#she was always there with you. from start to finish she was there…

[thepencilnerd]

When the Sun Hits

summary: What begins as a hospital-wide power outage leaves you trapped in a supply closet with your emotionally unavailable attending. But when the lights come back on, what lingers between you can’t be shut off so easily. genre/notes: forced proximity, slow burn, panic attack + trauma comfort, domestic fluff, my fave kind of intimacy, mutual pining, humor/crack, soft!Jack that can't flirt for shit, idiots in love but neither of them will admit it, you discover you have a praise kink in the most inconvenient of ways, jack abbot on his knees—literally warnings: references to trauma, depiction of a panic attack, mentions of grief and burnout, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~ 7.2k a/n: down bad for whipped Jack Abbot. p.s., thank you to everyone who reblogs/replies/takes the time to read my brain vomit, i appreciate you more than you know ㅠㅠ <3

You had just turned to ask Jack if he could grab another tray of 32 French chest tubes when the lights cut out.

One second, the supply closet was bathed in its usual flickering overhead light—and the next, everything dropped into darkness. Sharp. Sudden.

You froze, one hand on the bin. Jack swore behind you.

"Shit," he muttered, somewhere just inside the door. The backup emergency lights flickered red from the hallway, but barely touched the cramped space around you.

Then the intercom crackled overhead: Code Yellow. Facility-wide outage. All staff remain on current floors. Secure all medications and patients.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Automatic lock.

You turned just as Jack tried the handle. It didn’t budge.

He sighed. "Well. That’s one way to guarantee a five-minute break."

You looked at him sharply, but he was already scanning the room, looking for anything useful, keeping his voice light.

"Guess we’re stuck for a bit," he added.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The air felt too tight in your lungs, too warm all of a sudden.

Because now, the supply closet didn’t just feel small.

It felt like it was closing in.

It had been a normal day.

Or as normal as anything ever was around here—high-pressure shifts balanced by the strange rhythm you and Jack had settled into over the past few years. You worked together well—efficient, quick to anticipate each other's needs, almost telepathic during traumas. Partners in crime, someone had once joked. Probably Robby.

You’d learned how to read his silences—the kind that weren’t dismissive but deliberate, like he was giving you space without needing to say it aloud. He’d learned how to decode your muttered curses and side glances, how to step in behind you without crowding, how to let his shoulder bump yours during charting when words failed you both.

There was a kind of ease between you, a rhythm that didn’t require explanation. He’d hand you tools before you asked for them. You’d finish his sentences when he gave consults. Even in chaos, your partnership felt oddly... quiet. Intimate, in a way that crept in slowly, like warmth from a mug clasped between two hands after a long shift.

When you were paired on trauma, nurses and med students stopped asking who was lead. They knew you moved as one.

People had started to notice—how the two of you always seemed to stay overtime on the same days, how Jack would make dry, cutting jokes around others but soften them just enough when talking to you. Robby, in particular, teased him about it relentlessly.

"Jack, blink twice if this is you flirting," he’d once called across the ER after Jack mumbled, "Great work Dr. L/N," while watching you tie off a flawless stitch or nailing a differential.

Jack huffed. "It’s efficient. She's efficient."

"God, you’re hopeless," Robby laughed.

"She’s my best resident," Jack shot back, like it explained everything. Like it wasn’t a deflection.

You snorted into your coffee. "You say that like it’s not the fifth time this week."

Jack, without missing a beat: "That’s because it’s true. I value consistency."

He was awful at flirting—stiff and dry and chronically understated—but you’d grown to read the fondness buried in the flat delivery.

Like the morning he handed you your favorite protein bar without a word and then said, as you blinked at him, "Don’t faint. You’ll ruin my numbers."

Or the time he stood outside your call room after a brutal night shift, coffee in hand, and muttered, "You deserve a nap, but I guess you’ll have to settle for caffeine and my sparkling company."

He always made sure to loop you in on the interesting cases—"Figure it’s good for your development," he’d say. But then linger just a little too long after rounds, just to hear your thoughts.

And when you were quiet too long, when something in you withdrew, he never asked outright. Just gave you space—and a clipboard he’d pre-filled, or a shift swap you hadn’t requested, or the gentlest, "You good?" when you passed each other by the scrub sinks.

And now, here you were. Trapped in a closet with the man who rarely made jokes—and never blushed—except when you were around.

Now, you were stuck. Together.

The air felt thin but simultaneously stuffed to the brim.

Jack turned on his penlight, sweeping the beam across the room. "We’re fine," he said, calm and certain. "Generator will kick in soon."

You nodded. Tried to match his steadiness. Failed.

The closet was small. Smaller than it had ever felt before.

The walls crept in.

You didn’t notice the way your hands started to shake until he said your name.

Your vision tunneled. The room blurred at the edges, corners shrinking in like someone was folding the walls inward. The air felt heavy, every breath catching at the top of your throat before it could sink deep enough to matter. It felt like someone had filled your veins with liquid lead, your entire body suddenly weighing too much to hold upright. You staggered back a step, hand scrambling blindly for something to anchor you—shelf, handle, Jack. Your heart was pounding—loud, ragged, out of sync with time itself.

You tried to swallow. Couldn’t.

Sweat prickled your scalp. Your fingers tingled, every nerve on fire. Your knees gave out beneath you, and you crumbled to the floor—head buried between your knees, hands clasped behind your neck, trying to fold yourself into a singularity. Anything to disappear. Anything to slip away from this moment and the way it pressed in on all sides. There was no exit. No sound but your own spiraling thoughts and the slow, careful way Jack said your name again.

You blinked. Your eyes wouldn’t focus.

"Hey," Jack coaxed, his voice cutting through the static—low and steady, somehow still distant. His full attention was on you now, gaze locked in, unmoving. "Breathe."

You couldn’t.

It hit like a wave—sharp and silent, rising in your chest like pressure, no space, no air, no exit.

Jack’s hands found your shoulders. "I’ve got you. You’re okay. Stay with me, yeah?"

He crouched in front of you, grounding you with steady pressure and careful, deliberate calm. His hands—firm, callused, the kind that had seen years of split-second decisions and endless sutures—gripped your upper arms with a touch that was impossibly gentle. Like he could mold you back into yourself with his palms alone. His thumbs brushed lightly, not demanding, just present. Just there.

"Can you breathe with me?" he asked. "In for four. Okay? One, two, three…"

You tried. You really did.

Your chest still felt locked, ribs tight around panic like a vice, but his voice—low and even—threaded through the chaos.

"Out for four," he murmured, exhaling slowly, deliberately, like the sound alone could show your body how to follow. "Good. Just like that."

The faint light dimmed between you, casting his face in half-shadow. He was close now—close enough for you to catch the scent of antiseptic and something warm underneath, something that reminded you of winter nights and clean laundry.

"You’re here," he said again, softer this time. "You’re safe. Nothing’s coming. You’ve got space."

You reached out blindly, fingers finding the edge of his sleeve and clutching it like a lifeline.

"Good girl," Jack said softly, instinctively, like it slipped out without permission.

Your brain short-circuited. Of all things, in all moments—that was what hooked your attention. You let out a strangled little laugh, shaky and almost hysterical. "Fucking hell," you murmured, pressing your face into your arm. "Why is that what got me breathing again?"

Jack blinked, startled for a second—then let out the smallest huff of relief, like he was holding back a smirk. "Hey, if it works, I’ll say it again," he said, a thread of warmth sneaking into his voice.

You groaned, half-burying your face in your elbow. "Please don’t."

He was still crouched in front of you, his tone gentler now, teasing on purpose, like he was giving you something else to hold onto. "Admit it—you just wanted to hear me say something nice for once."

"Jack," you warned, half-laughing, half-crying.

"You’re doing great," he said quietly, real again. "You’re okay. I’ve got you."

And eventually—one shaky inhale at a time—your lungs obeyed.

When the power came back on, you stood side-by-side in the wash of fluorescent light, blinking against it.

You were still trembling faintly, your breaths shallow but more even now. Jack didn’t step away. Not right away.

"Feeling better?" he asked, voice low, steady.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Jack stood slowly, offering a hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. His grip lingered just a second longer than necessary.

Then he tried, awkwardly, to lighten the mood. "If calling you a good girl was really all it took, then I’ve been severely underutilizing my motivational toolkit."

You let out a startled laugh, breath catching mid-sound. "Jesus, don’t start."

He gave you a crooked smile—relieved, even if the corners of it were still tight with concern. "Whatever works, right? Next time I’ll try it with more enthusiasm."

"Next time?" Your eyes widened like saucers—absolutely flabbergasted, half-tempted to dissolve into laughter or hit him with the nearest supply tray.

He shrugged, another smug grin threatening to cross his lips. "Just saying. If you’re going to unravel in a closet, might as well do it with someone who knows where to find the defibrillator."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go of his hand until the light flickered again.

Only then did you both step apart.

You didn’t say much.

He didn’t ask you to.

You’d made it as far as the locker room before the adrenaline crash hit. You rinsed your face, changed into sweats, and shoved your scrubs into your bag with trembling fingers. Jack had walked you out of the department without a word, just a hand hovering near your lower back.

"Thanks," you said quietly, as you scanned out. "For earlier."

Jack shook his head, like it was nothing. "You don’t need to thank me."

"Still," you said. "Just… please don’t mention it to anyone?"

He looked over at you, mouth twitching at the corner. "Mention what?"

That made you laugh—brief, breathless. "Right."

You parted ways near the waiting room, sharing your usual post-shift goodbyes.

Or so you thought.

Jack had been about to leave when he saw you—doubling back through the double doors, slipping through the staff-only entrance and back into the ER.

His brow furrowed.

He hesitated, then turned to follow.

The corridor was quiet. Most of the day shift hadn’t arrived yet, and the call room hallway echoed faintly under his footsteps. He paused outside the on-call room and knocked once, gently. When there was no response, he eased the door open.

The room was cramped and windowless, just enough space for a narrow bunk bed and a scuffed metal chair in the corner. The mattress dipped in the middle, the kind of sag that never quite let you forget your own weight. The attached bathroom offered a stall that barely passed for a shower—low pressure, eternally lukewarm, and loud enough to make you question whether it was working or crying for help. It felt more like a last resort than a place to rest.

Your bag was on the bed. Half-unpacked. Toothbrush laid out. Socks tucked into the corner. Like you were staying in a hotel. Like you’d been staying here.

He was still standing there when the bathroom door cracked open and you stepped out—hair damp, towel knotted tightly around your torso.

You both froze.

Your eyes widened. Jack’s went comically wide before he spun around on instinct, shielding his eyes like it was second nature. "Shit—sorry, I didn’t—"

"What are you doing here?" you asked at the exact same time he blurted, "What are you doing here?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jack cleared his throat, ears bright red. "I… saw you come back in. Just wanted to check."

You were still standing in place like a deer in headlights, towel clutched in a death grip.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, eyes very pointedly still on the wall, as if the peeling paint had suddenly become the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

Fingers clenched around the edge of the towel, embarrassment prickled across your chest like static. "One second," you murmured, disappearing back into the bathroom before either of you could say anything more.

A minute later, the door creaked open and you stepped out again—now wrapped in an oversized hoodie and soft, baggy sweatpants that made you look small, almost swallowed whole by comfort. Jack’s brain did something deeply inconvenient at the sight.

You lingered in the doorway, sleeves tugged down over your hands, damp hair framing your face. "You can look now," you said, voice softer this time.

Jack didn’t move at first. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat in a way that sounded more like a stall tactic than anything physiological. Only after a beat did he finally turn, cautiously, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He caught himself staring. Made a mental note not to think about it later. Failed almost immediately.

A breath left your lungs, quieter than the room deserved. You crossed to the bunk and sat down on the edge, fingers fidgeting with the seam of your sweatpants. "You can sit, if you want," you said, barely above a whisper.

The mattress shifted a second later as Jack lowered himself beside you, careful, slow—like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get. His knee brushed yours. He didn’t move it. You didn't pull away. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, a long exhale dragging out of you like it had been caught behind your ribs all night. "I’ve been staying here," you said finally. "Not every night. Just... enough of them."

You looked over at him, then down at your hands. "It’s not about work. I just... I didn’t want to go back to an empty place and hear it echo. Didn’t want to hear myself think. Breathe. This place—at least there’s always noise. Even if it’s bad, it’s something."

That made him pause.

"I don’t want to be alone..." you added, quieter.

Jack was quiet for a moment, then nodded once, slow. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked, voice quieter than before. "You know I’m always here for you."

You looked down at your lap. "I didn’t want to be a burden."

Your fingers twitched, and before you realized it, you’d started picking at a loose thread along your cuff. Jack’s hands came up gently, catching yours before you could do more than graze your skin. He held them between his palms—warm, steady. Soothing.

His thumbs brushed over your knuckles. "You never have to earn being cared about," he said softly. "Not with me."

A few moments passed in silence. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Then, quietly, Jack reached into his pocket.

And handed you a key.

"I have a spare room," he said, voice low. "No expectations. No questions. Just… if you need it."

You stared at the key. Then at him.

He still didn’t look away, even as his voice gentled. "Don’t sleep here. Not if it hurts."

You took the key.

Not right away—but you did. Slipped it into the front pocket of your hoodie like it might vanish otherwise, like the metal might burn a hole through the fabric if you held it too long.

Jack didn’t press. Didn’t ask for promises.

He stood to leave and paused in the doorway.

"I’ll leave the light on," he said. "Just in case."

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, barely, and stared at the key in your lap long after the door shut behind him.

The call room was quiet after he left.

Too quiet.

You stared at the key until your fingers itched, then tucked it beneath your pillow like it needed protecting—from you, from the space, from the hollow echo of loneliness that filled the room once Jack was gone.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

And two days later—after another long shift, after you’d showered in the same miserable excuse for plumbing, after you’d sat cross-legged on the cot trying to convince yourself to just go home—you took the key out of your pocket.

You didn’t text him.

You just went.

The last time you'd been to his place was different. Less quiet. More raw.

It was the night after a shift that left the entire ER shell-shocked. You'd both ended up at Jack’s apartment with takeout containers and too much to drink. You’d lost a kid—ten years old, blunt trauma, thirty-eight minutes of resuscitation, and it still wasn’t enough. Jack had lost a veteran. OD. The kind of case that stuck to his ribs.

He’d handed you a beer without a word. The two of you had sat on opposite ends of his couch, silence stretching between you like a third presence until you broke it with a hoarse, "I keep hearing his mother scream."

Jack didn’t look away. "I keep thinking I should’ve caught it sooner."

The conversation didn’t get lighter. But it got easier.

At some point, you’d both ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, knees bent and shoulders almost brushing.

He told you about Iraq. About the first time he held pressure on someone’s chest and knew it wouldn’t matter.

You told him about your first code as an intern and the way it rewired something you’ve never quite gotten back.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to. Just passed you another drink and said, "I’m glad you were there today."

And for a while, it was enough—being there, even if neither of you knew how to say why.

You’d gotten absolutely wasted that night. The kind of drunk that swung from giggles to tears and back again. Somewhere between your third drink and fourth emotional whiplash, you started dancing around his living room barefoot, music crackling from his ancient Bluetooth speaker. Tears for Fears was playing—Everybody Wants to Rule the World—and you twirled with your arms raised like the only way to survive grief was to outpace it.

Jack watched from the floor, amused. Smiling to himself. Maybe a little enamored.

You beckoned him up with exaggerated jazz hands. "C’mon, dance with me."

He shook his head, raising both palms. "No one needs to see that."

You marched over, grabbed his hands, and tugged hard enough to get him upright. He stumbled, laughing under his breath, and let you spin him like a carousel horse. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even really dancing. But it was you—vivid and loud and alive—and something in him ached with the sight of it.

He didn’t say anything that night.

But the way he looked at you said enough.

You were still holding his hands from the dance, your breathing slowing, your laughter softening into something tender. The overhead light had gone dim, the playlist shifting into quieter melodies, but you didn’t let go. Your fingers stayed laced behind his neck, your forehead nearly resting against his chest.

Jack’s palms found your waist—not possessive, just steady. Grounding. His thumbs pressed gently against your sides, and for a moment, you swayed in place like the world wasn’t full of ghosts. You were sobering up, but not rushing. Not running.

You hadn’t meant for the dance to turn into this. But he didn’t step away.

Didn’t look away either.

Just held you, as if the act itself might keep you both tethered to something real.

You woke the next morning to the sound of soft clinking—metal against ceramic, a pan being set down gently on the stovetop.

The smell of coffee drifted in first. Then eggs. Something buttery. Your head pounded—dull, insistent—but your body felt warm under the blanket someone had pulled up around your shoulders during the night.

Padding quietly down the hall, you peeked into the kitchen.

Jack stood at the stove, hair ever so slightly tousled from sleep, wearing the same faded t-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants that made your chest ache with something you couldn’t name. He hadn’t seen you yet—was humming under his breath, absently stirring a pan with practiced rhythm.

You leaned against the doorframe.

"Are you seriously making breakfast?"

He turned, eyes crinkling. "You say that like it’s not a medically necessary intervention."

You snorted, stepping in. "You’re using a cast iron. I didn’t even know you owned one."

"Don’t tell Robby. He thinks I survive on rage and vending machine coffee."

You slid onto one of the stools, blinking blearily against the light. Jack set a mug in front of you without being asked—just the way you liked it. Just like always.

"You were a menace last night," he said lightly, pouring eggs into the pan.

You groaned, cupping your hands around the mug. "Oh god. Please don’t recap."

He grinned. "No promises. But the dance moves were impressive. You almost took me out during that one twirl."

"That’s because you wouldn’t dance with me!"

"I was trying to protect my knees."

You laughed, head tipping back slightly. Jack just watched you, eyes soft, like the sound of it made something settle inside him.

And for a moment, the silence that settled between you wasn’t hollow at all.

It was full.

If only tonight's circumstances were different. 

Jack opened the door in sweatpants and a black v-neck that looked older than his medical degree. He blinked when he saw you—then smiled, just a little. Not wide. Not obvious. But real. The kind of expression that said he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see you until you were there.

He said nothing.

After a slow smile: "Didn’t expect to see you again so soon," he said lightly, trying to break the ice. "Unless you’re here to critique my towel-folding technique."

Lifting your hand slowly, the key warm against your skin, you tilted your head with a deadpan expression. "Wouldn’t dream of it," you said, tone dry—almost too dry—but not quite hiding the twitch of a smile. Jack’s mouth quirked at the corner.

Then you held the key out fully, and he stepped aside without a word.

"Spare room’s on the left," he said. “Bathroom’s across from it. The towels are clean. I think."

You smiled, a little helplessly. "Thanks."

Jack’s voice was soft behind you. "That was a joke, by the way. The towel thing."

You turned slightly. "What?"

He shrugged, almost sheepish. "Trying to lighten the mood," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at you. "Make it... easier. Or, y'know. Less weird. That was the goal."

The admission caught you off guard. Jack Abbot had a tendency to ramble when he was nervous, and this was definitely that.

You didn’t say anything right away, but your smile—this time—was a little steadier. A little sweeter.

"Careful, Jack," you murmured, feigning seriousness. "If you keep being charming, I might start expecting it."

He looked like he wanted to say something else. His mouth opened, then closed again as he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating whether to double down or play it cool.

"Guess I’ll go work on my stand-up material," he mumbled, half under his breath.

You bit back a laugh.

He ran a hand through his hair again—classic stall tactic—then finally nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

The room he offered you was small, clearly unused, but tidy in a way that suggested recent care. A folded towel sat at the foot of the bed. A new toothbrush—still in its packaging—rested on the nightstand. The faint scent of cedar lingered in the air, mixing with the soft clean trace of his detergent. The air had that faint freshness of a recently opened window, and the corners were free of dust. Someone had aired it out. Someone had taken the time to make space—room that hadn’t existed before, cleared just enough to let another person in.

You set your bag down and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over the blanket. Everything felt soft. Considered. You stared at the corner of the room like it might give you answers.

It didn’t.

But it didn’t feel like a hospital either.

You took your time in the shower, letting the heat soak into your skin until the mirror fogged over and your thoughts slowed just enough to feel manageable. Jack's body wash smelled different on you—deeper, warmer somehow—and the scent clung faintly to your skin as you pulled on the softest clothes you had packed: shorts and an oversized shirt you barely remembered grabbing.

When you stepped out of the guest room, damp hair still clinging to your neck, the smell of garlic and something gently sizzling greeted you first. Jack was in the kitchen, stirring a pot with practiced ease, the kind of domestic ease that tugged at something inside you.

He turned when he heard your footsteps—and froze for a beat too long.

His eyes swept over you and caught on your hair, your shirt, the visible curve of your collarbone, the quietness about you that hadn't been there earlier. He blinked, clearly trying to recover, and failed miserably.

"Hey," you said gently, brushing some damp strands behind your ear. "Need help with anything?"

Jack cleared his throat—once, then again—and turned back to the stove, ears visibly reddening. "I think I’m good," he said. "Unless you want to make sure I don’t burn the rice."

You crossed the room and leaned against the counter next to him, still slightly flushed yourself. The scent of his soap clung to your sleeves, and Jack caught a trace of it on the air. He said nothing—but stirred a little slower. A little more carefully.

"Your apartment’s just as nice as I remembered," you said, soft and genuine, fingers brushing the edge of the countertop.

Jack glanced over at you, a flicker of something warm behind his eyes. "You mean the sterile surfaces and suspiciously outdated spice rack?"

You gave him a knowing smile. "I mean the parts that feel like you."

That stopped him for a second. His stirring slowed to a halt. He looked back down at the pot, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

"Careful," he murmured, voice low. "If you keep saying things like that, I might start thinking you actually like me."

You nudged his elbow gently. "I might. Don’t let it go to your head."

He smiled to himself, the kind of expression that didn't need to be seen to be felt. And in the soft space between those words, something settled. Easier. Closer.

Dinner was simple—pan-seared salmon, rice, roasted vegetables. Nothing fancy, but everything assembled with care. Jack Abbot, it turned out, could cook.

You said so after the first bite—and let out a soft, involuntary moan. Jack froze mid-chew, raised a brow, and gave you a look.

"Wow," he said dryly, lips twitching. "Should I be offended or flattered?"

You flushed, laughing as you covered your mouth with your napkin. "Don't tell me you're jealous of a piece of salmon?"

He grinned. "I’m a man of many talents," he said dryly, passing you the pepper mill. "Just don’t ask me to bake."

You smiled over your glass of water, a little more relaxed now. "No offense, but I didn’t exactly have ‘culinary savant’ on my Jack Abbot bingo card."

He shot you a look. "What was on the card?"

You hummed, pretending to think. "Chronic insomniac. Secret softie. Closet hoarder of protein bars. Dad joke connoisseur."

Jack snorted, setting down his fork. "You’re lucky the salmon’s good or I’d be deeply offended."

You grinned. "So you admit it."

And he did—not in words, but in the way his gaze lingered a moment too long across the table. In the way he refilled your glass as soon as it dipped below halfway. In the quiet, sheepish curve of his smile when you caught him looking. In the way his laugh lost its usual edge and softened, like maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this.

After dinner, you moved to the sink before Jack could protest. He tried, weakly, something about guests and hospitality, but you waved him off and started rinsing plates.

Jack came up behind you, handing over dishes one by one as you scrubbed and loaded them into the dishwasher to dry. His presence was warm at your back, the occasional graze of his hand or arm sending tiny shivers up your spine. The silence between you was companionable, laced with unspoken things neither of you quite knew how to name.

"You’re seriously not gonna let me help?" he asked, bumping your hip with his.

"This is letting you help," you shot back. "You’re the designated passer."

"Such a glamorous title," he murmured, his voice low near your ear. "Do I get a badge?"

You glanced at him over your shoulder, a smile tugging at your lips. "Only if you survive the suds.

Jack leaned in just as you turned back to the sink, and for a moment, your arms brushed, your shoulders aligned. His gaze lingered on you again—your profile, your damp hair starting to curl at the edges, the stretch of your shirt down your back.

You glanced back at him, close enough now to kiss, breath caught halfway between surprise and anticipation when—

Jack dipped his finger into the soap bubbles and tapped the tip of your nose.

You blinked, stunned. "Did you just—"

Jack held your wide-eyed gaze a beat longer, then said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Nice look, Bubbles."

And the dam broke. You laughed, bright and unguarded, flicking water in his direction.

He dodged each droplet as best he could with a grin, triumphant. "I stand by my methods."

You scooped a pile of bubbles into your hand with deliberate menace.

Jack immediately backed away, holding both palms up like he was under arrest. "No. No no no—"

You grinned, nodding slowly with mock gravity. The chase ensued. He darted around the counter, nearly tripping on the rug as you chased after him, suds in hand and laughter trailing like a siren’s call. He was fast—but you were relentless.

"Truce!" he yelped, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands held high in mock surrender.

You smirked, one brow raised. "Hmm. I don’t know… this feels like a trap."

Jack looked up at you with wide, pleading eyes. "Mercy. Have mercy. I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t soap me."

You hummed, pretending to consider it. "Anything?"

"Within reason. And dignity. Maybe." He started lowering his hands.

You tilted your head, letting the moment draw out. Jack watched you carefully, breath held, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I mean…" he started. "If praise is your thing, you’re doing a fantastic job intimidating me right now."

Your mouth parted, stunned. "Did you just—"

Jack smirked, sensing an opening. "You excel at it. Really. Top tier menace."

You laughed, nearly doubling over. "Oh my god. You’re the worst." The bubbles had dissipated by now, leaving you with only damp hands. 

"And yet, here you are," he said, still kneeling, still grinning.

You shook your head, stray droplets slipping from your hand, your laughter easing into something softer. "Get up, you idiot."

But Jack didn’t—not right away. Still on his knees, he inched closer, crawling forward with slow, deliberate grace. His hands found your thighs, resting there gently, like a prayer. Thumbs stroked the place where skin met fabric, featherlight and reverent.

"I mean it," he said, voice quieter now, almost solemn. "You terrify me."

Your breath caught.

"In the best way," he added, gaze lifting. "You walk into a trauma bay like you own it. You fight like hell for your patients. You get under my skin without even trying."

His hands slid up slowly, still gentle, still hesitant, like waiting for permission. "Sometimes I think the only thing I believe in anymore is you."

Your heart thudded. Your hands, still damp, twitched against your sides.

"You deserve to be worshipped," he murmured, and that was when your knees nearly buckled.

The joke was long forgotten. The laughter faded. All that was left was the way Jack looked at you now—like he wasn’t afraid of the quiet anymore.

His hands had made a slow, reverent climb to your bare skin, thumbs sweeping small, anchoring circles into your skin. You felt the heat of him everywhere, your body taut with anticipation, nerves stretched thin. He didn’t rush. Just looked up at you, drinking in every unsteady breath, every flicker of hesitation in your gaze.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, voice low. If you weren't so dazed, you could've sworn you heard a shadow of amusement. "You want to stop?"

You shook your head—barely—and he nodded like he understood something sacred.

"I want you to feel good," he said softly, leaning in to press the lightest kiss to your thigh, just below the hem of your shirt. "I want to take my time with you. If you’ll let me?"

The question lodged in your chest like a plea. You couldn’t speak, only nodded, and his hands flexed slightly in response. 

Jack stood first, rising fluidly, eyes never leaving yours. As he straightened, your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands at the base of his neck. That was all it took—the smallest pull, the softest touch—and the space between you collapsed.

Not in chaos, not in desperation, but in something careful. Like reverence wrapped in desire. Like he’d been waiting for this, quietly, for longer than he dared admit.

And when his lips met yours, it was a live wire.

Deep. Soft. Unapologetically tender.

But it didn’t stay chaste. Jack’s hands found your hips, drawing you closer, fitting your bodies together like a secret only the two of you knew how to keep. His tongue brushed yours in a slow, exploratory sweep, and you gasped against his mouth, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt.

The kiss turned hungry, molten—slow-burning restraint giving way to a need you both had held too tightly for too long. Jack’s hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing the curve of your spine, and you arched into him, a quiet gasp slipping free.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured between kisses, voice thick, reverent.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, "Don’t you dare."

That was all he needed.

And when he kissed you again, it was like promise and prayer and everything you hadn’t let yourself want until now.

His hands moved with aching care—one sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck, the other splaying wide at your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you was slow and encompassing, more smolder than spark, until it wasn’t—until it ignited all at once.

Jack walked you backward until your hips bumped the counter, and he pressed into the space you gave him, forehead resting against yours. "You undo me," he whispered, breath trembling against your lips. "Every single time."

You were already breathless, clinging to his shirt, heart pounding in your throat.

His mouth found yours again, deeper this time, hands exploring—confident now, reverent, like he was learning every part of you for the first time and never wanted to forget. You moaned softly into the kiss, and Jack cursed under his breath, low and ragged, like the sound had torn through his composure.

And then there was no more space. No more distance. Just heat, and hunger, and the slow unraveling of restraint as Jack lifted you gently onto the counter, your knees parting for him, his name spilling from your lips like a secret.

You kissed like the world was ending. Like this was your only chance to get it right. He needed to feel you pressed against him to believe it wasn’t just a dream.

The kiss deepened, urgent and breathless, until Jack was devouring every sound you made, like he could live off the way you whimpered into his mouth. He groaned low in his throat when your nails scraped lightly down his back, your body arching into his hands like instinct.

He touched you like a man memorizing, devout and thorough—hands mapping the curve of your waist, mouth dragging heat across your throat. He tasted sweat and shampoo and you, and that alone nearly undid him. You felt the tension coil in his spine, the restraint he was holding like a dam, every movement deliberate.

"God," he rasped, lips at your ear, "you have no idea what you do to me."

And when you gasped again, hips shifting, he exhaled a shaky breath like he was trying not to fall apart just from the sound.

"You smell like my soap," he murmured with a rough chuckle, nosing along your jaw. "But you still taste like you."

You whimpered, and he kissed you again—harder now, letting the hunger break through, swallowing your reaction like a man starved.

He praised you in murmured fragments, over and over, voice low and wrecked.

Beautiful.

Brave.

So fucking good.

Mine.

Each word making your skin feel like it was glowing beneath his hands.

And when he finally took you to bed, it wasn’t rushed or careless—it was everything he hadn’t said before now, every ounce of feeling poured into his mouth on your skin, every whispered breath of worship like he was praying into the hollow of your throat.

Jack kissed you like he needed to memorize the taste of every sound you made, like your skin was the answer to every question he’d never asked out loud. His hands roamed slowly, confidently, with that same quiet focus he wore in trauma bays—except now it was all for you. Every inch of you. His mouth lingered at your collarbone, your ribs, the soft curve of your stomach—pressing his devotion into the places you tried to hide.

