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levisjinchuriki · 2 days ago

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open arms - chapter 2

summary: you feel like a burden, leeching off of kento's kindness. he assures you he's more than happy to care for you

warning: angst, kento being a good friend, pregnancy, ex is a cheater, mention of depression and crying

when you wake the next morning, there’s a moment where the heaviness hasn’t caught up to you yet. for a few seconds, you feel at peace, like your world didn’t just crumble around you. you allow yourself to pretend that nothing has changed—that yesterday never happened, that you’re not standing on the edge of something you can’t even fathom.

but then it hits you. this isn’t your apartment. the walls are unfamiliar, the furniture not quite right, and everything is just a little too quiet. your breath catches as the memories flood back: the anger, the betrayal, the way your heart had splintered into a thousand jagged pieces. the man you thought you were going to marry one day—your best friend, your partner, the one who was supposed to be your forever—cheated on you.

and now, as if the pain of the betrayal wasn’t enough, there’s something else—something you can’t ignore. the undeniable truth that you’re carrying his child. it’s not just the loss of trust—it’s the life growing inside you, the reminder of what was supposed to be and what now feels like a cruel twist of fate. the tears begin to sting behind your eyes, but before the panic can fully set in, you hear a soft knock at the door, and it pulls you from your spiraling thoughts.

"y/n?" nanami’s voice is gentle, careful, as though he’s aware of the delicate space you’re in. "i didn’t want to wake you too early. i just made some tea... whenever you’re ready”.

right—you're in nanami’s home. it’s a place you’ve been to countless times throughout your friendship, and it’s always brought you peace. but even then, you can’t shake the thought of yesterday. it’s there, haunting you in the corners of your mind.

you take a deep breath, gathering yourself. for a moment, you close your eyes, trying to find some kind of balance. it’s hard, but you can’t stay in bed forever, can’t let it swallow you whole.

with some effort, you sit up. your muscles protest, the tiredness of your body not quite matching the urgency of your mind. standing feels like a small victory in itself.

when you open the door, nanami is standing on the other side. his eyes—the ones that always seem to see right through you—scan your face, taking in the exhaustion, the sadness, the lingering pain that’s still so visible even when you try to hide it. he watches you with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, a heaviness that makes it harder to keep the walls up.

"good morning" he says, his voice low, but it’s not just the greeting. it’s an offering—one that’s soft and unassuming, as if he’s letting you choose how to accept it. after a brief pause, he adds, "did you sleep well?".

you hesitate. the lie is right there, waiting on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. not to him. not now. you don’t even know if you’re capable of pretending you’re okay.

"better than i thought i would" you admit, your voice a bit hoarse, the truth slipping out before you can stop it. there’s no point in hiding, not with nanami. his patience, his quiet understanding, has always made it easier to be honest, even when you didn’t have the words for it.

he nods, his movement slow and deliberate, as if to say i understand, even when nothing more needs to be said. it’s enough. you don’t have to explain further.

he steps aside and gestures for you to follow him. you do, letting him guide you into the kitchen. nanami pulls a chair out for you and sets a cup of tea in front of you, along with a small plate of toast and fruit. it’s simple, but there’s a comfort you hadn’t realized you were craving. he doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t push you to talk or pretend to be okay. instead, he waits, silently offering what he can—small acts of care that feel like they’ve become lifelines in a world that’s no longer familiar.

you’re grateful for it—the thoughtfulness, the quietness of the moment, the sense of normalcy in this space. it’s a modest gesture, but it feels like something more, like nanami’s way of telling you that, even when the world is falling apart, you don’t have to navigate it alone.

nanami joins you at the table, his own cup of tea cradled between his hands. he gives you the space you need, knowing that sometimes silence is what heals the most. there’s no rush, no pressure—just the sound of the tea gently streaming, the soft scrape of a chair, and the gentle hum of the morning outside.

you wrap your hands around the warm cup, letting its heat seep into your palms, grounding you in the moment. the stillness between you is peaceful. it’s a kind of unspoken understanding. nanami doesn’t demand anything from you—not words, not explanations, not even a smile.

you look up at him, your gaze meeting his. there’s something in his expression that makes you feel centered. "thank you” you manage to whisper. your voice carries the weight of everything you mean but can’t fully express—for being here, for being patient, for seeing me when i feel so lost. it’s simple, but those two words feel like they hold the universe in them.

nanami’s gaze softens as he looks at you, his features gentle, patient. he doesn’t say anything at first, just gives you a small, comforting nod that seems to melt away the tension you didn’t realize is in your shoulders. “you don’t need to thank me” he says, his tone as gentle as ever, like he’s trying to ease the burden off of you, one word at a time. they sink in deeply. you hadn’t realized how much you needed this—how much you needed someone to just be there for you. no judgments or expectations. he walls you’ve so carefully built around yourself start to crumble, one brick at a time.

you take a sip of your tea to keep yourself from crying. the heat of the cup soothes some of the tension that’s still clinging to your body, and for a moment, you let yourself focus on that–just the tea, your breathing, and the calmness of nanami’s home.

you don’t know where to begin, or even how to talk about everything that’s weighing on your heart. the thought of it all feels overwhelming, like there are too many pieces to sort through, too many emotions tangled together. but you don’t have to rush, you remind yourself. not here. not with nanami.

he isn’t pressing you for answers, or even asking you to speak before you’re ready. he’s just here– like he always has been– offering his silent support.

“i don’t know how to move forward from this” you finally say, your voice fragile and unsure. you hadn’t even realized how much you were holding in until the words slipped out.

nanami doesn’t respond right away. he takes a sip of his tea, his eyes thoughtful. you can see him considering your words, weighing them carefully.

“you don’t have to have it all figured out right now” he says gently, his voice smooth and warm like the tea in your hands. “one step at a time. i’ll be here with you”.

there’s no pressure, no judgment, just a quiet understanding that you don’t have to have all the answers today—or tomorrow, or the next day. the future feels uncertain, heavy with all the things you’re still processing, but nanami ensures that you don’t have to carry it all alone. his promise, though unspoken in many ways.

you’re still scared. still unsure of what the future holds. but knowing that nanami will be here, supporting you through the unknown, makes the uncertainty feel just a little more bearable. and somehow, that small bit of comfort feels like the first step toward finding your way forward.

—

the weekend flies by in a blur of quiet conversations and moments of fragile peace. each day, nanami has quietly anchored you, making sure to prepare your tea every morning just as he had the first day. it becomes a small ritual, a daily reminder that, despite everything, there’s someone who cares deeply for you.

monday morning arrives, and nanami wakes up early to prepare for his workday. he moves about the house with ease, making sure to leave some tea for you when you’re ready. he doesn’t wake you, not wanting to disrupt your rest.

when you eventually rise, you take your time, not burdened by the usual rush of responsibilities. the absence of urgency feels strangely comforting, a small relief from the chaos of the past week. you shuffle to the kitchen, expecting to find nanami there, as you have each morning. but as you enter the room, the sight of the empty space sends a pang of unease through you.

the kitchen, which had been a place of warmth and reassurance, now feels eerily quiet. his absence makes you feel abandoned, as if the stability he offered was just another illusion. the sense of being alone again, even if only temporarily, is a harsh reminder of the upheaval you’ve been through.

but then, your eyes fall on a note left on the counter. it’s a simple piece of paper, folded neatly with a few words written in nanami’s familiar handwriting. your heart skips a beat, and you slowly make your way toward it, hesitant yet hopeful.

good morning. breakfast is in the fridge for you. help yourself to anything in the pantry for lunch. i’ll make dinner when i get back from work

relief washes over you as you read the words. it’s simple, but it’s everything you need to hear. nanami hadn’t forgotten about you, hadn’t left you behind, even though his absence had made the world feel a little colder. he’s reminded you that he’s there—that he hasn’t gone anywhere for too long, and that you still have a place here.

you set the note down on the counter, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. the knot in your stomach loosens slightly. the tea on the counter, still steaming softly, feels like a promise—a continuation of the quiet support he’s shown you all weekend.

nanami is giving you so much—his time, his patience, his space—and he’s doing it freely, without expecting anything in return. and yet, with every act of kindness, discomfort begins to settle in your chest. you’re accumulating a debt, one you’re not sure how to repay. the more he gives, the more you feel the inability to contribute anything back. you’ve already been a burden, and nanami’s unwavering generosity only builds on that guilt. he doesn’t expect anything in return, you know that much, but the awareness of your own struggles makes you feel as though you’re taking more than you deserve.

your heart aches with the weight of his selflessness, and a small, uncomfortable knot forms in your stomach. how long can you lean on his goodwill before it becomes too much? how long before you start feeling like you’re taking advantage of the very person who’s trying to help you heal?

you know, deep down, that nanami doesn’t see it that way. that his kindness is rooted in genuine care, not in some expectation of repayment. but it’s hard to shake the feeling that, with every ounce of support he gives, you’re only growing more distant from the person you used to be—the person who could stand on her own, who could offer something in return.

