#spoons level dangerously low

[sakuraszn]

﹒♡ CURRENT BOYFRIEND CHALLENGE

ft. katsuki bakugo

“Hey, can I record something real quick?”

Bakugo’s sprawled on the couch, hair still damp from his shower, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and a spoon halfway to his mouth. He eyes you suspiciously over his bowl of spicy noodles.

“Tch. The hell are you planning?”

“Nothing bad,” you say, sliding into the seat beside him with your phone already recording. “Just a little TikTok thing. You don’t have to do anything. Just… exist.”

He grunts. That’s as close to “fine” as you’ll get from him.

You point the camera at yourself, making sure he’s in frame behind you. “Okay,” you begin sweetly, “so I’m here with my current boyfriend…”

Bakugo pauses mid-bite.

His head slowly turns. “…Your what?”

You bite your lip, fighting a smile, still filming. “My current boyfriend.”

The look on his face and the meanest side eye says you have three seconds to explain before I level this apartment.

He sets the bowl down without breaking eye contact. “Current?”

“Mhm,” you say, leaning into the act. “You know, just until I find someone better.”

You don’t even get a full breath in before he’s on you — not aggressively, but fast, almost knocking the wind out of you. He grabs your phone and points the camera straight at himself.

“The fuck does that mean, current?” he growls, eyes sharp but his voice low. “There ain’t gonna be a next boyfriend. You think this is some temp job or somethin’? You think someone else can handle you like I can?”

You snort-laugh, but your face is heating up.

“Aww katsu’ You’re cute when you’re possessive.”

“I’m always possessive,” he snaps, tossing your phone gently onto the couch and crowding you until your back hits the cushions. “Say that ‘current’ shit again. Go on.”

You lift your chin, pretending to stay cocky. “My current boyfriend—”

He kisses you. Hard. One hand gripping your waist, the other braced by your head. When he pulls back, your brain is static and your lips are tingling.

“Say it again,” he says against your mouth, voice husky. “I dare you.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “I… might need to start calling you my forever boyfriend.”

A smug, dangerous smirk stretches across his face. “Damn right you do.”

He kisses you again, slower this time. Hungrier.

Somewhere, your phone keeps recording.

2025 © SAKURASZN !

[byeashhh]

wolverine headcanons that no one asked for but you're getting them anyway in tribute of my one year wolverine tattoo anniversary ! . . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆

➤ has a constant low-level restlessness, can’t sit still too long without a cigar or a walk ➤ keeps a stash of alcohol hidden everywhere just bc he likes knowing it’s there ➤ surprisingly good with his hands—fixing motorcycles, sharpening blades, even cooking. nothing fancy, but he makes a killer campfire stew ➤ keeps something small and sentimental of yours—a dog tag, a folded photo, a hand-scrawled note tucked into his jacket lining ➤ if you touch his hair? he’ll grumble, maybe growl, but secretly melt ➤ logan absolutely fights his feelings at first. he’s convinced he’s bad for you, too dangerous, too broken. but the more he tries to keep his distance, the more drawn to you he becomes ➤ logan shows love through acts of service. carrying your bag without asking. standing between you and danger. fixing something of yours just because he noticed it was broken ➤ physical affection is slow to start, but when he lets go—he clings. big spoon, protective, one-arm-wrapped-around-you-in-bed kind of guy ➤ logan is extremely protective. but he won’t try to control you—he respects your independence too much

➤ gets visibly restless if you're on a mission without him. will wait at the door when you come back, pretending like he just “happened” to be there

➤ he lets you wear his flannels and leather jackets, though he pretends not to notice. (but he definitely notices. and he loves it.) ➤ he’s incredibly responsive to soft praise. he’ll act gruff if you say something sweet like, “you’re good to me, logan,” but inside? ruined. . . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆ as always, NSFW headcanons ♡ MDNI BELOW CUT. 18+

➤ logan is rough by default, not because he wants to hurt you, but because he feels everything deeply. every touch, every moan—it drives him crazy ➤ he’s a grinder. likes to feel you squirm beneath him, pinned, helpless but safe.

➤ possessive in bed. not in a jealous way, but in a “you’re mine and I’m gonna make sure you know it” way.

➤ growls. a lot. in your ear, against your neck, while kissing down your stomach—he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it ➤ claw marks in the wall above your headboard. he refuses to let himself lose control with you, but there’s always tension there—a need to burn it off somewhere

➤ if you whisper in his ear or tug his belt loops, it’s over. he’ll have you bent over whatever surface is closest within seconds

➤ his sex drive is insane, but not overwhelming. he can go all night if you want, or hold you to sleep if you don’t. consent & your comfort come first ➤ strong tongue, eager hands. he likes to pin your hips down while he works, just to hear how wrecked you sound when you can't escape it

➤ receiving? he tries to stay quiet, but you can always tell when he’s about to lose it—his fingers twitch in your hair, and his hips buck like he’s holding back a snarl. he’ll mutter things like “fuckin’ hell, look at you…” and “keep going, sweetheart, you’re doin’ perfect.” ➤ feral dom energy. he doesn't do humiliation, but he does enjoy dominance—physical strength, pinning you down, making you beg

[foxtrology]

it ain't me babe (2)

joel miller x reader

series

ao3 link

warnings: no y/n, smut, fluff, age gap, female reader.

word count: 15.k

─────

Six months.

It had been six full months since that night on the porch—since the snow, the whiskey, the ache. Since she’d asked him if it was one-sided, and Joel had looked at her like the truth might kill them both.

It’s not, he’d said. And then nothing had happened.

Not in the way people might’ve expected. There was no kiss. No grand confession. No tangled sheets or impulsive mistakes. Instead, something quieter took root. Something steadier.

They fell into a rhythm.

Mornings meant breakfast at the mess hall—her, Joel, and Ellie sitting in their usual corner table. Ellie griped about early patrol shifts while poking at eggs with a fork, Joel drank his coffee like it was penance, and she—well, she watched them both with a quiet kind of fondness she’d never known how to name.

After breakfast, it was patrol. Joel paired with her every time, without question. They rode side by side through snow-packed trails and frozen rivers, never needing to talk much, though sometimes they did.

She told him about the horse she’d trained to recognize clicker sounds. He told her about a guitar he used to play—used to, because the sound made him too damn sad now.

Afternoons, he’d show up at the stables. Said he was just “helpin’ where help was needed,” but she knew better. He helped muck stalls, repair fences, haul hay bales like they weighed nothing. Never hovered. Never gave orders. Just…showed up.

And when he left, he always found Willie and gave him a quick scratch behind the ears. The dog adored him now—probably more than anyone else in Jackson, aside from her.

Their conversations grew longer. Their silences more comfortable. They began moving through the world like a unit—not loudly, not publicly, but with an understanding that didn’t need spelling out.

And her father hated it. He hadn’t said it outright. He didn’t need to.

It was in the way his jaw locked whenever she returned home late from patrol with Joel.

The way his fingers twitched when Joel’s name came up at dinner.

The way he stood just a little straighter when they passed each other in the street, like he needed to remind everyone—including himself—who she belonged to.

“You’re riding with Jack tomorrow.”

The statement came over stew. Blunt. Cold. She looked up from her bowl, spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.

“No, I’m not,” she said.

Her dad’s eyes were level. “Already cleared it with Tommy.”

“You what?”

“Joel’s off patrol. Jack’s taking his place. You’ll be riding the south route.”

She set the spoon down with a soft clatter. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I do, actually. And I did.”

Her voice dropped, flat and dangerous. “You went behind my back.”

He didn’t flinch. “You’ve been spending too much time with him.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And?”

“And you’re not thinking straight.”

“Oh, right,” she snapped. “Because I must’ve lost all sense the second I let a man speak to me.”

His mouth tightened. “I’m protecting you.”

“From what? Joel? He’s not a threat.”

Her father’s voice rose for the first time.

“He’s everything I ever taught you to avoid. Older. Hard. Violent. That man has a trail of bodies behind him longer than the Snake River.”

“He also fixed my trough last week,” she shot back. “And brought a heater during the blizzard. And makes sure I eat when I forget to.”

“That’s not love,” he said, low. “That’s penance.”

She stared at him. Her chest hurt.

“You don’t know him,” she said.

“I know men like him.”

She stood, chair scraping against the floor. Willie lifted his head from where he laid under the table.

“I’m not a child,” she said. “You don’t get to control who I ride with.”

“I’m not controlling you. I’m reminding you who you are. What you’ve survived. And who you owe that survival to.”

She froze. The words sliced deeper than he intended—and from the way his expression shifted, he knew it.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” she said, grabbing her coat. “You always do.”

And then she left. Willie followed silently, tail low.

The next morning, she showed up at the stables before sunrise, saddle already over her shoulder. She could see Jack near the gate, rubbing his gloved hands together, clearly waiting for her.

But Joel was there, too—leaning against the barn, one boot braced against the wood, coffee in hand.

She didn’t speak. Just walked past Jack and tossed the saddle onto her horse’s back with more force than necessary.

“You’re not paired with him,” Jack called.

She didn’t look at him. “That so?”

“Tommy said—”

“I don’t care what Tommy said.”

She mounted the horse in one smooth motion.

Joel stepped forward. Quiet. Watchful.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She met his eyes. “I ride with who I trust.”

He didn’t smile. But his gaze softened.

She turned the horse toward the gate. “You coming, or what?”

Joel swung up onto his mount without a word, and together, they rode out before anyone could stop them.

By noon, the snow was falling sideways.

They took cover near an old ranger’s outpost, the kind built back when the woods had still been part of a national park. Inside, the floor was littered with leaves and mouse droppings, but it was dry. Sort of.

She sat with her back to the wall, arms crossed. Joel crouched near the door, scanning the trees like the storm might spit out clickers just for fun.

“Your old man’s not gonna be happy,” he said finally.

She snorted. “He hasn’t been happy in years.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just looked at her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just thinkin’.”

“That’s dangerous.”

He huffed. “You and him ever fight like that before?”

“All the time. Just not about you.”

His brow furrowed. “So I’m the problem now?”

She rubbed her hands together for warmth. “No. The problem is that you’re not the kind of person he can control.”

Joel didn’t respond.

“But you don’t try to control me, either,” she added. “That’s why he doesn’t trust you. And why I do.”

Joel glanced down at his gloved hands.

“People talk,” he said after a moment. “About me.”

“I know.”

“They say things. About what I’ve done. Who I’ve been.”

She looked at him. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I do care,” she corrected. “But not in the way you think.”

He shifted against the wall. The silence stretched, long and brittle.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, finally.

“Neither do I.”

“But it’s...somethin’.”

She nodded.

“Yeah. It is.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. Just looked like he wanted to. She sat still, heartbeat loud in her ears.

“I ain’t good at this,” Joel said. “I never was.”

“You don’t have to be good at it,” she said softly. “You just have to show up.”

“I'll show up whenever you want me to,” he said.

She smiled, small and real. “I know.”

Outside, the wind screamed against the cabin walls. But inside, it was quiet. And warm enough.

By the end of the week, Maria got involved. She cornered her outside the stables, one hand resting on the curve of her pregnant belly like a shield.

“We need to talk,” Maria said.

She wiped her hands on her jeans. “About what?”

“Joel.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You always this subtle?”

Maria didn’t blink. “Your father’s concerned.”

“Of course he is.”

“And I’m concerned, too.”

She crossed her arms. “Why?”

“Because Joel’s a threat.”

“No,” she said. “He was a threat. There’s a difference.”

Maria’s expression didn’t change. “You’re young. And he’s Joel.”

“And you don’t like him,” she said.

Maria didn’t deny it.

“I’ve known men like him. My whole life. They only love in moments of calm, and they burn everything when things get hard.”

She nodded once. “Well, I’ve known men like my dad. Who protect so hard they forget how to let go. Who teach you not to trust anyone until you don’t even trust yourself.”

Maria went quiet.

“I’m not asking you to like him,” she said. “But don’t treat me like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Maria’s voice softened. “He’s not going to give you what you want.”

“I’m not asking him to.”

“You will.”

That, she didn’t have an answer for.

That night, Joel fixed her tack room door. It had been creaking for weeks. She hadn’t asked. But she found him there anyway, kneeling in the dark, screwdriver in hand.

She stood behind him, arms crossed, “You always break in like this?”

“Door was open,” he said.

“It’s always open.”

He glanced up. “That ain’t safe.”

“I know.”

She stepped inside, closed the door behind her. He stood. Dusted off his hands. The space between them felt thinner than usual. Closer.

“They’re going to keep pushing,” she said.

“I know.”

“They want me to stop seeing you.”

His jaw tightened. “That what you want?”

“No.”

He looked at her like that meant something he didn’t know how to handle. She stepped closer. Just a little.

“I don’t scare easy, Joel.”

“I know that too.”

She was inches away now. He didn’t move. Didn’t touch her. But she felt him anyway. That quiet heat. That slow, aching want he didn’t know what to do with.

“You ever gonna kiss me?” she asked.

Joel swallowed. And then—finally—he did. It was slow. Careful. Like he thought she might shatter.

She didn’t. She leaned in and kissed him back like she’d been waiting two goddamn months. And maybe she had.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He touched her cheek once, soft. And she let him.

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, the world held still.

The air between them was warmer now—like the kiss had ignited something neither of them wanted to name yet. Her eyes were still closed, her breath caught halfway in her throat.

Joel hadn’t moved away. Not fully. Just hovered there, gaze flicking between her eyes and her lips like he wasn’t sure if one kiss had been a mistake or a beginning.

Then—

Willie barked. Not once. Not twice. A full, echoing string of sharp warnings from just outside the barn.

Both of them jerked slightly—guilt and tension crackling between them like live wire.

The tack room door creaked open with a creaking groan, and then—

“Oh my god, finally.”

Ellie stood just inside the doorway, eyebrows halfway up her forehead, mouth open like she’d stumbled into a crime scene.

Willie trotted in behind her like he’d done his duty and was now ready for his treat.

Joel took one step back from her, rubbing the back of his neck in that guilty, awkward way she was starting to recognize. His cheeks flushed with unmistakable red, jaw clenched tight as he looked everywhere but directly at Ellie.

“Jesus, Joel,” Ellie deadpanned, “you look like I caught you watching old people porn.”

Her mouth fell open.

Joel groaned, low and pained. “Ellie…”

“What?” Ellie said, spreading her hands like she was the picture of innocence. “I’m just saying, I knew something was going on. I’ve seen the way you two hover around each other. The glances. The weird carpentry flirting. It was just a matter of time.”

“I don’t hover,” Joel grumbled.

“You are the definition of hovering,” she shot back. “You probably invented hovering.”

Joel muttered something that might’ve been a curse.

Willie barked again and padded over to sniff Ellie’s boots before flopping down on a saddle blanket like he was bored of all of them.

She couldn’t stop the laugh that rose in her chest—not the full kind, just a huff, but it cracked the tension wide open.

Ellie pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “Anyway, I was sent to get you two for dinner before I walked in on your moment. So let’s go. I’m starving and Tommy said if Joel doesn’t show up soon, he's feeding his stew portion to the sheep.”

Joel blinked. “He’s not—”

“He is. I asked.”

The walk to the mess hall was quiet at first—mostly because Joel didn’t say a word, and she couldn’t stop replaying the feel of his lips against hers.

It hadn’t been dramatic. It hadn’t been desperate. It had just…been. And that was somehow worse. Because it meant it was real.

She didn’t know what it meant for tomorrow, or next week, or what she’d say to her father when he inevitably found out, but in that moment, she let herself feel it.

The quiet buzz beneath her skin. The warmth lingering behind her ribs. The small, strange twist in her stomach when she saw how Joel’s fingers still hovered near hers, like he wanted to reach for her and didn’t quite know how.

Ellie, walking ahead with Willie bouncing beside her, didn’t let the silence last long.

“So, what’s the plan now?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder with that trademark glint in her eye. “Gonna get married in the greenhouse? Willie can be the ring bearer.”

Joel let out a long sigh.

“Dina can officiate,” Ellie continued, undeterred. “She’s got a great voice.”

“You need to stop talkin’,” Joel muttered.

“You’re blushing,” she pointed out gleefully. “Oh my god, you are actually blushing. This is the best day of my life.”

“Ellie,” he warned, voice gravel and threat.

Ellie turned to look at her. “Can I be the flower girl?”

She grinned. “Only if you promise to wear the dress.”

“Gross! No!”

Joel stopped walking. “No one’s wearin’ a dress.”

Ellie and Willie both ignored him.

The mess hall was warm, loud, and full of the usual clatter of evening routine. Kids darted between tables. Someone had rigged a record player to spin an old folk album in the corner, the scratchy notes of a guitar weaving under the din.

As soon as they stepped through the doors, she saw them—her father and his old friend Jack, sitting at their usual table near the north wall. The second Joel entered behind her, both men straightened, shoulders tightening like they were preparing for a fight.

Willie, oblivious to the tension, trotted directly over to them, tail wagging, ears up. He sat politely by Jack’s knee, earning a scratch behind the ears, then nudged his nose toward her father’s hand with quiet expectation.

Her father didn’t pet him at first. Then, after a moment, he gave one short scratch behind the ear. It was muscle memory, not affection.

Jack whispered something to him, and both men’s eyes tracked her across the room like spotlights. She didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just kept walking toward the far end of the room where Ellie and Dina had already claimed a table.

Joel hesitated behind her for half a second before following.

Dinner was stew. Again. Joel said nothing about it, but she noticed the way he always stirred it clockwise, slow and deliberate, like his thoughts were louder than his appetite.

Ellie, on the other hand, had no such distractions.

“So,” she said between spoonfuls, “Dina and I were talking, and we decided we’re forming a community watch group for your relationship.”

She blinked. “A what?”

“A watch group,” Dina chimed in, grinning. “To monitor and track all romantic developments in this emotionally repressed post-apocalyptic will-they-won’t-they we’ve been forced to live through.”

Joel groaned. “Christ.”

“Language,” Ellie teased. “You’ve got children present.”

“You are the child,” he muttered.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“I mean, it’s not like we’re judging you,” Dina continued, spoon tapping against her bowl. “We’re just… observing. For science.”

“This ain’t science,” Joel said, exasperated. “It’s harassment.”

“Only if we write it down,” Ellie said. “Right now it’s just casual undercover work.”

Joel glared at her.

Dina shrugged. “Also, your kid’s been beaming all evening. Pretty sure that’s a good sign.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “I’m not his kid.”

Joel looked like he was about to argue, but stopped. Something passed over his face—a flicker of something unspoken and fragile.

He didn’t correct her. But he also didn’t deny it. She caught the shift. Stored it away. Something in her chest tugged a little harder.

Across the mess hall, she could feel her father’s stare like a second spine. She glanced up once—just briefly—and met his eyes.

Hard. Unblinking. Jack was whispering something again, and her father didn’t blink.

She felt Joel shift beside her. His body didn’t move much, but his attention did. Like he could feel it too.

When dinner was over, Ellie and Dina walked ahead, heading towards her home, already planning something chaotic for the next day. Joel and her hung back by the door.

Willie returned to her side, brushing against her leg. She didn’t say anything. Neither did Joel.

Outside, the air was biting. The wind had shifted direction, blowing off the mountains, colder now.

She paused just outside the mess hall. Joel did, too.

“You feelin’ watched?” he asked, quiet.

“I’m always watched.”

He didn’t look at her. Just scanned the street.

“You think he’s gonna say somethin’?”

She shrugged. “He already did.”

Joel’s jaw worked for a moment. “You want me to back off?”

She turned to face him.

“No,” she said. “I want you to stay.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. His eyes were tired, but not unsure.

“I ain’t gonna make this easy,” he said.

“I didn’t survive this long looking for easy.”

A long pause. Then, “You wanna come by?” he asked, voice low. “I got coffee. Better than the bark stuff.”

Her heart skipped. She didn’t answer. She just started walking in the direction of his house, Willie trotting beside her.

Joel followed. And somewhere in the dark, behind windows and whispers and flickering porch lights, she knew people were watching.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t care. Because tonight, the snow was falling quiet again. And she wasn’t walking alone.

Joel didn’t say anything as they moved through the snow-covered street, his footsteps falling into rhythm with hers like it had always been this way. Willie trotted beside them, his nails clicking on the wooden porch when they reached Joel’s house.

The wind howled around the corner of the street, whipping at her flannel, tugging strands of hair loose from her braid. Joel stepped up behind her and opened the door without a word, holding it just long enough for her to pass through before following behind and closing it against the cold.

Inside, everything felt...still.

The house was dim. Warm. Smelled faintly of wood smoke and old coffee grounds. A low fire crackled in the hearth, half-burned logs glowing faint orange. Joel dropped his coat onto the back of the chair, his boots thudding gently as he kicked them off. She followed suit, letting the silence settle, comfortable now. Familiar.

Willie padded straight for the fireplace, circled once, and flopped onto the worn rug with a dramatic huff, nose between his paws.

“You want coffee?” Joel asked after a moment, voice low.

She nodded. “Only if it doesn’t taste like bark.”

A hint of a smile touched his face. “No promises.”

