steady, even though inside you feel like a storm is brewing.

Daemon’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smile—it’s something darker, something more conflicted. He glances toward your mother, Rhaenyra, who stands a little ways off, her eyes firmly fixed on Laena’s casket. There is a tension between them as well, a history that lingers in the air, unspoken but understood.

“You look like her,” Daemon says quietly, but his eyes say otherwise. He knows you look like him.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. You have always heard the whispers, the stories, but standing before him now, there is something more intimate in the way he observes you. He is seeing himself in you, recognizing the dragon fire in your blood, the legacy of your shared heritage.

“I look like myself,” you correct, your tone sharper now. “I am my mother’s daughter.”

“And mine,” Daemon replies, his voice a murmur carried by the wind.

You hold his gaze, your heart thudding in your chest, but you do not back down. For years, you had wondered what it would be like to stand face to face with the man whose blood flows in your veins. Now that you are here, you find that you do not need his acknowledgment. You do not need his approval.

You are who you are, no matter who claims you.

"I didn’t need you before," you say, your voice low but firm. "I don’t need you now."

The wind blows harder, carrying your words with it, and Daemon stares at you for a long moment before he nods, almost imperceptibly. There is something in his eyes now—perhaps regret, perhaps something else entirely.

"You are strong," he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "That much is clear."

You nod, not offering him anything more, and you turn away, your brothers following you as you lead them away from the cliff’s edge and back toward the safety of your family. The tension in your shoulders slowly fades as you walk away from Daemon, though you can still feel his eyes on your back, watching you as you go.

As the sea crashes against the rocks below, you feel a sense of finality, but also a strange kind of peace. You are your mother’s daughter. You are bonded to a dragon as mighty as Vermithor. You do not need anyone to tell you who you are.

And yet, you cannot help but wonder what it might mean to carry the fire of both Rhaenyra and Daemon, to have the blood of two dragons raging inside of you.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd daemon #hotd x female reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd platonic #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon x y/n #daemon x you #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon platonic

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smokesandsonatas · 11 months ago

Text

Twisted Wonderland but make it grounded in dark reality. I drafted this around late 2023 and I just finished this now, haha. As always read at your own discretion and enjoy!

Warnings: Implied cannibalism. Dread.

Characters: Floyd and Jade, Leona, Ruggie, Rook, Idia, Lillia, Malleus, Others.

Not beta read.

Food.

- Any substance consumed by an organism for nutritional support. A means for survival.

You’ve always known most of them are peculiar creatures. Sharp teeth, mismatched eyes, monstrous forms, fins that glint with predatory sharpness, and horns that pierce the sky with arrogant pride. They embody the villains from the old fairy tales back in your world, grotesque and terrifying in equal measure. You suppose they function like civilized beings—they’ve learned to blend into human society, after all—but you can’t help but notice just how different, how unnervingly similar, they are to one thing: food.

The dishes at this college are like nothing you've ever tasted. Perhaps it's because many of them are children of royalty, so even the cafeteria food tastes like something out of a king's banquet. The pickiness of their palates is evident in every bite, in every carefully crafted dish. But there are things you find more intriguing than their refined taste; something almost hypnotic about the way they eat, especially when they don't mind you watching.

The scent of something delicious invaded Ramshackle Dorm in the dead of night. You assumed Grim was cooking, as ridiculous as that sounded, but found the little gremlin snoozing soundly beside you. Maybe it was the ghosts? But as you descended the stairs, you found the kitchen empty, devoid of any culinary activity. One glance at the night sky over Sage’s Island told you it was around 3 AM—far too early for breakfast, and far too late for dinner.

You tried to go back to sleep, but the tantalizing scent of roasted meat kept you awake, gnawing at your resolve until you could no longer ignore the hunger pangs twisting your stomach. Leaving Grim behind, you draped the sheets over his body, muttering a promise to return soon. Your curiosity and hunger led you to the cafeteria, which should have been deserted at this hour, but to your surprise…

They were all there. The ones you’ve grown closest to.

They were gathered around a long, elegant table, the atmosphere eerily reminiscent of Mostro Lounge—dim lights casting soft, ominous shadows across their faces. The table was laden with exquisite, expensive cuts of meat, arranged in a feast fit for monsters. And in the center of it all, a massive stack of roasted meat commanded your attention.

It looked…perfect. The tenderloin, you assumed, was butter-soft, with a thick, moist cut that bled a light pink from the center. The outer layer was roasted to a flawless crisp. But something about the presentation unnerved you, a chill creeping up your spine.

The pile of meat looked too much like the carcass of a person. Or a beast, perhaps. It was hard to tell. But you could almost see the outline of a body, as though someone—someone about five or six feet tall—had been subjected to the furnace’s extreme heat, roasted beyond recognition. Was that hair you saw near what should have been the head? Before you could inspect further, a voice called out to you.

"Ah! You're here! Come and join us, Shrimpy!" Floyd’s voice rang out, cheerful and disturbingly eager. His sharp teeth gleamed in the dim light, rows of jagged edges that could tear through flesh with ease. Beside him, Jade chuckled, slicing into a slab of meat with surgical precision, the knife gliding through like it was cutting butter.

Your eyes scanned the gathering. At the head of the table sat Tsunotaro—Malleus, the prince of fae. You frowned, under the impression that he usually is not invited in gatherings like this. But he nodded at you, a small, regal acknowledgment. “I was invited by Lilia,” he explained, his voice low and melodic. You glanced at his plate—a half-eaten steak submerged in a thick, red sauce. The metallic, almost fishy scent wafted up, assaulting your senses.

Before you could react, Lilia appeared beside you, his small hand guiding you to a seat. His right hand held a wine glass filled with a creamy red liquid that clung to the inside of the chalice. You tried to dismiss the fact that it looked too much like blood—thick, viscous blood. Surely, wine wasn’t supposed to look like that, but who were you to judge?

“Bonjour, Trickster! ~” Rook’s voice whispered in your ear, and when you turned, you were met with a sight that made your stomach turn. The smell hit you first—foul, putrid, like a freshly killed animal left to rot. It was too strong, the copper and iron scent so overpowering you had to fight to keep your expression neutral.

You hope your face does not betray the constriction of your throat.

“Rook,” you managed to say, swallowing down the bile that threatened to rise. “What…uhm, what is that?”

