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allbark-no-bite · 1 year ago

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good boy.

art donaldson x reader (wc: 2.9k)

summary: as Art’s personal physical therapist, it’s your job to fix what Tashi has torn apart, by whatever means necessary. or in which Art just needs some TLC

warnings: 18+ smut, it could be worse tbh, mentions of disordered eating

author’s note: i’m back ig?? im out of uni for the summer and challengers has me in a chokehold. Art Donaldson the man that you are

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You're standing just within earshot of the doorway, passing a sanitary wipe over one of the tables in the athlete treatment room when you hear the door abruptly open. Tashi storms in with a purpose and Art trails meekly behind her. Even if you had been clueless to how the match had gone rather than on the sidelines beside Tashi not even twenty minutes ago, you could have guessed by the hard line of her mouth that Art was in for it. Not that her displeased scowl was much different from her usual scowl, but you'd been around long enough to know the difference.

She stops abruptly, and Art heels obediently as Tashi turns around to face him. "I need you to tell me when you're going to fucking get it together so that I can stop wasting my time."

Weary and sweat soaked, Art just stares at her with that pitiful look on his face and says nothing in reply. His blue eyes solemnly take in her harsh disappointment as though beyond used to it. At this point it's not all that foreign to you either.

"You may as well be fucking asleep out there," she snaps.

This time his mouth opens. "I- I'm just tired-" he begins, although there's hardly any argue to his voice at all.

"No, I'm tired, Art," Tashi interjects. "Do you have any idea how much fucking work I've put into getting you back onto the court this past year?! I've done everything! The least you could do go out there and try to act like I've done anything for you at all!"

Art swallows, the slight frown on his face deepening. "I am. I just- I don't-"

Before he can even finish his sentence. The open palm of Tashi's hand connects with his cheek as she pops the left side of his face. Art closes his mouth. You pretend to concentrate on wiping down the table. It's not the first time you've witnessed one of these conversations but it still feels private, like you shouldn't be here. You keep wiping the table.

Understanding that anything else he says is only going to make Tashi angrier, Art resigns to once again watching her in silence. His blue eyes are sad. The usually fair skin of his cheek is tinted pink where she popped him. Although it wasn't very hard, you're sure it still hurt him all the same.

"Quit wasting my time," is all she says before she finally turns and leaves, walking right past you and out the other door. You hold your breath as she passes you. Art watches her go but makes no move to follow. You release an audible sigh. It's been a frustrating day for everyone. As Art's personal trainer, physical therapist, and close friend, you felt every loss, every ache and pain, every bad play. And there seemed to be a lot of those lately.

Art is still standing there, watching the closed door that Tashi left though.

Not knowing how to break the silence, you finally pat the freshly sanitized treatment table. "C'mon," you call gently, as though beckoning to a wounded dog.

It takes a moment for him to budge, but eventually he does, his disheartened spirit apparent in the way he walks over. Used to the usual routine, he tugs his damp shirt off over his head as he takes a seat, the lean muscles of his torso flexing as he does so. You allow yourself to ogle at him, only for a brief moment before stepping in between the bracket of his knees. Gently, you cradle his chin, tipping his head back to look up at you as your thumb smooths over the redness of his cheek. His blue eyes blink up at you, sad and dog-like.

"It wasn't terrible," you reassure him. "You had surgery six months ago. You're still getting your feet back underneath you. Most people wouldn't have come back." You're right. The still-pink scars on his shoulder are still fresh on your mind. The stitches weren't even out before Tashi had him in physical therapy. Even though his medical team had released him, it was still a bit early to start doing rehab so soon after surgery, Art's comfort being your biggest concern. But when Tashi wants something, she gets it.

Wordlessly, Art sighs, the weight of his head settling into your palm as he finally lets go of the tension he'd been carrying. It was always like this. You fixing what Tashi had torn apart. You understood where Tashi was coming from. Art needed a firm voice in his training, and you had a lot of respect for the way she put her foot down and never let up, not even once. But there was only so many times you could kick a dog while he was down.

So if Art needed someone to coddle him, you would coddle him.

He trusts you. He needs you, is what Tashi had told you when she asked you to stay on as his trainer full time. The three of you had been in the same year at Stanford all those years ago, Tashi and Art on the tennis team and you helping out as a student trainer as part of a class requirement. Three peas in a pod, the trio of you were. Of course then they both graduated, leaving you to finish up your schooling, meanwhile Art set off to go pro.

A few years later, once Tashi officially took on the position as Art's coach, she began building his team, and that's where you came in. You were hesitant at first.

'I already lost to you once, Tashi. I won't come in second to you again.'

She had paused on the other end of the line. Back in your Stanford days, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that you were head over heels in love with the blonde tennis player. But loving Art was like accepting the participation ribbon for a game you knew you weren't going to win in the first place. It was like standing next to the podium, just lucky enough to be included in the picture while Tashi and tennis took first and second place. And so you let him go.

'I'm not asking you to. This is different.'

Your hand slips from his face, and he forces his eyes open.

“Have you eaten?" you ask, stepping away in order to put some distance between the two of you and look for the granola bars that you keep especially for him. The gels were good sources of quick fuel in between sets, but they were hardly enough to even begin to make up for the calories he burned while playing.

Slowly, Art shakes his head, but he makes no move to take the snack from your hand when you offer it to him. Ever since his injury, nutrition became all the more important. So much to the point that every single thing that he consumed was mapped out to the exact calorie. Although he would never admit it, any sort of change in this routine made him incredibly anxious. Some days it was better not to cause him the anxiety than to force him.

Today, you insistently hold out the bar until he begrudgingly takes it from your hand. You don't move until you've seen him tear open the package and take a bite.

"Were you still feeling tight?" you ask as you walk around the table, stopping at the slouch of his turned back. You reach out to grasp at the joint of his neck and shoulder, your thumb smoothing over the kinesiology tape that's peeling away at the base of his neck.

He half turns his head to glance back at you. "You watched the match. You tell me."

His response is meant to be snippy, but it comes out more defeated than anything. To be fair, you've been his trainer long enough to know that if something was bothering him physically, you would have picked up on it.

"I want to hear it from you."

"I felt fine."

Your left hand follows suit on the other side of his neck, and you use both of your thumbs to apply pressure to what you assume will be a tense spot along the upper part of his traps. Predictably, Art groans at the attention. The muscles of his back contract as he fights the urge to shake you off. Relaxing the muscle hurts as much as it feels good. Besides his obvious discomfort, the rest of his body has gone lax under your touch. His shoulders have dropped at least an inch, and his chin has fallen to rest against his chest.

"Finish your granola bar," you reprimand him, your firm fingers working across his back until you find another spot that nearly has him jerking away. He releases a whine but obediently takes another bite of the bar. This time he finishes it before you have to remind him again.

You spend a few more minutes torturing him before you're satisfied that a majority of the tension has left his shoulders.

"Okay, good boy," you murmur, leaning forward so that your chest is close enough to brush against his back. One of your hands trails up to squeeze the back of his neck reassuringly.

You're close enough to hear him swallow at the name. The skin on the nape of his neck shivers despite how hot he still is from the match.

"Was I?" he asks timidly. "Good today?"

'I can be his coach. Or I can be the person he cries to after a bad day. But I can't be both. That's why he needs you."

Without removing your hand from his neck, you walk around the table so you're standing in front of him. Art widens the spread of his legs so that you can stand between them. His chin is still pressed to his chest, blue eyes focused on the ground.

"Art," is all you say, shifting your grip on his neck to tug lightly at his golden blonde hair. At your voice, he lifts his head just enough to look up at you through the pale wisps of his eyelashes. The irises of his blue eyes shine are wet with uncertainty.

Your fingers loosen their grip to allow your nails to scratch at his scalp. "You're good, Art. You'll always be good."

Art twists his head to nuzzle his cheek along the inside of your outstretched arm. His lips kiss the crook of your elbow. He swallows again. "Even if I don't play tennis?"

You can tell the question's been bothering him, eating at his nerves, and messing up his game. You know him well enough to know that retirement isn't what he wants, not really. At least not right now. What he wants is the reassurance that it's going to be okay if he can't swing the comeback.

"Look at me."

He lingers a moment longer with his lips pressed lovingly against your skin before he reluctantly shifts his gaze up to you. His look is anticipatory but reserved, as if to preemptively conceal his disappointment should you choose to crush his heart with your answer.

His fear is understandable. Art's relationship with Tashi has always been entirely built off of his tennis career. By being the driving force behind his success, Tashi has vicariously lived out the life she would have had had her injury never happened. Without tennis, Art has nothing left to offer her. He knows that if he gives up tennis, he loses Tashi.

Your relationship with Art was a little less conditional. Hell, you'd been in love with him since the first time you'd laid eyes on him at Stanford. You can still picture him standing there on the court, barely nineteen, scrawny, nervous smile, backwards cap over his strawberry blonde hair. Before he was the Art Donaldson. But when Tashi had stepped into the picture, you figured that was where your fairytale ended.

"I don't love you because of tennis. I love you because you're kind, and thoughtful, and you're passionate about what you do." You smile a bit before adding, "And you're my good boy."

The name turns him bashful again, and he's quick to turn and hide his smiling face against your arm, only the flushed tips of his ears visible. "[Y/n]," he mumbles, likely meaning to be threatening, but it doesn't come out that way.

Art Donaldson lived to be praised.

You laugh, pulling him closer so that his face is held against your chest. The hand that you don't have threaded through his hair trails up the muscle of his defined quad. "You're my good boy. Aren't you, baby?"

Art whines, squirming when your hand reaches the apex of his thigh and hovers over the forming bugle of his shorts. He's not quite there yet, his dick only half chubbed up in interest, but given the day that he's had, you won't make him wait.

"Please?" he mumbles, his face still buried into your collarbone, as if attempting to curling into you, like a small child needing their parent to hold them for comfort.

You rake your nails lightly up the inside of his thigh. "What, baby?"

Not only did Art liked to be praised, but he was masochist even on his worst days.

"Want you to touch me," he mumbles, his voice muffled by your shirt. "Please."

Your hand still scratching through his hair, you press a kiss to the side of his head, unable to suppress your smile at his timid politeness and how it never seems to fail him. The only time he ever resembled anything remotely voracious was on the court.

Palm finding his tented shorts, you cup him through the fabric. Art responds immediately to your touch, his hips shifting further into your grasp. You continue to pet him through his shorts, appreciating the way you can feel him actively responding to your touch.

His nails dig into the padding of the treatment table when you give his now fully hard dick a less than sympathetic squeeze. His breath is hot as he pants against your collarbone, alternating between laving open mouthed kisses to your skin and whining when you pause fondling him just to feel his hips rut up into your palm.

Art was so in control on the tennis court, that often after a match, putting the control into someone else's hands was just what he needed.

When his hips start to stutter, you ease up but continue to stroke him through his shorts. The front of his shorts are damp with the musk of residual sweat and precum.

His breath is shallow—anticipatory.

"Gunna come?" you ask softly, speaking into the blonde mess of his hair, cradling him. He right there, you can tell by the lackluster buck of his hips, his building fatigue, and the change in his breathing.

"Can I? —Please?" Art asks breathily. He hiccups out the last part, his voice catching.

"You know you don't have to ask."

There's a brief pause, as if coming to the realization, before he meekly murmurs, "I know.

It should be sad really, his unwavering obedience, but there are two sides to Art, two polar extremes. On the court, every match, every set, every debilitating second is up to him. No one else can help him out there, and up until about a year ago, he played like it. That was the side of Art Donaldson that Tashi wanted. After the match is a different story. In private, Art needed someone to do the thinking for him, to pull him into a reality where he could believe that it didn't matter whether he won or lost. Tashi had not the sympathy nor the patience for that kind of fragility.

Art comes with a brief cry into your chest, his body arching into yours. Your hand palms at his pulsing dick until he's oversensitive and pulling away. When you relent, the front of his shorts are sticky and wet.

Finally, Art lifts his face from the safety of your chest. His blue eyes are glossed over, but it's an improvement from the detached look they held ten minutes ago. His cheeks are flushed, a mixture of his own embarrassment and satisfaction.

You can't help the soft smile that creeps onto your face at the look of him, and immediately Art is abashedly trying to hide his face again, his own smile starting to appear. Before he can, you bring your hands back up to cradle his face, thumbs wiping away the wetness from under his eyes. This time he lets you.

His eyes study your face for a second, admiring you, appreciating the love he has for you.

“I don’t want to play tennis anymore.”

You can’t tell if it’s more of a statement or a confession. Either way, you know he’s telling you the absolute truth.

“Okay,” you reply softly, not hint of judgement in your voice. Maybe some disappointment, but that was understandable.

Retirement would be a kindness. Art would finally put back on some healthy weight, start smiling again, put on a real, actual smile. You could already see it, a nice house for the two of you to settle down in, with a picket fence and a dog in the backyard, the kind of things the two of you would have never had time for on tour.

Tennis had brought the two of you together, but it wouldn’t end you.

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #art donaldson x you #art donaldson x y/n #challengers #challengers smut #art donaldson smut #challengers imagine #challengers x reader

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rafey-baby · 8 months ago

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dealer!rafe knows just the right way to apologize after coming home late once again…

c/w: kinda free use, p-in-v, angsty undertones? 18+ mdni!

wc: 820

part two

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It’s past midnight when she stirs awake in their unlit bedroom to Rafe’s calloused hands roaming along the skin of her waist as he slumps down on top of her, groaning when he can feel her delicate presence underneath him, at last.

It’s unbearably thermal, which is why she’s merely wearing a flimsy top as she lays on her stomach under the covers; softened bones feeling mellow under the weight of his heavy limbs profoundly pressing her into the mattress.

She tries to move around some, albeit unsuccessfully as his much bigger body cages her between the rumpled sheets and his strong abdomen and she lets out a displeased huff because he was supposed to be back hours ago.

“Rafe? Where were you? Waited for you…” she sounds almost upset with her mind hazy; dreamy sleep still lingering.

“Just had to take care of some shit, m’sorry,” he murmurs, guilt weighing him down at the prospect of making her sad. It’s something he seems to be doing a lot these days.

“Missed my girl all day,” he burrows his face in her hair, inhaling the dulcet coconut scent of her favorite conditioner still present in the damp strands.

She sighs.

“Thought you said you’d come home early tonight and we’d watch a movie…” she complains, voice still coated in the glimmer of the dreamland she’s been forced to wake up from.

“I know, baby. But listen, you’ll get me all to yourself tomorrow, yeah?” His honeyed words soothe her some but she’s still discontented. He always does this. Promises something and then gets her hopes up thinking he’s finally going to keep his word but every time some shit comes up.

“Was worried something happened,” she persists, a frown obscuring her face as he presses a sugary kiss on her cheek in apology. That’s the other thing, it’s not exactly the fact that he works too much that concerns her, but the nature of his business. It’s dangerous.

After all, he doesn’t keep a gun tucked in the waistband of his pants whenever he leaves the house for nothing. And even if she knows he can take care of himself, she can’t help but feel a sense of relief wash over her whenever he opens the front door unscathed.

“Don’t have to worry about me, you know that,” he scolds, peeling the covers off her frame and tugging her closer by a grip on her hips.

“But Rafe—” she whines.

“But nothing," he interrupts her as he tugs down the zipper of his pants. "Look so sweet when you sleep, gets me so hard, you know?” He mumbles before she feels him poking at her entrance.

“I’m still mad at you,” she complains with a pout. However, she doesn’t exactly do anything to stop him. Craves to feel close to him in any and every capacity he lets her, even if it can be exhausting to love him as much as she does.

“Shh, let me say hi to my pussy, hm?” Love it when you’re not wearing any panties to bed, make it so easy for me to just…” he trails off, finishing the sentence with a nudge of his hips against her; tucking his cock into the warmth of her with his fingers sinking into the flesh of her ass.

“Ray…” she whimpers; the odd intimacy they seem to share in the quietest hours of the day always comforting her in some peculiar way.

“Let me make it up to you, okay?” It’s more of a demand than a request and she has no choice but to let him do as he pleases when he pushes in deeper; prodding at the spongy spot inside her and making her cry out.

“Yeah? That feel nice?” He pants in her ear; shoving her face more into the fluffy pillows with each thrust of his hips against her.

“Promise, I’ll take the day off tomorrow and we can do whatever you want, can watch all the movies and make some food and could run you a bath, hm?” He rasps in her ear as her breathy moans get louder by every drag of his cock in and out of her gummy walls.

His rough hands slide between the mattress and her body, groping at the flesh of her tits as he’s letting out guttural groans from the back of his throat; thrusts growing sloppy in their search for a release in the all too forgiving girl who wishes Rafe was always like this.

The way he’s talking to her right now initiates false hope in her and she thinks that maybe one day she’ll be able to actually trust his empty promises.

However, she knows that the minute he gets a call regarding a missing shipment or a late payment, he’s going to have to leave to make sure everything’s in order; returning after nightfall the following day because that’s what always happens.

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aworldinsideaperson · 1 month ago

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Coming Home to You - Doctor Michael Robinavitch

Pairing: Dr. Michael Robinavitch x Wife!Reader

Plot: Robby finally makes it home from the worst shift of his life to the only thing that could possibly ease his heartache.

Warnings: There really isn’t any I can think of. Presumed age-gap. Illusion to show events.

Word Count: 965

A/N: No one else has read through this and I wrote it in a little over 2 hours so I don’t even know what happened I just couldn’t get the thought out of my head and tbh this is what our man needs. Frankly it’s what he deserves.

His tense muscles ached as Robby trudged up the stairs of the apartment complex, a habit he’d been trying to get into in the last few months even on nights he was so exhausted he all but dragged his feet from one step to the next. It’s later than he’d hoped, a day of tragedy and despair, bodies piled high. He hated to bring that sadness home, hated to let it fill the space and consume everything around him. Days like this he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help that it was 11pm when he finally slid his key into the door.

Part of him hoped for a silent house. Silence meant they were asleep. Silence meant he could wallow and cry in peace. Yet the bigger part of him felt his shoulders relax and his heart swell at the soft singing coming from down the hall.

Robby quietly kicked his shoes off and placed his bag on the floor. As silently as he could he moved down the hall, her voice becoming more defined as he reached the door with a small soft light peeking into the hallway. His shoulders finally relax, a smile spreading across his lips as he leans against the doorway of the nursery and just listens, catching the last lines of a song he knows well.

Raisins and Almonds, a song his mother had sung to him as a child his wife now sings to their sweet baby. She smiles as she looks toward the doorway, faux whispering to the bundle in her arms “I think someone is hoping to see you, you up for it? Yeah? I thought so.” Her voice dips with exhaustion, her day hard in different ways from his own but no less tiring.

Entering the room Robby kneels beside the rocker, placing one hand on his wife’s knee and bringing the other up to rest on the baby’s head. “How are my girls?” His eyes never leave the wide eyed baby in her arms.

“I think we knew daddy needed us, we woke up about ten minutes before you got home.” She whispers, one hand reaching out to smooth over his hair, still damp from sweat.

Looking at his wife with sad eyes he squeezes her knee. “I’m sorry I’m so late. You know I love doing bedtime together”

She shakes her head, even she knew his day was far from normal. “No no, don’t be sorry. I saw. I’m just glad you’re home safe.”

He smiles, lifting his hand to press to her cheek. “Me too.”

“Do you want to rock her? You can have your time together and I’ll warm you up some dinner.” She offers holding their baby out to him.

“That sounds amazing.” He grins taking the small baby in his arms he sighs as she reaches her hand up toward his beard. He brings her closer and her tiny fingers sink into the soft hair.“Hi honey. I’m so happy to see you. You make my day so much better just being in it. You’re looking pretty sleepy, do you want another lullaby?” Her eyes flutter shut, fingers still pressing into his beard and he repeats the song his wife had just been singing, rocking back and forth. It's only a few moments before her hand and arms have gone limp as she sinks into a deep slumber. Though Robby doesn’t put her down right away, continuing to rock and hold her tightly to his chest until a soft beeping makes its way into the room. Smiling, he places her down in her crib,“I love you so much baby, sleep tight.” he speaks softly.

Quietly shutting the door behind him Robby makes his way to the kitchen just as his wife places a plate on the table. A warm meal. A warm home. A happy life. He leans in to kiss her deeply. “This is incredible. You’re incredible. I don’t know how I lived so long without you.”

Smiling, she pecks him on the cheek before sitting across from him at the table with her cup of tea. She shrugs.“You had to, otherwise you wouldn’t have become the man I fell in love with.”

Reaching across the table Robby squeezes her hand. “I love you sweetheart. You’re truly, truly, the love of my life and I am so lucky to have you both.” His smile wanned. The day catching up with him once again.

She frowns and squeezes his hand back tightly, as tight as she can. A reminder that he’s far from being alone. “We’re lucky to have you too.” The two sat in silence a moment longer, holding hands and soaking in the precious time together. “Are you ready to talk about your day?” She asked, taking a sip from her now cooled mug. No pushing just as if he worked in an office pushing papers all day.

Letting out a heavy breath he shakes his head. Robby picks up his fork, stabbing at his plate.“I’d rather hear about yours.” He insists.

Her frow deepens only a moment before a smirk slips onto her face, gossip ready to spill from her lips. Robby leans forward, loving the joy his wife found in telling him all the newest stories, like his own little soap opera. “Oh you’re not ready.” She begins, placing her tea down to lean in like he had. “So we’re at play group today and you know Betty and Andy? Well get this, turns out they’re…”

She continued on; the gossip and her day and all the things his girls had done together. And for a moment the rest of the world melted away. Just Michael Robinavitch, his family, and the loving space he will always come home to.

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roosterforme · 11 months ago

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Vintage | Rooster x Reader

Summary: You love teasing your husband about his deep and unwavering devotion to his Bronco, but he's insistent that it would come in second place to you every time, and he intends to prove it. While you're away on deployment, he concocts a plan to get you behind the wheel of your very own vintage beauty.

Warnings: Swears, fluff, mentions of smut

Length: 2700 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Check out my masterlist for more!

"Sometimes I swear you love that thing more than you love me."

Your voice startled Bradley as he ran the wet, soapy sponge along the hood of his vintage Ford Bronco, pulling him from his thoughts. That was something you frequently said to him, jokingly claiming that you were the second love of his life. But you both knew it wasn't true. Especially not tonight.

"Hey, Baby," he whispered, coaxing you closer to him as he tossed the sponge back into the bucket. "Come here."

The setting sun painted your face with orange and gold, and he noticed the sadness in your eyes. He quickly wiped his hands on his jeans and then held them out to you, and you were in his arms in an instant. "Bradley," you mumbled against his chest as he squeezed you, getting your shirt a little damp in the process. But you didn't seem to mind. "I'm going to miss you."

Detailing and cleaning what used to be his dad's 1973 Bronco had become a way for him to relieve stress. He would get out the soap and turn on the hose when he needed a few minutes to himself. It was easier to be alone in his head, processing his thoughts and worries when he was washing the light blue masterpiece he'd spent so many years and a lot of money preserving. He always found himself in a better headspace to deal with whatever was troubling him when he spent some time with the Bronco. And today was no exception.

"I'm going to miss you, too."

Sometimes it felt like the nearly five years you and he had been married were just spent alternating deployments. First he would be gone on an aircraft carrier for months on end, and then it would be your turn. You'd be sent abroad with the Navy before returning to him, and then the cycle would begin anew. Everything felt harder when you weren't around, and maybe that's why Bradley was out on the driveway right now instead of helping you pack for your early call time tomorrow morning.

