#spring came really early this year

[gingerbreadmonsters]

sleepy and v fed up w this blasted reading for japanese history class tomorrow. give me 45 minutes to finish this article and i will be back to talk about kissing or something

[dilfosaur]

well i haven't spilled my guts on tumblr since i was in college but it's the platform that's felt The Most Mine thru the years, so

let's talk!

i've had a huge chip on my shoulder that i wanted off before the year ends. very bad professional experience to follow

so firstly to get ahead of the speculating, i'm not naming names or anything. some of you will puzzle out who i'm talking about, but please don't bother anyone especially not on my behalf. i've worked hard to distance myself from them the past few months. shit happens, especially when you're a dumb bitch (that's me!)

but also this person was someone i considered a close friend and it makes me uneasy to possibly direct backlash at them. "then why post about it" bc i did intermittent work for them for over a year. this is just about that. so hear me out

basically it started off fine. i initially did some commission work for good pay, then was invited to become more involved with their team. unfortunately as i became more involved with their operation it became more disorganized over time. projects started then forgotten, constantly shifting schedules, lapsing communication between roles, confusing financials, and often inconsistent if not late payments. during mid 2023 i was doing colorist work, sometimes on a one day turnaround (all while also preparing drawfee's summer merch launch). the payroll wasn't set up correctly so i wasn't paid for that work for over a year (more on that later), tho to be fair that was largely my own fault at first as i just didnt realize the payments didn't go thru lol

i always consider myself decently capable of separating friendship and coworker-ship; i run a company with 4 wonderful friends, going strong for almost 5 years. that didn't really work out in this case. by early this year our friendship was on the rocks; work issues fed into personal issues and vice versa. so as the rest of this shit plays out, we had just had our first "big fight" which i felt very bad about and added to all the upcoming tension

a huge point of friction was the fact that i really wanted to work with them to make a music video for one of their songs. i've always wanted a chance to make a music video, was confident in a concept i came up with, and even did some concept art for the idea. everyone insisted they loved the concept and that we should do it, but we kept pushing it back for various reasons. it ended up becoming a huge sticking point for my frustrations, which i tried to express productively. TLDR, we eventually got around to discussing it seriously around april.

i planned to ask for $4000 with negotiable add-on for the whole project, which was my Friend Discount price. i was offered a contract for $1000 flat rate, as they insisted that was the only budget they had for it.

don't ask me why i signed it lol. i didn't even counter offer

there was some girlmath to it: i wanted an extra 1k for a student scholarship i provide every spring and well, there it was. but if i had to guess, i saw it as something i just couldn't back down from any more. i caused these folks- my friends- a lot of problems bc i dug my heels in so deep to chase this project, so fuck it we ball

i had about 4 months to solo a 3 minute music video. they wanted it done in august so they could release it before summer ended, bc "it was a summer song". to be fair i was asked if i needed them to pay for anything extra like assistants (which i would have to find and manage) but i was so immediately overwhelmed that i didn't wanna slow down to wait on that process lol. there was very minimal communication other than brief progress check-ins every few weeks. i did everything for that project myself: the original concept, character designs, storyboards, layouts, backgrounds. i even did the editing/compositing for the final cut of the MV. the only favor i did myself was limiting the amount of it that was actually animated to simple loops and motions. hardly my best work but it was work still done

i did it all in between my full time job. i ended up having to take nearly a month away from most of my drawfee duties (with the support of the others) to make the august deadline. i only ever asked for a 3 day extension (notice given about a week in advance, around the same time i was given the final song file lol). i finished the music video at 6am on the final deadline and recorded drawfee the next day on 2 hours of sleep

but it was done, coolies. the team was very happy with the final product. honestly, without getting into it, those were a very emotionally taxing 4 months. on the professional side, i regretted agreeing to the project and especially for the dogshit rate they offered. i felt like a hypocrite- as someone who always wanted to advocate for younger artists demanding their worth in a world that's getting increasingly hostile toward creatives, i failed myself

so when i met with the manager to discuss the release plan, i told them to do whatever worked best for them as i only had one request: i wanted my credit removed from the project

tbh... like... lmao this dramatic bitch right!! but really, i decided that bad practices only breed worse business. friends or not, it was unprofessional of me to accept such a low paying job so i just didn't want my name used in association. everything felt so muddled to me and i was just really tired at this point

the manager was very understanding and then offered that i could be paid more. they said that their team "was surprised" i accepted their low rate and they would be happy to up the amount. this confused me as the initial budget seemed pretty set and at no point between april and august was i offered a better rate. i knew these guys weren't made of money. so, i declined. i didn't want to put anyone out of their means over work that was already done and agreed upon. but more importantly, i was over the whole thing and didn't want to prolong the project with a contract renegotiation. i just insisted my name be removed

they decided to use a pseudonym (which i was fine with) so they could create a story about a character who made the MV (this sounds really convoluted but i don't know how better to put it without getting specific, sorry). that way if people asked about the credit, they could speak comfortably about it without signaling that something went wrong behind the scenes. ok, kind of a silly narrative imo but whatevs. and maybe this is where i finally went truly wrong but. yolo i guess

i gave the name "D. Smithee", D as in dilfosaur and Smithee as in Alan Smithee. look it up for fun film trivia ig! was it passive aggressive of me to reference that in this context? yeah, honestly. but i thought it was kinda funny and really not that deep. if it was a problem, i have other real, non-cheeky pseudonyms i regularly use. the manager accepted it and all i had to do was wait for them to post the video and i could leave the whole experience behind me

a week later i received a message from the manager that my pseudonym had been denied by the rest of the team bc one of them got the reference. fair enough lol. however, they decided that rather than ask for a different name, the were going to make one up for me that they liked and would "fit the [story]", without asking me

and that! is when i finally snapped!

i was so tired of giving them concessions at this point and having a credit made up for me without any input from me felt genuinely violating and unethical. i started to Panic bc of how stressed i was, and asked for my overdue payments (aka the $500 still owed on the MV, and the colorist rate from a year prior that was never paid even tho i reported it in january) to be scheduled ASAP as i was leaving the work discord immediately

i finally told them off for exploiting me throughout the months while i kept trying to just be nice and finish my contact cleanly. in return i was told that it was unfair to say that as i agreed to everything- i accepted their cheap rate and denied further payment so that was all settled, and it was ok to change my credit without my consent bc i "said they could do whatever with the release". i called bullshit, ended the convo as kindly as i could, and cried lol. they agreed to ditch the pseudonym and just give no credit. that night was the last i heard from anyone on that team

and the real kicker?

august came and went. then september, october... and they never released the music video

and i don't know why, because i was never contacted about it. i've been removed from the picture entirely i guess. 4 months and boatloads of stress. just. up in smoke. i don't know what i expected honestly

it's hard to not take everything that happened personally and as done in bad faith. i really do, honestly. i've had plenty of shitty deals in my almost 10 year art career, but it hits different from people you saw as friends. but to the point of "why not keep it private", i have never felt so disrespected as a professional as i did this past year. i can toy with money and credits and other formalities all i want, but my work- my ideas, my labor, my effort- is still so important to me. i felt like the biggest idiot for doing so much work, pouring so much of myself into a piece for someone's use, for what has amounted to nothing

but more importantly i hated myself for undervaluing my work, even if initially i thought this person was a trusted friend. money is not really an issue for me- drawfee is my main job and i am fine and comfortable. it's so important to pay artists appropriately but i often undersell my own work bc i value the collaboration and passion between creatives more than the reward. i think a lot of artists tend to feel the same, and it often makes us easy to take advantage of. it's so difficult to find the balance between passion and making a fair living, and i think there's some shame within ourselves when artists choose to prioritize that passion

i wanted to finally get all this off my chest bc i was ashamed of every choice i made. things like this happen all the time i'm sure and hiding these mistakes only make it easier for it to happen to other people

tldr always value your work and protect your passion from people who just see it as a product. and don't give cheeky pseudonyms i guess lol

(and again pls don't bother anyone involved about this. a lot of chaos has left my life as i moved past all this, and this is me closing a door without opening new ones hopefully lol)

this shit was truly

so ass.

but i'm moving past it now

but on a nicer note. outside of all of this nonsense, i made lots of good memories this year. i'm truly so grateful to the many wonderful people in my life who keep me going even when i fuck up big time!

and thank you to all of you strangers who, despite everything, give me the time of day. especially if you read this whole thing. you're a real one :')

happy new year!

[theonottsbxtch]

THE FLAT NEXT DOOR | OP81

an: @iimplicitt started drawing a firefighter oscar and next thing i knew, i was writing this story. it's so dear to me, firefighter!oscar you mean so much to me. also ive written something similar to this called sunflower syndrome (i dont think ive posted) which i can post, its next door neighbours and shes a single mum as well, its completed just never been posted lol - lemme know if you want it

summary: a firefighter with a soft heart & no idea what he’s doing with his life. a single mum who gave up everything for a tiny pair of shoes. a six-year-old matchmaker with a butterfly painted on her cheek. and the slow, aching kind of love that feels like coming home.

wc: 14.1k

Oscar hadn’t planned on becoming a firefighter. In fact, he hadn’t really planned on anything. Life, so far, had been a series of decisions made more out of avoidance than ambition. Moving to England from Australia at fifteen had felt like starting over in the middle of a film, he’d missed the beginning and had no idea what the plot was meant to be. His accent had softened over the years, but the disorientation never quite left.

By the time he finished school, uni felt like a trap more than an opportunity. He wasn’t academic, not really. His girlfriend back then had big dreams and a UCAS application filled out before the rest of them even figured out their predicted grades. She wanted him to come with her. Scotland, maybe, or Manchester, but he couldn’t pretend to want something just to stay close. Long distance sounded like a slow death, and he was already tired of pretending to care about futures he couldn’t picture. They broke up in late spring, somewhere between the last exam and prom. He barely remembered the conversation now, only the strange mix of guilt and relief afterwards.

The fire service had been a suggestion from someone he barely knew, his mate’s older brother or a careers advisor he met once. The idea stuck, though. It felt solid, practical. So he moved to a town just outside London, somewhere not too fast but not too sleepy either. Now, in his mid-twenties, he still wasn’t sure it was what he wanted, but it was something. A job, a flat, a rhythm.

The flat was part of a red-bricked terrace that hadn’t aged gracefully but wore its wear with a sort of tired charm. Peeling paint on the railings, a communal garden mostly made of grass that didn’t grow right, and neighbours you recognised before you knew their names.

For a while it was quiet on his floor until his neighbour moved in not long after he did, though they didn’t speak properly for months, he always saw her. She was quiet, but not unfriendly. Always rushing, school runs, shopping bags, the sort of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep but from doing everything yourself. She had a daughter, six years old and full of questions, the kind who shouted hello from the doorstep and thought Oscar was a superhero just because he had boots by the door and came home smelling faintly of smoke.

He didn’t know much about her. She kept to herself, didn’t bring people round, and handled things with a quiet efficiency that made Oscar feel both impressed and slightly in the way. He saw her most often on Sunday mornings, pyjama bottoms tucked into socks, mug in hand while she coaxed the little one into her coat. He wondered, sometimes, if she had ever had a plan, or if she, like him, had simply found herself in a life that looked like it belonged to someone else.

The town had a softness to it in the early mornings, before the cars filled the roads and the high street buzzed with prams and pensioners. The air still held a trace of mist, clinging to hedgerows and the slate roofs that lined the close. Oscar liked this time of day, even if he wasn’t a morning person by nature. There was a quiet permission in the hush, like the world was still deciding what kind of day it wanted to be.

His flat smelled faintly of laundry detergent and burnt toast. He tugged on his jacket, the navy fire service one with the embroidered badge half-unpicked from where it had snagged last month. His boots were by the door, laces loose from habit. The station wasn’t far, a ten-minute walk if he didn’t stop for a coffee or get caught by someone with too many questions.

He swung the door open and nearly collided with her.

“Sorry—” they said at the same time, both stepping back, the awkward shuffle of neighbours not expecting to meet in the narrow shared walkway.

She was crouched beside Aurelia, zipping up a purple puffer coat that was already streaked with breakfast. Her hair fell forward as she glanced up at him, blinking through the unexpected encounter.

Oscar straightened, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t see you there.”

“That’s alright,” she said, standing up. Her voice was warm, light, with the kind of casual tiredness that didn’t sound like complaining.

Aurelia grinned up at him, gap-toothed. “Are you going to fight fires today?”

He chuckled, crouching a little to her level. “If they start, yeah. Hopefully not too many, though. I’ve just cleaned my helmet.”

She giggled at that, and her mum gave him a grateful sort of smile, small, quick, like she wasn’t used to people being gentle with them.

Oscar stood again, unsure what else to say. The kind of silence that stretched just a second too long settled between them.

“School run?” he asked, just to fill it.

“Yeah. She’s already tried to convince me she’s sick twice.”

“I am sick,” Aurelia insisted. “Sick of spelling tests.”

That made her mum laugh, the kind of laugh that sounded like it didn’t come often enough.

Oscar smiled, then pointed toward the road. “I’d better get going before Zak starts calling. My boss has the patience of a gnat.”

She nodded. “Alright. Have a good shift.”

He hesitated for half a beat. “You too. I mean—have a good school run. And day. And�� everything.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “You too, firefighter.”

As he walked down the path, he heard Aurelia whisper, “Mummy, I think he’s cool.”

He grinned all the way to the station.

The station smelled of instant coffee, damp gear, and the faint chemical tang of smoke that never really washed out. Oscar pushed through the side entrance, nodding at the watch crew already gathered in the mess room. The TV was on mute, rolling through the morning headlines, and someone had burned toast again, the fire alarm had a nasty habit of reacting more to that than actual emergencies.

He dumped his bag in his locker and shrugged off his jacket, already feeling the dry warmth of the place settling into his bones. There was a comfort to the station, rough around the edges, but reliable. It reminded him of the school changing rooms back in Melbourne: paint chipped from too many boots, the faint echo of shouts in the corridor, the shared understanding that none of it was glamorous, but it was theirs.

“Morning, mate,” came a voice from across the room.

Oscar looked up to see Andrea, one of the senior firefighters on his watch, cradling a mug with World’s Okayest Firefighter printed in peeling letters. He had salt and pepper hair, always grumbling about overtime, and somehow managed to be everyone’s uncle without trying.

“Morning,” Oscar replied, reaching for the kettle. “Anything going on?”

“Not yet. Callout at half three, car in a ditch near the A-road, but that’s about it. Oh, Zak wants a word when you’ve got a sec.”

Oscar groaned quietly. “Do I need to be nervous?”

Andrea grinned. “Always.”

He found Zak in his office, chewing on a pen lid and frowning at a stack of paper that looked older than both of them. He waved Oscar in without looking up.

“You busy this weekend?” Zak asked, without preamble.

Oscar blinked. “Uh, not really. Why?”

Zak finally looked up. “We’ve been asked to send someone to this community thing at Chestnut Grove Primary. Little safety talk, couple of demos, let the kids have a go with the hoses, all that, see the truck.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Chestnut Grove? The one down the road”

“Yeah. Saturday morning. Council’s pushing the whole community engagement thing again. You up for it?”

He could’ve said no. He wasn’t the best with big groups, especially ones full of excitable children and clipboard-wielding parents. But something about the name clicked in his head, a flicker of memory. Hadn’t he seen little Aurelia in a forest green uniform?

“I’ll go,” he said, surprising even himself.

Zak blinked. “Right. Well. That was easy. Cheers.”

He left the office feeling oddly restless. Community events weren’t usually his thing, too many people, too many eyes. But he figured it was just one morning. How bad could it be?

Back in the mess, Andrea glanced up from the paper. “You’ve got that face on.”

“What face?”

“The one where you’ve agreed to something and immediately regretted it.”

Oscar shrugged, pouring himself a coffee that tasted vaguely of plastic and burnt hopes. “Just volunteered for the school event.”

Andrea gave a low whistle. “Brave man. Good luck dodging flying juice cartons.”

Oscar smiled to himself, thinking of Aurelia’s grin that morning, the way she’d looked up at him like he was some kind of action figure come to life. If nothing else, maybe it would be nice to see some children think he was a hero he 100% wasn’t.

It was one of those spring mornings where the sun tried its best, but the chill hadn’t quite loosened its grip yet. The air was sharp, fresh with that faint green smell of grass and new leaves, and the sky had that washed-out blue that promised warmth later, maybe.

Oscar parked the spare appliance near the edge of the school field, just where the tarmac gave way to a patch of uneven grass. The truck was technically out of use, something to do with the hydraulics, Zak had said, but it looked the part and that’s what mattered. He unfolded the little step ladder and opened up a few side panels to make it look more interactive. A pop-up banner flapped in the wind beside him, showing a smiling child in a tiny fire helmet with the slogan Be Cool, Stay Safe in cheerful red letters.

The fair itself was already in full swing: bunting strung between gazebo poles, the smell of frying onions from a burger van, and a trail of small children darting between stalls clutching glittery cupcakes and face paint flyers. Oscar had been given a little corner to himself on the edge of the field, which suited him fine. He liked watching the buzz of it all from a slight distance, present, but not in the thick of things.

He was in full kit except for the heavy jacket and helmet, both left hanging neatly inside the cab. Just his white fire service shirt rolled up at the forearms, and the braces of his overalls snug over his shoulders. He leaned against the side of the truck, hands in his pockets, the breeze tugging gently at the hem of his shirt.

A few curious kids had wandered over already. Two boys who’d wanted to climb inside the cab and press every button, a shy little girl who’d asked if he had ever rescued a cat from a tree, while he hadn’t, he said yes, and a boy who only cared about the siren.

Oscar found himself smiling more than he expected. There was something easy about it. Maybe it was the way kids didn’t expect anything except enthusiasm and the occasional high five. Maybe it was the way parents hovered a few feet away, grateful for five minutes of peace while someone else answered the never-ending questions.

He took a sip from his coffee flask, just as he heard the unmistakable patter of small feet sprinting across grass.

“Neighbour firefighter!”

He turned, and there she was, Aurelia, bounding across the field with a neon butterfly painted across one cheek and a balloon animal in one hand. Her plimsolls were slightly muddy and her coat was half unzipped.

Oscar laughed, straightening up. “Oh, I know you!”

She skidded to a stop in front of him, breathless with excitement. “Mummy said we might see you but I didn’t really think you’d be here!”

“Well, I don’t lie about fire engines,” he said, crouching down to her level. “That’s a very serious thing.”

She grinned, already peering into the open side of the truck. “Can I go in?”

“Course you can—but hang on a sec, where’s—?”

And then he saw her. Walking at a slower pace across the grass, hands deep in her coat pockets, eyes already on him. The breeze lifted the edge of her scarf, and her hair glinted slightly in the sun. She looked different here, more relaxed somehow, out of the usual early morning rush and into something softer.

“Hi,” she said, when she reached him. “Looks like you’ve got an assistant now.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling, “bit short for the uniform, but she’s got enthusiasm.”

Aurelia had already clambered halfway up the step ladder, peeking into the cab with the confidence of someone who fully expected to be given the keys. Her balloon animal was now tucked under one arm like a sidekick.

Her mum laughed, folding her arms loosely as she watched. “She’s been bouncing off the walls since breakfast. I think she thought she’d get to drive it.”

Oscar grinned. “Could probably teach her. Might be more focused than some of the lads at the station.”

She gave him a look, one of those amused half-smiles he was starting to recognise, a little dry, a little warm. “You here all day?”

“No, just the morning. Couple of hours, bit of leafleting, bit of ‘don’t play with matches’ chat. Then I get to drag all this lot back to the station and pretend it never happened.”

“Well,” she said, glancing toward Aurelia now balancing with one foot on the step and the other poised mid-air, “you’re already a highlight. She’s going to talk about this for weeks.”

Oscar watched Aurelia for a beat, her complete absorption in twiddling the dials on the dashboard, and then turned back to her mum, catching the moment her eyes dipped.

Just for a second.

A quick flicker downward, over the rolled sleeves, the broad line of his shoulders beneath the white shirt, the dark straps of his overalls snug against his chest.

He smirked. “Careful, you’re staring.”

Her eyes snapped up, sharp and just slightly horrified. “I am not.”

“You are. It’s alright. Happens all the time,” he said, leaning casually back against the truck, utterly insufferable now. 

She scoffed, but her ears had gone pink. “No! I just think it’s a nice shirt. Very crisp. Good cotton, probably.”

Oscar chuckled, folding his arms. “I’ll let the fire service know. Get one sent out to you.”

“Oh, good,” she said dryly. “Nothing says flattering like free uniform merch.”

Aurelia’s voice rang out before he could reply. “Mummy! Come look at the back bit! There’s hoses!”

She gave him a look that said this isn’t over, then stepped past him to help Aurelia down. Oscar caught a whiff of her perfume as she moved, something light and clean, like citrus and soap, and tried not to look too pleased with himself.

He crouched again beside the little girl. “Want to hold the thermal imaging camera?”

Aurelia gasped like he’d offered her a crown. “Can I?”

“Course you can. Let me just grab it.”

While he disappeared momentarily into the side compartment, her mum looked after him, one eyebrow raised, like she was still debating whether to be annoyed or amused. Maybe both.

When he returned, holding the chunky bit of kit with both hands, he caught her smirking to herself.

“What?” he said, passing the camera to Aurelia.

“Nothing,” she said sweetly. “Just admiring the shirt again.”

Oscar grinned. “Thought so.”

And if he stood a little straighter for the rest of the morning, well, no one could blame him, really.

By midday, the fair was starting to wind down. The bouncy castle had deflated into a sad, crumpled mess, and a few stalls were already packing away jars of pick ’n’ mix and rain-speckled flyers. The sun had climbed properly now, still not warm, but bright enough to squint against.

Oscar stood by the truck, arms folded loosely, watching as Aurelia gave the thermal imaging camera a final, dramatic sweep across the grass, pretending to detect imaginary fires. Her mum hovered a few steps behind, rummaging in her bag, trying to locate a missing glove.

He caught her voice, half-muffled by the breeze. “Alright, Rels, we’ve got to go soon. Last bus is at twelve and I’m not chasing it again.”

Oscar straightened a little. She was looking at her watch, already slipping back into that quiet, slightly hurried rhythm he recognised from mornings in the shared walkway.

He pushed off from the side of the truck and wandered over, deliberately soft-footed across the grass. He stopped just behind her.

“Boo.”

She jumped about a foot in the air and turned, hand instinctively going to her chest. “God, don’t do that!”

He grinned. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

She exhaled sharply, trying not to smile. “You’re a menace.”

Oscar nodded toward the road beyond the fence. “You’re heading off?”

She gave a small nod, still a little breathless. “Yeah. Got to catch the bus before it disappears into the void. It’s only once an hour out here.”

“Don’t bother,” he said, hands back in his pockets now. “Let me give you a lift.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’ve got to drive the truck back to the station anyway, and Aurelia’ll love it. And I brought my car in this morning, first time in ages, I was running late, so I can just take you both home after.”

She stared at him, clearly caught off guard. “Oh. I mean, that’s kind of you. I don’t want to, um…”

“Inconvenience me?” he finished, one brow raised. “You wouldn’t be. It’s just a lift.”

She hesitated, glancing at Aurelia, who was now poking at the truck’s steering wheel with something close to reverence. “We don’t usually talk this much.”

Oscar gave a soft laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Thought I’d change that.”

She looked like she might say no, just on instinct, like she didn’t want to be a bother, but the words never quite came. Instead, she sighed and gave him a resigned sort of look.

“Fine. But only because Aurelia will probably combust if you offer.”

Oscar turned to the little girl, crouching again beside her with mock seriousness.

“Hey, Aurelia,” he said, “want to ride in the fire truck?”

Her eyes went wide. “What? Really?”

“Really,” he said, gesturing grandly toward the cab. “I need a co-pilot.”

She shrieked in delight and immediately threw herself at her mum, already halfway into the truck in her head. “Mummy, mummy, we’re going in the fire engine!”

Her mum shook her head with a quiet laugh, murmuring as she passed Oscar, “You’re going to regret this.”

But he was still smiling, already opening the cab door, like he doubted that very much.

Once he checked that everything was back in place, Oscar jogged over to the headteacher, a harried-looking man in a tweed jacket with a clipboard under one arm, who, thankfully, tended right to it and began talking to the stall holders.

When he turned back, he found Aurelia had already jumped in and her mother was right behind her attempting to get up herself. He came up behind her quietly, hand brushing gently around her waist as she shifted her weight.

“Easy,” he said near her ear, low and careful. “Didn’t want to startle you again.”

She tensed slightly, then let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

He tightened his hands around her waist and hopped her up into her seat then stood on the ledge. “Right then, Aurelia you’ll have to sit on your mum’s lap,” he told her, lifting her up onto her mother’s lap. “I haven’t got a booster seat, and I reckon you’d get swallowed up by that seatbelt on your own.”

“Okay!” Aurelia chirped, already clambering in. She nestled against her mum, legs swinging slightly, her face bright with excitement.

“Hold still a sec,” Oscar said, reaching in to pull the seatbelt across both of them. His arm brushed hers as he clicked it in, and when their eyes met briefly, he gave her a look that was pure cheek.

“Safe and sound.”

She raised a brow. “You enjoy this far too much.”

“I really do,” he grinned.

He stepped back, shut the door with a solid thunk, and jogged round to the driver’s side. Once inside, he leaned over and handed Aurelia a chunky black handset.

“Alright, Firefighter Aurelia,” he said, reaching for the cab’s radio. “We’ve got a very important mission.”

He pressed the button and spoke into it in his best dramatic voice. “Control, this is Unit Seventeen. We've received reports of a rogue ice cream van, repeat, rogue ice cream van, causing mayhem in the residential zone. Suspect is armed with sprinkles. Requesting permission to pursue.”

Aurelia squealed with laughter and clutched the handset like it was made of gold. Her mum shook her head, but Oscar caught the smile she was trying not to show as he flicked the ignition.

The old appliance groaned slightly as it rolled off the grass and onto the gravel path. The gate swung open ahead of them, and they bumped gently onto the road.

The drive was short, fifteen minutes or so, but it was quiet, in a good way. Aurelia made soft siren noises under her breath the whole time, practically vibrating in place, and her mum kept a steady hand around her middle to stop her launching herself at every passing tree or pigeon.

When they finally pulled into the station yard, the engine still humming beneath them, Oscar spotted Lando through the open shutters. He was parked in a camp chair just inside the bay, arms folded, head tipped back, fast asleep with a half-eaten bag of crisps in his lap.

Oscar flicked his gaze up to Aurelia, then caught her mum’s eye.

“Wanna wake up Sleeping Beauty?”

Aurelia’s face lit up. “Can I? Really?”

“Go on then,” he said, reaching up to the dash. “Just one burst, yeah?”

She bounced in her seat as he tapped the siren switch. The wail screamed to life, echoing through the yard. Lando nearly fell out of his chair, crisps flying in every direction.

Oscar killed the siren after two seconds, laughing as Lando stood up blinking, dazed and scandalised.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Lando shouted, wiping crumbs off his shirt.

Oscar stuck his head out the window. “Community engagement, mate.”

Aurelia was giggling so hard she nearly dropped her balloon animal.

Her mum shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re going to get sacked.”

Oscar smirked. “Not unless he grasses.”

He parked the truck, turned off the engine, and helped them both down one at a time.

As he pulled up, he looked at her sideways. “Worth it?”

She gave him a wry look. “You’re completely ridiculous.”

He grinned. “And yet, look at the smile on your daughter’s face”

She didn’t respond straight away, just looked at him, that same half-smile playing at her lips, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes yet. Not because she wasn’t happy, but because she wasn’t used to all this. The ease of it. The way he fit so seamlessly into an afternoon that wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a spring fair and a sugar crash.

Aurelia, oblivious to the grown-up moment passing quietly over her head, was already tugging at her mum’s hand.

“Mum! Look! Look, it’s like Fireman Sam! The pole! Can we slide down it? Can we?”

Oscar chuckled and crouched beside her. “You’ve got a good eye, Aurelia. That’s the real thing. Only the grown-ups are allowed on it though, bit dangerous, that one.”

She pouted, considering the injustice, then lit up again. “When I’m a grown-up, I’m going to work here with you.”

“Deal,” he said, offering her a pinky. “You’ll be the best firefighter in the place.”

She pinky-swore with great ceremony, and then launched into an intense interrogation about hoses, helmets, and whether or not he’d ever saved a dinosaur (he hadn’t, but he’d chased a very angry goose once, which she seemed to find acceptable).

Eventually, the sugar high began to dip and she slumped a little, thumb sneaking toward her mouth before her mum gently steered her hand away. Oscar caught the silent exchange and didn’t say anything, just gestured toward the far end of the garage.

“Car’s parked out the back. You ready?”

Her mum nodded, brushing a stray curl off Aurelia’s forehead. “Yeah. Let’s go before she falls asleep standing up.”

Oscar got changed out of his gear and wore just a hoodie and a pair of shorts as the girls walked to his car. They bundled into his car, Oscar making a show of unlocking the door like it was a limo and she was royalty, and within five minutes, they were on the road again, the fire truck a quiet memory behind them.

Aurelia was asleep before they turned onto their street.

Her head lolled against her mum’s arm, soft snores escaping in little puffs. Her butterfly face paint had mostly faded, a faint smudge of pink and glitter under one eye.

Oscar pulled into the car park behind the flats and cut the engine. The stillness after the hum of the engine felt sudden, like stepping into a moment that didn’t quite belong to the day.

She shifted carefully, not waking Aurelia, and glanced over at him.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “For all of that. You didn’t have to.”

He leaned back in his seat, eyes still on the dashboard for a moment before he looked at her.

“I know,” he said. “That’s kind of the point.”

They got out quietly, and he came round to open the door for her, taking Aurelia gently from her arms and settling her against his shoulder without fuss. She stirred but didn’t wake, hand fisting into the fabric of his shirt as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

They climbed the stairs together, slow and careful, her just a step ahead as they reached their landing. She unlocked her door quietly, reaching out to take her daughter back.

Oscar passed her over gently. “She’s heavier than she looks.”

“She’s all legs,” she whispered, smoothing Aurelia’s hair.

He nodded, hands slipping back into his hoodie pockets. For a second, neither of them moved.

The corridor was still. Just the hum of an old light overhead and the faint smell of fabric softener from someone’s laundry down the hall.

“I should… put her down,” she said, but her voice didn’t carry much urgency.

He looked at her then, really looked at her. “This was nice,” he said. “Spending time. With you.”

She held his gaze, surprised by how much that simple truth settled somewhere deep in her chest.

“Yeah,” she said after a moment, soft and honest. “It was.”

Neither of them quite knew what to say next. But it didn’t feel awkward, just quiet. Comfortable.

Then she smiled, just a little, and nodded toward her door.

“See you tomorrow, neighbour.”

He smiled back, stepping slowly away.

“Sweet dreams, Aurelia,” he said, softly, before turning and heading for his own door, the warmth of the moment still clinging to the edges of him.

And behind her closed door, she stood for a beat longer than she needed to, heart ticking just a little louder than usual.

A couple of days had passed, and the brightness of the spring fair had faded into a more typical grey sort of morning. The kind that didn’t quite rain, but threatened to at any moment. Oscar was shrugging into his station fleece, keys already in hand, when he stepped out into the corridor and nearly tripped over something on the doormat.

He blinked down at the small tupperware tub sitting neatly against his door, like it had been placed there with great care.

Inside, through the foggy plastic lid, he could just about make out a few slightly lopsided fairy cakes, frosting a bit wonky, a generous scattering of rainbow sprinkles on top. They weren’t shop bought. Not a chance. They had that unmistakable homemade charm, the kind that didn’t care about appearances but would taste better than anything in a bakery.

Tucked underneath the corner of the lid was a small card, folded over like a secret note passed in class. His name was scrawled across the front in purple felt-tip, the letters slightly uneven. 

He crouched down, picked it up, and flipped the card open.

Dear Mr Oscar,

Thank you for letting me drive the fire truck. You are the best firefighter in the world. I made you fairy cakes. Mummy helped but I did the mixing.

Love from,

Aurelie (age six and a HALF)

Oscar stared at the note for a long moment, a smile spreading slowly, unstoppably across his face.

He glanced at their door, tempted to knock, but it was early, and quiet behind the wood. Probably the usual hushed breakfast rush in there, uniforms, pony tails and cereal on the floor. He didn’t want to interrupt. Not yet.

So he tucked the card into his jacket pocket and examined the container, before heading off down the stairs with the kind of ridiculous warmth in his chest that made even a dreary Tuesday feel a little golden around the edges.

By the time Oscar got home, it was well past eight. His shift had overrun, as they often did, from a small domestic fire to someone’s car keys that were stuck in the car. He was knackered, hungry, and somehow still smiling like an idiot every time he glanced at the now empty cake tub in his hands.

He’d saved one. The best one, in his opinion. A bit sunken in the middle, heavy on the sprinkles, the icing smudged at the side like someone small had licked their thumb and tried to fix it. It was tucked into a bit of kitchen roll in the pocket of his coat.

The corridor light flickered as he climbed the stairs, his boots quiet on the worn carpet. Their doors faced each other, and for a moment, he just stood there, unsure if he was about to come off charming or really quite tragic.

But then he knocked.

Soft, just enough to be heard over whatever bedtime might sound like on the other side.

A pause. Then the click of the latch, and she opened the door just a crack before widening it when she saw him. She looked cosy, oversized hoodie, hair up, bare feet. The kind of comfort people didn’t wear unless they felt safe at home.

“Hi,” she said, surprised but not in a bad way. “Everything alright?”

Oscar held up the empty container like a peace offering. “Official return of government property. Wouldn’t want to be accused of fairy cake theft.”

She smiled, hand resting on the doorframe. “Did she really give you those?”

“Left them on my doormat. Full note and everything. Genuinely the highlight of my week.”

“She was very serious about it,” she said, laughing gently. “Kept asking if I thought you’d know they were from her. I told her you’d probably figure it out from the purple pen.”

“There was a lot of purple,” he nodded solemnly. “It was a full forensic giveaway.”

She laughed properly then, a hand over her mouth, and the sound curled around his ribs like a warm drink.

“I, um…” he shifted a little, suddenly aware of his own nerves, “I saved one. If she wants it back.”

She raised a brow. “You saved one?”

He held up his hands. “For sentiment, not greed.”

“Mm-hm,” she said, amused. “Well, she’s out like a light. Crashed in the middle of Matilda. Completely missed the part where Miss Trunchbull throws a child across the playground.”

“Shame. That’s the best bit.”

They stood there for a second longer than was casual, silence stretching warm between them.

Then, soft as anything, she said, “You want to come in?”

Oscar blinked. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “If it’s not weird.”

She stepped aside to let him pass. “It’s a little bit weird,” she said honestly, then smiled. “But not bad-weird.”

He slipped inside, brushing past her in the doorway, and something about the quiet of the flat, the low lamplight, the faint scent of strawberry shampoo in the air, it made him feel like he was somewhere he wasn’t quite ready to leave.

She shut the door behind them, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like just the neighbour with a fire truck.

He felt like someone she wanted to keep close.

The flat was warm in a lived-in sort of way. Not spotless, but comfortable. A couple of cushions on the floor, a half-folded blanket draped across the back of the sofa, a mug left forgotten on the coffee table with a teabag still inside. It felt like somewhere someone lived, not just existed.

Oscar stood a little awkwardly in the middle of the room at first, unsure whether to perch or hover. She motioned towards the sofa, already heading into the kitchen.

“Put the telly on if you want. I’ve got, like, two channels that work properly and one that just plays antiques shows.”

He chuckled, watching her disappear round the corner. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He heard the clink of mugs and the whirr of the kettle. The sofa gave slightly under him when he sat, still warm where she’d been earlier, and he glanced around, a framed photo on the side, probably her and her daughter at the beach. Wind-swept hair, noses sun-pink, a proper grin on Aurelia’s face. That same grin she’d worn all day at the spring fair.

She came back in with two mugs, one hand curled round each handle.

“I wasn’t sure how you take it, so it’s builder’s,” she said, offering him one. “Strong enough to put hairs on your chest.”

He took it with both hands, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into his fingers. “I’ll risk it.”

They sat, not far, not quite close, but comfortably between. The telly was on in the background, some low-budget crime drama no one was really watching. The soft light pooled across her legs where she’d folded them under her, and the sleeve of her jumper kept slipping over her knuckles as she held her tea.

“Thanks,” he said eventually, nodding at the mug, then motioning towards the kitchen. “And for the cakes. And the note. That really made my day.”

She smiled, eyes soft. “She loves you, you know. Keeps calling you our firefighter.”

“Our?” He raised a brow, teasing. “Possessive, that.”

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word. “You did give her a lift in an actual fire engine. Might’ve set the bar a bit high.”

“Bugger,” he muttered playfully. “Should’ve started with something less exciting. Bin lorry, maybe.”

They both laughed, a quiet, comfortable sound. The kind that filled the little flat without echoing, like it belonged there.

There was a lull then, not awkward, just gentle. She reached down to pull the blanket from the floor and tossed one end over his legs without a word, settling the other across her own.

He blinked down at it, then looked at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sharing blankets now, are we?”

She didn’t even look at him. “You’re the one who looked cold.”

“Right. Humanitarian effort. Got it.”

He sipped his tea to hide the grin, eyes on the telly though he couldn’t have said what was happening. Every so often, her knee brushed his. Not enough to make a thing of, but enough to notice.

Eventually, she said, quiet enough that he almost missed it, “It’s nice. Having you here.”

He turned to her then, properly, softly. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

The telly droned on. Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, two mugs slowly cooled on the table, and two people who hadn’t meant to mean anything to each other found themselves sitting shoulder to shoulder beneath a blanket, realising maybe they did.

It had been just over a week since that quiet evening on the sofa, and things had shifted in the sort of way you only noticed once it had already happened. There hadn’t been any grand declarations, no big talk, no labels. Just little things.

Oscar now offered her a lift any time he saw her out shopping, even if she only had a single bag. He’d insist it was on his way, even when it clearly wasn’t. He started carrying her parcels up without being asked, shoulder-barging the stairwell door open with a grin and a “Special delivery!” like it was no big deal. He always handed them over with one hand and a joke but his eyes always lingered just a beat too long. She didn’t seem to mind.

She didn’t say no to him, either.

It wasn’t just about her, though. He was clearly soft on Aurelia too, somehow managing that delicate balance between fun and dependable, chaos and calm. He never tried too hard, never made her feel like a chore. Just… showed up. It mattered.

So when he spotted the two of them coming back from school one afternoon, something in his chest twisted.

Aurelia wasn’t bouncing the way she usually did. Her hand was tucked tightly into her mum’s coat, and her face was blotchy in that telltale just-finished-crying sort of way. She wasn’t sobbing now, but she wasn’t smiling either.

Oscar frowned, stepping out of his doorway just as they reached the landing. “Alright?” he asked gently, eyes flicking between the two.

She gave him a small, weary look, and then crouched to Aurelia’s level. “Go on, love. Go get changed into your pyjamas, yeah? I’ll be in in a minute.”

Aurelia nodded mutely, her little lip still trembling, and padded through the front door. It clicked softly shut behind her.

Oscar stayed quiet for a beat. Then, low and careful, “What happened?”

She let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall, arms folded. “It’s nothing big. At least, not to anyone else. But to her…”

He waited.

She glanced down at the floor. “It’s bring your dad to school day tomorrow. They’re doing some assembly thing. A lot of the kids’ dads have these big jobs —marine biologist, police, pilot, someone even works at a zoo. And obviously she doesn’t have anyone. She asked if she could take her god father, but he’s away, and my brother’s not really around.”

Oscar’s brows pulled together slightly, the picture forming. He could feel the weight of it even now, the pressure that sort of thing put on a kid. Everyone else parading a parent around like a badge of honour. And her? Just trying to smile through it.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a lot for her to carry.”

“Yeah,” she said, voice quiet. “She didn’t say anything about it until just now. Said she didn’t want to upset me.” She scoffed lightly at herself, blinking fast. “She’s six, for God’s sake. She shouldn’t be worrying about me.”

Oscar’s gaze dropped to the floor, then lifted slowly to meet hers. “Why don’t I go?”

She blinked. “What?”

“To the school. For the thing. I mean.” he shrugged, awkward now, eyes flicking away “If she wants me to. I’m technically a firefighter. That’s still cool, right?”

She stared at him.

He gave a small, crooked smile. “I’ve got the day off. And I’ve got the uniform. Not the proper helmet, that’s locked up, but I could bring the jacket. Talk about smoke alarms and what happens if you leave your toast in too long.”

“You’d really do that?”

Oscar looked at her properly now, really looked, and all the gentle affection in him softened his voice. “Yeah. If it’ll help. I’d do a lot for her. And you.”

Her lips parted like she might say something, but nothing came out straightaway. Instead, she just nodded, slowly, almost like she didn’t quite trust her voice yet.

“I’ll ask her,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But thank you, Oscar.”

He gave a half-shrug, like it was nothing, but his heart was thudding behind his ribs.

“Tell her I expect a very professional introduction,” he said, backing away toward his flat, trying to keep it light.

And just before he stepped inside, she called after him, voice soft but sure.

“She’ll be over the moon.”

He didn’t say anything back.

He just smiled.

And his whole chest felt full.

Oscar had never had stage fright in his life. He’d once crawled through a burning pub roof, half convinced it was going to come down on his head, and hadn’t flinched. But standing outside the Year Two classroom, fiddling with the zip on his fire service fleece while a sea of tiny faces peered through the glass?

Yeah. That did it. 

Aurelia stood proudly beside him, hand firmly in his, like she was escorting a VIP. “Don’t be nervous,” she whispered with complete sincerity. “You’re the best one.”

That undid him a bit.

The door opened and a teacher with a rainbow lanyard and a kind smile welcomed them in. Oscar ducked slightly out of habit, as though the ceiling might lower to match the size of the furniture. The classroom was bright and chaotic in the way only a primary room could be. Walls plastered with glittery artwork, phonics charts, paper bunting with all the kid’s faces and a corner reading nook with two bean bags that had seen better days.

Aurelia immediately tugged him by the hand to the back wall. “These are mine,” she said, pointing to a messy collage of tissue-paper flowers, a painted hedgehog, and a bright crayon rainbow. “And that’s my favourite one.”

He leaned in, smiling, and then paused. Nestled in the middle of the display, in a wonky black felt-tip frame, was a drawing of three stick figures.

One tall with brown hair and blue scribbles on his shoulders. One with long lines of hair and a dress in Aurelia’s favourite shade of pink. And one, small and neat, holding both of their hands.

His throat did something strange.

Aurelia tapped it with pride. “That’s you,” she said. “That’s me. And that’s Mummy.”

He blinked. Swallowed. “Right.”

No one had ever drawn him before. Not like that. Not part of something. Not holding hands.

She didn’t notice his pause, already rifling through a drawer of coloured pencils, humming quietly. The rest of the class buzzed around them, but in that little corner, time felt like it had narrowed.

“We’re allowed to make a new picture for home if we want,” she said. “I’m going to do one for Mummy.”

He crouched beside her, watching her draw two wonky hearts and a triangle house with smoke coming from the chimney.

“Can I help?”

She nodded and handed him a green pencil.

He added a little tree with apples. Then, below the drawing, in his slanted, firefighter has to fill forms handwriting, he wrote carefully:

Mummy is the prettiest of them all.

Aurelia giggled and pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I think mummy is going to love that.”

He smiled at her, warm and full. “I hope so.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of picture books, wide-eyed questions from excitable children, and a slightly panicked moment when one kid asked how many people he'd "seen explode." 

But through it all, it was Aurelia's face he kept coming back to. The way she looked at him with pride, like she’d brought in something precious to share. The way she whispered his name to her friends, like she was letting them in on a secret. The way she slid her hand into his without even looking, like it was just the natural place for it to be.

And maybe the strangest bit?

It felt like home.

After the school visit, Oscar hadn’t quite been ready to say goodbye. Not yet. So when Aurelia mentioned, rather loudly and unsubtly, that she fancied an ice cream, he’d raised a brow in her mum’s direction and said, “Well, I suppose it is practically summer…”

She didn’t protest.

So they ended up walking to the corner shop, Aurelia skipping ahead with a swirl cone in one hand and rainbow sprinkles already melting down her fingers. He paid for the lot, obviously, brushing off any protests with a lazy, “Call it my speaker’s fee.”

When they got back, Aurelia darted inside first, cone long gone and hands sticky, only to stop dead in the kitchen.

“Mummy! Look!”

Aurelia pulled out the paper from her book bag with sticky hands, but her mum took it delicately, like it was something rare. Her eyes softened as she read the words beneath the sketch. Then, without a word, she reached for a magnet and pinned it to the fridge, pride of place, just above the shopping list.

Oscar watched from the doorway, the weight of something quiet settling in his chest. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

That night, just before he was about to settle in for a late dinner and a bit of telly, there was a soft knock at his door.

He opened it to find her standing there in joggers and an oversized hoodie, a small container in her hands.

“I made this,” she said. “It’s not much. Just lasagne. But it’s a thank you. For today.”

His lips curled into a slow, lopsided smile. “I see where Aurelia gets it from.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it. He took the container from her, their fingers brushing for a second too long, and the air between them shifted—just slightly, but enough to notice.

They stood in the corridor for a moment. It was quiet. Still. A pause between heartbeats.