Rook laughed, the sound as sharp as the glint in his eyes. “Liver pâté, my dear,” he said, twirling his fork. “If it’s a strong scent, I apologize. It’s from the raw liver I like to eat with the liver pâté.”

Raw…

You tried to ignore the word. Back in your world, people ate raw food—sushi, for instance. So whatever Rook had on his plate was none of your business. At least, that’s what you tried to tell yourself.

“Shishishi, the food is sure delicious, especially when I’m getting it for free!” A voice cackled, startling you. You almost jumped out of your seat at the sight of Ruggie, devouring his meal with a voracious appetite. His sharp teeth ripped through the flesh with ease, tearing the meat from the bone in one swift motion. Red droplets—blood?—splattered across his chin, and you watched in horror as his tongue darted out to lick it clean.

“Oi, Ruggie, have some manners,” Leona growled from beside him, his voice gruff and annoyed. He wasn’t eating, his plate already littered with bones, but he was sipping from a glass filled with a red liquid. You wanted to believe it was wine, but the scent…The scent was as repugnant as the raw liver on Rook’s plate. It was metallic, nauseating

—blood.

A shiver trickled down your spine.

That same scent wafted from Malleus and Lilia’s glasses, clinging to the air like a dark cloud.

“You’re one to talk!” Ruggie retorted, his mouth full of meat. “You’ve never eaten a rat before, Leona-san.”

You blinked. Did you hear him right?

Your train of thought was interrupted by Malleus’s voice from your left.

“Shroud,” the prince of fae said, his tone commanding yet gentle, “drink this and replenish your energy.” You watched as Malleus offered Idia the same drink he was consuming. And to your shock, Idia accepted, his expression one of reluctance.

“I don’t really mind drinking this stuff, but I just don’t like eating much…” The Ignihyde dorm leader mumbled, his voice trailing off. You glanced at his plate—a barely touched piece of ‘steak’ with a small cut in the corner, oozing something you didn’t want to identify.

You could barely breathe as you watched Idia reluctantly take a sip of the viscous liquid from Malleus's chalice. His face remained as pale as ever, though a faint hint of color touched his cheeks. The sight was unsettling, and you couldn't help but feel a creeping sense of dread tightening around your chest.

"Not a fan of solid food?" Jade's voice slithered into your thoughts, pulling you from the trance. His mismatched eyes glinted in the dim light as he calmly sliced through his portion of meat, each movement precise and almost too graceful. "It's an acquired taste," he continued, offering you a smile that somehow did nothing to ease your growing anxiety.

Your gaze shifted to the plate in front of you, untouched and ominously inviting. The stack of meat in the center of the table loomed like a dark specter, its presence a constant reminder of the unease gnawing at your mind. You felt a pressure to partake, to show your acceptance of their world, but every fiber of your being screamed against it.

"Come now," Lilia's playful voice broke through the tension, "you should try it at least once. After all, it's not every day you get to dine with such esteemed company." He winked, the gesture meant to be comforting, but it only made you more wary.

You glanced around the table, noting the expectant gazes directed your way. Floyd’s sharp grin was still fixed on you, his eyes gleaming with mischief, while Ruggie gnawed contentedly on his bone, seemingly oblivious to the tension. Rook, watched you with a keen interest, his fork poised elegantly in his hand.

Leona’s gaze was the most unsettling, though. His amber eyes were half-lidded, seemingly bored, yet there was an intensity in them that made you feel like prey. His fingers drummed lazily on the table, and you couldn’t help but notice the slight curl of his lips, as if he was waiting for you to make a move.

Your gaze drifted across the table, stomach churning with a mix of disgust and dread. The dim light flickered, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance across their faces—no, across their true forms. You blinked, the image wavering as if your mind was trying to shield you from something it wasn’t ready to comprehend.

Floyd’s laughter echoed, a sound that grated against your nerves. For a split second, you saw something else—an elongated, sinuous form, slick with scales, teeth sharper than any blade, rows upon rows of them, stretching endlessly down a gaping maw that promised nothing but pain. You shuddered, the image vanishing as quickly as it appeared, leaving you staring at the harmless, smiling face of the boy who once called you Shrimpy. Jade is no better. You can see the muscles bulging as his back turns, with sharp rows of fins scattered along his spine. If you were behind him right now, you’re certain he would cut you in half.

Your eyes flicked to Ruggie, who was gnawing on the bone of his meal with unabashed relish. But in the periphery of your vision, his form distorted—muscles rippling beneath fur that was too thick, claws that scraped against the table, and a maw that was too wide, too hungry, filled with jagged fangs meant for tearing, ripping, devouring. He glanced up, catching your gaze, and you quickly looked away, the image of the beast-man fading back into the all-too-familiar figure of a mischievous boy. Leona on the other hand, sit still. The image of a lion assessing it's prey. You dare not look at his eyes burning holes through your skull—you feel it.

Idia, who sits apart from the others, his presence a dark shadow at the table. There’s something about him that feels different, even among these monsters. His connection to the underworld is undeniable, a guardian of the boundary between life and death. The flickering blue flames of his hair and the way his eyes pierce through the darkness suggest something far older and more terrifying than any of the others—a being who has seen what lies beyond the veil, and who has perhaps brought a piece of it back with him.

Rook, you cannot even begin to comprehend how a human—like yourself, is able to blend in with them.

But the worst was Malleus. The prince of the fae was calm, serene even, but there was something wrong—horribly wrong. His eyes glowed too brightly, their green hue pulsating with an otherworldly light. And then, for just a moment, you saw what lay beneath that regal facade—a towering figure, wings that stretched endlessly, blotting out the sky, horns that twisted and curled like a crown of dark thorns. His smile was too sharp, too knowing, as if he could see right through you, into the very depths of your soul.

You closed your eyes, refusing to look at anyone anymore.

You tried to swallow your saliva, but your throat was dry, your mouth parched. The air was thick with the scent of blood, the tang of iron clinging to your tongue. They were all looking at you now, waiting, expecting you to take a bite, to join them in this feast.

Lilia’s voice broke the silence, light and playful as ever. “Come now, dear. Don’t be shy. You wouldn’t want to insult your hosts, would you?”

The pressure was unbearable, the weight of their gazes pressing down on you, suffocating you. Your hand trembled as you reached for the fork, the silver glinting in the low light. You knew, deep down, that whatever you saw—whatever you thought you saw—a no mere trick of the light.

