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[yogirl-willow]

The Crimson Pact | Part 1

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader ; SoulBond!AU Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again. Parts: Characterizations | Part 2 | Part 3

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, soulbonding without full consent, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, mild stalking, romantic psychological tension, mentions of implied past death / reincarnation, intense emotional fixation, yearning, non-graphic threats of harm from a third party (Gwi Ma).

Author's notes: Hey guys! My first fic on Tumblr. I've been deep in a hole for Saja boys x Reader fics and have been inspired by all the ones currently out. Thought I'd give it a go and make my own. This is also just me purely projecting my fantasies (lol). But will post more on this story and will make more parts!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

A Sudden Encounter

You’re just… tired.

You work long shifts at a cramped little gallery café in Hongdae. Your boss forgets to pay you on time. Rent’s due. Your roommate’s a ghost (figuratively). Your family doesn’t call.

It’s not tragic. Just quietly heavy. Most days are filled with the same mundane routine. The stress of adulting weighs in on you most nights making you feel more fatigued than you should.

Your art is the only thing that feels like yours—until it doesn’t. Lately, even your sketches look like someone else’s memories. The past few weeks of downtime have been spent sketching images you vaguely recognize from dreams you forgot you even had. 

You walk through life like it’s background noise.

Then, one afternoon, on the way to grab milk and instant ramen…you hear music on the street.

Lugging your grocery trolley (because god knows you don’t have the strength to carry a week’s worth of grocery bags on your arms), you spot that a crowd has gathered in the plaza. The atmosphere buzzes with excitement. People are pushing each other to get a view of whatever it was that was making the crowd go nuts. Curiosity gets the best of you, and next thing you know you’re walking towards the center of the square. Grocery trolley rolling behind you. Someone steps on it, warranting a quick “Sorry” and they scurry to the front. You turn your head forward to see whatever it was they desperately wanted to see.

You stop.

Up on a raised platform, five boys move like a single body—synchronized, supernatural, magnetic. Their colorful outfits shimmer under the lights, a kaleidoscope of sugar-rush perfection. The crowd is screaming, but all you hear is the song—“Soda Pop”—sickeningly sweet and pulsing like thunder in your chest.

You don’t recognize them.

Were they new? A secret debut? A niche group you missed? 

And then you see them.

The Saja Boys. Five gorgeous faces, carved out of dreams and danger, singing like they already know you.

Your heart stutters.

Front and center is the one with the jet-black hair and fire behind his smile. His eyes sweep the crowd like he owns it—until they lock on you. And then it’s like the world tips sideways.

You can’t breathe.

Something ancient uncoils in your ribcage—a thread pulling taut, like it’s found its anchor.

The stage beneath them morphs—no, rises—into a giant soda can, and the absurdity nearly makes you laugh, but the pressure in your chest is louder.

The song ends. The crowd erupts. They strike their final poses like gods frozen mid-conquest. And still—he’s looking at you. Right at you.

He lifts a hand, brushes off his shoulder like he’s dusting you into place. “That’s it for now,” he says to the crowd.

His speaking voice slides down your spine like silk dipped in fire. Familiar. Impossible.

“See you tonight on everyone’s favorite variety show…” His gaze doesn’t waver.  “Saja Boys love you!”

You don’t know how you’re still standing. The other members turn too—one by one, their expressions shifting. Eyes no longer playful. They’re looking at you like they remember something you haven’t yet.

And then—pink smoke.

They vanish.

You’re left in a sea of people, lungs hollow, skin prickling like it’s just been marked.

You don’t know who they are. You don’t know what just happened. But your hands are shaking on the trolley handle. And you’re sprinting home like something inside you just woke up and started screaming.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

They apparated back into the apartment in a burst of cold smoke.

Jinu collapsed first.

Not into a chair. Not onto the couch. He sank straight to the floor.

Hands tangled in his hair, breath shallow. Like the air couldn’t reach deep enough. Like he’d been holding it for centuries. His voice cracked like something ancient being unearthed.

“It’s her.”

Romance was already pacing the length of the living room, long strides restless, fingers tugging at his shirt collar like it was choking him. “I—I thought I was hallucinating,” he muttered. “Some kind of cruel glamour. A mirage. But the bond—” His voice shook. “The bond snapped tight.”

Abby dropped into the couch, the cushions barely softening the weight of his frame. His knuckles were white, gripping his thighs. “I felt her heartbeat.” He looked up, dazed. Wild. “During the bridge—our hearts matched. I know it was her.”

Mystery hadn’t moved. He stood near the window, face shadowed, fists clenched so tight his nails carved into skin. His lips were moving in a near-silent whisper—over and over like a broken prayer.

“She’s scared… she doesn’t remember… but she felt it. She felt it.”

Baby sat furthest from them all, on the floor beside the armchair.  Blood dripped from his palm—he didn’t seem to notice. Eyes wide. Hollow. Haunted.

Like seeing you broke the silence inside him. Like he’d finally found the ghost that’d been crawling under his skin for lifetimes.

No one breathed. The room felt cracked. Like a single touch would shatter it.

Abby ran a hand down his face. “What do we do?” He was still staring at his hands. Still disbelieving. “Is this a trick? Is Gwi Ma playing with us again? Using her face to haunt us?”

Jinu looked up slowly, lashes damp, lips pale. He bit the nail of his thumb, the taste of anxiety sharp on his tongue.

“We wait,” he said softly. “We plan.”

Romance scoffed, but there was no humor in it. He was trembling as he smiled.

“We charm.”

Mystery let out a low snarl. “We go to her. She’s alone. She’s hurting. I can feel her.”

And then—finally—Baby spoke. Just one line.

Quiet. Final. Unshakable.

“We take her back.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You curl up on your couch with a microwaved dinner, phone propped up on a cushion. You don’t normally watch idol shows. But…

You press play.

They’re charming. Playful. Competitive. Too beautiful. Too perfect. You watch them struggle with the hot sauce challenge, lips curling upwards at some of the boys’ faces. 

Your chest aches.

You don’t know them. But you can’t look away.

When they joke, you laugh. When they flirt with the camera, your stomach flips. When Baby stares dead into the lens, you freeze. 

You watch as Baby wins the spicy challenge, somehow a part of you knew he would. You couldn’t explain why. You watch as Huntrix makes a surprise appearance. You weren’t a crazed fanatic or anything, but you did enjoy their music. When they bowed at each other, a part of your chest ached. You don’t know why, but something didn’t sit well with you seeing the boys interact with the girl group. Why? You had no claim over them. You felt like you were going crazy.

You don’t sleep that night.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Later that night, after filming wraps…

The Saja Boys find themselves ambushed by Huntrix—Rumi, Zoey, and Mira—demon-hunting girls who are too fast, too smart, and too close to the truth.

The boys run, Jinu being caught into a fight with Rumi which leads to him finding out her secret. A Hunter who’s part demon. He gives it some thought as he walks out of the bath house. Then, his thoughts shift to you.

Did you watch the show tonight? What were you doing right now? Did you remember him at all?

Then suddenly he’s pulled into Gwi Ma’s chamber.

Smoke. Fire. Screams locked in stone. The demons are cheering for the boys, now in their demon forms. Gwi Ma sings the chorus of Soda Pop. 

“It’s catchy” 

He brings up Rumi- the hunter who bears his mark. He tells Jinu he has no control over her. Jinu remains curious, telling him that he can find out her shame and use it against her to bring the Hunters down. 

Then, Gwi Ma’s flames rise. The tension in the air thickens as the four other boys on the ground below are brouht to stand next to Jinu before the Demon King.

“However, I sense that you’ve lost your focus,” the Demon king hisses. His flames grow —and conjures a mirage image of you, asleep in bed, cheek pressed to your pillow. The boys tense at the sight of you. 

Their anger rises. They don’t like that you’re being presented to them like this- in front of all demons to see. Of course- everyone else in the Demon realm had an inkling- an idea of what you were to the five. It was unspoken, a rumor that spread throughout the years - that they had tied their ancient souls to a human hundreds of years ago. But no details of that pact had been known. And now, the boys were livid as every demon knew your face.

Abby grit his teeth, immediately standing and stepping forward. He didn’t want any other demons seeing you, gazing at what was his. “Don’t-!”

Jinu grabbed his shoulder back, willing his friend to calm down, even though he was struggling to contain his own anger. 

“That girl... is she going to be a problem? A… distraction?” His voice was teasing. A sickeningly playful tone meant to mock them.

The boys bristle, their jaws clenched as they see the demon king’s image of you. You- who was so precious to them. Jinu steps forward, eyes hard. “She is ours. You made it so. The pact cannot be undone.”

Gwi Ma’s image of you faded and the boys all visibly relaxed, though still tense.

Gwi Ma spoke once again, voice teasing. “You remember, don’t you, Jinu? How you came crawling to me, weeping like a child the moment she died in your arms.”

Jinu’s eyes widened, haunted at the memory.

Gwi Ma continued. “You begged me to bring her back. But I gave you something better.

A deal.

Bind four others to her soul. Trap their power. Anchor her across lifetimes—and I’d let her return.

And you did it.

You found them. Broken little things. Monsters like you. You forced the bond. You made her the center of your madness.

You cursed her to be wanted. Needed. Torn apart by obsession.

All for what?

To share her?

To watch her slip through your fingers again and again?”

The boys visibly grew more tense with every word he uttered. Romance grit his teeth, and Baby’s nails dug so deep into his palms they began to bleed again. They were monsters who desperately clung to the only light they had. Demons who tainted the purest thing they had ever laid eyes on. The guilt. The shame. All weigh heavy on their hearts, but not as heavy as their deep desire for you. 

Gwi Ma continued. “No matter how close she gets… she’ll never truly be yours.

But if you succeed—if you finish what I told you to—maybe I’ll give her to you.

All of you.

For good.”

Their heads snapped up at that. Disbelief and false hope gleaming in their yellow demon eyes. 

Gwi Ma’s flames shift to a smile as he saw their non-subtle desperation. “Then here’s my offer.”

“Succeed. Harvest the souls before the Honmoon seals, bring down the hunters. Do your job. And I’ll let her live.”

“Fail… and I rip her from the cycle. She’ll never be reborn again.”

The boys snap their heads up. Shock, desperation, and fury ablaze on their faces. He wouldn’t dare. The boys don’t speak. But silent thoughts race through their heads. They wouldn’t have to wait centuries for you? All the endless years of loneliness and suffering… if they succeeded, they’d be gone. And you would be theirs. Fully. No more dying, no more waiting. Theirs, for all eternity. 

The offer was weighing heavy in their minds. But it wasn’t even a question. How far would they go to have you? The answer was that there were no limits. No lines they wouldn’t cross. No world they wouldn’t burn to keep you.

They just kneel, a silent agreement. 

They’ve waited centuries. They can wait a little longer.

But this time, they won’t just protect you.

They’ll possess you.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The boys apparated back to their apartment in silence.

No music. No lights. Just the faint, cold glow of Seoul’s skyline spilling through the penthouse glass like a wound that never closed.

They didn’t speak. They couldn’t. The memory of Gwi Ma’s offer still echoed like ash in their throats. The price was steep, yes—but the reward?

You. Untouched by his claws. Unwatched. Unmanipulated. Free.

If they could ensure your soul was yours—and theirs—forever… they would pay that price a thousand times over. So they agreed. Without hesitation. Without question. Now they sat in the dark, five demons and the shape of a girl in their hearts.

It was Abby who cracked first. “She looked cold,” he muttered.

His elbows rested on his knees, large hands clenched together so tightly the skin over his knuckles had gone pale. He wasn’t looking at the others. Just the floor. Somewhere past it. Somewhere where you had been.

“She looked cold in that vision. Like she hadn’t been held in years.” He swallowed thickly. “I’d keep her warm. She’d never feel cold again. Not even for a second.” His voice broke near the end.

“She should’ve been with us.” Romance was standing by the tall windows, framed in moonlight, arms crossed tight like he was holding his chest together. “She doesn’t even remember us,” he said softly. “We’re strangers again.”

He tried to sound nonchalant—but his voice cracked on ‘again’.

Baby didn’t move from the couch. His legs were crossed, jaw tight, nails digging crescent moons into his thigh. “Then we make her remember.” He looked up. Eyes black.

“Tie her down if we have to.”

No one told him to take it back. Because all of them had thought it.

From the corner, curled on a throw blanket like a resting animal, Mystery breathed out a long, aching sigh. He was clutching something close to his chest. Your scarf. One from a lifetime ago. The threadbare edges frayed, carrying a scent only he still recognized. He’d stolen it then, kept it hidden through each century. He never let it burn.

“She cried last night,” he whispered. The room went still. “I felt it.”

They turned.

“She misses us,” he said. His voice was too soft for the size of his pain. “Even if she doesn’t know why. Even if her brain doesn’t remember—her soul does. She sees us in dreams. She reaches out.”

No one doubted him. Mystery had always been the tether. The first to feel you across lives. The first to know. He curled tighter around the scarf like it could bring you back. “She reaches,” he whispered. “But we’re not there.”

Silence again.

Then Jinu stood. The weight of four centuries in every breath he took. He moved like a monarch of grief—shoulders squared, spine straight, eyes dark and steady.

“We need a plan,” he said. The words dropped like stone. “No chaos. No claiming. Not yet.” His gaze passed over each of them, firm.

“We woo her. Win her. Make her feel safe.”

Abby let out a bitter snarl. “I don’t want to pretend. I want to take her.”

Jinu’s jaw tensed.

“So do I,” he said. “But not if it means she runs. Not if she thinks we’re monsters.”

“Are we not?” Baby asked coldly. But it wasn’t really a challenge. It was despair.

“We’re hers,” Jinu replied. “That’s all that matters.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was thick with agreement. Each boy looked down. And one by one, they nodded. For now, they’d wait. But not forever.

You would remember.

You would come back.

And when you did— You’d never be allowed to leave again.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You didn’t know why you were out this late.

You told yourself it was for a snack. The cold night air. The glow of convenience store signs. But the truth was burrowed beneath your ribs—tight, restless, and waiting. Something inside you itched, tugged. Like an invisible string pulling you down familiar streets.

You turned the corner and froze.

“Y/N?”

A voice. Soft, velvety, soaked in a sadness you didn’t understand. You looked up.

Jinu.

Standing beneath a flickering streetlight like a secret carved out of the night. Hoodie loose over his frame. Hair tousled, moonlight catching in the strands. His eyes locked with yours. 

Your breath caught.

He took a step forward, hands raised slightly—like approaching a wounded animal. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said gently. “I just… recognized you.”

Recognized? Your heart began to pound. Hard. “How do you know my name?” you asked.

Jinu smiled. But it wasn’t cocky or flirty. It was aching. “Because it’s the only name that ever mattered to me.”

And that’s when it happened. A flicker behind your eyes. No—it wasn’t a flicker.

It was a memory. A feeling. A lifetime cracking through your skull like thunder.

You saw him.

Not here. Not in this hoodie, not on this street. But in crimson silk beneath a palace moon. A hanbok embroidered in gold, eyes lined with kohl. He reached for you across a garden of foxglove. Your name spilled from his lips like scripture.

And then—

“Y/N.”

Another voice. Close. Too close. Romance stepped beside you, holding a book. One from your wishlist. The exact one you’d looked at two days ago online and never bought.

You took it in trembling hands. His voice dropped to a murmur. “Because I’ve been whispering it for hundreds of years.”

The world spun.

Another vision. His fingers on yours. A past version of you, crying. Him kissing your knuckles in the candlelight.

“Because I’ve never stopped saying it,” Abby said now, appearing at your side, holding— Your scarf. The one that went missing days ago. “Even when you weren’t alive to hear it.”

FLASH. There was blood on his hands. A blade meant for you. Abby standing between it and your body, screaming your name.

Your knees went weak. You staggered. The breath in your lungs turned jagged. 

A gentle touch. Behind you.

Mystery. Quiet. Wide-eyed. Fingertips brushing the sleeve of your coat like he was afraid you’d dissolve.

“I’ve known your name longer than you have,” he whispered.

You blinked—

And you were in the mountains. Your hands small. Younger. A fox curled against your legs. You were humming. He was warm. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

Across the street— Baby. Still. Watching. Eyes black as obsidian. And then—

The fire.

A palace burning. Bodies. You, screaming. Baby dragging corpses away with one hand while shielding you with the other.

You gasped. Your vision blurred. Your hands shook. You didn’t know if you were crying. But you felt like you were breaking.

Romance reached out, arm around your shoulders, steadying your frame.

“She’s remembering,” Mystery said, voice trembling. “She’s starting to remember.”

You didn’t hear them clearly. Your ears rang. Your body pulsed like a struck bell. Romance’s forehead pressed to yours, voice like velvet and ashes. “We missed you,” he breathed. “So much it drove us mad.”

Abby was pacing now, unable to stay still. His eyes burned. “You smell like home,” he choked. “I forgot what that felt like.”

Baby hadn’t moved, but he looked like he might lunge. His fists were clenched. His shoulders tight. His jaw locked.

His eyes were nothing but shadow.

He wanted you.

Jinu stepped forward, palm raised like a commandment. “Stop,” he said. Sharp. Firm. “She’s scared.”

He was right. You were. Tears blurred your eyes. The world spun again. “Who… who are you?” you asked, barely a whisper. “What do you want from me?”

Abby took one step. “We’re yours,” he said, voice low.

Jinu caught his arm. “Abby—”

“You were ours,” Romance added, lips brushing your temple. “You will be again.”

“No—no, this isn’t real—this can’t be—” You backed up. “You’re crazy.”

You looked into their eyes for the first time. And your blood ran cold. 

Not human.

They were glowing. Amber. Topaz. Garnet. Glasses of gold and rage and want. 

You didn’t think—you ran. Your footsteps slammed into the alleyway pavement. Breath heaving. Vision swimming. You ran like your soul was on fire.

And behind you— They didn’t follow.

They stood, the five of them, like statues in mourning. Longing. Rage. Grief. Hunger.

Mystery whimpered once.

Baby’s fists dripped blood from his own grip.

“We scared her,” Jinu muttered, teeth grit. Shame painting his face. “We were supposed to make her feel safe.” His voice was raw.

“She looked at us like we were monsters.” Abby slammed a fist into the wall. “She didn’t even recognize me.” 

Romance still watched the alley’s end where your shadow had vanished. His lips curled into something bittersweet. “Not yet,” he said. “But she will.”

The other boys turned. He smiled wider. Devastating. Determined. “Now?”

His voice dropped.

“We seduce her.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You don’t remember getting home. One moment you were running. The next, your apartment door slammed shut behind you. You locked it. Bolted it. Double-checked it.

Then you fell.

Not gracefully—like a collapse, like a marionette whose strings had been severed. You’re curled on the floor now, your fingers tangled in the hem of your clothes, your back pressed to the side of the bed. Shaking. Silent. Your chest is heaving, but the air doesn’t reach your lungs. You’re not crying because you’re sad.

You’re crying because you’re losing your mind. Every time you close your eyes… they’re there.

Jinu in royal silk, kneeling in the blood-soaked courtyard of a Joseon palace—his eyes hollow, your lifeless hand in his lap.

Romance cradling your head by a lake turned black from poison—screaming into your mouth like he could breathe life back into you.

Abby roaring over a field of corpses—his armor cracked, clutching you as smoke swallowed the sky.

Mystery baring his fangs at priests dragging you away—his form shifting between beast and boy, voice howling your name like a prayer.

And Baby—oh god.

Baby in a burning chamber, crawling toward your corpse through ash. His smile was carved wrong, twitching, shattered—his arms cradling your body like a doll as fire devoured the world around him.

You cover your ears. You curl tighter. Your bones ache. “These aren’t mine,” you whisper. “They aren’t mine—”

But they feel like they are.

The grief. The rage. The longing. The love. Too much love. It presses against your ribs like a dam waiting to crack. And deep—deep—within your chest… something stirs. Something ancient. Something hungry.

You drag yourself under the blankets. Trembling. Numb. You don’t sleep. Sleep claims you.

And you never hear the figures outside your window. Five of them. Silent on the balcony.

Jinu’s hand is on the glass, forehead pressed lightly to the cold. His eyes are shut, breath fogging the surface. He had to see you. Just once more. Even if it killed him.

Romance stands beside him, one hand in his coat pocket, the other pressed to his lips like he might say something—but doesn’t. He just watches. Unblinking.

Abby paces behind them, boots scuffing against concrete. Every noise inside your room makes his head whip toward the door. He wants to kick it down. Drag you into his arms. Keep you warm. Keep you close.

Mystery is curled beside the potted plants. His ears twitch. His claws dig into the concrete. He hears your breathing. He knows when your sleep shifts. He knows you’re dreaming.

And Baby— Baby stands furthest from the glass. He doesn't move.Just stares at your sleeping form through the sheer curtain. His eyes are too wide. His hands are in his pockets, but the blood dripping from them gives him away. He clenches his jaw. He had wanted to go after you. To hold you. To punish anyone who scared you. But Jinu made them promise.

No chaos. Not yet. They all told themselves they were here to make sure you got home safe. But deep down, none of them believed that. They were here because they needed to see you one last time. Because you were in their veins now.

Because the bond was waking.

And soon—you’d be theirs again.

───────── ༺🜃༻ ───────── Author's note: Let me know if you guys enjoyed this? I plan to expand more into the backstories as their relationship develops. I've got characterizations up just for a teaser that I might post tonight. :) With love, Willa x.

[rafecameronssl4t]

Rafe's son being his mini me, treating his momma like a queen.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DJSNxu-sMWb/?igsh=cHN5ZnBsd2RpMjd1

Like a Queen || Dad!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: this was so cute to write ty for the request!

Warnings: none just fluff!!

Word count: 840

MASTERLIST (dad!rafe au masterlist)

The late afternoon sun spilled golden light across the backyard, filtering through the trees and glinting off the pool water. The sound of soft splashing filled the air, along with the occasional delighted squeal that only ever came from your 5-year-old son.

You watched from the patio chair, legs tucked beneath you and a book open in your lap—though you hadn’t read a single page in ten minutes. Because your eyes were on them.

Rafe stood waist-deep in the water, his wet hair pushed back, tanned skin glistening under the sun, and the wide grin he wore was reserved for only one other person besides you: the little boy that was, without a doubt, his exact copy.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, even the dimples. A tiny hurricane in board shorts and way too much confidence for someone who couldn’t tie his shoes right the first time. “Okay, now go show her. Exactly how I showed you, alright?”

Rafe said, ruffling the boy’s hair before lifting him up out of the water and setting him near the shallow edge. Ralph grinned with the same mischievous spark his father always had, then bolted across the yard, little wet feet slapping against the concrete as he ran toward you.

“Mama!” You barely had time to set the book aside before he was launching himself into your arms, damp and giggling and wiggly. “What is it, sweetheart?” you asked, wrapping the towel around his tiny shoulders, brushing his wet bangs away from his forehead.

“I gotta do what Daddy says,” he announced, puffing out his chest proudly. “’Cause Daddy said you’re a queen. And queens get treated real nice.” You blinked, warmth blooming in your chest, tears almost rising from how sudden the sweetness hit you.

“Oh, did he now?” “Uh-huh.” Ralph climbed onto your lap as best he could, propping his chin on your shoulder and patting your cheek like he’d seen Rafe do a thousand times. “That’s why I’m gonna open the car door for you every time. And you don’t ever gotta carry groceries. And Daddy says real boys say ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘you look real pretty today.’ So…”

He cleared his throat dramatically. “You look real pretty today.” From the pool, Rafe chuckled, arms folded over the pool’s edge as he leaned there, watching the two of you. “Taught him everything he knows,” he said with a smirk. You shot him a fond look, brushing a kiss to Ralph’s head. “You’re raising him right.”

Rafe walked over, water dripping off him, and crouched beside your chair, brushing his hand along your arm and planting a kiss to your temple. “No,” he murmured, gaze flicking from Ralph to you. “We are.”

Ralph squirmed in your lap and reached up to grab Rafe’s face between both his small hands, smooshing his cheeks together. “Daddy’s gonna marry you again one day.” Rafe laughed. “Again? What do you mean again?”

Ralph looked between you both like it was obvious. “’Cause when I marry my girl, I’m gonna do it every year so she always feels special. Right, Mama?” You met Rafe’s eyes, both of you speechless for a moment. “Right, baby,” you said softly, heart nearly bursting.

“That sounds just right.” Rafe leaned in and kissed you gently, brushing a thumb along your cheekbone before murmuring, “You made me soft, y’know that?” “Not soft,” you teased. “Just finally living up to that golden boy reputation your mom wished you had.”

Ralph made a gagging noise at the kiss and scrambled off your lap. “Eww! Okay, I’m going back in the pool—no more kissing!” You both laughed as he bolted toward the water again, slipping a little but catching himself.

“Mini-me, huh?” you mused, wrapping your arm around Rafe’s shoulders as he sat beside you. He rested his head against your thigh, arm curling around your knees. “Yeah,” he murmured, watching his son with a softness you never got tired of.

“Only better. ‘Cause he gets to grow up knowing how to love right from the start.” And you knew then, as Ralph jumped into the pool and shouted for his dad to watch, that you were exactly where you were meant to be—with the boy who worshipped you like a queen, and the man who taught him how.

[thehatboxwitch]

to anon 1: i can't believe i made your whole day, that's high praise 🥹 i'm so glad you enjoyed! to anon 2: i'm really happy that people out there are enjoying my phai characterisation because i will be so frank i haven't played the latest update :" fem!reader, TW // nsfw.

mydei

phainon hauls you up easily by your thighs, his cock buried inside you, your back against his chest. your face is flushed to high heavens, not because of the temperature of the room, but the pair of yellow lion's eyes fixed on your face.

you whimper wordlessly, nails scraping uselessly at phainon's arms as he thrusts into you for the millionth time that night, melting you into another puddle of nerves and messy fluids. you're cumming in no time - and another surge catches you off guard before your first one can fully die down, your voice hoarse as mydei leans forward and laps up the arousal you spray everywhere, suckling on your clit and letting you ride out your high.

anaxagoras

"maybe professor anaxa will have something more to teach me," was what phainon had said to you, trying to convince you to agree to his grand plan.

currently, with your mouth stuffed full of the professor's dick, and phainon filling you up from the back, it didn't seem like he needed much more teaching. in fact, it was probably you who needed it the most, seeing as your eyes filled with tears every time he rolled his hips up into your mouth, nudging against the back of your throat.

you mumble helplessly around him in pleasure as phainon slides in and out slowly. anaxa cups your face, guiding you up and down, slipping his dick a little deeper into your throat each time, trying to coax you into taking him fully.

aglaea

you can barely breathe, but you can't really tell if it's the weight of phainon bearing down on you - or aglaea's misty green eyes pinning you in place.

tiny gasps escape you as phainon grinds his tip against your cervix. your back is arched as far as it'll go, pressing you into him, but also pushing you into aglaea's deft, soft fingers, rolling your nipple, pinching and twisting until you're thrashing against phainon. she seems to know exactly where to touch where it feels best; probably because she does, what with her golden threads and all.

a hatbox summer event | discord server (18+) if you enjoy my work, reblogs help the most! ⭐️

[sunsetcupid]

BET ON ME ; F1 GRID.

synopsis: When you are dating an F1 driver, it is only natural that your relationship is filled with silly bets, and results as chaotic as the pair of you.

trigger warnings: Use of feminine pronouns from the reader’s perspective; Descriptions of romantic acts and behaviors; Suggestive remarks

a message from the author: As requested, I have added Max Verstappen to this series! If any of you would like to add a driver or request a certain scenario, don’t hesitate to message me in my inbox!

ISACK HADJAR

He’s competitive; you knew that from the very beginning – which made him the perfect mark. A coy smile, a timid “Do you really think you could?”, and he’s hooked.

For a moment, you think you might actually lose the bet. Whatever stupid, fanciful thing it is, Isack excels at it. It could be something as simple as a hula hoop competition, or God forbid who wins the next Mario Kart game. He’s staying even with you. Dare you even say, doing better than you. 

But his good fortune fails, and Isack loses the bet dramatically. And you burst out laughing. Because now! Now he has to wear the ridiculous inflatable plastic cow costume you bought one Halloween and never wore. It’s too small on him and he looks like an absolute idiot, stomping around everywhere, but you think you’ve never been more in love.

OSCAR PIASTRI

As much as Oscar adores a good wager, he’s hesitant. He doesn’t want to be conned into doing something reputation-destroying, but Oscar’s curiosity is what kills him. He shakes your hand, accepting the deal: whoever solves a Rubix’s Cube fastest wins. And the loser has to wear –

“A wizard’s robe…to the paddock?” You nod vigorously, and he sighs, surrendering any last shred of dignity he might have had. “Fine. Might as well; what do I have to lose?”

Apparently, everything. You’ve been secretly practicing your Rubix’s Cube skills, and when he loses the bet, he accuses you (correctly) of doing so. But anyways, despite your “cheating”, he puts it on, and it turns out to be the most hilarious thing you’ve ever witnessed in your life. You force him to make a TikTok with you, and that video goes viral – much to Oscar’s dismay. (Lando never stops teasing him afterwards.)

LANCE STROLL

The bet is 100% meaningless – something about what time it would start raining. Lance was like that: he had so much faith in the weather app that he sometimes ignored the warning signs emanating from the sky. He was effortlessly suave and cocky, and something in you loved knocking him down a peg.

Just as you predicted, it starts pouring ten minutes earlier than the app stated. Lance reacts with a nonchalant, unbothered sigh, responding in a casual tone as if this is normal, everyday life with you. “Guess I have to dress up as a zombie. Are you happy now?”

And you definitely are, when you finish coating on thick green paint on his face and applying the theatrical black-eye makeup. You inch backwards, admiring your handiwork – as well as the smug expression on Lance’s dorkily handsome face. “Not going to lie, you make a pretty sexy zombie.”

LANDO NORRIS

He’s outraged when you claim that he couldn’t win the bet – something childish such as, “Who can make the most backwards-jump hoops?” Your coordination skills are middling at best, but it’s so fun to poke at Lando’s ego and see how he puffs up. 

You go first, Lando citing some old-fashioned saying how women should take the lead as his excuse, and you land five dunks. Not a bad result, until Lando goes. One, two, three – almost four, but that last one misses the rim by a slim margin. 

“Oh, come on, babe. This was rigged! Let me do it again, I swear I can do better!” All defenses that leave Lando’s mouth when he realizes the outcome of the match, but he relents soon after. 

