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filmsbyun · 3 months ago

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Daffodils || Choi Soobin

To you, the bond of soulmates was as sacred and divine as a delicate flower. Growing up, you had watched your parents bask in a love so grand, drawn together by the cruel yet beautiful trial of flowers and ink. You dreamed of your own bond one day awakening, of finding the one destined for you.

Until you didn’t.

One vicious prank was all it took to crush the seedlings of your young heart. The idea of soulmates began to sicken you—no longer a dream, but a wound.

Soobin had always gathered your broken pieces, helping you reassemble what was torn apart. The time you spent closing your heart to love, he spent his trying to cup the love that only grew for you with both hands—trying to keep it from spilling over. And one day, that love blossomed into soft, bright daffodils, nestling deep within his chest.

⊹₊⟡⋆ 35k

pairing: best friend! Choi Soobin x afab! reader

warnings: soulmate au, hanahaki au, best friends to lovers au, mention of past bullying, physical violence, reader suffers from past trauma, coughing out petals, feelings denial, character growth and development, lots of crying, mental breakdown, angst with comfort, [soobin with glasses], almost self-sacrifice, they're bad at feelings but they work it out (aka idiots in love), hasty decisions, one scene has blood, longing and yearning, oc used

Sorry guys for the delay, I got hit by a car. ALSO, sorry how the 22k became... 35k. Whoops? Well, anyyyways, this is a rewritten version of Daffodils. This story is part of the Fleur de Destin event. To my old readers of Daffodils, a lot has been changed and polished in the new version so I'm gonna suggest re-reading teehee >.< alright see you all next month I got hit by a car again- Reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!

Back in one late spring of middle school, when the season took its dying breath, and summer inhaled it to bring itself to life, Soobin learned what it meant to be ruined—really, truly ruined.

It wasn’t his ruin, not then. It was yours. And perhaps that was what made it worse—the hushed way your world cracked, the trust in your eyes shattering like glass beneath careless hands.

A joke—a cruel performance staged for the sick satisfaction of a restless classroom. A boy, one named Kim Doyun, with a heart far less tender than yours—claimed you as his soulmate. He wove his words carefully, painfully cunningly, each one a thread tightening around you—a noose disguised as fate.

At first, you hesitated. The bond was sacred, wasn’t it? A tether between souls, something that cannot be broken or erased. And yet, he convinced you otherwise. He told you the flowers had not taken root in him because you had both acknowledged the bond early. He said the universe had granted you mercy, sparing you—and him—from suffering. And when you questioned the absence of the soulmate mark on your skin, he smiled, easy and assured, and told you it would bloom in time—petal by petal, slow and gentle, just like your love.

And you—young, hopeful, desperate to believe—fell into the lie. You had seen love, real love, in the way your parents looked at each other. A love grand enough to house a family, to turn walls and windows into a home filled with warmth, laughter, and unwavering devotion. You had grown up in its glow, in the certainty that love could be both gentle and fierce, a force that built rather than destroyed. So how could you not yearn for the same? Was it wrong to long for something so beautiful? To want a love that could stand against the world and remain unshaken?

For a week, you lived in a dream spun of hollow promises. You thought you were chosen. Loved. But reality came crashing down in the form of laughter, cruel and cutting, echoing through the classroom when he revealed the truth.

It had been a joke all along.

You could only stand there, frozen, as they jeered. And Doyun grinned like he had done something clever. It was everywhere, filling the space, pressing against your skin, echoing in your skull. Your heart clenched tight in your chest, something inside you withering like petals left too long in the cold. The air tasted different, heavy with humiliation, with betrayal.

It wasn’t just him—it was all of them. Their satisfaction at your expense, their voices blending into the shadowy monsters that one sees during nightmares. You wanted to move, to run, to disappear, but your body refused. Instead, you stood there, crumbling in real time, splintering under the force of their laughter.

Till this day, Soobin regretted it—because the day the cruel joke came to light, he hadn’t been at school. And so you, his best friend, were left to stand alone in the wreckage.

He only came to know of it when you showed up at his doorstep, eyes puffy, sobs so raw they shook through your whole frame. You clutched onto him as if he were the last solid thing in a world that had betrayed you. And Soobin—helpless, furious, burning with something too vast to contain—held you back just as tightly.

The very next day, to everyone’s shock—including yours—Soobin, the soft-spoken, kindhearted boy who never even raised his voice, left Doyun with a broken arm.

You weren’t there to see it happen, only heard the shocked whispers afterward—how Soobin had slammed his knuckles into the boy’s face until he could barely feel them anymore. How the sickening crack of bone cut through the air, screams raw and sharp. How he didn’t stop until the teachers had to drag him away. They sent Soobin home with a week’s suspension, but Doyun—the one who had turned the concept of sacred bond into mockery—was expelled. A fitting punishment, they all said.

You couldn’t bear the burden of knowing that your pain had become Soobin’s. When you visited him at his home, battered and still recovering from the injuries, you asked him, your voice trembling, why he had done it. His response was quiet. “I still think a broken arm is far less of a punishment for what he did to you.”

Your chest tightened at his words, and the sting behind your eyes burned hotter. You moved closer carefully, as if afraid that even the slightest touch might hurt him. But as you hugged him, you held him as though trying to pour all your feelings into that one moment—an overwhelming mix of gratitude, guilt, and sorrow.

From that day on, you swore to never speak of soulmates again. You refused to search for the tattoo you were meant to bear. You convinced yourself that love, in all its destined cruelty, was nothing more than a well-dressed illusion. Gone was the soft-spoken warmth, the quiet trust, the belief that the universe would never be so cruel. In its place, something sharper took root.

And just like always Soobin saw it before anyone else. Saw it in the way your smiles never quite reached your eyes anymore, in the way you deflected kindness like it was something dangerous. He watched as you built walls where there had once been open doors. He watched as your heart, guarded by time and pain, resisted the touch of love, while his struggled to contain the overwhelming flood of it, spilling over for you. And though it broke something in him, he understood, because the universe chose you to be the punchline of its cruel joke.

If someone asked him when he started loving you, Soobin wouldn’t have a clear and proper answer. It was quite simple, and at the same time, it was not. His love for you formed gradually over the years; it was a paradox: a source of profound joy and deep anguish.

His heart swelled with happiness at your every smile, yet ached with the fear of unrequited affection. Loving you was both his greatest blessing and his most harrowing curse, intertwining elation with despair in a dance as old as time. Harrowing curse, because if you were to become soulbounded to him, Soobin would grapple with the knowledge that you’d have to carry the burden of loving him when your past wounds were still tender. Yet at the same time—he selfishly wished you were his.

But wishes had no place in reality.

Soobin swallowed another sip of his drink, the bitter aftertaste coating his throat. The golden glow of overhead lights of the restaurant reflected off half-empty glasses. A long dinner table sat in the center, plates pushed aside as the night stretched on, the warmth of alcohol loosening tongues and drawing out old stories. Across the table, bathed in the same golden light, you leaned back in your chair, smiling at the right moments, laughing when the time called for it.

One moment, the conversation revolved around careers and future plans. The next, it veered into something suffocating, dragging with it the unwelcome choke of soulmate stories.

“Man, I thought I was gonna gag to death the first time it bloomed,” someone said, shaking their head. “Daisies right in my throat. I swear, I almost never confessed because of it.”

Another laughed. “At least you had a happy ending. I had to watch mine wither.”

More stories followed—tales of aching chests and blooming petals, of whispered confessions and love that came too late. Some spoke with fond smiles, recounting the moment their floral marks appeared, the way their hearts had raced with hope. Others shared quieter stories, voices dipped in accepted melancholy, remembering the pain of unrequited love, the suffocating grip of petals that would never fall away. Every word carried the weight of a fate decided long before they had any say in it, a thread spun by the universe without their permission.

Soobin glanced at you the moment the topic changed. You didn’t react right away, swirling your drink as if the discussion barely registered. But he knew you. He saw the way your fingers curled just a little tighter around your glass, the way your gaze flickered away before you took a quick small sip—like the liquor might wash down the bitterness rising in your throat.

The warmth of alcohol no longer felt as comforting, its haze unable to soften the sharp edge of the conversation. Words had touched a wound too deep. Then, someone turned to you.

"What about you? Have you found yours yet?"

You blinked, then let out an airy, dismissive laugh, setting your glass down a little too roughly. "Eh. I don’t really care about all that." A shrug. "Doesn’t matter to me."

The words came easily, well-rehearsed over the years. A script you had perfected.

Around you, protest and teasing erupted, lighthearted jeers from friends who didn’t know better. They nudged at you, pushing for a confession, insisting you were just too shy to share. And you, you only shook your head, lips curling into a carefully constructed smile, the kind that concealed rather than revealed.

The conversation continued, the voices blending together again like an orchestra that had shifted tempo, but it felt distant, distant enough that you were now barely part of it. You could hear the chatter, but you were no longer really listening. Your mind wandered, the words still echoing in the back of your head, while the bitter aftertaste of that one question lingered in your mouth.

You found yourself drinking more than you intended. One glass became two, then three, until the burn of alcohol dulled the edges of everything, the world blurring around you. But even as the alcohol worked its way through your veins, it couldn’t wash away the suffocation, the discomfort of that moment—the reminder that you were still, after all these years, broken in ways others could never see.

The moment your fifth glass met the table, Soobin was already reaching for it, his grip was firm as he slid it away. “That’s enough,” he murmured, a quiet finality in his tone.

You blinked at him, sluggish from the alcohol. “Soobin, I’m fine—”

“I know,” he said softly. “But let’s go.”

He was already easing you to your feet. The room swayed, lights blurring into a hazy glow, and Soobin steadied you with a hand at your back. He draped your coat over your shoulders, his warmth seeping through the fabric.

“I’m taking her home,” he told everyone. The others threw out goodbyes as he walked you out, brushing off questions with a polite smile.

Outside, the night air curled around you, crisp and biting against your flushed skin, yet it did little to clear the fog in your mind. Your steps faltered, the pavement uneven beneath you, and Soobin sighed before guiding you toward a nearby bench by the bus stop.

“Sit,” he said, his voice softer now.

You obeyed, letting your body sink into the worn wooden slats as he knelt before you. The glow of the streetlamp cast long shadows over his face, the muscles of his face soft as his fingers moved to undo the straps of your shoe. A sigh of relief left your lips as he slid them off, the dull ache in your feet subduing. You watched him, gaze heavy with the weight of intoxication and fatigue that seeped deep into your bones.

“You’re too good to me,” you murmured, your words thrown casually. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His fingers stilled against your ankle, breath catching for half a second before he masked it with a quiet exhale. He looked up at you then, his heart lurching at the sight—your face tilted toward the sky, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks, utterly unaware of the storm unraveling in his chest.

Soobin only smiled, a wave of melancholy flickering in his expression. Then he scoffed lightly, trying to lift the mood. “Crash and burn, probably.”

You pouted, nudging his shoulder with your socked foot. “Mean.”

He grinned, then shrugged. "I don’t really have a choice, do I? You’ve been shoved in my face since birth."

Your brows furrowed as you processed his words, then, in your drunken indignation, you lifted your foot to kick at him. He dodged easily, laughing, hands raised in mock surrender.

"You—" you began, but the bus arrived before you could retaliate.

It pulled up with a hiss, and Soobin helped you up, guiding you inside. The moment you sat down, exhaustion finally won. You leaned against him, head tucked into the curve of his shoulder, breath evening out as the sway of the ride lulled you into sleep.

Soobin stayed still, adjusting slightly to make sure you were comfortable. The world outside blurred past in streaks of neon, but he didn’t look at any of it.

He looked at you.

The gnawing fear returned, creeping into his chest like an old, familiar ghost. It settled deep in his ribs, twisting tight, whispering the questions that had haunted him for so long. What if you really were his soulmate? And, What if you were meant for someone else? What if the universe had already decided, and he was simply a spectator, standing at the edge of something he could never have?

Soobin swallowed hard. He didn’t have answers. He didn’t have solutions for any of the scenarios playing in his mind. But one thing was certain—he was a coward. Because his love for you couldn't be conveyed in phrasal combinations; it either screamed out loud or stayed painfully silent, trapped in the spaces between words. It beat louder than anything he could ever say.

His fingers found yours, hesitating only for a second before curling around them. His eyes softened when your hand fit perfectly in his large one. The softness of your skin against his sent another wave of longing crashing through him.

“I don't ever want to hold you back from where you’re trying to get to,” he whispered, his voice nearly lost in the quiet hum of the bus. His thumb traced a light, barely-there stroke over your knuckles. “I’m sorry I never tell you what I really mean.”

And when he was sure you wouldn’t stir, he allowed himself one selfish moment. He risked a small kiss on your head, a quiet surrender to the wave of affection that threatened to overwhelm him. His small, only liberty.

You woke up feeling like absolute shit.

Your skull pounded as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, your mouth dry and bitter, and your entire body ached like it had been trampled by a herd of elephants. As you shifted, a groan escaped your lips, muffled by the pillow you tried to suffocate yourself with. The light coming through the blinds felt like daggers against your eyelids.

God, never again.

The sound of your apartment door unlocking barely registered in your haze. However, the obnoxious thudding of footsteps on the wood floor knocked the rest of your brain into place.

“You look awful.”

You pried one eye open just enough to shoot Soobin a glare, but it was hard to look intimidating when your head felt like it might split in half at any moment. He stood at the foot of your bed, arms crossed and way too amused for this time of the morning.

“You look awful,” you grumbled, your voice a hoarse rasp that you barely recognized as your own.

Soobin snorted. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t the one drinking like I went through my third divorce last night.”

You grunted, pushing your face further into the pillow. “Shut up.”

He was still talking—probably about how you needed water or food or some kind of life-saving intervention—but it was not until your gaze drifted lazily to the clock on your bedside table that your entire soul nearly left your body.

You were late. Shit.

You bolted upright so fast that your brain rattled against your skull. “Oh my god—” You clutched your head, vision swimming. “I’m late. I’m fucking late.”

You flung the covers off, nearly tripping over your own feet as you scrambled toward the bathroom.

“Late for what?” Soobin called after you.

“My TA duties, Soobin, what else?!” you shouted, shoving toothpaste into your mouth in a blind panic.

Five minutes later, you were half-dressed, hopping on one foot while desperately shoving your shoe on while simultaneously stuffing papers into your bag. Your cardigan was barely on, your hair was still a mess, and Soobin—incredibly unhelpful Soobin—was leaning against your doorway, watching the disaster unfold with a mouthful of cookies he stole from your kitchen.

“I can still make it,” you panted, grabbing your phone and whipping around to face him. “Please drive me there.”

He lifted a brow, pointing a finger at you with a scrutinizing look. “I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but usually TAs are dressed very professionally and—”

“Soobin.”

“Alright, alright,” he squeaked, hands raised in surrender. “Get in the car.”

You practically threw yourself into the passenger seat. The moment he pulled out onto the road, you glanced at your reflection in the side mirror, quickly rifling through your makeup bag, attempting to force some semblance of order onto your chaotic appearance and tried to mentally will yourself into looking more put-together by the time you arrived.

As you busied yourself with your mascara, Soobin reached back into the backseat, the faint sound of fabric rustled before he dropped a tiffin bag onto your lap with a soft thud. You blinked at it, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden arrival of... breakfast? Inside was a tupperware box with sliced bananas and oatmeals, a spoon neatly wrapped in tissue, a bottle of water, and a small strip of pills inside. It took you a second to register it. Of course, Soobin had packed this. Before even coming to check on you. Because he knew you’d be useless this morning.

“Eat up,” Soobin said simply, keeping his eyes on the road, though his lips curved slightly as he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “And take the pills. It’ll help with the headache.”

You stared at the food for a beat. Soobin’s thoughtfulness was so Soobin. Though you were sure he got his sister to help him arrange this because he, for the life of him, couldn’t cook.

"Soobin!" You cried out dramatically, holding up the box and bottle like they were some kind of sacred offering. Your voice dripped with mock reverence. “I am forever indebted to you!”

His eyes flicked to you for a second, and you could feel the eye-roll before he even did it. A deep sigh escaped him, but his lips were still twitching as he turned his attention back to the road. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, his voice unusually soft. “Just eat.”

The gentleness in his tone made your heart squeeze a little, a pang of affection you were too tired to process fully. Instead, you grabbed the tupperware, carefully peeling back the lid. The warmth of the oatmeal was a small comfort in your otherwise frazzled state. You shot Soobin a sideways glance, noticing the subtle way his fingers tapped on the wheel. His presence brought you the comfort you never once had to search for in this vast universe. And as you basked in the combined warmth of his presence and the oatmeal, the campus loomed ahead.

The car pulled to a stop at the edge of campus. You gulped down the last of the water, fumbling with the lid before reaching for your bag.

“Alright, alright, get out.” Soobin’s voice was laced with playful annoyance, nudging his finger on the side of your shoulder.

You swatted his hand away with a huff. With a quick goodbye, you reached over and gave his perfectly styled hair a ruffle. The reaction was instantaneous.

A strangled gasp tore from his throat, his whole body jerking back as if you had just mortally wounded him. “No—!!”

You were already halfway out of the car when he grabbed his sun visor, flipping it down in a frantic panic to check the damage. “Oh my God. You did not just—” His fingers flew to his hair, patting it down like it had just been violently attacked. A choked-off groan left him when he saw the carnage in the mirror. “Do you know how long it took me to style this?! You—you absolute menace—!! I swear, you just live to ruin me.”

You, of course, were cackling. “See you later!” you called, already grabbing your things and practically launching yourself out of the car before he could say anything else. You dashed through the halls, skipping a few steps on the stairs as your heart pounded from the adrenaline coursing through you. Somehow, you’d made it. You’d actually made it.

You knocked gently before pushing the door open. Sunlight poured through the large window behind Professor Park Minhye’s desk, giving the office a vibrant look. She barely looked up at first, glasses perched on her nose as she scanned a stack of papers. Then, noticing you, a warm smile broke the stern lines of her face.

"Ah, there you are. Morning. How are you feeling today?"

You managed a small, sheepish smile. The oatmeal and painkillers had helped, but exhaustion still sat at the edges of your body like a lingering weight.

"Morning, Professor. I'm alright, just a little under the weather."

She raised an eyebrow, the kind that saw right through excuses but chose not to call them out directly. "Hmm. You didn’t have to come in if you weren’t feeling well, you know."

You shook your head as you set your bag down, already reaching for the lecture notes. "It’s my duty. I didn’t want to skip."

Professor Park studied you for a moment, her sharp gaze softening just slightly. "You remind me of myself at your age," she mused, before leaning back in her chair. "Too stubborn for your own good."

A flicker of warmth curled in your chest. It wasn’t disapproval in her voice—if anything, there was something like quiet pride laced within it.

"I’ll be more careful," you promised, meaning it.

She nodded, satisfied, before turning her attention back to the papers. "Good. Now, let’s focus on today’s lecture. I was thinking we should add more interactive elements—wake these students up before they start drooling on their desks."

A small chuckle escaped you. "You mean like last week?"

"Exactly," she said, exasperated but amused. "We’re not letting that happen again."

You settled in, organizing the materials by the sunlit desk. You found yourself being quietly grateful—not just for the sunlight, but for the presence of someone who cared enough to notice when you weren’t quite at your best.

Professor Park handed you a file, her wrist briefly turning as she reached forward. It wasn’t the first time you had seen it—the delicate purple ink of an iris flower tattooed just above the bone. The file stayed in your hands, unopened, as you stared. An iris soulmate tattoo. Proof of a bond that ran deeper than flesh, deeper than choice. There was a bittersweet melancholy in your chest, creeping up like an old memory, like something you weren’t sure you wanted to feel right now.

"You think it's pretty, right?"

Her voice was gentle, pulling you sharply out of your thoughts. You startled, fingers gripping the file tighter as you met her eyes.

"Pardon?"

She smiled knowingly and turned her wrist, letting the ink catch the light. "My tattoo," she clarified, the corner of her lips tugging up just slightly. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

Heat crawled up your neck. You hadn’t meant to be so rude and obvious, and now you probably looked and sounded nosy. "I—I didn’t mean to—" But before you could offer a rushed apology, she hummed, tilting her head as if recalling something distant yet cherished.

"I was about your age when I met him," she mused. "It was spring, and I was stubborn—too focused on school, too determined to ignore all that soulmate nonsense." A quiet chuckle escaped her. "And then one day, all he did was hand me a book."

You listened, words caught somewhere in your throat. You knew the look of love.

"He was so full of life," Professor Park continued, her eyes soft with memory. "He made everything feel lighter, even when things were hard. I used to think soulmates were a cage, something that defined you before you even had a choice." Her fingers traced absent patterns over the tattoo. "But with him, it was never about being destined. It was about choosing each other. Over and over again." A small pause. Then, she added, "He’s my husband now, that silly man."

The past tense you thought you’d heard in her voice had tricked you—her partner wasn’t a memory, wasn’t someone lost to time. They had chosen each other and continued choosing each other, even now. There was something so steady about the way she spoke, something warm enough to reach beneath the guarded parts of you. You should have looked away, should have ignored the way her words made something unfamiliar settle in your chest. Instead, you found yourself holding onto them.

Choosing each other.

A faint warmth stirred in your chest. But just as quickly, a familiar chill crept in to smother it. You remembered the laughter that wasn’t kind. The way their voices lilted with amusement as they told you it had all been a joke. That you had been foolish to believe—even for a moment—that someone had been meant for you.

The past never truly faded.

Yet as you watched the way she spoke of it, gazed at it so lovingly, you couldn’t stop yourself from feeling a little hopeful too. Not a revelation, not a surrender, but the faintest crack in the walls you had built.

Acceptance was a distant shore, but for the first time in years, the tide of possibility brushed against your feet.

After a long day of juggling work and classes, you finally stepped out in the courtyard. The cool night air kissed your skin as you walked into the parking lot, the scattered glow of lamplight pooling in uneven patches on the asphalt. A handful of cars dotted the space, but your eyes instinctively landed on Soobin, his tall frame leaning slightly against his car, bathed in the dim luminescence of his phone screen.

His brows were drawn together in concentration, the faint glow casting sharp angles on his face, making the usually soft contours appear more rigid. His lips were pressed into a firm line, and for a moment, he looked unapproachable—which made you chuckle quietly because he was anything but that.

You jogged up to him, waving. His expression softened the moment his gaze met yours. The crease between his brows smoothed out, and the corners of his mouth tugged up. You smiled back at the sight instantly.

“Guess who didn’t die today from working like a dog?” you chirped, pushing the fatigue from your voice as you reached him.

His lips parted, a quiet exhale escaping—part sigh, part laugh. But before he could respond, you did what you always do: you looped your arm through his, the movement ingrained in muscle memory.

Soobin simply adjusted, shifting his weight, before opening the door for you.

“You saved yourself from having your TA position revoked, all thanks to me,” he quipped, casting a sideways glance.

“So kind! Won’t even let me have a moment for myself!”

“A moment of embarrassment?”

“Fuck you.”

His only response was a low huff as he shut the door behind you both with a soft, muted thud, sealing you in the quiet cocoon of the vehicle. The scent of his cologne lingered inside—one that you've gifted him on his birthday last year. It wasn't a woody or a spicy scent, something more mellow but crisp, like he had spent a moment too long beneath the night sky. You thought it suited him. The dashboard lights flickered on as he turned the key, the engine purring to life.

You leaned back, exhaling as you checked your phone. “Tomorrow’s gonna be awful.”

Soobin raised a brow, adjusting the rearview mirror. “How so?”

“The weather. Says it’s gonna rain.”

“Hmm.” He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, thoughtful. “You like the rain.”

“I do. Just not when I have to be outside.”

Your love-hate relationship with the rain leaned more toward love—because who doesn’t love the rain? But only when you weren’t working your ass off or getting stranded outside without an umbrella.

At a red light, Soobin flicked his phone open, scanning the map for a quicker route home. Meanwhile, you busied yourself with the glove box—not for any real reason, just feeding a faint curiosity. Your fingers brushed against something small and wooden, its texture rough beneath your touch. You frowned, lifting it into the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

“Jesus, Soobin—” you muttered, cradling the tiny figure in your palm. A handcrafted wooden bunny, worn at the edges, slightly uneven, the imperfections unmistakable. You had given this to him when you were kids.

“Why do you still have this?”

Soobin flicked his gaze toward the object, then back to the road, his lips curling upwards. You knew he was getting ready to throw some mocking words at you even before he said anything.

“Ah, that one.” His voice held the air of someone recalling an inside joke. “It’s so ugly I couldn’t bear to throw it away. Some unfortunate trash bin would have to take it in.”

The incredulous look on your face was enough to send him into a cackling frenzy, shoulders shaking in what you called his ‘dry ass humour’. You wanted to reach out, smack the back of his head for that one—but he was driving, and you cared about your expensive life. So instead, you resorted to cursing under your breath, grumbling.

Your fingers clipped against the wooden surface, a ghost of a smile playing at your lips as you reminisced about the moment you gave him that. The memory drifted back like a slow breeze, warm and golden, carrying with it the scent of sun-heated grass and the distant hum of cicadas.

It was summer. The sweltering heat hung around your bodies like a thick embrace, and the glaring sunlight streamed through the leafy canopy, casting dappled patterns onto the wooden floor of your living room. Both of you lay sprawled across it, limbs aching from the aftermath of your previous game of catch. The effort of moving even an inch felt unbearable, so you remained there, pathetic starfishes sinking into the cool embrace of the polished floorboards.

Then the front door creaked open. Footsteps echoed through the house before your father’s voice cut through the haze of exhaustion.

“Kids, come with me. Let me show you something.”

Curiosity flickered between you and Soobin, the kind that burned bright in young minds. With newfound energy, you both scrambled to your feet and followed him outside to the lawn. The grass prickled against your legs as you knelt beside him, watching intently as he pulled out a collection of small wooden figurines from his bag. Tiny animals, each one meticulously carved and smoothed down, painted with gentle strokes of color that brought them to life.

“These are so adorable!” you gushed, grabbing two figures in your hands before shoving them toward Soobin. “Aren’t they?”

Soobin, equally awestruck, turned them over in his palms, his eyes wide with wonder. Your father looked pleased at your reactions before emptying the rest of his bag onto the grass, revealing a set of carving tools and unfinished pieces of wood.

“All right, who wants to learn how to make them?”

The two of you practically shouted ‘Me!’ in unison.

What followed was an afternoon of sawdust and determination, of fingers slipping over tools too big for your small hands, of giggles bubbling up every time a carving went wrong. You were awful at it, absolutely horrendous. But you didn’t give up. Soobin, on the other hand, sighed in exasperation halfway through, pouting as he set his unfinished piece aside. “I can’t do it,” he muttered, defeated.

That was all it took for you to push forward even harder. If he couldn’t do it, then you would. And when you finally managed to carve out something resembling a bunny—albeit lopsided and rough around the edges—you knew exactly who you wanted to give it to. Because, somehow, you’d always thought bunnies suited him.

That was years ago. Yet, here he was, holding onto something so worn out as if it still felt relevant.

“Hey, don’t even think about taking it away,” he warned, his large hand swiftly snatching the figure back before you could get another look. “I still have unfinished business with it.”

You gave him a nasty look. “That sounds so weird. You should’ve thrown it away ages ago. It’s not even that good,” you sighed, sinking back into your seat. “I can make you a better one now. Something polished. You could actually use it as decoration.”

“I appreciate it,” he said, slipping the figure into his pocket. “But like I said, I’ve got unfinished business with this little guy.”

You snorted, shaking your head. You made a mental note to yourself that you will make a new, better figure for him. The silence dawned upon you lulled you into comfort, the kind that only came with years of knowing someone inside out. You watched the soft glow of the dashboard reflect against his skin, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the steady rise and fall of his breaths.

You couldn't shake away the thought that had already taken root in your mind. A slow, nagging pull that refused to leave. Your mind went back to the iris tattoo of your professor. You have always wondered, but never dared to word it for some reason, why didn't Soobin search for his soulmate?

You turned toward him again, more specifically looking at his hands—the same hands that had held onto a worn-out wooden bunny for years. You imagined a small, floral tattoo on it. But the imagination couldn’t develop any further, breaking and shattering by your will when your heart lurched at the thought. He was sentimental, in ways he didn’t often admit. Maybe that was why the question itched at the back of your mind.

Would he still hold onto you that way, too? Ah, what a selfish thought.

You didn’t mean to ask it. But the silence coaxed the words from your lips before you could stop them.

“Soobin… don’t you want to find your soulmate?”

For a moment, nothing changed. Then his grip on the wheel tightened, just slightly, but you caught it. His mind went blank, your words rattling around in his head without quite sinking in. The car hummed softly beneath you, but his foot eased off the gas, the vehicle slowing as though mirroring the sudden change in the air. Without a word, he pulled over near the sidewalk, shifted into park, and exhaled—slowly.

Your brows furrowed. “Whoa—what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

He turned to you, and you were struck by the sheer intensity in his gaze. His eyes searched yours like they were looking for something. Like they were desperate to understand.

“Did someone say something to you?” you were taken aback by the tone of his voice. “Did anyone try to mess with you again? About—about soulmates?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? No! No, I swear, nothing happened.” You waved your hands for emphasis, but his shoulders remained taut, tension rolling off him in waves. You noticed how he exhaled through his nose, a little too controlled. How he ran a hand through his hair—an old habit, a telltale sign of unease.

“Then… where did that come from?” he asked, still watching you closely.

You hesitated, albeit only for a second. Then you shrugged. “I mean… it’s been so long, and you haven’t found yours yet.” You glanced at him, lips twitching. “Granted, you aren’t the most talkative or extroverted person I know, so your chances are slim, but—”

“Hey.”

“Did I lie, though?”

He huffed a laugh, the corners of his lips curled upward into that charming boyish grin of his. Your best friend was handsome, undeniably so. Which is also why you wondered how come he still hadn't found his soulmate yet.

You exhaled, letting your head fall back against the seat, gaze tracing the blurred city lights streaking past the window. “I just mean… don’t you wanna find your soulmate?”

Soobin’s grip on the wheel loosened slightly, knuckles no longer as taut. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the gear shift, started the car again, and pulled back onto the road. The silence stretched between you, thick with thoughts you weren’t sure you wanted to voice.

Because the truth was—you had thought about it. Many times. More than you cared to admit.

You had imagined the day Soobin would finally meet his soulmate. How it would happen, where he’d be. Maybe it would be something mundane, like Professor Park—his hand brushing against theirs as he reached for a book, or eyes meeting across a crowded sidewalk. Maybe it would be grand, something cinematic, fate conspiring to bring them together in a moment so perfect it would seem almost scripted.

And when that day came, you would smile for him. You would support him, cheer him on, celebrate the happiness he had always deserved. Because that’s what you were supposed to do. That’s what any best friend would do.

But deep down, beneath the surface of rationality and selflessness, there was a part of you that recoiled at the thought. A part that curled in on itself, heavy and aching. Because when Soobin found his soulmate, it would mean the inevitable—something you had always tried to ignore. It would mean that he would no longer belong here, in this in-between space with you. That the quiet moments, the inside jokes, the way he always understood you without you needing to say a word—all of it would fade, replaced by a force greater, something predestined.

And you? You would be left standing at the threshold of his happiness, unable to step through with him.

You blinked, shaking yourself free from the thought. It wasn’t fair to feel this way. But even so, you couldn’t shake the heaviness that lingered in your chest, an ache so profoundly baffling that refused to be silenced. Which only seemed to tenfold by his next words.

“You know that I refuse to find happiness without you.”

He had seen the way you guarded yourself over the years, the way you locked your heart away from the possibility of love. He had been there through all of it—the worst of it. And because of that, because he refused to leave you behind, he let himself be held back, too. The realization, albeit knowing already, still left you unsettled and deeply guilty.

Your fingers curled slightly in your lap. “Soobin…”

He glanced at you, just briefly, before turning his gaze back to the road. You sometimes wished you could see what was going on in that head of his.

You swallowed. “Just because my world stopped in its tracks doesn’t mean everyone else’s has, too. That includes yours, Soobin. You should allow yourself to move forward.”

His grip tightened again. But who was going to tell you? Who was going to tell you that you were his world?

And if you stopped, he’d stop for you. Every single time.

Just then, your phone vibrated in your lap. A message lit up the screen, and when you read it, you almost cried out in happiness.

[University Announcement: Due to the incoming storm, all classes are cancelled tomorrow.]

“Oh my god,” you breathed, a grin spreading across your face. “Soobin, you have to come over tomorrow. If I’m stuck inside all day by myself, I’ll go insane.”

The sudden shift of the mood and conversation made him let out a subtle shaky breath, one that you failed to notice. But he was glad for the turn, that you were busy with an entirely new topic now. Soobin chuckled, shaking his head. “You act like you don’t have a million things to do at home.”

“I don’t,” you insisted. “I’ll die of boredom, Soobin. I mean it.”

He sighed, feigning reluctance. “Fine. I’ll come over.”

By then, he was nearing your apartment complex, pulling into the familiar underground garage. As he eased into the parking spot, your question from earlier still haunted his mind, refusing to fade. But you didn’t move to get out. Instead, you stayed where you were, staring ahead at the dashboard, as if trying to gather your thoughts.

“You should really focus on finding your own happiness, Soobin,” you murmured at last. Your voice was soft, despite the hollowness pressing against your ribs. “I’m not dying. It won’t be the end of the world if I never find my soulmate. I’ll be okay.”

You turned to him then, flashing him a small, reassuring smile. It was the same one you always gave him when you wanted to convince him you were fine. The same one that never reached your eyes. Soobin clenched his jaw, knowing full well you were lying. And if you were a liar, he was a coward. So he had no right to call you out.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, then leaned in toward you. It wasn’t a dramatic movement, nothing inherently alarming. But it was enough for your thoughts to screech to a halt, for something in your chest to lurch violently. You froze, pulse skipping in confusion, in something dangerously close to unease.

Soobin reached past you, fingers grazing the handle of your door. Then, with a quiet click, he unlocked it. It was a simple act, one he had done before. One that, in any other moment, would have meant nothing. And yet, the proximity, his presence, the insistence of his movement—it unsettled you. It felt… intimate. Too intimate.

He had always been close to you. You had always been in each other’s space. But this—this somehow felt different. And you hated that you didn’t know why. You felt sick to your stomach suddenly for even thinking of such a thing.

His voice was quiet, steady. “Go home. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t trust yourself to. You hastily muttered a goodbye, shoving the door open and slipping out before you could think better of it.

Soobin watched you go. Then, with a quiet sigh, he leaned back against the headrest, eyes falling shut. He hadn’t meant to make things weird. But somehow, he felt like he just did.

And he thought—if he were braver, if he were more honest, he would say it. He would say it, so he would know it, and you would know it, and he could never take it back. But he wasn’t that brave or that honest.

So instead, he stole one last glance at you, letting you slip away from the reach of his hands.

The clock struck 11 a.m., and Soobin was already at your doorstep, looking far too disgruntled for someone who had just been invited over. Dressed in a white polo and faded jeans, he looked casual, soft even—but the scowl of disdain slowly creeping onto his face ruined the effect as he took in the sight before him.

Stacks of papers. Attendance files. Your laptop was open to what he assumed was a grade sheet. Your living room had been turned into a mini office space, the big coffee table at its center, surrounded by neatly arranged papers. You held out a stack toward him, your expression far too innocent to be trusted.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he asked flatly.

“You’re helping me grade them. You do half, I’ll do the other half.”

Soobin blinked at you, then at the papers, then back at you. “Are you serious?”

You merely grinned, shaking the stack at him until he had no choice but to take it. He flipped through the pages, his scowl deepening. “Oh my god. What the hell is this handwriting?” He squinted. “Are these written by university students or kindergarten children?”

You let out a laugh as you walked into the kitchen, retrieving two mugs and filling the electric kettle with water. “Does coffee sound good as payment for your patronage?”

“Barely,” he muttered, still staring at the indecipherable scribbles in front of him. He plopped onto the floor with an exaggerated sigh, resting his back against the couch as he picked up a pen. “I can’t believe I came all the way here just to be scammed.”

“Oh, please.” You shot him a look from over your shoulder. “You would’ve just stayed in bed all day otherwise.”

“And that would’ve been preferable to this.”

“Lazy asshole.”

“Bitchass scammer.”

You rolled your eyes, setting down the two mugs before settling across from him. Soobin had already started grading, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he focused. The weather outside remained gloomy, the soft gray clouds blanketing the sky, promising rain.

For a while, the two of you worked in a comfortable silence, save for the occasional sigh of frustration or the scratching of pens against paper. Then, Soobin suddenly let out a strangled noise.

You looked up. “What?”

He slowly turned the paper toward you. “‘The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the solar system.’” He met your gaze, his expression unreadable. “Are you seeing this? Are you actually seeing this?”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking as you tried—and failed—to stifle your laughter. “Oh my god—please give that person a zero.”

“Oh, hell yeah, I will.” He clicked his pen with finality and scribbled a huge zero on the page, a menacing laughter escaping his lips that could make children cry.

You slid his coffee toward him as a peace offering. “You’re doing great, TA Soobin.”

He took a slow sip, eyes narrowing at you over the rim of the mug. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You were right, he didn't.

The rain started gradually, a soft patter against the window. You barely noticed at first, too focused on the papers in front of you, until the rhythm grew steadier, filling the quiet space. Your attention shifted, eyes flickering toward the glass where droplets slid down in thin, winding trails.

Without a second thought, you set your pen down and stood up. Your steps were quiet against the floor as you walked toward the balcony door, sliding it open. The cool air rushed in immediately, carrying the crisp scent of rain. It brushed against your skin, the damp breeze slipping through the fabric of your sleeves. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, relishing in the sensation, in the way the world outside blurred behind the silver curtain of falling water.

From where he sat, Soobin could only watch the way you stood at the threshold, your silhouette framed by the spring rain. The glow of the sun peeking behind the grey clouds cast a soft halo around you, turning the raindrops into tiny shimmering stars clinging to your skin. He couldn’t see your expression, but he didn’t need to. He knew how the rain looked through your eyes, how it danced in your eyes like a silver meteor shower.

Behind you, his voice was soft. “It’s raining. You’ll get soaked.”

You turned to him, mischief tugging at your lips. “So?”