—

the thought of being a burden torments you all day. you hate that you’ve come here, unannounced and vulnerable, relying on nanami’s generosity.

you stare down at your plate, your appetite fading as the tightness in your chest grows heavier. nanami is so calm, so patient, but it doesn’t stop the gnawing feeling that you’re taking advantage of him. the kindness he’s shown feels almost too much—like you’re asking for more than he should be willing to give.

when you finally speak, your voice is steady but carries an underlying uncertainty. “i should probably start apartment hunting soon”. it’s a statement meant to feel like control, like you’re taking the reins back and stepping away from the safety net he’s built for you. it’s the only way you can think of to make yourself feel less like a burden.

his reaction is immediate. his eyes flick to you, and for a brief moment, you catch a glimpse of concern that softens his usual calm demeanor. he sets his fork down slowly, his expression turning serious, almost stern. the shift in his mood is enough to make your heart skip a beat. y

“apartment hunting?” he repeats, his tone carrying a clear note of disapproval. it catches you off guard, making you second-guess yourself. “why do you feel like you need to rush into that?”. his voice holds a protectiveness that makes you feel vulnerable, as if he’s trying to shield you from something more than just an apartment search.

you feel the need to justify yourself, to make him understand that you’re not trying to push him away, but instead trying to stand on your own. “i don’t want to overstay my welcome” you say, your voice softer now. “you’ve done so much for me already. it’s only fair that i find my own place and start getting things back to normal”.

your words hang in the air between you, thick with tension. nanami doesn’t speak right away, and the silence stretches longer than you anticipated. what does he think? does he feel like you’re ungrateful? does he think you’re pushing him away?

nanami’s response is firm, his brow furrowing as he shakes his head slightly, as if he can’t quite comprehend why you would even consider feeling that way. “you don’t need to do that” he says. it’s clear now that this isn’t about the apartment. this is about you. he’s not just worried about the logistics of finding a place for you to stay; he’s worried about you—the emotional weight you’re carrying, the sense of being overwhelmed, and the stress of rushing into decisions that might add to that burden. his concern goes far beyond what you’ve said, and in his eyes, you see a determination to help you feel grounded again.

the words spill out before you can stop them, a raw confession that makes your throat tighten. “i just feel like a leech” you admit, the shame evident in your voice.

nanami’s expression hardens instantly, and a flicker of something protective passes through his gaze. he leans forward slightly, his eyes locking onto yours, intense and unwavering. his warning look is sharp.

“don’t” he warns, his voice low and stern. “you’re not leeching off of me. stop calling yourself that”. you feel a lump form in your throat. his gaze doesn’t soften, though his tone shifts slightly, filled with a kind of quiet authority. “you’re going through a difficult time. the last thing you need is to add guilt on top of everything else”. nanami wants to make you understand that his support comes without strings attached. there’s no condition, no expectation of repayment. he’s not helping you because he has to. he’s helping you because he wants to. it’s a reminder that you don’t need to apologize for leaning on him. that he’s here because he genuinely wants to be, and that your well-being is what matters most to him right now.

“i’m sorry” you say quietly, more to yourself than to him. “i just… i don’t want to take advantage of you”. nanami shakes his head.

“you’re not” he says firmly. “don’t apologize for something you haven’t done. you’re here because you need to be. and that’s all that matters”. you take a deep breath, feeling a little lighter. nanami’s words have given you a bit of space to breathe—to stop thinking of his kindness like it’s something you need to repay immediately.

you nod slowly. you’ve been carrying this sense of guilt, as if you’re taking up space in his life that you shouldn’t, as though your presence here is a burden you need to quickly relieve. but nanami’s words cut through that, helping you see that it’s not about what you owe him or how much you think you’re taking.

“but i can’t stay here forever” you say, your voice soft, almost fragile. nanami pauses again, his expression shifting into one of quiet seriousness. his brows furrow ever so slightly as his eyes meet yours, searching.

“why not?” he asks. the question is simple, but the force of it catches you off guard. it’s not harsh, not challenging—but there’s something in his tone, a genuine curiosity, that makes you hesitate. the question lingers in the air, and for a moment, you’re lost for words. your brows furrow in response, trying to make sense of the jumble of emotions inside you. his simple question feels like an unspoken challenge—one you hadn’t expected to face.

“kento…” you say. “i appreciate everything you’ve done for me. i really do. but i can’t. it’s not fair to you”. nanami’s expression remains neutral, unaffected by your words. he holds your gaze with unwavering seriousness, as though he’s ready to stand firm against whatever comes next, regardless of what you say.

“let me be the judge of what’s fair. you’re not a burden. and you’re not inconveniencing me. if you think you’re taking too much, then you’re missing the point. i’m offering this because i want to. you don’t need to protect me from your struggles”. you want to argue, to insist that there’s no way you can continue to rely on him like this, but his faith in his own decision softens the urge to fight back.

you feel a tear slip down your cheek, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming release of emotions you’ve kept bottled up for so long. the kindness he’s shown, the way he’s been so patient with you, is more than you’ve allowed yourself to accept from anyone in a long time.

“thank you” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “for everything”.

nanami’s hand moves across the table, his fingers brushing gently against yours. “you don’t have to thank me” he says softly, his voice calm and warm. “i want you to feel safe. that’s all”. the words, simple as they are, sink deep into your heart. for a moment, the weight of everything doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. the fear, the guilt, the uncertainty—they’re still there, lurking in the background, but they don’t feel as insurmountable as they did before. nanami’s offer to stay, to support you, to give you space to heal at your own pace—it makes all the difference.

with a deep breath, you let go of the guilt and allow yourself to rest in the comfort of his words. “i think i could use some more time if that’s okay” you admit.

nanami nods, his expression softening with approval. “take all the time you need” he

you find yourself accepting his offer with a small “okay”. the word feels like a weight being lifted off your shoulders, a step toward acknowledging that you don’t have to face everything alone. you feel a shift within yourself, a subtle sense of release, as though something heavy has started to ease from your chest. the fear of burdening him, the anxiety of being a disruption, all of it begins to dissipate. nanami’s offer isn’t just about providing a roof over your head—it’s about creating a space where you don’t have to be anything but yourself.

he doesn’t wait for you to say more, respecting the silence that follows your acceptance. instead, he stands and quietly moves to gather the dishes. it’s a small act, but it feels like another way he’s showing his care, his willingness to shoulder whatever parts of this journey he can.

nanami doesn’t push for more conversation, but his presence is constant. there’s no pressure to talk about anything, no urgency to solve any problems or rush into decisions. he just lets you be.

you sit on the couch and allow yourself to fully relax. all the decisions and uncertainty start to feel a little more manageable with him here—just beside you, not asking for anything, simply offering support in a way that means the world.

you allow yourself to close your eyes for a moment, exhausted from the emotional past few days. within a few minutes, the tension you've been carrying begins to melt away, and before you even realize it, you’re falling asleep.

as your mind drifts, the last thing you feel is the soft weight of a blanket being gently draped over you. nanami’s careful, unspoken gesture being the final reassurance you need before you fully surrender to rest. a silent promise that you’re not alone, and that he’s here, watching over you in the most subtle, considerate way.

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crossfandomskylines · 11 hours ago

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In the Space Between Us: Chapter 9

OTHER CHAPTERS:

Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5

Chapter 6 I Chapter 7 I Chapter 8 I Chapter 9

Pairing: Glen Powell x OC

Summary: Gabby and Glen arrive in Austin, where she gets her first glimpse of his Texas home that perfectly fits him. After a casual tour, they cook dinner together, but a small mishap leaves Gabby with a cut finger. Glen keeps her calm, tending to her with a gentle touch. Later, they settle on the couch to eat, sharing laughter and easy conversation, and Gabby continues to feel like she truly belongs—not just in Glen’s house, but with him.

Word Count: 6.9k

Warnings: Kitchen Knife Cut. Some blood and First Aid.

A/N: Honestly this is just more of our favorite couple being sickeningly sweet and adorable.

I'm so appreciative and grateful for all of the reblogs, comments, and hearts I've received on this story! This story is the first time I've ever written anything with the intention of posting it, and I love reading each and every reblog and comment! Please continue to let me know what you think with Hearts, Comments, and Reblogs! Also if you'd like to be tagged please let me know, and I will get you added to the tag list!

Tag List: @djs8891 @queenslandlover-93 @teacupsandtopgun @loveatfirsttornado @khouse712

As they stepped off the plane and into the bustline terminal, Glen adjusted his baseball cap and sunglasses, doing his best to remain inconspicuous. Gabby walked beside him, brushing her hair behind her ear as she glanced around at the unfamiliar surroundings.

Just as they passed through the gate area, Glen looked over at her, his lips curving into a warm smile. “Welcome to Austin, Gabby.”

She laughed softly, the sound cutting through the din of the crowded terminal. “Thanks,” she replied, matching his pace. “So... are you going to be my personal tour guide while I’m here?”

Glen smirked, the playful glint in his eyes unmistakable. “I’ll see if I can fit a tour into our very busy schedule,” he teased, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.

“Oh, is that right?” Gabby shot back with an arched brow.

“Absolutely. We’ve got important things to do,” Glen said as they approached the baggage claim. “Like introducing you to my mom and sisters. No pressure or anything.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she smiled. “No pressure at all,” she said lightly, though her tone betrayed a hint of nerves.

They waited by the carousel, the familiar hum of luggage belts filling the air. When Gabby’s bright blue suitcase finally came around, Glen stepped forward without hesitation and hefted it off the belt.

“Got it,” he said, balancing it with his carry-on bag and Brisket’s carrier.

Gabby reached out, frowning slightly. “You know, I can carry my own bag.”

Glen gave her a skeptical look as he hoisted the suitcase to test its weight. “Yeah, no. This thing weighs a ton. What’d you pack, bricks?”

“Funny,” she deadpanned, crossing her arms. “Seriously, though, I’ve got it. You’re already carrying enough.” She added as she motioned towards Glen who had Brisket’s carrier and his own carry on bag on his shoulders in addition to now trying to pull her suitcase behind him.

But Glen just shook his head, determined. “Not happening.”

Gabby huffed and then gestured toward his full hands. “Okay, but you’re going to drop something at this rate. Come on, just let me help.”

Pausing mid-step, Glen gave her a considering look, then grinned mischievously. “Alright. You really want to carry something?”

“Yes,” she insisted, rolling her eyes at his exaggerated tone.

Without another word, Glen handed over Brisket’s carrier. “Here you go. You get to carry the most important passenger.”

Gabby stared down at Brisket, who let out a soft, curious bark from inside the carrier. She couldn’t help but laugh as she took it from Glen.

“You’re such a gentleman,” she teased, holding up the carrier.

“Always,” he replied with a wink before he continued toward the exit, effortlessly rolling her suitcase behind him.

Gabby followed, adjusting the carrier on her arm and shaking her head with a smile.