Then, softly, almost shyly, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He froze, just for a second. Her lips were warm, gentle. She was already pulling back, the beginnings of an embarrassed smile forming as she started to turn away.

But he caught her.

“Wait.”

His hand came up, firm but tender, fingers tilting her chin towards him. His thumb brushed her cheek, and then—

He kissed her.

Not tentative. Not uncertain.

He kissed her like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. Because he had.

She gasped just a little and then melted into him, her hands sliding up into the front of his hoodie, bunching in the fabric like she needed something to hold onto. And when she let out the tiniest, breathy moan against his mouth, he smiled into the kiss, cocky and utterly undone all at once.

“Alright there?” he murmured against her lips, his forehead resting lightly against hers.

She was breathless. “It’s been a while.”

His eyes softened, thumb still stroking along her jaw. “Worth the wait, though.”

She nodded.

And neither of them moved. Not for a long while.

Just them. Just warmth. Just… something that felt very, very real.

They stood there for a while, neither of them quite ready to let go.

Eventually, she nudged her nose against his cheek and whispered, “Do you want to come in for a bit?”

He blinked at her, lips still curved from the kiss. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

She led him back into her flat, closing the door softly behind them. The hallway light cast a warm, golden glow over the walls, and the familiar smell of home. He followed her into the living room, everything dim and quiet. Aurelia’s newer drawings were still scattered across the coffee table. A soft throw had been kicked half off the sofa.

She turned to him, suddenly sheepish, running a hand through her hair. “I feel like I’m at uni, sneaking someone in,” she said with a small laugh.

He grinned. “I never went.”

She tilted her head, surprised. “Me neither.”

He looked at her for a second, then nodded towards the closed door down the hall. The one with a glittery star-shaped sticker on it.

“That why?”

She glanced back at the door. Something shifted behind her eyes. A quiet sadness, old but not forgotten.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I was supposed to. Got in and everything. Nottingham. English Lit. But I was nineteen and stupid and thought I was in love.”

She walked over to the sofa, sat down, and he followed. Their knees brushed. She stared at her hands for a moment before continuing.

“Didn’t know I was pregnant until I’d already turned down the offer. Was going to reapply the next year. But then she happened. And everything got really real, really fast.”

He didn’t say anything. Just listened, his body angled towards her, giving her the space and the safety.

“Her dad left when she was four months old,” she said, with a small, almost apologetic shrug. “Just sort of disappeared. Too young, too overwhelmed, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now.”

He was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was gentle.

“Of course it matters.”

She gave him a tired smile. “Not in the way people expect it to. I’m not bitter. I’m just tired sometimes. It’s a lot. But then she does something like draw me with a crown and a sparkly dress and labels it Queen of Mummies and I forget everything else.”

Oscar looked at her for a long moment. Then, softly, “You’re incredible, you know.”

She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh. “I’m tired and a bit moody and have approximately seventeen loads of laundry waiting, but thanks.”

He reached out, his hand brushing gently over hers. “I meant it.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft and a little glassy in the low light.

There was a pause, weightless but full of something.

“You’re not sneaking me in,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re letting me in.”

And that, God, that did something to her.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he tucked her in without thinking, arms coming round her like they’d always belonged there.

They sat there like that. Still. Quiet. Her fingers tracing absent-minded shapes on his forearm. The world outside fell away, no alarms, no homework, no long nights of dishes and lost socks.

Just this. Just him. Just her.

And the hum of something beginning to bloom.

It had been about a month since that first kiss in the corridor.

Oscar still had his own place, but he spent two, sometimes three, nights a week at hers now. It wasn't official, they hadn’t talked about labels, but the toothbrush beside hers in the bathroom said enough. So did the way he’d taken to calling her flat home without thinking, or how Aurelia would lean sleepily against his leg in the mornings while she waited for her eggs to finish cooking.

They had a rhythm now, dysfunctional but quiet and real.

He’d learnt how not to wake Aurelia when he rolled in late, how to turn the key in the lock with just the right amount of pressure and not let the hinge on the bathroom door creak when he showered after a night shift. She, in turn, had mastered the morning shuffle. Tiptoeing around the flat while he slept off the early hours, even closing cupboard doors with that soft, deliberate touch only mothers and night nurses seemed to perfect.

Some mornings, if his shift ended early and she had a bit more time, she’d curl back into bed beside him for a half hour. No words. Just warm limbs tangled together under the duvet while the outside world waited.

It was gentle, it was something he’d never thought he’d get, something he’d never thought he’d deserve.

That night, though, the fire station ws quiet and all he could think about was home. He was half slumped in one of the chairs in the rec room, sipping lukewarm tea from a chipped mug and watching some repeat quiz show on mute. It was just him, Lando, and two of the more senior lads, all of them looking somewhere between exhausted and wired.

Then the alarm started blaring.

The tone was different, lower, more urgent. Not a false alarm or a test. Not a bin fire or a smoke detector in a student flat.

Oscar was already on his feet before Control came through the speaker. 

“House fire reported, scratch that, pub fire, multiple reports of visible flames, location. The Fox and Hound, Chapel Lane.”

That made him pause. The Fox and Hound was a big one. Old building. Thatched roof. Always busy on weekdays and visible from his little flat.

It was 2am.

“Let’s go!” Andrea shouted, already moving. Oscar hauled his gear on, the straps familiar and fast now. His thoughts flicked to her, to Aurelia, how they were safe at home but bound to wake up to the sound of sirens. He tucked it away. Couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t think about anything but getting there.

The engine roared to life, tyres heavy on wet tarmac. Blue lights bounced across empty roads and shuttered shopfronts. No one spoke. Lando checked the comms, while Oscar stared out the front window, jaw tight.

As they got closer, they could already see the glow. Not just smoke, flames. Licking skyward in bright, vicious tongues.

He felt it then. That buzz in his blood. Not fear, exactly, something sharper. Something colder.

They pulled up just outside the pub. Heat rushed at them as soon as the doors opened. People were gathered at a safe distance, coats over pyjamas, phones in hand, eyes wide.

Oscar jumped down, helmet secure, heart thudding.

“All right,” came the voice in his earpiece, “we’ve got reports of staff inside, one maybe trapped, two might’ve made it out the back.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate. “Which floor?”

“Upstairs flat. Left side.”

And just like that, they moved. Through the smoke, through the roar and the crack and the chaos.

He didn’t think of her again until they were inside. But when he did, it was like armour.

She’s waiting. You get out. You go home.

The heat hit him like a wall.

By the time Oscar got inside, the fire had already taken hold of the bar. Bottles of spirits cracked and burst like fireworks, sending shards and fuel across the floor. The wood panelling burned fast—too fast. There was a reason fire crews hated pub jobs. Alcohol and timber made for a nasty combination.

His mask filtered the worst of the smoke, but visibility was poor. He ducked low, sweeping the hose with one hand while shouting into the crackling dark, “Fire and Rescue! Anyone inside?”

There was no reply, just the moaning groan of the ceiling starting to go.

They cleared the ground floor quickly. A member of staff had managed to stumble out the back, coughing and panicked, mumbling about another one unaccounted for.

Oscar was halfway out, half a breath from turning back, when he caught sight of the stairs through the smoke.

Stairs.

He froze, then turned back to Control. “This place has rooms. It’s an inn.”

There was a pause in his earpiece.

“Confirmed. It’s a pub with letting rooms. Upstairs. Go careful.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He ran.

The heat intensified as he climbed. Fire moved like a living thing, chewing through floorboards, plaster, lives. The smoke was blacker here, thicker, laced with that acrid sting of burning plastic and varnish.

He moved fast, sweeping left and right. Doors half-open. Sheets scorched. The moan of fire too close.

And then he heard it.

A sob.

Small. Choked. From the far room, left corner.

He found her curled up on a narrow bed, knees hugged to her chest, cheeks streaked with soot and tears. Couldn’t have been more than eight. Long brown hair stuck to her face, and she was shaking.

“Mum?” she whimpered.

Oscar’s breath caught.

For half a second, she wasn’t a stranger. She was Aurelia. She was his little one. In a different place, a different time, but just as small. Just as scared.

He didn’t hesitate. Ripped off his oxygen mask and crouched down beside her, voice steady.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay. I’m here to help. We’re getting out of here, alright?”

She nodded, hiccupping sobs now. He wrapped her in his jacket, pulled her close, and hoisted her into his arms.

“Close your eyes for me, alright? Tight. Don’t look.”

She did.

The flames were close now. He felt the blistering heat crawling up the corridor behind them as he turned, shielding her with his body.

The ceiling above the stairwell was starting to sag. There wasn’t time to think. Only move.

He bolted.

Smoke seared his lungs. His mask hung useless at his hip. He pressed her tighter to his chest, ducked as a beam groaned and crashed just behind him, sparks flying past his shoulders.

The front exit was blocked. Too hot.

He spotted a smashed window in the corridor off the landing—low enough. Maybe.

He didn’t think, just acted.

He lunged for it, twisted his body to take the brunt, and threw his arm over her head as he pushed through.

Glass scraped his back. A cry tore from his throat, but he held her steady.

And then—

Air.

Cool, blessed air.

He stumbled out onto the pavement, coughing, the girl still cradled tight against him.

A medic ran forward and took her. She was sobbing, but alive. Alive.

Oscar slumped to his knees, gasping.

Lando was beside him in seconds. “Mate—what the hell?!”

Oscar waved him off, catching his breath, throat burning.

“She was in there. A kid.” He looked up. “Could’ve been her, Lan.”

Lando didn’t need to ask who her was.

It took another hour to put the fire out completely. They lost the roof, and two rooms, but no lives. None.

Oscar sat on the pavement long after the hoses went still, his turnout gear soaked through, back bleeding, lungs scorched, but he was upright.

He couldn’t stop seeing the girl’s face.

Couldn’t stop seeing Aurelia in it.

By the time they got back to the station, Oscar was soaked through with sweat and soot. His shirt stuck to the grazes along his back, stiff with smoke. His hands trembled when he took his gloves off.

The station was quieter than usual. No jokes. No kettle boiling. No telly. Just that heavy silence that follows the worst kind of shout.

Zak caught his eye as he stepped down from the truck.

“You’re done for the night, Piastri,” Zak said quietly, hand on his shoulder. “Go home, Oscar.”

Oscar opened his mouth to argue, to say he was fine, standard procedure, but the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t fine. He didn’t feel anything close to fine.

So he nodded. Wordless. Stripped off his gear and shoved it in the drying room. Pulled a hoodie from his locker and walked out of the doors with the smell of burny wood still clinging to his hair.

The cab ride home was a blur. He didn’t remember much except asking the driver to leave him on the corner, needing the walk to clear his head.

But it didn’t help.

Because all he could see was her. That little girl, curled up in the bed, sobbing for her mum. The one he carried out. The one who had Aurelia’s eyes.

He didn’t even realise his key had missed the lock twice until the door opposite his flat opened.

And then she was there.

She took one look at him and moved without thinking. “Oh my God—Oscar—”

He barely got the door open before she crossed the hallway, hands on his chest, eyes scanning him like she needed to count all his fingers and toes just to believe he was still whole.

“I heard there was a fire. We could see it from here, someone said it was your station that went out and—” Her voice cracked as she clung to his hoodie. “You didn’t answer your phone so I assumed you’d gone but—”

He didn’t mean to. But his arms went round her like instinct, and his voice finally gave out as he buried his face into the side of her neck.

“I need to see her.”

She didn’t ask who. She just nodded.

He stepped inside her flat and moved straight to the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, the way it always was. Soft light from her nightlight spilled onto the hallway carpet.

Aurelia was fast asleep, curled on her side, clutching that stuffed bunny she never went to bed without.

Oscar watched her chest rise and fall. Just breathing.

Just alive.

And that was all it took.

His knees buckled slightly, hand braced on the doorframe, and tears spilled hot down his cheeks. She was there in an instant, arms around his waist, and he didn’t try to stop it.

He wept quietly, forehead resting against hers, chest heaving as every unspoken terror bled out of him.

She reached up and cupped his face gently. “Come on,” she said softly, “let me take care of you, yeah?”

He didn’t argue.

She led him by the hand to the bathroom, flicked the light on low, and turned the tap to fill the bath.

Without a word, she reached for the hem of his hoodie, and he let her lift it over his head. Her fingers brushed the grazes on his back, and she exhaled, not quite a gasp, but almost.

He looked down at himself. Soot-stained, battered, worn thin.

She didn’t say anything. Just tugged his joggers off gently, like she was handling something fragile.

When he was bare before her, she stepped closer, pressed a kiss to his sternum, and wrapped her arms around his middle.

He pressed his nose into her hair, breathing her in. Clean. Warm. Real.

“You’re home,” she whispered.

“I thought she was going to die,” he choked. “She was crying for her mum. She was—she looked just like—”

“I know,” she murmured, and her hand found his. “You saved her.”

She helped him into the bath, then climbed in behind him, still in her top having discarded her leggings, gathering him close like he was the one who needed holding now. And maybe he was.

No more sirens. No more shouting. No fear.

Just soft water. Warmth. Her.

Home.

The steam had fogged up the mirror, and the water had gone lukewarm by the time she pulled the plug. Neither of them moved for a moment. Limbs heavy, breath slow, her arms still wrapped around him from behind. His back rested against her chest, and her cheek was pressed to the crown of his head.

Eventually, she stirred first, nudging his shoulder gently.

“Come on,” she whispered, voice hushed like she didn’t want to wake the world. “Let’s get you dry.”

He let her guide him up, hands loose in hers. She reached for a towel and wrapped it round his waist, then took another and ran it through his hair, careful and slow like she was unravelling the knots of the day with each movement. His eyes stayed on hers the whole time, soft and unreadable. She dried herself as he put some clothes on, watching him as he slipped on the pyjamas he left yesterday, while she opted for a pair of shorts and a tank top.

She led him into her bedroom with nothing but the quiet creak of floorboards between them. Her hand rested on the small of his back, grounding him.

When she turned to face him, he didn’t speak. He just looked at her like she was something he still didn’t quite believe was real.

“Lie down,” she said softly.

He did, not like it was an order, more like a suggestion he’d been waiting for. He lay back against the pillows, hair damp, skin warm. He looked younger in the low light. Unarmoured. All soft edges and tired eyes.

She climbed in beside him and straddled his hips, in the vest and shorts she’d pulled on a second ago. Her fingers ghosted over the scrapes on his shoulder, her brow creasing.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live.”

“Still.” She leaned down, brushed her lips over one graze like it deserved an apology. “You gave too much of yourself tonight.”

He let out a slow breath, hands resting on her thighs. “Didn’t feel like I had a choice.”

“I know.” She kissed another spot. Then another. “But you don’t always have to carry everything alone, you know.”

He swallowed, his throat tight. “I don’t know how to do this slowly,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not with you. Not after tonight.”

She leaned forward until her forehead rested against his. “It doesn’t have to be slow,” she murmured, lips brushing his. “It just has to be soft.”

And it was.

No rush. No fumbling. Just touch, and breath, and the quietest kind of yes in every movement.

His fingers curled around her hip, grounding himself, and when he kissed her back it was like he needed her to know. I’m here. I’m yours. I came home to you.

She smiled at him, the warmest smile he’d ever seen.

It wasn’t fireworks or declarations.

Just warmth. 

Home.

She kissed him again, this time slower. Deeper. Her fingers slid into his damp hair, anchoring him to her, and his hand found the curve of her hip again, drawing her in without thought.

The air between them felt thick with warmth, not heat, like the moment before a storm breaks, all hush and anticipation. There was no rush in it. No fumbling. Just the steady build of something that had been waiting in the quiet between them for weeks.

She shifted a little, her legs bracketing his, the hem of her vest brushing the tops of his thighs. His hands slid up, tracing her shape like he was learning it by heart. The small of her back, the line of her waist, the softness of her ribs. She leaned down, her breath warm against his cheek.

“Is this alright?” she asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his nose along hers. “More than alright.”

She kissed him again, deeper this time, and he responded with a soft noise at the back of his throat, his hands gripping a little tighter, his body rising to meet hers. Their movements found a rhythm, gentle, reverent. He helped her lift her vest, pulling it slowly over her head, and she let it fall to the floor beside the bed. There was no embarrassment in her. No hesitation. Just trust, and something else, something fragile and burning beneath the surface.

He sat up, mouth brushing her collarbone, then lower, until she gasped, not from surprise, but from the quiet ache of being seen. Wanted. He pressed kisses down her chest, hands steady on her waist, as if every part of her mattered. Like she wasn’t just something beautiful, but something sacred.

Her fingers found the waistband of his joggers and tugged them down with a quiet smile. “I think you’re overdressed.”

He huffed a laugh against her neck. “Been saying that about you for weeks.”

When they came together it wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth, and weight, and breath. Her hand slid into his, fingers laced tightly, like she needed the grounding. He moved slowly, gently, his forehead resting against hers, his free hand stroking up the length of her spine in time with the soft rhythm between them.

Neither of them spoke, not because there was nothing to say, but because everything important was already there, in the way their bodies met, and parted, and met again. In the way she whispered his name like it meant something. In the way he held her like she was the only safe thing left in the world.

And when it was over, when her body relaxed against his, and his arms came around her like instinct, they stayed there, skin to skin, tangled in sweat-damp sheets and the quiet hum of something that felt a lot like love.

He brushed his fingers through her hair, soft and absent.

She pressed a kiss to the side of his throat, her voice barely more than a breath.

“I’ve never had this,” she said.

He kissed the top of her head. “You’ve got it now.”

And she did.

The flat was filled with the kind of early morning stillness that only came after a long night. The light outside hadn’t quite brightened, but it wasn’t dark either, that muted, silvery sort of grey that hinted at a day gently waking up.

Oscar stirred first, arms curled around her, legs tangled in the duvet. Her head was on his chest, one of her hands tucked beneath his shirt like it belonged there, like it always had. He blinked slowly, heart still steady in the after-glow of everything, and let the moment stretch.

No alarms. No radios crackling to life.

Just breath. Just her.

Then came the familiar shuffle of small feet padding across the hallway, a door creaking ever so slightly, the rustle of a blanket being dragged along the floor.

Aurelia.

He felt her tense slightly against him, just a flicker, the instinct of a mum on alert, but she didn’t move to untangle herself from him. Instead, she sighed, soft and sleepy, and whispered, “She’ll come to the kitchen first.”

Sure enough, a cupboard door opened with a tiny clatter. A pause. Then the quiet clink of a cereal bowl.

He smiled. “She does this every time, doesn’t she?”

“She thinks she’s sneaky.”

“Is she?”

“Not even slightly.”

He laughed gently and kissed her hairline before slipping out of bed. He pulled on his joggers and one of her hoodies that hung by the door, the sleeves a little short on him, then padded into the kitchen.

Aurelia looked up from the kitchen table, spoon halfway to her mouth. Her eyes went wide for a second, not surprised, just curious, and then her face broke into a grin.

“You slept over again.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly a bit shy. “Yeah. That alright?”

She nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re in mummy’s hoodie.”

Oscar laughed. “I am. D’you reckon it suits me?”

She tilted her head, considering. “Yeah. But your sleeves are funny.”

Just then, her mum appeared in the doorway behind him, wrapped in one of his T-shirts, hair tousled, still sleepy-eyed.

Aurelia beamed.

Oscar glanced back at her, and something in his chest pulled, that same quiet tug he’d felt last month, in the classroom, staring at a child’s drawing of a life he hadn’t known he’d wanted until he saw it sketched out in crayon.

The three of them. A little sun in the corner. Lopsided hearts.

She came up behind him and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, a soft morning kind of kiss, and brushed past to the kettle.

Aurelia watched them both, spoon hanging from her mouth. Then, very simply, she said,

“You should just live here now.”

They both looked at her.

She shrugged. “You always make mummy smile.”

Oscar blinked, caught a little off guard. He looked over at her, the woman who’d somehow become the best part of his days, and saw the faint blush creeping up her neck.

“We’re working on it,” she said gently, reaching to ruffle her daughter’s hair.

And maybe they were.

They didn’t have a grand plan, or timelines, or promises inked in stone, but they had something. And in typical child nature, after dropping a bomb like that, Aurelia left her bowl and moved onto drawing.

Oscar was mid grabbing the butter from the fridge when his phone started to buzz with a FaceTime call.

He frowned at the screen, then smiled. “It’s my mum.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You gonna answer?”

“Suppose I’ve got to now,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and tapping the green button.

His mum’s face filled the screen, tanned and bright-eyed, her hair swept back, sunshine spilling in behind her through the windows of her kitchen in Melbourne.

“Oh! Look who it is!” she grinned. “Took you long enough to answer. I was starting to think you’d moved to the moon.”

Oscar chuckled. “No, still Earth-side.”

She narrowed her eyes, playful. “That is not your flat, Oscar Jack. I know your tiles. Is this Lando’s place?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but just then, Aurelia let out a small triumphant cheer as she held up her finished drawing. “Look, Oscar, it’s us in the fire engine again!”

His mum’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, that’s not Lando either.”

Oscar looked down at the floor for a moment, then gave a sheepish smile.

“Right,” he said, shifting a little. “So… bit of a life update.”

He turned the phone round gently, showing his mum the cosy kitchen, the mess of crayons, the fireman sticker Aurelia had slapped onto the fridge, and finally, her.

She smiled warmly, caught off guard for just a second by being the centre of attention, but not pulling away. She gave a small wave. “Hi.”

Oscar cleared his throat, a little hoarse with nerves. “Mum… meet the woman who’s kept me sane the last couple of months.”

His mum blinked, a beat of silence, and then she smiled so wide it softened every line in her face.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Now that makes sense.”

He laughed, a quiet, breathless sort of sound, and she leaned into his shoulder slightly, her hand resting on the table beside his. Aurelia had already resumed drawing, now completely absorbed in adding stars to the day sky.

His mum nodded, still smiling. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is,” he said, before he could even think to stop himself.

There was no panic in it, no need to explain further. Just truth, warm and steady between them all.

“You look happy, love,” his mum said at last. “Properly happy.”

He glanced sideways, saw the way she was looking at him, like he’d finally landed somewhere soft.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I am.”

Just as he was about to speak up again, Aurelia called his name demanding his immediate attention, and to Oscar, she deserved immediate attention so he left the phone on the island with her and wandered off into the living room to see what she needed.

“So,” his mum said, leaning her chin on her hand, “you’re the one that’s brought my son back to life huh.”

She laughed softly, brushing a crumb from the table. “I don’t know about that. He’s done plenty of the heavy lifting.”

His mum tilted her head. “You’ve got no idea, have you?”

She looked up, brow furrowed just slightly.

“That boy,” his mum said, with the fondness she recognised as a parent, “has always been kind. But I haven’t heard him sound like that in years. Like there’s a little bit of sunshine in his voice again.” Her eyes stung, just a little, but she kept her smile. “He makes it easy to be kind to him.” “I’m glad he’s got you,” she said, voice quieter now. “And I’m glad he’s got her too. It seems your little one is a bundle of magic.”

She nodded, looking toward the living room where they were both laughing. “She’s my whole world.”

There was a pause, and then Oscar’s mum said, not unkindly, “Must’ve been hard. Doing this all on your own.” “It was,” she admitted, honest without bitterness. “Still is, some days. But it’s better now. Easier, with him.”

His mum’s smile turned into something a little misty. “Well. If he’s half as good to you as he was to his little cousins back home, you’re in very safe hands.”

“I think I am,” she said, quietly.

Oscar’s voice called from down the hallway then, something about star stickers and him being promoted to co-pilot of the living room space rocket, and they both laughed.

“I should go help him survive his new role,” she said, pushing her chair back.

Oscar’s mum smiled. “Tell him I said he’d better ring again soon. And you, look after each other, yeah?”

“We will.”

And as she ended the call and stood, walking towards the warm sound of her two favourite voices down the hall, she realised it had been a long time since things felt this much like home.

Seven months had passed, and life had woven itself into something steady, soft edges and everyday joy.

Oscar had sold his flat back in April, after a lot of faffing and a surprisingly emotional trip through storage boxes. Now, all his belongings lived here, in the flat that had once felt like hers and hers alone, but now smelled like them. His mugs were in her cupboards, her shoes were tangled up with his by the door, and there were three toothbrushes in the bathroom, hers, Aurelia’s, and his. One day, quietly, it had stopped feeling like he was staying over, and started feeling like home.

They had routines now. Quiet ones. Aurelia would burst into the bedroom at seven on the dot if it was his day off. On early mornings, he’d creep in at six, just off a night shift, and she’d leave the landing light on for him like a lighthouse. He knew how she took her tea, and she’d learnt not to make noise until he’d actually had some of it. He made dinner most nights, unless she’d had a good day at work and was feeling ambitious.

It was simple. Not perfect, not glossy, not always easy. But it was theirs. And it was good.

This morning, the flat was busy with the chaos of first-day-back energy. Year Three. New backpack. New lunchbox. New plaited hairstyle that had taken them two goes to get right.

Aurelia had been buzzing from the moment she opened her eyes.

“Am I late? Is it time? I’m going to forget cursive. I bet I’ve forgotten cursive!”

“You can write better than most adults, you’ll be fine,” Oscar said, dropping a kiss to her forehead as she wriggled into her shoes.

Her mum gave her one last once-over by the door, brushing a bit of fluff off her shoulder. “You look beautiful, baby.”

Oscar grinned. “You look cool. Very Year Three.”

She beamed. “I’m going to boss Year Three.”

He dropped her off that morning, gave her a high five at the gates, and watched her disappear into the swarm of backpacks and bright socks and morning yawns.

But it was that afternoon that stopped him still.

He’d offered to do pick-up. Thought it’d be a nice surprise. He stood by the railings, hands in his jacket pockets, feeling strangely nervous in a sea of parents and buggies and scooters.

Then she came running out of the gates.

Pointed straight at him.

And with the biggest grin, shouted, “My dad is here to pick me up!”

Oscar froze.

The word rang out in his head like a church bell. Like something he wasn’t quite supposed to hear.

Dad.

His chest tightened. Not with panic. Not with fear. But something much bigger. Something messier.

She ran straight into his arms and he lifted her with a small laugh, though it came out shaky. She chattered the whole way home, about spelling tests and Miss Price’s new earrings and how someone brought in a tarantula, but he barely caught any of it.

Because one word had wrapped itself around his ribcage.

Later, once she was tucked up on the sofa with a biscuit and the telly on low, he stepped into the kitchen, where she was rinsing mugs by the sink.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little quieter than usual.

She turned, drying her hands on a tea towel. “Hey, you alright?”

He just looked at her for a moment. His eyes were glassy.

“She called me her dad.”

She paused. Slowly put the towel down.

“I went to pick her up and she saw me and said it. My dad is here to pick me up. Just like that.”

He let out a shaky breath, a small, astonished sort of laugh. “I thought I was going to cry right there in the playground like an idiot.”

Her heart clenched. She stepped toward him, and he pulled her in like a lifeline.

“She meant it, didn’t she?” he whispered into her hair.

“She did,” she said softly. “She really, really did.”

That night, after the dishes had been done and the flat had settled into its usual hush, Oscar found himself stood in the doorway to Aurelia’s room.

She was half asleep already, the telly's low hum from the living room barely audible through her door. She stirred slightly, sensing him, blinking one eye open.

“Hey,” she mumbled.

He stepped in, crouched beside her bed. “Just checking in on you.”

“You always do,” she said sleepily, reaching for his hand.

He smiled. “Habit now.”

She squeezed his fingers. “You’re the best one, you know. I’m really glad you’re mine.”

Oscar swallowed. “I’m really glad I’m yours too, pickle.”

She wriggled a bit, yawning into her blanket. “Love you, Oscar.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Love you more.”

And in the quiet of that room, with the soft rise and fall of her breathing, he stayed just a minute longer, heart full in a way he never thought it could be.

Over the years, things changed. For the better and never the worst.

They got married in a small ceremony at the register office, all low-fuss and laughter and Aurelia dropping petals like she was queen of the world. He wore his uniform jacket, she wore a soft blue dress that matched her eyes, and Aurelia insisted on holding both their hands the whole way through the vows.

He officially adopted her not long after that. There was paperwork, a hearing, signatures, all formal, all necessary, but what he remembered most was the moment she looked up at him, fidgeting with the sleeve of her cardigan, and said, “Can I have the same name as you?”

He cried. Fully. In public. No shame.

“You sure?” he’d asked, voice thick.

She nodded with a smile that could’ve split the sky. “I want to be the same as you.”

After that, life kept growing. Gently, beautifully.

They hadn’t planned on having another child. Not because they didn’t want to, more that they’d built a home already, and it felt enough. But life, as ever, had other plans. It happened one quiet spring, and when she told him, he’d gone very still and said, “Are you serious?” and when she nodded, he sank to his knees with his arms round her middle like she was something holy.

That pregnancy was nothing like the first. It wasn’t fraught with fear or pain or the weight of being alone. This time, she had someone holding her hair back when the sickness kicked in. Someone who learnt how to make the weird toast she liked at four in the morning. Someone who ran baths and rubbed her back and whispered “you’ve got this” against her skin when she needed it most.

He took proper paternity leave too, remembering how he told Zak, “Don’t give me grief, Zak, it’s the law”, and when he finally did go back to work, he did it dragging himself out of bed with bags under his eyes, a half-eaten banana in one hand and a tiny sock stuck to the back of his uniform trousers.

But he was happy.

Proper, head-to-toe, bone deep happy.

Oscar, who used to dread going back to his childhood home, now booked flights to Australia every year like clockwork. Family trips, beach towels, squabbles over carry-ons, and Aurelia teaching her little brother how to build sandcastles while their mum took pictures and Oscar applied suncream with the seriousness of a soldier preparing for war.

And when he looked back, years later, in the slow quiet of a Sunday morning, coffee in hand and the flat filled with life, he sometimes thought of the school fair. Of the day he met her. Of balloon animals, and face paint, and one very small girl yelling “Neighbour firefighter!”

And he’d smile, every single time.

Because somehow, against all the odds, it had been the beginning of everything.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine

[eufezco]

NEW OLD JOEL 𓂃 𓈒 ❀

old man!joel x younger!fem!reader

synopsis – after years on the road, you and joel finally settle in jackson and there's nothing you love more than coming back from work to your old man wearing those glasses.

smut. fluff

the last of us masterlist

after traveling what felt like the entire world following joel, you both finally decided to settle down in jackson. it was peaceful, a not so small community anymore where you could breathe again, where you could do more than just survive. eat three meals a day. sleep through the night without one eye open. and with all that peace came space, to feel, to think, to finally let yourself consider what had been quietly building between you and joel all this time.

he was reluctant at first. the age gap weighed on him more than it ever did on you. you’d never brought it up, never even seemed to notice it in the ways he did. but you two had lived too much together since you first started traveling with ellie. that kind of bond didn’t come easily. yet joel didn’t think he had the right to want something as soft, as tender, as the love you showed him. and jackson helped him with that. the town gave him the kind of peace he never thought he’d earn. and slowly, as the years passed, joel softened and started to accept the life he deserved and appreciate the little things.

the way you massaged his shoulders after a long day of work, the way he always made sure you were warm in the mornings when he had to leave early, how you'd wake up tucked beneath an extra blanket. you built a life together made up of shared breakfasts and quiet evenings walking through the snow-covered streets of jackson, of fixing things around the house side by side, of laughter in the kitchen when something burned, and the way he'd kiss your temple like it didn’t matter.

—hi, —you said coming into the house. joel looked up from where he was sitting at the table, glasses low on his nose, hands busy with something that needed to be fixed. his eyes softened the second he saw you.

—hey, darlin’, —he said, —you’re back early.

—yeah, the snow is getting worst, there wasn't much we could do in the garden, —you replied, shrugging off your coat and hanging it up by the door.

joel gave a small nod, eyes following your every move, —i figured, —he said, —how’s the ground looking? any chance we can save anything before the winter really sets in?

you sighed, taking a moment to pull off your gloves and slide them into your pocket. —a few plants are holding up, but it’s mostly the cold that’s making it tough. i’m thinking of giving it another shot in the spring, once everything starts to warm up.

joel hummed. you approached him and hugged him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder. his hand, still holding the small tool, paused for a second before he gently placed it down, he took one of your hands in his, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

—how was your day? —you asked.

—good, busy. dina told me the cracked main lines are full of roots. should've checked them but i forgot, —he rubbed his hands over his face, clearly annoyed with himself. you could see how much he cared about getting things right, about showing that he was still capable, still useful. he picked the piece again and fidgeted with it.

—it's okay, you can get it done tomorrow. the main lines aren't going to move, —you reassured him, your voice gentle, as you smoothed your hand over his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palm.

—yeah, you’re right. tomorrow’s another day, —the therapy sessions were working, somehow, because never in your life would you have imagined the joel you first met would learn to take things slow.

you kissed his cheek, his beard tickling your lips, as your hand slid slowly over his chest. you couldn't help but smile at how lost he was in the task, not even seeming to notice the way you were touching him. you pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his neck, letting your lips pressed there for just a second before pulling back.

—joel, —you murmured. your fingers brushed against his before you gently took the small tool from him and set it on the table. you moved closer, slipping one knee over his lap, easing yourself down until you were straddling him. —are you planning on working all night?

joel's hands instinctively found your hips, steadying you, surprised but not willing to stop you. —was just about done here, —he said, —then i was gonna give you every bit of my attention. but i see you've got other plans for me.

you loved how he looked with the glasses low on his nose, made him look more domestic, but you gently slid them off, folding them and setting them on the table. his eyes followed the movement, then back up to yours, darker now but entirely focused.

—thought you liked those, —he murmured.

—i do, —you whispered, —but i'm afraid they might get in the way.

he hummed, his eyes fixed on your lips.

you unbuttoned the flannel he wore beneath his jacket. he watched you, barely breathing, his hands still resting on your hips but his thumbs began to trace soft circles through the fabric of your jeans. you sighed softly as the last button came undone, revealing his body. your hand moved over his chest, tracing the old, pale scars that marked his skin. your eyes moved lower, taking in the softness of his belly, the way he relaxed under your gaze instead of tensing. you bit your lower lip, what if you said this was the sexiest he has ever looked?

—i couldn't wait to get back home to you, —you brushed your nose against his, you hips started rolling against his own. joel swallowed, his hands flexed where they held you, fingers tightening just a little.

—yeah? —he asked, his voice low, a little gruff.

you nodded, and your lips finally met his in a kiss that felt like it had been waiting to happen all day. it was desperate, needy, but slow and passionate. your fingers sank into the soft, graying hair at the back of joel’s head, tugging gently, needing him closer. he groaned low in his throat, his hands working hungrily on the zipper of your jeans.

you lifted your hips from his so he could slid your jeans down your legs and immediately after, you straddled him again. as your fingers worked on the buckle of his belt and then unzipped his pants, joel's big hands cupped your ass, pushing you forward and encouraging you to grind against his crotch.

you whined, feeling the rough fabric of his jeans through the thin one of your panties. you pulled down his underwear, just enough for his cock to sprung free. you connected your lips with his again, his hands now on your cheeks as you lowered yourself just enough for his tip to go in. he let out a deep grunt straight from his chest, you let out all the air you had in your lungs in a moan.

you took all of him. joel let his head rest on your shoulder as his hands traveled down your body to your hips. he helped you move, at first just rocking your body back and forth against his. your lips, half parted pressed together, made it easier for your breaths to mingle. then, you lifted your body and then dropped back onto him. you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed his lips while you repeated that same move again and again.

—fuck, yeah, just like that, —joel groaned in your ear.

you tried not to be so loud, you didn't want to attract anyone's attention or cause a scandal. but your cries and his moans eventually echoed on the walls of your living room every time you lifted yourself a bit more and then sucked his cock completely inside you again.

joel rose from the chair in one fluid motion, his strong hands holding your weight. with a sweep of his arm, tools and scraps went to the floor, forgotten. he laid you down on the now-cleared table, the wood cool against your back, contrast to the heat building between you as his cock never left your body.

—did so good for me, now let me take care of you, hm?

he grabbed your thighs with firm hands and guided your legs around his waist so he could go deeper. your heels pressed into his lower back as he leaned in closer, his forehead resting against yours. the table cracked with each one of his thrusts and you feared it might break, it wouldn't be the first time joel would need to ask his brother for help in repairing a piece of furniture that you had broken since your arrival in jackson.

one of his hands sneaked in between your bodies and found your clit, his fingers moving fast and with urgency as he felt how you were getting tighter and tighter. you closed your eyes shut, feeling a little dizzy from all the panting as your body jerked and squeezed his own between your legs as you came. after that, he didn't last much longer and released himself inside you.

you both stayed there for a few minute. joel rested on top of you and with your legs still around him, you welcomed the weight of his body pressing you down onto the table. you played with his hair as he finally looked at you. you showed him a little smile and he gave a quick kiss to your lips.

—my body's gonna hurt so much tomorrow from this.

you giggled, —i'll make sure to give you the best massage ever.

you showed him a little smile, and he gave you a quick kiss to your lips. but as you pulled away, both of you noticed the mess of tools and pieces scattered across the floor, the work joel had been focused on before everything had shifted between you.

—i'm afraid you're gonna have to start all over again.

—with that or with you?

[inthelittlewood]

Questions about Eyes And Ears AU

I had somebody ask for a brief interview regarding my storytelling for their university project and thought I'd lend a hand.

I thought those of you that follow the story might like the insight too, so here ya go:

When you first introduced the Listeners in Evo SMP, did you have a broader narrative or concept in mind, or were they more of an atmospheric element at that point?

The honest answer is that I didn't want to write too much about somebody else's character(s), that being Grian's Watchers. If I could write the conflict from the side of the Listeners then we could continue the narrative with a pre-designed opposing force but have them be relatively mute for the most part. Partly to build anticipation of when they might act or retaliate but it also worked for behind the scenes purposes too. If the series hadn't slowed/stopped as suddenly as it did, I definitely would have poked Grian to pick his brain about what story elements fit his original imagining of the Watchers. So it was mostly narrative reasoning but they also served a mechanical behind the scenes purpose of transporting us to a new area which was necessary due to bugs we'd encountered with world gen etc.

What inspired you to flesh out the Eyes and Ears AU more in recent years? Was that mostly a personal creative decision, or was it influenced by fan interest?

Honestly I hadn't premeditated too much their reintroduction into anything that I was working on. Sure I'd seen a little chattering here and there about the Watchers but I honestly just wanted to write an individual story beat (albeit a tropey one) of c!Martyn snapping and turning on Ren but that never came to fruition due to Scar taking us out. The plan was always to backstab Ren then say a cool line like "Red Winter is over, Red Spring has begun" or something else punny. Seeing the fevered reaction of the audience though gave me some confidence that I could try my hand at some layered or entirely post-production storytelling, so heading into Last Life I was all guns blazing.

The Eyes and Ears AU is quite open-ended — do you intentionally approach it with the idea of leaving narrative space for fan interpretation?

It really is right? Yes, it's a very mindful decision to leave it open-ended but not so much for the audience's benefit or interpretations, but to give myself creative freedom to take the story wherever I'd like to. Committing to too many power scale, multiverse or narrative shackles early can really strangle stories I've noticed (from reading comics and manga) meaning back pedalling or aggressive retcons are required to explore certain paths, which is rarely a good experience for the reader. I do enjoy their versatility and capability to be applied to any Minecraft or adjacent story too. Some might call it too broad, I call it malleable.

How do you feel about fans expanding the lore through headcanons and theories? Have any fan interpretations stood out or surprised you?

I think it's brilliant! People inundate my inbox on Tumblr seeking permission to write stories or create characters / AUs but I've literally no authority on that. I suppose it might be a different conversation if they were profiting off of those works, but 99% of people simply want to write for fun which I highly encourage!! I'll be honest that I haven't read a great deal of AUs or headcanons, my exposure to them is mostly via chat messages during lore talk streams or questions that come through regarding the Eyes And Ears AU. As a general rule I try to avoid reading too much of other people's works on the topic because I worry I'll accidentally regurgitate it in some way then stumble into plagiarism, you know? It's why I focus more on digesting stories outside the fandom whether it's manga, Sanderson books, reading old Japanese folk tales and the like. I can source inspiration from those on how to weave narrative and execute plot twists without having to glance in my front yard.

Has fan content (art, theories, animatics, etc.) ever influenced how you think about or approach the AU?

Oh for sure they have. It's literally why after every season we'll do a sit down stream and talk about the lore in detail. Figure out the puzzle and potential trip wires of plot points from the episodes and how we can neatly pack them into the pre-existing story. A lot of people wouldn't do that as they'd be precious about their work and believe their opinion is th only correct one, but I looooove soundboarding with the audience on it. I also take that mindset in game and sometimes think about the scenery of an impactful moment whenever I'm able to control / design it. I'll have little quips or quotes cooked in my mind for how I'd ideally deliver a blow or plot twist, buuuuut given the nature of the Life series you very rarely get to execute things how you'd like haha! I definitely wouldn't have done as many of the poems had their not been such a positive reaction to those. I often see individual lines or entire passages make their way into art pieces as typography or highlighted in animatics which is really gratifying. It's why I also put such an emphasis and priority on audio production in my editing. If I can craft something that feels atmospheric, driving and punctuating with music, staggering vocals or sound effects then the auditory portion is already done, they can focus solely on the visual aspect of things. I try and be as cinematic / TV like as my skillset allows for that reason.

You’ve mentioned trying not to fully canonise the AU, but still referencing it consistently — how do you balance telling your own story effectively, while trying not to involve other creators, particularly on the Life Series, when a lot of your time is spent in a group?

The easiest way to do this, is to not do it. For the most part the only storytelling done with the AU is done in post-production. I never name drop the Watchers or Listeners in world (believe me, I was as surprised as all of you when I saw that Secret Keeper statue in Secret Life!!) and in recent seasons they haven't even reared their head as an influence whatsoever. They're on holiday, they deserve it. But when they do whisper in my ear, they're motivated decisions that I would likely make as a player/character anyway because the win objective is always the thing I'm striving towards. I can just pepper angst around it to make things seem more manipulated rather than selfish ha. I think that's why the open ended nature of the Watchers has served me well because as much as they have a singular motive which is to feed on negative emotions, that can be achieved in so many ways ranging from bloodlust to deception, heartbreak to panic. It's versatile for storytelling. It can be in your face, or a slow burn.

What do the Watchers and Listeners represent to you, symbolically or narratively? Do they serve a specific function in the stories you tell?

The Watchers used to represent the audience when Grian first introduced them, but after departing EVO I've definitely breathed more of an egotistical and sinister air into them. They're very much a unique entity / faction now, they in some ways represent gluttony, selfishness and neglect in achieving their goals. The Listeners on the other hand, are a lot of the opposite traits, but I'm still wanting to explore how being the hard end of most conflicts can be dangerous. I want to explore that at some point, whether it be with infighting or failures. They shouldn't be seen as simply bad/good, they're just, different. It shouldn't be too hard navigating that nuance but I want it to reflect elements and motives that we find in our own lives.

[landopoet]

playgrounds and playdates.

pairing single dad!lando x single mum!reader

synopsis in which meeting a single dad and his son turns your whole life upside down.

author’s note this story has taken me so long to write and i’m so sorry for that!! as always, thank you to @clovermoters for the constant help, support and encouragement. i love you all, hope you enjoy <3

♯

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟearly spring, march 13th

the green canopy of the trees held back most of the sunlight and the last drops of warmth you’d soak up before fully submerging yourselves in the forest. 

your little one, a three year old girl named stevie, was happily running along the track, her youthful laughter echoing through the silent forest. it just became warm enough to finally go on walks again and visit her favourite place. 

though, the girl had many favourite places. if you’d ask stevie, she’d name at least four before finally deciding on the playground. 

“mum, look!” stevie beamed, her tiny finger pointing towards the end of her path and the playground that came into view the farther she ran. 

you smiled at her, not needing to walk too fast to keep up with her pace. “i see, sweetheart. you wanna swing?” 

“nuh uh,” the girl shook her head, stopping in her steps to look up at you. “sandbox.” 

“ah, how could i forget,” you nodded in approval and your little girl took off running again. “don’t eat the sand, angel.” you warn as soon as you two make it to the sand pit. there’s already some toys there but pull out the pink sand toy set from your bag and hand it to stevie. 

as the little girl plays, you watch and wonder how you got so lucky with stevie, as she was already so independent for her age. she was smart, resilient, empathetic and everything you wouldn’t expect a three year old to be. 

you wanted her to remember her childhood as best as possible, so you made a scrapbook— called it ‘stevie’s adventures’— and marked down bits and pieces of her life. so far, you’ve added the hospital bracelet you wore during labour and some of her infant stuff, like socks, a few onesies and even a few binkies. 

you decide to snap a picture of her in the sandbox, now playing with a blond, curly-haired boy who couldn’t have been much older than her. taking a picture of a stranger's child would go against everything you’ve been doing to protect stevie’s personal life from online creeps, so you look around to try and find whoever’s responsible for the kid. 

the only other adult person on this playground is standing a few steps away from your bench, navy sweatered arms crossed across his chest, white cap adorning his curly haired head. he looks intimidating and cold, like he’d shatter you with just a glance. 

eventually, you muster up the courage to speak to him. “uhm, excuse me?” 

the man turns to you like he was expecting you to speak to him, moustached lips turning into a welcoming smile. “what’s up?” 