They were not like you. They were never like you.

"I," you hope your voice does not shake, "I am full." You nodded, convincing them. You let out a nervous laugh, quickly standing up as you find the place too suffocating. Chair scraping the floor. "I'm fine! Really, I—ah, I need to go back, I have to catch some sleep and Grim is alone."

Floyd is quick to be by your side. His smile, wide and filled with sharp teeth, is unsettling. "Eh, Shrimpy, do you not like the food?" He asks, worry in his voice. You know it's fake: he's mocking you.

"I am good," you say with a strained smile. Please let me go, please, please—

"I insist," Malleus interjects, his voice smooth but commanding. "This is a feast meant for sharing. It would be rude to leave before sampling a morsel."

As if on cue, the others start to close in. Rook leans in closer, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mix of curiosity and amusement. "The flavors are truly exquisite, you know. Not something one should miss out on."

Leona’s gaze is heavy and piercing, his voice low and rumbling. "I’ve seen your kind turn down more robust fare than this. Surely you can handle a small bite."

Your attempts to excuse yourself only seem to stoke their interest further. The way they move, their unnervingly smooth motions, reminds you of predators circling their prey.

You might just be one tonight.

Floyd’s grin widens as he leans in closer, his breath hot against your neck. "Come on, Shrimpy. Just a taste. I promise it won’t hurt."

The pressure is mounting. They are pushing you to stay, to partake in their feast, and the atmosphere thickens with their silent insistence. Malleus’s eyes bore into you with a knowing gaze, his hand extending with a glass of the viscous red liquid. "Just a sip, if you please."

Every attempt to excuse yourself only seems to make their eyes narrow further, their smiles widen just a little more. The eerie calm of the feast surrounds you.

It is when you see the meat properly that you made up your mind to escape. It is in someone's plate, you do not know who.

It's in the shape of a finger. A charred fingernail dipped in red.

Floyd let out a yelp as you finally push him off of you, your steps quickening as you trace back where you came from: The path to Ramshackle dorm.

You heard Jade reprimand Floyd, the latter angry when you pushed him: How dare you Shrimpy was all you heard before you were out of their sight and you're running back, panting, to your safe space, Ramshackle.

Only to pause as Crowley stands in the steps of your door. His mask drowning the glint of yellow from holes that was supposed to be his eyes.

What... what the fuck.

Crowley approached you slowly, as if he's reaching out to a wounded prey, this is the first time you've ever seen him serious. You take a step back, should you run in the other direction? Where will you escape, Heartslabyul? Will they take you in there?

The headmaster let out a sigh, "My students here at Night Raven should perhaps know kindness from their teacher," he declared dramatically. Then he gave you pouch, full of madol. Thaumarks.

This is a bribe. Crowley is bribing you.

"Our little secret, alright?"

You blinked. What...?

"A little compensation for your troubles, for I am truly kind."

He then disappear, leaving you stunned.

At exactly 3:33 AM, a realization hit you. You are in the company of creatures far more dangerous than you ever imagined, their monstrous forms hidden just beneath the surface. One wrong step, one mistake, it can all come down. Crumbling to pieces.

It is inside when your knees give out, you slide through the door of the Ramshackle, too weak to stand anymore.

This is the truth: you are in the company of creatures mimicking humans, their monstrous forms hidden just beneath the normal exterior. But what terrifies you most is not the thought of what they are—but the thought that, perhaps, they see you as something less than human too.

The truth of what they were—what they really were—lurked just out of reach, like a shadow at the corner of your vision, waiting to pounce the moment you let your guard down.

But you knew better. Something had changed.

And as you sit there, the only protection you have are rotting woods that make up your dorm. You are just within the circle of monstrous beings in their friendly human skins. You are a magic-less, pathetic alien.

For in a world filled with monsters hiding in plain sight, the only question that remained was this:

What would happen when they decided they were tired of pretending?

Perhaps you will find out soon.

#twisted wonderland #s h u #malleus draconia #idia shroud #floyd leech #disney twisted wonderland #jade leech #leona kingscholar #lillia vanrouge #crowley #creepy twisted wonderland #eerie #twisted wonderland x reader #twst yuu #ruggie bucchi #rook hunt #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst

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iamgonnagetyouback · 9 months ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀────۶ৎ accidental dates

synopsis: you’ve liked remus for a while, so when you show up to hogsmeade and overhear him saying he can’t be alone with you, it stings. you pretend you didn’t hear, but the night feels tense. when you finally get the courage to ask if he knows how you feel, his answer isn’t what you expected—and it hurts more than you thought it would content warnings: angst, miscommunication, self-doubt, low self-esteem (remus), brief rejection, but ends with fluff

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 1,488

The chilly air of Hogsmeade was festive, alive with the sounds of holiday cheer. You wrapped your scarf tightly around your neck as you stepped into the Three Broomsticks, your heart thudding harder than it should. You had taken extra time getting ready today—perhaps more than was reasonable—choosing your outfit carefully, doing your hair just right. Not that anyone else would notice, but you hoped one particular person would.

Remus Lupin.

You couldn't deny it any longer—your feelings for Remus were no longer a simple crush. It had grown into something much bigger, something you couldn’t ignore.

You had harboured feelings for him for longer than you cared to admit. He was always kind, always steady, but recently, something had shifted between you. Maybe it was your feelings bubbling too close to the surface, or maybe it was the way he seemed to be avoiding you when you wanted to spend time alone with him. It gnawed at you, a constant anxiety that tonight might bring some clarity—though whether it would soothe or crush you, you weren’t sure.

As you approached the back of the pub, you saw him sitting alone at the table. Your heart leaped at the sight of him—his warm brown sweater bringing out the golden tones in his hair, his eyes focused on the table, fingers tracing invisible lines along the wood. He looked so good that it made your chest ache.

But before you could call out to him, you overheard a snippet of conversation, his voice low but unmistakable.

“…Padfoot, you know I can’t be alone with her. It’s too—”

You froze, a sharp pang of hurt slicing through you. Remus didn’t know you were there. His words hung in the air like a heavy weight, making your stomach twist. He didn’t want to be alone with you? Why? Was it because he knew? Did he figure out your feelings and… and couldn’t stand the thought of it?