With your cheek pressed to his sternum, you cried softly. "It's only two months this time. And I'll have access to my phone. And I'll even be home in time for our anniversary. I don't know why I'm feeling so emotional about this."

He pressed his lips to your hair and whispered, "It's not like it gets any easier. You know that. I know that. It's going to feel like two months of hell on my end."

You sniffed hard then looked up at him with a little smirk. "At least you'll have the Bronco to keep you warm."

Bradley groaned and started to walk you backwards toward the house. "I mean, she's pretty and all, and I've definitely spent a night or two curled up around her gear shift, but I never gave her a diamond ring."

Your lips and your soft laughter against his neck sent a jolt of physical pleasure through his body, but he didn't want to rush this. He needed this to last, to hold him over for two months without your touch. Both of you tripped along to the bedroom where he smiled and whispered, "Let me show you that you're my number one girl. Let me prove you always will be."

Bradley was meticulous. He knew every inch of his Bronco, inside and out, but he knew you better. The sounds you made were prettier. The way you clung to him as he brought you pleasure was unparalleled. Your fingers laced with his as he connected his body with yours in the most intimate way, and it left him breathless.

"I love you."

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Two days. He'd only been alone for two days, and he was already halfway through binge watching a season of a show that wasn't even that interesting. When he got home from work, he eyed up the couch and TV before ultimately changing into some sweats and heading back out to the driveway. He looked over the Bronco from hood to taillights, making a mental list of what she needed: new wiper blades, two new tires, and an oil change.

When he took his phone out to order the parts from his favorite website, he must have typed something wrong. It rerouted him to a vintage Ford resale page that left him staring at a sage green 1975 Bronco in rough condition. Man, she was still pretty though, with her original chrome and hubcaps. She was just an hour away, and the price wasn't too bad...

He glanced up at the blue gem in front of him. An idea started to take shape. He wondered how you would feel about it. With a smile, he ordered the wiper blades and oil filter that he needed and went inside to make dinner. But he couldn't stop picturing that chipped, green paint, and the vinyl that needed to be patched.

If he knew he could get you hooked on a Bronco of your very own, he'd make this purchase. Two months to go. Shit, he might have just enough time to pull this off. He could practically picture you cranking the engine to life and waving goodbye as you pulled out of the driveway and took your Bronco for a spin. He wouldn't be able to say it with a straight face, but he'd say it anyway. "You love that thing more than you love me, Baby."

When he was stretched out on your side of the bed later that night, enveloped in your sweet scent that clung to the pillows, he closed his eyes and thought long and hard about what he wanted to do. It would be fun to prove to you once and for all where his loyalties lie. Or maybe it could just be a project that would keep him busy, and if you didn't like the idea, he could resell it after you got home. Either way, he drifted to sleep as he thought about you behind the wheel, and he knew it was too perfect to pass up.

----------------------

"Hey, Baby," Bradley said with a smirk as he answered his phone.

"Bradley! I miss you like crazy!"

"I miss you, too," he promised as he looked at the rather beat up, green Bronco before him. He got it for a great price when he offered to pay cash, and the tow truck just dropped it off a few days ago. Half of the engine was taken apart on a tarp at his feet, and it was currently jacked up so he could replace the oil pan. But he thought it was gorgeous. "I have a little surprise for you when you get home."

"A surprise?! Tell me. You know I can't wait that long."

"Nah," he said, kneeling down to check the wiring for the headlights. "I think I'll make you wait this one out."

"Rooster!"

"What?" he laughed, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he slipped his work gloves on and pulled at the loose wire. "You know, this is what you get for always giving me a hard time about my dad's Bronco. I love you so much, Baby, I'll make you wait for the surprise. It'll be sweeter that way."

"You're the worst," you groaned playfully. "Now I'll be thinking about what it could possibly be the whole time I'm gone. I'll be wondering what you have up your sleeve."

"As long as you're thinking about me, I'm happy," he rasped, and your pretty sigh in response left him a little breathless.

"I'm always thinking about you. Promise me as soon as I get back, we'll go for a long drive? Up along the coast? Late at night?"

He loved that idea. It would just look a little different than you were probably imagining if he could get this thing up and running again in time for your return. "We'll make a night of it," he promised. "I'll pack some blankets, and we can sit in the back and look out at the ocean. Can't guarantee I'll be able to keep my hands to myself though."

"Mmm. That's what I'm counting on."

----------------------

After about two weeks of watching a lot of YouTube videos posted by professionals, Bradley finally had the engine rebuilt. He was just waiting for some parts to arrive before he could put it back in place. "You're a needy one, aren't you?" he asked the green Bronco. "Nothing like her. She's a saint." He nodded his head toward the blue one before kneeling to replace the taillights.

He was quickly realizing that the money he saved on the cost of the actual vehicle was being eaten up in the expensive, vintage parts. He was lucky he knew how to do most of this himself, even if it took twice as long. Today he was replacing the brakes and listening to a Motown playlist, and he fully realized that he felt calmest when he was with you or a Bronco. He snorted at how ridiculous that fact was as he scooted under the vehicle, but it was true. And having you tucked away in the back with the tailgate dropped, all wrapped up in a blanket while you turned him on just by existing.... well, that's when he would be happiest of all.

As the weeks wore on and the project progressed, the day finally arrived when it was time to try to start her up and take her for a little drive. Everything smelled like new rubber from the tires he'd just put on. The vinyl seats were still in bad shape, but when he slipped the key into the ignition and turned it, the engine purred to life.

Bradley's head tipped back as he groaned softly. "So fucking pretty. My god." He tapped the accelerator gently with his foot, enjoying the rev of the engine. He smoothed his hands along the steering wheel and the dashboard before he adjusted the rear view mirror to accommodate his height. Then he flicked the chrome switch and turned on the radio which he was surprised still worked.

My Girl by the Temptations poured from the speakers as the station crackled to life, and that felt like a very good sign. "Let's get out of here, Sweetheart," he whispered before shifting into reverse and leaving the driveway and his toolbox behind.

She was smooth and steady and everything he was hoping for. Would it ever fully compete with Goose's Bronco? Probably not. Was it worth the investment anyway? He'd find out next week when you got home. There were just a few things left to do before he dropped it off to be repainted and have the interior patched, and then she'd be good as new.

Bradley's phone rang in his pocket, and he smiled when he saw it was you. "Hey, Baby."

"Bradley! I miss you so much. I swear, if this thing was longer than two months, I wouldn't make it. What are you up to?"

"Oh, I'm just out for a little drive."

--------------------------

After eight weeks of nothing more than a few scant phone calls, Bradley was more than ready to have you home again. Maybe you and he could take a few days off from work. He'd help you catch up on some sleep after initially keeping you up all night. He already had some blankets ready to go as soon as you said you wanted to drive up to Carlsbad and watch the surfers at sunset before making love in the back of your Bronco.

Your Bronco. His wife's Bronco. It would take some getting used to, but it already made him smile every time he thought about it. With his hands on that familiar steering wheel, he drove toward the Naval base where both of you spent so much of your time. He waited, leaning against the light blue hood until you came running toward him in your uniform with your bags.

"Bradley!" you shrieked as you landed in his arms where you belonged.

"I missed you," he promised, finally kissing your lips again after so many weeks. He felt your bag hit his foot, and he smiled as he tilted your face up for better access to your mouth.

"I missed you, too," you moaned softly, and he was already making the move to get you back home and remind you what you meant to him. But you dug your feet in outside the passenger door.

"Where's my surprise?" you asked as you tucked your fingers into the top of his jeans and grinned up at him. "I've been thinking about it nonstop. Is it you?"

"No," he replied with a chuckle as his gaze drifted toward the Bronco. "You'll see soon enough."

You glanced at where he was looking, and you rolled your eyes before kissing his chin. "Did she keep you company while I was gone? She looks pristine, like you spend some time working on her."

Bradley kissed your forehead. "Just get in, Baby," he rasped. "The sooner we get home, the sooner your little surprise will make sense."

He knew the routine by heart now. The short ride home would start out with you holding his right hand and playing with his fingers while he drove. Then your hand would migrate to his thigh when the Bronco was about five blocks away. Then as soon as the tires touched the driveway, you'd unbuckle your seatbelt and make your way over to his lap.

The routine was important to him. He loved it. He loved taking you inside and directly to bed before coming back out much later to get the bags. He thrived on the return to normal life that was triggered by the routine. But today, he knew you weren't going to end up on his lap, and that was more than okay.

When your hand settled on his thigh exactly five blocks away from home, Bradley smiled. Your fingers crept up inch by inch as you leaned closer and whispered in his ear that you had their fifth wedding anniversary all planned out for the following weekend. You were playing with the zipper of his jeans by the time he could see the house, and he just waited for it. He was not disappointed.

"What the fuck is that?" you gasped, both hands going to the dashboard in front of you as you leaned to check out the freshly painted green Bronco as he coasted into the driveway. "Bradley?" you asked, glancing at him with wide eyes as he shifted into park.

He smiled and leaned over to kiss your softly parted lips. "This is your surprise. You're always joking about how much I love my Bronco, but I'll never love anything more than I love you."

You pressed your lips to his once before pulling away, shaking your head slightly. "So you got me one of my own?" you asked, jerking your thumb toward the green one.

He nodded and pulled his key from the ignition before pressing it into your palm. "Yep. She's all yours."

"Wait," you whispered, your brow creasing in confusion as you looked down at your hand. "This is your key."

"No, it's your key. The key to the green one is in the house. That's my key."

You gaped at him as your eyebrows shot upwards. "You're giving me your Bronco?"

"Yep."

"But," you whispered, turning to look out the window, "I can drive the other one."

"No, I bought the green one with myself in mind," he replied, taking your chin gently in his hand so you were looking at him again. "This one's better. She's sweet. Like you. She's yours."

"Oh my god, Bradley."

He was wrong; you did end up in his lap. Right where you belonged. His hands settled at your hips as you kissed every inch of his face while he laughed.

"I want to take her for a spin," you whispered, nudging him out of the driver's seat with your knee. "Go."

He smiled as he walked around to the passenger side of the blue Bronco, and he barely had the door closed before you started the engine and shifted into gear. "Pretty soon you'll love this thing more than you love me, Baby."

---------------------------

He gave you his Bronco. The green one was for him. That's how you know he loves you. I hope they do some nasty shit in the green one to break it in. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

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princessbrunette · 10 months ago

Text

daddy!johnb should have known there was a meltdown inbound from puppy!reader when she was being irritable with everyone. pup was always a ray of sunshine.

you’d been snappy with him towards the end of your day spent running about with the pogues, and when pulled up on it — your boyfriend pulling you to the back of the group walking back to the twinkie, a hand firmly on your lower back, as he mutters a low “hey, clip the attitude okay? this isn’t you.” you only responded with an agitated whine. maybe that’s when he should have checked in.

you explode in the twinkie not twenty minutes later after some more tsking from your boyfriend, pushing him away suddenly and raising your voice in the back of the car where he sat with you, luckily letting pope drive the crew home this time. “theres too much noise and i’m cold and wet and tired!” you erupt, shoving at him in the backseat, loud enough to earn an awkward side eye from kiara in the seat directly infront.

“alright, okay, hey — look at me.” the older boy croons, gripping you until you still in his grasp, letting out a few agitated sobs into his chest. he sighs, eyes all soft and sad that you’d probably feel guilty about if you saw. reluctantly, you claw your way out to look up at him urgently, like you were desperate for some answers. he melts.

meanwhile, sensing your little meltdown in the backseat the group get a little quieter out of respect— jj turning the radio up just a little bit to create a wall between the chatter and the two of you. you relax just a little bit in his grip.

“no need to freak out on me, okay?” his eyes are wide and yours are teary, breathing all heavy. he notices, placing a warm palm on your chest. “first of all, we’re gonna breathe.”

you follow his instructions — in and out, until your breathing pattern is somewhat regulated. he doesn’t take his eyes off you the whole time, john b was good like that. eye contact was his forte.

“okay, next problem. hit me.” he shrugs one shoulder and you shrink a little. “use your words, sweetheart. daddy’s listening, i just wanna help.”

“my clothes are wet.” you verbalise and he nods proudly before holding up a finger and lurching over the backseat to reach for one of his spare shirts he keeps in there for his days spent on the road. showing you, he then pulls it over your head and helps you take off your damp blue crop top beneath, tossing it into the back. he unclips your bikini top too, throwing it with the shirt whilst maintaining your dignity.

you sit, slumped and sleepy — looking a lot more comfortable and he guides your cheek with his finger to look at him once more.

“hey, what else?” he urges and you blink. before you can respond, you yawn. “okay.” he nods.

pulling you onto his lap in the backseat, john b stretches out as best as he could— rubbing your back up and down and leaning his lips down to your ear.

“so we got roughly… one hour left of this journey? i want you to take a nap. right here, bubba.” he holds you tightly, and you can’t help let out a few relieved sniffles— the long day having caught up to you big time. he was so attentive, it made you wonder what you did to deserve it. “i know sweet girl. everybody has days like these, okay?”

“even you daddy?” you rasp tiredly.

“oh yeah. especially me. big time.” he jests, before rocking you lightly to sleep in the quiet van.

#daddy!johnb #john b prompt #john pork prompt #puppy!reader #tw daddy kink

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sirxlla · 5 months ago

Text

The Batboys Get You An Animal / Asking Them for An Animal

------------------------------------------------

Dick: Haley (Bitewing) was extremely lonely with both you and Dick at work more recently. She just really needed another dog to play with, Dick had noticed it a lot more in the past month of so.

After Dick picked up you from work cause it was better for the environment to carpool, you found him driving in a different direction to your shared apartment building which caused you to furrow your brows.

"I think your turned around, Bubby." You said with a kind and paitent tone.

"No, this is the right direction. Don't you worry, My Love." He squeezed your hand with a kind smile as he kept his eyes watched the road. He drove you to the shelter and let you pick whichever dog you wanted which happened to be a cute little female grey/blue doberman. (Of course you held it all the way home.)

Haley was just happier than ever when you put the little puppy down and took her out of the crate she was in so you could get her upstairs. Haley was yipping and running around, this was such a good step forward in your relationship, growing together family as a family.

Dick was snapping as many pictures as he could of the dogs, then you playing with them. He's so happy with his girls being in one picture, so proud he made it his lockscreen.

Jason: "Babygirl, I don't know if its a good idea. I dont know if were ready for that. Hell, I dont know if I'm ready for that on my own." He had said a few months ago.

Of course that was until he came home with a kitten he found in an alley, the white little fur ball was the only other thing besides you that made his heart swell. He almost was gonna leave it where it was but he didnt have the heart to do such a thing.

He came in with it in his arms, the little kitten cuddled into his chest inside his motorcycle jacket. It was late so Jason didnt wake you as he took care of the little sweet guy, he gave him a bath and gave him the wet food he got on the way home. Jason swaddled that sweet little kitten in a hand towel before woke you up. You mumbled and groaned until you opened your eyes which immediately went wide.

"Oh, my god!" Tears filled your eyes as you reached for the kitten.

"I found him in an alley, he's a bit sick and he really needs a home, Babygirl. Can we keep him?" He asked with a pleading and somewhat worried tone.

"Can we keep him!? YES! OF COURSE!" You were crying as you cuddled the slightly damp kitten.

Jason and you took him the the vet the next morning to get taken care of. He named him Tokyo as a joke cause he was white which you didnt realize what it meant for several months.

Bruce: You knew the answer, a swift and adament no. So being the person you are, you bought a guinea pig cause its easy to take care of and Bruce would be less likely to complain about it.

You would carry it around in your pocket and let it sleep on a little blanket you put the desk that held the Batcomputer. He would act like he hated the entire idea of it but as soon as you would come down to the Batcave without it he would ask where it was with a bit of a sad tone.

He would never admit it but he enjoyed that tiny guy and how you doted it on the little thing. Bruce knew how lonely it was to actually be with him considering his 'playboy' persona he had to wear and being Gotham's savior. By the time your anniversary came he had gotten you another guinea pig so you had two little guys to hang out with and thats exactly what you did.

+ When you were away at work or asleep and he happened to pass the cage in his room the both of you shared, he would take them out and sit with them. Bruce secretly has a ton of pictures of the little guinea pigs in his camera roll.

Tim: You didnt even need to ask him, the answer would be yes with not even a little resistance. Little did Tim know this wasnt your average pet.

"Tim, I adopted a kid." You said casually when you came home.

"You did what?" He was nervous and he nearly choked on his own spit, that was until you came in the house holding a baby goat.

"Oh! A little kid!" He was so excited, Tim would run around with him and bring him inside all the time. He never complained out the little guy, he even got him clothes and little goat diapers so he could stay inside. You didnt think goats could be trained but alas, Tim did with little issue which is a bit unsuprising cause Tim can do anything he sets his mind to.

Damian: Damian has a fucking farm of animals so convincing him to get an animal was the easiest conversation ever.

It was 'Whatever animal you wanted as long as youd take care of it, Beloved.' He had said.

"A snake?" You asked him with a slightly excited tone as the two of you laid in bed, your face pressed to his warm bare chest.

"If that's what you want." He replied with his eyes closed as if getting another animal was nothing. (because to him it is.)

"A cow?" You asked cause you wanted to know how ridiculous you could get with it.

"We already have one of those, Beloved." He said with a smile again in that tone as if it was normal for someone to have a pet cow.

"Well, what if Titus wants a friend, Baby?" You asked as you heard the Great Dane huff at the end of the bed where his bed was.

"Another dog would be good, I'd feel a lot more secure knowing there were at least two dogs in the house when I'm away." Damian stated, plus he wanted to teach you more of the commands to control Titus and most of them were in German. You getting a dog would be a diagetic way for you to learn and teach your dog as well as understand how to control Titus.

You were stuck between a Chocolate Lab and a Dalmatian, in the end Damian got he got both of them. It took patience and time but Damian got them all to behave and listen to the pair of you.

Two dogs were good for security but three? Three made his worry about you while he was gone almost vanish entirely.

(Send me prompts if you want)

Masterlist

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ilylovelyz · 2 years ago

Text

⍣ ೋ the times they cried because of you

☆ includes ushijima, iwaizumi, atsumu, kageyama, bokuto

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI — he never cries. you met this guy when the two of you were young freshman in high-school, and you quickly became a good friend of his. that being said, you never saw him cry. even when the two of you began dating in your senior year, you still never did. years passed, and it was the same as the previous years. sure, he occasionally got upset, but even then, he still put on a stoic display, never really letting you in on that side of him. even at your wedding, he sure showed some emotion but he didn't cry. then came the birth of your first child.

"she's so cute, isn't she 'toshi..?" you said weakly, forehead still damp with sweat, bodu trembling with the aftershocks of your hard, long labor. your eyes fluttered open, focusing on the sight of your dear wakatoshi holding your newborn baby.

your heart fluttered at the soft image of your husband holding the tiny baby closely again his chest, his forehead mere inches away from the baby's forehead. it was barely there, barely noticeable. if it weren't for the reflection of light, then you wouldn't have been able to see the way his eyes were glazed over, corners red, tears brimming at the borderlines of his eyes.

he was so memorized, so in love with this product of you, this product of his and your love. god, you just make him the happiest guy on earth.

with a grunt, he sniffled lightly, trying to mask his emotions. "yeah.."

IWAIZUMI HAJIME — he hates crying. but being the responsible and knowing person he is, he knows that crying is inevitable. but the "strong", reliable guy in him wants to punch himself every-time he feels his eyes sting at the feel of salty tears brimming at his waterline. unbeknownst to you, he would avoid you every-time he felt like he was going to cry, usually hiding in the locked confides of the bathroom. he thought he was hiding it well, until one fateful day where it all came crashing down..

"haji?" you said on the other side of the door. he immediately shot up, his eyes darting to the doorknob. he always made sure to lock it, but today, he was just so exhausted and down that the idea of a lock was forgotten. crap, "hey wait-," before he could even rise up from his slouched kneeling position on the bathtub's side, you opened the door unknowingly. "i just need my–hajime?"

there he was, in all of his fucking glory, hunched over, his face long and clearly expressing his hurt feelings. his heart fell to his stomach, his vision going cloudy as his day just kept getting worse. "hajime?" you called out once more, only your tone had softened, more light and tender. you reached a hand out to him, eyes full of concern. he couldn't help but jolt away from your hand, eyebrows furrowing at your softness.

he didn't like your tone. why are you looking at him like that? like some sad kicked puppy lost in the middle of nowhere? it made him feel so small, so weak. "haji.. are you okay?" you whispered, crouching down to his level outside of the bathtub. you attempted yet again to touch the side of his face, lightly pressing your fingertips against his cheekbone before fully pressing your palm against the side of his face.

his lips trembled as he was just a second away from breaking down, his eyes locked on a single object as to hold on to the last of his will. you sighed softly at his resistance, of course he wouldn't want to cry in front of you, but you don't understand why, afterall, what makes a person weak for crying? "it's okay, hajime."

with that, fat tears finally ran down his cheeks, his eyes shutting close as he finally broke at your words. he could only grab onto your hand as you climbed into the tub, his head going straight into your chest as he sobbed and wailed.

MIYA ATSUMU — surprisingly, you've seen this guy cry many of times before. he cried when getting accepted into nationals, winning nationals, just crying at things any normal person would do. but he never cried for you. no, he held himself to higher standards. he'd never cry for someone, not even for you. yeah, he loved you, but he wasn't about to cry for someone like a little child. all high and mighty, he never thought you would actually have an affect on him like you do now. him being someone who wears his heart proudly on his sleeve, he found himself getting into an argument late at night with you, too prideful to back down.

"are you serious atsumu?! you know i'd never do that!" you yelled, voice hoarse and scratchy due to the ongoing screaming match between you and your boyfriend. "oh really?! then why were ya' 'll over that fucker earlier? huh?!" he yelled back, pointing out the way you were seemingly flirting with a guy at the club earlier.

but you weren't? you would never do that, you're not a scum. "what?! we were just talking?! am i not allowed to TALK to people atsumu?" you scoffed, arms crossing defensively. "if you wanna consider talking as flirting, then let's talk about that girl you were laughing with the other day? huh? let's talk about that!"

his eyebrow raised at your counter, fumbling nervously as he wondered what to say. "w-wh- you know what?! fuck you! i don't know why i'm even dating a bitch like you!" he said, almost immediately regretting his words when he saw the way your eye's widened at his harsh words. the apartment was finally silent as you registered his words, he wishes you had any sort of expression on your face, but you had nothing but a stoic and emotionless face.

"okay then," you finally said, arching your eyebrow in a taunting way, resting your hand down on your hip. "bye." you followed, grabbing your bag and your keys, turning your back on him.

he watched, frozen in his spot as you exited out the apartment with your composure. his body jolted when he heard the slam of the front door, finally letting out that breath he was unknowingly holding. he scoffed at what you said, clenching his jaw tightly as he tried to hold onto his pride. "damn it." he said.

he felt the tear roll down his cheek before he could even register that he was crying. "..damn it!"

KAGEYAMA TOBIO — to him, life is volleyball. his childhood consisted nothing of volleyball, and so will his adulthood. maybe his obsession with volleyball was a little extreme, but you never really minded. he respected you greatly for your patience, he wasn't dumb, he knew that his priority of volleyball was evident, so he always tried to make it up to you by spending time with you whenever you wanted. but it seemed like after awhile, he began to take your patience for granted. it wasn't until the nth time when he didn't show up for the nth date was when he realized.

kageyama was careful to shut the front door as quiet as he could, tiptoeing as he took off his shoes and walked throughout the dark hallways and into the master-bedroom. he jolted like a cat when he sat you sitting up on the side of the bed, back facing the doorway.