“is that your child in the sandbox?” you point to the boy, although you could already tell they were related— the subtle curls sticking out from under his cap matched the boys’ ones perfectly. the man nods, a little confused. “okay so this is really random, but i like to take pictures of moments in my daughter’s life and i was wondering if you’re okay with your son being in it?”

the stranger seems to let out a sigh of relief, a little less anxious about your line of questioning. “yeah, that’s fine.” 

you give him a slight nod accompanied by a small smile. he watches as you pull out your camera, bring it up to your eye and get your perfect shot before putting it back into your bag. when your eyes flicker back towards him, he hesitantly extends a hand. “i’m lando.”

you blink at him twice before getting up and shaking his hand. “nice to meet you, lando. i’m y/n.”

he lingers for a moment, just watching you when you turn your attention back to the kids in the sandbox. the little boy is sharing his dinosaur bucket with stevie and she’s shovelling sand into it, babbling on about something you can’t hear. 

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟmarch 27th

“stevie!”

your head whips towards the source of the sound, coming from a young boy. it takes you a few seconds before you notice his dad and both of you smile at each other. 

stevie runs up to the boy and gives him a tight squeeze. “theo!” 

over the past two weeks, you had come to the park a few times and met lando, and his son theo, there each time. not on purpose, it’s just that your park schedules just seemed to match up. 

stevie became very fond of theo over such a short time and it warms your heart to see her beaming face as they play tag around the swing set.

“is your kid a picky eater?” lando suddenly asks, trying to break the unnecessarily awkward silence. “theo doesn’t eat carrots, all of a sudden. used to be his favourite snack until literally this morning.” 

you try to hide your laughter when lando pinches the bridge of his nose, jokingly frustrated with his son. “stevie doesn’t eat the crust on bread or broccoli stems.” 

“theo would agree with her about the importance of crustless bread in their diet,” lando hums, nodding at your answer. “sometimes i wonder if he’s even my kid, ‘cause his taste in food is so different.” 

“he’s the spitting image of you, lando, i figured he was yours before we even spoke.” you roll your eyes, playfully. “and i don’t think taste in anything is genetic. at least i hope not. god forbid stevie goes through the awkward teenage phase of wearing strictly skinny jeans and band tees.” 

lando chuckles. “yeah, i couldn’t see teenage theo rocking straight and damaged hair.” 

“did you straighten it?” you tilt your head to the side, curious as to why anyone would want to get rid of their curls. 

“used to,” he nods. “met theo’s mum and she taught me the proper techniques and products to use to get my hair healthy and curly again.” 

ah, theo’s mum. you had wondered if lando had a partner. not for any particular reason, it was just because you only ever saw him at the park with theo and never the boys mum.

“mum!” stevie runs up to you, out of breath. “thirsty.”

your daughter wasn’t a fan of using many words in her sentences and, at first, you had begun to worry about it, but after many doctors visits, they confirmed that it was just a quirk she had adopted.

you open your bag and take out her water bottle. stevie basically rips it out of your hands, urgent to get as many gulps down as she can before she continues to play tag with theo. 

the boy was stood by his dad, hugging him around the waist as lando pushed theo’s curls out of his face. “you tired yet?” he asks, already knowing the answer. 

“nuh uh,” theo shakes his head, instantly. “i like playing with stevie.” 

“i know you do, bud, but we have to make dinner. you said you’d help me make that cheesy pasta you like.” lando raises his brows a few times, trying to pique his son's interest.

theo sighs. “i know. could stevie come over someday, then?” 

lando’s eyes flicker up to yours, “could she? i host the best tea parties in town.” 

you turn your head back to stevie when an excited gasp leaves her lips. “tea party?” she practically squeals as she repeats what lando said. “mum, can we go? please, please, please!” 

the expectant look on stevie, theo, and even lando’s, faces makes you laugh. “i don’t see why not.” 

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟapril 4th

“and would the princess like some biscuits with her tea?” lando asked, clad in grey sweatpants, white shirt… and a superman cape. apparently this tea party turned into a costume party, and you didn’t get the memo.

your daughter giggled before tipping her head and lifting up the sides of her cinderella dress. “yes, please.”

theo sat between them, happily smiling at the exchange between lando and stevie. “i want some too, dad!”

“biscuits for batman and cinderella coming right up!” he smiles at them before looking at you and nodding his head as an urge for you to get up. you follow him into the kitchen. 

“had no idea you were superman, i feel like i should bow down to my hero or something,” you smile over the rim of your cup. 

“nah, it’s a sidegig.” lando shrugs, nonchalantly, as he pulls out a few different types of biscuits from a cupboard. “is stevie allergic to anything?” 

“nope,” you shake your head. “but she likes to say she’s allergic to cucumber peel.” 

“ah, the famous excuse for not eating food they don’t like. been there. theo was trying to convince me that he was allergic to tomatoes until i told him what ketchup was made from.” lando laughed. 

you smile at how fondly he speaks of theo. “where’s theo’s mum?” you suddenly blurt, eyes wide as you cover your mouth. “sorry, that’s such a personal question, i didn’t mean to.”

“well, you were clearly curious about it.” lando looks at you. “and that’s okay. but i’d rather talk about something else.” 

“yes, sorry.” you nod. “what do you do for work?”

“i work at a karting place. i own it, actually.” lando spreads the biscuits out nicely onto a platter, adding a few cut up fruits from the fridge to make somewhat of a charcuterie board. 

“oh, so that’s why you can afford karting for theo,” you hum, before taking a sip of your coffee, remembering one of the first conversations you had about your children’s hobbies. stevie likes to draw and play pretend, meanwhile theo finds joy in racing. 

“that and his godfather being an F1 driver,” lando smiles fondly, eyes darting up to yours for a brief second before he goes back to assembling the snack board. “i used to race, too, before theo.” 

“do you miss it?” you watch him closely, noticing the slight wince in his face. 

eventually, he shrugs. “sometimes. other times, i realise how little energy fatherhood takes out of me compared to sitting in a small, hot space for hours at a time.” 

“mm,” you hum again, nodding. you can’t really imagine anything harder than motherhood. “but that’s cars versus raising and nourishing a whole other human and personality.”

“yeah, true.” he agrees. “i guess i just got lucky with theo.”

“or he got lucky with you.” you and lando share a glance that lasts a little too long and seems a little too fond for just acquainted parents. you clear your throat and look away, instead choosing to watch whatever’s left in your mostly empty cup.

࿐ ࿔*:･ may 23rd

after a few more weeks of playdates at each other’s houses, theo saw it fit to include stevie in one of his favourite things in the world— karting.

the young boy pestered his father endlessly, using his puppy eyes technique to get what he wanted. “please?” he asked, dragging out the last syllable of the word to be a little more annoying and convincing.

“i’m sorry, bud. i don’t think she’ll like karting.” lando watched his sons face turn from hopeful to frustrated. the little boy crossed his arms over his chest, turning himself away from lando and facing the nearest wall to their couch. 

“i won’t go if she’s not there.” 

the simple yet strongly made statement forced lando to hold back a snort. “fine, i’ll call and see if she’d like to come. but i’m not promising anything.”

when friday afternoon rolled around, lando was delighted— and relieved— to see you and stevie making your way over to where he and theo were waiting. 

“dad, it’s stevie!” theo’s face lit up as stevie ran over to them. “hi!”

“hi, theo!” stevie smiled and hugged him. she waved at lando. “hey, dude!” 

“stevie, what did i tell you about calling people dude?” you say and playfully roll your eyes before looking at lando. “she randomly picked it up from who knows where and now everyone is dude.” 

lando chuckles. “that’s funny, dude.” he looks down at stevie with an excited grin. “you ready to race?” 

“heck yeah, dude.” stevie giggles and balls her hand into a fist, bumping it with lando’s. her hazel eyes look intensely at his open palm when he offers her a hand, confused as for whether or not he’s safe to walk with.

stevie’s seen and spent time with lando multiple times now, but everytime she did, you were there. in this moment, she was stood alone next to theo and lando, and even though you were only a few steps behind her, she felt like she was all by herself.

she turns her blonde head of hair towards you, eyes glancing up to look at yours. she was looking for any sign of disapproval or worry, but instead she saw you nodding your head encouragingly. “you need to get your helmet on, baby. lando will help you and then you can meet me back here, okay?”

stevie bites her lip with a glint of worry in her eye, but swiftly turns around and places her tiny palm in lando’s. lando gives you a small smile and the three of them make their way into the building. 

stevie’s worries seem to lessen the more lando jokes around with her. first, he puts his balaclava on backwards, making both the kids laugh at how goofy he looked while flailing his arms around in the air. secondly, he tries to put on a helmet too small, which again results in a fit of giggles from theo and stevie. eventually, when he finds the perfect size helmet for stevie, he gets theo’s one— obviously designed with his favourite animated characters and colours— and leads the kids outside. 

you watch as stevie runs to you, looking like a bobble-head because of how huge the helmet seemed. “woah, look at you.” you gasp as you squat down to be her height. “you scared?” 

“nuh uh,” stevie shakes her head. “lando said i’m a rockstar and i’ll do great.” 

your heart swells a bit. just as you’re about to speak, theo runs up to you both. “sorry, but my dad asked to bring stevie over to get her ready. he said you can go make coffee inside, though!” 

“thank you, theo,” you smile softly and get up, watching as the two kids run towards lando with their hands held. 

while you navigate through the building and try to find a place where you can secretly watch stevie and theo racing, lando explains how everything works to stevie. 

“okay, so,” he places a hand atop her left foot, “you’ll have to push this foot forward to move, and this one,” he places the same hand on her other foot, “to slow down and stop. okay?” 

“just like a car?” stevie tilts her head to the side, her interest piqued despite her never even seeing how a kart drives. 

lando smiles and nods. “just like a car. if you get scared, you can slow down and stop, and i’ll run over to help you. you can go as slow as you’d like but don’t go too fast, you could hurt yourself or get dizzy.” 

“okay, dude,” stevie nods, trying her best to retain as much of the information as she could. her eyes follow lando as he walks over towards theo’s kart, the two talking about something that made theo laugh. 

you watch from inside the building, worried eyes following lando’s every move. when he starts up stevie’s kart, you can briefly feel your heart stop beating. you’ve never been so scared for her, and even though lando assured you there’s no way she could hurt herself, you’re not sure if you could forgive yourself in the case of an accident. 

lando finds you holding a hand over your chest as you watched the two kids drive around the track. “hey,” he said, calmly, trying his best not to startle you. 

you gave him a weak smile. “hi. was she nervous?” 

“a little, but that’s normal.” he walked up and stood next to you, before placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “i explained to her how it works. she’s a smart kid and a fast learner.” 

“yeah,” you nodded. “what if something goes wrong?” 

“it won’t.” his voice was calm as you leaned into his touch, his arm sneaking down your back and around your waist to pull you into a side-hug. “i asked theo to let her pass him a few times so she gets the full experience of karting. maybe you’ll have a little racer on your hands.” 

your head subconsciously lays on his shoulder as your crossed arms stay firm against your chest. “yeah, don’t think i’d be able to afford it, but i guess her and theo would get to have more playdates.” 

“i’d help you,” he hummed, his own head resting atop of yours. “i mean, the competitions would probably cost a bit but i’d provide her with a kart and helmet. max would also love to pitch in.” 

“don’t be silly,” you laughed a little. “she already does ballet in the mornings.” 

“who said she can’t be a ballerina and a racer at the same time? she’d be the coolest kid on the planet if so,” he softly smiles, eyes looking down at your focused face. “besides, i’d get to spend a little more time with her mum.” 

“mhm,” you bit back a wider smile. “who says you can’t do that regardless?” 

lando’s heart skips a beat when you turn your head to look at him, only then realising how close you two actually were— his nose brushed yours when you raised your head and his breath fanned your face. he felt his stomach drop and he froze before finally giving in. 

just as you felt his lips inch closer to yours, an employee of his knocked on the doorframe to the room. “one of the kiddos stopped in the middle of the track and she’s asking for lando.” 

the curly-haired man jolts away from you, as if he was caught doing something he shouldn’t have been and turns around to awkwardly say, “uh, okay, i’ll go and, uhm, check.” 

you can’t help but shake your head with a small laugh as you watched the man leave the room at record speed. 

meanwhile, lando was trying to keep his composure in front of the kids. he’s sure they’d blab to you if they noticed him smiling like an idiot. “everything okay, kiddo?” he kneeled in front of stevie’s kart. 

stevie tries to pull the helmet off, but the buckle keeps it tightly situated on her small head. lando helps her unbuckle it and pulls the helmet off, watching as she takes off the bright pink balaclava— her choice— and sighs. “i’m hungry.” 

lando snorts at how random her request seemed. “alright, let’s go get theo and ask your mum if she’d like to join us for dinner, yeah?” 

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“no, stevie, we don’t throw the food.” 

the little girl halted her movements, her hand in the air as her eyes focused on yours. she had a fist full of vegetables, ones that she clearly wasn’t enjoying, and was getting ready to throw on the floor and an evil glint in her eye. instead of doing as she first intended, she opened her fingers and the vegetables fell all over the table, a few of them landing in lando’s lap.

“sorry, sometimes she just-” you were already making up excuses for your daughter’s childish behaviour when lando cut you off.

“it’s okay, she’s probably overstimulated from an eventful day. it happens.” he shrugs as he picks the peas off from his lap. “y’know, theo threw up on me once after karting, which is why he refuses to eat before he goes on track anymore.”

you stifle a laugh before sitting back up from collecting the vegetables that fell to the floor. stevie was in active conversation with theo and seemed to have forgotten about the vegetables. a few minutes pass before lando speaks again.

“thank you,” he notices the confusion in the tilt of your head. “for coming. it means a lot to theo and, well, to me.” 

the sincerity in his voice made all the blood in your body rush to your cheeks, tinting them the gentlest shade of maroon that lando didn’t miss. “no worries, we’re happy to join you anytime.” 

lando ignores the feelings brewing in his chest and continues eating. you follow his lead and all four of you were done eating in another half hour. 

the waiter came to your table and before you could even ask to split the bill, lando was handing hera a few paper bills and she had scurried off to get his change. 

“weren’t we going to split?” you ask, a little confused. 

lando shrugged. “it’s on me, don’t worry about it.” 

you had already felt bad that he didn’t accept your money for the karting that day, or the ice cream he had bought for stevie a week or so ago, but dinner? you felt the guilt bubble in your stomach growing. “lando, it’s not fair on yo-“ 

“can you just accept that you don’t have to do everything by yourself?” he reasons. “i asked you to come to karting, i paid for it, same with dinner and that extra hour at the park so the kiddos could get ice cream from the ice cream truck. i did it because i want to and i don’t expect anything in return.”

when you look up at him, your expression clearly less upset than before, he decides to crack a joke. “except for maybe a kiss or two.” 

you roll your eyes and the waiter brings back his change just as you’re about to make a witty comeback. 

lando, being the gentleman that he is, offered to drive you both home and you couldn’t deny it after seeing how sleepy stevie had gotten. she fell asleep on the ride home and after lando pulled into the driveway of your small home, you got out to unbuckle her and carry her inside. 

theo waited patiently in the car, listening to a podcast about dinosaurs in his earbuds while lando walked you to your door. 

he smiled down at the sleeping stevie in your arms, bringing a hand up to gently caress her cheek with his finger. “we must’ve wore her out.” 

“she hadn’t had a nap today,” you looked down at your daughter. “pretty sure she’ll sleep through the night.” 

lando’s gaze had shifted to your face subconsciously and he didn’t realise how close you were getting when you looked back up at him. you pulled him in with a soft hold of his jaw, your lips gently pressing against his. 

lando’s hand came up to hold your cheek. the kiss lasted way longer than you intended, but you weren’t complaining. when you finally pulled away, breathless and pink, lando was speechless and in awe. “thank you for today.” 

you closed the door behind yourself, watching through the window of your living room as his car pulled out of your driveway. stevie covered her mouth with her small hand as she giggled. “ooo, mama kissed cool dude.”

a small gasp left your lips as you looked down at stevie. “you saw that?” she nodded her small head. “oh, god.” 

࿐ ࿔*:･ may 28th

you were making dinner in the kitchen when stevie yelled for you from the living room. 

“what is it?” you walk down the hall while wiping your hands on a dishrag. stevie points at the window, lando’s car coming into view when you step closer. “oh, what’s he doing here?” 

stevie watches from the window as you make your way outside to greet a disheveled lando and a smiley theo. 

“hey, everything okay?” you ask when the man finally looks up at you. “i didn’t know you were coming over, i would’ve doubled up on dinner.” 

“i’m not staying for long,” he says, hastily. you could tell he was stressed out and rushing somewhere. “could you watch theo for tonight?” 

“what?” you blink. 

“it’s max, he, uhm,” lando turns to theo and tells him to run inside to see what stevie was up to. when the young boy is out of earshot, lando continues. “max isn’t eating or sleeping. he’s had a bad race and the media’s giving him shit for it. i’m going to visit him and check up on him, and i’d usually bring theo but i don’t want him to see max like that.” 

“oh, god.” you place a hand on lando’s shoulder and he just pulls you into a tight hug. “i can’t imagine how stressed you are. you go take care of max, okay? theo will be okay with us.”  

“thank you so much,” lando pulls away and pecks your lips. “i’ll be back tomorrow evening.” 

and before you can even register that he just kissed you, he’s in his car and halfway down the neighbourhood.

when you make your way inside, the kiddos are on the floor in the living room, theo’s backpack open with half of the content spilled out. 

“would you like to have dinner with us, theo?” you ask the boy and he shakes his head, explaining that lando had given him his dinner before hastily packing his sleepover bag. but when you offered a snack of crackers and cheese, the boy happily agreed.

you turned on an animated film for the kids to watch as you did your washing up for the night before bed. a small smile creeped up on your face as you heard the two little humans giggling about something that only existed in their own world.

as the evening progressed and the kids grew more tired, you laid them both to bed. stevie had a second bed in her room as her cousin often comes visit during the summer, which ended up being perfect for a kid theo’s height. 

routinely, you were obligated to switch on the starry night light and read a story. theo requested a bedtime story about dinosaurs, meanwhile stevie wanted one about princesses, and you somehow managed to make both work.

once you heard the familiar tiny snores escape stevie’s lips, and when theo had turned to his side, you left the room and kept a small crevice of the door ajar. 

the next morning, you had already begun to prepare pancakes while dulcet sounds of jazz music filled your kitchen, when theo gently tugged on your apron. 

“you okay?” you kneeled down to his height and theo rubbed his tired eyes awake before pulling you into a hug. “oh.” 

“dad always gives me morning cuddles,” he explained, a certain sadness in his voice that broke your heart to hear. 

you picked the boy up in your arms and gently caressed his back. “you miss him, huh?” 

theo just nodded, nestling his head onto your shoulder as his arms laid draped over your biceps. “i knew you were as nice as dad said.” 

you can’t help but softly smile at his comment. “thank you, theo. he talks about me?” 

you knew it was wrong to ask a kid such a question, but the words had already escaped your mouth before you could catch them. 

“sometimes,” he hums, a yawn threatening to make its presence. “i think he likes you a lot.” 

“yeah? how so?” you poke his side as a tease. 

theo straightens up a bit, to see your face. “he gets shy when he talks about you to maxie and pietra. and he gets all red like you are right now.” 

you shake your head and tickle his face with the hair that flings around you both. “am not.”

“are too,” he giggles. 

you place him down on the ground and give him an encouraging tap on the back. “how about you go wake stevie up for pancakes?” 

“can you cut it into a pterodactyl?” 

 “can i cut it into a pterodactyl?” theo giggles when you scoff, displaying faux offence. “of course i can.”

the little boy runs back down the hallway and towards stevie’s room. your heart bursts a little when he calls out for your daughter.

“stevie! your mum’s making dinosaur pancakes!” 

࿐ ࿔*:･ june 10th

you expected your first date with lando to be somewhere fancy enough for you to wear a dress you bought while still pregnant with stevie. 

fortunately for both of you, lando offered a night in and you were far too big of a romcom lover to deny his request. 

“thank god you agreed to this,” lando slumps his shoulders when you pry open your front door. you take a second to admire his simple attire— a light blue zip up hoodie with matching sweatpants. 

you move to the side and open the door a little more to let him in. “thank god to max and pietra for agreeing to watch both the kids.” 

“oh, yeah, they’ve been begging me to bring both you and stevie over since the first time you four met.” he sets the bags of stuff down on the dining table. “i think pietra adores you a little.” 

“i hope she knows the feelings are mutual, she’s so cool.” you smile softly. 

“hey, she said the same about you!” lando laughs and when you come close enough, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into a hug from behind while unbagging. 

“i bought way too much ice cream but i didn’t know what flavour you liked best so i chose five that i hoped you liked.” he explains as he takes out the third box. “oh, and wine.” 

you lean back into his chest and turn your head just barely to place a kiss on his jawline. “thank you.”

lando’s heartbeat speeds up in a brief second and he hopes you can’t see the blush on his face. he quickly recollects himself and, without letting you go, brings both of you to your kitchen. of course, both of you being so close against one another means that you nearly trip and fall with every step you take. 

eventually, through many giggles and bumps into furniture, you two find yourselves in the living room, spoons and ice cream in hand. 

lando takes a seat on the sofa, arm draped over the back of it as an invitation for you to join him. once you pluck the remote off the coffee table and fetch a blanket for the two of you, lando feels you nestle against him.

“what’re we watching?” he asks, eyes focused on you instead of the screen. 

you shrug. “horror movie?” 

“no,” he sternly says. “i hate them. rom-com, please.”

you stifle a laugh and focus back on the television. after skimming through the films, the two of you choose notting hill and cozy up to watch it. 

about half an hour in, you notice lando’s heartbeat quicken underneath your cheek, but you decide to brush it off as nothing. eventually, he speaks up. 

“so, i’ve been thinking,” lando begins, his voice soft and cautious. his eyes search your face, looking for any sign that might stop him from saying what’s on his mind. but all he sees is the face he’s grown to love and that only urges him to continue.

you slightly sit up, a little worried by what he’s going to say. “about what?”

“us, our kids, you.” he reaches over to grab your hand in his. as his thumb gently caresses the back of your hand, his eyes rest on yours. “i love the way things are between us lately, and i like being around you and stevie, but i want to be more than just movie nights and playdates.” 

your heart skips a beat. “you mean… like, officially? you want to be together?” 

he nods with that same smile you’ve grown so fond of. “yeah, i mean, i know it’s a long-shot and it’s risky with our kids’ friendship and all, but theo already loves you and i’m sure stevie adores me,” he jokes and you playfully roll your eyes. “but it would make me the happiest man alive if you were my girlfriend.” 

“wow,” you’re speechless. “i didn’t think i’d actually hear you say that.”

“i’ve been overthinking it for days,” he laughs, anxiety riddled all across his face as he watches your expression. he can’t exactly read it and that makes him even more nervous. “not to pressure you or anything-“

“yes,” you cut him off, a wide grin on your face as he pulls you into a hug. “i’ve never been so giddy about someone before.”

“yeah?” he flashes you that same, wide grin before pulling you in for a kiss.

“oh gosh, we have to tell the kids,” you gasp with a hand gently pushing lando’s kissy face away. he furrows his brows, confused as for why he can’t kiss his girlfriend.

“theo knows,” lando shrugs. “i told him that i’d be asking you to be my girlfriend and at first asked if he’d be okay with that.”

“and what’d he say?” you lay your head in lando’s lap as he plays with your hair, a small smile on his face. 

“he asked if that means you’ll be able to stay around more, and then said that you make the best pancakes.”

“oh, did he tell you about the dinosaur pancakes?”

lando nods. “he asked me to make them the next morning and told me to take him to your house, because i didn’t get them right.”

a laugh escapes your lips. “you could’ve come over, you know? i would’ve been happy to serve theo some more dino pancakes, and maybe taught you how to make them.”

“yeah?” he leans down to place a kiss on your lips, hoping that this time you don’t push him away. and it’s quite the opposite actually, because he feels your hand on the back of his head, tugging gently at the curls cascading down his neck as you pull him in deeper.

despite having kissed you a couple times before, this kiss makes lando that much more excited to spend as much time with you as you and stevie were willing to grant him. 

and he’ll make sure it’s the most loved you two will ever feel. 

࿐ ࿔*:･ december 14th

“theo, watch your step.”

the young boy was carrying a box bigger than himself with stevie following right behind him, a smaller box of her stuff in hand. 

today was the day you were moving into your new home– a home you and stevie will be sharing with the two most important boys in your life– and you couldn’t be more excited. 

to some, it seemed like it all came too soon— the relationship, the moving in together, caring for each other’s child whenever the other needed it, but neither you nor lando cared what others thought. 

it was clear from the first few months of knowing you that lando would be head over heels in love with you. he didn’t care how quickly your lives entwined, instead he was excited to see what would grow from it.

you placed the last few boxes in the living room and stood in the doorframe to the dining room, watching as stevie and theo chased each other, their laughter echoing off of the walls. 

lando’s hands creep around your waist as he pulls you in from behind. he places a gentle kiss against your hairline, “welcome home, love.”

you turn around to face him, arms instinctively hugging his neck as your eyes well with tears. 

“welcome home to us.” 

࿐ ࿔*:･ two years later, june 26th

the sun peeked from behind the clouds, rays of light bouncing off of your face as the pinks, blues and oranges merged into a beautiful sunset above the water. 

it was one of the warmer days and lando decided to take you all out for a picnic on the beach. it wasn’t unusual for him to plan spontaneous activities, but still he was nervous you knew what he was up to. 

the velvet box sat tucked away in the bag of stuff he packed, his heartbeat quickening every time you dove into it to find something you needed. 

that’s where theo came in.

“y/n,” he called out just as your hand was reaching into the exact corner the box was located in. you turned your attention to the boy, sitting up straight. 

while theo was blowing your mind with his dinosaur facts, lando hastily stuck his hand into the bag and retrieved the ring box, immediately putting it into his pocket. when theo glanced back over to his dad, lando gave him a reassuring wink and the boy took off to play by the water with stevie, again. 

“oh, guess that’s all he wanted,” you shrugged before turning around to lando. “you didn’t pack any napkins?” 

“oh,” lando panicked. fuck, through all his meticulous planning with max and pietra, he forgot to pack the most important thing. how was he supposed to propose with his hands all messy? “uhm, no, must’ve forgot, sorry.”

you leaned over to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “that’s alright, i’ll go splash around in the water with the kiddos and wash my hands then.” 

lando watched as you pulled yourself up and made your way towards the water, his heart pounding against his sternum. he took one last glance at the box that could make or break the future with you he had already planned out in his head, and followed your lead. 

once he was close enough, stevie ran up to him. “lando! the water is so warm, come feel it.” 

he couldn’t say no to the little girls pleading eyes and followed her as she dragged him to the water. he took that as one last chance to calm himself down and get it over with. 

lando was only nervous because it wasn’t just you he’s proposing to. stevie had become such an important part of his life that he’s afraid of ruining her perception of him if the proposal were to go wrong. and his mother already loved the girl, even after the handful of times they’ve met. 

so, anxiety was understandable in his case.

he watched stevie’s wide grin as she looked out at the water, and then behind herself to where her mum and theo were chatting. 

you had noticed lando’s behaviour change, ever since last night, but you figured it was something he’d bring up to you if he wanted to talk about it, so you haven’t paid much thought to it. 

lando’s made his to you, stevie’s small hand in his, and his other one on the box. his chest felt like it was getting smaller and smaller with each step he took towards you. the only thing that calmed him down was your smile while looking at them both. 

you watched as stevie let go and ran towards you, yet quickly swerved to find where theo was. your eyes followed her to see that she wouldn’t run into any trouble, and when you turned back around, you saw a nervous lando. “you okay?” you nervously laugh. “you’ve been weird all day today.” 

“there’s so many things i could say to you right now, but i think it’s better to save them for our vows.”

“vow- what?” you furrow your brows. that’s when he sinks down to one knee and you feel your eyes well up with tears.

he took a breath, a small smile adorning his face, and then the words you had dreamed of hearing, ever since you were a little girl, left his mouth.

“will you marry me?”

࿐ ࿔*:･ wedding day

you watched the on-going bustle of guests from the window of your lonesome dressing room.

the echoing sound of your heart pounding against your sternum was loud in your head as you tried to steady your breathing. this was actually, really happening. 

you felt your hands shake with how nervous you were, albeit having practiced your vows in the mirror for the past two months, and knowing that lando is truly the one you wish to spend the rest of your life with. 

your feet drag you across the hardwood floor of the dressing room, fingers nervously fiddling with one of the more textured parts of your dress. you could feel yourself getting more and more nervous as the clock on the wall ticked by, each second granting you a moment more of anxiety and stress. 

your head whips towards the door when a knock echoes through the empty room. “uhm, who is it?” 

the door pries open to reveal a curly head of hair with a hand over his eyes. “me, may i come in?” 

“what the hell, no?!” you exclaim, panicking. “it’s bad luck for the groom to see his bride before the ceremony, we talked about this.” 

despite your best efforts to verbally usher him out, lando makes his way inside and shuts the door behind him, his eyelashes resting atop his cheeks as the green of his irises stay hidden behind eyelids. 

“i know, i know,” he sighs in defeat. “but i just had to come see you before the ceremony. well, not see you, exactly, but just, be in your presence, i guess.” 

you drop your arms by your sides, sulking a little. “i’m so nervous, lan,” lando could hear your pout and it made him smile. 

“i know, me too,” he makes his way over to where he thinks you are and reaches a hand out to find the cusp of your waist. he can feel the fabric of the dress as it sits atop your skin, a smirk forming on his lips. “feels pretty.”

“hey, no!” you swat his hand away. “i’ll run away from the wedding if you do that again.”

“oh, c’mon,” he defends, smiling underneath his palm. his eyes were still shut and his left hand covered them tightly, not a single space left between his fingers to ensure that he couldn’t get even a glance. “i don’t even get a feel?” 

“not even a feel,” you cross your arms over your chest and realised he can’t see your sassiness like he usually would. “i just crossed my arms, by the way.”

“i know,” lando shrugs. “i also know you’ve been staring out the window and ogling at people like a psycho.”

you furrow your brows, “how’d you know that?”

“cause i know you.” 

a shiver runs down your spine and you can’t help but blush at what lando says, even after close to three years of being together. “what did you really come here for?”

“a good luck kiss?” he asks, so soft and hopeful, that it makes you give in. lando feels your hands gently guiding his face down towards yours, before your lips softly rest against his. he, of course, tries to kiss you like usual– aggressive, long and sweet. 

yet you pull away before he can even think of pulling you in by the chin. “the better kiss is for the ceremony, babe,”

he sighs and drops his shoulders, his head dropping as he displays faux disappointment. “fine, whatever. saying you hate me would hurt less.”

“yeah, because i hate you so much that both me and my daughter are taking your last name,” you roll your eyes. 

“our daughter,” his voice is stern when he corrects you. lando hears a noise outside the door, suddenly alert and tense. “i think it’s almost time.”

you take one last peek out the window and notice everyone in their seats. “oh, god, yeah. go, you can’t be seen here.”

“alright, love you, see you out there” he turns around and reaches for the door. “pretend i winked at you when i said ‘see you out there’, cause i couldn’t actually wink an-“

“lando, go!” you step closer to him, your dress whispering beneath you as your hands gently urge him to leave. 

“one more kiss?” he suddenly turns back around and you roll your eyes. 

“you’re impossible,” you cup his face again.

“so i’ve been told,” he smirks against your lips. “and yet you’re marrying me, mrs. norris.”

“i wouldn’t have it any other way,” you place another peck against his pursed lips before the door shuts in front of you, and you’re left alone with your thoughts, again. 

you stand there for a moment, heart racing and palms sweating, yet still you were feeling more certain than ever that this was the best decision you ever could’ve made.

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

the ceremony has long passed and now you are in the middle of the dance floor, your hands held with theo. 

the young boy expressed that he didn’t want to dance anymore, so you brought him to the table where his plate sits. on it, of course, are the dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets you and lando specifically requested for theo to have. 

your kids were now six and five, both very unique and yet somehow very similar. 

theodore maxwell norris was a smart boy, interested in pretty much anything to do with dinosaurs, space or monster trucks. he requested to spend his sixth birthday at a museum, which stevie was absolutely thrilled with. the two young children had always known how to entertain each other, ever since they met. 

stephanie jane norris, albeit a year younger than theo, was also quite smart for her age. she found interest in princesses, nature and most recently, karting. she accompanied theo to multiple of his races and took part in some practice laps, and found that it’s actually more fun than she remembered. 

your eyes caught a glimpse of lando as he danced with stevie on the dance floor, the little girl actively shaking her head to a rock song and lando laughing at her with max. the girl then grabbed both of them by the hand and started dancing in a circle, in turn bringing a smile to your face. 

“y/n?” theo poked your arm to catch your attention. you look down at him as he’s sat on the chair, eyes glaring up to yours. “do i have to call you mum now?” 

you kneel down to be his height and place a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “you don’t have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with.” 

the little boy just shrugs before taking another chicken nugget off of his plate, “okay, mum.”

you felt your heart swell and eyes well with tears at the fact that he so casually called you mum. you had imagined that it’d take at least a few more years of getting more comfortable with you for that to happen, but the boy saw no reason not to call you that. stevie called lando dad, anyway, so it only seemed fair in his eyes.

what theodore failed to realise was that, without even knowing it, he managed to make extra room in your heart and build a pillow fort there, in which he and stevie resided. you had convinced yourself that stevie would be your only true love in this world, that you didn’t need to meet anyone or have more kids.

it’s funny how a man and his son could waltz their way into your life, and turn it around for the better. 

theo felt you place a gentle kiss to his head before you excused yourself to go dance with his dad. in the meanwhile, stevie had made her way behind theo and scared him. 

“don’t do that, stevie,” theodore warns before picking up his apple juice box and taking a few gulps. 

the girl shifts her weight from her heels to her toes. “sorry, theo. do you want to dance?” 

“can i be a dancing t-rex?” he asked, an eyebrow rising with curiosity. 

stevie giggled. “only if i can be your sister t-rex. let’s go!”  

he watched as you ran back towards the dance floor, his face still evidently confused as he mumbled to himself, “i thought she already was my sister?” 

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟinterview about max fewtrell’s wdc

“theo! daddy’s on tv!” stevie’s voice echoed through the living room and theo came rushing in with a bowl of popcorn, as if the interview was some sort of movie.

you were sandwiched between the two kids, the bowl strategically placed in your lap so they don’t have to strain too much to get their snack. 

the television screen showed a clear shot of lando and max chatting, lando’s arm wrapped around his best friend’s shoulders as he congratulated him again. 

the interviewer— theo had informed you that he was a retired formula one driver, nico rosberg— invited them in to chat and all three of you eagerly watched, waiting for them to start talking. 

“lando! what a pleasant surprise to see you here,” his german, or maybe british, accent echoed in the living room. “haven’t seen you here since you left the sport.”

“yeah, y’know,” lando flashed his wide, toothy grin, “life had other plans.” 

“yeah?” nico tilted his head to the side. “how’s your family? your son doing okay?”

lando pointed at the camera next to them. “they’re watching from our home back in england,” he turns his face towards the lens and waves at it. “hi guys.”

stevie and theo eagerly wave back. “hi dad!” they say, in unison, before breaking into a fit of giggles. 

lando continued talking about personal matters, trying his best not to get too into it. he knew how the media was, and you had already had some encounters with less than pleasant fans. 

finally, as nico was ready to wrap up the interview, he asked lando if there was anything he missed from his racing days. 

“honestly? no.” he shrugged. “i think quitting opened up a plethora of new opportunities for me, including growing my own little family. my wife and i are blessed to have each other and raise our daughter and sons.”

“sons?” nico furrows his brows. he lowers the microphone away from their faces and leans in cautiously. “i thought you had only theo?” 

theo looks up at you. “you’re pregnant?” 

“i’m going to have another brother? awesome!” stevie jumped up on the couch, and your fingers found the bridge of your nose to pinch, in search of any comfort. 

lando panicked. “i, uhm, max did great. he’s much stronger and tougher than he lets on, and maybe we should let the champion talk, yeah?” he blurted out all in one breath as he grabbed max by the shoulders and pulled him towards nico. max shook his head with confusion before turning towards the interviewer. 

little did he know his best friend just announced your pregnancy to the entire world. 

࿐ ࿔*:･ mother’s day

“mum!” 

you heard their fragile little voices from behind your closed bedroom door and tried your best to sit up, your pregnant belly making it that much harder to function. 

you’ve been on bedrest for the past week, and it’s been absolutely amazing getting to rest, but so boring. what does one do when forced to stay in bed all day? 

stevie and theo knew the answer.

“could we make mother’s day cards for mum?” theo asked lando over breakfast, just as he was making your oatmeal with berries.

the curly-haired man shrugged. “sure, but you only have until tomorrow morning.”

“ooh! and can we get her heart balloons and flowers?” stevie muffled, as she finished up the last bites of her pancake.  

“we don’t speak with our mouths full, love,” lando warns. “but yes, we can also get her balloons and flowers. you guys think she’ll like that?” 

“and a kiss from dad,” stevie giggled before hopping off her chair and making her way to the dish washer. lando shook his head with a laugh. 

in the very crack of morning, while all of you were sound asleep, lando had gone to the grocery store to buy all the necessities— red roses, self care items, some sweets and, of course, heart balloons, as per stevie’s instructions. 

when the kiddos woke up and when lando had made sure you were awake as well, they made their way to the master bedroom. 

their small hands knocked a rhythm onto the door before they heard your silent “come in!” 

your face lit up with a smile when your three favourite people made their way into the bedroom. “happy mother’s day!” the three of them smiled at you and lando pouted when he saw your eyes well with tears.

you soundlessly said “hormones” before stretching your arms out to bring both of your little loves into a hug.  

stevie presented you her card first. “it’s us! and we’re on an air balloon. and that’s baby.” 

she pointed her little fingers at the five figures on the page— you were holding hands with lando and next to you stood your three children. the newborn baby was in a stroller, which you took as a sign that stevie hopes your son will be here soon. 

next it was theo’s turn. he gave you the card without saying anything, instead offering you another hug when tears spilled down your cheeks as you read it. stars live in space and also in you! happy mother’s day. scribbled in the cutest six year old writing you’ve ever read. 

lando later explained that theo had watched a video about there, supposedly, being stardust in everyone’s blood, which made you even more emotional.

“thank you, my loves,” you hugged them all once again before lando made his way over to give you a kiss and the flowers. 

“thank you for being the best wife and mother to my kids that i could have asked for.”

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟwhere it all began.

baby noises and giggles fill your living room as you try to set up the camera to the best of your abilities. 

“theo, honey, could you hold henry more towards the middle?” you ask as you press your eye to the viewfinder eyepiece to check what the photo would look like. 

stevie sat on the left side of the sofa, an empty space left on the edge for you, as your newest addition— a six month old boy named henry parker norris— was snuggled between her and theo, with lando on the far right edge. 

“babe, just set it to video and come sit,” lando said, a little annoyed by how long the whole process is taking. “henry’s getting fussy.” 

“he’s okay, lan,” you roll your eyes. “and this is going in stevie’s scrapbook, so it needs to be perfect.”

it’s a few more minutes before you finally sit down and wait for ten seconds before you hear the click of your camera. after close inspection, you realise that stevie was making a weird face, lando was mid-blink, your hair looked a mess and theo was looking at henry. 

a sigh of defeat escapes your lips right as your front door opens and in comes pietra. “oh my god, thank god you’re here.” you exclaim, as if you hadn’t invited her for coffee, and she looks at you with a confused smile. “can you help with family photos?” 

she nodded and, without hesitation, followed you back to the living room. pietra stood behind the camera on the not-so-stable tripod and ordered you all around before snapping a few pictures. her logic was that if you take enough pictures in a set amount of time, at least a few of them are going to turn out good. 

and, after inspecting the pictures closely once more and deciding that they’re better than just good, you give her a hug and slump into it. “thank you, i was beginning to lose hope of making her a good scrapbook spread for her birthday.” 

pietra laughed. “she’s lucky to have such a hard-working mum, so i doubt she’d mind. but i’m happy to help!” 

after giving him the green light, lando helped the kids change and took care of henry’s feeding and diaper before packing them all up for a walk. “we’ll go make dinner while you two take my little man on a walk, sound good?”

you nodded and gave him a soft peck, and pietra followed you out to the front yard. both of you watched as lando, stevie and theo walked towards the car, on their way to the grocery store, while little henry waited for you, snug in his stroller. 

“i never imagined it,” pietra started. “lando being a dad to more than just theo, i mean. it suits him.” 

“yeah?” you turn your head towards her, a small and proud smile on your face as your fingers softly wrapped around the handle of the stroller. “i never imagined finding anyone else as important as stevie was to me. like i didn’t know my heart could expand enough to fit more than just her in there, y’know.” 

“yeah,” she nodded, following you as you made your way towards one of your favourite places in the world. “i mean, i guess that makes sense since you were each other’s biggest love for three years.”

“yeah, but now she’s a lot more loving to lando than me” a laugh leaves your lips. the chilly spring air caressed your cheeks as you pushed the beige coloured stroller. your little newborn lay peacefully in it, little eyes curiously wandering around. 

he was barely six and a half months old, but already so attentive, responsive and curious, and looked just like stevie when she was this age. he was a peaceful baby so far— not much fussing during the day and he slept well at nights. on the few occasions that he didn’t, lando would be up in a flash to take care of your little henry’s needs.

it was endearing to watch him explore fatherhood with three kids now, as opposed to when it was just him and theo. you admired how sweet he was with stevie while explaining why he does what he does when changing diapers or fixing bottles, or how he intently listened to theo’s explanation on how to properly burp a baby. 

“is this the place?” pietra nudged her chin at the playground that’s slowly coming more into view. it’s a little more worn now– the paint had chipped off the bars where theo used to pretend he was a monkey on, and the slide had little divots, yet it used to be smooth and barely worn out when stevie used to insist on taking it backwards, with her belly to the metal.

it brought back some nostalgia to when you first met lando. it was on the very same bench that pietra was sitting on right now. you watched the playground with a small smile on your lips, a tear threatening to spill from your eye.

henry fussed in the stroller and immediately calmed down when you placed a gentle hand on his tummy to steady him. “we’re at the playground. you’ll get to play here with your brother and sister when you’re a little older.”

pietra silently watched as you picked him up and gently laid his cheek to rest on yours, his little eyes adjusting to the light around him. henry looked around, the plethora of colours elicited a few excited ooh’s from his little body. “this is where i met your dada,” you smiled at henry. 

henry cooed as you pointed to things at the playground and explained each ones significance. you knew he didn’t understand it yet, but you were willing to tell him the story over and over again. it was the biggest twist of fate you had ever experienced– that very morning, stevie had begged you to finally take a walk since it had been too cold for months now, and you agreed.

if you had been just a little more careful and told her to wait another day, week or month, chances are you wouldn’t be holding your baby while your husband made dinner at home with your other two kids. 

pietra perked up when you walked over to her and she immediately extended her hands to take henry from you. “come to auntie p,” she baby talked as you handed her your son. “he has a nose just like lando’s.”

“he has the neck strength like lando’s, too.” you sit down beside her and closely watch as she gently bounced henry on her knees. just then, you blurted something that had been on your mind for a while. “do you think it’s weird that lando and i are together?”

“excuse me?” she turns to you with a confused face. “why would anyone think that?”

“i don’t know, i mean, like…” you take a second to collect your thoughts. it was starting to sound like you were regretting this life, meanwhile it was the complete opposite. “like the way we met, it was random.”

“it’s not random, love,” pietra rolls her eyes. “it’s something called fate.”

henry let out a happy noise at your question, his tiny fingers reaching out to poke at pietra’s face. “you agree, huh, lil’ man?” she asks as he pushes his whole hand to her cheek, and you can’t help but laugh at the unfolding scene in front of you.

after a few moments, when henry was back in his stroller and you two were on your way back home, you looked back to the area behind you with a sentimental look in your eye. “who knew playgrounds and playdates would bring me the loveliest life i could’ve imagined?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

taglist – @sheblogs @bakingpiastries @wierdflowerpower @444-leqz @n3versatisfied @landossainz @hc-dutch @myboysfavouritetoy @msimpala-67 @twinkodium @blogthebloggyblog @etherealdarlin @yawn-zi @charlesleclercwifey @laviedanslespetal @my-ylenia @emryb @shlkd21 @lestappen4lifexx @landonosescar @knivesdoingcartwheels @doofenshmirtzevil-inc @kpoplover-2013 @leclercsluvs @rawr-123s-stuff @tvdtw4ever @96mcobo @vintaqestar

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which people assume what they don’t know

The sun clung to the edges of the day, dripping gold down the walls of the Malibu rental like it was trying to stay just a little longer. The pool glistened, untouched for now, calm and glassy. Paige had already posted the photo by the time you emerged from the kitchen with a coconut clutched in one hand, its pink straw slightly tilted, a wedge of lime sliding slowly toward the rim. You hadn’t known she’d taken it—not really. She’d been sprawled out on the lounger in her oversized Wings tee and basketball shorts, halfway between sunbathing and napping. But apparently, sometime in the last hour, she’d raised her phone just high enough to snap a picture with you in the background, just enough distance between you and the camera to look untouchable.

