#this is also me saying sorry i haven't been here a lot over the summer my mind is so occupied by my bachelors thesis that it gave me

[reputatata]

i recently watched l.otr for the first time ever and i haven't been able to think about anything else tbh

[thefandomthings]

Okay HEAR ME OUT BUTTTT what about zuko betrayal part 2 with the prompt “you own my heart” 👀

Betrayal

Fluff Prompt #30: "You own my heart."

Pairing: Zuko x F/Gn!reader

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Terrible writing, happy ending? ¡¡SPOILERS!!, Takes place in Book 3. Ep. 11. It doesn't follow the script in the episode.

Notes: I'm so sorry I haven't been writing, I work in agriculture and summer and fall are my busiest times of the year and I lost motivation in the process 😭. But, hopefully I'm back. Thank you for your patience.

Part 1 Part 2 Prompt Event

Who knew betrayal could hurt so much. Chest heavy, heart heavier. Why did he do it? Does he think everything will be okay once he got back? Maybe Azula manipulated him? No. He did it willingly.

It's been weeks since the incident, a few months actually. You dont know what to do with yourself. Everything has been so emotionally hard. The long term depression grasping you in a chokehold.

The gaang has been there for you. Aang suffering from his own mid childhood crisis, the weight of the world literally on his shoulders. Katara tires to help as much as she could, but she is also dealing with things of her own. Sokka....was just Sokka.

After the invasion, you retreated to the western air temple. It was definitely a sight for sore eyes. The architecture was incredible. The Air Nation really outdid themselves.

"Y/n? Why don't you come eat dinner with us?" Katara leaned against the door frame of the room you are currently residing in. You look over at her gave her a small smile, one that didn't quite reach your eyes.

Katara didn't exactly like Zuko, having felt being betrayed as well. She has a lot of not nice things to say about the young prince, but for the sake of your ears she kept them to herself.

She grabs your arm pulling you up from your bed. You reluctantly follow her, head resting on her shoulder.

Today was a rough day. It Started out with a dream of you and him dancing in the temple. Oh so in love. Hands intertwined with each others. Whispering small nothings, butterflies occupying your chest and tummy. You woke up as if it was a nightmare, your brain toying with you like a yoyo.

Katara holds you gently, her hand laying on your head as if you were a child. At this moment you felt as if you were. Needing someone to comfort your aching heart.

"What are you doing here?!"

"Please just hear me out..." You immediately recognize that voice. It was him.

Zuko.

"Why should we? Huh?!" Sokka crosses his arms defensively. Katara flicks the lid on the water pouch on her hip, bending the water out.

You heart is hammering against your chest. His eyes immediately are drawn towards you. Zuko feels himself choke up. The sight of you made his chest hurt. The dullness you held in your eyes was unbearable to look at.

"Y/n...."

"She doesn't want to talk to you." Katara says, she moved to stand in front of you. Her body is blocking his sight of you. Zuko wants to reach for you, to grovel at your feet, to beg for forgiveness. Even if it hurts his pride, or his reputation. Which wasn't much good anyway. He had to make it right with you.

You are his everything.

"It's okay Katara." You give her a reassuring smile, it wasn't very convincing to anyone who knew you.

"What're you doing here?" You inquire and step next to Katara. Your eyes boring into his, he looked...Sad. Regret swimming in his honey irises.

"I've changed-" You feel yourself moving on its own. You hold your hand up, and he stopped talking.

"That's what you said under Ba Sing Se, then you left. Betraying everyone who cared about you. Especially Uncle Iroh."

That struck a nerve, his face hardens and he looks away slightly, eyebrows furrowed. His tongue darts out and wets his dry and cracked lips, his golden eyes looking back up at you. He steps closer, his hands clenching and unclenching by his side.

Zuko wants to hold you...Needs to feel you against him. To kiss you, to be with you. He needs you like he needs air, without you he's nothing, just a shell of the man he was before he lost you.

"Y/n, please...I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Zukos voice cracks slightly.

You purse your lips together tightly.

It's so very tempting to close the gap between the two of you, forgiving him just felt right. Maybe it was just the your heart talking over logic. Your headspace is messed up severely, the wound is still fresh in your brain and heart.

"Zuko-"

Katara stops you, stepping in front of you.

"Leave. You've done enough, you are not welcome here."

"Y/n...please." It was strange seeing him so weak for once, pleading you. Practically on his knees for forgiveness.

"You own my heart."

It hurt you to watch him get treated so badly. He deserved it, mostly. Everyone has the right to be angry with him. Chasing Aang across the globe, trying to kill you then after everything at Ba sing se. It was almost unforgivable. Almost.

•°•°•°•

Taglist: @etherjen @xlatinaaxx @youngladysakura @m4rlvky @kitt38 @monysakura @kenqki @rdpiano @mikemakesartt @thigh-o-saur @chi-ara @kookiegirl444 @snixx2088 @zacatecanaaaa

[southerngothicchic]

Do You Think I'm a Nasty Girl

Hi! So this is my attempt at getting back into the groove of writing again, and what better way than with a lovers to enemies to lovers again fic?

On a summer night in '84, while your parents are away, you decide to test out their new hot tub and wind up getting an unexpected visit from your annoyingly hot neighbor.

After setting up your radio with your favorite mix tape, you slip out of a dainty, pink kimono, revealing a low-cut black bathing suit. It's cut high, on the sides, showing off more skin than you would ever dare to at the local pool. It was your latest scandalous mall purchase, and you knew your parents would freak if they saw you wearing it. Luckily, you had the house and hot tub to yourself for the weekend and could wear or do whatever you wanted.

You press play, on the tape deck, before easing into the warm water. You wince a little, and check the temperature gage, on the side, worrying you had it set too high. It was previously set at 104 degrees and you immediately lower it to 100. You then sit on the edge of the tub, waiting for the water to cool slightly. Turning your head, your eyes scan the empty backyard as an odd feeling comes over you, making you wonder if you're truly alone.

Shaking your head, you tell yourself to stop being so paranoid before lowering yourself into the water.

The whirring of the jets almost drowns out your music, so you scramble over to the side and lean over to adjust the volume.

Laura Branigan's Self Control fills the night air as you settle back into your spot, nestling your head against the plush headrest behind you. A sigh of relaxation then leaves your lips as you close your eyes, enjoying the warmth of the swirling water.

You drift into a sort of meditative state, as all the sounds around you fade into a low hum. You're so completely absorbed in your own world that you're oblivious to the sound of someone entering your backyard.

The usually distinct creaking of the wooden gate doesn't reach your ears, as it's slowly opened then quickly shut.

Careful footfalls on the manicured grass also go unnoticed as the visitor walks up to the back patio. They stand, in front of you, smirk on their lips as they admire the serene state you're in. They debate whether or not they should disturb you but ultimately decide to make their presence known.

"And here I thought you were having a party and didn't invite me..." they say, causing your eyes to instantly open.

"What the fuck, Harrington?" You ask, with a glare, trying to keep your composure, as your heart feels like it's going to pound right out of your chest. "How'd you get back here?"

"The gate was unlocked," he casually replies, gesturing to it with his thumb. "And like I said, I thought there was a party, given the music and all."

Rolling your eyes, you sit up slightly and lean over to turn down the music.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but it's just me," you remark, glancing up at him.

"Who said I was disappointed?" He smiles, his eyes meeting yours before traveling lower to your partially obscured cleavage.

"This song's a bit scandalous for you, don't you think?" He then asks, with one hand resting on his hip, while the other points to your radio.

You haven't been paying attention to the song that's playing, and when you realize it's Nasty Girl by Vanity 6, you sigh dramatically.

"Are you, of all people, offended by it?" You challenge, getting up to move closer to him.

He scoffs. "Of course not, but I didn't think you listened to stuff like this."

"Why? Because it's too risqué? Too obscene?"

You lean over the edge of the tub while he opens his mouth ready to respond. The sight of your glistening body causes him to freeze up.

"Kinda, yeah..." he mumbles, while you lean back into the water.

"I guess there's a lot you still don't know about me," you say with a smile.

He licks his lips before taking a step closer. "Why don't we fix that? Can I join you, or is this just a party for one?"

Deciding to up the brattiness, you roll your eyes and sigh.

"I guess you can, as long as you keep your opinions on my taste in music to yourself."

A grin spreads across his lips. "I can do that."

He then kicks off his Nikes before pulling his white t-shirt over his head. You watch a little too intently as he peels off his tight Levi's, leaving a pair of tiny green shorts underneath.

He sits on the edge of the tub before swinging his legs around and lowering himself into the water.

"Ooh, this is nice," he breathes, as he sits across from you. "I wish my parents would get one of these."

"You should tell Daddy you want one. I know the girls would love it," you snark as he shakes his head.

"Is that all you think of me?" He asks, defeatedly.

"You've never given me the opportunity to have a different perception of you," you explain, averting your eyes from his.

He sighs. "I know, but I'm not that guy anymore. At least, I'm trying not to be."

"And you expect me to just take that at face value?" You counter, unable to keep the hostility out of your voice.

"I guess not..." he begins, as he shifts in his seat.

Your eyes widen as he moves to sit next to you. He's suddenly so close, with his thigh pressing against yours as he reaches up to cup your cheek.

His gaze cuts through the steamy air as he leans in, so close the tip of his nose grazes yours as he finally continues, "I'll have to prove it to you, then."

You're struggling to speak, let alone breathe, as it's all too much. His thumb gently caresses your skin as he waits for some sarcastic retort that never comes.

Your mind's then flooded with memories of the first time he held you like this, the first time you felt his breath on your skin, of so many firsts, its overwhelming.

You manage to whisper his name, causing him to whisper yours in return.

"You can pretend to hate me all you want, but I know you missed this," he breathes, as he ghosts his lips over yours.

You resist the urge to lift your arms out of the water and wrap them around him.

"You're already off to a rough start, Harrington," you reply, relishing in his annoyance at your continued use of his last name.

"But am I wrong? Don't you miss me at least a little bit?" He asks, brushing his lips against yours, teasingly.

You sigh as you feel yourself weakening for him all over again. You wish more than anything that you could hate him, but no matter how much you want to, you just... can't. It's what lured you into his bed, his backseat, anywhere he could get his hands on you.

He made you feel so pretty and wanted and possibly loved... until someone else caught his eye. He'd then treat you as an afterthought, especially at school, practically staring you down as you walked by, with his arm around another girl.

That's the closest you got to hating him, and for the rest of the school year, you believed you did. You tried everything you could to make yourself forget the smug allure of Steve Harrington.

And it worked, until tonight.

Your hand grips the slippery bench underneath you, as he nuzzles his nose against yours, content with teasing you all night, if he has to, just to finally hear what he wants.

"Yes," you quietly reply, your voice barely audible over the sound of water swirling around your bodies. "I missed you."

He pulls away, only to look into your eyes, and smiles.

"I missed you, too, honey."

You immediately bristle at his pet name, as all your hurt feelings come rushing back.

"Don't..." you warn, raising your hand and pressing it against his chest, stopping him as he goes to lean in again. "Don't say it if you don't mean it."

"I do, though," he quickly defends, placing his hand over yours. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you and how I'm so stupid to have lost what we had."

"Really?" You ask, allowing yourself to gaze into his eyes.

"Yeah," he nods. "You're the last person I ever wanted to hurt and I'm sorry for being such a dumbass."

His apology makes you crack a smile and he thinks you've never looked prettier.

"It was always you," he breathily continues as you cradle his face. "I'm just sorry it took me so long to realize it."

"I just... don't want you to ever hate me..." he quietly admits, as you slowly pull him towards you.

"I could never hate you," you softly reassure, right before your lips touch.

"Promise?" He whispers, almost muffled, against your lips.

"I promise."

You each then melt into an overdue kiss. His perfect nose presses against your cheek while your fingers curl in the ends of his damp hair.

"Fuck, honey, I've missed you so much," he breathes, between kisses.

You sigh his name, needing to feel more of him. You break the kiss, leaving him dazed and panting, while you carefully maneuver yourself onto his lap. Your knees press against the hard plastic of the bench underneath him, but you don't mind how it feels when Steve's hands are immediately on your hips, helping to guide your movements.

You lean in to kiss him again, and he's already moaning into your mouth with every grind of your hips. You smile, against his cheek, as you press kisses across it, kissing your way to his jawline.

You feel his wet fingertips glide up your back before his nails dig into your skin when he feels you lightly nibble on his neck.

"Did you miss this too, Stevie?" You coo, glancing up at him.

He nods before his eyes roll back from another grind of your hips.

"No one else ever really took the time to find out what you liked, did they? So many selfish lovers... though I thought that's what you wanted?" You ask, your voice sickeningly sweet.

He groans when he feels your lips at his ear.

"Someone as selfish as you," you whisper, before softly biting his earlobe.

You feel him shudder underneath you, so painfully hard and desperate for either some friction or release.

"You're never gonna let me live that down, are you?" He then shakily asks, as you pull away to look into his eyes.

You shift slightly, freeing up both hands so you can place them on each side of his pretty face. You lean in again, lips just close enough to tease when you reply, "Nope."

"I'm sorry, honey, alright? I'll apologize all night if I have to..." he rasps, sounding as if he's on the verge of tears.

"I just might make you," you smile, enjoying your newfound power over Steve Harrington.

"Let me make it up to you," he pleads, lowering his hands back down to your hips. "I'll spend the night with you... the whole weekend if that's what it takes for you to forgive me."

"You really care about me that much?" You ask, combing your fingers through his hair.

He nods. "Let's go inside and I'll show you just how much."

You're both then scrambling into your house. Little droplets of water fall from your bodies as you hurry up the stairs. The towels around your shoulders doing little to prevent water from dripping everywhere.

The house is also quite chilly, as you had the A/C cranked up all day, so you're shivering as you enter your bedroom. You stand next to your bed, clutching your towel around you, while Steve stands in front of you. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you to him.

"Oh no, honey, are you cold?" He asks, cupping your cheek, with his other hand.

You nod, timidly, your earlier attitude seemingly nonexistent.

"I'll have to warm you up then," he replies, before pressing his lips to yours.

He pushes your towel from your shoulders, and it joins his on the floor. You whimper into the kiss when you feel his large palm flat against your back before his hand ventures lower. He gives your ass a good squeeze, earning another whimper from you.

You then feel him grinning as his hands continue to roam your body.

"You're so fuckin' sexy in this, it's driving me crazy," he breathes, after temporarily breaking the kiss. "I kinda want you to leave it on while I fuck you..."

You sigh his name before pulling him into another kiss. It's messy and desperate as you lay back on your bed, with him on top of you.

He nestles himself perfectly between your legs, and now it's his turn to tease you. He grinds himself against you, the thin material you're both wearing making it more tortuous until you feel him move the crotch of your bathing suit to the side.

You're already squirming under him as you raise your hips, chasing the movement of his fingers.

He's smiling again, unable to hide how smug he feels as he just glides his fingers over you.

"Not so tough now, are you?" He purrs, against your cheek, while your hands are already twisting in his hair.

You try to speak, but he stops you.

"Its okay. I deserved it, and like I said, I'm gonna spend all night making it up to you."

He presses a couple wet kisses to your cheek, before slipping two of his long fingers inside you. You're already moaning at the stretch and the way he's suckling on your neck.

"Shit, honey, you're tighter than I remember..." he pants, sounding as ragged as you feel. "Guess no one else fucked you like I did, huh?"

You shake your head. "N-No, just you, Steve..." Your voice trails off into a series of moans as he adds another finger.

"Didn't think so," he says, glancing up at you.

"Look at me, honey," he softly commands, and once you open your eyes you see how he's gazing at you with complete adoration.

"So fuckin' pretty," he breathes, before crashing his lips to yours.

Your nails claw at his biceps as he mouths at your jaw. He buries his face in your neck, then flicks his tongue over a newly formed hickie. He plans to leave several more all over your body, wanting to cover you in little reminders that you're his girl again, and always will be.

You moan his name, your hand gripping his wrist when you feel the familiar waves of pleasure building.

"This is all for you, honey, remember?" He reminds, breathless. "I have to earn your forgiveness, even if it takes all night..."

You throw your head back, against your pretty, pink pillow as the most intense orgasm you've ever had washes over you.

Steve's lips are at your ear, talking you through it, praising you for how good you are for him.

His words have you biting your lip and squirming all over again. You gaze at him dreamily as he places his fingers between his lips. A soft moan escapes him as he tastes you.

"Just as sweet as I remember," he grins, before you grab his smug face and pull him in for a kiss.

You're moaning for him all over again when you taste yourself on his tongue.

"So, how am I doing so far? Want me to still spend the night?" He quietly asks, still breathless.

"What do you think, Harrington?" You snarkily reply, running your fingers through his tousled hair, before pulling slightly.

With a groan, he kisses you again, knowing you're both in for a long night.

[stargazedwinchester]

Too Soon? | Sam

Summary: Charlie teams you both up with the Winchester brothers for a case. After a very long road trip toward a hunt, someone's caught feelings for you.

Word count: 1,113

Let me know if you want a part 2!

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

Charlie's excited grin means two things; there's a new World of Warcraft DLC, or she really wants you to do something with her. You huff, loosening your grip from her hands. "Char, I honestly really don't want to. I love you, I do, but..."

"Why, Y/N? It'll be so fun. Sam and Dean are so fun and so cool, you'll really like them. Even if it's a shitty boring hunt, at least you'll have me." She bounces up and down on the spot. "Please? Pretty please?" She begs, her ruby hair shining from the daylight coming through the window behind her. She looks at you in your eyes, pleading for you to once just say 'yes'.

You had been childhood best friends with Charlie ever since you both were bullied at school for playing video games during lunch breaks and recess. Both of you were the very few girls who would actually spend time around nerdy guys and weren't put off by them. Not that anyone gave them a chance, though.

"Okay, fine. I'll go with you. Just this once, though, you owe me." You give in, a smile creeping onto your face. What's the worst that could happen?

After Charlie's parents passed in a horrible accident when she was 14, she had been adopted by your father as both families were extremely close, good friends. It was almost like a dream come true for both of you at the time, being able to actually have a sister who's also your best friend? That's the best thing to ever happen to a child.

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

You exit Charlie's beetle to a place that doesn't remotely resemble a home. "We're here?" You ask, squinting your eyes from the mid-summer sun blaring into your pupils. "Yep. They said to meet here." She says, checking her phone for any text messages. While glancing over at Charlie's phone, you notice two huge men walking toward you. "They're here!" She announces whilst the shorter man opens up his arms for her.

"Charlie!" He laughs gleefully, and she gives him a massive hug. You stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. "Hey, I'm Y/N." You greet the taller one, he runs his hand through his hair, before shaking yours. "Hi Y'N. I'm Sam. Nice to meet you." You look up at him flashing him a quick smile. "I assume the other guy is Dean?" You question, and Charlie pulls your arm towards her. "Y/N! This is Dean, he's my favourite. No offence, Sam." She chuckles, and Sam grunts. "None taken." He says. "Hi, Dean. Nice to meet you." You hold out your hand for him to shake it, and he takes it. "Nice to meet you. We've heard lots about you." He shows you a warm smile, his eyes a lovely shade of green that you haven't seen before.