But before the hurt could swallow you whole, you forced a smile onto your face. You weren’t going to let it ruin the evening. You weren’t.

Clearing your throat, you stepped forward, catching his attention. His head snapped up, his eyes widening in mild surprise as if he hadn’t expected you to show up just yet.

“Hey, Remus,” you greeted him, your voice light despite the tightness in your chest. You flashed him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You look great.”

And he did. He always did. The way the dim light flickered over his face made him look softer, almost ethereal. You waited, hoping for a compliment in return, your heart fluttering in anticipation.

You hoped that he’d notice the effort you’d made for him. But there was nothing. No smile, no remark about how you looked, not even a flicker of recognition for the time you had spent getting ready.

Remus didn’t say anything. His gaze flicked away from you, tension pulling his features taut, as if being in your presence made him uncomfortable. You shifted nervously, your smile faltering.

“So,” you said, desperate to fill the awkward silence, “where are the others?”

Remus’s jaw tightened, his voice coming out more annoyed than you expected. “Sirius bailed,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “He had an argument with Regulus and needed some space. Peter’s with Mary, and James—” He let out a dry laugh. “—is actually being tutored by Lily.”

You blinked, processing the sudden emptiness of your group plans. “So… I guess it’s just us, then?”

He nodded, but you caught the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. It stung worse than it should have.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

You forced a small laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, it’s a good thing I like Butterbeer. I’ll just have to drink enough for everyone,” you joked, though your voice wavered slightly.

Remus glanced up at you, and for the first time that night, his gaze softened. He looked almost regretful, but he still didn’t say anything. The silence returned, and you bit your lip, wondering what to do next. Should you just leave? Was he waiting for you to go?

The silence stretched on, heavy and thick, like neither of you knew how to handle it. You tried to make conversation, but every attempt seemed to fizzle out the moment it left your lips. Remus barely responded, giving short, clipped answers as if he wanted to be anywhere but here, with you.

The knot in your chest tightened, your earlier excitement draining away with every passing second. The thought struck you suddenly, an unwelcome idea slithering its way into your mind—

Did he know? Had he figured out your feelings and was trying to avoid hurting you?

Or worse… was he disgusted by the idea of being with you?

That would explain the avoidance, the discomfort.

And if that was the case… you needed to say something.

You cleared your throat again, your heart pounding as you met his gaze. “Remus,” you began softly, “if you… if you know—about how I feel—then it’s okay. I-I can handle it if you don’t… feel the same way. I just… I thought…” Your voice cracked, your bravado crumbling under the weight of the fear gnawing at you. “I just thought maybe…”

You hoped, desperately, that he would stop you, that he’d say something to reassure you. But Remus’s expression didn’t change, the same distant, almost pained look clouding his eyes.

“It’s just…” He paused, running a hand through his hair, a frustrated sigh leaving his lips. “It’s better if we stay friends.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t expected them, not really, and yet they were your worst fear realized. You felt your heart crack, the pieces splintering inside your chest, but you nodded anyway, forcing yourself to act like it didn’t hurt as much as it did.

“Right,” you whispered, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay. “I understand.”

Remus shifted in his seat, looking away from you. “It’s not that I don’t… care about you. I do. But… I’m not the kind of guy you need. I’m not… I’m not good for you.”

Your brow furrowed, confusion swirling with the pain that now sat heavily in your chest. “What are you talking about? Remus, you’re one of the best people I know.”

He shook his head, his fingers gripping the edge of the table as if he was holding on to some invisible anchor. “You deserve someone better, someone who doesn’t have… baggage. Someone who can give you everything you want, everything you need.”

The frustration bubbled up inside you, pushing past the sadness. “Who says you can’t give me that?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended. “Who gets to decide what I need? Because last I checked, I get to decide that.”

Remus flinched slightly, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “I’m a mess,” he admitted quietly. “The full moons, the scars, the… the danger. I can’t put you through that.”

You blinked, the weight of his words settling in. He wasn’t rejecting you because he didn’t like you—he was rejecting you because he thought he wasn’t good enough.

“Remus,” you said, your voice trembling, “you don’t get to make that choice for me. I care about you. I—” You hesitated, your heart pounding in your ears. “I want you. All of you. The good, the bad, and everything in between.”

His eyes widened, the flicker of hope you’d been waiting for finally breaking through. “You… you do?”

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you stepped closer, the warmth between you growing in the cold air. “I do.”

For a moment, Remus just stared at you, his expression unreadable. But then, finally, he smiled—a small, tentative smile, as if he wasn’t quite sure this was real. His hand reached for yours, his fingers brushing against yours lightly, testing the waters.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I was… scared. Scared of losing you.”

You smiled through the tears that threatened to spill over, squeezing his hand gently. “You’re not going to lose me, Remus.”

He pulled you closer, his other hand coming up to rest on your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. His gaze held yours, his eyes filled with something you’d been longing to see for so long—affection, care… love.

And then, finally, he kissed you.

It was soft, tentative at first, but then it deepened, his hand tightening on yours as if he was afraid to let go. When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless, but you were smiling, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” Remus murmured, his forehead resting against yours. “I should’ve told you that earlier.”

You laughed softly, your fingers brushing through his hair. “Took you long enough.”

#⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ivy writes ༄.°#remus lupin hurt/comfort #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin angst #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin #dividers by thecutestgrotto #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin oneshot #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin x you

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fr0stf4ll · 6 months ago

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 5

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 5k

Trigger warning; //

notes; Hey ! Happy celebrations for everyone <3 I'm back with the part 5 of the story, you guys are getting more elements about the story here hihi. Hope that you will enjoy it ! See you soon <3

previous ✧ next

The day after you had stabilized Azriel, you returned to the House of Wind to check on his injuries. Morning light filtered through wide windows as you stepped into the corridors, the faint scent of fresh linen lingering in the air. You carried your satchel of supplies—new dressings, salves, and a mild tonic—tucked under one arm. The tension you felt in your chest, the awareness of that golden bond, still hummed quietly under your skin.