Your voice, light and carefree, drifted back to him. He felt a tug in his chest—a twisted pull, one he had never been able to escape. He tried to warn you, tell you that it’s too much, that you’ll ruin your clothes, that you had papers to grade with him, but the words felt empty. You had dragged him into the downpour with a breathless laugh, twirling under the weight of the storm, arms outstretched as if you could catch the sky itself. The rain greeted you like an old friend, cool and insistent, clinging to your skin and threading through your hair. It slicked the world in a watercolor blur, every sharp edge softened to nothingness.

Soobin stood there for a moment, watching. His breath hitched as his glasses fogged up, blurring everything but you—your figure bathed in the dim glow, your rain-drenched lashes, the ghost of a smile on your lips. Slowly, almost reverently, he reached up and slid them off, as if removing them might somehow let him see you more clearly. And maybe it did. Because in that moment, you were all he could see.

“Dance with me,” you called, your voice bright against the muted sky.

His chest ached. If you asked him to stay in this moment forever, he would. If you asked him to drown in you, he would sink without hesitation.

Soobin had spent years concealing, building walls that matched yours, forcing his love for you into something unobtrusive, something that wouldn’t show and hurt you. But right now, in the rain, with you looking at him like that—his love felt too vast to contain. It cracked at the edges, spilling into every breath, every heartbeat. And he let it.

Because if love was ruin, then he would gladly be destroyed by you.

Slowly, he let you pull him into motion. Your fingers curled around his, tugging at him as you guided his steps. There was no music, just a symphony of the rain and your laughter, a soft tune that winded between you. Your smile was infectious, your laughter intoxicating as Soobin hardly managed to conceal his. He felt like a child again with you, dancing under the weeping sky, free from the shackles of reality and the hidden truth.

You were his doom, he always knew that.

So when it happened, Soobin was all but shocked.

It started small, a bloom unfurling deep within his chest. A warmth, soft and almost timid, spreading like sunlight breaking through the clouds. Soon the warmth sharpened, edges curling inward, soft petals pressing against his lungs. The world seemed to still, the rain fading into background noise as his pulse pounded in his ears. He’d known it was coming, but knowing didn't soften the ache.

His worst nightmare. His deepest, most forbidden dream. The fear of a lifetime, wrapped in something that should have been beautiful. The bond had awakened, and it was you—of course it’s you.

Dread clawed its way up his throat, but beneath it, beneath the fear of losing you, was something just as terrifying. If not, then more. Relief.

Because at least now, he knew. At least now, there was no more pretending. No more wishing. As much as the truth was excruciatingly painful, Soobin’s senses were clouded by the strong waves of solace. You were destined to him.

You turned to him mid-spin, your eyes sparkling with joy. Soobin’s gaze softened as the petals took root within him. He watched you, his smile warm, yet his eyes wavered with a sadness rooted in love too profound to express.

You didn’t see the way his chest rose and fell, uneven, as the flowers inside him stole his breath. He let you laugh, let you hold his hands, let you live in the moment, even as it broke him.

Because how could he tell you? How could he burden you with something you’ve spent so long running from?

That night, long after you had fallen asleep, long after you had waved him goodbye with that sweet smile of yours, Soobin stood in front of his bathroom mirror. The storm had passed, but its remnants lingered—the air was cold, seeping through the cracks of his window, rattling the glass with each gust of wind.

Hands gripping on the edge of the basin, his eyes bore into his reflection. His hair was still wet, slick strands stuck against his forehead, though he wasn't sure if it was the rain or the sweat that now clad his body in a thin sheen. The discomfort bloomed like a sledgehammer to his chest. A pressure so insidious and cloying—crept up his throat. It coiled tight, as if unseen roots had wound themselves around his windpipe, burrowing deeper, deeper, deeper. His breath came unevenly, a shuddering inhale that barely made it past his lips before something inside him cinched tight, forcing his body into rebellion.

The first cough punched through him like a force of nature. Then another. His chest burned with every heave, his throat raw as he gripped the edges of the sink, knuckles white. His body lurched forward, stomach twisting painfully until—

—A lone yellow petal slipped from his lips.

It drifted down, fragile and weightless, landing against the porcelain with a silence that felt deafening.

A daffodil.

You made daffodils bloom in him. The flower that symbolizes new beginnings and rebirth.

But as Soobin stared at the petal, trembling in the aftermath of what it meant—he thought, perhaps, destiny was not so cruel after all. Perhaps, just as flowers withered only to bloom again in the warmth of spring, your heart, too, was meant to be reborn. And if fate allowed it, if you let him, he would wait for that day—when love no longer felt like a wound, but something you could finally hold without fear.

When you had woken up the next morning, you felt sore—there was a massive clog of pain biting down on your entire shoulders and nape, eerily similar to the dull, stubborn pain of a post-vaccine shot. You moved out of bed, wobbly, needing to use your wall as a crutch as you staggered toward the bathroom. Your head was throbbing and turning on the bathroom light only made it worse.

You wanted to mumble something to yourself, a quiet reassurance maybe, but your body wouldn’t let you. The piercing headache drowned out every coherent thought, leaving you grasping at your temples, willing the pain to stop. Fever? Your skin burned with heat, yet a violent shiver ran down your spine.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. With trembling hands, you turned the faucet, cupping cold water and pressing it against your face. The biting chill stung your skin, washing away the sweat, the nausea—but not the unease clawing at your chest.

What the hell was happening? Was this the result of yesterday’s antics? You had never gotten sick from the rain this badly before. So why did it feel like your body was crashing all at once? And then, a different thought hit you.

Soobin.

How was he? Was he sick too? The idea left a sour taste in your mouth, gnawing at you worse than the fever. You needed to check on him, but even looking for your phone felt like an impossible task. You squeezed your eyes shut, gripping the sink, trying to collect yourself. You had responsibilities—your TA duties, the students relying on you, the work piling up—but none of it seemed to matter at this moment. None of it could override the singular thought threading through the haze of your fevered mind.

You needed to know if Soobin was okay.

Your legs moved on instinct, carrying you back to your room as you fumbled beneath your pillows.

"Where’s my phone…?" you muttered under your breath, voice scratchy. You twisted around, spotting it on the bedside table just as your elbow knocked over a ceramic cup. It hit the floor with a hollow thud, but you barely noticed. With slightly unsteady fingers, you dialed his number.

One ring. Two. Three.

Then the line clicked.

"Hello?"

His voice was low, frayed at the edges; exhaustion, clinging to each syllable, weighing them down until they barely reached you. Your stomach twisted.

"Did you catch a cold? Shit, Soobin—I'm so sorry." You pinched the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut as another wave of pain pulsed behind your skull. "It was a bad idea."

A soft chuckle echoed on the other end. "This is nothing. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine."

But something in his tone made you frown. It wasn’t just hoarseness—it was hesitation. Like even he wasn’t convinced by his own words. There was a pause, before you heard him speak, sounding a little too cautious.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

You parted your lips, but nothing came out. How were you supposed to explain this? The way your body felt like it had been wrung dry, like every muscle ached with an exhaustion that ran deeper than any fever. But you took note of how your pounding headache had faded to a faint throb by now, and your joints no longer felt rusted. You didn't know what was going on.

You swallowed. "I’m okay."

A long pause stretched between you, filled only by the sound of your breaths. You thought he might call you out, might say something to shake the dishonesty from your voice—but he didn’t. Instead, there was a sigh, barely audible, as if he had already known what you would say before you said it.

"Take the day off today. I’ll stop by your place later, alright?"

As soon as the call ended, you quickly typed out a message to Professor Park, apologizing for missing morning TA duties due to your sudden sickness and promising to stop by in the afternoon. The guilt nagged at you—leaving work unfinished, leaving tasks hanging—but even if you forced yourself through the motions, you wouldn’t be of much help to anyone like this.

You exhaled, dragging a hand down your face before forcing yourself into the shower, letting the warmth ease the last remnants of tension from your body.

By the time you stepped into the kitchen, towel wrapped loosely around your head, the hunger hadn’t quite returned. But you still made breakfast—because at the very least, you needed energy. Because no matter what was happening to you, life would go on, and you had no choice but to keep up.

Next, you checked your pantry, scanning for ingredients to make soup. You weren’t particularly fond of cooking, but ever since living on your own, it had become a skill you’d polished. Gathering everything you needed, you wasted no time getting to work.

When you finished prepping and packing, the lingering soreness in your shoulders had faded. Only a dull ache remained at the nape of your neck—a sharp, stinging sensation that you ignored. It was bearable. A couple of painkillers would take care of it, you reasoned.

You changed quickly, grabbed the packed meal, and stepped outside, the cool air pressing against your skin. It was only a ten-minute walk to Soobin’s apartment, yet every step felt heavier than it should have. The fresh spring air did little to soothe the worry settling in your chest. You could only hope he had actually listened to you and stayed home to rest.

You exhaled, willing the tension in your chest to loosen. You had no reason to feel this unsettled. And yet, when you finally reached his door, standing in front of it with your knuckles poised to knock, you hesitated. What were you doing? You rang the bell before you could overthink it any further. The door swung open and your doubts subsided.

Soobin stood before you—disheveled, a little pale, dark circles shadowing his eyes, lips cracked and dry. He was hunched slightly, as if just standing upright took more effort than it should. But despite the fatigue etched into his face, despite the way he barely had the energy to greet you, the moment your eyes met his, something in you soothed. Unbeknown to you, for Soobin, having you close to him again finally made the roots loosen their grip on his lungs, allowing him to breathe in the much needed oxygen he was forbidden from these past hours.

You opened your mouth to say something but faltered, lips pressing together instead. Seeing you struggle with words almost made Soobin cage you in his arms, run a soothing hand through your hair and whisper reassurances to you. But he restrained himself by stepping away from the door.

The guilt climbed up your throat as you stepped inside. You really should've thought before you acted yesterday, pulling him into the rain with you seemed like an innocent and fun act until it wasn't anymore. The comforting and familiar ambience of his apartment did not help you as the sight of him slumped over made everything feel just a little off.

You set the bag of food on the table. “Eat it while it’s hot. You’ll feel better.”

Soobin didn’t respond. Instead, he flopped onto the couch, burying his face into the cushions. A muffled groan was the only indication he had heard you.

You lingered for a moment, watching his unmoving form. Then, glancing at the time, you exhaled quietly. You should’ve left by now.

"I’m heading to campus. If you need anything, let me know, alright?"

A lazy thumbs-up peeked from the couch. Another muffled groan.

You should’ve left. Should’ve turned on your heel and walked out the door without another thought. But something inside you hesitated.An odd, intrusive urge crept up your spine—the sudden, dizzying need to close the distance, to reach out and thread your fingers through his hair, to feel the warmth of him against your skin. It struck you so unexpectedly, so viscerally, that you jolted back, as if burned.

What the hell?

Clicking your tongue, you pressed your fingers against your temple as another dull wave of pain thrummed inside your skull. "Bye," you muttered, a little too briskly, before slipping out the door.

The moment the apartment door clicked shut, Soobin let out the coughing fit he had been holding back. His body lurched forward, shoulders shaking as he clutched his chest. The bond reacted whenever you were near—he felt it too, the same overwhelming pull, the same aching urge to close the distance and pull you into his arms.

The soulmate bond had its own cruel mechanics. Proximity dulled the pain, soothed the discomfort, but never erased it. It was like a fire burning low instead of blazing—it still smoldered beneath his ribs, simmering just enough to remind him of its presence. Worse still, the bond had a will of its own. It nudged, coaxed, demanded. It made him crave touch, made him reckless, made him want to close the gap between you and ease the ache in both of you, even if just for a moment. And yet, no matter how deeply he longed, no matter how much his hands itched to reach for you, it did not count as acceptance. It was just an impulse, one of the many effects.

He groaned as he sat up. Dragging a hand over his face, he exhaled slowly, his breath heavy in the silence of the apartment. "This is going to be harder than I expected," he muttered to himself.

His gaze landed on the bag sitting on the table. His chest tightened again—but this time, not from pain. You had gone out of your way to make him soup. Warmth bloomed in his heart, momentarily overthrowing the ache. It was such a simple thing, yet the love he felt in that moment was staggering. He wasted no time, pulling the container out and prying off the lid.

The aroma curled into the air, rich and homely, and the first spoonful melted on his tongue, warmth spreading through his body in a way that made his eyes flutter shut. It was good—really good. The kind of homemade warmth that settled deep inside, easing everything in its wake.

Reaching back into the bag, he found the toast you had packed alongside the soup. Lightly golden, crisp at the edges, soft in the center. He huffed out a small laugh. You really had thought through it. Tearing off a piece, he dipped it into the broth, watching as it soaked up the warmth before bringing it to his lips. He sighed, pressing his palm to his chest as if that would do anything to calm the lingering discomfort.

Then, an odd thought crossed his mind. Are the daffodils getting drenched in soup too, or does it go through a completely different canal?

The mental image of flower petals swimming in broth was ridiculous enough that a breath of laughter escaped him. Whatever the case, the soup was working—soothing his throat, the tightness in his chest, momentarily distracting him from the reality of what was happening to him.

You stopped by the cafe near your campus for a quick coffee. The late morning crowd had the typical scenario—students hunched over laptops, business professionals sipping their drinks with absentminded focus, a couple near the window speaking in hushed voices over half-eaten pastries—soulmates, you deduced.

You waited for your order, feeling the exhaustion settling into your limbs. Though the worst of the morning’s sickness had passed, a vague tiredness clung to you, like a heavy mist that refused to lift. Just as you let your eyes flutter shut for a brief moment, a familiar voice cut through the ambient noise.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the most beautiful person in this café.”

You huffed out a laugh before even turning around. “Yeonjun.”

Leaning casually against the counter, Yeonjun flashed you his foxy grin. His presence was impossible to miss, exuding that cocky charm he carried wherever he went. Dressed in a dark sweater layered under his club jacket, he looked both put-together and relaxed, like he had just come from practice but somehow still managed to look better than half the people in the café.

His gaze flickered around the café before settling back on you. “Weird not seeing Soobin with you. You two are usually attached at the hip.”

You shook your head with a small smile. “Not today. He’s sick.”

“Sick?” he inquired with a raised brow.

“It’s my fault actually. We were out in the rain yesterday for some fun,” you said, sighing.

That caught Yeonjun’s attention. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he leaned forward resting his chin on his propped hand over the counter. “You two were out in the rain?” he drawled. “That is so romantic.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. "Yeonjun, you should be worried about him instead."

He chuckled, standing to his full height. "Oh, I am. Just saying, though.” He gave you a small smile before adding, “Guess I’ll have to check in on him.”

You let out a quiet huff of amusement, shaking your head as the barista set your drink down with a quiet call of your name. You picked up your cup as you turned to face him again. “I left him with some food. If you stop by his place, check if he ate, alright?”

Yeonjun straightened. “Aye, aye, captain.”

You snorted, waving him off dismissively as your gaze flickered outside the café. The rain had picked up again, albeit light, dotting the pavement with dark speckles. The extra jacket you had brought would come in handy now.

Digging into your bag, you fished it out and turned to Yeonjun. “Hold this.” You shoved your cup into his hand before pulling your hair into a loose ponytail, fingers working quickly. The jacket slipped over your shoulders. “Thanks,” you chirped once he handed your drink back.

Yeonjun’s expression shifted, brows pinching ever so slightly, lips parting like he was about to say something but stopped himself. His eyes lingered—on your neck, your hair, something. It was subtle, but you caught it.

You raised a brow. “What? Is there something on my face?”

He hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face before he quickly masked it with an easy grin. “Nah. Just… did you get a haircut?”

“You creep.” You blinked. “That’s what you were staring at?”

Yeonjun barely dodged the playful kick you sent to his shin, letting out an exaggerated gasp of offense. “Excuse you. I was appreciating art, my darling.”

You nearly gagged, holding a hand up to stop him from saying anything else. He only laughed, though there was something off about it—too light, too quick to cover up whatever had momentarily distracted him.

Pushing open the café door, he held it for you as you stepped out into the cool drizzle. You pulled the jacket tighter around you. “I’m gonna go now. Already running late for my TA duties.” Then, shooting him a pointed look, you added, “Please, if you’re done early today, check on Soobin.”

He gave a lazy salute. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

Yeonjun watched until your figure couldn't be deciphered among the crowd ahead, his playful demeanor fading as his lips pressed together. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek. Was that… a soulmate tattoo?

He wasn’t entirely sure. It had only been a glimpse—a faint outline, a floral shape against your skin when you tied your hair back. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light, a shadow cast in passing. But it gnawed at him.

Yeonjun’s classes had ended earlier than expected. After wrapping up his club duties and delegating tasks, he decided to call it a day. As he slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped out of the building, your words from earlier echoed in his mind. He knew how busy you were with your TA responsibilities, meaning you wouldn’t be able to check in on Soobin until much later. And if there was one thing Yeonjun understood about Soobin, it was his frustrating tendency to downplay when he was sick.

With a resigned sigh, he changed course, making a quick stop at a convenience store to pick up food and drinks before heading toward Soobin’s apartment. When he arrived, he knocked on the door, expecting to hear the telltale shuffle of Soobin dragging himself out of bed to answer. But there was nothing. He knocked again, harder this time, his knuckles rapping sharply against the wood. Still no response.

Frowning, he pressed the doorbell, foot tapping impatiently as he listened for any signs of movement inside. “Come on, dude…” Silence stretched out, gnawing uncomfortably in his chest. Something wasn’t right. Soobin wasn’t the type to ignore people, especially not when he was sick—if anything, he should be dramatically lamenting his misery by now, groaning about his sore throat or asking for sympathy points.

Unease curled in Yeonjun’s stomach as he reached for the doorknob. It twisted open with no resistance. His breath hitched, heart stuttering as his brain lurched toward the worst possibilities. Unlocked door? An intruder? Has Soobin passed out somewhere? His grip tightened around the plastic bag as his gaze darted around the dimly lit apartment. Nothing looked out of place, but the silence felt too terrifying. The hum of the fridge was the only sound filling the still air.

Then, a sound reached Yeonjun's ears, causing the hair on his arms to stand. A deep, heaving cough, followed by the unmistakable retching noise of someone struggling against their own body. His pulse pounded, a mixture of alarm and determination flooding his system as he scanned the room for anything he could use as a weapon. His eyes landed on a lamp perched on a nearby shelf. Without thinking, he grabbed it, wielding it like some absurd, makeshift club. Every instinct screamed at him to be ready for the worst as he crept forward, following the source of the noise with careful steps. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and through the narrow gap, he could hear another hoarse gag.

Shit. Is someone choking him?

Every muscle in his body tensed. If there was someone else in there, they weren’t walking out unscathed. With a surge of adrenaline, he pushed the door open with a sharp burst of energy, yelling out a battle cry, lamp raised high in a ridiculous but entirely committed fight stance.

What he saw instead made him freeze.

Soobin was hunched over the sink, a trembling hand clamped over his mouth. His complexion was ghastly—pale, exhausted, his shoulders rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. But what made Yeonjun’s mouth fall wasn’t the sight of Soobin sick and miserable—it was the delicate yellow petals stuck to his fingers, some drifting in slow motion as they slipped from his grasp and fluttered to the tiled floor.

For a long moment, Yeonjun simply stared, brain struggling to catch up with what he was seeing. The gears in his head turned sluggishly, thoughts colliding in slow-motion confusion. Then, finally, with all the brilliance of someone facing an unimaginable scenario, he blurted out, "Have you been eating someone’s flowers? What the fuck?"

Soobin made a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a cough, before another violent heave wracked his body. He barely had time to turn back toward the sink before he was coughing again, his breath coming out in wheezing gasps.

Yeonjun dropped the lamp onto the bed and was at his side in an instant, gripping his shoulders. “Hey, hey—breathe, dude. Easy there.” He started rubbing firm circles over Soobin’s back, his own pulse thundering. “Oh my god,” Yeonjun breathed, the realization seeping into his bones like ice water. “No way. No fucking way—”

Soobin, still gasping for air, groaned weakly. “Shut up, Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun ignored him, his own face paling as his gaze dropped to the basin. Yellow daffodil petals clung to the porcelain, some floating in the water, their edges curling inward. That means—earlier that day, did he really see a soulmate tattoo on your nape? His stomach twisted as the dots started connecting, a pattern emerging before his eyes, clearer than day.

Was that a lie you told him about Soobin catching a cold? Or worse—did you not even know?

The mechanical clogs in his mind started turning. He didn’t know which possibility was worse: that you had lied to protect Soobin, or that you had been completely unaware of the suffering he had been enduring in silence. But if you were lying, then you wouldn't really ask him to check up on Soobin knowing the possibilities of him discovering the truth. And, how could someone not know about the awakening of their own soulmate bond? Fuck, the more Yeonjun tried to seek answers, the more questions he was facing.

With careful hands, Yeonjun guided Soobin down onto the closed toilet seat. The younger boy slumped forward, elbows resting on his knees, his entire body trembling from the aftermath of the coughing fit. His skin was damp with a sheen of sweat, lips cracked, his usually neat hair sticking to his forehead in damp strands. He looked utterly spent—like he had been carrying this burden far longer than anyone had realized.

And then, Soobin looked up. His eyes, exhaustion glazed, pinned Yeonjun with desperation. His voice, hoarse but firm, cut through the thick silence between them. “Not a single word about this, you hear me?”

“What?” Yeonjun scoffed, frustration bubbling up. “Are you fucking serious? You were just coughing up petals, Soobin. That’s not something you can just keep under wraps like some minor inconvenience.”

Soobin flinched, his fingers clenching into his sweatpants. He looked like he wanted to argue, but no words came. His gaze dropped to the floor, his breath unsteady.

Yeonjun exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face before his rational side finally took over. With a calmer voice, he asked, “It’s her, isn’t it?”

Soobin’s lips parted as if to speak, but still, silence stretched between them. His fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his sweatpants—gripping onto something, anything, as if to ground himself. And that was all the confirmation Yeonjun needed.

His confusion only deepened. If you were Soobin’s soulmate, why was he going through this hell instead of just accepting the bond with you? You guys were best friends. Did you really not know the bond had awakened? As if sensing Yeonjun’s endless spiral of questions, Soobin finally spoke.

“She has trauma regarding soulmates,” he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. “Back in middle school… a boy lied to her about being her soulmate. He made her believe it—lied to her about the bond being accepted between them, played along for a week, only to reveal in front of the whole class that it was a prank.”

Yeonjun’s mouth fell slightly ajar at the story. So, that’s what was going on. Yeonjun’s stomach twisted, feeling sick. There was no way someone could be this cruel to play with something so, so sacred. He felt terrible about it, about you.

“She still has fresh wounds from it,” Soobin continued, his voice trembling. “She’s terrified of opening her heart, of trusting in fate. That’s why… that’s why I can’t tell her.”

Yeonjun stared at him. “You do realize she’s gonna find out sooner or later, right?” he said after a beat, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.

Soobin let out a shaky breath. “I’ll hold on till then.”

There was something bone-deep in his tone—something that sounded like both a promise and a plea. Yeonjun could only sigh, tilting his head back against the cabinets.

“Listen, man. This isn’t my place to say anything, but…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Do you really think she’ll feel less hurt knowing you never told her until she finds out herself? That you kept her in the dark? You, of all people—who’s supposed to be her everything?”

At that, Soobin’s ears flushed pink, and Yeonjun almost rolled his eyes.

Anyone with eyes could see how deeply this idiot was in love with you. It was only a matter of time before the soulmate bond manifested, as if the universe itself had merely been waiting for you both to catch up. But your connection had never been dictated by fate alone—your bond was stronger than fate itself. As if, in another life, in every life, you would have found each other anyway. As if you had reached for one another, bending destiny’s rules before destiny had the chance to decide.

“I’m not her everything,” Soobin mumbled.

Yeonjun scoffed again, shooting him a deadpan look. “Right. I’m the one soulbounded to you.”

That earned him a weak glare. He inhaled shakily, his voice trembling when he spoke again. “You don’t understand, Yeonjun.” He dug his fingers into his hair, his frustration laced with something far more fragile. “I can’t do this to her. Not when she’s still hurting. Not when the past still haunts her. I don’t want to be the reason for her relapse.”

Yeonjun stayed quiet, letting him vent.

“I don’t think anyone will ever understand what I really feel for her,” Soobin choked out. He swallowed, blinking rapidly as if that would push back the tears that threatened to spill. “How I feel knowing fate tangled our souls together.”

Yeonjun’s chest ached at the rawness in his voice. “And how do you really feel?”

Silence stretched between them. Soobin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Then, with a voice that sounded like it had been clawed from the depths of his soul, he answered, “Like I’ll never recover. Like I’ll never draw another breath without half of it being a wish for her to be mine.”

Yeonjun’s lips parted slightly, as if something inside him had been struck. He let the words settle in the quiet, allowing them to soak into the bones of the moment. “You know,” he murmured, slowly leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees. “the way I see it… love is cruel sometimes.”

Water dripping from the faucet filled the silence, the petals swirling gently in the basin as if they, too, understood the depth of Soobin’s suffering. Yeonjun continued, “It gives you something beautiful, something so overwhelming, but it makes you fight for it. Makes you bleed for it.” He sighed. “And it’s terrifying, I get it. But you’re bleeding either way, Soobin.”

“I just want to protect her,” Soobin’s voice broke.

“You think you’re protecting her by staying silent,” Yeonjun said, meeting his gaze firmly. “but you’re not. You’re just delaying the inevitable. And in the end… isn’t it crueler to let her figure it out on her own?” His gaze flickered to the basin of wilted daffodil petals before meeting Soobin’s eyes again. “How much of yourself are you willing to lose in the process?”

Soobin swallowed thickly but didn’t answer. His grip tightened on his own arms, as if bracing himself against the thoughts threatening to consume him whole.

Yeonjun sighed, pushing himself up from the floor. He dusted off his jeans, then glanced down at Soobin. “You think she doesn’t deserve to carry this burden, but Soobin, you’re carrying it alone. And trust me when I say, it will break you before you even realize it.” He frowned. “You love her, don’t you?”

Soobin squeezed his eyes shut as if that would stop the emotions from rising to the surface, but his silence spoke louder than any confession could.

Yeonjun’s gaze softened. “Then don’t let that love turn into a curse. Don’t let it be something that eats away at you from the inside out.” He let the words settle for a moment, watching as Soobin’s fingers slowly loosened from their death grip on his arms. He reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “I don’t have all the answers,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “And I can’t tell you what the right thing to do is. But I do know this—you can’t keep tearing yourself apart like this. One day, you’ll have to stop running. And she’ll need to as well.”

Despite the fear curling inside him, despite the uncertainty that still gnawed at his ribs, Yeonjun’s words felt like a lifeline. He didn’t know if he had the strength to make the right choice, but the pressure felt a little less unbearable knowing he had someone for support.

Yeonjun clapped a hand on his back, then pulled him fully to his feet. “Come on. Get up. Go wash your face.” He was pushing the younger male towards the sink. "And tomorrow morning, I’m taking you to the doctor."

"What?" Soobin's eyes widened. "Why? There's no need for tha—"

Yeonjun arched his brow. “Because I know you. You’re gonna choose to keep suffering alone despite everything I just said. So if you're gonna keep quiet about it anyway, better know the risks of avoiding the bond. What to do when the pain gets too much and all that.” He pressed his lips in a thin line as he watched Soobin struggle to form words. "Besides, after all, you won't be the only one affected from avoiding the bond, right?"

Soobin could only stare at him, throat tight. Right, how could he forget about that? You'd feel the pain as much as he would. In fact, you were probably feeling it right now. His chest hurt at the thought, eyes stinging with tears.

For your sake, and his too, in the end, Soobin agreed to visit the doctor.

Darkness loomed over you like a vulture waiting for its prey to take its dying breath.

It was the kind that bled into your lungs, pressing into every crevice of your being. It did not matter whether your eyes were open or closed—sight had no meaning in a world where only the weight of phantom hands dictated your reality. You gasped, but no air came. Your body thrashed, heels scraping against nothing, fingers clawing at revenant wrists that would not yield, their grip only tightening against the fragile column of your neck. Panic seized your limbs, tears blurred your vision, desperation blooming in your chest like a withering flower.

A chorus of cruel, ringing laughter echoed, bouncing from unseen walls around you, filling the void with the taunt of memory. You blinked, and a cheshire grin emerged from the darkness, wide and gleaming, the only feature granted to the faceless specter above you.

"It was all a prank."

Your body lurched upright, lungs heaving as if they'd been starved of breath for hours. The room was silent, bathed in the pale silver glow of a moon that seemed distant, too far away to anchor you back to the present. Cold sweat clung to your skin, a sheen of ice trailing down the nape of your neck, settling deep into the marrow of your bones.

Your fingers trembled against the sheets, curling, uncurling—seeking something to hold onto, to remind you that the hands around your throat had never been real. But real and unreal blurred at times like this, when nightmares did not fade upon waking but instead latched onto your ribs, tightening with every shallow breath.

The nightmares never stopped haunting you. The past was a corpse long buried, but its roots never loosened their hold. They twisted around your lungs, curling tighter with every restless night. For you, it had never been the roots of flowers constricting your lungs. It was the fear from the past, one that only grew, refusing to let go.

You dragged a hand over your face, fingers trembling, the dampness on your forehead matching the dampness behind your eyes. You tried to breathe through it, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. Not when the shadows clung to the corners of your room like remnants of that nightmare.

What you needed wasn’t silence. It was light. And the only light that had ever pierced through your worst nights had always been him.

With hands that shook, you reached for your phone. Your thumb hovered above his name, that familiar form of letters more sacred than any prayer. You pressed, blinking at the time glowing back at you. 2:57 a.m. You hesitated for the briefest second, wondering if he’d be asleep. If this was selfish. The line clicked on the first ring.

"Soobin," you breathed. His name fell from your lips like a cry swallowed by the wind, fragile and cracked. But that single syllable was all he needed.

Fifteen minutes later, he was at your doorstep.

He was breathless, evidently so, as he ran all the way to you. But before a word could leave your lips, you were in his arms—swept into a haven carved from comfort and homeliness. His hold was strong, a harbor you had always known. Your cheek pressed against his chest, making your senses focus in the wild rhythm of his heart instead of the lingering hollowness of your nightmare.

The moment his body met yours, the ache that had been floating inside you dissipated. A sense of calm, inexplicable and consuming, bloomed through your veins. Above you, Soobin let out a shuddering exhale, his shoulders falling the slightest bit. Though you didn’t see it, he, too, felt the reprieve—the choking roots retreating from his lungs. It was like your souls, stretched too thin by distance and silence, had finally returned to their rightful place.

One hand rose to your hair, fingers combing through the strands in a motion so gentle it unraveled the remaining tight knots in your chest, and your mind. “Another nightmare?” he whispered.

You gave a faint nod against him, not trusting your voice just yet.

He pulled back slightly, enough to cradle your face in his hands and coax your gaze up to meet his. The touch was so familiar, done a thousand times before—a gesture stitched into the fabric of your friendship—but tonight, it made your breath catch. Tonight, you looked at him like you were seeing him again for the first time.

In the hush between heartbeats, you stared, wide eyes tracing his features like an artist committing them to memory. The slope of his nose, the soft furrow in his brows, the tremble of concern behind his dark eyes. Instead of snapping out of your thoughts, you indulged in them.

Why does this feel so…

Soobin blinked down at you, unaware of the mess blooming in your chest. “Do you want to eat something? Or just talk?”

You stared at him for a beat, then deadpanned, “Dumbass, you can’t cook. I’d have to do all the work.”

He spluttered, eyes momentarily shutting, the tips of his ears reddening. Trying to feign a cough to save his reputation, he said, “I—I meant like instant ramen or something!”

You shook your head with a faint laugh, one hand brushing your hair back. “Let’s just talk.”

So you both padded over to the living room. The cushions dipped beneath your weight as you curled up on opposite ends of the couch. You watched him move in the quiet as though afraid to disturb the fragile stillness that clung to the room. He reached for his phone, tapping a few times, and soon enough, the soft chords of your favorite CAS song spilled into the air like a lullaby. Your gaze lowered to your hands in your lap. A warmth bloomed in your chest, but it was quickly eclipsed by a sharp sting.

How long could this go on?

You chewed the inside of your cheek, guilt curling like smoke in your lungs. Nights like this—when the nightmares were persistent and your thoughts frayed at the seams—had begun to blend into a pattern. And Soobin was always there, arriving like your one and only light in the suffocating dark.

But that wasn’t fair to him, was it?

One day, he would find someone—someone stitched to him by floral vines and the ink of fate, leading him somewhere you couldn’t follow. Someone else would be his sanctuary. Someone who wasn’t you. And when that day came, when the ache in your chest couldn’t be soothed by the sound of his voice anymore, you’d have no one but silence.

The thought slashed through your ribs, leaving a hollowness behind. You couldn't keep leaning on him like this, asking him to piece you back together each time the ghosts clawed their way back into your sleep. He had a life beyond your hurt, beyond your late-night calls.

Your voice cracked through the lull of music and night, barely audible. "I’m sorry."

Soobin turned slowly, concern etching itself into the slope of his brows as he made his way beside you, his presence a balm even before he spoke. He sat close, not touching, but near enough to feel the tremble in your breath.

You kept your eyes fixed on the floor, nails digging into your palms. “I’m sorry for being like this,” you whispered. “For needing you this much. For calling you at 3 a.m. For making you run every time I fall apart.”

You finally looked at him, and the sorrow in your gaze made his chest cave in. “I’m being selfish, aren’t I?” you said, voice cracking. "I just—I know you can’t stay forever. And I have to learn how to survive without you.” Your fingers trembled in your lap. “This has to stop. You have your own life to live. You don’t owe me anything, Soobin. You’re not supposed to be the one picking up my broken pieces all the time.”

Soobin’s eyes softened, a small smile drew its way on his lips. If only you could see what he saw every time your eyes met his—how the flowers in his lungs bloomed and withered all at once when you were near. And even if the stars decided to pull you both in opposite directions, Soobin would have defied every last one of them. Because where you ended, he began. Because you had long ago taken root in his soul, and nothing—not time, not fate, not the arrival of another—could ever change that. The overwhelming urge to tell you that you were already his, and he was yours almost consumed him whole.

“You’re not selfish,” he said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You searched his face as if it would offer a reason, a rationale, a loophole to all the guilt clawing its way through your chest. But all you saw was him—Soobin, sitting beside you like he always did. Like he always would.

“I don’t know how long I’ll take to get better, Soobin. It’s been years, and I still can’t sleep through the night without reliving it. Still can’t breathe without choking on air that doesn’t want to stay in my lungs.” Your words spilled between stifled sobs. “And the worst part is—I don’t even know if I want to heal. Because sometimes…” you swallowed hard, “sometimes the pain is the last thing I have. The last link to what I lost. If I let that go, what do I even have left?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to word it out. The love you’d once held onto so tightly it had cut your hands. The hope that someone, somewhere, was out there for you—probably still is, waiting. But your fear held you back from reaching your hand out.

Soobin laced his fingers through that hand of yours, giving a gentle squeeze. And then, he let out a small, breathless laugh. Not from amusement, but from the ache of irony. Here you were, mourning the love you thought you'd never receive, and he—your soulmate—was sitting right in front of you, heart and soul offered without condition.

“You think you lost yourself when you lost your hope,” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “But you didn’t. You’re still here. Maybe a little bruised, but you are healing. You’re here, and I see you.”

His thumb moved across your knuckles, slow and gentle. His words embraced you so gently, you felt your eyes moisten again, needing to pull your bottom lip between your lips. Soobin smiled faintly at that. “You didn’t lose your heart the day it shattered. It’s still yours. Still beating. Still capable of love. And just because it broke doesn’t mean you’re lost. I promise you, you’re not.”

The words had tangled somewhere deep in your chest, caught between the weight in your heart and the rawness in his gaze. Soobin didn’t know how he’d managed to stay afloat until now—until this moment, where the dam of his own emotions had threatened to burst, wave after wave rising beneath his ribs. But he meant every word. He had spoken them before, during your darkest hours, and he would speak them again for as long as you needed him.

Soobin stood and quietly extended his hand toward you. “I’ll stay the night with you,” he said.

You looked at his outstretched hand, calloused fingers you’d clung to before. Fingers that had gathered your broken pieces time and again—and a thought, selfish and startling in its intensity, bloomed inside you like a flare in the dark when you slipped your hand into his.

You didn’t want to let him go. Not now, not ever.

That night, you fell asleep in the circle of his warmth. He held you close—close enough that the daffodils rooted in his lungs could feel the nearness of you, and it brought him a calm he hadn’t known in the past nights. If you thought yourself selfish for leaning on him, then Soobin was just as selfish for wanting you near.

His hand moved in slow circles on your back, a quiet lullaby echoing the rhythm of your heartbeat. He pressed his lips to your temple, breath warm against your skin, and whispered promises to guard your dreams. Promises he had every intention of keeping.

You dreamt of yellow.

Of sunlight painting the horizon in gold. Of yellow daffodils swaying in a field that stretched beyond the edges of your pain. You dreamt of laughter that didn’t echo with grief. And in the middle of that bright, blooming world stood Soobin—arms open wide, eyes crinkled with the kind of joy that made your soul ache. The kind of joy you didn’t think you’d ever feel again.

He looked like something you knew by heart—your home.

When your eyes fluttered open the next morning, the sheets beside you were cold.

Soobin was gone.

“Are you nervous?” Yeonjun nudged the taller male sitting beside him in the quiet waiting room. It was barely 8 a.m. He hadn’t woken you when he left. Instead, he’d pulled the blanket over your shoulder, let his fingers hover for a moment above your brow, then retreated like the coward he felt he was. Now, he sat beside Yeonjun, phone screen dimming in his hand as he stared at the last message he sent.

[Had to run some errands. See you at campus.]

You hadn’t read it. The tiny gray checkmark was a silent reassurance—you were still asleep.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confessed quietly. What if today changed everything? What if it didn’t change anything at all? The questions spiraled, each one heavier than the last. Would confronting the truth bring relief, or only more hesitations? Forcing the bond on you, forcing love from you—he couldn’t do it.

Soobin’s thumb brushed against the edge of his phone, then curled around the device, grip tightening. His head fell back against the wall with a muted thud. He closed his eyes, throat bobbing with the force of his swallow. “I’m scared, Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun eyed the younger, lips pressing in a thin line. At that moment all he could provide was a comforting hand on his shoulder. They sat in silence until Soobin's name was called.