You felt undone by how gently he worshipped you, how much he wanted—not just your body, but your breath, your closeness, your everything. He murmured praise against your skin like it was sacred, like you were something holy in his arms.

And when he finally moved over you, hands braced on either side of your head, eyes searching yours like he was asking permission one more time—you nodded.

He exhaled like it hurt to hold back. Then gave you everything.

Every kiss was a promise, every touch a confession. He moved with aching tenderness, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath him, like this wasn’t just sex but something divine. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, breath catching in your throat with every thrust. It wasn’t fast or frantic—it was slow, overwhelming, unbearably close.

He whispered your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to yours, and when you finally came apart beneath him, he followed soon after—undone by the way you sang his name like it was the only thing tethering you to this world.

Later, tangled in blankets and the afterglow, Jack pulled you closer without a word. One hand splayed wide against your back, the other curled around your fingers like he wasn’t ready to let you go—not now, maybe not ever. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the warmth of him, the scent of skin and comfort and safety.

"I’m gonna need you to stop making that noise when you taste food," he murmured eventually, voice sleep-thick and amused.

You huffed a laugh into his shoulder. "Or what?"

"I’ll marry you on the spot. No warning. Just a salmon fillet and a ring pop."

Your laughter shook the bed.

Jack smirked, the ghost of a tease already forming. "If I’d known praise got you going, I’d have started ages ago."

You swatted at his chest, heat blooming across your cheeks. "Don’t you dare weaponize this."

He grinned into your hair, voice low and wrecked and entirely too fond. "Too late. I’m gonna ruin you with kindness."

You huffed, hiding your face in his shoulder.

Jack chuckled and pulled you closer, murmuring, "You make blushing look really good, by the way."

You were never going to live this down. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to.

Because Jack Abbot being a secret softie had officially made its triumphant return to your bingo card—and if you were being honest, it had probably been the center square since day one.

"You know," you murmured against his chest, lips curving into a grin, "for someone who acts so stoic at work, you sure have a lot of secrets."

Jack stirred slightly, arm tightening around your waist. "Yeah? Like what?"

You propped yourself up on one elbow, counting off on your fingers. "Total softie. Great cook. An absolute sex god."

Jack groaned into your shoulder, bashful. "Jesus."

"I'm just saying," you teased. "If there’s a hidden talent for needlepoint or poetry, now would be the time to confess."

He lifted his head, eyes heavy with sleep and amusement. "I used to write really bad song lyrics in middle school. That count?"

You laughed, light and easy, your fingers tracing idle circles on his chest. "God, I bet they were terrible."

Jack smirked. "You’ll never know."

"I’ll find them," you said with mock determination. "I’ll unearth them. Just wait."

He kissed your forehead, chuckling softly. "I’m terrified."

And he was—just not of you. Only of how much he wanted this to last.

Jack smiled into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You're incredible, you know that?"

You shook your head, bashful, eyes cast toward the sheets—but Jack didn’t let it slide. His hand curled tighter around yours, his voice still soft but firm. "Hey. I meant that. You are."

When you didn’t answer right away, he leaned in a little closer, his thumb brushing along your wrist. "I need you to hear it. And believe it. You’re—extraordinary."

The earnestness in his voice left you no room to hide. Slowly, your eyes lifted to meet his.

Jack held your gaze like a promise. "Say okay."

"Okay," you whispered, cheeks burning.

He smiled again, slower this time, and kissed your temple once more. "Good girl."

You didn’t answer—just smiled you were on cloud nine and squeezed his hand a little tighter.

Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, you drifted in and out of sleep wrapped in warm limbs and steadier breath, heart finally quiet for the first time in days. Jack’s hand never left yours, his thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles over your knuckles like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

Your limbs were tangled with his beneath the softened hush of early morning, the sheets kicked messily down to the foot of the bed. Skin to skin, steady breathing, fingers still loosely clasped where they had found each other in the dark. He shifted just enough to press a kiss to your shoulder, murmured something you didn’t quite catch—but it didn’t matter. The weight of the night had passed. What remained was warmth. Stillness. Something whole.

You fell asleep like that, curled into each other without pretense. Closer than you'd ever planned, safer than you thought possible. And for the first time in what felt like ages, the quiet wasn’t heavy.

It was home.

[hughes-your-daddy]

Hey!! You’re so great at writing angst omg!! This could be for any player, but could you do something where maybe this time y/n gets hurt? She’s hurt pretty bad and he’s really worried about her, but instead she just feels horrible that she wrecked his car. He’s just shocked that she would think that he cares more about his car being totaled than her being in the hospital. And maybe a sprinkle of him taking care of her at home when she gets released from the hospital☺️🍦🍒

i love this idea thank youuu

i’m sorry..

pairing: quinn hughes x fem reader

warnings: hospitals, car crash, swearing

summary: driving to quinn’s game took an unexpected turn

“alright babe, peteys here so i’m heading off now,” quinn calls out, walking into your shared bedroom where you’re sat doing your hair and makeup for the game tonight.

he rounds the corner stopping at the door and leaning against it for a moment. “you look so pretty baby.” he smiles, catching your eyes through your mirror.

“thank you,” you blush, spinning around on your stool to see him properly as he pushes off the doorframe coming over.

“you’re wearing that suit i got you.” you smile, seeing his new suit being worn, as he walks over, taking your face in his hands leaning down to brush his lips against yours.

“gotta look good for you tonight baby,” he smiles against your lips before pressing a soft kiss to yours.

“i love you ok, ill see you later, drive safe.” he smiles before pressing one last kiss to your lips, smiling as he pulls away.

“i love you too.” you call out as he leaves the apartment, leaving you to finish getting ready. it was the annual hughesbowl tonight so you decide to go a little more with your routine than normal. you decide on some loose curls in your hair with your normal makeup routine before moving to pull on a pair of slightly baggy jeans, and quinn’s jersey, layering a hoodie underneath to stay warm.

you walk though to living room quickly throwing a few necessities into your bag before sliding on your leather jacket and grabbing quinn’s keys.

your car had been in the shop after the engine just wouldn’t turn over so quinn’s been getting a ride off petey most days refusing to let you get an uber without him as in his words ‘you could be kidnapped baby.’

so that’s how you end up in your apartments garage sitting in the drivers seat of quinn’s car, pulling the seat forward and adjusting yourself before pulling out of the garage heading to the arena.

the arena is t too far away from your apartment, that the whole reason you chose there in the first place when buying it, but the traffic makes the ride so much longer.

sitting in traffic you quickly send him a good luck text like you always do, before the car infront starts moving.

thankfully you start to see the arena come into view and just as the about to turn into the small parking lot for family and friends of the players.

that’s when it happens.

a car pulling out infront of you, speeding.

causing you to crash into them with the hood of the car, sending the buckle spinning.

it all goes dark.

quinn’s walking in, straight to the changing room quickly greeting a few people before starting to get geared up.

he quickly discards the suit, sliding on his base layers before just chucking on a hoodie and some shorts as he’s going to quickly do some media and press before the game.

he’s about to give you a call when luke comes barrelling through the front door, jack not far behind.

the teammates looking between the two brothers then to quinn in shock, thinking what they’re doing in the opposing teams changing room.

he says a quick apology to the few people in there before going over, brows furrowed.

“guys, what the hell are you doing?” he asks, voice sharper than usual, before it immediately softens at their speechless expressions.

“guys, seriously, what’s wrong?” he asks pulling them into the hallway, jack taking a breath.

“it’s-“ jack starts before being cut off by his team manager.

“boy, games been delayed for a while. a crash happened just outside, it’s blocking entryways.” they say before heading into the changing room to tell the others.

“ok jack, finish your sentence man.” quinn prods but by the look on jacks now pale face he knows something’s wrong.

“jack, talk to em yeh?” he says trying to comfort his younger brother.

“the crash, it’s y/n.” jack stutters and that’s all it takes before quinn’s sprinting off out the exit, jack and luke on his tail until he comes to a screeching halt.

he can see it.

the hood of the car crumpled, smashed glass everywhere and blood on the airbags. police manage to barricade off the scene, trying to keep the crowds to a minimum. he runs over to the police, surveying the damage.

“i’m sorry sir, but you can’t be here right now.” the cop says, ushering him back before quinn cuts him off.

“n-no that’s my car, my fiancé was driving.” he says, stumbling over his words as the cops face falls.

“oh im sorry, ill grab one of the emt’s.” he says quickly before heading off towards the ambulance.

“did yous see anything?” quinn asks turning to see his brothers stood behind, faces blank.

luke tries to find some words before jack stops him.

“no, we just saw the car when luke was driving us into the parking lot, apparently it had been gridlocked for ike an hour.” jack says, shaking his head before the cop comes back over followed by an emt.

“family of y/n y/l/n?” she asks, all three nodding, “she’s been taken to vancouver general hospital. she’s not too badly injured, a few scrapes, bruises, a small concussion, but she did dislocate her knee due to the impact but that’s the worst of her injuries.” the emt says, sending a small smile quinn’s way.

“but she’s ok?” quinn asks, the emt nodding. he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding before realising, they were stood in the middle of the street with a game starting in an hour, fans starting to notice them.

“quinn we’ve gotta move, they’re noticing us,” luke mumbles, hand on his shoulder.

“yeh, yeh, follow me there’s a door round the side.” quinn mumbles still stuck in his own thoughts, before hurrying back into the building heading to the dressing room before remembering about jack and luke.

“um,” he says, turning around quickly, jack and luke nearly running into him, “message mom and dad, just say i won’t be playing and that i’ll see them tomorrow or something.” he rushes out before turning to leave.

“quinn,” jack shouts, quinn turning brows raised, “we’re not playing dude, not when y/n injured like that yeh? get some clothes on, we’ll drive you there.” jack says before pulling him into a tight hug.

“she’ll be fine yeh? take a breather.” he mumbles, quinn visibly relaxing a bit.

“i’ll be quick.” he mumbles before turning to the dressing room.

his teammates side eye him seeing his frantic movements, rushing to pull on some trainers since he’s already got some shorts and a hoodie on before turning to petey.

“woah hughes, what’s happening?” he asks, quinn looking between him and tocchet.

“y/n was in a crash,” he says, expressions of shock being shared around the room, “i can’t play the game tonight. i’ve gotta head straight to the hospital.” he rushes, throwing some stuff into his bag, petey resting a hand on his shoulder.

“don’t worry about us ok? go see y/n,” he says sending quinn a small smile, “just send a message with how she is ok?” he says, quinn nodding before rushing out to the parking lot where jack and luke are waiting the car already running.

he quickly hops in the passengers seat, jack driving with luke in the back before he starts driving over to the hospital.

the ride felt like hours when jack was nearly breaking speed limits getting there in record speed.

jack pulls up to the front doors, quinn quickly jumping out while jack parks up, luke following his eldest brother.

“sorry, excuse me,” quinn says, slightly out of breath, waving down a nurse at reception, “my fiancé was brought here ‘y/n y/l/n,’ she was in a car accident.” quinn rushes out, panic still flooding his body.

“ok, she was brought in about an hour ago, but is currently in surgery so yous can take a seat in the waiting area,” the nurse smiles, but quinn’s mind is caught on those few words ‘in surgery.’

“sorry, what do you mean in surgery?” he asks, the nurse frowning.

“we’re you not contacted?” she asks, quinn shaking his head not recalling a phone call, “she was taken in for a routine knee surgery due to her dislocation.” the nurse says, quinn nodding absentmindedly, “she should be out in around 2-3 hours.” the nurse smiles before moving to assist someone else.

“quinn, come sit down yeh?” luke mumbles, busing him over to a few free seats where they sit down, quinn’s bodies collapsing against the plastic.

they find themselves sat in silence, jack eventually joining them asking for any updates but luke just waves him off, quickly explaining the situation. ellen and jim eventually show up, leaving the arena but due to the crash, traffic there became crazy.

it took them a few hours but when they did show up, ellen was straight to taking quinn in her arms, a few silent tears falling from her eldests eyes.

“i told her to take my car mom, if she wasn’t driving then it wouldn’t have happened to her. i caused this,” he whispers in disbelief, ellen quickly pulling away, a stern look on her face.

“quintin hughes, don’t you dare blame this on yourself,” she says stern, wiping a few stray tears off his face, “it was the other driver, a drunk, none of this was yours or y/n’s fault ok?” she says, quinn giving her a small nod before being brought back to reality by a nurse calling your name.

“y/n y/l/n?” she says, the group rushing over, quinn at the front of them, “she’s out of surgery now, room 315.” she says before they’re off navigating their way through the hospital making their way to her room.

ellen pushes him gently towards the door, his family giving him a moment in privacy to see her before them.

he gently opens the door a small creak echoing through the small room causing you to look over in surprise. that’s when you see it, that familiar mop of brown, and brown eyes meeting yours.

“quinn,” you breathe out before he’s stepping across the room quickly immediately taking you into his arms as you feel yourself break down, as he holds you tight.

“shh baby,” he soothes as you hear his own voice waver slightly as he perches himself on your bed, not loosening his grip.

“i-im so sorry,” you cry, him pulling away in confusion.

“sorry for what baby? that crash wasn’t your fault, it was a drunk guy.” quinn says gently, as you catch his eyes, seeing them red like he’d been crying.

“but your car is ruined.” you mumble, as he takes your face in his hands, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead.

“baby, i need you to know i do not care about my car right now, i just care that the ok yeh?” he asks as you can’t bring yourself to respond, “seriously baby, you’re the most important thing in my life, way more important than a car, i can buy a new one baby, i can’t get abouther one of you though.” he says, voice wobbling slightly towards the end.

“i was so scared.” you whisper, looking down before he’s moving to sit next to you on the bed, kicking his legs up, while his arms coming around your shoulders, you laying into his chest.

“your ok now, all safe with me.” he whispers back as you feel yourself start to finally relax slightly knowing he’s here with you now.

you get released pretty quickly from the hospital, ellen and jim deciding to stay a few more days to make sure you’d be settled back at home. the drive back was ok, quinn making sure he was very gentle with his driving, avoiding any bumps or harsh breaking due to your knee still being in pain from surgery even with it wrapped in a. thick layer of gauze and a knee brace.

he helps you out the car, crutches in hand as he gives you both of them but never leaves your side the whole time from the parking lot to the elevator up to your apartment. he’s by your side, hand on your lower back there for you. if you needed some extra support.

he quickly unlocks your apartment, moving away from you to quickly set up some blankets and pillows on the couch so you can set up there for the day, ellen and jim following behind you.

“we’re gonna head out and grab some groceries for you guys ok? i’ll make sure yous are all stocked up on snacks and meals.” she smiles before giving ew h of yous a hug, before heading out with him, leaving just you and quinn in the apartment.

“here baby, lemme help you.” he says, helping you back onto the couch, laying your favourite fluffy blanket over you.

“i’m gonna grab you some new clothes to change into but we’ll worry about hot showering tomorrow ok?” he asks and you send him a soft smile feeling the exhaustion overcome you.

he doesn’t take long before he’s back with a pair of his sweatpants and his hoodie in hand, coming over to the couch peeling back the blanket.

he helps you get undressed without leaving your spot, easily sliding the clothes onto your body, being careful of every time you wince at the ache in your body or pain in your knee.

“ok, all done baby,” he smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, “you need anything?” he asks, gently rubbing up and down your hip.

“cuddles?” you ask quietly, the grin widening on quinn’s face as he happily complies, sliding behind you on the couch so you can lag between his legs, back against his chest.

“i love you y/n,” quinn whispers pressing a soft kiss beneath your ear, as you smile, taking his hand in yours, resting it in your lap.

“i love you too quinny.”

[y3sterdaysproblem]

they said speak now - m.s.

summary: you and matt had been best friends since the moment you were born, rarely doing anything without him by your side. your families have always expected the two of you to end up together, but when matt gets a girlfriend that hates you and desperately attempts to destroy your relationship, you’re forced to confront the truth about your feelings for him. will your bond survive the test, or will the pressure of love, jealousy, and change push you apart?

wc: 1.5k

series masterlist

Part six

Everything felt normal for once. No girlfriend, no distractions, not even any brothers around, just you and Matt spending the day together like you used to. It felt good.

“Okay, maybe I was a little too aggressive on that kid, but he called Chris a bitch and that was fucked up! We were kids!” Matt laughs loudly from across the table, sending you into another fit of giggles. You both were at the new cafe in the city you asked to go to, sitting outside in the breezy summer air, each eating a little pastry as you sipped on your drinks.

“I call Chris a bitch all the time,” you remind him, raising your eyebrows slightly as you peer over your sunglasses at him. Matt rolls his own eyes, a sassy expression he’s mastered over the years. “Yeah, but that doesn’t matter. You’re like our sister, you could call us anything.” He tells you, grabbing his drink and taking a long sip of it.

Sister? Maybe to Nick and Chris but for Matt it felt different than a sister. You try to hide the way you want to grimace at his words, not only due to it hurting your feelings but also just the fact that the thought of him thinking of you as a sister felt a little gross when that’s definitely not what you were thinking when you were around him.

“I’m practically just an extension of all of you,” you joke, trying to stay on whatever weird path Matt was on. You both finish up with your pastries and decide to walk around for a little bit with your drinks, popping into a shop here and there, before deciding to plant yourself on a bench on a pier, legs swinging as you look out onto the water.

“So,” you start slowly, turning your head to look at Matt. He looks at you as well, nose scrunched up slightly as he squints to avoid too much sun in his eyes. “You really like Amber, huh?” Matt licks his lips, not fully expecting you to ask that but not completely caught off guard either.

“I do,” he nods, smiling slightly. “She’s really nice, she’s a good listener and likes talking to me, too, she remembers weird little things I tell her about myself or my family…” he rambles for a few more moments before sucking in a deep breath to stop himself. “I really wish you guys could see eye to eye. Every interaction you two have had has been negative and I’m not saying you have to be her best friend but I really do want her around and I just… I guess I’m just asking you to try.”

The way he’s speaking you can tell he’s being genuine. He has no idea you’re painfully in love with him, has no idea that it’s obvious to everybody except for him, including Amber. She could read you like a fucking book, see the way you look at Matt and know all of your secrets. You sigh and shift your whole body on the bench to face him, staring at his scrunched up expression.

“I’ll try,” you tell him, shooting him a tight lipped smile. “I’ll ask her if we can start over, take her out to coffee and we can try to have some sort of relationship. I’ll tell her that we’re nothing but friends and that you don’t have feelings for me.” Matt’s expression lights up at this, eyes wide despite the sun glaring in them. “Really?” He asks excitedly. You nod, reaching for your phone in your pocket. You unlock it and open your camera, holding it in front of Matt’s face and snapping a photo, laughing softly.

“Sun in your eyes,” you tell him goofily, showing him the picture. He laughs, too before bringing his hand up to his face, casting a shadow over his eyes. “I’m gonna go blind from forgetting sunglasses,” he jokes, but you laugh and nod along because that reality didn’t seem so far fetched.

The rest of the day goes by the same way, quality time spent with your best friend completely interrupted due to his girlfriend being preoccupied with her family. You wished it could be like this forever, even if you couldn’t call him yours, you just missed him always having time for you like he used to.

Later in the day, right before the sun was about to start setting, you guys found yourselves at the beach, laid out side by side with your arms folded underneath your head, eyes up towards the sky. “Do you remember your first crush?” You ask Matt suddenly, head turning to face him as he answers your question.

“Like, a real crush or a celebrity crush?” Matt inquires, turning his head to meet your eyes. You shrug as best as you can in this position. “Either. Both, if you want,” you answer him.

He hums, eyes darting around as he thinks. “Well my first celebrity crush was probably Megan Fox. Can’t go wrong with her, she’s been beautiful forever,” he starts, a goofy grin on his face. “And my first real crush was probably… well… you.”

Your eyes widen at his words, not expecting that to be his answer. “Me?” You ask in shock, your expression making him laugh as he nods his head. “I mean, yeah. We were together every waking moment of every day, of course I was going to develop a crush on you. Don’t worry, it went away a few years ago so you don’t have to worry about me secretly being in love with you.”

You laugh like you know you’re supposed to, genuinely finding it funny aside from the part where you wished he still felt the same, still wanted you the way you wanted him, but even if he did have a crush on you, who’s to say if it was even the same as you felt? Your feelings were all consuming, a sickening desire for the boy laid out next to you trapping your every thought, feeling incomplete without him there to be your missing piece. It wasn’t a crush, it was full blown love.

“What about you?” Matt asks, tearing you from your thoughts. “Hm?” You question, momentarily forgetting what you were talking about. “Your first crushes, who were they?” He reminds you.

“Oh, right,” you nod, pondering for a moment. “My first celebrity crush was probably… Logan Lerman in Percy Jackson,” you laugh at the admission, finding Matt’s nod of understanding slightly funny. “And my first real crush was… Chris.”

Matt gasps and his face contorts into disgust, a loud ‘yuck!’ leaving his lips. “Chris?! Not me?!” He squeals, rolling onto his side to face you as you giggled loudly. “He’s funny! He makes me laugh and he’s always been cute!” You defend through your laughter, not fully lying. Chris definitely was cute, but that’s all you thought when it came to attraction.

“But he’s so.. gross!” Matt groans, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I admitted to having a crush on you and you turn around and say you liked Chris. I’m actually disgusted and maybe even a little heartbroken.”

“Do you want me to have a crush on you?” You ask suddenly, secretly hoping he’d say yes, that his feelings never went away and he was just using Amber to try and forget about you. His eyes widen and he shakes his head, cheeks dusting pink cutely. “No,” he says shyly, lips curling into a small smile. “Not now, at least. Maybe a couple years ago but you were too busy thinking Chris was cute.”

You scoff, throwing an arm over your eyes to ignore Matt to the best of your abilities, knowing you’d never live down the admission of your Chris crush, but the reality of living with that versus telling Matt the truth seemed infinitely easier.

Ignoring him didn’t last long when he decided to grab a handful of sand and sprinkle it over your face, causing you to rip your arm from your eyes and smack his hand away as you sputtered and coughed, spitting sand from your mouth. “Ew!” You yell, grabbing your own handful to throw at his face, making him let out a mixture between a laugh and a cough, his eyes clenched shut from the impact.

You continued to play fight in the sand as the sun began to set behind you, the sounds of the crashing waves creating the perfect background music to the happy giggles that squealed from your lips, and you couldn’t help but wish it could always be like this.

But it couldn’t, and your life would never be the same as it was.

[mintyys-blog]

Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening mintyy!! I saw your requests open and can I please request a really feminine reader or hyperfem!reader? And is it also okay if its gn!reader? Or if its fem!reader I don't mind too!! Thats all, thank you and have a great day mintyyy!

A FEMININE TOUCH | mark grayson x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS:

Mark didn’t crash land into the apartment anymore.

Not unless it was urgent.

These days, he texted first. “Leaving space now. Be home in 45. Do we still have the squash soup? I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

You smiled when your phone lit up. The pot was already on the stove.

Your kitchen smelled like thyme and roasted garlic, windows cracked open just enough to let in the late evening breeze. The soft hum of a playlist played in the background—some cozy acoustic loop you’d curated just for evenings like this.

You had your favorite apron on—cream with tiny pink bows along the trim—and you stirred the soup while softening some bread rolls in the oven. Everything felt warm and golden.

When Mark touched down gently on the balcony, he didn’t even bother changing first. He came straight to the kitchen, uniform half-unzipped, chest rising and falling like he was finally, finally home.

“There she is,” he said, voice low, smile slow.

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, nose buried in your shoulder, and just breathed you in.

“Hi baby,” you murmured, placing your hand over his forearm. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” he whispered, nuzzling into the crook of your neck like he could fall asleep there. “I missed you.”

You gave his hand a little squeeze. “You always say that.”

“I always mean it.”

Dinner was quiet—just the occasional clink of spoons, the low rumble of Mark’s content hums, your knees bumping under the table. He finished two bowls and licked the spoon clean, sighing like he’d just been saved.

“That was amazing,” he said, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You know you don’t have to do all this, right?”

You leaned your cheek into his palm. “I know. But I want to.”

And the thing was—you did want to. You loved taking care of him. Loved folding his laundry while he dozed off on the couch, leaving sticky notes in his bag that said things like “Drink water, silly.” Loved that he always took his boots off at the door now, just for you.

Later, you both sprawled out on the couch, legs tangled, a romcom playing in the background. You had a honey face mask on and a matching one pressed gently onto his face. He pretended to complain about it, but you saw how he leaned into your touch when you smoothed it across his jaw.

“You’re glowing,” you teased, brushing your thumb under his eye. “Look at you.”

“Glowing because I’m next to you,” he shot back, smirking. “You’re the reason I started moisturizing.”

You giggled, settling into his side. “You say that like it’s not the bare minimum.”

“Hey,” Mark said, voice mock-offended. “I fought an alien overlord today. I deserve a little pampering.”

“And you’ll get it,” you promised, kissing the tip of his nose, “right after your ten-step skincare routine.”

“Ten steps?!”

“You want your pores to thank you or not?”

He groaned dramatically, but didn’t move. He never did. Not when you were around. You were the only thing stronger than gravity.

[bu3ck3r]

tied together – part 2

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

wc: 7k

a/n: okay part 2 is finally here! thank you for all the kind words about part 1 i love yall fr. after you read spam my inbox and tell me how was it and what you want to see next in this series because that would help me finish writing it faster🩵

tied together – masterlist

paige’s pov:

there were three different air vents in the ceiling above paige’s bed, and she’d been staring at them long enough to map out their pattern in her head. she could hear the soft hum of the central air unit kicking on and off, a quiet rhythm that should’ve been comforting. should’ve put her to sleep. but it didn’t.

nika was snoring lightly in the other bed. arm slung over her stomach. unaware that her friend was drowning in a mess of memories, nerves, and someone she couldn’t stop thinking about.

paige rolled over again. the clock on the nightstand glared at her in burning red: 3:05 am.

she wanted to scream.

instead, she pressed her face into the pillow, muffling a frustrated groan. her legs tangled in the hotel sheets, which had somehow gotten too hot despite the air conditioning. she threw them off and sat up, scrubbing her hands over her face. her chest was tight again.

not the post-game adrenaline. not soreness.

azzi.

always azzi.

her name had been playing on a loop in paige’s mind since the final buzzer. since that short conversation they shared just off the court—tense and quiet and loaded with everything paige had been trying to suppress since their last goodbye. since the last time she kissed her in the backseat of her car with trembling hands and didn’t say anything afterward. since she found out azzi committed to south carolina in a headline instead of a phone call.

what azzi had said to her after the game kept echoing in her head:

“i don’t know if it’s too late.”

it felt like it might be. felt like they’d crossed whatever line you don’t come back from. not because of the game. not even because of the school decisions. it was everything in between. the silence. the missed chances. the way they’d let pride fill the space where honesty should’ve lived.

she ran her hands down her face, frustrated. it wasn’t supposed to go like this.

they were supposed to rise together. be legendary together. win together. lose together.

instead? they had become a story people whispered about. “paige and azzi would’ve been inseparable if they played together.”

now they were rivals.

she should’ve said more. in the tunnel. when azzi stood there looking torn between biting her head off and reaching out. paige had seen it—the war behind her eyes. she could read azzi like a damn book. could always tell when she was bluffing. when she was hurt.

tonight, azzi had been both.

and paige had let her walk away.

again.

and now here she was—three in the morning, sitting in a hotel bed , not an ounce of sleep in her body, and one very real urge building like wildfire in her chest.

she reached over to the nightstand and grabbed her phone, squinting against the light as she unlocked it.

her thumb hovered over azzi’s name.

they hadn’t texted in months. not since before azzi announced she was going to sc. not since paige stopped replying altogether. there were so many almost-messages saved in the drafts: little check-ins, late-night thoughts, deleted love letters.

she hovered her fingers over the keyboard. started typing. deleted. tried again.

are you still awake?

she stared at it.

didn’t send it.

she started typing again, like she had a thousand times.

i miss you.

just those three words.

she stared at them. read them over. read them again. her heart thumped like it was trying to break out of her chest.

then, like always, she deleted it.

she couldn’t do this through a screen.

not anymore.

she was out of bed five minutes later.

slipping her phone into the hoodie pocket. moving slow to not wake nika. she slid on her uconn slides and crept into the hallway with her hoodie pulled tight around her, the strings bouncing against her chest.

the hallway was dim and silent, except for the low sound of vending machines and the soft, faraway sound of an elevator ding.

paige walked past room after room, carpet muffling her footsteps.

room 350.

she remembered the number because she’d seen it on a clipboard earlier that day when the teams checked in. she was signing some form in the hotel lobby and caught the room assignments. her eyes had skimmed the page, heart skipping when she saw bueckers – 250 right above fudd – 350.

she told herself it was coincidence she saw it. she told herself she wasn’t trying to remember.

but here she was.

standing in front of it.

she hesitated, staring at the door like they held the answer to smthing she didn’t know how to ask.

paige closed her eyes for a second. her hand trembled as she raised it. she knocked.

the door opened fast—like azzi had been standing right behind it.

maybe she had.

and there she was.

azzi.

hair messy. hoodie oversized. barefoot.

she froze when she saw paige.

neither of them said anything for a second.

then azzi leaned against the doorframe, blinking like she wasn’t sure if this was real or just something her brain had conjured up from exhaustion.

azzi’s pov:

the room was too cold, but azzi refused to get under the covers. she’d been sitting alone upright in bed for nearly an hour, hoodie on, legs crossed, just… thinking.

not about the game.

about her.

about the way paige had looked when their eyes met across the court again. like she hadn’t aged a day and yet somehow carried years in her expression. about the way her voice cracked when she said, “i don’t know if it’s too late.”

that moment replayed in her mind over and over, like a skipped record.

azzi had pretended to be fine all day. laughed with her teammates, took pictures with fans, smiled for the cameras. but she hadn’t been fine in months.

not since that night paige stopped answering.

not since she chose herself and sc and left paige behind—and paige didn’t fight for her.

azzi had her phone in her lap, paige’s contact open on the screen, but her fingers refused to move. her pride refused to reach out first. again.

she was just about to shut it off when the knock came.

it wasn’t loud. but she knew. somehow, before she even looked through the peephole. she knew.

she pulled open the door fast, heart already thudding in her chest.

and there she was.

paige.

hair messy. eyes tired. mouth parted like she didn’t know what to say.

azzi stepped aside without a word.

paige stood just inside the doorway, her hand still curled around the strap of her hoodie like she wasn’t sure she was staying. her eyes swept the room—messy bed,few azzi’s tshirts hanging halfway off the chair—but she didn’t comment. she just looked… tired. unsteady. like showing up at 3am hadn’t been impulsive at all, but something she’d been fighting herself over all night.

paige swallowed. “hey.”

azzi’s voice was a whisper. “paige it’s 3 a.m.”