You dress him up as a vampire, giving him plastic fangs and an all-black ensemble. And he plays the part perfectly, acting somber and playfully melodramatic. 

CHARLES LECLERC

He tries to steer your attention away from making the bet, trying to get you distracted with something else, such as watching a movie or getting boba tea at your favorite shop. Nevertheless, you persist, and he gives up.

“So, the game is to see who can fit the most grapes in their mouth at one time? That sounds dangerous, mon ange – I don’t want you to choke.” But you take him to the table, where he sits down, the grapes carton open in front of him. He tentatively places one grape in his mouth. Shortly, his cheeks are bulging with a count of twenty-two grapes.

He dances around the room, victorious…Until you show him the video you recorded two hours earlier, where you were able to fit twenty-five grapes in your mouth. “That is impossible! No way!”

Unlike the others, though, Charles lets you dress him up in the werewolf costume, not fighting you off. In fact, you suspect that it might just be his next Halloween attire for next year.

DANIEL RICCIARDO

He’s in the minute you open your mouth, setting the scene for the most dramatic event of the year. The wager is how long you can keep a balloon in the air, and Daniel thinks he’s got it in the bag. He’s arrogant, claiming, “I’m going to beat the pants off of you!”

The timer starts, and he’s off to a good start. There are a few moments where you really panic, believing that you might truly lose the bet, but you try to keep a level head. A minute passes, then two, three, four. You’re at a loss for words, watching Danny keep bopping the balloon over and over like an expert.

And then you see it fall on the ground. Danny freezes, his mouth opening the slightest bit, as if he cannot believe his eyes. “Nooooo!” He wails. “I can’t believe this happened!”

You have to wrestle him into the chicken costume, but it’s worth the effort and energy. “I guess I’ve evolved. Look out, world. Here comes Daniel Eggciardo!”

MAX VERSTAPPEN

He waves you off, citing sim time as a necessary and valuable use of his time. “I can’t be playing around, liefje, I have a championship to win.” But after you keep wheedling, he concedes, because he’s a man who wants to keep his chaotic girlfriend satisfied.

The game is to see who can ice a cookie better blindfolded. You got the supplies from your mother, who is a baker, and Max scoffs. “I can’t believe she’d betray me like this.” He puts the blindfold on, nearly sending the cookie flying across the counter, but he successfully ices the dessert.

It’s your turn, but you’ve got your plan laid out and ready to be utilized. It’s fool-proof. And when you whisk the blindfold off, you know you’ve succeeded. Max rolls his eyes; nonetheless, he allows you to give him the ninja costume you bought from a cheap Spirit Halloween store. 

When he wears it? You make sure to snap several photos, keeping it safe and sound for future blackmail uses. “I can’t believe I did this. I must love you very, very much, schatje.”

Credits: Dividers — @fae-and-wolf

[paroslineage]

Something Found

Oneshot

Featuring : Hwang Jun-ho x F!Reader.

Summary : You were only thinking of making Jun-ho the best meal you could ever think as a surprise after he finally returned from his island mission but what you didn't mean to find a cute baby staring at you wrapped up in a green oversized jacket with the number 222.

The sun had dipped low, casting soft golden beams through the curtains of your modest apartment. You fumbled with the keys, bags of groceries in both arms, already thinking about what to cook for dinner. Maybe that spicy kimchi stew Jun-ho liked when he was in a mood—or something light, since he said Woo-seok might join him for drinks.

You pushed the door open with your shoulder and kicked it shut behind you. “Jun-ho, did you forget your phone again—?”

Your words stopped mid-air.

There, in the middle of the living room, on the soft cream rug you both picked out together, was a baby.

Tiny. Quiet. Wide, curious eyes staring up at you like you were the entire galaxy.

You froze.

No crying. No sound. Just those blinking dark lashes and the slow, gummy smile forming on her face.

You looked around—no Jun-ho. No note. Just a wrapped baby, clean, fed, and… wearing a Green jacket.

Player 222.

Your heart dropped. You set the groceries down slowly, hands trembling. “Oh my god…”

And then she squealed softly. A high-pitched, bubbly noise that made your eyes sting.

—

At that exact moment, Jun-ho was laughing quietly for the first time in weeks. He sipped soju across the table from Choi Woo-seok at a small, tucked-away bar. They’d talked about Gi-hun, about the island, about all the mistakes. They’d even shared a toast for the fallen.

“You should smile more,” Woo-seok had said.

Jun-ho chuckled. “That’s your fourth glass talking.”

But halfway through their conversation, Jun-ho’s phone buzzed with a notification.

[Unknown Number] She’s with you now.

His body went still. Woo-seok watched the shift in his expression—cold clarity flooding in.

“Jun-ho?”

“I need to go home.”

—

You sat on the floor with her, heart racing, fingers gently brushing her soft little head. Her little hand latched onto your finger, gripping with surprising strength.

“I don’t know who you are, or how you got here…” you whispered, voice catching in your throat. “But you’re safe now. We’re gonna keep you safe.”

The door opened behind you.

Jun-ho stepped in, breath short, face stunned as he saw the child in your arms. You turned toward him, eyes wide. “She was just here. Waiting. I don’t—”

He walked slowly, kneeling beside you. “Jagiya...” he murmured.

You blinked. “Yes?”

“He… He trusted me. After everything. After what we did to him.”

Jun-ho touched the baby’s cheek, voice raw. “This was Gi-hun’s final act… she’s the last one. The only one who didn’t lose.”

You looked at the tiny girl, then at him.

“What do we do now?”

Jun-ho swallowed hard. Then his eyes lifted to meet yours. Not afraid. Just real. “We raise her.”

And in that quiet, sunlit room, with the world behind you both burning down—you kissed his temple, curled into his side, and the three of you simply existed.

No more running. No more fear.

Just beginnings.

Meanwhile....

Outside the apartment, hidden across the street in the shadow of a rooftop, the Front Man stood still. His black mask was off now—tucked into his coat pocket. His face, scarred with time and regret, was bare to the night air.

Hwang In-ho watched silently.

The window glowed warm with soft lamplight. He could see Jun-ho kneeling beside you, your arms curled around the baby who had once been Player 222—now something more, something sacred.

You were whispering gently, rocking her as she began to drift off. Jun-ho’s fingers threaded into your hair, pulling you close. And then… he pressed a kiss to your temple.

A slow, aching motion. One filled with so much tenderness, it made something in In-ho’s chest twist.

Jun-ho held you both, his chin tucked into your shoulder, protective and present. The man In-ho once knew was still there—scarred but intact, not hardened by revenge, but softened by love.

And that baby... she smiled in her sleep.

A memory rose in In-ho’s mind—his own wife, her laugh, her belly round with life. A life that never came. A life he could never save.

But maybe Jun-ho could.

He exhaled quietly, backing away from the edge of the rooftop. No more games. No more watching.

Tonight was the last time he would look in from the outside.

He had chosen his path—and Jun-ho had found his redemption.

And in that fleeting, fragile moment of warmth and family, In-ho disappeared into the night.

For good.

The rain had started to fall softly, the droplets pattering against the window as the city lights flickered in the distance. Inside, the apartment was still—bathed in the amber hush of evening.

You lay nestled into Jun-ho’s side on the couch, your head against his shoulder, the baby cradled between you both. Her tiny fingers twitched in sleep, wrapped around the edge of your sweater. Jun-ho's hand rested protectively on her back, his other arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer like he never wanted to let go again.

You tilted your head up, eyes searching his face.

“Do you think we’ll be okay?” you whispered.

He looked down at you—eyes tired, heart bruised, but beating with something new. Not just survival. Not just duty.

Hope.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But we’re together.”

You leaned up and kissed his scar—softly, reverently—just above where his brother’s bullet once tore through him.

Outside, the rain fell harder. But inside, it was warm.

In another lifetime, he’d lost everything.

But this one?

This one was different.

It wasn’t just someone saved.

It was…

Something Found.

[elleaitch22]

Love on Fire

Chapter 9: Everything, Again

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: Happy days are coming soon! Wings won, Paige is getting rest, Azzi posted, AND Tea, Luisa, and (hopefully) Nai are back the next game?! Thank you for all the well-wishes while I’m recovering from that concussion! I hope you love it! xx Elle

Warnings: Fertility treatment, injections, medical appointments, mentions of pregnancy loss

Word Count: 3.9k words

-----------------------------------

Azzi took six weeks off after the first IVF cycle failed.

But she wasn’t resting. Wasn’t living – at least, not really.

She threw herself back into everything. At work, she apologized to her staff about missing so much work by giving them four days off. She completed two wedding orders, a bridal shower order, and a baby’s first birthday all by herself. She worked every day. From 5 am to 11 pm, grief smothered by flour and frosting.

It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t sustainable.

But it helped her a lot. Kept her upright.

It helped her process her anger, her grief, her frustrations. Now she was actually able to comprehend that nothing that had happened had been her fault; all that anger she had for herself was slowly fading.

The grief she felt for Peanut didn’t fade – it softened. She was learning to grow around it.

It wasn’t any better at home.

She got rid of all the nonstick cookware in Paige’s house and replaced it with cast iron and stainless steel.

She raided the fridge and pantry, throwing out anything that wasn’t organic or unprocessed.

Paige watched it unfold, like watching a hurricane form in real time.

“Azzi,” She called gently, “Sit down, come talk with me.” Paige asked, moving to the couch.

Azzi hesitated, wooden spoon in hand, halfway through stirring something on the stove. But one look at Paige’s face, soft with concern, and she surrendered. She sat stiffly on the far edge of the couch. “What’s up?”

“Maybe you should tell me what’s up.” At Azzi’s confused expression, she continued. “You’ve been on a rampage, Az.”

 “I have not.” Azzi scoffed.

“You don’t think I’ve been talking to KK? She’s one of my best friends, Azzi. And she’s worried about you. Said in the last week, you’ve filled enough cake orders to feed a thousand people. Not to mention the cookies, cupcakes, brownies, and macarons.”

“We had orders!” Azzi snapped, cutting off whatever else the blonde was going to say. “I’m not letting things fall apart just because I’m trying to have a baby!”

Blue eyes widened in disbelief, “You sent everybody home last week, knowing the bakery had three massive orders to prep.” At her friend’s silence, she continued. “And then, instead of resting when you got home, you completely cleared out my kitchen. You didn’t even –”

“Fine! I’ll just leave!” Azzi shot up, turning to walk away.

A pale hand reached to grab a brown one as the crease between Paige’s brows deepened. “Do not yell at me, Azzi.” Paige said firmly. “And we don’t walk away from each other in the middle of a conversation. You know that.”

Azzi huffed, moving to an armchair across from Paige. She crossed her arms and stared outside stubbornly.

“I’m not mad.” Paige started, voice low. “I’m just worried. You’re not talking to anyone. You’re not getting any rest. You’re sitting in front of me, but I feel like we’re so far apart.”

Blue eyes, full of concern, searched her face.

“Just talk to me, Azzi, please.” Paige begged.

Silence fell between them, heavy and aching.

Then –

“I feel so broken,” Azzi’s voice shook with sadness. “This is like the one thing my body is supposed to do naturally, and it just won’t. And that makes me feel failing at being a mom before I even get the chance.”

Paige was frozen in place. Azzi needed to talk through her feelings, through her problems, or they would fester and boil over. She was going to sit there and wait until Azzi got everything out, give her the space to break, then she’d do her best to put her back together.

“I’ve been researching. Every time since the first cycle. About hormones, egg quality, toxins. And everything says no processed foods and nothing that leaks chemicals into your food. I didn’t mean to wreck your space; it was just something I could control.”

She sniffled, tears falling regularly now. “And I can’t even talk to my mom about anything. I miss them so much, but they don’t understand. And Katie’s amazing. Like, I’m so thankful for her and Bob, but it’s different when it’s your actual mom.”

Tears streamed now, silent and steady. But Paige still didn’t interrupt, she waited until she moved closer.

“You’re not broken Azzi, and I know it’s hard to make your brain believe that. So, I’ll be here to remind you every day.”

She pushed a dark curl behind her ear. “And even if it doesn’t work this time, you’ll still have eggs left. We can do whatever you want. We can take a long break and try again. Or we can look at the other ways to make you a mommy.”

We.

One syllable. Two letters. And they hit Azzi square in the chest.

We. Not you.

“And the food is fine. You’re the best chef I know.” She paused. “I just want you to talk to me instead of closing yourself off.”

Azzi stared at her, something raw flickering in her eyes.

“Your mom loves you, Azzi. Why won’t you just talk to her?” She questioned quietly.

“They think I’m making a mistake by doing this alone.” She wiped at the tears on her cheeks. “They don’t care that you’re here. That’s I’m never really alone. Or that I’ve never wanted anything more. And if I talk to them before I’m really pregnant, it feels like they’re right. That I shouldn’t be a mom until I have a partner.”

A long silence. Then Paige reached up and cradled her cheek. “You’re not alone. And you never have to leave. You can stay here as long as you want. This is your home too.”

“Even when I have a screaming baby?” Azzi mumbled into her hoodie.

“Especially when you have a screaming baby.” Paige said, pulling back slightly. When Azzi’s eyes met hers, she continued. “I love you more than anyone in the whole world, Az. I’m gonna love your baby just as much.”

Their eyes met.

And for the first time in weeks, Azzi didn’t feel quite so far away.

-----------------------------------

The next week, Azzi had to brave an appointment without Paige.

And it was almost odd sitting in the waiting room alone. She hadn’t realized how much she’d relied on Paige being the calm in the storm – the low hum of her voice, the way she knew to keep stroking the back of her hand, the hand on her bouncing knee. The waiting room felt colder, quieter, lonlier.

She left her appointment with a prescription for an injectable (boo) birth control. The medication was only for ten day – enough to make her ovaries and endometrium to behave and to keep her mood sour.

Her next appointment was set for March 7. Just another baseline check her endometrium.

She pouted the whole way to the fire station.

When she arrived, she didn’t say a word. Just hauled a massive basket of muffins to the kitchen. She dropped it on the kitchen counter with a thump and looked around for one face.

Not seeing Paige immediately made her annoyance grow exponentially.

“Oooooh, Paigey!” Rickea called from the hall, smile clear in her voice. “Your girl’s here, and she does not look happy.”

Seconds later, the firehouse was filled with shouts and booted feet pounding down the hallways.

“Azzi’s here?” She heard Jalen shout.

Then a high pitched, “Azzi Raaaaay!” Cameron Brink, of course.

“Thank you, Azzi!” Phee and Stewie called simultaneously.

Finally, a blonde rounded the corner, panting. “What, what is it, Azzi?”

Azzi only pouted harder. She just walked straight into Paige’s chest.

“More shots.” She mumbled into the gray t-shirt.

Paige didn’t hesitate. She just wrapped her arms around the woman she loved and pulled them into a side room, away from all the chaos.

“What do you mean, Mama?” She questioned lowly, hands rubbing her back.

Azzi lift her head. “I have to do ten more days of shots. Every morning. To get my cycle lined up with the transfer.”

Paige’s hands stilled. “We got a transfer date?”

Azzi’s lips twitched despite her bad mood. “March 20.”

Paige’s whole face lit up like the sun. Her body practically vibrated with excitement. “It’s really gonna work this time, Azzi. I can feel it in my bones! You’re gonna be a mommy. We’re gonna have a baby to hold in ten months!”

Her arms tightened again, almost lifting Azzi off the ground in the excited embrace.

“Let me have my mood!” Azzi laughed into her shoulder. “Ten whole days of shots before we can even check and see if the rest of the cycle is a good idea, or if we should wait until the next.”

Paige pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “But think about it, Princess. Ten days from now, you might be closer to meeting Jellybean.” Her voice softened, the nickname curling around them like warmth. “Every shot gets us a little closer.”

The excitement was palpable, and it made Azzi smile again.

Before she could reply though, the intercom sounded. “Engine 22, Squad 5, Ambulance 35, structure fire at –”

Paige leaned in, forehead pressing briefly to Azzi’s. “I’ll give you your first shot in the morning, okay?” Her hand lingered at Azzi’s waist. “I love you.”

Then she turned and ran.

“I love you too,” Azzi whispered into the silence, hugging herself where Paige had just been.

-----------------------------------

Every morning at six, Paige got up and made Azzi a hot chocolate.

She would pad to the kitchen half-asleep and stir in a packet into oat milk. It was a mindless task, but the ritual was gentle, sacred, and treated with all the care she could muster.

Then she’d tiptoe back to the bedroom and pause, cradling the warm mug in her hands.

She leaned against the doorway and watched. Kept her eyes on Azzi wrapped in Paige’s sheet like she belonged there – body completely still like she was still curled into Paige’s side.

She gave herself five minutes to let her mind savor these moments, let herself imagine.

A perfect life – one that was hers.

One where she got to make Azzi hot chocolate, coffee, or tea every morning.

One where she kissed her awake. Lips trailing across her eyelids, cheeks, tip of her nose, before finally settling on her mouth.

One where tiny feet pressed into her ribs.

But it wasn’t real. Not yet. Not until she got the guts to confess.

And still, the ache for that future with Azzi tugged at her every day.

After mourning what could have been, Paige would pad forward and wake Azzi. She started with a gentle rub on her back, pressure increasing with each pass. Then a kiss to her forehead and a soft, “Azzi, wake up.”

Like always, Azzi grunted and pouted in protest. She pulled the blanket over her head without fail, and didn’t even think about emerging until Paige said something about her drink.

Then, once the warmth had settled into her bones, the brunette would rise, ready for her shot.

The routine was muscle memory now. Wipe. Blow. Stick. Pray. Kiss.

And every morning, Azzi felt it all.

Because the way Paige wiped her skin was slow, tender. More caress than cleaning.

Because her breath, cool and careful, always sent a shiver across Azzi’s stomach—and lower.

Because the shot, though sharp, came with a litany of love whispered in Paige’s low, raspy voice.

“Good job, Mama.”

“Jellybean is so lucky to have you.”

“You’re already the best mom.”

“You’re the strongest person I know.”

And then, always, the prayer. Never the same, but always heartfelt. Paige would close her eyes and press a palm just over Azzi’s skin.

“God, let this work. Keep her safe. Keep Jellybean safe. Let love be enough.”

Finally, the kiss.

Right below Azzi’s belly button, warm and lingering. Paige would hold her lips there for several seconds, whispering something Azzi couldn’t quite make out.

It made Azzi feel seen, loved, cherished in a way that scared her sometimes.

And maybe it worked because at Azzi’s next appointment, Liv was more than happy with the results of the ultrasound.

“You’re right on track. No more shots for now. Just oral estrogen, three times a day with food.” The doctor instructed.

Paige had already rationed Azzi’s prenatal vitamins for the week, something she treated as sacred. She added the estrogen to the pill organizer and texted reminders for every meal. Even when she was on shift, she FaceTimed at lunch and dinner to make sure Azzi ate and took the pills.

Then, it was back to the progesterone shots.

A different one than last time. This round was in her hip. A thicker needle. A deeper ache.

Only the two nights before the transfer, but it felt like too much.

The first time, Azzi stood in front of Paige in loose boxers, her hands shaking as they held the counter in a vice grip.

Paige stepped behind her and wrapped her arms around her waist. She rested her chin on Azzi’s shoulder, then kissed the side of her neck slowly.

“Breathe,” She whispered, one hand still pressed to her stomach.

Azzi exhaled. Paige struck.

The flinch wasn’t unnoticed – Paige closed her eyes like she was the one in pain.

“You’re so strong, Mama.” She murmured against Azzi’s temple. “I’m so proud of you. You’re so close to getting little Jellybean.”

Later, when Azzi limped toward the couch and couldn’t quite sit without wincing, Paige didn’t say anything. She just pulled her in, settled her between her thighs, and held an ice pack to her hip until the ache eased.

-----------------------------------

The morning of the transfer was different than others.

There was no panic. No racing thoughts or stomach knots. Just a strange calm, like everything was frozen in exactly the right place. Maybe all of Paige’s prayers had paid off because Azzi went into the clinic with a peace she hadn’t known since this whole process started.

“Good morning, Azzi, Paige.” Liv smiled tiredly as she entered the waiting room. “Ready for today?”

Azzi squeezed Paige’s hand, “Yes. I’m ready.”

“We’re doing three today, right?” Paige questioned.

Liv nodded. “That’s what you still want, right Azzi? You’ll still have two frozen after this.”

“Might as well go all in, right?” Azzi glanced at Paige.

The blonde smiled softly, “Go big or go home.”

Paige helped her change into the pale blue cloth gown, fingers gentle as she tied the back. She smoothed her hair into a loose bun and pulled the hair net on carefully.

Then she leaned her forehead against Azzi shoulder. “You’re amazing, Azzi.” She started, breathing her in. “You don’t even know how much I admire you.” She whispered.

Azzi turned, wrapping her arms around her waist.

“And you’ve been everything I could’ve hoped for, Paige.” She murmured. “More than I could’ve asked for. Thank you so much.” She hugged her tightly.

“Let’s go make this baby, yeah?” Paige smiled.

Just this once, Azzi let herself act exactly like she wanted – like she was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Paige Bueckers.

She held her hand like it was her anchor. She stared at her with warm brown eyes and didn’t look away. Not when the IV was interested. Not when the embryologist went through the checklist. Not when Liv returned to review the post-op instructions. She knew Paige would remember every word anyway.

She kept her gaze on Paige even as the mask was lowered over her nose and mouth, her vision starting to blur at the edges.

And Paige stayed. Whispering steady, soft things into her ear like promises.

“I already told Jellybean to behave. They’re listening already.”

“I got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Just take your nap, Mama. I’ll be here planning when you wake up.”

Even after Azzi’s eyes slipped shut, Paige didn’t stop.

“You’re so beautiful, Azzi. Especially now.”

“You’re doing this, Az. You’re really doing it. I’m so in love with you.”

Azzi couldn’t hear the last things she said, Paige knew that.

But as she walked to the waiting room, hand still tingling from holding hers, a part of her hoped the words had found their way in anyway.

-----------------------------------

The next two weeks passed in a blur.

They were back in the routine of doing the progesterone. Shots every day until day fourteen.

Azzi woke up at 4:23 am on Friday, April 3. And even though she tried, she couldn’t go back to sleep. Her chest felt too tight. Brain too loud.

She slid into Paige’s sweatpants, her Ugg slippers, and pulled on a hoodie. She grabbed three pregnancy tests, her keys, and walked out the door into the dark.

She knew she was supposed to wait. Stewie was letting Paige off shift an hour early so they could test together at 6:30. But Azzi couldn’t wait.

She needed to know.

But she couldn’t do it alone.

Station 22 was quiet, the air thick with sleep and disinfectant. She padded softly through the halls until she found Paige curled in her bunk.

She nudged her gently, “Paige.” She whispered.

Nothing.

“Paige!” She whispered again, a little louder this time.

The brunette cast a quick glance around the room, making sure she wasn’t disturbing anyone else.

This time, Azzi bent over, running her thumb over a pale cheek. “Paigey, wake up.”

The blonde pushed her face deeper into Azzi’s palm, brows furrowing the second time she did it.

Her head popped up, “Azzi?” She slurred, voice full of sleep.

Blue eyes widened at the sight of her best friend.

“Az, what’s going on?” Paige asked, much more alert.

Azzi shifted her weight from foot to foot, heartbeat loud in her ears. “I couldn’t sleep. I brought the tests. I didn’t want you to miss it.”

Paige gave a soft, tired smile. She sat up, slid her feet into her slippers, and dragged Azzi out of the room.

They didn’t talk. Paige too tired. Azzi too scared.

In the bathroom, Paige sat on the counter, head tilted back, eyes closed while Azzi took the test. When the stall door opened, Paige opened her arms without a word.

Azzi stepped between her legs, face tucked into Paige’s shirt. “I’m not scared it’s negative,” she whispered. “I’m scared it’s not.”

Paige blinked awake. “Why?”

Azzi hesitated before answering. “There are so many things that could go wrong. I could lose this one too. I could do something that might hurt the baby. I might be a bad mom.” She swallowed. “There are about a million different ways I could fuck this up.”

Paige’s hand came up to cradle the back of her head. “No one’s perfect. But you? You’ll be the best mom I know. I believe that.”

The timer went off, but neither woman moved.

“Whatever you’re afraid of,” Paige said softly, “I’m here to catch you if you fall. I won’t let you fail, Az.”

Azzi pulled back, eyes glistening. She looked at Paige like she was searching for something…and found it.

She flipped the tests.

Pregnant.

Two thick lines.

Pregnant.

Paige slid off the counter. Her mouth parted, but no words came.

She just pulled Azzi into her arms. Held her.

“You did it,” she whispered.

-----------------------------------

Azzi went to the clinic for bloodwork twice over the next four days.

The first time, her beta HCG was super high. 374. Much higher than it was with Peanut, and Azzi thought, just for a second, that she could relax.

The second time, Azzi was anxious. She knew the numbers needed to be at least double. She wondered if her first numbers were so high because there was something wrong with her baby.

832.

When Liv called to tell her, she giggled with glee. “With numbers this high, it’s looking like twins.”

Azzi’s eyes doubled in size. She was expecting bad news – heartbreaking news.

But twins?

She tried to tell herself not to get too excited, too attached. But what if Peanut sent an extra sibling?

Tears welled in her eyes, choosing to think about the gift of two babies instead of how overwhelmed she’d be in nine months.

“We’ll be able to see if my suspicion is right when you come for your ultrasound in two weeks.” Liv chirps through the phone. “Congratulations, Mommy!”

Azzi decided not to tell Paige about the possible twins until the ultrasound. She wanted to see the look on her face when Liv said that five letter word.

The time passed quickly, and the pair sat in the exam room, waiting for an ultrasound.

Paige was tense, while Azzi’s anxiety had her wound tighter than a trampoline coil.

Instead of an ultrasound tech, Liv was the one handling the equipment.

“Good morning,” She smiled brightly.

She ran down all the basics, making sure Azzi was still getting the progesterone shot every day and taking her estradiol like she was supposed to.

“Any symptoms?” She questioned.

Paige scoffed when Azzi shook her head.

“Her boobs hurt. She’s nauseous until around 4 pm. She’s been constipated a couple times. She’s had a little bit of cramping over the last few days, but nothing bad, and no blood.” Paige listed.

“And sensitivity to smell!” Azzi added.

“Those are all very normal. Your nausea may become actual morning sickness in the next few weeks. And you’ll likely be extremely fatigued, so let the bakery know. Nothing else should change before your next appointment though.” Liv said, looking at her documents.

“Let’s see this baby.” She grinned.

Azzi wore a dress today, so it was much easier to set up for the ultrasound. She winced when the wand went in and held her breath.

Liv tapped away at the machine, her grin growing.

“Two sacs. Two heartbeats.” She said, turning the screen to them.

But Azzi wasn’t looking at the ultrasound.

She was looking at Paige.

Paige’s blue eyes went wide. Her breath caught. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. For a second, she looked like someone who’d just stumbled into a dream.

“Twins?” she whispered. “We get two babies?”

Azzi reached for her hand, squeezed gently.

Paige turned, eyes full of sudden suspicion. “Wait. You knew?!”

Azzi laughed, her own eyes glassy. “Liv told me it was a possibility. But you can’t be sure until you see them.” Her voice caught. “I just... I wanted to see your face.”

Paige was still staring at the screen, like she couldn’t look away.

“Twins,” she murmured again. “Peanut sent backup.”

“Your little ones should be making their arrival in early December if everything goes as planned.” Liv smiled, handing them a few copies of the ultrasound.

The rest of the appointment passed in a blur. Measurements, questions, Liv’s voice in the background. Paige barely blinked, her hand anchored on Azzi’s stomach the whole time.

Later that night, Azzi was curled on the couch under a fleece blanket, watching Scandal for the fifth time. Paige returned from the kitchen, slid down to her knees in front of her.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just rested her cheek against Azzi’s belly. Eyes closed. Hands gentle. Breath uneven.

Then she whispered, soft and sure, “Hey babies. I’m your Paigey. You don’t know me yet, but I already love you more than anything. And you’ve got the best mama in the world. I promise I’ll be here every step of the way.”

[theonottsbxtch]

THE LOCKER NEXT TO HIS PT1 | LN4

an: the forth installment! i had a lot of fun writing this one as you can tell it is much longer than all the other ones, this one i am holding very dear to my chest and would die for this version of lando, following this one is med school!isack, i hope you enjoy this installment! i have to post them in two parts because its too long lmao

wc: 17.2k (both parts together)

warnings: mentions of death & trauma

summary: lando was just a tired firefighter in a flat that smelled like rice and regrets. then she showed up, quiet, sharp, accidentally charming. and suddenly things weren’t so routine. they flirt like it’s an olympic sport, but grief lingers like smoke. somewhere between post-it notes and midnight gelato, they start to save each other.

PART TWO uniformed hearts masterlist

LANDO HADN'T MEANT TO STAY IN THAT FLAT MORE THAN SIX MONTHS. A stopgap, that’s what he’d called it. Just somewhere cheap, close to the station, until something better came along. That was two years ago.

Now, the walls still had damp blooming quietly up the corners, the boiler made a wheezing noise every time someone flushed the loo, and someone, probably Isack, had blu-tacked a page of anatomy revision notes to the fridge like it belonged there. But it was cheap. And close to work. And, in a way he didn’t often admit, just familiar enough to feel like home.

He shared it with two others. Franco, a paramedic who was mostly never around and staying at his girlfriend’s place, and Isack, a med student who never spoke above a whisper and survived almost exclusively on rice. Lando saw more of their laundry than their faces.

The place smelt faintly of washing powder and leftover curry. The living room rug was half-singed from a failed candle experiment last winter. Still, at the end of a long shift, it was warm. And sometimes that was enough.

This morning, he was already late.

He jammed a half-eaten cereal bar into his mouth, slung his fleece over one shoulder, and locked the flat behind him with the usual three-jiggle twist it took to get the key to behave. The sun hadn’t quite committed to rising yet, that strange hour when the world felt like it belonged to delivery vans and joggers and no one else.

The station was only ten minutes away. Twelve, if he stopped to grab a tea.

He didn’t.

Inside, the usual morning buzz was just beginning, chairs scraping, the telly droning low in the corner, Zak already sighing like the day had personally offended him.

Lando was halfway through pulling off his jacket when he saw her.

Standing in the kitchen, back turned, sleeves rolled up, one hand on the kettle and the other flicking through a file. Hair up. Posture that said she wasn’t just passing through.