Inside the chamber, flowers filled the space—not just real ones in vases, but inked into canvas frames, stitched into cushions, even printed along the soft border of the curtains. A comforting illusion, as though beauty could soften the sting of truth.

The doctor was an older man with kind eyes and a voice like worn velvet. “Have a seat, son.”

Soobin nodded and did as told. They exchanged a few words, standard questions and details spoken like ritual. Finally, the doctor asked what brought him in. Soobin, however, deflected it with his own, straightforward question.

“How long can you go without accepting the bond?”

There was silence. The clock ticked on, every second scraping along his nerves. The doctor didn’t answer right away, and Soobin couldn’t meet his gaze. His fists curled on his knees, nails pressing against the flesh of his palms. Maybe it was a bad idea to come here.

"Rejecting the bond doesn’t kill you, son," he began, words practiced, yet not unkind. "It never has. That’s a myth people like to romanticize. Drama makes for good stories, not truths."

Soobin nodded slowly.

"The rejection of a soulmate bond isn’t new. People have been doing it for centuries. Some out of grief, some out of love that wasn’t returned. Others simply fall for someone who isn't their destined match. The reasons don’t change the outcome." The doctor leaned back in his chair, fingers lacing over his stomach. "When the bond awakens, one carries the flower and the other, the mark. A perfect mirror of souls meant to align. It only settles when both recognize the love for what it is. When they accept it—mutually, honestly—the flowers begin to wither, and the mark, once faint, blooms in full colour for both, even the one who bore the blooms. That’s when the bond settles."

Soobin knew that much. He was aware of the mechanics. If you accepted the bond with him, he too, would get a matching tattoo of a daffodil—one that is currently residing somewhere on your body.

"Until then, it’s the most difficult part," the doctor said. "Touch helps. So does presence. It soothes the ache, but it doesn’t cure it. The bond starts to pull you toward each other, urges your bodies and minds to close the gap. Fighting that… well, it creates friction. Pain. For both, but especially the one bearing the bloom." The older man removed his glasses and began cleaning them with a handkerchief, tone turning solemn. "You might feel fatigue, spells of dizziness, even blackouts. The more you resist—especially if your counterpart is unaware or distant—the harder it gets. The bond feeds on proximity, on shared moments. Prolonged avoidance can cause the flowers to decay."

Soobin’s throat tightened. He could feel the burn behind his ribs. "And when that happens?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"It depends," he let out a breath, not quite a sigh, not quite a chuckle. "Some people slip into comas. Others just… lose the feeling. Walk away with scars you can’t see. No one reacts the same way, but there is one constant." He met Soobin’s gaze directly now. "You don’t get a second bond. Once it breaks, it doesn’t come back. It’s one soul, one tether."

If Soobin made the decision to break the bond... will you be finally free, then?

He paused, then added with a dry chuckle, "Some call it a kind of freedom. Earning the right to defy destiny. But whether that’s a blessing or a curse—that’s not for me to say."

Soobin sat motionless. But his head was loud, too loud.

The doctor scribbled something on a notepad and tore the page out, sliding it toward him. "These will help manage the pain if it gets unbearable," he said. "It might help you sleep. Might keep the coughing at bay."

Soobin reached for it with a quiet thank you, his hands a little shaky. As he stood, the doctor offered him a nod, eyes soft once again.

"Whatever you choose, do it with your whole heart, son. That’s all I can tell you."

Soobin managed a small bow before turning to the door, prescription clutched in his hand. The flowers in the doctor’s chamber swayed faintly in the morning light, as if encouraging him to quickly make the hardest decision.

“You’re not planning to break the bond, are you?”

Yeonjun’s voice broke through the silence as he chewed on his bottom lip, brows furrowed in concern. He watched Soobin slump onto the bench near the Arts building, the morning sun casting long, dappled shadows through the trees.

It was strange—Yeonjun used to think he knew Soobin like the back of his hand. Now, that certainty felt like a lie.

“Relax, Yeonjun. I can’t and won’t make the decision for her,” Soobin muttered, exhaling a long breath as he rubbed his temple. His entire being felt frayed, like he was barely stitched together. His chest ached, his mind was loud and cluttered, and a pounding headache throbbed behind his eyes. He glanced down at his phone, checking the time. You should be on campus by now.

Yeonjun took the spot beside him. "Hiding it from her is already bad enough," he said, voice low as he fixed Soobin with a look that said more than his words. "You do remember everything I said, right?"

Soobin gave a tired hum. It felt like his soul was dragging. Maybe this was the bond’s way of punishing him. The roots shifted again—sharp, stabbing pain erupting through his chest. He winced, folding forward with a hand clutched tightly over his heart. A rasping cough followed, one he barely managed to muffle with his other hand as his eyes squeezed shut, bracing against the wave of discomfort.

Yeonjun’s hand was on his back instantly, drawing firm circles, but it wasn’t enough. Soobin needed you. Your touch, your presence—his body screamed for it, every nerve ending crying out your name.

Destiny decided to be a little gentle with Soobin, as if it had grown soft with pity. Because the next moment, a familiar voice reached his ears, breaching past the fog of his mind.

“There you are, asshole.”

His eyes flew open, head tilting up, and there you were—standing in front of him, arms crossed, looking down at him with a frown. But to him, it felt like sunlight finally breaching through stormclouds.

“Damn, why do you look like that?” You crouched, concern drawing lines on your forehead. “Are you okay?”

Shit. Panic flared in Soobin’s chest. He scrambled for something to say, anything that would mask the truth—that wouldn't make you suspicious. But Yeonjun beat him to it.

“He swallowed a bug!” Yeonjun blurted.

The two of you turned to face Yeonjun with varying expressions of ‘what the fuck did you just say’. The awkward silence that followed caused Yeonjun to give a nervous laugh, patting Soobin’s back a little too enthusiastically. “Silly guy, right?”

You blinked, facing Soobin. “You eat bugs now?”

“Do you believe this idiot?” Soobin deadpanned.

“No.” You shook your head. “Forgot he’s an idiot.”

“I’m glad we both agree on that.”

“I’m literally right here,” Yeonjun muttered, offended. “Can you not talk shit about me in front of me?”

But neither of you spared him a glance. You studied Soobin’s face more closely now. Something tugged at your attention—a smudge on his glasses. Without a word, you reached out and gently slid them off his face.

He froze but every fiber of his being begged him to lean into your touch, to collapse into the comfort you offered so freely. But he held still as you wiped the lenses clean with the hem of your sleeve and perched them back on his nose. You tilted your head, smiling fondly. “Much better.”

Soobin’s heart stuttered. A blush crawled up his neck, painting his ears red. “Thanks,” he mumbled, fingers fumbling to adjust his glasses. Gosh, you'd be the death of him.

You stood, reaching into your bag. “You look dehydrated, Soob. Did you not drink enough water this morning?” You handed him the bottle of lemonade you’d packed for yourself. “Keep this with you for the day.”

“Oh!” Soobin straightened quickly, accepting it with both hands. He inspected the drink with a scrunched nose. “Did you put enough sugar in it? Is it edible?”

“Try it for yourself.” You rolled your eyes.

There were these mundane moments between you two that made Soobin forget the storm churning beneath the surface, forget the bond entirely, forget that you two were on the risky edge of a cliff. And he wasn’t the only one to feel this way, Yeonjun did too.

He watched in silence, watching the way your gazes held, how the space around you seemed to draw inward, cutting off the world beyond the two of you. He’d spent enough time around Soobin to understand the depth of his feelings. But watching you now, Yeonjun saw it too. You cared for Soobin in a way that ran deeper than friendship, deeper than even you realized. But because you hadn’t acknowledged it—hadn’t given yourself permission to see it for what it truly was—the bond remained waiting.

“I gotta run. Professor Park’s other TA ditched me today,” you said with an exasperated sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag. “I need to collect reports from three sections and drop them off at her office.”

“I’ll help,” Soobin said, almost instantly. “Let’s go.”

You blinked, pleasantly surprised. “Really? Woah, so my training that day worked!” Soobin knew exactly what day you meant—the rainy morning when you danced with him under the weeping sky, the day the flowers took root in his chest, chanting your name. You grinned, your eyes crinkling with light, and reached up to ruffle his hair. “Pleased to be working with you, TA Soobin!”

He narrowed his eyes fondly, a small chuckle escaping him. How could he say aloud that soon, you might come to hate him for the truth he’d kept hidden? Every second you stood beside him, every laugh you shared, made that thought feel more unbearable.

Yeonjun cleared his throat from behind, reminding you both of his existence. “I’ll see you guys later then. Have fun doing TA stuff, nerds.”

You flipped him off without turning around. “Love you too, Jun.”

He laughed as he walked away, only to glance back a few seconds later. You and Soobin had already fallen into step beside each other, your voices rising and falling in half-bantered words, like always. Yeonjun’s smile lingered, soft and wistful. If there was anyone who deserved happiness, it was the two of you. Soulmates or not—he knew, with a certainty that didn’t need flowers or fate to prove it—you were meant for each other. And nothing, no one, could ever take that away.

Soobin and you had successfully collected all the reports, now divided into two teetering stacks between your arms as you made your way toward Professor Park’s office. When the elevator arrived with a soft chime, you both stepped in. You leaned against the cool metal wall, breathing out a sigh. The weight of the stack was beginning to bite into your fingers with dull ache, but you could care less about it. What plagued your mind instead was last night’s conversation, Soobin selflessly offering to stay the night, and the lingering ache on your shoulders.

"Thank you for last night," you mumbled, voice barely rising above the hum of the elevator. You didn’t meet his eyes, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed.

"Weirdo." Soobin huffed out a short laugh. "You don’t need to thank me for that. I’ve always done that for you."

The elevator chimed again, doors gliding open onto the quiet hallway of faculty offices. You stepped out first, boots soft against the floor. You glanced at him, brows gently pulling together. "Soobin—"

"Shh." He shifted the reports to one arm, lifting his free hand and pressing a finger lightly against your lips. The touch seared through your body, startling your mind and settling against your nape, and you swore you could've imagined it—but the ache that was gripping on your shoulders almost immediately lifted. “We’ve already talked about this, haven’t we? I’m not going anywhere.”

You felt yourself going numb, eyes widening, mind slipping out of your grasp. Your lips parted slightly, and the pad of his finger nearly touched the warm, tender pink of tongue and teeth. You saw the flicker in his eyes too—that blink of surprise, as if even he hadn’t meant to reach that far. But he didn't pull away, both of you standing motionless in front of the office room.

No. You shouldn't be feeling this. Not for your best friend—he wasn't your soulmate. You couldn't do this to him.

Your thoughts couldn't spiral further. The door to the office opened, a soft creak that made both of you jolt and spring apart like children caught sneaking out. Professor Park stood in the doorway with a kind smile. Her eyes went first to you, then to Soobin, pausing there just a little too long. His smile looked a little forced before he bowed down. You caught the faint red on the tip of his ears which soon got covered by the strands of his hair.

"I’ll put them on your desk!" you said quickly, brushing past her with your stack, needing the space more than ever. The room gave you a reprieve, however temporary. You placed the reports down, but your hands were trembling, and you had to hold the desk to keep your balance. You must've been out of your mind.

Soobin lingered by the door, awkward now. His glasses had slipped down slightly, and he pushed them up as he tried to reassemble himself under Professor Park’s gaze. "You’re the boy who’s always with her. Choi Soobin, I suppose?"

He nodded, unsure what to do with his hands, still clutching his half of the papers. But her words filled him with an odd sense of pride.

She studied him a moment before stepping forward. "Let me take those."

He handed them over with careful precision, retreating a half-step. The moment he did, he felt the cough building in his throat again—the pulling ache of distance. He turned away and buried it in his sleeve, barely suppressing the noise. When he looked back, Professor Park was still watching him. Not harshly, but rather with sharpness. Soobin managed a small smile, but deep down, he had a feeling she was already figuring things out.

“I’ll be needing her for the rest of the day. Is that okay with you, Mr. Choi?” she raised a brow, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

Soobin blinked at her words, caught slightly off guard by how pointed they sounded. The question was innocent on the surface—but layered beneath was an insinuation. It made him afraid. He couldn’t make anything obvious.

Professor Park was a cunning and smart woman. She always had a motherly instinct when it came to you��more watchful than most, always attentive, protective in a way that reminded Soobin of someone guarding a fragile but sharp blade. She might’ve smiled kindly, but he knew better than to take it lightly. He straightened and lowered his gaze in a modest bow. “Of course, Professor. I have no right to interfere in your TA’s duties.”

There was a pause—a beat of stillness where he could feel her eyes analyzing him again. Then she nodded once, turning into the office. He risked a glance into the room. You were already seated at your desk, focused on the reports.

Soobin turned away from the door, slipping his hands into his pockets as he walked down the hall. His chest tightened, the bond pulling taut again, almost resentful of the growing distance. He coughed quietly into his fist, already missing you. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep doing this—lying to you, to himself. Every day he delayed, the roots grew deeper, tighter. Things were unraveling slowly, and he feared the day it would all come crashing down.

The nightmares didn’t return the next few nights, but neither did sleep.

Insomnia had always lingered at the edge of your life—an occasional visitor that made itself at home during finals week or after caffeine-fueled late-night study sessions. But this felt different. It wasn’t the sharp exhaustion of an all-nighter or the foggy disorientation from too much screen time. This was deeper, as if something inside you was quietly being siphoned away. A depletion not of sleep, but of something more vital.

You had brushed it off at first. Everyone was tired. Everyone had aches. But by midday, the way your body moved felt foreign, like a clockwork machine beginning to wind down.

The desk creaked faintly as you leaned back, typing in the final number on the marksheet. You stretched your arms high above your head, a groan slipping out as your muscles protested. Across from you, Yujin was still hunched over her stack of reports, scribbling comments with concentrated diligence. Her water bottle sat empty beside her elbow.

"I’ll fill this up for you," you offered, your voice rougher than usual.

Yujin looked up and smiled, grateful. You managed one back, grabbing the bottle and pushing to your feet. The ache in your shoulders pulsed with a dull insistence, like someone had lodged a weight between your blades and left it to fester. You rolled your shoulders once, then again, trying to loosen whatever tension had locked itself into your bones as you crossed the room toward the water dispenser.

You placed the bottle under it, pressed the lever. Your gaze followed the line of rising bubbles, but your thoughts began to drift, fogging over like breath on glass. A strange lightness stirred in your chest. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the room tilted.

You kept blinking. The edges of your vision smeared, like ink bleeding through wet paper. You reached out instinctively, hand bracing against the cabinet near the dispenser. The cold metal felt far away. Your fingers twitched, but your grip faltered. The bottle slipped from your grasp, clattering onto the floor with a muted thud.

A sudden rush of sound came from behind—shoes against linoleum, someone calling your name. The voices stretched and warped, muffled as if underwater. You tried to turn, to say something, but your mouth didn’t respond. Your knees buckled and before your body could hit the floor, hands caught you—Yujin’s voice rising, sharp with panic.

"Hey—! Hey, are you okay? Stay with me!"

She helped lower you gently to the floor, guiding you to sit back against the cabinet. Her hand hovered near your forehead before she began fanning you with the stack of papers she'd been grading just moments before. You blinked, disoriented, her face a blur of movement and worry, your surroundings tilting with every breath you took. A door opened somewhere, footsteps quick against linoleum.

“Move,” came a voice, worried but laced with command—Professor Park.

Cool fingers touched your wrist, then your cheek. The air conditioning hummed louder; someone must’ve lowered the temperature. Another hand placed a cup of water to your lips, coaxing you to sip. You tried, but your throat was too tight.

“You’re overheated,” Professor Park murmured. “Yujin, the sofa.”

They got you up with careful hands, guiding you to the couch that had always sat in the corner of her office. You collapsed into it with little resistance. The cushions welcomed you, but the pain on your nape didn’t ebb—it flared, the ache radiating outward like ripples on still water. It made your head spin. Your eyes fluttered, catching glimpses—the fluorescent lights overhead, Yujin pacing nearby, Professor Park pressing something cool against your temple.

“Bring Choi Soobin.” Her voice echoed faintly in your ears, as though it traveled through water. Your eyes slipped shut, the dimness behind your lids somehow more bearable than the stark light of the room. You stayed like that for a while—adrift in the hum of voices, the rustle of paper, the whisper of shoes against tile. Feeling the older woman's hand slip into yours, you held on. You didn’t know how long it lasted. Time felt both distant and immediate. But slowly, the world began to piece itself back together. The blurriness began to lift.

“Professor Park,” you rasped.

She leaned in without hesitation, tissue in hand, gently wiping your damp forehead. The lines around her eyes were tight with concern. “Why didn’t you tell me you were unwell?”

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” you whispered. “I thought it would pass.”

You sat up, not quickly, but with effort, like pushing through water. The ache at the base of your skull pulsed in time with your heartbeat. “I think it’s just the semester catching up to me. Sleep’s been… hard. It’s not just the work. I don’t know. There’s this pain in my shoulder. It keeps spreading. Sometimes it grips my neck like it’s caught something.” Then, almost reflexively, you added, “I’m sorry if I sounded like I was complaining. I know I have my TA duties—”

She stopped you with a shake of her head. “You don’t have to apologize. My student’s health is my top priority. Always.” She handed you the water again. This time, you drank it. Not all of it, but enough for it to wet your tongue, cool your throat.

You didn’t catch the shift in Professor Park’s eyes—the way they narrowed slightly before scanning over your skin almost imperceptibly, sweeping over the curve of your collarbone, your wrists, your posture. She opened her mouth, hesitated, as if pondering. Then, almost cautiously, she asked, “Dear, have you by any chance—”

The door burst open, rattling the stillness of the room. Soobin stumbled inside, breath ragged, shirt half-tucked, his hair windswept like he’d raced through the hallways without a thought for anything but the destination. Yujin trailed just behind, breathless herself, but he was already scanning the room with a wild urgency. His eyes landed on you, and the panic cracked wide across his face.

You startled upright, your heart stumbling over itself. Heat surged into your cheeks before you could stop it. Professor Park was still beside you, your gaze darted to her, guilt prickling at your skin. “I’m sorry,” you said, your voice small, breath hitching. “He must’ve been worried. I didn’t mean to cause a scene—”

But she didn’t scold. She didn’t even frown. Her eyes remained calm, voice even softer than before. “Don’t apologize. I was the one who sent for him.”

He was across the room in moments, knees hitting the floor in front of you with a dull thud. He didn’t touch you. His hands hovered, uncertain, before one of them dropped to the cushion beside your thigh, fingers splayed against the worn fabric.

“Are you okay?” His voice cracked around the edges. “They said you collapsed. I didn’t know what—”

You nodded quickly, leaning forward, voice a soft rush. “I’m okay now. Really. I just got a little dizzy, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just bowed his head, breath shaking through his chest. His fingers curled against the couch, shoulders taut like he hadn’t let himself breathe until now.

You reached out and touched his shoulder, your palm light against the fabric of his shirt. “You look like you aged ten years,” you said, trying for a smile that was only half-formed. “You can’t keep worrying like this, you’ll go bald.”

It came out shaky, but it earned a faint huff of air from him, the sound catching somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. You didn’t know how he did it—but with him here, you felt as if you’d already recovered, like the worst had passed the moment he arrived.

Neither of you caught the shift in the older woman’s eyes, too engrossed in your own little world. Her lips slowly curved, and for a moment, she seemed to be somewhere else entirely, tracing a line of thought she had no intention of saying aloud. A faint shake of her head followed, barely there, almost to herself. Just a thought—perhaps it has happened.

“Soobin,” she said, her voice warm, “take her home.” Then she looked at you. “And you’re taking a few days off from your TA work. Come back when you’re well.”

You couldn't bring yourself to politely turn her order down. At that moment, a break truly sounded like the escape you needed to clear your mind, rest and give yourself some time. You even made a mental note to visit the orthopedics next weekend as you two walked to Soobin’s car.

He held your hand the entire way, going as far as to make sure you were seated comfortably in the passenger seat before getting in himself. Inside the car, he reached into the console and pulled out a half-full bottle of water. He placed it in the cup holder without a word, eyes flicking to your face as if to check for protest.

You raised an eyebrow at him, lips curving faintly. “I’m not dying, you know. You’re worrying too much!”

Soobin shook his head. The keys turned on the ignition, letting the low hum of the engine fill the silence. “I know,” he said eventually. “You’ll be fine now. Get some sleep. I’ll take you home safely.”

You liked the idea of sleeping. The seat was warm, and the sunlight spilling through the windshield turned the world outside into blurred strokes of gold and shadow. But just as you were about to let your eyes slip shut, your gaze caught something bright by the gear stick, lodged in between the corners. Two or three yellow petals had gathered there, you could've almost missed it had they not been yellow, bright against the dark trim. Curious, you reached forward and picked one up, holding it between your fingers. It caught the afternoon light like glass, the veins translucent, glowing.

Your brows drew together slightly as you turned the petal in your hand. “Is this… a daffodil?”

Soobin’s blood ran cold. A ghastly and crippling fear travelled through his limbs, eating away his entire being until it settled heavily at the pit of his stomach. You didn’t need to look directly at him to notice the stillness that overtook him.

“Why do you have daffodils in your car?” you asked, glancing at him now, a teasing edge in your voice, though your eyes narrowed with the faintest suspicion. “Did you get yourself some flowers? Or, rather for someone else?”

In the driver’s seat, Soobin’s thoughts spiraled. He hadn’t meant to leave them there. He was sure he’d brushed the petals off before you arrived—had even checked the console twice. He remembered how careful he’d been. Too careful. But somehow his anxiousness won over his diligentness, and now that mistake sat blooming quietly in your hand. He scrambled for an answer, anything to redirect the truth.

“Oh—uh,” he stammered, trying to sound breezy, “they’re Yeonjun’s. He got flowers for someone. Must’ve fallen out of the bouquet.”

The lie tasted wrong the moment it left his mouth.

You hummed, still turning the petal between your fingers, watching how it caught the light. There was something wistful in your expression—your lips parting slightly, eyes far away. “Yeonjun must’ve spent a fortune,” you said softly. “Getting daffodils this time of the year…”

It was Spring, almost reaching Summer. Daffodils are best grown in Autumn. But you seemed to have bought the lie, so Soobin nodded, his breath shallow. “Yeah,” he muttered, and followed it with a brittle laugh that faded too fast.

He glanced sideways when you didn’t respond. You were staring out the window now, and though the petal still rested gently in your hand, your focus had drifted.

“I saw them in a dream once.”

His heart gave a quiet lurch. Was it another one of the bond’s effects?

“There was a whole field of daffodils,” you continued, lashes lowered. “And you were standing in the middle of it.”

“Oh really?” he raised a brow, a crooked smile finding its way to his lips, his dimples charmingly full on display that barely masked the swell in his chest. You’d seen him in your dream? With those very flowers—the ones that were slowly consuming but at the same time held proof of his raw love for you? “You’re seeing me in your dreams now?” he asked, almost teasing. But he could barely hear himself over the thrum in his ears.

You scoffed, turning to him with a playful look. “Being best friends since diapers isn’t enough for you, is it? Now you’re haunting my dreams too.”

The corners of his mouth tugged higher, but he didn’t say anything. One of his hands reached up to fix his glasses.

A soft laugh escaped your lips, and your hand fell back into your lap, the yellow petal still caught between your fingers. “We might as well be soulmates at this point.”

The smile slipped from his face like dusk settling over a sunlit room. The silence that followed was too still—it pulled at you before you even registered why. Your gaze darted to him, apology already tumbling from your lips. “Wait—I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t thinking—”

“What if you are?” he said, cutting in before he could stop himself. “What if you end up being mine?”

He didn’t know where the question came from. Maybe it was the petal still resting in your palm, the way you were holding it as if you were accepting everything it had to offer. Maybe it was the way you’d sounded when you mentioned that dream, like it hadn’t hurt to imagine him there with you. But the moment the words left his mouth, dread sank in low and hard.

What had he just done?

His heart beat a little too loudly. He wished he could snatch the question back, laugh it off, pretend it hadn’t slipped through the cracks in his restraint. But you were already looking at him, not startled, not confused—just unreadable. He wasn’t ready for any of the possible answers you could give him.

Your fingers played with the petal’s edges, the yellow catching light like a fragile flame. You pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth, taking in a shaky breath. “It wouldn’t be so bad,” you said after a long pause. Your voice was soft. “We’ve been in each other’s lives for so long, I think destiny’s probably just gonna throw you at me for the rest of eternity anyway.”

You tried to joke, punctuating your sentence with a humorous laugh. The words were for yourself more than for him, as if you were trying to convince yourself only. But they didn’t feel wrong, and didn't taste bitter on your tongue. If anything, they felt only right.

Your answer blurred at the edges in his mind, static roaring in his ears. He couldn’t look at you. He couldn’t find a single sentence to say in return. All of them felt like they’d come out wrong.

“I said it before, didn’t I?” you continued. “You’re everywhere. Tangled into my days, tucked into the corners of my life. You touch me, and I suddenly feel a little less war-torn.” You gave a quiet laugh, barely a sound. “I don’t really know what peace is supposed to feel like after everything. But if I had to guess… I think it might feel a lot like you.”

Still, you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Because if you looked at him, you didn’t know what would happen. Because in your heart, a truth coiled quietly where he couldn’t see. If he really was your soulmate, it would’ve happened by now. That mark, that flowery grip, that cosmic moment—none of it had come. And because of that, you refused to let yourself reach too far for what you couldn’t hold. You convinced yourself it wasn’t love. It couldn’t be—not if the universe had stayed silent for so long. Were you strong enough to defy fate?

Here you were, ironically untouched by fate’s confirmation, sitting in his passenger seat like you always had. Always his best friend. Always almost. But this is what you had wanted, no? Closing your heart to love and soulmates? Your heart shouldn't be beating and longing for him now, right?

Sometimes you could find peace with the thought of Soobin leaving with his soulmate, accepting that it wasn't meant for you. Other nights you would be bargaining with God asking what you had to do or give up for Him to make Soobin stay forever.

Soobin was trying to squash that terrible feeling in his chest. What awfully felt like hope.

He wanted to say it then—tell you how the petals weren’t Yeonjun’s, that he'd picked them out with trembling hands days ago, thinking only of you. But he didn’t. You’d had a long day. He wouldn’t lay such an important truth on your shoulders when you needed rest instead. So he breathed in, pushing down the swell rising in his chest, and leaned into the curve of a smile that barely held its shape. He reached out to pat your head with a soft, teasing coo, “Don’t get emotional on me now.”

You groaned at the gesture and caught his wrist mid-air, fingers curling around his hand to stop him—but you didn’t let go. And neither did he. His fingers shifted slowly until they slipped between yours, your palms pressing together like two puzzle pieces that had always known how to fit. A surge of warmth passed between you both, Soobin exhaling in relief as the bond’s effect took action.

“By the way,” Soobin said then, nudging the silence aside, “are you still going to that thing on Saturday? The gathering hosted by Beomgyu?”

“Right… I almost forgot about that.” You tutted, shaking your head.

“You still up for it?”

“Might be good,” you said, letting his hand go at last. “Break starts soon and that should be a good way to unwind, don’t you think?”

“Great. I’ll pick you up.”

The rest of the drive passed in a haze of shared jokes and soft complaints about crowds and snack quality. You both agreed to find a corner and hide there together like you always did—on the outskirts, but never alone.

When he pulled up in front of your apartment, you lingered a moment before opening the door, hand brushing his over the gear stick. “Now that I’m laid off from my job—”

“You weren’t laid off—”

“Bitch, let me finish.” You flicked his forehead, earning a startled yelp from the boy. “You better watch your back on campus, Choi. I put in a very good word for you with Professor Park while you were helping me out.”

Soobin’s eyes narrowed instantly, the color draining from his face. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did,” you said with a self-satisfied grin. “Told her you were the most promising assistant she could ever have. You might even replace me.”

With that, you were gone—climbing the steps, fading into the night with that same soft laugh still dancing from your lips. And Soobin could only watch, a dumb smile on his face like the lovestruck idiot he is. Then he leaned back against the seat, chest rising and falling with swelling giddiness. His hand reached for his phone, fingers shaking with the building adrenaline coursing through his body, he tapped Yeonjun’s name.

Were things finally going to be okay? Would he be able to reach for you without fearing breaking you? It almost felt too good to be true. Your words felt way too good to be true. A grin broke across his face, too wide to hide when the line clicked.

“I think I’m going to tell her.”

You pushed through the final stretch of hell week with the kind of tunnel vision that only caffeine, stress, and pure willpower could summon. Somehow, you made it out the other side. Semester break welcomed you like the first breath after surfacing from deep water. Surprisingly, you were feeling better, more refreshed. The heaviness in your chest no longer clawed to get out. Even your exams had passed without draining every last bit of life from you.

With your TA duties suspended for the time being, you managed to focus on your own coursework for once. Professor Park had let you know beforehand she’d be taking a short vacation once her lectures wrapped up for the semester. She asked if you’d be alright coming in on the weekends during the second week of break to help grade finals. You’d agreed without hesitation. By then, you figured, you’d be rested enough to feel human again.

Saturday came faster than expected. You stood before the vanity as the evening light spilled in, fading gold stretching across the floor. A dark navy dress clung to your frame, snug at the waist and flaring slightly just below the hips. It was the one Soobin's mother gifted you for your birthday last year. You remembered her warm smile and the teasing glint in her eyes when she told you who had chosen it. Soobin had flushed red, muttering denials that didn’t fool anyone, while his mother waved him off and told you that he’d sent her screenshots of dresses two months in advance.

The memory coaxed a smile from you.

Your phone buzzed on the table.

[Arriving in five minutes. Don’t keep me waiting, brat.]

You gave yourself one last look-over, brushing a hand down the dress and checking the subtle sheen of gloss on your lips. The necklace lay on the vanity, waiting.

True to his words, he rang your bell five minutes later. You swung open the door, ready with a sarcastic quip—but your voice tangled mid-thought. Soobin stood there, black shirt crisp against his frame, tucked into tailored pants that only emphasized his height. A charcoal coat draped over his shoulders, the collar crisp and clean. His hair was styled in a messy slick back way, a few strands falling across his forehead, and his glasses framed his eyes just right. He looked... too good. Unreasonably good. That made your heart drop somewhere to your stomach and detonate into fluttering fragments.

Your breath snagged for a moment as his gaze roamed. He wasn’t subtle about it either—his chest had tightened the moment you opened the door. The daffodils blooming deep within him stirred restlessly, agreeing with how devastatingly stunning you looked. He had known that dress would suit you when he picked it out last year, even though he’d vehemently denied it back then.

“I had a feeling you’d wear that,” he said as he stepped inside.

You shut the door behind him, shaking your head. “Didn’t really have an occasion to, so I figured why not now? I love this dress.”

“It suits you,” he said. Then, a beat later, “I knew it would.”

You didn’t comment on that. He followed you into your room as you gestured him in, glancing once in the mirror before grabbing the necklace from your dressing table.

“Give me two minutes. Just need to put this on, and we’ll leave.”

“Take your time,” he mumbled, already sitting on your bed, scrolling through his phone.

The clasp was being stubborn. You tried once, twice, but the hook refused to cooperate. Huffing, you looked over your shoulder.

“Soobin?”

He looked up, already pushing off the bed. “Yeah?”

“Can you—help?”

You watched him approach through the mirror’s reflection. When your hands brushed as you passed him the necklace, you felt your breath catch again. Holding your hair up with one hand, you stayed still while he worked.

Soobin’s eyes trailed up your back, then his hands stilled—because that’s when he saw it. Just below your hairline, resting against your nape, was the small daffodil tattoo.

His chest pulled taut. Of course you hadn’t figured it out yet. You never wore your hair up. All those days he spent wondering—fearing—when you’d confront him, when you’d say something before he ever got the chance to say anything first—this explained everything. You didn’t know yet because of where the tattoo had taken root.

A smile curled at his lips, bittersweet and fond. For a fleeting second, he wanted to press a finger against the ink, to feel the warmth of it—or better yet, press his lips against the softness of your skin. Instead, he clasped the necklace curtly and let his hands rest on your shoulders, eyes finding yours through the mirror. You were already watching him.

“You look beautiful,” he said, voice soft and air against the shell of your ear. His fingers gave the lightest of squeezes. “Let’s get going.”

And then he stepped back. You stood frozen, knees untrustworthy and cheeks burning. Holy shit. You shouldn’t be thinking about his hands or his voice or the way he looked at you. You stood still for a second longer than necessary, blinking yourself back into motion. You called after him as you grabbed your purse, doing a last check before locking the door and following him out.

The drive was peaceful for the most part—until it wasn’t. Sometime between your shared playlist and petty arguments about music choices, the lingering tension finally fizzled and before long, the back-and-forth banter returned.

When you arrived, Beomgyu didn’t waste a second before throwing his arms around you pulling you into a hug that lifted you briefly off your feet.

“You actually came. You guys made my night,” he said.

“We wouldn't have missed it,” you replied, grinning.

Beomgyu pulled Soobin in for a casual shoulder bump of a hug, laughter low in his throat as you both chimed in with your congratulations. The occasion—his job offer—had given just enough excuse to gather the people closest to him, and the group that filled the small venue reflected that.

It was a modest turnout: a mix of familiar faces from your department and a handful of Beomgyu’s friends from school. He led you through the warm buzz of voices and soft music to a table he’d reserved. There, Yeonjun lounged with a drink in hand, tipping his head up as you approached. He raised an eyebrow, then did a theatrical double take.

“Okay, wow.” He stood, tone laced with exaggerated awe. “Prettiest girl in the room just walked in.”

You scoffed and laughed, brushing off his teasing as he gave a dramatic bow. “Still running your mouth, I see.”

“Only when the truth demands it.”

Then his gaze flicked to Soobin, brows lifting in recognition. The silent look between them said enough—Yeonjun hadn’t forgotten that last phone call.

As all of you settled in your seats, you recognized many, and even those you didn’t were kind, open, easy to be around. You didn’t feel drained or anxious. If anything, this was the most relaxed you’d felt in weeks. And Soobin, as always, stayed by your side.

Between laughter and conversation, you barely realized how fast time was moving. At one point, Soobin leaned toward you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“You okay?” he murmured. “If you’re tired, I can take you home.”

Your heart curled at the care threaded into those words. You turned to him with a small frown that softened into a smile. Then, reaching up, you pinched his cheek gently. “I’m fine. Stop being so soft.”

His grin twitched. Yeonjun cut in next, announcing he’d be spending the break with his grandparents, and the conversation spiraled off—travel plans, internship woes, stories from the semester. Plates emptied, drinks refilled. Somewhere between a retelling of a disastrous group project and someone’s impersonation of a professor, your eyes occasionally sweep across the room, catching small moments, little details.

That is until you felt your blood run cold.

You were laughing just moments ago. But that was before—before your eyes caught on a silhouette through the crowd. Before every fiber in your body locked into place as though it recognized a threat before your mind could comprehend it. There was no way you were seeing it right. It must've been an illusion, someone else perhaps, some who just simply looked like him. You felt the noises around you fade, a sick dizziness washing over you.

To your utter horror, there was no mistake. Laughter. His, echoing faintly across the room like a whip across skin. His face tilted up, caught in motion and frozen in time all at once.

It was Kim Doyun.

The name roared through your bloodstream like fire.

The room lost color. Sound dulled into a low drone that no longer made sense. Even the warmth of the bodies around you couldn’t reach the numb frost crawling beneath your skin. He was just across the room, completely unaware of the wreckage he had left behind years ago.

Soobin's voice broke through—muffled, distant. You felt his presence shift, but you couldn’t focus. Your fingers twitched once before going limp in your lap. Your breath snagged in your throat.

Then you blinked, and his eyes were on you.

Doyun saw you.

"Soobin," you choked, his name barely formed.

Your eyes didn’t leave Doyun’s face as if daring it to vanish, to prove itself a hallucination, but he remained.

Soobin followed your stare. You felt his body lock beside you, the sharp draw of breath through his teeth. He didn’t speak. He reached for you with the steadiness of someone trying to stop an avalanche with their bare hands. His palm touched your jaw, tilting your head toward him.

To anyone watching, it would’ve looked tender. But there was no tenderness in the way your lungs refused to inflate, in the way your pulse raced like a deer through brush. No sweetness in the white-hot panic crashing down like floodwaters. Soobin’s hand cupped your cheek like he was trying to keep you afloat.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” he murmured, his voice a thread trying to tether you to the present. But it barely pierced through the noise. “I’m here. It’s alright. Do you hear me? Do you want to leave?”

You shook beneath his touch, barely aware of your surroundings. Yeonjun sat up straight, catching on Soobin’s sudden shift in tone. But Soobin shook his head once, and the older male caught on fast. He turned back to the table, pulling attention toward himself, giving you the illusion of privacy.

Your fingers clutched the fabric of your dress until your knuckles paled. Soobin leaned closer, voice trembling with restraint.

“Tell me what you need,” he urged.

Through the fog, through the tears threatening to spill over, you looked at him. His face—the home you’d found after a storm. And in a voice thin and cracking at the edges, you said,

"Take me away from here."

Soobin held your arm with careful strength as he guided you around the corner of the rooftop cafe—secluded enough for no one to see, dimly lit by the muted golden glow of a wall sconce that flickered under the wind’s touch. Your heels scraped against the concrete tiles, breath coming out with forced efforts, your vision tunneling with every echoing thud of your pulse. Your knees buckled, but Soobin caught you just in time.

You collapsed against him as though your bones had given up the pretense of holding you together. His arms wrapped around you with a desperation that trembled at the seams, rocking you as you curled into his chest, your fists clutching the fabric of his coat as you struggled to steady your breathing.

The sobs tore through you—violent, unrestrained, deep from the gut where grief had festered too long in silence. They didn’t fall like gentle rain but came crashing like a storm, howling out of your body in a rhythm too erratic to follow. Soobin’s breath stuttered against your crown as he held on. You wept like the past had come to drag you back under.

"Why would he be here?" you gasped out between cries, each word ripped raw from your throat. "Soobin—he saw me. He looked right at me."

He didn't speak. Just pulled you closer as your shoulders shook harder.