He moved into the kitchen while she wandered the room, taking it in slowly—she’d been here before, once or twice, but never long. Never like this. The place was clean in that practical, utilitarian way—everything had a purpose. A place. But there were little things too, a chipped mug resting on the windowsill, an old paperback tucked spine-up under a pile of tools, a photo frame turned face-down on the table near the window.

He didn’t talk about the past. She didn’t ask. But the ghost of it lingered everywhere, like woodsmoke clinging to the walls.

Joel returned with two mismatched mugs, steam curling from the surface. He handed her one without a word, then lowered himself onto the couch, settling in with a tired exhale. She joined him, tucking her legs beneath herself, mug cradled between her palms.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping. The only sound was the soft crackle of the fire, Willie’s low breathing, and the occasional creak of the floorboards settling.

“You ever think about what normal used to be?” she asked quietly, voice half-lost in the rim of the mug.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

“Used to,” he said eventually. “Stopped. Hurts too much.”

She nodded.

“I don’t remember much of it,” she said. “Bits and pieces. Cartoons on TV. My dad cussing at traffic.”

Joel huffed a breath. “Traffic.”

“Right?” she smiled. “Feels made up now.”

He glanced at her, something softening behind his eyes. “You were just a kid.”

“So were you,” she said. “Just... a bigger one.”

That made him chuckle. A real sound, low and rough.

“You tryin’ to call me old?”

“I don’t have to try.”

He gave her a look. She grinned into her cup.

After a while, she leaned into the back cushions, her shoulder brushing his. He didn’t move. Just shifted slightly, enough for their arms to touch.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She looked at him. It wasn’t about her safety. It wasn’t about patrol, or her dad, or the town. It was just him, asking if she was okay. Right now. In this moment.

And she nodded.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m good.”

The words lingered in the air between them, soft and real. Joel’s eyes dropped to her mouth. Her breath caught.

She leaned in first. Their second kiss wasn’t like the first. It wasn’t careful. It was hungry.

A slow, burning press of lips that deepened too fast, like they’d been holding back too long. Joel’s hand came to her cheek, his thumb rough with callus, palm warm. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, grounding herself.

He made a sound low in his throat, the kind that went straight to her chest and rattled loose something she hadn’t realized she’d been locking away.

She shifted closer. Into his space. Onto his lap, knees bracketing his thighs as she straddled him without hesitation.

Joel froze for a second. Not because he didn’t want it—God, he did—but because of how much he wanted it. His hands found her hips, firm but not possessive. Guiding. Steady.

She kissed him again. And again. His scruff scraped her jaw in the best way, grounding and raw, his mouth tasting like coffee. She buried her hands in his hair, tugged just enough to make him groan into her mouth.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Every kiss was a confession.

Her hips pressed against him, her chest flush with his, and he kissed her like he was memorizing every second of it. His hands slid beneath her flannel, fingertips brushing her back, but never moving further than that—like he needed to hold her close but was afraid of pushing too far, too fast.

She broke the kiss first, barely, her forehead resting against his, breath ragged.

“I don’t wanna stop,” she murmured.

“I know,” Joel said, voice rough, trembling against her mouth. “I know, darlin’. But…”

His hands slid to her thighs, holding her there like an anchor.

“I wanna do this right,” he said. “Wanna do you right.”

She blinked.

He swallowed hard. “You matter to me. More than I know how to say. And I ain’t gonna mess this up by rushin’ into somethin’ and makin’ it feel like it don’t matter.”

She touched his face. Soft. “It already matters.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I need to go slow.”

She nodded. Pressed a kiss to his cheek, then his jaw. Slid her arms around his shoulders and tucked herself there, breathing in the scent of him—something undeniably Joel.

Willie lifted his head from across the room, let out a soft sigh, then dropped back down with a thump. Joel chuckled.

“He your chaperone?”

“He's judgmental,” she mumbled into his neck. “Keeps me humble.”

Joel wrapped his arms around her fully then, pulled her close until her chest was pressed against his and her breath warmed the hollow of his throat.

They stayed like that for a long time. Just breathing. Letting it be quiet. Letting it be enough.

Eventually, her breathing evened out. Her arms went slack. She shifted once in his lap and mumbled something unintelligible into his shirt. Joel looked down and found her asleep.

Her face softened in sleep, all the fight and fire melting into something quiet and safe. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, then ran a hand slowly down her back.

“Jesus,” he whispered to himself. “What are you doin’ to me.”

He sat there for a moment longer, just holding her.

Then, slowly, gently, he stood. She stirred in his arms, murmured something, but didn’t wake. Her head tucked into the crook of his neck, her hand still clutching a fistful of his shirt.

He carried her upstairs. His knees popped once on the landing, and he muttered, “Fuck,” under his breath, even though Willie was the only one awake enough to hear.

He nudged his bedroom door open with his foot, crossed the room, and pulled back the blankets with one hand. Laid her down like she was made of glass.

She curled into the pillow immediately, one hand searching. Joel stood for a moment, watching. Then he leaned down, brushed his lips to her temple.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be right here.”

Willie padded in and laid down at the foot of the bed, ears flicking once before he sighed and settled.

Joel sat in the old armchair near the window. Stared out at the snow falling under the moonlight.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the need to run. Didn’t feel the weight of what was behind him. Only what was here. What was coming.

He looked back at the bed, at her curled up with the covers tangled around her jeans. And for once, the ache in his chest didn’t feel like grief. It felt like hope. And that scared the hell out of him.

Joel sat in the old armchair near the window, boots off, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him. The snow outside fell in thick, slow flakes, heavy enough to mute even the wind. The kind of snow that blanketed everything until it looked soft—peaceful. Clean.

He’d always hated how quiet winter could be. Made it too easy to think. Too easy to remember.

The fire downstairs had burned low by now, and the house had taken on that particular kind of stillness that only came in the dead of night. Upstairs, the only sounds were the occasional creak of the wood beneath them, the whisper of her breath as she slept in his bed, and the slow, rhythmic thump of Willie’s tail every time she shifted under the covers.

Joel watched her. Curled up in a tangle of blankets, mouth slightly parted, one arm reaching for something even in sleep. She looked young. Soft. Peaceful in a way he’d never seen on her face before—like some part of her had finally stopped bracing for the next blow.

And that did something to him. Twisted up something he’d buried so deep it had almost turned to bone.

Sarah. The name alone was enough to hollow out his chest.

She would’ve been in her thirties now. A grown woman. Might’ve been a mother herself. Might’ve had her own porch, her own slow mornings, her own dog sprawled on the rug like he owned the place.

Instead, she was a ghost. Still thirteen in his head. Still asleep in that pink hoodie, curled up against the passenger seat, trusting him with everything.

Still dying in his arms while the world burned around them.

Joel dragged a hand down his face. It didn’t stop the ache. Never had.

He hadn’t let himself think about Sarah—not deeply, not honestly—in a long time. Couldn’t. Because thinking about her meant remembering what it had felt like to lose her. And remembering that felt like trying to breathe underwater.

But tonight, with her—this woman wrapped in his sheets and tangled up in his chest—it was harder not to think about Sarah. About the difference.

About the similarities.

Joel had known her father carried his little girl into the apocalypse. Had watched that little girl grow up in the kind of world no child should. Watched her learn how to hold a knife and set a trap and smile without softness.

Her father had kept her alive. Joel hadn’t. That truth stuck like glass in his throat.

No matter how much good he tried to do now—no matter how many fences he fixed, patrols he ran, meals he shared—it never changed the fact that his daughter had died in his arms, and he hadn’t been able to stop it.

But her? She had made it. Not just survived—but lived. That meant something.

She stirred under the blankets, murmured something incoherent, and rolled over, one hand stretching toward the empty space beside her.

Joel’s heart gave a slow, painful thump.

He stood. His body was stiff—back aching, joints creaking like old wood—but he moved slowly toward the bed. The sheets rustled as he sat on the edge, watching her face for any sign that she’d wake.

She didn’t. Just made a small sound in her sleep and shifted closer.

Joel hesitated only a moment more before slipping under the covers beside her.

The bed dipped beneath his weight, and she immediately moved toward the warmth, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder like she’d always belonged there. One leg slung across his. Her arm curled against his chest, fingers resting just over his heart.

He froze. Then breathed. His hand came up slowly—tentatively—and settled against her back. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing. The weight of her. Real. Alive.

He closed his eyes. And tried not to fall apart. She didn’t know what this meant to him. Not yet.

She didn’t know how long it had been since he’d shared a bed with anyone. Not for sex, not for convenience, not for heat—but just to be near. To be held. Even in sleep.

She didn’t know how deeply she was undoing him. Didn’t know that part of him—the one that had been cold and locked up for twenty years—was slowly beginning to thaw in her presence. That she was rebuilding things in him he hadn’t thought repairable.

He didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to deserve it. But she was here. In his bed. In his life. And for tonight, that was enough.

Joel pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Closed his eyes. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he let himself fall asleep with something warm in his chest.

Not fire. Not grief. Something gentler. Something dangerously close to love.

That was what settled in Joel’s chest as her breathing warmed his collarbone, her leg still draped across his hip.

The early hours of morning crept in slow and gray, winter’s hush resting heavy against the windows. She slept like someone who hadn’t in a long time—deep, weightless, unguarded. And he held her like he knew the truth, that trust like this was a rare, fragile thing. Not a gift, but a risk.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep with her in his arms. Hell, he hadn’t meant to let her fall asleep at all. Not here. Not in his bed, tangled up in him like she belonged there.

But she did. She did, and now he couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to wake up without her.

And then someone started banging on the goddamn door.

Joel’s eyes flew open, muscles tensing as he jolted upright halfway, hand instinctively going for the pistol he kept under the side table. Beside him, she flinched, groaning into his shoulder, already stirring.

The knocking didn’t stop. It was angry. Sharp.

A fist slamming into wood like the person on the other side wasn’t just impatient—they were furious.

Joel was already sliding out of bed, careful not to jostle her too hard.

“What—?” she murmured, voice thick with sleep, blinking blearily as Willie jumped to his feet at the end of the bed, growling low in his throat.

Joel peeked through the slat in the curtains. His stomach dropped.

“Shit.”

“What?” she asked, sitting up, rubbing her face. “Who is it?”

Joel turned, jaw tightening. “It’s your dad.”

That woke her up real fast. She pushed the blankets off her, already climbing out of bed, hair a mess, flannel wrinkled, socks half off her feet. “Fuck.”

The knocking turned into pounding.

Joel moved fast. Fixed his wrinkled shirt. He didn’t want to open the door, didn’t want to deal with the man who looked at him like he was one wrong breath away from being put down—but he also wasn’t about to let him wake the whole town.

He opened the door. The man standing on the porch wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t red-faced. He wasn’t even speaking. But he was seething.

Her father stood there like a storm barely holding itself together, coat half-buttoned, gloves stuffed into one hand like he’d left in a hurry. His mouth was a hard, straight line. His eyes—

They were looking past Joel. Straight into the house.

Joel barely got a word out before the man pushed past him into the living room.

She had just reached the bottom of the stairs, one sock on, flannel buttoned, her jeans—

Unbuttoned. She blinked at her father. He blinked back.

Then his gaze dropped. Saw the undone fly of her jeans. The bare strip of her stomach. The bed-rumpled hair. Joel standing half between them, tense, protective.

And something inside him snapped.

“Are you kidding me?” her father hissed. “This is what you’re doing now? This is who you are?”

Joel stepped forward, voice low. “Look—”

“No,” her father snapped, rounding on him. “Don’t you fucking speak to me.”

“Then don’t come poundin’ on my door at six in the goddamn morning—”

“You son of a bitch—”

“Hey!” she cut in sharply, stepping between them, hands up like she was breaking up two dogs on the edge of a fight. “Stop. Both of you.”

Her dad looked at her like he couldn’t recognize the woman standing in front of him.

“You spent the night here?” he asked, voice too quiet now. Too cold.

“Yes,” she said.

“You slept in his bed?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head, already spiraling, “And what, you just couldn’t wait? Had to—what? Throw everything away for a warm body?”

Joel stiffened behind her. Her mouth fell open.

“Are you fucking serious?” she barked. “You think I’m that stupid?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” he snapped. “I find out from Esther, of all people, that you didn’t come home last night. She saw you sneaking into his house—”

“We weren’t sneaking!” she shouted. “Jesus, Dad—do you hear yourself?”

“You’re in his bed—”

“Because I fell asleep.”

He scoffed. “With your pants undone?”

Joel stepped forward again, voice low but hard. “You might wanna stop talkin’ to her like that.”

Her father’s eyes cut to Joel, and the air snapped tight between them. “Don’t act like you’re not loving this. You’ve been sniffing around her since day one. You think I don’t see it?”

“I never touched her without her say-so,” Joel said, jaw clenching. “Never crossed a line.”

“You think that makes you good?” he sneered. “You think that makes you different from the men who came before you?”

Joel’s face darkened, but he didn’t respond. Her voice cut the tension clean in half.

“I undid my jeans,” she said, voice flat, arms crossed. “Because I was sleeping in fucking jeans, and I wanted to breathe. That’s it. I didn’t sleep with him. We didn’t even take our clothes off.”

Her father’s mouth opened—then closed again. The silence that followed was brutal.

She stared at him, tears burning hot at the corners of her eyes. Not because of shame. But because she knew this wasn’t about Joel. Not really. It was about control. About fear. About her growing into someone her father couldn’t protect from everything anymore.

She turned on her heel, “I’m going home to take a shower,” she muttered.

Willie immediately rose to his feet and followed.

Joel stood frozen in the doorway as she brushed past him, barely catching her sleeve. “You okay?”

She looked up at him. And nodded.

“Thanks for not yelling,” she said softly.

He gave her a tired smile. “Didn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

Her eyes flicked back to her dad—still standing in the middle of the room like he wasn’t sure whether to hit something or collapse.

Then back to Joel.

“See you later?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice gentle. “You will.”

She left. The cold slapped her cheeks as she stepped outside, but it felt good. Grounding. Willie padded beside her, ears flicking, nose twitching at the air.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t yell. Didn’t even curse. She just walked. Because there were things she couldn’t fix right now.

Her father’s fear. Joel’s guilt. The parts of herself still learning how to be wanted without being someone’s responsibility. But this? This was hers. And she’d made her choice.

Back inside Joel’s house, the silence was thick. Her father hadn’t moved.

Joel rubbed a hand down his face, then walked to the front door.

“You ever raise your voice at her like that again,” he said, quiet, dangerous, “we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Her father said nothing. Just stood there, shoulders square. Joel didn’t press. Didn’t push. But he meant it. He always would.

Because whatever this was between them—it wasn’t just about kisses on a couch or coffee and half-smiles.

It was about her. And Joel wasn’t going anywhere. Not this time. Joel meant it.

He meant every damn word, even as her father turned slowly to the door, not saying a thing. Just stared at Joel with a glare that could’ve split ice, shoulders rigid, fists clenched like he was still deciding whether or not to take a swing.

Joel didn’t move. He just looked back. Calm. Solid. And then her father spoke, low and cold,

“You touch her wrong. You hurt her. You make her cry one time—I will kill you.”

Joel didn’t blink. “Wouldn’t expect any less.”

Her father stared for one more long second—then turned and walked out without another word. The door slammed behind him.

Joel stood there, shoulders tight, breath slow.

The sound of her fading footsteps down the snowy road still echoed in his ears. And something in his chest felt a little emptier than it had before. Not because she was gone. But because she’d walked out carrying pain she didn’t deserve.

And that? That tore him apart. She didn’t cry on the way home. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look back.

But by the time she made it to the porch, her jaw was locked so tight it hurt, her fingers half-numb from how hard she’d clenched her fists.

Willie waited quietly as she opened the door, his tail flicking gently, eyes on her like he could feel it—like he knew something inside her had cracked.

She stripped off her flannel, tossed it onto the kitchen chair, and didn’t stop until she was in the bathroom, steam already clouding the mirror.

The shower was hot. Too hot. She didn’t care. She stood under the spray, hands braced on the tile, eyes closed, chest heaving.

It wasn’t just her dad. It was Esther.

Fucking Esther.

Who the hell did she think she was? Running her mouth to him of all people. Just because she saw her walk into Joel’s house and didn’t see her leave?

She scrubbed her skin harder than necessary, dragging her nails down her arms like she could scrape the frustration out of her bones.

Esther had been circling Joel since the day he arrived in Jackson—always lingering too long at the gate, always talking just a bit too sweet whenever she handed him a plate at the mess hall. She was kind, sure. Capable. The kind of woman who got along with everyone. But he had said it himself,

“I’m not interested.”

He’d said it weeks ago. Quiet and certain, when they were sitting on his steps, sharing jerky and silence like it meant something.

And she’d believed him. Still believed him.

But Esther didn’t know how to let go. And now she’d run to the one man she knewwould go ballistic.

She turned off the water, furious all over again. The towel she wrapped around herself felt suffocating. So did the house. So did the thoughts racing like wildfire in her head.

She needed to work. She needed the barn.

The air smelled like hay, cold metal, and horse musk—the kind of grounding, raw scent that reminded her where she came from. What she’d built.

She got to work without saying a word. Shoveled feed. Replaced water buckets. Brushed out dried mud from hooves, oiled leather reins, unlatched stalls and mucked out shit with a rhythm that felt damn near religious.

Willie laid in the hay beside the mare she liked best—Sparrow, a stubborn gray with more attitude than sense. He didn't bark, didn’t move. Just watched her with those solemn eyes that always made her feel like he knew.

She didn’t want to cry. But her hands shook.

And when she dropped the bucket and it clattered loud against the wood, she whispered a sharp, “Fuck,” and bent down fast, pressing her forehead to the cold side of the stall, eyes shut.

She didn’t even hear the barn door open. But she felt him. His presence always arrived like a change in the air. Subtle but weighty.

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t speak.

Joel stopped a few feet away. She could hear his breath. The soft shift of his boots on straw.

“I didn’t invite you here,” she said, voice flat, still facing the stall.

“I know,” he said quietly.

She stayed still for a long moment. Then turned.

His eyes were already on her. Not angry. Not expectant. Just... watching. Waiting.

She wiped her hands on her jeans and picked up the bucket again.

“I’m working,” she muttered.

“I can see that.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

He nodded once. “Didn’t come to talk.”

“Then why are you here?”

He hesitated.

“Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” she said too fast.

Joel just looked at her. It made her stomach twist. That goddamn soft patience in his eyes. Like he could see through every wall she’d built and was willing to wait on the other side.

She turned back to the stall. He walked in farther. Slowly. Like approaching a wild animal that might bolt if he moved too fast.

“You’re mad at me.”

“No,” she said. “I’m mad at Esther.”

He blinked. “Esther?”

“She’s the one who told him I didn’t come home,” she said, slamming the latch harder than necessary. “Probably because she saw me go into your house and assumed the worst.”

Joel frowned. “Why the hell would she—”

“Because she likes you,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Everyone knows that.”

His brows pulled together. “I don’t give a damn what she wants. I told you—”

“I know,” she cut in.

The silence hung heavy for a moment. She dropped the bucket in the feed room and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“I just… I’m tired,” she said quietly. “Of being watched. Of being treated like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I’m some idiot kid who can’t handle her own heart.”

Joel stepped closer.

“You’re not a kid.”

She looked at him, eyes hot. “My dad—he looked at me like I betrayed him.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “He was wrong.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “But it still fucking hurt.”

He didn’t touch her. Just stood close. Like a shield.

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” he said. “Not me. Not him. Not Esther.”

She looked up at him, and for the first time since she left his house, her shoulders relaxed.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted.

Joel’s expression didn’t change. But his voice softened.

“I don’t either.”

That cracked something open. Because there was something about hearing him say it—this man who had seen the end of the world and walked through hell and back—that made her feel less alone in her own confusion.

“I keep thinking about what it would’ve been like if the world hadn’t ended,” she said. “If I’d been... normal. Had a mom. A real childhood. If he hadn’t had to give everything up to keep me alive.”

Joel’s face twisted. Just slightly.

“And then I think about you,” she added, voice barely a whisper. “What you lost. Who you were before. And I just…”

She stopped. Joel stepped closer. Close enough to reach her if he wanted.

“I look at you,” she continued, “and I see someone who’s still standing. Still showing up. Even when you’ve got every reason not to.”

He didn’t speak. He just reached out and cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing lightly over her cheekbone.

“You’re worth showing up for,” he said simply.

Her breath caught. And then she leaned into him, forehead resting against his chest, arms coming around his waist.

Joel held her. Held her like she was something fragile and real and his.

Not because she asked. But because he wanted to.

Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the barn stayed warm.

They didn’t kiss. Not this time. There was no heat between them in that moment—just something softer.

He stayed while she finished her chores, silent except for the occasional question.

He handed her tools when she needed them. Held a halter while she tightened the buckles. Rubbed Sparrow’s neck while she brushed her out. Even fixed the crooked hinge on the tack room door without being asked.

Willie followed them everywhere. She didn’t talk much. Neither did Joel. But it was the easiest silence she’d known in weeks.

And when he finally left—after squeezing her shoulder once, firm and warm—he didn’t say goodbye.

Just said, “See you later.”

And for once, she believed it. And she let herself breathe. Just for a minute.

She believed him.