You were leaning against the pool ledge in that shot, sunglasses on, mouth parted, face tilted toward the light. Hair slightly damp. Black bikini top tied at the shoulders. There was nothing overt about it. No posing, no filter, no carefully arched spine or coy glance over the shoulder. You were just… there. Radiant in a way that didn’t ask for attention but collected it anyway.

Paige posted it like it was nothing. Just another off-day in California. Just her and her girlfriend doing what they always did between travel and games and press, soaking in a moment, clinging to ordinary. It wasn’t ordinary to them.

The comments came fast, and then they came cruel.

“She def got an OF link in bio ” “LMAO who’s the pornstar Paige is dating?” “No hate but she kinda looks like she sells fit teas and takes thirst traps for rent.” “Tell her to turn around next time.” “I’ve definitely seen her before… ” “She’s TOO hot to be just a random. Link please??”

You hadn’t even noticed until later that night. Paige had fallen asleep early, curled into your side, the soft ache of an afternoon swim having tugged her eyelids closed while you were reading. Her breathing was slow. Her hand, always searching for contact even in sleep, had found the hem of your shirt and slipped beneath it. A grounding kind of possessiveness.

Your phone buzzed. Once. Twice. A third time. A string of notifications from apps you never really used. Mentions. DMs. Tagged stories. Twitter threads. Reddit screenshots. Someone had slowed down your laugh in a video from Paige’s story and compared it to a clip from a cam site. You weren’t on the site. But the internet didn’t seem to care. They weren’t really looking for truth. They were looking for confirmation of their assumptions.

You scrolled in silence for a long time. Paige stirred once, shifted, buried her face in your neck. She didn’t wake up.

You could’ve posted something right then. A denial. A correction. A humble brag, even. You could’ve flexed your Ivy League diploma, dropped your patents, posted that photo with the Vice President from the clean energy summit last spring. But what would’ve been the point? The people guessing didn’t care if it was true. They didn’t want your story. They wanted a fantasy they could poke holes in.

And some part of you—a small, sharp part that you’d buried under silk and discipline—liked that they didn’t know. Liked that they couldn’t imagine you as anything other than beautiful and blank. Let them misunderstand you. Let them spin circles around a silhouette they’d never catch up to. You’d always lived behind the curtain anyway. It was better this way. Quieter.

You turned your phone over and slid it off the bed.

Across your chest, Paige exhaled and whispered something unintelligible in her sleep. Her body folded into yours like a promise.

You’d tell her in the morning. Or maybe not. Maybe you’d wait until it got worse. You knew it would. Everything did once the world decided it wanted to know you.

It hadn’t always been this way. There was a time when people saw you for who you were. Or at least tried to.

You met Paige two years ago, and she hadn’t recognized you.

It was a Nike-sponsored thing in New York. Athletes, influencers, vague celebrities all crammed into a downtown loft with too much light and not enough air. You’d almost backed out. You were in town for a conference and had been dragged there by a friend who swore the food would be worth it. It wasn’t.

Paige was in a corner by the exposed brick wall, picking at a piece of flatbread and looking vaguely traumatized by the DJ’s remix of an already overplayed song. You hadn’t watched much college basketball. You were barely on social media. You just saw a girl who looked like she needed a rescue.

You handed her a glass of sparkling water, mostly because it gave you something to do with your hands. She blinked at you, surprised. “Thanks,” she said. Her voice was lower than you expected. Steady.

You nodded and almost left. But then she tilted her head, gave you that soft, unreadable look she does—the one like she’s trying to memorize something without letting anyone else know—and said, “Are you famous?”

You’d laughed. “No. Just rich.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. Then she grinned. “Fair.”

It was the first time in three years someone had asked without already knowing. 

And maybe that’s why you stayed.

Maybe that’s why, even now, with your name face and your body dissected by people who’d never spell your last name right, you still hadn’t said a word. You weren’t hiding. You were waiting.

Waiting to see if Paige would stand still in the storm.

Or if she’d hold your hand through it.

It didn’t take long for the narrative to spiral. By the end of the week, there were entire TikTok accounts dedicated to you—slideshows of blurry screenshots, slowed-down clips from Wings games where someone thought they spotted you in the background, Discord servers full of internet detectives trying to piece together your identity. They mapped the stitching on your handbag. Claimed to trace your earrings to a custom jeweler in Paris. One video, with over three million views, confidently declared, “This girl is either the daughter of a Saudi billionaire or has an OnlyFans that pulls six figures a month.”

There was something both absurd and tragic about it. They needed you to fit into a box. And when they couldn’t, they just made one up.

You’d never been a mystery in your own life. Your name—on paper—was public record. Your companies were incorporated. Your board seats were listed. But you didn’t give interviews. You never posed for features. The only time your face had made the news was in a blurred corner of a shareholder event, and even then, they’d cropped you out. You’d built your world on silence and clean lines. And now, the messiness of fame was seeping in through cracks you didn’t even know you’d left open.

Paige didn’t say much. At first, she joked about it—sent you TikToks with increasingly deranged theories and typed out her laughter in all caps with too many crying emojis. “You’re trending,” she texted once during practice, attaching a screenshot of someone calling you “a glorified sugar baby.” You responded with a meme. It was easier that way.

But beneath the jokes, there was a tightness around her eyes. You caught it when she thought you weren’t looking. You heard it in the edge of her voice when she read the word “gold digger” out loud in an article that speculated whether you were funding your lifestyle through her rookie contract.

The internet didn’t care that you lived in the penthouse. They didn’t care that the Cartier watch on your wrist had been a graduation gift from a board you chaired. They just saw her—soft spoken, loved, powerful—and you, sharp and stunning in a way that felt too curated to be accidental.

Too good to be normal. Too good to be real.

The team found it hilarious.

In the Wings locker room, Arike passed around a meme of you with the caption, “This Paige’s girlfriend. She could be at brunch. But she stealing yo fans instead.” DiJonai snorted so hard she almost choked on a protein bar. Azzi, visiting from Connecticut, just said, “Honestly? It tracks.”

Paige laughed too, but not all the way. She glanced at her phone, at the muted home screen photo of the two of you standing barefoot in your kitchen, tangled in flour and sunlight, and said, “They really don’t get her at all.”

None of them did. Not really. They knew you as “that girl Paige is always texting.” A couple of them had met you once or twice. But they didn’t know how still you got in the mornings, how you drank your coffee half cold because you got distracted reading policy reports. They didn’t know about your lists—handwritten, always—where you tracked every dollar donated to rural solar initiatives. They didn’t know about the callouses on your hands from old tools you refused to stop using, or the way you cried silently when a start up you mentored went under.

They didn’t know you the way Paige did.

And Paige didn’t need you to prove anything. Not to them. Not to the internet.

But still, one night, after a game, after another flood of tweets dissecting the slope of your back in a paparazzi shot, she sat across from you on the couch and said, “You know you don’t have to let them say that shit.”

You looked up from your laptop. “It’s just noise.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Until it’s not.”

Her eyes were tired. Her hair was still damp from the shower. She looked like she wanted to fight someone. It made your chest ache.

You closed the screen. “I don’t want to feed it.”

Paige leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice low. “Babe… I can take it. I’m used to it. But you? This isn’t your world.”

You reached for her hand. “It’s not about what I can take. It’s about what I want to give.” You paused. “I didn’t get here by explaining myself to people who doubted me. I won’t start now.”

Her grip tightened. She nodded. But the worry didn’t leave her face.

You could feel the shift coming, though. It was in the air, in the way people started poking around your past with more urgency. They were looking for the gotcha moment. The damning evidence. The link that didn’t exist. But all they found were more questions. Why weren’t you tagged in anything? Why was your name redacted in a legal filing about corporate IP? Why did no one in Paige’s circle ever post about you?

You’d built your life like a fortress.

And they hated you for it.

Because you were beautiful. Because you were private. Because you were Paige Bueckers’ girlfriend and still somehow out of reach.

And when you didn’t flinch, when you didn’t play the game—they started turning.

From curiosity to contempt. From fantasy to fury. You could feel it building. The silence before a storm. The moment before the curtain falls. It wasn’t fear that held you back from speaking. It was restraint. You weren’t hiding. You were waiting.

It started with a phone call you didn’t take.

Your assistant left three voicemails before 8:00 a.m. She knew you didn’t do mornings—your mind didn’t settle into full clarity until after a shower and a single espresso in the glass mug Paige had accidentally chipped last fall and that you still refused to replace. The fourth time your phone buzzed, Paige groaned against your shoulder and reached blindly across the comforter.

“Do you want me to throw it out the window,” she muttered, voice hoarse.

You cracked one eye open. “Is that… my phone or yours?”

“Most likely your assistant.”

You chuckled and pulled her closer, breath catching in the familiar groove between her neck and shoulder. “Just five more minutes.”

Paige huffed but didn't argue. She liked mornings like this—slow, folded into you, safe.

She liked pretending the world outside your penthouse didn’t exist.

It did.

It existed in screaming headlines. In news channels across climate startups and clean tech newsletters and the inboxes of business analysts who woke to the same notification… Forbes has dropped its latest cover story.

The image hit the internet at 8:15 a.m. EST.

“Meet the Youngest Female Billionaire in Renewable Energy. How Y/N Built a Global Empire by 23.”

It didn’t feel real at first.

The cover photo had been taken two months earlier, in the garden of a rewilded property you helped convert in Santa Barbara. You were seated in a low white chair, legs crossed, wearing a structured navy suit and no jewelry. No expression, either—just a small, knowing half-smile. Like you were letting the world peek into something it wouldn’t fully understand.

Your phone rang again.

This time, Paige grabbed it. Still bleary-eyed, she flipped it over, squinting at the name. “It’s Cassie. Again.”

You groaned and sat up, rubbing your face. “Tell her I’m not dead.”

“She says you’re trending.”

You paused. “From the bikini photo?”

“No,” she said, her tone shifting.

When she turned the screen toward you, everything inside you stilled.

It was you.

Front and center. In serif font, bold and breathless. The Youngest Female Billionaire in Renewable Energy.

Paige’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t tell me it was this big.”

“I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“A thing?” she repeated, staring at the article. “This is everything. This is… you’re a billionaire! This is empire shit.”

You didn’t speak. The air felt too heavy. She scrolled down, scanning.

“They’re saying you developed some framework that’s being adopted in six countries.” Her voice lifted. “That you hold thirteen patents. That you were on the White House task force for clean grid expansion.” She looked up. “You’ve been to the White House?”

You gave a weak shrug. “Not since the oompa loompa moved in.”

Paige didn’t laugh. Not yet. She blinked down at the screen like it might vanish. “You’re a genius.”

You reached for her hand. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to feel small next to it.”

She jerked her gaze toward you, wounded. “You think I’d feel small? Babe. You could build a fucking satellite and I’d still be the proudest person in the room.” You swallowed hard. She looked down again, quiet for a beat. “You didn’t hide this because of me. You hid it for me, didn’t you?”

You nodded.

“I didn’t want them to twist it. I didn’t want to make you the ‘arm candy’ of someone they didn’t understand.”

Paige exhaled. “Too late.”

A notification buzzed at the top of the screen. @/PaigeBueckers has been tagged in 4,137 new tweets.

She unlocked her phone and opened Twitter. She stared for a few seconds. Then, slowly, she typed.

Y’all thought.

She attached the Forbes cover. Hit send. And the internet erupted. It was seismic. Humbling. Violent in its speed.

People who had once speculated that you “sold feet pics for rent” were now frantically deleting tweets. Threads unspooled where former critics tried to backpedal. Comments flooded in beneath Paige’s post.

“I called a literal billionaire a clout-chaser. I need to lie down.” “She was quiet because she didn’t need the spotlight. I’m sick.” “We bullied the love of Paige Bueckers’ life for being beautiful and mysterious. And she was running global infrastructure reform.” “Imagine having THAT face, THAT body, and ALSO solving the energy crisis???”

It didn’t stop there.

Old clips surfaced—grainy videos from years ago, now reframed through a new lens. A low-quality YouTube video from a 2021 TEDx talk in Cambridge. A photograph of you shaking hands with a prime minister. A blurry shot of you walking behind the Secretary of Energy. Suddenly, all the pieces snapped into place. You weren’t hiding. You were just busy. Quiet. Precise. Impossible to pin down because you’d always been moving.

The article confirmed everything.

You had founded tech company at 19. Closed a $70 million deal before turning 21. Your algorithm was already being implemented in low income neighborhoods across the nation. You’d been offered a buyout for $300 million and declined. You lived modestly for someone of your wealth, the article said. You were photographed in vintage boots and off the rack cashmere. You drove a ten year old electric car. You once donated an entire bonus to funding indigenous land repatriation.

And yet—you were the same girl who slept with one leg flung over Paige’s hip. Who burnt toast more often than not. Who still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet.

You were you. The world was just catching up.

The day you finally spoke, it wasn’t planned.

You hadn’t scheduled an interview. You hadn’t approved a press release. You hadn’t dressed for it, or set your lighting, or even thought about what to say. The camera on your laptop was still tilted slightly upward from a late-night strategy call the night before. You didn’t fix it.

You made a TikTok account, stared at your own reflection for five long seconds, and hit “Go Live.” You didn’t announce it. And yet, the view count ticked into the thousands in seconds.

At first, you said nothing.

Just sat there, hoodie pulled over your head, hair messy, eyes dark with exhaustion. You looked nothing like the girl from the Forbes cover. No makeup, no smirk, no steel in your spine.

Just you. A deep breath. Then, slowly, you spoke.

“Hi.”

Another pause.

“I didn’t plan to say anything. I thought the article would be enough. But maybe it wasn’t.”

You blinked down, mouth tightening. “I know what people said about me. I read it. I read all of it, even when I said I didn’t. And I get it. I do.”

You looked up, gaze steady.

“I don’t look how you expect a billionaire to look. Or a founder. Or a policy advisor. I look like someone who posts thirst traps and takes private jets to brunch. I look like the girl you only date for the photos. I get that.”

Your voice didn’t waver. But it got quieter.

“And I know why people said what they said about Paige. About us. Because for most of my life, I’ve been taught that I have to earn the right to be loved. That my worth had to be written in numbers, in accolades. And Paige…”

You exhaled slowly, lips trembling just for a second.

“She never asked for any of it.”

You stared down at your hands.

“She didn’t fall in love with my résumé. She didn’t care about the articles, the patents, the board seats. She just… loved that I loved her. That I didn’t flinch when she was quiet. That I was the same with her whether we were in a stadium or on the couch.”

A long silence.

“I didn’t post her. Not because I was hiding her. Because I was protecting her. I’ve watched what fame does to people. To love. People twist it. Makes it transactional. And I didn’t want that for us.”

Your mouth twitched into something like a smile.

“I didn’t correct the rumors because—truthfully—I didn’t care what strangers thought of me. I built my life in rooms you don’t get into by chasing validation. I let people misunderstand me for a living.”

You leaned closer, voice almost a whisper now.

“But Paige? She saw me. Before all this. Before the noise. And she’s the first person who didn’t need a spreadsheet to believe I was worth something.”

Your eyes glassed over.

“So if you think I’m just hot, or just lucky, or just riding someone else’s fame—fine. But don’t call her naïve for loving me. Don’t make her defend something that’s never needed proof.”

You sat there for a moment longer.

Still. Bare.

“I owed her my silence. But I owe myself this voice.”

And with that, you ended the live.

You closed your laptop. You sat on the floor, curled knees to chest, breathing like something inside you had cracked open. Not broken—just unlatched. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t let yourself be in years.

You didn’t hear the front door open. Didn’t hear Paige set down her keys. What you did feel—almost immediately—was the weight of her presence, the shift in air as she stepped into the room and dropped to her knees in front of you.

“I saw it,” she said, voice thick. “All of it.”

You didn’t look at her right away. Couldn’t. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she cut in. Her hand found yours, held it tightly. “You told the truth.”

You nodded. Swallowed. “I didn’t want you to have to carry any of it.”

She smiled then. Shaky, but real.

“I’d carry all of it. Twice over. For you.”

You let out a breath that felt like it’d been stuck in your lungs for months. Then, finally, you met her eyes.

“I love you,” you said. Not like a confession. Like a fact.

She nodded, eyes glossy.

“I know. I’ve always known.”

And then she kissed you—not for the camera, not for a crowd, not for the world that had spent so long trying to define you.

Just for you. For the girl who brought her water when she didn’t ask. For the girl who built the world in silence. For the girl who chose love over legacy—and found both anyway.

The night of the gala, the air smelled like fresh roses and new money.

You weren’t supposed to go. Not really. The invite had come weeks ago—courtesy of a foundation you’d quietly helped fund—and you’d tucked it under a book on your nightstand, meaning to decline. You didn’t do galas. You didn’t do red carpets. You didn’t wear name tags or step into press walls where your face would be frozen in someone else’s narrative.

But Paige found the envelope. She lifted it up one evening while folding laundry and asked, “Are we going to this?”

You blinked. “You want to?”

“I want to stand next to you,” she said simply.

So you let her pick your outfit.

The gown was black. Simple but devastating. Silk. Clean lines. No jewelry but a thin silver ring Paige had slipped onto your finger one morning while you were brushing your teeth. You’d looked up in the mirror and caught her watching you. “Don’t make it a thing,” she said then. “It’s not that kind of ring.”

But you both knew it was.

She wore a tailored navy tux. No tie. Her curls were loose, her eyes steady, her smile a quiet weapon. She held your hand the moment you stepped out of the car. Not for show. Not for cameras. Just because she could.

Flashbulbs didn’t change the way her fingers laced with yours.

Inside, the gala shimmered with polished names and strategic conversations. CEOs made the rounds. Senators smiled too wide. Champagne sparkled in flutes held by people who didn’t care about clean energy unless there was a tax incentive.

You didn’t smile much. You didn’t need to.

Paige did enough of it for both of you.

She kept you anchored, tethered to something real while everyone else spun around each other like planets in search of gravity.

You weren’t nervous about your speech.

But when the foundation director introduced you, you caught Paige’s eye from across the ballroom—and the rest of the room blurred.

You didn’t talk about the Forbes list. Or the money. Or the attention. You talked about power grids in rural communities. About the cost of energy poverty. About the little girl in Nebraska who wrote you a letter last year thanking you for the solar heater your company installed in her school.

You talked about infrastructure.

But you meant love.

And when your voice cracked at the end, it wasn’t nerves. It was her.

Later, when the room had thinned and the cameras had stopped clicking, Paige pressed her forehead to yours under a string of overhead lights and said, “I’ve never been so proud of someone in my life.”

You blinked against her shoulder. “I just want to go home.”

She smiled. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

In the car, she reached for your hand again. Turned it over. Studied the line of your palm like she was still learning it, still memorizing something she never wanted to forget.

“You think they’ll leave you alone now?” she asked.

You leaned your head against the window. “I don’t care.”

She nodded. “Good.” Another beat. Then she added, “You know, you kind of do look like someone with an OnlyFans.”

You turned to glare at her. “Are you serious.”

She grinned, unrepentant. “The people weren’t wrong, babe. Just... misinformed.”

You shoved her shoulder. “I should’ve let them keep thinking I was a trust fund bimbo.”

She shrugged. “Nah. Let them Google.”

You got home late.

She pulled you out of the car, her arms winding around your waist the moment the front door closed. Shoes kicked off. Jacket slipped from her shoulders. She kissed you like the world didn’t deserve you—because it didn’t.

In the bedroom, her fingers traced the outline of the ring she gave you. Her voice was soft against your mouth.

“You’re mine, you know.”

You nodded, kissing her again.

“So are you.”

The next morning, a photo made the rounds.

You, on the balcony, champagne flute in hand, as you look out onto the city. Paige behind you, arms around your waist, pressing a kiss into your shoulder. A quiet moment. Unstaged. Someone at the gala had caught it by accident, framed in the open doorway as you slipped away from the ballroom.

It went viral.

But this time, there were no conspiracy theories. No bitterness. Just awe.

The caption was simple.

She never needed to be seen. But now that she is, we can’t look away.

[heejamas]

──★ JUST LIKE HEAVEN (part. 2)

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: jay x fem!reader … ﹒ 90s au, childhood friends to lovers, brother's best friend!jay, exes to lovers, fluff, smut … ﹒w/c: 15k synopsis: three years. that’s how long it had been since you last saw jay park. since spring break, since mixtapes and goodbye letters and i’ll write when i can. he had traded the life you knew for one on the road — guitars, neon lights, hotel rooms in cities you’d never been to. and it was 1994 now, you had your own place, your own rhythm. you had almost convinced yourself you were over it. until a concert. a song. a glance across a crowded room. and suddenly, nothing was over at all. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), smut, mdni!!! 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: just like heaven - the cure | read part 1 here <3

it’s been three years since you last saw jay park. and somehow, it still feels like yesterday.

by 1994, everything feels different. you’re in your last year of college now. you know how to make your bed in the dark, how to survive on gas station coffee and a playlist that’s been the same since sophomore year. your books are underlined and frayed at the corners. the shoes by your door don’t match on purpose anymore. jungwon’s in college now, halfway through. he’s still figuring things out, but his voice has settled, and so has his energy. a little more grounded, a little less wild around the edges. he doesn’t call as much as he used to, but he writes sometimes. signs his letters with messy doodles and stories that sound like home: who’s dating who, which professor’s a nightmare. he’s talking about studying abroad next year. says it like a joke, but you know he’s serious.

your friends are scattered across cities and apartments, student loans and early jobs. some of them are in long-term relationships. some are engaged. some are already talking about house payments. they still write you, too. sometimes on postcards, sometimes in long emails typed from shared computers in dorm basements. you keep every one.

you've learned how to let go of things slowly. how to miss people quietly. how to stop expecting things to stay the same.

the world has changed since 1991. nevermind came out. so did automatic for the people. you cut your hair once, just to feel something. you fell in love with someone else for a little while, then out of it, and didn’t talk about it much after. the posters in your room have faded from the sun. you don’t live in the dorms anymore. you don’t listen to the same tapes every night. just most nights.

you don’t talk about jay. not really. not out loud.

he shows up in passing. in jokes jungwon makes. in old notes you kept but don’t read. in the way your breath still catches when someone plays just like heaven on a jukebox too late at night. you heard he’s playing in a band now. you don’t know much. just that sometimes, when you pass a flyer on a telephone pole or a crumpled gig poster in a café window, you pause a little longer than you mean to. and sometimes, just sometimes, you wish you see his name is on it.

sometimes, in the middle of doing something normal — folding laundry, walking back from class, standing in line for coffee — you remember that last afternoon.

spring break, 1991. the sky was overcast, warm in the way that made you think summer might arrive early. jay was leaving again. his band had just gotten picked up to open for someone bigger, someone you’d never heard of but pretended to recognize. he had a folded schedule in his back pocket, all scribbled in blue ink and crossed-out cities.

“you should come,” he said. “i’ll leave your name at the door.”

you smiled. nodded. said, “yeah, maybe.”

but you never did.

the next semester hit hard. papers stacked up, internships started, and time blurred. phone calls turned into postcards. then into silence. it wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. he had tour dates. you had midterms. and something about trying too hard to hold on felt embarrassing after a while.

the last thing he sent was a letter.

you still remember the envelope. thin, bent at the corner, his handwriting slanted and messier than usual. you read it in your dorm room one night, sitting on the edge of your bed while your roommate snored into her pillow.

y/n,

i’m sorry i’ve been gone. i mean, i’ve been here, just not really anywhere at the same time. i thought i could keep up with everything. with touring, with writing, with remembering to breathe. but i keep messing it up. i keep losing time. i didn’t want to stop writing. i just didn’t know how to keep showing up if i wasn’t doing it right.

i still think about you. that’s probably unfair.

i hope you’re good. i hope you’re better than i’ve been.

— j

you kept that letter for too long. read it twice. three times. then put it away in a drawer and didn’t open it again.

after that, things just… faded. you didn’t write. he didn’t call. you heard from jungwon once that jay had been in town for a weekend but didn’t stop by. you told yourself that was fine. you told yourself it didn’t matter. until that night in 1993, in the back room of someone’s party. the music loud. drinks half-finished. two girls near the record player talking about some band they saw the week before. one of them said, “the guitarist was so hot, i swear he was flirting with me all night backstage.” and the other one laughed. “the one with the flannel? that’s jay, right?”

you froze. just for a second. and didn’t say anything. you didn’t ask if it was the same jay. you didn’t need to. you left early, walked home alone, told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that you were fine. that you’d grown out of it.

but some nights, when it’s too quiet to lie to yourself, you replay that last goodbye. the way he’d said, “you should come.” and the way you never did. you wonder if he waited. for how long. or if he stopped counting somewhere along the way.

and here you are, 1994, months from graduating, pretending the weight on your chest is just the pressure of adulthood. pretending you don’t still rewind that tape sometimes. pretending you haven’t memorized his handwriting even though you haven’t seen it in years.

you’re fine. you smile when people ask. you talk about plans. you fill your days with work and lists and voices that keep you forward-facing. but every once in a while, at the end of a song, or the bottom of a box, or when you see someone in a denim jacket that doesn’t quite fit, you feel it again.

you never really let go. you just learned how to carry it differently.

it started as something casual, something thrown into a friday night without much weight — just yunjin walking into the room with two tickets and that grin she always had when she knew you needed something to pull you out of your head. she said bon jovi was in town. said yeonjun already had his and that the three of you could go together. said she didn’t want to hear any excuses. and you didn’t have one, not really. so you nodded, and told yourself it would be good to get out. you hadn’t been to a concert in a while. not a big one, not the kind with lights and heat and voices shouting into the dark.

you didn’t think about jay right away. maybe just for a second. a flicker of memory at the name. you remembered him talking about bon jovi, you remembered that t-shirt you painted for him. 

so you went. you got dressed. you wore your denim jacket and borrowed eyeliner from yunjin. yeonjun picked you both up in his dad’s car, windows down, music too loud. it was the kind of night that felt like it could belong to anyone. the arena was full. the floor vibrated before anything even started. people were already on their feet, beer sloshing from plastic cups, voices rising together like they’d been waiting all week just to scream. you found your seats, somewhere near the back but high enough to see the full stretch of stage. the lights dimmed. a ripple ran through the crowd, electric and hungry. and then the band was there. you let yourself enjoy the first songs. let the music rush through you, let the drums hit your chest. yunjin was dancing in her seat. yeonjun kept shouting lyrics half a beat too late. the night blurred around the edges in the way concerts always do.

and then came the next song. always. you recognized it before your brain caught up. 

and that’s when you saw him.

your eyes were scanning the stage out of habit, and there he was. standing off to the left, half-shadowed in blue light. guitar slung low across his chest, hair falling forward a little as he tilted toward the mic. he looked older. not in a bad way, just real. flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands steady on the strings. and then he opened his mouth and sang. not lead. just backing vocals.

your body didn’t move. couldn’t. it was like the floor had locked you in place. you stared. the rest of the crowd kept moving. the lights kept flashing. yunjin was still beside you, completely unaware. but your world had shrunk to the length of the stage and the shape of his shoulders and the way he closed his eyes when he hit a harmony.

jay. after all this time.

after postcards and silence and a hundred almost-memories you tried not to replay.

he was looking out into the crowd, past the lights, into the blur of people that you had somehow become a part of. and still, something in you reached for him. your fingers curled against your jacket, your breath caught halfway. you didn’t cry. not yet. you just kept staring, like maybe if you stayed very still, the universe would shift, and he’d look up, and see you. but he doesn’t see you. of course he doesn’t. you’re just one face in a crowd of thousands, too far up and too far back and too far gone. but when the last chorus of always starts, something in your chest breaks open anyway.

you hear him — clear, right through the echo and the noise. i know when i die, you’ll be on my mind, and i’ll love you, always.

your breath catches so hard you forget how to let it go.

your fingers find the edge of your seat. your knees lock, then unlock. and before you even know what you’re doing, you’re standing. slipping past yunjin’s knees, brushing yeonjun’s arm. you don’t look at either of them. you just go.

“where are you going?” yunjin’s voice follows you.

yeonjun chimes in too, confused. maybe a little annoyed. “dude. what—”

but you don’t answer. you can’t. you’re already down the stairs, already pushing through the hallway, the noise of the concert fading as you make your way out. the air outside is colder than you expected. your legs feel heavy. your hands are shaking, and you don’t stop walking until you’re alone. you take the long way home, even though the buses are still running. even though your shoes are not made for this. you walk like you’re trying to wear the feeling out of your body. like distance could make this less real.

and when you finally get to your apartment, you shut the door quietly behind you. you don’t turn on the lights. you just stand there, coat still on, bag still slung over your shoulder, and you let yourself feel it. you cry. you cry in that ugly, helpless way where your hands can’t keep up with your face, where your chest folds in on itself, where everything you’d been holding in since 1991 spills out like it never had anywhere to go. you cry because you saw him. because it’s been three years. because you didn’t know he would be there and now you don’t know how to be here without the weight of that moment pressed into your skin. and then you sit down on the floor, like your body doesn’t know what to do next.

you think about all the things that came flooding back the second you saw him: that christmas, the porch light, the sound of his voice in a letter, the way he used to rest his forehead against yours like it meant something. the lake house. the mixtape. the last kiss. you think about the letter he sent before it all went quiet. the way he said i still think about you, and how you never answered. you think about the day you heard someone else say his name and pretended it didn’t knock the air out of you.

you think about how, even after all this time, you still knew his voice the second you heard it. and somewhere under all of that, buried deep in the ache, there’s something like pride. because he made it. you always knew he could. he was good, really good. not just at guitar, but at meaning what he played. and now here he is, sharing a stage with one of the biggest bands in the world. and sounding like he belongs there. you’re happy for him. you are. but it still hurts. not because you wanted him to stay, but because some part of you never expected to lose him like this. not so completely.

you wipe your face with the sleeve of your jacket. pull your knees up to your chest. the room is quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of a light somewhere down the hall. and in the middle of all that silence, your heart keeps repeating the same question, over and over. does he ever think of you when he sings it? you don’t know. maybe you’ll never know.

but tonight, for a moment, you were eighteen again. and that’s almost worse than forgetting.

you wake up with your face still puffy, the inside of your mouth dry, and the memory of always still echoing in your chest. you sit on the kitchen floor with yesterday’s clothes and a cold cup of coffee, and you think, i’ll just move on. you don’t mean to say anything about it. you don’t wake up planning to talk. but then there’s a knock and it’s yunjin, holding a paper bag and looking like she already knows you’re not okay. yeonjun’s behind her, carrying takeout cups and wearing his we come in peace t-shirt that always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

they don’t press at first. they come in, settle onto your couch, act like it’s any other morning. yunjin puts music on low — something soft, r.e.m. — and yeonjun turns on the kettle like he lives there. you sit cross-legged on the floor in your hoodie, and after a few minutes of silence, yunjin says, “you didn’t come back.”

and that’s when it breaks, and you tell them everything. not the whole thing. not every letter, not every tape, not the lake or the kiss or the way he once said you make things feel easy. but enough for them to understand that it wasn’t just the shock of seeing him. it was everything around it. the time, the loss, the space between who you were and who he is now. they don’t interrupt. they don’t try to fix it. yeonjun just nods, real slow, and mutters, “damn.” yunjin reaches over and squeezes your hand.

hours pass, blurring into a quiet afternoon of them helping you pack away some of the memories, pausing only to put on some mindless show. they don't stay too long after that. eventually, they get up and start talking about dinner, about how you're going out whether you like it or not, and you let them take you along because the apartment feels too full of memory, and because they're trying, and because you've always been better at pretending when someone else is watching.

the diner they pick is on the corner near the old bookstore, the neon sign flickers a little, and you feel something in your chest settle as soon as you sit down. yunjin and yeonjun are talking, laughing quietly about someone from class, their legs brushing under the table in that way that makes you suspicious. they’re trying to act normal, but there’s something too soft in the way she hands him the salt. you watch them out of the corner of your eye, chewing on your straw, and finally smile for real for the first time all day.

but after a while, the noise gets too much again. you excuse yourself, and step out the front door, letting it shut behind you with a soft click. the sky’s dark now, but not cold. the street’s mostly empty and silent, except for a few cars passing, the occasional sound of a skateboard or a laugh from somewhere around the corner. you reach into your jacket pocket and pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes. one left. figures. you picked this habit up during finals last year. felt cool. felt like the end of a music video, like it did in the 80s. but now, in the 90s, they say it’ll kill you. but it shuts everything up for a second. so.

you don’t know how long you stand there like that, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette between your fingers, letting the night breathe around you. and then headlights hit the pavement, a car pulls into the lot — dark green, polished, the kind of old-school cool that feels deliberate but not forced. it’s a 1992 chevy camaro z28, all angles and muscle, the kind of car a guy buys when they’re not quite ready to settle down.

you watch without thinking. the door opens. a guy steps out, tall, black jacket, looks vaguely familiar. another follows, laughing, pulling off a beanie. you know them. not well. not personally. but you recognize them. because you’ve seen them before.

on stage.

the third door opens slower.

and there he is.

jay.

he steps out like he’s unsure of the ground under him. same flannel, sleeves rolled, hair a little shorter now, but still him. still the same shape of boy you kissed once in a field of stars, the same voice on every tape you kept hidden in your drawer.

he’s looking down at first, shoulders slightly hunched. and then he looks up. right at you. he freezes. you freeze too. for a second, maybe longer, neither of you moves.

the other guys are still talking, already walking toward the diner entrance. but jay doesn’t follow. he stays there, by the car, staring at you like you’re something he thought he made up. like seeing you breaks some rule. your cigarette burns down between your fingers. you forget to breathe. you forget to blink. and in the silence between one breath and the next, the years fold up like they never happened. it feels like you’re just two kids again.

the car door is still open behind jay, one of the other guys calling his name from a few steps ahead, not noticing, or maybe not caring, that he hasn’t followed. his eyes stay on you like they’re trying to make sure you’re not just a trick of the lights, something he pulled out of a dream too late at night. you don’t look away. you can’t.

he closes the door and takes a few steps forward. slow and careful, like you might run.

“hi,” he says, voice low, uncertain, like the word isn’t big enough for what he’s feeling.

“hi.” you say it back.

and then silence again. the kind that comes heavy and weird, pressing between the two of you like fog. you cross your arms. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. a door opens somewhere behind you, someone laughs from inside the diner, but it doesn’t touch either of you. he clears his throat first.

“i forgot we were in your city,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “too many cities lately. i don’t even know what day it is half the time.”

you let out a small, dry laugh through your nose — not exactly mean, just tired. “yeah,” you say quietly. “i went to the show.”

his eyes widen a little, like the information hits harder than it should. “you—what?”

you nod once, slow. “i didn’t know you were part of the band. it was my friend’s idea. she dragged me out.” your voice is steadier than you expected. “i recognized your voice first. then i saw you.” he doesn’t say anything. his mouth opens slightly like he might, but nothing comes out. “you’re really good,” you add, softer this time. “i mean it.”

his shoulders drop a little. his mouth twists, not into a smile, exactly, but something close. “thanks.”

“i didn’t know you made it that far,” you say. “bon jovi.”

he exhales. his eyes are shining a little, and he looks down like he needs a second to get control of whatever’s happening inside him. “i didn’t know you’d be there.”

“me neither.”

he takes another step toward you. you don’t move. "i didn’t think i’d ever see you again," he says. his voice cracks at the end, just a little. "and now you’re here, you’re smoking."

you let out a low laugh, real this time. “yeah. turns out i have terrible coping mechanisms.”

he smiles, but it’s cautious. “i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for disappearing. for not writing. for—”

you hold up a hand, just slightly. “you don’t have to.”

“i want to.” his voice is steady now. quiet, but clear. he’s still standing a foot away, but it feels like he’s closer than that. “i wanted to reach out a hundred times,” he continues. “but it felt like too much. or not enough. and then time just… passed.”

you nod, slowly. “yeah. it does that.”

he looks at you again, really looks this time, like he’s trying to see who you became. “you look good,” he says. “different, but not really.”

you smile, even though it hurts a little. “you too. the flannel’s still doing the heavy lifting though.”

he laughs, finally, and it breaks something between you. for a second, you let it be easy again. he tilts his head, eyes soft. “can i—are you okay?” you hesitate. then nod. “i don’t know what this is,” he says. “i don’t know if i have the right to even be talking to you right now. but i’m really glad i saw you.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. “me too.”

he takes a breath like he might say more, but the diner door swings open then, and yunjin leans out. “hey—are you—”

she sees him, and freezes. then looks at you. then back at him. her mouth opens like she wants to say something but she wisely doesn’t. “i’ll give you a minute,” she says, disappearing back inside without another word. you and jay both laugh under your breath at the same time. and just like that, it’s quiet again. he takes one more step forward, close enough now that you can see the curve of his lashes, the slight stubble on his jaw, his birth mark on the side of his neck. the way his hand twitches like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“can i give you a hug?” he asks, voice soft. unsure.

you nod. barely, but it’s enough. he moves toward you and wraps his arms around you, carefully at first, then tighter, like something in him breaks open when you don’t pull away. and you sink into it. not because you want to, but because your body does before your mind can think twice. his arms are strong, warmer than you remember. he smells like the kind of cologne you’d smell on someone walking by backstage, faint smoke and something sharp underneath it, but it’s still him, still familiar. you bury your face against his shoulder, and neither of you says anything for a long time. he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. doesn’t let go.

“i think about you a lot,” he says, voice rough. “still.” you meet his eyes, breath shaky. he continues, “some songs... i write thinking about you. i don’t mean to. it just happens.”

you blink hard, chest tight again. “i liked always,” you say. “it’s a good one.”

he looks down, just a second. his hand still resting on your back. “yeah, i wrote that one,” he says. you stare at him for a beat. he shrugs a little. doesn’t say if he wrote that one thinking about you. but his eyes say more than his mouth ever could. you look away first. try to breathe again.

“how’s jungwon?” he asks suddenly, gently shifting the weight of the conversation.

you smile, genuine. “he’s good. third year. studying architecture. i don’t know where that came from.”

“he always liked building stuff. remember that weird tower he made out of cereal boxes?”

you laugh quietly. “yeah. and glue sticks. and half the living room rug.”

he smiles at that. the kind of smile that aches. “i missed him. i miss home sometimes.”

you nod. “me too.”

he looks at you again. more carefully this time. “what about you? last year, right?”

“yeah. almost done.”

“how’s it been?”

you shrug. “busy. normal. lonely, sometimes. i live alone now.”

he opens his mouth to answer, but the door behind him swings open again. two guys step out, the same ones from the car. one of them grins when he sees jay and calls out, “hey, you coming in or what?”

jay glances at them, then back at you. “i’ll be in soon,” he says. “ran into a long-time... friend.”

the pause in the middle of the sentence hangs there. not heavy. just strange. like both of you noticed it, but neither wants to name it. the other guy raises his eyebrows a little but doesn’t ask anything. they head back inside. the silence creeps back in. the door opens behind you this time. “hey,” yunjin says, stepping out. “we’re heading out. you coming?” yeonjun follows, one hand casually linked with hers. they both look at you, curious but not nosy, like they know enough not to ask. you glance at them, then at jay. then back.

you shake your head. “i think i’ll stay.”

yunjin squeezes your arm, just once, and nods. yeonjun just smiles, like he expected that answer all along. they wave as they walk away, hands still linked, disappearing around the corner. you turn to jay. he doesn’t say anything. just watches you. waiting. and somehow, without a word, you both understand the next step.

and that's when jay thinks about everything that happened in the last three years. he didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did.

at first, he thought he could balance everything — school, the band, writing, you. he really thought he could make it all work. but time moved differently back then. and he was always chasing something. a setlist. a deadline. a bus that left too early or too late. the band got serious quicker than any of them expected. one night they were playing to twenty drunk kids in someone’s garage and the next they were opening for someone bigger, someone with real equipment and real fans. people started showing up. listening. remembering his name. it was addictive but also terrifying. 

college faded into the background. it didn’t make sense anymore. he stopped going to most of his classes. said he’d take a semester off, then another. his parents were furious at first. called it reckless. stupid. said he was wasting potential. but then they came to a show. just one. they saw the way the crowd reacted, the way he moved with his guitar like it was part of him, like the music wasn’t something he made but something he became. after that, they softened. not completely, not all at once, but enough.

he kept going. city after city. song after song. sleeping in vans, missing birthdays, forgetting what day it was. he lost track of holidays. of phone calls. of you.

but he thought about you all the time. 

he thought about you when the van was too quiet and everyone else was asleep. he thought about you when he saw lights flickering in some motel parking lot and it reminded him of that night in the lake. he thought about you when he wrote something too soft, too raw, and didn’t know why it mattered until your name crossed his mind halfway through the chorus. he thought about you every time they played near your state and he almost said something to the manager. almost asked if you’d be there. he thought about you every time he rewound that tape you gave him, the one with your handwriting on the cover and that one song you swore would always make you think of summer.

he started writing that last letter months before he sent it. scratched out versions of it in different notebooks, napkins, corners of lyric sheets. tried to get the words right and never did. everything sounded like a lie, or worse, like a goodbye. and he didn’t want it to be that. but he also didn’t know how to keep pretending it wasn’t over. and when he finally wrote it, he kept it folded in his bag for three days before mailing it. didn’t sleep that night. didn’t tell anyone. he didn’t expect you to write back. but part of him always hoped you would.

he told himself he was doing what he was meant to do. that the trade-off was worth it. that this life — the shows, the travel, the applause — it had to be enough. but then the lights would go down at the end of a set, and someone would ask if he was coming out for drinks, and he’d find himself standing by the door too long, thinking of you. of your voice. of how you said maybe when he asked you to come see him play. he told himself you were probably happy. probably better off. probably didn’t think about him the same way anymore.

and then, three years later, he walked out of a car in a city he didn’t even realize was yours. and there you were, smoking a cigarette, looking at him like he’d never really left. like he was still someone you knew. and everything inside him just stopped. because it had been three years, and somehow, it still felt like you were the only part of his life that had ever been quiet enough to feel real.

he watches your friends walk away until they’re out of sight. the parking lot quiets down again, humming with the low buzz of neon and leftover conversation.

he turns to you. “do you wanna get out of here?” he asks, like it’s nothing. like it’s not everything.

you look at him for a second. just long enough for it to matter. “yeah,” you say. “i do.”

he nods, like he wasn’t expecting a yes. like part of him already had one foot back inside the diner. you both start walking toward the car, the one he came in, but he hesitates. “this isn’t mine,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “we’re leaving tomorrow morning. early. that’s the drummer’s car.” he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down for a second before glancing at you again. “my car’s at the hotel. about twenty minutes that way.”

“my place is closer. we can walk, if you want.” you don’t know why you say it. not exactly. the words come out easy, but they sit strange in your chest. there’s no plan. no reason. no expectation. just this pull that says don’t let him go yet.

he nods. “okay.”

the walk starts quiet. the streets are mostly empty, the kind of quiet you only get in a small city late at night. the air is cooler now and makes your skin feel too tight. you pull your jacket tighter around you. he notices. he doesn’t say anything. just steps a little closer. your shoulders brush, just slightly. neither of you moves away. you pass under a streetlamp. it hums above you. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye — his jawline in the yellow light, the way his hands are still tucked into the sleeves of his flannel like he’s holding something in.

“i don’t know what to say to you,” you admit quietly. not looking at him.

“me neither,” he says, almost instantly. “it’s weird.”

“yeah.”

“but not bad.”

you glance up at him but he’s already looking at you. you nod. “no. not bad.”

you don’t speak again for a while. the silence between you isn’t empty, though. it’s full of everything you both remember and everything you’re both afraid to ask. every few steps, your arms brush again. sometimes your hands, and it doesn’t feel like an accident. but it doesn’t feel like a decision either.

you turn onto your street, point out the building without saying anything. he follows you up the front steps like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you hear your keys in your hand before you realize you took them out. you stop in front of the door. and that’s when it really settles in — the closeness. the possibility. the strangeness of all of this.

you haven’t seen him in years, you barely know him now, but you used to. you really, really used to. and standing here, in front of your door, you’re not sure which version of him is looking back at you — the boy you kissed in the dark, or the man who sang backup on a stadium stage. maybe both. maybe neither.

you unlock the door with a quiet click, push it open slowly, and step inside first. you don’t turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp by the bookshelf. your place smells like lavender and the faint trace of the incense you burned the night before. you kick off your shoes, he copies you. he steps in carefully, like he’s not sure if he should be there, like he might break something by breathing too loud. his eyes move slowly across the room — the record player near the window, a stack of books with a coffee mug balanced on top, a blanket half-fallen from the couch.

he lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “you made it look like you.”

you glance at him, eyebrow raised. “what does that mean?”

he shrugs, walking a little deeper into the room. “i don’t know. it just... feels like you live here. it’s not just a space. it’s yours.”

you smile, small. close the door behind him. “thanks, i think.”

he turns back toward the shelf, fingertips brushing over the spines of the books, the edge of a candle, the side of your old walkman. he pauses. his hand stops at a cassette case, faded, slightly cracked at the corner, label smudged from years of being touched. he pulls it out gently. the handwriting is his.

he looks at you, eyes soft. “you kept this?”

you nod, slow. “yeah.”

he stares at it for a second longer, then sets it back down, careful. when he turns back toward you, his face is quieter than before, like something's settled. “do you... wanna talk?” he asks. his voice isn’t pushing. just curiosity and hope. “like—about everything. put things in order.”

you blink once, then nod. slow. “if you want to,” you say. “if you’re comfortable.” he nods too, eyes still on you. you motion to the couch, then the kettle. “you can sit, or make tea, whatever makes it feel easier. make yourself at home.” he lets out a little breath at that, the corner of his mouth tugging into a barely-there smile. he sits on the couch and watches as you move through the space. you light the kettle on the stove. he watches your hands. “so,” you say eventually, turning back to face him, leaning against the counter. “how did you end up playing with bon jovi?”

he huffs out a breath, eyes widening slightly. “honestly? i still don’t totally know.”

you raise an eyebrow and he shrugs. “you auditioned?”

he nods. “twice. the second time, i played a song i wrote. didn’t say it was mine. they figured it out later. he liked that too.” he pauses. “it happened fast. i didn’t expect it.”

you tilt your head. “but you wanted it.”