“i know.”

another pause.

azzi tilted her head slightly. “you came all the way up here just to stare at me?”

“i wasn’t done,” paige said, her voice low. “back there. in the tunnel.”

azzi looked away. “you were right not to be.”

there was a beat. a breath.

then paige stepped forward.

“look, i don’t know what the hell we’re doing anymore. but i’m tired of pretending like this doesn’t still mess me up.”

azzi didn’t say anything, but her eyes softened. just a little.

paige kept going.

“i messed up. i didn’t call when i should’ve. i didn’t fight for us when i should’ve. and maybe that’s on me. but i need you to know…” she trailed off, swallowing hard. “it wasn’t because i stopped caring.”

azzi blinked slowly, her arms folding tighter across her chest. “it felt like it.”

“i know.”

more silence.

the hallway was still. the only sound was paige’s heartbeat thudding against her ribs.

then azzi stepped aside, just enough for paige to walk past her.

just enough to let her in.

and paige did.

she doesn’t say anything when paige steps inside. the door closes with a soft click, like the quiet has finally wrapped around them and won’t let go.

azzi leans back against it, watching as paige walks a few steps into the room—like she’s unsure whether she’s allowed to belong here.

the space between them is maybe five feet, but it feels like ten miles.

“nice room,” paige says, her voice low, teasing by instinct but without bite.

azzi doesn’t laugh. just gives her a slow once-over. hair tousled. hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands. eyes tired but too alive for this hour.

“you’re bold,” azzi finally says. “for showing up here.”

paige shrugs. “you didn’t slam the door.”

“didn’t mean i was ready to talk.”

“you didn’t look ready to not talk either.”

silence again.

the adrenaline from the game, the tunnel, paige’s sudden appearance—it’s all still buzzing under azzi’s skin.

“you want to sit?” azzi asked quietly, voice low so it didn’t carry down the hallway. “or…?”

“yeah.” paige exhaled. “yeah, i just—couldn’t sleep.”

azzi moved toward the bed and sat cross-legged near the top, motioning for her to sit. paige took the far edge, careful like she was afraid to sink too far into the mattress. the air between them stretched, tight and quiet.

she doesn’t know what she wants more: to scream at her, or to lie next to her and pretend nothing ever changed.

“you really think showing up like this fixes it?” azzi asks quietly.

paige doesn’t answer right away.

“no,” she says. “but i think it’s a start.”

“i kept thinking about what you said,” paige said after a beat. “or what you didn’t say.”

azzi swallowed. “in the tunnel?”

paige nodded.

“it’s not that simple,” azzi said. “it never was.”

“i didn’t ask for simple.” paige’s voice was soft, but not weak. “i just want to know if it’s too late.”

azzi looked at her. really looked. the same loose blonde hair, the same tired eyes, the same little freckle under her lip she used to stare at when paige would lean in close and pretend they were “just friends.”

“it felt like you gave up,” azzi whispered.

paige flinched. “you left.”

“you ghosted me.”

“you didn’t call.”

azzi laughed, bitter. “you think committing to south carolina was about you?”

paige blinked. “wasn’t it?”

azzi’s breath caught. she turned away, stared at the lamp on the desk. “i couldn’t be in your shadow, paige. not forever. not when i was trying to figure out who i even was.”

“i never wanted you in my shadow.”

“you didn’t have to want it. it just happened.”

silence again.

paige shifted on the bed. “so we just… stop talking? after everything?”

azzi didn’t answer.

──────────── ౨ৎ ────────────

azzi hasn’t moved since she sat down. paige doesn’t know what to do with her hands. her mouth. her entire body.

“you looked good out there,” she says, trying to break the silence again. “you always do, but… tonight especially.”

azzi looks up at her with a dry, unimpressed expression. “compliments now?”

“too soon?”

“try ‘not helpful.’”

paige nods, tries to laugh it off, but it dies quickly.

“i miss you,” she blurts, before she can stop herself.

azzi freezes.

the air shifts.

“you don’t get to say that like it’s easy,” azzi says slowly.

“i’m not trying to make it easy. i’m trying to be honest.”

“where was that honesty few months ago?” her voice is sharp, but not loud. controlled. the way azzi always was—even when she was breaking.

paige doesn’t flinch. “i was scared.”

“of what? me?”

“of choosing you and losing the rest.”

azzi stands up suddenly. “so you didn’t choose me, and you lost me anyway.”

the words hang in the air like smoke from a slow fire. dangerous. choking.

paige walks closer. not enough to touch. just enough to be in range.

“i didn’t know what i was doing. i thought we’d have more time.”

azzi shakes her head. “we had the time. you just… didn’t show up.”

paige leaned back on her hands, voice lighter, more teasing now: “we were definitely more than friends. i still remember the backseat of my car in december.”

azzi raised an eyebrow. “we were cold.”

“oh, right. that’s why your hands were under my shirt.”

“you weren’t complaining.”

paige smirked. “i’m not now.”

and just like that, the air changed again. warmer. more dangerous.

azzi looked at her, studying the soft curve of her mouth, the way her eyes held hers like a dare. like she was testing how far she could push before something cracked.

“you always did this,” azzi said. “made it a joke before it got too real.”

paige’s expression faltered. “it was real.”

“then why didn’t you fight for me?”

azzi didn’t mean to say it like that. but it was too late to take it back.

“i wanted you to fight,” she added, quieter now. “to come after me. even just once.”

paige stared at her. “you think i didn’t want to?”

“you didn’t.”

“i was hurt.”

“so was i.”

paige looked down at her lap, fingers twisting together. “we were scared.”

azzi nodded. “we still are.”

neither of them moved for a long time.

then paige looked up, slow, like the weight of every memory was pulling her gaze. “i missed you,” she whispered.

azzi swallowed hard. “i missed you too.”

there was a pull. invisible, magnetic. paige inched closer, her knees brushing azzi’s now. her eyes were soft, unreadable. but azzi knew that look. that was the look that used to undo her in long car rides and quiet corners at tournaments where no one was looking.

she should’ve looked away.

but she didn’t.

and paige leaned in.

just close enough that azzi could feel her breath.

“i shouldn’t,” azzi said.

“you don’t want to?”

paige’s voice was quiet, but it wasn’t a question. not really.

azzi’s heart beat too loud in her chest. “that’s not the same thing.”

usa basketball u16 women’s national team

it was after curfew one night during fiba women’s americas championship in argentina. they were buzzing on adrenaline and the quiet hush of a hotel where everyone else was asleep.

paige had crept into azzi’s room, just like this. hoodie half-zipped, socks mismatched. she had laid down beside her on the bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

they talked for hours. about fear, pressure and carrying the weight of a country on their shoulders. paige had this soft way of looking at her—like she saw the good parts azzi tried to hide under perfection.

then paige reached out and touched her hand, so gentle. their fingers curled together. and azzi had leaned in first that night.

their first kiss was quiet. unpracticed. but it burned in azzi’s memory like scripture.

the next morning, they never talked about it. but everything changed.

paige nodded slowly. “it was real, though. right? we weren’t just friends.”

azzi huffed a soft laugh. “friends don’t make out in hotel elevators.”

“or in the back of your mom’s car.”

“or sneak into each other’s rooms during usa basketball.”

they looked at each other.

and smiled. the kind of smile that held too much weight behind it.

october 2021

they were on the rooftop of some building, sneakers kicked off, music low. the stars were hiding behind a thick gray haze, but they didn’t care.

azzi was leaning against her shoulder, paige’s hoodie pulled over both of them like a tent.

“you ever think we’ll get sick of each other?” azzi asked.

paige laughed. “you’d miss me in, like, two days.”

“two hours,” azzi corrected with a smile.

there had been no doubt back then. just this quiet, loud certainty. the way you just knew when you were with the right person—even if the world didn’t make space for it.

azzi traced circles on paige’s hand. “don’t leave.”

“i won’t.”

both of them did.

paige leaned back against the headboard. “you remember the night when we went out on the roof?” she asked, voice low.

“oh my god,” azzi laughed. “you had me wrapped in your hoodie like that was gonna make us invisible.”

“you were cold,” paige said with a shrug. “and also… you looked cute in it.”

azzi turned to her, eyes playful. “so you admit it. you were down bad.”

“yeah whatever, but you know what else i remember,” paige said, voice soft. “usa basketball u16. you kissed me and then you wouldn’t look at me the next day.”

azzi laughed under her breath. “i was freaking out.”

“you still do that, kiss me and then disappear.”

azzi bit her lip. “and you still let me.”

paige turned her body slightly, resting her weight on one elbow.

they were quiet again. but not the heavy kind. this was lighter. fragile.

“i kissed you first that night,” azzi said. “and i kept waiting for you to say something after. like, ‘tell me what it meant’. but you didn’t.”

paige looked away, shame crawling up her spine. “i didn’t know how. i was scared.”

“of what?”

“that if i said i loved you, you wouldn’t say it back.”

azzi was quiet.

and then she said, “i would’ve.”

the words hung in the room like a heartbeat.

azzi’s hands are clenched at her sides, and she can feel the war happening in her chest—part of her wants to yell, part of her wants to cry, and part of her just wants to fall into paige’s hoodie and pretend nothing changed.

“you broke my heart,” azzi says. quiet. not accusing. not soft. just true.

“i know.”

“and you waited until you lost to come here and say it?”

“i didn’t come because we lost.” paige looks right at her. “i came because i couldn’t leave town knowing i hadn’t looked you in the eye and told you everything i never said.”

azzi’s eyes start to sting. she blinks hard.

“i was angry,” she says. “for a long time.”

“you should’ve been.”

“and i hated you for a little while.”

paige doesn’t flinch.

“but mostly,” azzi says, her voice almost breaking, “i just missed you.”

they’re lying on the bed now, not touching, but close enough that their pinkies brush every time one of them breathes too deep.

it’s quiet.

their voices are tired. their eyes are heavier.

“i used to rehearse it,” paige says softly. “what i’d say to you if i got the chance.”

“yeah?”

“it never went like this.”

azzi smiles, faintly. “same.”

azzi looked over at paige, really looked at her. blonde hair messy, eyes bloodshot but glowing in the low light, hoodie drowning her frame.

she looked tired, but beautiful.

azzi shifted. “what do we do now?”

paige looked up. “what do you want to do?”

azzi hesitated.

paige’s eyes softened, and then she said it—just barely louder than a whisper.

“come here.”

the kiss came slow.

no rush. no adrenaline.

azzi leaned forward first, hands trembling just a little, and paige met her halfway. their mouths pressed together in something warm, something real. it was a kiss built on months of silence, years of closeness, and all the things they never said.

when they pulled apart, neither of them moved. they stayed forehead-to-forehead, breathing the same breath.

“i can’t do this if we’re gonna pretend it’s nothing again,” paige whispered.

azzi nodded. “me neither.”

“then let’s figure out how to be something. just… not tonight.”

“tonight,” azzi murmured, “i just want you to stay right here.”

another long silence. but this one isn’t heavy. not quite. it’s almost… suspended. like the night hasn’t decided whether it’s heartbreak or healing.

paige finally turns toward her. “do you think we could start over?”

azzi doesn’t answer right away.

instead, she reaches up and gently tucks a loose curl behind paige’s ear. her fingers linger, and for a second—just one—paige leans into the touch.

“i don’t want to start over,” azzi says. “i want us to keep going.”

“but we’re not the same.”

“no,” azzi agrees. “but maybe that’s not the worst thing.”

──────────── ౨ৎ ────────────

they’d moved under the covers at some point. not touching. not kissing. just talking.

about everything.

about how paige felt like the injury had turned her into a ghost and how she didn’t want azzi to see her fading.

about how azzi cried on the plane to south carolina, because she realized she didn’t know how to build a life without paige in it.

4:45 a.m.

they’re still awake when the first light slips through the blinds.

azzi’s head is on paige’s shoulder now. paige’s fingers trace lazy patterns on her wrist.

they haven’t said the word love all night.

but it’s everywhere.

in the silences. in the unfinished sentences. in the way neither of them asked the other to leave.

they don’t know what tomorrow looks like. whether anything really got solved. whether this is just nostalgia wearing a disguise.

but for now—for this hour—it’s enough.

just them.

just paige and azzi.

and the space between them finally closing.

6.00 a.m.

paige doesn’t remember falling asleep. she only remembers the feeling of azzi’s breath warm against her neck, her name spoken softly in the dark, like an invitation and a promise all at once.

now, it’s morning.

the harsh kind. not soft and easy like in movies, where the light’s always golden and perfect. it’s gray, a little cold, and the sheets are tangled at their feet. her mouth is dry, her heart full of things she can’t quite articulate. she’s lying there in azzi’s bed, still wearing her hoodie from the night. everything about the situation feels like a careful balance, and paige isn’t sure how to breathe without making the whole thing fall apart.

azzi’s still asleep next to her, tucked against her side like a piece of her is trying to anchor itself in the moment. her hand is draped over paige’s ribcage, fingers just barely brushing the fabric of the hoodie, but the touch feels intimate, grounding.

it’s too early. too much. too real. paige doesn’t know how to walk this line between regret and longing.

she turns her head slightly, watching azzi’s face. the peacefulness there is so different from what’s been between them for years. paige doesn’t know what to do with the softness.

“i could stay here forever”, she thinks, but the world won’t let her.

azzi stirs beside her, shifts in the bed. the blanket moves slightly, and for a second, paige thinks she might slip into sleep again. but then azzi opens her eyes, blinking slowly as if she doesn’t quite understand where she is.

when their gazes meet, there’s something fragile there, something unspoken. but neither of them says a word.

the tension between them isn’t angry or distant—it’s something else. something too fragile to touch, but impossible to ignore.

azzi finally clears her throat. “you steal the covers even in your sleep.”

paige chuckles softly, though it’s awkward. “you drool on your pillow.”

azzi’s lips twitch, but it’s a strained smile. “good to know you’re paying attention.”

paige’s heart beats a little faster, but she can’t tell if it’s from the teasing or the something heavy still hanging in the air. she shifts slightly, her arm brushing against azzi’s. neither of them pulls away.

they’re caught in this moment—too close to run, too far to hide. but neither of them wants to break it just yet.

the silence between them stretches on, and this time, it doesn’t feel as comfortable. the clock is ticking. the day is waiting, and paige doesn’t know how to start the conversation. how to untangle everything they’ve left unsaid.

──────────── ౨ৎ ────────────

azzi pokes at her fruit, trying to ignore the strange sense of familiarity she’s feeling in this moment. she doesn’t want to feel comfortable. not yet. she doesn’t want to admit that the night before—whatever it was—mattered.

paige is sitting across from her, picking at a muffin like she’s doing her best to pretend this isn’t an awkward situation. but the air between them feels too soft for the usual easy banter they’re used to.

azzi stirs her coffee with more force than necessary, watching paige out of the corner of her eye. it’s too early for this, too raw. she doesn’t want to say anything that could make this harder than it already is.

but paige’s voice cuts through her thoughts. “i think that dude’s trying to figure out if i’m kidnapping you or something.”

azzi raises an eyebrow, glancing toward the table where one of the south carolina coaching staff is watching them. “you’re not that charming.”

“you let me walk you down here,” paige says, her voice quieter now.

azzi takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the flutter in her chest. “that was pity.”

“that was longing, and you know it.”

azzi doesn’t laugh. just stares at paige, feeling that familiar tension—pulling her closer and pushing her away at the same time.

“can we just… not?” azzi says, her voice quieter, more serious than she intended. “we both know what’s happened. we can’t pretend it’ll be easy.”

“i’m not pretending,” paige says softly, her eyes not meeting azzi’s. “but it’s still real.”

azzi’s heart skips a beat. real. what does that even mean now?

she looks away, trying to steady herself. “we both have things we have to deal with,” azzi mutters.

there’s no more laughter between them, just the sound of soft clinking as they finish their meals, neither one willing to speak more than they already have.

──────────── ౨ৎ ────────────

azzi has no reason to be back at the hotel.

she has practice soon. she’s supposed to be with her team. but something about the morning makes her feel restless—an itch she can’t scratch, a question she can’t answer.

she ends up in front of paige’s hotel room door, her hand poised to knock.

but before she can do anything, the door opens, and there’s paige—hair still damp from her shower.

azzi’s heart skips a beat. she doesn’t know why she’s here. she doesn’t even have a good reason for it. it’s just that this feels like the place she’s supposed to be.

“oh,” paige says, her voice startled. “i didn’t think i’d see you.”

azzi shrugs, playing it off. “just thought i’d stop by. no big deal.”

“right.” paige looks at her for a long moment, her gaze soft but unreadable. “are you sure you’re not just trying to make me lose my focus?”

azzi shrugs again, like it’s nothing. but something shifts between them, something unspoken and heavy. neither of them knows how to move past this, but neither of them wants to walk away either.

“i don’t know what you want from me, azzi,” paige finally says, her voice quieter now, like she’s afraid to speak louder and break whatever fragile hold they still have. “i never meant for any of this to get… so complicated.”

azzi’s eyes flicker, caught off guard by the raw honesty in paige’s voice. she’s not sure how to respond. what do you say when everything you’ve been holding in for so long suddenly threatens to pour out?

“i just thought…” azzi starts, her voice trailing off as she looks at paige, trying to find the right words. “i just thought we could pretend it didn’t happen.”

paige laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “i wish. i really do. but you can’t unfeel something like this.”

azzi steps into the room, the door clicking shut behind her. the air between them feels thick now, charged in a way that’s both terrifying and thrilling. she doesn’t know what she’s doing here, doesn’t know why she came, but she knows she doesn’t want to leave yet. not without saying something, anything, to ease the ache that’s settled in her chest.

“i didn’t come here to mess things up,” azzi says, a little too quickly. “i just… i just wanted to talk to you. to make sure you’re okay.”

paige stares at her for a long moment, like she’s trying to figure out if azzi’s telling the truth or just hiding behind words. finally, paige sighs, her shoulders sagging with a weariness azzi can feel in her own bones.

“i’m not okay,” paige admits quietly. “but i will be. i’ll figure it out.”

azzi watches her, heart aching. she takes a step forward, not sure what to say next, but she’s so close now that she can hear the unsteady rhythm of paige’s breath. she could kiss her again. she could lean in and make it all feel better, if only for a few seconds. but something tells her that would just make it worse.

“you can’t do this alone, you know,” azzi says, her voice soft but firm.

paige meets her gaze, and for a second, there’s a flicker of something—hope, maybe?—but it’s gone before azzi can name it.

“i know,” paige whispers. “but i have to figure it out on my own. i can’t keep pretending like everything’s fine when it’s not.”

azzi steps back, letting the silence fall between them again. she didn’t expect things to be easy, didn’t expect her to just open up and make it all okay. but she hadn’t expected this, either—the feeling of knowing the space between them is widening, and that there’s no easy way to bridge it.

for a moment, neither of them says anything.

“i should go,” azzi says finally, though her voice cracks a little.

paige doesn’t stop her, doesn’t say anything. she just watches her walk toward the door, her face unreadable.

when azzi reaches the door, she pauses, hand on the knob. “paige, whatever happens, don’t forget… i’m still here. even if you don’t want me to be.”

paige doesn’t respond. she just looks at her, and azzi can feel her heart breaking in the silence that stretches between them.

pov: paige

paige steps onto the uconn bus with a heavy heart, taking a seat by the window and staring out at the world as it blurs by. the morning still feels like a haze—azzi’s voice lingering in her mind, her smile, her words.

they’re gone now. she’s gone.

but the ache is still there.

as the bus rolls down the road, the last few hours replay in paige’s head: the kiss, the awkward breakfast, azzi standing in front of her hotel room, her soft admission that she wasn’t okay.

paige closes her eyes, trying to focus on something, anything, that isn’t the hole inside her chest where azzi used to be.

“i can’t keep doing this”, she thinks, but even as she tells herself that, she knows it’s not true. she’s already too far gone. and no matter how many times she tells herself to move on, to let it go, the feelings won’t fade. they never do.

she lets her phone buzz in her hand—another notification, another distraction. but when she looks at it, it’s just a text from ice:

you good?

paige doesn’t respond right away. she lets the silence fill her for a moment before tapping out a reply:

yeah, just thinking.

and she is. thinking about the kiss, about the unspoken words, about what it means to have something real slip through her fingers when she wasn’t ready to let it go.

paige stares out the window and lets the silence settle around her like armor.

there’s a text draft open on her phone.

i think i’ve always known it was you.

she doesn’t hit send.

but she doesn’t delete it either.

the bus ride back to the airport had been long, quiet, and almost suffocating. paige couldn’t stop replaying everything that had happened the night before, azzi’s words, the soft pressure of her lips—everything was too vivid, too sharp. it’s as if the whole world paused for a moment when they were together.

but then, in the quiet of the morning they said their goodbyes and azzi had left.

paige knows she has to focus. the team needs her. the game is over, but there’s still practice, still the road ahead, still the tournament. but right now, she doesn’t want to focus on any of it.

her phone buzzes, again,text from ice:

yo, did something happened? you seem a lil off.

paige sighs, her fingers hesitating over the keys before she replies:

just tired. we’ll talk later.

she’s not sure what to say. she can’t explain this thing with azzi, this thing that keeps eating at her, and she definitely can’t tell ice that she’s been up thinking about azzi. not without sounding like a mess.

she shoves the phone back into her bag and leans back against the window, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling crawling up her spine.

pov: azzi

azzi is late. she knows it. the rest of her team is already stretching, warming up, the air filled with the low hum of sneakers on hardwood and the sharp calls of coaches.

but azzi’s mind is elsewhere. she’s still tangled up in the early morning hours, the faint echo of paige’s voice ringing in her ears. she told herself she was fine, that she was going to move on, that this wasn’t going to disrupt her focus. but every step she takes toward the court, every drill she starts, the pull of her thoughts drags her back to that hotel room.

she hasn’t been able to shake the look in paige’s eyes when they said goodbye. she can’t pretend it wasn’t something more, something that meant more than it should.

that goodbye wasn’t enough for her, and azzi’s pretty sure it wasn’t enough for paige either.

the whistle blows, and azzi quickly snaps her focus back to the court. the next drill begins, but her body feels like it’s moving without her.

she catches a glimpse of bree, watching her from the corner of the court, and azzi wonders if she has noticed the shift in her energy. she’s been distant lately, quieter than usual. it’s hard to pretend everything is fine when it’s not.

aliyah boston calls out to her during a break. “hey, you good?”

azzi forces a smile, trying to brush it off. “yeah, just focused. lots on my mind.”

aliyah’s gaze is sharp, like she sees through the mask azzi is trying to wear. “whatever it is, we’ll get through it. you’re not in this alone.”

azzi nods, though the words don’t feel as reassuring as they should. she appreciates aliyah’s support, but there’s only so much that can be said. what she really wants to do is leave the gym, hop on a plane, and head to connecticut. to paige. her paige.

but she doesn’t. she stays, practices hard, and forces herself to focus.

──────────── ౨ৎ ────────────

paige is finally in her dorm and flops down on her bed, the midday light creeping through the curtains in soft beams. her mind is still spinning, filled with a mix of exhaustion and something else—something a little more dangerous. she hasn’t stopped thinking about azzi, and it’s not just because of what happened the night before. it’s everything. the way they’re connected without meaning to be, the way azzi makes her feel things she’s not supposed to feel.

the door to her room creaks open, and her teammate, nika, steps inside, wearing an expression of concern that paige knows too well.

“you okay?” nika asks, her voice low, almost like she’s already figured out what’s going on.

paige doesn’t know how to explain herself, doesn’t know how to tell her friend that she can’t stop thinking about someone she should never even care about. she just shrugs. “yeah, just a little tired. a lot of stuff on my mind.”

nika looks at her for a beat, her eyes narrowing slightly. “i saw the way you were acting at breakfast this morning. you’ve been off for a while now. what’s going on with you and fudd?”

paige tenses. she didn’t think anyone had noticed—but of course nika would.

“it’s nothing. seriously. just… stuff with the game,” paige lies, her words not coming out as smoothly as she hoped.

nika doesn’t buy it. “uh-huh. i don’t know what happened, but you two have been different. don’t let this mess with your focus. we need you, paige. you know that, right?”

paige nods, but even as she says, “i know,” the words feel hollow.

what if this thing with azzi does mess with her focus? what if it messes with everything? she’s supposed to be a leader, supposed to lead her team to victory, but how can she do that when she’s losing herself in thoughts of azzi?

“thanks, nika,” paige says quietly, before turning away from her teammate. nika doesn’t say anything else. she just nods and walks out, leaving paige alone with the thoughts she doesn’t know how to sort through.

──────────── ౨ৎ ────────────

azzi can’t concentrate.

she’s in her dorm, getting ready for the team meeting before they head out for the next game. but all she can think about is the way they left things. how this—all of it—is too much.

“you’re letting this get in your head”, she tells herself, pacing back and forth. focus.

but focus doesn’t come. it never does when she’s thinking about paige.

the room feels too small, the walls too close. she feels like she can’t breathe, like the weight of this whole situation is bearing down on her chest.

there’s a knock at the door, and azzi pauses. “come in,” she calls.

the door opens, and aliyah steps inside, a knowing look on her face. “you’re still thinking about her, huh?”

azzi sighs, sitting down on the bed. “i don’t know how to stop.”

“you don’t have to stop. but you need to stop letting it take over your game,” aliyah says, her voice firm but not unkind.

“i know,” azzi mutters, running a hand through her hair. “but what happens when the feelings don’t go away?”

aliyah sits beside her, crossing her arms. “i can’t answer that for you. but i know this: you’re stronger than this. don’t let paige bueckers, or whatever’s going on between you two, take away your power.”

azzi glances at her friend. aliyah’s right, of course. but it doesn’t make it easier.

pov: paige

paige finally admits it to herself. the feelings are too strong to ignore. no matter how much she tries to bury them, no matter how much she wants to tell herself this was a one-time thing, something’s shifted.

she opens her phone, staring at azzi’s name on the screen. should i text her?

the words come too easily.

hey, i’ve been thinking a lot. maybe we could talk?

she hesitates before pressing send. it’s reckless. but the moment it leaves her hands, paige knows she can’t take it back. she’s already in too deep.

what do you want to see in part 3?

[dannyriccsystem]

hi Z! I have scoliosis (around 20 degrees) and sometimes people like us experience back pain during sex, especially if it’s rough. so imagine the reader has scoliosis. her and the driver just finished having sex but they were really rough on her and she was in pain but didn’t want to say anything because she didn’t want to ruin the moment. she tries to get up or move around and the drivers see her struggling, they thought at first that she was so sore because of them (they’re like 😏😏). but they realize she was in instead pain and she tells them about her scoliosis, and they feel bad for not knowing and promise to go softer or at her pace next time. then cue the soft aftercare. thank you for indulging in my delusions 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

NOT SO ROUGH!

FORMULA ONE DRIVERS X READER

SUMMARY: You have scoliosis, and the drivers go just a tad bit too rough on you! Cue the aftercare.

WARNINGS: Rough sex causing pain (not intentional), aftercare, fluff, Y/N usage, smut/mentions of smut, not entirely proofread

FEATURING: MV1, DR3, LN4, CL16, LH44, CS55, GR63, OP81

I actually dropped everything to do this request this is so cute.

MAX VERSTAPPEN - MV1

Sex with Max was unlike any other, and you found that out the hard way— Literally. You never thought it was relevant to mention the scoliosis, because you hadn’t expected it to be an issue. It never proved as one before, but you were beginning to realize the mistake you’ve made.

He was rough, to sum it up. At first it was fine, your body gently rocking on the soft mattress with every pound of his hips against yours. Then, like a train, it hit you all at once. Your back started to throb, and your cries of pain mixed in with your soft moans, which fueled him more. You climaxed hard, finally falling flat against the mattress as he pulled out.

“You were so good my love,” He whispered as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. You groaned, trying to sit up, but it just hurt even more. He chuckled softly, mistaking your pain for soreness. “Can’t move?”

You hissed, eyes welling with tears. He paused, freezing up immediately. He cupped your face, hands suddenly so gentle. The same hands that were roughing you around just moments ago. “Y/N, hey. What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“Just-… Just a little,” You breathed in slowly, letting his hands pull you up into a sitting position. “I should have told you, I have scoliosis… It really hurts, I just… I was enjoying it, and I didn’t want to ruin your moment.”

“Oh, lieverd.” He pulled you towards him softly, peppering your face with kisses. “I will always prioritize your comfort over my pleasure. I want you to feel good too.” He propped up some pillow behind you, helping you lean back against them. “I’m glad you felt good, but next time, tell me as soon as it starts hurting.”

He kissed away your tears, sitting down beside you. “Okay… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He climbed off the bed and stepped into the connecting bathroom, returning seconds later with a towel. Max carefully wiped the sweat and arousal from your naked body, before draping you with a soft blanket. You hummed, your soreness seeping away. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I think I’m okay.” He climbed in beside you, softly kissing your forehead again. You smiled softly, relaxing against your mountain of pillows.

“You did great, I’m sorry I hurt you.” With those final words, you pressed yourself against his side and drifted off into a gentle snore.

—

DANIEL RICCIARDO - DR3

Unfortunately for you, it was hard for Daniel to tell the difference between whines of pain and whines of pleasure, which is why he didn’t take note of the excruciating back pain you were in. It was partially stupid on your end to hold back the information from him, as it could prove to be helpful, especially in a time like this. However, in your defense, you didn’t know that your first night together would be so rough.

And I mean literally. He was manhandling you, slamming his hips against yours. Of course, you enjoyed it at first, but as the minutes went by, the pain in your back grew. You hissed out in pain, clawing at his back. He figured this was part of your expression of arousal, and continued. It wasn’t until the tears began to well that he got the hint.

He slowly withdrew his length, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks. You breathed heavily, your back throbbing in pain. “Hey, hey…” He whispered in a hushed tone as you quietly cried. “Too rough? I’m sorry, sweetheart.” His hands softened as he lowered you back against the mattress.

You twitched, trying to shift into an upright position, and then cried out in pain. With quick reaction time, he grabbed your waist to steady you, brows furrowed. “What’s going on? Did I hurt you?” The sincerity in his eyes pained your heart.

“No- Well, yes, but it’s not your fault.” Your voice was shaking. With his help you sat up, your legs feeling like jelly and your back hurting like hell. “I have scoliosis, Danny. It was just a bit too rough for me.” You felt ashamed saying it, because you realized you should have said something sooner.

“Oh, Y/N, I’m so sorry.” He kissed your cheeks apologetically, hands rubbing soothing circles across your exposed back. “I wish you would have told me, I would have been much more careful.” You shook your head.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll be okay, it just hurt,” You giggled softly at his worried expression, and leaned back against the headboard.