The morning after felt warmer. Not just in the way the sunlight cut through the bedroom blinds, or how Willie laid curled like a living furnace at the foot of her bed—but something deeper. Something steadier.

Maybe she hadn’t fallen asleep in Joel’s arms again.

But she had walked away from him knowing she could walk back.

And that meant something.

Until a loud, violent banging rattled the front door, followed immediately by Willie barking like the apocalypse had come back for round two.

She shot upright in bed.

“Jesus fuck—”

Willie launched off the mattress, bolted toward the stairs.

More pounding.

“Hey! Open up! I know you’re in there! You’re not dead, are you?”

Ellie.

She stumbled out of bed, half-blind with sleep, grabbing for yesterday’s flannel and barely jamming her arms into it as she headed down the hall.

Willie barked again—excited now, more tail-wag than threat.

The banging returned.

"I swear to god—"

“Ellie, stop!” she yelled, just as she missed the last step and nearly pitched forward in her socks. She caught herself on the banister and muttered, “Mother—fuck—”

Willie sat by the door, looking far too proud of himself.

She yanked it open with one hand and blinked hard at the daylight slicing through her skull.

Ellie stood there, fully dressed, grinning like she was on something.

“Wow,” the kid said, stepping inside without invitation. “You look like you just fought a horse in your sleep.”

“I am asleep,” she grumbled. “Or I was. What time is it?”

“Like nine.”

She groaned.

“It’s patrol shift changeover,” Ellie said, dropping onto the couch like she lived there. Willie immediately jumped up beside her, tail thumping, tongue out. “So I figured, why not go bother the only person in this entire town who tolerates me.”

She flopped into the chair across from them, rubbing her eyes. “I don’t tolerate you. I endure you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ellie said, already scratching behind Willie’s ears. “He missed me.”

“He was asleep.”

“He lives to see me.”

“Okay, settle down.”

There was a beat of silence before Ellie said, offhanded, “Joel let you be his patrol partner pretty fast.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Just saying,” Ellie said, voice casual, eyes still fixed on Willie. “You two were barely talking, and then suddenly, boom, you’re his patrol partner, you’re eating with us, and now he’s all”—she waved her hands vaguely—“emotionally available.”

She laughed, surprised. “You think I made Joel emotionally available?”

“I mean,” Ellie shrugged, “you kinda did. He talks to you. Listens to you. You’re like—Joel whisperer or something.”

“I don’t control him, Ellie.”

“Yeah, but he loves you,” Ellie said.

The words hit like a gunshot. Not a loud one. Not violent. But sudden. Sharp.

She stilled. “What?”

Ellie looked up, brow raised like duh. “He loves you. I mean, maybe he hasn’t said it. Joel doesn’t really say things. But it’s obvious.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Ellie—”

“He won’t let me go on patrol,” Ellie interrupted. “Still. After all this time.”

She blinked. “He’s just being protective.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said. “Of me. Which is nice, or whatever, but I’m not a little kid. And he won’t even talk about it. If I ask, he just shuts down. Like I said something bad.”

She leaned back in her chair, exhaling.

Ellie’s tone softened. “I thought maybe… since he listens to you, maybe you could say something.”

There was something raw behind the request. Not whining. Not pushing. Just longing. For trust. For independence. For the kind of respect Joel was afraid to give because it meant letting go.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally.

Ellie grinned. “That means yes.”

“No,” she said, standing. “That means get up. I’m taking you to breakfast. You broke into my house like the cops and now I need caffeine.”

The sun had risen higher, casting a weak gold across the snow. Jackson buzzed with usual morning movement—kids dragging buckets of feed, older folks de-icing steps, the smell of smoke and fresh bread trailing from the mess hall chimney.

They were halfway down the path when they turned the corner—

—and there they were.

Joel. And Esther.

Side by side. Next to the patrol horses.

She stopped walking.

Ellie looked up, squinting. “Is that—?”

Joel noticed them first. His eyes immediately locked on hers. His shoulders stiffened like he’d just walked into a trap, and for a split second, she saw the flash of something like guilt flicker across his face.

Esther, ever smooth, said something with a smile and handed her reins off to the stablehand. Her hand brushed Joel’s sleeve. Brushed it.

And that was it. Her stomach twisted.

Joel took a hesitant step forward. “Hey—”

She didn’t stop walking. Just kept going. Right past him.

Didn’t break stride. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t even flinch.

He called her name—low, like he was trying not to make it a scene. She didn’t answer.

Ellie blinked, half jogging to keep up. “Uh… should I ask?”

“No,” she said.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

“You’re walking really fast.”

“I do that sometimes.”

“Not usually while breathing fire.”

She pushed open the mess hall door with more force than necessary. The warm air inside hit her hard. Bread, eggs, chatter.

Ellie followed, slightly out of breath. “Okay, so we’re mad.”

She didn’t respond. She just grabbed a plate and moved through the line like a soldier, jaw clenched, hands tight.

Joel hadn’t done anything. Not really. He wasn’t cheating. He wasn’t even flirting.

But Esther’s touch… the way she smiled… the way he’d let her...

It felt like the universe was laughing in her face. He hadn’t even fought for her attention. Just let her walk past like he didn’t know what to say.

And maybe he didn’t. But that hurt more.

They ate in silence for a while. Ellie kept looking at her out of the corner of her eye.

“So,” she said finally, “want me to put a dead rat in Esther’s laundry bag?”

She blinked. Then let out a laugh. Short. Sharp. Real.

Ellie grinned. “I’ll do it. You know I will.”

“No rats,” she said. “Yet.”

Ellie leaned on the table. “You want me to talk to Joel?”

“No.”

“You sure? Because I’m really good at guilt-tripping him.”

“I’m sure.”

Ellie looked at her like she was studying a creature in the wild.

“You love him,” she said.

She stared at her tray. “I don’t—”

“You do.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, “I think I do,” she admitted. “Or I’m about to.”

Ellie’s voice was gentle for once. “He’s scared too, you know.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“Just don’t make him chase you too long.”

She sighed. “I’m just… tired of being made to feel less than. Of having to compete for something that already hurts to want.”

Ellie reached across the table and stole her toast.

Then said, “Yeah. But you’re not less than. You’re the only one who ever made him smile.”

And that? That meant more than she'd admit. She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t slow. Didn’t blink. Just walked past, flannel sleeves pushed up, eyes forward, boots cutting sharp lines in the snow like she couldn’t feel the weight of his gaze trailing behind her.

Joel opened his mouth to call her name again. But stopped. Because the way she didn’t look at him?

That said more than any words could. And it hurt more, too.

“Everything okay?” Esther asked, voice sweet and lilting behind him, like she hadn’t just brushed his sleeve with her hand two minutes ago.

Joel didn’t answer.

He turned back toward the horses, jaw tight, throat thick with everything he didn’t know how to say.

Esther had already mounted. Her bay mare flicked its ears as Joel swung up onto his own saddle, the leather groaning beneath him. He adjusted his gloves. Kept his eyes on the trail ahead.

They were heading west today. Scouting route seventeen. Same one he used to ride with her. Familiar snowdrifts, twisted trees that looked like skeletal hands in the winter light. Empty cabins and frozen creeks.

Joel didn’t speak for a good twenty minutes. Didn’t need to. Esther, though—she always needed to.

“I don’t think she likes me,” she said lightly.

Joel didn’t look at her. “Don’t see how that’s my business.”

“She glared at me,” Esther added. “Twice. And I’m very sure it wasn’t because I had something in my teeth.”

Joel gave a noncommittal grunt and tugged the reins to guide his horse through a patch of ice.

“She’s young,” Esther said then, her tone shifting—less breezy now. A little too knowing. “How old is she again? Twenty-five?”

Joel didn’t answer.

Esther smiled faintly. “You know she was five when it happened, right? The outbreak. Just a baby. And now she’s…”

Joel glanced over.

Esther trailed off. Shrugged. “I don’t know. I just worry about you, Joel.”

He stiffened. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Well, someone has to,” she said. “Maria said you don’t exactly make good choices when it comes to... attachments.”

Joel stopped his horse.

Right there on the trail, frost-laced trees on either side, wind blowing gentle through the brush.

He turned to look at her. Slowly. Eyes hard. Dark.

“You got somethin’ you wanna say?”

Esther’s mare sidestepped, sensing the shift in his posture.

Esther didn’t back down. She never did.

“I’m just saying maybe you don’t realize what people see,” she said. “An older man. A girl half his age. Alone together. In his house. In his bedroom.”

Joel’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

“She’s not a girl,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “She’s a woman. A goddamn survivor. Smarter than most people in this town. Stronger than all of ‘em.”

Esther blinked. He had raised his voice before. But not like this.

“And you,” Joel continued, cutting his words sharp and clean, “you don’t get to talk about her like she’s some helpless thing. Like she don’t know her own mind.”

Esther’s expression flickered—surprise, maybe. Then something colder.

“Joel,” she said, voice softer now. “I was just looking out for you.”

“No,” he said. “You were lookin’ down on her. And I’m not gonna sit here and let you do it.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Joel clicked his tongue and spurred his horse forward, leaving her behind on the trail without another word.

The wind was colder than before. He didn’t feel it.

Didn’t feel the weight of his pack, or the ache in his knees, or the saddle digging into his lower back. All he felt was the burn in his chest. The kind that didn’t come from cold or pain—but from regret.

Because he hadn’t gone after her.

Hadn’t grabbed her hand, hadn’t said, “It’s not what it looks like. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want her there.”

He hadn’t told her the truth.

That he only said yes to the patrol with Esther because Maria asked, and he didn’t want to cause a stir. That he’d barely said a word all morning. That all he’d been thinking about was her. The way she’d walked away.

The way her voice trembled last night when she said, “I’m tired of being treated like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Joel had made a life out of silence. Out of staying still until danger passed.

But this? This wasn’t survival. This was her. And he didn’t want to survive her.

He wanted to keep her.

They reached the checkpoint an hour later. Joel didn’t speak. Just logged his name, scoped the ridgeline, did the job.

Esther tried twice to start conversation. He ignored both. On the way back, she didn’t try again.

By the time they reached the gates of Jackson, the silence between them was bitter.

Joel dismounted. Handed off his horse. Nodded to the guard. Started toward the stables.

He didn’t even say goodbye. Didn’t look back.

The barn was empty. He stepped inside anyway.

The smell hit him first—dust and hay and her. A little saddle oil. The warm scent of animals and earth and life.

Willie sat by the feed room door, ears pricking up when he saw Joel. He stood and padded over, tail thumping once.

Joel scratched his ears. “She here?”

Willie gave a soft whine. Turned toward the back stalls. Joel followed. And there she was.

Brushing Sparrow’s flank, back turned to him. Flannel sleeves rolled up, hands moving with practiced ease. She hadn’t seen him yet.

He watched her for a second. Just stood there and watched.

He never believed in miracles. Not since Sarah.

But this woman—this strong, stubborn, loyal, blinding woman—was the closest thing he’d seen to one in twenty years.

And he’d let her walk past him without a word.

He stepped forward.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

She paused. Didn’t turn around.

He swallowed. “Can we talk?”

Silence.

Then she said, “You busy with Esther?”

The words were quiet. But sharp. Joel flinched.

“I didn’t ask to ride with her,” he said.

She kept brushing. Slow. Even.

“Maria assigned it. I didn’t want it. Didn’t talk much. Just did the job.”

Still brushing.

“She say something?” she asked, voice tight.

Joel hesitated. “Yeah.”

She stopped. Turned. Eyes cool. Distant.

“What’d she say?”

Joel looked at her. Really looked.

And said, “Didn’t matter. She’s wrong.”

She folded her arms. “Try me.”

He stepped closer.

“She said she worried about me,” he said. “Said you were young. Implying things. Said people might think I was takin’ advantage.”

Her jaw clenched.

Joel’s voice softened. “I told her to stop. Told her you’re the strongest person I know.”

She blinked. Slowly. Joel took another step.

“I don’t care what people think,” he said. “I care what you think.”

A long pause.

Then—

“I think you should’ve come after me,” she said. Quiet. Honest. “I think you should’ve stopped me.”

Joel’s heart broke a little.

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“I did.”

He nodded. Painful. Slow. She looked at him like she didn’t know whether to cry or swing.

“You let her touch you.”

“I didn’t want her to.”

“But you let her.”

“I froze.”

She turned away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know that don’t fix it. But I am.”

She didn’t move for a long time.

Then said, “I believe you.”

He closed his eyes. Exhaled. And for the first time all day, something inside him settled.

Not all the way. But enough.

Willie laid down at their feet with a sigh.

Joel reached out, tentative. She let him touch her hand. And that? That was everything.

The way she let him touch her hand—quiet, small, steady—it unraveled something in Joel’s chest so slow and deep it almost hurt.

Not pain. Something else. A loosening. Like he didn’t need to hold his breath anymore.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there with him, surrounded by horses and soft golden dust, the early afternoon light filtering in through the warped wooden slats of the barn. Sparrow shifted her weight in the stall behind them. Willie let out a groan from the hay and laid his head back down.

Joel didn’t let go of her hand. He couldn’t. And for once, she didn’t pull away.

She exhaled quietly, shoulders dropping from where they’d been hitched near her ears for most of the morning. The flannel she wore was worn through at the elbows, and he could see the faint line of a scar on her forearm—white and thin, like a whisper from another life.

He wondered what she’d had to survive to earn it. He wondered how many more there were. And he hated that there’d ever been a world where she had to.

“Listen,” he said, voice low, thick with gravel and hesitation, “I’ve been thinkin’—”

She gave him a look. “That’s dangerous.”

He huffed. “Let me finish.”

She arched a brow. “You’re finishing a lot of sentences lately. That’s suspicious.”

Joel gave her a pointed stare. “You want me to say it or not?”

She smiled—small, but real. “Say it.”

Joel rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. His hands were rough, but he was careful with them.

“I was wonderin’ if maybe you’d wanna come by tonight,” he said. “To mine.”

She tilted her head.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll cook. You eat. Willie sleeps on my couch. That sorta thing.”

She blinked. Paused.

Then, “Wait.”

Joel froze. “What?”

Her smile deepened. “Is this a date?”

Joel went quiet. Very quiet. His fingers tightened slightly in hers, but not unkind.

She watched him shift on his feet, and then—just as she suspected—he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. Eyes narrowing, jaw working like it betrayed him to even think about being vulnerable.

She laughed. “Oh my god. It’s a date.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You said dinner. And cooking. And Willie sleeping on the couch, which means I’mnot.”

Joel sighed. “You are the most insufferable woman—”

“You are blushing,” she grinned.

“I’m not—”

“You are. It’s adorable.”

Joel glared at her.

She leaned in slightly, still holding his hand. “You do realize I’ve slept in your bed, right? That ship has sailed, Miller.”

He groaned and muttered, “Lord help me.”

She laughed, loud this time, and Willie thumped his tail on the hay in approval.

Joel stared at her for a long second, expression softening.

Then, quieter, “I’d like to cook for you. Yeah. Like a date.”

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “Do you know how to cook?”

“Yes,” he said too quickly.

She squinted.

“You’re lying.”

“I ain’t.”

“You absolutely are.”

Joel sighed, hand still on the back of his neck. “I can…make things.”

“Like what?”

“Things that go in a pot.”

“Oh my god,” she said. “Joel.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said. “I got a recipe. Or somethin’ close to it.”

She was grinning now. “You’re gonna poison me.”

“You’ll live.”

“We’ll see.”

They stood in the barn for another few quiet minutes. And then—like gravity pulled them toward it—he leaned in.

She met him halfway. The kiss was slow. Soft. Warm. Different from the hungry, breathless ones before.

This one said I missed you. This one said I’m still here.

His hand found her cheek again, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw, fingers sliding gently beneath the curve of her ear. She felt her knees loosen, the ache in her chest ebb. Her fingers curled into the collar of his jacket.

When they finally pulled apart, her breath came soft against his mouth. She didn’t let go. Neither did he.

She looked at him and whispered, “I’ll come over tonight.”

Joel nodded. Once.

His voice was soft. “Ellie’s staying with Kat.”

She raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Wasn’t my idea,” he muttered. “Maria’s makin’ her do a girls’ night.”

“She’ll hate that.”

“I know.”

She smiled. “So we’ll have the place to ourselves?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her.

Something in his face changed then—something soft and weathered and a little raw.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Just us.”

She leaned her forehead against his chest, let herself stand there for another breath or two.

The barn creaked gently around them. The smell of hay and leather filled the air. Willie gave a soft, approving grunt. And for a moment—just a small one—it felt like the world hadn’t ended after all.

She pulled away first, but only just.

Joel didn’t move—not right away. Just watched her as she stepped back, her fingers lingering in his for one more second. The light outside was softer now, dusk beginning to settle. The kind of quiet that made everything feel more real.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough, soft. “You will.”

She turned to go. And then—almost like he couldn’t help it—he reached out and caught her wrist gently, tugging her back just enough to steal another kiss.

This one was quick. But it lingered.

She smiled against his mouth. “You’re greedy today.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “You got no idea.”

Then she was gone. Willie at her side.

And Joel Miller was left standing in the middle of the barn like someone had just struck him over the head and handed him a second chance at life.

Which meant now he had to figure out how the hell to cook dinner.

The kitchen looked like a crime scene.

Joel stood at the counter, arms braced on either side of a wooden bowl, staring down at a pile of possible ingredients like they might start a fire if he looked away.

There was a can of tomatoes from last month’s ration rotation. A jar of dried basil that Ellie looked at in disgust. A sealed bag of pasta—thank god—from a trade he’d made with the supply team. A block of cheese that was hard enough to build a house with. And something that might have been garlic, but was currently fighting for its identity as “aggressive winter root.”

Joel scratched his jaw. He hadn't cooked in a long time. Sure, he’d boiled meat over fire. Fried beans in old pans on the road. Made tough coffee. But dinner?

A real one? With flavor? With a tablecloth? That was new.

He looked at the stove. Looked at the tomatoes. Then looked at the sad little saucepan Maria had given him in the welcome basket six months ago.

“All right,” he muttered. “Let’s make somethin’ edible.”

The sauce was the first problem.

He opened the tomatoes with a dull pocketknife because he couldn’t find the can opener. Half of it sloshed out wrong. Missed the pot. Landed on the floor. Joel swore under his breath and grabbed an old towel from the drawer. The dried basil came out in a clump. He tried to stir it in. It just... floated.

Joel stared down into the red mess, watching the leaves sit stubborn and wrong at the top of the watery sauce. He picked up the maybe-garlic and sniffed it.

Immediately regretted it, “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

He chopped it anyway. Because he didn’t know what else to do. Scraped it into the pot with the side of the knife like he remembered someone doing on a cooking show in the late ‘90s.

The smell hit his face like a punch.

“Yeah,” he said to no one. “That’s flavor, all right.”

The pasta boiled over. Twice. He swore again. Louder. Dropped a wooden spoon on the floor. Burned his hand grabbing the pot handle without a towel.

And that’s when Ellie walked in. She stopped in the doorway, a bag slung over one shoulder, winter beanie sliding half off her head. She blinked once.

“Holy shit,” she said. “Is this... are you cooking?”

Joel didn’t turn around. “Don’t start.”

Ellie stepped farther in, nose wrinkling as she approached the stove. She sniffed the pot. Peered into it.

“Is that... even edible?”

“Go away.”

“Dried leaves?” She leaned closer. “Oh my god. Is that the weird basil I told you not to use?”

“I said go away,” he grumbled, trying to stir the sauce.

She looked around the kitchen. Then looked back at him.

Her eyes went wide. “Oh my god. Is this for her?”

Joel didn’t answer.

Ellie gasped dramatically. “You’re making her dinner. You’re making her dinner?!”

He finally turned. “Ain't you stayin’ with Kat tonight?”

Ellie ignored him entirely. “You stole the tablecloth from storage, didn’t you?”

He glared. “Borrowed it.”

“That’s the one with the little blue flowers!”

Joel said nothing.

“You said hate the little blue flowers when I tried to bring it home.”

“I hate you right now.”

Ellie walked over to the table, which he’d spent nearly an hour wiping down and setting with two salvaged plates and three mismatched forks, just in case. She touched the fabric, grinning.

“You even folded the napkins,” she said. “You’re so in love with her.”

Joel grabbed the pot off the stove and turned away. “That’s none of your damn business.”

“Can I stay and watch?”

“No.”

“Can I hide in the pantry?”

“No.”

“Can I leave you a note to read her?”

“Out.”

Ellie raised her hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But this is adorable and I am going to make fun of you for it for the rest of your life.”

He turned. “Ellie.”

She met his eyes.

Then, more quietly, she said, “She makes you better, you know.”

Joel’s expression softened.

“I see it,” she added. “You’re... calmer. Less grumpy. You don’t stand like someone’s always about to punch you.”

He exhaled. “You sayin’ I used to be worse?”

“Oh yeah. You were the worst. Now you’re just... mildly awful.”

Joel shook his head.

Ellie smiled. “She’s good for you.”

Then she grabbed her bag, shoved a piece of bread from the counter into her mouth, and said around it, “Good luck, Romeo.”

He heard her boots clomp out the front door. And the house fell quiet again.