“yeah,” he says, looking down at his hands. “i think i did. i mean, of course i did. we were opening for a few mid-sized acts. nothing huge. a guy who did lighting for their crew saw us in a club, told someone higher up that our guitarist was ‘some kid with way too much emotion in his fingers.’” he rolls his eyes at that. “i guess jon liked that.” you walk over slowly, curling your legs under you as you sit across from him. he shifts just slightly to face you. “so,” he says, matching your tone. “what about you? how were the last three years?”

you hesitate. not because you don’t have answers — but because none of them feel simple. you shrug. “good in pieces.” he watches you for a second. not pushing, but not letting the question disappear completely either. you offer a half-smile. “i don’t think i figured anything out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

he nods. “i wasn’t.”

a quiet settles in again. and then he says suddenly: “i missed you.” with no hesitation. like the words had been sitting too long and couldn’t stay still anymore.

you really look at him. “i missed you too.”

his eyes soften again. he leans forward just slightly, elbows on his knees. “sometimes i used to wonder if i made it all up. that summer. the way we were. if i just remembered it better than it really was.”

you shake your head, sure. “you didn’t.”

“you were always in the back of my mind,” he says. “even when i didn’t want to admit it. especially then.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. “i thought about you a lot. more than i wanted to.”

you both sit in it for a moment — the weight of three years, of silence, of almosts that never got their ending. the kettle starts to hiss, soft and steady in the background, but neither of you moves. he leans back a little, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, his hand only inches from your shoulder now. “i thought maybe we’d bump into each other again. and i hated that. the idea that it’d take chance, not effort.”

“but you’re here,” you say, quiet.

“yeah.” he breathes out. “and i don’t want to leave this time without doing it right.”

you glance at him. “i don’t know what doing it right means,” you admit.

he smiles, eyes tired and full. “me neither. but we could try.”

you look down at your hands, then at his fingers brushing slightly against the fabric of the couch. your heart’s louder now. you nod, barely. “we could try.”

you don’t know when it happens exactly, the shift. maybe it’s the quiet. maybe it’s the way the room’s only lit by the soft glow of the lamp. maybe it’s the weight of his words still floating between you. but suddenly, you’re looking at him, really looking at him, and he’s already looking at you. his gaze doesn’t move — not to your hands, not to the floor like it used to when he got nervous. it’s steady now, like he’s memorizing something. like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. your heart stumbles a little. and neither of you looks away, and the moment stretches. his knee is brushing yours. his hand still resting on the couch cushion. your whole body feels too aware of itself — your fingers, your lips, your throat. 

the kettle screams.

you both flinch, not much, just enough to break the spell, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“right,” you say, standing up quickly. “tea.”

he stays on the couch, watching you move across the room. you flick off the stove, pour the water into the mugs you grabbed earlier. you add honey to yours, then add some to his, too. you bring the mugs back, hand him his. he smiles when he takes it. that same crooked, tired smile you remember.

you sit again, curled into your side of the couch, feet tucked under you. “so,” you say, gently blowing over the rim of your cup. “rockstar life, huh?”

he really laughs, for the first time tonight. “i mean, it’s not exactly groupies and private jets,” he says. “sometimes it’s tuna sandwiches at truck stops and sharing hotel rooms with people who snore like they’re dying.”

you snort. “glamorous.”

“deeply.”

“do you like it?”

he thinks for a moment. “i do. most days. some days it’s exhausting. some days i feel like i’m just chasing noise.”

you nod, sip your tea. “do you ever get lonely?” you ask, quiet.

he looks at you. “yeah,” he says. “a lot more than i thought i would.”

you both finish your tea slowly, the conversation drifting here and there. small questions, quiet answers, tiny pieces of each other being carefully returned. it’s not like before. but it’s not not like before either. 

you place your mug down gently on the coffee table. he does the same. your hands brush. just barely. you start to move yours away out of instinct, but then you feel his fingers wrap gently around your wrist. you look up. he’s already looking at you again. his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, where your pulse is loud. louder than you want it to be.

he leans in, not quite closing the space, but almost. “you still do that thing,” he says, voice low. “twist the sleeve of your sweater when you’re nervous.”

you glance down at your hand. he’s right. you look back up at him. his face is so close now you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow, the one from when jungwon pushed him off his bike in eighth grade. you could reach for him. you could close the distance. you could kiss him. 

you don’t move, not at first. you just sit there, watching him, feeling his hand warm against your wrist, his thumb brushing once against your skin like he’s asking something without saying it. the distance between you is nothing now, and he’s close enough that you can see the way his lashes fan downward, the faint crease between his brows, the softness in his expression that wasn’t there when he first stepped out of that car. his hand moves slowly, from your wrist to your jaw, fingertips grazing up the side of your neck. his touch is careful, your breath catches, and he feels it, you know he does, but he doesn’t stop. his palm settles against your cheek, his thumb resting just below your eye.

he tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking down to your mouth, and then he leans in. his lips meet yours in a kiss that feels like an exhale, full of everything that’s gone unsaid. he kisses you like he’s afraid to startle you, like he’s still checking if you’ll let him stay. and you do, you kiss him back without hesitation, your hand moving to his chest like you need something to hold onto. his breath hitches and he shifts closer, legs brushing yours, the heat of his body pulling you in. his other hand moves to your waist, anchoring. you tilt your head, your lips parting under his, and that’s when the kiss deepens.

you feel him everywhere — in the way his thumb strokes your cheek, in the press of his chest against yours, in the gentle sound he makes when you pull him in a little closer. the world narrows. the couch disappears. the years fall away. there’s only him, only this, only the you falling into together like no time has passed at all.

when he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, he doesn’t go far. his forehead rests against yours. your noses brush. his hand stays on your cheek. your eyes stay closed.

“i’ve wanted to do that since i saw you standing outside the diner,” he says, voice low, breath warm against your skin. “actually, since before that.”

you smile, overwhelmed, a little breathless. “i know.”

you open your eyes to find his already on you. wide, tender, shining. “i didn’t think i’d ever get the chance again,” he adds.

you reach up, fingers finding the side of his neck. “you have it now.”

and he kisses you again, no pause this time. his mouth finds yours with more confidence now, more feeling. the way you mold into him is instinctive, your hand slides up into his hair, his fingers spread across your back. the kiss is soft, but it’s not shy. every press of his lips says i missed you, every shift of your body says i’m still here.

his lips don’t leave yours for long. there’s no rush, but there’s urgency, not of time, but of want. of having waited too long and not knowing how to say it any other way. his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. he shifts closer, his body pressing into yours with a kind of hesitation that disappears as soon as you don’t stop him. your knees bump. your hands move without thinking, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. you feel the weight of him then — not just the physical, but everything he’s holding. 

he leans into you, and you lean back, and the cushions give under your weight as he gently guides you down, your back meeting the couch, his body following. he hovers over you for just a moment, eyes meeting yours like he’s asking again, silently, if this is okay. and you answer the only way you can: you pull him in.

his mouth finds yours with more fire this time. it’s still careful, still steady, but there's a heat now that wasn't there before, something that builds in the way he presses you into the couch, the way his hand finds your waist, the way he exhales against your lips. you feel the weight of his body above you, his knee slipping between yours, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. your hands explore him like you’re tracing something familiar and new at the same time — the slope of his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the muscles shifting under your palms.

he pulls back just slightly, mouth still close, breath catching as he looks down at you, and then he says it, voice low and rough and full of awe, “god, you’re so beautiful.” you inhale sharply, eyes locking with his. he kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “always were,” he murmurs between kisses. his lips trail lower, grazing your neck, making your whole body tighten. “you don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers.

your breath hitches. your fingers tighten around his back. he kisses you again, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. every shift of his body against yours makes your skin burn in the best way. there’s something new here, a closeness that’s never been touched before, but was always waiting. you find it overwhelming, but it’s not scary.  his hands move to your hips, grounding you, holding you like he doesn’t want to let go — like he couldn’t, even if he tried. his fingers dig in just slightly, and it sends a shiver through your body. you exhale, a soft, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out, and he hears it.

he kisses you harder. his mouth pressing into yours like he’s starving for it now. you feel his tongue slide against yours and you moan softly into his mouth, and that’s when you feel his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, skin against skin, warm and steady and reverent. he groans when he touches you. low, like it’s involuntary, like just feeling you beneath his hands undoes something in him. you reach up and tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently, messing it up in a way that makes him hiss under his breath. he leans into it, hips pressing forward, his body sinking further into yours, like he needs to feel you everywhere at once. his knee shifts between your thighs, pressing in. you don’t know if he means to do it or if it’s just instinct, but it sends a wave of heat through your core that makes your back arch slightly into him. you let out a breathless moan and your hips twitch without meaning to, and he feels it. his breath stutters, his hands holding tighter.

“fuck,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “you make the prettiest sounds.”

you let out another soft, shaky moan when his thigh presses in again, more deliberate this time, like he’s testing something, like he’s trying to see how far he can take you with just this. your head spins. his hands slide further up under your shirt, fingers spreading across your waist, his palms dragging up the bare skin of your stomach. you gasp softly when the cool air of the room hits the warmth of your skin, and he leans back just enough to look at you. his lips are parted. his eyes heavy and full of something dark and warm and wanting.

“can i take this off?” he asks, voice low, almost careful. “just your shirt.”

you nod, but it’s not enough — you’re already whispering, “yeah. yes. it’s okay.”

he lifts it slowly, his fingers brushing your ribs, the fabric sliding up over your head and landing somewhere behind the couch. his eyes drop to you, his gaze moving over your chest, your stomach, the way your skin is flushed and rising with every breath.

“jesus,” he breathes out, more to himself than to you. “you’re... fuck.”

you can’t look away from him. the way he’s looking at you, like he’s not sure if he should touch you or fall to his knees, makes your whole body ache. he leans in again, this time slower. he kisses your collarbone. the center of your chest. his hands still holding your waist, guiding you gently as his mouth maps a path down the center of you. your hips move again, and his thigh finds its place between yours, pressing up, grinding just enough to pull another sound from you, one that surprises even you.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your ribcage. “just like that. let me hear you.”

you feel it all. his body above yours, your legs tangled under him. the weight of his thigh against your center, the warmth of his mouth, the hands that can’t seem to stop touching you. you don’t know where this is going yet — not fully — but right now, it’s everything. right now, it’s his breath on your skin, your hands in his hair, your lips swollen from kissing him over and over again. it’s the years that fell away the second he touched you. it’s the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

his hands never stop moving, dragging along your sides, your stomach, and he leans back just slightly, just enough to take you in again, his eyes dark and full of something that makes your skin heat under the weight of it. his fingers slide up one strap of your bra and down your arm, until the thin band slips from your shoulder. he presses his mouth there immediately — warm kisses, one after the other, his lips brushing over the new skin, then he bites gently, just enough to make you gasp, and he groans at the sound.

you moan softly, helplessly, when his mouth gets close to your breast, and that’s when he stops. just for a second. he lifts his head and looks down at you, breathing heavy, his hands still firm on your waist.

“do you really want this?” he asks, voice low and serious.

you nod right away, then say it out loud, because you want him to hear it. “i’ve been waiting for this for a really long time, actually.”

his eyes flash, jaw tightening, like the words hit deeper than they should. he groans, low in his throat, and then he’s on you again, kissing your neck, your collarbone, and you feel his breath, warm and fast, as he speaks between kisses. “yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough. “what exactly have you been waiting for?”

you let out a breathy laugh, your fingers digging into his back without thinking, and whisper, “i was waiting for you to make me yours.”

he curses under his breath, something sharp and guttural, and you barely have time to react before he’s reaching behind you, tugging your bra down with a kind of desperation that makes your head spin. “fuck,” he mutters, eyes locked on yours. “i’m gonna make you mine, then.”

his touch changes — still gentle, but firmer now, more certain. he cups your breast like he’s wanted to for years, his thumb brushing your nipple before he leans in and takes it into his mouth. your back arches without meaning to, a moan slipping out of your lips as your hand flies to his hair again, pulling slightly, needing something to hold onto. he groans into your skin, the vibration making you shiver. his other hand slides under your back, supporting you, keeping you close. your hips roll instinctively beneath him, your legs parting more, needing more of him everywhere. your nails drag across his back, not too hard, but enough to make him breathe harder, to make him growl softly against your chest.

“so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “can’t believe you’re really here. can’t believe i get to touch you like this.”

his voice is raw now, every word soaked in years of longing and frustration and heat. and you’re melting under him, body buzzing, mind gone, skin on fire. his mouth is still on your breast, warm and wet, his tongue circling your nipple in slow, maddening strokes before he sucks it into his mouth again. and while he’s doing it, you feel him shift his hips down into you, slow and deliberate, grinding his hardness right where you need him most.

your whole body jerks in response, hips tilting up into him, a sharp, breathless moan leaving your lips before you can stop it. his thigh is still between your legs, but now his cock is pressing right against your core, even through the layers of clothing — and it’s too much, not enough, exactly what you’ve been aching for. he keeps moving his hips, slow, hard, dragging himself against you like he knows exactly how close you are to falling apart.

you whimper again, high and needy, your hands clutching at his shoulders, at his back, at anything you can reach. “jay,” you breathe, voice thin and shaky, “please.”

he pauses, not pulling away, just lifting his head slightly from your chest to look at you. his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lips parted and wet. “please what, love?” he asks, his voice low and rough and teasing. he knows. of course he knows. but he wants to hear it.

you stare up at him, completely undone and open. “i want you,” you whisper. “i want you so bad it hurts.”

his breath leaves him in a rough exhale, and before you can say anything else, his hands are on your waist, lifting you and pulling you up onto his lap, your thighs straddling him, your chest still bare against his flannel. you can feel how hard he is now, pressed right between your legs, and the friction makes your head spin.

he kisses you hard, deep and messy, all teeth and tongue and want, and then he pulls back just enough to murmur, “tell me where.”

you blink, dazed. “bedroom. down the hall. second door.”

he stands with you still wrapped around him like it’s nothing, like he was meant to carry you. you hold onto him, arms around his neck, mouth brushing his jaw as he moves fast, focused, straight down the hall. he kicks the door open gently with his foot and walks you inside, setting you down carefully on the bed like you’re something he doesn’t want to drop, like he’s still trying to be careful even when he’s about to lose control.

“fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you as he stands over the edge of the bed. “look at you.”

he crawls over you slowly, hands braced on either side of your head, and starts pressing kisses to your skin again — your jawline, your cheek, the soft space behind your ear, down your throat. every kiss is hot, open-mouthed, a little desperate. he whispers between them, voice hoarse.

“so perfect.”

“been dreaming of this.”

“can’t believe i get to have you like this.”

his hands roam over your ribs, your sides, your thighs. his body never leaves yours. every part of him is pressed to you, and you’re burning, pulsing, so far gone you can barely form thoughts. your fingers dig into his back, his arms, his hair, anywhere you can pull him closer. you moan again when he kisses the space between your breasts, grinding into you through his jeans, and he growls softly at the sound, kissing lower, biting gently at your hipbone.

“gonna make you feel so fucking good,” he whispers against your skin. “gonna take my time with you. finally.”

you arch into him, legs falling open wider, and he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you — all flushed and panting beneath him, your eyes glassy, lips kiss-swollen.

“you’re mine tonight,” he says, voice wrecked. “every inch of you.”

you nod, breathless, your whole body trembling. “i’m yours,” you whisper.

and that’s all he needs. he pulls back just enough to sit on his knees between your legs, breathing hard, his hands moving to the buttons of his flannel. his eyes don’t leave yours as he pulls it off slowly, letting the fabric fall to the floor beside the bed. underneath, there’s just a worn black t-shirt and you watch, wide-eyed and barely breathing, as he lifts the hem and peels it off too.

he’s lean, all muscle and sharp lines, but not in a showy way. more like someone who’s lived in his body, worked in it, played night after night with a guitar strapped across his chest. his stomach is tight, his arms strong, his collarbones prominent in the low light. and god, he’s beautiful. you swallow, your fingers twitching against the sheets, and he sees the way you react to him, the way your eyes move over every inch of his chest like you can’t help it. like you’ve been thinking about this too long not to stare now that he’s finally in front of you like this.

he smirks, just a little. not cocky. just knowing. “you okay, love?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

you nod quickly, your lips parting around a soft gasp when he leans down again, mouth ghosting over your collarbone. “you’re even better than i imagined,” you whisper, like it slips out before you can stop it.

he groans at that, something low and deep, and kisses you again, slow and hot and full of tongue, before he starts moving lower. his hands find your waist again, fingers sliding under the hem of your pants. he kisses your stomach once, just above the waistband, then looks up at you through his lashes.

“can i?” he asks, voice a little rough now, like he’s holding back.

you nod, and your voice is small but certain. “yeah. please.”

he hums like the answer physically affects him, and starts pulling your pants down slowly, dragging the fabric over your hips, your thighs, down your calves, until they’re gone. you’re left in just your underwear, legs spread for him, chest rising and falling fast, and he sits back for a second just to take it in. he lets out a sharp, helpless sound when he sees you.

“fuck, baby,” he says, eyes roaming. “look at you.”

his hands come to your thighs, thumbs brushing the inside where your skin is already hot and shaking. he leans in, kisses one side gently, then the other — slow, open-mouthed kisses to the softest parts of you, places no one’s ever touched the way he does now. his lips find the crease of your thigh, right where it meets your center, and you gasp, your hips jumping slightly. he chuckles against your skin, breath hot.

he kisses you through your underwear next, a soft press of his mouth right where you need him most, and it makes your entire body jolt. you whine, your hand flying to his hair, tugging lightly. he moans at the contact, at the scent of you, his nose pressing lightly against the fabric. and then he breathes you in, slow and deep.

“jesus,” he mutters against you. “you smell so fucking good.” his hands tighten on your thighs. he presses another kiss through the damp fabric, then another, dragging it out, letting you feel every bit of the tease. your hips roll again, trying to get more, chasing the heat of his mouth, and he just smiles. “fuck, baby, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he says softly, almost like he’s in awe. 

you can’t respond, not with real words, just a soft, shaky moan and your fingers digging deeper into his hair as he keeps kissing between your legs, building the pressure, praising you under his breath like it’s a prayer. your legs are trembling now, thighs twitching with every breath. he groans into you, deep and low, like he’s losing his mind just from being this close. then his hands slide up your thighs, slow and firm, curling around your hips as he pulls his mouth back just enough to look at you.

“can i take these off?” he asks, voice dark and tender at the same time, like he’s already halfway gone.

you nod fast, desperate, breathless. “please.”

he hums at the way you say it, like you’re giving him everything he’s ever wanted. and then, slowly, he hooks his fingers into the sides of your underwear, and pulls. he watches as he drags them down your legs, never breaking eye contact for too long. he tosses the fabric aside without care, like nothing matters but you now, here, like this. his eyes drop to your core, and he groans, deep in his chest. “fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so wet already.”

your cheeks burn, but you don’t hide. you can’t, not when he looks at you like that, like you’re sacred. 

he kisses your thighs again, then lower. kisses your mound. kisses the soft skin right beside where you need him most. teasing, worshipping. and then finally he leans in and licks a slow, flat stripe from your entrance up to your clit. your whole body arches. your hand flies to his hair again and you let out a sound that’s not even a moan — just a desperate breath, cut short by how hard it hits.

he groans into you. “that’s it,” he murmurs, licking again, slower this time. “that’s what i wanted.”

his hands slide under your thighs and hold you open, steady, as he buries his face between your legs. his tongue moves like he knows you already, like he’s been dreaming about this for years — licking, sucking, teasing. he focuses on your clit in soft, steady circles, then moves down, tongue fucking you, groaning every time you moan for him. you can’t stop moving. your hips grind against his mouth, your thighs tense, your stomach pulling tight. and he just holds you there, letting you fall apart in his hands.

“you taste so good, baby,” he whispers between strokes. “so sweet. fuck.”

you whimper, fingers tangled in his hair, the pressure building so fast you don’t know what to do with it. he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even slow down. his mouth stays on you, perfect and hot and overwhelming, his hands holding your thighs open as he works you open with his tongue. when you moan his name again, sharp and breathless, “jay—,” he groans like it physically affects him, like it’s the only thing he ever wants to hear again.

“that’s it,” he says. “say my name again. let me hear you.”

every movement feels intentional — like he’s learning what makes you whimper, what makes your legs shake, what makes you cling tighter to his hair and moan his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known how to say. his mouth is relentless, warm and wet and perfect. his hands hold you firm like you might slip away if he lets go. the coil inside you is tightening fast now, heat building between your hips, up your spine, down your thighs. your whole body arches into him, and he groans at the way you move against his mouth.

“you’re doing so good for me, baby. come on. let go,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. you gasp, your fingers fisting the sheets now, eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding. and then his mouth sucks your clit just right and your whole body shatters. the orgasm hits hard.

your back arches off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat as the pleasure rolls through you in waves. your legs tremble, toes curling, thighs squeezing around his head, and he just keeps licking you through it, gentler now, helping you ride it out, coaxing every last bit of it from your body with his mouth. “fuck,” you breathe, over and over, your voice shaking.

he finally pulls back when you’re twitching, your body too sensitive, your breath caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh. he kisses your thighs again, affectionate, almost reverent, and then he sits up. his face is flushed, lips swollen, chin wet with you. he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. and then, slowly, he reaches down and undoes his jeans. you watch, still trembling, chest rising and falling too fast. your eyes follow his hands as he pushes the denim down his hips, revealing the outline of his cock through his boxers — hard, straining, undeniable. he kicks the jeans off, and then he just stands there for a second, breathless, staring down at you with something between hunger and awe.

he leans over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other still at the waistband of his boxers, pausing for a moment as his eyes roam over your face, your body, your chest rising and falling from the high he just gave you. you meet his gaze, and there’s something new in it now — something softer than before. not lust, not quite. something closer to reverence.

“i’ve thought about this,” he says, voice low, breath shaky. “so many times. more than i ever should’ve.”

you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek, fingers brushing along his jaw, grounding him. “me too.”

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second. then he kisses you again like he’s trying to tell you everything he can’t quite say out loud yet. you taste yourself on his tongue and you moan into his mouth. he pulls back just enough to whisper, “i missed you so fucking much—” his hips grind against yours through the thin fabric still between you, “you. all of you.”

“i missed you too,” you whisper, and it comes out raw and honest.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. then he finally pushes his boxers down, and you feel the heat of him against your thigh, thick, hard and heavy. you look down and your mouth goes dry. it’s overwhelming, in the best way — not just the size of him, but what it means. that he’s here. with you, like this.

he moves between your legs, settling into the space that always felt like his, and pauses. “you sure?” he asks again, his voice quieter now. steadier.

“yes,” you say, without hesitation. “please.”

he groans, and reaches down, running the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself in you. the pressure makes you gasp again, your hips twitching toward him, desperate to feel him where you’ve needed him most. he lines himself up, eyes never leaving yours, and then he pushes in slowly and carefully, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you open. your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your back arching, hands flying to his shoulders. he curses low under his breath, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut for a second.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you feel like heaven. you feel... fuck, baby.” your fingers dig into him as he bottoms out, buried completely inside you, and he stays there for a moment — not moving — just breathing with you, forehead resting against yours. “you okay?” he murmurs.

you nod. “perfect.”

​​he starts to move, slow at first, with deep, steady thrusts that make your breath stutter with every roll of his hips. the friction is perfect, the heat between you unbearable. every sound he makes — every grunt, every whisper of your name — pushes you closer to the edge again. his hands roam constantly, like he can’t choose where to touch because he wants all of you at once. he kisses you between thrusts, muttering things into your mouth like so fucking good, and i missed you, and you were always mine.

you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, tighter, and he groans like he’s breaking apart. his rhythm builds, his hips slamming into yours with more force, more urgency. it’s not rough, not careless, but it’s just that he needs this. needs you, every part of you, and you need him too. the sounds of skin and breath and moans fill the room, tangled with his name on your lips over and over again. “jay—fuck—”

he kisses you hard, messy and open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours as he pounds into you, the headboard knocking gently behind you, his hands everywhere. one grips your thigh, the other pressing into the mattress by your head. and then his hand moves up, fingers brushing your jaw, your lips, and you part them instinctively, letting him slide his thumb inside your mouth. he watches you as you suck on it, his eyes dark, mouth falling open. “jesus christ,” he breathes. “you’re... fuck.” 

you swirl your tongue around the pad of his thumb, moaning around it, and his hips stutter. he growls low, pulls it out, and brings that hand down to grip your waist as he fucks you harder and deeper, every thrust dragging against the sweetest spot inside you. “you feel so good,” he mutters, voice wrecked, barely coherent. “so fucking good. like you were made for me.” you cry out again, hips rocking to meet him, your nails raking down his back. your whole body tightens, thighs trembling, your second orgasm crashing close like a wave.

and then he says it, broken, breathless, true. “i loved you. all this time,” he gasps, pressing his forehead to yours, thrusts getting sloppy, more frantic. “i still fucking love you.”

you come undone with a cry — loud, raw, desperate. your whole body arches into him, clenching around his cock, dragging him down with you. you tremble under him, pleasure blinding, his name falling from your lips like prayer. he groans, deep and guttural, and pulls out at the last second, fisting his cock once, twice, before he comes with a growl, hot and thick across your stomach. he jerks in his own hand, breathing ragged, eyes locked on you as he spills everything onto your skin.

his forehead drops to your shoulder. his body trembles above you, he lets out a shaky breath, his lips brushing your neck. “mine,” he whispers. “you’re mine. you always were.”

you hold him close, heart pounding, your legs still wrapped around his waist. and for the first time in years, everything feels like it’s exactly where it’s meant to be. you stay like that for a moment, his body heavy over yours, your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, your breath slowly returning to something close to normal. your skin is damp with sweat, your chest still rising and falling too fast, and you can feel his heartbeat against your ribs, loud and unsteady.

he doesn’t move right away. just presses his lips once, soft, against your neck, then your collarbone, then rests his forehead there like he can’t bear to let go of the closeness just yet. you slide your fingers up into his hair, brushing it gently back from his forehead, and whisper, “we’re a mess.”

he laughs, low and breathless, and lifts his head enough to look down at you. his gaze moves to your stomach, the evidence of him still there, and he hums, a little sheepish. “let me clean you up,” he murmurs. you nod, and he leans over the side of the bed, pulling a crumpled t-shirt from your laundry basket nearby — one of his, you realize, from years ago, soft and faded. he uses it carefully, wiping your stomach, being gentle like you’re fragile now, like he’s still not done taking care of you.

you watch him the whole time. the way his jaw clenches in focus, the way his hands move. the way he keeps stealing glances at your face, like he needs to check if you’re still with him. and when he’s done, he tosses the shirt aside and settles beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. you turn toward him instinctively, tucking yourself against his side, your leg draping over his hip, your hand resting flat on his chest. he wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer. skin to skin, warmth to warmth.

“you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, almost afraid of the quiet that’s settled around you both.

you nod, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder. “more than okay.”

there’s a pause, and he shifts a little, like he’s trying to find the right words. his fingers trace slow circles on your back, his breath even now, steady against your temple. “i meant what i said,” he murmurs eventually. you blink, and tilt your head to look at him. “about loving you,” he says. his voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet. like he’s scared to say it too loud, scared it’ll disappear if he does. “i didn’t know how to carry it back then,” he continues. “but i still love you, even after all this time.” you don’t interrupt, you let him speak.  “it never stopped,” he says. “not really. i loved you when i was writing songs in hotel rooms. i loved you when i saw your name on old letters and had to stop myself from riding to your city. i loved you when i stepped out of that car and saw you again for the first time.”

he turns fully toward you now, brushing your hair behind your ear. “and i love you right now,” he says. “more than i know how to explain.” your throat tightens and your eyes burn. you reach up, touch his face, and trace the line of his cheek with your thumb.

“i love you too,” you whisper. “always did.”

he leans in then, kisses you slow and soft. nothing rushed, nothing hungry, just love.

just all the things you both kept to yourselves for years, finally allowed to be spoken in the quiet of your room, under soft sheets and the faint hum of the city outside. you rest your head against his chest again, and he holds you tighter. 

“can we stay like this for a while?” you ask.

he kisses the top of your head. “as long as you want.”

and for the first time in a long time, there’s no distance. no almosts, no waiting.

and he sleeps over that night. not because you asked, not because he asked. just because neither of you ever considered the alternative.

you fall asleep tangled in each other, your leg over his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, his breath steady against your neck. his skin is warm, even under the cool sheets, and at some point in the night, he murmurs something — too soft to catch — but it makes you smile in your sleep. when you wake up, the sun’s filtering through the blinds in thin lines, and he’s already awake.

he’s propped up on one elbow, watching you, hair messy, smile soft. “good morning,” he says, voice low, raspy from sleep.

you blink slowly, stretch a little, and smile back. “hi.”

he kisses your shoulder, then your cheek, then pulls you closer like he doesn’t want to leave the bed — like he could stay like this forever. but he can’t, and you both know that.

“i should get back to the hotel,” he says eventually, eyes apologetic. “they’re probably losing their minds trying to find me.”

you sigh, nestle into his chest for one more second. “what time’s the last show?”

“tonight,” he says. “city next over. it’s the end of the leg, then we get a few weeks off.”

you nod slowly. “you can use the phone,” you say, sitting up, brushing your hair back. “i don’t think it’s been used in days.”

he grins. “i missed landlines.” he pulls on his pants and shirt from the night before, pads barefoot to the phone in the corner of your living room, dialing a number from memory. you hear him talk to someone — probably the security guy — laughing a little, apologizing, promising he’ll be down in twenty. when he hangs up, he walks back toward you, hands in his pockets, eyes lingering on the edges of your apartment like he wants to remember it exactly as it is. “they’ll be here soon,” he says, voice lower now. “i should go.”

you nod. try to smile, but it’s small. he watches you for a second. then steps closer. his hands land on your waist. his forehead rests against yours.

“come with me,” he says.

your heart stutters. “what?”

“just for the night. the last show. it’s nothing big. we’ll be back by morning. or—” he laughs softly, eyes still on yours. “we won’t. we’ll figure it out.”

you blink. “jay…”

“i know it’s sudden,” he says. “i know we haven’t figured out what this is. but i don’t care. i just want you there.” you hesitate. not because you don’t want to go — but because it feels big. because everything between you always has. he leans in closer, kisses the corner of your mouth. “come with me,” he says again. softer this time. “please.”

he looks at you, you look at him. and then you’re moving.

you spin around, nearly tripping over your own feet as you head to your bedroom, pulling open drawers, grabbing whatever you can — a pair of jeans, a toothbrush, your tape player. he laughs from the hallway, breathless, half in disbelief. “i’ll take that as a yes,” he calls out.

you yell back, “shut up and help me find my shoes.” he grins, already heading into your closet like he’s lived here forever. and just like that, you’re going.

before you leave, you scribble a note on the back of an envelope you found near the phone, the ink shaky from how fast you’re writing. you fold it in half and slide it under the mat by your door. 

yunjin, if you pass by here — went on tour with jay. just one night. back tomorrow. probably. maybe.

you don’t sign it. you don’t need to. she’ll know, and then you go. the drive to the next city is quiet at first. the windows rolled halfway down, your bag in the backseat, jay’s hand resting on your thigh the entire time. there’s music playing low on the radio — tom petty, bryan adams, someone you don’t catch — and the sky is the kind of gray that doesn’t mean rain, just distance. he looks over at you every few minutes like he still can’t believe you’re there. like he’s afraid to blink and find the passenger seat empty.

you get to the venue around three. the crew’s already setting up, cables and amps everywhere, the soundcheck halfway through. someone hands jay a setlist. someone else tells him where catering is. he keeps looking back at you like he’s trying not to lose you in the noise. you don’t get lost.

you follow him backstage, watch him tune his guitar, watch him run through scales absentmindedly with his eyes half on you. you sit on a speaker case and talk with one of the backup singers for half an hour about lip balm and tour food and how long the drives get between cities. you see the way the rest of the band looks at jay when he plays — the quiet respect, the ease, the way he’s earned his space up there. you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. and when the show starts, you watch it from the side of the stage. 

the lights are blinding. the bass shakes the floor. the crowd screams in waves, louder with every song. and he plays like he’s alive in a way you’ve never seen before, like every note is another word he doesn’t have to say out loud. you watch his fingers move across the strings, his head tilted back, sweat dripping down his temple. and all you can think is i’m so fucking proud of him. he looks at you once during a quiet moment between songs. you smile, he does too.

after the show, the band’s buzzing. half-dressed, towel-draped, beer-in-hand kind of buzzing. someone hands you both a drink. someone else tries to convince you to stay for another leg of the tour. you laugh it off. or maybe you don’t.

you end up in a hotel room around two in the morning. his guitar still in the corner, your makeup smudged, your voice a little hoarse from singing along. he presses his forehead to yours before you fall asleep, whispers, “you were my favorite part of today.” you don’t answer. you just kiss him.

the next morning, the world feels slower. the windows are fogged. the coffee tastes stronger. he sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, one sock on, and glances at you like he’s thinking too hard. “you know,” he says, not looking up, “this could be a thing. you and me. doing this.”

you pull the sheet up over your chest, lean on your elbow. “you mean… shows? cities?”

he nods. finally meets your gaze. “yeah. if you wanted.”

you don’t answer right away. because maybe this was supposed to be one night. maybe you were supposed to go home in the morning. but maybe you won’t. you think about the noise, the lights, the music. about his hand on your thigh in the car. about his mouth on your skin the night before. about his voice saying “my favorite part of today.” so you look at him — hair messy, guitar pick still in his pocket, smile soft, and you think: maybe i could get used to this.

and your life changed a little after that day. not in the kind of way that people notice from the outside, not right away, but something shifted. you came back home feeling different. lighter, like someone who finally let herself say yes, like someone who wasn’t afraid of living anymore.

you graduated two months later. your cap didn’t sit right on your head and your gown was wrinkled from the car ride, but none of that mattered. not when you saw him in the crowd, leaning against the back railing, sunglasses on, biting back a grin when you caught his eye. he didn’t bring flowers. he brought his car. you hadn’t packed a bag. he didn’t ask if you wanted to go, and you didn’t ask where.

you watched a concert in a city you never thought you’d see, slept in a motel with pink walls and a broken ice machine, woke up to him humming something under his breath while brushing his teeth, one hand tangled in your hair like he couldn’t believe you were real. sometimes you went alone. just you and him. sometimes you brought a friend — yunjin once, who danced side stage like she’d been doing it her whole life, who whispered he’s so gone for you, you know that, right? into your ear after the show, and kissed your cheek before disappearing into the crowd.

sometimes you both passed through home. once, you and jay picked up jungwon for a weekend. no plan, just his overnight bag and your mixtape in the stereo. you ended up at the coast. jay let jungwon drive for part of the way, and you both screamed when he almost missed the exit. you slept three across in one bed, your feet tangled, your ribs hurting from laughing. jay played guitar on the porch of the tiny rental, barefoot and happy, and jungwon fell asleep with popcorn in his lap. 

no one talked about what it meant, but everyone felt it anyway.

you started carrying a small bag in the back of your closet, just in case. a toothbrush. a sweater. a cassette or two. he’d show up sometimes without warning, always leaning against the doorframe like he’d never left. “thought we could drive,” he’d say. and you’d go, you always went. you weren’t following him, you weren’t chasing anything. you were just there together making it up as you went along. saying yes to the kind of life that didn’t always fit in lines or schedules or plans. but fit him, and it fit you.

fit this version of love that moved, and stretched, and stayed. the summer blurred like that. with half-packed bags and gas station snacks, and hotel keys that never worked the first time. with sweat on your skin and his songs in your ears. with soft hands and sleepy grins and “come here” whispered into your neck in the backseat of his car at rest stops. with your feet up on the dashboard, and his fingers tracing your knee at red lights. it wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

you got used to the rhythm. not just of the music, but of the life. sleeping in unfamiliar beds. brushing your teeth in gas station bathrooms. ordering breakfast in diners that smelled like the seventies and played the same four songs on repeat. you stopped asking where you were. stopped keeping track of state lines. stopped needing to define what you were doing. but you weren’t trying to escape anything, you just didn’t need to stand still anymore.

some mornings, you woke up to the sound of his guitar in the other room, already strumming something into shape. other mornings, he was still asleep, one hand wrapped around your waist, his face pressed into your shoulder like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched. there were fights, too. about timing, about exhaustion, about space. sometimes he shut down. sometimes you disappeared into the crowd before the encore. but every time, you found your way back. not with apologies, always — but with hands reaching in the dark. with quiet dinners. with the word stay whispered into your hair.

you made friends with the crew. with the other musicians. you had your own backstage pass, but mostly you stayed out of the way. you read books in the greenroom and  you painted your nails on the tour bus floor. you stole his hoodies, of course. you took pictures you never printed. and in every city, he kissed you like it was the first time. you never asked what would happen after the tour ended, and he never offered a version of forever. but something in you both knew that this, whatever this was, had already become part of your bones.

one night, after a show in a city that felt too loud even in the fading hours, you and jay found yourselves driving back to your hometown. not just a quick visit, but the kind of week where time stretches slow and familiar. you needed a break from the tour, from the noise. the car hummed softly down the old roads you both knew by heart. the tour bus felt miles behind you, like a distant memory. the car was small, just enough space for both of you and a couple of guitars resting in the backseat. you didn’t say much, but the silence was easy and comfortable. jay hummed a melody low enough that it was more felt than heard, his fingers tapping softly on the steering wheel like it was another instrument. you reached over and squeezed his hand without thinking, and he glanced at you, a soft smile playing on his lips, like he’d been waiting for that all night.

when you arrived at your parents’ house, your mom opened the door, and the second she saw you, her eyes welled up with tears, of course. your dad, teased as always, “didn’t think you’d grow at all while you were gone.” and even though it was the same old line, you could tell he meant every word, his voice warm with relief. jay stood beside you, shifting awkwardly at first, but your parents welcomed him like he’d been part of the family forever — not just jungwon’s best friend, but the one who made their daughter smile in a way they hadn’t seen before.

the days that followed were a patchwork of memories and new moments stitched together. you went back to the park where you and jay had found each other again after you left for college, trying to make sense of everything that had changed. the diner where you’d shared late-night fries and whispered secrets during winter break, the neon sign buzzing softly overhead, still humming the soundtrack of your youth. you stood by the lake where the sky had caught fire the night of your first kiss, the water reflecting the soft glow of twilight. and then there was his childhood bedroom, tucked away in the basement of his parents’ house, walls still lined with posters, a guitar resting against the bed, and a window that looked out onto the quiet street. you remember the night he played “just like heaven” on his guitar there, fingers trembling with a mix of nerves and hope. it was before he left for college, before the silence stretched long between you. that song, that moment, stayed in your chest like a promise, one you both carried through the years.

that week, wrapped in the comfort of old places and quiet laughter, felt like a pause in the endless moving. a chance to remember where you came from, and to hold on to the pieces that made you whole.

and sometime in late october, you were at a city on the coast, windy, a little gray. the venue was old and charming. he was quiet that day, but not distant, just thoughtful. kept checking his setlist and tapping his pick against his thigh. didn’t talk much in soundcheck, and you knew better than to push. you watched from the wings, your arms crossed over your chest, the laminate pass hanging loose around your neck. and when they got to the second half of the show, the part where they sometimes rotated songs in or out, someone leaned over and told you he was going to do something different. you didn’t know what that meant, not until he stepped forward, a little closer to the mic, and looked out at the crowd like he was looking for something in it.

“we’ve been on the road for a while now,” he said, voice steady. “and this next one’s not ours. but it’s always been… mine. in a way.”

you felt it before he played the first chord. your breath caught in your throat. he glanced sideways, just once, just for a second, and then he started playing.

“show me, show me, show me how you do that trick…”

and your heart cracked wide open. because just like heaven wasn’t just a song, it was your song. from the very beginning, from that spring you thought you’d lost him, from mixtapes on train rides, from letters tucked into jacket pockets. from him playing it for you in his childhood bedroom, dreaming of what it’d feel like to be wanted the way those lyrics wanted someone.

you left the venue late that night, your hand in his, your cheeks still warm, your chest still aching in the best way. and no one said “the end” because no one needed to. some stories don’t end when the lights go down. they end quietly, in moments like that: in a guitar string still vibrating, in a look across the stage, in the memory of a song you never stopped hearing.

and in the way you still felt like heaven to him. always.

author's note: first of all… i’m so sorry for taking forever to update this 😭 life got busy, motivation disappeared, my brain shut down for like days, you know how it is. but we’re BACK and i’m so, so happy i finally got to share this part of the story with you

writing this second half felt like coming home in a nostalgic and painful and soft way. i always knew i wanted this fic to feel like growing up, and getting older, and realizing that love doesn’t always disappear just because time does, it just shifts. and maybe, if you’re lucky, it comes back <3

thank you for reading, screaming, crying, waiting, messaging, and just being here. this fic means the world to me. if you made it this far ilyyyyy!!!! you are the moment <3

taglist: @iyoonjh @jakesimfromstatefarm @blushingkoo @povjin @7789995323567322 @wtfisgoingright @dearestdreamies @fateismoonstruck @skzaurora @mora134340 @wonuziex @htrhng

[astridellejo]

Kitab - Robot Girl

So where does the desire to become a robot girl come from? Well...

Transcription below the fold:

1. I'm in my Baroness stealth armor (I don't really have Baroness stealth armor, but anything is possible in comics.) and addressing the reader. Me: What kind of weirdo would want to become a robot? Me: Um … me.

2. Artistic rendering of a scene from Superman III when Vera gets assimilated by the supercomputer. Me: The television debut of Superman III happened in the spring of 1986, and there was that scene toward the end… Me: You know the one.

3. Little kid me sits in front of the television and takes in the robot girl visions. Me: I was 11 years old and awash in the hormones of puberty. Young Me: Okay, that's … scary. But also weirdly kinda hot.

4. Little kid me sits in the theater, MST3K silhouette style, looking up at Arcee on the silver screen. Me: Later that summer, Transformers: the Movie hit theaters, and I was introduced to Autobot girl Arcee. Young Me (excited): Girl Transformer!

5. Assimilated Seven of Nine in her Borg alcove, illuminated by the green zappy behind her. Me: Then there was the Borg and their heavy rubber kinky cybernetics. Specifically Seven of Nine.

6. The glossy white Björk-bot from her video for "All Is Full Of Love". Me: Björk's "All Is Full Of Love" video did things to my brain. Me: That was the same year I came out as transgender.

7. Sepia-ish black and white artistic rendering of Maria the robot girl from Fritz Lang's Metropolis. Me: With the help of the early internet, I discovered the original robot girl of cinema, Maria from Metropolis.

8. Speculative glossy white robot me with pink and blue highlights. Me: How cool would it be to be a girl and a robot?! Hmm! Girl Transformer! Arrow Text: Design still in alpha.

9. Back to me again, looking a bit forlorn in my Baroness stealth armor. (Which is still awesome, don't get me wrong!) Me: Sadly, at age 50, I'm still made of meat. Arrow Text Left: Sexy, jet black, body hugging stealth armor Arrow Text Right: doe create a passable robotic look.

[flowersforbucky]

cherry blossoms

bucky barnes x reader

you give bucky flowers for the first time.

word count: 1.7k

warnings/tags: established relationship, thunderbolts era but no spoilers bc i wrote this before i even saw the movie lol, minor references to ca: brave new world, fluff, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky

author's note: okay i am so sorry if you've seen this before 😭 posted it a few weeks ago and it had a bunch of issues with the tags. so i'm going to give it another shot and hope for the best.

follow @flowersforbuckyfics for updates ♡ dividers by @/strangergraphics ♡ header collage by me

“Honestly, I can hardly even tell that Sam and Ross came close to destroying this place just a few weeks ago.”

The early spring air is particularly cool this evening, causing you to keep a tight hold on Bucky's flesh arm for a little extra warmth. You always joke that he's your own personal space heater. You suppose that's one benefit of the serum in his veins – even when the wind is making you shiver, you can always count on him to feel as if he’s been sitting beside a fire for hours.

He notices your tightened hold on his arm and comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He shrugs out of his leather jacket, holding it open for you to step into. You’re already wearing a cardigan, but with the sun now setting over the Tidal Basin, you know it’s only going to get chillier as it gets darker. So you shove your arms into the sleeves, letting him drop the warm leather that smells like him over your shoulders.

“I had just told Sam how excited you were to see the cherry blossom trees this year,” Bucky laughs, taking your hand in his once more as you resume your stroll beneath the millions of pink blossoms. “I guess he tried to leave a few still standing.”

You snort. “How considerate of him.”