"I thought I was okay," your voice cracked, high and small. "I thought—I thought I was healing. I was trying. Why now? Why here? Why is fate so cruel to me? Why does it keep throwing me back into him? Answer me, Soobin. Please—please tell me."

Each plea gutted him. The daffodils in his chest clawed like wildfire, each petal curling inwards, burning into his ribs. The pain was vicious now—no longer a dull ache, but a searing collapse. And then he realized. It wasn't just your panic that trembled through you.

It was the bond.

You couldn’t tell the difference in that state—how could you? The way your shoulders clenched, the way your nape throbbed—it must’ve felt like the panic itself, not the sacred thread between you both beginning to reject its place inside you. But Soobin felt the split begin at the roots, the bond fighting to hold on while your trauma pushed it out.

You weren’t ready.

And seeing you like this—shattered and gasping for control of yourself—it shattered him too. All his plans, all the words he thought he’d finally say tonight… they evaporated into the night air. In hope’s place, his past fears began to take root.

He pulled away just enough to see your face, his thumbs brushing over your damp cheeks, though his hands were shaking. "I’m sorry," he whispered, hoarse. His own eyes glossy with unshed tears.

Your eyes searched his through a haze of tears, confusion flickering somewhere beneath the anguish.

"I’m sorry," he repeated, softer this time, like it was all he had left. He couldn’t give you peace, couldn’t give you safety, couldn’t give you freedom—not when his presence was laced with something that caused you more pain than comfort. "You didn’t deserve this. Any of it."

You leaned into his touch again, letting the silence between you breathe for a moment as the sobs dulled to broken exhales. When your body finally allowed air to return in full, when your chest began to rise and fall without catching, you gave him a nod.

“Let’s go home,” you murmured.

He stood first, offering you a hand that you took without looking, and together, you walked across the roof tiles, step after step under the pale light of the moon.

To anyone else, your footsteps might have sounded like you were going home together, when in reality, with each step Soobin was preparing to walk away.

He would give you what you deserved—freedom. Even if it meant breaking a bond that tied every breath of him to you.

The apartment was lit only by the faint amber glow of the lamp on your bedside table. Soobin had been careful—gentle hands wiping the remnants of ruined makeup from your cheeks, brushing the strands of hair from your damp forehead. You’d fallen asleep at last, exhaustion overtaking even the panic that had wrecked your body. He’d stayed until your breathing evened out, until your grip on the blanket loosened.

He stood by the door for a long time, staring at the outline of your resting figure, memorizing the rise and fall of your chest. He should’ve walked away long before the ache in his chest had turned into something unbearable. But how could he, when the thought of leaving you—even for your sake—felt like choosing to suffocate?

It was supposed to be a calm night. A soft end to a long day, a crazy semester. But instead, you had shattered. And he had watched it happen. Watched the exact moment you cracked open, the past dragging its claws through your present.

He didn’t go home. He headed back to the venue. Yeonjun was already waiting when he arrived—called out of worry, out of desperation. He took one look at Soobin and froze, wincing at the way the younger looked as if he had visibly shrunk in the past hour.

“Soobin—what the hell—are you okay? Is she okay?” he asked in a rush, stepping closer. “What happened?”

Soobin’s eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with tears that hadn’t quite dried. His shoulders were rigid, but his expression was hollow. “She’s not ready.” The words fell like stones. “She’s not ready and I was stupid enough to hope.”

Yeonjun’s throat tightened. “What do you mean? What happened back there?”

“She saw him.” Soobin’s voice cracked. “Doyun. He was there. And she... she broke, Yeonjun. Right in front of me. I’ve never—” he blinked rapidly, breath hitching, “—never seen her like that since middle school. Since that day.”

Yeonjun’s heart dropped, hands shooting forward to help Soobin sit down on one of the bar tools near the railing. His gaze darted around quickly, making sure there were no prying eyes around.

“She was sobbing in my arms, asking me why fate keeps doing this to her,” Soobin continued, voice straining against the weight. “And all I could think about was how much worse it would be if she found out about the bond. If she ever knew and hated me for it.”

“Soobin,” Yeonjun tried, “you don’t know that. She might not hate you. This isn’t just about you—this is fate, the bond is not in your hands—”

“No.” Soobin’s voice turned steely. “It’s in my hands. It’s been in my hands since the beginning. I can’t let her go through that again. I won’t. I’m going to break it.”

Yeonjun reeled back, mouth falling open. “Are you insane? You heard what the doctor said. The pain—one of you could fall into a coma. You’ll never get another soulmate. Neither of you will.”

“So what?” Soobin spat, but the tremble in his voice betrayed him. “What does any of that matter if she ends up suffering? If I’m the reason she relives that hell again?”

A sharp stab exploded in his chest, so sudden and vicious it nearly stole the air from his lungs. Soobin’s eyes widened. A choking noise escaped him before a violent, gut-wrenching cough tore from his body. He doubled over, one hand flying to his mouth as his spine arched with the force of it, the yellow petals spilling out with every cough.

Soobin's eyes flew open when he heard Yeonjun take a sharp breath followed by a curse under his breath. To their horror, the petals weren’t just soft and golden—they were stained red this time, ruined by the dark, wet blotches that soaked through like spilled ink.

Yeonjun’s heart nearly stopped. “Shit—Soobin!” he exclaimed, lunging forward. He dropped to his knees beside him, hands hovering helplessly as Soobin doubled over, his fingers trembling and slick with crimson. The petals scattered across the rooftop floor like ruined confessions.

Soobin’s breath came in ragged gasps, blood dribbling down his chin. The metallic tang filled his mouth, the floral aftertaste bitter and overwhelming. Pain flared white-hot behind his eyes. His vision blurred.

Yeonjun felt the sharp pang of panic shoot through his chest. It had never been like this before. Not with blood. Not with this much agony. Not with Soobin looking like he was being ripped apart from the inside out.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Yeonjun muttered, grabbing Soobin’s shoulders and steadying him, his voice tight with desperation. “You’re killing yourself.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” Soobin croaked, tears slipping down his cheeks, mingling with the blood on his chin. He looked up suddenly, eyes raw, swollen with pain and something far worse—resolve. Then, with sudden force, he reached out and gripped Yeonjun’s arm. There was a subtle ferocity in the gesture, a finality that made Yeonjun’s skin crawl.

“I need a place to stay.”

Yeonjun blinked. “What...?”

“I can’t be near her. Not if I’m going to go through with this. Please.”

Yeonjun stared at him, caught in the cruel space between horror and heartbreak. He didn’t want to be a part of this. Didn’t want to watch his friend lose himself thread by thread. He couldn't imagine the look on your face when you’d find the truth. But staring at Soobin, who was like a brother to him—the shattering, the absolute devastation—it told him that Soobin had already made his decision.

After a long silence, Yeonjun sighed harshly, before speaking, “You can come with me to my grandparent's house.”

Soobin’s breath left him in a shaky rush. “Thank you.”

“What if she asks for you?” One last time, Yeonjun asked, as if to make sure this is truly what Soobin wanted.

Soobin looked up at the stars, tears clinging to his lashes. “Then I hope she lives free. That’s the least I can do for her.”

The memory of your tear-streaked face haunted his mind. The sound of your cries, echoing like a wound that wouldn’t close. It reminded him of the day you ran to him back in middle school, shattered by Doyun’s cruelty, sobbing so hard you couldn’t breathe. He had held you then, just like he did tonight.

If he let himself stay—if he gave in to the bond—it would destroy you. At least that’s what he believed. And Yeonjun, no matter how much it hurt, couldn’t bring himself to argue anymore.

You'd been awake for a while. Watching the sun rise, your room was washed in soft morning light. Your eyes were heavy from the night before, the memories returning in slow waves. But they didn’t sweep you under this time. Instead of anguish, you felt anger. And beneath that—pity. For yourself. For giving someone like Doyun that much power over your life.

You exhaled slowly, letting the thought settle. It was time to tear through the veil of the past, wasn't it? To love without fear. To feel without bracing for pain.

You were strong. You could take your life back, right?

The morning moved at its own pace. You showered, hoping the warm water might ease the aches gnawing at your body. When it didn’t you settled with some painkillers. It somehow got even worse overnight. Maybe it was time to restart your orthopedics plan.

You weren’t surprised when Soobin showed up. The two of you stood in your kitchen, the kettle humming between you. It felt domestic—normalcy woven into your very existence. It always did, with him. You promised yourself not to take this comfort for granted.

“I’m visiting a relative tomorrow,” he said, eyes finally meeting yours. “I’ll be gone for a while.”

You blinked. The words hit without warning, slipping into the room like a chill. “Is it serious?” you asked. “Everything okay with your family?”

He offered a soft smile. "Yeah. My mom hasn’t seen her side of the family in years. Distant folks—I barely know them." A smooth lie.

You tilted your head, feigning sadness. “I was planning to spend the break with you, you know. But no, go ahead, leave me all alone.” You let out a dramatic sigh. “Hope your relative’s more fun than I am.”

A breath of laughter escaped him, but he didn’t respond. The silence hung around you like mist. Then, he stepped away from the counter, his arms parting for you.

Your eyes trembled, shoulders slumped as you stepped into him, letting your forehead rest against his chest with a quiet thud. Soobin’s arms engulfed you, almost hiding your frame into him, resting his chin on the top of your head. You stayed like that for a while.

Closing your eyes, you drew in his scent—there was a faint floral note. Did he change his cologne? Or his soap? But either way, underneath all that was Soobin that you knew like second nature—like the warmth of a late summer afternoon, like the pages of a well-loved book, like home.

“You’re the bravest person I know,” he murmured into your hair. “You’ve been through hell and still chose to get back up. That’s not easy. But you’re doing it. And I know you’ll make it through.”

You sniffled. The knot in your throat was too tight. With him here, it felt possible—like maybe the world wasn’t as cruel as it had felt yesterday.

“Be back soon,” you whispered.

For a moment, he didn’t speak or move. When he finally pulled back, just enough to see your face, his gaze locked onto yours. You couldn't name what you saw there. And that unsettled you more than anything else. Because there was no promise in his silence. No reassurance. Just the numb feeling of something slipping through your fingers before you even realized you were holding onto it.

You felt the hollowness the moment he was gone.

The next few days passed in a daze. Your friends dragged you out—cafés, arcades, walks through the city under cloudy skies—but it all slipped by like smoke through your fingers. Their voices rose and fell like static, laughter bursting like fireworks you couldn’t see. You gave smiles on cue, nodded in all the right places, but there was a gap between your body and your mind. It was as if you stood behind a pane of glass, watching it all unfold without reaching through.

Communication with Soobin was scarce. You told yourself he was somewhere far, where the signal was weak. When you messaged him, he replied right away. Sometimes with words, sometimes with photos—a table set for one with warm, homemade dishes; a wind-blown field under a peach-colored sky; his shadow stretched long along a country road. You stared at those pictures longer than you meant to, your eyes stinging as you tried to make sense of the pressure tightening in your chest.

You weren’t sure what ached more: the flare of your chronic pain, which returned with a vengeance, or the way time had begun to move strangely without him. You finally booked an appointment with your orthopedist, fingers trembling as you keyed in the date. The apartment felt too quiet. You missed the sound of his voice, the way he'd fill your kitchen with his humming, his rambling thoughts. You felt lonely.

By the time the semester break began to wane, you’d returned to your duties like how you promised Professor Park.

"Dear! Come on in!" Professor Park beamed the moment your head peaked in. The lady shuffled around her desk, hand outstretched as she rushed toward you before engulfing you in a hug. It felt good to be back in your space, you missed the affection and comfort the older lady gave you. She reminded you of your own mother.

“I brought gifts from Singapore! For you and Yujin both!” She bustled back to her desk, retrieving a delicate box wrapped in soft gold tissue. With excitement twinkling in her eyes, she handed it to you. “Go on, open it!”

You peeled the paper with care, revealing a carved hairclip so intricate it stole your breath. Floral vines curled around its base, and tiny gemstones shimmered like dew.

"Professor, you didn’t have to!" you exclaimed, though your fingers curled around the gift instinctively. You held it close, heart fluttering.

She waved you off and moved behind you, already reaching for it. "Let me help you wear it, dear." Her fingers were nimble, parting your hair with delicate care. Your protests meekly faltered as her fingers threaded gently through your strands. Embarrassment bloomed under your skin, but you stayed still, feeling a little self-conscious that someone was putting such close attention on you.

“There,” she said brightly, stepping back to admire her work. "Aha! I knew you'd look lov—"

You heard her voice stop mid-sentence. Slowly, you turned to look at her. Her expression had shifted completely. The smile drained from her face, brows furrowed deeply, mouth parted with a question not yet formed.

“…Professor?” Your voice came small. “Is something wrong?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze remained fixed on you—or rather, behind you. Her eyes dropped to your nape. And then, she spoke, voice low with confusion. "Dear… how come your bond is still colourless?"

“My… what?” You blurted out. Your hand shot up to the back of your neck. “What bond?”

Professor Park’s expression shifted again—paler now, tinged with something akin to disbelief. "What bond—?" she echoed, then cut herself off. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, as if realizing too much at once. She took a sharp breath, stepping closer. "Where’s Soobin?"

You didn’t get to answer. The pain returned and it struck fast—sharp, burning—piercing through the base of your neck as if a needle had sunk through bone. Your breath staggered, eyes widening as your heart plummeted into your gut. And yet, that wasn’t what terrified you. It was the slow, merciless dawn of realization that scraped and tore as it surfaced.

“Professor Park…” you whispered, voice barely holding shape. “I don’t have a soulmate. There shouldn’t be any bond.”

But the words felt hollow in your mouth, like a script you’d read too many times, hoping it might stay that way forever. You weren’t telling her—you were begging yourself.

Professor Park took a moment before speaking again. Her movements gentler now, as she reached for her phone. "Would you like to see it? The tattoo, I mean. I can take a photo and show you, if that’s alright."

You hesitated, a hand still half-covering your nape, but you gave a slow nod. The air felt cooler against your skin this time, every second stretching. You heard the shutter of her phone camera, and then she walked back around, holding the screen out. The photo glowed between you, and in it bloomed the cruelest revelation you’d ever seen.

Your breath didn’t hitch—it collapsed. It wasn’t just any flower. It was the one whose petals you’d picked out of Soobin’s car days ago, believing those were from a bouquet. That’s what he told you, anyway—that they were Yeonjun’s. You hadn’t questioned it. Why would you have? You never questioned anything when it came to him.

But now, the same flower was etched into your skin, waiting to be filled with colour. And it had been blooming for a while, hadn’t it? The aches—the persistent pain at the base of your neck you chalked up to a chronic condition. You had appointments booked, ice packs pressed against it, painkillers tucked into every bag. None of it worked, because it wasn’t chronic. You get it now.

What if you end up being mine?

It was Soobin.

You saw it now—all of it. That night you dreamed of him standing in the middle of a field of daffodils, golden light slanting over his shoulders, petals swaying around him like a living tide. He stood there as if waiting, as if hoping, and you woke up with your heart aching for him, not knowing why.

He’d carried it alone. Carried the pain, the bloom, the bond—let it grow in silence while you lived on, blind and blissfully unaware. He never asked for your love. Never demanded your attention. He stayed beside you as a friend—as your best friend, shielding you all the time. You choked out a disbelieving laugh. Not from shock—no, this was grief. Pure, raw grief, spiraling into guilt that made your stomach lurch. You’d laughed with him, cried beside him, built a home of trust around his silences and never saw it. You’d looked into his eyes and missed the storm behind them.

And you had a terrible feeling you knew why he never told you.

The thought cracked open your chest. Tears clung to your lashes, hot and stinging. You weren’t even sure if you deserved to cry.

“Dear,” when Professor Park reached for you sitting down, it was with that same maternal gentleness she’d always carried—like the embrace of a warm shawl draped over shaking shoulders. “You’ve been hurting. Is there anything you wish to share with me?”

And that was the part you couldn’t say aloud. The words sat like glass in your throat. So instead, you turned away and stared at the carpeted floor, your voice turning inward. But when her cold and soft hands covered your trembling ones, her eyes shone with nothing but gentle encouragement, you broke.

How you’d spent days giddy after a boy claimed to be your soulmate in middle school, kept up the lie for a full week, weaving a story so convincingly. How you—young, naive, desperate to believe—had clung to his words like a lifeline. How, at the end of the week, he had laughed in your face in front of an audience—the humiliation and the heartbreak that followed, hardening in your chest like stone.

“I was so stupid,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I didn’t even know how the bond worked back then. I thought—I thought maybe he was right. Maybe if you accept it early, the symptoms don’t show up as much. I was just a kid. It was so easy for him to trick me.”

When you finally turned your head, Professor Park’s eyes were glossy and red. She reached for you, arms open, and pulled you in without hesitation. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, sniffling. You felt the press of her cheek against your hair. “You weren’t stupid. You were just a child and wanted to believe in something beautiful.”

Over the years you built your peace on denial. You tucked your hope away, convinced yourself it was safer not to believe in fate at all. And maybe it was. Maybe that lie gave you stability. But it also robbed you of the truth.

“After that it was my ignorance controlling me,” you confessed, voice rough. “All these years, I chose not to see. Because if I believed in it, I’d have to admit that I was still afraid, still hurting. I told myself I kept everything measured, nothing could hurt me. And that’s why I never let myself see him.”

You winced, burying your face in your hands as you could only imagine what Soobin had been through all these days. He had daffodils constricting his airways, and yet everytime you met him, he smiled at you and held you close. You've been making a grave mistake.

Professor Park took your hand in hers again, thumb rubbed gently against your knuckles. “You were protecting yourself. That’s not a sin.”

“But I hurt him,” you whispered. “He never said it, but I know I did.”

“He made a choice too,” she said. “To keep it from you. Maybe to give you space, maybe to shield you. It doesn’t make your love less real.”

You looked up slowly, vision blurred, throat thick. “I love him.”

It was the first time you said it out loud. The words didn’t tremble—they were waiting to leave your heart.

“I love Soobin,” you said again, never being so sure of anything before. “Not because of the bond. Not because of fate. Because of everything he is. Because he listens. Because he remembers the little things. Because he always made space for me, even when I didn’t ask.”

“Then go to him,” she said softly, her hand giving your shoulder a squeeze. “There’s still time to make things right.”

You wiped your face with the back of your hand, breath shuddering as you straightened. A part of you still felt raw, exposed—but another part surged with clarity like the last lock falling open. You promised yourself that you'd take back control of your life, didn’t you?

“I won’t tell you to stop being afraid overnight,” Professor Park said, continuing with a firm nod. “But don’t let one person’s cruelty steal your chance at something real. The bond doesn’t make you lovable or unlovable. You were always worthy of love, with or without it.”

You’d been wrong—blind to what mattered the most. But now that you truly saw it, you were going to make things right. You owed it to him, and to yourself.

“Come on, pick up.”

Your voice was breathless, almost a plea as you stood outside the courtyard. Each ring felt like a heartbeat lost. The line crackled and cut, again and again—busy, disconnected, unreachable. You stared at the screen, frustration curling in your chest as you tried one more time. Your fingers moved on instinct, pressing Soobin’s mother’s number. You let out a breath of relief when she picked up.

“Darling! It’s been so long since you called! How have you been?” Her cheery voice filled your ear like sunlight through fog.

You managed a breath. “I’m okay, just... I wanted to ask if Soobin’s around you?”

“Oh? No, no, he’s not here. He’s staying with a friend, I think? Some kind of trip to their hometown—don’t tell me he didn’t mention it?”

Your heart sank and you felt the dread like a tide you’d been bracing for. You weren’t really surprised. You figured out by now that he was up to something terrible. Distancing himself from you was probably his main goal, and it definitely had something to do with the bond.

“Oh—he did,” you lied with a short laugh. “Sorry, I’ve just been all over the place with exams.”

“Ah, those exams,” she sighed, “you poor thing. Take care of yourself, alright?”

“I will. Thank you.” You ended the call, your voice didn’t crack.

She hung up with another gentle laugh, and you were left staring at your phone, your reflection warped across the screen. Your thumb scrolled up on your last conversation with Soobin. A handful of photos—rolling green hills, a horizon stretched golden with sun, a few wind-swept trees—but no town signs, no buildings, nothing that told you where he’d gone. You tapped each photo, zooming in and scanning the edges, eyes darting like a hawk’s.

Desperation clawed through your chest. You opened Google Lens, dropped the images in, prayed for anything useful. The search pulled up tourist blogs, vague suggestions, countryside guesses. You closed the app and exhaled hard through your nose, biting the edge of your thumb. There was one more person who could tell you about his whereabouts.

You had barely found the name in your contact list when you felt a brush across your shoulder. Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned, almost stumbling back.

“Oh—sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!”

You blinked hard, heart still galloping. “Ari.”

She looked apologetic, shoulders tensed beneath her canvas tote strap. Her hair was a little windswept, cheeks slightly flushed like she’d hurried over. Ari had been your friend since middle school—one of the only ones who didn’t drift away. You were in the same university now, in different departments, but the history between you had never faded.

She cast a glance over her shoulder before stepping closer. "Do you have a minute?"

Your nerves were already worn thin, but you nodded. "What’s up?"

Her eyes darted once more, then settled on yours. “Doyun reached out to me.”

“What?” you asked, voice barely managing to come out. The name alone still made your stomach turn.

“Through socials,” she continued. “He asked if I could get him in touch with you.”

You stared, mouth falling open and closing like a gaping fish.

“I told him no,” she said quickly. “Told him to back off. That he had no right. But he kept begging. Said he just wanted to meet you once. He wanted to apologize.”

You blinked, head spinning. A scoff almost tore from your throat. Ari, without another word, pulled out her phone and showed you their conversation.

“I still hate him for what he did to you,” she said, slipping the device back into her coat. “I never forgave him. I never will. But I figured... I should tell you. Just in case he tries other ways to reach out.”

Your grip on your phone tightened. He had been gone for years and now, when everything inside you already felt like it was collapsing, he came crawling out from the past to apologize? Your gut twisted with indecision, the instinct to run curling in your bones like a deeply ingrained reflex. You had spent years putting this behind you, burying it under layers of apathy. Perhaps that was the problem. Maybe you had spent too long running. Every step you’d taken away from the pain had only kept you shackled to it.

You were in control now. Not Doyun. He wanted to talk? Fine. He could talk.

You hadn’t slept.

The night stretched on, hollow and endless, devouring every second until the hours blurred into something unrecognizable. Your eyes stung from exhaustion, but sleep had never come. It never even teased you with the possibility.

By dawn, your insides were already roiling. You barely made it to the bathroom before you were retching into the sink, body convulsing from the storm coiled deep in your gut. When it passed, there was no relief. Just the bitter taste in your mouth and the chill that soaked into your bones. The mirror offered no comfort either. Your reflection stared back like a stranger—eyes rimmed with shadows, cheeks hollow, strands of hair clinging to damp skin. You reached up, fingertips brushing the back of your neck. The pain was so bad that it almost became numb to you, forcing yourself to move around like a ragdoll.

You tried to sleep again, tossing and turning in your bed until the light shifted across the ceiling as the sun climbed high and painted everything in tired gold. You took a quick shower, and as you dried your hair, your phone buzzed, cutting through the haze.

You turned toward it with the slow caution of someone expecting bad news. But it wasn’t dread that bloomed when you saw the sender—just a strange hollowness that settled in your chest like ash. It didn’t make your pulse spike. It didn’t twist your stomach into knots. You were rather awfully calm, calm enough to willingly soothe out whatever nerves that tried climbing you.

You just stared at his name, one that used to have so much power over you just a few days ago. Because it was your conditions that dictated the meeting. You chose the place. You chose the time. He had no say. He was just answering to what you had already set in motion. And he would follow your terms.

This time, he would follow you.

Doyun sat across from you, his hands shaking as he gripped the ceramic cup in front of him, but he wasn’t drinking. He hadn’t taken a single sip. His eyes—ones that once carried nothing but arrogance—were now swollen, red-rimmed, heavy with something you didn’t know if you could call remorse.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he offered, a brittle chuckle escaping like it had been caught in his throat too long.

Your eyes, devoid of any emotion, pinned him on his seat. You were surprised how just a few years ago even hearing his name used to carve open panic in your chest, left you gasping through old nightmares—and how just a few days, seeing him made you fall apart exactly like how you did back then. Now you’re sitting in front of him feeling like an empty shell. You nodded in acknowledgement, bringing your cup of coffee to your lips.

His mouth opened again, as if he had planned to ramble, to fill the space with anything that wasn’t silence. “How have you—”

“That point, Doyun. Make it.”

Your tone cut like a blade. His words trailed off, severed mid-sentence. He stared at the table for a beat too long before sucking in a breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, cracking under the weight of his own guilt.

“I… I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he started, exhaling shakily. “I just—I needed to say it. I needed to tell you I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders stayed still, but inside, your chest had gone taut. For years, you had curated your rage like a collection. Kept it locked away in the attic of your mind, dusted it off whenever the pain clawed back in. You didn’t know who you were without it.

He shifted forward slightly, the movement awkward, uncertain. “I met my soulmate.”

Your eyes widened just a fraction, as if to show your bewilderment. He probably noticed it because he continued. “She—she loved me so much,” he whispered, voice trembling. “She carried the flowers in her. I've watched her suffer so much. But she still loved me through it all.” He let out a bitter laugh, one that carried the weight of years of regret. “And I bore the mark,” he said, holding his hand out. On top of his index finger, there sat a pretty periwinkle tattoo. Its colour vibrant against his pale skin. The colour meant they had accepted the bond.

Your grip on your cup tightened.

“When she was going through it,” his voice grew uneven, dragged down by memory, “I understood—the pain, the longing of your soulmate to accept the bond back. It’s suffocating. I—” his voice cracked, his fingers shaking, “—I couldn’t let her feel the pain any longer.”

The realization hit you slowly, creeping up on you before you could brace yourself for impact. Doyun had never known the weight of a soulmate bond until it was bestowed upon him. And in the end, he had been swallowed by the very thing he mocked.

He looked up to you then, eyes glossy, jaw clenched as if it physically pained him to look at you. “I regretted everything, especially what I did to you. When I found my own happiness, and when I felt how truly beautiful and cruel the bond can be, all I could think about was you. I didn’t think—” he exhaled shakily, shaking his head, “—I was young and stupid and cruel. I didn’t think about how it would affect you. But… I messed up badly, didn't I?"

You didn’t answer. Not because you wanted to give him the comfort of being heard. But because something in you needed this, too. Not closure—maybe acknowledgment. A name for the pain.

“I know I'm late. I’m really late but I couldn't let myself die in this lifetime without apologizing. I had to at least try to make things right.” His eyes shone with raw guilt. “I am sorry. Truly sorry. From the bottom of my heart.”

You sat there, absorbing his words. You had spent so long thinking he’d never feel an ounce of regret for what he did, that he’d walk through life untouched by the ruin he left behind. But he hadn’t. The bond had come for him too and it tested him, made him kneel. Maybe that was justice at its best form.

You let out a breath, long and quiet. The anger hadn’t disappeared, but it no longer burned as fiercely. This cycle of hurt—the inherited silence, the cruelty born from fear, the grief passed hand to hand like heirlooms—had worn on for too long. And for what? To prove that pain could be recycled endlessly? That if one person bled, everyone else had to as well?

Doyun had done something unforgivable, yes. But he had also been forced to face the truth he once mocked. He had come to understand what he took from you only when it was nearly too late. Through his own suffering, he came to respect the bond he once ridiculed. And in that, perhaps, there was a strange mercy.

If he could find love, if he can do it—then maybe you could too. You must allow yourself too.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you said, voice steady but quiet. “Not yet.”

Doyun’s lips parted slightly, as if he hadn’t expected anything but either absolution or rejection, like he wanted to say he understood—but you beat him to it.

“But I appreciate your honesty,” you continued. “It takes courage to own up to what you did, and I won’t pretend it doesn’t mean something. But forgiveness… that’s going to take time.”

His shoulders sagged, but there was a smile. “I understand,” he murmured.

The number you are trying to connect is busy now...

The line cut out again with a hollow beep, and you were left staring at your screen, the call log mocking you with its repeated attempts. Your phone sat loosely in your palm as your gaze drifted beyond it, past the blur of scattered students in the campus courtyard. Some were lounging on the grass, their laughter carried by the evening breeze. Others sat close on benches, fingers interlaced or heads resting on shoulders. You could tell, even without looking too closely, who had found their soulmate. There was something different in how they looked at each other—tethered by something deeper than affection.

The sun had dipped low enough to stain the sky in shades of bruised lavender and dusk rose. You let out a shaky breath, and rested your forehead against your folded arms. The metal bench had grown cool beneath you, the night air slipping under your sleeves and settling against your skin.

You wished—God, you wished Soobin were here.

With one storm passed and behind you, you were now met with another: the question of where to go from here. You had no plan, no trail to follow. You had been sitting on that bench longer than you meant to, your limbs sluggish with exhaustion, your heart weighted with dread. The pain didn’t help either—the dull throb at the base of your neck had sharpened into something more vicious. You winced as it burned again, your hand flying up to touch the back of your neck. The bond flared with a heat that made your stomach twist, nausea rolling in waves. You couldn’t breathe.

Because if you were in this much pain… Soobin—he must be suffocating.

You buried your face in your hands, elbows propped against your knees as the tears pressed hot behind your eyes. Panic clawed its way up your throat, waves of regret beginning to drown you. How long had he been suffering like this? Why hadn’t you seen it sooner? Why did things have to go like this?

A shadow broke across your shoes. You blinked past the blur of tears to see a pair of sneakers come to a stop in front of you. You slowly looked up. It was Beomgyu. His brows were faintly drawn, eyes scanning your face with concern that he didn’t bother to hide.

You forced a small smile, blinking hastily, and straightened up. "Hey," you said hoarsely. "Sorry I left so abruptly that night without saying goodbye."

He shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. "It’s fine. Really." He gestured to the space beside you. "Can I sit?"

You nodded, scooting slightly to make room.

Beomgyu didn’t waste time. He settled in with a deep breath and turned toward you, his voice low. "I won’t dance around it. That night, I overheard Soobin talking to Yeonjun. I, uh—may have heard a little too much."

Your spine went rigid. Soobin went back to the venue after dropping you off?

He hesitated, watching your expression carefully. "Soobin is planning to break the bond."

The words struck like a slap. Your pulse dropped. The blood in your veins felt like it had frozen solid. "What—"

"He is ready to sacrifice himself," Beomgyu continued. "I don’t think he ever meant for you to be unhappy. He just wanted you to be free. Even if it meant losing himself to make it happen."

Your breath stuttered out of you. Your head dropped with a resigned sigh, face buried back into your palms. "Choi Soobin, how can you be so—so reckless," you whispered, voice trembling with the effort to stay composed. The fury bubbled up fast, raw and cutting. You had suspected, yes, but hearing it aloud? It was unbearable.

Beomgyu placed a hand on your shoulder—not intrusive, just present—and offered a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "You know, I believe things happen for a reason. Everything leading you here—what you’ve gone through—it shaped you. You’re not the same person you were before. And maybe you had to lose yourself to find the version of you that’s ready for this."

"Beomgyu," you choked out. Your vision blurred again, and this time, the tears fell. "I don’t know what to do. I can’t find him. I don’t know where he is, and I think—I think I’m losing him. If I’m too late... if I’ve already lost him—"

"Hey." Beomgyu turned to face you fully now, his tone suddenly sharp, resolute. "Don’t talk like that. If two people truly love each other, nothing—not time, not distance, not even fate—can tear them apart. You and Soobin? That’s not the kind of love that breaks easily and believe me, I have been seeing you two. You may have been late, yeah. But you finally found yourself, haven't you? Now you just have to go get him. You won't lose him."

Your eyes drifted downward, catching sight of his wrist where the edge of his sleeve had ridden up slightly. There, nestled against the skin was his soulmate tattoo.

Rain lily.

You remembered his story, the one he'd once shared with a heart that had waited too long. How he'd waited and waited, only to find her when he least expected. How he fought, tooth and nail, against all odds—against time and fate and fear—just to be near her. Just to love her.

Your lips parted in a tearful, breathy laugh, trembling as a small smile broke through the ache. Beomgyu noticed your gaze lingering and glanced down at the tattoo. Slowly, his fingers lifted and brushed over the inked bloom, a touch so gentle it was almost reverent. His voice, when it came, sounded almost as if he was talking to himself. "Bonds that are willed by the people themselves are not easy to break."

“But I don’t know where to begin,” you breathed out, feeling the tears threaten to spill again. “I can’t get a hold of him.”

“And that’s where I come in!” Beomgyu smiled a little too enthusiastically, then finally, he said, "He’s at Yeonjun’s grandparents’ place."

You sat up straight. "What?"

"I heard it that night," he said, nodding. "Yeonjun didn’t want to agree at first but he gave in when..." He didn’t have to finish. You already understood.

Your mouth opened in shock. So close. So unbearably close, and yet you hadn’t even thought of it. How could you forget about Yeonjun? You were even supposed to try contacting him! He was the one person who would’ve known where Soobin went. You’d been too lost in the chaos to realize.

Beomgyu sighed, dramatically this time, leaning back with an exaggerated groan. "God, I sound like a morally grey character right now. Eavesdropping, betraying my friend’s privacy—but hey, I didn’t want to witness my friends suffer. So you better name your firstborn after me or something."

You laughed—really laughed—for the first time in days. It bubbled up shaky and uneven, but it was genuine.

He smiled wider. "Texted you the location. Go get him, okay? Save him. Save yourself. And when this is over, I better be getting a front-row seat at your wedding. With extra cake."

You looked at him with so much gratitude you couldn’t speak. Maybe everything did happen for a reason. Beomgyu’s appearance felt like a light at the end of a tunnel. You nodded, whispered a breathless thank-you, and stood up. You were running.

As your figure disappeared around the path, Beomgyu remained seated. He tilted his head back to stare up at the sky, stars blinking into view, one by one. The night had fallen fully now, and there was peace in the hush that followed.

"One of the greatest tragedies in life," he murmured to no one in particular, "is that you’ll always be loved more than you’ll ever know."

He gazed at the spot where you’d stood, the smile soft on his face.

You had wasted enough time.

You nearly stumbled through your front door, fingers trembling as they fought to unlock your phone. The screen flared to life, and with frantic, clumsy taps, you pulled up the booking site. It didn’t matter what it was—bus, train, flight. You didn’t care about the price. Didn’t care how long it would take. You just needed the next available ticket.

Your breath stuttered when you found one. The first available flight left in an hour and a half. You booked it without hesitation.

The next few minutes blurred into a frenzied scramble. You tore open your closet, yanked clothes from hangers, flung them into a bag with the kind of wild urgency usually reserved for disasters. Your hands shook so badly you could barely zip the bag. You tried to focus, tried to remember the essentials—wallet, charger, ID—but your mind kept short-circuiting, short-circuiting with his name. Soobin. Soobin. Soobin.

You hailed a cab and climbed in without registering the driver's face. The second the car moved, you felt time turn traitor, every red light and traffic jam a personal attack. Your legs bounced, your nails dug into your palms, and your eyes wouldn’t stop darting to the rearview mirror like you were being chased. The city rushed past you in fractured pieces—neon signs bleeding into the pavement, taillights pulsing like fevered heartbeats.

When the airport finally came into view, your heart kicked up like it had been shocked back to life. You threw cash at the driver and ran. The terminal lights were too bright, the air too cold, the noise a dull roar in your ears. You shouldered your bag and moved with single-minded desperation, feet pounding against tile, breath ragged as you navigated toward your gate.

The departure board flickered, every new update slicing through you. Every passing minute another stone tied to your ankle.

What if you were too late?

No. No. You couldn’t think like that.

You made it to the gate. The boarding call echoed through the speakers. Your chest twisted as you stepped onto the plane, every motion feeling too big and too small at once. Sitting down, you fumbled with the seatbelt, blinked hard against the burning in your eyes.

This wasn’t just about seeing him again. This wasn’t just about apologies, or closure, or trying to fix what was on the verge of being lost.

This was about everything you had refused to let yourself feel. Everything you had buried beneath fear and anger and grief. Every moment you had wasted pretending it didn’t matter—pretending he didn’t matter. You had spent so long telling yourself you didn’t believe in soulmates, in bonds, in love. But Soobin had always been there. Through every version of you. Quietly and steadily. Loving you in the spaces where you didn’t think you needed to be loved.

The engines hummed, then roared. The plane began to roll forward, faster, faster, until the earth slipped out from beneath you and the sky caught you in its arms. You stared out the window, your reflection faint in the glass, city lights winking below like dying stars.

You pressed your clasped hands to your chest, exhaling and feeling the tremor in your soul.

Please be okay.

Please don’t be scared anymore.

Because I’m coming.

“Just hold on a little longer.”

The lake stretched before them, its surface unnaturally still, a perfect mirror capturing the bruised gold of the sky. The breeze carried no sound, only the oppressive quiet of dusk. Yeonjun sat on the porch steps, arms resting on his knees, eyes drawn to the lone figure near the water.

Soobin was kneeling at the edge, his fingers curled into the damp earth like he was trying to anchor himself to it. His shoulders drooped, head bowed, the slope of his spine carved by exhaustion. There was something about the way he sat that unsettled Yeonjun—a kind of surrender that didn’t belong to someone like Soobin. His skin looked almost translucent under the dying light, lips chapped, breath ragged. The coughing hadn’t stopped since he’d left you behind. It had only grown worse, brutal and bone-deep, each fit wracking his fragile frame. Yeonjun had taken to force-feeding him the prescribed medicine, watching him weaken with every dose that didn’t seem to work fast enough.

“Do you want to eat something?” Yeonjun muttered, toeing a pebble near his boot. He tried to sound nonchalant, but even he could hear the strain in his voice.

“I’m fine,” Soobin said, voice brittle, barely audible over the soft lapping of the lake.

Yeonjun’s jaw tightened. He hated all of this—hated the part he’d played in it. Agreeing to Soobin’s plan had felt noble at first. Necessary, even. But watching his friend unravel like this made him question every decision he thought was right.

The distance was supposed to cut the tether cleanly, giving you both room to breathe. But instead of severing the bond, it had only left Soobin hollow. The connection had thinned, yes—but his love hadn’t. It clung to him, stubborn and raw, carving out pieces of him each day like grief given form. And love like that, Yeonjun realized, could destroy just as deeply as it could heal.