He paused, briefly, just taking her in. She wasn’t familiar. And he’d have remembered.

Not firefighter. Not one of the council types either. Too practical.

New.

He didn’t say anything straight away. Just stepped into the doorway and leaned against the frame, casual as anything.

She noticed him. Didn’t look up. Just said, “If you’re here to ask when breakfast’s ready, you’ll be disappointed.”

Lando blinked. Then smiled, slow. “Right. So no full English then?”

“Not unless you brought your own pan. And cleaned it first.”

He chuckled, stepped further in. “Didn’t realise we’d hired a chef.”

“We didn’t,” she said, glancing up now. Her eyes were sharp. “I’m maintenance.”

“Maintenance?” he echoed. “You fix the boiler or the printer?”

“Neither. I answer phones, do inventory, chase you lot for forms you forget to fill out.”

“Ah,” he said, mock grin. “The real power behind the throne.”

She raised a brow. “Something like that.”

He offered a hand, out of habit. “Lando.”

She glanced at it, then shook it once, quick and professional. “I know.”

That caught him off guard. “You do?”

“You’re the one who broke the kitchen chair last week, left half a Kinder in the fridge with a post-it that said ‘mine’, and wrote your own name on the rota in capital letters. Twice.”

He blinked. Then laughed. “Alright. Bit of a fan, are you?”

“Not even slightly.”

Her tone was deadpan, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, not quite a smile, more the memory of one.

Lando tilted his head, watching her. “Well. If you’re going to be making notes on me, at least let me buy you a coffee first.”

She didn’t roll her eyes exactly, but the look she gave him was somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“Do you flirt with everyone this early in the morning, or am I just the lucky one?”

He grinned, crooked. “Only the ones who remember the Kinder.”

That earned him nothing but the click of a cupboard door and the soft clatter of mugs being rearranged.

Still, as he turned to leave, she said, almost offhand, “Zak wants you to do a PPE check. Form’s on your locker.”

He glanced back. “You always this charming, or just for me?”

She didn’t look up this time. Just stirred her tea and said, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But her voice had softened by a degree. And Lando, who had been through enough hell to know the difference between cold and careful, he just smiled to himself and walked away.

Lando grinned all the way down the corridor. He wasn’t sure if it was the tea fumes or the new girl’s deadpan delivery, but something about the whole exchange left him in a better mood than he’d started in.

He found Oscar in the mess room, hunched over a bowl of cereal like it was the only thing tethering him to consciousness. There were dark smudges under his eyes and a slight sway to the way he was sitting, like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks, which, to be fair, he probably hadn’t.

“Morning, sunshine,” Lando said, dropping into the chair opposite.

Oscar grunted.

“Alright, Eeyore. You look like you’ve been up all night getting emotionally waterboarded.”

“I have been up all night,” Oscar muttered, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Baby won’t settle unless she’s lying on me, and at some point I passed out with half a dummy stuck to my cheek.”

Lando winced. “Fatherhood’s so hot.”

Oscar gave him a look that could’ve curdled milk. Then went back to his cereal.

Lando leaned back in his chair. “Met the new girl yet?”

“What new girl?”

“Maintenance. Zak’s latest hire. Bit of an enigma. Possibly my soulmate.”

Oscar blinked. “You’ve known her five minutes.”

“Yeah, and I’ve grown emotionally in all of them.” He stood, gesturing with his mug. “Come on.”

Oscar stared at him, unmoving.

Lando sighed. “This is what happens when you don’t talk to adults. You forget how to do normal social things. Get up. This is your reintroduction to society.”

Oscar groaned, but stood anyway, carrying his cereal bowl with the slow resignation of a man who knew he wasn’t winning this.

Upstairs, the kitchen was still warm. A different kind of quiet now, more settled. She was sorting through a delivery box on the counter, frowning down at a set of mugs that looked suspiciously like they belonged in someone’s nan’s attic.

Lando leaned casually in the doorway, Oscar lurking just behind him.

She glanced up, caught them both staring, and narrowed her eyes. “Why am I being looked at like I’m on trial?”

Oscar, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sorry just… there’s usually no women here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Right. First time seeing one?”

Oscar flushed slightly. “No. I just meant…”

“Mm.” She looked him up and down, then caught the glint of the ring on his left hand. “So it’s not your first time. That’s a relief. What’s Lando’s excuse?”

Lando, who was sipping from his mug just to appear casual, nearly choked. “I don’t need an excuse,” he said, grinning. “I’m a very supportive colleague. Just thought you two should meet. Oscar’s our resident domestic deity. Got a newborn and a soft spot for dad jokes.”

“Impressive,” she said, with a faint smile. Then to Oscar, “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he said, still a bit thrown. “She’s small. And loud. But I love her.”

That made her laugh, just a little. The sort of sound that caught Lando more than he’d admit. Light and fleeting, like something she didn’t let out often.

She turned back to the mugs, pulling one out with a small frown. “These are horrible.”

Oscar peered at them. “They look like they came from a charity shop in 1983.”

“They did,” she muttered, checking the box label. “Brilliant.”

Lando leaned in. “You know, we’ve got some pristine ones in the crew room. Untouched. We only use the chipped ones out of loyalty.”

She gave him a look. “You mean laziness.”

He shrugged. “Tomato, tomato.”

Oscar, sensing he was no longer needed, backed away slowly like a man escaping a wild animal encounter. “Right, I’m going to pretend I’m still on leave.”

“You’re literally in uniform,” Lando called after him.

Oscar held up his cereal bowl in vague farewell and disappeared down the hall.

That left Lando in the doorway again, her still half-focused on unpacking, but not quite not-looking at him.

He tapped the side of his mug with one finger. “So. No name badge. I’m still operating on mystery-girl settings.”

She didn’t look up. “That’s intentional.”

“Fair. Adds to the intrigue.”

“I think your definition of intrigue is ‘mild inconvenience’.”

He grinned. “Only when it comes with sarcasm and a file of health and safety violations.”

She glanced at him then, properly. The sort of glance that said she was still deciding what to make of him. Not in a rude way. Just measured.

“I’m here to work,” she said, tone light but firm. “Not get flirted with by every firefighter who forgets how to work a printer.”

Lando placed his mug down on the counter and gave her a small, mock-serious nod. “Right. I’ll keep it professional, then. Strictly toner cartridges and awkward eye contact.”

She snorted. “Please don’t make eye contact when discussing toner. That feels weirdly intimate.”

Lando laughed. “Alright. No eye contact. But I reserve the right to leave mysterious Post-it notes.”

She raised a brow. “You leave mysterious Kinders. Not the same.”

He held his hands up in surrender. “Guilty.”

The radio crackled to life again in the background, some caller-in show about potholes, typically British. She turned back to the box and he lingered for a moment longer, just watching the way she worked. Efficient. Sharp. Like someone who’d been underestimated enough to turn it into armour.

Eventually, he straightened. “Well. Welcome to the circus.”

She didn’t look up. “Thanks.”

He paused just long enough to hear her say it.

Then headed back down the hall, still grinning, like he’d just been handed a puzzle he wouldn’t mind taking his time figuring out.

She’d been here a week. And no one had noticed.

Which, to be fair, was exactly how she’d planned it.

There was a certain freedom in invisibility, no questions, no expectations, just her and the never-ending list of things that needed restocking, reordering, or politely emailing the council about. The station ticked along with its own rhythm, and she slotted herself into the gaps. Fixed the printer. Made the tea. Carried on with the quiet efficiency of someone trying very hard not to be part of the story.

And then Lando had walked into the kitchen with his ridiculous grin and his even more ridiculous face, and now well.

She’d been noticed.

Not just glanced at. Not just nodded to. Noticed. Clocked. Eyed in that way she’d hoped wouldn’t happen. The way that said I see you, even if he didn’t know what he was looking at yet.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

Well. She was. She just wasn’t sure she liked how she felt about it.

She turned back to the delivery box with unnecessary focus, tugging another mug out with a bit too much force. Her knuckles grazed the edge of the cardboard. She didn’t swear, not aloud, anyway.

The thing was, she hadn’t wanted to be here. At all.

After uni, she’d done what everyone told her to, took a gap year to "find herself", which mostly involved booking flights she couldn’t afford and having mild identity crises in hostels that smelt like socks. It was meant to help. Give her time. Clarity. A sense of direction.

It gave her a sunburn, two expired travel cards, and a vague dislike of anyone who said "manifest it" unironically.

So when she landed back home with no plan and even less money, her dad had said, kindly, firmly, with that look she knew better than to argue with, “You need to face reality.”

And reality, apparently, was a job at his fire station.

Maintenance, on paper. Odd jobs. Admin. Support. Nothing official. He’d even promised, hand on heart, that no one would know they were related.

And so far, he’d kept that promise.

They barely spoke on shift. Just passing nods and the occasional muttered “well done” when she managed to fix the kitchen tap with nothing but a spoon and a suspiciously old instruction manual.

Still. It was weird. Being there. Being her there.

The station had its own language, radio codes, nicknames, shorthand she hadn’t quite cracked yet. It smelled of gear bags and burnt toast and stale deodorant. The men were mostly decent, older, tired, still caught in the glory days of jokes from 2009. Some of the younger ones looked at her like she was either an intern or a misplaced delivery.

But none of them had really looked at her. Until this morning.

She rubbed the back of her wrist absent-mindedly, eyeing the last few mugs. The sound of Lando’s voice still lingered faintly in her head, bright, teasing, too quick for her to deflect without thinking.

She didn’t want to be flirted with. She didn’t want anyone to ask her name. She didn’t want to feel warm in the face just because some firefighter with annoyingly nice forearms and a crooked smile had noticed she existed.

She wanted to do her job. Get paid. Maybe disappear again in six months.

But now…

Now she’d been noticed.

She shoved the last mug onto the shelf, shut the cupboard a bit too firmly, and stood there for a second, palms flat on the counter.

Maybe he’d forget about her. Maybe it was just a one-off.

She opened her eyes and sighed.

It definitely wasn’t.

By midday, the station had settled into that familiar low hum, not quite quiet, but not buzzing either. She liked it best like this. Paperwork stacked into vaguely sensible piles, someone’s half-finished toast abandoned on a plate in the kitchen, and a dog-eared training manual lying face down on the sofa like it had given up on life.

She moved through the building with her usual rhythm, checked the rota board, confirmed the equipment delivery (which was, as always, three helmets short and labelled for a completely different station), replaced the loo roll in the women's locker room, even though she was still the only person using it.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something. And she was good at it, the small, invisible things that made everything else tick along.

Around half three, she swung by her dad’s office.

The door was slightly ajar, as always, and the radio on his desk was turned low, some footie commentary murmuring away like background weather. He was hunched over a spreadsheet, glasses low on his nose, biro in mouth.

She knocked gently on the doorframe. “Delivery update. You’re not getting your flash hoods until Friday. And someone in logistics thinks we’re in Milton Keynes.”

Without looking up, he said, “Alright, princess.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “No.”

He looked up, blinked. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Yeah, well. Break it.”

He smiled, a little sheepish, a little smug. “Noted.”

She stepped inside, resting a hip against the edge of his desk. “Everything alright?”

He sighed. “Fine, mostly. Andrea’s chasing up the budget report. Something about overspending on vehicle maintenance.”

“Because the bloody ladder mechanism got stuck again and someone tried to fix it with WD-40 and optimism.”

He snorted. “God, you sound like me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t say that like it’s a compliment.”

“Didn’t realise it wasn’t.”

She smirked despite herself, then nodded toward the open personnel files beside him. “Anyone actually fill out their updated medical forms?”

“Two out of fifteen.”

She made a noise of vague despair. “And you wonder why I threaten them with brightly coloured spreadsheets.”

He chuckled. “You’re good at this, you know.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I want to be here.”

His expression shifted, just slightly. “I know.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, just full of things they weren’t going to say.

Eventually she pushed off from the desk and nodded toward the hallway. “Alright. I’ve got to go and chase up the missing radio order.”

“Thanks, love.”

She froze. Gave him a very pointed look over her shoulder.

He held his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

She muttered something under her breath and stepped out into the corridor.

Only to walk straight into Lando.

He was leaning against the wall outside, arms folded, one foot propped up behind him like he’d been there long enough to get comfortable. He had that look on his face, the one people got when they knew something they shouldn’t.

“Princess, huh?”

Her whole body stilled. “No.”

He raised an eyebrow, far too pleased with himself. “Didn’t peg you for the royal sort.”

“Piss off.”

He stepped beside her, falling into step as she marched back down the corridor. “Do we curtsy now? Or is it more of a wave-from-the-balcony vibe?”

She didn’t look at him. “If you start humming God Save the King I will staple your rota to your forehead.”

Lando grinned. “Ooh, feisty. Bit of a Lady Catherine de Bourgh situation.”

She glared sideways at him. “You read Pride and Prejudice?”

“No. But I saw the film. The one with the pond scene.”

“Of course you did.”

They turned a corner. He was still going. “Alright, what about Duchess? Your Royal Highness? Madam?”

“You sound like you’re ordering off a weird menu.”

“Alright, alright. Something simpler. Love?”

“No.”

“Darling?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Babe?”

She stopped walking and gave him a look so withering it could’ve stripped paint.

He held his hands up. “Right, not babe. Got it. Bit strong.”

“Bit tragic.”

He smirked. “Fine. We’ll keep it simple. How about… Trouble?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve known me less than a month.”

“Exactly. And look how much damage you’ve done already.”

She shook her head and started walking again, refusing to let him see the way her mouth wanted to twitch.

He kept pace beside her, not saying anything now. Just humming. Badly.

Probably God Save the King.

She sighed.

This was going to be a long placement.

By the end of her second week at the station, she could walk the corridors without needing to look where she was going.

There was a comfort in routine, not the dramatic sort, not anything life-affirming, just the steady hum of predictability. Tom still started every morning with a groan and a tea he never finished. Andrea had taken to recounting the same three stories about her early days on shift, adding a new detail each time, like folklore. The back door stuck. The toaster was temperamental. The station dog, who technically didn’t exist, but wandered in most afternoons, had taken a liking to her boots.

She moved quietly through the days, doing her job well enough to be useful, not so well that anyone got ideas. Printouts, forms, stock requests, phone calls. The small things no one else remembered to do, until they weren’t done.

She liked being overlooked. There was peace in it.

Or there had been, until Lando started paying attention.

It began on Monday, in the kitchen, where he appeared beside her while she was fixing the drawer runners. He held out a custard cream like it was a rare offering.

“I’m not bribable,” she said, not looking up.

“Not even for the superior biscuit?”

She glanced at him, expression flat. “That’s not the superior biscuit. That’s the beige one people pretend to like.”

He looked scandalised. She ignored the smile curling behind his scowl.

By Tuesday, she’d learned to brace herself.

Oscar passed her in the hallway holding what looked like the contents of a nursery in both hands, a car seat, a onesie, a muslin cloth draped over his shoulder like a war flag.

“Do you know how babies’ arms work?” he asked, bleary-eyed.

She blinked. “Not really?”

He nodded. “Didn’t think so. They’re too bendy.” Then wandered off in the direction of the kit room, muttering something about elasticated nightmares.

On Wednesday, Lando caught her crouched under the printer with her hand up to the wrist in toner powder.

“You always fix everything?” he asked.

She didn’t look at him. “Someone has to.”

There was a pause.

“You good at fixing people too?”

She did look up, then. Not long, just enough to catch something unfamiliar in his expression, something quieter, more honest than she’d expected.

“People are messier,” she said.

He nodded. “Yeah. We are.”

He left her to the toner after that.

Thursday brought Oscar again, sat on the sofa in the mess room staring into a cup of tea like it wasn’t the correct colour.

“You alright?” she asked.

“I cried at a John Lewis advert this morning,” he said. “The penguin one. So lonely.”

She made him another tea, stronger this time, and sat beside him until he stopped sighing.

On Friday, she caught Lando standing in front of the noticeboard, staring at a tacked-up photo someone had left, a family barbeque, blurry and sunlit. His arms were folded, jaw tight. Still.

She almost said something. Almost.

But then he turned, saw her watching, and grinned like it had never happened.

Later, he called her handwriting weirdly attractive. She called him a walking HR risk. But the moment had stayed.

By Saturday, things had shifted.

She found a Post-it on the coffee tin.

Superior biscuit rankings:

Chocolate Hobnob

Bourbons

Rich Tea (if dunked properly)

Custard Creams (wrongly slandered)

Underneath, a line in smaller script: This list is legally binding. Debate at your own peril. — L.

She rolled her eyes. Smirked. Reached for a pen.

Chocolate Digestives or we riot. 

She didn’t sign it, but she knew he’d know.

On Sunday, Oscar appeared again, looking vaguely haunted.

“Why are you here?” she asked, eyeing the yoghurt on his jumper.

“I just needed to be near adults,” he said, deadpan. “I had a forty-minute conversation with a sock this morning.”

She made him coffee. He thanked her like she’d just administered CPR.

And just like that, another week passed.

She still didn’t have a nameplate on her door. Still hadn’t told anyone her dad ran the place. But the station had begun to feel less unfamiliar. Not home, not exactly. But somewhere in the region.

And Lando hadn’t stopped.

Still teased. Still turned up at inconvenient moments. Still leaned into conversations with that smirk like he was trying to distract her from something neither of them were ready to say.

But every so often, she caught him between expressions. When he thought no one was watching. And that was when she saw it, the quiet edge beneath the grin, the pause that lasted half a second too long.

She didn’t know what it meant yet.

Didn’t know if she wanted to.

But she’d noticed.

And it was becoming harder not to look.

It was nearly midnight by the time she reached the station. She hadn’t meant to come back  but somewhere around mile three of a run she didn’t particularly want to be on, she’d realised she’d left her charger under the printer desk. Again.

The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that only settled after eleven, not empty, just still. Streetlights hummed above. The air smelled faintly like takeaway and damp concrete.

She let herself in through the back door, not expecting anyone to be around.

The station at night was different. Softer. The fluorescent glare had given way to low amber bulbs in the corridors. The mess room telly was muted, casting a flickering glow over abandoned mugs and someone’s half-finished Sudoku. No shouting. No alarms. Just the odd creak of old floorboards and the distant hum of the boiler cupboard.

She padded towards the office, tugging her hoodie down over her hands. Her legs ached pleasantly, the ache that came from moving just to stop your brain spinning.

She was halfway through reaching under the desk when she heard it, the clink of a spoon against a mug, followed by a low, familiar voice.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the mystery admin gremlin.”

She looked up.

Lando was in the kitchen, sleeves of his fleece rolled to the elbows, tea in hand, leaning against the counter like he lived there. His hair was damp at the ends, like he’d just come back from a call and jumped through a quick shower. There was a streak of something, ash, maybe, along the hem of his shirt. He looked comfortable. Tired in a way that suited him.

“I’m not a gremlin,” she said, standing upright, her hoodie sticking slightly to her arms with sweat. “I came to get my charger.”

“Midnight charger rescue mission?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Very high stakes.”

“Not all of us have three spare at home.”

He took a sip of his tea. “And here I was thinking you just couldn’t stay away.”

She gave him a look.

He grinned.

She sighed and walked past him into the kitchen, opening the cupboard mostly to avoid his face. “Aren’t you on night shift?”

“Mm. Just me, for now. Everyone else is either asleep or pretending to be.”

She nodded, pulling a glass down from the shelf.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here at this hour,” he added, watching her with quiet curiosity. “Out for a jog?”

“Run,” she corrected. “Jogging implies I enjoyed it.”

He smiled around his mug. “You always run late at night?”

“Helps clear my head.”

He nodded, slowly, like he understood.

She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to.

There was a beat of silence. Not awkward, just full.

She poured herself some water from the tap, the metal clinking gently as she set the glass down.

“You alright?” he asked, softer now.

She hesitated. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”

He didn’t push. Just sipped his tea again, eyes not quite meeting hers.

“You always here this late?” she asked, turning the question back on him.

“Not always. Just got back from a call.” He shrugged. “Small fire. Washing machine went rogue.”

She smirked faintly. “Those bloody washing machines. Menace to society.”

He laughed quietly. “Tell me about it. Once helped my friend Max who got his cat stuck in a washing machine.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He gave a small shake of his head. “Don’t ask.”

They stood there for a moment, the quiet settling between them like an old jumper. Comfortable. A little frayed.

She leaned back against the counter. “Always the joker when you’re tired, huh?”

“I always joke,” he said simply. Then added, “Tired just makes it more dangerous.”

She looked at him then, really looked. The easy grin, the slouched shoulders, the way his fingers wrapped around the mug like he didn’t quite trust his hands to be still otherwise.

And there it was again. That flicker. That pause, right before he spoke. Like something inside him was louder than the words he let out.

“You alright?” she asked, the question returned, quieter this time.

He looked up, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said after a second. “Just been a long shift. You know how it is.”

She nodded, but didn’t move.

He tapped the rim of his mug once, twice, then glanced over. “You ever feel like you’re running just to stop your head catching up with you?”

She looked at him. “Yeah.”

His eyes softened a fraction. “Yeah. Me too.”

That was all. Nothing more than that. But it sat between them, heavier than silence.

She finished her water, set the glass down gently.

“Well,” she said, already moving toward the door, “I’ve got my charger now. Gremlin duties complete.”

He stepped aside, holding the door open like he’d done it a hundred times.

“Night, princess.”

She paused mid-step. Turned slowly. “Seriously?”

He shrugged. “What was it? Force of habit.”

“Fuck off.”

He grinned. “Sleep well, your majesty.”

She rolled her eyes and walked off, hoodie sleeves shoved down to her knuckles, face warm in a way she refused to examine.

Behind her, the door creaked shut. The corridor hummed.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be invisible after all.

Lando waited until he heard the back door click shut before moving.

The corridor hummed faintly behind him, that low, electric buzz that stations all seemed to have at night, like the walls were holding their breath.

Lando set his mug down in the sink, rinsed it, left it to dry on the draining board with the others that no one ever put away. His hands were still damp when he pressed the button for the gym lights.

They flickered once. Came on low.

It wasn’t much of a gym, just an old weight bench, a knackered treadmill, and a punching bag that swayed too much when the heating kicked in. But it did the job. Kept the edges off. Let him move until his brain shut up.

He slipped off his fleece, rolled his sleeves to the elbows, and started with push-ups. Nothing fancy. Just movement. Repetition.

Down. Breathe. Up.

Again.

The floor was cold beneath his palms. The air tasted faintly of rubber matting and leftover adrenaline.

He kept going.

Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five.

It wasn’t about numbers. Wasn’t about anything, really, just the act of it. The quiet. The ache. The way it drowned everything else out.

When his shoulders started to burn, he switched. Pull-ups, then bag work. Let his knuckles sting. Let the punchbag sway too far and hit him back. Maybe he deserved it.

After a while, he didn’t count.

He stopped when his arms wouldn’t quite lift the way he asked them to.

The sweat cooled quick. It always did in here. He wiped his face on the bottom of his T-shirt and didn’t bother changing. Just grabbed his fleece, still warm from before, and walked back into the corridor like nothing had happened.

Except something had.

It always did, when she was around.

He didn’t know what it was, exactly. She was sharp, sure. Funny, in that dry, blink-and-you-miss-it kind of way. But it wasn’t just that.

It was how she looked at him sometimes. Like she hadn’t decided yet if she trusted him. Like she could see the cracks before he even made them obvious.

And that scared the hell out of him.

He wandered back into the mess room, lights still low. The telly was off now. Someone had left an empty tea bag on the side, like a promise they’d come back and clean it up later. They wouldn’t.

He sat for a minute. Let the quiet settle. Tried to ignore the way his chest still hadn’t caught up with his breath.

Then he stood. Walked to the noticeboard.

The photo was still there.

It always surprised him how no one seemed to mention it. Like it had just become part of the wall, pinned between rotas and fire safety posters and that one printout about mental health support that no one had taken seriously since 2014.

It was a family photo. Slightly curled at the corners. Dad, mum, two boys, one lanky, older, arms folded like he thought he was hard. The other younger, round-cheeked, grinning with the sort of abandon you only ever saw in children.

He didn’t know who they were. Had never asked. Probably someone’s cousin’s cousin, a story passed along the chain and forgotten.

But every time he looked at it, his stomach twisted.

Tonight, it didn’t twist. Tonight, it dropped.

He stared at it for too long. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Just breathed.

And there it was, the flicker. The corner of memory he spent every day trying not to walk past. The echo of a voice. A smell he couldn’t quite name.

He reached out.

Fingers didn’t touch the photo. Just hovered.

Then the alarm went.

That shrill, familiar sound that sliced through everything.

Lando flinched.

He grabbed his fleece, shrugged it on, and ran.

No time to think.

Just the job.

Just keep moving.

It was Monday, which meant the station was technically quieter, fewer calls, fewer people, fewer distractions. But admin didn’t stop just, it kept coming, and her dad had casually dropped a teetering stack of paperwork on her desk that morning with a cheerful, “No rush, but yesterday.”

So she’d parked herself in the corner office, the one with the drafty window and the chair that wheezed when you leaned too far back, and resigned herself to a day of forms, phone calls, and sighing.

She was halfway through reformatting a log sheet when she heard the unmistakable squeak of a wheeled chair being dragged down the corridor.

Not rolled.

Dragged.

She didn’t even look up. “If you break that, you’re paying for it.”

The noise stopped in the doorway.

“I’ll have you know this is a tactical relocation,” came Lando’s voice, far too pleased with himself.

She looked up, unimpressed. He stood there with a chair from the meeting room, one hand still gripping the backrest like he might ride it into battle.

“You’re not on shift,” she said.

He shrugged. “Franco’s got his girlfriend round and Isack’s studying for some terrifying anatomy thing. He offered to show me the flashcards. I ran.”

“And you thought this was the better option?”

He rolled the chair in beside her desk, flopped into it like a bored teenager, and stretched his legs out with a dramatic sigh. “I figured you missed me.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. Just kept typing.

He watched her for a bit, not in a creepy way, just with the sort of idle curiosity that came from having nothing else to do and nowhere else to be.

“So,” he said eventually, “what’s the most thrilling form on your desk today?”

“Incident review,” she said. “From two weeks ago.”

“Scandalous.”

“I can feel your sarcasm from here.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, spinning slowly in the chair, “this room could use a bit more sparkle.”

She side-eyed him. “You’re not sparkle. You’re disruption.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Wasn’t one.”

But she didn’t tell him to leave. And he didn’t move.

She kept working, and he kept gently spinning in that way people do when they’re fighting the urge to fidget. After a while, she slid a stack of blank forms across the desk.

“If you’re going to loiter, make yourself useful.”

He blinked at them. “Am I being put to work?”

“You’re here. You’re breathing. That’s enough for me.”

He picked one up and held it like it might bite. “You know this is against the Geneva Convention.”

“Welcome to admin,” she said, dry.

They fell into an odd rhythm. She typed, answered the occasional radio call, scribbled notes. He asked questions with the sincerity of someone who had never willingly filled out a form in his life.

Somewhere around the fourth page, she glanced over at him properly. Really looked.

He was slouched, legs long in front of him, head tilted back just slightly as he read a line for the third time. There were faint shadows under his eye, darker than usual. His jaw was less tight, somehow, like he’d run out of energy to hold it.

“You look like you haven’t slept in ages,” she said, casually.

He looked up. Smirked. “I’m good.”

She frowned.

He looked away, back at the form, pen twirling between his fingers.

The thing was, he said it like a reflex. Not like it was true.

She didn’t press. Just went back to her own work.

Time slipped on, slow and quiet, the clock ticking somewhere behind them. The room was warm, soft with sunlight filtering through the blinds.

At some point, she reached for the stapler. When she glanced up again, he’d gone still.

Proper still.

Head tilted against the back of the chair, mouth slightly open, pen still in his hand, but asleep.

Deep, unbothered sleep.

She stared at him for a moment, unsure whether to be annoyed or concerned.

Then she sighed. Rolled her chair back. Opened the drawer, pulled out an old fleece someone had left behind, and draped it gently across his chest.

He didn’t stir.

“Idiot,” she muttered.

But she didn’t wake him.

Not yet.

Hours went by and he didn’t move once.

She checked twice, just to be sure, once by glancing over the top of her monitor, and again by quietly sliding her chair back and standing, careful not to disturb the creaky floorboard by the heater.

Still out cold. Head tilted slightly to one side now, jaw slack with sleep, hand resting lightly on the folder he hadn’t managed to finish. 

She left it there.

It was the most still she’d seen him since arriving at the station. No smart remarks. No grin. Just quiet.

She sat back down and tried to work. Tried being the operative word.

Ten minutes later, the corridor outside creaked under the weight of heavier boots, and then—

“Ah, just the person I’m looking for.”

Max’s voice, authoritative and a bit too loud. She’d been introduced to him last week when he came back after a garage fire.

She stood quickly, holding a finger to her lips. “Shh. Please.”

Max blinked. Oscar, just behind him, squinted into the room.

Then both of them spotted Lando.

“Oh,” Max said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Is he asleep?”

She nodded. “He came in a couple of hours ago. Wasn’t on shift, just, turned up. Said he was bored.”

Oscar sighed. “Sounds about right.”

Max stepped a little closer, peering at Lando like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or take a photo.

“He looks twelve like that,” he said.

“He looks like he hasn’t slept properly in days,” she said quietly. “Just let him be.”

Oscar gave her a look. Not mocking. Just knowing.

Max nodded, stepping back again. “Right. I’ll be quick. I only needed him to sign off on a joint report from that garage fire. Insurance flagged something weird. It’s just a formality.”

“I’ll sort it,” she said without hesitation. “Leave it with me.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll get it signed and sent over first thing.”

Oscar was still watching her. She didn’t meet his gaze.

Max handed over the folder, gave her a grateful nod, and turned to go.

Oscar lingered for half a second.

“He probably doesn’t sleep, otherwise,” he said, soft.

Then he followed Max down the hall.

She stood there for a long moment after they’d gone.

Then turned back to Lando, still dead to the world in that chair that couldn’t have been comfortable, and whispered, “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

But she didn’t wake him.

Instead, she pulled out a new form, clicked her pen, and quietly got to work.

Lando didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t mention the fact he’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, slumped in a borrowed chair in the corner of her office like it was the most natural thing in the world. Didn’t apologise. Didn’t make a joke about it. Just vanished.

She’d only stepped out for five minutes, a quick detour to her dad’s office to hand over a supply order and get cornered into a discussion about rota gaps.