You’re both being sarcastic, of course, but you do feel incredibly lucky to be able to see the gorgeous trees – and at their peak, too. Bucky had picked the perfect weekend for your little D.C. getaway. After cramming every historical monument and museum possible into the two day trip, it’s a nice change of pace to simply leisurely meander through the park with your arm in his. You think it’s the perfect way to end the weekend before flying back to New York early in the morning.

“Are they as beautiful as you remember them being?” He asks softly, glancing down at you.

This isn’t your first time experiencing D.C.’s cherry blossom trees, but the one and only other time you’ve seen them was ages ago, as a young child. You can vaguely recall the soft baby pink petals falling around you as you sprinted down the sidewalk by the water, but it’s been so long that it feels as if you’re now seeing them with brand new eyes.

“They’re even better,” you hum, looking up at all of the branches swaying in the breeze. “Then again, that might just be because I’m here with you.” You add with a nonchalant shrug.

He chuckles, unable to hide the blush that appears on the apples of his cheeks at your flirting. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been together – if you compliment him, tease him, flirt with him – he is bound to blush, his cheeks turning pinker than the flowers themselves.

You have to admit it – you like making him blush. You like that when he does, he smiles so big that it brings out the crinkles around his eyes. You like knowing that you’re the only person who can cause him this kind of physical reaction.

That’s when an idea pops into your head. It’s innocent enough – other than a couple walking with their two young children a few yards ahead of you, there’s no one else around – so it’s not like you’d be potentially embarrassing him.

You just think he’s really fucking cute when he blushes.

You pause your steps, pursing your lips to try to stop yourself from smirking. Bucky freezes, too, eyeing you with raised brows.

“What’s that look for?” He asks, his tone making it obvious that he knows you’re up to something.

“Wait right here,” you order him before pulling your arm away from his. You practically skip over to the nearest tree, reaching up to the lowest hanging branch that you can find. On your tiptoes, you delicately remove sprigs of the blossoms until you have enough to form a tiny bouquet.

You feel a little silly. You’ve never presented a guy with flowers before. But Bucky isn’t just any guy, and if any man has ever deserved flowers, you know that it’s him.

“I know it’s not quite as extravagant as the bouquet that you gave me on Valentine’s Day…” You hand him the tiny bouquet of pink flowers, thinking back to the ornate arrangement of wildflowers that he’d gifted you earlier this year. “But it’s the best I can do it at the moment.”

He opens his mouth in surprise, momentarily speechless as he accepts the flowers from you. Just as you had predicted, his cheeks begin to flush pink once more. This time brighter and more evident than before.

“For me? You shouldn't have.”

He selects one of the individual flowers and raises his hand to your head. You go still, not taking your eyes off of him as he places the stem behind your ear. You feel your own cheeks heat up at the intimate gesture.

“You know, I've always thought that pink looks pretty on you,” he tells you, moving his hand away from your ear and to your face. He cups the side of your cheek in his palm, then leans down far enough to lightly kiss your forehead.

The fleeting thought crosses your mind that it's a good thing that the walking trail for the cherry blossom trees isn't crowded this evening, because you and him are stopped right in the middle, taking your sweet time.

“We should get one, you know,” you say, nodding towards the tree closest to you. “A young one, so that we can plant it and watch it grow. We’ll have to get out of an apartment and find a place with a nice yard first, but…” You trail off in wishful thinking.

Bucky had terminated the lease to his own apartment early, choosing to move in with you. But the lease to your Brooklyn apartment will soon be up, too, and the two of you had started to have discussions about future living arrangements. Rent isn’t exactly cheap in downtown Brooklyn, and both of you long for something a bit more quiet and private.

“Whatever you want,” he murmurs. “We get out of the city and we’ll plant as many cherry trees as you want.”

One Year Later

The aroma of garlic and herbs in tonight’s dinner fills the entirety of your home from where it roasts in the oven.

For the tenth time in the last half hour, you glance at the clock while you finish washing the dishes that had been dirtied while prepping food.

It's not that you’re impatient – it’s just that Bucky is never late. Five or ten minutes, sometimes, sure. But never forty five minutes. He’d sent you a text only a few hours ago telling you that he’d be home at six o’clock, and the digital clock on the oven now reads 6:42.

You had tried to call him when you realized he was half an hour later, just to make sure that everything is alright, but his phone went straight to voicemail. You reminded yourself that he’s the worst at remembering to charge his phone, and that he is likely driving home and totally fine.

But despite how many times you’ve tried to assure yourself of this, you can’t stop yourself from pacing the kitchen floor or from glancing out the window at your driveway every other minute. You even opened said window and turned off the music you’d been listening to while preparing dinner so that you’d be able to hear the loud engine of his truck when he’s close to home.

Just when you’re about to click on his name in your call history again, you feel the familiar vibration of tires against gravel. By the time that you get to your kitchen window, his pick-up truck’s headlights are shining in the direction of the house. You exhale, relieved that you’d been overthinking. As you tend to do, when it comes to his safety.

You shove your feet into a pair of slippers, stepping outside to greet him from the front porch. Maybe it’s just residual nerves, but you instinctively lean against the bannister, crossing your arms over your chest.

He hops out of his truck and you immediately notice an expression of undeniable excitement on his face. It eases your lingering anxiety, knowing that he’s here and that he’s seemingly unharmed.

You just never fucking know with him.

“What’s got you so smiley?” You chuckle, walking down the few porch steps to greet him. He instantly opens his arms to you, and you practically jump off the last step into his embrace. Right away, you know that he’s been sparring with Sam. His t-shirt is slightly damp with perspiration and you can smell the freshly reapplied deodorant.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he murmurs in sincerity. “I was going to text you and but my phone is dead. Time got away from me while boxing with Sam…” he trails off, planting a kiss to your forehead. “And I may have had to make a quick stop somewhere on my way home.”

You pull back, looking at him quizzically. “Oh, yeah? Where’s that?”

He jerks his head in the direction of his truck with a mischievous grin. “Come and see for yourself.”

You follow him to the truck bed, your mouth immediately falling open at what lays inside.

“Is that--?”

“A baby cherry blossom tree?” He interrupts, clearly satisfied at successfully surprising you. “That it is. Stopped by the local plant nursery just to see if they happened to have any. This was the very last one.”

You’re silent. You recall the moment between you and Bucky beneath the cherry blossom trees in D.C. just a year ago, when he’d promised you as many of the trees as you like once you and him got a house with a nice yard, away from the city. You’d finally moved into your new house together just before the holidays, but between getting settled in, staying busy with work, and the weather simply being too cold to even thinking about flower blossoms until recently, the conversation about getting a cherry tree of your own had completely slipped your mind.

“I can’t believe you remembered that,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his midsection again.

You feel the vibration radiate from his chest when he laughs.

“Of course I remember the first time a girl gave me flowers.”

thank you so much for reading, as always comments and reblogs are always so appreciated 💖🫶🏻 and once again i'm sorry for the repost!

[brownlyfe]

Love A Woman

A Three-Part Modern Day Au

Part 2, Part 3, Bonus

pairing: elijah “smoke" moore x annie x elias "stack" moore

cw: modern!au, smut, slightly ooc, bondage, bdsm, nicknames

word count: 7,745

summary: annie is caught between two brothers who show their love for her in two different ways. one quiet and soft beneath her control, the other? unapolegtically rough and playful. weekdays are a slow burn of passion and promise, but the weekends are chaos and surrender personified. but when blurred lines, missed promises, and real feelings start to surface, the balance shifts. loyalty gets tested. and annie has to decide what kind of love she really needs, and who’s strong enough to hold all of her.

notes: my first fic on here, and it would be a movie like sinners to bring me out. I've been writing on wattpad for years, but had no reason to crossover. I'm currently obsessed with Wunmi and michael's chemistry, so prepare for more. this isn't a normal poly situation, either, so prepare for the ride *wink, wink*.

Annie blinked as she stared at her computer, the screen stuck on a spreadsheet that hadn’t been typed on in at least fifteen minutes. Her eyes were glassy from the tiredness that overtook her body. The building was buzzing with whispered noise and the sounds of keyboards clicking.

She wanted to scream, truly. Instead, she shut down her monitor without a word, packed up her things with a robotic grace, and left without a single word of goodbye. Her feet felt heavy as she walked to the elevator. By the time she got there, the sharp click of her heels felt like a ticking time bomb to her collapse.

The walk from the office building to her apartment building was only four blocks, but it might as well have been miles. Everything was too bright and moving too fast. Every car horn stabbed through her skull, and conversations pierced her eardrum like an intrusion. The air was thick, muggy despite the calendar insisting it was still early spring.

She reached her building and stood in the lobby under buzzing lights with a finger hovering over the elevator button. But didn’t press it. Her apartment would be too quiet, too small, too cold, too lonely. She closed her eyes, inhaled through her nose, and walked right back out of the front door. 

The cab ride to Smoke’s building took fifteen minutes. She sat in the backseat with her head against the window, eyes closed, and deep breaths filling out her chest. She could hear her phone dinging in her purse, but Annie continued doing what she had been doing for the last three weeks. She ignored it. 

For nearly the last month, Annie had been ignoring practically everyone. Her friends, family, and even her two men, who had both been trying to reach her every day since she went missing. It wasn’t like she was trying to do it on purpose either. Work had her tied up in the unhealthiest way. She worked through the weekend, leaving late into the night and arriving early in the morning. She never got more than three hours of rest because her body wouldn’t settle.

It was muscle memory by now; buzz into Smoke’s building, ride the elevator to the top floor, and let herself in. Annie didn’t knock anymore. He never made her. The second the door shut, the quiet covered her like a warm blanket

Nothing was loud or overbearing. Her senses had calmed and the only things she had was the smell of something deliciously simmering on the stove…and him.

Smoke stood in the kitchen, white short sleeve shirt tight around his arm muscles and grey sweatpants sitting low. He didn’t bother looking up from his place in front of the stove. He knew who it was and what she came for. 

Her purse hit the table with a heavy thud. Holding onto the edge of the kitchen island for support, she kicked off her heels.

“Dinner will be ready in twenty,” glancing over his shoulder, that low, calm voice hit her like a sedative. His eyes softened the second they landed on her–bloodshot eyes, stiff shoulders, the outline of her stress written all over her body. “Bath’s already drawn.”

Annie didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. He always knew what she needed and when she needed it without her ever having to say a word. Nodding her head, she turned towards the direction of the stairs and started to peel her clothes off as she walked away.

The bath was perfect. Steam curled around the marble tiles, the air thick with lavender and eucalyptus. The water was hot, just shy of stinging. She sank into it with a hiss, letting her head fall back, hair piled on top of her head.

She didn’t cry. Not yet. That would come later, maybe. For now, she just... floated. 

She stayed in until the water cooled and her fingers wrinkled. When she emerged, a towel was already waiting on the counter—fluffy, fresh, and warm.

Dinner was quiet. He didn’t press her to talk.

They ate side by side on the couch, the TV playing some old movie neither of them was watching. She leaned into him, and he let her, arm curled around her shoulders, thumb stroking absent circles into her silk-covered skin. 

It wasn’t until the plates were cleared and the lights were off that she finally spoke.

“I need to use you tonight.”

Smoke said nothing, only nodded his head, and squeezed her body further into his.

“Whatever you need, mama.”

-

He lay back on the bed in nothing but his boxers, eyes heavy-lidded and patient. Annie straddled his hips, still in her robe. Her fingers trailed up his chest, light and teasing.

“You gonna be good for me?” she asked, voice low and sharp.

Smoke’s lips parted, and he exhaled slowly. “Always.”

She grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head. He didn’t resist. Didn’t move. Just looked at her like she was the only thing in the world. 

“You don’t stop until I say,” she whispered against his ear. “You don’t even think about it.”

“Yes, mama.”

Her robe slid open as she lowered herself onto his face, his lips already parted, his tongue eager and dutiful. She held onto the headboard, grinding down slowly, deliberately, chasing the release she’d been denied for weeks.

Smoke groaned beneath her, needy and obedient. He licked her like a man starving, like he worshipped the ache between her thighs. She tugged his hair, used him, rolled her hips until her moans bounced off the walls, and still he didn’t stop. Not even when she came hard, shaking against his mouth.

“Again,” she ordered breathlessly.

And he did. Over and over, until she was gasping and sweat-slick and trembling. Only then did she finally untie his hands. She slowly eased her way back down his body with the help of his hands that immediately took hold of her hips. Their lips fused in a gentle song made of light moans and whimpers.

She reached her hand down and gently guided him inside of her. Slow and deep. He held her like she was made of glass, as they rocked against each other. Her body seemed to move on autopilot as her lower body met his thrust for thrust.

They kissed each other, each moan matching the gentle pace that was set. His lips moved from her lips to her cheek to her shoulder. Her body stuttered the closer she got to her release. Smoke doing what he does best, and that’s anticipating the needs of his woman. 

He bent his knees and planted both feet on the bed. He wrapped his arms around her waist in a snug hold and started sharp thrusts upwards, controlled, deep, precise. The kind that sent shockwaves through her body and pushed little gasps from her chest. The kind that made her lose any sense of control, but she held on. Not wanting to completely give up any of the little that she had, Annie braced her hands onto his chest, knowing that he could handle all the pressure. She used her trembling legs to help meet his quick strokes.

She could feel how hard he was holding back—not just from flipping her onto her back and taking over, but from finishing. He was too focused on her, on her pleasure, her body, her need.

Thrust after thrust, she rocked against him, their rhythm teetering between slow and sudden. Every time she rolled her hips down, he met her halfway, grinding deeper with those sharp, upward strokes that had her biting her lip to keep from crying out too early.

He let one hand trail up her spine, fingers dragging like worship. The other remained clutched around her waist, anchoring her to him like a lifeline.

When her body clenched around him, when her thighs began to quake, he whispered against her skin:

“Let go, mama. I’ve got you. Let me feel it.”

And she did.

Her orgasm hit like lightning, sudden, powerful, and silent for one suspended moment before she let out a strangled cry and collapsed forward, trembling against his chest. He held her, not daring to move too fast, not daring to push her past her limit, until her hips started moving again, a reminder that she was only done when she said so.

Smoke groaned, the sound laced with a quiet desperation. “You want more?”

She lifted her head, eyes glazed with post-orgasm haze, but her voice was firm. “I’m not done using you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, almost reverently.

She pushed herself upright again and braced her hands against his chest. He gripped her hips once more, adjusted his angle, and started thrusting up again—faster this time, harder, his body shaking with restraint as he drove into her.

It was a slow build again, but this time, it was mutual.

Her breath hitched. His jaw clenched. The bed creaked beneath them, the sounds of skin on skin and gasps and choked moans filling the room.

And when she finally gave him the nod, barely a whisper of permission, he came with a shuddering groan, hands gripping her tight, hips stuttering beneath her. They lay chest to chest, their breaths in perfect sync.

As carefully as he could, Smoke slid out of her and then rolled them over on their sides so that they were facing each other. Annie’s breath began to even out and slow down. Smoke knew then that she was on the verge of sleep. So, he pressed soft kisses to her forehead and cheek, whispering soft praises into her ear; he was just glad that she was relaxed now.

The booming bass was blaring through the streets as Stack’s Charger came to a rolling stop in front of Annie’s apartment complex.

Annie stood at the curb, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding her eyes. Smoke was behind her, calm as ever, one hand on the small of her back, the other holding her overnight bag. 

Stack threw his door open, grinning like the human embodiment of sin itself.

“There’s my girl,” he said, as the sounds of Yo Gotti’s Got Dem Racks thumped the whole car, “Ready to remember what fun feels like?”

Annie didn’t answer. She was still tired, her body was still simmering with tension that hadn’t been fully shaken from Smoke’s bed.

“She hasn’t eaten since breakfast,” Smoke said, passing Stack the bag. “She ain’t sleep much either. And her body’s still tight.”

“Got it,” Stack nodded, slinging the bag into the back seat. “I’ll take care of it.”

Smoke kissed the side of her head and murmured something too soft for Stack to hear. Then he opened the car door for her like the gentleman he was. Annie slid into the low seat without a word. Stack pulled off the curb before she could even buckle her seatbelt completely. Tires screeched as he merged with traffic, music still thumping through the car like a third heartbeat. 

The difference was always immediate.

Smoke’s world was always calmer, quieter, a bit softer, and a touch cooler than what she was used to. Stack’s world? Heat, noise, and chaos all perfectly molded into the shape of a man.

He rapped along to the radio, one hand on the wheel and the other hanging out of the window. Annie took to looking out the window, not paying much attention to the smooth-talking man next to her until she felt fingers ghosting the skin on her inner thigh. She swatted them away without much thought, not really in the mood for whatever games Stack was going to play.

One second, the car was coming to an abrupt stop on the side of the road, and the next, he was grabbing her jaw, turning her face toward him. 

“You feelin’ bold today, baby girl?”

Annie’s stomach flipped. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You ain’t have to. But you know I don’t like that shit. You know better, right?”

She rolled her eyes. It was instinct. A natural reflex. But it was a mistake. Stack didn’t raise his voice. Just chuckled once, dark and low, and said–

“Oh, it’s that kind of weekend.”

-

The lounge was pulsing like it was alive. Men and women were filling the tables and chairs, drinks flowing, and clouds of cigar smoke surrounding the air.

Stack was in his element. He had his usual corner table already waiting, people nodding at him as they passed, girls giving him second glances he never returned. He didn’t have to, not when Annie was tucked into his side, phone in hand, legs crossed.

Their waitress brought over another shot for her at her request for another round. Annie tipped back another shot, the tequila burning on the way down. Stack caught the glass just before she could slam it down on the table again.

“That’s four, baby girl,” he said, voice low in her ear. “You know your limit.”

She pouted, reaching for his still full shot glass. She wanted to forget about everything and feel nothing. Sometimes, the easiest and quickest way was to throw back drinks until she couldn’t remember her own name. 

Stack’s hand slid around her wrist, firm and final. Stopping her from actually lifting the clear shot glass.

“Not tonight,” he added, more serious now, his dark eyes locking with hers. “I said I’d take care of you. That means I decide when you’ve had enough.”

Annie rolled her eyes, yet there was a heat rising beneath her skin, not from alcohol. She didn’t argue. Not because she couldn’t, but because she’d already crossed that line once. And Stack didn’t play that game.

What Stack did was lift the wrist he was holding up to his lips, then gently helped her up as he stood as well. They made their way to the dance floor, Stack with a smirk on his face, keeping score of every inch of defiance from the woman behind him. 

The night blurred into a haze of rhythm and heat. Stack had his hands on her hips the whole time, keeping her close, guiding her every movement like they were the only two people in the room. He pressed her back against his chest while his hand slid low enough to make her gasp.

She forgot the emails. The deadlines. Even Smoke’s gentleness seemed like a far-off memory under the weight of Stack’s grip. He let her live a little. Just enough.

But of course, she had to ruin it by pulling away before he got the chance to kiss those lips he hadn’t seen or felt in weeks. 

“Oh, that’s how it is?” he said, lips against her neck.

Annie blinked up at him, faux-innocent.

Stack grinned, dangerous and slow. “That’s cool. I was gonna go easy on you tonight. Guess we’re past that now, huh?”

-

Stack didn’t drag her to the bedroom…he led her there. A hand on her arm, a steady grip, not yanking but directing. His energy had shifted the moment they walked through the door. The teasing, cocky Stack from the club was gone.

His bedroom was a temple of control. The walls were dark, the sheets black, and the mirrors, oh, the mirrors, hung perfectly above the bed, polished to a shine. He opened the bedroom door with a foot and gestured toward the bed.

“Strip,” he barked, yanking his shirt over his head. She hesitated for half a second.

Stack raised an eyebrow. “Slower than usual, baby. Must be tired. You want me to help?”

Her cheeks burned. “No, daddy.”

“That’s what I thought.”

By the time she was bare, he had pulled out the restraints from a chest in the corner of the room, black leather with soft padding on the inside. He decided to start with her legs, so he guided her onto her back. He bent one leg at the knee, bringing her ankle back toward her thigh, and fastened the first cuff tight, connecting them. Then the other, so she was lying with both legs bent, leaving her open, exposed, and vulnerable.

Instead of moving to tie her hands above her head or to the headboard like he normally would, Stack gently pulled her wrists down to her sides, guiding each one back to her corresponding thigh. He buckled her left wrist to the outside of her left thigh. Then the right. Her arms were folded, wrists locked to the cuffs holding her legs open. 

He kneeled in between her open legs, staring at her like a man starved. But he didn’t touch her, yet. Her cheeks burned, but the throb between her legs only intensified.

Then his voice dipped lower. “Eyes up.”

Her gaze shifted to the mirror above the bed, and what she saw made her breath catch. She looked wrecked already. Arms taut in their bindings, legs helplessly folded back, pussy glistening in the soft light. And Stack in front of her, shirt gone, muscles cut, and eyes lit with danger.

“You’ve been mouthing off all week, haven’t you?” he grumbled, trailing his fingers down her stomach. “Bet Smoke let you get away with it. He probably kissed your forehead and told you it was okay.”

“Well, guess what, princess? I’m not Smoke.” He reached across her body to grab the crop off the nightstand.

“You got twenty,” he said, running it along her inner thigh. “And you gone count. If you miss one, we start over.” With ease, Stack gripped Annie’s tied-up arm and flipped her over.

The first strike landed on her ass with a crisp, echoing snap.

“One,” she gasped. Then another, across the opposite cheek. “Two.”

By six, her voice was trembling. By ten, she was clenching around nothing, desperate and dripping. By fifteen, she wasn’t sure if it was pain or pleasure anymore; the lines had blurred. The heat in her skin was unbearable, but needed. Her pussy ached, her thighs shook. 

When the twentieth hit, it wasn’t a scream that left her lips. It was a moan.

Stack grinned darkly. “That’s my girl.”

She barely had a second to breathe before he was flipping her onto her back, dropping to his knees on the bed, and lowering his face between her thighs.

“Now let’s see how many times I can make you cum before you pass out.” And with that, he dove in.

Bound and helpless, she had no control. Couldn’t close her legs, couldn’t squirm away, couldn’t do anything but take it. His mouth was ruthless.

Tongue dragging slow and deep, then flicking fast over her clit in maddening patterns. Every time she got close, he pulled back just enough to deny her, making her whine and beg against the restraints.

He edged her twice, brought her right to the brink, and then pulled back, laughing as she begged, squirmed, and cursed his name. When she cried out, “please,” he reached up, slapped her thigh just hard enough to make her gasp.

“Please, what? Use your words, baby girl.”

“Please let me come. Daddy, please…”

He smirked. “Not yet.”

Annie felt her body give in, her breath catching with each denial. Her body was squeezing tightly from holding on so much. 

“Eyes up,” he ordered, tapping her cheek.

Annie’s gaze slid up…and there she was. Bound and helpless. And there he was kneeling on the bed in front of her, smirking like the devil, thick dick in hand, dragging the tip along her soaked folds.

“Look how pretty you are when you’re fucked open,” he growled. “Watch yourself, baby. You better not look away.”

Stack eased his way into her, but didn’t bother with letting his woman get adjusted. He began to fuck her with purpose, rough and deep, controlling every rhythm, every sound she made. Her wrists pulled at the restraints, her thighs trembled with overstimulation.

“Look at you, takin’ it so good.” Her breath caught when Stack smirked down at her. He took to gripping her throat as he fucked her to the point of her whole body jiggling.

She could feel her body clenching and tightening. Her stomach was the main culprit.

“You gonna cum?” he asked, voice tight.

She whimpered. “I-I don’t know. E-elias-”

“You know you’re not allowed.”

He pulled out and slapped her clit hard enough to make her choke on a moan, then sank back in with a grunt. Her entire body shook, sweat rolling down her sides, tears spilling from her eyes. She was trying her hardest not to give in, knowing that she would be in far more trouble than she was currently in. 

Stack was unrelenting in his strokes, making sure to hit every depth of her. Leaving no place untouched. He pressed a gentle kiss to her neck, loving the way her whimpers and breathless moans filled his ears. He kissed his way up to her ear.

“Say thank you, mama. Give me the words I like.”

“Thank you, daddy. T-t-thank you!”

He smirked and gripped her neck again, then he kissed her, hard and possessively. His thrusts not slowing down, not even a little.

Her voice was wrecked. “P-please, daddy. I’m sorry, I was such a brat. Please, let me cum. P-p-please, I need it. Elias…p-please” The last word coming out as a stuttered whimper. 

He groaned into her mouth. “There she is. Now cum.”

When she did, it was violent. Back arching, mouth open in a silent scream, legs trembling uncontrollably. He held her through it, fucking her through the aftershocks until she was twitching, oversensitive, boneless beneath him.

“Again,” he growled, looking up at her through his lashes. “Keep lookin’, princess. Don’t you dare take your eyes off that mirror.”

And she did. She watched herself fall apart over and over. Her second and third orgasms had her body convulsing with pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. Tears collected in her. Drool wet her lips. Her thighs trembled, her voice broken with babbling pleas.

“Please, daddy, please, I can’t. It’s too much–” Annie managed to get out in between the harsh rocks of her body.

Stack smirked, lips slick from her. “That’s too bad. Because I’m not done with you.”

Annie’s eyes widened, and her mouth sputtered jumbled words. Stack’s smirk only got wider as he reached down and gripped a bouncing breast in one of his own, and the other rubbed her stomach, debating over whether he should ruin her or not.

Normally, they would be in position number five at this point in the night, but Stack was content with just the one. Looking at her face to face was his kryptonite. His release was creeping up on him, meanwhile, Annie felt her orgasm hitting her all over.

Then he came with a groan, hips jerking as he spilled deep inside her, burying his face in her neck with a growl of her name. He unbuckled each restraint slowly, rubbing the soreness from her joints, murmuring praise between every touch.

“You’re mine on the weekends,” he whispered into her ear. “And you know what happens when you act up. But you did good, baby. You took all of it and let it out.”

She nodded, boneless and spent in his arms. She couldn’t even speak. Just curled into him, safe and sore and glowing.

And Stack simply smiled. Because the weekend had only just started.

It was Sunday night. The sky was a beautiful purple, the sun melting behind the skyline as the Charger rolled up outside Smoke’s building. The engine cut off, but the music was playing something soft, for once. Stack stepped around to the passenger side and opened the door like a chauffeur.

Annie didn’t move at first. She looked like she might melt into the leather seat. Stack helped her up, supporting her carefully. Her knees buckled slightly when she stood, and she hissed softly at the ache.

“Easy,” he said, one arm around her waist, the other carrying her overnight bag. The two moved their way through the apartment building, into the elevator, and up to the top floor.

The front door opened before either of them knocked. Smoke stood in the doorway, expression unreadable but warm. Wordlessly, Stack passed him the bag and Annie. 

“She’s good,” Stack said quietly. “Just tired and sore.”

Smoke nodded. “I’ve got her.”

Stack gave Annie one last kiss on the cheek and disappeared out the front door. Smoke closed the door behind them and turned to her. She looked like a storm that had been weathered. Smoke caught her before she could stumble further.

“Hey,” he said gently, cupping her face. “I’ve got you, mama. Let me take care of you.”

-

The bath was already running. 

He’d learned by now no words at first. Just touch and presence.

Smoke peeled her clothes off slowly, carefully. Then untied her sneakers and set them aside. His eyes roamed over her marked skin without judgment. He touched every bruise with a gentleness and care that he reserved for only her. She winced when he reached her thighs.

She sank into the bath like it was salvation. The water steamed, full of oils and salts that smelled like chamomile and eucalyptus.

Smoke knelt beside the tub, rolled up his sleeves, and ran a soft washcloth over her skin. His hands were warm, slow, and methodical. He didn’t talk. Neither one did.

When her eyes fluttered closed, he kissed her temple and whispered, “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

The lights in the bedroom were dim. The sheets were fresh. A playlist of low instrumentals hummed from the speakers, barely loud enough to register.

Smoke helped her onto the bed like she was made of silk. She winced as she lay back, thighs trembling. He crawled in beside her, trailing kisses down her body, soft, wet, and worshipful. Over every bruise. Every mark. Every bite and stripe that Stack had left behind.

“You’re so good,” he murmured. “Letting yourself go like that. Letting him take everything. That’s strength, mama. That’s power.”

Annie exhaled shakily. Smoke kissed the inside of her knee.

“I love how your body tells stories,” he whispered. “I love the bruises. The tremble in your voice when I touch you here,” he pressed his lips against the crease of her thigh, “and the way you look after you’ve been used. You’re still glowing.”

He spread her legs slowly and kissed between them without hesitation, tongue moving with unhurried care. She gasped, still raw, overstimulated, and sore.

“Too much?” he asked gently.

She just released a shaky breath as she made eye contact with him. Annie didn’t know whether she was truly prepared to experience much more, but she knew he would be careful.

Smoke hummed as he recognized the look that she was giving him. It was something that he was good at. Reading her was his specialty. He eased up just a bit and began to give her soft kisses and sucks to her clit. He didn’t chase her orgasm. He wanted to give her peace. 

When she came, it was slow and warm like she was melting. Tears pricked at her eyes, but not from pain. He wrapped her in his arms after, held her tight with his body curled around hers. Fingers stroking her back, lips brushing her shoulder.

“Tomorrow’s Monday,” she murmured groggily.

Smoke chuckled. “I know.”

“I don’t wanna go.”

“I got you, baby. You know that.”

Annie smiled, eyes barely open. “What would I do without you?”

Smoke kissed her forehead. “You’ll never have to find out.”

By the time the sun rose, her outfit was pressed and ready. Her phone was charged, coffee brewed, and breakfast was waiting. But it was more than that, her heart was steady. Her body grounded. Because Smoke wasn’t just her safe space. He was her recovery.

The emails never stopped. And neither did the late meetings, the after-hours calls, or the endless pressure to be the best, the fastest, the most capable.

Annie’s phone buzzed every few minutes. The blue light of her laptop reflected in her eyes long after midnight. Her apartment was quiet and deathly calm, even though she was used to being alone there.

She hadn’t seen Smoke or Stack in two weeks. Not properly, anyway.

She answered their texts with dry one-word replies. Ignored their calls more than she took them. When Stack FaceTimed her last weekend, she answered bare-faced and red-eyed, snapped something short and cold, and hung up before he could call her out.

Smoke still sent her flowers and food. Stack still called and sent videos. None of it worked this time. She stayed in her apartment, slept in her clothes, woke up angry, and went to bed worse.

-

Stack paced his living room with the phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight, patience fraying.

“Did she text you back?” he asked flatly. “It’s been four days.”

On the other end, Smoke’s voice was calm but clipped. “You know how she gets.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“You gonna go get her?”

“I want to,” Stack growled. “I want to kick her door in, bend her over the nearest surface, and remind her who she belongs to.”

Smoke was quiet for a beat. “That’s not what she needs right now.”

“I know,” Stack sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “But it’s gettin’ real hard to sit on my hands when our girl’s out there drowning.”

“She’ll come to us,” Smoke said calmly.

-

Annie sat on the floor of her shower, water scalding. Her phone buzzed from the counter, but she didn’t check it. She didn’t need to, she already knew who it was.

And she hated that she was this exhausted. She had a craving that took over her whole body. A craving for their hands, their voices, their complete and utter control. She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. Something had to give.

-

It was Friday at 3:42 PM when Stack got the call. When he saw Annie flash across his screen, he nearly dropped the glass he was holding.

“’Bout time,” he muttered, wiping his hands before swiping to answer. “Talk to me.”

But her voice wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t tired or soft or needy. It was sharp and dangerous.

“Pick me up. Work ends at five. Don’t be late.” Then she hung up.

Stack stared at the phone like it might talk back.

“…Oh, she’s lost her damn mind.”

-

He was waiting outside her building at 4:57. Leaning against the Charger, arms crossed, sunglasses low, grin slow and mean.

Annie strutted out like she hadn’t left him hanging for weeks. She wore tight slacks, a blouse with too many buttons undone, and her eyes were full of challenge and fire.

Stack opened the door for her, silently. And she slid in without a word. He got behind the wheel, started the engine, and kept the silence up until they hit the freeway.

“You got somethin’ to say, baby girl?”

She huffed, looking out the window. “Just drive.”

He chuckled once. “Oh, nah. You got one free pass, and you just cashed it.”

She turned, finally, locking eyes with him. And she simply just rolled them, turning away from him completely. Stack’s smile dropped.

His hand slid off the wheel and wrapped around her throat, slow and precise, just enough pressure to make her heart skip.

“I’m not dealing with this all weekend,” he growled, eyes still on the road.

She didn’t reply, just scoffed.

Stack shook his head, a smirk on his face. He knew exactly what he was going to do. Instead of heading in the direction of his loft, he headed in the direction of his twin brother’s. Stack knew that his brother would be far more equipped to handle her in this state than he was.

The rest of the fifteen minute ride was complete silence. When they pulled down the familiar street of Smoke’s building. Annie furrowed her eyebrows in confusion when they pulled up in front of the building.

Stack got out of the car and opened her door. “Have fun.” 

Annie wanted to say something, but it seemed to get stuck in her throat once Stack tapped her back and lightly pushed her forward. An unknown feeling seemed to fill her head. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn’t let them loose. Instead, she held them in.

It started with the sound of keys hitting the floor. Smoke turned from the stove just in time to see her shoulders sag, her purse slide off her shoulder, and Annie practically melt into a dining room chair.

No words came out. Her attitude had disappeared in the five minutes it had taken for her to get from the front curb where Stack left her to Smoke’s front door. A quiet, choked sob was the only noise that came from her.

“Hey,” he breathed, instantly moving toward her, “hey, baby, I got you.”

She shook her head violently, palms pressed to her face like she was trying to keep it all in. But the sobs kept coming, broken, raw, hiccuping through clenched teeth.

“I–I can’t,” she gasped. “I–I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Smoke knelt in front of her, cupped her face in both hands, and kissed her forehead, soft and grounding.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with ya, mama,” he whispered. “Just breathe for me.”

She leaned forward, arms wrapping around his squatted frame, and collapsed into him. It was a total surrender. 

He held her for a long time, rocking her gently, whispering calm into her ear while her body shook with the weight of too many silent breakdowns. Smoke was doing his best to calm his woman down. Her tears were dripping on his neck, and he could feel the exhaustion weighing her body down.

After a few minutes of comforting her, Smoke helps Annie stand and leads her to the bedroom. There were no candles, no bubble bath, none of the usual things he would do in her time of distress. However, things were still as calm and as relaxing as ever.

They settled on the bed with her lying under him, practically naked. Her face was stained from the tears she had just released. Despite how settled she currently was, Smoke could still see the vulnerability swirling in her pretty brown eyes. He knew what she needed without her ever even having to open her mouth.  

He placed a gentle kiss on her neck before pulling away and peeling his shirt off. His eyes never left hers. His voice was quiet and steady.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she croaked.

He nodded. “Do you want to feel something else?”

Her puffy, shining eyes met his.

“Yes.”

“Then use me,” he said simply. “I’m all yours.”

He lay back on the bed without a word, arms open, letting her climb over him. She wasn’t rough, not at first. Her hands trembled as they dragged across his chest, her mouth soft and desperate as she kissed him like she was trying to escape inside him.

She tied his wrists to the headboard with her silk scarf. 

Smoke moaned softly, already breathless from the simple act of giving her control. “Tell me what you need, mama.”

Annie’s voice was hoarse, heavy with emotion. “I need to take it out on something.”

“Then take it out on me.”

Her hand wrapped around his throat, gently but firmly. She kissed him again, deeper this time, and rolled her hips against him, slow and hard. Smoke’s eyes fluttered shut.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I want every tear, scream, and pain you got, baby. Give it to me.”

Her breath quickened at the way his voice in that deep country accent spoke to her. No matter how much control he gave her, he always managed to reel her back in. As quickly as she could, Annie took his sweatpants off, glad that he decided to freeball for the day. 

She reached her hand and gripped him. Not bothering to deal with the giving and receiving of oral satisfaction that she was sure her man was prepared for. She knew how ready she was, so the moment she sank down on him. She bit her lip and sat up, her hands pressed on his chest. 

Smoke looked up at her like she was the sun, moon, and the stars. He loved watching her above him, rocking until she was able to get her release. And the looks he gave her during her ride always made her more turned on than when she started. And tonight was no exception.

She rode him hard, desperate and determined. Every thrust was filled with more than lust. It was a perfect mix of frustration, exhaustion, and rage. It was all bleeding out through her body. And Smoke took it.

He whispered through gritted teeth. “Use me, mama. Get yours first, okay? Don’t worry about me. Just feel, baby.”

She nodded her head, her body rolling and picking up speed at the encouragement. Her eyes met his as breathy moans stumbled from her lips. Her thighs burned at the pace she had set. She could feel her release creeping up on her, and it only made her want to push harder.

When she came, she cried again. Her face buried in his neck, body shaking, breath ragged. And still, Smoke didn’t stop murmuring praise into her skin.

“You did so good, baby.” Smoke pulled one arm free, needing to touch her. He wrapped his arm around her, tugging her impossibly closer.

She reached up and untied him slowly. Still, he didn’t let her go.

“You’re not broken, okay?” he whispered into her hair. “You’re tired. You’ve been holding it together too long. Let me help you hold it now.” Smoke kissed her temple.

The morning sun was already high when Annie blinked awake, still tangled in Smoke’s sheets. She was supposed to be at work.

Her phone had been blown up with emails, texts, and voicemails from that one high-profile, high-strung client who didn’t know how to talk to people without making them feel like dirt.

And now, thirty minutes into an impromptu phone call on Smoke’s couch, Annie was done.

“No,” she snapped into her phone. “You already approved the deck this week, we can’t make any revisions.”

She froze, jaw tense.

Then, through clenched teeth: “You’re not listening.”

Smoke sat at the kitchen table, shirtless in gray sweats. A cigar smoldered between his fingers, untouched but burning slowly. He watched her in silence, eyes calm but alert.

She hung up with a shaky exhale and threw the phone onto the couch.

Smoke took one more puff and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “You done, mama?”

“I swear,” she muttered, pacing again, “if one more person tries me today, I’m gonna lose it.”

“It’s okay, baby. Just breathe.” His tone was light.

Annie turned to him, eyes flaring. “Don’t.”

Smoke tilted his head slightly. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say shit to me right now. You’re just sitting there watching me.”

Smoke tapped ash into a tray. “I’m sitting here because I know how to stay calm when you can’t.”

Annie’s voice sharpened. “Right. Because you’re perfect. Always so damn quiet. You think you’re better than me, Elijah?”

He didn’t flinch. Just took another slow drag of his cigar and let her unload. He knew what she was doing, but he didn’t let it get to him. She was still too wound up mentally for him to care too much about the bite she had behind those words.

“Nobody said that.” Smoke leaned back, resting his arm on the table.

“You just sit there, acting like I’m overreacting or–or–or crazy!”

Smoke lifted his eyebrow as he took another pull of the cigar. “You want me to fight you, or you want me to be what you need?”

“Right now?” she said, breath shaking. “I need you to put that shit out. I can’t even think with that smoke in the air. And I sure as hell can’t hear myself over your fucking silence.”

Neither one had noticed the door open, nor did they notice Stack standing in the corner. He stood in the dark area of the entrance to the open living room. He had heard a good amount of it to know that Annie was out of her mind with the way she was talking.

He took a few steps forward until he was completely in the room. One look at Annie who was tense and practically vibrating, and then at Smoke, sitting calmly, taking slow drags of his cigar.

“…The fuck is going on in here?”

Annie froze; her breathing was ragged.

Smoke, without even turning around, said calmly, “Hey, brother.”

Stack stepped further in, taking off his glasses. “You good?”

Smoke shrugged, dragging on the cigar again. “She’s not.”

Stack looked back at Annie. Something in his expression shifted. That usual playfulness disappeared and was replaced by a darker heat. Something sharp, cold, and dominant.

“You cussin’ him out?” Stack asked slowly, tone deadly calm.

Annie opened her mouth, but then closed it. She didn't have anything to say. And even if she did, it would probably be the wrong thing to say.

Stack let out one low, humorless laugh.

“Oh, nah, baby. Don’t act brave now. You wanna raise your voice at him? The man who rubs your legs after I leave ‘em shaking? The one who draws you fuckin’ baths?”

He stepped closer, each word a warning.

“You come into his space. Sleep in his bed. Cry in his arms. And this morning, you turn around and snap on him like he ain’t been your peace?”

Annie’s lips trembled, but Stack didn’t stop.

“Nah, princess. That’s not gonna fly.”

Smoke finally spoke, quiet but firm. “She’s just overwhelmed. It’s aigh–”

Stack cut him a glance that silenced him instantly. “You sat there and took it. That’s your grace.”

Then back to Annie.

“But I’m not him.” His voice dropped to a growl. “So now? You answer to me.”

The silence that followed Stack’s words was electric.

Annie stood frozen, heart thudding, throat tight. She opened her mouth to argue, to defend herself, but Stack was already moving across the room. Each step was fast, deliberate, and dominant.

He grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her forward, and bent her over the cool marble of Smoke’s kitchen island in one practiced movement.

“Stack–” she gasped.

“No,” he said, voice ice. “You don’t talk until I say so.”

Smoke didn’t stop him. He just let his twin do what he did best when it came to Annie. He leaned back in his chair, shirtless and still smoking, eyes locked on hers, calm and unreadable, letting Stack take what needed to be taken.

Stack shoved her robe up around her hips and ripped her panties down in one swift motion, baring her completely. She gasped, humiliated, breath caught between guilt and arousal.

“This the same mouth that cried in his arms last night?” Stack growled, palming her ass.

The first slap landed sharp and clean. It made her flinch. And there was a burning sting left over from his heavy hand. 

“You get peace,” smack, “you get worship,” smack, “and you turn around and spit in his face?”

“I–I didn’t mean to–” A rough, stinging smack interrupted her statement. She hung her head and bit her lip trying not to show how much it was getting to her.

“You meant it enough to say it.”

Smoke exhaled slowly, watching from across the table, elbow resting against the armrest like this was a ritual he’d seen before.

“Keep count, baby girl,” Stack said, smacking her again, harder this time. “Ten. Then you apologize. To both of us.”

Her voice cracked. “O-one.”

Another. “Two–”

By six, her voice was shaking. By eight, her legs were trembling. Her palms were flat on the cold counter, forehead resting against her arm, eyes stinging with tears.

When ten hit, she was breathless, sobbing softly.

Stack leaned close, one hand gripping her hip, the other sliding between her thighs to feel the heat there. And of course, she was wet.

“Now,” he said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, “you’ve got something to say.”

She turned her head, eyes catching on Smoke’s across the table. He didn’t say a word. Just stared at her through the smoke, lips parted slightly, watching.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I–I was wrong. I lashed out, and you didn’t deserve it, either of you.”

Her voice cracked, and she turned to Smoke fully, desperation bleeding through.

“I’m so sorry for the way I spoke to you. You didn’t deserve that. You never deserve that. You always take care of me, and I was mean.”

Smoke finally stubbed out the cigar in the ashtray, lips twitching like he was thinking about smiling. But he didn’t move.

Annie swallowed. “Please… Elijah. I need you.”

Stack stepped back, voice lower now. “Go to him. If he’ll have you.”

She stumbled forward on sore legs, the punishment still burning in her skin, and moved to the chair where Smoke sat, legs spread, posture open.

She dropped to her knees first, part apology and part desperation. Then looked up at him. Her lashes glistened with unshed tears. “Can I…?”

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes still unreadable. Then patted his thigh once.

She climbed into his lap, folding into him with a shaky breath. But he didn’t hold her. Not yet at least. He was waiting for a proper apology.

His voice was low and steady. “Say it how I like to hear it.”

Her voice trembled. “I’m sorry, Papa. I was mean. I disrespected you and let my stress turn me into someone I’m not. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just trying to help.”

Smoke leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “And?”

“And I missed you. I need you.”

That’s when he finally wrapped his arms around her. They were tight and safe. She tucked her head in his neck, sniffling her residual tears away.

Stack leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her fall apart in Smoke’s lap, satisfied.

“Good girl,” he said, voice like velvet and smoke. “Back where you belong.”

[kiwriteswords]

You Belong Among the Wildflowers [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: >2k|| AN: I worked as a florist for five years and it was some of the most fun and some of the most beautiful moments I got to witness. I thought this would be a fun meet!cute! I will be making its a series, so please send your requests in for Florist!Reader persona! Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, meet cute, mentions of Haley Hotchner, flirtation, first encounter, Reader is JJ's college friend, mentions of Hotch's upbringing. Summary: When Hotch is in need of a good florist, he meets you, JJ's old college friend, who leads him to believe that maybe flowers couldn't fix everything, but they sure as hell didn't hurt.

Aaron Hotchner didn’t believe flowers could fix everything.

But they sure as hell didn’t hurt.

It was something he picked up early—

Something he never really learned so much as absorbed. 

His mother, a quiet woman with tired hands and soft smiles, used to say she wished someone would bring her flowers just once. Her voice never wavered when she said it, never sharp or demanding—

Just wistful. 

A woman too often let down by a man who never came home with more than excuses and stale breath.

Aaron made a promise then, maybe only to himself, that if he ever loved someone, really loved someone, he’d bring them flowers just because.

He kept that promise with Haley.

He would come home from Quantico, exhausted and wired from the field, and there she'd be, soft and sleepy with her hair up and an old sweatshirt on. 

He always brought her something: white tulips in spring, sunflowers in summer, dahlias in the fall. 