As they stepped out into the Texas sunshine and headed toward the parking lot, Gabby couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. This trip was about to bring her even closer to Glen’s life, and she wasn’t sure what to expect—but with him by her side, she was ready to take it on.

As they drove out of the airport and into the heart of Austin, Gabby stared out the window, taking in the lively energy of the city. The streets were buzzing with people strolling between colorful shops, food trucks parked along the sidewalks, and music drifting out of open doors. It was a stark contrast to the sprawling chaos and noise of Los Angeles or the familiarity of her old life in Kansas City.

“First impressions?” Glen asked, glancing at her as he navigated the streets with practiced ease.

“It’s charming,” she said with a smile, her gaze catching on a couple of musicians strumming guitars on a street corner. “Lively, but in a different way than L.A.”

Glen nodded, his hands resting casually on the wheel. “It’s got its own vibe, that’s for sure. Just wait until you see the hill country outside the city. That’s my favorite part.”

Gabby looked at him, noticing how the tension he seemed to carry in Los Angeles had already started to dissolve. His shoulders weren’t quite so stiff, and even his voice seemed lighter.

“You’re different here,” she said softly, almost to herself.

He shot her a quick look, one brow raised. “Different how?”

She smiled, shrugging. “I don’t know… more relaxed, I guess. You’re not even home yet technically, but you seem... lighter.”

He chuckled at that, a low, warm sound that filled the car. “Yeah, well, I guess this place does that to me. It’s where I grew up, where my roots are. There’s just something about being back here that makes everything else feel... simpler.”

As the downtown skyline began to fade into the distance, replaced by quiet neighborhoods and stretches of open space, Gabby could see what he meant. The roads became less crowded, lined with towering oak trees and wildflowers dotting the ditches.

“You ever miss it?” she asked, her voice curious. “Living here full-time, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “L.A. has its perks, don’t get me wrong. And it makes sense for me to be there for work. That’s why I still have my place out there. But this…” He gestured out the window toward the rolling hills that were starting to peek through the horizon. “This is home. It’s where I can just be me, you know? No cameras, no noise, no chaos. Just Glen.”

Gabby’s heart softened at his words, and she couldn’t help but smile. “I like just Glen,” she said, her voice sincere.

He glanced at her again, this time with a small, genuine smile. “Yeah? Well, he likes you too.”

The quiet intimacy of the moment settled between them as they continued their drive. Gabby couldn’t help but admire how at ease Glen seemed here, his hand resting comfortably on the gear shift, the sunlight catching the curve of his jawline.

By the time they turned onto a winding road leading out toward the countryside, the view opened up into sprawling stretches of land. Gabby leaned closer to the window, her eyes widening.

“Wow,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful out here.”

“You ain’t seen anything yet,” Glen said, his voice tinged with pride. “Wait until we get to the house.”

She turned to him, her curiosity piqued. “Alright, tour guide, you’ve got me intrigued.”

He grinned but didn’t say more, letting the Texas landscape do all the talking. The further they drove, the more Gabby found herself relaxing too, swept up in the calm that seemed to radiate from both Glen and the place he called home.

As Glen rolls up to the start of the driveway, Gabby notices the wrought iron gate looming ahead, guarding the property. Glen rolls down the window of the truck and punches in a code on the keypad. The gate opens with a soft hum, and they continue down the long gravel driveway, the crunch of tires beneath them the only sound breaking the stillness of the land.

Nestled among the towering oak trees, the home appears to rise from the earth, its pale walls glowing softly in the late afternoon sun. The roofline is low and sleek, dark metal panels contrasting with the rustic stone, giving it a subtle modern touch. A stone path leads up to the front door, flanked by neatly manicured landscaping—grasses and flowers swaying gently in the breeze. The scene is nothing like she expected, yet it feels impossibly fitting for the man she’s come to know over the past month.

“Wow,” she breathes, her eyes wide, not just at the house but the land that stretches out around it, open and expansive. “This is your house?” She asks, voice a mixture of awe and disbelief. "Like ALL of this?"

Glen smirks, a glint of pride in his eyes as he nods. "Bought it last year. Been eyeing this area for a while. When it came up for sale, it just felt right. This is where I come when I need to get away from everything.” His gaze sweeps over the land around them, an unspoken connection to the place that only he seems to understand.

He steps out of the truck and gestures toward the house. "Come on, let me give you the tour."

Gabby follows him, her boots crunching on the gravel as they make their way toward the front door. The door opens with a soft creak, and the moment she steps inside, the shift in atmosphere is immediate. The space is expansive, airy, and yet warm, with a perfect blend of rugged charm and understated modern luxury.

The living room was a warm, inviting space that struck the perfect balance between rustic charm and modern elegance. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which framed lush green trees and a serene view of the water beyond. The walls, made of creamy stone, complemented the rich, honey-toned wood beams that ran across the vaulted ceiling, adding a natural warmth to the room.

At the center of the space was a grand fireplace, its tapered design drawing the eye upward. Above it hung an intricately woven rug in warm red and earthy tones, giving the room a personal and artistic touch. Plush seating was arranged around a low, solid coffee table—two sleek leather chairs with soft, neutral cushions, a sofa in a deep, rust-colored fabric, and a matching wooden-framed couch with cozy taupe pillows.

A woven area rug tied the seating area together, while textured throw pillows and a soft blanket added layers of comfort. On the far side of the room, a vintage console table, adorned with carefully chosen decor and a hint of greenery, completed the look.

They move to the kitchen, where the dark black cupboards and glossy marble countertops create a striking contrast against the white walls. Stainless steel appliances reflect the natural light pouring in through the windows, while exposed beams in natural oak add a rustic charm to the otherwise sleek and modern space. It’s a space for someone who appreciates both design and functionality, and Gabby can’t help but be impressed by the seamless integration of the two.

Glen leads her down a hallway towards the bedroom. He points out the guest room on the right. It’s a quet and serene room with beige walls and carpeted floors. The bed has a white comforter and some green throw pillows that add a touch of color but still look cozy and inviting.

“You’re welcome to stay in here if you don’t feel comfortable staying in my room.” He says softly, his voice a little softer now. She can tell he’s hoping she stays with him in his room, but doesn’t want to push or pressure her.

Gabby smiles softly, touched by his thoughtfulness. “It looks cozy in here,” she says, stepping inside to take in the space a little more. It feels welcoming, just like the rest of the house.

Next, they continue down the hallway. Glen points out the main bathroom and then opens the door to the left. He leads her into the master bedroom, and Gabby immediately stops in her tracks. It wasn’t at all what she expected. Which in hindsight, she wasn’t sure quite what she expected from a 35 year old bachelor. But it wasn’t this.

The room was both strikingly modern and somehow also seemed almost personal, a reflection of a man with layered tastes. The walls were painted a deep charcoal gray, creating a cozy yet bold atmosphere that drew her in. The centerpiece of the room was a king-sized bed with a headboard made of reclaimed wood, its warm tones breaking up the darkness of the walls. The bedding was a mix of textures—soft white sheets layered with a dark gray comforter, patterned throw pillows, and a luxurious fur blanket draped across the foot. A low bench of smooth, solid wood sat at the end of the bed, simple yet elegant in its design.

Above the bed hung a large abstract painting, its earthy tones of bronze and black blending seamlessly into the space. It was lit by two pendant lights suspended on either side of the bed, their glass shades casting a warm, ambient glow over the nightstands beneath them. The nightstands themselves were sleek and minimal, adorned with a few thoughtful touches—a small sculpture, a stack of books, and what looked like a vintage alarm clock.

The floor was made of rich, polished wood, partially covered by a large, intricately patterned rug in shades of cream, black, and brown. Gabby’s eyes were drawn to the tall windows that dominated one wall, their black frames perfectly complementing the dark color palette. Beyond the glass was a private deck and a view of the snowy landscape outside, the natural light softening the room’s bold edges.

She couldn’t help but smile, caught off guard by how perfectly this space encapsulated Glen. It was masculine without being overbearing, stylish without being pretentious, and just comfortable enough to hint at the quiet thoughtfulness he often hid behind his teasing. It was the kind of room you wanted to linger in, much like the man who owned it.

Turning to look at him, Gabby raised an eyebrow. “This is... unexpected,” she said, her voice soft with wonder.

Glen smirked, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Unexpected good or unexpected bad?”

“Unexpected perfect,” she admitted, letting her gaze wander over the room once more. “It’s so... you.”

“It’s kind of a mix of styles,” Glen admits, almost sheepish as he watches her reaction. "I wanted it to feel kind of both modern and... comfortable, you know? This is where I spend a lot of my time when I’m home. I come in here and read scripts or respond to emails a lot in here.”

Gabby nods, absorbing the energy of the space. "I can see why," she says softly. "It’s really... perfect."

Glen gives a small chuckle. “Glad you think so. I hope you’ll be comfortable here this week.”

He stood a few steps behind her, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his jeans. There was something almost vulnerable in the way he glanced between her and the room, as if her opinion mattered more than he cared to admit.

She turned to face him, her chest tightening with a sudden wave of emotion. It was only then that it struck her—this wasn’t just any place. This wasn’t like his rental in Los Angeles. This was his home, his real home. The ranch, with its wide-open space and weathered charm, was his pride and joy. Every detail, every corner of this house, felt steeped in him: grounded, steady, and quietly intentional.

But bringing her here, to the place that clearly meant so much to him, felt huge for their very new relationship. He wanted her here. He wanted her to see this side of him, the side that wasn’t shaped by movie sets and red carpets but by something far more authentic. And somehow, knowing that made her fall for him just a little more.

“It’s perfect,” she said softly, her fingers brushing over the edge of the wooden bedframe as she turned her gaze back to the room. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

He shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it off, but the faint curve of his lips betrayed him. “Figured it was time to show you where I come from.”

Her lips quirked into a small smile. “Well, it’s definitely not L.A.”