“Next time I’ll be more mindful. We can establish a safe word just in case it starts to hurt again.” You nodded in agreement, and shortly after Danny scampered off to collect some items to help soothe your pain.

—

LANDO NORRIS - LN4

Lando was a pent up guy. Racing really restricted his access to his lover, you, and when he was traveling so much he barely had any time to get himself off. It sounded gross, but the guy desperately needed a release. Thankfully, the week after the triple header was a free week, meaning he could come home and cherish you like he had been yearning for.

Cherish you he did. Your first time was a wild ride with Lando. He had assured your pleasure came first before he finally let himself enjoy you, sinking into your plush walls and losing control of himself. He hammered his hips into yours at a relentless pace, truly sinking in the glory of it all.

It felt great at first— Better than anything you had tried yourself, but the pleasure had melted into pain as soon as he started getting rougher. You hissed in pain, which was subsided by loud and uncontrollable moans. It felt like ages you were laying there until he pulled out, releasing on your stomach.

You breathed in shakily as he flopped onto the bed beside you, panting from over exertion. Even an athlete like himself would get tired after that. He rolled onto his side to face you, chuckling under his breath when he saw you struggling to move. “Sore?” He asked softly, amusement in his tone.

Except the color drained from his face when he realized you were in pain. He should have noticed it instantly, but he was caught up in the adrenaline of it all still. He sat up quickly, cupping your cheek with his palm and soothingly brushing his thumb over your soft skin. “Hey, Y/N? What’s happening?”

“Pain,” You uttered out. His heart immediately shattered for you, and he lifted to cradle your head in his lap, brushing a few baby hairs away from your face. “My back— Scoliosis flaring up-”

“Oh, Y/N… I didn’t know,” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “What can I do?” You huffed, breathing out shakily. You slowly tried to lift yourself, and he took the hint to help you sit up. In a more steady position, you felt like you could breathe clearly again.

“‘M sorry, Lan. I should have told you.” He gently rubbed circles onto your back, checking your eyes for clarity. “I never thought it would be necessary until now.” You locked eyes with him, and he offered an apologetic smile. “I felt really good, but… Maybe we should take it slow next time.”

He nodded immediately, pulling a blanket up to cover your exposed skin. You softened, feeling the throbbing pain start to slowly creep away. “Yes, thank you for understanding.” You felt your lips quirk into a smile as you shared a gentle kiss.

—

CHARLES LECLERC - CL16

Maybe it was the position. Sitting up straight with no support, moving your hips as you rode your boyfriend, was probably not the best idea considering your back condition. Charles could barely contain himself, his passion too strong to hold back.

You hadn’t expressed your pain, trying to push it aside. It wasn’t until you went limp against his body that he realized something was wrong. Charles slowly pulled himself out of your tight heat, feeling himself soften instantly. He cupped your cheeks, shaking you fully awake.

“Y/N? Hey, Y/N-” He froze when you blinked your eyes, seeming barely awake. He gave a sigh of relief. “Are you okay? Too rough?” He tried to keep calm, but it was hard. Pain was the last feeling he wanted you to experience during sex, unless you asked for it of course.

“Just a little bit.” You tried to push yourself up, but pain shot up your spine and you froze. “I should have told you. Charles, I have scoliosis. I never thought it would be important to mention.” You frowned, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I’m sorry, I wish I had known. Either way, I should have checked in to make sure you felt good.” He lifted you carefully, his strong arms picking you up with ease. He placed you back on the mattress, tucking the covers in around you. “What can I get for you?”

“Maybe some painkillers and a heating pad.” You weren’t mad, just in pain, and thankfully… Charles was willing to care for you.

He rushed off out of the bedroom to gather your things. Roughly five minutes later he returned with some tea, medicine, and a heating pad for you to lay on. After you were situated, he climbed in beside you and carefully held you in the safety of his arms.

He drew patterns into the skin of your arm with his finger, tracing random shapes. You were 90% sure some of them were outlines of circuits. “Next time, we can go at your pace. Maybe even use a safe word, hm?” His voice was barely a whisper.

“I’d like that.”

—

LEWIS HAMILTON - LH44

Lewis was a sincere guy. He always asked for permission, and assured that you were comfortable and safe during the act of sex. Tonight was no different, except he was testing the waters to see how rough he could go.

He was unaware of your scoliosis, and you were equally unaware of how much of an issue it would pose. Your pleasure had softened into pain, and your moans started to sound more like desperate cries. It didn’t take long for him to notice.

He tried to keep a good eye on you, and when he realized the subtle change, he froze his movements. “Everything okay?” Lewis asked, brushing a stray tear from your eyes. You shook your head softly, and he pulled out, his focus now entirely on you. “Okay, okay… Shh..”

He scooped you up into his arms and carried you off the hard couch, and set you down on his bed. You could barely move any part of your body without an unbearable ache. He kissed your jaw and collarbones, soothing your muscles. “Talk to me, pretty. What’s going on?”

“My scoliosis is acting up.” You watched his brows furrow.

“I didn’t realize you had scoliosis.” You seemed to shrink down into yourself, feeling slightly ashamed for not saying anything. “Well now I know, and I won’t cross that line again.” He positioned both hands on your waist. “Can you roll onto your stomach? How about a back massage?”

—

CARLOS SAINZ - CS55

This was a new position for the both of you. You always liked missionary, because you liked to see the expressions Carlos made, and it was nice and relaxing that way. Sex felt so much more intimate, but after a particularly grueling race, he came back to your hotel room feeling a little more wound up than usual.

You ended up on your hands and knees on the bed, back slightly arched. You were in pain from the start, but the pleasure helped to mask it. Right up until the end. You managed to stick it out until you both came, leaving each of your satisfactory. It was after your climax that you collapsed against the uncomfortable hotel bed, quivering.

You felt Carlos lean over you, his chest brushing against the bareness of your back as he left little kisses all over the skin. “Sore, mi amor?” His accent was thick as he whispered against you. You shuddered, but it wasn’t like the typical one. Something felt off.

He lifted himself up and helped you tilt your head to the side, realizing you were in pain. He helped you roll onto your back and sit up, making sure your every move was supported. After giving you some water and helping you breathe again, you looked away and explained yourself. “Carlos, I should have told you earlier but I didn’t want to ruin the moment… I have scoliosis.”

“Ah, amor…” He kissed your temple, holding the side of your head with his large hand. “I don’t care about that, I just care that you’re okay and safe. In the future, tell me if I’m too rough. I’ll never be too out of it to listen to your wishes, especially during intimate moment.”

His sincere response made you feel emotional. You buried your face in his neck, letting him cradle you gently to ease the pain.

—

GEORGE RUSSELL - GR63

Your relationship with George had been practically perfect, but things were still going at a slower pace. Tonight in itself was a big step, because it was the first night you both showed interest in having sex— So you did.

You wanted to tell him, you really did, but it never came up naturally. It was hard to talk about, because even though it didn’t look too obvious, scoliosis made a lot of everyday things difficult for you. What you didn’t realize was that sex would be one of these things.

You initially were fine, but as George lost himself in the pleasure, the pain started to become more prominent. You seethed between gritted teeth, clinging to him tight. He took this as a sign to continue his efforts, letting the both of you climax simultaneously. He laid down beside you, rolling the two of you onto your sides as he held you.

You winced, tears finally spilling. Finally paying attention fully, George quickly realized and hopped out of bed, ready to do whatever you asked of him. “Y/N? What’s wrong? Can I get you anything?”

You almost laughed, but the pain was too prevalent. You just shook your head. “Scoliosis- Back hurts.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He helped you shift into a position that was comfortable, and sat down beside you. “Deep breaths with me, like this.”

Once he was certain you would be okay, he gathered some towels, fresh clothes, some hot tea, and put on your favorite movie while he gently massaged your aching back muscles, reassuring you that this would not be a repeat cause. It was safe to say you felt very loved that night.

—

OSCAR PIASTRI - OP81

It actually started as your idea. You and Oscar had always been fairly vanilla in bed, and while you loved it, you wanted to experiment more- Find out what you were really in to. He didn’t mind your request to be a bit rougher, even if it was awkward for him at first. He was used to being gentle with you.

You really did enjoy it at first, and then rough turned into hurtful, and your back started throbbing like hell. You scratched his bare back, for sure leaving deep marks from your nails. He groaned, head dipping down to bury into your neck. You whispered out a hoarse, “stop,” and he didn’t even have to think twice.

There was no safe word in place, but he didn’t want to take any chances. Oscar pulled out immediately, staring down at your face and searching for emotion. He could tell you were hurting, and your pain usually meant he felt pain too.

“What? What happened?” He stared down at you, and you slowly tried to reach up, but couldn’t really move your arm. Even that alone hurt like hell.

“Scoliosis. I think you went too rough,” Her tone wasn’t accusatory or mad, but he still felt awful. “Help me sit,” He did it without question, pulling your body up to sit against the headboards. He stood up and grabbed his hoodie off the floor, helping you pull it over your head.

“What can I get for you, baby?” He kissed your forehead, voice soft as he rubbed your arms soothingly. You shook your head.

“Nothing, it’ll pass… I just need to relax.” After dressing himself, he joined you on the bed and let you get settled in his arms.

“Maybe we should stick to being gentle.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

[absdollievu]

Just one more rep

gymrat!abby x reader

At first, it was just you, your playlist, and a stubborn streak of motivation.

The gym had become a second home—late-night sessions, early mornings, sweating out stress and the weight of the world. You weren’t trying to impress anyone. You just wanted to get stronger. To feel good in your skin. But then she started showing up.

Abby Anderson.

You noticed her the first day she walked in—tall, broad, muscle carved like art under a gray tank top and loose joggers. She had that kind of presence that filled a room, even one full of grunting lifters and clanking weights. She didn’t smile much. She was focused. Serious.

Intimidating as hell.

You didn’t expect her to notice you. Why would she? She moved like she owned the gym, headphones in, sleeves cut high to show off her arms. You figured you were just background noise.

Until you caught her looking.

The first time it happened, you thought you imagined it. She was mid-set on the chest press, and your eyes met in the mirror—just for a second. A flicker of curiosity in her gaze. Then she looked away.

But the next day? It happened again. And again after that.

She started choosing machines near yours. Not always, not obviously. But enough to notice.

You’d be on the lat pulldown, and suddenly she’d be at the seated row behind you. Stretching just a little longer than necessary. Sneaking glances in the mirror when she thought you weren’t looking. And when you switched machines? Sometimes, so did she.

You told yourself not to read into it. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was something.

Then came the little things.

One day, she offered you a sanitizing wipe after you realized the dispenser was empty.

“Here,” she said, voice low and rough, like she didn’t use it much outside of counting reps. “Got extras.”

Another time, she handed you a weight plate before you could ask.

“You were eyeing it,” she said with a shrug, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile.

You started to look forward to seeing her. Maybe more than you should’ve.

The glances became longer. Her workouts always seemed to sync up with yours. Some nights, you’d leave at the same time, trailing a few steps behind, never quite together—just close enough to feel it.

The tension built like a loaded barbell—slow, steady, undeniable.

Then, one Thursday night, everything shifted.

You’d just finished your workout, sweat still clinging to your skin as you stepped into the locker room. The gym was quiet, late. You peeled off your tank top, wiping down your arms, when you heard the door swing open.

Abby walked in.

Hair pulled back, hoodie slung over one shoulder, a duffel bag hanging from her hand. She didn’t say anything at first—just looked at you.

Not a glance this time. A look.

The kind that landed heavy, like gravity changed when she was near.

“You’ve been killing it lately,” she said finally, breaking the silence.

You blinked. “You… noticed?”

Her mouth curved slightly. “Hard not to.”

There was a pause, thick with possibility.

“I don’t usually do this,” she said, stepping closer, her voice softer now. “But I was wondering if you wanted a gym partner.”

Your heart skipped. “You mean…us?”

She shrugged, feigning casual. “You’ve got drive. Good form. You’re consistent. I could help you push further.”

She hesitated for a moment, then added, “And… I’d like to spend more time with you.”

That part hit harder than any set you’d done tonight.

You smiled, nerves buzzing. “Give me your number, then. So we can, y’know, coordinate workouts.”

She handed you her phone without hesitation, watching as you typed it in.

From that day on, Abby became your spotter, your coach, your reason to show up even on the days you felt like skipping. She corrected your form with hands that lingered just a little too long. She’d whisper encouragement that sent shivers down your spine.

You weren’t just getting stronger.

You were falling—slowly, steadily—into something you hadn’t planned for.

And judging by the way she looked at you, maybe she wanted more than just helping you get stronger

⸻

Part 2??

[cameronsbabydoll]

I don't know if you are comfortable with this couse it contains religion, but christian!reader telling S2!rafe she want to wait until marriage

christian!reader telling season two!rafe that she wants to wait until marriage 3

warnings: season two rafe cameron, religious guilt sorta? rafe wants to corrupt the reader

wc: 500 — a/n: hopefully this works! i’m not christian so i hope none of this is offensive to anyone. also i sorta imagined this with my bunny!reader but that’s just how i saw it!

you were breathing hard. back pressed against the passenger door, lips swollen from kissing him too long, too deep.

rafe sat back in the driver’s seat, legs spread, arm resting on the wheel like he hadn’t just had his hands all over you thirty seconds ago. his shirt was rumpled, hair a mess. that smug little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched you try to catch your breath.

“what’s the matter, angel?” he drawled. “you always start something you don’t finish?”

your face burned. you looked away.

“i’m not—” you swallowed, voice tight. “i’m not doing that with you. or anyone. not before marriage.”

he blinked. for a second, he just stared.

then he laughed. a low, slow, absolutely entertained kind of laugh.

“you’re kidding.”

“i’m not.”

his tongue pressed into his cheek, grin stretching wider as he tilted his head, eyes running over your face like he was trying to see it—this perfect little confession he’d just been handed.

“you’re serious?” he said. “like… bible serious?”

you nodded once, fingers gripping the hem of your dress.

“damn,” he muttered, leaning back with a whistle. “of course you are. that’s why you get all flustered when i look at you too long. why you squeak every time i say something dirty.”

you didn’t respond.

but that just made him grin harder.

“shoulda known,” he went on, cocky now, eyes gleaming. “little church girl. all sweet and quiet. probably been prayin’ for a guy like me, huh?”

you looked at him then—genuinely startled.

he smirked. “you didn’t think i knew how to play nice with girls like you?”

“i don’t want you to play anything,” you snapped, even though your voice shook.

“oh, i know,” he said smoothly, leaning over the console now, voice low and dark. “you don’t want me to touch you. don’t want me to make you feel anything you can’t confess on sunday.”

you opened your mouth, but he was already there—his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he owned you.

“but see, that just makes it worse,” he whispered. “'cause now i want to. real bad.”

his breath was hot against your cheek.

“you say you’re saving yourself, and all i can think about is how pretty you’ll look when you finally stop pretending you don’t want it.”

your eyes fluttered shut. you hated how your stomach flipped. how your thighs pressed together, instinctively.

“i’m not pretending,” you said, barely above a whisper.

rafe tilted his head, watching you like a hawk.

“no?” he smirked. “then why are you still in my truck, sweetheart?”

you didn’t have an answer for that.

and he didn’t push it.

just leaned back again, grinning to himself like he already knew the ending to this story.

“you keep saving yourself,” he said, flipping his keys in his palm. “i’ll be right here when you change your mind.”

and the worst part?

you didn’t tell him to take you home.

[lunarflare77]

GAH. Uh. Did not know those words could jump scare me still. Huh

So, the Fury was the end of my very first route, which was a FASCINATING end compared to the later ones and honestly a big part of why I haven’t been sure I want to replay it—the game is AMAZING and I love it, but starting a new game after finishing my first run, which felt almost perfect for what it did feels…weird.

Anyways. Spoilers for people who care, I guess?

So, I got to the Fury from the Tower, refusing to back down. And I’m not totally sure what choice I made with the Fury, but it led to me getting the end where she decides to unravel herself as well as you, so that she can recreate a perfect whole, instead of the broken thing you stopping her kid-ascension left her as. Which is where the Shifting Mound steps in and collects her—literally mid-process. According to Steam, this particular ending seems rare and I think is separate from the other endings you can get with the Fury?

So I guess I’m not sure how the other routes would have felt, to get them for the first time—would I have been more surprised? Less? But the other routes always had a sense of…knowing what was coming, I guess. I wasn’t usually surprised at the end, after the first one. (I also tended to less violent routes after the Fury).

So the Shifting Mound stepping in mid-scene and basically saving me, even if I died shortly thereafter, and THAT being the introduction to some of what was REALLY happening?

Plus I mean…just, the Fury herself. The bloodlust, the anger, the horror of being unwound over and over (fortunately my sense of detachment from it being a game and being really interested in the game was enough for me to stomach it), the art, her beating heart in her open chest…it was so interesting. And then, after all of that, the horror unknowingly inflicted on her, the horror she inflicts on us back, she realizes—correctly, actually—that if she merged with us she would be whole. But is, again, stopped mid-process.

And then she asks the Shifting Mound to let us remember her, and that after all of that, she loved us still (along with all of the other complicated emotions).

I don’t know, it was just such a strong introduction to the game, and so so good, even if it was different than any of the other routes I went through after it.

“are you still there? are you still you?”

[katsbakugou]

𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆

— 𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒂 𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒔𝒖𝒌𝒊'𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒐 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌, 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒀/𝒏 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒊𝒎, 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒙 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚.

⋆☆　 husband!katsuki bakugo x wife!reader

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆　warning : swearing , p in v , pussy eating , blow job , fluff , comfort , MDNI ! , ( let me know if I missed anything ! )

•❣•୨୧　wc : 2.6k

-ˋˏ authors note : I have no words. Just enjoy! 😭

Katsuki had started working later hours, which meant he was coming home much later than usual. It didn’t worry Y/n too much—she knew their schedules rarely aligned. Still, Katsuki always did his best to make time for her, no matter how tough things got.

It was one of those nights—Katsuki was working late again, another shift that wouldn’t see him home until 2 a.m. His sleep schedule was wrecked, and his body screamed with fatigue, every muscle tight and worn down. Y/n could see the toll it was taking on him. Even with her own packed schedule, she gave everything she could to support him. She did whatever was in her power to ease his burden, to bring him even a small moment of peace. Katsuki stumbled through the door at 3:30 a.m., exhaustion etched into every line of his face, and his body weighed down by stress and fatigue. Y/n was still awake—she had made sure to cook something so he wouldn’t go to bed on an empty stomach. In his worn-down state, Katsuki called out, “I’m home, sweetie,” his voice heavy with pure exhaustion. “Welcome home, baby,” Y/n said softly, her voice tinged with concern. “Come eat—I made something light, easy for you to chew and digest.” With that, she turned and headed into the kitchen, the apron Katsuki had brought her from overseas. "Thank you," he says with a sigh, though his voice carries a hint of affection. "Of course, baby," Y/n replies with a warm smile as she walks over, offering him a steaming bowl of udon and a plate of onigiri. Katsuki accepts the food with a grateful nod, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "Thanks for the food," he murmurs before digging in, quickly stuffing his face.

As Katsuki ate, Y/n watched him for a moment before turning to tidy up the kitchen. She glanced back occasionally, noting how his body seemed to relax with each bite of the warm udon. A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she caught sight of him, completely immersed in his meal. Katsuki looked up, brows slightly furrowed in confusion. "What?" he asked, his usual stern expression in place. "Nothing," Y/n giggled, eyes lingering on the tiny bit of food clinging to the corner of his mouth. Katsuki scowled lightly, still unsure why she was laughing. "What, woman?" he asked again, voice firm but curious. "You're that hungry? What happened to the bento I made you this afternoon?" Y/n asked, stepping closer with a teasing smile. She grabbed a napkin and gently wiped the corner of his mouth. Katsuki froze, eyes locked on her as she moved. His cheeks flushed, a soft pink creeping up to the tips of his ears as he stood there, quietly flustered. "I shared some with Deku," he mumbled, glancing away. "Ahh, that explains it, hubby," Y/n chuckled. "You had a tiny piece of cilantro on the corner of your mouth, silly." She turned away, slipping off her apron with a satisfied grin. "Could’ve said something," Katsuki muttered, his tone low but clearly flustered. "And I did," she teased, tossing him a wink. "Tomorrow’s your day off, right?" Y/n asked casually as she dried the plates and set them in the dish rack.

"Yeah, but I’ve still got a ton of damn reports to finish," Katsuki grunted. "Is that so?" Y/n replied, eyeing him curiously as she noticed his body tense again. Without another word, Katsuki walked over to the sink, washing his dishes and helping her tidy up the kitchen. "Echo dropped off stacks of paperwork from today’s mission," he started, his voice low and irritated. "There was a damn terror attack later in the day. Deku, Shoto, and I had to clean up the mess. We ended up catching those idiot villains, but it was a pain in the ass." He rambled on while Y/n sat nearby, listening with a soft smile as he vented. "I’m glad my strong husband saved the day with his two best friends," she said sweetly. Katsuki let out a grunt at her words. "They're not my friends—icyhot and the damn nerd," he muttered. Y/n gave his arm a quick smack. "Hey! Speak nicely, damn it!" she scolded, hands on her hips as she gave him a pointed look. “Damn, woman—that actually hurt,” Katsuki winced, rubbing the spot on his arm where she’d smacked him, still eyeing her with a slight glare. “Deal with it, big guy,” Y/n replied with a dramatic eye roll, drying off the last dish before heading upstairs. Katsuki trailed after her, still grumbling under his breath. As she opened the door to their shared bedroom, Y/n glanced back. “How about we stay in tomorrow? Just relax and catch up with each other?” “Sounds good to me,” Katsuki replied, stepping inside. “I’ll knock out those damn reports in the morning—just need to get the stupid things signed.”

Katsuki settled onto the bed, and his eyes followed her as she began slipping out of her clothes. "I'll be right back," Y/n said as she made her way into the bathroom. A few minutes later, Katsuki followed in, grunting as he peeled off his clothes and stepped into the shower beside her. Y/n looked up, surprised by his sudden appearance. "Got lonely," he muttered, barely meeting her eyes as he reached for the soap and began helping her wash up. After the shower, Katsuki and Y/n began settling in for the night. "Hey, Katsu," Y/n said softly, pulling one of his shirts over her small frame, "do you ever think about having kids someday?" Katsuki slid into bed beside her after setting his alarm for 9 a.m., the soft glow of the screen fading out. "I do," he answered honestly. "But now’s probably not the right time… not with how crazy our schedules are lately." Y/n gave a small nod, understanding, as she nestled in beside him. Katsuki leaned in, pressing a soft, warm kiss to her lips, full of quiet tenderness. Y/n returned it gently.

"Mmm," Katsuki hummed, letting out a low groan as his hand squeezed her side. Y/n deepened the kiss slowly, drawn in by lust. Katsuki’s hands slowly trailed up her body, cupping her chest with a firm squeeze that drew a quiet moan from her lips. "Katsu," Y/n breathed out between moans, her voice melting into the heat of their deepening kiss. The moment grew more intense, rougher, until she found herself lying on her back beneath him. Katsuki’s lips left hers, trailing down her skin until he reached her chest. Her head tilted back, soft moans slipping past her lips as her fingers tangled in his messy ash-blonde hair. He smirked against her skin, taking in the sight of her. Katsuki’s lips trailed lower, pressing soft, lingering kisses along her stomach before moving down to her thighs. He nipped at the sensitive skin playfully, then soothed each spot with gentle kisses, working his way toward the inside of her thigh. Y/n gasped at the sensation, biting back a moan as heat rushed through her. Her breath hitched when his lips brushed more intimately against her center, sending shivers up her spine. A soft whimper escaped her when she felt his fingers slip beneath the fabric of her now-soaked panties. "Katsu…" she whispered, voice trembling with anticipation. He let out a low chuckle, rich and teasing, before pushing the fabric aside with slow intent.

Katsuki slid his middle finger between her folds, drawing out a sharp gasp from Y/n as pleasure pulsed through her. “Katsu, please…” she whimpered, voice trembling with need. He glanced up at her, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. “Please what?” he asked, eyes drinking in the sight of her unraveling. “Please touch me,” she breathed, desperate. “Mmm, I don’t know,” he teased, fingers still lazily brushing her heat. “Has my princess been good enough to deserve it?” Her hips shifted, a soft, needy cry slipping out. “Please, Katsu… I need you.” Chuckling low in his throat, Katsuki gave in. “So damn needy for me.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her soft, aching pussy, letting his mouth work its magic. Each slow lick, every teasing suck on her clit sent her spiraling, her mind slipping into bliss as his tongue pushed her closer to the edge. “Oh fuck—Katsuki,” Y/n gasped, her back arching as pleasure surged through her. Katsuki’s mouth stayed busy, lips and tongue working her over with relentless attention. A sharp moan escaped her as he slid two fingers—his middle and ring—deep inside, thrusting with an urgent rhythm that sent her senses spiraling. “Ahhh, Katsuki!” she cried out, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging gently. He let out a low groan in response, the sound vibrating against her, only driving her further toward the edge. “I’m—ahhh—coming!” Y/n screamed, the tension in her body snapping as waves of pleasure overwhelmed her. Her legs trembled, her entire body shaking with the intensity. Gasping for air, she barely noticed Katsuki rise above her, his lips finding hers, letting her taste the remnants of herself on his mouth.

"Mmmm, you taste good," Katsuki whispered, his voice low, sending shivers down her spine. His fingers brushed against her sore clit, and she winced, a mix of pleasure and pain coursing through her. It was a sensation she had come to crave. Y/n sat up, her eyes locked onto Katsuki's. She pushed him down onto the bed, the soft fabric cradling him as she lowered herself to get a better view. His grey sweats clung to him, outlining the impressive bulge that was straining against the fabric. A wicked smile spread across her face as she pulled down his sweats and boxers, revealing his cock, which sprang free, eager and ready. Y/n licked her lips, her mouth watering at the sight. She gripped onto him, her fingers wrapping around his shaft, feeling the warmth and weight of him in her hand. She leaned in, planting soft kisses along the length of his cock, teasing him with her lips. Katsuki groaned, the sound deep and primal, echoing in the quiet room. "Princess..." he breathed, his voice thick with desire. She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You like that, don’t you?" Katsuki grunts, trying to figure a way to respond. His breath hitched as she continued teasing his friend. She took her time, taking every part of him as every sound that escaped his lips run LG like a choir into her ears. Katsuki's body responded to her touch. The way his hip slightly thrust upward as his tip hit the back of her throat. As she continued to suck, she could feel the twitch within him. Y/n pulled back slightly, not letting him come to finish. "Tell me what you want, Katsuki," she teased, her voice a sultry whisper.

He groaned again, his hands gripping the sheets as he fought to maintain control. "I want you to take me, princess. I want to fucking feel you." Her heart raced at his words. She positioned herself above him, her body hovering closely. With a slow, steady motion, she lowered herself onto him, feeling him fill her completely. A gasp escaped her lips as she sank down, his huge cock taking up every gap, every spot in her. Leaving no room for air. Katsuki's hands found her hips, guiding her as she began to move, and their bodies began to rock. "Fuck yes, just like that, oh shit" Katsuki grunted loudly as Y/n picked up the pace. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure through her, and she could feel the way his tip was touching her uterus on repeat. Katsuki's groans filled the air, causing him to grip harder onto her sides more tightly, helping her keep in motion. "Fuck woman! You feel so good. So tight, this pussy is mines- ughhh" he gasped, his eyes rolled away. She could feel her own release approaching, the heat pooling in her core as she rode him harder, faster. "Katsuki... I’m so close," she moaned, her voice barely above a whisper. "Shit, me to princess. Just a little more, too tight," he urged, his grip on her tightening as he flipped over to be on top, taking in possession. His hips snapped into her, causing her to scream in pleasure. The two continued, Katsukithrust soon became sloppy as Y/n felt the way he was twitching inside of her. "Fuck- cum with me." Katsuki moans as ge picks up his speed. With one final thrust, they both tumbled over the edge.

"Katsuki!!" Y/n cried out, the sensation washing over her like a tidal wave, and she could feel Katsuki's release milking her insides. With every drop deepening into her core, there was nothing to be left out. Katsuki heaves as his sweaty palms let go of Y/n, pulling out of her core only for her to whine softly from the lost. As they both came down from their high, Katsuki fell down beside her as him and Y/n gaps for air. “You were a bit tight,” Katsuki teased. “Oh, shut the fuck up,” Y/n rolled her eyes, her tone playful. Katsuki chuckled softly. “I’m just messing with you,” he said, scooping her into his arms. “Maybe we should think about starting our family now. “Yeah, maybe we should,” Y/n smiled, resting her head against his bare chest. “I love you, princess,” his voice was gentle, almost vulnerable. “I love you too, Katsu,” Y/n replied with a smile. As the night settled in, the two of them drifted off to sleep, nestled in each other’s arms. Just before Katsuki succumbed to slumber, his mind wandered back to their memories. How had he gotten so lucky to have her as his wife.

[misskingshit]

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘬 summary: two different worlds, two different people, two different desires...or maybe not so much. note: i love the cliche kook x pogue!reader my favorite definitely, xoxo.

The sun was going down, the day was ending, this was probably your favorite time of the day.

The daily routine during this summer.

First JJ and you would drop John B off at the Cameron mansion because he had to work, then you and JJ would go surfing, he would drop you off at your job, a music store, and after a while he would pick you up there and then pick up John B. Some days Ki was added, who lately was working with his father all day, and Pope, it goes without saying that he was only studying to enter the university.

"Wait, I have to finish packing up a couple of things and then we can go" says John B giving the van door a light knock, starting to walk away.

The blonde replied "...take your time, anyway this dumbass needs me to keep teaching her how to surf" he brings his face closer to yours in a mocking way.

"Shut up, you're just jealous because I surf better than you" he looks at you mockingly "I only fell once, only once" you pushed him more. He took you by the knees carrying you on his shoulder, you took advantage of that opportunity to start hitting his butt "put me down stupid blonde" you laughed "baby, if you keep touching my ass I don’t know what could happen".

It was a joke.

You knew it.

He knew it.

You were the perfect pair of siblings, you couldn't live without each other, but you didn't feel anything beyond platonic... I mean, yeah, you fucked a few times... several times, but you both knew it was just for fun.

There was only one person who couldn't stand what you two had, someone who knows they shouldn't feel that way but can't help it.

You and JJ can feel how big footsteps sounded more and more towards you, your first guess was that it was John B, but the footsteps resounded quite decisively on the floor, not at all like your friend's common calm step.