When she came back, he was gone.

The chair had been returned to the meeting room. The admin folder he’d been working on was neatly stacked, signed and dated. Her pen capped. The desk tidied.

And on top, stuck at a slight angle, was a yellow Post-it note in familiar handwriting:

might steal your job — L

She smiled, helplessly. Rolled her eyes. Folded the note in half and slipped it into her notebook like it didn’t mean anything.

She’d just sat down again when Oscar appeared in the doorway, knocking gently against the frame like he wasn’t sure if she was mid-email or mid-breakdown.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

She looked up. “I haven’t broken anything. Yet.”

“Not here to scold. For once.”

He stepped inside, holding a bright pink envelope that had clearly been carried by someone under the age of ten, it was covered in butterfly stickers and glittery stars, and her name was written on the front in purple gel pen, all curls and extra hearts all over the place.

She blinked. “Should I be worried?”

Oscar grinned. “Aurelia’s birthday party. This weekend.”

“Oh,” she said, trying to sound normal. “She’s turning…?”

“Nine,” he said. “Going on nineteen.”

She smiled. “Big deal, then.”

“Massive. There will be pizza, games, some kind of pinterest inspired cake situation I don’t fully understand. She made invitations herself. You’re on the guest list.”

He handed it over.

She took it carefully, trying not to dislodge the glitter.

Inside was a folded card covered in felt-tip doodles, unicorns, a suspiciously buff firefighter, and a massive ‘YOU’RE INVITED’ across the top. Inside, written in big letters with no regard for spacing:

dear fire girl,pls come to my birthday on saturday. there will be cake and silly games and my stepdad said you’re cool even tho you look serious all the time.also mum says you have very nice hair.love,Aurelia :)

She stared at it for a second, something warm catching in her throat.

“I’m not fire crew,” she said, not really to him. “I just do paperwork.”

Oscar shrugged. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

There was something about the way he said it, like it was obvious. Like she didn’t need to prove anything.

“I’m not trying to crash anything,” she added quickly. “I know it’s a family thing.”

“And you’re part of that,” he said, simple as anything. “Like it or not.”

She didn’t trust herself to speak straight away. Just nodded, pressing her thumb against the edge of the envelope to keep her hands busy.

Oscar gave her a soft smile. “Don’t overthink it. Just show up. Eat some cake. Let a small child judge your dancing.”

“Terrifying,” she muttered.

“Welcome to the family.”

And with that, he wandered off down the corridor, humming something that might have been the Cha Cha Slide.

She sat there a little longer, staring at the card, glitter catching the light like it had something to prove.

Maybe this place was becoming something after all.

On Sunday, she’d spent far too long standing in front of her wardrobe.

It was just a kids’ birthday party. Not a job interview. Not a first date. Not anything that required this level of internal debate. And yet there she was, trying on her fourth outfit and wondering if she looked like she was trying too hard.

Eventually, she landed on something simple: a pair of high-waisted jeans, a cropped top that was just on the right side of casual, and an oversized cardigan that made her feel less exposed. Soft trainers instead of boots. A touch of lip balm. Nothing dramatic.

Still, when she looked in the mirror, she barely recognised herself. No station polo. No cargo trousers. No practical ponytail scraped back like she was heading into battle.

Just her.

She carried the small gift bag in both hands as she walked up the stairs to Oscar’s apartment. She could already hear the laughter from inside, music playing low, the sound of kids squealing in delight, someone shouting over everyone else. Warmth spilled out through the letterbox.

She paused at the door.

And stood there.

She wasn’t sure why. She’d been invited. Welcomed, even. But something about the sound of everyone already inside, the ease, the familiarity, made her hesitate.

She was the outsider, after all. The one with the clipboard. The one who wasn’t quite in the group, even if she was starting to circle the edges of it.

She was just reaching for the doorbell when a voice behind her said, “You planning on standing there all day, or?”

She turned.

Lando stood a few feet away, arms full of gift bags, three plastic ones stuffed with boxes, tissue paper, and what looked suspiciously like a giant inflatable unicorn. He was in jeans and a black hoodie, hair still slightly damp like he’d only just got out the shower. He looked stupidly relaxed.

“You’re late,” she said, folding her arms.

He grinned. “Fashionably. Also, I had to stop at three different shops because apparently nine year olds don’t like books anymore unless they come with glitter slime.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of presents.”

“Got to maintain my title as favourite uncle, haven’t I?”

She smirked but didn’t reply.

He shifted the bags in his arms and looked at her properly then, the way her cardigan sleeves covered her hands, the way she was still angled slightly away from the door.

“You alright?” he asked, softer now.

She hesitated. Then nodded, once. “Just forgot how loud kids can be.”

He didn’t push. Just smiled, easy and warm.

“Well, lucky for you, I brought reinforcements.” He nodded toward one of the bags. “One of these is a karaoke microphone. Battery operated. No volume control. We’ll have them begging for bedtime by six.”

She laughed, quietly, but genuinely.

Then he noticed the gift bag in her hand. “Ooh. You got her something?”

“It’s just a little art kit,” she said, suddenly self-conscious. “Some pastels. Sketchbook. I didn’t want to turn up empty-handed.”

He tilted his head. “You softie.”

“I’m not,” she muttered.

“She’s gonna love it,” he said, firmly. “She’s been drawing all over the walls at home. Oscar’s nearly wept.”

She smiled again. “You’re spoiling her.”

“Obviously,” he said. “How else am I supposed to win her eternal loyalty?”

“Bit competitive, aren’t you?”

“I don’t play to lose.”

He winked, then shifted the bags again and nudged the door open with his hip. “Come on, let’s make an entrance.”

They stepped inside together.

Warmth hit her like a wave, fairy lights strung up around the bannisters, balloons in chaotic clumps, the smell of party food and cake and sugar. Someone had put on a kids’ playlist. The room was full of colour and laughter and far too much glitter.

“Uncle LanLan!”

Aurelia came barrelling down the hallway like a tiny whirlwind, tutu bouncing, face painted with lopsided butterflies. She launched herself at Lando with absolutely no hesitation.

He caught her with ease, bags dropped in a heap at his feet, arms lifting her like she weighed nothing.

“Hey, monster,” he said, grinning up at her. “Happy birthday!”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re late!”

“I brought offerings.”

“Are they sparkly?”

“The sparkliest.”

She squealed and clung tighter.

And she just stood there, watching.

Something about it, the way Lando held her, the way he laughed without holding back, the way Aurelia fit so perfectly against his shoulder, it pulled something strange and deep in her chest.

He was so good with her.

Natural. Effortless. Kind in a way that didn’t ask to be noticed.

He glanced sideways then, catching her watching, and gave her a small smile.

She looked away, suddenly shy.

Maybe he wasn’t all jokes after all.

The party unfolded in a swirl of noise and colour.

Aurelia ruled the lounge like a glitter covered queen, directing games with the authority of a small dictator and demanding cake before the candles were even lit. Oscar played referee with the vague desperation of a man outnumbered, while his wife laughed from the kitchen doorway, half-horrified, half-proud.

She kept mostly to the edges, helping carry plates, passing around napkins, ducking flying balloons. Not invisible, exactly. Just quietly present.

Then came gift time.

Aurelia sat cross legged in the middle of the floor, hair wild and face flushed with sugar, tearing into bags like her life depended on it. Lando sat beside her, grinning as she pulled out gift after gift with increasingly dramatic reactions.

When she got to her bag, the one with the pastels and sketchbook,  she paused. Slowed.

Lifted the tissue paper carefully.

And then beamed.

“OH,” she said loudly, holding the sketchbook aloft like it was a trophy. “THIS IS COOL. LOOK AT ALL THE COLOURS.”

She turned, without hesitation, and flung her arms around her.

For a second, she froze, not expecting it. Then returned the hug, awkward but warm.

Oscar celebrated from the kitchen. “We’re never going to have a clean wall again.”

His wife laughed. “Just let her draw on the windows this time.”

“I like the windows.”

“Then maybe don’t have a creative daughter.”

Aurelia was already flipping through the sketchbook, muttering about what to draw first.

Lando stood, brushing glitter off his jeans. “I’ll take it all up to your room,” he offered, scooping up the rest of her opened presents. “Keep the chaos contained.”

“Don’t touch the purple slime,” Aurelia warned. “It’s cursed.”

“Noted.”

He disappeared up the stairs with a wink in her direction, arms full.

The party swelled again, music, cake, someone trying to teach a dance move that looked vaguely illegal. She lost track of time for a bit, swept into the strange domestic warmth of it all.

But twenty minutes passed. Then thirty.

And Lando didn’t come back.

She tried not to overthink it. Maybe he’d been cornered by a child with a puzzle. Maybe he was helping clean up. But then what if he wasn’t.

She slipped away from the noise, up the stairs, quiet.

Aurelia’s room was at the end of the hall. Door ajar.

She pushed it gently open.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still and upright, staring at the chair in the corner.

Aurelia’s school uniform was draped over it, blazer, shirt, tights folded on the seat. Nothing dramatic. Just a chair with clothes. Ordinary.

But he was frozen.

Not in a relaxed sort of way. In a locked sort of way. Shoulders tight. Breathing shallow.

She stepped in, careful not to startle him.

Then, slowly, lowered herself beside him, not too close. Just enough to be felt. Her hand came to rest lightly on his thigh, not firm, not pressing. Just there.

The reaction was instant.

He flinched, grabbed her wrist, not hard, not mean. Just automatic.

His eyes snapped to hers, wide. Then dropped to her hand. Realisation hit.

He let go immediately.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Sorry. I—”

“It’s okay,” she said quietly.

He ran a hand over his face, looked away.

“I didn’t mean to—” He shook his head. “I’m usually better than this.”

She let the silence breathe. Let him breathe.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He hesitated.

Then stood.

“I think I’m gonna head out.”

She didn’t try to stop him. Just watched him walk to the doorway, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with himself.

As he reached for the door, she said, “Wanna go get ice cream?”

He turned.

She shrugged, casual. “I’m craving gelato. Figured you looked like someone who doesn’t know how to say no to pistachio.”

He stared at her, like he wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.

Then his mouth twitched, just a little.

And he said, “Yeah. Actually. Yeah, alright.”

They made their way downstairs together, the party still in full swing. Someone had started a conga line. The cake had reached its messy, dismantled stage. Aurelia was attempting to teach Andrea how to floss and was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

She hovered in the doorway, unsure how to make an exit without interrupting.

Lando didn’t seem to have that issue.

He clapped Oscar gently on the shoulder. “We’re off.”

Oscar turned, eyebrows raised. “Both of you?”

“Giving her a lift,” Lando said smoothly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Oscar looked between them, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Something almost knowing.

“Right,” he said, nodding slowly. “Well. Drive safe.”

She offered a little wave to Aurelia, who was too busy pelting someone with wrapping paper to notice. Oscar’s wife mouthed thanks for coming, and she mouthed thanks for the invite back.

And then they were outside.

The air was cooler than she expected, the sort of late sprint evening that carried the smell of grass and someone else’s barbecue. Streetlights blinked on above them. 

They walked in comfortable silence for a bit, side by side, the kind that didn’t need filling.

Then Lando jerked his head toward the kerb. “That one’s mine.”

She looked.

A black Mercedes, quietly sleek, parked under a tree. Her eyebrows shot up.

“You drive that?!”

He shrugged. “Prefer to walk.”

She gave him a look.

He grinned. “Swear. It was my sister’s old one. I kept it after she said she needed a family car but couldn’t be bothered to sell it. Everyone in my flat’s insured on it now. Isack uses it more than me. Says the bus gives him migraines, but I think he’s trying to impress girls.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m basically the custodian of luxury transport for stressed out medical students and over committed paramedics.”

She laughed.

He opened the passenger door for her with a slight bow, which she ignore, but stepped in anyway, frowning when she heard the word “princess” slip from his lips.

Inside, it smelt like lemon air refresher and whatever shampoo Lando used.

They drove without music. 

When they pulled up outside the gelato shop, she nudged him gently with her elbow. “You going to order something ridiculous?"

“I’m a purist,” he said, feigning offence. “Chocolate and hazelnut. Two scoops. Waffle cone. No frills.”

“Liar.”

He grinned, pulling out his card from his wallet, before she could even open her mouth to argue, he gave her a look that silenced her as she plucked the card from his fingers.

She returned a few minutes later with her own ice cream in one hand, card in between her lips.

He started the engine as she looked over, “Let’s go to the park.”

His nose scrunched. “No.”

“Oh,” she said quickly, covering. “Alright. Sorry I just thought—”

He nodded to the dashboard. “Let’s sit in the car.”

She blinked.

He added quieter, “It’s warm. And I don’t really do parks after dark.”

She didn’t ask why.

Didn’t need to.

“Okay,” she said, nodding.

And so they stayed, engine off, parked on a quiet road under the amber streetlight, two people sitting in a luxury car with melting gelato and too much unspoken between them.

The gelato was starting to melt, running slowly down the side of her cup. She let it. Neither of them seemed in a rush.

They sat in companionable silence, the soft hum of a late evening pressing gently against the windows. The street was quiet, one of those sleepy little residential corners where everything felt paused.

She glanced over at him.

He was leaning back in his seat, one hand curled around the steering wheel even though they weren’t going anywhere. His other rested on his leg, thumb idly brushing back and forth.

His cone was untouched in the cup holder.

She didn’t say anything. Just waited.

And eventually, he spoke.

“That room,” he said quietly. “The chair.”

She looked at him properly now.

“I know it was nothing,” he went on. “Just clothes. Just… normal. But it looked exactly like—” He stopped. Swallowed. “It looked exactly like how my brother’s uniform was, the night he died.”

She didn’t move. Just listened.

“I was eight. He was fifteen. We shared a room. He was, he was everything. You know? Tall, loud, never took anything seriously. Used to wind me up with something rotten. But he always made sure I had the warm side of the blanket. Always said he’d look out for me.”

Lando stared out of the windscreen.

“There was a fire. At home. Faulty plug socket. My mum had been nagging about it for weeks. I didn’t wake up properly until there was shouting. Smoke everywhere. I got out.”

He paused again. His voice was low, steady, but every word felt carved.

“He didn’t.”

Her breath caught.

“I don’t know if he was looking for me, or if he’d already passed out. I don’t know. I just remember standing on the pavement, watching the house go. And waiting for him to come out.”

He blinked, hard.

“And he didn’t.”

She reached for him, but he kept going.

“My parents” He exhaled. “They never forgave me. Said I should’ve woken him. Said I should’ve done something. I was eight.”

She felt her stomach twist.

“After that, it was just cold. Silent. I got blamed for everything. Started staying with my friends. Skipped school. Didn’t talk about it. Not once. Not for years. Parents didn't care where I was."

He looked at her now. Eyes bright, jaw tight.

“That’s why I froze. In Aurelia’s room. It was just a stupid chair. But for a second it felt like I was there again.”

She opened her mouth, but he held a hand up gently.

“I want to tell you,” he said. “Not because I want pity. Just because I trust you.”

The words landed like a stone in her chest.

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” he added, quieter still. “Like, properly told. Not in bits. Not like a joke.”

She didn’t know what to say.

So she put down her cup, reached awkwardly across the centre console, and gave him the most ridiculous, bent-arm, middle-seat hug in history.

His body tensed at first, surprised, then relaxed into it.

He chuckled against her shoulder. “This is the least ergonomic hug I’ve ever experienced.”

She huffed a laugh, face half in his hoodie. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You made it weird.”

She pulled back slightly but didn’t move far. Their faces were still close, breath mingling in the warm car.

There was a moment. Soft and still and entirely theirs.

She didn’t say I’m sorry. Didn’t say that’s awful or you’re so strong or anything else that people say when they don’t know what to say.

Instead, she whispered, “Thanks for telling me.”

And that was enough.

They stayed like that for a moment longer, limbs tangled awkwardly across the centre console, faces close, the air warm with words not spoken.

Eventually, she eased back into her seat, reaching for her rapidly-melting gelato. “We should eat this before it becomes soup.”

Lando hummed in agreement and started on his own cone, finally. He took one bite and immediately winced.

“Brain freeze,” he muttered, clutching his forehead.

She snorted. “Serves you right for inhaling it.”

“I panicked,” he said. “Felt like the right thing to do in the moment.”

“Very brave of you.”

“Thank you. I’ll be expecting a medal in the post.”

She rolled her eyes and took another spoonful. “You know, for someone who had an emotional breakthrough five minutes ago, you’re surprisingly annoying.”

He grinned. “Can’t have you getting too used to me being serious.”

There was a beat of quiet again, but this time it felt easier. Lighter.

She glanced sideways at him, fiddling with her spoon. “You don’t have to answer this,” she said, softly. “But what brought you to the fire service?”

He didn’t look surprised. Just thoughtful.

Then he leaned his head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the car.

“I think I thought if I became a firefighter, if I saved enough people, did enough good, maybe I could balance it out.” He glanced at her. “Make up for losing my brother. Like I owed the world a life.”

She didn’t say anything. Just let it land.

“I know it doesn’t work like that,” he added. “But that’s what it felt like. Like maybe if I pulled enough people out of fires, it’d stop mattering so much that I didn’t pull him out.”

Her chest ached for him.

He took a slow breath. “I still can’t go into kids’ bedrooms, during house fires. Not if I see the uniform on the chair. Doesn’t even have to be the same colour. I just freeze.”

His voice faltered slightly.

“And the thing is, I’d hate, really hate, to ever be the reason someone didn’t make it. Because my stupid brain decided it was time for a panic.”

It wasn’t self-pitying. Just honest. Raw in that quiet way grief gets, when it’s lived inside you long enough to soften its edges.

She reached over, without thinking too hard, and ran her fingers lightly through his hair, ruffling it with a mixture of fondness and frustration.

He blinked. “Did you just mum me?”

She smirked. “You may be an idiot, but not stupid.”

“High praise.”

“Although,” she added, straightening up, “I still don’t agree with your biscuit ranking.”

“Ah. And there it is.”

“You lost me at custard creams.”

“You’ve got no biscuit integrity.”

“Says the man who has a soft spot for Hobnobs.”

“They’re classic,” he said, mock-affronted. “They don’t need your approval.”

She laughed, properly this time, and for a moment it felt like the weight had shifted. Not gone. But lighter. Carried together, even just for a while.

part two...

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[bowtiepasta]

bokuto first loves you by instinct before will.

before he even knows he loves you: he’s leaning in when you talk, putting his hand over your head so you won’t hit it, tying your shoelaces when they come undone, filling up your empty water bottle, walking on the outskirt of the sidewalk when taking you home on later nights, and opening every door you walk into.

yet when akaashi comes up to him one day to ask him if he likes you, all he can say is “what? why?” because aren’t those reasonable things to do? model citizen acts? part of the good samaritan rulebook?

but he dissects them slowly, runs through it all in his head, a replay reel of each tiny, unconscious act lined up in neat little rows. he doesn’t remember when it started; can’t pinpoint the moment it stopped being “my friend” and became “my person.”

he realizes that maybe, akaashi’s right.

he starts doing things more deliberately, more carefully, scared of being caught in the act. scared you will catch him, and he won’t know what to say.

he’s clumsier with his affection now that he knows it’s affection. holds the door open too early. brushes your hand and jerks away like it burns.

he tells himself it’s just who he is. warm-hearted. attentive. his mother raised him right.

but when he sees you laughing with someone else, head tilted back, eyes squinting in the way he’s learned means you’re genuinely amused—he feels something tighten in his chest. something unfamiliar. something that doesn’t feel make him feel like such a good guy.

he sits with it. wrestles with it.

later, he finds himself watching you scroll on your phone, feet tucked under you on the gym bleachers, hair slightly out of place. and when you look up and smile, not tired out by the world today, everything clicks into place.

he doesn’t say anything. not yet. but when you stand, he’s already beside you, already lifting your bag onto his shoulder, already asking if you want to grab something to eat before heading home.

this time, he knows. this time, he doesn’t need akaashi to tell him.

he’s in love.

which should be a good feeling, right?

it should be.

yet every casual gesture is now laced with consequence. every look, every word, every action, feels loaded. he starts second-guessing the very instinct that used to guide him so easily.

should he still tie your laces? is that too much now?

can he offer you his jacket without it meaning anything?

was he being obvious before? were you just being kind by not pointing it out?

he means to leave.

the second he hears your voice, he tells himself—go. you weren’t talking to him. he shouldn’t be standing there behind the door, eavesdropping with a racing heart and a dry mouth.

he freezes when he hears his name: soft and unsure, a fragile thought spoken aloud. then a laugh from tatsuki, and a reply along the lines of “looks at you like you hung the moon.”

you sound nervous.

he peeks over, bolder now. you’re fidgeting with the hem of your shirt and nodding intently at what his teammate is telling you—more than clearly agreeing.

right as he convinces himself it’s wrong to listen in, begins to back away and starts to leave, he picks up on the last thing tatsuki suggests to you:

“if you like him so much, tell him.”

and suddenly, all the instincts and all the will in the world are on his side.

[saudianna]

ᯓ★: word count: 1.5k or smth ᯓ★ readerx lando ᯓ★: a/n: highkey this is just an escape cuz I’m getting writers block on love is papaya orange and like bro i have so many of these in my drafts PLEASE SEND ME REQUESTS also gonna make a series outta these small things ive been doing but make em a lil longer like this one ᯓ★: genre: smut, some fluff ᯓ★: tws: unprotected p in - use protection kids.. rough, slight exhibition kink? fingering, praise, degradation (opposites I guess..) established relationship, size kink if u squint, aftercare cause he’s a cutie <3

Lando loved fucking you while you were busy! it was more a game to him than anything else, how far he could push you, how loud he could make you, how absolutely wrecked and desperate he could make you by the end of it. he’d always start slow with it, sitting down slowly on the couch as you pressed the green button on screen, answering this very important call! you talked to the person on the other line, ignoring the brit’s humongous hand on your thigh innocently. until it wasn’t. fingers dancing right by the lacy band of your panties. his two digits slipping in between your folds so casually it made you moan out loud, you panicked and covered it with a cough, pressing the phone closer to your ear, trying to keep your voice steady and stoic. Lando’s fingers were warm and slow, dragging through your wetness like he was testing it, testing you. he pushed his fingers deep inside with no warning. knuckles stretching the first ring of muscle as you squirmed, body tensing under his touch. his other hand gripped your other thigh to keep you still. 

“Yeah.. no, I’m still here, sorry.” you muttered into the phone, voice higher now, breath uneven and hitching.

Lando smirked, eyes glued to your face as he curled his fingers just right, hitting that perfect spot again and again, your hips bucked and your face twisted in pleasure, cunt squeezing around his hand, but it only made him go rougher, faster, more urgent. the sound of your cunt sucking around his fingers filled the room, wet and obscene, and you had to bite your lip from whining into the speaker! he pressed his thumb to your sensitive nub with practiced precision, circling your clit slowly, waking your, stomach flip. you could barely follow the conversation anymore. all you could focus on was the way his fingers fucked into you with a rough rhythm, thrusts deep and your arousal dripping down his knuckles, heat built in your tummy like fire about to catch, a knot tying up and feeling like it’s about to snap.

The moment you pressed the end call button, stringed with an excuse that you had a really bad stomach ache, you dropped the phone from your hand, landing somewhere on the fluffy carpet, you looked at him for the first time since the start of his shenanigans, your legs shaking, eyes wide and panting, while he just looked pure amused. 

“Did you not tell them how soaked you are for me baby?” he murmured, voice thick and sultry, teasing as he pulled his fingers out of you with a wet pop and sucked them into his mouth, licking your slick off lazily and seductively as his eyes locked to yours. 

“God, you’re such a good girl when you try to behave darling..” he smirked and pushed you back onto the couch cushions, grin never leaving his face. 

“But I’m not finished with you yet.”

Other times, he would do it just to make fun of you with how easily you get flustered, or just to inconvenience you. He would linger his hands on your waist in the paddock, rub your sides up and down while you were at the gym together, and bend you over the kitchen counter as you made dinner for him! Big palms pushing your hips to an angle, leaning you against the counter and grinding against your ass, you whined and he rubbed against you. 

“Baby you okay with this?” he asked just to make sure, and you nodded, grinding yourself against him, he groaned and lifted his shirt off his muscular torso and gently pushed down your shorts as you took your own cami off. He pushed into your ass more and you whimpered more. He pushed his sweatpants down with one hand and his boxers too, flushed cock slapping against his stomach and tip a bright red and leaking already.

“Bend over for me more baby, cmon.” You let out a mumble of approval and do as told, he grabs your hips and groans.

“Good girl baby. So obedient for me.” He chuckles and you whine a little, he taps his tip on your pussy, laughing at your whimpering.

He slides it between your folds, your legs shaking and back hurting from his hand pressing your spine down. He dragged himself mire along your sticky folds, already slick and begging for more.

Pushing it in, stretching your walls and you grip the counter for more leverage, the surface providing little to no help.

You whine and push back more as he pulls out completely and you sob at the loss, him suddenly pushing in completely, thrusting into you with one go, and you scream as he hit your cervix, and you shook your head.

“Lando no-! Please you’re too big-“ you whine and he pulls out a bit,

“baby, you’re gonna take it for me alright?” You let out a breathy moan and he carried on pounding into you, wrapping his hand around you to circle at the dripping mess in between your thighs, and you cry out,

“Mmfhh! Fuck Lan!” he chuckles and he lifts one of your legs up, hitting that one spot and you shriek

“Lann— too much- it’s too big please!” You let out a strangled sound and he carried on, dragging his heavy cock through your swollen lips and velvety walls, the slick sounds and your needy moans.

“Who's making you feel this good huh?” He whined himself at the clench you gave him, knocking the breath out of you.

“You-! You Lando-! Shit I’m so fucking close-“ You mewled at the aggressively executed thrust and his hand came around your throat. 

“Shut up. We have neighbours you know? God you’re screaming like a slut so loud people can probably hear us from floors above!” And he brought his hand back, spanking your ass hardly and you panted out, crying now. 

“Cmon baby. Cum for me yeah?” Your walls squeezing him, fluttering now as he spread love bites down your back. As you finally came, his fingers tangled in your hair, your back arching and cunt clenching so hard Lando thought his soul was being sucked out from his body. 

“Shit- you tryna milk me baby? It’s fucking working-“ he gasped out and came all inside you, moaning like a manwhore and he reached around again to overstimulate the both of you, thrusting into you harder and making you keen out, tears running down your cheeks and into your parted lips, bitten raw from 

“You’re such a mess for me, baby—just look at how wet you are.” And wrapped his hand around your loose hair. Pulling it back to look at your face, messy and tear coated lashes, looking at him from the side as your lips quivered and he laughed in your face, still pounding into you from behind. He grabbed your jaw with his other hand and kissed you roughly, full of teeth and tongue and you moaned into the kiss and the man behind you utterly ruined you. He laughed in your face as your eyes rolled back as he delivered a particularly spot-hitting pound. 

As he felt your walls clenching around him again he pushed your head down to see  your walls gripping his dick so hard, and you moaned in your his ear, his mouth nibbling on your neck, licking on your collarbone. He groaned as you came with a shout, legs giving up on yourself and he gave a few more thrusts, coming deep deep inside.

“Fuck- you like me filling you up huh?” And he slowly stopped his thrusts, you moaned and he pulled out, lifted you up and put you on the counter.

“You okay baby?” You nodded and he looked down at your raw and puffy folds, grinning at the sticky liquid dripping out of you, reaching down and scooping it back in, and you whimpered.

“Mm keep it in baby.” He picked your undies off the floor and put them on you, keeping his residue in. 

“Was I too rough love?” You shook your head and wrapped your arms around him. He kissed you and cradled you in his arms. After a few moments he pulled away and kissed your forehead, walking away and getting a warm cloth and wiping down your thighs.

“Can I run a bath for you?” He asked,

“Yes please.. join me?” You titled your head and he laughed and nodded.

“Of course baby.” He picked you up in his arms and went and placed you in the bath.

“How about you run the bath and I’ll go get some clothes hm?”

You nodded and gave him a little peck, he smiled and went to go when you said something that made him laugh.

“Agh… everything hurts Lando..!” You giggled and sat on the side of the bath.

“I guess I owe you a massage huh?” He winks and walks to go get the stuff for you. <3

[meimalr]

BABY IT'S COLD INSIDE - SOPHIA LAFORTEZA

wordcount: 3k

tags: fluff, college!au, enemies (one sided) to lovers, kissing at the end

the heating is broken in your dorm room, and while you really hate your roommate, sophia, there was only one solution. sleeping together

The two of you had never been close. 

It was the night of the first day of classes, when the initial excitement of school was slowing down. Students were tired. Full blown conversations were turning into whispers and the occasional giggle. The hallways were clearing out, and you were snuggled in your bed, sheets pulled all the way up to your chin. While the day was fun and you would never deny that—constantly having to introduce yourself the same way over 50 times was definitely not the most interesting part of your day. You just wanted to close your eyes and sleep.

All was well until you heard the soft padding of footsteps in the dorm, venturing concerningly close to your dorm room’s front door. There was a click, and then light from the hallway started spilling into your dorm. Quiet voices could be heard as they giggled and whispered, and it only got worse as they seemed to be coming into the room and not leaving.

You tossed and turned, letting out an audible groan in hopes of having them feel guilty and leaving, but they only stopped for a moment making sure you were still sleeping before continuing.

“Sophia! I thought your roommate would be awake,” a voice whispered, her tone sharp but you could hear a hint of laughter behind it.

“I didn’t think she was a grandma, Lara. It’s literally only 9," Sophia whispered back, and the group of girls giggled as they moved around the room to sit on the other bed.

You weren’t old. You were simply tired after starting your day at the ass crack of dawn and only ending it a few hours ago. You had told Sophia you were going to knock out early. She nodded in response and made jokes about how tiring the first day was. You thought she had understood that that meant you wanted quiet. Apparently she didn’t.

That night—filled with endless laughter and repeated shushing—marked the day that you knew Sophia Laforteza would remain an enemy for the rest of the semester. 

“Did you hear the news?” Manon questioned as the two of you sat together on a bench on the school’s campus. You had met Manon months prior in one of your classes, and while you originally shied away from her friendly advances, she wouldn’t stop pestering you and eventually it blossomed into a close friendship.

“What news?” you replied, barely listening, a hand in your hair as you flipped through notes trying to absorb last minute information before a big test. 