"y-you scared me. what are you doing up at this time? it's nearly 10PM." he stuttered obliviously. it was silent for a few seconds before you sighed, slowly turning your head to face him. "you forgot." you muttered before turning back to look at the wall. forgot? forgot what? it was then he noticed the way your hair was done, still clad in a pretty dress.

"o-oh.. the date! i-i'm sorry y/n, i promise i can make it up to you"— "don't bother." you interrupted, voice stern yet monotonous. what do you mean 'don't bother?' you love going on dates don't you? his lips pursed into a straight line, chewing on his bottom lips nervously. "w-what do you mean? i really promise, this thursday i have a free day.." he trailed off when you suddenly stood up from the bed.

"i mean that i think we should break up." his heart dropped at your words, eyes widening. break up? his mouth was agape, mind spinning with different solutions and apologies. before he could detest, you walked over to the corner of the room, pulling up a suitcase that he didn't even notice.

"b-but why? you said yourself that me and you are meant to be together?" he cried out, quickly rushing over to your side and grabbing onto your wrist. he watched your face closely, eyes taking note of every single feature of yours. you inhaled deeply, still refusing to look at him.

"i said that when we were in high-school and didn't have any major responsibilities. things have changed, we aren't in high-school any more. you're now a pro-volleyball player with big responsibilities, and i'm.. someone who clearly has too much time on their hands, wasting it on someone who can't give me any of theirs. it's not your fault, kageyama, but we just don't align anymore."

you finally said, tugging your hand away from his grasp. before you could take a step, his hands were once again on you, gripped onto your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. "but.. you said you would be there for my game at nationals.." he whimpered out, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

it was then, when you were finally walking out of his apartment, out of his life, was when he finally did realize, that maybe, he did take your patience for granted..

BOKUTO KOUTARO — this guy cries a lot. he's cried so many times you might have to start writing it down somewhere. he rarely masks his emotions, he's an open book. thats what you love so much about him, that he's so open and honest. you love the way he's so eager and sweet, you love the way he's always willing to talk to you and so damn clingy it's like you have your own personal koala. aside from the times he's happy, he's sad, sad because he didn't perform well, or because you didn't kiss him. but you never really made him cry, you'd never do that. or so you thought.

"y/n!! i missed you!" you hear a booming voice yell, his footsteps speeding up at the sight you. he paid no mind when you didn't respond to him, as you were currently hunched over the your work desk, laptop gleaming at you brightly. your back was turned to him, so you were basically calling him for a back hug.

"y/n!" — "not now koutaro." you interrupted, tone serious and stern. he raised his eyebrows at you with surprise, his arms a few inches away from your shoulders as they stilled in their preparation to hug you. "babe? is something wrong?" he asked curiously, lips pouting at your stern denial. you never decline a hug. you love them. right?

"i'm working. can't you see that?" you spit out, sighing deeply. you pull away your cramping fingers away from your keyboard, rubbing them over your sore eyes. "my gosh." you mumble under your breath, eyebrows intensely furrowed with stress. you had been working for a few hours straight, staring at nothing but a bright screen with words that were becoming incoherent to you.

you yelp out when you're suddenly pulled from your chair, being lifted up into bokuto's strong arms as he spins you around. "don't be so sad!" he says cheerfully, hoping to cheer you up with a big warm hug. only— this seems to make you mad. "put me down, koutaro!" you yell, pushing his chest away and forcing him to practically drop you.

"don't you see i'm working?! why are you so damn clingy? you're so annoying, god, why don't you just leave me alone?" you spit out. your words are like venom, stinging his heart greatly as his hair is quickly deflating once your words reach his ears. you simply return to your laptop once you've finished, typing mindlessly once more.

him? annoying? he didn't mean to annoy you..

he couldn't help but softly whimper, left standing in shock. he opened his mouth to say something before your previous words were reminding him to stay silent—leave me alone. he clutched his palms, looking at your turned back with teary eyes. he hopes you don't find him annoying for long..

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izzih22 · 8 days ago

Note

can u write paige walked into azzi’s room and a just needs a hug

Just a Hug First

Azzi’s already in Paige’s room when the door opens.

It’s late, past eleven and the dorm is buzzing in that quiet, half-wound-down way it always is at this hour. Someone’s watching TikToks too loud down the hall. KK and Aubrey are still laughing at something in the shared common room. Jana’s probably sketching in her notebook again, earbuds in. Ice walked by earlier with a plate of cookies and just nodded at Azzi like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Which it is, now.

Azzi’s cross-legged on Paige’s bed in her pajamas, phone on silent, hair tied up. Paige practically lives here but it’s still technically Paige’s dorm. Her bed, her walls, her basketball shoes tossed under the desk, her jacket slung over the back of a chair. The LED lights are glowing soft and warm. Everything smells faintly like her cologne and laundry detergent.

Azzi glances up when the door opens but something about Paige’s face stops her from saying the usual hey.

She’s standing there with her hand still on the doorknob, hoodie sleeves half covering her hands, eyes unreadable in a way that makes Azzi immediately sit up straighter.

“Hey…” Azzi says gently. “You okay?”

Paige closes the door behind her, quietly, and doesn’t say anything for a second.

Then, in that tired, too-honest voice Azzi only hears when it’s just the two of them:

“Can I get a hug first?”

Azzi’s off the bed before Paige finishes the sentence.

She crosses the room and pulls Paige into her arms without a single word. Paige melts into her like she’s been holding herself up all day and finally got permission to let go. Her arms circle Azzi’s waist tight, face buried in her shoulder.

Azzi strokes one hand up and down her back, steady and slow.

They stay there like that, just breathing.

Azzi doesn’t push her. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She knows better than anyone that Paige talks when she’s ready, not before.

Eventually, Paige exhales against her neck and mumbles, “Sorry. I just needed that.”

“Don’t apologize,” Azzi whispers. “You can always need me.”

Paige tightens her arms in response. “I don’t know what it was today. Nothing even happened. I just… I don’t know. It felt heavy.”

Azzi pulls back just enough to look at her. “You don’t have to explain it. I’ve got you.”

And then, softer: “Always.”

Paige leans in and kisses her.

It’s slow, familiar, a little tired like she’s using it to ground herself. Azzi kisses her right back, warm and reassuring, thumb brushing Paige’s cheek.

When they break apart, Paige finally smiles. “Thanks.”

Azzi nudges her toward the bed. “Come on. You still need to brush your teeth.”

Paige groans. “Can’t I skip tonight? I already emotionally unloaded.”

Azzi laughs and grabs Paige’s toothbrush from the drawer she keeps hers in. “Nope. Being sad doesn’t cancel dental hygiene.”

“You’re cruel.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” Paige mumbles, already dragging her feet toward the door.

Azzi tosses a hoodie at her before she leaves. “Bathroom’s still crowded?”

Paige shrugs. “KK was doing her full skincare routine when I walked in like twenty minutes ago.”

Azzi grins. “So… yes.”

Paige gives her a flat look and disappears into the hall.

While she’s gone, Azzi tidies up the room a bit folds the hoodie Paige left on the floor, plugs in both their phones, flips the pillow that’s become hers. She hears muffled laughter from Aubrey and Ice somewhere outside and Paige muttering something back at them in mock annoyance.

Azzi’s already under the blanket by the time Paige walks back in, pajama-clad, hair slightly damp, toothbrush clean.

“Bathroom was chaos,” Paige announces as she climbs into bed.

“Survived, though.”

“Barely.”

They settle into their usual spots without needing to ask. Paige on her right side, closest to the door, Azzi curled into her chest, legs tangled, bodies pressed close.

Azzi kisses her shoulder, then her collarbone. “Feel any better?”

Paige lets out a long breath, her fingers sliding gently along Azzi’s spine. “Yeah. I always do with you.”

Azzi smiles and presses another kiss to her neck. “Good.”

There’s a beat of silence before Paige adds, voice quieter now, “I hate that sometimes I don’t even know what’s wrong. It just builds up, and then I see you and I’m like… okay.”

Azzi looks up at her. “You don’t need a reason to fall apart a little. You’re allowed to just be held.”

Paige runs a thumb along Azzi’s jaw, then leans down to kiss her again—slow and deep, full of something soft and unspoken. “I love you.”

Azzi’s heart flips, just like it always does when she hears that.

“I love you too,” she whispers back, brushing her nose against Paige’s.

They stay like that for a while, kissing softly, occasionally whispering things like you’re everything or I’m glad you’re mine until sleep slowly starts to tug at their limbs.

Outside the room, KK yells “PAIGE YOU BRUSH YOUR TEETH OR WHAT?”

Paige groans and yells back, “SHE MADE ME!”

Azzi laughs, hiding her face in Paige’s chest.

And just like that, the world feels a little lighter again.

⸻

It starts with knocking.

Not real knocking… Ice-knocking, which means three obnoxiously loud thuds and a “YO” that carries through Paige’s door like she lives in a frat house.

Paige groans into her pillow.

Azzi, already blinking awake beside her, winces at the sound. “It’s too early for Ice to have that much energy.”

Paige doesn’t move. “It’s always too early for Ice to have that much energy.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then the door creaks open, because of course Ice has no concept of knocking etiquette.

Azzi’s hand shoots out and yanks the blanket over both of them. Paige grumbles something unintelligible into Azzi’s shoulder.

Ice sticks her head in and grins. “Y’all alive?”

Azzi pokes her head out from under the blanket. “Barely.”

Ice raises an eyebrow. “You spend the night again?”

Azzi just stares.

Paige lifts one hand and flips her off without lifting her head. “She lives here.”

“That’s what I said,” Ice replies, already halfway back into the hallway. “We made pancakes. Get up before Aubrey eats them all.”

The door closes again with a loud click.

Azzi giggles.

Paige groans. “I hate everyone.”

“No you don’t.”

“I hate everyone except you,” Paige corrects, finally turning her face toward her.

Azzi kisses her nose. “Mm. Better.”

They lie there for another minute, Paige curled around Azzi like a koala refusing to face the morning.

“You know,” Azzi says, tracing her fingers lightly over Paige’s arm, “if you don’t get up soon, Ice is gonna start banging pots.”

“She wouldn’t—”

“KK already texted me,” Azzi replies, showing her phone. “Threat level: high.”

Paige stares at the ceiling. “I’m transferring.”

Azzi sits up, stretching. Paige groans again and grabs her hoodie, dragging it over her face dramatically.

Azzi laughs and leans down to kiss her. “Come on.”

⸻

Five minutes later, they emerge from the bedroom. Paige’s hair a mess, Azzi in one of her hoodies, both of them looking entirely too couple-y.

Jana glances up from the couch and smirks behind her tea. “Look who finally decided to exist.”

KK waves a spatula from the kitchen. “T-minus thirty seconds before Aubrey steals your plate.”

“Too late!” Aubrey yells from the other side of the counter, a pancake already in her mouth.

Paige looks betrayed. “That was mine!”

“You snooze, you lose, Bueckers.”

Paige flips her off and drops dramatically onto the couch beside Jana, head in her hands. “This household is hostile.”

“You literally cuddle Azzi like a body pillow all night,” Ice says, flopping into the armchair across from her. “You don’t get to call anything hostile.”

KK passes Azzi a plate, smiling knowingly. “We saved you a good one.”

Azzi beams. “See, this is why I like you guys.”

Paige mutters, “Traitors,” from under her hands.

Jana snorts into her mug. “She’s just mad because she got out-cuddled and out-breakfasted in the same morning.”

Paige groans and grabs Azzi’s arm, pulling her down onto the couch. “I’ll survive if you give me like… seven more kisses.”

“In front of our teammates?” Azzi teases, already leaning in.

KK yells “HEY” from the kitchen.

Paige kisses her anyway.

Azzi pulls back, cheeks flushed but smiling.

Ice fake gags into a pillow. “God, at least wait until I finish my eggs.”

“Jealous,” Paige mutters, wrapping her arm around Azzi again and stealing a bite of her pancake.

“Always,” Ice says. “You got Azzi and her breakfast? Unfair.”

Paige just grins, mouth full, and shrugs like the luckiest person on earth.

Because, well… she kinda is.

#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi #paige and azzi #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #azzi fudd

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inlovewithfionaapple · 24 days ago

Text

come home to me

warnings: none

wc: 1.1k

caitlin clark was the type of girl that people described as unstoppable. unflinching. fierce. when she was on the court, her eyes burned with fire and her veins flowed with ice. she could hit a deep three with two defenders draped on her, then come back down the court like it was nothing. off of it, her smile was warm, her vibe magnetic, but there was always this edge to her. like she was carrying something heavy but never allowing it to show.

only y/n knew its weight.

she'd known it the first time caitlin sat on her couch after a difficult game—not one in which she'd performed poorly, but one in which the noise got to her. the criticism, the pressure, the expectations she never asked for but wore like armor.

that evening, caitlin had dropped by in a hoodie too big and eyes too tired.

"i don't want to talk," she'd murmured, curling into the corner of the couch like she could disappear into it.

y/n didn't say anything. she just made tea, got a blanket, and tucked it around caitlin without asking.

from that moment on, caitlin was aware there was a part of her she rarely let anyone see—the part that had to be held, nurtured, gentled. and y/n? y/n knew how to bring her home to herself.

tonight was one of those nights.

caitlin's team had just lost a close game. the media questions had been vicious. she'd put up numbers, sure, but it hadn't been enough. and she hated that even when she was playing well, she never felt like she was ever allowed to break. she always had to be on. together. confident.

but when y/n opened the door to their shared apartment and caitlin came in, something inside of her broke.

she dropped her bag by the door and didn’t say a word—just walked straight into y/n’s arms like her legs wouldn’t hold her another second.

“hey,” y/n whispered into her hair, one hand rubbing slow circles on caitlin’s back. “you’re okay. i’ve got you.”

and caitlin—who never cried in public, who never showed anything but steel—buried her face in y/n’s neck and let herself melt.

the remainder of the night was a symphony of gentle things.

y/n took her to the bathroom, undressed her with care, and ran a warm bath. lavender and vanilla perfumed the air as steam wreathed the edges of the room.

caitlin rested back against y/n's chest in the water, eyes closed, fingers tracing lazy patterns on y/n's thigh.

"i hate losing," she whispered.

"i know," y/n said, brushing damp strands of hair from caitlin's face. "but you don't have to be perfect to be loved."

caitlin was silent for a moment. her throat tightened at the conviction with which y/n said it—like it wasn't even a question, like she believed it so deeply it didn't need defending.

"you always know how to… make me feel safe," caitlin whispered after a moment.

"because i do see you, cait. all of you. not just the basketball star. the girl who sleeps with socks on. the one who listens to the same five sad songs over and over again when she's down. the one who lights up when she sees dogs on the street."

caitlin laughed, a real one this time, small and tearful. "you're not supposed to reveal me like that."

y/n kissed her temple. "it's not exposing you. it's loving you."

caitlin wore one of y/n's hoodies after the bath—soft, too big, frayed at the sleeves. she never told her, but those clothes always made her feel better, as if she could climb out of her own skin for a little while and exist in something warmer.

y/n made grilled cheese and tomato soup, just how caitlin liked it, with sourdough bread and a sprinkle of basil.

they sat on the couch, legs tangled, plates balanced on their laps.

“you gonna stay in this hoodie forever?” y/n teased.

“yes,” caitlin said, mouth full. “i’m claiming it. officially.”

“you already claimed me, so why not the clothes too?”

caitlin blushed and leaned her head on y/n’s shoulder.

"i know i don't say it all the time, but… i love how you love me."

y/n faced her, tracing the edge of caitlin's cheekbone with her thumb. "i don't need you to say it every day. i feel it when you take my hand in your sleep. when you write me sweet notes before away games. when you save me the last french fry even when you don't want to."

caitlin's smile was soft now, almost shy. "you're my safe place, y/n."

and y/n, with her quiet strength, her steady heartbeat, her fierce gentleness, pulled caitlin into her lap as though she didn't weigh anything at all.

"then stay here as long as you need."

in the middle of the night, caitlin woke up from a dream she couldn't remember. her body was heavy, sinking, but y/n's arms were around her, holding her fast.

"bad dream?" y/n muttered, not even opening her eyes.

caitlin nodded, face pressed into y/n's collarbone. "i think i was in high school. missing free throws. coach was yelling. my dad was disappointed."

y/n hummed softly and kissed her forehead. "you are not there anymore. you are here. and i am so proud of you."

caitlin held her closer. "even when i don't win?"

"especially then," y/n whispered. "because that is when you must be reminded that your worth is not in the scoreboard. it's in your heart. your perseverance. the way you love."

and caitlin, who the world saw as fire and fury, let herself cry quietly into y/n’s skin, held like something precious.

the next morning, caitlin made pancakes. she wore the hoodie she claimed, messy bun on her head, socks mismatched. y/n walked in, sleepy-eyed and glowing, and just stood there for a second, watching her.

“what?” caitlin asked, flipping a pancake.

“you’re beautiful,” y/n said.

caitlin rolled her eyes. “i’m a mess.”

"yeah," y/n said, going to wrap her arms around caitlin's waist. "a beautiful mess. my mess."

caitlin leaned back into her, heart full. "i love being yours."

"and i love taking care of you."

they were sitting on the balcony after breakfast, legs tangled, sunlight spilling gold over their skin. caitlin had her head in y/n's lap, and y/n was idly playing with her hair.

"you know," caitlin said at last, "people are always telling me how i'm fearless. but i'm not, really."

"i know," y/n said.

"but with you…" caitlin swallowed. "with you, i don't have to pretend to be."

y/n leaned in, kissing her gently. "that's what love is, cait. it's the place where you can lay your armor down."

caitlin smiled up at her, the kind of smile that wrinkled her eyes and caused her whole body to unwind. "then i hope i get to come home to you forever."

y/n smiled, eyes sparkling. "you already do."

#caitlin clark #caitlin clark x reader #wnba #wnba x reader #wbb

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osachiyo · 2 years ago

Text

❏ SEETHING ENVY !

﹙ ✿ ﹚── includes : dazai, chuuya, kunikida, ranpo, fyodor & nikolai x fem! reader

﹙ ✿ ﹚── content warnings : nsfw content, jealousy, threats of cheating, toxic relationship in nikolai's, pussy slapping, choking, scratching, name calling, degradation, msub in Dazai’s, yandere reader in Nikolai's, edging, toys, oral (m & f receiving), brief mention of murder and torture but it's very vague, throat fucking etc

﹙ ✿ ﹚── synopsis : jealousy jealousy

﹙ ✿ ﹚── author's note : I know the sneak peak of this post had a different title but I think this one suits it way more. Happy reading! Requests are open btw! ♡

﹙ ✿ ﹚── MINORS DNI

DAZAI ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

Dazai loves to see all of your reactions. He finds them so amusing. Your eyes shining bright like stars when you're happy, when you're practically jumping with excitement, your cheeks heating up when you're flustered, your pretty eyes narrowing and brows furrowing when you're angry or upset, your eyes glossing over as they threaten to overspill the tears when you're sad...He loves to see them all. So that's why he comes up with the idea to make you jealous. I mean, what could go wrong?

You watch your lover’s eyes roll back from overstimulation, his cock swollen and angry from being used so many times. But you didn’t care, just like he didn’t care about how pissed you’d be while flirting with that waitress from the cafe. God, was it infuriating. But it’s alright, you would never miss a chance to mark your man up nicely, your nails clawing on his back while he hissed from the sting. But he didn’t complain, he actually enjoyed the pain of you marking your ownership over him.

“You fucking manwhore, how many times did you cum?” You scoffed, your hips not slowing down. You slapped his cheek gently when he didn’t answer, the soft flesh damp with sweat and your slick. He opened his eyes, looking up at you riding the soul out of him, your soft tits bouncing with every slam, your plump ass meeting his hips while he massaged the soft fat. “Fuck- uh.. four?—“ he wheezed when your hands wrapped around his throat even tighter, making it hard for him to breathe. “Wrong answer… let’s keep going until you get it right- Haah— okay?” He could only throw his head back in response, shooting blanks into your puffy cunt.

He had a long night ahead of him.

CHUUYA ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

Chuuya was a very confident man. He was confident in himself and your relationship. But that stupid fuck Dazai—

“Hey~ Belladonna, are you here alone?” Dazai smirked, taking your hand in his larger one before gently kissing your palm. “You look like you could use some company, no?” He was about to kiss your knuckles but suddenly— “She’s fine.” Your hand gets snatched away by your boyfriend, Chuuya. Dazai shows a face of disgust before sighing in disappointment. “Yeah okay, whatever. If you need some better company, don’t be shy to ask Chuuya for my number, pretty gi—!” A punch was thrown at his face.

“Stupid fucking suicidal piece of shit..” Chuuya mumbled, head squashed between your thighs which were decorated with bruises. Shades of purple and blue staining your pretty skin as he sucked on it, dangerously close to your core. His hand smoothed out the fabric of your expensive dress. When you agreed to go to a bar with your fiancé, you didn’t expect to be eaten out by him in one of the fancy bathroom stalls. Your hands were struggling to find something to stabilize yourself. “Chuuya..what if someone— mm..what if someone comes in..?” He only groaned in response, finally taking you into his warm mouth while his hands played with the soft fat of your ass. “Let them.” He muttered into your pussy, the vibrations of his gruff voice made your toes curl as your hand came down to find itself tangled in his copper locks. As if the universe had heard you, someone walks in. You put your other hand over your mouth, trying your best to silence any noises that could slip out. Then suddenly— the unknown man spoke and you recognized that voice easily. It was Dazai.

Chuuya only pulled away and smirked, before diving in with ten times more effort. He had to prove to Dazai that only he could pleasure you like this and you were his.

KUNIKIDA ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

Kunikida, bless this man's heart, was the best husband you could ask for. He had it all, looks, stable income, intelligence and he was sweet. You loved how nice he was to you, always making sure you're comfortable and happy. He was the ideal man of your dreams. But as much as you loved him being sweet and kind to you...you wanted something more. You wanted to get on his nerves, wanted to be manhandled by him. So what better way to do that than to make him jealous?

"Stay fucking still." Your husband growled, frantically unbuckling his belt while he held you down with one hand. Once he finally got the belt off, he tied it around your wrists, the expensive leather burning against your soft skin. "You wanna act like a brat? You're gonna get fucked like one." He spit, flipping you over so you laid on your stomach. "Count." That was the last thing you heard until— 'smack!' His calloused hand came down harshly on your ass, making you jolt from the impact. "O-one!" You hissed, your grip tightening on his silk sheets. There was a long pause before the next hit, which was absolutely brutal. The pain shoots through your entire body like electricity while all you can do is writhe and bawl your eyes out, " two- fuuck- 'm sorry! Please! Kuni—" He only scoffed, his fingers dip into your soaked folds and he raises an eyebrow, "You act like you hate it, but your cunt is practically gushing." He tsks, spreading your lips and this time landing a hit on your puffy 'n swollen clit. "Clearly you haven't learnt your lesson if you're still leaking like a desperate whore."

RANPO ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

Ranpo's and your's relationship was interesting, to say the least. You two always bickered playfully, sometimes even pranking each other. One time he even put some neon pink dye in your shampoo. But besides that, you wanted revenge. And what better way to get revenge than flirting with his own rival?

You could almost taste your sweet orgasm coming, ready to push you towards the edge but then— Ranpo turns the vibrator off with a laugh, clearly satisfied to see your misery. "How's that, sweetheart?" He smirked, wiping your tears off with his thumbs. You could only babble in response, too fucked out to think any coherent thought but the need to cum.