"Rafe" sighed when you saw him, somewhat scared, you knew well that the cute blond and the big dickhead didn't get along very well and that most of their encounters ended with you acting as JJ's personal nurse.

Because pogues always first, always.

"Look man, we don't want any trouble, we just came to pick up..."

"Sarah is calling for you, she's in the living room" Rafe cuts your friend off and just keeps his jaw clenched, staring at you.

You knew damn well that Sarah was not at home, you assumed that he wanted to tell you something that from the look on his face it would not be good.

You nodded your head, then turned your head to JJ "could you wait for me a few minutes?" you asked him.

You weren't in the mood to take any shit that Rafe tells ya, not with everything you've been feeling lately.

"There's no need for him to wait for you…" Cameron said.

You simply kept your gaze on the beach-boy, ignoring the rich-boy "please?"

"Always" he said simply looking at you.

Rafe followed your steps with determination, even more annoyed by the fact that the blond was still waiting for you outside.

"Something happened?" you asked once inside the house.

"I don't know, you tell me, do you have a boyfriend now?" he smiles sarcastically. "what the fuck are you talking about?" you frowned.

The tension was clear, you realized that he was upset, but you did not know why.

"The pogue garbage that is waiting for you outside...that's what the fuck I'm talking about" he answers even angrier.

You raised your eyebrows, clearly offended. "That's not what I meant," he corrected himself instantly.

"I don’t even know why am I surprised" you laughed sarcastically "not you, ‘m not talking about you" he says quickly.

"I hate to break it to you but let me remember you that I am also a pogue garbage, which reminds me...we should stop...what we do, whatever we have, it ends now" breaks your heart, but you knew it was the wisest decision for your well-being.

His heart broke too, but he wasn't the type to give up so quickly, definitely not. He always gets what he wants.

And he wants you.

"No" he said firmly.

You were trying to hold back a couple of tears, you didn't want him to see you cry, not him.

"What are you gonna do now? pay me to sleep with you, sorry Rafe I'm not a whore you can sleep with whenever you want and then kick out" you said quickly and in a strong voice "and then leave me or avoid me like some kind of bitch that's crazy over you."

"It's not like that..." he sighs "what the fuck are you talking about, it's not like that" he starts to get closer to you but you just move away.

"This doesn't make sense, we're not going to get anywhere Rafe, it's pointless" you raised your shoulders.

"We should just talk more calmly, okay? I want to do things right," Rafe said desperately, moving his hands like he always did when he was uneasy. "There is nothing you can do, for God's sake I don't even know what I was thinking from the beginning" you brought your hands to your face "this is wrong, very wrong, you are bad, a bad person" at this point you were already crying , inevitably Rafe felt like the worst piece of trash "you always look for conflict with my friends, you're into super shady, weird shit" you breathed a little "just... every angle of you is bad." There were a few seconds of silence, he didn't know what to say, you were right in everything you had said, what could he argue? "I know…and I'm very sorry, but I don't know what to do to make you forgive me, to be with me." "Just…don’t make this harder” you sighed and just like that, you left.

------

But again…it’s Rafe fucking Cameron, he gets what he wants.

And Oh Lord, he was gonna get you back.

[bibli0thecary]

empty table ౨ৎ

pairing: baker! joel miller x reader

In a world with no outbreak, Joel Miller runs a popular bakery—grumpy, flour-dusted, and way too serious about sourdough. His daughters, Sarah and Ellie, are either helping or causing chaos behind the counter.

Then there’s you—a stressed-out grad student who starts doing your thesis in his cozy café. You only came for the pastries… and the baker.

read more: baker! joller miller series

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

It was a quarter past ten, and the damn bell hadn’t rung.

Not once.

Joel glanced at the door for what had to be the eighth time in three minutes. The usual morning crowd had thinned out, replaced by the quiet lull of late-morning regulars and the hum of the espresso machine. Ellie was arguing with Sarah about putting whipped cream on everything, and the twins working the register were too busy bickering over the playlist to notice how distracted he was.

He wiped his hands on his apron and stared at your usual spot. Still empty.

Again.

“Maybe she’s got class,” Sarah said behind him, unprompted but obviously reading his mind. “Or maybe—just maybe—she realized she can’t finish a thesis on lemon scones alone.”

Joel grunted. “She always comes in on Tuesdays. Same time.”

Ellie grinned like a cat who smelled weakness. “You miss her, big guy?”

He rolled his eyes. “She just... brings in steady business, is all.”

“Oh totally,” Sarah chimed in. “You give all our ‘steady business’ customers free scones and soup when they skip lunch, huh?”

“Didn’t realize lemon scones were a love language,” Ellie added with a snort. “But hey, you do you, Baker Daddy.”

Joel paused mid-reach for the bread knife.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry. Daddy Baker.”

He turned to face them both with his best patented Grumpy Old Man glare, but it only made them laugh harder.

“You’re both insufferable,” he muttered, retreating to the back. Not because he was flustered, no, but because the oven timer was beeping. That’s all.

Definitely not because he kept checking his phone in secret.

By noon, it was starting to gnaw at him.

You hadn’t texted Sarah. You hadn’t messaged Ellie. No little ping from you asking for “your usual table,” or a smiley face followed by Save me a scone before I cry.

You weren’t just a customer anymore. Hadn’t been for a while, if Joel was honest with himself. You were part of the rhythm of his week. The soft-spoken chaos to his gruff order. A quiet corner in his noisy life.

And now, without warning, you were missing.

His hands itched with the need to do something—knead dough, fix something broken, hell, rearrange the spice shelf if it’d shut his brain up. But instead, he found himself cleaning your table even though it was already spotless. Just in case. Just in—

Jingle.

The bell rang.

He looked up so fast he almost dropped the tray of croissants.

But it wasn’t you.

It wasn’t you again an hour later either.

Sarah came up behind him during closing, holding the broom like a staff.

“You know,” she said, not unkindly, “if you’re that worried, you could always text her.”

“I ain’t worried.”

“Right. Just cleaning the same table four times in one day for fun.”

He scowled.

Then sighed.

Then glanced at his phone, thumb hovering.

He wouldn’t text. Not yet. Maybe you just had a long day. Maybe life got in the way.

But if you weren’t back tomorrow…

He was gonna hunt you down with a basket of lemon scones and pretend it was strictly business.

Definitely not because his chest felt too damn quiet without you in it.

────୨ৎ────

taglist: @lcvespedro

[reit0o]

CALEB'S ACCIDENTAL DEBUT

✎ pairings- caleb x f!reader ✎ wc- 1,037 words ✎ summary- caleb was just a kid with a grudge against a boy group. he didn’t mean to become their biggest competition (or a lowkey fan). (old days) authors note. hi this is my first time properly posting on tumblr so I'm still trying to navigate my way around. this is just a silly hc I have on the origin of caleb's dancing skills, bc I can totally see a jealous young caleb sweating out in his room to impress mc. anways enjoy reading <3

Caleb didn't even bother hiding the sour expression on his face. He glared at the TV screen, eyes shooting daggers at the current obsession that had somehow bewitched her.

Linkon's newest boy group had taken the nation by storm. Despite debuting only recently, they’d already amassed a massive female fan base — and she was no exception.

He watched as a blue-haired member winked at the camera, earning a high-pitched squeal from her. Caleb couldn't for the life of him see what was so special about them. His eyes narrowed as they launched into another round of overly energetic, syncopated choreography

Surely, these guys weren’t that impressive.

Every day after school, she would grab him by the arm and drag him home, eager to catch their latest performance. Each stage had its own over-the-top concept—one week it was soft schoolboy crushes, the next, dark brooding themes with vampires, demons and angels. Sometimes even dyeing their hair in bold, eye-catching colours to fit the theme.

It would be all that she would talk about on the walk home. She’d pull out new merch, showing off the photo cards she exchanged with her friends at lunch, and gush about how handsome one of the members looked in a baseball uniform.

It made Caleb want to pluck out his eyebrows one by one, but he always made sure to plaster on a smile.

Caleb hadn't minded her new obsession—at first. But when she started skipping games with him, or nearly choking on her food just to finish faster and catch their performance, that’s when it started to bother him.

"Pipsqueak, you promised to hang out with me this afternoon", he whined, a ball in hand.

"Not now, Caleb, I'll play with you later", she swatted him away without looking up, her eyes locked on the screen as she kicked her feet in the air.

Caleb had been the main male figure in her life for as long as he could remember. And now, all of a sudden, that spot had been snatched away—by seven men in glittery jackets.

He felt bitter.

He wasn't used to feeling cast aside.

It wasn't the first occurrence either. Lately, every time he suggested something for them to do together, she would just absentmindedly turn him away, barely listening to what he had in mind.

That had become Caleb’s usual routine lately—alone, playing by himself. Like now, in the backyard, muttering under his breath while half-heartedly kicking the ball against the wall. Every now and again, a soft giggle would escape through the kitchen window.

Caleb huffed.

"What does she even see in them anyway? It's not like they're even that good-looking. Anyone can throw on fancy clothes and sing and dance—I'll show her."

That night, Caleb went to bed early. Or at least, that’s what he told her. In truth, he was in his room, typing their name into the search bar, staring at the group that had stolen all her attention.

Over the next week, Caleb made it his life's mission to memorise all the dances—purely out of spite. Every evening, he'd lock this door and throw himself into memorising each routine, determined to hit every mark perfectly.

“Watch me outdance every single one of them! Let’s see who she talks about then.”

She’d sometimes ask why he was always so sweaty before bed, and he’d just laugh it off, brushing her off with some excuse.

But he had a goal. He had to burn the dances into his memory. He needed to prove that he was better than those ridiculous men in their ugly outfits.

Sometimes she’d hum their songs around the house, singing to herself as she moved from room to room. And slowly, almost without realising, he started humming along. Every time he caught himself, he was mortified. He’d quietly slip out of the room before she could notice.

As much as he hated to admit it… underneath all the glitter and flare, their songs were kind of catchy.

One quiet afternoon, Caleb was clearing the remains of their lunch while the radio played one of their latest songs. He floated around the room, softly singing to himself, slipping in a move here and there without thinking.

He was so caught up, he didn’t hear her stumble into the kitchen.

"AHA!!"

He froze.

"Caleb, I didn't know you were secretly a fanboy", she said smugly, wiggling her shoulders like she’d caught him red-handed.

Caleb’s face turned bright red. "N-No! It's just cause this song’s everywhere! And you play it all the time around the house.”

To his surprise, she didn't tease him further. Instead, she turned up the volume and jumped, singing along at the top of her lungs.

Caleb watched her flail her arms, wildly missing half the choreography—if he was being honest. But she didn't care. She was smiling, beaming, singing her heart out.

And in that moment, Caleb realised something: sharing her joy felt a lot better than trying to compete for it.

So they sang together in the kitchen, off-key and laughing, butchering the ad-libs as they made their afternoon snack.

Their afternoons quickly turned into a mix of lighthearted teasing and non-stop chatter. She’d pull up funny montages, encouraging him to watch, rambling about her favourite members and their different personalities.

Caleb smiled along—this time, a genuine smile, happy to see her talk so passionately.

Did he still dislike them?

Yes.

Very much.

But not as much as before—especially after seeing how happy they made her.

They even started dressing up together, re-enacting scenes from music videos (her idea, obviously) and filming their dramatic reenactments. Caleb was always cast as the hopeless romantic, chasing after the girl—played by her, of course.

They didn’t get many views. But Caleb, hidden under his covers at night, would watch them anyway.

The view count crept up, little by little, each day.

One morning, as he was shovelling cereal into his mouth, she shoved her phone into his face.

"Look, Caleb! We already have 42 views!! We're gonna be popular in no time.”

She beamed, eyes sparkling with excitement. “One day we'll be famous enough… and we'll get to see them in real life!"

[st4rlvr]

Chasing You || CSN

I think the worst part wasn’t watching him fall for someone else.

It was realizing that somewhere along the way, I’d become easy to leave.

San had always been there. The kind of presence that didn’t need announcing. He showed up like sunlight through a window — soft, steady, unnoticed until it was gone. People talked. Said he liked me. Said he had for years. I brushed it off. Not because I didn’t care — I think deep down I knew I did — but because I never let myself think about it too long. I didn’t date. Never had. I always told myself I wasn’t built for all that messy, complicated stuff. But maybe that was just an excuse.

They told him there was no shot. That I’d never feel the same way. And maybe they were right. Maybe I didn’t feel the same.

Maybe I felt something worse.

Something messier.

Something that couldn’t be named until it was too late.

I noticed the shift when he stopped texting first. When “let’s hang out” turned into “I’ll let you know.” When his laugh — the one I knew by heart — was being shared with someone else across the room.

He looked happy. And she looked at him the way I never let myself.

Because I was scared. Because I didn’t know what to do with feelings that sat so quietly in my chest.

When he told me about her, he didn’t say it like it was news. He said it like he was already halfway gone, like he was easing me into the idea that I didn’t matter the same way anymore.

I told him I was happy for him. And maybe some of me was. But most of me was just… tired. Tired of pretending it didn’t sting. Tired of missing him while he was still standing in front of me.

The truth is, I did like him.

I liked the way he always waited for me to finish talking, even when I rambled.

I liked the way he remembered the little things — how I liked my coffee, how I hated thunderstorms, how I hummed when I was nervous.

I liked the way he looked at me, like I was something.

And now, he looks at her like that.

We were never together. Not really. So I don’t know if I have the right to feel like something ended.

But it did.

And I think the saddest part of all is that when he moved on, I didn’t just lose a chance at love.

I lost my best friend.

And I don’t know how to tell him I miss him without making it sound like I want him back.

Even though… maybe I do.

⸻

It had been over ten years.

I was in my late twenties now, living in a different city, with a different kind of life. The kind of life you build slowly and half-heartedly when you’re trying to prove to yourself that you’re over something — or someone — you never really had.

I dated.

I tried.

But nothing was like him.

It wasn’t that they weren’t kind or sweet or handsome. It’s just… none of them made me feel like me the way San used to. None of them looked at me like I was a song they couldn’t stop humming.

I thought I had moved on. Really, I did. I knew San had. He’d been with her for over a decade. Her name was everywhere — tagged in photos, mentioned in mutual friends’ stories, tied to his smile. They were getting married. I saw the post. Simple. Elegant. He asked. She said yes.

I stared at it longer than I should have, then turned my phone off and went to sleep. Or tried to.

So when I got the call from Wooyoung, I didn’t believe it at first.

“San called it off,” he said, like it was just another update.

“What?”

“The wedding. It’s not happening.”

I paused. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

There was silence, but it was loud. Everything in my head started spinning — memories, old regrets, half-buried what-ifs.

I thought about how sure they had seemed. How in love he looked. I thought about all the years that passed, all the chances I didn’t take. And for a split second, I wondered if maybe this was the universe offering me one last chance to make sense of what never did.

But then I stopped myself.

It wasn’t my business. Not anymore. Whatever had happened between them — that was their story. Just because something ended didn’t mean it began again. And even if it did… where would I even begin?

I hung up the phone and sat there for a long time. My apartment was quiet, and so was my heart, but in that aching, tired kind of way. I didn’t cry. I didn’t smile. I just sat.

Because I didn’t know how to feel.

Was I relieved? Sad? Hopeful? Guilty for even feeling anything?

I had spent so long convincing myself that it was over — that he was over — that I didn’t know what to do with the tiniest spark that flickered up in my chest at the thought of maybe.

Maybe he still thought about me.

Maybe he wondered too.

Maybe this wasn’t the end of everything — just the start of something we’d never had the courage to explore.

Or maybe… maybe some people are just meant to haunt each other quietly, forever.

It was a Thursday. Gray skies, light drizzle, the kind of day that already felt too heavy before anything even happened.

I wasn’t expecting anyone — much less him.

But there he was.

San.

On my doorstep.

He looked different, older in the way we all were now — sharper jaw, tired eyes — but still him. Still the boy who used to sit next to me in silence just to be close. Still the boy I never had the guts to love out loud.

I froze. My heart practically stopped.

“How… how did you—?”

“Wooyoung,” he said, breathing hard. “Of course.”

Of course.

I stepped aside, unsure if I should even let him in, but he walked in anyway — like his body moved faster than his thoughts.

He looked around once, like he couldn’t believe I was real. Like he didn’t know whether to cry or scream or both.

“I’m sorry for just showing up,” he said, voice shaking, “but I couldn’t stop thinking, and if I didn’t say it, I was going to lose my mind.”

I swallowed. “Say what?”

He stepped closer, eyes burning into mine. “Do you think of me too? Do you think of me the way I think of you?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Because what do you say to the ghost that never really left?

His jaw clenched. His voice cracked, but his words came hard and fast.

“Y/N, I can’t keep pretending like what happened between us didn’t hurt me.” His fists clenched at his sides. “I love you. I love YOU.”

He shouted it like it hurt to say.

And maybe it did.

Tears welled in his eyes, and I knew the anger wasn’t really anger — it was pain. All of it was. Years of unspoken things, all crashing into one brutal moment.

“You don’t get to do this now,” I finally snapped, voice rising. “You don’t get to show up now and throw that in my face like I didn’t spend years wondering if I made a mistake! You moved on, San. You left.”

“I waited! I waited for something — anything — from you! And all I ever got was silence!”

“Because I was scared!” I shouted, the words cutting my throat on the way out. “I was scared of losing you, of ruining what we had — and I lost you anyway!”

His tears spilled over, mine not far behind. And suddenly we were both yelling. Shouting through ten years of built-up regret, of longing, of missed chances. The kind of yelling that only happens when the silence has lived too long.

“Do you know what it felt like?” he yelled. “Loving you and knowing I was never enough for you to say it back?”

“You were everything to me!” I cried. “And I was too much of a coward to admit it! Don’t you get it? You were it. You were it.”

Silence.

His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t breathe. I could feel the pain radiating off of him like heat, like it was mine too — because it was. It always had been.

“I don’t know what this is anymore,” he said finally, voice barely a whisper. “But I know I never stopped loving you. Not even for a second.”

And I broke. I broke in the way people do when they finally let go of pretending.

I took a step forward, shaky and small.

“I never stopped either.”

His eyes searched mine — wild, red-rimmed, desperate. Before I could say anything else, he grabbed my face like he was afraid I’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough. And then he kissed me.

Rough. Unfiltered. All emotions and trembling hands.

It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t pretty — it was years of love and longing and pain crashing together in one breathless, heartbreaking moment. It was him pouring everything he couldn’t say into that kiss, and me drinking it in like it was the only thing that had ever tasted right.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged, voice shaking.

“Y/N… it was never her.”

I stared at him, lips still parted, eyes wide. My heart felt like it might shatter.

“I wasn’t happy,” he said, chest heaving. “Do you know how often we fought? She knew. She knew it was you. I didn’t have to say it — she saw it in everything I didn’t say.”

His voice cracked, and his hand dropped to my waist like he needed the anchor.

“I proposed because I don’t even fucking know — I thought maybe if I committed, it would stop hurting. I wanted to be done. I wanted to move on from you.”

His voice broke entirely, and he looked at me like he was begging me to understand.

“But I can’t. Not when you’re still here.”

My hands gripped his shirt, knuckles white.

“I’ve always been here, San,” I whispered. “You just stopped looking.”

His eyes slammed shut, and he let out a shaky breath, leaning into me like he needed to fall into something real. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him like I should’ve done ten years ago.

Because after all the pain, all the silence, all the almosts — he was still him.

And I was still his.

Even if we never said it before — our hearts had known all along.

We didn’t get it all back at once.

That first night, we didn’t make some big, sweeping promise. There were no dramatic declarations, no sudden fixes. Just the two of us sitting on my couch, knees touching, hearts still raw. His hand found mine, fingers lacing slowly, like he was asking, Can I still hold you like this?

And I let him.

He stayed the night — not in the way we used to dream about, but in the real way. We fell asleep fully clothed, tangled in old blankets, with the TV playing low and his head resting against my shoulder. It wasn’t romantic. It was comforting. Familiar.

The next morning, we talked. Really talked.

About what happened. About her. About the time we lost. About how love — the kind that sits quietly in the corners of your life — never truly leaves. He told me about the ring he never really wanted to buy. I told him about the nights I cried over the thought of him belonging to someone else.

We both apologized. For the silence. For the fear. For the decade of “maybe.”

And then, we tried again. But slowly.

We didn’t move in together right away. We went on actual dates — movies, museums, late-night drives where the windows were down and the world felt soft again. Sometimes, we argued. Sometimes, we cried. But every time, we chose each other.

This time, we said the things out loud.

Two years later, he proposed. Nothing big. Just him and me, sitting on my old porch swing, the one that creaked too much and leaned a little left.

He handed me a ring and said, “Let’s not waste another ten years.”

We got married in the fall. Nothing fancy. Just people who loved us, leaves turning gold, and vows that felt less like promises and more like truths we’d finally learned how to live.

It wasn���t perfect. Life never is. But it was ours.

And that made it everything.

[sadiesdoll]

𝜗𝜚 The Way You Stay. 𝜗𝜚

stripper!reader x loyal costumer!sevika ♡

contains: heavy angst, Sevika is kind of a bitch, pining, slow burn, domestic intimacy, fingering (r!receiving), no aftercare after sex, slight degradation, hickey, dom!sevika, slightly bratty sub!reader, drunk!sevika, emotional unavailability, Sevika is kinda soft towards the end.

Hey guys.. first time posting on here.. kinda nervy...

okay so I'm planning on making this a multi-part series or even just a 2 part. (Which is so crazy cus it's my first official piece of work ahh that's so brave of me omg who's proud) but um. Yes.

WC: 6779

Enjoy ♡

The bass thrums through the walls of the club, low and heavy, and the airs thick with perfume, sweat, and booze. You spin slow on the pole, letting your hands glide down its cool metal surface as you drop into a split. The men around the stage whistle and groan like clockwork, throwing crumpled bills that flutter to your feet like confetti. You ignore them, like you always do.

You’ve danced this stage a hundred times, but tonight the lights feel warmer. Heavier.  Maybe because you already know who’s watching.

Sevika. She’s different from everyone else watching.

She doesn’t gawk. She doesn’t catcall. She sits in the back corner booth, same one every time. Manspreading, one arm slung lazily over the leather seat, watching you with a look that isn’t quite boredom, but definitely isn’t interest either.

You can never tell what she’s thinking, and it drives you crazy.

There’s a half-finished drink on the table, a fresh cigar between her fingers, and eyes that haven’t left you once.

It’s not the first time, and it sure won’t be the last.

She comes once every week. Sometimes even twice. Never brings friends. Never asks for anyone else.

Only you.

And still, everytime you slide into her space, it’s like starting over. And it’s frustrating.

The music ends. Applause erupts. You quickly collect your tips and slip off stage, heading to the back. It’s loud back here too. Music and moans blending from the private rooms, but you find a moment to grab a glass of water, letting the coolness chase the heat off your throat.

You step back out. And sure enough, Sevika’s still there.

You slide into the booth across from her, eyes flicking over the low drink in her glass. 

“Rough day?” You ask, dropping into the seat across from her for once instead of her lap, just to mess with her. Your voice is light, playful. 

She doesn’t look at you right away, just exhales slow and steady, a ribbon of smoke trailing from her pretty lips. Then she finally speaks.

“Is it that obvious?” 

You blink. That… almost sounded like honesty.

“Maybe a little,” you tease, elbow on the table, chin resting in ur hand. “I know you. You only slouch like that when something’s bothering you.” 

That earns a glance. Nothing more. Just a slow drag of her eyes over your face, your neck, your chest, your thighs.

You’re still in your lingerie. You’re always still in your lingerie when she’s around.

“I slouch when I’m bored,” she says finally.

“Bored?” You echo, raising a brow. “Are you saying you’re bored of me?” You tease. Frowning at her. 

She rolls her eyes at you. “Maybe I am.”

“Please, if you were bored you wouldn’t come here every night.” You say playfully. “But no seriously, you’ve been coming here for months. Sitting in the same seat. Watching the same girl.”

That lands. Barely. The corner of her mouth lifts, half a smirk, more smoke than smile.

“Hm, guess I’m a creature of habit.” 

And maybe that should be enough. But it never is. You lean forward just a little, voice dropping just a hair.

“So.. why me?”

She doesn’t blink.

“Does it matter?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Because yeah, it fucking matters. And it shouldn’t. But it does. 

If she’s going to be so cold.. so guarded… then why keep coming back?

Why always you?

The silence stretches between you, thick with smoke and things unsaid. Your hearts beating faster now.. not from nerves, but from that familiar, confusing ache she always brings with her. Like you’re trying to figure out a puzzle where half the pieces are missing on purpose.

You can’t bring yourself to look away from her. Why does she look so beautiful even when she’s acting like an asshole? You ask yourself in your head. 

She taps the end of her cigar on the ashtray. Glances at your thighs. Then your lips that were drenched with pink gloss.

“Gonna make me wait?” Sevika says finally, voice all gravel and laziness, her gaze burning low on your body. 

You giggle softly, your hand brushing against her thigh like you’ve done a hundred times before. “Impatient tonight, aren’t you?”

She just leans back in the booth, arms draped over the leather like a throne. Her eyes don’t leave yours.

Fuck. Please stop looking at me like that.

You look at her for a few more seconds before you finally snap out of your trance. 

You sigh and roll your eyes, playfully. “Cmon,” you murmur, slipping off your chair and tugging at her wrist.

Her hand brings comfort to you. It’s so warm. Heavy. Familiar. Filled with cuts and bruises you wish you could erase. 

You weave through the thick crowd, drunken laughter, clinking glasses, music humming through the walls, and Sevika follows in your shadow. Towering. Silent. Unshakable.

You don’t look back at her, but you feel her there, like gravity. Always there.

And yet..

She’s not holding your hand back.

Who are you kidding? She never does anyway.

Yet, your fingers squeeze hers once on instinct. Maybe hoping, just for a split second, that this time will be different. That maybe tonight she’ll squeeze back. 

She doesn’t.

You’re about to lead her further down the dark hall, toward the room the two of you basically own now. The one with the ambient lighting, ripped couch, and the creaky bed that’s too familiar by now.

But before you get there, she suddenly grabs your wrist.

“Come here,” she says so softly you barley catch it. She tugs you toward a smaller, darker room tucked away behind an unmarked door.

You blink. “Here? But that’s not our-“

She interrupts you by shutting the door with so much force you could swear she broke it.

Her eyes flick to you, already dark and heavy with that look that you’ve seen too many times to count. “Don’t question it.”

You chuckle. “Eager tonight, aren’t we?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off.”

“What? Not my fault you’re impatient tonight. Totally out of character for you.” You say while tugging on the hem of her shirt.

She grabs your wrist softly, and you get the hint. Quickly letting go of her shirt and looking up at her again.

“You’ve been such a fucking smartass lately.” She mutters, pulling away to lock the door.

You bite your lip, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Yeah? Think you need to fuck some sense into me?”

She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she turns around to look at you, then steps forward with a cocky look on her face. Her eyes never leaving yours as she closes the distance between you.

“Hm?” You hum one last time, your voice lacing with curiosity, before she shuts you up with a sudden, aggressive press of her lips to your neck.

“Fuck—“ you gasp, completely caught off guard, her fingers dig into your waist with a possessive force, pulling you into her like she can’t get enough of you.

She pulls away just enough to look at you, “Shut the fuck up.” Her voice rough and commanding. “You asked for this, didn’t you? Fucking slut.”

Before you can even think of responding, her lips clash onto your neck. “Sev— are you gonna give me a fucking hickey?”

She doesn’t say anything, but the feel of her tongue sliding against your skin is all the answer you need. 

She grabs the hem of your bra and yanks it off without hesitation. 

She’s fast. Too fast. And suddenly, you’re exposed beneath her. Every inch of you vulnerable to her gaze.

Without any further warning, she moves between your legs, her knee pushing them apart with a firm pressure that makes your pulse race.

“Please.” you whimper.

“Please what?”

“Just fuck me already.”

She chuckles. “Since you asked nicely.”

You’re giggling, a little breathless, when her fingers hook in your waistband. 

“Sev—”

She slides her fingers down in one swift motion. She pauses, and looks at you for a split second, then glances down at your thighs. Her fingertips brushing over your slit.

“Fuck, you’re already this wet?” She murmurs, her voice low and husky.

You bite your lip. Embarrassed, you try to hide your face in the nape of her neck.

“No. Hey, look at me.”

You bury your face deeper into her neck. But then— 

She slides one finger inside you with a suddenness that leaves you breathless. You gasp, then you moan. 

“Fucking look at me.”

You look at her with dazed eyes. 

“Don’t take your eyes off of me. Not until I say so.”

You nod, the words stuck in your throat.

Then she puts in a second finger. 

“Use your fucking words.”

“Oh— Fuck!” You gasp, not processing what she just said.

She picks up the pace, her fingers pumping faster inside of you. Each thrust sending a shockwave of pleasure through your body.

“Tell me how bad you want it,” she commands.

You moan, barely able to get your words out. “I want it so f-fucking bad. Please.”

She grins, satisfaction flickering in her eyes. “Now that’s my girl.” 

You wrap your arms around her neck, moaning loudly in her ear. The obscene wet sounds of your cunt echo through the room.

“Mm.. yeah you like this, huh?” She whispers with a low, amused chuckle, “You like when I fuck the words out of you?”

“Y-yes I do. I really really really do.” You whimper, slurring the words like a dumb little slut too cock-drunk to even think straight. Your voice breaking with every thrust she gives you.

“Yeah? You do?”

“Mhmmmfuck. Harder.”

Sevika laughs under her breath, “Needy little bitch,” she mutters, her pace unrelenting. One of her hands snakes up your body, cupping your left breast.

“Oh my fucking god. Sevika..”

Your voice cracks, desperate and filthy, like a prayer you’ve said too many times. 

She groans low in her throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Fuck— keep sayin’ my name like that.” She pinches your nipple with her middle and ring finger.

“Nngghhsevika.. I need you. Ineedyousofuckingbad.” You whine. She pulls out her fingers and starts rubbing quick circles around your puffy clit.

“I know you do. I know you fucking do.”

A weak yell comes out of your throat. Your hips jerk at the sudden shift, her fingers never slowing down.

“Sev—fuck, I’m gonna—“

She rests her forehead against yours, her lips hovering over yours but never kissing you. She’s driving you fucking crazy. 

“Yeah?” She puts her fingers back in your pussy. “You’re gonna cum for me already?” 

You can’t even speak. All you can do is nod, trembling under her touch, your legs are threatening to give out.

“Be a good slut and cum for me.”

You’re shaking. Thighs clenching, breath stuttering, and her big meaty fingers feel so fucking deep inside you.