When you eased open the door to Azriel’s room, you found him not only awake, but sitting propped against a nest of pillows. He turned his head at your arrival, and his hazel eyes, calm yet quietly guarded, focused on you. You froze for a fraction of a second, expecting something—recognition, some sign that he sensed what you had felt so vividly the night before. The mating bond. But Azriel’s gaze was polite, curious, nothing more than what you’d expect from a warrior thanking a healer.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low and even. His wings were carefully arranged, bandages neat and secure from your previous efforts. “I owe you my life, I think.” The corner of his mouth tipped upward slightly, a cautious attempt at a smile. “Thank you.”

Your heart twisted. You managed a professional nod, stepping closer to the bed. “It’s my duty,” you replied, your voice steady despite the pang in your chest. “How do you feel?”

He shifted a little, wincing but not complaining. “Better,” he answered, meeting your gaze without any flicker of that deeper connection you had feared or hoped for. Just calm gratitude and a warrior’s patience. “The pain is manageable.”

You swallowed, extending a gentle hand to adjust a pillow behind him and check the bandage on his shoulder. Your fingers brushed his skin lightly. Nothing. No spark, no sign that he felt what you did. He gave a small nod of thanks, as though you were any other healer administering care.

The golden thread inside you felt taut and delicate, as if one wrong breath could snap it. But what good was a thread if only one person felt its pull? You busied yourself with routine tasks: applying fresh salve, examining the healing tears in his wings, ensuring there were no signs of infection. He watched quietly, occasionally letting out a soft hiss of discomfort, but never more than that.

Every so often, you dared glance into his eyes again, searching for something—some warmth or spark that might betray an awareness of the bond. But you found nothing beyond polite interest and a soldier’s resilience. To him, you were a stranger who had saved his life, a skilled hand rather than a destined partner.

When you finished, you stepped back and forced a calm, reassuring smile. “Everything seems to be on track,” you said, keeping your tone measured and pleasant. “I’ll prepare a mild tonic to help with any lingering ache. If you rest and follow instructions, you’ll recover smoothly.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You have my thanks,” he said simply. “And my respect.”

With that, you gathered your supplies and turned toward the door, heart heavier and more uncertain than before. You paused on the threshold, glancing back once over your shoulder. Azriel was settling back into the pillows, eyes drifting to the window, lost in his own thoughts—thoughts that, evidently, didn’t involve the bond you carried alone.

You left his room as you had entered: a healer, no more, no less. The golden bond within you lay silent and unacknowledged, a secret you would shoulder alone.

Days blurred into a quiet routine: morning rounds at the clinic, afternoons spent reviewing herbal stocks and training junior healers, and, scattered between these duties, several trips to the House of Wind. Each visit found you in Azriel’s room, applying new salves and checking that his injuries were knitting properly. He was a cooperative patient—patient enough, at least. He didn’t complain, though you sensed his restlessness. He asked questions about healing techniques, listened politely to your instructions, and always offered a sincere “thank you” after you were done.

In these encounters, the tension of that first night lingered only as a ghost of memory. He seemed comfortable enough with your presence. Once or twice, you thought you caught something in his gaze—curiosity, or a particular warmth—but you brushed it off. Your priority remained his recovery, not your tangled emotions or that elusive bond you had discovered.

But not all your visits were so calm. One afternoon, just after you’d finished changing the dressings on his wings, voices rose outside his door. You stepped into the corridor with your empty bowl of used bandages, intending to fetch fresh ones, when you heard the unmistakable sound of Rhysand’s voice—low, measured, but threaded with tension.

Azriel responded, quieter but sharper. You hesitated near the threshold, uncertain if you should intervene or give them privacy. Yet their words drifted through the partially open door, and you caught enough to understand what was happening.

“I’m not asking for permission,” Azriel said, voice tight. “I know what I’m doing, Rhys.”

Rhysand’s tone cooled noticeably. “This isn’t about your skill or independence. It’s about what’s best for everyone. You heard Y/N’s orders—no more unauthorized interference. Azriel, you nearly died. We can’t afford another risk.”

A pause, then Azriel’s voice, lower now, a note of frustration vibrating through it. “I’m not talking about the healer’s instructions. I’m talking about Elain.”

Your chest tightened at the name. So they were arguing about her. About his relationship to her. You swallowed, fingers tightening around the bowl as if it were an anchor in unfamiliar waters.

Rhysand sighed, weariness and a hint of annoyance seeping in. “You know the stance we agreed upon. Elain’s presence here complicated matters. She’s not a healer, and we can’t have her risking your life by trying something ill-advised. It’s best if she stays at the townhouse until you’re fully recovered.”

Azriel’s response was quieter, but no less charged. “I know she didn’t mean harm. She cared, and that caring led her astray. I’m not defending her action, but I want a chance to speak with her. This—this distance you’re enforcing feels like punishment.”

Rhysand’s answer came measured, each word precise. “Call it what you like. Her action nearly cost your life. Let Y/N do her job without interference. Once you’re healed, we can revisit the matter.”

A tense silence followed. You should have turned and left, but your feet seemed rooted in place. At length, Azriel spoke again, voice subdued yet firm: “I won’t forget this, Rhys. I know you mean well, but I have a say in who sees me and when. We’ll talk about this again.”

The tension crackled, and you took that as your cue. Quietly, you stepped away, heading off to get fresh supplies. By the time you returned, Rhysand was gone, and Azriel sat brooding by the window, wings carefully draped over the edge of the chair. He met your eyes and offered a faint, polite nod, as if nothing had happened.

But the atmosphere had changed. You redid a bandage and Azriel thanked you, his voice level, though a crease lingered between his brows. It wasn’t your place to ask about the dispute, and he didn’t volunteer information. Yet the words you’d overheard thrummed in your mind—the High Lord’s firm stance, Azriel’s quiet defiance. And, unspoken between them, Elain’s name, heavy with meaning.

You left that day more aware than ever that Azriel’s recovery wasn’t just about healing flesh and bone. There were deeper wounds, quieter tensions to navigate, and you found yourself caught at the edges of relationships and loyalties you barely understood.

At the week’s end, you returned to Azriel’s room for what would be your last scheduled visit. The afternoon light slanted in gently, highlighting the subtle improvements in his condition. His wings, once in tatters, now bore only faint scars slowly fading beneath well-applied salves. He was no longer propped up by a fortress of pillows, simply leaning back against a few cushions. His color was better, his breathing steady and even.

You approached with your medical bag, a familiar ritual by now. He watched your every move, though more relaxed than before. After a brief examination—checking the suppleness of his healing wing membranes, testing the resilience of muscle and skin—you nodded, satisfied.