Ranpo smiles mischeviously, pushing your thighs apart to make room for himself. He licked his lips at the sight of your drooling pussy. A finger pressed the vibrator against your clit and your head tipped back on the pillow. "Thank you for the meal~" He sung before diving head first into your cunt, the vibrator working it's magic against your clit.

FYODOR ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

Why were you doing this again? Oh yeah, because that stupid Kolya told you to. You were just hoping and praying to the heavens above that you wouldn't be dead after this. It's a stupid idea but the prize was well worth the pain. All you had to do is flirt with Nikolai and Sigma for one whole day. Surely he wouldn't...mind that much, would he?

Wrong, is what you thought to yourself while you processed the entire situation. You were tied with deep purple ribbons, restricting you against the headboard of the bed. A ring gag in your pretty mouth, a collar around your throat and lastly, a blindfold over your beautiful eyes. You could only hear his footsteps, circling around you like he's the predator and you're his prey.

"So, Milaya, what were you thinking pressing your tits against Sigma like a slut?" His footsteps stopped, it was eerily quiet in the room after Fyodor had stopped speaking. "I did not know that I chose a stupid slut off the streets who will seduce anyone as my wife," he tsked. You felt the bed dip and creak, then a large bony hand was splayed across your bare thigh. "You are one lucky woman that I am not abandoning you. Clearly you don't know who your master, who your God is." He plunged two fingers in your mouth, watching you gag and sputter around them. His other hand was now wrapped around your delicate throat, giving it an experimental squeeze. He thrusted his fingers in and out of your mouth while choking you. You suddenly felt the smooth material of his slacks grinding against your bare cunt, soaking the fabric with your sweet slick.

If only you could see the almost maniacal smile he wore while doing so.

NIKOLAI ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

Fucked up, that's what your relationship with Nikolai was. But you didn't care. You loved him and he loved you. All you thought about was him and only him, never even speaking to another man unless you had to. But did he do the same? No he didn't. He'd purposefully flirt and let other women cling onto him like a damn leech, not because he enjoys their attention, no, he did it to rile you up. Watching as you threaten the women viciously, your tone dangerously low as you speak to them. It gets the adrenaline rushing through his veins when you brutally torture and murder these women who he had approached first.

Your face was stained with blood and Nikolai's precum as he tapped the head of his heavy cock against your cheek, montioning for you to open up. You obeyed like the good little girlfriend you were, tongue hanging out and all as you accepted his throbbing cock into your warm mouth, gagging slightly as it hit the back of your throat. He shuddered, grinning down at you, his gloved hand holding your hair up in a makeshift ponytail while you tried your best not to let your eyes roll back. It wasn't even all the way in yet. "Oh just look at you~ struggling to take my cock, dove? Should I get a new bitch, then? I bet she could take my cock f—" His breath hitched and hips stuttered when you suddenly look him all the way down to the base, throat contracting around him. "There we go... I knew you had it in you, pretty thing." Tears were flowing down your cheeks at this point, it fucking hurt. Nikolai let go of your hair and gripped the back of your head instead, slowly pulling you off of his cock until only the tip was inside then slamming back in with full force.

You definitely needed some medicine after.

©sachiyoh— do not copy, plagiarize and repost my works to any platform, likes and reblogs are very appreciated♡

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4linos · 6 days ago

Text

the stranger you loved 2.

lee minho x fem!reader

synopsis: you don’t know him anymore. but minho knows you, every laugh, every tear, every promise. and he’s not giving up.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, memory loss, emotional manipulation, mentions of family rejection.

wc: 11,879

[part 1]

He had been alone in his thoughts for too long.

Minho sat in the dim corner of the hospital corridor where the light flickered just a little too much, that familiar, sterile hum filling his ears. His hoodie was damp from where he’d wiped his face. His eyes ached. His heart ached more. Time had stopped having any shape or meaning, just hours of cold air, the occasional footsteps echoing off linoleum, and the unbearable weight of not being able to fix anything.

He couldn’t keep sitting there. Couldn’t stay in the silence, with the ache growing heavier by the minute. Eventually, he stood, slowly, stiffly and made his way back to your hospital room. He just needed to see you again, maybe even talk to you from the doorway. Nothing intense. Nothing that would make things worse. Just presence. Just proof that he was still here.

But as he neared your room, one of the nurses, one he vaguely recognized from the night shift stepped in front of him, hands gentle but firm.

“Mr. Lee,” she said softly, “I’m really sorry, but… we’re asking you not to go in right now.”

Minho blinked. At first, he thought he’d misheard. “What?”

The nurse glanced over her shoulder, toward your room, then turned back, her expression apologetic. “The doctor spoke with Y/N not long after you left. She was… visibly shaken. Scared, confused. Her vitals spiked. She was overwhelmed. We think it’s best to give her a little space while she adjusts.”

Minho stared at her like the words didn’t quite make sense. His eyebrows slowly drew together, a disbelieving scoff slipping from his lips. “I’m not some random guy off the street,” he said, voice rising just enough to draw a few glances. “I stayed by her side all night. I didn’t leave the room once. Not when the monitors beeped, not when the nurses came in, not even when you told me visiting hours were over. You all saw me there. You know that.”

The nurse’s expression didn’t waver, but her voice softened. “I do. We all saw it. And I know how much you care. But she doesn’t remember that, Minho. Right now, from her perspective… she’s waking up in a strange place, surrounded by strangers. Her memory is fractured. And when she saw your face, when you reacted so emotionally, it startled her. She’s not in a place yet where she can process all of that safely.”

Minho exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. He could feel the sting behind his eyes again, and he fought it, hard. He wasn’t angry at the nurse. Not really. But he didn’t know where else to aim the pain inside him. The grief. The helplessness. Because how was it fair? He had held your hand through the night. Had whispered to you about the little bakery you loved, your favorite songs, how you always pretended not to cry at sad movies but always did anyway. He had begged you to wake up.

And you had.

Only now, he wasn’t allowed near you.

“I just want to see her,” he said again, quieter now. “I won’t upset her. I’ll stay back. I won’t even speak if that’s what you want. Just let me be there. Please.”

The nurse looked torn. She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I’ll talk to the doctor. Maybe tomorrow, after some rest and evaluation, we can try again. But tonight... she needs calm. The brain needs quiet to begin the healing process. For now, just, trust us, okay?”

Minho didn’t answer. He nodded stiffly, backing away from the door like it burned him.

But in his chest, he could feel the unraveling.

He returned to that same quiet hallway, but this time it felt colder. Lonelier. He leaned against the wall, staring at the pale floor tiles like they might give him something clarity, answers, maybe just a way to stay grounded when everything he knew was crumbling.

He was still here.

Still your Minho.

But you didn’t remember that.

And now… you weren’t ready to see him.

Even love, deep, steady, desperate love wasn’t enough right now.

And that was a kind of heartbreak he never knew existed.

Minho had barely slept.

The coffee in his hand was lukewarm now, even though he’d just bought it minutes ago. He hadn’t tasted it. He didn’t care. The bitter steam curling from the cup only reminded him of the night before, hours of pacing cold hallways, of sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs, of whispering to your unconscious body like it might tether you back to him.

And then the morning came, and with it, the nurse’s gentle insistence that he stay back. That his presence had made you worse. That for now, it was better if you didn’t see him at all.

He hadn't fought them again. Not this time. Not after seeing the look in your eyes, the way you'd flinched at his touch. The quiet, scared voice asking him to leave.

But it didn’t stop the ache that settled into his chest like a second heartbeat, pulsing with every second that passed without you remembering him.

He was just coming back from the hospital lobby, a paper cup in one hand and his phone in the other, the screen still black. No messages. No calls. Not that he was expecting any. The only message he wanted was your voice, saying his name like you remembered. Like you loved him again.

He turned the corner, heading back toward the ICU, when he saw him.

Jay.

At first, Minho froze, unsure if he was imagining it. It had been so long since he'd seen that face, longer still since he’d thought of him. But there he was, standing stiffly at the nurse’s desk, dressed too neatly for a hospital visit, his dark hair styled like he was coming from somewhere important.

Minho’s blood ran cold.

Jay.

What the hell is he doing here?

He watched, heart pounding, as Jay leaned in toward the nurse with an overly concerned expression on his face. Like he belonged there. Like he had the right.

“Hi,” Jay said, glancing at the nameplate clipped to her scrubs, “I’m a friend of Y/N’s. I heard about the accident—I just need to know what room she’s in, and what happened. Please. I need to see her.”

The nurse gave him a quick look of polite skepticism, as she should. But before she could say anything, Minho was already moving, hot coffee sloshing in his cup as his steps quickened across the hallway floor.

“Hey,” Minho snapped, his voice sharp, tense with disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Jay turned slowly, his mouth pulling into a tight, false smile. “Minho.”

Minho stood toe to toe with him now, hands clenched, posture rigid. He didn’t want to cause a scene, not here, not in the hallway of the ICU, but he couldn’t stop the fire rising in his chest. “You don’t belong here.”

“I came to check on Y/N,” Jay said smoothly, unbothered. “Someone had to.”

That was it.

Minho’s jaw locked. “Don’t act like you care.”

“I do care,” Jay countered. “Not that you’d know anything about being a real friend.”

The insult was barely veiled, and Minho flinched like he'd been struck. But it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, not from him.

Because Jay wasn’t just anyone.

He was the friend you used to be inseparable from, the one you trusted with everything, until Minho came along. And from the moment Jay realized how serious the two of you were becoming, he’d tried everything he could to sabotage it. The comments. The rumors. The passive-aggressive texts. That one night he cornered you after practice and told you Minho would never love you the way you deserved, that he was cold, manipulative, temporary.

Jay never liked Minho. Never even pretended to. And when you chose Minho anyway, when you distanced yourself from Jay and made it clear where your heart was, he turned bitter. He stopped pretending. Started treating Minho like the enemy.

And now here he was.

Minho stepped forward, voice low, teeth clenched. “You think showing up now makes up for what you did? You weren’t there when she needed support. You weren’t there when she was hurting. You disappeared the second she chose me, and now you want to show up like some concerned guardian?”

“She doesn’t remember you, does she?” Jay asked, his tone light but the venom unmistakable. “So maybe this is the universe giving her a second chance.”

Minho’s hands curled into fists. He saw red for a moment pure, unfiltered rage bubbling just under his skin.

The nurse intervened then, stepping between them before things could go further. “Hey, please. This is a hospital.”

Minho turned to her, still breathing hard. “You can’t let him see her. He’s not family. He’s not—he’s not anything to her anymore.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

The words stung more than Minho expected. The truth was, right now… he wasn’t sure how to answer. Because to you, in your broken, half-lit memories, he was nothing. A stranger. An unfamiliar face who cried too easily and begged too hard.

The nurse looked between the two men, clearly uncomfortable. “I can’t make decisions based on history I don’t know. If the patient recognizes Mr. Jay, and she’s comfortable with it, we allow visitors. But for now, we’re trying to avoid overwhelming her.”

She turned back to Jay. “You may go in, but keep it short. And speak gently. She’s still very fragile.”

Minho opened his mouth to protest, but it was already too late.

Jay was walking past him, heading for your room with confident strides, as if he had every right in the world to be there. As if he hadn’t tried to pull you away from Minho every chance he got.

And the worst part? Minho couldn’t follow.

He stood there in the hallway, helpless, his fists clenched and his heart in his throat. The nurse gave him an apologetic glance before walking away.

Minho was left standing alone again.

Another locked door. Another piece of you slipping further from his grasp.

And now he was in there with you.

He didn’t know if you’d recognize Jay. If your mind had pulled him back while leaving Minho behind. If you’d smile for him. Laugh. If Jay would take advantage of the blank slate that the accident had given you.

But Minho knew one thing with unbearable certainty.

He’d spent the night holding your hand, whispering his love into the dark like a prayer.

And now he was being replaced again by the one person who had always wanted to take you away.

The nurses and doctors kept saying you were getting better.

They said it like it was a fact, like a milestone you had clearly reached "You’ll be out of here in no time," they smiled, charts in hand, voices warm with optimism. "Your vitals are strong, and your cognition is improving every day. Just keep resting, okay?"

But the truth was, you didn’t feel better.

You felt like you were drowning.

Not in pain exactly, though your head still throbbed sometimes and your body felt stiff in ways that made simple movements difficult, but in confusion. In the aching, suffocating emptiness where your memories used to be. People told you things: names, stories, reassurances. Faces came and went, some that sparked a flicker of recognition, most that didn’t. The world around you looked familiar, but distant like trying to peer through fogged glass at a life that had once been yours.

You tried so hard.

You spent hours straining your mind, pushing yourself to remember anything. A moment. A voice. A laugh. A feeling. You stared at photos, flipped through magazines, even listened to music they said you used to love. But it was all blank. All white noise.

So when the nurses brought you a puzzle and suggested you work on it to pass the time, you agreed because at least it gave your hands something to do. Something to focus on besides the panic always threatening to creep in at the edges of your silence.

You were bent over the little tray table, trying to find the right edge piece, when the door creaked open behind you.

At first, you didn’t look up. You assumed it was another nurse with more encouraging platitudes or another round of gentle cognitive tests. But then you heard his voice.

Soft. Careful. Familiar.

“Hey...”

You turned slowly, and your eyes landed on a tall figure standing awkwardly just inside the room, his hand still resting on the door handle like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve come in. He looked nervous. His smile was small, but his eyes were filled with something else, something harder to define.

And something in you stirred.

You stared at him.

His face... it was like a name on the tip of your tongue. Like a dream you’d half forgotten the second you woke up. It pulled at something deep inside you, something quiet and buried.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he said, shifting his weight. “I just... I heard about what happened, and I had to see you.”

Your heart picked up speed.

There was something about the way he said it. Something real. Something that rang true in a way nothing else had since you woke up in this hospital bed.

You blinked fast, overwhelmed.

“Do I... do I know you?” you asked quietly, the words cracking on their way out.

The boy stepped forward slowly, eyes flicking toward the puzzle pieces, then back to your face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “You do. Or... you did. I’m Jay.”

And then it hit you.

Like a rush of cold air after being underwater too long.

Jay.

You knew that name. You knew him.

It wasn’t everything not a full memory, not even close, but it was a spark. A sliver of light through the fog. You remembered the way he laughed, the way he talked too fast when he was excited. You remembered late nights and long walks, sitting on sidewalks and laughing at dumb things only the two of you found funny.

Your breath caught.

A tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized it was coming. Your hand reached up to cover your mouth as a sob built in your throat.

Jay’s face softened immediately, and before you could speak, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you gently, careful not to hurt you.

And you let him.

You let yourself sink into that hug, into the one familiar feeling you'd had in days. Your fingers clutched at the back of his shirt as you tried to ground yourself in the warmth of his embrace, your body shaking from emotion you didn’t have words for.

He didn’t say anything. He just held you. And for a brief, flickering second, the ache in your chest eased. You weren’t drowning anymore. Not in that moment.

He remembered you. And, finally you remembered something.

Jay stayed with you for a long time.

Longer than any of the doctors or nurses expected, longer than any other visitor had. And you didn’t mind. In fact, for the first time since waking up in that sterile white room, you felt… okay. Not good, exactly. Not whole. But safe. Familiar. Like the world around you had finally cracked open just a little bit and let in a beam of warmth.

He sat in the chair beside your bed, his body slouched like he’d done it a hundred times before. He looked around like he hated the hospital, called it “soulless,” said it didn’t suit someone like you and you laughed at that. It was a genuine laugh. Small, but real. You didn’t even realize how long it had been since you’d felt one rise naturally from your chest.

Jay began to tell you stories. Small, scattered things. Fleeting moments from your childhood, things he said the two of you used to joke about. He mentioned how you used to dare each other to jump into freezing water at the lake near your old neighborhood. How you used to call his mom “Mom #2” and how she always made your favorite pancakes with too many chocolate chips. He told you about a time you’d both skipped school and gone to a matinee movie, just the two of you, stuffing your pockets with snacks and swearing the popcorn had never tasted better.

You didn’t remember the details, not really, but the way he told them made you believe they were true. Made you feel like somewhere, deep down, maybe those memories were still there. You smiled as he spoke, sometimes even laughed softly, and each time you did, he smiled wider. Like he was proud of himself. Like helping you feel something again meant something to him too.

Then, after a pause, his tone changed.

He hesitated, his eyes flickering toward the hallway outside. He leaned forward, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear what he was about to say. His voice lowered, gentled, but carried a certain edge beneath the softness.

He started talking about Minho.

“You might not remember him,” Jay said slowly, “but… maybe that’s for the best.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at the name. Minho. It tugged at something in your chest, nothing solid, but not nothing either.

“He’s not who you think,” Jay continued. “Everyone acts like you two were some kind of perfect couple, but I was there. I saw what it was really like. He was bad news. Controlling. Jealous. He made you change cut people off, stop doing things you loved. You stopped talking to me because of him. Said he didn’t like the way I ‘got in the middle.’”

You blinked, the confusion settling heavy over your features.

“I’m not saying this to upset you,” he added, eyes searching yours. “I just want you to be careful. If you don’t remember him, don’t let anyone rush you into something you don’t feel. Don’t let them convince you of a version of the past that wasn’t real.”

You didn’t say anything. You just stared down at your hands, now limp in your lap. The warmth you’d felt earlier had started to drain away, replaced by a fog of doubt. Who was Minho to you, really? What did you forget?

Jay noticed your silence. He reached out and gently touched your hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, giving your fingers a soft squeeze. “I didn’t mean to drop all that on you. I just… I care about you. I always have.”

And when he stood to leave, hours later, after the sun had shifted across the room and the nurses had come in twice to check your vitals, you felt a panic rise in your chest. You didn’t want him to go.

You didn’t want to be alone again.

“Can’t you stay a little longer?” you asked, your voice small.

His eyes softened, but he shook his head. “I want to. I do. But they said visiting hours are over. I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? I promise.”

And for some reason, that made tears prick at the corners of your eyes again. He stepped close, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and said gently, “Try to rest. Don’t think too much. Just take it one day at a time.”

You nodded.

But once he was gone, and the door clicked shut behind him, the room suddenly felt colder. And quieter. And your thoughts, once briefly still, began to race again.

Who was Minho?

And why did Jay’s words make something in your heart feel uneasy?

Minho was going crazy.

Not in the dramatic, exaggerated way people throw that word around. He was unraveling in real time, second by second, thread by thread, as the hands of the clock moved painfully slow.

It had been exactly three hours since Jay walked into your hospital room. Minho knew because he’d been counting. Watching the time tick by on the faded wall clock above the nurses’ station like it was mocking him. Every minute that passed with Jay in your room and not him made something deep inside his chest tighten.

He’d tried everything.

First, he asked the nurses calmly if he could go in, just for a moment. They said no. Said they’d been advised to limit your visitors for your “emotional recovery.” He reminded them, again that he wasn’t just anyone. That he’d been there every day since the accident. That he’d slept in those hard plastic chairs outside your room. That he’d sat by your bedside, talking to you even when you couldn’t respond. That he loved you.

They gave him tight smiles. Apologetic, tired ones. “We understand, Mr. Lee, but she needs time. She was very distressed last time. We’re following doctor’s orders.”

He didn’t yell. Not at first. He just clenched his jaw and walked away, pacing the hallway like a man trying to out-walk his own panic. But every so often, he returned. Softened. Pleaded. Asked a different nurse. Asked again. Just one of them to please, please check in on you, just make sure you were okay. That Jay wasn’t saying anything that might confuse or hurt you.

At some point, after the third nurse, the fourth, maybe the fifth, they stopped pretending to care. They brushed him off with distracted nods or curt reassurances. One even told him to go get some fresh air, that “hovering wasn’t helping anyone.”

He almost laughed at that. Hovering? He wanted to scream.

And then finally, finally, Jay emerged.

The door to your room swung open, and Minho’s heart immediately surged with hope. Maybe he could go in now. Maybe you were asking for him. Maybe you remembered.

But then he saw him.

Jay stepped into the hallway like he owned the place, his hands casually tucked in his coat pockets, that same smug, self-satisfied look on his face that Minho had hated since the very first time they met. The glint in his eye, the cocky tilt of his head, it was like he was silently daring Minho to say something. Like he wanted a reaction.

Minho stood frozen. His fists clenched so tight at his sides his knuckles turned white. His jaw locked. He could feel every part of his body screaming at him to move, to do something, to grab him, shove him against the wall, demand to know what he said to you. Because he knew Jay. Knew the games he played. Knew how good he was at twisting the truth, planting seeds of doubt.

He also knew how much Jay had always hated him.

Jay had never made a secret of it. From the very start, he’d done everything he could to tear the two of you apart. Told you Minho was bad for you. Controlling. Dangerous. Said things behind Minho’s back, things he couldn’t prove but could feel were poisoning you slowly. He'd always smiled to your face but looked at Minho like he was a threat. And now, with you vulnerable, confused, unable to remember, he finally had the chance to rewrite history. To plant his own version of the past in your head.

Minho could see it in the way Jay looked at him now. Like he’d won.

Jay gave a small, mocking nod as he walked past, brushing just close enough to Minho’s shoulder that it could’ve been an accident, but wasn’t. And Minho… Minho had to dig his nails into his palm to keep from doing something reckless. Something he’d regret.

He didn’t care what the nurses said anymore.

He needed to see you. Needed to look into your eyes and hear your voice. To remind you of the truth, your truth and not whatever lies Jay had just spent three hours feeding you.

Minho waited until Jay disappeared down the hallway before moving.

He lingered just out of view behind the corner of the hallway, where the nurses wouldn’t notice him, where the monitors wouldn’t give away his presence. He was done being brushed off, done being treated like he was some stranger hovering around a patient who didn’t want him. Because he knew the truth, he wasn’t a stranger. He was yours.

He had spent every day since the accident aching to be by your side. But for hours now, he had paced, waited, begged just for a chance to see you. And now, Jay was finally gone. The coast was clear. The nurses were distracted, and for the first time in what felt like forever, your door stood slightly open. Like fate had finally cracked a window in the thick, suffocating wall that had kept him out.

He moved quickly, quietly, his heart pounding so hard in his chest he swore it echoed through the floor.

As he stepped into the room, the soft click of the door closing behind him made you look up from a puzzle on your tray.

The moment your eyes landed on him, something shifted.

Minho froze.

You were staring at him, not with recognition, not with warmth, but with the same look you’d had the first time you saw him after waking up: confusion. Hesitation. That faint edge of alarm. It hit him like a punch to the chest. He didn’t even get a word out before he saw your hand move not toward him, but toward the red call button clipped to the side of your bed.

His instincts kicked in. He stepped forward quickly and reached out, not to hurt, not to scare, just to stop you. His hand gently covered yours, just before your finger could press it.

"Please," he breathed out, his voice cracking already. “Just… please. Just give me a minute. One minute. That’s all I’m asking.”

You stared at him, your lips parted but no words coming out. Your hand under his didn’t move, but you didn’t pull away either. You were trying to place him, he could see it in your eyes. Like your brain was flipping through the pages of a book that had been burned halfway through, trying to find a sentence that made sense.

He pulled his hand back, slowly. Raised both palms, like he was surrendering.

“I know you don’t remember me,” he said softly. “I know I’m just some… stranger in your eyes. I get it. I saw it the second you looked at me. But I’m not a stranger. I’m not.”

You were still silent. He didn’t even know if you were hearing him, really hearing him, but he couldn’t stop the words from coming out now. They’d been bottled up for too long.

“I’m Minho,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m the guy who’s been here every day. I’ve been sitting outside that door since the day they brought you here. I slept in that chair—” he gestured to the hard plastic seat by your bed “—because I couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone. Not even for a second.”