He rubbed his temples, a sigh dragging out of him. “I’m heading into town. Grandma needs a few things.”

Soobin didn’t answer. Just stared at the water like it might swallow him whole.

Yeonjun stood, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets as he walked away, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. The town greeted him with the same dull familiarity. He moved through it all like a ghost, ticking items off a list, exchanging crumpled bills, nodding at friendly faces without really seeing them. But his mind was elsewhere. Tangled in the mess that had become your story.

Would he have done the same if it had been his soulmate? Would he have left, convinced it was the only way to protect her? He thought of you—your broken past, the way you dimmed at the mention of soulmates, the wall you had built to protect your heart. And maybe, just maybe, he would’ve done the same. If the one he loved had looked at him the way you looked at the world—with fear braided into your ribs, with loss etched into your memory—then maybe he would’ve made the same impossible choice.

The sun had begun to dip behind the hills by the time he turned down the familiar dirt road, grocery bags rustling against his legs. The house stood quiet at the end, warm light glowing faintly from the porch. But he stopped short.

There was someone standing in front of the house.

His breath caught, fingers loosening around the handles. For a second, he couldn’t believe it. But then you turned—and the sight of you knocked the wind from his chest.

You were a mess of movement and emotion, your eyes scanning the trees, the porch, the path beyond. Your clothes were wrinkled from travel, your hair tousled, face flushed and shining with sweat. You looked like you hadn’t slept in days. But it was your eyes that struck him the hardest.

They blazed with a wildness that threatened to tear the sky apart.

Yeonjun barely had time to react before you spotted him. The moment your gaze locked onto his, something inside you snapped. You marched forward, fists clenched, and before he could say a single word, you grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down to your level with a force that startled even him.

“Where is he?” you hissed.

Yeonjun didn’t fight it. He didn’t back away. If anything, he deserved your anger. You had every right to be furious. You had come all this way. Which meant—you knew.

Yeonjun swallowed. “You—”

“Please,” your voice cracked this time. “Tell me where he is.”

Yeonjun realized it was time to step back. He had played his part unwillingly, and he regretted the choices he made he thought was right to help his friend. But now, standing in front of you—seeing the ruin of what they’d tried to fix—it was clear that love didn’t survive in isolation. It had to be met halfway.

He looked down, voice rough. “By the lake,” he said. “He’s by the lake.” Then softer, “Go save that idiot.”

The way your face crumpled nearly undid him.

You didn’t wait for another word. You turned and ran, feet slamming against the dirt path, heart pounding louder than your footsteps. The only thing that mattered was that he was close. That Soobin was finally near and still breathing.

You had crossed miles to reach him. Now all that stood between you and him were a few desperate seconds and a truth that refused to be buried any longer.

At first, you couldn’t believe your eyes.

Soobin sat on the bench beneath the towering oak, shoulders slumped forward, as if he could shrink small enough to disappear into the cracks of the earth beneath him. The breeze picked at the hem of his shirt, teased strands of his hair into motion—longer now than you remembered, more unruly. And for a moment, you stood frozen, but in the sliver of stillness that followed, the ache on the back of your neck burst into flame, the soulmate tattoo searing through skin and nerve like it had sensed him first. It pulsed through your spine, a visceral call, a scream beneath the surface of your skin.

"Soobin."

His name tore from your throat like glass shattering inside your chest. It sliced through the wind, through the impossible space that had stretched between you for far too long.

Every muscle in Soobin’s body recoiled as if the sound had struck him like lightning. His head jerked, hesitant, like he feared what he might see. But he turned and when his eyes met yours, the daffodil rooted in his chest clawed upward like it had tasted light for the first time. The stems twisted, coiling tighter around his ribs, merciless and cruel. It should have hurt more. It should have dropped him to his knees, but he couldn’t focus on any of it.

You found him.

Your eyes—puffy, rimmed with exhaustion and raw emotion—held him captive in a way nothing else ever had. He didn’t need to ask. He knew that you knew.

His lips parted, your name escaping in a sound closer to prayer than a word. He forced himself upright, each movement dragged through syrup, each muscle betraying him in its hesitation. His legs trembled beneath his weight, but they carried him forward. He moved as if caught in a current, pulled not by will but by a force that was telling him to close the distance.

You looked as if the world had crumbled beneath you. Like the cracks had spiderwebbed through your composure and you were standing in the ruins.

Soobin took a step. Then another. His knees buckled slightly from the effort. Still, you didn’t move, only stared at him with that same gut-wrenching look, like you didn’t know whether to scream at him or collapse into him.

His hand twitched at his side, fingers aching to touch you, to reach for your face, to wipe away the tears you hadn’t yet shed. But just as the space between you thinned, fear surged in his gut, reminding him why he got away from you in the first place. And so, instead of reaching out, he pivoted—tried to brush past, voice hoarse and broken. "Yeonjun—"

"Don’t walk past me like a stranger." Your voice cracked against the quiet, a whip of sound that brought him to a standstill.

Soobin flinched, eyes widening as your fingers clamped around his arm. Your grip was desperate, nails digging into his skin as if anchoring yourself to reality, to him.

"Don’t you dare." Your voice trembled at the end, searing. "Don’t you dare run from me again."

He tried to speak, mouth opening and closing like he was drowning. But you weren’t finished.

"You tried to stay away. You thought distance would save me from the pain. You thought leaving was the answer." You let out a sharp, breathless laugh, a sound that was anything but amusement. "But you were wrong, Soobin. You were so fucking wrong."

Your grip didn’t ease. Your words came faster, tumbling over the emotion in your chest.

"How am I supposed to live without you when I started living because of you?"

His knees nearly gave out. The breath he dragged into his lungs felt fractured, broken along the edges. Your words curled around him, sank their claws in deep at the sheer desperation laced within them.

"You don’t get to decide what’s best for me. You don’t get to rip yourself away and expect me to be fine. You don’t get to—" Your voice cracked, and you exhaled shakily, eyes brimming with everything you had held back. "You showed me what it meant to be seen, to be understood. You made me feel safe. You made me—" Your breath tremored. "And then you took it all away."

Soobin didn’t realize he was crying until the wind kissed the trails on his cheeks. The pain in his chest surged, brutal and consuming, but he swallowed it down. He forced sound into his throat.

"I didn’t want you to accept the bond when you were still hurting from your past," he said, voice splintering with every syllable. "I was scared that you’d turn me away because you weren’t ready. I never wanted to be the reason for your pain... but I guess I became one anyway."

You stared at him, brows drawn together in disbelief and heartbreak.

Soobin swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he clenched them at his sides. "You don’t have to accept this bond."

Your world tipped sideways. It staggered and reeled like you’d been struck across the face. Your lips parted in disbelief. "Soobin, don’t—" The word barely made it out.

Soobin continued, blinking against the haze of pain clouding his vision. "I don’t want to ever wonder if you were forced to love me under the pretext of this soulmate bond." He grit his teeth, his body shuddering as the flowers turned razor-sharp inside him. "I want to choose you. And for you to choose me. I need you to know—I would choose you even if we weren’t soulbound."

The breath left your lungs in a violent rush. A choked gasp scraped past your lips as your knees hit the ground, hard and graceless, catching Soobin’s collapsing form just in time. He crumpled into you, a storm of muscle and trembling breath, and you caught him—arms wound tight around his body like he might vanish again if you dared loosen your grip.

He shuddered beneath your hands. His skin burned cold, like frost seeping through flesh. His frame trembled violently, wracked by more than just pain—it was the toll of weeks spent shouldering agony alone. But still, he looked at you. Still, even on his knees, he found the strength to meet your gaze.

"You have no true obligation to anyone but yourself," he whispered. "I don’t ever want you to feel a single regret... I want you to have the freedom of choice."

He had imagined this moment a thousand different ways—each one cruel, each one ending in devastation—but never like this. Never with your hands trembling as they cradled him close, never with your eyes overflowing, tears sliding down your cheeks unchecked, heavy and gleaming in the fading light. The sight cleaved through him sharper than any thorn that had ever embedded itself in his lungs.

"You say you want me to have the freedom of choice," you choked out, full of grief and fury, "yet you pull a shit like this and get away from me." Your hand rose to cup his face, thumb brushed the curve of his cheek, and he flinched at the warmth, at the way your touch thawed the frozen hollows of him. Your whole body quaked, each breath a war against everything you’d buried, everything you’d never allowed yourself to say. "You foolish, foolish man."

You reached down and caught his hand—his cold, trembling hand—and brought it to your neck, placing it over the mark that burned like fire beneath your skin. His fingers hovered, twitching against you like they didn’t believe they were allowed to stay. But you held him there. Then your other hand pressed against his chest, right where the daffodils coiled tight and cruel. As if you could pull them free with your palm alone. As if your touch could will the pain out of him.

“I love you.”

The words crashed into the space between you like lightning splitting the sky. Three words. Small, but colossal. They surged through the air, breaking every last chain he’d wrapped around his heart. A bridge spanning across lifetimes, a key unlocking every door he had once slammed shut to keep himself from hoping. Soobin’s face crumbled, weeping relentlessly.

“Say it again,” he rasped. “Please—say it again.”

“I love you,” you said again, voice trembling, but loud. “And I have always loved you.” The confession fell from your lips like a flood, fierce and unrelenting, rich with regret and aching with truth. “I was a coward. I never recognized it. I never let myself recognize it. And for that, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry, Soobin.”

He sobbed, eyes pooling with tears. The disbelief in them was stark and fragile—like he was witnessing a dream too precious to survive daylight.

“It has always been you.”

You pulled him closer, your arms a vice around him now. The desperation in your grip was undeniable—you needed him to feel this, needed him to know, needed him to feel what words could never fully encapsulate. “I don’t care about fate or destiny or whether this is some divine intervention. Even if we weren’t soulmates, even if I had never woken up with your name written in my bones, I would still choose you.” Your voice cracked at the edges. “I would choose you in this life, in the next, in every existence beyond that. I would knit the thread of fate myself and spell your name into it.”

A sharp breath tore from Soobin’s lips, his entire frame trembling beneath the weight of your words, beneath the sheer force of your love. His eyes flickered an ounce of relief within, and before either of you could think, before he could drown in hesitation, he closed the distance between you and kissed you.

It was not soft nor was it hesitant. It was years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds of yearning poured into the space where your lips met his. It was an apology, a plea, a declaration all at once. It was his heart, bare and vulnerable, placed into your hands to do with as you pleased. And you—oh, you matched him. With shaking fingers buried in his hair and lips pressed back to his with a kind of desperation that bordered on fury, you answered him. You answered with all the love you had locked away. With every second you had spent convincing yourself you didn’t want him. With every dream that had curled around the shape of his name.

Soobin gasped against your mouth the moment he felt it—the recoil of pain, the slackening of those roots that had burrowed deep within his ribs for far too long. The agony that had once clawed at his lungs, that had stolen the air from his chest and made every breath a battle, began to unravel. He could breathe. He could truly breathe.

And in that moment, as the roots recoiled and faded, a matching daffodil tattoo emerged on his nape. The two daffodils then bloomed with the vibrant shade of yellow, the sign of the bond being accepted between two soulmates.

His hands trembled as they held you, as if grounding himself in the reality that you were here, that this moment wasn’t some cruel dream his mind had conjured in desperation.

When you finally pulled away, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, the first thing he saw was you. Not the blur of your form or the shine of tears, but you—eyes alight with something that hollowed him out and filled him in the same breath.

"You—" His voice caught on the jagged edge of emotion. "The bond—you saved me."

Your throat closed around the sadness that rose, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you turned your palm into his, your thumb brushing along the ridges of his knuckles.

“No,” you murmured. “We saved each other.”

A beat passed between you. His breath came uneven, his fingers flexing slightly against yours. Then he reached up with a hand that trembled like a leaf in the wind, cupping your cheek. His touch was barely there—not because he didn’t want to touch you, but because he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. If he was worthy of this mercy.

"Oh, God," he breathed, the syllables cracked with remorse. "I’m sorry for everything. I love you so much."

You lifted your hand to cover his, turning into the warmth of his palm, grounding him to you. And then he pulled you close, arms folding around your frame, crushing you to him like he meant to hold onto this moment and never let go. His heartbeat thundered against yours, two hearts beating in sync like they were supposed to.

"Let’s try again," you murmured, voice unsteady but whole. "This time, together."

His answer wasn’t immediate. He breathed you in. He memorized the cadence of your voice, the rhythm of your pulse, the surety in your eyes all over again and again and again.

Nodding, his grip tightened. "Together?"

You gave him your answer not just in words but in the way your hand found the back of his neck, the way your forehead leaned into his.

"Together."

He let his forehead drop against yours, eyes slipping shut. Everything was going to be okay. It was like walking into the sun being with you. It was like walking into the sun for the first time after a terribly long winter.

And somewhere in the distance, spring folded itself into summer. The season no longer took its dying breath; instead, it shared its warmth, its vibrancy, its life. And in that moment, Soobin learned what it meant to be alive—really, truly alive.

THE END.

Taglist; @dawngyu @gyu-tori @pagelets @hueningstar @hhoneyhan @immelissaaa @lovingbeomgyudayone @xylatox @i-like-to-read-at-4am @saejinniestar @hoefororeo @caratcakemoa @notevenheretbh1 @izzyy-stuff @sxmmerberries @younbeanz @softfor-svtptg @lostgirlysstuff @yystarz @ode2soob @beomgyusluver @soobinieswife @wonderstrucktae @hanniehq @chwesuh-imnida @reep04 @okkotsuevie @90steele

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xjulixred45x · 2 months ago

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OMG!!! THAT WAS SO GOOD!

It was so fun to read and it give me so many ideas that i would like to share if you don't mind.

Kid! Yuu insists in carrying Grimm around. Imagine being an NRC student and you see this kid with their 1.19/1.30 carrying this 90cm cat,is just comic.Grimm is not complaining.

Kid! Yuu randomly drops a lore info; they are with the boys, and out of nowhere they go, "One time I didn't see my mom and dad for 2 days." "Mama was acting funny a couple days before I appeared here. She looked at me oce and said that I was a burden. I don't know what it means, but it doesn't sound good." And the boys are just (⊙_⊙)? You can go nuts with this one.

I think that Jack would be one of the most careful with Kid! Yuu, they reminded him of his siblings. So if you go to Savanaclaw, you're going to see this big as hell wolfman, and his little ray of sunshine, full of trauma, but a ray of sunshine.

The staff is pressuring Crowley to find a way back, but not for Kid! Yuu go back to that empty house with no love, caring, or joy. Actually, they justwant to beat this kid's parents so much that they not gonna remember they on names.

Kid! Yuu still go to class, but the teachers give them activities that kids of their age would learn. Vargas basically plays with them while the boys are dying doing the real P.E. class.

I can see Trein being one of the most worried with Kid! Yuu situation, a little more if kid! Yuu is a girl,reminds him of his own daughters.

The boys and staff need to teach them some things for this kid's sake, like, "If you have a problem, you can and should talk with a grown-up." "If you want something, you can ask us."Stuff of the type.

I would really like to hear your thoughts about those too. Remember to eat and keep hydrated. Bye~

-🐦‍⬛✨

This is so good! Lmao

Grim lets his little henchman carry him around for NRC (he won't admit it, but he likes that Yuu helps him feel important and grown-up), even if it makes things a little difficult. Besides, if anyone tries to mess with them, Grim can easily breathe fire back at them—it's a win-win.

The first-years, being the ones who interact with Yuu the most, are definitely the first to realize something's wrong with this kid. It's not something direct at first, but rather certain habits Yuu has that reveal him as someone who grew up too fast (being too independent or mature for their age, knowing how to cook, clean, and so on on their own, not trusting adults, etc.).

Ace probably once caught Yuu stockpiling food at Ramshackle. The reason? "In case I get grounded without food," it takes Ace a full minute to process what this kid just said. And thenautomatically drags them off to have tea and eat some of Trey's candy at Heartslabyul . Ace isn't very good at this kind of thing, but he DEFINITELY knows it's not normal for a little kid to do that, and he needs someone RIGHT to point that out to them.

Deuce also notices some of Yuu's unusual habits, but especially when he talks about their home. When Deuce told them about his mother and how he wanted to make her proud, Yuu looked at him in a way they never had before. they said his mother wasn't happy with them either, that sometimes they wouldn't see her or thier father for days, but that was okay because then they wouldn't be a burden to them (Deuce proceeded to hug Yuu for three hours straight).

Jack is the one who affirms, the one who assures Yuu that they're not a bad kid, that their parents weren't good people, and most of all, that they deserves to be loved. He's especially gentle with them; they remind him of his little sibilings, so it pains him greatly to see how little affection they received in their life, and he's willing to change it. I can see Jack easily giving in to Yuu's whims, such as transforming into a wolf so Yuu can ride or sleep on him, hanging on his shoulders because he's tall, etc.

Epel definitely tells Yuu straight up that if he runs into their parents, he'll beat them up in seven different ways. Aside from that, he's great at making the kid laugh, whether it's with words from his original dialect/accent, exaggerated Vil imitations, or going on little escapades to get some candy/junk food for themselves. He's also taught Yuu a few tricks on how to use their "cute" appearance to their advantage to escape trouble.

Sebek makes a huge effort to not be so loud around Yuu, realizing that it brings back very bad memories for them, or at least encourages them to be louder and more vocal about what they want. He's the most offended and genuinely angry at the kind of treatment Yuu's parents gave the kid, and assures them that while they're in Twisted Wonderland, they won't have to fear being hurt, that they'll protect them. He's quite affirming without knowing it.

Ortho and Yuu are basically best friends; they're both in a new world and deeply curious about everything around them. Although, of course, Ortho tries to take more care of his more fragile, flesh-and-blood friend. Ortho ends up being the one who teaches Yuu various social skills like "stranger danger" and "trusted adult," and, above all, that if they feels ill or something bad happens to them, they can count on their friends to help them!

The teachers are so partial to Yuu, that while the others are practically fighting for survival in the hellish Vargas camps in the middle of nowhere, Yuu is playing jump rope with Ortho and Grim. While everyone else is dozing off listening to Trein's lectures, Yuu is completing a short basic quiz for the day, with Lucius on their lap. While the others are making potentially explosive potions, Crewel is teaching Yuu basic chemistry.

Sam has definitely given Yuu a couple of gifts to cheer him up when they feeling particularly down, whether it's their favorite food, an item they's been eyeing up, or something unexpected. You never know with Sam. Crowley is happy that he doesn't have to pretend he was looking find a way to get Yuu back home now that everyone's warmed up to them, or well, now they're demanding that he do it, but to... beat up their parents? Well, he might consider it.

After all, Yuu has united the school in a unique way, it's the least they could do, right?

_________

(ESPAÑOL)

Esto es muy bueno! Lmao

Grim deja que su pequeño secuaz lo cargue por NRC (no lo admitirá, pero le gusta que Yuu lo ayude a sentirse importante y grande), incluso si le dificulta un poco. Aparte, si alguien trata de meterse con ellos, Grim puede fácilmente escupirles fuego, es un ganar-ganar.

Definitivamente los de primer año, al ser los que más interactúan con Yuu, son los primeros en darse cuenta que algo malo paso con este niño. No son cosas directas en un inicio, sino mas bien ciertos hábitos que tiene Yuu que lo delatan como alguien que creció muy rápido (ser demasiado independiente o maduro para su edad, saber cocinar, limpiar y demás por su cuenta, no confiar en adultos, etc).

Ace probablemente una vez sorprendió a Yuu haciendo una reserva de comida en ramshackle ¿la razón? “en caso de que me castiguen sin comer”, a Ace le toma un minuto entero procesar lo que este niño acaba de decir. Y automáticamente después lo arrastra Heartslabyul para tomar el té y que coma algunos dulces de Trey. Ace no es muy bueno en este tipo de cosas, pero DEFINITIVAMENTE sabe que no es normal que un niño pequeño haga eso, y necesita que alguien ADECUADO le diga eso.

Deuce también nota algunos de los hábitos inusuales de Yuu, pero más que nada cuando habla de su hogar. Cuando Deuce le hablo de su madre y como quería hacerla sentir orgullosa, Yuu lo miro de una forma que nunca lo había hecho, dijo que su madre tampoco estaba feliz con ellos, que a veces no la veía ni a ella ni su padre por días, pero estaba bien, porque así no sería una carga para ellos (Deuce procedió a abrazar a Yuu por tres horas seguidas).

Jack es el de la afirmación, el que le asegura a Yuu que no es un niño malo, que sus padres no eran buenas personas, y sobretodo, que merece que lo quieran. Es especialmente gentil con ellos, le recuerdan a sus hermanos pequeños, por lo que le duele mucho ver el poco afecto que ha recibido en su vida, y está dispuesto a cambiarlo. Puedo ver a Jack cediendo fácilmente a los caprichos de Yuu, como transformarse en lobo para que Yuu lo monte o duerma sobre él, estar sobre sus hombros porque es alto, etc.

Epel definitivamente le dice directamente a Yuu que si se topa con sus padres les va a partir la cara de 7 formas diferentes. Aparte de eso, es un grande en hacer reír al niño, ya sea con palaras de su dialecto original/acento, imitando a Vil de forma exagerada o yendo en pequeñas escapadas para conseguir algunos dulces/comida chatarra para ellos solos. Tambien le ha enseñado un par de trucos a Yuu sobre cómo usar el aspecto “adorable” a su favor para escapar de los problemas.

Sebek hace un esfuerzo enorme de no ser tan ruidoso cerca de Yuu al darse cuenta de que eso trae muy malas memorias para ellos, o al menos, los incita a ellos a ser más ruidosos y claros con lo que quieren. Es el más ofendido y sinceramente enojado ante el tipo de trato que le dieron los padres de Yuu al niño, y le asegura que mientras este en twisted wonderland, no tendrá que temer que lo lastimen, que lo van a proteger. Es bastante afirmativo sin saberlo.

Ortho y Yuu son básicamente mejores amigos, ambos están en un mundo nuevo y tienen una gran curiosidad por todo lo que los rodea. Aunque claro, Ortho trata de cuidar más de su más frágil amigo de carne y hueso. Ortho termina siendo quien le enseña a Yuu varias cosas sociales como “peligro extraño” o “adulto de confianza” y sobretodo, que, si se siente mal o algo malo le pasa, puede contar con sus amigos para ayudarle!

Los profesores son tan favoritistas hacia Yuu en este caso, mientras que los demás están prácticamente luchando por sobrevivir en los campamentos infernales de Vargas en medio de la nada, Yuu esta jugando saltar la cuerda con Ortho y Grim. Mientras que todos se están durmiendo escuchando las lecturas de Trein, Yuu esta completando un pequeño cuestionario básico por el dia, con Lucius en su regazo. Mientras los demás están haciendo pociones potencialmente explosivas, Crewel le enseña a Yuu química básica.

Sam definitivamente le ha dado un par de regalos a Yuu para animarle cuando le ve especialmente decaído, ya sea su comida favorita, algún artículo que haya ojeado o algo sorpresa. Nunca se sabe con Sam. Crowley esta feliz de que no tiene que (fingir que estaba buscando) buscar una forma de que Yuu vuelva a casa ahora que todos se encariñaron con ellos, o bueno, ahora le exigen que lo haga, pero para…¿darle una paliza a sus padres? Bueno, puede que lo considere.

Después de todo, Yuu ha unido la escuela de una forma única, es lo menos que podrían hacer ¿no?

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

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firingstars · 2 months ago

Text

neighborly advice | ch.1

bucky barnes x female reader

summary: you meet your neighbor for the first time, and your world is falling apart around you. alternatively; bucky talks to you for the first time and watches you crash tf out

warnings: timeline is somewhere around the middle/end of fatws, language, alcohol, eventual smut, past trauma, nightmares, no use of y/n, lightly edited, mdni

word count: 3.7k

a/n: hello :3 first xreader fic- i usually write xoc fics so apologize if this is kinda wonky on some areas. this was an x oc fic at first but i decided to make it a reader fic. please enjoy!

masterlist | next chapter

The newly vacant apartment hadn’t been empty for long. The previous tenant was an older man that was too slow to walk up the stairs by himself without stressing out the other residents on the fifth floor of the apartment building. He finally allowed himself to be convinced to be moved in with one of his children into a more comfortable home upstate to spend the rest of his days.

He gave some of his most prized china to his neighbor, saying that his own children would not take care of it like she would. Of course, who were you to deny it? You'd spent the last three years of your life in this apartment building. You were nearly complete with your research, with just a few more kinks to iron out before you could formally present it.

You hoped whoever moved in beside you wouldn’t mind the late night hours. You weren’t a particularly horrible neighbor, but you also hoped your new neighbor wouldn’t be bad either. Mr. Lin was an angel. He didn’t move very fast, which meant his footsteps were light and he barely made any sound from his side of the wall. Though, if you listened closely, you still were able to hear him shuffle about which gave you the peace of mind that he didn’t fall and end up dead in his apartment.

Your new neighbor came two days later, just right after midnight. The day had been long, the overhead lights in the facility had done nothing but wear you down all day, and there was still one more thing that needed to be done before you could even think about crashing in the cotton sheets that called your name.

Yet, seeing this scene of boxes stacked in the hallway, and a man that looked slightly out of place, you froze at the stairwell door. Briefly, you’d forgotten Mr. Lin had left, until the jingle of keys had filled your ears. Of course.

It was too late to strike up any kind of conversation, especially with a random man in the middle of a hallway that had boxes to unpack. So, you walked over to your own door, pulled out your key and gave him a slight nod.

“Good evening,” you greeted softly.

His eyes scanned you. Not in a sleazy, disgusting way that makes your skin crawl and make your stomach want to turn inside out. It was almost calculating. As if he was looking for something, that he was certain there was something that was going to jump out and scare him. Which, in all honesty, seemed silly.

This man was breathtakingly beautiful.

Rough around the edges, with eyes so tired and so steely blue. His jaw was sharp, just like the gaze that pierced through his soul. His shoulders were tense, but his entire body seemed to be wound up. She didn’t know if that was due to her sudden presence in the hall, or if that was his default stance. Either way, he was pretty. And he met your eyes, finally done with his scanning. So, you swallowed, and introduced yourself.

“Bucky,” he responded with a grunt, finally pushing his door open. You watched for a brief second as he began to haul the boxes into his home– and heard a slight mechanical whirr as he picked up each box. Your head tilted in curiosity, but really, it wasn’t your place to ask or question. You had an issue with work, and then a date with your bed.

There wasn’t much to be heard from your mysteriously hot neighbor for a while. You were busy with work, and he almost seemed like a ghost. Part of you even wondered if he was really even living here, until the sound of crashing ceramics on the other side of your shared wall caught your attention. It had you made jolt, your pen skipping across your paper and dashing a line across your notes that you would now have to surely re-do–

“Fuck!”

Oh, shit. He sounded… Hurt?

You were moving before you could register what was happening. It was almost like muscle memory, flying to your neighbor’s rescue in the middle of the night. You’d done it more than once for Mr. Lin, and you were doing it again for Bucky, the man you hadn’t even had a full conversation with. And you were knocking. Rapidly.

“Bucky?” you called out between knocks. “Bucky, are you okay in there–”

The door was torn open before you realized it. You hadn’t heard his footsteps come towards the door. In fact, the door opened without the signature creak it usually did. It was how you knew Mr. Lin got home safe from coming home after playing mahjong with the older lady down on floor three.

You felt as if the wind had been knocked out of your system just by staring at him. He opened the door so fast, but he really barely opened it at all. Half of his body was concealed, and his height covered the apartment behind him. You could only see a small lamp illuminating a corner of the room that you knew was the living room of this apartment’s layout. From what you could hear, the TV was left on to play some random show or movie.

“Sorry,” he said with a hard swallow. Your eyes trailed over his face, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He was sweating, breathing heavily, and he got a haircut? It looked nice. Bucky blinked rapidly, then dragged a hand over his face. “About the noise. It must’ve– it must have woken you up, right?”

“Oh… No. I was already awake working on… Never mind.” You shook your head. “Are– are you okay?”

“Fine,” he said, a little too quickly. Okay. Noted.

“Do you need water… or something like that?” you asked slowly.

“Water,” he repeated, like it just dawned upon him. “Yeah. Water is good. I will get water.”

“Right,” you said, nodding a little stupidly. Now, this felt fucking awkward. He looked uncomfortable, and you felt just as uncomfortable as he looked. “I– I’ll get going now. If… If you need anything, I’m just next door.”

Bucky didn’t answer. In fact, the second the words came out, the door was shut quickly in your face. You released the breath you didn’t know you were holding and slowly turned. What the hell was all of that?

Well, even if you wanted to dwell on this like a teenager, you didn’t have the time. Someone on your team fucked up the simulation, dropped out of the research after a heavy argument claiming it wasn’t his fault, then two more of the team pulled out as a result since they didn’t think they would be able to make the deadline when a fourth of their simulation had just crumbled in fron of thier eyes. The team you had spent the six months building, the project you’d been working on since before you got Blipped out of existence– none of it mattered. You would see this through and present this and defend it with your life even if you were the last one standing.

Despite all your efforts, you received the notice.

The funding for the project had been cancelled. The remaining sponsors had taken back their offers. You argued for an entire week. You couldn’t give up now, not when you were so close. You had the proper plans. You had the ideas, the blueprints– you just didn’t have the means to get there. You just needed the resources to prove that you were worth it–

Everyone pulled out. People who had called your project innovative and forward thinking could only send their condolences and offer you a handshake before leaving you to mourn over your brainchild. It was better than your teammates, though. They simply left you without turning back.

And now, you were at Izzy’s, crying to your one and only friend, who unfortunately still had to work tonight. Thank the Gods for her, since she didn’t mind you sitting at her bar and sobbing.

“Why don’t you just apply for Stark’s foundation or whatever?” Leah asked, pouring her another shot of sake and sliding it over the counter.

“Because Leah, I was trying to do this so Stark could see it and take interest. It’s no fucking point if I go bang down his door and demand him to look at my brainchild,” you grunted, taking the shot back, and making a small face at the liquor running down your throat.

In your drunken stupor, you didn’t realize the barstool beside you scraped across the floor. No, you were tunnel visioned, unfocused, tired, and sad. You did, however, recognize the voice of the old man beside you. “You work too hard. Not many young folk are like you these days.”

“I work hard and have nothing to show for it, Mr. Nakajima,” you argued, slamming her hands on the counter before looking at him. Surprise filled your body as you looked past the old man to find someone sitting on the opposite side of him– your neighbor– who looked just as surprised to see you.

“Nonsense. What about your father? Your father would surely back your work,” Mr. Nakajima said with a smile.

“No. If I called him, he would have my ass on a plane to get me shipped off to my home country and married off before I could finish saying Hello,” you said with a snort. “I left for a reason, Mr. Nakajima. I left, and he told me there would be no support when I did.”

The old man clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I cannot stand parents like that. If my son were still around…”

And as much as you loved to listen to him talk, especially loved to give him a listening ear as he reminisced about the past and about his late son, you just couldn’t do it right now. You drowned out the sound of his voice. It wasn’t difficult when the world around you was crumbling into a million pieces. You had been legally declared dead for the past five years, and when you returned, there was a fiance waiting for you that was double your age.

Your father didn’t even know if the Avengers would succeed in bringing everyone back. He just made a bet. It was some weird, sick and twisted thing that was going around the elite folk, and he got a pretty good deal with his winning hand. He wasn’t satisfied with it, and needed more to expand his net worth. Your older brothers had already been married and made their own businesses, as good sons do, but as the daughter, you were expected to do as daddy said. All of this, within the five years that you were gone and didn’t even know you were gone.

Technically speaking, your life wasn’t completely over either. You were setback even farther than you wanted to be. There were things that you wanted to be done as soon as possible to get your ass farther from your dad, but you wouldn’t be on the streets anytime soon. You still had some of Daddy’s Money in your savings account from when you were still living at home before the blip, and your mom would occasionally send money under the pretense of bribery to get you to come home. At least you had one parent that cared about you.

“Are you okay?”

That gravelly voice, soft and low, snapped you out of your self wallowing and pity. At some point, Bucky had moved seats. No longer on the opposite side of Nakajima, but now beside you, putting you between both men. You blinked, staring at him for a few moments before reaching for the newly filled glass that Leah poured for you. She’d been making sure your glass had never gone empty for too long all night.

“No. I wish rich bastards with agendas would burn,” you answered, a grimace coming onto your face as you looked at the cup. What the fuck did Leah give you?

“Well, you know, you’re not the only one,” he said with a shrug, giving Leah a nod before lifting up two fingers in the air. Two cold bottles of beer were placed in front of him, and he slid one to you. “On me. Since you’re having a rough night… And as an apology… For that one night.”

“You mean when you slammed your door in my face when I was just trying to make you sure you weren’t dying or there wasn’t an intruder in your fucking apartment?” you snapped at him, and his eyes widened. Surprise, it seemed. Then again, this was the first full conversation they had ever had, and you had quite the mouth. To your defense, you had more than enough alcohol in your system to get you arrested if a cop stopped her in the streets.

“I suppose. Yeah.”

“One shitty beer isn’t enough. Either apologize to me or comfort me. Pick one.”

Bucky stared for a few moments. It wasn’t uncomfortable to be watched by him, you realized. Then, he chuckled. A low, rumbling sound that was nice to listen to. He picked up his bottle, clinked the neck of it with hers, and raised it in the air slightly.

“Comfort for tonight. I’ll apologize another time.”

“Accepted,” you muttered, picking up your own bottle to take a swig at the same time he did.

His first impression of his neighbor… Was that she was cute. He heard her soft footsteps come up the stairwell long before anyone else would, not that she was even trying to hide herself from him. He heard her soft yawn as she turned the corner, saw the slight stutter in her step as she saw him at his door.

She gave him a small nod. Greeted him, introduced herself. She was damn near adorable.

Bucky’s neighbor looked tired, but in a sleepy kinda way. Her eyeliner was beginning to rub off at the edges, and her mascara looked like it was about one more yawn away from sliding off her lashes. Her lips seemed kinda chapped, but he could blame that on the bite of the change of weather outdoors. She was small, too, and looked even smaller holding all those damn textbooks in one hand and another bag slung over her shoulder. Yet, none of it looked like it phased her. Either way, she looked cute to him.

Not that he would admit that to anyone.

His next run in with her was less than graceful. Nightmares continued to plague him, unfortunately.

Even though he didn’t necessarily want to move out of the compound, he felt that it was necessary. Sam was talking to him about his sleep habits again. That he understood why Bucky slept on the floor, but at some point he needed to get up and move to the bed– that it really wasn’t normal to wake up every thirty minutes to another nightmare and not be able to sleep again– that sleeping with a loaded pistol in your hand was not natural. He didn’t need to hear any of this from his friends anymore, and he didn’t want to. So, he found something comfortable.

It didn’t stop the nightmares.

He should have realized that the comfortable price meant the walls were fucking thin. And he slammed the door shut right in front of her face, even though she had rushed to him at nearly three in the morning with nothing on but a thin strapped tank top that didn’t even cover her stomach and pajama shorts that he was certain was considered underwear back in the day and black, thinly framed glasses that were sliding down her nose bridge and her long hair sliding out of a bun.

Bucky spent a lot of mornings pacing in front of her door, in the hallway. He spent a lot of time waiting inside his apartment, trying to catch when she would open up her door and head out for the day. Somehow, he always fucking missed it.

Either this girl did not obey the regular time clock of the world, or she just never left her house, which he knew was false, because he heard her come back at night before or after midnight. And it wouldn’t be very neighborly of him to ambush her that late at night with an apology without making it more weird than it had to be, so he waited, and waited, and he fucking waited.

And he had other things to do, so thankfully he didn’t seem totally pathetic just waiting for her like this. Like, he made a friend. With a man not that much younger than him, someone that he knew that he would have to make amends with sometime in the future– and this certain someone invited him to dinner– and she was here.

Damn near drunk out of her mind, crying to the bartender.

“Woe is you,” the bartender cooed at her and teased her with her nickname.

“Don’t call me that,” she huffed, throwing back another shot.

“Whatever,” she grinned, shaking her head as she poured another drink for his neighbor. “Come on, just tell me about it. Failed date? Guy on your research team stop flirting with you? Or worse– he got a girlfriend?”

“No, Leah. My life is fucking over,” she drawled, glaring at the counter it was the reason for all her issues.

“Because of a guy? Don’t piss me off,” Leah huffed.

“What’s with you and guys?” she accused.

“What isn’t with you and guys! Didn’t you say your neighbor is hot? Hit on him and get laid so you can finally stop moping around like this!”

Bucky’s eyebrow raised. The neighbor on the other side of her was a single mother of a little girl. The neighbor across the hall was two young boys in their early twenties that had just started university, but moved in relatively around the same time she did. Other than that, there were just a couple of families there on their floor.

“You’re insane,” she huffed, shaking her head. “I don’t need to get laid, I need my research to get approved–”

“--Probably should get laid though–”

“--so can you stop saying that shit?” she groaned.

He couldn’t help it. He moved to sit beside her, and saw as her eyes realized who he was, though she didn’t realize that he had heard what they had been speaking about earlier. From the bartender’s reaction, she didn’t know that Bucky was the neighbor, either.

Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, just slightly. Her eyelids were half closed, her breathing was slowed, and her hair was mussed up from her running her hands through it multiple times in the last few moments. Against his better judgement, he bought her a drink. He knew it didn’t do anything for him, but when things used to go south for him back in the 40s– a drink at the bar would help him.

And she smiled. A toothy grin, one that sent something down a special pathway in his mind. He wanted to be able to see her smile again. Another time.

And despite his best judgement, she would not listen to his gentle requests to slow down on the alcohol. She would not cushion her stomach with food or water, and he wondered where the absolute hell she was storing all of this liquor in her tiny little body. Well, she wasn’t tiny. She was just small compared to him. Hell, everyone was small compared to him, but she just especially felt–

What was he even thinking about?

“Alright. That’s enough,” he said, grabbing the shot glass from her. She made a noise of complaint, then watched him down it like it was nothing. “I’m not too sure what’s going on with you, but let’s call it a night here.”

“Listen to him, child,” Nakajima said, patting her back. She let out a breath of frustration, dropping her head on the counter.