“Some of the heating in the dorms isn't gonna be working for the next week. Admin suggested either finding another dorm with a friend or just living through it.” Manon glanced toward you at her words, but you didn’t reply. You didn’t even hear her.

She gave up on trying to talk to you and turned her attention to her phone, sighing and folding her body into her jacket to brace the cold wind that was hitting the both of you. 

It only hit you hours after she told you.

The both of you were eating out to celebrate the end of the first semester. The weather outside was freezing, and you were never one to appreciate the cold. 

“Wait,” you said, interrupting Manon as she talked about a class that was annoying her. She rolled her eyes and lowered her hands, used to your random outbursts. “Did you say the heating is broken in the dorms?”

“I said that like 6 hours ago. It’s broken on most of the third floor rooms.”

You blinked slowly and sat still for a moment.

“I live on the third floor.”

Your friend simply nodded, a ghost of a smile visible on her lips as your brain attempted to digest the information.

“With Sophia. The bane of my existence. The reason why I’m always over at your room.” You continued, and she kept nodding, the smile only growing wider. 

The solution was simple. You’d just room with Manon for the week again. You’ve shared a room with Manon for so long throughout the semester that you’d basically moved in. She lived a floor above, and her roommate Megan wouldn’t mind either. As you started to open your mouth she quickly ruined your night with her next words.

“You can’t room with me.” The words were sharp even if she meant to deliver them softly.

Silence. The utensils clanging against plates in the corners of the restaurant were the only things you could hear. 

You took a steady inhale. “Why?”

“Megan already invited some friends from the third floor. She got first dibs because I always have you over. Her words, not mine.” 

You decided then and there that you’d kill Manon and then you’d kill Megan soon after. 

“Please Manon.” You begged, hands clasped together and you even started reaching over the table to clasp her hands with yours. She let out a loud wheeze and started laughing uncontrollably at your despair.

“I’m not going to be on campus for the week, Y/n.” She couldn’t stop laughing at the pure despair on your face. “There’s no chance that Megan’s gonna let you in the room. Especially if I’m not there.” 

She didn’t understand how much you hated Sophia. This was the worst thing that could’ve happened.

You entered your dorm a little bit after you begged Manon for help. It was pointless and she only sat there in pity as you went on and on about your distaste for your roommate.

Sophia was on her bed, her blanket wrapped tightly around her body. Her glasses were perched on her nose as she balanced her laptop on her knees. You glanced over at her once before quickly looking away. Something in your heart reacted, but you pushed the emotion deep down and made your way to your own bed.

She silently glanced up at you before looking down at her computer again. You only knew a bit of Sophia’s schedule from other friends, but you knew that she still had one more class to finish before she would be on break as well. 

You slowly put your stuff down and summoned the courage to break the silence in the room.

“I’m going to head into the shower,” you said, rummaging through your belongings.

She hummed a response, not even giving you the time of day. 

As you looked through your stuff you realised that you made a mistake. Many of your things were still in Manon's room, including your towel. You hissed in annoyance and you could feel Sophia’s gaze on your back.

“Are you okay-”

“Do you have a spare towel-”

You both spoke at the same time, and you quickly apologised before stopping yourself because why were you apologising to Sophia Laforteza. 

“A spare towel?” She asked as she got up from under her blanket, placing her laptop beside her. Her shirt had ridden up slightly and you quickly averted your gaze, your face getting warmer at the sight.

She scanned her belongings before finding an extra towel and throwing it across the room at you. You fumbled with it before catching it.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, annoyed at the fact that you needed help from Sophia in the first place.

“You're welcome.” she responded as she moved back toward her bed, shivering slightly from the lack of heating. 

You had made another mistake. Apparently tonight was full of them. It was so cold inside your room that showering only made it worse no matter how warm you made the water. You were practically vibrating with cold once you finished your shower. Your solution was to throw on multiple sweaters, but that only made you uncomfortable as you laid on your bed, but it was better than freezing.

As you glanced to the other side of the room, you noticed that Sophia was most likely just as cold, if not worse off. She had given up on studying and had pulled her blanket up and over her head. The light of her phone was visible under the sheets and you could faintly hear her breathing which was the only indicator that she was still alive.

After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, you glanced at the clock to see that it read 11 at night. An annoyed breath escaped you, and you did what you never thought you would have done in a million years.

“So.” You awkwardly started, and the noise coming from Sophia’s phone quickly turned off, her head peeking from underneath the covers. “You still have classes, right?” 

“Yeah,” She said, a curious edge to her voice.

You nodded slowly, “That sucks. I just finished today.”

“Do you not have anything to wear that will make you warmer?”

Sophia rolled her eyes as if annoyed with you continuing the conversation.

“I had to do laundry, and somehow I ended up with none of my sweaters for tonight.”

“I see.”

She made no effort to continue the conversation, and you laid on your bed tensely as she stared at you in confusion. You looked over at her and saw that her cheeks had taken on a pinkish colour. The cold was obviously affecting her, and you didn’t know how she’d survive the whole night.

Unfortunately, you decided to speak up on the matter.

“Would you like to-” you paused, trying to think of a way to articulate yourself. “Would you maybe like to borrow one of my sweaters? Just because it’s really cold and you look like you’re freezing. I wouldn’t mind– well that is if you’re comfortable with that.” 

You cringed at your rambling and sank further down into your bed. 

“Sorry,” You mumbled in embarrassment.

“Could I?” Her voice overpowered yours.

“What?”

She rolled her eyes again, “Could I borrow one of your sweaters?” 

You didn’t expect her to actually take up on your offer. 

You nodded rapidly and shot up from your bed, taking one of the many sweaters you had on off.

“Oh. I thought you’d give me a different one.” she said, an eyebrow raised at you struggling to move your limbs.

“I’m kind of wearing all of them right now. The only other one I have has my name plastered all over it, I didn’t think you’d want it-”

“I’ll take that one,” she interrupted you again, and you only looked at her puzzled. You shrugged your shoulders and went to grab the offending sweater.

She stood up from her bed and thanked you, her hands touching yours as she grabbed the sweater from you. You almost flinched at how cold they were, and had the urge to put your hands around hers to warm them up.

No–

What were you saying? This was Sophia. The same Sophia that completely ruined your sleep schedule and had no respect for you several months ago. The same Sophia you never even gave a chance.

You slipped back under your covers and fell asleep quite quickly, not noticing the way Sophia peered over at your sleeping form with a certain look in her eyes.

You woke up in the morning to your sweater folded neatly and a note on top of it written in Sophia’s strangely beautiful handwriting.

Thanks for the sweater, Y/n.

-Sophia

A warm feeling spread throughout your chest.

“You’re joking,” Manon screeched as you flinched and held your phone away from your ears. “You talked to Sophia?”

“It was like a two minute conversation.” You rolled your eyes, forgetting that your friend couldn’t see you.

“You borrowed her towel, Y/n,” she said, and you sighed in response.

“That’s nothing serious. It was an extra one she doesn’t use.”

“Did anything else happen?”

“I gave her my sweater, she looked really cold-”

“You gave her your sweater!?” Manon screamed again, and it was loud enough that the people you were walking past could hear her through your phone. 

“Shut up!” You whisper shouted into your phone, hoping she would quiet down.

“Why didn’t you start with that? That’s like- next level relationship stuff,” Manon spoke, slightly calmer but still loud.

“We’re barely even acquaintances. I was just being nice.” You scoffed.

“Yeah, and next thing you know you’re introducing her to me as your girlfriend.” 

For some reason, the thought of Sophia being your girlfriend didn’t immediately overwhelm you in a feeling of disgust. Unfortunately, your quietness didn’t go unnoticed by your best friend.

“Y/n, are you seriously thinking about that?”

“No!” You shouted affronted. 

“Don’t lie to me Y/n. I know you too well. You like her.” 

“I literally don’t. I’ve barely spoken to her. I hate her and you know this.”

Manon only ignored you and continued laughing throughout the call. 

Somehow, the next night was colder than the last. It was seeping through your bones, and no matter how much you layered it was still freezing. Sophia had seemingly gotten her laundry, and was dressed much more appropriately than yesterday. You almost felt sad that she wouldn’t need your sweater again. Almost.

“Y/n.” She spoke out of the blue, and you shot up to attention.

“Yes?”

“It’s really cold,” she stated, and you almost laughed at how serious she sounded for such a simple observation.

“I noticed.”

“Come here.”

You chuckled.

Sophia didn’t say anything else.

You laughed again, but much more worried. She wasn’t joking. She rolled over in her bed to make space for you and turned her attention back to her phone. 

She was leaving it up to you.

She was evil. She had to have been put on this world to torment you.

She was beautiful. Even when her attention wasn’t on you, you could recognize her beauty. Her cheeks, slightly pink. The rise and fall of her chest. Her silky hair splayed out on her pillow.

She was absolutely beautiful, and you couldn’t help but get out of your bed and step toward her.

“Bring you blanket, stupid.”

You flushed in embarrassment before turning around and snatching your blanket off of its original home.

You were in front of her bed now, and she made no sound of disapproval as you slipped a leg under her own blanket and slowly eased down into it.

You were stiff, and you couldn’t help but lie on your back and stare straight up at the ceiling. 

After a few moments, she placed her phone somewhere and shifted slightly closer to you.

“Is this okay?” Sophia whispered somewhere in the air, her voice’s tone sending a shiver down your spine.

You nodded, knowing your words would betray you.

The two of you remained silent for a while, but you knew she wasn’t sleeping, and you weren’t fooling anyone either. 

“Why are you never in our dorm?” She questioned.

“Do you remember the first day of school?” You asked, still lying stiffly against her on the small bed.

“No.” She laughed, and her laugh sounded like music to your ears. “That was such a long time ago.” 

“I was trying to sleep, and you brought friends over. I couldn’t sleep for practically the whole night.”

Her laughing stopped for a moment, and then it started again, seemingly louder than before.

“You really hate me over that?” She sounded bewildered, and you flushed in embarrassment realizing how petty it was to hold such a grudge.

"It was more so because you said you had understood why I was so tired," You said, frustrated. You paused for a moment before adding, “I don’t hate you anymore,” You mumbled, and quickly regretted the words once they came out of your mouth.

Sophia stopped laughing at your expense and shifted closer to you again. Your body was impossibly still. She was close enough for you to feel her cold breath on your neck.

“Is that so?” She asked.

You turned to face her, taking in her full beauty. “I don’t think I ever hated you. I think I was just so frustrated and too petty to talk about.”

She started giggling again, and the way she threw her head back as her face scrunched up enamored you. You stared at her, gaze occasionally glancing down to her lips. 

Even though she was laughing at you and your unwillingness to communicate, you couldn’t help but start to laugh with her, heat rising to your cheeks. Such a small thing caused a giant rift between you two.

Deep down in your heart, you knew that Sophia was nice, one of the kindest people on campus. There were always anecdotes from other students of her helping around and trying her best. The truth was that you just never wanted to believe it after your first interaction with the girl.

Sophia eventually stopped laughing and laid her eyes on you, and you felt your mind go blank.

Before you could realize what you were doing, you reached your hand from underneath the blanket and touched Sophia’s cheek. Gently as first, and the cold of the room seemed to transform to heat that accumulated on her face as you flinched away. She reacted just as quick and held your hand there, looking at you intensely.

You hesitated, searching through Sophia’s eyes for any sort of message. Any sort of green light.

“Are you-”

Sophia was the one to close the distance.

Her lips pressed against yours in a featherlike touch, and your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling. Her hands were cold as she pressed them against your cheeks, and your own hands dropped to the front of her shirt, gripping it tight as if it could ground you further into the moment.

It was soft at first, and she backed away from it just as fast as it came.

And then she leaned in again and pressed her lips to yours—harder this time—filled with emotion that you never thought your roommate could harbor. 

You didn’t know what you were doing, but nothing mattered at the moment. The chill of the room was absent as you pressed closer to Sophia, tangling your legs with hers underneath the sheets. Her lips were soft and warm, a welcoming feeling compared to the sharpness of the air between you. It was intoxicating, and you couldn’t help but let yourself become poisoned by her.

The kiss ended only because of the lack of oxygen travelling between you, and she pressed her forehead against yours. Both of your bodies were warm, hot even.

“I-”

“We could’ve done that months ago if you had just talked to me,” Sophia said, a pink to her cheeks that wasn’t just due to the cold anymore.

Then she climbed on top of you, straddling you, her mouth connecting with yours once again.

Manon was gonna pass out once she heard about this.

[1d1195]

Under Construction IV

Read Under Construction here | ~6.3k

From Me: a date, a party, and a bit of learning

Warning: like two more seconds of blood and then fluff and a bit of angst.

Summary: “Miss Bee, I think Mr. Harry needs help,” Niall said knowingly, teasingly, from his table where a little girl was helping Niall with the glitter that he wanted to add to his pumpkin. They both giggled conspiratorially. She snorted.

“I do not!” Harry glared at his friend then looked up at her with the most innocent, adorable face she had ever seen on a grown man. “Niall’s a tattle tale.”

“Miss Bee says there are no tattle tales in her class, Mr. Harry,” Tyler explained. “She said we have to think about if we need to tell her something first. There’s rules on the wall for it by the clock.”

“Yeah, and I don’t think Niall needed to tell on me,” Harry grumbled.

She was ready thirty-six minutes before Harry was supposed to show up. The anxiety she felt, even though he was there less than twenty-four hours prior, made her bouncy. Her knee was shaking as she sat on her sofa trying not to look at her phone for the twentieth time in the same minute to see that time was not moving any faster.

There was the thought to look in a mirror, but she feared she would ruin her hair for adjusting it too much. Or her makeup for thinking maybe one more swipe of eyeshadow would make her look better. Instead, she continued practically vibrating out of her seat in hopes that somehow Harry would get there faster.

She ignored her texts from Louis and Eleanor, both nearly giggling through their messages about being safe and using protection. She read over the itinerary her sister sent for wedding planning and when she got too overwhelmed, she switched gears to her weekly lesson plan. By then, only a mere nine minutes had passed. With how much she was tapping her foot, she thought that her floor was going to get a matching hole like her ceiling.

It felt like she had never been on a date before, and this was the first one. Maybe it was just the first one that actually mattered. Evan took her on dates of course, and in the early stages of their relationship, they were filled with excitement. But not like this. Everything moved so quickly with Evan. Dates, flowers, moving in, home repairs, and many events. By the end of their relationship, dates were extravagant, but almost always more of an event than spending time with one another.

Maybe it was worth waiting the agonizing twenty-four minutes that she still had to wait before Harry arrived.

Her phone pinged beside her. Harry’s name popped up and she felt her heart leap into her throat. Honestly, if he cancelled, she was going to be devastated. But she would of course understand.

I’m itching to come pick you up, Bird. Any chance you’re ready early? I’m only five minutes away from your place.

The wave of relief that flooded her made her feel two hundred times lighter. She laughed quietly to herself. Yes! I’m ready, I don’t want you to rush, but that would be great!

I’ve been sitting in my car for ten minutes and I just thought I couldn’t wait any longer. You’re sure you don’t mind?

Her heart did a somersault in her chest, and she thought she might explode from how cute he was. 🥰 No not at all. I’ve been a bit restless myself looking forward to our lunch.

😅 Good. I’ll see you in a minute, Bird.

Now she wished she had looked at her hair and makeup one more time. She paced her living room and fiddled with the pictures on the wall making sure they looked straight. Her eyes darted to the hole in her ceiling that Harry and Niall said they would fix next weekend once they were assured it was fully dried. They even went to her attic and set up a fan after breakfast yesterday to ensure the moisture wouldn’t accumulate mold. It made her heart skip a beat again to know he was willing to come help her in the middle of the night.

The knock on her door was expected but still surprised her anyway. She hurried over to the door trying not to sound like she was waiting right by the door. Harry stood on the step, a vase and accompanying flower arrangement in his hand. “Hi,” he grinned. “Y’look stunning,” he said scanning her up and down.

She thought she was going to melt right there in the doorway. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He held out the vase. “M’sister told me that getting your date flowers is nice, but s’a lot of work t’find a vase and take care of them right before y’supposed t’go out,” he smiled sheepishly.

She took the vase, inhaling the scent of the various flowers as she did. “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”

“I didn’t know what kind of flowers y’liked so I kinda got one of each,” he admitted shyly.

She grinned. “I love it,” she nodded.

“The ceiling’s okay?” He asked.

She nodded again. “But… let’s not worry about it. I want to enjoy our date,” she bit the inside of her lip as she settled the vase on the small table just inside the doorway.

Harry’s smile grew somehow. It was astonishing. She was pretty sure if a lighthouse failed, they could use him instead. He leaned forward, cupping the side of her face and kissing her on the opposite cheek. Just a quick gentle brush of his lips against her skin. It made her feel warm all over, and she knew her cheeks probably turned pinker than the blush she used. If they did, Harry didn’t comment. He released her quickly. “Let’s go then,” he said holding his hand out for her to take (which she did quickly and enjoyed the way he squeezed her hand once he held it). Harry was dressed in dark jeans, a soft blue button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked so good, smelled better than the flowers he gave her, and she seriously thought about asking him if they could just stay on her couch so she could stare at him.

Harry opened the passenger door for her, making her heart tumble over itself once more. He closed her in and headed to the driver’s side. “I thought we’d go a town or two over jus’ so y’don’t run into any kids… unless y’want that. More witnesses and whatnot,” he winked.

She smiled. “No, that’s okay. I’d rather… keep you to myself for now,” she looked at her lap.

He chuckled quietly. “Works for me.”

*

Harry was fucked. He was worried he was staring at her too much. But then he was worried he was trying to avoid looking at her too much and seemed disinterested. Which was not the case. Harry was almost certain no one could be more interested on a date than the pretty girl sitting across from him. She was looking over the menu, not a particularly fancy place, but there were cloth napkins. Gemma said that a cloth napkin always classed up the date a bit.

Her eyes roamed the menu, her lips pursed in concentration. Harry was enthralled. The way her lashes framed her eyes, the curve of her smile, the wrinkle of her nose when she saw something she didn’t like. “Have you been here before?” She asked.

He shook his head quickly, getting himself to stop staring. “I’ve ordered take out after a job not too far from here.”

She nodded. “It looks really good, thanks for picking. I promise I won’t talk about teaching the whole time, but sometimes I get decision fatigue. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it, but basically, I make a lot of decisions all day long—for a lot of people. Decisions I don’t even realize I’m making. Picking what to eat is so exhausting sometimes that I don’t even make dinner and just have snacks,” she admitted with a smile.

That worried Harry, of course. He wanted to make her dinner all the time and not let her worry about it. “What d’you like t’eat?” He asked.

She smiled. “Oh, I’m not too picky, really. The butternut squash ravioli sounds really good, and it comes with bread. I’ll probably get brussels sprouts too.”

Once more Harry forgot that he was supposed to uphold his end of the conversation. She made her lunch choice sound like an acceptance speech for an award. “Hey Bird?” He asked quietly.

“Hmm?” She looked up.

“Y’can talk ‘bout teaching as much as y’want. M’not gonna get sick of it,” he promised.

She ducked her gaze to the menu again and smiled sadly. “Oh,” she laughed softly. “Thank you,” appreciation dripping in her voice as she looked up at him with an almost confused gaze. “I’m afraid it’s a pretty big part of my life and conversation.”

“Good,” he shrugged one shoulder. “I like hearing about it,” he promised with a grin.

*

The conversation flowed very easily. They discussed favorites and movies. She offered some of her Brussels sprouts to Harry and he gave her a handful of his French fries when she said they looked really good. He chuckled when she dipped them into the cream sauce that surrounded her ravioli. “It’s good, you should try it.”

It was good. But he still found it funny.

They chatted about their families. Gemma and her baby, his mum, and her family, who were all thoroughly invested in planning this wedding for her sister. “She picked my other sister to be maid of honor, but I’m doing a lot of the work,” she sighed.

“How come?” He asked.

“Because I’m crafty,” she shrugged. “I get roped into making all the stuff for her bachelorette trip—that I’m not going on because it’s during the school year—and I don’t know. She has this vision for the wedding to have some elaborate archway and I stupidly volunteered to make it.”

He smiled. “Do y’have a picture of it?” He asked.

When she went on dates with Evan, phones were nearly a necessity. She didn’t mind, really. They helped keep the conversation going. She would look up things to talk about and show off pictures of her classroom. Not that Evan cared about her classroom. He used his phone to conduct business even while on their date. Check on the score of a game or the like. But it was a little astonishing that she realized she had nearly forgotten she owned a phone until Harry asked for a picture.

“Oh, yeah,” she pulled her phone from her purse and searched through the pictures of the wedding album she created for her sister. “She’s getting married in June, which is also kind of crazy with the end of the school year. But,” she sighed. “It is what it is.”

Harry looked at the archway. It was pretty. Didn’t seem particularly complicated. “What are y’worried about?” He asked.

“Well, building it.”

“Building it?” He repeated.

“Yes. Because purchasing it would be too easy,” she rolled her eyes. “I shouldn’t complain. It’s not that bad, I’m just busy a lot of time and it’s going to be difficult because I need to get the right tools and—” she stopped. “I sound like an awful sister, don’t I?”

“No, not at all,” he shook his head. “S’a big endeavor t’do on your own. But… I have plenty of tools,” he assured her. “And I’ll help you,” he promised. “It’ll go a lot faster and smoother with two people.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Really?” She asked.

What the hell was her ex like that she didn’t feel like she could ask for help? “Yes, really,” he smiled. “S’easy m’sure.”

“Thank you,” she said so graciously, Harry thought his heart was going to melt onto the floor of the restaurant.

“At y’service Miss Bird,” he winked.

Their waiter came back to take their dishes, offered dessert which they declined. “Kitten, put your money away. S’useless here,” he shook his head putting his card into the check presenter. She blushed.

“You don’t have—”

“M’not having this discussion,” he shook his head. “S’no bother. M’happy y’wanted t’come out with me. I know you’re busy and m’taking up precious time on your weekend.”

She hadn’t thought about anything that usually plagued her mind when she was doing something enjoyable. She didn’t think about her lesson plans, the wedding, nor Christmas gifts she wanted to start buying. The only thing she could think about was how nice her time with Harry was when he looked so handsome and couldn’t stop staring at her. “I’d rather be here,” she assured him.

He smiled. “Good.”

*

Before they went into the restaurant, she recognized her surroundings and offered her two cents. “There’s a really good ice cream place nearby if you want to get dessert after,” she said. “Since it’s fall, they have this apple sundae special that’s super yummy.”

Harry put a hand on the small of her back as he ushered her back to his car. “Y’have room for ice cream?”

She nodded. “I always have room for ice cream,” she grinned.

He chuckled. “Ice cream it is.” They sat inside the little shop eating their ice creams. Hers, the small apple sundae she spoke about, and his, a cup of mint chocolate chip with hot fudge. “This is really good ice cream,” he nodded taking another spoonful. She ginned to herself, watching a drip of hot fudge get stuck to the bottom of his chin.

She bit her lip and grabbed a napkin between them. “May I?” She asked reaching out to his face. He smirked and she dabbed his skin.

He grabbed her hand when she was finished, made her drop the napkin to the table and he scooped her hand into his and smirked. “You look like a whole bouquet, Bird,” he scanned her again.

A puddle. She was certain her insides turned to mush, and she was no longer solid but liquid on the floor of the ice cream shop. She felt so warm she thought the heat she was producing would melt her sundae into the puddle of her organs on the floor.

“A bouquet?” She questioned.

“Prettiest bouquet I’ve ever seen.”

“I think I’m going to melt,” she whispered.

“Y’can’t melt when I haven’t even kissed y’yet,” he didn’t move his eyes from hers. A small gasp escaped her lips. “M’going t’melt as well,” he squeezed her hand. “Thought ‘bout kissing you yesterday. Well, ‘ve actually been thinking ‘bout kissing you since I met you,” he admitted with a smirk. “But y’really gave me a scare on the roof,” he reminded her.

The sight of her up there in the rain, not knowing what to do, terrified him. When he yelled, he didn’t think about her reaction—didn’t think it would send her over the edge of her home and nearly fall. Cradling her, no matter how briefly, felt like heaven. Despite the circumstances. Regardless of if it was raining and at one in the morning. Even though his heart felt like it was in his throat and his stomach twisted with worry.

All Harry wanted to do was wrap her up in his arms, a blanket, anything, and hold her for as long as possible.

“Will you be kissing me when you drive me home?” She asked.

“Would that be okay?” He squeezed her hand.

Would it be okay if the hottest man she’d ever seen kissed her? Yeah. She’d be okay. She nodded. “Very okay.”

*

She felt her hands nearly shake as she opened the door. Harry stood a few feet away; his hands tucked into his pockets as he glanced around the front of her house. “The door sticks a little,” she warned.

“I could look at that,” he offered.

She gave it a little shove and pushed inside. Harry watched the skirt of her dress flutter with the movement, and she stepped into the doorway. Harry helped her get her coat off and hung up on her coat rack. “Do you want—”

Harry grabbed her by the hips, then turned her so her back was against the wall adjacent to the door that he kicked shut. He put his hand behind her head protectively as he pushed her. Once safely against the wall, he brought one hand to her face, the other on her waist. He gazed at her, his nose almost touching hers. His breath smelled like mint chocolate chip ice cream and hot fudge.

 She hoped she smelled like apples and not pasta or garlic. “M’pretty bouquet,” he hummed and brushed the back of his finger along her cheek. He wasn’t kidding about melting. And he still hadn’t kissed her yet. But was she breathing heavy? Panting? Like she had run a marathon? She thought she might lose her mind a little if he prolonged this. “This was the best date of m’life,” he brushed his thumb along her lower lip. “Can we have another?” He asked.

She nodded. “Please,” she breathed.

He grinned, nodded to himself happily. “M’gonna kiss you now, kitten. M’gonna make y’melt,” he promised.

“I’m sure,” her voice was hardly anything more than a whisper.

He smiled, leaned the final inch in, and covered her lips with his. She thought she was going to be embarrassed and moan but instead Harry beat her to it. And it was anything but embarrassing. She breathed out as he moved his mouth over hers, applying the most perfect amount of pressure.

An expert at fixing desks, a roof, and kissing. She should have known. His hand tangled in the back of her hair and brought her closer to him. His lips were soft and firm. A tantalizing, oxymoronic pressure that made her feel like her legs were going to give out. She grabbed a fistful of the front of his shirt in each hand. He licked and nipped at her, deepening the kiss. The hand at her waist shifted south, rubbing her hip, her leg through the skirt of her dress.

Harry moaned again, pulled away and dropped his lips to her jaw and he kissed down toward her ear, moved to her throat and brushed his lips against her collarbone. “Mm,” he sighed. “So good, Bird. So, so good,” he whispered into her skin. “Can I?” He asked, his hands drifting further south.

“Yes,” she whispered breathlessly. “Anything you want.”

He chuckled quietly; the air tickled her skin as he did. Slowly, he dropped his hands to cup around the side of her thighs, still politely over her skirt. He groaned. “So pretty, m’pretty Bird,” he slowly lifted until she was off the floor, her legs wrapped around his waist. “Don’t want y’melting all over the floor,” he murmured into her neck.

She didn’t care that her skirt rode up her hips and her underwear was probably showing. She hoped she picked a cute pair; that Harry would like her even if she wore comfy underwear too. “Mmm,” her hands moved to his shoulders, the back of his neck pulling him closer and wishing he could sink deeper into his mouth, his body, everything. She pushed away from the wall, nearly grinding into him as she wrapped herself tightly around him. She moaned softly, Harry groaning again in response as he pushed her back against the wall, her leg hitting against the table inside the entry way. Immediately, her pretty flowers and vase toppled to the ground and shattered.

Harry pulled away and sighed. “S’what I get for trying t’make y’life easier,” he smirked, kissed her cheek. “I’ll clean it up.”

“I could give two fucks about that,” she told him, her lips only a breath away from his. “Keep kissing me,” she begged.

He laughed again, brushed his nose against hers, “M’at your service, Miss Bee,” he whispered before parting her lips with his again.

*

She felt like she was floating at work. The little ones were all very excited about Halloween, their sand-witch party and everything. She wasn’t on top of her game because all she could think about was the hot construction worker just a short walk away from her. Her eyes drifted to the window. She wouldn’t be able to see him of course, but just the thought of him got her melting all over again.

It was a miracle she could sleep after Harry left her. The smile on her sore lips—she hadn’t felt sore from kissing since… well… ever—her mind spun with hundreds of thoughts all about Harry. Not a single lesson nor a bridal shower game entered her brain last night. The only thing she could think about was Harry.

Good morning, Miss Bee

She woke up to the text as her alarm rang for six o’clock. The time stamp said that Harry had been up for at least an hour. Biting her lip, she texted back. Good morning ☀️

Sleep well? He asked almost instantly.

Her heart skipped a beat. Yes, you?

Hard falling asleep when yesterday was so nice 😍

Agreed 🥰 I gotta get ready. See you at recess, maybe? I’ll be wearing blue and a head or two taller than the little ones.

Can’t wait, bird.

However, now she couldn’t find him through the window, and she had a class to tend to. But her lips still felt sore, and she couldn’t help but smile as she focused on the kindergarteners in front of her. “Did we all have a good weekend?” She asked as they moved to the carpet for another installment of Charlotte’s Web.

“Miss Bee, I tolded my mom that I want to be a construction worker when I growed up.”

She giggled. “Told and grown, my love,” she reminded Kai sweetly. “Are you going to dress up like one on Wednesday for our party?”

He nodded. “Mr. Harry is bringing me a hat and a vest,” he explained.

“Is he now?” She smiled.

“Yes. I asked him at recess.”

“Hmm,” she hummed. “That’s very nice of him. Maybe we’ll have to write him a thank you note, yeah?”

But she also thought she could thank him in other ways.

The kindergarteners didn’t need to know about that though.

*

Harry was sitting in a chair much too small for him. He happily cut up paper, glued, and drew with children that she loved so much.

Niall and he were eating sandwiches that were also much too small for them, and they still had a few hours of grueling work to do once they left the party.

But they didn’t bat an eye at the situation. They looked like they were enjoying themselves even. Every so often Niall would get up in his ketchup costume and inspect something amiss around her room, catching Harry’s eye. There was a nod from Harry, a silent conversation taking place about the problems in her room that he seemed to be keeping on a mental to-do list.

One thing that she noticed, it was really nice to have a few extra sets of hands in her room for the day. With twenty students using scissors and glue it was bound to get a little crazy.