Joel stood there in the middle of his kitchen, tomato sauce on his sleeve, steam rising from a pot that smelled vaguely of regret, and looked around at the space he’d tried to make nice.

The tablecloth. The mismatched forks. The wine bottle he didn’t know how to open sitting unopened on the counter.

He hadn’t dated. Not really.

Not even Sarah’s mother. They’d been kids, trying to do right by a baby they hadn’t expected. And after the world ended... there was no room for courtship.

No room for dinner. For flowers. For trying to be something to someone.

Until now. Until her.

Joel looked at the clock. Thirty minutes until she showed up.

His hands trembled a little. He rinsed them, ran a comb through his hair, and changed into a flannel that didn’t smell like sawdust.

Then he stood by the door. And waited. Heart thudding slow and scared in his chest. Because this time? This time he wanted to get it right.

So he stood there, heart quietly thudding behind his ribs, fingers twitching at the seam of his shirt as he watched the clock tick closer to evening.

The sun had dipped low by now, throwing long, amber lines across the hardwood floor. The fire in the hearth was crackling low, flickering against the walls. The scent of tomato, basil, and something vaguely herbal hung in the kitchen like a nervous fog.

He adjusted the table again. Then adjusted the chairs. Then turned the record player back on, because the silence had gotten too loud.

It was an old Johnny Cash album—scratched slightly, but still warm. Familiar. Something he remembered his mama humming in the kitchen back in Texas, long before the world went to hell.

He moved into the kitchen. Checked the pasta again.

Still warm. Still... edible? He hoped.

He hadn’t tasted it. Too nervous. Too focused on making sure the table was clean and the napkins were folded right and the goddamn wine bottle had a corkscrew, it didn’t—he had to jab it with a knife and now it leaked.

Then—

He heard Willie’s bark. Soft, friendly, two doors down. His breath caught.

And there she was.

She walked slow, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, her shoulders relaxed in a way they hadn’t been in days.

The street was quiet except for the wind gently tugging at the trees and the crunch of snow under her boots. Willie padded beside her, tail swishing, nose pointed toward Joel’s porch like he already knew where they were going.

She wore a knit sweater—deep green, the kind that made her eyes look brighter in the winter light—and jeans tucked into worn leather boots. Her hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands blowing in the breeze. She looked warm. Comfortable.

Joel stared through the window like a man watching something sacred approach.

He opened the door before she could knock.

Her eyes flicked up. “Eager?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just didn’t want you waitin’ in the cold.”

Willie trotted past him into the house like he owned the place.

She stepped inside, brushing snow from her shoulders. Her eyes scanned the room—the flickering firelight, the table—neatly set, if a little lopsided, the record player humming soft country from the corner.

Her lips curled into a smile. “You got a mood going.”

Joel shut the door behind her. “Tryin’.”

She looked at the table. Then at him.

“Did you steal that tablecloth from the mess pantry?”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “Borrowed.”

She laughed. God, he loved her laugh. It wasn’t always easy. She didn’t offer it freely. But when it came, it was whole. Real. Like it didn’t know how to lie.

“You smell like tomato,” she said, pulling off her coat.

Joel took it from her automatically, hanging it on the hook near the door. “Might’ve boiled over once or twice.”

“Mmhmm.”

She turned to him fully. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” he said too quickly.

She tilted her head.

Joel sighed. “A little.”

She stepped closer, hands brushing lightly down his arms. “It’s just me.”

“I know,” he muttered. “That’s the problem.”

She laughed again. And he felt his lungs finally expand.

Dinner was ready—if by “ready” you meant slightly overcooked pasta with a sauce that almost looked intentional.

Joel ladled it into mismatched bowls, wiping his hands on a towel. She helped grab the utensils without being asked, setting them out with a quiet ease that made the space between them feel lived-in.

Willie laid by the fire, already half-asleep.

She sat at the table, hands folded neatly, watching him with something that looked suspiciously like adoration.

Joel sat across from her. Fidgeted. She lifted her fork.

He cleared his throat. “If it’s bad, don’t lie.”

She tasted it. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then looked him dead in the eye and said, “Joel. This is amazing.”

He blinked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re smilin’.”

“Because it’s good!”

He gave her a long, skeptical look.

She twirled her fork through another bite. “It’s warm. It has flavor. That’s more than I can say for anything we’ve eaten in weeks. You didn’t burn it. There’s no ash. And I didn’t chip a tooth.”

Joel smirked. “High bar.”

“I’m serious,” she said, softer now. “You did good.”

Something in his chest unwound. They ate slowly. Talked quietly.

She asked about the patrol routes he used to run with Tommy before winter made everything unpredictable. He asked about how the pregnant mare was doing—restless, cranky, almost definitely a boy. She teased him about the crooked shelf in the hallway, and he told her how Ellie once filled it with jars of dead insects as a prank.

They drank two fingers of wine each—her idea of moderation—and halfway through her second glass, she looked at him and said,

“You built this table, right? Ellie mentioned it.”

He nodded. “Got tired of eatin’ hunched over the counter.”

Her gaze softened, “You built this for her, didn’t you?”

Joel stilled. Didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly, “Yeah. Thought she deserved better.”

She reached across the table and laid her hand on his.

“You deserve better.”

Joel looked at her hand. Then at her. And said, “I don’t know how to do this.”

She squeezed his fingers. “You’re doing it.”

Joel looked down at their hands. His thumb brushed her wrist slowly.

“This ain’t how I used to be,” he said.

“I know.”

“Wasn’t soft. Wasn’t... kind.”

“I know that too.”

“But I want to be,” he said. “With you.”

Her breath hitched.

They sat like that for a while, fork abandoned in tomato-stained bowls, the fire cracking low behind them, and Johnny Cash still humming from the corner like the world was trying to lull them into believing it wasn’t broken anymore.

She stood up. Walked around the table. Joel turned in his chair, looking up at her. She sat on his lap without asking. He wrapped his arms around her waist like he’d been waiting for it all night.

She kissed him—soft, slow, with that kind of certainty that made time slow down. He kissed her back like it was the only thing that still made sense.

And as the snow fell softly outside, and the fire died low behind them, Joel Miller rested his forehead against hers and whispered,

“I don’t want this to end.”

She whispered back, “It doesn’t have to. I want this. I want you”

The second she said it, something changed behind Joel’s eyes.

Like a switch flipped. Like the dam cracked open after months of barely holding.

He kissed her again—harder this time. Like he meant it. Like he’d been starving for it. And he had.

His hands gripped her hips like he didn’t know whether to pull her closer or crush her, but god, he needed her close. He needed to feel her. The solid weight of her in his lap. The warmth of her thighs wrapped around him. The way her fingers fisted in his shirt like she didn’t ever wanna let go.

She gasped into his mouth when he rolled his hips up. He growled.

“Jesus, baby,” he breathed. “You got any idea what you do to me?”

Her only answer was a moan—soft, breathy, and so fucking desperate it made Joel’s cock twitch.

He kissed down her neck, dragging his mouth slowly along her jaw, then down to the hollow of her throat. She tilted her head for him without thinking, baring it like she wanted to be marked. Wanted to be taken.

Joel groaned low. “You’re killin’ me.”

He stood—lifted her clean off his lap like she weighed nothing, one arm braced under her thighs. She gasped again, arms flying around his neck, legs instinctively locking at his waist.

“I got you,” he rasped. “Always got you, baby.”

He carried her up the stairs, boots thudding heavy against the wood. She could feel the tension in him—his hands trembling slightly where they held her, his breathing shallow like he was trying not to lose it too fast.

She’d never seen him like this. So unguarded. So hungry.

He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot, stepped inside, and set her down on the bed like she was breakable.

Then just looked at her. Long and quiet. Like he needed a second to believe she was really there.

That she wanted this. Wanted him.

“Joel,” she whispered, voice shaking.

He reached out and cupped her cheek.

“You say the word,” he said roughly. “And I’ll stop.”

She shook her head. “I don’t wanna stop.”

His jaw clenched. Hard. Like he was holding back years of need.

“You sure, baby? You know I’m older. You know I’m not—fuck—I’m not gentle. Not all the time. Not when I want it this bad.”

She leaned into his palm. And kissed his hand.

“I don’t want gentle,” she said. “I want you.”

And that? That broke him.

Joel kissed her like a starving man. Like he was trying to memorize her. His hands pushed up under her sweater, palms rough as they traced over her waist, her ribs, up to her bra. He groaned when he felt her breasts beneath the fabric, full and warm under his hands.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Look at you. Goddamn. You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

She whined softly when his thumbs brushed her nipples, already hard beneath the lace.

He looked up at her, “Off,” he said.

She raised her arms, and he pulled the sweater over her head, tossing it somewhere behind him. Then the bra. Then nothing.

Just her. Laid out on his bed like a fucking prayer.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

She went to cover herself, but he caught her wrists.

“No,” he said softly. “Don’t hide from me. Don’t you ever hide from me.”

He kissed her chest, her ribs, the curve of her stomach. Worshipped her with his mouth like he had all night.

She arched up when he took a nipple in his mouth, tongue circling it slow, then sucking just hard enough to make her gasp. One of his hands slid down between her thighs, still covered by denim, and he groaned when he felt how warm she was.

“Fuck. You’re burning up.”

She squirmed, and he growled.

“Tell me what you need, baby.”

“You,” she whispered. “Need you to touch me.”

He sat back on his heels and dragged her jeans down her legs, slow, savoring it. The way her thighs shook.

The way her breath hitched when he reached the edge of her panties. Lace. Black. His fucking weakness.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

He pulled them down, slow and reverent. And when she was bare for him, all flushed and wet and ready—

He just stared. Then let out a broken groan.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice gravel and heat, “you’re soaked.”

She blushed, but he was already leaning in.

“Been thinkin’ about this since I laid eyes on you,” he said, kissing her inner thigh. “Wonderin’ what you sound like when I put my mouth on this pretty pussy.”

She gasped.

“Guess I’m about to find out.”

He dragged his tongue through her folds, slow at first. Just a taste. Then another.

Then his mouth was on her—firm, hungry, good. His tongue lapped at her clit, slow and steady, until her back arched and her hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands.

“Fuck, Joel—”

He groaned against her. “That’s it. Let me hear you, baby. Let me taste how good I make you feel.”

She was already shaking, thighs trembling, voice breaking apart with every swipe of his tongue. He sucked gently, then harder, then eased a finger inside her—slow, careful, thick and perfect.

“Shit,” she cried. “Oh my god—”

Joel smiled against her.

“Thought about this every night since that night in the barn, you up against me—holding that knife against my throat,” he said, voice thick. “Thought about you spread out for me. Drippin’. Beggin’. Let me hear it, baby. Don’t hold back.”

She came with a cry, thighs clenching around his head, hands gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles ached.

Joel didn’t stop until she was gasping. Didn’t stop until she was trembling. Didn’t stop until she was his.

He kissed her thigh one last time. Then crawled up over her, kissing her again—this time deep and slow, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“You still sure?” he whispered. “’Cause if I take you now, baby, I’m not lettin’ you go.”

She pulled him in.

“Take me,” she said. “I’m already yours.”

Joel growled.

Ripped his shirt off in one motion. She gasped—Jesus, he had scars and solid heat and muscle, and somehow still soft in the places that mattered. The kind of body built for surviving. The kind of body she wanted over her.

He undid his jeans, cock thick and heavy in his hand, already leaking. He lined up with her, but didn’t push in yet—just rubbed the tip through her slick folds, watching her face.

“Look at me,” he said.

She did. And he pushed in. Slow. Thick. Stretching.

“Fuck, baby— so tight,” he groaned. “Takin’ me so good. Shit. That feel good?”

She nodded, eyes wide, mouth parted. “S-so good, Joel—feels so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” he rasped, hips grinding in deeper. “You want it slow, baby? Or you want me to fuck you like I’ve been dyin’ to?”

“Fuck me,” she said.

And that was it. Joel snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt.

She cried out, and he moaned like she’d just saved him.

His thrusts were hard, deep, controlled—like he was holding back a tidal wave, but barely.

“You feel that?” he growled. “Feel how deep I am? No one’s ever touched you like this. No one.”

She could barely breathe, let alone respond.

He pinned her wrists above her head, held them there with one hand, and fucked her deeper.

“I’ve been starvin’ for this,” he said against her throat. “You. This pussy. The way you fuckin’ whimper when I—fuck—yeah, just like that.”

She came again, harder this time.

Came around him, clenching so tight he had to bite his own lip to keep from losing it.

“Good girl,” he groaned. “Goddamn. So good for me. So fuckin’ good.”

She was shaking, body limp, but still whispering his name like a prayer.

Joel slowed down. Softened. Kissed her face. Her jaw. Her neck.

“Baby,” he said, voice breaking, “I can’t—I’m not gonna last. Not with you squeezin’ me like this—”

“Inside,” she whispered. “Please, Joel. Come inside me.”

And that? That ended him.

He buried his face in her neck and came hard, hips stuttering, voice a low, broken growl against her skin.

They laid like that for a long time. Panting. Sweating. Holding.

Joel stayed inside her until he softened, kissing her cheek, her hair, her shoulder.

Then pulled out carefully. She winced.

He kissed her again. “I got you. I’ll clean you up, baby. Just lay there.”

She did. And when he came back with a warm cloth and a glass of water, she looked at him like she was already half in love. Maybe more than half.

Joel tucked her into his side and kissed her forehead.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be here.”

And she believed him. Because for once, Joel Miller wasn’t running.

He was home.

[gallusrostromegalus]

I am constantly procrastinating working on my original fic by writing fanfic. Any advice for how to refocus and finish my novel?

Well. The novel probably needs a nap.

Procrastinating is a symptom that something is preventing you from doing the thing you "should" be doing. Most of the time it's an unrelated, but actually higher priority task like resting after an illness (society is fucking lying about anything else being more important) or filing your taxes (actually this one is pretty important).

...but if you're procrastinating on one creative project with another creative project, you're not procrastinating: something about the novel is off right now, the fanfic is more appealing to you.

Consider the following:

You may be writing fic because it brings you more joy than the novel. If you really want to get back to the novel, figure out what would make working on it more enjoyable. Engagement from a beta-editor? Skipping this really boring scene and coming back to it later? Adding more smut?

You may also be writing fic because it's got a lower spoon coat than the novel and you need to conserve your spoons right now. Any extra stress in your life? Moving? Toothache? Recovering from Covid? Annoying roommate? Sick family member? It's an election year? ANY of those could soak up extra spoons and make your novel too expensive for your spoons budget. Let it take a nap, and come back when you're feeling better.

You may be sharpening your artistic skills on a lower-stakes project before going back to the novel. This is pretty normal- even Michaelangelo took breaks to work on other pieces while sculpting The David, both for a change of pace and so he could try something out without fucking up the big block.

Fortunately, you're writing, so you can always try writing the challenging scene a dozen times in different docs or save the parts that were good but don't not in a spare parts bucket doc.

Or keep working on that fic, it's helping you learn on a subconscious level.

You don't love the novel right now. This is alright. This is usually temporary, and the solution is the same- put it aside and work on something else.

Maybe you are just bored of the novel. That's fine and normal, you just save all the documents to your hard drive and come back later. When the fic inevitably gets boring too, you'll come back to the novel and either go "oh hey this kicks ass!" And return to it with renewed enthusiasm.

...Or you'll come back to it and go "oh. This is actually a piece of shit" And that's okay too, because there's nothing more useless than polishing a turd, but that turd is still valuable as compost. You learned things writing it, and you can still rifle through the novel for good lines or scenes or turns of phrase and put those in your spare parts doc to ferment into The Good Shit in the back of your mind.

HOWEVER:

If you are experiencing a different phenomenon wherein you are actively distressed while writing the fic- either out of misplaced guilt, or the fic isn't actually fun you just feel compelled to do something, or absolutely every creative endeavor is stressing you out, you may be experiencing a serious mental or physical health issue and you should see your GP or a specialist ASAP. Pain is an indicator that something is wrong. Do not ignore your body's warning light.

That sounds really dramatic and hyperbolic but realizing I was not enjoying ANY creative work was the symptom that finally got me to sit down and go "huh. All these random pains, irregular sleep cycle, frequent migraines and weird bouts of vertigo aren't normal either, I should get this looked at." And it turned out I had dangerously low blood oxygen at night from undiagnosed sleep apnea. I have a CPAP machine now and it's AMAZING.

I really hope this is regular artistic shuffle and not a serious health concern, but if you're experiencing creative stress AND a bunch of other shit, it may be serious.

[hoeforsuk]

Eyebrows Theory - Jamal Musiala

pairing: jamal musiala x reader

summary: you notice your boyfriend's eyebrows need a little shaping, and despite his sulking, this turns into a sweet, wholesome moment. a moment that slowly shifts... and treads into the dangerously intimate territory.

warnings: none, just pure fluff and lots of scent descriptions (because yes, I'm an obsessed sensoric)

a/n: hey, everyone! hehehe first time on #football tumblr, kinda nervous🤭 it's my first ever work in this space, so it only felt right to make it about baby deer. firstly, to celebrate him getting the number 10 shirt in Bayern, because ITS BEEN A LONG TIME COMING GODDAMNIT. and second, just BECAUSE he's so criminally underrated, and it's a violation that he doesn't have more works on this platform Disclaimer: pls don't kill me, Bambi actually has the most perfect eyebrows in football, this is just a work of fiction😭

•─────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────────────────•

"Jamal, you promised me this. You can't back down right now,” she says, her voice light with laughter as she disappears into the hallway, leaving the faintest trail of vanilla and something sweetly floral in the air — a scent that always lingered on his hoodie sleeves for hours after she wore them.

Jamal groaned like a man being led to the gallows. He reached back into the steamy bathroom with his hand and flicked off the lights, all damp curls with a towel knotted low around his waist with a stubbornness that mirrored his attitude at the moment. “Love, you know I trust you,” he calls out, reluctantly trudging after her, “but at the same time, I don’t trust you. Does that make sense?”

Too late because she was already waiting for him at the edge of their bed, wearing a plush white bathrobe that reached her knees, sleeves shoved up to her elbows, as if in preparation for some ritual. In one hand, she held a small pink razor, and in the other, a pair of tweezers that she wielded like two swords with far too much confidence.

“Jamal,” she deadpans, tilting her chin and raising her eyebrow, the demeanor that meant no arguments. “Bed. Now.”

He throws his hands up in mock defeat. “You’re abusing your powers way too much,” he mumbles, even as he obediently flops back onto the cloud-soft comforter, the navy blue one she insisted on because it reminded her of “night skies in late September.” It still smelled faintly of lavender dryer sheets and her. "And if I haven't said it enough times already, I personally don't think they're too thick."

Jamal leaned back onto the bedding with a dramatic sigh, closing his eyes as if awaiting a crucial surgery on his ACL.

"Baby, I heard you the first time, and yes, I agree, your eyebrows are perfect but just a tad bit chaotic and out of control…" she bites on the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh upon noticing a sulky expression on his boyish face. "I promise you, a few plucks and I'll be done," she cooed with a convincing tone of a mother chiding her child into another spoon of broccoli soup.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But not too thin, I wanna preserve at least 70 percent of my masculinity.”

“I’ll give you 75,” she said solemnly, climbing on top of his legs, brows knit in concentration, like a painter about to begin on a delicate canvas.

She giggles in an excited throat-deep kind that crinkles her eyes and makes her nose scrunch. “You’ll look gorgeous, trust me. And if not, well…” She shrugs, one knee carefully placed on either side of his torso as she straddles him with surgeon-level focused look. “We’ll draw them back on with my brow pencil. I’ve done worse things to you.”

Jamal opens one eye. “That’s not really comforting.”

She ignores him, tugging a soft cotton headband over his hairline. He watches her, something soft melting in his chest, as she pushes her own still-wet hair behind her ear — droplets escaping and falling onto his bare chest, cool against his skin. She smells like their shared body wash, all warm honey and clean skin. Her hands are gentle but practiced as she brushes his brows with a spoolie brush, her thumb resting on his temple.

“I can't believe you’re really going through with this,” he murmurs, watching her face so close to his.

“Shush. You let me pick your sneakers for you, choose your cologne, and steal half of your hoodies. This is the logical next step,” she says, without missing a beat, tongue poking slightly out in concentration as she reaches for the tweezers.

The tiny pinch makes him flinch. “Ouch, woman!”

“Oh please, that was one hair. Man up.” She grins, wicked and loving the current situation she ended up in.

He watches her above him — the slight crease between her brows when she focuses, the way her lips purse when she’s being precise, the soft dip in her collarbone exposed by the robe’s loose neckline. Her presence is so close, her weight grounding, her touch familiar. There’s music playing faintly from her phone in the corner — something slow, something in Spanish that neither of them fully understand but pretend to anyway, with their 'un poco Español'.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, pausing mid-tweeze.

Jamal shakes his head, smile lazy, eyes heavy with affection. “Just thinking how I’m letting you ruin my face and still think I am the luckiest man on Earth.”

She softens — visibly, palpably — and rests the tweezers down for a beat. Her hands settle on his shoulders, fingers warm and damp from the steam still clinging to their skin.

“You already have a perfect face,” she whispers, tilting forward to press a featherlight kiss just between his brows. “I’m just helping you reach next level.”