"The gangs back together!" Charlie exclaims, you furrow your brows. "Back together? I've never met these guys in my life."

"You get what I mean."

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

After lots of arguing about who gets shotgun, Charlie sits in the front with Dean, and you're sat in the back with Sam. Charlie passes you snacks every so often so you don't feel left out.

"So, YN," Sam starts, taking his gaze off of the trees speeding past the car. "How long have you known Charlie?" He asks, his hazel eyes meeting yours. "My whole life. She's my sister." You trail your sentence, not understanding why Sam would ask this. Dean chuckles. "Sammy, you didn't know that?" He and Charlie start laughing before she reaches over the seat to face you both. "I never told him this. Sorry, Sam." She pops another snack in her mouth, and Sam rolls his eyes. "Perks of being the least favourite, I guess. I'm out of the loop, guys." He throws his hands up in the air, a grin on his face. "It's okay. I'll tell you everything you need to know." You turn yourself round to face him, starting with the story of how you met her, where you grew up and everything that happened with Charlies' parents and your own.

The sun is setting pretty quick, the clouds turning salmon and the sky a denim shade. Dean smoothly parked the Impala outside of a small '70s diner, you all climb out and walk inside to find a free table. Luckily, the place seems busy so you assume it's got good food. You're starving at this point so to be honest, you'd eat anything at this point. You sit opposite Sam, but next to Charlie who's already looking at a menu. Scanning the table, there are only two menus. Dean and Charlie are so lost in their own world that they wouldn't even think about sharing a menu. You snatch the menu out of Charlie's hand and usher her to share with Dean while yourself and Sam work something out between you both.

You stretch your legs out and accidentally hit something long in front of you, assuming it's the table leg, you stretch out further. "That's my leg." Sam says, catching your eyes, then quickly looking away. "Sorry," you mumbled, seeing him act so awkward was somewhat charming to you, how his good looks could so easily get him so many women, yet he seems so reserved and polite. There really aren't that many men in the world like this, at all.

His golden eyes meet yours again, but you're already staring back at him. Your eyes widened in surprise, you didn't even think that he'd look at you again. "What?" He huffs, a smirk appearing. Oh, he knows he's hot. A dimple forms and suddenly, you're really attracted. "Me? Nothing. I was daydreaming." You lie.

The waitress comes over and takes everyones orders, and Dean turns around to allow you both to order. He notices how flushed your cheeks are and Sam's sly grin, and he puts two and two together. He nudges Charlie, and they both glance at you, then Sam, then back at each other with a huge smile on each of their faces. "Look at you two love birds," Dean starts, and you roll your eyes. "Please, don't start." You can't stop a simper from taking shape on your face, Charlie slaps your arm. "You two would be so cute together!" She scoffs, you've never seen her this happy about something before, it's almost scary.

"No, it's far too soon to say anything like that, Char!" You hide your face in embarrassment. "Am I not allowed to make friends?" You say, hoping Sam would have something to add.

"Is it too soon?" Sam says, grinning from ear to ear.

[groenendaelfic]

Hey,

haven't seen you around a lot lately. Just writing to check in. how is it going? Wish you a nice evening

it is going, thank you for asking!

Life has been very busy these past few months but is moving in a hopefully good and definitely exciting direction.

In this particular order (if memory serves correctly) I've:

decided to move halfway across the continent

marked the one year anniversary of the worst time of my life

had other people mark the one year anniversary of the worst time of my life with all that entails

quit my job (I'd been planning that for a while)

had my boss and hr offer to let me go instead and half my notice period to two months (aka 'give' me more money and facilitate my move, yay pity)

started looking for a place to live and organizing my move

found a new job in a slightly different corner of halfway across the continent (I start July 1st)

got my request for citizenship approved (epic timing guys)

found a place to live in an awesome area (I will be able to do all my errands on foot and my new job is only a short bike ride away)

told everyone I was leaving for sure

signed the paperwork to have my uncle in law take over the place here

had my cousin offer to move my stuff with his remodeled fire engine in exchange for gas and (bridge) tolls

did all the paperwork in the universe ever

started saying my goodbyes for now (I still have lots of family and friends etc here so I'll be back a lot)

had my cousin tell me he'd make a bro trip out of the move because his friends really wanted to see a basic bridge, and room and board plus no girls was all the compensation they needed for getting to carry my boxes

said thanks but no thanks to citizenship (sorry Wille, you'll always be my King)

was asked if I minded the move taking a bit longer because the guys wanted to stop for totally unplanned soccer (a not insignificant part of their motivation if not a deciding factor I dare say)

did more move and job leaving planning and paperwork

welcomed, fed and watered a bunch of guys really into soccer bridges and very disappointed I didn't have more boxes they could compete carrying

prepared a big lunch basket and said goodbye to said guys and my boxes

sat down to write this list wondering where I should celebrate midsummer (aka do I want to travel back and forth to get everything ready or stay until it's time to hand in my work laptop etc)

Phew, yes. Also a million other things which won't come to mind right now. Thank you to everyone who left me such kind messages btw. I appreciate them so much but am still learning to respond to kindness and compliments without awkwardness. They nevertheless give me life.

In more interesting news to everyone here I've also done a lot of writing.

Mostly on One Wild Summer, which has already grown into a monster, but I've been writing the exciting parts later on and still guesstimate a 15k or so stretch which needs bridging to get to all the fun stuff I've already written.

but also on The Prince and the Barista and As Long as We Have Each Other. I only need to make it coherent and once again fill the gap to where I stopped posting.

plus *cue exasperated sighs* I'm also 9k+ into a new fic! The (once more) absolutely most self-indulgent thing I've ever written in this fandom and something I swore I never would turn into a proper fic. Expect the prologue for that (which was meant to be 500 words and not 5k) soonish.

Everything else including regular updates not before mid to late July though I think. Because moving and starting a new job and life means busy times and while I can write scribble down connected sentences with half a mind, I can't beta read and edit with half a mind.

tl;dr: I am still writing yr fic and haven't abandoned my fics, but am also busy moving. goodbye cloudberries and lingonberries, hello wineberries vineyards and appleberries apple orchards.

[chelseachilly]

how deep is your love

pairing: reader x ben chilwell summary: ben's drunk and can't stop telling you how much he loves you 🩵 warnings: none :) word count: 1.4k

author’s note: written based on this post from @benchilwellx bc it was such a cute concept, just a quick fluffy little one-shot to get the writing juices flowing :) sorry i haven't updated this love in a couple weeks but life has been crazy! hoping to get the next chapter posted in the next week but enjoy this in the meantime 💗

also for the sake of this fic let's pretend chelsea didn't have a game this weekend, tbh would rather forget the one they did play lol

-

In the two years you’ve known Ben, and just over a year since you’ve been a couple, you could count on one hand the number of times you’ve seen him truly drunk. 

With the football season preventing him from indulging too much for most of the year, and fitness at the top of his mind even in the off-season, he rarely gets the opportunity. Usually, when you go out, he either drives or makes sure to get you home safely in an Uber, and if you’ve had a really fun night, he’ll help you take off your makeup or even hold your hair back if necessary. 

So it’s an interesting turn of events when you show up a bit late to his best mate Harvey’s birthday celebration at a fancy club in Soho and find your boyfriend clearly tipsy already. 

He’s sitting in a booth next to Tom and Harvey singing along to some 90s R&B song, a drink in hand that is definitely not his first, or even his second or third. He’s a bit of a sight to behold, as he so rarely drinks this much, but you can’t help but smile at the sight of him letting loose - you know how much pressure he’s been under lately with the captain duties. 

“Babe!” Ben exclaims with wide eyes and an even wider grin as soon as he sees you, stumbling a bit as he gets up from the booth. “You’re here!”

He quickly makes his way to you and pulls you in for a sloppy kiss, and you can taste the liquor on his tongue. You sink into him nonetheless, enjoying the feeling of being in his arms after a long day of work.

As soon as you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours and takes a deep breath, his thumbs drawing circles on your waistline.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, babe,“ you smile back at him warmly, enjoying this affection, no matter how much tequila is playing a part. “You pretty drunk?”

“Mhm,” Ben says with a slightly dazed expression, his eyes still focused on your lips. “The boys were making me take shots since there’s no game this week.”

You chuckle slightly, rolling your eyes at Ben’s - and by extension, your - good friends at the booth behind him, dancing and ordering another round of shots. You’re glad Harvey’s having a good birthday.

“I’m happy you’re having fun, baby, you deserve it,” you say sincerely, cupping his face with both hands before leaning in to kiss him again. “Now, it seems I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Go sit with the boys, I’ll get you a drink,” Ben offers, pressing another quick kiss to your cheek before heading to the bar.

You nod with a smile and go to sit next to Harvey, pulling him into a quick hug and wishing him a happy birthday.

“Now, which one of you is responsible for my drunk boyfriend?” you inquire, raising an eyebrow as you glance back at Ben, who is still smiling lovingly at you from the bar. 

“That would be the birthday boy,” Tom chuckles. “He’s bloody entertaining though, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but I’m the one who’s going to have to deal with him hungover tomorrow,” you joke.

The last time he was hungover, after one fun night on the yacht in Italy this summer, Ben had forced you to spend the whole day in bed cuddling with him. You pretended to be annoyed for about five minutes before giving in - partly because you can never turn down his cuddles, and partly because you were pretty hungover too. 

Speaking of how adorable your boyfriend is, within minutes he’s headed back over to you with that same dopey grin on his face and two vodka sodas. It’s your favourite, and his go-to during the season when he’s watching his calories.

“For you, my darling,” Ben says in an overly posh accent as he hands you the glass, making you giggle.

He then practically shoves Tom over to make room for himself to sit next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders protectively and kissing your cheek. You can feel yourself blushing from the unusually overt PDA, as he typically reserves this kind of affection for home, but you don’t mind.

“I love you,” Ben whispers once again against your temple, burying his nose in your hair. “So, so much. Missed you today.”

It’s amazing the way those three words still give you the same butterflies as the first time you heard them, making you smile like a lovestruck fool.

“I missed you too, baby,” you murmur, “I’m sorry I couldn’t make dinner. You know how crazy work has been.”

Ben and the boys had been a bit disappointed when you weren’t able to join them for dinner earlier, mainly because you’ve been so busy at work lately due to a recent promotion that your friends have hardly seen you. Even Ben’s time with you has been limited, especially with him also putting in extra time at Cobham as captain while Reece is out. 

It’s been an exciting time for both of you career-wise, but it’s also meant spending less time together, which is probably why Ben is being so clingy right now and why you’re welcoming his clinginess.

“S’okay, I’m just glad you’re here now,” Ben says, kissing your cheek a few more times before returning the conversation with the boys.

You contently settle into Ben’s side, his arm still firmly wrapped around you, and sip your drink while they talk about football and the girl Anish is seeing. When Ben interrupts the other guys’ suggestions of playing it cool and waiting to text her back by telling his friend to be honest and just tell her how he feels, your heart swells with pride that your boyfriend is the most emotionally intelligent guy you know.

“Since Ben’s the only one successfully in a relationship, I’m gonna take his advice,” Anish laughs, raising his drink to you. “Unless he just got lucky with Y/N.”

“Nah, he won me over fair and square,” you say, turning your face to meet Ben’s eyes and smiling lovingly at him. “I’m the lucky one.”

The way Ben’s eyes shine and his lip quivers slightly at your words makes it impossible for you to resist leaning in to press a quick peck to his mouth. It’s not your fault he’s so adorable, nor is it your fault that Ben deepens the kiss and pulls you closer.

“Alright, we’re going to get more drinks, we’ll leave you to it,” Harvey says with an eye-roll as the rest of your group gets up and starts to walk over to the bar.

You pull back from Ben’s kisses, feeling a bit embarrassed by how touchy you’re being, but he only takes the opportunity to grab your waist and hoist you into his lap.

“Baby,” you sigh, really enjoying the warmth of his arms and the little kisses he’s leaving on your neck. “Don’t you think we should cool it a bit? It’s Harvey’s birthday, doubt he wants to watch us do this all night.”

“Can’t help it,” Ben mumbles into your neck, sending a shiver up your spine. “I just love you so much.”

Ben never shies away from reminding you of this fact, often the last three words he says to you before bed or when you’re leaving the house, but he tends to tell you how much he loves you even more than normal when he’s drinking. You’re not sure if he forgets that he already told you multiple times or just that he feels particularly lovey when intoxicated. Either way, you love it.

“I love you so much too, Benji,” you smile, kissing his forehead and adorning the way his eyes flutter shut in contentment. “Why don’t we stay for one more drink and then go home and have sex on the couch and fall asleep watching Love Island?”

His eyes light up like a child who’s just been offered ice cream before bed, and he nods eagerly.

“Alright, but you’re gonna have to let me off your lap, babe,” you chuckle, ruffling his hair. “Unless you wanna get roasted mercilessly.”

“Don’t care,” Ben grumbles into your hair, but when you pull back and give him a warning look, he sighs and gives in. “Fine, but we’re dancing.”

You squeal slightly as you’re lifted off your feet, Ben dragging you to the dance floor. You might be exhausted and ready to go home at this point, but you’re content to spend the next few minutes dancing to some Calvin Harris song in the arms of your drunk boyfriend, him whispering how much he loves you between the choruses.

[ginsengkitten]

༺ Beautiful Dangerous ༻

༺☆༻

Chapter Eleven

Written in Plain Sight

A/N:

Tysm for your patience with this one. May is a difficult month for me for personal reasons. I’m still writing and I’m so excited for you guys see where this heads. I hope you guys enjoy <3

Dear Slash,

Im sorry I didn't write you sooner. Things have been a little crazy since I got home. Well, not home actually. My parents have turned me in to this special all girls Christian school that specializes in "troubled young women". Apparently they can legally do that even though I've just turned 18! I never agreed to it, they just left me here. In the middle of nowhere- with these weird nuns. They haven't told me how often mail is sent out so I'm not sure how often I'll write, but I promise I will.

I'm sorry how I left things. I didn't know they were coming to take me home. I tried to say goodbye but they gave me no chance. Please forgive me. This summer was the best time of my whole life. Because I met you.

I know letters are a little prehistoric these days, but I've no access to a phone here. Again, I promise to write often. I'll call you as soon as I'm out.

Love, Foxey.

-

Dear Slash,

I'm not sure if you are receiving my letters. If you are and just don't want to speak to me, I understand that. I know mail can take a while... anyways. I figured writing to you helps me pass the time here. This place is awful. It's been 2 weeks of hell. I was forced to detox from everything. It's been so hard. I hardly sleep at night. But when I do, I am so happy because I dream of you. I also daydream a lot. It helps me get through the day. The days are long and boring. There's not really a curriculum here. Even though they call it a school. The nuns are mean. They took away all my clothing and I have to wear a white dress everyday and every night. It's cold and uncomfortable. Each day consists of the same thing. They wake you up at 6 am every fucking morning. It's barely light out. Then you have to clean your room. If you can only eat breakfast if you pass morning room inspection. I've failed 5 times so far...

Anyways. Sorry. I don't mean to complain to you. I don't have anything exciting to write about. I hope you have having very exciting experiences in LA still. Please write me when you can... I want to know how you are!

Love, Foxey

-

Slash,

Today was horrible. Just horrible. I'm sorry to write you only my miseries, but it feels like that's all I have left lately. Turns out, if you don't comply with every single whim and precision- even making the wrong face, or the tone of your voice, the nuns will be violent with you. They carry rulers, books and at times, even their bare hands- are weapons. I can't exactly remember what I did first to step out of line, all I remember was sister Agatha (she's a total bitch) slapping me so hard across the face, the stinging lasted for hours. I cried a little but only in private. I don't think I want to let them see me cry. I don't want them to know they have that power!

I still wait for your reply. I hope you are well.

Love, Foxey.

-

Hi There,

It's been a while. Sorry for that. I don't have much different to say to you. Or much at all. I think I get your message from your silence. If it all meant nothing to you after all, then so be it. I think maybe I belong here anyways. It's best for everyone. I want to let you know it really hurts me to accept that you are done with me. With us. Just like that. But I respect your decision- even if it's shitty. Maybe that's all rockstars are is shitty. So there. You're shitty and I wish we never met. I hope you're happy.

Best of luck with everything. I love you.

Y/N.

-

And just like that. It was over. The silence from Slash over the past two months was only an added pain to the hell you already endured. For your own sanity, hope was crushing you and you had to give it up. Your parents had called once, but the nuns ensured you weren’t telling them the truth of what it was like there. As quickly as it all unraveled, you sank into your new reality. Pushing out thoughts of escape as the former attempts were futile and had only ended in harsher and harsher punishment .

It was colder now into early November. Other girls had come and gone periodically, none staying long enough for it to be worth harboring any sort of relationship. You spent your days in the day room, a dim, sulky living room type space in the center of the building. Empty tables with broken chess pieces and puzzles with missing pieces scattered. You took throne to an old green chair by the large window.

One person you had managed to form any sort of connection with was the oldest nun in the practice, Sister Graham. She seemed worn down and tired of it all, due to her age, and lack of violence and stern, she’d been demoted down to a secretarial duty. She’d find reasons to come and talk to you when she could. Small but meaningful conversations. The two of you formed a secret bond of hatred for this place. A mutual understanding that this was all that was left for both of you. She’d share bits of her life before she became a nun. She had been sent away at the age of 16 after running away from an arranged marriage to a man 20 years her senior at the time. You felt sad for her, sorry for her, confused as to why she remained here. You told her about your past, how you ended up there. You even opened up to her about Slash and the magical summer you had. She seemed to appreciate the glimmer that became of you when you spoke of it all. Like she understood what it meant to feel young and in love. What it felt like to feel misunderstood and suffocated by the normalcy of the world. She made you feel special amidst it all. And then, one day, she was gone. You waited all week for her to show.

You prodded at nuns all morning as to where she was, “did she die?” “Did she retire?” “Is she sick?” You skipped around. Each question was met with harsh and rude snaps of silence and threatening looks. The confusion and hurt flatlined you again. Back to nothingness. You shifted in bed, staring at the ceiling, images of Slash, summer, everything, bleeding through your mind like a movie. The anger of his silence, the hurt, the betrayal, all of it stung within you so badly. Allowing it to get to you, you angrily chuck your pillow to the other side of the room with a frustrated sob. Feathers bust out of the pillow, completely ruining it. You came to your senses quickly with regret and knelt over the pillow to pick up the discarded feathers. You hadn’t changed your pillow case this week, and now you’ve broken the pillow altogether. Great. It was sure you’d get punished for this in the morning. Your hand brushes against a piece of paper as you sift through the feathers. That’s odd- where did this come from? You pick it up and it appears to be a small folded note. You take a precautious look at your door before unfolding it.

“R. 308

Nov. 21. 8pm to west wing parking lot.”