“Nope. It’s better.” His tone was light, but there was an undeniable sincerity in his words.

She nodded, looking out at the sun-drenched fields again. She could feel it now, too—the sense of peace that seemed to hum through the air, the way the ranch felt like an anchor to something truer and simpler.

After giving her a moment to take in the master bedroom, Glen guides her through the house again, back toward the kitchen. The space opens up into a large deck, a smooth wooden surface that stretches out from the house, offering a sweeping view of the massive backyard. The sun is beginning to dip lower, casting a golden hue across the landscape. Gabby’s gaze follows the expansive lawn, where a firepit sits surrounded by stone seating. Beyond that, the green of the land rolls on, stretching out until it reaches a distant body of water—either a river or lake—glimmering faintly in the fading light. In the far distance, a barn stands, old but sturdy, its white paint peeking out from behind a cluster of trees.

Glen notices her eyes linger on the barn and grins.

“That’s the party barn,” he says with a wink, leaning against the railing beside her. “Not much happening there right now, but when I’ve got some time off, that’s where the guys and I go.”

Gabby laughs softly, picturing him with his friends, all of them hanging out in a place like this, enjoying the solitude of the land. “You guys must have some fun stories out there,” she says, her voice light.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on the railing, taking in the scenery with a relaxed sigh. The quiet beauty of the place settles over her, the peace of the land wrapping around her like a warm blanket.

Glen steps closer, his presence radiating behind her. He wraps his arms around her waist, his body pressing against hers as he rests his chin gently on her shoulder. The warmth of his breath near her ear sends a shiver down her spine.

“Welcome home,” he murmurs softly, his voice low and sincere. The words settle in her chest like something precious.

Gabby’s heart flutters at the unexpected intimacy of the moment, the weight of the words not lost on her. She turns her head just enough to meet his eyes, a soft smile playing on her lips. He presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, the contact brief but tender. It lingers on her skin, sending a rush of warmth through her.

“I’m going to grab our bags from the truck,” he says, stepping back slightly, though his hands remain on her. “Feel free to keep enjoying the view. I’ll be right back.”

Gabby watches him walk away, her mind still caught in the gentle comfort of his touch. As he disappears back inside, she leans over the railing again, letting herself relax completely. The quiet of the evening, the distant sound of wind rustling through the trees, and the sight of the water shimmering in the fading light all blend together, and for the first time since arriving, Gabby feels at peace. It’s a feeling she’s getting used to the more time she spends with Glen.

Meanwhile, Glen walks back into the house with their bags, he pauses and takes a moment to glance at Gabby, still leaning over the railing as she takes in the view. The soft evening light seemed to glow around her, making her look even more at ease than when they'd arrived. He smiles quietly to himself before walking back into the house.

He takes the bags down the hall, his mind lingering on the thought of her staying in the guest room. It’s a comfortable space, perfectly fine for her, but the idea of having her close to him, in his own room, is hard to shake. Of course, he’ll be okay with whatever she chooses. If she’s more comfortable in the guest room, than that’s okay. He shakes the thought away as he sets her bag down on the bed in the guest room and straightens up, trying to focus on the evening ahead.

When he returns to the living room, Gabby is already inside, taking in the kitchen.. Glen leans against the doorway for a moment, watching her as she surveys the space, almost like she’s settling in for a moment of peace.

“You hungry?” Glen asks, his voice casual but laced with an underlying warmth.

Gabby looks over at him, nodding with a smile. “Yeah, actually, I am.”

“I had my mom run out for some groceries before we got here,” he admits, stepping into the kitchen. “There should be plenty of stuff to work with. What do you feel like?��

Gabby shrugs, glancing over at the fridge. “Something quick and easy sounds good,” she says, her smile widening. “We don’t have to go all out.”

Glen laughs, relieved. “Definitely not. I was thinking something simple. Maybe stir-fry? Or tacos?”

She grins, the light in her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Tacos sound perfect.”

They both get to work, the easy rhythm of being in the kitchen together settling around them. Glen pulls out a few chicken breasts from the fridge and starts prepping the protein, slicing it into strips with quick, practiced motions. Gabby, meanwhile, moves toward the counter to start chopping vegetables—peppers, onions, and a handful of fresh cilantro. The space between them feels comfortable like they’ve done this together a hundred times before.

As they work, Glen glances at her now and then, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. There’s something about the way she’s so at ease in the kitchen, moving with a natural grace. She’s focused, but there’s a lightness to her that makes everything seem effortless.

“I’m impressed,” he says as she arranges the vegetables, wiping her hands on the towel. “You look like you know what you’re doing.”

Gabby raises an eyebrow, shooting him a playful glance. “You didn’t think I’d be any good at this?”

Glen chuckles, shaking his head. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to expect. But I’m glad I’m not the only one who knows how to cook around here.”

“Maybe you would’ve known sooner if you ever let me cook.” She quips back.

He just laughs as he looks over at her.

As they continue preparing dinner, the easy rhythm between them persists. Gabby’s focused on chopping vegetables, gliding the knife smoothly through the peppers and onions. The kitchen is filled with the hum of sizzling chicken and the soft sound of the knife hitting the cutting board.

Then, with a slight misstep, Gabby's hand jerks just as she cuts into a pepper. The blade catches her skin, and a sharp sting runs through her finger. She immediately stops, setting the knife down and cursing under her breath as she glances down.

“Damn it,” she mutters to herself, her finger now starting to redden with blood.

Glen doesn’t notice at first, still busy with the chicken. Gabby shakes her hand, hoping it’ll stop, but when she looks at it again, the blood starts to pool around the cut then begins to run down her finger.

"Uh, Glen..." Gabby's voice cracks a little, the panic starting to creep in.

“Gabby?” His boots thudded against the wooden floor as he made his way to her. “What happened?”

“I—” she stammered, her face pale as she held up her trembling hand. “I—I cut myself. Glen, it’s bleeding a lot. Oh God, I think I’m going to—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Glen stepped in, his voice calm and steady, grounding her. He reached for her wrist, his fingers warm and grounding as he gently pulled her hand closer. “Let me see.”

She reluctantly let him examine the wound, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. Her free hand braced against the counter as her knees wobbled.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Glen said after a beat, his tone calm and reassuring. “It’s a clean cut, nothing too deep. You’re gonna be fine.”

Gabby didn’t feel fine. Her vision swam, and her chest felt tight. “Are you sure? What if I need stitches? What if we have to go to the hospital? What if—”

“Gabby.” His voice softened, and she dared to look up at him. His green eyes were steady, his expression a mix of concern and amusement. “You’re not dying. I promise.”

“I’m not good with blood,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I noticed,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he guided her toward the sink.

She stumbled after him, her hand throbbing, her heart racing. The sight of the blood smeared across her palm made her stomach twist again, and she squeezed her eyes shut as Glen turned on the faucet.

“Deep breath,” he said, his hand firm but gentle as he held hers under the cool water. “You’re tougher than this. I’ve seen you handle way worse.”

“That’s debatable,” she muttered, wincing as the water stung.

“Nope. I’ve got evidence. Like that time I made you watch a scary movie with me and you left nail marks on my arm.”

Gabby cracked an eye open to glare at him. “This is not the same as a scary movie.”

“Fair point,” he teased, his grin widening as he turned off the tap and reached for a clean dish towel. “The slasher in the move was way scarier.”

Despite herself, she let out a shaky laugh. “You’re the worst.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Glen said lightly as he patted her hand dry. But his teasing faded as he inspected the cut again, his focus sharpening. “Hold still,” he murmured, turning to open a drawer and then pull out a first aid kit inside.

Gabby stayed rooted in place, her pulse still pounding in her ears but slowing under the calm efficiency of Glen’s movements. His hands were steady, his touch sure as he opened the kit and pulled out antiseptic and bandages.

“This might sting a little,” he warned, dabbing at the cut with a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic.

She hissed, her fingers twitching in his grasp. “A little?”

“Okay, maybe a lot,” he admitted with a chuckle. “But you’re doing great.”

Gabby bit her lip, her eyes fixed on his face instead of the wound. He was so calm, as if patching her up was just another chore on the ranch. For all his teasing, he took the task seriously, his brows furrowed in concentration as he carefully wrapped a bandage around her hand.

“There,” he said after a moment, stepping back to admire his work. “Good as new.”

Gabby glanced down at the neatly wrapped bandage and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The bleeding had stopped, and the throbbing was already fading to a dull ache. “I... guess it’s not that bad,” she admitted reluctantly.

“Told you,” Glen said with a wink, leaning back against the counter. “You just needed a cowboy-slash-surgeon to handle it.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re dramatic,” he shot back, his grin playful.

But as she looked at him, standing there with that easy confidence and those steady hands that had just taken care of her without a second thought, her heart did a little flip. There was something about the way he’d stepped in, so calm and capable, that made her feel... safe.

“Thanks, Glen,” she said softly, her voice catching slightly.

His teasing smirk softened into something warmer. “Anytime, Gabby.”

Gabby lingered there, cradling her bandaged hand against her chest as she watched Glen. He had gone back to tidying up the counter, wiping away the faint smear of blood as if patching her up had been no big deal. But to her, it had been a very big deal. He’d been calm when she wasn’t, steady when she was spiraling. She bit her bottom lip, her heart doing a funny little flip in her chest.

This man—this steady, confident, infuriatingly charming man—was becoming so much more to her than she’d anticipated. It wasn’t just the way he’d taken care of her tonight. It was everything about him—the way he teased her, the way he made her laugh, the way he somehow always seemed to know exactly what to say to settle her nerves. She realized then, with startling clarity, that she didn’t just like Glen. She really liked him. She maybe even loved him.

And that thought scared her. Because if this didn’t work out—if she let herself fall for him completely and it all went wrong—she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pick up the pieces.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice him turn back to her until his voice broke through.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asked, his tone soft, his hazel eyes glinting with curiosity. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She blinked, realizing she’d been staring, and felt heat rush to her cheeks. Before she could come up with a quick excuse, Glen stepped closer, his hands finding their way to her waist. He pulled her gently toward him, the warmth of his touch grounding her in a way that made her heart thud even harder.