“Miss Bee, Mr. Niall put four triangles on his pumpkin!” Janie said in excitement.

“No way!” She gasped.

Not that she didn’t believe Kai, but Harry did bring little hard hats and vests (with an Under Construction logo on the back) for the five students that said they wanted to be construction workers. He stopped by her classroom yesterday after school let out and he had a box in his hands and a sheepish smile on his lips. “I didn’t want t’be empty handed for the kids that aren’t planning t’be in the construction business.”

She blinked back tears as she inspected the package of vests and accessories of a variety of jobs. “Harry,” she said softly. “This is too much. It must have cos—”

“Probably a tenth of what y’spend on them in one year, bird. Don’t worry ‘bout it. ‘Ve spent m’money on a lot worse than the future,” he assured her.

She dropped the box between their feet and threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him tight. He chuckled as he pushed the box out of the way with his foot and lifted her gently as he squeezed her back.

“Miss Bee, I think Mr. Harry needs help,” Niall said knowingly, teasingly, from his table where a little girl was helping Niall with the glitter that he wanted to add to his pumpkin. They both giggled conspiratorially. She snorted.

“I do not!” Harry glared at his friend then looked up at her with the most innocent, adorable face she had ever seen on a grown man. “Niall’s a tattle tale.”

“Miss Bee says there are no tattle tales in her class, Mr. Harry,” Tyler explained. “She said we have to think about if we need to tell her something first. There’s rules on the wall for it by the clock.”

“Yeah, and I don’t think Niall needed to tell on me,” Harry grumbled.

“Miss Bee says it’s only a need if it’s a matter of safety.”

“This is not a matter of safety,” Harry muttered bitterly.

She giggled, which made his whole body feel warm and he wondered how on earth he could be so obsessed with someone’s laugh after just a few short weeks. It felt like a bad day if he didn’t hear it. “Miss Bee, can I have the broom?” Amara asked. She tugged on Miss Bee’s costume, a tulle green skirt, a matching headband with two wire pieces that had big M&M’s bouncing from side to side, and a green M&M shirt. The class giggled at her when she changed into it (put it over top of her leggings and white sweater dress.

“Of course, thank you for being so thoughtful to keep your space clean, Amara,” she praised so the others could hear and hopefully help with clean up when the sand-witch party was over.

She went to the side of the room where she kept the cleaning supplies in a cabinet closet. However, when she pulled the door open it fell right off the old hinges. She yelped as it hit her foot and face at the same time. Her free hand went to her nose instinctively, and she lost her grip of it with her other hand but still tried to stop it as it toppled toward the tables.

The little ones screamed a bit dramatically, but Niall and Harry jumped right into action, grabbing it before it hit anyone else or caused any (more) damage.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked quickly, putting a hand on her hip innocently enough and scanning her from head to toe.

“Ah,” she shook her head and moved her hand to find that naturally she had given herself a nosebleed. “Fuck,” she whispered so no one could hear but Harry.

“We can fix it!” The little ones that had on their hard hats were ready to go to work with Niall and Harry even though they were dressed as ketchup and mustard.

“Oh Miss Bee! You’re bleeding!” DJ was dressed as a doctor, a stethoscope at the ready thanks to Harry’s kind gift.

She winced. It felt like defeat showing weakness. “I’m alright, my love. I just need to use the restroom to clean myself up.”

“I can help too!” Brayden said. He was dressed as a nurse, with a mask on his face ready to help out as well.

Harry crouched to the future medical professionals. “I think Miss Bee jus’ needs minute t’herself,” he whispered. “When she comes out, I bet she’ll let you look her over so y’can give her a clean bill of health,” he winked.

They both nodded with understanding and headed back to their tables. Harry grabbed a few tissues and ushered her back toward the bathroom. He wanted to close the door for the sake of her privacy and he really wanted to tend to her the way he wanted to, but he was sure that would look very bad in front of twenty, nosy kindergarteners who loved their adorable teacher.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly as she washed the blood off her hands and face while trying to maintain composure in front of the guy that she had a massive crush on while dressed like an M&M and a nose pouring blood like a faucet.

“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered.

He snorted. “For what? M’dressed as mustard,” he reminded her.

She smiled and winced at the pain it cause in her face. She shook her head. “The door landed on my foot,” she said. Harry crouched to the floor immediately. He took her ballet flat off like a reverse Cinderella and he still made her feel like princess. He brushed his fingers over her skin, and she hissed.

“S’a little scraped. We’ll have t’bandage y’up with your doctor and nurse,” he said from the ground while smiling up at her so cutely. A dumb, triangular cone on his head for his costume.

She already knew she was already falling hard for him, but she was almost certain she was going to tell a man dressed as a mustard bottle that she loved him in a kindergarten bathroom while she was wearing an M&M headband. She smiled again, holding a wad of tissues to her nose.

“Did it break y’nose?” He asked standing back up and skimming his fingertips along her cheek and tilting his head to get a better look to see if he missed some initial bruising.

She shook her head. “No… I just… I get nose bleeds very easily. I breathe too hard, and I start bleeding,” she sighed. “Sorry, that’s gross.”

“S’not gross, Bird,” he chuckled. “Jus’ making sure you’re alright.”

“I’m good. Thanks for getting me a minute to myself. We should probably go save Niall.”

“Niall’s fine, m’sure,” he promised. “If y’need another minute, I can go back out there with him.”

She wondered what the worst that could happen if she got caught kissing him during school hours.

“Mr. Harry,” fortunately they were interrupted by Milo before she could test any hypothesis. “Is Miss Bee going to die?”

He chuckled. “No, lad. M’thinking she’ll make it. We’re gonna check in with Dr. DJ and Nurse Brayden though,” he nodded and ushered the little one back toward the classroom. “Mr. Niall, y’think our little crew can help us repair the door?” He asked brightly. There was a chorus of cheers while she bit her lip.

“Miss Bee,” Zara whispered as she entered the classroom again. Zara was dressed as a baseball player which she loved more than most of the costumes she saw that day for a lot of different reasons. “Do you think you’re going to marry Mr. Harry?”

She smirked. “Are you trying to spread rumors about me, my love?” She asked with a giggle.

“No,” she giggled and put her hand on her mouth. “But I think you and Mr. Harry make a really cute couple. Like Lady and the Tramp or Delores and Mariano.”

She laughed. “Well, Mr. Harry and I are just friends,” she didn’t want the little ones knowing any of her private business when they were as involved with Harry as they currently were around the playground.

Niall returned from the outside entrance carrying a screw gun, a box of screws and few other items. “Guys and gals,” she moved over to where the group of five waited patiently with Harry and she crouched to their level. “Mr. Harry and Mr. Niall are being really nice to show you how to fix this. You have to listen to them very carefully. We’re not going to argue over who hands screws to them or ignore them if they say to let go or ask you to move out of the way, correct?” She eyed them seriously all in turn, all while keeping a tissue pressed to her nose.

“Yes, Miss Bee,” they sang in unison.

“They’re all yours, boys,” she gestured while standing up. “A good crew if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Thanks Miss Bee,” Niall pulled the trigger on the screw gun twice and Harry winked at her.

“Miss Bee can Brayden and me look you over now?”

“Brayden and I, my love,” she said gently with a nod. “Let’s go sit on the carpet, yeah?”

Harry smiled as she passed by him again brushing his hand along her back quickly and not even looking at her as he turned his attention back to Niall and his lesson of screw gun safety.

*

The sand-witch party was a huge success. She was already thinking of ways to make it better for the following year. Part of her was sad that Mr. Harry and Mr. Niall would likely be at a new job site. She wondered how that would change the dynamic of the party. Or if she was reading into it too much since it was a party for kindergarteners.

But once she got going it was hard to stop. There were so many learning targets she got to roll into one fun event. There were fine motor skills like gluing and using scissors, there was shapes, and prior to ketchup and mustard’s arrival, they wrote three sentences about the future career they had chosen and why they wanted it.

Harry and Niall said their goodbyes, took their pumpkins and some leftover sand-witches. “Who thinks the hexagon tasted best?” Niall asked as he bit into another one at the door. The class giggled at him, and they all shouted out their favorites and making a lot of noise while they waited expectantly for their departure. “Oops, sorry Miss Bee,” he said sheepishly.

She shrugged and smiled. “Zip it, lock it,” she said a little louder than normal.

“Put it in your pocket!” Then it was silent.

“That’s wicked,” Harry said almost dreamily. Niall snorted and hit his hand against Harry’s chest.

“Take it easy,” Niall muttered under his breath as he passed him to head back outside.

“All my friends love to thank Mr. Harry and Mr. Niall for coming to our party and hanging out with us!”

“Thank you!” The choir of six-year-olds cheered.

“See you later alligators,” Harry winked at them and waved as he and Niall stepped outside the room.

“In a while crocodile!” They all shouted back excitedly.

"Bye Miss Bird!" He practically cooed. He hoped the kids didn't notice but even if they did, he was having trouble caring.

“You’re an absolute goner,” Niall snickered as they headed back toward their job site. “Obsessed. In love,” he continued pulling the red ketchup hat cone off his head.

Harry smiled. “Mm, that obvious, hmm?”

Niall chuckled. “Think she’s a bit smitten too,” he said. “No one in their right mind would have sided with you about me being a tattle tale if they didn’t like you that much,” he reminded him and flicked his cheek before running ahead toward the jobsite again.

“You’re acting like a kindergartener!” Harry shouted.

“I know you are but what am I!?”

*

The remainder of the day was a little rowdy. Fun, learning got done, but she was very excited for the day to be over and very excited that there was a professional development day without her sugary students following Halloween night.

“See you all Friday!” She said cheerfully as her students scattered toward the busses and cars in the lot for pick up. She stood at her post outside where she always did, waving and grinning at former students, coworkers, and even a few parents as they tried to sneak out before the fleet of busses.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry at the fence, waving from afar, to those that knew who he was as well. “Miss Bee,” Milo tugged on her skirt as they all got ready for dismissal. She crouched next to him and smiled happily.

“Yes, my love? What can I do for you?”

“My uncle is picking me up today,” he smiled excitedly.

“Oh yeah? Is he taking you trick or treating?”

He nodded excitedly, his little construction hat bobbling back and forth. “Do you want to meet him?” He asked shyly.

“Of course, Milo,” she grinned. “I have to tell him what a great reader you’re becoming and how good you are at line leading,” she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He took her hand and pulled her toward the exit. As they approached the end of the bus port, she had a better view of Harry. His coworkers booking it out before they got stuck behind busses but not him. She felt a smile twinge on her lips as she waved goodbye to other little ones that wanted her attention.

“Well, hello there.”

She nearly froze in her tracks. Her gaze snapped forward at the sound of his voice. Milo’s hand released hers and he launched himself forward at the man before her. “Careful of your shoes on my clothes, buddy,” he chuckled. “Funny seeing you here,” he ruffled Milo’s hair and winked at her.

“This is Miss Bee,” Milo introduced.

“Miss Bird, I thought,” he continued smiling at her. But it felt like she was watching a documentary of a safari. She felt like a gazelle completely at the disadvantage.

“Miss Bee is a nickname,” Milo explained.

She must have looked like a goldfish, her mouth opening and closing trying to find the words. A deer in headlights if there ever was one. “So you’re the famous Miss Bee,” he chuckled. Like it was a private joke that only he knew the punchline too.

For a moment, she forgot she was a teacher. A member of the town community with a reputation she needed to uphold. She wanted to run away. Or slap him across the face. Yank Milo out of his arms and take him home with her instead. There was no way she could let sweet, little Milo out trick-or-treating with the likes of his uncle. But instead, she mustered as much strength as she did when she wasn’t feeling well, when she was exhausted, or when her life outside the classroom was falling apart and she was expected to continue smiling in front of her little group of young minds. She plastered a smile on her face and pretended everything was fine as she finally spoke, “Evan.”

general taglist: @justlemmeadoreyou @daydreamingofmatilda @sunshinemoonsposts @loving-hazz @likeapplejuicenpeach

@straightontilmornin @freedomfireflies @littlenatilda @kathb59 @babegoals

@angel-upon @lilfreakjez @mleestiles @ameliaalvarez06 @canyonmoondreams

@summertime-pills @daphnesutton @l4rrysh0use @perfectywrong @foreverxholland

@lovrave @st-ev-ie @pandeebearstyles @toosarcastic03 @luvonstyles

@tenaciousperfectionunknown @classychalamet @love-letters-to-uranus @emmaawbr @crossyourpeter

@kissitnhekitchen @indierockgirrl @stylesfever @just-another-reader1098 @michellekstyles

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@vikiii07 @prettygurl-2009 @mads3502 @triski73 @angeldavis777

@dontforgtme @lizsogolden @me-undiscovered @you-sunshine @rose-girls-world

@claimingharrystigertattoo @inlikea-coolway @theseaview @lunaharrygurl @emmie2308 @fruity-harry @somebunnybaby @avas-daniel @mema10 @tulips4harry @spinninc @sassamanda77 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @mp-269 @jmp1494 @fangirl509east @sideboobrry11 @drewrry @dutchtheatrelore @copiastricycle @mypolicemanharryyy @harry2121 @inharryshelter @fandomxo @sarah-thatstings-ann @yourlocalstilinski-valdez @hsandts4l @izzyjay @kaylasficreca @stylesftcher @mikayloves1d

I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist here

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

Glastonbury Kisses.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here !!

authors note - we all saw that video….so i thought why not make something happy out of it🫶

word count - 500.

in which, it’s the last day of glastonbury and whilst listening to a dj in the vip section, you and your husband enjoy a rare moment of just being the two of you.

The night hums with energy. The DJ’s set pulses through the air, the beat vibrating up through your feet. You’re leaning against the rail in the VIP section, tucked close against Harry’s side.

His arm is around you, his fingers absently drawing patterns along your hip as you both take it all in — the lights, the crowd, the music, the moment.

Harry glances down at you, his hair wild from the breeze, his smile soft and easy.

“We should do this every year,” he says, voice low so only you can hear.

You look up at him, surprised. “What, Glastonbury?”

He nods, gaze sweeping the crowd before settling back on you. “Yeah. This. Us. Out here, no schedule, no stress. Just music and you and me.”

Your heart warms at the thought. “Our yearly escape?”

He grins, that crooked, dimpled grin that still gets you every time. “Exactly. We’ll be the couple that always shows up, sneaks into corners, and snogs like teenagers when no one’s looking.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

His eyes sparkle. “I’m a simple man. Good tunes, good festival food, and you in my arms? Heaven.”

And then — like the universe is listening — the music shifts. The DJ fades out the heavy beat, and soft guitar chords fill the air.

You go still.

Your breath catches as the first notes of Amazed by Lonestar drift through the speakers.

You glance up at Harry at the same moment he looks at you, both of you wide-eyed.

“Every time our eyes meet

This feelin’ inside me…”

“Is that—” you start, but your voice trails off.

Harry’s already nodding, his lips parted in surprise. “It is. Our song.”

His hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. His eyes are soft, dark, full of all the things he can’t say.

“Come here,” he whispers, and when his mouth finds yours, the rest of the world melts away.

The kiss starts slow, soft, like he’s memorizing you all over again. His lips move against yours with that familiar sweetness, that quiet reverence. The world tilts, narrows, until it’s only him — only this.

Harry deepens the kiss, parting your lips, tasting you, losing himself in you. His hand threads into your hair, angling your face so he can kiss you deeper, fuller.

“You have no idea,” he breathes between kisses, “how much I love you.”

Your fingers clutch at him, pulling him closer. “I do,” you whisper, before his lips claim yours again — harder this time, hungry, as if he can’t get enough.

“I don’t know how you do what you do

I’m so in love with you

It just keeps gettin’ better…”

The song swells around you, wrapping you both in it, and Harry kisses you like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together — mouths hot, breath mingling, hands roaming, hearts racing.

When he finally pulls back, breathless, his forehead rests against yours. His thumb brushes your lip, swollen from his kiss.

“Glastonbury every year,” he says softly. “Promise me?”

You smile, dazed and happy. “Promise.”

[primordialsoupvendor]

cause it upset me personally that you didn’t include any if your research results:

DAGUERREOTYPE: the first method for photography, named after inventor Louis Daguerre. it works by manipulating a silver-plated copper sheet to be light-sensitive, changing surface structures depending on light levels. the image appears as different angles of reflection (therefore the image looks positive/negative depending on the angle).

ANNEX CRIMEA: the annexation of the crimea peninsula, ukraine, by the russian federation, 2014.

ANOMALOCARIS: an extinct arthropod from the cambrian era, one of the largest animals at the time and most likely an apex predator. it has two compound eyes and two very recognisable frontal appendages.

LES PETITES HEURES: (literally “the small hours”) an illuminated book of hours, a christian prayer book divided into “canonical hours” (times of prayer throughout the day), “illuminated” meaning a document with embellished edges and miniature illustrations. Les Petites Heures was commissioned by Jean de France, Duc de Berry and is known for its ornate border decorations.

HYDROCEPHALY: a condition where spinal fluid builds up in the brain, causing various symptoms like headaches and double vision, or more severely, seizures.

DRACUNCULUS VULGARIS: a dragon lily, a member of the arum family. a flowering plant that attracts flies by giving off a smell reminiscent of rotting flesh.

HYPERBOLIC NON-EUCLIDIAN SPHERE: a sphere in hyperbolic non-euclidian space. euclidian basically means “how math and space works when you think about it” so non-euclidian is the weird shit. a euclidian plane is a two-dimensional space where two parallel lines will always be parallel and have the same distance to each other, even when stretched to infinity. on a hyperbolic plane, these parallel lines are parallel at one point and then their distance increases (not because they are curved but because the space between “increases”).

VIRAL TAXONOMY: the taxonomy (classification/naming system) of viruses. viruses are not living organisms, and so their taxonomy is almost completely separate from biological taxonomy.

PROLIFERATION: an increase of cells, growing more, developing tissue, multiplying.

VOICI MES OREILLES: french for “here are my ears”. i couldn’t find any deeper/other meaning to this.

MARKIPLIER MATKIIER MARKIPLIER: as far as i know, this is just markiplier three times, the middle one heavily mistyped. when i look it up it literally says no results.

VERSIMILITUDE: the quality of seeming real, “versimilar” meaning similar to the truth.

sources: merriam webster, wikipedia, deepl, my brain (which probably has primary sources but i don’t know them)

please correct me on anything i got wrong/fill me in on anything i missed!

Me: please let me sleep

The part of my brain that stores words I’ve heard but don’t know the exact meaning of: Daguerreotype

[zepskies]

DOWNGRADE

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: There it was. The beginning of the end, and neither of you saw it coming.

AN: Ahhh here we go! For the first time ever, Mark Meachum! Obviously I’m still learning this guy as a character, but this idea grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go. Thanks so much, @luci-in-trenchcoats for choosing this color prompt for the 5K Follower Celebration!

Word Count: 1.2K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff, implied smut, and rom-com vibes, until the angst sets in (lol). Medical diagnoses, implied cheating

Spring

Mark set two mugs of coffee on his nightstand to free up his hands. He had to cut wide swaths through the bedsheets to reach you. As usual, you were a tangle of limbs and frizzy hair.

“Jesus, what’d you do here, woman?” he said, lips tugging at a smile when he heard your muffled giggle.

Eventually he unearthed your head and found your sleepy smile. You squinted at the sun glaring through the window behind him. It backlit that look of fond amusement on his face.

You clawed half-blind at the front of his shirt and pulled him down to you. He lost his footing and grunted as he fell, just barely catching himself from crushing you. Your laugh rang in his ear and forced a chest-shaking rumble out of him too.

You freed your own arms from the warm nest you created, just to take his face in your hands. Your thumbs caressed along the coarse edges of his beard.

“Getting scraggly, baby,” you remarked.

“Yeah, but you like your man all wild and caveman-like,” he said mischievously.

You shook your head, but you still couldn’t stop yourself from smiling.

“Only when he fucks me,” you said. A cheeky challenge in your eyes.

Mark’s brows popped high, his devilish grin showing teeth. It didn’t matter how long you’d been his, you still managed to keep him on the ropes.

“Well, he does aim to please.”

Summer

The sound of your laugh was like sweltering sunshine in his chest. After the wave finished dunking you both, you swept the salty sting of the ocean out of your eyes and clung to his shoulders in the water.

Santa Cruz agreed with you. It shone down on your glistening skin and caught in your eyes. You both needed this—taking a beat, just the two of you.

Finally, Mark had allowed himself to take some time off. He was reluctant at first, workhorse that he was. But the Captain—your father—insisted that Mark take a break. Wrapping up a triple homicide after four months of legwork, getting to see that motherfucker be denied bail until trial, and giving the victims’ families a sense of relief that the killer was off the streets was a decided win.

“You’ve got someone waiting for you,” the Captain reminded him. “Don’t take that for granted.”

Mark grabbed your left hand and pressed a kiss into your palm. He felt the coolness of metal against his lips. It reminded him to turn your hand over.

“Whoa!” He closed his eyes and playfully looked away as if he was being blinded. “Who gave you that fucking rock?”

The summer sun glinted off a modest stone. Your sister told him not to overthink it. Just get the classic square cut. But his instincts told him to go with something called a “cushion,” like the sales lady said at Jared’s.

Mark knew he made the right choice when you gasped, covering your mouth with shaky hands, your eyes filling with tears when you met his slightly nervous ones.

Now, you just laughed in his face. “Oh, nobody really. Just the love of my life.”

His smile quirked, even though his heart was double-timing.

“You’re so fuckin’ cheesy.”

“But you love it, though.”

(That day, you both spent an extra hour looking for the ring when it somehow slipped off your finger and fell into the sand.)

Fall

“I’m just saying, sweetheart,” Mark said, his tone deep and gentle while he steadied you in his arms. “Maybe it’s best we put off the wedding, just a few months. It’s a lot coming at you right now.”

You shook your head, covering your mouth with trembling fingers.

“No,” you said eventually, but your words faltered along with your unsteady breaths in between. “No, he wouldn’t have wanted that. I just wish he, uh…could be there.”

You were a pillar of a woman, but no one could fault you for falling apart. Your father had been a lifelong smoker. He quit ten years ago, but it still caught up to him in his sixties, a severe case of COPD that he’d been trying to hide for months. It eventually withered him down to weeks of degeneration in a hospital bed, relying on oxygen masks that could no longer sustain him.

Your mother and sister had left the room for just half an hour to grab some coffee. You stayed behind.

You were alone with your father when he died. All you could do was hold his hand.

Now, all Mark could do was hold you. But he had to blink past a sharp pain, almost like a sudden migraine. Aftershocks reverberated through his skull, radiating from the right to the left.

He’d been dealing with less intense versions of the feeling for a month, but this time, it was like a small shiv between the eyes. It took him enough by surprise that it forced a grunt out of him, making him grimace and blink hard.

You picked your head up from his chest and met him with tearful eyes, frowning in concern.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah,” Mark said. “Just a little headache.”

Winter

“Mark, you need to go to the doctor. You’ve gone through three bottles of Advil. That’s not normal.”

“Look, I told you already. I’m fine.”

“Yeah. That’s really convincing.”

“…Look, that’s Rachel pulling up. You ready to go?”

 You looked out the windows near the front door and saw your sister walking up the driveway. You blinked, like you both could and couldn't believe what you were seeing.

“Wow," you said. "She couldn’t have found a skimpier dress to check out the church. Who’s she trying to impress? The pastor’s already married.”

Mark snorted in amusement, but something soon occurred to him.

“Didn’t you tell me she and her boyfriend just broke up or something?”

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with it?”

He shrugged. “Eh, I don’t know. She’s probably just looking for attention.”

You sighed. You loved your younger sister, but there were times when you wished she’d just grow up a little.

One appointment with Mark’s primary doctor led him to the oncologist. His entire inner world was leveled with just two words:

Glioblastoma Multiform.

Two words he couldn’t say to you.

It all rang between his ears…

The excitement in your voice when you told him how your last fitting went for the dress.

Faces he’d put behind bars. Years he’d scraped and clawed his way through bureaucratic bullshit, standing his ground against officers with more power than him, but never as much heart.

Your raw, broken grief when you watched your father waste away from the absolute monument of a man he’d been.

How was Mark supposed to level your world too?

He kept it all inside. And like the master of improv he was, he faked enthusiasm for a joint bachelor-bachelorette weekend.

One late night. One fifth of whiskey at the hotel bar turned into numbers he stopped counting—until the Captain reminded him.

You’ve got someone waiting for you. Don’t take that for granted.

He needed to find you.

Somehow, he made it to the elevator by himself. Third floor. Room 304, 305, 306. Fuck. Was it 309?

The door opened, and his addled fucking brain thought it was you at first. She almost had your eyes, if just half the sincerity of your smile.

Rachel welcomed him in and shut the door. He stumbled at the threshold, and she stopped him from falling completely onto the floral-patterned carpet.

“Oh my God, Mark. You okay?”

No. And he knew he wasn’t ever gonna be okay.

But her hands were warm, carving sensuous paths under his leather jacket without him realizing.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

AN: 🫣 I know, I know - I'm sorry it's not my usual happy ending. 💔 But! I am working on a second part to this for @waynes-multiverse, who also requested Mark Meachum for the 5K Celebration...though that one's gonna be even angstier than this one loll 😅 (but maaaybe with a kind of happy ending?)

In the meantime, what did you think of this drabble? Don't you wish we could've stayed in Summer? ❤️‍🩹

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Add yourself to my Tag Lists ⟡ Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. ❤️

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Mark Meachum Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Tag List:

I haven't built out the Mark Meachum tag list just yet, but he's now available on my Tag List form, for anyone who wants to add themselves.

For this post, I'll just include the Dean Winchester tag list and some others who I think are interested in Mark Meachum. Next round, I'll only tag people who want in on the tag list.

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @globetrotter28

@midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@rizlowwritessortof @k-slla @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @nancymcl

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@stoneyggirl2 @cheynovak @jollyhunter @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad @kmc1989 @siampie

@masked-lost-girl @spnbabe67 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005

@impala-dreamer @spnaquakindgdom @my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @bettystonewell

@bleuatlas @podiumackles @samslvrgirl

[avengxrz]

rooster is not a leech (except when he is) ; bradley "rooster" bradshaw [part 1]

pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x reader

word count: 10.7k (oops)

summary: bradley bradshaw should’ve gotten the callsign leech with the way he stuck to you since college. he followed you everywhere, through the academy, every flight, every base. you never told him to stop, not really. until one day, you finally said the words—let go. and he did. he actually let go. but when he stopped trying, why did it suddenly feel like something was missing?

warnings: smut (soft, emotional, detailed, consensual), angst, slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, sunshine x grump dynamic, reader is cold and emotionally repressed, rooster is clingy and hopelessly in love, one bed trope, hoodie lore, crying rooster hours, yelling because she cares, post-ejection hospital scene, rooster chokes on jello, thunderstorm cuddles, power outage, forced proximity, quiet confessions in the dark, emotional intimacy, body heat science, rooster being annoying on purpose, reader slowly melting, unresolved tension, rooster finally letting go, second chances, heartache turned comfort, soft love after long silence.

note: english is not my first language, so please be kind. i wrote this in the middle of the night, raining heavily outside while “iris” by goo goo dolls was playing on loop. this is just something that sat in my chest too long and needed to breathe. thank you for reading.

part two

masterlist [part 2]

your call sign is sunbeam.

You knew fate was a smug little bastard the second you walked into the academy’s briefing room and saw him. There he was—Bradley Bradshaw, in the flesh, mustache thicker, smile cockier, and posture still carrying that same brand of infuriating confidence like the world owed him a high-five for showing up. He hadn’t seen you yet. You considered ducking back out. Honestly, if there’d been a vent large enough, you would’ve crawled through it. But your boots were already echoing against the tile, and his head turned.

The moment your eyes met his, the entire room fell away for him. He stood so fast his chair nearly flipped backward. “No way,” he gasped, as if God had delivered you straight to his personal wishlist. “Sunbeam?!”

You resisted the urge to sigh through your teeth. “Bradshaw.”

His grin widened, shameless and bright, like he was starring in some reunion special where only one of you had read the script. “You’re here! I can’t believe you’re actually here! I thought—well, I hoped, but I didn’t know—I mean, I put your name into that database search like five times just to—”

“Bradley.”

He shut up. Briefly. His eyes scanned you, like he was checking for damage, like the four years hadn’t just been years—they were famine, exile, and he was seeing light for the first time. And you? You just stared at him. Quiet. Blank. Letting the silence stretch in that wonderfully uncomfortable way only you had ever mastered. Because if you’d learned anything in college, it was this: if you waited long enough, Bradley would start talking again just to fill the silence.

You weren’t wrong.

“God, you haven’t changed a bit. Still got that resting glare, huh?” He nudged your shoulder like you were best friends reunited at a wedding, not two adults thrown together again by cruel chance. “Still wear those dead-inside eyes like a badge of honor. I missed that. I mean, I missed you, obviously. But that too.”

You didn’t answer. Just blinked at him. Long and slow.

“Right, sorry, I should shut up.” He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, and sat back down, clearly not shutting up at all. “I just… I can’t believe we’re finally gonna fly together again.”

And oh, did you fly. Every assignment. Every damn deployment. It didn’t matter if the mission was recon, escort, or hell-dive—you could bet your last ration bar that Rooster would be there.

You could’ve gotten assigned a WSO from a completely different squad, and somehow Bradley would pull strings or trade favors or “coincidentally” end up slotted as your wingman.

There were times you wondered if he bribed someone. Or if he had dirt on every CO.

Maybe he was the dirt.

It got to the point where you stopped asking how or why. You just accepted it. Like gravity. Like taxes.

Like the fact that every time you zipped up your suit, you’d hear his voice chattering from the locker next to yours, saying something like, “Your helmet looks good today. Real aerodynamic.” Or, “Did you sleep okay? You looked a little murdery this morning—more than usual.”

At first, you thought the others would question it. They didn’t. They just got used to it. Because by the time the Dagger Squad came around—years into this strange, lopsided partnership—Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw had cemented his role as the enthusiastic golden retriever to your chronically unimpressed house cat.

Phoenix noticed it first. “So, uh… does he always talk that much?”

You stared at the floor. “Yes.”

Hangman snorted. “And she always look at him like she’s mentally measuring his coffin.”

“Also yes,” Phoenix replied, eyes wide.