What the hell? You don’t recall writing this down. This was clearly stuffed in your pillow case. When? Why? What does it mean? Did someone put this here? Your heart beat with confusion, apprehensive to feel any sort of excitement at fear of being disappointed again. It was late, and there was seldom to do with this new information except to sleep on it. So you did.

Surely enough, as you had predicted, the nuns took notice of your destroyed pillow and sentenced you to janitorial duties for the entire day. You scrubbed away at the hallway at the end of the wing. Dragging your bucket of dirty water like a gross companion. You grumbled to yourself as you mopped. Suddenly a sister enters the hallway from out of a room and almost slips on the fresh wet floor. She gives a stabbing glare.

“Well hurry it up and get it finished so you’re not such a hazard girl.” She snarks as she walks away. You want to bark back but you know better. The room she had left was left cracked. You stared at the door with curiosity before noticing the room number plaque before you .

“Room 308”.

Wait a minute. R308? Like the note? You take yet another precautious glance behind you to the empty hall to ensure no one would see you now sneak yourself into the room.

Surely there’s something of importance in here? It appeared to be some sort of administrative office. Piles of papers decorated the entire room. You strolled around carefully eying everything. This is a mail room, this is all mail? This is all patient mail, no? It is. How interesting? Why’s there so much in here? Your eyes scan and roll over a large stack prominently sticking out of a box on the desk. You recognize the stationary and realize it to be some of your own letters to slash. What the hell? You start shuffling through the box in a greater panic and confusion. These were all supposed to be sent out, sent to Slash! Were none of them ever mailed?! Your heart dropped to your stomach and your chest tightened.

You wanted to stay longer, to further examine and investigate this, but the reality was clear. No letters written had been sent to anyone. They lied. You hurriedly skimmed through the pile to see if any had come in from Slash but you only saw the ones you wrote. All of them opened too. They’ve just been reading them and keeping them….

Before you could sulk, you quietly exited the room to ensure no one saw you sneaking in there. Clearly you were not supposed to know this. Rage, Hurt, Confusion, coiled inside you once more. All this time? Out of all the emotions rushing through you at that moment, the scariest one was now hope. Hope again filtered into you. Maybe Slash had never ignored you. Maybe he just didn’t know where to write!

After returning to your room that evening, you re read the obscure note once more.

“Nov 21”

That’s tomorrow. Nov 21st is tomorrow. Someone wants me to go to the west parking lot at 8pm tomorrow. But who? And why?

[taylorsv3rsion13]

we never go out of style || c.f.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

A/N : this chapter even though it's the episode where conrad finds his mom w cancer, it's not gonna be in this chapter because i have other plans :) ALSO chapters will come out as quick as they can. i have been busy recently and will be busy for the next couple of weeks, though, i’ll try squeezing in some writing time.

words : 1.9k

synopsis : things were always rocky for conrad and you. after the whole break up, will everything be the same the year later? or will it all turn to shit.

Growing up pin Cousins, I made a lot of memories. And yeah, most of them started with a song, and ended with a boy.

Every summer I found myself dancing in the living room with Belly. Both of us being terrible whatsoever. We would complain about how we needed a dance partner, and then two of the guys would come in.

Usually I got Conrad and Jeremiah went to Belly.

For fun, Belly and I used to practice being debs. To think that we actually wanted to do it when we were younger.

"God we need partners." I complained as I fell onto the couch.

"Steven!" Belly yelled to get her brothers attention.

Steven scoffed a no as he continued to play his video games.

"Here, I'll be your partner." Conrad said as he got up from the couch, walking over to me.

"Jeremiah, please." Belly said as she practically begged him.

He laughed a little before getting up to help us.

The music continued as Belly and I were spinning around, yet we couldn't even take ourselves seriously.

I concentrated hard on the steps as Conrad counted out the beats. I messed one up as I stepped on his foot.

"I'm so sorry." I laughed a little.

He shook his head, "Don't worry, it's fine."

The four of us continued to practice ballroom dancing as Belly and I were spun around.

I did knock into Conrad a few times, maybe more than I should've which made the both of us laugh.

"Sorry." I said awkwardly.

"It's okay. It's fine." He would say.

And now, Belly and I were both in an actual dance room. Practicing for our moments of being a deb.

Cameron stood with her as I looked around awkwardly in the heels I was borrowing.

I practiced the steps by myself, but if I'm being honest, I just felt stupider. Everyone else had their partners, and they were all socializing, while I stood awkwardly in the midst of it.

I took off the gloves that I had been given as I took out my phone from my pocket. I needed Conrad to save me from this mess. Or someone atleast.

I texted him a quick "Hey" before putting my phone back in my pocket.

We had gotten a brief introduction of who Ms. Covington was, before we all began walking with her instructions. I turned to no one, and couldn't help but feel sorry for my own self.

"Hey. Where's your escort?" Nicole asked as she made her way over to me.

"Oh, I just haven't really found one. And none of the guys want to do it with me.." I said awkwardly smiling at Nicole.

"That's okay, uh, I-I'll be your partner for today."

"Really?" I asked.

"Sure, I'm your deb sister. But you're going to need an escort for your big night." Nicole reminded me. "Paige is going to have an aneurysm if you wait too long."

I laughed a little, "Yeah, so will Susannah."

We both laughed at the comment as she began helping me through the steps. I wasn't horrible, but I definitely wasn't good either.

"Did you do all this last year with, Conrad?" I asked Nicole as I missed her foot by a mere inch.

"Well, Conrad was actually spared Ms. Covington. I was supposed to go with this guys James, but he dropped out last minute. So Conrad stepped in to save me."

"Oh yeah, Susannah taught the boys a lot of dances." I said as I remembered the dances we used to do in the living room and in the ktichen.

"Conrad, actually, he-he had left me on read last night." Nicole stammered. "And I was wondering if you've seen him today."

"Um.." I thought back to last night and everything filled inside of me again. Happiness and excitement. "No, he was still asleep when I had left." I lied.

"Ooh!" Nicole exclaimed as I accidentally stepped on her foot.

"I am so sorry." I began to apoligize.

"No, no, it's okay, don't worry." She smiled as everyones eyes had turned to us.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I asked. "I'm so sorry."

"No, it's nothing, it's alright."

"Hey ladies." I turned my head to Jeremiah. "Mind if I have this dance?" He asked.

"Yes actually." Nicole and I both said which made us laugh a little.

"Belly..." Jeremiah said.

"Jeremiah, you're gonna get me in trouble with Paige." I said, pointing to his sheer basically netted top.

"Hey." He whistled over to Steven who happily took off the coat of his tux, handing it to Jere.

Nicole raised an eyebrow, "Okay, Harry Styles?"

"How's this? It's better?" He questioned.

I gave out a small laugh as I shook my head.

Jere didn't take much of the dancing seriously which made the both of us laugh as we waltzed through the room. I could hear snickers from Steven.

"Hey Alexa, play "So Pretty"" Jeremiah said quickly to the Alexa in the room.

The speaker began playing the song as we all looked at Jeremiah who was already dancing on his own with disappointed looks from Ms. Covington.

Ms. Covington didn't seem to care for long as she let us all dance to the music freely, obviously knowing she'd get complaints from us if we had asked her to stop with the song.

"What. Is going on here?" Paige asked as she came into the room. She ordered Alexa to stop and we all stood there, staring straight at her.

"Jeremiah Fisher, why aren't you at the pool?" She asked.

"We had a code brown." He lied. "Yeah, we had lost the keys to get into the chemical closet."

Paige shuffled through her little binder, pulling out a key and tossing it to Jeremiah. "There you go."

"Thanks." Jeremiah slightly whispered. He looked over to me, "See ya later, Y/N/N."

"All right everyone, let's try that again..." Paige sighed. "This time without, whatever that was."

I looked back up from where I was standing and saw Conrad in the doorway. I smiled at him as he gave me a peace sign.

What I barely saw was Nicole in front of me, who waved at Conrad as I did as well.

Nicole giggled as she made her way over to me, knowing she was my partner now that Jeremiah was kicked out.

My phone rang with messages, "Oh sorry, I just have to check this." I said.

My phone had a text from Conrad, saying "See you when you get back."

I couldn't help but smile just a little.

I continued dancing with Nicole, who now seemed to be in a better mood after the interaction with Conrad.

The practice didn't last long, giving me the perfect chance to go home, change into a swimsuit, and bike over to the beach for a quick swim.

I came home after the beach, seeing Jeremiah lay staring straight up at the sky.

I laughed a little, "What's with the flower crown?"

"My mom's getting ready to paint me as Hermes, messenger of the gods." Jeremiah said, but he didn't seem very stoked about it.

"Isn't that cool." I said smiling.

I looked around the backyard, but couldn't even find Conrad. I feel like something was happening between us again. I just didn't know what.

"Who you looking for?"

"Oh, I just um, thought Conrad would be back by now."

Jeremiah sighed before getting up, "Where have you been?"

"Just at the beach."

"You never go to the beach alone, are you okay?"

"Of course I am, I just wanted some me time." I said smiling.

"Well, if you are upset, Laurel and my mom... they're high-key stoned right now." Jeremiah said.

I looked at him in shock before laughing, "You're joking."

"I'm not!"

I shook my head.

"Yeah, all of the good snacks are gone."

Susannah had brought me out to inspect her painting of Jeremiah. Laurel followed out after me, but I couldn't stop staring at the painting.

"Ah- It's... um-" Was all that could manage to come out.

"Mmhmm." Jeremiah mumbled, trying to add on.

Laurel pointed at the painting, "Picasso and Jackson Pollock had a baby." She laughed.

"What?" Susannah said as she too had to get a better look of her painting.

All of us now stood around the painting, looking at what should've been Jeremiah.

"Oh my god, it's terrible." Susannah said as she began to laugh uncontrollably which made the rest of us break into fits of laughter as well.

Susannah and Laurel called us brats before leaving the house for a beach walk.

I walked up to my room, Jeremiah following close behind, "Come on, let's go swim."

I looked at my room. Clothes were scattered everywhere, and nothing was organized. "I actually have to clean my room, I'm sorry."

Jeremiah pouted, "How come nobody ever wants to play with me?"

I only smiled before walking into my room, "Later."

I mean I wouldn't say I was lying, but at the same time I wanted to hangout with Conrad, but he wasn't even here

A loud clammer from outside brought me away from cleaning. Conrad was outside, putting the easel and portrait back up.

I smiled as I made my way down the stairs, out to the deck.

Every summer focused on Conrad. This one was different though.

"You're back." I smiled.

He gave me a quick smile saying a quick "Hey" as well.

I helped put away some of the art supplies, as there was obviously some sort of tension yet again.

"How are you and your mom?" He asked.

I stammered a little, "Oh my mom- uhm, yeah we're good."

He took the water pitcher and paint brushes from me, our hands centimeters away from touching.

"What happened last night?" I asked.

"What do you mean." His back was to me.

I sighed, "For crying out loud we almost kissed."

"Really?" I was pretty wasted. Don't remember much."

He tried walking away, but I followed.

"Are you actually serious?" I asked, making eye contact with him.

Conrad shrugged, "Okay, so what. We almost kissed."

I stood there, just looking at him. I don't know what I wanted him to say, but I wanted it to be more. I wanted him to quit playing with me like how he used to.

"What do you want me to say, I'm sorry?" He asked.

I scoffed, "Are you sorry?"

"I don't know."

I just gave up. I couldn't win him and I was dumb to think so.

"Y/N, I think about you. And you know that I do. I just... I can't."

I held back all the tears that I possibly could. "I'm not playing these dumb games with you anymore."

There's been a lot of built up frustration recently. A lot more than I can hold. It's hard and it hurts.

It's hard being by yourself. Especially when everyone has someone else.

I waited a long time til Susannah got home. She was the one person I knew I could talk to. So as soon as she walked through the doors, she saw me.

"Hey, Sweetie, what are you doing down here?" She asked.

"Can I talk to you?" I asked, wiping away a tear that had just fallen from my eye.

She hugged me tightly, "Of course we can, I'll get a pot of tea ready for us.

I sat at the kitchen island as I watched her prepare my favorite tea. One that I used whenever feeling down.

"What's on your mind?" She asked as she sat down beside me at a stool.

"Do you believe in second chances?" I asked, looking up at her eyes.

"Of course I do. Especially for your age. You guys are new to love, experimenting."

"Susannah, I'm getting really mixed emotions and I don't know what to do."

All at once everything began to spur out of me.

Conrad walked in once during my little rant, but Susannah had shooed him off.

I jumped in the pool, ready for my late night swim. It was calming, peaceful almost.

Jeremiah hopped into the pool. But his tone was different.

"You're my best friend"

"And you're mine." I smiled.

"There are times where I wanted it to be more."

I looked at him in shock, "Jere-"

He grabbed my hand and I allowed it. I didn't stop him.

And there I was. 12 in the morning. In the cold pool. Kissing Jeremiah Fisher.

I let go.

"I'm sorry. I can't."

[formulaorange]

2024 Summer Anime

Sorry I'm late on this - I'm going back to school for a second degree this fall so it's been chaos Lots to look forward to for this season!!

Oshi No Ko - Season 2 Such a killer series that I think a lot of people have been looking forward to the second season. They did a great job giving us something to look forward to in the story. Must Watch Noteworthy On-Going Shows: Tensura - Season 3 MHA - Season 7 New Seasons:

Fairy Tail: 100 Year Quest This series was one of my first "longer" shows and I still love the original series. I know it really fell off with the 2014 reboot and the ecchi scenes were ramped up but I think 100 Year Quest gives it a nice fresh start now that people kind of know what to expect.

Additional New Seasons: Kimi ni Todoke: Season 3 A romance drama that my friend has tried to get me to watch for over a decade now. Tower of God - Season 2 I never finished season 1, but I've heard that this series is supposed to be highly reviewed and anticipated. Will go back and watch season 1 to catch up. Shy - Season 2 After letting this series sit for a minute, I'm not entirely sure I'll go back and watch the second season. I think there's definitely an audience for it, but I've got my list full of other priority shows at the moment.

New Noteworthy Shows: There's lots here for everyone this season.

Dead Dead Demon's Dededede Destruction This is a big one I didn't realize was getting an anime adaptation. This is one of the highest rated manga series, I'd say of all time. I'm hyped to watch it. Done by a new studio called Production +h, the style looks perfect.

The Elusive Samurai This is a fairly new shonen jump series that has gained a lot of traction in the manga community. I haven't had a chance to check it out yet, but I've heard good things.

Rick and Morty (Anime) I have so many mixed feelings about this one. I love Rick and Morty but man, and I don't know if I want see them in Japanese/Anime since it's literally already an animations series - but then I realized, because it's produced by the same studio this could be a legitimate "version" of the series that's just a part of the canon Rick and Morty Universe which is kind of cool. Will just have to wait and see I guess.

Suicide Squad Isekai I'm completely on board with this one for some reason. Really not sure why, but it makes perfect sense to me. Honestly pretty stoked to watch it. (+ it's by studio WIT) Wistoria: Wand and Sword A kid enters magic school, although he can't use magic, he's particularly good with a sword. Almost like if Mashle were more serious and less out there? Read the first few chapters of the manga and enjoyed it quite a bit. The Magical Girl and the Evil Lieutenant Used to Be Archenemies I think this looks really cute, will give it a few episodes. (Also because it's done by studio bones) Senpai is an Otokonoko A story about a highschool boy who cross-dresses, friendships between him, another female classmate and his childhood friend who's very protective of him. I'm curious to see how the story progresses and what kind of representation will actually be show-cased in the series. (Looks wholesome) Makeine: Too Many Losing Heroines Amazingly animated slice of life of a group of girls who get rejected by the guys they like. (A1 Pictures) Plus-Sized Elf An elf that came to the human realm falls in love with junk food and now needs help and motivation to lost it. Ecchi series that I saw in manga format a few years ago that I wasn't really expecting to see an animated version for. Mayonaka Punch Has a super unique style that I'm interested to see if the story is actually worth watching at all. Delico's Nursery Same style as Mars Red - group of Vampires taking care of kids and murder mystery solving on the side. Sakuna: Of Rice and Ruin - Anime Anime adaptation of the game, animations and character design look great.

Lots to check out this season, seems like a good bunch that are actually worth watching too. Enjoy!!

[askbensolo]

“hey, fan.”

“oh...hi!”

“mind if i sit here?”

"oh! um, no, no, of course not...please, go ahead.”

"it's...uh. hot, huh?"

"yes. much hotter than ryloth."

"...i'll miss you when you go back."

"...i'll miss you too."

"listen i'm sorry about...you know, everything..."

"yes...me too. i've been feeling rather overwhelmed. i know i haven't been very kind to you as of late, or as communicative as i ought to be, and i'm sorry. i was thinking...this whole thing must be rather difficult for you. it's all so...new for you, isn't it."

"heh. yeah. well...i could stand to not lose my temper so much. i haven't been great to you, either. which is a shame, since...you'll only be here for another month, and...i don't want us to just be fighting the whole time."

"no...i don't want that, either."

"we're still friends, right?"

"yes. of course."

"we'll always be friends?"

"i hope so."

"do you...still wanna try being something else later? or...do you still think i'm a dumbass?"

"ben.”

"hey, your words, not mine, sister.”

"...well. haha. maybe i do still think that."

"i mean. fair."

"but...maybe later this year, or next year, we could…try being something else."

"good. 'cause over the past couple weeks i've come to the unfortunate conclusion that...well…i do really like you a lot. love you, in fact, which almost physically pains me to admit out loud."

"you...do?"

"yeah. i do. i mean, c’mon, do you have any idea how cool you are? but, i gotta warn you...i'm kind of a huge mess."

"well...so am i, ben. i just hide it better than you do. and...i already know you are."

"mmkay, a little rude, but—also? fair.”

“haha.”

“so, uh...friends for the rest of the summer...and then…maybe something else later?"

"that sounds wonderful to me."

"...there's gonna be a lot to figure out, you know. like, i’m serious, fan. a lot. you…really think it’d be worth it? i mean, we don’t even know if we’d still be together, years from now.”

"ben...believe me when i say this: i love you. i have loved you. i have tried in vain not to love you. for you...i would weather any storm. it would bring a lot of new challenges, but...well...it would be much more challenging for me to try to live the rest of my life without you, i think."

“heh. i feel the same way about you, sis. s'pose that settles it, then.”