“Well?” he prompted, tilting his head as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “What’s on your mind, Gabby?”

She smiled up at him, her fingers brushing lightly against the front of his shirt, where she could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric. “I think…” She hesitated, her smile softening as her eyes met his. “I think I’m in trouble.”

Glen’s brows furrowed, and the humor faded from his expression, replaced by something more serious. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice quieter now, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Gabby bit her lip again, her gaze flicking down to her hand resting on his chest. Her thumb moved absently over the fabric as she searched for the right words. “I mean… I like you, Glen,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Like, really like you. And that scares me, because if this doesn’t work out…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “If this doesn’t work, I don’t think I’ll walk away unscathed.”

For a moment, Glen didn’t say anything. He just looked at her, his eyes searching hers, his hands steady on her waist. Then, his grip tightened just slightly, and the corner of his mouth quirked into a small, reassuring smile.

“Well,” he said, his voice low and warm, “then it’s a good thing I don’t plan on letting this not work out.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, the fear she’d been holding onto melted away under the weight of his words and the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.

And maybe, just maybe, falling for Glen wasn’t as scary as it seemed.

Glen’s gaze softened as he searched her face, his hands tightening slightly at her waist, pulling her just a little closer. The air between them felt heavier, charged with a warmth that made Gabby’s chest ache in the best way. Then, without another word, he leaned down and kissed her.

It was soft at first, almost tentative, as if he was testing the waters. But when her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and she kissed him back, he deepened it, his hands sliding from her waist to cradle her face. Time seemed to stand still as the rest of the world faded away, leaving just the two of them in the quiet hum of the kitchen.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his lips curling into a smile. “For the record,” he said, his voice low and rough, “I really, really like you too.”

Gabby laughed softly, her hands still fisted in his shirt as her cheeks flushed. “You better,” she teased, her voice light despite the nervous flutter in her chest.

Glen kissed her again, quick and firm, before stepping back and brushing his thumb against her jaw. “Alright,” he said, his tone returning to that easy confidence she knew so well, “you should probably take it easy after that serious injury of yours. I’ll finish up dinner.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she tilted her head at him. “It’s a cut, Glen. I’m not a war hero coming home from battle.”

“Uh-huh,” he said with a smirk, wiping his hands on a towel. “And yet, you looked ready to pass out ten minutes ago.”

“I did not,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes.

Glen chuckled, stepping closer again. “Sure, tough girl. Go sit down in the living room before I have to carry you there myself.”

Gabby raised a brow, her lips quirking into a challenge. “You wouldn’t dare.”

His smirk widened. “Wouldn’t I?”

Before she could retort, Glen moved fast, his arms wrapping around her as he effortlessly hoisted her over his shoulder.

“Glen!” she shrieked, laughing despite herself as she kicked her legs in protest. “Put me down!”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, his tone utterly unapologetic as he carried her toward the living room. “You had your chance to go willingly.”

“This isn’t fair!” she exclaimed, her fists playfully hitting his back as she squirmed. “I can’t fight back when you’re manhandling me like this!”

“That’s the idea,” he said with a laugh, adjusting her weight slightly as if she weighed nothing. “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”

“Next time? Oh, you’re dreaming, cowboy,” she shot back, kicking her feet again for good measure.

Glen only laughed harder as he reached the couch. With a careful yet exaggerated flourish, he set her down, smirking down at her as she fixed him with a mock glare.

“Comfortable?” he asked innocently, crossing his arms and leaning slightly to one side as if daring her to challenge him again.

Gabby folded her arms and leaned back against the cushions with an exaggerated huff, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” Glen shot back, his grin as smug as ever. “Now stay there while I finish dinner. Doctor’s orders.”

Gabby rolled her eyes again, but this time it was accompanied by a laugh as she watched him head back toward the kitchen.

“You’re not a doctor! Have you ever even played one?” She teased. But as much as she hated to admit it, being taken care of by Glen—and teased in the process—felt a little too good.

About fifteen minutes later, Gabby was curled up on the couch, idly scrolling through her phone as the sound of clinking dishes and the occasional hum of Glen’s voice drifted in from the kitchen. The scent of seasoned chicken and warm tortillas filled the air, making her stomach growl in anticipation.

When Glen finally appeared, he was carrying two plates balanced perfectly in his large hands. The sight of him—a little more relaxed now, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and that easy grin on his face—made her heart do an annoyingly giddy flip.

“Dinner is served,” he said, setting one plate down in front of her before placing his own on the coffee table.

Gabby smiled, sitting up a little straighter and taking the plate. “Thank you, Chef Glen. Smells amazing.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his grin widening as he straightened up. “I’m gonna grab a drink. You want anything?”

She hesitated for a moment, looking down at her plate, then back up at him. “Sure. Surprise me.”

“Alright,” he said with a wink, heading back toward the kitchen.

A minute later, he returned with two glasses—one filled with iced tea for her and the other with what looked like a cold beer for himself. He set hers down on the coffee table next to her plate before sinking onto the couch beside her, the cushions dipping under his weight.

“There you go,” he said, nodding toward the glass. “Extra ice, just how you like it.”

Gabby raised a brow at him, her lips tugging into a smile. “You remembered that?”

“Of course I did,” he said, taking a sip of his beer. “I’ve got a good memory when it comes to important things.”

Her smile softened as she picked up the glass, the cold condensation pressing against her fingers. “Thank you,” she said quietly, looking over at him as her heart did that fluttery thing again.

He glanced at her, his brow furrowing slightly. “For what?”

“For…” She paused, taking a sip of the tea before setting it down and shrugging. “For taking care of me. For being you, I guess.”

Glen’s lips curved into a slow smile, and he leaned back against the couch, one arm resting along the back as his eyes stayed on her. “Well, I like taking care of you,” he said simply.

Gabby laughed softly, shaking her head as she picked up her taco. The two of them settled into a comfortable rhythm, sharing bites of food and bits of conversation between mouthfuls. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses filled the living room, blending with the soft hum of the evening.

And as Gabby sat there beside him, eating chicken tacos on the couch like they’d done it a hundred times before, she couldn’t help but feel like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

As the last of their tacos disappeared, Gabby leaned back into the couch, setting her empty plate on the coffee table with a satisfied sigh. Glen did the same, stretching his legs out in front of him, his socked feet brushing against hers.

“Okay,” she said, wiping her hands on a napkin. “I’ll admit it—those tacos were amazing. You’ve officially ruined takeout for me.”

Glen smirked, leaning his head back against the couch. “High praise. I’ll take it.”

She gave him a playful nudge with her foot, which he caught with his, trapping it gently between his. For a moment, the room was quiet except for the faint creak of the house settling and the soft clinking of their glasses on the table.

Then, Glen tilted his head toward her, his expression thoughtful. “What do you say we change into something more comfortable? Get cozy for the rest of the night?”

Gabby arched a brow, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Are you trying to call it a night already? It’s barely past eight, old man.”

“Nah,” he said with an easy grin. “Not saying we need to sleep. Just thought we could ditch the jeans and get into some pajamas or sweats. You know—real comfort.”

He pushed off the couch, offering her a hand to help her up. “Go ahead and get changed and I’ll met you in my room in ten.”

Gabby took his hand but didn’t move right away, giving him an exaggeratedly confused look. “Your room? I thought we were sleeping separately tonight. Wasn’t I supposed to take the guest room?”

For a moment, Glen’s entire face fell. His hand remained in hers, but his shoulders sagged as he stared at her, completely speechless—a rare thing for him.

Her grin widened as she shoved his chest lightly and stood. “Relax, cowboy,” she said with a laugh. “I’m joking. You should’ve seen your face, though!”

He narrowed his eyes at her, his lips twitching like he was fighting a grin. “You’re real funny, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she said, still chuckling as she headed toward her overnight bag by the door. “But you like it.”

“Mm-hm,” he called after her, his voice laced with amusement. “You better sleep with one eye open tonight.”

Gabby just laughed, already thinking about how his expression would probably replay in her head for the rest of the evening.

Gabby smirked over her shoulder, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Ooh, I’m so scared of you,” she teased, winking before turning on her heel and heading toward the hallway.

She could practically hear him smirking behind her. “You should be,” Glen’s voice followed, playful but low. He was already on her tail, footsteps steady but quick, matching her pace.

Before she could even make it halfway down the hall, she felt his hands slip around her waist, his strong arms locking around her like a vice. With an effortless move, Glen lifted her off the ground, spinning her around so that she was facing him, her feet dangling slightly.

“What the—? Glen!” Gabby let out a surprised laugh, her hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders to steady herself. She playfully kicked her legs, trying to wiggle free.

He grinned, his voice a teasing whisper. “Told you to sleep with one eye open.”

Her legs kicked out in mock protest, and she gave his chest a soft shove, but she wasn’t really trying to escape. “It’s not fair,” she muttered, pretending to glare up at him, “that you can manhandle me like this.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You love it.”

“I do not,” she shot back quickly, even though the warmth blooming in her chest said otherwise.

“Mm-hm,” he hummed as he slowly lowered her back to her feet, but kept his arms around her. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

Gabby bit her lip to stop herself from grinning too wide, but it didn’t work. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, but there was no malice in the words—just affection.

“You’ve got that right.” His grin softened, and he leaned in to kiss her temple, a quick, tender moment before he nudged her toward the hallway again. “Now, go get changed. I’ll be in my room.”

#Glen Powell #Glen Powell Fic #Glen Powell Fanfic #Glen Powell Fanfiction #Glen Powell Series #Glen Powell x OC #Glen Powell x Original Character

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leighsartworks216 · 3 hours ago

Text

Scar Tissue

Sylus x gn!Reader

Eyyyyy @comatosebunny09 I finally finished it >:3

Based on this post

Title from "Scar Tissue" by Red Hot Chili Peppers

Warnings: cuddling, early relationship, intimacy, injury, guns, knives, semi-nudity

Word Count: 2,421

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

The Raven Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

“Speak.”