“Fuckfuckfuck—Sevika, I—“

“Yeahh.. that’s it.” She grunts, her forehead still pressed to yours. Her fingers curl just right, hitting that spot that makes your back arch harder. “Come on, pretty girl. Make a mess on my fingers.” 

And you finally do. Your moans barely audible as you bite down on Sevika’s shoulder, trying to stifle them. Her low groan of approval rumbles through your chest. 

But she doesn’t hold you. She doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she suddenly pulls her fingers out, slick and glistening, and wipes them carelessly against her thigh like you were nothing more than a momentary craving.

You blink up at her with half-lidded eyes, still catching your breath, heart thudding, your cunt pulsating. You’re waiting for something, anything. But all you get is her usual stupid silence, and the stupid unreadable look in her eyes, and the stupid cigar in her mouth.

She steps back, adjusting her belt like nothing happened. 

“Get cleaned up,�� she mutters, turning toward the door. 

You thought this time it would be different, you don’t know why, but you did. And you felt stupid for it. Of course she wasn’t gonna change, not for you, atleast. Everyone sees you as just a slutty girl that dances on a pole for a living, what makes you so sure that she doesn’t think the same way as others?

You sit there. Legs trembling. The door clicks shut behind her. 

You stare at it for a long time, hoping she’d come back and give you some sort of.. comfort? You didn’t know what you needed, but it sure as hell wasn’t her just leaving you in this dark room like that. 

Eventually, you pull yourself together, like you always do with her. You fix your clothes, wipe the smudged makeup from under your eyes, and walk out like nothing happened. 

━━━━━━━━ ⊱⋆⊰ ━━━━━━━━

That night, long after the club had emptied, you lay in bed. Phone screen lighting up got tired face.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You’ve typed something out. Deleted it. Typed again.

   Hey, are you home? 

Backspace.

   I had fun, you know. Didn’t seem like you did tho. 

Backspace.

    I’m sorry if I did anything wrong.

You hit send before you can stop yourself.

The screen stays empty. No typing dots. No reply.

Not even a “read.”

You toss your phone face down and let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

You knew better. You really did.

━━━━━━━━ ⊱⋆⊰ ━━━━━━━━

The next day, you wake up late, the sun already steaming through the cracks in the curtains. Your body aches, a mix of exhaustion and lingering soreness from last nights events. You roll over, checking your phone, you can’t help but glance at Sevika’s contact name, “Sev ♡” at the top of the text conversation. It stings a little, seeing it there, but still no response. 

You sigh, rubbing your face, the guilt from last night settles back in, but so does the frustration. You wish she would just respond. Maybe she was busy. She works with silco after all. Or maybe she was ignoring you on purpose. 

You roll out of bed, stretch, and glance at the clock, “Ugh. Shit.” You groan when you realize that you’re late. But that doesn’t matter. Because your mind keeps drifting to last night, how it felt, how it ended, and how you’re just supposed to move on now. You felt angry. Disgusted. Why is it so hard to let go of her?

You take a deep breath, you get dressed and head out. You prayed to whatever God that was listening to you for her to NOT show up today. 

Even if you try to focus on the present, her absence looms over everything. It’s like she haunts you.

The club is already pulsing with life when you arrive. Music thumping, lights swirling, the scent of cheap cologne and stale liquor clinging to the air. You keep your head down as you pass through the dressing room, forcing on a half-smile when one of the girls calls out a joke you don’t quite register.

You go through your motions. Change. Makeup. Heels. But everything feels like it’s moving through molasses, like your body’s here, but your mind is trapped in a loop, stuck in last night, stuck in her

You’re halfway through your set when your gaze flicks to that one table.

Empty.

Your stomach twists, and you hate the part of yourself that’s relieved. Hate it even more for feeling disappointed right after. You look away quickly, gripping the pole tighter, grounding yourself in the routine. In the sweat. The rhythm. The fake flirtation. Anything but her.

Backstage, you finally let yourself check your phone. 

“Just this once. Just to be sure.” You promised to yourself.

Sev ♡

No new messages.

Your heart sinks in the same familiar way. 

“She really said fuck me and meant it,” you mutter under your breath, bitterly.

You toss the phone aside. Maybe it’s time to stop checking. But even silence feels like something from her.

You change out of your costume slower than usual, taking your time like it’ll somehow delay the emptiness waiting for you outside these walls.

Because if she’s not out there, if you’re not dancing for her, making her watch your every move, making her want, then what’s the fucking point? Why even be here? Why paint on the lashes, step into heels, fake the moans and smiles, if the one person you want to see it won’t even bother showing up?

Someone taps your shoulder. You flinch.

“You good?” One of the girls asks gently. It’s Lena, barely dressed, lashes already lifting at the corners, a lollipop in her mouth like always. “You’ve been zoning out for like… a full song.”

You blink at her, then force a half-smile. “Yeah I’m okay. Just a bit tired tonight.”

She hums while squinting her eyes at you, she’s clearly unconvinced. But she doesn’t press, just gives you a light smack on your ass and walks off with a wink.

You let out a faint giggle. Take a couple deep breaths. Fix your lipstick. And when you look back in the mirror, you repeat to yourself, Just one more set. You can do one more set. 

You slip your heels back on, head out into the low haze of lights and smoke, the bass already rattling in your ribs. Maybe if you move the right way, smile the right way, you’ll forget how empty it feels when you don’t catch her eyes in the crowd.

You twist around the pole, bite your lip, arch your back just right, let your hands trail down your body the way you know they like.

“Damn baby, put me in a coma why don’t you,” a man slurs near the front. His eyes  lingering on your tits, then dipping lower to your ass, shameless. His friends holler in agreement, bills already half out of their fists. “Come over here, give daddy a spin.” 

You flashed a practiced smirk. You don’t even look at him. Not really. Just enough to play the game. Just enough to keep them paying.

Because none of them matter.

You’re not dancing for them.

You never were.

You drag your fingers up the pole, drop low, flip your hair back with a trained kind of grace, but your chest feels hollow. Your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

And somewhere in the crowd, unseen by you, a shadow leans back in her seat. 

She is here.

Sevika watches. Hood pulled low, eyes half-lidded, that usual cigarette between her lips, but it’s not lit. Hasn’t been in a while.

She doesn’t clap. Doesn’t cheer. Doesn’t do a damn thing.

She just watches you. Cold. Detached.

But when you spin, arch your back, and drop into a split, you pop your chest forward with a practiced sway, hair falling on your face. 

Her eyes sharpen. She shifts slightly, jaw clenched, fingers ghosting toward her glass like she needs something to anchor her. Just for a second.

Then it’s gone. Like it never happened.

She knocks back the rest of her drink, doesn’t even taste it, and mutters to herself, barely audible over the bass, 

“Pathetic.”

You? Or herself?

Even she doesn’t know.

And before you even finish your set, she’s gone.

Like she was never there.

━━━━━━━━ ⊱⋆⊰ ━━━━━━━━

The night air slaps your skin the second you step out the back door of the club, still slick with sweat, heels dangling from your fingers, your jacket slung over one shoulder. You’re tired. Worn out. You just wanna go home and wipe your makeup off and sleep for the next 7 days.

You barely get five steps before a hand snatches your wrist and pulls you hard into the shadows. 

You gasp, stumbling into the brick walk, “What the fuck-! Let go of—“

You’re about to let out a blood-curdling scream, but a calloused hand pressed over your mouth, and a voice mutters, low and sharp, “Calm the fuck down.”

Your heart jumps. That voice.

You shove the hand away with a force you didn’t even know you had, eyes wide. “Sevika?!” 

She’s standing there, towering over you. Half-shadowed by the alley light, hood still up, cigarette balanced between her fingers like she doesn’t even want it. “Don’t.”

You scoff. Breath still ragged, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. “Y-you can’t just grab me like that! What the fuck is wrong with you? And what are you doing here?” 

She shrugs, leans against the wall like she’s got all the time in the world. “Drinks.” She says dryly, like it should be obvious. “Needed to clear my head.”

You narrow your eyes, looking at her with disbelief. “So you just happened to be at my club?”

“You don’t own the damn club.” Her voice is low, flat. Dismissive. 

You scoff, “You know what I mean.”

Then she leans in, slow and deliberate, head tilted like she’s sizing you up.

You can feel the weight of her gaze even from above. Like she’s studying something fragile, something she could break if she wanted to. Her shadow swallows yours.

“I saw your set.”

You freeze. “What?”

She tilts her head, finally lighting the cigarette. The flame flickers just enough to catch a glint in her eyes. “You heard me.”

That makes your breath catch. Something twists in your gut.  “You-“ you blink, realization hitting. “You were fucking watching me?”

A pause. Then a faint smirk.

“Didn’t need a front row seat to see what you were doing up there.”

And now your chest tightens. Because she wasn’t sitting at her usual table. You checked. A countless amount of times. She wasn’t anywhere in sight. 

But she was there. The whole. entire. time.

“Why?” You ask. Voice tight. 

She tilts her head, like she didn’t quite hear. “Hm?”

“Why were you hiding from me?”

“I wasn’t hiding,” she says lazily. “You just weren’t looking hard enough.”

Silence.

You swallow. Something cracks under your ribs.

“I was waiting for you.”

Another beat of silence.

You see it, barely. A shift in her stance. A small twitch in her jaw. Like your words did something, even if she’s fighting not to show it.

She doesn’t speak. Just studies you, a trail of smoke leaving her lips.

“You always dance like that for the ones who leave you in bed?”

“Oh fuck you, Sevika.”

She lets the insult hang in the air, unfazed, and Fuck you hate how unfazed she is.

You turn to leave, but she grabs your wrist.

Not rough, not gentle either. Just enough to stop you.

You whirl back around, not bothering to look her in the eyes. “Let go of me.”

“Or what?” She asks, voice low, unreadable.

You hate how her eyes burn through you. Hate that your pulse kicks up, not from fear, but from how you can see through your peripheral vision the way she’s looking at you like she already knows every inch of your skin. Like she owns the reaction.

“You think you can just disappear and show up like nothing happened?” Your voice breaks before you can stop it. Finally locking eye contact with her. “Like- like you didn’t leave me there wondering what the fuck I did wrong?”

A pause. Long enough to hurt. 

Then, so quiet you almost miss it- 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

It hits like a bruise.

You blink at her. Something clenches in your chest, your fingers curling into fists.

“Then why?” You whisper. Desperate. “Why do you keep pushing me away?”

She doesn’t answer. Just stares. Her mouth twitches, not quite a frown, not quite regret.

And then— like it’s instinct, like it’s the only way she knows how to speak—

She grabs your jaw and kisses you.

Hard.

It’s messy. Angry. Her hand tangles in your hair, the other gripping your waist like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your body. You hate how easy it is to fall into it. To melt.

Your back hits the brick wall. Her mouth still on yours, rough and desperate.

She kissed your lips. She never kisses them.

“Please.” You whimpered against her lips, the way your lips quiver show just how much you crave her. And how badly you want her to crave you.

And then, so faint you almost miss it— she lets out a desperate, low whine against your lips.

It freezes something in you. Not with fear. But something else.

In that small trembling breath of silence between kisses, you let out a soft, broken sound- 

“..yeah?” You say tenderly, while looking straight at her with the most doe eyes ever.

It’s barely a whisper. Half exhale. Like you’re trying to say I’m here without the weight of words.

You looked and sounded desperate, desperate for her to show some kind of vulnerability to you.

Your hands shift, arms wrapping around her neck, gripping her tighter. Not to pull her closer, not out of lust, but like you’re trying to steady her. Like maybe, just maybe, you want to hold her together when she won’t let herself fall apart.

And for a split second, it almost feels like she lets you.

But then- 

She pulls back.

You whine at the sudden break of the kiss. Not again please. Please not again. You think to yourself.

Her breath is shallow, lips still parted, eyes not meeting yours.

Then her jaw tightens. That look returns. The guarded one.

Without a word, she steps back, like the moment never happened at all.

“You should go home.” 

And before you can say anything, ask her to stay, curse her out, something- 

She turns and walks off into the dark.

Like always.

Like nothing happened.

Like she didn’t just almost break in your hands.

━━━━━━━━ ⊱⋆⊰ ━━━━━━━━

It’s the next night.

You’re leaning against the back wall of the club, half-hidden in the alleyway. Your shift ended 20 minutes ago, but you haven’t left. You’re not sure why. Maybe you’re waiting for something. Or someone

You light a cigarette, even though you don’t usually smoke. It burns your throat, but something about the weight of the cigarette keeps your hand from shaking.

The alley door creaks open behind you.

“Hey,” comes a voice- Dez, one of the floor managers, poking her head out. She’s chewing gum like it personally wronged her. 

“Alright, don’t kill me,” she starts, already holding up a hand like she knows you might throw the lighter at her. “But there’s this guy inside. Real big spender. Just rolled in, said he heard things.. about you. And he’s willing to pay four times the usual rate for some alone time in VIP.”

You groan. “Ughh Dez, I literally just finished my shift. Can I not rot in peace for 2 minutes?”

She grins, looking way too pleased for someone who just interrupted your smoke break. “Cmonnn. He’s not a creep, I swear. Just wants your company. One hour, tops. You don’t even have to touch him. He said he likes your vibe or some shit. And he’s hot too! Not even in a pathetic way.”

You scoff, tossing your head back against the wall while rolling your eyes. But you don’t outright say no.

Dez squints at you like she can see the gears turning in your head. Like she knows you’re considering it. 

You let out a long, dramatic sigh and push yourself off the wall, “Okay fine—“

And then—

Footsteps.

Heavy. Familiar

You don’t even have to look. You feel her before you see her.

Sevika.

She steps into the alley like she owns it, like she didn’t vanish into the night the day before. 

She was wobbling a little. Her coats a little crooked. Hair a little messier than usual. And her eyes..

Red. A little glassy.

She’s drunk.

Dez blinks. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

She mouths, “You good?”

You look at her, nodding while giving her a reassuring smile.

And then, with a smirk,

“Alright I don’t know what’s going on with..” - she gestures vaguely between you and sevika - “whatever this is, but I’ll leave you two alone for now. I’ll let the guy know you might be up in five.” 

Dez leaves.

And you’re alone with sevika.

You don’t say anything at first. 

Just stare as she leans against the wall opposite you, half-empty whiskey bottle dangling in her hand. 

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is deeper than usual. 

Her eyes are trailing over you, slow, like she’s trying to figure out if you’re real or just something she made up in her head.

Your breath hitches. Why is she looking at you like that?

“..Hi.” You say, quietly.

The silence stretches. The air feels thick now. Too thick.

She pushes off the wall, crosses the space between you with slow, lazy steps. Stops just a little too close. 

You tilt your head while looking up at her, almost like you’re trying to search for something in her eyes.. but you don’t know what it is.

You can smell the smoke on her clothes. The whiskey on her breath. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” she murmurs, eyes dropping to your lips. “Guess I got lucky.”

You shift, trying to not look affected. 

“You’re drunk.”

She hums. “A little.”

She reached her hand out and brushes your arm. Just a graze. But her touch lingers longer than it should. Touching you so softly like you’re made of glass.

Her finger toy with the hem of your top like she’s thinking about ripping it apart and just fucking you right then and there. 

She wants to start something, and you know it.

“Sevika,” you say so softly, your voice tinged with concern. You’ve never seen her this drunk before. “Don’t.” Your tone shifts, growing firm.

She tilts her head. Smirks. But it wobbles.

“What?” She says, voice rough. “I thought you liked when I touched you.”

Your stomach twists. You break eye contact.

“I do,” you admit. Quiet. Honest. Embarrassed. “I really do.”

You grab her forearm, “But not like this. Not when you’re like this.” 

She doesn’t answer. Just looks at you. And you look back at her. And for a second, she seems sober, just a bit. Her jaw ticks. Something in her eyes cracks open. 

“I didn’t know where else to go.” 

Her voice was shaky. It was subtle. But you heard it.

You blink. The words hang in the air, delicate and heavy all at once.

Your hand is still on her forearm. Her skin is so soft.. so warm under your touch. 

“You came to me.” You say, barely above a whisper. It’s not a question.

She doesn’t nod. Doesn’t move. Just stares at you like she’s afraid if she does, something inside her might spill out.

And then, so quiet it’s almost lost to the sound of the city— 

“Don’t make me regret it.”

You breathe in, slow. Her voice cracked at the last word. She tried to hide it, but you felt it anyway. 

Your fingers trail down, slipping from her arm to her hand. You squeeze it gently, grounding her.

“I won’t.” You say, steady. Honest. Like a promise you haven’t figured out how to keep yet.

She exhales shakily, and for a moment, her forehead drops to yours.

It’s not a kiss.

It’s not even a touch, really.

Just heat. Breath. The closeness of someone who’s afraid they might shatter if you pull away.

And then, quietly— 

“I’m so tired.” She whispers.

You close your eyes. Let the silence stretch. Then- 

“Come on,” you whisper. “Let’s get you somewhere safe, yeah?”

You hook your arm around her waist. She doesn’t resist when you guide her. She leans into you. Like maybe -for the first time in a long time- she trusts someone to hold her up. 

As you guide her through the narrow hallway, past the low thrum of music bleeding from behind closed doors, you catch Dez standing by the bar, still chewing on her gum while counting tips.

She raises a brow the second she sees you two.

“Well look who came crawling back,” she mutters, eyes flicking over Sevika slumped against your side. 

Then she shifts her attention to you.

“You know that guy is still asking,” Dez says. “He literally won’t back down. Said he’ll double up if you head up now.”

“Dez, at this point, just tell him I’m sick. Or dead. I don’t care.”

She raises her brow higher. “Didn’t think you were the type to pass up a paycheck.”

She sighs while looking at you, “You takin’ her upstairs?” She asks, voice flat, suspicious, but not unkind.

“Yeah,” you say, short and clipped. Your shoulder’s under Sevika’s.

Dez blinks at the sight. At Sevika leaning against you like she doesn’t have a single bone left in her body. 

“You sure about that?” She says, quieter this time. “She looks like she’ll knock you out the second you blink.”

You don’t look back.

“She’s not my problem,” you lie. “But I’m not gonna leave her like this.” 

Dez opens her mouth like she wants to argue, then stops. She sees something in your face, something soft and stubborn and not up for discussion. 

“..Alright,” she says finally. “Just.. tell her to not throw up all over the sheets.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

Instead, you nod and keep walking.

━━━━━━━━ ⊱⋆⊰ ━━━━━━━━

You reach the room. Your room. The one you both technically live in by now.

It’s quiet here. The air hums with the faint beat of the bass from the floor below, but otherwise, it’s just you and Sevika. Her arm is heavy around your shoulders. Her steps drag. But she doesn’t complain. Doesn’t speak.

You guide her to the bed, easing her down ever so gently like she’s something fragile, which is funny, really. Sevika, the bruiser. Sevika, the one who breaks bones with a single punch. Fragile.

But she lets you. That’s what gets you.

She lets you.

You kneel to unlace her boots. She’s watching you through half-lidded eyes. Like she can’t believe you’re doing this.

Like she doesn’t think she deserves it.

“You didn’t have to,” she rasps.

You pause. Glancing up at her, eyes soft.

“I know.” You whisper. “That’s why I did.”

The silence lingers, thick with something unspoken.

Sevika inhales, opening her mouth like she’s about to say something- but then quickly clamps it shut, biting back whatever’s on the tip of her tongue.

You catch the shift. “Say it.” You murmur, your voice so low and so gentle, but persistent. 

Her eyebrows furrow, like she’s pretending she doesn’t know exactly what you’re talking about. 

“I know you were gonna say something.”

Sevika’s gaze drops to the floor, her hand brushing against the edge of the couch like she’s trying to ground herself. 

You finish with the boots, your hands resting on her legs for just a moment longer than necessary.

She looks at you, those dark eyes searching, but her voice is quieter now. “Why are you being so gentle to me?” She asks, her tone flat, though there’s an edge of something in there. Something hard to name. 

You swallow, meeting her eyes directly.

“Because I want to be.” You don’t look away. Not even for a second.

Sevika exhales, her breath shaky as she looks at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re telling the truth.

You sit next to her. She shifts slightly, leaning back against the couch, her fingers grazing the fabric of the cushion before brushing against yours.

“You don’t know me,” she mutters. “We fuck from time to time but that doesn’t mean you owe me shit.”

Your eyes soften.

“I don’t care about that,” you reply, the words coming out like you’ve known them all along. “I don’t need to owe you anything to care.”

For a moment, Sevika goes still.

The silence is almost unbearable. Uncomfortable. But you don’t look away, you study her face and god she’s beautiful.

Her lips press together tightly, like she wants to tell you more, but she doesn’t. 

She throws her head back and massages her temples with her fingers, the tension in her shoulders palpable, like she’s holding herself together with sheer willpower. The room feels colder now, the weight of the silence between you both more pronounced. 

You move a little closer, not enough to invade her space but just enough to let her know you’re there. You reach for her hair, tucking away a few stray strands of hair, your fingers brushing the soft skin of her neck. Your gaze drifting up and down her face, drinking in the way the light catches the curve of her jaw, the depth in her eyes.

“You know I’m not going anywhere right?” You spoke, your voice softer than you meant it to be. 

Sevika stays still for a moment. Her eyes lock onto yours, intense and searching, like she’s weighing every word. The air feels heavy, charged, and just for a heartbeat, it’s like she’s thinking about saying something, something important. But she doesn’t.

You smile softly, “What are you looking at?” You say while letting out a faint giggle.

Sevika looks away quickly, but you catch it. The vulnerability. The uncertainty.

She lets out a shaky breath. But her voice is steady when she speaks. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.” Her eyes flicker back to you.

You ignore her. “You know.. I thought you’d be different when you’re drunk.”

She raises a brow at you, and you’re just an inch away from losing your mind.. because her eyes. They’re so dazed and pretty. “What do you mean?”

“I just thought you’d let your tough girl act slip away for a bit.” A dry chuckle escapes from your lips. 

“Tough girl act?”

“Mhmmm.” You hummed playfully.

She scoffed, “Suck my dick.”

You give her a teasing look. “I did. Don’t you remember?”

A beat of silence follows, and you can see the nervous look on her face, whether from your words or the alcohol, you can’t tell. Maybe it’s both.

She doesn’t answer right away, just stares at you.

But her gaze doesn’t only stay on your eyes, she’s taking in every inch of you, eyes half-lidded, like you’ve knocked the wind out of her and she’s still figuring out how to function.

“You’re trouble.” She finally mutters. Her voice rough around the edges.

You grin. “You like trouble.”

You don’t know what’s gotten into you in this moment. You’re usually not really this bold with Sevika, but with her like this-looser, softer.. it feels easier to meet her halfway. She matches your energy, just barely. But you’re thankful for whatever you can get out of her.

She doesn’t deny it. Instead, she leans back, letting her head rest against the couch cushions, eyes closed for a second too long. Like the weight of the moment is sinking in. 

That’s when the door creaks open.

“Hey.” Dez’s voice cuts through the quiet, gentle but definite. “We’re closing up.”

You both turn toward her, neither one moving just yet. Sevika blinks slowly, her eyebrows furrowed. Like she’s surfacing from something deeper. 

You glance back at her. “Come on,” you say, soft but certain. “Let’s go to yours.” 

Sevika looks at you like you’ve just told her that you murdered her entire family, “Hell no.”

“Why nottt!” You whine.

Sevika narrows her eyes at you, skeptical. Because,” she mutters. “I don’t just bring people over.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Why? You think someone’s gonna judge you for a few empty bottles and a pile of laundry?”

“It’s not that,” she mumbles. Running a hand down her face. “It’s…mine.”

You pause. There’s something in the way she says it. Like she’s not just talking about the state of the place, but about letting someone into her space, her world.

Your voice softens. “That’s kinda the whole point.”

She rolls her eyes at you. Then her expression turns into something unreadable for a moment. 

“You’re really not scared of anything, huh?”

You shrug, lips quirking into a faint smile.

"I'm actually scared of lots of things," you say. "Just not you."

That makes her pause. Really pause.

Her eyes stay on yours a little too long, like she's trying to read between the lines of something you haven't said yet. Like maybe she wants to believe you, but she's still deciding if she can afford to.

Then, finally, she exhales through her nose, like she's surrendering to something. To you.

"Fine," she mutters, low and reluctant. "But if you lay a finger on any of my shit, I'm kicking your ass out."

You grin. "Deal."

Omg that was too long. Criticism and ideas are heavily appreciated (˶ˆᗜˆ˵) thank you for reading! ♡

[clownprincesshq]

i don’t know who i am anymore pt 1

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

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: smut, some angst, fluff, yay flashback time!!!

w/c: 13.7k

a/n: this chapter isn't really crucial to plot I left it in because I promised there would be more fluff n smut

The alarm goes off with a grating buzz that jerks you out of sleep like it’s mad at you for daring to rest. You groan and fumble for the snooze button, missing it the first time and smacking your phone halfway off your nightstand. Smooth. You let your hand hang off the edge of the bed for a second, listening to the quiet of the house. It’s always quiet in the mornings. Too quiet. Like the world’s still deciding if it wants to wake up yet. And if the world’s not ready, why should you be?

You stare up at the ceiling for a moment. Another day. Another eight hours of trying to keep your head down and pretend that the names don’t stick. You’re not exactly counting the days until senior year, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t looking forward to the finish line. You just have to survive the rest of junior year first.

Eventually, you drag yourself out of bed. The floor’s freezing, and your hoodie from yesterday is crumpled on the chair, sleeves twisted, one cuff damp like it brushed something it shouldn’t have. You don’t remember how it ended up like that. Doesn’t matter. You grab your toothbrush and shuffle to the bathroom, blinking blearily at your own reflection. Your hair’s a mess. There's a weird crease on your cheek from your pillow. You look like someone who stayed up until 2 a.m. finishing a paper she should’ve started three days ago. Because you did.

By the time you get dressed, you’ve pulled on an oversized sweater that used to be gray but now kind of looks like it’s lived through the Dust Bowl. It's safe. Comfortable. You tug the sleeves down over your hands and hope they make you invisible enough to slide through the day.

Downstairs, the kitchen smells like toast and cinnamon. Aunt May is already at the stove, wearing her fluffy pink robe and humming something low and old-timey under her breath. She’s got her “Good Morning Sunshine” mug in one hand and a spatula in the other, flipping something that might’ve once been pancakes.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” she calls over her shoulder when she hears you step in. “Sleep okay?”

You nod, already making a beeline for the coffee pot. “Yeah. Kinda.”

She glances at you. “That your ‘kinda’ voice or your ‘please don’t ask me anything else’ voice?”

You give her a tired smile. “Little bit of both.”

She clicks her tongue affectionately and turns back to her pancake carnage. “There’s peanut butter on the counter and jam in the fridge. Go wild.”

You grab both. “Oh yeah, this is definitely the rational choice.”

“That’s my girl,” she says, sliding a plate toward you.

You sit, spreading peanut butter on toast with all the enthusiasm of someone about to face a firing squad. May moves around the kitchen like she always does like she’s in charge of the weather in this house. Her presence fills every quiet space.

She doesn’t say anything for a minute, but you can feel her looking at you. Eventually, she breaks the silence with a soft, careful voice. “Everything alright at school?”

Your stomach tenses. You keep your eyes on your toast, trying to act casual. “Yeah. Why?”

She tilts her head. “You’ve been quiet. Quieter than usual, I mean. And I noticed your hoodie yesterday. It looked like someone yanked on it pretty hard.”

You freeze. Just for a second. “Oh. Yeah, that was just... the locker door caught it.”

“Mm-hmm.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “And what about the coffee stain on your bag? Looked like someone poured it on you, not like it just... slipped.”

You sigh, shoulders sagging a little. You really thought you were hiding it better.

“May-”

“Is someone giving you trouble?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

She sets her mug down and walks over to lean against the counter. Her gaze is steady, not pushy, just... worried. “Honey. You don’t have to minimize it. If someone’s bullying you-”

“They’re not bullying,” you cut in, not looking at her. “It’s just stupid stuff. Flash being Flash.”

Her expression tightens. “What kind of ‘stupid stuff’?”

“Um… he, like, calls me names and laughs at me in the hallway. And last week he, uh… took my Seance Dog comic and started reading it out loud. In front of everyone.”

May’s jaw clenches. “You tell anyone?”

You shake your head. “It’s not worth it. The teachers don’t really do anything. They act like it’s just normal guy behavior or whatever.”

“That is not normal,” she says, and there’s steel in her voice now. “It’s cruel. He’s humiliating you.”

You offer a weak shrug. “It’s fine. I can handle it.”

She softens again, stepping forward and placing a warm hand on your shoulder. “Sweetheart, I know you’re tough. But that doesn’t mean you should have to be.”

There’s something in your throat now. Tight and hot. You just nod, because if you say anything, it’ll break.

And then, like a scene change in a movie, the low rumble of a sleek engine hums up outside. You both turn toward the window. There it is. The glossy black car pulling up like it just rolled off a commercial shoot. Windows tinted. Paint polished within an inch of its life.

Harry Osborn.

Right on time.

“Guess that’s my ride,” you mumble, standing a little too fast.

May raises a brow. “He’s chauffeuring you now?”

“It’s not a big deal,” you mutter, grabbing your bag. “He passes by anyway.”

“Mmhmm,” she says, clearly skeptical. “Harry’s a good boy. I’ve always liked him. You two have been thick as thieves since you were little. Just don’t forget to make room for other people too, sweetheart. It’s good to have more than one person in your corner.

You stop, backpack halfway on. “I know. He’s never made me feel like I had to be anyone else.”

“Tell me if anything else happens.” She tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and her hand lingers on your cheek. “You’re special. You don’t need to change to fit in. Especially not for anyone who makes you feel small.”

You nod, throat dry. “I’ll be fine.”

You step outside, the cold biting through your sleeves. The car door pops open with a soft click and Harry leans over the console with a grin. He’s wearing sunglasses, despite the overcast sky, and his hair looks like it was styled by angels.

“Get in, loser,” he jokes. “Your chariot to misery has arrived.”

You laugh under your breath and slide into the passenger seat. “You know you’re insufferable, right?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says, throwing the car into drive with one smooth motion. “It’s part of my charm.”

The car smells like money and overpriced cologne. Not in a bad way. In a Harry kind of way. The kind of way that makes you feel like maybe you don’t totally stick out like a sore thumb.

“Rough morning?” he asks, glancing sideways at you.

You nod, staring out the window. “Flash was doing his thing again.”

Harry sighs. “Want me to say something?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Seriously. I appreciate it, but... I need to handle it on my own.”

“Alright,” he says after a pause. “But if he lays a finger on you, I’m bringing the limo next time. Park it right in his locker.”

You smile, just a little. “You don’t have a limo.”

“Yet.”