[sugarsnappeases]

KARAAAA BARTYLILY LIBRARY FIC PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE-

LAURIE MY LOVELY YOU CAN HAVE ANYTHING YOU WANT FROM ME ANYTIME YOU WANT!!!!!!

bartylily library is my silly little fic which i think about constantly and which is probs like. one of the most ambitious things i've ever decided to write.... it has Chapters.... i'm so bad at Chapters. but i love her anyway. she stems from this post i made in like december and she's been stewing beautifully in my head and has developed a lot since then so this post is just gonna be like. general deranged rambling lol

so. lily's coming back to her volunteering job at the library in her hometown after having been away at uni (she's second year, just finished the spring term and she's studying english lit). the library has always been a Big Part of her life, she would visit literally at least once a week and not just to get books but also for all the events that they put on like craft things and holiday clubs and film nights and the like.

and she's been volunteering there for the last five years, since she was fifteen, bc like. obviously she has. it's a bit of like trying to please her parents and demonstrate how responsible and brilliant she is, but also just the inevitable next step for a girl who semi-grew up in the library, but also something that will look good on her cv, but also something simple, easy, uncomplicated. it's a routine that she knows like the back of her hand, it's something into which she can fall after how intensely stressful her terms at uni are and something to which she can escape from the whole Petunia Scenario going on at home. and she's good at it and she loves it and she needs it.

this holiday. however. there's an Issue in the shape of one Bartemius Crouch Junior. who literally couldn't care a whit about the library or lily's routine or the ease and simplicity that she's been craving all term. he's a Nuisance. a Menace. a Bother. and he's ruining her life and she hates him but he's also an Enigma. and lily has always liked studying. analysing things. pulling apart words and actions. it's literally what she does for her degree.

also. as shown in the snippet i just posted, lily's trying to hold onto the hope that she can fix him and set the library to rights again but this doesn't really last very long bc he's just so entirely resistant to any attempt on her part to change him. like she's showing him seven times that these books go here, it's easy, it's dewey decimal, and yet he still insists on putting them in the wrong place and she knows he's just trying to rile her up and it's working bc he's just SO infuriating!!

but then also on top of that he's so Interesting!! like he's so charming, a little outrageous but still charming, to all the library-goers and to madam pince (the main librarian), and she's watching him when he's wandering around the stacks and taking mental notes of and then going around and looking at all the books that he had paused and looked at, surreptitiously checking out the ones she hasn't read

and when she comes into study on wednesdays (bc she's lame and three days in the library per week is Not Enough) he's wandering over to bother her but also chatting w her about the things she's studying (which i've decided is gonna reflect what the english students at my uni (it's all i know!!!) study in the summer term of second year. which is shakespeare. so i'm gonna have to come up w lots of things to say about ol' shakesy p. haven't studied him since i did my a level so this could be interesting... i do think that the hardest part about this fic is gonna be the Intellectual Literature Conversations, which i think there are gonna be a few of, bc the literature i have intellectual things to say about nowadays is all in italian and decidedly unhelpful for lily's english lit degree. although i'm planning to bring up michelangelo at one point. i just can't help myself i'm sorry. they're gonna discuss the silkworm poem...)

anyway. they eventually kiss lol. in the back room of the library where lily is trying to lecture barty on how he can't just endlessly point the old men in the wrong direction bc if he isn't careful they'll keel over before they find the books they're looking for. yk the vibe. and then there's a lot of visits to the park right next door to the library. it has a little duck pond in it, if you were wondering. and they go to a gig. and he skives off from the library to hang out w her.

oh also! his community service is like. two months and he's been there for a month already so he's got four weeks left. and lily's holidays are five weeks so there's a little goodbye thing for him at the library when lily's still gonna be there for a week if that makes sense. and then he shows up again to visit on the next monday grinning at lily like 'did you miss me?' and then she skives off one day and they go to the cinema and like wander around the shopping centre and she goes to his flat and has to walk of shame it into the library the next day. it's all very like. normal. but lily's never really had that and she feels a little like she's a girl in an american rom-com getting swept off her feet. like she's a little giddy and it's so easy, simple, uncomplicated etc etc etc

and anyway then she goes back to uni x

seriously tho i think about them all the time and this fic is gonna be such a labour of love and i'm so so so so excited about it!!! hope this like. makes sense and is interesting thank you so much for asking i love youuu

[idsb]

boi oh boi do I got some problems for anons to unpack with me tonight

When my current partner and I first got together (formally) in the late summer / early fall of 2020, he had JUST started part-time living at our friends house back in New England. He moved in, from New York, with her, because she had just ended a 10 year relationship and was mega-alone and mega-depressed. The beginning of this relationship was spent with him writing music with her as she coped with this breakup, etc. We were both sort of an emotional crutch for her while she had her (well deserved ffs) hoe phase, had her first boyfriend after the fact, they broke up, she spent some time alone and Worked On Herself, and then got into another relationship, which turned out to be a LTR.

I think I have posted on here (or maybe I haven't) about how hard I struggled with the fact that, after we moved to Montana and came back and the pandemic was declared "over", I moved back to NYC. He stayed in New England, and stayed there for another 2 years. I told him over and over and over and over again how driving back and forth to a place I was so burned by and had been longing to leave for my whole life (this friend lived, mind you, 10 minutes down the highway from my hometown), feeling so impermanent in NYC, the place I was trying to make my new home; never there enough time to establish anything real with anyone between tours and splitting time between NY and a place I resented, and it was killing me. Absolutely destroying me in every way. He had a lot of reasons which he thinks are justified but I don't agree with, and could nitpick how BS they are extra in hindsight (but won't here and am trying not to mentally do it irl): wanting to buy a house and liking that he lived somewhere for free + wanting to hang on to that as long as he could to save money for the house (v short summary, he was her employee for music stuff so she let him live there for free), he wanted a yard and a secluded home where he could make music loudly at any time of day in a way the city couldn't provide, etc. I begged him to move anywhere. I told him I'd leave NY, etc. We planned to move to Arizona, to Utah, back to Montana, but it kept getting pushed back to someday, someday, someday. This has long been litigated between us and forgiven, and he's been made to understand why it hurt me, and I can tell he's sorry about how it made me feel etc. so that's all fine.

Anyway, what finally DID make him move in with me was that this friend's LTR boyfriend wanted to move in, so he was kicked out. We, again, also, have long litigated the fact that this hurt me and made me feel like a consolation prize.

Now, though, this very same couple has just gotten engaged. And, okay, I know every couple moves at a different pace, obviously. That's a fact of life. But I've seen SO many couples, who got together LONG after we did, get engaged in the past year. That's the.... "normal" pace. I spent 5 years of my life in a different dead-end relationship already; and on this blog we've been over the numerous transgressions that made this current relationship sputter and stall out a few times like an almost-dead car engine. To be fair, me going to Australia for a year didn't help the "timeline" aspect, either. But I always justified the dead-end first LTR by saying, well, we got together when I was 17. Thank GOD we didn't get married! But how am I now here again, in a relationship that will, technically and as far as I'm concerned, be 5 years old in a few months, not one iota further than I was in the dead-end relationship from when I was 17? It doesn't feel right and it doesn't feel fair and even though the math is mathing and the things that happened in the past hurt and needed time to smooth them over, I find myself just so ANGRY that I've never been able to find and fall into something easy, like everyone else I know. I'm happy to have the prize I fought so hard for; I wanted it; I fought for it. But I look around at all the relationships that didn't start in complete disaster like mine did; girls who dated men with intense commitment issues and saw them for a waste of time, looking for the ones that were already ready and found them and slipped into something easy and simple and loving, and are already married off with that person. Why did I hurt myself so bad? Why did I fight so hard? Just to wind up triggered by waiting due to past events of this relationship and of the previous one; feeling unwanted as a result of lack of forward momentum, only waiting again now because of the WAY the waiting the first time fractured us and needed to be smoothed over? I don't know if I'm articulating it properly, but it fucking stings. And I don't say this to blame him because it's not his fault; not anymore, because he's more than atoned for all the Bad Stuff in the beginning. But that doesn't make the consequences that those things are having now any less real, and it doesn't help when I'm left to think about those things constantly while I attend wedding after wedding that isn't mine from relationship after relationship that started long after.

I also don't really feel like I can bring this up, because every SINGLE milestone of our relationship has been due to me begging for something to happen. I don't know how I can spend eternity in good consciousness if I do that to the last one too, and never get the satisfaction of knowing it was something he actually wanted. We're also also about to go on a trip in 2 weeks, and so I'm like, hey, maybe it'll happen there, but I want that feeling to come with EXCITEMENT, not relief and not some depressing just box to validate. And if I bring this up now, not only will I feel like it's forced, but I might shoot myself in the foot by causing another delay that fucks everything up to death,

UGH.

[sunflowervolvimp3]

from eden: I

A/N: alright SO!! if you were around in summer 2020, then you know I started planning and writing a witchrry au that got pushed to the back burner when drea and I began collabing on you're someone I just want around. that fic quickly took over our entire lives, and every other story got put on pause, including this one. flash forward to present day, where after finishing one degree, moving, finishing ANOTHER degree, and beginning a career in my profession, I finally have a bit of time to write again!! I'm so excited to FINALLY be able to share witchrry with you, as well as my first OC on here. I haven't officially written in...a long time, so I apologize if I'm a bit rusty. but any and all feedback is greatly appreciated!! letting content creators know that you're enjoying their content helps motivate us to create more 💌 I really hope you enjoy this story and these characters, because I have a lot planned for them!! someone asked me yesterday if this story was going to be fluff or if it was going to get twisty, and the answer is always, ALWAYS twisty, so I hope you stick around to see it 💌 also!! i would like to give a big thank you to drea for creating this beautiful banner and story dividers (graphic design is not my passion)!! go give her a follow @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy if you haven't already!!

masterlist : askbox : read on wattpad

word count: 15.7k

content/warnings: YOU get mommy issues!! and YOU get mommy issues!!! EVERYONE GETS MOMMY ISSUES!!!!, an overwhelming use of hand imagery, the normalization of talking to pets as if they can respond, Harry doesn't understand how to use figures of speech, drugs: just say no, time to meet the man of your dreams (literally), Rowan "well mark me down as scared AND horny!" Frances, and the beginning of a journey to see how many references to Practical Magic (1998) can be made in each chapter.

When Harry first stumbles through the door of the shop, the rain pounding on the roof is reaching biblical proportions, and Rowan is convinced that the universe is playing some sort of cosmic practical joke on her.

If the day, which had just entered it’s thirteenth hour, hadn’t already been bad enough—if she hadn’t already spilled coffee down her front, staining her favourite ivory shirt and forcing her to change; if she hadn’t already misplaced her favourite pen, the one with violet ink that glides so delightfully over the countless inventory forms she has to fill out; if she hadn’t already knocked over a flower arrangement that had taken two hours to construct and two seconds to destroy, shattering the sea-glass green vase that she had waited three weeks for in the mail; if none of that was enough—she had forgotten to flip the sign on the door to say that her floral shop was closed for lunch (which, because of her rush this morning, would be her first actual meal of the day), and now there is a soaking wet stranger standing in her doorway, who is shaking out his sopping hair with an urgent glance around the store, and his eyes settling on Rowan with unspoken need.

The moment she heard the bell of the door tinkle from his disturbance, Rowan had turned toward the entryway, a strained smile pasted to her face before she even made eye contact with the stranger. “I’m sorry, sir,” She says, her voice barely meeting sorry, and edging more on irritation with every passing moment. “But we’re actually closed for lunch. You can come back at two, if you’d like.”

The man—who is dripping all over her freshly cleaned hardwood floors, she notes wryly—looks up at her with a raised brow, as if he’s surprised to find that there’s someone inside the small shop. Perhaps he’s just flustered from being caught in the storm, Rowan thinks, because it’s clear that the rain has soaked straight through his thin army jacket and maroon knit sweater, and is coating his entire being in ice, right down to his bones. The rain had come on rather quickly; Rowan recalls hearing the sudden thundering outside just after she had shattered the beautiful vase. It makes sense that the man looks like he hadn’t been expecting it. In fact, he still looks rather unmoored as he runs his ring-covered hand through his sopping wet chestnut ringlets once more, his hunter eyes darting another round over the store before refocusing on Rowan.

“I’m very sorry to disturb,” Rowan is surprised to hear the silky British accent that slips from his raspberry mouth, the hue matching the ruddiness of his cheeks—a sure side-effect of the freezing weather in which he’d found himself caught. “But I’m in a bit of a hurry, and I was wondering if you had any yarrow flowers.”

Despite her mouth already open to inform the man that, once again, her shop is currently closed, his incredibly specific request makes Rowan pause. Yarrow flowers are hardly a popular arrangement choice for someone who’s annoyed their partner—which she assumes this man has, given the hurry that he says he’s in. Normally, when men show up in her shop with a desperate look on their faces and urgency in their voices, they’re searching for flowers such as roses, calla lilies, daisies—things known to bloom for love. Yarrow flowers, with their small clumps of pastel petals offset by long, wiry stems, hardly match that description. 

The curiosity peaking inside her chest, more than anything else, is what prompts Rowan to change the response that’s resting on the tip of her tongue. “I, um, may have some in the back,” She says slowly, as if feeling out the words as she utters them. “I use them as fillers, sometimes, in arrangements. I can…check for you, if you’d like.”

The man visibly breathes a sigh of relief, his face relaxing just the slightest bit as his shoulders slump beneath his soaked clothing. “That would be lovely, thank you. I’d really appreciate it.”

Rowan nods again, giving the man one last look of pensive confusion before stepping out from behind her (messy as usual) desk to make her way to the back of the store to the workshop. As her shoes echo against the wooden floor, she wonders if this is a smart idea; should she be leaving a strange man with even stranger requests unattended in her shop? Should she be turning her back on him while walking towards a private back room that contains multiple objects of the heavy and sharp variety? Objects that she’d hate to see catalogued by a forensics team when her body is eventually discovered with a pair of gardening shears protruding from her chest? 

Reaching the half-opened door of her workshop, Rowan pauses in the frame just long enough to glance back over her shoulder at the man. With her promise to check her inventory for his requested flowers, he’s allowed some of the tension to slip from his body, and is busying himself by extracting a leather journal from an inner pocket of his jacket to thumb through. No, Rowan decides as she studies his furrowed brow and focused gaze. The man, albeit a little strange, isn’t a potential 48 Hours suspect; he’s just a little frazzled by the unexpected events of the day, a feeling to which Rowan can relate. And perhaps, if she wasn’t as frazzled as she is, she would have noticed the peculiarity of the man’s entire person being soaked while the yellowed pages of his leather-bound journal remain completely dry. 

Or maybe she wouldn’t have. After all, she’d spent her entire life ignoring the irregularities around her. What’s one more anomaly to turn a blind eye to?

Rowan doesn’t bother to close the door behind her, knowing that she’ll only be spending a few minutes inside her slightly chaotic workshop. The long wooden table and decorating stations are just as she left them an hour ago—meaning they’re covered in tissue wrappings and loose, wilted petals, with clipped leaves and discarded stems littering the floor below her—and she bypasses the mess to pull open the heavy insulated door that leads to her freezer.

She shivers as she steps into the refrigerated room, pulling her cable-knit cardigan tighter around her shoulders as she begins to scan the alphabetized shelves. Rowan’s eyes quickly scan one label to the next until she finds the little label that says “yarrow” in her neat writing on the lower half of the second metal shelf, nestled neatly beside a pile of violets. There are only a few of the little white flowers left in her stock, enough for about two small bunches, so Rowan removes both from the shelf before stepping out of the freezer and shutting the door tightly behind her to preserve the other flowers that are stocked away.

Clutching the two miniature bouquets in her hands, Rowan nudges the door of her workshop open a bit more as she passes back under the frame, picking off a few browning petals from the blossoms. She wishes the blooms were fresher—it wouldn’t be easy for the man to make amends for whatever he had done if he showed up with wilted flowers. Still, Rowan thinks as she flicks the dried petals to the ground, it’s better than nothing, and hopes that the small bouquets will be enough to appease whoever the soaked stranger had managed to piss off. 

“I found a couple bunches, and I wasn’t sure how many you needed, so I brought both—” Rowan stops short as she enters the front of the shop again, expecting to find the man near the door where she had left him, but finds only a damp spot on the wood where he’d dripped after his entrance. “Hello?” Confusion settles into her voice as she tentatively steps forward again, her gaze sweeping the perimeter of her shop.

“Oh, thank you,” The voice emerges from around the corner and behind a shelf of succulents, making Rowan half jump in surprise, and a small and shocked gasp leaves her mouth as the curly haired man steps out from behind the greenery.

“Oh—!” She clutches the flowers to her chest, taking a deep breath and releasing a strained laugh at her own over the top reaction, the sound both an apology and a nervous tic that’s lingered from childhood. “You scared me.”

With his emerald eyes tinged with regret, the man offers a peacemaking smile that borders on a grimace as he peers at her from the aisle. “I’m sorry,” He says slowly, his voice accented with sincerity as he presses a tattooed hand to his soaked chest, as if needing to catch his own breath as well. While it’s the movement that originally catches Rowan’s eye, it’s the tattoo inked into his skin that keeps her attention—it’s a strange symbol, resembling nothing she’s ever seen before, and yet…something about the crossing of lines and gentle curves of ink seems familiar. 

Shaking herself out of her thoughts with a quick jerk of her head, Rowan offers a smile to the man in return for his apology. “It’s fine,” She eases her tone to match the tilt of her lips, holding out the previously requested flowers to him. “Will these be enough for you?”

The man’s strawberry lips rise to mirror Rowan’s smile as he gives a gentle nod, relief and gratitude dancing through his sea glass irises. “Yes, thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Rowan waves off the praise with a casual flick of her hand before beckoning him back towards the counter, doing her best to ignore the strange spark of pleasure in her belly upon hearing the stranger’s praise. “C’mon, I’ll just ring you up at the front.”

The man follows her to the front of the store, his polished shoes squeaking against the floor with every step and keeping his presence in her peripheral thoughts—as if Rowan could forget it. Reaching the counter, however, provides her with a familiar sense of comfort that she didn’t realize she’d been craving until the mahogany bench is between their two bodies. It’s strange, though, she thinks as she curls her fingers around the edge of the counter, drumming them once against the wood before beginning to ring in the flowers on her tablet that’s housed on the front counter. Despite the distance bringing her comfort, there’s a distinct sense of lack that comes with the separation; her eyes flicker to the stranger in front of her once again as she sets the bouquet of flowers onto the tissue paper lying in front of her. The brunette man is searching for his wallet in his rain drenched pockets, extracting a misted phone and the surprisingly dry journal from his jacket in his vain efforts. His eyes flicker to hers in apology, his smile growing back into a sheepish lilt as he clutches the objects within one hand while still searching with the other.

“I know I have it—somewhere—” He mutters, his drenched locks curling into his eyes as his head drops back down to examine his clothing. “Sorry, I’m usually—a little more organized than this, I swear—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Rowan offers the usual method of banter she employs with customers, in which she just agrees and relates to anything they say to put them at ease. It’s a little fake, to be sure, but what isn’t fake about customer service? It’s not like she can roll her eyes each time someone makes the “it must be free!” joke when her debit machine takes a moment to boot up. “It’s been a strange day for everyone, I think. I spilled coffee all over myself, knocked over arrangements…and then to top it all off, the weather began to act up, when it had been so nice for the last few days.”

Cocking his head to the side, the stranger considers her small talk for a moment—which is more than most customers have ever considered her in her life. The curiosity of his gaze ignites that unfamiliar feeling again, once more making her contrastingly thankful and remorseful for the mahogany barrier between them. “Yes, it has been strange,” Despite the lightness of his tone, Rowan doesn’t miss the way his eyes shift a hue darker as he speaks. “Certainly seemed to come out of no—got it!”