The generic carpet muffles his footfalls as he crosses the room to the oversized floor to ceiling windows that peer out over Chansia City. You follow behind him until you get to the dresser, lined neatly with your clothes.

The hotel is very nice, especially high up here in the presidential suite. Though, you haven’t had much time to actually enjoy it. You got here yesterday, and it feels like all you’ve had time for is sleeping and getting dressed. It’s all been meetings, deals and exchanges otherwise. The only reason you’re back here at all is to change clothes to go to dinner with another client.

Sylus sighs, irritation painting his face with a scowl. You can just barely hear Luke’s voice on the other end. They’ve been holding down the N109 Zone in Sylus’s absence. “More petty land grabs?”

“Nah, from what we’ve heard it sounds like an affair came to light and now they’re duking it out to win their love.”

You snicker as you pull out a clean shirt. You turn and drop it on the bed, back to Sylus as you take off your shirt, bloody and torn from your earlier meeting. He turns to shoot you a half-amused half-annoyed glance over his shoulder. “Have Mephisto-”

But the words get stuck in his throat. Time seems to slow down as he stares at the bare expanse of your back. Your skin looks like a well-used cutting board. Scar after scar, criss-crossing over each other, fundamentally altering the appearance of your flesh for years to come.

He can pinpoint which were from missions he’d sent you on. Jobs that put you in the line of fire, where you had to fight your way out to survive, where someone got a surprise jump on you.

Others are completely foreign. Cuts and bullet wounds and burn marks, all unfamiliar to him. What secrets from your past do you keep locked away from him? How safe are you from the ones that hurt you? Would you ever tell him if something was wrong? If something cropped up from back then, from a time he’d never know enough of? Perhaps not.

Somehow, the former was worse. Knowing he was the one that sent you into trouble. Or those damn injuries you earned from taking a hit intended for him. Being the root cause for your pain aches more than never knowing the damage you incurred before.

You slip your shirt on, hiding the marks from view, and peek over your shoulder at him, confused by his silence. Time speeds back up.

He schools his features into something neutral, hiding the regret and hurt, and burying it deep down within him. He looks out the windows once more. Luke asks if he’s alright. Sylus ignores it, speaking as if nothing ever happened.

Dinner was dull, for the most part. The client didn’t seem to understand that you weren’t there for conversation, repeatedly prompting you to answer questions. You’d have signaled Sylus to put the man in his place, but it was all too amusing to see him flounder.

“What kind of gun do you use?” You’d slipped it from its holder mid sip of wine and dropped it onto the table with a heavy thud. That’d taken him by surprise. He recovered quickly enough, spewing off facts about the make and model that you already knew.

“Has it been modified?” You broke it down and separated the parts that had been replaced or enhanced. He’d curiously reached out to inspect them, but you put it back together before he could touch anything. He paused, but put on a slightly strained, polite smile as he awkwardly sat back in his chair.

“How good is your aim?” You shot the end of his cigarette when he went to tap the ashes into a dish, scaring him so bad he shook the entire table and had to rapidly keep his drink from tipping into his lap.

He seemed content to leave you be after that.

You fall back into the bed, arms spread out wide and still in your dinner attire. Sylus chuckles. “Have fun?” he teases. He sits down beside you, leaning on his arm with an amused grin.

You shoot an unimpressed glare his way. Fabric rustles as you slide your hand along the bed to hold his arm, caressing the tensed muscles of his forearm. “Don’t worry, you can make it up to me.”

His grin turns into a salacious smirk. You smack his bicep. “Not like that.”

“You don’t know what I was going to suggest.” Nonetheless, he kicks off his shoes by the side of the bed and lays down beside you. With one hand acting as a pillow, the other rests comfortably on your stomach. You wrap your arm around his neck to play with his hair. Content, you close your eyes.

The last vestiges of the sun filter through the window. Combined with the few lights in the room, you look… peaceful. It’s starting to become a common sight, and he takes great pleasure in being the one allowed to witness it. These times when you trust him enough to relax. When you stop listening out for the slightest hint of danger. When your body releases the tension constantly preparing your body for an attack. It’s a privilege. He hopes never to take it for granted.

Your fingers flit lazily through his hair. His body still tenses on the onset of your touch. His natural instinct yells for him to pull away, go on the defensive, protect himself. It’s always a battle to fight against them and allow himself to completely trust someone. As this - cuddling together, the small moments of physical intimacy and skinship - become the normal, the fight gets easier and easier.

He wonders if that same defensive instinct wars on in your head when he slips his hand under the hem of your shirt. The first brush of his fingers on your flesh, the flinch of muscle away from the contact, that eases back into his touch after a pause. If it does, you say nothing of it. Rather, when your stomach flinches away, you tug on his hair. An equal exchange. And perhaps a reminder of the lengths you have both gone to expose yourselves to each other.

Calloused fingertips dance across your belly, hidden by the fabric of your shirt. Soft ridges and toughened skin of layers of damage done across the years. His mind is shot back to the thoughts he had earlier. You can feel the shift in his touch. The way his fingers lift to barely ghost over your skin, as though you’re as thin and fragile as wet tissue paper. You open your eyes to watch him.

His face is stern. Like when discussing a difficult deal, his brow is furrowed and his eyes are dark. He slowly pushes up the shirt until it rests in a rumpled heap around the bottom of your ribcage. The shift in your breathing latches on at the edge of his senses. Just as with your back, scar after scar decorates your skin. But one stands out from the rest.

Along the line of your hip is a cut. It’s shallow. The skin it tore apart is irritated from lack of care and not having a moment to rest properly.

That’s his fault, too. Dragging you out to a dinner you didn’t really want to go to instead of giving you the opportunity to sleep and heal. Technically, you’re his bodyguard - his guard dog, always by his side, defending him from anyone who you deem a threat. Yet, he’s discomfited by just how quickly you step in to protect him. That’s what this scar is the result of.

The meeting this morning. A fight broke out. He was aiming a gun at the other group leader. One of their lackeys came up from the side with a knife. And you got hit. It had bled, but you’d brushed him off so easily when he mentioned it. You weren’t doubled over, nor were you in a rush to patch it up, so he trusted your judgement. Without a second thought.

Fortunately, your judgement is dependable. All it really needs is a bandage to keep the skin together and bacteria out while it heals, and yet he doesn’t get up. He doesn’t move. All he does is trace alongside it, feeling how it becomes intertwined with the scars before it.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” he says, but the tone of his voice is odd. Teasing, edged with something raw. Something more vulnerable. Something that you two have been dancing around for weeks. “Tell me the next time you’re hurt. I’ll patch you up.”

You brush the hair from his face. His red eyes shift first to the bunched up fabric of your shirt, then to yours. His eyes are soft. The deep maroon of before has melted into a bloody crimson.

“I can patch myself up.”

He scoffs with a smirk and the slight tilt of his head. “I wasn’t asking, sweetie.”

You quirk a brow up at him. “Does it bother you?”

“Yeah,” he agrees readily.

Your fingers falter. He brushes his thumb more firmly along the edge of the cut, still light enough that it doesn’t hurt, but with enough force that it no longer feels like he’s treating you like something fragile.

You frown at him, tapping three times at the base of his skull, a silent request for more information. He pushes himself up onto his elbow. It should be salacious, even intimidating, for him to hover over you like this. But it’s not.

His eyes follow his hand as he traces other marks on your belly. A bullet entrance wound here, a Wanderer’s blade there. The ones he caresses are newer. They haven’t yet faded into your skin. Of all of them, he’d only helped treat one or two. Some, he never even knew about, but he could trace back to when, what mission, they were received from.

“How many of these are from protecting me?” he asks lowly. “You do realize I can heal from all of these much faster than you can, don’t you, sweetie?”

You tilt your head. “It bothers you… that I do my job?”

He chuckles, but the mirth doesn’t reach his eyes. “You could stand to be a little less efficient at it.”

The world falls quiet. The sun disappears, leaving darkness in her wake. The orange glow of the hotel lamps forms mountains and valleys along your skin. You study him, searching for answers.

Over your lifetime struggling to survive, you’d gotten good at reading people, Sylus included. Of course, he had broken your assumptions and expectations. If he hadn’t, you’d never have let him get so close. Never have allowed him to touch you like this, see your skin like this.

Right now, you can’t understand him.

He hired you to be his bodyguard, to protect him. To be his own personal shield when shit hits the fan. But he doesn’t want you to? A lingering fear in your mind worries for the end of your partnership. Would he really touch you like this if he wanted to fire you? Besides, when you made the damn deal, he said only you would have the power to call it off. He wasn’t someone to go against his word.

You drop your hand from his hair. His eyes snap to you, a flicker of fear that is snuffed out when you touch his chest. He’s still wearing his nice dress shirt, jacket discarded elsewhere. You play with one of the buttons. “How many times have you stepped in to protect me?” you ask.

Countless times. More and more frequently.

“Do you let any of them scar?”

He slowly shakes his head. It’s always second nature for him to use his Evol to take care of any and all injuries. Anything that could scar is gone before he has a chance to think about it, so long as he’s in the right conditions to use it.

“Then you can’t understand.”

He hums. “Enlighten me.”

You grin. Gliding your hand from his chest, down his arm, you hold the back of his where it rests on your stomach. It doesn’t take much effort to guide him. He watches, feels the scars that scrape by, as you bring it back back down to your hip, until his palm rests over the cut. It will heal within a couple of weeks, probably less. Once it’s healed, it will scar over. Once it scars over, it will be nothing more than a lasting memory embedded in your skin.

“They’re badges,” you say quietly. When he looks back up at you, you’re watching his hand, trailing your fingertips over the veins that decorate them. “I earned them from protecting you.”