Jamal hums, sliding his hands up her thighs beneath the robe, resting them gently there, thumb brushing slow circles. A moment of locked eyes passes, a beat too long. “Weren't you supposed to be doing my brows, love?”

She leans closer, water droplets from her hair dripping slightly on his collarbone.

“I was,” she says, voice quieter now, breath warm on his face. “But you’re making it hard to focus.”

The moment stretches — warm and sweet and a little breathless — like the way Sundays feel before the sun comes out, like the feel of fresh bedsheets and tangled legs with someone you know so well that they start feeling like home.

She doesn’t move for a while, just looks down at him, fingers tracing lightly from his Adam's apple down to his neck. Jamal stays perfectly still, letting her hover above him, feeling the beat of her heart through the robe, the weight of her presence in every sense. The lights are soft, and her scent of vanilla still hangs in the air.

Neither of them speak, not for a long minute. Because they don’t need to. Everything’s already being said in the space between a drip of water on skin, the slow press of knees into the mattress, the lazy roll of a finger on a thigh.

Eventually, she smirks, poking his chest playfully. “So. Still don’t trust me?”

Jamal grins, fingers tightening around her legs. “Not at all.”

She finishes the final stroke on Jamal’s left brow, squinting with satisfaction. She leans back on his thighs to admire her handiwork — her robe slipping slightly open at the collar, oblivious to the visual effect it has on him.

“There,” she says, gently putting the tweezers and razor aside like precious surgical tools. “You survived.”

Jamal raises an eyebrow — perfectly shaped now. His eyes, unbeknownst to her, drop down to her cleavage, as he mutters. “Barely.”

She smirks, leaning down to kiss the spot she plucked last. “Don’t be dramatic. You look hot. Even hotter than before, if that’s even possible.”

He rolls his eyes, trying to keep a straight face, but the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. She notices.

Before he can get up and retreat to the safety of his own post-shower business, she catches his chin with her fingers of one hand, and stops his chest with the other. “Not so fast, sir. We’re not done here yet.”

He groans. “Nooo…”

She’s already squeezing out aloe vera gel into her palm. “No backing out. You said ‘yes’ when you agreed to full care.”

“I thought you meant only plucking,” he complains dramatically, but Jamal still lets her push him back to the pillows, trapping him between her knees again. His towel is still wrapped around his waist, but now it feels increasingly fragile, as he feels the knot loosen.

She spreads the gel gently across his cheeks, thumbs massaging in slow circles. His skin is still warm from the shower. “Your pores are open. Perfect time.”

“You sound way too happy about that.”

She laughs, and it sends a ripple of heat through him. The pads of her fingers press gently beneath his eyes, smoothing the gel upward with practiced precision.

As she works, she studies his face in quiet admiration — long lashes that curl unfairly for a man, brows now clean and regal, already sun-kissed and glowing skin. Her gaze latches on his lips, parted slightly as he breathes, soft and full. She swallows.

“Pretty boy,” she murmurs, not even realizing she said it aloud.

Jamal doesn’t respond, but a slow-blooming heat spreads across his chest, almost reaching his cheeks. His throat tightens slightly — not from her touch, but from what it does to him. He wants to kiss her then and there, but he knows better. He just smiles lazily, letting her finish her ministrations, soaking in her scent and the warmth of her thighs brushing his sides.

She pulls away, fingers lightly tapping away the remnants of a moisturizer on his forehead. “Alright. Your torture is officially over.”

“I don’t know…” he drawls sleepily. “I think I'm already missing it.”

She tilts her head, grinning. “Weirdo.”

He smirks but doesn’t deny it.

Jamal almost feels disappointed, when he feels her get up to proceed with her own body-care. They settle into a comfortable rhythm in the cozy hum of shared bedroom. She moves to her side of the bed, lotioning her legs with smooth, practiced strokes. Jamal busies himself, fighting with his damp curls in front of the mirror, sneaking glances at her when she’s not looking — or at least, when he thinks she doesn’t notice.

The scent of her body oil fills the room — something warm, amber-sweet and floral, catching the glow of her skin in the bedside lamp’s soft halo. She hums some melody faintly, rubbing the shimmer into her collarbones, then over the curve of her hips. Jamal stares just a beat too long.

He’s composed on the outside, but there’s a slow, steady fire building in his chest, his gut tightening with every graceful movement she makes. She’s not doing it to tease. That’s the worst part — this is just her being herself. Beautiful, unbothered, unaware of how devastatingly breathtaking she casually looks in the haze of their room.

“What kind of oil is that?” he says, voice casual as he sets his brush down.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hmm? Oh, it’s that Moroccan rose and honey one you got me from the boutique in München. Remember?”

He nods, slowly strolling closer to their bed, pretending to think.

“I wonder if it’s edible, though,” he says off-handedly.

She turns to look at him, brows furrowed slightly. “What?”

He shrugs, stopping just in front of her, eyes fixed on her collarbone now glistening under the oil. “I’m just curious. Like, purely hypothetically.”

There’s a beat. She blinks, mouth parting as realization sets in, corner of her lip twitching upwards.

“What are you—”

“I mean, I just wonder…” Jamal cuts in, voice dropping an octave, “if it tastes as good as it smells…”

Her breath catches.

The moment shifts. The air stretches — warm, thick, buzzing. Her hands pause, over her thigh and his gaze lingers there. “I hate you,” she whispers, her intrigued smile contrasting her words, eyes narrowing, but the way her breath flutters betrays her.

“Nah, you don't. You love me,” he says, taking the bottle from her hand and setting it aside with exaggerated care.

"Remind me to never groom your eyebrows again, it seems to have broken your libido mechanisms."

He chuckles leaning in close enough to brush his lips just near her jaw, his breath feathering against her ear. Her skin is glowing, the light from the bedside lamp casting golden shadows across her chest, the hollow of her throat, her shoulders…

“Shall we test the theory?”

[maincharactermuse]

The one where there is a third date (and a morning after.) (8)

(Find my masterlist here)

The kitchen smelled incredible - rich, warm, something tomato-based simmering low on the stove. She sat perched on the edge of the marble counter, legs swinging slightly, a glass of red wine balanced in one hand.

Harry stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, focused on stirring the pot like his life depended on it.

She dipped the spoon into the sauce when he wasn’t looking, tasting a little mouthful with a mischievous grin.

“Oi,” he said, turning just in time to catch her in the act. “There’s gonna be nothing left by the time it hits the plate.”

She grinned, licking her lip. “If it’s that good, you should be flattered.”

“I am flattered,” he said, mock-defensive. “But also deeply stressed. You set the bar unfairly high last week.”

She rolled her eyes. “Stop. That tart you made for dessert was, like, Michelin star level. I almost proposed.”

He smirked and moved closer, still holding the spoon, resting it carefully on a dish beside the stove. “Dangerous words,” he said under his breath, voice low as he came to stand between her knees.

Her breath caught slightly as he gently nudged her legs open and stepped into the space, hands coming to rest softly on her thighs. She instinctively set the wine glass down beside her and leaned in just as he did, and their mouths met in a slow, easy kiss.

She sighed into it, arms wrapping loosely around his neck as his hands slid up her waist, the warmth of him so close it made her pulse skip.

The kiss deepened naturally, languid and warm, their bodies pulling closer without thought. His fingers curled slightly at her sides, thumbs tracing soft circles beneath the hem of her sweater.

But after a moment, he broke the kiss with a small, reluctant groan, resting his forehead against hers.

“I could do this forever,” he murmured, breath fanning over her skin. “But I’m really trying to make a good meal here.”

She laughed, head tilting back a little. “Okay, okay. Duty calls.”

“Damn right,” he said, stealing one more peck before slipping out from between her legs and returning to the stove. “But just so we’re clear, I’m counting on dessert being a joint effort.”

She hopped down from the counter, brushing against his side as she moved. “That depends,” she said, her tone teasing, “on how well you do with the entrée.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her with a smirk. “Pressure’s on, then.”

And though she laughed, something about the way he looked at her - warm, soft, just a little wanting - told her he was reading the space between their words just as clearly as she was.

By the time they made it to the table, the kitchen was heavy with the scent of roasted garlic, simmered tomatoes, fresh basil, and just the right amount of char on the crusty bread Harry had insisted on warming up “the proper way.”

She settled into her chair, tucking one leg beneath her, still glowing from the kitchen kiss - and maybe from the wine, but mostly from how easy everything felt with him.

He came around with two plates, carefully setting one in front of her, then his own. “There,” he said, straightening up with a small satisfied grin. “A very humble attempt at recreating the masterpiece we had at that place in Hackney.”

She looked down at the bowl - the same type of hand-cut pappardelle, ribbons curled delicately in a slow-simmered tomato ragu, finished with a generous dusting of parmesan. A sprig of basil nestled on top.

“You remembered,” she said, smile growing as she reached for her fork.

“‘Course I remembered,” he said, sitting down opposite her. “You were basically glowing the whole time you were eating it. I knew I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t try to match it.”

She forked up a bite and tasted it with a quiet, thoughtful hum.

“Well?” he asked, eyebrows lifted in anticipation.

Her lips twitched. “Might actually be better.”

He gave her a narrow-eyed look. “Now that is dangerous talk.”

“I mean it,” she said between bites. “You nailed the sauce. It’s got that… richness but without being too heavy. And the pasta’s got a bite- did you make it from scratch?”

“I did,” he said proudly. “Even used the fancy semolina flour.”

“Look at you,” she said, impressed. “Musician, actor, chef… anything you can’t do?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said smoothly, then immediately chuckled at his own cheesiness, holding a hand up. “Sorry. That was a terrible line. I take it back.”

She laughed, covering her mouth with her napkin. “No, no. Keep it. That one’s going in the quote vault.”

“Oh, brilliant. Now I’ll be haunted by it.”

Their plates steadily emptied between easy conversation, their voices dipping into that soft, familiar tone that always seemed to find them when it was just the two of them. They talked about food and work, travel dreams and odd habits - like how she secretly loved reorganizing bookshelves when no one was watching.

At one point, he reached across to wipe a smear of sauce off her cheek with his thumb, completely without thinking. She froze for a second - not out of discomfort, but from the intimacy of it. The casualness. It wasn’t the first time he’d touched her tonight, not even close, but something about the gentleness of that moment made her heart tighten.

She leaned her chin into her palm and watched him for a second as he refilled both their wine glasses.

“What?” he asked, catching her gaze.

“Nothing,” she said softly. “Just… I really like this.”

His expression softened. “Me too.”

They lingered at the table long after the plates had been cleared. At some point, she’d padded into the kitchen to help with dishes, and he’d wrapped his arms around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder, hands fitting naturally over hers as she rinsed a bowl.

Now, with the lights low and music playing faintly from a speaker in the corner, they’d made their way to the couch, wine glasses back in hand.

She sat cross-legged, curled up beside him, her shoulder brushing his with every laugh. At one point, she laughed so hard she knocked into his side, and he took the opportunity to pull her closer, his arm draping around her with easy affection.

She leaned into it, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“You’re really comfortable,” she murmured.

He arched a brow. “Is that… a compliment?”

“It is,” she said with a small nod. “Third date, and I don’t feel like I have to pretend to be anything else. It’s nice.”

His smile dimmed to something more thoughtful - not serious, just weighted in the way he looked at her.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly. “I like who you are.”

A silence fell between them then, not awkward, just dense with that familiar energy they’d been circling since the first time their hands had brushed.

She shifted slightly, lifting a hand to brush a lock of his hair behind his ear. “I feel like I’ve known you longer than I have.”

He turned toward her then, shifting just enough so that their knees knocked gently, so that he could fully see her face. His hand moved to her cheek, thumb brushing lightly along her jaw.

“You look really beautiful tonight,” he said, almost a whisper.

Her breath caught just slightly, and for a moment, she just looked at him, as if waiting for something to pass between them - confirmation, courage, certainty.

And then she leaned forward, closing the space.

The kiss started slow — soft and sure. But it deepened quickly, familiarity and newness folding together in the way her hands moved to his shoulders, the way his settled at her waist, anchoring her.

She shifted closer, until she was practically in his lap, and his hands slid up her back, one finding the base of her neck. Their mouths moved in sync, tongues tasting gently, reverently - heat curling low in her belly at how careful and intentional he was, never rushed, never assuming.

When they finally pulled apart, she was a little breathless, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile spreading across her lips.

“I could kiss you all night,” she murmured.

“Funny,” he said, voice low and a little rasped, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

His thumb brushed along her jaw again, eyes locked on hers like she was the only thing in the room. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly, his voice lower now, more grounded. “You want to keep going?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’m so sure.”

Then, with a soft, amused tilt to her head, she glanced downward - the heat of her body nestled into his lap making the situation pretty undeniable. Her brows lifted slightly, lips curving with a teasing smile.

“I think you’re sure too.”

He groaned, half-embarrassed, half-laughing. “That’s… yeah. Okay. Embarrassing.”

She leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “It’s not. I’m not offended.” She shifted in his lap, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt at his back, skin meeting skin. Her voice dropped, quieter now, but steady. “I’d really like to go to your bedroom.”

His breath caught. That was all it took.

He stood slowly, guiding her up with him, hands gentle but sure. They didn’t rush - not yet. He took her hand and led her down the hallway, the two of them half-laughing at how her socked feet slipped on the wooden floor, how she clung to his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

———————————————————————————

His bedroom was quiet, warm. The kind of soft lighting that fell across walls like moonlight. As they stepped inside, there was a charged stillness - a shared breath.

Then he kissed her again. This time slower. Deeper. More like promise than invitation.

Clothes were discarded between soft laughter and quiet gasps, pieces falling like leaves behind them. He treated her like something sacred, fingertips memorizing, not claiming. Her hands in his hair, her knees pressed to the edge of the bed, his lips everywhere she needed them to be.

The rhythm of their bodies came naturally - no awkward stumbles, only pauses to look at each other like they were still surprised this was real. It wasn’t about perfection. It was about connection - warmth and want and vulnerability all wrapped into one moment where they chose each other again and again.

And when they finally stilled - breaths tangled, limbs loose and tangled, hearts beating in sync - there was silence for just a moment.

Then, both at once:

“Wow.”

They looked at each other, blinking, and broke into laughter, limbs shaking gently with it.

She tucked herself into the crook of his arm, letting the weight of the moment settle.

His fingers threaded through her hair, slow and absent, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “I really, really like you.”

She tilted her head up slightly. “You’re okay.”

He gasped, overly dramatic. “Wow. Geez. Just absolutely hitting me where it hurts.”

She giggled into his chest. “I’m joking.”

“Better be.”

She nudged her nose into his collarbone, voice softening. “I really like you too. I’m so happy you came into the café that first time.”

He smiled against her temple. “And I’m so happy you flirted with me.”

Her head popped up. “I did not flirt.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She groaned. “Why does everyone keep saying I flirted?”

“Because,” he said, lips curving again, “you totally did.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling. And he just kept looking at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was really here.

Wrapped in each other, they drifted - not just into sleep, but into something more settled. The kind of quiet that only comes when things feel exactly right.

———————————————————————————

group chat: the coven 🔮

Y/N

currently hiding in his bathroom

…to say I may have just had the best sex of my entire life

that is all

send thoughts and electrolytes

Noor

OH MY GOD

how many stars??

scale of 1 to rebirth?

Grace

Bathroom texting = serious

Was it soft?? Was it hot?? Was there music playing??

WAS THERE AFTERCARE?? 👀

Y/N

all of the above

Noor

Hello?? That’s it

You are never allowed to ghost us like this again.

Grace

Y/N

You can’t end it there

Y/N!

Noor

She’s gone

live your dream, queen 💅

———————————————————————————

The morning light bled in through the bedroom blinds in pale strokes, catching dust in golden halos. The sheets were warm, tangled. Her cheek was smushed into the pillow, the scent of him still clinging to the fabric. She stirred slightly as something - someone - pressed a kiss to the top of her head, warm and gentle. But she was still somewhere between dreams and waking, and all she did was murmur something incoherent and bury her face deeper.

Harry paused there a moment longer, standing by the bed. The blanket had slipped down her back in the night, and the morning light kissed across the top of her bare shoulder, her collarbone, the elegant slope of her spine. His hoodie was draped over a chair nearby, discarded during some late-night laughter. He nearly grabbed it, but didn’t. Not yet.

She looked beautiful. Like… achingly so. Sleep-soft and peaceful. Her lips slightly parted, hair a mess, one hand curled into the pillow like she was still holding onto something.

He sighed, reluctant, but habit tugged at him. Mornings were his thing - movement, fresh air, head cleared. So he leaned down once more, another brush of lips to her forehead, this time softer, like a silent promise. Then he forced himself to go.

By the time her eyes blinked open, the sun was higher and the room had shifted from golden to warm white. She stretched slowly, turning onto her back and immediately noticed the bed was empty. Her brows drew together faintly. She reached out to the other side. Cold.

Frowning slightly, she sat up and scanned the room. No sound of the shower running. No footsteps from downstairs. Her heart didn’t exactly leap into panic, but… it did twist a little.

Was it too much? Did he wake up and think differently about everything?

She got up slowly, grabbing the first thing she saw: his hoodie. It swallowed her as she pulled it on, the hem brushing her bare thighs, sleeves covering her hands. She padded out to the hallway quietly, peeking into the living space. Still no sign of him.

She told herself not to overthink it. But her fingers nervously twisted the cuffs of his sleeves anyway.

That’s when the front door opened.

She startled slightly, backing up instinctively a step - and then there he was, stepping in, cheeks a little flushed from the cool morning, hair tucked under a beanie, holding a tray of coffee cups and a paper bag that smelled suspiciously like heaven.

“Hey,” he said, pausing when he saw her. She looked… soft. Rumpled and still half-asleep, his hoodie swamping her, legs bare. Her eyes were wide, uncertain.

“Everything okay?” he asked gently, stepping closer.

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Yeah. I just… woke up and you weren’t here, and-” She trailed off, clearly unsure if she was allowed to say what she was really feeling. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t know where you were.”

His face softened as he crossed the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.” He held up the coffee tray. “Went for a jog. Stopped by the café. Ryan and Lucia said this one’s your favourite.”

He offered the bag toward her. She took it slowly, fingers brushing his. She didn’t say anything for a second - just looked at him with a slightly shy, sleepy expression that made his chest feel warm.

His hand found her waist, the fabric of the hoodie bunching slightly under his touch. “You sure you’re okay?”

She looked up at him, eyes a little clearer now. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

He dipped down to kiss her softly - slow, a little lingering, as if to reassure her all over again.

They moved to the couch with their pastries and coffee, legs brushing under the blanket she pulled over them. Her body slowly eased, the nerves falling away as the warmth settled in again.

“So,” he said after a few quiet bites, “we’ve officially passed the third date milestone.”

“Oh?” she said, raising a brow, sipping from her coffee. “And what does that mean?”

“It means,” he said seriously, “I’m now contractually obligated to always bring you baked goods when I disappear in the morning.”

She smirked. “Mmm. Noted.”

“Also,” he added, “you looked beautiful sleeping.”

She blushed, ducking her head. “Don’t say that. I probably had, like, pillow lines and drool-”

“Nope,” he said, grinning. “Just perfect.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, and her foot nudged his under the blanket.

The morning unfolded softly from there. No pressure. No rush. Just two people easing into something real, something that felt more and more like home.

———————————————————————————

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked softly, crouching in front of her with one hand braced on the armrest. His curls were damp from the shower he’d taken post-run, a few tendrils clinging to his forehead, and she noticed how he still hadn’t caught his breath completely.

“I’m fine,” she nodded, then grinned, tilting her head slightly. “Though, it’s kind of a shame you weren’t there when I woke up.”

Harry blinked, caught a little off guard. “What do you mean?”

She bit her lip, eyes dancing. “Oh, nothing. Just thought maybe… you might’ve preferred a different form of cardio this morning.”

He stared at her for a beat, lips parting just slightly. Then his eyebrows shot up, and he let out a sharp laugh. “Miss L/N,” he said, exaggerating his poshest tone. “The profanity at this hour.”

She sipped from the coffee he’d brought her, feigning innocence. “What? I’m just saying, that pasta last night wasn’t the only thing that blew my mind.”

He choked on his own coffee and narrowed his eyes at her, grinning despite himself. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Mmm,” she hummed, dragging a bite from the pastry. “You’re just slow.”

Harry stood back up and leaned over the back of the couch, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “Slow, but sweet,” he said into her hair, his voice lower now, tender. “Wouldn’t want to rush a good thing.”

They sat like that for a moment - him hovering over her, her leaning back just slightly into his warmth - before she reached out, fingers catching the hem of his shirt, tugging him toward the bathroom.

“Shower?” she asked casually, like it wasn’t anything new, even though both their stomachs fluttered with the newness of it all.

He didn’t say anything, just smiled, and let her lead.

———————————————————————————

The bathroom filled with steam as the shower hummed to life. She leaned against the sink, still in his hoodie, fingers absently tracing the edge of the porcelain while Harry adjusted the temperature behind the curtain of fog.

He turned, lifting an eyebrow at her. “You planning on standing there all morning looking that smug, or…?”