The florist watches as he triumphantly extracts a brown wallet embossed with a marking she doesn’t recognize (a brand logo, perhaps? For a company more luxurious than she’s used to?), tucking the rest of his items back into his jacket with one swift motion. 

“Wonderful,” Rowan means every syllable of the word as she begins to key in the purchase on her tablet, her expert fingers tapping away as relief flows through her body, both from having a new center of attention, and knowing that she’ll be able to really take her lunch break soon. “I’ll ring those in for you—” 

 “That’s an interesting marking,” The man interrupts her focus with the offhand comment, and when her gaze snaps up to him once more, she finds him nodding to the door of the shop as his ringed fingers open his wallet. “Do you know what it means?”

Rowan tears her eyes from his flushed skin to where his own gaze rests, settling her sights on the top of the door frame, where a black hand painted symbol sits in stark contrast with the white of the walls. “Oh, it’s just something my mom used to draw all the time,” She explains with a shrug, dismissing the symbol as her eyes turn back from the familiar six petal flower wrapped in a circle to the questioning man in front of her. “She used to say it was for protection of homes, so when I opened the shop, I figured…well,” Rowan offers a sheepish smile in return for her superstitious explanation. “New York can be a dangerous place. It can’t hurt to have extra protection, right?”

Not for the first time, an undecipherable response flits through the man’s hunter eyes, but it disappears just as quickly as it appears, before Rowan can make anything of it. “Right,” He agrees quickly, his nod more serious than it had been a moment before. “You can never have too much protection.”

Although his words echo the very phrase Rowan just spoke, something about his cadence of voice gives the simple saying a double meaning. The florist ponders it for a moment, her eyes searching the stranger’s as much as she dares, but decides it’s best not to pry. It’s not her place, really. She doesn’t know this man, and she doubts he’d bother to recommend her shop to anyone he knows if she tries to interrogate him over his expressions.

Clearing her throat, Rowan decides it’s time to change the subject, and refocuses her attention to the task at hand. “So, um—” She glances back down at her tablet, forcing herself to remember her usual spiel with her customers. “I’ll just need your name for records—your first name, if you don’t mind. It just helps me with counting and keeping track of stock.”

“That’s no problem,” The tone of his voice flips back to something more casual with ease as he rakes a hand through his damp curls once more. “My name is Harry.”

“Harry…” Rowan quickly types the simple name into her inventory logs before setting her tablet down on the counter. With nimble and practiced fingers, she begins to wrap the yarrow flowers in tissue, but Harry interrupts her with a shake of his head.

“Actually,” He gives an apologetic smile—something he seems to do a lot, she’s noticed (not that she’s noticed much about him, she tells herself). “I don’t need any wrapping for them; I’ll be using them right away, and I’d hate to waste the tissue.”

“Oh,” Rowan’s movements pause at his request, and she removes the flowers from the wrapping carefully before handing the bouquet to Harry. “Are you sure? It’s still pouring, and the rain will ruin them…”

The stranger—Harry, she reminds herself—waves away her concern with an unbothered flick of his hand. “Yeah, it’s alright. I’m going to be pulling apart the blossoms anyway.”

“You’re—” Despite the majority of this interaction being the strangest she’s had in a long time, this is the first comment of the man that’s made Rowan pause completely. Were these flowers not a gift for someone, like she’d originally assumed? “What?”

“I needed yarrow blossoms for a little…project of mine,” The molasses-like speed at which Harry utters the words gives Rowan the impression that he’s choosing them very carefully, and the florist can’t help but wonder what explanation pertaining to flowers would ever need to be so carefully considered. “Normally I keep a stock of them, but I ran out last month and forgot to order more, and I was in the middle of my project by the time I realized…” As if realizing he’s beginning to ramble, Harry offers another shy tilt of his lips before laughing lightly at his own antics. “Well, anyways, I don’t need the wrapper. But I really appreciate the help; I know I kept you open past your usual hours.”

The strange—albeit rambling—explanation leaves Rowan speechless for a moment as she debates whether or not it’s worth questioning Harry more about his project—what kind of project would so urgently need yarrow flowers? What kind of project would be worth running out into this increasingly raging storm, soaking oneself clean to the bone just to retrieve the small bouquet currently clenched in Harry’s hand?

A project that’s none of your business, Rowan tells herself firmly. None of your business. “It’s—don’t worry about it,” She straightens her spine in resolution, mimicking his earlier action of waving off concern as he sets a twenty dollar bill down on the counter. “Oh—no, it was only twelve dollars, actually—”

“Keep the change. As a thank you.” Harry tucks his wallet back into his pocket, as if his soaked jacket could do much to protect the object from the rain. “Oh, by the way—” His jade irises brighten once more as he extracts his tattooed hand from his pocket, holding out an object to Rowan in offering. “I found this on the floor—meant to give it to you…”

Grasped between his long, lithe fingers (that she is not staring at. Not in the slightest.) is Rowan’s favourite pen—the one with violet ink that glides so delightfully over the countless information forms she has to fill out. Her mouth drops open as realization lights up her face, and she retrieves the pen from him with a new and genuine smile painted on her lips. “Oh, I’ve been looking for this! It’s my favourite.” Clicking it once as if to test if it’s working, Rowan regards the soaked man with newly warmed eyes. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry’s expression molds to match her own the moment their eyes meet, and he tucks the flowers under his arm before sheathing his hands within his pockets. “No need to thank me, Rowan. I’ll be seeing you soon.” His shoes click against the ground as he retreats back to the front door, casting one last glance at the floral symbol painted over his head before pushing the barrier open. “Stay dry, alright?”

Rowan nods automatically, repeating the phrase back to him as she waves goodbye with her pen still grasped between her fingers. The moment the door closes behind him, her previous hunger returns with more insistence than before, turning her stomach and effectively erasing all aspects of the strange meeting with the reminder that she needs to walk upstairs to her apartment to find something to eat.

It’s not until she’s sitting at her kitchen table, her cat sprawled languidly across her lap as she takes a bite of her cobb salad, that she realizes she had never told Harry her name.

…

“Oh, Christ—Butternut!”

The ginger cat scatters from underneath Rowan’s feet as the girl manages to catch herself on the edge of the kitchen counter, using the fern green cabinets to support her weight as she regains her balance. With one hand still holding the cat’s plastic food dish, Rowan uses the other to push herself away from the counter with a roll of her eyes, and resumes walking to the corner of the small kitchen to set the food dish down in its regular spot as Butternut watches from beneath a kitchen chair

“There you go,” Rowan sighs in exasperation as Butternut scurries from his hiding spot to the dish she’s just set down, and begins to feast on his wet and dry mix while Rowan brushes her fingers over his soft auburn fur. “You have to learn how to be patient, you know that?” She murmurs with a quirk of her brow. “You’d think after ten years, you’d have figured that out.”

The cat meows in response at her between bites of his food, and Rowan smiles softly as she gives one last stroke to his plush fur before straightening herself up and grabbing her mug of tea from the kitchen counter. It takes her the usual three steps to reach the small living room of her apartment, and she sets her mug on its usual spot on the coffee table as she grabs her journal from the couch, where she’d left it that morning, just as she always does when she realizes she’s running late for work. She’d hoped that owning her own flower shop would have cured her of her perpetual lateness that had plagued her childhood, but it seems that her lack of punctuality is just one of the many traits she’d inherited from her mother, in addition to being one of her least favourite traits she’d inherited from her mother.

“What did you get up to while I was at work today, Butternut? Anything interesting?” Rowan asks, only half-rhetorically as she picks up her mug again once settled into the couch. “Any important business I should know about?”

Rowan receives the usual meow in reply, and she hums thoughtfully in the back of her throat as she takes a small sip of tea. The boiling liquid scalds her tongue just the way she’s grown accustomed to—another trait she picked up from her mother, who had had a habit of setting down her teacups and promptly forgetting their existence for the better part of an hour. Drinking the piping hot liquid immediately, Rowan had learned the hard way, saves her the disgruntlement that comes with discovering ice-cold tea three hours after she’s made it. 

Blowing over the steaming mug, Rowan watches as Butternut continues to munch on his food. “I thought as much,” She replies to the cat seriously, giving Butternut a stern look as he continues to eat his food and pay her little regard. “I told you to stay away from Mrs. Piper’s cat, didn’t I? We both know Zipper is a bit of a heart breaker, and I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

Butternut squeaks out another meow, this one sounding more indignant than the last, which Rowan greatly appreciates. It’s easier to talk to the cat without sounding crazy, she rationalizes (as she has hundreds of times before), when the cat’s responses vary in tone, as if he can actually understand her.

“You’re a glutton for punishment, you know that?” Rowan clicks her tongue as she opens her journal, reading over her messily scrawled entry from that morning that she had barely managed to finish. “I’m just trying to look out for your best interests, and—”

A tapping sound from outside the living room window interrupts Rowan’s one-sided conversation, and she twists her head towards the source of noise with curiosity sparking across her face. When the tapping occurs again, sharper and more insistent this time around, Rowan stands up urgently, nearly spilling her tea in her haste to set down the mug and walk the short distance to the window. Although she can’t see anything that could have caused the noise when she arrives in front of the pane, Rowan’s curiosity is still unsatisfyingly unsatiated, and she quickly flips the latch on the window in order to push it open, the half-rusted mechanics squeaking in protest as they always do before she leans out towards her fire escape. 

With half her body now hanging out of her living room window, Rowan swiftly scans over the familiar view of Greenwich Village. Having lived in the Village her entire life, Rowan has to admit that there’s a satisfying, pleasurable comfort in her stomach every time she looks at the skyline of the neighbourhood. It’s a feeling of home, she thinks, as well as belonging, and she knows that she could never find anywhere else quite like it. There was a reason that her mother chose this as the place to settle down after moving from London; she had always told Rowan that the city called to her, even from across the Atlantic Ocean, like a siren stringing her towards her deepest desires. And when Rowan has the honour of watching the orange autumn sun sink down in the sky, staining the tops of buildings in a burnt glaze, she feels the same call. And, in a perhaps more easily explainable way, the Village reminds her of her mother. She’d never be able to leave it, even if she wanted to.

A now familiar tapping pulls Rowan from her admiration of the city she’s called home for her entire life, and the young woman cranes her neck to the left just in time to settle her eyes on the source of the sound, her brows creasing together in bemusement as she does so.

The crow perched on the edge of her fire escape has to have the blackest and shiniest feathers that Rowan has ever seen. The onyx tone of its wings is accented by the golden light of the setting sun, which sparkles in the creature’s knowledgeable eyes. Knowledgeable, Rowan observes, because the crows eyes seem to meet her own, both with purpose and some sort of recognition. 

Rowan cocks her head to the side as she engages in the staring contest with the bird, her state of mind growing more and more confused and unsettled with every passing moment. Were crows known to be the kind of bird that stared back at you? She wondered, her mouth opening and closing as she pondered the question without speaking it aloud. And were they not skittish? Rowan had made enough ruckus as she opened her window that she would have thought the bird would have long flown away by now, and yet, its piercing black eyes continue to stare back at her own. It’s ridiculous, and she knows this, but Rowan can’t make herself look away. Who loses a staring contest to a crow? She scoffs internally, leaning a little further over the ledge of her window. She refuses to be the first to blink. Surely it’s not that hard to outlast a bird; after all, she’s the one with a brain bigger than a ping bong ball. She can outlast a bird in a staring contest. Not that any sane person would ever actually challenge a bird to a staring contest, of course, but Rowan is sure stranger things have happened. And, furthermore, she’s not the one who started this. If anything, the bird challenged her—winning the imagined contest is a matter of honour.

And then Butternut jumps out the window, effectively breaking her perfect concentration, and sets all hell loose.

If Rowan hadn’t been so distracted by the crow’s strange behaviour, she would have remembered the dangers that come with leaving her window wide open as she had. Part of the reason the old mechanisms had squeaked so much when she yanked the fixture open was that she—save the few times she’d burned something while cooking and had to air out her apartment from the smoke of her failed dinner endeavors—very rarely opened the window more than a crack. Just as Rowan has a long list of troubling habits, so does Butternut, and one of those habits includes jumping out of open windows and giving Rowan a heart attack. 

The young florist had discovered this habit the first day she met him when she was twelve years old and found him wandering the streets of New York. His burnt orange coat had been speckled with mud and dirt, grown long from what seemed to be months of a lack of attention, but that hadn’t stopped her from scooping the surprisingly pliant cat into her arms and carrying him home to her mother. She’d been prepared to beg and plead on behalf of the animal and her right to keep him, but as it turned out, that hadn’t been necessary; all it took was one look at the poor creature, and Winnifred began to fill the copper sink with hot water and soap to bathe him. Rowan had been delighted at her mother’s acceptance of the new pet—until said pet jumped from the counter and out their kitchen window, which had been open to release steam from the soup Winnifred had been making. To this day, Rowan remembers peering out the window with horror as Butternut scurried along the ledge outside of their sixth floor apartment, and how she’d had to coax him back to safety with strings of shredded cheese. As terrifying as it had been, however, Rowan had learned her lesson—if Butternut is in the room, windows have to be closed. There had been a few close calls over the years, but never anything as bad as that first day, when she thought she would lose her new friend before she’d even had the chance to truly befriend him.

Until now.

The moment Butternut’s paws meet the rusted metal of the fire escape, he bounds after the crow, leaping for the ledge of the fire escape before Rowan can even absorb what’s happening. The crow, however, doesn’t have the same processing delay that she does, and flies away before the cat can sink a claw into his shiny feathers. Unfortunately, Butternut has always been determined, and by the time Rowan has scurried out through the window and onto the fire escape, Butternut has already begun bounding down the rusted metal steps and onto the street below.

“Fuck—” Rowan curses loudly, nearly tripping over herself in her hurry to clamber back from the window ledge and into her apartment. Grabbing only her keys from the catch-all table by her door, Rowan throws open the door of her apartment and slams it behind her, not bothering to check if it’s locked before hurling herself towards the stairwell of her building. 

Brushing her chestnut hair out of her eyes as she rounds the corner of the stairwell, Rowan has to give credit where credit is due; for a cat that’s over a decade old, Butternut moves fast, and that knowledge only incites more intensity in the girl as she tears through the stairwell and onto the street. Rowan pants as she surveys the bustling crowds, scouring the bottom of every black and grey raincoat until she just barely catches the yellowish hue of Butternut’s tail disappearing around the corner.

“Butternut!” She yells loudly, receiving a scoff and a dirty look from an old lady whose ear she’d just accidentally yelled in. “Sorry, ma’am, I just—sorry!” Rowan offers one more quick apology before dashing down the street towards Butternut. “Come back!”

Although she does her best to avoid pedestrians around her in her pursuit of her pet, Rowan still manages to ram her shoulders into four different people as she runs through the crowded Greenwich Village street. She spits out speedy apologies whenever she does so, her hickory eyes flashing with what she hopes is sincerity and not annoyance, but she doesn’t stop to say anything more; already, Butternut is disappearing in a sea of New Yorker ankles, and she’s worried that if she doesn’t grab him soon, someone else will.

After five blocks of pursuit—how does an aging cat have better stamina than she does?—Butternut seems to disappear completely, his fluffy tail nowhere in sight amongst the throngs of people. Rowan slows her pace to a light jog, her legs aching and lungs burning in protest as she pants so loud that passersby keep giving her concerned stares. There’s a feeling of dread beginning to coil itself around Rowan’s intestines, and she’s not sure if it’s the fear of losing Butternut, or the oncoming asthma attack, but it nearly doubles Rowan over as she struggles to move breath in and out of her lungs.

“I need—to work—out more—” Rowan puffs to herself, folding one hand over her stomach as she continues to push her way through the crowded sidewalk at a reduced pace. “I—” Her eyes widen as she spies an amber tail among the crowds. “Butternut!”

Although her loud exclamation once again startles an old lady (seriously, just how many old ladies are wandering around the village right now?), Rowan doesn’t stop to apologize this time, and instead simply offers a flash of an apologetic grimace before jogging after the fluff of golden fur that she just caught ducking into the open door of a shop.

Still wheezing loudly when she reaches the storefront, Rowan manages to crane her neck up to catch sight of the sign above her. The white washed wood plank with dark green letters reads Verbena & Birch Apothecary, and Rowan only takes a moment to admire the craftsmanship that must have gone into carving the plant sprigs next to the logo before she remembers the reason she’s here, and yanks the wooden door open to run inside.

“Butternut?” She calls out, still breathless from her impromptu marathon down the streets of Greenwich Village. “C’mon, stinky—” Her eyes scan over the countless shelves lined with delicate-looking glass bottles, and a feeling of dread grows in her stomach as she tucks her wild locks behind her ears. All it would take is one pounce from Butternut to destroy everything on these shelves, something she wouldn’t put past the mischievous cat that just scampered down five city blocks. “You can’t be in here! Let’s go!”

Rowan pauses for a moment and listens closely for the sound of familiar paws against the wooden floor, or the usual indignant meowed response when she calls Butternut stinky, or any sign that the cat is wandering the breakable-filled store, but hears nothing save for her own laboured breathing. Bracing her hand against her heaving stomach again, Rowan lets out a groan, hanging her head and letting her hair fall into her face as she bends over, submitting to another cramp that’s working its way through her insides.

“Does he belong to you?”

The lilting British accent that rings through the quiet shop pricks Rowan’s ears with familiarity as she snaps herself back into more appropriate posture, her palm still massaging her belly over her shirt. “What—?” Rowan whips her head around, searching for the source of the voice behind the towering shelves surrounding her. A flicker of movement from the corner of her eye catches her attention, and Rowan turns slowly towards a tower of white candles organized in glass jars as the owner of the disembodied voice emerges from behind it.

The first thing Rowan notices—to her immense relief—is Butternut happily situated in the man’s arms, purring contentedly as he stretches out languidly, seemingly pleased by the stranger’s body heat. This odd response is the second thing Rowan notes, as Butternut has never had an affinity for those he doesn’t know, and usually prefers to claw at strangers rather than flop over within their grasps. The third thing that Rowan notices, however, might be the oddest thing of all; the stranger in front of her is, in fact, no stranger at all.

Or, at the very least, she’s met him before.  Although his clothing isn’t soaked to the bone from a surprise thunder storm, his curls a bit lighter in colour and bouncier than ever when dry, and his cheeks displaying a tint of rosiness to them in the heat of the shop, Rowan recognizes Harry the moment she’s able to get a good look at him, even before noting the forest green apron with his name embroidered in the corner over his white t-shirt and tan cardigan. It’s his eyes, she thinks, cocking her head to the side as she appraises the familiar young man in front of her. The way his jade irises appear to swirl and shift in the light filtering through the storefront windows is so unmistakable that it’s branded into Rowan’s head from just their one brief meeting. And if the way those eyes are crinkling in the corners as his expression twists into a grin, Rowan can tell that Harry recognizes her, as well.