Your expression didn’t change, and that broke him a little more.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”

His throat tightened, and he looked down, trying to blink back the sting in his eyes, but it was no use. The tears came. Quiet, helpless tears. The kind that didn’t come from just sadness, but from fear. Fear that you were slipping through his fingers. That he’d already lost you, not to death, but to forgetting.

“I don’t know what Jay said to you,” he said, barely able to speak through the lump in his throat, “but whatever it was… whatever he told you… it’s not the whole story. Please don’t let him be the one to define us.”

You watched him. Still silent. Still unsure. Your eyes were softening, but you didn’t speak, and he didn’t push you.

“I just want a chance,” he murmured. “To help you remember. To remind you who we were. Who we are. Even if you never remember, even if it takes forever, I’ll be here.”

He let the silence settle then, stepping back just enough to give you space, but close enough that you could still feel the weight of his presence. His heart was in his hands now, and all he could do was wait.

When you didn’t respond, didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t even blink for what felt like an eternity, Minho felt something inside him shatter.

He had come in here, heart in his hands, stripped raw with desperation and grief, hoping that something in you would remember him. Hoping your silence meant your mind was turning over something familiar, that maybe, maybe some part of you was starting to click into place.

But you just… stared.

Like he was nobody. Like he hadn’t spent years building a life with you. Like he hadn’t held you on the nights you couldn’t sleep, memorized the rhythms of your laugh, or traced every line of your face a thousand times. You stared at him like he was just another person in a room full of machines and white walls.

And he couldn’t take it.

He wiped at his cheeks roughly, turning away so you wouldn’t see the full force of it, the way his face twisted as he tried to swallow the hurt. He muttered something under his breath, barely audible but bitter. A curse word. Anger at himself, at the situation, at fate for putting the person he loved most in front of him only to make her forget who he even was.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” he said, voice flat now, hollowed out by pain. “Maybe you’re better off without me if you really don’t see anything left. If Jay already got in your head, maybe I was stupid to think—”

He turned, hand reaching for the doorknob. He was about to walk out, to disappear the way everyone seemed to want him to.

But then, your voice cut through the quiet.

“Wait.”

It was soft. Hesitant. But enough.

He froze mid-step, his fingers resting against the cool metal of the door handle, shoulders rigid as he slowly turned back around to face you.

You looked nervous. Your eyes flickered between his and your own hands, which were now fidgeting with the edge of the blanket in your lap. You swallowed before speaking again, voice still unsure but steadier.

“Jay… he told me things. About you. About us.”

Minho stayed still, his gaze locked on you, not daring to interrupt.

“He said…” you hesitated, trying to remember the exact words, “that we were together. But that you weren’t good for me. That we were toxic. He said you… made me feel small. That you made me cry a lot. That I changed when I was with you, and not in a good way.”

You looked at him now, not with confusion, but something else. Something bordering on hurt. Vulnerability.

“I don’t remember those things,” you said. “But I don’t remember not feeling that way either. So how do I know what’s true?”

Minho’s jaw clenched slightly, but he didn’t lash out. He didn’t defend himself with rage or denial. Instead, he just looked down, breathing through his nose, composing himself before speaking.

You continued, quieter now. “I want to believe you. I really do. But right now… I believe Jay. Because he’s the only one who’s reminded me of anything. He made me laugh. He told me stories I could almost remember. And you… you just make me feel confused. Scared.”

Minho winced like you’d hit him, but still he didn’t walk away.

Then, you said the words that changed everything.

“So prove him wrong.”

The room went still again, but this time it was charged. Like the air had shifted.

Your voice steadied with the weight of your decision. “If everything he said is a lie, then prove it. Prove to me that I wasn’t wrong to love you. Prove that I didn’t make a mistake.”

Minho stared at you for a long time. His heart still ached, but now there was something else, something sparking behind his eyes. A flicker of hope.

He stepped closer, slowly, as if afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast.

“I will,” he said, voice thick but firm. “Whatever it takes. I’ll remind you of every good thing. Every moment that mattered. And I’ll do it without pushing, without rushing. I’ll wait. I’ll be patient. But I won’t stop until you see the truth.”

His expression softened. “Because I know what we had. And I know what kind of man I am when I’m with you. That’s what I’m going to show you.”

You nodded, unsure of what you were agreeing to, but willing to let him try.

And for the first time since everything changed, there was a thread, thin, fragile, but real connecting the two of you again.

The morning sun filtered gently through the half-closed blinds of your hospital room, casting soft gold streaks across the floor. You had barely slept, your mind buzzing from the night before, Minho’s visit, his tears, his voice as he pleaded for you to remember him, to trust him. Something about the way he looked at you had stayed with you long after he left. It felt too intense to be fake. Too familiar to be made up.

Still, when Jay showed up early, carrying a takeout tray of warm breakfast and that easy, familiar smile of his, you felt the same uneasiness. He looked like a piece of a memory you couldn’t quite reach but almost could. The way he greeted you, cheerful, teasing, like you’d just seen him yesterday, felt grounding. It made the confusion from the night before quiet down a bit.

“I brought your favorite,” he said, holding up the tray with a dramatic grin as he set it down on your tray table. “Okay, well, at least what I think used to be your favorite. I might be wrong. But I’m also usually right.”

You smiled small, but genuine and he noticed, clearly pleased with himself. He helped you unwrap the meal, cutting pieces where you struggled, holding your water cup steady. It wasn’t the most graceful moment, but he filled the quiet with light jokes and soft reassurances. You laughed once, softly. He smiled wider.

Then, between bites, you spoke.

“Minho came by last night.”

Jay’s hands stilled.

You didn’t notice right away. You were focused on your fork, pushing around a piece of fruit.

“He just… showed up. The nurses didn’t know he came in. He said he loves me.”

The silence between you and Jay stretched suddenly. When you finally glanced up, his face had changed. He was no longer smiling.

Jay set the cup in his hand down slowly, his eyes scanning yours as if trying to read how deeply you meant what you were saying. “He said he loves you?”

You nodded. “I don’t remember everything. I still don’t. But something about the way he said it… felt real.”

Jay leaned back slightly, his mouth tightening into a line. His voice dropped, no longer as playful as it had been just moments ago.

“I told you, he’s not what he says he is,” he said. “Minho might look convincing, but he’s good at that. That’s the problem.”

You furrowed your brow, unsure.

“He said he’d prove it,” you murmured. “That he’d show me what we had.”

Jay sighed, rubbing a hand across his jaw. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone. “I didn’t want to do this unless I had to,” he said, unlocking the screen, “but I can’t sit here and let him manipulate you again. Not after everything I watched him put you through.”

You watched as he tapped a few times on the screen before turning it toward you.

There were screenshots, texts. They looked like messages from Minho. Angry words, frustration, accusations. “You never listen to me,” one said. Another: “I’m not doing this anymore, you're impossible.”

You stared at them, trying to make sense of the harsh tone. You didn’t know enough to understand the context, but it felt like something. Like a warning. Maybe Jay had been right.

Then he showed you a photo. You weren’t in it, but it was of Minho, arms around another girl at what looked like a party, dim lighting and loud energy caught in the background. Jay didn’t even explain it; he just let it sit there between you.

“You still want to believe he’s the kind of person who’ll prove anything?” he asked softly, but there was an edge under it. “He had you wrapped around his finger, and I watched it happen. You cried to me so many nights, said you felt like you were losing yourself.”

Your stomach churned. You didn’t know if the texts were real. You didn’t know if that girl in the picture was just a friend. But Jay sounded so sure. And you didn’t remember anything to fight what he was saying. All you had were emotions, and right now, they were tangled and contradicting.

You looked down, quietly.

Jay noticed, leaning forward a little. “I’m not trying to control what you do. But I’m your friend. I care about you. I’ve always been the one who told you the truth, even when it hurt.”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure what to say.

Outside your room, the hallway stirred faintly with movement. Unseen by you or Jay, Minho had arrived, earlier than expected, just like he promised himself. And he had heard just enough to stop him cold in his tracks.

Minho stood frozen just outside the doorway, the hospital corridor quiet around him except for the low hum of distant monitors and footsteps. He hadn’t expected Jay to be there again, hadn’t expected that.

He had arrived early, just like he told himself he would, carrying a small duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Inside were pieces of your shared life: polaroid photos from your first trip together, a worn hoodie he knew you used to steal from him when you couldn’t sleep, a playlist he'd burned onto an old CD because you once said you missed mixtapes. He was ready. He had come here to remind you who he was, who you both were.

But now, as he stood just out of view and listened to Jay’s voice, quiet but sharp, digging into your uncertainty, Minho felt his stomach turn.

"He had you wrapped around his finger, and I watched it happen. You cried to me so many nights, said you felt like you were losing yourself."

Minho’s fingers clenched around the strap of the duffel bag.

Jay’s voice dripped with conviction, too confident, too rehearsed. And the worst part was, you weren’t arguing. You weren’t correcting him. You weren’t defending Minho at all. You were silent.

That silence did something to him.

Minho could feel the heat rising in his chest, shame, frustration, fear, all wrapped tight together. His jaw tensed, his throat burning. He wanted to burst in, tell you Jay was lying, that he had twisted every story, poisoned everything good between you. But he knew how that would look. Sound. Emotional, desperate, unstable. Exactly how Jay wanted him to look.

He backed away from the door, slowly. His breath was uneven, and he could feel his hands shaking as he tried to keep himself calm. This wasn’t just about you not remembering him anymore. This was about someone else rewriting the memories you did still have. Someone you used to trust. Jay wasn’t just some ex-friend trying to help. He was rewriting history while Minho had to wait behind locked doors.

The weight of that was unbearable.

Minho turned and walked away from the door before either of you could see him, his mind racing, pulse hammering in his ears. He made it to the end of the hall and leaned heavily against the wall, his bag sliding off his shoulder.

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a breath that shook too hard to hide. You didn’t even look at him like you once had. You were starting to look at Jay that way instead.

He hated him. He hated him for being in that room. For sounding so sure. For smiling while you forgot everything Minho had fought to build with you.

But more than anything, Minho was terrified, terrified that this time, Jay might actually succeed in taking you away.

Minho couldn’t back down.

His chest burned with every step as he marched back toward your room, the echoes of Jay’s voice bouncing off the walls of his skull like static he couldn’t shut off. His hands were fists, white-knuckled, the strap of the duffel now hanging loose at his side, forgotten. He didn’t even remember dropping it.

All he could think about was you sitting there, looking at Jay like he was someone you could trust. Like he was the one who had stayed, who had held your hand during sleepless nights, who had loved you through every breakdown, every high and low. Like he was the one who knew how you liked your coffee, how you couldn’t fall asleep unless someone rubbed your back in slow circles. Like he was the one who had never left you, not once.

The door was cracked open.

He didn’t hesitate.

He pushed it open so hard it hit the wall with a thud.

Both you and Jay jumped, startled and before Jay could even rise to his feet, Minho was on him.

He stormed in like a wave breaking through a dam, grabbing Jay by the front of his hoodie and yanking him up so hard his chair scraped backward across the linoleum. Jay stumbled straight into Minho’s chest, caught in the grip of hands that had been trembling just seconds earlier.

“You’re done talking to her,” Minho growled, voice low and shaking with barely contained fury. “You’re done lying to her.”

Jay didn’t react the way Minho thought he would. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t shout. Instead, his lips curled faintly, not into a full smile, but just enough. Enough for Minho to see it. Just enough to feel sick.

Then, with the theatrical subtlety of someone who had rehearsed this very moment, Jay turned his face toward you. His expression shifted instantly eyes wide, breath shallow, voice trembling with false vulnerability.

“See what I mean?” Jay said, loud enough for you to hear. “This is what I’m talking about. This is how he is. You think I’m making it up? Look at him.”

Minho froze.

His eyes snapped to you. You were sitting up in bed, the half-eaten breakfast tray still beside you. You were staring at him, not scared exactly, but unsure. Shaken. Like someone who had just watched two parts of their fractured life slam together with no warning.

Minho’s grip loosened.

His hands fell away from Jay’s hoodie, and Jay took a dramatic step back, brushing himself off with an exaggerated tremble in his fingers. His eyes never left you, like he was waiting for you to flinch or speak or believe.

But it was Minho who looked devastated.

His chest was rising and falling too fast now, not from rage but from panic. His whole expression crumpled in front of you like a paper burned at the edges. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t come in here to make things worse. He had come to fight for you, but not like this.

He turned to you fully now, his voice cracking when he spoke.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I just… I heard him, and I lost it. I lost you, and now he’s trying to take what little I have left.”

He looked so different then, no longer the angry, storming version of himself that had burst through the door. He looked like a man barely holding it together. Like someone who had spent every second loving you, only to be shut out when you needed love the most.

And yet, he didn’t step closer. He didn’t reach for you. He just stood there, waiting for you to decide what you believed.

Jay didn’t wait a second.

The moment Minho stepped back, just far enough for the tension to hang, thick and bitter in the air Jay straightened himself up, smoothing out his hoodie like it had actually been disturbed. His smirk had vanished again, replaced once more by that carefully measured, concerned expression he knew worked on people. The same one he used on teachers when he was younger, on your parents when he wanted their trust, on you now that he had your attention again.

He gave a subtle glance your way soft, comforting, almost protective. Like Minho was the threat and he was the shield.

Then he moved, stepping slightly in front of you not too obviously, just enough to make it seem like instinct. Like reflex. Like he was trying to keep you safe.

His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made Minho look even more volatile in comparison.

“This is exactly what I was trying to explain to you,” Jay said, shaking his head like he hated being right. “You don’t remember what he’s like when he gets like this. You never liked seeing him angry, remember? I told you he was bad for you.”

He turned to you fully now, crouching down just enough so he could meet your eyes on the same level. His tone softened even more.

“I know it’s confusing,” he said, carefully, like he was walking you through a lie he’d practiced a hundred times. “Everything’s messed up in your head right now. I get it. But you have to trust what you feel. That sick feeling in your gut when he stormed in? That means something.”

Minho opened his mouth to speak, but Jay didn’t give him the chance.

“I’m not trying to turn you against him,” Jay said quickly, eyes still on you. “I’m just reminding you what’s real. You were scared of him once. I was there. I saw it. He wasn’t good to you. Not really.”

That last part hit Minho like a slap, his fists clenched again, not to strike, but to hold back the scream in his throat. He wanted to yell that it was a lie, that you were never afraid of him, that everything Jay was saying was calculated, twisted, wrong.

But Jay’s trap was already set. Calm versus chaos. Friend versus partner. His words against Minho’s silence.

And Jay, he didn’t need to win the whole war. Just this one moment. Just enough to plant the seed of doubt.

So he placed a hand gently over yours on the blanket. Softly. Casually. And looked you straight in the eye.

“I’m just trying to protect you,” he said. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And Minho watched you, watched your face, your eyes, your hands under Jay’s as if he could still find the version of you that remembered.

Because Jay hadn’t won. Not yet. Not completely.

Minho stood there with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his other hand gripped tightly around the strap like it was the only thing holding him together.

He hadn’t come back that morning expecting a perfect reunion, he wasn’t that naive, but he hadn’t expected this either. Jay, already in your room like he belonged there. Jay, sitting at your side, feeding you bites of breakfast like it was normal. Jay, looking at him with that smug little grin barely hidden beneath faux concern. Like he’d already won.

Minho couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t watch someone else fill the space he’d been fighting to stay in. He’d spent the whole night digging through old things photos, playlists, that sweatshirt you always stole, things he thought might help trigger your memory, things he’d wanted to bring to you. To help you remember them. Remember him.

But instead, all he could do was stand there and watch Jay plant more lies in your mind. And you, you didn’t even know they were lies. You were just trying to survive inside your own confusion.

He lowered his head, letting his hand fall from the strap. He felt heavy. Tired in a way he hadn't even let himself admit until now.

“I’m going,” Minho muttered, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He didn’t look at you. “I shouldn’t have come back.”

You looked up, surprised. You hadn’t expected him to give up, not so suddenly, not when it was clear how much this meant to him. Jay didn’t say anything at first, just leaned back in the chair with a sigh, already satisfied.

“You should let him go,” Jay finally said under his breath, just loud enough for the silence to catch it. “He’s already done enough.”

Minho stiffened, but he didn’t argue. Didn’t yell. He turned toward the door with heavy steps, his hand brushing against the knob.

That’s when you said it.

“Min.”

Just one word. Just that nickname. Small, almost unsure, but the second it passed your lips, it was like the entire room stopped breathing.

Minho froze.

Slowly, he turned his head, not all the way, just enough to look over his shoulder. His eyes wide, almost disbelieving.

You saw it on his face immediately. Shock. Pain. Hope. All of it tangled together like a wound trying to heal too fast.

You didn’t even mean to say it. It had just slipped out, like it had been waiting quietly in the back of your mind for the right moment to rise. You didn’t remember everything. But something about the way he looked when he stood there, his shoulders hunched, that duffel bag barely clinging to him, his voice cracking, something about it broke your heart in a way that felt familiar.

Jay stiffened. His jaw clenched.

Minho turned fully now, his eyes locked on you. “What did you just say?”

You swallowed, suddenly unsure. “Min…”

It felt real in your mouth. Natural. Like it always had been.

Minho took one slow step back into the room. His duffel bag slipped off his shoulder and hit the floor with a soft thud.His eyes were glassy, his breathing unsteady.

“You used to call me that,” he whispered. “You used to call me Min. Everyday.”

Jay stood abruptly, suddenly aware that the atmosphere had shifted. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said quickly. “It’s just a nickname—”

“Shut up,” Minho snapped, not even looking at him. His eyes stayed on you.

“I didn’t think you remembered anything,” he said, voice barely holding together. “But maybe… maybe something's coming back.”

Your heart beat faster. You didn’t know why you said it, but now that you had, you didn’t want to take it back.

And Minho saw it. That flicker of recognition. The sliver of light trying to break through the dark.

It started like a whisper in the back of your mind.

As soon as the word “Min” left your mouth and you saw the way his eyes lit up, wet, wide, desperate, you felt something inside you shift. Something warm and painful and real. It didn’t come in a rush, didn’t hit you like a bolt of lightning the way people said memory sometimes did. It was softer than that. Like the faint flicker of a candle in a pitch-dark room. A glow you hadn’t seen in so long you forgot it was even there.

Minho took a careful step toward you, his expression so gentle, as if any wrong move might scare the moment away. Jay was saying something beside you, probably trying to pull your attention back, but you didn’t hear it. You were looking at Minho.

“I… I think I remember something,” you whispered, more to yourself than to anyone else. You swallowed, and your hands gripped the edge of your blanket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “It was raining. And I didn’t have anywhere to go. My family, my mom said I couldn’t come back. She locked the door. Jay told me it was my fault, that I ruined everything, and I, I didn’t know where else to go. I felt so stupid.”

Minho’s breath caught in his throat. You could see the way his body tensed at your words. He knew exactly what you were remembering.

“I was soaking wet,” you continued. “It was late. I called you… we hadn’t even been together that long. I don’t even know why I called. I just—something told me you’d answer. You told me to come over, and when I did, you were already waiting outside. You didn’t say anything when you saw me. You just… held me.”

The memory unfolded like a fragile piece of paper being smoothed out. You remembered the warmth of his arms. The scent of his hoodie. The way he kept brushing your wet hair out of your face, even though you were shivering and crying too hard to even speak. And then later, curled up on the old pull-out couch in his apartment, when you finally managed to get the words out, how he’d looked at you.

And said, “You don’t have to earn love. Not here. Not with me.”

“I remember,” you said again, your voice cracking. “You gave me dry clothes and made tea even though you didn’t know how. You burned the first batch.”

Minho let out a short, broken laugh. He was already wiping his eyes before you even finished speaking.

“I did,” he said, voice thick. “I left the bag in for twenty minutes. You still drank it.”

“Because I didn’t want to be rude.”

“No, it’s because you were trying not to cry again.”

Your bottom lip trembled, and you didn’t even realize when a tear slipped down your cheek.

Then Minho suddenly knelt down and set his duffel bag on the chair beside your bed. He unzipped it with a hand that was shaking now for a different reason. He rummaged through it for a few seconds before he pulled something out, a crumpled gray hoodie.

Your eyes widened. You knew that hoodie. Your fingers itched just looking at it.

“I kept it,” Minho said, his voice soft. “You used to wear it every night for the first few weeks you stayed with me. Even after we moved in together. I found it in the bottom of your drawer. It still smells like you. I brought it… just in case.”

You reached out for it, your hand hesitant at first, but then firmer, more certain. When your fingers touched the worn fabric, another memory sparked, curling into yourself in the corner of his couch, that same hoodie swallowing your frame, while Minho sat beside you, holding your hand and talking you through your breathing.

Minho saw the recognition in your face and gently helped you hold the hoodie in your lap. He crouched beside the bed, both hands resting on the mattress as he looked up at you.

“I didn’t just take you in,” he said quietly. “I wanted you there. You didn’t ruin anything. You saved me too. And I’ve been trying to hold on to you ever since.”

Behind you, Jay shifted in his seat, but neither of you looked at him. His presence seemed to fade as the moment between you and Minho deepened.

“You really said that?” you asked, tears streaming now.

Minho nodded, his own eyes just as glassy. “Every word.”

And even though your mind still felt like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, one thing suddenly became very clear: Minho hadn’t just been someone you loved.

He was home.

Jay shifted in the corner of the room, his chair scraping faintly against the hospital floor, the sound sharp in the silence that had settled after you finished speaking to Minho. His eyes flicked from your tear-streaked face to the hoodie in your lap, then to Minho’s crouched form beside your bed. You could see the way his jaw clenched. The way his fingers curled into fists at his sides. His whole body screamed discomfort not guilt, not regret, but defensiveness. Like a man losing control over a story he’d worked hard to rewrite.

He stood up.

“You can’t seriously believe all that,” Jay said, voice low but pointed. “It’s been months. You’ve been through a trauma. Your memory isn’t reliable. You don’t even know if what you’re remembering is—”

“Stop.”

Your voice cut through the room sharper than you meant it to, but you didn’t take it back. Jay flinched slightly, blinking like he couldn’t believe you’d raise your voice at him. You sat up a little straighter, hoodie still gripped in your lap, and looked directly at him, really looked. For the first time in days, something in your gaze felt solid. Anchored.

Jay’s mouth opened like he wanted to interrupt, but you kept going.

“I remember when everything fell apart. When my mom told me to leave. When I had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. You were the first person I called.”

You paused, swallowing.

The image of yourself standing outside his apartment door came rushing back with more clarity than you were ready for, the rain slamming down so hard it felt like it was trying to punch through your skin. The thunder, the way your phone screen had gone blurry from the water, how your fingers had started to go numb from the cold.

“I called you. I begged you to let me stay for just one night. You answered the door, saw me standing there soaking wet, and you looked me in the eye and told me I’d made my choice.”

Jay’s face paled, but he didn’t speak.

“You said, ‘You wanted Minho so bad? Go ask him for help.’ And then you shut the door.”

Minho, still crouched beside your bed, slowly turned his head toward Jay with a look that was anything but forgiving.

Jay’s lips parted again, trying to find something to say, but you weren’t done.

“You let me stand in the pouring rain,” you said, voice cracking just a little at the edges now. “You knew I had nowhere else to go. And you punished me for being with someone who actually cared about me.”

Jay's expression flickered, his smugness cracked for the first time since you’d woken up in that hospital bed. And all he could muster was a weak, “That’s not how it happened.”

“It is how it happened,” you replied, without hesitation. “And the fact that you came here, pretending like I could trust you after that… that you twisted everything just so I’d forget him…”

You shook your head slowly.