“I think you’re in the clear,” you said, voice warm but professional. “Your wounds have healed nicely. You’re allowed to walk around the House of Wind again, as much as you like. Just…” You arched a brow, fixing him with a pointed look. “Please wait a few more days before attempting any training. Give your body time to adjust.”

Azriel inclined his head, his eyes thoughtful. “I’ll try,” he said, a hint of wry humor in his tone. “I’m not particularly good at staying idle, but I’ll manage.” There was a pause as he studied you, folding his hands loosely in his lap. “How are things at the clinic? It must be a lot of work, reacquainting yourself with everything after so long.”

You took a moment to consider your answer, recalling the busy days, the endless patient logs, the younger healers who looked to you for guidance. “It’s busy, yes,” you admitted, shoulders rising in a small shrug. “But well. The transition has gone smoother than I expected. Madja’s presence helped me settle in quickly. I’ve met most of the healers by now. They’re competent and kind.”

Azriel nodded, as if glad to hear it. “I’m relieved. I know Madja cared deeply about who would take her place. She made the right choice.”

Your heart tightened slightly at the praise, but you managed a small, genuine smile. “I hope so. I’m doing my best.”

A brief silence fell. You cleared your throat, deciding it was time to share your upcoming plans. “I should mention—I’ll be leaving tonight. I have to travel to Winghaven for a few days. So if you have any issues you will have to wait a few days or got to the clinic directly.”

At that, Azriel’s gaze sharpened. “Winghaven?” His brow furrowed. “Alone?”

The note of concern in his voice was unmistakable. Though he’d never demanded details of your comings and goings before, you could sense genuine worry now. Perhaps it was the memory of his own recent injuries, or simply the protective streak you sensed running through him and his circle.

“No, not alone,” you assured him, waving a hand lightly. “Cassian will be accompanying me. I’ll be there for just three days—no more. I’m to inspect the healers in the Illyrian camps, starting with Winghaven, and see what improvements can be made.”

Azriel’s shoulders eased a fraction at the mention of Cassian. “Good,” he said quietly. “Cassian knows the terrain and the people well. He’ll keep an eye out.”

You offered a small laugh, though it carried traces of earnest relief. “I’m counting on that. I’m prepared for skepticism, but at least I won’t be going in blind.”

Azriel regarded you steadily for a moment. The silence felt strangely comfortable, his eyes holding yours but revealing nothing that would add to your confusion. Finally, he nodded. “Then I wish you a safe journey. If anyone can bring them new wisdom, it’s you.”

You inclined your head in thanks, feeling the odd weight of unspoken things settle between you. You gathered your bag, stepping back and preparing to leave. “Rest well,” you said softly, voice gentling with sincere care. “I’ll see you when I return—if you haven’t taken flight before then.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I’ll be here, doing as you ordered, healer.”

You departed with that quiet exchange lingering in your mind, the simple comfort of knowing he’d be on the mend as you embarked on your own task. The golden thread that you carried alone remained silent in your chest, and you tried not to linger on it. For now, purpose called you to Winghaven, and he had recovery and patience ahead. It was enough.

Those three days in Illyria were challenging, to say the least. You’d arrived with Cassian after a lengthy journey through mountain passes and windblown valleys, the chill air biting at your cheeks. Your first night was spent in Rhysand’s mother’s old cottage—an unexpected sanctuary tucked into the rugged landscape. The walls hummed softly with old memories, but provided a safe place to rest before the real work began the next morning.

You settled in as dusk wrapped the world in quiet shadows. Cassian had started a small fire in the hearth, coaxing warmth into the modest room. You sat across from him, knees folded beneath you on a low cushion. He offered you a cup of something hot and spiced, the scent of cinnamon and cloves wafting between you. Outside, the wind sighed against the wooden shutters, a distant chorus of wolves or perhaps just the moan of the breeze in the pines.

The conversation drifted naturally toward personal matters. Perhaps it was the calm crackle of the fire or the sense of isolation out here that made it easier to speak of things long unspoken.

“So,” Cassian began, leaning forward on his elbows, his tone gentle but curious, “you’ve traveled a great deal. Dawn Court healers, crossing seas for rare herbs… I’ve heard bits and pieces, but never your own version.”

You fiddled with the rim of your cup, gaze flicking to the flames. “I suppose you’d like to know why I left the Night Court in the first place,” you said, voice low.

He dipped his chin. “If you don’t mind sharing. I know you trained under Madja for a time. But then… you disappeared for centuries.”

You exhaled, the memory tugging gently at your heart. ��I was a child during the first war,” you began, words careful. “I saw enough pain and loss in those early years to shape my entire understanding of healing. Madja took me under her wing afterward, teaching me for more than fifty years—an eternity to a child, but a mere blink to her. She was patient, strict when necessary, and always kind. But besides her…” You paused, searching for the right words. “I had no attachments. My parents, my kin—lost to war or scattered.”

Cassian nodded, respectful silence encouraging you onward.

“After those decades, I met a renowned healer from the Dawn Court—someone who saw a spark in me. He said I had a gift worth honing further than what the Night Court alone could offer. At first, I resisted. This was my home, wasn’t it?” You gave a hollow laugh. “But I felt… stuck, I suppose. Prythian was changing, and we were all rebuilding from ash and smoke. Yet I wanted to see more of the world, learn techniques from healers who knew magics and herbs I’d never even dreamed of.”

Cassian’s eyes gleamed with understanding. “So you left for experience.”

You nodded. “Exactly. The Night Court has always been a place of shadows and hidden strengths, and I love it for that. But I craved something more—new visions, new methods. Dawn Court healers taught me how to harness starlight in potions. In the Summer Court, I learned to treat venomous wounds from creatures that lurk in coral reefs. Across the seas, I found healing arts that rely on sound vibrations rather than herbs. Every place offered something unique, something that layered onto my understanding of healing until I could weave it all together.”

Cassian tilted his head, a small, admiring smile curving his mouth. “No wonder you could do what you did for Az,” he said softly. “You brought back a piece of every land to save him.”

You swallowed, touched by his words. “I hope so. Returning… it wasn’t part of my plan. But Madja asked, and I couldn’t refuse her. Besides, maybe I’ve gathered enough threads now to weave something truly worthwhile here at home. Maybe I won’t feel stuck this time.”