“Yes,” The florist finally replies to him, breathing a sigh of relief as she steps towards him. “Yes, that’s my cat. I’m so sorry, he just escaped from my apartment and ran all the way here, and I couldn’t stop him before he got inside—”

“It’s alright,” Harry assures her with a small smile that tugs at the corner of his reddened lips as he scratches Butternut behind his ears. “Worse things have stepped into this shop, I can assure you. And given how cute this particular intruder is, I can’t bring myself to mind it.”

Rowan’s upturned lips, while tentative, slowly lift to match the grin on his face as the full relief of knowing that Butternut is safe washes over her. “Thank you, really,” She reaches out and scoops Butternut into her arms, pressing the cat into her chest protectively while ignoring the burning feeling of Harry’s fingertips brushing over her own. “He didn’t break anything?”

“Oh, no, everything’s fine,” Harry says easily, waving one nail polished hand without an air of concern or notice of the contact. “No harm, no foul, and all that.”

“That’s a relief,” Rowan bounces Butternut in her arms absentmindedly as she glances around the shop, appraising the fragile wares more thoroughly than she had when she first entered. “His second worst habit after jumping out of windows is breaking things, and a lot of things here seem breakable.”

Rowan isn’t exaggerating for effect. Now that the relief of finding Butternut has uncoiled her stomach and she can take a moment to really look around the shop, she’s amazed that she managed to collect him without paying a small fortune for items destroyed in his wake. Every wall of the store is lined with a wooden built-in shelf, each one filled with an assortment of products, with the types of products varying from each wall. It’s much more organized than she’d thought at her first glance, and she allows herself a moment to sweep over each product with errant curiosity.

The wall to her left has shelves labeled with what she assumes are different kinds of teas, sorted by their uses, such as “awake and alive,” “blood pressure support,” and “happy tummy,” as well as sorted by flavour and blend. Another shelf is lined with small dropper bottles labeled with various types of oils, and the shelf to the right of that one is lined with small brown bottles labeled as various tinctures. The opposite wall to her right hosts a wide variety of salves and balms, also sorted by uses such as “super healing,” “anti-anxiety,” and “mood boost.” Along the back wall are rows of bulk bins usually found in the grocery store, except these bins are filled with large amounts of ground dried herbs, all labeled neatly to match everything else in the store. Despite the great quantities, however, there are also jars filled with unground herbs still attached to their host plants sitting neatly above the bins. The last wall, however, has the greatest variety of anything else in the store, and stocks row upon row of various crystals, stones, and minerals, all hosting neat labels with their properties and meanings underneath the names. And if all that product wasn’t enough—enough to pique her interest as well as her anxiety at the thought of Butternut roaming free in here—there’s stand-alone shelves throughout the store, displaying more tinctures, oils, and products, as well as candles, incense, and things that Rowan can’t even put a name to.

If Harry’s tone when he interrupts her observations is any indication, then her curiosity about the products is written clear across her face. “See anything interesting?” He asks conversationally, tucking his ringed hands into the pockets of his apron.

“I’d think it’s all interesting,” Rowan murmurs in reply, keeping a firm grasp on Butternut as she steps closer to a shelf of incense, squinting her eyes to read the—quite messy—handwritten labels. “What is all this stuff?”

“Well, they’re a wide variety of things, but to put it simply…they’re natural and organic products. I make them all here, in the back of my shop,” Harry untucks one hand to motion his thumb over his shoulder as he watches Rowan lean down to smell the incense, Buttercup meowing indignantly in her arms as she tightens her grip once more. “Well, except for the incense and candles. I have a supplier in Brooklyn that provides those for me, as well as some of the herbs. But all the oils and balms…I make those in house.”

Rowan doesn’t miss the hint of pride that lingers in the back of Harry’s voice, nor can she blame him for it. If she’d concocted all of this, she’d have more than just a hint of pride. “You make these?” Rowan repeats back in amazement, walking slowly to another shelf, this one housing a variety of creams and balms. Each row has a neatly labeled tester pot, and she runs her finger over the cool glass of the jars as she reads the labels out loud. 

“‘Patience’… ‘prosperity’… ‘protection’…” Rowan tilts her head towards Harry and raises a brow as the alphabetized names fall from her tongue. “How does a cream offer protection? Protection from what? Dry skin?”

The corner of Harry’s lips twitch. “Well, yes. Among other things,” He strides over to stand next to her, picking up the tester jar labeled “protection,” and dips a jewelled finger into the surface of the light cream. “May I?” He requests, extending his other hand to her.

“Oh, uh…” Rowan shifts Butternut’s weight to her left arm, freeing up her right arm for Harry to take between his fingers. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

Harry’s left hand grips her wrist with a warm and gentle touch, the curves of his fingers molding into the shape of her body easily. Despite feeling it a few moments earlier, Rowan isn’t prepared for the strange feeling that hums up and down her arm when Harry’s skin meets her own. Her walnut irises capture his own hunter pair, and the question that flashes through them quickly tells her that she’s not the only one noticing the buzz.

Harry, however, seems to be better at keeping his expression unreadable, because as soon as the question appears in his own eyes, it disappears again, his gaze returning to her hand. His fingers begin to dance over her wrist as he carefully rubs the cool balm into her skin, and Rowan watches the practiced motion for a moment before her attention slips to the strange tattoo that occupies the back of his hand, the one that she’d noticed in her own shop a few days before. It almost seems to dance over his skin, flexing and flowing with the movement of his muscles as he works the cream into her own palm. 

If the smell of sage and sandalwood filling the air hadn’t distracted her, Rowan might have begun to center her attention on the lithe movements of Harry’s calloused fingers over her hand, and how warm and welcoming his touch felt along her body, which would have led to her thinking about his hands traveling up her arm, following the natural line of her body to her collar bones, and then—  

 “That smells so good,” She says quickly, struggling to keep her voice balanced and even as she allows the fragrance to fill her senses, rather than her thoughts, which seem to be getting away from her at the moment. “Is that sage?”

Admittedly, the smell is quite distracting all on its own, even without Harry’s tantalizing touch working the scented balm into her skin, but Rowan can’t help but think that the relaxed and tranquil feeling flowing through her body has less to do with aromatherapy and more to do with the way Harry’s fingertips are pressing between her knuckles. Despite her brief encounters with him, there’s a familiar feeling in the way they interact; when he touches her, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable or unfamiliar, like the touch of a stranger should feel. Instead, the sensation that hums over her skin and settles inside her chest reminds her of the warm burn of a hearth, as if her body were a home that has been waiting for him to arrive and light the fire for the night that will keep the dark and damp away.

“I’m glad you think so,” Harry’s low and lilting voice cuts through Rowan’s trance as he rubs the last of the cream into her skin. Although his fingers cease their gentle massage, he still keeps her wrist clasped within his hand, the pad of his thumb brushing over her knuckles absentmindedly. 

“I make the oils for these myself. This one has some sage, angelica, clove, and sandalwood. I mix it with organic cocoa butter, organic coconut oil, and beeswax from my supplier in Brooklyn, and melt it all together while—” Harry stops talking abruptly, his poetry-like tone cutting off with a nervous glance and a sheepish smile. “Actually, I shouldn’t be telling you all this. S’a trade secret, you know. If I tell you, then you might tell someone else, and soon I’ll be boarding up my windows because everyone is cooking up their own balms in their kitchens. Won’t have any need for me anymore.”

Rowan, who had been more focused on the hypnotic cadence of Harry’s voice to process exactly what he’d been saying, offers a half-hearted laugh as she shifts Buttercup within her arm. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” She does her best to reassure him, but it’s hard to sound convincing when Harry squeezes her hand within his own, because for some reason, Harry is still cradling her wrist, which only stokes the hearth within her chest. “I don’t really understand it, anyways. You said it…offers protection?” Rowan blinks at his simple nod of explanation. “Um…protection from what?” 

Harry loosely lifts his shoulders into a noncommittal shrug. “Anything, really. Whatever the wearer feels like they need protection from.”

“Okay, but…if I felt like I needed protection from…I don’t know, a robber…” Rowan spins an imaginary scenario as she speaks, shifting Butternut in her arm once more as the cat begins to fuss (she should extract her hand from Harry’s. It would make holding him a lot easier). “How would a cream protect me from that?”

“It’s not so much the cream as what it’s made from,” Picking up the jar again with his free hand (despite his eyes flickering to the increasingly annoyed cat within her grasp, he still hasn’t relented his own grasp on her), Harry twists the container so that the ingredient list faces Rowan, leaving him to speak from memory as he recites it. “Sage, angelica, clove, sandalwood…all of those things have protective properties. Their aromas bring comfort and tranquility to those who smell them. Using them in a cream allows their fragrance to go anywhere with the wearer, so it can bring continual comfort. Think about that symbol above your door, the one you said your mum used to draw. That was for protection, wasn’t it? It’s the same idea.”

“Oh…” Realization sparks in Rowan’s mind as she glances around the shop again, taking in every item with newly opened eyes. “Oh. Like in a metaphysical sense, right? Like how lavender is meant to bring luck?”

Harry’s brows arch up in surprise at the connection as he sets the jar back on the shelf. “Exactly like that, yes,” He says slowly, his emerald eyes watching Rowan’s renewed examination carefully as he finally relinquishes her wrist. “How did you know that?”

Rowan clutches Buttercup tighter to her chest, and while the movement is easier with both arms at her disposal, she can’t deny that she misses the sensations Harry’s touch provided her. “It’s another thing my mom told me when I was a kid. She always kept a little lavender plant in a window box.” Her eyes settle on the glass bottle filled with lavender sprigs on the shelf nearest to her, the sight jogging memories she hadn’t played in her mind in quite some time. “She used to make me lavender and chamomile tea when I was a kid, because I had trouble sleeping sometimes. It always knocked me right out,” The florist shrugs lightly. “You know, looking back, she probably mixed in some Nyquil too, but…”

Although Harry offers a small chuckle at her joke, the sound that falls from his mouth is strained, and when Rowan turns her attention back to the man again, his face has shifted into an expression she can’t read. His previously relaxed brow has furrowed and creased, and his cherry lips have transformed from an easygoing grin to a thin pursed line. The dimples that had adorned his rosy cheeks have all but disappeared, and without them, Harry looks ten years older, and ten times more intimidating.

Rowan clears her throat in an attempt to ease the newfound tension. “That—that was a joke,” She mumbles with a weak laugh, stroking the amber fur of Butternut’s back as he fusses once more. “She, uh, she didn’t do that.” Turning back to the shelf of teas, Rowan scans over the labels swiftly to find one like she’d described. “You sell one too, huh? A bedtime tea?”

Harry gives a terse nod of his head as his eyes follow the gesture of Rowan’s chin, his gaze seemingly glued to every one of her actions. “I do, yeah. Would you—?” Although he cuts off the question before he can even ask it, he only pauses to run his tongue over his darkened lips once before beginning again. “Would you like to try some? I can make a little sample tin for you. Or…” When his irises meet her own, Rowan finds they’ve shifted once more, moving further and further from the brightness she’d first seen upon their initial meeting. “If there’s nothing here you’d like to try…I live above the shop, in the flat upstairs,” He jerks his chin upwards, as if the motion is supposed to convince her he’s telling the truth. “I’ve been testing out some new blends that you might like, if you want to try them…?”

The sudden invitation to come up to his apartment isn’t exactly unwanted, but still leaves Rowan taken aback nevertheless. It’s not so much the invitation itself, Rowan reasons, her fingers massaging down Butternut’s back lightly, but the way it was delivered. Every interaction she’s had with Harry so far has felt organic, as natural and easy as breathing. This, however…this request feels anything but. “Oh. Uh—”

“You’re under no obligation, of course,” Harry clarifies, straightening the jars on the shelf while his cheeks stain a darker shade of crimson. “I just thought—you may like to see more of—of some things I’ve made, or—”

“No, I would!” Rowan’s heart hammers in her chest as Harry stumbles over his words, the apparent anxiety in his strained explanation endearing him in a way she hadn’t expected. “I would, and it sounds wonderful, but…” She raises Butternut in her arms in lieu of an explanation. She’s not exactly sure what’s bothering him, but from the way he’s been fussing throughout their entire conversation—especially when he’d behaved so well while in Harry’s arms—it’s clear that there’s somewhere he wants to run to. Or something he wants to run from. “I should be getting this guy home.”

A sheepish look paints itself onto Harry’s features, dragging down his eyes and creased brow, and before Rowan can say anything else, an apology tumbles from his downturned lips. “Right, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—to make you uncomfortable—”

“I’m not uncomfortable!” Rowan assures him just as quickly, giving a firm shake of her head as reinforcement. “I—actually, I’m very comfortable with you, which is strange, given we just met—” Her own cheeks flush at the candid admission, growing to match Harry’s in hue. “But I just—I have to get Butternut home, but—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, it’s fine—”

“But if you’re free tomorrow afternoon, I’d love to come over for tea.”

Harry’s hasty apologies cut off before they can echo out of his throat, the unspoken words practically visible as they hang on the tip of his tongue. “You would?”

“I would,” Rowan confirms, the corners of her lips tugging up at the endearingly dumbfounded expression that sweeps over Harry’s entire face. “Maybe 2 o’clock, if that works for you?”

Tugging on his chestnut curls as his grin begins to grow once more, Harry gives a sharp nod of agreement. “That would be wonderful, yeah. I’ll see you here at 2 o’clock.”

…

At 1:59PM the next day, Rowan stands beneath the cream and hunter sign reading Verbena and Birch Apothecary, and re-evaluates her life choices. 

She’d like to consider herself a smart girl. Her mother had raised her to be thoughtful, introspective, and aware of her surroundings, as well as the people in them. If she had a bad vibe from Harry, or believed him to be dangerous in any way, she would turn on her heel and march back down the streets of the Village until she reached her own apartment. Or, even more, she probably wouldn’t have left her apartment in the first place, and would have let 2 o’clock come and go without a second guess. But Harry hasn’t given her any reason to think that he could hurt her; if he’d wanted to hurt her, it would’ve been much easier to have dragged her upstairs the day before. No one had seen her quickly ducking into his shop, and she’d been so busy chasing Butternut that she hadn’t told anyone where she was going. Their meeting today, however, has been pre-planned, meaning that Harry could assume that she’s told someone where she’s gone, or at the very least, left a note in her apartment in case police search it after she goes missing. There’s no reason for her to be concerned.

Then again, Rowan remembers the stranger danger lessons given to her in elementary school by New York police officers, and is reminded once more that the decision she’s making is probably a stupid one.

It’s just… Rowan touches the stone pendant hanging around her neck. The shining tiger’s eye had belonged to her mother before she passed, and Rowan could remember her rubbing a worried thumb over the smooth surface any time something was troubling her. Rowan herself thumbs over the honey-streaked stone, her own brow furrowing. Just.

It’s just Harry. It’s just something about him, something coded within his emerald eyes that makes her question everything she’d been taught. Of course she shouldn’t be having tea with a strange man she’s spoken to for barely fifteen minutes over the course of two encounters. Of course she shouldn’t accept an invitation into his home as if she was a lamb volunteering for her own slaughter. But Harry doesn’t feel like a stranger. At least, he feels unlike any stranger she’s ever encountered before.

The minute hand of the watch on her wrist slips past the twelve, leaving Rowan with no more time to dwell on the matter. Taking a deep breath as she tucks her shoulder length waves behind her ears, she pulls open the front door of the shop and steps inside.

Harry is standing behind the counter, writing in the leatherbound journal she’d noticed on his person the day he stumbled into her own shop. Upon hearing the tinkle of the chime above the door, his head turns up, and his emerald gaze meets her own.

“Rowan, hi,” Harry smiles easily at her as he shuts the journal, looping the leather tie around the bindings with practiced ease. “Right on time.”

“For once in my life,” Rowan jokes in an attempt to hide her nerves. She slips her hands into the pockets of the worn trench coat she’d found at an estate sale the previous year, trying to curb her habit of twisting her rings around her fingers when she’s nervous. “Sorry, am I interrupting your work?”

Tucking the leather bound journal underneath the counter in one smooth motion, Harry shakes his head. “No, not at all. It’s been a fairly slow afternoon. Not much to interrupt.”

“Really? No stray cats have run into your shop today?”

The small laugh that falls from Harry’s lips is light and easy, and lodges itself somewhere deep within Rowan’s chest in a way she doesn’t quite understand. “No, but the day is still young.”

Harry steps out from behind the counter, and for the first time, Rowan notices that his outfit is devoid of the hunter apron he’d worn the day before. Instead, Harry is dressed in a chunky knit chestnut coloured sweater with green detailing around the cuffs and hem. His pants are olive toned, baggy in their fit, and pool just above his black vans. He looks comfy. Cozy, Rowan thinks. Like he could laze back on a couch in the evening, his hands a bit sooty from stoking the fire, but that doesn’t matter, because he’ll laugh and try to swipe a charcoal covered finger over her cheek, and leave fingerprints along her skin when he—

“So you said you live upstairs?” Rowan’s voice is breathless when she pulls herself from her daydream, and she fidgets with the tiger’s eye around her neck in an attempt to calm herself with the familiar motion.

“Uh, yeah, I do. I—sorry, is that…” Harry’s gaze drops from her eyes to her fingers, watching as she twists the pendant up and down the old chain. “Is that tiger’s eye?”

Rowan glances down at the pendant caught between her fingers. The honey-streaked stone is cut in the shape of an oval and set into a metal backing, worn smooth from two generations of Frances women habitually rubbing it. It’s pretty, to be sure, but it’s never drawn anyone’s attention so quickly. But then again, Rowan’s sure the stone is stocked on the shelves behind her; it’s no wonder Harry’s noticed it.

“It is, yeah. My mom gave it to me,” Rowan says, letting the pendant fall back against her navy turtleneck. Technically, her mother didn’t give it to her. In all actuality, Rowan had claimed it after her mother passed away five years ago. However, now didn’t seem the time to dump all her mommy issues onto a virtual stranger, no matter how familiar he felt. The death of your only parental figure is more of a second date conversation, she thinks.

Not that they’ve had a first date. This is tea. She’s just here to try tea that Harry’s made. This rendezvous probably falls more under the category of a sales pitch than a date, and Rowan’s not sure why that fact makes her stomach churn in discontent, but she’s determined to ignore it.

“It’s lovely,” Harry says, seemingly unaware of the debate that’s playing out in Rowan’s mind. “May I?”

He reaches his right hand towards her, and Rowan’s eyes once again focus on the strange symbol inked into his smooth skin. A shiver runs up her spine as the uncomfortably familiar feeling of deja vu settles over her. His words are identical to yesterday, when he offered her a sample of the protection balm he made. But underneath that memory, there’s something else, something that settles at the very edge of her mind’s eye, just out of reach of clarity. That same phrase— “May I?”— echoed in a lilting British accent, a flash of a ringed, tattooed hand tugging at blush coloured sheets, the dangle of her tiger’s eye pendant over a flushed chest that’s inked with tattoos she can’t quite place…

The hand in front of her pauses, and its owner’s eyes find her own. Harry flicks his eyebrows up as if to repeat his question, and Rowan realizes he’s waiting for her to give him permission to examine her necklace.