“Just leave her here. I’ll bring her home after my shift ends,” Leah said, shaking her head.

“I can bring her home,” Bucky said. Leah paused, eyes scanning him up and down in suspicion. He noticed, and quickly added, “I’m her neighbor.”

“You’re her–!” Leah shouted, then slapped a hand over her mouth in horror before hissing her nickname. “He’s your neighbor!?”

“Hm? Bucky? Mhm. My neighbor.. Don’t try any funny business with me,” she accused him, pointing a finger at him as she gave him a sleepy smile.

“My Ma’ raised me better than that, promise,” he said, his own smile finding his way on his face.

“Ah! He’s a good man, Leah,” Nakajima smiled, oblivious as to what was going on. He even handed Bucky her purse and jacket. “He will take care of her. Easy for him to carry her rather than for you to drag her. Thank you, Bucky.”

“C’mon, doll,” Bucky said softly to her, “Let’s head home.”

She hummed, and he stared at her for a few moments before somehow managing to get her situated on his back in a way that she would not fall off of him while he walked the few blocks back to their apartment building. Slowly, as he walked, he felt her body grow heavier and heavier on him. She fell asleep on his back.

When he got to their floor, he stopped at her door.

“Wake up. You’re home,” he said, his voice above a whisper, but not too loud to wake the other neighbors. He said her name again, and she made a noise on his back, arms wrapping tighter around his neck. Fuck.

He reached for her purse to grab her keys, only to stop. That would be an invasion of privacy. Would it be overstepping? Would it be more jarring for her to wake up in her own home without any explanation? Truthfully, it would be extremely easy for him to get her into her home and make it so he had never been there.

He didn’t do that kind of thing anymore. That wasn’t his thing. He talked to people. If he didn’t want to have to explain and deal with the consequences of his actions, then he should have let the bartender deal with bringing her home.

“Shit,” he grunted, and took a couple more steps down the hall into his room.

next chapter

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jaehaeryshater · 17 days ago

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The Day Viserys Sold Rhaella’s Crown

Viserys and Daenerys by @nautieval, beloved oomfie

Just like all my other comm ideas, this has been something I have been sitting on for quite a while now. This one I’ve had on my mind since October, if I remember correctly. The thing is, I am so particular and mindful with the art I commission. Everyone I work with is incredibly talented and I appreciate all of them; I am simply of the opinion that different styles that I have in mind work better with some people and everyone works best with different characters, usually characters that they have a passion for. So I’ve been looking for someone that does Targaryens and depicts child characters in a way that speaks to me. Finally, I found Shep, who also did an infant version of my OC Bael Whitewolf back in January. He did a phenomenal job with that, and I think you all will agree that he did a phenomenal job here as well. Since this piece is portraying children, I love the feel of something more storybook-esque and more vibrant in color. This is perfect, in my opinion. Shep is my mutual on twitter and I adore him so I’m hoping everyone checks out his other work as well.

What’s always bothered me has been the lack of people talking about Viserys and Daenerys’s life before the events of AGOT and how things are from his perspective. This is understandable because there aren’t as many details on it as we get in the main storyline. Viserys also turns out to be an abuser so people do not wish to make excuses for him, I do not blame them. I merely think understanding him is important to who Daenerys becomes as a character and how she has thus far avoided becoming who he became, even when met with great hardship. It is not my belief that Viserys was born “mad” or from some kind of Targaryen curse, I think he broke under pressure and trauma. That does not excuse him, all it means is that is not evidence that Daenerys is l genetically predisposed to madness. I am also of the belief that Viserys loved her and that she did not lack for love as a small child, only the amount of people she could go to for that love. That created an immense trauma bond between the two of them. Further, I don’t think he ever lapsed in love of her, but his abuse of her lapsed any relevancy of that love. He probably did plan on her eventually joining her in Westeros because I don’t think he would fare well being without her for long, but I don’t think he had much of a plan beyond that because he is not a sane person.

It is said Viserys lost joy and his sanity when he sold his mother’s crown in order to keep him and Daenerys fed. I can totally see that. Viserys remembers his family and how they were taken from him, which left him with the responsibility of Daenerys. He had Willam Darry at first, but when he died, he was forced to be a sole caregiver very young (and had had the burden of an emotional and probably to some extent physical caregiver for her even before then). Viserys taught Daenerys what he knew and seemed to take his responsibility somewhat seriously for a time. It was most likely very humiliating and traumatic to have to go from Free City to Free City, begging people to house and feed him and his sister. He’s at the will of these powerful men and they all eventually abandon him and he will have to start over, he’s fully aware of that. Selling Rhaella’s crown to keep Daenerys fed was giving up the memory of his family, he has nothing left (and yet, he agrees to give Daenerys up, whether he thought it would be long term or not, later on). That, to me, was probably the tipping point of him breaking down mentally.

All that to say, here he is, playing with Daenerys the evening after he sold Rhaella’s crown. He’s still at this point making an attempt to shield Daenerys from trauma and keep her happy, but his eyes are empty and in time, he will descend into cruelty and abuse towards her. For now he’s fighting it. She is unaware of what’s going on because she is young, which probably is frustrating to him. By the time she’s his age, she will know much too well the cruelty of the world. They are currently seeking shelter in an abandoned building while they await the next ship to come to port to take them to the next Free City. It was important to me to show he wasn’t all there and that Daenerys is just trying to play and be happy. It shows a childlike ignorance of what is to come, not knowing that this familial love, for what it is, is not to persist for long.

I hope it did not come across that I am romanticizing or excusing Viserys’s actions, that is the furthest thing from my mind. I just think his relationship with Daenerys is fascinating.

Here are some other version for you guys. I did get full render at first, but I preferred it with less detail, I found. I’m sure there will be others that enjoy the full render more. My endless thanks to @nautieval for doing this for me.

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #daenerys targaryen #book daenerys #daenerys stormborn #viserys targaryen #valyrianscrolls

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damneddamsy · 4 months ago

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part vii)

FREEFALL FUNCTION—Descent governed by forces outside one's control.

summary: After a disappearance shakes his world, Joel finds himself craving home, touches that promise, hands that stay.

a/n: I was in a really bad headspace, and that's why I wasn't replying a lot to your sweet comment (I've read them all, thank you so so much), or responding to messages. I just needed to get this chapter off my chest, because it's been building up to this, and I've been coming back a lot to fix this specific part so a lot of WARNINGS please: vague mentions of rape, lotsa violence, trauma, action, and just a fuckload of angst. also, LOVE. SO MUCH LOVE. hope you've got your hearts ready and some bandaids.

Joel was making a list.

A real mental inventory of all the fucked-up shit that had gone sideways since last night.

He had to. Otherwise, his head would be a mess of rage and regret, spinning in circles, getting him nowhere but down. And he needed to focus.

First, the crap he’d spewed at Leela—words he couldn't take back, words he didn't mean, words that sat like rusted nails in his gut. Sharp, corroded, poisoned with his own damn pride. He should’ve known better. But meaning didn’t matter. It was what she heard that counted. And what she heard had been enough to make her go quiet on him. Worse than yelling. Worse than anything. He’d rather she cussed him out, swung at him, anything but this.

Second—fucking Tommy. The son of a bitch dared to leave him behind on this run. Rode off without so much as a glance back, like Joel was the one being difficult. Like he was the one who needed space. Like he wasn’t the one who’d been fighting tooth and nail to put things right. And now he was playing some game of keep-away like Joel didn’t deserve to be part of it.

He clenched his jaw at that. He didn’t like being shut out, especially not by his own damn brother.

Third—his back. Christ. Riding non-stop for the past hour had him aching fiercely. His lower spine felt like it was grinding itself down to dust, and every bump in the trail shot pain clear up to his skull. He was too old for this endless shitwork, but stopping wasn’t an option.

And then—Leela. Because out of everything in his life that was spinning out of his control, she was the one thing he wasn’t willing to lose.

He hated it. He hated this helplessness. The desperation to know that she was alright. This madness was a product of his own idiocy.

Right. That was the list.

And now, this—this goddamn trail. Because like clockwork, the next thing to add to his tally of frustrations was creeping up on him before he saw anything.

The Colten Bay trail had started to look familiar—small bends in the path, the way the trees arched overhead, creating a canopy of shifting shadows. He'd been riding for two hours, maybe more, the passage of time lost in the churn of his thoughts. He wasn’t as good as Tommy at navigating these woods, not yet, but he wasn’t blind either.

The ruined road into the small town had gone quiet—too quiet. No wind whistling through the broken windows, no birds, no distant scurry of wildlife picking through the remains. Just silence, thick and suffocating,

He took it in as he rode in slowly, scanning the hollowed-out husk of a town that had been left to rot. Storefronts with shattered windows, doors hanging off hinges, sun-bleached signs dangled by rusted chains. Rusted-out trucks half-buried in overgrown grass. A rust-colored stain smeared across a brick wall, years old, but still dark enough to make something curdle in his gut.

Joel pulled up short, dismounting without taking his eyes off the wreckage. His boots hit the pavement with a dull thump, the heat of the sun bleeding into the soles of his feet.

It was even worse up close, but nothing he wasn't used to. He'd seen worse. Nature had started creeping back in—vines curling over stone, weeds splitting through the pavement—but it wasn’t enough to hide the bones of what had been left behind.

He adjusted his grip on his rifle, raised and cocked to take aim, his every sense straining for something—growls, clicks, rifles, shoes, anything.

Then he heard it.

A voice. Then voices. Faint, distant. Threading through the ruins.

Tommy. More specifically—his shitty brother’s loud-ass laugh.

Joel exhaled sharply, stock perched tight into his shoulder, trying to shake the tension curling through him. Tommy was laughing, which meant the dumbass wasn’t dead. Which meant there was no immediate danger.

Still, Joel pushed forward carefully, stepping over debris, keeping to the edges of the street.

And then he spotted them.

Tommy, standing outside a withering old appliance store, leaning against the frame with his rifle slung loose over one shoulder. Ellie was a few steps away, arms crossed, leaning on her rifle like she was already bored.

Ellie—fucking Ellie. What was she doing here? Did nobody think? Did nobody use their goddamn heads? She hadn't even been down this path before. Kid was going to get herself killed.

Joel barely had time to process it before Tommy caught his movement. His brother tensed immediately, his hand twitching toward his gun, already halfway to raising it before recognition hit.

Joel threw up a hand. “Jesus Christ, Tommy, it’s me.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, lowering his rifle. “Son of a bitch—”

Joel didn’t let him finish. “The hell do you think you’re doin’?” His voice came out low and edged, riding the line between frustration and relief, still fueled by the panic that had been burning through his veins for the last two hours.

Tommy gave him a flat look. “Right now? ‘Bout to blow your goddamn head off.”

His pulse thundered, but he forced himself to keep steady. “You were goin’ off alone? Did you want to get your ass kicked?”

Tommy scoffed. “Toldja, not a tough job. In and out.” He tilted his head toward Ellie. “And I’m not alone. I’ve got the kid. And the whizkid.”

Ellie grumbled. “How am I still a...? Ugh.”

And as if Leela even counted as a backup. How the hell was she supposed to protect anything? What was she gonna do—build a goddamn time machine? Throw a wrench at danger? Jump in a fucking toolbox? She could hardly walk without wincing half the time, always too lost in her head, too quiet, too—

Joel exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand down his face before turning to Ellie. She barely acknowledged him, arms still crossed tight, scuffing her boot against the pavement like she was already tired of waiting.

He huffed, stepping over, and giving her shoulder a firm squeeze. Just checking. Just making sure. She was real, breathing, safe, alive.

“You alright, kiddo?”

Ellie rolled her eyes, glancing up at him. “Relax, old man. No one's dead yet.”

Joel's jaw ticked.

She jerked her chin toward the store. “Your girl’s back there. Still scrounging up stuff.”

Joel stalked forward without another word to her. The place within was dim, slats of dying afternoon light slanting through the busted-out windows, casting long, jagged shadows across rows of overturned shelves. The air reeked of stale plastic and mildew, and somewhere, a strip of metal dangled from the ceiling, creaking with the breeze.

He stepped past a shattered washing machine, careful with his footing, ears straining.

His fingers flexed around the stock of his rifle, irritation already flooding his focus. Stupid. This was so fucking stupid.

Leela was nowhere in sight. Just more and more metal shelves stripped bare, and the soft creak of something shifting toward the back.

He found her there—half-hidden behind the last row of shelves, grunting as she wrestled with the handle of a rusted cart already stacked high with shit he didn't know the names of—gears, belts, maybe the guts of an old dryer. Heavy-looking. Useless-looking.

Joel barely stopped himself from cursing out loud. “Jesus, darlin'.”

She glanced up then, catching sight of him, eyes flicking to the rifle still in his hands. He saw the brief tension in her shoulders, and the slight narrowing of her eyes, before he wordlessly slung the weapon back over his shoulder.

“Joel,” she greeted, a little surprised but didn’t care enough to show it.

Just Joel. As if he hadn’t spent the last two hours riding like a maniac through the woods, as if she hadn’t left Maya alone like she hadn’t done the most reckless, mind-numbingly foolish fucking thing she could’ve possibly done.

There were so many things he wanted to say. To lay into her, to yell, to cuss her out, to tell her what a fucking idiot she was.

For leaving Maya alone. For coming out here, unprepared, with Tommy of all people. For not thinking—despite whatever had happened between them—that she could have left the baby with him. Because that was how it worked. That was how relationships worked. Or would have worked. If they had ever thought to address what the fuck they were. Too friendly neighbours? Co-parents? A friend he really wanted to belong to for the rest of his life? Just two people who knew each other too well?

No, but she looked fine. Which would've been great if it didn't piss him off even more. As if she hadn’t made him lose his goddamn mind these past few hours.

His jaw ticked as his gaze flicked down, scanning her, frustration mounting as he catalogued every stupid decision she’d made today.

She’d put on a nice windbreaker—for once—yet she was completely underdressed for the trip. No flashlight strapped to her pack. No holster. No decent boots. And for the love of all that was holy—where the fuck were her pants?

She was in nothing but those annoying tiny shorts, legs all bared for the claws or teeth of a clicker, like she thought she was going out for a fucking morning stroll instead of a dangerous supply trip with Tommy.

Joel exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. Stupid, stupid girl.

And she was looking at him like she was waiting. Like she knew exactly what was coming.

Proving her right, he took a slow step forward. “Are you outta your goddamn mind?”

Leela didn’t flinch. She just looked back at him, even, hands tightening over the handle of the cart. “Didn’t realize I needed permission from you.”

“Ain’t about permission. It’s about sense.” His voice dropped lower, biting. “Somethin’ you seem to be lackin’.”

Leela didn’t rise to it. She never did. It seemed to be this ongoing habit of hers. She just let the words settle between them, let it fester, before she turned her focus back to the cart like she’d already decided he wasn’t worth arguing with.

And that? That made something in Joel snap.

“Y'know, you're always thinkin’, but you don’t think, do you?” His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into fists before he could reach for her, shake some goddamn sense into her. “You’re out here, in the middle of this—” He gestured vaguely at the abandoned town, at the dust, the dried blood smeared across the floor, the risk that was so apparent to him and not to her, “—and you don’t even have a fuckin’ gun on you.”

“I have a knife in my bag,” she defended, but with not as much fight.

Joel let out a sharp, bitter scoff. “Is that gonna do much good against a clicker? Maybe they’ll take a step back, let you go ‘cause you've got a real nice set of kitchen knives in your pack.”

Leela’s expression didn’t change. “But, Tommy has a gun.”

Joel let out a humourless breath. “And I guess everyone else has fuckin’ daisies.”

She shrugged. “Ellie has a gun, too.”

“Oh, ain’t that perfect?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, his chest rising and falling harder now. “So, what, you’re just trustin’ everyone else in the goddamned town to keep you alive? You think that’s how it works?”

Leela didn’t blink. Didn’t react. Just stared at him, quiet, unmoving, in that way that had always fucking unnerved him. She wouldn't fight back for him.

And that silence? That refusal to defend herself, to say anything, to at least try to justify the absolute recklessness of what she was doing—it only pissed him off more.

Because if she didn’t care, if she wasn’t afraid—then what was he even doing? Why did he even bother?

Joel threw his hands up, biting back the string of curses burning the back of his throat. His patience had already been worn thin, sanded down to raw edges.

“Fine,” he muttered, stepping away like he was physically forcing himself to let go. “Do whatever the hell you want. I'm done.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch as he turned sharply on his heel, raking a hand through his hair, his pulse still thrashing out the remnants of his irritation.

She could've spared him a little fight. Snapped something cutting, something sharp enough to match the anger buzzing beneath his skin. But instead, she said quietly—

"I think that’s how trust works."

The words landed deep, right in the place where things stuck—where they burrowed and festered before he could shove them down.

It should’ve been just another one of her quiet, cryptic remarks. No, this felt undeniable.

That’s all she’d ever wanted from him, wasn’t it? From the beginning, it was for him to trust her. For her to trust him. To trust that she could handle herself. That she wasn’t this fragile, breakable thing that needed to be caged for safekeeping.

And him—he’d been too fucking blind in his own haze of anger and anxiety to see it.

Leela didn’t wait for him to say anything. She just turned, dragging the cart behind her, grating against the ageing floorboards with a long scrape. Moving forward, focused, methodical, searching.

Ignoring him completely.

Joel exhaled hard, grounding himself, still riding the tail end of his frustration. Because the worst part was that she was right. But he would never admit that.

A sudden, violent crack split the air. The sound of wood splintering. The groaning of something old, something giving way.

Joel’s stomach lurched. His head snapped up just in time to see the floor beneath her buckle, the rotted planks slumping under her weight. Her hands jolted out instinctively, fingers clawing at empty air, a piping scream tearing out her throat.

Then, nothing. She was gone.

“Leela—!” Joel surged forward, reaching before he could think—but it was too late.

The floor swallowed her whole, boards snapping shut like a broken jaw, dust curling up in thick, choking plumes. The sound of her landing—hard, jarring—hit his ears like a gut punch. Then came the whine of shifting debris. The scrape of metal. Her groan strained with effort.

That sound. A sick, inhuman clicking.

Joel’s pulse kicked like a gunshot. His muscles locked, his body firing forward on instinct before his mind could even catch up.

Fucking clicker. It was down there with her.

The thought sent a cold, ruthless and electric prickle ripping through his chest.

Joel barely had time to think. A screech echoed up from the basement, followed by the hysterical sound of struggle, of something heavy slamming into concrete.

He dropped to his stomach over the broken floorboards, rifle braced, eyes straining through the broken planks. His flashlight cut through the dust, the yellow beam sweeping frantically over crumbled furniture, cracked linoleum and rusted-out shelving.

Then the light found her.

Leela was on her back, breathing hard, limbs tangled in broken debris. And above her—

The clicker.

It was on her.

Face sickly split and scarred like some rotting flower from the overgrowth of Cordyceps. Snarling, yellowed teeth dripping, gnashing too close, pinning her down. Hands curled into claws, raking at her shoulders and throat, missing if not for Leela's battling strength. Its body convulsed, straining forward with desperate, single-minded hunger. To feed. To kill. To infect.

And she was holding it off. Barely.

“I got you, baby, I got you,” he whispered aloud, fists tight around his rifle, taking aim.

Joel’s trembling hands steadied, years of muscle memory overriding the blind panic gripping his chest, his heartbeat a rapid-fire hammer against his ribs. His thoughts narrowed into one singular focus: kill the fucker.

But he didn’t have a clean shot.

The clicker was thrashing, too close, too erratic, its face just inches from hers. One wrong move and—his stomach roiled at the thought.

"Hold it there!" he yelled.

Leela didn’t respond—only sucked in a breath and turned her head, her knee jerking up to slam into the thing’s gut, rearing it back an inch—just enough.

Joel fired.

The first shot grazed its shoulder, making it shriek.

The second and third shots went straight through its skull. The fourth one, although completely unnecessary, sparked off from his trigger.

The clicker went rigid, its movements stuttering like a puppet with its strings cut.

Then it slumped. Its deadweight crashed onto Leela, forcing the breath from her lungs in a sharp, strangled sound.

For a long second, Joel didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. His mind was still catching up, reeling from how fast it had happened. One second she was standing there, the next—she was nearly gone. Taken from him. He saw a flash of what could've been if he hadn't made that shot.

His hands were shaking.

Boots pounded against the floorboards behind him, but the sound barely registered until Tommy's voice cut through—sharp, urgent.

“The hell happened?”

“Where is she?” Ellie demanded, rifle raised.

Joel was already moving.

“I got her, I got her,” he ground out hoarsely, twice to himself, barely keeping up with the adrenaline roaring through him.

Without hesitation, he leapt straight down into the hole, landing hard on the basement floor, his knees taking the brunt of the impact. He came up, rifle-first, and his flashlight swept the space—shadows stretching long against the damp walls, old shelves lining the perimeter, nothing but silence now.

Leela had already pushed the dead clicker off her, chest rising and falling too fast, breath coming in sharp inhales, hands clenched into her shirt collar, shoulders drawn tight. She hadn't moved beyond that.

Joel was on her in an instant, pushing her hair out of the way. “I'm here. You're okay.”

But the moment his hands found her skin—

She screamed.

It wasn’t just fear or panic. It was an impulse. It was raw, broken, blood-curdling, a sound that clawed its way out of her throat like she was being torn apart.

She thrashed against him, full-bodied, desperate, her hands flying up, kicking him off, shoving at his chest, nails catching against the rough fabric of his jacket. She was fighting with everything she had, body twisting, gasping through sobs, her strength fueled by something deep and unconscious.

"No—no, please, please—stop!"

Joel flinched.

Not at the force of it. Not at the hit.

At the sound. At the way she said it. Like she wasn’t here. Like she wasn’t seeing him. Like she was still down there in the dark, with that fucking thing clawing at her.

It hit somewhere he didn’t have words for, someplace that made his stomach twist and his ribs squeeze tight.

Because she wasn’t just afraid.

She didn’t recognize him. For a second—a heartbreaking second—he was just another set of hands on her, just another force holding her down, just another compulsion, and the thought of that—of her looking at him and not knowing him—it fucking gutted him.

But he didn’t let go.

“Hey,” he coaxed, his grip firm but cautious, hands bracing her shoulders, keeping her still, not trapping her, just holding on. “It’s me.”

She was still fighting him. Still gasping. Still somewhere else.

His hands moved—one sliding up, cupping her face, fingers pressing into her skin, desperate, grounding, his thumb stroking over her cheek like he could physically pull her back.

"Just look at me," he murmured, voice softer now, voice wrecked.

Her body was still trembling beneath his hands, her muscles locked tight, her pulse battering out a frantic rhythm beneath his fingertips.

And it hurt like shit. Hurt to see her like this, to know that she was still drowning in what he couldn't touch, that she was still lost, still bracing for a fight that was already over.

So he did the only thing he could.

He took her hand. Brought it to his shivering lips. Pressed a kiss into her palm, firm, warm, real.

“It’s me,” he urged.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched against his skin. Her vision cleared. Then she saw him. Finally saw him, those brown eyes focusing.

And in that split second, her body wilted against his. The fight drained from her like water slipping through open hands, leaving only exhaustion, only relief, only the sharp, shaking remnants of fear still rattling in her chest.

Her lips parted, and a single, barely-there whisper fell from them—

“Joel?”

Joel exhaled, like he'd been holding his breath this whole time. Like the air had been punched out of his lungs.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmured, his thumb stroking over her cheek, over the damp trail left behind by her tears. Her pulse was still too fast, still too frenzied beneath his fingertips, and that tightness in his coiled harder.

He wanted to tell her she was safe. That it was over. That she was alright. But his voice was too fucking broken to say any of it.

He swallowed hard, still fighting the residual panic gripping his chest. He had to see. He had to know.

“Let me see,” he rasped, his hands already moving, frantic, fierce. “I have to see if...”

His fingers swiped up her sleeves and lapels, moving too fast, running over her arms, his mind slating every inch of skin, checking, counting. No bites. No scratches. No bleeding.

Down her sides. Down her shoulders and neck. Down her thighs. Down her calves—and his stomach dropped.

“Oh, Christ.” The words left him in a breathless rasp, barely there.

At the back of her calf—a deep, glistening wound. Blood ran in a slow, damning trickle down into her shoe.

Joel's inhale caught in his throat. The edges of his vision blurred. His ears started to ring.

No. No, no, no—not like this. Not now. Not her.

His hands loomed over it, useless, fingers twitching, unable to touch, unable to breathe.

The panic surged like wildfire, like an explosion inside his chest, riving through every thought, every shred of calm, reducing everything to one singular, burning horror.

This couldn’t be happening. What could he do? He couldn't stop this. No, this was beyond him. His mind scrambled, flipping through every second of the fight, anguished, reckless, trying to remember—had the thing bitten her? Had it broken skin? Had it—

His pulse roared in his ears, hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.

He was losing her.

His throat closed up. His fingers curled into fists.

He was losing her. He was losing her. He was losing her.

Again, and again, and again.

His vision tunnelled, narrowed down to the blood, to that slow, seeping trickle, red against her skin, a death sentence in real time. He swiped his thumb over the wound, barely thinking, breathing, hoping maybe it'll sicken him too, because he couldn't take another blow, another fight—

And—his finger nudged something hard. Not a claw mark. Not torn flesh. Not infection.

A splinter.

A sharp piece of wood, lodged deep under the broken skin.

Leela flinched, hissing in pain. “Ow.”

His entire world tilted, cracked, and realigned itself in the space of a heartbeat.

And then—he crashed. His whole body sagged, the relief so brutal, so fucking absolute, it nearly knocked him flat. His head dropped forward, breaths rattling back into him, shaking, breaking.

“You're fine. You're okay.”

It hit him so hard, he felt dizzy. Like he’d been standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to fall—and suddenly, somehow, he was back on solid ground.

His hands found her again, gripping her tight, pulling her into him, pulling her against him because he needed to feel it, needed to know she was here.

He pressed her face into his neck, arms locked around her, one palming her head, the other over the edge of her braid, holding on like his body was still catching up to what his brain knew now—that she was okay. That she was still here. That she was still his.

His heart was still hammering, still pounding out a brutal rhythm against his ribs, his breath coming fast, too hard, too jagged. All he could think about was how much he lived for this girl, that he couldn't take another step forward without her, that he'd lose all purpose in this damned world.

He turned his face into her hair, pressing a kiss there, desperate, lingering. He pushed his lips wherever he could reach; eyes, temple, ears, jaw; it didn't matter. As long he could convince himself she was real.

"You stay with me," he whispered, voice muffled into her hair. "You stay."

She didn’t have to say anything back. She just clung to him, hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, her breath still sharp, still ragged, still too goddamn close to slipping away from him.

After a long moment, she pulled away, a little more than uneasy, her hands shaking as she swiped roughly at her eyes, breath uneven, fingers bruised, arms bruised, skin mottled in dark, ugly shades.

Joel saw it all. The marks. How badly she was still trembling. How she still hadn’t fully caught her breath. And something inside him cracked—deep, marrow-deep, where all the old wounds lived.

He couldn’t lose her. Not ever.

Clenching his jaw, he reached behind her way too roughly, into her pack, shuffling things around until he felt it.

He found the knife. And pressed it into her hands, firm, insistent.

"Knife in your hands," he said, voice gruff, still rigid, still devastated. "Not your pack, you hear me?"

Leela nodded shakily, fingers closing around the handle.

And Joel just sat there for a moment, staring at her, still feeling the phantom panic in his veins, still trying to convince himself that she was okay.

That she was here. That he hadn’t lost her.

Tommy wasn’t buying it.

And it pissed Joel off. Piled onto the other—what? Five? Six? A dozen? He’d lost count—things already on his shitlist.

Still, he kept his distance. Kept Ellie back, too, for no reason, discounting the fact that she was immune.

Leela dragged the overflowing cart forward on the dead street, limping slowly. The old thing rattled, wheels stuttering over cracks in the pavement. Every so often, she’d stop—digging through rusted-out trucks, popping the hoods of long-dead cars, arms trembling as she reached in, feeling around for parts.

The afternoon sun beat down on them like a long-suffering punishment. It baked the asphalt and turned the air stuffy and dry. She was struggling. Joel could see it—the slack in her shoulders, the sluggish, tired way she moved, the way the limp in her step was getting worse. She was running on fumes.

He’d managed to pull the splinter from her calf, and cauterized the wound with the searing end of the rifle barrel, just in case. She’d cringed hard, let out a yelp, and gone stiff beneath his hands, but she hadn’t cried. Hadn’t fought him on it. Hadn’t even looked at him afterwards.

He’d bound it up tight with a strip of his flannel, close and snug. And that was that.

But fucking Tommy was still keeping his distance.

Joel glanced over his shoulder, scowling as his brother trailed behind her, still gripping his rifle like he was waiting for the worst. At least ten paces back. Observing for twitches. He wasn't wrong for being cautious, but Leela was seeing it, feeling it, how she was being treated like an inconvenience.

Ellie clucked her tongue from beside him, shifting uncomfortably. “You're such a cruel bitch, man,” she muttered. “She’s probably fine.”

“Probably ain’t good enough,” Tommy answered flatly. “Not takin’ any chances.”

Joel clenched his jaw, tension winding tight in his chest. Since when was his brother, the ex-Firefly, the bleeding heart, suddenly such a cynic?

“Joel?” Ellie shot him a look, voice careful, hesitant. A little afraid to ask. “It wasn’t a bite, right?”

His patience splintered as he bit out through his teeth, addressing his brother instead. “If I say it one more time, Tommy, it’ll be after I break your goddamn rib.”

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head. “Hey, don’t blame the messenger.”

Joel didn’t bother with a response—just slammed his shoulder hard into Tommy’s as he passed, enough to make his brother stumble, grumbling under his breath. Thought it would make him feel better, but surprise, surprise; he should've just tripped the son of a bitch on his ass.

He didn’t care. Not about Tommy’s paranoia, about the way he was still watching Leela like she was a loaded gun with a faulty trigger. It made Joel feel like shit.

Now, he refused to believe in a lot of things, but he believed in his own eyes. And his eyes told him she was not infected.

So he strode ahead, sifting into his pack, and digging out his water bottle. Hadn’t refilled it in two days, but she needed it more than he did.

He reached her side, matching her pace. “Have some,” he said, holding it out.

Leela didn’t look at him. Kept walking.

Joel ground his teeth, his grip on the bottle tightening. “Drink.” His tone brooked no arguments.

She sighed, glancing at him sideways, eyes dull, vacant. “What if I’m infected?”

Joel nearly stopped in his tracks. “You’re not infected,” he muttered, exasperated. “There's no sign.”

She let out a breath, shaking her head. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

Her voice was thin. She pressed the heel of her palm into her forehead, hard, like she could grind the thought out of her skull. Punish herself with it.

“You were right, Joel. I’m always thinking—but it’s never about the right things. Maya, my research, my home... this is all on me.”

Joel frowned, something uneasy twisting in his gut. "Look, what I said earlier—how I—”

"I don’t care anymore,” she cut in, her voice barely above a whisper. “I deserved that.”

Joel felt that like a gun wound with no clean exit. She said it like a fact like she'd decided this. Could she not stop being so goddamn awful to herself for two seconds? Maybe not lay a bad trip on herself every time something went south?

His grip on the water bottle tightened. He took a breath and fought for patience.

"You didn't deserve shit." His voice was lower now, rough around the edges. "You fought your ass off, and you’re still here. You survived. That’s it. End of story, movin' on."

She didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him.

Joel hated this. Hated watching her walk like that, shoulders hunched, eyes distant, like she was already halfway gone.

Like she wasn’t even trying to hold herself together anymore.

He shoved the water bottle toward her again. “Drink the goddamn water.”

Joel watched as she took the water bottle, hesitating for just a second.

Then she raised it to her lips and gulped down what was left, fast, like she hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until now. Water spilled from the corner of her mouth, slipping down her chin, but she didn’t bother wiping it away. Just drank until the bottle was empty until she had to stop and take a breath.

Joel let her have that moment. Then he took the cart handle from her grasp and took the load off her. Leela didn’t argue. Just fell in beside him, silent, exhausted.

It was just then that Ellie's complaints started up. When Ellie's grousings about 'severe FEDRA-level slavery,' got on his nerves, Tommy finally threw up his hands and called for a break.

They stopped at the next street corner, gathering under the shade of a souvenir shop. Tommy passed out rations—peanut butter sandwiches from Jackson, stale at the edges but still good enough. Ellie tore into hers immediately, swinging her boots where she perched on the ledge of the broken storefront window, crumbs scattering at her feet.

Joel didn’t even have to look at Leela to know what was coming. She hesitated, turned the sandwich over in her hands, once, twice—like she was waiting for some spark of appetite that never came.

"I’m not hungry," Leela muttered, setting the sandwich beside her knee before pushing herself up.

Joel watched as she stepped away, moving toward the shop entrance like she was just stretching her legs like she hadn’t been looking for some rest since they sat down.

He sighed and let her go.

Ellie frowned, still chewing. She glanced at the sandwich Leela left behind, then at Joel. "She eat anything today?"

Joel shook his head once. "I don't think so."

Ellie sighed. Then she dusted off her hands and hopped down from the ledge, following after her.

By the time Ellie caught up, Leela was already inside, wandering between toppled racks and glass cases that had long since been looted. Her fingers trailed over warped magazines and stacks of yellowed postcards, her touch too soft, like she was afraid anything more would make them crumble.

Ellie grabbed a few postcards from a rusted wire display, flipping through them. Bright colours, frozen places—little glimpses of a world that didn’t exist anymore.

"Hey," Ellie said, nudging one toward Leela. "What about this? Looks so cool."

Leela blinked like she was only just realizing Ellie was there. She glanced down. A postcard—a sun-soaked coast, palm trees stretching lazily over white sand. Probably reminded her of her before home, her lip twitching up a little.

Leela flipped it over, scanning the faded text. “Mallorca.”

“You been there?”

A pause. And then, a small nod.

Ellie plucked another—this one softer, the colours faded from time, the name written in neat cursive along the bottom. “An...ti...bees. Anti-bees. Never even heard of that.”

Leela didn’t even glance at it, and nodded again. “Antibes. France. Been there, too.”

Ellie studied her, then stuffed the postcards into her jacket. "Shit. You’ve been everywhere. Awesome."

Leela didn’t say anything or smile back. Didn’t brag, the way Ellie probably wanted her to. She continued to flip through the postcards like they were meaningless. Like they weren’t memories at all.

Joel exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard, his eyes never leaving her. She looked so small in there. As if she could’ve been just another part of the abandoned store—one more thing left behind.

“Joel.” Tommy’s voice cut through his observation, low and careful.

Joel barely glanced at him. Just kept chewing through the sandwich Leela had given him, eyes still on the store.

Tommy hesitated. “What’s the plan if she turns?”

Joel stopped chewing. The words landed like a slow knife to the ribs. He wanted to put a hole through that window just listening to it.

He swallowed, rolling his jaw. “I said she ain’t gonna turn.”

“I know, but—” Tommy exhaled, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Look, I believe you. But I gotta ask, ‘cause if you’re wrong—”

Joel turned to face him fully now, expression hard as stone. Seething. “Tommy.”

“Would you shoot her?” Tommy asked, blunt.

Joel barely chewed his last bite. The bread felt dry in his mouth, sticking to the roof of his mouth like dust, but he swallowed it down anyway, his eyes locked on the store where Leela was standing, a little more life in her eyes as Ellie attempted to cheer her up with her endless supply of puns.

Tommy’s question still stuttered his mind. Would he shoot her? Could he shoot her?

Joel wanted to say yes. He wanted to say he wouldn’t hesitate, that if she turned, he’d do what had to be done. That’s what he was good at, wasn’t it? Putting things down when they needed to be. Bear the brunt of the hard decisions.

But the words didn’t come.

Instead, his mind raced ahead of him, flashing through all the things he didn’t want to see. Leela, breathing hard. Weeping. Pleading with him. He could hear it now, could picture it like it was real like it had already happened. Her voice breaking. That sharp, desperate shake of her head. Those big, dark eyes, utterly empty this time, hollow, her veins crawling black, twitching.

Please, Joel. I don't want to die. Would she fight him? Would she try to run? Would she make him do it?

Or worse—would she accept it? Would she nod, take one last breath, close her eyes and wait for the bullet?

His stomach turned. He knew Leela, even at times like this. She’d make it easy for him. She wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t run. Wouldn’t force him to wrestle her to the ground. She’d just—let it happen. Face his rifle head-on. Make it quick, Joel. I don't want to feel a thing. And that thought was worse than anything.

Joel exhaled slowly, rubbing at the knot forming between his brows.

But it didn’t stop there. Because then came the next part.

Maya. God, Maya.

His throat tightened, his chest constricting at the thought of her alone in that house, waking up hungry, crying, waiting for a mother who was never coming back. Waiting for Leela.

If she was gone—if Joel let that happen—what happened to her daughter?

Would he just hand her off to Maria without a second thought, because her mother's murderer couldn't touch a hair on that sweet head without tainting it? Or would he do it himself anyway, raise her, love her, stay with her in that big white house, tell her about a mother she’d never remember if only through pictures?

Joel inhaled sharply, cutting that thought off at the root. He couldn’t go there. Couldn’t let his mind wander any further down that road.

His hand flexed where it rested on his knee, fingers twitching to his pant pocket where the imprint of the little button embossed on his thigh, the one that Maya had picked off the street last night and passed to him with that soul-crushing, gummy grin of hers.

The answer should’ve been easy.

It should’ve been an immediate yes. He should’ve said it by now.

How could he go back to being the man he'd been desperately trying to outrun? He wasn’t one to pull the trigger just because something looked bad anymore.

Because he knew better. Knew what it meant to lose. Knew what it meant to take. And the sheer fucking burden of it didn’t sit right on his soul.

Joel sighed, fiercely shaking his head. “We’re not havin’ this conversation.”

Tommy didn’t push, but Joel could feel him watching. Waiting.

And Joel hated it. The doubt, the uncertainty, the way it stuck to him like blood on his hands. Because the truth was—If it came to that, if she was turning, if there was no saving her—Joel wasn’t sure he could do it.

By the time they reached the lake, the more relaxing route toward Jackson, the day had worn them all thin. Relief was sweet, to Leela more than the others.