You glance at him. His jaw’s a little tight. He’s trying to play it cool, but you know he’s ready to go full Osborn if you gave the word. He always has been. Since kindergarten, when he gave you half his peanut butter sandwich because yours got stepped on.

“Thanks,” you say, voice quiet.

“For what?”

“For picking me up.”

Harry shrugs like it’s nothing. “Always will.”

And you believe him.

Even if you don’t believe a lot these days, you believe that.

His infamous Rolls Royce pulls into the school parking lot smooth and silent, the type of quiet that turns heads not because it’s spectacular, but because it’s out of place. Too slick for Manhattan. Too pricey to blend in. But Harry doesn’t appear to notice. Or care. He keeps one hand on the wheel, eyes straining slightly at the bleak morning light like he already wants the day over with.

You’re in the passenger seat, gripping your backpack on your lap, watching your breath fog up the glass. You don’t want to go in. You never do. But today it’s worse. Something about the weight in your chest. The way your stomach’s already tight and you haven’t even gotten out of the car yet.

“You okay?” Harry asks, voice subdued.

You nod, though you don’t look at him. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He hums, unconvinced. “You always say that.”

“I’m always tired.”

He twists the keys, and the engine turns off. The air between you goes motionless. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask the way other people might. He just sits there for a bit like he’s waiting for you to catch up to yourself.

“I’m walking with you,” he offers.

You gaze at him. “You always walk with me.”

“Right,” he replies, a half-smile developing. “Just reminding you I’m not planning on stopping anytime soon.”

You exhale, shoulders drooping a little. “Thanks.”

The two of you stroll out into the cool morning air. The chill reaches you fast, wind nibbling at your ears and sneaking past the worn sleeves of your sweatshirt. You slide your hands inside your pockets. Harry doesn’t say anything. Just walks a bit slower, like he’s giving you time.

You’re nearly to the main entrance when you hear it.

“You guys are like a package deal, huh? Can’t say I missed the daily nerd parade.”

You freeze.

It’s like muscle memory. The second Flash Thompson’s voice strikes your ears, your whole body reacts, stomach tensing, breath catching, pulse surging.

He’s leaning up against one of the pillars at the front steps, arms crossed, a smirk already pasted on his face like it lives there. His tiny group, his girlfriend Liz and that boy from the lacrosse team you’ve never bothered to learn the name of, snicker behind him like background noise.

You don’t turn around. You don’t react. You’ve learnt it’s best not to. But Harry does. He stops walking. Slowly turns around.

Flash smirks, swaggering just enough for his friends to catch it.

“Didn’t know you were still dragging her around, Osborn. Thought even you would’ve upgraded by now.”

Harry doesn’t even glance up. “Didn’t know you still had teeth. Thought I took care of that in eighth grade.”

Flash’s grin falters for half a second. “You always this bitter, or is that just for me?” he throws back.

Harry finally looks at him, calm, steady, and annoyingly unbothered. “Just for you. Everyone else has the decency to stop peaking in freshman year.”

That throws Flash for a beat. But he heals swiftly.

“Relax,” he adds, waving in your way. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Four-Eyes here has been cosplaying as a walking encyclopedia since freshman year. Thought she’d be used to it by now.”

It’s hardly the worst he’s said. Not even close. But somehow it still lands. Right in your stomach. You gaze at the sidewalk. But Harry takes a step ahead. Not threatening. Not dramatic. 

“She's not hurting anyone. She's never spoken a damn word to you unless it was about returning your group project notes since you failed history class.”

Flash frowns.

“She’s everything you wish you were,” Harry goes on, voice calm but forceful. “And that pisses you off, doesn’t it? That no matter how loud you are, she’s still better. So you do what you always do, talk shit and hope no one notices how fucking pathetic that is.”

Flash straightens like he would say anything further, but Harry walks away before he can. His voice is flat as he mutters, “Let’s go,” and softly places his hand on your back, pulling you toward the doors.

You don’t look back. But you feel eyes on you the whole way.

The instant you’re inside, the cacophony of the corridor hits like a wall. Lockers smashing. Conversations overlapping. Shoes creaking against tile. You keep going, Harry alongside you, quiet.

Finally, you remark, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to.”

You bite your lip. “It just... makes it worse, sometimes. When people think I can’t fight my own battles.”

He glances at you. “You can. That’s not why I stepped in.”

You don’t answer. Just slam your locker open a little too forcefully and start ripping out your books like they mistreated you.

Harry leans against the locker next to yours, hands still in his coat pockets. “He’s only brave when he knows he won’t get hit back. Real tough guy.”

You keep your eyes forward. “I’m not falling apart y’know.”

Harry gives a small shrug. “Didn’t say you were. Just saying he’s not exactly brave for picking the easy targets.”

You both hear it at the same time, Amber’s chuckle. Loud. Confident. The type of sound that’s designed to be heard.

You don’t mean to look. But you do. And there they are.

Mark Grayson and Amber Bennett, standing together just across the hall. She’s placed her hand on his shoulder, and he’s chuckling at something she said. It seems easy. Like it always does. Like something from a teen drama where the universe makes sense.

You swiftly turn back to your locker. Harry observes you.

“You like him,” he adds gently.

You don’t answer right away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“He smiled at you last week.”

“It was a hallway smile, Harry. People smile in the hallway.”

He studies Mark for a beat, then glances back at you. “He smiled like he meant it.”

You give him a worn expression. “He’s with Amber.”

“And?”

“She’s... her. And I’m me.”

Harry’s silent for a long second. Then he says, “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”

“It means people like him go for people like her.” You shove a notepad inside your bag. “Not girls who read comics in the library during lunch.”

Harry moves, like he wants to say something else but isn’t sure whether he should. Eventually, he just adds, You’re better than you think. Like, by a lot.”

You gaze at him. He’s not smiling. Not teasing. He means it. And suddenly, like it’s choreographed, Mark glances over. His eyes connect with yours. He pauses. And he smiles. Not a fast, courteous glimpse. A genuine one. Soft. Quiet. Familiar. Like he remembers you. Like he sees you. Your chest does something bizarre. Warm and agonizing all at once.

Then Amber says something, and Mark turns back to her, and the moment’s done. You blink, attempting to assemble the fragments of whatever that was.

Harry talks again. “That wasn’t nothing.”

“I don’t even know what that was.”

He offers you a slight, knowing shrug. “It was something.”

The bell sounds overhead, harsh and too loud, disturbing whatever bizarre dream-space you were standing in. You both start going toward class. He doesn’t press. Just walks with you like he usually does. And for a second, just one, you think maybe that’s what counts more than anything Mark could say. Because Harry’s still here. Not for show. Not for sympathy. Just... here.

You make it to class without speaking anything else, only the sound of your shoes echoing along the tiled corridors. The two of you part up at the corner near the language wing, and you catch the way Harry looks back, just for a second, before entering into his own room.

You get into your seat at the back of the classroom just before the second bell sounds.

Mr. Langford is already making notes on the board. He doesn’t recognize anyone’s arrival. He doesn’t need to, he knows none of you are going to speak beyond a whisper until called on, and even then, only under duress. His whole class is a plodding march through great literature, and right now, you're halfway through The Great Gatsby, which you adore more than you care to admit.

You take your notebook out. You don’t open it yet. You’re still thinking about the look on Mark’s face. The smile. The way he’d held it for a second too long. It’s dumb. You shrug the notion out of your brain. He’s dating Amber. Everyone knows that. But he smiled. At you.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything, but part of you is already keeping it. Pressing it like a withered flower between the pages of your brain.

The time drags. Your notes are nice, but you’re not really present. You keep staring at the clock. Every tick is a reminder that you’re going to have to go back out there. That the next class will bring more of the same, people pretending you’re not there, or worse, making sure you feel that you are.

When the bell eventually sounds, you’re the last one to rise up. You slip out into the hallway. It’s already filled again, bodies and bags and casual laughing that always seems louder when it’s not for you. You stick to the side, head down. It’s easier that way. Second period is Chemistry. You like Chemistry. It makes sense. It’s mathematics and logic and reactions that follow rules. Predictable. Safe.

You step in and Mark is there. Of course he is. Same seat, two rows over. He’s talking to someone, some guy from track, but when you walk in, his eyes shoot up. Just for a second. They land on you.

And there it is again. That look. He doesn’t smile this time, but he nods. Subtle. Like you’re in on something. You sit down and pretend your heart isn’t racing louder than your thoughts.

Class begins. You focus harder than normal. Take notes like your life relies on it. But the whole time, you can sense him. Not observing you, exactly, but aware of you. Like you’ve become a fixed spot on his radar and he continues checking to make sure you're still there.

When the bell sounds, you wait for most of the class to exit before gathering your belongings. You put your backpack over your shoulder and stroll into the hallway.

He’s waiting. Mark. He’s standing just to the side of the entrance like he’s tying his shoe, but he glances up as soon as you step out.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “I liked your answer. In class. About the bonding energy thing.”

You blink. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”

“It made more sense than how he explained it.”

You chuckle quietly. “That’s... not a high bar.”

Mark grins. It’s tiny. Nervous. “Still. I dunno… you just have this way of explaining stuff that actually makes it make sense.”

You didn’t even think he’d been paying attention.

Before you can think out what to say next, Amber’s voice rips through the hall from behind him. “Mark!”

He looks over his shoulder.

Then back at you.

“Anyway, uh…just wanted to say that,” he mutters.

You nod. “Thanks.”

And suddenly he’s gone, strolling down the hall toward her like nothing happened. You’re left standing there, your brain short-circuiting in real time.

The remainder of the day is a haze. You survive history. You nod through French. You avoid eye contact in the lunchroom and eat at your customary table in the corner, where the noise is muted and your book keeps you company. You don’t see Flash again, which helps. You don’t see Mark either, which shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

By the time the last bell sounds, your brain is fried. You push past the masses and hurry toward your locker, eager to collect your belongings and disappear. Harry’s already waiting there.

He’s slumped against the wall beside your locker, arms crossed, bag thrown lazily over one shoulder. “There you are.”

You blink. “You waited?”

He shrugs. “Figured we’d walk out together.”

You start spinning your combination. “You didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t say I did.”

You glance over. He’s scrutinizing you, but not in a judgmental sense. Just... observing.

“You okay?” he says. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But this is a different kind.”

You shut your locker and sigh. “Mark talked to me after Chem.”

Harry blinks. “Wait. What?”

“He said he liked the way I explained bonding energy.”

“That’s it?”

You nod.

Harry analyzes you for another beat. Then, gently, “And it meant something. Didn’t it.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. You both walk down the corridor toward the exit. The school’s quieter now, most of the students have spilled out onto the street, some loitering in front of the gym or huddling behind the bike racks.

Harry holds the door open for you without thinking. You step out, the air cooler now, the sun creeping lower behind the buildings.

“I know what it’s like,” Harry adds after a minute. “To want something and be afraid it’s going to disappear the second you reach for it.”

You gaze at him. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking forward, jaw clenched.

“It’s hard,” he continues. “Especially when you’re used to being ignored. Makes you doubt whether the moment ever happened at all.”

You stop walking. He does too.

You turn to face him. “You think I’m imagining it?”

He stares at you then. “No. I guess it terrified you.”

You exhale, breath fogging in front of you. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Harry transfers his weight. “He smiled at you again, didn’t he.”

You nod. “Not just a smile this time. He talked to me.”

“Then maybe it’s not nothing.”

You gaze down. “It feels like something.”

Harry’s voice sinks. “Then it is.”

He says that like it’s clear. Like the sky is blue. Like the sun will set. Like it’s just true. You stay there a minute longer, letting the stillness settle about you. For once, it’s not weighty. It’s warm. Comfortable.

And maybe, just maybe, you don’t feel so invisible anymore.

You don’t know why Mark Grayson starts sitting closer in Chemistry. He was always more of a back-row type. The sort of person who coasted through class with a smile and just enough involvement to prevent from being called on. He had that easy, casual appeal people either wanted to date or secretly disliked.

And for a time, he sat with Amber Bennett. They were a thing. Everyone knew it. Until, suddenly, they weren’t. There was no fight. No drama. No whispered hallway repercussions. They just... stopped sitting together. She stopped waiting for him outside of class. He stopped checking his phone between intervals like he was expecting her to text. They passed each other once in the cafeteria. Didn’t even make eye contact.

That’s when you noticed the shift.

You’ve never talked much to Mark. Not beyond polite conversation, class projects, the odd little moment, him giving you a paper you dropped, you lending him a pen during a quiz. But you’ve spotted him. It’s hard not to. He’s the type of boy who sparkles without trying to. Who takes up space without needing to talk.

But recently, he’s quieter. Not sad, precisely. Just... turned inward. And you can connect to it. So when he begins sitting a row closer in Chem, you don’t doubt it. When he peeks at your notes mid-lecture, you shift the page over a bit without saying anything.

Mark hangs back after class, kind of pretending to check something in his bag but clearly waiting for you again.

“Hey,” he says, stepping over like it’s no big deal but clearly trying. “You’re good at this chem stuff, right? Like, actually understand it?”

You glance at him, surprised. “I guess? Why?”

He shrugs, gives a lopsided smile. “Because I’m not. At all. And if I bomb one more quiz, I think my GPA’s gonna file a restraining order.”

You laugh, and he brightens a little.

You nod. “Yeah. I get that.”

He hesitates. “Would it be weird if I asked for help sometime?”

“Not weird.”

He exhales, apparently relieved. “Cool.”

It becomes a thing. Not formal. Not consistent. But a thing. He finds you in the library after school. No announcement. No plans. He just... turns up. You glance up from your notebook and raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to go home yet.”

You don’t question it. You move your stuff to make room. He sits across from you and pulls out his Chemistry packet. And that’s how it starts.

Some days you study. Some days you don’t. Some days you speak about class, or ridiculous YouTube videos, or which teacher definitely needs a vacation. Other days he barely talks, and you both just sit there in the same silence , doing nothing at all.

And that’s alright. It’s never framed as anything more than that. Not a date. Not a secret. Just... a shared pause in an otherwise crazy week. You don’t know why he comes to you. But you don’t mind that he does.

One afternoon, he shows up to the library later than normal. His eyes are a touch red. Not like he’s been crying, just like he hasn’t slept.

He dumps his backpack on the floor and slumps onto the chair. “Hey.”

You glance up. “Rough day?”

“Something like that.”

You wait. He says nothing. Just stares at the edge of the table.

Then, out of nowhere. “You ever have those days where it all feels… weird? Like you’re there, but not really?”

You blink. You weren’t expecting that.

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I have.”

He doesn’t say anything else. But he sits a bit straighter after that. You just think ‘He’s struggling with something.’ And that something hasn’t been called yet. And if he wants to talk about it, he will. Until then, you’re just... here.

One Thursday, he meets you outside class.

“Hey,” he says. “You doing anything after school?”

You pause. “No. Why?”

“Hey, there’s this place downtown, bookstore with a coffee shop in it. The comic section’s a disaster, total mess. Thought you might like it.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t know what I like.”

He grins. “You doodled Superman on your Chem notes last week.”

You flush. He grins wider.

“It’s not a date,” he adds hurriedly. “I just... didn’t want to go alone.”

You pretend your heart didn’t just do anything crazy.

“Okay,” you say. “Sure.”

It’s dusty and chaotic and comforting in that way that old shops often are. The shelves lean. The ceiling fan clicks overhead. The fragrance is coffee beans and cardboard and time.

You step in beside him. The clerk doesn’t glance up. You stroll toward the comics corner. It’s anarchy. Stacks of mismatched problems. Trade paperbacks from 10 years ago. A decrepit cardboard standee of Batman toppling over in the corner. He flips through a handful, bringing up one that seems like it escaped a flood.

“This is either cursed or a collectible.”

You snort. “Definitely both.”

He laughs. Really laughs. It’s the first time in weeks you’ve seen him do that. You end up getting tea. He gets the worst coffee of his life. You sit at the window, just watching the street as it grows dark.

“This place is weird,” he says.

“Yeah. I like it.”

You drink your tea. He taps his fingers on the table.

“Amber and I broke up.”

You blink. He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“It wasn’t bad. Just... not right anymore.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“She wanted more from me. And I couldn’t give it to her.”

He glances up.

“I don’t really know what I want right now. But being here’s easier.”

You don’t say anything. You just nod. And he appears to breathe a bit easier after that. On the walk back, you brush shoulders. Not on purpose. But he doesn’t draw away. You don’t either.

And even though it’s not a date, even though no one says anything they shouldn’t, you find yourself staring at him a bit longer than normal. And thinking what it would be like if it was.

You weren’t expecting Mark Grayson’s house to seem so normal.

It’s a two-story in the midst of a quiet neighborhood, the type of property where the porch is usually swept but the paint on the door is chipped toward the bottom. The grass is uneven in areas. The windchimes clink quietly in the air. It smells vaguely like laundry venting through the walls and someone’s concept of a home-cooked dinner.

You’re early.

Well, on time. But you feel early.

You tighten the strap of your bag, checking your phone again for the address Mark gave you. The text had been brief.

> want to study at my house friday?

No extra words. No emoji. Just that. You said yes. You even offered to bring food. He answered within minutes.

 > please yes i just have lousy granola bars and expired ramen

You don’t know what you anticipated. But this? This feels… silent. More domestic than you expected it would be.

Before you can knock, the door opens.

Mark appears at the doorway in sweatpants and a hoodie with the sleeves pressed up to his elbows. His hair looks like it’s still recuperating from a towel-dry, and he’s barefoot.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is warm. Tired. A little astonished.

You hold out a bag of gummy worms and chips. “Figured I’d bring the essentials.”

He steps aside, smiling. “A true lifesaver. Come on in.”

Inside, the house seems lived-in. There are images on the walls, family holidays, school portraits, one of Mark on his dad’s shoulders laughing like he was made of sunlight. The kitchen smells like tomato sauce and warmed leftovers. You follow him into the tiny hallway and into the kitchen, where he dumps his backpack with a faint thud upon the table.

“We can study here if that’s cool,” he offers. “My room’s a mess. Unless you want to sit on a pile of clothes and ungraded math homework.”

You grin and sink into the chair across from him. “I’ll take the table.”

He sits down with a sigh and opens a notepad. “I warned you, though. I’m going fail this test unless you do some type of academic CPR.”

“I’ll get the paddles.”

He chuckles, and it’s the first real one you’ve heard from him in a while. You’re halfway through a question concerning redox reactions when a voice calls out from another room.

“Mark?”

He glances toward the hall. “Kitchen!”

A moment later, a woman steps in, groceries in one hand, keys in the other. She freezes when she sees you, eyebrows rising for a second before her expression relaxes.

“Oh. Hello. I didn’t know we had company.”

You start to stand, but she waves you off.

“I’m Debbie,” she adds, shifting the bag on her hip. “You must be the Chem tutor.”

You nod. “Yeah. Sorry for dropping in.”

“Oh, you’re his tutor? Great. Maybe now he’ll bring home a test I don’t have to squint at to find the passing grade.”

“Mom,” Mark mutters.

Debbie offers you a wink. “You’d be surprised how often that happens around here.”

A few minutes later, you hear footsteps again, heavier this time. Slower. Then, a fresh voice. Deep. Calm. Measured.

“Debbie?”

“In the kitchen,” she calls.

And then you see him. Mark’s dad. You’ve never met him before, yet something about the way he enters the room makes you straighten without thinking. He’s tall. Broad. The type of man that looks too enormous for the doorway he passes through.

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t scowl either. He merely glances at you. There’s a weight in his stare, quiet, but obvious. Mark stands. So do you.

“Dad, we’re in Chem together,” Mark says your name.

You offer your hand. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

He takes it. His grasp is solid but not crushing. His hand is warm and calloused. His voice is lower than Mark’s, smooth and unhurried. “Nolan.”

You nod. Something about him makes your palms sweat. He lingers for just a second longer than he should. Then nods and steps back.

And just like that, he’s gone. You sit down carefully. Mark exhales like he’s been holding his breath.

“You okay?” he says.

You blink. “Yeah. Your dad’s just... intense.”

Mark huffs a weary chuckle. “Yeah. He’s... a lot.”

You don’t Sk what Nolan does for a living. You recall Mark suggesting something vague once about novels or anything to do with writing. You didn’t press then, and you don’t now.

But still, something about the way Nolan stared at you remained buried in your ribs. You get back to studying.

Mark is better at this than he lets on. He’s not failing. He’s just exhausted. Distracted. He remembers half of the formulas and just needs someone to keep him from talking himself out of the appropriate solution.

You help. He listens. Mark glances at you for a long moment. Then he nods. “Thanks.”

You stay for another hour.

When you finally rise, your back’s hurting and your brain’s fried. But you’ve worked through all the review questions, and Mark says he’s going to score at least a B this time.

You follow him back to the entrance hallway. As you slide your shoes on, Debbie joins you at the door with a Tupperware container.

“Leftovers,” she replies, placing it gently in your hands. “Don’t argue.”

You smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome anytime.”

Mark opens the door for you. You go onto the porch, and that’s when you hear the voice again.

“Heading out?”

You turn.

Nolan stands near the steps, arms folded across his chest. His gaze finds yours with precise accuracy.

“Yes,” you answer, trying not to sound apprehensive. “Thank you for having me.”

He nods once. “Smart people ask the right questions.”

You freeze.

Then he says, “He’s stronger when he’s challenged. You seem to hold him to a standard… that’s good. He needs that.”

You attempt to grin. “Thanks.”

His expression doesn’t change. Then he turns and disappears back down the hall. You stare at Mark.

He shrugs. “That’s his version of approval.”

“Cold,” you say.

He snorts. “Yeah.”

You say farewell and walk back to your house, the Tupperware warm in your hands and your thoughts full of too many things.

You don’t anticipate much from Monday.

Just the usual. Half-slept eyelids, a sore shoulder from a too-heavy backpack, the lingering taste of coffee that went cold before the first bell. You don’t anticipate clarity, or elegance, or anything that is easy.

But you surely don’t anticipate him.

“You know, I always figured you were book smart, but I didn’t think you were that easy.”

Flash Thompson’s voice slices through the corridor like a dagger. You cringe, not because of what he says, but because of how loud he makes sure it is. You’re halfway to your locker. You don’t turn. Not at first.

You know the tone. The way his voice lifts just enough to encourage an audience. It’s not curiosity. It’s spectacle. Flash has been like this since middle school, loud, arrogant, always surrounding individuals he believes can’t or won’t bite back.

You don’t engage. That’s always been your rule. But this time? This time it’s not just a jab.

“You and Grayson, huh?” Flash continues, sauntering into view like he owns the floor. “So that’s all it takes to get you worked up? He says some chemistry crap and suddenly you’re all flushed and ready to play lab partner with your legs open?”

He grins.

The group surrounding you doesn’t laugh, exactly, but a few of them pause. Linger. He sees it. Doubles down.

“Practice quiz was just foreplay, huh?” he says, leaning one elbow on the locker next to yours. “Bet you were drooling over more than formulas the second he took out his binder.”

You say nothing. But your fingers are gripped around the spine of your notebook. He notices. Of course he does.

“Hey, no judgment,” he adds, faux-innocent. “We’ve all had those days. A little homework. A little extra credit. A little physics lesson, if you catch my drift.”

A few kids chuckle now. Not because it’s humorous. Because he’s loud. Because no one wants to be the next target. Flash tilts his head.

“You're really aiming low though, aren’t you?” he adds, eyes narrowing just enough to make your skin crawl. “Grayson? Seriously? I figured you for someone with standards.”

You start to close your locker. Fast. Hard. But Flash keeps going.

“Then again,” he continues, a little closer now, voice lowering just enough to make it personal, “maybe you’re not as hard to get as you pretend to be.”

That’s when the second voice cuts in. Quiet. Level. Sharp as a scalpel.

“Say that again.”

You don’t turn. You already know who it is. Mark’s voice isn’t loud. It’s not furious. But the weight of it freezes everyone around you in their tracks.

Flash straightens, nearly laughs. “Grayson. Wow, you really have great timing.”

Mark moves ahead, slow and controlled. His strap is still hanging across his back. His hands are in his jacket pockets. He looks peaceful. Too calm. You know that look.

You’ve seen it once or twice, when someone at lunch kicked a platter at the janitor. When a freshman made a joke about Eve behind her back. Mark doesn’t get loud. He just looks straight at people. And they typically shut up.

Not Flash.

Flash grins like he’s unbeatable. “Look, man, if she didn’t want people talking, maybe she shouldn’t be walking around like she’s got secrets. First she’s all quiet, then suddenly she’s at your house. What else are people meant to think?”

Mark doesn’t blink.

“You’re not ‘people.’ You’re just loud.”

Flash’s grin falters. Mark steps closer. And when he talks, it’s lower than before.

“Say one more word about her, and we’re done talking.”

There’s no arrogance in his voice. Just certainty. Flash stiffens, suddenly aware of how many people had gone still around them. Someone murmurs your name. Another mutters Mark’s.

“You threatening me?” Flash asks.

Mark’s upper lip twitches. “You’re not getting a second warning.”

Flash steps back. Not far. But enough.

He attempts to sneer. “Come on. We’re just messing around.”

“No,” Mark responds. “You’re messing around. And no one’s laughing.”

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t raise his voice. But everyone hears it. Flash glares. And then, eventually, he turns. Walks away. Quick. Too fast to be casual. Mark watches him leave. Then exhales. He turns to you.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, stroking the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to, uh, make it a whole thing.”

You shake your head.

“No. That was... thank you.”

He offers a tiny nod. “He’s been a jerk for a while. Figured it was time someone said something.”

You bite your lip. “That was more than saying something.”

He shrugs. “He deserved it.”

You don’t disagree.

The remainder of the day goes in a haze. In Chemistry, Mark passes you a note. Not a dramatic one. Just a shred pulled from the corner of his worksheet.

> still on for thursday?

You scrawl back.

> if you bring food.

He writes.

> i’m starving. you bring food.

You repress a laugh. Later, as you gather up your things, he stays by the door. You fall in stride beside him without thinking.

“You good?” he says, sounding nonchalant now.

You gaze at him. “Yeah.”

He nods, like that’s all he needs. You go halfway down the hall before you halt.

“Mark?”

He glances at you, one brow arched.

You clear your throat. “You didn’t have to say anything. But... I’m happy you did.”

He grins. “Yeah, well. I’m not good at keeping quiet.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re literally always quiet in class.”

Mark smiles. “Exactly.”

And strangely, that makes perfect sense.

On Thursday, Mark opens the door barefoot, wearing a sweatshirt that definitely should’ve been retired a year ago and carrying a sleeve of Cheez-Its like it’s the most important thing he possesses.

“You’re early,” he adds, but there’s no bite to it.

“You said six.”

“I meant emotionally.”

You lift an eyebrow. “ I brought my notes. And gummy worms. That’s as emotionally accessible as I get.”

He grins, standing aside to let you enter. “Perfect. This way.”

The Grayson house smells like laundry detergent and something strangely Italian, tomato sauce again, maybe. You walk over a pair of sneakers at the entryway and follow Mark along the hallway to the kitchen, where a mound of opened mail and a set of mismatched tablecloths share room with an open binder and three broken pens.

He sweeps the pens away like he’s done this same gesture a hundred times.

“Alright,” he replies, dropping into a chair across from you. “Let’s save my GPA.”

You place your backpack down, unzip it, and bring out your folders. “Start with redox reactions?”

“Start with telling me what those are again.”

You blink.

“Kidding,” he says hastily. “Kinda.”

You toss him a pencil. “Then let’s go.”

You’re about half an hour into the study session when the temperature in the room shifts. It starts with the creak of the steps. Heavy footsteps. Not hurried, but thoughtful. Mark’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. Then a low, unhurried voice fills the area.

“She’s here… again?”

The voice isn’t loud, yet it lands like a pin in the midst of the table. You glance up.

Mark’s father strides into the kitchen like a shadow filling the doorway. He’s tall, taller than any man has a right to be, and wide through the chest and shoulders. Today, his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, his beard groomed, his gaze unfathomable.

He doesn’t look at you. He stares at Mark.

Mark, without glancing up from the notes in front of him, adds tightly, “Dad.”

Nolan lifts his hands like he’s innocent. “What? Just noticing.”

You clear your throat. “Hi, Mr. Grayson.”

Nolan stares at you then, nodding. “Evening.”

He doesn’t grin. Doesn’t frown either. He just... is. There’s a pause. Then he wanders toward the fridge, opens it, gets a water bottle, and pauses there a bit too long before heading out again. Mark lets out a sigh as soon as the door slams closed behind him.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “He’s... always like that.”

You glance toward the door. “Did I do something?”

“No. God—no,” he says quickly. “He’s just weird when I bring people home. You didn’t do anything.”

You return to your notes, but the tone has transformed. The air feels tighter. Mark doesn’t make as many jokes after that. He’s concentrated, keen, eyes flitting from formula to formula like he’s trying to escape whatever’s seething just beneath the surface.

You try not to let it get to you. But it does.

Later, Debbie comes down from upstairs, pulling her hair up and murmuring faintly to herself. She’s got a warmth to her that makes the place feel more like a home again.

“Spaghetti’s on the stove,” she says. “If either of you need a break.”

Mark perked up instantly. “Do I have to do anything for it?”

“Just pretend like you haven’t been living on instant ramen and cereal.”

He grins, already standing. “I make no promises.”

You follow him into the kitchen, and soon you're eating microwaved spaghetti over your open notes, the kitchen warmer now, the strain of earlier starting to disappear.

Debbie circles around a few minutes later, observes the gummy worms spread between your pages, and raises a brow.

“I see the study snacks have become actual meal replacements.”

“She said it was brain fuel,” Mark explains.

“I stand by that,” you murmur between a mouthful of noodles.

Debbie laughs. “Well, you’re welcome to stay for real dinner next time. Though I make no promises regarding nutrition.”

You depart shortly after nine, spaghetti container in hand and your folder packed a bit tighter than before. Mark takes you to the door, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up against the cold.

“Hey,” he says as you approach the steps. “Thanks again. You’re seriously helping me not flunk this.”

“You’re welcome,” you remark, stepping down onto the porch.

Mark pauses at the doorway a second longer, then adds, “Text me when you get home?”

You nod. “I will.”

You’re halfway down the path when you hear another voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn. It’s Debbie. She’s walked out onto the porch, arms crossed against the chill, a soft grin on her face.

“I figured I’d walk you out,” she says. “Mark can’t be trusted to remember simple things like jackets.”

You smile. “He’s consistent, at least.”

She laughs then her voice softens. “Thank you for coming. And for helping him.”

You blink. “Oh, it’s nothing. I mean, I like chemistry.”

“I can tell,” she says. “It’s nice. Seeing him around someone who gets it.”

There’s a beat. Then another.