“Yeah, sorry—” She hastily reaches behind her neck to undo the clasp, brushing her bobbed hair out of her way. “Let me just—”

She cuts off her speech with a stuttered gasp as Harry’s nimble fingers find the pendant that hangs over her turtleneck, carefully securing the stone between his digits without touching her.

It’s not until this moment that Rowan realizes that Harry is standing close enough to her that she can see the flecks of gold in his emerald eyes, which are trained on the pendant in a focused manner. The tip of his nose is flushed the same shade as the strawberry of his mouth, and the hue also skirts along the apples of his cheeks, barely visible with the concentrated expression that’s painted on his face.

Rowan doesn’t know much about Harry, but she stocks this new knowledge—how he’s careful to ask for her permission to move towards her, but merges his personal space bubble with her own once that permission is given—in the back of her mind. It’s so familiar that it produces an ache deep within her chest that confounds her.

“It’s a beautiful necklace,” Harry keeps his eyes on the pendant as he twists it between his fingers. “You said it was your mother’s?”

Rowan forces herself to sound calm and collected when she answers. “I did, yeah. She used to call it her lucky charm.”

“Tiger’s eye provides protection,” Harry murmurs the words quietly as he lets go of the necklace. It falls lightly back onto Rowan’s chest. “It’s a lovely piece. She was very kind to give it to you.”

“She was, yes,” Rowan fidgets with the necklace, fixing its position around her neck. “She’s—she’s a very kind person.”

Rowan’s not exactly sure why she slips into the present tense to describe her mother. Sure, she’s already decided that the death of a parent is a second date topic, but she’s also already decided that this isn’t a date. From past experience, she knows it’s better to rip off the “my mother passed unexpectedly when I was twenty years old and it tore apart my life” bandaid sooner rather than later, but she also knows that most men tend to stray away from the topic of mothers when they invite women up to their apartments for tea.

Then again, Rowan thinks ruefully as she follows Harry behind the counter a moment later at his request, Harry hasn’t acted like most men she’s ever met before.

The small corridor that leads towards the back of the shop is dark, lacking the sunlight that illuminates the front of the store. Instead, the floor creaks under Rowan’s feet, accented by the click of the heeled boots she may or may not have worn to bring herself closer to Harry’s height.

Harry pauses before an open doorway, and Rowan can smell the room before she sees it— lavender and sage, lemon and cloves, cinnamon and rosehips, and a thousand other scent combinations that Rowan can’t name. She peers over Harry’s shoulder to see a cluttered workbench, not unlike her own, covered in little glass bottles, bunches of greenery, and the familiar petals of yarrow flowers that she’d sold to Harry previously. Along the back wall, under a small window, is a row of bottles with different oils inside, and to the left is a gas range with two separate pots set on top. One of the pots is still steaming, the vapor coiling lazily above its contents, despite the range being off (Rowan checks with a flick of her eyes).

“This is where I make most of my inventory,” Harry says with a motion of his hand. “I had to add the range myself when I bought the place, but the butcher’s block and the work spaces were already here. I got pretty lucky.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Rowan replies, and she pauses a moment, waiting for the invitation to step inside and explore. When the invitation doesn’t come, and Harry turns his attention to the door to the left of the corridor, just before the entrance to the back room, Rowan can’t deny that she’s disappointed. However, part of her understands; she hates when anyone steps into her backroom. The organized chaos is always just one stray hand away from descending into madness, and what she stores in her workroom isn’t nearly as breakable as what’s inside Harry’s.

Instead, Rowan turns her gaze to the door that Harry’s unlocking with a key from his pocket. The key itself is small and brass, with a tarnished, well-worn handle and a detailed head. The object resembles something Rowan would expect to see in a movie set in the early 1900s rather than on the keyring of someone around her age, but it fits perfectly into the lock on the inconspicuous door. As Harry slips the weathered key back into his pocket, Rowan notes that it’s the only key on the keyring. She can’t say she’s surprised that there’s no car key present— hardly anyone she knows in New York has a car, much less their license. She’s one of the few of her friends that does, and that’s only because her mother had insisted she learn when she was eighteen. However, she is surprised to see no key to the shop on the ring. Rowan has three separate locks on the door to her own store, and keeps all the keys jumbled together with her apartment set.

“Like I mentioned, I live just above the shop,” Harry interrupts her pondering as he nods up the steep set of dark stairs. “Follow me, and try to watch your step. These stairs tend to trip people the first time they climb them.”

“Right, okay,” Rowan does as Harry says, following his practiced steps at the pace he sets. She lasts about three stairs before stumbling, and grabs hold of the worn railing to catch herself before she falls forward.

Harry turns around as much as the small space lets him, and the look on his face is concerned, but not surprised. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just regretting my choice of shoes right now,” Rowan laughs airily, hoping the darkness of the stairwell hides the blush she’s sure is working its way over her cheeks. “You really weren’t kidding, huh?”

“No, I wasn’t,” A set of fingers brushes over her hand that clings to the railing, and there’s a moment of hesitation before Harry tugs her hand away from the railing and grasps it gently within his own. “Here, just go a little slower. I’ll help you.”

It’s clear that Harry’s dashed up and down these stairs hundreds of times, because he has no trouble navigating the steep flight with his body turned sideways to guide Rowan to the top. His hand stays locked around hers, comforting without being controlling, until he pulls her onto the cramped landing at the top of the stairs.

“There we go,” He grins at her, his dimples barely visible in the dim light as he releases her hand. “You made it.”

“I did,” Rowan hopes the embarrassment isn’t detectable in her voice. “Only almost died once.”

Harry laughs, low and melodic, as he fishes in his pocket for something, and pulls his ringed hand back out with the same key he used to unlock the door to the stairwell. He presses the key into the silver lock on the door, and Rowan is surprised to hear the click of the lock two seconds later.

With a quick twist of the squeaky doorknob, Harry pushes open the door and leads Rowan into his apartment.

Although she’s only known Harry for a short time, she can’t really say she’s surprised by anything she sees in front of her. Harry’s apartment is big by New York standards, with exposed brick walls and greenery draped along every shelf. There’s a large set of windows along the far wall that sends a spark of jealousy down Rowan’s spine, and a velvet emerald-coloured couch that turns the spark into a flame. The scent of incense floats through the air, evidenced by the multiple holders she sees scattered along the living room, and pressed against the left wall is a bookshelf that holds multiple aged books set in leather and embossed with gold.

Harry’s apartment is earthy, and centered, and quite possibly the most beautiful space Rowan has ever seen.

“This is gorgeous, Harry,” She says breathlessly, her hand rising of its own accord to touch the frame of a print hung in the hallway by the door. “How long have you lived here?”

“God, about…eight years now, maybe? To tell you the truth, I think I’ve lost count,” Harry toes off his vans, and Rowan follows suit, tugging off her own boots and thanking her past self for deciding to spend the extra time to find matching socks this morning. “Can I take your coat?”

“Sure, thank you,” Rowan begins to slip the trench coat over her shoulders, unsurprised when she feels a second set of hands help slide the fabric down her arms. She’s adjusting to Harry’s easy way with touch— revels in it, actually, which is new for her.

Harry hangs her coat on the stand just beside the door, and that same dimpled smile is on his face when he turns back around. “The kitchen is just through here, I’ll show— Jesus—”

Rowan nearly slams into Harry’s back as he comes to a quick stop in front of her, his arms braced against either wall in the small front hallway. Before she can stumble more from the sudden pause, his hand reaches behind him, finding her waist and steadying her.

“Harry?” Rowan’s skin feels as if it’s burning underneath her sweater, the sensation warmest at her core where Harry is touching her. “Is everything—?”

“Yes, sorry, it’s just—” Harry lets go of her with a sigh, stepping over what appears to be a large smoke coloured furry pillow in the middle of the hallway. “It’s just Clint.”

Rowan regards him with confusion, her chestnut eyes searching his own emerald for an explanation. “Clint? Who’s Clint?”

“That’s Clint,” He nods down to the furry pillow and nudges it with his sock covered foot. The pillow twitches, stretches when provoked, and Rowan suddenly realizes it’s not a pillow at all, but in fact—

“You have a rabbit named Clint?”

Harry’s already walking towards the kitchen, unconcerned about Clint’s nap spot that blocks the entryway of his apartment. “I do.”

A million questions flood through Rowan’s head, a million different things she could say about this new tidbit of Harry trivia. But instead of asking how owning a rabbit works in a New York City apartment, why said rabbit seems to have an infinity for inconvenient nap locations, or if tripping over him is an everyday occurrence (which, based on Harry’s exasperated sighs, she thinks it might be), the comment that leaves her mouth is, “Clint is kind of a weird name for a rabbit.”

Harry pauses his movements in the kitchen, one hand frozen on a mahogany cabinet while the other holds a jar of a dried tea blend. “You think so?”

Rowan flinches inwardly, still stuck frozen behind the rabbit in the hallway. “I— shit, sorry, that was rude. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. It is weird, I know,” Harry laughs, and the sound immediately drains the tension that had seized Rowan’s entire body. “But he likes it, and refuses to change it, so…yeah. Clint the rabbit. You can just step over him, by the way,” Harry says as he notices Rowan has yet to leave the entryway. “He’s pretty used to it, because he’s also stubborn about where he takes his fifteen daily naps, the lazy bugger…”

Stepping carefully over the rabbit as instructed, a smile plays on Rowan’s lips as she makes her way to the kitchen. “Damn. Sounds like Clint really needs to start pulling his weight around here.”

Harry snorts as he picks up the copper kettle located on his stovetop and fills it with water. “Try telling him that,” He says, flicking the gas range onto high and setting the kettle on the burner. “Even Atticus contributes more to the household, and I hardly have to feed him.”

Rowan leans over the stonetop counter, her eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Who’s Atticus? Another pet?”

“No, not a pet. More like a…friend…” Harry’s voice is barely above a murmur as he looks between the jar of tea in his hand, and the multiple jars lined up in his open cupboard. “Sorry, just…trying to choose what blend to give you.”

Tapping her index finger against the knuckle of her other hand, Rowan watches as a crease of concentration forms between Harry’s stern brow. “I can try any blend,” She offers, hoping to help with the indecision that seems to be plaguing him. “I’m really not picky.”

“No, but I am. I don’t want to give you the wrong one.”

“The wrong…?” Rowan tilts her head to the side, her own forehead creasing identical to Harry’s. “How can a tea blend be—?”

“This one,” Harry says triumphantly, swapping the jar in his hand with another stored at the very back of the cabinet. “I’ve been tweaking this recipe lately. I think you’ll like it.”

Harry opens another cabinet full of dishware, and grabs a midnight blue teapot with white detailing along the sides. After he sets the teapot on the counter, he pulls out two teacups with the same white detailing over midnight paint. 

It’s fascinating to watch the practiced ease with which Harry brews the tea. He’s added a few scoops of the blend into the diffuser that’s set inside the teapot by the time the kettle starts to whistle, and once he’s taken the kettle off the heat and poured the boiling water into the teapot to steep, he immediately reaches for a glass container that’s set on the counter. From her vantage point, Rowan can tell that it’s filled with honey.

Harry doesn’t ask her if she takes cream or sugar in her tea, and Rowan doesn’t interject to say she prefers one scoop of sugar and a dash of milk. Instead, she lets Harry dictate exactly how she’ll test out his own blend, observes carefully how he fills each teacup almost to the brim, but leaves enough room to add a few drops of honey with the glass wand that he keeps inside the matching jar. It’s clear that all of this is a science to him, from the amount of golden liquid added, all the way down to how he carefully stirs each cup before setting the drink down in front of her with a shy smile.

“Keeping with yesterday’s theme…” He says quietly, turning the cup so the handle faces Rowan for an easy grip. “Tea for protection.”

Rowan slowly lifts the delicate china to her mouth, blowing over the boiling liquid before inhaling the steam. “I smell…cinnamon, I think? And a little bit of lemon?”

Harry’s smile grows until his dimples flash at her. He’s still leaning over the countertop, mimicking Rowan’s curved posture. When she inhales again, she can smell the light scent of Harry’s cologne mixing in with the vapours of the tea.

“Good catch,” Harry praises her easily, tapping his ringed fingers against the countertop. “The base of the tea is a black tea blend, but there’s cinnamon and lemon balm in it, along with a few other things. A little cardamom, clove, nutmeg, ginger…a couple other spices. But they all do a really good job of keeping away things that could hurt you.”

Rowan doesn’t bother to inquire about how lemon balm can keep away something that could hurt her again; she doubts she’d get an answer that she really understands. Instead, she just blows over the surface of the tea one more time before taking a small sip. The flavours Harry listed rush over her tongue at a just below scalding temperature, swirling in her mouth before running down her throat and leaving a pleasant warmth behind.

Harry watches intently, his body still leaning across the countertop towards her. “What do you think?”

Rowan takes another small gulp of tea, more mindful of the heat this time. “It’s really good, Harry. The honey in it, too…adds just the right amount of sweetness.”

Rowan hadn’t realized the amount of tension that had strung itself between Harry’s shoulders until she watches it roll out of him. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it,” He says, straightening up before grasping his own teacup to take a sip. 

“Were you nervous I wouldn’t?”

Harry’s answering shrug is just on the edge of sheepish. “Maybe a little. I’m always a bit nervous when someone tries one of my products for the first time. I want them to like it, you know?”

“I get the same way when I design custom arrangements for clients,” Rowan confesses, swirling the tea in her cup. “There’s this moment, right before I show them their arrangements, when I swear I can feel my heart in my throat. I used to get so nervous that I felt like I was going to pass out.”

“Really?” Harry raises an inquisitive brow. “How did you stop it?”

“I started using this trick my mom taught me. Right before I show the arrangement to a client, like right before, when I’m getting it from the fridge, I picture what I hope their reaction will be. Excitement, surprise, happiness, things like that. More often than not, clients usually react the way I imagine they will. It helps keep me calm.”

That crease appears between Harry’s brow again, but smooths out a moment after Rowan takes notice of it. “Your mother is a smart lady.”

“She…yeah,” Rowan clears her throat and takes another sip of tea, the temperature more comfortable now. “And she keeps coming up in conversation, which is probably pretty annoying. Sorry.”

It takes all of Rowan’s self control to stop herself from pressing her thumb between Harry’s brows as that damn crease comes back. “Why are you sorry? I like hearing about your past. It makes it easier to understand you in the present.”

The sincerity in his tone brings a flush to Rowan’s cheeks. “Is that something you’re having difficulty with? Understanding me?”

Harry hums in consideration as he brings his teacup to his lips. One of his rings, the one set with a red stone— a garnet?— flashes under the light. “It’s becoming progressively easier the more I’m around you. But there’s still so much that seems…clouded.”

Rowan can’t suppress the shiver that runs down her spine at his words, but tries to disguise it under a humorous tone. “Well, we only just met. I’d be a bit concerned if you knew everything about me.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to know everything about you; I said I wanted to understand. You don’t have to know every facet of someone’s life to understand who they are,” Harry argues in a tone that borders on defensive. 

“And is…understanding people something you’re good at?” Rowan asks after a moment, fighting to keep her own tone light.

“Usually. It’s easier to understand some people than others.”

“Where do I place on that scale?”  Rowan pitches her voice lower than she means it to be, as if she’s whispering something in the dead of night. As if she’s afraid to be heard. “In, like, terms of difficulty…if one was the least difficult person to understand, and ten was the most difficult. Where do I sit?”

“The difficulty of understanding you…” Harry trails off, and for the first time, Rowan realizes that understanding is a placeholder word for Harry. It’s a word that’s almost synonymous with what he means, but doesn’t carry the same intention. It’s a verbal facade, disguising what he’s really trying to say behind a half truth.

But the thing about half truths? They’re always half lies, as well.

“I don’t know,” Harry says after a weighty moment, his tongue swiping over his lips. “I can’t quite place you yet.”

This time, Rowan detects the half lie right away. But she doesn’t push it. In all honesty, she’s a little afraid of the answer. There’s something in the way Harry’s jade eyes regard her, the way he leans into her space, both mentally and physically…she’s almost convinced that if Harry were to tell a whole truth instead of a half, the answer may break her.

Which is dramatic, and unfathomable, and even as Rowan repeats that to herself over and over internally, she knows that only half of what she’s repeating is true. A half lie, born of her own mind.

“Well,” Rowan drops her eyes to the contents of her teacup as she lifts the drink to her lips. “Let me know when you do.”

If Harry’s aware of the charged nature of her words, he doesn’t say anything. The two of them finish their tea with casual small talk, rather than more evaluations of the other’s character. Rowan reveals that she’s a born and raised New Yorker, while Harry tells her about growing up in London (Rowan mentally pats herself on the back for restraining her instinct to tell Harry that’s where her mother grew up). Harry talks little about his family, mentioning an older sister who’s married, a mother who passed away when he was a boy, and a father who still lives in his childhood home. When Rowan asks when Harry last visited the country of his birth, his eyes drift a shade darker, and his tattooed hand drifts upwards to his chest, rubbing the area with the same subconscious movement that drives Rowan to fidget with her necklace. The tone of his voice when he says that he hasn’t been back since his move brings her to drop the subject altogether. 

The two of them learn that they both share the same love of the first snowfall of the season, and a sense of melancholy when it rains. Both Harry and Rowan experience deja vu frequently, as well as knock on wood to prevent themselves from indirectly jinxing things they say. They both record their dreams in a journal, both sleep better with the sounds of the city as a lullaby. And by the time Rowan stands up to leave, they’ve both agreed to see each other again.

 As per Harry’s request, Rowan types her number into Harry’s cell phone as he carries their used teacups to the sink. When she hands him back his phone (her number is saved under the name Flower Shop Girl, which Harry had confessed he thought of her as before he knew her name, and the admittance brings so much warmth to her chest that Rowan forgets again to ask how he knew her name during their first meeting), Harry has a small satchel in his hands, which he gives to her in exchange.

“This is another new blend I’m working on,” Harry’s fingers just barely brush over hers as he slips the satchel into her hands. “It has chamomile and lavender in it, so I recommend drinking it before bed.”

Rowan brings the satchel to her nose, inhaling deeply at the pleasant scent. “I can smell the lavender, and…cinnamon?”

A small smile plays on the corners of Harry’s lips as he walks her to the door (he takes Rowan’s hand to help her step over Clint, who’s still asleep in the entryway). “You’re good at that.”

“Thanks. I guess spending pretty much all my time around flowers is useful for…scent identification,” Rowan flinches internally as she slips her boots back onto her feet. Who the hell says shit like scent identification? She switches the topic back to the satchel in her hand, hoping she doesn’t sound as awkward as she feels. “Is it meant to help with sleep? The tea, I mean.”

“It can, yeah. It’s, uh…well, it’s meant to help with clairvoyance,” Harry slides Rowan’s trench coat off the coat rack and holds it open for her to slip on.