So why would I not want them?

It goes unsaid, but he catches it anyway in the gentle reverence of your carress, the quirk of your brow when you look at him wordlessly asking if he can understand now. It doesn’t need to be said.

He slips his hand out from under yours. The bed shifts with his weight as he turns and gets up. You feel the loss immediately. It’s easy to hide the disappointment, but it churns over in your gut, more distinctly than you’ve ever felt it before, as he disappears around the corner of the wall. Did he really hate them so much?

He returns a minute later when you’re considering fixing your shirt with a medkit in hand. He sits on his knees, sets the kit down beside your body, and opens it up to get what he needs. The disinfectant stings as he wipes it along the cut, but you hardly feel it when he just looks so beautiful. So focused on taking care of you.

“Tell me when you're hurt,” he reminds you. He unspools a length of gauze and wraps it around your midsection securely. He glances at you with a slight grin as he grabs a roll of bandages from the kit. “They won’t scar well if they get infected first.”

A week later, you’re the one patching him up. He sits calmly on the couch as you draw a needle through the skin of his bicep. It’s just a knife wound. Earned from stepping in to protect you.

He can’t wait to see the scar.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip

#fanfic #fanfiction #sylus #sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader

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ivyvenus333 · 13 hours ago

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satosugu band!au (kind of)

a/n: im so cooked this is what i've been thinking about whenever i listen to this song. go listen to "pool house" so you see my vision... also i finally learned how to do the ombre ◦°˚(*❛ ‿ ❛)/˚°◦ ok ily.

"pool house" by the backseat lovers except it was written by satoru and suguru when they were 17 and at some shitty house party. hoping to find solace from the weed-filled air and the bass reverberating off of every surface, the two snuck off to the backyard. the rowdy cheers of girls getting drunk in the pool didn’t offer much peace, but at least there were empty seats around the fireplace. taking painfully slow sips of beer they pretended to like, satoru and suguru sat in silence, just observing their peers and this unfamiliar world around them.

of course, they’d been dragged to the party by shoko who relentlessly insisted they needed to broaden their horizon. satoru and suguru never really understood what she meant by that. what more to life than spending almost every waking moment with your best friend — the one you started a band with?

and who else but satoru to have the genius idea that they needed to write a song right now. something about creativity flowing more freely when you’re drunk. which they absolutely were. lawn chairs moved to be as close as possible, and satoru leaned over the armrest to be closer still. the string lights above illuminated the small leather notebook that suguru always carried in his pocket. always ready at a moment’s notice to be filled with lyrics, drum beat notations, or anything satoru commanded him to write.

the words flowed through them and onto the page, all inspired by the party taking place around them. defenses lowered from the alcohol, they were so goddamn giggly and touchy. they sat there and wrote for a couple hours until shoko was ready to go. like most nights, the three ended up crashing at satoru’s, all squeezed and cuddling on his king-size bed. well, satoru and suguru cuddling. but their long limbs inevitably violated shoko’s personal space, so, close enough.

the next morning, they convinced shoko that the song needed to be recorded right now, despite her unforgiving hangover. and as much as she complained, the song set the tone for the album that would launch their career the next year — just right after their graduation.

as it goes, suguru left the band a few years and tours later. he told the media and the fans it was because of his mental health and to please respect his privacy. it wasn’t entirely a lie. truthfully, suguru was still reconciling with this lifestyle they’d become entrenched in immediately after high school. one that satoru was better at throwing himself at — the drugs, the partying. the sex. god, watching satoru pridefully fuck their groupies drove suguru insane. something about the way men and women lusted over satoru in the first place made suguru’s blood boil. and fuck, shoko was basically built for this life. but suguru simply wasn’t. and his feelings for his best friend — ones he’d been repressing since he first met satoru — were not helping.

so satoru, unknowing, feels his heart physically break when suguru throws the same rehearsed lines in his face before leaving and going no contact for over a year.

anyways, suguru temporarily* comes back for the band's first world tour after an emergency with the drummer that replaced him and a desperately pleading shoko. satoru was so confused and so pissed when he walked in the studio one day and saw suguru sat behind the drums as if nothing had ever happened. so much so that he almost refused to play if he was going to be there. but the better part of satoru's heart knew that it was always supposed to be suguru who he traveled the world with to perform songs they wrote in high school at shitty house parties.

literally all of this to say that the instrumental section from [2:58-3:53] is them realizing what they truly mean to each other mid-way through the tour. satoru distances himself from the microphone, bouncing on his feet as he strums the electric guitar. he positions himself on the stage so that his back is towards the crowd and he can't see anything except suguru. suguru on the drums letting the passion he'd been restraining move freely through his hands, eyes never leaving satoru's. faces flushed from the heat of the stage lights, shirts soaked in sweat, hair disheveled from the constant motion. and yet, they both swear the other has never looked more beautiful.

no words are sung, but the music expresses all the "i missed yous," "i need yous," and "i love yous" they've always been too afraid to tell each other.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #satosugu #gojo satoru #geto suguru #satoru gojo #suguru geto #gojo x geto #satosugu fic #satosugu fanfic #gego

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venomwrites · 1 day ago

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I don't know where this idea came from. Probably because if there is a way to incorporate Vi's red jacket to Caitlyn's girlboss era I will find it. Speculation for Act II Caitlyn realizing she has made a mess. This works as a stand-alone but also fits in with The Cycle

Kiramman money has always been the lifeblood of Piltover’s institutions.

Blood is always there. Thrumming under the skin. If you can’t see it, you still knew it was there. Carrying life along familiar paths, fueling the form around it. In many ways the goal is to not see it. If you see it, then something has gone terribly wrong.

The banners are a gash across the sky.

Kiramman blood has always been here, Caitlyn does not know why seeing the crest seems strange. She also finds it does not matter. This is her mother’s city, her mother’s money. Caitlyn wants to peel back the skin and reveal everything. She wants the whole world to bleed in memory of her mother. Until they are also screaming for justice. Until the blue wave comes to her shore and puts Jinx in her hands.

People work around her looking at what can be used. Blue and red they sort and inspect. Like the chambers of a heart they pump her mother’s blood and sort what is useful to turn the tide. What can be made into weapons? Caitlyn moves silently through the chaos. She makes her way up to Jayce and Viktor’s old lab, where their greatest chance of finding things are.

The mess catches her off guard.

The lab has always been messy. Jayce’s chaos wars with Viktor’s precise organization in a constant struggle. When they work well together, there is a harmony. Now it is just chaos. Viktor’s order has been reduced to a single frame that now lies empty. Jayce’s fingerprints are all over his drawings.

Ambessa has made the world bleed. She has not sat around and waited for the world to give her what she needs. She has gone out to take it. The grief in her eyes pales in comparison to the fire in them. Caitlyn wants that shift. She will have it. She knows the importance of a mentor. Especially when one trods on unfamiliar paths.

But the mess—

“Be careful!” She barks, “these plans are paper. If they are found damaged it will be your head,” something crashes to the ground, “everyone out! I will look myself.”

They hesitate a moment. As though her orders are insufficient. Caitlyn sees red. She is the one in power, she has command. Yet they hesitate, just long enough to be noticeable. Long enough to be annoying. She is not a child, she is in charge here.

“I command you to leave!”

They depart when she yells.

Caitlyn hates the adrenaline that hits her. She hates the way the look at her. Caitlyn has always been aware of her family’s power. Always tried not to abuse it because it was never hers, she hadn’t earned it. It was her family’s power. She hoped that one day she would earn it with her own two hands. Now it has fallen into her hands. Not under her own power but y her mother’s death.

It was always going to happen one day.

Caitlyn just thought she would have earned her own power before then.

Now she doesn’t care.

She stands in the mess and just thinks about how much her mother would hate the chaos. How she always wanted Jayce to clean up. Take his shoes off. Not trail soot everywhere. Jayce is—was—always a misfit in one way or another. He wore it with so much pride, like the soot under his fingernails was his most treasured possession.

Would that have been how Vi acted?

Caitlyn shoves her thoughts away from that line of thinking. Vi never would have stayed longer than she had to. The second push came to shove, she was gone. Seven years in prison, getting stabbed—Caitlyn knows Vi can handle pain. The butt of her rifle was nothing in comparison. This was a choice. A choice to betray her when Caitlyn needed her. Betray her and insult her. Like Caitlyn’s grief made her stupid. The only stupid thing Caitlyn had done was believing Vi’s bullshit.

She casts her gaze around.

You always keep the most important things in arms reach.

The cot has been overturned, a hole gouged through the pallet. Too obvious anyway. Caitlyn crouches where she vaguely remembers the cot was and stretches out her arm. Within reach. Her eyes light on the old blackboard. The one that was in every lab and apartment he’s ever had. It’s been thrown across the room but she knows it was here. She runs her fingers over the edge and finds a hidden latch. She undoes it and sees blue.

The victory makes her smile, as only solving a good puzzle can.

She quickly unfurls them to see all three of them are there.

The Claw.

The Hammer.

The Gauntlets.

Pain unexpectedly laces through her chest at the sight of them. The blue paper makes her think of the blue light that filtered down the last time she saw them. Laying limp next to Vi’s form as she choked out a sob of misery. Caitlyn felt a vicious pull of victory at each sound. Vi lied about so much. Now she could truly feel a sliver of the monstrous pain that cracked Caitlyn’s heart.

Promise me you won’t change.

She was not the one who changed. Vi did. Vi stopped being honest with her. She lied and the betrayal stings. That is what they do down there. They don’t know anything of dignity or honor. It’s just what they can take. Vi took all of the trust Caitlyn put in her and fell apart with a blow Caitlyn knows she could handle. Caitlyn already healed that wound. Just like she did everything for her. If she wanted to betray her, that was fine. Caitlyn would leave her there.

She still has them? Why?

The gauntlets hadn’t even been a thought.