She grinned and stepped forward, peeling the hoodie over her head in one slow motion. His gaze dropped, just briefly, and then returned to her face - reverent, not ravenous. Like he was still surprised she was real.

“You’re staring,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” he replied, no apology in it.

They stepped in together - careful, close, steam curling around their shoulders. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about lust. Not anymore. It was him reaching for her shampoo without asking. Her tipping her head back, trusting him to rinse the soap from her hair. Quiet laughs when water ran into her eyes. The curve of her back pressed to his chest as his arms wrapped around her waist from behind.

And when she turned to face him, her fingers tracing the water dripping from his jaw, he kissed her like he had all the time in the world.

Later, wrapped in towels and warm skin, they padded back into the bedroom. Her wet hair left little crescent moons of damp on his T-shirt, now draped over her shoulders. He tossed his beanie at the laundry basket and missed by about two metres.

She raised a brow. “Athlete of the year.”

He flopped onto the bed, arms behind his head. “You’re just jealous of my form.”

She climbed in beside him, curling one leg over his and resting her chin on his chest. “So what’s next?”

His fingers found the small of her back. “Next?”

“Yeah,” she said, eyes curious. “Is there, like… a post-third-date itinerary I should know about? Fourth date protocol? Do we go apple picking now or get matching tattoos or something?”

Harry laughed. “God, you’re chaotic in the morning.”

She smiled, then softened. “But really. What happens now?”

He looked at her for a long moment - not in a heavy way, but with a kind of stillness. His hand slid up, fingers brushing her damp hair back behind her ear. “We keep going,” he said simply. “If you want to.”

She searched his face for any flicker of doubt, and found none.

“I do,” she said, voice quiet.

His thumb brushed her cheek. “Good. Because I’m not ready for this to be a one-off.”

She leaned forward and kissed him - soft and sure.

When they finally rolled out of bed again, hair half-dried and faces glowing with that slightly smug look of two people who’d had a very good night, she found her phone buzzing on the nightstand. Two missed messages.

———————————————————————————

group chat: the coven 🔮

Grace

Are you alive or did you actually dissolve into a puddle of orgasm and steam???

Noor

Blink twice if you’re being held hostage in a man’s hoodie.

(We approve either way.)

Y/N

still alive

hydrated

recently shampooed

will report back in full detail later

xo

Grace

Ffs I have work and you’re out here living my dream.

Noor

I’d be mad but also

🕯️ blessings to your loins 🕯️

———————————————————————————

Nana

Hi baby

Just checking in.

Is that boy still being good to you?

Y/N

Hi Nana 💛

He brought me coffee this morning.

And a cinnamon pastry.

Still good.

Nana

Good man!

Don’t let him get lazy

They all get lazy if you let them.

Y/N

😂 I won’t.

Promise!

Nana

Okay - im glad he’s treating you well.

Text me if he gets lazy. I’ll sort him out.

[crescent003]

The Salesman's Heart

Squid Game Master list

You were making dinner, the aroma of your favourite recipe filling the house, when he walked in, his presence unmistakable even before he stepped through the door. It had become something of a routine: him returning late after his mysterious “business trips,” his sharp suit still as crisp as it was when he left, but his demeanor different—softer, a little more distant.

"You're home," you said with a smile, turning from the stove as you stirred the pot. Your voice carried a warmth, a familiarity that only came with years of knowing someone inside and out. The smile on his face was faint but genuine, like he found peace just being with you.

He didn’t speak right away, slipping his shoes off at the door. As he walked towards you, you noticed the briefcase he was carrying, the way his fingers fidgeted with the edges, a nervous habit that had only started recently.

"Everything okay?" you asked, watching him closely.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Busy day, that’s all.”

You raised an eyebrow, your suspicion growing. There was a weight to him lately—an energy that didn’t match his usual calm, collected demeanor. He was hiding something. And you had a feeling that something had to do with the strange "sales" job he'd been keeping quiet about.

He’d never told you much about his work, only that it was a “unique opportunity” and that it was "important" to him. The business trips were frequent, and sometimes he would leave for days without a word. You didn’t press him. You trusted him. But tonight… something felt different. Maybe it was the way his eyes flickered toward you, like he was trying to make sure you weren’t going to notice something. Or maybe it was the way he hesitated just a little too long when he took his jacket off, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not you’d be able to tell.

You set the spoon down, walking over to him. "What’s going on, honey? You know you can tell me anything."

He looked at you for a long moment, and for the first time in a long while, his expression faltered. The usual mask he wore—a confident, unreadable face—slipped just enough to show a hint of vulnerability.

“I’ve been… thinking about telling you,” he murmured, his voice low, almost hesitant. “I haven’t been completely honest with you about my work. But I think it’s time you know.”

Your heart skipped a beat. This was more serious than you thought. "What do you mean?"

He sighed deeply, his eyes searching yours as if weighing something heavy in his chest. Then, in a soft whisper, he finally spoke: “I’m involved in something… dangerous. It’s called the Squid Game.”

You froze, the name hitting you like a cold wave. The rumors, the strange reports you’d heard—it all suddenly made sense. But hearing it from him, from the man you loved, made it real. Too real.

“The game,” you repeated, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’re part of it?”

He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I’m not just a player. I’m involved in the sales side of it. I’m the one who recruits people. I make sure they’re… worthy of the opportunity.”

Your stomach twisted. You’d always known that he had a level of ambition that was unmatched, but this? This was something darker. Something you couldn’t fully understand. You wanted to be angry, to shout, to demand answers. But you couldn’t. Not yet. You could only search his face, trying to find the man you’d married—the man who, in your heart, you knew was capable of kindness.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you whispered, your voice cracking just slightly.

He swallowed hard, guilt flashing across his features. “I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want you to think… that I was caught up in something I couldn’t get out of. I thought I could protect you from it. But now—” He trailed off, looking almost ashamed. “Now, I don’t know if I can.”

You reached for his hand, gripping it tightly, as if holding onto the man you knew could still be there beneath the cold exterior. “You’re still you, right?” Your voice was steady, even though your heart was anything but.

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. But then, as if weighing the words in his mind, he pulled you closer and held you tight. “I don’t want to lose you. I’ve done things I regret, things I thought would keep us safe. But I don’t want this game anymore. I want you.”

The words felt like a balm to your soul. There was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice. He loved you—truly loved you. And in that moment, you realized he hadn’t been trying to push you away. He had been trying to protect you, from the very thing that had pulled him into its orbit.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” you said softly, your fingers tracing the outline of his jaw. “We’ll get through it together, no matter what. We always have.”

His grip on you tightened, and you felt the weight of his relief. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

“You deserve everything,” you replied, looking up into his eyes. “And you’ll get it. You just have to let go of this… this game.”

He nodded slowly, his hand reaching for yours again, as if reaffirming the unspoken promise. “I will. For you. For us.”

It wasn’t going to be easy. There were no guarantees. But in that moment, as you stood together in the quiet of your home, you knew one thing for sure: he loved you. And that was the one thing you could hold on to, no matter what darkness lay ahead.

[matsutoy]

Translation of character introductions from anime comic "Eiga no Osomatsu san"

Osomatsu

Eldest son of the Matsuno family

ver. ADULT

NEET, virgin. Miraculous idiot with the mentality of an elementary school student. Loves pachinko, horse racing and girls.

ver. age 18

Every day he runs after girls' butts and suddenly thinks to himself. What is a sextuplets? What is an eldest son? Graduation??

Karamatsu

Second son of the Matsuno family

ver. ADULT

NEET, virgin. Always immersed in his own world and trying to look cool....but no one takes him seriously.

ver. age 18

The tense atmosphere in the house frightens him. More concerned about his brothers than himself.

Choromatsu

Third son of the Matsuno family

ver. ADULT

NEET, virgin. He seems serious, but he's not. He has high self-consciousness and gets angry when someone points it out to him.

ver. age 18

The pitch of his voice, the way he walks and the way he turns is just crazy. He seems to be the only one who looks positively on those days.

Ichimatsu

Fourth son of the Matsuno family

ver. ADULT

NEET, virgin. A dangerous guy with half-closed eyes speaks in a muttering voice. He has a low opinion of himself. Loves cats.

ver. age 18

Age where he still tries to do his best in many things. He is consciously trying to get out of the circle of his brothers.

Jyushimatsu

Fifth son of the Matsuno family

ver. ADULT

NEET, virgin. He is in charge of the excitement levels and physicality. He is kind of impossible to understand.

ver. age 18

He's sharp as shit. But even he doesn't really know why. Once he lets his guard down for a second, he immediately becomes an ordinary Jyushimatsu.

Todomatsu

The youngest of the Matsuno family

ver. ADULT

NEET, virgin. He is calculating, mocking, heartless. Nickname Totty.

ver. age 18

He is very attached to his brothers and wants to remain that way after graduation. Hates change.

Totoko

ver. ADULT

A heroine with beautiful looks but an outspoken personality. She says what she thinks as it is. She is good at body blows.

ver. age 18

A heroine who has known sextuplets since childhood. She is almost crushed by the “title” that those around her have hung on her.

_________________________________________

Images taken from Bookwalker. Translated by DeepL translator and my corrections. The translation may seem a little strange, but the meaning is fine. Jyushimatsu's profile could be more incorrect (I had a little help from Chockie with it)(and I took a part of the translation from kaleidion (they translated Spoon.2Di profiles)(there was the same line)).

[aprocessionofthoughts]

Trust

part 9 of DLM ao3

After the stew was done and Danny got out of the shower they all sat down to eat. They ate in silence for a while neither one of the bats wanting to push Danny into feeling uncomfortable, but Jason had a question he wanted to ask. He probably should have asked earlier, but he’ll blame it on the shock for not thinking of it sooner.

“Hey, Danny?”

“Yeah?” Danny said, setting his spoon down.

“How did you know it was me?”

Danny tilted his head and squinted, “What do you mean?”

Jason gestured with his spoon, off to the side Dick was watching them, his gaze analytical. “I mean, how did you know the guy in a red helmet was me?”

“Oh.” Danny settled and picked up his spoon again, through a mouthful of soup he answered, “It wuz th’ same ectoplasmic signature.”

Jason stared. He glanced at Dick, but he also looked confused.

Across from them Danny paused and glanced between them warily. He stared at Dick for a moment before turning to Jason. “Like I mentioned before, we’ve both been… death touched. And when someone’s been death touched a bit of ectoplasm gets incorporated into their system, the amount of ectoplasm varies depending on the situation. But when ectoplasm binds with a person it develops its own unique chemical signature. You can think of it like DNA. Ghosts and some machines can sense the differences, so when I came across Red Hood, I could sense that it was you.”

“Huh.” Jason said unable to come up with anything else in the face of discovering that he gave of what probably amounted to his own unique radioactive signal.

“And you said some machines can track this?” Dick asked. Jason was thankful that his brother was here because he wasn’t sure if he was up for asking all the necessary questions.

Danny looked hesitant again and looked at jason.

Jason nodded at him and Danny looked a little reassured.

“Yeah. There are a few. That’s how the GIW are tracking me. I don’t think they were around Jason enough to latch onto his ecto-signature so you shouldn’t need to be worried about them tracking you down. Gotham has plenty of low level ghosts so their scanners should be pretty muddled. But that’s also why I should go. My signature is stronger than the shades of Gotham and They know how to track it. I don’t want to give you any more trouble.”  Daanny wasn't looking at either of them, instead he was completely focused on stirring his stew.

Jason and Dick glanced at each other.

“Hey, Danny, look at me.” Jason said.

It took a bit, but eventually Danny looked up.”

Jason smiled slightly, “I told you I’d protect you, didn’t I?”

Danny looked away, biting his lip. “I don’t want to put you in danger.”

Jason reached across the table and placed his hand over one of Danny’s. “I’m Red Hood, kid, I can defend myself. And there are plenty of bats in Gotham who would love to help.”

“The GIW are different. They don’t care who they have to hurt to get what they want. They’ll just keep bringing in more agents until they get me.”

“Well then we’ll bring in the Justice League.” Jason said, Bruce would be okay with it if Jason told him it was to protect a kid. 

“I don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire. I won’t let you get hurt.” Danny said, shaking his head. 

Jason glanced over at his brother. Dick was always better with the emotional talk.

“We’re vigilantes Danny. We’ve been trained in defending ourselves and others.” Dick said.

“And they wouldn’t be able to take us down without causing people to go after them for attacking vigilantes.” Jason added.

Danny shook his head harder, he was staring at the table, his eyes slightly glossy. “They won’t care, they'll lie and say you were defending dangerous creatures, that you were being manipulated by evil ghosts.” Danny laughed bitterly. “Or they’ll claim you’re also contaminated and capture or exterminate you. They’ll do anything to get what they want.”

There was more to this, Jason knew. Something bad had happened to the kid, apart from the obvious scar, but now wasn’t the time to push for information. Right now, they needed to convince Danny to stay with them, to let them protect him.

Jason got up, walked around the table and crouched by Danny’s chair. “Kid, look at me.” Jason said gently. He waited till Danny did before continuing. “I know you’re scared,” Danny opened his mouth and Jason continued before he could argue, “and I know you’re worried about us getting hurt. But this is what we do. We fight to protect people. And there are a lot of powerful people on our side. And I’m sorry we haven’t been there for you before, I’m sorry we didn’t get to you in time in the past, but we’re here now. Together we can take down the GIW. Let us help you.”

Danny’s eyes started watering, and Jason reached up to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Then Jason was falling back as the kid launched himself at him. Jason held Danny as he started to sob. “I’ve got you, kid. I’ve got you.”

“Thank you.” Danny whispered as he cried. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

[obsessedwrhys]

|| RHYS DATING HEADCANONS ||

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ reader is gn, lots of fluff (I can't english but i love him, also i have low knowledge of the game lore cuz im stuck on a level 😭)

The definition of an airhead, buuuuut he has a big heart

How you guys met was when you had stumbled upon him hiding behind one of the villages houses

As it turns out he was hurt from a fight against some outlaws, so feeling bad at the sight of him trying to treat himself with one arm, you decided to help him out

Your kind gesture touched his heart which led to him frequently visiting you everytime he comes back from a dangerous trip

Just imagine you're outside sweeping the front porch and then you hear him call out your name which you look up to see him waving at you with a toothy smile

It was almost like he considered you his personal nurse as you're the one he always goes to when he's hurt anywhere

When talking to him, you found his behaviour strange since he always talked to you in a rhythmic way, but you also found it amusing

It didn't take long for Rhys to start developing feelings for you since he was very much attracted to you and enjoyed spending every second he could with you

Once he was sure he had a crush, he would start to get you pretty things he found when he's out exploring.

"Look! I got you this! 😊" He'd say with his hand holding out a beautiful yellow flower.

Loves it soso much when you thank him but if you're awkward with receiving gifts, a simple smile is enough to send him over the moon

Would definitely introduce you to his bird mount, 'Plumecharger' who took a while to finally warm up to you

Will also let you feed his bird, his hand would be guiding yours towards the beak very slowly to get them to trust you more, but secretly he was liking the feel of your hand in his

If we're talking about flirting, this man has no idea how to, his vocabulary is already struggling itself so his only way of showing love would be lots of gift gifting and spending quality time together

He had given you so much gifts that you needed to install another shelf to store them

Your personal favourite would be a flower crown he had tried to make himself, the work was a bit sloppy as some of the flower stems were poking out or been worn out from his constant struggle to tie it together. But hey, it's the thought that matters!

I'd like to think that this man would go around asking his friends how to make the first move which resulted in him getting mixed ideas

"You just gotta brag about how much of a man you are! It worked for me!"

"REALLY?!"

Cue him bragging about his criminal stint with the Quicksand Claw that you had to listen with an awkward look, because from what you heard from the other villagers, he was just there to feed the birds

After his epic failure of trying to have you fall for him, you laughed at his poor attempts and ended up being the one to confess, which had him so overjoyed he was actually jumping on his feet

While dating Rhys, he would always follow you around the village when he's not busy with his line of work

Lots of the villagers found it cute how he was always trailing behind you like a poodle. If you're buying groceries for dinner, he's willing to help you hold the basket to show you how much of a big boy he is 😼

LOVESLOVESLOVES CUDDLES

Fine with being big spoon or small spoon depending on yall's mood

He likes it especially when you're both cuddled together with Plumecharger laid down for you guys to rest your heads on, that's when you'll see him at his most vulnerable

His helmet and gears are taken off, his arms wrapped securely around you, a soft smile on his face as he's nuzzled against your chest

PLEASE PLAY WITH HIS HAIR WHEN HES SLEEPING IT MAKES HIS HEART ALL SOFT AND MUSHY

Though, he's very ticklish so if you poke him on the side he'll laugh and start a tickling war

Considering how fluffy his hair is and how he doesn't really know how to take care of it, you'll have to be the one to teach him

He melts whenever you braid some strands of his hair together, so everytime he's out on another trip, he'll run his fingers across the braids thinking about you

Now onto kisses

This man will admit to you with no shame that he has no idea how to kiss, since he never thought he would actually find someone who loves him :(

Once you teach him how to kiss, it's over for you.

Oh? You're busy cutting the veggies? KISS. Now you're trying to clean the house? KISS. You've just finished cooking his favourite meal? SHOWERS YOU WITH KISSES

Since he loves you so much, you have the honour of naming one of his terrabirds.

Without even realising, he would start to give that specific terrabird special treatment that it started to make Plumecharger jealous

Honestly, his pet names would contain just the simpler ones like baby, honey and his personal favourite, babe.

This man cares about you a lot so if you get sick or hurt, he'll drop everything he's doing just to take care of you.

"Rhys where are you going?! We have work to do!"

"Sorry! It's an emergency!" He shouts while running away from his friends.

Doesn't care if you say you're capable of taking care of yourself, he just wants to always be there for you

If you're up for it, he's willing to teach you how to ride Plumecharger, of course he'll be close-by and ready to catch you if you get knocked off or anything.

He's honestly very insecure about his laugh when around you because he's scared you'll stop loving him for it so you'll have to assure him that you love his laugh very much 🥺

If you happen to be insecure on anything about yourself, he'll shower you with even more love, he really doesn't care about your imperfections, he finds you being human more perfect than anything

Dating Rhys also includes lots of dates where you guys are either out stargazing, shopping at the market or doing self care routines together, which is his favourite.

I'd also like to add that this man is SUCH A TEASE!!!!

He likes to make you pout or beg for something so he'll be one of those people who put your things high up or hidden somewhere in the house to have you ask him for help

"Did I hear a please?" He'd said with a smug everytime.

HE ALSO DOES THAT LITTLE HEAD TILT THING LIKE IN THE GIF

If you get frustrated and just decide to ignore him, he'll follow you around like a fly that won't go away.

"Awwwww! Don't be mad, you're just so cute!" He'd say, giving up and handing you your stuff back.

If he could he would squeeze your cheeks right after.

Personally, 10/10 golden retriever boyfriend material

[blurredcolour]

Heyy!! I would do anything, and I mean ANYTHING for some John Brady domestic headcanons with a chronically ill reader? 🤍🤍

Nonny this ask is so very lovely and I’ve interpreted it as reader and Brady in a relationship but please let me know if you were hoping for something different!! 💙

Cut for length, no real warnings aside from references to Catholicism and spoon theory

John Brady is the kind of man who takes oaths and vows very seriously - I mean he volunteered for the Army Air Force and went overseas to bomb occupied Europe, they are more than just words to him

So he very much meant “for better or for worse” and “in sickness AND in health”

There is no question of spending his life with you, whether you come to the relationship with your illness or receive the diagnosis later on. You are his person and he is undeterred by the fact that this may come with some complications or difficulties

Hyper vigilant for any and all of your needs - present, imminent, perceived, potential or otherwise

Seems to thrive on memorizing your catalogue of triggers and symptoms and remedies. At times you may wonder how he has space in his head for anything else.

There would probably have to be some negotiation at first, his desire to keep you safe and comfortable feeling restrictive and overbearing. Sometimes you want to do things that cost a lot of spoons and have a lot of consequences. Sometimes these opportunities or events are worth the costs

John will have to have that explained to him because he cannot bear to see you suffer, so it is difficult for him to wrap his head around why you would knowingly put yourself in a position that will result in pain for the sake of enjoyment. It might help to bring up his flying adventures to illustrate your point.

I still don’t see him entirely understanding it but he will nonetheless respect your decision, now that he knows you are making a choice rather than simply overextending yourself carelessly, and be all the more supportive through the inevitable low that follows

He will still pull the plug, however, if you’re actually putting yourself in danger

More than happy to be the reason you leave anywhere early

“Have an early day at the office tomorrow” or “big project coming up.” It is NEVER because you’re feeling overwhelmed or unwell.

Practically an encyclopedia when it comes to your medications, specialists, and recent appointments. Does his best to attend all of them with you, colouring in the medical history when you look at him for specifics. If for some reason he’s not able to accompany you, he sends you with a list of information and helps you prep

Juggles being the primary income earner, cook, house keeper, and caregiver without complaint

In fact he is far too silent about it, particularly the first period where he literally tries to manage it all to his self-exacting level of perfection

Winds up incapacitated in bed beside you and there is another stern talk about realistic expectations

After a lot of trial and error the pair of you manage to find a very comfortable way of life, dealing with flare-ups as needed, easily pivoting to quiet nights in as required

I mean good for you for picking this man to make a home with, he’s not out there seeking the night life and bright lights anyway. A jazz record and cozy blanket and the person he loves is all he could ever ask for in an evening anyway

[loudlittleecho]

Too Late to Save Them: Frozen in Time.