“You don’t get to play savior, Jay. Not after abandoning me when I needed you the most.”

Silence fell heavy between the three of you. Jay looked like he wanted to argue, to find a thread to pull so the truth would unravel again, but there were none left. You had your piece. The memory, fractured though it had been, was real. You felt it in your chest like a bruise that had finally begun to heal.

Minho didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His hand quietly found yours on the bed, and you let it. No hesitation this time.

Jay stood there for a long moment, eyes bouncing between you both, before he scoffed under his breath,, more out of disbelief than anger and turned toward the door.

You didn’t stop him.

For the first time since the accident, Minho felt like he could breathe.

It wasn’t just a metaphor, his lungs physically expanded with the deepest breath he’d taken in days, maybe weeks. His shoulders, always tense lately like they were holding up the weight of the entire world, finally relaxed, even if only slightly. There was a softness in your expression that hadn’t been there before, a quiet kind of trust peeking through the fog of confusion and hurt. And for him, that was everything.

He exhaled slowly, almost in disbelief, as if he had been holding that breath in ever since you forgot him. Ever since you looked into his eyes in that hospital room and saw a stranger.

But now, the faint curve of your lips, the gentle smile you gave him told him that maybe, just maybe, you were beginning to see him again. Not just as a person, but as your person.

You tilted your head toward him, voice soft, curious. “What else did you bring?”

Minho’s eyes lit up.

He immediately reached for the worn black duffel bag he had placed beside your hospital bed, he’d been dragging it around since the night he left to gather everything he could find that might help you remember. His fingers moved gently, reverently, like he was handling something sacred as he lifted it onto your lap, careful not to jostle you too much.

“This,” he said, unzipping it, “is basically our entire life in a bag.”

He opened it fully, revealing a chaotic but heartfelt assortment of items: Polaroids, little keepsakes, your favorite hoodie of his (the one you used to steal every other week), and even a coffee mug that had a tiny chip on the rim, something you always teased him for never replacing.

He pulled out the first photo, its edges slightly curled. It was a candid one, taken at the beach on your first trip together. You were mid-laugh, wind tangling your hair, Minho’s arm looped lazily around your waist. He handed it to you, watching carefully for your reaction.

“I took this one the day you said the sea always made you feel like you belonged to something bigger,” he murmured. “We got sunburned that day because we forgot sunscreen. I remember you yelled at me for it and then made me rub aloe vera on your back like twenty times.”

A small laugh slipped out of you, and his heart swelled.

One by one, he pulled out more, A charm bracelet with a single initial, M, you had bought it at a market and insisted on wearing it every day, even though the chain was barely holding together. Your shared apartment’s spare key, taped to a sticky note with your handwriting on it: “Don’t lose this, dummy.” And then finally, a notebook. Minho opened it and flipped to the dog-eared pages.

“This was your dream journal,” he said quietly. “You used to wake me up at like 2 AM just to write down the weird dreams you had. Sometimes they were scary, sometimes they made no sense, but you never wanted to forget them. You said they meant something. That all dreams do.”

You took the notebook slowly, running your fingers over the cover like it was a relic from another life. And in a way, it was.

“You kept all this?” you whispered.

“I kept everything,” he said. “Even the smallest things. Because you never know what will mean something later. What might bring you back.”

For a long time, you didn’t say anything. You just looked through the contents of the duffel bag, piece by piece, and with each item, something in your face softened. The fog hadn’t cleared completely, but there were pockets of clarity now, glimpses of the life you’d had, the love that still waited patiently for you to remember it.

Minho didn’t rush you. He just sat beside your bed, one hand loosely holding yours, hope flickering steadily in his chest now.

He had brought your life back to you. And this time, you didn’t push it away.

Minho stayed with you the entire time, watching with quiet devotion as you sifted through the pieces of the life you had forgotten.

Each item was a breadcrumb leading you somewhere deeper, somewhere softer, toward a version of yourself that still felt far away but not impossible to reach. You didn’t rush. You turned every photo gently in your hands, paused over every note, reread every little caption or scribbled doodle. You could feel the weight of them, not just the physical weight, but the emotional one. These weren’t just things. They were echoes. Proof of something real.

And Minho never said a word. He didn’t press you or try to force anything. He just stayed.

Eventually, the silence settled around you both, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that felt like safety, the kind that could only exist between two people who didn’t need to fill every space with words. His head had slowly tipped back against the chair, his arms folded loosely across his chest, legs stretched out in front of him. His breathing had gone soft and steady, and you glanced at him through the corner of your eye.

He’d fallen asleep.

You stared at him for a long while, taking him in again, the slope of his nose, the way his lashes brushed his cheeks, the slight crease between his brows that made it seem like he never fully relaxed, not even in sleep. There was a gentleness to him in that moment that tugged at something in your chest. You had this strange feeling like you’d seen him sleep like this before.

And then it hit you.

The memory didn’t return like lightning. It came in quietly, softly, almost like a dream.

You remembered a night, not too long after you’d first moved in with him. It had been raining. You were sitting on the floor in his bedroom, your knees pulled to your chest, trying to keep yourself from falling apart. The reality of what had happened, being kicked out by the people you once called family, losing your home, your stability had hit you like a tidal wave. You remembered how you had been trying so hard to stay strong for days. But that night, you broke.

And Minho… Minho didn’t ask questions. He didn’t try to tell you that it would all be okay. He didn’t offer platitudes or promises he couldn’t keep. Instead, he’d knelt down beside you and just… held you.

He’d pulled a hoodie over your head, one of his, because you were shivering. He wrapped you in his arms like a fortress and whispered, “You’re not alone anymore. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

And you had cried in his arms that night, not because you were weak, but because you were finally safe enough to fall apart.

The memory washed over you like warmth, like light breaking through after weeks of storm.

You looked back down at the things in your lap, and your fingers found the exact hoodie from that night, the one he had wrapped around you like a second skin. You held it against your chest, letting yourself feel every layer of the moment return. The rain. The ache. His voice.

And for the first time since the accident, the memory didn’t feel like a puzzle piece struggling to fit. It felt like something that had always been there. You had just forgotten where to look.

You turned back to Minho, still sleeping in the chair beside you, and whispered so quietly that only the stillness could hear:

“I remember.”

Minho stirred awake slowly, his body stiff from sleeping upright in the hospital chair, neck craned slightly to the side. He blinked a few times, disoriented, until his eyes adjusted to the soft morning light spilling in through the blinds. The rustling of the blanket over your legs caught his attention, and when he looked up fully, his breath caught.

You were watching him.

There was something different in your expression this time gentler, steadier. Your eyes weren’t clouded by confusion or hesitation. They were clearer, like something inside had clicked into place, even if just partially.

“Hey,” he said groggily, straightening up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

You shook your head and gave him a small, knowing smile. “It’s okay. You were here.”

That alone made his chest tighten. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, searching your face like he was still afraid it might disappear.

Then you spoke again quietly, but firmly. “Minho… I remember.”

His heart stopped.

You saw the way his entire body froze, his mouth parted like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you correctly. Before he could ask, before he could even breathe, you continued.

“I remembered that night,” you said softly, your fingers running along the edge of the hoodie in your lap, the one he’d given you all that time ago. “That night I stayed with you. After everything happened with my family… with Jay.”

His throat bobbed, overwhelmed.

“I remembered the rain. I remembered standing outside Jay’s place soaked and scared, calling him and him hanging up on me. And I remembered you, Minho. You opened the door to your apartment and didn’t even ask me why I was there. You just… pulled me inside and told me I wasn’t alone.”

Minho’s hands curled into fists in his lap. He was trying so hard to keep it together, to not break down right then and there.

“I wanted to tell you as soon as I woke up this morning,” you added, voice faltering, “but Jay got here first. And I— I didn’t want to say anything with him in the room. I didn’t trust it. I didn’t trust him. So… I waited. I pretended I didn’t remember. Because I wanted to say it to you. First.”

Minho let out a choked sound, like something between a laugh and a sob. “You remembered,” he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. “You remembered.”

You reached out and took his hand, your grip still tentative, still cautious, but it was yours. And it was real.

“My memories are still… fuzzy,” you admitted, “like I’m walking through fog. But I remember you. I remember how you made me feel. Safe. Seen. Loved.”

Tears welled up in Minho’s eyes again, but this time he didn’t look away. He let them fall, and he leaned forward to rest his forehead against your joined hands. “That’s all I need,” he whispered. “I’ll remind you of the rest. No rush. Just… let me stay. Let me be here.”

You smiled, heart aching with something so full it nearly brought you to tears. “I never wanted you to go. Even when I didn’t remember, some part of me missed you.”

Minho lifted his head, looking at you with awe, like you were a miracle he still couldn’t quite believe had returned. “You came back to me,” he whispered.

“No,” you corrected gently. “You never left me.”

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that there were still gaps in your memory or questions left unanswered. What mattered was that the one person who had held you through the darkness was still here, steady as ever, ready to walk you home, one step at a time.

masterlist.

❌proofread

a/n: ending was a little rushed i’m sorry 🙃. “jay” is someone i made up, not an idol 👍

[permanent taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]

[TSYL taglist @ari-hwanggg]

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p-taryn-dactyl · 6 months ago

Text

masked hearts

part i

a/n: hi! this is my first time writing for ambessa so please be kind lmao. i also know very little about LoL lore :) this is kinda an AU where the Medarda family is together word count: 2.5k warning(s): none (yet); well no real warnings, reader has a crush and is not very smooth; very awkward; you're a lesbian; unedited 😭

prompt: ambessa holds a ball to find a partner for her son but what happens when you're the one to catch her eye?

Your kingdom was one of splendor and beauty, the hills ripe with settlements, the trees fruitful and the air crisp. It wasn't a mystery why the Medarda clan claimed this small portion of the world for themselves, as your kingdom sat on a pivital route for trade. The mystery however, was why the head of the Medarda's, Ambessa, chose this place to be the homeland of her son's future spouse. The flyers went up around the center of the capitol first, the paper of expensive quality and the ink shimmering with gold.

It was an invitation to a ball. One of masks and hidden identities.

The Medarda's, while they've never been accused of not caring about physical appearance, put wit above all. It was fitting that the son of a warlord would first fall for the mind before the body. However, as the whispers got around the kingdom, people realized there wasn't a class specified to attend. Everyone, rich and poor, was invited to attempt to become a Medarda-by-law.

You, however, weren't as excited as your sisters and cousins. You watched as they danced around your shop, holding up different fabrics and colors, trying to see which one would make their dress stand out to Kino. Laughing, you wiped down the counter, your eyes trained on your register, imagining it bursting with gold after your town had finished sending in their requests for their gowns and masks.

"Y/N, have you decided what you're going to wear?" One of your cousins, Laina, appeared behind the counter, her young hands stabilizing her as she stood on her toes, "Mama says I can go if I finish my chores the week before!"

You gave her a soft smile, flicking your slightly damp rag at her and laughing when she recoiled with an unamused glare.

"I don't think I am going to attend, but I can personally make your dress!"

Laina's face fell but her eyes still had a sparkle from your request.

"Why not?" She pouted, crossing her arms once she managed to pull herself up to sit on your freshly cleaned counter, "And would you make me a mask too?"

Sighing, you threw your rag into the bucket of water at your feet, ignoring the splash against your boots. You could always finish cleaning later. Leaning with your back agaisnt the counter, you mimicked her pose, crossing your arms and pouting out your lower lip.

"Masks are for potential suitors of Kino, maybe if he's still looking for a partner in a decade I'll make you one," Laina opened her mouth as if to interupt, to say she wasn't too young even though her tenth birthday had only just passed two days before. You held up a finger, stopping her words before they left her mouth, "And...I'm not one for the company of men, you know that. A large party, loud and boisterous, sounds fun but with my luck I would be the one to catch the wandering eye of Kino Medarda."

Laina nodded, albeit a little dissapointed. She played with a strand of hair falling in front of her eyes.

"Would you think about coming? With me? Mom and Dad aren't going, they want to have a quiet night in and Alana will be too busy trying to become a princess."

You laughed loudly, causing the customers of the shop and your family members to look at you. You covered your mouth with a hand, nodding at the customers apologetically. Pursing your lips, you scoffed humorously as Laina gave you one of her sad eyes expressions, one she knew you couldn't say no to. Rolling your eyes, you ruffled Laina's hair with a defeated smile.

"Alright fine, but you'll have to convince your mother to send me a basket full of honey buns afterward," Laina clapped in excitement, nodding in agreement. She fixed her eyes on you, taking a scrap of dark red fabric from her pocket and holding it up against your face.

"This should be for your dress."

Taking the fabric from Laina, you felt it between your fingers and sighed. What did you get yourself into.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

In a few measley hours you would find yourself within the walls of the Medarda castle, built from stone from the most coveted quarry in your kingdom. At the right time of day, you swore you could see it shining brighter than a star upon the hill which it sat. Laina was a bundle of energy and was currently bouncing around the apartment above your family's shop. She was talking so fast, excitement blurring her words together so much so you couldn't even distinguish what she was saying, so you only nodded along to her words as you examined your dress one last time. Laina had long been dressed and now all her movement made you worried she would wrinkle or tear the precious fabric.

Your dress, one that matched the dark red Laina had chosen for your mask, layed across your lap, subject to your wandering eyes as you looked for any imperfections. While you didn't exactly want to catch anyone important eyes, you didn't want to be seen in a less than perfect gown.

"Put it on! We have to leave soon if we want to make it for the opening of the gates!" Laina excalimed, clapping her hands together as she twirled, her light green dress floating around her like petals in the wind. You smiled, gesturing towards the door with your head.

"Well, I'll need someone to guard the door while I change. I don't want anyone bursting in here while I'm in my unspeakables." You held your head up haughtily like your grandmother, mimicking her accent and pretending to clutch your pearls at the mention of your underwear. Laina covered her mouth as she giggled, nodding as she ran out to stand by your door, only pausing right before she shut it.

"If you need help, you'll ask right?"

You saw in her eyes the desperation of being a helper, a feeling you knew too well. You nodded at her then waved your hand, beckoning her to shut the door. At the click, you sighed, looking back at your gown, starting to feel the uncomfortable feeling of anxiety roaring in your stomach and up your throat. Damn Laina's puppy dog eyes. Now, instead of sitting in bed with a book and a hot cup of tea, you were going to dance in front of one of the most powerful family's in Runeterra. With your luck you would face plant right in front of Kino, or worse, his mother. At the thought of Ambessa, your mind grew conflicted. Sure, you had a healthy fear of the woman who was shrouded in tales of blood, but you remembered the first time you saw the matriarch after the Medarda's had claimed your kingdom for themselves. It was like a schoolgirl's crush on a teacher, you knew it would never go anywhere but yet, even after all the years, you still dreamed of the strong hands and scarred face which had been burned into your mind the second you swore her eyes landed on you in the crowd.

Shaking your head, you snapped yourself out of your senseless dreaming. Being attracted to women wasn't an issue, it never had been, but being attracted to that woman could only bring you strife as you compared all future partners to her. Standing up, you shedded your clothing, standing only in your slip and stockings tied up at your knee. Taking a deep breath, you slid the dress on, each part brushing against your skin in soft silk. Once it was on, all that was left was to tighten the corset. You brushed your hands down, smoothing down the fabric before calling for Laina, knowing you could tighten it yourself. Laina burst into the room, her eyes widening as she gasped.

"Y/N, you're so beautiful! I knew that color would be pretty on you!"

You felt your face flush from the compliments, not used to the attention. Laina pulled up a stool to stand on as she started tightening the your dress.

"Ah! Ok, if you want me to dance with you, you're going to have to let me breathe."

Laina chuckled sheepishly, loosing the ribbons slightly.

"Sorry! I think you're done!"

You nodded, moving to hold yourself up against the wall as you slipped on your shoes, dreading a night spent soley wearing heels. You grabbed your mask and held out your hand to Laina, bowing playfully.

"I believe it's time for us to depart, my lady."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The night was young yet you already were desperate for the strike of midnight, the time you and Laina had agreed upon leaving. Speaking of Laina, she had made a few friends with the other young children attending the ball, sitting in a corner with them as they played games, their laughter hidden by the music. At the front of the giant room sat Mel Medarda and her consort, Jayce Talis. They were holding hands as they watched the dancers, leaving you to wonder when they would join the party. Kino was already weaving his way through the room, dancing with many but seemingly connecting with none. And Ambessa, your breath caught in your throat as your eyes seemingly met hers, was making her way into the crowd, her mask one of gold and war. You looked away frantically, returning your attention to the table of food in front of you. After a few moments, you felt yourself relax, yet that was short lived. You felt a presence behind you and suddenly, you were very aware that you were the only one at the table and not on the dance floor. Which felt like the universe was just shitting you at this point. You picked up a berry, inspecting it as if that would make the imposing woman standing behind you not be standing behind you.

It didn't work.

Slowly, you turned around, heart beating in your ears drowning out the music. You didn't realize how close she was, causing you to jump slightly and bump into the table. For a second, you just stared at each other before Ambessa moved. You tensed, before you realized she had grabbed a pastry from the platter that had been knocked off center. She took a bite, keeping her eyes trained on you before she spoke. You just kept mentally pinching yourself, trying to force yourself out of this embarassing nightmare.

"Is that all you're going to have, Little One?" Her voice sent shivers down your spine as you processed what she had said, her head nodding to the berry still clutched in between your fingers, it's juices staining your fingertips.

"Oh! Uh, no? I'll have," you didn't want to look away from the tall woman, fearing that would be a sign of disrespect, so you tried to remember what food had been spread out, "bread? Yes, bread, I like bread." Your eyes widened as you spoke, now mentally punching yourself for the dumb response. Bread? Now come on. Part of you was grateful for the mask covering part of your face, hiding what was sure to be a horrendous blush.

Ambessa's mouth quirked into a smirk, taking a slight step towards you before angling her body so she could gesture her arm towards the sea of people.

"This whole night you've stayed by the table, or near that corner of children, never once even attempting to join the festivites," she turned her attention back to you, slightly cocking her head to the side, "Is this party boring you? Is my son?" You registered the humorous tone mixed with the protectiveness of a mother.

Quickly you shook your head, hand clenching the berry in your hand, bursting the fruit. You tried to start explaining yourself but the feeling of juice sticking to your skin made you uncomfortable. You still felt frozen by Ambessa's presence so you did what felt right in the moment, however pausing as you realized you had started licking your hand infront of the matriarch of war. In your embarassment, you didn't notice how Ambessa's eyes followed the actions of your tongue and fingers like a wolf hunting prey. Like a rubber band snapping, you realized you hadn't answered her question.

"I'm not bored! This is a beautiful procession and whoever catches your son's eye will be lucky."

Ambessa nodded slightly, turning her head to watch as Kino twirled a woman in blue. When she looked back to you, her eyes held a question laced with genuine interest and humor.

"And if you catch his eye?"

Your own eyes widened as you wiped your hand on the napkin you had grabbed while her attention was on her son. Ambessa didn't miss the change in your expression, your mask not hiding the nervousness shining in your eyes. Instead of your original adorable fear of her presence, you now seemed to radiate anxiety. She raised an eyebrow, knowing you couldn't see it, waiting for your response.

"I," you started, your eyes darting to Laina, who was now watching you with a teasing look, knowing of your godawful crush on the woman standing in front of you, "I would be very flattered-"

"But?" There was a sense of anticipation in her interuption, her words no longer holding underlying steel.

"But I would have to respectfully decline," you looked down at your hands, starting to speak quickly, desperate to explain yourself as to not give the impression you thought yourself too good for a conqueror's son, "Not out of any thought of doing better of course, I doubt that could even be accomplished, however I believe Kino- I mean, your son, deserves to be with someone who can love him purely and with romantic intent. The best I could give would be a position of friendship." You stopped to take a breath, fully intending to continue your ramble until the gods themselves had to shut you up. But this plan was foiled by Ambessa's strong hand holding your chin, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes analysed you, surveying your face before going lower to look at your dress. You felt heat rise, or more heat, at her intense stare. Something in the stitching on your bodice made recognition flicker in Ambessa's eyes. Her hand moved from your chin down to your waist, encouragaing you to walk with her. She continued to talk as the two of you made your way to the center of the room, the crowd parting as they danced around you.

"Do you already have someone in your heart? A different boy perhaps?"

If you weren't feeling like you were in a dream, you would have realized Ambessa was fishing for something, an answer she needed.

"No, my lady, I do not. I," you cleared your throat, "I won't ever have a man claim my heart."

Ambessa's grip on your waist grew stronger as she pulled you to her chest, positioning you to dance. You gasped as you felt her lips brush against your ear as she swayed you to the rhythm of the music.

"And if I lay a claim?"

a/n: haha sorry for the sudden ending i'm evil at my core. this fic was to test the waters for writing for this absolute goddess of a woman and i do have part 2 ready to go if anyone is interested! i cannot say my thoughts on Ambessa (or Sevika for that matter) for i want to keep this authors note short and PG ;) thank you for reading!! i hope this wasn't shit.

#ambessa medarda #ambessa medarda x reader #ambessa x reader #arcane fanfic #ambessa arcane #ambessa x you #ambessa medarda x you

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cloudyluun · 1 month ago

Text

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑶𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝑮𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝑻𝒐𝒐… | (𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒔!𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒙 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒔!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓)

Summary: It’s Y/N’s first real award season, and tonight she’s headed to the Oscars—nominated for Best Actress (!!) and all dolled up like an actual goddess. With Harry Styles as her boyfriend and #1 hype man, the night should be magical… and it is, especially when she wins. But while the cameras capture joy, champagne, and golden statues, the internet tells a different story. Insecure and hurting, Y/N finds herself drowning in criticism—until Harry reminds her why none of that matters. This is a soft, emotional comfort fic with forehead kisses, whispered affirmations, and a very sparkly dress.

A/N: This fic is based on the cutest request from @dipmeinhoneyh (thank you, angel!!). I saw the ask and immediately went full ✨Oscar glam✨ in my head. It’s soft, it’s sparkly, it’s got just the right amount of angst, and of course… our boy Harry being the most supportive, sweet, temple-kissing, back-rubbing dreamboat of a boyfriend ever.

That said… I don’t actually think this is my best writing 😭 I’ve been in my head a bit and totally overthinking every sentence—like does this metaphor even make sense? and is this dramatic or just cringe?? But I still love the heart of it. So if you’re in the mood for something sweet, sad, and healing, I hope it brings you comfort. I promise the next one will be even better. Plus I haven’t really proofread since I didn’t really like it all that much; so if there are any mistakes lemme know!❤️‍🩹

Word Count: 10k

Warnings:

Soft Angst (emotional hurt/comfort)

Public scrutiny / social media hate

Insecurity and imposter syndrome

Supportive partner Harry Styles

Kisses, cuddles, and affirmations

Glittering dresses and red carpet glamor

Mention of alcohol/champagne (mild)

Mild swearing

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The sun rose with a gentle persistence over Los Angeles, casting a soft, golden light through the floor-to-ceiling windows of their home in the Hollywood Hills. It was still early—barely 7 a.m.—but the energy in the house was already quietly humming. Today wasn’t just any Sunday. It was the Sunday. The Oscars.

Y/N stirred in bed, tucked deep beneath the plush white duvet, reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth and quiet that had settled around her during the night. Despite the buzzing anticipation that had followed her into sleep, she’d managed to rest—though now, with the day officially begun, her nerves were waking up right along with her.

The door creaked open softly.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Harry’s voice came, gentle and low, already laced with amusement. The smell of coffee preceded him—rich, freshly brewed, and perfectly timed.