When cases kept him too long, he'd send them instead. Sometimes with a note, sometimes without. It became tradition—

A silent ritual that kept their connection grounded no matter where he was or what horror he’d seen.

There was never not a vase filled with some sort of colorful bouquet displayed in their home together. 

And even with work. Flowers were a lovely…band-aid to place on he larger bureaucratic problems. 

When Gideon poked Garcia’s buttons the wrong way--

A bouquet and an apology, courtesy of Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner wanting a smooth sailing ship. 

When JJ had Henry--

He remembered her saying she liked lilies, so he sent her lilies from the team. 

There wasn’t a birthday or special occasion he didn’t have marked on his planner that didn’t have a corresponding floral delivery from his usual place sent out. 

And when Haley died, there wasn’t much he could do but exist. 

The BAU gave him time, but even time felt like a betrayal. The world kept spinning while his had stopped. 

But there was one thing he could do: plan her funeral.

And pick the flowers himself.

White roses.

Classic. Clean. Grieving.

He stood in the flower shop for over an hour, staring at arrangements, feeling too much and too little at once. The florist—an older woman with a warm smile and no questions—had guided him gently, like she knew when to step forward and when to give him room to breathe. 

He came back to her year after year after that, always requesting simple, elegant designs. She never asked why. He always appreciated that.

But now, standing outside the darkened storefront on a crisp weekday afternoon, Aaron realized she was gone. 

The sign had been flipped to Closed for weeks. 

A paper notice taped crookedly to the door read: Thank you for over 30 wonderful years. 

Just like that.

It shouldn’t have caught him off guard. 

People retired. 

Shops closed. 

But somehow, he felt... untethered. 

Like this small corner of familiarity in his life had vanished, and with it, another thread connecting him to Haley.

He had been trying to order something for Jessica—

Haley’s sister. 

It was her birthday. And while their relationship had always been complicated, especially with Jack involved, he didn’t want the day to go by without a gesture. Flowers had always been the language he was fluent in.

He mentioned it offhandedly in the bullpen the next morning—something low-key, muttered as he sifted through files.

JJ perked up immediately. “Wait—are you serious? You’re trying to find a florist?”

He gave a short nod, not looking up.

“You’re in luck,” she said, tapping her pen against her notepad. “One of my best friends from college owns a flower shop not far from here. You’d love her designs—they’re beautiful.” 

She smiled, a little too brightly, eyes dancing in a way that made him suspicious.

He arched an eyebrow. “Am I missing something?”

JJ laughed. “Okay, fine. She’s gorgeous. Like—flirtatiously elegant, painfully feminine, one of those women who makes it look effortless. But she’s smart, and she runs a really impressive business. And she's good, Hotch. Seriously. Her arrangements have personality. You’d appreciate the detail.”

“I’m only looking for—” he began, but JJ held up a hand.

“I know. But just give her a call. Or better yet, stop by. Tell her I sent you. She’ll take care of you.”

He sighed, already knowing JJ wasn’t going to drop it. And truthfully? He missed the ritual. 

The weight of a vase in his hand. 

The soft brush of petals when he leaned in to read a card. 

He missed the peace of it—

The stillness it gave him.

Maybe flowers couldn’t fix everything.

But maybe, just maybe, they could start something new.

The bell above the door jingled softly, delicate and old-fashioned—

Charming in a way that made Hotch instinctively lower his voice and straighten his posture, like the shop itself demanded a kind of reverence.

It smelled like summer mornings and memory. 

Sweet, green, earthy. 

The air was cooler inside, heavy with moisture and the subtle perfume of fresh-cut stems. 

Every surface had something blooming or trailing: lush peonies and garden roses in glass vases, eucalyptus spilling from galvanized buckets, tiny pots of violets arranged like a tea party on a shelf by the window.

And then there was you.

You were at the counter, bent slightly over a worktable, hands delicately threading wire through a bouquet of ranunculus and sweet pea. 

Your fingers moved with practiced elegance—

Intentional but light, as though the flowers were something sacred. 

You wore a linen apron over a dress, a pair of delicate gold hoops catching the light when you turned to see who had come in.

JJ hadn't exaggerated.

You were beautiful in that way that didn’t feel real at first. 

Soft around the edges, like you'd stepped out of a memory or an old film. But the mischief in your eyes was immediate, sparking to life the moment you took him in.

“Let me guess,” you said, lips curving into a smile as you stepped out from behind the counter. “JJ sent you?”

Hotch blinked. He hadn’t even said a word yet.

“I can always tell,” you added, folding your hands in front of you with a playful tilt of your head. “It’s the suit. Very FBI but emotionally repressed gentleman in need of a good centerpiece.”

That got the corner of his mouth to twitch. Barely. But it was there.

“Guilty,” he admitted, taking a step closer. “I’m Aaron Hotchner.”

“JJ’s boss,” you echoed like it meant something—

Like she'd mentioned him before. Then you extended your hand, which he took with a polite firmness that faltered slightly the moment your fingers brushed.

Your touch was cool, confident. 

A stark contrast to the warm tilt of your grin.

You introduced yourself with your first name, gesturing loosely to the shop. “Welcome to my little kingdom.”

He looked around again, letting himself take it in now—not just the flowers, but the way they were arranged. Every display felt curated but not staged. Wild, almost, but intentional. Like you trusted the flowers to speak for themselves and only nudged them into poetry.

“It’s impressive,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “Peaceful.”

Your expression shifted for just a moment, something fond and knowing crossing your face. “That’s what I aim for. Flowers should feel like exhaling.”

There was a pause, comfortable and quiet, before you asked, “So, what are we celebrating, Agent Hotchner?”

“It’s Jessica’s birthday. My son’s aunt. She’s done a lot for our family, especially after… a loss.” His tone remained even, but the weight in his words lingered.

You didn’t press. Your smile softened with understanding.

“Got it,” you said gently. “So something warm. Grateful. Nothing too romantic, but still thoughtful.”

He nodded, a little surprised at how quickly you’d read the situation.

“I can do that,” you assured him, already moving to gather a few stems in your hands. “Now, do you trust me, or do you want to pick the flowers yourself?”

Hotch hesitated.

“I used to,” he said. “Pick them, I mean. For my wife. It became a tradition. I knew what she liked. But it’s been a while.”

You stopped what you were doing, the bouquet held loosely in your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you said. Not with pity—

Just sincerity.

He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“Well,” you said after a beat, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “if it helps, I think people always know more about flowers than they realize. It’s just about memory and emotion. Pick one thing you remember her liking, and we’ll start there.”

Hotch thought for a moment. Then: “She liked lilies. The white ones. But they were always too delicate.”

“Casa Blanca lilies,” you murmured, nodding. “Gorgeous, but yes—temperamental. They bruise just from being looked at wrong.”

He huffed out something close to a laugh, and you caught it—

Your eyes flicking to his in quiet delight.

You held up a peachy, cream-tipped rose. “This might be a better choice for today. It says thank you, without screaming ‘I love you.’”

He studied it for a moment, then nodded. “Perfect.”

And as you moved behind the counter to wrap the arrangement, Hotch let himself breathe in again. 

The scent of flowers. 

The sound of soft music playing from somewhere in the back. 

It was easy-listening classic rock. Something he would listen to in the car. It was…comforting.

The easy rhythm of your presence.

You worked quickly, but never rushed.

Hotch watched from his spot at the counter as you wrapped the bouquet in delicate cream paper, folding it just so before tying it with a deep green ribbon that matched the stems. 

Every movement was graceful, intentional.

It reminded him of the way people worked when they loved what theydid—

Not for performance, but for the sake of making something beautiful.

You slid the arrangement across the counter and offered a soft, plesed smile.

“There,” you said, “peach roses, cream spray roses, stock flower for fullness, a little waxflower for texture, and just a touch of eucalyptus—because I have to sneak it in somewhere. It smells clean. Calm. And it says I see you. Thank you.” You tapped the corner of the paper gently. “In flower language, anyway.”

Hotch studied the bouquet, nodding with quiet approval.

“It’s perfect.”

You tilted your head at him, brows raised. “You sure? Not too showy? Not too much?”

He gave the smallest shake of his head. “No. It’s...thoughtful. She’ll like it.”

You smiled, but it softened when you noticed he lingered—

Not quite ready to leave.

So you said gently, “It’s nice, you know. That you still do this. For her.”

Hotch didn’t look away from the bouquet as he replied, “Sometimes I think gestures are all we have. Something tangible. When words aren’t enough.”

You leaned your forearms on the counter, chin tilted toward him. “That’s exactly what flowers are. Tangible emotion.”

There was a pause. 

Comfortable. 

Heavy, but not unpleasant.

He reached for his wallet, and you gently waved him off.

“I’ve got it.”

Hotch blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to,” you said with a teasing lilt. “But you’re JJ’s friend, and more importantly, I want you to come back.”

That pulled his eyes to yours again—

Steady, searching.

You held his gaze, playful but earnest. “What? Even emotionally repressed gentlemen need a flower source. Besides, you’ve got good taste. I can always use a muse.”

He hesitated, but nodded. “Alright. I’ll come back.”

Your grin widened. “Good. Maybe next time for yourself.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, and you shrugged.

“Nothing wrong with buying yourself flowers. I do it all the time.”

His voice was low, faintly amused. “Somehow, I think it suits you better.

That earned a laugh from you—

Light. 

Genuine.

Ringing through the quiet shop.

And as Hotch turned to leave, bouquet in hand, you called after him: “Tell Jessica I said happy birthday. And that her brother-in-law has surprisingly excellent flower game.”

He paused in the doorway and glanced back at you. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”

Then he was gone, the bell chiming softly above him as the door shut.

But something lingered. That scent, maybe. Or the quiet flirtation. Or the unspoken I hope you come back that lived between the petals.

And for the first time in a long time, Hotch found himself already thinking about what arrangement he’d need next.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @superlegend216

[angel06babysworld]

I Blame the 6 Year Old.

singledad!rafe x babysitter!reader

Chapter One

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The interview was supposed to be quick. Ten, fifteen minutes tops—just long enough to get a read on her, hand over the emergency contacts, and confirm she could handle a first grader without losing her mind. Rafe hadn’t planned on offering the job before she even sat down.

But then she smiled. Nervous, a little too wide, chewing on her bottom lip like she was trying to hold something back.

“Hi,” she said, breathless from climbing the porch steps. “Sorry I’m late. The bus broke down a mile out and I didn’t want to reschedule, so I just, um… jogged.”

She was sweating. Her oversized tote bag kept slipping off her shoulder. And she looked painfully young—baby-faced with hopeful eyes and a folder full of printed references clutched to her chest like a shield.

Rafe blinked. “You jogged here?”

“I’m not usually this sweaty when I meet new people,” she promised, trying to laugh it off. “It’s been a long week.”

She looked like a kid. But then again, thirty-two didn’t feel as old as it sounded—until moments like this reminded him how long it had been since he was twenty-one.

He held the door open and nodded her in. “Come on. I’ll grab you some water.”

The inside of the house was quiet. Clean in a way that wasn’t fussy—just lived-in. A pair of glittery sneakers sat by the front door, a pink backpack half-zipped and leaning against the wall. She clocked them instantly.

“You said your daughter’s six?”

“Ellie. She’s in the backyard. Wants to meet you, but she’s pretending not to care.” He handed her the glass of water. “She’ll come in when she’s ready.”

She nodded, took a sip, and offered another small smile—softer this time. “I’m really good with kids. I babysit for a few families already, and I just finished my early childhood development course this spring. Still in school, though. So I’m flexible, just… not rich in free time.”

Rafe leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “What are you studying?”

“Elementary education.”

He let that hang in the air a moment. It made sense. She spoke gently, but with purpose. Like someone who’d taught herself to hold space for little voices, to wait out messy feelings with patience instead of panic. He’d met a lot of babysitters. Not all of them came with that kind of calm.

“I work weekends at the diner on Main,” she added quickly. “But weekday evenings? I’m free. And mornings, if you need help getting her to school.”

“You don’t drive?”

She hesitated. “No. I mean—no, not yet. I’m saving up. Kinda buried in student debt right now.”

Something in Rafe’s chest tugged. He hadn’t expected honesty. Most applicants led with fluff. This girl just laid it bare. And weirdly, he respected it.

Ellie wandered in ten minutes later, dragging a coloring book behind her. She didn’t speak, just climbed into a kitchen chair and stared.

“Hi, Ellie,” the girl said softly. No baby voice. No big performance. Just a smile and a wave, like she’d been waiting. “I like your headband.”

It was shaped like cat ears. Sparkly and crooked. Ellie blinked, narrowed her eyes, and finally—finally—said, “It’s from Target.”

Rafe watched, amazed, as she slid the coloring book across the table toward the girl.

“Do you like dinosaurs?” Ellie asked.

“Love them,” she said without missing a beat. “My favorite’s the parasaurolophus. It’s a long one, but I like the noise it makes.”

Ellie’s whole face lit up. “That’s mine too!”

Rafe didn’t move. Just stood there, arms still crossed, wondering how the hell someone could go from total stranger to Ellie’s favorite person in under five minutes.

He cleared his throat. “So. When can you start?”

She looked up, surprised. “You want to hire me?”

“Ellie,” he said, without looking at her, “what do you think?”

Ellie didn’t even glance away from her coloring. “She’s nice. You should pay her a lot.”

The girl burst into a laugh so soft it made Rafe’s stomach twist. And then she nodded.

“I can start Monday,” she said, smiling again, this time with something steadier behind it. “Thank you. Really.”

He didn’t say what he was thinking. That he hadn’t expected her to be the one. That maybe this job was a bigger deal than she realized—for both of them.

Instead, he just said, “Don’t thank me yet.”

And when she knelt down beside Ellie and started coloring like it was the most natural thing in the world, Rafe realized he’d already made up his mind.

This wasn’t going to be simple. Not with someone like her in his house every day.

But it was already starting to feel right.

And for now, that was enough.

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria @blissfulbutterfliess @sydneysslove @matthewswifeyy

[sowerpatch]

terms of play [chapter 10 - undefined play]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: Paige and Azzi aren’t defining anything—yet. But between late-night visits, borrowed clothes, and quiet moments that last too long, something begins to take shape. It’s not just flirting anymore, not just comfort. It’s the way Azzi watches her postgame, the way Paige never asks her to stay but always hopes she will. A midnight ice cream run turns into a public risk. A kiss becomes something more. And when they finally cross that line, it’s clear what’s between them is already more than just a moment.

Warning: Sexual content

Word Count: 4,741

Paige’s apartment, Oakland. July 2025. 

Azzi lingered just inside the doorway, one hand still on the frame. The takeout bag swayed slightly in her grip. She looked at home in nothing at all that belonged here—perfectly pressed trousers, designer flats, a blouse with pearl buttons Paige could never afford but had imagined slipping off her once or twice. Her expression, as always, gave away nothing. 

Paige tilted her head. “If you came all this way just to watch game tape, you picked the wrong night.” 

Azzi didn’t smile, but her mouth quirked, just enough. “I was in the neighborhood.” 

“In this neighborhood? With takeout from that overpriced Thai place I told you I liked three weeks ago?” 

Azzi raised the bag slightly, like it answered the question. “You’re the one who said it was life-changing.” 

Paige stepped aside, eyeing her with mock suspicion. “Fine. You’re lucky I’m starving. Come in.” 

Azzi moved past her, too calm for someone who clearly hadn’t planned to leave anytime soon. Paige shut the door behind her, leaned against it, and watched as Azzi took in the space like she was cataloguing it.  

She’d been here before—but never like this. Never at night, with the lights dimmed and the couch already folded out. Never with her heels off, hair down, cardigan sliding off her shoulders like she was letting something go. 

Dinner passed in a blur of shared containers and offhanded commentary. Azzi ate with her usual elegance. Paige sat cross-legged on the floor, dipping spring rolls into peanut sauce and talking too fast, too loud, but Azzi didn’t seem to mind. 

Azzi had changed into one of Paige’s old oversized sweatshirts, charcoal gray and soft with wear. It fell differently on her, sleeves pushed just past the wrist, collar slipping to one side every time she leaned forward.  

Paige got up, sat beside Azzi and had made a show of pretending to stretch. Her arm thrown across the back of the couch like she wasn’t looking for any excuse to feel closer. 

Azzi wasn’t playing along, but she wasn’t pulling away either. 

“Comfortable?” Paige asked, nudging her thigh with a sock-covered foot. 

Azzi didn’t glance up. “Barely.” 

“That’s a lie,” Paige ginned “Five-star hospitality. Couch with the least amount of structural support. Ambience set to ‘early dorm room.’ I’ll be expecting a Yelp review.” 

Azzi finally turned her head. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a hint of something lighter tucked into the corner of her mouth. 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“And yet you’re here.” 

Azzi looked away, but the curve of her smile deepened just slightly. Her fingers curled around the stem of the glass but didn’t lift it. 

They sat like that for a stretch. The only sound was the low hum of something on TV neither of them were really watching. Paige rested her elbow on the arm of the couch, head tilted so she could watch Azzi without being obvious about it. The soft light brought out the fine shadows beneath her eyes, the angle of her cheekbone, the way her hair brushed against her jaw. 

“You know,” Paige said, voice lower now, “you don’t have to leave.” 

Azzi 's fingers tightened slightly on the wine glass before setting it aside. 

“I mean,” Paige added quickly, “you can. Obviously. This isn’t a trap. It’s just... late. And you’re already wearing my shirt. Which, for the record, I didn’t offer. You just took it.” 

Azzi shifted, turning more toward her. “You left it on the bed.” 

“That’s not consent.” 

“You left it folded.” 

“Still not consent.” 

Azzi gave her a dry look, but Paige caught the way her eyes softened around the edges. 

“You could stay,” Paige said again, quieter this time. “I’d like that.” 

Azzi studied her, lips parted like she was holding something back. Her posture had relaxed, but only slightly, like her body was still trying to decide how safe it was to let go. 

“I wasn’t planning to,” Azzi said. “I didn’t bring anything.” 

“You brought your pretty face,” Paige said. “Everything else is negotiable.” 

Azzi laughed softly, a real one this time. Paige saw the way her shoulders lowered, the weight sliding off bit by bit. Azzi’s gaze dropped to the blanket stretched across Paige’s lap. Her hand moved toward it, slow and deliberate, brushing against Paige’s knuckles. 

“I wouldn’t mind staying,” she said, almost under her breath. 

Paige lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside her chest. 

“I’ll get you the good pillow.” 

Azzi was already leaning into her, her body folding into Paige’s side like it had always known the shape of it. 

“I already stole it,” she murmured. 

Paige pretended to be appalled. “Unbelievable. She breaks my heart, drinks my wine, and steals my best pillow.” 

Azzi didn’t answer. She just rested her head on Paige’s shoulder. Her hand stayed where it was, fingers loosely tangled with Paige’s. 

Paige closed her eyes and smiled to herself, her cheek resting lightly against Azzi’s hair. It wasn’t loud or messy or complicated. It was soft, simple, and steady in a way Paige had never let herself want before. 

She could get used to this. 

- 

Fudd Holdings, San Francisco. August 2025. 

The monitor on the wall played the postgame feed in high definition, and Paige looked like she always did after a win—flushed. Her hair still damp from the locker room with that crooked grin working just a little too well. Her tone with the reporter was flippant, easy, but her eyes burned with focus. She looked steady. She looked like herself. 

Azzi sat at her desk, arms loose against the armrests. The binder beside her remained untouched. She wasn’t pretending to review it anymore. 

Nika sat on the couch with her laptop open, though she hadn’t typed in minutes. She tilted her head toward the screen, but her eyes cut back to Azzi. 

“You’ve been staring at her like that since tip-off.” 

Azzi didn’t look away. Paige reached off-camera and said something to someone, laughing as she took her water bottle. The sound from the speakers wasn’t loud, but Azzi could hear her tone like it was in the room. 

“She’s the face of the franchise.” 

“Sure,” Nika said, voice lighter now. “And you’re watching her like she’s the reason your world turns.” 

Azzi kept her expression neutral. She reached for her pen and turned it slowly in her fingers. The room carried a stillness that wasn’t empty. 

“She played well.” 

“She played fine.” Nika stretched her legs out. “But you’re playing yourself harder.” 

Azzi finally looked at her, brows raised just slightly. 

Nika grinned. “You two are a thing now?” 

Azzi’s fingers paused on the pen. “What makes you think that?” 

Nika sat up a little straighter, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Because I know you. And because when I came by last week, you were wearing sneakers. Not designer flats. Sneakers. Like a real person. That only ever happens when she’s around.” She tilted her head, grinning. “Also, you had takeout containers on your counter that looked suspiciously like the kind Paige orders. And you were humming.” 

Azzi didn’t deny it. That was the worst part. 

Nika leaned in. “Azzi Fudd. Humming.” 

Azzi let out a soft exhale. Not quite a sigh. More like the release of something she had been holding in longer than she meant to. 

“She calls me her non-girlfriend girlfriend.” 

That got Nika to straighten. Her smile sharpened with interest. 

“Oh. So we’re at terms now. Non-girlfriend girlfriend. That’s—” she laughed, sitting back against the cushion, “—actually kind of adorable. Vaguely tragic, but adorable.” 

Azzi’s lips curved faintly, almost in spite of herself. Her voice stayed level. “It’s not official. But… we’re seeing each other.” 

Nika raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Okay. Then what’s stopping you from being not non-girlfriend girlfriend and just being actual girlfriends?” 

Azzi didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze returned to the screen, though the video had ended, and Paige’s face was gone. But the memory of it lingered—the way she looked in a postgame win, unfiltered joy behind all the cocky one-liners. 

She lowered her pen to the desk, hand resting flat beside it. 

“I don’t know how to be someone’s girlfriend when I’m still owned by so many expectations.” 

Nika was quiet now, but it didn’t feel like pressure. She stood and walked to the desk, resting her forearms on the edge. 

“Maybe stop trying to be owned by anything at all,” she said. “You already know what you want.” 

Azzi’s eyes met hers. The look wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even uncertain. It was soft, like she had been cracked open but hadn’t broken. 

“I just want to protect her,” Azzi said. 

“Then don’t protect her from you,” Nika replied. “Protect her with you.” 

Azzi nodded once, barely more than a movement, but it was there. Nika reached for her bag, her tone softening into something almost fond. 

“She calls you her non-girlfriend girlfriend.” She smiled. “But she’s ready for the real thing.” 

- 

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. August 2025. 

Azzi had nearly finished her chapter when the sound of the bathroom door creaked open. She didn’t glance up right away, too familiar now with Paige’s rhythm around the condo. The sound of bare feet padded into the living room, followed by a low huff and the unmistakable thud of someone flopping dramatically onto the couch. 

Paige sprawled out across from her, hair still messy from her game-day ponytail, a loose vintage UConn tee hanging a little too perfectly over her frame. The shirt had tiny holes near the hem, like it had survived a dozen road trips. She looked smug. She looked like trouble. 

Azzi’s eyes stayed on her book. 

“We’re going out,” Paige said. 

“No,” Azzi replied calmly, eyes not lifting from the page. 

Paige leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Don’t you wanna know where?” 

“I already know where this is going.” 

“Wrong.” Paige grinned, proud of herself. “This is new and inspired. I’m taking you on a midnight ice cream run, babe.” 

Azzi’s expression barely shifted, but her gaze flicked upward, slow and unimpressed. “You’re not serious.” 

“I’m always serious about sugar and chaos.” 

Azzi blinked once. “We have ice cream here.” 

“But not the experience. Neon lights, weird toppings, the joy of watching me flirt with you too loud in public. That’s the real dessert, ma.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Come on. The shop on Seventh is still open. You love that boring vanilla.” 

“I prefer simple.” 

“You prefer denial.” 

Azzi snapped the book shut. 

Paige leaned over the arm of the couch, smile sharpening. “You’re scared someone’s gonna see us together.” 

Azzi’s lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. 

“That’s it, huh?” Paige stood, stretching with dramatic flair. “You’re worried we’ll be on some Twitter thread. 'Billionaire caught smiling at WNBA rookie. More at ten.'” 

Azzi looked up at her fully now. The tension in her shoulders was subtle, but there. “You know what happens when people think they have something to whisper about.” 

“Then let them whisper,” Paige said. “Or I can just go alone and pretend I’m heartbroken. One scoop of pity sprinkles, please. My non-girlfriend girlfriend left me in the cold.” 

Azzi exhaled, but the edge of a smile broke through. 

“I’m not dressed for outside.” 

“You look like a Bond villain on her night off,” Paige said, motioning to Azzi’s perfectly draped cardigan and black joggers. “You’re more than fine, babe.” 

Azzi stood with reluctant grace. She moved to grab her keys from the entry table. 

Paige raised her brows. “Wait, that worked?” 

“You’ve worn me down.” 

“Like I planned.” Paige grinned, slipping her phone into her back pocket. “If we end up on DeuxMoi, I get to pick the picture they use.” 

The walk was quiet, peaceful. Azzi kept her hood up, her hands tucked deep in her pockets. Paige walked beside her without touching, close enough for the warmth to reach. On the third accidental brush of their hands, Paige let her pinky hook around Azzi’s.  

A test. 

Azzi didn’t pull away. 

The ice cream shop was near empty. Paige immediately ordered the most chaotic thing on the menu—brownie fudge sundae, caramel drizzle, sour gummy worms—and smiled smugly as she turned back to Azzi. 

Azzi kept her order plain. Vanilla, one scoop, no toppings. 

“You’re really living on the edge,” Paige teased, licking her spoon. 

“Some of us don’t need our dessert to scream for attention.” 

They ate on the bench outside, plastic spoons tapping gently against their cups. The city hummed around them but never too loud. Paige nudged Azzi’s shoulder with hers. 

“You okay?” 

Azzi hesitated. Then she nodded. “I didn’t expect it to feel this normal.” 

“That’s because it is.” 

Paige scooped another bite, then offered her spoon to Azzi without thinking. 

Azzi took it. Slowly. Her lips brushed the edge, her gaze unreadable. 

Paige’s breath hitched. 

“I’m still scared,” Azzi said, voice quieter now. “But I didn’t hate tonight.” 

“Good.” Paige smiled at her, soft and unguarded. “Because I’ve got at least a dozen more dates like this planned.” 

Azzi rolled her eyes. 

“You’re exhausting.” 

Paige bumped her knee. “You’re really pretty.” 

“You’re impossible.” 

“And you still like me.” 

Azzi didn’t reply. Instead, she held Paige’s gaze for a moment longer than she meant to. 

It was enough. 

The night held them still for a few seconds more. Paige kept eating. Azzi watched her, looking as though maybe—just maybe—being seen like this wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

- 

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. August 2025. 

Azzi stood in front of the mirror, cotton pad in hand, smoothing a rose-colored toner across her cheekbones. She wore an oversized navy crewneck that hung loose around her hips, the sleeves pushed up her forearms. Her black lounge shorts barely showed beneath the hem. The scent of night cream and jasmine hung lightly in the air, mixing with the warm quiet of the condo. 

Behind her, Paige leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, dressed in light grey UConn sweatpants and a crisp white Nike tank top that clung to her frame. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, damp at the edges from a quick rinse. She had that familiar smirk tugging at her lips, arms folded, eyes tracing every small movement Azzi made with idle fascination. 

"You always look like you’re about to shoot a skincare commercial,” Paige said, chin lifting. “Do I need to dim the lights? Cue the wind machine?” 

Azzi kept her focus on the mirror, a faint smile curving at the edge of her mouth. “I’ve seen your idea of skincare. You washed your face with hand soap last week.” 

“It was eucalyptus,” Paige shot back. “Fancy. Exfoliating.” 

Azzi turned just enough to glance over her shoulder. “It’s drying.” 

“And you’re hot,” Paige said, stepping further in. “We can’t all be perfect.” 

Azzi gave a soft laugh, lowering the cotton pad onto the counter. Paige moved to stand behind her, looking at their reflection. Azzi met her eyes briefly before glancing down. 

“You missed a spot,” Paige murmured, reaching up to touch Azzi’s cheekbone gently. 

Azzi stilled, her breath catching just slightly. “Where?” 

Paige didn’t answer. She leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth instead. 

It was soft, like testing the water, like remembering how many times they’d almost done this and choosing not to wait anymore. Azzi turned fully into her, hands sliding up Paige’s sides as if pulled there without thought. Paige’s palms pressed to her lower back, grounding them both. 

The second kiss was slower, deeper. Azzi tilted her chin up, lips parting to welcome the weight of it. She kissed like it was something sacred, like she didn’t trust the moment to last unless she carved it into memory. Paige felt her entire chest tighten as their mouths moved together in rhythm, steady and full of something tender and raw. 

Azzi backed up slightly until her hips touched the edge of the sink. Paige followed her, hands slipping under the hem of her sweatshirt, fingers resting lightly on her bare waist. She could feel Azzi trembling slightly beneath her touch, not from nerves, but from release. It had taken so long to get here, through weeks of dancing around what they both knew. 

Azzi kissed her again, this time with hunger. One hand curled into the fabric of Paige’s tank top, pulling her closer until there was no space between them. Paige groaned softly into her mouth, one hand rising to cup the side of Azzi’s face, thumb grazing her jaw. The other slipped down to Azzi’s thigh, fingertips brushing bare skin. 

Azzi let out a breath against her lips. “Do you want to stop?” 

Paige pulled back just enough to look at her. Her voice was low, sure. “Only if you tell me to, baby.” 

Azzi didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled Paige in again, kissing her with everything she hadn’t said out loud. 

Paige kissed her back like restraint had finally snapped. Mouth hungry, hands firm, tongue sliding past Azzi’s with intention.  

She crowded Azzi back against the counter, her body pressed close enough that Azzi could feel the slight tremble in her thighs. Every movement felt deliberate. Every breath between them was charged. 

Azzi clung to her, hands locked behind Paige’s neck, mouth parted as she met each kiss with growing need. The edge of her shirt slipping off her shoulder. Paige kissed there, then lower, dragging her teeth just enough to draw a sharp inhale. 

“So beautiful, ma.” Paige muttered, her voice rough, her hands moving over Azzi’s sides, then gripping her hips. “It’s making me lose control.” 

Azzi met her eyes, her lips still parted, her breath uneven. “I want you to lose control.” 

That did something to Paige. 

She gripped beneath Azzi’s thighs, lifted her with ease, and placed her on the bathroom counter. Azzi let out a soft sound, startled by the sudden height, her legs instinctively wrapping around Paige’s hips for balance. Her shorts rode up, smooth skin against the marble, her body fully exposed to the warmth between them. 

Paige stepped in close, settling her hands on Azzi’s thighs. Her thumbs brushed the inside, teasing little circles higher and higher, never quite reaching where Azzi wanted her. She kissed her again, slower now, more drawn out. Her lips trailed from Azzi’s mouth to the corner of her jaw, down the line of her throat, then across her collarbone. She took her time as she lifted Azzi’s shirt. 

Once the oversized cloth was thrown nearby, Azzi’s hands threaded into Paige’s hair. She was holding her close as Paige kissed down her chest, using her mouth like she was learning every inch.  

“Still good?” Paige murmured, her voice low, nearly a growl. 

Paige brought her mouth to bare skin, tongue tracing the curve of her breast, lips soft at first, then firmer. Azzi arched gently, her breath hitching when Paige’s teeth grazed her. 

Azzi answered without hesitation. “Yes. Keep going.” 

That was enough. 

Paige moved her mouth down again, kissing her stomach, her hips, pausing just above the waistband of Azzi’s shorts. Her hands gripped beneath them now, thumbs hooked just inside the soft cotton. She didn’t pull them off. Not yet. She nuzzled into the space just above, breathing her in. 

“You’re driving me crazy,” she whispered. 

Azzi’s legs tightened around her. “Then do something about it.” 

Paige laughed softly, but it cracked a little at the edges. Her restraint was thinning by the second. 

She slid one hand between Azzi’s legs, touching her lightly through the shorts. Her fingers moved with care, exploring the heat already gathered there. The fabric was damp. Paige stilled for a moment, pressing in just enough to make Azzi gasp. 

“God,” Paige muttered. “You’re already soaked, ma.” 

Azzi exhaled a shaky breath, gripping Paige’s shoulders. Her thighs trembled against Paige’s ribs. She tried to rock forward, to chase the friction, but Paige only applied light, teasing pressure with the pad of her fingers. 

She moved in slow circles, keeping the touch maddeningly soft. 

Azzi’s head fell back against the mirror, her mouth falling open. Paige kissed the inside of her knee, then higher, and higher again. Her hand stayed steady, fingers never rushing, never greedy. Just steady heat, coaxing her open. 

“You want more?” Paige asked, lifting her head just enough to meet her eyes. 

Azzi swallowed hard, chest rising with each breath. “Yes.” 

Paige smiled and finally eased her hand beneath the waistband, past the last layer between them, and touched bare skin. 

Azzi jolted. The breath she took caught hard in her throat, and her legs flexed around Paige’s shoulders. Her body had already been warm, trembling, but this contact was different. This was bare. Direct. Intimate in a way that made her stomach twist and her hips rise without permission. 

“Fuck,” Paige whispered, her voice gone low and reverent. “So wet for me.” 

Azzi’s fingers gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white. She tried to say something, but all she managed was a fractured inhale. 

Paige kept one hand braced under Azzi’s thigh, steadying her. The other moved slowly, teasing her folds with two fingers, sliding through her with care, not pressing in yet. She watched Azzi’s face the entire time. The way her head tipped back again, the way her lips parted just enough to let out a quiet gasp, the way her entire body started tilting forward, instinctively chasing the pressure. 

“I’ve got you,” Paige murmured. 

She pressed in. 

Just her fingers at first, slow and shallow. Testing the give of Azzi’s body, feeling the warmth already slick and pulsing around her. She worked her way in with delicate persistence, curling just slightly, coaxing her open with each stroke. 

Azzi arched forward, legs trembling. Her hands reached for Paige’s shoulders without thinking, gripping her there like it was the only thing holding her upright. Paige stayed close, one hand still firm at her thigh, her mouth brushing soft kisses along Azzi’s stomach, just below her navel. 

The first full thrust of Paige’s fingers made Azzi whimper—sharp and breathless. Paige paused, then did it again, a little deeper this time. Her thumb shifted upward, pressing lightly against her clit, just enough to make Azzi shiver. 

“You okay, ma?” Paige asked, voice hoarse now. 

Azzi nodded, but she wasn’t steady. “Don’t stop.” 

“I wasn’t planning to.” 

Paige set a rhythm then, slow and grounding. Her fingers curled with every stroke, drawing out a moan from deep in Azzi’s chest. She kissed along her thigh again, then moved higher, mouth finding Azzi’s breast, taking her into her mouth while her fingers continued their work below. 

Azzi cried out softly, her body caught between two sensations—mouth and hand, tongue and pressure. She felt split open. Seen in a way that was dizzying. Her fingers slid into Paige’s hair, pulling gently, grounding herself as her hips started to move with the rhythm Paige set. 

“Just like that,” Azzi whispered, barely able to speak. 

Paige smiled against her skin. “I know, baby.” 

She fucked her slow but sure, every thrust precise. Her thumb moved with more pressure now, faster as Azzi neared the edge. Paige could feel the way her walls clenched around her fingers, how Azzi’s breath had turned to short, broken gasps. 

“You close?” she asked, pressing her mouth to Azzi’s neck. 

Azzi’s response was a frantic nod, followed by her entire body pulling tight, thighs trembling, muscles locking as the pleasure crested and broke all at once. She came hard, her moan caught against Paige’s shoulder, nails digging into her back as she shook through it. 

Paige didn’t pull away as she stood up. She kept her fingers inside, slowing her hand until Azzi was breathing again, her body softening against her. 

Azzi slumped forward, arms slipping around Paige’s neck, holding her close. Her breath was hot against Paige’s ear. Paige kissed her temple and held her there, one arm wrapped fully around her back now, steadying her on the counter. 

Neither of them spoke. 

Paige let her come down slow, her fingers finally easing out. She helped Azzi rest back against the mirror, her thumb brushing gently over the inside of her thigh. 

Azzi’s eyes fluttered open. Her lips were kiss-bruised, cheeks flushed, chest still rising fast. 

“You good, baby?” Paige asked softly. 

Azzi reached up, touching her jaw with trembling fingers. “More than okay.” 

Her breath was still coming in shallow waves when Paige pressed her mouth to her shoulder, lips lingering in the dip of bone and skin. Neither of them said anything, but the air between them was full—heavy with heat, the weight of what they’d just crossed, and the ache of what was still to come. 

Paige’s hands smoothed along the outside of Azzi’s thighs, then under, lifting her gently from the counter. Azzi wrapped her arms around Paige’s shoulders as she was carried out of the bathroom, legs still trembling slightly around Paige’s waist. Her body felt loose and overrun, but she didn’t want distance. She wanted more. 

The room beyond was dim. The bed was turned down but untouched, the sheets still neat. Paige lowered Azzi slowly onto them, kissing her once at the top of her chest before kneeling beside the mattress. She looked up at her—really looked—eyes raking over flushed skin, the bare torso, the shorts clinging to her hips. 

Paige reached up and tugged them the rest of the way off. 

Azzi lay back, her breathing just beginning to steady, but her eyes didn’t waver from Paige. There was no uncertainty anymore. Just want, thick and quiet between them. 

Paige leaned forward and kissed her stomach. Then lower. Her hands spread across Azzi’s thighs again, coaxing them apart. Her mouth followed the line of her hip, then the sensitive skin just beside it. Azzi shivered under her, fingers gripping the sheets. Paige watched her, her voice a low murmur against her skin. 

“You look so good like this.” 

Azzi didn’t speak. Her lips parted, her eyes hazy as Paige kissed just above where she had touched her before. Teasing again. Slower now. This was about savoring. About learning what it meant to be wanted completely. 

Paige slid her tongue through her folds, a soft, wet stroke that made Azzi’s hips lift from the bed. Paige held her in place and did it again, slower this time, tongue pressing deeper, flatter. Azzi moaned, head falling back into the pillow, one hand sliding into Paige’s hair. 

Paige licked into her with the same rhythm her fingers had found earlier, steady and precise, drawing out sounds Azzi had never made. She dragged the tip of her tongue up to her clit and circled, teasing, then wrapped her lips around it and sucked gently, then harder when Azzi’s hips jumped. 

“God,” Azzi whispered. “Paige…” 

Paige responded by gripping her thighs tighter and going deeper. 

Azzi fell apart again slowly, unraveling under each stroke of Paige’s tongue, every flick and pull perfectly paced. Her whole body arched when Paige flattened her tongue and pressed harder, dragging her mouth across her until Azzi could barely breathe. 

She came again with a sharp, involuntary cry, thighs clenching around Paige’s shoulders, one hand fisting the sheets and the other still locked in Paige’s hair. Paige kept going until the spasms faded, until Azzi’s body slumped back onto the mattress, twitching with aftershocks. 

Only then did Paige slow, her kisses softer now, mouth gentle as she kissed the inside of Azzi’s thigh, the space just above her mound, the curve of her hipbone. She moved up slowly, body skimming against Azzi’s until they were face to face again. 

Azzi opened her eyes, dazed and soft, skin flushed and dewy. She reached for her, fingers sliding up the back of Paige’s neck. 

Paige didn’t speak. She just kissed her, deep and quiet, letting Azzi taste herself on her lips. 

Azzi’s hand moved to her waist, pulling Paige over her, wrapping both arms around her back. Her voice was low, nearly swallowed against Paige’s mouth. 

“Your turn.” 

Paige smiled into the kiss. “Yeah?” 

Azzi nodded. “Now, you make me want to lose control.” 

Paige kissed her again, then rolled her hips once, slow and firm, letting Azzi feel just how badly she wanted it too. 

“Whatever you say, boss lady.” 

[bananayuyu]

Cabin Fever [part 1]

Pairing: Yunho x f reader

Genre: fluff and smut

Word count: 9.8k

Summary: A trip to the woods with your friends is always the highlight of your year. But sometimes, your body gets in the way of you being able to enjoy anything. Thankfully someone is there to comfort you, in just the way you need.

Warnings: MDNI, smut, fingering, reader is on her period while said fingering is occurring, reader has really severe period cramps

A/n: My period this last week was the worst one I've had in a while, and I kept thinking the whole time I wished Yunho was there to comfort me. This is for my fellow chronically ill besties <3 I hope everyone is taking good care. Also I'm thinking of making a part two, if not turning this into a whole series as I have so many ideas of where to take things. Let me know your thoughts!

Series Masterlist | Next Part -> | Read it on ao3

Every year you and your high school friends visited your favorite cabin in the woods. It was cozy and old and probably too small for the seven of you; it was perfect for a summer get away. Each year you all saved up, and when the weather became too hot to bear in the city, you booked a week in the forest. The natural hot spring tub out back, the easy trails on the mountain behind, and the trees that occasionally graced you with their delicious fruit, made it your favorite place. Each and every summer you anticipated it with a giddiness that nothing else could make you feel.

***

You lived with two of your friends from high school, in a small two bedroom house not far from the neighborhood you grew up in. You and Seonghwa each had a bedroom, and Yunho's bedroom was the basement. You wouldn't have thought living with two men would lead to the clean and orderly house you resided in, but thankfully Seonghwa was as much of a clean freak as you. You lived meticulously, due to having many health issues that had been with you your whole life.

It started when you were little, with allergies developing what felt like every week. You had to be careful with what you ate, what you drank, what medication you took. Then there were the fainting spells, which started in high school. Eventually it was understood that your blood pressure was to blame, and your weak heart. And then there were your periods. Always horrible, no matter what you did. You had been put on every type of hormonal birth control at one point or another, and nothing worked. Finally you decided it wasn't worth it anymore, the hoards of drugs and doctor's appointments, and you decided to live a simple life instead, to take things easy, to not ever push too hard. To stop trying to force your body to be normal. You didn't really have a choice in the matter; your body broke down whenever it needed to, and school and work and your social life had to be pushed aside. It made these yearly trips to the woods all the more exciting. Sometimes it was the only time you got to see the group together all year.

This year as you, Seonghwa and Yunho prepared for your trip you realized one achingly frustrating thing. Your period was due to arrive on the fourth day of the trip, if it came on time. You sighed heavily when you realized this, dragging yourself up to grab pads, tampons for the hot spring, your massive bottle of Tylenol and your heating pad, and placing them in your suitcase. You just hoped it wouldn't be too bad, if it did come during the trip. Sometimes they could be late or early, and you hoped that maybe this time your body could make things easy on you, and delay it just a bit.

That night you fell asleep on the couch, accidentally staying up reading too late. As the morning light broke through the blinds you stirred, eyes squinting at the brightness. You groggily made your way towards the bathroom, barely seeing where you were going. You almost ran right into Yunho as he walked down the hall towards the kitchen, and he grabbed your shoulders to prevent you from crashing into each other.

"Good morning," he said, laughing at the state of you.

"I fell asleep on the couch," you groaned.

"Yeah I know, I saw. The book was that good?" he teased. You rolled your eyes. He didn't totally understand your obsession with reading.

"So good it almost felt like I was playing a video game, or something," you teased back.

This was the nature of your relationship with him. He was one of your closest friends by far, but you two were just so different. You worked part-time as the assistant of an accountant, and in your free time read books. He was a choreographer with a crazy schedule, and loved nothing more than gaming whenever he could. He was full of energy; you were prone to exhaustion and fainting. He needed his busy schedule, his stimulating life. You could barely handle leaving the house most of the time. But regardless of these differences your friendship blossomed. With Seonghwa it was sweeter; he was the sweetest person you'd ever met. He was usually the one who took care of you when you'd had a bad allergic reaction, or helped clean up your room when you were far too exhausted to. But Yunho had been there every time you'd had a bad fainting spell, carrying you to the hospital, staying with you overnight. He was always there for you, and made you laugh when you felt like shit. He was an invaluable part of your life, even if he didn't totally understand you.

"Ari texted the group chat late last night, did you see?" he asked you. Ari was the only other girl in the friend group, and you usually shared a room with her on your trips.

"No, what did she say?"

"She's bringing San," he said.

"Ooh, we finally get to meet him for real," you reply, lifting your eyebrows in excitement at finally meeting her new boyfriend. You'd seen pictures and talked to her about him for hours, and you couldn't wait to finally meet him in person.

"And Wooyoung is gonna bring his cousins, I think?"

"Yeah he said he's bringing Yeosang and Jongho with him this year," you reply, having just heard the news the day before while packing. "There's going to be so many of us this year, I'm not sure how we'll all sleep and everything."

"We'll figure it out when we get there," Yunho says reassuringly. Then he looks at you and chuckles. You narrow your eyes, knowing he's laughing at you. "Just go look at yourself in the mirror," he says.

You playfully shove him out of the way and make your way into the bathroom, seeing your ridiculously messy hair he was laughing at. You quickly get yourself ready for the day, knowing you all have to leave soon to pick up Ari and meet up with everyone else. When you make your way to the kitchen you see that Yunho has made you a cup of chamomile, your favorite tea. As you sip it you taste the honey he added and smile, smile at the way he seemed to read your mind. You were craving chamomile with honey today.

Seonghwa exits his room looking extremely put together in a black turtle neck and fitted black pants, his suitcase fully packed and his hair perfectly coiffed. You look down at your tank top and comfy jean shorts, and back up to him.

"You always make me look so underdressed," you say with a small pout.