Previous

Part 3

Paul had moved the Ice Growler into a shed. He had needed that field, after all. The ice had repaired itself from the previous chips, but never grew larger or smaller. It was just one of those things one keeps in a shed. Out of sight, out of mind, unless you need something.

It had been a year. Two, maybe? From Paul’s estimates, when his son found it. His kids visited every so often. Becks, his oldest, worked as a librarian. His son, Nathaniel, was a. . . stock broker? Banker? Paul was never sure what his son did, but Nathan was always talking about his ‘next big break’. Paul loved his kids, and he and Sara had made sure the two had a decent enough education, and that their wills were fair between the two. Especially when Sara’s cancer diagnosis revealed itself.

Well, Nathan was fit to be tied about the ice in the shed.

“Dad! Do you know what this means?”

Paul added another helping of green beans to his plate. This was a ‘dedicated meal’. Sara had made the kids promise- you will visit your father once a season- this was one of those meals.

Rebecca– Becks- visited more often, though Nathan typically visited only the four times a year.

Nathan continued. “This could be my big break! Ice that never melts?? Dad, I could compete against the Stanley and Yeti brand- I could sell it to medical companies- I could sell it to anyone! I– we could make millions! Why did you not tell me earlier?”

Paul took a swig of sweet tea. Nathan always got very animated when he got a new idea. That’s what he was, an idea man. Becks had a concerned look on her face.

“Dad, have you checked if it's safe, though? What if it’s dangerous?”

Paul loved his children. Becks, the overthinker, and Nathan, the optimistic.

“Bits of it have been in the fridge for a few months now. Nothin’s gone bad. Fridge hasn’t been plugged in for awhile.”

Becks placed the spoonful of corn down. The little family shared who brought what to their dedicated meals. Paul had supplied the iced tea, corn and green beans. (this year he hadn’t managed to shuck and peel like he used to. These were from cans, but he had made sure to rinse and season them thoroughly) Becks had brought the ham and mashed potatoes, and Nathan brought Bluebell Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream and store bought brownies. (the brownies had a discounted sticker from the grocery bakery. Paul was just glad Nathan was there).

“Dad. . .” Becks said worriedly, while Nathan jumped up. “The fridge! Really!”

The rest of the evening had a different pace from previous dinners. Nathan was on the phone with different “investors”, while Becks was on theirs researching about unmelting ice and effects of low levels of radiation in humans. Paul thought Becks had finally mastered Sara’s tater recipe. It was the butter. For a few years Becks had tried a ‘fat free’ healthier butter. It seemed to Paul that this year Becks had finally admitted that regular butter (and a heaping spoonful of it) made the best mashed potatoes.

. . .

It had been two weeks. Becks had bought him a new fridge and had brought replacements for everything he had in his other fridge. She told him she loved him and was just worried about the untested ice. (He mentioned twice about paying her; Becks just shook their head both times with a “Dad, I don’t need your money. I just want you".)

Nathan had asked him to borrow the ice. Have it tested. Have his investors look at it. Of course, Paul agreed. He wasn’t getting any younger, and if this really was something Nathan saw as helping people, “of course dad! Think of the diabetics!” Well, who was he to stop progress?

. . .

Nathan had asked his dad to give him the ice. Paul wasn’t sure. If what Nathan said was right, this could make Nathan a lot. . . and he needed to be fair between his two children. Nathan snapped at him. “Give me the ice. Becca can have the farm.” Paul still gave Becks a call. Becks had murmured something he couldn’t hear, but did say: “If you want to change your will that’s your choice dad. If Nathan’s plan doesn’t work. . . I’ll make sure Nathan’s ok. Don’t you worry.”

Paul trusted his children. The overthinker and the optimist.

He updated his will.

Part 4

[topazy]

Tomorrow's promise

Pairing: Daryl Dixon × reader, Rick Grimes × sister reader

Warnings: Swearing

Chapter: 3.05

There is a striking absence of noise during breakfast aside from the occasional sound of Jace’s babbling and spoons scraping bowls. It was too quiet—no conversation, no small talk of any kind, not even gunshots lingering in the background outside. The uneasy tension causes the hairs on your arms and neck to raise.

In-between observing Jace attempt to feed himself mushy oatmeal, you watch as Carl picks at his food; he looks so lost. Everyone present was trying their best to look out for him, but he was only beginning to mourn his mom’s death. Sensing you were being watched, you look across the table you’re sitting at to the concrete steps leading to the next room and meet Daryl’s gaze. You hadn’t spoken to him yet that morning, and since there was an unspoken vow of silence, it didn’t feel appropriate to even say good morning.

With the feeling of Daryl’s lips pressing against your own, heat rushes to your face. Just as you start to feel lost in the moment he pulls away, his lips are now ghosting yours. You start to grow nervous when he doesn't say anything, but he finally breaks the silence, whispering, “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Placing your hand on the back of his head, you pull him in for another kiss.

“Everybody okay?”

You’re almost startled to hear your brother's voice. As part of his grief, he had been avoiding everyone, including his new baby. You spin around to face him and are glad to see he looks better than when you saw him in the early hours of the morning, his hair, face, and clothes soaked in Walker blood.

After a long pause, Maggie answers, “Yeah, we are.”

You share a look with Hershel, who’s sitting beside you at the table; he had already tried to get through to Rick that he was being reckless and putting his life in danger, but he didn’t listen. The older man looks up at him and says, “What about you?”

“I cleared out the boiler block.”

You hear concern in Daryl’s voice when he asks, “How many were there?”

“I don’t know. A dozen, two dozen. I have to get back. I just wanted to check on Carl.”

You try your best to keep any hints of frustration out of your tone. He could hardly look at the sweet baby girl sleeping in Beth’s arms. “Stay here; rest. We can take the bodies out; you don’t need to do this alone.”

“No, I do.” He walks past you and goes over to Daryl. “Everyone has a gun and a knife?”

Daryl briefly meets your gaze; he swallows the rest of the food in his mouth before answering. “Yeah. We’re running low on ammo, though. Y/n and Glenn are going on a supply run this afternoon to get bullets and baby formula, and we cleared out the generator room. Axel’s they’re trying to fix it in case of emergency... We’re going to sweep the lower levels as well.”

“Good. Good.”

When Rick walks out of the cell block, Hershel yells his name, but your brother ignores him. The older man sighs, “It might be time for tough love from a sibling.”

You both nod and settle Jace into Hershel’s arms before standing. Just as you go to leave, you feel a presence behind you and turn to see Carl looking up at you. His eyes widened with worry.

“Aunt y/n?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I go with Daryl and Oscar to clear out the ground floor? I asked Daryl earlier, but he says I need to check with you first.”

His words stung; right now, you were his only parental figure. You straighten the sheriff’s hat on his head and force a smile. “Sure, as long as you listen to what he says.”

“Do you think you’ll get through to my dad?”

“I hope so, munchkin.”

—

“Rick…Rick…” When your brother doesn’t respond to you calling his name for the third time, you say the one thing you know will get his attention, “Richard.”

He freezes just as he reaches the door leading outside. Rick slowly turns back around to face you, frowning. He says, “Nobody ever called me that, but dad.”

“I know,” you say, shaking your head as you walk towards him. “But it got you to stop, didn’t it?”

You had spent roughly twenty minutes trying to find him, and with each passing minute, you became terrified that something bad had happened. He had gotten himself killed by trying to take on too many walkers at once. When you open your mouth to speak, he waves his hand dismissively. “Y/n, just don’t.”

Irritated, you clicked your tongue. You felt for Rick; it was obvious he was suffering, but if he continued acting the way he was, Carl and the baby would soon become orphans. When he goes to open the door, you slam his door shut and step in front of it. “I’m worried about you, Rick. I’m worried you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I’m fine.”

He tries to pull the door open, but you press your full weight against it, stopping him. Rick’s grip on the ax in his hand is so tight, his knuckles turn white. You could hear the walkers outside snarling close by, and Rick was in no fit state to take them on himself. “But what about Carl and your daughter? They need you; I need you.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you taste the saltiness of tears on your lips.

“How do I move on from this?” He asks. “How do I even begin to recover from this?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I sometimes think about the way we were before the world went to shit, and when I do, it hurts like hell, but it was different for me. The man I fell in love with died long before he died on the farm. I’m not going to tell you how to grieve, because hell if I know, but risking your life isn’t the way to do it.”

His eyes became glossy with unshed tears. “I haven’t even held her yet.”

You say nothing.

“Did you forgive them?”

You chew on your lower lip, struggling to answer him. Did you? In the pre-apocalypse you would have cut ties with both your fiancé and sister-in-law, but in the new world, you didn’t have that luxury to hold onto pain the same way you would have before.

“I was just—” He presses his head against the metal bars of the cell, a sob escaping from his mouth. “We were just beginning to forgive each other, and then she died, and now I’ll never know if we could have made it. But we’ll never know because both Lori and Shane are gone.”

Rick drops the ax in his hand and slides to the floor. You mirror his actions and sit down beside him. “What’s done is done. We can’t bring them back, but we need to keep it together for our kids. And you have a beautiful daughter waiting to meet her father.”

—

While you’re handing Jace over to Beth, Daryl walks over to your bunker. He tilts his head to greet the young girl before looking at you. “Hey, when are you and Glenn going?”

“We are just getting ready to go now.”

He says nothing while observing you, checking your ammo, and swiping your knife into its sheath. Beth takes no notice of this because she is so focused on Jace reaching for her hair, not that she seems fazed by it. It’s not until you reach for the long-sleeved top at the end of the bed and place it over the vest top that Daryl finally says something again. “The area has already been checked out; there are hardly any dead roaming. Should be in and out quick.”

Although it seems like a general conversation, the look Daryl is giving you is reassuring. “Yeah?”

He raises his eyebrows and points at your hands. Your fingers were trembling while you pushed the buttons through the holes on the top. Daryl was the only one that noticed. “You worried?”

You sigh, “I’m not worried about the run; I just don’t like leaving Jace, Carl, and the baby when my brother is absent.”

Hershel would no doubt be running point in the cell block while Daryl cleared out the lower level of the prison, but you still couldn’t help but worry about leaving them. Beth was amazing with the babies, but you felt guilty whenever she watched them for too long. On the flip side, you still needed to do your share of supply runs.

“I’ll make sure nothing happens to them while you’re gone.”

You press your lips together and smile, “I know.”

“Yo y/n,” Glenn says, standing beside Daryl. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you guys soon.”

—

“We just hit the powdered formula jackpot,” Glenn says, holding the store’s door open with his foot so you can get by. “I can’t believe we have all this stuff.”

Aside from a few birds nesting inside the store, it looked as if nobody else had been in it in a long time. There were shelves full of baby formula, diapers, and bottles that you placed either in your backpack or in red baskets. You’d even managed to find some toys for the kids to play with. “Thank God, I’d hate to go back empty-handed.”

“And where is it y’all good people are calling home?”

Being startled by an unfamiliar voice, you drop the baskets to reach for your gun. The man in front of you had blood sprayed across his face and a large blade at the end of his wrist instead of a hand.

Glenn comes up behind you, looking confused. “Merle?”

The man lets out a laugh, places his gun on the ground, and starts to come closer. “Wow!”

“That’s far enough!”

“Okay, okay, honey. Jesus.”

“You made it,” Glenn says, sounding surprised.

Merle, Merle, Merle. You knew that name but couldn’t place it, and then it finally clicked for you who this man is. “You’re Daryl’s brother?”

He nods, “Can you tell me, is he still alive? Huh?”

“Yeah.”

Merle looks genuinely relieved to know his brother is safe. “Hey, you take me to him, and I’ll call it even on everything that happened up there in Atlanta. No hard feelings, huh?” When he notices Glenn staring at the large blade, Merle laughs. “Oh yeah. Well, I found myself in a medical supply warehouse. I fixed it up myself. Pretty cool, huh?”

Glenn tries to reason with Merle by saying he’d bring Daryl to him, but you already knew that wasn’t going to work. Even if you hadn’t heard stories about Daryl’s brother being untrustworthy, one glance at him and you'd know he was trouble. Merle expected you to believe he had made it from Atlanta himself, and aside from the blood that belongs to someone else, he looked clean and relatively healthy. You look at the car behind Merle, and in its reflection, you see another gun in his back pocket. He notices you looking and lunges for you.

“Get off me!”

He wrestles you to the ground and holds the gun to your head. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he places the blade in your throat, and you are completely trapped.

“Merle, put the gun down and let her go!” Glenn yells, “Put it down now!”

Merle presses the gun closer to your face, and you tremble with fear when you hear him clicking the safety off. You met Glenn’s gaze and shook your head slowly. “We will never tell you where our camp is.”

“Very mouthy for someone with a gun to her head,” he laughs. “Put the gun in the car, son.”

Glenn reluctantly follows his orders. By the look on his face, you know he’s in a silent agreement that, no matter what, you weren’t telling Merle a damn thing. You’d rather die than lead a man like that to your family. With all the commotion, the garbage-covered street was beginning to fill with walkers.

“Get in the car, Glenn; you’re driving. The three of us are going on a little road trip.”

[dangerouslyintofictionalloves]

😤💥 we're escalating to maximum boyfriend trolling levels with this. You fake confessed to cheating with “Chad” and now Lee Heeseung—your painfully hot, dangerously unserious man—is pretending to BE Chad just to mess with you.

And you? You are SO. OVER. IT. (Maybe.)

Part 1 - Previous Chapter

💀 “Chad 2: Electric Boogaloo”

(aka: My boyfriend cosplayed as my imaginary affair and I am filing for emotional damages.) POV: You, the victim of your own unhinged bit gone viral in your relationship.

☕ Scene: The Morning After

You wake up. Peaceful. Warm. No thoughts, just comfort.

And then it happens.

Heeseung, still shirtless in bed, lowers his voice like he's auditioning for a low-budget drama and goes:

“Morning, babe… or should I say... morning, homewrecker.”

You don’t even flinch. “I will shove you off this bed.”

He smiles. “No need to be violent. Chad forgives you.”

“HEESEUNG I SWEAR TO GOD—”

He clutches his heart. “Ah! That’s not the name you called out last night! Don’t play with my emotions like this.”

You’re frozen in disbelief as he slowly rolls out of bed, stretches like a Calvin Klein model, and—

Puts on a hoodie that says “CHAD SUPREMACY.”

You blink. “…Where did you even get that.”

“I made it. Etsy’s powerful.”

📦 Scene: Breakfast (aka Gaslight Gatekeep CHADboss)

You try to eat your cereal in peace. He walks in with sunglasses, a protein shake, and a smug aura that makes you want to throw a slipper at him.

“I’m heading out. Chad’s got leg day.”

“You’re literally Heeseung.”

“Babe, Chad’s my alter ego now. He lifts, flirts, and emotionally haunts insecure men. He’s an icon.”

You glare at him, slowly chewing.

“Heeseung, you’re being insane.”

“Chad was born from your lies. You made him. You manifested him. And now you must live with the consequences.”

“You’re LITERALLY roleplaying as the man I faked cheating on you with.”

He leans across the table, removing his sunglasses dramatically.

“And yet… you still chose me.” “I’m gonna scream.”

🧽 Scene: Household Nonsense

You're doing laundry. He comes in, shirt half off, towel slung over his shoulder.

“Chad would like to thank you for the sock service.”

You turn slowly. “Chad is about to get BLEACHED.”

Heeseung smiles. “Kinky.”

“I hate it here.”

🛑 The Final Straw: Game Night

You’re playing Uno on the floor. Your hair’s a mess. Heeseung’s leaning in close, lip twitching.

“What color you gonna play, babe?”

You squint. “Red.”

He slams down a +4.

“CHAD PLAYS BLUE.”

You deadpan. “I will break up with both of you.”

“You can’t. Chad’s emotionally unavailable but Heeseung’s clingy.”

You throw a pillow. He dodges it like he’s in The Matrix and bows dramatically.

“CHAD OUT.”

🫠 Scene: You Snap

Later that night, you corner him by the sink, arms crossed, hair wild, looking like you're five seconds from snapping a wooden spoon.

“Okay. Enough. Chad’s retired. I need you to be normal again. Just for like… two days. My brain can’t take this level of trolling.”

Heeseung raises his brows, soft smile sneaking through.

“But you said you were with Chad.”

“I WAS JOKING. I WAS TRYING TO MAKE A POINT.”

He leans down, voice low and teasing:

“Yeah? And what point was that, baby?”

You sigh, cheeks burning.

“That I’d never cheat on you. Because I love you. And you’re annoyingly perfect. And way out of my league. So please stop pretending to be my fake affair before I actually call customer service and file a relationship return.”

He grins. “So... you love me more than Chad?”

“HEESEUNG—”

He scoops you into his arms mid-yell.

“That’s all I needed to hear, babe. Chad has been defeated.”

“Chad was NEVER REAL.”

“He was real in our hearts.”

You scream into his hoodie.

Heeseung: ✨victory achieved.✨

[mimzy-writing-online]

Hi there, i have a story where 1 MC is blind. I dont want to fall into any bad tropes so I was looking at your blog and I wanted to ask your opinion. my character went blind young but she sees a shifting mix of color, it cant imply distance or details however, at the start of the story she is gifted a tool that helps shape them into rough outlines, my plan is for her to stop using it as her character grows more confident (use it as a plot point for her development). Do you have any thoughts?

It sounds like this might be a possible accessibility tool, so I don't think she would abandon it completely. She might become less reliant on it as she develops her other senses to be more helpful, but in situations where she needs a little extra help, maybe she'd dig out that tool. New environments, meeting important people where she has to make a good impression, moments where she's in danger, those would all be useful and relatable reasons to use additional accessibility devices.

The goal of orientation & mobility and life-skills classes isn't to become Daredevil-levels of confident in your remaining senses. The goal is to make you an expert in all the accessibility devices at your disposal.

A personal weakness of mine is that I am not proficient at screen reader with my phone. I would be much more powerful if I would take the time to master it because I'd be able to use my phone in any situation without trouble. As it is, I struggle to use it in my low-vision settings and it takes me a lot longer to finish tasks (texting, google search, opening/navigating apps) and a lot more eye-spoons.

If I got good at it, I would probably use a combination of screen readers and my remaining vision to get things done.

I'm going to open the comments to all disabled readers and ask: is there an accessibility tool you used for a while and then phased out of your tool-kit?

[mjonthetrack]

vice: book v

Chapter 164: Diving Board Demon

The sun wasn’t even at its peak yet and the compound was already buzzing—kids playing in the backyard, music floating from the Bluetooth speakers, and the smell of grilled pineapple and breakfast sausages wafting from the outdoor kitchen.

Zilla stood barefoot on the patio in black basketball shorts, clutching a cup of strong-ass coffee and a quiet plea to the universe for one normal morning.

Just one.

But peace had been outlawed in his house since Zion turned two.

A shriek of laughter cut through the calm.

Zilla’s head turned like a hawk.

There, high above the pool, stood his son. Zion, diaper sagging like a street fighter, curls wild, no shirt, and a mischievous sparkle in his eye that sent a chill down Zilla’s spine.

“ZION—” Zilla barked.

The two-year-old turned like a villain from a movie, waving one tiny arm from the top of the diving board. “HEY DADDY, WATCH DIS!”

Zilla dropped his coffee. “NO, ZION—”

Too late.

The gremlin leapt. Arms out, shrieking like a banshee, launching off the diving board in a swan-dive-meets-wrestling-frog-splash.

SPLOOSH!

Water erupted like a geyser.

Cousins jumped up. Aunties screamed.

“HE CAN’T EVEN SWIM!”

Zilla was already sprinting.

In a blink, he dove into the pool, grabbed his son who was giggling underwater, and surfaced with a breathless splash.

“ZION, WHAT THE HELL?!”

Zion gasped, eyes wide, then grinned proudly.

“I DID IT, DADDY! I FLYED! LIKE A BIRD!”

“You almost died like a bird too!”

Zilla dragged them both to the edge of the pool, placed Zion firmly on the concrete, water dripping off his head like a defiant little water demon.

“I told you not to go up there! What did I say?!”

Zion stood, wobbling slightly, hands on his hips. “You said no. But I said yes.”

Zilla blinked. His eye twitched.

“Dulce,” he muttered low. “Your child is trying to give me a stroke before noon.”

From the kitchen window, Dulce stood holding a spoon and Zion’s dry clothes, shaking her head with a long-suffering sigh.

“That’s not my child. That’s your son when your genes go feral.”

Zilla, still dripping and breathing hard, stared down at the puddle of chaos he created.

Zion raised one finger like a preacher on Sunday.

“I not sorry.”

Then sneezed.

Right in Zilla’s face.

Chapter 165: What’s Up, Pendejo?

The house was too quiet.

That kind of quiet that every parent knew meant something unholy was happening behind closed doors.