She cracked one eye open to see him leaning in the doorway, a tray balanced in one hand: her favorite oat milk latte, a small bowl of strawberries and cream, and a folded linen napkin. He wore one of his silk robes loosely tied at the waist, his curls still slightly damp from a shower.

“Big day, darling,” he murmured, walking over and placing the tray on the bedside table. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Y/N groaned softly, pulling the covers over her head. “Why does it feel like a big day already? It’s barely even light out.”

Harry chuckled, slipping into bed beside her, careful not to spill the coffee. “Because you’re about to knock every single person dead on that red carpet. And maybe win an Oscar while you’re at it.”

She peeked out from under the duvet, eyes still sleepy but soft. “You’re too confident in me.”

“No such thing,” he replied, passing her the latte. “Drink up. You’ve got a team of glam fairies arriving in thirty minutes.”

From there, the day began in earnest.

Y/N sat in a tall makeup chair in the sun-drenched guest room that had been converted into a makeshift dressing suite. Mirrors lined one wall, surrounded by globe lights. Racks of gowns in garment bags stood nearby, and a team of stylists, makeup artists, and assistants bustled quietly, respectful of the sacred, slightly frantic energy of the morning.

A playlist pulsed low in the background—early Beyoncé, a touch of Fleetwood Mac, something mellow to keep the mood steady.

Her stylist, Lena, was crouched beside a hanging gown: an ethereal floor-length number in deep emerald satin with a plunging neckline and a daring backless silhouette. The kind of dress that whispered elegance but screamed power when worn with the right attitude. The kind of dress that required exactly the kind of confidence Y/N was still trying to summon.

Meanwhile, her hair was being sectioned off and curled by a stylist named Ramon, who moved with the ease of someone who’d done a thousand of these before. Every so often, he’d step back and tilt his head, studying her like a sculpture in progress.

“You’re going classic tonight, babe,” he said. “Hollywood waves, little volume at the crown. Timeless. You’ll look like you walked off a 1950s movie poster.”

She gave a half-smile, eyes flicking toward the reflection in the mirror. “Just make sure I don’t look like I’m in costume.”

Ramon met her eyes in the mirror. “Trust me. You’re not going to look like anything other than the main event.”

As the hours slipped by, there were brief interludes. Harry, dressed down in a crisp white T-shirt and grey sweatpants, would peek in between tasks—whether it was a meeting with his own team or finalizing details about their arrival time. Every time, without fail, he brought her something: a bottle of water, a calming lavender mist spray, a slice of toast she forgot she asked for. Or sometimes, he brought nothing but himself—a quiet hand resting on her shoulder, a whispered, “How are you doing?” pressed into her ear.

Once, while Lena zipped her into the gown for the final fitting, Harry wandered in, paused, and let out a slow exhale.

“You’re joking,” he said under his breath, his eyes raking over her. “You’re absolutely joking.”

Y/N blushed but stood tall, arms slightly outstretched as Lena adjusted the hem. “Good joking or bad joking?”

Harry walked over, placed his hands on her hips gently, and kissed her bare shoulder. “Devastating joking. I can’t let you out of the house like this.”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. “You’ll be in a tux. You’ll survive.”

“I’ll barely survive,” he said dramatically, then leaned in to kiss her again—this time, on the lips. “You’re stunning, Y/N.”

By late afternoon, the house was empty again except for the two of them. The glam team had left, Lena was already at the venue making sure everything was set for their arrival, and all that remained was the car outside, waiting to take them to the Dolby Theatre.

The SUV’s interior was sleek and black, the windows deeply tinted to block out the chaos of paparazzi that had already begun to gather on the outskirts of the route. Y/N sat stiffly, trying not to wrinkle the delicate folds of her dress, but her nerves had returned—stronger than they’d been in the morning.

She bounced her knee unconsciously, fingers fidgeting in her lap. Harry, seated beside her in a perfectly tailored black tux with a velvet lapel and a custom silver pin on the lapel—something small and symbolic just for her—reached over and covered her hand with his.

“Hey,” he said softly, grounding her. “You’re good.”

She turned to look at him. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

He squeezed her hand, thumb brushing across her knuckles. “That’s how you know it matters.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath and leaned her head back against the seat. “What if I trip getting out of the car? What if I say something dumb in an interview? What if—”

“Then I’ll laugh, and everyone else will laugh, and you’ll still be the most brilliant person on that carpet,” he said, eyes never leaving hers.

She studied him for a moment, the way his calm energy seemed to bleed into hers just by proximity. “How do you always know what to say?”

“Because I know you,” he replied. “And because I believe in you more than anyone else on this planet.”

The car turned a corner, and they caught their first glimpse of the towering Oscars signage outside the theater. Flashes from cameras sparked like a distant lightning storm. The energy in the air shifted again—thicker, more electric.

Y/N took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Harry smiled, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. “Let’s go make some history.”

Y/N could feel the thrum of energy through the car door.

She didn’t move yet. Her fingers curled tighter around Harry’s hand, her eyes scanning the flashes beyond the glass like they were lightning bolts about to strike.

Harry glanced at her. “Ready?”

“No.”

He smiled, turning slightly in his seat. “Good. That means you're present. And present means powerful.”

She shot him a look. “Did you just come up with that?”

“Maybe.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against her cheek. “Let them see what I see. You don’t need to try anything. Just exist. They’ll fall in love.”

Y/N laughed under her breath, nervous and grateful all at once. “God, you’re annoying when you’re poetic.”

The door opened.

A handler appeared on her side, extending a hand to help her step out. As she emerged, the first wave of camera flashes hit like a tidal surge—rapid-fire strobes accompanied by a sudden swell of shouting.

“Y/N! Over here!”

“Look left! Y/N, to your left!”

“Harry! Y/N and Harry, can we get one together?”

Her heels hit the carpet with a soft click, the weight of the dress trailing behind her in elegant folds. The emerald green gown shimmered under the lights, catching the lenses at just the right angle. Her posture snapped into place like a reflex—shoulders back, chin slightly tilted, lips parting in that calm, camera-ready smile she’d practiced but never quite perfected.

Harry stepped out right behind her, tall and confident in his tux, the subtle gleam of his shoes catching under the lights. As soon as he was beside her, his hand found the small of her back. He leaned in to say something that didn’t carry over the noise.

Y/N gave a small laugh, genuine and involuntary, and the cameras clicked even faster.

They moved slowly along the carpet, pausing when called, posing at marked spots where publicists and assistants gently guided them with earpieces and hand gestures. Harry kept one hand loosely entwined with hers, the other occasionally adjusting the train of her dress when it caught on the carpet. It didn’t matter how many stylists had prepped it—once she started walking, the real test began.

She glanced down, saw it bunched slightly at her heel, and before she could bend down, Harry was already there, crouching gracefully to sweep it back into place.

“Got it,” he said, brushing invisible lint off her hip with practiced ease.

“You’re like a well-dressed stagehand,” she joked under her breath.

“Happy to be your personal crew.”

Another camera flash. Another shout. Another round of her name echoing across the fan barricade. She heard her name interspersed with his—sometimes chanted together, sometimes in waves.

“Harry! Y/N! We love you!”

Someone screamed, “Y/N, you look stunning!”

And someone else, “Marry him already!”

They both laughed at that one.

He leaned toward her and said, “I mean, it is good advice.”

She rolled her eyes and whispered back, “Focus. This is your Oscar-wife-in-the-making’s moment.”

He raised his eyebrows in mock awe. “Oscar-wife. I like that. Very regal.”

They paused before the press line, where the velvet ropes gave way to a gauntlet of microphones, cameras, and media crews from around the world. It was the most intense stretch of the carpet—the part where charm, poise, and grace mattered more than the couture itself. One wrong answer, and you'd trend for all the wrong reasons.

Y/N took a breath, nerves coiling again.

Harry felt it.

He turned to her, gently tugging her hand so she’d face him fully.

She looked up at him.

“Hey,” he said, barely audible over the buzz. “Look at me.”

She did.

“You’ve got this.”

She blinked, her eyes shining just slightly. Not from tears—yet—but from the sheer pressure of everything. From the weight of the moment. The stakes. The past months of award season, interviews, photo shoots, critics, dresses, rehearsed speeches, and that one role that had changed everything.

He didn’t need to say anything more. He just squeezed her hand—once, firmly.

That was all. I’m here. I believe in you. You’ve already won, whatever happens.

And she nodded. Just once. That was all she needed too.

A reporter from Entertainment Weekly waved them over, her laminated credentials swinging around her neck and a microphone already raised. Her eyes sparkled with recognition and excitement.

“Y/N! Harry! You both look incredible tonight. Can I steal you for a quick one?”

They stepped up, the camera behind the reporter going live.

Y/N smiled, adjusted her stance, and waited for the question she knew was coming.

“So Y/N,” the reporter began, cheerful and polished, “congratulations on your nomination. This is your first Oscar night—and you’re up for Best Actress. How does it feel to be here right now?”

There was a half-second pause.

Y/N’s mouth opened slightly. The question was expected, but somehow her mind still spun. The noise behind them, the adrenaline, the surreal glow of it all. She blinked, trying to find the perfect response, something articulate and meaningful—

But Harry stepped in, smoothly and warmly.

“She’s incredible,” he said, not stealing the spotlight, just grounding it. “No matter what happens tonight, she’s already won in my book. What she did in that role—what she poured into it—it changed people. And I’ve seen firsthand how hard she worked. How much heart she gave. This nomination’s just catching up to what the rest of us already know.”

Y/N turned to look at him, caught off guard by the depth in his voice, the sincerity. It wasn’t a sound bite. He wasn’t performing. He meant every word.

The reporter lit up. “Oh my god. Are you two trying to end us on this carpet?”

Y/N laughed softly, cheeks warm. “I swear I didn’t pay him to say that.”

Harry gave her a look, playfully serious. “You can, though. I’m open to bribery.”

The moment was perfect—genuine and golden. The camera caught the laugh, the subtle glance between them, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the crowd.

And the fans ate it up. Social media would have the clip trending before the show even started.

As they wrapped the interview, they moved toward the entrance of the theater. The crowd was even thicker near the doors, the press giving way to fans, seat fillers, and the final frenzy of arrivals.

Security held the gates, and the calls of their names grew louder, more impassioned.

A girl near the barricade waved a sign: Y/N DESERVES THE OSCAR.

Another had painted her nails with tiny pictures of the film’s poster.

Y/N turned, smiled, and waved. Harry nudged her gently, nodding toward one young fan in the front who was visibly trembling, holding a poster with her face on it.

Y/N walked over.

Security parted just enough for her to sign the poster, say a quick thank you, and take a selfie. The fan gasped, crying before Y/N even stepped back.

As they rejoined the path toward the theater doors, Harry looked over. “You just made her whole year.”

Y/N exhaled, her eyes misty now. “This is wild.”

“You earned it.”

They paused at the top of the short staircase leading into the venue. One last look back at the storm of lights and color. One more deep breath.

Then they stepped inside.

Y/N sat beside Harry, both of them just left of center in the third row. Prime placement. Visible. Important. Close enough to the stage that the nerves felt like heat waves.

As the show began, hosts made their jokes, montages played, musical numbers dazzled. But for Y/N, everything was blurry around the edges. Every laugh, every applause line, every standing ovation—it all felt like static until her category approached. Until that moment came.

The show was nearly two hours in when it happened.

The presenter for Best Actress in a Leading Role was introduced. A hush rippled through the room—not silence, exactly, but a collective holding of breath. Y/N’s stomach twisted into a slow, tight knot.

The presenter—a respected actress with decades of gravitas in her voice—stepped up to the microphone with a glint of joy in her eyes. She held the envelope delicately, as if it contained a spell.

Y/N could feel her pulse in her throat.

Harry’s hand tightened around hers. She glanced at him. He didn’t look nervous—he looked steady. Focused. He leaned slightly toward her, their shoulders brushing. His thumb moved slowly over the back of her hand in the rhythm they both knew well. Comfort. Presence. I’m here.

She wanted to breathe, but her chest felt too full.

The camera panned to the nominees. She caught the shift of the lens in the corner of her eye as the image was cast live to millions of screens around the world. Her face—composed but pale—flashed on screen. She gave the tight, polite smile expected of a nominee, but her fingers clung to Harry’s like she was gripping a lifeline.

“And the nominees for Best Actress are…”

The presenter began listing them, one by one, and Y/N heard the first name like it was underwater. Applause. Another name. Louder applause. Then hers.

“Y/N Y/L/N, for The Last Garden.”

The room responded with a round of strong, respectful clapping. The sound struck her ears like a wave but didn’t quite reach her. All she could hear was her heart. All she could feel was Harry’s thumb, steady on her hand, anchoring her to the moment.

She blinked slowly, trying to commit the feeling to memory. This was it. This was the peak she’d dreamed about as a teenager watching old Oscar clips on YouTube, half-believing this kind of thing was for other people. Famous people. Not her. Not really.

She caught her breath, realizing she hadn’t even been listening to the rest of the names.

Then the envelope.

The presenter smiled. There was that little pause. The iconic pause. The weight of anticipation, curated over decades of cinematic tradition.

She unfolded the envelope with deliberate care.

“And the Oscar goes to…”

Everything went still. Y/N’s vision tunneled. Her ears rang.

Harry’s grip tightened, just slightly.

In the silence, she swore she heard her own name before it was even said. A strange premonition. A gut scream. But maybe it was just hope masquerading as instinct.

Then—

Let’s rewind a little.

Even before the envelope was opened, the weight of the entire journey was pressing down on her shoulders. She remembered the first table read for The Last Garden. The gritty rehearsal room in downtown L.A., the dim yellow lighting, the folding chairs. She remembered sitting with the script in her lap, dog-eared and covered in notes, fingers trembling as she read her lines for the first time. She remembered how she doubted herself at first—wondered if the role was too heavy for her, too exposed.

And then the shoot—months in cold weather, brutal emotional scenes, sixteen-hour days, moments when she thought she was completely spent only to find more inside her. Moments she didn’t think the camera could possibly capture. But it had. It had captured everything.

Harry had been there through it all. In every phone call. Every wrap-day. Every night when she came home exhausted, unsure of whether she was enough.

And now she was here.

She glanced sideways at him again.

He wasn’t looking at the stage. He was looking at her.

Like he was taking a mental photograph of this moment, this version of her—nervous, radiant, right on the edge of history.

He smiled slightly. Nothing big. Just for her.

It grounded her more than any deep breath could have.

Around them, the theater shifted in micro-expressions. Cameras zoomed in. Other nominees sat poised. Their loved ones gripped their hands. Publicists prayed behind curtains. Somewhere, the world paused.

The presenter cleared her throat slightly, unfolding the card, her eyes scanning the name.

Harry squeezed Y/N’s hand again.

She didn’t look at him this time.

She couldn’t.

She was trying to hold herself together in that two-second eternity between the words “And the Oscar goes to…” and the name that would follow.

Her entire body felt electrified. Her palms were cold, but her face burned. The air seemed too thick to swallow.

She was inside the moment—and floating just above it.

The presenter inhaled.

Y/N braced.

The card was lifted. The envelope unfolded. The air inside the Dolby Theatre was thick with anticipation. Even the orchestra seemed to pause mid-breath, violins poised, trumpets silenced. The presenter’s voice carried clearly, impossibly loud in the stillness:

“And the Oscar goes to… Y/N Y/L/N!”

For one full second, there was no reaction.

Not from her.

Not because she didn’t hear it—she did.

But her brain simply refused to compute it.

It was like her name echoed down a long corridor, bouncing between disbelief and dream. Her hands flew to her mouth instinctively, fingers trembling as they pressed against her lips. Her eyes widened, glassy with shock, and her breath caught in her throat like it didn’t know where to go.

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Then the room erupted.

Applause thundered around her. Cheering, clapping, laughter, the swell of people rising to their feet. The orchestra hit a triumphant chord and she blinked hard, trying to keep her vision clear as her name flashed across the massive screen behind the stage.

Y/N Y/L/N – Best Actress

Harry was already on his feet, hands raised in celebration. His face lit up with joy—not surprise, not pride, not even awe. Just pure, visceral joy. Like every molecule in his body was exhaling at once.

He turned to her, pulled her up, wrapping her in a fierce hug.

Her hands still covered her mouth as she collapsed against his chest, overwhelmed, trembling.

He pressed his lips to her ear. “Go get what’s yours, my love.”

She nodded blindly against his shoulder.

A producer was already motioning from the aisle. People around her were smiling, clapping her back, congratulating her in a blur she couldn’t fully absorb. She stepped into the aisle on shaky legs, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the music. The hem of her dress caught under her heel and she nearly stumbled, but caught herself just in time.

Harry’s voice followed gently from behind: “Take your time. Own it.”

She did.

It was the longest, shortest walk of her life.

The aisle stretched before her, flanked by rows of glittering nominees and movie royalty. The stage felt impossibly far away and somehow already beneath her feet. Every step was a battle against the tears threatening to spill over.

She passed familiar faces—fellow actors, directors, crew—some of whom had hugged her backstage earlier in the season, win or lose. Some of whom she admired from afar. All of them were on their feet.

She didn’t look at any of them.

Her eyes were locked on the podium. On the golden statue waiting patiently for her. The symbol of everything she’d fought for.

Her heart pounded.

She could feel her pulse in her wrists, in her ribs, behind her eyes.

She reached the stairs.

Someone offered a hand—she wasn’t even sure who, maybe a stage manager or the presenter. She took it blindly, half-aware, as she climbed the steps in her heels, praying her legs wouldn’t give out beneath her.

Then she was there.

Standing in front of the microphone.

The applause was still going. The house was still on its feet. The lights blinded her slightly—hot and white, isolating her from the crowd but also making her the sole focus. The Oscar was placed in her hands. It was heavier than she’d imagined. Cold and solid and real.

She looked down at it for a moment, stunned.

Then she looked out at the audience.

And for the first time since her name was called, she exhaled.

It was happening.

This was real.

The applause began to die down slowly, people settling into their seats, the room hushed once more. The orchestra faded.

She stepped to the mic.

She opened her mouth—and for a second, nothing came out.

She laughed, just once, breathless and disbelieving.

“I—wow,” she said, voice shaking. “I… I don’t even know where to start.”

Laughter echoed softly through the room, warm and encouraging.

She swallowed hard, gripping the Oscar with both hands.

“I’ve dreamed about this moment since I was a teenager, watching from my couch with my mom, hoping—praying—that maybe, someday, somehow, this could be me. And now I’m standing here… and I still don’t believe it.”

Her voice cracked slightly. She took a moment, blinking fast. The prompter was blank—this part wasn’t rehearsed. This was all instinct.

“I want to thank the Academy… my fellow nominees, who I admire so deeply… and my incredible director, who trusted me with this role before I even trusted myself. You believed in what I could bring to this character, and you never stopped pushing me to go deeper.”

Applause.

She shifted slightly, breath catching.

“To my cast—thank you for your generosity, your brilliance, your friendship. You made every day on set something special. To our crew, who worked harder than anyone ever saw—this is yours too.”

She paused. Her fingers curled around the statue, knuckles white.

“And to my family,” she said, voice quieter now, thick with emotion. “You were the first ones to believe I had something. Even when it was small, and scared, and messy. You told me to go for it. You never let me quit.”

A pause.

Then she looked out into the crowd.

Her eyes found Harry, like magnets locking.

He was standing now, hands clasped in front of him, a quiet smile on his lips, eyes shining with pride and something deeper. Something unshakable.

She took a breath.

“And to my Harry…” she said softly.

The room seemed to still again, leaning in.

“…who has been my anchor through this all. Who saw this version of me—this strong, brave, relentless version—before I ever did. You’ve held me up through every doubt, every hard day, every ‘I can’t do this.’ You reminded me I could. And I did.”

A pause. Her lip quivered, but she smiled through it.

“Thank you for believing in me, even when I didn’t.”

The camera cut to Harry.

And his face—his face—said it all.

He wasn’t just proud. He wasn’t just emotional.

He was in awe. Looking at her like she had hung the stars in the sky and lit each one with her bare hands. His expression was soft and unguarded, as if he was seeing her for the first time all over again.

A beat.

She looked back at the mic.

“And lastly—thank you to everyone who’s ever dared to tell their story. This role changed me, and I hope it reaches someone out there who needs to know they’re not alone.”

More applause.

The orchestra swelled again, gently this time—cueing her to wrap up, but respectfully, giving her a few more seconds to breathe.

She nodded once more, eyes wet but clear, voice stronger now.

“This means everything. Thank you.”

She turned to exit, holding the statue close to her chest. Backstage staff welcomed her with congratulations, flashbulbs from press flickering again—but it was all a blur.

She just wanted to get back to him.

And when she stepped off the stage and rounded the corner, there he was.

Harry, waiting just past the curtain.

Before she could say anything, he wrapped her in his arms, lifting her slightly off the ground in a crushing hug.

“You did it,” he murmured into her hair. “You fucking did it.”

She held on tight, burying her face into his shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispered.

“I can,” he said simply. “I never doubted it for a second.”

They stood like that for a while. Her award between them, clutched awkwardly between the fabric of her dress and the lapel of his tux, but neither one caring.

Just the two of them, suspended in a perfect, golden moment.

She could barely make it two steps before someone stopped her with wide arms and a glass of champagne, cheeks flushed with joy or alcohol or both. Someone else pulled her in for a hug. A famous director whose movies she grew up worshiping leaned in to say how stunning her performance was. A fellow actress, nominated in a different category, clinked glasses with her, grinning, eyes shining. There was confetti somewhere. Music swelling from a DJ booth set up by the balcony. The night was alive and on fire, and she was at the center of it.

And yet, none of it felt quite real. The noise, the faces, the cameras clicking in staccato bursts. Everyone saying her name—her name—with that reverent kind of awe like it belonged to a myth now. She could barely hold onto a thought. Everything felt like a dream, hazy and lit from behind, like an old film reel playing too fast.

But Harry was real. His hand was real, warm and grounding in hers. Every time she looked at him, she was brought back down to earth. He never let her go far. Not for long. Even when she got pulled into conversations or introduced to people she’d only ever seen on screens, he stayed within reach, close enough to lock eyes with her when she needed a moment to breathe. Every time she looked overwhelmed, he caught her gaze and gave her that little nod—the same one he gave her in the car before they arrived, the same one he gave her right before her name was called. You’ve got this.

At some point, someone tugged the Oscar out of her hands to set it down for safekeeping—someone on her team, smiling gently, promising it would be watched like a crown jewel. She let it go without protest, her arms immediately finding their way back around Harry’s waist.

A photographer called their names from across the room, gesturing toward the backdrop. They obliged, standing side by side as flashes lit up around them. She was still beaming, cheeks sore from smiling, but it didn’t stop. She leaned her head on Harry’s shoulder for a few shots, and he kissed the top of her head in another. One photo caught her looking up at him, totally lost in him, while he looked right at the camera like he knew exactly how good he had it.

“Do you want to sneak away for a second?” he murmured near her ear when the photographer finally lowered the camera.

She nodded instantly.

They weaved their way out of the ballroom and down a quiet hallway lined with closed doors, the party still a low thump behind them. The air here was cooler. Quieter. She leaned against the wall, catching her breath, finally able to hear her own thoughts. Harry stepped in front of her, one hand braced on the wall beside her head, the other resting on her hip.

He looked at her like he didn’t quite believe her. Like he was still processing what had just happened. “Oscar-winning actress,” he said softly, almost to himself.

She laughed, the sound light, delighted, bubbling up without control. “Don’t start with that.”

“Oh, I’m going to be insufferable,” he said, leaning in, pressing a kiss just below her jaw. “I’ve been sitting on this line all night.”