Cassian’s gaze drifted over the small room—old furniture, worn curtains, the echoes of a past High Lady who once dwelled here. “You left a home that felt too small,” he said, “and came back with a world’s worth of knowledge. You’re changing the Night Court already, I can tell.”

His sincerity warmed you almost as much as the fire. “It might be too soon to say it but I trully wish that I will be able to help”

Outside, the night howled softly, and beyond that, Winghaven waited—skeptical healers, reluctant warriors, a land that would test your resolve. But for tonight, here in this cottage, you had honesty and understanding. Cassian, it seemed, respected your journey, and in turn, you respected the loyalty and openness he offered.

You sipped your hot drink, and Cassian spoke of Illyria’s challenges: old traditions that died hard, camp leaders who would eye you suspiciously. You listened, grateful for the insight and glad for the company. Three days in Winghaven would be short, but intense. At least you would not face it ignorant or alone. And when you returned to Velaris, you’d do so with fresh perspective, your choices affirmed by the understanding gleaned here tonight.

The teacup in your hands had grown lukewarm. Outside, the night was dark and silent, and within the old cottage’s modest walls, you and Cassian had settled into a gentle rhythm of conversation. You had shared bits of your life, your wanderings, and the layers of healing knowledge you carried. He, in turn, had given you insight into the Illyrian camps, the challenges you’d face in Winghaven.

But your mind, restless even after the day’s trials, drifted to the quiet tension you’d sensed in the House of Wind—particularly around Elain and Azriel. You remembered Rhysand’s firm stance, Azriel’s simmering frustration, and Elain’s tearful regret. Maybe it was none of your business. In fact, you knew it probably wasn’t. Yet the curiosity gnawed at you.

Swallowing your reservations, you glanced at Cassian, who sat across from you, relaxed yet ever watchful. He had answered your questions willingly so far. Would he answer this one? You took a breath and ventured, “Cassian, can I ask you something more personal?”

He raised an eyebrow, curious but not wary. “You can ask,” he allowed, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “I can’t promise I’ll answer.”

You tried a faint smile. “Fair enough.” You hesitated only a moment before plunging ahead. “The Archeron sisters—they’re all closely linked to the High Lord and High Lady, yes? I’ve met Feyre, of course. But I’ve heard of Nesta, Elain… They seem important to this court. Could you… tell me a bit about them?”

Cassian’s expression changed subtly, as though he were sorting through what he could say. He took a sip from his mug, gaze drifting to the fire before coming back to meet your eyes. “Important might be an understatement,” he said quietly. “Feyre, as you know, is our High Lady. She and Rhys… well, they hold this court together in ways I never thought possible.”

You nodded, encouraging him without words to continue.

“There are three Archeron sisters in total,” Cassian went on, choosing each word with care. “Feyre, Nesta, and Elain. Each of them is very different. Feyre’s heart is this court’s beacon, always thinking of others, guiding us with compassion. Nesta… she’s complicated. Strong-willed, fierce, often prickly. She’s fought her own battles, overcome demons both inside and out. And Elain—” He paused, a subtle tension passing over his face. “Elain is gentle. Kind. She sees the good in everyone, wants to help.”

You swallowed, recalling Elain’s well-meaning but disastrous attempt to help Azriel. “I see. They must have deep bonds with you all.”

Cassian’s grin was wry, as if acknowledging a private joke. “Deep bonds indeed. They’re not just important to the court, they’re part of us—Rhys’s family, our family. We’d do anything for them.”

You considered his words. The Archeron sisters each had distinct roles and personalities. Feyre the High Lady, Nesta the warrior spirit (if what you gleaned from rumors was true), and Elain the gentle heart. “It sounds like they’ve all been through a lot,” you said softly.

“You have no idea,” Cassian replied, voice quieter. “War, transformations, personal struggles—those three have endured trials that would break many.”

Your gaze lowered, understanding dawning. Whatever had happened to them, it had forged unbreakable bonds not only with each other but also with these Illyrian warriors and the High Lord. You remembered Elain’s desperation at Azriel’s bedside, that fierce concern that led her astray. Perhaps it made sense now—she was a nurturer, wanting to help but lacking the knowledge. Her role within this tight-knit circle might explain why she was so devastated by her mistake.

You raised your eyes again, meeting Cassian’s gaze. “I see,” you said quietly. “I suppose they mean as much to each other as they mean to you all.”

He nodded, his stance relaxing again. “They’re family. And in this court, family isn’t just blood—it’s chosen. Earned. The Archerons earned their place in all our hearts, scars and all.”

As Cassian spoke, you saw a certain softness enter his gaze, especially when he spoke of Nesta. He lingered over her name, voice turning fond and respectful in a way that stood out. You took a careful sip of your cooling tea, weighing whether to pry further. Finally, you couldn’t help it: his tone when mentioning Nesta was unmistakable.

He caught your curious glance and let out a low, rueful laugh. “I suppose there’s no hiding it. Nesta is my mate,” he admitted, voice quiet but steady. The corners of his mouth curved into a small, proud smile. “It took us a while to find our footing, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Your thoughts spun for a moment, and you had to swallow a surprised breath. Feyre and Rhysand were mates, you’d learned that quickly enough. Now Nesta and Cassian. A fleeting, wry thought crossed your mind: three Archeron sisters, three Illyrian warriors, three mates? Was it so neatly arranged?

Cassian’s gaze sharpened slightly, as if reading your thoughts. He raised a hand, palm outward, as though to forestall your assumptions. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, tone turning wry. “Three brothers for three sisters. But it’s not that simple.”

You blinked, surprised that he’d guessed your train of thought. He set down his mug and sighed. “Elain already has a mate—Lucien.” He paused, letting the weight of that name settle in the small room. You hadn’t met Lucien yet, but you’d heard whispers of a fox-eyed male with keen wit and wandering loyalties. “That bond was forged during the war, under extraordinary circumstances. Yet Elain’s relationship with Azriel…” He trailed off, choosing his next words carefully.

Your brow furrowed, curiosity piqued. “I gather it’s complicated?”

Cassian gave a solemn nod. “Complicated doesn’t begin to cover it,” he said. “Elain’s mate is Lucien, but her feelings—her choices—don’t neatly follow the bond’s dictates. And Az… Az and Elain have a certain understanding, a closeness that’s never found a clear label. It’s delicate, messy. Not something any of us can force or resolve easily.”