Not until Ambessa asked the question. Her eyes flashed for her prize. It was only then Caitlyn realized she hadn’t given the matter any thought. They hadn’t even registered as something she should send people to retrieve. She hadn’t thought about them at all. She had only ever seen the gauntlets on Vi’s arms. She moved like they were an extension of her and Caitlyn stopped thinking of them as two separate entities. She had wanted Vi to hurt. To suffer. To get the hell away from her. She did not want to kill her.

She still doesn’t.

She just never wants to see her again.

She thinks about the plans. The weapons. It would be so much easier to get Jinx with them. Ambessa would have her prize. Something would be set right. But then she thinks about how Vi fights. How she will fight if soldiers appear to take her gauntlets. How she will fight if they appear with the gauntlets. The image of her laying twisted on the ground gasping for air as death sinks its claws into her makes Caitlyn’s chest ache again. She will fight either way. One has a much higher chance of killing her.

Footsteps.

Ambessa’s footsteps.

Caitlyn freezes. Like she’s a child hearing her mother approach when she’s doing something she disapproves of. When she was a child she would have cried. Now she just remembers the feel of Vi under her shoulder. The fire that stirred in her heart. This was right, this was right and her parents could not take it from her. Take her from her. Her fingers dig into the plans. She deserves her revenge. This could be it. But it won’t be her precise shot that would miss Vi, it would be a wrecking ball that wouldn’t.

In two quick motions Caitlyn shoves the plans down the back of her pants and pulls her hair over the edge.

“Ah, Commander Kiramman, did you find them?”

Straight to it.

Miners can work longer, without fatigue!

The plans burn down her spine. She becomes aware of how bent hers is. How long has it been that way? Now the plans burn a line down her spine. They draw it back into its proper, erect form. Like someone has dug through her and found the parts buried by grief. Caitlyn thought they were crushed. Gone. But the plans down her back say otherwise.

“I found their hiding place, but he must have destroyed them,” she says, “or Viktor must have taken them.”

Ambessa looks at the space.

Looks at Caitlyn.

All Caitlyn can do is hold herself steady under that gaze. For the first time she realizes something is terribly wrong here. Ambessa looks at her as though Caitlyn is little more than the mess that surrounds them. Another obstacle in her way. Ambessa looks at the board, the open compartment, then back to Caitlyn. There’s a whistle through the air.

The board cracks in half.

That is what Ambessa does with obstacles.

She looks through the sides and then straightens up. Behind her, Caitlyn hears Rictus move forward. Prepared to re-enforce her without question, without thought. He’s close enough for his breath to pass across Caitlyn’s face. Caitlyn waits for the blade to split her, but it doesn’t come.

“They will need to be reverse engineered when we find the girl,” she says, “we will need to re-direct some of the search parties to—“

“No!” Caitlyn cuts in. Both of their eyes lock on her, “we are close to catching Jinx,” she steps forward and the plans brush against her back. Gird her spine, “we will extend marshal law and increase the curfew to find her sooner.”

The plan pleases neither of them, but after a moment Ambessa’s features shift.

“Of course, Commander,” she says. Now Caitlyn can hear the way she says the title. The flattery behind it that suddenly feels so false, “as you command.”

Commanding Commander.

She is a fucking joke to this woman.

“If Viktor has the plans he will not listen to a curfew,” she continues, “he will be easier to find.”

Something in Ambessa’s face relaxes slightly.

“It would be helpful to take these,” she says, motioning to the papers. Caitlyn this of all the things she has from this place. All the things Caitlyn has given her. She nods, “excellent. I shall dispatch your new orders.”

Caitlyn’s entire world narrows to the plans down her spine. It’s her only thought as they settle against the seat of her pants. Only their high waist keeps them against her skin as she makes her way home. Maddie is lingering by the door when she gets there. Caitlyn wants nothing more than to embrace her warmth and pretend this is not happening. But the gentleness on her face feels like a lie. Especially with the plans shoved down her back.

“I’m tired tonight,” she says. Maddie moves forward anyway and she puts her back to the wall. Feels the plans creep up, “I saw Jayce’s lab,” she says, “I need to be alone.”

“Of course,” she says, “tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Caitlyn agrees because she is apparently lying to everyone now.

How long has she been lying to herself?

She shoves the question away as she enters her room. She locks the door to be very clear with her wishes. She undoes the fastening at her throat and pulls off the cape. The plans feel like a bomb in her hands. Though she tries not to, she thinks of Jinx. How she must feel before every bomb goes off. There’s no precision nor aim. Just a terrible choice to make.

Caitlyn throws the plans into the fire.

It feels like the first choice that’s hers.

Her heat is thumping in that same pleasing way it was when she found the plans. But more than that, this is a decision she knows is right. These plans should not fall into Ambessa’s hands. For reasons that have nothing—and everything—to do with Vi. This is the right choice. It feels so different from most of her decisions lately.

The plans are ash when she sees the stain.

She had not thought to take any care about how she rolled up the plans. There hadn’t been time. The paper Jayce used is special, copiable. But it stains everything blue if one is not careful. She was not and now there is a bright blue stain where the cape hits her spine. It feels like she’s being tattled on. Caitlyn knows this will be impossible to get out but it’s fresh. There is a chance. She brings the cape into the bathroom, wets an old black shirt and scrubs. She cannot have more blue on any fabric. The stain goes darker with water. Caitlyn blots it with another piece of the fabric and inspects her work.

Violet stares back up at her.

She’s turned the stain violet.

The old anger slams into her. She’s just saved Vi’s life again and all Vi can do is leave a stain on her. A stain that gets her into all kinds of trouble. How is Caitlyn supposed to save the world from one sister when the other keeps leaving stains on her? She must keep wearing the cape and now violet is going to be at her spine.

Vi is going to be at her back.

She’s going to betray her again.

Caitlyn throws the cape aside and strides to her wardrobe. She shoves aside the portion of clothes she does not want to see. The dresses for endless parties and cotillions. A life she is supposed to have but has always warred against. Behind all of them, she finds it. Her fingers snag the material and she rips it down, walking back over to the fireplace without looking. She is going to rid herself of all of this. She is not going to be made a fool of for one second longer.

The red jacket hovers above the flames.

All Caitlyn has to do is let go.

She holds it there over the flames, willing her fingers to open. But they stay clenched tightly around the fabric. The warmth seeps into her hand and arm. Starts to build. Starts to turn painful. Her bicep throbs and her eyes burn as she stares at the flame with her arm outstretched. She waits for something to give. Maybe if her arm gives out, the jacket will just fall the impossible distance into the flames. All she has to do is let go.

Her fingers tighten.

Release.

Then she snatches the jacket back before it touches the flames. Panic surges through her as she looks for any sign of damage, but the only thing that greets her is the sight of dirty, warmed leather. Relief surges through her. Her knees turn jelly like and she drops onto the floor. It’s so familiar to sit here. Vi always sat near the fire, usually on the floor. Especially when it started to get cooler at night. Sometimes she’d convince Caitlyn to join her, like sitting on the floor was normal when there were so many chairs around. Caitlyn hesitates only a moment before she lifts the jacket and puts her nose into the neck.

Of course Vi’s scent lingers there.

The jacket is warm enough for Caitlyn to pretend it’s from her skin and not the fire. Warmth that wrapped around her when Vi caught her after her mother’s death. It smells like her. Like how she smelled when Caitlyn breathed her in as they kissed. She didn’t expect Vi to kiss so gently. So sweetly. So much like she could love her.

There’s a burning in Caitlyn’s eyes she cannot blame on the fire.

She wipes at her cheeks and finds them dry. It’s not safe to cry. If she starts to cry she will never stop. The only time she has cried was when Vi held her. When it felt safe. This is not safe. All the same Caitlyn draws the jacket over her shoulders. She wishes it took more to remember what Vi felt like. But the wound is new and fresh. It aches in a way her mother’s death does not.

Caitlyn does not know how long she sits there in front of the fire with Vi’s jacket over her shoulders. Eventually she crawls into the bed they laid on together. Another place that Vi has stained. She had them change the drapes ahead of their usual seasonal rotation. It didn’t matter. She tried kissing someone else in this bed. Also, it did not matter.

Now she allows herself the moment of weakness to lay there and hug the jacket close. To stroke her fingers down the leather like she touched Vi’s face. She was a fool to trust like she did. Now her foolishness has led them to this point. She’s always known Vi is ashamed of her, that’s why she’s stayed away.

For the first time, she thinks her mother would be ashamed of her as well.

Once the tears start Caitlyn does not know how to make them stop. She buries her face in the leather and just weeps. She’s never felt so small in her entire life. Usually when she cries someone is there to comfort her. Now she weeps alone in her bedroom and knows if Ambessa hears about it—and she will—Caitlyn will be reprimanded. It feels as though—

Who the hell are you?

A tiny, miserable noise pulls from her lips and she muffles it in the jacket. Ambessa will hear about it because she is always there. Because Caitlyn willingly walked into a cell. Her cell. She walked in and let Ambessa throw away the key. She is such a fool. Caitlyn pulls the jacket close, seeking comfort. How twisted is she that she longs for comfort from someone who betrayed her so easily? Who could have prevented all of this if she just trusted Caitlyn to make the shot? Vi didn’t believe in her, why should she want comfort from her? Why should she want to protect her?

Her heart knows the answer.

Caitlyn refuses to listen. She tightens her grip in the jacket. Vi is a traitorous fool. And if she survived seven years in prison then Caitlyn can figure her way out of this mess. In a good and honorable way. She will find her way out of this mess. She keeps the jacket close when she drifts off and wakes with renewed determination. The jacket goes back in the closet. The cape with its violet stain goes back on he shoulders. Every time she thinks of it against her spine, she stands a bit straighter. When she sees Ambessa, she does not trust her anymore but that is irrelevant.

She is going to win.

And no-one will ever try making a fool out of her.

Never again.

#caitlyn kiramman #caitvi #arcane #arcane spoilers #vi x caitlyn #caitlyn x vi

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