Then— “If I ruled the world… 🎶”

Nas's voice came blaring through the surround sound, volume cranked to disrespectful levels.

Zilla stopped mid-chew in the kitchen, slowly turning his head toward the hallway like a lion catching scent of danger.

Dulce looked up from her coffee and blinked. “Is that—Nas?”

They both bolted.

Down the hallway, speakers rattled. One of Zilla’s good chains—the thick Cuban link—was missing from the stand by the bed. His red bandana too. Gone.

The door to the primary bedroom was wide open.

And there he was.

Zion.

Their two-year-old menace. Standing on the bed.

Diaper askew, Zilla’s heavy-ass chain dragging down his tiny chest, one fist clenched, the other hand holding a toddler-sized juice box like it was a bottle of Henny.

And that bandana? Tied around his curls like a battle flag.

“ZION—”

Before Zilla could finish, his son pointed straight at him, swaying slightly as Nas kept rapping behind him.

“What’s up, pendejo!”

The room went silent.

Zilla blinked. Dulce froze.

Zion took a dramatic swig of juice, then screamed, “I RULE DA WORLD!” and jumped—face first into the pillows, rolling like he was auditioning for Power: Daycare Division.

Zilla walked in slowly, hand over his heart like he was truly in pain. “He… just called me pendejo.”

Dulce collapsed on the floor laughing, tears streaking down her face. “That’s what you get for letting him watch Scarface and listening to Illmatic in the car!”

Zilla yanked his chain off his son’s neck, who was still trying to crawl away chanting “I rule da world, I rule da world!”

“You rule nap time. That’s what you rule.”

He grabbed Zion gently but firmly, bandana and all, as his son squirmed like a greased worm.

“I NEED A TOUR BUS!” Zion screamed. “I GOT FANS!”

Zilla slung him over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Yeah, and you about to get canceled. Say bye to your juice privileges.”

From down the hallway, the rest of the family peeked out—cousins, aunties, uncles—all of them wheezing as they watched Zilla carry off the hip-hop tyrant, still yelling, “PENDEJOOOO!”

Chapter 166: “Touch My Mommy Again, See What Happens”

It was supposed to be a peaceful holiday grocery run. Supposed to be.

Dulce and the women had split off to one side of the massive supermarket—chatting over side dishes and arguing about whether brown sugar belonged in mac and cheese (Tamika said hell no, Leilapua said maybe just a pinch). Dulce had Zion strapped in his little toddler harness on her chest, cozy and content with a juice box, his curls bouncing every time she moved.

Over on the other end of the store, the men were deep in discussion about which ribs were best: dry rub, marinated, or soaked in whiskey (Jimmy’s idea). Jacob was holding a pack of chicken like it personally offended him. Zilla stood with his arms crossed, occasionally glancing around for Dulce.

That’s when they heard it.

Pat. Pat. Pat. PATPATPATPAT—

The unmistakable slap of tiny crocs slapping tile at high speed.

“DAAAAAAADDDYYYYYYYYY!”

Zion came tearing around the corner, a toddler storm of fury, curls wild, arms swinging, face deadly serious.

Zilla turned, eyebrows rising. “Zion?”

The boy slid dramatically to a stop in front of him, panting like he just escaped a warzone.

“Daddy!! A big man was touchin’ on Mommy’s booty!”

The aisle went dead silent.

Zilla knelt fast. “What?”

Zion pointed wildly back where he came from. “He said she not married ‘cause she got no ring! And he touched her—” Zion twisted, bent over, and slapped his own little butt with a dramatic thwack. “—RIGHT HERE!”

Jacob blinked. “Did he just…?”

Jimmy looked at Zilla. “You okay?”

Zilla was already standing up. “Where the hell is he.”

Sefa dropped the ribs. “Ain’t no way.”

And just like that, it was on.

Zion took off leading them like a furious little general, yelling over his shoulder: “HE SAID SHE NOT MARRIED! SHE NOT MARRIED BUT THAT’S MY MOMMY!”

When they got to the baking aisle—it was bad.

Dulce was there, brow raised, arms crossed, clearly annoyed, standing with a bag of powdered sugar in one hand. Next to her? A tall, too-smooth stranger still talking, gesturing toward her left hand and her ringless finger.

“Just saying, if there’s no ring, you’re fair game, right? No man in sight—”

He didn’t get another word out.

Zilla appeared like a demon summoned straight from toddler hell.

“You touch my girl?”

The man blinked. “What—?”

Before he could finish, Zilla gripped his shirt and slammed him into the shelf hard enough that the flour bags danced. His voice was low, volcanic.

“Say that again. Touch her again. I dare you.”

Zion, perched on Jacob’s hip now, pointed dramatically with a juice box in hand. “That’s him, Daddy! That’s the booty man!”

The other men swarmed.

“Talkin’ ‘bout no ring—” Jimmy muttered, cracking his knuckles.

“He lucky you got him first,” Jacob added.

Sefa was halfway to taking his shirt off. “Lemme just hit him once for dramatic effect.”

Dulce finally stepped forward, holding a bag of marshmallows.

“Okay, okay—Zilla! Chill! It’s fine—”

Zilla turned to her, eyes still burning. “Did he touch you?”

“He touched my back,” she clarified, “and I was literally telling him to back up when Zion went full snitch mode.”

Zion nodded proudly. “I saved Mommy!”

Dulce sighed. “Yes, you did, baby. Very dramatically.”

Security finally arrived. A manager stepped in between Zilla and the stunned stranger.

“Sir, sir, please—let’s just calm down—”

“Then tell him to keep his fucking hands to himself,” Zilla growled, finally letting the man go.

Zion sipped from his juice box. “Don’t touch my mommy’s butt,” he muttered. “Only Daddy can do that.”

The women stood on the other end of the aisle, silently watching the fallout.

Tamika blinked. “Damn.”

Leilapua sipped her Starbucks. “That baby’s gonna be a general.”

Nadia shook her head, grinning. “Snitched like a narc, though.”

Chapter 166 (continued): “Little Lion, Big Hands”

The baking aisle was already in shambles. Flour had puffed into the air. Zilla was locked in, hand gripped on the stranger’s collar, fury rolling off him in waves.

But it got even wilder.

From Jacob’s hip, Zion twisted and squirmed like a wildcat.

“Lemme go! Daddy, lemme go! I GOTTA SAVE MOMMY!”

Jacob blinked. “Whoa, whoa—wait—”

Too late.

“RAAAHHHHH!”

The two-year-old lunged, flinging himself through the air like he was born on a battlefield. Jacob’s grip slipped and Zion soared—straight at the stunned stranger, full toddler war-cry erupting from his lungs.

THWAP!

Tiny fists landed on the man’s chest, followed by a flurry of angry smacks as Zion latched onto his shoulder and began wailing on him with pure fury.

“NOT MY MOMMY! NOT! MY! MOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYY!”

The whole aisle froze.

“Zion!” Dulce gasped.

Zilla took a step back, his face cracking into something between shock and savage pride.

The man, completely overwhelmed, tried to fend off the tiny limbs. “W-what the—get him off me!”

Zion doubled down, little fists slapping anywhere they could reach. “YOU TOUCH HER YOU DIE!” he screamed, curls wild, voice shrill, spit flying. “SHE’S MINE!”

Tamika appeared at the end of the aisle with Marsai, phone already out.

“Oh my god,” Marsai whispered, “he’s really whooping his ass.”

The stranger panicked. “Can someone get this—kid—off me?!”

“Not until he’s done,” Jimmy said flatly.

Zilla calmly stepped forward and plucked his son off the man’s chest like a little angry koala. Zion was still flailing, legs kicking, face red and streaked with tears.

Zilla tucked him under his arm like a football and turned to the guy.

“You’re lucky it was him that got to you,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Touch my girl again, I won’t hold back.”

Zion, catching his breath, buried his face in Zilla’s shoulder and let out one final war cry: “MOOOMMMYYYYYYYYY!”

Dulce, teary-eyed from a mix of laughter and disbelief, finally stepped forward and took her baby into her arms. “I’m right here, baby. You protected me, my little lion.”

Zion sniffled and hugged her neck like she was his whole world. “He said you not mawwieeed,” he mumbled. “I don’t like him.”

Zilla wrapped an arm around both of them, towering and still visibly pissed. “You don’t gotta worry about that, cub. Not ever.”

And as the man was finally escorted out by store security, muttering and bruised in ego (and maybe slightly in chest), the Fatu family just stood there—watching their littlest member become a legend.

Chapter 167: “Steak, Rings, and Threats”

The family SUV was thick with tension, the kind that only came after public toddler violence and an emergency grocery store ban.

Zion was strapped into his car seat in the back, pouting hard, arms crossed over his tiny chest. His curls were still messy from the scuffle, his eyes narrowed like he was plotting on God.

Zilla glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “You good, lil’ man?”

Zion didn’t blink. He was fuming. Huffing. Scowling like a tiny mob boss with a vendetta. Then, clear as day:

“Daddy… don’t be a hoe.”

The whole car froze.

Zilla’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Dulce’s head snapped around from the passenger seat, eyes bulging. “Zion Antonio —”

But the toddler was not done.

He pointed a stubby little finger with all the fury of a judge issuing a death sentence.

“Mawwy Mommy. Or you’re next.”

Zilla just blinked, trying not to laugh. His jaw twitched. “I’m next?”

Zion nodded slow and cold. “Next.”

Everyone else in the car lost it.

“Damn,” Jimmy wheezed from the back. “This kid’s serious.”

“Like his mama,” Marsai muttered, stifling her own laugh.

Zion unbuckled one arm just to reach across the seat, gripping Dulce’s arm tight in his little fist, eyes suddenly wide with a completely different kind of urgency.

“Mommy,” he said dramatically, voice trembling. “I want steak and potatoes. Right now.”

Dulce blinked at him, stunned, trying to hold in laughter. “You just fought a grown man and now you want steak?”

“I deserve it,” Zion muttered. “I saved the day. And I didn’t pee my pants.”

“That’s debatable,” Jacob murmured from the back.

Zilla just shook his head, chuckling now as he reached over and rested his hand on Dulce’s thigh, his voice low. “We’re gonna have to start planning a wedding before this boy gets a hit out on me.”

Dulce grinned sideways at him, rubbing her temple. “You better. He’s clearly not bluffing.”

Zion kicked his legs in his car seat and yelled at the top of his lungs, “STEAK AND WEDDINNNNGGGGG!”

And so, the SUV rolled into the Brazilian steakhouse parking lot—driven by a man who’d just been issued a threat by his toddler, a woman who was halfway to tears laughing, and a family who would never forget the day Zion demanded a ring and a ribeye.

Chapter 168: “Steak, Schemes, and Future Kingpins”

The Brazilian steakhouse was dim-lit and classy—at least, it was before Zion Fatu walked through the doors in a pair of tiny Timbs and a lion-print hoodie.

The server had barely finished greeting them before Zion pointed dramatically at a sizzling skewer of beef being brought to another table. “Dat mine. Gimme dat one. Dat one right dere!”

Zilla just smirked as the family sat, pulling Zion into his lap. “He been through it today. Let him eat.”

“Eat?” Dulce muttered under her breath, sitting across from them. “He needs holy water.”

The moment the first slices of meat hit the table, Zion puffed his little chest out like he was about to give a presidential address. He picked up his toddler-safe fork, stabbed a piece of steak like it owed him money, and declared to the whole damn table—

“I gon’ be a KINGPEN. Like Uncle Twins!”

The whole table went silent.

Dulce choked on her drink. “¡Mierda!”

Jacob covered his face with both hands.

Jimmy was howling, nearly dropping a skewer of lamb. “Nawww—he said kingpen! He got goals!”

“Y’all better check what kind of bedtime stories you been reading this baby,” Marsai added, laughing into her napkin.

Zilla just leaned back in the booth like a proud CEO, his arm around his son’s belly. “You heard him. Boss in training.”

Dulce glared across the table, slicing into her steak aggressively. “He’s two. He should be sayin’ ‘I wanna be a firefighter’or some sh—stuff like that. Not kingpin.”

Zion turned to her with greasy cheeks and meat juice on his lip. “No, Mommy. I wanna be like Daddy.”

Dulce dropped her knife. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

Zion turned right back to the meat server and yelled, “Bring me ALL the meat! I work hard!”

The poor waiter blinked, unsure if he was serving a child or an up-and-coming drug lord.

Zilla grinned and kissed the top of his son’s curls. “Don’t worry. He’s got my business sense and your attitude. We’re doomed.”

“Correction,” Dulce muttered, lifting her wine glass. “You’re doomed. I’m gonna be drunk.”

Everyone laughed again, the moment sealed like the meat—tender, sizzling, and too damn good to make up.

Chapter 169: “Red Wine & Mistakes”

The steak was perfect. Medium rare, juicy, buttery—exactly how Dulce liked it. Zion was beside her, chewing a piece of garlic bread like he had beef with it, while the rest of the Fatu clan tore through the meat parade with laughter and banter flying back and forth.

Then came her.

Zilla’s ex. Hair curled, lashes loud, lips too shiny, and spite riding her whole posture like perfume. She strolled straight up to their table like she had the right.

“Still just a girlfriend and a busted baby mama, I see,” she purred venomously, eyes locked on Dulce.

Dulce didn’t even blink. Didn’t lift her head. She just cut into her steak again, chewed, and let the flavor melt on her tongue like the woman wasn’t even standing there.

That made the ex burn.

“Washed out hoe,” she hissed louder.

Then came the line crossed.

A glass of red wine—full to the rim—came crashing down across Dulce’s face, splashing her curls, her cheeks, her hoodie, dripping in a slow, dramatic splash.

The entire Fatu table froze.

Zilla’s chair scraped loud across the hardwood floor.

Dulce calmly picked up the cloth napkin and wiped her face. No emotion. No reaction. Then she reached for her knife and fork, reset them in her hands, and—still without looking up—cut into her steak.

“You done?” she said flatly.

The ex sneered. “Oh, I’m just getting started—”

Zilla was already up.

“Watch your fucking mouth.**” His voice dropped low and deadly, that quiet storm tone the whole table knew too well.

But before he could reach the woman, it was Dulce who finally looked up.

Calm.

Cold.

Eyes sharper than the steak knife in her hand.

“You interrupted my meal. Now I gotta finish my steak with wet cheeks. That’s your first mistake.”

The woman smirked, clearly underestimating everything.

Dulce stood up, wiped her face again, and tucked the napkin neatly on her plate. “Second mistake—thinking you were ever competition.” She took a step forward.

The woman tried to say something else—but Zilla was already between them, his hand on Dulce’s shoulder gently, but his eyes locked on the ex like a sniper on a target.

“You just threw wine on the mother of my child. On my woman. You lost your fuckin' mind.”**

Security was called before Zilla could fully explode, but not before Dulce got the last word.

She leaned in, calm and terrifying.

“Next time? Throw your whole self at me. I’ll treat you like the steak.”

Security dragged the woman out screaming as Dulce sat back down, cut another bite of meat, and popped it in her mouth like nothing happened.

Zion clapped from his seat. “Yay Mommy!”

Marsai whispered from across the table, “I’m scared of her.”

Jimmy nodded, whistling low. “You should be.”

Zilla sat back down, shaking his head in awe. “That’s my woman.”

And Dulce? She finally sipped her new glass of wine, slow and unbothered.

“Don’t let no crusty exes fuck up your steak.”**

Chapter 170: “Just a Girlfriend”

Dulce didn’t let the wine incident ruin her appetite. She enjoyed that steak like it was the last supper. Wiped the sauce from the corner of her mouth, gave Zion another piece of buttered bread, sipped her new glass of wine in peace.

The rest of the table buzzed with tension and amazement, but she? Unbothered.

When they all finally left the Brazilian steakhouse, stomachs full and heads shaking over the drama, the group stepped out into the chilly evening and immediately froze.

“Ain’t no way,” Marsai muttered.

“Nah… she not serious—” Jimmy whispered.

But she was. Zilla’s ex was out in the parking lot. Standing. On. The. Damn. SUV. Hair wild. Eyes crazy. A baseball bat in hand like she was warming up for the ninth inning.

The entire line of Fatu family vehicles had been keyed. Deep scratches. Curses. Hearts with slashes through them. A sad little “Zilla was here” carved into one hood.

And there she was. On the roof of the largest car, stomping like a WWE diva and shouting at the top of her lungs.

“STILL JUST A GIRLFRIEND?! STILL JUST A BABY MAMA?! YOU BUM BITCH! I BEEN HAD HIM FIRST! LOOK AT ME NOWWWWW!!”

The group stared. Zilla’s fists balled. Marsai took her earrings off. Tamika cracked her neck. Sefa whispered, “I’ll handle it—”

But Dulce?

She just… sighed.

Not mad. Not scared. Just tired.

She turned to Zilla, casually scooping up Zion from Jimmy’s arms like she’d just remembered her leftovers. Adjusted her purse.

“I’m just a girlfriend, remember?” she muttered under her breath, voice flat and dry. “So I’ma go do some girlfriend things.”

She gave Zilla a kiss on the cheek, turned her back to the circus, and walked away.

Straight into the taquería next door.

By the time the rest of the group turned to look again, Dulce was already seated in a booth by the window, Zion in her lap, both of them munching on fresh tortilla chips dipped in a messy pile of melted queso.

Zion had a Jarritos in one hand and a chip in the other. Dulce was sipping a tamarindo soda with the calm of a woman on vacation.

Through the glass window, she watched Zilla yank the bat from the ex’s hand as security swarmed again, the woman still screaming bloody murder.

Dulce raised her glass slightly toward him.

Cheers.

Then she popped another chip in her mouth, wiped Zion’s messy face, and calmly pulled out her phone.

“Hi, yes. Can I put in an order to go? Just in case this gets worse.”

Zion looked up at her, wide-eyed and chewing.

“Mommy, that lady was loud!”

Dulce nodded, sipping her drink.

“Mijo, loud and lonely always go together.”

Chapter 171: The Realization Same Night – Taquería Booth of Enlightenment

Zilla finally got the bat out of his ex’s hand and handed her over to security, her shrieks fading as they pulled her away like a bad opening act that overstayed its time slot. But as the chaos died down and his family started assessing the keyed cars, all Zilla could think about was the image in the window.

Dulce. Sitting there with their son, tucked in the crook of her arm like he’d been carved from her soul. A tiny cheese-covered chip in his hand. Her soda bottle sweating in the soft glow of the neon abierto sign.

She hadn’t flinched when she was insulted. Didn’t explode when wine was thrown in her face. She didn’t scream, or cry, or fight.

She just… left. With dignity. With their son. And kept it moving like the goddess she was.

And damn, it hit him. Like a truck. Like a fucking ton of bricks.

He’d had this woman’s back bent in delivery rooms. Held her hand as she screamed life into the world. Watched her body be remade. Watched her magic protect his child. Watched her take care of everybody.

And what had he been doing?

Still calling her his damn girlfriend.

His mouth went dry. His feet moved before his brain did.

—

The little bell on the taquería door jingled as he stepped in.

And there she was.

Zion was mid-chew, looking up at his dad with a cheesy grin and crumbs all over his cheeks. Dulce was lazily biting into a crunchy taco, one leg curled under her, still with a flicker of annoyance in her expression—but calm.

She didn’t even look up when he slid into the booth beside her, still steaming from the cold air outside. Zion wiggled between them.

Zilla just stared.

“You didn’t even blink,” he murmured.

Dulce shrugged and licked queso from her thumb.

“Didn’t feel like it.”

He reached under the table and caught her hand. Squeezed it tight. Pressed his forehead to her temple.

“You’ve been everything to me, and I ain’t even given you a title worth shit.” A pause. “I got so used to you being my whole world, I forgot to make it official. That’s on me.”

Dulce glanced at him sideways.

“And yet somehow I’m still out here fighting exes in thousand dollar lashes with a baby on my hip, so I guess I’m just a warrior girlfriend with PTSD and guac on my shirt.”

He cracked a smile, kissed her cheek.

“Not for long.”

Before she could ask what he meant, the door slammed open again and the rest of the family spilled in like a wave.

Jacob, Marsai, Jey, Jimmy, Sefa, Tamika, Nadia, the whole damn crew. Piling into the taquería like they hadn't just been at a five-star steakhouse two hours ago.

“Damn, y’all didn’t wait for us?” Jimmy asked, snatching a chip.

“We hungry again. It’s the trauma,” Marsai said, already halfway into a churro.

They crammed into the oversized corner booth like it was a reunion episode. Zion squirmed in Zilla’s lap, licking cheese off his fingers, while everyone passed plates of tacos, burritos, and hot sauce like church offerings.

Tamika reached over to fix Dulce’s curls and muttered, “You better marry this girl before we do.”

Dulce rolled her eyes and smirked, cheeks warm.

Zilla didn’t say anything.

He was too busy staring at her—still in awe.

Not of her beauty, though she had it.

But of her strength. Her peace. Her silence that said try me again and see what happens. Of how she sat there like royalty… covered in cheese and still the baddest woman in the room.

His woman.

For now.

But not for long.

Because Zilla Fatu had already made up his mind— "Just a girlfriend" wasn’t gonna cut it anymore.

Not when she’d already given him a kingdom.