Goosebumps prick up along Rowan’s skin as she slides on her jacket. “Clairvoyance? What do you mean?”

“Just…someone’s perception of things,” Harry shrugs nonchalantly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “It helps clear the mind, keep it open, that sort of thing.”

Rowan looks down at the unassuming satchel still clutched in her hand. “There’s not, like, magic mushrooms in here, is there? Because I had a really bad experience once in university, and I’d rather not—”

Harry’s laugh is loud and rolling, echoing enough through the entryway that Clint’s ears prick up. “No, no psychedelics. Not in this blend, anyways. But I’d love to hear about your experience with shrooms, if you’d like to share.”

“Maybe some other time,” Rowan rolls her eyes as she tucks the satchel into her pocket. “We can swap embarrassing intoxication stories another day.”

“We could, yeah. Maybe over dinner?”

There’s a note of hopefulness in Harry’s voice that fans that flame inside her chest. “Yeah. Maybe over dinner.”

Harry’s shoulder brushes against hers as he reaches past her to open the door. “It’s a date.”

…

In her dreams, Rowan is in Central Park.

At least, she thinks it’s Central Park. It’s pitch black, with the only light to illuminate her path being the shine of the full moon above her head. Rowan knows the trail through the park like the back of her hand, having walked them most of her life. However, she’s never traversed through the park in the dead of night, let alone by herself, and there’s a sense of uneasiness resting over her.

She wants to turn around. She wants to find her way back to the busy streets, and hail a taxi that’s surely still cruising through the city that never sleeps. She wants to make her way out of the freezing cold of the night, and retreat back into the comfort of her tiny apartment. She wants to be anywhere but here.

And yet, her feet keep taking measured steps forward, further and further into the only forest in the middle of a suburban sprawl. When she was a child, she’d been fascinated with photos of the park from above, by the stark contrast of nature and industrialization. She’d often dreamt of being a bird, and flying over the city so she could make the comparison for herself.

Dream, Rowan thinks, and her steps pause. This is a dream. She doesn’t need a taxi; all she needs to do is close her eyes, and think about being back home, and then—

A hand wraps around her waist from behind, and before Rowan can scream out in surprise, another clasps itself over her mouth. Fear courses through her body, freezing her limbs more than the bitter winter air ever could, and she shudders as a pair of lips brush over her ear.

“It’s okay,” A voice says in her ear, and the low British lilt is familiar to her now, as easy to place as her own. “It’s alright, love. S’just me.”

Rowan relaxes in Harry’s arms, but only by a fraction. She tries to mumble against his hand, but he keeps it pressed tight over her mouth, careful not to obstruct her nose as well.

“You need to listen to me, okay?” Harry’s breath is hot on her neck. While Rowan typically finds sensations to be dampened during dreams, the feeling of his breath rolling over her skin is so pleasurable that her knees almost buckle. “Nod if you’re listening.”

Rowan nods, the urgency in Harry’s words being just enough to keep her from succumbing to the newfound desperation supplied by his proximity.

“Good, that’s good. I don’t have long, so you need to listen carefully.”

Humming against his hand, Rowan knows that Harry senses her meaning: get on with it. 

“When you get to this night— this night, this specific night— you need to pause when you reach the fork in the path, alright?” Harry’s thumb strokes over her cheek as he murmurs the instructions in her ear. “Look up to the sky. Do you see the moon?”

Rowan’s chocolate eyes tilt up to the sky as she hums her understanding. It would be so much easier to communicate if he would uncover her mouth. Why won’t he uncover her mouth? She could talk to him if he did, tell him she understands, tell him what the feeling of him pressed so tightly against her back is doing to her, tell him to bring his lips just a bit closer to her skin…

“It’s a full moon. Memorize what the cold feels like against your skin,” Harry’s voice reaches hypnotic levels as he commands her. “The smell of pine in the air. You need to remember this moment, okay? Remember this night, remember this dream, and remember to pause when you get to the fork in the path.”

“Harry…” Rowan tries to whisper his name from underneath his hand, but the plea comes out muffled, barely audible over the whistling of wind through the trees. 

The hand over her mouth tightens reflexively, rings pressing so hard into her skin that Rowan thinks it’ll leave an imprint of the metal band once she’s released. The thought sends a ripple through her body.

“You need to be quiet, love. It’s almost time, and it’ll hear you,” Harry squeezes her body tighter against his, almost like an apology. “I have to go in a moment, before it knows I’m here.”

The sound that falls from Rowan’s lips is involuntary, and strays so close to being considered a whine that she’s glad Harry’s grasp on her is muffling her words.

“I’m sorry,” There’s a new note in Harry’s voice, a tone of distress just barely straining his normally soothing speech. “I wish I could tell you more. I wish I could explain, but I can’t. Not yet. Just— just remember what I said. Pause when you reach the fork in the path. Promise me you’ll do that.”

Rather than try to speak incoherent words behind Harry’s hand, Rowan raises her own and brings it to her mouth. With her index finger, she draws two lines over the back of his hand, hoping he gets the message. 

Cross my heart.

The sigh that Harry heaves blows the hair around her neck in separate directions, and Rowan’s eyes flutter closed for a moment as the sensation rolls over her.

“Good girl,” Harry breathes the words into her ear, and the breath that Rowan pulls into her chest is shakier than ever. “I have to go. And you need to wake up.”

Rowan shakes her head as her hand settles on top of Harry’s, keeping his palm pressed over her mouth. It feels so good, so much better than she ever could have imagined. It’s been so long since someone’s touch has made her feel like this, like she’s falling into their heat without a second thought. She doesn’t want to leave this moment. 

“You need to wake up, Rowan,” Harry’s voice grows more persistent in her ear, more urgent. The wind picks up around them, whipping her hair around her face as she leans into him more. “Wake up!”

…

It’s still dark outside when Rowan jolts upright in her bed.

For a moment, she thinks she’s still in her dream. She reaches behind her for Harry, but instead of finding the warmth of his body, she encounters the smooth cotton of her pillow. There’s a movement to her left, and she whips her head around, almost expecting to see Harry there, his emerald eyes intent on her. Instead of emerald, she finds ochre, and sees that Buttercup is watching her, clearly awoken by her own abrupt start.

Finally accepting that she’s in her bedroom, Rowan flops back into her pillows, ignoring Buttercup’s meow of indignation at being jostled. She pulls the cat into her arms, and the familiarity of his fur against her skin calms her racing heart. 

It was a dream, she tells herself. It was an incredibly vivid dream, one that brought to life desires that she didn’t even know she had, but a dream nonetheless. With a sigh, Rowan glances at the mug of tea on her bedside table, still containing liquid that’s turned icy cold while she’s slumbered. She hadn’t even finished half of the brew before it knocked her out. Rowan wonders if it’s possible to ask Harry if the tea contains anything that could cause strangely vivid and…Christ, she can’t deny it— arousing— dreams without giving away the fact that he was the star of them.

Buttercup purrs against her chest, and Rowan sighs again, gently moving him back to his preferred spot next to her before curling onto her side. She can worry about her weirdly touch-centered dreams in the morning, she decides, when she’s more fully awake to process them. It’s been a long day, and Rowan is tired. She needs some rest, proper rest. She’s too exhausted to think right now.

And too exhausted to notice the imprint on her lip that resembles the band of a ring.

[evansbby]

I miss Gaza. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss my home. I miss the walks on the beach with my cousins. I miss the corner shops where everything was cheap. I miss going to the mosque with my friends and family. I miss going to the park with my brothers. I miss my school. I miss my kitten Kiki. I miss the summers spent at my grandparents. I miss walking to school with my brothers and talking about what we're going to do afterwards. I miss going to the library every day and constantly reading new books. I miss picking out new dresses at the store. I miss riding my bike with my cousins. I miss my neighbor Mohamed who I would always play chess with. I miss Palestine, my home.

My world turned upside down when my parents told me we were moving, seeing them hastily pack up everything. I was eleven years old, not knowing why we had to leave our home. I remember hearing my mom cry in the other room on the phone with my aunt. I remember my dad driving in a hurry. Nobody wanted to tell me what was happening, but deep down I knew. And then we were in Egypt, my parents were scared that we'd get sent back, if it wasn't for my dad's connections I think we'd be dead by now.

Next thing I know we're on a flight to, in my mom's words, "the big tower clock country" (we were going to London in). Seeing my uncle waiting for us at the airport and talking to me about how much fun it is here and how I'd make lots of friends. All I could think about if there was a chance that l'd ever be able to go back home. Eleven years later and I still haven't been able to go back home. I had to learn to live with the racism, the Islamophobia, the zionists, the constant hate against my people. I had to learn to cope with the dead of my family members, my friends, my neighbor. Luckily some of my close family could also leave, but then a lot could not and I'm honestly not sure how many are still alive.

I'm incredibly grateful and lucky that I was able to get to a safe country, yet I still miss everything back home. I'm so incredibly thankful to everyone who attended the march for Palestine in London and overall just in any city over the world. Hurts my heart seeing Noah Schnapp holding stickers that says 'zionism is sexy' while Bella Hadid got death threats because she speaks up about Palestine. My point in sharing my story is to remind people that the Palestinians you hear about in the media getting murdered, ALL had lives, they all had dreams, they all had friends and families, they all had their whole world taken from them. They are innocent human beings.

I still hold out hope that one day, I'll be able to take my kids to see the Gaza that I saw. 🇵🇸🩷

I’m so sorry 💜 I know nothing that I say could even comfort you at all. But thank you for choosing to share this with me, I can feel the pain in your words. The pain of being forced to leave your home and being so young that you don’t even understand why. And being so scared and confused… my heart truly goes out to you and the millions of others in Gaza who have been displaced, or lost their homes, lost the land they grew up on, lost their lives or the lives of their loved ones. It’s an actual modern day horror, what we are witnessing.

This is real, individual people we are talking about. As you said, they all had lives, all had dreams, all had hobbies and interests the same as we do. And it’s crazy the luxury we have, us who have never known the struggle or heartbreak of being displaced. Of experiencing a literal genocide. I am so privileged to be able to sit comfortably in my bedroom knowing that no one could just come and claim it as theirs. That no fuckass rich white bitch from Brooklyn New York could just shack up in my house and call it HER land. (Sorry for my language, it just makes me so angry. The way some people are reacting across the world makes me so angry… and I know it makes you ever angrier and more upset.)

My heart goes out to you and I pray to Allah that you will one day return to a free Palestine. To a free Gaza and your people can rebuild what was so cruelly taken from them. The same people who were so cruelly dehumanised by the Zionists and their religious ethnostate of “Isr*el.” I have no sympathy for the Zionists or their supporters. I have no respect for privileged celebrities like Noah Schnapp and others like that woman from the big bang theory, who can sit so comfortably in their mansions and feel like they know what is going on and try to persuade others to support their Zionistic views. When there are brave Palestinian children, women, men, babies, all innocent, all dying and they think the world has turned their back on them. All they have now is their faith.

I’m speaking to you straight from my heart, I know I don’t know you. But what you’ve said has touched me so much and I wish I could do more. I’m happy that you were able to escape and your immediate family is safe, I’m happy your father had the connections he did. I mourn the loss of your homeland, but I’m praying for you and all your people. And I will not forgive or forget what every single Zionist (celebrity or every day person) has said, how they have acted, what they have chosen to support. Years from now they will say they were brainwashed, misguided, they’ll sweep it under the rug and they’ll be forgiven but I will not forgive them.

There is hope in my heart seeing how many people (1mill+) that showed up every Saturday to protest in London, and all over the world in support of Palestine. The strongest thing in this world is hope… and faith. In my opinion. And it hurts, because reading your vivid memories, and how well you remember your home… But I know it won’t be for nothing. Idc if this sounds sappy but I’ll hope and pray for a free Palestine, and for you to go home one day.

[silkling]

Not to be that person, but you've been quiet and haven't posted anything here or ao3 for some time now, is everything alright?

Hi! Don't worry, you're not being "that person"! I'm sorry to have worried you! I've just been really busy with university! This semester has been especially busy for me! But the good news is that I am working on some updates! "Of Finding Family" is my current project, and I'm struggling with how to make the thing I want to happen actually happen. But! I have the outline of the rest of the story mapped out, it's just figuring out the fiddly bits of how to get from point A to point B, so to speak. After "Of Finding Family", I'm hoping that the inspiration from that will carry me to "Watermarked by Your Ancestry"! I hit a major roadblock with that project just after I last updated and have been struggling since, but my hope is that the success of finishing "Of Finding Family" will give me the boost I need to get over that particular hurdle.

As for Tumblr....yeah. I stopped posting my fics here because they never get much engagement. Now don't get me wrong, I don't write just for the engagement of the audience, but that interaction with readers is what motivates me to actually post, y'know? Sure, I daydream the ideas and write them for fun mostly for myself, but when I post them it's a lot of work to take it from messy daydream brain-vomited onto a page, to the actual finished product. And the interaction and feedback from my audience is what makes me want to put in that extra effort. I get a lot more of that on Ao3 (And I promise, even if I don't respond to most comments out of me just straight up overthinking myself into stress, every single one makes me super happy)

To that effect, I've honestly been considering just. Shifting the focus of my Tumblr. Maybe using it to post general TF thoughts, headcanons, blot bunnies, theories, fic updates....that sort of thing. But idk. Just a thing for me to consider.

Also, more good news I've joined this year's Reverse Mini Bang, and if this year is anything like last year's Big Bang, I'll probably overshoot the minimun word requirement again. So, that's one more big(ish) project you can look forward to! (Even if the posting period is a bit of a ways off)

All in all, I have a handful of projects planned! I will do my best to update "Of Finding Family" soon, but I can't promise anything. At the very least, I'll have a lot more free time as summer hits, so at least there's that.

And finally...I want to say thank you. Real life's been keeping me busy, but I felt like I had to respond to your message. It's honestly super touching to know that people like me and what I do enough to notice that I disappeared for a little. So...thank you. :D

[withmyhonesty]

Ritsu Sakuma - SHUFFLE x Whispering Evil TELEPHONE - Mini Talks

Translations under the cut (best viewed on desktop)

Sleepy Season

Mnya, mnya... there's no way I can remember the dawn of spring sleep... Eh, hmm? Anzu, you're here now. Nacchan was supposed to be here with me before I fell asleep.

Option 1: You looked like you were sleeping comfortably. Option 2: I see.

Option 1: You looked like you were sleeping comfortably. That's right, I was sleeping so soundly I didn't even notice Nacchan had left. After all, Spring is the season when sleep is most comfortable unlike Summer. Hm~ I'm still sleepy, but now that Anzu is here now, I should wake up properly.

Option 2: I see. Mm. We stopped by the office together, and then Nacchan invited me to the Hanging Gardens. I think she called out to me because I looked sleepy, but... If she had to leave to do something else, she could've just told me ahead of time.

x

...Hm? Speak of the devil, Nacchan's sent me a message. "I'm sorry I left without calling, I wonder if you're awake now?" Hmm, how should I respond? Should I just message back "It's okay, I'm awake now~"?

Option 1: It's like she can see right through you. Option 2: I think that's fine.

Option 1: It's like she can see right through you. Ahaha, you're right. It's great timing that she reached out to me just as I woke up, isn't it? Being in Knights means we spend a lot of time together, so she probably knows how long my naps are. I wonder. I haven't thought about it much, but maybe I'll ask next time.

Option 2: I think that's fine. Yeah? If Anzu says it's okay, then I'm sure it's okay to send it. You ask if usual exchanges are like that? Yeah. It's a little blunt, but I guess that's how we are. We can meet up and talk about whatever's necessary in person, right?

x

Ah, a handkerchief? Aa, sorry. Nacchan responded, she said she put a handkerchief over my eyes whilst I slept so I wouldn't be dazzled by the sun when I woke up. But I can't find it anywhere..? Maybe it was blown away by the wind?

Option 1: Maybe... Option 2: I can't feel any wind...

Option 1: Maybe... Woah. Anzu, why did you come so close all of a sudden? Even that surprised me. If you wanted me to move, you should've just said so. Yoi~sho. ... The handkerchief. Ahaha, I see. It must've fell off my face whilst I was asleep and got crushed under my body.

Option 2: I can't feel any wind... Right. If it fluttered in the breeze, it might have ended up in the bushes or somewhere nearby. Ah, there it is. I just didn't look properly, I don't think it got dirty. I'll wash it and return it to Nacchan, since it's the handkerchief that served as an eye mask and let me sleep soundly.

x

A Secret Place

Just now, I was having tea with Secchan and Suu-chan at Cinnamon. In the flow of the conversation, I accidentally mentioned "Trickstudio". It was my fault for letting it slip, but Secchan was so keen on the conversation I got a little flustered.

Option 1: That's a little... Option 2: Was he interested?

Option 1: That's a little... Yeah. I guess he thought he could meet Yuu-kun if he went to that place, which is where Trickstar hold most of their activities. Even though he's been treated coldly many times, Secchan's willpower is truly amazing. Since I couldn't say anything, he tried to locate it himself... I wonder how that went?

Option 2: Was he interested? I guess he's not interested in the place itself, but the possibility that Yuu-kun might be there. ... Hm? So, in the end did I tell Secchan the location? I was worried Maa-kun would get angry if I told him, so I somehow avoided saying so. Isn't that great?♪

x

Knights also has a hangout area, but I don't think it's as impressive as Trickstudio. I'd also like a nice room where I can have a cup of tea elegantly and do some creative work...♪ However, it would be a hassle to arrange it all myself, so maybe I should get my brother to do it for me?

Option 1: Do you really want that? Option 2: Would you like me to arrange it?

Option 1: Do you really want that? Hehe. I hope it happens, but I'm not serious about it at the moment. To be honest, it seems like it would be more trouble than its worth... It would be a pain to manage. If someone decided to make one in their free time, maybe I'd enjoy going out to play and have fun in it.

Option 2: Would you like me to arrange it? No no. This is an important time for you, Anzu, so just think about and focus on yourself. I mean, it's only half a joke. I don't expect everything to go my way all of the time... But, well, if I want it one day, I'll be sure to ask Anzu for advice.

x

Speaking of Trickstudio, I'm going to meet up with Maa-kun soon ♪ It won't be for work. Maa-kun wanted to see a movie based on a manga he likes, so I promised I'd go. I'm not particularly interested in movies, but I'm looking forward to spending time with Maa-kun...♪

Option 1: Have fun. Option 2: That manga might be...

Option 1: Have fun. Thank you. Since we graduated, I feel like I've had even less time to hang out with Maa-kun... When we see each other again, I want to feel fully replenished in Maa-kun ingredients. But next time, I'd like to invite you too. I think I'll be able to have a better time if both Maa-kun and Anzu are there... ♪

Option 2: That manga might be... Do you know about it too, Anzu? Mm, it's based on a popular shounen manga. Maa-kun also emphasized that a lot of effort was put into the lore accuracy and action scenes. ... I think I'll give it a chance and watch it seriously. If it's interesting, I'll let Anzu know about it.