They deserved this breathing spell, maybe that's why Tommy took this trail. It had been miles of hot sun, dry wind, and half-dead exhaustion that hardened into the bones. Too many things had happened—too many conversations left half-finished, too many wounds, seen and unseen, still bleeding under the surface.

But here the air was clean, touched with crisp pine and cold water. The lake stretched out wide before them, the mountains cradling it like a secret, their peaks softened by the golden evening light. The cabins stood quiet among the trees, their wood dark with time, their windows empty.

Joel slowed his horse, taking a breath, letting his shoulders drop just a little.

He imagined Maya here, toddling in the shallows, barefoot and giggling, a little bucket hat over her feathery curls, stuffing her tiny fists with pebbles and leaving baby footprints in the wet mud. Happy. Safe. With her parents. The kind of afternoon that should’ve been normal for her.

He missed her. Too, too much. He absently rubbed the button at his pocket, bearing a small smile. Had it been really been the whole day? He couldn't wait to get back home, have her breathe out that panting, hitchy breath of laughter as she came wobbling for him.

Still, it was nice here. Peaceful. And for a second, it felt like they weren’t running.

He glanced over at Leela.

She was staring straight ahead at the lake’s smooth, glassy surface, her fingers slack around the reins of her horse. Not moving, not speaking, just looking.

“Actually kinda pretty, ain't it?” he murmured.

She only let out a quiet breath.

“Yeah,” she said eventually, voice barely above the hush of the wind.

He studied her for a moment—the way she looked at the lake without really seeing it, the way her voice didn’t match the lightness of her words.

She was doing that awful thing again. Reaching for something just out of her grasp. Trying to picture something that wouldn’t come.

Joel sighed and swung off his horse, moving toward hers. He took the reins, steadying the animal before tilting his head up at her.

“Go on, then.” He nodded toward the water. “Let your hair down for a bit. We're close to town anyway.”

She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. “I'm good.”

“Now, darlin’—”

“Joel.” He heard it then—the edge to her voice. The exhaustion. “I'm not in the mood. Just go.”

Joel clenched his jaw till something popped. He didn’t let the disappointment show and didn’t press the issue. He knew better.

Just nodded once and turned away, walking toward where Tommy and Ellie stood by the lake, rolling out the tension from the day.

The breeze cooled off the water, lifting the heat that had weighed heavy on them. But Joel still burned not just from the sun, but from something else, a displaced load in his chest. He needed quiet.

He let himself wander, boots moving on their own past the cabins. The dirt was loose beneath him, old pine needles crunching, the scent of damp earth dense in the cooling evening. The distant rustle of birds carried over the water, but Joel barely heard it.

He was still too full of her voice. The way it wavered. The way she looked at him, absolutely devastated, before she had sighed.

He willed himself to focus on something else. Just the ground beneath him. Just the sky above him. Just breathe in, breathe out.

Until he saw it. He had to do a double-take, just to make sure he wasn't seeing stuff.

A cabin, the same size as the others, but this one—

This one was burned to hell. The entire thing had been gutted—charred black, the roof caved in, the porch sagging on its last, miserable legs. Windows blown out, the edges jagged with soot. The wood still smelled like it had burned recently, that sick, acrid stench of an electrical fire curling up in the back of his throat.

Joel stopped.

His muscles coiled tight, readied, breath slowing as he scanned the surrounding area.

The other cabins were untouched, not a mark on them. But this one had been burned down to the skeleton.

Something about it didn't sit right.

Slowly, Joel turned his head, looking over his shoulder. Ellie and Tommy were still by the lake, too far away, Ellie skipping rocks, Tommy saying something, hands moving as he talked. Leela was out of sight, hidden by the cover of trees and cabins.

Joel returned to the cabin in the spirit of inquiry, stepping onto what was left of the porch. The boards creaked, soft under his weight, and when he pushed open what remained of the door, the smell hit him like a gut punch—smoke, damp ash, something rotted.

The fire had torn through the inside just as bad as the outside. Everything was gone.

The walls were scorched, furniture reduced to blackened skeletons, and the mattress was little more than charcoal and wire. The space had been stripped of warmth, of life, reduced to nothing but ruin.

“Jesus.” The word barely left his lips before he saw them.

Two bodies.

Scorched. Twisted. Unrecognizable. Stilled in the exact positions they had died. One was closer to the bed, curled inward like they’d been trying to protect themselves from the heat. The other sprawled nearer to the door, obviously in an attempt to escape.

Joel knew that stance. He’d seen it before. Run and burn.

The uniform was barely there—scorched black, peeled away in places, but the collar remained intact enough to tell the story.

He crouched, eyes tracking across the floor, the details unravelling themselves in layers. Former FEDRA, probably. Runaways. Recently turned raiders. Even through the charring, he recognized the insignia on the camo-green collar.

Joel nudged what remained of the skull with his boot, the brittle bone breaking apart, collapsing inward like a dry leaf.

“Probably fuckin’ deserved it,” he muttered. But it didn’t bring him any comfort.

Something was off.

This wasn’t a FEDRA outpost. Wasn’t a checkpoint, a patrol route, or a resupply station. The room was too small, too personal. The furniture—what was left of it—wasn’t a regulation. The scattered remains weren’t military-grade. Yet, the whole place stank of it. Tyranny. Wealth. Power. Drugs. Rot.

Joel’s eyes roved over the wreckage. The fire hadn’t taken everything, though.

There, right by the bed—melted plastic, warped glass. Empty pill bottles and liquor containers. Loose zip locks, some of them still filled with white powder Joel used to begrudgingly peddle back in Boston. Ration packs from the QZ were torn open, contents spilling out like someone had been too impatient to open them properly.

It wasn’t a checkpoint.

It was a hideout. They must’ve holed up here for a while, waiting something out.

His gaze caught on a backpack, half-buried in the charred remains, its contents spilt out like someone had gone through it in a hurry. Charred clothes, a lighter, a flashlight, and utensils.

And a shoe. Small. A size too slight for a man’s foot. The soft leathery edges curled and blackened, but the tag inside was just barely readable beneath the soot.

Joel bent, brushing his thumb over it, knocking away the ash. The letters beneath made him snort. Some fancy Italian brand. Expensive. His mind flicked back—Leela’s house, her endless closets, neatly lined with shoes that didn’t belong in this world.

No wonder. It finally made sense for rich assholes to like places like this. They came out to the middle of nowhere to fuck around, get high, waste their shit on things that didn't matter.

Joel tossed the shoe aside and straightened, moving deeper into the wreckage. His hands brushed the charred edges of furniture, fingertips finding the brittle remnants of things that had once meant comfort—pillows turned to dust, a mirror warped in the heat, a chair crumpled inward.

Then he saw the rifle.

He smirked, his lucky day. Sure, it was smaller than his, the wood stained dark, almost black beneath the soot. Sturdy, thirty calibre, American-made, definitely not the kind of rifle you wouldn't see a FEDRA soldier have. It had been tossed aside near the backpack like someone had discarded it in a hurry.

He knelt, running his palm over the stock, feeling the grit of ash give way to smooth wood. The engraving beneath was faint, hidden in the dark, but as he brushed away the dust, it came through—delicate but unmistakable.

Cherries.

Joel heaved out a breath. His fingers stilled over the engraving, his pulse hammering against his ribs. A tiny mark, burned beneath layers of soot, was almost innocuous.

But he’d seen this before.

A different rifle. A different home.

A cowboy hat. A sunflower. A cherry.

The third missing rifle. One for each member of the family.

His stomach clenched. He could see them in his eyes—lined up in Leela’s living room, the weapons she never used, never even acknowledged. The ones that were hers but weren’t hers. Polished. Preserved. Like artefacts. Like gravestones.

His throat went tight, air pushing through his nose in a sharp, uneven breath. And all at once, his body knew before his mind could catch up.

Someone had been here. Not passing through. Not scavenging.

She had been kept here.

Joel’s body locked up, a sick load clinching in his gut as his gaze swept the room again—now searching, understanding.

The mattress—charred down to its skeleton, coiled metal peeking through, the last stubborn remnants of sheets melted into the frame.

The belt.

His vision sharpened. The straps melted into the mattress frame. The scorched edge of a leather belt, its buckle twisted from heat. The dark stains, layered beneath the soot, soaked deep into the wood. A clean through the knot.

Someone had fought like hell.

Joel exhaled through his teeth, his knuckles whitening where they curled at his sides.

His brain was putting it together faster than he wanted it to.

The burned clothes in the corner—ripped at odd angles, tossed aside like garbage.

The splintered chair—one leg broken, shards of wood scattered like someone had slammed it against the floor, against a body.

The walls—scuffed, handprints smeared past the soot, the echo of someone pushing away, fighting, failing.

That sinking feeling became madness, nausea heaving through him.

On the floor—long, thin, small. A black hair ribbon. Burned at the edges, and melted in places, but the middle of it was untouched. Still soft. Still delicate. Still, something that had once belonged to a girl. He'd seen Leela use it on her braids hundreds of times.

Joel’s breathing went ragged. His pulse pounded in his ears.

It felt like poison in his veins, the slow drip of information into his head.

The way she always kept her back to the wall. The way she flinched—not much, just barely—but enough, whenever someone moved too fast, whenever a shadow crossed her path the wrong way. The way she never talked about before Maya. Maya, god, Maya.

His chest squeezed, he had to press his palm just to make sure he wasn't about to pass out. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.

The fire had tried to erase it. But it hadn’t.

The proof was here, in the remains. The belt. The bedframe. The ribbon. The rifle.

Joel turned back, his gaze landing on the scorched, skeletal remains near the door. His stomach twisted, white-hot rage flickering through the nausea.

He looked at them, looked at what was left of them, and felt nothing. No pity. No hesitation. No misery.

Whoever had done this—whoever had burned this place down, made sure it would never stand again—they had done the world a fucking favour.

He could see it then.

He didn’t want to, but his mind pulled it forward anyway, like a dark thing rising from deep water, clawing its way into the light.

The mattress sagging under the force of bodies. The fight. The struggle. The burn of restraints against soft wrists, the sharp crack of something breaking—bone, furniture, someone’s resolve. The walls shaking from the force of it. The air stifling, sultry with sweat, with smoke, with the stench of men who took what they wanted, heady from a trip, and left behind the wreckage.

When the screams began, his gut twisted, nausea kicking up sharp and fast.

Joel jerked back, sucking in a breath like he’d been underwater too long. His stomach lurched.

No.

Joel swallowed hard, his mouth tasting of ash and bile. He got the hell out of there, boots scraping over scorched wood, his breath coming too fast, too uneven. His pulse roared against his skull, his stomach rolling, his whole body burning like he’d swallowed the poison of this place whole.

He turned, pushing through the ruined doorway, shoving out into the evening air.

The scent of fire clung to him. Smoke. Rot. The sounds.

He braced his hands against his thighs, head ducking down, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

Breathe, he told himself. Forget it. Breathe.

But it wasn’t working.

The memories weren’t his, but they were in him now, crawling under his skin, working their way into the deepest crevices of his mind.

Joel had seen a lot of evil in his life. But this—this was something else. Worse. Something he should’ve never learned. And for the first time in a long time, he wished he had stayed the hell out of it.

So, he kept walking. Didn't look back. Fast at first, then faster.

The burned cabin shrank behind him, but its looming presence didn’t. It clung to his skin, sank into the seams of his clothes, and resigned heavy and dark in his lungs.

His boots pressed deep into the dirt, kicking up dust, dry pine needles snapping underfoot. He didn’t care where he was going, only that he was putting distance between himself and that place—that stain.

But the rifle was still in his hands.

His fingers tightened around it, feeling the soot, the grit, the filth of it digging into his palms, burning like it was branding him. He wanted to throw it. Wanted to drop it, bury it, let it disappear into the weeds, let the earth swallow it whole.

But instead, he kept walking.

Until the sound of laughter struck him. Soft, rolling over the water, tangled in the breeze. It shouldn’t have hit him so hard.

Joel’s head snapped up, breaths still ragged.

Ellie and Tommy stood too close together by the shore, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, swaying, singing—loud, off-key, godawful. The words didn’t even register at first, just noise. Just a sharp, jarring thing that dragged him back into the present too fast.

And then he caught it. The song. Total Eclipse of the Heart.

Jesus.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, and everything felt too abrupt. Disorienting. His mind is still stuck in that cabin, hearing things long gone, breathing smoke that was long gone.

He didn’t know what the hell he was expecting—maybe for the world to still feel like it was on fire. Like he was.

But here they were. Laughing. Singing. Having a great time. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t just clawed his way out of hell. His grip tightened on the rifle.

His gaze cut past them—to her.

Leela was still on her horse, watching them, shaking her head. Her shoulders had relaxed, the tension she had carried through the day bleeding away like it had never been there.

And then, suddenly—she smiled. It was small, barely there, but real. The kind of smile that sneaks up on a person, that slips past the cracks before they even realize it’s happened. Her head dipped like she was trying to fight it, but the corners of her mouth curled up anyway. Her lashes fluttered, shoulders trembling from quiet laughter.

Like nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t been here before at all. As if she hadn’t been trapped in that place, in that nightmare, in a past she never dared to utter aloud.

Like he hadn’t just seen the wreckage of it with his own two eyes.

Something crawled up his throat, hot and mean. A sick, twisting thing. That part of him wants to put it in Leela’s hands, make her understand what he now knows. To bring it all back despite that being his last intention.

Maybe Leela really had no idea. Maybe she didn’t remember. Maybe that goddamn fog—the one she was always lost in—had swallowed it whole. Spared her.

Mercy on her mind. Whatever void above was repaying her compassion. Or maybe she’d chosen to forget. Decided to ignore it. Or maybe the pain of remembering all the horror inflicted made her lose sight of where it happened. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Either way, Joel didn’t have the fucking right to take that from her.

His fingers uncurled from the rifle’s stock. That nausea crept back in, a slow, curling sickness that seeped into his bones.

His knuckles ached. He hadn’t realized how tight he’d been holding it—like it was the only thing keeping him upright, like it had latched onto him, burned into his skin, clung to him like a brand. It wouldn’t let go until he did.

His gaze dropped to the wood. Soot. Grime. Filth. The feel of it in his hands was unbearable. It sat there, heavy and wrong, its history seeping through his fingers like a sickness.

And there, beneath all the muck—the cherry. Easy. Innocent. A goddamn lie.

Joel swallowed thickly. His pulse pounded against his skull, a deep, insistent throb. He didn’t want to think about what it meant.

Simply let the rifle slip from his fingers. It fell soundlessly into the brush, swallowed by the dark, and disappeared into the damp earth. Gone.

His feet moved forth before his brain caught up. The path blurred beneath him, his boots scuffing against the earth as he veered off, crouching low, hands skimming the damp ground.

He needed—something. Anything to pull himself back, to ground him, to wipe the feeling of fire and metal from his hands. Though, the practical part of his head shouted, asking, what the fuck he was doing.

His fingers brushed against something soft.

A flower. Small. Wild. Purple. Delicate. Whole. Untouched.

It didn’t belong here, in the filth, in the destruction, in the wake of something so goddamn ugly. And yet—here it was. Sharing its likeness to someone he knew.

Joel plucked it without thinking.

And then he was walking again, his boots moving steady, purposive, toward her.

Leela turned when she noticed him walking toward her, her head tilting just slightly, dark eyes flicking up to meet his. A question there. A quiet curiosity.

Joel didn’t say anything. He just held out the flower.

She blinked. First at him, then at his hand.

Her lips parted. The warmth in her expression softened, deepened. For a second, she just looked at him, searching his face, like she was trying to understand something he wasn’t saying.

And then—her smile widened.

Not much. Just a small curve of her lips. But real. Honest. Breaking his miserable heart with that smile that was spoken for in his name.

She reached for it, took it carefully from his fingers, rolling it between the pads of her fingertips for a moment. Then, with the same careful precision, she slid it into her hair, tucking it near her neck. That violet bloomed against her like it belonged.

“Thank you, Joel,” she murmured.

Joel swallowed everything that burned in his throat and shoved it down where it would snuff out sooner or later. He simply managed a nod.

Then he turned, clearing his throat, his voice coming gruff, unduly commanding. “Right, let's move. C'mon.”

Ellie and Tommy groaned, dragging their feet, still laughing, still complaining, still alive.

But Joel was already looking ahead, hands loose at his sides.

He didn’t glance back at the rifle. Didn’t check to see if it had sunk into the brush, lost beneath the undergrowth.

Let it be buried.

Let it stay gone.

The big white house welcomed them back like an old friend, its porch light casting a soft glow over the worn steps.

Joel barely had a second to register the warmth of it before Maya came stumbling toward them, bounding forward, her small legs rushing too fast for her body. She tripped, fell to her knees, and then—“Ma-ma!”

Leela was already there. She caught her before she could hit the ground, pulling her into her arms, holding her tight, like she never wanted to let go.

Joel sighed, sucking a deep breath in. All the warmth of the lights, the faint hint of grease from the basement, the herbs from the kitchen, the white curtains snapping away in the breeze. This was what coming home was supposed to feel like.

Leela clutched her daughter to her chest, her face buried in the dark curls, inhaling deep like she could breathe her in. A shuddering exhale left her, like she’d been holding it in since the moment she left this house.

She had faced death today. And now, she was holding her life in her arms.

“Did you miss me?” she murmured to Maya, oh-so-tender. She smoothed a hand over Maya’s back and scratched gently at her belly. “Yeah? You did?”

Maya giggled, squirming in her mother’s hold.

Leela kissed her temple, her forehead, her small, chubby hands. “I missed you, too, baby girl. Mama missed you so much.”

He had seen Leela exhausted when she was with their baby girl. Distant. Detached. He had seen her shut down, her voice hollow, her eyes unfocused, like she had learned how to live in a way that kept her just outside of it.

But this—right now. She was here. Completely in Maya's orbit.

Maya pulled back slightly, tilting her head at her mother with that childish wonder, watching her closely like she was searching for something—measuring the movement of her lips, the sound of her words.

With slow, wary fingers, she touched Leela’s mouth. She wasn’t just hearing her mother’s words. She was holding them. Keeping them safe. Then, just as slowly, she brought her hand to her own lips.

Joel’s lips coiled upwards. Another trick that Leela had taught her. A way to say 'I love you'. Little smartass was catching on pretty quick.

Leela let out a soft laugh, her nose stroking against Maya’s. “I love you, too.”

He turned away. This moment—it didn’t belong to him. He felt like a trespasser like he had stepped into something too soft, too sacred for his presence. For the first time in a long time, he felt out of place in this big house.

Maria seemed to notice. She rested a hand on his back, voice quiet. “You okay, Miller?”

Joel exhaled through his nose and lied. “Fine.”

Maria didn’t push it, but her hand lingered for a second longer before she stepped away. “You owe me for that shit you pulled today. Nearly cost me a horse.” And when Joel shot her a no-bullshit glance, she added, “And a stupid fuckin' brother-in-law. Whatever.”

Joel nodded, impressed. “Naturally.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she walked out.

Joel followed her to the door, pack still slung over his shoulder. His hand landed on it, ready to push it closed—but his gaze drifted past the porch, past the quiet street, to the house across from him. His home.

He definitely should go. He should walk out, shut the door behind him, and put some distance between himself and everything that happened today for a while. The words he’d thrown at her in this house. The way he had pushed it further at the store. The grim fucking cabin.

All of it should have been reason enough to leave. But he couldn't move.

He took a slow, thoughtful breath. Let the warmth of the house settle into his skin. Then, before he could think too hard about it, he clicked the door shut.

Because he was too fucking selfish to leave.

So, Joel dropped his pack by the door, shrugged off his jacket, and toed off his boots. The big, white house had whispered around him with its scent of candlewax, firewood and warm linens, but not in him. Not just yet.

His gaze flicked up, landing on Leela just as she gently tucked the flower behind Maya’s ear. “Don't you look cute, trouble?” she teased.

A lump formed in his throat.

Maya blinked up at her mother, chubby fingers reaching to touch the delicate petals like she could hold onto them. Her eyes, wide and round, tracked her mother’s face with something close to awe before breaking off to her signature, gummy grin.

Joel had a smile curve up for her in return when she reached for him knowingly. “Hi, baby girl. C'mere, let me have a kiss, too.”

He leaned down, palming her back, pressing his lips deep into Maya’s curls, having his fill of kisses. God, he fucking loved her. She smelled of soap and soft cotton, of warm bathwater and the sweetness of bedtime. Her tiny fingers found his neck, curling into his skin. For a second, he let himself stay there, let her hold him.

Then he pulled away without another glance, stepping back from the moment before it could swallow him whole, giving them some space.

He stepped into the kitchen instead, grabbed a glass from the overflowing drying rack, and filled it under the tap.

Then—the cabin.

It came back, unbidden, curling around his mind like smoke.

The stench of rot. The filth on the rifle, caked in soot and sin. The bones burned into the floor, the pills pressing into the soles of his shoes.

Joel squeezed his eyes shut. Tilted his head back. Drowned it all with a long gulp of water.

Good. Let the fire take them. Let them burn down to nothing, to dust. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have left a fucking trace of those motherfuckers, not even their bones.

A warmth settled on his back.

Joel's every muscle tensed beneath it. Two palms, pressed gentle between his shoulder blades. Silently calling for him.

When he turned and glanced down, Leela was standing there. Maya was gone—tucked away somewhere safely in the living room, her shadow padding across from surface to surface for trouble to cause.

Now it was just them.

“Hey,” he tried first.

“Hi,” she returned.

She was warily watching him. Her hands fidgeted in front of her, fingers twisting together. Obviously, there was something she was dying to say, ask, or do. Without even knowing it, he knew his answer would be a flat yes.

Joel cleared his throat, setting the glass away. “Y'know, I'm proud of you. You did really well today.”

He barely got to finish that last sentence.

Before he could say anything else, she stepped forward and looped her arms around his neck. Utterly winding him.

It wasn't just a hug. This was clinging.

She pressed close and warm, her body tipping forward, her very toes crushing against his own, as though not an inch of skin should go untouched, and he hardly had time to catch her. Her arms wound tight around him, slender fingers sliding up, curling into the back of his longer, greying hair, pulling just gingerly as they dragged against the grain.

She melted into him. Sank into his chest like it was the only place she could land. She was holding on. Staying.

And for a second, Joel just stood there, hands hovering, caught between instinct and hesitation.

Because this wasn’t for him. It was for her. He should pull back. Shouldn’t take something she wasn’t giving him, shouldn’t soak up the heat of her like he fucking needed it.

Then, she shivered. Just faintly. Just enough.

And Joel broke.

His arms locked around her, one gripping her around her waist, the other spanning between her shoulder blades, brushing against her long braid. He held her tight, holding her close.

Her heartbeat thrummed against his ribs, her trim abdomen crushed into his stomach and belt buckle, and each finger of his ruined hand depressed into a portion of her spine. A soft, fragile thing.

She was here. She’d always come back.

Joel turned his face, pressing his lips against the side of her head, breathing her in, his fingers tightening in her shirt like he could keep her there. Like he could hold her together.

The cabin. The filth. The fire—it was all gone. Burned away in the warmth of her, the scent of her hair, the way her fingers curled deeper against his skin.

And Joel, for all his anger, for all his ghosts, for all the things he did and did not deserve—held on.

She exhaled softly against his neck, her breath warm, and uneven. Her hands curled a little tighter against the back of his head like she could anchor herself to him.

“I’m going to get sick and tired of saying thank you, Joel.” Her voice was quiet, a little scratchy, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to say it at all.

Joel huffed, barely a sound. His hand flexed against her back. “Then stop sayin’ it,” he murmured.

Leela let out something between a breath and a laugh, her body shifting against his. Finding her fit against him.

Joel felt her fingers at the nape of his neck, brushing against the rough curls there. It sent something tight through his ribs, something that coiled in his chest and refused to let go.

She was quiet for a long moment, just breathing him in.

Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “If something happens to me—”

Joel stiffened. His grip on her waist tightened like he could hold her in place like just the thought of losing her was enough to make his body rebel against it.

“Don't.” His voice was a warning, a plea, rough with something he didn’t want to name.

Leela didn’t let go.

Her fingers curled against the nape of his neck, grounding herself in him. Or maybe—trying to ground him. Trying to hold him there before she said something he wouldn’t want to hear.

“If something happens to me, I need to know that you'll take care of Maya.”

He knew why she was saying this bullshit.

She was only here by chance. By luck. A few inches, a second too slow, and she wouldn’t be in his arms right now—wouldn’t be pressing against him, wouldn’t be warm, wouldn’t be breathing, wouldn’t be looking up at him with those eyes like she was asking him for something bigger than a promise. Something final.

“Ain't gonna happen,” he muttered.

“Joel.” A soft plea, a tilt of her head.

He shook his head, jaw tight, chest locking up like a goddamn vice. “Christ, Leela. This shouldn't even be up for question.”

But she was insistent, her grip on him tightening, like she was afraid he'd pull away. Like she needed him to hear this. Accept this.

“Then promise me now.” The words barely held together. Cracked down the middle. “Not Maria. Not Tommy or even Ellie. You.”

Joel clenched his teeth, something raw scraping inside his ribs. All these promises he's been making. How were any of those fair on him?

“Joel, I don't have anyone else left. You have to understand how important this is to me.” Her voice was steadier now, but her hands trembled against him. “She’s all yours. She’s always been yours. My home, all my research, my daughter—you'll be there. It's all yours.”

His breaths ached, as if it was inside him, splitting.

This was fucking real. Not some passing thought, not some fleeting worry—this was her laying it out, putting her life into his wrecked hands, trusting him with it.

Maya wasn’t just hers. She was his, too.

She had been for a long time, hadn’t she? And if something happened—if Leela was gone—there wasn’t a damn force on this earth that would take that little girl from him. It didn’t scare him anymore.

“You don’t need me to put it in triplicate,” he murmured. “I'd do it without askin’.”

Leela exhaled sharply like she’d been holding her breath. “I know. Needed to hear it from you.”

Joel lifted a hand, threading his fingers into her hair, tilting her face up just slightly. “You’re both mine. Both of you.”

He made it quiet, severe, but unshakable. A vow, not just to her, but to himself. Because that was the truth. The thing he’d known for longer than he’d let himself admit.

They were his.

Leela let out a small breath—like this was the only thing she’d needed.

But then, after a moment—she spoke again.

“If this is about legacy or—” Joel started, but she cut him off before he could even finish the thought.

“I don't give a shit about legacy, Joel. Look at me,” she said, fierce in a way that left no room for doubt.

Her fingers dug into him, pressing at the base of his skull, as if forcing him to stay his eyes on her. To the sharp edges of her features, the slight furrow in her brow.

She meant this. She fucking meant it.

And maybe that shouldn’t have hit him as hard as it did, but Christ, after all this time, after everything she’d kept close, all the ways she’d pulled away—here she was, giving him this. Not just her daughter, not just trust, but herself.

Not the Leela who brushed things off with an easy laugh. Not the Leela who went silent when it hurt, shutting herself away before anyone could get too close. Not the one who had been worn thin by exhaustion, by grief, by everything this world had taken from her.

No—this was the one who fought. The one who was staring him down now, fire in her eyes, daring him to push back.

It struck him somewhere deep, somewhere below words, below reason.

This was her. All the dimensions. The burden of her intellect, the sharpness of her conviction, the softness that she didn’t let many people see. The mother of his child. The woman he—god, the woman he really goddamn loved.

“I want my daughter with you.” A beat. “With her father.”

Everything inside Joel went quiet, dead still, like his brain had to stop just to catch up to what she’d said.

His throat worked, but no sound came out.

Leela watched him, her hands solid against him, holding him in place. Not backing down.

“Now, I know we haven’t gotten down to talking about it because of everything—” she muttered carefully, “but you accept that, don’t you? That you’re more than just Joel to Maya?”

He should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known.

Because wasn’t this the truth? Wasn’t this what had been sitting there, waiting, just waiting for him to stop being so goddamn stubborn and see it?

Maya didn’t just cling to him—she reached for him. She trusted him in that quiet, simple way children did when they knew, down to their bones, who their people were. Or maybe it had happened even earlier, when he’d first stepped into this, when he’d first decided—without words, without promises—that he wasn’t walking away.

And he’d never fought it. Never questioned it, never thought of her as anything but his. But hearing it—hearing it, out loud, no escape, no walking around it—

It was a thunderclap in his black sky.

His eyes flickered over Leela’s face, searching. Waiting for her to say something else, something to ease the way it was fucking ravaging him.

She only waited, knowing the unspoken.

Joel exhaled, slow, long. His fingers flexed in her hair, at her waist, at the places where she fit against him.

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse, stripped bare for her to see.

He felt his past pressing against the edges of this moment—Sarah’s wide grin, her hand gripping his as she leaned on his side, in a home full of possibilities before the world had collapsed beneath them. Ellie’s fire, the way she’d fought relentlessly against every part of him that had tried to keep her at arm’s length.

He’d been a father twice over.

And now—now he was being handed the chance again.

But it was different this time. Not just because it was Maya, because she was small and warm and already his—but also that he wasn’t alone in it.

Because this time, he wasn’t clawing through it with only guilt and hard work and grief and stubbornness and separation keeping him going.

This time, there was a warm home. A quiet life. Some room to grow. There was Leela.

Maybe that was the part that really undid him. Not just being a father again, but parenting with someone.

He thought of all those nights when she was too exhausted to function, but still got up anyway, still kept going, because that’s what she did. He thought of the hushed strength of her, the stubborn resolve, the way she had fought to keep Maya safe in a world that didn’t leave room for that kind of thing.

He wasn’t fumbling through it alone this time.

“Yeah,” Leela whispered her answer, as if reading his mind.

She tilted her head up, rising on her toes again—not much, just enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his jaw.

Joel breathed out sharply.

This was dangerous. This was slipping, past whatever line he’d attempted to keep between them for her sake. He should move. Say something. Break it up and put space where there wasn’t any.

Joel swallowed, hard. A little, idiotic, anxious part of him wondered if it had been that long and the fundamentals of a kiss had changed. There wasn't a textbook to flip here.

He had kissed women before. Had held them, had wanted them, had fucked them, and felt that pleasure only a woman could offer him when he hit the mattress.

Leela was different.

Not just because she was her, not just because she looked up at him like that—like she had never once questioned whether he was worth wanting, like she already knew this was happening, like she had already made up her mind. It didn’t matter to her that he was worn down, exhausted, and probably reeked of sweat and death and whatever the hell else he’d been working through that day.

No—she was different because he was different. Because it had been a long, long time since Joel had let himself want a woman like this.

Want without restraint. Want without thinking about the mess of it, the mistakes of it, the goddamn risk of it.

And she—God, she looked fucking stunning. Just like the first time he’d seen her, only now, it wasn’t from across the street. Wasn’t at a distance. She was here, close enough to feel, close enough to breathe in.

Her fingers curled deeper into his hair, and whatever was left of his restraint snapped like brittle wire.

His head dipped before he could stop it.

The first brush of their lips was hesitating—soft, careful, fucking fantastic, like neither of them were quite sure they had permission. Like they were hovering on the edge of something neither of them could name.

Leela stiffened—just for a second.

Joel felt it. The way she froze—like the reality of it had just hit her. But her hands stayed, one fisted against his shoulder, the other still tangled in his hair, gripping tighter, not pulling away.

A small, shuddering breath slipped from her lips.

Joel swallowed, trying to ignore the way she did that, the way her fingers tensed against his scalp, her lips parted, uncertain, and she sighed against him.

For fuck's sake, she’d never done this before. Not like this. Not the way it should be done, not to be had. She was waiting on him—watching him, trusting him to show her how.

His palm smoothed up her spine, patient, languid. Soothing. Sweetheart, you ain’t gotta be nervous.

Leela inhaled sharply. And her grip shuddered. Tentatively, like she wasn’t sure she was doing it right, her lips moved against his.

He could feel the way she concentrated, the way she was brooding in that shrewd little head of hers, and figured it out as she went, pressing a little too lightly, pulling back like she went too far, or wasn’t sure how much to give.

His chest clenched. Jesus.

She was trying. Trying so hard, even though she didn’t know how.

Joel let his other hand drift up—languid, knowing—fingertips grazing along the edge of her jaw, curving, pressing, tilting her just slightly. Guiding her.

Leela’s breath hitched.

Then, as if that small adjustment had steadied her, she softened entirely against him.

And Joel—yeah, he was fucking gone.

His fingers threaded into her hair, twisting into those wild, thick strands that weaved down into her braid, angling her deeper, letting her have all of him. Because that seemed to be all he could give her. Nothing but himself.

His lips moved against hers, gentle, sure, patient—like he was showing her how.

God, she was so fucking sweet. So nervous, so careful, but trusted him to lead her through it.

Her lips parted, a quiet, breathless sound slipping through—small, barely anything, but fuck, it hit him hard.

Joel groaned, low, deep in his throat, heat curling through his stomach. What he would give to push her up against that counter behind her, to have him pick apart that pretty pearl-buttoned night dress or bite off those bows and strings in those mind-bending backless tops of hers.

The thought only made his hand splay at her waist, pulling her flush against him, fingers pressing into the small of her back. Leela let out a soft gasp, her other hand sliding up, gripping at his throat, and she wanted more.

Well, he was already fucking ruined anyway.

His lips moved deeper into her, more certain, his fingers pressing into the curve of her jaw, tipping, angling—letting her feel it, letting her lead, letting her find her rhythm, letting her take what she wanted at her own pace.

And she did. She deserved that. Knowing she was in control of this.

He pulled back just an inch—just enough to meet her gaze, to give her a second to breathe, to make sure she knew—

But before he could, her lips chased his, and Jesus—

Joel laughed softly, deep in his throat, warmth curling through his stomach, twisting through his ribs. Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you need.

So he kissed her again. More. Deeper. As long she wanted. Till his lips went blue, till his legs went dead, till his brain was fuzzy, till she was sure she'd mastered the art of kissing.

Her fingers trembled against his neck when she eventually fell back on her heels, realizing—like this was finally sinking in.

Joel exhaled against her lips, gruff. “Good?”

Leela nodded—too fast, too eager. “Mhm.”

It was barely a whisper, barely there at all, but her hands were still on him, still keeping close, still wanting.

His thumb brushed over her jaw, soft, reassuring. “You sure?”

She swallowed, eyes flickering over his face, searching—like she was waiting for something. And then, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it—

“I didn’t know it could be like this.”

Oh, that knocked the wind out of him. The next time she said shit like that, he'd put his fist through a wall.

His hand lifted, threading through her hair with a tenderness that nearly undid him, coarse fingers dragging through the strands before resting at the nape of her neck. His thumb traced the soft skin there, his other hand smoothing over the small of her back, pulling her a breath closer.

“S’alright, darlin',” he murmured, brushing his lips against her forehead, lingering just a little longer than necessary. “Ain’t gotta rush.”

And that—that was it.

That was the moment Joel knew. And Christ, maybe that was the thing he never let himself want—never let himself hope for.

This wasn’t about grief. This wasn’t about making promises in the shadow of something terrible.

This was about life. A chance to do this again, but with stability. With reassurance. With her.

Leela was standing in front of him, alive, wanting, present. All his.

And somehow, despite all the shit they’d lived through, despite all the ways he had shut himself off over the years—somehow, he was too.

{ taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

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helenanell · 3 months ago

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You’re Good || Dr. Abbott

Dr Jack Abbott x DoctorReader

(In my head, this is an OC, but it’s written first person, with no name or physical description)

Summary: It’s been years since I walked into The Pitt as an Intern and yet amongst the devastation of the shooting, my confidence in myself wavers. Then, Dr Abbott appears by my side.

Notes: Minor Spoilers - Takes place in the aftermath of the shooting. Blood, trauma.

I also have to credit and thank @madsmilfelsen whose posting about Abbott x Mohan got me on that ship and consequently had me thinking about this dynamic.

Part Two

Having just successfully inserted the chest tube into my patient, I step back. It’s only once I’m still that I realise my breathing is shallow. I shut my eyes and work to rectify it. You can’t go to pieces. I tell myself. It’s selfish and you don’t have the luxury. Get a grip.

Besides Covid, I have never worked such a major trauma event, and I know I’m faltering. Faced with such devastation–too much to process let alone confront and help heal–I feel utterly useless. Even as Princess informs me my patient is stabilising, I can’t shake the feeling I’m faltering. Failing.

When I lift my hand to push the protective glasses back up my nose, I pull up short at the sight of my gloves. The blue latex is utterly subsumed by blood. Or maybe it isn’t, and the red is all that I can see.

I let out a ragged breath and take another step back from the patient, as if my internal panic will somehow hurt him, undoing all of our work to save his life.

“Doc?” Princess calls out, but it bounces off me. The concern falls at my feet instead.

I look around, searching for Dana, Langdon, or Robby, anyone that usually makes me feel a little less helpless when the trauma of the day lashes at me a little too hard. But they’re barely keeping their heads above water, awash with blood and doing their best not to swallow down the cries of pain and choke—

There’s a flash of orange in my peripheral vision. The luminous vest that identifies a Primary Emergency MD. For a second, I think I must have made a mistake and Dana isn’t across the department and is instead by my side. But it isn’t her.

“Turn.” Dr Abbot gently, but firmly, knocks his hand into my arm, forcing me to angle myself to face him.

His vest is smeared with blood, but he must have changed his gloves recently because he’s able to reach out and push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose without me catching a glimpse of red.

There’s something grounding about the gesture, and I make myself believe it’s because it’s jarring to receive any kind of aid from a man who seems constantly perturbed. If not by me specifically, then just from having to engage with anyone for an extended period of time.

“Thanks.” There’s a tremor in my voice, but at least it’s not a mortifying shake.

Dr Abbott’s an ass, but having his respect would feel almost like a career milestone. I’m definitely not there yet.

Dr Abbott just nods, casting his eye over the patient I just put the tube in. I wait for disapproval but none comes.

“You just saved that man’s life, Doctor.”

Seeing as I expected him to move away without another word, as is normal for our interactions, all I manage is to blink at him in slight shock.

“I’d hope so.” I say. “It’s sort of a requirement of the job.”

He gives me a suffering look. I’m sure he is going to leave now, both of us standing around for even the minute this conversation has taken feels like a luxury. A luxury we have no right to when we’re standing in a storm.

“Okay.” I nod myself, preparing to move away, but Dr Abbott stops me.