They watched, in horrified fascination, as Bradley launched into a detailed monologue about some new band he found on vinyl, how the drummer reminded him of you, how maybe you two should start a band—“You could be the bassist. You look like a bassist”—all while you slowly chewed a protein bar and stared blankly at the wall behind him. You weren’t even nodding. Just enduring.

It wasn’t love. Not on your end. At least not obviously. It was more like… tolerance. Deep, patient, bone-deep tolerance for the man who had once given you a call sign like Sunbeam and then made it everyone else’s problem.

“Why does he call you that?” Coyote asked once, during a long deployment.

You didn’t even look up from your maintenance checklist. “Because he doesn’t shut up.”

Across the hangar, Bradley was mid-ramble about constellations and how you once told him Orion was overrated.

“And she says it like she’s bored,” he said proudly. “But I know she’s secretly passionate about space. She just hides it like everything else.”

You didn’t correct him. You never did. Not once.

It became a game. For them. Not for you, obviously. You were simply trying to live your life in peace and silence and protein bars. But for the Dagger Squad, observing Rooster’s one-man devotion tour had turned into the squadron’s favorite reality show.

They started keeping score.

“He’s said her name fifteen times in the last hour,” Payback whispered, eyes wide, jotting something on a little notepad. “That’s a new record.”

“He made her coffee again,” Fanboy pointed out. “Three creams, no sugar. That’s love. Or a cry for help.”

“I think he’s nesting,” Phoenix added, arms crossed as she watched Rooster adjust your seat in the jet before you even got to the cockpit. “Like a bird. Bringing shiny things to the one he’s trying to mate with.”

You were aware of all of it. Every look. Every snort. Every dramatic reenactment of your interactions that happened two feet away, like they thought you were deaf just because you refused to engage. And still—still—you said nothing. Because saying something would validate their nonsense. And you? You didn’t negotiate with chaos.

Bradley, of course, was blissfully unaware. Or worse—he was aware, and just didn’t care.

One morning, he brought you a bagel. Not just a bagel.

A custom bagel. The exact one you used to get back in college from that one overpriced hipster café with the annoying tip jars labeled “Star Wars” vs “Star Trek.” That café had shut down five years ago. You had mentioned it in passing once, probably half-asleep and pissed off about the lack of decent breakfast on base.

But somehow, Bradley had remembered.

“Boom,” he said with a grin, holding out the bagel like it was a peace offering to a feral cat. “Sesame, toasted, cream cheese, pepper flakes, and a little honey. Just like old times.”

You stared at the bagel. Then at him. Then back at the bagel.

“Did you rob someone?”

He gasped, wounded. “Excuse you, I couriered that. Special delivery from San Diego. You’re welcome.”

You took the bagel. Not because you wanted to encourage him. But because you were starving and he was right. It was just like old times.

“You didn’t have to,” you mumbled, biting into it.

He lit up like a damn Christmas tree. “But I wanted to. Anything for my Sunbeam.”

Phoenix choked on her coffee across the room. You didn’t even blink.

Later that week, Bradley rearranged the locker room just so yours would be next to his again. You never agreed to this. You never asked for this. But there it was—your nameplate suddenly moved, your gear transferred neatly, and a sticky note taped to your helmet that said:

“i missed you. this is cohabitation now. ~r.”

You stared at it for a solid minute.

Then you calmly peeled the note off, walked over to Bradley—who was stretching unnecessarily in front of a mirror like some tragic Top Gun calendar shoot—and handed it back to him without a word.

He took it, smiled, and folded it into his wallet like it was a love letter.

Hangman witnessed the whole thing and immediately muttered, “I’m telling you, it’s like watching a wolf try to flirt with a statue.”

Phoenix nodded solemnly. “No. It’s worse. It’s like the statue lets him.”

You learned to accept certain facts as constants in your life. The sun would rise in the east. Gravity would do its thing. And Bradley Bradshaw would find a new, profoundly unnecessary way to remind everyone within a five-mile radius that he knew you first.

“Oh yeah, Sunbeam used to fall asleep in lectures with her eyes open,” he was saying one afternoon on the tarmac, while you methodically checked the flaps on your F/A-18. “Scared the hell outta me the first time. I thought she died. Turns out she just disengages from reality like a light switch. Isn’t that adorable?”

You didn’t even pause. You just yanked the panel open a little harder than necessary.

“I have not known peace,” you muttered under your breath.

“Did you say something?” he chirped, leaning his elbows on your wing like you were having a moment.

“She did,” Hangman answered for you, appearing with a smirk and a handful of popcorn. “She said she’s actively drafting your murder in her head.”

Rooster only laughed. “Classic Sunbeam.”

And then there was the base-wide Rooster Alert System—coined by Phoenix—because no matter where you went, he showed up. Like clockwork. Like taxes. Like glitter at a children’s birthday party.

You went for a run at six a.m.? There he was, jogging up beside you, too chipper for someone who hadn’t had caffeine yet. You went to grab a snack from the vending machine? He popped out of the hallway like some sort of clingy airman jack-in-the-box, saying, “You want my granola bar? It’s peanut butter. Just like you like.”

You hadn’t told him your favorite granola flavor in years.

“Do you have, like… a tracker on her?” Bob asked once, dead serious.

Bradley just smiled. “No. But her soul and mine are cosmically linked.”

You stared at him. “I will un-cosmically unlink us.”

He winked. “You always say that.”

The worst part wasn’t even the talking. It was the commentary team he’d unknowingly recruited. Dagger Squad started giving running analysis like it was an Olympic sport.

“Oh look, he’s fixing her helmet strap again,” Payback muttered, crouched beside Fanboy and Coyote behind a storage crate. “That’s the third time this week.”

“Still no ‘thank you,’ though,” Fanboy whispered, scandalized. “Do you think she’s gonna snap and shove him into the ocean?”

“Honestly, I think she’d miss him,” Coyote said. “But only in, like… a ‘this is too quiet now’ kind of way.”

You knew they were watching. You knew every move you made around Rooster was being documented like a wildlife special: Here we see the elusive Grumpus Sunbeamus in her natural environment, ignoring the over-affectionate Roosterus Clingicus.

“Hey,” Bradley said one morning during pre-flight checks, gently brushing something invisible off your shoulder, “you know, if you ever wanted to hang out outside of training, I’m down.”

You glanced at him. “We hang out every day.”

“No, I mean like... not at work. Like movies. Or drinks. Or mini-golf.”

“Mini-golf?” you deadpanned.

“Okay, bad example. But you’d look good swinging a putter.”

You blinked at him once. Then turned away without a word.

“...She’s thinking about it,” he whispered behind you.

“No, she’s not,” Phoenix called from across the room.

You were in the hangar, tucked beside your jet with the sun dripping low through the open bay doors. The golden hour light slanted across the concrete floor like a mood filter, softening the sharp edges of the world—not that you noticed. You were busy swapping out a busted nav panel, hands deep in wires, trying to make sense of a system that didn’t want to be understood. Peaceful. Focused.

Then came the footsteps.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to. You could tell it was Bradley from the rhythm. Always just a little too heavy on the heel, a little too eager in the pacing, like even his feet couldn’t wait to be near you.

“Hey, Sunbeam,” he said softly, like he thought if he said it quieter, maybe this time you’d say his name back.

You grunted in reply, not pausing your work.

He sat down cross-legged across from you, his back against a crate, like this was storytime and you were the campfire. A moment of silence passed. You savored it. It was rare.

Then, tragically, he began.

“I was thinking the other day,” he said, which was always a bad sign, “if we ever weren’t in the Navy, like, say we were just... two regular civilians, I think you’d run a bookstore.”

You stopped moving. Not because you were touched. But because—what?

He nodded seriously, gesturing with both hands. “Yeah. Like a tiny one. Corner lot. Dusty shelves, quiet jazz. You’d sit behind the counter and judge people’s taste in fiction. Maybe knit. Maybe glare at people who talk too loud.”

You stared at him. “You think I knit?”

He grinned. “You look like you secretly knit. Like angry knitting. Spite scarves.”

You went back to your wires.

Bradley leaned his head back against the crate and smiled up at the ceiling like it had the answers to everything. “And I’d come in every day and buy the weirdest books just so you’d roll your eyes and mutter something like, ‘That author’s a hack.’ And I’d be like, ‘Yeah, but I thought the cover was neat.’”

You didn’t respond.

“Then I’d ask you what you’re reading, and you’d pretend not to answer, but you’d leave a copy by the register the next day. Dog-eared. And that’d be your way of saying I’m not the worst.”

You slowly looked up. “Are you high?”

He laughed, full and loud, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just on life. And maybe jet fuel fumes. Hard to tell.”

You let your gaze settle back on the panel. “You’re a lunatic.”

“And you’re still talking to me,” he said, utterly unbothered. “Progress.”

Silence.

Then, casually, he pulled something from the inside pocket of his flight suit and held it out to you. It was a patch.

Not just any patch—your callsign, Sunbeam, stitched in your usual yellow and burnt orange, except this one had a small embroidered rooster just below it. Not his full patch, not Rooster, just a tiny little chicken, peeking out smugly like it lived there.

You stared at it. Then at him.

He raised his eyebrows. “What? I thought it was funny. And, you know... accurate. You may be a Sunbeam, but you’re my Sunbeam.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I will burn you alive.”

He smiled so bright it could’ve powered a damn aircraft carrier. “See? There’s that sunshine.”

You weren’t trying to make him jealous.

In fact, you weren’t trying to do anything beyond finishing your post-flight diagnostics and maybe, maybe, drink a bottle of water without someone appearing like a golden retriever with boundary issues. But Rooster had wandered off for a second—probably to go flirt with the vending machine or whatever it is he does when he disappears—and in that fleeting, blessed moment of quiet, Bob slid into the space beside you with a nod and a clipboard in hand.

“Your rudder inputs were clean,” he said, calm and matter-of-fact. “Flawless on descent. You clipped the throttle smoother than I’ve ever seen you do.”

You glanced up at him. “You were watching?”

Bob shrugged, faintly smiling. “You always fly tight. Makes it easy to watch. Hard to miss.”

It wasn’t a line. Bob didn’t do lines. He said it like it was a scientific observation. And maybe that’s why you let the corner of your mouth twitch upward, just for a second, before going back to your own list.

Bob tapped his pen against his thigh, hesitating a beat. “I was also wondering…” he began, voice low, “did you ever finish that book you brought on deployment? The one with the red cover. Looked like poetry.”

You blinked. No one ever asked about the books. Rooster always called them your “silent weapons” and then launched into his usual running bit about how your “resting murder face” should be studied by psychologists.

But Bob? Bob noticed the cover color.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Finished it last week. It was better than I expected. Kind of hurt, but in a good way.”

He nodded. “I like those kinds of stories. The ones that don’t try to heal you, just… sit with you in the dark for a while.”

That made you pause.

No one ever talked like that to you. At least, not without trying to attach a tracking device and propose marriage in the same breath.

“Yeah,” you said again, softer this time. “Exactly that.”

Bob smiled. Then, surprisingly, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, dog-eared paperback, holding it out like a peace offering. “This one’s like that. If you’re interested.”

You took it, carefully flipping through a few of the worn pages. The lines were underlined. Notes in the margins. A few faint coffee rings on the corner.

He read this. He lived in it.

Your fingers brushed the cover as you turned it over. “Thanks, Bob.”

That’s when you heard it.

The sound of a very specific, dramatic throat-clear. The kind that belonged to someone who absolutely could not stand being left out of a conversation for longer than two consecutive minutes.

“Wow,” Rooster said, standing behind you both with his arms crossed and his eyebrows fighting for dominance. “It’s, uh… real book club hours over here, huh?”

You didn’t turn around. “Go away, Bradley.”

“Funny,” he muttered, walking around to insert himself directly into your line of sight. “I leave for two seconds and suddenly Bob’s got you talking like you’re not legally required to ignore everyone on this base.”

“She talks to me all the time,” Bob said gently, still not picking up the battlefield tension radiating off Rooster.

“Oh I’m sure she does,” Rooster bit back, plastering on a grin that was two shades too bright. “Sharing books, huh? That’s cute. Real deep. Real emotional. I should’ve known it was the poetry that would finally crack her.”

You turned a page in Bob’s book. “It wasn't poetry. It was the silence.”

Rooster’s smile faltered. Just a flicker. Just a heartbeat. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels like a sulking toddler denied dessert.

Bob, bless his soul, remained oblivious. “I just thought she might like it,” he offered. “It’s kind of slow-paced. Thoughtful.”

“Oh yeah?” Rooster said, voice climbing an octave. “That’s cool. I’ve got a book too. It’s a graphic novel. About a fighter jet that turns into a robot. Very thoughtful.”

You looked up slowly. “Are you… jealous of Bob?”

He gasped. “What? No! Jealous? Me? Of Bob? Pfft.”

Bob tilted his head. “You sound kind of jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re pouting,” you said plainly.

“I don’t pout.”

You stared at him. He pouted harder. It was like watching a Labrador lose a game of fetch to a cat.

There was a long silence. Rooster shifted again, clearly realizing this wasn’t going the way he planned.

“I brought you jerky,” he tried weakly, holding up a sad little plastic bag like it was a peace treaty. “Peppercorn. Your favorite.”

Bob blinked. “She doesn’t like peppercorn. She likes teriyaki.”

Rooster’s mouth dropped open like he’d just been stabbed.

You took the jerky without comment and handed it to Bob, who pocketed it politely.

Rooster stared at you. “Et tu, Sunbeam?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Stop using Latin. You don’t know what that means.”

“I know betrayal when I see it.”

You stood, tucking the book under your arm. “You gonna cry?”

Rooster opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, he opened it again.

Then, with the grace of a truly defeated man, he muttered, “Maybe a little.”

And as you walked away with Bob, calmly discussing character development and sentence structure, Bradley Bradshaw stood behind you like a kicked puppy, arms crossed, muttering to himself about how the real emotional literature was found in comic books.

The book was only the beginning.

After that day, Bob started showing up more. Not in a clingy, leech-on-your-soul kind of way. Just… consistently. Quietly. He had a rhythm to him, like good jazz. Never pushed. Never demanded. Just offered something—an observation, a book, a coffee—and let the silence hold space instead of filling it with noise.

You liked that. And Rooster hated it.

You and Bob sat together in the ready room during briefings now. It wasn’t a planned thing. You just always seemed to pick the same seats. And when you talked—God forbid—he listened. Actually listened. Rooster, three seats over, always looked like he was trying to solve calculus in his head. Eyebrows furrowed, fingers twitching against his notepad, occasionally glancing over with the tragic longing of a romcom protagonist who’d just realized the girl next door was on a date with someone normal.

You caught him staring during debrief once. You didn’t say anything.

Bob noticed, though. Because of course he did.

“He okay?” he asked under his breath.

You didn’t look up from your checklist. “He’ll survive.”

“You sure?”

You shrugged. “He survived four years without me. He’ll manage four feet.”

Bob smiled faintly and passed you his pen when yours ran out of ink. You accepted it with a nod. Meanwhile, Rooster watched from across the room, gnawing on his highlighter like it had personally wronged him.

It only got worse from there.

You started spending breaks with Bob in the hangar’s quiet corner, the one where the breeze came through just enough to keep things cool, where the light slanted perfectly across the concrete and made everything feel a little less like a military base and a little more like… a place.

Bob brought crossword puzzles sometimes. Sometimes you filled them out together in companionable silence. Other times, you talked—about nothing important. Music. Stories. Flight technique. The exact point at which caffeine became counterproductive for mental clarity. Bob had theories.

One afternoon, you were halfway through filling in the word equilibrium when Rooster walked by with two coffees in hand and a bounce in his step that deflated immediately when he saw who you were sitting with.

“Oh,” he said loudly, pausing mid-stride. “You guys are here. Together. Again. That’s… great.”

You didn’t even look up.

Bob did, offering his usual warm little nod. “Hey, Bradley.”

“Bob,” Rooster said, voice tight as he dramatically sipped from one of the coffees. “Hey. You want one of these, Sunbeam? I brought options. Vanilla cold brew or, uh… hazelnut.”

“I already got her one,” Bob replied, lifting the cup next to you. “Plain black. No sugar.”

Rooster blinked. His whole world shattered in a single moment. “…She drinks it black?”

You finally glanced up. “Since college.”

“I—okay.” Rooster sat down on the bench beside you like he’d just been told Santa wasn’t real. “I’ve been putting cinnamon syrup in your drinks for years.”

“I’ve been pouring them out for years,” you replied evenly.

Bob choked on a laugh and turned it into a cough. Rooster looked devastated.

“You could’ve said something.”

“You don’t listen.”

“Yes I do!”

You leveled him with a look. “What’s my favorite author?”

“Uhhh…” He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Bob in betrayal. “Okay, that’s not fair, he’s a librarian in human form—”

“He’s a WSO.”

“And a book nerd. You’re emotionally cheating on me.”

“I was never emotionally dating you.”

“You’re emotionally something-ing me.”

You ignored him and went back to the crossword. Bob leaned closer, scanning the half-filled boxes.

“‘Eight-letter word for a balanced state of opposing forces,’” he murmured. “You already nailed it.”

“Equilibrium,” you said at the same time, writing the last few letters in.

Rooster slumped. “You guys even finish each other’s crosswords now?”

You didn’t answer. Bob smiled.

Rooster pouted so hard he could’ve powered a wind turbine off the force of his sigh.

“Fine,” he said, dragging himself up off the bench like gravity had it out for him personally. “I’ll just… go polish my plane alone. Like a sad, betrayed, caffeinated man.”

“Bye,” you said without inflection.

He paused mid-walk.

“…Love you too.”

Bradley was glaring.

Not just watching. Not idly observing or casually monitoring or curiously glancing.

No. He was full-on, arms-crossed, mouth-twisted, jaw-tight glare mode, posted up at the end of the Hard Deck bar like a tragic movie villain who’d been double-crossed by love and was now plotting world domination… or, at the very least, someone’s mild emotional inconvenience.

Because there you were. Again. With Bob.

Sitting in a corner booth with those damn low lights softening your edges, like the universe was putting a spotlight on how not miserable you looked without him. You were leaning in slightly, listening to Bob say something—something no doubt devastatingly intelligent and weirdly charming in that quiet way Bob had—and then, you laughed.

Bradley’s stomach sank like an aircraft carrier hitting a minefield.

“She’s laughing,” he muttered into his beer.

“She’s allowed to laugh,” Phoenix said beside him, not looking up from her pool cue.

“Yeah, but not like that.” He gestured vaguely, eyes locked on the way your shoulders shook with amusement. “That’s her real laugh. The one with the nose scrunch. I haven’t seen that laugh in weeks.”

Coyote leaned in on the other side, nursing his drink. “Dude. They’re just talking.”

“They’re bonding.”

“They’ve been bonding for months,” Fanboy added from across the table. “We all see it. You’re the only one acting like it’s a crime.”

Bradley groaned and thunked his forehead against the bar. “Why Bob, though? I mean, Bob? I’ve been trying to get her to laugh for like a decade and all it took was one poetry book and a crossword?”

“Bob listens,” Phoenix said.

“I listen!”

“No, you monologue,” she replied. “There’s a difference.”

He sat up, eyes wide. “Are you saying I talk too much?!”

Everyone just looked at him.

He deflated. “Okay, fine, yes, I know. I get excited. I have thoughts. And feelings. And deep emotional convictions about her, alright?! Is that a crime?”

“Bradshaw,” Hangman drawled as he approached with his beer, “I say this with love. You look like a golden retriever who just watched their owner adopt a cat.”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Bradley muttered, dramatically dropping his head into his hands. “She hates me now. I ruined it. I should’ve played it cool, should’ve just been normal, but noooo, I had to follow her around like a lost duckling for the past ten years, and now she’s emotionally defected to Bob.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Bob said calmly, appearing out of nowhere with an empty glass in hand.

Bradley shrieked. “JESUS CHRIST—how long were you standing there?!”

“Long enough,” Bob said, unfazed, as he slid the glass onto the bar and nodded politely at Penny.

Everyone stared.

“Where’s—where’s she?” Bradley asked, panic rising in his voice like a kettle about to blow.

“She went to the jukebox.”

Bradley practically jumped off the barstool. “She likes music.”

Bob nodded. “Yes. Most people do.”

“I could’ve picked her song,” Bradley said, borderline hysterical. “I have playlists. Playlists, Bob. For her. One’s called ‘Sunbeam Vibes’. It’s acoustic. It has themes.”

“That’s… a lot,” Bob offered carefully.

Bradley slumped back down, burying his face into his crossed arms. “She’s never gonna choose me,” he said, voice muffled. “Not like this. I’m just a background character in the Bob Show now.”

Phoenix patted him on the back. “You’re not a background character.”

“Really?” he sniffled.

“No. You’re like… the comic relief that accidentally makes people cry near the end.”

“I don’t want to be the comic relief! I want to be her main character!”

“You’re pouting,” Bob observed gently.

“I know!” Bradley groaned. “I hate it! But I miss her and she’s right there and she looks so happy without me and she laughed at your joke, which isn’t fair because I’m the funny one.”

“She didn’t laugh at my joke,” Bob said softly. “She laughed at yours.”

Bradley’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I just reminded her of something you said during a mission years ago,” Bob replied, casual, kind. “The one where you told the tower that ‘Sunbeam’s got it handled and I’m just here for moral support.’ She remembered it. Thought it was cute.”

The whole squad went quiet.

Bradley blinked. “She remembered that?”

“She remembers a lot more than you think.”

And then Bob turned, grabbed his refill from Penny, and headed back toward you—no rush, no smugness, just that Bob energy. Steady. Present. Unshakable.

Bradley watched him go. Watched you look up as Bob slid back into the booth. Watched the small smile you gave him. It wasn’t the one you gave Bradley, no—but it was real. It was warm.

He sighed and let his forehead fall back to the bar. “God,” he whispered. “I should’ve been quieter.”

Phoenix handed him a napkin. “You still can be.”

He stared at it. “It’s too late. She’s in Bob’s book club now. I don’t even know how to read emotions, let alone poetry. I’m a golden retriever in a library.”

“No,” Coyote said, finally breaking into a grin. “You’re a rooster in love.”

And for the first time that night, Bradley didn’t argue.

He just sighed.

And pouted.

And whispered, “Do you think she still wears that hoodie I gave her back in college? The one with the chicken on it?”

“Absolutely not,” Phoenix said. “Burned it.”

Bradley groaned again. But then—barely, faintly—he heard your laugh ring out again from across the bar. And he smiled. Just a little. Even if it hurts.

Rooster woke up that morning with a feeling.

Not a bad one. Not a gut-clenching we’re-about-to-fly-into-a-hurricane kind of feeling. More like a warm, fluttery, I’m-about-to-see-my-person-and-remind-them-we’re-destined kind of feeling. He even did his hair extra nice. Perfect swoop. Subtle cologne. Crisp undershirt. His callsign patch had been ironed the night before.

Because today? Today was training flights.

And historically—historically—Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw had always been paired with you.

It was a known fact. A sacred tradition. A celestial bond. Sunbeam and Rooster: light and feathers. Grit and chaos. Sugar and salt. He talked, you blinked. It worked. The whole damn Navy knew it.

So when Maverick started calling out the pairings for the day, Rooster stood tall with all the pride of a man seconds away from hearing his name next to yours.

“Sunbeam,” Mav said, scanning the list.

Bradley straightened his back. Smiled.

“You’re with Hangman.”

Rooster’s face broke.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Tilted his head slightly like maybe his ears malfunctioned. “Excuse me?” he squeaked.

Hangman, already walking toward you, shot Rooster a wink over his shoulder. “Try not to miss me too much, partner.”

You didn’t react. Didn’t even look at Rooster. You just nodded, grabbed your helmet, and walked toward your temporary jet like this wasn’t the biggest betrayal since Brutus took a dagger to Caesar’s spine.

Rooster stood frozen. Still waiting. Still hoping. Still trying to comprehend what parallel universe he had just been dropped into.

“Rooster,” Mav said.

“Yes, sir,” he replied tightly.

“You’re with Coyote.”

Bradley nodded. Then turned directly into a wall.

Not on purpose. He just… misjudged. That’s how scrambled he was. That’s how personally wounded he felt. He ricocheted off the wall with a muttered “I’m fine,” and stomped after Coyote like a sulky six-year-old being told he couldn’t sit next to his crush on the bus.

The flight was fine.

Which is to say, it was technically successful, but Rooster flew like a man emotionally concussed. Missed a cue. Forgot to say “copy” once. Got called out by Mav for radio silence.

And the whole time, you and Hangman were in the sky above him, probably outmaneuvering clouds and swapping war stories like a functional pair of professionals. Disgusting.

Back on the ground, Bradley ripped off his helmet and tossed it onto the bench like it had personally orchestrated his heartbreak.

“Everything okay?” Coyote asked carefully.

Rooster slumped down, legs splayed, arms limp at his sides. “She didn’t even look at me.”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Coyote blinked. “You mean your flight partner for life who was assigned someone else for literally one session?”

“It’s the principle,” Rooster said, voice raw with indignation. “We have history. We’ve got muscle memory. Telepathy. I look left—she’s already flying formation. I tap the stick—she knows I want to be evasive. I say ‘Hey, I saw this cool vinyl shop last week,’ she says nothing, but she hears me.”

Coyote snorted. “You need a nap.”

“I need her,” Rooster muttered, head falling back against the wall. “I need her flying with me. Not Jake ‘I-do-barrel-rolls-for-attention’ Seresin.”

Hangman chose that exact moment to stroll in, still in flight gear, grinning like a cat who just got adopted by a lactose-intolerant mouse.

“Gotta say,” Jake drawled, “Sunbeam? Hell of a wingwoman. Smooth, precise, unshakable. No unnecessary chatter. Dream partner.”

Rooster’s eye twitched.

Jake leaned in a little closer. “She even said my turns were ‘efficient.’ I almost cried.”

Bradley stood so fast the bench screeched. “She complimented you?”

“I mean,” Jake shrugged, “she didn’t say much, but I felt it. Like… spiritually.”

Rooster made a noise somewhere between a growl and a wounded gasp. “She’s never complimented me. Not once.”

“That’s because you never shut up long enough to earn one,” Phoenix called from the other end of the locker room.

“I’m expressive!” Rooster snapped.

“You’re emotionally codependent,” she said. “And clingy.”

“Sunbeam doesn’t mind.”

“She paired with Hangman without blinking.”

Rooster looked like someone had just stolen the sun.

“…You think she’s tired of me?” he asked, voice suddenly small. “Like, actually tired?”

Coyote raised an eyebrow. “Like, hypothetically?”

“No. Like, in reality. What if… what if all this time I’ve been this loud, flappy goose honking around her while she’s just quietly praying for Bob or Hangman or literally anyone else?”

No one answered. Which only made the silence worse.

Rooster slumped again, defeated. “I peaked in college. I was the golden retriever who imprinted on a stray cat, and she’s been tolerating me like a recurring allergic reaction ever since.”

Hangman patted his shoulder. “That’s the most self-aware thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’m gonna change,” Rooster whispered.

Phoenix raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“I’m gonna stop talking.”

“…For how long?”

“Forever.”

“You won’t make it twenty minutes.”

“I will if it means she misses me,” he said dramatically. “I’m gonna be mysterious. Brooding. Emotionally distant. Like Bob, but with better sunglasses.”

They all stared.

“Watch,” Rooster said, dragging a hand down his face. “Next time she walks into the room, I won’t even look up.”

He turned and faced the wall. Silence.

And then the door creaked open, you walked in.

The room went still.

Rooster clenched his jaw. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

You walked right past him, looked at Coyote, and said, “Hey. You left your notes on the runway.”

Then, walked out.

Coyote blinked. “Thanks.”

Bradley slowly turned back to the group, face pale. “She didn’t even see me.”

“She did,” Bob said from behind a locker door. “She just didn’t acknowledge you.”

Rooster whimpered. 

Bradley was dying.

Not physically. No, he was in perfect health. Heart rate steady. Vitals fine.

Emotionally? Spiritually? Existentially?

Gone. Absolutely obliterated.

Because you—his Sunbeam, his ride-or-die, his emotional support stoic—were laughing.

With Jake Seresin. In public. In the middle of base. In broad daylight with witnesses and everything.

Bradley was crouched behind a Humvee, sunglasses askew, clutching a protein bar he no longer had the will to eat.

“What the hell are they even talking about?” he whispered to Bob, who had unfortunately been dragged into this surveillance operation against his will.

Bob squinted from behind his own sunglasses, arms crossed. “It looks like Hangman’s telling her a story.”

“A story? What kind of story?”

“I don’t know, man. A funny one?”

Bradley squinted harder. You were leaning against the fence, arms crossed, lips twitching as Jake animatedly gestured like he was reenacting a high-speed maneuver. You said something. Jake barked out a laugh. And then—

You smiled. A real one.

Not the forced, strained kind you gave Rooster when he followed you around quoting Top Gun lines in his best impression of “charm.” No—this was casual. Comfortable.

Like you enjoyed him. Bradley felt like he was going to throw up.

“I have to stop this,” he muttered, standing abruptly.

Bob caught his arm. “What are you gonna do? Run over there and declare your eternal love? In front of Hangman?”

Bradley flinched. “No. I was just… gonna say hi. Casually. Like a guy who also exists in this general area.”

Bob didn’t let go. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I always sweat when I’m emotionally compromised!”

Bob sighed. “Bradley. Look. Maybe she’s just… being friendly.”

“Sunbeam doesn’t do friendly,” he hissed. “She does annoyed. And cold. And occasionally concerned when someone’s bleeding.”

“She was friendly with me.”

“That’s because you speak in whispers and smell like libraries!”

Bob blinked. “Thanks?”

Bradley ran a hand down his face and peeked again.

You were sitting now.

You were sitting with Hangman. Oh no.

Oh no.

Hangman said something else—probably something stupid and Texan—and you laughed. Not the nose-scrunch one, but a shoulder-shaking one.

Bradley staggered back like he’d been shot.

“She’s falling in love with him,” he whispered, clutching his chest. “I’m gonna die. I’m gonna be replaced by a man who wears cologne to flight training.”

Bob patted his shoulder. “She’s not falling in love with anyone. She probably just likes his stupid story.”

“What story could he possibly tell that’s better than the one where I saved her from a malfunctioning cockpit door and got a concussion?!”

“You also threw up on her boots that day.”

“That was months later! She knows that!”

Bob just gave him a look.

Bradley crumbled.