She arched a brow, breath catching. “What line?”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his grin slow and crooked. “I always knew I was dating an Oscar winner. I’m honestly kind of surprised it took the Academy this long to catch up.”

She snorted, smacking his chest. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you’re incredible.” His voice shifted then—less teasing, more tender. “You were so beautiful up there. Brave. You held it together like a pro.”

“I almost tripped.”

“You didn’t, though. You floated.”

She shook her head, overwhelmed again, and his hand moved up to her cheek, thumb brushing beneath her eye. She didn’t realize she was tearing up until then.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer, crowding her gently against the wall, “look at me.”

She did.

His eyes searched hers, tender and sure.

“I’m so proud of you, baby. So, so proud.”

She swallowed hard, nodded, resting her forehead against his. “I don’t know how to come down from this.”

“You don’t have to. Just ride it for a little while.”

Then he kissed her.

Slow. Deep. Like the world had stopped again, like time bent just for them. His hand curled around her waist and her fingers slipped into the curls at the nape of his neck. It wasn’t a rushed kiss, or one for show, or even one born of adrenaline. It was something else—steady, grounding. Like a reset. Like home.

When they pulled apart, she blinked slowly, dazed.

“That helped,” she whispered.

He smiled, brushing his nose against hers. “Good.”

They stayed in that quiet hallway a little longer, just the two of them. No cameras. No crowds. Just quiet breath, soft smiles, a moment to recalibrate.

Eventually, the party pulled them back. The night wasn’t done celebrating her yet.

More glasses were raised. More toasts. A few actors she idolized gave her hugs that lingered, offering real praise. A veteran screenwriter told her she’d made him cry. She tried to keep up, tried to stay in every moment, but it was hard to grasp the edges of something so surreal. Every time she needed to recenter, Harry was there. A hand on her back. A whisper in her ear. A smirk from across the room that made her bite back a grin.

They danced for a while, the two of them swaying in the middle of a crowd that couldn’t stop buzzing. Someone had switched the playlist to a retro mix—Fleetwood Mac, Queen, a little Bowie. She had her arms around Harry’s neck, his hands at her waist, the hem of her dress brushing his shoes.

“I can’t feel my feet,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I’ll carry you home.”

She laughed. “I believe you would.”

“Course I would.” He pulled back just enough to look at her again. “I’d carry you to the ends of the earth if you asked.”

“You really do like the Oscar-winner lines, huh?”

“Can’t help it. You make me dramatic.”

She kissed him again, this time quick and giddy, a burst of affection she couldn’t contain. He tasted like champagne. She probably did too.

Eventually, the party began to thin. The most chaotic of the press disappeared, and even the most energetic guests started slipping out. But she stayed until the end, still barefoot by then, heels dangling from one hand, Harry’s jacket draped over her shoulders. The Oscar was back in her grasp, solid and surreal.

It was sometime around four in the morning when they finally left, stepping out into the cool early air. The streets outside were quiet. The night had shifted, a slow descent from euphoria into something softer. Calmer.

They slipped into the back of a black SUV, the Oscar carefully nestled between them. Her head dropped onto Harry’s shoulder, and he laced their fingers together, resting their hands in her lap.

“I’m scared this is all a dream,” she murmured.

“If it is,” he said, kissing the top of her head, “we’re having the same one.”

She smiled against his jacket. Her lashes fluttered. Her limbs ached. Her chest was full.

Everything shimmered.

Everything felt impossibly light.

And even though something unnamed hovered just on the edge—some strange weight she couldn’t place yet—she didn’t reach for it. Not yet.

Not tonight.

Tonight, she had the gold in her hands, the man she loved beside her, and a sky full of stars blinking down in quiet approval.

The city was quieter now. Even in the early-morning buzz of LA, there was a strange hush, like the world itself had fallen asleep while they kept dreaming. The SUV moved through the near-empty streets with a steady hum, headlights painting soft gold across pavement and palm trees. Her head was still resting on Harry’s shoulder, his fingers drawing slow, absent-minded circles on her hand. She could hear his heartbeat. Could feel the steady rhythm of his breath.

She hadn’t wanted the night to end. Not really. But exhaustion had started to crawl in, soft and slow, the way it does after the adrenaline wears off. Her body ached in places she didn’t expect—from the heels, the tightness of the gown, the constant tension of smiling, posing, holding herself together. Still, beneath the tiredness, she felt full. Like she was carrying something sacred.

The Oscar sat on the seat between them, catching the faintest bit of light every now and then, flashing gold like it was winking at her. Every time she looked at it, she half-expected it to disappear.

She didn’t remember pulling her phone out—just that, at some point, her fingers had found their way to her clutch. Maybe it was habit. Maybe she just wanted to see the love. The posts from friends. Her team. Maybe even some fan edits or Tweets with her name in all caps, exclamation marks trailing like confetti. She wasn’t looking for anything specific—just something to hold onto. Something to make the moment last a little longer.

But the second the screen lit up, the illusion cracked.

At first, it was what she expected—photos of her on the carpet, snippets of her acceptance speech, her name trending at the top. But then she scrolled. And scrolled. And there it was.

“She didn’t deserve it.”

“She just cried and looked pretty.”

“Should’ve gone to [insert other nominee].”

“She was fine, but not Oscar-worthy.”

“Nepotism at its finest.”

The words were sharp and cold, almost clinical in how efficiently they cut through her. There were dozens. Hundreds. Her stomach dropped like a stone. Her fingers tightened slightly around the phone. The air in the car seemed thinner suddenly, the buzz in her ears louder.

She blinked. Read them again. As if they might change the second time.

They didn’t.

She tried to pull back, to remind herself that it didn’t matter. That people were always going to have opinions. That this was part of it. But those thoughts were flimsy armor. The words still slipped through.

The high of the night didn’t just fade—it crashed, hard and fast, like a glass falling off a shelf and shattering on tile. She could still hear the echoes of applause in her head, but now it felt like a mockery. Her speech replayed in flashes—her shaking voice, the tears in her eyes—and now all she could think about was how many people were sitting behind screens, tearing it apart.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at her screen, the scrolling continuing on autopilot even though every swipe made it worse.

Harry noticed the shift almost immediately. He always did.

“Hey,” he said softly, “what’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer at first. Didn’t know how to. Her throat felt tight.

He gently tugged the phone out of her hands, and she didn’t stop him.

He looked at the screen. Scrolled once. Twice. His expression didn’t change much, but his jaw tensed.

“Babe,” he said, “don’t read this shit.”

She stared out the window. “I didn’t mean to. I was just—checking. Seeing what people were saying.”

Harry sighed and slid her phone into his coat pocket. “People are always going to talk. Doesn’t mean they’re right.”

She nodded. But it didn’t help.

Because she knew, logically, that online hate was inevitable. Especially now. Especially at this level. She’d seen it happen to others. Seen people torn apart over performances, over speeches, over dresses and facial expressions and literally anything. She wasn’t naive. But it was different when it was you.

It was different when you’d just had the biggest night of your life and now, here you were, staring at a comment that casually dismissed your entire career like it was nothing. Like it was handed to you.

The SUV pulled up to their place and she got out slowly, the air even colder now. Her dress dragged slightly as she walked, and Harry had to remind her not to forget the Oscar in the backseat. She carried it in with both hands, but it felt heavier now.

Inside, the silence was thicker. Their place was dark, still. The quiet was usually comforting. Tonight it just made the buzz in her head louder.

She set the statue down on the kitchen counter, stared at it for a long moment.

“I shouldn’t have looked,” she said finally.

Harry walked up behind her, slid his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s just—” She paused, then turned in his arms so she could see his face. “They’re saying I didn’t deserve it. That I only got it because of who I’m dating or who my mom is or whatever bullshit they think matters more than the work.”

Harry didn’t look away. “You do deserve it.”

“But what if they’re right?”

“They’re not.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can,” he said, voice low but firm. “Because I watched you build this. Brick by brick. I saw you bust your ass for that role. I saw the nights you didn’t sleep, the days you pushed through when you were ready to quit. I saw what it cost you. I know what it took.”

She felt the tears building again, slow and helpless. She hated that she was crying. Hated that people she didn’t even know could get under her skin like this.

Harry cupped her face. “Baby, this doesn’t change anything. Those people on the internet? They didn’t watch you become her. They didn’t see the work. They just want something to be mad about. Don’t let them take this from you.”

She leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“I just wanted to feel proud,” she whispered. “Even if just for a night.”

“You can be proud. You should be.”

He pulled her in then, held her tight against him, his arms wrapped around her like armor. She let herself sink into him, eyes burning, chest aching.

“I know it’s hard,” he murmured. “I know it hurts. But you can’t let strangers dim what you’ve done. Not after tonight. Not ever.”

She didn’t respond, just let herself be held.

Eventually, they moved to the couch. She curled up beside him, his hoodie now draped over her, the TV on low but ignored. Her phone stayed where he left it—out of sight. She didn’t ask for it again.

The Oscar stayed on the counter, catching the first hints of morning light.

And somewhere, beneath all the noise, she knew he was right.

She just couldn’t feel it yet.

It lingered in her bones—something invisible and heavy, dulling the edges of everything. No matter how many times Harry told her she deserved it, no matter how many friends texted congratulations or sent voice notes filled with giddy excitement, the comments still lived just beneath the surface of her thoughts. And when the sun finally rose, burning through the fog of the sleepless night, she felt like she hadn’t won anything at all.

They had booked a hotel suite for the night of the ceremony, a quiet place tucked above the city skyline with blackout curtains and room service. It had seemed luxurious yesterday—something special, celebratory. Now, it felt sterile. A holding cell between the high of last night and whatever came next.

She hadn’t even changed out of her dress.

The sequins that had once felt like magic now clung to her like armor she couldn’t peel off. Her hair was half undone, pins slipping loose. Her makeup was smeared, but she hadn’t looked in the mirror to check how bad. She didn’t want to see herself.

She sat on the edge of the bed, knees tucked up, her bare feet curled beneath her. Her phone glowed in the dim room, casting harsh light across her face. She scrolled.

And scrolled.

It wasn’t all bad. That was the hardest part—there was love in there. Kindness. Genuine joy. Fans posting her speech with heart emojis. A little girl in a homemade dress pretending to accept an Oscar “just like Y/N.” Colleagues praising her performance. Friends defending her in threads already riddled with hate. There were bright spots, but they were few and far between the barbed wire.

She kept tapping.

“She’s mid.”

“Can’t believe she cried like that—so performative.”

“She got it because she’s pretty.”

“This is why the Oscars don’t matter anymore.”

Every comment was a little pinprick, barely noticeable on its own, but bleeding her dry in slow drops. Her breath started to catch. She told herself to stop. To just stop. But the part of her that needed to see the worst—so she could maybe stop fearing it—kept scrolling anyway.

It was like digging your nails into a bruise.

When the tears came, they were sudden and angry. She didn’t even realize she was crying until her vision blurred and a hot tear rolled down the curve of her cheek, dropping onto her phone screen. She blinked hard, wiped her face, only for more to follow.

She set the phone down.

Then she picked it up again.

Locked it. Unlocked it.

Read the same comment for the third time just to be sure it stung as bad.

And then she threw it.

Not violently. Not dramatically. Just enough to get it away from her. The phone skidded across the bedspread and landed with a dull thud on the floor.

She sat there, hands trembling in her lap, chest tight, as the sobs built behind her teeth like a tidal wave waiting to crash. She didn’t want Harry to see her like this. Not after last night. Not after everything he’d said. He was still asleep, or so she thought—curled up in the other room, letting her have space. He’d offered to stay, to talk, but she’d told him she was fine. Lied through her teeth because it felt like the only way to not fall apart in front of him.

But now the tears wouldn’t stop.

Now her shoulders were shaking and her breaths came out in broken little gasps and she couldn’t tell if she was upset because of the comments, or because she believed them. Maybe both.

Because what if they were right?

What if she hadn’t been the best?

What if the role wasn’t as impressive as they’d made it seem? What if she’d just been lucky, caught in the swell of good PR and timing and a famous boyfriend by her side?

The gold statue felt a million miles away now, like it belonged to someone else.

Her hands came up to cover her face as the sob broke through her throat, loud and ugly and desperate. And that’s when she heard the door open.

“Y/N?”

Harry’s voice, groggy and low but instantly alert.

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

She felt the bed shift as he crossed the room, footsteps fast but quiet. He crouched in front of her without asking, his hands already reaching for hers, gently pulling them down from her face.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered. His thumb brushed under her eyes, catching a tear. “No. What happened?”

She tried to speak. Shook her head instead.

But he could see it—see the truth in the way her body was curled in on itself, the way her face was crumpled, eyes swollen and red. He glanced down and saw the phone on the floor.

“Is this about the comments?”

She nodded once, miserably.

“Fuck.” He sighed, ran a hand through his curls. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone with that damn thing.”

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, voice raw and paper-thin.

He looked up, startled. “What the hell are you sorry for?”

“I just… I should be happy. I want to be. But I can’t stop thinking that maybe they’re right.”

“Stop.”

She looked up at him, eyes blurry.

“I mean it,” he said, voice firmer now. “Stop. You’re allowed to have feelings, but don’t you dare say they’re right. Not about this. Not about you.”

She sniffled. “You don’t get it—”

“Then make me get it. Talk to me.”

She tried. She tried to form the words. To make sense of the mess in her head. But all that came out was a broken whisper: “I feel like a fraud.”

His heart cracked at the sound of it. He cupped her cheeks, holding her steady, grounding her.

“You’re not a fraud. You’re the realest thing in this whole fucking industry. I’ve watched you doubt yourself, question every move, pour your whole heart into every scene. You didn’t get lucky. You got good.”

She swallowed hard, tears still spilling.

“I don’t know how to believe that right now.”

“I’ll believe it for both of us, then.”

His hands moved to her back, guiding her into his chest. She folded into him, clinging like he was the only solid thing left. And maybe he was. He didn’t speak right away, just held her while her shoulders heaved with the force of her grief. Let her sob into his shirt, into the quiet.

When her breathing finally slowed, when her tears ran dry, he kissed her temple and said, “We’re going to get through this, yeah? One comment, one panic spiral, one deep breath at a time.”

She didn’t answer, but she nodded. And for now, that was enough.

They stayed like that for a long time, the sun crawling higher behind the curtains. The dress still clung to her, uncomfortable and stiff, but she didn’t have the energy to take it off. Not yet.

Eventually, Harry shifted, his voice gentler now. “Let me run you a bath.”

She hesitated, then nodded again. He kissed her forehead and disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the space soon after. She leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed, trying to remember how the night had felt when everything was still perfect.

She still didn’t feel it.

But maybe she would. Eventually.

Maybe this was just the fall before the rise.

Maybe, in time, she’d find her way back to the version of herself who stood on that stage, gold in hand, voice shaking but steady, thanking the man she loved and the person she was becoming.

But right now, she let herself be small. Let herself be held. Let herself fall apart.

Because tomorrow was another day.

And she’d need all her strength to begin again.

She stayed curled in the safety of his arms, the room dim around them, muted and quiet except for the faint hum of traffic outside and the occasional creak of old floorboards settling. She didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Her body said everything. The tightness in her shoulders, the exhaustion radiating off her in waves. Harry felt it the second she walked in, her face crumpling the moment the door closed behind her. He didn’t need an explanation. He already knew.

He said nothing, just opened his arms and waited. She stepped into him like muscle memory, like this was the only place in the world that made sense right now. And when her body gave out—when her knees buckled from the weight of it all—he caught her without hesitation. No questions, no demands. Just held her against his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapping tight around her waist, anchoring her.

“Don’t do this, baby,” he whispered, voice low and rough, lips close to her temple. “Don’t let them take this from you.”

She shook her head, barely. A few stray tears clung to her lashes before falling, soaking into the collar of his shirt. Harry didn’t flinch. Just kept holding her like she was something sacred, something that couldn’t break as long as he had her.

His fingers moved in slow, soothing circles across her back. Sometimes he pressed a kiss to her forehead, other times he just breathed her in, grounding her in his steady presence. She didn’t know how long they stayed like that—minutes, maybe longer. Time bent weirdly when pain was involved.

“They weren’t there,” he said quietly, when her breathing started to even out. “Not when you spent months pouring yourself into this role. Not for the late nights, the rejections, the silence between auditions that made you question everything. They weren’t there for the nights you couldn’t sleep because your mind wouldn’t stop picking apart every scene you did. But I was. And I saw every second of it.”

Her grip on his shirt tightened. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “I just… I thought I’d feel different. I thought winning would make it all worth it.”

Harry leaned back just enough to see her face. She avoided his eyes at first, but he gently tilted her chin up until she had no choice.

“It is worth it,” he said, firm but tender. “You just have to believe it.”

She blinked, and another tear slipped down her cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb, slow and soft.

“I don’t know how to believe that,” she said. “Not when everything still feels so—empty.”

He nodded like he understood. Because he did.

“You’ve been running on fumes for months,” he said. “Running so fast you didn’t stop to feel anything. Now it’s over and you finally have a second to breathe, and all of it—the stress, the pressure, the fear—it's crashing down. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. It just means you're human.”

She pressed her forehead to his. Closed her eyes. Let herself stay there.

“You didn’t do this for the validation,” he murmured. “Not really. You did it because it mattered to you. Because you had something to say and this was your way of saying it. And you did. You did.”

Her lips quivered, but she stayed silent.

“And maybe right now it doesn’t feel like enough. That’s okay. You don’t have to feel grateful or proud tonight. You just have to let yourself feel whatever the hell this is.”

He paused, then added, quieter, “Just don’t let them convince you it wasn’t real.”

She opened her eyes. Met his gaze. There was no judgment there. Just love. Steady and quiet and patient.

“I don’t want to be this person,” she said. “The one who breaks down after everything goes right.”

Harry gave a soft laugh—not mocking, just real.

“Babe, if you didn’t break down after all that, I’d be worried. You’ve been holding it all in for so long. Letting go doesn’t make you weak. It means you're still here. Still trying.”

Her breath hitched again. But this time, it wasn’t a sob. It was something closer to relief.

“Remember when you almost quit last year?” he asked.

She nodded, slowly.

“You told me, ‘If I walk away now, I’ll regret it forever.’ And you were right. You didn’t walk away. You stayed. You fought. And you fucking won.”

His voice cracked just slightly on that last word. Like he was feeling it too.

She laughed through a tear. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Good,” he said, kissing her forehead again. “You need it.”

For a moment, they just sat there—her curled against him, his hand in her hair, their breaths syncing up in the quiet. It was the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. The kind that said: I’ve got you.

She shifted, not away from him, just enough to rest her head on his shoulder.

“Sometimes I feel like they’re waiting for me to mess up,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

“They probably are,” he said honestly. “That’s what people do. They build you up, then wait for you to fall. But screw them. You don’t owe anyone your peace.”

She nodded slowly, like she was letting the words settle somewhere deeper than her mind.

“You’re not a product,” he continued. “You’re not a headline or a photo op or whatever bullshit story they’re trying to spin. You’re a person. An artist. You don’t have to carry their expectations.”

“I want to enjoy this,” she said. “I want to be proud without second-guessing everything.”

“And you will,” he said. “Not tonight, maybe. But soon.”

They fell quiet again, the weight between them not gone but easier to hold now that it was shared. Eventually, she pulled back just enough to look at him, really look.

“I don’t say it enough,” she said.

“You don’t have to,” he replied.

“No, I do.” She took a breath. “Thank you. For always seeing me. Even when I can’t see myself.”

Harry didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, his eyes soft.

“Always,” he said simply. “I’ve got you. No matter what.”

She leaned in, resting her forehead against his again.

“I think I just need tonight to fall apart,” she said.

“Then fall,” he whispered. “I’ll catch you.”

And she did.

No performance, no poise, no pressure to be anything other than exactly who she was in that moment. Messy. Tired. Raw.

He held her through it all.

And when her breathing finally slowed, when the sobs turned to sighs and her muscles stopped shaking, he didn’t let go. Just sat there with her in the dark, rubbing slow circles on her back, anchoring her to the here and now.

Because tomorrow, she’d get up again.

Tomorrow, she’d face it all with the strength she’d rebuilt in his arms tonight.

But tonight—tonight was hers to fall apart.

And his to hold her together.

Tomorrow, she’d face it all with the strength she’d rebuilt in his arms tonight.

But tonight—tonight was hers to fall apart.

And his to hold her together.

And she’d need all her strength to begin again.

She stayed pressed against him, the rise and fall of his chest steady under her cheek. The storm inside her had softened—not gone, not yet, but no longer spinning out of control. Just quiet enough to think. To breathe.

She let out a slow, shaky breath. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as she nodded once, against the warmth of him.

Harry didn’t rush her. Just kissed the top of her head and said softly, “C’mon. Let’s get you out of this dress and into something comfy.”

She managed a small hum of agreement, the words too heavy to speak just yet. Her limbs were sluggish as she moved, like wading through the aftermath of a tidal wave. He helped her to her feet with quiet care, hands on her waist steadying her as she stood.

The dress felt heavier now, weighed down by everything it had come to represent—expectation, perfection, performance. She peeled it off slowly, letting it slip to the floor in a pool of satin and silence. And when Harry handed her one of his oversized shirts, she didn’t hesitate.

It smelled like him. Safe. Familiar. Like home.

She tugged it over her head and sank onto the edge of the bed, her bare legs curled up beneath her. The award sat on the nightstand where Harry had placed it earlier. Her name gleamed on the plaque, etched into gold, definitive and real.

She stared at it for a long moment. Then, without really thinking, reached out and ran her fingers over the engraving.

Her name.

Not a character’s. Not a role. Hers.

A breath caught in her throat—not from pain, but something quieter. Something close to pride.

It didn’t crash over her all at once. It came in fragments. The way the room had gone still when they’d called her name. The walk to the stage she barely remembered. The weight of the statue in her hand. The applause that had felt both thunderous and far away. And the silence afterward, when the noise faded and doubt tried to creep in.

But now, in this quiet, with the weight of the moment behind her and the warmth of him beside her, something shifted.

She let herself smile. Just a little. Just enough.

Harry crawled into bed behind her, pulling the covers up and wrapping himself around her. One arm slid around her waist, his hand finding hers. He laced their fingers together like he always did when he needed her to know she wasn’t alone.

“You deserved this,” he whispered. “And nothing they say can change that.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just let the words sink into her. Not like before, when she heard them but couldn’t feel them. This time, they landed differently. This time, they stayed.

“I know,” she whispered back, surprised by how much she meant it.

It wasn’t total belief yet. Not full, not unwavering. But it was a start. A crack of light in a door she’d kept locked for too long.

Harry kissed the back of her shoulder, soft and lingering. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

She smiled again, this time a little fuller. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

She turned her head, just enough to look at him over her shoulder. His eyes were half-lidded, tired but still full of that same quiet conviction. The kind that never asked her to be anything more than exactly who she was.

“Thanks for staying,” she said.

“I always will.”

They didn’t need to say more. He pulled her closer, and she let him. Their bodies molded together under the covers, legs tangled, his breath brushing the back of her neck.

Outside, the city kept buzzing. Somewhere out there, people were already dissecting the night. The speeches, the dresses, the wins, the losses. Her name would be in headlines tomorrow—already was, probably. But that noise felt far away now. Muted.

In here, in this room, there was only warmth. Only quiet.

Her eyes flicked to the award one last time. The way the light caught on its edges. The way it stood there—solid and still and real.

She’d earned it.

No matter what anyone said. No matter how loud the voices got.

She closed her eyes with a slow breath.

And for the first time that night, she let herself believe it.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

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