"Well, you're so beautiful so you don't even have to try," he says, pulling you into a hug. A crazy thing for him to say to you, given that he's literally employed as a model. And quite successfully, at that. "Some of us have things to compensate for, clearly." He spins around, showing you his outfit and laughing at himself.

"It looks so good, but you are going to burn up in the car, Hwa," you reply.

"I'll be fine, I'll be fine," he laughs.

"He's got someone to impress, y/n, remember," Yunho interjects, handing Seonghwa the cup of coffee he made for him. Hongjoong is who he means. You giggle of the memory of them hooking up at the last summer trip, thinking they were being so sneaky when everyone knew exactly what was happening.

"How are you simultaneously so annoying and so nice," Seonghwa says to Yunho, making you all laugh.

"That's the perfect description of him," you say, shooting Yunho a smirk.

"How dare you both," Yunho replies as he makes his way down to the basement to grab his bag. He also stops by your room and grabs your suitcase, taking both down to the car and placing them in the trunk. You and Seonghwa follow after him, your tea in one hand and book in the other. You couldn't wait for a little time spent reading in the cabin.

"It's so funny how he always carries my stuff for me, like I'm some weak little thing," you say to Seonghwa.

"Well you kind of are, honey," Seonghwa says, looking at you softly. Your health issues had been flaring up again recently, and it broke his heart to see his close friend suffering so much.

"I know. It's annoying," you reply, looking away from him as you exit your house. "I just hope nothing happens while we're on the trip."

"We'll all take care of you if anything does," he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to comfort you.

"Thank you," you reply as you climbed into the back seat. You make eye contact with Yunho through the rear view mirror, his look attentive and curious.

"Ready?" he asks you, and you nod, holding his gaze. Since living with him, and really even since high school, he had driven you basically everywhere. You couldn't help but love it.

***

After meeting up with everyone at Ari's apartment you split into your two cars. You, Yunho, Seonghwa, Ari and her boyfriend San would be in Yunho's car. And Wooyoung, Hongjoong, Mingi, Yeosang and Jongho would be in Wooyoung's. You weren't sure how having ten people in the cabin would go, but you decided not to worry. This time of year was not for dread or anxiety; it was for joy and laughter.

After spending time on the drive talking to Ari and San, you realized he was just as handsome and kind as she told you. You squeezed her arm in excitement, elated that your friend had such a wonderful new boyfriend. Yunho and Seonghwa had expressed concern when they first started dating, given that Ari's last relationship wasn't healthy. But even they seemed swayed by just a few hours with San, with his sweet smile and warm conversation. You all arrived in the highest spirits, you and Ari ditching the car to let the boys carry your things while you excitedly ran to the backyard to dip your toes in the hot spring.

"God, I'm so excited we're back," she said, grabbing your hand. "And I'm excited you're meeting San. What do you think, so far?"

"He seems wonderful. Are you happy, is he always this kind?" You look at her fondly, wanting nothing more than for her to finally experience a healthy love.

"I'm so happy dude. It's just been so smooth, so calm. It's built the way I think these things are supposed to, you know? No rushing, no fighting and making up and fighting again. None of that awful shit that I used to look for. I feel like I'm finally an adult. I guess 25 is my 18," she laughs.

"Girl I'm 25 and barely even independent from my parents. You don't need to feel bad about what's come before." You squeeze her hand, a silent message of love passing between you. "I'm so, so happy for you."

As you make your way inside Yunho calls you over to him.

"Hey, we were just discussing sleeping arrangements. We were thinking Ari and San can have the room with the actual queen bed, and the rest of us boys can sleep in the living room on the couches. There's that little bed nook in the library, would you be okay sleeping there? I know you and Ari usually shared the real bed but I figure her and San would want to sleep in the same room together," he says.

"Oh, of course. But, are all of you going to fit out here with Yeosang and Jongho along?" you ask.

"Well, I'm not sure. We'll see."

"Isn't there a pull out couch in the library?" you ask. It's no surprise you know the small room better than him.

"There is?" he asks.

"Come, let's go see." He follows you through the cabin to your favorite room, seeing the small blue couch in the corner.

"I swear this thing extends or something," you say, crouching down to try to find where to push. Eventually it gives and starts moving, surprising Yunho. When it's finally extended it takes up a lot of the room, and looks almost goofy. But it's reasonably long, definitely somewhere someone else could sleep. You look up at Yunho, assessing how tall he is and how long the bed is. "Think you could fit?" you ask.

Yunho lays himself down, his legs hanging only slightly off the end of the new bed. You go and grab a pillow from your bed nook, tucking it underneath his head.

"Well it can fit one person, for sure. I doubt any more though, unless any of the boys want to be cuddled up that close," he says.

"Seonghwa and Hongjoong?" you offer. Yunho laughs.

"You want them in here doing stuff at night right next to you?" he asks. You cringe at his suggestion.

"They wouldn't do that to me," you say, shaking you head at him.

"You never know," he says, starting to make his way out of the room. "If you really just want the room to yourself, that's okay."

"No it's totally fine. You can sleep in here, if you want to. Or Seonghwa. I'd be okay with either of you. Just let me know."

Yunho nods as you both exit, heading back to the kitchen where everyone is getting ready to make dinner. Wooyoung has nine assistants today, far more than he really needs. But it's fun, bustling around the kitchen with everyone as you prepare a big feast to celebrate the start of the vacation. Soon you see Yunho carrying your bag to the library and soon after, his own bag. And you feel something in you become warm, something low in your gut.

"What are you thinking about?" Ari asks you, seeing the distant look in your eyes.

"Huh?" you say as you turn to her, genuinely surprised.

"You looked like you were daydreaming or something."

"Oh no, just spacing out, sorry," you chuckle, not sure what had just come over you.

"Well look what I got you," she says, holding up a giant bag of your favorite cheesy crackers.

"So I guess you can read my mind or something?" you joke, grabbing the bag and her in a big hug. "Wait, wait right here. I have something for you too."

You run over to the library to grab the bracelet you made Ari last month. You still hadn't had a chance to give it to her and you couldn't wait. As you enter you see Yunho slowly unpacking his bag, setting his phone and charger on the small end table by the blue couch. You rifle through your own bag to find the small box you had packed for Ari, yourself unpacking a few things in the process. In the silence of the moment you begin to feel warm again; you look over at Yunho and soak in his messy hair, his loose clothing that makes him look so soft and comfy. You stare unabashedly, unsure of what's come over you. Usually you hate starting, hate eye contact.

"What?" is all he says, but you feel like there might be something more he wants to ask.

"So you're staying in here?"

"Yeah, Hwa wants to stay with Hongjoong out there. I figured you would rather it just be one person in here with you, more comfortable for you."

You smile and reach your arms out to him, still sat on the floor. He gives you a quizzical look, unsure what your gesture means.

"Come, give me a hug," you say. "You've been so thoughtful today."

In the short moments of your hug a silence hangs around the two of you. Yunho had never been one for serious sincerity. He definitely never knew what to say when you said things like this. When he stayed with you in the hospital and you cried in his arms, thanking him endlessly for being there with you. When your allergic reactions left you weak and groggy and you wouldn't stop telling him how much you loved him, and how much you worried he'd abandon you for being so needy and sick. You said the same to Seonghwa too, but Yunho could understand that better. It made more sense to him. When you said it to him it made his brain stop in a way that he still hadn't figured out.

***

The evening was off to a perfect start. Ari loved her bracelet, the project you had been promising to make her for months now, and everyone else loved it too. Everyone showered you with compliments and showered Wooyoung with them too, after tasting the delicious meal he had whipped up. You all gathered in the living room to eat, spreading out over the large L-shaped couches and the floor. A favorite cheesy movie was watched, a bottle of wine opened. Everyone laughed and relaxed, helping to clean up in the kitchen after the movie was over. And then to the hot spring you all went, as was tradition. You always started and ended the holiday with a group soak; attendance was mandatory.

In the heat and steam of the tub everyone opened up, even the most quiet among you. There was something about the nature of the tub that made everyone vulnerable, and for you it had always been one of the best parts of these trips. Everyone was cuddled up together given the size of the tub, and the proximity seemed to fuel the spilling of secrets. This year especially, with all ten of you, everyone was shoulder to shoulder. Ari sat on San's lap to try to save on space, and as everyone began piling in you ended up squeezed between Seonghwa and Yunho. The crowdedness felt like too much for you, and before he could make an objection, you decided to sit on Yunho's lap.

"There's not enough room in here," you said quietly to him when you felt his surprise.

"Yeah I know," he replied, letting you wrap his arms around you. You sensed some tension and hesitation in him, though.

"Should I move?" you asked, turning around to face him.

"No, no, you're fine. How else will we fit everyone?" he replied.

You turned around satisfied but then caught a smile on Mingi's face, one that seemed to be in reaction to you and Yunho. You shot him a confused look and he glanced away, clearly feeling caught in his reaction. And then you turned and saw Wooyoung eyeing you, too.

"What?" you said to him, turning your head and looking at him sideways.

"Nothing, nothing." But then his characteristic smirk formed on his lips; he had lost the fight in trying to delay it. You knew exactly what this meant.

"Oh god, don't tell me you have some huge piece of gossip to share with all of us," you said, sighing. It was always Wooyoung who started out with something, anything dramatic to share. He always broke the ice, and really, you appreciated it. Even if you made fun of him for being so obsessed with gossiping.

"Well, no, not really," he replied, looking almost shy. It didn't seem very characteristic of him. He took a deep breath and swallowed, and you all held your breath as you awaited his story.

"He has a crush," Mingi broke in, clearly not wanting to wait any longer. "It's this woman who choreographed for that music video we worked on a couple of weeks ago." Mingi and Wooyoung were backup dancers, and often worked on projects together.

"It's not just a crush, we're like kind of dating now," Wooyoung added, clearly shocking Mingi with this new information.

"Are you serious?" Mingi replied, and Wooyoung nodded his head. "Guys she's gorgeous. And so intense and smart. And isn't she like 40?"

"She's 37 Mingi, god," Woo replied, giggling and looking very pleased with himself. It had been a long time since he'd even been interested in dating, and everyone in the tub was looking surprised and amused. "We actually.... we hooked up on set one day."

"Wooyoung! Bad idea!" you replied, shocked he would even share this information. But then again, you were in the hot spring tub. And plenty of wine had been consumed.

"How did you even manage that?" Mingi laughed.

"In a trailer, you know.." Wooyoung trailed off, clearly embarrassed and nervous to tell the story. But just as always it had achieved the affect it needed to, and soon everyone was spilling their secrets, updating everyone on every funny thing that had happened in the past year. You continued to sip your wine, drinking slowly given how much of a lightweight you were. You hadn't finished your first glass still, even through the movie and dinner. Yunho kept making you drink water too, nervous that you'd become dehydrated and get sick. As the night wore on you relaxed more into his lap, more into his arms. You held his hands on your lower stomach, over that place that felt so warm earlier when you looked at him. Finally, when everyone decided to call it a night, he wrapped a towel around you both and led you through the dark path back to the house. In your tipsy state you kept repeating "shower, shower" so he led you there, running to grab your phone when you demanded it. As you stripped out of your swimsuit and took a look at yourself in the mirror you saw that happy girl you always saw here, surrounded by her favorite people and completely content. The shower was quick but felt delicious, and as you exited you felt blissful and relaxed. Until you realized you'd forgotten to bring a towel with you.

There were only two bathrooms in the cabin, one connected to the actual master bedroom with the actual queen bed, and one for everyone else to share. You couldn't walk through the house naked and dripping with so many people here, especially Wooyoung's cousins who you didn't know well. Thankfully your phone was still there on the counter where Yunho had left it, so you called him.

"Can you bring me a towel?" you asked when he answered. And then quickly, "and some clothes too, please."

"Anything else, your highness?" Yunho teased you.

"Shut up, I'm cold," you whined.

"What clothes do you want?" he asked.

"Just, those black shorts and one of my t-shirts, I don't care which. Just something comfy for sleeping in."

"No underwear?" he asked.

"Yes no underwear, I'm about to go to bed. I usually sleep naked but I have to wear clothes when we're here." You swore his breath hitched a bit.

"Be there in a moment," he replied before ending the call. In a moment he was there, knocking on the door. You opened it slowly, and saw him holding his arm out to you while dramatically facing his head the other way.

"You don't have to be so damn weird, I know you've seen plenty of naked humans in your life," you said, laughing at him.

"You make me sound like a slut," he replied.

"Maybe you are, how am I to know."

"I can't believe you of all people are calling me a slut."

"What the hell does that mean?" you ask, eyes wide.

"I know those little romance books you read are full of smut," he challenges you.

"I'm literally reading a book about history right now, thank you very much," you respond.

"Yeah the history of changing attitudes about sex. Even your non-fiction reads are horny."

You stand still for a moment, mouth agape. You didn't realize Yunho payed that much attention to the books you were reading. To know what he just said about your current book, he would have had to at least read the synopsis on the inside cover, if not a bit of the introductory chapter. You feel a little weird that he'd sneakily been perusing your book when you hadn't been looking, probably this morning while you were asleep on the couch, you guessed. But something about it felt really nice too. Like he cared to know you, cared to know about the things you liked. Even if they were so different from what he usually was into.

"Are you two good?" Seonghwa asked as he meandered down the hall, hearing the slight intensity in your tone during your conversation with Yunho. At the sound of his voice you both snapped out of it, and at seeing you naked he turned around with a quick, 'oh, sorry,' before heading back to the living room.

You dried off and dressed quickly, realizing you spent several moments naked in front of Yunho while you argued. It wasn't really an argument, more a discussion maybe? Or a confession? He admitted to knowing what kind of books you liked to read, and you hadn't denied it. None of it had to mean anything, you implored yourself. As you had said, he'd seen plenty of other people naked before. Well, at least several. It's just the trip, the glass of wine consuming your brain and making you fuzzy. But it felt like things had shifted that day.

***

As you and Yunho settled into bed you began chatting, and before you knew it, it was the early hours of the morning, the time you rarely stayed up to, the time when the world felt like a completely different place to you.

"I've missed you," you said, sighing into the comfort of the blankets and pillows beneath you.

"Me too," Yunho replied, quickly. Like the response was almost involuntary. You opened your eyes to look at him, as his words weren't what you were expecting.

"I'm sorry I've been so busy. I miss hanging out with you, just the two of us," he continued. "You're one of my favorite people on planet earth, you know that right?" It was completely out of character for him. Like the years of sincerity he'd kept inside had been begging to be let free and he finally obliged. You sat up and walked to the couch he laid on, mere steps from your bed. You leaned down next to him and hugged him, too tired to give a verbal response. You sighed and nuzzled your face into his shoulder, relaxing on top of him completely.

"Are you still tipsy?" he asked.

"No, why?" you asked. You were too tired to move your head.

"You're only this touchy when you're drunk usually."

"I don't really ever get drunk though."

"I know, I mean, this is how you used to get when you would get drunk. Like in high school, when we'd drink."

"Oh. Sorry?" you asked. You didn't really understand why he was telling you this.

"No, I like it. I was just, trying to joke around," he sighed. "Wasn't the right moment probably. Wasn't funny."

You fell into a silence again, briefly.

"So it's fine, right? I can hug you?" you asked.

"Yes, of course." To prove his point he wrapped his arms around you more tightly, one hand coming to rest on the back of your neck. "You seem happy right now, today."

"I am, these trips always make me happy," you reply.

"Your happiness means a lot to me." He seemed almost nervous to say it, like he had to work himself up to it.

"Why are you being so sappy today?" you laugh, nuzzling farther into him. He glanced at the clock on the wall, looking for an excuse.

"It's 2am, I don't know."

"Shit, it's that late? I should really get some sleep." You knew the plan for tomorrow was hiking up to the water fall, and though the hike was neither long nor strenuous, you still wanted to be well rested. "Goodnight," you said as you dragged yourself up, planting a quick peck on his cheek before crawling into your bed. Sleep enveloped you quickly, given the relaxing nature of the day and the late hour. Yunho turned himself over, trying to get comfortable on the small pull out couch. You didn't see the bright pink of his cheeks, or the rapid rise and fall of his chest. You had no idea you had any affect on him. A life of sickness had left you mostly uninterested in pursuing romantic affections, and you'd truly never dreamed of a long term romantic partnership with anyone. Yunho knew this, well. But he couldn't stop his feelings, no matter how hard he tried to.

***

In the morning you were woken by a bright, hot stream of sun that shined through the window, that late morning sunshine that is surprisingly warm on clear-skied days like today. With a groan you cracked open your eyes to see that Yunho had already awoken and left, the room silent. Your head felt groggy and your stomach ached a bit, and you instantly scolded yourself for drinking your first night and staying up so late. Sure, it had been fun in the moment, but you couldn't afford to make yourself feel poorly on such a special trip. You hoisted yourself up, taking a swig from your nearly empty water bottle that Yunho must have put on the side of your bed. You certainly didn't remember putting it there.

When you finally pushed yourself up to stand you felt something wet on your bed. You turned around expecting to find some spilt water, but were instead greeted with a disappointing and frustrating sight. A small streak of blood ran across the beautiful, light blue sheets. As you felt around your shorts you found a spot there too, wet and cold against your fingers. You let out a frustrated sigh, running yourself to the bathroom with a new change of underwear and shorts and a pad in hand. You desperately rinsed your shorts in the sink, your mind beginning to spin and spin. What were you going to do about the bedsheets?

As you came back into your small room you didn't notice Yunho, your focus entirely on where you could hang your shorts to dry. When he spoke you jumped back in complete shock, nearly falling over.

"You okay?" he asked, lurching forward to try to prevent you from falling. You thankfully caught yourself in time, but then your eyes wandered to your bed and you knew he'd seen.

"I don't know what I'm gonna fucking do," you started, tears forming your eyes from the embarrassment. It wasn't getting your period that made you feel so weird, it was the fact that you'd stained the nice bedsheets at the nice cabin you and your friends were renting, and it was only the second day.

"Well, what do you need? I'm sure we can get that stain out of the sheets," Yunho offered, hoping it would make you feel better.

"We? They have my blood on them," you responding, trembling. Why were you so worked up, what the hell had gotten into you? Your own anxiety at the situation shocked you and Yunho both.

"It's just blood, y/n. And it's like barely anything." Yunho grabbed your upper arms to steady you, worried your trembling would land you in a heap on the floor. And then suddenly, a horrible cramp stabbed its way through your abdomen. You immediately groaned and grabbed your side, leaning against one of the bookshelves to support yourself.

"Fuck, I need my Tylenol," you breathed out, trying to calm yourself. It felt like your entire body was collapsing on you in an instant. And your period had only just started early this morning, maybe only a few hours ago from the looks of it.

Yunho grabbed two Tylenol and and opened your water bottle, offering you both one after the other. He had seen Seonghwa do this many times and he hoped he was doing it right. You quickly swallowed the pills and took a deep breath, worried you wouldn't be able to join everyone for the hike that day. A tear slipped down your cheek and you quickly wiped it away, wanting to push down your feelings of discomfort.

"I just need to wait until this kicks in and I'll be okay," you said, hoping it sounded convincing. Hoping it was true.

"Let me clean your sheet, then," Yunho said, leading you down to lay on the pull out couch.

"Do you even know how to clean out blood?" you asked, shoving your face into his pillow. It smelled so good and suddenly you felt warm again, this time through your whole body.

"I was gonna ask Ari about it," he said. "If it's okay for me to tell her."

"Ask Hwa for help too, he knows," you replied. With a sigh you wrapped yourself tightly in his blanket, hiding your face. Everything that had happened this morning was so frustrating, and you couldn't stop feeling angry at your body for always ruining your plans.

Remarkably, twenty minutes later you did feel a lot better. No more severe jabs of pain had come, and once you got some food in you and washed your face, you felt ready for the day. Everyone packed their bathing suits for the falls and put on their good shoes for hiking, and with snacks and waters in hand you made your way up to the edge of the forest to find the start of the trail.

You walked arm in arm with Ari, picking flowers off the side of the path to put in each other's hair. The blossoms in this area were beautiful during this time of year, and the trees made the trail quiet and calm and cool. When you ran out of space in Ari's hair you started putting the flowers in Seonghwa and Hongjoong's too, the only other two who walked the trail as slowly as you and Ari did. Even with the slow pace you began to feel queasy about half way up, and when you sat down, unable to take it anymore, Seonghwa called out to Yunho. He came and crouched down in front of you, telling you to climb onto his back, and carried you the rest of the way, the gentle breeze blowing his hair into your face and tickling your nose. It was a bit longer now than it had been in a while, looking almost like a shaggy mullet. As it brushed across your face you realized you thought it looked really good on him, how it complimented his long neck and round cheeks. You shook your head trying to stir yourself out of your daydream. You had always recognized he was attractive, but you didn't like him like that, never had. Why did you care how well his hairstyle complimented his face?

At the falls you sat on a long log at the edge of the small lake, not feeling up to swimming and playing with everyone else. Seonghwa could sense it easily, and after Yunho asked for his help that morning cleaning your sheets he knew why. He sat with you, not bothering to put on his suit either. He had wanted to talk to you anyway, wanted to spend a moment alone. These trips were always fun but it was hard to get one on one time with anyone.

"You okay?" he asked as you watched the others playing in the water, Yunho and Mingi wrestling each other for an inflatable ball. It seemed like they were all playing some sort of water polo from the looks of things.

"Yeah, yeah. Just my period. How are you?" you asked turning to him, seeing the conflict behind his eyes.

"I'm... I'm fucking spiraling, girl." He shook his head and dropped it onto your shoulder, letting out a massive sigh.

"Why, cause of that guy?" you asked, looking in the direction of Hongjoong. Seonghwa just nodded. In the brilliance of the mid day sun Hongjoong looked like he was shining, his tattoos standing out starkly against his pale skin. The ball was in his hand and San lunged for him, and he threw it up just in time as they crashed into each other, a laughing mess. As the two came up for air San was repeatedly apologizing, the both of them being yelled at by the other players to get back in the game. After some more moments of play Hongjoong grabbed onto a rock on the side of the small lake underneath the waterfall, pulling himself up to grab a bottle of water a few feet away. As he pulled himself up you saw the ripple of his chest and abdomen.

"Damn, he's like really ripped," you said, smiling down at Seonghwa.

"Don't say shit like that to me," he groaned into your shoulder. "You're just making this worse."

"What's wrong? Why are you spiraling?" you asked him.

"Dude, I like him a lot. Like a lot a lot." Seonghwa's hand came up to his face, a small whimper escaping his lips. You knew he was on the verge of crying.

"Come here," you said, turning towards him to give him a proper hug. "Everything's gonna be okay."

"Not if he doesn't like me back," Seonghwa replied.

"He obviously likes you back, what do you mean?"

"I'm just, I just- I don't know what's going to happen. When we all go back to the city. When we're here we're all over each other but then real life comes and I barely see him. I thought I was over it. But clearly not." Soft tears fall from his eyes, down his cheeks and onto the dirt of the forest floor.

"Oh, honey. I'm so sorry," you replied, rubbing your hand up and down his back to comfort him. "You've got to talk to him about it."

"I know, I know, I just." He sighed. "I know I need to, and it's gonna be awkward as hell but I just need to."

"You can do it, I know you can," you said, squeezing him tightly. "Crushes are the fucking worst, aren't they?"

Seonghwa laughed as you separated, wiping the final tears from his cheeks and sighing more freely. He knew you'd always be there for him, no matter what happened. You didn't need to say it now. And you'd already discussed how it might be awkward for the group if they dated and then broke up. Last year, after your last cabin trip, it was discussed. Even with Yunho. You all agreed that Hwa should do what he wanted, and not worry about everyone else in the group. You were all adults now, and he didn't need to torture himself just to save everyone else's feelings. But it seemed he had tortured himself this last year, anyway. You had thought he maybe was over Hongjoong, that it was just a little fling at the cabin that year. But now you saw that wasn't true.

***

Back at the cabin Wooyoung made another delicious meal, and everyone gathered around the table in the living room for some charades. You took more Tylenol with dinner, your cramps having returned in full force once you made it back to your home base. All through dinner and games you tried to put on a smile, tried to get distracted in the fun. But it wasn't working. As soon as you finished your food you excused yourself, cleaned your dishes and then made your way to your room. You changed your pad for what felt like the fourth time that hour, then plugged your heating pad into the wall as you readied your bed. It was maybe only seven or eight in the evening, but you couldn't take it any longer. And your trusty Tylenol didn't seem to be working well tonight.

After some time resting in bed you heard the door open. Turning your head you saw Yunho walking in with a steaming cup of tea, gingerly handing it over to you to grab.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. The gentle light from the lamp in the corner made his eyes look soft and shiny. He looked down at you with concern, his eyes locked on yours.

"I'm okay," you managed, trying hard not to wince obviously at the pain that had just seared through you.

"I thought, some tea might help. I don't know," he said, his cheeks and ears going every so slightly crimson.

"It does, it's very soothing. Thank you, Yuyu," you said, his favorite nickname rolling off your tongue. Another streak of pain runs through you and you can't stop your face from scrunching up in pain, making Yunho's heart sink.

"What can we do, what makes it better?" he asked.

"There's not much, really, other than what I've done. I took my Tylenol, I've been drinking water, my heating pad, this tea..." You trailed off, smiling for a second at the only other method you know to help alleviate the cramps a bit.

"What, is there something else?" Yunho asked.

"No, well, not really. Basically, at home sometimes if my cramps are really bad it actually helps to like, you know, masturbate. Like it doesn't even necessarily feel super sexual, it just seems to help the muscles down there like relax, when they're all tight and like spasming and stuff." You quickly took a sip of your tea, suddenly noticing your heart rate had sky rocketed. "Obviously I can't do that here, so like it's not an option right now but, yeah, that just, uh, came to my mind."

"You can do that here, if it would help," Yunho replied, fascinated by your rambling. You really didn't get that way often, and he thought it was funny that this was the topic that made you this way.

"No, stop. Plus, I don't even have my tools or anything," you blurted out, suddenly wishing you hadn't.

"Tools?" he asked.

"You know, like, vibrator, dildo, et cetera," you replied, looking at him mildly mortified.

"Ah, I see," he replied with a simple nod of his head. "You don't have to be so nervous talking to me about this. I literally saw you naked last night. Plus, I swear I've heard you and Hwa talking about this kind of stuff a lot?"

Your body fluttered at his admission that he looked at your naked body, and suddenly you felt flushed and flustered. "It's different with him," you said, not meaning to sound so pissed.

"Why, cause he's gay and I'm not?" Yunho asked. He really was genuinely curious.

"Yeah, I guess, I don't know. Yunho, I can't do this right now. I feel like shit." Tears welled in your eyes at all of the conflicting feelings you were having, and you just wanted everything to stop.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," he replied, his tone softer. He came over to stroke his hand through your hair, hoping it would distract you from your pain. "I just want to make you feel better."

"There's not really much to do, I just have to bear it. First day is always the worst. Go, have fun with everyone. I don't want this to ruin your evening along with mine."

With a final stroke of your hair Yunho stood, and repeating your action from the night before, leaned down and planted a kiss on your cheek.

"Feel better," he said. This time he saw the color come to your cheeks, and your shy smile as your turned your head away from him.

***

When he reentered your room it was dark, only the light from the moon illuminating the floor. Your heating pad was on the floor, and as he walked towards you it looked like you were asleep; your eyes were closed, breaths were steady and you were curled up on your side with your blanket tucked high into your neck.

He settled down himself, trying his best to be silent. The pull out couch wasn't the most comfortable place to sleep, if he was honest. But he really liked sleeping with you in here, and he was thankful you had let him. He had wanted to ask you straight away, when you showed him the pull out couch. But he treaded lightly, not wanting to push anything.

After a few moments spent responding to texts he finally settled into bed, curling up himself. He heard you shifting around slightly but figured you were just dreaming. Same with the changes in breath he swore he heard. He pleaded with himself to stop worrying and just let you be. But then, he heard a sniffle. Then another. And finally a small whimper, unmistakeable.

"Y/n, you're awake aren't you?" he asked, his voice low. All you could do was let out a groan in response. On instinct Yunho's body shot up, and within a second he was at the side of your bed peering down at you. "Hey, look at me."

You turned over slowly, the pain of your abdomen making it hard for you to move. You looked up at him and he caught a glimpse of your tear stained cheek, your blood shoot eyes and your puffy face. You had been crying, silently, for a while.

"Why did you turn off your heating pad?" he asked you.

"I need to sleep," you squeaked out, sniffling.

"But you're in pain," he said, resting his hand on your cheek. "Can I turn it back on for you?" You nod your head, feeling exasperated and desperate for relief.

"Are you sure there's nothing else that would help? What if I rubbed your back?" Yunho asked, as desperate for your pain to end as you were.

"That might help," you manage, closing your eyes and trying to take in the relief of your heating pad being back on.

Yunho crawls behind you on the bed, and slowly starts massaging you back, focusing his movements on your low back and side that you always seemed to grab onto. His hands feel searingly hot on your body, even with your thin shirt in between, and you begin to tremble uncontrollably.

"Sorry, I'm so cold," you tell him. "And I didn't bring anything warm to wear cause I'm stupid and assumed it would be hot out here."

"Hey, hey, stop that. You are not stupid," he replies. You feel him pull away for a second. "Here, sit up," he says as he reaches his arms out to help you. Before you know it you're being enveloped in the feeling of his hoodie that he just took off; it's warm and smells sweet. He settles back behind you, hands under the hoodie but still over your shirt as he continues to massage you gently. He can feel how tight the muscles in your back and side are, and he can't imagine how awful everything feels inside.

With his hoodie on and his hands on your back you feel like you're surrounded by him, and you aren't ready for the way it makes you feel. You're still groggy but you feel more grounded, and your body feels tingly and alive. It makes the pain almost more present, but it also makes everything else so clear, like the way his strong hands move along your side and the way the hoodie smells better than anything. Your body aches, even your legs, but it's your throbbing pussy that catches you off guard, the way his smell makes you want to open up and be taken.

All at once you realize the dilemma you are in. Being horny on your period wasn't exactly out of the ordinary, but now you were in a bed, horny on your period with a beautiful man, one who clearly loves you and wants nothing more than to make you feel better. You sigh, putting a hand on his to stop his movements, and you roll over to face him. His perfect face is inches from yours and you can't bear it, instead moving yourself down to bury your face in his chest. Your legs intertwine as you grab onto him, the two of you cuddling closer than you have in a very long time. He reaches his arm around you to keep rubbing your back, nuzzling his face into your hair. He's never told you, but he loves the smell of your hair so much. You use an unscented shampoo, due to your sensitivities. So he knows it's just your smell. And fuck it makes him feel creepy, but he's thankful every time you hug him and he gets a moment to take in that smell. Now, as always, he's fighting with himself to not get hard.

Your sighs become deeper as he continues to rub, and he reaches his hand under your shirt, testing the waters. You sigh blissfully at the skin to skin contact, his hand making your skin feel alive. As he keeps rubbing your head falls back, your body going nearly slack at how good it feels. You don't even realize for a moment but you've started moving your hips, rubbing yourself up and down his thigh that sits in between your legs. Your breath deepens and Yunho can't believe what he's seeing, his head swimming with desire as he watches your face, hears your soft sounds. A surge of pride washes through him at seeing how good you are feeling. "Baby," the word slips out of his mouth and you open your eyes, met with his large pupils and full pink lips.

"Kiss me," you whisper, opening your lips to let him in. He doesn't hesitate a moment, and suddenly your met with plush softness and his warm tongue as it brushes ever so slightly across yours. The feeling is intoxicating, igniting something in you that you hadn't felt in a long time. Your buck your hips against his leg harder, almost painfully, but it feels necessary. Your pussy is throbbing harder now, harder than you thought was really possible for you. You deepen the kiss, opening your mouth wider and sliding your tongue over his, moaning at the way it makes your clit feel. You need more, need something inside you soothing the aching muscles of your cunt, but you don't want to break the perfection of the kiss. You break away for a second, whimpering and throwing your head back in pained bliss. When your lips make contact again your hands are under his shirt and grabbing onto him, desperation dictating your every move.

"Please, can I touch you? Can I make you feel better?" he's asking, and his voice feels so good in your ear it's almost like you're on another planet.

"I'm bloody," you cry softly, the reality of the situation still not entirely escaping you.

"You really think I care about that?" he asks you, his hand coming up to brush along your cheek. You look at him with pleading eyes, wanting nothing more than to let him take care of you. Another wave of pain strikes through you and you whimper, grabbing your side again. Yunho brushes over it, kissing you gently on the cheek. More tears form in your eyes, the pain not subsiding this time. You begin to cry, your body shaking as you do. You don't know what else to do.

"Please help me," you plead out, still shaking.

"Where do you want me to touch you?" he asks, moving his hand down, now rubbing over your hip and upper thigh. The closer his hand gets to your core the more needy you feel, and you whine and buck your hips into him instead of responding.

"Baby please use your words, I don't want to hurt you," Yunho begs you, placing a gentle kiss on your lips.

"Inside, please. But be gentle, the muscles are so tight," you say with a pout, making Yunho's head spin.

"Wait a sec," he says, moving off your bed to grab a towel from his bag. He places it down next to you and then begins removing your shorts and panties, one at a time. He's slow and steady in his movements, which makes it feel all the more intimate. Once they are off he gently moves you onto the towel and then slowly spreads your legs, massaging your thighs as the muscles there are tight as well. Your short frame dwarfed in his hoodie is maybe the cutest thing he's ever seen, and the look of desperation on your face is maybe the hottest.

"Are you ready?" he asks, his voice low and his hands oh so close to where you need them. You nod, spreading your legs even more in an invitation. Slowly he makes his way up, gently brushing his hand over your exposed lips, hoping not to shock you with the contact. Once you've settled into his touch he finally starts circling your entrance, making you mewl in anticipation. He sinks one finger in and immediately you groan in relief, already feeling so full. He can't believe how tight you are, can't believe that only one finger can fit. He begins moving slowly, as gently as he can, stroking up and down and finding that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. Your body immediately starts feeling better, the muscles in your core finally having something to squeeze onto. Your pussy feels warm and perfect and he desperately wants to see you come undone, on his fingers, on his cock. As you relax into his touch he feels your walls finally open up a bit, and slowly he pulls back, this time pushing two fingers in.

The wave of pleasure is instant, filling your low belly with sparkly warmth. You begin to rock yourself onto his fingers too, desperate for a bit more. He starts moving with a bit more force, still holding back and scared to hurt you. It's just the right amount of speed and pressure and you find your mind drifting, everything around you feeling warm and tingly and soft. You don't pay attention to your sounds; you don't care. Finally after your terrible day of pain he's taking care of you, and you just relax and let your body take control. Your high is building, oh so slowly. You can feel it in your legs all the way to your toes, the sparklers dancing down your body. Yunho's own breathing deepens as you start to moan, his body reacting to your sounds of pleasure. He needs desperately to make you come, to make you feel good. But he can feel your body resisting, ever so slightly.

"Baby, relax, relax if you can," he coos down at you, stroking his free hand over your thigh muscles that still feel tight. "Just focus on what feels good."

Your mind goes to his long fingers, to how deep they are inside you, how perfect they feel. The pressure in the perfect spots, making your entire body loose and happy. Suddenly he moves his free hand up, his thumb stroking gently over your clit. You moan loudly, all of your muscles finally releasing, and suddenly the feeling builds out of nowhere, from your fingertips and your toes and the top of your head, surging towards your center. You come, gently at first and then harder as Yunho continued to stroke you, intense pleasure rolling over you. It takes a long time for you to fully ride it out, your whole body processing what just happened. Finally your head feels clear and settled, your body no longer achey.

In the moonlight Yunho cleans you up, kissing you and whispering, 'I'll be right back.' After cleaning his hand and helping you back into your panties and shorts, he wraps himself around you, kissing your cheek and your exposed neck and relishing the relaxed state of your body. You are out before you know it, his warmth sedating.

***

A light storm rolled over the mountain in the night, covering the sky in gentle clouds. Without the brightness of the sun to wake you, you and Yunho both slept in, your bodies wanting nothing other than rest and each other's company. In the later hours of the morning Seonghwa became concerned, worried that you weren't doing well. When you left dinner early the night before he worried too, but when Yunho checked on you and returned assuring him that you were fine, he had let it go. He never wanted you to feel bothered, like he was keeping too close of an eye on you. You were your own person and capable of asking for what you needed. He knew that.

But when the time reached 11am he couldn't stop himself. It was just weird, given how early you had gone to bed, and the fact that you were normally an early riser. Gently he opened the door to the library, feeling mildly awkward. He wasn't sure what he would be greeted with, thought he did have a few ideas. He shook his head trying to brush his suspicions away. He knew if they were really true, you both would have told him.

"Y/n," he called from the open door, not seeing Yunho on the couch. Your body was hidden by the nook in the wall you slept in, forcing him to walk more into the room. You groaned at the sound, coming up from such a deep state of sleep. You didn't realize where you were, didn't realize Yunho was still cuddling you. As you went to stretch you accidentally hit him, waking him up with a jolt.

"Fuck, sorry," you said in a groggy voice, laughing. He instantly wrapped around you tightly, his mind not totally awake. As he squeezed you tight you let out a squeak, not expecting it. Neither of you realized Seonghwa was right there.

"So I'm guessing you're both okay?" Seonghwa said, and your brain finally registered it. You looked up at him in shock, feeling suddenly exposed. You nodded, trying not to be awkward. What did it matter really, that Yunho was sleeping in the same bed as you?

"I'm feeling better," you replied. "Got a lot of sleep."

"Sure," Seonghwa chuckled, looking between the two of you.

"Hwa! Go away!" you retorted, playfully rolling your eyes at him. Yunho remained uncharacteristically quiet behind you, but his arms didn't leave you for a second.

"Okay I will. Just glad you're alive," he chuckled again, making his way out of the room.

You shoved your face in your pillow, pushing yourself back further into Yunho's embrace.

You definitely had some explaining to do.

***

Next Part ->

[specialagentartemis]

#hey does anyone know what the deal was with the claims that Friday the 13th and Easter are actually pagan feminist fertility holidays #that were appropriated by the patriarchy/Catholic church? #because I feel like I'm going crazy seeing cnn quote that tumblr post from years ago #like which one came first (bc I can't find that post) and how true are those claims

@assclarinet Wh... what do you mean CNN is quoting tumblr posts. What.

Anyway. These claims go around constantly and they are just as sourceless as anything else in that post.

And as it is Easter Season, let's address them:

Was Easter actually a pagan feminist fertility holiday appropriated by the Catholic Church?

Short answer: No.

Long answer:

Easter is the theological core of Christianity. There is no Christianity without Easter. Easter is the holiest day of the Christian calendar, because it is the theological crux of the entire religion: that Jesus died, and then three days later he rose from the dead, his sacrifice having redeemed the world of sin and his resurrection ushering in a new age. Easter is a very Christian thing.

That's not typically what people who say this mean, though. They don't mean the Christian holy day of Jesus's resurrection Easter Sunday, they mean the hegemonic spring holiday in the culturally-Christian world that is pseudo-secularized Easter.

Was placing the central element of Christianity in the spring a way of co-opting pagan spring fertility festivals? No. It's fairly central to the Last Supper-crucifixion-resurrection narrative that it happened at Passover. The Gospels pretty well agree on this part, though there's conflict in the scholarship of whether the Last Supper was a Passover meal proper or happened a day before. (The seder as it is understood today wasn’t performed the same way back then, so it wasn’t properly a seder, either.) In early Christianity, the association of Easter with Passover was theologically significant--Jesus was (and is) called the Paschal lamb, equating Jesus's sacrifice with the sacrifice/slaughter of a lamb for the deliverance of the people from death. The timing of Easter is one of the few Christian holy days calculated based on the logic of the Jewish luni-solar calendar. It's not the same exact calendar, and they don't always directly coincide, but it's the same basis.

Early Christianity grew out of Judaism, and its relationship to Judaism, its self-view as the culmination of Judaism, remained significant to figures like Paul who have defined Christian thought and Church organization ever since. (Here’s a standard view on this presented from a Jewish perspective.) (This is a super interesting perspective from a Congregationalist Christian theologian with a keen interest on the Jewish roots of early Christianity.) (Here’s also a really interesting interview with provocative Jewish philosopher Daniel Boyarin about it.) Christianity and Judaism probably started really developing in different directions sometime after the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, with the next few centuries seeing the rise of Rabbinic Judaism as well as the influx of pagan gentiles adopting Christianity and bringing their theological and philosophical backgrounds into it.

The upshot is: Easter is in the spring because Passover is in the spring.

Does the name "Easter" come from Ostara or Ishtar? No. These are the etymologies I see proposed to say, see! "Easter" steals the name of a pagan fertility goddess! And that's a super English-centric way of looking at the world. In most European languages (and let's be real, when people talk about Christianity stealing pagan holidays, they usually are thinking about, like, Celts), the name of Easter comes from the Latin "Pascha" which was adopted from the Greek "Pascha" which, wow, sounds an awful lot like Pesach, the Hebrew name of Passover. Because Easter was associated with Passover. Even in English, the formal, liturgical word for "pertaining to Easter" is "Paschal". So only in Germanic languages like German and English does the name of Easter come from non-Paschal origins.

Also there is no connection to Ishtar.

The etymology of "Easter" is super obscure, though.

Well, there was an Eostre, right? And the Easter bunny tradition was stolen from the pre-Christian Germanic pagan festivals for Eostre or Ostara? Ehhhhh. Dubious. This Library of Congress folklore blog post by a folklorist who has studied Middle English has a lot of well-cited information suggesting that most "received wisdom" about the pagan festivals or Eostre/Ostara that featured a hare derive from the Brothers Grimm in the 1800s. Jakob Grimm cites a single source for the evidence of a goddess Eostre, an 8th century Christian monk's writing.

Eosturmonath has a name which is now translated "Paschal month", and which was once called after a goddess of theirs named Eostre, in whose honour feasts were celebrated in that month. Now they designate that Paschal season by her/its name, calling the joys of the new rite by the time-honoured name of the old observance.

Definitely possible, even likely, there was some syncretism in the celebration activities there, but it's hard to prove what, and to what extent.

Grimm is the one who postulates the existence of Ostara based on this, using the methods of historical linguistics to derive a cognate with the old German oster-month. Note that the Grimms were 1) linguists as well as folklorists, and the idea of Ostara appears to come from linguistic hypothesis moreso than actual gathered folklore, and 2) very invested in nation-building through their folklore project. No other sources for Eostre or Ostara exist, though modern linguists have hypothesized a connection to the Vedic Ushas and Greek Eos as Indo-European dawn-goddesses. (Also hence the word "east.") So Eostre and Ostara may certainly have existed as Germanic goddesses/personifications of the dawn, but probably not fertility. And the month around April, as the return of spring, was associated with the dawn goddess. If so, Eostre gave her name to Eosturmonath ("Eostre-month"), which is when Easter fell (see above re: the timing of Passover), and so Eoastremonath became Easter-month became Easter. "Easter" then likely derives from the name of the month, not the goddess directly.

The story of Ostara and a hare was, as best I can tell, invented in the 1800s during a time of renewed interest in European paganism as, again, nation-building projects.

Hares, eggs/chicks, and flowers are all perennial symbols of spring and new life in Europe, so it wouldn't be surprising if older celebrations in springtime used them, and those got transferred onto Easter celebrations because, hey, spring, dawn, sunrise out of the night, new birth, resurrection, new life, it all kinda goes together. But it wasn't a holiday that was "appropriated by the patriarchy/Catholic Church,"; at most it was traditional spring festivities transferred onto the new spring festivity. This happened a lot.

As for the second question...

Was Friday the 13th a pagan fertility holiday and that's why it's been made unlucky now?

Short answer: No.

Long answer:

No one really agrees on why Friday the 13th is unlucky, but it probably also comes from Christianity. Friday is the unlucky day because it's the day that Jesus was crucified. 13 is the unlucky number because that's the number of people at the Last Supper. I've also seen several people online reference that Loki was the 13th guest at the feast where he caused the death of Baldr, but I can't find an actual source for that, and it feels very Christianity-influenced. The most influential records of old Norse/Icelandic mythology were written down in the 1200s, well after Christianity was the primary religion of the region, and Christian influences on Norse mythology as we know it now cannot be wholly discounted. So I'm somewhat skeptical Loki is the origin, either.

But also, and this is where I get more into personal hypothesizing, 12 is a very strong and auspicious number in a lot of cultures. There are (typically, approximately) 12 full moons in a year, so lots and lots of calendars split the year into 12 months. 12 is a good number for timekeeping and subdividing: Ancient Egyptians were the ones to develop 12-hour days/nights, and Mesopotamians the ones to split time into units of 60. There were twelve tribes of Israel, twelve disciples, twelve Olympians, twelve labors of Hercules, twelve constellations in the Greek zodiac and twelve years in the Chinese zodiac cycle. English has unique number-names up to twelve before we start going three-ten, four-ten, etc. We like twelves! Particularly in cultures influenced by the Mediterranean sphere. So I can imagine prime thirteen is ungainly, awkward... unlucky.

(Also, the idea of splitting the week into a cycle of 7 days originates from Judaism in the Biblical book of Genesis, continuing into Christianity and Islam from the same origin. The whole concept of "Friday" is inextricable from Abrahamic religions.)

There's no evidence it was ever a sacred pagan day for sex or anything like that. It just wasn't.