That night at the Hard Deck, Rooster didn’t sit with the squad.

He sat at the bar. Alone. Nursing a whiskey he didn’t even want, sulking like a man who just watched the love of his life be wooed by the human embodiment of a country song.

The worst part? You weren’t even doing it on purpose.

You weren’t leaning into Jake’s side. You weren’t flipping your hair or batting your lashes. No, you were just… listening. Occasionally giving him a rare smile. Saying a word here and there. Just existing.

And somehow that was worse. Because you never looked like that around him.

“Alright,” Hangman said, sliding up beside Bradley with that damn smug grin, “I gotta ask. You good?”

Rooster didn’t look at him. “Peachy.”

“Uh huh.” Jake signaled for a beer. “You’ve been glowering at me like a cartoon villain for the past hour.”

“I’m not glowering.”

“You look like you’re about to monologue about revenge.”

Bradley exhaled sharply. “What do you want, Seresin?”

Jake leaned on the bar. “Honestly? I just wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna, like, spontaneously combust. You’ve been watching her like a wounded Victorian husband whose wife dared to laugh at another man’s joke.”

Rooster side-eyed him. “So you are trying to steal her.”

Jake blinked. Then laughed. “What? No. Dude, I like her. Sure. She’s cool. Scary in that ‘emotionally unavailable assassin’ kind of way. But I’m not you.”

Bradley frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jake sipped his beer. “I mean you’re the one who knows what her favorite coffee is. You’re the one who follows her around like a love-sick puppy. And you’re the only person who’s ever made her roll her eyes and almost smile at the same time.”

Rooster blinked.

Jake leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. “She talks about you, you know.”

“What?” Bradley nearly dropped his glass.

“Nothing crazy. But she does. Usually when you’re not around. Usually like…” Jake shrugged. “Like she’s trying not to admit she misses you.”

Rooster stared at him, stunned.

Jake shrugged. “Anyway. Keep pouting if it helps. Just don’t let her walk away before you say something that matters.”

And then he was gone.

Later that night, Bradley sat alone outside the bar, legs stretched out, staring up at the stars.

He could still hear your laugh in his head. Still see the way you looked at Jake—open, relaxed, soft.

And for the first time, he wondered:

Maybe you weren’t drifting toward Jake.

Maybe you were just drifting away from him.

And if he didn’t speak soon—really speak—you might never drift back.

He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and whispered to the night:

“Please. Don’t pick him. Don’t pick anyone.”

And somewhere inside, he swore he heard your voice say:

Then stop waiting.

The next day, Rooster came back swinging.

Spirit fully revived, delusion fully reloaded.

Last night’s brooding on the patio? Over. Jake’s unsettling pep talk? Filed away for later trauma processing. This morning, he had a plan. A brilliant, foolproof, emotionally catastrophic plan:

Be normal.

Totally, perfectly normal.

Which for Rooster meant... being louder than ever.

So when you walked into the hangar, head down, clipboard in hand, face set to “resting war criminal,” Rooster popped up from literally nowhere with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever high on espresso.

“Hey, Sunbeam!” he called, jogging toward you like an idiot in aviators. “You’re five minutes early. I knew you were gonna be early. That’s so you. You’re always—y’know—early. Punctual. Military. Classic.”

You didn’t stop walking.

He kept pace beside you anyway.

“Anyway,” he continued, completely undeterred by your silence, “I was thinking, right, since we’ve got a break after drills today, we should go get food. You like food. I know you like food. Everybody likes food. Unless... do you not eat? Wait. Are you secretly a cryptid?”

You stopped.

Looked at him.

Expression flat. Voice monotone.

“Bradley. What do you want.”

His entire soul did a backflip at the sound of his name in your voice, even though you said it like it physically pained you to do so.

“I just—uh.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Wanted to see if you wanted to hang out. Like old times.”

“No.”

“Okay—cool—no’s valid,” he stammered. “But like, is it a no because you’re busy? Or a no because you’re emotionally allergic to me now? Because I can change—”

You blinked at him once. Twice. Then turned and walked away again.

He stood there.

Alone. Rejected. Spiraling.

“Okay,” Rooster announced to the squad at lunch, dramatically throwing his tray onto the table. “I am officially a burden.”

“No arguments here,” Hangman muttered, not even looking up from his sandwich.

“I’m trying, okay?” Rooster ranted, collapsing into his seat. “I’m being sweet. I’m showing up. I’m not even being clingy anymore—I gave her space. You saw it. I gave her like ten feet this morning.”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “And then immediately trailed her down the tarmac talking about cryptids and food.”

“I’m making conversation!”

“You’re monologuing again,” Bob said gently, sipping his water.

“She’s just—she’s so cold now,” Rooster whined, voice going full tragic lead in a sad rom-com. “She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t snark. She doesn’t even threaten to punch me anymore. I miss when she wanted to punch me. At least then I knew she felt something.”

Hangman rolled his eyes. “Maybe she’s just over it.”

Rooster looked like he’d been physically stabbed.

“Over it?” he choked. “She can’t be over it. We had a thing. A vibe. A deeply spiritual dynamic.”

“You mean the one where you followed her around for a decade and she occasionally acknowledged your existence?” Phoenix asked.

“Exactly! That one!”

Bob cleared his throat. “Maybe you just overwhelmed her.”

“I underwhelmed her,” Rooster moaned, banging his head gently against the table. “I took her for granted. And now she’s bonding with Hangman and laughing at his jokes and probably thinks I’m just some loud idiot who peaked emotionally in 2016.”

“I mean,” Hangman started.

“Not helping,” Phoenix cut in.

Rooster slumped. “I’m losing her.”

“You never had her,” Hangman said, then paused. “Wait. Is that why you asked Mav to reassign flight pairs?”

Everyone turned.

Rooster blinked. “I—what?”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “You asked Mav to pair you with her again.”

Rooster went red. “I—I didn’t—technically—”

“Oh my God,” Fanboy laughed. “You’re insane.”

“She flies better with me!” Rooster cried. “We have synergy! We have unspoken communication! And I missed her laugh! And her annoyed glare! And the way she corrects my jargon mid-flight like it’s a personal offense to naval protocol!”

“You need therapy,” Bob said calmly.

“I need her back,” Rooster replied, despondent. “She’s my Sunbeam.”

“And yet you treat her like she’s a houseplant you can scream compliments at until she grows toward you,” Phoenix deadpanned.

Rooster opened his mouth. Closed it. Sighed.

Back in the hangar, you were reviewing mission parameters on your tablet when the clomp-clomp of heavy boots approached again.

You didn’t even look up.

“Don’t.”

“I just—”

“No.”

“But—”

You lifted your eyes slowly. Your glare could’ve frozen the sun.

Rooster flinched. “You’re really not vibing with me right now, huh?”

“Nope.”

He ran a hand down his face. “Is it the talking?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the constant attempts to insert myself into your personal schedule?”

“Also yes.”

“Is it—”

“Bradley.”

He froze.

You lowered your voice, calm, sharp, quiet like a blade in the dark. “You talk too much. You try too hard. You act like we’re still in college. I’ve changed. You haven’t. And whatever we had—if we ever had anything—you need to let it go.”

The words hit like a missile strike.

He actually staggered back a little.

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just turned back to your tablet like it didn’t cost you anything to say it.

But it cost him everything.

And for the first time in forever, Rooster Bradshaw didn’t know what to say.

Rooster was lying on top of his plane.

Face to the sky, arms folded beneath his head, boots crossed like he was sunbathing on a yacht instead of brooding on cold metal in the middle of an aircraft hangar.

He hadn’t moved in over an hour.

No music. No phone. Just him, his self-loathing, and the sound of other people moving on with their lives without him.

He’d tried everything. The casual good-morning chats. The coffee deliveries. The dramatic Hard Deck monologues. The tragic, emotionally vulnerable pout.

And still—you treated him like he was background noise.

No, correction: you treated him like static.

And worst of all?

You were right to.

Because somewhere between college and now, Rooster had convinced himself that just being there for you was enough. That his love was this constant, obvious thing. That you’d just know.

But you didn’t want someone who hovered. You wanted someone who saw you.

And Bradley had been too busy chasing your orbit to realize he never learned your language.

He exhaled loudly.

“This is pathetic,” he muttered.

“I’ve seen worse,” a voice said below.

He flinched. Propped himself up. Squinted into the sun.

Maverick stood at the base of the ladder, aviators on, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Oh,” Bradley groaned, flopping back down. “Great. A pep talk. Just what I need.”

“Not a pep talk,” Mav said, starting to climb. “More of a… course correction.”

Rooster didn’t respond.

Maverick climbed up and sat beside him, swinging one leg over the wing.

They were quiet for a minute. Just metal, and heat, and that heavy silence between two men too stubborn to say what they actually felt.

Finally, Maverick spoke.

“So,” he said slowly. “She shut you down.”

“Like a government program with bad press,” Rooster mumbled.

Maverick huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Heard about that.”

“Of course you did. Everyone knows. I’ve been publicly humiliated at least three times this week. She barely looks at me, Mav. She talks to Jake now.”

Mav raised a brow. “You mean the same Jake she once threatened to kill mid-flight?”

“People change.”

“So do relationships.”

Rooster sighed. “Yeah. She changed. She’s... not the girl I knew.”

“No,” Maverick said. “She’s the woman you didn’t bother to get to know.”

Rooster sat up sharply. “Excuse me?”

Mav turned toward him, calm but firm. “Bradley. You’ve been so wrapped up in chasing her that you didn’t stop to see her. You think you’re in love with who she was ten years ago. Are you even paying attention to who she is now?”

“I—of course I am—” he started, then paused. “…I mean. Kinda.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Rooster’s jaw tensed. “She was my best friend.”

“Was,” Mav echoed. “You want her back? Stop being the version of yourself that needed her in college. Be the version she might respect now.”

Bradley looked away, throat tight. “She said I haven’t changed.”

“Have you?”

That one hit like a punch.

Because no—he hadn’t. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered.

He still talked too much. Still covered fear with jokes. Still loved loudly and clumsily and expected the people he loved to just get it.

But you were calm. Quiet. Sharp. You didn’t need a cheerleader.

You needed a partner.

“I just thought,” he said finally, voice quieter, “that being there for her all these years would be enough.”

Maverick’s voice softened. “Being there isn’t the same as being with someone. She’s not a planet you orbit, Bradshaw. She’s not gravity. She’s a pilot. You want to be in formation? Match her altitude.”

Rooster blinked, stunned. “That was... almost poetic.”

“I’ve had therapy.”

Bradley barked a broken laugh and stared up at the sky again. “It hurts.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“What if I already lost her?”

Mav was quiet for a second. Then said, “Then stop losing yourself too.”

Later that day, Rooster sat on the hood of his truck in the back lot, chewing the inside of his cheek, staring at nothing.

He wasn’t gonna follow you.

Not this time.

He wasn’t gonna corner you with twenty questions or drop some poorly disguised compliment bomb or ask if you wanted to “vibe.”

He was gonna sit there, for once, in silence.

And hope that maybe—just maybe—you’d notice the absence.

That maybe you’d feel the space where he used to be.

Because if Maverick was right—and damn it, he probably was—then it wasn’t about chasing you anymore.

It was about showing up right.

Being still.

And waiting to see if you ever looked back.

It started with the coffee.

Bradley always brought two.

One for himself—black, hot, usually with a dumb doodle Sharpied onto the cup. And one for you—how you liked it, never wrong, always on time.

You never asked him to bring it.

He just... did.

But one morning, it wasn’t there.

Your locker bench was empty. No cup. No sticky note with a sun drawn on it. No annoying rooster-shaped heart beside it.

Just the sterile scent of detergent and jet fuel and silence.

You didn’t say anything. Not out loud.

But it was the first thing you noticed.

The squad noticed, too.

Not right away. At first, it felt like peace. Like a blessing.

No Rooster singing “Highway to the Danger Zone” at full volume in the locker room. No long-winded stories about gas station burritos and near-death dogfights. No sunflower metaphors or rants about vintage vinyl.

The silence was strange.

Nice, maybe. For a day.

But then it kept going.

“Okay,” Phoenix said flatly, hands on her hips. “Who killed Rooster?”

They were all sitting around the Hard Deck’s usual corner table, and Bradley was nowhere to be seen.

Coyote raised a brow. “He said he was gonna skip tonight.”

“Skip?” Fanboy echoed. “Since when does he skip?”

“He’s probably tired,” Bob offered gently.

“He’s always tired,” Phoenix snapped. “He still shows up. He shows up with jokes and weird trivia and unsolicited karaoke. He’s Rooster. He doesn’t just... go quiet.”

Hangman leaned back in his chair, swirling his beer. “Maybe someone finally broke the golden retriever.”

Everyone looked at you.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

Just took a sip of your drink and kept looking out at the water like their suspicions didn’t hang in the air like jet exhaust.

The next day, Bradley flew like a ghost.

Sharp. Efficient. Silent.

He didn’t crack a joke over comms. Didn’t comment on your turns. Didn’t say “Nice flying, Sunbeam,” when you touched down on the tarmac.

He just parked his bird and walked past you without so much as a glance.

And still—you didn’t say a word.

“Okay, seriously,” Phoenix hissed, cornering you in the locker room later. “What the hell is going on with Bradshaw?”

You shrugged, pulling off your gloves. “I don’t know. Ask him.”

“I did. He just gave me a polite nod and walked away like we’re strangers at a dinner party.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like it!” she snapped. “It’s creepy. It’s not normal. He’s not normal. He’s not supposed to be—mellow. I saw him reading alone yesterday.”

“He reads.”

“He was reading in silence. Like a divorced English professor. And he didn’t even look up when I passed!”

You sighed. “Maybe he’s just growing up.”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “No. This is something else.”

You didn’t reply.

At briefing the next morning, Bradley sat at the far end of the table. Not beside you. Not diagonally where he could pass you dumb sketches. He didn’t look over. Didn’t make a single sound.

When Mav called for flight assignments, Bradley just nodded and took his orders with no protest, no rerouting, no desperate plea to be paired with you.

And when you turned your head—just a little—expecting to catch his eye, maybe out of habit—

He was already looking away.

“Dude’s in withdrawal,” Hangman said later, not even trying to whisper. “You see him? He’s like a sad country song in a flight suit.”

Bob glanced at you. “He hasn’t smiled in three days.”

“He hasn’t talked to me in three days,” Phoenix added, insulted.

“Do you think he’s broken?” Fanboy asked.

“Or maybe he’s just... tired,” Coyote offered gently. “Y’know. Of trying.”

The silence that followed was a little too loud.

You stood. Walked out. Didn’t say a word.

That night at the Hard Deck, Bradley showed up late.

Alone. Quiet.

He didn’t go to the jukebox. Didn’t talk to Penny. Didn’t find the squad.

He just sat at the bar, ordered a water, and sipped it slowly, like it tasted the same as every regret he hadn’t said out loud.

Phoenix watched him from across the room, arms crossed. “This is weird.”

“He looks like someone stole his dog,” Fanboy said.

“He looks like someone stole his person,” Coyote corrected softly.

Hangman leaned back in his chair. “I give it a week. Tops. Then he either snaps or confesses or flies straight into the sun.”

They all looked at you.

Again.

You said nothing.

But for the first time in a long time, you glanced toward the bar.

And you saw him there.

Still.

Quiet.

Distant.

And for some strange reason, it didn’t feel like peace anymore.

It felt like something you didn’t know how to name.

You didn’t notice it at first.

Not really.

Because silence had always been your armor. Your shield. Your sanctuary. You were good at ignoring things. Better at pretending you didn’t notice them. A masterclass in indifference. Eyes forward. Orders clear. Emotions compartmentalized into labeled folders, each locked tight and shoved to the back of your mind.

So when Rooster stopped talking to you, it was easy to keep your face neutral.

No change. No flicker.

Easy.

Except—

It wasn’t.

Not for long.

Because silence wasn’t supposed to be his thing.

It crept in like a shadow, slow and subtle, soft at first—like background music fading into white noise. But over time, the quiet grew teeth. It sat beside you during briefings. It hung in the air during flights. It clung to your skin like sweat in the summer, thick and uncomfortable and hard to wipe off.

And you started to miss him.

Not that you’d ever say it out loud.

God, no.

You still remembered what you told him. The sharpness in your voice. The finality in your words. “Whatever we had—if we ever had anything—you need to let it go.”

And he had.

He’d let go.

So cleanly, so completely, it stunned you.

No last-ditch effort. No arguments. No begging for one more chance.

Just—absence.

At first, it was peaceful.

You could move through hallways without hearing your name echo off the walls. You could sit through debriefings without a hand-drawn sunbeam doodle sliding toward you on a napkin. You could drink your coffee without seeing another cup next to yours, steaming and silent.

You told yourself you liked it.

You told yourself this was what you wanted.

But then—

Then the questions started.

Subtle things. Quiet realizations.

Like: when did the hangar start feeling so empty, even when it was full?

Why did your coffee taste blander, like something was missing, even though the recipe hadn’t changed?

When did the air feel heavier?

When did you start missing the sound of your name said in that stupid, smug, affectionate tone of his?

Sunbeam.

God, that nickname used to annoy you. Made you feel too bright. Too soft. Like he saw something in you you didn’t believe existed.

Now, no one said it.

And the silence in its place was unbearable.

You didn’t admit it at first.

Not when he walked past you without a glance.

Not when you caught him on the runway, talking quietly to Bob—quietly, not performing, not grinning, not telling stories—just nodding, listening.

Not when he sat across the room at the Hard Deck, not even bothering to try for your attention anymore.

It hit worst during flight drills.

You were paired with Hangman again. He was efficient. Skilled. He never overstepped.

But it wasn’t the same.

There was no rhythm. No instinctive trust. No push and pull that kept your pulse alive. No corny commentary over the comms. No soft-spoken “you good?” after a sharp turn. No whisper of “nice flying” when your boots hit the ground.

Just Hangman.

Just silence.

And the empty echo of someone who used to be in sync with you without even trying.

[bananabreads]

Dad!lads with their children after their kindergarten classes (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

A short one shot of each lads guy with their child ♥︎ Dad!Rafayel, Dad!Caleb, Dad!Sylus, Dad!Zayne, Dad!Xavier.

| I may or may not have a slight favoritism towards Seraphina.... | Dad!Rafayel and Filo!Caleb short one shot will be posted tomorrow or later! (>ᴗ•) !

RAFAYEL — ice cream after school

The low sound of a luxurious sports car engine echoed down the quiet kindergarten street. Rafayel had just pulled up, one arm resting on the wheel, sunglasses perched on his nose, wearing a casual white button down and rolled sleeves.

Inside the classroom, Seraphina perked up immediately at the familiar sound. Her big, curious eyes darted to the window, and within seconds, her tiny body was rushing toward it. She pressed her face against the glass, cheeks adorably squished as she waved both hands with all her might.

“Daddy! Daddy!” she cried out, her little voice muffled behind the glass.

The other kids gathered around her, a mix of awe and disbelief on their faces.

“That’s your dad?!”

“He has a cool car!”

“He looks like a prince!”

Even the teacher chuckled softly, gently ushering the kids away. “Alright, class, let’s give Seraphina some space. Her daddy’s here.”

The door opened and Seraphina ran out like a rocket. Rafayel had just stepped out of the car when she flung herself into his arms. He caught her easily, scooping her up and lifting her high.

“There’s my little guppy,” Rafayel murmured fondly, placing a soft kiss on her temple. “How was school?”

“I drew you today! But I accidentally gave you blue hair 'cause I ran out of purple,” she giggled.

“blue's not bad,” Rafayel said thoughtfully. “I might have to try it sometime.”

She nodded very seriously. “You’d look like a wizard.”

He chuckled at her response, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He helped her into the passenger seat, custom fitted with a booster seat that matched the car's plush leather interior. He even buckled her in himself, tightening the strap with care before tapping her nose gently.

With a smooth start, the car glided away from the kindergarten as Seraphina swung her legs and hummed her favorite melody, making up silly lyrics as she went. Rafayel glanced at her through the rearview mirror, one hand on the wheel and the other extended back just enough for her to hold his pinky.

“Mommy’s still at work,” he said. “So how about we steal a little time together?”

Her eyes quickly perked up, “Does that mean... ice cream?"

Rafayel smirked. “Of course. But only if you tell me what kind of secret mission you were on today.”

“I was on the Princess Operation. I had to build a castle out of marshmallows and glue.”

He chuckled at her enthusiasm “Sounds like hard work.”

“I got glue on my tongue,” she whispered.

He laughed, low and genuine. “You’re braver than I thought.”

The two ended up at a quiet, beachside gelato place—Seraphina’s favorite. She sat across from Rafayel on a high stool, her tiny feet swinging while she dug into a cup of bubblegum ice cream with rainbow sprinkles.

CALEB — nonstop story teller

The second the kindergarten doors opened, she bolted.

“DADDYYYYY!”

Caleb barely had time to turn before his daughter hurled herself into his arms, arms wrapping tightly around his neck, little sneakers dangling in the air.

He caught her with ease, chuckling as he spun her in a circle. “There’s my princess. Missed me that much, huh?”

Her voice was filled with excitement, “Yes! Daddy, SO MUCH HAPPENED IN SCHOOL!”

She barely let him buckle her in the car before the words began pouring out, nonstop, back to back, no punctuation in sight.

“So first we made paper puppets and I made mine a sky princess named SKY like a cloud and she can fly so high she touches the stars and then she has a pet bird named birdy and a baby hawk named hawky and they can talk, Daddy, they TALK—”

Caleb listened, eyes flicking from the road to the rearview mirror just to catch the wild hand gestures she was making.

“Then we played Freeze Dance and I WON and everyone said I was the best at the silly moves and Teacher said I was like a shooting star because I moved so fast! And then at snack time—”

This continued. All. The. Way. Home.

And once they were inside, it didn’t stop. Not while she was taking off her shoes, not while she was drawing sky, birdy, and hawky on the living room floor, not even while Caleb was heating up her after school snacks.

“And then Seraphina said my puppet looked like a cloud but I said ‘No she’s a sky warrior, sera!’—and I showed her the backstory I made. Do you wanna hear it, Daddy?”

“I would love nothing more,” Caleb grinned, already bracing himself for Act II.

She stood on the couch and posed dramatically, arms outstretched like wings. “Sky was born on top of a storm cloud and raised by swallows and her bird has glowing feathers that light up when danger is near and—”

He watched her with nothing but awe. Like she was the only thing in the world worth watching. And to him, she was.

By the time you came home, exhausted but smiling, the first thing you heard was your daughter gasping like she’d just discovered treasure.

“MOMMY!!!” she shouted, racing to the door and nearly tripping over her sock. “You’re home!!”

You barely had time to drop your bag before she took your hand and started dragging you into the living room. “I have to tell you something! A lot of somethings!”

Caleb, sitting on the couch now with crumbs from her snack still on his shirt, gave you a smirk and mouthed, "It’s starting again."

“I made a puppet named Sky—wait no, I’ll start from the beginning!”

You sat down beside Caleb, already pulling your daughter into your lap as she flipped open her sketchpad to show off the drawings of Sky, birdy, and hawky.

“And THEN she saved a village from a sky fire, and hawky the hawk flew super fast and brought her water from the stars—are you listening, Mommy? Because this is the best part!”

You quickly reassured her, “I’m listening, baby.”

And you were. Every word.

Because watching her glow like that, retelling her sky high adventures with her whole heart, was its own kind of magic.

And Caleb? He just leaned back and watched the two of you, arms folded, heart full, thinking

This. This is everything he would ever wish for.

SYLUS — She's shy around people her age (⁠ᗒ⁠ᗩ⁠ᗕ⁠)

Most of the kids sprinted out, laughing and loud, bouncing around in little clusters. Sylus stood near the gate, quietly observing from behind dark sunglasses, hands in his pockets.

And then, there she was.

His daughter.

Quiet. Small. Lingering near the door, watching from the corner with those soft eyes that reminded him of you.

But not today.

Today, she spotted him and immediately lit up, her entire face brightening as if someone flipped a switch in her chest.

“Daddy!” she squeaked, voice full of excitement and joy.

Sylus barely had time to take a step forward before she ran straight into him, her tiny arms flinging around his legs.

He bent down instantly, gathering her up into his arms in one smooth motion.

“Well, there you are,” he said, his voice warm, his expression softer than anyone else ever got to see. “You missed me?”

She nodded furiously against his shoulder, giggling. “So much!”

Sylus smiled into her hair. “You had fun today?”

She leaned back in his arms, breathless and glowing, eyes wide with excitement. “I won!”

“You did?” he asked, adjusting her backpack so it didn’t slip.

“Musical chairs!” she beamed, holding out her hand. A golden star sticker shimmered slightly against her skin. “I won the whole game, Daddy! And everyone clapped for me! Even Teacher said I was fast.”

Sylus blinked, surprised, but proud.

“You’re usually not one to rush into things,” he teased gently.

“I know!” she grinned. “But I really wanted to try today.”

He opened the car door, setting her down in her seat, and she kept talking—quieter now, but rapid, nonstop.

“and I didn’t even fall when the music stopped, and I got to sit next to jasmine, and she said I was good at dodging the chairs, and Teacher gave me a star, look! and I wasn’t scared today, not even when I talked to someone new—”

She paused as he reached over to buckle her in.

“And I wanted to tell you first,” she added in a whisper, eyes shining. “Before I tell Mommy. Because… daddy picking me up is my favorite part of the day.”

Sylus stopped for a second.

His hand rested over the buckle, fingers still.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a quiet kiss to her forehead.

“You’re mine too, little one.”

ZAYNE — future doctor

Zayne’s office was its usual haven of calm, clean, softly lit, and scented faintly of lavender from the diffuser he’d placed months ago after Jasmine said hospitals “smelled like alcohol spray.”

But it wasn’t just a doctor’s office anymore.

Tucked into one corner was a child sized desk, light wood, rounded edges, and a tiny matching chair. The bottom shelf of Zayne’s bookshelf now held coloring books, a few storybooks, a worn olaf plushie, and a box of crayons organized by color. Nothing too loud. Nothing too flashy. Just enough to say, this space is hers, too.

Jasmine sat at her desk now, feet not quite touching the floor, her tongue slightly poking out in concentration as she worked on her school assignment:

“Draw who you want to be when you grow up.”

Her crayon gripped tight, she looked up occasionally, brow furrowed, gazing at her father across the room like an artist studying her model.

Zayne was seated at his own desk, reviewing a medical file. He’d taken off his coat but was still dressed in his usual neat shirt and slacks. His sleeves were rolled just once, pen in hand, posture perfect.

“Daddy,” Jasmine said suddenly, holding up her sketchpad. “Do you think this looks like you?”

Zayne glanced up.

In her drawing was a small figure with a stethoscope, tiny glasses even though he didn’t wear any, and neatly parted dark hair. Beside him was another version—shorter, with pigtails and the same coat, the same serious expression. Herself.

Zayne walked over, crouching beside her to get a closer look.

“You drew me with glasses again,” he noted gently and lightly chuckled.

“You just look smarter with them,” Jasmine replied like it was a matter of fact. “And I want to be smart like daddy.”

He paused for a second.

“You want to be a doctor?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Jasmine nodded slowly. “I want to fix people like you do. And have a desk. And drink coffee.”

Zayne tilted his head slightly, eyes softening. “Do you want the paperwork too?”

Jasmine blinked. “uhm..… Maybe just the healing part.”

He chuckled under his breath.

She gave a bright smile, “Daddy, when I grow up.. I’m gonna have a desk like yours. But mine’s gonna have stickers.”

Zayne glanced at her tiny desk, already decorated with a snowflake shaped sticker and a crooked cat drawing taped to the side. “Looks like you’ve got a head start.”

Jasmine giggled, leaning over to carefully draw a lanyard around the neck of her little doctor self.

“That’s your ID badge,” she said, showing it off. “I’m gonna have one too. And mine’s gonna say Dr. Jasmine!”

Zayne crouched again beside her, resting his hand on the edge of her tiny desk. “I think it suits you.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “When I’m big, can I still sit here in your office sometimes?”

He nodded without hesitation. “As long as you want to.”

She didn’t say anything after that. She just smiled again, sleepy this time,and went back to coloring in the soft gray floor under her characters.

XAVIER — a new friend

It was quiet when Xavier arrived at the school gate.

Most of the kids were still running around the yard to get to their parents, some playing tag, and some laughing at who knows what. And in the middle of it all, at the waiting area of the kindergarten, sat his son, legs tucked neatly underneath him, small hands resting in his lap, gaze pointed toward the trees.

He wasn’t lonely.

Just… still. Observing. Like always.

Xavier approached with his usual slow stride, posture relaxed but eyes trained on his son.

“Hey, buddy,” he greeted gently.

His son looked up, that familiar face lighting up instantly with a small smile, the kind he reserved only for the people he felt safe with. “Hi, Daddy.”

Xavier crouched down in front of him, brushing a stray leaf off his shoulder. “Good day?”

The boy hesitated… then gave a tiny nod.

Xavier raised an eyebrow. “Just ‘good’?”

Another pause. Then..

“I made a friend.”

Xavier blinked.

You could’ve told him the moon fell out of the sky, and he might’ve had the same reaction.

“…A friend?” he repeated, this time softer.

His son nodded again. A little firmer this time. “Her name is Seraphina.. she has an ariel lunchbox. We sat together today. She gave me one of her cookies.”

Xavier felt something pinch gently at his heart.

His son wasn’t loud or bold. He didn’t climb fences or scream across the yard like the other kids. He was the type to watch the sky and ask questions no one had answers for yet. Sweet. Quiet. Thoughtful. Not shy, but rarely first.

So for him to say he made a friend? That was everything.

“That’s awesome, kiddo. Mommy's definitely going to be excited to hear that,” Xavier said, running a hand gently through his son’s hair. “You proud of yourself?”

His son shrugged, but he smiled. That small, bashful, almost secret kind of smile. The one that meant yes.

“Did you talk a lot?”

“Some,” the boy replied. “She likes mermaids and says that she's a mermaid... and also like stars. I told her about the moon rocks you showed me"

Xavier gave a hum of approval, standing up and offering his hand.

“Well then,” he said, “you ready to go home, Mr. Social?”

His son giggled quietly and slipped his hand into Xavier’s without hesitation.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, just the two of them, fingers gently laced.

Xavier didn’t press for more. He didn’t need to.

Because his son didn’t chatter.

He shared.

And today… he shared something big.