“Wait.”

I look back over to him. He’s focused on my ankle where, just like him, I have a blood bag secured, an IV in my arm feeding into it.

I frown down at it. Surely he can’t have an issue with me doing exactly what he is? It’s not like I’ve copied his homework.

“What’s wrong?—“

I barley have the question out when he’s dropping down into a crouch, his assured hands finding the bandage that’s keeping the blood bag against my ankle. He repositions it and then begins to secure it back into place.

“Sloppy work.” He grumbles, brow drawn tight.

I look up at the ceiling for strength. There’s the jab.

“I’m so glad you’re here to uplift me during this horrifically stressful time, Dr Abbot.”

He lets out an irritated huff and I narrow my eyes down at him when I feel the bandage tighten unnecessarily.

“Sloppy is never good enough, no matter the time.” He says.

“Well, next time I have to cut into someone whilst bleeding myself dry, I’ll emulate your grace.” I say, a smirk grows when he glowers up at me. “You don’t think you’re graceful, Dr Abbott?”

“Sure I do.” He deadpans. “Call me twinkle toes.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, I absolutely will. We’ve just found your new nickname.”

Dr Abbott taps my ankle when he finishes and then straightens up. “See, I am capable of uplifting you.”

I gape at him and find maybe the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips. Maybe.

Is he really trying to stop me from spiralling or is this just him taking an opportunity to goad me? I hate that I can’t tell. He has a frustrating capacity to fry the circuitry of comprehension. I don’t understand anything he does.

He considers my expression and then says, “I’m not fucking with you, Doctor.”

To ignore the warmth that ignites within me, I look down at my ankle.

“So,” I begin carefully, “how does it feel to be a trendsetter? Soon everyone will have blood bags for anklets.”

“Wonderful.” He says flatly, his good humour vanished. Well, that didn’t last long. “Okay, you’re good.”

I look around the Emergency Department, struggling to catch a glimpse of anything close to hope. Hope that things are calming down so we can start giving proper care, not just desperately trying to keep people’s hearts beating.

“Am I?” I ask shakily. “It feels like the bare minimum.”

“You’re saving lives.” Dr Abbott answers sincerely. “That’s not the bare minimum, that’s everything.”

I meet his eyes and attempt a smile. “Yeah, it is.”

He sees I’m struggling to convince myself but he doesn’t push it. “You’re doing great work.”

“I’m just trying to match the example that others have set for me.”

Something flickers in his gaze and I think maybe he’s remembering that first day, years ago now, when I first walked into The Pitt and he’d been my attending. I had been so intimidated by him, yet so in awe. Desperate to impress.

Six years later, not much has changed. No matter how self-assured I am, there’s something about him that makes me feel like that intern all over again.

Dr Abbott takes a step closer and leans in, his voice low, breath ghosting the side of my face. “You are the example, Doctor. Look around and you’ll see the med students trying to follow you.”

“I-“

I don’t get a chance to answer, not that I really know what the hell I’d say to that, because he’s already turning away.

“Keep up the good work.”

Then he’s gone, swept up in the emergency tidal wave. I linger for only a second before forcing myself back into action.

There are lives to save. Always.

Part Two - I'll Be Seeing You

#dr abbott #dr jack abbott #jack abbot x reader #dr abbott x reader #the pitt #dr abbott x dr mohan #jack abbott #dr robby #dr robinavitch #jack abbott x reader

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whowrotethenote · 2 months ago

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𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚈: After a drunk round of Truth or Dare goes wrong, Nani is challenged into getting her first tattoo. The artist in question—an unmoved, cryptic, fine ass stranger. Can she take the pain? Can she take the heat? Can she take him?

𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: Roman Reigns (Roman) x Black Fem OC (Nani)

𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂: Profanity // Slight grieving // Age gap // Smut // Depictions/descriptions of tattooing

𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃: 7.5k

Disclaimer // Roman Reigns Masterlist // Join My Taglist // Main Masterlist // Navigation

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮ masochism — a sexual or psychological tendency where individuals derive pleasure from being subjected to pain, suffering or humiliation

“We gotta do a wrap around the block! We can’t park here!” Mercedes yelled to her best friend from the driver’s seat of her 2020 Jeep Wrangler. One finger pointed to the street sign that explained, no parking on weekends from eleven p.m. to two a.m.

Nani stood on the sidewalk by her lonesome, following the path to where her friend’s finger was trained. They were right smack in the middle of the no parking zone. At twelve twenty a.m, the burnt tangerine colored streetlight cascaded over the entirety of the otherwise dark block—the humidity that only a mid-June night can usher in casting a glow of almost sweat on their skin.

The air smelled of city fumes and that earthy smell after a mini rain shower. Evidence of such still on the pavement of the sidewalk and the street. Mercedes’s car decorated in tiny droplets of water with wet tires.

“Just go in! We’ll be right there!” Samantha aided in the passenger seat.

“We don’t even know if they take walk-ins!” Something of a pout adorned Nani’s square face. She stood on the side walk, separated from them—wishing either had a heart and would just tell her, “never mind, just hop back in.”

But she knew in her heart that wasn’t happening. No way in hell did they all jump up from Sam’s room, threw on clothes and drove twenty minutes—risking a DUI amongst other things—just for them to change their minds. She knew better than that. Always the closest thing to innocent amongst them—they chose the perfect dare for the perfect girl to shake shit up.

“Sure we do! I know one of the artist! He does walk-ins all the time!” Samantha answered hanging out the window with both forearms resting on the side of the car. Her sand-colored face burned with a red hue from all the shots the trio took throughout the night. That tipsy smirk with lazy eyes just barely hanging on.

That was another reason Nani knew that what she was about to do was a grave mistake. Not one of them was sober enough to make such a permanent, stoned decision. But still, here they were, in the middle of the night, in front of Dragon’s Lair Tattoo & Piercing shop. The only building, with the exception of the smoke shop at the other corner, still lit up to invite patrons. The red neon sign glowing over the back of Nani’s small frame.

It was supposed to be harmless fun. The night started off perfect.

All three girls watched each other blossom on the same block since they were missing teeth and waiting for the adult ones to sprout back in. Side by side through all the major milestones—sweet sixteens, prom, losing their virginities, breakups, heartache, graduation, fall outs, family trauma and everything in between. If you saw one, the other two were on their way. And if you saw two, the other one wasn’t too far behind.

What started as a fiesta—a ceremony to commemorate completing junior year without a scratch, a baby, or an std—took a sharp left turn. Sharing war stories under the purple LED lights of Sam’s bohemian style room, turned into Drunk Uno, making TikToks to whatever sounds they could find, until the roulette of their first night together landed on Truth or Dare.

Nani had racked up on too many jaw dropping truths. The liquor kicked in and carried her impulse. She chose the dare. And the next words that fell from Sam’s glossy lips had her thinking somebody slipped something into her red cup.

“I dare you…to get a tattoo…tonight!”

It seemed as if with every word, they got slower and deeper—like the sound of a chopped and screwed song.

“He did Cedes tattoo last summer before y’all left for school, remember?” Sam asked.

Mercedes leaned over and stretched her left arm where a red dragon saturated the caramel skin of her inner wrist. Nani didn’t need an exhibition. She had seen the tattoo a thousand times before. Merecedes last fuck you to her unrealistically religious and problematic mother, before packing it up and hauling back down to Florida A&M for fall semester.

While Mercedes voyaged down south, Sam stayed home in Philly opting for community college, all while Nani explored UCLA on the west-coast. All three girls connected by an invisible thread, separated for two whole semesters for three years now, and were home again for the summer and clearly losing their heads from the excitement of reuniting.

This is not how any of them forecasted ending the night, especially Nani— but here they were. If unpredictable was a parasite, it’d be attached to the three of them. Always in the most unlikely situations just to laugh about such for the years that follow. This night was no different.

Nani whined and stomped one foot on the pavement. “Come on, y’all! This is just cruel!”

Sam smiled wide like a Cheshire Cat, glancing back at Mercedes. “Girl, you’re the one that’s been talking about wanting a tattoo anyway! Just go and get situated at least! We’ll be right there!” The oversized tires swoosh on the wet ground as she puts the car in drive. Sam waved dainty fingers as they took off and violently turned right at the stop sign.

The dead silence of the night creeping in as she no longer even heard the roar of her friend’s engine. She turned in place, neck craned up as the red glow blinked and welcomed her in like she stood amongst the devil’s playpen.

“Don’t be pussy,” she mumbled to herself before blowing out all the air in her chest.

The bells above the glass door dinged as she pushed to step inside. Everything was everywhere. A thrumming hip hop beat blasted from somewhere deep within the shop, some rapper with a British accent rapping lyrics aggressively—making it hard to keep up with his words.

After twirling around like a child in a candy factory—studying the art pieces and pictures of clients— she landed on a woman dressed in all black emerging from the back. Hair darker than black if there is a such thing, with long claws for nails.

“Hey, love.” Her voice was welcoming. Smile warm reaching her eyes with creases on either side of her mouth, that all of sudden looked like they belonged there. A contradiction to her pale forearms covered in art, accentuated by the septum hook and darkest, thickest eyeliner she had ever seen on a woman. Something about her was still very feminine, sexy and alluring. Nani had to close her mouth, feeling her jaw go slack almost. “You need some help?” She asked. Nani then noticed the beefy accent that she missed before. Australian.

“Uh, yeah. I wanted to get a tattoo,” she answered. Working double time to appear normal and keeping her voice steady.

“Okay. You made an appointment?” She raised a brow walking around the glass desk. In the clear display, sparkly and lively jewelry for sale along with aftercare products.

“N-no. My friends said you do walk-ins?”

“We do.” The girl leans forward and back, trying to gauge the space. “Uh, it looks like most of our artists are busy right now. Ro!” The girl’s sudden switch in volume earned a jolt from Nani. Her nerves mimicked the audio meter of the loudest song you could think of.

“What?” She heard a deep voice from behind after a beat.

Turning she found a man. Twice the size of anyone in the shop. Skin tanned and glowing under the bright florescent lights. Arms cut and toned—demonstrating the discipline of daily weight training. A very visible vein running along his inner bicep. One arm covered in ink from his wrist until it disappeared under his black tee. His hair—damp, dark and thick, framing his face and stopping just at his shoulders.

His eyes. They whispered in spells. A deep brown like burnt honey atop high cheekbones. The bottom of his face dressed in the mustache and goatee combo—two plump, pink lips in the center of it all. A touch of feminism in the throws of his hard masculine features. They made her clit jump just imagining his tip the same shade of pink. She snatched her eyes away from him, realizing she was staring with an open mouth. Heat filling her cheeks. He was easily the most beautiful man she had ever been in the same room as.

“This is…” The girl’s eyebrows rose, expecting a name.

“—Nani,” she blurted. Her social queues completely off track. A product of the alcohol and jitters.

“Nani,” she repeated averting her gaze back to the stone cold stranger. His gaze never landing on Nani. “Walk-in. She wants to get tatted.”

“Where?” His eyes were on the dark-haired woman, but somehow Nani knew the question was for her. She hesitated, never thinking about where she wanted the damn thing. It had to be somewhere discreet. She didn’t need the attention from family members. Behind her ear? No, she couldn’t even see it. Her hip? Her wrist?

“Um… I don’t know. My rib?”

“You don’t sound sure.” The woman’s face still plastered with a smile as she leaned her elbows on the desk.

“I am sure.” She nodded.

“You heard her. Her rib.”

“Rhea it’s an hour ’til close. I don’t take walk-ins after midnight.”

Nani frowned hearing him deny her without the respect of eye contact or addressing her directly. She felt invisible. Half of her didn’t mind. She could stare at him in peace without the worry of him catching her. Like a moth to a flame she was drawn to him. She didn’t even know why. Obviously, he was beautiful. In the way that everything on him looks like it was placed there strategically. The weight of his muscles fell around him perfectly. He was just perfect. But he reeked of danger. A do not enter zone. The exact kind of man a father would do everything in his power to keep his daughter on the opposite side of the planet and detached from. Thankfully, Nani didn’t carry those problems…

“You can do one more,” she pushed. “Besides it won’t take that long. It’s small, right?” She winked in Nani’s direction.

“—right,” Nani answered catching her drift. “Not even the size of my fist.”

He stood with all his weight in one leg, and lips in the straightest line. Both women trained on him. The events of the rest of the night in his hands as they waited for his verdict.

“Come on.”

Rhea beamed for Nani, sticking a tongue out. Nani nodded in a silent thank you, before following his towering frame to the back. He wasn’t even walking fast, but his long legs carried him to their destination faster somehow and she struggled to keep up. They passed at least five different open rooms. Two with groups in them. One, more intimate, with just the client seated with their face buried, as the artist went to work on their back. Another where a girl was preparing a bunch of needles for three different piercings to a man’s tongue. And the last one they passed was shut completely. That left one door at the very end of the hall on the left.

He stopped and threw a hand up signaling her to enter first. The room was medium sized. A dim glow of light blanketed over it, making her wonder how he even did his job in such sketchy lighting. Pictures of his work—vibrant and intricate pieces on all shades of skin, but mostly Pe’a or Malu. His specialty.

He had historic, cultural figurines and sculptures lined on the window sill of the furthest wall. Everything about this place, since she walked in was so in your face and blunt. Still, everything left a trail of curiosity in its wake.

“You can put your stuff in that chair.” He nodded to a small emerald love seat in the corner by a window.

Throwing her bag on his chair she walked along the wall where the pictures were, while he typed away on his phone. Telling the girl he promised to see after work that he wasn’t going to make it. Last minute walk-in. Truth is, Nani was an angel in disguise. He never wanted to link the girl, anyway. She was just a fuck to him. Something to do in the wee hours of the night. But she talked way too much, seeing as it wasn't her conversation that brought the two together. And he couldn’t fucking stand the smell of her cat’s litter box. So, staying at work to do what he was passionate about was the best thing that could’ve happened. He wouldn’t dare show it, though.

He placed his phone face down and turned to find her staring at him. Hands clasped in front of her in the middle of the room looking like a lost puppy.

What Nani perceived as him ignoring her was really him avoiding her. He saw that plump ass sitting between two wide hips the minute he rounded the corner, after being summoned by Rhea. His too cool for anything demeanor, almost breaking when she turned and her front was just as satisfying as her back.

Doe eyes accentuated by long thick lashes. Two full pouty lips, dripping in gloss, making his dick twitch in his sweats. High cheek bones with a beauty mark resting high up on one of them. All of that beauty centered in a head full of honey blonde highlighted curls.

She was fine as fuck to him, but he could tell she was young. At twenty-six he refused to make himself susceptible to the delusions of a young girl and her heart. Love wasn’t on his radar. He was too busy falling for and perfecting his craft.

He crossed two muscular arms, one over the other with his butt rested on the counter where he kept most of his supplies.

“I’m Nani,” she informed.

“I’m aware. You said so out there.” She kicked herself for forgetting something that happened not even three minutes ago. “Nani,” he repeated. Her name rolling off his tongue as if it tasted good to him—like he was savoring it. “This your first time getting a tattoo?” His eyes traced her perimeter finding nothing visible.

She nodded. “Yup.”

“I’m Roman,” he finally told her.

“Roman…that fits you.”

He squinted. Her face, a flushed hue of red since the moment he saw her. Like she was burning up. It was hard for her to keep still. Fidgeting constantly. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Twisting her hands.

“You been drinking, Nani?”

“Not a lot,” she lied. “Why? Is that a problem?” In her head, she silently wished he said yes and turned her away. They stood there, eyeing each other before he decided to speak again.

“My ass.” He called her bluff immediately. “Babygirl, I can smell the tequila from over here.” He turned back to his station. “I’m not supposed to tatt you, if you’re under the influence. The alcohol—it thins your blood. Which means more blood when the needle hits. Which makes it harder to do my job.” The sound of him tossing tools and supplies around overruled the silence in the pause he took. “Might fuck up how it heals. Infections.” He shook his head. “And I don’t really have time for you or your folks coming in here tomorrow because you did something stupid while you were drunk, that you’re gonna regret tomorrow.” He faced her again with hands on his hips. “When you’re sober.”

“So—you turning me away?” For the quickest second, she envisioned the disappointment and disdain plastered on the faces of her best friends as she staggered back to the jeep with news of rejection. They’d think she was lying. “Come on. Don’t make me go back and tell my friends you told me no.” She forced a laugh. His hard exterior displaying anything but amusement. “They’ll be strolling in any minute now. They’re parking.”

His eyes traveled her silhouette again. His face still impenetrable. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking even if he had speech bubbles growing from his head.

“Sign this.”

She took it and read quickly. Not able to focus long enough, she just hoped nothing crazy was written in black and white. Taking the pen she held the paper against the wall, turning from him to sign it.

“The air don’t work back here. You care if I take my shirt off?” Nani’s tongue went dry at the revealing of his sculpted back as he removed his shirt before she even had a chance to answer.

One of them bitches slipped me something for sure, she thought. Every thing about tonight was unconceivable. It’s like she was observing the whole chain of events outside of her own body. Nothing about it seemed real—nothing about it felt like it was happening to her.

He was fucking beautiful. Like God himself told the angels to lay off because he felt compelled to draw the lines and sculpt this one himself. And damn, did he take his time savoring every minute and making them count.

Just as she thought, the tattoo spread to the vicinity of his back and broad shoulder. He was already built so hard and the tattoo was just a further testament. A story told in the language of pathways, roads and lined patterns, of a Pacific warrior.

When she thought it couldn’t get any better, she damn near wet her pants at the sight of him shirtless and facing her. Tattoo stretching to his defined chest. Deep lines, mountains, valleys and ridges mapping different routes to his adonis line. Tiny smooth black hairs peaking over the top of his red underwear, only made visible by his black sweats hanging loosely off his hips.

He stepped up and held his hand out. Confused at first she just stared at his big palm. Then remembering the paper in her hand, she passed it and the pen back to him.

“You wanna tell me what you want?” Dangerous words from an even more dangerous looking man.

“I want a tattoo—”

“Obviously.”

“I wasn’t finished.” She squinted at him and folded her arms. Something of a smirk dancing on her lips at his discreet playfulness. “I want a tattoo of a sea turtle,” she told him chin up. “With tribal patterns. Maybe some waves mixed with flower patterns too? You can get creative. Do what you want.”

“Do what I want?” He challenged.

“You’re the artist. I trust you.” They sat in silence for a beat before he pushed off the counter.

“Can I trust you to do this part on your own?” He stood expressionless with a paper towel and roll of tape in one hand extended her way. She looked between the items and him. “I just need you to cover yourself.” His eyes shuffled between the outline of her nipples through her pink Skims top, and she finally understood the assignment. “Leave enough space so that I can do what I gotta do.”

“Okay.” And with that he left out of the same door they came in.

Her nipples and the dark shade of her areolas were probably only the size of a pinball. Ripping two medium sized squares, she placed one over her left nipple in the mirror to make sure nothing that didn’t need to, showed. She didn’t have a clue what enough space was for him to do his job.

Where the hell are they? They’re the ones that pushed her to do this. Trying to simultaneously control her heartbeat and breathing, while appearing sober, was a daunting task on its own. This was the least they could do for her.

“I think I’m good!” She yelled to him hoping he was only right outside the door.

He stepped back in. The sound of his sneakers heavy even over the sound of the music playing from somewhere else in the shop. He walked, eyeing her B cups with the paper towel covering the most sensitive parts. Every time she thought he’d stop, he kept coming until he ended up dangerously close. Eye level to his chest she waited for him to say something as her heart picked up a dangerous pace. Doe eyes looking so innocently up at him.

A low gasp escaped her as she felt the tape above her right nipple, being disconnected from the sensitive skin. She looked down for just a second, feeling air on her exposed breast, as he moved the tape up higher on her chest.

“Rib is one of the worst places. Straight skin. No fat or extra muscle to go through.” His eyes never left hers. A snake in the garden hypnotizing Eve. She feared consequences if she broke the trance. “I think you can take it.” He rubbed the tape to ensure it stuck, right up against the top of her nipple. Her breath got caught in her throat, trying to suppress the moan that threatened to leave her.

He ripped the tape off her left nipple. Eyes stuck on hers still. Repeating the same motions as he did for the right side. Using his fingers to place it where he needed it, and smoothing the tape down, without a single glance at his handiwork.

“Lay down,” he demanded.

She sat, butt first, high up on the leather table, before laying all the way down. The weight of her breast pushing up toward her collar bones.

She kept her eyes trained on his every move. “Just taking the hairs off,” he explained holding up a razor before shaving the space under her chest. “Vaseline.” He held it up before smearing it smoothly onto the same spot. He found it best to be transparent and explain every little step to the clients that looked like they might run for the hills.

The sound of latex stretching and snapping caught her attention and she halfway flinched. He blew a sharp breath out of his nose to cover the amusement that threatened to leave him. “It’s just gloves, baby.” He held his covered hands up. Just breathe, she coached herself. Mercedes and Sam wouldn’t be able to control their laughter at this point. She was glad they’d miss this part.

He flipped a button and the gun stirred up a loud buzz. She thought she might throw up right then and there. “Just relax.” He tried his best to prepare her. The shock of first connection was always the most unpredictable. His hand was warm even through the material of the latex glove as he spread her skin in preparation. Her square face immediately contorted in pain. Jaw clenched down and eyebrows pinched together.

“Mm,” she groaned.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much?”

“What if I say it already is?”

He laughed inside. Stretching her skin to get a sturdier canvas. “You’re doing so good already, though,” he lied.

“Is it supposed to burn?”

“Yeah. If you can’t take blood I wouldn’t look,” he advised feeling her head rise right near his. “I need you lying all the way back, anyway.” He nudged her head back with his knuckles. Nani was now forced to just listen to the machine responsible for her pain, and the blasting of background music. None of it was overpowering enough. The pain won. After what felt like minutes passing, she broke her silence.

“Is it almost done?”

“Nani, it's only been like two minutes.” She whimpered at his revelation.

“How long did yours take?”

“A full day.”

“Like twenty-four hours?”

His upper lip tugged in a smirk. The first time anything nearing a smile graced his features and the sight took her breath away. His cheek bone heightened with a flashed dimple.

“Nah. Like fifteen with an hour break.” He swiped the blood away and repositioned his hands on her ribs. It didn’t matter that the latex separated him from her. It was useless. She could still feel him—still burned with heat.

“Wow.” She didn’t know what to say. She was just afraid of the silence paired with the electrical buzzing of his tattoo gun, scaring her straight. “That’s a—that’s a long time.”

“That’s right. Just keep on talking to me. You’re doing good,” he encouraged. Even though every time the needle came off and went back on her, she jumped. And with every swipe as he tried to clear the canvas from the mess of blood, she flinched.

His words. They weren’t supposed to be, but the rasp in his baritone voice accompanied by his large hands on her—made it sexual. Sounded just like the dominant men she read about in her erotica novels on Kindle. Only, he was live in the flesh in place of words etched on a screen. Finer than anything she could imagine while reading.

“Why the turtle?” He probed noticing her grow stiff. She was swallowing the beast that was her drunken hormones and he thought she was two seconds from telling him to stop.

“My uh…my grandmother had one just like it.”

“She’s an islander?”

“She’s Samoan—was. She was.” Nani looked in the opposite direction from where the needle punctured her flesh repeatedly. The alcohol enhancing all her emotions. Not just lust. “She passed away a few months ago.”

Roman swiped her skin again, his brown orbs piercing hers. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he told her sincerely. “You two were close?” The last thing he wanted to do was dissect her brain and get deep. Interrogation with personal questions— unlocking doors to emotions she kept hidden. But she was in desperate need of the distraction. More importantly, he needed her to relax. She was way too tense. The best way he knew how to do that, was to keep the client engaged in conversation. He’d halfway listen, only jumping in and asking another question when they grew quiet again, knowing people loved to talk about themselves.

“Closer than close.” Nani smirked remembering Momma Leya. “She raised me. I don’t know my parents,” she confessed. Her deepest lure that everyone she crossed paths with had to earn the awareness of. And she just handed it to him.

They conversed some more—but fell back into that pit of silence covered in the machinery and music. He had to focus on the patterns and she was too drawn to the discomfort.

She tried to focus on exactly where the pain was—the constant keen burn like he was lighting tiny little matches to her skin—but for some odd reason the pain almost felt like pleasure. Like something that hurt so good and you didn’t want it to stop. The curiosity of how far your body could go with the inflection of pain weighing on her.

Her breathing sped up and she wondered if maybe she was just on the verge of passing out. He had already warned her that alcohol and the gun didn’t mix.

Her gaze flickered to him. The crease in between his brow as he was so close to the underside of her exposed breast. The hotness of his breath fanning her, giving her chills even though she was blazing from the inside out like she had a fever.

He’d turn his head right, angling to get a closer look at the lines he drew. Eyes in slits. A single lock of thick wavy hair fell out the sleek forest that was the rest of his curls, and over his forehead.

The tension in the sticky hot room was nothing if not sexual. It was so heavy and suffocating, she just knew he felt it to. Theres no way he didn’t. No way he couldn’t see the hardness of her nipple through the think fabric of the napkin.

The easy part was over. He traced the main lines and perimeter. It was time for the shading—the part where even the toughest men cracked. It wasn’t as simple as the needle traveling from just one spot, down to the other. He had to switch needles—a tighter grouping. Lower the speed and the voltage, which meant dragging the pain out. He was going over the same spot repeatedly. Up and down. Circles.

Nani hissed quietly every time it became too much. That sensation of pain transforming to something foreign, coming back harder with every stroke of his needle. She couldn’t keep still. Her legs clamped together, trying to clam herself from the desperate need of friction. She could feel the wetness pooling. Her whole body heating up a notch a second.

“You gotta be still, baby. Otherwise it’ll come out jacked up.” He raised a thick brow, eyes bouncing over her face before focusing back down to the turtle. “I’m trying my best to get the job done regardless—but I can only do so much.”

There was a break in the sensation. The needle hovered over her skin. Their eyes locking. “You alright?” He asked the question with his stare unwavering. Deep voice married with tenderness. Nani couldn’t take it. It's the moment when the water in a tea kettle reaches its highest point and it starts to scream. Begging for attention. Demanding relief. And she was no different.

It's like they had a radio transmission in their heads for a split second—because as soon as she thought it, he heard it and received it. His head turned down just inches from hers, she clamped her thighs tighter. She must’ve been leaking. He could smell her.

The muscles in his jaw danced as he grit his teeth. Eyes finding the exact spot where that familiar pungent smell was coming from. He hardened to an uncomfortable degree underneath the fabric of his sweats, noticing how tight she had her legs shut.

The realization of it all hitting him like a city train full speed. He didn’t know what spirit had possessed him, but he didn’t counter it, as it forced him to rip the tape off her right breast. Her chocolate peak right in front of his mouth.

Sticking a flatted tongue out, his eyes were trained on hers as he rolled the hard skin over his tongue before taking it into his hot mouth. Tongue sliding over it after sucking, earning a whimper from her pretty mouth. Catching it between his teeth and pulling until it snapped back. He noticed the rise in her chest with every action. Exhilaration staged on her small features.

She likes pain.

His tongue still dancing and doing tricks on her nipple—he watched her struggle to keep still. Gasping—mouth wide, but nothing came out except heavier pants. She craved relief of a different kind, in a different spot. Her small hand found its way under the thick elastic band and into her Skims shorts.

“Ohh.” The moan finally broke free as rubbed that magic button. All the heat transferring down, leaving her hole clenching on nothing and aching.

As the thought to fill herself with her fingers passed to fruition, he pulled her hand out by the wrist. Undoing the latex gloves and replacing her. His fingers slid over her clit with ease from her juices covering her.

“So fucking wet,” he mumbled. He played in it. Noises of macaroni and cheese before you bake it, violently traveling up to their ears. Sinking two thick fingers in without warning, she grabbed his wrist. Her back arching off the table. Mouth falling open even wider. Pupils blown as he stared down at her from the bridge of his nose. Studying her. “You like pain,” he uncovered to the both of them.

Filling her up, he curved his fingers finding that spot. Plunging in and out. The wetness spilling with every rapid thrust. Sliding all the way out, he rubbed her clit again in painfully slow but calculated circles. Nani’s waist winding like a snake to keep up with him.

Rising up from the seat, his face hovered over hers. He wanted to kiss her—bad. Her full lips begged for his. But he knew what that came with. Kissing was too intimate in his head. It was too romantic-adjacent. He didn’t even dare collide tongues with half the women he’s laid with.

“Roman,” she whimpered. His name spilling from her mouth like she had said it numerous times before, under the same circumstances. He wanted to free himself and fuck her into the table, until the legs gave out and they ended up on the floor. That’s what the sound of his name on her tongue did to him. Visceral. It was now him that had reached the top of his mountain.

Hooking long fingers in the waistband of her shorts, he yanked them down her legs in a flash. Her panties coming off with them. A thick glob of stringy wetness between her and the fabric of them. His mouth watered at the sight. If he hadn’t already decided before, his decision was set in stone right then and there. She wasn’t leaving this room until he got a taste. Consequences be damned.

He found her eyes again, like he was daring her to stop him. She wasn’t that brave. Nani had no more will or energy to fight with the promise of pleasure, even if it came cloaked in danger. She fought enough the first thirty minutes in this humid room, alone with him, with his rough hands all on her body.

With her clothes still pooled around her ankles, he hooked his hands on the back of her knees, pushing until they were close against her chest, folding her in half. The flesh of her pussy squished together, lips neatly folded—-waiting and ready.

He bit down hard on the back of her thigh. She hissed from that familiar burning that danced the thin line of pain and pleasure. Sucking until the light skin bruised. He made a trail of them until he came face to face with her pink, aching flesh.

He latched onto her like velcro. Like his mouth was made for the sole purpose of connecting with her. Nani saw stars the moment his hot mouth made contact with her center. He took her swollen clit into his mouth and sucked hard. No warming up. She was already well past done. Burning up.

Hips bucking, chasing that feeling that was already at her front door. He barely did anything and her core was wound tight and ready for release. She wouldn’t last much longer.

Space rendered between her back and the leather bed as she arched. Hips grinding whichever way felt the best in the moment. His lips smearing into her—entire mouth aiding in the mission to make her come undone on his tongue. She didn’t have a care in the world. Her head twisted and she caught the open door that had slipped her mind like the rest of the world outside of this room.

She hoped the volume of the music was enough to drown out her moans. If not, she didn’t care. Nothing took precendee over cumming in this moment. Even if someone had walked in, she knew she didn’t want him to stop. What she didn’t know is that he wouldn’t. Roman had been caught in this very room fucking numerous clients. Them giving head or whatever other debauchery as payment. The whole shop knew it. This was different though. Never had he ever been on the other end, not as the receiver. His heavy member pulsed harder like the blood from his heart, picturing someone walking in while he was face first in her.

Nani grew hornier with every stroke, flick, and swipe of his warm tongue. The liquor, the rush of sin, running the risk of getting caught, the room vacant of any fresh air—it was all too much. The thrill of exposing and opening herself so intimately to this stranger. This might’ve been the single most enthralling night of her life. She cursed the moment it had to end.

“Mmm,” he groaned. Moving with the rhythm she set, grinding on his face, letting her control the show for a bit. “That’s right. Use me. Yesss.” His hand—blood pumped veins—came up to cover her left breast. He pinched and tugged on the sensitive skin. “Fine ass.”

Pulling back a little, he admired the view. Her nub peaked out from two fat lips covered in gloss. “Pretty ass pussy,” he muttered to himself just before spitting harshly and licking the mess up before it got to the destination of her ass. He stuck a long stiff tongue inside. Fucking her with it as if it was his dick he was driving in and out of her.

“Oh my god—don’t stop. Fuck, that feels so good.”

He needed to hang a PhD along the wall, where the rest of his accomplishments lived—because the head was brilliant. Genius.

Nani had never felt anything like this before. His speed, the switch in tempo, the pressure—all of it was perfect. He gave her just enough to where she felt like she was on the edge, without falling completely off. Making it last.

She was working up a sweat now. A thin sheen on her throat caught under the dim light as she threw her head back. It matched the same layer of sweat that glowed on the deep line of Roman’s rugged back.

Those wet, gushy sounds were music to his ears. She was leaking for him. He slid his tongue through her folds and over every part of her with ease. Smearing his lips in it as it coated him like chapstick. For a man that didn’t indulge often, he was taking full advantage. Reveling in it, like a pig in dirt. She was sweet to him. Moaning and whining so prettily. Her fearlessness turned him on. The complete opposite of him. She hid in innocence while his vileness was on full display. They met in the middle somehow. Playing out each other’s mutual vices.

“You like the way I eat at this pretty pussy. Don’t you?” He growled.

A swollen lip sunk in between her teeth. She could only moan in response to his filthy uncovering. He didn’t even need an answer. The answer was scribed in the wind of her hips into his mouth. The grip she had on his hands. The breathless pants like a bitch in heat. “Say it,” he demanded still. He got a kick out of turning girls out. Pushing them past their comfort zone and making them say and do things they wouldn’t otherwise be able to without his wicked guidance. “Say, I love the way you eat my pussy, Roman.”

In fear that he would arrest her pursuit to pleasure, she obeyed. “I love the way you eat my pussy, Roman,” she mewled. Twisting and contorting her upper body. Unable to hold still as he rewarded her obedience with lightning speed flicks of his tongue. He took her confession and shoved it in the same basket where the rest of his sexual side quests lived in his memory.

“Doing so good,” he repeated the same praise as he had when his needle was inside of her. “I want you to come in my mouth, baby.” His cheeks hollowed in as he sucked the life out of her, ready for the explosion. No more holding back. He was ready to knock her over the cliff. “You gonna cum for me? Hm?” He questioned. Mouth still full of her. The hum of his voice sending vibrations all through her body.

Shaking her head frantically like a fiend, she held his gaze, peaking over her legs to watch him eat at her. He could’ve asked for the moon and the stars and she’d run out into the night to bring it to him. He had her in the palm of his huge hand. “Do it. Come on. I wanna see you cum all over this fucking tongue. Do it.” He spanked her left ass cheek and squeezed after the harsh sound rang loud.

It all sent her into overdrive. All that was in her came crashing out. So powerful she had to lock her fingers with his. The flesh of his hands turning white on his tanned skin, from the pressure of her hold. Legs suspended in the air—shaking. Feet arched to a painful degree. The worst and best was done.

Roman rose like a fallen angel—wet mustache, stroking his damp hair back and out of his face. Still bonded at the ankles, Nani swung her legs down, unbalanced. Reaching for his sweats to free the unnaturally large bulge. She yearned to see it. She just knew it had to be as pretty as he was.

He let her get all the way there before he swatted her hand away. “Lay back down,” he instructed. She wasn’t running this show. He wanted nothing more than to buss her down right here on the table. Feel her clenching down on this thickness until he came right on that pretty pussy.

But the bells signaling her friends entering the shop were drowned out by the noise of rap music blanketing the shop.

Rhea’s head rose from where she was buried in her phone at the front desk. “Hi, ladies.” She beamed welcoming the young girls in. “Just so you know we’re closing in about thirty-five minutes.”

“That’s cool,” Mercedes stepped up while Sam admired the collage of photos displaying the work of their artists. “We’re not getting anything. Our friend should be in here. Same height as me. A little lighter. Curly hair.”

“She was a walk-in, right?”

“Yup,” Mercedes nodded. Rhea noticed the girl’s low red eyes and unsolicited smirk. An effect of nature’s medicine. She smiled to herself and nodded to the back.

“She’s with Roman. Last door on the left down that hall.”

“Thank you,” both girls slurred.

They gawked in each room, moving at a sedated pace, taking slow strides until they finally reached the last door on the left. Halfway open, Sam pushed it to reveal inside.

The girls stared in horror almost at the scene in front of them. She had really fucking did it.

“Oh my god, Nani.” Sam peaked over Roman’s shoulder seeing the near finished product with a wide grin. “We just knew you were gonna pussy out and come back to the car. We didn’t think you’d actually fucking do it.”

“What the fuck took y’all so long?” Nani’s eyebrows hiked up.

“Well,” Mercedes started, throwing her Kurt Geiger bag to the same couch Nani had hers in. “There was no parking for like two blocks. Then when we finally found one, a little package slipped from your hoodie in the backseat.” Both girls snickered.

“You bitches did not smoke my blunt.”

“Oh, don't worry.” Sam bit her lip. “We left some for you.” She picked up a clay figure of a man with patterns etched into his skin. Saveasi’uleo—Samoan god of the underworld.

“Please don’t touch that.” Sam flinched at his baritone voice, despite it only being an octave over a whisper. Something about the way he said it felt urgent. The fact that he knew she was touching something without looking her way, was enough to scare her into retreating. It clacked on its landing.

That was enough for both girls to just take a seat. They watched like medical students shadowing a doctor, as he shaded in the last of the tattoo for twenty minutes.

“All done,” he announced. “You gotta be careful. A lot of friction in this area for women. No swimming for a couple weeks. Wash with non-scented soap here. No gym. We don’t want any sweat.” He ran down as many rules he could think of. His mind still in a frenzy. Hard dick tucked. He kept a firm hold on her hip as he had her stand between his spread legs to cover it in plastic wrapping. “It’s gonna itch when it’s healing, but don’t scratch it. Rhea has some stuff up front for you to put on it.” He nudged her away from him. The smell of her arousal still strong.

The four of them made their way to the front. The shop now empty and silent. Rhea abandoned her closing task of sweeping and rounded the desk to ring the healing ointment up before looking to Roman.

“How much does she owe you?”

His eyes found Nani’s. Stoic demeanor cracking for a split second, smoldering eyes, as he rejoiced in the way she arched for him. The way she pushed into him to feed him. The curve of her breast into the stiff peak of her nipples. The way she took him with no hesitation or pushback. Begging for more when there was none left to give.

“I’ve already been paid.”

𝙰/𝙽: hey, so i came to the conclusion that as long as Biggest Fan is still in progress, i might as well just release whatever else was in progress for him. i'm not wasting my art. this was like 75% done when that big-eared bitch tried to kill me us. i didn't want it to go to waste.

this is during his NXT days. for purposes of the story let's just pretend his tattoo was finished back then.

i barely proofread. i'm tired, sorry lol

as always, if you read it or even just a portion, i am grateful. feedback is always welcomed. k, bye😘

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