She adds, softly, “Don’t let his dad get to you.”

You gaze toward the home. “I didn’t mean to-”

“He’s not... unfriendly,” Debbie continues, picking her words carefully. “Just not good with company. Especially when it’s not expected.”

You nod slowly.

“He’s used to things being a certain way,” she continues. “Schedules. Routines. And when something changes, even something small, it throws him off.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you just provide a gentle, “Okay.”

Debbie studies you a minute more, then says, “It’s not about you.”

And somehow, that helps the tightness in your chest lessen just a little.

You smile. “Thanks.”

She returns it, then waves you off. “Get home safe.”

You go home beneath peaceful starlight and gentle streetlight, brain humming not with formulas, but with all that was nearly said.

You slip into a habit before you even know it.

Not everything at once. Not in some rom-com montage of coffee cups and falling leaves and gently blurred smiles over a shared textbook. It’s slower. Quieter. The type of pattern you don’t notice until you’re already inside it, like music playing under your skin.

Mondays and Thursdays become study nights. You don’t plan it. It just happens. He starts messaging you more. You start replying quicker. And somehow, every week, you find yourself back at the Graysons’ kitchen table, paper scattered between you, half-finished notes on ionic bonding and entropy, a shared bag of gummy worms laying half-eaten between your elbows.

You’re not sure when it stops being just about Chemistry.

Probably the third time you see him scribbling in the margins of your schoolwork. Stick figures in lab coats. A molecule shouting “HELP” in capital letters. One time, he sketches you wearing goggles and surrounded by flames, mumbling “I told you not to mix them.”

“You’re gonna get me killed in the Chem lab,” you warn him, holding the paper up.

“Not true,” Mark replies, flipping a page. “If we both go down, it’s technically a bonding experience.”

You throw a gummy worm at him. He catches it in his lips without glancing up.

His house never changes. It’s usually warm and lived-in, a touch messy around the edges. Debbie greets you every time with the same worn grin that indicates she’s seen too much and yet wants you to feel welcome.

Nolan doesn’t speak much.

Sometimes you hear him upstairs. Sometimes he passes past the kitchen and nods without speaking. But there’s always something in the air when he’s around. Not anger. Not tension. Just, expectation. Like every room he's in is a test.

Mark never reacts to it. Not openly. But you’ve observed how he gets silent as his dad's footsteps reach the landing. How his handwriting stiffens. How he stops cracking jokes till Nolan’s out of earshot.

You pretend not to notice. You think maybe that’s the right thing to do.

By week four, you’re used to his hoodie sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, the way he chews his pencil while he’s thinking, the odd groan of exasperation when he gets something wrong that he should know.

“I swear I studied this,” he mutters one night, scrolling through his binder like it deceived him.

You glance at the question. “This is literally what we went over last time.”

“I know. I’m not saying I didn’t study. I’m saying the studying lied to me.”

You gaze at him.

Mark shrugs. “Textbooks have been out to get me since middle school.”

You huff a chuckle and start re-explaining the question.

He listens better now. Not only to you, but in class. You hear him actually address things now, still low-key, still playing it cool, but he’s trying.

You don’t say anything about that. But he sees you smiling once when he gets a question correct in Chem, and he doesn’t turn away.

There’s a week where you don’t come by because you’ve got a cold and your voice sounds like death.

He comes up at your locker with a package of lemon tea and a message written in the margins of an old worksheet.

‘hope ur not dead. drink this. if u fail chemistry i’m blaming ur immune system.’

You laugh so hard you have to lean on your locker. When you text him that night to say thanks, he just replies.

>i need u alive. not emotionally. academically.

You text back

> rude.

He sends a crying emoji and a photo of his notes with a large frowny emoticon painted on the page where he became confused about combustion responses.

> see what happens when u leave me unsupervised

It’s Thursday night when it happens.

You’re wrapping up your final practice quiz when you feel it, that little change in the air. The quiet that follows footsteps. You don’t hear them, not precisely. But you feel them.

Nolan arrives in the kitchen doorway.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at the two of you, your open notebooks, your heads close together, the tangle of pens and scratch paper across the table. Mark doesn’t look up.

“She’s here again,” Nolan adds, not quite shocked.

Mark still doesn’t look up. “She is.”

Nolan lifts a brow. “You two seeing each other now?”

You gaze up, surprised. “What-?”

Mark doesn’t flinch. “No. We’re studying.”

Nolan hums. Not disapproving. Not amused. Just... noticing. Then he leaves. You see the door swing quietly behind him.

Mark finally exhales. “He thinks he’s subtle.”

You hesitate. “Did I make it weird?”

“No.” He glances at you. “If anyone did, it was him.”

You nod. But your heart’s thudding too strongly in your ears. You gaze down at your notes and circle the same number again.

Mark reaches over and nudges your elbow. “Hey.”

You gaze at him.

He’s frowning, soft, not serious. “Don’t let him make you feel out of place.”

You offer a feeble grin. “I just didn’t realize he thought I was around that much.”

Mark shrugs. “You’re not. We’re just the only ones who talk during dinner, so maybe it feels like more.”

He smiles at you. “Besides, I can only pass Chemistry if you’re here, so technically, your presence is a medical necessity.”

You laugh. It’s subtle, but real. Mark observes you for a second longer than required. Then, as usual, he looks away first. After dinner, Debbie finds you by the door as you’re putting on your jacket.

“I’m glad you’ve been around lately,” she replies quietly. “Mark doesn’t let a lot of people in.”

You hesitate, taken off-guard. “Oh. I didn’t realize.”

She grins. “You wouldn’t. That’s the thing.”

She adjusts a frame on the wall. “You make it easy for him.”

You gaze toward the stairs.

“He doesn’t talk about school much,” she says. “But I’ve noticed he’s been… lighter lately. Whatever you’re doing, it’s helping.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know if you’re meant to. So you nod. And Debbie pats your arm, like she understands.

“Get home safe, alright?”

“I will.”

“And thank you.”

When you arrive home, Mark texts you.

> so how’d i do

You reply.

> you got 4/5 right on the last quiz which implies u are now legally allowed to make 1 chemistry pun every session use it wisely 

His reply is quick.

> oh don’t worry i’m saving it for something explosive

You gaze at your phone. And you laugh till your stomach hurts.

It starts like every other late afternoon.

The bell rings. You groan. Your Chem notes are a catastrophe. You can’t find your pencil bag. Your brain’s still whirling from the pop quiz you’re almost convinced broke international law.

And your locker? Your locker is the last boss. You’re elbow-deep in stuff, pulling out old assignments and crammed files like you’re on an ancient excavation, when the inevitable comes.

Everything collapses. Not dramatically. Just enough to be bothersome.

A notepad strikes your sneaker and breaks open. Your lunch container from two days ago (you swear you were going to bring it home) topples onto its side. A stack of papers flutters down like confetti to the floor.

You sigh. Loudly. Stare at the commotion with the detached tiredness of someone two seconds from just walking away and never returning.

“Need help?” a voice says behind you.

You don’t even turn. “Only if you want to lose all respect for me in the next thirty seconds.”

A beat.

Then a voice, closer, familiar.

“I’m pretty sure that happened around the time I saw you try to take notes with a dried-out highlighter.”

You freeze.

Then gaze up.

Mark is lounging against the locker next to yours, arms crossed, face way too casual for how fast your heart just shot into your throat. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. His hair’s a touch disheveled. He’s smiling.

Too wide. Too deliberate. Like he’s attempting to act casual and failing at it.

“Hey,” he says again. “You doing something after school?”

You blink. Still half-bent into the debris of your locker, a wad of paper in one hand and your dignity pouring out the bottom.

Mark lifts an eyebrow. “You’re... frozen. Did I break you?”

You shake your head. “No—sorry. I just—what?”

He shrugs, attempting to play it off, but there’s a little shift in his stance. Like he’s trying not to hold his breath.

“Wanna get lunch with me after school?”

You stop moving. Totally. Completely.

You’re clutching a half-crushed notepad in one hand, a shattered pen in the other. You’re slumped at an angle that can only be characterized as terrible. And your brain, your wonderful, overworked brain, flatlines.

Mark observes you closely. Then clears his throat.

“Together,” he adds. “Like... as a date.”

You short-circuit. There is no other name for it. Your face warms up so rapidly it’s if someone set off a flare behind your eyes. You create a noise. It’s intended to be a word. It is not a word.

Mark, somehow, doesn’t bolt.

You look at him, really look at him, and he’s nervous. Still smiling, but softer now. The grin isn’t haughty. It’s optimistic. Hesitant, even. And it guts you a bit, how this guy who’s so brilliant at trying to be relaxed is plainly just as afraid as you are.

You clear your throat. Try to talk.

“Y-yeah,” you say, like someone flicked your language switch back on. “I mean. Yes. I love eating. And consuming. Things. Food.”

You want to drill a hole right through the flooring and into the Earth’s core. Mark stares. Then he laughs. Not a snort. Not a chuckle. A real laugh. Caught-off-guard, full-bodied, straight-from-the-stomach laughing that makes him lean against the locker a little like it physically hit him.

You die inside.

He straightens up, shaking his head. “That was great.”

“Please never repeat anything I just said.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he adds, smirking. “I’m gonna remember that forever.”

You cover your face with the shattered notepad. “I hate myself.”

“You love food and consuming things. That’s amazing. I couldn’t have written that if I tried.”

You groan. “You’re a menace.”

Mark just grins at you. “Cool.”

You lower the notepad carefully.

“Cool?” you repeat.

He nods. “Cool that you said yes.”

Your chest does something silly and fluttery.

You nod, suddenly bashful. “Yeah. Cool.”

There’s a pause. Neither of you move. The corridor is nearly empty now, only the sound of a faraway locker slamming, a teacher's voice booming down the hall.

Mark rocks on his heels. “I’ll text you?”

You nod again, far too fast.

He looked down at the mess at your feet. “Should I—help?”

You manage a chuckle. “God, no. You’ll never recover from the trauma.”

“Alright,” he replies, moving back. “I’ll let you fight with your paper demon alone.”

You watch him depart, your whole body still heated with surprise.

He goes about halfway down the corridor before turning back and saying, “Bring your appetite, okay? For... consuming things.”

You groan. “Stop.”

He winks. Then he’s gone. You gaze into your locker like it could offer you answers. Like maybe, somewhere behind all that confusion, you’ll discover the version of yourself that knows how to talk to men without sounding like she swallowed a dictionary and forgot how verbs operate.

But you don’t. You find an old granola bar. And for the first time that day, you smile so big your cheeks hurt. Because Mark Grayson just asked you out. And you said yes. Terribly. Awkwardly. But still, yes.

And now you’re here.

Standing outside a tiny café with a vintage Coca-Cola sign and a crooked chalkboard that says “We toast everything except our customers!”

Mark’s already waiting.

He’s leaning against the side of the building, backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie half-zipped like he didn’t even notice how good he looks. His hair’s a little messy, like he just was attacked by the wind, and when he sees you, he straightens up and smiles.

“Hey.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You make a weird little jazz-hand wave that was not pre-approved by your nervous system. “Hi.”

He grins, like he saw it, like he’s decided not to make fun of you for it, but definitely logged it for later.

“You good?” he asks, stepping forward to open the door for you.

“Yep. I mean, no. I mean—I’m good. Fine. Average. Not dying.”

He laughs, holds the door open wider. “That’s comforting.”

The café is warm and cluttered, filled with little two-top tables and posters from old black-and-white movies you’ve never heard of. Someone’s playing acoustic covers of emo songs through a tinny speaker. It smells like toast and burnt sugar and coffee.

Mark picks a booth by the window. You sit across from him and try to make your legs look normal under the table.

“So,” he says, tapping the table with two fingers. “Grilled cheese. Important business.”

You snort. “I like that we’re pretending this is about cheese and not the fact that we’re hanging out alone in public and there’s a 90% chance I’m going to say something stupid.”

Mark leans back in the booth, arms crossed over his chest, smirking.

“Please. You say stupid things all the time. That’s kind of your thing.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re so lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” he says, grinning like it’s not the first time someone’s called him that and like he’s very aware you just accidentally did.

Your brain blue-screens for a second. You just open the menu just to hide your face.

The tickets arrive like magic, folded slightly, edges worn from being tucked in his hoodie pocket, handed off like a secret right after you finished eating.

“You remembered,” you reply, glancing at the movie logo written across them, your fingertips touching his.

Mark shrugs, his countenance that typical blend of youthful casual and something that lives deeper in his chest. “Of course I did. It’s you.”

After lunch, the theater was bustling. Opening night groups crowd every seat and area, bursting with enthusiasm. Cosplayers pose for pictures at the concession counter. Someone brought a handcrafted replica of the main character’s shield. The room smells like butter and happiness. Your heart races rapidly for causes that have nothing to do with coffee or grilled cheese anymore.

You find your seats, center row, excellent view. Mark flops into his chair like he’d been there a hundred times, instantly shoving popcorn into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten all day.

He glances over as the previews start. “You nervous?”

“About a movie?”

“No,” he responds. “About spending two hours next to someone who won’t shut up during action scenes.”

You elbow him. “You’re lucky I like you.”

The words tumble out before you could catch them. He blinks once. You blink twice.

But he just grins around another handful of popcorn. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

The lights darken. The movie starts. You forget about everything else.

Well, practically everything.

Halfway through, during the slow scene, the one when your favorite character finally says the thing they'd been holding back for three films, Mark moves in his seat. Just a bit.

He doesn't look at you at the start. Then he does.

“You know,” he adds, voice low, cautious not to disturb the full auditorium, “I don’t care about this stuff half as much as you do.”

Your lips open, but no words come. Not yet.

He keeps going. “But I’ve never had this much fun in a movie.”

You turn to him. The lights from the screen flash across his cheekbones, his lashes, the line of his mouth. You can feel the grin developing over your own lips.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He gazes at the screen again, but not for long.

“I don’t know—just… the way you get into things. It’s cool. Kind of hard not to notice.”

You don’t laugh. Not this time.

Instead, you murmur, “I’m a huge dork.”

Mark’s gaze moves back to yours. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But you make me want to be a dork too.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You aren’t sure anything you say would come out correctly. So you smile instead, and the moment hangs there between you, suspended like the flicker of the projector beam overhead.

A minute passes. Then another.

You can hear the tension building back up in the film, music increasing, actors running, yelling. But you’re just half-listening. Your heartbeat is louder than the booms.

Mark shifts closer. Your fingertips brush against the armrest. And then that weight in your chest isn’t anxiety anymore, its gravity.

The kiss isn’t fireworks. It isn’t slow motion. It's simple. Mark leans in, and you meet him halfway, and his lips are warm and hesitant and genuine. You pause for just a second, because this is your first. And it’s Mark.

Your fingers grasp the edge of your hoodie, heart thudding. You can smell the salt of the popcorn, the faint whiff of the cologne he never wore enough of, the lingering sweetness of soda on his breath.

Then it was finished. And everything changed. You grin like a secret had finally been exposed. Neither of you utter a word. He clasps your hand in his, and you lay your head softly against his shoulder. The screen lights both of you up in bursts of gold and violet, action rushing forward like time hadn’t halted for you.

But it did. Just for a time. And as the credits play, and the audience begins to stir, and the lights creep slowly back into the room, your hand is still in his. And neither of you let go.

Outside, the theater goes silent. The post-show bustle is already diminishing, cosplayers posing beneath streetlamps, cars idle in the lot, people talking over favorite moments and final twists.

Mark escorts you toward the curb, your shoulders touching now and then. You feel weightless, like every stride is softer than it should be.

“That was amazing,” you remark.

He grins. “The movie?”

You pause, then shake your head. “All of it.”

Mark stops walking. You turn to face him.

He glances at you like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your smile.

“I meant it,” he adds gently. “I like this. I like being with you.”

Your throat goes dry. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His hand squeezes yours. “You make everything feel less... complicated.”

You glance at him, heart thundering in your ears. “Even when I rant about side characters for twenty minutes?”

He grins. “Especially then.”

You laugh gently, and he leans in, brushing his lips on your temple. You aren’t sure how the night will end. Aren’t even sure what this was, what it means. But something started here. Something genuine. You’re not ready to go home.

You gaze at him. “You good?”

“Hm?” He glances over. “Yeah. Yeah, completely. I just…”

He trails off. Then clears his throat, like he’s trying to shake something loose.

You don’t press. Not yet. You’ve learned by now that Mark will talk when he’s ready, when he knows the words won’t come out all jumbled and sideways. And if they do, he’ll still mean every single one of them.

So you wait.

He lets out a breath, like he’s been holding it the entire movie.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’m just gonna say it.”

You raise a brow. “Say what?”

He stops walking and turns to face you. Under the theater’s flickering sign, he looks… anxious. But also, focused. Determined in a way that makes your heart jump.

“I like you,” he says. “I mean—I really like you.”

You blink. “ Mark-”

“No, let me finish,” he adds, extending a hand. “I’ve been thinking about this since, like, the fourth week we started hanging out. Back when you helped me with Chem and I couldn’t figure out if you were a genius or just really patient.”

You snort gently. “I’m both.”

“I know,” he adds, beaming. “Which made things even worse, honestly. Because you were so calm about it. And you smiled at my dumb jokes, and you never made me feel like an idiot even when I was being one.”

You’re silent. Your heart is a jackhammer. You don’t interrupt.

Mark swallows. “I guess what I’m trying to say is—I want this. Us. Like, officially. You and me.”

And then, so quiet it scarcely registers.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

The question hits like a weight. Not hefty. Not painful. Just… solid. Real. And horrifying in the greatest sense. You open your mouth. Then hesitate.

And before you can help it, the words are already out.

“What about Amber?”

Mark doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. He just nods, like he anticipated that.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” he says. “We just… didn’t fit. I wanted it to work, but it felt like I was pretending. Like she needed me to be someone I’m not.”

You tilt your head, studying him.

“But you…?” he continues. “You actually get me. Even when I screw things up. You still call me out, but… you see me. For real.”

You feel your cheeks flush.

“I’m not trying to rebound,” he adds hastily. “I’m not looking for comfort. I just… like being around you. I feel like I can breathe.”

You look at him, this kid with unkempt hair, calloused hands, worn eyes, and the sweetest heart you’ve ever seen somebody hide under sarcasm. And suddenly, it’s not a question anymore. It’s the easiest response you’ve ever given.

You nod. “Yeah. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Mark blinks. And then a grin spreads over his face so rapidly you’re scared his cheeks could split.

“Yeah?” he asks, like he needs to hear it again.

You laugh. “Yeah.”

He does this ridiculous little fist pump, then tries to cover it up like he didn’t just do that.

You study him with narrowed eyes. “Did you just-”

“No,” he says. “Shut up.”

“You totally did.”

“You imagined it.”

You shake your head, chuckling. “God, you’re such a dork.”

He grins wider. “Your dork.”

And the words, simple, funny, sweet, make your chest ache in the best way.

You gaze at the group again. A few people are still lingering, the rush of post-movie enthusiasm still strong in the air. But you feel far distant from it. Wrapped in a bubble of him. Of this.

Mark squeezes your hand. “So... what now?”

You put your head against his shoulder. “Now you walk me home like the gentleman you’re pretending to be.”

He scoffs. “Hey. I’m a total gentleman. I only made one bad joke during the entire movie.”

“One that you said out loud,” you point out. “I saw your face during the rooftop scene.”

Mark coughs dramatically. “No comment.”

You nudge him. “Come on, gentleman. Let’s go.”

The walk is slow. He doesn't rush it, and neither do you. At one point, he lets go of your hand just long enough to theatrically throw his jacket over your shoulders like it’s a cape.

“I dub you Lady of Post-Credit Analysis,” he says seriously.

You curtsy, deadpan. “I accept this burden.”

He snorts. “God, we’re annoying.”

“Disgustingly so,” you agree.

But neither of you stops smiling. When you reach your front door, he stands there with his hands buried in his pockets, wobbling slightly on his feet.

You think he might kiss you again. You hope he will. But instead, he just stares at you like he’s still not certain this isn’t a dream. And when he finally speaks, it’s gentle. Unassuming.

“I’m really glad you said yes.”

You lean in. Rest your forehead on his.

“Me too.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t look at it. He remains right there. With you.

Just a boy who makes you laugh till you can’t breathe, who kissed you like it meant something, who asked if you’d be his, not because he had to, not because it was easy, but because he wanted to.

You smile. He smiles back. And the darkness wraps around you both like a secret you never want to give up.

It had been a couple weeks.

Just long enough for your classmates to start getting used to the idea that Mark Grayson was dating you. Long enough that the first wide-eyed looks and whispered comments had cooled into low-grade curiosity and the occasional side-eye in the cafeteria. But not long enough for Flash Thompson to quit running his mouth.

If anything, he’d become worse.

The more genuine it grew between you and Mark, the more often others saw him waiting for you at your locker, brushing your fingers in the corridor, sneaking little kisses behind the science building, the more Flash believed he had something to prove.

You’re elbow-deep in your locker, trying to find the pen you swore you’d tossed in your bag this morning, when you hear it.

“Damn,” Flash says behind you. “Grayson not glued to you for once?”

You don’t turn around. You know that tone. And more than that, you know that voice.

He keeps chatting, nonchalant as ever. “Didn’t think he was allowed to let you out unsupervised.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. You really, really don’t want to do this today. But Flash doesn’t need you to want it.

“I mean, maybe he figured it out,” he continues, voice lowering just enough that the kids around might not catch every word. “So he’s dating some girl who doesn’t even put out? What, you just stringing him along while he blue-balls through chemistry class?”

You freeze.

Flash chuckles behind you. “Yeah, that’s gotta be it. You’re all smiles and hand-holding and blushing like you’ve never even been kissed before. Mark’s probably pulling his hair out.”

You shut your locker, slowly. No slam. No theatrics. You turn to face him.

“Get away from me.”

He grins. “Relax. I’m just talking. Trying to find out what the hell Grayson sees in you. You’re not his type.”

You cross your arms. “You don’t know him.”

“I know guys like him,” Flash adds. “They don’t go for girls like you unless they think you’re easy or they feel sorry for you. Maybe both.”

Your throat gets constricted.

You keep your voice level. “You know what your problem is?”

Flash leans in. “Do tell.”

“You hate that he picked me. Not because I’m louder or hotter or whatever because I’m real. And he sees that. He’s not like you.”

Flash rolls his eyes. “Playing the long game, huh? You two waiting ‘til prom to finally get it in?”

You take a step forward. “I’d rather sleep with a trash can than let someone like you say another word to me.”

That stuns him for half a second. Then the grin comes back, sharper.

“You think you’re better than me?”

You stare him down. “I don’t think. I know.”

And that’s when the air changes. You don’t hear Mark walk up. You don’t need to. You sense him. Something in the atmosphere tightens. Like someone’s turned the volume down on everything but your own breathing.

Flash stares past you and all the blood drains from his face. Mark’s voice is calm. Too calm.

“Leave.”

Flash straightens. “What, you gonna cry about it? We’re just talking. I’m not touching her. I’m not doing anything.”

Mark doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His fists clench at his sides.

“Come on, man. Seriously? What, you think you’re scary now ‘cause you finally hit a growth spurt? I didn’t touch her, alright? Not like you even own her or anything.”

Mark moves. It’s fast. No hesitation.

He takes Flash by the front of his jacket, spins, and pushes him against the lockers with a force that makes the whole row tremble. The metal dents around Flash’s shoulders.

People stop. Conversations freeze. You can hear someone speaking behind you, but you’re not listening.

You’re watching Mark. Watching the way his jaw tightens. The way his hands tremble. The way he’s not shouting. He’s focused. Mark leans in, voice low.

“You think you can talk about her like that and just walk away?”

Flash squirms. “You’re freaking out, man-”

“You know what I’ve been trying so hard to do?” Mark says. “I’ve been trying to stay calm. Trying not to make it worse. But you open your mouth, and all I wanna do is put you through a wall. You think I like this? You think I want to be the guy who hits first? I don’t. I hate it. But right now, I’d hate walking away even more.

Flash pales. “Dude—seriously-”

Mark pushes harder. Not by much. But enough that Flash winces. Enough that everyone watching realizes just how horribly this may go if Mark quits holding back.

You step forward. “Mark.”

He doesn’t look at you. But he hears you. His breathing slows. Just a bit.

“I should hit you,” he says. “I want to. You don’t deserve to walk away after what you said. I’m deciding if I let you.”

Flash swallows hard. Mark lets go. Flash crumples to the floor. No one moves to help him. Mark turns around, still shaking a bit. His eyes locate yours instantaneously.

“You okay?” he says, and suddenly, he’s just Mark again.

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He just grabs your hand. And leads you away. The corridor is still bustling behind you when he takes you into the rear stairs. Somewhere calm. Somewhere out of sight. He sits on the bottom step, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

You squat in front of him.

“Mark.”

He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have lost it.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. You saw it.”

You sit alongside him, knees touching. “I saw you not do something you really wanted to.”

He doesn’t talk.

“I saw you make a choice.”

He exhales gently.

“I almost didn’t. I didn’t even see anything. Just heard what he said and—my head went blank. Like I lost how to think.”

You don’t say anything. Just sit with him.

He finally glances at you. His eyes are bloodshot. Not from tears. From stress.

"Sometimes I’m just... angry.” he replies quietly. "Most days I can laugh it off. Let it slide.”

His jaw tightens. "Not today."

You lay your hand on his. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me like this.”

“You think I don’t know who you are?”

Mark shakes his head. “You don’t.”

You meet his eyes. “Then tell me.”

He hesitates. Then sighs.

“I can’t. Not yet. But I will.”

You nod. “I’ll wait.”

His fingers curl around yours. And for the first time all day, you feel the strain leave his body, not all of it, but enough to allow him breathe.

“I was scared I was gonna hurt him,” he says.

“You didn’t.”

“But I could have. I wanted to.”

“You didn’t.”

He leans his forehead to yours.

"You make it easier to deal with everything." he murmurs.

You close your eyes.

“So let me.”

And you stay like that for a long time. Just breathing.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You gaze at your phone.

The words don’t make sense at first, Congratulations on Your Admission to Upstate University, but they’re there. Real. Centered on the screen like someone took the dream out of your mind and digitized it.

Your name is immediately beneath it. Not someone else’s. Yours. You reread the introductory paragraph three times. Then you scroll down and see it, bolded, highlighted, circled in your head even if not in the text.

‘Awarded: Full Academic Scholarship – Applied Sciences Program’

You don’t recall how your phone gets up across the room, or how your pillow ends up halfway off the bed. All you know is that your voice comes out as an incoherent squeak that develops into a scream. One loud, unfiltered, impossible-to-reel-back scream.

You launch yourself into a spin on your bed. You laugh so hard you can’t breathe. And then you do the only thing that makes sense.

You text Mark.

> DUDE

> I GOT IN UPSTATE U. SCIENCE SCHOLARSHIP.

> I’M GONNA VOMIT I’M SO EXCITED

The typing bubbles pop up instantly.

> WHAT WHAT BABE I GOT IN TOO WE’RE GOING WE’RE GOING TOGETHER SCREAMING

> I’M ACTUALLY SCREAMING

> LIKE RIGHT NOW

> MY MOM IS CONCERNED

> I’M CRYING

You snort. You snort so hard you choke, and then you’re sobbing too, because it’s just too much. You tap out a shaky reply.

> don’t make me emotional rn i’m still ugly crying and i haven’t brushed my hair

He calls instead.

“Hey,” he says, out of breath like he’s been running in place.

“Hi,” you say, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

“You got in.”

“You got in too.”

“I know. This is so ridiculous. We both got in. To Upstate. You got in on a scholarship.”

You can hear the astonishment in his voice, like he’s seeing you all over again for the first time.

You chuckle, soft and surprised. “I was convinced I was gonna get ghosted.”

“Please. You’re a genius.”

“Mark.”

“No, seriously. You made your science fair project out of scraps and made half our class cry during your presentation. If anyone deserves a scholarship, it’s you.”

You slump onto your back, looking at the ceiling. “It’s really happening, huh?”

“It’s happening.”

You can hear the grin in his voice.

“We’re gonna get out,” he adds. “Like, really out.”

“No more cafeteria fights. No more sharing lockers with the smell of expired milk. No more Flash.”

He snorts. “Oh, thank God. I really didn’t want to punch anyone else.”

“You say that like you didn’t almost vaporize him last time.”

"What? I didn’t even hit him. I just... moved him. With force."

You laugh. “Moved. With the power of a freight train.”

He quiets. Then. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really proud of you.”

You pause. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You never let yourself think you were good enough, but I always knew.”

Your heart catches. “Mark...”

"It wasn’t just the tutoring." A beat. "It was all of it. You stuck around when it would've been easier not to. Even when I disappeared, even when people talked. You stayed."

You blink swiftly. You sit up.

“You’ve been my anchor through all of this,” he says. “I didn’t even know I needed one. And now we get to keep going together.”

Your chest warms. It swells. And then, without thinking, without planning, you say it. “I love you.”

He freezes. You can sense it, even over the phone. But then he exhales. And says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat of quiet. Then. “I love you too.”

You smile into the phone.

He laughs, giddy, breathless. “Holy shit, we’re those people now.”

“Gross.”

“So gross.”

“I’m gonna be insufferable.”

“I’m gonna print us matching sweatshirts.”

You groan. “Please don’t.”

“Too late. Mine already reads ‘Upstate U Girlfriend’ on it.”

“Mark.”

“It’s glitter vinyl.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You love me.”

You sigh theatrically. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He chuckles, and the sound relaxes something deep inside you.

And then he replies, softly, “You wanna come over later?”

You nod, even if he can’t see it. “Yeah.”

“Cool.”

You hang up, heart full.

Later that evening, you find yourself in his room, both of you stretched out on the floor, surrounded by empty candy wrappers, Coke cans, and future ambitions that yet feel too enormous to fit in one room.

He leans back in his chair, flipping through the packet lazily.

"No dorms for you?"

"Nah," you say. "Staying at May and Ben’s. Close enough to commute."

Mark raises an eyebrow, grinning. "Guess that means I’ll have to come up with new excuses to see you.”

You hurl a gummy bear at his head. He dodges. And then he sobers.

“I don’t wanna mess this up,” he adds.

You blink. “What?”

“This—us. College is a lot. New people, new everything. And I don’t wanna screw it up. I don’t want us to drift.”

You scoot closer. Rest your chin on his shoulder.

“We won’t,” you say. “Not if we keep showing up for each other.”

Mark nods. But you can see he’s still thinking about it. You observe him for a minute, his face inclined toward the ceiling like he’s trying to remember it before it changes.

And then you murmur, “We’re gonna be okay.”

He glances at you. You smile. And he smiles back.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we are.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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