Your heart twisted with new understanding. Elain’s tearful face by Azriel’s bedside, her desperate attempt to help him, made sense in a different light now. She was caught between a mate-bond she couldn’t ignore and feelings for another. The tension you’d sensed back in the House of Wind, the argument between Azriel and Rhysand, the High Lord’s firm stance—this was part of that tangled knot of loyalties and love.

You leaned back in your chair, fingers tightening around the mug. “That’s… a lot to untangle,” you said softly, marveling at the complexity of the lives you’d stepped into upon returning to the Night Court. “I suppose healing hearts is even harder than healing wounds.”

Cassian’s smile was gentler now, his eyes reflecting a sad sort of understanding. “You have no idea,” he murmured. “But we make do. We try our best, all of us.”

And so you sat there, in Rhysand’s mother’s old cottage, the fire crackling softly. The weight of destiny, bonds, and unspoken wishes pressed in around you. Three days in Winghaven would be challenging enough, but these people’s lives—filled with bonds that sometimes knotted rather than wove together—reminded you that not all healing could be done with herbs and salves. Sometimes, it was about patience, understanding, and the acceptance that not every wound could be closed neatly.

You said nothing more about it, not now. You’d carry this knowledge silently, weaving it into your understanding of the court and the people who had become part of your new world.

Over the following days in Winghaven, your schedule unfolded with steady precision. You’d arrived with a clear plan: assess the camp’s existing healer teams, identify gaps in their knowledge and supplies, and demonstrate a few techniques that might broaden their capabilities. With Cassian hovering protectively in the background, you were able to move through each task smoothly, guiding younger healers and checking on several patients who had been awaiting more advanced care.

On the first morning, you stood under a makeshift awning behind the camp’s central barracks, watching as a trio of Illyrian healers prepared poultices from dried herbs. They worked diligently, but with a certain mechanical repetition that hinted at a narrow scope of training. You introduced yourself, explaining that you were here at the High Lord’s request to advise and improve methods. One of them, a middle-aged healer named Serain, looked at you with polite skepticism.

“Been doing it this way for decades,” she said, packing a poultice into a cloth bundle. “We know how to close a wound and set a bone. What more do we need?”

You offered a measured smile, crouching beside them. “Closing wounds and setting bones are vital, yes. But have you tried using crushed frost-lily petals for inflammation, or incorporating a mild healing spell to halt bleeding before you stitch?”

They exchanged glances, intrigue sparking behind their guarded eyes. By mid-afternoon, they were asking quiet questions: what if they added a teaspoon of powdered ash-root to their salve for deeper burns? How did you stabilize a patient’s temperature overnight in the harsh winters? Slowly, their skepticism turned to curiosity, and by the end of the day, they were taking notes on your suggestions.

Between these lessons, you wandered the camp with Cassian shadowing you, stopping to speak with patients recuperating in cramped tents. One young Illyrian warrior, wing bandaged awkwardly against his side, stared at you warily when you entered.

“You’re from Velaris?” he asked, voice thick with bitterness. “What do you lot know about Illyrian injuries?”

You met his glare steadily. “A wing is a wing,” you replied, voice calm. “Tendons, membranes, blood vessels—it’s anatomy. If you allow me, I can show you a gentler binding technique that will let it breathe and heal faster.”

He snorted, but Cassian cleared his throat meaningfully, and the warrior grudgingly allowed it. By the time you finished adjusting his bandage, he flexed his wing gingerly and looked surprised by the improvement. “Huh,” he murmured, grudging respect coloring his tone. “Thank you.”

“Sometimes small changes make a big difference,” you said, standing and dusting off your hands. “No matter where I’m from.”

On the second day, you found yourself face-to-face with Delvon, the camp’s leader. You’d been warned about him by Cassian the night before, but mere words didn’t prepare you for the man’s presence. He strutted toward you as you emerged from a storage hut, his dark eyes narrowed and jaw set, wings mantling behind him as if to emphasize his status.

“So, you’re the ‘expert’ the High Lord sent,” Delvon said, voice dripping with sarcastic disdain. He looked you over as if assessing livestock, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Come to tell us how to heal our own warriors, have you?”

You inclined your head slightly, forcing a polite smile. “I’m here to offer knowledge that may help your people recover faster and better. If you wish to view it as an intrusion, that’s your choice.”

He snorted, stepping closer, invading your personal space. “We’ve managed for generations without Velaris meddling. Next you’ll be telling us how to fight our battles.”

You stood your ground, lifting your chin. “I’m not here to discuss your battle tactics, only to ensure your injured don’t suffer more than necessary.”

Delvon’s lip curled in a sneer. “All that fancy technique and gentle touches—waste of time if they can’t get back to the battlefield. But do as you will, we can ignore it if it’s useless.” With that, he stormed off, wings flaring as if to punctuate his dismissal.

Cassian appeared at your shoulder, having watched from a distance. He rolled his eyes. “That went about as well as expected,” he murmured dryly.

You sighed, tension easing at his words. “At least I know why everyone despises him,” you replied under your breath. “He’s impossible.”

“Delvon’s a relic,” Cassian said, voice low. “A time will come when leaders like him are replaced. Until then, just focus on those who listen.”

And so you did. Despite Delvon’s hostility, you spent your third and final day in Winghaven conducting a brief demonstration for a handful of healers who’d shown genuine interest. You guided them through mixing a new salve that combined Illyrian herbs with a Dawn Court technique of magically infusing warmth into the mixture. A few nodded in quiet approval, clearly seeing the salve’s potential.

When dusk fell on your last evening in Winghaven, you looked over the camp from the edge of a plateau, Cassian beside you. The wind tugged at your hair, carrying the scents of pine and distant snow.

“You made some progress,” Cassian observed.

You let a small, wry smile slip onto your lips. “Some, yes. Enough to plant seeds of change, I hope.”

He laid a comforting hand on your shoulder. “It’s all we can do. Now, let’s head back. Velaris awaits.”

With a final glance at the camp, you turned away, a pocketful of new experiences and a touch more understanding of the Illyrian people weighting your steps. Change might be slow, but you had played your part, and tomorrow, you would return home with new lessons learned.

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